1135	----	******************************************************************* THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK (#1540) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1540 ******************************************************************* 
24459	----	None 
3023	----	None 
14460	----	FAUST A TRAGEDY TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE WITH NOTES BY CHARLES T BROOKS SEVENTH EDITION. BOSTON TICKNOR AND FIELDS MDCCCLXVIII. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by CHARLES T. BROOKS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Rhode Island. UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY, CAMBRIDGE. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with great spirit, beauty, and power. The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of _male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion. A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's method of alternating different measures with each other. It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves, how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità_) as they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent. As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read "by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry," the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._ The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted, "can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no _prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of the Babel dispersion will allow. As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking, scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him, and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow." DEDICATION.[1] Once more ye waver dreamily before me, Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes! To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me? Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies? Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me, As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise; The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing, Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing. Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian, And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze; First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision Like an old tale of legendary days; Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition, Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways; And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted. These later songs of mine, alas! will never Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung! Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever! Mute the first echo that so grateful rung! To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung; And all that kindled at those earlier numbers Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers. And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day; Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,) Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay; Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning, The rigid heart to milder mood gives way! What I possess I see afar off lying, And what I lost is real and undying. PRELUDE IN THE THEATRE. _Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._ _Manager_. You who in trouble and distress Have both held fast your old allegiance, What think ye? here in German regions Our enterprise may hope success? To please the crowd my purpose has been steady, Because they live and let one live at least. The posts are set, the boards are laid already, And every one is looking for a feast. They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing, Expecting something that shall set them staring. I know the public palate, that's confest; Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion; True, they are not accustomed to the best, But they have read a dreadful deal, past question. How shall we work to make all fresh and new, Acceptable and profitable, too? For sure I love to see the torrent boiling, When towards our booth they crowd to find a place, Now rolling on a space and then recoiling, Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace: Long before dark each one his hard-fought station In sight of the box-office window takes, And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation, For tickets here they almost break their necks. This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it! _Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean, Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill! Hide from my sight that billowy commotion That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will. No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion, Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill; Where love and friendship aye create and cherish, With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish. Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing, Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed, Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging, To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast. Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing It comes in full and rounded shape at last. What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure; The genuine leaves posterity a treasure. _Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it; Supposing I the future age would profit, Who then would furnish ours with fun? For it must have it, ripe and mellow; The presence of a fine young fellow, Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one. Whoso can pleasantly communicate, Will not make war with popular caprices, For, as the circle waxes great, The power his word shall wield increases. Come, then, and let us now a model see, Let Phantasy with all her various choir, Sense, reason, passion, sensibility, But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire. _Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun. Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly, So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise, Then have you made a wide impression quickly, You are the man they'll idolize. The mass can only be impressed by masses; Then each at last picks out his proper part. Give much, and then to each one something passes, And each one leaves the house with happy heart. Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces! Such a ragout your fame increases; It costs as little pains to play as to invent. But what is gained, if you a whole present? Your public picks it presently to pieces. _Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be! In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow! Our genteel botchers, well I see, Have given the maxims that you follow. _Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind; A man who has right work in mind Must choose the instruments most fitting. Consider what soft wood you have for splitting, And keep in view for whom you write! If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight, That other comes full from the groaning table, Or, the worst case of all to cite, From reading journals is for thought unable. Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder, As to a masquerade they wing their way; The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder And without wages help us play. On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you? What glads a crowded house? Behold Your patrons in array before you! One half are raw, the other cold. One, after this play, hopes to play at cards, One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses, Poor fools, why court ye the regards, For such a set, of the chaste muses? I tell you, give them more and ever more and more, And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever; To mystify be your endeavor, To satisfy is labor sore.... What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion---- _Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave! What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave, The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent, Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean! How does he stir each deep emotion? How does he conquer every element? But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs, And draws into his heart all living things? When Nature's hand, in endless iteration, The thread across the whizzing spindle flings, When the complex, monotonous creation Jangles with all its million strings: Who, then, the long, dull series animating, Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round? And, to the law of All each member consecrating, Bids one majestic harmony resound? Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power? The earnest soul with evening-redness glow? Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower Along the path where loved ones go? Who weaves each green leaf in the wind that trembles To form the wreath that merit's brow shall crown? Who makes Olympus fast? the gods assembles? The power of manhood in the Poet shown. _Merry Person_. Come, then, put forth these noble powers, And, Poet, let thy path of flowers Follow a love-adventure's winding ways. One comes and sees by chance, one burns, one stays, And feels the gradual, sweet entangling! The pleasure grows, then comes a sudden jangling, Then rapture, then distress an arrow plants, And ere one dreams of it, lo! _there_ is a romance. Give us a drama in this fashion! Plunge into human life's full sea of passion! Each lives it, few its meaning ever guessed, Touch where you will, 'tis full of interest. Bright shadows fleeting o'er a mirror, A spark of truth and clouds of error, By means like these a drink is brewed To cheer and edify the multitude. The fairest flower of the youth sit listening Before your play, and wait the revelation; Each melancholy heart, with soft eyes glistening, Draws sad, sweet nourishment from your creation; This passion now, now that is stirred, by turns, And each one sees what in his bosom burns. Open alike, as yet, to weeping and to laughter, They still admire the flights, they still enjoy the show; Him who is formed, can nothing suit thereafter; The yet unformed with thanks will ever glow. _Poet_. Ay, give me back the joyous hours, When I myself was ripening, too, When song, the fount, flung up its showers Of beauty ever fresh and new. When a soft haze the world was veiling, Each bud a miracle bespoke, And from their stems a thousand flowers I broke, Their fragrance through the vales exhaling. I nothing and yet all possessed, Yearning for truth and in illusion blest. Give me the freedom of that hour, The tear of joy, the pleasing pain, Of hate and love the thrilling power, Oh, give me back my youth again! _Merry Person_. Youth, my good friend, thou needest certainly When ambushed foes are on thee springing, When loveliest maidens witchingly Their white arms round thy neck are flinging, When the far garland meets thy glance, High on the race-ground's goal suspended, When after many a mazy dance In drink and song the night is ended. But with a free and graceful soul To strike the old familiar lyre, And to a self-appointed goal Sweep lightly o'er the trembling wire, There lies, old gentlemen, to-day Your task; fear not, no vulgar error blinds us. Age does not make us childish, as they say, But we are still true children when it finds us. _Manager_. Come, words enough you two have bandied, Now let us see some deeds at last; While you toss compliments full-handed, The time for useful work flies fast. Why talk of being in the humor? Who hesitates will never be. If you are poets (so says rumor) Now then command your poetry. You know full well our need and pleasure, We want strong drink in brimming measure; Brew at it now without delay! To-morrow will not do what is not done to-day. Let not a day be lost in dallying, But seize the possibility Right by the forelock, courage rallying, And forth with fearless spirit sallying,-- Once in the yoke and you are free. Upon our German boards, you know it, What any one would try, he may; Then stint me not, I beg, to-day, In scenery or machinery, Poet. With great and lesser heavenly lights make free, Spend starlight just as you desire; No want of water, rocks or fire Or birds or beasts to you shall be. So, in this narrow wooden house's bound, Stride through the whole creation's round, And with considerate swiftness wander From heaven, through this world, to the world down yonder. PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. [THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS _afterward_ MEPHISTOPHELES. _The three archangels_, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, _and_ MICHAEL, _come forward_.] _Raphael_. The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding, With brother-spheres, in rival song; And, his appointed journey rounding, With thunderous movement rolls along. His look, new strength to angels lending, No creature fathom can for aye; The lofty works, past comprehending, Stand lordly, as on time's first day. _Gabriel_. And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting, The pomp of earth turns round and round, The glow of Eden alternating With shuddering midnight's gloom profound; Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean Heaves from its old, primeval bed, And rocks and seas, with endless motion, On in the spheral sweep are sped. _Michael_. And tempests roar, glad warfare waging, From sea to land, from land to sea, And bind round all, amidst their raging, A chain of giant energy. There, lurid desolation, blazing, Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way: Yet, Lord, thy messengers[2] are praising The mild procession of thy day. _All Three_. The sight new strength to angels lendeth, For none thy being fathom may, The works, no angel comprehendeth, Stand lordly as on time's first day. _Mephistopheles_. Since, Lord, thou drawest near us once again, And how we do, dost graciously inquire, And to be pleased to see me once didst deign, I too among thy household venture nigher. Pardon, high words I cannot labor after, Though the whole court should look on me with scorn; My pathos certainly would stir thy laughter, Hadst thou not laughter long since quite forsworn. Of sun and worlds I've nought to tell worth mention, How men torment themselves takes my attention. The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way And is as singular as on the world's first day. A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven; He calls it reason, using it To be more beast than ever beast was yet. He seems to me, (your grace the word will pardon,) Like a long-legg'd grasshopper in the garden, Forever on the wing, and hops and sings The same old song, as in the grass he springs; Would he but stay there! no; he needs must muddle His prying nose in every puddle. _The Lord_. Hast nothing for our edification? Still thy old work of accusation? Will things on earth be never right for thee? _Mephistopheles_. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be. Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em, I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em. _The Lord_. Knowest thou Faust? _Mephistopheles_. The Doctor? _The Lord_. Ay, my servant! _Mephistopheles_. He! Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion; No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion; Its grasping greed no space can measure; Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest; The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure. Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest, Not all the world--the boundless azure-- Can fill the void within his craving breast. _The Lord_. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant, Yet will he soon attain the light of reason. Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant, That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season? _Mephistopheles_. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager! If you will give me leave henceforth, To lead him softly on, like an old stager. _The Lord_. So long as he shall live on earth, Do with him all that you desire. Man errs and staggers from his birth. _Mephistopheles_. Thank you; I never did aspire To have with dead folk much transaction. In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction. A corpse will never find me in the house; I love to play as puss does with the mouse. _The Lord_. All right, I give thee full permission! Draw down this spirit from its source, And, canst thou catch him, to perdition Carry him with thee in thy course, But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess, That a good man, though passion blur his vision, Has of the right way still a consciousness. _Mephistopheles_. Good! but I'll make it a short story. About my wager I'm by no means sorry. And if I gain my end with glory Allow me to exult from a full breast. Dust shall he eat and that with zest, Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary. _The Lord_. Well, go and come, and make thy trial; The like of thee I never yet did hate. Of all the spirits of denial The scamp is he I best can tolerate. Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy, He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest; And therefore such a comrade suits him best, Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy. But you, true sons of God, in growing measure, Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure! The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye, Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring, And what in floating vision glides away, That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring. [_Heaven closes, the archangels disperse._] _Mephistopheles. [Alone.]_ I like at times to exchange with him a word, And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord To talk so kindly with the very devil. FAUST. _Night. In a narrow high-arched Gothic room_, FAUST _sitting uneasy at his desk_. _Faust_. Have now, alas! quite studied through Philosophy and Medicine, And Law, and ah! Theology, too, With hot desire the truth to win! And here, at last, I stand, poor fool! As wise as when I entered school; Am called Magister, Doctor, indeed,-- Ten livelong years cease not to lead Backward and forward, to and fro, My scholars by the nose--and lo! Just nothing, I see, is the sum of our learning, To the very core of my heart 'tis burning. 'Tis true I'm more clever than all the foplings, Doctors, Magisters, Authors, and Popelings; Am plagued by no scruple, nor doubt, nor cavil, Nor lingering fear of hell or devil-- What then? all pleasure is fled forever; To know one thing I vainly endeavor, There's nothing wherein one fellow-creature Could be mended or bettered with me for a teacher. And then, too, nor goods nor gold have I, Nor fame nor worldly dignity,-- A condition no dog could longer live in! And so to magic my soul I've given, If, haply, by spirits' mouth and might, Some mysteries may not be brought to light; That to teach, no longer may be my lot, With bitter sweat, what I need to be taught; That I may know what the world contains In its innermost heart and finer veins, See all its energies and seeds And deal no more in words but in deeds. O full, round Moon, didst thou but thine For the last time on this woe of mine! Thou whom so many a midnight I Have watched, at this desk, come up the sky: O'er books and papers, a dreary pile, Then, mournful friend! uprose thy smile! Oh that I might on the mountain-height, Walk in the noon of thy blessed light, Round mountain-caverns with spirits hover, Float in thy gleamings the meadows over, And freed from the fumes of a lore-crammed brain, Bathe in thy dew and be well again! Woe! and these walls still prison me? Dull, dismal hole! my curse on thee! Where heaven's own light, with its blessed beams, Through painted panes all sickly gleams! Hemmed in by these old book-piles tall, Which, gnawed by worms and deep in must, Rise to the roof against a wall Of smoke-stained paper, thick with dust; 'Mid glasses, boxes, where eye can see, Filled with old, obsolete instruments, Stuffed with old heirlooms of implements-- That is thy world! There's a world for thee! And still dost ask what stifles so The fluttering heart within thy breast? By what inexplicable woe The springs of life are all oppressed? Instead of living nature, where God made and planted men, his sons, Through smoke and mould, around thee stare Grim skeletons and dead men's bones. Up! Fly! Far out into the land! And this mysterious volume, see! By Nostradamus's[5] own hand, Is it not guide enough for thee? Then shalt thou thread the starry skies, And, taught by nature in her walks, The spirit's might shall o'er thee rise, As ghost to ghost familiar talks. Vain hope that mere dry sense should here Explain the holy signs to thee. I feel you, spirits, hovering near; Oh, if you hear me, answer me! [_He opens the book and beholds the sign of the Macrocosm.[_6]] Ha! as I gaze, what ecstasy is this, In one full tide through all my senses flowing! I feel a new-born life, a holy bliss Through nerves and veins mysteriously glowing. Was it a God who wrote each sign? Which, all my inner tumult stilling, And this poor heart with rapture filling, Reveals to me, by force divine, Great Nature's energies around and through me thrilling? Am I a God? It grows so bright to me! Each character on which my eye reposes Nature in act before my soul discloses. The sage's word was truth, at last I see: "The spirit-world, unbarred, is waiting; Thy sense is locked, thy heart is dead! Up, scholar, bathe, unhesitating, The earthly breast in morning-red!" [_He contemplates the sign._] How all one whole harmonious weaves, Each in the other works and lives! See heavenly powers ascending and descending, The golden buckets, one long line, extending! See them with bliss-exhaling pinions winging Their way from heaven through earth--their singing Harmonious through the universe is ringing! Majestic show! but ah! a show alone! Nature! where find I thee, immense, unknown? Where you, ye breasts? Ye founts all life sustaining, On which hang heaven and earth, and where Men's withered hearts their waste repair-- Ye gush, ye nurse, and I must sit complaining? [_He opens reluctantly the book and sees the sign of the earth-spirit._] How differently works on me this sign! Thou, spirit of the earth, art to me nearer; I feel my powers already higher, clearer, I glow already as with new-pressed wine, I feel the mood to brave life's ceaseless clashing, To bear its frowning woes, its raptures flashing, To mingle in the tempest's dashing, And not to tremble in the shipwreck's crashing; Clouds gather o'er my head-- Them moon conceals her light-- The lamp goes out! It smokes!--Red rays are darting, quivering Around my head--comes down A horror from the vaulted roof And seizes me! Spirit that I invoked, thou near me art, Unveil thyself! Ha! what a tearing in my heart! Upheaved like an ocean My senses toss with strange emotion! I feel my heart to thee entirely given! Thou must! and though the price were life--were heaven! [_He seizes the book and pronounces mysteriously the sign of the spirit. A ruddy flame darts out, the spirit appears in the flame._] _Spirit_. Who calls upon me? _Faust. [Turning away.]_ Horrid sight! _Spirit_. Long have I felt the mighty action, Upon my sphere, of thy attraction, And now-- _Faust_. Away, intolerable sprite! _Spirit_. Thou breath'st a panting supplication To hear my voice, my face to see; Thy mighty prayer prevails on me, I come!--what miserable agitation Seizes this demigod! Where is the cry of thought? Where is the breast? that in itself a world begot, And bore and cherished, that with joy did tremble And fondly dream us spirits to resemble. Where art thou, Faust? whose voice rang through my ear, Whose mighty yearning drew me from my sphere? Is this thing thou? that, blasted by my breath, Through all life's windings shuddereth, A shrinking, cringing, writhing worm! _Faust_. Thee, flame-born creature, shall I fear? 'Tis I, 'tis Faust, behold thy peer! _Spirit_. In life's tide currents, in action's storm, Up and down, like a wave, Like the wind I sweep! Cradle and grave-- A limitless deep--- An endless weaving To and fro, A restless heaving Of life and glow,-- So shape I, on Destiny's thundering loom, The Godhead's live garment, eternal in bloom. _Faust_. Spirit that sweep'st the world from end to end, How near, this hour, I feel myself to thee! _Spirit_. Thou'rt like the spirit thou canst comprehend, Not me! [_Vanishes._] _Faust_. [_Collapsing_.] Not thee? Whom then? I, image of the Godhead, And no peer for thee! [_A knocking_.] O Death! I know it!--'tis my Famulus-- Good-bye, ye dreams of bliss Elysian! Shame! that so many a glowing vision This dried-up sneak must scatter thus! [WAGNER, _in sleeping-gown and night-cap, a lamp in his hand._ FAUST _turns round with an annoyed look_.] _Wagner_. Excuse me! you're engaged in declamation; 'Twas a Greek tragedy no doubt you read? I in this art should like initiation, For nowadays it stands one well instead. I've often heard them boast, a preacher Might profit with a player for his teacher. _Faust_. Yes, when the preacher is a player, granted: As often happens in our modern ways. _Wagner_. Ah! when one with such love of study's haunted, And scarcely sees the world on holidays, And takes a spy-glass, as it were, to read it, How can one by persuasion hope to lead it? _Faust_. What you don't feel, you'll never catch by hunting, It must gush out spontaneous from the soul, And with a fresh delight enchanting The hearts of all that hear control. Sit there forever! Thaw your glue-pot,-- Blow up your ash-heap to a flame, and brew, With a dull fire, in your stew-pot, Of other men's leavings a ragout! Children and apes will gaze delighted, If their critiques can pleasure impart; But never a heart will be ignited, Comes not the spark from the speaker's heart. _Wagner_. Delivery makes the orator's success; There I'm still far behindhand, I confess. _Faust_. Seek honest gains, without pretence! Be not a cymbal-tinkling fool! Sound understanding and good sense Speak out with little art or rule; And when you've something earnest to utter, Why hunt for words in such a flutter? Yes, your discourses, that are so refined' In which humanity's poor shreds you frizzle, Are unrefreshing as the mist and wind That through the withered leaves of autumn whistle! _Wagner_. Ah God! well, art is long! And life is short and fleeting. What headaches have I felt and what heart-beating, When critical desire was strong. How hard it is the ways and means to master By which one gains each fountain-head! And ere one yet has half the journey sped, The poor fool dies--O sad disaster! _Faust_. Is parchment, then, the holy well-spring, thinkest, A draught from which thy thirst forever slakes? No quickening element thou drinkest, Till up from thine own soul the fountain breaks. _Wagner_. Excuse me! in these olden pages We catch the spirit of the by-gone ages, We see what wisest men before our day have thought, And to what glorious heights we their bequests have brought. _Faust_. O yes, we've reached the stars at last! My friend, it is to us,--the buried past,-- A book with seven seals protected; Your spirit of the times is, then, At bottom, your own spirit, gentlemen, In which the times are seen reflected. And often such a mess that none can bear it; At the first sight of it they run away. A dust-bin and a lumber-garret, At most a mock-heroic play[8] With fine, pragmatic maxims teeming, The mouths of puppets well-beseeming! _Wagner_. But then the world! the heart and mind of man! To know of these who would not pay attention? _Faust_. To know them, yes, as weaklings can! Who dares the child's true name outright to mention? The few who any thing thereof have learned, Who out of their heart's fulness needs must gabble, And show their thoughts and feelings to the rabble, Have evermore been crucified and burned. I pray you, friend, 'tis wearing into night, Let us adjourn here, for the present. _Wagner_. I had been glad to stay till morning light, This learned talk with you has been so pleasant, But the first day of Easter comes to-morrow. And then an hour or two I'll borrow. With zeal have I applied myself to learning, True, I know much, yet to know all am burning. [_Exit_.] _Faust_. [_Alone_.] See how in _his_ head only, hope still lingers, Who evermore to empty rubbish clings, With greedy hand grubs after precious things, And leaps for joy when some poor worm he fingers! That such a human voice should dare intrude, Where all was full of ghostly tones and features! Yet ah! this once, my gratitude Is due to thee, most wretched of earth's creatures. Thou snatchedst me from the despairing state In which my senses, well nigh crazed, were sunken. The apparition was so giant-great, That to a very dwarf my soul had shrunken. I, godlike, who in fancy saw but now Eternal truth's fair glass in wondrous nearness, Rejoiced in heavenly radiance and clearness, Leaving the earthly man below; I, more than cherub, whose free force Dreamed, through the veins of nature penetrating, To taste the life of Gods, like them creating, Behold me this presumption expiating! A word of thunder sweeps me from my course. Myself with thee no longer dare I measure; Had I the power to draw thee down at pleasure; To hold thee here I still had not the force. Oh, in that blest, ecstatic hour, I felt myself so small, so great; Thou drovest me with cruel power Back upon man's uncertain fate What shall I do? what slum, thus lonely? That impulse must I, then, obey? Alas! our very deeds, and not our sufferings only, How do they hem and choke life's way! To all the mind conceives of great and glorious A strange and baser mixture still adheres; Striving for earthly good are we victorious? A dream and cheat the better part appears. The feelings that could once such noble life inspire Are quenched and trampled out in passion's mire. Where Fantasy, erewhile, with daring flight Out to the infinite her wings expanded, A little space can now suffice her quite, When hope on hope time's gulf has wrecked and stranded. Care builds her nest far down the heart's recesses, There broods o'er dark, untold distresses, Restless she sits, and scares thy joy and peace away; She puts on some new mask with each new day, Herself as house and home, as wife and child presenting, As fire and water, bane and blade; What never hits makes thee afraid, And what is never lost she keeps thee still lamenting. Not like the Gods am I! Too deep that truth is thrust! But like the worm, that wriggles through the dust; Who, as along the dust for food he feels, Is crushed and buried by the traveller's heels. Is it not dust that makes this lofty wall Groan with its hundred shelves and cases; The rubbish and the thousand trifles all That crowd these dark, moth-peopled places? Here shall my craving heart find rest? Must I perchance a thousand books turn over, To find that men are everywhere distrest, And here and there one happy one discover? Why grin'st thou down upon me, hollow skull? But that thy brain, like mine, once trembling, hoping, Sought the light day, yet ever sorrowful, Burned for the truth in vain, in twilight groping? Ye, instruments, of course, are mocking me; Its wheels, cogs, bands, and barrels each one praises. I waited at the door; you were the key; Your ward is nicely turned, and yet no bolt it raises. Unlifted in the broadest day, Doth Nature's veil from prying eyes defend her, And what (he chooses not before thee to display, Not all thy screws and levers can force her to surrender. Old trumpery! not that I e'er used thee, but Because my father used thee, hang'st thou o'er me, Old scroll! thou hast been stained with smoke and smut Since, on this desk, the lamp first dimly gleamed before me. Better have squandered, far, I now can clearly see, My little all, than melt beneath it, in this Tophet! That which thy fathers have bequeathed to thee, Earn and become possessor of it! What profits not a weary load will be; What it brings forth alone can yield the moment profit. Why do I gaze as if a spell had bound me Up yonder? Is that flask a magnet to the eyes? What lovely light, so sudden, blooms around me? As when in nightly woods we hail the full-moon-rise. I greet thee, rarest phial, precious potion! As now I take thee down with deep devotion, In thee I venerate man's wit and art. Quintessence of all soporific flowers, Extract of all the finest deadly powers, Thy favor to thy master now impart! I look on thee, the sight my pain appeases, I handle thee, the strife of longing ceases, The flood-tide of the spirit ebbs away. Far out to sea I'm drawn, sweet voices listening, The glassy waters at my feet are glistening, To new shores beckons me a new-born day. A fiery chariot floats, on airy pinions, To where I sit! Willing, it beareth me, On a new path, through ether's blue dominions, To untried spheres of pure activity. This lofty life, this bliss elysian, Worm that thou waft erewhile, deservest thou? Ay, on this earthly sun, this charming vision, Turn thy back resolutely now! Boldly draw near and rend the gates asunder, By which each cowering mortal gladly steals. Now is the time to show by deeds of wonder That manly greatness not to godlike glory yields; Before that gloomy pit to stand, unfearing, Where Fantasy self-damned in its own torment lies, Still onward to that pass-way steering, Around whose narrow mouth hell-flames forever rise; Calmly to dare the step, serene, unshrinking, Though into nothingness the hour should see thee sinking. Now, then, come down from thy old case, I bid thee, Where thou, forgotten, many a year hast hid thee, Into thy master's hand, pure, crystal glass! The joy-feasts of the fathers thou hast brightened, The hearts of gravest guests were lightened, When, pledged, from hand to hand they saw thee pass. Thy sides, with many a curious type bedight, Which each, as with one draught he quaffed the liquor Must read in rhyme from off the wondrous beaker, Remind me, ah! of many a youthful night. I shall not hand thee now to any neighbor, Not now to show my wit upon thy carvings labor; Here is a juice of quick-intoxicating might. The rich brown flood adown thy sides is streaming, With my own choice ingredients teeming; Be this last draught, as morning now is gleaming, Drained as a lofty pledge to greet the festal light! [_He puts the goblet to his lips_. _Ringing of bells and choral song_. _Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath arisen! Joy to humanity! No more shall vanity, Death and inanity Hold thee in prison! _Faust_. What hum of music, what a radiant tone, Thrills through me, from my lips the goblet stealing! Ye murmuring bells, already make ye known The Easter morn's first hour, with solemn pealing? Sing you, ye choirs, e'en now, the glad, consoling song, That once, from angel-lips, through gloom sepulchral rung, A new immortal covenant sealing? _Chorus of Women_. Spices we carried, Laid them upon his breast; Tenderly buried Him whom we loved the best; Cleanly to bind him Took we the fondest care, Ah! and we find him Now no more there. _Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath ascended! Reign in benignity! Pain and indignity, Scorn and malignity, _Their_ work have ended. _Faust_. Why seek ye me in dust, forlorn, Ye heavenly tones, with soft enchanting? Go, greet pure-hearted men this holy morn! Your message well I hear, but faith to me is wanting; Wonder, its dearest child, of Faith is born. To yonder spheres I dare no more aspire, Whence the sweet tidings downward float; And yet, from childhood heard, the old, familiar note Calls back e'en now to life my warm desire. Ah! once how sweetly fell on me the kiss Of heavenly love in the still Sabbath stealing! Prophetically rang the bells with solemn pealing; A prayer was then the ecstasy of bliss; A blessed and mysterious yearning Drew me to roam through meadows, woods, and skies; And, midst a thousand tear-drops burning, I felt a world within me rise That strain, oh, how it speaks youth's gleesome plays and feelings, Joys of spring-festivals long past; Remembrance holds me now, with childhood's fond appealings, Back from the fatal step, the last. Sound on, ye heavenly strains, that bliss restore me! Tears gush, once more the spell of earth is o'er me _Chorus of Disciples_. Has the grave's lowly one Risen victorious? Sits he, God's Holy One, High-throned and glorious? He, in this blest new birth, Rapture creative knows;[9] Ah! on the breast of earth Taste we still nature's woes. Left here to languish Lone in a world like this, Fills us with anguish Master, thy bliss! _Chorus of Angels_. Christ has arisen Out of corruption's gloom. Break from your prison, Burst every tomb! Livingly owning him, Lovingly throning him, Feasting fraternally, Praying diurnally, Bearing his messages, Sharing his promises, Find ye your master near, Find ye him here![10] BEFORE THE GATE. _Pedestrians of all descriptions stroll forth_. _Mechanics' Apprentices_. Where are you going to carouse? _Others_. We're all going out to the Hunter's House. _The First_. We're going, ourselves, out to the Mill-House, brothers. _An Apprentice_. The Fountain-House I rather recommend. _Second_. 'Tis not a pleasant road, my friend. _The second group_. What will you do, then? _A Third_. I go with the others. _Fourth_. Come up to Burgdorf, there you're sure to find good cheer, The handsomest of girls and best of beer, And rows, too, of the very first water. _Fifth_. You monstrous madcap, does your skin Itch for the third time to try that inn? I've had enough for _my_ taste in that quarter. _Servant-girl_. No! I'm going back again to town for one. _Others_. Under those poplars we are sure to meet him. _First Girl_. But that for me is no great fun; For you are always sure to get him, He never dances with any but you. Great good to me your luck will do! _Others_. He's not alone, I heard him say, The curly-head would be with him to-day. _Scholar_. Stars! how the buxom wenches stride there! Quick, brother! we must fasten alongside there. Strong beer, good smart tobacco, and the waist Of a right handsome gall, well rigg'd, now that's my taste. _Citizen's Daughter_. Do see those fine, young fellows yonder! 'Tis, I declare, a great disgrace; When they might have the very best, I wonder, After these galls they needs must race! _Second scholar_ [_to the first_]. Stop! not so fast! there come two more behind, My eyes! but ain't they dressed up neatly? One is my neighbor, or I'm blind; I love the girl, she looks so sweetly. Alone all quietly they go, You'll find they'll take us, by and bye, in tow. _First_. No, brother! I don't like these starched up ways. Make haste! before the game slips through our fingers. The hand that swings the broom o' Saturdays On Sundays round thy neck most sweetly lingers. _Citizen_. No, I don't like at all this new-made burgomaster! His insolence grows daily ever faster. No good from him the town will get! Will things grow better with him? Never! We're under more constraint than ever, And pay more tax than ever yet. _Beggar_. [_Sings_.] Good gentlemen, and you, fair ladies, With such red cheeks and handsome dress, Think what my melancholy trade is, And see and pity my distress! Help the poor harper, sisters, brothers! Who loves to give, alone is gay. This day, a holiday to others, Make it for me a harvest day. _Another citizen_. Sundays and holidays, I like, of all things, a good prattle Of war and fighting, and the whole array, When back in Turkey, far away, The peoples give each other battle. One stands before the window, drinks his glass, And sees the ships with flags glide slowly down the river; Comes home at night, when out of sight they pass, And sings with joy, "Oh, peace forever!" _Third citizen_. So I say, neighbor! let them have their way, Crack skulls and in their crazy riot Turn all things upside down they may, But leave us here in peace and quiet. _Old Woman_ [_to the citizen's daughter_]. Heyday, brave prinking this! the fine young blood! Who is not smitten that has met you?-- But not so proud! All very good! And what you want I'll promise soon to get you. _Citizen's Daughter_. Come, Agatha! I dread in public sight To prattle with such hags; don't stay, O, Luddy! 'Tis true she showed me, on St. Andrew's night, My future sweetheart in the body. _The other_. She showed me mine, too, in a glass, Right soldierlike, with daring comrades round him. I look all round, I study all that pass, But to this hour I have not found him. _Soldiers_. Castles with lowering Bulwarks and towers, Maidens with towering Passions and powers, Both shall be ours! Daring the venture, Glorious the pay! When the brass trumpet Summons us loudly, Joy-ward or death-ward, On we march proudly. That is a storming! Life in its splendor! Castles and maidens Both must surrender. Daring the venture, Glorious the pay. There go the soldiers Marching away! FAUST _and_ WAGNER. _Faust_. Spring's warm look has unfettered the fountains, Brooks go tinkling with silvery feet; Hope's bright blossoms the valley greet; Weakly and sickly up the rough mountains Pale old Winter has made his retreat. Thence he launches, in sheer despite, Sleet and hail in impotent showers, O'er the green lawn as he takes his flight; But the sun will suffer no white, Everywhere waking the formative powers, Living colors he yearns to spread; Yet, as he finds it too early for flowers, Gayly dressed people he takes instead. Look from this height whereon we find us Back to the town we have left behind us, Where from the dark and narrow door Forth a motley multitude pour. They sun themselves gladly and all are gay, They celebrate Christ's resurrection to-day. For have not they themselves arisen? From smoky huts and hovels and stables, From labor's bonds and traffic's prison, From the confinement of roofs and gables, From many a cramping street and alley, From churches full of the old world's night, All have come out to the day's broad light. See, only see! how the masses sally Streaming and swarming through gardens and fields How the broad stream that bathes the valley Is everywhere cut with pleasure boats' keels, And that last skiff, so heavily laden, Almost to sinking, puts off in the stream; Ribbons and jewels of youngster and maiden From the far paths of the mountain gleam. How it hums o'er the fields and clangs from the steeple! This is the real heaven of the people, Both great and little are merry and gay, I am a man, too, I can be, to-day. _Wagner_. With you, Sir Doctor, to go out walking Is at all times honor and gain enough; But to trust myself here alone would be shocking, For I am a foe to all that is rough. Fiddling and bowling and screams and laughter To me are the hatefullest noises on earth; They yell as if Satan himself were after, And call it music and call it mirth. [_Peasants (under the linden). Dance and song._] The shepherd prinked him for the dance, With jacket gay and spangle's glance, And all his finest quiddle. And round the linden lass and lad They wheeled and whirled and danced like mad. Huzza! huzza! Huzza! Ha, ha, ha! And tweedle-dee went the fiddle. And in he bounded through the whirl, And with his elbow punched a girl, Heigh diddle, diddle! The buxom wench she turned round quick, "Now that I call a scurvy trick!" Huzza! huzza! Huzza! ha, ha, ha! Tweedle-dee, tweedle-dee went the fiddle. And petticoats and coat-tails flew As up and down they went, and through, Across and down the middle. They all grew red, they all grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm, Huzza! huzza! Ta-ra-la! Tweedle-dee went the fiddle! "And don't be so familiar there! How many a one, with speeches fair, His trusting maid will diddle!" But still he flattered her aside-- And from the linden sounded wide: Huzza! huzza! Huzza! huzza! ha! ha! ha! And tweedle-dee the fiddle. _Old Peasant._ Sir Doctor, this is kind of you, That with us here you deign to talk, And through the crowd of folk to-day A man so highly larned, walk. So take the fairest pitcher here, Which we with freshest drink have filled, I pledge it to you, praying aloud That, while your thirst thereby is stilled, So many days as the drops it contains May fill out the life that to you remains. _Faust._ I take the quickening draught and call For heaven's best blessing on one and all. [_The people form a circle round him._] _Old Peasant._ Your presence with us, this glad day, We take it very kind, indeed! In truth we've found you long ere this In evil days a friend in need! Full many a one stands living here, Whom, at death's door already laid, Your father snatched from fever's rage, When, by his skill, the plague he stayed. You, a young man, we daily saw Go with him to the pest-house then, And many a corpse was carried forth, But you came out alive again. With a charmed life you passed before us, Helped by the Helper watching o'er us. _All._ The well-tried man, and may he live, Long years a helping hand to give! _Faust._ Bow down to Him on high who sends His heavenly help and helping friends! [_He goes on with_ WAGNER.] _Wagner._ What feelings, O great man, thy heart must swell Thus to receive a people's veneration! O worthy all congratulation, Whose gifts to such advantage tell. The father to his son shows thee with exultation, All run and crowd and ask, the circle closer draws, The fiddle stops, the dancers pause, Thou goest--the lines fall back for thee. They fling their gay-decked caps on high; A little more and they would bow the knee As if the blessed Host came by. _Faust._ A few steps further on, until we reach that stone; There will we rest us from our wandering. How oft in prayer and penance there alone, Fasting, I sate, on holy mysteries pondering. There, rich in hope, in faith still firm, I've wept, sighed, wrung my hands and striven This plague's removal to extort (poor worm!) From the almighty Lord of Heaven. The crowd's applause has now a scornful tone; O couldst thou hear my conscience tell its story, How little either sire or son Has done to merit such a glory! My father was a worthy man, confused And darkened with his narrow lucubrations, Who with a whimsical, though well-meant patience, On Nature's holy circles mused. Shut up in his black laboratory, Experimenting without end, 'Midst his adepts, till he grew hoary, He sought the opposing powers to blend. Thus, a red lion,[11] a bold suitor, married The silver lily, in the lukewarm bath, And, from one bride-bed to another harried, The two were seen to fly before the flaming wrath. If then, with colors gay and splendid, The glass the youthful queen revealed, Here was the physic, death the patients' sufferings ended, And no one asked, who then was healed? Thus, with electuaries so satanic, Worse than the plague with all its panic, We rioted through hill and vale; Myself, with my own hands, the drug to thousands giving, They passed away, and I am living To hear men's thanks the murderers hail! _Wagner._ Forbear! far other name that service merits! Can a brave man do more or less Than with nice conscientiousness To exercise the calling he inherits? If thou, as youth, thy father honorest, To learn from him thou wilt desire; If thou, as man, men with new light hast blest, Then may thy son to loftier heights aspire. _Faust._ O blest! who hopes to find repose, Up from this mighty sea of error diving! Man cannot use what he already knows, To use the unknown ever striving. But let not such dark thoughts a shadow throw O'er the bright joy this hour inspires! See how the setting sun, with ruddy glow, The green-embosomed hamlet fires! He sinks and fades, the day is lived and gone, He hastens forth new scenes of life to waken. O for a wing to lift and bear me on, And on, to where his last rays beckon! Then should I see the world's calm breast In everlasting sunset glowing, The summits all on fire, each valley steeped in rest, The silver brook to golden rivers flowing. No savage mountain climbing to the skies Should stay the godlike course with wild abysses; And now the sea, with sheltering, warm recesses Spreads out before the astonished eyes. At last it seems as if the God were sinking; But a new impulse fires the mind, Onward I speed, his endless glory drinking, The day before me and the night behind, The heavens above my head and under me the ocean. A lovely dream,--meanwhile he's gone from sight. Ah! sure, no earthly wing, in swiftest flight, May with the spirit's wings hold equal motion. Yet has each soul an inborn feeling Impelling it to mount and soar away, When, lost in heaven's blue depths, the lark is pealing High overhead her airy lay; When o'er the mountain pine's black shadow, With outspread wing the eagle sweeps, And, steering on o'er lake and meadow, The crane his homeward journey keeps. _Wagner._ I've had myself full many a wayward hour, But never yet felt such a passion's power. One soon grows tired of field and wood and brook, I envy not the fowl of heaven his pinions. Far nobler joy to soar through thought's dominions From page to page, from book to book! Ah! winter nights, so dear to mind and soul! Warm, blissful life through all the limbs is thrilling, And when thy hands unfold a genuine ancient scroll, It seems as if all heaven the room were filling. _Faust_. One passion only has thy heart possessed; The other, friend, O, learn it never! Two souls, alas! are lodged in my wild breast, Which evermore opposing ways endeavor, The one lives only on the joys of time, Still to the world with clamp-like organs clinging; The other leaves this earthly dust and slime, To fields of sainted sires up-springing. O, are there spirits in the air, That empire hold 'twixt earth's and heaven's dominions, Down from your realm of golden haze repair, Waft me to new, rich life, upon your rosy pinions! Ay! were a magic mantle only mine, To soar o'er earth's wide wildernesses, I would not sell it for the costliest dresses, Not for a royal robe the gift resign. _Wagner_. O, call them not, the well known powers of air, That swarm through all the middle kingdom, weaving Their fairy webs, with many a fatal snare The feeble race of men deceiving. First, the sharp spirit-tooth, from out the North, And arrowy tongues and fangs come thickly flying; Then from the East they greedily dart forth, Sucking thy lungs, thy life-juice drying; If from the South they come with fever thirst, Upon thy head noon's fiery splendors heaping; The Westwind brings a swarm, refreshing first, Then all thy world with thee in stupor steeping. They listen gladly, aye on mischief bent, Gladly draw near, each weak point to espy, They make believe that they from heaven are sent, Whispering like angels, while they lie. But let us go! The earth looks gray, my friend, The air grows cool, the mists ascend! At night we learn our homes to prize.-- Why dost thou stop and stare with all thy eyes? What can so chain thy sight there, in the gloaming? _Faust_. Seest thou that black dog through stalks and stubble roaming? _Wagner_. I saw him some time since, he seemed not strange to me. _Faust_. Look sharply! What dost take the beast to be? _Wagner_. For some poor poodle who has lost his master, And, dog-like, scents him o'er the ground. _Faust_. Markst thou how, ever nearer, ever faster, Towards us his spiral track wheels round and round? And if my senses suffer no confusion, Behind him trails a fiery glare. _Wagner_. 'Tis probably an optical illusion; I still see only a black poodle there. _Faust_. He seems to me as he were tracing slyly His magic rings our feet at last to snare. _Wagner_. To me he seems to dart around our steps so shyly, As if he said: is one of them my master there? _Faust_. The circle narrows, he is near! _Wagner_. Thou seest! a dog we have, no spectre, here! He growls and stops, crawls on his belly, too, And wags his tail,--as all dogs do. _Faust_. Come here, sir! come, our comrade be! _Wagner_. He has a poodle's drollery. Stand still, and he, too, waits to see; Speak to him, and he jumps on thee; Lose something, drop thy cane or sling it Into the stream, he'll run and bring it. _Faust_. I think you're right; I trace no spirit here, 'Tis all the fruit of training, that is clear. _Wagner_. A well-trained dog is a great treasure, Wise men in such will oft take pleasure. And he deserves your favor and a collar, He, of the students the accomplished scholar. [_They go in through the town gate._] STUDY-CHAMBER. _Enter_ FAUST _with the_ POODLE. I leave behind me field and meadow Veiled in the dusk of holy night, Whose ominous and awful shadow Awakes the better soul to light. To sleep are lulled the wild desires, The hand of passion lies at rest; The love of man the bosom fires, The love of God stirs up the breast. Be quiet, poodle! what worrisome fiend hath possest thee, Nosing and snuffling so round the door? Go behind the stove there and rest thee, There's my best pillow--what wouldst thou more? As, out on the mountain-paths, frisking and leaping, Thou, to amuse us, hast done thy best, So now in return lie still in my keeping, A quiet, contented, and welcome guest. When, in our narrow chamber, nightly, The friendly lamp begins to burn, Then in the bosom thought beams brightly, Homeward the heart will then return. Reason once more bids passion ponder, Hope blooms again and smiles on man; Back to life's rills he yearns to wander, Ah! to the source where life began. Stop growling, poodle! In the music Elysian That laps my soul at this holy hour, These bestial noises have jarring power. We know that men will treat with derision Whatever they cannot understand, At goodness and truth and beauty's vision Will shut their eyes and murmur and howl at it; And must the dog, too, snarl and growl at it? But ah, with the best will, I feel already, No peace will well up in me, clear and steady. But why must hope so soon deceive us, And the dried-up stream in fever leave us? For in this I have had a full probation. And yet for this want a supply is provided, To a higher than earth the soul is guided, We are ready and yearn for revelation: And where are its light and warmth so blent As here in the New Testament? I feel, this moment, a mighty yearning To expound for once the ground text of all, The venerable original Into my own loved German honestly turning. [_He opens the volume, and applies himself to the task_.] "In the beginning was the _Word_." I read. But here I stick! Who helps me to proceed? The _Word_--so high I cannot--dare not, rate it, I must, then, otherwise translate it, If by the spirit I am rightly taught. It reads: "In the beginning was the _thought_." But study well this first line's lesson, Nor let thy pen to error overhasten! Is it the _thought_ does all from time's first hour? "In the beginning," read then, "was the _power_." Yet even while I write it down, my finger Is checked, a voice forbids me there to linger. The spirit helps! At once I dare to read And write: "In the beginning was the _deed_." If I with thee must share my chamber, Poodle, now, remember, No more howling, No more growling! I had as lief a bull should bellow, As have for a chum such a noisy fellow. Stop that yell, now, One of us must quit this cell now! 'Tis hard to retract hospitality, But the door is open, thy way is free. But what ails the creature? Is this in the course of nature? Is it real? or one of Fancy's shows? How long and broad my poodle grows! He rises from the ground; That is no longer the form of a hound! Heaven avert the curse from us! He looks like a hippopotamus, With his fiery eyes and the terrible white Of his grinning teeth! oh what a fright Have I brought with me into the house! Ah now, No mystery art thou! Methinks for such half hellish brood The key of Solomon were good. _Spirits_ [_in the passage_]. Softly! a fellow is caught there! Keep back, all of you, follow him not there! Like the fox in the trap, Mourns the old hell-lynx his mishap. But give ye good heed! This way hover, that way hover, Over and over, And he shall right soon be freed. Help can you give him, O do not leave him! Many good turns he's done us, Many a fortune won us. _Faust_. First, to encounter the creature By the spell of the Four, says the teacher: Salamander shall glisten,[12] Undina lapse lightly, Sylph vanish brightly, Kobold quick listen. He to whom Nature Shows not, as teacher, Every force And secret source, Over the spirits No power inherits. Vanish in glowing Flame, Salamander! Inward, spirally flowing, Gurgle, Undine! Gleam in meteoric splendor, Airy Queen! Thy homely help render, Incubus! Incubus! Forth and end the charm for us! No kingdom of Nature Resides in the creature. He lies there grinning--'tis clear, my charm Has done the monster no mite of harm. I'll try, for thy curing, Stronger adjuring. Art thou a jail-bird, A runaway hell-bird? This sign,[13] then--adore it! They tremble before it All through the dark dwelling. His hair is bristling--his body swelling. Reprobate creature! Canst read his nature? The Uncreated, Ineffably Holy, With Deity mated, Sin's victim lowly? Driven behind the stove by my spells, Like an elephant he swells; He fills the whole room, so huge he's grown, He waxes shadowy faster and faster. Rise not up to the ceiling--down! Lay thyself at the feet of thy master! Thou seest, there's reason to dread my ire. I'll scorch thee with the holy fire! Wait not for the sight Of the thrice-glowing light! Wait not to feel the might Of the potentest spell in all my treasure! MEPHISTOPHELES. [_As the mist sinks, steps forth from behind the stove, dressed as a travelling scholasticus_.] Why all this noise? What is your worship's pleasure? _Faust_. This was the poodle's essence then! A travelling clark? Ha! ha! The casus is too funny. _Mephistopheles_. I bow to the most learned among men! 'Faith you did sweat me without ceremony. _Faust_. What is thy name? _Mephistopheles_. The question seems too small For one who holds the _word_ so very cheaply, Who, far removed from shadows all, For substances alone seeks deeply. _Faust_. With gentlemen like him in my presence, The name is apt to express the essence, Especially if, when you inquire, You find it God of flies,[14] Destroyer, Slanderer, Liar. Well now, who art thou then? _Mephistopheles_. A portion of that power, Which wills the bad and works the good at every hour. _Faust_. Beneath thy riddle-word what meaning lies? _Mephistopheles_. I am the spirit that denies! And justly so; for all that time creates, He does well who annihilates! Better, it ne'er had had beginning; And so, then, all that you call sinning, Destruction,--all you pronounce ill-meant,-- Is my original element. _Faust_. Thou call'st thyself a part, yet lookst complete to me. _Mephistopheles_. I speak the modest truth to thee. A world of folly in one little soul, _Man_ loves to think himself a whole; Part of the part am I, which once was all, the Gloom That brought forth Light itself from out her mighty womb, The upstart proud, that now with mother Night Disputes her ancient rank and space and right, Yet never shall prevail, since, do whate'er he will, He cleaves, a slave, to bodies still; From bodies flows, makes bodies fair to sight; A body in his course can check him, His doom, I therefore hope, will soon o'ertake him, With bodies merged in nothingness and night. _Faust_. Ah, now I see thy high vocation! In gross thou canst not harm creation, And so in small hast now begun. _Mephistopheles_. And, truth to tell, e'en here, not much have done. That which at nothing the gauntlet has hurled, This, what's its name? this clumsy world, So far as I have undertaken, I have to own, remains unshaken By wave, storm, earthquake, fiery brand. Calm, after all, remain both sea and land. And the damn'd living fluff, of man and beast the brood, It laughs to scorn my utmost power. I've buried myriads by the hour, And still there circulates each hour a new, fresh blood. It were enough to drive one to distraction! Earth, water, air, in constant action, Through moist and dry, through warm and cold, Going forth in endless germination! Had I not claimed of fire a reservation, Not one thing I alone should hold. _Faust_. Thus, with the ever-working power Of good dost thou in strife persist, And in vain malice, to this hour, Clenchest thy cold and devilish fist! Go try some other occupation, Singular son of Chaos, thou! _Mephistopheles_. We'll give the thing consideration, When next we meet again! But now Might I for once, with leave retire? _Faust_. Why thou shouldst ask I do not see. Now that I know thee, when desire Shall prompt thee, freely visit me. Window and door give free admission. At least there's left the chimney flue. _Mephistopheles_. Let me confess there's one small prohibition Lies on thy threshold, 'gainst my walking through, The wizard-foot--[15] _Faust_. Does that delay thee? The Pentagram disturbs thee? Now, Come tell me, son of hell, I pray thee, If that spell-binds thee, then how enteredst thou? _Thou_ shouldst proceed more circumspectly! _Mephistopheles_. Mark well! the figure is not drawn correctly; One of the angles, 'tis the outer one, Is somewhat open, dost perceive it? _Faust_. That was a lucky hit, believe it! And I have caught thee then? Well done! 'Twas wholly chance--I'm quite astounded! _Mephistopheles_. The _poodle_ took no heed, as through the door he bounded; The case looks differently now; The _devil_ can leave the house no-how. _Faust_. The window offers free emission. _Mephistopheles_. Devils and ghosts are bound by this condition: The way they entered in, they must come out. Allow In the first clause we're free, yet not so in the second. _Faust_. In hell itself, then, laws are reckoned? Now that I like; so then, one may, in fact, Conclude a binding compact with you gentry? _Mephistopheles_. Whatever promise on our books finds entry, We strictly carry into act. But hereby hangs a grave condition, Of this we'll talk when next we meet; But for the present I entreat Most urgently your kind dismission. _Faust_. Do stay but just one moment longer, then, Tell me good news and I'll release thee. _Mephistopheles_. Let me go now! I'll soon come back again, Then may'st thou ask whate'er shall please thee. _Faust_. I laid no snare for thee, old chap! Thou shouldst have watched and saved thy bacon. Who has the devil in his trap Must hold him fast, next time he'll not so soon be taken. _Mephistopheles_. Well, if it please thee, I'm content to stay For company, on one condition, That I, for thy amusement, may To exercise my arts have free permission. _Faust_. I gladly grant it, if they be Not disagreeable to me. _Mephistopheles_. Thy senses, friend, in this one hour Shall grasp the world with clearer power Than in a year's monotony. The songs the tender spirits sing thee, The lovely images they bring thee Are not an idle magic play. Thou shalt enjoy the daintiest savor, Then feast thy taste on richest flavor, Then thy charmed heart shall melt away. Come, all are here, and all have been Well trained and practised, now begin! _Spirits_. Vanish, ye gloomy Vaulted abysses! Tenderer, clearer, Friendlier, nearer, Ether, look through! O that the darkling Cloud-piles were riven! Starlight is sparkling, Purer is heaven, Holier sunshine Softens the blue. Graces, adorning Sons of the morning-- Shadowy wavings-- Float along over; Yearnings and cravings After them hover. Garments ethereal, Tresses aerial, Float o'er the flowers, Float o'er the bowers, Where, with deep feeling, Thoughtful and tender, Lovers, embracing, Life-vows are sealing. Bowers on bowers! Graceful and slender Vines interlacing! Purple and blushing, Under the crushing Wine-presses gushing, Grape-blood, o'erflowing, Down over gleaming Precious stones streaming, Leaves the bright glowing Tops of the mountains, Leaves the red fountains, Widening and rushing, Till it encloses Green hills all flushing, Laden with roses. Happy ones, swarming, Ply their swift pinions, Glide through the charming Airy dominions, Sunward still fleering, Onward, where peering Far o'er the ocean, Islets are dancing With an entrancing, Magical motion; Hear them, in chorus, Singing high o'er us; Over the meadows Flit the bright shadows; Glad eyes are glancing, Tiny feet dancing. Up the high ridges Some of them clamber, Others are skimming Sky-lakes of amber, Others are swimming Over the ocean;-- All are in motion, Life-ward all yearning, Longingly turning To the far-burning Star-light of bliss. _Mephistopheles_. He sleeps! Ye airy, tender youths, your numbers Have sung him into sweetest slumbers! You put me greatly in your debt by this. Thou art not yet the man that shall hold fast the devil! Still cheat his senses with your magic revel, Drown him in dreams of endless youth; But this charm-mountain on the sill to level, I need, O rat, thy pointed tooth! Nor need I conjure long, they're near me, E'en now comes scampering one, who presently will hear me. The sovereign lord of rats and mice, Of flies and frogs and bugs and lice, Commands thee to come forth this hour, And gnaw this threshold with great power, As he with oil the same shall smear-- Ha! with a skip e'en now thou'rt here! But brisk to work! The point by which I'm cowered, Is on the ledge, the farthest forward. Yet one more bite, the deed is done.-- Now, Faust, until we meet again, dream on! _Faust_. [_Waking_.] Again has witchcraft triumphed o'er me? Was it a ghostly show, so soon withdrawn? I dream, the devil stands himself before me--wake, to find a poodle gone! STUDY-CHAMBER. FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Faust_. A knock? Walk in! Who comes again to tease me? _Mephistopheles_. 'Tis I. _Faust_. Come in! _Mephistopheles_. Must say it thrice, to please me. _Faust_. Come in then! _Mephistopheles_. That I like to hear. We shall, I hope, bear with each other; For to dispel thy crotchets, brother, As a young lord, I now appear, In scarlet dress, trimmed with gold lacing, A stiff silk cloak with stylish facing, A tall cock's feather in my hat, A long, sharp rapier to defend me, And I advise thee, short and flat, In the same costume to attend me; If thou wouldst, unembarrassed, see What sort of thing this life may be. _Faust_. In every dress I well may feel the sore Of this low earth-life's melancholy. I am too old to live for folly, Too young, to wish for nothing more. Am I content with all creation? Renounce! renounce! Renunciation-- Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings, Which every hour, our whole life long, With brazen accents hoarsely sings. With terror I behold each morning's light, With bitter tears my eyes are filling, To see the day that shall not in its flight Fulfil for me one wish, not one, but killing Every presentiment of zest With wayward skepticism, chases The fair creations from my breast With all life's thousand cold grimaces. And when at night I stretch me on my bed And darkness spreads its shadow o'er me; No rest comes then anigh my weary head, Wild dreams and spectres dance before me. The God who dwells within my soul Can heave its depths at any hour; Who holds o'er all my faculties control Has o'er the outer world no power; Existence lies a load upon my breast, Life is a curse and death a long'd-for rest. _Mephistopheles_. And yet death never proves a wholly welcome guest. _Faust_. O blest! for whom, when victory's joy fire blazes, Death round his brow the bloody laurel windeth, Whom, weary with the dance's mazes, He on a maiden's bosom findeth. O that, beneath the exalted spirit's power, I had expired, in rapture sinking! _Mephistopheles_. And yet I knew one, in a midnight hour, Who a brown liquid shrank from drinking. _Faust_. Eaves-dropping seems a favorite game with thee. _Mephistopheles_. Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me. _Faust_. Since that sweet tone, with fond appealing, Drew me from witchcraft's horrid maze, And woke the lingering childlike feeling With harmonies of happier days; My curse on all the mock-creations That weave their spell around the soul, And bind it with their incantations And orgies to this wretched hole! Accursed be the high opinion Hugged by the self-exalting mind! Accursed all the dream-dominion That makes the dazzled senses blind! Curs'd be each vision that befools us, Of fame, outlasting earthly life! Curs'd all that, as possession, rules us, As house and barn, as child and wife! Accurs'd be mammon, when with treasure He fires our hearts for deeds of might, When, for a dream of idle pleasure, He makes our pillow smooth and light! Curs'd be the grape-vine's balsam-juices! On love's high grace my curses fall! On faith! On hope that man seduces, On patience last, not least, of all! _Choir of spirits_. [_Invisible_.] Woe! Woe! Thou hast ground it to dust, The beautiful world, With mighty fist; To ruins 'tis hurled; A demi-god's blow hath done it! A moment we look upon it, Then carry (sad duty!) The fragments over into nothingness, With tears unavailing Bewailing All the departed beauty. Lordlier Than all sons of men, Proudlier Build it again, Build it up in thy breast anew! A fresh career pursue, Before thee A clearer view, And, from the Empyréan, A new-born Paean Shall greet thee, too! _Mephistopheles_. Be pleased to admire My juvenile choir! Hear how they counsel in manly measure Action and pleasure! Out into life, Its joy and strife, Away from this lonely hole, Where senses and soul Rot in stagnation, Calls thee their high invitation. Give over toying with thy sorrow Which like a vulture feeds upon thy heart; Thou shalt, in the worst company, to-morrow Feel that with men a man thou art. Yet I do not exactly intend Among the canaille to plant thee. I'm none of your magnates, I grant thee; Yet if thou art willing, my friend, Through life to jog on beside me, Thy pleasure in all things shall guide me, To thee will I bind me, A friend thou shalt find me, And, e'en to the grave, Shalt make me thy servant, make me thy slave! _Faust_. And in return what service shall I render? _Mephistopheles_. There's ample grace--no hurry, not the least. _Faust_. No, no, the devil is an egotist, And does not easily "for God's sake" tender That which a neighbor may assist. Speak plainly the conditions, come! 'Tis dangerous taking such a servant home. _Mephistopheles_. I to thy service _here_ agree to bind me, To run and never rest at call of thee; When _over yonder_ thou shalt find me, Then thou shalt do as much for me. _Faust_. I care not much what's over yonder: When thou hast knocked this world asunder, Come if it will the other may! Up from this earth my pleasures all are streaming, Down on my woes this earthly sun is beaming; Let me but end this fit of dreaming, Then come what will, I've nought to say. I'll hear no more of barren wonder If in that world they hate and love, And whether in that future yonder There's a Below and an Above. _Mephistopheles._ In such a mood thou well mayst venture. Bind thyself to me, and by this indenture Thou shalt enjoy with relish keen Fruits of my arts that man had never seen. _Faust_. And what hast thou to give, poor devil? Was e'er a human mind, upon its lofty level, Conceived of by the like of thee? Yet hast thou food that brings satiety, Not satisfaction; gold that reftlessly, Like quicksilver, melts down within The hands; a game in which men never win; A maid that, hanging on my breast, Ogles a neighbor with her wanton glances; Of fame the glorious godlike zest, That like a short-lived meteor dances-- Show me the fruit that, ere it's plucked, will rot, And trees from which new green is daily peeping! _Mephistopheles_. Such a requirement scares me not; Such treasures have I in my keeping. Yet shall there also come a time, good friend, When we may feast on good things at our leisure. _Faust_. If e'er I lie content upon a lounge of pleasure-- Then let there be of me an end! When thou with flattery canst cajole me, Till I self-satisfied shall be, When thou with pleasure canst befool me, Be that the last of days for me! I lay the wager! _Mephistopheles_. Done! _Faust_. And heartily! Whenever to the passing hour I cry: O stay! thou art so fair! To chain me down I give thee power To the black bottom of despair! Then let my knell no longer linger, Then from my service thou art free, Fall from the clock the index-finger, Be time all over, then, for me! _Mephistopheles_. Think well, for we shall hold you to the letter. _Faust_. Full right to that just now I gave; I spoke not as an idle braggart better. Henceforward I remain a slave, What care I who puts on the setter? _Mephistopheles_. I shall this very day, at Doctor's-feast,[16] My bounden service duly pay thee. But one thing!--For insurance' sake, I pray thee, Grant me a line or two, at least. _Faust_. Pedant! will writing gain thy faith, alone? In all thy life, no man, nor man's word hast thou known? Is't not enough that I the fatal word That passes on my future days have spoken? The world-stream raves and rushes (hast not heard?) And shall a promise hold, unbroken? Yet this delusion haunts the human breast, Who from his soul its roots would sever? Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest. No sacrifice shall he repent of ever! But from a formal, written, sealed attest, As from a spectre, all men shrink forever. The word and spirit die together, Killed by the sight of wax and leather. What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me? Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be? Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver? Among them all thy choice is free. _Mephistopheles_. This rhetoric of thine to me Hath a somewhat bombastic savor. Any small scrap of paper's good. Thy signature will need a single drop of blood.[17] _Faust_. If this will satisfy thy mood, I will consent thy whim to favor. _Mephistopheles._ Quite a peculiar juice is blood. _Faust_. Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never! My promise, rightly understood, Fulfils my nature's whole endeavor. I've puffed myself too high, I see; To _thy_ rank only I belong. The Lord of Spirits scorneth me, Nature, shut up, resents the wrong. The thread of thought is snapt asunder, All science to me is a stupid blunder. Let us in sensuality's deep Quench the passions within us blazing! And, the veil of sorcery raising, Wake each miracle from its long sleep! Plunge we into the billowy dance, The rush and roll of time and chance! Then may pleasure and distress, Disappointment and success, Follow each other as fast as they will; Man's restless activity flourishes still. _Mephistopheles_. No bound or goal is set to you; Where'er you like to wander sipping, And catch a tit-bit in your skipping, Eschew all coyness, just fall to, And may you find a good digestion! _Faust_. Now, once for all, pleasure is not the question. I'm sworn to passion's whirl, the agony of bliss, The lover's hate, the sweets of bitterness. My heart, no more by pride of science driven, Shall open wide to let each sorrow enter, And all the good that to man's race is given, I will enjoy it to my being's centre, Through life's whole range, upward and downward sweeping, Their weal and woe upon my bosom heaping, Thus in my single self their selves all comprehending And with them in a common shipwreck ending. _Mephistopheles_. O trust me, who since first I fell from heaven, Have chewed this tough meat many a thousand year, No man digests the ancient leaven, No mortal, from the cradle to the bier. Trust one of _us_--the _whole_ creation To God alone belongs by right; _He_ has in endless day his habitation, _Us_ He hath made for utter night, _You_ for alternate dark and light. _Faust_. But then I _will!_ _Mephistopheles_. Now that's worth hearing! But one thing haunts me, the old song, That time is short and art is long. You need some slight advice, I'm fearing. Take to you one of the poet-feather, Let the gentleman's thought, far-sweeping, Bring all the noblest traits together, On your one crown their honors heaping, The lion's mood The stag's rapidity, The fiery blood of Italy, The Northman's hardihood. Bid him teach thee the art of combining Greatness of soul with fly designing, And how, with warm and youthful passion, To fall in love by plan and fashion. Should like, myself, to come across 'm, Would name him Mr. Microcosm. _Faust_. What am I then? if that for which my heart Yearns with invincible endeavor, The crown of man, must hang unreached forever? _Mephistopheles_. Thou art at last--just what thou art. Pile perukes on thy head whose curls cannot be counted, On yard-high buskins let thy feet be mounted, Still thou art only what thou art. _Faust_. Yes, I have vainly, let me not deny it, Of human learning ransacked all the stores, And when, at last, I set me down in quiet, There gushes up within no new-born force; I am not by a hair's-breadth higher, Am to the Infinite no nigher. _Mephistopheles_. My worthy sir, you see the matter As people generally see; But we must learn to take things better, Before life pleasures wholly flee. The deuce! thy head and all that's in it, Hands, feet and ------ are thine; What I enjoy with zest each minute, Is surely not the less mine? If I've six horses in my span, Is it not mine, their every power? I fly along as an undoubted man, On four and twenty legs the road I scour. Cheer up, then! let all thinking be, And out into the world with me! I tell thee, friend, a speculating churl Is like a beast, some evil spirit chases Along a barren heath in one perpetual whirl, While round about lie fair, green pasturing places. _Faust_. But how shall we begin? _Mephistopheles_. We sally forth e'en now. What martyrdom endurest thou! What kind of life is this to be living, Ennui to thyself and youngsters giving? Let Neighbor Belly that way go! To stay here threshing straw why car'st thou? The best that thou canst think and know To tell the boys not for the whole world dar'st thou. E'en now I hear one in the entry. _Faust_. I have no heart the youth to see. _Mephistopheles_. The poor boy waits there like a sentry, He shall not want a word from me. Come, give me, now, thy robe and bonnet; This mask will suit me charmingly. [_He puts them on_.] Now for my wit--rely upon it! 'Twill take but fifteen minutes, I am sure. Meanwhile prepare thyself to make the pleasant tour! [_Exit_ FAUST.] _Mephistopheles [in_ FAUST'S _long gown_]. Only despise all human wit and lore, The highest flights that thought can soar-- Let but the lying spirit blind thee, And with his spells of witchcraft bind thee, Into my snare the victim creeps.-- To him has destiny a spirit given, That unrestrainedly still onward sweeps, To scale the skies long since hath striven, And all earth's pleasures overleaps. He shall through life's wild scenes be driven, And through its flat unmeaningness, I'll make him writhe and stare and stiffen, And midst all sensual excess, His fevered lips, with thirst all parched and riven, Insatiably shall haunt refreshment's brink; And had he not, himself, his soul to Satan given, Still must he to perdition sink! [_Enter_ A SCHOLAR.] _Scholar_. I have but lately left my home, And with profound submission come, To hold with one some conversation Whom all men name with veneration. _Mephistopheles._ Your courtesy greatly flatters me A man like many another you see. Have you made any applications elsewhere? _Scholar_. Let me, I pray, your teachings share! With all good dispositions I come, A fresh young blood and money some; My mother would hardly hear of my going; But I long to learn here something worth knowing. _Mephistopheles_. You've come to the very place for it, then. _Scholar_. Sincerely, could wish I were off again: My soul already has grown quite weary Of walls and halls, so dark and dreary, The narrowness oppresses me. One sees no green thing, not a tree. On the lecture-seats, I know not what ails me, Sight, hearing, thinking, every thing fails me. _Mephistopheles_. 'Tis all in use, we daily see. The child takes not the mother's breast In the first instance willingly, But soon it feeds itself with zest. So you at wisdom's breast your pleasure Will daily find in growing measure. _Scholar_. I'll hang upon her neck, a raptured wooer, But only tell me, who shall lead me to her? _Mephistopheles_. Ere you go further, give your views As to which faculty you choose? _Scholar_. To be right learn'd I've long desired, And of the natural world aspired To have a perfect comprehension In this and in the heavenly sphere. _Mephistopheles_. I see you're on the right track here; But you'll have to give undivided attention. _Scholar_. My heart and soul in the work'll be found; Only, of course, it would give me pleasure, When summer holidays come round, To have for amusement a little leisure. _Mephistopheles_. Use well the precious time, it flips away so, Yet method gains you time, if I may say so. I counsel you therefore, my worthy friend, The logical leisures first to attend. Then is your mind well trained and cased In Spanish boots,[18] all snugly laced, So that henceforth it can creep ahead On the road of thought with a cautious tread. And not at random shoot and strike, Zig-zagging Jack-o'-lanthorn-like. Then will you many a day be taught That what you once to do had thought Like eating and drinking, extempore, Requires the rule of one, two, three. It is, to be sure, with the fabric of thought, As with the _chef d'�uvre_ by weavers wrought, Where a thousand threads one treadle plies, Backward and forward the shuttles keep going, Invisibly the threads keep flowing, One stroke a thousand fastenings ties: Comes the philosopher and cries: I'll show you, it could not be otherwise: The first being so, the second so, The third and fourth must of course be so; And were not the first and second, you see, The third and fourth could never be. The scholars everywhere call this clever, But none have yet become weavers ever. Whoever will know a live thing and expound it, First kills out the spirit it had when he found it, And then the parts are all in his hand, Minus only the spiritual band! Encheiresin naturæ's[19] the chemical name, By which dunces themselves unwittingly shame. _Scholar_. Cannot entirely comprehend you. _Mephistopheles_. Better success will shortly attend you, When you learn to analyze all creation And give it a proper classification. _Scholar_. I feel as confused by all you've said, As if 'twere a mill-wheel going round in my head! _Mephistopheles_. The next thing most important to mention, Metaphysics will claim your attention! There see that you can clearly explain What fits not into the human brain: For that which will not go into the head, A pompous word will stand you in stead. But, this half-year, at least, observe From regularity never to swerve. You'll have five lectures every day; Be in at the stroke of the bell I pray! And well prepared in every part; Study each paragraph by heart, So that you scarce may need to look To see that he says no more than's in the book; And when he dictates, be at your post, As if you wrote for the Holy Ghost! _Scholar_. That caution is unnecessary! I know it profits one to write, For what one has in black and white, He to his home can safely carry. _Mephistopheles_. But choose some faculty, I pray! _Scholar_. I feel a strong dislike to try the legal college. _Mephistopheles_. I cannot blame you much, I must acknowledge. I know how this profession stands to-day. Statutes and laws through all the ages Like a transmitted malady you trace; In every generation still it rages And softly creeps from place to place. Reason is nonsense, right an impudent suggestion; Alas for thee, that thou a grandson art! Of inborn law in which each man has part, Of that, unfortunately, there's no question. _Scholar_. My loathing grows beneath your speech. O happy he whom you shall teach! To try theology I'm almost minded. _Mephistopheles_. I must not let you by zeal be blinded. This is a science through whose field Nine out of ten in the wrong road will blunder, And in it so much poison lies concealed, That mould you this mistake for physic, no great wonder. Here also it were best, if only one you heard And swore to that one master's word. Upon the whole--words only heed you! These through the temple door will lead you Safe to the shrine of certainty. _Scholar_. Yet in the word a thought must surely be. _Mephistopheles_. All right! But one must not perplex himself about it; For just where one must go without it, The word comes in, a friend in need, to thee. With words can one dispute most featly, With words build up a system neatly, In words thy faith may stand unshaken, From words there can be no iota taken. _Scholar_. Forgive my keeping you with many questions, Yet must I trouble you once more, Will you not give me, on the score Of medicine, some brief suggestions? Three years are a short time, O God! And then the field is quite too broad. If one had only before his nose Something else as a hint to follow!-- _Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. I'm heartily tired of this dry prose, Must play the devil again out hollow. [_Aloud_.] The healing art is quickly comprehended; Through great and little world you look abroad, And let it wag, when all is ended, As pleases God. Vain is it that your science sweeps the skies, Each, after all, learns only what he can; Who grasps the moment as it flies He is the real man. Your person somewhat takes the eye, Boldness you'll find an easy science, And if you on yourself rely, Others on you will place reliance. In the women's good graces seek first to be seated; Their oh's and ah's, well known of old, So thousand-fold, Are all from a single point to be treated; Be decently modest and then with ease You may get the blind side of them when you please. A title, first, their confidence must waken, That _your_ art many another art transcends, Then may you, lucky man, on all those trifles reckon For which another years of groping spends: Know how to press the little pulse that dances, And fearlessly, with sly and fiery glances, Clasp the dear creatures round the waist To see how tightly they are laced. _Scholar_. This promises! One loves the How and Where to see! _Mephistopheles_. Gray, worthy friend, is all your theory And green the golden tree of life. _Scholar_. I seem, I swear to you, like one who walks in dream. Might I another time, without encroaching, Hear you the deepest things of wisdom broaching? _Mephistopheles_. So far as I have power, you may. _Scholar_. I cannot tear myself away, Till I to you my album have presented. Grant me one line and I'm contented! _Mephistopheles_. With pleasure. [_Writes and returns it_.] _Scholar [reads]._ Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum. [_Shuts it reverently, and bows himself out_.] _Mephistopheles_. Let but the brave old saw and my aunt, the serpent, guide thee, And, with thy likeness to God, shall woe one day betide thee! _Faust [enters_]. Which way now shall we go? _Mephistopheles_. Which way it pleases thee. The little world and then the great we see. O with what gain, as well as pleasure, Wilt thou the rollicking cursus measure! _Faust_. I fear the easy life and free With my long beard will scarce agree. 'Tis vain for me to think of succeeding, I never could learn what is called good-breeding. In the presence of others I feel so small; I never can be at my ease at all. _Mephistopheles_. Dear friend, vain trouble to yourself you're giving; Whence once you trust yourself, you know the art of living. _Faust_. But how are we to start, I pray? Where are thy servants, coach and horses? _Mephistopheles_. We spread the mantle, and away It bears us on our airy courses. But, on this bold excursion, thou Must take no great portmanteau now. A little oxygen, which I will soon make ready, From earth uplifts us, quick and steady. And if we're light, we'll soon surmount the sphere; I give thee hearty joy in this thy new career. AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPSIC.[20] _Carousal of Jolly Companions_. _Frosch_.[21] Will nobody drink? Stop those grimaces! I'll teach you how to be cutting your faces! Laugh out! You're like wet straw to-day, And blaze, at other times, like dry hay. _Brander_. 'Tis all your fault; no food for fun you bring, Not a nonsensical nor nasty thing. _Frosch [dashes a glass of wine over his bead_]. There you have both! _Brander_. You hog twice o'er! _Frosch_. You wanted it, what would you more? _Siebel_ Out of the door with them that brawl! Strike up a round; swill, shout there, one and all! Wake up! Hurra! _Altmayer_. Woe's me, I'm lost! Bring cotton! The rascal splits my ear-drum. _Siebel_. Only shout on! When all the arches ring and yell, Then does the base make felt its true ground-swell. _Frosch_. That's right, just throw him out, who undertakes to fret! A! tara! lara da! _Altmayer_. A! tara! lara da! _Frosch_. Our whistles all are wet. [_Sings_.] The dear old holy Romish realm, What holds it still together? _Brander_. A sorry song! Fie! a political song! A tiresome song! Thank God each morning therefor, That you have not the Romish realm to care for! At least I count it a great gain that He Kaiser nor chancellor has made of me. E'en we can't do without a head, however; To choose a pope let us endeavour. You know what qualification throws The casting vote and the true man shows. _Frosch [sings_]. Lady Nightingale, upward soar, Greet me my darling ten thousand times o'er. _Siebel_. No greetings to that girl! Who does so, I resent it! _Frosch_. A greeting and a kiss! And you will not prevent it! [_Sings.]_ Draw the bolts! the night is clear. Draw the bolts! Love watches near. Close the bolts! the dawn is here. _Siebel_. Ay, sing away and praise and glorify your dear! Soon I shall have my time for laughter. The jade has jilted me, and will you too hereafter; May Kobold, for a lover, be her luck! At night may he upon the cross-way meet her; Or, coming from the Blocksberg, some old buck May, as he gallops by, a good-night bleat her! A fellow fine of real flesh and blood Is for the wench a deal too good. She'll get from me but one love-token, That is to have her window broken! _Brander [striking on the table_]. Attend! attend! To me give ear! I know what's life, ye gents, confess it: We've lovesick people sitting near, And it is proper they should hear A good-night strain as well as I can dress it. Give heed! And hear a bran-new song! Join in the chorus loud and strong! [_He sings_.] A rat in the cellar had built his nest, He daily grew sleeker and smoother, He lined his paunch from larder and chest, And was portly as Doctor Luther. The cook had set him poison one day; From that time forward he pined away As if he had love in his body. _Chorus [flouting_]. As if he had love in his body. _Brander_. He raced about with a terrible touse, From all the puddles went swilling, He gnawed and he scratched all over the house, His pain there was no stilling; He made full many a jump of distress, And soon the poor beast got enough, I guess, As if he had love in his body. _Chorus_. As if he had love in his body. _Brander_. With pain he ran, in open day, Right up into the kitchen; He fell on the hearth and there he lay Gasping and moaning and twitchin'. Then laughed the poisoner: "He! he! he! He's piping on the last hole," said she, "As if he had love in his body." _Chorus_. As if he had love in his body. _Siebel_. Just hear now how the ninnies giggle! That's what I call a genuine art, To make poor rats with poison wriggle! _Brander_. You take their case so much to heart? _Altmayer_. The bald pate and the butter-belly! The sad tale makes him mild and tame; He sees in the swollen rat, poor fellow! His own true likeness set in a frame. FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES. _Mephistopheles_. Now, first of all, 'tis necessary To show you people making merry, That you may see how lightly life can run. Each day to this small folk's a feast of fun; Not over-witty, self-contented, Still round and round in circle-dance they whirl, As with their tails young kittens twirl. If with no headache they're tormented, Nor dunned by landlord for his pay, They're careless, unconcerned, and gay. _Brander_. They're fresh from travel, one might know it, Their air and manner plainly show it; They came here not an hour ago. _Frosch_. Thou verily art right! My Leipsic well I know! Paris in small it is, and cultivates its people. _Siebel_. What do the strangers seem to thee? _Frosch_. Just let me go! When wine our friendship mellows, Easy as drawing a child's tooth 'twill be To worm their secrets out of these two fellows. They're of a noble house, I dare to swear, They have a proud and discontented air. _Brander_. They're mountebanks, I'll bet a dollar! _Altmayer_. Perhaps. _Frosch_. I'll smoke them, mark you that! _Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. These people never smell the old rat, E'en when he has them by the collar. _Faust_. Fair greeting to you, sirs! _Siebel_. The same, and thanks to boot. [_In a low tone, faking a side look at MEPHISTOPHELES_.] Why has the churl one halting foot? _Mephistopheles_. With your permission, shall we make one party? Instead of a good drink, which get here no one can, Good company must make us hearty. _Altmayer_. You seem a very fastidious man. _Frosch_. I think you spent some time at Rippach[22] lately? You supped with Mister Hans not long since, I dare say? _Mephistopheles_. We passed him on the road today! Fine man! it grieved us parting with him, greatly. He'd much to say to us about his cousins, And sent to each, through us, his compliments by dozens. [_He bows to_ FROSCH.] _Altmayer_ [_softly_]. You've got it there! he takes! _Siebel_. The chap don't want for wit! _Frosch_. I'll have him next time, wait a bit! _Mephistopheles_. If I mistook not, didn't we hear Some well-trained voices chorus singing? 'Faith, music must sound finely here. From all these echoing arches ringing! _Frosch_. You are perhaps a connoisseur? _Mephistopheles_. O no! my powers are small, I'm but an amateur. _Altmayer_. Give us a song! _Mephistopheles_. As many's you desire. _Siebel_. But let it be a bran-new strain! _Mephistopheles_. No fear of that! We've just come back from Spain, The lovely land of wine and song and lyre. [_Sings_.] There was a king, right stately, Who had a great, big flea,-- _Frosch_. Hear him! A flea! D'ye take there, boys? A flea! I call that genteel company. _Mephistopheles_ [_resumes_]. There was a king, right stately, Who had a great, big flea, And loved him very greatly, As if his own son were he. He called the knight of stitches; The tailor came straightway: Ho! measure the youngster for breeches, And make him a coat to-day! _Brander_. But don't forget to charge the knight of stitches, The measure carefully to take, And, as he loves his precious neck, To leave no wrinkles in the breeches. _Mephistopheles_. In silk and velvet splendid The creature now was drest, To his coat were ribbons appended, A cross was on his breast. He had a great star on his collar, Was a minister, in short; And his relatives, greater and smaller, Became great people at court. The lords and ladies of honor Fared worse than if they were hung, The queen, she got them upon her, And all were bitten and stung, And did not dare to attack them, Nor scratch, but let them stick. We choke them and we crack them The moment we feel one prick. _Chorus_ [_loud_]. We choke 'em and we crack 'em The moment we feel one prick. _Frosch_. Bravo! Bravo! That was fine! _Siebel_. So shall each flea his life resign! _Brander_. Point your fingers and nip them fine! _Altmayer_. Hurra for Liberty! Hurra for Wine! _Mephistopheles_. I'd pledge the goddess, too, to show how high I set her, Right gladly, if your wines were just a trifle better. _Siebel_. Don't say that thing again, you fretter! _Mephistopheles_. Did I not fear the landlord to affront; I'd show these worthy guests this minute What kind of stuff our stock has in it. _Siebel_. Just bring it on! I'll bear the brunt. _Frosch_. Give us a brimming glass, our praise shall then be ample, But don't dole out too small a sample; For if I'm to judge and criticize, I need a good mouthful to make me wise. _Altmayer_ [_softly_]. They're from the Rhine, as near as I can make it. _Mephistopheles_. Bring us a gimlet here! _Brander_. What shall be done with that? You've not the casks before the door, I take it? _Altmayer_. The landlord's tool-chest there is easily got at. _Mephistopheles_ [_takes the gimlet_] (_to Frosch_). What will you have? It costs but speaking. _Frosch_. How do you mean? Have you so many kinds? _Mephistopheles_. Enough to suit all sorts of minds. _Altmayer_. Aha! old sot, your lips already licking! _Frosch_. Well, then! if I must choose, let Rhine-wine fill my beaker, Our fatherland supplies the noblest liquor. MEPHISTOPHELES [_boring a hole in the rim of the table near the place where_ FROSCH _sits_]. Get us a little wax right off to make the stoppers! _Altmayer_. Ah, these are jugglers' tricks, and whappers! _Mephistopheles_ [_to Brander_]. And you? _Brander_. Champaigne's the wine for me, But then right sparkling it must be! [MEPHISTOPHELES _bores; meanwhile one of them has made the wax-stoppers and stopped the holes_.] _Brander_. Hankerings for foreign things will sometimes haunt you, The good so far one often finds; Your real German man can't bear the French, I grant you, And yet will gladly drink their wines. _Siebel_ [_while Mephistopheles approaches his seat_]. I don't like sour, it sets my mouth awry, Let mine have real sweetness in it! _Mephistopheles_ [_bores_]. Well, you shall have Tokay this minute. _Altmayer_. No, sirs, just look me in the eye! I see through this, 'tis what the chaps call smoking. _Mephistopheles_. Come now! That would be serious joking, To make so free with worthy men. But quickly now! Speak out again! With what description can I serve you? _Altmayer_. Wait not to ask; with any, then. [_After all the holes are bored and stopped_.] _Mephistopheles_ [_with singular gestures_]. From the vine-stock grapes we pluck; Horns grow on the buck; Wine is juicy, the wooden table, Like wooden vines, to give wine is able. An eye for nature's depths receive! Here is a miracle, only believe! Now draw the plugs and drink your fill! ALL [_drawing the stoppers, and catching each in his glass the wine he had desired_]. Sweet spring, that yields us what we will! _Mephistopheles_. Only be careful not a drop to spill! [_They drink repeatedly_.] _All_ [_sing_]. We're happy all as cannibals, Five hundred hogs together. _Mephistopheles_. Look at them now, they're happy as can be! _Faust_. To go would suit my inclination. _Mephistopheles_. But first give heed, their bestiality Will make a glorious demonstration. SIEBEL [_drinks carelessly; the wine is spilt upon the ground and turns to flame_]. Help! fire! Ho! Help! The flames of hell! _Mephistopheles [_conjuring the flame_]. Peace, friendly element, be still! [_To the Toper_.] This time 'twas but a drop of fire from purgatory. _Siebel_. What does this mean? Wait there, or you'll be sorry! It seems you do not know us well. _Frosch_. Not twice, in this way, will it do to joke us! _Altmayer_. I vote, we give him leave himself here _scarce_ to make. _Siebel_. What, sir! How dare you undertake To carry on here your old hocus-pocus? _Mephistopheles_. Be still, old wine-cask! _Siebel_. Broomstick, you! Insult to injury add? Confound you! _Brander_. Stop there! Or blows shall rain down round you! ALTMAYER [_draws a stopper out of the table; fire flies at him_]. I burn! I burn! _Siebel_. Foul sorcery! Shame! Lay on! the rascal is fair game! [_They draw their knives and rush at_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] _Mephistopheles_ [_with a serious mien_]. Word and shape of air! Change place, new meaning wear! Be here--and there! [_They stand astounded and look at each other_.] _Altmayer_. Where am I? What a charming land! _Frosch_. Vine hills! My eyes! Is't true? _Siebel_. And grapes, too, close at hand! _Brander_. Beneath this green see what a stem is growing! See what a bunch of grapes is glowing! [_He seizes_ SIEBEL _by the nose. The rest do the same to each other and raise their knives._] _Mephistopheles_ [_as above_]. Loose, Error, from their eyes the band! How Satan plays his tricks, you need not now be told of. [_He vanishes with_ FAUST, _the companions start back from each other_.] _Siebel_. What ails me? _Altmayer_. How? _Frosch_. Was that thy nose, friend, I had hold of? _Brander_ [_to Siebel_]. And I have thine, too, in my hand! _Altmayer_. O what a shock! through all my limbs 'tis crawling! Get me a chair, be quick, I'm falling! _Frosch_. No, say what was the real case? _Siebel_. O show me where the churl is hiding! Alive he shall not leave the place! _Altmayer_. Out through the cellar-door I saw him riding-- Upon a cask--he went full chase.-- Heavy as lead my feet are growing. [_Turning towards the table_.] My! If the wine should yet be flowing. _Siebel_. 'Twas all deception and moonshine. _Frosch_. Yet I was sure I did drink wine. _Brander_. But how about the bunches, brother? _Altmayer_. After such miracles, I'll doubt no other! WITCHES' KITCHEN. [_On a low hearth stands a great kettle over the fire. In the smoke, which rises from it, are seen various forms. A female monkey[28] sits by the kettle and skims it, and takes care that it does not run over. The male monkey with the young ones sits close by, warming himself. Walls and ceiling are adorned 'with the most singular witch-household stuff_.] FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Faust_. Would that this vile witch-business were well over! Dost promise me I shall recover In this hodge-podge of craziness? From an old hag do I advice require? And will this filthy cooked-up mess My youth by thirty years bring nigher? Woe's me, if that's the best you know! Already hope is from my bosom banished. Has not a noble mind found long ago Some balsam to restore a youth that's vanished? _Mephistopheles_. My friend, again thou speakest a wise thought! I know a natural way to make thee young,--none apter! But in another book it must be sought, And is a quite peculiar chapter. _Faust_. I beg to know it. _Mephistopheles_. Well! here's one that needs no pay, No help of physic, nor enchanting. Out to the fields without delay, And take to hacking, digging, planting; Run the same round from day to day, A treadmill-life, contented, leading, With simple fare both mind and body feeding, Live with the beast as beast, nor count it robbery Shouldst thou manure, thyself, the field thou reapest; Follow this course and, trust to me, For eighty years thy youth thou keepest! _Faust_. I am not used to that, I ne'er could bring me to it, To wield the spade, I could not do it. The narrow life befits me not at all. _Mephistopheles_. So must we on the witch, then, call. _Faust_. But why just that old hag? Canst thou Not brew thyself the needful liquor? _Mephistopheles_. That were a pretty pastime now I'd build about a thousand bridges quicker. Science and art alone won't do, The work will call for patience, too; Costs a still spirit years of occupation: Time, only, strengthens the fine fermentation. To tell each thing that forms a part Would sound to thee like wildest fable! The devil indeed has taught the art; To make it not the devil is able. [_Espying the animals_.] See, what a genteel breed we here parade! This is the house-boy! that's the maid! [_To the animals_.] Where's the old lady gone a mousing? _The animals_. Carousing; Out she went By the chimney-vent! _Mephistopheles_. How long does she spend in gadding and storming? _The animals_. While we are giving our paws a warming. _Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. How do you find the dainty creatures? _Faust_. Disgusting as I ever chanced to see! _Mephistopheles_. No! a discourse like this to me, I own, is one of life's most pleasant features; [_To the animals_.] Say, cursed dolls, that sweat, there, toiling! What are you twirling with the spoon? _Animals_. A common beggar-soup we're boiling. _Mephistopheles_. You'll have a run of custom soon. THE HE-MONKEY [_Comes along and fawns on_ MEPHISTOPHELES]. O fling up the dice, Make me rich in a trice, Turn fortune's wheel over! My lot is right bad, If money I had, My wits would recover. _Mephistopheles_. The monkey'd be as merry as a cricket, Would somebody give him a lottery-ticket! [_Meanwhile the young monkeys have been playing with a great ball, which they roll backward and forward_.] _The monkey_. 'The world's the ball; See't rise and fall, Its roll you follow; Like glass it rings: Both, brittle things! Within 'tis hollow. There it shines clear, And brighter here,-- I live--by 'Pollo!-- Dear son, I pray, Keep hands away! _Thou_ shalt fall so! 'Tis made of clay, Pots are, also. _Mephistopheles_. What means the sieve? _The monkey [takes it down_]. Wert thou a thief, 'Twould show the thief and shame him. [_Runs to his mate and makes her look through_.] Look through the sieve! Discern'st thou the thief, And darest not name him? _Mephistopheles [approaching the fire_]. And what's this pot? _The monkeys_. The dunce! I'll be shot! He knows not the pot, He knows not the kettle! _Mephistopheles_. Impertinence! Hush! _The monkey_. Here, take you the brush, And sit on the settle! [_He forces_ MEPHISTOPHELES _to sit down_.] FAUST [_who all this time has been standing before a looking-glass, now approaching and now receding from it_]. What do I see? What heavenly face Doth, in this magic glass, enchant me! O love, in mercy, now, thy swiftest pinions grant me! And bear me to her field of space! Ah, if I seek to approach what doth so haunt me, If from this spot I dare to stir, Dimly as through a mist I gaze on her!-- The loveliest vision of a woman! Such lovely woman can there be? Must I in these reposing limbs naught human. But of all heavens the finest essence see? Was such a thing on earth seen ever? _Mephistopheles_. Why, when you see a God six days in hard work spend, And then cry bravo at the end, Of course you look for something clever. Look now thy fill; I have for thee Just such a jewel, and will lead thee to her; And happy, whose good fortune it shall be, To bear her home, a prospered wooer! [FAUST _keeps on looking into the mirror_. MEPHISTOPHELES _stretching himself out on the settle and playing with the brush, continues speaking_.] Here sit I like a king upon his throne, The sceptre in my hand,--I want the crown alone. THE ANIMALS [_who up to this time have been going through all sorts of queer antics with each other, bring_ MEPHISTOPHELES _a crown with a loud cry_]. O do be so good,-- With sweat and with blood, To take it and lime it; [_They go about clumsily with the crown and break it into two pieces, with which they jump round_.] 'Tis done now! We're free! We speak and we see, We hear and we rhyme it; _Faust [facing the mirror_]. Woe's me! I've almost lost my wits. _Mephistopheles [pointing to the animals_]. My head, too, I confess, is very near to spinning. _The animals_. And then if it hits And every thing fits, We've thoughts for our winning. _Faust [as before_]. Up to my heart the flame is flying! Let us begone--there's danger near! _Mephistopheles [in the former position_]. Well, this, at least, there's no denying, That we have undissembled poets here. [The kettle, which the she-monkey has hitherto left unmatched, begins to run over; a great flame breaks out, which roars up the chimney. The_ WITCH _comes riding down through the flame with a terrible outcry_.] _Witch_. Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! The damned beast! The cursed sow! Neglected the kettle, scorched the Frau! The cursed crew! [_Seeing_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] And who are you? And what d'ye do? And what d'ye want? And who sneaked in? The fire-plague grim Shall light on him In every limb! [_She makes a dive at the kettle with the skimmer and spatters flames at _FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES_, and the creatures. These last whimper_.] MEPHISTOPHELES [_inverting the brush which he holds in his hand, and striking among the glasses and pots_]. In two! In two! There lies the brew! There lies the glass! This joke must pass; For time-beat, ass! To thy melody, 'twill do. [_While the_ WITCH _starts back full of wrath and horror.] Skeleton! Scarcecrow! Spectre! Know'st thou me, Thy lord and master? What prevents my dashing Right in among thy cursed company, Thyself and all thy monkey spirits smashing? Has the red waistcoat thy respect no more? Has the cock's-feather, too, escaped attention? Hast never seen this face before? My name, perchance, wouldst have me mention? _The witch_. Pardon the rudeness, sir, in me! But sure no cloven foot I see. Nor find I your two ravens either. _Mephistopheles_. I'll let thee off for this once so; For a long while has passed, full well I know, Since the last time we met together. The culture, too, which licks the world to shape, The devil himself cannot escape; The phantom of the North men's thoughts have left behind them, Horns, tail, and claws, where now d'ye find them? And for the foot, with which dispense I nowise can, 'Twould with good circles hurt my standing; And so I've worn, some years, like many a fine young man, False calves to make me more commanding. _The witch [dancing_]. O I shall lose my wits, I fear, Do I, again, see Squire Satan here! _Mephistopheles_. Woman, the name offends my ear! _The witch_. Why so? What has it done to you? _Mephistopheles_. It has long since to fable-books been banished; But men are none the better for it; true, The wicked _one_, but not the wicked _ones_, has vanished. Herr Baron callst thou me, then all is right and good; I am a cavalier, like others. Doubt me? Doubt for a moment of my noble blood? See here the family arms I bear about me! [_He makes an indecent gesture.] The witch [laughs immoderately_]. Ha! ha! full well I know you, sir! You are the same old rogue you always were! _Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. I pray you, carefully attend, This is the way to deal with witches, friend. _The witch_. Now, gentles, what shall I produce? _Mephistopheles_. A right good glassful of the well-known juice! And pray you, let it be the oldest; Age makes it doubly strong for use. _The witch_. Right gladly! Here I have a bottle, From which, at times, I wet my throttle; Which now, not in the slightest, stinks; A glass to you I don't mind giving; [_Softly_.] But if this man, without preparing, drinks, He has not, well you know, another hour for living. _Mephistopheles_. 'Tis a good friend of mine, whom it shall straight cheer up; Thy kitchen's best to give him don't delay thee. Thy ring--thy spell, now, quick, I pray thee, And give him then a good full cup. [_The_ WITCH, _with strange gestures, draws a circle, and places singular things in it; mean-while the glasses begin to ring, the kettle to sound and make music. Finally, she brings a great book and places the monkeys in the circle, whom she uses as a reading-desk and to hold the torches. She beckons_ FAUST _to come to her_.] _Faust [to Mephistopheles_]. Hold! what will come of this? These creatures, These frantic gestures and distorted features, And all the crazy, juggling fluff, I've known and loathed it long enough! _Mephistopheles_. Pugh! that is only done to smoke us; Don't be so serious, my man! She must, as Doctor, play her hocus-pocus To make the dose work better, that's the plan. [_He constrains_ FAUST _to step into the circle_.] THE WITCH [_beginning with great emphasis to declaim out of the book_] Remember then! Of One make Ten, The Two let be, Make even Three, There's wealth for thee. The Four pass o'er! Of Five and Six, (The witch so speaks,) Make Seven and Eight, The thing is straight: And Nine is One And Ten is none-- This is the witch's one-time-one![24] _Faust_. The old hag talks like one delirious. _Mephistopheles_. There's much more still, no less mysterious, I know it well, the whole book sounds just so! I've lost full many a year in poring o'er it, For perfect contradiction, you must know, A mystery stands, and fools and wise men bow before it, The art is old and new, my son. Men, in all times, by craft and terror, With One and Three, and Three and One, For truth have propagated error. They've gone on gabbling so a thousand years; Who on the fools would waste a minute? Man generally thinks, if words he only hears, Articulated noise must have some meaning in it. _The witch [goes on_]. Deep wisdom's power Has, to this hour, From all the world been hidden! Whoso thinks not, To him 'tis brought, To him it comes unbidden. _Faust_. What nonsense is she talking here? My heart is on the point of cracking. In one great choir I seem to hear A hundred thousand ninnies clacking. _Mephistopheles_. Enough, enough, rare Sibyl, sing us These runes no more, thy beverage bring us, And quickly fill the goblet to the brim; This drink may by my friend be safely taken: Full many grades the man can reckon, Many good swigs have entered him. [_The_ WITCH, _with many ceremonies, pours the drink into a cup; as she puts it to_ FAUST'S _lips, there rises a light flame_.] _Mephistopheles_. Down with it! Gulp it down! 'Twill prove All that thy heart's wild wants desire. Thou, with the devil, hand and glove,[25] And yet wilt be afraid of fire? [_The_ WITCH _breaks the circle_; FAUST _steps out_.] _Mephistopheles_. Now briskly forth! No rest for thee! _The witch_. Much comfort may the drink afford you! _Mephistopheles [to the witch_]. And any favor you may ask of me, I'll gladly on Walpurgis' night accord you. _The witch_. Here is a song, which if you sometimes sing, 'Twill stir up in your heart a special fire. _Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. Only make haste; and even shouldst thou tire, Still follow me; one must perspire, That it may set his nerves all quivering. I'll teach thee by and bye to prize a noble leisure, And soon, too, shalt thou feel with hearty pleasure, How busy Cupid stirs, and shakes his nimble wing. _Faust_. But first one look in yonder glass, I pray thee! Such beauty I no more may find! _Mephistopheles_. Nay! in the flesh thine eyes shall soon display thee The model of all woman-kind. [_Softly_.] Soon will, when once this drink shall heat thee, In every girl a Helen meet thee! A STREET. FAUST. MARGARET [_passing over_]. _Faust_. My fair young lady, will it offend her If I offer my arm and escort to lend her? _Margaret_. Am neither lady, nor yet am fair! Can find my way home without any one's care. [_Disengages herself and exit_.] _Faust_. By heavens, but then the child _is_ fair! I've never seen the like, I swear. So modest is she and so pure, And somewhat saucy, too, to be sure. The light of the cheek, the lip's red bloom, I shall never forget to the day of doom! How me cast down her lovely eyes, Deep in my soul imprinted lies; How she spoke up, so curt and tart, Ah, that went right to my ravished heart! [_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] _Faust_. Hark, thou shalt find me a way to address her! _Mephistopheles_. Which one? _Faust_. She just went by. _Mephistopheles_. What! She? She came just now from her father confessor, Who from all sins pronounced her free; I stole behind her noiselessly, 'Tis an innocent thing, who, for nothing at all, Must go to the confessional; O'er such as she no power I hold! _Faust_. But then she's over fourteen years old. _Mephistopheles_. Thou speak'st exactly like Jack Rake, Who every fair flower his own would make. And thinks there can be no favor nor fame, But one may straightway pluck the same. But 'twill not always do, we see. _Faust_. My worthy Master Gravity, Let not a word of the Law be spoken! One thing be clearly understood,-- Unless I clasp the sweet, young blood This night in my arms--then, well and good: When midnight strikes, our bond is broken. _Mephistopheles_. Reflect on all that lies in the way! I need a fortnight, at least, to a day, For finding so much as a way to reach her. _Faust_. Had I seven hours, to call my own, Without the devil's aid, alone I'd snare with ease so young a creature. _Mephistopheles_. You talk quite Frenchman-like to-day; But don't be vexed beyond all measure. What boots it thus to snatch at pleasure? 'Tis not so great, by a long way, As if you first, with tender twaddle, And every sort of fiddle-faddle, Your little doll should mould and knead, As one in French romances may read. _Faust_. My appetite needs no such spur. _Mephistopheles_. Now, then, without a jest or slur, I tell you, once for all, such speed With the fair creature won't succeed. Nothing will here by storm be taken; We must perforce on intrigue reckon. _Faust_. Get me some trinket the angel has blest! Lead me to her chamber of rest! Get me a 'kerchief from her neck, A garter get me for love's sweet sake! _Mephistopheles_. To prove to you my willingness To aid and serve you in this distress; You shall visit her chamber, by me attended, Before the passing day is ended. _Faust_. And see her, too? and have her? _Mephistopheles_. Nay! She will to a neighbor's have gone away. Meanwhile alone by yourself you may, There in her atmosphere, feast at leisure And revel in dreams of future pleasure. _Faust_. Shall we start at once? _Mephistopheles_. 'Tis too early yet. _Faust_. Some present to take her for me you must get. [_Exit_.] _Mephistopheles_. Presents already! Brave! He's on the right foundation! Full many a noble place I know, And treasure buried long ago; Must make a bit of exploration. [_Exit_.] EVENING. _A little cleanly Chamber_. MARGARET [_braiding and tying up her hair_.] I'd give a penny just to say What gentleman that was to-day! How very gallant he seemed to be, He's of a noble family; That I could read from his brow and bearing-- And he would not have otherwise been so daring. [_Exit_.] FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Mephistopheles_. Come in, step softly, do not fear! _Faust [after a pause_]. Leave me alone, I prithee, here! _Mephistopheles [peering round_]. Not every maiden keeps so neat. [_Exit_.] _Faust [gazing round_]. Welcome this hallowed still retreat! Where twilight weaves its magic glow. Seize on my heart, love-longing, sad and sweet, That on the dew of hope dost feed thy woe! How breathes around the sense of stillness, Of quiet, order, and content! In all this poverty what fulness! What blessedness within this prison pent! [_He throws himself into a leathern chair by the bed_.] Take me, too! as thou hast, in years long flown, In joy and grief, so many a generation! Ah me! how oft, on this ancestral throne, Have troops of children climbed with exultation! Perhaps, when Christmas brought the Holy Guest, My love has here, in grateful veneration The grandsire's withered hand with child-lips prest. I feel, O maiden, circling me, Thy spirit of grace and fulness hover, Which daily like a mother teaches thee The table-cloth to spread in snowy purity, And even, with crinkled sand the floor to cover. Dear, godlike hand! a touch of thine Makes this low house a heavenly kingdom slime! And here! [_He lifts a bed-curtain_.] What blissful awe my heart thrills through! Here for long hours could I linger. Here, Nature! in light dreams, thy airy finger The inborn angel's features drew! Here lay the child, when life's fresh heavings Its tender bosom first made warm, And here with pure, mysterious weavings The spirit wrought its godlike form! And thou! What brought thee here? what power Stirs in my deepest soul this hour? What wouldst thou here? What makes thy heart so sore? Unhappy Faust! I know thee thus no more. Breathe I a magic atmosphere? The will to enjoy how strong I felt it,-- And in a dream of love am now all melted! Are we the sport of every puff of air? And if she suddenly should enter now, How would she thy presumptuous folly humble! Big John-o'dreams! ah, how wouldst thou Sink at her feet, collapse and crumble! _Mephistopheles_. Quick, now! She comes! I'm looking at her. _Faust_. Away! Away! O cruel fate! _Mephistopheles_. Here is a box of moderate weight; I got it somewhere else--no matter! Just shut it up, here, in the press, I swear to you, 'twill turn her senses; I meant the trifles, I confess, To scale another fair one's fences. True, child is child and play is play. _Faust_. Shall I? I know not. _Mephistopheles_. Why delay? You mean perhaps to keep the bauble? If so, I counsel you to spare From idle passion hours so fair, And me, henceforth, all further trouble. I hope you are not avaricious! I rub my hands, I scratch my head-- [_He places the casket in the press and locks it up again_.] (Quick! Time we sped!)-- That the dear creature may be led And moulded by your will and wishes; And you stand here as glum, As one at the door of the auditorium, As if before your eyes you saw In bodily shape, with breathless awe, Metaphysics and physics, grim and gray! Away! [_Exit_.] _Margaret [with a lamp_]. It seems so close, so sultry here. [_She opens the window_.] Yet it isn't so very warm out there, I feel--I know not how--oh dear! I wish my mother 'ld come home, I declare! I feel a shudder all over me crawl-- I'm a silly, timid thing, that's all! [_She begins to sing, while undressing_.] There was a king in Thulè, To whom, when near her grave, The mistress he loved so truly A golden goblet gave. He cherished it as a lover, He drained it, every bout; His eyes with tears ran over, As oft as he drank thereout. And when he found himself dying, His towns and cities he told; Naught else to his heir denying Save only the goblet of gold. His knights he straightway gathers And in the midst sate he, In the banquet hall of the fathers In the castle over the sea. There stood th' old knight of liquor, And drank the last life-glow, Then flung the holy beaker Into the flood below. He saw it plunging, drinking And sinking in the roar, His eyes in death were sinking, He never drank one drop more. [_She opens the press, to put away her clothes, and discovers the casket_.] How in the world came this fine casket here? I locked the press, I'm very clear. I wonder what's inside! Dear me! it's very queer! Perhaps 'twas brought here as a pawn, In place of something mother lent. Here is a little key hung on, A single peep I shan't repent! What's here? Good gracious! only see! I never saw the like in my born days! On some chief festival such finery Might on some noble lady blaze. How would this chain become my neck! Whose may this splendor be, so lonely? [_She arrays herself in it, and steps before the glass_.] Could I but claim the ear-rings only! A different figure one would make. What's beauty worth to thee, young blood! May all be very well and good; What then? 'Tis half for pity's sake They praise your pretty features. Each burns for gold, All turns on gold,-- Alas for us! poor creatures! PROMENADE. FAUST [_going up and down in thought_.] MEPHISTOPHELES _to him_. _Mephistopheles_. By all that ever was jilted! By all the infernal fires! I wish I knew something worse, to curse as my heart desires! _Faust_. What griping pain has hold of thee? Such grins ne'er saw I in the worst stage-ranter! _Mephistopheles_. Oh, to the devil I'd give myself instanter, If I were not already he! _Faust_. Some pin's loose in your head, old fellow! That fits you, like a madman thus to bellow! _Mephistopheles_. Just think, the pretty toy we got for Peg, A priest has hooked, the cursed plague I-- The thing came under the eye of the mother, And caused her a dreadful internal pother: The woman's scent is fine and strong; Snuffles over her prayer-book all day long, And knows, by the smell of an article, plain, Whether the thing is holy or profane; And as to the box she was soon aware There could not be much blessing there. "My child," she cried, "unrighteous gains Ensnare the soul, dry up the veins. We'll consecrate it to God's mother, She'll give us some heavenly manna or other!" Little Margaret made a wry face; "I see 'Tis, after all, a gift horse," said she; "And sure, no godless one is he Who brought it here so handsomely." The mother sent for a priest (they're cunning); Who scarce had found what game was running, When he rolled his greedy eyes like a lizard, And, "all is rightly disposed," said he, "Who conquers wins, for a certainty. The church has of old a famous gizzard, She calls it little whole lands to devour, Yet never a surfeit got to this hour; The church alone, dear ladies; _sans_ question, Can give unrighteous gains digestion." _Faust_. That is a general pratice, too, Common alike with king and Jew. _Mephistopheles_. Then pocketed bracelets and chains and rings As if they were mushrooms or some such things, With no more thanks, (the greedy-guts!) Than if it had been a basket of nuts, Promised them all sorts of heavenly pay-- And greatly edified were they. _Faust_. And Margery? _Mephistopheles_. Sits there in distress, And what to do she cannot guess, The jewels her daily and nightly thought, And he still more by whom they were brought. _Faust._ My heart is troubled for my pet. Get her at once another set! The first were no great things in their way. _Mephistopheles._ O yes, my gentleman finds all child's play! _Faust._ And what I wish, that mind and do! Stick closely to her neighbor, too. Don't be a devil soft as pap, And fetch me some new jewels, old chap! _Mephistopheles._ Yes, gracious Sir, I will with pleasure. [_Exit_ FAUST.] Such love-sick fools will puff away Sun, moon, and stars, and all in the azure, To please a maiden's whimsies, any day. [_Exit._] THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE. MARTHA [_alone]._ My dear good man--whom God forgive! He has not treated me well, as I live! Right off into the world he's gone And left me on the straw alone. I never did vex him, I say it sincerely, I always loved him, God knows how dearly. [_She weeps_.] Perhaps he's dead!--O cruel fate!-- If I only had a certificate! _Enter_ MARGARET. Dame Martha! _Martha_. What now, Margery? _Margaret_. I scarce can keep my knees from sinking! Within my press, again, not thinking, I find a box of ebony, With things--can't tell how grand they are,-- More splendid than the first by far. _Martha_. You must not tell it to your mother, She'd serve it as she did the other. _Margaret_. Ah, only look! Behold and see! _Martha [puts them on her_]. Fortunate thing! I envy thee! _Margaret._ Alas, in the street or at church I never Could be seen on any account whatever. _Martha._ Come here as often as you've leisure, And prink yourself quite privately; Before the looking-glass walk up and down at pleasure, Fine times for both us 'twill be; Then, on occasions, say at some great feast, Can show them to the world, one at a time, at least. A chain, and then an ear-pearl comes to view; Your mother may not see, we'll make some pretext, too. _Margaret._ Who could have brought both caskets in succession? There's something here for just suspicion! [_A knock._ ] Ah, God! If that's my mother--then! _Martha_ [_peeping through the blind_]. 'Tis a strange gentleman--come in! [_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] Must, ladies, on your kindness reckon To excuse the freedom I have taken; [_Steps back with profound respect at seeing_ MARGARET.] I would for Dame Martha Schwerdtlein inquire! _Martha._ I'm she, what, sir, is your desire? _Mephistopheles_ [_aside to her_]. I know your face, for now 'twill do; A distinguished lady is visiting you. For a call so abrupt be pardon meted, This afternoon it shall be repeated. _Martha [aloud]._ For all the world, think, child! my sakes! The gentleman you for a lady takes. _Margaret_. Ah, God! I am a poor young blood; The gentleman is quite too good; The jewels and trinkets are none of my own. _Mephistopheles_. Ah, 'tis not the jewels and trinkets alone; Her look is so piercing, so _distinguè_! How glad I am to be suffered to stay. _Martha_. What bring you, sir? I long to hear-- _Mephistopheles_. Would I'd a happier tale for your ear! I hope you'll forgive me this one for repeating: Your husband is dead and sends you a greeting. _Martha_. Is dead? the faithful heart! Woe! Woe! My husband dead! I, too, shall go! _Margaret_. Ah, dearest Dame, despair not thou! _Mephistopheles_ Then, hear the mournful story now! _Margaret_. Ah, keep me free from love forever, I should never survive such a loss, no, never! _Mephistopheles_. Joy and woe, woe and joy, must have each other. _Martha_. Describe his closing hours to me! _Mephistopheles_. In Padua lies our departed brother, In the churchyard of St. Anthony, In a cool and quiet bed lies sleeping, In a sacred spot's eternal keeping. _Martha_. And this was all you had to bring me? _Mephistopheles_. All but one weighty, grave request! "Bid her, when I am dead, three hundred masses sing me!" With this I have made a clean pocket and breast. _Martha_. What! not a medal, pin nor stone? Such as, for memory's sake, no journeyman will lack, Saved in the bottom of his sack, And sooner would hunger, be a pauper-- _Mephistopheles_. Madam, your case is hard, I own! But blame him not, he squandered ne'er a copper. He too bewailed his faults with penance sore, Ay, and his wretched luck bemoaned a great deal more. _Margaret_. Alas! that mortals so unhappy prove! I surely will for him pray many a requiem duly. _Mephistopheles_. You're worthy of a spouse this moment; truly You are a child a man might love. _Margaret_. It's not yet time for that, ah no! _Mephistopheles_. If not a husband, say, meanwhile a beau. It is a choice and heavenly blessing, Such a dear thing to one's bosom pressing. _Margaret_. With us the custom is not so. _Mephistopheles_. Custom or not! It happens, though. _Martha_. Tell on! _Mephistopheles_. I slood beside his bed, as he lay dying, Better than dung it was somewhat,-- Half-rotten straw; but then, he died as Christian ought, And found an unpaid score, on Heaven's account-book lying. "How must I hate myself," he cried, "inhuman! So to forsake my business and my woman! Oh! the remembrance murders me! Would she might still forgive me this side heaven!" _Martha_ [_weeping_]. The dear good man! he has been long forgiven. _Mephistopheles_. "But God knows, I was less to blame than she." _Martha_. A lie! And at death's door! abominable! _Mephistopheles_. If I to judge of men half-way am able, He surely fibbed while passing hence. "Ways to kill time, (he said)--be sure, I did not need them; First to get children--and then bread to feed them, And bread, too, in the widest sense, And even to eat my bit in peace could not be thought on." _Martha_. Has he all faithfulness, all love, so far forgotten, The drudgery by day and night! _Mephistopheles_. Not so, he thought of you with all his might. He said: "When I from Malta went away, For wife and children my warm prayers ascended; And Heaven so far our cause befriended, Our ship a Turkish cruiser took one day, Which for the mighty Sultan bore a treasure. Then valor got its well-earned pay, And I too, who received but my just measure, A goodly portion bore away." _Martha_. How? Where? And he has left it somewhere buried? _Mephistopheles_. Who knows which way by the four winds 'twas carried? He chanced to take a pretty damsel's eye, As, a strange sailor, he through Naples jaunted; All that she did for him so tenderly, E'en to his blessed end the poor man haunted. _Martha_. The scamp! his children thus to plunder! And could not all his troubles sore Arrest his vile career, I wonder? _Mephistopheles_. But mark! his death wipes off the score. Were I in your place now, good lady; One year I'd mourn him piously And look about, meanwhiles, for a new flame already. _Martha_. Ah, God! another such as he I may not find with ease on this side heaven! Few such kind fools as this dear spouse of mine. Only to roving he was too much given, And foreign women and foreign wine, And that accursed game of dice. _Mephistopheles_. Mere trifles these; you need not heed 'em, If he, on his part, not o'er-nice, Winked at, in you, an occasional freedom. I swear, on that condition, too, I would, myself, 'change rings with you! _Martha_. The gentleman is pleased to jest now! _Mephistopheles [aside_]. I see it's now high time I stirred! She'd take the very devil at his word. [_To_ MARGERY.] How is it with your heart, my best, now? _Margaret_. What means the gentleman? _Mephistopheles. [aside_]. Thou innocent young heart! [_Aloud_.] Ladies, farewell! _Margaret_. Farewell! _Martha_. But quick, before we part!-- I'd like some witness, vouching truly Where, how and when my love died and was buried duly. I've always paid to order great attention, Would of his death read some newspaper mention. _Mephistopheles_. Ay, my dear lady, in the mouths of two Good witnesses each word is true; I've a friend, a fine fellow, who, when you desire, Will render on oath what you require. I'll bring him here. _Martha_. O pray, sir, do! _Mephistopheles_. And this young lady 'll be there too? Fine boy! has travelled everywhere, And all politeness to the fair. _Margaret_. Before him shame my face must cover. _Mephistopheles_. Before no king the wide world over! _Martha_. Behind the house, in my garden, at leisure, We'll wait this eve the gentlemen's pleasure. STREET. FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Faust_. How now? What progress? Will 't come right? _Mephistopheles_. Ha, bravo? So you're all on fire? Full soon you'll see whom you desire. In neighbor Martha's grounds we are to meet tonight. That woman's one of nature's picking For pandering and gipsy-tricking! _Faust_. So far, so good! _Mephistopheles_. But one thing we must do. _Faust_. Well, one good turn deserves another, true. _Mephistopheles_. We simply make a solemn deposition That her lord's bones are laid in good condition In holy ground at Padua, hid from view. _Faust_. That's wise! But then we first must make the journey thither? _Mephistopheles. Sancta simplicitas_! no need of such to-do; Just swear, and ask not why or whether. _Faust_. If that's the best you have, the plan's not worth a feather. _Mephistopheles_. O holy man! now that's just you! In all thy life hast never, to this hour, To give false witness taken pains? Have you of God, the world, and all that it contains, Of man, and all that stirs within his heart and brains, Not given definitions with great power, Unscrupulous breast, unblushing brow? And if you search the matter clearly, Knew you as much thereof, to speak sincerely, As of Herr Schwerdtlein's death? Confess it now! _Faust_. Thou always wast a sophist and a liar. _Mephistopheles_. Ay, if one did not look a little nigher. For will you not, in honor, to-morrow Befool poor Margery to her sorrow, And all the oaths of true love borrow? _Faust_. And from the heart, too. _Mephistopheles_. Well and fair! Then there'll be talk of truth unending, Of love o'ermastering, all transcending-- Will every word be heart-born there? _Faust_. Enough! It will!--If, for the passion That fills and thrills my being's frame, I find no name, no fit expression, Then, through the world, with all my senses, ranging, Seek what most strongly speaks the unchanging. And call this glow, within me burning, Infinite--endless--endless yearning, Is that a devilish lying game? _Mephistopheles_. I'm right, nathless! _Faust_. Now, hark to me-- This once, I pray, and spare my lungs, old fellow-- Whoever _will_ be right, and has a tongue to bellow, Is sure to be. But come, enough of swaggering, let's be quit, For thou art right, because I must submit. GARDEN. MARGARET _on_ FAUST'S _arm_. MARTHA _with_ MEPHISTOPHELES. [_Promenading up and down_.] _Margaret_. The gentleman but makes me more confused With all his condescending goodness. Men who have travelled wide are used To bear with much from dread of rudeness; I know too well, a man of so much mind In my poor talk can little pleasure find. _Faust_. One look from thee, one word, delights me more Than this world's wisdom o'er and o'er. [_Kisses her hand_.] _Margaret_. Don't take that trouble, sir! How could you bear to kiss it? A hand so ugly, coarse, and rough! How much I've had to do! must I confess it-- Mother is more than close enough. [_They pass on_.] _Martha_. And you, sir, are you always travelling so? _Mephistopheles_. Alas, that business forces us to do it! With what regret from many a place we go, Though tenderest bonds may bind us to it! _Martha_. 'Twill do in youth's tumultuous maze To wander round the world, a careless rover; But soon will come the evil days, And then, a lone dry stick, on the grave's brink to hover, For that nobody ever prays. _Mephistopheles_. The distant prospect shakes my reason. _Martha_. Then, worthy sir, bethink yourself in season. [_They pass on_.] _Margaret_. Yes, out of sight and out of mind! Politeness you find no hard matter; But you have friends in plenty, better Than I, more sensible, more refined. _Faust_. Dear girl, what one calls sensible on earth, Is often vanity and nonsense. _Margaret_. How? _Faust_. Ah, that the pure and simple never know Aught of themselves and all their holy worth! That meekness, lowliness, the highest measure Of gifts by nature lavished, full and free-- _Margaret_. One little moment, only, think of me, I shall to think of you have ample time and leisure. _Faust_. You're, may be, much alone? _Margaret_. Our household is but small, I own, And yet needs care, if truth were known. We have no maid; so I attend to cooking, sweeping, Knit, sew, do every thing, in fact; And mother, in all branches of housekeeping, Is so exact! Not that she need be tied so very closely down; We might stand higher than some others, rather; A nice estate was left us by my father, A house and garden not far out of town. Yet, after all, my life runs pretty quiet; My brother is a soldier, My little sister's dead; With the dear child indeed a wearing life I led; And yet with all its plagues again would gladly try it, The child was such a pet. _Faust_. An angel, if like thee! _Margaret_. I reared her and she heartily loved me. She and my father never saw each other, He died before her birth, and mother Was given up, so low she lay, But me, by slow degrees, recovered, day by day. Of course she now, long time so feeble, To nurse the poor little worm was unable, And so I reared it all alone, With milk and water; 'twas my own. Upon my bosom all day long It smiled and sprawled and so grew strong. _Faust_. Ah! thou hast truly known joy's fairest flower. _Margaret_. But no less truly many a heavy hour. The wee thing's cradle stood at night Close to my bed; did the least thing awake her, My sleep took flight; 'Twas now to nurse her, now in bed to take her, Then, if she was not still, to rise, Walk up and down the room, and dance away her cries, And at the wash-tub stand, when morning streaked the skies; Then came the marketing and kitchen-tending, Day in, day out, work never-ending. One cannot always, sir, good temper keep; But then it sweetens food and sweetens sleep. [_They pass on_.] _Martha_. But the poor women suffer, you must own: A bachelor is hard of reformation. _Mephistopheles_. Madam, it rests with such as you, alone, To help me mend my situation. _Martha_. Speak plainly, sir, has none your fancy taken? Has none made out a tender flame to waken? _Mephistopheles_. The proverb says: A man's own hearth, And a brave wife, all gold and pearls are worth. _Martha_. I mean, has ne'er your heart been smitten slightly? _Mephistopheles_. I have, on every hand, been entertained politely. _Martha_. Have you not felt, I mean, a serious intention? _Mephistopheles_. Jesting with women, that's a thing one ne'er should mention. _Martha_. Ah, you misunderstand! _Mephistopheles_. It grieves me that I should! But this I understand--that you are good. [_They pass on_.] _Faust_. So then, my little angel recognized me, As I came through the garden gate? _Margaret_. Did not my downcast eyes show you surprised me? _Faust_. And thou forgav'st that liberty, of late? That impudence of mine, so daring, As thou wast home from church repairing? _Margaret_. I was confused, the like was new to me; No one could say a word to my dishonor. Ah, thought I, has he, haply, in thy manner Seen any boldness--impropriety? It seemed as if the feeling seized him, That he might treat this girl just as it pleased him. Let me confess! I knew not from what cause, Some flight relentings here began to threaten danger; I know, right angry with myself I was, That I could not be angrier with the stranger. _Faust_. Sweet darling! _Margaret_. Let me once! [_She plucks a china-aster and picks off the leaves one after another_.] _Faust_. What's that for? A bouquet? _Margaret_. No, just for sport. _Faust_. How? _Margaret_. Go! you'll laugh at me; away! [_She picks and murmurs to herself_.] _Faust_. What murmurest thou? _Margaret [half aloud_]. He loves me--loves me not. _Faust_. Sweet face! from heaven that look was caught! _Margaret [goes on_]. Loves me--not--loves me--not-- [_picking off the last leaf with tender joy_] He loves me! _Faust_. Yes, my child! And be this floral word An oracle to thee. He loves thee! Knowest thou all it mean? He loves thee! [_Clasping both her hands_.] _Margaret_. What thrill is this! _Faust_. O, shudder not! This look of mine. This pressure of the hand shall tell thee What cannot be expressed: Give thyself up at once and feel a rapture, An ecstasy never to end! Never!--It's end were nothing but blank despair. No, unending! unending! [MARGARET _presses his hands, extricates herself, and runs away. He stands a moment in thought, then follows her_]. _Martha [coming_]. The night falls fast. _Mephistopheles_. Ay, and we must away. _Martha_. If it were not for one vexation, I would insist upon your longer stay. Nobody seems to have no occupation, No care nor labor, Except to play the spy upon his neighbor; And one becomes town-talk, do whatsoe'er they may. But where's our pair of doves? _Mephistopheles_. Flown up the alley yonder. Light summer-birds! _Martha_. He seems attached to her. _Mephistopheles_. No wonder. And she to him. So goes the world, they say. A SUMMER-HOUSE. MARGARET [_darts in, hides behind the door, presses the tip of her finger to her lips, and peeps through the crack_]. _Margaret_. He comes! _Enter_ FAUST. _Faust_. Ah rogue, how sly thou art! I've caught thee! [_Kisses her_.] _Margaret [embracing him and returning the kiss_]. Dear good man! I love thee from my heart! [MEPHISTOPHELES _knocks_.] _Faust [stamping_]. Who's there? _Mephistopheles_. A friend! _Faust_. A beast! _Mephistopheles_. Time flies, I don't offend you? _Martha [entering_]. Yes, sir, 'tis growing late. _Faust_. May I not now attend you? _Margaret_. Mother would--Fare thee well! _Faust_. And must I leave thee then? Farewell! _Martha_. Adé! _Margaret_. Till, soon, we meet again! [_Exeunt_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES.] _Margaret_. Good heavens! what such a man's one brain Can in itself alone contain! I blush my rudeness to confess, And answer all he says with yes. Am a poor, ignorant child, don't see What he can possibly find in me. [_Exit_.] WOODS AND CAVERN. _Faust_ [_alone_]. Spirit sublime, thou gav'st me, gav'st me all For which I prayed. Thou didst not lift in vain Thy face upon me in a flame of fire. Gav'st me majestic nature for a realm, The power to feel, enjoy her. Not alone A freezing, formal visit didst thou grant; Deep down into her breast invitedst me To look, as if she were a bosom-friend. The series of animated things Thou bidst pass by me, teaching me to know My brothers in the waters, woods, and air. And when the storm-swept forest creaks and groans, The giant pine-tree crashes, rending off The neighboring boughs and limbs, and with deep roar The thundering mountain echoes to its fall, To a safe cavern then thou leadest me, Showst me myself; and my own bosom's deep Mysterious wonders open on my view. And when before my sight the moon comes up With soft effulgence; from the walls of rock, From the damp thicket, slowly float around The silvery shadows of a world gone by, And temper meditation's sterner joy. O! nothing perfect is vouchsafed to man: I feel it now! Attendant on this bliss, Which brings me ever nearer to the Gods, Thou gav'st me the companion, whom I now No more can spare, though cold and insolent; He makes me hate, despise myself, and turns Thy gifts to nothing with a word--a breath. He kindles up a wild-fire in my breast, Of restless longing for that lovely form. Thus from desire I hurry to enjoyment, And in enjoyment languish for desire. _Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES. _Mephistopheles_. Will not this life have tired you by and bye? I wonder it so long delights you? 'Tis well enough for once the thing to try; Then off to where a new invites you! _Faust_. Would thou hadst something else to do, That thus to spoil my joy thou burnest. _Mephistopheles_. Well! well! I'll leave thee, gladly too!-- Thou dar'st not tell me that in earnest! 'Twere no great loss, a fellow such as you, So crazy, snappish, and uncivil. One has, all day, his hands full, and more too; To worm out from him what he'd have one do, Or not do, puzzles e'en the very devil. _Faust_. Now, that I like! That's just the tone! Wants thanks for boring me till I'm half dead! _Mephistopheles_. Poor son of earth, if left alone, What sort of life wouldst thou have led? How oft, by methods all my own, I've chased the cobweb fancies from thy head! And but for me, to parts unknown Thou from this earth hadst long since fled. What dost thou here through cave and crevice groping? Why like a hornèd owl sit moping? And why from dripping stone, damp moss, and rotten wood Here, like a toad, suck in thy food? Delicious pastime! Ah, I see, Somewhat of Doctor sticks to thee. _Faust_. What new life-power it gives me, canst thou guess-- This conversation with the wilderness? Ay, couldst thou dream how sweet the employment, Thou wouldst be devil enough to grudge me my enjoyment. _Mephistopheles_. Ay, joy from super-earthly fountains! By night and day to lie upon the mountains, To clasp in ecstasy both earth and heaven, Swelled to a deity by fancy's leaven, Pierce, like a nervous thrill, earth's very marrow, Feel the whole six days' work for thee too narrow, To enjoy, I know not what, in blest elation, Then with thy lavish love o'erflow the whole creation. Below thy sight the mortal cast, And to the glorious vision give at last-- [_with a gesture_] I must not say what termination! _Faust_. Shame on thee! _Mephistopheles_. This displeases thee; well, surely, Thou hast a right to say "for shame" demurely. One must not mention that to chaste ears--never, Which chaste hearts cannot do without, however. And, in one word, I grudge you not the pleasure Of lying to yourself in moderate measure; But 'twill not hold out long, I know; Already thou art fast recoiling, And soon, at this rate, wilt be boiling With madness or despair and woe. Enough of this! Thy sweetheart sits there lonely, And all to her is close and drear. Her thoughts are on thy image only, She holds thee, past all utterance, dear. At first thy passion came bounding and rushing Like a brooklet o'erflowing with melted snow and rain; Into her heart thou hast poured it gushing: And now thy brooklet's dry again. Methinks, thy woodland throne resigning, 'Twould better suit so great a lord The poor young monkey to reward For all the love with which she's pining. She finds the time dismally long; Stands at the window, sees the clouds on high Over the old town-wall go by. "Were I a little bird!"[26] so runneth her song All the day, half the night long. At times she'll be laughing, seldom smile, At times wept-out she'll seem, Then again tranquil, you'd deem,-- Lovesick all the while. _Faust_. Viper! Viper! _Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper! _Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me! No more that lovely woman name! Bid not desire for her sweet person flame Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me! _Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown, And more than half she's right, I own. _Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word, I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it! I envy e'en the body of the Lord, Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it. _Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes On the twin-pair that feed among the roses. _Faust_. Out, pimp! _Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter. The God, who made both lad and lass, Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass, Made opportunity right after. But come! fine cause for lamentation! Her chamber is your destination, And not the grave, I guess. _Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me? O let her kindling bosom hold me! Feel I not always her distress? The houseless am I not? the unbefriended? The monster without aim or rest? That, like a cataract, from rock to rock descended To the abyss, with maddening greed possest: She, on its brink, with childlike thoughts and lowly,-- Perched on the little Alpine field her cot,-- This narrow world, so still and holy Ensphering, like a heaven, her lot. And I, God's hatred daring, Could not be content The rocks all headlong bearing, By me to ruins rent,-- Her, yea her peace, must I o'erwhelm and bury! This victim, hell, to thee was necessary! Help me, thou fiend, the pang soon ending! What must be, let it quickly be! And let her fate upon my head descending, Crush, at one blow, both her and me. _Mephistopheles_. Ha! how it seethes again and glows! Go in and comfort her, thou dunce! Where such a dolt no outlet sees or knows, He thinks he's reached the end at once. None but the brave deserve the fair! Thou _hast_ had devil enough to make a decent show of. For all the world a devil in despair Is just the insipidest thing I know of. MARGERY'S ROOM. MARGERY [_at the spinning-wheel alone_]. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er; I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. While him I crave, Each place is the grave, The world is all Turned into gall. My wretched brain Has lost its wits, My wretched sense Is all in bits. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er; I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. Him only to greet, I The street look down, Him only to meet, I Roam through town. His lofty step, His noble height, His smile of sweetness, His eye of might, His words of magic, Breathing bliss, His hand's warm pressure And ah! his kiss. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er, I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. My bosom yearns To behold him again. Ah, could I find him That best of men! I'd tell him then How I did miss him, And kiss him As much as I could, Die on his kisses I surely should! MARTHA'S GARDEN. MARGARET. FAUST. _Margaret_. Promise me, Henry. _Faust_. What I can. _Margaret_. How is it now with thy religion, say? I know thou art a dear good man, But fear thy thoughts do not run much that way. _Faust_. Leave that, my child! Enough, thou hast my heart; For those I love with life I'd freely part; I would not harm a soul, nor of its faith bereave it. _Margaret_. That's wrong, there's one true faith--one must believe it? _Faust_. Must one? _Margaret_. Ah, could I influence thee, dearest! The holy sacraments thou scarce reverest. _Faust_. I honor them. _Margaret_. But yet without desire. Of mass and confession both thou'st long begun to tire. Believest thou in God? _Faust_. My. darling, who engages To say, I do believe in God? The question put to priests or sages: Their answer seems as if it sought To mock the asker. _Margaret_. Then believ'st thou not? _Faust_. Sweet face, do not misunderstand my thought! Who dares express him? And who confess him, Saying, I do believe? A man's heart bearing, What man has the daring To say: I acknowledge him not? The All-enfolder, The All-upholder, Enfolds, upholds He not Thee, me, Himself? Upsprings not Heaven's blue arch high o'er thee? Underneath thee does not earth stand fast? See'st thou not, nightly climbing, Tenderly glancing eternal stars? Am I not gazing eye to eye on thee? Through brain and bosom Throngs not all life to thee, Weaving in everlasting mystery Obscurely, clearly, on all sides of thee? Fill with it, to its utmost stretch, thy breast, And in the consciousness when thou art wholly blest, Then call it what thou wilt, Joy! Heart! Love! God! I have no name to give it! All comes at last to feeling; Name is but sound and smoke, Beclouding Heaven's warm glow. _Margaret_. That is all fine and good, I know; And just as the priest has often spoke, Only with somewhat different phrases. _Faust_. All hearts, too, in all places, Wherever Heaven pours down the day's broad blessing, Each in its way the truth is confessing; And why not I in mine, too? _Margaret_. Well, all have a way that they incline to, But still there is something wrong with thee; Thou hast no Christianity. _Faust_. Dear child! _Margaret_. It long has troubled me That thou shouldst keep such company. _Faust_. How so? _Margaret_. The man whom thou for crony hast, Is one whom I with all my soul detest. Nothing in all my life has ever Stirred up in my heart such a deep disfavor As the ugly face that man has got. _Faust_. Sweet plaything; fear him not! _Margaret_. His presence stirs my blood, I own. I can love almost all men I've ever known; But much as thy presence with pleasure thrills me, That man with a secret horror fills me. And then for a knave I've suspected him long! God pardon me, if I do him wrong! _Faust_. To make up a world such odd sticks are needed. _Margaret_. Shouldn't like to live in the house where he did! Whenever I see him coming in, He always wears such a mocking grin. Half cold, half grim; One sees, that naught has interest for him; 'Tis writ on his brow and can't be mistaken, No soul in him can love awaken. I feel in thy arms so happy, so free, I yield myself up so blissfully, He comes, and all in me is closed and frozen now. _Faust_. Ah, thou mistrustful angel, thou! _Margaret_. This weighs on me so sore, That when we meet, and he is by me, I feel, as if I loved thee now no more. Nor could I ever pray, if he were nigh me, That eats the very heart in me; Henry, it must be so with thee. _Faust_. 'Tis an antipathy of thine! _Margaret_. Farewell! _Faust_. Ah, can I ne'er recline One little hour upon thy bosom, pressing My heart to thine and all my soul confessing? _Margaret_. Ah, if my chamber were alone, This night the bolt should give thee free admission; But mother wakes at every tone, And if she had the least suspicion, Heavens! I should die upon the spot! _Faust_. Thou angel, need of that there's not. Here is a flask! Three drops alone Mix with her drink, and nature Into a deep and pleasant sleep is thrown. _Margaret_. Refuse thee, what can I, poor creature? I hope, of course, it will not harm her! _Faust_. Would I advise it then, my charmer? _Margaret_. Best man, when thou dost look at me, I know not what, moves me to do thy will; I have already done so much for thee, Scarce any thing seems left me to fulfil. [_Exit_.] Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES. _Mephtftopheles_. The monkey! is she gone? _Faust_. Hast played the spy again? _Mephistopheles_. I overheard it all quite fully. The Doctor has been well catechized then? Hope it will sit well on him truly. The maidens won't rest till they know if the men Believe as good old custom bids them do. They think: if there he yields, he'll follow our will too. _Faust_. Monster, thou wilt not, canst not see, How this true soul that loves so dearly, Yet hugs, at every cost, The faith which she Counts Heaven itself, is horror-struck sincerely To think of giving up her dearest man for lost. _Mephistopheles_. Thou supersensual, sensual wooer, A girl by the nose is leading thee. _Faust_. Abortion vile of fire and sewer! _Mephistopheles_. In physiognomy, too, her skill is masterly. When I am near she feels she knows not how, My little mask some secret meaning shows; She thinks, I'm certainly a genius, now, Perhaps the very devil--who knows? To-night then?-- _Faust_. Well, what's that to you? _Mephistopheles_. I find my pleasure in it, too! AT THE WELL. MARGERY _and_ LIZZY _with Pitchers._ _Lizzy_. Hast heard no news of Barbara to-day? _Margery_. No, not a word. I've not been out much lately. _Lizzy_. It came to me through Sybill very straightly. She's made a fool of herself at last, they say. That comes of taking airs! _Margery_. What meanst thou? _Lizzy_. Pah! She daily eats and drinks for two now. _Margery_. Ah! _Lizzy_. It serves the jade right for being so callow. How long she's been hanging upon the fellow! Such a promenading! To fair and dance parading! Everywhere as first she must shine, He was treating her always with tarts and wine; She began to think herself something fine, And let her vanity so degrade her That she even accepted the presents he made her. There was hugging and smacking, and so it went on-- And lo! and behold! the flower is gone! _Margery_. Poor thing! _Lizzy_. Canst any pity for her feel! When such as we spun at the wheel, Our mothers kept us in-doors after dark; While she stood cozy with her spark, Or sate on the door-bench, or sauntered round, And never an hour too long they found. But now her pride may let itself down, To do penance at church in the sinner's gown! _Margery_. He'll certainly take her for his wife. _Lizzy_. He'd be a fool! A spruce young blade Has room enough to ply his trade. Besides, he's gone. _Margery_. Now, that's not fair! _Lizzy_. If she gets him, her lot'll be hard to bear. The boys will tear up her wreath, and what's more, We'll strew chopped straw before her door. [_Exit._] _Margery [going home]_. Time was when I, too, instead of bewailing, Could boldly jeer at a poor girl's failing! When my scorn could scarcely find expression At hearing of another's transgression! How black it seemed! though black as could be, It never was black enough for me. I blessed my soul, and felt so high, And now, myself, in sin I lie! Yet--all that led me to it, sure, O God! it was so dear, so pure! DONJON.[27] [_In a niche a devotional image of the Mater Dolorosa, before it pots of flowers._] MARGERY [_puts fresh flowers into the pots_]. Ah, hear me, Draw kindly near me, Mother of sorrows, heal my woe! Sword-pierced, and stricken With pangs that sicken, Thou seest thy son's last life-blood flow! Thy look--thy sighing--- To God are crying, Charged with a son's and mother's woe! Sad mother! What other Knows the pangs that eat me to the bone? What within my poor heart burneth, How it trembleth, how it yearneth, Thou canst feel and thou alone! Go where I will, I never Find peace or hope--forever Woe, woe and misery! Alone, when all are sleeping, I'm weeping, weeping, weeping, My heart is crushed in me. The pots before my window, In the early morning-hours, Alas, my tears bedewed them, As I plucked for thee these flowers, When the bright sun good morrow In at my window said, Already, in my anguish, I sate there in my bed. From shame and death redeem me, oh! Draw near me, And, pitying, hear me, Mother of sorrows, heal my woe! NIGHT. _Street before_ MARGERY'S _Door._ VALENTINE [_soldier,_ MARGERY'S _brother_]. When at the mess I used to sit, Where many a one will show his wit, And heard my comrades one and all The flower of the sex extol, Drowning their praise with bumpers high, Leaning upon my elbows, I Would hear the braggadocios through, And then, when it came my turn, too, Would stroke my beard and, smiling, say, A brimming bumper in my hand: All very decent in their way! But is there one, in all the land, With my sweet Margy to compare, A candle to hold to my sister fair? Bravo! Kling! Klang! it echoed round! One party cried: 'tis truth he speaks, She is the jewel of the sex! And the braggarts all in silence were bound. And now!--one could pull out his hair with vexation, And run up the walls for mortification!-- Every two-legged creature that goes in breeches Can mock me with sneers and stinging speeches! And I like a guilty debtor sitting, For fear of each casual word am sweating! And though I could smash them in my ire, I dare not call a soul of them liar. What's that comes yonder, sneaking along? There are two of them there, if I see not wrong. Is't he, I'll give him a dose that'll cure him, He'll not leave the spot alive, I assure him! FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Faust_. How from yon window of the sacristy The ever-burning lamp sends up its glimmer, And round the edge grows ever dimmer, Till in the gloom its flickerings die! So in my bosom all is nightlike. _Mephistopheles_. A starving tom-cat I feel quite like, That o'er the fire ladders crawls Then softly creeps, ground the walls. My aim's quite virtuous ne'ertheless, A bit of thievish lust, a bit of wantonness. I feel it all my members haunting-- The glorious Walpurgis night. One day--then comes the feast enchanting That shall all pinings well requite. _Faust_. Meanwhile can that the casket be, I wonder, I see behind rise glittering yonder.[28] _Mephistopheles_. Yes, and thou soon shalt have the pleasure Of lifting out the precious treasure. I lately 'neath the lid did squint, Has piles of lion-dollars[29] in't. _Faust_. But not a jewel? Not a ring? To deck my mistress not a trinket? _Mephistopheles_. I caught a glimpse of some such thing, Sort of pearl bracelet I should think it. _Faust_. That's well! I always like to bear Some present when I visit my fair. _Mephistopheles_. You should not murmur if your fate is, To have a bit of pleasure gratis. Now, as the stars fill heaven with their bright throng, List a fine piece, artistic purely: I sing her here a moral song, To make a fool of her more surely. [_Sings to the guitar_.][30] What dost thou here, Katrina dear, At daybreak drear, Before thy lover's chamber? Give o'er, give o'er! The maid his door Lets in, no more Goes out a maid--remember! Take heed! take heed! Once done, the deed Ye'll rue with speed-- And then--good night--poor thing--a! Though ne'er so fair His speech, beware, Until you bear His ring upon your finger. _Valentine_ [_comes forward_]. Whom lur'ft thou here? what prey dost scent? Rat-catching[81] offspring of perdition! To hell goes first the instrument! To hell then follows the musician! _Mephistopheles_. He 's broken the guitar! to music, then, good-bye, now. _Valentine_. A game of cracking skulls we'll try now! _Mephistopbeles_ [_to Faust_]. Never you flinch, Sir Doctor! Brisk! Mind every word I say---be wary! Stand close by me, out with your whisk! Thrust home upon the churl! I'll parry. _Valentine_. Then parry that! _Mephistopheles_. Be sure. Why not? _Valentine_. And that! _Mephistopheles_. With ease! _Valentine_. The devil's aid he's got! But what is this? My hand's already lame. _Mephistopheles_ [_to Faust_]. Thrust home! _Valentine_ [_falls_]. O woe! _Mephistopheles_. Now is the lubber tame! But come! We must be off. I hear a clatter; And cries of murder, too, that fast increase. I'm an old hand to manage the police, But then the penal court's another matter. _Martha_. Come out! Come out! _Margery_ [_at the window_]. Bring on a light! _Martha_ [_as above_]. They swear and scuffle, scream and fight. _People_. There's one, has got's death-blow! _Martha_ [_coming out_]. Where are the murderers, have they flown? _Margery_ [_coming out_]. Who's lying here? _People_. Thy mother's son. _Margery_. Almighty God! What woe! _Valentine_. I'm dying! that is quickly said, And even quicklier done. Women! Why howl, as if half-dead? Come, hear me, every one! [_All gather round him_.] My Margery, look! Young art thou still, But managest thy matters ill, Hast not learned out yet quite. I say in confidence--think it o'er: Thou art just once for all a whore; Why, be one, then, outright. _Margery_. My brother! God! What words to me! _Valentine_. In this game let our Lord God be! That which is done, alas! is done. And every thing its course will run. With one you secretly begin, Presently more of them come in, And when a dozen share in thee, Thou art the whole town's property. When shame is born to this world of sorrow, The birth is carefully hid from sight, And the mysterious veil of night To cover her head they borrow; Yes, they would gladly stifle the wearer; But as she grows and holds herself high, She walks uncovered in day's broad eye, Though she has not become a whit fairer. The uglier her face to sight, The more she courts the noonday light. Already I the time can see When all good souls shall shrink from thee, Thou prostitute, when thou go'st by them, As if a tainted corpse were nigh them. Thy heart within thy breast shall quake then, When they look thee in the face. Shalt wear no gold chain more on thy neck then! Shalt stand no more in the holy place! No pleasure in point-lace collars take then, Nor for the dance thy person deck then! But into some dark corner gliding, 'Mong beggars and cripples wilt be hiding; And even should God thy sin forgive, Wilt be curs'd on earth while thou shalt live! _Martha_. Your soul to the mercy of God surrender! Will you add to your load the sin of slander? _Valentine_. Could I get at thy dried-up frame, Vile bawd, so lost to all sense of shame! Then might I hope, e'en this side Heaven, Richly to find my sins forgiven. _Margery_. My brother! This is hell to me! _Valentine_. I tell thee, let these weak tears be! When thy last hold of honor broke, Thou gav'st my heart the heaviest stroke. I'm going home now through the grave To God, a soldier and a brave. [_Dies_.] CATHEDRAL. _Service, Organ, and Singing._ [MARGERY _amidst a crowd of people._ EVIL SPIRIT _behind_ MARGERY.] _Evil Spirit_. How different was it with thee, Margy, When, innocent and artless, Thou cam'st here to the altar, From the well-thumbed little prayer-book, Petitions lisping, Half full of child's play, Half full of Heaven! Margy! Where are thy thoughts? What crime is buried Deep within thy heart? Prayest thou haply for thy mother, who Slept over into long, long pain, on thy account? Whose blood upon thy threshold lies? --And stirs there not, already Beneath thy heart a life Tormenting itself and thee With bodings of its coming hour? _Margery_. Woe! Woe! Could I rid me of the thoughts, Still through my brain backward and forward flitting, Against my will! _Chorus_. Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favillâ. [_Organ plays_.] _Evil Spirit_. Wrath smites thee! Hark! the trumpet sounds! The graves are trembling! And thy heart, Made o'er again For fiery torments, Waking from its ashes Starts up! _Margery_. Would I were hence! I feel as if the organ's peal My breath were stifling, The choral chant My heart were melting. _Chorus_. Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet apparebit. Nil inultum remanebit. _Margery_. How cramped it feels! The walls and pillars Imprison me! And the arches Crush me!--Air! _Evil Spirit_. What! hide thee! sin and shame Will not be hidden! Air? Light? Woe's thee! _Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus? Cum vix justus sit securus. _Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces, The glorified, from thee. To take thy hand, the pure ones Shudder with horror. Woe! _Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? _Margery_. Neighbor! your phial!-- [_She swoons._] WALPURGIS NIGHT.[32] _Harz Mountains._ _District of Schirke and Elend._ FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on? At this rate we are, still, a long way off; I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half, Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on. _Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on, Enough for me this knotty staff. What use of shortening the way! Following the valley's labyrinthine winding, Then up this rock a pathway finding, From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play, That is what spices such a walk, I say! Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing, The very pine is feeling it; Should not its influence set our limbs a-glowing? _Mephistopheles_. I do not feel it, not a bit! My wintry blood runs very slowly; I wish my path were filled with frost and snow. The moon's imperfect disk, how melancholy It rises there with red, belated glow, And shines so badly, turn where'er one can turn, At every step he hits a rock or tree! With leave I'll beg a Jack-o'lantern! I see one yonder burning merrily. Heigh, there! my friend! May I thy aid desire? Why waste at such a rate thy fire? Come, light us up yon path, good fellow, pray! _Jack-o'lantern_. Out of respect, I hope I shall be able To rein a nature quite unstable; We usually take a zigzag way. _Mephistopheles_. Heigh! heigh! He thinks man's crooked course to travel. Go straight ahead, or, by the devil, I'll blow your flickering life out with a puff. _Jack-o'lantern_. You're master of the house, that's plain enough, So I'll comply with your desire. But see! The mountain's magic-mad to-night, And if your guide's to be a Jack-o'lantern's light, Strict rectitude you'll scarce require. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, JACK-O'LANTERN, _in alternate song_. Spheres of magic, dream, and vision, Now, it seems, are opening o'er us. For thy credit, use precision! Let the way be plain before us Through the lengthening desert regions. See how trees on trees, in legions, Hurrying by us, change their places, And the bowing crags make faces, And the rocks, long noses showing, Hear them snoring, hear them blowing![33] Down through stones, through mosses flowing, See the brook and brooklet springing. Hear I rustling? hear I singing? Love-plaints, sweet and melancholy, Voices of those days so holy? All our loving, longing, yearning? Echo, like a strain returning From the olden times, is ringing. Uhu! Schuhu! Tu-whit! Tu-whit! Are the jay, and owl, and pewit All awake and loudly calling? What goes through the bushes yonder? Can it be the Salamander-- Belly thick and legs a-sprawling? Roots and fibres, snake-like, crawling, Out from rocky, sandy places, Wheresoe'er we turn our faces, Stretch enormous fingers round us, Here to catch us, there confound us; Thick, black knars to life are starting, Polypusses'-feelers darting At the traveller. Field-mice, swarming, Thousand-colored armies forming, Scamper on through moss and heather! And the glow-worms, in the darkling, With their crowded escort sparkling, Would confound us altogether. But to guess I'm vainly trying-- Are we stopping? are we hieing? Round and round us all seems flying, Rocks and trees, that make grimaces, And the mist-lights of the places Ever swelling, multiplying. _Mephistopheles_. Here's my coat-tail--tightly thumb it! We have reached a middle summit, Whence one stares to see how shines Mammon in the mountain-mines. _Faust_. How strangely through the dim recesses A dreary dawning seems to glow! And even down the deep abysses Its melancholy quiverings throw! Here smoke is boiling, mist exhaling; Here from a vapory veil it gleams, Then, a fine thread of light, goes trailing, Then gushes up in fiery streams. The valley, here, you see it follow, One mighty flood, with hundred rills, And here, pent up in some deep hollow, It breaks on all sides down the hills. Here, spark-showers, darting up before us, Like golden sand-clouds rise and fall. But yonder see how blazes o'er us, All up and down, the rocky wall! _Mephistopheles_. Has not Sir Mammon gloriously lighted His palace for this festive night? Count thyself lucky for the sight: I catch e'en now a glimpse of noisy guests invited. _Faust_. How the mad tempest[34] sweeps the air! On cheek and neck the wind-gusts how they flout me. _Mephistopheles_. Must seize the rock's old ribs and hold on stoutly! Else will they hurl thee down the dark abysses there. A mist-rain thickens the gloom. Hark, how the forests crash and boom! Out fly the owls in dread and wonder; Splitting their columns asunder, Hear it, the evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are twisting and breaking! Of stems what a grinding and moaning! Of roots what a creaking and groaning! In frightful confusion, headlong tumbling, They fall, with a sound of thunder rumbling, And, through the wreck-piled ravines and abysses, The tempest howls and hisses. Hearst thou voices high up o'er us? Close around us--far before us? Through the mountain, all along, Swells a torrent of magic song. _Witches_ [_in chorus_]. The witches go to the Brocken's top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. They gather there at the well-known call, Sir Urian[85] sits at the head of all. Then on we go o'er stone and stock: The witch, she--and--the buck. _Voice_. Old Baubo comes along, I vow! She rides upon a farrow-sow. _Chorus_. Then honor to whom honor's due! Ma'am Baubo ahead! and lead the crew! A good fat sow, and ma'am on her back, Then follow the witches all in a pack. _Voice_. Which way didst thou come? _Voice_. By the Ilsenstein! Peeped into an owl's nest, mother of mine! What a pair of eyes! _Voice_. To hell with your flurry! Why ride in such hurry! _Voice_. The hag be confounded! My skin flie has wounded! _Witches_ [_chorus]._ The way is broad, the way is long, What means this noisy, crazy throng? The broom it scratches, the fork it flicks, The child is stifled, the mother breaks. _Wizards_ [_semi-chorus_]. Like housed-up snails we're creeping on, The women all ahead are gone. When to the Bad One's house we go, She gains a thousand steps, you know. _The other half_. We take it not precisely so; What she in thousand steps can go, Make all the haste she ever can, 'Tis done in just one leap by man. _Voice_ [_above_]. Come on, come on, from Felsensee! _Voices_ [_from below_]. We'd gladly join your airy way. For wash and clean us as much as we will, We always prove unfruitful still. _Both chorusses_. The wind is hushed, the star shoots by, The moon she hides her sickly eye. The whirling, whizzing magic-choir Darts forth ten thousand sparks of fire. _Voice_ [_from below_]. Ho, there! whoa, there! _Voice_ [_from above_]. Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? _Voice_ [_below_]. Take me too! take me too! Three hundred years I've climbed to you, Seeking in vain my mates to come at, For I can never reach the summit. _Both chorusses_. Can ride the besom, the stick can ride, Can stride the pitchfork, the goat can stride; Who neither will ride to-night, nor can, Must be forever a ruined man. _Half-witch_ [_below_]. I hobble on--I'm out of wind-- And still they leave me far behind! To find peace here in vain I come, I get no more than I left at home. _Chorus of witches_. The witch's salve can never fail, A rag will answer for a sail, Any trough will do for a ship, that's tight; He'll never fly who flies not to-night. _Both chorusses_. And when the highest peak we round, Then lightly graze along the ground, And cover the heath, where eye can see, With the flower of witch-errantry. [_They alight_.] _Mephistopheles._ What squeezing and pushing, what rustling and hustling! What hissing and twirling, what chattering and bustling! How it shines and sparkles and burns and stinks! A true witch-element, methinks! Keep close! or we are parted in two winks. Where art thou? _Faust_ [_in the distance_]. Here! _Mephistopheles_. What! carried off already? Then I must use my house-right.--Steady! Room! Squire Voland[36] comes. Sweet people, Clear the ground! Here, Doctor, grasp my arm! and, at a single bound; Let us escape, while yet 'tis easy; E'en for the like of me they're far too crazy. See! yonder, something shines with quite peculiar glare, And draws me to those bushes mazy. Come! come! and let us slip in there. _Faust_. All-contradicting sprite! To follow thee I'm fated. But I must say, thy plan was very bright! We seek the Brocken here, on the Walpurgis night, Then hold ourselves, when here, completely isolated! _Mephistopheles_. What motley flames light up the heather! A merry club is met together, In a small group one's not alone. _Faust_. I'd rather be up there, I own! See! curling smoke and flames right blue! To see the Evil One they travel; There many a riddle to unravel. _Mephistopheles_. And tie up many another, too. Let the great world there rave and riot, We here will house ourselves in quiet. The saying has been long well known: In the great world one makes a small one of his own. I see young witches there quite naked all, And old ones who, more prudent, cover. For my sake some flight things look over; The fun is great, the trouble small. I hear them tuning instruments! Curs'd jangle! Well! one must learn with such things not to wrangle. Come on! Come on! For so it needs must be, Thou shalt at once be introduced by me. And I new thanks from thee be earning. That is no scanty space; what sayst thou, friend? Just take a look! thou scarce canst see the end. There, in a row, a hundred fires are burning; They dance, chat, cook, drink, love; where can be found Any thing better, now, the wide world round? _Faust_. Wilt thou, as things are now in this condition, Present thyself for devil, or magician? _Mephistopheles_. I've been much used, indeed, to going incognito; But then, on gala-day, one will his order show. No garter makes my rank appear, But then the cloven foot stands high in honor here. Seest thou the snail? Look there! where she comes creeping yonder! Had she already smelt the rat, I should not very greatly wonder. Disguise is useless now, depend on that. Come, then! we will from fire to fire wander, Thou shalt the wooer be and I the pander. [_To a party who sit round expiring embers_.] Old gentlemen, you scarce can hear the fiddle! You'd gain more praise from me, ensconced there in the middle, 'Mongst that young rousing, tousing set. One can, at home, enough retirement get. _General_. Trust not the people's fickle favor! However much thou mayst for them have done. Nations, as well as women, ever, Worship the rising, not the setting sun. _Minister_. From the right path we've drifted far away, The good old past my heart engages; Those were the real golden ages, When such as we held all the sway. _Parvenu_. We were no simpletons, I trow, And often did the thing we should not; But all is turning topsy-turvy now, And if we tried to stem the wave, we could not. _Author_. Who on the whole will read a work today, Of moderate sense, with any pleasure? And as regards the dear young people, they Pert and precocious are beyond all measure. _Mephistopheles_ [_who all at once appears very old_]. The race is ripened for the judgment day: So I, for the last time, climb the witch-mountain, thinking, And, as my cask runs thick, I say, The world, too, on its lees is sinking. _Witch-broker_. Good gentlemen, don't hurry by! The opportunity's a rare one! My stock is an uncommon fair one, Please give it an attentive eye. There's nothing in my shop, whatever, But on the earth its mate is found; That has not proved itself right clever To deal mankind some fatal wound. No dagger here, but blood has some time stained it; No cup, that has not held some hot and poisonous juice, And stung to death the throat that drained it; No trinket, but did once a maid seduce; No sword, but hath some tie of sacred honor riven, Or haply from behind through foeman's neck been driven. _Mephistopheles_. You're quite behind the times, I tell you, Aunty! By-gones be by-gones! done is done! Get us up something new and jaunty! For new things now the people run. _Faust_. To keep my wits I must endeavor! Call this a fair! I swear, I never--! _Mephistopheles_. Upward the billowy mass is moving; You're shoved along and think, meanwhile, you're shoving. _Faust_. What woman's that? _Mephistopheles_. Mark her attentively. That's Lilith.[37] _Faust_. Who? _Mephistopbeles_. Adam's first wife is she. Beware of her one charm, those lovely tresses, In which she shines preeminently fair. When those soft meshes once a young man snare, How hard 'twill be to escape he little guesses. _Faust_. There sit an old one and a young together; They've skipped it well along the heather! _Mephistopheles_. No rest from that till night is through. Another dance is up; come on! let us fall to. _Faust_ [_dancing with the young one_]. A lovely dream once came to me; In it I saw an apple-tree; Two beauteous apples beckoned there, I climbed to pluck the fruit so fair. _The Fair one_. Apples you greatly seem to prize, And did so even in Paradise. I feel myself delighted much That in my garden I have such. _Mephistopheles_ [_with the old hag_]. A dismal dream once came to me; In it I saw a cloven tree, It had a ------ but still, I looked on it with right good-will. _The Hog_. With best respect I here salute The noble knight of the cloven foot! Let him hold a ------ near, If a ------ he does not fear. _Proctophantasmist_.[38] What's this ye undertake? Confounded crew! Have we not giv'n you demonstration? No spirit stands on legs in all creation, And here you dance just as we mortals do! _The Fair one_ [_dancing_]. What does that fellow at our ball? _Faust_ [_dancing_]. Eh! he must have a hand in all. What others dance that he appraises. Unless each step he criticizes, The step as good as no step he will call. But when we move ahead, that plagues him more than all. If in a circle you would still keep turning, As he himself in his old mill goes round, He would be sure to call that sound! And most so, if you went by his superior learning. _Proctophantasmist_. What, and you still are here! Unheard off obstinates! Begone! We've cleared it up! You shallow pates! The devilish pack from rules deliverance boasts. We've grown so wise, and Tegel[39] still sees ghosts. How long I've toiled to sweep these cobwebs from the brain, And yet--unheard of folly! all in vain. _The Fair one_. And yet on us the stupid bore still tries it! _Proctophantasmist_. I tell you spirits, to the face, I give to spirit-tyranny no place, My spirit cannot exercise it. [_They dance on_.] I can't succeed to-day, I know it; Still, there's the journey, which I like to make, And hope, before the final step I take, To rid the world of devil and of poet. _Mephistopheles_. You'll see him shortly sit into a puddle, In that way his heart is reassured; When on his rump the leeches well shall fuddle, Of spirits and of spirit he'll be cured. [_To_ FAUST, _who has left the dance_.] Why let the lovely girl slip through thy fingers, Who to thy dance so sweetly sang? _Faust_. Ah, right amidst her singing, sprang A wee red mouse from her mouth and made me cower. _Mephistopheles_. That's nothing wrong! You're in a dainty way; Enough, the mouse at least wan't gray. Who minds such thing in happy amorous hour? _Faust_. Then saw I-- _Mephistopheles_. What? _Faust_. Mephisto, seest thou not Yon pale, fair child afar, who stands so sad and lonely, And moves so slowly from the spot, Her feet seem locked, and she drags them only. I must confess, she seems to me To look like my own good Margery. _Mephistopheles_. Leave that alone! The sight no health can bring. it is a magic shape, an idol, no live thing. To meet it never can be good! Its haggard look congeals a mortal's blood, And almost turns him into stone; The story of Medusa thou hast known. _Faust_. Yes, 'tis a dead one's eyes that stare upon me, Eyes that no loving hand e'er closed; That is the angel form of her who won me, Tis the dear breast on which I once reposed. _Mephistopheles_. 'Tis sorcery all, thou fool, misled by passion's dreams! For she to every one his own love seems. _Faust_. What bliss! what woe! Methinks I never My sight from that sweet form can sever. Seeft thou, not thicker than a knife-blade's back, A small red ribbon, fitting sweetly The lovely neck it clasps so neatly? _Mephistopheles_. I see the streak around her neck. Her head beneath her arm, you'll next behold her; Perseus has lopped it from her shoulder,-- But let thy crazy passion rest! Come, climb with me yon hillock's breast, Was e'er the Prater[40] merrier then? And if no sorcerer's charm is o'er me, That is a theatre before me. What's doing there? _Servibilis_. They'll straight begin again. A bran-new piece, the very last of seven; To have so much, the fashion here thinks fit. By Dilettantes it is given; 'Twas by a Dilettante writ. Excuse me, sirs, I go to greet you; I am the curtain-raising Dilettant. _Mephistopheles_. When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, That I approve; for there's your place, I grant. WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM, OR OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN NUPTIALS. _Intermezzo_. _Theatre manager_. Here, for once, we rest, to-day, Heirs of Mieding's[41] glory. All the scenery we display-- Damp vale and mountain hoary! _Herald_. To make the wedding a golden one, Must fifty years expire; But when once the strife is done, I prize the _gold_ the higher. _Oberon_. Spirits, if my good ye mean, Now let all wrongs be righted; For to-day your king and queen Are once again united. _Puck_. Once let Puck coming whirling round, And set his foot to whisking, Hundreds with him throng the ground, Frolicking and frisking. _Ariel_. Ariel awakes the song With many a heavenly measure; Fools not few he draws along, But fair ones hear with pleasure. _Oberon_. Spouses who your feuds would smother, Take from us a moral! Two who wish to love each other, Need only first to quarrel. _Titania_. If she pouts and he looks grim, Take them both together, To the north pole carry him, And off with her to t'other. _Orchestra Tutti_. _Fortissimo_. Fly-snouts and gnats'-noses, these, And kin in all conditions, Grass-hid crickets, frogs in trees, We take for our musicians! _Solo_. See, the Bagpipe comes! fall back! Soap-bubble's name he owneth. How the _Schnecke-schnicke-schnack_ Through his snub-nose droneth! _Spirit that is just shaping itself_. Spider-foot, toad's-belly, too, Give the child, and winglet! 'Tis no animalcule, true, But a poetic thinglet. _A pair of lovers_. Little step and lofty bound Through honey-dew and flowers; Well thou trippest o'er the ground, But soarst not o'er the bowers. _Curious traveller_. This must be masquerade! How odd! My very eyes believe I? Oberon, the beauteous God Here, to-night perceive I! _Orthodox_. Neither claws, nor tail I see! And yet, without a cavil, Just as "the Gods of Greece"[42] were, he Must also be a devil. _Northern artist_. What here I catch is, to be sure, But sketchy recreation; And yet for my Italian tour 'Tis timely preparation. _Purist_. Bad luck has brought me here, I see! The rioting grows louder. And of the whole witch company, There are but two, wear powder. _Young witch_. Powder becomes, like petticoat, Your little, gray old woman: Naked I sit upon my goat, And show the untrimmed human. _Matron_. To stand here jawing[43] with you, we Too much good-breeding cherish; But young and tender though you be, I hope you'll rot and perish. _Leader of the music_. Fly-snouts and gnat-noses, please, Swarm not so round the naked! Grass-hid crickets, frogs in trees, Keep time and don't forsake it! _Weathercock_ [_towards one side_]. Find better company, who can! Here, brides attended duly! There, bachelors, ranged man by man, Most hopeful people truly! _Weathercock [towards the other side_]. And if the ground don't open straight, The crazy crew to swallow, You'll see me, at a furious rate, Jump down to hell's black hollow. _Xenia[_44] We are here as insects, ah! Small, sharp nippers wielding, Satan, as our _cher papa_, Worthy honor yielding. _Hennings_. See how naïvely, there, the throng Among themselves are jesting, You'll hear them, I've no doubt, ere long, Their good kind hearts protesting. _Musagetes_. Apollo in this witches' group Himself right gladly loses; For truly I could lead this troop Much easier than the muses. _Ci-devant genius of the age_. Right company will raise man up. Come, grasp my skirt, Lord bless us! The Blocksberg has a good broad top, Like Germany's Parnassus. _Curious traveller_. Tell me who is that stiff man? With what stiff step he travels! He noses out whate'er he can. "He scents the Jesuit devils." _Crane_. In clear, and muddy water, too, The long-billed gentleman fishes; Our pious gentlemen we view Fingering in devils' dishes. _Child of this world_. Yes, with the pious ones, 'tis clear, "All's grist that comes to their mill;" They build their tabernacles here, On Blocksberg, as on Carmel. _Dancer_. Hark! a new choir salutes my ear! I hear a distant drumming. "Be not disturbed! 'mong reeds you hear The one-toned bitterns bumming." _Dancing-master._ How each his legs kicks up and flings, Pulls foot as best he's able! The clumsy hops, the crooked springs, 'Tis quite disreputable! _Fiddler_. The scurvy pack, they hate, 'tis clear, Like cats and dogs, each other. Like Orpheus' lute, the bagpipe here Binds beast to beast as brother. _Dogmatist_. You'll not scream down my reason, though, By criticism's cavils. The devil's something, that I know, Else how could there be devils? _Idealist_. Ah, phantasy, for once thy sway Is guilty of high treason. If all I see is I, to-day, 'Tis plain I've lost my reason. _Realist_. To me, of all life's woes and plagues, Substance is most provoking, For the first time I feel my legs Beneath me almost rocking. _Supernaturalist_. I'm overjoyed at being here, And even among these rude ones; For if bad spirits are, 'tis clear, There also must be good ones. _Skeptic_. Where'er they spy the flame they roam, And think rich stores to rifle, Here such as I are quite at home, For _Zweifel_ rhymes with _Teufel_.[45] _Leader of the music_. Grass-hid cricket, frogs in trees, You cursed dilettanti! Fly-snouts and gnats'-noses, peace! Musicians you, right jaunty! _The Clever ones_. Sans-souci we call this band Of merry ones that skip it; Unable on our feet to stand, Upon our heads we trip it. _The Bunglers_. Time was, we caught our tit-bits, too, God help us now! that's done with! We've danced our leathers entirely through, And have only bare soles to run with. _Jack-o'lanterns_. From the dirty bog we come, Whence we've just arisen: Soon in the dance here, quite at home, As gay young _sparks_ we'll glisten. _Shooting star_. Trailing from the sky I shot, Not a star there missed me: Crooked up in this grassy spot, Who to my legs will assist me? _The solid men_. Room there! room there! clear the ground! Grass-blades well may fall so; Spirits are we, but 'tis found They have plump limbs also. _Puck_. Heavy men! do not, I say, Like elephants' calves go stumping: Let the plumpest one to-day Be Puck, the ever-jumping. _Ariel_. If the spirit gave, indeed, If nature gave you, pinions, Follow up my airy lead To the rose-dominions! _Orchestra_ [_pianissimo_]. Gauzy mist and fleecy cloud Sun and wind have banished. Foliage rustles, reeds pipe loud, All the show has vanished. DREARY DAY.[46] _Field_. FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Faust_. In wretchedness! In despair! Long hunted up and down the earth, a miserable fugitive, and caught at last! Locked up as a malefactor in prison, to converse with horrible torments--the sweet, unhappy creature! Even to this pass! even to this!--Treacherous, worthless spirit, and this thou hast hidden from me!--Stand up here--stand up! Roll thy devilish eyes round grimly in thy head! Stand and defy me with thy intolerable presence! Imprisoned! In irretrievable misery! Given over to evil spirits and to the judgment of unfeeling humanity, and me meanwhile thou lullest in insipid dissipations, concealest from me her growing anguish, and leavest her without help to perish! _Mephistopheles_. She is not the first! _Faust_. Dog! abominable monster! Change him, thou Infinite Spirit! change the worm back into his canine form, as he was often pleased in the night to trot before me, to roll before the feet of the harmless wanderer, and, when he fell, to hang on his shoulders. Change him again into his favorite shape, that he may crawl before me on his belly in the sand, and that I may tread him under foot, the reprobate!--Not the first! Misery! Misery! inconceivable by any human soul! that more than one creature ever sank into the depth of this wretchedness, that the first in its writhing death-agony did not atone for the guilt of all the rest before the eyes of the eternally Forgiving! My very marrow and life are consumed by the misery of this single one; thou grinnest away composedly at the fate of thousands! _Mephistopheles_. Here we are again at our wits' ends already, where the thread of sense, with you mortals, snaps short. Why make a partnership with us, if thou canst not carry it through? Wilt fly, and art not proof against dizziness? Did we thrust ourselves on thee, or thou on us? _Faust_. Gnash not so thy greedy teeth against me! It disgusts me!--Great and glorious spirit, thou that deignedst to appear to me, who knowest my heart and soul, why yoke me to this shame-fellow, who feeds on mischief and feasts on ruin? _Mephistopheles_. Hast thou done? _Faust_. Rescue her! O woe be unto thee! The most horrible curse on thee for thousands of years! _Mephistopheles_. I cannot loose the bonds of the avenger, nor open his bolts.--Rescue her!--Who was it that plunged her into ruin? I or thou? [FAUST _looks wildly round_.] Grasp'st thou after the thunder? Well that it was not given to you miserable mortals! To crush an innocent respondent, that is a sort of tyrant's-way of getting room to breathe in embarrassment. _Faust_. Lead me to her! She shall be free! _Mephistopheles_. And the danger which thou incurrest? Know that the guilt of blood at thy hand still lies upon the town. Over the place of the slain, avenging spirits hover and lurk for the returning murderer. _Faust_. That, too, from thee? Murder and death of a world upon thee, monster! Lead me thither, I say, and free her! _Mephistopheles_. I will lead thee, and hear what I can do! Have I all power in heaven and on earth? I will becloud the turnkey's senses; possess thyself of the keys, and bear her out with human hand. I will watch! The magic horses shall be ready, and I will bear you away. So much I can do. _Faust_. Up and away! NIGHT. OPEN FIELD. FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES. _Scudding along on black horses_. _Faust_. What's doing, off there, round the gallows-tree?[47] _Mephistopheles_. Know not what they are doing and brewing. _Faust_. Up they go--down they go--wheel about, reel about. _Mephistopheles_. A witches'-crew. _Faust_. They're strewing and vowing. _Mephistopheles_. Pass on! Pass on! PRISON. FAUST [_with a bunch of keys and a lamp, before an iron door_] A long unwonted chill comes o'er me, I feel the whole great load of human woe. Within this clammy wall that frowns before me Lies one whom blinded love, not guilt, brought low! Thou lingerest, in hope to grow bolder! Thou fearest again to behold her! On! Thy shrinking slowly hastens the blow! [_He grasps the key. Singing from within_.] My mother, the harlot, That strung me up! My father, the varlet, That ate me up! My sister small, She gathered up all The bones that day, And in a cool place did lay; Then I woke, a sweet bird, at a magic call; Fly away, fly away! _Faust [unlocking_]. She little dreams, her lover is so near, The clanking chains, the rustling straw can hear; [_He enters_.] _Margaret [burying herself in the bed_]. Woe! woe! They come. O death of bitterness! _Faust_ [_softly_]. Hush! hush! I come to free thee; thou art dreaming. _Margaret_ [_prostrating herself before him_]. Art thou a man, then feel for my distress. _Faust_. Thou'lt wake the guards with thy loud screaming! [_He seizes the chains to tin lock them._] _Margaret_ [_on her knees_]. Headsman, who's given thee this right O'er me, this power! Thou com'st for me at dead of night; In pity spare me, one short hour! Wilt't not be time when Matin bell has rung? [_She stands up._] Ah, I am yet so young, so young! And death pursuing! Fair was I too, and that was my undoing. My love was near, far is he now! Tom is the wreath, the scattered flowers lie low. Take not such violent hold of me! Spare me! what harm have I done to thee? Let me not in vain implore thee. Thou ne'er till now sawft her who lies before thee! _Faust_. O sorrow worse than death is o'er me! _Margaret_. Now I am wholly in thy power. But first I'd nurse my child--do not prevent me. I hugged it through the black night hour; They took it from me to torment me, And now they say I killed the pretty flower. I shall never be happy again, I know. They sing vile songs at me! 'Tis bad in them to do it! There's an old tale that ends just so, Who gave that meaning to it? _Faust [prostrates himself_]. A lover at thy feet is bending, Thy bonds of misery would be rending. _Margaret [flings herself beside him_]. O let us kneel, the saints for aid invoking! See! 'neath the threshold smoking, Fire-breathing, Hell is seething! There prowling, And grim under cover, Satan is howling! _Faust [aloud_]. Margery! Margery! _Margaret [listening_]. That was the voice of my lover! [_She springs up. The chains fall off_.] Where is he? Where? He calls. I hear him. I'm free! Who hinders? I will be near him. I'll fly to his neck! I'll hold him! To my bosom I'll enfold him! He stood on the threshold--called Margery plainly! Hell's howling and clattering to drown it sought vainly,-- Through the devilish, grim scoffs, that might turn one to stone, I caught the sweet, loving, enrapturing tone. _Faust_. 'Tis I! _Margaret_. 'Tis thou! O say it once again. [_Clasping again._] 'Tis he! 'tis he! Where now is all my pain? And where the dungeon's anguish? Joy-giver! 'Tis thou! And come to deliver! I am delivered! Again before me lies the street, Where for the first time thou and I did meet. And the garden-bower, Where we spent that evening hour. _Faust_ [_trying to draw her away_]. Come! Come with me! _Margaret_. O tarry! I tarry so gladly where thou tarriest. [_Caressing him._] _Faust_. Hurry! Unless thou hurriest, Bitterly we both must rue it. _Margaret_. Kiss me! Canst no more do it? So short an absence, love, as this, And forgot how to kiss? What saddens me so as I hang about thy neck? When once, in thy words, thy looks, such a heaven of blisses Came o'er me, I thought my heart would break, And it seemed as if thou wouldst smother me with kisses. Kiss thou me! Else I kiss thee! [_She embraces him._] Woe! woe! thy lips are cold, Stone-dumb. Where's thy love left? Oh! I'm bereft! Who robbed me? [_She turns from him_] _Faust_. O come! Take courage, my darling! Let us go; I clasp-thee with unutterable glow; But follow me! For this alone I plead! _Margaret [turning to him_]. Is it, then, thou? And is it thou indeed? _Faust_. 'Tis I! Come, follow me! _Margaret_. Thou break'st my chain, And tak'st me to thy breast again! How comes it, then, that thou art not afraid of me? And dost thou know, my friend, who 'tis thou settest free? _Faust_. Come! come! The night is on the wane. _Margaret_. Woe! woe! My mother I've slain! Have drowned the babe of mine! Was it not sent to be mine and thine? Thine, too--'tis thou! Scarce true doth it seem. Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream! Thy blessed hand!--But ah! there's dampness here! Go, wipe it off! I fear There's blood thereon. Ah God! what hast thou done! Put up thy sword again; I pray thee, do! _Faust_. The past is past--there leave it then, Thou kill'st me too! _Margaret_. No, thou must longer tarry! I'll tell thee how each thou shalt bury; The places of sorrow Make ready to-morrow; Must give the best place to my mother, The very next to my brother, Me a little aside, But make not the space too wide! And on my right breast let the little one lie. No one else will be sleeping by me. Once, to feel _thy_ heart beat nigh me, Oh, 'twas a precious, a tender joy! But I shall have it no more--no, never; I seem to be forcing myself on thee ever, And thou repelling me freezingly; And 'tis thou, the same good soul, I see. _Faust_. If thou feelest 'tis I, then come with me _Margaret_. Out yonder? _Faust_. Into the open air. _Margaret_. If the grave is there, If death is lurking; then come! From here to the endless resting-place, And not another pace--Thou go'st e'en now? O, Henry, might I too. _Faust_. Thou canst! 'Tis but to will! The door stands open. _Margaret_. I dare not go; for me there's no more hoping. What use to fly? They lie in wait for me. So wretched the lot to go round begging, With an evil conscience thy spirit plaguing! So wretched the lot, an exile roaming--And then on my heels they are ever coming! _Faust_. I shall be with thee. _Margaret_. Make haste! make haste! No time to waste! Save thy poor child! Quick! follow the edge Of the rushing rill, Over the bridge And by the mill, Then into the woods beyond On the left where lies the plank Over the pond. Seize hold of it quick! To rise 'tis trying, It struggles still! Rescue! rescue! _Faust_. Bethink thyself, pray! A single step and thou art free! _Margaret_. Would we were by the mountain. See! There sits my mother on a stone, The sight on my brain is preying! There sits my mother on a stone, And her head is constantly swaying; She beckons not, nods not, her head falls o'er, So long she's been sleeping, she'll wake no more. She slept that we might take pleasure. O that was bliss without measure! _Faust_. Since neither reason nor prayer thou hearest; I must venture by force to take thee, dearest. _Margaret_. Let go! No violence will I bear! Take not such a murderous hold of me! I once did all I could to gratify thee. _Faust_. The day is breaking! Dearest! dearest! _Margaret_. Day! Ay, it is day! the last great day breaks in! My wedding-day it should have been! Tell no one thou hast been with Margery! Alas for my garland! The hour's advancing! Retreat is in vain! We meet again, But not at the dancing. The multitude presses, no word is spoke. Square, streets, all places-- sea of faces-- The bell is tolling, the staff is broke. How they seize me and bind me! They hurry me off to the bloody block.[48] The blade that quivers behind me, Quivers at every neck with convulsive shock; Dumb lies the world as the grave! _Faust_. O had I ne'er been born! _Mephistopheles [appears without_]. Up! or thou'rt lost! The morn Flushes the sky. Idle delaying! Praying and playing! My horses are neighing, They shudder and snort for the bound. _Margaret_. What's that, comes up from the ground? He! He! Avaunt! that face! What will he in the sacred place? He seeks me! _Faust_. Thou shalt live! _Margaret_. Great God in heaven! Unto thy judgment my soul have I given! _Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. Come! come! or in the lurch I leave both her and thee! _Margaret_. Thine am I, Father! Rescue me! Ye angels, holy bands, attend me! And camp around me to defend me I Henry! I dread to look on thee. _Mephistopheles_. She's judged! _Voice [from above_]. She's saved! _Mephistopheles [to Faust_]. Come thou to me! [_Vanishes with_ FAUST.] _Voice [from within, dying away_]. Henry! Henry! NOTES. [Footnote 1: Dedication. The idea of Faust had early entered into Goethe's mind. He probably began the work when he was about twenty years old. It was first published, as a fragment, in 1790, and did not appear in its present form till 1808, when its author's age was nearly sixty. By the "forms" are meant, of course, the shadowy personages and scenes of the drama.] [Footnote 2: --"Thy messengers"-- "He maketh the winds his-messengers, The flaming lightnings his ministers." _Noyes's Psalms_, c. iv. 4.] [Footnote 3: "The Word Divine." In translating the German "Werdende" (literally, the _becoming, developing_, or _growing_) by the term _word_, I mean the _word_ in the largest sense: "In the beginning was the Word, &c." Perhaps "nature" would be a pretty good rendering, but "word," being derived from "werden," and expressing philosophically and scripturally the going forth or manifestation of mind, seemed to me as appropriate a translation as any.] [Footnote 4: "The old fellow." The commentators do not seem quite agreed whether "den Alten" (the old one) is an entirely reverential phrase here, like the "ancient of days," or savors a little of profane pleasantry, like the title "old man" given by boys to their schoolmaster or of "the old gentleman" to their fathers. Considering who the speaker is, I have naturally inclined to the latter alternative.] [Footnote 5: "Nostradamus" (properly named Michel Notre Dame) lived through the first half of the sixteenth century. He was born in the south of France and was of Jewish extraction. As physician and astrologer, he was held in high honor by the French nobility and kings.] [Footnote 6: The "Macrocosm" is the great world of outward things, in contrast with its epitome, the little world in man, called the microcosm (or world in miniature).] [Footnote 7: "Famulus" seems to mean a cross between a servant and a scholar. The Dominie Sampson called Wagner, is appended to Faust for the time somewhat as Sancho is to Don Quixote. The Doctor Faust of the legend has a servant by that name, who seems to have been more of a _Sancho_, in the sense given to the word by the old New England mothers when upbraiding bad boys (you Sanch'!). Curiously enough, Goethe had in early life a (treacherous) friend named Wagner, who plagiarized part of Faust and made a tragedy of it.] [Footnote 8: "Mock-heroic play." We have Schlegel's authority for thus rendering the phrase "Haupt- und Staats-Action," (literally, "head and State-action,") who says that this title was given to dramas designed for puppets, when they treated of heroic and historical subjects.] [Footnote 9: The literal sense of this couplet in the original is:-- "Is he, in the bliss of becoming, To creative joy near--" "Werde-lust" presents the same difficulty that we found in note 3. This same word, "Werden," is also used by the poet in the introductory theatre scene (page 7), where he longs for the time when he himself was _ripening_, growing, becoming, or _forming_, (as Hayward renders it.) I agree with Hayward, "the meaning probably is, that our Saviour enjoys, in coming to life again," (I should say, in being born into the upper life,) "a happiness nearly equal to that of the Creator in creating."] [Footnote 10: The Angel-chorusses in this scene present the only instances in which the translator, for the sake of retaining the ring and swing of the melody, has felt himself obliged to give a transfusion of the spirit of the thought, instead of its exact form. The literal meaning of the first chorus is:-- Christ is arisen! Joy to the Mortal, Whom the ruinous, Creeping, hereditary Infirmities wound round. Dr. Hedge has come nearer than any one to reconciling meaning and melody thus:-- "Christ has arisen! Joy to our buried Head! Whom the unmerited, Trailing, inherited Woes did imprison." The present translator, without losing sight of the fact that "the Mortal" means Christ, has taken the liberty (constrained by rhyme,--which is sometimes more than the _rudder_ of verse,) of making the congratulation include Humanity, as incarnated in Christ, "the second Adam." In the closing Chorus of Angels, the translator found that he could best preserve the spirit of the five-fold rhyme:-- "Thätig ihn preisenden, Liebe beweisenden, Brüderlich speisenden, Predigend reisenden, Wonne verheissenden," by running it into three couplets.] [Footnote 11: The prose account of the alchymical process is as follows:-- "There was red mercury, a powerfully acting body, united with the tincture of antimony, at a gentle heat of the water-bath. Then, being exposed to the heat of open fire in an aludel, (or alembic,) a sublimate filled its heads in succession, which, if it appeared with various hues, was the desired medicine."] [Footnote 12: "Salamander, &c." The four represent the spirits of the four elements, fire, water, air, and earth, which Faust successively conjures, so that, if the monster belongs in any respect to this mundane sphere, he may be exorcized. But it turns out that he is beyond and beneath all.] [Footnote 13: Here, of course, Faust makes the sign of the cross, or holds out a crucifix.] [Footnote 14: "Fly-God," _i.e._ Beelzebub.] [Footnote 15: The "Drudenfuss," or pentagram, was a pentagonal figure composed of three triangles, thus: [Illustration] [Footnote 16: Doctor's Feast. The inaugural feast given at taking a degree.] [Footnote 17: "Blood." When at the first invention of printing, the art was ascribed to the devil, the illuminated red ink parts were said by the people to be done in blood.] [Footnote 18: "The Spanish boot" was an instrument of torture, like the Scottish boot mentioned in Old Mortality.] [Footnote 19: "Encheiresin Naturæ." Literally, a handling of nature.] [Footnote 20: Still a famous place of public resort and entertainment. On the wall are two old paintings of Faust's carousal and his ride out of the door on a cask. One is accompanied by the following inscription, being two lines (Hexameter and Pentameter) broken into halves:-- "Vive, bibe, obgregare, memor Fausti hujus et hujus P�næ. Aderat clauda haec, Ast erat ampla gradû. 1525." "Live, drink, be merry, remembering This Faust and his Punishment. It came slowly But was in ample measure."] [Footnote 21:_Frosch, Brander_, &c. These names seem to be chosen with an eye to adaptation, Frosch meaning frog, and Brander fireship. "Frog" happens also to be the nickname the students give to a pupil of the gymnasium, or school preparatory to the university.] [Footnote 22: Rippach is a village near Leipsic, and Mr. Hans was a fictitious personage about whom the students used to quiz greenhorns.] [Footnote 23: The original means literally _sea-cat_. Retzsch says, it is the little ring-tailed monkey.] [Footnote 24: One-time-one, _i.e._ multiplication-table.] [Footnote 25: "Hand and glove." The translator's coincidence with Miss Swanwick here was entirely accidental. The German is "thou and thou," alluding to the fact that intimate friends among the Germans, like the sect of Friends, call each other _thou_.] [Footnote 26: The following is a literal translation of the song referred to:-- Were I a little bird, Had I two wings of mine, I'd fly to my dear; But that can never be, So I stay here. Though I am far from thee, Sleeping I'm near to thee, Talk with my dear; When I awake again, I am alone. Scarce is there an hour in the night, When sleep does not take its flight, And I think of thee, How many thousand times Thou gav'st thy heart to me.] [Footnote 27: Donjon. The original is _Zwinger_, which Hayward says is untranslatable. It probably means an old tower, such as is often found in the free cities, where, in a dark passage-way, a lamp is sometimes placed, and a devotional image near it.] [Footnote 28: It was a superstitious belief that the presence of buried treasure was indicated by a blue flame.] [Footnote 29: Lion-dollars--a Bohemian coin, first minted three centuries ago, by Count Schlick, from the mines of Joachim's-Thal. The one side bears a lion, the other a full length image of St. John.] [Footnote 30: An imitation of Ophelia's song: _Hamlet_, act 14, scene 5.] [Footnote 31: The Rat-catcher was supposed to have the art of drawing rats after him by his whistle, like a sort of Orpheus.] [Footnote 32: Walpurgis Night. May-night. Walpurgis is the female saint who converted the Saxons to Christianity.--The Brocken or Blocksberg is the highest peak of the Harz mountains, which comprise about 1350 square miles.--Schirke and Elend are two villages in the neighborhood.] [Footnote 33: Shelley's translation of this couplet is very fine: ("_O si sic omnia!_") "The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort and how they blow!"] [Footnote 34: The original is _Windsbraut_, (wind's-bride,) the word used in Luther's Bible to translate Paul's _Euroclydon_.] [Footnote 35: One of the names of the devil in Germany.] [Footnote 36: One of the names of Beelzebub.] [Footnote 37: "The Talmudists say that Adam had a wife called Lilis before he married Eve, and of her he begat nothing but devils." _Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy_. A learned writer says that _Lullaby_ is derived from "Lilla, abi!" "Begone Lilleth!" she having been supposed to lie in wait for children to kill them.] [Footnote 38: This name, derived from two Greek words meaning _rump_ and _fancy_, was meant for Nicolai of Berlin, a great hater of Goethe's writings, and is explained by the fact that the man had for a long time a violent affection of the nerves, and by the application he made of leeches as a remedy, (alluded to by Mephistopheles.)] [Footnote 39: Tegel (mistranslated _pond_ by Shelley) is a small place a few miles from Berlin, whose inhabitants were, in 1799, hoaxed by a ghost story, of which the scene was laid in the former place.] [Footnote 40: The park in Vienna.] [Footnote 41: He was scene-painter to the Weimar theatre.] [Footnote 42: A poem of Schiller's, which gave great offence to the religious people of his day.] [Footnote 43: A literal translation of _Maulen_, but a slang-term in Yankee land.] [Footnote 44: Epigrams, published from time to time by Goethe and Schiller jointly. Hennings (whose name heads the next quatrain) was editor of the _Musaget_, (a title of Apollo, "leader of the muses,") and also of the _Genius of the Age_. The other satirical allusions to classes of notabilities will, without difficulty, be guessed out by the readers.] [Footnote 45: "_Doubt_ is the only rhyme for devil," in German.] [Footnote 46: The French translator, Stapfer, assigns as the probable reason why this scene alone, of the whole drama, should have been left in prose, "that it might not be said that Faust wanted any one of the possible forms of style."] [Footnote 47: Literally the _raven-stone_.] [Footnote 48: The _blood-seat_, in allusion to the old German custom of tying a woman, who was to be beheaded, into a wooden chair.] * * * * * P. S. There is a passage on page 84, the speech of Faust, ending with the lines:-- Show me the fruit that, ere it's plucked, will rot, And trees from which new green is daily peeping, which seems to have puzzled or misled so much, not only English translators, but even German critics, that the present translator has concluded, for once, to depart from his usual course, and play the commentator, by giving his idea of Goethe's meaning, which is this: Faust admits that the devil has all the different kinds of Sodom-apples which he has just enumerated, gold that melts away in the hand, glory that vanishes like a meteor, and pleasure that perishes in the possession. But all these torments are too insipid for Faust's morbid and mad hankering after the luxury of spiritual pain. Show me, he says, the fruit that rots _before_ one can pluck it, and [a still stronger expression of his diseased craving for agony] trees that fade so quickly as to be every day just putting forth new green, only to tantalize one with perpetual promise and perpetual disappointment. 
2235	----	None 
47518	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 47518-h.htm or 47518-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47518/47518-h/47518-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47518/47518-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/shakespearescome00shak Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). _THE TEMPEST_ [Illustration] [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_Here in this island we arrived_' (page 20).] SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDY OF THE TEMPEST With illustrations by Edmund Dulac [Illustration] Hodder & Stoughton New York and London The Text is printed by permission from the Oxford Edition ILLUSTRATIONS PROSPERO. Here in this island we arrived (page 20), _Frontispiece_ PROSPERO. _Page_ I have done nothing but in care of thee (page 11), 8 PROSPERO. What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? (page 13), 16 PROSPERO. And by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star (page 21), 26 CALIBAN. Wouldst give me Water with berries in't (page 31), 36 ANTONIO. Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon (page 61), 52 STEPHANO. Come, swear to that: kiss the book (page 72), 64 ARIEL. You are three men of sin (page 99), 80 IRIS. I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos (page 110), 94 IRIS. You Nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks, Leave your crisp channels (page 112), 108 PROSPERO. We are such stuff As dreams are made on (page 114), 112 ARIEL. All prisoners, sir, In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell (page 123), 120 PROSPERO. You demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make (page 125), 124 PROSPERO. Graves at my command Have waked their sleepers (page 126), 130 BOATSWAIN. And were brought moping hither (page 137), 136 PROSPERO. Calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious (page 142), 140 DRAMATIS PERSONÆ ALONSO, King of Naples. SEBASTIAN, his brother. PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan. ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan. FERDINAND, son to the King of Naples. GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor. ADRIAN, } FRANCISCO, } Lords. CALIBAN, a savage and deformed Slave. TRINCULO, a Jester. STEPHANO, a drunken Butler. Master of a Ship. Boatswain. Mariners. MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero. ARIEL, an airy Spirit. IRIS, } CERES, } JUNO, } Nymphs, } Reapers, } presented by Spirits. Other Spirits attending on Prospero. SCENE--_A ship at Sea: an island._ [Illustration: ACT I] SCENE I _On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard._ _Enter a_ Ship-Master _and a_ Boatswain. MAST. Boatswain! BOATS. Here, master: what cheer? MAST. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Mariners. BOATS. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough! _Enter_ ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO, _and others_. ALON. Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master? Play the men. BOATS. I pray now, keep below. ANT. Where is the master, boatswain? BOATS. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. GON. Nay, good, be patient. BOATS. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not. GON. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. BOATS. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor; if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out of our way, I say. [_Exit._ GON. I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable. [_Exeunt._ _Re-enter_ Boatswain. BOATS. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [_A cry within._] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office. _Re-enter_ SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, _and_ GONZALO. Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o'er and drown? Have you a mind to sink? SEB. A plague o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog! BOATS. Work you then. ANT. Hang, cur! hang, you insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. GON. I'll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell. BOATS. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses; off to sea again; lay her off. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_I have done nothing but in care of thee_' (page 11).] _Enter_ Mariners _wet_. MAR. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! BOATS. What, must our mouths be cold? GON. The king and prince at prayers! let's assist them, For our case is as theirs. SEB. I'm out of patience. ANT. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards: This wide-chapp'd rascal--would thou mightst lie drowning The washing of ten tides! GON. He'll be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it And gape at widest to glut him. [_A confused noise within_:--'Mercy on us!'--'We split, we split!'--'Farewell my wife and children!'--'Farewell, brother!'--'We split, we split, we split!'] ANT. Let's all sink with the king. SEB. Let's take leave of him. [_Exeunt_ ANTONIO _and_ SEBASTIAN. GON. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, ling, heath, broom, furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II _The island. Before_ PROSPERO'S _cell_. _Enter_ PROSPERO _and_ MIRANDA. MIR. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel, Who had no doubt some noble creature in her, Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and The fraughting souls within her. PROS. Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There's no harm done. MIR. O, woe the day! PROS. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father. MIR. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. PROS. 'Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me. So: [_Lays down his mantle._ Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul-- No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther. MIR. You have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd And left me to a bootless inquisition, Concluding 'Stay: not yet.' PROS. The hour's now come; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old. MIR. Certainly, sir, I can. PROS. By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that Hath kept with thy remembrance. MIR. 'Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? PROS. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember'st aught ere thou camest here, How thou camest here thou mayst. MIR. But that I do not. PROS. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan and A prince of power. MIR. Sir, are not you my father? PROS. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; and his only heir A princess, no worse issued. MIR. O the heavens! What foul play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was't we did? PROS. Both, both, my girl: By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence, But blessedly holp hither. MIR. O, my heart bleeds To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to, Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther. PROS. My brother and thy uncle, call'd Antonio-- I pray thee, mark me--that a brother should Be so perfidious!--he whom next thyself Of all the world I loved and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle-- Dost thou attend me? MIR. Sir, most heedfully. PROS. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who to advance and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed'em, Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou attend'st not. MIR. O, good sir, I do. PROS. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retired, O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having unto truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the duke; out o' the substitution, And executing the outward face of royalty, With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing-- Dost thou hear? MIR. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. PROS. To have no screen between this part he play'd And him he play'd it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates-- So dry he was for sway--wi' the King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown and bend The dukedom yet unbow'd--alas, poor Milan!-- To most ignoble stooping. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_What seest thou else In the dark backward abysm of time?_' (page 13).] MIR. O the heavens! PROS. Mark his condition and the event; then tell me If this might be a brother. MIR. I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons. PROS. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to the purpose did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness, The ministers for the purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self. MIR. Alack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o'er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to't. PROS. Hear a little further And then I'll bring thee to the present business Which now's upon's; without the which this story Were most impertinent. MIR. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us? PROS. Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me, nor set A mark so bloody on the business, but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea: where they prepared A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg'd, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us, To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh To the winds whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong. MIR. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you! PROS. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt, Under my burthen groan'd; which rais'd in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. MIR. How came we ashore? PROS. By Providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. MIR. Would I might But ever see that man! PROS. Now I arise: [_Resumes his mantle._ Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princesses can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. MIR. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir, For still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm? PROS. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions: Thou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness, And give it way: I know thou canst not choose. [MIRANDA _sleeps_. Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come. _Enter_ ARIEL. ARI. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality. PROS. Hast thou, spirit, Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee? ARI. To every article. I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I'ld divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not; the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake. PROS. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason? ARI. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,-- Was the first man that leap'd; cried, 'Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.' PROS. Why, that's my spirit! But was not this nigh shore? ARI. Close by, my master. PROS. But are they, Ariel, safe? ARI. Not a hair perish'd; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle. The king's son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot. PROS. Of the king's ship The mariners say how thou hast disposed And all the rest o' the fleet. ARI. Safely in harbour Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid: The mariners all under hatches stow'd; Who, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o' the fleet Which I dispersed, they all have met again And are upon the Mediterranean flote, Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd, And his great person perish. PROS. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform'd: but there's more work. What is the time o' the day? ARI. Past the mid season. PROS. At least two glasses. The time 'twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously. ARI. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform'd me. PROS. How now? moody? What is't thou canst demand? ARI. My liberty. PROS. Before the time be out? no more! ARI. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year. PROS. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee? ARI. No. PROS. Thou dost, and think'st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o' the earth When it is baked with frost. ARI. I do not, sir. PROS. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? ARI. No, sir. PROS. Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me. ARI. Sir, in Argier. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_And by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star_' (page 21).] PROS. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know'st, was banish'd: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true? ARI. Ay, sir. PROS. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought with child And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island-- Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour'd with A human shape. ARI. Yes, Caliban her son. PROS. Dull thing, I say so; he that Caliban Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts Of ever angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax Could not again undo: it was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape The pine and let thee out. ARI. I thank thee, master. PROS. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. ARI. Pardon, master; I will be correspondent to command, And do my spriting gently. PROS. Do so, and after two days I will discharge thee. ARI. That's my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do? PROS. Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea: be subject To no sight but thine and mine, invisible To every eyeball else. Go take this shape And hither come in 't: go, hence with diligence! [_Exit_ ARIEL. Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake! MIR. The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. PROS. Shake it off. Come on; We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer. MIR. 'Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. PROS. But, as 'tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood and serves in offices That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban Thou earth, thou! speak. CAL. [_within._] There's wood enough within. PROS. Come forth, I say! there's other business for thee: Come, thou tortoise! when? _Re-enter_ ARIEL _like a water-nymph_. Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. ARI. My lord, it shall be done. [_Exit._ PROS. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! _Enter_ CALIBAN. CAL. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed With raven's feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye And blister you all o'er! PROS. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em. CAL. I must eat my dinner. This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first, Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me Water with berries in't, and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile: Cursed be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' the island. PROS. Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee, Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. CAL. O ho, O ho! would't had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans. PROS. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison. CAL. You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language! PROS. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou'rt best, To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice? If thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar That beasts shall tremble at thy din. CAL. No, pray thee. [_Aside._] I must obey: his art is of such power, It would control my dam's god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him. PROS. So, slave; hence! [_Exit_ CALIBAN. _Re-enter_ ARIEL, _invisible, playing and singing_; FERDINAND _following_. ARIEL'S _song_. Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! BURTHEN [_dispersedly_]. Bow-wow. ARI. The watch-dogs bark: BURTHEN [_dispersedly_]. Bow-wow. ARI. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. FER. Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth? It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the king my father's wreck, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it, Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. No, it begins again. ARIEL _sings_. Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: BURTHEN. Ding-dong. ARI. Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell. FER. The ditty does remember my drown'd father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes. I hear it now above me. PROS. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance And say what thou seest yond. MIR. What is't? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit. PROS. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wreck; and, but he's something stain'd With grief that's beauty's canker, thou mightst call him A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows And strays about to find 'em. MIR. I might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble. [Illustration: CALIBAN: '_Wouldst give me Water with berries in't_' (page 31).] PROS. [_aside._] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee Within two days for this. FER. Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no? MIR. No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid. FER. My language! heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where 'tis spoken. PROS. How? the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? FER. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld The king my father wreck'd. MIR. Alack, for mercy! FER. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan And his brave son being twain. PROS. [_aside._] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now 'twere fit to do't. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, I'll set thee free for this. [_To_ FER.] A word, good sir; I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. MIR. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e'er I saw; the first That e'er I sighed for: pity move my father To be inclined my way! FER. O, if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you The queen of Naples. PROS. Soft, sir! one word more. [_Aside._] They are both in either's powers; but this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [_To_ FER.] One word more; I charge thee That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on't. FER. No, as I am a man. MIR. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't. PROS. Follow me. Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. Come; I'll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. FER. No; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power. [_Draws, and is charmed from moving._ MIR. O dear father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He's gentle and not fearful. PROS. What? I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop. MIR. Beseech you, father. PROS. Hence! hang not on my garments. MIR. Sir, have pity; I'll be his surety. PROS. Silence! one word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor! hush! Thou think'st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels. MIR. My affections Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. PROS. Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again And have no vigour in them. FER. So they are; My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, The wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o' the earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison. PROS. [_aside._] It works. [_To_ FER.] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To_ FER.] Follow me. [_To_ ARIEL.] Hark what thou else shalt do me. MIR. Be of comfort; My father's of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him. PROS. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command. ARI. To the syllable. PROS. Come, follow. Speak not for him. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: ACT II] SCENE I _Another part of the island._ _Enter_ ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, _and others_. GON. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common; every day some sailor's wife, The masters of some merchant, and the merchant, Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort. ALON. Prithee, peace. SEB. He receives comfort like cold porridge. ANT. The visitor will not give him o'er so. SEB. Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit: by and by it will strike. GON. Sir,-- SEB. One: tell. GON. When every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd, Comes to the entertainer-- SEB. A dollar. GON. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed. SEB. You have taken it wiselier that I meant you should. GON. Therefore, my lord,-- ANT. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! ALON. I prithee, spare. GON. Well, I have done: but yet,-- SEB. He will be talking. ANT. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow? SEB. The old cock. ANT. The cockerel. SEB. Done. The wager? ANT. A laughter. SEB. A match! ADR. Though this island seem to be desert,-- SEB. Ha, ha, ha! ANT. So, you're paid. ADR. Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,-- SEB. Yet,-- ADR. Yet,-- ANT. He could not miss't. ADR. It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate temperance. ANT. Temperance was a delicate wench. SEB. Ay, and a subtle: as he most learnedly delivered. ADR. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. SEB. As if it had lungs and rotten ones. ANT. Or as 'twere perfumed by a fen. GON. Here is every thing advantageous to life. ANT. True: save means to live. SEB. Of that there's none, or little. GON. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! ANT. The ground indeed is tawny. SEB. With an eye of green in't. ANT. He misses not much. SEB. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. GON. But the rarity of it is,--which is indeed almost beyond credit,-- SEB. As many vouched rarities are. GON. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water. ANT. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies? SEB. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. GON. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. SEB. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return. ADR. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen. GON. Not since widow Dido's time. ANT. Widow! a plague o' that! How came that widow in? widow Dido! SEB. What if he had said 'widower Æneas' too? Good Lord, how you take it! ADR. 'Widow Dido' said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. GON. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. ADR. Carthage? GON. I assure you, Carthage. ANT. His word is more than the miraculous harp. SEB. He hath raised the wall and houses too. ANT. What impossible matter will he make easy next? SEB. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket and give it his son for an apple. ANT. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. GON. Ay. ANT. Why, in good time. GON. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. ANT. And the rarest that e'er came there. SEB. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. ANT. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido. GON. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort. ANT. That sort was well fished for. GON. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage? ALON. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee? FRAN. Sir, he may live: I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him: his bold head 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd, As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt He came alive to land. ALON. No, no, he's gone. SEB. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she at least is banish'd from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on't. ALON. Prithee, peace. SEB. You were kneel'd to and importuned otherwise By all of us, and the fair soul herself Weigh'd between loathness and obedience, at Which end o' the beam should bow. We have lost your son, I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have Mo widows in them of this business' making Than we bring men to comfort them: The fault's your own. ALON. So is the dear'st o' the loss. GON. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster. SEB. Very well. ANT. And most chirurgeonly. GON. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy. SEB. Foul weather? ANT. Very foul. GON. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,-- ANT. He'ld sow't with nettle-seed. [Illustration: ANTONIO: '_Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon_' (page 61).] SEB. Or docks, or mallows GON. And were the king on't, what would I do? SEB. 'Scape being drunk for want of wine. GON. I' the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things: for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate: Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation: all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty;-- SEB. Yet he would be king on't. ANT. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. GON. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people. SEB. No marrying 'mong his subjects? ANT. None, man; all idle. GON. I would with such perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age. SEB. Save his majesty! ANT. Long live Gonzalo! GON. And,--do you mark me, sir? ALON. Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me. GON. I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. ANT. 'Twas you we laughed at. GON. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you: so you may continue and laugh at nothing still. ANT. What a blow was there given! SEB. An it had not fallen flat-long. GON. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. _Enter_ ARIEL, _invisible, playing solemn music_. SEB. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. ANT. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. GON. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy? ANT. Go sleep, and hear us. [_All sleep except_ ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, _and_ ANTONIO. ALON. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclined to do so. SEB. Please you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter. ANT. We too, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety. ALON. Thank you. Wondrous heavy. [ALONSO _sleeps. Exit_ ARIEL. SEB. What a strange drowsiness possesses them! ANT. It is the quality o' the climate. SEB. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not Myself disposed to sleep. ANT. Nor I; my spirits are nimble, They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian?--O, what might?--No more:-- And yet methinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. SEB. What, art thou waking? ANT. Do you not hear me speak? SEB. I do; and surely It is a sleepy language and thou speak'st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep. ANT. Noble Sebastian, Thou let'st thy fortune sleep--die, rather; wink'st Whiles thou art waking. SEB. Thou dost snore distinctly; There's meaning in thy snores. ANT. I am more serious than my custom: you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o'er. SEB. Well, I am standing water. ANT. I'll teach you how to flow. SEB. Do so: to ebb Hereditary sloth instructs me. ANT. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed, Most often do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth. SEB. Prithee, say on: The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee, and a birth indeed Which throes thee much to yield. ANT. Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth'd, hath here almost persuaded-- For he's a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade--the king his son's alive, 'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd As he that sleeps here swims. SEB. I have no hope That he's undrown'd. ANT. O, out of that 'no hope' What great hope have you! no hope that way is Another way so high a hope that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown'd? SEB. He's gone. ANT. Then, tell me, Who's the next heir of Naples? SEB. Claribel. ANT. She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post-- The man i' the moon's too slow--till new-born chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again, And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. SEB. What stuff is this! how say you? 'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions There is some space. ANT. A space whose every cubit Seems to cry out, 'How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.' Say, this were death That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo; I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! what a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me? SEB. Methinks I do. ANT. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune? SEB. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. ANT. True: And look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before: my brother's servants Were then my fellows: now they are my men. SEB. But, for your conscience? ANT. Ay, sir; where lies that? if 'twere a kibe, 'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences, That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he's like, that's dead; Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk; They'll tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour. SEB. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan, I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest; And I the king shall love thee. ANT. Draw together; And when I rear my hand do you the like, To fall it on Gonzalo. SEB. O, but one word. [_They talk apart._ _Re-enter_ ARIEL, _invisible_. ARI. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth-- For else his project dies--to keep them living. [_Sings in_ GONZALO's _ear_. While you here do snoring lie, Open-eyed conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware: Awake, awake! ANT. Then let us both be sudden. GON. Now, good angels Preserve the king! [_They wake._ ALON. Why, how now? ho, awake! Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? GON. What's the matter? SEB. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions: did't not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly. ALON. I heard nothing. ANT. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear, To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. ALON. Heard you this, Gonzalo? GON. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me: I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open'd, I saw their weapons drawn: there was a noise, That's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place: let's draw our weapons. ALON. Lead off this ground; and let's make further search For my poor son. GON. Heavens keep him from these beasts! For he is, sure, i' the island. ALON. Lead away. ARI. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done: So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: STEPHANO: '_Come, swear to that: kiss the book_' (page 72).] SCENE II _Another part of the island._ _Enter_ CALIBAN _with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard_. CAL. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i' the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but For every trifle are they set upon me; Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. _Enter_ TRINCULO. Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat; Perchance he will not mind me. TRIN. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind; yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of, not of the newest, poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm o' my trot! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. _Enter_ STEPHANO, _singing: a bottle in his hand_. STEPH. I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore-- This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral: well, here's my comfort. [_Drinks._ [_Sings._] The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I, The gunner and his mate Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery, But none of us cared for Kate; For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor, Go hang! She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch: Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang! This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort. [_Drinks._ CAL. Do not torment me: Oh! STEPH. What's the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon's with savages and men of Ind, ha? I have not 'scaped drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again while Stephano breathes at nostrils. CAL. The spirit torments me: Oh! STEPH. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's-leather. CAL. Do not torment me, prithee; I'll bring my wood home faster. STEPH. He's in his fit now and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. CAL. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. STEPH. Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat: open your mouth; this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly: you cannot tell who's your friend: open your chaps again. TRIN. I should know that voice: it should be--but he is drowned; and these are devils: O defend me! STEPH. Four legs and two voices: a most delicate monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth. TRIN. Stephano! STEPH. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is a devil, and no monster; I will leave him; I have no long spoon. TRIN. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me and speak to me; for I am Trinculo--be not afeard--thy good friend Trinculo. STEPH. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I'll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo's legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How camest thou here? TRIN. I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped. STEPH. Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is not constant. CAL. [_aside._] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That's a brave god and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him. STEPH. How didst thou 'scape? How camest thou hither? swear by this bottle how thou camest hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack which the sailors heaved o'erboard, by this bottle which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands since I was cast ashore. CAL. I'll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject; for the liquor is not earthly. STEPH. Here; swear then how thou escapedst. TRIN. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn. STEPH. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. TRIN. O Stephano, hast any more of this? STEPH. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the sea-side where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! how does thine ague? CAL. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? STEPH. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man i' the moon when time was. CAL. I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee: My mistress show'd me thee and thy dog and thy bush. STEPH. Come, swear to that: kiss the book: I will furnish it anon with new contents: swear. TRIN. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster! I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The man i' the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! CAL. I'll show thee every fertile inch o' th' island; And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god. TRIN. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster! when's god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle. CAL. I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself thy subject. STEPH. Come on then; down, and swear. TRIN. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,-- STEPH. Come, kiss. TRIN. But that the poor monster's in drink: an abominable monster! CAL. I'll show thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries; I'll fish for thee and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man. TRIN. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard! CAL. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; Show thee a jay's nest and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset; I'll bring thee To clustering filberts and sometimes I'll get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? STEPH. I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here: here; bear my bottle: fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by and by again. CAL. [_sings drunkenly_] Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! TRIN. A howling monster; a drunken monster! CAL. No more dams I'll make for fish; Nor fetch in firing At requiring; Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish: 'Ban, 'Ban, Cacaliban Has a new master: get a new man. Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom, hey-day, freedom! STEPH. O brave monster! Lead the way. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: ACT III] SCENE I _Before_ PROSPERO'S _cell_. _Enter_ FERDINAND, _bearing a log_. FER. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed, And he's composed of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness Had never like executor. I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy lest, when I do it. _Enter_ MIRANDA; _and_ PROSPERO _at a distance unseen_. MIR. Alas, now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile! Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns, 'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself; He's safe for these three hours. FER. O most dear mistress, The sun will set before I shall discharge What I must strive to do. MIR. If you'll sit down, I'll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that; I'll carry it to the pile. [Illustration: ARIEL: '_You are three men of sin_' (page 99).] FER. No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by. MIR. It would become me As well as it does you: and I should do it With much more ease; for my good will is to it, And yours it is against. PROS. Poor worm, thou art infected! This visitation shows it. MIR. You look wearily. FER. No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you-- Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers-- What is your name? MIR. Miranda.--O my father, I have broke your hest to say so! FER. Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration! worth What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best! MIR. I do not know One of my sex; no woman's face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any companion in the world but you, Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly and my father's precepts I therein do forget. FER. I am in my condition A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; I would, not so!--and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man. MIR. Do you love me? FER. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound And crown what I profess with kind event If I speak true! if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I Beyond all limit of what else i' the world Do love, prize, honour you. MIR. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. PROS. Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between 'em! FER. Wherefore weep you? MIR. At mine unworthiness that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife, if you will marry me; If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, Whether you will or no. FER. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever. MIR. My husband, then? FER. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand. MIR. And mine, with my heart in't: and now farewell Till half an hour hence. FER. A thousand thousand! [_Exeunt_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA _severally_. PROS. So glad of this as they I cannot be, Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I'll to my book, For yet ere supper-time must I perform Much business appertaining. [_Exit._ SCENE II _Another part of the island._ _Enter_ CALIBAN, STEPHANO, _and_ TRINCULO. STEPH. Tell not me; when the butt is out, we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me. TRIN. Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They say there's but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if th' other two be brained like us, the state totters. STEPH. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head. TRIN. Where should they be set else? he were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. STEPH. My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five and thirty leagues off and on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. TRIN. Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no standard. STEPH. We'll not run, Monsieur Monster. TRIN. Nor go neither; but you'll lie like dogs and yet say nothing neither. STEPH. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf. CAL. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I'll not serve him; he is not valiant. TRIN. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish, thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster? CAL. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? TRIN. 'Lord' quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural! CAL. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee. STEPH. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer,--the next tree! The poor monster's my subject and he shall not suffer indignity. CAL. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? STEPH. Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. _Enter_ ARIEL, _invisible_. CAL. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. ARI. Thou liest. CAL. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: I would my valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie. STEPH. Trinculo, if you trouble him anymore in's tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. TRIN. Why, I said nothing. STEPH. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. CAL. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; From me he got it. If thy greatness will Revenge it on him,--for I know thou darest, But this thing dare not,-- STEPH. That's most certain. CAL. Thou shalt be lord of it and I'll serve thee. STEPH. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party? CAL. Yea, yea, my lord: I'll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. ARI. Thou liest; thou canst not. CAL. What a pied ninny's this! Thou scurvy patch! I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows And take his bottle from him: when that's gone He shall drink nought but brine; for I'll not show him Where the quick freshes are. STEPH. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further, and, by this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors, and make a stock-fish of thee. TRIN. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I'll go farther off. STEPH. Didst thou not say he lied? ARI. Thou liest. STEPH. Do I so? take thou that. [_Beats_ TRINCULO.] As you like this, give me the lie another time. TRIN. I did not give the lie. Out o' your wits and hearing too? A plague o' your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers. CAL. Ha, ha, ha! STEPH. Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, stand farther off. CAL. Beat him enough: after a little time I'll beat him too. STEPH. Stand farther. Come, proceed. CAL. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him, I' th' afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, Having first seized his books, or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,--for so he calls them,-- Which, when he has a house, he'll deck withal. And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman, But only Sycorax my dam and she; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax As great'st does least. STEPH. Is it so brave a lass? CAL. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant, And bring thee forth brave brood. STEPH. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I will be king and queen,--save our graces!--and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo? TRIN. Excellent. STEPH. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. CAL. Within this half hour will he be asleep: Wilt thou destroy him then? STEPH. Ay, on mine honour. ARI. This will I tell my master. CAL. Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure: Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere? STEPH. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [_Sings_] Flout 'em and scout 'em And scout 'em and flout 'em; Thought is free. CAL. That's not the tune. [ARIEL _plays the tune on a tabor and pipe_. STEPH. What is this same? TRIN. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody. STEPH. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take't as thou list. TRIN. O, forgive me my sins! STEPH. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us! CAL. Art thou afeard? STEPH. No, monster, not I. CAL. Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, I cried to dream again. STEPH. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing. CAL. When Prospero is destroyed. STEPH. That shall be by and by: I remember the story. TRIN. The sound is going away; let's follow it, and after do our work. STEPH. Lead, monster; we'll follow. I would I could see this taborer; he lays it on. TRIN. Wilt come? I'll follow, Stephano. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: IRIS: '_I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos_' (page 110).] SCENE III _Another part of the island._ _Enter_ ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, _and others_. GON. By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache: here's a maze trod indeed Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience, I needs must rest me. _Alon._ Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach'd with weariness, To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope and keep it No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. ANT. [_aside to_ SEB.] I am right glad that he's so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect. SEB. [_aside to_ ANT.] The next advantage Will we take throughly. ANT. [_aside to_ SEB.] Let it be to-night: For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh. SEB. [_aside to_ ANT.] I say, to-night: no more. [_Solemn and strange music._ ALON. What harmony is this? My good friends, hark! GON. Marvellous sweet music! _Enter_ PROSPERO _above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet; they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, inviting the King, etc. to eat, they depart._ ALON. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these! SEB. A living drollery. Now I will believe That there are unicorns, that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix' throne, one phoenix At this hour reigning there. ANT. I'll believe both; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did lie, Though fools at home condemn 'em. GON. If in Naples I should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders-- For, certes, these are people of the island-- Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle-kind than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any. PROS. [_aside._] Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. ALON. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing, Although they want the use of tongue, a kind Of excellent dumb discourse. PROS. [_aside._] Praise in departing. FRAN. They vanish'd strangely. SEB. No matter, since They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs. Will't please you taste of what is here? ALON. Not I. GON. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys, Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find Each putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of. ALON. I will stand to and feed, Although my last: no matter, since I feel The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, Stand to and do as we. _Thunder and lightning._ _Enter_ ARIEL, _like a harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes_. ARI. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in't, the never-surfeited sea Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. [ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, _etc. draw their swords_. You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers of Fate: the elements, Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths And will not be uplifted. But remember-- For that's my business to you--that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child; for which foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce by me Lingering perdition, worse than any death Can be at once, shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from-- Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads--is nothing but heart-sorrow And a clear life ensuing. _He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the table._ PROS. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring: Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms work And these mine enemies are all knit up In their distractions; they now are in my power; And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand, whom they suppose is drown'd, And his and mine loved darling. [_Exit above._ GON. I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you In this strange stare? ALON. O, it is monstrous, monstrous! Methought the billows spoke and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded, and I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded And with him there lie mudded. [_Exit._ SEB. But one fiend at a time, I'll fight their legions o'er. ANT. I'll be thy second. [_Exeunt_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO. GON. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to. ADR. Follow, I pray you. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: ACT IV] SCENE I _Before_ PROSPERO'S _cell_. _Enter_ PROSPERO, FERDINAND, _and_ MIRANDA. PROS. If I have too austerely punish'd you, Your compensation makes amends, for I Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live; who once again I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her. FER. I do believe it Against an oracle. PROS. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but If thou dost break her virgin-knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minister'd, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, As Hymen's lamps shall light you. FER. As I hope For quiet days, fair issue and long life, With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day's celebration, When I shall think, or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd, Or Night kept chain'd below. PROS. Fairly spoke. Sit then and talk with her; she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! _Enter_ ARIEL. ARI. What would my potent master? here I am. PROS. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service Did worthily perform; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, O'er whom I give thee power, here to this place: Incite them to quick motion; for I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, And they expect it from me. ARI. Presently? PROS. Ay, with a twink. Ari. Before you can say 'come' and 'go,' And breathe twice and cry 'so, so,' Each one, tripping on his toe, Will be here with mop and mow. Do you love me, master? no? PROS. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. ARI. Well, I conceive. [_Exit._ PROS. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious, Or else, good night your vow! FER. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver. PROS. Well. Now come, my Ariel! I bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly! No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [_Soft music._ _Enter_ IRIS. IRIS. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom-groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air;--the queen o' the sky, Whose watery arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain: Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. [Illustration: IRIS: '_You Nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks, Leave your crisp channels_' (page 112).] _Enter_ CERES. CER. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers, And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down, Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green? IRIS. A contract of true love to celebrate; And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers. CER. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company I have forsworn. IRIS. Of her society Be not afraid: I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid Till Hymen's torch be lighted: but in vain; Mars's hot minion is return'd again; Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows And be a boy right out. CER. High'st queen of state, Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait. _Enter_ JUNO. JUNO. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be And honour'd in their issue. [_They sing._ JUNO. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you! Juno sings her blessings on you. CER. Earth's increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty, Vines with clustering bunches growing, Plants with goodly burthen bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest! Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres' blessing so is on you. FER. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits? PROS. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call'd to enact My present fancies. FER. Let me live here ever; So rare a wonder'd father and a wise Makes this place Paradise. [JUNO _and_ CERES _whisper, and send_ IRIS _on employment_. PROS. Sweet, now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously; There's something else to do: hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr'd. IRIS. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels and on this green land Answer your summons; Juno does command: Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love; be not too late. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_We are such stuff As dreams are made on_' (page 114).] _Enter certain Nymphs._ You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow and be merry: Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. _Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof_ PROSPERO _starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish_. PROS. [_aside._] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [_To the Spirits._] Well done! avoid; no more! FER. This is strange: your father's in some passion That works him strongly. MIR. Never till this day Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. PROS. You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: Be not disturb'd with my infirmity: If you be pleased, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind. FER. MIR. We wish your peace. [_Exeunt._ PROS. Come with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel: come. _Enter_ ARIEL. ARI. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What's thy pleasure? PROS. Spirit, We must prepare to meet with Caliban. ARI. Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres, I thought to have told thee of it, but I fear'd Lest I might anger thee. PROS. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets? ARI. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears, Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns, Which enter'd their frail shins: at last I left them I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake O'erstunk their feet. PROS. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, For stale to catch these thieves. ARI. I go, I go. [_Exit._ PROS. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring. _Re-enter_ ARIEL, _loaden with glistering apparel, etc._ Come, hang them on this line. PROSPERO _and_ ARIEL _remain, invisible. Enter_ CALIBAN, STEPHANO, _and_ TRINCULO, _all wet_. CAL. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. STEPH. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us. Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,-- TRIN. Thou wert but a lost monster. CAL. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly, All's hush'd as midnight yet. TRIN. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,-- STEPH. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. TRIN. That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster. STEPH. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears for my labour. CAL. Prithee, my king, be quiet. See'st thou here, This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker. STEPH. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts. TRIN. O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for thee! CAL. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash. TRIN. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery! O king Stephano! STEPH. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand I'll have that gown. TRIN. Thy grace shall have it. CAL. The dropsy drown this fool! what do you mean To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone And do the murder first: if he awake, From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuff. STEPH. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and prove a bald jerkin. TRIN. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't like your grace. STEPH. I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment for't: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. 'Steal by line and level' is an excellent pass of pate; there's another garment for't. TRIN. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest. CAL. I will have none on't: we shall lose our time, And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villanous low. STEPH. Monster, lay to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you out of my kingdom: go to, carry this. TRIN. And this. STEPH. Ay, and this. _A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, hunting them about;_ PROSPERO _and_ ARIEL _setting them on_. PROS. Hey, Mountain, hey! ARI. Silver! there it goes, Silver! PROS. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark! [CALIBAN, STEPHANO, _and_ TRINCULO _are driven out_. Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions, shorten up their sinews With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them Than pard or cat o' mountain. ARI. Hark, they roar! PROS. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies: Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little Follow, and do me service. [_Exeunt._ [Illustration: ARIEL: '_All prisoners, sir, In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell_' (page 123).] [Illustration: ACT V] SCENE I _Before_ PROSPERO'S _cell_. _Enter_ PROSPERO _in his magic robes, and_ ARIEL. PROS. Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day? ARI. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. PROS. I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and 's followers? ARI. Confined together In the same fashion as you gave in charge, Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge till your release. The king, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him that you term'd, sir, 'The good old lord, Gonzalo'; His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'em, That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender. PROS. Dost thou think so, spirit? ARI. Mine would, sir, were I human. PROS. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel: My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore, And they shall be themselves. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_You demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make_' (page 125).] ARI. I'll fetch them, sir. [_Exit._ PROS. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book. [_Solemn music._ _Re-enter_ ARIEL _before: then_ ALONSO, _with a frantic gesture, attended by_ GONZALO; SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO _in like manner, attended by_ ADRIAN _and_ FRANCISCO: _they all enter the circle which_ PROSPERO _had made, and there stand charmed; which_ PROSPERO _observing, speaks_: A solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp'd. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace, And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow'st! I will pay thy graces Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian, Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shore That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me: Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free. ARIEL _sings and helps to attire him_. Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslips bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. PROS. Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so. To the king's ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain Being awake, enforce them to this place, And presently, I prithee. ARI. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat. [_Exit._ GON. All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us Out of this fearful country! PROS. Behold, sir king, The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero: For more assurance that a living prince Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; And to thee and thy company I bid A hearty welcome. ALON. Whether thou be'st he or no, Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, The affliction of my mind amends, with which, I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, An if this be at all, a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero Be living and be here? PROS. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measured or confined. GON. Whether this be Or be not, I'll not swear. PROS. You do yet taste Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all! [_Aside to_ SEBASTIAN _and_ ANTONIO.] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you And justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales. SEB. [_aside._] The devil speaks in him. PROS. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, Thou must restore. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_Graves at my command Have waked their sleepers_' (page 126).] ALON. If thou be'st Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, who three hours since Were wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost-- How sharp the point of this remembrance is!-- My dear son Ferdinand. PROS. I am woe for't, sir. ALON. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past her cure. PROS. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, And rest myself content. ALON. You the like loss! PROS. As great to me as late; and, supportable To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter. ALON. A daughter? O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The king and queen there! that they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter? PROS. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords At this encounter do so much admire That they devour their reason and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed, To be the lord on't. No more yet of this; For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast, nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; This cell's my court: here have I few attendants And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again, I will requite you with as good a thing; At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom. _Here_ PROSPERO _discovers_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA _playing at chess_. MIR. Sweet lord, you play me false. FER. No, my dear'st love, I would not for the world. MIR. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play. ALON. If this prove A vision of the island, one dear son Shall I twice lose. SEB. A most high miracle! FER. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful; I have cursed them without cause. [_Kneels._ ALON. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about! Arise, and say how thou camest here. MIR. O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't! PROS. 'Tis new to thee. ALON. What is this maid with whom thou wast at play? Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours: Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us, And brought us thus together? FER. Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she's mine: I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Received a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me. ALON. I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness! PROS. There, sir, stop: Let us not burthen our remembrance with A heaviness that's gone. GON. I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown! For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way Which brought us hither. ALON. I say, Amen, Gonzalo! GON. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves When no man was his own. ALON. [_to_ FER. _and_ MIR.] Give me your hands: Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy! GON. Be it so! Amen! _Re-enter_ ARIEL, _with the_ MASTER _and_ Boatswain _amazedly following_. O look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us: I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? BOATS. The best news is, that we have safely found Our king and company; the next, our ship-- Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split-- Is tight and yare and bravely rigged as when We first put out to sea. ARI. [_aside to_ PROS.] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went. [Illustration: BOATSWAIN: '_And were brought moping hither_' (page 137).] PROS. [_aside to_ ARIEL.] My tricksy spirit! ALON. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither? BOATS. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I'ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And--how we know not--all clapp'd under hatches; Where but even now with strange and several noises, Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awaked; straightway, at liberty; Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good and gallant ship, our master Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you, Even in a dream, were we divided from them And were brought moping hither. ARI. [_aside to_ PROS.] Was't well done? PROS. [_aside to_ ARIEL.] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free. ALON. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of: some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. PROS. Sir, my liege, Do not infest your mind with beating on The strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisure Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [_Aside to_ ARIEL.] Come hither, spirit: Set Caliban and his companions free; Untie the spell. [_Exit_ ARIEL.] How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not. _Re-enter_ ARIEL, _driving in_ CALIBAN, STEPHANO, _and_ TRINCULO, _in their stolen apparel_. STEPH. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself; for all is but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio! TRIN. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here's a goodly sight. CAL. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! How fine my master is! I am afraid He will chastise me. SEB. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy 'em? ANT. Very like; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. PROS. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, His mother was a witch, and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command without her power. These three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil-- For he's a bastard one--had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. CAL. I shall be pinch'd to death. ALON. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? SEB. He is drunk now: where had he wine? ALON. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em? How camest thou in this pickle? TRIN. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing. SEB. Why, how now, Stephano! STEPH. O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp. PROS. You'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah? STEPH. I should have been a sore one then. ALON. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on. [Illustration: PROSPERO: '_Calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious_' (page 142).] [_Pointing to_ CALIBAN. PROS. He is as disproportion'd in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. CAL. Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god And worship this dull fool! PROS. Go to; away! ALON. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it. SEB. Or stole it, rather. [_Exeunt_ CAL., STEPH., _and_ TRIN. PROS. Sir, I invite your highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I'll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away; the story of my life And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle: and in the morn I'll bring you to your ship and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-beloved solemnized; And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave. ALON. I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely. PROS. I'll deliver all; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales And sail so expeditious that shall catch Your royal fleet far off. [_Aside to_ ARIEL.] My Ariel, chick, That is thy charge: then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near. [_Exeunt._ EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY PROSPERO Now my charms are all o'erthrown, And what strength I have's mine own, Which is most faint: now, 'tis true, I must be here confined by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands: Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free. Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Some illustrations of this work have been moved from their original sequence to enable the contents to continue without interruption. 
1801	----	******************************************************************* THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT A TIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THERE IS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK (#1540) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1540 ******************************************************************* 
779	----	THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS By Christopher Marlowe From The Quarto of 1604 Edited by The Rev. Alexander Dyce THE TRAGICALL HISTORY OF D. FAUSTUS. AS IT HATH BENE ACTED BY THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARLE OF NOTTINGHAM HIS SERUANTS. WRITTEN BY CH. MARL. In reprinting this edition, I have here and there amended the text by means of the later 4tos,--1616, 1624, 1631.--Of 4to 1663, which contains various comparatively modern alterations and additions, I have made no use. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. THE POPE. CARDINAL OF LORRAIN. THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY. DUKE OF VANHOLT. FAUSTUS. VALDES, ] friends to FAUSTUS. CORNELIUS, ] WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS. Clown. ROBIN. RALPH. Vintner. Horse-courser. A Knight. An Old Man. Scholars, Friars, and Attendants. DUCHESS OF VANHOLT LUCIFER. BELZEBUB. MEPHISTOPHILIS. Good Angel. Evil Angel. The Seven Deadly Sins. Devils. Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour and of HELEN. Chorus. THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS FROM THE QUARTO OF 1604. Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Not marching now in fields of Thrasymene, Where Mars did mate[1] the Carthaginians; Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, Intends our Muse to vaunt[2] her[3] heavenly verse: Only this, gentlemen,--we must perform The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: To patient judgments we appeal our plaud, And speak for Faustus in his infancy. Now is he born, his parents base of stock, In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went, Whereas[4] his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So soon he profits in divinity, The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd, That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes In heavenly matters of theology; Till swoln with cunning,[5] of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; For, falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now[6] with learning's golden gifts, He surfeits upon cursed necromancy; Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: And this the man that in his study sits. [Exit.] FAUSTUS discovered in his study.[7] FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: Having commenc'd, be a divine in shew, Yet level at the end of every art, And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou[8] hast ravish'd me! Bene disserere est finis logices. Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? Affords this art no greater miracle? Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that[9] end: A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: Bid Economy[10] farewell, and[11] Galen come, Seeing, Ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit medicus: Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold, And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure: Summum bonum medicinae sanitas, The end of physic is our body's health. Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end? Is not thy common talk found aphorisms? Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, And thousand desperate maladies been eas'd? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Couldst[12] thou make men[13] to live eternally, Or, being dead, raise them to life again, Then this profession were to be esteem'd. Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian? [Reads.] Si una eademque res legatur[14] duobus, alter rem, alter valorem rei, &c. A pretty case of paltry legacies! [Reads.] Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c.[15] Such is the subject of the institute, And universal body of the law:[16] This[17] study fits a mercenary drudge, Who aims at nothing but external trash; Too servile[18] and illiberal for me. When all is done, divinity is best: Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well. [Reads.] Stipendium peccati mors est. Ha! Stipendium, &c. The reward of sin is death: that's hard. [Reads.] Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas; If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so consequently die: Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,[19] What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of magicians, And necromantic books are heavenly; Lines, circles, scenes,[20] letters, and characters; Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. O, what a world of profit and delight, Of power, of honour, of omnipotence, Is promis'd to the studious artizan! All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command: emperors and kings Are but obeyed in their several provinces, Nor can they raise the wind, or rend the clouds; But his dominion that exceeds in this, Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man; A sound magician is a mighty god: Here, Faustus, tire[21] thy brains to gain a deity. Enter WAGNER.[22] Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends, The German Valdes and Cornelius; Request them earnestly to visit me. WAGNER. I will, sir. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside, And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head! Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy. EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art Wherein all Nature's treasure[23] is contain'd: Be thou on earth as Jove[24] is in the sky, Lord and commander of these elements.[25] [Exeunt Angels.] FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this! Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve[26] me of all ambiguities, Perform what desperate enterprise I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates; I'll have them read me strange philosophy, And tell the secrets of all foreign kings; I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg; I'll have them fill the public schools with silk,[27] Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad; I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring, And chase the Prince of Parma from our land, And reign sole king of all the[28] provinces; Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war, Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge,[29] I'll make my servile spirits to invent. Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS. Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, And make me blest with your sage conference. Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, Know that your words have won me at the last To practice magic and concealed arts: Yet not your words only,[30] but mine own fantasy, That will receive no object; for my head But ruminates on necromantic skill. Philosophy is odious and obscure; Both law and physic are for petty wits; Divinity is basest of the three, Unpleasant, harsh, contemptible, and vile:[31] 'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravish'd me. Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt; And I, that have with concise syllogisms[32] Gravell'd the pastors of the German church, And made the flowering pride of Wertenberg Swarm to my problems, as the infernal spirits On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell, Will be as cunning[33] as Agrippa[34] was, Whose shadow[35] made all Europe honour him. VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience, Shall make all nations to canonize us. As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords, So shall the spirits[36] of every element Be always serviceable to us three; Like lions shall they guard us when we please; Like Almain rutters[37] with their horsemen's staves, Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides; Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids, Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the[38] white breasts of the queen of love: From[39] Venice shall they drag huge argosies, And from America the golden fleece That yearly stuffs old Philip's treasury; If learned Faustus will be resolute. FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this As thou to live: therefore object it not. CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform Will make thee vow to study nothing else. He that is grounded in astrology, Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in[40] minerals, Hath all the principles magic doth require: Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd,[41] And more frequented for this mystery Than heretofore the Delphian oracle. The spirits tell me they can dry the sea, And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks, Ay, all the wealth that our forefathers hid Within the massy entrails of the earth: Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want? FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul! Come, shew me some demonstrations magical, That I may conjure in some lusty grove, And have these joys in full possession. VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus'[42] works, The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament; And whatsoever else is requisite We will inform thee ere our conference cease. CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art; And then, all other ceremonies learn'd, Faustus may try his cunning[43] by himself. VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments, And then wilt thou be perfecter than I. FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat, We'll canvass every quiddity thereof; For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do: This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore. [Exeunt.] Enter two SCHOLARS.[44] FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont to make our schools ring with sic probo. SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we know, for see, here comes his boy. Enter WAGNER. FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master? WAGNER. God in heaven knows. SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know? WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not. FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us where he is. WAGNER. That follows not necessary by force of argument, that you, being licentiates, should stand upon:[45] therefore acknowledge your error, and be attentive. SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, didst thou not say thou knewest? WAGNER. Have you any witness on't? FIRST SCHOLAR. Yes, sirrah, I heard you. WAGNER. Ask my fellow if I be a thief. SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, you will not tell us? WAGNER. Yes, sir, I will tell you: yet, if you were not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is not he corpus naturale? and is not that mobile? then wherefore should you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt to see you both hanged the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-- Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would[46] inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren, my dear brethren![47] [Exit.] FIRST SCHOLAR. Nay, then, I fear he is fallen into that damned art for which they two are infamous through the world. SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, and not allied to me, yet should I grieve for him. But, come, let us go and inform the Rector, and see if he by his grave counsel can reclaim him. FIRST SCHOLAR. O, but I fear me nothing can reclaim him! SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us try what we can do. [Exeunt.] Enter FAUSTUS to conjure.[48] FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the earth, Longing to view Orion's drizzling look, Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky, And dims the welkin with her pitchy breath, Faustus, begin thine incantations, And try if devils will obey thy hest, Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them. Within this circle is Jehovah's name, Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd,[49] Th' abbreviated[50] names of holy saints, Figures of every adjunct to the heavens, And characters of signs and erring[51] stars, By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise: Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute, And try the uttermost magic can perform.-- Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris:[52] per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus[53] Mephistophilis! Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. I charge thee to return, and change thy shape; Thou art too ugly to attend on me: Go, and return an old Franciscan friar; That holy shape becomes a devil best. [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] I see there's virtue in my heavenly words: Who would not be proficient in this art? How pliant is this Mephistophilis, Full of obedience and humility! Such is the force of magic and my spells: No, Faustus, thou art conjuror laureat, That canst command great Mephistophilis: Quin regis Mephistophilis fratris imagine. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar.[54] MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do? FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live, To do whatever Faustus shall command, Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere, Or the ocean to overwhelm the world. MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer, And may not follow thee without his leave: No more than he commands must we perform. FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me? MEPHIST. No, I came hither[55] of mine own accord. FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches raise thee? speak. MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens;[56] For, when we hear one rack the name of God, Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ, We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul; Nor will we come, unless he use such means Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd. Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity, And pray devoutly to the prince of hell. FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath Already done; and holds this principle, There is no chief but only Belzebub; To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself. This word "damnation" terrifies not him, For he confounds hell in Elysium: His ghost be with the old philosophers! But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord? MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits. FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once? MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils? MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence; For which God threw him from the face of heaven. FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer? MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer, And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd? MEPHIST. In hell. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell? MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:[57] Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells, In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss? O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike a terror to my fainting soul! FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate For being deprived of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess. Go bear these[58] tidings to great Lucifer: Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death By desperate thoughts against Jove's[59] deity, Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four and twenty[60] years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness; Having thee ever to attend on me, To give me whatsoever I shall ask, To tell me whatsoever I demand, To slay mine enemies, and aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will. Go and return to mighty Lucifer, And meet me in my study at midnight, And then resolve[61] me of thy master's mind. MEPHIST. I will, Faustus. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis. By him I'll be great emperor of the world, And make a bridge thorough[62] the moving air, To pass the ocean with a band of men; I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore, And make that country[63] continent to Spain, And both contributory to my crown: The Emperor shall not live but by my leave, Nor any potentate of Germany. Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd,[64] I'll live in speculation of this art, Till Mephistophilis return again. [Exit.] Enter WAGNER[65] and CLOWN. WAGNER. Sirrah boy, come hither. CLOWN. How, boy! swowns, boy! I hope you have seen many boys with such pickadevaunts[66] as I have: boy, quotha! WAGNER. Tell me, sirrah, hast thou any comings in? CLOWN. Ay, and goings out too; you may see else. WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jesteth in his nakedness! the villain is bare and out of service, and so hungry, that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood-raw. CLOWN. How! my soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though 'twere blood-raw! not so, good friend: by'r lady,[67] I had need have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear. WAGNER. Well, wilt thou serve me, and I'll make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus?[68] CLOWN. How, in verse? WAGNER. No, sirrah; in beaten silk and staves-acre.[69] CLOWN. How, how, knaves-acre! ay, I thought that was all the land his father left him. Do you hear? I would be sorry to rob you of your living. WAGNER. Sirrah, I say in staves-acre. CLOWN. Oho, oho, staves-acre! why, then, belike, if I were your man, I should be full of vermin.[70] WAGNER. So thou shalt, whether thou beest with me or no. But, sirrah, leave your jesting, and bind yourself presently unto me for seven years, or I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars,[71] and they shall tear thee in pieces. CLOWN. Do you hear, sir? you may save that labour; they are too familiar with me already: swowns, they are as bold with my flesh as if they had paid for their[72] meat and drink. WAGNER. Well, do you hear, sirrah? hold, take these guilders. [Gives money.] CLOWN. Gridirons! what be they? WAGNER. Why, French crowns. CLOWN. Mass, but for the name of French crowns, a man were as good have as many English counters. And what should I do with these? WAGNER. Why, now, sirrah, thou art at an hour's warning, whensoever or wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee. CLOWN. No, no; here, take your gridirons again. WAGNER. Truly, I'll none of them. CLOWN. Truly, but you shall. WAGNER. Bear witness I gave them him. CLOWN. Bear witness I give them you again. WAGNER. Well, I will cause two devils presently to fetch thee away.--Baliol and Belcher! CLOWN. Let your Baliol and your Belcher come here, and I'll knock them, they were never so knocked since they were devils: say I should kill one of them, what would folks say? "Do ye see yonder tall fellow in the round slop?[73] he has killed the devil." So I should be called Kill-devil all the parish over. Enter two DEVILS; and the CLOWN runs up and down crying. WAGNER. Baliol and Belcher,--spirits, away! [Exeunt DEVILS.] CLOWN. What, are they gone? a vengeance on them! they have vile[74] long nails. There was a he-devil and a she-devil: I'll tell you how you shall know them; all he-devils has horns, and all she-devils has clifts and cloven feet. WAGNER. Well, sirrah, follow me. CLOWN. But, do you hear? if I should serve you, would you teach me to raise up Banios and Belcheos? WAGNER. I will teach thee to turn thyself to any thing, to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing. CLOWN. How! a Christian fellow to a dog, or a cat, a mouse, or a rat! no, no, sir; if you turn me into any thing, let it be in the likeness of a little pretty frisking flea, that I may be here and there and every where: O, I'll tickle the pretty wenches' plackets! I'll be amongst them, i'faith. WAGNER. Well, sirrah, come. CLOWN. But, do you hear, Wagner? WAGNER. How!--Baliol and Belcher! CLOWN. O Lord! I pray, sir, let Banio and Belcher go sleep. WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and let thy left eye be diametarily fixed upon my right heel, with quasi vestigiis nostris[75] insistere. [Exit.] CLOWN. God forgive me, he speaks Dutch fustian. Well, I'll follow him; I'll serve him, that's flat. [Exit.] FAUSTUS discovered in his study. FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus, must Thou needs be damn'd, and canst thou not be sav'd: What boots it, then, to think of God or heaven? Away with such vain fancies, and despair; Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub: Now go not backward; no, Faustus, be resolute: Why waver'st thou? O, something soundeth in mine ears, "Abjure this magic, turn to God again!" Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again. To God? he loves thee not; The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite, Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub: To him I'll build an altar and a church, And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art. FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance--what of them? GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven! EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, That make men foolish that do trust them most. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things. EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of[76] wealth. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. Of wealth! Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine. When Mephistophilis shall stand by me, What god can hurt thee, Faustus? thou art safe Cast no more doubts.--Come, Mephistophilis, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come, Mephistophilis, Veni, veni, Mephistophile! Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. Now tell me[77] what says Lucifer, thy lord? MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives,[78] So he will buy my service with his soul. FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee. MEPHIST. But, Faustus, thou must bequeath it solemnly, And write a deed of gift with thine own blood; For that security craves great Lucifer. If thou deny it, I will back to hell. FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom. FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why[79] he tempts us thus? MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.[80] FAUSTUS. Why,[81] have you any pain that torture[82] others! MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men. But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul? And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee, And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask. FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I give it thee. MEPHIST. Then, Faustus,[83] stab thine arm courageously, And bind thy soul, that at some certain day Great Lucifer may claim it as his own; And then be thou as great as Lucifer. FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, I cut mine arm, and with my proper blood Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night! View here the blood that trickles from mine arm, And let it be propitious for my wish. MEPHIST. But, Faustus, thou must Write it in manner of a deed of gift. FAUSTUS. Ay, so I will [Writes]. But, Mephistophilis, My blood congeals, and I can write no more. MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend? Is it unwilling I should write this bill?[84] Why streams it not, that I may write afresh? FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: ah, there it stay'd! Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul shine own? Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with a chafer of coals. MEPHIST. Here's fire; come, Faustus, set it on.[85] FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again; Now will I make an end immediately. [Writes.] MEPHIST. O, what will not I do to obtain his soul? [Aside.] FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended, And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer. But what is this inscription[86] on mine arm? Homo, fuge: whither should I fly? If unto God, he'll throw me[87] down to hell. My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-- I see it plain; here in this place is writ, Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly. MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind. [Aside, and then exit.] Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with DEVILS, who give crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS, dance, and then depart. FAUSTUS. Speak, Mephistophilis, what means this show? MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind withal, And to shew thee what magic can perform. FAUSTUS. But may I raise up spirits when I please? MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these. FAUSTUS. Then there's enough for a thousand souls. Here, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll, A deed of gift of body and of soul: But yet conditionally that thou perform All articles prescrib'd between us both. MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer To effect all promises between us made! FAUSTUS. Then hear me read them. [Reads] ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND AT HIS COMMAND. THIRDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE DESIRES.[88] FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT FORM OR SHAPE SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN FAUSTUS, OF WERTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT,[89] TWENTY-FOUR YEARS BEING EXPIRED, THE ARTICLES ABOVE-WRITTEN INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, BODY AND SOUL, FLESH, BLOOD, OR GOODS, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER. BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS. MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed? FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good on't! MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, ask what thou wilt. FAUSTUS. First will I question with thee about hell. Tell me, where is the place that men call hell? MEPHIST. Under the heavens. FAUSTUS. Ay, but whereabout? MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these[90] elements, Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, there[91] must we ever be: And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are[92] not heaven. FAUSTUS. Come, I think hell's a fable. MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind. FAUSTUS. Why, think'st thou, then, that Faustus shall be damn'd? MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll Wherein thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too: but what of that? Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond[93] to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. MEPHIST. But, Faustus, I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I am damn'd, and am now in hell. FAUSTUS. How! now in hell! Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd here: What! walking, disputing, &c.[94] But, leaving off this, let me have a wife,[95] The fairest maid in Germany; For I am wanton and lascivious, And cannot live without a wife. MEPHIST. How! a wife! I prithee, Faustus, talk not of a wife. FAUSTUS. Nay, sweet Mephistophilis, fetch me one, for I will have one. MEPHIST. Well, thou wilt have one? Sit there till I come: I'll fetch thee a wife in the devil's name. [Exit.] Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with a DEVIL drest like a WOMAN, with fire-works. MEPHIST. Tell me,[96] Faustus, how dost thou like thy wife? FAUSTUS. A plague on her for a hot whore! MEPHIST. Tut, Faustus, Marriage is but a ceremonial toy; If thou lovest me, think no[97] more of it. I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans, And bring them every morning to thy bed: She whom thine eye shall like, thy heart shall have, Be she as chaste as was Penelope, As wise as Saba,[98] or as beautiful As was bright Lucifer before his fall. Hold, take this book, peruse it thoroughly: [Gives book.] The iterating[99] of these lines brings gold; The framing of this circle on the ground Brings whirlwinds, tempests, thunder, and lightning; Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself, And men in armour shall appear to thee, Ready to execute what thou desir'st. FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis: yet fain would I have a book wherein I might behold all spells and incantations, that I might raise up spirits when I please. MEPHIST. Here they are in this book. [Turns to them.] FAUSTUS. Now would I have a book where I might see all characters and planets of the heavens, that I might know their motions and dispositions. MEPHIST. Here they are too. [Turns to them.] FAUSTUS. Nay, let me have one book more,--and then I have done,-- wherein I might see all plants, herbs, and trees, that grow upon the earth. MEPHIST. Here they be. FAUSTUS. O, thou art deceived. MEPHIST. Tut, I warrant thee. [Turns to them.] FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, then I repent, And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis, Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys. MEPHIST. Why, Faustus, Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou, Or any man that breathes on earth. FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that? MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man, therefore is man more excellent. FAUSTUS. If it were made for man, 'twas made for me: I will renounce this magic and repent. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee. EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee. FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit? Be I a devil, yet God may pity me; Ay, God will pity me, if I repent. EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. My heart's so harden'd, I cannot repent: Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven, But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears, "Faustus, thou art damn'd!" then swords, and knives, Poison, guns, halters, and envenom'd steel Are laid before me to despatch myself; And long ere this I should have slain myself, Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death? And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis? Why should I die, then, or basely despair? I am resolv'd; Faustus shall ne'er repent.-- Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again, And argue of divine astrology.[100] Tell me, are there many heavens above the moon Are all celestial bodies but one globe, As is the substance of this centric earth? MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the spheres, Mutually folded in each other's orb, And, Faustus, All jointly move upon one axletree, Whose terminine is term'd the world's wide pole; Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter Feign'd, but are erring[101] stars. FAUSTUS. But, tell me, have they all one motion, both situ et tempore? MEPHIST. All jointly move from east to west in twenty-four hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motion upon the poles of the zodiac. FAUSTUS. Tush, These slender trifles Wagner can decide: Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill? Who knows not the double motion of the planets? The first is finish'd in a natural day; The second thus; as Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve; Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon in twenty-eight days. Tush, these are freshmen's[102] suppositions. But, tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia? MEPHIST. Ay. FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there? MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal heaven. FAUSTUS. Well, resolve[103] me in this question; why have we not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some years we have more, in some less? MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius. FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Tell me who made the world? MEPHIST. I will not. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me. MEPHIST. Move me not, for I will not tell thee. FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing? MEPHIST. Ay, that is not against our kingdom; but this is. Think thou on hell, Faustus, for thou art damned. FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world. MEPHIST. Remember this. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell! 'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul. Is't not too late? Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. EVIL ANGEL. Too late. GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus can repent. EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils shall tear thee in pieces. GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. Ah, Christ, my Saviour, Seek to save[104] distressed Faustus' soul! Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just: There's none but I have interest in the same. FAUSTUS. O, who art thou that look'st so terrible? LUCIFER. I am Lucifer, And this is my companion-prince in hell. FAUSTUS. O, Faustus, they are come to fetch away thy soul! LUCIFER. We come to tell thee thou dost injure us; Thou talk'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise: Thou shouldst not think of God: think of the devil, And of his dam too. FAUSTUS. Nor will I henceforth: pardon me in this, And Faustus vows never to look to heaven, Never to name God, or to pray to him, To burn his Scriptures, slay his ministers, And make my spirits pull his churches down. LUCIFER. Do so, and we will highly gratify thee. Faustus, we are come from hell to shew thee some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt see all the Seven Deadly Sins appear in their proper shapes. FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasing unto me, As Paradise was to Adam, the first day Of his creation. LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise nor creation; but mark this show: talk of the devil, and nothing else.--Come away! Enter the SEVEN DEADLY SINS.[105] Now, Faustus, examine them of their several names and dispositions. FAUSTUS. What art thou, the first? PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; or, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; indeed, I do--what do I not? But, fie, what a scent is here! I'll not speak another word, except the ground were perfumed, and covered with cloth of arras. FAUSTUS. What art thou, the second? COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in an old leathern bag: and, might I have my wish, I would desire that this house and all the people in it were turned to gold, that I might lock you up in my good chest: O, my sweet gold! FAUSTUS. What art thou, the third? WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half-an-hour old; and ever since I have run up and down the world with this case[106] of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my father. FAUSTUS. What art thou, the fourth? ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt. I am lean with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou shouldst see how fat I would be. But must thou sit, and I stand? come down, with a vengeance! FAUSTUS. Away, envious rascal!--What art thou, the fifth? GLUTTONY. Who I, sir? I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a bare pension, and that is thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,[107]--a small trifle to suffice nature. O, I come of a royal parentage! my grandfather was a Gammon of Bacon, my grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers were these, Peter Pickle-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; O, but my godmother, she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well-beloved in every good town and city; her name was Mistress Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny; wilt thou bid me to supper? FAUSTUS. No, I'll see thee hanged: thou wilt eat up all my victuals. GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee! FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!--What art thou, the sixth? SLOTH. I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank, where I have lain ever since; and you have done me great injury to bring me from thence: let me be carried thither again by Gluttony and Lechery. I'll not speak another word for a king's ransom. FAUSTUS. What are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last? LECHERY. Who I, sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first letter of my name begins with L.[108] FAUSTUS. Away, to hell, to hell![109] [Exeunt the SINS.] LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, how dost thou like this? FAUSTUS. O, this feeds my soul! LUCIFER. Tut, Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight. FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again, How happy were I then! LUCIFER. Thou shalt; I will send for thee at midnight.[110] In meantime take this book; peruse it throughly, And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt. FAUSTUS. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer! This will I keep as chary as my life. LUCIFER. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil. FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer. [Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.] Come, Mephistophilis. [Exeunt.] Enter CHORUS.[111] CHORUS. Learned Faustus, To know the secrets of astronomy[112] Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, Did mount himself to scale Olympus' top, Being seated in a chariot burning bright, Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks. He now is gone to prove cosmography, And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his court, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, That to this day is highly solemniz'd. [Exit.] Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.[113] FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier,[114] Environ'd round with airy mountain-tops, With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes, Not to be won by any conquering prince; From Paris next,[115] coasting the realm of France, We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine, Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines; Then up to Naples, rich Campania, Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye, The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick, Quarter the town in four equivalents: There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb, The way he cut,[116] an English mile in length, Thorough a rock of stone, in one night's space; From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest, In one of which a sumptuous temple stands,[117] That threats the stars with her aspiring top. Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time: But tell me now what resting-place is this? Hast thou, as erst I did command, Conducted me within the walls of Rome? MEPHIST. Faustus, I have; and, because we will not be unprovided, I have taken up his Holiness' privy-chamber for our use. FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us welcome. MEPHIST. Tut, 'tis no matter; man; we'll be bold with his good cheer. And now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive What Rome containeth to delight thee with, Know that this city stands upon seven hills That underprop the groundwork of the same: Just through the midst[118] runs flowing Tiber's stream With winding banks that cut it in two parts; Over the which four stately bridges lean, That make safe passage to each part of Rome: Upon the bridge call'd Ponte[119] Angelo Erected is a castle passing strong, Within whose walls such store of ordnance are, And double cannons fram'd of carved brass, As match the days within one complete year; Besides the gates, and high pyramides, Which Julius Caesar brought from Africa. FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule, Of Styx, of[120] Acheron, and the fiery lake Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear That I do long to see the monuments And situation of bright-splendent Rome: Come, therefore, let's away. MEPHIST. Nay, Faustus, stay: I know you'd fain see the Pope, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, Where thou shalt see a troop of bald-pate friars, Whose summum bonum is in belly-cheer. FAUSTUS. Well, I'm content to compass then some sport, And by their folly make us merriment. Then charm me, that I[121] May be invisible, to do what I please, Unseen of any whilst I stay in Rome. [Mephistophilis charms him.] MEPHIST. So, Faustus; now Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd. Sound a Sonnet.[122] Enter the POPE and the CARDINAL OF LORRAIN to the banquet, with FRIARS attending. POPE. My Lord of Lorrain, will't please you draw near? FAUSTUS. Fall to, and the devil choke you, an you spare! POPE. How now! who's that which spake?--Friars, look about. FIRST FRIAR. Here's nobody, if it like your Holiness. POPE. My lord, here is a dainty dish was sent me from the Bishop of Milan. FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. How now! who's that which snatched the meat from me? will no man look?--My lord, this dish was sent me from the Cardinal of Florence. FAUSTUS. You say true; I'll ha't. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. What, again!--My lord, I'll drink to your grace. FAUSTUS. I'll pledge your grace. [Snatches the cup.] C. OF LOR. My lord, it may be some ghost, newly crept out of Purgatory, come to beg a pardon of your Holiness. POPE. It may be so.--Friars, prepare a dirge to lay the fury of this ghost.--Once again, my lord, fall to. [The POPE crosses himself.] FAUSTUS. What, are you crossing of yourself? Well, use that trick no more, I would advise you. [The POPE crosses himself again.] Well, there's the second time. Aware the third; I give you fair warning. [The POPE crosses himself again, and FAUSTUS hits him a box of the ear; and they all run away.] Come on, Mephistophilis; what shall we do? MEPHIST. Nay, I know not: we shall be cursed with bell, book, and candle. FAUSTUS. How! bell, book, and candle,--candle, book, and bell,-- Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell! Anon you shall hear a hog grunt, a calf bleat, and an ass bray, Because it is Saint Peter's holiday. Re-enter all the FRIARS to sing the Dirge. FIRST FRIAR. Come, brethren, let's about our business with good devotion. They sing. CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE AWAY HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON THE FACE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat Dominus? ['?' sic] Et omnes Sancti! Amen! [MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling fire-works among them; and so exeunt.] Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. When Faustus had with pleasure ta'en the view Of rarest things, and royal courts of kings, He stay'd his course, and so returned home; Where such as bear his absence but with grief, I mean his friends and near'st companions, Did gratulate his safety with kind words, And in their conference of what befell, Touching his journey through the world and air, They put forth questions of astrology, Which Faustus answer'd with such learned skill As they admir'd and wonder'd at his wit. Now is his fame spread forth in every land: Amongst the rest the Emperor is one, Carolus the Fifth, at whose palace now Faustus is feasted 'mongst his noblemen. What there he did, in trial of his art, I leave untold; your eyes shall see['t] perform'd. [Exit.] Enter ROBIN[123] the Ostler, with a book in his hand. ROBIN. O, this is admirable! here I ha' stolen one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books, and, i'faith, I mean to search some circles for my own use. Now will I make all the maidens in our parish dance at my pleasure, stark naked, before me; and so by that means I shall see more than e'er I felt or saw yet. Enter RALPH, calling ROBIN. RALPH. Robin, prithee, come away; there's a gentleman tarries to have his horse, and he would have his things rubbed and made clean: he keeps such a chafing with my mistress about it; and she has sent me to look thee out; prithee, come away. ROBIN. Keep out, keep out, or else you are blown up, you are dismembered, Ralph: keep out, for I am about a roaring piece of work. RALPH. Come, what doest thou with that same book? thou canst not read? ROBIN. Yes, my master and mistress shall find that I can read, he for his forehead, she for her private study; she's born to bear with me, or else my art fails. RALPH. Why, Robin, what book is that? ROBIN. What book! why, the most intolerable book for conjuring that e'er was invented by any brimstone devil. RALPH. Canst thou conjure with it? ROBIN. I can do all these things easily with it; first, I can make thee drunk with ippocras[124] at any tabern[125] in Europe for nothing; that's one of my conjuring works. RALPH. Our Master Parson says that's nothing. ROBIN. True, Ralph: and more, Ralph, if thou hast any mind to Nan Spit, our kitchen-maid, then turn her and wind her to thy own use, as often as thou wilt, and at midnight. RALPH. O, brave, Robin! shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use? On that condition I'll feed thy devil with horse-bread as long as he lives, of free cost. ROBIN. No more, sweet Ralph: let's go and make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring in the devil's name. [Exeunt.] Enter ROBIN and RALPH[126] with a silver goblet. ROBIN. Come, Ralph: did not I tell thee, we were for ever made by this Doctor Faustus' book? ecce, signum! here's a simple purchase[127] for horse-keepers: our horses shall eat no hay as long as this lasts. RALPH. But, Robin, here comes the Vintner. ROBIN. Hush! I'll gull him supernaturally. Enter VINTNER. Drawer,[128] I hope all is paid; God be with you!--Come, Ralph. VINTNER. Soft, sir; a word with you. I must yet have a goblet paid from you, ere you go. ROBIN. I a goblet, Ralph, I a goblet!--I scorn you; and you are but a, &c. I a goblet! search me. VINTNER. I mean so, sir, with your favour. [Searches ROBIN.] ROBIN. How say you now? VINTNER. I must say somewhat to your fellow.--You, sir! RALPH. Me, sir! me, sir! search your fill. [VINTNER searches him.] Now, sir, you may be ashamed to burden honest men with a matter of truth. VINTNER. Well, tone[129] of you hath this goblet about you. ROBIN. You lie, drawer, 'tis afore me [Aside].--Sirrah you, I'll teach you to impeach honest men;--stand by;--I'll scour you for a goblet;--stand aside you had best, I charge you in the name of Belzebub.--Look to the goblet, Ralph [Aside to RALPH]. VINTNER. What mean you, sirrah? ROBIN. I'll tell you what I mean. [Reads from a book] Sanctobulorum Periphrasticon--nay, I'll tickle you, Vintner.--Look to the goblet, Ralph [Aside to RALPH].--[Reads] Polypragmos Belseborams framanto pacostiphos tostu, Mephistophilis, &c. Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, sets squibs at their backs, and then exit. They run about. VINTNER. O, nomine Domini! what meanest thou, Robin? thou hast no goblet. RALPH. Peccatum peccatorum!--Here's thy goblet, good Vintner. [Gives the goblet to VINTNER, who exit.] ROBIN. Misericordia pro nobis! what shall I do? Good devil, forgive me now, and I'll never rob thy library more. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. MEPHIST. Monarch of Hell,[130] under whose black survey Great potentates do kneel with awful fear, Upon whose altars thousand souls do lie, How am I vexed with these villains' charms? From Constantinople am I hither come, Only for pleasure of these damned slaves. ROBIN. How, from Constantinople! you have had a great journey: will you take sixpence in your purse to pay for your supper, and be gone? MEPHIST. Well, villains, for your presumption, I transform thee into an ape, and thee into a dog; and so be gone! [Exit.] ROBIN. How, into an ape! that's brave: I'll have fine sport with the boys; I'll get nuts and apples enow. RALPH. And I must be a dog. ROBIN. I'faith, thy head will never be out of the pottage-pot. [Exeunt.] Enter EMPEROR,[131] FAUSTUS, and a KNIGHT, with ATTENDANTS. EMPEROR. Master Doctor Faustus,[132] I have heard strange report of thy knowledge in the black art, how that none in my empire nor in the whole world can compare with thee for the rare effects of magic: they say thou hast a familiar spirit, by whom thou canst accomplish what thou list. This, therefore, is my request, that thou let me see some proof of thy skill, that mine eyes may be witnesses to confirm what mine ears have heard reported: and here I swear to thee, by the honour of mine imperial crown, that, whatever thou doest, thou shalt be no ways prejudiced or endamaged. KNIGHT. I'faith, he looks much like a conjurer. [Aside.] FAUSTUS. My gracious sovereign, though I must confess myself far inferior to the report men have published, and nothing answerable to the honour of your imperial majesty, yet, for that love and duty binds me thereunto, I am content to do whatsoever your majesty shall command me. EMPEROR. Then, Doctor Faustus, mark what I shall say. As I was sometime solitary set Within my closet, sundry thoughts arose About the honour of mine ancestors, How they had won[133] by prowess such exploits, Got such riches, subdu'd so many kingdoms, As we that do succeed,[134] or they that shall Hereafter possess our throne, shall (I fear me) ne'er attain to that degree Of high renown and great authority: Amongst which kings is Alexander the Great, Chief spectacle of the world's pre-eminence, The bright[135] shining of whose glorious acts Lightens the world with his reflecting beams, As when I hear but motion made of him, It grieves my soul I never saw the man: If, therefore, thou, by cunning of thine art, Canst raise this man from hollow vaults below, Where lies entomb'd this famous conqueror, And bring with him his beauteous paramour, Both in their right shapes, gesture, and attire They us'd to wear during their time of life, Thou shalt both satisfy my just desire, And give me cause to praise thee whilst I live. FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, I am ready to accomplish your request, so far forth as by art and power of my spirit I am able to perform. KNIGHT. I'faith, that's just nothing at all. [Aside.] FAUSTUS. But, if it like your grace, it is not in my ability[136] to present before your eyes the true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes, which long since are consumed to dust. KNIGHT. Ay, marry, Master Doctor, now there's a sign of grace in you, when you will confess the truth. [Aside.] FAUSTUS. But such spirits as can lively resemble Alexander and his paramour shall appear before your grace, in that manner that they both[137] lived in, in their most flourishing estate; which I doubt not shall sufficiently content your imperial majesty. EMPEROR. Go to, Master Doctor; let me see them presently. KNIGHT. Do you hear, Master Doctor? you bring Alexander and his paramour before the Emperor! FAUSTUS. How then, sir? KNIGHT. I'faith, that's as true as Diana turned me to a stag. FAUSTUS. No, sir; but, when Actaeon died, he left the horns for you.--Mephistophilis, be gone. [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] KNIGHT. Nay, an you go to conjuring, I'll be gone. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. I'll meet with you anon for interrupting me so. --Here they are, my gracious lord. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with SPIRITS in the shapes of ALEXANDER and his PARAMOUR. EMPEROR. Master Doctor, I heard this lady, while she lived, had a wart or mole in her neck: how shall I know whether it be so or no? FAUSTUS. Your highness may boldly go and see. EMPEROR. Sure, these are no spirits, but the true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes. [Exeunt Spirits.] FAUSTUS. Wilt please your highness now to send for the knight that was so pleasant with me here of late? EMPEROR. One of you call him forth. [Exit ATTENDANT.] Re-enter the KNIGHT with a pair of horns on his head. How now, sir knight! why, I had thought thou hadst been a bachelor, but now I see thou hast a wife, that not only gives thee horns, but makes thee wear them. Feel on thy head. KNIGHT. Thou damned wretch and execrable dog, Bred in the concave of some monstrous rock, How dar'st thou thus abuse a gentleman? Villain, I say, undo what thou hast done! FAUSTUS. O, not so fast, sir! there's no haste: but, good, are you remembered how you crossed me in my conference with the Emperor? I think I have met with you for it. EMPEROR. Good Master Doctor, at my entreaty release him: he hath done penance sufficient. FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for the injury he offered me here in your presence, as to delight you with some mirth, hath Faustus worthily requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am content to release him of his horns:--and, sir knight, hereafter speak well of scholars.--Mephistophilis, transform him straight.[138] [MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns.] --Now, my good lord, having done my duty, I humbly take my leave. EMPEROR. Farewell, Master Doctor: yet, ere you go, Expect from me a bounteous reward. [Exeunt EMPEROR, KNIGHT, and ATTENDANTS.] FAUSTUS. Now, Mephistophilis,[139] the restless course That time doth run with calm and silent foot, Shortening my days and thread of vital life, Calls for the payment of my latest years: Therefore, sweet Mephistophilis, let us Make haste to Wertenberg. MEPHIST. What, will you go on horse-back or on foot[?] FAUSTUS. Nay, till I'm past this fair and pleasant green, I'll walk on foot. Enter a HORSE-COURSER.[140] HORSE-COURSER. I have been all this day seeking one Master Fustian: mass, see where he is!--God save you, Master Doctor! FAUSTUS. What, horse-courser! you are well met. HORSE-COURSER. Do you hear, sir? I have brought you forty dollars for your horse. FAUSTUS. I cannot sell him so: if thou likest him for fifty, take him. HORSE-COURSER. Alas, sir, I have no more!--I pray you, speak for me. MEPHIST. I pray you, let him have him: he is an honest fellow, and he has a great charge, neither wife nor child. FAUSTUS. Well, come, give me your money [HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]: my boy will deliver him to you. But I must tell you one thing before you have him; ride him not into the water, at any hand. HORSE-COURSER. Why, sir, will he not drink of all waters? FAUSTUS. O, yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into the water: ride him over hedge or ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into the water. HORSE-COURSER. Well, sir.--Now am I made man for ever: I'll not leave my horse for forty:[141] if he had but the quality of hey-ding-ding, hey-ding-ding, I'd make a brave living on him: he has a buttock as slick as an eel [Aside].--Well, God b'wi'ye, sir: your boy will deliver him me: but, hark you, sir; if my horse be sick or ill at ease, if I bring his water to you, you'll tell me what it is? FAUSTUS. Away, you villain! what, dost think I am a horse-doctor? [Exit HORSE-COURSER.] What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die? Thy fatal time doth draw to final end; Despair doth drive distrust into[142] my thoughts: Confound these passions with a quiet sleep: Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross; Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit. [Sleeps in his chair.] Re-enter HORSE-COURSER, all wet, crying. HORSE-COURSER. Alas, alas! Doctor Fustian, quoth a? mass, Doctor Lopus[143] was never such a doctor: has given me a purgation, has purged me of forty dollars; I shall never see them more. But yet, like an ass as I was, I would not be ruled by him, for he bade me I should ride him into no water: now I, thinking my horse had had some rare quality that he would not have had me know of,[144] I, like a venturous youth, rid him into the deep pond at the town's end. I was no sooner in the middle of the pond, but my horse vanished away, and I sat upon a bottle of hay, never so near drowning in my life. But I'll seek out my doctor, and have my forty dollars again, or I'll make it the dearest horse!--O, yonder is his snipper-snapper.--Do you hear? you, hey-pass,[145] where's your master? MEPHIST. Why, sir, what would you? you cannot speak with him. HORSE-COURSER. But I will speak with him. MEPHIST. Why, he's fast asleep: come some other time. HORSE-COURSER. I'll speak with him now, or I'll break his glass-windows about his ears. MEPHIST. I tell thee, he has not slept this eight nights. HORSE-COURSER. An he have not slept this eight weeks, I'll speak with him. MEPHIST. See, where he is, fast asleep. HORSE-COURSER. Ay, this is he.--God save you, Master Doctor, Master Doctor, Master Doctor Fustian! forty dollars, forty dollars for a bottle of hay! MEPHIST. Why, thou seest he hears thee not. HORSE-COURSER. So-ho, ho! so-ho, ho! [Hollows in his ear.] No, will you not wake? I'll make you wake ere I go. [Pulls FAUSTUS by the leg, and pulls it away.] Alas, I am undone! what shall I do? FAUSTUS. O, my leg, my leg!--Help, Mephistophilis! call the officers.--My leg, my leg! MEPHIST. Come, villain, to the constable. HORSE-COURSER. O Lord, sir, let me go, and I'll give you forty dollars more! MEPHIST. Where be they? HORSE-COURSER. I have none about me: come to my ostry,[146] and I'll give them you. MEPHIST. Be gone quickly. [HORSE-COURSER runs away.] FAUSTUS. What, is he gone? farewell he! Faustus has his leg again, and the Horse-courser, I take it, a bottle of hay for his labour: well, this trick shall cost him forty dollars more. Enter WAGNER. How now, Wagner! what's the news with thee? WAGNER. Sir, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly entreat your company. FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt! an honourable gentleman, to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning.[147]--Come, Mephistophilis, let's away to him. [Exeunt.] Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, the DUCHESS, and FAUSTUS.[148] DUKE. Believe me, Master Doctor, this merriment hath much pleased me. FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, I am glad it contents you so well. --But it may be, madam, you take no delight in this. I have heard that great-bellied women do long for some dainties or other: what is it, madam? tell me, and you shall have it. DUCHESS. Thanks, good Master Doctor: and, for I see your courteous intent to pleasure me, I will not hide from you the thing my heart desires; and, were it now summer, as it is January and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes. FAUSTUS. Alas, madam, that's nothing!--Mephistophilis, be gone. [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] Were it a greater thing than this, so it would content you, you should have it. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes. Here they be, madam: wilt please you taste on them? DUKE. Believe me, Master Doctor, this makes me wonder above the rest, that being in the dead time of winter and in the month of January, how you should come by these grapes. FAUSTUS. If it like your grace, the year is divided into two circles over the whole world, that, when it is here winter with us, in the contrary circle it is summer with them, as in India, Saba,[149] and farther countries in the east; and by means of a swift spirit that I have, I had them brought hither, as you see. --How do you like them, madam? be they good? DUCHESS. Believe me, Master Doctor, they be the best grapes that e'er I tasted in my life before. FAUSTUS. I am glad they content you so, madam. DUKE. Come, madam, let us in, where you must well reward this learned man for the great kindness he hath shewed to you. DUCHESS. And so I will, my lord; and, whilst I live, rest beholding[150] for this courtesy. FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace. DUKE. Come, Master Doctor, follow us, and receive your reward. [Exeunt.] Enter WAGNER.[151] WAGNER. I think my master means to die shortly, For he hath given to me all his goods:[152] And yet, methinks, if that death were near, He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill Amongst the students, as even now he doth, Who are at supper with such belly-cheer As Wagner ne'er beheld in all his life. See, where they come! belike the feast is ended. [Exit.] Enter FAUSTUS with two or three SCHOLARS, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world, we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us that favour, as to let us see that peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd, And Faustus' custom is not to deny The just requests of those that wish him well, You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece, No otherways for pomp and majesty Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her, And brought the spoils to rich Dardania. Be silent, then, for danger is in words. [Music sounds, and HELEN passeth over the stage.[153]] SECOND SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit to tell her praise, Whom all the world admires for majesty. THIRD SCHOLAR. No marvel though the angry Greeks pursu'd With ten years' war the rape of such a queen, Whose heavenly beauty passeth all compare. FIRST SCHOLAR. Since we have seen the pride of Nature's works, And only paragon of excellence, Let us depart; and for this glorious deed Happy and blest be Faustus evermore! FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same I wish to you. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.] Enter an OLD MAN.[154] OLD MAN. Ah, Doctor Faustus, that I might prevail To guide thy steps unto the way of life, By which sweet path thou mayst attain the goal That shall conduct thee to celestial rest! Break heart, drop blood, and mingle it with tears, Tears falling from repentant heaviness Of thy most vile[155] and loathsome filthiness, The stench whereof corrupts the inward soul With such flagitious crimes of heinous sin[156] As no commiseration may expel, But mercy, Faustus, of thy Saviour sweet, Whose blood alone must wash away thy guilt. FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what hast thou done? Damn'd art thou, Faustus, damn'd; despair and die! Hell calls for right, and with a roaring voice Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost[157] come;" And Faustus now[158] will come to do thee right. [MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.] OLD MAN. Ah, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps! I see an angel hovers o'er thy head, And, with a vial full of precious grace, Offers to pour the same into thy soul: Then call for mercy, and avoid despair. FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet friend, I feel Thy words to comfort my distressed soul! Leave me a while to ponder on my sins. OLD MAN. I go, sweet Faustus; but with heavy cheer, Fearing the ruin of thy hopeless soul. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now? I do repent; and yet I do despair: Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast: What shall I do to shun the snares of death? MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord: Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord To pardon my unjust presumption, And with my blood again I will confirm My former vow I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. Do it, then, quickly,[159] with unfeigned heart, Lest greater danger do attend thy drift. FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and crooked age, That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer, With greatest torments that our hell affords. MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul; But what I may afflict his body with I will attempt, which is but little worth. FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant,[160] let me crave of thee, To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-- That I might have unto my paramour That heavenly Helen which I saw of late, Whose sweet embracings may extinguish clean Those[161] thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow, And keep mine oath I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. Faustus, this,[162] or what else thou shalt desire, Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye. Re-enter HELEN. FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless[163] towers of Ilium-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-- [Kisses her.] Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is[164] in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appear'd to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms; And none but thou shalt[165] be my paramour! [Exeunt.] Enter the OLD MAN.[166] OLD MAN. Accursed Faustus, miserable man, That from thy soul exclud'st the grace of heaven, And fly'st the throne of his tribunal-seat! Enter DEVILS. Satan begins to sift me with his pride: As in this furnace God shall try my faith, My faith, vile hell, shall triumph over thee. Ambitious fiends, see how the heavens smile At your repulse, and laugh your state to scorn! Hence, hell! for hence I fly unto my God. [Exeunt,--on one side, DEVILS, on the other, OLD MAN.] Enter FAUSTUS,[167] with SCHOLARS. FAUSTUS. Ah, gentlemen! FIRST SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus? FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still! but now I die eternally. Look, comes he not? comes he not? SECOND SCHOLAR. What means Faustus? THIRD SCHOLAR. Belike he is grown into some sickness by being over-solitary. FIRST SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians to cure him. --'Tis but a surfeit; never fear, man. FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both body and soul. SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven; remember God's mercies are infinite. FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. Ah, gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pants and quivers to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, O, would I had never seen Wertenberg, never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must remain in hell for ever, hell, ah, hell, for ever! Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever? THIRD SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God. FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! Ah, my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul! O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold them, they hold them! ALL. Who, Faustus? FAUSTUS. Lucifer and Mephistophilis. Ah, gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning![168] ALL. God forbid! FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for vain pleasure of twenty-four years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; the time will come, and he will fetch me. FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before,[169] that divines might have prayed for thee? FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch both body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what shall we do to save[170] Faustus? FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart. THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus. FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and there pray for him. FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever ye hear,[171] come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me. SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy upon thee. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell. ALL. Faustus, farewell. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.--The clock strikes eleven.] FAUSTUS. Ah, Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn'd perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente,[172] lente currite, noctis equi! The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. O, I'll leap up to my God!--Who pulls me down?-- See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! One drop would save my soul, half a drop: ah, my Christ!-- Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ! Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!-- Where is it now? 'tis gone: and see, where God Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows! Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of God! No, no! Then will I headlong run into the earth: Earth, gape! O, no, it will not harbour me! You stars that reign'd at my nativity, Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist. Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud[s], That, when you[173] vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, So that my soul may but ascend to heaven! [The clock strikes the half-hour.] Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon O God, If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me, Impose some end to my incessant pain; Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd! O, no end is limited to damned souls! Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd Unto some brutish beast![174] all beasts are happy, For, when they die, Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. [The clock strikes twelve.] O, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! [Thunder and lightning.] O soul, be chang'd into little water-drops, And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found! Enter DEVILS. My God, my god, look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books!--Ah, Mephistophilis! [Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.] [175] Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall, Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise, Only to wonder at unlawful things, Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits To practice more than heavenly power permits. [Exit.] Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: mate-- i.e. confound, defeat.] [Footnote 2: vaunt-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "daunt."] [Footnote 3: her-- All the 4tos "his."] [Footnote 4: Whereas-- i.e. where.] [Footnote 5: cunning-- i.e. knowledge.] [Footnote 6: So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "more."] [Footnote 7: FAUSTUS discovered in his study-- Most probably, the Chorus, before going out, drew a curtain, and discovered Faustus sitting. In B. Barnes's DIVILS CHARTER, 1607, we find; "SCEN. VLTIMA. ALEXANDER VNBRACED BETWIXT TWO CARDINALLS in his study LOOKING VPON A BOOKE, whilst a groome draweth the Curtaine." Sig. L 3.] [Footnote 8: Analytics, 'tis thou, &c.-- Qy. "Analytic"? (but such phraseology was not uncommon).] [Footnote 9: So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "the" (the printer having mistaken "yt" for "ye").] [Footnote 10: So the later 4tos (with various spelling).--2to 1604 "Oncaymaeon."] [Footnote 11: and-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 12: Couldst-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "Wouldst."] [Footnote 13: men-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "man."] [Footnote 14: legatur-- All the 4tos "legatus."] [Footnote 15: &c.-- So two of the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 16: law-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "Church."] [Footnote 17: This-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "His."] [Footnote 18: Too servile-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "The deuill."] [Footnote 19: Che sera, sera-- Lest it should be thought that I am wrong in not altering the old spelling here, I may quote from Panizzi's very critical edition of the ORLANDO FURIOSO, "La satisfazion ci SERA pronta." C. xviii. st. 67.] [Footnote 20: scenes-- "And sooner may a gulling weather-spie By drawing forth heavens SCEANES tell certainly," &c. Donne's FIRST SATYRE,--p. 327, ed. 1633.] [Footnote 21: tire-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "trie."] [Footnote 22: Enter WAGNER, &c.-- Perhaps the proper arrangement is,] "Wagner! Enter WAGNER. Commend me to my dearest friends," &c.] [Footnote 23: treasure-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "treasury."] [Footnote 24: Jove-- So again, p. 84, first col.,[See Note 59] : "Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death By desperate thoughts against JOVE'S deity," &c.: and I may notice that Marlowe is not singular in applying the name JOVE to the God of Christians:] "Beneath our standard of JOUES powerfull sonne [i.e. Christ--". MIR. FOR MAGISTRATES, p. 642, ed. 1610. "But see the judgement of almightie JOUE," &c. Id. p. 696. "O sommo GIOVE per noi crocifisso," &c. Pulci,--MORGANTE MAG. C. ii. st. 1.] [Footnote 25: these elements-- So again, "Within the bowels of THESE elements," &c., p. 87, first col,[See Note 90----"THESE" being equivalent to THE. (Not unfrequently in our old writers THESE is little more than redundant.)] [Footnote 26: resolve-- i.e. satisfy, inform.] [Footnote 27: silk-- All the 4tos "skill" (and so the modern editors!).] [Footnote 28: the-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "our."] [Footnote 29: the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge-- During the blockade of Antwerp by the Prince of Parma in 1585, "They of Antuerpe knowing that the bridge and the Stocadoes were finished, made a great shippe, to be a meanes to breake all this worke of the prince of Parmaes: this great shippe was made of masons worke within, in the manner of a vaulted caue: vpon the hatches there were layed myll-stones, graue-stones, and others of great weight; and within the vault were many barrels of powder, ouer the which there were holes, and in them they had put matches, hanging at a thred, the which burning vntill they came vnto the thred, would fall into the powder, and so blow vp all. And for that they could not haue any one in this shippe to conduct it, Lanckhaer, a sea captaine of the Hollanders, being then in Antuerpe, gaue them counsell to tye a great beame at the end of it, to make it to keepe a straight course in the middest of the streame. In this sort floated this shippe the fourth of Aprill, vntill that it came vnto the bridge; where (within a while after) the powder wrought his effect, with such violence, as the vessell, and all that was within it, and vpon it, flew in pieces, carrying away a part of the Stocado and of the bridge. The marquesse of Roubay Vicont of Gant, Gaspar of Robles lord of Billy, and the Seignior of Torchies, brother vnto the Seignior of Bours, with many others, were presently slaine; which were torne in pieces, and dispersed abroad, both vpon the land and vpon the water." Grimeston's GENERALL HISTORIE OF THE NETHERLANDS, p. 875, ed. 1609.] [Footnote 30: only-- Qy. "alone"? (This line is not in the later 4tos.)] [Footnote 31: vile-- Old ed. "vild": but see note ||, p. 68.--(This line is not in the later 4tos.) [Note || from page 68 (The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great):] Vile-- The 8vo "Vild"; the 4to "Wild" (Both eds. a little before, have "VILE monster, born of some infernal hag", and, a few lines after, "To VILE and ignominious servitude":--the fact is, our early writers (or rather transcribers), with their usual inconsistency of spelling, give now the one form, and now the other: compare the folio SHAKESPEARE, 1623, where we sometimes find "vild" and sometimes "VILE.")--] [Footnote 32: concise syllogisms-- Old ed. "Consissylogismes."] [Footnote 33: cunning-- i.e. knowing, skilful.] [Footnote 34: Agrippa-- i.e. Cornelius Agrippa.] [Footnote 35: shadow-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "shadowes."] [Footnote 36: spirits-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "subiects."] [Footnote 37: Almain rutters-- See note �, p. 43.] [Note � from p. 43. (The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great): Almains, Rutters-- Rutters are properly--German troopers (reiter, reuter). In the third speech after the present one this line is repeated VERBATIM: but in the first scene of our author's FAUSTUS we have, "Like ALMAIN RUTTERS with their horsemen's staves."--] [Footnote 38: have the-- So two of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "in their."] [Footnote 39: From-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "For."] [Footnote 40: in-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 41: renowm'd-- See note ||, p. 11.] [Note || from p. 11. (The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great): renowmed-- i.e. renowned.--So the 8vo.--The 4to "renowned." --The form "RENOWMED" (Fr. RENOMME) occurs repeatedly afterwards in this play, according to the 8vo. It is occasionally found in writers posterior to Marlowe's time. e.g. "Of Constantines great towne RENOUM'D in vaine." Verses to King James, prefixed to Lord Stirling's MONARCHICKE TRAGEDIES, ed. 1607.--] [Footnote 42: Albertus'-- i.e. Albertus Magnus.--The correction of I. M. in Gent. Mag. for Jan. 1841.--All the 4tos "Albanus."] [Footnote 43: cunning-- i.e. skill.] [Footnote 44: Enter two SCHOLARS-- Scene, perhaps, supposed to be before Faustus's house, as Wagner presently says, "My master is within at dinner."] [Footnote 45: upon-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "vpon't."] [Footnote 46: speak, would-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "speake, IT would."] [Footnote 47: my dear brethren-- This repetition (not found in the later 4tos) is perhaps an error of the original compositor.] [Footnote 48: Enter FAUSTUS to conjure-- The scene is supposed to be a grove; see p. 81, last line of sec. col. [Page 81, second column, last line: "VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove,"--] [Footnote 49: anagrammatiz'd-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "and Agramithist."] [Footnote 50: Th' abbreviated-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "The breuiated."] [Footnote 51: erring-- i.e. wandering.] [Footnote 52: surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris-- The later 4tos have "surgat Mephistophilis DRAGON, quod tumeraris."--There is a corruption here, which seems to defy emendation. For "quod TUMERARIS," Mr. J. Crossley, of Manchester, would read (rejecting the word "Dragon") "quod TU MANDARES" (the construction being "quod tu mandares ut Mephistophilis appareat et surgat"): but the "tu" does not agree with the preceding "vos."--The Revd. J. Mitford proposes "surgat Mephistophilis, per Dragon (or Dagon) quod NUMEN EST AERIS."] [Footnote 53: dicatus-- So two of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "dicatis."] [Footnote 54: Re-enter Mephistophilis, &c.-- According to THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, on which this play is founded, Faustus raises Mephistophilis in "a thicke wood neere to Wittenberg, called in the German tongue Spisser Wolt..... Presently, not three fathom above his head, fell a flame in manner of a lightning, and changed itselfe into a globe..... Suddenly the globe opened, and sprung up in the height of a man; so burning a time, in the end it converted to the shape of a fiery man[?-- This pleasant beast ran about the circle a great while, and, lastly, appeared in the manner of a Gray Fryer, asking Faustus what was his request?" Sigs. A 2, A 3, ed. 1648. Again; "After Doctor Faustus had made his promise to the devill, in the morning betimes he called the spirit before him, and commanded him that he should alwayes come to him like a fryer after the order of Saint Francis, with a bell in his hand like Saint Anthony, and to ring it once or twice before he appeared, that he might know of his certaine coming." Id. Sig. A 4.] [Footnote 55: came hither-- So two of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "came NOW hither."] [Footnote 56: accidens-- So two of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "accident."] [Footnote 57: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it-- Compare Milton, Par. Lost, iv. 75; "Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell."] [Footnote 58: these-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "those."] [Footnote 59: Jove's-- See note �, p. 80. [i.e. Note 24] : ] [Footnote 60: four and twenty-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "24."] [Footnote 61: resolve-- i.e. satisfy, inform.] [Footnote 62: thorough-- So one of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "through."] [Footnote 63: country-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "land."] [Footnote 64: desir'd-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "desire."] [Footnote 65: Enter WAGNER, &c.-- Scene, a street most probably.] [Footnote 66: pickadevaunts-- i.e. beards cut to a point.] [Footnote 67: by'r lady-- i.e. by our Lady.] [Footnote 68: Qui mihi discipulus-- The first words of W. Lily's AD DISCIPULOS CARMEN DE MORIBUS, "Qui mihi discipulus, puer, es, cupis atque doceri, Huc ades," &c.] [Footnote 69: staves-acre-- A species of larkspur.] [Footnote 70: vermin-- Which the seeds of staves-acre were used to destroy.] [Footnote 71: familiars-- i.e. attendant-demons.] [Footnote 72: their-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "my."] [Footnote 73: slop-- i.e. wide breeches.] [Footnote 74: vile-- Old ed. "vild." See note || p. 68. [Note || from page 68 (The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great): Vile-- The 8vo "Vild"; the 4to "Wild" (Both eds. a little before, have "VILE monster, born of some infernal hag", and, a few lines after, "To VILE and ignominious servitude":--the fact is, our early writers (or rather transcribers), with their usual inconsistency of spelling, give now the one form, and now the other: compare the folio SHAKESPEARE, 1623, where we sometimes find "vild" and sometimes "VILE.")] [Footnote 75: vestigiis nostris-- All the 4tos "vestigias nostras."] [Footnote 76: of-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 77: me-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 78: he lives-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "I liue."] [Footnote 79: why-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 80: Solamen miseris, &c.-- An often-cited line of modern Latin poetry: by whom it was written I know not.] [Footnote 81: Why-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 82: torture-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "tortures."] [Footnote 83: Faustus-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 84: Bill-- i.e. writing, deed.] [Footnote 85: Here's fire; come, Faustus, set it on-- This would not be intelligible without the assistance of THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, the sixth chapter of which is headed,--"How Doctor Faustus set his blood in a saucer on warme ashes, and writ as followeth." Sig. B, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 86: But what is this inscription, &c.-- "He [Faustus-- tooke a small penknife and prickt a veine in his left hand; and for certainty thereupon were seen on his hand these words written, as if they had been written with blood, O HOMO, FUGE." THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, Sig. B, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 87: me-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "thee."] [Footnote 88: he desires-- Not in any of the four 4tos. In the tract just cited, the "3d Article" stands thus,--"That Mephostophiles should bring him any thing, and doe for him whatsoever." Sig. A 4, ed. 1648. A later ed. adds "he desired." Marlowe, no doubt, followed some edition of the HISTORY in which these words, or something equivalent to them, had been omitted by mistake. (2to 1661, which I consider as of no authority, has "he requireth.")] [Footnote 89: that, &c.-- So all the 4tos, ungrammatically.] [Footnote 90: these-- See note §, p. 80.[i.e. Note 25] : ] [Footnote 91: there-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 92: are-- So two of the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "is."] [Footnote 93: fond-- i.e. foolish.] [Footnote 94: What! walking, disputing, &c.-- The later 4tos have "What, SLEEPING, EATING, walking, AND disputing!" But it is evident that this speech is not given correctly in any of the old eds.] [Footnote 95: let me have a wife, &c.-- The ninth chapter of THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS narrates "How Doctor Faustus would have married, and how the Devill had almost killed him for it," and concludes as follows. "It is no jesting [said Mephistophilis-- with us: hold thou that which thou hast vowed, and we will peforme as we have promised; and more shall that, thou shalt have thy hearts desire of what woman soever thou wilt, be she alive or dead, and so long as thou wilt thou shalt keep her by thee.--These words pleased Faustus wonderfull well, and repented himself that he was so foolish to wish himselfe married, that might have any woman in the whole city brought him at his command; the which he practised and persevered in a long time." Sig. B 3, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 96: me-- Not in 4to 1604. (This line is wanting in the later 4tos.)] [Footnote 97: no-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 98: Saba-- i.e. Sabaea--the Queen of Sheba.] [Footnote 99: iterating-- i.e. reciting, repeating.] [Footnote 100: And argue of divine astrology, &c.-- In THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, there are several tedious pages on the subject; but our dramatist, in the dialogue which follows, has no particular obligations to them.] [Footnote 101: erring-- i.e. wandering.] [Footnote 102: freshmen's-- "A Freshman, tiro, novitius." Coles's DICT. Properly, a student during his first term at the university.] [Footnote 103: resolve-- i.e. satisfy, inform.] [Footnote 104: Seek to save-- Qy. "Seek THOU to save"? But see note ||, p. 18.] [Note ||, from page 18 (The First Part of Tamburlaine The Great): Barbarous-- Qy. "O Barbarous"? in the next line but one, "O treacherous"? and in the last line of the speech, "O bloody"? But we occasionally find in our early dramatists lines which are defective in the first syllable; and in some of these instances at least it would almost seem that nothing has been omitted by the transcriber or printer.--] [Footnote 105: Enter the SEVEN DEADLY SINS-- In THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, Lucifer amuses Faustus, not by calling up the Seven Deadly Sins, but by making various devils appear before him, "one after another, in forme as they were in hell." "First entered Beliall in forme of a beare," &c.--"after him came Beelzebub, in curled haire of a horseflesh colour," &c.--"then came Astaroth, in the forme of a worme," &c. &c. During this exhibition, "Lucifer himselfe sate in manner of a man all hairy, but of browne colour, like a squirrell, curled, and his tayle turning upward on his backe as the squirrels use: I think he could crack nuts too like a squirrell." Sig. D, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 106: case-- i.e. couple.] [Footnote 107: bevers-- i.e. refreshments between meals.] [Footnote 108: L.-- All the 4tos "Lechery."--Here I have made the alteration recommended by Mr. Collier in his Preface to COLERIDGE'S SEVEN LECTURES ON SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON, p. cviii.] [Footnote 109: Away, to hell, to hell-- In 4to 1604, these words stand on a line by themselves, without a prefix. (In the later 4tos, the corresponding passage is as follows; "------ begins with Lechery. LUCIFER. Away to hell, away! On, piper! [Exeunt the SINS. FAUSTUS. O, how this sight doth delight my soul!" &c.)] [Footnote 110: I will send for thee at midnight-- In THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, we have a particular account of Faustus's visit to the infernal regions, Sig. D 2, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 111: Enter CHORUS-- Old ed. "Enter WAGNER solus." That these lines belong to the Chorus would be evident enough, even if we had no assistance here from the later 4tos.--The parts of Wagner and of the Chorus were most probably played by the same actor: and hence the error.] [Footnote 112: Learned Faustus, To know the secrets of astronomy, &c.-- See the 21st chapter of THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS,--"How Doctor Faustus was carried through the ayre up to the heavens, to see the whole world, and how the sky and planets ruled," &c.] [Footnote 113: Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS-- Scene, the Pope's privy-chamber.] [Footnote 114: Trier-- i.e. Treves or Triers.] [Footnote 115: From Paris next, &c.-- This description is from THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS; "He came from Paris to Mentz, where the river of Maine falls into the Rhine: notwithstanding he tarried not long there, but went into Campania, in the kingdome of Neapol, in which he saw an innumerable sort of cloysters, nunries, and churches, and great houses of stone, the streets faire and large, and straight forth from one end of the towne to the other as a line; and all the pavement of the city was of bricke, and the more it rained into the towne, the fairer the streets were: there saw he the tombe of Virgill, and the highway that he cu[t] through the mighty hill of stone in one night, the whole length of an English mile," &c. Sig. E 2, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 116: The way he cut, &c.-- During the middle ages Virgil was regarded as a great magician, and much was written concerning his exploits in that capacity. The LYFE OF VIRGILIUS, however, (see Thoms's EARLY PROSE ROMANCES, vol. ii.,) makes no mention of the feat in question. But Petrarch speaks of it as follows. "Non longe a Puteolis Falernus collis attollitur, famoso palmite nobilis. Inter Falernum et mare mons est saxeus, hominum manibus confossus, quod vulgus insulsum a Virgilio magicis cantaminibus factum putant: ita clarorum fama hominum, non veris contenta laudibus, saepe etiam fabulis viam facit. De quo cum me olim Robertus regno clarus, sed praeclarus ingenio ac literis, quid sentirem, multis astantibus, percunctatus esset, humanitate fretus regia, qua non reges modo sed homines vicit, jocans nusquam me legisse magicarium fuisse Virgilium respondi: quod ille severissimae nutu frontis approbans, non illic magici sed ferri vestigia confessus est. Sunt autem fauces excavati montis angustae sed longissimae atque atrae: tenebrosa inter horrifica semper nox: publicum iter in medio, mirum et religioni proximum, belli quoque immolatum temporibus, sic vero populi vox est, et nullis unquam latrociniis attentatum, patet: Criptam Neapolitanam dicunt, cujus et in epistolis ad Lucilium Seneca mentionem fecit. Sub finem fusci tramitis, ubi primo videri coelum incipit, in aggere edito, ipsius Virgilii busta visuntur, pervetusti operis, unde haec forsan ab illo perforati montis fluxit opinio." ITINERARIUM SYRIACUM,--OPP. p. 560, ed. Bas.] [Footnote 117: From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest, In one of which a sumptuous temple stands, &c.-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "In MIDST of which," &c.--THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS shews WHAT "sumptuous temple" is meant: "From thence he came to Venice....He wondred not a little at the fairenesse of S. Marks Place, and the sumptuous church standing thereon, called S. Marke, how all the pavement was set with coloured stones, and all the rood or loft of the church double gilded over." Sig. E 2, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 118: Just through the midst, &c.-- This and the next line are not in 4to 1604. I have inserted them from the later 4tos, as being absolutely necessary for the sense.] [Footnote 119: Ponte-- All the 4tos "Ponto."] [Footnote 120: of-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 121: Then charm me, that I, &c.-- A corrupted passage.--Compare THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, Sig. E 3, ed. 1648; where, however, the Cardinal, whom the Pope entertains, is called the Cardinal of PAVIA.] [Footnote 122: Sonnet-- Variously written, SENNET, SIGNET, SIGNATE, &c.--A particular set of notes on the trumpet, or cornet, different from a flourish. See Nares's GLOSS. in V. SENNET.] [Footnote 123: Enter ROBIN, &c.-- Scene, near an inn.] [Footnote 124: ippocras-- Or HIPPOCRAS,--a medicated drink composed of wine (usually red) with spices and sugar. It is generally supposed to have been so called from HIPPOCRATES (contracted by our earliest writers to HIPPOCRAS); perhaps because it was strained,--the woollen bag used by apothecaries to strain syrups and decoctions for clarification being termed HIPPOCRATES' SLEEVE.] [Footnote 125: tabern-- i.e. tavern.] [Footnote 126: [Exeunt. Enter ROBIN and RALPH, &c.-- A scene is evidently wanting after the Exeunt of Robin and Ralph.] [Footnote 127: purchase-- i.e. booty--gain, acquisition.] [Footnote 128: Drawer-- There is an inconsistency here: the Vintner cannot properly be addressed as "Drawer." The later 4tos are also inconsistent in the corresponding passage: Dick says, "THE VINTNER'S BOY follows us at the hard heels," and immediately the "VINTNER" enters.] [Footnote 129: tone-- i.e. the one.] [Footnote 130: MEPHIST-- Monarch of hell, &c.-- Old ed. thus:--] "MEPHIST. Vanish vilaines, th' one like an Ape, an other like a Beare, the third an Asse, for doing this enterprise. Monarch of hell, vnder whose blacke suruey," &c. What follows, shews that the words which I have omitted ought to have no place in the text; nor is there any thing equivalent to them in the corresponding passage of the play as given in the later 4tos.] [Footnote 131: Enter EMPEROR, &c.-- Scene--An apartment in the Emperor's Palace. According to THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, the Emperor "was personally, with the rest of the nobles and gentlemen, at the towne of Inzbrack, where he kept his court." Sig. G, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 132: Master Doctor Faustus, &c-- The greater part of this scene is closely borrowed from the history just cited: e.g. "Faustus, I have heard much of thee, that thou art excellent in the black art, and none like thee in mine empire; for men say that thou hast a familiar spirit with thee, and that thou canst doe what thou list; it is therefore (said the Emperor) my request of thee, that thou let me see a proofe of thy experience: and I vow unto thee, by the honour of my emperiall crowne, none evill shall happen unto thee for so doing," &c. Ibid.] [Footnote 133: won-- May be right: but qy. "done"?] [Footnote 134: As we that do succeed, &c.-- A corrupted passage (not found in the later 4tos).] [Footnote 135: The bright, &c.-- See note ||, p. 18.] [Note ||, from page 18 (The First Part of Tamburlaine The Great): Barbarous-- Qy. "O Barbarous"? in the next line but one, "O treacherous"? and in the last line of the speech, "O bloody"? But we occasionally find in our early dramatists lines which are defective in the first syllable; and in some of these instances at least it would almost seem that nothing has been omitted by the transcriber or printer.--] [Footnote 136: But, if it like your grace, it is not in my ability, &c.] "D. Faustus answered, My most excellent lord, I am ready to accomplish your request in all things, so farre forth as I and my spirit are able to performe: yet your majesty shall know that their dead bodies are not able substantially to be brought before you; but such spirits as have seene Alexander and his Paramour alive shall appeare unto you, in manner and form as they both lived in their most flourishing time; and herewith I hope to please your Imperiall Majesty. Then Faustus went a little aside to speake to his spirit; but he returned againe presently, saying, Now, if it please your Majesty, you shall see them; yet, upon this condition, that you demand no question of them, nor speake unto them; which the Emperor agreed unto. Wherewith Doctor Faustus opened the privy-chamber doore, where presently entered the great and mighty emperor Alexander Magnus, in all things to looke upon as if he had beene alive; in proportion, a strong set thicke man, of a middle stature, blacke haire, and that both thicke and curled, head and beard, red cheekes, and a broad face, with eyes like a basiliske; he had a compleat harnesse (i.e. suit of armour) burnished and graven, exceeding rich to look upon: and so, passing towards the Emperor Carolus, he made low and reverend courtesie: whereat the Emperour Carolus would have stood up to receive and greet him with the like reverence; but Faustus tooke hold on him, and would not permit him to doe it. Shortly after, Alexander made humble reverence, and went out againe; and comming to the doore, his paramour met him. She comming in made the Emperour likewise reverence: she was cloathed in blew velvet, wrought and imbroidered with pearls and gold; she was also excellent faire, like milke and blood mixed, tall and slender, with a face round as an apple. And thus passed [she-- certaine times up and downe the house; which the Emperor marking, said to himselfe, Now have I seene two persons which my heart hath long wished to behold; and sure it cannot otherwise be (said he to himselfe) but that the spirits have changed themselves into these formes, and have but deceived me, calling to minde the woman that raised the prophet Samuel: and for that the Emperor would be the more satisfied in the matter, he said, I have often heard that behind, in her neck, she had a great wart or wen; wherefore he tooke Faustus by the hand without any words, and went to see if it were also to be seene on her or not; but she, perceiving that he came to her, bowed downe her neck, when he saw a great wart; and hereupon she vanished, leaving the Emperor and the rest well contented." THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, Sig. G, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 137: both-- Old ed. "best."] [Footnote 138: Mephistophilis, transform him straight-- According to THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, the knight was not present during Faustus's "conference" with the Emperor; nor did he offer the doctor any insult by doubting his skill in magic. We are there told that Faustus happening to see the knight asleep, "leaning out of a window of the great hall," fixed a huge pair of hart's horns on his head; "and, as the knight awaked, thinking to pull in his head, he hit his hornes against the glasse, that the panes thereof flew about his eares: thinke here how this good gentleman was vexed, for he could neither get backward nor forward." After the emperor and the courtiers, to their great amusement, had beheld the poor knight in this condition, Faustus removed the horns. When Faustus, having taken leave of the emperor, was a league and a half from the city, he was attacked in a wood by the knight and some of his companions: they were in armour, and mounted on fair palfreys; but the doctor quickly overcame them by turning all the bushes into horsemen, and "so charmed them, that every one, knight and other, for the space of a whole moneth, did weare a paire of goates hornes on their browes, and every palfry a paire of oxe hornes on his head; and this was their penance appointed by Faustus." A second attempt of the knight to revenge himself on Faustus proved equally unsuccessful. Sigs. G 2, I 3, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 139: FAUSTUS. Now Mephistophilis, &c.-- Here the scene is supposed to be changed to the "fair and pleasant green" which Faustus presently mentions.] [Footnote 140: Horse-courser-- i.e. Horse-dealer.--We are now to suppose the scene to be near the home of Faustus, and presently that it is the interior of his house, for he falls asleep in his chair.--"How Doctor Faustus deceived a Horse-courser" is related in a short chapter (the 34th) of THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS: "After this manner he served a horse-courser at a faire called Pheiffering," &c.] [Footnote 141: for forty-- Qy. "for TWICE forty DOLLARS"?] [Footnote 142: into-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "vnto."] [Footnote 143: Doctor Lopus-- i.e. Doctor Lopez, domestic physician to Queen Elizabeth, who was put to death for having received a bribe from the court of Spain to destroy her. He is frequently mentioned in our early dramas: see my note on Middleton's WORKS, iv. 384.] [Footnote 144: know of-- The old ed. has "KNOWNE of"; which perhaps is right, meaning--acquainted with.] [Footnote 145: hey-pass-- Equivalent to--juggler.] [Footnote 146: ostry-- i.e. inn,--lodging.] [Footnote 147: cunning-- i.e. skill.] [Footnote 148: [Exeunt. Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, the DUCHESS, and FAUSTUS-- Old ed.; "Exeunt. Enter to them the DUKE, the DUTCHESS, the DUKE speakes." In the later 4tos a scene intervenes between the "Exeunt" of Faustus, Mephistophilis, and Wagner, and the entrance of the Duke of Vanholt, &c.--We are to suppose that Faustus is now at the court of the Duke of Vanholt: this is plain, not only from the later 4tos, --in which Wagner tells Faustus that the Duke "hath sent some of his men to attend him, with provision fit for his journey,"--but from THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, the subjoined portion of which is closely followed in the present scene. "Chap. xxxix. HOW DOCTOR FAUSTUS PLAYED A MERRY JEST WITH THE DUKE OF ANHOLT IN HIS COURT. Doctor Faustus on a time went to the Duke of Anholt, who welcommed him very courteously; this was the moneth of January; where sitting at the table, he perceived the dutchess to be with child; and forbearing himselfe untill the meat was taken from the table, and that they brought in the banqueting dishes [i.e. the dessert--, Doctor Faustus said to the dutchesse, Gratious lady, I have alwayes heard that great-bellied women doe alwayes long for some dainties; I beseech therefore your grace, hide not your minde from me, but tell me what you desire to eat. She answered him, Doctor Faustus, now truly I will not hide from you what my heart doth most desire; namely, that, if it were now harvest, I would eat my bellyfull of grapes and other dainty fruit. Doctor Faustus answered hereupon, Gracious lady, this is a small thing for me to doe, for I can doe more than this. Wherefore he tooke a plate, and set open one of the casements of the window, holding it forth; where incontinent he had his dish full of all manner of fruit, as red and white grapes, peares, and apples, the which came from out of strange countries: all these he presented the dutchesse, saying, Madam, I pray you vouchsafe to taste of this dainty fruit, the which came from a farre countrey, for there the summer is not yet ended. The dutchesse thanked Faustus highly, and she fell to her fruit with full appetite. The Duke of Anholt notwithstanding could not withhold to ask Faustus with what reason there were such young fruit to be had at that time of the yeare. Doctor Faustus told him, May it please your grace to understand that the year is divided into two circles of the whole world, that when with us it is winter, in the contrary circle it is notwithstanding summer; for in India and Saba there falleth or setteth the sunne, so that it is so warm that they have twice a yeare fruit; and, gracious lord, I have a swift spirit, the which can in the twinkling of an eye fulfill my desire in any thing; wherefore I sent him into those countries, who hath brought this fruit as you see: whereat the duke was in great admiration."] [Footnote 149: Saba-- i.e. Sabaea.] [Footnote 150: beholding-- i.e. beholden.] [Footnote 151: Enter WAGNER-- Scene, a room in the house of Faustus.] [Footnote 152: he hath given to me all his goods-- Compare chap. lvi. of THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS,--"How Doctor Faustus made his will, in which he named his servant Wagner to be his heire."] [Footnote 153: HELEN passeth over the stage-- In THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS we have the following description of Helen. "This lady appeared before them in a most rich gowne of purple velvet, costly imbrodered; her haire hanged downe loose, as faire as the beaten gold, and of such length that it reached downe to her hammes; having most amorous cole-black eyes, a sweet and pleasant round face, with lips as red as a cherry; her cheekes of a rose colour, her mouth small, her neck white like a swan; tall and slender of personage; in summe, there was no imperfect place in her: she looked round about with a rolling hawkes eye, a smiling and wanton countenance, which neere-hand inflamed the hearts of all the students; but that they perswaded themselves she was a spirit, which made them lightly passe away such fancies." Sig. H 4, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 154: Enter an OLD MAN-- See chap. xlviii of THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS,--"How an old man, the neighbour of Faustus, sought to perswade him to amend his evil life and to fall into repentance," --according to which history, the Old Man's exhortation is delivered at his own house, whither he had invited Faustus to supper.] [Footnote 155: vild-- Old ed. "vild." See note ||, p. 68. [Note || from page 68 (The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great): Vile-- The 8vo "Vild"; the 4to "Wild" (Both eds. a little before, have "VILE monster, born of some infernal hag", and, a few lines after, "To VILE and ignominious servitude":--the fact is, our early writers (or rather transcribers), with their usual inconsistency of spelling, give now the one form, and now the other: compare the folio SHAKESPEARE, 1623, where we sometimes find "vild" and sometimes "VILE.")--] [Footnote 156: sin-- Old ed. "sinnes" (This is not in the later 4tos).] [Footnote 157: almost-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 158: now-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 159: MEPHIST. Do it, then, quickly, &c.-- After this speech, most probably, there ought to be a stage-direction, "FAUSTUS STABS HIS ARM, AND WRITES ON A PAPER WITH HIS BLOOD. Compare THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, chap. xlix,--"How Doctor Faustus wrote the second time with his owne blood, and gave it to the Devill."] [Footnote 160: One thing, good servant, &c.-- "To the end that this miserable Faustus might fill the lust of his flesh and live in all manner of voluptuous pleasure, it came in his mind, after he had slept his first sleepe, and in the 23 year past of his time, that he had a great desire to lye with faire Helena of Greece, especially her whom he had seen and shewed unto the students at Wittenberg: wherefore he called unto his spirit Mephostophiles, commanding him to bring to him the faire Helena; which he also did. Whereupon he fell in love with her, and made her his common concubine and bed-fellow; for she was so beautifull and delightfull a peece, that he could not be one houre from her, if he should therefore have suffered death, she had so stoln away his heart: and, to his seeming, in time she was with childe, whom Faustus named Justus Faustus. The childe told Doctor Faustus many things which were don in forraign countrys; but in the end, when Faustus lost his life, the mother and the childe vanished away both together." THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Sig. I 4, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 161: Those-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "These."] [Footnote 162: Faustus, this-- Qy. "This, Faustus"?] [Footnote 163: topless-- i.e. not exceeded in height by any.] [Footnote 164: is-- So the later 4tos.--2to 1604 "be."] [Footnote 165: shalt-- So all the 4tos; and so I believe Marlowe wrote, though the grammar requires "shall."] [Footnote 166: Enter the OLD MAN-- Scene, a room in the Old Man's house. --In THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS the Old Man makes himself very merry with the attempts of the evil powers to hurt him. "About two dayes after that he had exhorted Faustus, as the poore man lay in his bed, suddenly there was a mighty rumbling in the chamber, the which he was never wont to heare, and he heard as it had beene the groaning of a sow, which lasted long: whereupon the good old man began to jest and mocke, and said, Oh, what a barbarian cry is this? Oh faire bird, what foul musicke is this? A[h--, faire angell, that could not tarry two dayes in his place! beginnest thou now to runne into a poore mans house, where thou hast no power, and wert not able to keepe thy owne two dayes? With these and such like words the spirit departed," &c. Sig. I 2, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 167: Enter Faustus, &c.-- Scene, a room in the house of Faustus.] [Footnote 168: cunning-- i.e. knowledge, skill.] [Footnote 169: Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, &c.-- "Wherefore one of them said unto him, Ah, friend Faustus, what have you done to conceale this matter so long from us? We would, by the helpe of good divines and the grace of God, have brought you out of this net, and have torne you out of the bondage and chaines of Satan; whereas now we feare it is too late, to the utter ruine both of your body and soule. Doctor Faustus answered, I durst never doe it, although I often minded to settle my life [myself?-- to godly people to desire counsell and helpe; and once mine old neighbour counselled me that I should follow his learning and leave all my conjurations: yet, when I was minded to amend and to follow that good mans counsell, then came the Devill and would have had me away, as this night he is like to doe, and said, so soone as I turned againe to God, he would dispatch me altogether." THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Sig. K 3, ed. 1648.] [Footnote 170: save-- So the later 4tos.--Not in 4to 1604.] [Footnote 171: and what noise soever ye hear, &c.-- "Lastly, to knit up my troubled oration, this is my friendly request, that you would go to rest, and let nothing trouble you; also, if you chance heare any noyse or rumbling about the house, be not therewith afraid, for there shall no evill happen unto you," &c. THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, ubi supra.] [Footnote 172: O lente, &c. "At si, quem malles, Cephalum complexa teneres, Clamares, LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI." Ovid,--AMOR. i. xiii. 39.] [Footnote 173: That, when you, &c.-- So all the old eds.; and it is certain that awkward changes of person are sometimes found in passages of our early poets: but qy., "That, when THEY vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from THEIR smoky mouths," &c.?] [Footnote 174: and I be chang'd Unto some brutish beast-- "Now, thou Faustus, damned wretch, how happy wert thou, if, as an unreasonable beast, thou mightest dye without [a-- soule! so shouldst thou not feele any more doubts," &c. THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Sig. K. ed. 1648.] [Footnote 175: Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS-- In THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, his "miserable and lamentable end" is described as follows: it took place, we are informed, at "the village called Rimlich, halfe a mile from Wittenberg."--"The students and the other that were there, when they had prayed for him, they wept, and so went forth; but Faustus tarried in the hall; and when the gentlemen were laid in bed, none of them could sleepe, for that they att[e--nded to heare if they might be privy of his end. It happened that betweene twelve and one a clocke at midnight, there blew a mighty storme of winde against the house, as though it would have blowne the foundation thereof out of his place. Hereupon the students began to feare and goe out of their beds, comforting one another; but they would not stirre out of the chamber; and the host of the house ran out of doores, thinking the house would fall. The students lay neere unto the hall wherein Doctor Faustus lay, and they heard a mighty noyse and hissing, as if the hall had beene full of snakes and adders. With that, the hall-doore flew open, wherein Doctor Faustus was, that he began to cry for helpe, saying, Murther, murther! but it came forth with halfe a voyce, hollowly: shortly after, they heard him no more. But when it was day, the students, that had taken no rest that night, arose and went into the hall, in the which they left Doctor Faustus; where notwithstanding they found not Faustus, but all the hall lay sprinkled with blood, his braines cleaving to the wall, for the devill had beaten him from one wall against another; in one corner lay his eyes, in another his teeth; a pittifull and fearefull sight to behold. Then began the students to waile and weepe for him, and sought for his body in many places. Lastly, they came into the yard, where they found his body lying on the horse-dung, most monstrously torne and fearefull to behold, for his head and all his joynts were dashed in peeces. The fore-named students and masters that were at his death, have obtained so much, that they buried him in the village where he was so grievously tormented. After the which they returned to Wittenberg; and comming into the house of Faustus, they found the servant of Faustus very sad, unto whom they opened all the matter, who tooke it exceeding heavily. There found they also this history of Doctor Faustus noted and of him written, as is before declared, all save only his end, the which was after by the students thereto annexed; further, what his servant had noted thereof, was made in another booke. And you have heard that he held by him in his life the spirit of faire Helena, the which had by him one sonne, the which he named Justus Faustus: even the same day of his death they vanished away, both mother and sonne. The house before was so darke that scarce any body could abide therein. The same night Doctor Faustus appeared unto his servant lively, and shewed unto him many secret things, the which he had done and hidden in his lifetime. Likewise there were certaine which saw Doctor Faustus looke out of the window by night, as they passed by the house." Sig. K 3, ed. 1648.] Original Comments on the preparation of the E-Text: SQUARE BRACKETS: The square brackets, i.e. [ ] are copied from the printed book, without change. The open [Exit brackets use in the book have been closed [by mh]. For this E-Text version of the book, the footnotes have been consolidated at the end of the play. Numbering of the footnotes has been changed, and each footnote is given a unique identity in the form [XXX]. CHANGES TO THE TEXT: Character names were expanded. For Example, SECOND SCHOLAR was SEC. SCHOL. 
435	----	MIRACLE MONGERS AND THEIR METHODS A COMPLETE EXPOSE' OF THE MODUS OPERANDI OF FIRE EATERS, HEAT RESISTERS, POISON EATERS, VENOMOUS REPTILE DEFIERS, SWORD SWALLOWERS, HUMAN OSTRICHES, STRONG MEN, ETC. BY HOUDINI AUTHOR OF "THE UNMASKING OF ROBERT HOUDIN," ETC. AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY LIFE'S HELPMATE, WHO STARVED AND STARRED WITH ME DURING THE YEARS WE SPENT AMONG "MIRACLE MONGERS" My Wife PREFACE "All wonder," said Samuel Johnson, "is the effect of novelty on ignorance." Yet we are so created that without something to wonder at we should find life scarcely worth living. That fact does not make ignorance bliss, or make it "folly to be wise." For the wisest man never gets beyond the reach of novelty, nor can ever make it his boast that there is nothing he is ignorant of; on the contrary, the wiser he becomes the more clearly he sees how much there is of which he remains in ignorance. The more he knows, the more he will find to wonder at. My professional life has been a constant record of disillusion, and many things that seem wonderful to most men are the every-day commonplaces of my business. But I have never been without some seeming marvel to pique my curiosity and challenge my investigation. In this book I have set down some of the stories of strange folk and unusual performers that I have gathered in many years of such research. Much has been written about the feats of miracle-mongers, and not a little in the way of explaining them. Chaucer was by no means the first to turn shrewd eyes upon wonder-workers and show the clay feet of these popular idols. And since his time innumerable marvels, held to be supernatural, have been exposed for the tricks they were. Yet to-day, if a mystifier lack the ingenuity to invent a new and startling stunt, he can safely fall back upon a trick that has been the favorite of pressagents the world over in all ages. He can imitate the Hindoo fakir who, having thrown a rope high into the air, has a boy climb it until he is lost to view. He can even have the feat photographed. The camera will click; nothing will appear on the developed film; and this, the performer will glibly explain, "proves" that the whole company of onlookers was hypnotized! And he can be certain of a very profitable following to defend and advertise him. So I do not feel that I need to apologize for adding another volume to the shelves of works dealing with the marvels of the miracle-mongers. My business has given me an intimate knowledge of stage illusions, together with many years of experience among show people of all types. My familiarity with the former, and what I have learned of the psychology of the latter, has placed me at a certain advantage in uncovering the natural explanation of feats that to the ignorant have seemed supernatural. And even if my readers are too well informed to be interested in my descriptions of the methods of the various performers who have seemed to me worthy of attention in these pages, I hope they will find some amusement in following the fortunes and misfortunes of all manner of strange folk who once bewildered the wise men of their day. If I have accomplished that much, I shall feel amply repaid for my labor. HOUDINI. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Fire worship.--Fire eating and heat resistance.--The Middle Ages.--Among the Navajo Indians.--Fire-walkers of Japan.--The Fiery Ordeal of Fiji II. Watton's Ship-swabber from the Indies.-Richardson, 1667.--De Heiterkeit, 1713.--Robert Powell, 1718-1780.--Dufour, 1783.--Quackensalber, 1794 III. The nineteenth century.--A "Wonderful Phenomenon."--"The Incombustible Spaniard, Senor Lionetto," 1803.--Josephine Girardelli, 1814.--John Brooks, 1817.--W. C. Houghton, 1832.--J. A. B. Chylinski, 1841.--Chamouni, the Russian Salamander, 1869.--Professor Rel Maeub, 1876. Rivelli (died 1900) IV. The Master--Chabert, 1792-1859 V. Fire-eating magicians. Ching Ling Foo and Chung Ling Soo.--Fire-eaters employed by magicians: The Man-Salamander, 1816.-Mr. Carlton, Professor of Chemistry, 1818.--Miss Cassillis, aged nine, 1820. The African Wonder, 1843.--Ling Look and Yamadeva die in China during Kellar's world tour, 1877.--Ling Look's double, 1879.--Electrical effects, The Salambos.--Bueno Core.--Del Kano.--Barnello.--Edwin Forrest as a heat-resister--The Elder Sothern as a fire-eater.--The Twilight of the Art VI. The Arcana of the fire-eaters: The formula of Albertus Magnus.--Of Hocus Pocus.--Richardson's method.--Philopyraphagus Ashburniensis.--To breathe forth sparks, smoke and flames.--To spout natural gas.--Professor Sementini's discoveries.--To bite off red-hot iron.--To cook in a burning cage.--Chabert's oven.--To eat coals of fire.--To drink burning oil.--To chew molten lead.--To chew burning brimstone.--To wreathe the face in flames.--To ignite paper with the breath.--To drink boiling liquor and eat flaming wax VII. The spheroidal condition of liquids.--Why the hand may be dipped in molten metals.--Principles of heat resistance put to practical uses: Aldini, 1829.--In early fire-fighting.--Temperatures the body can endure VIII. Sword-swallowers: Cliquot, Delno Fritz, Deodota, a razor-swallower, an umbrella-swallower, William Dempster, John Cumming, Edith Clifford, Victorina IX. Stone-eaters: A Silesian in Prague, 1006; Francois Battalia, ca. 1641; Platerus' beggar boy; Father Paulian's lithophagus of Avignon, 1760; "The Only One in the World," London, 1788; Spaniards in London, 1790; a secret for two and six; Japanese training.--Frog-swallowers: Norton; English Jack; Bosco; the snake-eater; Billington's prescription for hangmen; Captain Veitro.--Water spouters; Blaise Manfrede, ca. 1650; Floram Marchand, 1650 X. Defiers of poisonous reptiles: Thardo; Mrs. Learn, dealer in rattle-snakes.--Sir Arthur Thurlow Cunynghame on antidotes for snake-bite.--Jack the Viper.--William Oliver, 1735.--The advice of Cornelius Heinrich Agrippa, (1480-1535).--An Australian snake story.--Antidotes for various poisons XI. Strongmen of the eighteenth century: Thomas Topham (died, 1749); Joyce, 1703; Van Eskeberg, 1718; Barsabas and his sister; The Italian Female Sampson, 1724; The "little woman from Geneva," 1751; Belzoni, 1778-1823 XII. Contemporary strong people: Charles Jefferson; Louis Cyr; John Grun Marx; William Le Roy.--The Nail King, The Human Claw-hammer; Alexander Weyer; Mexican Billy Wells; A foolhardy Italian; Wilson; Herman; Sampson; Sandow; Yucca; La Blanche; Lulu Hurst.--The Georgia Magnet, The Electric Girl, etc.; Annie Abbott; Mattie Lee Price.--The Twilight of the Freaks.--The dime museums CHAPTER ONE FIRE WORSHIP.--FIRE EATING AND HEAT RESISTANCE.--IN THE MIDDLE AGES.--AMONG THE NAVAJO INDIANS.--FIRE-WALKERS OF JAPAN.--THE FIERY ORDEAL OF FIJI. Fire has always been and, seemingly, will always remain, the most terrible of the elements. To the early tribes it must also have been the most mysterious; for, while earth and air and water were always in evidence, fire came and went in a manner which must have been quite unaccountable to them. Thus it naturally followed that the custom of deifying all things which the primitive mind was unable to grasp, led in direct line to the fire-worship of later days. That fire could be produced through friction finally came into the knowledge of man, but the early methods entailed much labor. Consequently our ease-loving forebears cast about for a method to "keep the home fires burning" and hit upon the plan of appointing a person in each community who should at all times carry a burning brand. This arrangement had many faults, however, and after a while it was superseded by the expedient of a fire kept continually burning in a building erected for the purpose. The Greeks worshiped at an altar of this kind which they called the Altar of Hestia and which the Romans called the Altar of Vesta. The sacred fire itself was known as Vesta, and its burning was considered a proof of the presence of the goddess. The Persians had such a building in each town and village; and the Egyptians, such a fire in every temple; while the Mexicans, Natches, Peruvians and Mayas kept their "national fires" burning upon great pyramids. Eventually the keeping of such fires became a sacred rite, and the "Eternal Lamps" kept burning in synagogues and in Byzantine and Catholic churches may be a survival of these customs. There is a theory that all architecture, public and private, sacred and profane, began with the erection of sheds to protect the sacred fire. This naturally led men to build for their own protection as well, and thus the family hearth had its genesis. Another theory holds that the keepers of the sacred fires were the first public servants, and that from this small beginning sprang the intricate public service of the present. The worship of the fire itself had been a legacy from the earliest tribes; but it remained for the Rosicrucians and the fire philosophers of the Sixteenth Century under the lead of Paracelsus to establish a concrete religious belief on that basis, finding in the Scriptures what seemed to them ample proof that fire was the symbol of the actual presence of God, as in all cases where He is said to have visited this earth. He came either in a flame of fire, or surrounded with glory, which they conceived to mean the same thing. For example: when God appeared on Mount Sinai (Exod. xix, 18) "The Lord descended upon it in fire." Moses, repeating this history, said: "The Lord spake unto you out of the midst of fire" (Deut. iv, 12). Again, when the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses out of the flaming bush, "the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed" (Exod. iii, 3). Fire from the Lord consumed the burnt offering of Aaron (Lev. ix, 24), the sacrifice of Gideon (Judg. vi, 21), the burnt offering of David (1 Chron. xxxi, 26), and that at the dedication of King Solomon's temple (Chron. vii, 1). And when Elijah made his sacrifice to prove that Baal was not God, "the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust and the water that was in the trench." (1 Kings, xviii, 38.) Since sacrifice had from the earliest days been considered as food offered to the gods, it was quite logical to argue that when fire from Heaven fell upon the offering, God himself was present and consumed His own. Thus the Paracelsists and other fire believers sought, and as they believed found, high authority for continuing a part of the fire worship of the early tribes. The Theosophists, according to Hargrave Jennings in "The Rosicrucians," called the soul a fire taken from the eternal ocean of light, and in common with other Fire-Philosophers believed that all knowable things, both of the soul and the body, were evolved out of fire and finally resolvable into it; and that fire was the last and only-to-be-known God. In passing I might call attention to the fact that the Devil is supposed to dwell in the same element. Some of the secrets of heat resistance as practiced by the dime-museum and sideshow performers of our time, secrets grouped under the general title of "Fire-eating," must have been known in very early times. To quote from Chambers' "Book of Days": "In ancient history we find several examples of people who possessed the art of touching fire without being burned. The Priestesses of Diana, at Castabala, in Cappadocia, commanded public veneration by walking over red-hot iron. The Herpi, a people of Etruria, walked among glowing embers at an annual festival held on Mount Soracte, and thus proved their sacred character, receiving certain privileges, among others, exemption from military service, from the Roman Senate. One of the most astounding stories of antiquity is related in the 'Zenda-Vesta,' to the effect that Zoroaster, to confute his calumniators, allowed fluid lead to be poured over his body, without receiving any injury." To me the "astounding" part of this story is not in the feat itself, for that is extremely easy to accomplish, but in the fact that the secret was known at such an early date, which the best authorities place at 500 to 1000 B.C. It is said that the earliest recorded instance, in our era, of ordeal by fire was in the fourth century. Simplicius, Bishop of Autun, who had been married before his promotion, continued to live with his wife, and in order to demonstrate the Platonic purity of their intercourse placed burning coals upon their flesh without injury. That the clergy of the Middle Ages, who caused accused persons to walk blindfold among red-hot plowshares, or hold heated irons in their hands, were in possession of the secret of the trick, is shown by the fact that after trial by ordeal had been abolished the secret of their methods was published by Albert, Count of Bollstadt, usually called Albertus Magnus but sometimes Albertus Teutonicus, a man distinguished by the range of his inquiries and his efforts for the spread of knowledge. These secrets will be fully explained in the section of this history devoted to the Arcana of the Fire-Eaters (Chapter Six). I take the following from the New York Clipper-Annual of 1885: The famous fire dance of the Navajo Indians, often described as though it involved some sort of genuine necromancy, is explained by a matter-of-fact spectator. It is true, he says, that the naked worshipers cavort round a big bonfire, with blazing faggots in their hands, and dash the flames over their own and their fellows' bodies, all in a most picturesque and maniacal fashion; but their skins are first so thickly coated with a clay paint that they cannot easily be burned. An illustrated article entitled Rites of the Firewalking Fanatics of Japan, by W. C. Jameson Reid, in the Chicago Sunday Inter-Ocean of September 27th, 1903, reveals so splendid an example of the gullibility of the well-informed when the most ordinary trick is cleverly presented and surrounded with the atmosphere of the occult, that I am impelled to place before my readers a few illuminating excerpts from Mr. Reid's narrative. This man would, in all probability, scorn to spend a dime to witness the performance of a fire-eater in a circus sideshow; but after traveling half round the world he pays a dollar and spends an hour's time watching the fanatical incantations of the solemn little Japanese priests for the sake of seeing the "Hi-Wattarai"--which is merely the stunt of walking over hot coals--and he then writes it down as the "eighth wonder of the world," while if he had taken the trouble to give the matter even the most superficial investigation, he could have discovered that the secret of the trick had been made public centuries before. Mr. Reid is authority for the statement that the Shintoist priests' fire-walking rites have "long been one of the puzzling mysteries of the scientific world," and adds "If you ever are in Tokio, and can find a few minutes to spare, by all means do not neglect witnessing at least one performance of 'Hi-Wattarai' (fire walking, and that is really what takes place), for, if you are of that incredulous nature which laughs with scorn at so-called Eastern mysticism, you will come away, as has many a visitor before you, with an impression sufficient to last through an ordinary lifetime." Further on he says "If you do not come away convinced that you have been witness of a spectacle which makes you disbelieve the evidence of your own eyes and your most matter-of-fact judgment, then you are a man of stone." All of which proves nothing more than that Mr. Reid was inclined to make positive statements about subjects in which he knew little or nothing. He tells us further that formerly this rite was performed only in the spring and fall, when, beside the gratuities of the foreigners, the native worshipers brought "gifts of wine, large trays of fish, fruit, rice cakes, loaves, vegetables, and candies." Evidently the combination of box-office receipts with donation parties proved extremely tempting to the thrifty priests, for they now give what might be termed a "continuous performance." Those who have read the foregoing pages will apply a liberal sprinkling of salt to the solemn assurance of Mr. Reid, advanced on the authority of Jinrikisha boys, that "for days beforehand the priests connected with the temple devote themselves to fasting and prayer to prepare for the ordeal. . . . The performance itself usually takes place in the late afternoon during twilight in the temple court, the preceding three hours being spent by the priests in final outbursts of prayer before the unveiled altar in the inner sanctuary of the little matted temple, and during these invocations no visitors are allowed to enter the sacred precincts." Mr. Reid's description of the fire walking itself may not be out of place; it will show that the Japs had nothing new to offer aside from the ritualistic ceremonials with which they camouflaged the hocus-pocus of the performance, which is merely a survival of the ordeal by fire of earlier religions. "Shortly before 5 o'clock the priests filed from before the altar into some interior apartments, where they were to change their beautiful robes for the coarser dress worn during the fire walking. In the meantime coolies had been set to work in the courtyard to ignite the great bed of charcoal, which had already been laid. The dimensions of this bed were about twelve feet by four, and, perhaps, a foot deep. On the top was a quantity of straw and kindling wood, which was lighted, and soon burst into a roaring blaze. The charcoal became more and more thoroughly ignited until the whole mass glowed in the uncertain gloom, like some gigantic and demoniacal eye of a modern Prometheus. As soon as the mass of charcoal was thoroughly ignited from top to bottom, a small gong in the temple gave notice that the wonderful spectacle of 'Hi-Wattarai' was about to begin. "Soon two of the priests came out, said prayers of almost interminable length at a tiny shrine in the corner of the enclosure, and turned their attention to the fire. Taking long poles and fans from the coolies, they poked and encouraged the blaze till it could plainly be seen that the coal was ignited throughout. The whole bed was a glowing mass, and the heat which rose from it was so intense that we found it uncomfortable to sit fifteen feet away from it without screening our faces with fans. Then they began to pound it down more solidly along the middle; as far as possible inequalities in its surface were beaten down, and the coals which protruded were brushed aside." There follows a long and detailed description of further ceremonies, the receiving of gifts, etc., which need not be repeated here. Now for the trick itself. "One of the priests held a pile of white powder on a small wooden stand. This was said to be salt--which in Japan is credited with great cleansing properties--but as far as could be ascertained by superficial examination it was a mixture of alum and salt. He stood at one end of the fire-bed and poised the wooden tray over his head, and then sprinkled a handful of it on the ground before the glowing bed of coals. At the same time another priest who stood by him chanted a weird recitative of invocation and struck sparks from flint and steel which he held in his hands. This same process was repeated by both the priests at the other end, at the two sides, and at the corners. "Ten minutes, more or less, was spent in various movements and incantations about the bed of coals. At the end of that time two small pieces of wet matting were brought out and placed at either end and a quantity of the white mixture was placed upon them. At a signal from the head priest, who acted as master of ceremonies during the curious succeeding function, the ascetics who were to perform the first exhibition of fire-walking gathered at one end of the bed of coals, which by this time was a fierce and glowing furnace. "Having raised both his hands and prostrated himself to render thanks to the god who had taken out the 'soul' of the fire, the priest about to undergo the ordeal stood upon the wet matting, wiped his feet lightly in the white mixture, and while we held our breaths, and our eyes almost leaped from their sockets in awe-struck astonishment, he walked over the glowing mass as unconcernedly as if treading on a carpet in a drawing-room, his feet coming in contact with the white hot coals at every step. He did not hurry or take long steps, but sauntered along with almost incredible sang-froid, and before he reached the opposite side he turned around and sauntered as carelessly back to the mat from which he had started." The story goes on to tell how the performance was repeated by the other priests, and then by many of the native audience; but none of the Europeans tried it, although invited to do so. Mr. Reid's closing statement is that "no solution of the mystery can be gleaned, even from high scientific authorities who have witnessed and closely studied the physical features of these remarkable Shinto fire-walking rites." Many who are confronted with something that they cannot explain take refuge in the claim that it puzzles the scientists too. As a matter of fact, at the time Mr. Reid wrote, such scientists as had given the subject serious study were pretty well posted on the methods involved. An article under the title The Fiery Ordeal of Fiji, by Maurice Delcasse, appeared in the Wide World Magazine for May, 1898. From Mr. Delcasse's account it appears that the Fijian ordeal is practically the same as that of the Japanese, as described by Mr. Reid, except that there is very little ceremony surrounding it. The people of Fiji until a comparatively recent date were cannibals; but their islands are now British possessions, most of the natives are Christians, and most of their ancient customs have become obsolete, from which I deduce that the fire-walking rites described in this article must have been performed by natives who had retained their old religious beliefs. The ordeal takes place on the Island of Benga, which is near Suva, the capital of Fiji, and which, Mr. Delcasse says, "was the supposed residence of some of the old gods of Fiji, and was, therefore, considered a sacred land." Instead of walking on the live coals, as the Japanese priests do, the Fijians walk on stones that have been brought to a white heat in a great fire of logs. The familiar claim is made that the performance puzzles scientists, and that no satisfactory solution has yet been discovered. We are about to see that for two or three hundred years the same claims have been made by a long line of more or less clever public performers in Europe and America. CHAPTER TWO WATTON'S SHIP-SWABBER "FROM THE INDIES."--RICHARDSON, 1667--DE HEITERKEIT, 1713.--ROBERT POWELL, 1718-1780.--DUFOUR, 1783.--QUACKENSALBER, 1794. The earliest mention I have found of a public fire-eater in England is in the correspondence of Sir Henry Watton, under date of June 3rd, 1633. He speaks of an Englishman "like some swabber of a ship, come from the Indies, where he has learned to eat fire as familiarly as ever I saw any eat cakes, even whole glowing brands, which he will crush with his teeth and swallow." This was shown in London for two pence. The first to attract the attention of the upper classes, however, was one Richardson, who appeared in France in the year 1667 and enjoyed a vogue sufficient to justify the record of his promise in the Journal des Savants. Later on he came to London, and John Evelyn, in his diary, mentions him under date of October 8th, 1672, as follows: I took leave of my Lady Sunderland, who was going to Paris to my Lord, now Ambassador there. She made me stay dinner at Leicester House, and afterwards sent for Richardson, the famous fire-eater. He devoured brimstone on glowing coals before us, chewing and swallowing them; he melted a beere-glass and eate it quite up; then taking a live coale on his tongue he put on it a raw oyster; the coal was blown on with bellows till it flamed and sparkled in his mouthe, and so remained until the oyster gaped and was quite boil'd. Then he melted pitch and wax with sulphur, which he drank down as it flamed: I saw it flaming in his mouthe a good while; he also took up a thick piece of iron, such as laundresses use to put in their smoothing-boxes, when it was fiery hot, held it between his teeth, then in his hand, and threw it about like a stone; but this I observ'd he cared not to hold very long. Then he stoode on a small pot, and, bending his body, tooke a glowing iron with his mouthe from betweene his feete, without touching the pot or ground with his hands, with divers other prodigious feats. The secret methods employed by Richardson were disclosed by his servant, and this publicity seems to have brought his career to a sudden close; at least I have found no record of his subsequent movements. About 1713 a fire-eater named De Heiterkeit, a native of Annivi, in Savoy, flourished for a time in London. He performed five times a day at the Duke of Marlborough's Head, in Fleet Street, the prices being half-a-crown, eighteen pence and one shilling. According to London Tit-Bits, "De Heiterkeit had the honor of exhibiting before Louis XIV., the Emperor of Austria, the King of Sicily and the Doge of Venice, and his name having reached the Inquisition, that holy office proposed experimenting on him to find out whether he was fireproof externally as well as internally. He was preserved from this unwelcome ordeal, however, by the interference of the Duchess Royal, Regent of Savoy." His programme did not differ materially from that of his predecessor, Richardson, who had antedated him by nearly fifty years. By far the most famous of the early fire-eaters was Robert Powell, whose public career extended over a period of nearly sixty years, and who was patronized by the English peerage. It was mainly through the instrumentality of Sir Hans Sloane that, in 1751, the Royal Society presented Powell a purse of gold and a large silver medal. Lounger's Commonplace Book says of Powell: "Such is his passion for this terrible element, that if he were to come hungry into your kitchen, while a sirloin was roasting, he would eat up the fire and leave the beef. It is somewhat surprising that the friends of REAL MERIT have not yet promoted him, living as we do in an age favorable to men of genius. Obliged to wander from place to place, instead of indulging himself in private with his favorite dish, he is under the uncomfortable necessity of eating in public, and helping himself from the kitchen fire of some paltry ale-house in the country." His advertisements show that he was before the public from 1718 to 1780. One of his later advertisements runs as follows: SUM SOLUS Please observe that there are two different performances the same evening, which will be performed by the famous MR. POWELL, FIRE-EATER, FROM LONDON: who has had the honor to exhibit, with universal applause, the most surprising performances that were ever attempted by mankind, before His Royal Highness William, late Duke of Cumberland, at Windsor Lodge, May 7th, 1752; before His Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester, at Gloucester House, January 30th, 1769; before His Royal Highness the present Duke of Cumberland, at Windsor Lodge, September 25th, 1769; before Sir Hans Sloane and several of the Royal Society, March 4th, 1751, who made Mr. Powell a compliment of a purse of gold, and a fine large silver medal, which the curious may view by applying to him; and before most of the Nobility and Quality in the Kingdom. He intends to sup on the following articles: 1. He eats red-hot coals out of the fire as natural as bread. 2. He licks with his naked tongue red-hot tobacco pipes, flaming with brimstone. 3. He takes a large bunch of deal matches, lights them altogether; and holds them in his mouth till the flame is extinguished. 4. He takes a red-hot heater out of the fire, licks it with his naked tongue several times, and carries it around the room between his teeth. 5. He fills his mouth with red-hot charcoal, and broils a slice of beef or mutton upon his tongue, and any person may blow the fire with a pair of bellows at the same time. 6. He takes a quantity of resin, pitch, bees'-wax, sealing-wax, brimstone, alum, and lead, melts them all together over a chafing-dish of coals, and eats the same combustibles with a spoon, as if it were a porringer of broth (which he calls his dish of soup), to the great and agreeable surprise of the spectators; with various other extraordinary performances never attempted by any other person of this age, and there is scarce a possibility ever will; so that those who neglect this opportunity of seeing the wonders performed by this artist, will lose the sight of the most amazing exhibition ever done by man. The doors to be opened by six and he sups precisely at seven o'clock, without any notice given by sound of trumpet. If gentry do not choose to come at seven o'clock, no performance. Prices of admission to ladies and gentlemen, one shilling. Back Seats for Children and Servants, six pence. Ladies and children may have a private performance any hour of the day, by giving previous notice. N. B.--He displaces teeth or stumps so easily as to scarce be felt. He sells a chemical liquid which discharges inflammation, scalds, and burns, in a short time, and is necessary to be kept in all families. His stay in this place will be but short, not exceeding above two or three nights. Good fire to keep the gentry warm. This shows how little advance had been made in the art in a century. Richardson had presented practically the same programme a hundred years before. Perhaps the exposure of Richardson's method by his servant put an end to fire-eating as a form of amusement for a long time, or until the exposure had been forgotten by the public. Powell himself, though not proof against exposure, seems to have been proof against its effects, for he kept on the even tenor of his way for sixty years, and at the end of his life was still exhibiting. Whatever the reason, the eighteenth century fire-eaters, like too many magicians of the present day, kept to the stereotyped programmes of their predecessors. A very few did, however, step out of the beaten track and, by adding new tricks and giving a new dress to old ones, succeeded in securing a following that was financially satisfactory. In this class a Frenchman by the name of Dufour deserves special mention, from the fact that he was the first to introduce comedy into an act of this nature. He made his bow in Paris in 1783, and is said to have created quite a sensation by his unusual performance. I am indebted to Martin's Naturliche Magie, 1792, for a very complete description of the work of this artist. Dufour made use of a portable building, which was specially adapted to his purposes, and his table was spread as if for a banquet, except that the edibles were such as his performance demanded. He employed a trumpeter and a tambour player to furnish music for his repast--as well as to attract public attention. In addition to fire-eating, Dufour gave exhibitions of his ability to consume immense quantities of solid food, and he displayed an appetite for live animals, reptiles, and insects that probably proved highly entertaining to the not overrefined taste of the audiences of his day. He even advertised a banquet of which the public was invited to partake at a small fee per plate, but since the menu consisted of the delicacies just described, his audiences declined to join him at table. His usual bill-of-fare was as follows: Soup--boiling tar torches, glowing coals and small, round, super-heated stones. The roast, when Dufour was really hungry, consisted of twenty pounds of beef or a whole calf. His hearth was either the flat of his hand or his tongue. The butter in which the roast was served was melted brimstone or burning wax. When the roast was cooked to suit him he ate coals and roast together. As a dessert he would swallow the knives and forks, glasses, and the earthenware dishes. He kept his audience in good humor by presenting all this in a spirit of crude comedy and, to increase the comedy element, he introduced a number of trained cats. Although the thieving proclivities of cats are well known, Dufour's pets showed no desire to share his repast, and he had them trained to obey his commands during mealtime. At the close of the meal he would become violently angry with one of them, seize the unlucky offender, tear it limb from limb and eat the carcass. One of his musicians would then beg him to produce the cat, dead or alive. In order to do this he would go to a nearby horse-trough and drink it dry; would eat a number of pounds of soap, or other nauseating substance, clowning it in a manner to provoke amusement instead of disgust; and, further to mask the disagreeable features--and also, no doubt, to conceal the trick--would take the cloth from the table and cover his face; whereupon he would bring forth the swallowed cat, or one that looked like it, which would howl piteously and seem to struggle wildly while being disgorged. When freed, the poor cat would rush away among the spectators. Dufour gave his best performances in the evening, as he could then show his hocus-pocus to best advantage. At these times he appeared with a halo of fire about his head. His last appearance in Paris was most remarkable. The dinner began with a soup of asps in simmering oil. On each side was a dish of vegetables, one containing thistles and burdocks, and the other fuming acid. Other side dishes, of turtles, rats, bats and moles, were garnished with live coals. For the fish course he ate a dish of snakes in boiling tar and pitch. His roast was a screech owl in a sauce of glowing brimstone. The salad proved to be spider webs full of small explosive squibs, a plate of butterfly wings and manna worms, a dish of toads surrounded with flies, crickets, grasshoppers, church beetles, spiders, and caterpillars. He washed all this down with flaming brandy, and for dessert ate the four large candles standing on the table, both of the hanging side lamps with their contents, and finally the large center lamp, oil, wick and all. This leaving the room in darkness, Dufour's face shone out in a mask of living flames. A dog had come in with a farmer, who was probably a confederate, and now began to bark. Since Dufour could not quiet him, he seized him, bit off his head and swallowed it, throwing the body aside. Then ensued a comic scene between Dufour and the farmer, the latter demanding that his dog be brought to life, which threw the audience into paroxysms of laughter. Then suddenly candles reappeared and seemed to light themselves. Dufour made a series of hocus-pocus passes over the dog's body; then the head suddenly appeared in its proper place, and the dog, with a joyous yelp, ran to his master. Notwithstanding the fact that Dufour must have been by all odds the best performer of his time, I do not find reference to him in any other authority. But something of his originality appeared in the work of a much humbler practitioner, contemporary or very nearly contemporary with him. We have seen that Richardson, Powell, Dufour, and generally the better class of fire-eaters were able to secure select audiences and even to attract the attention of scientists in England and on the Continent. But many of their effects had been employed by mountebanks and street fakirs since the earliest days of the art, and this has continued until comparatively recent times. In Naturliche Magie, in 1794, Vol. VI, page 111, I find an account of one Quackensalber, who gave a new twist to the fire-eating industry by making a "High Pitch" at the fairs and on street corners and exhibiting feats of fire-resistance, washing his hands and face in melted tar, pitch and brimstone, in order to attract a crowd. He then strove to sell them a compound--composed of fish glue, alum and brandy--which he claimed would cure burns in two or three hours. He demonstrated that this mixture was used by him in his heat resistance: and then, doubtless, some "capper" started the ball rolling, and Herr Quackensalber (his name indicates a seller of salves) reaped a good harvest. I have no doubt but that even to-day a clever performer with this "High Pitch" could do a thriving business in that overgrown country village, New York. At any rate there is the so-called, "King of Bees," a gentleman from Pennsylvania, who exhibits himself in a cage of netting filled with bees, and then sells the admiring throng a specific for bee-stings and the wounds of angry wasps. Unfortunately the only time I ever saw his majesty, some of his bee actors must have forgotten their lines, for he was thoroughly stung. CHAPTER THREE THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.--A "WONDERFUL PHENOMENON."--"THE INCOMBUSTIBLE SPANIARD, SENOR LIONETTO," 1803.--JOSEPHINE GIRARDELLI, 1814.--JOHN BROOKS, 1817.--W. C. HOUGHTON, 1832.--J. A. B. CHYLINSKI, 1841.--CHAMOUNI, THE RUSSIAN SALAMANDER, 1869.--PROFESSOR REL MAEUB, 1876.--RIVALLI (died 1900). In the nineteenth century by far the most distinguished heat-resister was Chabert, who deserves and shall have a chapter to himself. He commenced exhibiting about 1818, but even earlier in the century certain obscurer performers had anticipated some of his best effects. Among my clippings, for instance, I find the following. I regret that I cannot give the date, but it is evident from the long form of the letters that it was quite early. This is the first mention I have found of the hot-oven effect afterwards made famous by Chabert. WONDERFUL PHENOMENON A correspondent in France writes as follows: "Paris has, for some days, rung with relations of the wonderful exploits of a Spaniard in that city, who is endowed with qualities by which he resists the action of very high degrees of heat, as well as the influence of strong chemical reagents. Many histories of the trials to which he has been submitted before a Commission of the Institute and Medical School, have appeared in the public papers; but the public waits with impatience for the report to be made in the name of the Commission by Professor Pinel. The subject of these trials is a young man, a native of Toledo, in Spain, 23 years of age, and free of any apparent peculiarities which can announce anything remarkable in the organization of his skin; after examination, one would be rather disposed to conclude a peculiar softness than that any hardness or thickness of the cuticle existed, either naturally or from mechanical causes. Nor was there any circumstance to indicate that the person had been previously rubbed with any matter capable of resisting the operation of the agents with which he was brought in contact. This man bathed for the space of five minutes, and without any injury to his sensibility or the surface of the skin, his legs in oil, heated at 97 degrees of Reaumur (250 degrees of Fahrenheit) and with the same oil, at the same degree of heat, he washed his face and superior extremities. He held, for the same space of time, and with as little inconvenience, his legs in a solution of muriate of soda, heated to 102 of the same scale, (261 1/2 degrees Fahr.) He stood on and rubbed the soles of his feet with a bar of hot iron heated to a white heat; in this state he held the iron in his hands and rubbed the surface of his tongue. He gargled his mouth with concentrated sulphuric and nitric acids, without the smallest injury or discoloration; the nitric acid changed the cuticle to a yellow color; with the acids in this state he rubbed his hands and arms. All these experiments were continued long enough to prove their inefficiency to produce any impression. It is said, on unquestionable authority, that he remained a considerable time in an oven heated to 65 degrees or 70 degrees, (178-189 degrees Fahr.) and from which he was with difficulty induced to retire, so comfortable did he feel at that high temperature. It may be proper to remark, that this man seems totally uninfluenced by any motive to mislead, and, it is said, he has refused flattering offers from some religious sectaries of turning to emolument his singular qualities; yet on the whole it seems to be the opinion of most philosophical men, that this person must possess some matter which counteracts the operation of these agents. To suppose that nature has organized him differently, would be unphilosophic: by habit he might have blunted his sensibilities against those impressions that create pain under ordinary circumstances; but how to explain the power by which he resists the action of those agents which are known to have the strongest affinity for animal matter, is a circumstance difficult to comprehend. It has not failed, however, to excite the wonder of the ignorant and the inquiry of the learned at Paris." This "Wonderful Phenomenon" may have been "the incombustible Spaniard, Senor Lionetto," whom the London Mirror mentions as performing in Paris in 1803 "where he attracted the particular attention of Dr. Sementeni, Professor of Chemistry, and other scientific gentlemen of that city. It appears that a considerable vapor and smell rose from parts of his body when the fire and heated substances were applied, and in this he seems to differ from the person now in this country." The person here referred to was M. Chabert. Dr. Sementeni became so interested in the subject that he made a series of experiments upon himself, and these were finally crowned with success. His experiments will receive further attention in the chapter "The Arcana of the Fire-Eaters." A veritable sensation was created in England in the year 1814 by Senora Josephine Girardelli, who was heralded as having "just arrived from the Continent, where she had the honor of appearing before most of the crowned heads of Europe." She was first spoken of as German, but afterwards proved to be of Italian birth. Entering a field of endeavor which had heretofore been exclusively occupied by the sterner sex, this lady displayed a taste for hot meals that would seem to recommend her as a matrimonial venture. Like all the earlier exploiters of the devouring element, she was proclaimed as "The Great Phenomena of Nature"--why the plural form was used does not appear--and, doubtless, her feminine instincts led her to impart a daintiness to her performance which must have appealed to the better class of audience in that day. The portrait that adorned her first English handbill, which I produce from the Picture Magazine, was engraved by Page and published by Smeeton, St. Martins Lane, London. It is said to be a faithful representation of her stage costume and setting. Richardson, of Bartholomew Fair fame, who was responsible for the introduction of many novelties, first presented Girardelli to an English audience at Portsmouth, where her success was so pronounced that a London appearance was arranged for the same year; and at Mr. Laston's rooms, 23 New Bond Street, her performance attracted the most fashionable metropolitan audiences for a considerable time. Following this engagement she appeared at Richardson's Theater, at Bartholomew Fair, and afterwards toured England in the company of Signor Germondi, who exhibited a troupe of wonderful trained dogs. One of the canine actors was billed as the "Russian Moscow Fire Dog, an animal unknown in this country, (and never exhibited before) who now delights in that element, having been trained for the last six months at very great expense and fatigue." Whether Girardelli accumulated sufficient wealth to retire or became discouraged by the exposure of her methods cannot now be determined, but after she had occupied a prominent position in the public eye and the public prints for a few seasons she dropped out of sight, and I have been unable to find where or how she passed the later years of her life. I am even more at a loss concerning her contemporary, John Brooks, of whom I have no other record than the following letter, which appears in the autobiography of the famous author-actor-manager, Thomas Dibdin, of the Theaters Royal, Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Haymarket and others. This one communication, however, absolves of any obligation to dig up proofs of John Brooks' versatility: he admits it himself. To Mr. T. Dibdin, Esq. Pripetor of the Royal Circus. May 1st, 1817. Sir: I have taken the Liberty of Riting those few lines to ask you the favour if a Greeable for me to Come to your House, as i Can do a great many different things i Can Sing a good Song and i Can Eat Boiling hot Lead and Rub my naked arms With a Red hot Poker and Stand on a Red hot sheet of iron, and do Diferent other things.--Sir i hope you Will Excuse me in Riting I do not Want any thing for my Performing for i have Got a Business that will Sirport me I only want to pass a Way 2 or 3 Hours in the Evening. Sir i hope you Will Send me an Answer Weather Agreeple or not. I am your Humble Servant, J. B. Direct to me No. 4 fox and Knot Court King Street Smithfield. JOHN BROOKS. We shall let this versatile John Brooks close the pre-Chabert record and turn our attention to the fire-eaters of Chabert's day. Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but in most cases the victim of the imitation, it is safe to say, will gladly dispense with that form of adulation. When Chabert first came to America and gave fresh impetus to the fire-eating art by the introduction of new and startling material, he was beset by many imitators, or--as they probably styled themselves--rivals, who immediately proceeded, so far as in them lay, to out-Chabert Chabert. One of the most prominent of these was a man named W. C. Houghton, who claimed to have challenged Chabert at various times. In a newspaper advertisement in Philadelphia, where he was scheduled to give a benefit performance on Saturday evening, February 4th, 1832, he practically promised to expose the method of poison eating. Like that of all exposers, however, his vogue was of short duration, and very little can be found about this super-Chabert except his advertisements. The following will serve as a sample of them: ARCH STREET THEATRE BENEFIT OF THE AMERICAN FIRE KING A CARD.--W. C. Houghton, has the honor to announce to the ladies and gentlemen of Philadelphia, that his BENEFIT will take place at the ARCH STREET THEATRE, on Saturday evening next, 4th February, when will be presented a variety of entertainments aided by the whole strength of the company. Mr. H. in addition to his former experiments will exhibit several fiery feats, pronounced by Mons. Chabert an IMPOSSIBILITY. He will give a COMPLETE explanation by illustrations of the PRINCIPLES of the EUROPEAN and the AMERICAN CHESS PLAYERS. He will also (unless prevented by indisposition) swallow a sufficient quantity of phosphorus, (presented by either chemist or druggist of this city) to destroy THE LIFE OF ANY INDIVIDUAL. Should he not feel disposed to take the poison, he will satisfactorily explain to the audience the manner it may be taken without injury. In our next chapter we shall see how it went with others who challenged Chabert. A Polish athlete, J. A. B. Chylinski by name, toured Great Britain and Ireland in 1841, and presented a more than usually diversified entertainment. Being gifted by nature with exceptional bodily strength, and trained in gymnastics, he was enabled to present a mixed programme, combining his athletics with feats of strength, fire-eating, poison-swallowing, and fire-resistance. In The Book of Wonderful Characters, published in 1869 by John Camden Hotten, London, I find an account of Chamouni, the Russian Salamander: "He was insensible, for a given time, to the effects of heat. He was remarkable for the simplicity and singleness of his character, as well as for that idiosyncrasy in his constitution, which enabled him for so many years, not merely to brave the effects of fire, but to take a delight in an element where other men find destruction. He was above all artifice, and would often entreat his visitors to melt their own lead, or boil their own mercury, that they might be perfectly satisfied of the gratification he derived from drinking these preparations. He would also present his tongue in the most obliging manner to all who wished, to pour melted lead upon it and stamp an impression of their seals." A fire-proof billed as Professor Rel Maeub, was on the programme at the opening of the New National Theater, in Philadelphia, Pa., in the spring of 1876. If I am not mistaken the date was April 25th. He called himself "The Great Inferno Fire-King," and his novelty consisted in having a strip of wet carpeting running parallel to the hot iron plates on which he walked barefoot, and stepping on it occasionally and back onto the hot iron, when a loud hissing and a cloud of steam bore ample proof of the high temperature of the metal. One of the more recent fireproofs was Eugene Rivalli, whose act included, besides the usual effects, a cage of fire in which he stood completely surrounded by flames. Rivalli, whose right name was John Watkins, died in 1900, in England. He had appeared in Great Britain and Ireland as well as on the Continent during the later years of the 19th century. The cage of fire has been used by a number of Rivalli's followers also, and the reader will find a full explanation of the methods employed for it in the chapter devoted to the Arcana of the Fire-eaters, to which we shall come when we have recorded the work of the master Chabert, the history of some of the heat-resisters featured on magicians' programmes, particularly in our own day, and the interest taken in this art by performers whose chief distinction was won in other fields, as notably Edwin Forrest and the elder Sothern. CHAPTER FOUR THE MASTER--CHABERT, 1792-1859. Ivan Ivanitz Chabert, the only Really Incombustible Phenomenon, as he was billed abroad, or J. Xavier Chabert, A.M., M.D., etc., as he was afterwards known in this country, was probably the most notable, and certainly the most interesting, character in the history of fire-eating, fire-resistance, and poison eating. He was the last prominent figure in the long line of this type of artists to appeal to the better classes and to attract the attention of scientists, who for a considerable period treated his achievements more or less seriously. Henry Evanion gave me a valuable collection of Chabert clippings, hand-bills, etc., and related many interesting incidents in connection with this man of wonders. It seems quite impossible for me to write of any historical character in Magic or its allied arts without recalling my dear old friend Evanion, who introduced me to a throng of fascinating characters, with each of whom he seemed almost as familiar as if they had been daily companions. Subsequently I discovered an old engraving of Chabert, published in London in 1829, and later still another which bore the change of name, as well as the titles enumerated above. The latter was published in New York, September, 1836, and bore the inscription: "One of the most celebrated Chemists, Philosophers, and Physicians of the present day." These discoveries, together with a clue from Evanion, led to further investigations, which resulted in the interesting discovery that this one-time Bartholomew Fair entertainer spent the last years of his life in New York City. He resided here for twenty-seven years and lies buried in the beautiful Cypress Hills Cemetery, quite forgotten by the man on the street. Nearby is the grave of good old Signor Blitz, and not far away is the plot that holds all that is mortal of my beloved parents. When I finally break away from earthly chains and restraints, I hope to be placed beside them. During my search for data regarding Chabert I looked in the telephone book for a possible descendant. By accident I picked up the Suburban instead of the Metropolitan edition, and there I found a Victor E. Chabert living at Allenhurst, N. J. I immediately got into communication with him and found that he was a grandson of the Fire King, but he could give me no more information than I already possessed, which I now spread before my readers. M. Chabert was a son of Joseph and Therese Julienne Chabert. He was born on May 10th, 1792, at Avignon, France. Chabert was a soldier in the Napoleonic wars, was exiled to Siberia and escaped to England. His grandson has a bronze Napoleon medal which was presented to Chabert, presumably for valor on the field of battle. Napoleon was exiled in 1815 and again three years later. Chabert first attracted public notice in Paris, at which time his demonstrations of heat-resistance were sufficiently astonishing to merit the attention of no less a body than the National Institute. To the more familiar feats of his predecessors he added startling novelties in the art of heat-resistance, the most spectacular being that of entering a large iron cabinet, which resembled a common baker's oven, heated to the usual temperature of such ovens. He carried in his hand a leg of mutton and remained until the meat was thoroughly cooked. Another thriller involved standing in a flaming tar-barrel until it was entirely consumed around him. In 1828, Chabert gave a series of performances at the Argyle Rooms in London, and created a veritable sensation. A correspondent in the London Mirror has this to say of Chabert's work at that time: "Of M. Chabert's wonderful power of withstanding the operation of the fiery element, it is in the recollection of the writer of witnessing, some few years back, this same individual (in connection with the no-less fire-proof Signora Girardelli) exhibiting 'extraordinary proofs of his supernatural power of resisting the most intense heat of every kind.' Since which an IMPROVEMENT of a more formidable nature has to our astonished fancy been just demonstrated. In the newspapers of the past week it is reported that he, in the first instance, refreshed himself with a hearty meal of phosphorus, which was, at his own request, supplied to him very liberally by several of his visitors, who were previously unacquainted with him. He washed down (they say) this infernal fare with solutions of arsenic and oxalic acid; thus throwing into the background the long-established fame of Mithridates. He next swallowed with great gout, several spoonfuls of boiling oil; and, as a dessert to this delicate repast, helped himself with his naked hands to a considerable quantity of molten lead. The experiment, however, of entering into a hot oven, together with a quantity of meat, sufficient, when cooked, to regale those of his friends who were specially invited to witness his performance, was the chef-d'oeuvre of the day. Having ordered three fagots of wood, which is the quantity generally used by bakers, to be thrown into the oven, and they being set on fire, twelve more fagots of the same size were subsequently added to them, which being all consumed by three o'clock, M. Chabert entered the oven with a dish of raw meat, and when it was sufficiently done he handed it out, took in another, and remained therein until the second quantity was also well cooked; he then came out of the oven, and sat down, continues the report, to partake, with a respectable assembly of friends, of those viands he had so closely attended during the culinary process. Publicly, on a subsequent day, and in an oven 6 feet by 7, and at a heat of about 220, he remained till a steak was properly done, and again returned to his fiery den and continued for a period of thirty minutes, in complete triumph over the power of an element so much dreaded by humankind, and so destructive to animal nature. It has been properly observed, that there are preparations which so indurate the cuticle, as to render it insensible to the heat of either boiling oil or melted lead; and the fatal qualities of certain poisons may be destroyed, if the medium through which they are imbibed, as we suppose to be the case here, is a strong alkali. Many experiments, as to the extent to which the human frame could bear heat, without the destruction of the vital powers, have been tried from time to time; but so far as recollection serves, Monsieur Chabert's fire-resisting qualities are greater than those professed by individuals who, before him, have undergone this species of ordeal." It was announced some time ago, in one of the French journals, that experiments had been tried with a female, whose fire-standing qualities had excited great astonishment. She, it appears, was placed in a heated oven, into which live dogs, cats, and rabbits were conveyed. The poor animals died in a state of convulsion almost immediately, while the Fire-queen bore the heat without complaining. In that instance, however, the heat of the oven was not so great as that which M. Chabert encountered. Much of the power to resist greater degrees of heat than can other men may be a natural gift, much the result of chemical applications, and much from having the parts indurated by long practice; probably all three are combined in this phenomenon, with some portion of artifice. In Timbs' Curiosities of London, published in 1867, I find the following: At the Argyle Rooms, London, in 1829, Mons. Chabert, the Fire-King, exhibited his powers of resisting poisons, and withstanding extreme heat. He swallowed forty grains of phosphorus, sipped oil at 333 degrees with impunity, and rubbed a red-hot fire-shovel over his tongue, hair, and face, unharmed. On September 23d, on a challenge of L50, Chabert repeated these feats and won the wager; he next swallowed a piece of burning torch; and then, dressed in coarse woolen, entered an oven heated to 380 degrees, sang a song, and cooked two dishes of beef steaks. Still, the performances were suspected, and in fact, proved to be a chemical juggle. Another challenge in the same year is recorded under the heading, "Sights of London," as follows: We were tempted on Wednesday to the Argyle Rooms by the challenge of a person of the uncommon name of J. Smith to M. Chabert, our old friend the Fire King, whom this individual dared to invite to a trial of powers in swallowing poison and being baked! The audacity of such a step quite amazed us; and expecting to see in the competitor at least a Vulcan, the God of all Smiths, was hastened to the scene of strife. Alas, our disappointment was complete! Smith had not even the courage of a blacksmith for standing fire, and yielded a stake of L50, as was stated, without a contest, to M. Chabert, on the latter coming out of his oven with his own two steaks perfectly cooked. On this occasion Chabert took 20 grains of phosphorus, swallowed oil heated to nearly 100 degrees above boiling water, took molten lead out of a ladle with his fingers and cooled it on his tongue; and, besides performing other remarkable feats, remained five minutes in the oven at a temperature of between 300 and 400 degrees by the thermometer. There was about 150 persons present, many of them medical men; and being convinced that these things were fairly done, without trickery, much astonishment was expressed. The following detailed account of the latter challenge appeared in the Chronicle, London, September, 1829. THE FIRE KING AND HIS CHALLENGER.--An advertisement appeared lately in one of the papers, in which a Mr. J. Smith after insinuating that M. Chabert practised some juggle when he appeared to enter an oven heated to five hundred degrees, and to swallow twenty grains of phosphorus, challenged him to perform the exploits which he professed to be performing daily. In consequence M. Chabert publicly accepted Mr. J. Smith's challenge for L50, requesting him to provide the poison himself. A day was fixed upon which the challenge was to be determined, and at two o'clock on that day, a number of gentlemen assembled in the Argyle-rooms, where the exhibition was to take place. At a little before three the fire-king made his appearance near his oven, and as some impatience had been exhibited, owing to the non-arrival of Mr. J. Smith, he offered to amuse the company with a few trifling experiments. He made a shovel red-hot and rubbed it over his tongue, a trick for which no credit, he said, was due, as the moisture of the tongue was sufficient to prevent any injury arising from it. He next rubbed it over his hair and face, declaring that anybody might perform the same feat by first washing themselves in a mixture of spirits of sulphur and alum, which, by cauterising the epidermis, hardened the skin to resist the fire. He put his hand into some melted lead, took a small portion of it out, placed it in his mouth, and then gave it in a solid state to some of the company. This performance, according to his account, was also very easy; for he seized only a very small particle, which, by a tight compression between the forefinger and the thumb, became cool before it reached the mouth. At this time Mr. Smith made his appearance, and M. Chabert forthwith prepared himself for mightier undertakings. A cruse of oil was brought forward and poured into a saucepan, which was previously turned upside down, to show that there was no water in it. The alleged reason for this step was, that the vulgar conjurors, who profess to drink boiling oil, place the oil in water, and drink it when the water boils, at which time the oil is not warmer than an ordinary cup of tea. He intended to drink the oil when any person might see it bubbling in the saucepan, and when the thermometer would prove that it was heated to three hundred and sixty degrees. The saucepan was accordingly placed on the fire, and as it was acquiring the requisite heat, the fire-king challenged any man living to drink a spoonful of the oil at the same temperature as that at which he was going to drink it. In a few minutes afterwards, he sipped off a spoonful with greatest apparent ease, although the spoon, from contact with the boiling fluid, had become too hot for ordinary fingers to handle. "And now, Monsieur Smith," said the fire-king, "now for your challenge. Have you prepared yourself with phosphorus, or will you take some of mine, which is laid on that table?" Mr. Smith, walked up to the table, and pulling a vial bottle out of his pocket, offered it to the poison-swallower. Fire-king--"I ask you, on your honor as a gentleman, is this genuine unmixed poison?" Mr. Smith--"It is, upon my honor." Fire-king--"Is there any medical gentleman here who will examine it?" A person in the room requested that Dr. Gordon Smith, one of the medical professors in the London University, would examine the vial, and decide whether it contained genuine phosphorus. The professor went to the table, on which the formidable collection of poisons--such as red and white arsenic, hydrocyanic acid, morphine and phosphorus--was placed, and, examining the vial, declared, that, to the best of his judgment, it was genuine phosphorus. M. Chabert asked Mr. Smith, how many grains he wished to commence his first draught with. Mr. Smith--"Twenty grains will do as a commencement." A medical gentleman then came forward and cut off two parcels of phosphorus, containing twenty grains each. He was placing them in the water, when the fire-king requested that his phosphorus might be cut into small pieces, as he did not wish the pieces to stop on their way to his stomach. The poisons were now prepared. A wine-glass contained the portion set aside for the fire-king--a tumbler the portion reserved for Mr. Smith. The Fire-king--"I suppose, gentlemen, I must begin, and to convince you that I do not juggle, I will first take off my coat, and then I will trouble you, doctor (speaking to Dr. Gordon Smith), to tie my hands together behind me. After he had been bandaged in this manner, he planted himself on one knee in the middle of the room, and requested some gentleman to place the phosphorus on his tongue and pour the water down his throat. This was accordingly done, and the water and phosphorus were swallowed together. He then opened his mouth and requested the company to look whether any portion of the phosphorus remained in his mouth. Several gentlemen examined his mouth, and declared that there was no phosphorus perceptible either upon or under his tongue. He was then by his own desire unbandaged. The fire-king forthwith turned to Mr. Smith and offered him the other glass of phosphorus. Mr. Smith started back in infinite alarm--'Not for worlds, Sir, not for worlds; I beg to decline it.' The Fire-king--"Then wherefore did you send me a challenge? You pledged your honor to drink it, if I did; I have done it; and if you are a gentleman, you must drink it too." Mr. Smith--"No, no, I must be excused: I am quite satisfied without it." Here several voices exclaimed that the bet was lost. Some said there must be a confederacy between the challenger and the challenged, and others asked whether any money had been deposited? The fire-king called a Mr. White forward, who deposed that he held the stakes, which had been regularly placed in his hands, by both parties, before twelve o'clock that morning. The fire-king here turned round with great exultation to the company, and pulling a bottle out of his pocket, exclaimed, "I did never see this gentleman before this morning, and I did not know but that he might be bold enough to venture to take this quantity of poison. I was determined not to let him lose his life by his foolish wager, and therefore I did bring an antidote in my pocket, which would have prevented him from suffering any harm." Mr. Smith said his object was answered by seeing twenty grains of genuine phosphorus swallowed. He had conceived it impossible, as three grains were quite sufficient to destroy life. The fire-king then withdrew into another room for the professed purpose of putting on his usual dress for entering the oven, but in all probability for the purpose of getting the phosphorus out of his stomach. After an absence of twenty minutes, he returned, dressed in a coarse woolen coat, to enter the heated oven. Before he entered it, a medical gentleman ascertained that his pulse was vibrating ninety-eight times a minute. He remained in the oven five minutes, during which time he sung Le Vaillant Troubadour, and superintended the cooking of two dishes of beef steaks. At the end of that time he came out, perspiring profusely, and with a pulse making one hundred and sixty-eight vibrations in a minute. The thermometer, when brought out of the oven, stood at three hundred and eighty degrees; within the oven he said it was above six hundred. Although he was suspected of trickery by many, was often challenged, and had an army of rivals and imitators, all available records show that Chabert was beyond a doubt the greatest fire and poison resister that ever appeared in London. Seeking new laurels, he came to America in 1832, and although he was successful in New York, his subsequent tour of the States was financially disastrous. He evidently saved enough from the wreck, however, to start in business, and the declining years of his eventful life were passed in the comparative obscurity of a little drug store in Grand Street. As his biographer I regret to be obliged to chronicle the fact that he made and sold an alleged specific for the White Plague, thus enabling his detractors to couple with his name the word Quack. The following article, which appeared in the New York Herald of September 1st, 1859, three days after Chabert's death, gives further details of his activities in this country: We published among the obituary notices in yesterday's Herald the death of Dr. Julian Xavier Chabert, the "Fire King," aged 67 years, of pulmonary consumption. Dr. C. was a native of France, and came to this country in 1832, and was first introduced to the public at the lecture room of the old Clinton Hall, in Nassau Street, where he gave exhibitions by entering a hot oven of his own construction, and while there gave evidence of his salamander qualities by cooking beef steaks, to the surprise and astonishment of his audiences. It was a question to many whether the Doctor's oven was red-hot or not, as he never allowed any person to approach him during the exhibition or take part in the proceedings. He made a tour of the United States in giving these exhibitions, which resulted in financial bankruptcy. At the breaking out of the cholera in 1832 he turned Doctor, and appended M.D., to his name, and suddenly his newspaper advertisements claimed for him the title of the celebrated Fire King, the curer of consumption, the maker of Chinese Lotion, etc. While the Doctor was at the height of his popularity, some wag perpetrated the following joke in a newspaper paragraph: "During some experiments he was making in chemistry last week, an explosion took place which entirely bewildered his faculties and left him in a condition bordering on the grave. He was blown into a thousand atoms. It took place on Wednesday of last week and some accounts state that it grew out of an experiment with phosphoric ether, others that it was by a too liberal indulgence in Prussic acid, an article which, from its resemblance to the peach, he was remarkably fond of having about him." The Doctor was extensively accused of quackery, and on one occasion when the Herald touched on the same subject, it brought him to our office and he exhibited diplomas, certificates and medical honors without number. The Doctor was remarkable for his prolific display of jewelry and medals of honor, and by his extensive display of beard. He found a rival in this city in the person of another French "chemist," who gave the Doctor considerable opposition and consequently much trouble. The Doctor was famous, also, for his four-horse turnouts in Broadway, alternating, when he saw proper, to a change to the "tandem" style. He married an Irish lady whom he at first supposed to be immensely rich, but after the nuptials it was discovered that she merely had a life interest in a large estate in common with several others. The Doctor, it appears, was formerly a soldier in the French Army, and quite recently he received from thence a medal of the order of St. Helena, an account of which appeared in the Herald. Prior to his death he was engaged in writing his biography (in French) and had it nearly ready for publication. Here follows a supposedly humorous speech in broken English, quoted from the London Lancet, in which the Doctor is satirized. Continuing, the articles says: "The Doctor was what was termed a 'fast liver,' and at the time of his death he kept a drug store in Grand Street, and had very little of this world's goods. He leaves three children to mourn his loss, one of them an educated physician, residing in Hoboken, N. J. Dr. C. has 'gone to that bourne whence no traveller returns,' and we fervently trust and hope that the disembodied spirits of the tens of thousands whom he has treated in this sphere will treat him with the same science with which he treated them while in this wicked world." CHAPTER FIVE FIRE-EATING MAGICIANS: CHING LING FOO AND CHUNG LING SOO.--FIRE-EATERS EMPLOYED BY MAGICIANS: THE MAN-SALAMANDER, 1816; MR. CARLTON, PROFESSOR OF CHEMISTRY, 1818; MISS CASSILLIS, AGED NINE, 1820; THE AFRICAN WONDER, 1843; LING LOOK AND YAMADEVA DIE IN CHINA DURING KELLAR'S WORLD TOUR, 1872; LING LOOK'S DOUBLE, 1879.--ELECTRICAL EFFECTS, THE SALAMBOS.--BUENO CORE.--DEL KANO.--BARNELLO.--EDWIN FORREST AS A HEAT-REGISTER.--THE ELDER SOTHERN AS A FIRE-EATER.--THE TWILIGHT OF THE ART. Many of our most noted magicians have considered it not beneath their dignity to introduce fire-eating into their programmes, either in their own work or by the employment of a "Fire Artist." Although seldom presenting it in his recent performances, Ching Ling Foo is a fire-eater of the highest type, refining the effect with the same subtle artistry that marks all the work of this super-magician. Of Foo's thousand imitators the only positively successful one was William E. Robinson, whose tragic death while in the performance of the bullet-catching trick is the latest addition to the long list of casualties chargeable to that ill-omened juggle. He carried the imitation even as far as the name, calling himself Chung Ling Soo. Robinson was very successful in the classic trick of apparently eating large quantities of cotton and blowing smoke and sparks from the mouth. His teeth were finally quite destroyed by the continued performance of this trick, the method of which may be found in Chapter Six. The employment of fire-eaters by magicians began a century ago; for in 1816 the magician Sieur Boaz, K. C., featured a performer who was billed as the "Man-Salamander." The fact that Boaz gave him a place on his programme is proof that this man was clever, but the effects there listed show nothing original. In 1818 a Mr. Carlton, Professor of Chemistry, toured England in company with Rae, the Bartholomew Fair magician. As will be seen by the handbill reproduced here, Carlton promised to explain the "Deceptive Part" of the performance, "when there is a sufficient company." In 1820 a Mr. Cassillis toured England with a juvenile company, one of the features of which was Miss Cassillis, aged nine years, whose act was a complete reproduction of the programme of Boaz, concluding her performance with the "Chinese Fire Trick." A Negro, Carlo Alberto, appeared in a benefit performance given by Herr Julian, who styled himself the "Wizard of the South," in London, on November 28th, 1843. Alberto was billed as the "Great African Wonder, the Fire King" and it was promised that he would "go through part of his wonderful performance as given by him in the principal theaters in America, in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, etc." A later number on the same bill reads: "The African Wonder, Carlo Alberto, will sing several new and popular Negro melodies." Collectors of minstrel data please take notice! In more recent times there have been a number of Negro fire-eaters, but none seems to have risen to noticeable prominence. Ling Look, one of the best of contemporary fire performers, was with Dean Harry Kellar when the latter made his famous trip around the world in 1877. Look combined fire-eating and sword-swallowing in a rather startling manner. His best effect was the swallowing of a red-hot sword.[1] Another thriller consisted in fastening a long sword to the stock of a musket; when he had swallowed about half the length of the blade, he discharged the gun and the recoil drove the sword suddenly down his throat to the very hilt. Although Look always appeared in a Chinese make-up, Dean Kellar told me that he thought his right name was Dave Gueter, and that he was born in Buda Pesth. Yamadeva, a brother of Ling Look, was also with the Kellar Company, doing cabinet manifestations and rope escapes. Both brothers died in China during this engagement, and a strange incident occurred in connection with their deaths. Just before they were to sail from Shanghai on the P. & O. steamer Khiva for Hong Kong, Yamadeva and Kellar visited the bowling alley of The Hermitage, a pleasure resort on the Bubbling Well Road. They were watching a husky sea captain, who was using a huge ball and making a "double spare" at every roll, when Yamadeva suddenly remarked, "I can handle one as heavy as that big loafer can." Suiting the action to the word, he seized one of the largest balls and drove it down the alley with all his might; but he had misjudged his own strength, and he paid for the foolhardy act with his life, for he had no sooner delivered the ball than he grasped his side and moaned with pain. He had hardly sufficient strength to get back to the ship, where he went immediately to bed and died shortly afterward. An examination showed that he had ruptured an artery. Kellar and Ling Look had much difficulty in persuading the captain to take the body to Hong Kong, but he finally consented. On the way down the Yang Tse Kiang River, Look was greatly depressed; but all at once he became strangely excited, and said that his brother was not dead, for he had just heard the peculiar whistle with which they had always called each other. The whistle was several times repeated, and was heard by all on board. Finally the captain, convinced that something was wrong, had the lid removed from the coffin, but the body of Yamadeva gave no indication of life, and all save Ling Look decided that they must have been mistaken. Poor Ling Look, however, sobbingly said to Kellar, "I shall never leave Hong Kong alive. My brother has called me to join him." This prediction was fulfilled, for shortly after their arrival in Hong Kong he underwent an operation for a liver trouble, and died under the knife. The brothers were buried in Happy Valley, Hong Kong, in the year 1877. All this was related to me at the Marlborough-Blenheim, Atlantic City, in June, 1908, by Kellar himself, and portions of it were repeated in 1917 when Dean Kellar sat by me at the Society of American Magicians' dinner. In 1879 there appeared in England a performer who claimed to be the original Ling Look. He wore his make-up both on and off the stage, and copied, so far as he could, Ling's style of work. His fame reached this country and the New York Clipper published, in its Letter Columns, an article stating that Ling Look was not dead, but was alive and working in England. His imitator had the nerve to stick to his story even when confronted by Kellar, but when the latter assured him that he had personally attended the burial of Ling, in Hong Kong, he broke down and confessed that he was a younger brother of the original Ling Look. Kellar later informed me that the resemblance was so strong that had he not seen the original Ling Look consigned to the earth, he himself would have been duped into believing that this was the man who had been with him in Hong Kong. The Salambos were among the first to use electrical effects in a fire act, combining these with the natural gas and "human volcano" stunts of their predecessors, so that they were able to present an extremely spectacular performance without having recourse to such unpleasant features as had marred the effect of earlier fire acts. Bueno Core, too, deserves honorable mention for the cleanness and snap of his act; and Del Kano should also be named among the cleverer performers. One of the best known of the modern fire-eaters was Barnello, who was a good business man as well, and kept steadily employed at a better salary than the rank and file of his contemporaries. He did a thriving business in the sale of the various concoctions used in his art, and published and sold a most complete book of formulas and general instructions for those interested in the craft. He had, indeed, many irons in the fire, and he kept them all hot. It will perhaps surprise the present generation to learn that the well-known circus man Jacob Showles was once a fire-eater, and that Del Fugo, well-known in his day as a dancer in the music halls, began as a fire-resister, and did his dance on hot iron plates. But the reader has two keener surprises in store for him before I close the long history of the heat-resisters. The first concerns our great American tragedian Edwin Forrest (1806-1872) who, according to James Rees (Colley Cibber), once essayed a fire-resisting act. Forrest was always fond of athletics and at one time made an engagement with the manager of a circus to appear as a tumbler and rider. The engagement was not fulfilled, however, as his friend Sol Smith induced him to break it and return to the legitimate stage. Smith afterwards admitted to Cibber that if Forrest had remained with the circus he would have become one of the most daring riders and vaulters that ever appeared in the ring. His adventure in fire-resistance was on the occasion of the benefit to "Charley Young," on which eventful night, as the last of his acrobatic feats, he made a flying leap through a barrel of red fire, singeing his hair and eyebrows terribly. This particular leap through fire was the big sensation of those days, and Forrest evidently had a hankering to show his friends that he could accomplish it--and he did. The second concerns an equally popular actor, a comedian this time, the elder Sothern (1826-1881). On March 20, 1878, a writer in the Chicago Inter-Ocean communicated to that paper the following curiously descriptive article: Is Mr. Sothern a medium? This is the question that fifteen puzzled investigators are asking themselves this morning, after witnessing a number of astounding manifestations at a private seance given by Mr. Sothern last night. It lacked a few minutes of 12 when a number of Mr. Sothern's friends, who had been given to understand that something remarkable was to be performed, assembled in the former's room at the Sherman House and took seats around a marble-top table, which was placed in the center of the apartment. On the table were a number of glasses, two very large bottles, and five lemons. A sprightly young gentleman attempted to crack a joke about spirits being confined in bottles, but the company frowned him down, and for once Mr. Sothern had a sober audience to begin with. There was a good deal of curiosity regarding the object of the gathering, but no one was able to explain. Each gentleman testified to the fact Mr. Sothern's agent had waited upon him, and solicited his presence at a little exhibition to be given by the actor, NOT of a comical nature. Mr. Sothern himself soon after appeared, and, after shaking hands with the party, thus addressed them: "Gentlemen, I have invited you here this evening to witness a few manifestations, demonstrations, tests, or whatever you choose to call them, which I have accidentally discovered that I am able to perform. "I am a fire-eater, as it were. (Applause). "I used to DREAD the fire, having been scorched once when an innocent child. (A laugh.) Mr. Sothern (severely)--"I HOPE there will be no levity here, and I wish to say now that demonstrations of any kind are liable to upset me, while demonstrations of a particular kind may upset the audience." Silence and decorum being restored, Mr. Sothern thus continued: "Thirteen weeks ago, while walking up Greenwich Street, in New York, I stepped into a store to buy a cigar. To show you there is no trick about it, here are cigars out of the same box from which I selected the one I that day lighted." (Here Mr. Sothern passed around a box of tolerable cigars.) "Well, I stepped to the little hanging gas-jet to light it, and, having done so, stood contemplatively holding the gas-jet and the cigar in either hand, thinking what a saving it would be to smoke a pipe, when, in my absent-mindedness, I dropped the cigar and put the gas-jet into my mouth. Strange as it may appear, I felt no pain, and stood there holding the thing in my mouth and puffing till the man in charge yelled out to me that I was swallowing his gas. Then I looked up, and, sure enough, there I was pulling away at the slender flame that came from the glass tube. "I dropped it instantly, and felt of my mouth, but noticed no inconvenience or unpleasant sensation whatever. "'What do you mean by it?' said the proprietor. "As I didn't know what I meant by it I couldn't answer, so I picked up my cigar and went home. Once there I tried the experiment again, and in doing so I found that not only my mouth, but my hands and face, indeed, all of my body, was proof against fire. I called on a physician, and he examined me, and reported nothing wrong with my flesh, which appeared to be in normal condition. I said nothing about it publicly, but the fact greatly surprised me, and I have invited you here to-night to witness a few experiments." Saying this, Mr. Sothern, who had lit a cigar while pausing in his speech, turned the fire end into his mouth and sat down, smoking unconcernedly. "I suppose you wish to give us the fire-test," remarked one of the company. Mr. Sothern nodded. There was probably never a gathering more dumbfounded than that present in the room. A few questions were asked, and then five gentlemen were appointed to examine Mr. Sothern's hands, etc., before he began his experiments. Having thoroughly washed the parts that he proposed to subject to the flames, Mr. Sothern began by burning his arm, and passing it through the gas-jet very slowly, twice stopping the motion and holding it still in the flames. He then picked up a poker with a sort of hook on the end, and proceeded to fish a small coil of wire from the grate. The wire came out fairly white with the heat. Mr. Sothern took the coil in his hands and cooly proceeded to wrap it round his left leg to the knee. Having done so, he stood on the table in the center of the circle and requested the committee to examine the wrappings and the leg and report if both were there. The committee did so and reported in the affirmative. While this was going on, there was a smile, almost seraphic in its beauty, on Mr. Sothern's face. After this an enormous hot iron, in the shape of a horseshoe, was placed on Mr. Sothern's body, where it cooled, without leaving a sign of a burn. As a final test, a tailor's goose was put on the coals, and, after being thoroughly heated, was placed on Mr. Sothern's chair. The latter lighted a fresh cigar, and then coolly took a seat on the goose without the least seeming inconvenience. During the last experiment Mr. Sothern sang in an excellent tone and voice, "I'm Sitting on the Stile, Mary." The question now is, were the fifteen auditors of Mr. Sothern fooled and deceived, or was this a genuine manifestation of extraordinary power? Sothern is such an inveterate joker that he may have put the thing upon the boys for his own amusement; but if so, it was one of the nicest tricks ever witnessed by yours truly, ONE OF THE COMMITTEE. P. S.--What is equally marvellous to me is that the fire didn't burn his clothes where it touched them, any more than his flesh. P. C. (There is nothing new in this. Mr. Sothern has long been known as one of the most expert jugglers in the profession. Some years ago he gained the soubriquet of the "Fire King!" He frequently amuses his friends by eating fire, though he long ago ceased to give public exhibitions. Probably the success of the experiments last night were largely owing to the lemons present. There is a good deal of trickery in those same lemons.--Editor Inter-Ocean.) Which suggests that the editor of the Inter-Ocean was either pretty well acquainted with the comedian's addiction to spoofing, or else less susceptible to superstition than certain scientists of our generation. The great day of the Fire-eater--or, should I say, the day of the great Fire-eater--has passed. No longer does fashion flock to his doors, nor science study his wonders, and he must now seek a following in the gaping loiterers of the circus side-show, the pumpkin-and-prize-pig country fair, or the tawdry booth at Coney Island. The credulous, wonder-loving scientist, however, still abides with us and, while his serious-minded brothers are wringing from Nature her jealously guarded secrets, the knowledge of which benefits all mankind, he gravely follows that perennial Will-of-the-wisp, spiritism, and lays the flattering unction to his soul that he is investigating "psychic phenomena," when in reality he is merely gazing with unseeing eyes on the flimsy juggling of pseudo-mediums. [1] I never saw Ling Look's work, but I know that some of the sword swallowers have made use of a sheath which was swallowed before the performance, and the swords were simply pushed into it. A sheath of this kind lined with asbestos might easily have served as a protection against the red-hot blade. CHAPTER SIX THE ARCANA OF THE FIRE-EATERS: THE FORMULA OF ALBERTUS MAGNUS.--OF HOCUS POCUS.--RICHARDSON'S METHOD.--PHILOPYRAPHAGUS ASHBURNIENSIS.--TO BREATHE FORTH SPARKS, SMOKE, AND FLAMES.--TO SPOUT NATURAL GAS.--PROFESSOR SEMENTINI'S DISCOVERIES.--TO BITE OFF RED-HOT IRON.--TO COOK IN A BURNING CAGE.--CHABERT'S OVEN. TO EAT COALS OF FIRE.--TO DRINK BURNING OIL.--TO CHEW MOLTEN LEAD.--TO CHEW BURNING BRIMSTONE.--TO WREATHE THE FACE IN FLAMES.--TO IGNITE PAPER WITH THE BREATH.--TO DRINK BOILING LIQUOR AND EAT FLAMING WAX. The yellow thread of exposure seems to be inextricably woven into all fabrics whose strength is secrecy, and experience proves that it is much easier to become fireproof than to become exposure proof. It is still an open question, however, as to what extent exposure really injures a performer. Exposure of the secrets of the fire-eaters, for instance, dates back almost to the beginning of the art itself. The priests were exposed, Richardson was exposed, Powell was exposed and so on down the line; but the business continued to prosper, the really clever performers drew quite fashionable audiences for a long time, and it was probably the demand for a higher form of entertainment, resulting from a refinement of the public taste, rather than the result of the many exposures, that finally relegated the Fire-eaters to the haunts of the proletariat. How the early priests came into possession of these secrets does not appear, and if there were ever any records of this kind the Church would hardly allow them to become public. That they used practically the same system which has been adopted by all their followers is amply proved by the fact that after trial by ordeal had been abolished Albertus Magnus, in his work De Mirabilibus Mundi, at the end of his book De Secretis Mulierum, Amstelod, 1702, made public the underlying principles of heat-resistance; namely, the use of certain compounds which render the exposed parts to a more or less extent impervious to heat. Many different formulas have been discovered which accomplish the purpose, but the principle remains unchanged. The formula set down by Albertus Magnus was probably the first ever made public: the following translation of it is from the London Mirror: Take juice of marshmallow, and white of egg, flea-bane seeds, and lime; powder them and mix juice of radish with the white of egg; mix all thoroughly and with this composition annoint your body or hand and allow it to dry and afterwards annoint it again, and after this you may boldly take up hot iron without hurt. "Such a paste," says the correspondent to the Mirror, "would indeed be very visible." Another early formula is given in the 1763 edition of Hocus Pocus. Examination of the different editions of this book in my library discloses the fact that there are no fire formulas in the second edition, 1635, which is the earliest I have (first editions are very rare and there is only one record of a sale of that edition at auction). From the fact that this formula was published during the time that Powell was appearing in England I gather that that circumstance may account for its addition to the book. It does not appear in the German or Dutch editions. The following is an exact copy: HOW TO WALK ON A HOT IRON BAR WITHOUT ANY DANGER OF SCALDING OR BURNING. Take half an ounce of samphire, dissolve it in two ounces of aquaevitae, add to it one ounce of quicksilver, one ounce of liquid storax, which is the droppings of Myrrh and hinders the camphire from firing; take also two ounces of hematitus, a red stone to be had at the druggist's, and when you buy it let them beat it to powder in their great mortar, for it is so very hard that it cannot be done in a small one; put this to the afore-mentioned composition, and when you intend to walk on the bar you must annoint your feet well therewith, and you may walk over without danger: by this you may wash your hands in boiling lead. This was the secret modus operandi made use of by Richardson, the first notably successful fire artist to appear in Europe, and it was disclosed by his servant.[1] Hone's Table Book, London, 1827, page 315, gives Richardson's method as follows: It consisted only in rubbing the hands and thoroughly washing the mouth, lips, tongue, teeth and other parts which were to touch the fire, with pure spirits of sulphur. This burns and cauterizes the epidermis or upper skin, till it becomes as hard and thick as leather, and each time the experiment is tried it becomes still easier. But if, after it has been very often repeated the upper skin should grow so callous and hard as to become troublesome, washing the parts affected with very warm water, or hot wine, will bring away all the shrivelled or parched epidermis. The flesh, however, will continue tender and unfit for such business till it has been frequently rubbed over with the same spirit. This preparation may be rendered much stronger and more efficacious by mixing equal quantities of spirit of sulphur, sal ammoniac, essence of rosemary and juice of onions. The bad effects which frequently swallowing red-hot coals, melted sealing wax, rosin, brimstone and other calcined and inflammable matter, might have had upon his stomach were prevented by drinking plentifully of warm water and oil, as soon as he left the company, till he had vomited it all up again. This anecdote was communicated to the author of the Journal des Savants by Mr. Panthot, Doctor of Physics and Member of the College at Lyons. It appeared at the time Powell was showing his fire-eating stunts in London, and the correspondent naively added: Whether Mr. Powell will take it kindly of me thus to have published his secret I cannot tell; but as he now begins to drop into years, has no children that I know of and may die suddenly, or without making a will, I think it a great pity so genteel an occupation should become one of the artes perditae, as possibly it may, if proper care is not taken, and therefore hope, after this information, some true-hearted ENGLISHMAN will take it up again, for the honor of his country, when he reads in the newspapers, "Yesterday, died, much lamented, the famous Mr. Powell. He was the best, if not the only, fire-eater in the world, and it is greatly to be feared that his art is dead with him." After a couple of columns more in a similar strain, the correspondent signs himself Philopyraphagus Ashburniensis. In his History of Inventions, Vol. III, page 272, 1817 edition, Beckmann thus describes the process: The deception of breathing out flames, which at present excites, in a particular manner, the astonishment of the ignorant, is very ancient. When the slaves in Sicily, about a century and a half before our era, made a formidable insurrection, and avenged themselves in a cruel manner, for the severities which they had suffered, there was amongst them a Syrian named Eunus--a man of great craft and courage; who having passed through many scenes of life, had become acquainted with a variety of arts. He pretended to have immediate communication with the gods; was the oracle and leader of his fellow-slaves; and, as is usual on such occasions confirmed his divine mission by miracles. When heated by enthusiasm and desirous of inspiring his followers with courage, he breathed flames or sparks among them from his mouth while he was addressing them. We are told by historians that for this purpose he pierced a nut shell at both ends, and, having filled it with some burning substance, put it into his mouth and breathed through it. This deception, at present, is performed much better. The juggler rolls together some flax or hemp, so as to form a ball about the size of a walnut; sets it on fire; and suffers it to burn until it is nearly consumed; he then rolls round it, while burning, some more flax; and by these means the fire may be retained in it for a long time. When he wishes to exhibit he slips the ball unperceived into his mouth, and breathes through it; which again revives the fire, so that a number of weak sparks proceed from it; and the performer sustains no hurt, provided he inspire the air not through the mouth, but the nostrils. By this art the Rabbi Bar-Cocheba, in the reign of the Emperor Hadrian, made the credulous Jews believe that he was the hoped-for Messiah; and two centuries after, the Emperor Constantius was thrown into great terror when Valentinian informed him that he had seen one of the body-guards breathing out fire and flames in the evening. Since Beckmann wrote, the method of producing smoke and sparks from the mouth has been still further improved. The fire can now be produced in various ways. One way is by the use of a piece of thick cotton string which has been soaked in a solution of nitre and then thoroughly dried. This string, when once lighted, burns very slowly and a piece one inch long is sufficient for the purpose. Some performers prefer a small piece of punk, as it requires no preparation. Still others use tinder made by burning linen rags, as our forefathers used to do. This will not flame, but merely smoulders until the breath blows it into a glow. The tinder is made by charring linen rags, that is, burning them to a crisp, but stopping the combustion before they are reduced to ashes. Flames from the lips may be produced by holding in the mouth a sponge saturated with the purest gasoline. When the breath is exhaled sharply it can be lighted from a torch or a candle. Closing the lips firmly will extinguish the flame. A wad of oakum will give better results than the sponge. Natural gas is produced as simply. A T-shaped gas pipe has three or four gas tips on the cross-piece. The long end is placed in the mouth, which already holds concealed a sponge, or preferably a ball of oakum, saturated with pure gasoline. Blowing through the pipe will force the gas through the tips, where it can be ignited with a match. It will burn as long as the breath lasts. In a London periodical, The Terrific Record, appears a reprint from the Mercure de France, giving an account of experiments in Naples which led to the discovery of the means by which jugglers have appeared to be incombustible. They first gradually habituate the skin, the mouth, throat and stomach to great degrees of heat, then they rub the skin with hard soap. The tongue is also covered with hard soap and over that a layer of powdered sugar. By this means an investigating professor was enabled to reproduce the wonders which had puzzled many scientists. The investigating professor in all probability, was Professor Sementini, who experimented with Lionetto. I find an account of Sementini's discoveries in an old newspaper clipping, the name and date of which have unfortunately been lost: Sementini's efforts, after performing several experiments upon himself, were finally crowned with success. He found that by friction with sulphuric acid deluted with water, the skin might be made insensible to the action of the heat of red-hot iron; a solution of alum, evaporated till it became spongy, appeared to be more effectual in these frictions. After having rubbed the parts which were thus rendered in some degree insensible, with hard soap, he discovered, on the application of hot iron, that their insensibility was increased. He then determined on again rubbing the parts with soap, and after that found that the hot iron not only occasioned no pain but that it actually did not burn the hair. Being thus far satisfied, the Professor applied hard soap to his tongue until it became insensible to the heat of the iron; and having placed an ointment composed of soap mixed with a solution of alum upon it, burning oil did not burn it; while the oil remained on the tongue a slight hissing was heard, similar to that of hot iron when thrust into water; the oil soon cooled and might then be swallowed without danger. Several scientific men have since repeated the experiments of Professor Sementini, but we would not recommend any except professionals to try the experiments. Liquid storax is now used to anoint the tongue when red-hot irons are to be placed in the mouth. It is claimed that with this alone a red-hot poker can be licked until it is cold. Another formula is given by Griffin, as follows: 1 bar ivory soap, cut fine, 1 pound of brown sugar, 2 ounces liquid storax (not the gum). Dissolve in hot water and add a wine-glassful of carbolic acid. This is rubbed on all parts liable to come in contact with the hot articles. After anointing the mouth with this solution rinse with strong vinegar. No performer should attempt to bite off red-hot iron unless he has a good set of teeth. A piece of hoop iron may be prepared by bending it back and forth at a point about one inch from the end, until the fragment is nearly broken off, or by cutting nearly through it with a cold chisel. When the iron has been heated red-hot, the prepared end is taken between the teeth, a couple of bends will complete the break. The piece which drops from the teeth into a dish of water will make a puff of steam and a hissing sound, which will demonstrate that it is still very hot. The mystery of the burning cage, in which the Fire King remains while a steak is thoroughly cooked, is explained by Barnello as follows: Have a large iron cage constructed about 4 x 6 feet, the bottom made of heavy sheet iron. The cage should stand on iron legs or horses. Wrap each of the bars of the cage with cotton batting saturated with oil. Now take a raw beefsteak in your hand and enter the cage, which is now set on fire. Remain in the cage until the fire has burned out, then issue from the cage with the steak burned to a crisp. Explanation: On entering the cage the performer places the steak on a large iron hook which is fastened in one of the upper corners. The dress worn is of asbestos cloth with a hood that completely covers the head and neck. There is a small hole over the mouth through which he breathes. As soon as the fire starts the smoke and flames completely hide the performer from the spectators, and he immediately lies down on the bottom of the cage, placing the mouth over one of the small air holes in the floor of the same. Heat always goes up and will soon cook the steak. I deduce from the above that the performer arises and recovers the steak when the fire slackens but while there is still sufficient flame and smoke to mask his action. It is obvious that the above explanation covers the baker's oven mystery as well. In the case of the oven, however, the inmate is concealed from start to finish, and this gives him much greater latitude for his actions. M. Chabert made the oven the big feature of his programme and succeeded in puzzling many of the best informed scientists of his day. Eating coals of fire has always been one of the sensational feats of the Fire Kings, as it is quite generally known that charcoal burns with an extremely intense heat. This fervent lunch, however, like many of the feasts of the Fire Kings, is produced by trick methods. Mixed with the charcoal in the brazier are a few coals of soft white pine, which when burnt look exactly like charcoal. These will not burn the mouth as charcoal will. They should be picked up with a fork which will penetrate the pine coals, but not the charcoal, the latter being brittle. Another method of eating burning coals employs small balls of burned cotton in a dish of burning alcohol. When lifted on the fork these have the appearance of charcoal, but are harmless if the mouth be immediately closed, so that the flame is extinguished. In all feats of fire-eating it should be noted that the head is thrown well back, so that the flame may pass out of the open mouth instead of up into the roof, as it would if the head were held naturally. To drink burning oil set fire to a small quantity of kerosene in a ladle. Into this dip an iron spoon and bring it up to all appearance, filled with burning oil, though in reality the spoon is merely wet with the oil. It is carried blazing to the mouth, where it is tipped, as if to pour the oil into the mouth, just as a puff of breath blows out all the flame. The process is continued until all the oil in the ladle has been consumed; then the ladle is turned bottom up, in order to show that all the oil has been drunk. A method of drinking what seems to be molten lead is given in the Chambers' Book of Days, 1863, Vol. II, page 278: The performer taking an iron spoon, holds it up to the spectators, to show that it is empty; then, dipping it into a pot containing melted lead, he again shows it to the spectators full of the molten metal; then, after putting the spoon in his mouth, he once more shows it to be empty; and after compressing his lips, with a look expressive of pain, he, in a few moments, ejects from his mouth a piece of lead impressed with the exact form of his teeth. Ask a spectator what he saw, and he will say that the performer took a spoonful of molten lead, placed it in his mouth, and soon afterwards showed it in a solid state, bearing the exact form and impression of his teeth. If deception be insinuated, the spectator will say. "No! Having the evidence of my senses, I cannot be deceived; if it had been a matter of opinion I might, but seeing, you know, is believing." Now the piece of lead, cast from a plaster mould of the performer's teeth, has probably officiated in a thousand previous performances, and is placed in the mouth between the gum and the cheek, just before the trick commences. The spoon is made with a hollow handle containing quicksilver, which, by a simple motion, can be let run into the bowl, or back again into the handle at will. The spoon is first shown with the quicksilver concealed in the handle, the bowl is then dipped just within the rim of the pot containing the molten lead, but not into the lead itself, and, at the same instant the quicksilver is allowed to run into the bowl. The spoon is then shown with the quicksilver (which the audience takes to be the melted lead) in the bowl, and when placed in the mouth, the quicksilver is again allowed to run into the handle. The performer, in fact, takes a spoonful of nothing, and soon after exhibits the lead bearing the impression of the teeth. Molten lead, for fire-eating purposes, is made as follows: Bismuth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 oz. Lead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 oz. Block tin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 oz. Melt these together. When the metal has cooled, a piece the size of a silver quarter can be melted and taken into the mouth and held there until it hardens. This alloy will melt in boiling water. Robert-Houdin calls it Arcet's metal, but I cannot find the name elsewhere. The eating of burning brimstone is an entirely fake performance. A number of small pieces of brimstone are shown, and then wrapped in cotton which has been saturated with a half-and-half mixture of kerosene and gasoline, the surplus oil having been squeezed out so there shall be NO DRIP. When these are lighted they may be held in the palm of any hand which has been anointed with one of the fire mixtures described in this chapter. Then throw back the head, place the burning ball in the mouth, and a freshly extinguished candle can be lighted from the flame. Close the lips firmly, which will extinguish the flame, then chew and pretend to swallow the brimstone, which can afterwards be removed under cover of a handkerchief. Observe that the brimstone has not been burned at all, and that the cotton protects the teeth. To add to the effect, a small piece of brimstone may be dropped into the furnace, a very small piece will suffice to convince all that it is the genuine article that is being eaten. To cause the face to appear in a mass of flame make use of the following: mix together thoroughly petroleum, lard, mutton tallow and quick lime. Distill this over a charcoal fire, and the liquid which results can be burned on the face without harm.[2] To set paper on fire by blowing upon it, small pieces of wet phosphorus are taken into the mouth, and a sheet of tissue paper is held about a foot from the lips. While the paper is being blown upon the phosphorus is ejected on it, although this passes unnoticed by the spectators, and as soon as the continued blowing has dried the phosphorus it will ignite the paper. Drinking boiling liquor is accomplished by using a cup with a false bottom, under which the liquor is retained. A solution of spermaceti in sulphuric ether tinged with alkanet root, which solidifies at 50 degrees F., and melts and boils with the heat of the hand, is described in Beckmann's History of Inventions, Vol. II., page 121. Dennison's No. 2 sealing wax may be melted in the flame of a candle and, while still blazing, dropped upon the tongue without causing a burn, as the moisture of the tongue instantly cools it. Care must be used, however, that none touches the hands or lips. It can be chewed, and apparently swallowed, but removed in the handkerchief while wiping the lips. The above is the method practiced by all the Fire-Eaters, and absolutely no preparation is necessary except that the tongue must be well moistened with saliva. Barnello once said, "A person wishing to become a Fire-Eater must make up his or her mind to suffer a little at first from burns, as there is no one who works at the business but that gets burns either from carelessness or from accident." This is verified by the following, which I clip from the London Globe of August 11th, 1880: Accident to a Fire-Eater. A correspondent telegraphs: A terrible scene was witnessed in the market place, Leighton Buzzard, yesterday. A travelling Negro fire eater was performing on a stand, licking red-hot iron, bending heated pokers with his naked foot, burning tow in his mouth, and the like. At last he filled his mouth with benzolene, saying that he would burn it as he allowed it to escape. He had no sooner applied a lighted match to his lips than the whole mouthful of spirit took fire and before it was consumed the man was burned in a frightful manner, the blazing spirit running all over his face, neck and chest as he dashed from his stand and raced about like a madman among the assembled crowd, tearing his clothing from him and howling in most intense agony. A portion of the spirit was swallowed and the inside of his mouth was also terribly burnt. He was taken into a chemist's shop and oils were administered and applied, but afterwards in agonizing frenzy he escaped in a state almost of nudity from a lodging house and was captured by the police and taken to the work-house infirmary, where he remains in a dreadful condition. REMEMBER! Always have a large blanket at hand to smother flames in burning clothing--also a bucket of water and a quantity of sand. A siphon of carbonic water is an excellent fire extinguisher. The gas of gasoline is heavier than air, so a container should never be held ABOVE a flame. Keep kerosene and gasoline containers well corked and at a distance from fire. Never inhale breath while performing with fire. FLAME DRAWN INTO THE LUNGS IS FATAL TO LIFE. So much for the entertaining side of the art. There are, however, some further scientific principles so interesting that I reserve them for another chapter. [1] Such disloyalty in trusted servants is one of the most disheartening things that can happen to a public performer. But it must not be thought that I say this out of personal experience: for in the many years that I have been before the public my secret methods have been steadily shielded by the strict integrity of my assistants, most of whom have been with me for years. Only one man ever betrayed my confidence, and that only in a minor matter. But then, so far as I know, I am the only performer who ever pledged his assistants to secrecy, honor and allegiance under a notarial oath. [3] Barnello's Red Demon. CHAPTER SEVEN THE SPHEROIDAL CONDITION OF LIQUIDS.--WHY THE HAND MAY BE DIPPED IN MOLTEN METALS.--PRINCIPLES OF HEAT-RESISTANCE PUT TO PRACTICAL USES: ALDINI, 1829.--IN EARLY FIRE-FIGHTING. TEMPERATURES THE BODY CAN ENDURE. The spheroidal condition of liquids was discovered by Leidenfrost, but M. Boutigny was the first to give this singular subject careful investigation. From time out of mind the test of letting a drop of water fall on the face of a hot flat-iron has been employed to discover whether it may safely be used. Everybody knows that if it is not too hot the water will spread over the surface and evaporate; but if it is too hot, the water will glance off without wetting the iron, and if this drop be allowed to fall on the hand it will be found that it is still cool. The fact is that the water never touches the hot iron at all, provided the heat is sufficiently intense, but assumes a slightly elliptical shape and is supported by a cushion of vapor. If, instead of a flat-iron, we use a concave metal disk about the size and shape of a watch crystal, some very interesting results may be obtained. If the temperature of the disk is at, or slightly above, the boiling point, water dropped on it from a medicine dropper will boil; but if the disk is heated to 340 degrees F., the drop practically retains its roundness--becoming only slightly oblate--and does not boil. In fact the temperature never rises above 206 degrees F., since the vapor is so rapidly evaporated from the surface of the drop that it forms the cushion just mentioned. By a careful manipulation of the dropper, the disk may be filled with water which, notwithstanding the intense heat, never reaches the boiling point. On the other hand, if boiling water be dropped on the superheated disk its temperature will immediately be REDUCED to six degrees below the boiling point; thus the hot metal really cools the water. By taking advantage of the fact that different liquids assume a spheroidal form at widely different temperatures, one may obtain some startling results. For example, liquid sulphurous acid is so volatile as to have a temperature of only 13 degrees F. when in that state, or 19 degrees below the freezing point of water, so that if a little water be dropped into the acid, it will immediately freeze and the pellet of ice may be dropped into the hand from the still red-hot disk. Even mercury can be frozen in this way by a combination of chemicals. Through the action of this principle it is possible to dip the hand for a short time into melted lead, or even into melted copper, the moisture of the skin supplying a vapor which prevents direct contact with the molten metal; no more than an endurable degree of heat reaches the hand while the moisture lasts, although the temperature of the fusing copper is 1996 degrees. The natural moisture of the hand is usually sufficient for this result, but it is better to wipe the hand with a damp towel. In David A. Wells' Things not Generally Known, New York, 1857, I find a translation of an article by M. Boutigny in The Comptes Rendus, in which he notes that "the portion of the hands which are not immersed in the fused metal, but are exposed to the action of the heat radiated from its surface, experience a painful sensation of heat." He adds that when the hand was dampened with ether "there was no sensation of heat, but, on the contrary, an agreeable feeling of coolness." Beckmann, in his History of Inventions, Vol. II., page 122, says: In the month of September, 1765, when I visited the copper works at Awested, one of the workmen, for a little drink money, took some of the melted copper in his hand, and after showing it to us, threw it against the wall. He then squeezed the fingers of his horny hand close together, put it for a few minutes under his armpit, to make it sweat, as he said; and, taking it again out, drew it over a ladle filled with melted copper, some of which he skimmed off, and moved his hand backwards and forwards, very quickly, by way of ostentation. While I was viewing this performance, I remarked a smell like that of singed horn or leather, though his hand was not burnt. The workmen at the Swedish melting-house showed the same thing to some travellers in the seventeenth century; for Regnard saw it in 1681, at the copper-works in Lapland. My friend Quincy Kilby, of Brookline, Mass., saw the same stunt performed by workmen at the Meridan Brittania Company's plant. They told him that if the hand had been wet it would have been badly scalded. Thus far our interest in heat-resistance has uncovered secrets of no very great practical value, however entertaining the uses to which we have seen them put. But not all the investigation of these principles has been dictated by considerations of curiosity and entertainment. As long ago as 1829, for instance, an English newspaper printed the following: Proof against Fire--On Tuesday week an experiment was made in presence of a Committee of the Academy of Sciences at Paris, by M. Aldini, for the purpose of showing that he can secure the body against the action of flames so as to enable firemen to carry on their operations with safety. His experiment is stated to have given satisfaction. The pompiers were clothed in asbestos, over which was a network of iron. Some of them, it was stated, who wore double gloves of amianthus, held a red-hot bar during four minutes. Sir David Brewster, in his Letters on Natural Magic, page 305, gives a more detailed account of Aldini, from which the natural deduction is that the Chevalier was a showman with an intellect fully up to the demands of his art. Sir David says: In our own times the art of defending the hands and face, and indeed the whole body, from the action of heated iron and intense fire, has been applied to the nobler purpose of saving human life, and rescuing property from the flames. The revival and the improvement of this art we owe to the benevolence and the ingenuity of the Chevalier Aldini of Milan, who has travelled through all Europe to present this valuable gift to his species. Sir H. Davy had long ago shown that a safety lamp for illuminating mines, containing inflammable air, might be constructed of wire-gauze, alone, which prevented the flame within, however large or intense, from setting fire to the inflammable air without. This valuable property, which has been long in practical use, he ascribed to the conducting and radiating power of the wire-gauze, which carried off the heat of the flame, and deprived it of its power. The Chevalier Aldini conceived the idea of applying the same material, in combination with other badly conducting substances, as a protection against fire. The incombustible pieces of dress which he uses for the body, arms, and legs, are formed out of strong cloth, which has been steeped in a solution of alum, while those for the head, hands, and feet, are made of cloth of asbestos or amianthus. The head dress is a large cap which envelops the whole head down to the neck, having suitable perforations for the eyes, nose, and mouth. The stockings and cap are single, but the gloves are made of double amianthus cloth, to enable the fireman to take into his hand burning or red-hot bodies. The piece of ancient asbestos cloth preserved in the Vatican was formed, we believe, by mixing the asbestos with other fibrous substances; but M. Aldini has executed a piece of nearly the same size, 9 feet 5 inches long, and 5 feet 3 inches wide, which is much stronger than the ancient piece, and possesses superior qualities, in consequence of having been woven without the introduction of any foreign substance. In this manufacture the fibers are prevented from breaking by action of steam, the cloth is made loose in its fabric, and the threads are about the fiftieth of an inch in diameter. The metallic dress which is superadded to these means of defence consists of five principal pieces, viz., a casque or cap, with a mask large enough to leave a proper space between it and the asbestos cap; a cuirass with its brassets; a piece of armour for the trunk and thighs; a pair of boots of double wire-gauze; and an oval shield 5 feet long by 2 1/2 feet wide, made by stretching the wire-gauze over a slender frame of iron. All these pieces are made of iron wire-gauze, having the interval between its threads the twenty-fifth part of an inch. In order to prove the efficacy of this apparatus, and inspire the firemen with confidence in its protection, he showed them that a finger first enveloped in asbestos, and then in a double case of wire-gauze, might be held a long time in the flame of a spirit-lamp or candle before the heat became inconvenient. A fireman having his hand within a double asbestos glove, and its palm protected by a piece of asbestos cloth, seized with impunity a large piece of red hot iron, carried it deliberately to the distance of 150 feet, inflamed straw with it, and brought it back again to the furnace. On other occasions the fireman handled blazing wood and burning substances, and walked during five minutes upon an iron grating placed over flaming fagots. In order to show how the head, eyes, and lungs are protected, the fireman put on the asbestos and wire-gauze cap, and the cuirass, and held the shield before his breast. A fire of shavings was then lighted, and kept burning in a large raised chafing-dish; the fireman plunged his head into the middle of the flames with his face to the fuel, and in that position went several times round the chafing-dish for a period longer than a minute. In a subsequent trial, at Paris, a fireman placed his head in the middle of a large brazier filled with flaming hay and wood, and resisted the action of the fire during five or six minutes and even ten minutes. In the experiments which were made at Paris in the presence of a committee of the Academy of Sciences, two parallel rows of straw and brushwood supported by iron wires, were formed at the distance of 3 feet from each other, and extended 30 feet in length. When this combustible mass was set on fire, it was necessary to stand at a distance of 8 or 10 yards to avoid the heat. The flames from both the rows seemed to fill up the whole space between them, and rose to the height of 9 or 10 feet. At this moment six firemen, clothed in the incombustible dresses, and marching at a slow pace behind each other, repeatedly passed through the whole length between the two rows of flame, which were constantly fed with additional combustibles. One of the firemen carried on his back a child eight years old, in a wicker-basket covered with metallic gauze, and the child had no other dress than a cap made of amianthine cloth. In February, 1829, a still more striking experiment was made in the yard of the barracks of St. Gervais. Two towers were erected two stories high, and were surrounded with heaps of inflamed materials consisting of fagots and straw. The firemen braved the danger with impunity. In opposition to the advice of M. Aldini, one of them, with the basket and child, rushed into a narrow place, where the flames were raging 8 yards high. The violence of the fire was so great that he could not be seen, while a thick black smoke spread around, throwing out a heat which was unsupportable by spectators. The fireman remained so long invisible that serious doubts were entertained of his safety. He at length, however, issued from the fiery gulf uninjured, and proud of having succeeded in braving so great a danger. It is a remarkable result of these experiments, that the firemen are able to breathe without difficulty in the middle of the flames. This effect is owing not only to the heat being intercepted by the wire-gauze as it passes to the lungs, in consequence of which its temperature becomes supportable, but also to the singular power which the body possesses of resisting great heats, and of breathing air of high temperatures. A series of curious experiments were made on this subject by M. Tillet, in France, and by Dr. Fordyce and Sir Charles Blagden, in England. Sir Joseph Banks, Dr. Solander, and Sir Charles Blagden entered a room in which the air had a temperature of 198 degrees Fahr., and remained ten minutes; but as the thermometer sunk very rapidly, they resolved to enter the room singly. Dr. Solander went in alone and found the heat 210 degrees, and Sir Joseph entered when the heat was 211 degrees. Though exposed to such an elevated temperature, their bodies preserved their natural degree of heat. Whenever they breathed upon a thermometer it sunk several degrees; every expiration, particularly if strongly made, gave a pleasant impression of coolness to their nostrils, and their cold breath cooled their fingers whenever it reached them. On touching his side, Sir Charles Blagden found it cold like a corpse, and yet the heat of his body under his tongue was 98 degrees. Hence they concluded that the human body possesses the power of destroying a certain degree of heat when communicated with a certain degree of quickness. This power, however, varies greatly in different media. The same person who experienced no inconvenience from air heated to 211 degrees, could just bear rectified spirits of wine at 130 degrees, cooling oil at 129 degrees, cooling water at 123 degrees, and cooling quicksilver at 118 degrees. A familiar instance of this occurred in the heated room. All the pieces of metal there, even their watch-chains, felt so hot that they could scarcely bear to touch them for a moment, while the air from which the metal had derived all its heat was only unpleasant. M. Duhamel and Tillet observed, at Rochefoucault in France, that the girls who were accustomed to attend ovens in a bakehouse, were capable of enduring for ten minutes a temperature of 270 degrees. The same gentleman who performed the experiments above described ventured to expose themselves to still higher temperatures. Sir Charles Blagden went into a room where the heat was 1 degree or 2 degrees above 260 degrees, and remained eight minutes in this situation, frequently walking about to all the different parts of the room, but standing still most of the time in the coolest spot, where the heat was above 240 degrees. The air, though very hot, gave no pain, and Sir Charles and all the other gentlemen were of opinion that they could support a much greater heat. During seven minutes Sir C. Blagden's breathing continued perfectly good, but after that time he felt an oppression in his lungs, with a sense of anxiety, which induced him to leave the room. His pulse was then 144, double its ordinary quickness. In order to prove that there was no mistake respecting the degree of heat indicated by the thermometer, and that the air which they breathed was capable of producing all the well-known effects of such a heat on inanimate matter, they placed some eggs and a beef-steak upon a tin frame near the thermometer, but more distant from the furnace than from the wall of the room. In the space of twenty minutes the eggs were roasted quite hard, and in forty-seven minutes the steak was not only dressed, but almost dry. Another beef-steak, similarly placed, was rather overdone in thirty-three minutes. In the evening, when the heat was still more elevated, a third beef-steak was laid in the same place, and as they had noticed that the effect of the hot air was greatly increased by putting it in motion, they blew upon the steak with a pair of bellows, and thus hastened the dressing of it to such a degree, that the greatest portion of it was found to be pretty well done in thirteen minutes. Our distinguished countryman, Sir F. Chantrey, has very recently exposed himself to a temperature still higher than any which we have mentioned. The furnace which he employs for drying his moulds is about 14 feet long, 12 feet high, and 12 feet broad. When it is raised to its highest temperature, with the doors closed, the thermometer stands at 350 degrees, and the iron floor is red hot. The workmen often enter it at a temperature of 340 degrees, walking over the iron floor with wooden clogs, which are of course charred on the surface. On one occasion Sir F. Chantrey, accompanied by five or six of his friends, entered the furnace, and, after remaining two minutes, they brought out a thermometer which stood at 320 degrees. Some of the party experienced sharp pains in the tips of their ears, and in the septum of the nose, while others felt a pain in their eyes. CHAPTER EIGHT SWORD-SWALLOWERS: CLIQUOT, DELNO FRITZ, DEODATA, A RAZOR-SWALLOWER, AN UMBRELLA-SWALLOWER, WILLIAM DEMPSTER, JOHN CUMMING, EDITH CLIFFORD, VICTORINA. It has sometimes been noted in the foregoing pages, that fire-eaters, finding it difficult to invent new effects in their own sphere, have strayed into other fields of endeavor in order to amplify their programmes. Thus we find them resorting to the allied arts of poison-eating, sword-swallowing and the stunts of the so-called Human Ostrich. In this connection I consider it not out of place for me to include a description of a number of those who have, either through unusual gifts of nature or through clever artifice, seemingly submitted to tests which we have been taught to believe were far and away beyond the outposts of human endurance. By the introduction of these thrills each notable newcomer has endeavored to go his predecessors one better, and the issue of challenges to all comers to match these startling effects has been by no means infrequent, but I fail to discover a single acceptance of such a challenge. To accomplish the sword-swallowing feat, it is only necessary to overcome the nausea that results from the metal's touching the mucous membrane of the pharynx, for there is an unobstructed passage, large enough to accommodate several of the thin blades used, from the mouth to the bottom of the stomach. This passage is not straight, but the passing of the sword straightens it. Some throats are more sensitive than others, but practice will soon accustom any throat to the passage of the blade. When a sword with a sharp point is used the performer secretly slips a rubber cap over the point to guard against accident. It is said that the medical fraternity first learned of the possibility of overcoming the sensitiveness of the pharynx by investigating the methods of the sword-swallowers. Cliquot, who was one of the most prominent sword-swallowers of his time, finally "reformed" and is now a music hall agent in England. The Strand Magazine (1896) has this to say of Cliquot and his art: The Chevalier Cliquot (these fellows MUST have titles) in the act of swallowing the major part of a cavalry sword 22 inches long. Cliquot, whose name suggests the swallowing of something much more grateful and comforting than steel swords, is a French Canadian by birth, and has been the admitted chief in his profession for more than 18 years. He ran away from his home in Quebec at an early age, and joined a travelling circus bound for South America. On seeing an arrant old humbug swallow a small machete, in Buenos Ayres, the boy took a fancy to the performance, and approached the old humbug aforesaid with the view of being taught the business. Not having any money, however, wherewith to pay the necessary premium, the overtures of the would-be apprentice were repulsed; whereupon he set about experimenting with his own aesophagus with a piece of silver wire. To say the preliminary training for this sort of thing is painful, is to state the fact most moderately; and even when stern purpose has triumphed over the laws of anatomy, terrible danger still remains. On one occasion having swallowed a sword, and then bent his body in different directions, as an adventurous sensation, Cliquot found that the weapon also had bent to a sharp angle; and quick as thought, realizing his own position as well as that of the sword, he whipped it out, tearing his throat in a dreadful manner. Plainly, had the upper part of the weapon become detached, the sword swallower's career must infallibly have come to an untimely end. Again, in New York, when swallowing 14 nine-inch bayonet swords at once, Cliquot had the misfortune to have a too sceptical audience, one of whom, a medical man who ought to have known better, rushed forward and impulsively dragged out the whole bunch, inflicting such injuries upon this peculiar entertainer as to endanger his life, and incapacitate him for months. In one of his acts Cliquot swallows a real bayonet sword, weighted with a cross-bar, and two 18-lib. dumb bells. In order to vary this performance, the sword-swallower allows only a part of the weapon to pass into his body, the remainder being "kicked" down by the recoil of a rifle, which is fixed to a spike in the centre of the bar, and fired by the performer's sister. The last act in this extraordinary performance is the swallowing of a gold watch. As a rule, Cliquot borrows one, but as no timepiece was forthcoming at the private exhibition where I saw him, he proceeded to lower his own big chronometer into his aesophagus by a slender gold chain. Many of the most eminent physicians and surgeons in this country immediately rushed forward with various instruments, and the privileged few took turns in listening for the ticking of the watch inside the performer's body. "Poor, outraged nature is biding her time," remarked one physician, "but mark me, she will have a terrible revenge sooner or later!" Eaters of glass, tacks, pebbles, and like objects, actually swallow these seemingly impossible things, and disgorge them after the performance is over. That the disgorging is not always successful is evidenced by the hospital records of many surgical operations on performers of this class, when quantities of solid matter are found lodged in the stomach. Delno Fritz was not only an excellent sword-swallower, but a good showman as well. The last time I saw him he was working the "halls" in England. I hope he saved his money, for he was a clean man with a clean reputation, and, I can truly say, he was a master in his manner of indulging his appetite for the cold steel. Deodota, an Italian Magician, was also a sword-swallower of more than average ability. He succumbed to the lure of commercialism finally, and is now in the jewelry business in the "down-town district" of New York City. Sword-swallowing may be harmlessly imitated by the use of a fake sword with a telescopic blade, which slides into the handle. Vosin, the Paris manufacturer of magical apparatus, made swords of this type, but they were generally used in theatrical enchantment scenes, and it is very doubtful if they were ever used by professional swallowers. It is quite probable that the swords now most generally used by the profession, which are cut from one piece of metal-handle and all--were introduced to show that they were free from any telescoping device. Swords of this type are quite thin, less than one-eighth of an inch thick, and four or five of them can be swallowed at once. Slowly withdrawing them one at a time, and throwing them on the stage in different directions, makes an effective display. A small, but strong, electric light bulb attached to the end of a cane, is a very effective piece of apparatus for sword swallowers, as, on a darkened stage, the passage of the light down the throat and into the stomach can be plainly seen by the audience. The medical profession now make use of this idea. By apparently swallowing sharp razors, a dime-museum performer, whose name I do not recall, gave a variation to the sword-swallowing stunt. This was in the later days, and the act was partly fake and partly genuine. That is to say, the swallowing was fair enough, but the sharp razors, after being tested by cutting hairs, etc., were exchanged for dull duplicates, in a manner that, in better hands, might have been effective. This chap belonged to the great army of unconscious exposers, and the "switch" was quite apparent to all save the most careless observers. His apparatus consisted of a fancy rack on which three sharp razors were displayed, and a large bandanna handkerchief, in which there were several pockets of the size to hold a razor, the three dull razors being loaded in this. After testing the edge of the sharp razors, he pretended to wipe them, one by one, with the handkerchief, and under cover of this he made the "switch" for the dull ones, which he proceeded to swallow in the orthodox fashion. His work was crude, and the crowd was inclined to poke fun at him. I have seen one of these performers on the street, in London, swallow a borrowed umbrella, after carefully wiping the ferrule, and then return it to its owner only slightly dampened from its unusual journey. A borrowed watch was swallowed by the same performer, and while one end of the chain hung from the lips, the incredulous onlookers were invited to place their ears against his chest and listen to the ticking of the watch, which had passed as far into the aesophagus as the chain would allow. The following anecdote from the Carlisle Journal, shows that playing with sword-swallowing is about as dangerous as playing with fire. DISTRESSING OCCURRENCE On Monday evening last, a man named William Dempster, a juggler of inferior dexterity while exhibiting his tricks in a public house in Botchergate, kept by a person named Purdy, actually accomplished the sad reality of one of those feats, with the semblance only of which he intended to amuse his audience. Having introduced into his throat a common table knife which he was intending to swallow, he accidentally slipped his hold, and the knife passed into his stomach. An alarm was immediately given, and surgical aid procured, but the knife had passed beyond the reach of instruments, and now remains in his stomach. He has since been attended by most of the medical gentlemen of this city; and we understand that no very alarming symptoms have yet appeared, and that it is possible he may exist a considerable time, even in this awkward state. His sufferings at first were very severe, but he is now, when not in motion, comparatively easy. The knife is 9 1/2 inches long, 1 inch broad in the blade, round pointed, and a handle of bone, and may generally be distinctly felt by applying the finger to the unfortunate man's belly; but occasionally, however, from change of its situation it is not perceptible. A brief notice of the analogous case of John Cumming, an American sailor, may not be unacceptable to our readers. About the year 1799 he, in imitation of some jugglers whose exhibition he had then witnessed, in an hour of intoxication, swallowed four clasp knives such as sailors commonly use; all of which passed from him in a few days without much inconvenience. Six years afterward, he swallowed FOURTEEN knives of different sizes; by these, however, he was much disordered, but recovered; and again, in a paroxysm of intoxication, he actually swallowed SEVENTEEN, of the effects of which he died in March, 1809. On dissection, fourteen knife blades were found remaining in his stomach, and the back spring of one penetrating through the bowel, seemed the immediate cause of his death. Several women have adopted the profession of sword-swallowing, and some have won much more than a passing fame. Notable among these is Mlle. Edith Clifford, who is, perhaps, the most generously endowed. Possessed of more than ordinary personal charms, a refined taste for dressing both herself and her stage, and an unswerving devotion to her art, she has perfected an act that has found favor even in the Royal Courts of Europe. Mlle. Clifford was born in London in 1884 and began swallowing the blades when only 15 years of age. During the foreign tour of the Barnum & Bailey show she joined that Organization in Vienna, 1901, and remained with it for five years, and now, after eighteen years of service, she stands well up among the stars. She has swallowed a 26-inch blade, but the physicians advise her not to indulge her appetite for such luxuries often, as it is quite dangerous. Blades of 18 or 20 inches give her no trouble whatever. In the spring of 1919 I visited the Ringling Bros., and the Barnum & Bailey Show especially to witness Mlle. Clifford's act. In addition to swallowing the customary swords and sabers she introduced such novelties as a specially constructed razor, with a blade five or six times the usual length, a pair of scissors of unusual size, a saw which is 2 1/2 inches wide at the broadest point, with ugly looking teeth, although somewhat rounded at the points, and several other items quite unknown to the bill-of-fare of ordinary mortals. A set of ten thin blades slip easily down her throat and are removed one at a time. The sensation of her act is reached when the point of a bayonet, 23 1/2 inches long, fastened to the breech of a cannon, is placed in her mouth and the piece discharged; the recoil driving the bayonet suddenly down her throat. The gun is loaded with a 10 gauge cannon shell. Mlle. Clifford's handsomely arranged stage occupied the place of honor in the section devoted to freaks and specialties. Cliquot told me that Delno Fritz was his pupil, and Mlle. Clifford claims to be a pupil of Fritz. Deserving of honorable mention also is a native of Berlin, who bills herself as Victorina. This lady is able to swallow a dozen sharp-bladed swords at once. Of Victorina, the Boston Herald of December 28th, 1902, said: By long practice she has accustomed herself to swallow swords, daggers, bayonets, walking sticks, rods, and other dangerous articles. Her throat and food passages have become so expansive that she can swallow three long swords almost up to the hilts, and can accommodate a dozen shorter blades. This woman is enabled to bend a blade after swallowing it. By moving her head back and forth she may even twist instruments in her throat. To bend the body after one has swallowed a sword is a dangerous feat, even for a professional swallower. There is a possibility of severing some of the ligaments of the throat or else large arteries or veins. Victorina has already had several narrow escapes. On one occasion, while sword-swallowing before a Boston audience, a sword pierced a vein in her throat. The blade was half-way down, but instead of immediately drawing it forth, she thrust it farther. She was laid up in a hospital for three months after this performance. In Chicago she had a still narrower escape. One day while performing at a museum on Clark Street, Victorina passed a long thin dagger down her throat. In withdrawing it, the blade snapped in two, leaving the pointed portion some distance in the passage. The woman nearly fainted when she realized what had occurred, but, by a masterful effort, controlled her feelings. Dropping the hilt of the dagger on the floor, she leaned forward, and placing her finger and thumb down her throat, just succeeded in catching the end of the blade. Had it gone down an eighth of an inch farther her death would have been certain. CHAPTER NINE STONE-EATERS: A SILESIAN IN PRAGUE, 1006; FRANCOIS BATTALIA, ca. 1641; PLATERUS' BEGGAR BOY; FATHER PAULIAN'S LITHOPHAGUS OF AVIGNON, 1760; "THE ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD," LONDON, 1788; SPANIARDS IN LONDON, 1790; A SECRET FOR TWO AND SIX; JAPANESE TRAINING.--FROG-SWALLOWERS: NORTON; ENGLISH JACK; BOSCO, THE SNAKE-EATER; BILLINGTON'S PRESCRIPTION FOR HANGMEN; CAPTAIN VEITRO.--WATER-SPOUTERS: BLAISE MANFREDE, ca. 1650; FLORAM MARCHAND, 1650. That the genesis of stone-eating dates back hundreds of years farther than is generally supposed, is shown by a statement in Wanley's Wonders of the Little World, London, 1906, Vol. II, page 58, which reads as follows: Anno 1006, there was at Prague a certain Silesian, who, for a small reward in money, did (in the presence of many persons) swallow down white stones to the number of thirty-six; they weighed very near three pounds; the least of them was of the size of a pigeon's egg, so that I could scarce hold them all in my hand at four times: this rash adventure he divers years made for gain, and was sensible of no injury to his health thereby. The next man of this type of whom I find record lived over six hundred years later. This was an Italian named Francois Battalia. The print shown here is from the Book of Wonderful Characters, and is a reproduction from an etching made by Hollar in 1641. Doctor Bulwer, in his Artificial Changeling, tells a preposterous story of Battalia's being born with two pebbles in one hand and one in the other; that he refused both the breast and the pap offered him, but ate the pebbles and continued to subsist on stones for the remainder of his life. Doctor Bulwer thus describes his manner of feeding: His manner is to put three or four stones into a spoon, and so putting them into his mouth together, he swallows them all down, one after another; then (first spitting) he drinks a glass of beer after them. He devours about half a peck of these stones every day, and when he clinks upon his stomach, or shakes his body, you may hear the stones rattle as if they were in a sack, all of which in twenty-four hours are resolved. Once in three weeks he voids a great quantity of sand, after which he has a fresh appetite for these stones, as we have for our victuals, and by these, with a cup of beer, and a pipe of tobacco, he has his whole subsistence. From a modern point of view the Doctor "looks easy." The Book of Wonderful Characters continues: Platerus speaks of a beggar boy, who for four farthings would suddenly swallow many stones which he met with by chance in any place, though they were big as walnuts, so filling his belly that by the collision of them while they were pressed, the sound was distinctly heard. Father Paulian says that a true lithophagus, or stone-eater, was brought to Avignon in the beginning of May, 1760. He not only swallowed flints an inch and a half long, a full inch broad, and half an inch thick, but such stones as he could reduce to powder, such as marble, pebbles, etc., he made up into paste, which to him was a most agreeable and wholesome food. Father Paulian examined this man with all the attention he possibly could, and found his gullet very large, his teeth exceedingly strong, his saliva very corrosive, and his stomach lower than ordinary. This stone eater was found on Good Friday, in 1757, in a northern inhabited island, by some of the crew of a Dutch ship. He was made by his keeper to eat raw flesh with his stones; but he never could be got to swallow bread. He would drink water, wine, and brandy, which last liquor gave him infinite pleasure. He slept at least twelve hours a day, sitting on the ground with one knee over the other, and his chin resting on his right knee. He smoked almost all the time he was not asleep or not eating. Some physicians at Paris got him blooded; the blood had little or no serum, and in two hours time it became as fragile as coral. He was unable to pronounce more than a few words, such as Oui, Non, Caillou, Bon. "He has been taught," adds the pious father, evidently pleased with the docility of his interesting pupil, "to make the sign of the cross, and was baptized some months ago in the church of St. Come, at Paris. THE RESPECT HE SHOWS TO ECCLESIASTICS AND HIS READY DISPOSITION TO PLEASE THEM, afforded me the opportunity of satisfying myself as to all these particulars; and I AM FULLY CONVINCED THAT HE IS NO CHEAT." Here is the advertisement of a stone-eater who appeared in England in 1788. An Extraordinary Stone-Eater The Original STONE-EATER The Only One in the World, Has arrived, and means to perform this, and every day (Sunday excepted) at Mr. Hatch's, trunk maker, 404 Strand, opposite Adelphi. STONE-EATING and STONE-SWALLOWING And after the stones are swallowed may be heard to clink in the belly, the same as in a pocket. The present is allowed to be the age of Wonders and Improvements in the Arts. The idea of Man's flying in the Air, twenty years ago, before the discovery of the use of the balloon, would have been laughed at by the most credulous! Nor does the History of Nature afford so extraordinary a relation as that of the man's eating and subsisting on pebbles, flints, tobacco pipes and mineral excrescences; but so it is and the Ladies and Gentlemen of this Metropolis and its vicinity have now an opportunity of witnessing this extraordinary Fact by seeing the Most Wonderful Phenomenon of the Age, who Grinds and Swallows stones, etc., with as much ease as a Person would crack a nut, and masticate the kernel. This Extraordinary Stone-eater appears not to suffer the least Inconvenience from so ponderous, and to all other persons in the World, so indigestible a Meal, which he repeats from twelve at noon to seven. Any Lady or Gentleman may bring Black Flints or Pebbles with them. N. B.--His Merit is fully demonstrated by Dr. Monroe, who in his Medical Commentary, 1772, and several other Gentlemen of the Faculty. Likewise Dr. John Hunter and Sir Joseph Banks can witness the Surprising Performance of this most Extraordinary STONE-EATER. Admittance, Two shillings and Six pence. A Private Performance for five guineas on short notice. A Spanish stone-eater exhibited at the Richmond Theater, on August 2nd, 1790, and another at a later date, at the Great Room, late Globe Tavern, corner of Craven Street, Strand. All of these phenomenal gentry claimed to subsist entirely on stones, but their modern followers hardly dare make such claims, so that the art has fallen into disrepute. A number of years ago, in London, I watched several performances of one of these chaps who swallowed half a hatful of stones, nearly the size of hen's eggs, and then jumped up and down, to make them rattle in his stomach. I could discover no fake in the performance, and I finally gave him two and six for his secret, which was simple enough. He merely took a dose of powerful physic to clear himself of the stones, and was then ready for the next performance. During my engagement in 1895 with Welsh Bros. Circus I became quite well acquainted with an aged Jap of the San Kitchy Akimoto troupe and from him I learned the method of swallowing quite large objects and bringing them up again at will. For practice very small potatoes are used at first, to guard against accident; and after one has mastered the art of bringing these up, the size is increased gradually till objects as large as the throat will receive can be swallowed and returned. I recall a very amusing incident in connection with this old chap. In one number of the programme he sat down on the ring bank and balanced a bamboo pole, at the top of which little Massay went through the regular routine of posturings. After years spent in this work, my aged friend became so used to his job that he did it automatically, and scarcely gave a thought to the boy at the top. One warm day, however, he carried his indifference a trifle too far, and dropped into a quiet nap, from which he woke only to find that the pole was falling and had already gone too far to be recovered, but the agility of the boy saved him from injury. As my knowledge of Japanese is limited to the more polite forms, I cannot repeat the remarks of the lad. Until a comparatively recent date, incredible as it may seem, frog-swallowers were far from uncommon on the bills of the Continental theaters. The most prominent, Norton, a Frenchman, was billed as a leading feature in the high-class houses of Europe. I saw him work at the Apollo Theater, Nuremberg, where I was to follow him in; and during my engagement at the Circus Busch, Berlin, we were on the same programme, which gave me an opportunity to watch him closely. One of his features was to drink thirty or forty large glasses of beer in slow succession. The filled glasses were displayed on shelves at the back of the stage, and had handles so that he could bring forward two or three in each hand. When he had finished these he would return for others and, while gathering another handful, would bring up the beer and eject it into a receptacle arranged between the shelves, just below the line of vision of the audience. Norton could swallow a number of half-grown frogs and bring them up alive. I remember his anxiety on one occasion when returning to his dressing-room; it seems he had lost a frog--at least he could not account for the entire flock--and he looked very much scared, probably at the uncertainty as to whether or not he had to digest a live frog. The Muenchen October Fest, is the annual fair at that city, and a most wonderful show it is. I have been there twice; once as the big feature with Circus Carre, in 1901, and again in 1913, with the Circus Corty Althoff. The Continental Circuses are not, like those of this country, under canvas, but show in wooden buildings. At these October Fests I saw a number of frog-swallowers, and to me they were very repulsive indeed. In fact, Norton was the only one I ever saw who presented his act in a dignified manner. Willie Hammerstein once had Norton booked to appear at the Victoria Theater, New York, but the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would not allow him to open; so he returned to Europe without exhibiting his art (?) in America. In my earlier days in the smaller theaters of America, before the advent of the B. F. Keith and E. F. Albee theaters, I occasionally ran across a sailor calling himself English Jack, who could swallow live frogs and bring them up again with apparent ease. I also witnessed the disgusting pit act of that degenerate, Bosco, who ate living snakes, and whose act gave rise to the well-known barkers' cry HE EATS 'EM ALIVE! If the reader wishes further description of this creature's work, he must find it in my book, The Unmasking of Robert Houdin, for I cannot bring myself to repeat the nauseating details here. During an engagement in Bolton, Eng., I met Billington, the official hangman, who was convinced that I could not escape from the restraint he used to secure those he was about to execute. Much to his astonishment, I succeeded in releasing myself, but he said the time consumed was more than sufficient to spring the trap and launch the doomed soul into eternity. Billington told me that he had hardened himself to the demands of his office by killing rats with his teeth. During my engagement at the Winter Garten, Berlin, Captain Veitro, a performer that I had known for years in America, where he worked in side shows and museums, came to Berlin and made quite a stir by eating poisons. He appeared only a few times, however, as his act did not appeal to the public, presumably for the reason that he had his stomach pumped out at each performance, to prove that it contained the poison. This may have been instructive, but it possessed little appeal as entertainment, and I rarely heard of the venturesome captain after that. Years ago I saw a colored poison-eater at Worth's Museum, New York City, who told me that he escaped the noxious effects of the drugs by eating quantities of oatmeal mush. Another colored performer took an ordinary bottle, and, after breaking it, would bite off chunks, crunch them with his teeth, and finally swallow them. I have every reason to believe that his performance was genuine. The beer-drinking of Norton was a more refined version of the so-called water-spouting of previous generations, in which the returning was done openly, a performance that could not fail to disgust a modern audience. To be sure, in the days of the Dime Museum, a Negro who returned the water worked those houses; but his performance met with little approval, and it is years since I have heard of such an exhibition. The first water-spouter of whom I find a record was Blaise Manfrede or de Manfre, who toured Europe about the middle of the seventeenth century. An interesting account of this man may be found in my book The Unmasking of Robert Houdin. A pupil of Manfrede's, by the name of Floram Marchand, who seems to have been fully the equal of his master, appeared in England in 1650. The following description of Marchand's performance is from The Book of Wonderful Characters, edition of 1869, page 126: In the summer of 1650, a Frenchman named Floram Marchand was brought over from Tours to London, who professed to be able to "turn water into wine," and at his vomit render not only the tincture, but the strength and smell of several wines, and several waters. He learnt the rudiments of this art from Bloise, an Italian, who not long before was questioned by Cardinal Mazarin, who threatened him with all the miseries that a tedious imprisonment could bring upon him, unless he would discover to him by what art he did it. Bloise, startled at the sentence, and fearing the event, made a full confession on these terms, that the Cardinal would communicate it to no one else. From this Bloise, Marchand received all his instruction; and finding his teacher the more sought after in France, he came by the advice of two English friends to England, where the trick was new. Here--the cause of it being utterly unknown--he seems for a time to have gulled and astonished the public to no small extent, and to his great profit. Before long, however, the whole mystery was cleared up by his two friends, who had probably not received the share of the profits to which they thought themselves entitled. Their somewhat circumstantial account runs as follows. To prepare his body for so hardy a task, before he makes his appearance on the stage, he takes a pill about the quantity of a hazel nut, confected with the gall of an heifer, and wheat flour baked. After which he drinks privately in his chamber four or five pints of luke-warm water, to take all the foulness and slime from his stomach, and to avoid that loathsome spectacle which otherwise would make thick the water, and offend the eye of the observer. In the first place, he presents you with a pail of luke-warm water, and sixteen glasses in a basket, but you are to understand that every morning he boils two ounces of Brazil thin-sliced in three pints of running water, so long till the whole strength and color of the Brazil is exhausted: of this he drinks half a pint in his private chamber before he comes on the stage: you are also to understand that he neither eats nor drinks in the morning on those days when he comes on the stage, the cleansing pill and water only excepted; but in the evening will make a very good supper, and eat as much as two or three other men who have not their stomachs so thoroughly purged. Before he presents himself to the spectators, he washes all his glasses in the best white-wine vinegar he can procure. Coming on the stage, he always washes his first glass, and rinses it two or three times, to take away the strength of the vinegar, that it may in no wise discolour the complexion of what is represented to be wine. At his first entrance, he drinks four and twenty glasses of luke-warm water, the first vomit he makes the water seems to be a full deep claret: you are to observe that his gall-pill in the morning, and so many glasses of luke-warm water afterwards, will force him into a sudden capacity to vomit, which vomit upon so much warm water, is for the most part so violent on him, that he cannot forbear if he would. You are again to understand that all that comes from him is red of itself, or has a tincture of it from the first Brazil water; but by degrees, the more water he drinks, as on every new trial he drinks as many glasses of water as his stomach will contain, the water that comes from him will grow paler and paler. Having then made his essay on claret, and proved it to be of the same complexion, he again drinks four or five glasses of luke-warm water, and brings forth claret and beer at once into two several glasses: now you are to observe that the glass which appears to be claret is rinsed as before, but the beer glass not rinsed at all, but is still moist with the white-wine vinegar, and the first strength of the Brazil water being lost, it makes the water which he vomits up to be of a more pale colour, and much like our English beer. He then brings his rouse again, and drinks up fifteen or sixteen glasses of luke-warm water, which the pail will plentifully afford him: he will not bring you up the pale Burgundian wine, which, though more faint of complexion than the claret, he will tell you is the purest wine in Christendom. The strength of the Brazil water, which he took immediately before his appearance on the stage, grows fainter and fainter. This glass, like the first glass in which he brings forth his claret, is washed, the better to represent the colour of the wine therein. The next he drinks comes forth sack from him, or according to that complexion. Here he does not wash his glass at all; for the strength of the vinegar must alter what is left of the complexion of the Brazil water, which he took in the morning before he appeared on the stage. You are always to remember, that in the interim, he will commonly drink up four or five glasses of the luke-warm water, the better to provoke his stomach to a disgorgement, if the first rouse will not serve turn. He will now (for on every disgorge he will bring you forth a new colour), he will now present you with white wine. Here also he will not wash his glass, which (according to the vinegar in which it was washed) will give it a colour like it. You are to understand, that when he gives you the colour of so many wines, he never washes the glass, but at his first evacuation, the strength of the vinegar being no wise compatible with the colour of the Brazil water. Having performed this task, he will then give you a show of rose-water; and this indeed, he does so cunningly, that it is not the show of rose-water, but rose-water itself. If you observe him, you will find that either behind the pail where his luke-warm water is, or behind the basket in which his glasses are, he will have on purpose a glass of rose-water prepared for him. After he has taken it, he will make the spectators believe that he drank nothing but the luke-warm water out of the pail; but he saves the rose-water in the glass, and holding his hand in an indirect way, the people believe, observing the water dropping from his fingers, that it is nothing but the water out of the pail. After this he will drink four or five glasses more out of the pail, and then comes up the rose-water, to the admiration of the beholders. You are to understand, that the heat of his body working with his rose-water gives a full and fragrant smell to all the water that comes from him as if it were the same. The spectators, confused at the novelty of the sight, and looking and smelling on the water, immediately he takes the opportunity to convey into his hand another glass; and this is a glass of Angelica water, which stood prepared for him behind the pail or basket, which having drunk off, and it being furthered with four or five glasses of luke-warm water, out comes the evacuation, and brings with it a perfect smell of the Angelica, as it was in the rose-water above specified. To conclude all, and to show you what a man of might he is, he has an instrument made of tin, which he puts between his lips and teeth; this instrument has three several pipes, out of which, his arms a-kimbo, a putting forth himself, he will throw forth water from him in three pipes, the distance of four or five yards. This is all clear water, which he does with so much port and such a flowing grace, as if it were his master-piece. He has been invited by divers gentlemen and personages of honour to make the like evacuation in milk, as he made a semblance in wine. You are to understand that when he goes into another room, and drinks two or three pints of milk. On his return, which is always speedy, he goes first to his pail, and afterwards to his vomit. The milk which comes from him looks curdled, and shows like curdled milk and drink. If there be no milk ready to be had, he will excuse himself to his spectators, and make a large promise of what he will perform the next day, at which time being sure to have milk enough to serve his turn, he will perform his promise. His milk he always drinks in a withdrawing room, that it may not be discovered, for that would be too apparent, nor has he any other shift to evade the discerning eye of the observers. It is also to be considered that he never comes on the stage (as he does sometimes three or four times in a day) but he first drinks the Brazil water, without which he can do nothing at all, for all that comes from him has a tincture of the red, and it only varies and alters according to the abundance of water which he takes, and the strength of the white-wine vinegar, in which all the glasses are washed. CHAPTER TEN DEFIERS OF POISONOUS REPTILES: THARDO; MRS. LEARN, DEALER IN RATTLESNAKES.--SIR ARTHUR THURLOW CUNYNGHAME ON ANTIDOTES FOR SNAKE-BITE.--JACK THE VIPER.--WILLIAM OLIVER, 1735.--THE ADVICE OF CORNELIUS HEINRICH AGRIPPA, (1486-1535).--AN AUSTRALIAN SNAKE STORY.--ANTIDOTES FOR VARIOUS POISONS. About twenty-two years ago, during one of my many engagements at Kohl and Middleton's, Chicago, there appeared at the same house a marvelous "rattle-snake poison defier" named Thardo. I watched her act with deep interest for a number of weeks, never missing a single performance. For the simple reason that I worked within twelve feet from her, my statement that there was absolutely no fake attached to her startling performance can be taken in all seriousness, as the details are still fresh in my mind. Thardo was a woman of exceptional beauty, both of form and feature, a fluent speaker and a fearless enthusiast in her devotion to her art. She would allow herself to be repeatedly bitten by rattle-snakes and received no harm excepting the ordinary pain of the wound. After years of investigation I have come to the belief that this immunity was the result of an absolutely empty stomach, into which a large quantity of milk was taken shortly after the wound was inflicted, the theory being that the virus acts directly on the contents of the stomach, changing it to a deadly poison. It was Thardo's custom to give weekly demonstrations of this power, to which the medical profession were invited, and on these occasions she was invariably greeted with a packed house. When the moment of the supreme test came, an awed silence obtained; for the thrill of seeing the serpent flash up and strike possessed a positive fascination for her audiences. Her bare arms and shoulders presented a tempting target for the death-dealing reptile whose anger she had aroused. As soon as he had buried his fangs in her expectant flesh, she would coolly tear him from the wound and allow one of the physicians present to extract a portion of the venom and immediately inject it into a rabbit, with the result that the poor creature would almost instantly go into convulsions and would soon die in great agony. Another rattle-snake defier is a resident of San Antonio, Texas. Her name is Learn, and she once told me that she was the preceptor of Thardo. This lady deals in live rattle-snakes and their by-products--rattle-snake skin, which is used for fancy bags and purses; rattle-snake oil, which is highly esteemed in some quarters as a specific for rheumatism; and the venom, which has a pharmaceutical value. She employs a number of men as snake trappers. Their usual technique is to pin the rattler to the ground by means of a forked stick thrust dexterously over his neck, after which he is conveyed into a bag made for the purpose. Probably the cleverest of her trappers is a Mexican who has a faculty of catching these dangerous creatures with his bare hands. The story goes that this chap has been bitten so many times that the virus no longer has any effect on him. Even that most poisonous of all reptiles, the Gila monster, has no terrors for him. He swims along the shore where venomous reptiles most abound, and fearlessly attacks any and all that promise any income to his employer. In a very rare book by General Sir Arthur Thurlow Cunynghame, entitled, My Command in South Africa, 1880, I find the following: The subject of snake bites is one of no small interest in this country. Liquid ammonia is, par excellence, the best antidote. It must be administered immediately after the bite, both internally, diluted with water, and externally, in its concentrated form. The "Eau de luce" and other nostrums sold for this purpose have ammonia for their main ingredient. But it generally happens in the case of a snake bite that the remedy is not at hand, and hours may elapse before it can be obtained. In this case the following treatment will work well. Tie a ligature tightly ABOVE the bite, scarify the wound deeply with a knife, and allow it to bleed freely. After having drawn an ounce of blood, remove the ligature and ignite three times successively about two drams of gunpowder right on the wound. If gunpowder be not at hand, an ordinary fusee will answer the purpose: or, in default of this, the glowing end of a piece of wood from the fire. Having done this, proceed to administer as much brandy as the patient will take. Intoxicate him as rapidly as possible, and, once intoxicated, he is safe. If, however, through delay in treatment, the poison has once got into circulation no amount of brandy will either intoxicate him or save his life. An odd character, rejoicing in the nick-name of Jack the Viper, is mentioned on page 763 of Hone's Table Book, 1829. In part the writer says: Jack has traveled, seen the world, and profited by his travels; for he has learned to be contented. He is not entirely idle, nor wholly industrious. If he can get a crust sufficient for the day, he leaves the evil of it should visit him. The first time I saw him was in the high noon of a scorching day, at an inn in Laytonstone. He came in while a sudden storm descended, and a rainbow of exquisite majesty vaulted the earth. Sitting down at a table, he beckoned the hostess for his beer, and conversed freely with his acquaintance. By his arch replies I found that I was in company with an original--a man that might stretch forth his arms in the wilderness without fear, and like Paul, grasp an adder without harm. He playfully entwined his fingers with their coils and curled crests, and played with their forked tongues. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and as cleverly as a fish-woman handles her eels, let out several snakes and adders, warmed by his breast, and spread them on the table. He took off his hat, and others of different sizes and lengths twisted before me; some of them, when he unbosomed his shirt, returned to the genial temperature of his skin; and some curled around the legs of the table, and others rose in a defensive attitude. He irritated and humored them, to express either pleasure or pain at his will. Some were purchased by individuals, and Jack pocketed his gains, observing, "A frog, or a mouse, occasionally, is enough for a snake's satisfaction." The Naturalist's Cabinet says, that "In presence of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, while the philosophers were making elaborate dissertations on the danger of the poison of vipers, taken inwardly, a viper catcher, who happened to be present, requested that a quantity of it might be put into a vessel; and then, with the utmost confidence, and to the astonishment of the whole company, he drank it off. Everyone expected the man instantly to drop down dead; but they soon perceived their mistake, and found that, taken inwardly, the poison was as harmless as water." William Oliver, a viper catcher at Bath, was the first who discovered that, by the application of olive oil, the bite of the viper is effectually cured. On the first of June, 1735, he suffered himself to be bitten by an old black viper; and after enduring the agonizing symptoms of approaching death, by using olive oil he perfectly recovered. Vipers' flesh was formerly esteemed for its medicinal virtues, and its salt was thought to exceed every other animal product in giving vigor to a languid constitution. According to Cornelius Heinrich Agrippa (called Agrippa of Nettesheim), a German philosopher, and student of alchemy and magic, who was born in 1486, and died in 1535, "if you would handle adders and snakes without harm, wash your hands in the juice of radishes, and you may do so without harm." Even though it may seem a digression, I yield to the temptation to include here an extraordinary "snake story" taken from An Actor Abroad, which Edmund Leathes published in 1880: I will here relate the story of a sad death--I might feel inclined to call it suicide--which occurred in Melbourne shortly before my arrival in the colonies. About a year previous to the time of which I am now writing, a gentleman of birth and education, a Cambridge B. A., a barrister by profession and a literary man by choice, with his wife and three children emigrated to Victoria. He arrived in Melbourne with one hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket, and hope unlimited in his heart. Poor man! He, like many another man, quickly discovered that muscles in Australia are more marketable than brains. His little store of money began to melt under the necessities of his wife and family. To make matters worse he was visited by a severe illness. He was confined to his bed for some weeks, and during his convalescence his wife presented him with another of those "blessings to the poor man," a son. It was Christmas time, his health was thoroughly restored, he naturally possessed a vigorous constitution; but his heart was beginning to fail him, and his funds were sinking lower and lower. At last one day, returning from a long and solitary walk, he sat down with pen and paper and made a calculation by which he found he had sufficient money left to pay the insurance upon his life for one year, which, in the case of his death occurring within that time, would bring to his widow the sum of three thousand pounds. He went to the insurance office, and made his application--was examined by the doctor--the policy was made out, his life was insured. From that day he grew moody and morose, despair had conquered hope. At this time a snake-charmer came to Melbourne, who advertised a wonderful cure for snake-bites. This charmer took one of the halls in the town, and there displayed his live stock, which consisted of a great number of the most deadly and venomous snakes which were to be found in India and Australia. This man had certainly some most wonderful antidote to the poison of a snake's fangs. In his exhibitions he would allow a cobra to bite a dog or a rabbit, and, in a short time after he had applied his nostrum the animal would thoroughly revive; he advertised his desire to perform upon humanity, but, of course, he could find no one would be fool enough to risk his life so unnecessarily. The advertisement caught the eye of the unfortunate emigrant, who at once proceeded to the hall where the snake charmer was holding his exhibition. He offered himself to be experimented upon; the fanatic snake-charmer was delighted, and an appointment was made for the same evening as soon as the "show" should be over. The evening came; the unfortunate man kept his appointment, and, in the presence of several witnesses, who tried to dissuade him from the trial, bared his arm and placed it in the cage of an enraged cobra and was quickly bitten. The nostrum was applied apparently in the same manner as it had been to the lower animals which had that evening been experimented upon, but whether it was that the poor fellow wilfully did something to prevent its taking effect--or whatever the reason--he soon became insensible, and in a couple of hours he was taken home to his wife and family--a corpse. The next morning the snake-charmer had flown, and left his snakes behind him. The insurance company at first refused payment of the policy, asserting that the death was suicide; the case was tried and the company lost it, and the widow received the three thousand pounds. The snake-charmer was sought in vain; he had the good fortune and good sense to be seen no more in the Australian colonies. As several methods of combating the effects of poisons have been mentioned in the foregoing pages, I feel in duty bound to carry the subject a little farther and present a list of antidotes. I shall not attempt to educate my readers in the art of medicine, but simply to give a list of such ordinary materials as are to be found in practically every household, materials cited as antidotes for the more common poisons. I have taken them from the best authorities obtainable and they are offered in the way of first aid, to keep the patient alive till the doctor arrives; and if they should do no good, they can hardly do harm. The first great rule to be adopted is SEND FOR THE DOCTOR AT ONCE and give him all possible information about the case without delay. Use every possible means to keep the patient at a normal temperature. When artificial respiration is necessary, always get hold of the tongue and pull it well forward in order to keep the throat clear, then turn the patient over on his face and press the abdomen to force out the air, then turn him over on the back so that the lungs may fill again, repeating this again and again till the doctor arrives. The best stimulants are strong tea or coffee; but when these are not sufficient, a tablespoon of brandy, whisky, or wine may be added. Vegetable and mineral poisons, with few exceptions, act as efficiently in the blood as in the stomach. Animal poisons act only through the blood, and are inert when introduced into the stomach. Therefore there is absolutely no danger in sucking the virus from a snake bite, except that the virus should not be allowed to touch any spot where the skin is broken. The following list of antidotes is taken largely from Appleton's Medical Dictionary, and Sollmann's A Manual of Pharmacology, Philadelphia, 1917, pages 56 and 57, and has been verified by comparison with various other authorities at the library of the Medical Society of the County of New York: Arsenic Induce vomiting with a dessert-spoonful of ground mustard in tepid water. Also put the finger in the throat to induce retching. When the stomach has been emptied, give the patient all the milk he can take. Aconite Induce vomiting as above. Also give active purgative. Stimulate with strong tea or coffee. Keep the patient roused. Alcohol Same as for aconite. Belladonna Same as for aconite. Bitter-sweet Same as for aconite. Blue vitriol Induce vomiting as in arsenic. Then give milk, or white of egg, or mucilage. Cantharides Induce vomiting. Give soothing drinks. NO OIL. Rub abdomen with camphor, or camphorated oil. Chloral Same as for aconite. Camphor Same as for aconite. Conium (Hemlock) Same as for aconite. Carbolic Acid White of egg in water, or olive oil, followed by a large quantity of milk. Calomel Give white of egg, followed by milk, or flour gruel. Corrosive Sublimate Same as for calomel. Croton Oil Induce vomiting. Also give strong purgative AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. Stimulate with strong tea or coffee. Colocynth Same as for croton oil. Ergot Same as for aconite. Food cooked in a copper vessel Same as for blue vitriol. Fish poison Same as for croton oil. Gases Plenty of fresh air. Inhale ammonia (not too strong). Artificial respiration if necessary. Stimulate with strong tea or coffee. Green coloring matter Same as for arsenic. Hellebore Same as for aconite. Hyoscyamus Same as for aconite. Iodine Give starch. Lobelia Same as for aconite. Lead Same as for calomel. Matches Induce vomiting. Give magnesia and mucilage. NO OIL. Mercury Same as for calomel. Morphine Spasms may be quieted by inhaling ether. Nitric Acid Induce vomiting. Give Carbonate of Magnesia, or lime-water. Nitrate of Silver Give common salt in water, or carbonate of soda in solution, followed by milk, or white of egg. Nux Vomica Same as for aconite. Oxalic Acid Same as for nitric acid. Opium Same as for morphine. Prussic Acid Not much can be done, as fatal dose kills in from three to five minutes. Dilute ammonia given instantly might save life. Paris Green Same as for arsenic. Phosphorus Same as for matches. Rough on Rats Same as for arsenic. Strychnin Same as for morphine. Sulphuric Acid Strong soap-suds. Toadstool Same as for morphine. Turpentine Same as for morphine. Tin Same as for nitrate of silver. Verdigris Same as for arsenic. Vermilion Same as for calomel. White vitriol Same as for nitrate of silver. Zinc Same as for nitrate of silver. For Snake-bite The best general treatment for snake-bite is to tie a ligature tightly ABOVE the wound, then suck out as much of the virus as possible. Give the patient large quantities of whisky or brandy, to induce intoxication. Incise the wound with a red-hot nail, or knitting needle. Keep the patient intoxicated till the doctor arrives. For Burns All burns are more painful when exposed to the air. For lesser burns a cloth saturated with a strong solution of bicarbonate of soda (common cooking soda) laid on the burn is probably best. This is soothing and keeps out the air. For burning clothes Do not allow the victim to run about, for that increases the flames. Throw her-- these accidents usually occur to women--on the floor and smother the flames with a blanket, rug, or large garment. Then, if the burns are severe, place her in a bath at a temperature of 100 degrees or over, keeping her there till the doctor arrives. Give stimulants. Do not touch the burns more than is absolutely unavoidable. For Burns of Acids Dash cold water on the burns, then cover with lime-water and sweet oil, or linseed oil. For Burns of Caustic Alkalies Apply vinegar. Glass, coarse or Give the patient large quantities of bread powdered crumbs, and then induce vomiting. Ivy poison Wash at once with soap and water; using scrubbing brush. Then lay on cloths saturated with strong solution bicarbonate of soda. Give cooling drinks. Keep the patient quiet and on a low diet. CHAPTER ELEVEN STRONG MEN OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY: THOMAS TOPHAM (died, 1749); JOYCE, 1703; VAN ECKENBERG, 1718; BARSABAS AND HIS SISTER; THE ITALIAN FEMALE SAMPSON, 1724; THE "LITTLE WOMAN FROM GENEVA," 1751; BELZONI, 1778-1823. Bodily strength has won the admiration--I might almost say, the worship--of mankind from the days of Hercules and his ten mythical labors, to the days of Sandow with his scores of actual achievements. Each generation has produced its quota of strongmen, but almost all of them have resorted to some sort of artifice or subterfuge in order to appear superhumanly strong. That is to say, they added brain to their brawn, and it is a difficult question whether their efforts deserve to be called trickery or good showmanship. Many of the tricks of the profession were laid bare by Dr. Desaguliers over a hundred and fifty years ago and have been generally discarded by athletes, only to be taken up and vastly improved by women of the type of The Georgia Magnet, who gave the world of science a decided start about a generation ago. I shall have more to say of her a little further on. The jiu jitsu of the Japanese is, in part, a development of the same principles, but here again much new material has been added, so that it deserves to be considered a new art. The following, from Dr. Desaguliers' Experimental Philosophy, London, 1763, Vol. 1, page 289, contrasts feats of actual strength with the tricks of the old-time performers: Thomas Topham, born in London, and now about thirty-one years of age, five feet ten inches high, with muscles very hard and prominent, was brought up a carpenter, which trade he practiced till within these six or seven years that he has shewed feats of strength; but he is entirely ignorant of any art to make his strength appear more surprising; Nay, sometimes he does things which become more difficult by his disadvantageous situation; attempting and often doing, what he hears other strong men have done, without making use of the same advantages. About six years ago he pulled against a horse, sitting on the ground with his feet against two stumps driven into the ground, but without the advantage represented by the first figure, Plate 19; for the horse pulling against him drew upwards at a considerable angle, such as is represented in the second figure in that plate, when hN is the line of traction, which makes the angle of traction to be NhL: and in this case his strength was no farther employed than to keep his legs and thighs straight, so as to make them act like the long arm of a bended lever, represented by Lh, on whose end h the trunk of his body rested as a weight, against which the horse drew, applying his power at right angles to the end l of the short arm of said lever, the center of the motion being a L at the bottom of the stumps l, o (for to draw obliquely by a rope fastened at h is the same as to draw by an arm of a lever at l L, because l L is a line drawn perpendicularly from the center of motion to the line of direction hN) and the horse not being strong enough to raise the man's weight with such disadvantage, he thought he was in the right posture for drawing against a horse; but when in the same posture he attempted to draw against two horses, he was pulled out of his place by being lifted up, and had one of his knees struck against the stumps, which shattered it so, that even to this day, the patella or knee-pan is so loose, that the ligaments of it seem either to be broken or quite relaxed, which has taken away most of the strength of that leg. But if he had sat upon such a frame as is represented in the first figure, (Plate 19) he might (considering his strength) have kept his situation against the pulling of four strong horses without the least inconvenience. The feats which I saw him perform, a few days ago, were the following: 1. By the strength of his fingers (only rubbed in coal-ashes to keep them from slipping) he rolled up a very strong and large pewter-dish. 2. He broke seven or eight short and strong pieces of tobacco-pipe with the force of his middle finger, having laid them on the first and third finger. 3. Having thrust under his garter the bowl of a strong tobacco-pipe, his legs being bent, he broke it to pieces by the tendons of his hams, without altering the bending of his leg. 4. He broke such another bowl between his first and second finger, by pressing his fingers together side-ways. 5. He lifted a table six feet long, which had half a hundred weight hanging to the end of it, with his teeth, and held it in a horizontal position for a considerable time. IT IS TRUE THE FEET OF THE TABLE RESTED AGAINST HIS KNEES; BUT AS THE LENGTH OF THE TABLE WAS MUCH GREATER THAN ITS HEIGHT, THAT PERFORMANCE REQUIRED A GREAT STRENGTH TO BE EXERTED BY THE MUSCLES OF HIS LOINS, THOSE OF HIS NECK, THE MASSETER AND TEMPORAL (MUSCLES OF THE JAWS) BESIDES A GOOD SET OF TEETH. 6. He took an iron kitchen-poker, about a yard long, and three inches in circumference, and holding it in his right hand, he struck upon his bare left arm, between the elbow and the wrist till he bent the poker nearly to a right angle. 7. He took such another poker, and holding the ends in his hands, and the middle against the back of his neck, he brought both ends of it together before him; and, what was yet more difficult, he pulled it almost straight again: because the muscles which separate the arms horizontally from each other, are not so strong as those that bring them together. 8. He broke a rope of about two inches in circumference which was in part wound about a cylinder of four inches diameter, having fastened the other end of it to straps that went over his shoulders; but he exerted more force to do this than any other of his feats, from his awkwardness in going about it: as the rope yielded and stretched as he stood upon the cylinder, so that when the extensors of his legs and thighs had done their office in bringing the legs and thighs straight, he was forced to raise his heels from their bearings, and use other muscles that are weaker. But if the rope had been so fixed, that the part to be broken had been short, it would have been broken with four times less difficulty. 9. I have seen him lift a rolling stone of about 800 lib. with his hand only, standing in a frame above it, and taking hold of a chain that was fastened to it. By this I reckon that he may be almost as strong again as those who are generally reckoned as the strongest men, they generally lifting no more than 400 lib. in that manner. The weakest men who are in health and not too fat, lift about 125 lib. having about half the strength of the strongest. (N.B. This sort of comparison is chiefly in relation to the muscles of the loins; because in doing this one must stoop forward a little. We must also add the weight of the body to the weight lifted. So that if the weakest man's body weighs 150 lib. that added to 125 lib. makes the whole weight lifted by him 275 lib. Then if the stronger man's body weighs also 150 lib. the whole weight lifted by him will be 550 lib. that is, 400 lib. and the 150 lib. which his body weighs. Topham weighs about 200 lib. which added to the 800 lib. that he lifts, makes 1000 lib. But he ought to lift 900 lib. besides the weight of his body, to be as strong again as a man of 150 lib.-weight who can lift 400 lib. Now as all men are not proportionably strong in every part, but some are stronger in the arms, some in the legs, and others in the back, according to the work and exercise which they use, we can't judge of a man's strength by lifting only; but a method may be found to compare together the strength of different men in the same parts, and that too without straining the persons who try the experiment. Here follows a long description of a machine for the above purpose. Topham was not endowed with a strength of mind equal to the strength of his body. He was married to a wanton who rendered existence so insupportable that he committed suicide before he was forty years of age, on August 10th, 1749.[1] About the year 1703 there appeared in London a native of Kent, by the name of Joyce, who won the name of a second Samson by a series of feats of strength that to the people of that day seemed little short of superhuman. Dr. Desaguliers, in his Experimental Philosophy, gives the following account of Joyce and his methods. About thirty years ago one Joyce,[2] a Kentish man, famous for his great strength (tho' not quite so strong as the King of Poland, by the accounts we have of that Prince) shewed several feats in London and the country, which so much surprised the spectators, that he was by most people called the second Sampson.[3] But tho' the postures which he had learned to put his body into, and found out by practice without any mechanical theory, were such as would make a man of common strength do such feats as would appear surprising to everybody that did not know the advantages of those positions of the body; yet nobody then attempted to draw against horses, or raise great weights, or to do anything in imitation of him; because, as he was very strong in the arms, and grasped those that try'd his strength that way so hard, that they were obliged immediately to desire him to desist, his other feats (wherein his manner of acting was chiefly owing to the mechanical advantages gained by the position of his body) were entirely attributed to his extraordinary strength. But when he had gone out of England, or had ceased to shew his performances, for eight or ten years; men of ordinary strength found out the way of making such advantage of the same postures as Joyce had put himself into, as to pass for men of more than common strength, by drawing against horses, breaking ropes, lifting vast weights, &c. (tho' they cou'd in none of the postures really perform so much as Joyce; yet they did enough to amaze and amuse, and get a great deal of money) so that every two or three years we have a new SECOND SAMPSON. Some fifteen years subsequent to Joyce's advent, another so-called Samson, this time a German named John Charles Van Eckenberg, toured Europe with a remarkable performance along the same lines as Joyce's. Dr. Desaguliers saw this man and has this to say of him: After having seen him once, I guessed at his manner of imposing on the multitude; and being resolved to be fully satisfied in the matter, I took four very curious persons with me to see him again, viz. the Lord Marquis of Tullibardine, Dr. Alexander Stuart, Dr. Pringle, and a mechanical workman, who used to assist me in my courses of experiments. We placed ourselves in such a manner round the operator, as to be able to observe nicely all that he did, and found it so practicable that we performed several of his feats that evening by ourselves, and afterwards I did most of the rest as soon as I had a frame made to fit in to draw, and another to stand in and lift great weights, together with a proper girdle and hooks. Dr. Desaguliers illustrates Van Eckenberg's methods in a very exhaustive set of notes and plates, which are too technical and voluminous to repeat here, but I will quote sufficiently from them to make the modus operandi clear. The figures will be found on plate 19. Figs. 1 and 2 have already been explained. In breaking the rope one thing is to be observ'd, which will much facilitate the performance; and that is to place the iron eye L, (Fig. 3) thro' which the rope goes, in such a situation, that a plane going thro' its ring shall be parallel to the two parts of the rope; because then the rope will in a manner be jamm'd in it, and not slipping thro' it, the whole force of the man's action will be exerted on that part of the rope which is in the eye, which will make it break more easily than if more parts of the rope were acted upon. So the eye, tho' made round and smooth, may be said in some measure to CUT THE ROPE. And it is after this manner that one may break a whip cord, nay, a small jack-line with one's hand without hurting it; only by bringing one part of the rope to cut the other; that is, placing it so round one's left hand, that by a sudden jerk, the whole force exerted shall act on one point of the rope. B is a feather bed upon which the performer falls. The posture of Fig. 4 Plate 19 (where the strong man having an anvil on his breast or belly, suffers another man to strike with a sledge hammer and forge a piece of iron, or cut a bar cold with chizzels) tho' it seems surprising to some people, has nothing in it to be really wondered at; for sustaining the anvil is the whole matter, and the heavier the anvil is, the less the blows are felt: And if the anvil was but two or three times heavier than the hammer, the strong man would be killed by a few blows; for the more matter the anvil has, the more INERTIA and the less liable it is to be struck out of its place; because when it has by the blow receiv'd the whole MOMENTUM of the hammer, its velocity will be so much less than that of the hammer as it has more matter than the hammer. Neither are we to attribute to the anvil a velocity less than the hammer in a reciprocal proportion of their masses or quantities of matter; for that would happen only if the anvil was to hang freely in the air (for example) by a rope, and it was struck horizontally by the hammer. Thus is the velocity given by the hammer distributed to all parts of a great stone, when it is laid on a man's breast to be broken; but when the blow is given, the man feels less of the weight of the stone than he did before, because in the reaction of the stone, all the parts of it round about the hammer rise towards the blow; and if the tenacity of the parts of the stone, is not stronger than the force with which it moves towards the hammer, the stone must break; which it does when the blow is strong, and struck upon the centre of gravity of the stone. In the 6th Fig. of Plate 19, the man IHL (the chairs IL, being made fast) makes so strong an arch with his backbone and the bones of his legs and thighs, as to be able not only to sustain one man, but three or four, if they had room to stand; or, in their stead, a great stone to be broken with one blow. In the 6th and 7th Fig. of the same plate, a man or two are raised in the direction CM, by the knees of the strong man IHL lying upon his back. A trial will suffice to show that this is not a difficult feat for a man of ordinary strength. Wanley [4] enumerates thirty men of might, each of whom was famous in his time. Notable among them was Barsabas, who first made a reputation in Flanders, where he lifted the coach of Louis XIV, which had sunk to the nave in the mud, all the oxen and horses yoked to it having exerted their strength in vain. For this service the king granted him a pension, and being soon promoted, he at length rose to be town-major of Valenciennes. Barsabas entering one day a farrier's shop in a country village, asked for horse shoes, the farrier showed him some, which Barsabas snapped in pieces as if they had been rotten wood, telling the farrier at the same time that they were too brittle, and good for nothing. The farrier wanted to forge some more, but Barsabas took up the anvil and hid it under his cloak. The farrier, when the iron was hot, could not conceive what had become of his anvil, but his astonishment was still increased when he saw Barsabas deposit it in its place with the utmost ease. Imagining that he had got the devil in his shop, he ran out as fast as he could, and did not venture to return till his unwelcome visitor had disappeared. Barsabas had a sister as strong as himself, but as he quitted his home very young, and before his sister was born, he had never seen her. He met with her in a small town of Flanders, where she carried on a rope manufactury. The modern Sampson bought some of her largest ropes which he broke like pack-thread, telling her they were very bad.--"I will give some better," replied she, "but will you pay a good price for them?"--"Whatever you choose," returned Barsabas, showing her some crown pieces. His sister took them, and breaking two or three of them said, "Your crowns are as little worth as my ropes, give me better money." Barsabas, astonished at the strength exhibited by this female, then questioned her respecting her country and family, and soon learned that she belonged to the same stock. The dauphin being desirous to see Barsabas exhibit some of his feats, the latter said, "My horse has carried me so long that I will carry him in my turn." He then placed himself below the animal and raising him up, carried him more than fifty paces, and then placed him on the ground without being the least hurt. Barsabas' sister was not unique in her century. I quote from a magazine called The Parlor Portfolio or Post-Chaise Companion, published in London in 1724: To be seen, at Mr. John Syme's, Peruke maker, opposite the Mews, Charing Cross, the surprising and famous Italian Female Sampson, who has been seen in several courts of Europe with great applause. She will absolutely walk, barefoot, on a red-hot bar of iron: a large block of marble of between two and three thousand weight she will permit to lie on her for some time, after which she will throw it off at about six feet distance, without using her hands, and exhibit several other curious performances, equally astonishing, which were never before seen in England. She performs exactly at twelve o'clock, and four, and six in the afternoon. Price half-a-crown, servants and children a shilling. From the spelling, I judge that the person who selected this lady's title must have been more familiar with the City Directory than with the Scriptures. In Edward J. Wood's Giants and Dwarfs, London, 1868, I find the following: A newspaper of December 19th, 1751, announces as follows: At the new theatre in the Haymarket, this day, will be performed a concert of musick, in two acts. Boxes 3s., pit 2s., gallery 1s. Between the acts of the concert will be given, gratis, several exercises of rope-dancing and tumbling. There is also arrived the little woman from Geneva, who, by her extraordinary strength, performs several curious things, viz. 1st. She beats a red-hot iron that is made crooked straight with her naked feet. 2ndly. She puts her head on one chair, and her feet on another, in an equilibrium, and suffers five or six men to stand on her body, which after some time she flings off. 3rdly. An anvil is put on her body, on which two men strike with large hammers. 4thly. A stone of a hundred pounds weight is put on her body, and beat to pieces with a hammer. 5thly. She lies down on the ground, and suffers a stone of 1500 pounds weight to be laid on her breasts, in which position she speaks to the audience, and drinks a glass of wine, then throws the stone off her body by mere strength, without any assistance. Lastly, she lifts an anvil of 200 pound weight from the ground with her own hair. To begin exactly at six o'clock. At present the stunt with the two chairs and the six men is being exhibited as a hypnotic test. Giovanni Battista Belzoni, the famous Egyptian archeologist, who was a man of gigantic stature, began his public career as a strongman at the Bartholomew Fair, under the management of Gyngell, the conjuror, who dubbed him The Young Hercules. Shortly afterward he appeared at Sadler's Wells Theater, where he created a profound sensation, under the name of The Patagonian Samson. The feature of his act was carrying a pyramid of from seven to ten men in a manner never before attempted. He wore a sort of harness with footholds for the men, and when all were in position he moved about the stage with perfect ease, soliciting "kind applause" by waving a flag. He afterwards became a magician, and after various other ventures he finally landed in Egypt, where his discoveries were of such a nature as to secure for him an enviable position in "Who's Who in Archeology." [1] Interesting accounts of Topham's career may be found in Wonders of Bodily Strength, New York, 1873, a translation from the French of Depping, by Charles Russell; Sir David Brewster's, Letters on Natural Magic; London, 1838; Wanley's Wonders of the Little World, London, 1806; Wilson's Wonderful Characters, London, 1821, (but not in the reprint of 1869). [2] Or William Joy. [3] This is the spelling used by Joyce, Eckenberg and others, for the Samson of the Bible. [4] Wonders of the little World, by Nathaniel Wanley, London, 1806. Vol. I., page 76. CHAPTER TWELVE CONTEMPORARY STRONG PEOPLE: CHARLES JEFFERSON; LOUIS CYR; JOHN GRUN MARX; WILLIAM LE ROY.--THE NAIL KING, THE HUMAN CLAW-HAMMER; ALEXANDER WEYER; MEXICAN BILLY WELLS; A FOOLHARDY ITALIAN; WILSON; HERMAN; SAMPSON; SANDOW; YUCCA; LA BLANCHE; LULU HURST.--THE GEORGIA MAGNET, THE ELECTRIC GIRL, ETC.; ANNIE ABBOTT; MATTIE LEE PRICE.--THE TWILIGHT OF THE FREAKS. THE DIME MUSEUMS. Feats of strength have always interested me greatly, so that in my travels around the world I have made it a point to come in contact with the most powerful human beings of my generation. The one among these who deserves first mention is Charles Jefferson, with whose achievements I became quite familiar while we were working in the same museum many years ago. I am convinced that he must have been the strongest man of his time at lifting with the bare hands alone. He had two feats that he challenged any mortal to duplicate. One was picking up a heavy blacksmith's anvil by the horn and placing it on a kitchen table; for the other he had a block of steel, which, as near as I can remember, must have been about 14 inches long, 12 inches wide, and 7 inches thick. This block lay on the floor, and his challenge was for anyone to pick it up with bare hands. I noticed that it required unusually long fingers to grasp it, since one could get only the thumb on one side. Though thousands tried, I never saw, or heard, of anyone else who could juggle his anvil or pick up the weight. True, I saw him surreptitiously rub his fingers with resin, to assist in the gripping, but that could have been only of slight assistance to the marvelous grip the man possessed. It is generally conceded that Louis Cyr was, in his best days, the strongest man in the known world at all-round straight lifting. Cyr did not give the impression of being an athlete, nor of a man in training, for he appeared to be over-fat and not particularly muscular; but he made records in lifting which, to the best of my knowledge, no other man has been able to duplicate. John Grun Marx, a Luxemberger, must have been among the strongest men in the world at the time I knew him. We worked on the same bill several times; but it was at the Olympia, in Paris, that he shone supreme as a strongman--and at the same time as a weak one. For, in spite of his sovereign strength, Mars was no match for a pair of bright eyes; all a pretty woman had to do was to smile and John would wilt. And--Paris was Paris. Marx's strength was prodigious, and he juggled hundreds, and toyed with thousands, of pounds as a child plays with a rattle. He must have weighed in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds, and he walked like a veritable colossus. In fact, he reminded me of a two-footed baby elephant. Always good-natured, he made a host of friends both in the profession and out of it. After years of professional work he settled down as landlord of a public house in England, where, finally, he was prostrated by a mortal illness. Wishing to die in his native city, he returned to Luxemberg. He did not realize that he was bereft of his enormous strength, and those about him humored him: the doctor and the nurses would pretend that he hurt them when he grasped their hands. He died almost forgotten except by his brother artists, but they (myself among them) built a monument to this good-natured Hercules, whose only care was to entertain. Among the strongmen that I met during my days with the museums, one whom I found most interesting was William Le Roy, known as The Nail King and The Human Claw-Hammer, whose act appealed to me for its originality. So far as I could learn, it had never been duplicated. Le Roy was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, October 3rd, 1873. He was about 5 feet 10 inches in height, and well set up. The inordinate strength of his jaws, teeth, and neck, enabled him to push a nail, held between his teeth, through a one-inch board; or to nail together, with his teeth, two 3/4-inch boards. He could draw with his teeth a large nail that had been driven completely through a two-inch plank. Then he would screw an ordinary two-inch screw into a hardwood plank with his teeth, pull it out with his teeth, and then screw it into the plank again and offer $100 to any man who could pull it out with a large pair of pincers which he proffered for the purpose. When he had performed these stunts in various positions, he would bend his body backward till his head pointed toward the floor, and in that position push a nail through a one-inch board held perpendicularly in a metal frame. I saw no chance for trickery in Le Roy's act. Another nail act was that of Alexander Weyer, who, either by superior strength or by a peculiar knack, could hold a nail between the middle fingers of his right hand with the head against the palm, and drive it through a one-inch board. But since this act did not get him very far either on the road to fame, or toward the big money--he turned to magic and finally became one of the leading Continental magicians, boasting that he was one of the few really expert sleight-of-hand magicians of the world. I met Weyer at Liege, Belgium, where we had an all-night match with playing cards. He admitted that there were some tricks he did not know, but he claimed that after once seeing any magician work he could duplicate the tricks. On this occasion, however, he was unable to make the boast good. Another clever performer of those days was Mexican Billy Wells, who worked on the Curio platform. His act was the old stone-breaking stunt, already explained, except that he had the stones broken on his head instead of on his body. He protected his head with a small blanket, which he passed for examination, and this protection seemed excusable, considering that he had to do at least seven shows a day. A strong man from the audience did the real work of the act by swinging the heavy sledge-hammer on the stone, as shown in the accompanying illustration. Usually the stone would be riven by a single blow; but if it was not, Wells would yell, "Harder! harder! hit harder!" until the stone was broken. The last I saw of Billy was during one of my engagements at the Palace Theater, New York. He was then soliciting orders for some photograph firm, the halcyon days of his big money having faded to a memory. But he had been a good showman and his was one of the best liked working acts in the Curio, as the dime-museum profession was called. Of all the acts of this nature that I have ever seen I think the most foolhardy was that of an under-sized Italian who lay on his back on the floor and let fall from his hands, extended upward at arm's length heavy weights upon his chest--the silly fool! I said as much to him--and some other things too. His act had little entertainment to show as compared with the pain and danger involved. I do not know what became of him, but I can guess. Among the museum attractions of those years was a man named Wilson who had the incredible chest expansion of twenty-one inches. This man would allow a strong leather strap, about the size of a trunk-strap, to be buckled round his chest; and then, inflating his lungs, would break it with very little apparent exertion. An imitator, named Herman, worked the side shows for a long time with a similar act, and was fairly successful, although his expansion was only about sixteen inches. The last time I heard of Wilson, he was working in the shipyards at Newport News, Virginia. Another "Samson," a German, among other sensational feats, such as breaking coins with his fingers, used to flex his muscles and break a dog-chain that had been fastened round the biceps of his right arm. While he was performing at the Aquarium, in London, he issued a challenge. Sandow, then a youth without reputation, accepted the challenge, went upon the stage, defeated him, and, since Samson's act had been the talk of the town, thus brought himself into instant notice, the beginning of a career in which he rose to the top of his profession. After several successful years on the stage, Sandow settled down in London, where I last heard of him as conducting a school of instruction in health and strength methods. In the tradition of the "Female Sampsons" noted in Chapter Eleven, I recall two strong-women who were notably good; Yucca, who lifted a horse by means of a harness over the shoulders; and La Blanche, who toyed with heavy articles in a most entertaining way. I remember these ladies particularly because both were remarkably good talkers--and I am referring to conversational quality, not to volume. Lulu Hurst--known variously as The Georgia Magnet, The Electric Girl, The Georgia Wonder, etc.--created a veritable sensation a generation ago by a series of feats which seemed to set the law of gravitation at defiance. Her methods consisted in utilizing the principles of the lever and fulcrum in a manner so cleverly disguised that it appeared to the audience that some supernatural power must be at work. Although she was exposed many times, her success was so marked that several other muscular ladies entered her province with acts that were, in several instances, superior to the original. One of the cleverest of these was Annie Abbott, who, if I remember rightly, also called herself The Georgia Magnet. She took the act to England and her opening performance at the Alhambra is recorded as one of the three big sensations of the London vaudeville stage of those days. The second sensation was credited to the Bullet-Proof Man. This chap wore a jacket that rifle bullets, fired point-blank, failed to penetrate. The composition of this jacket was a secret, but after the owner's death the garment was ripped open and found to contain-ground glass! The third sensation I must, with all due modesty, (business of bowing) claim for myself. The Magnet failed to attract after about forty-eight hours, for a keen-witted reporter discovered her methods and promptly published them. The bullet detainer also lasted only a short time only. When my opening added a third sensational surprise, one of the London dailies asked, "Is this going to be another Georgia Magnet fiasco?" That they were gunning for me is proved by the fact that the same newspaper investigator who exposed the Magnet, came upon the stage of the Alhambra at my press performance--the same stage where the unhappy Dixie lode-stone had collapsed--and though he brought along an antique slave iron, which he seemed to think would put an end to my public career on the spot, I managed to escape in less than three minutes. When I passed back his irons, he grinned at me and said, "I don't know how you did it, but you did!" and he shook me cordially by the hand. Some twenty-six years ago I was on the bill with Mattie Lee Price, who, though less well known, was in many ways superior to either Miss Hurst or Miss Abbott. For a time she was a sensation of the highest order, for which thanks were largely due to the management of her husband, a wonderful lecturer and a thorough showman. I think his name was White. He "sold" the act as no other man has sold an act before or since. We worked together at Kohl and Middleton's, Chicago, and the following week at Burton's Museum, Milwaukee; but when we made the next jump I found that White was not along. They had had a family squabble, the other apex of the triangle being a circus grafter who "shibbolethed" at some of the "brace games," which at that time had police protection, so far as that could be given. He had interfered between the couple, and was, I am sorry to say, quite successful as an interferer; but he was a diabolical failure when he attempted to duplicate White's work as lecturer, and the act, after playing a date or two, sank out of sight and I have heard nothing more of her professionally. Lately I have learned that she died in London in 1900 and is buried in Clements Cemetery, Fulham. This was one of the most positive demonstrations I have ever seen of the fact that showmanship is the largest factor in putting an act over. Miss Price was a marvelous performer, but without her husband-lecturer she was no longer a drawing card, and dropped to the level of an ordinary entertainer even lower, for her act was no longer even entertaining. In Chapter Eleven we read Dr. Desaguliers' analysis of the mechanics of what may be called strongmanship. Similar investigations have attended the appearance of more recent performers. For instance, reviewing one of Lulu Hurst's performances, the New York Times, of July 13th, 1884, said: The "Phenomenon of the Nineteenth Century," which may be seen nightly at Wallack's, is not so much the famous Georgia girl, with her mysterious muscle, as is the audience which gathers to wonder at her performance. It is a phenomenon of stupidity, and it only goes to show how willingly people will be fooled, and with what cheerful asininity they will help on their deceivers. Then follows a description of her performance, which was far from successful, thanks to the efforts of one of the committee, a man described as "Mr. Thomas Johnson, a powerfully-built engraver connected with the Century magazine." Mr. Johnson had evidently caught her secret, and he got the better of her in all the tests in which he was allowed to take part. A disclosure of the methods employed in a few of her "tests" will serve to convince the reader of the fact that she possessed no supernormal power, the same general principles shown here being used throughout her performance. These explanations are taken from the French periodical La Nature, in which Mr. Nelson W. Perry thus sums up the attitude of the public in regard to this class of performance: "Electricity is a mysterious agent; therefore everything mysterious is electric." Of the performance of the Electric Girl this magazine says: It is a question of a simple application of the elementary principles of the laws of mechanics, chapter of equilibrium. We propose to point out here a certain number of such artifices and to describe a few of the experiments, utilizing for this purpose the data furnished by Mr. Perry, as well as those resulting from our own observations. One of the experiments consists in having a man or several men hold a cane or a billiard cue horizontally above the head, as shown in Fig. 1. On pushing with one hand, the girl forces back two or three men, who, in unstable equilibrium and under the oblique action of the thrust exerted, are obliged to fall back. This first experiment is so elementary and infantile that it is not necessary to dwell upon it. In order to show the relative sizes of the persons, the artist has supposed the little girl to be standing on a platform in the first experiment, but in the experiment that we witnessed this platform was rendered useless by the fact that the girl who performed them was of sufficient height to reach the cue by extending her arms and standing on tiptoes. Next we have a second and more complex experiment, less easily explained at first sight. Two men (Fig. 2) take a stick about three feet in length, and are asked to hold it firmly in a vertical position. The girl places her hand against the lower end of the stick, in the position shown, and the two men are invited to make the latter slide vertically in the girl's hand, which they are unable to do, in spite of their conscientious and oft-repeated attempts. Mr. Perry explains this exercise as follows: The men are requested to place themselves parallel to each other, and the girl, who stands opposite them, places the palm of her hand against the stick and turned toward her. She takes care to place her hand as far as possible from the hands of the two men, so as to give herself a certain leverage. She then begins to slide her hand along the stick, gently at first, and then with an increasing pressure, as if she wished to better the contact between the stick and her hand. She thus moves it from the perpendicular and asks the two men to hold it in a vertical position. This they do under very disadvantageous conditions, seeing the difference in the length of the arms of the lever. The stress exerted by the girl is very feeble, because, on the one hand, she has the lever arm to herself, and, on the other, the action upon her lever arm is a simple traction. When she feels that the pressure exerted is great enough, she directs the two men to exert a vertical stress strong enough to cause the stick to descend. They then imagine that they are exerting a VERTICAL stress, while in reality their stresses are HORIZONTAL and tend to keep the stick in a vertical position in order to react against the pressure exerted at the lower end of the stick. There is evidently a certain vertical component that tends to cause the stick to descend, but the lateral pressure produces a sufficient friction between the hand and the stick to support this vertical force without difficulty. Mr. Perry performed the experiment by placing himself upon a spring balance and assuming the role of the girl, with two very strong men as adversaries. All the efforts made to cause the stick to slide in the open hand failed, and the excess of weight due to the vertical force always remained less than twenty-five pounds, despite the very determined and sincere stresses of the two men, who, unbeknown to themselves, were exerting their strength in a HORIZONTAL direction. In the experiment represented in Fig. 3, which recalls to mind the first one (Fig. 1), the two men are requested to hold the stick firmly and immovable, but the slightest pressure upon the extremity suffices to move the arms and body of the subject. Such pressure in the first place is exerted but slightly, and the stresses are gradually increased. Then, all at once, when the force exerted horizontally is as great as possible, and the men are exerting their strength in the opposite direction in order to resist it, the girl abruptly ceases the pressure WITHOUT WARNING and exerts it in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION. Unprepared for this change, the victims lose their equilibrium and find themselves at the mercy of the girl, and so much the more so in proportion as they are stronger and their efforts are greater. The experiment succeeds still better with three than with two men, or with one man. The experiment represented in Fig. 4, where it concerns the easy lifting of a very heavy person, the trick is no less simple. Out of a hundred persons submitted to the experiment, ninety-nine, knowing that the experimenter wishes to lift them and cause them to fall forward, grasp the seat or arms of the chair, and, in endeavoring to resist, make the whole weight of their body bear upon their feet. If they do not do so at the first instant, they do so when they are conscious of the attempts of the girl to raise the seat, and they help therein unconsciously. The experimenter, therefore, needs only to exert a horizontal thrust, without doing any lifting, and such horizontal thrust is facilitated by taking the knees as points of support for her elbows. As soon as a slight movement is effected, the hardest part of the work is over, for it is only necessary for the girl to cease to exert her stresses in order to have the chair fall back or move laterally in one direction or the other. At all events, the equilibrium is destroyed, and, before it is established again, it requires but little dexterity to move the subject about in all directions without a great expenditure of energy. The difficulty is not increased on seating two men, or three men, upon each other's knees (as shown in Fig. 4), since, in the latter case, the third acts as a true counter-poise to the first, and the whole pretty well resembles an apparatus of unstable equilibrium, whose centre of gravity is very high and, consequently, so much more easily displaced. All these experiments require some little skill and practice, but are attended with no difficulty, and, upon the whole, do not merit the enthusiastic articles that have given the "electric" or "magnetic" girl her European reputation. Strong people, whether tricksters or genuine athletes, or both, we shall probably have always with us. But with the gradual refinement of the public taste, the demand for such exhibitions as fire-eating, sword-swallowing, glass-chewing, and the whole repertoire of the so-called Human Ostrich, steadily declined, and I recall only one engagement of a performer of this type at a first-class theater in this country during the present generation, and that date was not played. There was still a considerable demand for these people in the dime museums, until the enormous increase in the number of such houses created a demand for freaks that was far in excess of the supply, and many houses were obliged to close because no freaks were obtainable, even at the enormous increase in salaries then in vogue. The small price of admission, and the fact that feature curios like Laloo or the Tocci Twins drew down seven or eight hundred dollars a week, show that these houses catered to a multitude of people; and not a few of the leading managers of to-day's vaudeville, owe their start in life to the dime museum. Among the museums that were veritable gold mines, I might mention Epstein's of Chicago; Brandenberg's of Philadelphia; Moore's of Detroit and Rochester; The Sackett and Wiggins Tour; Kohl and Middleton's; Austin and Stone's of Boston; Robinson of Buffalo; Ans Huber's, Globe, Harlem, Worth's, and the Gayety of New York. The dime museum is but a memory now, and in three generations it will, in all probability, be utterly forgotten. A few of the acts had sufficient intrinsic worth to follow the managers into vaudeville, but these have no part in this chronicle, which has been written rather to commemorate some forms of entertainment over which oblivion threatens to stretch her darkening wings. 
811	----	THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS By Christopher Marlowe From The Quarto Of 1616. Edited By The Rev. Alexander Dyce. Comments on the preparation of the E-Text: SQUARE BRACKETS: The square brackets, i.e. are copied from the printed book, without change, except that the stage directions usually do not have closing brackets. These have been added. FOOTNOTES: For this E-Text version of the book, the footnotes have been consolidated at the end of the play. Numbering of the footnotes has been changed, and each footnote is given a unique identity. CHANGES TO THE TEXT: Character names were expanded. For Example, FAUSTUS was FAUST; SECOND SCHOLAR was SEC. SCHOL. OTHER COMMENTS: This E-Text of _Doctor Faustus_ is taken from a volume of _The Works of Christopher Marlowe_. That volume also contains an earlier version of the play, based on the text of 1604, which is available as an E-Text. Some of the notes to the earlier version are applicable to, and help explain, this version. Gary R. Young The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. Written by Ch. Mar. London, Printed for John Wright, and are to be sold at his shop without Newgate, at the signe of the Bible, 1616, 4to. The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. With new Additions. Written by Ch. Mar. Printed at London for John Wright, and are to be sold at his shop without Newgate, 1624, 4to. The Tragicall Historie of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. With new Additions. Written by Ch. Mar. Printed at London for John Wright, and are to be sold at his shop without Newgate, 1631, 4to. In a few places I have amended the text of this play by means of 4to 1604.--I have made no use of the comparatively modern edition, 4to 1663. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. THE POPE. THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY. RAYMOND, king of Hungary. DUKE OF SAXONY. BRUNO. DUKE OF VANHOLT. MARTINO, | FREDERICK, | gentlemen. BENVOLIO, | FAUSTUS. VALDES, | friends to FAUSTUS. CORNELIUS, | WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS. Clown. ROBIN. DICK. Vintner. Horse-courser. Carter. An Old Man. Scholars, Cardinals, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, Bishops, Monks, Friars, Soldiers, and Attendants. DUCHESS OF VANHOLT. Hostess. LUCIFER. BELZEBUB. MEPHISTOPHILIS. Good Angel. Evil Angel. The Seven Deadly Sins. Devils. Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour, of DARIUS, and of HELEN. Chorus. THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS FROM THE QUARTO OF 1616. Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene, Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens; [1] Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, Intends our Muse to vaunt her [2] heavenly verse: Only this, gentles,--we must now perform The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: And now to patient judgments we appeal, And speak for Faustus in his infancy. Now is he born of parents base of stock, In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: At riper years, to Wittenberg he went, Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So much he profits in divinity, That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute In th' heavenly matters of theology; Till swoln with cunning, of [3] a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; For, falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now with learning's golden gifts, He surfeits upon [4] cursed necromancy; Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: And this the man that in his study sits. [Exit.] FAUSTUS discovered in his study. FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: Having commenc'd, be a divine in show, Yet level at the end of every art, And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me! Bene disserere est finis logices. Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? Affords this art no greater miracle? Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end: A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come: Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold, And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure: Summum bonum medicinoe sanitas, The end of physic is our body's health. Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end? Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, And thousand [5] desperate maladies been cur'd? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Couldst thou make men to live eternally, Or, being dead, raise them [6] to life again, Then this profession were to be esteem'd. Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian? [Reads.] Si una eademque res legatur [7] duobus, alter rem, alter valorem rei, &c. A petty [8] case of paltry legacies! [Reads.] Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c. [9] Such is the subject of the institute, And universal body of the law: This study fits a mercenary drudge, Who aims at nothing but external trash; Too servile and illiberal for me. When all is done, divinity is best: Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well. [Reads.] Stipendium peccati mors est. Ha! Stipendium, &c. The reward of sin is death: that's hard. [Reads.] Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas; If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so consequently die: Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera, What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of magicians, And necromantic books are heavenly; Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters; [10] Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. O, what a world of profit and delight, Of power, of honour, and omnipotence, Is promis'd to the studious artizan! All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command: emperors and kings Are but obeyed in their several provinces; But his dominion that exceeds in this, Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man; A sound magician is a demigod: Here tire, my brains, to gain [11] a deity. Enter WAGNER. Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends, The German Valdes and Cornelius; Request them earnestly to visit me. WAGNER. I will, sir. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside, And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head! Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy. EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd: Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, Lord and commander of these [12] elements. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this! Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities, Perform what desperate enterprise [13] I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates; I'll have them read me strange philosophy, And tell the secrets of all foreign kings; I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, And make swift Rhine circle fair [14] Wertenberg; I'll have them fill the public schools with silk, [15] Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad; I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring, And chase the Prince of Parma from our land, And reign sole king of all the provinces; Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war, Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp-bridge, I'll make my servile spirits to invent. Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS. Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, And make me blest [16] with your sage conference. Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, Know that your words have won me at the last To practice magic and concealed arts. Philosophy is odious and obscure; Both law and physic are for petty wits: 'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me. Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt; And I, that have with subtle syllogisms Gravell'd the pastors of the German church, And made the flowering pride of Wittenberg Swarm [17] to my problems, as th' infernal spirits On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell, Will be as cunning as Agrippa was, Whose shadow made all Europe honour him. VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience, Shall make all nations to [18] canonize us. As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords, So shall the spirits of every element Be always serviceable to us three; Like lions shall they guard us when we please; Like Almain rutters with their horsemen's staves, Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides; Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids, Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have [19] the white breasts of the queen of love: From Venice shall they [20] drag huge [21] argosies, And from America the golden fleece That yearly stuffs [22] old Philip's treasury; If learned Faustus will be resolute. FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this As thou to live: therefore object it not. CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform Will make thee vow to study nothing else. He that is grounded in astrology, Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals, Hath all the principles magic doth require: Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd, [23] And more frequented for this mystery Than heretofore the Delphian oracle. The spirits tell me they can dry the sea, And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks, Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid Within the massy entrails of the earth: Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want? FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul! Come, shew me some demonstrations magical, That I may conjure in some bushy grove, And have these joys in full possession. VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus' [24] works, The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament; And whatsoever else is requisite We will inform thee ere our conference cease. CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art; And then, all other ceremonies learn'd, Faustus may try his cunning by himself. VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments, And then wilt thou be perfecter than I. FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat, We'll canvass every quiddity thereof; For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do: This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore. [Exeunt.] Enter two SCHOLARS. FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont to make our schools ring with sic probo. SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we presently know; here comes his boy. Enter WAGNER. FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master? WAGNER. God in heaven knows. SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know, then? WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not. FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us where he is. WAGNER. That follows not by force of argument, which you, being licentiates, should stand upon: therefore acknowledge your error, and be attentive. SECOND SCHOLAR. Then you will not tell us? WAGNER. You are deceived, for I will tell you: yet, if you were not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is he not corpus naturale? and is not that mobile? then wherefore should you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt but to see you both hanged the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-- Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren! [Exit.] FIRST SCHOLAR. O Faustus! Then I fear that which I have long suspected, That thou art fall'n into that [25] damned art For which they two are infamous through the world. SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, not allied to me, The danger of his soul would make me mourn. But, come, let us go and inform the Rector: It may be his grave counsel may reclaim him. [26] FIRST SCHOLAR. I fear me nothing will reclaim him now. SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us see what we can do. [Exeunt.] Enter FAUSTUS. [27] FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the night, Longing to view Orion's drizzling look, Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky, And dims the welkin with her [28] pitchy breath, Faustus, begin thine incantations, And try if devils will obey thy hest, Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them. Within this circle is Jehovah's name, Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd, Th' abbreviated names of holy saints, Figures of every adjunct to the heavens, And characters of signs and erring [29] stars, By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise: Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute, And try the utmost magic can perform. [Thunder.] Sint mihi dii Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris: [30] per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus [31] Mephistophilis! Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. I charge thee to return, and change thy shape; Thou art too ugly to attend on me: Go, and return an old Franciscan friar; That holy shape becomes a devil best. [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] I see there's virtue in my heavenly words. Who would not be proficient in this art? How pliant is this Mephistophilis, Full of obedience and humility! Such is the force of magic and my spells. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar. MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do? FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live, To do whatever Faustus shall command, Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere, Or the ocean to overwhelm the world. MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer, And may not follow thee without his leave: No more than he commands must we perform. FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me? MEPHIST. No, I came hither [32] of mine own accord. FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches [33] raise thee? speak! MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens; [34] For, when we hear one rack the name of God, Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ, We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul; Nor will we come, unless he use such means Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd. Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring Is stoutly to abjure all godliness, And pray devoutly to the prince of hell. FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath Already done; and holds this principle, There is no chief but only Belzebub; To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself. This word "damnation" terrifies not me, For I confound hell in Elysium: My ghost be with the old philosophers! But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord? MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits. FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once? MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils? MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence; For which God threw him from the face of heaven. FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer? MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell [35] with Lucifer, Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer, And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd? MEPHIST. In hell. FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell? MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells, In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss? O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike [36] a terror to my fainting soul! FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate For being deprived of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess. Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer: Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity, Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four and twenty years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness; Having thee ever to attend on me, To give me whatsoever I shall ask, To tell me whatsoever I demand, To slay mine enemies, and to aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will. Go, and return to mighty Lucifer, And meet me in my study at midnight, And then resolve me of thy master's mind. MEPHIST. I will, Faustus. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis. By him I'll be great emperor of the world, And make a bridge thorough [37] the moving air, To pass the ocean with a band of men; I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore, And make that country continent to Spain, And both contributary to my crown: The Emperor shall not live but by my leave, Nor any potentate of Germany. Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd, I'll live in speculation of this art, Till Mephistophilis return again. [Exit.] Enter WAGNER and CLOWN. WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy. CLOWN. Boy! O, disgrace to my person! zounds, boy in your face! You have seen many boys with beards, I am sure. WAGNER. Sirrah, [38] hast thou no comings in? CLOWN. Yes, and goings out too, you may see, sir. WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jests in his nakedness! I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry, that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood-raw. CLOWN. Not so neither: I had need to have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you. WAGNER. Sirrah, wilt thou be my man, and wait on me, and I will make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus? CLOWN. What, in verse? WAGNER. No, slave; in beaten silk and staves-acre. CLOWN. Staves-acre! that's good to kill vermin: then, belike, if I serve you, I shall be lousy. WAGNER. Why, so thou shalt be, whether thou dost it or no; for, sirrah, if thou dost not presently bind thyself to me for seven years, I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars, and make them tear thee in pieces. CLOWN. Nay, sir, you may save [39] yourself a labour, for they are as familiar with me as if they paid for their meat and drink, I can tell you. WAGNER. Well, sirrah, leave your jesting, and take these guilders. [Gives money.] CLOWN. Yes, marry, sir; and I thank you too. WAGNER. So, now thou art to be at an hour's warning, whensoever and wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee. CLOWN. Here, take your guilders again; [40] I'll none of 'em. WAGNER. Not I; thou art pressed: prepare thyself, or [41] I will presently raise up two devils to carry thee away.--Banio! Belcher! CLOWN. Belcher! an Belcher come here, I'll belch him: I am not afraid of a devil. Enter two DEVILS. WAGNER. How now, sir! will you serve me now? CLOWN. Ay, good Wagner; take away the devil[s], then. WAGNER. Spirits, away! [Exeunt DEVILS.] Now, sirrah, follow me. CLOWN. I will, sir: but hark you, master; will you teach me this conjuring occupation? WAGNER. Ay, sirrah, I'll teach thee to turn thyself to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing. CLOWN. A dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat! O, brave, Wagner! WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and see that you walk attentively, and let your right eye be always diametrally fixed upon my left heel, that thou mayst quasi vestigiis nostris [42] insistere. CLOWN. Well, sir, I warrant you. [Exeunt.] FAUSTUS discovered in his study. FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus, Must thou needs be damn'd, canst thou not be sav'd. What boots it, then, to think on God or heaven? Away with such vain fancies, and despair; Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub: Now, go not backward, [43] Faustus; be resolute: Why [44] waver'st thou? O, something soundeth in mine ear, "Abjure this magic, turn to God again!" Why, he loves thee not; The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite, Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub: To him I'll build an altar and a church, And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous [45] art. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art. FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance--what of [46] these? GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven! EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, That make men [47] foolish that do use them most. GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things. EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. Wealth! Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine. When Mephistophilis shall stand by me, What power can hurt me? Faustus, thou art safe: Cast no more doubts.--Mephistophilis, come, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis, Veni, veni, Mephistophile! [48] Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord? MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives, So he will buy my service with his soul. FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee. MEPHIST. But now thou must bequeath it solemnly, And write a deed of gift with thine own blood; For that security craves Lucifer. If thou deny it, I must back to hell. FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom. FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus? MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. FAUSTUS. Why, have you any pain that torture others? MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men. But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul? And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee, And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask. FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I'll give it thee. [49] MEPHIST. Then, Faustus, stab thine [50] arm courageously, And bind thy soul, that at some certain day Great Lucifer may claim it as his own; And [51] then be thou as great as Lucifer. FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, Faustus hath cut his arm, and with his proper blood Assures his soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night! View here this blood that trickles from mine arm, And let it be propitious for my [52] wish. MEPHIST. But, Faustus, Write it in manner of a deed of gift. FAUSTUS. [Writing] Ay, so I do. But, Mephistophilis, My blood congeals, and I can write no more. MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend? Is it [53] unwilling I should write this bill? Why streams it not, that I may write afresh? FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: O, there it stay'd! Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul thine own? Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL. [54] Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with the chafer of fire. MEPHIST. See, Faustus, here is fire; set it on. FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again; Now will I make an [55] end immediately. [Writes.] MEPHIST. What will not I do to obtain his soul? [Aside.] FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended, And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer. But what is this inscription on mine arm? Homo, fuge: whither should [56] I fly? If unto God, [57] he'll throw me down to hell. My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-- O, yes, I see it plain; even here is writ, Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly. MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind. [Aside, and then exit.] Enter DEVILS, giving crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS. They dance, and then depart. Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. What means this show? speak, Mephistophilis. MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind, And let thee see what magic can perform. FAUSTUS. But may I raise such spirits when I please? MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these. FAUSTUS. Then, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll, [58] A deed of gift of body and of soul: But yet conditionally that thou perform All covenants and articles between us both! MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer To effect all promises between us both! FAUSTUS. Then hear me read it, Mephistophilis. [Reads.] ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND BE BY HIM COMMANDED. THIRDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE DESIRES. [59] FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT SHAPE AND FORM SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN FAUSTUS, OF WITTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT, FOUR-AND- TWENTY YEARS BEING EXPIRED, AND THESE ARTICLES ABOVE-WRITTEN BEING INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, BODY AND SOUL, FLESH AND [60] BLOOD, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER. BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS. MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed? FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it! MEPHIST. So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt. FAUSTUS. First I will question with [61] thee about hell. Tell me, where is the [62] place that men call hell? MEPHIST. Under the heavens. FAUSTUS. Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts? MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self-place; but where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be: And, to be short, when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are [63] not heaven. FAUSTUS. I think hell's a fable. [64] MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind. FAUSTUS. Why, dost thou think that Faustus shall be damn'd? MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer. FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too; and what of that? Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? No, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales. MEPHIST. But I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I tell thee I am damn'd and now in hell. FAUSTUS. Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd: What! sleeping, eating, walking, and disputing! But, leaving this, let me have a wife, The fairest maid in Germany; For I am wanton and lascivious, And cannot live without a wife. MEPHIST. Well, Faustus, thou shalt have a wife. [MEPHISTOPHILIS fetches in a WOMAN-DEVIL.] FAUSTUS. What sight is this? MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, wilt thou have a wife? FAUSTUS. Here's a hot whore, indeed: no, I'll no wife. MEPHIST. Marriage is but a ceremonial toy, And, if thou lov'st me, think no more of it. I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans, And bring them every morning to thy bed: She whom thine [65] eye shall like, thy [66] heart shall have, Were she as chaste as was [67] Penelope, As wise as Saba, or as beautiful As was bright Lucifer before his fall. Here, take this book, peruse it well: The iterating of these lines brings gold; The framing of this circle on the ground Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and lightning; Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself, And men in harness [68] shall appear to thee, Ready to execute what thou command'st. FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis, for this sweet book: This will I keep as chary as my life. [Exeunt.] Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, [69] then I repent, And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis, Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys. MEPHIST. 'Twas thine [70] own seeking, Faustus; thank thyself. But, think'st thou heaven is [71] such a glorious thing? I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair As thou, or any man that breathes [72] on earth. FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that? MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man; then he's more excellent. FAUSTUS. If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me: I will renounce this magic and repent. Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee. EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee. FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears [73] I am a spirit? Be I a devil, yet God may pity me; Yea, God will pity me, if I repent. EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. My heart is harden'd, I cannot repent; Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven: Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom'd steel Are laid before me to despatch myself; And long ere this I [74] should have done the deed, Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death? And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis? Why should I die, then, or basely despair? I am resolv'd; Faustus shall not repent.-- Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again, And reason of divine astrology. Speak, are there many spheres above the moon? Are all celestial bodies but one globe, As is the substance of this centric earth? MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the heavens, Even from the moon unto th' empyreal orb, Mutually folded in each other's spheres, And jointly move upon one axletree, Whose termine [75] is term'd the world's wide pole; Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter Feign'd, but are erring [76] stars. FAUSTUS. But have they all one motion, both situ et tempore? MEPHIST. All move from east to west in four-and-twenty hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motions upon the poles of the zodiac. FAUSTUS. These slender questions Wagner can decide: Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill? Who knows not the double motion [77] of the planets? That the first is finish'd in a natural day; The second thus; Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve; Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon in twenty-eight days. These are freshmen's questions. But tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia? MEPHIST. Ay. FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there? MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal heaven. FAUSTUS. But is there not coelum igneum et crystallinum? MEPHIST. No, Faustus, they be but fables. FAUSTUS. Resolve me, then, in this one question; why are not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some years we have more, in some less? MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius. FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Now tell me who made the world? MEPHIST. I will not. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me. MEPHIST. Move me not, Faustus. FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing? MEPHIST. Ay, [78] that is not against our kingdom; this is. Thou art damned; think thou of hell. FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world. MEPHIST. Remember this. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell! 'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul. Is't not too late? Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL. EVIL ANGEL. Too late. GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus will repent. EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces. GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin. [Exeunt ANGELS.] FAUSTUS. O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour Help to save distressed Faustus' soul! Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just: There's none but I have interest in the same. FAUSTUS. O, what art thou that look'st so terribly? LUCIFER. I am Lucifer, And this is my companion-prince in hell. FAUSTUS. O Faustus, they are come to fetch thy soul! BELZEBUB. We are come to tell thee thou dost injure us. LUCIFER. Thou call'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise. BELZEBUB. Thou shouldst not think on God. LUCIFER. Think of the devil. BELZEBUB. And his dam too. FAUSTUS. Nor will Faustus henceforth: pardon him for this, And Faustus vows never to look to heaven. LUCIFER. So shalt thou shew thyself an obedient servant, And we will highly gratify thee for it. BELZEBUB. Faustus, we are come from hell in person to shew thee some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt behold the Seven Deadly Sins appear to thee in their own proper shapes and likeness. FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasant unto me, As Paradise was to Adam the first day Of his creation. LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise or creation; but mark the show.-- Go, Mephistophilis, and [79] fetch them in. MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in the SEVEN DEADLY SINS. BELZEBUB. Now, Faustus, question them of their names and dispositions. FAUSTUS. That shall I soon.--What art thou, the [80] first? PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; next, like a necklace, I hang about her neck; then, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; [81] and then, turning myself to a wrought smock, do what I list. But, fie, what a smell is here! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered with cloth of arras. FAUSTUS. Thou art a proud knave, indeed.--What art thou, the second? COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in a leather bag: and, might I now obtain my wish, this house, you, and all, should turn to gold, that I might lock you safe into my chest: O my sweet gold! FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the third? ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books burned. I am lean with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine over all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou shouldst see how fat I'd be. But must thou sit, and I stand? come down, with a vengeance! FAUSTUS. Out, envious wretch!--But what art thou, the fourth? WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever since have run [82] up and down the world with this [83] case of rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal. I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my father. FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the fifth? GLUTTONY. I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a small pension, and that buys me thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,--a small trifle to suffice nature. I come [84] of a royal pedigree: my father was a Gammon of Bacon, my mother was a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers were these, Peter Pickled-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; but my godmother, O, she was an ancient gentlewoman; her name was Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny; wilt thou bid me to supper? FAUSTUS. Not I. GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee! FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!--What art thou, the sixth? SLOTH. Heigho! I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank. Heigho! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom. FAUSTUS. And what are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last? LECHERY. Who, I, [85] sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first letter of my name begins with L. [86] LUCIFER. Away to hell, away! On, piper! [Exeunt the SINS.] FAUSTUS. O, how this sight doth delight my soul! LUCIFER. Tut, [87] Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight. FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again safe, How happy were I then! LUCIFER. Faustus, thou shalt; at midnight I will send for thee. Meanwhile peruse this book and view it throughly, And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt. FAUSTUS. Thanks, mighty Lucifer! This will I keep as chary as my life. LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, farewell. FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer. [Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.] Come, Mephistophilis. [Exeunt.] Enter ROBIN, [88] with a book. ROBIN. What, Dick! look to the horses there, till I come again. I have gotten one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books; and now we'll have such knavery as't passes. Enter DICK. DICK. What, Robin! you must come away and walk the horses. ROBIN. I walk the horses! I scorn't, faith: [89] I have other matters in hand: let the horses walk themselves, an they will.-- [Reads.] A per se, a; t, h, e, the; o per se, o; Demy orgon gorgon.-- Keep further from me, O thou illiterate and unlearned hostler! DICK. 'Snails, what hast thou got there? a book! why, thou canst not tell [90] ne'er a word on't. ROBIN. That thou shalt see presently: keep out of the circle, I say, lest I send you into the ostry with a vengeance. DICK. That's like, faith! you had best leave your foolery; for, an my master come, he'll conjure you, faith. ROBIN. My master conjure me! I'll tell thee what; an my master come here, I'll clap as fair a [91] pair of horns on's head as e'er thou sawest in thy life. DICK. Thou need'st [92] not do that, for my mistress hath done it. ROBIN. Ay, there be of us here that have waded as deep into matters as other men, if they were disposed to talk. DICK. A plague take you! I thought you did not sneak up and down after her for nothing. But, I prithee, tell me in good sadness, Robin, is that a conjuring-book? ROBIN. Do but speak what thou'lt have me to do, and I'll do't: if thou'lt dance naked, put off thy clothes, and I'll conjure thee about presently; or, if thou'lt go but to the tavern with me, I'll give thee white wine, red wine, claret-wine, sack, muscadine, malmsey, and whippincrust, hold, belly, hold; [93] and we'll not pay one penny for it. DICK. O, brave! Prithee, [94] let's to it presently, for I am as dry as a dog. ROBIN. Come, then, let's away. [Exeunt.] Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Learned Faustus, To find the secrets of astronomy Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, Did mount him [95] up to scale Olympus' top; Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright, Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks, He views [96] the clouds, the planets, and the stars, The tropic zones, and quarters of the sky, From the bright circle of the horned moon Even to the height of Primum Mobile; And, whirling round with this [97] circumference, Within the concave compass of the pole, From east to west his dragons swiftly glide, And in eight days did bring him home again. Not long he stay'd within his quiet house, To rest his bones after his weary toil; But new exploits do hale him out again: And, mounted then upon a dragon's back, That with his wings did part the subtle air, He now is gone to prove cosmography, That measures coasts and kingdoms of the earth; And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his court, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, The which this day is highly solemniz'd. [Exit.] Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier, Environ'd round [98] with airy mountain-tops, With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes, Not to be won by any conquering prince; From Paris next, coasting the realm of France, We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine, [99] Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines; Then up to [100] Naples, rich Campania, Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye, The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick, Quarter the town in four equivalents: [101] There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb; The way he cut, an English mile in length, Thorough [102] a rock of stone, in one night's space; From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest, [103] In one of which a sumptuous temple stands, That threats the stars with her aspiring top, Whose frame is pav'd with sundry-colour'd stones, And roof'd aloft with curious work in gold. Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time: But tell me [104] now, what resting-place is this? Hast thou, as erst I did command, Conducted me within the walls of Rome? MEPHIST. I have, my Faustus; and, for proof thereof, This is the goodly palace of the Pope; And, 'cause we are no common guests, I choose his privy-chamber for our use. FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us [105] welcome. MEPHIST. All's one, for we'll be bold with his venison. But now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive What Rome contains for to delight thine eyes, Know that this city stands upon seven hills That underprop the groundwork of the same: Just through [106] the midst runs flowing Tiber's stream, With winding banks that cut it in two parts; Over the which two stately bridges lean, That make safe passage to each part of Rome: Upon the bridge call'd Ponte [107] Angelo Erected is a castle passing strong, Where thou shalt see such store of ordnance, As that the double cannons, forg'd of brass, Do match [108] the number of the days contain'd Within the compass of one complete year; Beside the gates, and high pyramides, That Julius Caesar brought from Africa. FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule, Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear That I do long to see the [109] monuments And situation of bright-splendent Rome: Come, therefore, let's away. MEPHIST. Nay, stay, my Faustus: I know you'd see the Pope, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, The which, in state and [110] high solemnity, This day, is held through Rome and Italy, In honour of the Pope's triumphant victory. FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, thou pleasest me. Whilst I am here on earth, let me be cloy'd With all things that delight the heart of man: My four-and-twenty years of liberty I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance, That Faustus' name, whilst [111] this bright frame doth stand, May be admir'd thorough [112] the furthest land. MEPHIST. 'Tis well said, Faustus. Come, then, stand by me, And thou shalt see them come immediately. FAUSTUS. Nay, stay, my gentle Mephistophilis, And grant me my [113] request, and then I go. Thou know'st, within the compass of eight days We view'd the face of heaven, of earth, and hell; So high our dragons soar'd into the air, That, looking down, the earth appear'd to me No bigger than my hand in quantity; There did we view the kingdoms of the world, And what might please mine eye I there beheld. Then in this show let me an actor be, That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning [114] see. MEPHIST. Let it be so, my Faustus. But, first, stay, And view their triumphs as they pass this way; And then devise what best contents thy mind, By cunning in thine art to cross the Pope, Or dash the pride of this [115] solemnity; To make his monks and abbots stand like apes, And point like antics at [116] his triple crown; To beat the beads about the friars' pates, Or clap huge horns upon the Cardinals' heads; Or any villany thou canst devise; And I'll perform it, [117] Faustus. Hark! they come: This day shall make thee be admir'd in Rome. Enter the CARDINALS and BISHOPS, some bearing crosiers, some the pillars; MONKS and FRIARS, singing their procession; then the POPE, RAYMOND king of Hungary, the ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, BRUNO led in chains, and ATTENDANTS. POPE. Cast down our footstool. RAYMOND. Saxon Bruno, stoop, Whilst on thy back his Holiness ascends Saint Peter's chair and state pontifical. BRUNO. Proud Lucifer, that state belongs to me; But thus I fall to Peter, not to thee. POPE. To me and Peter shalt thou grovelling lie, And crouch before the Papal dignity.-- Sound trumpets, then; for thus Saint Peter's heir, From Bruno's back, ascends Saint Peter's chair. [A flourish while he ascends.] Thus, as the gods creep on with feet of wool, Long ere with iron hands they punish men, So shall our sleeping vengeance now arise, And smite with death thy hated enterprise. [118]-- Lord Cardinals of France and Padua, Go forthwith to our [119] holy consistory, And read, amongst the statutes decretal, What, by the holy council held at Trent, The sacred synod hath decreed for him That doth assume the Papal government Without election and a true consent: Away, and bring us word with speed. CARDINAL OF FRANCE. We go, my lord. [Exeunt CARDINALS of France and Padua.] POPE. Lord Raymond. [They converse in dumb show.] FAUSTUS. Go, haste thee, gentle Mephistophilis, Follow the cardinals to the consistory; And, as they turn their superstitious books, Strike them with sloth and drowsy idleness, And make them sleep so sound, that in their shapes Thyself and I may parley with this [120] Pope, This proud confronter of the Emperor; And, in despite of all his holiness, Restore this Bruno to his liberty, And bear him to the states of Germany. MEPHIST. Faustus, I go. FAUSTUS. Despatch it soon: The Pope shall curse, that Faustus came to Rome. [Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.] BRUNO. Pope Adrian, let me have right [121] of law: I was elected by the Emperor. POPE. We will depose the Emperor for that deed, And curse the people that submit to him: Both he and thou shall [122] stand excommunicate, And interdict from church's privilege And all society of holy men. He grows too proud in his authority, Lifting his lofty head above the clouds, And, like a steeple, overpeers the church: But we'll pull down his haughty insolence; And, as Pope Alexander, our progenitor, Trod on the neck of German Frederick, Adding this golden sentence to our praise, "That Peter's heirs should tread on Emperors, And walk upon the dreadful adder's back, Treading the lion and the dragon down, And fearless spurn the killing basilisk," So will we quell that haughty schismatic, And, by authority apostolical, Depose him from his regal government. BRUNO. Pope Julius swore to princely Sigismond, For him and the succeeding Popes of Rome, To hold the Emperors their lawful lords. POPE. Pope Julius did abuse the church's rights, And therefore none of his decrees can stand. Is not all power on earth bestow'd on us? And therefore, though we would, we cannot err. Behold this silver belt, whereto is fix'd Seven golden seals, fast sealed with seven seals, In token of our seven-fold power from heaven, To bind or loose, lock fast, condemn or judge, Resign or seal, or what so pleaseth us: Then he and thou, and all the world, shall stoop, Or be assured of our dreadful curse, To light as heavy as the pains of hell. Re-enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS, in the shapes of the CARDINALS of France and Padua. MEPHIST. Now tell me, Faustus, are we not fitted well? FAUSTUS. Yes, Mephistophilis; and two such cardinals Ne'er serv'd a holy Pope as we shall do. But, whilst they sleep within the consistory, Let us salute his reverend fatherhood. RAYMOND. Behold, my lord, the Cardinals are return'd. POPE. Welcome, grave fathers: answer presently What hath [123] our holy council there decreed Concerning Bruno and the Emperor, In quittance of their late conspiracy Against our state and papal dignity? FAUSTUS. Most sacred patron of the church of Rome, By full consent of all the synod [124] Of priests and prelates, it is thus decreed,-- That Bruno and the German Emperor Be held as Lollards and bold schismatics, And proud disturbers of the church's peace; And if that Bruno, by his own assent, Without enforcement of the German peers, Did seek to wear the triple diadem, And by your death to climb Saint Peter's chair, The statutes decretal have thus decreed,-- He shall be straight condemn'd of heresy, And on a pile of faggots burnt to death. POPE. It is enough. Here, take him to your charge, And bear him straight to Ponte [125] Angelo, And in the strongest tower enclose him fast. To-morrow, sitting in our consistory, With all our college of grave cardinals, We will determine of his life or death. Here, take his [126] triple crown along with you, And leave it in the church's treasury. Make haste again, my good Lord Cardinals, And take our blessing apostolical. MEPHIST. So, so; was never devil thus bless'd before. FAUSTUS. Away, sweet Mephistophilis, be gone; The Cardinals will be plagu'd for this anon. [Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS with BRUNO.] POPE. Go presently and bring a banquet forth, That we may solemnize Saint Peter's feast, And with Lord Raymond, King of Hungary, Drink to our late and happy victory. A Sennet [127] while the banquet is brought in; and then enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS in their own shapes. MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, come, prepare thyself for mirth: The sleepy Cardinals are hard at hand, To censure Bruno, that is posted hence, And on a proud-pac'd steed, as swift as thought, Flies o'er the Alps to fruitful Germany, There to salute the woful Emperor. FAUSTUS. The Pope will curse them for their sloth to-day, That slept both Bruno and his crown away. But now, that Faustus may delight his mind, And by their folly make some merriment, Sweet Mephistophilis, so charm me here, That I may walk invisible to all, And do whate'er I please, unseen of any. MEPHIST. Faustus, thou shalt: then kneel down presently, Whilst on thy head I lay my hand, And charm thee with this magic wand. First, wear this girdle; then appear Invisible to all are here: The planets seven, the gloomy air, Hell, and the Furies' forked hair, Pluto's blue fire, and Hecat's tree, With magic spells so compass thee, That no eye may thy body see! So, Faustus, now, for all their holiness, Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd. FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis.--Now, friars, take heed, Lest Faustus make your shaven crowns to bleed. MEPHIST. Faustus, no more: see, where the Cardinals come! Re-enter the CARDINALS of France and Padua with a book. POPE. Welcome, Lord Cardinals; come, sit down.-- Lord Raymond, take your seat.--Friars, attend, And see that all things be [128] in readiness, As best beseems this solemn festival. CARDINAL OF FRANCE. First, may it please your sacred Holiness To view the sentence of the reverend synod Concerning Bruno and the Emperor? POPE. What needs this question? did I not tell you, To-morrow we would sit i' the consistory, And there determine of his punishment? You brought us word even now, it was decreed That Bruno and the cursed Emperor Were by the holy council both condemn'd For loathed Lollards and base schismatics: Then wherefore would you have me view that book? CARDINAL OF FRANCE. Your grace mistakes; you gave us no such charge. RAYMOND. Deny it not; we all are witnesses That Bruno here was late deliver'd you, With his rich triple crown to be reserv'd And put into the church's treasury. BOTH CARDINALS. By holy Paul, we saw them not! POPE. By Peter, you shall die, Unless you bring them forth immediately!-- Hale them to [129] prison, lade their limbs with gyves.-- False prelates, for this hateful treachery Curs'd be your souls to hellish misery! [Exeunt ATTENDANTS with the two CARDINALS.] FAUSTUS. So, they are safe. Now, Faustus, to the feast: The Pope had never such a frolic guest. POPE. Lord Archbishop of Rheims, sit down with us. ARCHBISHOP. [130] I thank your Holiness. FAUSTUS. Fall to; the devil choke you, [131] an you spare! POPE. Who is that spoke?--Friars, look about.-- Lord Raymond, pray, fall to. I am beholding [132] To the Bishop of Milan for this so rare a present. FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. How now! who snatch'd the meat from me? Villains, why speak you not?-- My good Lord Archbishop, here's a most dainty dish Was sent me from a cardinal in France. FAUSTUS. I'll have that too. [Snatches the dish.] POPE. What Lollards do attend our holiness, That we receive such [133] great indignity? Fetch me some wine. FAUSTUS. Ay, pray, do, for Faustus is a-dry. POPE. Lord Raymond, I drink unto your grace. FAUSTUS. I pledge your grace. [Snatches the cup.] POPE. My wine gone too!--Ye lubbers, look about, And find the man that doth this villany, Or, by our sanctitude, you all shall die!-- I pray, my lords, have patience at this Troublesome banquet. ARCHBISHOP. Please it [134] your Holiness, I think it be some ghost crept out of Purgatory, and now is come unto your Holiness for his pardon. POPE. It may be so.-- Go, then, command our priests to sing a dirge, To lay the fury of this same troublesome ghost. [Exit an ATTENDANT.--The POPE crosses himself.] FAUSTUS. How now! must every bit be spic'd with a cross?-- Nay, then, take that. [Strikes the POPE.] POPE. O, I am slain!--Help me, my lords! O, come and help to bear my body hence!-- Damn'd be his [135] soul for ever for this deed! [Exeunt all except FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.] MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what will you do now? for I can tell you you'll be cursed with bell, book, and candle. FAUSTUS. Bell, book, and candle,--candle, book, and bell,-- Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell! Re-enter the FRIARS, with bell, book, and candle, for the Dirge. FIRST FRIAR. Come, brethren, lets about our business with good devotion. [They sing.] CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK [136] HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON [137] THE FACE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat Dominus! CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat Dominus! [MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling fire-works among them, and exeunt.] Enter ROBIN and DICK with a cup. DICK. Sirrah Robin, we were best look that your devil can answer the stealing of this same [138] cup, for the Vintner's boy follows us at the hard heels. [139] ROBIN. 'Tis no matter; let him come: an he follow us, I'll so conjure him as he was never conjured in his life, I warrant him. Let me see the cup. DICK. Here 'tis. [Gives the cup to ROBIN.] Yonder he comes: now, Robin, now or never shew thy cunning. Enter VINTNER. [140] VINTNER. O, are you here? I am glad I have found you. You are a couple of fine companions: pray, where's the cup you stole from the tavern? ROBIN. How, how! we steal a cup! take heed what you say: we look not like cup-stealers, I can tell you. VINTNER. Never deny't, for I know you have it; and I'll search you. ROBIN. Search me! ay, and spare not. --Hold the cup, Dick [Aside to DICK, giving him the cup].-- Come, come, search me, search me. [VINTNER searches him.] VINTNER. Come on, sirrah, let me search you now. DICK. Ay, ay, do, do. --Hold the cup, Robin [Aside to ROBIN, giving him the cup].-- I fear not your searching: we scorn to steal your [141] cups, I can tell you. [VINTNER searches him.] VINTNER. Never out-face me for the matter; for, sure, the cup is between you two. ROBIN. Nay, there you lie; 'tis beyond us both. VINTNER. A plague take you! I thought 'twas your knavery to take it away: come, give it me again. ROBIN. Ay, much! [142] when, can you tell?--Dick, make me a circle, and stand close at my back, and stir not for thy life.--Vintner, you shall have your cup anon.--Say nothing, Dick.--[Reads from a book] O per se, O; Demogorgon; Belcher, and Mephistophilis! Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS. MEPHIST. You princely legions of infernal rule, How am I vexed by these villains' charms! From Constantinople have they brought me now, Only for pleasure of these damned slaves. [Exit VINTNER.] ROBIN. By lady, [143] sir, you have had a shrewd journey of it! will it please you to [144] take a shoulder of mutton to supper, and a tester [145] in your purse, and go back again? DICK. Ay, I pray you heartily, sir; for we called you but in jest, I promise you. MEPHIST. To purge the rashness of this cursed deed, First, be thou turned to this ugly shape, For apish deeds transformed to an ape. ROBIN. O, brave! an ape! I pray, sir, let me have the carrying of him about, to shew some tricks. MEPHIST. And so thou shalt: be thou transformed to a dog, and carry him upon thy back. Away! be gone! ROBIN. A dog! that's excellent: let the maids look well to their porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.--Come, Dick, come. [Exeunt ROBIN and DICK.] MEPHIST. Now with the flames of ever-burning fire I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly amain(sic) Unto my Faustus, to the Great Turk's court. [Exit.] Enter MARTINO and FREDERICK at several doors. MARTINO. What, ho, officers, gentlemen! Hie to the presence to attend the Emperor.-- Good Frederick, see the rooms be voided straight: His majesty is coming to the hall; Go back, and see the state [146] in readiness. FREDERICK. But where is Bruno, our elected Pope, That on a Fury's back came post from Rome? Will not his grace consort the Emperor? MARTINO. O, yes; and with him comes the German conjurer, The learned Faustus, fame of Wittenberg, The wonder of the world for magic art; And he intends to shew great Carolus The race of all his stout progenitors, And bring in presence of his majesty The royal shapes and perfect [147] semblances Of Alexander and his beauteous paramour. FREDERICK. Where is Benvolio? MARTINO. Fast asleep, I warrant you; He took his rouse [148] with stoops of Rhenish wine So kindly yesternight to Bruno's health, That all this day the sluggard keeps his bed. FREDERICK. See, see, his window's ope! we'll call to him. MARTINO. What, ho! Benvolio! Enter BENVOLIO above, at a window, in his nightcap, buttoning. BENVOLIO. What a devil ail you two? MARTINO. Speak softly, sir, lest the devil hear you; For Faustus at the court is late arriv'd, And at his heels a [149] thousand Furies wait, To accomplish whatsoe'er the doctor please. BENVOLIO. What of this? MARTINO. Come, leave thy chamber first, and thou shalt see This conjurer perform such rare exploits, Before the Pope and royal Emperor, As never yet was seen in Germany. BENVOLIO. Has not the Pope enough of conjuring yet? He was upon the devil's back late enough: An if he be so far in love with him, I would he would post with him to Rome again! FREDERICK. Speak, wilt thou come and see this sport? BENVOLIO. Not I. MARTINO. Wilt thou stand in thy window, and see it, then? BENVOLIO. Ay, an I fall not asleep i' the mean time. MARTINO. The Emperor is at hand, who comes to see What wonders by black spells may compass'd be. BENVOLIO. Well, go you attend the Emperor. I am content, for this once, to thrust my head out at a [150] window; for they say, if a man be drunk over night, the devil cannot hurt him in the morning: if that be true, I have a charm in my head, shall control him as well as the conjurer, I warrant you. [Exeunt FREDERICK and MARTINO.] A Sennet. Enter CHARLES the German Emperor, BRUNO, DUKE OF SAXONY, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, FREDERICK, MARTINO, and Attendants. EMPEROR. Wonder of men, renowm'd [151] magician, Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court. This deed of thine, in setting Bruno free From his and our professed enemy, Shall add more excellence unto thine art Than if by powerful necromantic spells Thou couldst command the world's obedience: For ever be belov'd of Carolus! And if this Bruno, thou hast late redeem'd, In peace possess the triple diadem, And sit in Peter's chair, despite of chance, Thou shalt be famous through [152] all Italy, And honour'd of the German Emperor. FAUSTUS. These [153] gracious words, most royal Carolus, Shall make poor Faustus, to his utmost power, Both love and serve the German Emperor, And lay his life at holy Bruno's feet: For proof whereof, if so your grace be pleas'd, The doctor stands prepar'd by power of art To cast his magic charms, that shall pierce through [154] The ebon gates of ever-burning hell, And hale the stubborn Furies from their caves, To compass whatsoe'er your grace commands. BENVOLIO. Blood, he speaks terribly! but, for all that, I do not greatly believe him: he looks as like a [155] conjurer as the Pope to a costermonger. [Aside.] EMPEROR. Then, Faustus, as thou late didst promise us, We would behold that famous conqueror, Great Alexander, and his paramour, In their true shapes and state majestical, That we may wonder at their excellence. FAUSTUS. Your majesty shall see them presently.-- Mephistophilis, away, And, with a solemn noise of trumpets' sound, Present before this [156] royal Emperor Great Alexander and his beauteous paramour. MEPHIST. Faustus, I will. [Exit.] BENVOLIO. Well, Master Doctor, an your devils come not away quickly, you shall have me asleep presently: zounds, I could eat myself for anger, to think I have been such an ass all this while, to stand gaping after the devil's governor, and can see nothing! FAUSTUS. I'll make you feel something anon, if my art fail me not.-- My lord, I must forewarn your majesty, That, when my spirits present the royal shapes Of Alexander and his paramour, Your grace demand [157] no questions of the king, But in dumb silence let them come and go. EMPEROR. Be it as Faustus please; we are content. BENVOLIO. Ay, ay, and I am content too: an thou bring Alexander and his paramour before the Emperor, I'll be Actaeon, and turn myself to a stag. FAUSTUS. And I'll play Diana, and send you the horns presently. Sennet. Enter, at one door, [158] the EMPEROR ALEXANDER, at the other, DARIUS. They meet. DARIUS is thrown down; ALEXANDER kills him, takes off his crown, and, offering to go out, his PARAMOUR meets him. He embraceth her, and sets DARIUS' crown upon her head; and, coming back, both salute the EMPEROR, who, leaving his state, [159] offers to embrace them; which FAUSTUS seeing, suddenly stays him. Then trumpets cease, and music sounds. My gracious lord, you do forget yourself; These [160] are but shadows, not substantial. EMPEROR. O, pardon me! my thoughts are so ravish'd With sight of this renowmed [161] emperor, That in mine arms I would have compass'd him. But, Faustus, since I may not speak to them, To satisfy my longing thoughts [162] at full, Let me this tell thee: I have heard it said That this fair lady, whilst [163] she liv'd on earth, Had on her neck a little wart or mole; How may I prove that saying to be true? FAUSTUS. Your majesty may boldly go and see. EMPEROR. Faustus, I see it plain; And in this sight thou better pleasest me Than if I gain'd [164] another monarchy. FAUSTUS. Away! be gone! [Exit show.]--See, see, my gracious lord! what strange beast is yon, that thrusts his head out at window? [165] EMPEROR. O, wondrous sight!--See, Duke of Saxony, Two spreading horns most strangely fastened Upon the head of young Benvolio! SAXONY. What, is he asleep or dead? FAUSTUS. He sleeps, my lord; but dreams not of his horns. EMPEROR. This sport is excellent: we'll call and wake him.-- What, ho, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. A plague upon you! let me sleep a while. EMPEROR. I blame thee not to sleep much, having such a head of thine own. SAXONY. Look up, Benvolio; 'tis the Emperor calls. BENVOLIO. The Emperor! where?--O, zounds, my head! EMPEROR. Nay, an thy horns hold, 'tis no matter for thy head, for that's armed sufficiently. FAUSTUS. Why, how now, Sir Knight! what, hanged by the horns! this is [166] most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head, for shame! let not all the world wonder at you. BENVOLIO. Zounds, doctor, this is [167] your villany! FAUSTUS. O, say not so, sir! the doctor has no skill, No art, no cunning, to present these lords, Or bring before this royal Emperor The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander. If Faustus do it, you are straight resolv'd, In bold Actaeon's shape, to turn a stag:-- And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty, I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so As [168] all his footmanship shall scarce prevail To keep his carcass from their bloody fangs.-- Ho, Belimoth, Argiron, Asteroth! [169] BENVOLIO. Hold, hold!--Zounds, he'll raise up a kennel of devils, I think, anon.--Good my lord, entreat for me.--'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments. EMPEROR. Then, good Master Doctor, Let me entreat you to remove his horns; He has [170] done penance now sufficiently. FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for injury done to me, as to delight your majesty with some mirth, hath Faustus justly requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am content to remove his horns. [171]--Mephistophilis, transform him [MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns]:--and hereafter, sir, [172] look you speak well of scholars. BENVOLIO. Speak well of ye! 'sblood, an scholars be such cuckold-makers, to clap horns of [173] honest men's heads o' this order, I'll ne'er trust smooth faces and small ruffs more.--But, an I be not revenged for this, would I might be turned to a gaping oyster, and drink nothing but salt water! [Aside, and then exit above.] EMPEROR. Come, Faustus: while the Emperor lives, In recompense of this thy high desert, Thou shalt command the state of Germany, And live belov'd of mighty Carolus. [Exeunt.] Enter BENVOLIO, MARTINO, FREDERICK, and SOLDIERS. MARTINO. Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway [174] thy thoughts From this attempt against the conjurer. [175] BENVOLIO. Away! you love me not, to urge me thus: Shall I let slip so great an injury, When every servile groom jests at my wrongs, And in their rustic gambols proudly say, "Benvolio's head was grac'd with horns today?" O, may these eyelids never close again, Till with my sword I have that [176] conjurer slain! If you will aid me in this enterprise, Then draw your weapons and be resolute; If not, depart: here will Benvolio die, But Faustus' death shall quit my [177] infamy. FREDERICK. Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may, And kill that [178] doctor, if he come this way. BENVOLIO. Then, gentle Frederick, hie thee to the grove, And place our servants and our followers Close in an [179] ambush there behind the trees. By this, I know the conjurer is near: I saw him kneel, and kiss the Emperor's hand, And take his leave, laden with rich rewards. Then, soldiers, boldly [180] fight: if Faustus die, Take you the wealth, leave us the victory. FREDERICK. Come, soldiers, follow me unto the grove: Who kills him shall have gold and endless love. [Exit FREDERICK with SOLDIERS.] BENVOLIO. My head is lighter, than it was, by the horns; But yet my heart's [181] more ponderous than my head, And pants until I see that [182] conjurer dead. MARTINO. Where shall we place ourselves, Benvolio? BENVOLIO. Here will we stay to bide the first assault: O, were that damned hell-hound but in place, Thou soon shouldst see me quit my foul disgrace! Re-enter FREDERICK. FREDERICK. Close, close! the conjurer is at hand, And all alone comes walking in his gown; Be ready, then, and strike the [183] peasant down. BENVOLIO. Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home! For horns he gave I'll have his head anon. MARTINO. See, see, he comes! Enter FAUSTUS with a false head. BENVOLIO. No words. This blow ends all: Hell take his soul! his body thus must fall. [Stabs FAUSTUS.] FAUSTUS. [falling.] O! FREDERICK. Groan you, Master Doctor? BENVOLIO. Break may his heart with groans!--Dear Frederick, see, Thus will I end his griefs immediately. MARTINO. Strike with a willing hand. [BENVOLIO strikes off FAUSTUS' head.] His head is off. BENVOLIO. The devil's dead; the Furies now [184] may laugh. FREDERICK. Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown, Made the grim monarch of infernal spirits Tremble and quake at his commanding charms? MARTINO. Was this that damned head, whose art [185] conspir'd Benvolio's shame before the Emperor? BENVOLIO. Ay, that's the head, and there [186] the body lies, Justly rewarded for his villanies. FREDERICK. Come, let's devise how we may add more shame To the black scandal of his hated name. BENVOLIO. First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs, I'll nail huge forked horns, and let them hang Within the window where he yok'd me first, That all the world may see my just revenge. MARTINO. What use shall we put his beard to? BENVOLIO. We'll sell it to a chimney-sweeper: it will wear out ten birchen brooms, I warrant you. FREDERICK. What shall his [187] eyes do? BENVOLIO. We'll pull [188] out his eyes; and they shall serve for buttons to his lips, to keep his tongue from catching cold. MARTINO. An excellent policy! and now, sirs, having divided him, what shall the body do? [FAUSTUS rises.] BENVOLIO. Zounds, the devil's alive again! FREDERICK. Give him his head, for God's sake. FAUSTUS. Nay, keep it: Faustus will have heads and hands, Ay, all [189] your hearts to recompense this deed. Knew you not, traitors, I was limited For four-and-twenty years to breathe on earth? And, had you cut my body with your swords, Or hew'd this flesh and bones as small as sand, Yet in a minute had my spirit return'd, And I had breath'd a man, made free from harm. But wherefore do I dally my revenge?-- Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis? Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, and other Devils. Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs, And mount aloft with them as high as heaven: Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell. Yet, stay: the world shall see their misery, And hell shall after plague their treachery. Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence, And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt. Take thou this other, drag him through [190] the woods Amongst [191] the pricking thorns and sharpest briers; Whilst, with my gentle Mephistophilis, This traitor flies unto some steepy rock, That, rolling down, may break the villain's bones, As he intended to dismember me. Fly hence; despatch my charge immediately. FREDERICK. Pity us, gentle Faustus! save our lives! FAUSTUS. Away! FREDERICK. He must needs go that the devil drives. [Exeunt MEPHISTOPHILIS and DEVILS with BENVOLIO, MARTINO, and FREDERICK.] Enter the ambushed SOLDIERS. [192] FIRST SOLDIER. Come, sirs, prepare yourselves in readiness; Make haste to help these noble gentlemen: I heard them parley with the conjurer. SECOND SOLDIER. See, where he comes! despatch and kill the slave. FAUSTUS. What's here? an ambush to betray my life! Then, Faustus, try thy skill.--Base peasants, stand! For, lo, these [193] trees remove at my command, And stand as bulwarks 'twixt yourselves and me, To shield me from your hated treachery! Yet, to encounter this your weak attempt, Behold, an army comes incontinent! FAUSTUS strikes the door, [194] and enter a DEVIL playing on a drum; after him another, bearing an ensign; and divers with weapons; MEPHISTOPHILIS with fire-works. They set upon the SOLDIERS, drive them out, and exeunt. Enter, at several doors, BENVOLIO, FREDERICK, and MARTINO, their heads and faces bloody, and besmeared with mud and dirt; all having horns on their heads. MARTINO. What, ho, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. Here.--What, Frederick, ho! FREDERICK. O, help me, gentle friend!--Where is Martino? MARTINO. Dear Frederick, here, Half smother'd in a lake of mud and dirt, Through which the Furies dragg'd me by the heels. FREDERICK. Martino, see, Benvolio's horns again! MARTINO. O, misery!--How now, Benvolio! BENVOLIO. Defend me, heaven! shall I be haunted still? MARTINO. Nay, fear not, man; we have no power to kill. BENVOLIO. My friends transformed thus! O, hellish spite! Your heads are all set with horns. FREDERICK. You hit it right; It is your own you mean; feel on your head. BENVOLIO. Zounds, [195] horns again! MARTINO. Nay, chafe not, man; we all are [196] sped. BENVOLIO. What devil attends this damn'd magician, That, spite of spite, our wrongs are doubled? FREDERICK. What may we do, that we may hide our shames? BENVOLIO. If we should follow him to work revenge, He'd join long asses' ears to these huge horns, And make us laughing-stocks to all the world. MARTINO. What shall we, then, do, dear Benvolio? BENVOLIO. I have a castle joining near these woods; And thither we'll repair, and live obscure, Till time shall alter these [197] our brutish shapes: Sith black disgrace hath thus eclips'd our fame, We'll rather die with grief than live with shame. [Exeunt.] Enter FAUSTUS, a HORSE-COURSER, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. HORSE-COURSER. I beseech your worship, accept of these forty dollars. FAUSTUS. Friend, thou canst not buy so good a horse for so small a price. I have no great need to sell him: but, if thou likest him for ten dollars more, take him, because I see thou hast a good mind to him. HORSE-COURSER. I beseech you, sir, accept of this: I am a very poor man, and have lost very much of late by horse-flesh, and this bargain will set me up again. FAUSTUS. Well, I will not stand with thee: give me the money [HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]. Now, sirrah, I must tell you that you may ride him o'er hedge and ditch, and spare him not; but, do you hear? in any case, ride him not into the water. HORSE-COURSER. How, sir! not into the water! why, will he not drink of all waters? FAUSTUS. Yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into the water: o'er hedge and ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into the water. Go, bid the hostler deliver him unto you, and remember what I say. HORSE-COURSER. I warrant you, sir!--O, joyful day! now am I a made man for ever. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die? Thy fatal time draws to a final end; Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts: Confound these passions with a quiet sleep: Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross; Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit. [He sits to sleep.] Re-enter the HORSE-COURSER, wet. HORSE-COURSER. 0, what a cozening doctor was this! I, riding my horse into the water, thinking some hidden mystery had been in the horse, I had nothing under me but a little straw, and had much ado to escape [198] drowning. Well, I'll go rouse him, and make him give me my forty dollars again.--Ho, sirrah Doctor, you cozening scab! Master Doctor, awake, and rise, and give me my money again, for your horse is turned to a bottle of hay, Master Doctor! [He pulls off FAUSTUS' leg]. Alas, I am undone! what shall I do? I have pulled off his leg. FAUSTUS. O, help, help! the villain hath murdered me. HORSE-COURSER. Murder or not murder, now he has [199] but one leg, I'll outrun him, and cast this leg into some ditch or other. [Aside, and then runs out.] FAUSTUS. Stop him, stop him, stop him!--Ha, ha, ha! Faustus hath his leg again, and the Horse-courser a bundle of hay for his forty dollars. Enter WAGNER. How now, Wagner! what news with thee? WAGNER. If it please you, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly entreat your company, and hath sent some of his men to attend you, [200] with provision fit for your journey. FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt's an honourable gentleman, and one to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning. Come, away! [Exeunt. Enter ROBIN, DICK, the HORSE-COURSER, and a CARTER. CARTER. Come, my masters, I'll bring you to the best beer in Europe.--What, ho, hostess! where be these whores? Enter HOSTESS. HOSTESS. How now! what lack you? What, my old guess! [201] welcome. ROBIN. Sirrah Dick, dost thou [202] know why I stand so mute? DICK. No, Robin: why is't? ROBIN. I am eighteen-pence on the score. but say nothing; see if she have forgotten me. HOSTESS. Who's this that stands so solemnly by himself? What, my old guest! ROBIN. O, hostess, how do you? I hope my score stands still. HOSTESS. Ay, there's no doubt of that; for methinks you make no haste to wipe it out. DICK. Why, hostess, I say, fetch us some beer. HOSTESS. You shall presently.--Look up into the hall there, ho! [Exit.--Drink is presently brought in.] DICK. Come, sirs, what shall we do now [203] till mine hostess comes? CARTER. Marry, sir, [204] I'll tell you the bravest tale how a conjurer served me. You know Doctor Faustus? HORSE-COURSER. Ay, a plague take him! here's some on's have cause to know him. Did he conjure thee too? CARTER. I'll tell you how he served me. As I was going to Wittenberg, t'other day, [205] with a load of hay, he met me, and asked me what he should give me for as much hay as he could eat. Now, sir, I thinking that a little would serve his turn, bad him take as much as he would for three farthings: so he presently gave me my [206] money and fell to eating; and, as I am a cursen [207] man, he never left eating till he had eat up all my load of hay. ALL. O, monstrous! eat a whole load of hay! ROBIN. Yes, yes, that may be; for I have heard of one that has eat a load of logs. HORSE-COURSER. Now, sirs, you shall hear how villanously he served me. I went to him yesterday to buy a horse of him, and he would by no means sell him under forty dollars. So, sir, because I knew him to be such a horse as would run over hedge and ditch and never tire, I gave him his money. So, when I had my horse, Doctor Faustus bad me ride him night and day, and spare him no time; but, quoth he, in any case, ride him not into the water. Now, sir, I thinking the horse had had some quality [208] that he would not have me know of, what did I but rid [209] him into a great river? and when I came just in the midst, my horse vanished away, and I sate straddling upon a bottle of hay. ALL. O, brave doctor! HORSE-COURSER. But you shall hear how bravely I served him for it. I went me home to his house, and there I found him asleep. I kept a hallooing and whooping in his ears; but all could not wake him. I, seeing that, took him by the leg, and never rested pulling till I had pulled me his leg quite off; and now 'tis at home in mine hostry. ROBIN. And has the doctor but one leg, then? that's excellent; for one of his devils turned me into the likeness of an ape's face. CARTER. Some more drink, hostess! ROBIN. Hark you, we'll into another room and drink a while, and then we'll go seek out the doctor. [Exeunt.] Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, his DUCHESS, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and ATTENDANTS. DUKE. Thanks, Master Doctor, for these pleasant sights; nor know I how sufficiently to recompense your great deserts in erecting that enchanted castle in the air, [210] the sight whereof so delighted [211] me as nothing in the world could please me more. FAUSTUS. I do think myself, my good lord, highly recompensed in that it pleaseth [212] your grace to think but well of that which Faustus hath performed.--But, gracious lady, it may be that you have taken no pleasure in those sights; therefore, I pray you tell me, what is the thing you most desire to have; be it in the world, it shall be yours: I have heard that great-bellied women do long for things are rare and dainty. DUCHESS. True, Master Doctor; and, since I find you so kind, I will make known unto you what my heart desires to have; and, were it now summer, as it is January, a dead time of the winter, I would request no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes. FAUSTUS. This is but a small matter.--Go, Mephistophilis; away! [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] Madam, I will do more than this for your content. Re-Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes. Here now, taste you these: they should be good, for they come [213] from a far country, I can tell you. DUKE. This makes me wonder more than all the rest, that at this time of the year, when every tree is barren of his fruit, from whence you had these ripe grapes. [214] FAUSTUS. Please it your grace, the year is divided into two circles over the whole world; so that, when it is winter with us, in the contrary circle it is likewise summer with them, as in India, Saba, and such countries that lie far east, where they have fruit twice a-year; from whence, by means of a swift spirit that I have, I had these grapes brought, as you see. DUCHESS. And, trust me, they are the sweetest grapes that e'er I tasted. The CLOWNS bounce [215] at the gate, within. DUKE. What rude disturbers have we at the gate? Go, pacify their fury, set it ope, And then demand of them what they would have. [They knock again, and call out to talk with FAUSTUS.] SERVANT. Why, how now, masters! what a coil is there! What is the reason you disturb the Duke? DICK [within]. We have no reason for it; therefore a fig for him! SERVANT. Why, saucy varlets, dare you be so bold? HORSE-COURSER [within]. I hope, sir, we have wit enough to be more bold than welcome. SERVANT. It appears so: pray, be bold elsewhere, and trouble not the Duke. DUKE. What would they have? SERVANT. They all cry out to speak with Doctor Faustus. CARTER [within]. Ay, and we will speak with him. DUKE. Will you, sir?--Commit the rascals. DICK [within]. Commit with us! he were as good commit with his father as commit with us. FAUSTUS. I do beseech your grace, let them come in; They are good subject for [216] a merriment. DUKE. Do as thou wilt, Faustus; I give thee leave. FAUSTUS. I thank your grace. Enter ROBIN, DICK, CARTER, and HORSE-COURSER. Why, how now, my good friends! Faith, you are too outrageous: but, come near; I have procur'd your pardons: [217] welcome, all. ROBIN. Nay, sir, we will be welcome for our money, and we will pay for what we take.--What, ho! give's half a dozen of beer here, and be hanged! FAUSTUS. Nay, hark you; can you tell me [218] where you are? CARTER. Ay, marry, can I; we are under heaven. SERVANT. Ay; but, Sir Saucebox, know you in what place? HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, the house is good enough to drink in. --Zouns, fill us some beer, or we'll break all the barrels in the house, and dash out all your brains with your bottles! FAUSTUS. Be not so furious: come, you shall have beer.-- My lord, beseech you give me leave a while; I'll gage my credit 'twill content your grace. DUKE. With all my heart, kind doctor; please thyself; Our servants and our court's at thy command. FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace.--Then fetch some beer. HORSE-COURSER. Ay, marry, there spake [219] a doctor, indeed! and, faith, I'll drink a health to thy wooden leg for that word. FAUSTUS. My wooden leg! what dost thou mean by that? CARTER. Ha, ha, ha!--Dost hear him, [220] Dick? he has forgot his leg. HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, he does not stand much upon that. FAUSTUS. No, faith; not much upon a wooden leg. CARTER. Good Lord, that flesh and blood should be so frail with your worship! Do not you remember a horse-courser you sold a horse to? FAUSTUS. Yes, I remember I sold one a horse. CARTER. And do you remember you bid he should not ride him [221] into the water? FAUSTUS. Yes, I do very well remember that. CARTER. And do you remember nothing of your leg? FAUSTUS. No, in good sooth. CARTER. Then, I pray you, [222] remember your courtesy. FAUSTUS. I [223] thank you, sir. CARTER. 'Tis not so much worth. I pray you, tell me one thing. FAUSTUS. What's that? CARTER. Be both your legs bed-fellows every night together? FAUSTUS. Wouldst thou make a Colossus of me, that thou askest me such questions? CARTER. No, truly, sir; I would make nothing of you; but I would fain know that. Enter HOSTESS with drink. FAUSTUS. Then, I assure thee certainly, they are. CARTER. I thank you; I am fully satisfied. FAUSTUS. But wherefore dost thou ask? CARTER. For nothing, sir: but methinks you should have a wooden bed-fellow of one of 'em. HORSE-COURSER. Why, do you hear, sir? did not I [224] pull off one of your legs when you were asleep? FAUSTUS. But I have it again, now I am awake: look you here, sir. ALL. O, horrible! had the doctor three legs? CARTER. Do you remember, sir, how you cozened me, and eat up my load of---- [FAUSTUS, in the middle of each speech, charms them dumb.] DICK. Do you remember how you made me wear an ape's---- HORSE-COURSER. You whoreson conjuring scab, do you remember how you cozened me with a ho---- ROBIN. Ha' [225] you forgotten me? you think to carry it away with your hey-pass and re-pass: do you remember the dog's fa---- [Exeunt CLOWNS.] HOSTESS. Who pays for the ale? hear you, Master Doctor; now you have sent away my guess, [226] I pray who shall pay me for my a---- [Exit HOSTESS.] DUCHESS. My lord, We are much beholding [227] to this learned man. DUKE. So are we, madam; which we will recompense With all the love and kindness that we may: His artful sport [228] drives all sad thoughts away. [Exeunt.] Thunder and lightning. Enter DEVILS with covered dishes; MEPHISTOPHILIS leads them into FAUSTUS'S study; then enter WAGNER. WAGNER. I think my master [229] means to die shortly; he has made his will, and given me his wealth, his house, his goods, [230] and store of golden plate, besides two thousand ducats ready-coined. I wonder what he means: if death were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's now at supper with the scholars, where there's such belly-cheer as Wagner in his life ne'er [231] saw the like: and, see where they come! belike the feast is ended. [232] [Exit.] Enter FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and two or three SCHOLARS. FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world, we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us so much favour as to let us see that peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd, It is not Faustus' custom to deny The just request of those that wish him well: You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece, No otherwise for pomp or majesty Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her, And brought the spoils to rich Dardania. Be silent, then, for danger is in words. Music sounds. MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in HELEN; she passeth over the stage. SECOND SCHOLAR. Was this fair Helen, whose admired worth Made Greece with ten years' war [233] afflict poor Troy? THIRD SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit [234] to tell her worth, Whom all the world admires for majesty. FIRST SCHOLAR. Now we have seen the pride of Nature's work, We'll take our leaves: and, for this blessed sight, Happy and blest be Faustus evermore! FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same wish I to you. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.] Enter an OLD MAN. OLD MAN. O gentle Faustus, leave this damned art, This magic, that will charm thy soul to hell, And quite bereave thee of salvation! Though thou hast now offended like a man, Do not persever in it like a devil: Yet, yet thou hast an amiable soul, If sin by custom grow not into nature; Then, Faustus, will repentance come too late; Then thou art banish'd from the sight of heaven: No mortal can express the pains of hell. It may be, this my exhortation Seems harsh and all unpleasant: let it not; For, gentle son, I speak it not in wrath, Or envy of thee, [235] but in tender love, And pity of thy future misery; And so have hope that this my kind rebuke, Checking thy body, may amend thy soul. FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what hast thou done? Hell claims his right, and with a roaring voice Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost come;" And Faustus now will come to do thee right. [MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.] OLD MAN. O, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps! I see an angel hover o'er thy head, And, with a vial full of precious grace, Offers to pour the same into thy soul: Then call for mercy, and avoid despair. FAUSTUS. O friend, I feel Thy words to comfort my distressed soul! Leave me a while to ponder on my sins. OLD MAN. Faustus, I leave thee; but with grief of heart, Fearing the enemy of thy hapless soul. [Exit.] FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast thou done? I do repent; and yet I do despair: Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast: What shall I do to shun the snares of death? MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord: Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh. FAUSTUS. I do repent I e'er offended him. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord To pardon my unjust presumption, And with my blood again I will confirm The former vow I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. [236] Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart, Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift. FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and aged man, That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer, With greatest torments [237] that our hell affords. MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul; But what I may afflict [238] his body with I will attempt, which is but little worth. FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-- That I may have unto my paramour That heavenly Helen which I saw of late, Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean [239] Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow, And keep my oath [240] I made to Lucifer. MEPHIST. This, or what else my Faustus shall desire, Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye. Re-enter HELEN, passing over the stage between two CUPIDS. FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-- [Kisses her.] Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. O, thou art fairer than the evening [241] air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appear'd to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azur'd [242] arms; And none but thou shalt [243] be my paramour! [Exeunt.] Thunder. Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. LUCIFER. Thus from infernal Dis do we ascend To view the subjects of our monarchy, Those souls which sin seals the black sons of hell; 'Mong which, as chief, Faustus, we come to thee, Bringing with us lasting damnation To wait upon thy soul: the time is come Which makes it forfeit. MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night, Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be. BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay, To mark him how he doth demean himself. MEPHIST. How should he but in desperate lunacy? Fond worldling, now his heart-blood dries with grief; His conscience kills it; and his [244] labouring brain Begets a world of idle fantasies To over-reach the devil; but all in vain; His store of pleasures must be sauc'd with pain. He and his servant Wagner are at hand; Both come from drawing Faustus' latest will. See, where they come! Enter FAUSTUS and WAGNER. FAUSTUS. Say, Wagner,--thou hast perus'd my will,-- How dost thou like it? WAGNER. Sir, So wondrous well, As in all humble duty I do yield My life and lasting service for your love. FAUSTUS. Gramercy, [245] Wagner. Enter SCHOLARS. Welcome, Gentlemen. [Exit WAGNER.] FIRST SCHOLAR. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are chang'd. FAUSTUS. O, gentlemen! SECOND SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus? FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still! but now must die eternally. Look, sirs, comes he not? comes he not? FIRST SCHOLAR. O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear? SECOND SCHOLAR. Is all our pleasure turn'd to melancholy? THIRD SCHOLAR. He is not well with being over-solitary. SECOND SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians, And Faustus shall be cur'd. THIRD SCHOLAR. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; [246] fear nothing. FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly [247] sin, that hath damned both body and soul. SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven, and remember mercy is infinite. FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen, hear me [248] with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, O, would I had never [249] seen Wittenberg, never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must remain in hell for ever, hell. O, hell, for ever! Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever? SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God. FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul! O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em? ('?' sic) ALL. Who, Faustus? FAUSTUS. Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning! ALL. O, God forbid! FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; this is the time, and he will fetch me. FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee? FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch me body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis [250] too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what may we do to save Faustus? FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart. THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus. FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and pray for him. FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me. SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy upon thee. FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell. ALL. Faustus, farewell. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.] MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven; Therefore despair; think only upon hell, For that must be thy mansion, there to dwell. FAUSTUS. O thou bewitching fiend, 'twas thy temptation Hath robb'd me of eternal happiness! MEPHIST. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice: 'Twas I that, when thou wert i'the way to heaven, Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book To view the Scriptures, then I turn'd the leaves, And led thine eye. [251] What, weep'st thou? 'tis too late; despair! Farewell: Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell. [Exit.] [252] Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL at several doors. GOOD ANGEL. O Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me, Innumerable joys had follow'd thee! But thou didst love the world. EVIL ANGEL. Gave ear to me, And now must taste hell-pains [253] perpetually. GOOD ANGEL. O, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps, Avail thee now? EVIL ANGEL. Nothing, but vex thee more, To want in hell, that had on earth such store. GOOD ANGEL. O, thou hast lost celestial happiness, Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end Hadst thou affected sweet divinity, Hell or the devil had had no power on thee: Hadst thou kept on that way, Faustus, behold, [Music, while a throne descends.] In what resplendent glory thou hadst sit [254] In yonder throne, like those bright-shining saints, And triumph'd over hell! That hast thou lost; And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee: The jaws of hell are open [255] to receive thee. [Exit. The throne ascends.] EVIL ANGEL. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare [Hell is discovered.] Into that vast perpetual torture-house: There are the Furies tossing damned souls On burning forks; there bodies boil [256] in lead; There are live quarters broiling on the coals, That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair Is for o'er-tortur'd souls to rest them in; These that are fed with sops of flaming fire, Were gluttons, and lov'd only delicates, And laugh'd to see the poor starve at their gates: But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be. FAUSTUS. O, I have seen enough to torture me! EVIL ANGEL. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all: He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall: And so I leave thee, Faustus, till anon; Then wilt thou tumble in confusion. [Exit. Hell disappears.--The clock strikes eleven.] FAUSTUS. O Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn'd perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente, lente currite, noctis equi! The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. O, I'll leap up to heaven!--Who pulls me down?-- See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! [257] One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!-- Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!-- Where is it now? 'tis gone: And, see, a threatening arm, an [258] angry brow! Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven! No! Then will I headlong run into the earth: Gape, earth! O, no, it will not harbour me! You stars that reign'd at my nativity, Whose influence hath [259] allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, Into the entrails of yon [260] labouring cloud[s], That, when you [261] vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths; But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven! [The clock strikes the half-hour.] O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. O, if [262] my soul must suffer for my sin, Impose some end to my incessant pain; Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last [263] be sav'd! No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd Into some brutish beast! all beasts are happy, For, when they die, Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. [The clock strikes twelve.] It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be chang'd into small water-drops, And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found! Thunder. Enter DEVILS. O, mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books!--O Mephistophilis! [Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.] Enter SCHOLARS. [264] FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, For such a dreadful night was never seen; Since first the world's creation did begin, Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard: Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, help us, heaven! [265] see, here are Faustus' limbs, All torn asunder by the hand of death! THIRD SCHOLAR. The devils whom Faustus serv'd have [266] torn him thus; For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought, I heard him shriek and call aloud for help; At which self [267] time the house seem'd all on fire With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such As every Christian heart laments to think on, Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, We'll give his mangled limbs due burial; And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black, Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. [Exeunt.] Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall, Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise, Only to wonder at unlawful things, Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits To practise more than heavenly power permits. [Exit.] Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Carthagens: So 4tos 1616, 1624, (and compare 4to 1604, p. 79).--2to 1631 "Carthagen." p. 79. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Where Mars did mate the Carthaginians;" ] [Footnote 2: her: Old eds. "his."] [Footnote 3: of: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "and."] [Footnote 4: upon: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "on the."] [Footnote 5: thousand: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "diuers."] [Footnote 6: them: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "men."] [Footnote 7: legatur: Old eds. "legatus."] [Footnote 8: petty: I may notice that 4to 1604 has "pretty," which is perhaps the right reading.] [Footnote 9: &c.: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 10: circles, scenes, letters, and characters: So 4to 1604 (see note ��, p. 80).--The later 4tos "circles, letters, characters." Note ��, from p. 80. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "scenes: "And sooner may a gulling weather-spie By drawing forth heavens SCEANES tell certainly," &c. Donne's FIRST SATYRE,--p. 327, ed. 1633." ] [Footnote 11: gain: So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).--2to 1616 "get."] [Footnote 12: these: See note §, p. 80. Note §, from p. 80. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "these elements: So again, "Within the bowels of THESE elements," &c., on p. 87, first col,--"THESE" being equivalent to THE. (Not unfrequently in our old writers THESE is little more than redundant.)" ] [Footnote 13: enterprise: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "enterprises."] [Footnote 14: make swift Rhine circle fair: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "WITH swift Rhine circle ALL."] [Footnote 15: silk: Old eds. "skill."] [Footnote 16: blest: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "wise."] [Footnote 17: Swarm: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "Sworne."] [Footnote 18: to: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 19: have: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "has."] [Footnote 20: shall they: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "they shall."] [Footnote 21: huge: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "whole."] [Footnote 22: stuffs: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "stuff'd."] [Footnote 23: renowm'd: So 4to 1616 (See note ||, p. 11).--2tos 1624, 1631, "renown'd." Note ||, from p. 11. (The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great): "renowmed: i.e. renowned.--So the 8vo.--The 4to "renowned." --The form "RENOWMED" (Fr. RENOMME) occurs repeatedly afterwards in this play, according to the 8vo. It is occasionally found in writers posterior to Marlowe's time. e.g. "Of Constantines great towne RENOUM'D in vaine." Verses to King James, prefixed to Lord Stirling's MONARCHICKE TRAGEDIES, ed. 1607." ] [Footnote 24: Albertus': Old eds. "Albanus."] [Footnote 25: that: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "the."] [Footnote 26: him: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 27: Enter Faustus: Old eds. "Thunder. Enter Lucifer and 4 deuils, Faustus to them with this speech,"--wrongly.] [Footnote 28: her: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "his."] [Footnote 29: erring: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "euening."] [Footnote 30: Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris: See note *, p. 83. Note *, from p. 83. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris: The later 4tos have "surgat Mephistophilis DRAGON, quod tumeraris."--There is a corruption here, which seems to defy emendation. For "quod TUMERARIS," Mr. J. Crossley, of Manchester, would read (rejecting the word "Dragon") "quod TU MANDARES" (the construction being "quod tu mandares ut Mephistophilis appareat et surgat"): but the "tu" does not agree with the preceding "vos."--The Revd. J. Mitford proposes "surgat Mephistophilis, per Dragon (or Dagon) quod NUMEN EST AERIS."" ] [Footnote 31: dicatus: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "dicatis."] [Footnote 32: came hither: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "came NOW hether."] [Footnote 33: speeches: So 4to 1604.--Not in the later 4tos.] [Footnote 34: accidens: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "accident."] [Footnote 35: fell: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "liue."] [Footnote 36: strike: So 4to 1631.--2tos 1616, 1624, "strikes."] [Footnote 37: thorough: So 4to 1631.--2tos 1616, 1624, "through."] [Footnote 38: Sirrah: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 39: save: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "spare."] [Footnote 40: again: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 41: or: Old eds. "for."] [Footnote 42: vestigiis nostris: Old eds. "vestigias nostras."] [Footnote 43: backward: So 4to 1616 (and so 4to 1604).--2tos 1624, 1631, "backe."] [Footnote 44: Why: So 4to 1616 (and so 4to 1604).--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 45: that famous: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "that MOST famous."] [Footnote 46: of: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "be."] [Footnote 47: men: So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).--2to 1616 "them."] [Footnote 48: Mephistophile: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "Mephostophilis."] [Footnote 49: thee: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "him."] [Footnote 50: thine: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "thy."] [Footnote 51: And: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 52: my: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "thy."] [Footnote 53: Is it: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "It is."] [Footnote 54: soul: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 55: an: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 56: should: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "shall."] [Footnote 57: God: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "heauen."] [Footnote 58: this scroll: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 59: he desires: Not in the 4tos. See note �, p. 86. Note �, from p. 86. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "he desires: Not in any of the four 4tos. In the tract just cited, i.e. THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, ed. 1648. the "3d Article" stands thus,--"That Mephostophiles should bring him any thing, and doe for him whatsoever." Sig. A 4, ed. 1648. A later ed. adds "he desired." Marlowe, no doubt, followed some edition of the HISTORY in which these words, or something equivalent to them, had been omitted by mistake. (2to 1661, which I consider as of no authority, has "he requireth.")" ] [Footnote 60: and: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 61: with: So 4to 1604.--Not in the later 4tos.] [Footnote 62: the: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "that."] [Footnote 63: are: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "is."] [Footnote 64: hell's a fable: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "hell's a MEERE fable."] [Footnote 65: thine: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thy."] [Footnote 66: thy: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "thine."] [Footnote 67: was: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "were."] [Footnote 68: harness: i.e. armour.] [Footnote 69: This will I keep as chary as my life. [Exeunt.: Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, &c.: Old eds. (that is, 4tos 1616, 1624, 1631) thus; "This will I keepe, as chary as my life. [Exeunt.: Enter WAGNER solus. WAGNER. Learned Faustus To know the secrets of Astronomy Grauen in the booke of Joues high firmament, Did mount himselfe to scale Olympus top, Being seated in a chariot burning bright, Drawne by the strength of yoaky [2to 1624 "yoaked": Dragons necks, He now is gone to proue Cosmography, And as I gesse will first arriue at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his Court; And take some part of holy Peters feast, That to [2tos 1624, 1631, "on": this day is highly solemnized. Exit WAGNER. Enter FAUSTUS in his Study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. When I behold the heauens," &c. The lines which I have here omitted belong to a subsequent part of the play, where they will be found with considerable additions, and are rightly assigned to the CHORUS. (As given in the present place by the 4tos 1616, 1624, 1631, these lines exhibit the text of the earlier FAUSTUS; see p. 90, sec. col.) It would seem that something was intended to intervene here between the exit of Faustus and Mephistophilis, and their re-appearance on the stage: compare, however, the preceding play, p. 88, first col. p. 90, sec. col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "FAUSTUS. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer! This will I keep as chary as my life. LUCIFER. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil. FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer. [Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.: Come, Mephistophilis. [Exeunt.: Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Learned Faustus, To know the secrets of astronomy Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, Did mount himself to scale Olympus' top, Being seated in a chariot burning bright, Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks. He now is gone to prove cosmography, And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his court, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, That to this day is highly solemniz'd. [Exit.: Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS. FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier," etc. p. 88, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): This part of the play does not have any relevance to characters leaving the stage and re-entering. Perhaps the editor meant p. 93, first column. p. 93, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "RALPH. O, brave, Robin! shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use? On that condition I'll feed thy devil with horse- bread as long as he lives, of free cost. ROBIN. No more, sweet Ralph: let's go and make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring in the devil's name. [Exeunt.: Enter ROBIN and RALPH with a silver goblet. ROBIN. Come, Ralph: did not I tell thee, we were for ever made by this Doctor Faustus' book? ecce, signum! here's a simple purchase for horse-keepers: our horses shall eat no hay as long as this lasts. RALPH. But, Robin, here comes the Vintner." ] [Footnote 70: thine: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thy."] [Footnote 71: is: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 72: breathes: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "breathe."] [Footnote 73: ears: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "eare."] [Footnote 74: this I: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "this TIME I."] [Footnote 75: termine: I may notice that 4to 1604 (see p. 88, sec. col.) has "terminine," which at least is better for the metre. p. 88, second column, (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Whose terminine is term'd the world's wide pole;" ] [Footnote 76: erring: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "euening."] [Footnote 77: motion: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "motions."] [Footnote 78: Ay: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 79: and: So 4to 1631.--Not in 4tos 1616, 1624.] [Footnote 80: the: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 81: lips: So 4to 1604.--Not in the later 4tos.] [Footnote 82: and ever since have run: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "and HAUE EUER SINCE run."] [Footnote 83: this: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "these."] [Footnote 84: come: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "came."] [Footnote 85: I: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "I I."] [Footnote 86: L: Old eds. "Lechery." See note �, p. 90. Note �, from p. 90. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "L.: All the 4tos "Lechery."--Here I have made the alteration recommended by Mr. Collier in his Preface to COLERIDGE'S SEVEN LECTURES ON SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON, p. cviii." ] [Footnote 87: Tut: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "But."] [Footnote 88: Robin: Old eds. "the Clowne" (and so frequently afterwards): but he is evidently a distinct person from the "Clown," Wagner's attendant, who has previously appeared (see p. 111). Most probably the parts of the Clown and Robin were played by the same actor; and hence the confusion in the old eds. P. 111. (this play): "Enter WAGNER and CLOWN. WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy." etc. ] [Footnote 89: faith: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631 "i'faith." (And so afterwards in this scene.)] [Footnote 90: not tell: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 91: as fair a: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "a faire."] [Footnote 92: need'st: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "needs."] [Footnote 93: hold, belly, hold: Compare Florio's DICT., 1611; "IOSA, GOOD STORE, hold-bellie-hold."] [Footnote 94: Prithee: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "I prithee."] [Footnote 95: him: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--Not in 4to 1631.] [Footnote 96: He views: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "To view."] [Footnote 97: with this: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "with HIS." This passage is sufficiently obscure.] [Footnote 98: round: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 99: Rhine: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "Rhines."] [Footnote 100: up to: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "vnto."] [Footnote 101: Quarter the town in four equivalents: So 4to 1604.--Not in the later 4tos.] [Footnote 102: Thorough: so 4to 1631.--2tos 1616, 1624, "Through."] [Footnote 103: rest: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "East."] [Footnote 104: me: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 105: us: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "you."] [Footnote 106: through: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thorow."] [Footnote 107: Ponte: Old eds. "Ponto."] [Footnote 108: match: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "watch."] [Footnote 109: the: so 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "those."] [Footnote 110: in state and: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "this day with."] [Footnote 111: whilst: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "while."] [Footnote 112: thorough: So 4to 1631.--2tos 1616, 1624, "through."] [Footnote 113: my: Qy. "one"?] [Footnote 114: cunning: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "comming." (And so in the fourth line of the next speech.)] [Footnote 115: this: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "his."] [Footnote 116: at: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "to."] [Footnote 117: it: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 118: And smite with death thy hated enterprise: So 4to 1616. --Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 119: our: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 120: this: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 121: have right: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "haue SOME right."] [Footnote 122: shall: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "shalt."] [Footnote 123: hath: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "haue."] [Footnote 124: synod: Qy. "HOLY synod"?] [Footnote 125: Ponte: Old eds. "Ponto."] [Footnote 126: his: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "this."] [Footnote 127: Sennet: Old eds. "Senit" and "Sonet". See note ||, p. 91. Note ||, from p. 91. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Sonnet: Variously written, SENNET, SIGNET, SIGNATE, &c.--A particular set of notes on the trumpet, or cornet, different from a flourish. See Nares's GLOSS. in V. SENNET." ] [Footnote 128: be: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "are."] [Footnote 129: them to: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "them FORTH to."] [Footnote 130: Archbishop.: Old eds. "Bish." and "Bishop" (and so afterwards).] [Footnote 131: you: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 132: beholding: So 4to 1616 (see note �, p. 98).--2tos 1624, 1631, "beholden." Note �, from p. 98. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "beholding: i.e. beholden." ] [Footnote 133: such: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "this."] [Footnote 134: it: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 135: his: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "this."] [Footnote 136: struck: Here the old eds. have "stroke" and "strooke:" but in the next clause they all agree in having "strucke."] [Footnote 137: on: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 138: same: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--Not in 4to 1631.] [Footnote 139: at the hard heels: The modern editors, ignorant of the old phraseology, thought that they corrected this passage in printing "hard at the heels."] [Footnote 140: Vintner: So all the old eds.; and presently Robin addresses this person as "vintner:" yet Dick has just spoken of him as "the Vintner's boy." See note ||, p. 93. Note ||, from p. 93. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Drawer: There is an inconsistency here: the Vintner cannot properly be addressed as "Drawer." The later 4tos are also inconsistent in the corresponding passage: Dick says, "THE VINTNER'S BOY follows us at the hard heels," and immediately the "VINTNER" enters." ] [Footnote 141: your: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 142: much: Equivalent to--by no means, not at all. This ironical exclamation is very common in our old dramatists. (Mr. Hunter, --NEW ILLUST. OF SHAKESPEARE, ii. 56,--explains it very differently.)] [Footnote 143: By lady: i.e. By our Lady.] [Footnote 144: to: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--Not in 4to 1631.] [Footnote 145: tester: i.e. sixpence.] [Footnote 146: the state: i.e. the raised chair or throne, with a canopy.] [Footnote 147: perfect: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "warlike."] [Footnote 148: rouse: i.e. bumper.] [Footnote 149: a: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "ten."] [Footnote 150: a: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "the."] [Footnote 151: renowm'd: Old eds. "renown'd"; but earlier, p. 109, first col., 4to 1616 has "renowm'd": see note 23 and see note ||, p. 11. Note ||, from p. 11. (The First Part of Tamburlaine the Great): "renowmed: i.e. renowned.--So the 8vo.--The 4to "renowned." --The form "RENOWMED" (Fr. RENOMME) occurs repeatedly afterwards in this play, according to the 8vo. It is occasionally found in writers posterior to Marlowe's time. e.g. "Of Constantines great towne RENOUM'D in vaine." Verses to King James, prefixed to Lord Stirling's MONARCHICKE TRAGEDIES, ed. 1607." ] [Footnote 152: through: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thorow."] [Footnote 153: These: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "Those."] [Footnote 154: through: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thorow."] [Footnote 155: a: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 156: this: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 157: demand: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "demands."] [Footnote 158: door: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 159: state: See note §, p. 122. i.e. note 146--So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "seat."] [Footnote 160: These: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "They."] [Footnote 161: renowmed: Old eds. "renowned." See note �, p. 123. i.e. note 151 ] [Footnote 162: thoughts: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "thought."] [Footnote 163: whilst: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "while."] [Footnote 164: I gain'd: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "I HAD gain'd."] [Footnote 165: at window: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "at THE window."] [Footnote 166: is: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 167: this is: So 4to 1624 (and rightly, as the next line proves).--2tos 1616, 1631, "is this."] [Footnote 168: As: So 4to 1616.--2to 1624 "That."--2to 1631 "And."] [Footnote 169: Belimoth....Asteroth: Old eds. here "Belimote (and "Belimot") ....Asterote": but see p. 126, first col. P. 126. (this play): "But wherefore do I dally my revenge?-- Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis?" ] [Footnote 170: has: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "hath."] [Footnote 171: horns: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "horne."] [Footnote 172: sir: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 173: of: i.e. on.] [Footnote 174: sway: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "stay."] [Footnote 175: this attempt against the conjurer: See note, * p. 95. Note *, from p. 95. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Mephistophilis, transform him straight: According to THE HISTORY OF DR. FAUSTUS, the knight was not present during Faustus's "conference" with the Emperor; nor did he offer the doctor any insult by doubting his skill in magic. We are there told that Faustus happening to see the knight asleep, "leaning out of a window of the great hall," fixed a huge pair of hart's horns on his head; "and, as the knight awaked, thinking to pull in his head, he hit his hornes against the glasse, that the panes thereof flew about his eares: thinke here how this good gentleman was vexed, for he could neither get backward nor forward." After the emperor and the courtiers, to their great amusement, had beheld the poor knight in this condition, Faustus removed the horns. When Faustus, having taken leave of the emperor, was a league and a half from the city, he was attacked in a wood by the knight and some of his companions: they were in armour, and mounted on fair palfreys; but the doctor quickly overcame them by turning all the bushes into horsemen, and "so charmed them, that every one, knight and other, for the space of a whole moneth, did weare a paire of goates hornes on their browes, and every palfry a paire of oxe hornes on his head; and this was their penance appointed by Faustus." A second attempt of the knight to revenge himself on Faustus proved equally unsuccessful. Sigs. G 2, I 3, ed. 1648." ] [Footnote 176: that: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 177: my: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "thy."] [Footnote 178: that: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 179: an: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 180: boldly: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "brauely."] [Footnote 181: heart's: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "heart."] [Footnote 182: that: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 183: the: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "that."] [Footnote 184: now: so 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 185: art: Old eds. "heart" (which, after all, may be right).] [Footnote 186: there: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "here."] [Footnote 187: his: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 3to sic 1616.] [Footnote 188: pull: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "put."] [Footnote 189: all: Old eds. "call."] [Footnote 190: through: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "thorow."] [Footnote 191: Amongst: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "Among."] [Footnote 192: Enter the ambushed Soldiers: Here (though it seems that Faustus does not quit the stage) a change of scene is supposed.] [Footnote 193: these: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "the."] [Footnote 194: the door: i.e. the stage-door,--the writer here addressing himself to THE ACTOR only, for the scene lies in a wood.] [Footnote 195: Zounds: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616, "Zons."] [Footnote 196: all are: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "are all."] [Footnote 197: these: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "this."] [Footnote 198: escape: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "scape."] [Footnote 199: has: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "hath."] [Footnote 200: you: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 201: guess: A corruption of guests (very frequent in our early dramatists) which occurs again at p. 130. first col. So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "guests." See note 226. ] [Footnote 202: thou: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 203: now: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 204: sir: Qy. "sirs"? but see the next speech of the Carter, and the next speech but one of the Horse-courser, who, in his narrative, uses both "sirs" and "sir."] [Footnote 205: As I was going to Wittenberg, t'other day, &c.: See THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Chap. xxxv,--"How Doctor Faustus eat a load of hay."--The Carter does not appear in the earlier play.] [Footnote 206: my: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 207: cursen: i.e. christened.] [Footnote 208: some quality: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "some RARE quality."] [Footnote 209: rid: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "ride."] [Footnote 210: that enchanted castle in the air: This is not mentioned in the earlier play: but see THE HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS, Chap xl, --"How Doctor Faustus through his charmes made a great Castle in presence of the Duke of Anholt."] [Footnote 211: delighted: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "delighteth."] [Footnote 212: it pleaseth: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "it HATH PLEASED."] [Footnote 213: come: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "came."] [Footnote 214: these ripe grapes: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "these grapes."] [Footnote 215: The Clowns bounce, &c: 2to 1616 "The CLOWNE bounce." 2tos 1624, 1631, "The CLOWNE BOUNCETH." (In the next stage-direction all the 4tos have "THEY knock again," &c.)] [Footnote 216: for: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "to."] [Footnote 217: pardons: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "pardon."] [Footnote 218: me: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 219: spake: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "spoke."] [Footnote 220: Dost hear him: So 4to 1616.--2to 1624 "dost THOU heare ME." 2to 1631 "dost THOU heare him."] [Footnote 221: him: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 222: you: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616 (but compare the Carter's next speech).] [Footnote 223: I: So 4to 1616.--Not in 4tos 1624, 1631.] [Footnote 224: not I: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "I not."] [Footnote 225: Ha': So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "Haue."] [Footnote 226: guess: See note §, p. 127. i.e. note 201 So 4to 1616. --2tos 1624, 1631, "guests."] [Footnote 227: beholding: So 4tos 1616, 1624, (see note �, p. 98).--2to 1631 "beholden." Note �, from p. 98. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "beholding: i.e. beholden." ] [Footnote 228: sport: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "sports." [Footnote 229: I think my master, &c.: The alterations which this speech has undergone will hardly admit of its arrangement as verse: compare the earlier play, p. 98, first col. p. 98, first col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Enter WAGNER. WAGNER. I think my master means to die shortly, For he hath given to me all his goods: And yet, methinks, if that death were near, He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill Amongst the students, as even now he doth, Who are at supper with such belly-cheer As Wagner ne'er beheld in all his life. See, where they come! belike the feast is ended. [Exit.:" ] [Footnote 230: goods: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--2to 1624 "good."] [Footnote 231: ne'er: so 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "neuer."] [Footnote 232: ended: so 4tos 1624, 1631, (and so 4to 1604).--2to 1616 "done."] [Footnote 233: war: Old eds. "warres."] [Footnote 234: wit: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--2to 1631 "will."] [Footnote 235: Or envy of thee: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "Or OF enuie TO thee."] [Footnote 236: MEPHIST.: This and the next prefix are omitted in the old eds.] [Footnote 237: torments: So 4tos 1624, 1631 (and so 4to 1604).--2to 1616 "torment."] [Footnote 238: I may afflict: So 4to 1616.--2to 1624 "I afflict."--2to 1631 "I CAN afflict."] [Footnote 239: clean: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "clear."] [Footnote 240: oath: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "vow."] [Footnote 241: evening: So 4to 1604.--The later 4tos "euenings."] [Footnote 242: azur'd: So 4to 1624 (a reading which I prefer only because it is also that of 4to 1604.)--2tos 1616, 1631, "azure."] [Footnote 243: shalt: See note *, p. 100.] Note *, from p. 100. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "shalt: So all the 4tos; and so I believe Marlowe wrote, though the grammar requires "shall."" ] [Footnote 244: his: So 4tos 1616, 1631.--Not in 4to 1624.] [Footnote 245: Gramercy: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "Gramercies."] [Footnote 246: sir: So 4tos 1616, 1624.--Not in 4to 1631.] [Footnote 247: of deadly: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "of A deadly."] [Footnote 248: me: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 249: never: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "nere."] [Footnote 250: 'tis: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "IT is."] [Footnote 251: And led thine eye: A portion of this line has evidently dropt out.] [Footnote 252: Exit: It seems doubtful whether Lucifer and Belzebub should also make their exeunt here, or whether they remain to witness the catastrophe: see p. 132, first col. P. 132, first column. (this play): "MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night, Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be. BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay, To mark him how he doth demean himself." etc. ] [Footnote 253: hell-pains: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "HELS paines."] [Footnote 254: sit: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "set."] [Footnote 255: are open: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "IS READIE."] [Footnote 256: boil: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--2to 1616 "BROYLE."] [Footnote 257: See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament: So 4tos 1624, 1631.--Not in 4to 1616.] [Footnote 258: an: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "and."] [Footnote 259: hath: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "haue."] [Footnote 260: yon: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "your."] [Footnote 261: you, &c.: See note *, p. 101.] Note *, from p. 101. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "That, when you, &c.: So all the old eds.; and it is certain that awkward changes of person are sometimes found in passages of our early poets: but qy.,-- "That, when THEY vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from THEIR smoky mouths," &c.?" ] [Footnote 262: 0, if, &c.: 2to 1604, in the corresponding passage, has "Oh, GOD, if," &c. (see p. 101, sec. col.), and that reading seems necessary for the sense. P. 101, sec. col. (Doctor Faustus, from the quarto of 1604): "Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon O God, If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me, Impose some end to my incessant pain;" etc. ] [Footnote 263: at last: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "at THE last."] [Footnote 264: Enter Scholars: Here, of course, a change of scene is supposed. (This is not in the earlier play.)] [Footnote 265: heaven: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "heauens."] [Footnote 266: devils.... have: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "DIUELL.... HATH."] [Footnote 267: self: So 4to 1616.--2tos 1624, 1631, "same."] 
32094	----	THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ BY L. FRANK BAUM AUTHOR OF THE ROAD TO OZ, DOROTHY AND THE WIZARD IN OZ, THE EMERALD CITY OF OZ, THE LAND OF OZ, OZMA OF OZ, ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R. NEILL The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago COPYRIGHT 1913 By L Frank Baum All RIGHTS RESERVED Affectionately Dedicated to my young friend Sumner Hamilton Britton of Chicago [Illustration] PROLOGUE Through the kindness of Dorothy Gale of Kansas, afterward Princess Dorothy of Oz, an humble writer in the United States of America was once appointed Royal Historian of Oz, with the privilege of writing the chronicle of that wonderful fairyland. But after making six books about the adventures of those interesting but queer people who live in the Land of Oz, the Historian learned with sorrow that by an edict of the Supreme Ruler, Ozma of Oz, her country would thereafter be rendered invisible to all who lived outside its borders and that all communication with Oz would, in the future, be cut off. The children who had learned to look for the books about Oz and who loved the stories about the gay and happy people inhabiting that favored country, were as sorry as their Historian that there would be no more books of Oz stories. They wrote many letters asking if the Historian did not know of some adventures to write about that had happened before the Land of Oz was shut out from all the rest of the world. But he did not know of any. Finally one of the children inquired why we couldn't hear from Princess Dorothy by wireless telegraph, which would enable her to communicate to the Historian whatever happened in the far-off Land of Oz without his seeing her, or even knowing just where Oz is. That seemed a good idea; so the Historian rigged up a high tower in his back yard, and took lessons in wireless telegraphy until he understood it, and then began to call "Princess Dorothy of Oz" by sending messages into the air. Now, it wasn't likely that Dorothy would be looking for wireless messages or would heed the call; but one thing the Historian was sure of, and that was that the powerful Sorceress, Glinda, would know what he was doing and that he desired to communicate with Dorothy. For Glinda has a big book in which is recorded every event that takes place anywhere in the world, just the moment that it happens, and so of course the book would tell her about the wireless message. And that was the way Dorothy heard that the Historian wanted to speak with her, and there was a Shaggy Man in the Land of Oz who knew how to telegraph a wireless reply. The result was that the Historian begged so hard to be told the latest news of Oz, so that he could write it down for the children to read, that Dorothy asked permission of Ozma and Ozma graciously consented. That is why, after two long years of waiting, another Oz story is now presented to the children of America. This would not have been possible had not some clever man invented the "wireless" and an equally clever child suggested the idea of reaching the mysterious Land of Oz by its means. L. FRANK BAUM. "OZCOT" at HOLLYWOOD in CALIFORNIA [Illustration] LIST OF CHAPTERS CHAPTER PAGE 1--OJO AND UNC NUNKIE 19 2--THE CROOKED MAGICIAN 23 3--THE PATCHWORK GIRL 35 4--THE GLASS CAT 47 5--A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT 55 6--THE JOURNEY 67 7--THE TROUBLESOME PHONOGRAPH 83 8--THE FOOLISH OWL AND THE WISE DONKEY 91 9--THEY MEET THE WOOZY 99 10--SHAGGY MAN TO THE RESCUE 115 11--A GOOD FRIEND 127 12--THE GIANT PORCUPINE 147 13--SCRAPS AND THE SCARECROW 159 14--OJO BREAKS THE LAW 179 15--OZMA'S PRISONER 191 16--PRINCESS DOROTHY 203 17--OZMA AND HER FRIENDS 215 18--OJO IS FORGIVEN 223 19--TROUBLE WITH THE TOTTENHOTS 235 20--THE CAPTIVE YOOP 255 21--HIPHOPPER THE CHAMPION 267 22--THE JOKING HORNERS 275 23--PEACE IS DECLARED 287 24--OJO FINDS THE DARK WELL 299 25--THEY BRIBE THE LAZY QUADLING 303 26--THE TRICK RIVER 311 27--THE TIN WOODMAN OBJECTS 323 28--THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ 335 [Illustration] OJO AND UNK NUNKIE CHAP. ONE [Illustration] "Where's the butter, Unc Nunkie?" asked Ojo. Unc looked out of the window and stroked his long beard. Then he turned to the Munchkin boy and shook his head. "Isn't," said he. "Isn't any butter? That's too bad, Unc. Where's the jam then?" inquired Ojo, standing on a stool so he could look through all the shelves of the cupboard. But Unc Nunkie shook his head again. "Gone," he said. "No jam, either? And no cake--no jelly--no apples--nothing but bread?" "All," said Unc, again stroking his beard as he gazed from the window. The little boy brought the stool and sat beside his uncle, munching the dry bread slowly and seeming in deep thought. "Nothing grows in our yard but the bread tree," he mused, "and there are only two more loaves on that tree; and they're not ripe yet. Tell me, Unc; why are we so poor?" The old Munchkin turned and looked at Ojo. He had kindly eyes, but he hadn't smiled or laughed in so long that the boy had forgotten that Unc Nunkie could look any other way than solemn. And Unc never spoke any more words than he was obliged to, so his little nephew, who lived alone with him, had learned to understand a great deal from one word. "Why are we so poor, Unc?" repeated the boy. "Not," said the old Munchkin. "I think we are," declared Ojo. "What have we got?" "House," said Unc Nunkie. "I know; but everyone in the Land of Oz has a place to live. What else, Unc?" "Bread." "I'm eating the last loaf that's ripe. There; I've put aside your share, Unc. It's on the table, so you can eat it when you get hungry. But when that is gone, what shall we eat, Unc?" The old man shifted in his chair but merely shook his head. "Of course," said Ojo, who was obliged to talk because his uncle would not, "no one starves in the Land of Oz, either. There is plenty for everyone, you know; only, if it isn't just where you happen to be, you must go where it is." The aged Munchkin wriggled again and stared at his small nephew as if disturbed by his argument. "By to-morrow morning," the boy went on, "we must go where there is something to eat, or we shall grow very hungry and become very unhappy." "Where?" asked Unc. "Where shall we go? I don't know, I'm sure," replied Ojo. "But _you_ must know, Unc. You must have traveled, in your time, because you're so old. I don't remember it, because ever since I could remember anything we've lived right here in this lonesome, round house, with a little garden back of it and the thick woods all around. All I've ever seen of the great Land of Oz, Unc dear, is the view of that mountain over at the south, where they say the Hammerheads live--who won't let anybody go by them--and that mountain at the north, where they say nobody lives." "One," declared Unc, correcting him. "Oh, yes; one family lives there, I've heard. That's the Crooked Magician, who is named Dr. Pipt, and his wife Margolotte. One year you told me about them; I think it took you a whole year, Unc, to say as much as I've just said about the Crooked Magician and his wife. They live high up on the mountain, and the good Munchkin Country, where the fruits and flowers grow, is just the other side. It's funny you and I should live here all alone, in the middle of the forest, isn't it?" "Yes," said Unc. "Then let's go away and visit the Munchkin Country and its jolly, good-natured people. I'd love to get a sight of something besides woods, Unc Nunkie." "Too little," said Unc. "Why, I'm not so little as I used to be," answered the boy earnestly. "I think I can walk as far and as fast through the woods as you can, Unc. And now that nothing grows in our back yard that is good to eat, we must go where there is food." Unc Nunkie made no reply for a time. Then he shut down the window and turned his chair to face the room, for the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops and it was growing cool. By and by Ojo lighted the fire and the logs blazed freely in the broad fireplace. The two sat in the firelight a long time--the old, white-bearded Munchkin and the little boy. Both were thinking. When it grew quite dark outside, Ojo said: "Eat your bread, Unc, and then we will go to bed." [Illustration] But Unc Nunkie did not eat the bread; neither did he go directly to bed. Long after his little nephew was sound asleep in the corner of the room the old man sat by the fire, thinking. THE CROOKED MAGICIAN CHAP. TWO [Illustration] Just at dawn next morning Unc Nunkie laid his hand tenderly on Ojo's head and awakened him. "Come," he said. Ojo dressed. He wore blue silk stockings, blue knee-pants with gold buckles, a blue ruffled waist and a jacket of bright blue braided with gold. His shoes were of blue leather and turned up at the toes, which were pointed. His hat had a peaked crown and a flat brim, and around the brim was a row of tiny golden bells that tinkled when he moved. This was the native costume of those who inhabited the Munchkin Country of the Land of Oz, so Unc Nunkie's dress was much like that of his nephew. Instead of shoes, the old man wore boots with turnover tops and his blue coat had wide cuffs of gold braid. The boy noticed that his uncle had not eaten the bread, and supposed the old man had not been hungry. Ojo was hungry, though; so he divided the piece of bread upon the table and ate his half for breakfast, washing it down with fresh, cool water from the brook. Unc put the other piece of bread in his jacket pocket, after which he again said, as he walked out through the doorway: "Come." Ojo was well pleased. He was dreadfully tired of living all alone in the woods and wanted to travel and see people. For a long time he had wished to explore the beautiful Land of Oz in which they lived. When they were outside, Unc simply latched the door and started up the path. No one would disturb their little house, even if anyone came so far into the thick forest while they were gone. At the foot of the mountain that separated the Country of the Munchkins from the Country of the Gillikins, the path divided. One way led to the left and the other to the right--straight up the mountain. Unc Nunkie took this right-hand path and Ojo followed without asking why. He knew it would take them to the house of the Crooked Magician, whom he had never seen but who was their nearest neighbor. All the morning they trudged up the mountain path and at noon Unc and Ojo sat on a fallen tree-trunk and ate the last of the bread which the old Munchkin had placed in his pocket. Then they started on again and two hours later came in sight of the house of Dr. Pipt. It was a big house, round, as were all the Munchkin houses, and painted blue, which is the distinctive color of the Munchkin Country of Oz. There was a pretty garden around the house, where blue trees and blue flowers grew in abundance and in one place were beds of blue cabbages, blue carrots and blue lettuce, all of which were delicious to eat. In Dr. Pipt's garden grew bun-trees, cake-trees, cream-puff bushes, blue buttercups which yielded excellent blue butter and a row of chocolate-caramel plants. Paths of blue gravel divided the vegetable and flower beds and a wider path led up to the front door. The place was in a clearing on the mountain, but a little way off was the grim forest, which completely surrounded it. Unc knocked at the door of the house and a chubby, pleasant-faced woman, dressed all in blue, opened it and greeted the visitors with a smile. "Ah," said Ojo; "you must be Dame Margolotte, the good wife of Dr. Pipt." "I am, my dear, and all strangers are welcome to my home." "May we see the famous Magician, Madam?" "He is very busy just now," she said, shaking her head doubtfully. "But come in and let me give you something to eat, for you must have traveled far in order to get to our lonely place." "We have," replied Ojo, as he and Unc entered the house. "We have come from a far lonelier place than this." "A lonelier place! And in the Munchkin Country?" she exclaimed. "Then it must be somewhere in the Blue Forest." "It is, good Dame Margolotte." "Dear me!" she said, looking at the man, "you must be Unc Nunkie, known as the Silent One." Then she looked at the boy. "And you must be Ojo the Unlucky," she added. "Yes," said Unc. "I never knew I was called the Unlucky," said Ojo, soberly; "but it is really a good name for me." "Well," remarked the woman, as she bustled around the room and set the table and brought food from the cupboard, "you were unlucky to live all alone in that dismal forest, which is much worse than the forest around here; but perhaps your luck will change, now you are away from it. If, during your travels, you can manage to lose that 'Un' at the beginning of your name 'Unlucky,' you will then become Ojo the Lucky, which will be a great improvement." "How can I lose that 'Un,' Dame Margolotte?" "I do not know how, but you must keep the matter in mind and perhaps the chance will come to you," she replied. Ojo had never eaten such a fine meal in all his life. There was a savory stew, smoking hot, a dish of blue peas, a bowl of sweet milk of a delicate blue tint and a blue pudding with blue plums in it. When the visitors had eaten heartily of this fare the woman said to them: "Do you wish to see Dr. Pipt on business or for pleasure?" Unc shook his head. "We are traveling," replied Ojo, "and we stopped at your house just to rest and refresh ourselves. I do not think Unc Nunkie cares very much to see the famous Crooked Magician; but for my part I am curious to look at such a great man." The woman seemed thoughtful. "I remember that Unc Nunkie and my husband used to be friends, many years ago," she said, "so perhaps they will be glad to meet again. The Magician is very busy, as I said, but if you will promise not to disturb him you may come into his workshop and watch him prepare a wonderful charm." "Thank you," replied the boy, much pleased. "I would like to do that." She led the way to a great domed hall at the back of the house, which was the Magician's workshop. There was a row of windows extending nearly around the sides of the circular room, which rendered the place very light, and there was a back door in addition to the one leading to the front part of the house. Before the row of windows a broad seat was built and there were some chairs and benches in the room besides. At one end stood a great fireplace, in which a blue log was blazing with a blue flame, and over the fire hung four kettles in a row, all bubbling and steaming at a great rate. The Magician was stirring all four of these kettles at the same time, two with his hands and two with his feet, to the latter, wooden ladles being strapped, for this man was so very crooked that his legs were as handy as his arms. Unc Nunkie came forward to greet his old friend, but not being able to shake either his hands or his feet, which were all occupied in stirring, he patted the Magician's bald head and asked: "What?" "Ah, it's the Silent One," remarked Dr. Pipt, without looking up, "and he wants to know what I'm making. Well, when it is quite finished this compound will be the wonderful Powder of Life, which no one knows how to make but myself. Whenever it is sprinkled on anything, that thing will at once come to life, no matter what it is. It takes me several years to make this magic Powder, but at this moment I am pleased to say it is nearly done. You see, I am making it for my good wife Margolotte, who wants to use some of it for a purpose of her own. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Unc Nunkie, and after I've finished my task I will talk to you." "You must know," said Margolotte, when they were all seated together on the broad window-seat, "that my husband foolishly gave away all the Powder of Life he first made to old Mombi the Witch, who used to live in the Country of the Gillikins, to the north of here. Mombi gave to Dr. Pipt a Powder of Perpetual Youth in exchange for his Powder of Life, but she cheated him wickedly, for the Powder of Youth was no good and could work no magic at all." "Perhaps the Powder of Life couldn't either," said Ojo. [Illustration] "Yes; it is perfection," she declared. "The first lot we tested on our Glass Cat, which not only began to live but has lived ever since. She's somewhere around the house now." "A Glass Cat!" exclaimed Ojo, astonished. "Yes; she makes a very pleasant companion, but admires herself a little more than is considered modest, and she positively refuses to catch mice," explained Margolotte. "My husband made the cat some pink brains, but they proved to be too high-bred and particular for a cat, so she thinks it is undignified in her to catch mice. Also she has a pretty blood-red heart, but it is made of stone--a ruby, I think--and so is rather hard and unfeeling. I think the next Glass Cat the Magician makes will have neither brains nor heart, for then it will not object to catching mice and may prove of some use to us." "What did old Mombi the Witch do with the Powder of Life your husband gave her?" asked the boy. "She brought Jack Pumpkinhead to life, for one thing," was the reply. "I suppose you've heard of Jack Pumpkinhead. He is now living near the Emerald City and is a great favorite with the Princess Ozma, who rules all the Land of Oz." "No; I've never heard of him," remarked Ojo. "I'm afraid I don't know much about the Land of Oz. You see, I've lived all my life with Unc Nunkie, the Silent One, and there was no one to tell me anything." "That is one reason you are Ojo the Unlucky," said the woman, in a sympathetic tone. "The more one knows, the luckier he is, for knowledge is the greatest gift in life." "But tell me, please, what you intend to do with this new lot of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt is making. He said his wife wanted it for some especial purpose." "So I do," she answered. "I want it to bring my Patchwork Girl to life." "Oh! A Patchwork Girl? What is that?" Ojo asked, for this seemed even more strange and unusual than a Glass Cat. "I think I must show you my Patchwork Girl," said Margolotte, laughing at the boy's astonishment, "for she is rather difficult to explain. But first I will tell you that for many years I have longed for a servant to help me with the housework and to cook the meals and wash the dishes. No servant will come here because the place is so lonely and out-of-the-way, so my clever husband, the Crooked Magician, proposed that I make a girl out of some sort of material and he would make her live by sprinkling over her the Powder of Life. This seemed an excellent suggestion and at once Dr. Pipt set to work to make a new batch of his magic powder. He has been at it a long, long while, and so I have had plenty of time to make the girl. Yet that task was not so easy as you may suppose. At first I couldn't think what to make her of, but finally in searching through a chest I came across an old patchwork quilt, which my grandmother once made when she was young." "What is a patchwork quilt?" asked Ojo. "A bed-quilt made of patches of different kinds and colors of cloth, all neatly sewed together. The patches are of all shapes and sizes, so a patchwork quilt is a very pretty and gorgeous thing to look at. Sometimes it is called a 'crazy-quilt,' because the patches and colors are so mixed up. We never have used my grandmother's many-colored patchwork quilt, handsome as it is, for we Munchkins do not care for any color other than blue, so it has been packed away in the chest for about a hundred years. When I found it, I said to myself that it would do nicely for my servant girl, for when she was brought to life she would not be proud nor haughty, as the Glass Cat is, for such a dreadful mixture of colors would discourage her from trying to be as dignified as the blue Munchkins are." "Is blue the only respectable color, then?" inquired Ojo. "Yes, for a Munchkin. All our country is blue, you know. But in other parts of Oz the people favor different colors. At the Emerald City, where our Princess Ozma lives, green is the popular color. But all Munchkins prefer blue to anything else and when my housework girl is brought to life she will find herself to be of so many unpopular colors that she'll never dare be rebellious or impudent, as servants are sometimes liable to be when they are made the same way their mistresses are." Unc Nunkie nodded approval. "Good i-dea," he said; and that was a long speech for Unc Nunkie because it was two words. "So I cut up the quilt," continued Margolotte, "and made from it a very well-shaped girl, which I stuffed with cotton-wadding. I will show you what a good job I did," and she went to a tall cupboard and threw open the doors. Then back she came, lugging in her arms the Patchwork Girl, which she set upon the bench and propped up so that the figure would not tumble over. [Illustration] [Illustration: Ojo] THE PATCHWORK GIRL CHAP. THREE [Illustration] Ojo examined this curious contrivance with wonder. The Patchwork Girl was taller than he, when she stood upright, and her body was plump and rounded because it had been so neatly stuffed with cotton. Margolotte had first made the girl's form from the patchwork quilt and then she had dressed it with a patchwork skirt and an apron with pockets in it--using the same gay material throughout. Upon the feet she had sewn a pair of red leather shoes with pointed toes. All the fingers and thumbs of the girl's hands had been carefully formed and stuffed and stitched at the edges, with gold plates at the ends to serve as finger-nails. "She will have to work, when she comes to life," said Margolotte. The head of the Patchwork Girl was the most curious part of her. While she waited for her husband to finish making his Powder of Life the woman had found ample time to complete the head as her fancy dictated, and she realized that a good servant's head must be properly constructed. The hair was of brown yarn and hung down on her neck in several neat braids. Her eyes were two silver suspender-buttons cut from a pair of the Magician's old trousers, and they were sewed on with black threads, which formed the pupils of the eyes. Margolotte had puzzled over the ears for some time, for these were important if the servant was to hear distinctly, but finally she had made them out of thin plates of gold and attached them in place by means of stitches through tiny holes bored in the metal. Gold is the most common metal in the Land of Oz and is used for many purposes because it is soft and pliable. The woman had cut a slit for the Patchwork Girl's mouth and sewn two rows of white pearls in it for teeth, using a strip of scarlet plush for a tongue. This mouth Ojo considered very artistic and lifelike, and Margolotte was pleased when the boy praised it. There were almost too many patches on the face of the girl for her to be considered strictly beautiful, for one cheek was yellow and the other red, her chin blue, her forehead purple and the center, where her nose had been formed and padded, a bright yellow. "You ought to have had her face all pink," suggested the boy. "I suppose so; but I had no pink cloth," replied the woman. "Still, I cannot see as it matters much, for I wish my Patchwork Girl to be useful rather than ornamental. If I get tired looking at her patched face I can whitewash it." "Has she any brains?" asked Ojo. "No; I forgot all about the brains!" exclaimed the woman. "I am glad you reminded me of them, for it is not too late to supply them, by any means. Until she is brought to life I can do anything I please with this girl. But I must be careful not to give her too much brains, and those she has must be such as are fitted to the station she is to occupy in life. In other words, her brains mustn't be very good." "Wrong," said Unc Nunkie. "No; I am sure I am right about that," returned the woman. "He means," explained Ojo, "that unless your servant has good brains she won't know how to obey you properly, nor do the things you ask her to do." "Well, that maybe true," agreed Margolotte; "but, on the contrary, a servant with too much brains is sure to become independent and high-and-mighty and feel above her work. This is a very delicate task, as I said, and I must take care to give the girl just the right quantity of the right sort of brains. I want her to know just enough, but not too much." With this she went to another cupboard which was filled with shelves. All the shelves were lined with blue glass bottles, neatly labeled by the Magician to show what they contained. One whole shelf was marked: "Brain Furniture," and the bottles on this shelf were labeled as follows: "Obedience," "Cleverness," "Judgment," "Courage," "Ingenuity," "Amiability," "Learning," "Truth," "Poesy," "Self Reliance." "Let me see," said Margolotte; "of those qualities she must have 'Obedience' first of all," and she took down the bottle bearing that label and poured from it upon a dish several grains of the contents. "'Amiability' is also good and 'Truth.'" She poured into the dish a quantity from each of these bottles. "I think that will do," she continued, "for the other qualities are not needed in a servant." Unc Nunkie, who with Ojo stood beside her, touched the bottle marked "Cleverness." "Little," said he. "A little 'Cleverness'? Well, perhaps you are right, sir," said she, and was about to take down the bottle when the Crooked Magician suddenly called to her excitedly from the fireplace. "Quick, Margolotte! Come and help me." She ran to her husband's side at once and helped him lift the four kettles from the fire. Their contents had all boiled away, leaving in the bottom of each kettle a few grains of fine white powder. Very carefully the Magician removed this powder, placing it all together in a golden dish, where he mixed it with a golden spoon. When the mixture was complete there was scarcely a handful, all told. [Illustration] "That," said Dr. Pipt, in a pleased and triumphant tone, "is the wonderful Powder of Life, which I alone in the world know how to make. It has taken me nearly six years to prepare these precious grains of dust, but the little heap on that dish is worth the price of a kingdom and many a king would give all he has to possess it. When it has become cooled I will place it in a small bottle; but meantime I must watch it carefully, lest a gust of wind blow it away or scatter it." Unc Nunkie, Margolotte and the Magician all stood looking at the marvelous Powder, but Ojo was more interested just then in the Patchwork Girl's brains. Thinking it both unfair and unkind to deprive her of any good qualities that were handy, the boy took down every bottle on the shelf and poured some of the contents in Margolotte's dish. No one saw him do this, for all were looking at the Powder of Life; but soon the woman remembered what she had been doing, and came back to the cupboard. "Let's see," she remarked; "I was about to give my girl a little 'Cleverness,' which is the Doctor's substitute for 'Intelligence'--a quality he has not yet learned how to manufacture." Taking down the bottle of "Cleverness" she added some of the powder to the heap on the dish. Ojo became a bit uneasy at this, for he had already put quite a lot of the "Cleverness" powder in the dish; but he dared not interfere and so he comforted himself with the thought that one cannot have too much cleverness. Margolotte now carried the dish of brains to the bench. Ripping the seam of the patch on the girl's forehead, she placed the powder within the head and then sewed up the seam as neatly and securely as before. "My girl is all ready for your Powder of Life, my dear," she said to her husband. But the Magician replied: "This powder must not be used before to-morrow morning; but I think it is now cool enough to be bottled." He selected a small gold bottle with a pepper-box top, so that the powder might be sprinkled on any object through the small holes. Very carefully he placed the Powder of Life in the gold bottle and then locked it up in a drawer of his cabinet. "At last," said he, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "I have ample leisure for a good talk with my old friend Unc Nunkie. So let us sit down cosily and enjoy ourselves. After stirring those four kettles for six years I am glad to have a little rest." "You will have to do most of the talking," said Ojo, "for Unc is called the Silent One and uses few words." "I know; but that renders your uncle a most agreeable companion and gossip," declared Dr. Pipt. "Most people talk too much, so it is a relief to find one who talks too little." Ojo looked at the Magician with much awe and curiosity. "Don't you find it very annoying to be so crooked?" he asked. "No; I am quite proud of my person," was the reply. "I suppose I am the only Crooked Magician in all the world. Some others are accused of being crooked, but I am the only genuine." He was really very crooked and Ojo wondered how he managed to do so many things with such a twisted body. When he sat down upon a crooked chair that had been made to fit him, one knee was under his chin and the other near the small of his back; but he was a cheerful man and his face bore a pleasant and agreeable expression. "I am not allowed to perform magic, except for my own amusement," he told his visitors, as he lighted a pipe with a crooked stem and began to smoke. "Too many people were working magic in the Land of Oz, and so our lovely Princess Ozma put a stop to it. I think she was quite right. There were several wicked Witches who caused a lot of trouble; but now they are all out of business and only the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, is permitted to practice her arts, which never harm anybody. The Wizard of Oz, who used to be a humbug and knew no magic at all, has been taking lessons of Glinda, and I'm told he is getting to be a pretty good Wizard; but he is merely the assistant of the great Sorceress. I've the right to make a servant girl for my wife, you know, or a Glass Cat to catch our mice--which she refuses to do--but I am forbidden to work magic for others, or to use it as a profession." "Magic must be a very interesting study," said Ojo. "It truly is," asserted the Magician. "In my time I've performed some magical feats that were worthy the skill of Glinda the Good. For instance, there's the Powder of Life, and my Liquid of Petrifaction, which is contained in that bottle on the shelf yonder--over the window." "What does the Liquid of Petrifaction do?" inquired the boy. "Turns everything it touches to solid marble. It's an invention of my own, and I find it very useful. Once two of those dreadful Kalidahs, with bodies like bears and heads like tigers, came here from the forest to attack us; but I sprinkled some of that Liquid on them and instantly they turned to marble. I now use them as ornamental statuary in my garden. This table looks to you like wood, and once it really was wood; but I sprinkled a few drops of the Liquid of Petrifaction on it and now it is marble. It will never break nor wear out." "Fine!" said Unc Nunkie, wagging his head and stroking his long gray beard. "Dear me; what a chatterbox you're getting to be, Unc," remarked the Magician, who was pleased with the compliment. But just then there came a scratching at the back door and a shrill voice cried: "Let me in! Hurry up, can't you? Let me in!" Margolotte got up and went to the door. "Ask like a good cat, then," she said. [Illustration] "Mee-ee-ow-w-w! There; does that suit your royal highness?" asked the voice, in scornful accents. "Yes; that's proper cat talk," declared the woman, and opened the door. At once a cat entered, came to the center of the room and stopped short at the sight of strangers. Ojo and Unc Nunkie both stared at it with wide open eyes, for surely no such curious creature had ever existed before--even in the Land of Oz. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GLASS CAT CHAP. 4 [Illustration] The cat was made of glass, so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels, and it had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds, but aside from these colors all the rest of the animal was clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful. "Well, Doc Pipt, do you mean to introduce us, or not?" demanded the cat, in a tone of annoyance. "Seems to me you are forgetting your manners." "Excuse me," returned the Magician. "This is Unc Nunkie, the descendant of the former kings of the Munchkins, before this country became a part of the Land of Oz." "He needs a hair-cut," observed the cat, washing its face. "True," replied Unc, with a low chuckle of amusement. "But he has lived alone in the heart of the forest for many years," the Magician explained; "and, although that is a barbarous country, there are no barbers there." "Who is the dwarf?" asked the cat. "That is not a dwarf, but a boy," answered the Magician. "You have never seen a boy before. He is now small because he is young. With more years he will grow big and become as tall as Unc Nunkie." "Oh. Is that magic?" the glass animal inquired. "Yes; but it is Nature's magic, which is more wonderful than any art known to man. For instance, my magic made you, and made you live; and it was a poor job because you are useless and a bother to me; but I can't make you grow. You will always be the same size--and the same saucy, inconsiderate Glass Cat, with pink brains and a hard ruby heart." "No one can regret more than I the fact that you made me," asserted the cat, crouching upon the floor and slowly swaying its spun-glass tail from side to side. "Your world is a very uninteresting place. I've wandered through your gardens and in the forest until I'm tired of it all, and when I come into the house the conversation of your fat wife and of yourself bores me dreadfully." "That is because I gave you different brains from those we ourselves possess--and much too good for a cat," returned Dr. Pipt. "Can't you take 'em out, then, and replace 'em with pebbles, so that I won't feel above my station in life?" asked the cat, pleadingly. "Perhaps so. I'll try it, after I've brought the Patchwork Girl to life," he said. The cat walked up to the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined and looked at her attentively. "Are you going to make that dreadful thing live?" she asked. The Magician nodded. "It is intended to be my wife's servant maid," he said. "When she is alive she will do all our work and mind the house. But you are not to order her around, Bungle, as you do us. You must treat the Patchwork Girl respectfully." "I won't. I couldn't respect such a bundle of scraps under any circumstances." "If you don't, there will be more scraps than you will like," cried Margolotte, angrily. "Why didn't you make her pretty to look at?" asked the cat. "You made me pretty--very pretty, indeed--and I love to watch my pink brains roll around when they're working, and to see my precious red heart beat." She went to a long mirror, as she said this, and stood before it, looking at herself with an air of much pride. "But that poor patched thing will hate herself, when she's once alive," continued the cat. "If I were you I'd use her for a mop, and make another servant that is prettier." "You have a perverted taste," snapped Margolotte, much annoyed at this frank criticism. "I think the Patchwork Girl is beautiful, considering what she's made of. Even the rainbow hasn't as many colors, and you must admit that the rainbow is a pretty thing." The Glass Cat yawned and stretched herself upon the floor. "Have your own way," she said. "I'm sorry for the Patchwork Girl, that's all." Ojo and Unc Nunkie slept that night in the Magician's house, and the boy was glad to stay because he was anxious to see the Patchwork Girl brought to life. The Glass Cat was also a wonderful creature to little Ojo, who had never seen or known anything of magic before, although he had lived in the Fairyland of Oz ever since he was born. Back there in the woods nothing unusual ever happened. Unc Nunkie, who might have been King of the Munchkins, had not his people united with all the other countries of Oz in acknowledging Ozma as their sole ruler, had retired into this forgotten forest nook with his baby nephew and they had lived all alone there. Only that the neglected garden had failed to grow food for them, they would always have lived in the solitary Blue Forest; but now they had started out to mingle with other people, and the first place they came to proved so interesting that Ojo could scarcely sleep a wink all night. Margolotte was an excellent cook and gave them a fine breakfast. While they were all engaged in eating, the good woman said: "This is the last meal I shall have to cook for some time, for right after breakfast Dr. Pipt has promised to bring my new servant to life. I shall let her wash the breakfast dishes and sweep and dust the house. What a relief it will be!" "It will, indeed, relieve you of much drudgery," said the Magician. "By the way, Margolotte, I thought I saw you getting some brains from the cupboard, while I was busy with my kettles. What qualities have you given your new servant?" "Only those that an humble servant requires," she answered. "I do not wish her to feel above her station, as the Glass Cat does. That would make her discontented and unhappy, for of course she must always be a servant." Ojo was somewhat disturbed as he listened to this, and the boy began to fear he had done wrong in adding all those different qualities of brains to the lot Margolotte had prepared for the servant. But it was too late now for regret, since all the brains were securely sewn up inside the Patchwork Girl's head. He might have confessed what he had done and thus allowed Margolotte and her husband to change the brains; but he was afraid of incurring their anger. He believed that Unc had seen him add to the brains, and Unc had not said a word against it; but then, Unc never did say anything unless it was absolutely necessary. As soon as breakfast was over they all went into the Magician's big workshop, where the Glass Cat was lying before the mirror and the Patchwork Girl lay limp and lifeless upon the bench. "Now, then," said Dr. Pipt, in a brisk tone, "we shall perform one of the greatest feats of magic possible to man, even in this marvelous Land of Oz. In no other country could it be done at all. I think we ought to have a little music while the Patchwork Girl comes to life. It is pleasant to reflect that the first sounds her golden ears will hear will be delicious music." As he spoke he went to a phonograph, which was screwed fast to a small table, and wound up the spring of the instrument and adjusted the big gold horn. "The music my servant will usually hear," remarked Margolotte, "will be my orders to do her work. But I see no harm in allowing her to listen to this unseen band while she wakens to her first realization of life. My orders will beat the band, afterward." The phonograph was now playing a stirring march tune and the Magician unlocked his cabinet and took out the gold bottle containing the Powder of Life. They all bent over the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte stood behind, near the windows, Ojo at one side and the Magician in front, where he would have freedom to sprinkle the powder. The Glass Cat came near, too, curious to watch the important scene. "All ready?" asked Dr. Pipt. "All is ready," answered his wife. So the Magician leaned over and shook from the bottle some grains of the wonderful Powder, and they fell directly on the Patchwork Girl's head and arms. [Illustration] [Illustration] A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT CHAP. 5 [Illustration] "It will take a few minutes for this powder to do its work," remarked the Magician, sprinkling the body up and down with much care. But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the crooked man's hand and sent it flying across the room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled that they both leaped backward and bumped together, and Unc's head joggled the shelf above them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of Petrifaction. The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With these two the charm worked promptly. They stood motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly the positions they were in when the Liquid struck them. Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear for the only friend and protector he had ever known. When he grasped Unc's hand it was cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was solid marble. The Crooked Magician was dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair, calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak to him, to come to life again! The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her fright, now came nearer and looked from one to another of the people with deep interest. Then she looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the mirror, she stood before it and examined her extraordinary features with amazement--her button eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then, addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed: "Whee, but there's a gaudy dame! Makes a paint-box blush with shame. Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle! Howdy-do, Miss What's-your-name?" She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then she laughed again, long and merrily, and the Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said: "I don't blame you for laughing at yourself. Aren't you horrid?" "Horrid?" she replied. "Why, I'm thoroughly delightful. I'm an Original, if you please, and therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd, rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte could have managed to invent such an unreasonable being as I? But I'm glad--I'm awfully glad!--that I'm just what I am, and nothing else." "Be quiet, will you?" cried the frantic Magician; "be quiet and let me think! If I don't think I shall go mad." "Think ahead," said the Patchwork Girl, seating herself in a chair. "Think all you want to. I don't mind." "Gee! but I'm tired playing that tune," called the phonograph, speaking through its horn in a brazen, scratchy voice. "If you don't mind, Pipt, old boy, I'll cut it out and take a rest." The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine. "What dreadful luck!" he wailed, despondently. "The Powder of Life must have fallen on the phonograph." He went up to it and found that the gold bottle that contained the precious powder had dropped upon the stand and scattered its life-giving grains over the machine. The phonograph was very much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs of the table to which it was attached, and this dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to hold it quiet. "You were bad enough before," said the Magician, resentfully; "but a live phonograph is enough to drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark crazy." [Illustration] "No insults, please," answered the phonograph in a surly tone. "You did it, my boy; don't blame me." "You've bungled everything, Dr. Pipt," added the Glass Cat, contemptuously. "Except me," said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up to whirl merrily around the room. "I think," said Ojo, almost ready to cry through grief over Unc Nunkie's sad fate, "it must all be my fault, in some way. I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." "That's nonsense, kiddie," retorted the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. "No one can be unlucky who has the intelligence to direct his own actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What's the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?" "The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and turned them into marble," he sadly replied. "Well, why don't you sprinkle some of that powder on them and bring them to life again?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician gave a jump. "Why, I hadn't thought of that!" he joyfully cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with which he ran to Margolotte. Said the Patchwork Girl: "Higgledy, piggledy, dee-- What fools magicians be! His head's so thick He can't think quick, So he takes advice from me." Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the top of his wife's head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of despair. "Gone--gone! Every bit gone," he cried. "Wasted on that miserable phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!" Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry. Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly: "You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt." "Yes; but it will take me six years--six long, weary years of stirring four kettles with both feet and both hands," was the agonized reply. "Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image." "Can't anything else be done?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and looked up. "There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life," said he. "It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands and both feet." "All right; let's find the things, then," suggested the Patchwork Girl. "That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the kettles." "That's the idea, Scraps," said the Glass Cat, approvingly. "I'm glad to find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see 'em work; they're pink." "Scraps?" repeated the girl. "Did you call me 'Scraps'? Is that my name?" "I--I believe my poor wife had intended to name you 'Angeline,'" said the Magician. "But I like 'Scraps' best," she replied with a laugh. "It fits me better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?" "I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite undignified for one of my importance," answered the cat. "She called me 'Bungle.'" "Yes," sighed the Magician; "you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and brittle thing never before existed." "I'm not so brittle as you think," retorted the cat. "I've been alive a good many years, for Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so far I've never broken or cracked or chipped any part of me." "You seem to have a chip on your shoulder," laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went to the mirror to see. "Tell me," pleaded Ojo, speaking to the Crooked Magician, "what must we find to make the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?" "First," was the reply, "I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved clovers are very scarce, even there." "I'll find it for you," promised Ojo. "The next thing," continued the Magician, "is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That color can only be found in the yellow country of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City." "I'll find it," declared Ojo. "Is that all?" "Oh, no; I'll get my Book of Recipes and see what comes next." Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered with blue leather. Looking through the pages he found the recipe he wanted and said: "I must have a gill of water from a dark well." "What kind of a well is that, sir?" asked the boy. "One where the light of day never penetrates. The water must be put in a gold bottle and brought to me without any light ever reaching it." "I'll get the water from the dark well," said Ojo. "Then I must have three hairs from the tip of a Woozy's tail, and a drop of oil from a live man's body." Ojo looked grave at this. "What is a Woozy, please?" he inquired. "Some sort of an animal. I've never seen one, so I can't describe it," replied the Magician. "If I can find a Woozy, I'll get the hairs from its tail," said Ojo. "But is there ever any oil in a man's body?" The Magician looked in the book again, to make sure. "That's what the recipe calls for," he replied, "and of course we must get everything that is called for, or the charm won't work. The book doesn't say 'blood'; it says 'oil,' and there must be oil somewhere in a live man's body or the book wouldn't ask for it." "All right," returned Ojo, trying not to feel discouraged; "I'll try to find it." The Magician looked at the little Munchkin boy in a doubtful way and said: "All this will mean a long journey for you; perhaps several long journeys; for you must search through several of the different countries of Oz in order to get the things I need." "I know it, sir; but I must do my best to save Unc Nunkie." "And also my poor wife Margolotte. If you save one you will save the other, for both stand there together and the same compound will restore them both to life. Do the best you can, Ojo, and while you are gone I shall begin the six years' job of making a new batch of the Powder of Life. Then, if you should unluckily fail to secure any one of the things needed, I will have lost no time. But if you succeed you must return here as quickly as you can, and that will save me much tiresome stirring of four kettles with both feet and both hands." "I will start on my journey at once, sir," said the boy. "And I will go with you," declared the Patchwork Girl. "No, no!" exclaimed the Magician. "You have no right to leave this house. You are only a servant and have not been discharged." Scraps, who had been dancing up and down the room, stopped and looked at him. "What is a servant?" she asked. "One who serves. A--a sort of slave," he explained. "Very well," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'm going to serve you and your wife by helping Ojo find the things you need. You need a lot, you know, such as are not easily found." "It is true," sighed Dr. Pipt. "I am well aware that Ojo has undertaken a serious task." Scraps laughed, and resuming her dance she said: "Here's a job for a boy of brains: A drop of oil from a live man's veins; A six-leaved clover; three nice hairs From a Woozy's tail, the book declares Are needed for the magic spell, And water from a pitch-dark well. The yellow wing of a butterfly To find must Ojo also try, And if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; But if he doesn't get 'em, Unc Will always stand a marble chunk." The Magician looked at her thoughtfully. "Poor Margolotte must have given you some of the quality of poesy, by mistake," he said. "And, if that is true, I didn't make a very good article when I prepared it, or else you got an overdose or an underdose. However, I believe I shall let you go with Ojo, for my poor wife will not need your services until she is restored to life. Also I think you may be able to help the boy, for your head seems to contain some thoughts I did not expect to find in it. But be very careful of yourself, for you're a souvenir of my dear Margolotte. Try not to get ripped, or your stuffing may fall out. One of your eyes seems loose, and you may have to sew it on tighter. If you talk too much you'll wear out your scarlet plush tongue, which ought to have been hemmed on the edges. And remember you belong to me and must return here as soon as your mission is accomplished." "I'm going with Scraps and Ojo," announced the Glass Cat. "You can't," said the Magician. "Why not?" "You'd get broken in no time, and you couldn't be a bit of use to the boy and the Patchwork Girl." "I beg to differ with you," returned the cat, in a haughty tone. "Three heads are better than two, and my pink brains are beautiful. You can see 'em work." "Well, go along," said the Magician, irritably. "You're only an annoyance, anyhow, and I'm glad to get rid of you." "Thank you for nothing, then," answered the cat, stiffly. Dr. Pipt took a small basket from a cupboard and packed several things in it. Then he handed it to Ojo. "Here is some food and a bundle of charms," he said. "It is all I can give you, but I am sure you will find friends on your journey who will assist you in your search. Take care of the Patchwork Girl and bring her safely back, for she ought to prove useful to my wife. As for the Glass Cat--properly named Bungle--if she bothers you I now give you my permission to break her in two, for she is not respectful and does not obey me. I made a mistake in giving her the pink brains, you see." Then Ojo went to Unc Nunkie and kissed the old man's marble face very tenderly. "I'm going to try to save you, Unc," he said, just as if the marble image could hear him; and then he shook the crooked hand of the Crooked Magician, who was already busy hanging the four kettles in the fireplace, and picking up his basket left the house. The Patchwork Girl followed him, and after them came the Glass Cat. THE JOURNEY CHAP. SIX [Illustration] Ojo had never traveled before and so he only knew that the path down the mountainside led into the open Munchkin Country, where large numbers of people dwelt. Scraps was quite new and not supposed to know anything of the Land of Oz, while the Glass Cat admitted she had never wandered very far away from the Magician's house. There was only one path before them, at the beginning, so they could not miss their way, and for a time they walked through the thick forest in silent thought, each one impressed with the importance of the adventure they had undertaken. Suddenly the Patchwork Girl laughed. It was funny to see her laugh, because her cheeks wrinkled up, her nose tipped, her silver button eyes twinkled and her mouth curled at the corners in a comical way. "Has something pleased you?" asked Ojo, who was feeling solemn and joyless through thinking upon his uncle's sad fate. "Yes," she answered. "Your world pleases me, for it's a queer world, and life in it is queerer still. Here am I, made from an old bed-quilt and intended to be a slave to Margolotte, rendered free as air by an accident that none of you could foresee. I am enjoying life and seeing the world, while the woman who made me is standing helpless as a block of wood. If that isn't funny enough to laugh at, I don't know what is." "You're not seeing much of the world yet, my poor, innocent Scraps," remarked the Cat. "The world doesn't consist wholly of the trees that are on all sides of us." "But they're part of it; and aren't they pretty trees?" returned Scraps, bobbing her head until her brown yarn curls fluttered in the breeze. "Growing between them I can see lovely ferns and wild-flowers, and soft green mosses. If the rest of your world is half as beautiful I shall be glad I'm alive." "I don't know what the rest of the world is like, I'm sure," said the cat; "but I mean to find out." "I have never been out of the forest," Ojo added; "but to me the trees are gloomy and sad and the wild-flowers seem lonesome. It must be nicer where there are no trees and there is room for lots of people to live together." "I wonder if any of the people we shall meet will be as splendid as I am," said the Patchwork Girl. "All I have seen, so far, have pale, colorless skins and clothes as blue as the country they live in, while I am of many gorgeous colors--face and body and clothes. That is why I am bright and contented, Ojo, while you are blue and sad." "I think I made a mistake in giving you so many sorts of brains," observed the boy. "Perhaps, as the Magician said, you have an overdose, and they may not agree with you." "What had you to do with my brains?" asked Scraps. "A lot," replied Ojo. "Old Margolotte meant to give you only a few--just enough to keep you going--but when she wasn't looking I added a good many more, of the best kinds I could find in the Magician's cupboard." "Thanks," said the girl, dancing along the path ahead of Ojo and then dancing back to his side. "If a few brains are good, many brains must be better." "But they ought to be evenly balanced," said the boy, "and I had no time to be careful. From the way you're acting, I guess the dose was badly mixed." "Scraps hasn't enough brains to hurt her, so don't worry," remarked the cat, which was trotting along in a very dainty and graceful manner. "The only brains worth considering are mine, which are pink. You can see 'em work." After walking a long time they came to a little brook that trickled across the path, and here Ojo sat down to rest and eat something from his basket. He found that the Magician had given him part of a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. He broke off some of the bread and was surprised to find the loaf just as large as it was before. It was the same way with the cheese: however much he broke off from the slice, it remained exactly the same size. "Ah," said he, nodding wisely; "that's magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat." "Why do you put those things into your mouth?" asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. "Do you need more stuffing? Then why don't you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?" "I don't need that kind," said Ojo. "But a mouth is to talk with, isn't it?" "It is also to eat with," replied the boy. "If I didn't put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve." "Ah, I didn't know that," she said. "Give me some." Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth. "What next?" she asked, scarcely able to speak. "Chew it and swallow it," said the boy. Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed. "I must get hungry and starve, for I can't eat," she said. [Illustration] "Neither can I," announced the cat; "but I'm not fool enough to try. Can't you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?" "Why should I understand that, or anything else?" asked the girl. "Don't bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way." With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again. "Be careful, or you'll fall in the water," warned Ojo. "Never mind." "You'd better. If you get wet you'll be soggy and can't walk. Your colors might run, too," he said. "Don't my colors run whenever I run?" she asked. "Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur--no color at all, you know." "Then," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful." "Pah!" sneered the Glass Cat, "such colors are not beautiful; they're ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I'm transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains--you can see 'em work." "Shoo--shoo--shoo!" cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. "And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can't see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you're very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo--shoo--shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you'd be too stuck up for anything." She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said: "Whoop-te-doodle-doo! The cat has lost her shoe. Her tootsie's bare, but she don't care, So what's the odds to you?" "Dear me, Ojo," said the cat; "don't you think the creature is a little bit crazy?" "It may be," he answered, with a puzzled look. "If she continues her insults I'll scratch off her suspender-button eyes," declared the cat. "Don't quarrel, please," pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. "Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way." It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time. This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn. "Mercy me!" exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. "Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?" "Do you mean me?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Of course," he replied. "You misjudge my ancestry. I'm not a crazy-quilt; I'm patchwork," she said. "There's no difference," he replied, beginning to laugh again. "When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life." "It was the Magic Powder that did it," explained Ojo. "Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for--Well, I declare! here's a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it's against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people--or things--or glass spectacles--or crazy-quilts--or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you'll be arrested." "We're going there, anyhow," declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs. "If any of us takes a rest, We'll be arrested sure, And get no restitution 'Cause the rest we must endure." "I see," said the woodchopper, nodding; "you're as crazy as the crazy-quilt you're made of." "She really _is_ crazy," remarked the Glass Cat. "But that isn't to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she's made of. For my part, I'm made of pure glass--except my jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see 'em work." "So I can," replied the woodchopper; "but I can't see that they accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him." "A tin woodchopper?" said Ojo. "That is strange." "My friend wasn't always tin," said the man, "but he was careless with his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin." "And could he chop wood then?" asked the boy. "He could if he didn't rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with her to the Emerald City, where he made his fortune. He is now one of the favorites of Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of the Winkies--the Country where all is yellow." "Who is Dorothy?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but is now a Princess of Oz. She's Ozma's best friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal palace." "Is Dorothy made of tin?" inquired Ojo. "Is she patchwork, like me?" inquired Scraps. "No," said the man; "Dorothy is flesh, just as I am. I know of only one tin person, and that is Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician that sees you will refuse to make another one like you." "I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we are going to the Country of the Winkies," said the boy. "What for?" asked the woodchopper. "To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "It is a long journey," declared the man, "and you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross rivers and traverse dark forests before you get there." "Suits me all right," said Scraps. "I'll get a chance to see the country." "You're crazy, girl. Better crawl into a rag-bag and hide there; or give yourself to some little girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to meet trouble; that's why I stay at home." [Illustration] The woodchopper then invited them all to stay the night at his little hut, but they were anxious to get on and so left him and continued along the path, which was broader, now, and more distinct. They expected to reach some other house before it grew dark, but the twilight was brief and Ojo soon began to fear they had made a mistake in leaving the woodchopper. "I can scarcely see the path," he said at last. "Can you see it, Scraps?" "No," replied the Patchwork Girl, who was holding fast to the boy's arm so he could guide her. "I can see," declared the Glass Cat. "My eyes are better than yours, and my pink brains--" "Never mind your pink brains, please," said Ojo hastily; "just run ahead and show us the way. Wait a minute and I'll tie a string to you; for then you can lead us." He got a string from his pocket and tied it around the cat's neck, and after that the creature guided them along the path. They had proceeded in this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue light appeared ahead of them. "Good! there's a house at last," cried Ojo. "When we reach it the good people will surely welcome us and give us a night's lodging." But however far they walked the light seemed to get no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short, saying: "I think the light is traveling, too, and we shall never be able to catch up with it. But here is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?" "Where is the house, Bungle?" "Just here beside us, Scraps." Ojo was now able to see a small house near the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to the door and knocked. "Who is there?" cried a voice from within. "I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat," he replied. "What do you want?" asked the Voice. "A place to sleep," said Ojo. "Come in, then; but don't make any noise, and you must go directly to bed," returned the Voice. Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was very dark inside and he could see nothing at all. But the cat exclaimed: "Why, there's no one here!" "There must be," said the boy. "Some one spoke to me." "I can see everything in the room," replied the cat, "and no one is present but ourselves. But here are three beds, all made up, so we may as well go to sleep." "What is sleep?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "It's what you do when you go to bed," said Ojo. "But why do you go to bed?" persisted the Patchwork Girl. "Here, here! You are making altogether too much noise," cried the Voice they had heard before. "Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed." The cat, which could see in the dark, looked sharply around for the owner of the Voice, but could discover no one, although the Voice had seemed close beside them. She arched her back a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered to Ojo: "Come!" and led him to a bed. With his hands the boy felt of the bed and found it was big and soft, with feather pillows and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it. "Lie down and keep quiet," whispered the cat, warningly. "Can't I sing?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I whistle?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I dance till morning, if I want to?" asked Scraps. "You must keep quiet," said the cat, in a soft voice. "I don't want to," replied the Patchwork Girl, speaking as loudly as usual. "What right have you to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or whistle--" Before she could say anything more an unseen hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the door, which closed behind her with a sharp slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in the road and when she got up and tried to open the door of the house again she found it locked. "What has happened to Scraps?" asked Ojo. "Never mind. Let's go to sleep, or something will happen to us," answered the Glass Cat. So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell asleep, and he was so tired that he never wakened until broad daylight. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE TROUBLESOME PHONOGRAPH CHAP. 7 [Illustration] When the boy opened his eyes next morning he looked carefully around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the room except the boy and Bungle. Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he went to the table and said: "I wonder if this is my breakfast?" "Eat it!" commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped. But no person could he see. He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat. "Come on, Bungle," said he; "we must go." He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air, he said: "Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I'm much obliged." There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door, the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought you were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time." "What did you do all night?" asked the boy. "Sat here and watched the stars and the moon," she replied. "They're interesting. I never saw them before, you know." "Of course not," said Ojo. "You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors," remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey. "That's all right," said Scraps. "If I hadn't been thrown out I wouldn't have seen the stars, nor the big gray wolf." "What wolf?" inquired Ojo. "The one that came to the door of the house three times during the night." "I don't see why that should be," said the boy, thoughtfully; "there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I slept in a nice bed." "Don't you feel tired?" asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that the boy yawned. "Why, yes; I'm as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very well." "And aren't you hungry?" "It's strange," replied Ojo. "I had a good breakfast, and yet I think I'll now eat some of my crackers and cheese." Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang: "Kizzle-kazzle-kore; The wolf is at the door, There's nothing to eat but a bone without meat, And a bill from the grocery store." "What does that mean?" asked Ojo. "Don't ask me," replied Scraps. "I say what comes into my head, but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat or--very much else." "No," said the cat; "she's stark, staring, raving crazy, and her brains can't be pink, for they don't work properly." "Bother the brains!" cried Scraps. "Who cares for 'em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?" Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph with a big gold horn. [Illustration] "Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for me!" "Goodness me; it's that music thing which the Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life over," said Ojo. "So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are you doing here, anyhow?" "I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that I've found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to." Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends. "We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll excuse me if I say we can't be bothered." "How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph. "I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere else." "This is very unkind treatment, I must say," whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. "Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people." "It isn't you we hate, especially," observed the Glass Cat; "it's your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt." "That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven't a clear record," answered the machine. "Just the same, you'll have to go away," said Ojo. "Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?" "Victor Columbia Edison," it answered. "Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said the Patchwork Girl. "Go ahead and play something." "It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat. "I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic." "The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly classical composition." "A what?" inquired Scraps. "It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?" "Not in the least," said Scraps. "Then, listen!" At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh. "Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough." But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played. "Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully: "What's the matter? Don't you love classical music?" "No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink." "Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time tune on the other side," said the machine. "What's rag-time?" "The opposite of classical." "All right," said Scraps, and turned over the record. The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other extreme. It's extremely bad!" Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on. "If you don't shut off that music I'll smash your record," threatened Ojo. The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: "What's the matter now? Is it possible you can't appreciate rag-time?" "Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said the cat; "but I simply can't stand it; it makes my whiskers curl." "It is, indeed, dreadful!" exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder. "It's enough to drive a crazy lady mad," murmured the Patchwork Girl. "I'll tell you what, Vic," she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, "for some reason or other you've missed your guess. You're not a concert; you're a nuisance." "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," asserted the phonograph sadly. "Then we're not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician's pardon." "Never! He'd smash me." "That's what we shall do, if you stay here," Ojo declared. "Run along, Vic, and bother some one else," advised Scraps. "Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world." The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village. "Is that the way _we_ go?" asked Bungle anxiously. "No," said Ojo; "I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City." THE FOOLISH OWL AND THE WISE DONKEY CHAP. 8 [Illustration] On they went, and half an hour's steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: "Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers." When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: "Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let's go in." The boy knocked at the door. "Come in!" called a deep bass voice. So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors. "Good morning," said the donkey, in his deep voice, which seemed bigger than he was. "Did you come to us for advice?" "Why, we came, anyhow," replied Scraps, "and now we are here we may as well have some advice. It's free, isn't it? "Certainly," said the donkey. "Advice doesn't cost anything--unless you follow it. Permit me to say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you merely by appearances, I think you'd better talk to the Foolish Owl yonder." They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered its wings and stared back at them with its big eyes. "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!" cried the owl. "Fiddle-cum-foo, Howdy--do? Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum, Too-ra-la-loo!" "That beats your poetry, Scraps," said Ojo. "It's just nonsense!" declared the Glass Cat. "But it's good advice for the foolish," said the donkey, admiringly. "Listen to my partner, and you can't go wrong." Said the owl in a grumbling voice: "Patchwork Girl has come to life; No one's sweetheart, no one's wife; Lacking sense and loving fun, She'll be snubbed by everyone." "Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I declare," exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at Scraps. "You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and I fancy you'd make a splendid pincushion. If you belonged to me, I'd wear smoked glasses when I looked at you." "Why?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Because you are so gay and gaudy." "It is my beauty that dazzles you," she asserted. "You Munchkin people all strut around in your stupid blue color, while I--" "You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin," interrupted the donkey, "for I was born in the Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz on the day it was shut off from all the rest of the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I confess it is a very pleasant country to live in." "Hoot-ti-toot!" cried the owl; "Ojo's searching for a charm, 'Cause Unc Nunkie's come to harm. Charms are scarce; they're hard to get; Ojo's got a job, you bet!" "Is the owl so very foolish?" asked the boy. "Extremely so," replied the donkey. "Notice what vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl for the reason that she _is_ positively foolish. Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally, that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be interesting to the wise." The owl flapped its wings again, muttering these words: "It's hard to be a glassy cat-- No cat can be more hard than that; She's so transparent, every act Is clear to us, and that's a fact." "Have you noticed my pink brains?" inquired Bungle, proudly. "You can see 'em work." "Not in the daytime," said the donkey. "She can't see very well by day, poor thing. But her advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it." "The owl hasn't given us any advice, as yet," the boy declared. "No? Then what do you call all those sweet poems?" "Just foolishness," replied Ojo. "Scraps does the same thing." "Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish Owl must be foolish or she wouldn't be the Foolish Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner, indeed," asserted the donkey, rubbing his front hoofs together as if highly pleased. [Illustration] "The sign says that _you_ are wise," remarked Scraps to the donkey. "I wish you would prove it." "With great pleasure," returned the beast. "Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I'll prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye." "What is the best way to get to the Emerald City?" asked Ojo. "Walk," said the donkey. "I know; but what road shall I take?" was the boy's next question. "The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads directly to the Emerald City." "And how shall we find the road of yellow bricks?" "By keeping along the path you have been following. You'll come to the yellow bricks pretty soon, and you'll know them when you see them because they're the only yellow things in the blue country." "Thank you," said the boy. "At last you have told me something." "Is that the extent of your wisdom?" asked Scraps. "No," replied the donkey; "I know many other things, but they wouldn't interest you. So I'll give you a last word of advice: move on, for the sooner you do that the sooner you'll get to the Emerald City of Oz." "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!" screeched the owl; "Off you go! fast or slow, Where you're going you don't know. Patches, Bungle, Munchkin lad, Facing fortunes good and bad, Meeting dangers grave and sad, Sometimes worried, sometimes glad-- Where you're going you don't know, Nor do I, but off you go!" "Sounds like a hint, to me," said the Patchwork Girl. "Then let's take it and go," replied Ojo. They said good-bye to the Wise Donkey and the Foolish Owl and at once resumed their journey. [Illustration] [Illustration] THEY MEET THE WOOZY CHAP. NINE [Illustration] "There seem to be very few houses around here, after all," remarked Ojo, after they had walked for a time in silence. "Never mind," said Scraps; "we are not looking for houses, but rather the road of yellow bricks. Won't it be funny to run across something yellow in this dismal blue country?" "There are worse colors than yellow in this country," asserted the Glass Cat, in a spiteful tone. "Oh; do you mean the pink pebbles you call your brains, and your red heart and green eyes?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "No; I mean you, if you must know it," growled the cat. "You're jealous!" laughed Scraps. "You'd give your whiskers for a lovely variegated complexion like mine." "I wouldn't!" retorted the cat. "I've the clearest complexion in the world, and I don't employ a beauty-doctor, either." "I see you don't," said Scraps. "Please don't quarrel," begged Ojo. "This is an important journey, and quarreling makes me discouraged. To be brave, one must be cheerful, so I hope you will be as good-tempered as possible." They had traveled some distance when suddenly they faced a high fence which barred any further progress straight ahead. It ran directly across the road and enclosed a small forest of tall trees, set close together. When the group of adventurers peered through the bars of the fence they thought this forest looked more gloomy and forbidding than any they had ever seen before. They soon discovered that the path they had been following now made a bend and passed around the enclosure, but what made Ojo stop and look thoughtful was a sign painted on the fence which read: "BEWARE OF THE WOOZY!" "That means," he said, "that there's a Woozy inside that fence, and the Woozy must be a dangerous animal or they wouldn't tell people to beware of it." "Let's keep out, then," replied Scraps. "That path is outside the fence, and Mr. Woozy may have all his little forest to himself, for all we care." "But one of our errands is to find a Woozy," Ojo explained. "The Magician wants me to get three hairs from the end of a Woozy's tail." "Let's go on and find some other Woozy," suggested the cat. "This one is ugly and dangerous, or they wouldn't cage him up. Maybe we shall find another that is tame and gentle." "Perhaps there isn't any other, at all," answered Ojo. "The sign doesn't say: 'Beware _a_ Woozy'; it says: 'Beware _the_ Woozy,' which may mean there's only one in all the Land of Oz." "Then," said Scraps, "suppose we go in and find him? Very likely if we ask him politely to let us pull three hairs out of the tip of his tail he won't hurt us." "It would hurt _him_, I'm sure, and that would make him cross," said the cat. "You needn't worry, Bungle," remarked the Patchwork Girl; "for if there is danger you can climb a tree. Ojo and I are not afraid; are we, Ojo?" "I am, a little," the boy admitted; "but this danger must be faced, if we intend to save poor Unc Nunkie. How shall we get over the fence?" "Climb," answered Scraps, and at once she began climbing up the rows of bars. Ojo followed and found it more easy than he had expected. When they got to the top of the fence they began to get down on the other side and soon were in the forest. The Glass Cat, being small, crept between the lower bars and joined them. Here there was no path of any sort, so they entered the woods, the boy leading the way, and wandered through the trees until they were nearly in the center of the forest. They now came upon a clear space in which stood a rocky cave. So far they had met no living creature, but when Ojo saw the cave he knew it must be the den of the Woozy. It is hard to face any savage beast without a sinking of the heart, but still more terrifying is it to face an unknown beast, which you have never seen even a picture of. So there is little wonder that the pulses of the Munchkin boy beat fast as he and his companions stood facing the cave. The opening was perfectly square, and about big enough to admit a goat. "I guess the Woozy is asleep," said Scraps. "Shall I throw in a stone, to waken him?" "No; please don't," answered Ojo, his voice trembling a little. "I'm in no hurry." But he had not long to wait, for the Woozy heard the sound of voices and came trotting out of his cave. As this is the only Woozy that has ever lived, either in the Land of Oz or out of it, I must describe it to you. The creature was all squares and flat surfaces and edges. Its head was an exact square, like one of the building-blocks a child plays with; therefore it had no ears, but heard sounds through two openings in the upper corners. Its nose, being in the center of a square surface, was flat, while the mouth was formed by the opening of the lower edge of the block. The body of the Woozy was much larger than its head, but was likewise block-shaped--being twice as long as it was wide and high. The tail was square and stubby and perfectly straight, and the four legs were made in the same way, each being four-sided. The animal was covered with a thick, smooth skin and had no hair at all except at the extreme end of its tail, where there grew exactly three stiff, stubby hairs. The beast was dark blue in color and his face was not fierce nor ferocious in expression, but rather good-humored and droll. Seeing the strangers, the Woozy folded his hind legs as if they had been hinged and sat down to look his visitors over. "Well, well," he exclaimed; "what a queer lot you are! At first I thought some of those miserable Munchkin farmers had come to annoy me, but I am relieved to find you in their stead. It is plain to me that you are a remarkable group--as remarkable in your way as I am in mine--and so you are welcome to my domain. Nice place, isn't it? But lonesome--dreadfully lonesome." "Why did they shut you up here?" asked Scraps, who was regarding the queer, square creature with much curiosity. "Because I eat up all the honey-bees which the Munchkin farmers who live around here keep to make them honey." "Are you fond of eating honey-bees?" inquired the boy. "Very. They are really delicious. But the farmers did not like to lose their bees and so they tried to destroy me. Of course they couldn't do that." "Why not?" "My skin is so thick and tough that nothing can get through it to hurt me. So, finding they could not destroy me, they drove me into this forest and built a fence around me. Unkind, wasn't it?" "But what do you eat now?" asked Ojo. "Nothing at all. I've tried the leaves from the trees and the mosses and creeping vines, but they don't seem to suit my taste. So, there being no honey-bees here, I've eaten nothing for years." "You must be awfully hungry," said the boy. "I've got some bread and cheese in my basket. Would you like that kind of food?" "Give me a nibble and I will try it; then I can tell you better whether it is grateful to my appetite," returned the Woozy. So the boy opened his basket and broke a piece off the loaf of bread. He tossed it toward the Woozy, who cleverly caught it in his mouth and ate it in a twinkling. "That's rather good," declared the animal. "Any more?" "Try some cheese," said Ojo, and threw down a piece. The Woozy ate that, too, and smacked its long, thin lips. "That's mighty good!" it exclaimed. "Any more?" "Plenty," replied Ojo. So he sat down on a stump and fed the Woozy bread and cheese for a long time; for, no matter how much the boy broke off, the loaf and the slice remained just as big. "That'll do," said the Woozy, at last; "I'm quite full. I hope the strange food won't give me indigestion." "I hope not," said Ojo. "It's what I eat." "Well, I must say I'm much obliged, and I'm glad you came," announced the beast. "Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?" "Yes," said Ojo earnestly, "you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will." "What is it?" asked the Woozy. "Name the favor and I will grant it." "I--I want three hairs from the tip of your tail," said Ojo, with some hesitation. "Three hairs! Why, that's all I have--on my tail or anywhere else," exclaimed the beast. "I know; but I want them very much." "They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature," said the Woozy, uneasily. "If I give up those three hairs I--I'm just a blockhead." "Yet I must have them," insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh: "I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you." "Thank you! Thank you very much," cried the boy, joyfully. "May I pull out the hairs now?" "Any time you like," answered the Woozy. So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast. "What's the trouble?" asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair. "It won't come," said the boy, panting. "I was afraid of that," declared the beast. "You'll have to pull harder." "I'll help you," exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy's side. "You pull the hair, and I'll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily." "Wait a jiffy," called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn't be dragged around by the pull. "All ready, now. Go ahead!" Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn't budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo's hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave. [Illustration] "Give it up," advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. "A dozen strong men couldn't pull out those hairs. I believe they're clinched on the under side of the Woozy's thick skin." "Then what shall I do?" asked the boy, despairingly. "If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life." "They're goners, I guess," said the Patchwork Girl. "Never mind," added the cat. "I can't see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow." But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry. The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully. "Why don't you take me with you?" asked the beast. "Then, when at last you get to the Magician's house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs." Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion. "That's it!" he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. "If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won't matter if they are still in your body." "It can't matter in the least," agreed the Woozy. "Come on, then," said the boy, picking up his basket; "let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know." But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way: "How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?" That puzzled them all for a time. "Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way," suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure. "How did you get in?" asked the Woozy. "We climbed over," answered Ojo. "I can't do that," said the beast. "I'm a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can't climb at all, and I'm too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence." Ojo tried to think what to do. "Can you dig?" he asked. "No," answered the Woozy, "for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth." "You're not such a terrible creature, after all," remarked Scraps. "You haven't heard me growl, or you wouldn't say that," declared the Woozy. "When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy." "Please don't growl, then," begged Ojo, earnestly. "There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not." "Real fire?" asked Ojo. "Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they'd flash imitation fire?" inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone. "In that case, I've solved the riddle," cried Scraps, dancing with glee. "Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free." "Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago," said the Woozy. "But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry." "Can't you get angry 'bout something, please?" asked Ojo. "I'll try. You just say 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me." "Will that make you angry?" inquired the boy. "Terribly angry." "What does it mean?" asked Scraps. "I don't know; that's what makes me so angry," replied the Woozy. He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out "Krizzle-Kroo!" Then Ojo said "Krizzle-Kroo!" and the Glass Cat said "Krizzle-Kroo!" The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried "Krizzle-Kroo!" together, and that made the beast's eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly: "Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren't they?" [Illustration] "Reg'lar fireworks," replied Scraps, admiringly. In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them whipped the fire until it was extinguished. "We don't want to burn the whole fence down," said he, "for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they'll be rather surprised when they find he's escaped." "So they will," declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. "When they find I'm gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they'll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before." "That reminds me," said the boy, "that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company." "None at all?" "Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can't afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I'll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you." "All right; I'll promise," said the Woozy, cheerfully. "And when I promise anything you can depend on it, 'cause I'm square." "I don't see what difference that makes," observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. "The shape doesn't make a thing honest, does it?" "Of course it does," returned the Woozy, very decidedly. "No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he _is_ crooked; but a square Woozy couldn't do anything crooked if he wanted to." "I am neither square nor crooked," said Scraps, looking down at her plump body. "No; you're round, so you're liable to do anything," asserted the Woozy. "Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back." Scraps didn't understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again. [Illustration] [Illustration] SHAGGY MAN TO THE RESCUE CHAP. 10 [Illustration] They had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like. It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble. "I wonder," said Ojo, looking up and down the road, "which way to go." "Where are you bound for?" asked the Woozy. "The Emerald City," he replied. "Then go west," said the Woozy. "I know this road pretty well, for I've chased many a honey-bee over it." "Have you ever been to the Emerald City?" asked Scraps. "No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven't mingled much in society." "Are you afraid of men?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "Me? With my heart-rending growl--my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything," declared the Woozy. "I wish I could say the same," sighed Ojo. "I don't think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful." "I hope nothing will break me," said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. "I'm a little brittle, you know, and can't stand many hard knocks." "If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "I'm not sure you have a heart," Ojo reminded her. "Then it would break my cotton," persisted Scraps. "Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?" she asked anxiously. "They seem fast enough when you run," he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: "Oh, what lovely trees!" They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely. "Why, they are not trees at all," said Scraps; "they are just monstrous plants." That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl's head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue--gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and grays--each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape. The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest. Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem. [Illustration] "Why, she's gone!" gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem. "Look out," cried the Woozy. "Run! Run fast, or you are lost." Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight. The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides. At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: "Let me go! Let me go!" But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner. Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them. "I might have expected it," he sobbed, miserably. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me." He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position. The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again. No sound came to him through the leaf; all around was intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo's ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious. Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him. Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him--a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes. He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair--but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger. "Oh!" exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: "Who has saved me, sir?" "Can't you see?" replied the other, with a smile; "I'm the Shaggy Man." "Yes; I can see that," said the boy, nodding. "Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?" "None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again." Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still. The man now took Ojo's arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling. "You see, the music charms 'em," said he. "Singing or whistling--it doesn't matter which--makes 'em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by 'em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and--out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn't it?" "You were very kind," said Ojo, "and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?" "What companions?" asked the Shaggy Man. "The leaves grabbed them all," said the boy. "There's a Patchwork Girl and--" "A what?" "A girl made of patchwork, you know. She's alive and her name is Scraps. And there's a Glass Cat--" "Glass?" asked the Shaggy Man. "All glass." "And alive?" "Yes," said Ojo; "she has pink brains. And there's a Woozy--" "What's a Woozy?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "Why, I--I--can't describe it," answered the boy, greatly perplexed. "But it's a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won't come out and--" "What won't come out?" asked the Shaggy Man; "the tail?" "The hairs won't come out. But you'll see the Woozy, if you'll please rescue it, and then you'll know just what it is." [Illustration] "Of course," said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo's traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily, that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying: "My dear, you're a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow." When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants. [Illustration] [Illustration] A GOOD FRIEND CHAP. 11. [Illustration] Soon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested. "I've seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz," said he, "but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted." "Haven't you always lived in the Land of Oz?" asked the Munchkin boy. "No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay." "How do you like Oz?" asked Scraps. "Isn't the country and the climate grand?" "It's the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland, and I'm happy every minute I live in it," said the Shaggy Man. "But tell me something about yourselves." So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy's tail. "We found the Woozy," explained the boy, "and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn't pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us." "I see," returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. "But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy's tail." "Try it, if you like," said the Woozy. So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy's tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said: "It doesn't matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract 'em. What are the other things you are to find?" "One," said Ojo, "is a six-leaved clover." "You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City," said the Shaggy Man. "There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one." "Thank you," replied Ojo. "The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "For that you must go to the Winkie Country," the Shaggy Man declared. "I've never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it's ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman." "Oh, I've heard of him!" exclaimed Ojo. "He must be a wonderful man." "So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I'm sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte." "The next thing I must find," said the Munchkin boy, "is a gill of water from a dark well." "Indeed! Well, that is more difficult," said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. "I've never heard of a dark well; have you?" "No," said Ojo. "Do you know where one may be found?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "I can't imagine," said Ojo. "Then we must ask the Scarecrow." "The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can't know anything." "Most scarecrows don't, I admit," answered the Shaggy Man. "But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz." "Better than mine?" asked Scraps. "Better than mine?" echoed the Glass Cat. "Mine are pink, and you can see 'em work." "Well, you can't see the Scarecrow's brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking," asserted the Shaggy Man. "If anyone knows where a dark well is, it's my friend the Scarecrow." "Where does he live?" inquired Ojo. "He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace." "Then we will ask him about the dark well," said Ojo. "But what else does this Crooked Magician want?" asked the Shaggy Man. "A drop of oil from a live man's body." "Oh; but there isn't such a thing." "That is what I thought," replied Ojo; "but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn't be called for by the recipe if it couldn't be found, and therefore I must search until I find it." "I wish you good luck," said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; "but I imagine you'll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man's body. There's blood in a body, but no oil." [Illustration: I HATE DIGNITY] "There's cotton in mine," said Scraps, dancing a little jig. "I don't doubt it," returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. "You're a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity." "I hate dignity," cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. "Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I'm neither the one nor the other." "She's just crazy," explained the Glass Cat. The Shaggy Man laughed. "She's delightful, in her way," he said. "I'm sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?" "Yes," replied Ojo. "I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there." "I'll go with you," said the Shaggy Man, "and show you the way." "Thank you," exclaimed Ojo. "I hope it won't put you out any." "No," said the other, "I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I've been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I've been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I've met you and your friends I'm sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends." "That will be very nice," said the boy, gratefully. "I hope your friends are not dignified," observed Scraps. "Some are, and some are not," he answered; "but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me." "There's some sense in that," said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. "Come on, and let's get to the Emerald City as soon as possible." With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them. "It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City," remarked the Shaggy Man, "so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I'm an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. 'Take it easy' is my motto. If you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can." After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it. "When I start out on my travels," said he, "I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I'll indulge in one now, as long as we're stopping anyway." Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo's finger-nails. "That," announced the Shaggy Man, "is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Wogglebug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate-drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal." "I'm square," said the Woozy. "Give me one, please." So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling. "You have now had a six course dinner," declared the Shaggy Man. "Pshaw!" said the Woozy, ungratefully, "I want to taste something. There's no fun in that sort of eating." "One should only eat to sustain life," replied the Shaggy Man, "and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food." "I don't care for it. I want something I can chew and taste," grumbled the Woozy. "You are quite wrong, my poor beast," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. "Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet--which you can swallow in a jiffy." "Chewing isn't tiresome; it's fun," maintained the Woozy. "I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo." "No, no! You've already eaten a big dinner!" protested the Shaggy Man. "May be," answered the Woozy; "but I guess I'll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what's going into me." Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy. At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance. "Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. "What has happened to you?" "Nothing much," replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters." "Are you so broken up that you can't play?" asked Scraps. "No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I've a record on tap that is really superb," said the phonograph, growing more cheerful. "That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you." "Then why was I ever invented?" demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest. They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said: "I'd like to hear the phonograph play." Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we met you, sir," he said. "I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?" "It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it." "Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it's dangerous." "Wild with joy, I mean," explained the phonograph. "Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich--for an author. It is called 'My Lulu.'" Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression: "Ah want mah Lulu, mah cross-eyed Lulu; Ah want mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu! Ah love mah Lulu, mah cross-eyed Lulu, There ain't nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!" "Here--shut that off!" cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. "What do you mean by such impertinence?" "It's the latest popular song," declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice. "A popular song?" "Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs." "That time won't come to us, just yet," said the Shaggy Man, sternly: "I'm something of a singer myself, and I don't intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your cross-eyed one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall--" But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view. The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. "Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph," said he; "for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way." [Illustration] During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby underbrush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance. But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here: "We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let's wait until morning before we tackle it." They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth. For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy. When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight--there being no furniture of any sort in the place--Ojo said to the Shaggy Man: "Won't you tell us a story?" "I'm not good at stories," was the reply; "but I sing like a bird." "Raven, or crow?" asked the Glass Cat. "Like a song bird. I'll prove it. I'll sing a song I composed myself. Don't tell anyone I'm a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don't tell 'em I can sing, or they'd want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven't time to be a public benefactor, so I'll just sing you this little song for your own amusement." They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant: "I'll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell, Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes. Our Ruler's a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please; She's always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do. And then there's Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose, A lass from Kansas, where they don't grow fairies, I suppose; And there's the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw, Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe. I'll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Wogglebug, who's highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride. Jack Pumpkinhead's a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he's made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could. And now I'll introduce a beast that ev'ryone adores-- The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear 'most ev'ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right. There's Tik-tok--he's a clockwork man and quite a funny sight-- He talks and walks mechanically, when he's wound up tight; And we've a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat. It's hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land's acquired; 'Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen. Just search the whole world over--sail the seas from coast to coast-- No other nation in creation queerer folks can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass, A Woozy, and--last but not least--a crazy Patchwork Lass." Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws--gently, so as not to break them--and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about. "I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company," remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. "Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps." [Illustration] "Tell me," said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, "do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?" "Every one of 'em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy's Pink Kitten." "For goodness sake!" exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. "A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?" "No; just ordinary kitten." "Then it can't amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see 'em work." "Dorothy's kitten is all pink--brains and all--except blue eyes. Name's Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace," said the Shaggy Man, yawning. The Glass Cat seemed annoyed. "Do you think a pink kitten--common meat--is as pretty as I am?" she asked. "Can't say. Tastes differ, you know," replied the Shaggy Man, yawning again. "But here's a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you'll be solid at the palace." "I'm solid now; solid glass." "You don't understand," rejoined the Shaggy Man, sleepily. "Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you'll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers." "Would anyone at the royal palace break a Glass Cat?" "Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble--if you can. And now I'm going to bed." Bungle considered the Shaggy Man's advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE GIANT PORCUPINE CHAP. 12 [Illustration] Next morning they started out bright and early to follow the road of yellow bricks toward the Emerald City. The little Munchkin boy was beginning to feel tired from the long walk, and he had a great many things to think of and consider besides the events of the journey. At the wonderful Emerald City, which he would presently reach, were so many strange and curious people that he was half afraid of meeting them and wondered if they would prove friendly and kind. Above all else, he could not drive from his mind the important errand on which he had come, and he was determined to devote every energy to finding the things that were necessary to prepare the magic recipe. He believed that until dear Unc Nunkie was restored to life he could feel no joy in anything, and often he wished that Unc could be with him, to see all the astonishing things Ojo was seeing. But alas Unc Nunkie was now a marble statue in the house of the Crooked Magician and Ojo must not falter in his efforts to save him. The country through which they were passing was still rocky and deserted, with here and there a bush or a tree to break the dreary landscape. Ojo noticed one tree, especially, because it had such long, silky leaves and was so beautiful in shape. As he approached it he studied the tree earnestly, wondering if any fruit grew on it or if it bore pretty flowers. Suddenly he became aware that he had been looking at that tree a long time--at least for five minutes--and it had remained in the same position, although the boy had continued to walk steadily on. So he stopped short, and when he stopped, the tree and all the landscape, as well as his companions, moved on before him and left him far behind. Ojo uttered such a cry of astonishment that it aroused the Shaggy Man, who also halted. The others then stopped, too, and walked back to the boy. "What's wrong?" asked the Shaggy Man. "Why, we're not moving forward a bit, no matter how fast we walk," declared Ojo. "Now that we have stopped, we are moving backward! Can't you see? Just notice that rock." Scraps looked down at her feet and said: "The yellow bricks are not moving." "But the whole road is," answered Ojo. "True; quite true," agreed the Shaggy Man. "I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn't realize where we were." "It will carry us back to where we started from," predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous. "No," replied the Shaggy Man; "it won't do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I've traveled this way before, you know. Turn around, all of you, and walk backward." "What good will that do?" asked the cat. "You'll find out, if you obey me," said the Shaggy Man. So they all turned their backs to the direction in which they wished to go and began walking backward. In an instant Ojo noticed they were gaining ground and as they proceeded in this curious way they soon passed the tree which had first attracted his attention to their difficulty. "How long must we keep this up, Shags?" asked Scraps, who was constantly tripping and tumbling down, only to get up again with a laugh at her mishap. "Just a little way farther," replied the Shaggy Man. A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground. "That task is well over," observed the Shaggy Man. "It's a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it." [Illustration] With new courage and energy they now trudged forward and after a time came to a place where the road cut through a low hill, leaving high banks on either side of it. They were traveling along this cut, talking together, when the Shaggy Man seized Scraps with one arm and Ojo with another and shouted: "Stop!" "What's wrong now?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "See there!" answered the Shaggy Man, pointing with his finger. Directly in the center of the road lay a motionless object that bristled all over with sharp quills, which resembled arrows. The body was as big as a ten-bushel-basket, but the projecting quills made it appear to be four times bigger. "Well, what of it?" asked Scraps. "That is Chiss, who causes a lot of trouble along this road," was the reply. "Chiss! What is Chiss?" "I think it is merely an overgrown porcupine, but here in Oz they consider Chiss an evil spirit. He's different from a reg'lar porcupine, because he can throw his quills in any direction, which an American porcupine cannot do. That's what makes old Chiss so dangerous. If we get too near, he'll fire those quills at us and hurt us badly." "Then we will be foolish to get too near," said Scraps. "I'm not afraid," declared the Woozy. "The Chiss is cowardly, I'm sure, and if it ever heard my awful, terrible, frightful growl, it would be scared stiff." "Oh; can you growl?" asked the Shaggy Man. "That is the only ferocious thing about me," asserted the Woozy with evident pride. "My growl makes an earthquake blush and the thunder ashamed of itself. If I growled at that creature you call Chiss, it would immediately think the world had cracked in two and bumped against the sun and moon, and that would cause the monster to run as far and as fast as its legs could carry it." "In that case," said the Shaggy Man, "you are now able to do us all a great favor. Please growl." "But you forget," returned the Woozy; "my tremendous growl would also frighten you, and if you happen to have heart disease you might expire." "True; but we must take that risk," decided the Shaggy Man, bravely. "Being warned of what is to occur we must try to bear the terrific noise of your growl; but Chiss won't expect it, and it will scare him away." The Woozy hesitated. "I'm fond of you all, and I hate to shock you," it said. "Never mind," said Ojo. "You may be made deaf." "If so, we will forgive you." "Very well, then," said the Woozy in a determined voice, and advanced a few steps toward the giant porcupine. Pausing to look back, it asked: "All ready?" "All ready!" they answered. "Then cover up your ears and brace yourselves firmly. Now, then--look out!" The Woozy turned toward Chiss, opened wide its mouth and said: "Quee-ee-ee-eek." "Go ahead and growl," said Scraps. "Why, I--I _did_ growl!" retorted the Woozy, who seemed much astonished. "What, that little squeak?" she cried. [Illustration] "It is the most awful growl that ever was heard, on land or sea, in caverns or in the sky," protested the Woozy. "I wonder you stood the shock so well. Didn't you feel the ground tremble? I suppose Chiss is now quite dead with fright." The Shaggy Man laughed merrily. "Poor Wooz!" said he; "your growl wouldn't scare a fly." The Woozy seemed to be humiliated and surprised. It hung its head a moment, as if in shame or sorrow, but then it said with renewed confidence: "Anyhow, my eyes can flash fire; and good fire, too; good enough to set fire to a fence!" "That is true," declared Scraps; "I saw it done myself. But your ferocious growl isn't as loud as the tick of a beetle--or one of Ojo's snores when he's fast asleep." "Perhaps," said the Woozy, humbly, "I have been mistaken about my growl. It has always sounded very fearful to me, but that may have been because it was so close to my ears." "Never mind," Ojo said soothingly; "it is a great talent to be able to flash fire from your eyes. No one else can do that." [Illustration] As they stood hesitating what to do Chiss stirred and suddenly a shower of quills came flying toward them, almost filling the air, they were so many. Scraps realized in an instant that they had gone too near to Chiss for safety, so she sprang in front of Ojo and shielded him from the darts, which stuck their points into her own body until she resembled one of those targets they shoot arrows at in archery games. The Shaggy Man dropped flat on his face to avoid the shower, but one quill struck him in the leg and went far in. As for the Glass Cat, the quills rattled off her body without making even a scratch, and the skin of the Woozy was so thick and tough that he was not hurt at all. [Illustration] When the attack was over they all ran to the Shaggy Man, who was moaning and groaning, and Scraps promptly pulled the quill out of his leg. Then up he jumped and ran over to Chiss, putting his foot on the monster's neck and holding it a prisoner. The body of the great porcupine was now as smooth as leather, except for the holes where the quills had been, for it had shot every single quill in that one wicked shower. "Let me go!" it shouted angrily. "How dare you put your foot on Chiss?" "I'm going to do worse than that, old boy," replied the Shaggy Man. "You have annoyed travelers on this road long enough, and now I shall put an end to you." "You can't!" returned Chiss. "Nothing can kill me, as you know perfectly well." "Perhaps that is true," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of disappointment. "Seems to me I've been told before that you can't be killed. But if I let you go, what will you do?" "Pick up my quills again," said Chiss in a sulky voice. "And then shoot them at more travelers? No; that won't do. You must promise me to stop throwing quills at people." "I won't promise anything of the sort," declared Chiss. "Why not?" "Because it is my nature to throw quills, and every animal must do what Nature intends it to do. It isn't fair for you to blame me. If it were wrong for me to throw quills, then I wouldn't be made with quills to throw. The proper thing for you to do is to keep out of my way." "Why, there's some sense in that argument," admitted the Shaggy Man, thoughtfully; "but people who are strangers, and don't know you are here, won't be able to keep out of your way." "Tell you what," said Scraps, who was trying to pull the quills out of her own body, "let's gather up all the quills and take them away with us; then old Chiss won't have any left to throw at people." "Ah, that's a clever idea. You and Ojo must gather up the quills while I hold Chiss a prisoner; for, if I let him go, he will get some of his quills and be able to throw them again." So Scraps and Ojo picked up all the quills and tied them in a bundle so they might easily be carried. After this the Shaggy Man released Chiss and let him go, knowing that he was harmless to injure anyone. "It's the meanest trick I ever heard of," muttered the porcupine gloomily. "How would you like it, Shaggy Man, if I took all your shags away from you?" "If I threw my shags and hurt people, you would be welcome to capture them," was the reply. Then they walked on and left Chiss standing in the road sullen and disconsolate. The Shaggy Man limped as he walked, for his wound still hurt him, and Scraps was much annoyed because the quills had left a number of small holes in her patches. When they came to a flat stone by the roadside the Shaggy Man sat down to rest, and then Ojo opened his basket and took out the bundle of charms the Crooked Magician had given him. "I am Ojo the Unlucky," he said, "or we would never have met that dreadful porcupine. But I will see if I can find anything among these charms which will cure your leg." Soon he discovered that one of the charms was labelled: "For flesh wounds," and this the boy separated from the others. It was only a bit of dried root, taken from some unknown shrub, but the boy rubbed it upon the wound made by the quill and in a few moments the place was healed entirely and the Shaggy Man's leg was as good as ever. "Rub it on the holes in my patches," suggested Scraps, and Ojo tried it, but without any effect. "The charm you need is a needle and thread," said the Shaggy Man. "But do not worry, my dear; those holes do not look badly, at all." "They'll let in the air, and I don't want people to think I'm airy, or that I've been stuck up," said the Patchwork Girl. "You were certainly stuck up until we pulled out those quills," observed Ojo, with a laugh. So now they went on again and coming presently to a pond of muddy water they tied a heavy stone to the bundle of quills and sunk it to the bottom of the pond, to avoid carrying it farther. SCRAPS AND THE SCARECROW CHAP. 13 [Illustration] From here on the country improved and the desert places began to give way to fertile spots; still no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There were some hills, with valleys between them, and on reaching the top of one of these hills the travelers found before them a high wall, running to the right and the left as far as their eyes could reach. Immediately in front of them, where the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom. They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of use. "Well," said Scraps, "I guess we'll stop here." "It's a good guess," replied Ojo. "Our way is barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if no one had passed through in many years." "Looks are deceiving," declared the Shaggy Man, laughing at their disappointed faces, "and this barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz." "It prevents our going any farther, anyhow," said Scraps. "There is no one to mind the gate and let people through, and we've no key to the padlock." [Illustration] "True," replied Ojo, going a little nearer to peep through the bars of the gate. "What shall we do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get to the Emerald City I won't be able to find the things to restore Unc Nunkie to life." "All very true," answered the Shaggy Man, quietly; "but I know this gate, having passed through it many times." "How?" they all eagerly inquired. "I'll show you how," said he. He stood Ojo in the middle of the road and placed Scraps just behind him, with her padded hands on his shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat, holding fast to the Woozy's tail with her glass jaws. "Now," said the Shaggy Man, "you must all shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until I tell you to open them." "I can't," objected Scraps. "My eyes are buttons, and they won't shut." [Illustration] So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over the Patchwork Girl's eyes and examined all the others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut and could see nothing. "What's the game, anyhow--blind-man's-buff?" asked Scraps. "Keep quiet!" commanded the Shaggy Man, sternly. "All ready? Then follow me." He took Ojo's-hand and led him forward over the road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding fast to one another they all followed in a row, expecting every minute to bump against the iron bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count, he stopped and said: "Now you may open your eyes." They did so, and to their astonishment found the wall and the gateway far behind them, while in front the former Blue Country of the Munchkins had given way to green fields, with pretty farm-houses scattered among them. "That wall," explained the Shaggy Man, "is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn't exist at all. It's the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it's all seeming and not true. You will notice that the wall--or what we thought was a wall--separates the Munchkin Country from the green country that surrounds the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy once traveled the other way, and met with more dangers than we did. But all our troubles are over for the present, as another day's journey will bring us to the great Emerald City." They were delighted to know this, and proceeded with new courage. In a couple of hours they stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no great astonishment, for they were accustomed to seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz. The woman of this house got her needle and thread and sewed up the holes made by the porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl's body, after which Scraps was assured she looked as beautiful as ever. "You ought to have a hat to wear," remarked the woman, "for that would keep the sun from fading the colors of your face. I have some patches and scraps put away, and if you will wait two or three days I'll make you a lovely hat that will match the rest of you." "Never mind the hat," said Scraps, shaking her yarn braids; "it's a kind offer, but we can't stop. I can't see that my colors have faded a particle, as yet; can you?" "Not much," replied the woman. "You are still very gorgeous, in spite of your long journey." The children of the house wanted to keep the Glass Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered a good home if she would remain; but the cat was too much interested in Ojo's adventures and refused to stop. "Children are rough playmates," she remarked to the Shaggy Man, "and although this home is more pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and girls." After they had rested themselves they renewed their journey, finding the road now smooth and pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald City. By and by Ojo began to walk on the green grass, looking carefully around him. "What are you trying to find?" asked Scraps. "A six-leaved clover," said he. "Don't do that!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man, earnestly. "It's against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma's consent." "She wouldn't know it," declared the boy. "Ozma knows many things," said the Shaggy Man. "In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or travelers happen to be. She may be watching the picture of us even now, and noticing everything that we do." "Does she always watch the Magic Picture?" asked Ojo. "Not always, for she has many other things to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us this very minute." "I don't care," said Ojo, in an obstinate tone of voice; "Ozma's only a girl." The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise. "You ought to care for Ozma," said he, "if you expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma, she will gladly assist you. As for her being a girl, that is another reason why you should obey her laws, if you are courteous and polite. Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies, for she is as just as she is powerful." Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the road and kept away from the green clover. The boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour or two afterward, because he could really see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy Man had said he considered Ozma's law to be unjust. They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall and stately trees, through which the road wound in sharp curves--first one way and then another. As they were walking through this grove they heard some one in the distance singing, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until they could distinguish the words, although the bend in the road still hid the singer. The song was something like this: "Here's to the hale old bale of straw That's cut from the waving grain, The sweetest sight man ever saw In forest, dell or plain. It fills me with a crunkling joy A straw-stack to behold, For then I pad this lucky boy With strands of yellow gold." "Ah!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man; "here comes my friend the Scarecrow." [Illustration] "What, a live Scarecrow?" asked Ojo. "Yes; the one I told you of. He's a splendid fellow, and very intelligent. You'll like him, I'm sure." Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came around the bend in the road, riding astride a wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its rider's legs nearly touched the ground. The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the Munchkins, in which country he was made, and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was tied around his waist to hold him in shape, for he was stuffed with straw in every part of him except the top of his head, where at one time the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened to the body at the neck, and on the front of this bag was painted the face--ears, eyes, nose and mouth. The Scarecrow's face was very interesting, for it bore a comical and yet winning expression, although one eye was a bit larger than the other and the ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him together with close stitches and therefore some of the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined to stick out between the seams. His hands consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at the tops of them. The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider. It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw logs upon, so that its body was a short length of a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted into four holes made in the body. The tail was formed by a small branch that had been left on the log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes, and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse heard very distinctly. This queer wooden horse was a great favorite with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems. It had never worn a bridle. As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl in wonder, while she in turn stared at him. "Shags," he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man aside, "pat me into shape, there's a good fellow!" While his friend punched and patted the Scarecrow's body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps turned to Ojo and whispered: "Roll me out, please; I've sagged down dreadfully from walking so much and men like to see a stately figure." She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork covering and the body had lengthened to its fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and again they faced each other. "Allow me, Miss Patchwork," said the Shaggy Man, "to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches; Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow--Scraps; Scraps--Scarecrow." They both bowed with much dignity. "Forgive me for staring so rudely," said the Scarecrow, "but you are the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld." "That is a high compliment from one who is himself so beautiful," murmured Scraps, casting down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her head. "But, tell me, good sir, are you not a trifle lumpy?" "Yes, of course; that's my straw, you know. It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my efforts to keep it even. Doesn't your straw ever bunch?" "Oh, I'm stuffed with cotton," said Scraps. "It never bunches, but it's inclined to pack down and make me sag." "But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic, than straw," said the Scarecrow politely. "Still, it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely should have the best stuffing there is going. I--er--I'm _so_ glad I've met you, Miss Scraps! Introduce us again, Shaggy." [Illustration] "Once is enough," replied the Shaggy Man, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm. "Then tell me where you found her, and--Dear me, what a queer cat! What are _you_ made of--gelatine?" "Pure glass," answered the cat, proud to have attracted the Scarecrow's attention. "I am much more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I'm transparent, and Scraps isn't; I've pink brains--you can see 'em work; and I've a ruby heart, finely polished, while Scraps hasn't any heart at all." "No more have I," said the Scarecrow, shaking hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on the fact. "I've a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has a heart, but I find I get along pretty well without one. And so--Well, well! here's a little Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How are you?" Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw in his glove crackled. Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod foot. "Take that, you monster!" it cried angrily. The Woozy never even winked. "To be sure," he said; "I'll take anything I have to. But don't make me angry, you wooden beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you up." The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away and said to the Scarecrow: "What a sweet disposition that creature has! I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and you can't fall off." "I think the trouble is that you haven't been properly introduced," said the Scarecrow, regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had never seen such a queer animal before. "The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride him--as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some one--perhaps yourself--will tell me your name, your rank and station, and your history, it will give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse. This will lead to mutual respect and friendship." The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said: "This square beast is called the Woozy, and he isn't of much importance except that he has three hairs growing on the tip of his tail." The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true. "But," said he, in a puzzled way, "what makes those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused him of being important." So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie's transformation into a marble statue, and told how he had set out to find the things the Crooked Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that would restore his uncle to life. One of the requirements was three hairs from a Woozy's tail, but not being able to pull out the hairs they had been obliged to take the Woozy with them. The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he shook his head several times, as if in disapproval. "We must see Ozma about this matter," he said. "That Crooked Magician is breaking the Law by practicing magic without a license, and I'm not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your uncle to life." "Already I have warned the boy of that," declared the Shaggy Man. At this Ojo began to cry. "I want my Unc Nunkie!" he exclaimed. "I know how he can be restored to life, and I'm going to do it--Ozma or no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my Unc Nunkie a statue forever?" "Don't worry about that just now," advised the Scarecrow. "Go on to the Emerald City, and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and I'm sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma's best friend, and if you can win her to your side your uncle is pretty safe to live again." Then he turned to the Woozy and said: "I'm afraid you are not important enough to be introduced to the Sawhorse, after all." [Illustration] "I'm a better beast than he is," retorted the Woozy, indignantly. "My eyes can flash fire, and his can't." "Is this true?" inquired the Scarecrow, turning to the Munchkin boy. "Yes," said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had set fire to the fence. "Have you any other accomplishments?" asked the Scarecrow. "I have a most terrible growl--that is, _sometimes_," said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl's laugh made the Scarecrow forget all about the Woozy. He said to her: "What an admirable young lady you are, and what jolly good company! We must be better acquainted, for never before have I met a girl with such exquisite coloring or such natural, artless manners." "No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow," replied Scraps. "When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see you again," continued the Scarecrow. "Just now I am going to call upon an old friend--an ordinary young lady named Jinjur--who has promised to repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and faded, which affects my hearing on that side. Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn." "When do you expect to return to the Emerald City?" asked the Shaggy Man. "I'll be there this evening, for I'm anxious to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it, Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?" "Anything that suits you suits me," returned the wooden horse. So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse darted away so swiftly that they were out of sight in an instant. [Illustration] [Illustration] OJO BREAKS THE LAW CHAP. 14 [Illustration] "What a queer man," remarked the Munchkin boy, when the party had resumed its journey. "And so nice and polite," added Scraps, bobbing her head. "I think he is the handsomest man I've seen since I came to life." "Handsome is as handsome does," quoted the Shaggy Man; "but we must admit that no living scarecrow is handsomer. The chief merit of my friend is that he is a great thinker, and in Oz it is considered good policy to follow his advice." "I didn't notice any brains in his head," observed the Glass Cat. "You can't see 'em work, but they're there, all right," declared the Shaggy Man. "I hadn't much confidence in his brains myself, when first I came to Oz, for a humbug Wizard gave them to him; but I was soon convinced that the Scarecrow is really wise; and, unless his brains make him so, such wisdom is unaccountable." "Is the Wizard of Oz a humbug?" asked Ojo. "Not now. He was once, but he has reformed and now assists Glinda the Good, who is the Royal Sorceress of Oz and the only one licensed to practice magic or sorcery. Glinda has taught our old Wizard a good many clever things, so he is no longer a humbug." They walked a little while in silence and then Ojo said: "If Ozma forbids the Crooked Magician to restore Unc Nunkie to life, what shall I do?" The Shaggy Man shook his head. "In that case you can't do anything," he said. "But don't be discouraged yet. We will go to Princess Dorothy and tell her your troubles, and then we will let her talk to Ozma. Dorothy has the kindest little heart in the world, and she has been through so many troubles herself that she is sure to sympathize with you." "Is Dorothy the little girl who came here from Kansas?" asked the boy. "Yes. In Kansas she was Dorothy Gale. I used to know her there, and she brought me to the Land of Oz. But now Ozma has made her a Princess, and Dorothy's Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are here, too." Here the Shaggy Man uttered a long sigh, and then he continued: "It's a queer country, this Land of Oz; but I like it, nevertheless." "What is queer about it?" asked Scraps. "You, for instance," said he. "Did you see no girls as beautiful as I am in your own country?" she inquired. "None with the same gorgeous, variegated beauty," he confessed. "In America a girl stuffed with cotton wouldn't be alive, nor would anyone think of making a girl out of a patchwork quilt." "What a queer country America must be!" she exclaimed in great surprise. "The Scarecrow, whom you say is wise, told me I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen." "I know; and perhaps you are--from a scarecrow point of view," replied the Shaggy Man; but why he smiled as he said it Scraps could not imagine. As they drew nearer to the Emerald City the travelers were filled with admiration for the splendid scenery they beheld. Handsome houses stood on both sides of the road and each had a green lawn before it as well as a pretty flower garden. "In another hour," said the Shaggy Man, "we shall come in sight of the walls of the Royal City." He was walking ahead, with Scraps, and behind them came the Woozy and the Glass Cat. Ojo had lagged behind, for in spite of the warnings he had received the boy's eyes were fastened on the clover that bordered the road of yellow bricks and he was eager to discover if such a thing as a six-leaved clover really existed. Suddenly he stopped short and bent over to examine the ground more closely. Yes; here at last was a clover with six spreading leaves. He counted them carefully, to make sure. In an instant his heart leaped with joy, for this was one of the important things he had come for--one of the things that would restore dear Unc Nunkie to life. [Illustration] He glanced ahead and saw that none of his companions was looking back. Neither were any other people about, for it was midway between two houses. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. "I might search for weeks and weeks, and never find another six-leaved clover," he told himself, and quickly plucking the stem from the plant he placed the prized clover in his basket, covering it with the other things he carried there. Then, trying to look as if nothing had happened, he hurried forward and overtook his comrades. [Illustration] The Emerald City, which is the most splendid as well as the most beautiful city in any fairyland, is surrounded by a high, thick wall of green marble, polished smooth and set with glistening emeralds. There are four gates, one facing the Munchkin Country, one facing the Country of the Winkies, one facing the Country of the Quadlings and one facing the Country of the Gillikins. The Emerald City lies directly in the center of these four important countries of Oz. The gates had bars of pure gold, and on either side of each gateway were built high towers, from which floated gay banners. Other towers were set at distances along the walls, which were broad enough for four people to walk abreast upon. This enclosure, all green and gold and glittering with precious gems, was indeed a wonderful sight to greet our travelers, who first observed it from the top of a little hill; but beyond the wall was the vast city it surrounded, and hundreds of jeweled spires, domes and minarets, flaunting flags and banners, reared their crests far above the towers of the gateways. In the center of the city our friends could see the tops of many magnificent trees, some nearly as tall as the spires of the buildings, and the Shaggy Man told them that these trees were in the royal gardens of Princess Ozma. They stood a long time on the hilltop, feasting their eyes on the splendor of the Emerald City. "Whee!" exclaimed Scraps, clasping her padded hands in ecstacy, "that'll do for me to live in, all right. No more of the Munchkin Country for these patches--and no more of the Crooked Magician!" "Why, you belong to Dr. Pipt," replied Ojo, looking at her in amazement. "You were made for a servant, Scraps, so you are personal property and not your own mistress." "Bother Dr. Pipt! If he wants me, let him come here and get me. I'll not go back to his den of my own accord; that's certain. Only one place in the Land of Oz is fit to live in, and that's the Emerald City. It's lovely! It's almost as beautiful as I am, Ojo." "In this country," remarked the Shaggy Man, "people live wherever our Ruler tells them to. It wouldn't do to have everyone live in the Emerald City, you know, for some must plow the land and raise grains and fruits and vegetables, while others chop wood in the forests, or fish in the rivers, or herd the sheep and the cattle." "Poor things!" said Scraps. "I'm not sure they are not happier than the city people," replied the Shaggy Man. "There's a freedom and independence in country life that not even the Emerald City can give one. I know that lots of the city people would like to get back to the land. The Scarecrow lives in the country, and so do the Tin Woodman and Jack Pumpkinhead; yet all three would be welcome to live in Ozma's palace if they cared to. Too much splendor becomes tiresome, you know. But, if we're to reach the Emerald City before sundown, we must hurry, for it is yet a long way off." The entrancing sight of the city had put new energy into them all and they hurried forward with lighter steps than before. There was much to interest them along the roadway, for the houses were now set more closely together and they met a good many people who were coming or going from one place or another. All these seemed happy-faced, pleasant people, who nodded graciously to the strangers as they passed, and exchanged words of greeting. At last they reached the great gateway, just as the sun was setting and adding its red glow to the glitter of the emeralds on the green walls and spires. Somewhere inside the city a band could be heard playing sweet music; a soft, subdued hum, as of many voices, reached their ears; from the neighboring yards came the low mooing of cows waiting to be milked. They were almost at the gate when the golden bars slid back and a tall soldier stepped out and faced them. Ojo thought he had never seen so tall a man before. The soldier wore a handsome green and gold uniform, with a tall hat in which was a waving plume, and he had a belt thickly encrusted with jewels. But the most peculiar thing about him was his long green beard, which fell far below his waist and perhaps made him seem taller than he really was. "Halt!" said the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, not in a stern voice but rather in a friendly tone. They halted before he spoke and stood looking at him. "Good evening, Colonel," said the Shaggy Man. "What's the news since I left? Anything important?" "Billina has hatched out thirteen new chickens," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, "and they're the cutest little fluffy yellow balls you ever saw. The Yellow Hen is mighty proud of those children, I can tell you." "She has a right to be," agreed the Shaggy Man. "Let me see; that's about seven thousand chicks she has hatched out; isn't it, General?" "That, at least," was the reply. "You will have to visit Billina and congratulate her." "It will give me pleasure to do that," said the Shaggy Man. "But you will observe that I have brought some strangers home with me. I am going to take them to see Dorothy." "One moment, please," said the soldier, barring their way as they started to enter the gate. "I am on duty, and I have orders to execute. Is anyone in your party named Ojo the Unlucky?" "Why, that's me!" cried Ojo, astonished at hearing his name on the lips of a stranger. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers nodded. "I thought so," said he, "and I am sorry to announce that it is my painful duty to arrest you." "Arrest me!" exclaimed the boy. "What for?" "I haven't looked to see," answered the soldier. Then he drew a paper from his breast pocket and glanced at it. "Oh, yes; you are to be arrested for wilfully breaking one of the Laws of Oz." "Breaking a law!" said Scraps. "Nonsense, Soldier; you're joking." "Not this time," returned the soldier, with a sigh. "My dear child--what are you, a rummage sale or a guess-me-quick?--in me you behold the Body-Guard of our gracious Ruler, Princess Ozma, as well as the Royal Army of Oz and the Police Force of the Emerald City." "And only one man!" exclaimed the Patchwork Girl. [Illustration] "Only one, and plenty enough. In my official positions I've had nothing to do for a good many years--so long that I began to fear I was absolutely useless--until to-day. An hour ago I was called to the presence of her Highness, Ozma of Oz, and told to arrest a boy named Ojo the Unlucky, who was journeying from the Munchkin Country to the Emerald City and would arrive in a short time. This command so astonished me that I nearly fainted, for it is the first time anyone has merited arrest since I can remember. You are rightly named Ojo the Unlucky, my poor boy, since you have broken a Law of Oz." "But you are wrong," said Scraps. "Ozma is wrong--you are all wrong--for Ojo has broken no Law." [Illustration] "Then he will soon be free again," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Anyone accused of crime is given a fair trial by our Ruler and has every chance to prove his innocence. But just now Ozma's orders must be obeyed." With this he took from his pocket a pair of handcuffs made of gold and set with rubies and diamonds, and these he snapped over Ojo's wrists. [Illustration] OZMA'S PRISONER CHAP. 15 [Illustration] The boy was so bewildered by this calamity that he made no resistance at all. He knew very well he was guilty, but it surprised him that Ozma also knew it. He wondered how she had found out so soon that he had picked the six-leaved clover. He handed his basket to Scraps and said: "Keep that, until I get out of prison. If I never get out, take it to the Crooked Magician, to whom it belongs." The Shaggy Man had been gazing earnestly in the boy's face, uncertain whether to defend him or not; but something he read in Ojo's expression made him draw back and refuse to interfere to save him. The Shaggy Man was greatly surprised and grieved, but he knew that Ozma never made mistakes and so Ojo must really have broken the Law of Oz. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers now led them all through the gate and into a little room built in the wall. Here sat a jolly little man, richly dressed in green and having around his neck a heavy gold chain to which a number of great golden keys were attached. This was the Guardian of the Gate and at the moment they entered his room he was playing a tune upon a mouth-organ. "Listen!" he said, holding up his hand for silence. "I've just composed a tune called 'The Speckled Alligator.' It's in patch-time, which is much superior to rag-time, and I've composed it in honor of the Patchwork Girl, who has just arrived." "How did you know I had arrived?" asked Scraps, much interested. "It's my business to know who's coming, for I'm the Guardian of the Gate. Keep quiet while I play you 'The Speckled Alligator.'" It wasn't a very bad tune, nor a very good one, but all listened respectfully while he shut his eyes and swayed his head from side to side and blew the notes from the little instrument. When it was all over the Soldier with the Green Whiskers said: "Guardian, I have here a prisoner." "Good gracious! A prisoner?" cried the little man, jumping up from his chair. "Which one? Not the Shaggy Man?" "No; this boy." "Ah; I hope his fault is as small as himself," said the Guardian of the Gate. "But what can he have done, and what made him do it?" "Can't say," replied the soldier. "All I know is that he has broken the Law." "But no one ever does that!" "Then he must be innocent, and soon will be released. I hope you are right, Guardian. Just now I am ordered to take him to prison. Get me a prisoner's robe from your Official Wardrobe." [Illustration] The Guardian unlocked a closet and took from it a white robe, which the soldier threw over Ojo. It covered him from head to foot, but had two holes just in front of his eyes, so he could see where to go. In this attire the boy presented a very quaint appearance. As the Guardian unlocked a gate leading from his room into the streets of the Emerald City, the Shaggy Man said to Scraps: "I think I shall take you directly to Dorothy, as the Scarecrow advised, and the Glass Cat and the Woozy may come with us. Ojo must go to prison with the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, but he will be well treated and you need not worry about him." "What will they do with him?" asked Scraps. "That I cannot tell. Since I came to the Land of Oz no one has ever been arrested or imprisoned--until Ojo broke the Law." "Seems to me that girl Ruler of yours is making a big fuss over nothing," remarked Scraps, tossing her yarn hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her patched head. "I don't know what Ojo has done, but it couldn't be anything very bad, for you and I were with him all the time." The Shaggy Man made no reply to this speech and presently the Patchwork Girl forgot all about Ojo in her admiration of the wonderful city she had entered. They soon separated from the Munchkin boy, who was led by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers down a side street toward the prison. Ojo felt very miserable and greatly ashamed of himself, but he was beginning to grow angry because he was treated in such a disgraceful manner. Instead of entering the splendid Emerald City as a respectable traveler who was entitled to a welcome and to hospitality, he was being brought in as a criminal, handcuffed and in a robe that told all he met of his deep disgrace. Ojo was by nature gentle and affectionate and if he had disobeyed the Law of Oz it was to restore his dear Unc Nunkie to life. His fault was more thoughtless than wicked, but that did not alter the fact that he had committed a fault. At first he had felt sorrow and remorse, but the more he thought about the unjust treatment he had received--unjust merely because he considered it so--the more he resented his arrest, blaming Ozma for making foolish laws and then punishing folks who broke them. Only a six-leaved clover! A tiny green plant growing neglected and trampled under foot. What harm could there be in picking it? Ojo began to think Ozma must be a very bad and oppressive Ruler for such a lovely fairyland as Oz. The Shaggy Man said the people loved her; but how could they? The little Munchkin boy was so busy thinking these things--which many guilty prisoners have thought before him--that he scarcely noticed all the splendor of the city streets through which they passed. Whenever they met any of the happy, smiling people, the boy turned his head away in shame, although none knew who was beneath the robe. By and by they reached a house built just beside the great city wall, but in a quiet, retired place. It was a pretty house, neatly painted and with many windows. Before it was a garden filled with blooming flowers. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers led Ojo up the gravel path to the front door, on which he knocked. A woman opened the door and, seeing Ojo in his white robe, exclaimed: "Goodness me! A prisoner at last. But what a small one, Soldier." "The size doesn't matter, Tollydiggle, my dear. The fact remains that he is a prisoner," said the soldier. "And, this being the prison, and you the jailer, it is my duty to place the prisoner in your charge." "True. Come in, then, and I'll give you a receipt for him." They entered the house and passed through a hall to a large circular room, where the woman pulled the robe off from Ojo and looked at him with kindly interest. The boy, on his part, was gazing around him in amazement, for never had he dreamed of such a magnificent apartment as this in which he stood. The roof of the dome was of colored glass, worked into beautiful designs. The walls were paneled with plates of gold decorated with gems of great size and many colors, and upon the tiled floor were soft rugs delightful to walk upon. The furniture was framed in gold and upholstered in satin brocade and it consisted of easy chairs, divans and stools in great variety. Also there were several tables with mirror tops and cabinets filled with rare and curious things. In one place a case filled with books stood against the wall, and elsewhere Ojo saw a cupboard containing all sorts of games. "May I stay here a little while before I go to prison?" asked the boy, pleadingly. "Why, this is your prison," replied Tollydiggle, "and in me behold your jailor. Take off those handcuffs, Soldier, for it is impossible for anyone to escape from this house." "I know that very well," replied the soldier and at once unlocked the handcuffs and released the prisoner. The woman touched a button on the wall and lighted a big chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling, for it was growing dark outside. Then she seated herself at a desk and asked: "What name?" "Ojo the Unlucky," answered the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Unlucky? Ah, that accounts for it," said she. "What crime?" "Breaking a Law of Oz." "All right. There's your receipt, Soldier; and now I'm responsible for the prisoner. I'm glad of it, for this is the first time I've ever had anything to do, in my official capacity," remarked the jailer, in a pleased tone. "It's the same with me, Tollydiggle," laughed the soldier. "But my task is finished and I must go and report to Ozma that I've done my duty like a faithful Police Force, a loyal Army and an honest Body-Guard--as I hope I am." Saying this, he nodded farewell to Tollydiggle and Ojo and went away. "Now, then," said the woman briskly, "I must get you some supper, for you are doubtless hungry. What would you prefer: planked whitefish, omelet with jelly or mutton-chops with gravy?" Ojo thought about it. Then he said: "I'll take the chops, if you please." "Very well; amuse yourself while I'm gone; I won't be long," and then she went out by a door and left the prisoner alone. Ojo was much astonished, for not only was this unlike any prison he had ever heard of, but he was being treated more as a guest than a criminal. There were many windows and they had no locks. There were three doors to the room and none were bolted. He cautiously opened one of the doors and found it led into a hallway. But he had no intention of trying to escape. If his jailor was willing to trust him in this way he would not betray her trust, and moreover a hot supper was being prepared for him and his prison was very pleasant and comfortable. So he took a book from the case and sat down in a big chair to look at the pictures. This amused him until the woman came in with a large tray and spread a cloth on one of the tables. Then she arranged his supper, which proved the most varied and delicious meal Ojo had ever eaten in his life. Tollydiggle sat near him while he ate, sewing on some fancy work she held in her lap. When he had finished she cleared the table and then read to him a story from one of the books. [Illustration] "Is this really a prison?" he asked, when she had finished reading. "Indeed it is," she replied. "It is the only prison in the Land of Oz." "And am I a prisoner?" "Bless the child! Of course." "Then why is the prison so fine, and why are you so kind to me?" he earnestly asked. Tollydiggle seemed surprised by the question, but she presently answered: "We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways--because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners." Ojo thought this over very carefully. "I had an idea," said he, "that prisoners were always treated harshly, to punish them." "That would be dreadful!" cried Tollydiggle. "Isn't one punished enough in knowing he has done wrong? Don't you wish, Ojo, with all your heart, that you had not been disobedient and broken a Law of Oz?" "I--I hate to be different from other people," he admitted. "Yes; one likes to be respected as highly as his neighbors are," said the woman. "When you are tried and found guilty, you will be obliged to make amends, in some way. I don't know just what Ozma will do to you, because this is the first time one of us has broken a Law; but you may be sure she will be just and merciful. Here in the Emerald City people are too happy and contented ever to do wrong; but perhaps you came from some faraway corner of our land, and having no love for Ozma carelessly broke one of her Laws." "Yes," said Ojo, "I've lived all my life in the heart of a lonely forest, where I saw no one but dear Unc Nunkie." "I thought so," said Tollydiggle. "But now we have talked enough, so let us play a game until bedtime." [Illustration] [Illustration] PRINCESS DOROTHY CHAP. 16 [Illustration] Dorothy Gale was sitting in one of her rooms in the royal palace, while curled up at her feet was a little black dog with a shaggy coat and very bright eyes. She wore a plain white frock, without any jewels or other ornaments except an emerald-green hair-ribbon, for Dorothy was a simple little girl and had not been in the least spoiled by the magnificence surrounding her. Once the child had lived on the Kansas prairies, but she seemed marked for adventure, for she had made several trips to the Land of Oz before she came to live there for good. Her very best friend was the beautiful Ozma of Oz, who loved Dorothy so well that she kept her in her own palace, so as to be near her. The girl's Uncle Henry and Aunt Em--the only relatives she had in the world--had also been brought here by Ozma and given a pleasant home. Dorothy knew almost everybody in Oz, and it was she who had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, as well as Tik-tok the Clockwork Man. Her life was very pleasant now, and although she had been made a Princess of Oz by her friend Ozma she did not care much to be a Princess and remained as sweet as when she had been plain Dorothy Gale of Kansas. Dorothy was reading in a book this evening when Jellia Jamb, the favorite servant-maid of the palace, came to say that the Shaggy Man wanted to see her. "All right," said Dorothy; "tell him to come right up." "But he has some queer creatures with him--some of the queerest I've ever laid eyes on," reported Jellia. "Never mind; let 'em all come up," replied Dorothy. But when the door opened to admit not only the Shaggy Man, but Scraps, the Woozy and the Glass Cat, Dorothy jumped up and looked at her strange visitors in amazement. The Patchwork Girl was the most curious of all and Dorothy was uncertain at first whether Scraps was really alive or only a dream or a nightmare. Toto, her dog, slowly uncurled himself and going to the Patchwork Girl sniffed at her inquiringly; but soon he lay down again, as if to say he had no interest in such an irregular creation. "You're a new one to me," Dorothy said reflectively, addressing the Patchwork Girl. "I can't imagine where you've come from." "Who, me?" asked Scraps, looking around the pretty room instead of at the girl. "Oh, I came from a bed-quilt, I guess. That's what they say, anyhow. Some call it a crazy-quilt and some a patchwork quilt. But my name is Scraps--and now you know all about me." [Illustration] "Not quite all," returned Dorothy with a smile. "I wish you'd tell me how you came to be alive." "That's an easy job," said Scraps, sitting upon a big upholstered chair and making the springs bounce her up and down. "Margolotte wanted a slave, so she made me out of an old bed-quilt she didn't use. Cotton stuffing, suspender-button eyes, red velvet tongue, pearl beads for teeth. The Crooked Magician made a Powder of Life, sprinkled me with it and--here I am. Perhaps you've noticed my different colors. A very refined and educated gentleman named the Scarecrow, whom I met, told me I am the most beautiful creature in all Oz, and I believe it." "Oh! Have you met our Scarecrow, then?" asked Dorothy, a little puzzled to understand the brief history related. "Yes; isn't he jolly?" "The Scarecrow has many good qualities," replied Dorothy. "But I'm sorry to hear all this 'bout the Crooked Magician. Ozma'll be mad as hops when she hears he's been doing magic again. She told him not to." "He only practices magic for the benefit of his own family," explained Bungle, who was keeping at a respectful distance from the little black dog. "Dear me," said Dorothy; "I hadn't noticed you before. Are you glass, or what?" "I'm glass, and transparent, too, which is more than can be said of some folks," answered the cat. "Also I have some lovely pink brains; you can see 'em work." "Oh; is that so? Come over here and let me see." The Glass Cat hesitated, eyeing the dog. "Send that beast away and I will," she said. "Beast! Why, that's my dog Toto, an' he's the kindest dog in all the world. Toto knows a good many things, too; 'most as much as I do, I guess." "Why doesn't he say anything?" asked Bungle. "He can't talk, not being a fairy dog," explained Dorothy. "He's just a common United States dog; but that's a good deal; and I understand him, and he understands me, just as well as if he could talk." Toto, at this, got up and rubbed his head softly against Dorothy's hand, which she held out to him, and he looked up into her face as if he had understood every word she had said. "This cat, Toto," she said to him, "is made of glass, so you mustn't bother it, or chase it, any more than you do my Pink Kitten. It's prob'ly brittle and might break if it bumped against anything." "Woof!" said Toto, and that meant he understood. The Glass Cat was so proud of her pink brains that she ventured to come close to Dorothy, in order that the girl might "see 'em work." This was really interesting, but when Dorothy patted the cat she found the glass cold and hard and unresponsive, so she decided at once that Bungle would never do for a pet. "What do you know about the Crooked Magician who lives on the mountain?" asked Dorothy. "He made me," replied the cat; "so I know all about him. The Patchwork Girl is new--three or four days old--but I've lived with Dr. Pipt for years; and, though I don't much care for him, I will say that he has always refused to work magic for any of the people who come to his house. He thinks there's no harm in doing magic things for his own family, and he made me out of glass because the meat cats drink too much milk. He also made Scraps come to life so she could do the housework for his wife Margolotte." "Then why did you both leave him?" asked Dorothy. "I think you'd better let me explain that," interrupted the Shaggy Man, and then he told Dorothy all of Ojo's story, and how Unc Nunkie and Margolotte had accidentally been turned to marble by the Liquid of Petrifaction. Then he related how the boy had started out in search of the things needed to make the magic charm, which would restore the unfortunates to life, and how he had found the Woozy and taken him along because he could not pull the three hairs out of its tail. Dorothy listened to all this with much interest, and thought that so far Ojo had acted very well. But when the Shaggy Man told her of the Munchkin boy's arrest by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, because he was accused of wilfully breaking a Law of Oz, the little girl was greatly shocked. "What do you s'pose he's done?" she asked. "I fear he has picked a six-leaved clover," answered the Shaggy Man, sadly. "I did not see him do it, and I warned him that to do so was against the Law; but perhaps that is what he did, nevertheless." "I'm sorry 'bout that," said Dorothy gravely, "for now there will be no one to help his poor uncle and Margolotte--'cept this Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat." "Don't mention it," said Scraps. "That's no affair of mine. Margolotte and Unc Nunkie are perfect strangers to me, for the moment I came to life they came to marble." "I see," remarked Dorothy with a sigh of regret; "the woman forgot to give you a heart." "I'm glad she did," retorted the Patchwork Girl. "A heart must be a great annoyance to one. It makes a person feel sad or sorry or devoted or sympathetic--all of which sensations interfere with one's happiness." "I have a heart," murmured the Glass Cat. "It's made of a ruby; but I don't imagine I shall let it bother me about helping Unc Nunkie and Margolotte." "That's a pretty hard heart of yours," said Dorothy. "And the Woozy, of course--" "Why, as for me," observed the Woozy, who was reclining on the floor with his legs doubled under him, so that he looked much like a square box, "I have never seen those unfortunate people you are speaking of, and yet I am sorry for them, having at times been unfortunate myself. When I was shut up in that forest I longed for some one to help me, and by and by Ojo came and did help me. So I'm willing to help his uncle. I'm only a stupid beast, Dorothy, but I can't help that, and if you'll tell me what to do to help Ojo and his uncle, I'll gladly do it." Dorothy walked over and patted the Woozy on his square head. "You're not pretty," she said, "but I like you. What are you able to do; anything 'special?" "I can make my eyes flash fire--real fire--when I'm angry. When anyone says: 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me I get angry, and then my eyes flash fire." "I don't see as fireworks could help Ojo's uncle," remarked Dorothy. "Can you do anything else?" "I--I thought I had a very terrifying growl," said the Woozy, with hesitation; "but perhaps I was mistaken." "Yes," said the Shaggy Man, "you were certainly wrong about that." Then he turned to Dorothy and added: "What will become of the Munchkin boy?" "I don't know," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "Ozma will see him 'bout it, of course, and then she'll punish him. But how, I don't know, 'cause no one ever has been punished in Oz since I knew anything about the place. Too bad, Shaggy Man, isn't it?" While they were talking Scraps had been roaming around the room and looking at all the pretty things it contained. She had carried Ojo's basket in her hand, until now, when she decided to see what was inside it. She found the bread and cheese, which she had no use for, and the bundle of charms, which were curious but quite a mystery to her. Then, turning these over, she came upon the six-leaved clover which the boy had plucked. [Illustration] Scraps was quick-witted, and although she had no heart she recognized the fact that Ojo was her first friend. She knew at once that because the boy had taken the clover he had been imprisoned, and she understood that Ojo had given her the basket so they would not find the clover in his possession and have proof of his crime. So, turning her head to see that no one noticed her, she took the clover from the basket and dropped it into a golden vase that stood on Dorothy's table. Then she came forward and said to Dorothy: "I wouldn't care to help Ojo's uncle, but I will help Ojo. He did not break the Law--no one can prove he did--and that green-whiskered soldier had no right to arrest him." "Ozma ordered the boy's arrest," said Dorothy, "and of course she knew what she was doing. But if you can prove Ojo is innocent they will set him free at once." "They'll have to prove him guilty, won't they?" asked Scraps. "I s'pose so." "Well, they can't do that," declared the Patchwork Girl. As it was nearly time for Dorothy to dine with Ozma, which she did every evening, she rang for a servant and ordered the Woozy taken to a nice room and given plenty of such food as he liked best. "That's honey-bees," said the Woozy. "You can't eat honey-bees, but you'll be given something just as nice," Dorothy told him. Then she had the Glass Cat taken to another room for the night and the Patchwork Girl she kept in one of her own rooms, for she was much interested in the strange creature and wanted to talk with her again and try to understand her better. [Illustration] [Illustration] OZMA AND HER FRIENDS CHAP. 17 [Illustration] The Shaggy Man had a room of his own in the royal palace, so there he went to change his shaggy suit of clothes for another just as shaggy but not so dusty from travel. He selected a costume of pea-green and pink satin and velvet, with embroidered shags on all the edges and iridescent pearls for ornaments. Then he bathed in an alabaster pool and brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers the wrong way to make them still more shaggy. This accomplished, and arrayed in his splendid shaggy garments, he went to Ozma's banquet hall and found the Scarecrow, the Wizard and Dorothy already assembled there. The Scarecrow had made a quick trip and returned to the Emerald City with his left ear freshly painted. A moment later, while they all stood in waiting, a servant threw open a door, the orchestra struck up a tune and Ozma of Oz entered. Much has been told and written concerning the beauty of person and character of this sweet girl Ruler of the Land of Oz--the richest, the happiest and most delightful fairyland of which we have any knowledge. Yet with all her queenly qualities Ozma was a real girl and enjoyed the things in life that other real girls enjoy. When she sat on her splendid emerald throne in the great Throne Room of her palace and made laws and settled disputes and tried to keep all her subjects happy and contented, she was as dignified and demure as any queen might be; but when she had thrown aside her jeweled robe of state and her sceptre, and had retired to her private apartments, the girl--joyous, light-hearted and free--replaced the sedate Ruler. In the banquet hall to-night were gathered only old and trusted friends, so here Ozma was herself--a mere girl. She greeted Dorothy with a kiss, the Shaggy Man with a smile, the little old Wizard with a friendly handshake and then she pressed the Scarecrow's stuffed arm and cried merrily: "What a lovely left ear! Why, it's a hundred times better than the old one." "I'm glad you like it," replied the Scarecrow, well pleased. "Jinjur did a neat job, didn't she? And my hearing is now perfect. Isn't it wonderful what a little paint will do, if it's properly applied?" "It really _is_ wonderful," she agreed, as they all took their seats; "but the Sawhorse must have made his legs twinkle to have carried you so far in one day. I didn't expect you back before to-morrow, at the earliest." "Well," said the Scarecrow, "I met a charming girl on the road and wanted to see more of her, so I hurried back." Ozma laughed. "I know," she returned; "it's the Patchwork Girl. She is certainly bewildering, if not strictly beautiful." "Have you seen her, then?" the straw man eagerly asked. "Only in my Magic Picture, which shows me all scenes of interest in the Land of Oz." "I fear the picture didn't do her justice," said the Scarecrow. "It seemed to me that nothing could be more gorgeous," declared Ozma. "Whoever made that patchwork quilt, from which Scraps was formed, must have selected the gayest and brightest bits of cloth that ever were woven." "I am glad you like her," said the Scarecrow in a satisfied tone. Although the straw man did not eat, not being made so he could, he often dined with Ozma and her companions, merely for the pleasure of talking with them. He sat at the table and had a napkin and plate, but the servants knew better than to offer him food. After a little while he asked: "Where is the Patchwork Girl now?" "In my room," replied Dorothy. "I've taken a fancy to her; she's so queer and--and--uncommon." "She's half crazy, I think," added the Shaggy Man. "But she is so beautiful!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, as if that fact disarmed all criticism. They all laughed at his enthusiasm, but the Scarecrow was quite serious. Seeing that he was interested in Scraps they forbore to say anything against her. The little band of friends Ozma had gathered around her was so quaintly assorted that much care must be exercised to avoid hurting their feelings or making any one of them unhappy. It was this considerate kindness that held them close friends and enabled them to enjoy one another's society. [Illustration] Another thing they avoided was conversing on unpleasant subjects, and for that reason Ojo and his troubles were not mentioned during the dinner. The Shaggy Man, however, related his adventures with the monstrous plants which had seized and enfolded the travelers, and told how he had robbed Chiss, the giant porcupine, of the quills which it was accustomed to throw at people. Both Dorothy and Ozma were pleased with this exploit and thought it served Chiss right. Then they talked of the Woozy, which was the most remarkable animal any of them had ever before seen--except, perhaps, the live Sawhorse. Ozma had never known that her dominions contained such a thing as a Woozy, there being but one in existence and this being confined in his forest for many years. Dorothy said she believed the Woozy was a good beast, honest and faithful; but she added that she did not care much for the Glass Cat. "Still," said the Shaggy Man, "the Glass Cat is very pretty and if she were not so conceited over her pink brains no one would object to her as a companion." The Wizard had been eating silently until now, when he looked up and remarked: "That Powder of Life which is made by the Crooked Magician is really a wonderful thing. But Dr. Pipt does not know its true value and he uses it in the most foolish ways." "I must see about that," said Ozma, gravely. Then she smiled again and continued in a lighter tone: "It was Dr. Pipt's famous Powder of Life that enabled me to become the Ruler of Oz." "I've never heard that story," said the Shaggy Man, looking at Ozma questioningly. "Well, when I was a baby girl I was stolen by an old Witch named Mombi and transformed into a boy," began the girl Ruler. "I did not know who I was and when I grew big enough to work, the Witch made me wait upon her and carry wood for the fire and hoe in the garden. One day she came back from a journey bringing some of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt had given her. I had made a pumpkin-headed man and set it up in her path to frighten her, for I was fond of fun and hated the Witch. But she knew what the figure was and to test her Powder of Life she sprinkled some of it on the man I had made. It came to life and is now our dear friend Jack Pumpkinhead. That night I ran away with Jack to escape punishment, and I took old Mombi's Powder of Life with me. During our journey we came upon a wooden Sawhorse standing by the road and I used the magic powder to bring it to life. The Sawhorse has been with me ever since. When I got to the Emerald City the good Sorceress, Glinda, knew who I was and restored me to my proper person, when I became the rightful Ruler of this land. So you see had not old Mombi brought home the Powder of Life I might never have run away from her and become Ozma of Oz, nor would we have had Jack Pumpkinhead and the Sawhorse to comfort and amuse us." That story interested the Shaggy Man very much, as well as the others, who had often heard it before. The dinner being now concluded, they all went to Ozma's drawing-room, where they passed a pleasant evening before it came time to retire. [Illustration: GLINDA] [Illustration] OJO IS FORGIVEN CHAP. 18 [Illustration] The next morning the Soldier with the Green Whiskers went to the prison and took Ojo away to the royal palace, where he was summoned to appear before the girl Ruler for judgment. Again the soldier put upon the boy the jeweled handcuffs and white prisoner's robe with the peaked top and holes for the eyes. Ojo was so ashamed, both of his disgrace and the fault he had committed, that he was glad to be covered up in this way, so that people could not see him or know who he was. He followed the Soldier with the Green Whiskers very willingly, anxious that his fate might be decided as soon as possible. The inhabitants of the Emerald City were polite people and never jeered at the unfortunate; but it was so long since they had seen a prisoner that they cast many curious looks toward the boy and many of them hurried away to the royal palace to be present during the trial. When Ojo was escorted into the great Throne Room of the palace he found hundreds of people assembled there. In the magnificent emerald throne, which sparkled with countless jewels, sat Ozma of Oz in her Robe of State, which was embroidered with emeralds and pearls. On her right, but a little lower, was Dorothy, and on her left the Scarecrow. Still lower, but nearly in front of Ozma, sat the wonderful Wizard of Oz and on a small table beside him was the golden vase from Dorothy's room, into which Scraps had dropped the stolen clover. At Ozma's feet crouched two enormous beasts, each the largest and most powerful of its kind. Although these beasts were quite free, no one present was alarmed by them; for the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were well known and respected in the Emerald City and they always guarded the Ruler when she held high court in the Throne Room. There was still another beast present, but this one Dorothy held in her arms, for it was her constant companion, the little dog Toto. Toto knew the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger and often played and romped with them, for they were good friends. Seated on ivory chairs before Ozma, with a clear space between them and the throne, were many of the nobility of the Emerald City, lords and ladies in beautiful costumes, and officials of the kingdom in the royal uniforms of Oz. Behind these courtiers were others of less importance, filling the great hall to the very doors. At the same moment that the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived with Ojo, the Shaggy Man entered from a side door, escorting the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat. All these came to the vacant space before the throne and stood facing the Ruler. "Hullo, Ojo," said Scraps; "how are you?" "All right," he replied; but the scene awed the boy and his voice trembled a little with fear. Nothing could awe the Patchwork Girl, and although the Woozy was somewhat uneasy in these splendid surroundings the Glass Cat was delighted with the sumptuousness of the court and the impressiveness of the occasion--pretty big words but quite expressive. At a sign from Ozma the soldier removed Ojo's white robe and the boy stood face to face with the girl who was to decide his punishment. He saw at a glance how lovely and sweet she was, and his heart gave a bound of joy, for he hoped she would be merciful. Ozma sat looking at the prisoner a long time. Then she said gently: "One of the Laws of Oz forbids anyone to pick a six-leaved clover. You are accused of having broken this Law, even after you had been warned not to do so." [Illustration: "_I demand that you set this poor Munchkin Boy free_"] Ojo hung his head and while he hesitated how to reply the Patchwork Girl stepped forward and spoke for him. "All this fuss is about nothing at all," she said, facing Ozma unabashed. "You can't prove he picked the six-leaved clover, so you've no right to accuse him of it. Search him, if you like, but you won't find the clover; look in his basket and you'll find it's not there. He hasn't got it, so I demand that you set this poor Munchkin boy free." The people of Oz listened to this defiance in amazement and wondered at the queer Patchwork Girl who dared talk so boldly to their Ruler. But Ozma sat silent and motionless and it was the little Wizard who answered Scraps. "So the clover hasn't been picked, eh?" he said. "I think it has. I think the boy hid it in his basket, and then gave the basket to you. I also think you dropped the clover into this vase, which stood in Princess Dorothy's room, hoping to get rid of it so it would not prove the boy guilty. You're a stranger here, Miss Patches, and so you don't know that nothing can be hidden from our powerful Ruler's Magic Picture--nor from the watchful eyes of the humble Wizard of Oz. Look, all of you!" With these words he waved his hands toward the vase on the table, which Scraps now noticed for the first time. From the mouth of the vase a plant sprouted, slowly growing before their eyes until it became a beautiful bush, and on the topmost branch appeared the six-leaved clover which Ojo had unfortunately picked. The Patchwork Girl looked at the clover and said: "Oh, so you've found it. Very well; prove he picked it, if you can." Ozma turned to Ojo. "Did you pick the six-leaved clover?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "I knew it was against the Law, but I wanted to save Unc Nunkie and I was afraid if I asked your consent to pick it you would refuse me." "What caused you to think that?" asked the Ruler. "Why, it seemed to me a foolish law, unjust and unreasonable. Even now I can see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover. And I--I had not seen the Emerald City, then, nor you, and I thought a girl who would make such a silly Law would not be likely to help anyone in trouble." Ozma regarded him musingly, her chin resting upon her hand; but she was not angry. On the contrary she smiled a little at her thoughts and then grew sober again. "I suppose a good many laws seem foolish to those people who do not understand them," she said; "but no law is ever made without some purpose, and that purpose is usually to protect all the people and guard their welfare. As you are a stranger, I will explain this Law which to you seems so foolish. Years ago there were many Witches and Magicians in the Land of Oz, and one of the things they often used in making their magic charms and transformations was a six-leaved clover. These Witches and Magicians caused so much trouble among my people, often using their powers for evil rather than good, that I decided to forbid anyone to practice magic or sorcery except Glinda the Good and her assistant, the Wizard of Oz, both of whom I can trust to use their arts only to benefit my people and to make them happier. Since I issued that Law the Land of Oz has been far more peaceful and quiet; but I learned that some of the Witches and Magicians were still practicing magic on the sly and using the six-leaved clovers to make their potions and charms. Therefore I made another Law forbidding anyone from plucking a six-leaved clover or from gathering other plants and herbs which the Witches boil in their kettles to work magic with. That has almost put an end to wicked sorcery in our land, so you see the Law was not a foolish one, but wise and just; and, in any event, it is wrong to disobey a Law." Ojo knew she was right and felt greatly mortified to realize he had acted and spoken so ridiculously. But he raised his head and looked Ozma in the face, saying: "I am sorry I have acted wrongly and broken your Law. I did it to save Unc Nunkie, and thought I would not be found out. But I am guilty of this act and whatever punishment you think I deserve I will suffer willingly." Ozma smiled more brightly, then, and nodded graciously. "You are forgiven," she said. "For, although you have committed a serious fault, you are now penitent and I think you have been punished enough. Soldier, release Ojo the Lucky and--" "I beg your pardon; I'm Ojo the _Un_lucky," said the boy. "At this moment you are lucky," said she. "Release him, Soldier, and let him go free." The people were glad to hear Ozma's decree and murmured their approval. As the royal audience was now over, they began to leave the Throne Room and soon there were none remaining except Ojo and his friends and Ozma and her favorites. The girl Ruler now asked Ojo to sit down and tell her all his story, which he did, beginning at the time he had left his home in the forest and ending with his arrival at the Emerald City and his arrest. Ozma listened attentively and was thoughtful for some moments after the boy had finished speaking. Then she said: "The Crooked Magician was wrong to make the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl, for it was against the Law. And if he had not unlawfully kept the bottle of Liquid of Petrifaction standing on his shelf, the accident to his wife Margolotte and to Unc Nunkie could not have occurred. I can understand, however, that Ojo, who loves his uncle, will be unhappy unless he can save him. Also I feel it is wrong to leave those two victims standing as marble statues, when they ought to be alive. So I propose we allow Dr. Pipt to make the magic charm which will save them, and that we assist Ojo to find the things he is seeking. What do you think, Wizard?" "That is perhaps the best thing to do," replied the Wizard. "But after the Crooked Magician has restored those poor people to life you must take away his magic powers." "I will," promised Ozma. "Now tell me, please, what magic things must you find?" continued the Wizard, addressing Ojo. "The three hairs from the Woozy's tail I have," said the boy. "That is, I have the Woozy, and the hairs are in his tail. The six-leaved clover I--I--" "You may take it and keep it," said Ozma. "That will not be breaking the Law, for it is already picked, and the crime of picking it is forgiven." "Thank you!" cried Ojo gratefully. Then he continued: "The next thing I must find is a gill of water from a dark well." The Wizard shook his head. "That," said he, "will be a hard task, but if you travel far enough you may discover it." "I am willing to travel for years, if it will save Unc Nunkie," declared Ojo, earnestly. "Then you'd better begin your journey at once," advised the Wizard. Dorothy had been listening with interest to this conversation. Now she turned to Ozma and asked: "May I go with Ojo, to help him?" "Would you like to?" returned Ozma. "Yes. I know Oz pretty well, but Ojo doesn't know it at all. I'm sorry for his uncle and poor Margolotte and I'd like to help save them. May I go?" "If you wish to," replied Ozma. "If Dorothy goes, then I must go to take care of her," said the Scarecrow, decidedly. "A dark well can only be discovered in some out-of-the-way place, and there may be dangers there." "You have my permission to accompany Dorothy," said Ozma. "And while you are gone I will take care of the Patchwork Girl." "I'll take care of myself," announced Scraps, "for I'm going with the Scarecrow and Dorothy. I promised Ojo to help him find the things he wants and I'll stick to my promise." "Very well," replied Ozma. "But I see no need for Ojo to take the Glass Cat and the Woozy." "I prefer to remain here," said the cat. "I've nearly been nicked half a dozen times, already, and if they're going into dangers it's best for me to keep away from them." "Let Jellia Jamb keep her till Ojo returns," suggested Dorothy. "We won't need to take the Woozy, either, but he ought to be saved because of the three hairs in his tail." "Better take me along," said the Woozy. "My eyes can flash fire, you know, and I can growl--a little." "I'm sure you'll be safer here," Ozma decided, and the Woozy made no further objection to the plan. After consulting together they decided that Ojo and his party should leave the very next day to search for the gill of water from a dark well, so they now separated to make preparations for the journey. Ozma gave the Munchkin boy a room in the palace for that night and the afternoon he passed with Dorothy--getting acquainted, as she said--and receiving advice from the Shaggy Man as to where they must go. The Shaggy Man had wandered in many parts of Oz, and so had Dorothy, for that matter, yet neither of them knew where a dark well was to be found. "If such a thing is anywhere in the settled parts of Oz," said Dorothy, "we'd prob'ly have heard of it long ago. If it's in the wild parts of the country, no one there would need a dark well. P'raps there isn't such a thing." "Oh, there must be!" returned Ojo, positively; "or else the recipe of Dr. Pipt wouldn't call for it." "That's true," agreed Dorothy; "and, if it's anywhere in the Land of Oz, we're bound to find it." "Well, we're bound to _search_ for it, anyhow," said the Scarecrow. "As for finding it, we must trust to luck." "Don't do that," begged Ojo, earnestly. "I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." [Illustration] TROUBLE WITH THE TOTTENHOTS CHAP. 19 [Illustration] A day's journey from the Emerald City brought the little band of adventurers to the home of Jack Pumpkinhead, which was a house formed from the shell of an immense pumpkin. Jack had made it himself and was very proud of it. There was a door, and several windows, and through the top was stuck a stovepipe that led from a small stove inside. The door was reached by a flight of three steps and there was a good floor on which was arranged some furniture that was quite comfortable. It is certain that Jack Pumpkinhead might have had a much finer house to live in had he wanted it, for Ozma loved the stupid fellow, who had been her earliest companion; but Jack preferred his pumpkin house, as it matched himself very well, and in this he was not so stupid, after all. The body of this remarkable person was made of wood, branches of trees of various sizes having been used for the purpose. This wooden framework was covered by a red shirt--with white spots in it--blue trousers, a yellow vest, a jacket of green-and-gold and stout leather shoes. The neck was a sharpened stick on which the pumpkin head was set, and the eyes, ears, nose and mouth were carved on the skin of the pumpkin, very like a child's jack-o'-lantern. [Illustration] The house of this interesting creation stood in the center of a vast pumpkin-field, where the vines grew in profusion and bore pumpkins of extraordinary size as well as those which were smaller. Some of the pumpkins now ripening on the vines were almost as large as Jack's house, and he told Dorothy he intended to add another pumpkin to his mansion. The travelers were cordially welcomed to this quaint domicile and invited to pass the night there, which they had planned to do. The Patchwork Girl was greatly interested in Jack and examined him admiringly. "You are quite handsome," she said; "but not as really beautiful as the Scarecrow." Jack turned, at this, to examine the Scarecrow critically, and his old friend slyly winked one painted eye at him. [Illustration] "There is no accounting for tastes," remarked the Pumpkinhead, with a sigh. "An old crow once told me I was very fascinating, but of course the bird might have been mistaken. Yet I have noticed that the crows usually avoid the Scarecrow, who is a very honest fellow, in his way, but stuffed. I am not stuffed, you will observe; my body is good solid hickory." "I adore stuffing," said the Patchwork Girl. "Well, as for that, my head is stuffed with pumpkin-seeds," declared Jack. "I use them for brains, and when they are fresh I am intellectual. Just now, I regret to say, my seeds are rattling a bit, so I must soon get another head." "Oh; do you change your head?" asked Ojo. "To be sure. Pumpkins are not permanent, more's the pity, and in time they spoil. That is why I grow such a great field of pumpkins--that I may select a new head whenever necessary." "Who carves the faces on them?" inquired the boy. "I do that myself. I lift off my old head, place it on a table before me, and use the face for a pattern to go by. Sometimes the faces I carve are better than others--more expressive and cheerful, you know--but I think they average very well." Before she had started on the journey Dorothy had packed a knapsack with the things she might need, and this knapsack the Scarecrow carried strapped to his back. The little girl wore a plain gingham dress and a checked sunbonnet, as she knew they were best fitted for travel. Ojo also had brought along his basket, to which Ozma had added a bottle of "Square Meal Tablets" and some fruit. But Jack Pumpkinhead grew a lot of things in his garden besides pumpkins, so he cooked for them a fine vegetable soup and gave Dorothy, Ojo and Toto, the only ones who found it necessary to eat, a pumpkin pie and some green cheese. For beds they must use the sweet dried grasses which Jack had strewn along one side of the room, but that satisfied Dorothy and Ojo very well. Toto, of course, slept beside his little mistress. The Scarecrow, Scraps and the Pumpkinhead were tireless and had no need to sleep, so they sat up and talked together all night; but they stayed outside the house, under the bright stars, and talked in low tones so as not to disturb the sleepers. During the conversation the Scarecrow explained their quest for a dark well, and asked Jack's advice where to find it. The Pumpkinhead considered the matter gravely. "That is going to be a difficult task," said he, "and if I were you I'd take any ordinary well and enclose it, so as to make it dark." "I fear that wouldn't do," replied the Scarecrow. "The well must be naturally dark, and the water must never have seen the light of day, for otherwise the magic charm might not work at all." "How much of the water do you need?" asked Jack. "A gill." "How much is a gill?" "Why--a gill is a gill, of course," answered the Scarecrow, who did not wish to display his ignorance. "I know!" cried Scraps. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch--" "No, no; that's wrong," interrupted the Scarecrow. "There are two kinds of gills, I think; one is a girl, and the other is--" "A gillyflower," said Jack. "No; a measure." "How big a measure?" "Well, I'll ask Dorothy." So next morning they asked Dorothy, and she said: "I don't just know how much a gill is, but I've brought along a gold flask that holds a pint. That's more than a gill, I'm sure, and the Crooked Magician may measure it to suit himself. But the thing that's bothering us most, Jack, is to find the well." Jack gazed around the landscape, for he was standing in the doorway of his house. "This is a flat country, so you won't find any dark wells here," said he. "You must go into the mountains, where rocks and caverns are." "And where is that?" asked Ojo. "In the Quadling Country, which lies south of here," replied the Scarecrow. "I've known all along that we must go to the mountains." "So have I," said Dorothy. "But--goodness me!--the Quadling Country is full of dangers," declared Jack. "I've never been there myself, but--" "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I've faced the dreadful Hammerheads, which have no arms and butt you like a goat; and I've faced the Fighting Trees, which bend down their branches to pound and whip you, and had many other adventures there." "It's a wild country," remarked Dorothy, soberly, "and if we go there we're sure to have troubles of our own. But I guess we'll have to go, if we want that gill of water from the dark well." So they said good-bye to the Pumpkinhead and resumed their travels, heading now directly toward the South Country, where mountains and rocks and caverns and forests of great trees abounded. This part of the Land of Oz, while it belonged to Ozma and owed her allegiance, was so wild and secluded that many queer peoples hid in its jungles and lived in their own way, without even a knowledge that they had a Ruler in the Emerald City. If they were left alone, these creatures never troubled the inhabitants of the rest of Oz, but those who invaded their domains encountered many dangers from them. It was a two days' journey from Jack Pumpkinhead's house to the edge of the Quadling Country, for neither Dorothy nor Ojo could walk very fast and they often stopped by the wayside to rest. The first night they slept on the broad fields, among the buttercups and daisies, and the Scarecrow covered the children with a gauze blanket taken from his knapsack, so they would not be chilled by the night air. Toward evening of the second day they reached a sandy plain where walking was difficult; but some distance before them they saw a group of palm trees, with many curious black dots under them; so they trudged bravely on to reach that place by dark and spend the night under the shelter of the trees. [Illustration] The black dots grew larger as they advanced and although the light was dim Dorothy thought they looked like big kettles turned upside down. Just beyond this place a jumble of huge, jagged rocks lay scattered, rising to the mountains behind them. Our travelers preferred to attempt to climb these rocks by daylight, and they realized that for a time this would be their last night on the plains. [Illustration] Twilight had fallen by the time they came to the trees, beneath which were the black, circular objects they had marked from a distance. Dozens of them were scattered around and Dorothy bent near to one, which was about as tall as she was, to examine it more closely. As she did so the top flew open and out popped a small creature, rising its length into the air and then plumping down upon the ground just beside the little girl. Another and another popped out of the circular, pot-like dwelling, while from all the other black objects came popping more creatures--very like jumping-jacks when their boxes are unhooked--until fully a hundred stood gathered around our little group of travelers. By this time Dorothy had discovered they were people, tiny and curiously formed, but still people. Their hair stood straight up, like wires, and was brilliant scarlet in color. Their bodies were bare except for skins fastened around their waists and they wore bracelets on their ankles and wrists, and necklaces, and great pendant earrings. Toto crouched beside his mistress and wailed as if he did not like these strange creatures a bit. Scraps began to mutter something about "hoppity, poppity, jumpity, dump!" but no one paid any attention to her. Ojo kept close to the Scarecrow and the Scarecrow kept close to Dorothy; but the little girl turned to the queer creatures and asked: "Who are you?" They answered this question all together, in a sort of chanting chorus, the words being as follows: "We're the jolly Tottenhots; We do not like the day, But in the night 'tis our delight To gambol, skip and play. "We hate the sun and from it run, The moon is cool and clear, So on this spot each Tottenhot Waits for it to appear. "We're ev'ry one chock full of fun, And full of mischief, too; But if you're gay and with us play We'll do no harm to you." "Glad to meet you, Tottenhots," said the Scarecrow solemnly. "But you mustn't expect us to play with you all night, for we've traveled all day and some of us are tired." "And we never gamble," added the Patchwork Girl. "It's against the Law." These remarks were greeted with shouts of laughter by the impish creatures and one seized the Scarecrow's arm and was astonished to find the straw man whirl around so easily. So the Tottenhot raised the Scarecrow high in the air and tossed him over the heads of the crowd. Some one caught him and tossed him back, and so with shouts of glee they continued throwing the Scarecrow here and there, as if he had been a basket-ball. Presently another imp seized Scraps and began to throw her about, in the same way. They found her a little heavier than the Scarecrow but still light enough to be tossed like a sofa-cushion, and they were enjoying the sport immensely when Dorothy, angry and indignant at the treatment her friends were receiving, rushed among the Tottenhots and began slapping and pushing them, until she had rescued the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl and held them close on either side of her. Perhaps she would not have accomplished this victory so easily had not Toto helped her, barking and snapping at the bare legs of the imps until they were glad to flee from his attack. As for Ojo, some of the creatures had attempted to toss him, also, but finding his body too heavy they threw him to the ground and a row of the imps sat on him and held him from assisting Dorothy in her battle. The little folks were much surprised at being attacked by the girl and the dog, and one or two who had been slapped hardest began to cry. Then suddenly they gave a shout, all together, and disappeared in a flash into their various houses, the tops of which closed with a series of pops that sounded like a bunch of firecrackers being exploded. The adventurers now found themselves alone, and Dorothy asked anxiously: "Is anybody hurt?" "Not me," answered the Scarecrow. "They have given my straw a good shaking up and taken all the lumps out of it. I am now in splendid condition and am really obliged to the Tottenhots for their kind treatment." "I feel much the same way," said Scraps. "My cotton stuffing had sagged a good deal with the day's walking and they've loosened it up until I feel as plump as a sausage. But the play was a little rough and I'd had quite enough of it when you interfered." [Illustration] "Six of them sat on me," said Ojo, "but as they are so little they didn't hurt me much." Just then the roof of the house in front of them opened and a Tottenhot stuck his head out, very cautiously, and looked at the strangers. "Can't you take a joke?" he asked, reproachfully; "haven't you any fun in you at all?" "If I had such a quality," replied the Scarecrow, "your people would have knocked it out of me. But I don't bear grudges. I forgive you." "So do I," added Scraps. "That is, if you behave yourselves after this." "It was just a little rough-house, that's all," said the Tottenhot. "But the question is not if _we_ will behave, but if _you_ will behave? We can't be shut up here all night, because this is our time to play; nor do we care to come out and be chewed up by a savage beast or slapped by an angry girl. That slapping hurts like sixty; some of my folks are crying about it. So here's the proposition: you let us alone and we'll let you alone." "You began it," declared Dorothy. "Well, you ended it, so we won't argue the matter. May we come out again? Or are you still cruel and slappy?" "Tell you what we'll do," said Dorothy. "We're all tired and want to sleep until morning. If you'll let us get into your house, and stay there until daylight, you can play outside all you want to." "That's a bargain!" cried the Tottenhot eagerly, and he gave a queer whistle that brought his people popping out of their houses on all sides. When the house before them was vacant, Dorothy and Ojo leaned over the hole and looked in, but could see nothing because it was so dark. But if the Tottenhots slept there all day the children thought they could sleep there at night, so Ojo lowered himself down and found it was not very deep. "There's a soft cushion all over," said he. "Come on in." Dorothy handed Toto to the boy and then climbed in herself. After her came Scraps and the Scarecrow, who did not wish to sleep but preferred to keep out of the way of the mischievous Tottenhots. There seemed no furniture in the round den, but soft cushions were strewn about the floor and these they found made very comfortable beds. They did not close the hole in the roof but left it open to admit air. It also admitted the shouts and ceaseless laughter of the impish Tottenhots as they played outside, but Dorothy and Ojo, being weary from their journey, were soon fast asleep. [Illustration] Toto kept an eye open, however, and uttered low, threatening growls whenever the racket made by the creatures outside became too boisterous; and the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl sat leaning against the wall and talked in whispers all night long. No one disturbed the travelers until daylight, when in popped the Tottenhot who owned the place and invited them to vacate his premises. [Illustration] [Illustration: LOOK OUT FOR YOOP] THE CAPTIVE YOOP CHAP. 20 [Illustration] As they were preparing to leave, Dorothy asked: "Can you tell us where there is a dark well?" "Never heard of such a thing," said the Tottenhot. "We live our lives in the dark, mostly, and sleep in the daytime; but we've never seen a dark well, or anything like one." "Does anyone live on those mountains beyond here?" asked the Scarecrow. "Lots of people. But you'd better not visit them. We never go there." was the reply. "What are the people like?" Dorothy inquired. "Can't say. We've been told to keep away from the mountain paths, and so we obey. This sandy desert is good enough for us, and we're not disturbed here," declared the Tottenhot. So they left the man snuggling down to sleep in his dusky dwelling, and went out into the sunshine, taking the path that led toward the rocky places. They soon found it hard climbing, for the rocks were uneven and full of sharp points and edges, and now there was no path at all. Clambering here and there among the boulders they kept steadily on, gradually rising higher and higher until finally they came to a great rift in a part of the mountain, where the rock seemed to have split in two and left high walls on either side. "S'pose we go this way," suggested Dorothy; "it's much easier walking than to climb over the hills." "How about that sign?" asked Ojo. "What sign?" she inquired. The Munchkin boy pointed to some words painted on the wall of rock beside them, which Dorothy had not noticed. The words read: "LOOK OUT FOR YOOP." The girl eyed this sign a moment and then turned to the Scarecrow, asking: "Who is Yoop; or what is Yoop?" The straw man shook his head. Then she looked at Toto and the dog said "Woof!" "Only way to find out is to go on," said Scraps. This being quite true, they went on. As they proceeded, the walls of rock on either side grew higher and higher. Presently they came upon another sign which read: "BEWARE THE CAPTIVE YOOP." "Why, as for that," remarked Dorothy, "if Yoop is a captive there's no need to beware of him. Whatever Yoop happens to be, I'd much rather have him a captive than running around loose." "So had I," agreed the Scarecrow, with a nod of his painted head. "Still," said Scraps, reflectively: "Yoop-te-hoop-te-loop-te-goop! Who put noodles in the soup? We may beware but we don't care, And dare go where we scare the Yoop." "Dear me! Aren't you feeling a little queer, just now?" Dorothy asked the Patchwork Girl. "Not queer, but crazy," said Ojo. "When she says those things I'm sure her brains get mixed somehow and work the wrong way." "I don't see why we are told to beware the Yoop unless he is dangerous," observed the Scarecrow in a puzzled tone. "Never mind; we'll find out all about him when we get to where he is," replied the little girl. The narrow canyon turned and twisted this way and that, and the rift was so small that they were able to touch both walls at the same time by stretching out their arms. Toto had run on ahead, frisking playfully, when suddenly he uttered a sharp bark of fear and came running back to them with his tail between his legs, as dogs do when they are frightened. "Ah," said the Scarecrow, who was leading the way, "we must be near Yoop." Just then, as he rounded a sharp turn, the straw man stopped so suddenly that all the others bumped against him. "What is it?" asked Dorothy, standing on tip-toes to look over his shoulder. But then she saw what it was and cried "Oh!" in a tone of astonishment. In one of the rock walls--that at their left--was hollowed a great cavern, in front of which was a row of thick iron bars, the tops and bottoms being firmly fixed in the solid rock. Over this cavern was a big sign, which Dorothy read with much curiosity, speaking the words aloud that all might know what they said: "MISTER YOOP--HIS CAVE The Largest Untamed Giant in Captivity. _Height, 21 Feet._--(And yet he has but 2 feet.) _Weight, 1640 Pounds._--(But he waits all the time.) _Age, 400 Years 'and Up'_ (as they say in the Department Store advertisements). _Temper, Fierce and Ferocious._--(Except when asleep.) _Appetite, Ravenous._--(Prefers Meat People and Orange Marmalade.) STRANGERS APPROACHING THIS CAVE DO SO AT THEIR OWN PERIL! _P. S.--Don't feed the Giant yourself._" [Illustration] "Very well," said Ojo, with a sigh; "let's go back." "It's a long way back," declared Dorothy. "So it is," remarked the Scarecrow, "and it means a tedious climb over those sharp rocks if we can't use this passage. I think it will be best to run by the Giant's cave as fast as we can go. Mister Yoop seems to be asleep just now." But the Giant wasn't asleep. He suddenly appeared at the front of his cavern, seized the iron bars in his great hairy hands and shook them until they rattled in their sockets. Yoop was so tall that our friends had to tip their heads way back to look into his face, and they noticed he was dressed all in pink velvet, with silver buttons and braid. The Giant's boots were of pink leather and had tassels on them and his hat was decorated with an enormous pink ostrich feather, carefully curled. "Yo-ho!" he said in a deep bass voice; "I smell dinner." "I think you are mistaken," replied the Scarecrow. "There is no orange marmalade around here." "Ah, but I eat other things," asserted Mister Yoop. "That is, I eat them when I can get them. But this is a lonely place, and no good meat has passed by my cave for many years; so I'm hungry." "Haven't you eaten anything in many years?" asked Dorothy. "Nothing except six ants and a monkey. I thought the monkey would taste like meat people, but the flavor was different. I hope you will taste better, for you seem plump and tender." "Oh, I'm not going to be eaten," said Dorothy. "Why not?" "I shall keep out of your way," she answered. "How heartless!" wailed the Giant, shaking the bars again. "Consider how many years it is since I've eaten a single plump little girl! They tell me meat is going up, but if I can manage to catch you I'm sure it will soon be going down. And I'll catch you if I can." With this the Giant pushed his big arms, which looked like tree-trunks (except that tree-trunks don't wear pink velvet) between the iron bars, and the arms were so long that they touched the opposite wall of the rock passage. Then he extended them as far as he could reach toward our travelers and found he could almost touch the Scarecrow--but not quite. "Come a little nearer, please," begged the Giant. "I'm a Scarecrow." "A Scarecrow? Ugh! I don't care a straw for a scarecrow. Who is that bright-colored delicacy behind you?" "Me?" asked Scraps. "I'm a Patchwork Girl, and I'm stuffed with cotton." "Dear me," sighed the Giant in a disappointed tone; "that reduces my dinner from four to two--and the dog. I'll save the dog for dessert." Toto growled, keeping a good distance away. "Back up," said the Scarecrow to those behind him. "Let us go back a little way and talk this over." So they turned and went around the bend in the passage, where they were out of sight of the cave and Mister Yoop could not hear them. "My idea," began the Scarecrow, when they had halted, "is to make a dash past the cave, going on a run." "He'd grab us," said Dorothy. "Well, he can't grab but one at a time, and I'll go first. As soon as he grabs me the rest of you can slip past him, out of his reach, and he will soon let me go because I am not fit to eat." They decided to try this plan and Dorothy took Toto in her arms, so as to protect him. She followed just after the Scarecrow. Then came Ojo, with Scraps the last of the four. Their hearts beat a little faster than usual as they again approached the Giant's cave, this time moving swiftly forward. It turned out about the way the Scarecrow had planned. Mister Yoop was quite astonished to see them come flying toward him, and thrusting his arms between the bars he seized the Scarecrow in a firm grip. In the next instant he realized, from the way the straw crunched between his fingers, that he had captured the non-eatable man, but during that instant of delay Dorothy and Ojo had slipped by the Giant and were out of reach. Uttering a howl of rage the monster threw the Scarecrow after them with one hand and grabbed Scraps with the other. The poor Scarecrow went whirling through the air and so cleverly was he aimed that he struck Ojo's back and sent the boy tumbling head over heels, and he tripped Dorothy and sent her, also, sprawling upon the ground. Toto flew out of the little girl's arms and landed some distance ahead, and all were so dazed that it was a moment before they could scramble to their feet again. When they did so they turned to look toward the Giant's cave, and at that moment the ferocious Mister Yoop threw the Patchwork Girl at them. Down went all three again, in a heap, with Scraps on top. The Giant roared so terribly that for a time they were afraid he had broken loose; but he hadn't. So they sat in the road and looked at one another in a rather bewildered way, and then began to feel glad. "We did it!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, with satisfaction. "And now we are free to go on our way." "Mister Yoop is very impolite," declared Scraps. "He jarred me terribly. It's lucky my stitches are so fine and strong, for otherwise such harsh treatment might rip me up the back." "Allow me to apologize for the Giant," said the Scarecrow, raising the Patchwork Girl to her feet and dusting her skirt with his stuffed hands. "Mister Yoop is a perfect stranger to me, but I fear, from the rude manner in which he has acted, that he is no gentleman." Dorothy and Ojo laughed at this statement and Toto barked as if he understood the joke, after which they all felt better and resumed the journey in high spirits. "Of course," said the little girl, when they had walked a way along the passage, "it was lucky for us the Giant was caged; for, if he had happened to be loose, he--he--" "Perhaps, in that case, he wouldn't be hungry any more," said Ojo gravely. [Illustration] [Illustration] HIP HOPPER THE CHAMPION CHAP. 21 [Illustration] They must have had good courage to climb all those rocks, for after getting out of the canyon they encountered more rock hills to be surmounted. Toto could jump from one rock to another quite easily, but the others had to creep and climb with care, so that after a whole day of such work Dorothy and Ojo found themselves very tired. As they gazed upward at the great mass of tumbled rocks that covered the steep incline, Dorothy gave a little groan and said: "That's going to be a ter'ble hard climb, Scarecrow. I wish we could find the dark well without so much trouble." "Suppose," said Ojo, "you wait here and let me do the climbing, for it's on my account we're searching for the dark well. Then, if I don't find anything, I'll come back and join you." "No," replied the little girl, shaking her head positively, "we'll all go together, for that way we can help each other. If you went alone, something might happen to you, Ojo." So they began the climb and found it indeed difficult, for a way. But presently, in creeping over the big crags, they found a path at their feet which wound in and out among the masses of rock and was quite smooth and easy to walk upon. As the path gradually ascended the mountain, although in a roundabout way, they decided to follow it. "This must be the road to the Country of the Hoppers," said the Scarecrow. "Who are the Hoppers?" asked Dorothy. "Some people Jack Pumpkinhead told me about," he replied. "I didn't hear him," replied the girl. "No; you were asleep," explained the Scarecrow. "But he told Scraps and me that the Hoppers and the Horners live on this mountain." "He said _in_ the mountain," declared Scraps; "but of course he meant _on_ it." "Didn't he say what the Hoppers and Horners were like?" inquired Dorothy. "No; he only said they were two separate nations, and that the Horners were the most important." "Well, if we go to their country we'll find out all about 'em," said the girl. "But I've never heard Ozma mention those people, so they can't be _very_ important." "Is this mountain in the Land of Oz?" asked Scraps. "Course it is," answered Dorothy. "It's in the South Country of the Quadlings. When one comes to the edge of Oz, in any direction, there is nothing more to be seen at all. Once you could see sandy desert all around Oz; but now it's diff'rent, and no other people can see us, any more than we can see them." "If the mountain is under Ozma's rule, why doesn't she know about the Hoppers and the Horners?" Ojo asked. "Why, it's a fairyland," explained Dorothy, "and lots of queer people live in places so tucked away that those in the Emerald City never even hear of 'em. In the middle of the country it's diff'rent, but when you get around the edges you're sure to run into strange little corners that surprise you. I know, for I've traveled in Oz a good deal, and so has the Scarecrow." "Yes," admitted the straw man, "I've been considerable of a traveler, in my time, and I like to explore strange places. I find I learn much more by traveling than by staying at home." During this conversation they had been walking up the steep pathway and now found themselves well up on the mountain. They could see nothing around them, for the rocks beside their path were higher than their heads. Nor could they see far in front of them, because the path was so crooked. But suddenly they stopped, because the path ended and there was no place to go. Ahead was a big rock lying against the side of the mountain, and this blocked the way completely. "There wouldn't be a path, though, if it didn't go somewhere," said the Scarecrow, wrinkling his forehead in deep thought. "This is somewhere, isn't it?" asked the Patchwork Girl, laughing at the bewildered looks of the others. "The path is locked, the way is blocked, Yet here we've innocently flocked; And now we're here it's rather queer There's no front door that can be knocked." "Please don't, Scraps," said Ojo. "You make me nervous." "Well," said Dorothy, "I'm glad of a little rest, for that's a drea'ful steep path." As she spoke she leaned against the edge of the big rock that stood in their way. To her surprise it slowly swung backward and showed behind it a dark hole that looked like the mouth of a tunnel. "Why, here's where the path goes to!" she exclaimed. "So it is," answered the Scarecrow. "But the question is, do we want to go where the path does?" "It's underground; right inside the mountain," said Ojo, peering into the dark hole. "Perhaps there's a well there; and, if there is, it's sure to be a dark one." "Why, that's true enough!" cried Dorothy with eagerness. "Let's go in, Scarecrow; 'cause, if others have gone, we're pretty safe to go, too." Toto looked in and barked, but he did not venture to enter until the Scarecrow had bravely gone first. Scraps followed closely after the straw man and then Ojo and Dorothy timidly stepped inside the tunnel. As soon as all of them had passed the big rock, it slowly turned and filled up the opening again; but now they were no longer in the dark, for a soft, rosy light enabled them to see around them quite distinctly. It was only a passage, wide enough for two of them to walk abreast--with Toto in between them--and it had a high, arched roof. They could not see where the light which flooded the place so pleasantly came from, for there were no lamps anywhere visible. The passage ran straight for a little way and then made a bend to the right and another sharp turn to the left, after which it went straight again. But there were no side passages, so they could not lose their way. After proceeding some distance, Toto, who had gone on ahead, began to bark loudly. They ran around a bend to see what was the matter and found a man sitting on the floor of the passage and leaning his back against the wall. He had probably been asleep before Toto's barks aroused him, for he was now rubbing his eyes and staring at the little dog with all his might. There was something about this man that Toto objected to, and when he slowly rose to his foot they saw what it was. He had but one leg, set just below the middle of his round, fat body; but it was a stout leg and had a broad, flat foot at the bottom of it, on which the man seemed to stand very well. He had never had but this one leg, which looked something like a pedestal, and when Toto ran up and made a grab at the man's ankle he hopped first one way and then another in a very active manner, looking so frightened that Scraps laughed aloud. Toto was usually a well behaved dog, but this time he was angry and snapped at the man's leg again and again. This filled the poor fellow with fear, and in hopping out of Toto's reach he suddenly lost his balance and tumbled heel over head upon the floor. When he sat up he kicked Toto on the nose and made the dog howl angrily, but Dorothy now ran forward and caught Toto's collar, holding him back. "Do you surrender?" she asked the man. "Who? Me?" asked the Hopper. "Yes; you," said the little girl. "Am I captured?" he inquired. "Of course. My dog has captured you," she said. "Well," replied the man, "if I'm captured I must surrender, for it's the proper thing to do. I like to do everything proper, for it saves one a lot of trouble." "It does, indeed," said Dorothy. "Please tell us who you are." "I'm Hip Hopper--Hip Hopper, the Champion." "Champion what?" she asked in surprise. "Champion wrestler. I'm a very strong man, and that ferocious animal which you are so kindly holding is the first living thing that has ever conquered me." "And you are a Hopper?" she continued. "Yes. My people live in a great city not far from here. Would you like to visit it?" "I'm not sure," she said with hesitation. "Have you any dark wells in your city?" "I think not. We have wells, you know, but they're all well lighted, and a well lighted well cannot well be a dark well. But there may be such a thing as a very dark well in the Horner Country, which is a black spot on the face of the earth." "Where is the Horner Country?" Ojo inquired. "The other side of the mountain. There's a fence between the Hopper Country and the Horner Country, and a gate in the fence; but you can't pass through just now, because we are at war with the Horners." "That's too bad," said the Scarecrow. "What seems to be the trouble?" "Why, one of them made a very insulting remark about my people. He said we were lacking in understanding, because we had only one leg to a person. I can't see that legs have anything to do with understanding things. The Horners each have two legs, just as you have. That's one leg too many, it seems to me." "No," declared Dorothy, "it's just the right number." "You don't need them," argued the Hopper, obstinately. "You've only one head, and one body, and one nose and mouth. Two legs are quite unnecessary, and they spoil one's shape." "But how can you walk, with only one leg?" asked Ojo. "Walk! Who wants to walk?" exclaimed the man. "Walking is a terribly awkward way to travel. I hop, and so do all my people. It's so much more graceful and agreeable than walking." "I don't agree with you," said the Scarecrow. "But tell me, is there any way to get to the Horner Country without going through the city of the Hoppers?" "Yes; there is another path from the rocky lowlands, outside the mountain, that leads straight to the entrance of the Horner Country. But it's a long way around, so you'd better come with me. Perhaps they will allow you to go through the gate; but we expect to conquer them this afternoon, if we get time, and then you may go and come as you please." They thought it best to take the Hopper's advice, and asked him to lead the way. This he did in a series of hops, and he moved so swiftly in this strange manner that those with two legs had to run to keep up with him. THE JOKING HORNERS CHAP. 22 [Illustration] It was not long before they left the passage and came to a great cave, so high that it must have reached nearly to the top of the mountain within which it lay. It was a magnificent cave, illumined by the soft, invisible light, so that everything in it could be plainly seen. The walls were of polished marble, white with veins of delicate colors running through it, and the roof was arched and carved in designs both fantastic and beautiful. Built beneath this vast dome was a pretty village--not very large, for there seemed not more than fifty houses altogether--and the dwellings were of marble and artistically designed. No grass nor flowers nor trees grew in this cave, so the yards surrounding the houses were smooth and bare and had low walls around them to mark their boundaries. In the streets and the yards of the houses were many people, all having one leg growing below their bodies and all hopping here and there whenever they moved. Even the children stood firmly upon their single legs and never lost their balance. "All hail, Champion!" cried a man in the first group of Hoppers they met; "whom have you captured?" "No one," replied the Champion in a gloomy voice; "these strangers have captured me." "Then," said another, "we will rescue you, and capture them, for we are greater in number." "No," answered the Champion, "I can't allow it. I've surrendered, and it isn't polite to capture those you've surrendered to." "Never mind that," said Dorothy. "We will give you your liberty and set you free." "Really?" asked the Champion in joyous tones. "Yes," said the little girl; "your people may need you to help conquer the Horners." At this all the Hoppers looked downcast and sad. Several more had joined the group by this time and quite a crowd of curious men, women and children surrounded the strangers. "This war with our neighbors is a terrible thing," remarked one of the women. "Some one is almost sure to get hurt." "Why do you say that, madam?" inquired the Scarecrow. "Because the horns of our enemies are sharp, and in battle they will try to stick those horns into our warriors," she replied. "How many horns do the Horners have?" asked Dorothy. "Each has one horn in the center of his forehead," was the answer. "Oh, then they're unicorns," declared the Scarecrow. "No; they're Horners. We never go to war with them if we can help it, on account of their dangerous horns; but this insult was so great and so unprovoked that our brave men decided to fight, in order to be revenged," said the woman. "What weapons do you fight with?" the Scarecrow asked. "We have no weapons," explained the Champion. "Whenever we fight the Horners, our plan is to push them back, for our arms are longer than theirs." "Then you are better armed," said Scraps. "Yes; but they have those terrible horns, and unless we are careful they prick us with the points," returned the Champion with a shudder. "That makes a war with them dangerous, and a dangerous war cannot be a pleasant one." "I see very clearly," remarked the Scarecrow, "that you are going to have trouble in conquering those Horners--unless we help you." "Oh!" cried the Hoppers in a chorus; "can you help us? Please do! We will be greatly obliged! It would please us very much!" and by these exclamations the Scarecrow knew that his speech had met with favor. "How far is it to the Horner Country?" he asked. "Why, it's just the other side of the fence," they answered, and the Champion added: "Come with me, please, and I'll show you the Horners." So they followed the Champion and several others through the streets and just beyond the village came to a very high picket fence, built all of marble, which seemed to divide the great cave into two equal parts. But the part inhabited by the Horners was in no way as grand in appearance as that of the Hoppers. Instead of being marble, the walls and roof were of dull gray rock and the square houses were plainly made of the same material. But in extent the city was much larger than that of the Hoppers and the streets were thronged with numerous people who busied themselves in various ways. Looking through the open pickets of the fence our friends watched the Horners, who did not know they were being watched by strangers, and found them very unusual in appearance. They were little folks in size and had bodies round as balls and short legs and arms. Their heads were round, too, and they had long, pointed ears and a horn set in the center of the forehead. The horns did not seem very terrible, for they were not more than six inches long; but they were ivory white and sharp pointed, and no wonder the Hoppers feared them. The skins of the Horners were light brown, but they wore snow-white robes and were bare-footed. Dorothy thought the most striking thing about them was their hair, which grew in three distinct colors on each and every head--red, yellow and green. The red was at the bottom and sometimes hung over their eyes; then came a broad circle of yellow and the green was at the top and formed a brush-shaped top-knot. None of the Horners was yet aware of the presence of strangers, who watched the little brown people for a time and then went to the big gate in the center of the dividing fence. It was locked on both sides and over the latch was a sign reading: "WAR IS DECLARED" "Can't we go through?" asked Dorothy. "Not now," answered the Champion. "I think," said the Scarecrow, "that if I could talk with those Horners they would apologize to you, and then there would be no need to fight." "Can't you talk from this side," asked the Champion. "Not so well," replied the Scarecrow. "Do you suppose you could throw me over that fence? It is high, but I am very light." "We can try it," said the Hopper. "I am perhaps the strongest man in my country, so I'll undertake to do the throwing. But I won't promise you will land on your feet." "No matter about that," returned the Scarecrow. "Just toss me over and I'll be satisfied." So the Champion picked up the Scarecrow and balanced him a moment, to see how much he weighed, and then with all his strength tossed him high into the air. Perhaps if the Scarecrow had been a trifle heavier he would have been easier to throw and would have gone a greater distance; but, as it was, instead of going over the fence he landed just on top of it, and one of the sharp pickets caught him in the middle of his back and held him fast prisoner. Had he been face downward the Scarecrow might have managed to free himself, but lying on his back on the picket his hands waved in the air of the Horner Country while his feet kicked the air of the Hopper Country; so there he was. "Are you hurt?" called the Patchwork Girl anxiously. "Course not," said Dorothy. "But if he wiggles that way he may tear his clothes. How can we get him down, Mr. Champion?" The Champion shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "If he could scare Horners as well as he does crows, it might be a good idea to leave him there." "This is terrible," said Ojo, almost ready to cry. "I s'pose it's because I am Ojo the Unlucky that everyone who tries to help me gets into trouble." "You are lucky to have anyone to help you," declared Dorothy. "But don't worry. We'll rescue the Scarecrow, somehow." "I know how," announced Scraps. "Here, Mr. Champion; just throw me up to the Scarecrow. I'm nearly as light as he is, and when I'm on top the fence I'll pull our friend off the picket and toss him down to you." [Illustration] "All right," said the Champion, and he picked up the Patchwork Girl and threw her in the same manner he had the Scarecrow. He must have used more strength this time, however, for Scraps sailed far over the top of the fence and, without being able to grab the Scarecrow at all, tumbled to the ground in the Horner Country, where her stuffed body knocked over two men and a woman and made a crowd that had collected there run like rabbits to get away from her. [Illustration] Seeing the next moment that she was harmless, the people slowly returned and gathered around the Patchwork Girl, regarding her with astonishment. One of them wore a jeweled star in his hair, just above his horn, and this seemed a person of importance. He spoke for the rest of his people, who treated him with great respect. "Who are you, Unknown Being?" he asked. "Scraps," she said, rising to her feet and patting her cotton wadding smooth where it had bunched up. "And where did you come from?" he continued. "Over the fence. Don't be silly. There's no other place I _could_ have come from," she replied. He looked at her thoughtfully. "You are not a Hopper," said he, "for you have two legs. They're not very well shaped, but they are two in number. And that strange creature on top the fence--why doesn't he stop kicking?--must be your brother, or father, or son, for he also has two legs." "You must have been to visit the Wise Donkey," said Scraps, laughing so merrily that the crowd smiled with her, in sympathy. "But that reminds me, Captain--or King--" "I am Chief of the Horners, and my name is Jak." "Of course; Little Jack Horner; I might have known it. But the reason I volplaned over the fence was so I could have a talk with you about the Hoppers." "What about the Hoppers?" asked the Chief, frowning. "You've insulted them, and you'd better beg their pardon," said Scraps. "If you don't, they'll probably hop over here and conquer you." "We're not afraid--as long as the gate is locked," declared the Chief. "And we didn't insult them at all. One of us made a joke that the stupid Hoppers couldn't see." The Chief smiled as he said this and the smile made his face look quite jolly. "What was the joke?" asked Scraps. "A Horner said they have less understanding than we, because they've only one leg. Ha, ha! You see the point, don't you? If you stand on your legs, and your legs are under you, then--ha, ha, ha!--then your legs are your under-standing. Hee, hee, hee! Ho, ho! My, but that's a fine joke. And the stupid Hoppers couldn't see it! They couldn't see that with only one leg they must have less under-standing than we who have two legs. Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Ho, ho!" The Chief wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with the bottom hem of his white robe, and all the other Horners wiped their eyes on their robes, for they had laughed just as heartily as their Chief at the absurd joke. "Then," said Scraps, "their understanding of the understanding you meant led to the misunderstanding." "Exactly; and so there's no need for us to apologize," returned the Chief. "No need for an apology, perhaps, but much need for an explanation," said Scraps decidedly. "You don't want war, do you?" "Not if we can help it," admitted Jak Horner. "The question is, who's going to explain the joke to the Horners? You know it spoils any joke to be obliged to explain it, and this is the best joke I ever heard." "Who made the joke?" asked Scraps. "Diksey Horner. He is working in the mines, just now, but he'll be home before long. Suppose we wait and talk with him about it? Maybe he'll be willing to explain his joke to the Hoppers." "All right," said Scraps. "I'll wait, if Diksey isn't too long." "No, he's short; he's shorter than I am. Ha, ha, ha! Say! that's a better joke than Diksey's. He won't be too long, because he's short. Hee, hee, ho!" The other Horners who were standing by roared with laughter and seemed to like their Chief's joke as much as he did. Scraps thought it was odd that they could be so easily amused, but decided there could be little harm in people who laughed so merrily. PEACE IS DECLARED CHAP. 23 [Illustration] "Come with me to my dwelling and I'll introduce you to my daughters," said the Chief. "We're bringing them up according to a book of rules that was written by one of our leading old bachelors, and everyone says they're a remarkable lot of girls." So Scraps accompanied him along the street to a house that seemed on the outside exceptionally grimy and dingy. The streets of this city were not paved nor had any attempt been made to beautify the houses or their surroundings, and having noticed this condition Scraps was astonished when the Chief ushered her into his home. Here was nothing grimy or faded, indeed. On the contrary, the room was of dazzling brilliance and beauty, for it was lined throughout with an exquisite metal that resembled translucent frosted silver. The surface of this metal was highly ornamented in raised designs representing men, animals, flowers and trees, and from the metal itself was radiated the soft light which flooded the room. All the furniture was made of the same glorious metal, and Scraps asked what it was. "That's radium," answered the Chief. "We Horners spend all our time digging radium from the mines under this mountain, and we use it to decorate our homes and make them pretty and cosy. It is a medicine, too, and no one can ever be sick who lives near radium." "Have you plenty of it?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "More than we can use. All the houses in this city are decorated with it, just the same as mine is." "Why don't you use it on your streets, then, and the outside of your houses, to make them as pretty as they are within?" she inquired. "Outside? Who cares for the outside of anything?" asked the Chief. "We Horners don't live on the outside of our homes; we live inside. Many people are like those stupid Hoppers, who love to make an outside show. I suppose you strangers thought their city more beautiful than ours, because you judged from appearances and they have handsome marble houses and marble streets; but if you entered one of their stiff dwellings you would find it bare and uncomfortable, as all their show is on the outside. They have an idea that what is not seen by others is not important, but with us the rooms we live in are our chief delight and care, and we pay no attention to outside show." "Seems to me," said Scraps, musingly, "it would be better to make it all pretty--inside and out." "Seems? Why, you're all seams, my girl!" said the Chief; and then he laughed heartily at his latest joke and a chorus of small voices echoed the chorus with "tee-hee-hee! ha, ha!" Scraps turned around and found a row of girls seated in radium chairs ranged along one wall of the room. There were nineteen of them, by actual count, and they were of all sizes from a tiny child to one almost a grown woman. All were neatly dressed in spotless white robes and had brown skins, horns on their foreheads and three-colored hair. "These," said the Chief, "are my sweet daughters. My dears, I introduce to you Miss Scraps Patchwork, a lady who is traveling in foreign parts to increase her store of wisdom." The nineteen Horner girls all arose and made a polite courtesy, after which they resumed their seats and rearranged their robes properly. "Why do they sit so still, and all in a row?" asked Scraps. "Because it is ladylike and proper," replied the Chief. "But some are just children, poor things! Don't they ever run around and play and laugh, and have a good time?" "No, indeed," said the Chief. "That would be improper in young ladies, as well as in those who will sometime become young ladies. My daughters are being brought up according to the rules and regulations laid down by a leading bachelor who has given the subject much study and is himself a man of taste and culture. Politeness is his great hobby, and he claims that if a child is allowed to do an impolite thing one cannot expect the grown person to do anything better." "Is it impolite to romp and shout and be jolly?" asked Scraps. "Well, sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't," replied the Horner, after considering the question. "By curbing such inclinations in my daughters we keep on the safe side. Once in a while I make a good joke, as you have heard, and then I permit my daughters to laugh decorously; but they are never allowed to make a joke themselves." "That old bachelor who made the rules ought to be skinned alive!" declared Scraps, and would have said more on the subject had not the door opened to admit a little Horner man whom the Chief introduced as Diksey. "What's up, Chief?" asked Diksey, winking nineteen times at the nineteen girls, who demurely cast down their eyes because their father was looking. The Chief told the man that his joke had not been understood by the dull Hoppers, who had become so angry that they had declared war. So the only way to avoid a terrible battle was to explain the joke so they could understand it. "All right," replied Diksey, who seemed a good-natured man; "I'll go at once to the fence and explain. I don't want any war with the Hoppers, for wars between nations always cause hard feelings." So the Chief and Diksey and Scraps left the house and went back to the marble picket fence. The Scarecrow was still stuck on the top of his picket but had now ceased to struggle. On the other side of the fence were Dorothy and Ojo, looking between the pickets; and there, also, were the Champion and many other Hoppers. Diksey went close to the fence and said: "My good Hoppers, I wish to explain that what I said about you was a joke. You have but one leg each, and we have two legs each. Our legs are under us, whether one or two, and we stand on them. So, when I said you had less understanding than we, I did not mean that you had less understanding, you understand, but that you had less standundering, so to speak. Do you understand that?" The Hoppers thought it over carefully. Then one said: "That is clear enough; but where does the joke come in?" Dorothy laughed, for she couldn't help it, although all the others were solemn enough. "I'll tell you where the joke comes in," she said, and took the Hoppers away to a distance, where the Horners could not hear them. "You know," she then explained, "those neighbors of yours are not very bright, poor things, and what they think is a joke isn't a joke at all--it's true, don't you see?" "True that we have less understanding?" asked the Champion. "Yes; it's true because you don't understand such a poor joke; if you did, you'd be no wiser than they are." "Ah, yes; of course," they answered, looking very wise. "So I'll tell you what to do," continued Dorothy. "Laugh at their poor joke and tell 'em it's pretty good for a Horner. Then they won't dare say you have less understanding, because you understand as much as they do." The Hoppers looked at one another questioningly and blinked their eyes and tried to think what it all meant; but they couldn't figure it out. "What do you think, Champion?" asked one of them. "I think it is dangerous to think of this thing any more than we can help," he replied. "Let us do as this girl says and laugh with the Horners, so as to make them believe we see the joke. Then there will be peace again and no need to fight." They readily agreed to this and returned to the fence laughing as loud and as hard as they could, although they didn't feel like laughing a bit. The Horners were much surprised. "That's a fine joke--for a Horner--and we are much pleased with it," said the Champion, speaking between the pickets. "But please don't do it again." "I won't," promised Diksey. "If I think of another such joke I'll try to forget it." "Good!" cried the Chief Horner. "The war is over and peace is declared." There was much joyful shouting on both sides the fence and the gate was unlocked and thrown wide open, so that Scraps was able to rejoin her friends. "What about the Scarecrow?" she asked Dorothy. "We must get him down, somehow or other," was the reply. "Perhaps the Horners can find a way," suggested Ojo. So they all went through the gate and Dorothy asked the Chief Horner how they could get the Scarecrow off the fence. The Chief didn't know how, but Diksey said: "A ladder's the thing." "Have you one?" asked Dorothy. "To be sure. We use ladders in our mines," said he. Then he ran away to get the ladder, and while he was gone the Horners gathered around and welcomed the strangers to their country, for through them a great war had been avoided. In a little while Diksey came back with a tall ladder which he placed against the fence. Ojo at once climbed to the top of the ladder and Dorothy went about halfway up and Scraps stood at the foot of it. Toto ran around it and barked. Then Ojo pulled the Scarecrow away from the picket and passed him down to Dorothy, who in turn lowered him to the Patchwork Girl. As soon as he was on his feet and standing on solid ground the Scarecrow said: "Much obliged. I feel much better. I'm not stuck on that picket any more." The Horners began to laugh, thinking this was a joke, but the Scarecrow shook himself and patted his straw a little and said to Dorothy: "Is there much of a hole in my back?" The little girl examined him carefully. "There's quite a hole," she said. "But I've got a needle and thread in the knapsack and I'll sew you up again." "Do so," he begged earnestly, and again the Horners laughed, to the Scarecrow's great annoyance. While Dorothy was sewing up the hole in the straw man's back Scraps examined the other parts of him. "One of his legs is ripped, too!" she exclaimed. "Oho!" cried little Diksey; "that's bad. Give him the needle and thread and let him mend his ways." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Chief, and the other Horners at once roared with laughter. "What's funny?" inquired the Scarecrow sternly. "Don't you see?" asked Diksey, who had laughed even harder than the others. "That's a joke. It's by odds the best joke I ever made. You walk with your legs, and so that's the way you walk, and your legs are the ways. See? So, when you mend your legs, you mend your ways. Ho, ho, ho! hee, hee! I'd no idea I could make such a fine joke!" "Just wonderful!" echoed the Chief. "How do you manage to do it, Diksey?" [Illustration] "I don't know," said Diksey modestly. "Perhaps it's the radium, but I rather think it's my splendid intellect." "If you don't quit it," the Scarecrow told him, "there'll be a worse war than the one you've escaped from." Ojo had been deep in thought, and now he asked the Chief: "Is there a dark well in any part of your country?" "A dark well? None that ever I heard of," was the answer. "Oh, yes," said Diksey, who overheard the boy's question. "There's a very dark well down in my radium mine." "Is there any water in it?" Ojo eagerly asked. "Can't say; I've never looked to see. But we can find out." So, as soon as the Scarecrow was mended, they decided to go with Diksey to the mine. When Dorothy had patted the straw man into shape again he declared he felt as good as new and equal to further adventures. "Still," said he, "I prefer not to do picket duty again. High life doesn't seem to agree with my constitution." And then they hurried away to escape the laughter of the Horners, who thought this was another joke. [Illustration] [Illustration] OJO FINDS THE DARK WELL CHAP. 24 [Illustration] They now followed Diksey to the farther end of the great cave, beyond the Horner city, where there were several round, dark holes leading into the ground in a slanting direction. Diksey went to one of these holes and said: "Here is the mine in which lies the dark well you are seeking. Follow me and step carefully and I'll lead you to the place." He went in first and after him came Ojo, and then Dorothy, with the Scarecrow behind her. The Patchwork Girl entered last of all, for Toto kept close beside his little mistress. A few steps beyond the mouth of the opening it was pitch dark. "You won't lose your way, though," said the Horner, "for there's only one way to go. The mine's mine and I know every step of the way. How's that for a joke, eh? The mine's mine." Then he chuckled gleefully as they followed him silently down the steep slant. The hole was just big enough to permit them to walk upright, although the Scarecrow, being much the taller of the party, often had to bend his head to keep from hitting the top. The floor of the tunnel was difficult to walk upon because it had been worn smooth as glass, and pretty soon Scraps, who was some distance behind the others, slipped and fell head foremost. At once she began to slide downward, so swiftly that when she came to the Scarecrow she knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling against Dorothy, who tripped up Ojo. The boy fell against the Horner, so that all went tumbling down the slide in a regular mix-up, unable to see where they were going because of the darkness. Fortunately, when they reached the bottom the Scarecrow and Scraps were in front, and the others bumped against them, so that no one was hurt. They found themselves in a vast cave which was dimly lighted by the tiny grains of radium that lay scattered among the loose rocks. "Now," said Diksey, when they had all regained their feet, "I will show you where the dark well is. This is a big place, but if we hold fast to each other we won't get lost." They took hold of hands and the Horner led them into a dark corner, where he halted. "Be careful," said he warningly. "The well is at your feet." "All right," replied Ojo, and kneeling down he felt in the well with his hand and found that it contained a quantity of water. "Where's the gold flask, Dorothy?" he asked, and the little girl handed him the flask, which she had brought with her. Ojo knelt again and by feeling carefully in the dark managed to fill the flask with the unseen water that was in the well. Then he screwed the top of the flask firmly in place and put the precious water in his pocket. "All right!" he said again, in a glad voice; "now we can go back." They returned to the mouth of the tunnel and began to creep cautiously up the incline. This time they made Scraps stay behind, for fear she would slip again; but they all managed to get up in safety and the Munchkin boy was very happy when he stood in the Horner city and realized that the water from the dark well, which he and his friends had traveled so far to secure, was safe in his jacket pocket. [Illustration] THEY BRIBE THE LAZY QUADLING CHAP. 25 [Illustration: Every time I see a river I have chills] "Now," said Dorothy, as they stood on the mountain path, having left behind them the cave in which dwelt the Hoppers and the Horners, "I think we must find a road into the Country of the Winkies, for there is where Ojo wants to go next." "Is there such a road?" asked the Scarecrow. "I don't know," she replied. "I s'pose we can go back the way we came, to Jack Pumpkinhead's house, and then turn into the Winkie Country; but that seems like running 'round a haystack, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the Scarecrow. "What is the next thing Ojo must get?" "A yellow butterfly," answered the boy. "That means the Winkie Country, all right, for it's the yellow country of Oz," remarked Dorothy. "I think, Scarecrow, we ought to take him to the Tin Woodman, for he's the Emp'ror of the Winkies and will help us to find what Ojo wants." "Of course," replied the Scarecrow, brightening at the suggestion. "The Tin Woodman will do anything we ask him, for he's one of my dearest friends. I believe we can take a crosscut into his country and so get to his castle a day sooner than if we travel back the way we came." "I think so, too," said the girl; "and that means we must keep to the left." They were obliged to go down the mountain before they found any path that led in the direction they wanted to go, but among the tumbled rocks at the foot of the mountain was a faint trail which they decided to follow. Two or three hours' walk along this trail brought them to a clear, level country, where there were a few farms and some scattered houses. But they knew they were still in the Country of the Quadlings, because everything had a bright red color. Not that the trees and grasses were red, but the fences and houses were painted that color and all the wild-flowers that bloomed by the wayside had red blossoms. This part of the Quadling Country seemed peaceful and prosperous, if rather lonely, and the road was now more distinct and easier to follow. But just as they were congratulating themselves upon the progress they had made they came upon a broad river which swept along between high banks, and here the road ended and there was no bridge of any sort to allow them to cross. "This is queer," mused Dorothy, looking at the water reflectively. "Why should there be any road, if the river stops everyone walking along it?" "Wow!" said Toto, gazing earnestly into her face. "That's the best answer you'll get," declared the Scarecrow, with his comical smile, "for no one knows any more than Toto about this road." Said Scraps: "Ev'ry time I see a river, I have chills that make me shiver, For I never can forget All the water's very wet. If my patches get a soak It will be a sorry joke; So to swim I'll never try Till I find the water dry." "Try to control yourself, Scraps," said Ojo; "you're getting crazy again. No one intends to swim that river." "No," decided Dorothy, "we couldn't swim it if we tried. It's too big a river, and the water moves awful fast." "There ought to be a ferryman with a boat," said the Scarecrow; "but I don't see any." "Couldn't we make a raft?" suggested Ojo. "There's nothing to make one of," answered Dorothy. "Wow!" said Toto again, and Dorothy saw he was looking along the bank of the river. "Why, he sees a house over there!" cried the little girl. "I wonder we didn't notice it ourselves. Let's go and ask the people how to get 'cross the river." A quarter of a mile along the bank stood a small, round house, painted bright red, and as it was on their side of the river they hurried toward it. A chubby little man, dressed all in red, came out to greet them, and with him were two children, also in red costumes. The man's eyes were big and staring as he examined the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl, and the children shyly hid behind him and peeked timidly at Toto. "Do you live here, my good man?" asked the Scarecrow. "I think I do, Most Mighty Magician," replied the Quadling, bowing low; "but whether I'm awake or dreaming I can't be positive, so I'm not sure where I live. If you'll kindly pinch me I'll find out all about it." "You're awake," said Dorothy, "and this is no magician, but just the Scarecrow." "But he's alive," protested the man, "and he oughtn't to be, you know. And that other dreadful person--the girl who is all patches--seems to be alive, too." "Very much so," declared Scraps, making a face at him. "But that isn't your affair, you know." "I've a right to be surprised, haven't I?" asked the man meekly. "I'm not sure; but anyhow you've no right to say I'm dreadful. The Scarecrow, who is a gentleman of great wisdom, thinks I'm beautiful," retorted Scraps. "Never mind all that," said Dorothy. "Tell us, good Quadling, how we can get across the river." "I don't know," replied the Quadling. "Don't you ever cross it?" asked the girl. "Never." "Don't travelers cross it?" "Not to my knowledge," said he. They were much surprised to hear this, and the man added: "It's a pretty big river, and the current is strong. I know a man who lives on the opposite bank, for I've seen him there a good many years; but we've never spoken because neither of us has ever crossed over." "That's queer," said the Scarecrow. "Don't you own a boat?" The man shook his head. "Nor a raft?" "No." "Where does this river go to?" asked Dorothy. "That way," answered the man, pointing with one hand, "it goes into the Country of the Winkies, which is ruled by the Tin Emperor, who must be a mighty magician because he's all made of tin, and yet he's alive. And that way," pointing with the other hand, "the river runs between two mountains where dangerous people dwell." The Scarecrow looked at the water before them. "The current flows toward the Winkie Country," said he; "and so, if we had a boat, or a raft, the river would float us there more quickly and more easily than we could walk." "That is true," agreed Dorothy; and then they all looked thoughtful and wondered what could be done. "Why can't the man make us a raft?" asked Ojo. "Will you?" inquired Dorothy, turning to the Quadling. The chubby man shook his head. "I'm too lazy," he said. "My wife says I'm the laziest man in all Oz, and she is a truthful woman. I hate work of any kind, and making a raft is hard work." "I'll give you my em'rald ring," promised the girl. "No; I don't care for emeralds. If it were a ruby, which is the color I like best, I might work a little while." "I've got some Square Meal Tablets," said the Scarecrow. "Each one is the same as a dish of soup, a fried fish, a mutton pot-pie, lobster salad, charlotte russe and lemon jelly--all made into one little tablet that you can swallow without trouble." "Without trouble!" exclaimed the Quadling, much interested; "then those tablets would be fine for a lazy man. It's such hard work to chew when you eat." "I'll give you six of those tablets if you'll help us make a raft," promised the Scarecrow. "They're a combination of food which people who eat are very fond of. I never eat, you know, being straw; but some of my friends eat regularly. What do you say to my offer, Quadling?" "I'll do it," decided the man. "I'll help, and you can do most of the work. But my wife has gone fishing for red eels to-day, so some of you will have to mind the children." Scraps promised to do that, and the children were not so shy when the Patchwork Girl sat down to play with them. They grew to like Toto, too, and the little dog allowed them to pat him on his head, which gave the little ones much joy. There were a number of fallen trees near the house and the Quadling got his axe and chopped them into logs of equal length. He took his wife's clothesline to bind these logs together, so that they would form a raft, and Ojo found some strips of wood and nailed them along the tops of the logs, to render them more firm. The Scarecrow and Dorothy helped roll the logs together and carry the strips of wood, but it took so long to make the raft that evening came just as it was finished, and with evening the Quadling's wife returned from her fishing. The woman proved to be cross and bad-tempered, perhaps because she had only caught one red eel during all the day. When she found that her husband had used her clothesline, and the logs she had wanted for firewood, and the boards she had intended to mend the shed with, and a lot of gold nails, she became very angry. Scraps wanted to shake the woman, to make her behave, but Dorothy talked to her in a gentle tone and told the Quadling's wife she was a Princess of Oz and a friend of Ozma and that when she got back to the Emerald City she would send them a lot of things to repay them for the raft, including a new clothesline. This promise pleased the woman and she soon became more pleasant, saying they could stay the night at her house and begin their voyage on the river next morning. This they did, spending a pleasant evening with the Quadling family and being entertained with such hospitality as the poor people were able to offer them. The man groaned a good deal and said he had overworked himself by chopping the logs, but the Scarecrow gave him two more tablets than he had promised, which seemed to comfort the lazy fellow. THE TRICK RIVER CHAP. 26 [Illustration] Next morning they pushed the raft into the water and all got aboard. The Quadling man had to hold the log craft fast while they took their places, and the flow of the river was so powerful that it nearly tore the raft from his hands. As soon as they were all seated upon the logs he let go and away it floated and the adventurers had begun their voyage toward the Winkie Country. The little house of the Quadlings was out of sight almost before they had cried their good-byes, and the Scarecrow said in a pleased voice: "It won't take us long to get to the Winkie Country, at this rate." They had floated several miles down the stream and were enjoying the ride when suddenly the raft slowed up, stopped short, and then began to float back the way it had come. "Why, what's wrong?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment; but they were all just as bewildered as she was and at first no one could answer the question. Soon, however, they realized the truth: that the current of the river had reversed and the water was now flowing in the opposite direction--toward the mountains. They began to recognize the scenes they had passed, and by and by they came in sight of the little house of the Quadlings again. The man was standing on the river bank and he called to them: "How do you do? Glad to see you again. I forgot to tell you that the river changes its direction every little while. Sometimes it flows one way, and sometimes the other." They had no time to answer him, for the raft was swept past the house and a long distance on the other side of it. "We're going just the way we don't want to go," said Dorothy, "and I guess the best thing we can do is to get to land before we're carried any farther." But they could not get to land. They had no oars, nor even a pole to guide the raft with. The logs which bore them floated in the middle of the stream and were held fast in that position by the strong current. So they sat still and waited and, even while they were wondering what could be done, the raft slowed down, stopped, and began drifting the other way--in the direction it had first followed. After a time they repassed the Quadling house and the man was still standing on the bank. He cried out to them: "Good day! Glad to see you again. I expect I shall see you a good many times, as you go by, unless you happen to swim ashore." By that time they had left him behind and were headed once more straight toward the Winkie Country. "This is pretty hard luck," said Ojo in a discouraged voice. "The Trick River keeps changing, it seems, and here we must float back and forward forever, unless we manage in some way to get ashore." "Can you swim?" asked Dorothy. "No; I'm Ojo the Unlucky." "Neither can I. Toto can swim a little, but that won't help us to get to shore." "I don't know whether I could swim, or not," remarked Scraps; "but if I tried it I'd surely ruin my lovely patches." "My straw would get soggy in the water and I would sink," said the Scarecrow. So there seemed no way out of their dilemma and being helpless they simply sat still. Ojo, who was on the front of the raft, looked over into the water and thought he saw some large fishes swimming about. He found a loose end of the clothesline which fastened the logs together, and taking a gold nail from his pocket he bent it nearly double, to form a hook, and tied it to the end of the line. Having baited the hook with some bread which he broke from his loaf, he dropped the line into the water and almost instantly it was seized by a great fish. They knew it was a great fish, because it pulled so hard on the line that it dragged the raft forward even faster than the current of the river had carried it. The fish was frightened, and it was a strong swimmer. As the other end of the clothesline was bound around the logs he could not get it away, and as he had greedily swallowed the gold hook at the first bite he could not get rid of that, either. When they reached the place where the current had before changed, the fish was still swimming ahead in its wild attempt to escape. The raft slowed down, yet it did not stop, because the fish would not let it. It continued to move in the same direction it had been going. As the current reversed and rushed backward on its course it failed to drag the raft with it. Slowly, inch by inch, they floated on, and the fish tugged and tugged and kept them going. "I hope he won't give up," said Ojo anxiously. "If the fish can hold out until the current changes again, we'll be all right." The fish did not give up, but held the raft bravely on its course, till at last the water in the river shifted again and floated them the way they wanted to go. But now the captive fish found its strength failing. Seeking a refuge, it began to drag the raft toward the shore. As they did not wish to land in this place the boy cut the rope with his pocket-knife and set the fish free, just in time to prevent the raft from grounding. [Illustration] The next time the river backed up the Scarecrow managed to seize the branch of a tree that overhung the water and they all assisted him to hold fast and prevent the raft from being carried backward. While they waited here, Ojo spied a long broken branch lying upon the bank, so he leaped ashore and got it. When he had stripped off the side shoots he believed he could use the branch as a pole, to guide the raft in case of emergency. They clung to the tree until they found the water flowing the right way, when they let go and permitted the raft to resume its voyage. In spite of these pauses they were really making good progress toward the Winkie Country and having found a way to conquer the adverse current their spirits rose considerably. They could see little of the country through which they were passing, because of the high banks, and they met with no boats or other craft upon the surface of the river. Once more the trick river reversed its current, but this time the Scarecrow was on guard and used the pole to push the raft toward a big rock which lay in the water. He believed the rock would prevent their floating backward with the current, and so it did. They clung to this anchorage until the water resumed its proper direction, when they allowed the raft to drift on. Floating around a bend they saw ahead a high bank of water, extending across the entire river, and toward this they were being irresistibly carried. There being no way to arrest the progress of the raft they clung fast to the logs and let the river sweep them on. Swiftly the raft climbed the bank of water and slid down on the other side, plunging its edge deep into the water and drenching them all with spray. As again the raft righted and drifted on, Dorothy and Ojo laughed at the ducking they had received; but Scraps was much dismayed and the Scarecrow took out his handkerchief and wiped the water off the Patchwork Girl's patches as well as he was able to. The sun soon dried her and the colors of her patches proved good, for they did not run together nor did they fade. After passing the wall of water the current did not change or flow backward any more but continued to sweep them steadily forward. The banks of the river grew lower, too, permitting them to see more of the country, and presently they discovered yellow buttercups and dandelions growing amongst the grass, from which evidence they knew they had reached the Winkie Country. "Don't you think we ought to land?" Dorothy asked the Scarecrow. "Pretty soon," he replied. "The Tin Woodman's castle is in the southern part of the Winkie Country, and so it can't be a great way from here." [Illustration] Fearing they might drift too far, Dorothy and Ojo now stood up and raised the Scarecrow in their arms, as high as they could, thus allowing him a good view of the country. For a time he saw nothing he recognized, but finally he cried: "There it is! There it is!" "What?" asked Dorothy. "The Tin Woodman's tin castle. I can see its turrets glittering in the sun. It's quite a way off, but we'd better land as quickly as we can." They let him down and began to urge the raft toward the shore by means of the pole. It obeyed very well, for the current was more sluggish now, and soon they had reached the bank and landed safely. The Winkie Country was really beautiful, and across the fields they could see afar the silvery sheen of the tin castle. With light hearts they hurried toward it, being fully rested by their long ride on the river. By and by they began to cross an immense field of splendid yellow lilies, the delicate fragrance of which was very delightful. "How beautiful they are!" cried Dorothy, stopping to admire the perfection of these exquisite flowers. "Yes," said the Scarecrow, reflectively, "but we must be careful not to crush or injure any of these lilies." "Why not?" asked Ojo. "The Tin Woodman is very kind-hearted," was the reply, "and he hates to see any living thing hurt in any way." "Are flowers alive?" asked Scraps. "Yes, of course. And these flowers belong to the Tin Woodman. So, in order not to offend him, we must not tread on a single blossom." "Once," said Dorothy, "the Tin Woodman stepped on a beetle and killed the little creature. That made him very unhappy and he cried until his tears rusted his joints, so he couldn't move 'em." "What did he do then?" asked Ojo. "Put oil on them, until the joints worked smooth again." "Oh!" exclaimed the boy, as if a great discovery had flashed across his mind. But he did not tell anybody what the discovery was and kept the idea to himself. It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, and they did not mind it a bit. Late in the afternoon they drew near to the wonderful tin castle of the Emperor of the Winkies, and Ojo and Scraps, who had never seen it before, were filled with amazement. Tin abounded in the Winkie Country and the Winkies were said to be the most skillful tinsmiths in all the world. So the Tin Woodman had employed them in building his magnificent castle, which was all of tin, from the ground to the tallest turret, and so brightly polished that it glittered in the sun's rays more gorgeously than silver. Around the grounds of the castle ran a tin wall, with tin gates; but the gates stood wide open because the Emperor had no enemies to disturb him. When they entered the spacious grounds our travelers found more to admire. Tin fountains sent sprays of clear water far into the air and there were many beds of tin flowers, all as perfectly formed as any natural flowers might be. There were tin trees, too, and here and there shady bowers of tin, with tin benches and chairs to sit upon. Also, on the sides of the pathway leading up to the front door of the castle, were rows of tin statuary, very cleverly executed. Among these Ojo recognized statues of Dorothy, Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, the Shaggy Man, Jack Pumpkinhead and Ozma, all standing upon neat pedestals of tin. Toto was well acquainted with the residence of the Tin Woodman and, being assured a joyful welcome, he ran ahead and barked so loudly at the front door that the Tin Woodman heard him and came out in person to see if it were really his old friend Toto. Next moment the tin man had clasped the Scarecrow in a warm embrace and then turned to hug Dorothy. But now his eye was arrested by the strange sight of the Patchwork Girl, and he gazed upon her in mingled wonder and admiration. THE TIN WOODMAN OBJECTS CHAP. 27 [Illustration] The Tin Woodman was one of the most important personages in all Oz. Though Emperor of the Winkies, he owed allegiance to Ozma, who ruled all the land, and the girl and the tin man were warm personal friends. He was something of a dandy and kept his tin body brilliantly polished and his tin joints well oiled. Also he was very courteous in manner and so kind and gentle that everyone loved him. The Emperor greeted Ojo and Scraps with cordial hospitality and ushered the entire party into his handsome tin parlor, where all the furniture and pictures were made of tin. The walls were paneled with tin and from the tin ceiling hung tin chandeliers. The Tin Woodman wanted to know, first of all, where Dorothy had found the Patchwork Girl, so between them the visitors told the story of how Scraps was made, as well as the accident to Margolotte and Unc Nunkie and how Ojo had set out upon a journey to procure the things needed for the Crooked Magician's magic charm. Then Dorothy told of their adventures in the Quadling Country and how at last they succeeded in getting the water from a dark well. While the little girl was relating these adventures the Tin Woodman sat in an easy chair listening with intense interest, while the others sat grouped around him. Ojo, however, had kept his eyes fixed upon the body of the tin Emperor, and now he noticed that under the joint of his left knee a tiny drop of oil was forming. He watched this drop of oil with a fast-beating heart, and feeling in his pocket brought out a tiny vial of crystal, which he held secreted in his hand. Presently the Tin Woodman changed his position, and at once Ojo, to the astonishment of all, dropped to the floor and held his crystal vial under the Emperor's knee joint. Just then the drop of oil fell, and the boy caught it in his bottle and immediately corked it tight. Then, with a red face and embarrassed manner, he rose to confront the others. "What in the world were you doing?" asked the Tin Woodman. "I caught a drop of oil that fell from your knee-joint," confessed Ojo. "A drop of oil!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman. "Dear me, how careless my valet must have been in oiling me this morning. I'm afraid I shall have to scold the fellow, for I can't be dropping oil wherever I go." "Never mind," said Dorothy. "Ojo seems glad to have the oil, for some reason." "Yes," declared the Munchkin boy, "I am glad. For one of the things the Crooked Magician sent me to get was a drop of oil from a live man's body. I had no idea, at first, that there was such a thing; but it's now safe in the little crystal vial." [Illustration] "You are very welcome to it, indeed," said the Tin Woodman. "Have you now secured all the things you were in search of?" "Not quite all," answered Ojo. "There were five things I had to get, and I have found four of them. I have the three hairs in the tip of a Woozy's tail, a six-leaved clover, a gill of water from a dark well and a drop of oil from a live man's body. The last thing is the easiest of all to get, and I'm sure that my dear Unc Nunkie--and good Margolotte, as well--will soon be restored to life." The Munchkin boy said this with much pride and pleasure. "Good!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman; "I congratulate you. But what is the fifth and last thing you need, in order to complete the magic charm?" "The left wing of a yellow butterfly," said Ojo. "In this yellow country, and with your kind assistance, that ought to be very easy to find." The Tin Woodman stared at him in amazement. "Surely you are joking!" he said. "No," replied Ojo, much surprised; "I am in earnest." "But do you think for a moment that I would permit you, or anyone else, to pull the left wing from a yellow butterfly?" demanded the Tin Woodman sternly. "Why not, sir?" "Why not? You ask me why not? It would be cruel--one of the most cruel and heartless deeds I ever heard of," asserted the Tin Woodman. "The butterflies are among the prettiest of all created things, and they are very sensitive to pain. To tear a wing from one would cause it exquisite torture and it would soon die in great agony. I would not permit such a wicked deed under any circumstances!" Ojo was astounded at hearing this. Dorothy, too, looked grave and disconcerted, but she knew in her heart that the Tin Woodman was right. The Scarecrow nodded his head in approval of his friend's speech, so it was evident that he agreed with the Emperor's decision. Scraps looked from one to another in perplexity. "Who cares for a butterfly?" she asked. "Don't you?" inquired the Tin Woodman. "Not the snap of a finger, for I have no heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "But I want to help Ojo, who is my friend, to rescue the uncle whom he loves, and I'd kill a dozen useless butterflies to enable him to do that." The Tin Woodman sighed regretfully. "You have kind instincts," he said, "and with a heart you would indeed be a fine creature. I cannot blame you for your heartless remark, as you cannot understand the feelings of those who possess hearts. I, for instance, have a very neat and responsive heart which the wonderful Wizard of Oz once gave me, and so I shall never--never--_never_ permit a poor yellow butterfly to be tortured by anyone." "The yellow country of the Winkies," said Ojo sadly, "is the only place in Oz where a yellow butterfly can be found." "I'm glad of that," said the Tin Woodman. "As I rule the Winkie Country, I can protect my butterflies." "Unless I get the wing--just one left wing--" said Ojo miserably, "I can't save Unc Nunkie." "Then he must remain a marble statue forever," declared the Tin Emperor, firmly. Ojo wiped his eyes, for he could not hold back the tears. "I'll tell you what to do," said Scraps. "We'll take a whole yellow butterfly, alive and well, to the Crooked Magician, and let him pull the left wing off." "No you won't," said the Tin Woodman. "You can't have one of my dear little butterflies to treat in that way." "Then what in the world shall we do?" asked Dorothy. They all became silent and thoughtful. No one spoke for a long time. Then the Tin Woodman suddenly roused himself and said: "We must all go back to the Emerald City and ask Ozma's advice. She's a wise little girl, our Ruler, and she may find a way to help Ojo save his Unc Nunkie." So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie--unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud. "Is anything hurting you?" inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky," replied the boy. "I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do." "Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause." "Thirteen's my lucky number, too," remarked the Scarecrow. "And mine," said Scraps. "I've just thirteen patches on my head." "But," continued Ojo, "I'm left-handed." "Many of our greatest men are that way," asserted the Emperor. "To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed." "And I've a wart under my right arm," said Ojo. "How lucky!" cried the Tin Woodman. "If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way." "For all those reasons," said the Munchkin boy, "I have been called Ojo the Unlucky." "Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky," declared the tin man. "Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky." "How can I?" asked the boy, "when all my attempts to save my dear uncle have failed?" "Never give up, Ojo," advised Dorothy. "No one ever knows what's going to happen next." Ojo did not reply, but he was so dejected that even their arrival at the Emerald City failed to interest him. The people joyfully cheered the appearance of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow and Dorothy, who were all three general favorites, and on entering the royal palace word came to them from Ozma that she would at once grant them an audience. Dorothy told the girl Ruler how successful they had been in their quest until they came to the item of the yellow butterfly, which the Tin Woodman positively refused to sacrifice to the magic potion. [Illustration] "He is quite right," said Ozma, who did not seem a bit surprised. "Had Ojo told me that one of the things he sought was the wing of a yellow butterfly I would have informed him, before he started out, that he could never secure it. Then you would have been saved the troubles and annoyances of your long journey." "I didn't mind the journey at all," said Dorothy; "it was fun." "As it has turned out," remarked Ojo, "I can never get the things the Crooked Magician sent me for; and so, unless I wait the six years for him to make the Powder of Life, Unc Nunkie cannot be saved." Ozma smiled. "Dr. Pipt will make no more Powder of Life, I promise you," said she. "I have sent for him and had him brought to this palace, where he now is, and his four kettles have been destroyed and his book of recipes burned up. I have also had brought here the marble statues of your uncle and of Margolotte, which are standing in the next room." They were all greatly astonished at this announcement. "Oh, let me see Unc Nunkie! Let me see him at once, please!" cried Ojo eagerly. "Wait a moment," replied Ozma, "for I have something more to say. Nothing that happens in the Land of Oz escapes the notice of our wise Sorceress, Glinda the Good. She knew all about the magic-making of Dr. Pipt, and how he had brought the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl to life, and the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and of Ojo's quest and his journey with Dorothy. Glinda also knew that Ojo would fail to find all the things he sought, so she sent for our Wizard and instructed him what to do. Something is going to happen in this palace, presently, and that 'something' will, I am sure, please you all. And now," continued the girl Ruler, rising from her chair, "you may follow me into the next room." [Illustration] [Illustration] THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ CHAP. 28 [Illustration] When Ojo entered the room he ran quickly to the statue of Unc Nunkie and kissed the marble face affectionately. "I did my best, Unc," he said, with a sob, "but it was no use!" Then he drew back and looked around the room, and the sight of the assembled company quite amazed him. Aside from the marble statues of Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, the Glass Cat was there, curled up on a rug; and the Woozy was there, sitting on its square hind legs and looking on the scene with solemn interest; and there was the Shaggy Man, in a suit of shaggy pea-green satin, and at a table sat the little Wizard, looking quite important and as if he knew much more than he cared to tell. Last of all, Dr. Pipt was there, and the Crooked Magician sat humped up in a chair, seeming very dejected but keeping his eyes fixed on the lifeless form of his wife Margolotte, whom he fondly loved but whom he now feared was lost to him forever. Ozma took a chair which Jellia Jamb wheeled forward for the Ruler, and back of her stood the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and Dorothy, as well as the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger. The Wizard now arose and made a low bow to Ozma and another less deferent bow to the assembled company. "Ladies and gentlemen and beasts," he said, "I beg to announce that our Gracious Ruler has permitted me to obey the commands of the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, whose humble Assistant I am proud to be. We have discovered that the Crooked Magician has been indulging in his magical arts contrary to Law, and therefore, by Royal Edict, I hereby deprive him of all power to work magic in the future. He is no longer a crooked magician, but a simple Munchkin; he is no longer even crooked, but a man like other men." As he pronounced these words the Wizard waved his hand toward Dr. Pipt and instantly every crooked limb straightened out and became perfect. The former magician, with a cry of joy, sprang to his feet, looked at himself in wonder, and then fell back in his chair and watched the Wizard with fascinated interest. [Illustration] "The Glass Cat, which Dr. Pipt lawlessly made," continued the Wizard, "is a pretty cat, but its pink brains made it so conceited that it was a disagreeable companion to everyone. So the other day I took away the pink brains and replaced them with transparent ones, and now the Glass Cat is so modest and well behaved that Ozma has decided to keep her in the palace as a pet." "I thank you," said the cat, in a soft voice. "The Woozy has proved himself a good Woozy and a faithful friend," the Wizard went on, "so we will send him to the Royal Menagerie, where he will have good care and plenty to eat all his life." "Much obliged," said the Woozy. "That beats being fenced up in a lonely forest and starved." "As for the Patchwork Girl," resumed the Wizard, "she is so remarkable in appearance, and so clever and good tempered, that our Gracious Ruler intends to preserve her carefully, as one of the curiosities of the curious Land of Oz. Scraps may live in the palace, or wherever she pleases, and be nobody's servant but her own." "That's all right," said Scraps. "We have all been interested in Ojo," the little Wizard continued, "because his love for his unfortunate uncle has led him bravely to face all sorts of dangers, in order that he might rescue him. The Munchkin boy has a loyal and generous heart and has done his best to restore Unc Nunkie to life. He has failed, but there are others more powerful than the Crooked Magician, and there are more ways than Dr. Pipt knew of to destroy the charm of the Liquid of Petrifaction. Glinda the Good has told me of one way, and you shall now learn how great is the knowledge and power of our peerless Sorceress." [Illustration] As he said this the Wizard advanced to the statue of Margolotte and made a magic pass, at the same time muttering a magic word that none could hear distinctly. At once the woman moved, turned her head wonderingly this way and that, to note all who stood before her, and seeing Dr. Pipt, ran forward and threw herself into her husband's outstretched arms. Then the Wizard made the magic pass and spoke the magic word before the statue of Unc Nunkie. The old Munchkin immediately came to life and with a low bow to the Wizard said: "Thanks." But now Ojo rushed up and threw his arms joyfully about his uncle, and the old man hugged his little nephew tenderly and stroked his hair and wiped away the boy's tears with a handkerchief, for Ojo was crying from pure happiness. Ozma came forward to congratulate them. "I have given to you, my dear Ojo and Unc Nunkie, a nice house just outside the walls of the Emerald City," she said, "and there you shall make your future home and be under my protection." "Didn't I say you were Ojo the Lucky?" asked the Tin Woodman, as everyone crowded around to shake Ojo's hand. "Yes; and it is true!" replied Ojo, gratefully. [Illustration] THE END The Land of Oz The title page of this book says that it is "an account of the further adventures of the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and also the experiences of the Highly Magnified Woggle-Bug, Jack Pumpkinhead, the Animated Saw-Horse and the Gump." Also in this book Mr. Baum first presents Princess Ozma of Oz, Mombi, the witch; General Jinjur, and Dr. Nikidik, inventor of the famous wishing pills. In the country of the Gillikins lives a boy named Tip, who has been bewitched by old Mombi. Tip makes Jack Pumpkinhead from a pumpkin, a frame of sticks and some old clothes; Jack is brought to life through one of the witch's mysterious possessions, and then Tip and Jack run away. Soon they meet the Animated Saw-Horse, on whom they ride, and then the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. Thereafter one adventure follows fast upon another until the travelers, by the aid of the wonderful Gump, reach the palace of Glinda the Good, who lifts from Tip the spell of the old witch--with a most astonishing result. "The Land of Oz" was the first of Mr. Baum's books to be illustrated by John R. Neill, now a noted artist. Mr. Neill's wonderful success in picturing the peculiar creations of the author led to a permanent alliance between these two favorites of the children, and all of Mr. Baum's later books have been adorned with Mr. Neill's pictures. In the Land of Oz are about one hundred and fifty black-and-white illustrations and sixteen charming full-page pictures in colors. Ozma of Oz As one little girl said, this is a "_real Ozzy_" book. It tells "more about Little Dorothy," and introduces the Yellow Hen, Tiktok, the Hungry Tiger, the Nome King, and many other remarkable personages. Our old friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, play prominent parts. There is a frightful storm at sea, during which Dorothy and Billina, the Yellow Hen, are cast ashore. Here, after escaping the Wheelers, they come across the mechanical man, Tiktok, and the three proceed through the Land of Ev to the palace of a wicked princess, where they are all imprisoned. They are rescued by Ozma, the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman. All then proceed to the realm of the Nome King to effect the release of the Royal Family of Ev, who have been enchanted by that cross old monarch. This done, after many trials and difficulties, the adventurers return to the Emerald City, where at a great feast the Hungry Tiger loses his appetite! Billina is one of Mr. Baum's most delightful characters. All readers will enjoy her wit and humor, which is backed up with much sound sense. The Hungry Tiger is a worthy companion to our old friend, the Cowardly Lion. For Ozma of Oz, Mr. Neill made forty-one full page colored pictures, twenty-two half pages in color, and more than fifty text illustrations, besides special end-sheets and other decorations. It is one of the most gorgeous of children's books. Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz First thing--bang! And an earthquake drops Dorothy and Zeb, her boy companion, through the earth's crust plumb into the Glass City. Here they soon meet the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, who also has fallen into this remarkable town. In company with Jim, the Cab Horse, Eureka, the Discontented Kitten, and the Nine Tiny Piglets, Dorothy and her friends are condemned to die, but escape into a tunnel through which they pass into the Valley of Voices. In their efforts to reach either the surface of the earth or the Land of Oz, where they would be helped by the powerful Princess Ozma, they meet many dangers and have numerous startling encounters with strange beings. Finally they are rescued by Ozma and are safe in the Emerald City. Here there is a great reunion, attended by the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger and many other of our old friends of Oz. Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz is embellished with sixteen full-page inserts after paintings by John R. Neill. These pictures are reproduced in full color by the most improved methods and are highly artistic and beautiful. In addition, there are many black-and-white illustrations, chapter headings, tail-pieces and decorations. The cover has an inlay printed in four colors and gold. The Road to Oz This is a novelty in bookmaking for children. As the scene shifts from one part to another of Mr. Baum's unique fairyland the tints of the paper used for printing change from color to color in accordance with the hue of the Country described. This color scheme, in connection with Mr. Neill's delightful and characteristic illustrations--over one hundred--make a truly wonderful book. Among the new characters introduced are Button-Bright, the Shaggy Man, King Dox and Johnny Doit. The Road to Oz is a marvelous road, along which Dorothy and her companions find many curious and strange inhabitants. They finally reach Oz and visit the Castle of Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman, now become Emperor of the Winkies, by whom they are escorted to the farm of Jack Pumpkinhead and to the Emerald City. Here Princess Ozma gives a banquet, at which the guests are beyond doubt the most amazing collection ever assembled under one roof, including Santa Claus, the Queen of Merryland, Para Bruin, the rubber bear; the King of the Quadlings, the Candy Man, the Queen of Ev, Jellia Jamb, General Jinjur, the Soldier with the Green Whiskers; Polychrome, the Rainbow's Daughter, the Incubator Baby and John Dough. Transcriber's Note: The alternative spelling for Tik-tok as "Tiktok" used in the advertisements at the end of the book; and the spelling of "UNK" in the first chapter heading illustration have been retained as they appear in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows: Page 68 Hyphen added to "bed-quilt" in "bed-quilt and intended to be". Page 145 "advise" to "advice" in "Shaggy Man's advice" Page 245 "solemly" to "solemnly" in "said the Scarecrow solemnly" Page 260 Closing quotation mark added to "let's go back." Page 279 Fullstop to comma in "Can't you talk from this side," Page 294 "Hoppers" to "Horners" in "and again the Horners laughed" Page 309 Closing quotation mark added to "... I could swim, or not," 
518	----	The Enchanted Island of Yew Whereon Prince Marvel Encountered the High Ki of Twi and Other Surprising People By L. Frank Baum Author of "The Wizard of Oz," "The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus," "The Magical Monarch of Mo," Etc. Contents 1. Once On a Time 2. The Enchanted Isle 3. The Fairy Bower 4. Prince Marvel 5. The King of Thieves 6. The Troubles of Nerle 7. The Gray Men 8. The Fool-Killer 9. The Royal Dragon of Spor 10. Prince Marvel Wins His Fight 11. The Cunning of King Terribus 12. The Gift of Beauty 13. The Hidden Kingdom of Twi 14. The Ki and The Ki-Ki 15. The High Ki of Twi 16. The Rebellion of The High Ki 17. The Separation of The High Ki 18. The Rescue of The High Ki 19. The Reunion of The High Ki 20. Kwytoffle, the Tyrant 21. The Wonderful Book of Magic 22. The Queen of Plenta 23. The Red Rogue of Dawna 24. The Enchanted Mirrors 25. The Adventurers Separate 26. The End of the Year 27. A Hundred Years Afterward 1. "Once on a Time" I am going to tell a story, one of those tales of astonishing adventures that happened years and years and years ago. Perhaps you wonder why it is that so many stories are told of "once on a time", and so few of these days in which we live; but that is easily explained. In the old days, when the world was young, there were no automobiles nor flying-machines to make one wonder; nor were there railway trains, nor telephones, nor mechanical inventions of any sort to keep people keyed up to a high pitch of excitement. Men and women lived simply and quietly. They were Nature's children, and breathed fresh air into their lungs instead of smoke and coal gas; and tramped through green meadows and deep forests instead of riding in street cars; and went to bed when it grew dark and rose with the sun--which is vastly different from the present custom. Having no books to read they told their adventures to one another and to their little ones; and the stories were handed down from generation to generation and reverently believed. Those who peopled the world in the old days, having nothing but their hands to depend on, were to a certain extent helpless, and so the fairies were sorry for them and ministered to their wants patiently and frankly, often showing themselves to those they befriended. So people knew fairies in those days, my dear, and loved them, together with all the ryls and knooks and pixies and nymphs and other beings that belong to the hordes of immortals. And a fairy tale was a thing to be wondered at and spoken of in awed whispers; for no one thought of doubting its truth. To-day the fairies are shy; for so many curious inventions of men have come into use that the wonders of Fairyland are somewhat tame beside them, and even the boys and girls can not be so easily interested or surprised as in the old days. So the sweet and gentle little immortals perform their tasks unseen and unknown, and live mostly in their own beautiful realms, where they are almost unthought of by our busy, bustling world. Yet when we come to story-telling the marvels of our own age shrink into insignificance beside the brave deeds and absorbing experiences of the days when fairies were better known; and so we go back to "once on a time" for the tales that we most love--and that children have ever loved since mankind knew that fairies exist. 2. The Enchanted Isle Once there was an enchanted island in the middle of the sea. It was called the Isle of Yew. And in it were five important kingdoms ruled by men, and many woodland dells and forest glades and pleasant meadows and grim mountains inhabited by fairies. From the fairies some of the men had learned wonderful secrets, and had become magicians and sorcerers, with powers so great that the entire island was reputed to be one of enchantments. Who these men were the common people did not always know; for while some were kings and rulers, others lived quietly hidden away in forests or mountains, and seldom or never showed themselves. Indeed, there were not so many of these magicians as people thought, only it was so hard to tell them from common folk that every stranger was regarded with a certain amount of curiosity and fear. The island was round--like a mince pie. And it was divided into four quarters--also like a pie--except that there was a big place in the center where the fifth kingdom, called Spor, lay in the midst of the mountains. Spor was ruled by King Terribus, whom no one but his own subjects had ever seen--and not many of them. For no one was allowed to enter the Kingdom of Spor, and its king never left his palace. But the people of Spor had a bad habit of rushing down from their mountains and stealing the goods of the inhabitants of the other four kingdoms, and carrying them home with them, without offering any apologies whatever for such horrid conduct. Sometimes those they robbed tried to fight them; but they were a terrible people, consisting of giants with huge clubs, and dwarfs who threw flaming darts, and the stern Gray Men of Spor, who were most frightful of all. So, as a rule, every one fled before them, and the people were thankful that the fierce warriors of Spor seldom came to rob them oftener than once a year. It was on this account that all who could afford the expense built castles to live in, with stone walls so thick that even the giants of Spor could not batter them down. And the children were not allowed to stray far from home for fear some roving band of robbers might steal them and make their parents pay large sums for their safe return. Yet for all this the people of the Enchanted Isle of Yew were happy and prosperous. No grass was greener, no forests more cool and delightful, no skies more sunny, no sea more blue and rippling than theirs. And the nations of the world envied them, but dared not attempt to conquer an island abounding in enchantments. 3. The Fairy Bower That part of the Enchanted Isle which was kissed by the rising sun was called Dawna; the kingdom that was tinted rose and purple by the setting sun was known as Auriel, and the southland, where fruits and flowers abounded, was the kingdom of Plenta. Up at the north lay Heg, the home of the great barons who feared not even the men of Spor; and in the Kingdom of Heg our story opens. Upon a beautiful plain stood the castle of the great Baron Merd--renowned alike in war and peace, and second in importance only to the King of Heg. It was a castle of vast extent, built with thick walls and protected by strong gates. In front of it sloped a pretty stretch of land with the sea glistening far beyond; and back of it, but a short distance away, was the edge of the Forest of Lurla. One fair summer day the custodian of the castle gates opened a wicket and let down a draw-bridge, when out trooped three pretty girls with baskets dangling on their arms. One of the maids walked in front of her companions, as became the only daughter of the mighty Baron Merd. She was named Seseley, and had yellow hair and red cheeks and big, blue eyes. Behind her, merry and laughing, yet with a distinct deference to the high station of their young lady, walked Berna and Helda--dark brunettes with mischievous eyes and slender, lithe limbs. Berna was the daughter of the chief archer, and Helda the niece of the captain of the guard, and they were appointed play-fellows and comrades of the fair Seseley. Up the hill to the forest's edge ran the three, and then without hesitation plunged into the shade of the ancient trees. There was no sunlight now, but the air was cool and fragrant of nuts and mosses, and the children skipped along the paths joyously and without fear. To be sure, the Forest of Lurla was well known as the home of fairies, but Seseley and her comrades feared nothing from such gentle creatures and only longed for an interview with the powerful immortals whom they had been taught to love as the tender guardians of mankind. Nymphs there were in Lurla, as well, and crooked knooks, it was said; yet for many years past no person could boast the favor of meeting any one of the fairy creatures face to face. So, gathering a few nuts here and a sweet forest flower there, the three maidens walked farther and farther into the forest until they came upon a clearing--formed like a circle--with mosses and ferns for its carpet and great overhanging branches for its roof. "How pretty!" cried Seseley, gaily. "Let us eat our luncheon in this lovely banquet-hall!" So Berna and Helda spread a cloth and brought from their baskets some golden platters and a store of food. Yet there was little ceremony over the meal, you may be sure, and within a short space all the children had satisfied their appetites and were laughing and chatting as merrily as if they were at home in the great castle. Indeed, it is certain they were happier in their forest glade than when facing grim walls of stone, and the three were in such gay spirits that whatever one chanced to say the others promptly joined in laughing over. Soon, however, they were startled to hear a silvery peal of laughter answering their own, and turning to see whence the sound proceeded, they found seated near them a creature so beautiful that at once the three pairs of eyes opened to their widest extent, and three hearts beat much faster than before. "Well, I must say you DO stare!" exclaimed the newcomer, who was clothed in soft floating robes of rose and pearl color, and whose eyes shone upon them like two stars. "Forgive our impertinence," answered the little Lady Seseley, trying to appear dignified and unmoved; "but you must acknowledge that you came among us uninvited, and--and you are certainly rather odd in appearance." Again the silvery laughter rang through the glade. "Uninvited!" echoed the creature, clapping her hands together delightedly; "uninvited to my own forest home! Why, my dear girls, you are the uninvited ones--indeed you are--to thus come romping into our fairy bower." The children did not open their eyes any wider on hearing this speech, for they could not; but their faces expressed their amazement fully, while Helda gasped the words: "A fairy bower! We are in a fairy bower!" "Most certainly," was the reply. "And as for being odd in appearance, let me ask how you could reasonably expect a fairy to appear as mortal maidens do?" "A fairy!" exclaimed Seseley. "Are you, then, a real fairy?" "I regret to say I am," returned the other, more soberly, as she patted a moss-bank with a silver-tipped wand. Then for a moment there was silence, while the three girls sat very still and stared at their immortal companion with evident curiosity. Finally Seseley asked: "Why do you regret being a fairy? I have always thought them the happiest creatures in the world." "Perhaps we ought to be happy," answered the fairy, gravely, "for we have wonderful powers and do much to assist you helpless mortals. And I suppose some of us really are happy. But, for my part, I am so utterly tired of a fairy life that I would do anything to change it." "That is strange," declared Berna. "You seem very young to be already discontented with your lot." Now at this the fairy burst into laughter again, and presently asked: "How old do you think me?" "About our own age," said Berna, after a glance at her and a moment's reflection. "Nonsense!" retorted the fairy, sharply. "These trees are hundreds of years old, yet I remember when they were mere twigs. And I remember when mortals first came to live upon this island, yes--and when this island was first created and rose from the sea after a great earthquake. I remember for many, many centuries, my dears. I have grown tired of remembering--and of being a fairy continually, without any change to brighten my life." "To be sure!" said Seseley, with sympathy. "I never thought of fairy life in that way before. It must get to be quite tiresome." "And think of the centuries I must yet live!" exclaimed the fairy in a dismal voice. "Isn't it an awful thing to look forward to?" "It is, indeed," agreed Seseley. "I'd be glad to exchange lives with you," said Helda, looking at the fairy with intense admiration. "But you can't do that," answered the little creature quickly. "Mortals can't become fairies, you know--although I believe there was once a mortal who was made immortal." "But fairies can become anything they desire!" cried Berna. "Oh, no, they can't. You are mistaken if you believe that," was the reply. "I could change YOU into a fly, or a crocodile, or a bobolink, if I wanted to; but fairies can't change themselves into anything else." "How strange!" murmured Seseley, much impressed. "But YOU can," cried the fairy, jumping up and coming toward them. "You are mortals, and, by the laws that govern us, a mortal can change a fairy into anything she pleases." "Oh!" said Seseley, filled with amazement at the idea. The fairy fell on her knees before the baron's daughter. "Please--please, dear Seseley," she pleaded, "change me into a mortal!" 4. Prince Marvel It is easy to imagine the astonishment of the three girls at hearing this strange request. They gazed in a bewildered fashion upon the kneeling fairy, and were at first unable to answer one word. Then Seseley said--sadly, for she grieved to disappoint the pretty creature: "We are but mortal children, and have no powers of enchantment at all." "Ah, that is true, so far as concerns yourselves," replied the fairy, eagerly; "yet mortals may easily transform fairies into anything they wish." "If that is so, why have we never heard of this power before?" asked Seseley. "Because fairies, as a rule, are content with their lot, and do not wish to appear in any form but their own. And, knowing that evil or mischievous mortals can transform them at will, the fairies take great care to remain invisible, so they can not be interfered with. Have you ever," she asked, suddenly, "seen a fairy before?" "Never," replied Seseley. "Nor would you have seen me to-day, had I not known you were kind and pure-hearted, or had I not resolved to ask you to exercise your powers upon me." "I must say," remarked Helda, boldly, "that you are foolish to wish to become anything different from what you are." "For you are very beautiful NOW," added Berna, admiringly. "Beautiful!" retorted the fairy, with a little frown; "what does beauty amount to, if one is to remain invisible?" "Not much, that is true," agreed Berna, smoothing her own dark locks. "And as for being foolish," continued the fairy, "I ought to be allowed to act foolishly if I want to. For centuries past I have not had a chance to do a single foolish thing." "Poor dear!" said Helda, softly. Seseley had listened silently to this conversation. Now she inquired: "What do you wish to become?" "A mortal!" answered the fairy, promptly. "A girl, like ourselves?" questioned the baron's daughter. "Perhaps," said the fairy, as if undecided. "Then you would be likely to endure many privations," said Seseley, gently. "For you would have neither father nor mother to befriend you, nor any house to live in." "And if you hired your services to some baron, you would be obliged to wash dishes all day, or mend clothing, or herd cattle," said Berna. "But I should travel all over the island," said the fairy, brightly, "and that is what I long to do. I do not care to work." "I fear a girl would not be allowed to travel alone," Seseley remarked, after some further thought. "At least," she added, "I have never heard of such a thing." "No," said the fairy, rather bitterly, "your men are the ones that roam abroad and have adventures of all kinds. Your women are poor, weak creatures, I remember." There was no denying this, so the three girls sat silent until Seseley asked: "Why do you wish to become a mortal?" "To gain exciting experiences," answered the fairy. "I'm tired of being a humdrum fairy year in and year out. Of course, I do not wish to become a mortal for all time, for that would get monotonous, too; but to live a short while as the earth people do would amuse me very much." "If you want variety, you should become a boy," said Helda, with a laugh, "The life of a boy is one round of excitement." "Then make me a boy!" exclaimed the fairy eagerly. "A boy!" they all cried in consternation. And Seseley added: "Why--you're a GIRL fairy, aren't you?" "Well--yes; I suppose I am," answered the beautiful creature, smiling; "but as you are going to change me anyway, I may as well become a boy as a girl." "Better!" declared Helda, clapping her hands; "for then you can do as you please." "But would it be right?" asked Seseley, with hesitation. "Why not?" retorted the fairy. "I can see nothing wrong in being a boy. Make me a tall, slender youth, with waving brown hair and dark eyes. Then I shall be as unlike my own self as possible, and the adventure will be all the more interesting. Yes; I like the idea of being a boy very much indeed." "But I don't know how to transform you; some one will have to show me the way to do it," protested Seseley, who was getting worried over the task set her. "Oh, that will be easy enough," returned the little immortal. "Have you a wand?" "No." "Then I'll loan you mine, for I shall not need it. And you must wave it over my head three times and say: 'By my mortal powers I transform you into a boy for the space of one year'." "One year! Isn't that too long?" "It's a very short time to one who has lived thousands of years as a fairy." "That is true," answered the baron's daughter. "Now, I'll begin by doing a little transforming myself," said the fairy, getting upon her feet again, "and you can watch and see how I do it." She brushed a bit of moss from her gauzy skirts and continued: "If I'm to become a boy I shall need a horse, you know. A handsome, prancing steed, very fleet of foot." A moment she stood motionless, as if listening. Then she uttered a low but shrill whistle. The three girls, filled with eager interest, watched her intently. Presently a trampling of footsteps was heard through the brushwood, and a beautiful deer burst from the forest and fearlessly ran to the fairy. Without hesitation she waved her wand above the deer's head and exclaimed: "By all my fairy powers I command you to become a war-horse for the period of one year." Instantly the deer disappeared, and in its place was a handsome charger, milk-white in color, with flowing mane and tail. Upon its back was a saddle sparkling with brilliant gems sewn upon fine dressed leather. The girls uttered cries of astonishment and delight, and the fairy said: "You see, these transformations are not at all difficult. I must now have a sword." She plucked a twig from a near-by tree and cast it upon the ground at her feet. Again she waved her wand--and the twig turned to a gleaming sword, richly engraved, that seemed to the silent watchers to tremble slightly in its sheath, as if its heart of steel throbbed with hopes of battles to come. "And now I must have shield and armor," said the fairy, gaily. "This will make a shield,"--and she stripped a sheet of loose bark from a tree-trunk,--"but for armor I must have something better. Will you give me your cloak?" This appeal was made to Seseley, and the baron's daughter drew her white velvet cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the fairy. A moment later it was transformed into a suit of glittering armor that seemed fashioned of pure silver inlaid with gold, while the sheet of bark at the same time became a handsome shield, with the figures of three girls graven upon it. Seseley recognized the features as those of herself and her comrades, and noted also that they appeared sitting at the edge of a forest, the great trees showing plainly in the background. "I shall be your champion, you see," laughed the fairy, gleefully, "and maybe I shall be able to repay you for the loss of your cloak." "I do not mind the cloak," returned the child, who had been greatly interested in these strange transformations. "But it seems impossible that a dainty little girl like you can ride this horse and carry these heavy arms." "I'll not be a girl much longer," said the little creature. "Here, take my wand, and transform me into a noble youth!" Again the pretty fairy kneeled before Seseley, her dainty, rounded limbs of white and rose showing plainly through her gauzy attire. And the baron's daughter was suddenly inspired to be brave, not wishing to disappoint the venturous immortal. So she rose and took the magic wand in her hand, waving it three times above the head of the fairy. "By my powers as a mortal," she said, marveling even then at the strange speech, "I command you to become a brave and gallant youth--handsome, strong, fearless! And such shall you remain for the space of one year." As she ceased speaking the fairy was gone, and a slender youth, dark-eyed and laughing, was holding her hand in his and kissing it gratefully. "I thank you, most lovely maiden," he said, in a pleasant voice, "for giving me a place in the world of mortals. I shall ride at once in search of adventure, but my good sword is ever at your service." With this he gracefully arose and began to buckle on his magnificent armor and to fasten the sword to his belt. Seseley drew a long, sighing breath of amazement at her own powers, and turning to Berna and Helda she asked: "Do I see aright? Is the little fairy really transformed to this youth?" "It certainly seems so," returned Helda, who, being unabashed by the marvels she had beheld, turned to gaze boldly upon the young knight. "Do you still remember that a moment ago you were a fairy?" she inquired. "Yes, indeed," said he, smiling; "and I am really a fairy now, being but changed in outward form. But no one must know this save yourselves, until the year has expired and I resume my true station. Will you promise to guard my secret?" "Oh, yes!" they exclaimed, in chorus. For they were delighted, as any children might well be, at having so remarkable a secret to keep and talk over among themselves. "I must ask one more favor," continued the youth: "that you give me a name; for in this island I believe all men bear names of some sort, to distinguish them one from another." "True," said Seseley, thoughtfully. "What were you called as a fairy?" "That does not matter in the least," he answered, hastily. "I must have an entirely new name." "Suppose we call him the Silver Knight," suggested Berna, as she eyed his glistening armor. "Oh, no!--that is no name at all!" declared Helda. "We might better call him Baron Strongarm." "I do not like that, either," said the Lady Seseley, "for we do not know whether his arm is strong or not. But he has been transformed in a most astonishing and bewildering manner before our very eyes, and I think the name of Prince Marvel would suit him very well." "Excellent!" cried the youth, picking up his richly graven shield. "The name seems fitting in every way. And for a year I shall be known to all this island as Prince Marvel!" 5. The King of Thieves Old Marshelm, the captain of the guard, was much surprised when he saw the baron's daughter and her playmates approach her father's castle escorted by a knight in glittering armor. To be sure it was a rather small knight, but the horse he led by the bridle was so stately and magnificent in appearance that old Marshelm, who was an excellent judge of horses, at once decided the stranger must be a personage of unusual importance. As they came nearer the captain of the guard also observed the beauty of the little knight's armor, and caught the glint of jewels set in the handle of his sword; so he called his men about him and prepared to receive the knight with the honors doubtless due his high rank. But to the captain's disappointment the stranger showed no intention of entering the castle. On the contrary, he kissed the little Lady Seseley's hand respectfully, waved an adieu to the others, and then mounted his charger and galloped away over the plains. The drawbridge was let down to permit the three children to enter, and the great Baron Merd came himself to question his daughter. "Who was the little knight?" he asked. "His name is Prince Marvel," answered Seseley, demurely. "Prince Marvel?" exclaimed the Baron. "I have never heard of him. Does he come from the Kingdom of Dawna, or that of Auriel, or Plenta?" "That I do not know," said Seseley, with truth. "Where did you meet him?" continued the baron. "In the forest, my father, and he kindly escorted us home." "Hm!" muttered the baron, thoughtfully. "Did he say what adventure brought him to our Kingdom of Heg?" "No, father. But he mentioned being in search of adventure." "Oh, he'll find enough to busy him in this wild island, where every man he meets would rather draw his sword than eat," returned the old warrior, smiling. "How old may this Prince Marvel be?" "He looks not over fifteen years of age," said Seseley, uneasy at so much questioning, for she did not wish to be forced to tell an untruth. "But it is possible he is much older," she added, beginning to get confused. "Well, well; I am sorry he did not pay my castle a visit," declared the baron. "He is very small and slight to be traveling this dangerous country alone, and I might have advised him as to his welfare." Seseley thought that Prince Marvel would need no advice from any one as to his conduct; but she wisely refrained from speaking this thought, and the old baron walked away to glance through a slit in the stone wall at the figure of the now distant knight. Prince Marvel was riding swiftly toward the brow of the hill, and shortly his great war-horse mounted the ascent and disappeared on its farther slope. The youth's heart was merry and light, and he reflected joyously, as he rode along, that a whole year of freedom and fascinating adventure lay before him. The valley in which he now found himself was very beautiful, the soft grass beneath his horse's feet being sprinkled with bright flowers, while clumps of trees stood here and there to break the monotony of the landscape. For an hour the prince rode along, rejoicing in the free motion of his horse and breathing in the perfume-laden air. Then he found he had crossed the valley and was approaching a series of hills. These were broken by huge rocks, the ground being cluttered with boulders of rough stone. His horse speedily found a pathway leading through these rocks, but was obliged to proceed at a walk, turning first one way and then another as the path zigzagged up the hill. Presently, being engaged in deep thought and little noting the way, Prince Marvel rode between two high walls of rock standing so close together that horse and rider could scarcely pass between the sides. Having traversed this narrow space some distance the wall opened suddenly upon a level plat of ground, where grass and trees grew. It was not a very big place, but was surely the end of the path, as all around it stood bare walls so high and steep that neither horse nor man could climb them. In the side of the rocky wall facing the entrance the traveler noticed a hollow, like the mouth of a cave, across which was placed an iron gate. And above the gateway was painted in red letters on the gray stone the following words: WUL-TAKIM KING OF THIEVES ------ HIS TREASURE HOUSE KEEP OUT Prince Marvel laughed on reading this, and after getting down from his saddle he advanced to the iron gate and peered through its heavy bars. "I have no idea who this Wul-Takim is," he said, "for I know nothing at all of the ways of men outside the forest in which I have always dwelt. But thieves are bad people, I am quite sure, and since Wul-Takim is the king of thieves he must be by far the worst man on this island." Then he saw, through the bars of the gate, that a great cavern lay beyond, in which were stacked treasures of all sorts: rich cloths, golden dishes and ornaments, gemmed coronets and bracelets, cleverly forged armor, shields and battle-axes. Also there were casks and bales of merchandise of every sort. The gate appeared to have no lock, so Prince Marvel opened it and walked in. Then he perceived, perched on the very top of a pyramid of casks, the form of a boy, who sat very still and watched him with a look of astonishment upon his face. "What are you doing up there?" asked the prince. "Nothing," said the boy. "If I moved the least little bit this pile of casks would topple over, and I should be thrown to the ground." "Well," returned the prince, "what of it?" But just then he glanced at the ground and saw why the boy did not care to tumble down. For in the earth were planted many swords, with their sharp blades pointing upward, and to fall upon these meant serious wounds and perhaps death. "Oh, ho!" cried Marvel; "I begin to understand. You are a prisoner." "Yes; as you will also be shortly," answered the boy. "And then you will understand another thing--that you were very reckless ever to enter this cave." "Why?" inquired the prince, who really knew little of the world, and was interested in everything he saw and heard. "Because it is the stronghold of the robber king, and when you opened that gate you caused a bell to ring far down on the hillside. So the robbers are now warned that an enemy is in their cave, and they will soon arrive to make you a prisoner, even as I am." "Ah, I see!" said the prince, with a laugh, "It is a rather clever contrivance; but having been warned in time I should indeed be foolish to be caught in such a trap." With this he half drew his sword, but thinking that robbers were not worthy to be slain with its untarnished steel, he pushed it back into the jeweled scabbard and looked around for another weapon. A stout oaken staff lay upon the ground, and this he caught up and ran with it from the cave, placing himself just beside the narrow opening that led into this rock-encompassed plain. For he quickly saw that this was the only way any one could enter or leave the place, and therefore knew the robbers were coming up the narrow gorge even as he had himself done. Soon they were heard stumbling along at a rapid pace, crying to one another to make haste and catch the intruder. The first that came through the opening received so sharp a blow upon the head from Prince Marvel's oak staff that he fell to the ground and lay still, while the next was treated in a like manner and fell beside his comrade. Perhaps the thieves had not expected so sturdy an enemy, for they continued to rush through the opening in the rocks and to fall beneath the steady blows of the prince's staff until every one of them lay senseless before the victor. At first they had piled themselves upon one another very neatly; but the pile got so high at last that the prince was obliged to assist the last thieves to leap to the top of the heap before they completely lost their senses. I have no doubt our prince, feeling himself yet strange in the new form he had acquired, and freshly transported from the forest glades in which he had always lived, was fully as much astonished at his deed of valor as were the robbers themselves; and if he shuddered a little when looking upon the heap of senseless thieves you must forgive him this weakness. For he straightway resolved to steel his heart to such sights and to be every bit as stern and severe as a mortal knight would have been. Throwing down his staff he ran to the cave again, and stepping between the sword points he approached the pile of casks and held out his arms to the boy who was perched upon the top. "The thieves are conquered," he cried. "Jump down!" "I won't," said the boy. "Why not?" inquired the prince. "Can't you see I'm very miserable?" asked the boy, in return; "don't you understand that every minute I expect to fall upon those sword points?" "But I will catch you," cried the prince. "I don't want you to catch me," said the boy. "I want to be miserable. It's the first chance I've ever had, and I'm enjoying my misery very much." This speech so astonished Prince Marvel that for a moment he stood motionless. Then he retorted, angrily: "You're a fool!" "If I wasn't so miserable up here, I'd come down and thrash you for that," said the boy, with a sigh. This answer so greatly annoyed Prince Marvel that he gave the central cask of the pyramid a sudden push, and the next moment the casks were tumbling in every direction, while the boy fell headlong in their midst. But Marvel caught him deftly in his arms, and so saved him from the sword points. "There!" he said, standing the boy upon his feet; "now you are released from your misery." "And I should be glad to punish you for your interference," declared the boy, gloomily eying his preserver, "had you not saved my life by catching me. According to the code of honor of knighthood I can not harm one who has saved my life until I have returned the obligation. Therefore, for the present I shall pardon your insulting speeches and actions." "But you have also saved my life," answered Prince Marvel; "for had you not warned me of the robbers' return they would surely have caught me." "True," said the boy, brightening up; "therefore our score is now even. But take care not to affront me again, for hereafter I will show you no mercy!" Prince Marvel looked at the boy with wonder. He was about his own size, yet strong and well formed, and he would have been handsome except for the expression of discontent upon his face. Yet his manner and words were so absurd and unnatural that the prince was more amused than angered by his new acquaintance, and presently laughed in his face. "If all the people in this island are like you," he said, "I shall have lots of fun with them. And you are only a boy, after all." "I'm bigger than you!" declared the other, glaring fiercely at the prince. "How much bigger?" asked Marvel, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, ever so much!" "Then fetch along that coil of rope, and follow me," said Prince Marvel. "Fetch the rope yourself!" retorted the boy, bluntly. "I'm not your servant." Then he put his hands in his pockets and coolly walked out of the cave to look at the pile of senseless robbers. Prince Marvel made no reply, but taking the coil of rope on his shoulder he carried it to where the thieves lay and threw it down beside them. Then he cut lengths from the coil with his sword and bound the limbs of each robber securely. Within a half-hour he had laid out a row of thieves extending half way across the grassy plain, and on counting their number he found he had captured fifty-nine of them. This task being accomplished and the robbers rendered helpless, Prince Marvel turned to the boy who stood watching him. "Get a suit of armor from the cave, and a strong sword, and then return here," he said, in a stern voice. "Why should I do that?" asked the boy, rather impudently. "Because I am going to fight you for disobeying my orders; and if you do not protect yourself I shall probably kill you." "That sounds pleasant," said the boy. "But if you should prove my superior in skill I beg you will not kill me at once, but let me die a lingering death." "Why?" asked the prince. "Because I shall suffer more, and that will be delightful." "I am not anxious to kill you, nor to make you suffer," said Marvel, "all that I ask is that you acknowledge me your master." "I won't!" answered the boy. "I acknowledge no master in all the world!" "Then you must fight," declared the prince, gravely. "If you win, I will promise to serve you faithfully; and if I conquer you, then you must acknowledge me your master, and obey my commands." "Agreed!" cried the boy, with sudden energy, and he rushed into the cave and soon returned clad in armor and bearing a sword and shield. On the shield was pictured a bolt of lightning. "Lightning will soon strike those three girls whose champion you seem to be," he said tauntingly. "The three girls defy your lightning!" returned the prince with a smile. "I see you are brave enough." "Brave! Why should I not be?" answered the boy proudly. "I am the Lord Nerle, the son of Neggar, the chief baron of Heg!" The other bowed low. "I am pleased to know your station," he said. "I am called Prince Marvel, and this is my first adventure." "And likely to be your last," exclaimed the boy, sneeringly. "For I am stronger than you, and I have fought many times with full grown men." "Are you ready?" asked Prince Marvel, for answer. "Yes." Then the swords clashed and sparks flew from the blades. But it was not for long. Suddenly Nerle's sword went flying through the air and shattered its blade against a wall of rock. He scowled at Prince Marvel a moment, who smiled back at him. Then the boy rushed into the cave and returned with another sword. Scarcely had the weapons crossed again when with a sudden blow Prince Marvel snapped Nerle's blade in two, and followed this up with a sharp slap upon his ear with the flat of his own sword that fairly bewildered the boy, and made him sit down on the grass to think what had happened to him. Then Prince Marvel's merry laugh rang far across the hills, and so delighted was he at the astonished expression upon Nerle's face that it was many minutes before he could control his merriment and ask his foeman if he had had enough fight. "I suppose I have," replied the boy, rubbing his ear tenderly. "That blow stings most deliciously. But it is a hard thought that the son of Baron Neggar should serve Prince Marvel!" "Do not worry about that," said the prince; "for I assure you my rank is so far above your own that it is no degradation for the son of Neggar to serve me. But come, we must dispose of these thieves. What is the proper fate for such men?" "They are always hanged," answered Nerle, getting upon his feet. "Well, there are trees handy," remarked the prince, although his girlish heart insisted on making him shiver in spite of his resolve to be manly and stern. "Let us get to work and hang them as soon as possible. And then we can proceed upon our journey." Nerle now willingly lent his assistance to his new master, and soon they had placed a rope around the neck of each thief and were ready to dangle them all from the limbs of the trees. But at this juncture the thieves began to regain consciousness, and now Wul-Takim, the big, red-bearded king of the thieves, sat up and asked: "Who is our conqueror?" "Prince Marvel," answered Nerle. "And what army assisted him?" inquired Wul-Takim, curiously gazing upon the prince. "He conquered you alone and single-handed," said Nerle. Hearing this, the big king began to weep bitterly, and the tear-drops ran down his face in such a stream that Prince Marvel ordered Nerle to wipe them away with his handkerchief, as the thief's hands were tied behind his back. "To think!" sobbed Wul-Takim, miserably; "only to think, that after all my terrible deeds and untold wickedness, I have been captured by a mere boy! Oh, boo-hoo! boo-hoo! boo-hoo! It is a terrible disgrace!" "You will not have to bear it long," said the prince, soothingly. "I am going to hang you in a few minutes." "Thanks! Thank you very much!" answered the king, ceasing to weep. "I have always expected to be hanged some day, and I am glad no one but you two boys will witness me when my feet begin kicking about." "I shall not kick," declared another of the thieves, who had also regained his senses. "I shall sing while I am being hanged." "But you can not, my good Gunder," protested the king; "for the rope will cut off your breath, and no man can sing without breath." "Then I shall whistle," said Gunder, composedly. The king cast at him a look of reproach, and turning to Prince Marvel he said: "It will be a great task to string up so many thieves. You look tired. Permit me to assist you to hang the others, and then I will climb into a tree and hang myself from a strong branch, with as little bother as possible." "Oh, I won't think of troubling you," exclaimed Marvel, with a laugh. "Having conquered you alone, I feel it my duty to hang you without assistance--save that of my esquire." "It's no trouble, I assure you; but suit your own convenience," said the thief, carelessly. Then he cast his eye toward the cave and asked: "What will you do with all our treasure?" "Give it to the poor," said Prince Marvel, promptly. "What poor?" "Oh, the poorest people I can find." "Will you permit me to advise you in this matter?" asked the king of thieves, politely. "Yes, indeed; for I am a stranger in this land," returned the prince. "Well, I know a lot of people who are so poor that they have no possessions whatever, neither food to eat, houses to live in, nor any clothing but that which covers their bodies. They can call no man friend, nor will any lift a hand to help them. Indeed, good sir, I verily believe they will soon perish miserably unless you come to their assistance!" "Poor creatures!" exclaimed Prince Marvel, with ready sympathy; "tell me who they are, and I will divide amongst them all your ill-gotten gains." "They are ourselves," replied the king of thieves, with a sigh. Marvel looked at him in amazement, and then burst into joyous laughter. "Yourselves!" he cried, greatly amused. "Indeed, yes!" said Wul-Takim, sadly. "There are no poorer people in all the world, for we have ropes about our necks and are soon to be hanged. To-morrow we shall not have even our flesh left, for the crows will pick our bones." "That is true," remarked Marvel, thoughtfully. "But, if I restore to you the treasure, how will it benefit you, since you are about to die?" "Must you really hang us?" asked the thief. "Yes; I have decreed it, and you deserve your fate." "Why?" "Because you have wickedly taken from helpless people their property, and committed many other crimes besides." "But I have reformed! We have all reformed--have we not, brothers?" "We have!" answered the other thieves, who, having regained their senses, were listening to this conversation with much interest. "And, if you will return to us our treasure, we will promise never to steal again, but to remain honest men and enjoy our wealth in peace," promised the king. "Honest men could not enjoy treasures they have stolen," said Prince Marvel. "True; but this treasure is now yours, having been won by you in fair battle. And if you present it to us it will no longer be stolen treasure, but a generous gift from a mighty prince, which we may enjoy with clear consciences." "Yet there remains the fact that I have promised to hang you," suggested Prince Marvel, with a smile, for the king amused him greatly. "Not at all! Not at all!" cried Wul-Takim. "You promised to hang fifty-nine thieves, and there is no doubt the fifty-nine thieves deserved to be hung. But, consider! We have all reformed our ways and become honest men; so it would be a sad and unkindly act to hang fifty-nine honest men!" "What think you, Nerle?" asked the Prince, turning to his esquire. "Why, the rogue seems to speak truth," said Nerle, scratching his head with a puzzled air, "yet, if he speaks truth, there is little difference between a rogue and an honest man. Ask him, my master, what caused them all to reform so suddenly." "Because we were about to die, and we thought it a good way to save our lives," replied the robber king. "That's an honest answer, anyway," said Nerle. "Perhaps, sir, they have really reformed." "And if so, I will not have the death of fifty-nine honest men on my conscience," declared the prince. Then he turned to Wul-Takim and added: "I will release you and give you the treasure, as you request. But you owe me allegiance from this time forth, and if I ever hear of your becoming thieves again, I promise to return and hang every one of you." "Never fear!" answered Wul-Takim, joyfully. "It is hard work to steal, and while we have so much treasure it is wholly unnecessary. Moreover, having accepted from you our lives and our fortunes, we shall hereafter be your devoted servants, and whenever you need our services you have but to call upon us, and we will support you loyally and gladly." "I accept your service," answered the prince, graciously. And then he unbound the fifty-nine honest men and took the ropes from their necks. As nightfall was fast approaching the new servants set to work to prepare a great feast in honor of their master. It was laid in the middle of the grassy clearing, that all might sit around and celebrate the joyous occasion. "Do you think you can trust these men?" asked Nerle, suspiciously. "Why not?" replied the prince. "They have been exceedingly wicked, it is true; but they are now intent upon being exceedingly good. Let us encourage them in this. If we mistrusted all who have ever done an evil act there would be fewer honest people in the world. And if it were as interesting to do a good act as an evil one there is no doubt every one would choose the good." 6. The Troubles of Nerle That night Prince Marvel slept within the cave, surrounded by the fifty-nine reformed thieves, and suffered no harm at their hands. In the morning, accompanied by his esquire, Nerle, who was mounted upon a spirited horse brought him by Wul-Takim, he charged the honest men to remember their promises, bade them good by, and set out in search of further adventure. As they left the clearing by the narrow passage that led between the overhanging rocks, the prince looked back and saw that the sign above the gate of the cave, which had told of the thieves' treasure house, had been changed. It now read as follows: WUL-TAKIM KING OF HONEST MEN ------ HIS PLEASURE HOUSE WALK IN "That is much better," laughed the prince. "I accomplished some good by my adventure, anyway!" Nerle did not reply. He seemed especially quiet and thoughtful as he rode by his master's side, and after they had traveled some distance in silence Prince Marvel said: "Tell me how you came to be in the cave of thieves, and perched upon the casks where I found you." "It is a sad story," returned Nerle, with a sigh; "but since you request me to tell it, the tale may serve to relieve the tedium of your journey. "My father is a mighty baron, very wealthy and with a heart so kind that he has ever taken pleasure in thrusting on me whatever gift he could think of. I had not a single desire unsatisfied, for before I could wish for anything it was given me. "My mother was much like my father. She and her women were always making jams, jellies, candies, cakes and the like for me to eat; so I never knew the pleasure of hunger. My clothes were the gayest satins and velvets, richly made and sewn with gold and silver braid; so it was impossible to wish for more in the way of apparel. They let me study my lessons whenever I felt like it and go fishing or hunting as I pleased; so I could not complain that I was unable to do just as I wanted to. All the servants obeyed my slightest wish: if I wanted to sit up late at night no one objected; if I wished to lie in bed till noon they kept the house quiet so as not to disturb me. "This condition of affairs, as you may imagine, grew more and more tedious and exasperating the older I became. Try as I might, I could find nothing to complain of. I once saw the son of one of our servants receive a flogging; and my heart grew light. I immediately begged my father to flog me, by way of variety; and he, who could refuse me nothing, at once consented. For this reason there was less satisfaction in the operation than I had expected, although for the time being it was a distinct novelty. "Now, no one could expect a high-spirited boy to put up with such a life as mine. With nothing to desire and no chance of doing anything that would annoy my parents, my days were dreary indeed." He paused to wipe the tears from his eyes, and the prince murmured, sympathetically: "Poor boy! Poor boy!" "Ah, you may well say that!" continued Nerle. "But one day a stranger came to my father's castle with tales of many troubles he had met with. He had been lost in a forest and nearly starved to death. He had been robbed and beaten and left wounded and sore by the wayside. He had begged from door to door and been refused food or assistance. In short, his story was so delightful that it made me envy him, and I yearned to suffer as he had done. When I could speak with him alone I said: 'Pray tell me how I can manage to acquire the misfortunes you have undergone. Here I have everything that I desire, and it makes me very unhappy.' "The stranger laughed at me, at first; and I found some pleasure in the humiliation I then felt. But it did not last long, for presently he grew sober and advised me to run away from home and seek adventure. "'Once away from your father's castle,' said he, 'troubles will fall upon you thick enough to satisfy even your longings.' "'That is what I am afraid of!' I answered. 'I don't want to be satisfied, even with troubles. What I seek is unsatisfied longings.' "'Nevertheless,' said he, 'I advise you to travel. Everything will probably go wrong with you, and then you will be happy.' "I acted upon the stranger's advice and ran away from home the next day. After journeying a long time I commenced to feel the pangs of hunger, and was just beginning to enjoy myself when a knight rode by and gave me a supply of food. At this rebuff I could not restrain my tears, but while I wept my horse stumbled and threw me over his head. I hoped at first I had broken my neck, and was just congratulating myself upon the misfortune, when a witch-woman came along and rubbed some ointment upon my bruises, in spite of my protests. To my great grief the pain left me, and I was soon well again. But, as a slight compensation for my disappointment, my horse had run away; so I began my journey anew and on foot. "That afternoon I stepped into a nest of wasps, but the thoughtless creatures flew away without stinging me. Then I met a fierce tiger, and my heart grew light and gay. 'Surely this will cause me suffering!' I cried, and advanced swiftly upon the brute. But the cowardly tiger turned tail and ran to hide in the bushes, leaving me unhurt! "Of course, my many disappointments were some consolation; but not much. That night I slept on the bare ground, and hoped I should catch a severe cold; but no such joy was to be mine. "Yet the next afternoon I experienced my first pleasure. The thieves caught me, stripped off all my fine clothes and jewels and beat me well. Then they carried me to their cave, dressed me in rags, and perched me on the top of the casks, where the slightest movement on my part would send me tumbling among the sword points. This was really delightful, and I was quite happy until you came and released me. "I thought then that I might gain some pleasure by provoking you to anger; and our fight was the result. That blow on the ear was exquisite, and by forcing me to become your servant you have made me, for the first time in my life, almost contented. For I hope in your company to experience a great many griefs and disappointments." As Nerle concluded his story Prince Marvel turned to him and grasped his hand. "Accept my sympathy!" said he. "I know exactly how you feel, for my own life during the past few centuries has not been much different." "The past few centuries!" gasped Nerle. "What do you mean?" At this the prince blushed, seeing he had nearly disclosed his secret. But he said, quickly: "Does it not seem centuries when one is unhappy?" "It does, indeed!" responded Nerle, earnestly. "But please tell me your story." "Not now," said Prince Marvel, with a smile. "It will please you to desire in vain to hear a tale I will not tell. Yet I promise that on the day we part company I shall inform you who I am." 7. The Gray Men The adventurers gave no heed to the path they followed after leaving the cave of the reformed thieves, but their horses accidentally took the direction of the foot-hills that led into the wild interior Kingdom of Spor. Therefore the travelers, when they had finished their conversation and begun to look about them, found themselves in a rugged, mountainous country that was wholly unlike the green plains of Heg they had left behind. Now, as I have before said, the most curious and fearful of the island people dwelt in this Kingdom of Spor. They held no friendly communication with their neighbors, and only left their own mountains to plunder and rob; and so sullen and fierce were they on these occasions that every one took good care to keep out of their way until they had gone back home again. There was much gossip about the unknown king of Spor, who had never yet been seen by any one except his subjects; and some thought he must be one of the huge giants of Spor; and others claimed he was a dwarf, like his tiny but ferocious dart-slingers; and still others imagined him one of the barbarian tribe, or a fellow to the terrible Gray Men. But, of course, no one knew positively, and all these guesses were very wide of the mark. The only certainty about this king was that his giants, dwarfs, barbarians and Gray Men meekly acknowledged his rule and obeyed his slightest wish; for though they might be terrible to others, their king was still more terrible to them. Into this Kingdom of Spor Prince Marvel and Nerle had now penetrated and, neither knowing nor caring where they were, continued along the faintly defined paths the horses had found. Presently, however, they were startled by a peal of shrill, elfish laughter, and raising their eyes they beheld a horrid-looking old man seated upon a high rock near by. "Why do you laugh?" asked Prince Marvel, stopping his horse. "Have you been invited? Tell me--have you been invited?" demanded the old man, chuckling to himself as if much amused. "Invited where?" inquired the prince. "To Spor, stupid! To the Kingdom of Spor! To the land of King Terribus!" shrieked the old man, going into violent peals of laughter. "We go and come as we please," answered Prince Marvel, calmly. "Go--yes! Go if you will. But you'll never come back--never! never! never!" The little old man seemed to consider this such a good joke that he bent nearly double with laughing, and so lost his balance and toppled off the rock, disappearing from their view; but they could hear him laugh long after they had passed on and left him far behind them. "A strange creature!" exclaimed the prince thoughtfully. "But perhaps he speaks truth," answered Nerle, "if, in fact, we have been rash enough to enter the Kingdom of Spor. Even my father, the bravest baron in Heg, has never dared venture within the borders of Spor. For all men fear its mysterious king." "In that case," replied Prince Marvel, "it is time some one investigated this strange kingdom. People have left King Terribus and his wild subjects too much to themselves; instead of stirring them up and making them behave themselves." Nerle smiled at this speech. "They are the fiercest people on the Enchanted Island," said he, "and there are thousands upon thousands who obey this unknown king. But if you think we dare defy them I am willing to go on. Perhaps our boldness will lead them into torturing me, or starving me to death; and at the very least I ought to find much trouble and privation in the Kingdom of Spor." "Time will determine that," said the prince, cheerfully. They had now ridden into a narrow defile of the mountains, the pathway being lined with great fragments of rock. Happening to look over his shoulder Prince Marvel saw that as they passed these rocks a man stepped from behind each fragment and followed after them, their numbers thus constantly increasing until hundreds were silently treading in the wake of the travelers. These men were very peculiar in appearance, their skins being as gray as the rocks themselves, while their only clothing consisted of gray cloth tunics belted around the waists with bands of gray fox-hide. They bore no weapons except that each was armed with a fork, having three sharp tines six inches in length, which the Gray Men carried stuck through their fox-hide belts. Nerle also looked back and saw the silent throng following them, and the sight sent such a cold shiver creeping up his spine that he smiled with pleasure. There was no way to avoid the Gray Men, for the path was so narrow that the horsemen could not turn aside; but Prince Marvel was not disturbed, and seemed not to mind being followed, so long as no one hindered his advance. He rode steadily on, Nerle following, and after climbing upward for a long way the path began to descend, presently leading them into a valley of wide extent, in the center of which stood an immense castle with tall domes that glittered as if covered with pure gold. A broad roadway paved with white marble reached from the mountain pass to the entrance of this castle, and on each side of this roadway stood lines of monstrous giants, armed with huge axes thrust into their belts and thick oak clubs, studded with silver spikes, which were carried over their left shoulders. The assembled giants were as silent as the Gray Men, and stood motionless while Prince Marvel and Nerle rode slowly up the marble roadway. But all their brows were scowling terribly and their eyes were red and glaring--as if they were balls of fire. "I begin to feel very pleasant," said Nerle, "for surely we shall not get away from these folks without a vast deal of trouble. They do not seem to oppose our advance, but it is plain they will not allow us any chance of retreat." "We do not wish to retreat," declared the prince. Nerle cast another glance behind, and saw that the Gray Men had halted at the edge of the valley, while the giants were closing up as soon as the horses passed them and now marched in close file in their rear. "It strikes me," he muttered, softly, "that this is like to prove our last adventure." But although Prince Marvel might have heard the words he made no reply, being evidently engaged in deep thought. As they drew nearer the castle it towered above them like a veritable mountain, so big and high was it; and the walls cast deep shadows far around, as if twilight had fallen. They heard the loud blare of a trumpet sounding far up on the battlements; the portals of the castle suddenly opened wide, and they entered a vast courtyard paved with plates of gold. Tiny dwarfs, so crooked that they resembled crabs, rushed forward and seized the bridles of the horses, while the strangers slowly dismounted and looked around them. While the steeds were being led to the stables an old man, clothed in a flowing robe as white in color as his beard, bowed before Prince Marvel and said in a soft voice: "Follow me!" The prince stretched his arms, yawned as if tired with his ride, and then glared upon the old man with an expression of haughty surprise. "I follow no one!" said he, proudly. "I am Prince Marvel, sirrah, and if the owner of this castle wishes to see me I shall receive him here, as befits my rank and station." The man looked surprised, but only bowed lower than before. "It is the king's command," he answered. "The king?" "Yes; you are in the castle of King Terribus, the lord and ruler of Spor." "That is different," remarked the prince, lightly. "Still, I will follow no man. Point out the way and I will go to meet his Majesty." The old man extended a lean and trembling finger toward an archway. Prince Marvel strode forward, followed by Nerle, and passing under the arch he threw open a door at the far end and boldly entered the throne-room of King Terribus. 8. The Fool-Killer The room was round, with a dome at the top. The bare walls were of gray stone, with square, open windows set full twenty feet from the floor. Rough gray stone also composed the floor, and in the center of the room stood one great rock with a seat hollowed in its middle. This was the throne, and round about it stood a swarm of men and women dressed in rich satins, velvets and brocades, brilliantly ornamented with gold and precious stones. The men were of many shapes and sizes--giants and dwarfs being among them. The women all seemed young and beautiful. Prince Marvel cast but a passing glance at this assemblage, for his eye quickly sought the rude throne on which was seated King Terribus. The personal appearance of this monster was doubtless the most hideous known in that age of the world. His head was large and shaped like an egg; it was bright scarlet in color and no hair whatever grew upon it. It had three eyes--one in the center of his face, one on the top of his head and one in the back. Thus he was always able to see in every direction at the same time. His nose was shaped like an elephant's trunk, and swayed constantly from side to side. His mouth was very wide and had no lips at all, two rows of sharp and white teeth being always plainly visible beneath the swaying nose. King Terribus, although surrounded by so splendid a court, wore a simple robe of gray cloth, with no ornament or other finery, and his strange and fearful appearance was strongly contrasted with the glittering raiment of his courtiers and the beauty of his ladies in waiting. When Prince Marvel, with Nerle marching close behind, entered the great room, Terribus looked at him sharply a moment, and then bowed. And when he bowed the eye upon the top of his head also looked sharply at the intruders. Then the king spoke, his voice sounding so sweet and agreeable that it almost shocked Nerle, who had expected to hear a roar like that from a wild beast. "Why are you here?" asked Terribus. "Partly by chance and partly from curiosity," answered Prince Marvel. "No one in this island, except your own people, had ever seen the king of Spor; so, finding myself in your country, I decided to come here and have a look at you." The faces of the people who stood about the throne wore frightened looks at the unheard of boldness of this speech to their terrible monarch. But the king merely nodded and inquired: "Since you have seen me, what do you think of me?" "I am sorry you asked that question," returned the prince; "for I must confess you are a very frightful-looking creature, and not at all agreeable to gaze upon." "Ha! you are honest, as well as frank," exclaimed the king. "But that is the reason I do not leave my kingdom, as you will readily understand. And that is the reason I never permit strangers to come here, under penalty of death. So long as no one knows the King of Spor is a monster people will not gossip about my looks, and I am very sensitive regarding my personal appearance. You will perhaps understand that if I could have chosen I should have been born beautiful instead of ugly." "I certainly understand that. And permit me to say I wish you were beautiful. I shall probably dream of you for many nights," added the prince. "Not for many," said King Terribus, quietly. "By coming here you have chosen death, and the dead do not dream." "Why should I die?" inquired Prince Marvel, curiously. "Because you have seen me. Should I allow you to go away you would tell the world about my ugly face. I do not like to kill you, believe me; but you must pay the penalty of your rashness--you and the man behind you." Nerle smiled at this; but whether from pride at being called a man or in pleasurable anticipation of the sufferings to come I leave you to guess. "Will you allow me to object to being killed?" asked the prince. "Certainly," answered the king, courteously. "I expect you to object. It is natural. But it will do you no good." Then Terribus turned to an attendant and commanded: "Send hither the Fool-Killer." At this Prince Marvel laughed outright. "The Fool-Killer!" he cried; "surely your Majesty does me little credit. Am I, then, a fool?" "You entered my kingdom uninvited," retorted the king, "and you tell me to my face I am ugly. Moreover, you laugh when I condemn you to death. From this I conclude the Fool-Killer is the proper one to execute you. Behold!" Marvel turned quickly, to find a tall, stalwart man standing behind him. His features were strong but very grave, and the prince caught a look of compassion in his eye as their gaze met. His skin was fair and without blemish, a robe of silver cloth fell from his shoulders, and in his right hand he bore a gleaming sword. "Well met!" cried Marvel, heartily, as he bowed to the Fool-Killer. "I have often heard your name mentioned, but 'tis said in the world that you are a laggard in your duty." "Had I my way," answered the Fool-Killer, "my blade would always drip. It is my master, yonder, who thwarts my duty." And he nodded toward King Terribus. "Then you should exercise your right on him, and cleave the ugly head from his shoulders," declared the prince. "Nay, unless I interfered with the Fool-Killer," said the king, "I should soon have no subjects left to rule; for at one time or another they all deserve the blade." "Why, that may be true enough," replied Prince Marvel. "But I think, under such circumstances, your Fool-Killer is a needless servant. So I will rid you of him in a few moments." With that he whipped out his sword and stood calmly confronting the Fool-Killer, whose grave face never changed in expression as he advanced menacingly upon his intended victim. The blades clashed together, and that of the Fool-Killer broke short off at the hilt. He took a step backward, stumbled and fell prone upon the rocky floor, while Prince Marvel sprang forward and pressed the point of his sword against his opponent's breast. "Hold!" cried the king, starting to his feet. "Would you slay my Fool-Killer? Think of the harm you would do the world!" "But he is laggard and unfaithful to his calling!" answered the prince, sternly. "Nevertheless, if he remove but one fool a year he is a benefit to mankind," declared the king. "Release him, I pray you!" Then the victor withdrew his sword and stood aside, while the Fool-Killer slowly got upon his feet and bowed humbly before the king. "Go!" shouted Terribus, his eye flashing angrily. "You have humiliated me before my enemy. As an atonement see that you kill me a fool a day for sixty days." Hearing this command, many of the people about the throne began to tremble; but the king paid no attention to their fears, and the Fool-Killer bowed again before his master and withdrew from the chamber. 9. The Royal Dragon of Spor "Now," said Terribus, regarding the prince gloomily, "I must dispose of you in another way." For a moment he dropped his scarlet head in thought. Then he turned fiercely upon his attendants. "Let the Wrestler come forward!" he shouted, as loudly as his mild voice would carry. Instantly a tall blackamoor advanced from the throng and cast off his flowing robe, showing a strong figure clad only in a silver loincloth. "Crack me this fellow's bones!" commanded Terribus. "I beg your Majesty will not compel me to touch him," said Prince Marvel, with a slight shudder; "for his skin is greasy, and will soil my hands. Here, Nerle!" he continued, turning to his esquire, "dispose of this black man, and save me the trouble." Nerle laughed pleasantly. The black was a powerfully built man, and compared with Nerle and the prince, who had but the stature of boys, he towered like a very giant in size. Nevertheless, Nerle did not hesitate to spring upon the Wrestler, who with a quick movement sent the boy crashing against the stone pavement. Nerle was much bruised by the fall, and as he painfully raised himself to his feet a great lump was swelling behind his left ear, where his head had struck the floor, and he was so dizzy that the room seemed swimming around him in a circle. But he gave a happy little laugh, and said to the prince, gratefully: "Thank you very much, my master! The fall is hurting me delightfully. I almost feel as if I could cry, and that would be joy indeed!" "Well," answered the prince, with a sigh, "I see I must get my hands greased after all"--for the black's body had really been greased to enable him to elude the grasp of his opponents. But Marvel made a quick leap and seized the Wrestler firmly around the waist. The next moment, to the astonishment of all, the black man flew swiftly into the air, plunged through one of the open windows high up in the wall, and disappeared from view. When the king and his people again turned their wondering eyes upon the prince he was wiping his hands carefully upon a silk handkerchief. At this sight a pretty young girl, who stood near the throne, laughed aloud, and the sound of her laughter made King Terribus very angry. "Come here!" he commanded, sternly. The girl stepped forward, her face now pale and frightened, while tear-drops trembled upon the lashes that fringed her downcast eyes. "You have dared to laugh at the humiliation of your king," said Terribus, his horrid face more crimson than ever, "and as atonement I command that you drink of the poisoned cup." Instantly a dwarf came near, bearing a beautiful golden goblet in his crooked hands. "Drink!" he said, an evil leer upon his face. The girl well knew this goblet contained a vile poison, one drop of which on her tongue would cause death; so she hesitated, trembling and shrinking from the ordeal. Prince Marvel looked into her sweet face with pitying eyes, and stepping quickly to her side, took her hand in his. "Now drink!" he said, smiling upon her; "the poison will not hurt you." She drank obediently, while the dwarf chuckled with awful glee and the king looked on eagerly, expecting her to fall dead at his feet. But instead the girl stood upright and pressed Marvel's hand, looking gratefully into his face. "You are a fairy!" she whispered, so low that no one else heard her voice. "I knew that you would save me." "Keep my secret," whispered the prince in return, and still holding her hand he led her back to her former place. King Terribus was almost wild with rage and disappointment, and his elephant nose twisted and squirmed horribly. "So you dare to thwart my commands, do you!" he cried, excitedly. "Well, we shall soon see which of us is the more powerful. I have decreed your death--and die you shall!" For a moment his eye roved around the chamber uncertainly. Then he shouted, suddenly: "Ho, there! Keepers of the royal menagerie--appear!" Three men entered the room and bowed before the king. They were of the Gray Men of the mountains, who had followed Prince Marvel and Nerle through the rocky passes. "Bring hither the Royal Dragon," cried the king, "and let him consume these strangers before my very eyes!" The men withdrew, and presently was heard a distant shouting, followed by a low rumbling sound, with groans, snorts, roars and a hissing like steam from the spout of a teakettle. The noise and shouting drew nearer, while the people huddled together like frightened sheep; and then suddenly the doors flew open and the Royal Dragon advanced to the center of the room. This creature was at once the pride and terror of the Kingdom of Spor. It was more than thirty feet in length and covered everywhere with large green scales set with diamonds, making the dragon, when it moved, a very glittering spectacle. Its eyes were as big as pie-plates, and its mouth--when wide opened--fully as large as a bath-tub. Its tail was very long and ended in a golden ball, such as you see on the top of flagstaffs. Its legs, which were as thick as those of an elephant, had scales which were set with rubies and emeralds. It had two monstrous, big ears and two horns of carved ivory, and its teeth were also carved into various fantastic shapes--such as castles, horses' heads, chinamen and griffins--so that if any of them broke it would make an excellent umbrella handle. The Royal Dragon of Spor came crawling into the throne-room rather clumsily, groaning and moaning with every step and waving its ears like two blankets flying from a clothesline. The king looked on it and frowned. "Why are you not breathing fire and brimstone?" he demanded, angrily. "Why, I was caught out in a gale the other night," returned the Dragon, rubbing the back of its ear with its left front paw, as it paused and looked at the king, "and the wind put out my fire." "Then why didn't you light it again?" asked Terribus, turning on the keepers. "We--we were out of matches, your Majesty!" stammered the trembling Gray Men. "So--ho!" yelled the king, and was about to order the keepers beheaded; but just then Nerle pulled out his match-box, lit one of the matches, and held it in front of the Dragon's mouth. Instantly the creature's breath caught fire; and it began to breathe flames a yard in length. "That's better," sighed the Dragon, contentedly. "I hope your Majesty is now satisfied." "No,--I am not satisfied!" declared King Terribus. "Why do you not lash your tail?" "Ah, I can't do that!" replied the Dragon. "It's all stiffened up with rheumatism from the dampness of my cave. It hurts too much to lash it." "Well, then, gnash your teeth!" commanded the king. "Tut--tut!" answered the Dragon, mildly; "I can't do that, either; for since you had them so beautifully carved it makes my teeth ache to gnash them." "Well, then, what are you good for?" cried the king, in a fury. "Don't I look awful? Am I not terrible to gaze on?" inquired the Dragon, proudly, as it breathed out red and yellow flames and made them curl in circles around its horns. "I guess there's no need for me to suggest terror to any one that happens to see me," it added, winking one of the pie-plate eyes at King Terribus. The king looked at the monster critically, and it really seemed to him that it was a frightful thing to behold. So he curbed his anger and said, in his ordinary sweet voice: "I have called you here to destroy these two strangers." "How?" asked the Dragon, looking upon Prince Marvel and Nerle with interest. "I am not particular," answered the king. "You may consume them with your fiery breath, or smash them with your tail, or grind them to atoms between your teeth, or tear them to pieces with your claws. Only, do hurry up and get it over with!" "Hm-m-m!" said the Dragon, thoughtfully, as if it didn't relish the job; "this one isn't Saint George, is it?" "No, no!" exclaimed the king, irritably; "it's Prince Marvel. Do get to work as soon as possible." "Prince Marvel--Prince Marvel," repeated the Dragon. "Why, there isn't a prince in the whole world named Marvel! I'm pretty well posted on the history of royal families, you know. I'm afraid he's Saint George in disguise." "Isn't your name Prince Marvel?" inquired the king, turning to the boyish-looking stranger. "It is," answered Marvel. "Well, it's mighty strange I've never heard of you," persisted the Dragon. "But tell me, please, how would you prefer to be killed?" "Oh, I'm not going to be killed at all," replied the prince, laughing. "Do you hear that, Terribus?" asked the Dragon, turning to the king; "he says he isn't going to be killed." "But I say he is!" cried Terribus. "I have decreed his death." "But do you suppose I'm going to kill a man against his will?" inquired the Dragon, in a reproachful voice; "and such a small man, too! Do you take me for a common assassin--or a murderer?" "Do you intend to obey my orders?" roared the king. "No, I don't; and that's flat!" returned the Dragon, sharply. "It's time for me to take my cough medicine; so if you've nothing more to say I'll go back to my cave." "Go, go, go!" shrieked the king, stamping his foot in passion. "You've outlived your usefulness! You're a coward! You're a traitor! You're a--a--a--" "I'm a dragon and a gentleman!" answered the monster, proudly, as the king paused for lack of a word; "and I believe I know what's proper for dragons to do and what isn't. I've learned wisdom from my father, who got into trouble with Saint George, and if I fought with this person who calls himself Prince Marvel, I'd deserve to be a victim of your Fool-Killer. Oh, I know my business, King Terribus; and if you knew yours, you'd get rid of this pretended prince as soon as possible!" With this speech he winked at Prince Marvel, turned soberly around and crawled from the room. One of the keepers got too near and the Dragon's breath set fire to his robe, the flames being with difficulty extinguished; and the gold ball on the end of the Dragon's tail struck a giant upon his shins and made him dance and howl in pain. But, aside from these slight accidents, the monster managed to leave the throne-room without undue confusion, and every one, including the king, seemed glad to be rid of him. 10. Prince Marvel Wins His Fight When the door had closed on the Royal Dragon, King Terribus turned again to Prince Marvel, while his crimson face glowed with embarrassment, and his front eye rolled with baffled rage as he thought how vain had been all his efforts to kill this impudent invader of his domains. But his powers were by no means exhausted. He was a mighty king--the mightiest of all in the Enchanted Island, he believed--and ways to destroy his enemies were numerous. "Send for a hundred of my Gray Men!" he suddenly cried; and a courtier ran at once to summon them. The Gray Men would obey his orders without question, he well knew. They were silent, stubborn, quick, and faithful to their king. Terribus had but to command and his will would be obeyed. They entered the room so quietly that Nerle never knew they were there until he turned and found the hundred gray ones standing close together in the center of the hall. Then Prince Marvel came to Nerle's side and whispered something in his ear. "Will you obey my orders?" they heard the king ask. And the Gray Men, with their eyes fixed upon their master, nodded all their hundred heads and put their hands upon the dangerous three-tined forks that were stuck in every one of the hundred belts. Prince Marvel handed one end of a coiled rope to Nerle, and then they both sprang forward and ran around the spot where the hundred Gray Men stood huddled together. Then they were pulled closer together than before--closer, and still closer--for the prince and Nerle had surrounded them with the rope and were tying the two ends together in a tight knot. The rope cut into the waists of those on the outside, and they pressed inward against their fellows until there was scarcely space to stick a knife-blade between any two of them. When the prince had tied the rope firmly King Terribus, who had been looking on amazed, saw that his hundred Gray Men were fastened together like a bundle of kindling-wood, and were unable to stir hand or foot. And, while he still gazed open-mouthed at the strange sight, Prince Marvel tilted the bundle of men up on its edge and rolled it out of the door. It went rolling swiftly through the courtyard and bounded down the castle steps, where the rope broke and the men fell sprawling in all directions on the marble walk. King Terribus sighed, for such treatment of his Gray Men, whom he dearly loved, made him very unhappy. But more than ever was he resolved to kill these impudent strangers, who, in the very heart of his kingdom where thousands bowed to his will, dared openly defy his power. So, after a moment's thought, Terribus beckoned to a dwarf who, robed in gay and glittering apparel, stood near his throne. "Summon the royal Dart Slingers!" he said, with a scowl. The little man bowed and hastened away, to return presently with twenty curiously crooked dwarfs, each armed with a sling and a quiver full of slender, sharp-pointed darts. "Slay me these strangers!" exclaimed the king, in his gruffest voice. Now Nerle, when he beheld these terrible Dart Slingers, of whom he had heard many tales in his boyhood, began to shiver and shake with fright, so that his teeth rattled one upon another. And he reflected: "Soon shall I be content, for these darts will doubtless pierce every part of my body." The dwarfs formed a line at one side of the gloomy throne-room, and Prince Marvel, who had been earnestly regarding them, caught Nerle by the arm and led him to the opposite wall. "Stand close behind me and you will be safe," he whispered to his esquire. Then each dwarf fixed a dart in his sling, and at a word from their chief they all drew back their arms and launched a shower of the sharp missiles at the strangers. Swift and true they sped, each dart intended to pierce the body of the youthful knight who stood so calm before them. Prince Marvel had raised his right arm, and in his hand was a small leather sack, with a wide mouth. As the darts flew near him a strange thing happened: they each and all swerved from their true course and fell rattling into the leathern sack, to the wonder of the royal slingers and the dismay of King Terribus himself. "Again!" screamed the king, his usually mild voice hoarse with anger. So again the dwarfs cast their darts, and again the leathern sack caught them every one. Another flight followed, and yet another, till the magic sack was packed full of the darts and not a dwarf had one remaining in his quiver. Amid the awed silence of the beholders of this feat the merry laughter of Prince Marvel rang loud and clear; for the sight of the puzzled and terrified faces about him was very comical. Plucking a dart from the sack he raised his arm and cried: "Now it is my turn. You shall have back your darts!" "Hold!" shouted the king, in great fear. "Do not, I beg you, slay my faithful servants." And with a wave of his hand he dismissed the dwarfs, who were glad to rush from the room and escape. Nerle wiped the tears from his eyes, for he was sorely disappointed at having again escaped all pain and discomfort; but Prince Marvel seated himself quietly upon a stool and looked at the scowling face of King Terribus with real amusement. The monarch of Spor had never before been so foiled and scorned by any living creature. Defeated and humbled before his own people, he bowed his crimson head on his hands and sullenly regarded his foe with his top eye. Then it was that the idea came to him that no ordinary mortal could have thwarted him so easily, and he began to fear he was dealing--perhaps unawares--with some great magician or sorcerer. That a fairy should have assumed a mortal form he never once considered, for such a thing was until then unheard of in the Enchanted Island of Yew. But with the knowledge that he had met his master, whoever he might prove to be, and that further attempts upon the stranger's life might lead to his own undoing, King Terribus decided to adopt a new line of conduct, hoping to accomplish by stratagem what he could not do by force. To be sure, there remained his regiment of Giants, the pride of his kingdom; but Terribus dreaded to meet with another defeat; and he was not at all sure, after what had happened, that the giants would succeed in conquering or destroying the strangers. "After all," he thought, "my only object in killing them was to prevent their carrying news of my monstrous appearance to the outside world; so if I can but manage to keep them forever in my kingdom it will answer my purpose equally well." As the result of this thought he presently raised his head and spoke to Prince Marvel in a quiet and even cheerful voice. "Enough of these rude and boisterous games," said he, with a smile that showed his white teeth in a repulsive manner. "They may have seemed to my people an ill welcome to my good friend, Prince Marvel; yet they were only designed to show the powers of the mighty magician who has become my guest. Nay, do not deny it, Prince; from the first I guessed your secret, and to prove myself right I called my servants to oppose you, being sure they could not do you an injury. But no more of such fooling,--and pray forgive my merry game at your expense. Henceforth we shall be friends, and you are heartily welcome to the best my kingdom affords." With this speech Terribus stepped down from his throne and approached Prince Marvel with outstretched hand. The prince was not at all deceived, but he was pleased to see how cunningly the king excused his attempts to kill him. So he laughed and touched the hand Terribus extended, for this fairy prince seemed to have no anger against any mortal who ventured to oppose him. The strangers were now conducted, with every mark of respect, to a beautiful suite of apartments in the castle, wherein were soft beds with velvet spreads, marble baths with perfumed waters, and a variety of silken and brocaded costumes from which they might select a change of raiment. No sooner had they bathed and adorned themselves fittingly than they were summoned to the king's banquet hall, being escorted thither by twelve young maidens bearing torches with lavender-colored flames. The night had fallen upon the mountains outside, but the great banquet hall was brilliant with the glow of a thousand candles, and seated at the head of the long table was King Terribus. Yet here, as in the throne-room, the ruler of Spor was dressed in simplest garments, and his seat was a rough block of stone. All about him were lords and ladies in gorgeous array; the walls were hung with rare embroideries; the table was weighted with gold platters and richly carved goblets filled with sweet nectars. But the king himself, with his horrid, ugly head, was like a great blot on a fair parchment, and even Prince Marvel could not repress a shudder as he gazed upon him. Terribus placed his guest upon his right hand and loaded him with honors. Nerle stood behind the prince's chair and served him faithfully, as an esquire should. But the other servants treated Nerle with much deference, noting in him an air of breeding that marked him the unusual servant of an unusual master. Indeed, most curious were the looks cast on these marvelous men who had calmly walked into the castle of mighty Terribus and successfully defied his anger; for in spite of his youthful appearance and smiling face every attendant at the banquet feared Prince Marvel even more than they feared their own fierce king. 11. The Cunning of King Terribus The days that followed were pleasant ones for Prince Marvel and Nerle, who were treated as honored guests by both the king and his courtiers. But the prince seemed to be the favorite, for at all games of skill and trials at arms he was invariably the victor, while in the evenings, when the grand ball-room was lighted up and the musicians played sweet music, none was so graceful in the dance as the fairy prince. Nerle soon tired of the games and dancing, for he had been accustomed to them at his father's castle; and moreover he was shy in the society of ladies; so before many weeks had passed he began to mope and show a discontented face. One day the prince noticed his esquire's dismal expression of countenance, and asked the cause of it. "Why," said Nerle, "here I have left my home to seek worries and troubles, and have found but the same humdrum life that existed at my father's castle. Here our days are made smooth and pleasant, and there is no excitement or grief, whatever. You have become a carpet-knight, Prince Marvel, and think more of bright eyes than of daring deeds. So, if you will release me from your service I will seek further adventures." "Nay," returned the prince, "we will go together; for I, too, am tired of this life of pleasure." So next morning Marvel sought the presence of King Terribus and said: "I have come to bid your Majesty adieu, for my esquire and I are about to leave your dominions." At first the king laughed, and his long nose began to sway from side to side. Then, seeing the prince was in earnest, his Majesty frowned and grew disturbed. Finally he said: "I must implore you to remain my guests a short time longer. No one has ever before visited me in my mountain home, and I do not wish to lose the pleasure of your society so soon." "Nevertheless, we must go," answered the prince, briefly. "Are you not contented?" asked Terribus. "Ask whatever you may desire, and it shall be granted you." "We desire adventures amid new scenes," said Marvel, "and these you can not give us except by permission to depart." Seeing his guest was obstinate the king ceased further argument and said: "Very well; go if you wish. But I shall hope to see you return to us this evening." The prince paid no heed to this peculiar speech, but left the hall and hurried to the courtyard of the castle, where Nerle was holding the horses in readiness for their journey. Standing around were many rows and files of the Gray Men, and when they reached the marble roadway they found it lined with motionless forms of the huge giants. But no one interfered with them in any way, although both Prince Marvel and Nerle knew that every eye followed them as they rode forward. Curiously enough, they had both forgotten from what direction they had approached the castle; for, whereas they had at that time noticed but one marble roadway leading to the entrance, they now saw that there were several of these, each one connecting with a path through the mountains. "It really doesn't matter which way we go, so long as we get away from the Kingdom of Spor," said Prince Marvel; so he selected a path by chance, and soon they were riding through a mountain pass. The pleased, expectant look on Nerle's face had gradually turned to one of gloom. "I hoped we should have a fight to get away," he said, sadly; "and in that case I might have suffered considerable injury and pain. But no one has injured us in any way, and perhaps King Terribus is really glad to be rid of us." "With good reason, too, if such is the case," laughed Marvel; "for, mark you, Nerle, the king has discovered we are more powerful than he is, and had he continued to oppose us, we might have destroyed his entire army." On they rode through the rough hill paths, winding this way and that, until they lost all sense of the direction in which they were going. "Never mind," said the prince; "so long as we get farther and farther away from the ugly Terribus I shall be satisfied." "Perhaps we are getting into more serious danger than ever," answered Nerle, brightening; "one of the giants told me the other day that near the foot of these mountains is the Kingdom of the High Ki of Twi." "Who is the High Ki of Twi?" asked Prince Marvel. "No one knows," answered Nerle. "And what is the Kingdom of Twi like?" "No one knows that," answered Nerle. "Then," returned the prince, with a smile, "if by chance we visit the place we shall know more than any one else." At noon they ate luncheon by the wayside, Nerle having filled his pouch by stealth at the breakfast table. There were great fragments of rock lying all about them, and the sun beat down so fiercely that the heat reflected from the rocks was hard to bear. So the travelers did not linger over their meal, but remounted and rode away as soon as possible. When the sun began to get lower in the sky the rocks beside the path threw the riders into shadow, so that their journey became more pleasant. They rode along, paying little attention to the way, but talking and laughing merrily together, until it began to grow dark. "Does this path never end?" asked Prince Marvel, suddenly. "We ought to reach some place where men dwell before long, else we shall be obliged to spend the night among these rocks." "And then perhaps the wolves will attack us," said Nerle, cheerfully, "and tear us into pieces with their sharp teeth and claws." But even as he spoke they rode around a turn in the path and saw a sight that made them pause in astonishment. For just before them rose the castle of King Terribus, and along both sides of the marble walk leading up to it were ranged the lines of giants, exactly as they had stood in the morning. Nerle turned around in his saddle. Sure enough, there were the Gray Men in the rear--stepping from behind every boulder and completely filling the rocky pathway. "Well, what shall we do?" asked the esquire; "fight?" "No, indeed!" returned Prince Marvel, laughing at his friend's eager face. "It appears the path we chose winds around in a circle, and so has brought us back to our starting-point. So we must make the best of a bad blunder and spend another night with our ugly friend King Terribus." They rode forward through the rows of giants to the castle, where the ever-courteous servants took their horses and escorted them to their former handsome apartments with every mark of respect. No one seemed in the least surprised at their speedy return, and this fact at first puzzled Nerle, and then made him suspicious. After bathing and dusting their clothing they descended to the banquet hall, where King Terribus sat upon his gray stone throne and welcomed them with quiet courtesy. The sight of the king's crimson skin and deformed face sent a thrill of repugnance through Prince Marvel, and under the impulse of a sudden thought he extended his hand toward Terribus and whispered a magic word which was unheard by any around him. Nerle did not notice the prince's swift gesture nor the whispered word; but he was staring straight at Terribus at the time, and he saw with surprise the eye on the top of the king's head move down toward his forehead, and the eye in the center of his forehead slide slightly toward the left, and the elephant-like nose shrink and shorten at the same time. Also it seemed to him that the king's skin was not so crimson in color as before, and that a thin growth of hair had covered his head. However, no one else appeared to notice any change--least of all Terribus--so Nerle seated himself at the table and began to eat. "It was very kind of you to return so soon to my poor castle," said the king to Prince Marvel, in his sweet voice. "We could not help it," laughed the prince, in reply; "for the road wound right and left until we knew not which way we traveled; and then it finally circled around again to your castle. But to-morrow we shall seek a new path and bid you farewell forever." "Still," remarked the king, gravely, "should you again miss your way, I shall be glad to welcome your return." The prince bowed politely by way of reply, and turned to address the little maiden he had once saved from death by poison. And so in feasting, dancing and laughter the evening passed pleasantly enough to the prince, and it was late when he called Nerle to attend him to their apartment. 12. The Gift of Beauty The following morning Marvel and Nerle once more set out to leave the Kingdom of Spor and its ugly king. They selected another pathway leading from the castle and traveled all day, coming at nightfall into view of the place whence they had started, with its solemn rows of giants and Gray Men standing ready to receive them. This repetition of their former experience somewhat annoyed the prince, while Nerle's usually despondent face wore a smile. "I see trouble ahead," murmured the esquire, almost cheerfully. "Since the king can not conquer us by force he intends to do it by sorcery." Marvel did not reply, but greeted the king quietly, while Terribus welcomed their return as calmly as if he well knew they could not escape him. That evening the prince made another pass toward the king with his hand and muttered again the magic word. Nerle was watching, and saw the upper eye of Terribus glide still farther down his forehead and the other eye move again toward the left. The swaying nose shrank to a few inches in length, and the skin that had once been so brilliantly crimson turned to a dull red color. This time the courtiers and ladies in waiting also noticed the change in the king's features, but were afraid to speak of it, as any reference to their monarch's personal appearance was by law punishable by death. Terribus saw the startled looks directed upon him, and raised his hand to feel of his nose and eyes; but thinking that if any change in his appearance had taken place, he must be uglier than before, he only frowned and turned away his head. The next day the king's guests made a third attempt to leave his dominions, but met with no better success than before, for a long and tedious ride only brought them back to their starting-place in the evening. This time Prince Marvel was really angry, and striding into the king's presence he reproached him bitterly, saying: "Why do you prevent us from leaving your kingdom? We have not injured you in any way." "You have seen ME," returned Terribus, calmly, "and I do not intend you shall go back to the world and tell people how ugly I am." The prince looked at him, and could not repress a smile. The two eyes of the king, having been twice removed from their first position, were now both in his forehead, instead of below it, and one was much higher than the other. And the nose, although small when compared to what it had been, still resembled an elephant's trunk. Other changes had been made for the better, but Terribus was still exceedingly repulsive to look upon. Seeing the prince look at him and smile, the king flew into a fury of anger and declared that the strangers should never, while they lived, be permitted to leave his castle again. Prince Marvel became thoughtful at this, reflecting that the king's enmity all arose from his sensitiveness about his ugly appearance, and this filled the youthful knight with pity rather than resentment. When they had all assembled at the evening banquet the prince, for a third time, made a mystic pass at the king and whispered a magic word. And behold! this time the charm was complete. For the two front eyes of Terribus fell into their proper places, his nose became straight and well formed, and his skin took on a natural, healthy color. Moreover, he now had a fine head of soft brown hair, with eyebrows and eyelashes to match, and his head was shapely and in proportion to his body. As for the eye that had formerly been in the back of his head, it had disappeared completely. So amazed were the subjects of the transformed king--who was now quite handsome to look upon--that they began to murmur together excitedly, and something in the new sensations he experienced gave to the king's face likewise an expression of surprise. Knowing from their pleased looks that he must have improved in appearance, he found courage to raise his hand to his nose, and found it well formed. Then he touched his eyes, and realized they were looking straight out from his face, like those of other people. For some moments after making these discoveries the king remained motionless, a smile of joy gradually spreading over his features. Then he said, aloud: "What has happened? Why do you all look so startled?" "Your Majesty is no longer ugly," replied Marvel, laughingly; "so that when Nerle and I leave your kingdom we can proclaim nothing less than praise of your dignified and handsome appearance." "Is my face indeed pleasing?" demanded the king, eagerly. "It is!" cried the assembled courtiers and ladies, as with one voice. "Bring me a mirror!" said the king. "I shall look at my reflection for the first time in many years." The mirror being brought King Terribus regarded himself for a long time with pleased astonishment; and then, his sensitive nature being overcome by the shock of his good fortune, he burst into a flood of tears and rushed from the room. The courtiers and ladies now bestowed many grateful thanks upon Prince Marvel for his kind deed; for they realized that thereafter their lives would be safer from the king's anger and much pleasanter in every way. "Terribus is not bad by nature," said one; "but he brooded upon his ugliness so much that the least thing served to throw him into a violent passion, and our lives were never safe from one day to another." By and by two giants entered the hall and carried away the throne of gray stone where Terribus had been accustomed to sit; and other slaves brought a gorgeous throne of gold, studded with precious jewels, which they put in its place. And after a time the king himself returned to the room, his simple gray gown replaced by flowing robes of purple, with rich embroideries, such as he had not worn for many years. "My people," said he, addressing those present with kindness and dignity, "it seems to me fitting that a handsome king should be handsomely attired, and an ugly one clothed simply. For years I have been so terrible in feature that I dared not even look at my own image in a mirror. But now, thanks to the gracious magic of my guest, I have become like other men, and hereafter you will find my rule as kind as it was formerly cruel. To-night, in honor of this joyous occasion, we shall feast and make merry, and it is my royal command that you all do honor and reverence to the illustrious Prince Marvel!" A loud shout of approval greeted this speech, and the evening was merry indeed. Terribus joined freely in the revelry, laughing as gaily as the lightest-hearted damsel present. It was nearly morning before they all retired, and as they sought their beds Nerle asked the prince in a voice that sounded like an ill-natured growl: "Why did you give the king beauty, after his treatment of us?" Marvel looked at the reproachful face of his esquire and smiled. "When you are older," said he, "you will find that often there are many ways to accomplish a single purpose. The king's ugliness was the bar to our leaving his country, for he feared our gossip. So the easiest way for us to compass our escape was to take away his reason for detaining us. Thus I conquered the king in my own way, and at the same time gained his gratitude and friendship." "Will he allow us to depart in the morning?" inquired Nerle. "I think so," said Marvel. It was late when they rose from their slumbers; but, having breakfasted, the prince's first act was to seek the king. "We wish to leave your kingdom," said he. "Will you let us go?" Terribus grasped the hand of his guest and pressed it with fervor, while tears of gratitude stood in his eyes. "I should prefer that you remain with me always, and be my friend," he answered. "But if you choose to leave me I shall not interfere in any way with your wishes." Prince Marvel looked at him thoughtfully, and then said: "My time on this island is short. In a few months Prince Marvel will have passed out of the knowledge of men, and his name will be forgotten. Before then I hope to visit the Kingdoms of Dawna and Auriel and Plenta; so I must not delay, but beg you will permit me to depart at once." "Very well," answered Terribus. "Come with me, and I shall show you the way." He led the prince and Nerle to a high wall of rock, and placing his hand upon its rough surface, touched a hidden spring. Instantly an immense block of stone began to swing backward, disclosing a passage large enough for a man on horseback to ride through. "This is the one road that leads out of my kingdom," said Terribus. "The others all begin and end at the castle. So that unless you know the secret of this passage you could never escape from Spor." "But where does this road lead?" asked Marvel. "To the Kingdom of Auriel, which you desire to visit. It is not a straight road, for it winds around the Land of Twi, so it will carry you a little out of your way." "What is the Land of Twi?" inquired the prince. "A small country hidden from the view of all travelers," said Terribus. "No one has ever yet found a way to enter the land of Twi; yet there is a rumor that it is ruled by a mighty personage called the High Ki." "And does the rumor state what the High Ki of Twi is like?" "No, indeed," returned the king, smiling, "so it will do you no good to be curious. And now farewell, and may good luck attend you. Yet bear in mind the fact that King Terribus of Spor owes you a mighty debt of gratitude; and if you ever need my services, you have but to call on me, and I shall gladly come to your assistance." "I thank you," said Marvel, "but there is small chance of my needing help. Farewell, and may your future life be pleasant and happy!" With this he sprang to the saddle of his prancing charger and, followed by Nerle, rode slowly through the stone arch. The courtiers and ladies had flocked from the palace to witness their departure, and the giants and dwarfs and Gray Men were drawn up in long lines to speed the king's guests. So it was a brilliant sight that Marvel and Nerle looked back on; but once they were clear of the arch, the great stone rolled back into its place, shutting them out completely from the Kingdom of Spor, with its turreted castle and transformed king. 13. The Hidden Kingdom of Twi Knowing that at last they were free to roam according to their desire, the travelers rode gaily along the paths, taking but scant heed of their way. "Our faces are set toward new adventures," remarked the prince. "Let us hope they will prove more pleasant than the last." "To be sure!" responded Nerle. "Let us hope, at any rate, that we shall suffer more privations and encounter more trouble than we did in that mountainous Kingdom of Spor." Then he added: "For one reason, I regret you are my master." "What is that reason?" asked the prince, turning to smile upon his esquire. "You have a way of overcoming all difficulties without any trouble whatsoever, and that deprives me of any chance of coming to harm while in your company." "Cheer up, my boy!" cried Marvel. "Did I not say there are new adventures before us? We may not come through them so easily as we came through the others." "That is true," replied Nerle; "it is always best to hope." And then he inquired: "Why do you stop here, in the middle of the path?" "Because the path has ended rather suddenly," answered Marvel. "Here is a thick hedge of prickly briers barring our way." Nerle looked over his master's shoulder and saw that a great hedge, high and exceedingly thick, cut off all prospect of their advancing. "This is pleasant," said he; "but I might try to force our way through the hedge. The briers would probably prick me severely, and that would be delightful." "Try it!" the prince returned, with twinkling eyes. Nerle sprang from his horse to obey, but at the first contact with the briers he uttered a howl of pain and held up his hands, which were bleeding in a dozen places from the wounds of the thorns. "Ah, that will content you for a time, I trust," said Marvel. "Now follow me, and we will ride along beside the hedge until we find an opening. For either it will come to an end or there will prove to be a way through it to the other side." So they rode alongside the hedge for hour after hour; yet it did not end, nor could they espy any way to get through the thickly matted briers. By and by night fell, and they tethered their horses to some shrubs, where there were a few scanty blades of grass for them to crop, and then laid themselves down upon the ground, with bare rocks for pillows, where they managed to sleep soundly until morning. They had brought a supply of food in their pouches, and on this they breakfasted, afterward continuing their journey beside the hedge. At noon Prince Marvel uttered an exclamation of surprise and stopped his horse. "What is it?" asked Nerle. "I have found the handkerchief with which you wiped the blood from your hands yesterday morning, and then carelessly dropped," replied the prince. "This proves that we have made a complete circle around this hedge without finding a way to pass through it." "In that case," said Nerle, "we had better leave the hedge and go in another direction." "Not so," declared Marvel. "The hedge incloses some unknown country, and I am curious to find out what it is." "But there is no opening," remonstrated Nerle. "Then we must make one. Wouldn't you like to enjoy a little more pain?" "Thank you," answered Nerle, "my hands are still smarting very comfortably from the pricks of yesterday." "Therefore I must make the attempt myself," said the prince, and drawing his sword he whispered a queer word to it, and straightway began slashing at the hedge. The brambles fell fast before his blade, and when he had cut a big heap of branches from the hedge Nerle dragged them to one side, and the prince began again. It was marvelous how thick the hedge proved. Only a magic sword could have done this work and remained sharp, and only a fairy arm could have proved strong enough to hew through the tough wood. But the magic sword and fairy arm were at work, and naught could resist them. After a time the last branches were severed and dragged from the path, and then the travelers rode their horses through the gap into the unknown country beyond. They saw at first glance that it was a land of great beauty; but after that one look both Prince Marvel and Nerle paused and rubbed their eyes, to assure themselves that their vision was not blurred. Before them were two trees, exactly alike. And underneath the trees two cows were grazing--each a perfect likeness of the other. At their left were two cottages, with every door and window and chimney the exact counterpart of another. Before these houses two little boys were playing, evidently twins, for they not only looked alike and dressed alike, but every motion one made was also made by the other at the same time and in precisely the same way. When one laughed the other laughed, and when one stubbed his toe and fell down, the other did likewise, and then they both sat up and cried lustily at the same time. At this two women--it was impossible to tell one from the other--rushed out of the two houses, caught up the two boys, shook and dusted them in precisely the same way, and led them by their ears back into the houses. Again the astonished travelers rubbed their eyes, and then Prince Marvel looked at Nerle and said: "I thought at first that I saw everything double, but there seems to be only one of YOU." "And of you," answered the boy. "But see! there are two hills ahead of us, and two paths lead from the houses over the hills! How strange it all is!" Just then two birds flew by, close together and perfect mates; and the cows raised their heads and "mooed" at the same time; and two men--also twins--came over the two hills along the two paths with two dinner-pails in their hands and entered the two houses. They were met at the doors by the two women, who kissed them exactly at the same time and helped them off with their coats with the same motions, and closed the two doors with two slams at the same instant. Nerle laughed. "What sort of country have we got into?" he asked. "Let us find out," replied the prince, and riding up to one of the houses he knocked on the door with the hilt of his sword. Instantly the doors of both houses flew open, and both men appeared in the doorways. Both started back in amazement at sight of the strangers, and both women shrieked and both little boys began to cry. Both mothers boxed the children's ears, and both men gasped out: "Who--who are you?" Their voices were exactly alike, and their words were spoken in unison. Prince Marvel replied, courteously: "We are two strangers who have strayed into your country. But I do not understand why our appearance should so terrify you." "Why--you are singular! There is only half of each of you!" exclaimed the two men, together. "Not so," said the prince, trying hard not to laugh in their faces. "We may be single, while you appear to be double; but each of us is perfect, nevertheless." "Perfect! And only half of you!" cried the men. And again the two women, who were looking over their husbands' shoulders, screamed at sight of the strangers; and again the two boys, who were clinging to their mothers' dresses in the same positions, began to cry. "We did not know such strange people existed!" said the two men, both staring at the strangers and then wiping the beads of perspiration from their two brows with two faded yellow handkerchiefs. "Nor did we!" retorted the prince. "I assure you we are as much surprised as you are." Nerle laughed again at this, and to hear only one of the strangers speak and the other only laugh seemed to terrify the double people anew. So Prince Marvel quickly asked: "Please tell us what country this is?" "The Land of Twi," answered both men, together. "Oh! the Land of Twi. And why is the light here so dim?" continued the prince. "Dim?" repeated the men, as if surprised; "why, this is twilight, of course." "Of course," said Nerle. "I hadn't thought of that. We are in the long hidden Land of Twi, which all men have heard of, but no man has found before." "And who may you be?" questioned the prince, looking from one man to the other, curiously. "We are Twis," they answered. "Twice?" "Twis--inhabitants of Twi." "It's the same thing," laughed Nerle. "You see everything twice in this land." "Are none of your people single?" asked Prince Marvel. "Single," returned the men, as if perplexed. "We don't understand." "Are you all double?--or are some of you just one?" said the prince, who found it difficult to put his question plainly. "What does 'one' mean?" asked the men. "There is no such word as 'one' in our language." "They have no need of such a word," declared Nerle. "We are only poor laborers," explained the men. "But over the hills lie the cities of Twi, where the Ki and the Ki-Ki dwell, and also the High Ki." "Ah!" said Marvel, "I've heard of your High Ki. Who is he?" The men shook their heads, together and with the same motion. "We have never seen the glorious High Ki," they answered. "The sight of their faces is forbidden. None but the Ki and the Ki-Ki has seen the Supreme Rulers and High Ki." "I'm getting mixed," said Nerle. "All this about the Ki and the Ki-Ki and the High Ki makes me dizzy. Let's go on to the city and explore it." "That is a good suggestion," replied the prince. "Good by, my friends," he added, addressing the men. They both bowed, and although they still seemed somewhat frightened they answered him civilly and in the same words, and closed their doors at the same time. So Prince Marvel and Nerle rode up the double path to the hills, and the two cows became frightened and ran away with the same swinging step, keeping an exact space apart. And when they were a safe distance they both stopped, looked over their right shoulders, and "mooed" at the same instant. 14. The Ki and the Ki-Ki From the tops of the hills the travelers caught their first glimpse of the wonderful cities of Twi. Two walls surrounded the cities, and in the walls were two gates just alike. Within the inclosures stood many houses, but all were built in pairs, from the poorest huts to the most splendid palaces. Every street was double, the pavements running side by side. There were two lamp-posts on every corner, and in the dim twilight that existed these lamp-posts were quite necessary. If there were trees or bushes anywhere, they invariably grew in pairs, and if a branch was broken on one it was sure to be broken on the other, and dead leaves fell from both trees at identically the same moment. Much of this Marvel and Nerle learned after they had entered the cities, but the view from the hills showed plainly enough that the "double" plan existed everywhere and in every way in this strange land. They followed the paths down to the gates of the walls, where two pairs of soldiers rushed out and seized their horses by the bridles. These soldiers all seemed to be twins, or at least mates, and each one of each pair was as like the other as are two peas growing in the same pod. If one had a red nose the other's was red in the same degree, and the soldiers that held the bridles of Nerle's horse both had their left eyes bruised and blackened, as from a blow of the same force. These soldiers, as they looked upon Nerle and the prince, seemed fully as much astonished and certainly more frightened than their prisoners. They were dressed in bright yellow uniforms with green buttons, and the soldiers who had arrested the prince had both torn their left coat-sleeves and had patches of the same shape upon the seats of their trousers. "How dare you stop us, fellows?" asked the prince, sternly. The soldiers holding his horse both turned and looked inquiringly at the soldiers holding Nerle's horse; and these turned to look at a double captain who came out of two doors in the wall and walked up to them. "Such things were never before heard of!" said the two captains, their startled eyes fixed upon the prisoners. "We must take them to the Ki and the Ki-Ki." "Why so?" asked Prince Marvel. "Because," replied the officers, "they are our rulers, under grace of the High Ki, and all unusual happenings must be brought to their notice. It is our law, you know--the law of the Kingdom of Twi." "Very well," said Marvel, quietly; "take us where you will; but if any harm is intended us you will be made to regret it." "The Ki and the Ki-Ki will decide," returned the captains gravely, their words sounding at the same instant. And then the two pairs of soldiers led the horses through the double streets, the captains marching ahead with drawn swords, and crowds of twin men and twin women coming from the double doors of the double houses to gaze upon the strange sight of men and horses who were not double. Presently they came upon a twin palace with twin turrets rising high into the air; and before the twin doors the prisoners dismounted. Marvel was escorted through one door and Nerle through another, and then they saw each other going down a double hallway to a room with a double entrance. Passing through this they found themselves in a large hall with two domes set side by side in the roof. The domes were formed of stained glass, and the walls of the hall were ornamented by pictures in pairs, each pair showing identically the same scenes. This, was, of course, reasonable enough in such a land, where two people would always look at two pictures at the same time and admire them in the same way with the same thoughts. Beneath one of the domes stood a double throne, on which sat the Ki of Twi--a pair of gray-bearded and bald-headed men who were lean and lank and stoop-shouldered. They had small eyes, black and flashing, long hooked noses, great pointed ears, and they were smoking two pipes from which the smoke curled in exactly the same circles and clouds. Beneath the other dome sat the Ki-Ki of Twi, also on double thrones, similar to those of the Ki. The Ki-Ki were two young men, and had golden hair combed over their brows and "banged" straight across; and their eyes were blue and mild in expression, and their cheeks pink and soft. The Ki-Ki were playing softly upon a pair of musical instruments that resembled mandolins, and they were evidently trying to learn a new piece of music, for when one Ki-Ki struck a false note the other Ki-Ki struck the same false note at the same time, and the same expression of annoyance came over the two faces at the same moment. When the prisoners entered, the pairs of captains and soldiers bowed low to the two pairs of rulers, and the Ki exclaimed--both in the same voice of surprise: "Great Kika-koo! what have we here?" "Most wonderful prisoners, your Highnesses," answered the captains. "We found them at your cities' gates and brought them to you at once. They are, as your Highnesses will see, each singular, and but half of what he should be." "'Tis so!" cried the double Ki, in loud voices, and slapping their right thighs with their right palms at the same time. "Most remarkable! Most remarkable!" "I don't see anything remarkable about it," returned Prince Marvel, calmly. "It is you, who are not singular, but double, that seem strange and outlandish." "Perhaps--perhaps!" said the two old men, thoughtfully. "It is what we are not accustomed to that seems to us remarkable. Eh, Ki-Ki?" they added, turning to the other rulers. The Ki-Ki, who had not spoken a word but continued to play softly, simply nodded their blond heads carelessly; so the Ki looked again at the prisoners and asked: "How did you get here?" "We cut a hole through the prickly hedge," replied Prince Marvel. "A hole through the hedge! Great Kika-koo!" cried the gray-bearded Ki; "is there, then, anything or any place on the other side of the hedge?" "Why, of course! The world is there," returned the prince, laughing. The old men looked puzzled, and glanced sharply from their little black eyes at their prisoners. "We thought nothing existed outside the hedge of Twi," they answered, simply. "But your presence here proves we were wrong. Eh! Ki-Ki?" This last was again directed toward the pair of musicians, who continued to play and only nodded quietly, as before. "Now that you are here," said the twin Ki, stroking their two gray beards with their two left hands in a nervous way, "it must be evident to you that you do not belong here. Therefore you must go back through the hedge again and stay on the other side. Eh, Ki-Ki?" The Ki-Ki still continued playing, but now spoke the first words the prisoners had heard from them. "They must die," said the Ki-Ki, in soft and agreeable voices. "Die!" echoed the twin Ki, "die? Great Kika-koo! And why so?" "Because, if there is a world on the other side of the hedge, they would tell on their return all about the Land of Twi, and others of their kind would come through the hedge from curiosity and annoy us. We can not be annoyed. We are busy." Having delivered this speech both the Ki-Ki went on playing the new tune, as if the matter was settled. "Nonsense!" retorted the old Ki, angrily. "You are getting more and more bloodthirsty every day, our sweet and gentle Ki-Ki! But we are the Ki--and we say the prisoners shall not die!" "We say they shall!" answered the youthful Ki-Ki, nodding their two heads at the same time, with a positive motion. "You may be the Ki, but we are the Ki-Ki, and your superior." "Not in this case," declared the old men. "Where life and death are concerned we have equal powers with you." "And if we disagree?" asked the players, gently. "Great Kika-koo! If we disagree the High Ki must judge between us!" roared the twin Ki, excitedly. "Quite so," answered the Ki-Ki. "The strangers shall die." "They shall not die!" stormed the old men, with fierce gestures toward the others, while both pairs of black eyes flashed angrily. "Then we disagree, and they must be taken to the High Ki," returned the blond musicians, beginning to play another tune. The two Ki rose from their thrones, paced two steps to the right and three steps to the left, and then sat down again. "Very well!" they said to the captains, who had listened unmoved to the quarrel of the rulers; "keep these half-men safe prisoners until to-morrow morning, and then the Ki-Ki and we ourselves will conduct them to the mighty High Ki." At this command the twin captains bowed again to both pairs of rulers and led Prince Marvel and Nerle from the room. Then they were escorted along the streets to the twin houses of the captains, and here the officers paused and scratched their left ears with uncertain gestures. "There being only half of each of you," they said, "we do not know how to lock each of you in double rooms." "Oh, let us both occupy the same room," said Prince Marvel. "We prefer it." "Very well," answered the captains; "we must transgress our usual customs in any event, so you may as well be lodged as you wish." So Nerle and the prince were thrust into a large and pleasant room of one of the twin houses, the double doors were locked upon them by twin soldiers, and they were left to their own thoughts. 15. The High Ki of Twi "Tell me, Prince, are we awake or asleep?" asked Nerle, as soon as they were alone. "There is no question of our being awake," replied the prince, with a laugh. "But what a curious country it is--and what a funny people!" "We can't call them odd or singular," said the esquire, "for everything is even in numbers and double in appearance. It makes me giddy to look at them, and I keep feeling of myself to make sure there is still only one of me." "You are but half a boy!" laughed the prince--"at least so long as you remain in the Land of Twi." "I'd like to get out of it in double-quick time," answered Nerle; "and we should even now be on the other side of the hedge were it not for that wicked pair of Ki-Ki, who are determined to kill us." "It is strange," said the prince, thoughtfully, "that the fierce-looking old Ki should be our friends and the gentle Ki-Ki our enemies. How little one can tell from appearances what sort of heart beats in a person's body!" Before Nerle could answer the two doors opened and two pairs of soldiers entered. They drew two small tables before the prince and two before Nerle, and then other pairs of twin soldiers came and spread cloths on the tables and set twin platters of meat and bread and fruit on each of the tables. When the meal had been arranged the prisoners saw that there was enough for four people instead of two; and the soldiers realized this also, for they turned puzzled looks first on the tables and then on the prisoners. Then they shook all their twin heads gravely and went away, locking the twin doors behind them. "We have one advantage in being singular," said Nerle, cheerfully; "and that is we are not likely to starve to death. For we can eat the portions of our missing twins as well as our own." "I should think you would enjoy starving," remarked the prince. "No; I believe I have more exquisite suffering in store for me, since I have met that gentle pair of Ki-Ki," said Nerle. While they were eating the two captains came in and sat down in two chairs. These captains seemed friendly fellows, and after watching the strangers for a while they remarked: "We are glad to see you able to eat so heartily; for to-morrow you will probably die." "That is by no means certain," replied Marvel, cutting a piece from one of the twin birds on a platter before him--to the extreme surprise of the captains, who had always before seen both birds carved alike at the same time. "Your gray-bearded old Ki say we shall not die." "True," answered the captains. "But the Ki-Ki have declared you shall." "Their powers seem to be equal," said Nerle, "and we are to be taken before the High Ki for judgment." "Therein lies your danger," returned the captains, speaking in the same tones and with the same accents on their words. "For it is well known the Ki-Ki has more influence with the High Ki than the Ki has." "Hold on!" cried Nerle; "you are making me dizzy again. I can't keep track of all these Kis." "What is the High Ki like?" asked Prince Marvel, who was much interested in the conversation of the captains. But this question the officers seemed unable to answer. They shook their heads slowly and said: "The High Ki are not visible to the people of Twi. Only in cases of the greatest importance are the High Ki ever bothered or even approached by the Ki and the Ki-Ki, who are supposed to rule the land according to their own judgment. But if they chance to disagree, then the matter is carried before the High Ki, who live in a palace surrounded by high walls, in which there are no gates. Only these rulers have ever seen the other side of the walls, or know what the High Ki are like." "That is strange," said the prince. "But we, ourselves, it seems, are to see the High Ki to-morrow, and whoever they may chance to be, we hope to remain alive after the interview." "That is a vain hope," answered the captains, "for it is well known that the High Ki usually decide in favor of the Ki-Ki, and against the wishes of the old Ki." "That is certainly encouraging," said Nerle. When the captains had gone and left them to themselves, the esquire confided to his master his expectations in the following speech: "This High Ki sounds something terrible and fierce in my ears, and as they are doubtless a pair, they will be twice terrible and fierce. Perhaps his royal doublets will torture me most exquisitely before putting me to death, and then I shall feel that I have not lived in vain." They slept in comfortable beds that night, although an empty twin bed stood beside each one they occupied. And in the morning they were served another excellent meal, after which the captains escorted them again to the twin palaces of the Ki and the Ki-Ki. There the two pairs of rulers met them and headed the long procession of soldiers toward the palace of the High Ki. First came a band of music, in which many queer sorts of instruments were played in pairs by twin musicians; and it was amusing to Nerle to see the twin drummers roll their twin drums exactly at the same time and the twin trumpets peal out twin notes. After the band marched the double Ki-Ki and the double Ki, their four bodies side by side in a straight line. The Ki-Ki had left their musical instruments in the palace, and now wore yellow gloves with green stitching down the backs and swung gold-headed canes jauntily as they walked. The Ki stooped their aged shoulders and shuffled along with their hands in their pockets, and only once did they speak, and that was to roar "Great Kika-koo!" when the Ki-Ki jabbed their canes down on the Ki's toes. Following the Ki-Ki and the Ki came the prince and Nerle, escorted by the twin captains, and then there were files of twin soldiers bringing up the rear. Crowds of twin people, with many twin children amongst them, turned out to watch the unusual display, and many pairs of twin dogs barked together in unison and snapped at the heels of the marching twin soldiers. By and by they reached the great wall surrounding the High Ki's palace, and, sure enough, there was never a gate in the wall by which any might enter. But when the Ki and the Ki-Ki had blown a shrill signal upon two pairs of whistles, they all beheld two flights of silver steps begin to descend from the top of the wall, and these came nearer and nearer the ground until at last they rested at the feet of the Ki. Then the old men began ascending the steps carefully and slowly, and the captains motioned to the prisoners to follow. So Prince Marvel followed one of the Ki up the steps and Nerle the other Ki, while the two Ki-Ki came behind them so they could not escape. So to the top of the wall they climbed, where a pair of twin servants in yellow and green--which seemed to be the royal colors--welcomed them and drew up the pair of silver steps, afterward letting them down on the other side of the wall, side by side. They descended in the same order as they had mounted to the top of the wall, and now Prince Marvel and Nerle found themselves in a most beautiful garden, filled with twin beds of twin flowers, with many pairs of rare shrubs. Also, there were several double statuettes on pedestals, and double fountains sending exactly the same sprays of water the same distance into the air. Double walks ran in every direction through the garden, and in the center of the inclosure stood a magnificent twin palace, built of blocks of white marble exquisitely carved. The Ki and the Ki-Ki at once led their prisoners toward the palace and entered at its large arched double doors, where several pairs of servants met them. These servants, they found, were all dumb, so that should they escape from the palace walls they could tell no tales of the High Ki. The prisoners now proceeded through several pairs of halls, winding this way and that, and at last came to a pair of golden double doors leading into the throne-room of the mighty High Ki. Here they all paused, and the Ki-Ki both turned to the prince and Nerle and said: "You are the only persons, excepting ourselves and the palace servants, who have ever been permitted to see the High Ki of Twi. As you are about to die, that does not matter; but should you by any chance be permitted to live, you must never breathe a word of what you are about to see, under penalty of a sure and horrible death." The prisoners made no reply to this speech, and, after the two Ki-Ki had given them another mild look from their gentle blue eyes, these officials clapped their twin hands together and the doors of gold flew open. A perfect silence greeted them, during which the double Ki and the double Ki-Ki bent their four bodies low and advanced into the throne-room, followed by Prince Marvel and Nerle. In the center of the room stood two thrones of dainty filigree work in solid gold, and over them were canopies of yellow velvet, the folds of which were caught up and draped with bands of green ribbon. And on the thrones were seated two of the sweetest and fairest little maidens that mortal man had ever beheld. Their lovely hair was fine as a spider's web; their eyes were kind and smiling, their cheeks soft and dimpled, their mouths shapely as a cupid's bow and tinted like the petals of a rose. Upon their heads were set two crowns of fine spun gold, worked into fantastic shapes and set with glittering gems. Their robes were soft silks of pale yellow, with strings of sparkling emeralds for ornament. Anything so lovely and fascinating as these little maids, who were precisely alike in every particular, neither Prince Marvel nor Nerle had ever dreamed could exist. They stood for a time spellbound and filled with admiration, while the two pairs of rulers bowed again and again before the dainty and lovable persons of their High Ki. But it was hard for Nerle to keep quiet for long, and presently he exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all present: "By the Great Kika-koo of our friends the Ki, these darling High Ki of Twi are sweet enough to be kissed!" 16. The Rebellion of the High Ki The bold speech of Nerle's made the two damsels laugh at the same time, and their sweet laughter sounded like rippling strains of harmonious music. But the two Ki-Ki frowned angrily, and the two Ki looked at the boy in surprise, as if wondering at his temerity. "Who are these strangers?" asked the pretty High Ki, speaking together as all the twins of Twi did; "and why are they not mates, but only half of each other?" "These questions, your Supreme Highnesses," said the blond-haired pair of Ki-Ki, "we are unable to answer." "Perhaps, then, the strangers can answer themselves," said the little maids, smiling first upon the Ki-Ki and then upon the prisoners. Prince Marvel bowed. "I am from the great outside world," said he, "and my name is Prince Marvel. Until now I have never seen people that live in pairs, and speak in unison, and act in the same way and think the same thoughts. My world is much bigger than your world, and in it every person is proud to think and act for himself. You say I am only a 'half,' but that is not so. I am perfect, without a counterpart; my friend Nerle is perfect without a counterpart, and it is yourselves who are halved. For in the Land of Twi no person is complete or perfect without its other half, and it seems to take two of you to make one man--or one maid." The sweet faces of the twin High Ki grew thoughtful at this speech, and they said: "Indeed, it may be you are right. But it is our custom in Twi to do everything double and to live double." Then, turning to the Ki, they asked: "Why have you brought these strangers here?" "To ask your Supreme Highnesses to permit them to return again to the world from whence they came," answered the Ki, both of them regarding their supreme rulers earnestly. But here the Ki-Ki spoke up quickly in their mild voices, saying: "That is not our idea, your Highnesses. We, the Ki-Ki of Twi, think it best the strangers should be put to death. And we pray your Supreme Highnesses to favor our wish." The two little maids looked from the Ki to the Ki-Ki, and frowned and pouted their rosy lips in evident perplexity. But Nerle whispered to Prince Marvel: "It's all up with us! I know very well why her royal doublets always favors the Ki-Ki. It's because they are young and handsome, while the Ki are old and ugly. Both of her will condemn us to death--you see if she don't!" This seemed somewhat mixed, but Nerle was in earnest, and Prince Marvel, who had not forgotten his fairy lore, began to weave a silent spell over the head of the nearest twin High Ki. But just as it was completed, and before he had time to work the spell on the other twin, the Ki-Ki grew impatient, and exclaimed: "We beg your Highnesses not to keep us waiting. Let us have your decision at once!" And the twin maidens raised their fair heads and replied. But the reply was of such a nature that both the old Ki and both the young Ki-Ki staggered backward in amazement. For one of the twin High Ki said: "They shall die!" And the other twin High Ki said at the same instant: "They shall NOT die!" Had twin thunderbolts fallen through the twin roofs of the twin palaces and struck the twin Ki and the twin Ki-Ki upon their twin heads it would have created no more stupendous a sensation than did this remark. Never before had any two halves of a twin of the Land of Twi thought differently or spoken differently. Indeed, it startled the two maidens themselves as much as it did their hearers, for each one turned her head toward the other and, for the first time in her life, looked into the other's face! This act was fully as strange as their speech, and a sudden horrible thought came into the startled heads of the twin Ki and the twin Ki-Ki: THE HIGH KI OF TWI WAS NO LONGER ONE, BUT TWO. AND THESE TWO WERE THINKING AND ACTING EACH INDEPENDENT OF THE OTHER! It is no wonder the shock rendered them speechless for a time, and they stood swaying their four bodies, with their eight eyes bulging out like those of fishes and their four mouths wide open, as if the two pairs had become one quartet. The faces of the two maids flushed as they gazed upon each other. "How DARE you contradict me?" asked one. "How dare you contradict ME?" demanded the other, and not only were these questions asked separately, but the accent on the words was different. And their twin minds seemed to get farther apart every moment. "I'm the High Ki of Twi!" said one. "You're not! I'M the High Ki!" retorted the other. "The strangers shall die!" snapped one. "They shall live!" cried the other. "My will is supreme." "It's not! MY will is supreme," returned the other twin. The bald heads of the ancient Ki were bobbing in amazement, first to one maid and then toward the other. The blond hairs of the two Ki-Ki were standing almost on end, and their eyes stared straight before them as if stupefied with astonishment. Nerle was bellowing with rude laughter and holding his sides to keep from getting a stitch in them, while Prince Marvel stood quietly attentive and smiling with genuine amusement. For he alone understood what had happened to separate the twin High Ki. The girls did not seem to know how to act under their altered conditions. After a time one of them said: "We will leave our dispute to be settled by the Ki and the Ki-Ki." "Very well," agreed the other. "Then I say your half is right," declared the Ki-Ki, both their right forefingers pointing to the maiden who had condemned the strangers to death. "And I decide that your half is right," exclaimed the Ki, both their trembling forefingers pointing to the maiden who had said the strangers should live. "Well?" said one girl. "Well?" said the other. "The powers of the Ki and the Ki-Ki are equal," said the first. "We are no nearer a settlement of our dispute than we were before." "My dear young ladies," said Prince Marvel, politely, "I beg you will take time to think the matter over, and see if you can not come to an agreement. We are in no hurry." "Very well," decided the twins, speaking both together this time. "We command you all to remain in the palace until we have settled our own strange dispute. The servants will care for you, and when we are ready to announce our decision we shall again send for you." Every one bowed at this command and retired from the room; but Nerle looked over his shoulder as he went through the doorway, and saw that the two High Ki had turned in their seats and were facing each other, and that both their faces wore angry and determined expressions. 17. The Separation of the High Ki For nearly a week Prince Marvel and Nerle remained confined to the palace and gardens of the High Ki. Together with the twin Ki, who seemed to be friendly to them, they occupied one of the twin palaces, while the Ki-Ki secluded themselves in the other. The pretty High Ki maidens they did not see at all, nor did they know what part of the palaces they occupied, not being permitted to wander away from the rooms allotted to them, except to walk in the garden. There was no way for them to escape, had they felt inclined to, for the silver steps had disappeared. From the garden walks they sometimes caught sight of the solemn heads of the handsome Ki-Ki looking at them through the twin windows of the other palace, and although the expression of their faces was always mild and gentle, Nerle and Marvel well knew the Ki-Ki were only waiting in the hope of having them killed. "Are you nervous about the decision of the pretty High Ki?" asked Nerle one day. "No, indeed," said the prince, laughing; "for I do not expect them to kill me, in any event." "If I felt as sure of my safety," returned the boy, "it would destroy all my pleasure. These are really happy days for me. Every moment I expect to see the executioner arrive with his ax." "The executioner is double," said the two old Ki, breaking into the conversation. "You should say you expect to see the executioners arrive with their axes." "Then how will they cut off my head with two axes? For I suppose they will both chop at the same time, and I have but one neck." "Wait and see," answered the two Ki, sighing deeply and rubbing their red noses thoughtfully. "Oh, I'll wait," answered the boy; "but as for seeing them cut off my head, I refuse; for I intend to shut my eyes." So they sat in their rooms or walked in the gardens, yawning and waiting, until one day, just as the two clocks on the wall were striking twenty-four o'clock, the door opened and to their surprise one of the High Ki twins walked in upon them. She was as sweet and fair to look upon as when she occupied one of the beautiful thrones, but at first no one could tell which of the High Ki she was--their friend or their enemy. Even the Ki were puzzled and anxious, until the girl said: "My other half and I have completely separated, for we have agreed to disagree for all time. And she has gone to ask the Ki-Ki to assist her, for war is declared between us. And hereafter her color is to be the green and mine the yellow, and we intend to fight until one of us conquers and overthrows the other." This announcement was interesting to Marvel and Nerle, but greatly shocked the aged Ki, who asked: "What is to become of our kingdom? Half of a High Ki can not rule it. It is against the law." "I will make my own laws when I have won the fight," returned the girl, with a lovely smile; "so do not let that bother you. And now tell me, will you help me to fight my battles?" "Willingly!" exclaimed Nerle and Prince Marvel, almost as if they had been twins of Twi. And the Ki rubbed their bald heads a moment, and then sneezed together and wiped their eyes on faded yellow handkerchiefs, and finally declared they would "stick to her Supreme Highness through thick and thin!" "Then go over the wall to the cities, at once, and get together all the soldiers to fight for me and my cause," commanded the girl. The twin Ki at once left the room, and the High Ki sat down and began to ask questions of Prince Marvel and Nerle about the big outside world from whence they came. Nerle was rather shy and bashful before the dainty little maiden, whose yellow robe contrasted delightfully with her pink cheeks and blue eyes and brown flowing locks; but Prince Marvel did not mind girls at all, so he talked with her freely, and she in return allowed him to examine the pretty gold crown she wore upon her brow. By and by the Ki came back with both faces sad and gloomy. "Your Highness," they announced, "we have bad news for you. The other High Ki, who is wearing a green gown, has been more prompt in action than yourself. She and the Ki-Ki have secured the silver steps and will allow no others to use them; and already they have sent for the soldiers of the royal armies to come and aid them. So we are unable to leave the garden, and presently the army will be here to destroy us." Then the girl showed her good courage; for she laughed and said: "Then we must remain here and fight to the last; and if I am unable to save you, who are my friends, it will be because I can not save myself." This speech pleased Prince Marvel greatly. He kissed the little maid's hand respectfully and said: "Fear nothing, your Highness. My friend and I are not so helpless as you think. We consider it our privilege to protect and save you, instead of your saving us; and we are really able to do this in spite of the other High Ki and her entire army." So they remained quietly in the palace the rest of that day, and no one molested them in the least. In the evening the girl played and sang for them, and the ancient pair of Ki danced a double-shuffle for their amusement that nearly convulsed them with laughter. For one danced exactly like the other, and the old men's legs were still very nimble, although their wrinkled faces remained anxiously grave throughout their antics. Nerle also sang a song about the King of Thieves whom Prince Marvel had conquered, and another about the Red Rogue of Dawna, so that altogether the evening passed pleasantly enough, and they managed to forget all their uneasy doubts of the morrow. When at last they separated for the night, Prince Marvel alone did not seek his bed; there was still some business he wished to transact. So he shut himself up in his room and summoned before him, by means of his fairy knowledge, the Prince of the Knooks, the King of the Ryls and the Governor of the Goblins. These were all three his especial friends, and he soon told them the story of the quarrel and separation of the twin High Ki, and claimed their assistance. Then he told them how they might aid him, and afterward dismissed them. Having thus accomplished his task, the fairy prince went to bed and slept peacefully the remainder of the night. The next morning the blond Ki-Ki and all the army of Twi, which had been won to their cause, came climbing up the silver steps and over the wall to the palace of the green High Ki; but what was their amazement to find the twin palaces separated by a wall so high that no ladders nor steps they possessed could reach to the top! It had been built in a single night, and only Prince Marvel and his fairy friends knew how the work had been done so quickly. The yellow High Ki, coming downstairs to breakfast with her friends, found herself securely shut in from her enemies, and the bald-headed old Ki were so pleased to escape that they danced another jig from pure joy. Over the wall could be heard the shouts and threats of the army of Twi, who were seeking a way to get at the fugitives; but for the present our friends knew themselves to be perfectly safe, and they could afford to laugh at the fury of the entire population of Twi. 18. The Rescue of the High Ki After several days of siege Prince Marvel began to feel less confident of the safety of his little party. The frantic Ki-Ki had built double battering-rams and were trying to batter down the high wall; and they had built several pairs of long ladders with which to climb over the wall; and their soldiers were digging two tunnels in the ground in order to crawl under the wall. Not at once could they succeed, for the wall was strong and it would take long to batter it down; and Nerle stood on top of the wall and kicked over the ladders as fast as the soldiers of Twi set them up; and the gray-bearded Ki stood in the garden holding two big flat boards with which to whack the heads of any who might come through the tunnels. But Prince Marvel realized that the perseverance of his foes might win in the end, unless he took measures to defeat them effectually. So he summoned swift messengers from among the Sound Elves, who are accustomed to travel quickly, and they carried messages from him to Wul-Takim, the King of the Reformed Thieves, and to King Terribus of Spor, who had both promised him their assistance in case he needed it. The prince did not tell his friends of this action, but after the messengers had been dispatched he felt easier in his mind. The little High Ki remained as sweet and brave and lovable as ever, striving constantly to cheer and encourage her little band of defenders. But none of them was very much worried, and Nerle confided to the maiden in yellow the fact that he expected to suffer quite agreeably when the Ki-Ki at last got him in their clutches. Finally a day came when two big holes were battered through the wall, and then the twin soldiers of Twi poured through the holes and began to pound on the doors of the palace itself, in which Prince Marvel and Nerle, the Ki and the yellow High Ki had locked themselves as securely as possible. The prince now decided it was high time for his friends to come to their rescue; but they did not appear, and before long the doors of the palace gave way and the soldiers rushed upon them in a vast throng. Nerle wanted to fight, and to slay as many of the Twi people as possible; but the prince would not let him. "These poor soldiers are but doing what they consider their duty," he said, "and it would be cruel to cut them down with our swords. Have patience, I pray you. Our triumph will come in good time." The Ki-Ki, who came into the palace accompanied by the green High Ki, ordered the twin soldiers to bind all the prisoners with cords. So one pair of soldiers bound the Ki and another pair Nerle and the prince, using exactly the same motions in the operation. But when it came to binding the yellow High Ki the scene was very funny. For twin soldiers tried to do the binding, and there was only one to bind; so that one soldier went through the same motions as his twin on empty air, and when his other half had firmly bound the girl, his own rope fell harmless to the ground. But it seemed impossible for one of the twins to do anything different from the other, so that was the only way the act could be accomplished. Then the green-robed High Ki walked up to the one in yellow and laughed in her face, saying: "You now see which of us is the most powerful, and therefore the most worthy to rule. Had you remained faithful to our handsome Ki-Ki, as I did, you would not now be defeated and disgraced." "There is no disgrace in losing one battle," returned the other girl, proudly. "You are mistaken if you think you have conquered me, and you are wrong to insult one who is, for the time being, your captive." The maiden in green looked for an instant confused and ashamed; then she tossed her pretty head and walked away. They led all the prisoners out into the garden and then through the broken wall, and up and down the silver steps, into the great square of the cities of Twi. And here all the population crowded around them, for this was the first time any of them had seen their High Ki, or even known that they were girls; and the news of their quarrel and separation had aroused a great deal of excitement. "Let the executioners come forward!" cried the Ki-Ki, gleefully, and in answer to the command the twin executioners stepped up to the prisoners. They were big men, these executioners, each having a squint in one eye and a scar on the left cheek. They polished their axes a moment on their coat-sleeves, and then said to Prince Marvel and Nerle, who were to be the first victims: "Don't dodge, please, or our axes may not strike the right place. And do not be afraid, for the blows will only hurt you an instant. In the Land of Twi it is usually considered a pleasure to be executed by us, we are so exceedingly skillful." "I can well believe that," replied Nerle, although his teeth were chattering. But at this instant a loud shout was heard, and the twin people of Twi all turned their heads to find themselves surrounded by throngs of fierce enemies. Prince Marvel smiled, for he saw among the new-comers the giants and dwarfs and the stern Gray Men of King Terribus, with their monarch calmly directing their movements; and on the other side of the circle were the jolly faces and bushy whiskers of the fifty-nine reformed thieves, with burly Wul-Takim at their head. 19. The Reunion of the High Ki The twins of Twi were too startled and amazed to offer to fight with the odd people surrounding them. Even the executioners allowed their axes to fall harmlessly to the ground, and the double people, soldiers and citizens alike, turned to stare at the strangers in wonder. "We're here, Prince!" yelled Wul-Takim, his bristly beard showing over the heads of those who stood between. "Thank you," answered Prince Marvel. "And the men of Spor are here!" added King Terribus, who was mounted on a fine milk-white charger, richly caparisoned. "I thank the men of Spor," returned Prince Marvel, graciously. "Shall we cut your foes into small pieces, or would you prefer to hang them?" questioned the King of the Reformed Thieves, loudly enough to set most of his hearers shivering. But now the little maid in yellow stepped up to Prince Marvel and, regarding the youthful knight with considerable awe, said sweetly: "I beg you will pardon my people and spare them. They are usually good and loyal subjects, and if they fought against me--their lawful High Ki--it was only because they were misled by my separation from my other half." "That is true," replied the prince; "and as you are still the lawful High Ki of Twi, I will leave you to deal with your own people as you see fit. For those who have conquered your people are but your own allies, and are still under your orders, as I am myself." Hearing this, the green High Ki walked up to her twin High Ki and said, boldly: "I am your prisoner. It is now your turn. Do with me as you will." "I forgive you," replied her sister, in kindly tones. Then the little maid who had met with defeat gave a sob and turned away weeping, for she had expected anything but forgiveness. And now the Ki-Ki came forward and, bowing their handsome blond heads before the High Ki, demanded: "Are we forgiven also?" "Yes," said the girl, "but you are no longer fit to be rulers of my people. Therefore, you are henceforth deprived of your honorable offices of Ki-Ki, which I shall now bestow upon these good captains here," and she indicated the good-natured officers who had first captured the prince and Nerle. The people of Twi eagerly applauded this act, for the captains were more popular with them than the former Ki-Ki; but the blond ones both flushed with humiliation and anger, and said: "The captains fought against you, even as we did." "Yet the captains only obeyed your orders," returned the High Ki. "So I hold them blameless." "And what is to become of us now?" asked the former Ki-Ki. "You will belong to the common people, and earn your living playing tunes for them to dance by," answered the High Ki. And at this retort every one laughed, so that the handsome youths turned away with twin scowls upon their faces and departed amidst the jeers of the crowd. "Better hang 'em to a tree, little one," shouted Wul-Takim, in his big voice; "they won't enjoy life much, anyhow." But the maid shook her pretty head and turned to the prince. "Will you stay here and help me to rule my kingdom?" she asked. "I can not do that," replied Prince Marvel, "for I am but a wandering adventurer and must soon continue my travels. But I believe you will be able to rule your people without my help." "It is not so easy a task," she answered, sighing. "For I am singular and my people are all double." "Well, let us hold a meeting in your palace," said the prince, "and then we can decide what is best to be done." So they dismissed the people, who cheered their High Ki enthusiastically, returning quietly to their daily tasks and the gossip that was sure to follow such important events as they had witnessed. The army of King Terribus and the fifty-nine reformed thieves went to the twin palaces of the Ki and the Ki-Ki and made merry with feasting and songs to celebrate their conquest. And the High Ki, followed by the prince, Nerle, King Terribus and Wul-Takim, as well as by the Ki and the newly-appointed Ki-Ki, mounted the silver steps and passed over the wall to the royal palaces. The green High Ki followed them, still weeping disconsolately. When they had all reached the throne-room, the High Ki seated herself on one of the beautiful thrones and said: "By some strange chance, which I am unable to explain, my twin and I have become separated; so that instead of thinking and acting alike, we are now individuals--as are all the strange men who have passed through the hole in the hedge. And, being individuals, we can no longer agree, nor can one of us lawfully rule over the Kingdom of Twi, where all the subjects are twins, thinking and acting in unison." Said Prince Marvel: "Your Highness, I alone can explain why you became separated from your twin. By means of a fairy enchantment, which I learned years ago, I worked upon you a spell, which compelled your brain to work independent of your sister's brain. It seems to me that it is better each person should think her own thoughts and live her own life, rather than be yoked to another person and obliged to think and act as a twin, or one-half of a complete whole. And since you are now the one High Ki, and the acknowledged ruler of this country, I will agree to work the same fairy spell on all your people, so that no longer will there be twin minds in all this Land of Twi." "But all the cows and dogs and horses and other animals are double, as well as the people," suggested the old Ki, blinking their little eyes in amazement at the thought of being forever separated from each other. "I can also work the spell upon all the twin animals," said the prince, after a moment's hesitation. "And all our houses are built double, with twin doors and windows and chimneys, to accommodate our twin people," continued the High Ki. "And the trees and flowers--and even the blades of grass--are all double. And our roads are double, and--and everything else is double. I alone, the ruler of this land, am singular!" Prince Marvel became thoughtful now, for he did not know how to separate trees and flowers, and it would be a tedious task to separate the twin houses. "Why not leave the country as it is?" asked King Terribus of Spor. "The High Ki is welcome to come to my castle to live, and then she need no longer bother about the Land of Twi, which seems to me a poor place, after all." "And your sister may come with me to my cave, and be the queen of the reformed thieves, which is a much more important office than being High Ki of Twi," added big Wul-Takim, who had placed the maiden in green upon a cushion at his feet, and was striving to comfort her by gently stroking her silken hair with his rough hand. "But I love my country, and do not wish to leave it," answered the yellow High Ki. "And I love my twin sister, and regret that our minds have become separated," she continued, sadly. "I have it!" exclaimed Nerle. "Let the prince reunite you, making you regular twins of Twi again, and then you can continue to rule the country as the double High Ki, and everything will be as it was before." The yellow High Ki clapped her pink hands with delight and looked eagerly at the prince. "Will you?" she asked. "Will you please reunite us? And then all our troubles will be ended!" This really seemed to Marvel the best thing to be done. So he led the maid in green to the other throne, where she had once sat, and after replacing the golden crown upon her brow he whispered a fairy spell of much mystical power. Then the prince stepped back and regarded the maidens earnestly, and after a moment both the High Ki smiled upon him in unison and said--speaking the same words in the same voices and with the same accents: "Thank you very much!" 20. Kwytoffle, the Tyrant Having restored the High Ki to their former condition, to the great joy of the ancient Ki, Prince Marvel led his friends back to the palaces where his men were waiting. They were just in time to prevent serious trouble, for the fifty-eight reformed thieves had been boasting of their prowess to the huge giants and tiny dwarfs of King Terribus, and this had resulted in a quarrel as to which were the best fighters. Had not their masters arrived at the right moment there would certainly have been a fierce battle and much bloodshed,--and all over something of no importance. Terribus and Wul-Takim soon restored order, and then they accompanied the Ki and the Ki-Ki to the public square, where the people were informed that their Supreme Highnesses, the High Ki, had been reunited and would thereafter rule them with twin minds as well as twin bodies. There was great rejoicing at this news, for every twin in Twi was glad to have his troubles ended so easily and satisfactorily. That night the ryls and knooks and other invisible friends of Prince Marvel came and removed the dividing wall between the twin palaces of the High Ki, repairing speedily all the damage that had been done. And when our friends called upon the High Ki the next morning they found the two maids again dressed exactly alike in yellow robes, with strings of sparkling emeralds for ornament. And not even Prince Marvel could now tell one of the High Ki from the other. As for the maids themselves, it seemed difficult to imagine they had ever existed apart for a single moment. They were very pleasant and agreeable to their new friends, and when they heard that Prince Marvel was about to leave them to seek new adventures they said: "Please take us with you! It seems to us that we ought to know something of the big outside world from whence you came. If we see other kingdoms and people we shall be better able to rule our own wisely." "That seems reasonable," answered Marvel, "and I shall be very glad to have you accompany me. But who will rule the Land of Twi in your absence?" "The Ki-Ki shall be the rulers," answered the High Ki, "and we will take the Ki with us." "Then I will delay my departure until to-morrow morning," said the prince, "in order that your Highnesses may have time to prepare for the journey." And then he went back to the palaces of the other rulers, where the Ki expressed themselves greatly pleased at the idea of traveling, and the new Ki-Ki were proud to learn they should rule for some time the Land of Twi. Wul-Takim also begged to join the party, and so also did King Terribus, who had never before been outside of his own Kingdom of Spor; so Prince Marvel willingly consented. The fifty-eight reformed thieves, led by Gunder, returned to their cave, where they were living comfortably on the treasure Prince Marvel had given them; and the Gray Men and giants and dwarfs of Spor departed for their own country. In the morning Prince Marvel led his own gay cavalcade through the hole in the hedge, and they rode merrily away in search of adventure. By his side were the High Ki, mounted upon twin chestnut ponies that had remarkably slender limbs and graceful, arched necks. The ponies moved with exactly the same steps, and shook their manes and swished their tails at exactly the same time. Behind the prince and the High Ki were King Terribus, riding his great white charger, and Wul-Takim on a stout horse of jet-black color. The two ancient Ki and Nerle, being of lesser rank than the others, brought up the rear. "When we return to our Land of Twi," said the High Ki, "we shall close up for all time the hole you made in the hedge; for, if we are different from the rest of the world, it is better that we remain in seclusion." "I think it is right you should do that," replied Prince Marvel. "Yet I do not regret that I cut a hole in your hedge." "It was the hedge that delayed us in coming more promptly to your assistance," said Terribus; "for we had hard work to find the hole you had made, and so lost much valuable time." "All is well that ends well!" laughed the prince. "You certainly came in good time to rescue us from our difficulties." They turned into a path that led to Auriel, which Nerle had heard spoken of as "the Kingdom of the Setting Sun." Soon the landscape grew very pleasant to look upon, the meadows being broad and green, with groups of handsome trees standing about. The twilight of the Land of Twi was now replaced by bright sunshine, and in the air was the freshness of the near-by sea. At evening they came to a large farmhouse, where the owner welcomed them hospitably and gave them the best his house afforded. In answer to their questions about the Kingdom of Auriel, he shook his head sadly and replied: "It is a rich and beautiful country, but has fallen under great misfortunes. For when the good king died, about two years ago, the kingdom was seized by a fierce and cruel sorcerer, named Kwytoffle, who rules the people with great severity, and makes them bring him all their money and valuable possessions. So every one is now very poor and unhappy, and that is a great pity in a country so fair and fertile." "But why do not the people rebel?" asked Nerle. "They dare not rebel," answered the farmer, "because they fear the sorcery of Kwytoffle. If they do not obey him he threatens to change them into grasshoppers and June-bugs." "Has he ever changed any one into a grasshopper or a June-bug?" asked Prince Marvel. "No; but the people are too frightened to oppose him, and so he does not get the opportunity. And he has an army of fierce soldiers, who are accustomed to beat the people terribly if they do not carry every bit of their wealth to the sorcerer. So there is no choice but to obey him." "We certainly ought to hang this wicked creature!" exclaimed Wul-Takim. "I wish I had brought my Fool-Killer with me," sighed King Terribus; "for I could have kept him quite busy in this kingdom." "Can not something be done to rescue these poor people from their sad fate?" asked the lovely High Ki, anxiously. "We will make a call upon this Kwytoffle to-morrow," answered Prince Marvel, "and see what the fellow is like." "Alas! Alas!" wailed the good farmer, "you will all become grasshoppers and June-bugs--every one of you!" But none of the party seemed to fear that, and having passed the night comfortably with the farmer they left his house and journeyed on into the Kingdom of Auriel. Before noon they came upon the edge of a forest, where a poor man was chopping logs into firewood. Seeing Prince Marvel's party approach, this man ran toward them waving his hands and shouting excitedly: "Take the other path! Take the other path!" "And why should we take the other path?" inquired the prince, reining in his steed. "Because this one leads to the castle of the great sorcerer, Kwytoffle," answered the man. "But there is where we wish to go," said Marvel. "What! You wish to go there?" cried the man. "Then you will be robbed and enslaved!" "Not as long as we are able to fight," laughed the big Wul-Takim. "If you resist the sorcerer, you will be turned into grasshoppers and June-bugs," declared the man, staring at them in wonder. "How do you know that?" asked Marvel. "Kwytoffle says so. He promises to enchant every one who dares defy his power." "Has any one ever yet dared defy him?" asked Nerle. "Certainly not!" said the man. "No one wishes to become a June-bug or a grasshopper. No one dares defy him.". "I am anxious to see this sorcerer," exclaimed King Terribus. "He ought to prove an interesting person, for he is able to accomplish his purposes by threats alone." "Then let us ride on," said Marvel. "Dear us! Dear us!" remonstrated the bald-headed Ki; "are we to become grasshoppers, then?" "We shall see," returned the prince, briefly. "With your long legs," added the pretty pair of High Ki, laughingly, "you ought to be able to jump farther than any other grasshopper in the kingdom." "Great Kika-koo!" cried the Ki, nervously, "what a fate! what a terrible fate! And your Highnesses, I suppose, will become June-bugs, and flutter your wings with noises like buzz-saws!" 21. The Wonderful Book of Magic Whatever their fears might be, none of Prince Marvel's party hesitated to follow him along the path through the forest in search of the sorcerer, and by and by they came upon a large clearing. In the middle of this open space was a big building in such bad repair that its walls were tumbling down in several places, and all around it the ground was uncared for and littered with rubbish. A man was walking up and down in front of this building, with his head bowed low; but when he heard the sound of approaching horses' hoofs he looked up and stared for a moment in amazement. Then, with a shout of rage, he rushed toward them and caught Prince Marvel's horse by the bridle. "How dare you!" he cried; "how dare you enter my forest?" Marvel jerked his bridle from the man's grasp and said in return: "Who are you?" "Me! Who am I? Why, I am the great and powerful Kwytoffle! So beware! Beware my sorcery!" They all looked at the man curiously. He was short and very fat, and had a face like a puff-ball, with little red eyes and scarcely any nose at all. He wore a black gown with scarlet grasshoppers and june-bugs embroidered upon the cloth; and his hat was high and peaked, with an imitation grasshopper of extraordinary size perched upon its point. In his right hand he carried a small black wand, and around his neck hung a silver whistle on a silver cord. Seeing that the strangers were gazing on him so earnestly, Kwytoffle thought they were frightened; so he said again, in a big voice: "Beware my vengeance!" "Beware yourself!" retorted the prince. "For if you do not treat us more respectfully, I shall have you flogged." "What! Flog me!" shouted Kwytoffle, furiously. "For this I will turn every one of you into grasshoppers--unless you at once give me all the wealth you possess!" "Poor man!" exclaimed Nerle; "I can see you are longing for that flogging. Will you have it now?" and he raised his riding-whip above his head. Kwytoffle stumbled backward a few paces and blew shrilly upon his silver whistle. Instantly a number of soldiers came running from the building, others following quickly after them until fully a hundred rough-looking warriors, armed with swords and axes, had formed in battle array, facing the little party of Prince Marvel. "Arrest these strangers!" commanded Kwytoffle, in a voice like a roar. "Capture them and bind them securely, and then I will change them all into grasshoppers!" "All right," answered the captain of the soldiers; and then he turned to his men and shouted: "Forward--double-quick--march!" They came on with drawn swords; at first running, and then gradually dropping into a walk, as they beheld Nerle, Wul-Takim, King Terribus and Marvel standing quietly waiting to receive them, weapons in hand and ready for battle. A few paces off the soldiers hesitated and stopped altogether, and Kwytoffle yelled at the captain: "Why don't you go on? Why don't you capture them? Why don't you fight them?" "Why, they have drawn their swords!" responded the captain, reproachfully. "Who cares?" roared the sorcerer. "We care," said the captain, giving a shudder, as he looked upon the strangers. "Their swords are sharp, and some of us would get hurt." "You're cowards!" shrieked the enraged Kwytoffle. "I'll turn you all into June-bugs!" At this threat the soldiers dropped their swords and axes, and all fell upon their knees, trembling visibly and imploring their cruel master not to change them into june-bugs. "Bah!" cried Nerle, scornfully; "why don't you fight? If we kill you, then you will escape being June-bugs." "The fact is," said the captain, woefully, "we simply can't fight. For our swords are only tin, and our axes are made of wood, with silver-paper pasted over them." "But why is that?" asked Wul-Takim, while all the party showed their surprise. "Why, until now we have never had any need to fight," said the captain, "for every one has quickly surrendered to us or run away the moment we came near. But you people do not appear to be properly frightened, and now, alas! since you have drawn upon us the great sorcerer's anger, we shall all be transformed into June-bugs." "Yes!" roared Kwytoffle, hopping up and down with anger, "you shall all be June-bugs, and these strangers I will transform into grasshoppers!" "Very well," said Prince Marvel, quietly; "you can do it now." "I will! I will!" cried the sorcerer. "Then why don't you begin?" inquired the prince. "Why don't I begin? Why, I haven't got the enchantments with me, that's why. Do you suppose we great magicians carry around enchantments in our pockets?" returned the other, in a milder tone. "Where do you keep your enchantments?" asked the prince. "They're in my dwelling," snapped Kwytoffle, taking off his hat and fanning his fat face with the brim. "Then go and get them," said Marvel. "Nonsense! If I went to get the enchantments you would all run away!" retorted the sorcerer. "Not so!" protested Nerle, who was beginning to be amused. "My greatest longing in life is to become a grasshopper." "Oh, yes! PLEASE let us be grasshoppers!" exclaimed the High Ki maids in the same breath. "We want to hop! We want to hop! Please--PLEASE let us hop!" implored the bald-headed Ki, winking their left eyes at Wul-Takim. "By all means let us become grasshoppers," said King Terribus, smiling; and Wul-Takim added: "I'm sure your soldiers would enjoy being June-bugs, for then they wouldn't have to work. Isn't that so, boys?" The bewildered soldiers looked at one another in perplexity, and the still more bewildered sorcerer gazed on the speakers with staring eyes and wide-open mouth. "I insist," said Prince Marvel, "upon your turning us into grasshoppers and your soldiers into June-bugs, as you promised. If you do not, then I will flog you--as I promised." "Very well," returned the sorcerer, with a desperate look upon his face; "I'll go and find the enchantment." "And we'll go with you," remarked the prince, pleasantly. So the entire party accompanied Kwytoffle into the house, where they entered a large room that was in a state of much disorder. "Let me see," said the sorcerer, rubbing his ears, as if trying to think; "I wonder if I put them in this cupboard. You see," he explained, "no one has ever before dared me to transform him into a June-bug or grasshopper, so I have almost forgotten where I keep my book of enchantments. No, it's not in the cupboard," he continued, looking there; "but it surely must be in this chest." It was not in the chest, either, and so the sorcerer continued to look in all sorts of queer places for his book of enchantments, without finding it. Whenever he paused in his search Prince Marvel would say, sternly: "Go on! Find the book! Hunt it up. We are all anxious to become grasshoppers." And then Kwytoffle would set to work again, although big drops of perspiration were now streaming down his face. Finally he pulled an old book from underneath the pillow of his bed, and crying, "Here it is!" carried it to the window. He turned a few leaves of the book and then said: "How unfortunate! The compound I require to change you into grasshoppers must be mixed on the first day of September; and as this is now the eighth day of September I must wait nearly a year before I can work the enchantment." "How about the June-bugs?" asked Nerle. "Oh! Ah! The June-bug mixture can only be made at the dark o' the moon," said the sorcerer, pretending to read, "and that is three weeks from now." "Let me read it," said Prince Marvel, suddenly snatching the book from Kwytoffle's hands. Then he turned to the title-page and read: "'Lives of Famous Thieves and Impostors.' Why, this is not a book of enchantments." "That is what I suspected," said Terribus. "No one but a sorcerer can read the enchantments in this book," declared Kwytoffle; but he hung his head with a sheepish look, for he knew his deception had been well understood. "Is your own history written in this volume?" inquired Marvel. "No," answered the sorcerer. "Then it ought to be," said the prince, "for you are no sorcerer at all, but merely a thief and an impostor!" 22. The Queen of Plenta The soldiers of Kwytoffle wanted to hang their old master at once, for he had won their enmity by abusing them in many ways; but Prince Marvel would not let them do this. However, they tied the false sorcerer to a post, and the captain gave him a good whipping--one lash for each letter in the words "grasshopper" and "June-bug." Kwytoffle howled loudly for mercy, but no one was at all sorry for him. Wul-Takim tied a rope around the impostor's neck, and when the party left the castle they journeyed all through the kingdom of Auriel, and at every town or city they came to the reformed thief would cry out to the populace: "Here is the terrible sorcerer Kwytoffle, who threatened to change you into grasshoppers and june-bugs. But you may see that he is a very common man, with no powers of sorcery whatever!" And then the people would laugh and pelt mud at their former tyrant, and thank Prince Marvel for haying exposed the false and wicked creature. And they called the son of their old king back to his lawful throne, where he ruled wisely and well; and the hoarded wealth of Kwytoffle was divided among the people again, and soon the country became prosperous once more. This adventure was very amusing to the pretty High Ki of Twi. It afforded them laughter for many days, and none of the party ever saw a grasshopper or a june-bug afterward without thinking of the terrible sorcerer Kwytoffle. They left that disgraced person grooming horses for his board in the stables of the new king, and proceeded upon their journey. Without further event they reached the splendid southern Kingdom of Plenta, which was the most delightfully situated of any dominion in the Enchanted Island of Yew. It was ruled by a good and generous queen, who welcomed the strangers to her palace and gave a series of gay entertainments in their honor. King Terribus was especially an object of interest, for every one had heard his name and feared him and his fierce people. But when they beheld his pleasant countenance and listened to his gentle voice they began to regard him with much love and respect; and really Terribus was worthy of their friendship since he had changed from a deformed monster into an ordinary man, and had forbidden his people ever again to rob and plunder their weaker neighbors. But the most popular personages visiting at the court of the Queen of Plenta were the lovely High Ki of Twi. Although beautiful girls abounded in this kingdom, none could compare with the royal twins, and their peculiar condition only served to render them the more interesting. Two youths would approach the High Ki at the same time and invite them to dance, and in united voices they would accept the invitation and go whirling around the room with exactly the same steps, laughing at the same instant and enjoying the dance equally. But if one youth asked his partner a question, both the twins would make answer, and that was sure to confuse and embarrass the youth. Still, the maids managed very well to adapt themselves to the ways of people who were singular, although they sometimes became a little homesick for Twi, where they were like all the other people. The bald-headed Ki kept watchful eyes on their youthful rulers, and served them very cheerfully. But with all their travels and experiences, the old men could never be convinced it was better to be singular than double. Prince Marvel was the real hero of the party, and Nerle received much attention on account of his master's popularity. He did not seem as unhappy as usual, and when the prince inquired the reason, his esquire answered that he believed the excitement of their adventures was fast curing him of his longing for something he could not have. As for the pleasure of suffering, he had had some experience of that, too, and it was not nearly so delightful as he had expected. Wul-Takim was not a society man, so he stayed around the royal stables and made friends with the grooms, and traded his big black horse for two bay ones and a gold neck-chain, and was fairly content with his lot. And so the party enjoyed several happy weeks at the court of the good Queen of Plenta, until one day the terrible news arrived that carried them once more into exciting adventures. 23. The Red Rogue of Dawna One morning, while they were all standing in the courtyard waiting for their horses, as they were about to go for a ride, a courier came galloping swiftly up to the palace and cried: "Does any one know where Prince Marvel can be found?" "I am Prince Marvel," replied the young knight, stepping out from among the others. "Then have I reached my journey's end!" said the courier, whose horse was nearly exhausted from long and hard riding. "The Lady Seseley is in great danger, and sends for you to come and rescue her. The great Baron Merd, her father, has been killed and his castle destroyed, and all his people are either captives or have been slain outright." "And who has done this evil thing?" asked Prince Marvel, looking very stern and grave. "The Red Rogue of Dawna," answered the messenger. "He quarreled with the Baron Merd and sent his savage hordes to tear down his castle and slay him. I myself barely escaped with my life, and the Lady Seseley had but time to say, before she was carried off, that if I could find Prince Marvel he would surely rescue her." "And so I will!" declared the prince, "if she be still alive." "Who is this Lady Seseley?" asked Nerle, who had come to his master's side. "She is my first friend, to whom I owe my very existence. It is her image, together with those of her two friends, which is graven on my shield," answered Prince Marvel, thoughtfully. "And what will you do?" inquired the esquire. "I must go to her at once." When they heard of his mission all the party insisted on accompanying him. Even the dainty High Ki could not be deterred by any thoughts of dangers they might encounter; and after some discussion Prince Marvel allowed them to join him. So Wul-Takim sharpened his big broadsword, and Nerle carefully prepared his master's horse, so that before an hour had passed they were galloping toward the province of the Red Rogue of Dawna. Prince Marvel knew little concerning this personage, but Nerle had much to tell of him. The Red Rogue had once been page to a wise scholar and magician, who lived in a fine old castle in Dawna and ruled over a large territory. The boy was very small and weak--smaller even than the average dwarf--and his master did not think it worth while to watch him. But one evening, while the magician was standing upon the top of the highest tower of his castle, the boy gave him a push from behind, and he met death on the sharp rocks below. Then the boy took his master's book of magic and found a recipe to make one grow. He made the mixture and swallowed it, and straightway began to grow big and tall. This greatly delighted him, until he found he was getting much bigger than the average man and rapidly becoming a giant. So he sought for a way to arrest the action of the magical draft; but before he could find it he had grown to enormous proportions, and was bigger than the biggest giant. There was nothing in the book of magic to make one grow smaller, so he was obliged to remain as he was--the largest man in the Enchanted Island. All this had happened in a single night. The morning after his master's murder the page announced himself lord of the castle; and, seeing his enormous size, none dared deny his right to rule. On account of his bushy hair, which was fiery red in color, and the bushy red beard that covered his face when he became older, people came to call him the Red One. And after his evil deeds and quarrelsome temper had made him infamous throughout the island, people began to call him the Red Rogue of Dawna. He had gathered around him a number of savage barbarians, as wicked and quarrelsome as himself, and so none dared to interfere with him, or even to meet him, if it were possible to avoid it. This same Red Rogue it was who had drawn the good Baron Merd into a quarrel and afterward slain the old knight and his followers, destroyed his castle, and carried his little daughter Seseley and her girl friends, Berna and Helda, into captivity, shutting them up in his own gloomy castle. The Red Rogue thought he had done a very clever thing, and had no fear of the consequences until one of his men came running up to the castle to announce that Prince Marvel and his companions were approaching to rescue the Lady Seseley. "How many of them are there?" demanded the Red Rogue. "There are eight, altogether," answered the man, "but two of them are girls." "And they expect to force me to give up my captives?" asked the Red One, laughing with a noise like the roar of a waterfall. "Why, I shall make prisoners of every one of them!" The man looked at his master fearfully, and replied: "This Prince Marvel is very famous, and all people speak of his bravery and power. It was he who conquered King Terribus of Spor, and that mighty ruler is now his friend, and is one of the eight who approach." The Red Rogue stopped laughing, for the fame of Spor's terrible king had long ago reached him. And he reflected that any one who could conquer the army of giants and dwarfs and Gray Men that served Terribus must surely be one to be regarded seriously. Moreover--and this was a secret--the Red Rogue had never been able to gain the strength to correspond with his gigantic size, but had ever remained as weak as when he was a puny boy. So he was accustomed to rely on his cunning and on the terror his very presence usually excited to triumph over his enemies. And he began to be afraid of this prince. "You say two of the party are girls?" he asked. "Yes," said the man, "but also among them are King Terribus himself, and the renowned Wul-Takim, formerly king of thieves, who was conquered by the prince, although accounted a hard fighter, and is now his devoted servant. And there are two old men who are just alike and have a very fierce look about them. They are said to come from the hidden Kingdom of Twi." By this time the Red Rogue was thoroughly frightened, but he did not yet despair of defeating his enemies. He knew better than to attempt to oppose Prince Marvel by force, but he still hoped to conquer him by trickery and deceit. Among the wonderful things that the Red Rogue's former master, the wise scholar and magician, had made were two large enchanted mirrors, which were set on each side of the great hallway of the castle. Heavy curtains were drawn over the surfaces of these mirrors, because they both possessed a dreadful magical power. For whenever any one looked into one of them his reflection was instantly caught and imprisoned in the mirror, and his body at the same time became invisible to all earthly eyes, only the mirror retaining his form. While considering a way to prevent the prince from freeing the Lady Seseley, the Red Rogue happened to think of these mirrors, which had never yet been used. So he went stealthily into the great hall and drew aside the covering from one of the mirrors. He did not dare look into the mirror himself, but hurried away to another room, and then sent a page up a back stairway to summon the Lady Seseley and her two maids into his presence. The girls at once obeyed, for they greatly feared the Red Rogue; and of course they descended the front stairway and walked through the great hall. At once the large mirror that had been exposed to view caught the eye of Seseley, and she paused to regard her reflection in the glass. Her two companions did likewise, and instantly all three girls became invisible, while the mirror held their reflections fast in its magic surface. The Red Rogue was watching them through a crack in the door, and seeing the girls disappear he gave a joyful laugh and exclaimed: "Now let Prince Marvel find them if he can!" The three girls began to wander aimlessly through the castle; for not only were they invisible to others, but also to themselves and to one another, and they knew not what to do nor which way to turn. 24. The Enchanted Mirrors Presently Prince Marvel and his party arrived and paused before the doors of the castle, where the Red Rogue stood bowing to them with mock politeness and with an evil grin showing on his red face. "I come to demand the release of the Lady Seseley and her companions!" Prince Marvel announced, in a bold voice. "And I also intend to call you to account for the murder of Baron Merd." "You must be at the wrong castle," answered the Red One, "for I have murdered no baron, nor have I any Lady Seseley as prisoner." "Are you not the Red Rogue of Dawna?" demanded the prince. "Men call me by that name," acknowledged the other. "Then you are deceiving me," said the prince. "No, indeed!" answered the Red Rogue, mockingly. "I wouldn't deceive any one for the world. But, if you don't believe me, you are welcome to search my castle." "That I shall do," returned the prince, sternly, "whether I have your permission or not," and he began to dismount. But Nerle restrained him, saying: "Master, I beg you will allow me to search the castle. For this Red Rogue is playing some trick upon us, I am sure, and if anything happened to you there would be no one to protect the little High Ki and our other friends." "But suppose something should happen to you?" inquired the prince, anxiously. "In that case," said Nerle, "you can avenge me." The advice was so reasonable, under the circumstances, that the prince decided to act upon it. "Very well," said he, "go and search the castle, and I will remain with our friends. But if anything happens to you, I shall call the Red Rogue to account." So Nerle entered the castle, passing by the huge form of its owner, who only nodded to the boy and grinned with delight. The esquire found himself in the great hall and began to look around him, but without seeing any one. Then he advanced a few steps and, to his surprise, discovered a large mirror, in which were reflected the faces and forms of three girls, as well as his own. "Why, here they are!" he attempted to say; but he could not hear his own voice. He glanced down at himself but could see nothing at all--for his body had become invisible. His reflection was still in the glass, and he knew that his body existed the same as before; but although he yet saw plainly the hall and all that it contained, he could see neither himself nor any other person of flesh. After waiting a considerable time for his esquire to reappear Prince Marvel became impatient. "What have you done with Nerle?" he asked of the Red Rogue. "Nothing," was the reply. "I have been here, plainly within your sight, every moment." "Let me go and find him!" exclaimed King Terribus, and rushed into the castle before the prince could reply. But Terribus also encountered the enchanted mirror, and the prince waited in vain for his return. Then Wul-Takim volunteered to go in search of the others, and drew his big, sharp sword before entering the hall. But an hour passed by and he did not return. The Red Rogue was overjoyed at the success of his stratagem, and could scarce refrain from laughing outright at the prince's anxiety. Marvel was really perplexed. He knew some treachery was afoot, but could not imagine what it was. And when the pretty High Ki declared their intention of entering the castle, he used every endeavor to dissuade them. But the twin girls would not be denied, so great was their curiosity. So the prince said: "Well, we will all go together, so that the Ki and I may be able to protect you." The Red Rogue gladly granted them admittance, and they passed him and entered the great hall. The place appeared to them to be completely empty, so they walked along and came opposite the mirror. Here all stopped at once, and the twin High Ki uttered exclamations of surprise, and the twin Ki shouted, "Great Kika-koo!" For there in the glass were the reflections of the three girls and Nerle and King Terribus and Wul-Takim. And there were also the reflections of the twin High Ki and the twin Ki. Only Prince Marvel's reflection was missing, and this was because of his fairy origin. For the glass could reflect and hold only the forms of mortals. But the prince saw the reflections of all the others, and then made the discovery that the forms of the Ki and the High Ki had become invisible. No one except himself appeared to be standing in the great hall of the Red Rogue's castle! Yet grouped within the glass were the likenesses of all his friends, as well as those of Lady Seseley and her companions; and all were staring back at him earnestly, as if imploring him to save them. The mystery was now explained, and Prince Marvel rushed from the hall to find the treacherous Red Rogue. But that clever trickster had hidden himself in an upper room, and for the present was safely concealed. For a time Prince Marvel could not think what to do. Such magic was all unknown to him, and how to free the imprisoned forms of his friends was a real problem. He walked around the castle, but no one was in sight, the Rogue having given orders to all his people to keep away. Only the tethered horses did he see, and these raised their heads and whinnied as if in sympathy with his perplexity. Then he went back into the hall and searched all the rooms of the castle without finding a single person. On his return he stopped in front of the mirror and sorrowfully regarded the faces of his friends, who again seemed to plead for relief. And while he looked a sudden fit of anger came over him at being outwitted by this Red Rogue of Dawna. Scarcely knowing what he did, he seized his sword by the blade and struck the mirror a powerful blow with the heavy hilt. It shattered into a thousand fragments, which fell clattering upon the stone floor in every direction. And at once the charm was broken; each of his friends now became visible. They appeared running toward him from all parts of the castle, where they had been wandering in their invisible forms. They called out joyful greetings to one another, and then all of them surrounded the prince and thanked him earnestly for releasing them. The little Lady Seseley and her friends, Berna and Helda, were a bit shy in the presence of so many strangers; but they alone knew the prince's secret, and that he was a fairy transformed for a year; so they regarded him as an old and intimate acquaintance, and after being introduced by him to the others of his party they became more at ease. The sweet little High Ki maids at once attracted Seseley, and she loved them almost at first sight. But it was Nerle who became the little lady's staunchest friend; for there was something rather mystical and unnatural to him about the High Ki, who seemed almost like fairies, while in Seseley he recognized a hearty, substantial girl of his own rank in life. While they stood talking and congratulating one another outside of the castle, the Red Rogue of Dawna appeared among them. He had heard the noise of the smashing of his great mirror, and had come running downstairs from his hiding-place to find his cunning had all been for naught and his captives were free. A furious anger then took possession of the Rogue, and forgetting his personal weakness he caught up a huge battle-ax and rushed out to hurl himself upon Prince Marvel, intending to do him serious injury. But the prince was not taken unawares. He saw the Red Rogue coming and met him with drawn sword, striking quickly at the arm that wielded the big ax. The stroke was as sure as it was quick, and piercing the arm of the giant caused him to drop the ax with a howl of pain. Then Prince Marvel seized the Red Rogue by the ear--which he was just tall enough to reach--and dragged him up the steps and into the castle, the big fellow crying for mercy at every step and trembling like a leaf through cowardice. But down the hall Marvel marched him, seeking some room where the Rogue might be safely locked in. The great curtain that covered the second enchanted mirror now caught Prince Marvel's eye, and, still holding his prisoner by the ear, he reached out his left hand and pulled aside the drapery. The Red Rogue looked to see what his captor was doing, and beheld his own reflection in the magic mirror. Instantly he gave a wild cry and disappeared, his body becoming absolutely invisible, while his coarse red countenance stared back from the mirror. And then Prince Marvel gave a sigh of relief and dropped the curtain over the surface of the mirror. For he realized that the Red Rogue of Dawna had at last met with just punishment and was safely imprisoned for all time. 25. The Adventurers Separate When Prince Marvel and his friends had ridden away from the castle the savage followers of the Red One came creeping up to listen for their master's voice. But silence reigned in every part of the castle, and after stealing fearfully through the rooms without seeing any one the fellows became filled with terror and fled from the place, never to return. And afterward the neighbors whispered that the castle was haunted by the spirit of the terrible Red Rogue, and travelers dared not stop in the neighborhood, but passed by quickly and with averted faces. The prince and his party rode gaily along toward the Kingdom of Heg, for Nerle had invited them all to visit his father's castle. They were very happy over their escape, and only the little Lady Seseley became sad at times, when she thought of her father's sad fate. The Baron Neggar, who was Nerle's father, was not only a wealthy nobleman, but exceedingly kind and courteous; so that every member of Prince Marvel's party was welcomed to the big castle in a very hospitable manner. Nerle was eagerly embraced by both his father and mother, who were overjoyed to see him return safe and sound after his wanderings and adventures. "And have you been cured of your longing for something that you can not have?" asked the baron, anxiously. "Not quite," said Nerle, laughing; "but I am more reconciled to my lot. For I find wherever I go people are longing for just the things they can not get, and probably would not want if they had them. So, as it seems to be the fate of most mortals to live unsatisfied, I shall try hereafter to be more contented." These words delighted the good baron, and he gave a rich and magnificent feast in honor of his son's return. The High Ki of Twi, after passing several pleasant days at Nerle's home, now decided that they had seen enough of the world and would be glad to return to their own kingdom, where all was peaceful and uneventful, and rule it to the end of their days. So the baron furnished them an escort of twenty men-at-arms, and these conducted the High Ki and the aged Ki safely back to the hole in the hedge. And after they had entered the Land of Twi, the first act of the High Ki was to order the hedge repaired and the hole blocked up; and I have never heard that any one, from that time forth, ever succeeded in gaining admittance to the hidden kingdom. So its subsequent history is unknown. King Terribus also bade the prince an affectionate farewell and rode back to his own kingdom; and burly Wul-Takim accompanied him as far as the cave, where the fifty-eight reformed thieves awaited him. Nerle's mother gladly adopted the Lady Seseley and her two companions, and thereafter they made their home at the baron's castle. And years afterward, when they had grown to be women, Seseley was married to Nerle and became the lady of the castle herself. Prince Marvel enjoyed the feasting and dancing at the castle very much, but after the party began to break up, and the High Ki and the Ki had left him, as well as King Terribus and honest Wul-Takim, the young knight grew thoughtful and sometimes uneasy, and his happy laugh was less frequently heard. Nerle often regarded his young master with a feeling of awe, for there occasionally came a look into Marvel's eyes that reminded him more of the immortals than of any human being. But the prince treated him with rare kindness and always pressed Nerle's hand affectionately when he bade him good night, for he had grown fond of his esquire. Also they had long conversations together, during which Nerle gleaned a great deal of knowledge and received some advice that was of much use to him in his later life. One day Prince Marvel sought out Lady Seseley and said: "Will you ride with me to the Forest of Lurla?" "Willingly," she answered; and calling Berna and Helda to attend them, they mounted their horses and rode swiftly away, for it was a long distance to Lurla. By noon the party entered the forest, and although the path they traversed was unknown to the girls, who had usually entered the forest from its other side, near to where the Baron Merd's castle had stood, the prince seemed to have no difficulty in finding his way. He guided them carefully along the paths, his handsome war-charger stepping with much grace and dignity, until at length they came to a clearing. Here the prince paused abruptly, and Seseley looked around her and at once recognized the place. "Why," she exclaimed, in surprise, "it is the Fairy Bower!" And then she turned to Prince Marvel and asked in a soft voice: "Is the year ended, Prince?" His smile was a bit sad as he answered, slowly: "The year will be ended in five minutes!" 26. The End of the Year The girls sat upon the green moss and waited. Prince Marvel stood silent beside his horse. The silver armor was as bright as the day he donned it, nor was there a dent in his untarnished shield. The sword that had done such good service he held lightly in his hand, and the horse now and then neighed softly and turned to look at him with affectionate eyes. Seseley began to tremble with excitement, and Berna and Helda stared at the prince with big round eyes. But, after all, they saw nothing so remarkable as they expected. For presently--and it all happened in a flash--Prince Marvel was gone from their midst, and a handsome, slender-limbed deer darted from the bower and was quickly lost in the thick forest. On the ground lay a sheet of bark and a twig from a tree, and beside them was Lady Seseley's white velvet cloak. Then the three girls each drew a long breath and looked into one another's eyes, and, while thus engaged, a peal of silvery laughter sounded in their ears and made them spring quickly to their feet. Before them stood a tiny and very beautiful fairy, clothed in floating gossamer robes of rose and pearl color, and with eyes sparkling like twin stars. "Prince Marvel!" exclaimed the three, together. "No, indeed!" cried the fairy, with a pretty little pout. "I am no one but myself; and, really, I believe I shall now be content to exist for a few hundred years in my natural form. I have quite enjoyed my year as a mortal; but after all there are, I find, some advantages in being a fairy. Good by, my dears!" And with another ripple of laughter the pretty creature vanished, and the girls were left alone. 27. A Hundred Years Afterward About a hundred years after Prince Marvel enjoyed his strange adventures in the Enchanted Island of Yew an odd thing happened. A hidden mirror in a crumbling old castle of Dawna broke loose from its fastenings and fell crashing on the stone pavement of the deserted hall. And from amid the ruins rose the gigantic form of a man. His hair and beard were a fiery red, and he gazed at the desolation around him in absolute amazement. It was the Red Rogue of Dawna, set free from his imprisonment. He wandered out and found strange scenes confronting him, for during the hundred years a great change had taken place in the Enchanted Island. Great cities had been built and great kingdoms established. Civilization had won the people, and they no longer robbed or fought or indulged in magical arts, but were busily employed and leading respectable lives. When the Red Rogue tried to tell folks who he was, they but laughed at him, thinking the fellow crazy. He tried to get together a band of thieves, as Wul-Takim had done in the old days, but none would join him. And so, forced to be honest against his will, the Rogue was driven to earn a living by digging in the garden of a wealthy noble, of whom he had never before heard. But often he would pause in his labors and lean on his spade, while thoughts of the old days of wild adventure passed through his mind in rapid succession; and then the big man would shake his red head with a puzzled air and mutter: "I wonder who that Prince Marvel could have been! And I wonder what ever became of him!" 
45370	----	HOUDINI THE ADVENTUROUS LIFE OF A VERSATILE ARTIST. [Illustration: THE ADVENTUROUS LIFE OF A VERSATILE ARTIST] HOUDINI THE WORLD FAMOUS SELF-LIBERATOR HOUDINI, Presenting the Greatest Performance of his Strenuous Career, liberating himself after being Locked in a WATER TORTURE CELL (Houdini's own Invention) whilst Standing on his Head, his Ankles Clamped and Locked above in the centre of the Massive Cover. [Illustration: Water Torture Cell] A FEAT WHICH BORDERS ON THE SUPERNATURAL $1,000 HOUDINI offers this sum to any one proving that it is possible to obtain air in the upside-down position in which he releases himself from this Water Filled Torture Cell. [Illustration: Profile of Houdini] Six Million of these Books in circulation since 1900, in various Forms, Editions and Languages. HOUDINI THE ADVENTUROUS LIFE OF A VERSATILE ARTIST. (Revised 1922 Edition). HARRY HOUDINI, "the World's Handcuff King and amazing Prison Breaker," a title universally and unanimously bestowed upon him, has had a career as adventurous and romantic as the most imaginative writer could possibly conjure. Indeed, this wonderful genius, with a science concerning bolts, bars, locks, and chains that will yet revolutionize the world's methods of safeguarding itself against "the men that prowl in the night," confirms the truth of the ancient adage that "truth is stranger than fiction." Just remember for a moment that he is the man to whom the shrewdest police, the sharpest detectives, and the most watchful jail wardens look with awe and anxiety. And they are eminently right in this attitude of disquiet, because they know that buried in the brain of Houdini lies the secret of an unknown power he alone possesses that makes their prisons as powerless as Japanese screens, and renders their multiple-locking handcuffs, leg irons, and all the other prison paraphernalia, no more binding than store twine. Suppose the innate and inherent integrity of character that Houdini possesses, in common with most men brought up within the circle of a mother's sweet influence, were to be swept aside by the desire for riches not his own. There are many men of many millions to-day whose money is not their own. Suppose he should be captured by a band of desperate men determined to wrest from Houdini this secret worth millions. Suppose a great hypnotist were to obtain dominance over this mystery-enveloped genius and use his baneful powers for evil designs. What then? A slight knowledge of the marvels Houdini has accomplished mixed with a little imagination would create as many more suppositions of this kind as this book could contain. But, to be brief, admitting the possibility of the happening of any of these suppositious instances, and you will gain a clear idea of the extraordinary character and quality of Houdini's powers. It is often the best way to see the full scope of a cause by carefully ascertaining its effect. This analytical method is equally applicable to Houdini, and recognizing the harm he would receive were his secrets confided to unworthy hands, you gain an adequately impressive idea of the enormity of responsibility that rests upon him. Time and time again Houdini has encountered such perils, and in every case he owes his life and the preservation of his secret to his extraordinary acuteness of perception, to his marvelous knowledge of human nature, to his physical prowess that is far greater than appears from a merely superficial inspection, and, last and greatest of all, to the fact that the majority of people witnessing his wonders attribute a quasi supernatural power. His press clipping books teems with stories proving the truth of one and all of these assertions. To glance over its pages enchains the reader's attention more closely that if he were absorbing an exciting romance. Accounts of thrilling jail-breaking feats are pasted beside stirring chronicling of handcuff escapes. Columns upon columns of laudatory press criticisms crowd colored cartoons and caricatures that connect Houdini and the great men of Europe in the great political crisis of the last few years. It being true "that genius is but the capacity for hard work," then it is only a proper introductory tribute to Houdini to state that he is not a mushroomgrowth, sprouting and decaying in a night. In the development and perfection of his astounding powers over metallic components Houdini has labored as tirelessly as Galileo constructing his astronomical theory, as Stephenson building the first locomotive, as Edison bringing to view the telephone, as Marconi revealing the wireless telegraph. "How does he do it?" is the universal query. Of course, he does not, he dare not tell what exertions of power, natural or supernatural, he makes in freeing himself from handcuffs, and in escaping from the dungeons that have held felons until the grave finally hid them forever. Guesses are multiplied many, many times by all sorts and conditions of men and women. As many theories have been propounded as there are stars in the firmament. Some say he slips out of handcuffs like an eel slipping through an amateur fisherman's fingers. Others say he manipulates cell locks by muscular magnetism. A third class declares that he squeezes himself through bars of cells. Still more say spirits aid him in his escapes. And so, ad infitum. Suffice it is to say that Houdini actually does all that the newspapers credit him doing. He was born April 6th, 1874, in Appleton, Wis., and a little calculation will show that he is still far from the meridian of life. From the beginning he showed an insight into mechanics and mechanism that may be compared with the early endeavors of other men who have wrought wonders in the name of science. He showed a tendency toward travel, too, and in his ninth year had a brief experience with Jack Hoefler's "five cent" circus in his home town. Then came an apprenticeship as a mechanic, and after an uneventful term with "the tools of trade" Houdini resolved to see the great world with his own eager eyes. So he ran away from home, as so many others have done that in later years attributed their greatness to their early contact with the corrugated side of life. He joined a small circus, and, being exceptionally bright, he soon learned to conduct the Punch and Judy show, to do a ventriloquial act, and also to play clown on the bars. It may be, too, that "he doubled in brass" or played in the band, though he has never said so. Here began the experiences that quickly ripened Houdini into the World's Handcuff King and Prison Breaker, which he is, has been and always will be. In exploring his wits for exploits to amuse and entertain the audiences, Houdini hit upon the feat of escaping from ropes tied round him in every conceivable way. He became so expert that he eventually offered a challenge of $25 to any one who could tie him so that he could not escape. And he never has lost a cent of the proffered money. Then came the full turning-point in his career when he looked for greater worlds to conquer, and began the mastery of handcuffs, leg irons, shackles, etc. Of course, proficiency came with practice in secret, and then the public was permitted to witness the efforts of the young wizard. Houdini went to England without an engagement. He went to Mr. Slater, manager of the Alhambra, London, gave several trial shows, got a contract for two weeks, then one for six months at £60 a week. [Illustration: HOUDINI AT DIFFERENT AGES OF HIS CAREER] Since then he has been a top-of-the-bill star everywhere. He has made enormous salaries on the continent, where he is tremendously popular. He has broken records for paid admissions all over Continental Europe. In the week he performed before the Grand Duke of Russia he earned in public and private performances over £400, an enormous salary in those days. In 1905, he returned to America for a brief tour, and he became at once the sensation in every city. Jails have fallen before his power like cities in the olden time before the armies of Caesar. The police of America join the gendarmerie of Europe in declaring, "Nothing on earth can hold him a prisoner." All the strongest cells and prisons in the United States have succumbed to the mysteriously potent force he exerts. Perhaps his most historic feat was his escape in January, 1906, from Cell 2, Condemned Murderers' Row, in the United States Jail at Washington, D. C., the very cell in which Guiteau, the assassin of President Garfield was confined until he was led forth to be hanged. Another great work was his escape from double confinements in the Boston Tombs at Boston, Mass. March 20, 1906. Since 1908 Houdini has dropped handcuffs, and has made his performance replete with new mysteries, introducing his original invention--escaping out of an air-tight galvanized iron can filled with water, after it has been locked into an iron [Illustration: pointing] bound chest, and the intricate inexplicable escape from the Water Torture Cell, and releasing himself from a regulation strait jacket in full view of the audience, and during the week accepting various challenges. Any reader of this who wishes to challenge Houdini, or has any novel method of securing Houdini, must write to publicly advertise address and name of Challenger or Challengers. No Challenge can be accepted for same date on which it is sent. * * * * * Instead of remaining in America six months as his original contract stipulated, he was the sensation of show business from his opening 1905, until his departure for Germany, August 1908. [Illustration: NEW YORK THE GREAT WHITE WAY] His leap from the Frederichstrasse Bridge, in Berlin, Germany, heavily manacled, September 5th, 1908; his daring plunge into the Weser, Bremen, having to break through ice, Paris, from the roof of the gruesome Morgue, April 7th, 1909, brought record houses at the Circus Busch, Berlin, and Alhambra Theatre, Paris, causing his imitators to try and duplicate his feats. Two were fortunately saved from a watery grave, Alburtus, in Atlantic City, being saved by the life-saving guard, Menkis was brought up in an unconscious state, and Ricardo jumped handcuffed from the Luippold Bridge, Landshut, Bavaria, April 14th, 1909, and was drowned. Cold waters have no terrors for Houdini, as he dived manacled into the Mersey River, Liverpool, December 7th, 1908, also in the Egbaston Reservoir, Birmingham, December 15th, 1908. In all dives Houdini makes use of the regulation police handcuffs, chains, and leg irons. Houdini returned to America again in 1914, just before the World War, toured the country, appearing for two seasons at the World's biggest Theatre, the New York Hippodrome, the first season presenting his inventions, The Vanishing Elephant, in which he caused an elephant named "Jennie" to vanish, who weighed over ten thousand pounds, and said to be a daughter of the beloved Barnum's "Jumbo," and in the second half of the Hippodrome show, performing the Submarine Box feat, escaping from same whilst under water, and the box being entirely filled with water. Second season, introducing the Escape from Strait Jacket, suspended sixty feet in mid-air, hanging by his ankles, and presenting for the first time on any stage another of his inventions, The Whirlwind of Colors, in which he produced hundreds of yards of silks, giant flags, and for a finish the only tame American Eagle of this decade. It is known that Old Abe was a tame eagle, used by the Union soldiers as a mascot, but this Young Abe, trained by Houdini is the only one known that any one could handle. Houdini gave his services to the Government, giving performances in the camps, for two consecutive years, not accepting engagements, and is proud of the fact of having sold over two million dollars worth of liberty bonds. The years of 1918, 1920 and 1921 he became a Cinema star, recognizing the fact that Dame Nature would demand her due, and that the future generations would not believe that any man could perform the feats with which he is credited. So he originally went into a company to produce a 15 episode serial, "The Master Mystery," making such a sensational success that Mr. Jesse L. Lasky engaged him for a feature picture, "The Grim Game," and before this was released, Mr. Lasky re-engaged Houdini for a second picture, "Terror Island." Both features were the sensations of the year. * * * * * To fulfill contracts made eight years before Houdini, in January, 1920, returned to England for a tour of the principal music halls. So great was his success that even his former triumphs were eclipsed. Throngs followed him whenever he appeared on the streets of the provincial towns of Great Britain. He broke house record after house record, drawing such box office returns that the Moss Empires management waived its right to hold him to the figure named in the eight year old contract and voluntarily doubled his salary. Upon his return to America Houdini organized his own film producing company of which more will be told in subsequent pages. OFFICIAL POLICE NEWS FROM GERMANY! HARRY HOUDINI, THE AMERICAN HANDCUFF KING, SUES THE COLOGNE POLICE FOR LIBEL, AND WINS!!! A Condensed History of the Lawsuit Against the Cologne Police! The police of Germany are very strict in matters of false billing or misrepresenting exhibitions to the public, and the case of the well-known Dr. Slade, also a well-known American "thaumaturgic" performer, as also an equally familiar "magnetic" woman, and several others who have clashed with the German police will probably also call in mind the latest case of the flower medium, Mrs. Rothe, who was sentenced to two years in prison and 500 marks fine. What for? Well, she deceived the public in telling them that she could obtain communications from the spirit world. This the police claim was obtaining money under false pretense, and there you are. The Cologne police claimed that Houdini was also traveling about misrepresenting, and that all he did was "swindle." The chief one was Schutzmann Werner Graff, who openly published a false story in the _Rheinische Zeitung_, which put Houdini in a very bad light, and, as a man of honor, Houdini could not overlook the insult. He claimed that he had been slandered, and asked an apology, also a retraction of the false stories, which all the press of Germany had copied; but was simply laughed at for his trouble. Engaging the best lawyer of Cologne, Herr Rechtsantwalt Dr. Schreiber, Louisenstrasse 17, this able lawyer defended Houdini in all three instances. [Illustration: Houdini, as Chained and Handcuffed Before the Judges in the First Trial of His Action Against the Royal Police of Cologne.] The first trial occurred in Cologne, Feb. 19, 1902; in this trial Houdini charged the Schutzman Werner Graff for publicly slandering him, whereupon, as answer, Herr Graff told the judge and jury that he was willing to prove that Houdini was misrepresenting, that he could chain Houdini so that he could not release himself. Houdini permitted himself to be chained by Herr Transport Police Lott, and to show how easy it was he wilfully showed to the judge and jury how he opened the chain and lock. After a four days' trial, Houdini won the lawsuit, and the Cologne police were fined, and were to publicly apologize to Houdini, "In the Name of the Kaiser." Instead of so doing, they took it to the higher court, "Strafkammer." At this trial they had specially manufactured a lock, which was made by Master Mechanic Kroch, a lock that when once locked nothing would open it; even the key could not open the lock. The police asked that Houdini should show his ability by opening this lock after it had once been locked. * * * * * The following is a free translation of what the press had to say at the second trial. [Illustration: Houdini as Handcuffed and Manacled by the San Francisco Police, July, 1899.] In the highest court (Strafkammer zu Köln Yuli 26, 1902) Police Officer Werner Graff was found guilty of slandering Harry Houdini, heavily fined, he must pay all costs, and insert an advertisement in all of the Cologne newspapers, proclaiming his punishment, at the same time, "IN THE NAME OF THE KING," openly apologize to Houdini for insulting him. This open apology is the severest punishment that can be given to a royal official, and as the lawsuit has been running over a year, the costs will run into the _thousands of marks_. The case was first tried in the Schöffengericht Köln, Feb. 19, 1902, and Werner Graff was found guilty, but he took it to the highest court, and again Houdini won. The Cologne police claimed that all Houdini advertised to do was misrepresentation (this was the cause of the lawsuit); for the trial they had a _special lock made that, after it was once locked, no key would open it_. This lock they challenged Houdini to open, to prove that he was not misrepresenting. _Houdini accepts the challenge, walks into the room selected by the jury where he could work unhindered. In four minutes, with a quiet smile, reenters the court room, and hands the judges the prepared lock opened._ Among the thirty police officials that testified against Houdini were some of the highest officials of Cologne, but Houdini won; in fact, he was "one" too many for them. [Illustration: Houdini as Handcuffed and Manacled by the Dresden (Germany) Police, September, 1900.] [Illustration: Houdini as Handcuffed, Elbow-ironed, and Thumbscrewed by the Berlin Police, October, 1900.] It being a disgrace for Schutzman Werner Graff to have this punishment on him, with the assistance of the police, he took it to the highest court in Germany, "Oberlandesgericht," and there the learned judges again gave Houdini the verdict from which there is no appeal. Below is a free translation of the apology as printed in the German papers: IN THE NAME OF THE KING BE it known that the artiste, known as HARRY HOUDINI, of America, New York City, against the Cologne Police Schutzman Werner Graff, for slandering (insulting). [Illustration: The Demonstration Before the German Judiciary.] [Text in illustration: The Imperial Police of Cologne slanderously libeled HARRY HOUDINI, stating his advertised tricks were swindles! HOUDINI answered them by sueing for "An Honorary Public Apology". The Police lost the Case in the three highest Courts, as they were unable to fetter or Chain HOUDINI in an unescapeable manner. He was even successful in opening a special lock that they had constructed which after it had once been locked could not be opened! First Trial "Königliches Schöffengericht" in Köln. Feb. 26 1902 Second Trial "Königliche Strafkammer" in Köln. July 26 1902 Third Trial "Königliches Oberlandesgericht". Sept. 26, 1902 Having lost the case in all three trials the Police were ultimately compelled to publicly advertise "An Honorary Apology" and pay all costs of the trials. By command of Kaiser WILHELM II. Emperor of Germany.] The Royal Schöffengericht, the third "Ferienstrafkammer," found Werner Graff guilty of slandering Houdini, and the Oberlandesgericht Court also find that the Royal Schöffengericht was justified in finding Graff guilty of the charges. Werner Graff is guilty of "Openly Slandering" Houdini, for being the chief instigator of the article which he caused to be inserted in the _Rheinische Zeitung_ July 25, 1901, number of edition 170, and the head-lines which read "Houdini, the world-famous Handcuff Releaser." Being found guilty of the above charge, Werner Graff is fined 30 marks in money, and should he fail to pay the sum fine, he will serve a day in prison for every 5 marks; and is also fined to pay all costs of the three trials. [Illustration: Houdini, as Handcuffed by the Vienna Police, March, 1902.] Houdini has the right to publish the verdict one time in the Cologne newspapers at the cost of Schutzman Werner Graff. For the rightful writing of this verdict, we sign as responsibilities, Coln, Oct. 24, 1902. Stock Sekretar. Gerichtsschreiber des Kgl. Amtsgericht Abtlg VI.--9. Signed for Houdini, Rechtsanwalt Dr. Schreiber Köln. * * * * * It will be of interest to note that Houdini has escaped out of prisons and cells in the following cities: New York, W. 125th Street Police Station, W. 68th Street Police Station, and W. 37th Street; Brooklyn, N. Y.; Newark, N. J.; Salem, Mass.; Lowell, Mass.; Rochester, N. Y.; Baltimore; Washington (3 different places); Detroit, Mich.; Philadelphia, Pa.; Providence, R. I.; Kansas City; Buffalo, N. Y.; and Chicago, Ill.; Amsterdam, Hague; Dordrecht, Holland; Moscow, Russia; Halifax; Bradford; Leicester; Burnley; Leeds; Newcastle-upon-Tyne; Sheffield; Liverpool; South Shields; Salford; Huddersfield; Manchester; St. Helens; Stockton-on-Tees; Eastbourne; Newport, Mon. Space prohibits the publication of all certificates from the various chiefs of police, but a few are selected, which follow: Chief Constable's Office, Sheffield, Jan. 19, 1904. This is to certify that Mr. Harry Houdini was this day stripped stark naked and locked in the cell which once contained Charles Peace. The cell was searched and triple-locked, but Mr. Houdini released himself and redressed in five minutes, having also opened the iron gate of the corridor. Charles J. Scott, Commander (R.N.) Chief Constable, Sheffield. Witness to the foregoing feat, George H. Barker, Deputy Chief Constable. [Illustration: An exceedingly rare photograph of Charles Peace, shrewdest, most dangerous and notorious criminal in the annals of Crime in Great Britain. Peace broke jail a number of times but failed to escape from this cell in Sheffield. He was hanged at the Armley jail. Houdini escaped from this cell, as Chief Constable Scott's certificate on page 12 shows.] May 10, 1903. Harry Houdini was made to disrobe, and in a nude condition was locked into the Moscow transportation cell or carette, and in less than 20 minutes he had managed to make his escape. The searching Houdini had to submit to in the hands of the secret Russian police was the severest he has ever had to undergo. Never in the history of the Russian police has any one been able to escape out of this or any other transportation carette. This feat was accomplished in the presence of Chief of the Secret Police Cos, Lebadeff. Houdini was booked for one month in Moscow, but after this feat he was prolonged for four months, and proved the greatest sensation that ever visited Russia. * * * * * From the German police Houdini possesses certificates from the cities of Berlin, Dresden, Dusseldorf, Essen Ruhr, Barmen, Bremen, Dortmund, Leipzig, Frankfort A/M, Hanover, etc.; but the following is the principal one: ROYAL POLICE PRESIDIUM, BERLIN, Sept. 20, 1900. Harry Houdini, the American, was handcuffed and leg-ironed with the irons used here, in the presence of a large number of the highest police officials of Germany. Houdini managed to free himself from everything, by mysteriously opening the locks, in a manner which is unexplainable to us. The cuffs were uninjured. (Signed) VON HULLESSEM, Royal Police Director, Berlin. VON WINDHEIM, The Royal Police President, Berlin. * * * * * Von Windheim was the highest police official in all Germany. The Kaiser's signature was the only name that stood higher in Germany. [Illustration: The Preparation for Incarceration in the Siberian Transport Carette.] [Text in illustration: Chief of the Secret Russian Police LEBEDOEFF has HARRY HOUDINI stripped stark naked and searched then locked up in the Siberian Transport Cell or Carette, May 10/1903 in Moscow and in 28 minutes HOUDINI had made his escape to the unspeakable astonishment of the Russian Police.] The Daily Illustrated Mirror, March 18th, 1904. =HOW HE PICKED THE "MIRROR" HANDCUFFS IN ONE HOUR AND TEN MINUTES.= Not a seat was vacant in the mighty Hippodrome, yesterday afternoon, when Harry Houdini, the "Handcuff King," stepped into the arena, and received an ovation worthy of a monarch. For days past all London has been aware that on Saturday night last a representative of the _Mirror_ had stepped into the arena, in response to Houdini's challenge to anybody to come forward and successfully manacle him, and had there and then made a match with America's Mysteriarch for Thursday afternoon. In his travels the journalist had encountered a Birmingham blacksmith who had spent five years of his life in devising a lock, which, he alleged, "no mortal man could pick." Promptly seeing he was in touch with a good thing, the press man had at once put an option upon the handcuff containing this lock, and brought it back to London with him. It was submitted to London's best locksmiths, who were unanimous in their admiration of it, asserting that in all their experience they had never before seen such wonderful mechanism. As a result the editors of the _Mirror_ determined to put the lock to the severest test possible by challenging Mr. Houdini to be manacled with the cuffs. Like a true sportsman, Mr. Houdini accepted our challenge in the spirit in which it was given, although, on his own confession, he did not like the look of the lock. MIGHTY AUDIENCE. Mr. Houdini's call was for three o'clock yesterday, but so intense was the excitement that the 4,000 spectators present could scarcely restrain their impatience whilst the six excellent turns which preceded him, cheered to the echo on other occasions, got through their "business." Waiting quietly and unnoticed by the arena steps, the _Mirror_ representative watched Mr. Houdini's entrance, and joined in giving his opponent-to-be in the lists one of the finest ovations mortal man has ever received. "I am ready," said Houdini, concluding his address to the audience, "to be manacled by the _Mirror_ representative if he be present." A hearty burst of applause greeted the journalist as he stepped into the arena and shook hands with the "Handcuff King." Then, in the fewest possible words, the press man called for volunteers from the audience to act upon a committee to see fair play, and Mr. Houdini asked his friends also to step into the arena and watch his interests. HOUDINI HANDCUFFED. This done, the journalist placed the handcuffs on Mr. Houdini's wrists and snapped them. Then, with an effort, he turned the key six times, thus securing the bolt as firmly as possible. The committee being satisfied as to the security of the handcuff, Mr. Houdini said:-- "_Ladies and Gentlemen_:--I am now locked up in a handcuff that has taken a British mechanic five years to make. I do not know whether I am going to get out of it or not, but I can assure you I am going to do my best." Applauded to the echo, the Mysteriarch then retired within the cabinet that contains so many of his secrets. All correct chronometers chronicled 3.15. In a long line in front of the stage stood the committee. Before them, in the center of the arena, stood the little cabinet Houdini loves to call his "ghost house." Restlessly pacing to and fro, the _Mirror_ representative kept an anxious eye on it. FALSE HOPE OVERTHROWN. Those who have never stood in the position of a challenger can scarcely realize the sense of responsibility felt by one who has openly thrown down the gauntlet to a man who is popular with the public. The _Mirror_ had placed its reliance on the work of a British mechanic, and if Houdini succeeded in escaping in the first few minutes it was felt that the proceedings would develop into a mere farce. But time went by; 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes sped. Still the band played on. Then, at 22 minutes, Mr. Houdini put his head out of the "ghost house," and this was the signal for a great outburst of cheering. "He is free! he is free!" shouted several; and universal disappointment was felt when it was ascertained that he had only put his head outside the cabinet in order to get a good look at the lock in strong electric light. [Illustration: From a Photo of the Famous Scene in the London, England, Hippodrome, when Houdini was Handcuffed by the London Illustrated Mirror Representative.] The band broke into a dreamy waltz as Houdini once more disappeared within the canopy. The disappointed spectators looked at their watches, murmured "What a shame!" gave Houdini an encouraging clap, and the journalist resumed his stride. At 35 minutes Mr. Houdini again emerged. His collar was broken, water trickled in great channels down his face, and he looked generally warm and uncomfortable. "My knees hurt," he explained to the audience. "I am not done yet." The "house" went frantic with delight at their favorite's resolve, and this suggested an idea to the _Mirror_ representative. He spoke rapidly to Mr. Parker, the Hippodrome manager, who was at the side of the stalls. That gentleman looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded his head and whispered something to an attendant. A WELCOME CONCESSION. Presently the man appeared bearing a large cushion. "The _Mirror_ has no desire to submit Mr. Houdini to a torture test," said the representative; "and if Mr. Houdini will permit me, I shall have great pleasure in offering him the use of this cushion." The "Handcuff King" was glad evidently of the rest for his knees, for he pulled it through into the "ghost house." Ladies trembled with suppressed excitement, and, despite the weary wait, not a yawn was noticed throughout the vast audience. For 20 minutes more the band played on, and then Houdini was seen to emerge once more from the cabinet. Still handcuffed! Almost a moan broke over the vast assemblage as this was noticed. He looked in pitiable plight from his exertions and much exhausted. He looked about for a moment, and then advanced to where his challenger stood. "Will you remove the handcuffs for a moment," he said, "in order that I may take my coat off?" For a few seconds the journalist considered. Then he replied: "I am indeed sorry to disoblige you, Mr. Houdini, but I cannot unlock those cuffs unless you admit you are defeated." The reason was obvious. Mr. Houdini had seen the cuffs locked, but he had never seen them unlocked. Consequently the press man thought there might be more in the request than appeared on the surface. FROCK COAT SACRIFICED. Houdini evidently does not stick at trifles. He maneuvered until he got a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. This he opened with his teeth, and then, turning his coat inside out over his head, calmly proceeded to cut it to pieces. The novelty of the proceeding delighted the audience, who yelled themselves frantic. The _Mirror_ representative had rather a warm five minutes of it at this juncture. Many of the audience did not see the reason of his refusal, and expressed their disapproval of his action loudly. Grimly, however, he looked on and watched Mr. Houdini once more reenter the cabinet. Time sped on, and presently somebody recorded the fact that the Mysteriarch had been manacled just one hour. Ten minutes more of anxious waiting, and then a surprise was in store for everybody. VICTORY. The band was just finishing a stirring march when, with a great shout of victory, Houdini bounded from the cabinet, holding the shining handcuffs in his hand--free! A mighty roar of gladness went up. Men waved their hats, shook hands one with the other. Ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the committee, rushing forward as one man, shouldered Houdini, and bore him in triumph round the arena. But the strain had been too much for the "Handcuff King," and he sobbed as though his heart would break. With a mighty effort, however, he regained his composure, and received the congratulations of the _Mirror_ in the true sportsmanlike spirit he has shown throughout the contest. PRESENTATION MODEL The journalist intimated to the audience that a beautiful solid silver model of the handcuffs would be made, and asked Mr. Houdini's permission to present this to him at no distant date. A SPORTSMAN'S TELEGRAM. Late last night Mr. Houdini sent us the following telegram: Editor "Mirror," 2, Carmelite Street, London. E. C. "Allow me to thank you for the open and upright manner in which your representative treated me in to-day's contest. Must say that it was one of the hardest, but at the same time one of the fairest tests I ever had." "HARRY HOUDINI." [Illustration: HOUDINI, manacled and chained, Diving head first off Queen's Bridge, into the Yarra River, Melbourne, Australia, Feb. 18th, 1910. Australia's Coast is infested with Man-eating Sharks, luckily for Houdini, none happened to be around when he dived.] * * * * * AN EPISODE IN HOUDINI'S LIFE. _Star, Blackburn, England, Saturday, Oct. 25, 1902._ MANACLED BY A STRONG MAN. TRUSSED TILL MIDNIGHT. Unparalleled Scenes at the Palace Theatre. Never in the history of Blackburn or music hall life has there been witnessed so remarkable a scene as occurred last night. Houdini, the Handcuff King, and Mr. Hodgson, principal of the School of Physical Culture, provided a big sensation for the patrons of the Palace Theatre, Blackburn. Houdini, who has been appearing at the Palace during the week, claims to be able to release himself from any of the regulation shackles or irons used by the police of Europe or America, and offered nightly to forfeit £25 if he failed to prove his claim. Mr. Hodgson, of the Physical Culture School, Blackburn, took up the challenge, stipulating that he was to use his own irons and fix them himself. Houdini consented, and deposited the £25 with the editor of the _Daily Star_. The trial of skill and strength was fixed to take place last night, and the crowd which came together to witness it crammed the theatre literally from floor to ceiling--even standing room being ultimately unobtainable. Shortly after ten o'clock the parties to the challenge faced each other, and excitement at once became intense. Mr. Hodgson produced 6 pairs of heavy irons, furnished with clanking chains and swinging padlocks. These were carefully examined by Houdini, who raised some disappointment and much sympathetic cheering by stating that his claim was that he could escape from "regulation" irons. The "cuffs" brought by Mr. Hodgson, he said, had been tampered with--the iron being wrapped round with string, the locks altered, and various other expedients adopted to render escape more difficult. Mr. Hodgson's answer, given dramatically from the stage, was that he stipulated that he should bring his own irons. Houdini again protested that Mr. Hodgson was going beyond the challenge, but added that he was quite willing to go on, if only the audience would give him a little time in which to deal with the extra difficulties. This announcement was greeted with great cheering, and the work of pinioning proceeded. First, Mr. Hodgson, with the aid of a companion, fixed a pair of irons over Houdini's upper arm, passing the chain behind his back and pulling it tight, and fixing the elbows close to the sides. To make assurance doubly sure, he fixed another pair in the same way, and padlocked both behind. Then, starting with the wrists, he fixed a pair of chained "cuffs" so that the arms, already pulled stiffly behind, were now pulled forward. The pulling and tugging at this stage was so severe--the strong man exercising his strength to some purpose--that Houdini protested that it was no part of the challenge that his arms should be broken. He also reminded Mr. Hodgson that he was to fix the irons himself. This led to Mr. Hodgson's assistant retiring. Proceeding, Mr. Hodgson fixed a second pair of "cuffs" on the wrists and padlocked both securely, Houdini's arms being then trussed to his side so securely that escape seemed absolutely impossible. Still Mr. Hodgson was not finished with him. Getting Houdini to kneel down, he passed the chain of a pair of heavy leg irons through the chains which bound the arms together at the back. These were fixed to the ankles, and after a second pair had been added, both were locked, and Houdini now seemed absolutely helpless. A canopy being placed over Houdini in the middle of the stage, the waiting began, and excitement grew visibly every minute. Meanwhile Mr. Hodgson and others kept strict watch on the movements of Houdini's wife and brother (Hardeen), who were both on the stage. At the end of about 15 minutes the canopy was lifted and Houdini was revealed lying on his side, still securely bound. It was at first thought he had fainted, but he soon made it known that all he wished was to be lifted up. This Mr. Hodgson refused to do, at which the now madly excited audience hissed and "booed" him for his unfair treatment, and Hardeen lifted his brother to his knees. The curtain of the cabinet was again closed. Another 20 minutes passed, and again the curtain was lifted. This time Houdini said his arms were bloodless and numb owing to the pressure of the irons, and asked to have them unlocked for a minute so that the circulation could be restored. Mr. Hodgson's reply, given amidst howls, was: "This is a contest, not a love match. If you are beaten, give in." Great shouting and excited calling followed, which was renewed when Dr. Bradley, after examining Houdini, said his arms were blue, and it was cruelty to keep him chained up as he was any longer. Still Mr. Hodgson was obdurate, and the struggle proceeded, Houdini again appealing for time. Fifteen minutes more: Houdini appeared and announced that one hand was free. This was the signal for terrific cheering, which was continued after the canopy was dropped. At intervals Houdini now appeared, and announced further progress in his escape; and when, shortly after midnight, he came out with torn clothing and bleeding arms, and threw the last of the shackles on the stage, the vast audience stood up and cheered and cheered, and yelled themselves hoarse to give vent to their overwrought feelings. Men and women hugged each other in mad excitement. Hats, coats, and umbrellas were thrown up into the air, and pandemonium reigned supreme for 15 minutes. Houdini, when quietness had been restored, said he had been doing the handcuff trick now for 14 years, but never had he been subjected to such brutality as that to which his bleeding arms and wrists gave witness. When Houdini again obtained a hearing, it was to state that, not only had the irons been altered, but the locks had been plugged. It was well after midnight when the huge audience left the theatre, and broke up into excited, gesticulating groups. * * * * * Condemned Murderers Released by Houdini. _The Washington Post, Sunday, Jan. 7, 1906._ OUT OF GUITEAU CELL. HOUDINI MIXES THINGS UP AT THE UNITED STATES JAIL. PRISONERS CHANGED IN CELLS. Consternation Accompanies Feats of the Expert Lock-picker, Who Gets Laurels from the American Police Chairman After His Third Exploit in Washington--Crowds Are Transfixed. Two condemned murderers, four others under indictment, and two noted criminals were released from the United States jail yesterday and for a brief time tasted a counterfeit liberty. Harry Houdini, the international Prison Breaker and Handcuff King, as he is styled, was the hero of a sensational exploit. On the invitation of Warden Harris and the jail authorities he ravaged bolts and locks. Houdini escaped from the cell in which Charles J. Guiteau, the assassin of President Garfield, was confined, released all the other inmates of the murderers' row cells, and transferred each into some other cell than the one to which he was originally committed. * * * * * For several days--in fact, since Houdini's remarkable escape from the Tenth precinct--Warden Harris, of the cathedral-like prison along the Eastern Branch of the Potomac, has been endeavoring to secure Houdini for a cell-breaking exploit, as the warden had full faith in the efficiency of his lock system. He wished to have this faith justified by an attempt at escape of Houdini, and his failure would induce that state of mind. [Illustration: JAMES A. GARFIELD the Martyred President Copyright and Published by J. F. RYDER, Cleveland, O. The sitting for this portrait was made June 10th, 1880] Until yesterday Houdini has been so occupied with his other invitations to break out of the police cells and the other penal institutions that he had abandoned the idea of an adventure at the jail. Not wishing to seem discourteous, he concluded about noon yesterday to present his compliments to Warden Harris and assure him that he would be pleased to test the jail. CROWD QUICKLY GATHERS The news of his presence traveled the length of the offices on the inside of the big structure, and here there gathered in the warden's office the following officials and visitors: Deputy Warden W. Grayson Urner, Capt. Ed. S. Randell, Guards John C. Campbell, George C. Gumm, James Corrigan, and John P. Hickey, Jail Physician Dr. D. Kerfoot Shute, Dr. H. I. Sout, Dr. T. Sullivan, Clerk J. Fred Harris, and Messrs. Robert R. Mahorney, Theo Judd, Frank Jones, David M. Proctor, and John T. Ward. Houdini was invited to examine the cell arrangement and was shown first to Murderers' Row, which is in the south wing and comprises seventeen cells, containing Walter H. Hamilton, sentenced to be hanged last November, but now living through stayed proceedings; Richard Chase, sentenced to twelve years for manslaughter; Thomas S. Whitney, John Mercer, Edward Ferguson, Jeremiah Donovan, and Henry Gaskins--these having been indicted for murder, their alleged crimes being still fresh in the public mind; also James A. Backus, the alleged money-order raiser, and Clarence Howlett, sentenced for housebreaking. [Illustration: Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1881, by C. M. BELL in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. GUITEAU, the assassin of President Garfield. Houdini escaped from the murderer's cell in which this assassin was secured.] Houdini was chiefly interested in cell No. 2, the one occupied by Guiteau, and presumably the safest of the lot, although it was from the outside of this cell that "Avenger" Jones shot into it in his effort to kill the assassin. It now holds Hamilton, who is alleged to have smothered his wife to death and then sat all night beside the body of his victim, indulging in a drunken orgy. The officials say that he is one of the most orderly prisoners ever out there. Howard Schneider, who murdered his wife and her brother, and Shæfer, the murderer hanged a short time ago, also occupied this cell. PONDEROUS BARRED DOORS. All these cells are brick structures with their doors sunk into the walls fully three feet from the face of the outer corridor wall. When the heavily barred door is closed, an armlike bar runs out to the corridor wall and then angles to the right and slips over a steel catch which sets a spring that fastens the lock. The latter is only opened by a key, and there are no less than five tumblers in the lock. One key opens all the doors in the corridor. With Houdini there, it was very natural that everybody should express the ardent desire to have him then and there go into a cell and see if he could release himself, and Houdini, with his accustomed courtesy, yielded a ready acquiescence. He insisted, however, that he preferred to try cell No. 2, for the reason that it is the hardest one there to get out of alive, as he expressed it, and because of the notorious murderers who have spent their last moments on earth within its whitewashed walls. This was agreed upon, and then he was stripped to the skin and locked into No. 2 with Hamilton, the negro, who crouched in the far corner of the cell, presumably laboring under the belief that one of the arch-fiends was already there to get him for a red-hot furnace. In two minutes Houdini was out of that cell, free, the lock holding him hardly longer than it took him to get into the place and get his bearings. Then, without the knowledge of the waiting officials who had retired from view, Houdini quickly ran to the cells of Chase, Whitney, Mercer, Ferguson, Donovan, Gaskins, Backus, and Howlett. To each occupant the unclad cell-breaker seemed like an apparition from some other world, and the astonishment he created when he commanded each to come out and follow him can be better imagined than described. PRISONERS ARE DUMBFOUNDED Chase gave a gasp of fear, and then cried, "Have you come to let me out? What are you doing without clothes?" He supposed then that Houdini was an escaping fellow-prisoner. He followed at Houdini's heels and the cell-breaker dashed with him down to the end of the corridor, where he opened the cell containing Clarence Howlett. "What are you doing here?" said Houdini to the astonished Howlett. "What are you in for?" "I'm a housebreaker," said the prisoner, as though making his last confession. "You're a bad one," said Houdini, "or you could get out of here. Come along." Howlett followed his strange captor, and Houdini then thrust Chase into the cell and rushed Howlett up to Chase's cell. This scene, strange and strenuous, was repeated again and again, until every desperate man was changed into another cell than his own. All were in a tumult. Twenty-one minutes after Houdini had been locked in the cell he had done all the quick changing and stood before his free audience in the main hall, clothed as in every-day manner. When the officials found what he had done with their prisoners, their amazement passed all bounds. They took the slight change Houdini made in their plans with the utmost good nature, and soon had everything straightened out, and each of the men back in his cell. At the conclusion, Warden Harris gave the cell-breaker a certificate, of which the following is a copy: "This is to certify that Mr. Harry Houdini, at the United States jail to-day, was stripped stark naked, thoroughly searched, and locked up in cell No. 2 of the south wing, the cell in which Charles J. Guiteau was confined from the date of his commitment, July 2, 1881, until the day on which he was executed, June 30, 1882. Mr. Houdini, in about 2 minutes, managed to escape from that cell, and then broke into the cell in which his clothing was locked up. He then proceeded to release from their cells all the prisoners on the ground floor. There was positively no chance for any collusion or confederacy. Mr. Houdini accomplished all of the above-mentioned feats, in addition to putting on all his clothing, in 21 minutes. "J. H. HARRIS. "Warden United States Jail, D. C." * * * * * Major Sylvester yesterday prepared for Houdini the following statement: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: No individual should be disinclined to profit by the abilities displayed by others, and, in order that defective means of restraint might be discovered in the holding of prisoners in this jurisdiction, and with a view to remedying any insecurity which might exist, Mr. Houdini, the expert man with locks, was permitted to examine a modern cell lock and attachment, and then placed in an entirely different cell from the one he examined. He was searched, and in a nude condition placed behind the bars, and, as supposed, secured. This was in the presence of the Engineer Officer of the District of Columbia, myself, and several officers. In 26 minutes he emerged from the cell and corridor fully attired. "The experiment was a very valuable one in that the department has been instructed as to the adoption of further security which will protect any lock from being opened or interfered with. The act was interesting and profitable, and worthy of study. "Mr. Houdini impressed his audience as a gentleman and an artist who does not profess to do the impossible. "RICHARD SYLVESTER, "Major and Superintendent." * * * * * SOME OF THE GREAT FEATS ACCOMPLISHED BY HOUDINI. Broke out of the Siberian Prison Van in Moscow, Russia, in May, 1903. Leaped, heavily handcuffed, in zero weather, from Belle Island Bridge, in Detroit, Mich., in December 2nd, 1906, and released himself under the icy water. Leaped into San Francisco Bay, San Francisco, Calif., on August 26th, 1907, handcuffed with hands behind his back, with more than 75 pounds of ball and chain locked to his body. Escaped from a plate glass box made by the Pittsburg Plate Glass Co., and did not even scratch the glass. Boston Mass., Jan. 20th 1907. After being rivetted into a large hot water boiler by the employees of the Marine Boiler Works, of Toledo, on March 15th, 1907, Houdini escaped without leaving any traces of his exit. [Illustration: The biggest-little mystery feat--the East Indian needle masterpiece, wherein Houdini swallows 100 needles, 20 yards of thread, and brings up the needles threaded.] Escaped from paper bags, zinc lined piano boxes, packing cases, padded cells, straight-jackets, insane cribs, willow hampers, iron cages, a U.S. Mail Pouch furnished with a rotary lock belonging to the U.S. Government, a large Football, made by Reach Company, of Philadelphia, a large Derby Desk, with secret locks, Burglar-proof safes, etc., etc. Handcuffed nailed into a packing case, 200 lbs. of iron weights chained to the box and was then thrown overboard into New York Bay. Houdini has escaped from cells in almost every city in America, the most notable one being from the Murderers' Cell in U.S. Jail at Washington, D.C., which confined Guiteau, the murderer of President Garfield. Houdini presents the largest, the smallest and most perplexing mystery in the world and history of magic. The smallest. The East Indian Needle Mystery, in which he swallows 50 to 100 needles, 20 yards of thread, and brings them all up threaded, after his mouth and throat have been examined by a committee of Surgeons. In Boston, at Keith's Theatre, 1906, at special morning performance, he performed this feat before sixteen hundred physicians, and not one could give a correct solution as to his method. The largest and one of his original inventions being the complete vanishing of a Ten Thousand pound Elephant, in full glare of the light and right over the tank of a Quarter of a Million Gallons of Water on the stage of New York Hippodrome, 1916-1917. He performed this the entire season, creating the greatest amount of talk ever caused by any Illusionist with any vanishing mystery. The greatest mystery ever presented, original inventions of Houdini, one of the Chinese Torture Cell, and the Escape from a Packing Case which being weighted with 300 lbs. of pig iron is thrown overboard into the ocean, and from which he releases himself in less than two minutes. * * * * * KANSAS CITY, MO., April 11, 1900. TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: We, the undersigned, do hereby certify that we saw Harry Houdini stripped nude, thoroughly searched from head to foot, and his mouth sealed up, making it an utter impossibility for him to have anything concealed on his person. We saw him handcuffed and leg-ironed with five different cuffs, and his hands locked to his feet. He was led into a cell, which was also securely locked with what is known as the three-bond lock, guaranteed by the makers to be burglar proof. Nevertheless, Houdini succeeded in making his escape out of all the irons, also from the cell, in less than 8 minutes. There was no possible chance of confederacy. Signed and sealed by JOHN HAYES, Chief of Police. JOHN HALPIN, Inspector of Detectives. J. C. SNAVLY, Jailer. [Illustration: THE DISAPPEARING ELEPHANT The largest vanish the world has ever known, as invented and presented by Houdini at the New York Hippodrome.] _Daily Express, London, Feb. 3, 1904._ WIZARD IN GAOL. OPENS CELLS AND IS TAKEN FOR THE DEVIL. HIS 61st ESCAPE. I certify that to-day Mr. Harry Houdini showed his abilities in releasing himself from restraint. He had three pairs of handcuffs, one a very close-fitting pair, placed round his wrists, and he was placed in a nude state in a cell which had been previously searched. Within 6 minutes he was free from the handcuffs, had opened the cell door, and had opened the doors of all the other cells in the corridor, had changed a prisoner from one cell to another, and had so securely locked him in that he had to be asked to unlock the door. (Signed) LEONARD DUNNING, Head Constable, Liverpool. Feb. 2, 1902. Mr. Dunning has since been knighted and is now head of the Police Constabulary, being located in London, his official title being His Majesty's Inspector of Constabulary, London, England. * * * * * For him it is literally true that-- Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage. Were he a criminal--his clear, straightforward eyes negative the suggestion--he would be a nightmare to the police of Britain, for he would walk out of gaol as coolly and smilingly as he did twice out of Liverpool Bridewell yesterday. It was an eventful day at the sinister-looking building that stands off busy Dale Street. High police officials, clever detectives, leading city business men who hold office on the watch committee, all sustained a severe shock by their loss of faith in what they had regarded as an inviolable stronghold. No one has been known previously to escape from the bolts and bars behind which Liverpool quarters its criminals. SURRENDERS TO POLICE. In the afternoon Houdini had a pleasant interview with Head Constable Dunning. "Want to try our locks? Certainly. You're welcome; but, of course, we will take some precautions." "I want you to do so," replied Houdini. "I will strip naked. You can then handcuff me and put me in your strongest cell, and after you have searched me and the cell you leave me, locking the door. I will join you in a minute or two." Houdini was as good as his word. Not only did he escape, but he had torn from his hands and arms three pairs of handcuffs, which had been put on him by officers with absolute belief in their restraining power. Even these feats were not enough for this man, who does things that would have made Jack Sheppard die of envy. He felt sure there was nothing in Bridewell to baffle him. Running along the corridor, he opened the doors of other cells, which he had thought were all empty. When he reached No. 14 and flung open the door, he confronted a prisoner. "I don't know which of us was the more surprised," said Houdini to an _Express_ representative. STARTLED PRISONER Here was I, standing absolutely nude before a terrified, miserable object. Poor fellow! what a shock it was for him. He was an Irishman just recovering from a drunken bout. "'Arrah!' he said, when he had recovered; 'I thought it was the divil.'" The shivering prison-breaker hurried the wretched prisoner out of cell No. 14 into No. 15 and locked him in. Then he ran along the passage to greet the head constable and the other officials. Only 6 minutes had elapsed since he had been locked in the cell naked and handcuffed. The cell door was inspected and found uninjured. Then one of the gaolers, walking along the corridor, espied door No. 14 open and a prisoner gone. "That's all right," said the irrepressible Houdini. "I've had him out and locked him up in No. 15." Hearty laughter followed the narration of this achievement, and the officials went to No. 15. So securely had the Irishman been locked up that it was necessary to call upon Houdini to unfasten the door. The Irishman was found in a somewhat bewildered state, but he probably "sobered" quicker than he would have done in less eventful circumstances. Houdini left the bridewell the proud possessor of the certificate which is reproduced at the head of this article. ANOTHER EXPERIMENT In the evening Houdini, accompanied by an Express representative, again walked into the bridewell to settle a point which had been raised since his feat in the afternoon. Was the door which had been fastened against him single, double, or triple locked? The matter could easily be settled. Houdini would just do the trick again. Only this time he would do it with his clothes on, as time was pressing. Liverpool's bridewell is as an unsightly a place as a bridewell can be. No one would mistake it for a spa hotel or a convalescent home. Beneath a dark arch you pass, and in the great door which you find opposite is a little window which is unlocked when you knock, and through which you are viewed before you are permitted even to stand upon the threshold. Houdini and his companion were admitted. "More lock-breaking? "Yes; I am ready for more--as many as you like." Accompanied by a gaoler, Houdini and the =Express= representative ascended a flight of stone steps and passed along dimly lighted corridors, whose atmosphere seemed to reek with crime and mystery. Passing through a gate, a row of cells was reached, upon any one of which Houdini might operate. Here was one marked with a strange device. Houdini would try this one. It was a felon's cell--stronger than some of the others, though it could not have been darker or more forbidding. Houdini entered. He was backed in by the =Express= representative. He was inside, safe and sound. SECOND ESCAPE There could be no doubt about that. At the first turn of the key the lock went forward twice; at the second, once. Houdini was behind a triple lock in the dark, dreary cell. The =Express= representative and the gaoler left him there, and retired beyond an iron gate which bars the passage. "The gate is a greater test than the cell," said the gaoler. "It's locked before it's locked, if you understand. Shut it, and it's locked, and then you can lock it again." The gaoler hand only secured it when Houdini presented himself. "That's as quick as I've ever done it," said he. And then he tackled the gate. A moment's hesitation. The gaoler shook his head, and a smile was just overspreading his features, when lo! Houdini flung open wide the gate. He agreed that the gate was "tougher," as he expressed it, than the cell. Houdini is an American. Only his strong arms and his supple, yet powerful hands give the slightest clue of his prison-breaking capacity. He does not look a gaolbird, but the escape he made for the benefit of =Express= readers was his 61st. Bright-eyed, smart, active, and a good talker, he has traveled far and wide, and has broken out of the prisons of many countries. "I have never failed," said Houdini, "but I don't say there is no cell I cannot break out of. As to handcuffs, the hardest job I ever had was with a pair made at Krupp's. It took me 40 minutes to get out of them, but I did it." [Illustration: decorative] [Illustration: =Hou'di-ni=, 1 hü'dï-nï]; 2 hu'dï-nï, =Harry= (4/6 1874- ). American mystericist, wizard, and expert in extrication and self-release.--=hou'di-nize=, _vt._ To release or extricate oneself from (confinement, bonds, or the like), as by wriggling out. FROM FUNK & WAGNALL'S NEW (1920) DICTIONARY] Houdini Outwits Fiji Islander Swimming Champion. Houdini, the man of mystery, who is now appearing in our midst, is certainly a peculiar species of a human being. From all accounts, the energy, the work and feats of this man will, sometime in the future, be the finish of this now wonderful and famous performer. The restless striving to do something better than another human being has brought him to the highest pinnacle of fame, has earned for him princely salaries, and when one considers the risks he has taken, no one can begrudge him the prime minister's salary, which he is earning. To show the restless craving of this man for excelling in things where it is impossible to be of any value to him in any way or form, an incident regarding this man is well worth relating. He was returning from Australia, and the steamer, after leaving Brisbane touched Suva, on the Fiji Islands, a place infested with the most voracious man-eating sharks, known in the world's history. It is stated that they will not touch a black man, and perhaps, that is why the Fiji Islanders stand in no fear of being devoured by sharks, and whenever a shark enters the harbour, it is one of the sights of the country, same as it is in Colombo or Port Said. The Natives dive for coins that the passengers throw overboard. One big fellow seemed to be a most wonderful diver and would always come up with the coin in his mouth, pretending to the average spectator that he had cought the coin in his mouth. Houdini, being an observant spectator, claimed that the man caught the coins in his hand, that is, picked the coin in the water with his hand and placed it in his mouth. This was disputed. Houdini, being offered to wager that if the man's hands were tied behind his back, which would not impede him in making his dive, that he could not catch the coin in his mouth, and Houdini agreed that he would allow himself to be handcuffed, with his hands behind his back, and that he would come up with the coin in his mouth. An interpreter was called and the Black agreed to undergo the test. The dive was to be made off the steamer, and the Captain warned Houdini that he stood in grave danger of the sharks. Undaunted, Houdini went below, donned a bathing suit, had a pair of regulation handcuffs locked behind his back; the Black had his hands tied behind him with a cord--he refused to have the handcuffs placed on him, and he said they were too heavy--two coins were thrown overboard, two splashes were simultaneously heard. Quick as a tiger's spring the Fiji Islander, with his sleek, glossy body, hurled himself through the air and was beneath the surface of the water even while Houdini was perched for his spring. But the jumps were so quickly made, one after the other, that unless you saw the men as they entered the water, you would have thought that it was one prolonged splash. Thirty seconds passed; neither one of the two men appeared. One minute passed, and the black head of the Fiji Islander came up, almost livid for want of air. Fifteen seconds passed by, and, feet first, up came Houdini. The Fiji Islander did not have his coin, and it seems that Houdini had gathered both of them and had them in his mouth. He was drawn up with exciting hurry, for the fins of the sharks were seen moving about with rapidity, and, being hauled on deck, Houdini was declared to have won the wager. The Black's hands were released, were cut apart, the handcuffs were unlocked from Houdini's wrists, and instead of keeping the money, Houdini made it a present to the Black. In a private interview, on being asked how he defeated the Black, Houdini said with a good-natured smile, "You can pick up a coin in a glass tank with your hands tied behind your back, because you can use your mouth, teeth and tongue to manipulate the coin, but when you are in an ocean and the coin is falling downwards it is almost next to impossible to catch a coin and bring it up in your mouth." "You ask me how I did it? I will let you in the secret--I didn't do it at all. When I was under the water I released one of my hands which gave me the use of both of them; I caught my coin and I noticed that the Black was unable to get his coin. I swam after him until he had given up trying to get it, and we had gone down to such a distance that my ears rang, my head was splitting, and all I could see was the white shining piece of money--it was an English two-shilling piece. Eventually I grabbed the coin, put it in my mouth and came up. As I came up, I happened to have my hands free and as I could not stop myself with the force I had sent myself up with my hands I turned around and came up feet first, and this allowed me to put my hands behind my back and the regulation handcuff, as you know, being a snap lock, I locked my hands together and to all intents and purposes my hands were locked during the entire feat. That is why I gave the Fiji Islander the entire amount at stake." "Was I afraid of the sharks?" "Yes and No! Being able to see under water, I kept a sharp look-out, and as soon as I would have seen anything that looked like a shark I would have done a record swim to the boat." "No, I would not care to do it again; it was not for the money, it was simply to show that I was as good a swimmer as some of those Fiji Islanders." * * * * * HISTORICAL LOCK PICKERS. It used to be the fashion among inventors to challenge the trade and other persons, to pick them. In some cases, even rewards were offered to any one who could do so. It is believed that Mr. Joseph Bramah was the first to do this and in 1801, he displayed in his shop window in Piccadily, London, a board to which was attached a padlock, manufactured by himself, and which bore the following inscription:-- "The artist who can make an instrument that will pick or open this lock shall receive 200 guineas the moment it is produced." In 1832, a Wolverhampton locksmith, having claimed to having picked 18 Chubb locks, Mr. Chubb challenged him to open one of his locks under certain conditions. Mr. Hart tried and failed, giving the explanation that it was not the regular commercial Chubb lock, but one that had a special bridge ward. Mr. Chubb replied that Mr. Hart did not pick any lock, but made false keys by a process of cutting blanks. In America the great lock of Dr. Andrews, in 1841, being heralded as an unpickable lock, with two sets of tumblers, was produced, the inventor offering 500 dollars to any one who could pick this. It was picked by Pettitt and Hall, of Boston, with what is known as the smoke process. =1851. HOBBS PICKS BRAMAH AND CHUBB LOCK.= In 1851 Mr. A. C. Hobbs arrived from America, picked a Chubb lock before a committee, and picked the Bramah lock, winning thereby the 200 guineas that for 50 years no one was able to claim. Mr. Hobbs offered 200 guineas to anyone who would pick his lock. An engineer named Garbutt, known as an expert, took up the challenge, and failed after trying thirty days. =1855.--YALE PICKS HOBBS' LOCK.= As an additional element to this controversy, in 1855, Linnius Yale, Jr., discovered how to pick the then celebrated Day and Newell Parautoptic Bank Lock. It was of American origin, and was known in England as Hobbs Lock, but was the invention of a Mr. Pyle. Yale also discovered that he could pick the best Bank Lock--the Double Treasury, which he himself had designed. And eventually demonstrated that any lock having a key hole could be opened by any expert with the necessary skill and time at his disposal. Accordingly Mr. Yale proceeded to develop the combination or Dial Lock. =1870.--SARGENT PICKS YALE LOCK.= The general use of this lock led to the controversy in the United States in 1870; and the Yale lock was picked by James Sargent, of the firm of Sargent and Greenleaf, a lock inventor, a leading maker of Bank Locks, and the inventor of the Time Lock. 1905.--HOUDINI PICKS SARGENT LOCK. Houdini bearded the lion in his den by escaping from a Police Cell in Rochester, N. Y., which was securely locked with one of the Sargent and Greenleaf Locks, placing himself on record as one of the great lock pickers of the world. Of the thousands of locks he has picked all over the world, the following police certificates places him among the historical lock pickers, in fact, second to none. POLICE HEADQUARTERS, ROCHESTER, N. Y. U. S. OF AMERICA. We, the undersigned, certify that we saw Harry Houdini, the bearer of this note, stripped naked, searched, locked in one of the cells at Police Headquarters, and handcuffed with three pairs of cuffs, also strapped with a strap extending from pair of cuffs and buckled at the back. He removed the cuffs, unlocked the cell, got into an adjoining cell and returned with his clothes on. After unlocking the cell in which he was first placed, he had to unlock the cell in which his clothing was left. This was witnessed by the following persons, at Police Headquarters, this city, December 4th, 1905. J. C. HAYDEN, Chief of Police. Mr. James Sargent personally complimented Houdini on his rare skill. They became friends and spent hours together exchanging lock opening secrets. NOTE.--We beg to acknowledge our indebtedness to the following publications for data used in this article--Price's Book on "Locks and Keys" 1856; New International Encycleopedia 2nd Edition; (Dodd Mead and Co., New York); and Encycleopedia Americana, J. M. Stoddart, 1886. * * * * * POLICE HEADQUARTERS, CHICAGO, ILL., U. S. OF AMERICA. This is to certify that the undersigned saw Harry Houdini stripped stark naked, searched from head to foot, and shackled with handcuffs around the wrists and leg irons around his ankles. He was then placed in a cell which required TWO LARGE keys of different makes and patterns to open the lock. The keys are of such a nature that it would have been positively impossible for him to have concealed them on his body. We searched the cell and thoroughly searched Houdini from head to foot, also between his toes and the soles of his feet. Nevertheless in fifteen minutes he managed to release himself from the manacles and make his escape from the cell. There was positively no chance for outside assistance. (Signed), ANDREW ROHAN, Chief of Detectives. Nov. 24, 1906. The Only Paper in the City that Dares Print the News Los Angeles Record 21st Year. WED. DEC. 1, 1915. No. 6485 2,000 HISS J. WILLARD. CHAMPION DRIVEN FROM THEATER BY HOOTS AND CALLS Boxing has been given its worst black eye here to-day by none other than Jess Willard, heavy-weight champion who was so badly worsted to a wordy clash with Harry Houdini, a performer at the Orpheum Theater, last night, that the audience hissed him from the house. Nearly 2,000 persons were present at the dramatic scene and seemed unanimous in groaning, hooting and booing Willard. The trouble was precipitated by Willard's gruff refusal to comply with a friendly request made by Houdini that he act on a committee to watch the performer's act from the stage. It was not known that Willard was present until Houdini came before the footlights and requested any "gentleman" in the audience to step on the stage and guard those present from any possible deception. After about 10 men had stepped on the platform, Houdini stepped forward and said, smiling: "Now I need three more gentlemen on this stage and there is a man here to-night who doesn't know I am aware of his presence. He will be enough for three ordinary gentlemen if he will serve on this committee." "He is Jess Willard, our champion." Taken by surprise, the audience was silent for a moment and then broke into tumultous hand-clapping. Cheers and shrieks resounding throughout the house. Houdini looked up on the balcony, where Willard was seated, and said: "I will leave it to the audience, Mr. Willard. You see they want to see you." A fresh outburst occurred, even more violent than before. "Aw, g'wan with your act," came Willard's rough reply as the audience stilled itself. "I paid for my seat here." "But, Mr. Willard," expostulated Houdini, "I-- "Give me the same wages you pay those other fellows and I'll come down," rumbled Willard's deep voice. The audience, scenting something unusual, was very quiet. "Sir, I will gladly do so," returned Houdini, heatedly. "Come on down--I pay these men nothing." "Aw' g'wan with the show," roared Willard, growling something that sounded like "four-flusher" and "faker." Willard's boorish replies evidently displeased those present, for a few scattering hisses came about this time. Houdini stepped to the footlights and held up his hand for silence. It was readily granted. "Jess Willard, I have just paid you a compliment," said Houdini dramatically. "Now I want to tell you something else. "I will be Harry Houdini, Jess Willard, when you are NOT the heavyweight champion of the world." A roar of applause shook the house. Men and women alike joined in the clapping and cheering. A deep rumble from the balcony indicated that Willard was trying to make some retort, and the cheers veered suddenly to hoots and groans. "I made a mistake," said Houdini, addressing the audience. "I asked GENTLEMEN to step on this stage and GENTLEMEN only." A renewed outburst occurred, during which Willard evidently left the theater. He was not to be found after the next act had started. THE PICTURE SHOW. Mar. 20th, 1920 Half-an-hour with Houdini, THE EXPERT OF EXTRICATION "Danger does not mean anything to me; I was just born without the ingredient of fear. Apart from the many risks I have taken in the course of my professional career, I have saved lives any number of times, and I have simply taken it all as a matter of course. People talk of being afraid to die; on the contrary, I am so well prepared for such an emergency that not only is my will drawn up, but I have a bronze memorial bust all ready, because I thought it better to have one that was really like me!" THE HANDCUFF KING Thus spoke Houdini, the "handcuff king," the great magician and genius of escape, on a certain sunny morning a few weeks ago. He sat with his back to the light, but though his face was in shadow the compelling blue grey eyes, and strong, bronzed features glowed with an intensity and vitality such as one rarely meets. "Tell me," I begged, "are the feats you do on the screen different to those you do enact before the footlights?" "Entirely different," was the reply. "In fact, some of the biggest critics have said that I am more wonderful on the screen than on the stage. That, I consider, is one of the greatest compliments ever paid me. But it has taken years of training to produce the tricks, or problems, I do in my films." Houdini has made, to date, three pictures. The first of these, "The Master Mystery," a serial, is now enjoying enormous popularity all over the country. The remaining two, "The Grim Game," and "Terror Island," are feature pictures, and are still unreleased by Paramount Artcraft though this year will see the first-named on our screens. In the making of "The Master Mystery," Houdini sustained seven black eyes and a broken wrist. He also broke his wrist whilst making "The Grim Game." A TENSE MOMENT "During the screening of this picture I thought at one time in the course of the action, that my end had come," he told me. "I was 3,000 feet up in an aeroplane, circling over another machine. The plan was for me to drop from my 'plane into the cockpit of the other by means of a rope. I was dangling from the rope-end ready for the leap. Suddenly a strong wind turned the lower plane upwards, the two machines crashed together--nearly amputating my limbs--the propellers locked in a deadly embrace, and we were spun round and round and round." Houdini pronounced the latter words with a peculiarly apt "whirring" intonation, graphically illustrating them by the circular action of the arms. "But," he continued, "by a miracle, the 'planes were righted into a half-glide, and, though they were smashed into splinters by their terrific impact, I managed to escape unhurt. As usual, Houdini became undone!" concluded the narrator with a laugh. HIS GREATEST STUNT "What do you consider the greatest stunt you have done for the screen?" I asked, when I had recovered my breath. "Another incident in the same picture," answered Houdini. "I stood in the archway of a prison, thus----" Here he took up a crouching position in the corner of the room, and enacted the whole thing for my benefit. "A heavily loaded lorry, going at twenty-two or four miles an hour rolled by me. I threw myself on the ground, completely rolling over between the fast revolving fore and hind wheels, over and over, till I caught the transmission bar, and hung there for very dear life! Thus was I carried to the aid of the heroine. Though my words may not convey very much, this was my greatest stunt. It allowed for no rehearsals--I said to the camera-man, 'Get this now or never!' And had I made the slightest false move I should have been crippled for life, if not killed." In spite of the risks he has taken before the camera, Houdini has a profound love and admiration for the "movies." "I think the film profession is the greatest," he told me "and that the moving picture is the most wonderful thing in the world. One reason why I love the screen is because it has use for the derelicts of life, and gives employment to the old as well as the young. I entered the profession myself because I knew I should eventually be losing my strength, and before that happened I wanted to perpetuate my feats, and by so doing everyone, in all parts of the world, can see them. Pictures have increased my drawing power two-hundredfold." Houdini, as related at the commencement of this chat, had one of his greatest compliments paid him by critics of his film work, but before I left him he confessed that what he considers the very greatest tribute ever made to his unique achievements is recorded in a dictionary! Turn to Funk and Wagnall's Standard Dictionary, and there you will find it: "HOU'DI-NI. 1, hu'di-ni; 2, hu'di-ni, HARRY (4-6, 1874). American mystericist, wizard, and expert in extrication and self-release HOU'DI-NIZE vt. To release or extricate oneself from (confinement, bonds, or the like), as by wriggling out." So, taking Houdini all in all, I may consider the fact that this wonder-man, this "expert in extrication," made no effort to escape from at least one thing this interview! MAY HERSCHEL CLARKE. [Illustration: decorative] Sat.] ROCHESTER EVENING TIMES [Nov. 4 1916 Minister uses Houdini's name for Sermon His Art of Getting Out of Things as Topic of Sermon The name of Houdini, who has been a headliner at a local theater this week will figure in the sermon at the Genesee Street Baptist Church, to-morrow morning, where the pastor, Rev. Clark, will talk on "Houdini and the Art of Getting Out of Things." The pastor, however, insures that he will reveal none of the vital points of the art, but declares that the sermon will be entirely spiritual. THE SUN Pittsburg Monday, Nov. 6th, 1916 20,000 People see Houdini Thrilling Air Struggle. [Illustration: Houdini hanging upside down from building] WIZARD TIED IN JACKET IS FREE IN 3 MINUTES. STRAPPED TIGHTLY BY GUARDS FROM MAYVIEW HE HANGS HEAD DOWN WARD. SUN BUILDING IS SCENE. WHILE SPINNING DIZZILY FIFTY FEET ABOVE PAVEMENT HE ESCAPES FROM BONDS. Swaying, head downwards, like a grotesque human pendulum, 50 feet above the pavement in front of The Sun Building, Harry Houdini, "handcuff king," defier of locks, bars and bonds, freed himself from the grip of a canvas, leather-reinforced straight-jacket, in a fraction more than three minutes, shortly after 12.40 o'clock this afternoon. The waving of his free hands and arms, that a crowd estimated at 20,000 has seen bound by two attendants from the Mayview (old Marshalsea) Hospital for the Insane, told the watchers that Houdini had achieved one of the most unique feats in his strange career. As he was lowered swiftly to the ground, a great cheer arose, followed by another and another as he stood upright and bowed to the throng which not only packed the streets but filled every window and roof top within view of the scene. WIZARD IS ON TIME Urbane, smiling, the elusive Houdini appeared in the office of "The Sun" at 12 o'clock. R. D. Polling and H. Guthrie, the two attendants from Mayview detailed to truss him up, awaited him, and with them the straight-jacket, in a satchel. Houdini shook hands with both men, speaking humorously of his position as substitute for the deranged persons the two Attendants ordinarily handle. The two men, clad in the white uniforms used by them when on duty, surveyed their voluntary victim noted his short, stocky form, his powerful arms and shoulders, his steady, bright eyes. Both have had long experience in binding frenzied men. Both were determined, they told Houdini, to use the full resource of that experience in binding him. They knew the prowess of the man they had to deal with. They did not comment upon the outcome of the test. They were there, they said, to do their work as best they knew how. Houdini urged speed of action, and absolute surety in fastening the innumerable straps of the straight-jacket. "Treat me," he advised, smiling, "as you would the most dangerous of the criminal insane." EVERY MOVE IS WATCHED The strait-jacket was taken out of the satchel. The handcuff king examined it carefully, while a group of persons looked on. Not a move he made was lost. He dropped the piece of canvas and leather carelessly, smiled again, and said: "Very good. Are we ready?" It was almost 12.30 o'clock. Houdini glanced out the window, and again his characteristic, quiet smile came to his face as he saw Wood street and Liberty avenue congested from wall to wall with closely packed, restless humanity. Then a white-clad attendant on each side, he went downstairs to the street to be bound. A suppressed shout came from the crowd as he appeared in the doorway of The Sun building. It increased in volume as with the attendants and two members of "The Sun" at 12 o'clock. R. D. Polling wagon that had been pulled up on the pavement, and that was serving as a stage. Above him, like a gallows, a single beam projected from a window at the top story of the building, and a rope swung clear, coiling in sinister fashion at his feet. Houdini had removed the outer clothing from the upper part of his body. "Ready," he said. STRAPS ARE FASTENED The two attendants pressed close. His arms were inserted in the long, closed sleeves of the straitjacket. One of the attendants clasped him about the body, as if fearing he would make some mad effort to escape. The other standing behind him, fastened strap after strap, with a steady deftness that made both for security and speed, and revealed long practice. "Make it tight," came the quiet word from the prisoner. The man's knees went up for purchase in the small of Houdini's back. Using apparently every ounce of strength in his broad-shouldered six-foot body, the attendant drew the big strap through the buckle until it would not yield even a sixteenth of an inch more. He caught it there and made it fast. Then the arms of the prisoner were crossed over his body, and the ends of those closed sleeves were brought around in back. Again the knee was brought into use. Again the strap was pulled to its highest tension. The crowd watched, stirred with a constant murmur and movement. Then Houdini's ankles were fastened to the rope, by a special appliance that prevented injury, but insured safety. A word was spoken. The two attendants seized the bound man's body. Workmen drew the rope steadily through the pulleys. Houdini's feet went up, and as his body cleared the platform, it was released. HANGS IN MID-AIR The handcuff king dangled head downward. Each moment he was drawn higher, swaying slightly, spinning dizzily. Up-up, past the windows in the fifth story of the Sun building. Houdini was drawn. Then he hung still. Only for a second. While watchers gleamed in the crowd below, the handcuff king was seen to struggle, not frantically, but with a steady, systematic swelling and contracting of muscles, and almost imperceptible lithe, wrigglings of the torso. The struggle went on. One minute--two--then three---- Would he do it? Hundreds in the crowd undoubtedly were asking that question. From above came an inarticulate shout. The muffled arms writhed one after another over Houdini's head. His hand, still encased in the sleeves of the strait-jacket, fumbled quickly and effectively with the buckles at his back. Another contortion and the strait-jacket slipped down over his chest, over his head, and was flung from his arms to the street, in a crumpled heap. Houdini was free. The arms waved. Houdini had triumphed--as he always triumphs. Less than a minute later, while the crowd's cheers still rang against the grey walls of surrounding buildings, he slipped down the face of the building to the platform. The attendants received him in a twinkling, and he stood erect, unconsciously throwing back his broad shoulders. The little man with the touch of grey at his temples bowed quietly, still with that imperturbable smile. And the crowd cheered him again, before it began slowly to dissolve. Houdini duplicated this feat at the Boston Post, Boston, Mass., December 22, 1921, drawing the biggest crowd that ever crushed into Tremont Street. [Illustration: decorative] [Illustration: Trophy won by Houdini.] The accompanying illustration is the prize offered by the Australian Aerial League for the first successful flight on a heavier than air machine. Won by Houdini March 16, 1910, Digger's Rest, near Melbourne Australia. Houdini piloted his own machine--a Voision Biplane equipped with a E.N.V. 60.80 H.P. Motor. During his Australian Tour Houdini made 18 successful flights. _LONDON, ENGLAND_ HOLBORN EMPIRE BESIEGED BY CROWD INSIDE AND OUTSIDE--UNPARALLELED SCENES WITNESSED IN HIGH HOLBORN--POLICE RESERVES CALLED OUT A packed house, to show its disapproval of the management's action, remains at the Holborn Empire, from 2:00 to 9:00 P. M., waiting for Houdini's appearance as advertised. Police forces were called out as the matinee crowd, refusing to leave the theatre, the evening crowd blockaded traffic, being unable to gain admittance. Unparalleled scenes witnessed in High Holborn. _"THE PERFORMER" LONDON ENGLAND, DECEMBER 15, 1910._ A STAND FOR JUSTICE Houdini's Protest "For some mysterious reason, surprisingly little attention has been given in the daily papers to a remarkable 'scene' at the Holborn Empire last Thursday, when Houdini made a plucky and public-spirited protest against prevailing matinee methods. We must, we suppose, attribute to the present obsession of politics the scant attention given to a very unusual incident, of interest alike to the public and the profession. "Having received an intimation from the management that, although he was topping the week's bill, his services would not be required at the Thursday matinee, 'owing to the length of the programme,' Houdini expressed himself perfectly agreeable to this arrangement, subject to the condition that due intimation should be given to the public that he would not be appearing. "This condition not being complied with, he took an opportunity of going on to the stage at the conclusion of one of the matinee turns in order to quietly explain the reason for his non-appearance and to show that it was not his fault that he was breaking faith with the public. He did not urge the audience, as was stated in some reports, to stay until he appeared, but said that he assumed some at least had come to see him perform and that it seemed to him such were certainly to have their money back if they did not see him. "The performance went on quietly until 'God Save the King,' when the audience took the matter into its own hands and refused to disperse, calling for Houdini to appear. After a scene of considerable excitement, 150 persons ultimately accepted the management's offer of vouchers for another performance and left the building, but the great bulk of the audience remained until after the conclusion of Houdini's performance at the first evening house, when they trooped out, leaving the place only a quarter full. "The queues which formed up for the first house had in the main to be accommodated at the second house, and great difficulty was experienced in controlling the further arrivals for the second performance. "The audience's just appreciation of Houdini's protest was voiced in the remarks of a Labor leader who helped to beguile the interval between the afternoon and evening houses by making a speech. He said that he had frequently attended such matinees, and had always attributed the frequent failure of some one or more well-known artists to appear to his (or her) personal indifference or indolence, but that now they knew the real reason why the public were disappointed. "In view of a managerial allegation to the afternoon audience that Houdini was not allowed to appear because he had broken his contract, we quote from a further considered protest with which Houdini prefaced his performance at the first house in the evening. He said: "'Before proceeding with my performance this evening, I believe that there is an explanation due to a great many who are assembled here as to the cause of my non-appearance here this afternoon, and if it would interest you to hear, I will explain. I wish to inform you that it is positively no fault of mine, because I was here in the building, ready to work, but the management refused to allow me to go on. I will read a number of letters that I have here, which thoroughly explain the case, and I wish to inform you that I have played a good many weeks on this tour, and never knew exactly where I was going until a few days ahead. I was billed to appear at the Holborn a short time ago, and, without any notification whatever, I was sent to Woolwich, and the public received no explanation why I did not appear here. "'Very likely a great many thought that I had broken faith with the public, and last night I received a letter--dated the 6th--after the second performance (about 11 o'clock) which was 33 hours later than dated, notifying me that my services were not required for the matinee performance.' "Having quoted this letter and his reply stating the condition on which he was agreeable to the arrangement, Houdini continued: "'Now, ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to keep faith with the public, and informed the management that I would give the salary that I was earning at the matinee to the V. A. B. F. if they would only allow me to appear, as I knew my reputation was at stake. Being billed, and not appearing, what would the public think? Despite this, I was not allowed to appear, and I trust that those who are assembled here this evening will see my motive in allowing the public to know the real cause of my non-appearance, and that it was positively not my fault.' "The first result of this dignified protest was that Houdini's services were, notwithstanding notice to the contrary, requisitioned for the Saturday matinee." * * * * * Houdini, in his speech to the audience that evening, was forcible and to the point, informing them that it was the greatest compliment that had ever been paid him--an audience waiting seven hours in a theatre for him--and that he would never forget it--and he never will. Boston Daily Globe, March 19, 1906. HOUDINI ESCAPES FROM CITY PRISON Handcuffed, Ironed, and Locked in Cell, He takes only 16 Minutes to Get Out and over the Wall Harry Houdini, the young man who, apparently, cannot be held in restraint by steel bars, handcuffs, prison locks, or other restraining measures, gave the Boston Police Department a terrific jolt this forenoon when he escaped from double confinement in the city prison, commonly known as the Tombs, a prison which the heads of the police department had confidently believed to be escape proof. [Illustration: SUPT. WILLIAM H. PIERCE, WHO LOCKED CELL DOORS] Superintendent of Police William H. Pierce personally superintended the confinement of Houdini, himself locked the wizard into a cell on the second tier of the prison, after he had clamped handcuffs on his wrists and leg irons about his ankles, and the superintendent's face wore a smile of confidence and assurance after he had locked the cell doors and went down into the office of the prison to await results. The superintendent's smile didn't wholly come off when, a few minutes later, he learned that Houdini not only had escaped from his cell, but that he had escaped from the prison, and was nearly a half-mile away; but the smile was faded and frayed at the edges, and no questioning could get the superintendent to say what he thought of the wonderful performance. All that could be gotten out of him was, "I have nothing to say." Heretofore the police have believed that no one locked in a cell at the Tombs could possibly get out; but Houdini not only got out, but he opened door after door after he had removed the handcuffs and leg irons, and walked from one part of the prison to another with apparently as much freedom as though he wasn't met every few feet with a lock that had been considered impregnable. CLOSELY SEARCHED FOR KEYS. Briefly, here is just what happened: Houdini had secured permission from Superintendent Pierce to make an effort to escape from the city prison, and this forenoon, in the presence of about 30 men, the superintendent let Houdini into cell No. 77 on the ground floor of the Tombs, where Houdini, in the presence of the witnesses of the test, removed every stitch of his clothing, which he left lying on the bunk in the cell. When he came out, Capt. Clarence A. Swan, the keeper of the prison, locked the cell door upon Houdini's clothing, and then the young man was taken to the second floor of the block of cells, where Superintendent Pierce and a number of the men witnessing the test searched his hair for possible concealed keys or other instruments. Not a thing was found, and Houdini even asked to have his feet examined so there would be no question of his having a key concealed between his toes, and this was done. [Illustration: _Boston Journal, Tuesday, March 20, 1906._ SHACKLED AND LOCKED IN, HOUDINI BREAKS JAIL. CENTRAL FIGURES IN WIZARD HOUDINI'S MYSTIFYING JAIL ESCAPE AND DIAGRAM OF HIS MOVEMENTS. _Cut by permission of The Boston Journal._] [Illustration: Inside the Cell at the City Tombs, Boston, Mass.] [Illustration: SUP'T. PIERCE LEFT HIM SHACKLED AND HANDCUFFED IN CELL No. 60] [Illustration: SUP'T. PIERCE SAT CHUCKLING IN THE CAPTAIN'S OFFICE WAITING FOR HOUDINI TO WHISTLE FOR HIM.] [Illustration: IN SIXTEEN MINUTES AFTER BEING LOCKED UP HE ESCAPED OVER THE WALL.] [Illustration: THE SUP'T. FOUND THE SHACKLES AND HANDCUFFS--BUT NO HOUDINI.] _Caricatures by permission of Boston Post._ Then Superintendent Pierce took a pair of the most approved handcuffs used in the police department and fastened them securely about Houdini's wrists, and on his bare ankles he clamped a pair of tested steel leg irons so tightly that the iron sank into the flesh. After that Houdini was locked in cell No. 60, and Superintendent Pierce and the witnesses went downstairs and out into the office, expecting Houdini would go there, providing he got out of his cell, and the police officials who were present seemed to feel pretty confident that he couldn't do that. This feeling was shared by some of the outsiders present, who could not bring themselves to believe that it could be done. [Illustration: Over the Wall at the City Tombs, Boston, Mass. _Photo with permission of the Boston Globe._] The only condition Houdini attached to his performance was that no one should be allowed to go into the part of the prison where he was confined to watch him escape, and the superintendent and the witnesses respected that condition, and most of them stayed in the captain's office. A few of the witnesses, however, went out into Somerset Street to wait and watch; for, knowing Houdini, they were prepared to see him come out anywhere. These confident ones were rewarded for their trust, for 16 minutes after Houdini had been locked, naked, handcuffed, and ironed by the legs, into cell 60, he was seen running, fully dressed, except that he had not put on his collar and tie, across the prison yard, to climb up the wall leading into Somerset Street, to vault the iron railing at the top, and then to leg it like a scared rabbit over the hill in the direction of Keith's Theatre. THE LITERARY HOUDINI As is the case with many great men, the gift of being able to do many things, and to do each thing well, is Houdini's, who besides his achievements as a mystifier has also won wide recognition as an author. That he has found time to write a great deal is attested by his list of books, namely: "Miracle Mongers and Their Methods," "The Unmasking of Robert Houdin," "The Sane Side of Spiritualism," "The Right Way to do Wrong," "Magic Made Easy," "My Training and my Tricks," "Paper Prestidigitation," "Handcuff Secrets," "Magical Rope Ties and Escapes," "Good Night Stories for Children," "Dan Cupid the Magician" (a series) and "Magicians' Romances." Numerous magazine articles and stories swell his literary output to greater proportions. Editor for two years on standard work of magic, "The Conjurors Magazine." In addition he has also written the stories for the feature films in which he was starred, namely, "The Man From Beyond" and "Haldane of the Secret Service," which were picturized by his own producing organization, Houdini Picture Corporation; "The Grim Game" and "Terror Island," written in collaboration with Arthur B. Reeve and John W. Grey, produced by Famous Players-Lasky Corporation. HOUDINI PICTURE CORPORATION In 1921, upon returning from his triumphant tour of Great Britain, Houdini organized his own film producing company for the purpose of making special feature pictures. The company, incorporated as Houdini Picture Corporation, capitalized at $500,000, began operations in the spring. At the time of this writing two features have been completed--"The Man from Beyond" and "Haldane of the Secret Service." The first is characterized by those who have seen it at private pre-release showings as the most unusual picture ever screened, containing, as it does, originality of thought, novelty of treatment, and a thrilling finish that encompasses any thrilling situation yet produced for motion pictures. The second picture, with interlocking scenes taken abroad, tells a mystery story and likewise demonstrates the ingenuity and resourcefulness of Houdini as producer, author and star. Both pictures will soon be released to the public. Scenes from Photoplays JESSE L. LASKY Presents HOUDINI IN "The Grim Game" A Paramount-Artcraft Picture This picture contains the only airplane collision in the clouds ever photographed. $1,000 reward to anyone proving the collision in the clouds is not genuine. [Illustration: Houdini on wing of plane] [Illustration: Houdini in hat] [Illustration: Planes colliding in air] Starring Houdini JESSE L. LASKY Presents HOUDINI IN "_TERROR ISLAND_" A Paramount-Artcraft Picture The most amazing under water scenes ever enacted were recorded by the camera for "Terror Island." [Illustration: Houdini in trap] [Illustration: Houdini fighting] [Illustration: Houdini hanging upside down with spears pointing at him] Scenes from Photoplays HOUDINI PICTURE CORP. Presents HOUDINI in "The Man From Beyond" _Shortly to be Released_ [Illustration: Houdini hanging on rock in surging water] [Illustration: Staircase with water flowing down] [Illustration: Houdini hanging over cliff] Starring Houdini HOUDINI PICTURE CORP. Presents HOUDINI in "Haldane of the Secret Service" _An International Mystery Drama shortly to be released._ [Illustration: Houdini talking to man in busy street scene] [Illustration: Sitting at a table] [Illustration: Crowd watching Houdini] Picture Plays, Confessions Album. No. 14.--MR. HARRY HOUDINI =1. What is your favorite theater?= All the world is a theater to me. =2. Which is your favorite hobby?= Browsing in old bookstalls, seeking old dramatic items for my library. =3. Which is your favorite pastime?= Out door athletics and long distance swims. =4. Which is your favorite song?= "Auld Lang Syne." =5. Which is your favorite sweetmeat?= Candied fruits. [Illustration: Mrs. HARRY HOUDINI] =6. What is your idea of comfort?= Seated in a large arm chair in library and hearing Mrs. Houdini call up: "Young man your lunch is ready." =7. Which is your unlucky day?= Haven't any; an unfortunate incident at any time simply builds a foundation for something better. =8. What is your favorite motto?= "And this, too--shall pass away." =9. When have you felt at your worst?= Once when sailing round the world, at a longitude of 80°, we had two Tuesdays in one week and no Wednesday, which meant losing a Christmas, and I was seasick at the time. It will be an awful thing to eclipse my painful anguish. =10. What is your pet aversion?= The bald-headed man who says: "Ah, I remember you when I was a boy." [Illustration: MY MOTHER] =11. What is your greatest ambition?= To live a life and die being worthy of the mother who bore me. =12. What is your favorite holiday resort?= Hollywood, California. =13. Who is your favorite author?= My dad. =14. What is your idea of misery?= Arriving in a town at midnight on a drizzly wet, foggy night, and finding all the hotels full up. [Illustration: Snap shot photograph of packing case containing six hundred pounds of iron weights and Houdini, as it was dropped into New York Bay. Houdini escaped from the box at the bottom of the bay in two minutes and fifty-five seconds.] [Illustration: DR. WILLIAMS ENGINEERING THE "THREAD THE NEEDLES TRICK" HOUDINI ABOUT TO DISAPPEAR WELL, GOODBYE] The National Casket Company challenged Houdini to escape from one of their heavy hickory coffins after they had fastened the cover down with six inch screws. Houdini accepted the test, which took place before members of the Boston Athletic Association, Boston, Mass. He escaped, the coffin was intact, showing no means of egress. [Illustration: MR. PHIL SEARS MR. COTTON INTERESTED SPECTATORS IN THE FRONT ROW. A LITTLE MORE AIR FOR MR. HOUDINI THE HAGGARD HOUDINI REAPPEARS HOPE I GET OUT OF MINE AS QUICKLY] [Illustration: Letter from Warden of U. S. Jail in D. C.] How does he do it? JAMES H. HARRIS, WARDEN, W. GRAYSON URNER, DEPUTY WARDEN, United States Jail, _Washington, D.C._, January 6th, _1906_ This is to certify that Mr. Harry Houdini, at the United States Jail today, was stripped stark naked, thoroughly searched, and locked up in cell No. 2 of the South Wing,--the cell in which Charles J. Guiteau, the assassinator of President Garfield, was confined during his incarceration, from the date of his commitment, July 2nd, 1881, until the day on which he was executed, June 30th, 1882. Mr. Houdini, in about two minutes, managed to escape from that cell, and then broke into the cell in which his clothing was locked up. He then proceeded to release from their cells all the prisoners on the ground floor. There was positively no chance for any confederacy or collusion. Mr. Houdini accomplished all of the above-mentioned facts, in addition to putting on all his clothing, in twenty-one minutes. J. H. Harris Warden United States Jail, D. C. AUDUBON PRINTERS MITCHEL SQUARE NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Minor punctuation typos have been silently corrected. Some descriptive captions were added by transcriber to Illustrations in text version and are placed in the public domain. Page 2: "teems" should probably be "teem." (Orig: His press clipping books teems with stories) Page 2: "that" should probably be "than." (Orig: reader's attention more closely that if he were absorbing) Page 2: "ad infitum." should probably be "ad infinitum." (Orig: And so, ad infitum.) Page 8: Retained "Schutzmann" as a variation of "Schutzman." (Orig: The chief one was Schutzmann Werner Graff,) Page 14: Changed "Hollard" to "Holland." (Orig: Amsterdam, Hague; Dordrecht, Hollard;) Page 37: In the dictionary, the umlauts in =Hou'di-ni=, 1 hü'dï-nï; represent macrons in the text version. In 2 hu'dï-nï, they are umlauts. Page 38: "cought" might be a typo for "caught." (Orig: he had cought the coin in his mouth.) Page 40: Changed "a" to "as." (Orig: and a soon as I would have seen anything) Page 43: "tumultous" might be a typo for "tumultuous." (Orig: broke into tumultous hand-clapping.) Page 43: Changed show, roarded Willard, to show," roared Willard, Page 47: Added missing "of" between "straps" and "the". (Orig: in fastening the innumerable straps the straight-jacket.) Page 47: Changed "smilling" to "smiling." (Orig: "Treat me," he advised, smilling) Page 49: Changed "arrangemnt" to "arrangement." (Orig: perfectly agreeable to this arrangemnt) Page 57: Changed "orgnized" to "organized." (Orig: Houdini orgnized his own film producing company) 
42723	----	[Illustration: Harry Houdini] _Frontispiece_] THE UNMASKING _OF_ ROBERT-HOUDIN _BY_ HARRY HOUDINI [Illustration] _NEW YORK_ _THE PUBLISHERS PRINTING CO._ _1908_ _Copyright, 1906_ _Copyright, 1907_ _Copyright, 1908_ _By HARRY HOUDINI_ _Entered at Stationer's Hall, London, England_ _All rights reserved_ Composition, Electrotyping and Printing by The Publishers Printing Company New York, N.Y., U.S.A. Dedication _This Book is affectionately dedicated to the memory of my father, Rev. M. S. Weiss, Ph.D., LL.D., who instilled in me love of study and patience in research_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION, 7 CHAPTER I. SIGNIFICANT EVENTS IN THE LIFE OF ROBERT-HOUDIN, 33 II. THE ORANGE-TREE TRICK, 51 III. THE WRITING AND DRAWING FIGURE, 83 IV. THE PASTRY COOK OF THE PALAIS ROYAL, 116 V. THE OBEDIENT CARDS--THE CABALISTIC CLOCK--THE TRAPEZE AUTOMATON, 141 VI. THE INEXHAUSTIBLE BOTTLE, 176 VII. SECOND SIGHT, 200 VIII. THE SUSPENSION TRICK, 222 IX. THE DISAPPEARING HANDKERCHIEF, 245 X. ROBERT-HOUDIN'S IGNORANCE OF MAGIC AS BETRAYED BY HIS OWN PEN, 264 XI. THE NARROWNESS OF ROBERT-HOUDIN'S "MEMOIRS," 295 INTRODUCTION This book is the natural result of the moulding, dominating influence which the spirit and writings of Robert-Houdin have exerted over my professional career. My interest in conjuring and magic and my enthusiasm for Robert-Houdin came into existence simultaneously. From the moment that I began to study the art, he became my guide and hero. I accepted his writings as my text-book and my gospel. What Blackstone is to the struggling lawyer, Hardee's "Tactics" to the would-be officer, or Bismarck's life and writings to the coming statesman, Robert-Houdin's books were to me. To my unsophisticated mind, his "Memoirs" gave to the profession a dignity worth attaining at the cost of earnest, life-long effort. When it became necessary for me to take a stage-name, and a fellow-player, possessing a veneer of culture, told me that if I would add the letter "i" to Houdin's name, it would mean, in the French language, "like Houdin," I adopted the suggestion with enthusiasm. I asked nothing more of life than to become in my profession "like Robert-Houdin." By this time I had re-read his works until I could recite passage after passage from memory. Then, when Fate turned kind and the golden pathway of success led me into broader avenues of work, I determined that my first tour abroad should be dedicated to adding new laurels to the fame of Robert-Houdin. By research and study I would unearth history yet unwritten, and record unsung triumphs of this great inventor and artiste. The pen of his most devoted student and follower would awaken new interest in his history. [Illustration: Robert-Houdin in his prime, immediately after his retirement. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Alas for my golden dreams! My investigations brought forth only bitterest disappointment and saddest of disillusionment. Stripped of his self-woven veil of romance, Robert-Houdin stood forth, in the uncompromising light of cold historical facts, a mere pretender, a man who waxed great on the brainwork of others, a mechanician who had boldly filched the inventions of the master craftsmen among his predecessors. "Memoirs of Robert-Houdin, Ambassador, Author and Conjurer, Written by Himself," proved to have been the penwork of a brilliant Parisian journalist, employed by Robert-Houdin to write his so-called autobiography. In the course of his "Memoirs," Robert-Houdin, over his own signature, claimed credit for the invention of many tricks and automata which may be said to have marked the golden age in magic. My investigations disproved each claim in order. He had announced himself as the first magician to appear in regulation evening clothes, discarding flowing sleeves and heavily draped stage apparatus. The credit for this revolution in conjuring belonged to Wiljalba Frikell. Robert-Houdin's explanation of tricks performed by other magicians and not included in his repertoire, proved so incorrect and inaccurate as to brand him an ignoramus in certain lines of conjuring. Yet to the great charm of his diction and the romantic development of his personal reminiscences later writers have yielded unquestioningly and have built upon the historically weak foundations of his statements all the later so-called histories of magic. For a time the disappointment killed all creative power. With no laurel wreath to carve, my tools lay idle. The spirit of investigation languished. Then came the reaction. There was work to be done. Those who had wrought honestly deserved the credit that had been taken from them. In justice to the living as well as the dead the history of the magic must be revised. The book, accepted for more than half a century as an authority on our craft, must stand forth for what it is, a clever romance, a well-written volume of fiction. That is why to-day I offer to the profession of magic, to the world of laymen readers to whom its history has always appealed, and to the literary savants who dip into it as a recreation, the results of my investigations. These, I believe, will show Robert-Houdin's true place in the history of magic and give to his predecessors, in a profession which in each generation becomes more serious and more dignified, the credit they deserve. [Illustration: Frontispiece of "Hocus Pocus," Second Edition, 1635, one of the earliest works on magic. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] My investigations cover nearly twenty years of a busy professional career. Every hour which I could spare from my professional work was given over to study in libraries, to interviews with retired magicians and collectors, and to browsing in old bookstores and antique shops where rare collections of programs, newspapers, and prints might be found. [Illustration: John Baptist Porta, the Neapolitan writer on magic. From an old woodcut in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In order to conduct my researches intelligently, I was compelled to pick up a smattering of the language of each country in which I played. The average collector or proprietor of an old bookshop is a canny, suspicious individual who must accept you as a friend before he will uncover his choicest treasures. As authorities, books on magic and kindred arts are practically worthless. The earliest books, like the magician stories written by Sir John Mandeville in 1356, read like prototypes of to-day's dime novels. They are thrilling tales of travellers who witnessed magical performances, but they are not authentic records of performers and their work. One of the oldest books in my collection is "Natural and Unnatural Magic" by Gantziony, dated 1489. It is the author's script, exquisite in its German chirography, artistic in its illuminated illustrations, but worthless as an historical record, though many of the writer's descriptions and explanations of old-time tricks are most interesting. Early in the seventeenth century appeared "Hocus Pocus," the most widely copied book in the literature of magic. The second edition, dated 1635, I have in my library. I have never been able to find a copy of the first edition or to ascertain the date at which it was published. A few years later, in 1658, came a very important contribution to the history of magic in "Natural Magick in XX. Bookes," by John Baptist Porta, a Neapolitan. This has been translated into nearly every language. It was the first really important and exhaustive work on the subject, but, unfortunately, it gives the explanation of tricks, rather than an authentic record of their invention. In 1682, Simon Witgeest of Amsterdam, Holland, wrote an admirable work, whose title reads "Book of Natural Magic." This work was translated into German, ran through many an edition, and had an enormous sale in both Holland and Germany. [Illustration: Frontispiece from Simon Witgeest's "Book of Natural Magic" (1682), showing the early Dutch conception of conjuring. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1715, John White, an Englishman, published a work entitled "Art's Treasury and Hocus Pocus; or a Rich Cabinet of Legerdemain Curiosities." This is fully as reliable a book as the earlier "Hocus Pocus" books, but it is not so generally known. Richard Neve, who was a popular English conjurer just before the time of Fawkes, published a book on somewhat similar lines in 1715. Germany contributed the next notable works on magic. First came Johann Samuel Halle's "Magic or the Magical Power of Nature," printed in Berlin, in 1784. One of his compatriots, Johann Christian Wiegleb, wrote eighteen books on "The Natural Magic" and while I shall always contend that the German books are the most complete, yet they cannot be accepted as authorities save that, in describing early tricks, they prove the existence of inventions and working methods claimed later as original by men like Robert-Houdin. English books on magic were not accepted seriously until the early part of the nineteenth century. In Vol. III. of John Beckmann's "History of Inventions and Discoveries," published in 1797, will be found a chapter on "Jugglers" which presents interesting matter regarding magicians and mysterious entertainers. I quote from this book in disproving Robert-Houdin's claims to the invention of automata and second-sight. About 1840, J. H. Anderson, a popular magician, brought out a series of inexpensive, paper-bound volumes, entitled "A Shilling's Worth of Magic," "Parlor Magic," etc., which are valuable only as giving a glimpse of the tricks contemporary with his personal successes. In 1859 came Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs," magic's classic. Signor Blitz, in 1872, published his reminiscences, "Fifty Years in the Magic Circle," but here again we have a purely local and personal history, without general value. [Illustration: John White, an English writer on magic and kindred arts in the early part of the eighteenth century. Only portrait in existence and published for the first time since his book was issued in 1715. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Thomas Frost wrote three books relating to the history of magic, commencing about 1870. This list included "Circus Life and Circus Celebrities," "The Old Showmen and the Old London Fairs," and "Lives of the Conjurers." These were the best books of their kind up to the time of their publication, but they are marked by glaring errors, showing that Frost compiled rather than investigated, or, more properly speaking, that his investigations never went much further than Morley's "Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair." Charles Bertram who wrote "Isn't it Wonderful?" closed the nineteenth-century list of English writers on magic, but his work is marred by mis-statements which even the humblest of magicians could refute, and, like Frost, he drew heavily on writers who preceded him. So far, in the twentieth century, the most notable contribution to the literature of magic is Henry Ridgely Evans' "The Old and the New Magic," but Mr. Evans falls into the error of his predecessors in accepting as authoritative the history of magic and magicians furnished by Robert-Houdin. He has made no effort whatever to verify or refute the statements made by Robert-Houdin, but has merely compiled and re-written them to suit his twentieth-century readers. [Illustration: Frontispiece from Richard Neve's work on magic, showing him performing the egg and bag trick about 1715. Photographed from the original in the British Museum by the author.] [Illustration: Signor Antonio Blitz, author of "Fifty Years in the Magic Circle" (1872). Original negative of this photograph is in the Harry Houdini Collection.] The true historian does not compile. He delves for facts and proofs, and having found these he arrays his indisputable facts, his uncontrovertible proofs, to refute the statements of those who have merely compiled. That is what I have done to prove my case against Robert-Houdin. I have not borrowed from the books of other writers on magic. I have gone to the very fountain head of information, records of contemporary literature, newspapers, programmes and advertisements of magicians who preceded Robert-Houdin, sometimes by a century. It would cost fully a million dollars to forge the collection of evidence now in my hands. Men who lived a hundred years before Robert-Houdin was born did not invent posters or write advertisements in order to refute the claims of those who were to follow in the profession of magic. These programmes, advertisements, newspaper notices, and crude cuts trace the true history of magic as no romancer, no historian of a single generation possibly could. They are the ghosts of dead and gone magicians, rising in this century of research and progress to claim the credit due them. [Illustration: Philip Astley, Esq., an historical circus director, a famous character of Bartholomew Fair days, and author of "Natural Magic" (1784). From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Charles Bertram (James Bassett), the English author and conjurer, who wrote "Isn't it Wonderful?" Born 1853, died Feb. 28th, 1907. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Often when the bookshops and auction sales did not yield fruit worth plucking, I had the good fortune to meet a private collector or a retired performer whose assistance proved invaluable, and the histories of these meetings read almost like romances, so skilfully did the Fates seem to juggle with my efforts to secure credible proof. To the late Henry Evans Evanion I am indebted for many of the most important additions to my collection of conjuring curios and my library of magic, recognized by fellow-artistes and litterateurs as the most complete in the world. Evanion was an Englishman, by profession a parlor magician, by choice and habit a collector and savant. He was an entertainer from 1849 to the year of his death. For fifty years he spent every spare hour at the British Museum collecting data bearing on his marvellous collection, and his interest in the history of magic was shared by his excellent wife who conducted a "sweet shop" near one of London's public schools. While playing at the London Hippodrome in 1904 I was confined to my room by orders of my physician. During this illness I was interviewed by a reporter who, noticing the clippings and bills with which my room was strewn, made some reference to my collection in the course of his article. The very day on which this interview appeared, I received from Henry Evanion a mere scrawl stating that he, too, collected programmes, bills, etc., in which I might be interested. I wrote at once asking him to call at one o'clock the next afternoon, but as the hour passed and he did not appear, I decided that, like many others who asked for interviews, he had felt but a passing whim. That afternoon about four o'clock my physician suggested that, as the day was mild, I walk once around the block. As I stepped from the lift, the hotel porter informed me that since one o'clock an old man had been waiting to see me, but so shabby was his appearance, they had not dared send him up to my room. He pointed to a bent figure, clad in rusty raiment. When I approached the old man he rose and informed me that he had brought some clippings, bills, etc., for me to see. I asked him to be as expeditious as possible, for I was too weak to stand long and my head was a-whirl from the effects of la grippe. [Illustration: Last photograph of Henry Evans Evanion, conjurer and collector, taken especially for this book in which he was deeply interested. Died June 17th, 1905. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] With some hesitancy of speech but the loving touch of a collector he opened his parcel. "I have brought you, sir, only a few of my treasures, sir, but if you will call--" I heard no more. I remember only raising my hands before my eyes, as if I had been dazzled by a sudden shower of diamonds. In his trembling hands lay priceless treasures for which I had sought in vain--original programmes and bills of Robert-Houdin, Phillippe, Anderson, Breslaw, Pinetti, Katterfelto, Boaz, in fact all the conjuring celebrities of the eighteenth century, together with lithographs long considered unobtainable, and newspapers to be found only in the files of national libraries. I felt as if the King of England stood before me and I must do him homage. Physician or no physician, I made an engagement with him for the next morning, when I was bundled into a cab and went as fast as the driver could urge his horse to Evanion's home, a musty room in the basement of No. 12 Methley Street, Kennington Park Road, S.E. [Illustration: Very rare and extraordinarily fine lithograph of Robert-Houdin, which he gave only to his friends. It depicts him among his so-called inventions. His son, Emile, doing second sight, is behind him. The writing and drawing figure is on his left. On his right under the clockwork is a drawing which, on close examination of the original, shows the suspension trick. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In the presence of his collection I lost all track of time. Occasionally we paused in our work to drink tea which he made for us on his pathetically small stove. The drops of the first tea which we drank together can yet be found on certain papers in my collection. His wife, a most sympathetic soul, did not offer to disturb us, and it was 3:30 the next morning, or very nearly twenty-four hours after my arrival at his home, when my brother, Theodore Weiss (Hardeen), and a thoroughly disgusted physician appeared on the scene and dragged me, an unwilling victim, back to my hotel and medical care. Such was the beginning of my friendship with Evanion. In time I learned that some of his collection had been left to him by James Savren, an English barber, who was so interested in magic that at frequent intervals he dropped his trade to work without pay for famous magicians, including Döbler, Anderson, Compars Herrmann, De Liska, Wellington Young, Cornillot, and Gyngell. From these men he had secured a marvellous collection, which was the envy of his friendly rival, Evanion. Savren bequeathed his collection to Evanion, and bit by bit I bought it from the latter, now poverty stricken, too old to work and physically failing. These purchases I made at intervals whenever I played in London, and on June 7th, 1905, while playing at Wigan, I received word that Evanion was dying at Lambeth Infirmary. After the show, I jumped to London, only to find that cancer of the throat made it almost impossible for him to speak intelligibly. I soon discovered, however, that his chief anxiety was for the future of his wife and then for his own decent burial. When these sad offices had been provided for, he became more peaceful, and when I rose to leave him, knowing that we had met probably for the last time, he drew forth his chiefest treasure, a superb book of Robert-Houdin's programmes, his one legacy, which is now the central jewel in my collection. Evanion died ten days later, June 17th, and within a short time his good wife followed him into the Great Unknown. [Illustration: Poster used by James Savren. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Even more dramatic was my meeting with the widow of Frikell, the great German conjurer. I had heard that Frikell and not Robert-Houdin was the first magician to discard cumbersome, draped stage apparatus, and to don evening clothes, and I was most anxious to verify this rumor, as well as to interview him regarding equally important data bearing on the history of magic. Having heard that he lived in Kötchenbroda, a suburb of Dresden, I wrote to him from Cologne, asking for an interview. I received in reply a curt note: "Herr verreist," meaning "The master is on tour." This, I knew, from his age, could not be true, so I took a week off for personal investigation. I arrived at Kötchenbroda on the morning of April 8th, 1903, at 4 o'clock, and was directed to his home, known as "Villa Frikell." Having found my bearings and studied well the exterior of the house, I returned to the depot to await daylight. At 8:30 I reappeared at his door, and was told by his wife that Herr Frikell had gone away. I then sought the police department from which I secured the following information: "Dr." Wiljalba Frikell was indeed the retired magician whom I was so anxious to meet. He was eighty-seven years old, and in 1884 had celebrated his golden anniversary as a conjurer. Living in the same town was an adopted daughter, but she could not or would not assist me. The venerable magician had suffered from domestic disappointments and had made a vow that he would see no one. In fact he was leading a hermit-like life. Armed with this information, I employed a photographer, giving him instructions to post himself opposite the house and make a snap shot of the magician, should he appear in the doorway. But I had counted without my host. All morning the photographer lounged across the street and all morning I stood bareheaded before the door of Herr Frikell, pleading with his wife who leaned from the window overhead. With that peculiar fervency which comes only when the heart's desire is at stake, I begged that the past master of magic would lend a helping hand to one ready to sit at his feet and learn. I urged the debt which he owed to the literature of magic and which he could pay by giving me such direct information as I needed for my book. [Illustration: The Author standing in front of Villa Frikell at Kötchenbroda, Germany, where the master magician, Wiljalba Frikell, spent the last years of his life. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Frau Frikell heard my pleadings with tears running down her cheeks, and later I learned that Herr Frikell also listened to them, lying grimly on the other side of the shuttered window. At length, yielding to physical exhaustion, I went away, but I was still undaunted. I continued to bombard Herr Frikell with letters, press clippings regarding my work, etc., and finally in Russia I received a letter from him. I might send him a package containing a certain brand of Russian tea of which he was particularly fond. You may be sure I lost no time in shipping the little gift, and shortly I was rewarded by the letter for which I longed. Having decided that I cared more for him than did some of his relatives, he would receive me when next I played near Kötchenbroda. With this interview in prospect, I made the earliest engagement obtainable in Dresden, intending to give every possible moment to my hardly-won acquaintance. But Fate interfered. One business problem after another arose, concerning my forthcoming engagement in England, and I had to postpone my visit to Herr Frikell until the latter part of the week. In the mean time, he had agreed to visit a Dresden photographer, as I wanted an up-to-date photograph of him and he had only pictures taken in his more youthful days. On the day when he came to Dresden for his sitting, he called at the theatre, but the attachés, without informing me, refused to give him the name of the hotel where I was stopping. [Illustration: Last photograph of Herr and Frau Frikell, taken especially for this work. Frikell died Oct. 8th, 1903, the day after this photograph was taken. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] After the performance I dropped into the König Kaffe and was much annoyed by the staring and gesticulations of an elderly couple at a distant table. It was Frikell with his wife, but I did not recognize them and, not being certain on his side, he failed to make himself known. That was mid-week, and for Saturday, which fell on October 8th, 1903, I had an engagement to call at the Villa Frikell. On Thursday, the Central Theatre being sold out to Cleo de Merode, who was playing special engagements in Germany with her own company, I made a flying business trip to Berlin, and on my return I passed through Kötchenbroda. As the train pulled into the station I hesitated. Should I drop off and see Herr Frikell, or wait for my appointment on the morrow? Fate turned the wheel by a mere thread and I went on to Dresden. So does she often dash our fondest hopes! My appointment for Saturday was at 2 P.M., and as my train landed me in Kötchenbroda a trifle too early I walked slowly from the depot to the Villa Frikell, not wishing to disturb my aged host by arriving ahead of time. I rang the bell. It echoed through the house with peculiar shrillness. The air seemed charged with a quality which I presumed was the intense pleasure of realizing my long cherished hope of meeting the great magician. A lady opened the door and greeted me with the words: "You are being waited for." I entered. He was waiting for me indeed, this man who had consented to meet me, after vowing that he would never again look into the face of a stranger. And Fate had forced him to keep that vow. Wiljalba Frikell was dead. The body, clad in the best his wardrobe afforded, all of which had been donned in honor of his expected guest, was not yet cold. Heart failure had come suddenly and unannounced. The day before he had cleaned up his souvenirs in readiness for my coming and arranged a quantity of data for me. On the wall above the silent form were all of his gold medals, photographs taken at various stages of his life, orders presented to him by royalty--all the outward and visible signs of a vigorous, active, and successful life, the life of which he would have told me, had I arrived ahead of Death. And when all these were arranged, he had forgotten his morbid dislike of strangers. The old instincts of hospitality tugged at his heart strings, and his wife said he was almost young and happy once more, when suddenly he grasped at his heart, crying, "My heart! What is the matter with my heart? O----" That was all! There we stood together, the woman who had loved the dear old wizard for years and the young magician who would have been so willing to love him had he been allowed to know him. His face was still wet from the cologne she had thrown over him in vain hope of reviving the fading soul. On the floor lay the cloths, used so ineffectually to bathe the pulseless face, and now laughing mockingly at one who saw himself defeated after weary months of writing and pleading for the much-desired meeting. I feel sure that the personal note struck in these reminiscences will be forgiven. In no other way could I prove the authoritativeness of my collection, the thoroughness of my research, and the incontrovertibility of the facts which I desire to set forth in this volume. THE UNMASKING OF ROBERT-HOUDIN CHAPTER I SIGNIFICANT EVENTS IN THE LIFE OF ROBERT-HOUDIN Robert-Houdin was born in Blois, France, December 6th, 1805. His real name was Jean-Eugene Robert, and his father was Prosper Robert, a watchmaker in moderate circumstances. His mother's maiden name was Marie Catherine Guillon. His first wife was Josephe Cecile Eglantine Houdin, whose family name he assumed for business reasons. He was married the second time to Françoise Marguerite Olympe Naconnier. His death, caused by pneumonia, occurred at St. Gervais, France, on June 13th, 1871. [Illustration: Jean-Eugene Robert-Houdin. Photograph taken--about 1868. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Barring the above facts, which were gleaned from the register of the civil authorities of St. Gervais, all information regarding his life previous to his first public appearance in 1844 must be drawn from his own works, particularly from his autobiography, published in the form of "Memoirs." Because of his supreme egotism, his obvious desire to make his autobiography picturesque and interesting rather than historically correct, and his utter indifference to dates, exact names of places, theatres, books, etc., it is extremely hard to present logical and consistent statements regarding his life. Such discrepancies arise as the mention of three children in one chapter and four in another, while he does not give the names of either wife, though he admits his obligation to both good women. According to his autobiography, Jean-Eugene Robert was sent to college at Orleans at the tender age of eleven, and remained there until he was eighteen. He was then placed in a notary's office to study law, but his mechanical tastes led him back to his father's trade, watchmaking. While working for his cousin at Blois, he visited a bookshop in search of Berthoud's "Treatise on Clockmaking," but by mistake he was given several volumes of an old encyclopædia, one of which contained a dissertation on "Scientific Amusements," or an exposition of magic. This simple incident, he asserts, changed the entire current of his life. At eighteen, he first turned his attention to magic. At forty, he made his first appearance as an independent magician or public performer. On page 44 of his "Memoirs," American edition, Robert-Houdin refers to this book as an encyclopædia, but several times later he calls it "White Magic." In all probability it was the famous work by Henri Decremps in five volumes, known as "La Magie Banche Dévoilée," or "White Magic Exposed." This was written by Decremps to injure Pinetti, and it exposed all the latter's tricks, including the orange tree, the vaulting trapeze automaton, and in fact the majority of the tricks later claimed by Robert-Houdin as his own inventions. In 1828, while working for M. Noriet, a watchmaker in Tours, Jean-Eugene Robert was poisoned by improperly prepared food, and in his delirium started for his old home in Blois. He was picked up on the roadside by Torrini, a travelling magician, who nursed him back to health in his portable theatre. Just as young Jean recovered Torrini was injured in an accident, and his erstwhile patient remained to nurse his benefactor and later to help Torrini's assistant present the programme of magic by which they made their living. His first public appearance as the representative of Torrini was made at Aubusson. [Illustration: The only Robert-Houdin poster showing his complete stage setting. This lithograph was made in France. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Programme for the opening of Robert-Houdin's theatre in Paris. Reproduced from the American edition of his "Memoirs."] [Illustration: Robert-Houdin's favorite lithograph for advertising purposes. Used on the majority of his posters and in the original edition of his "Memoirs." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Torrini was an Italian whose real name was Count Edmond de Grisy. He was a contemporary of Pinetti. In all probability, during the long summer of their intimate companionship, Torrini not only initiated his fascinated young guest into his own methods of performingtricks, but also into the secrets of Pinetti's tricks. In his "Memoirs," Robert-Houdin makes no secret of the fact that both Comus and Pinetti, together with their tricks, were topics of conversation between himself and Torrini. [Illustration: A very rare, and possibly the only, programme in existence, chronicling Robert-Houdin's first appearance before Queen Victoria, July 19th, 1848. The original, now in the Harry Houdini Collection, was presented to James Savren by Robert-Houdin.] [Illustration: Poster used by Robert-Houdin during an Easter engagement at the St. James Theatre, London. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] When Torrini was able to resume his performances, Jean-Eugene returned to his family in Blois. During the next few years he mixed amateur acting with his daily labor, leaning more and more toward the profession of public entertainer. But his ambitions along this line were nipped in the bud by marriage. Mademoiselle Houdin, whose father was a celebrated watchmaker in Paris, visited old friends in Blois, their native town, and became the fiancée of young Robert. As the new son-in-law was to share the elder Houdin's business and naturally wished to secure such benefits as might accrue from so celebrated a family of watch and clock makers, he applied to the council of state and secured the right to annex "Houdin" to his name, Jean-Eugene Robert, and thereafter was known only as Robert-Houdin. His life between 1838 and 1844 was divided between reading every work obtainable on magic, and his duties in his father-in-law's shop, where he not only made and repaired clocks, but built and repaired automata of various sorts. His family shared with him many financial vicissitudes, and about 1842-43 his first wife died, leaving him with three young children to raise. Earlier in his "Memoirs" he speaks of having four children, so it is more than likely that one died before his wife. He married again soon, and though he gives his second wife great credit as a helpmate he does not state her name. [Illustration: Robert-Houdin as he appeared to the English critics. Reproduced from the _Illustrated London News_, December 23d, 1848.] [Illustration: ROBERT HOUDIN'S SOIREES FANTASTIQUES Poster used in 1848 in London by Robert-Houdin. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] By this time he had acquired more than passing fame as a repairer of automata, and in 1844 he mended Vaucanson's marvellous duck, one of the most remarkable automata ever made. Doubtless other automata found their way to his workshop and aided him in his study of a profession which he still hoped to follow. During these discouraging times he was often assisted financially by one Monsieur G----, who either advanced money on his automata or bought them outright. In the same year, 1844, he retired to a suburb of Paris, and there, he asserts, he built his famous writing and drawing figure. [Illustration: Poster for the Emile-Houdin benefit at St. James's Theatre in 1848. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The next year, 1845, he was assisted by Count de L'Escalopier, a devotee of conjuring and automata, who advanced the money to fit up and furnish a small theatre in the Palais Royal. Robert-Houdin went about the work of decorating and furnishing this theatre with a view to securing the most dramatic and brilliant effects, surrounding his simple tricks with a setting that made them vastly different from the same offerings by his predecessors. He was what is called to-day an original producer of old ideas. On June 25th, 1845, he gave his first private performance before a few friends. On July 3d of the same year his theatre of magic was opened formally to the public. The programme of this performance is shown on page 37. It will be noted that the famous writing and drawing figure was not then included in Robert-Houdin's répertoire, nor does it ever appear on any of his programmes. He exhibited it at the quinquennial exhibition in 1844, received a silver medal for it, and very soon sold it to the late P. T. Barnum, who exported it to America. [Illustration: Poster used by Robert-Houdin when he played at Sadler's Wells, London, in 1853. He never refers to this engagement in his writings because he was not proud of having appeared in a second-class theatre, while his rival, Anderson, held the fashionable audiences at the St. James's, where Robert-Houdin had worn out his welcome. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] This question naturally arises: If Robert-Houdin built the original writing and drawing figure, why could he not make a duplicate and include it in his programme? Surely it was one of the most remarkable of the automata which he claims as the creations of his brain and hands. In 1846 he claims to have invented second sight, and at the opening of the season in 1847 he presented as his own creation the suspension trick. During the interim he played an engagement in Brussels which was a financial failure. In 1848 the Revolution closed the doors of Parisian theatres, Robert-Houdin's among the rest, and he returned to clockmaking and automata building, until he received from John Mitchell, who had met with great success in managing Ludwig Döbler and Phillippe, an offer to appear in London at the St. James's Theatre. This engagement was a brilliant success and for the first time in his career Robert-Houdin reaped big financial returns. Later Robert-Houdin toured the English provinces under his own management and made return trips to London, but his tour under Mitchell was the most notable engagement of his career. [Illustration: Robert-Houdin's grave, in the cemetery at Blois, France. From a photograph taken by the author, especially for this work, and now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1850, while playing in Paris, he decided to retire, and to turn over his theatre and tricks to one Hamilton. A contemporary clipping, taken from an English newspaper of 1848, goes to prove that Hamilton was an Englishman who entered Robert-Houdin's employ. Hamilton signed a dual contract, agreeing to produce Robert-Houdin's tricks as his acknowledged successor and to marry Robert-Houdin's sister, thus keeping the tricks and the theatre in the family. During the next two years Robert-Houdin spent part of his time instructing his brother-in-law in all the mysteries of his art. In July, 1852, he played a few engagements in Germany, including Berlin and various bathing resorts, and then formally retired to his home at St. Gervais. Here he continued to work along mechanical and electrical lines, and in 1855 he again came into public notice, winning awards at the Exhibition for electrical power as applied to mechanical uses. In 1856, according to his autobiography, he was summoned from his retirement by the Government to make a trip to Algeria and there intimidate revolting Arabs by the exhibition of his sleight-of-hand tricks. These were greatly superior to the work of the Marabouts or Arabian magicians, whose influence was often held responsible for revolts. What Robert-Houdin received for performing this service is not set forth in any of his works. He spent the fall of 1856 in Algeria. [Illustration: Bas-relief on Robert-Houdin tombstone. From a photograph taken by the author, especially for this work, and now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] From the date of his return to St. Gervais to the time of his death, June 13th, 1871, Robert-Houdin devoted his energies to improving his inventions and writing his books, though, as stated before, it was generally believed by contemporary magicians that in the latter task he entrusted most of the real work to a Parisian journalist whose name was never known. He was survived by a wife, a son named Emile, and a step-daughter. Emile Houdin managed his father's theatre until his death in 1883, when the theatre was sold for 35,000 francs. The historic temple of magic still stands under the title of "Théâtre Robert-Houdin," under the management of M. Melies, a maker of motion picture films. [Illustration: The last photograph taken of Robert-Houdin and used as the frontispiece for the original French edition of his "Memoirs," published in 1868.] During my investigations in Paris, I was shocked to find how little the memory of Robert-Houdin was revered and how little was known of France's greatest magician. In fact, I was more than once informed that Robert-Houdin was still alive and giving performances at the theatre which bears his name. Contemporary magicians of Robert-Houdin and men of high repute in other walks of life seem to agree that Robert-Houdin was an entertainer of only average merit. Among the men who advanced this theory were the late Henry Evanion of whose deep interest in magic I wrote in the introduction, Sir William Clayton who was Robert-Houdin's personal friend in London, Ernest Basch who saw Robert-Houdin in Berlin, and T. Bolin of Moscow, Russia, who bought all his tricks in Paris and there saw Robert-Houdin and studied his work as a conjurer. Robert-Houdin's contributions to literature, all of which are eulogistic of his own talents, are as follows: "Confidence et Révélations," published in Paris in 1858 and translated into English by Lascelles Wraxall, with an introduction by R. Shelton Mackenzie. "Les Tricheries des Grecs" (Card-Sharping Exposed), published in Paris in 1861. "Secrets de la Prestidigitation" (Secrets of Magic), published in Paris in 1868. "Le Prieuré" (The Priory, being an account of his electrically equipped house), published in Paris in 1867. "Les Radiations Lumineuses," published in Blois in 1869. "Exploration de la Rétinue," published in Blois, 1869. "Magic et Physique Amusante" (oeuvre posthume), published in Paris in 1877, six years after Robert-Houdin's death. In his autobiography, Robert-Houdin makes specific claim to the honor of having invented the following tricks: The Orange Tree, Second Sight, Suspension, The Cabalistic Clock, The Inexhaustible Bottle, The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal, The Vaulting Trapeze Automaton, and the Writing and Drawing Figure. His fame, which has been sung by writers of magic without number since his death, rests principally on the invention of second sight, suspension, and the writing and drawing automaton. It is my intention to trace the true history of each of these tricks and of all others to which he laid claim as inventor, and show just how small a proportion of the credit was due to Robert-Houdin and how much he owed to magicians who preceded him and whose brain-work he claimed as his own. CHAPTER II THE ORANGE-TREE TRICK Robert-Houdin, on page 179 of the American edition of his "Memoirs," thus describes the orange-tree trick, which he claims as his invention: "The next was a mysterious orange-tree, on which flowers and fruit burst into life at the request of the ladies. As the finale, a handkerchief I borrowed was conveyed into an orange purposely left on the tree. This opened and displayed the handkerchief, which two butterflies took by the corners and unfolded before the spectators." On page 245 of the same volume he presents the programme given at the first public performance in the Théâtre Robert-Houdin, stating: "The performance will be composed of entirely novel Experiments invented by M. Robert-Houdin. Among them being The Orange-Tree, etc." Now to retrace our steps in the history of magic as set forth in handbills and advertisements of earlier and contemporaneous newspaper clippings describing their inventions. Under the title of "The Apple-Tree" this mechanical trick appeared on a Fawkes programme dated 1730. This was 115 years before Robert-Houdin claimed it as his invention. In 1732, just before Pinchbeck's death, it appeared on a programme used by Christopher Pinchbeck, Sr., and the younger Fawkes. In 1784 it was included in the répertoire of the Italian conjurer, Pinetti, in the guise of "Le Bouquet-philosophique." In 1822 the same trick, but this time called "An Enchanted Garden," was featured by M. Cornillot, who appeared in England as the pupil and successor of Pinetti. [Illustration: Diagram of the orange-tree trick, from Wiegleb's "The Natural Magic," published in 1794.] The trick was first explained in public print by Henri Decremps in 1784 when his famous exposé of Pinetti was published under the title of "La Magie Blanche Dévoilée," and in 1786-87 both Halle and Wiegleb exposed the trick completely in their respective works on magic. That Robert-Houdin was an omnivorous reader is proven by his own writings. That he knew the history and tricks of Pinetti is proven by his own words, for in Chapter VI. of his "Memoirs" he devoted fourteen pages to Pinetti and the latter's relations with Torrini. Now to prove that the tree tricks offered by Fawkes, Pinchbeck, Pinetti, Cornillot, and Robert-Houdin were practically one and the same, and to tell something of the history of the four magicians who featured the trick before Robert-Houdin had been heard of: [Illustration: Christopher Pinchbeck, Sr. This is the oldest and rarest authentic mezzotint in the world pertaining to the history of magic. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Daily Post_ of November 30th, 1728. Used by Christopher Pinchbeck before he joined Fawkes. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Unquestionably, the real inventor of the mysterious tree was Christopher Pinchbeck, who was England's leading mechanical genius at the close of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth. He was a man of high repute, whose history is not that of the charlatan, compiled largely from tradition, but it can be corroborated by court records, biographical works, and encyclopædias, as well as by contemporaneous newspaper clippings. [Illustration: Advertisement from the London _Daily Post_ during 1730, showing the orange tree as offered by the senior Fawkes, just previous to his death. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] According to Vol. XLV. of the "Dictionary of National Biography," edited by Sidney Lee and published in 1896 by Smith, Elder & Co., 15 Waterloo Place, London: "Christopher Pinchbeck was born about 1670, possibly in Clerkenwell, London. He was a clockmaker and inventor of the copper and zinc alloy called after his name. He invented and made the famous astronomico-musical clock. In Appleby's _Weekly Journal_ of July 8th, 1721, it was announced that 'Christopher Pinchbeck, inventor and maker of the astronomico-musical clock, is removed, from St. George's Court (now Albion Place) to the sign of the "Astronomico-Musical Clock" in Fleet Street, near the Leg Tavern. He maketh and selleth watches of all sorts and clocks as well for the exact indication of the time only as astronomical, for showing the various motions and phenomena of planets and fixed stars.' Mention is also made of musical automata in imitation of singing birds and barrel organs for churches, as among Pinchbeck's manufactures. "Pinchbeck was in the habit of exhibiting collections of his automata at fairs, sometimes in conjunction with a juggler named Fawkes, and he entitled his stall 'The Temple of the Muses,' 'Grand Theatre of the Muses,' or 'Multum in Parvo.' The _Daily Journal_ of August 27th, 1729, announced that the Prince and Princess of Wales went to the Bartholomew Fair to see his exhibition, and there were brief advertisements in _The Daily Post_ of June 12th, 1729, and the _Daily Journal_ of August 22d and 23d, 1729. There is still a large broadside in the British Museum (1850 c. 10-17) headed 'Multum in Parvo,' relating to Pinchbeck's exhibition, with a blank left for place and date, evidently intended for use as a poster. He died November 18th, 1732; was buried November 21st, in St. Denison's Church, Fleet Street. "In a copy of the _Gentlemen's Magazine_, printed 1732, page 1083, there is an engraved portrait by I. Faber, after a painting by Isaac Wood, a reproduction of which appears in 'Britten's Clock and Watch Maker,' page 122. His will, dated November 10th, 1732, was proved in London on November 18th." [Illustration: A very rare mezzotint of Christopher Pinchbeck, Jr., combining the work of Cunningham, the greatest designer, and William Humphrey, the greatest portrait etcher of his day. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] During one of his engagements at the Bartholomew Fair, Pinchbeck probably met Fawkes, the cleverest sleight-of-hand performer that magic has ever known, and the two joined forces. Pinchbeck made all the automata and apparatus thereafter used by Fawkes, and, in Fawkes, he had a master-producer of his tricks. Christopher Pinchbeck never appeared on the program used by Fawkes, save as the maker of the automata or apparatus, but directly after the death of the elder Fawkes, and a few months before his own, the elder Pinchbeck appeared with the son of his deceased partner, and was advertised as doing "the Dexterity of Hand" performance. This indicates that he was inducting young Fawkes into all the mysteries of the profession at which the two elder men, as friends and business partners, had done so well. Christopher Pinchbeck was survived by two sons, Edward and Christopher, Jr. Edward, the elder, succeeded to his father's shop and regular business. He was born about 1703, and was well along in years when he entered into his patrimony, which he advertised in _The Daily Post_ of November 27th, 1732, as follows: "The toys made of the late Mr. Pinchbeck's curious metal are now sold only by his son and sole executor, Mr. Edward Pinchbeck." This announcement settles forever the oft-disputed question as to whether the alloy of copper and zinc which bears the name of Pinchbeck was invented by Christopher Pinchbeck, Sr., or by his son Christopher, Jr. All newspaper and magazine descriptions of the automata invented by the elder Pinchbeck indicate that his hand was as cunning as his brain was inventive, for they showed the most delicate mechanism, and included entire landscapes with figures of rare grace in motion. [Illustration: The best portrait of Isaac Fawkes in existence. The original, now in the Harry Houdini Collection, is supposed to have been engraved by Sutton Nichols. It is said that there is only one more of these engravings extant.] "Christopher, the second son of Christopher Pinchbeck the elder," continues the biographical sketch, "was born about 1710 and possessed great mechanical ingenuity. While the elder son, Edward, was made executor and continued his father's trade in a quiet, conservative fashion, the younger son struck out along new lines and became even more famous as an inventor than his brilliant father had been. [Illustration: An early Fawkes advertisement, clipped from a London paper of 1725. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "He was a member and at one time president of the Smeatonian Society, the precursor of the Institution of Civil Engineers. In 1762 he devised a self-acting pneumatic brake for preventing accidents to the men employed in working wheel-cranes. In _The Gentlemen's Magazine_ for June, 1765, page 296, it is recorded that Messrs. Pinchbeck and Norton had made a complicated astronomical clock for the Queen's house, some of the calculations of the wheel having been made by James Ferguson, the astronomer. There is no proof that Pinchbeck and Norton were ever in partnership, and there are now two clocks answering to the description at Buckingham Palace, one by Pinchbeck, with four dials and of a very complicated construction, and another by Norton. [Illustration: A clipping from the _Daily Post_, London showing that Fawkes combined forces with Powel, the famous Bartholomew Fair puppet man. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Pinchbeck took out three patents: the first (No. 892), granted 1768, was for an improved candlestick with a spring socket for holding the candle firmly, and an arrangement whereby the candle always occupied an upright position, however the candlestick might be held. In 1768 (patent No. 899) he patented his nocturnal remembrancer, a series of tablets with notches, to serve as guides for writing in the dark. His snuffers (No. 1119) patented 1776, continued to be made in Birmingham until the last forty years or so, when snuffers began to go out of use. In 1774 he presented to the Society of Arts a model of a plough for mending roads. Pinchbeck's name first appears in the London directory in 1778, when it replaced that of Richard Pinchbeck, toyman, of whom nothing is recorded. "Christopher Pinchbeck, Jr., was held in considerable esteem by George III., and he figures in Wilkes' London Museum (ii-33) in 1770 in the list of the party who called themselves the King's friends. He died March 17th, 1783, aged 73, and was buried in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. His will, which was very curious, is printed in full in _The Horological Journal_ of November, 1895. One of his daughters married William Hebb, who was described as 'son-in-law and successor of the late Mr. Pinchbeck at his shop in Cockspur Street' (imprinted on Pinchbeck's portrait), whose son Christopher Henry Hebb (1772-1861) practised as a surgeon in Worcester. There is in existence a portrait of Christopher Pinchbeck the younger, by Cunningham, engraved by W. Humphrey." The mezzotints of the Pinchbecks, father and son, herewith reproduced, are extremely rare, and when I unearthed them in Berlin I felt myself singularly favored in securing two such treasures of great value to the history of magic. S. Wohl, the antiquarian and dealer from whom they were purchased, acquired them during a tour of old book and print shops in England, and thought them portraits of one and the same person; but by studying the names of the artists and the engravers on the two pictures, it will be seen that they set forth the features of father and son, as indicated by the biographical notes quoted above. Of the early history of Fawkes, whose brilliant stage performance lent to the Pinchbeck automata a new lustre, little is known. It is practically impossible to trace his family history. His Christian name was never used on his billing nor published in papers or magazines, and after repeated failures I was about to give up the task of discovering it, when in 1904, aided by R. Bennett, the clerk of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields Parish Church, Trafalgar Square, London, England, I came upon the record of his burial. This record, which I found after many days' search among musty, faded parchments, showed that his Christian name was Isaac, and that he died May 25th or 29th, 1731, and was buried in St. Martin's-in-the-Fields Parish Church. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_ during 1728, showing the oldest evidence procurable of the original "Two a Night" performance. From the Harry Houdini Collection: At FAWKES's Booth in the Upper Moorfields, will be presented the following Entertainments, First his Famous Posture-Master, that for his wonderful dexterity of Body exceeds all Europe. 2. The Musical Temple of Arts, with two moving Pictures, the one a Concert of Musick, the other the Siege and Bay of Gibraltar, being the finest Piece of Clock-work in the World. 3d. Another Machine with three moving Pictures, the first represents the Hill of Parnassus, with Apollo and the Nine Muses playing on various Instruments of Musick, with next a beautiful View of a River, with Swans and other Fowls and Fish, sporting as tho' Alive. The last gives a Prospect of the New Palace Yard, with the whole Procession of the late Coronation of their preseat Majesties marching from the Hall to the Abbey, Note, Half the Performance can't be express'd in this advertisement. Note, We show twice every Evening, the First beginning at Five, the other at Seven.] The records further show that he was buried in the church vault, the coffin being carried by six men. Prayers were said in the church, candles were used, and the great bell was tolled. As the fees amounted to £6 12s., a goodly sum for those days, all signs indicate that the funeral was on a scale more costly and impressive than the ordinary. Fawkes was worth at his death £10,000, which was considered an enormous sum in those days. Every penny of this he made performing at the fairs. The earliest announcements of Fawkes' performance in my collection are dated 1702 and include advertisements headed "Fawkes and Powel," "Fawkes and Phillips," and "Fawkes and Pinchbeck." Powel was the famous puppet man, Phillips a famous posture master (known to-day as contortionist), and Pinchbeck was the greatest of mechanicians. Fawkes seems to have possessed a singular gift for picking out desirable partners. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_, February 7th, 1724, in which Fawkes announces his retirement and offers to teach his tricks to all comers. Below this announcement is the advertisement of Clench, famous as an imitator and an instrumentalist.] From this mass of evidence I am producing various clippings. By a peculiar coincidence one of these I believe offers the most authentic and earliest record of "two a night" performances in England. In my collection are a number of other clippings from the press of the same year, in April and May, 1728, but none of them says "twice a night," therefore I judge that the custom of giving two performances in a night was tried previously to April, 1728, and then abandoned, or after the first of May. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Daily Post_ of August, 1735, in which Fawkes advertises his admission price as twelvepence. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In the London _Post_ of February 7th, 1724, Fawkes announced an exhibition "in the Long Room over the piazza at the Opera House in the Haymarket." At this time he also advertised the fact that he was about to retire and was exposing all his tricks. The clipping of that date from my collection has the following foot-note: "Likewise he designs to follow this business no longer than this season; so he promises to learn any lady or gentleman his fancies in dexterity of hand for their own diversion." When Fawkes was not in partnership with some puppet showman, he always advertised his own puppets as "A court of the richest and largest figures ever shown in England, being as big as men and women!" His admission charges varied, but 12 pence seemed his favorite figure. About six years before his death he had his own theatre in James Street, near the Haymarket, in which he exhibited for months at a time before and after fairs. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_, showing that young Fawkes collaborated with Pinchbeck and together they offered the orange-tree trick in 1732. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] I reproduce a clipping from my collection showing Fawkes' last program. Here it will be seen that his first trick was causing a tree to grow up in a flower-pot on the table, and bear fruit in a minute's time. In _The Gentlemen's Magazine_, that oft-quoted and most reliable periodical, of February 15th, 1731, readers were informed that the Algerian Ambassadors witnessed Fawkes' performance. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_, August 16th, 1736, when young Fawkes was playing alone. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] At their request he showed them "a prospect of Algiers, and raised up an apple-tree which bore ripe fruit in less than a minute's time, which several of the company tasted of." Fawkes, too, had a son, and thus the partnership and the friendship which had existed between the elder Fawkes and the elder Pinchbeck were carried on by the second generation. All of the marvellous apparatus made by Pinchbeck the elder, for Fawkes, may have been bequeathed by the latter to his son, but, in 1732, Pinchbeck the elder and Fawkes the younger were in a booth together, and Pinchbeck was advertised as doing "the dexterity of hand" performances. After Christopher Pinchbeck, Sr., died, young Fawkes started out on his own account. In 1746, according to an advertisement in my collection, a Fawkes and a Pinchbeck were together again, so the son of Pinchbeck must have joined the younger Fawkes for exhibition purposes. The accompanying clippings from contemporary publications trace the history of young Fawkes, and prove that the tree which bore fruit in a minute's time was still on his programme. [Illustration: Reproduction of page 1226 of Hone's "Every-Day Book" in the Harry Houdini Collection. This is a portrait of Fawkes, engraved on a fan by Setchels in 1721 or 1728. Fans like these were distributed at the Bartholomew Fair.] For many years it was supposed that only one portrait of Fawkes was in existence, but it now seems that three were made. I publish them all, something which no one has ever before been able to do. One was taken from a Setchels fan published about 1728, although some authorities say 1721. It appeared in Hone's "Every-Day Book," page 1226. Another, I believe, was engraved by Sutton Nicols, as Hone mentions it in his description of Fawkes. In the fan engraving, it will be noticed that there appears a man wearing a star on his left breast. It is said that this is Sir Robert Walpole, who was Prime Minister while Fawkes was at the height of his success, and who was one of the conjurer's great admirers. Hogarth also placed Fawkes in one of his engravings as the frontispiece of a most diverting brochure on "Taste," in which he belittles Burlington Gate. This makes the third portrait from my collection herewith reproduced. According to an article contributed by Mons. E. Raynaly in the _Illusionniste_ of June, 1903, the orange tree next appeared in the répertoire of a remarkable peasant conjurer, whose billing Mons. Raynaly found among "Affiches de Paris." This performer was billed as the Peasant of North Holland, and gave hourly performances at the yearly fairs at Saint-Germain. It is more than possible that he purchased this trick from Fawkes or Pinchbeck, having seen it at the Bartholomew Fair in England. He featured the orange tree as follows: "He has a Philosophical Flower Pot, in which he causes to grow on a table in the presence of the spectators trees which flower, and then the flowers fall, and fruit appears absolutely ripe and ready to be eaten." His posters are dated 1746-47 and 1751. The next programme on which the mysterious tree appears is a Pinetti handbill, dated in London, 1784, when the following announcement was made: "Signore Pinetti will afterwards present the assembly with a Tree called Le Bouquet-philosophique composed of small branches of an orange-tree, the leaves appearing green and natural. He will put it under a bottle, and at some distance, by throwing some drops of water of his own composition, the leaves will begin to change and the bouquet will produce natural flowers and various fruits." [Illustration: Masquerade and opera at Burlington Gate. Reproduction of Hogarth's engraving entitled "Taste," belittling the artistic taste of London. This caricature verifies the Fawkes advertisement, reproduced on page 64, for here the conjurer is pictured leaning from the window of the "long room" and calling attention to his performances. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Pinetti is one of the most fascinating and picturesque figures in the history of magic. His full name was Joseph Pinetti de Willedal, and, like Pinchbeck and Fawkes, he was a man of parts and readily made friends with the nobility. In fact, there is some question as to whether he did not come of a noble family. He was born in 1750 in Orbitelle, a fortified town once claimed by Tuscany. What can be gleaned regarding his early history goes to prove that his family connections were excellent and his education of the best. One of his portraits, reproduced herewith, shows a half-crown of laurel decorating the frame, and on one side of the bust is a globe, while in the rear of the picture is a stack of books. This would establish his claim that he was once a professor of physics and geography. In fact, the legend beneath the portrait, being translated from the French, runs: "I. I. Pinetti Willedal de Merci, Professor and Demonstrator of Physics, Chevalier of the Order of St. Philipe, Geographical Engineer, Financial Counselor of H.R.H. Prince of Linbourg Holstein, Born in Orbitelle in 1750." [Illustration: A wood-cut used by Pinetti during his engagement at Hamburg, Germany, in October, 1796. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] As it has so often happened in the history of savants and students, there ran in Pinetti's blood a love of the mysterious with that peculiar strain of charalatanism which went to make up the clever performer in old-time magic. Evidently he resigned his duties as a professor for the more picturesque life of the travelling magician, and he is first heard from in this capacity in the French provinces in 1783. His fame quickly carried him to Paris, where in 1784 he appeared before the court of Louis XVI. His arrival was most opportune, for just then all Paris and, for that matter, all Europe had been aroused to a new interest in magic by the brilliant Cagliostro. [Illustration: The only authentic portrait of Pinetti in existence, the only known copy extant being in the Harry Houdini Collection.] From Paris he went to London, playing at the Haymarket and creating a sensation equal to that which he made in France. Later he toured Germany, playing in Berlin and Hamburg. Next he went back to his native land, Italy, but later returned to Germany for a second engagement. In 1789 he appeared in Russia and never left that country. There he married a Russian girl, daughter of a carriage manufacturer. They had two children. Pinetti would have left enormous wealth, but in his later years he became interested in ballooning, the sensation of the hour, and spent his entire fortune on balloon experiments. He died in Bartichoff, Volhinie, aged fifty years. [Illustration: Henri Decremps, the French author who exposed and endeavored to ruin Pinetti, but succeeded only in immortalizing him.] Pinetti was a man of rare inventive genius and almost reconstructed the art of conjuring, so numerous were his inventions. For half a century after his death his successors drew upon Pinetti's inventions and répertoire for their programmes. Naturally such ability aroused bitter jealousies, especially as Pinetti made no attempt to conciliate his contemporaries, either magicians or writers on magic. He issued one book, whose title-page reads: "Amusements Physiques et Differentes Expériences Divertissements, Composées et Executées, tant à Paris que dans les diverses Courts de l'Europe. Par M. Joseph Pinetti de Willedal, Romain, Chevalier de l'Ordre Mérite de Saint-Phillipe, Professeur de Mathématiques et de Physiques, Protégé par toute la Maison Royale de France, Pensionnaire de la Cour de Prusse, etc., 1785." The work, however, was not a clear and lucid explanation of his methods and tricks. In fact some of his contemporaries claimed that he deliberately misrepresented his methods of performing tricks. Among these writers was Henri Decremps, a brilliant professor of mathematics and physics in Paris, who proceeded to expose all of Pinetti's tricks in the book referred to in the preceding chapter, "La Magie Blanche Dévoilée." This work was in five volumes and was so popular in its day that it was translated into nearly every modern language. The following explanation of the trick is taken from page 56 of the English translation, entitled "The Conjurer Unmasked": "The branches of the tree may be made of tin or paper, so as to be hollow from one end to the other in order that the air which enters at the bottom may find its exit at the top of the branch. These branches are so adjusted that at intervals there appear twigs made from brass wire, but the whole so decorated with leaves made from parchment that the ensemble closely resembles nature. "The end of each branch is dilated to contain small pieces of gummed silk or very fine gold-beater's skin, which are to catch the figures of the flowers and fruit when the latter expand by the air driven through the branches to which they were fastened by a silk thread. [Illustration: Decremps's signature written by himself on the last page of a copy of his book now in the Harry Houdini Library.] "The tree or nosegay is then placed on a table, through which runs a glass tube to supply air from beneath the stage, where a confederate works this end of the trick, and causes the tree to 'grow' at the prearranged signal." Later it was described as being accomplished entirely by springs, and real oranges were first stuck on the tree by means of pegs or pins, and the leaves were so secured around them that at first appearance they could not be seen. Then a piston was used to spread all the leaves, another that forced the blossom up through the hollow branches, etc. Pinetti's personality was almost as extraordinary as his talents. A handsome man who knew how to carry himself, acquiring the graces and the dress of the nobility, he became rather haughty, if not arrogant, in his bearing. He so antagonized his contemporaries in the fields of magic and literature that he was advertised as much by his bitter enemies as by his loving friends. Many of his methods of attracting attention to himself were singularly like those employed by modern press agents of theatrical stars. He never trusted to his performances in theatres and drawing-rooms to advertise his abilities, but demonstrated his art wherever he appeared, from barber-shops to cafés. Perhaps the best pen pictures of Pinetti and his methods are furnished by E. G. Robertson in his "Memoirs." Robertson was a contemporary of Pinetti, and, like him, a pioneer in ballooning. His "Memoirs," written in the French language, were published in 1831. The following extracts from this interesting book tell much of Pinetti's life in Russia and of his professional history as tradition and actual acquaintance had presented it to M. Robertson: "Pinetti had travelled a great deal and for a long time had enjoyed a great European reputation. He had done everything to attain it. There was never a man that carried further the art of the 'charlatisme.' When he arrived in a town where he intended to give a show, he took good care to prepare his public by speeches, which would keep it in suspense. In St. Petersburg great and incredible examples of mystification and of prestidigitation were told about him. "One day he went to a barber-shop to get shaved, sat down in the chair, had the towel tied around his neck, and laid his head back ready for the lather. The barber left him in this position to get hot water, and when he returned, guided by force of habit, he applied the lather where the chin should be, but he found feet, arms, hands, and body in a coat, but no head! Such lamentations! No more head! What could it mean? He opened the door, and, frightened to death, ran away. Pinetti then went to the window and called the barber back. He had put his head in his coat in such a clever way, covering it with his handkerchief, that the surprise and the fright of the barber were quite natural. Of course this barber did not fail to spread over the whole town that he had shaved a man who could take his head off and on to his wish. [Illustration: Frontispiece of Pinetti's book, "Amusements Physiques," published in Paris, 1785, one of the first treasures of the Evanion Collection purchased by the author.] [Illustration: Pinetti's autograph, written by him on the back of the frontispiece, reproduced on page 78. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Pinetti met in a summer-garden a young Russian who sold small cakes. He bought a few cakes, bit into them, and complained of finding a hard substance. The youth protested, but Pinetti opened the cake before him and found inside a gold piece. The magician pocketed the gold piece, bought another cake, then a third cake, and in each case found a new gold piece inside. He tried to buy the rest of the cakes. The passers-by had in the mean time come round the seller, and everybody wanted to buy as well. The market seemed to be all right, a ducat for a kopeck! Twelve francs for a cent! The young man refused to sell any more, hurried away, and when alone opened the cakes that were left. He found only the substances of which the cakes were made--nothing else. He had two left, so he hurried back to offer these to Pinetti. Pinetti bought them from him, opened them and showed in each one the gold piece, which the young man could not find in the two dozen cakes which he had spoilt. The poor boy bit his lips and looked at Pinetti with wondering, frightened eyes. This little adventure was advertised here, there, and everywhere, and was told in the clubs and in the society gatherings, and very soon the name of Pinetti gave the key to the enigma, and Pinetti was in demand by everybody. "When Pinetti came on the stage, he had the knack of attracting members of the nobility around his table, by letting them learn some small secrets. This would render them confederates in working his tricks. He would appear in rich suits, embroidered in gold, which he changed three and four times in the evening. He would not hesitate to deck himself in a quantity of foreign decorations. In Berlin it was told how Pinetti would go through the streets, in a carriage drawn by four white horses. He was clad in fine embroidery and decorated with medals of all nations. Several times it happened that, as he passed by, the soldiers would call arms and salute, taking him for a prince. One day the King of Prussia rode out in his modest carriage drawn by two horses. Ahead of him drove the supposed prince. When the King witnessed the mistake made by his soldiers, he made inquiries as to the rank of this man to whom his men were paying such honor, then gave the Cavalier Pinetti twenty-four hours to get beyond Prussia's borders." [Illustration: Reproduction of a handbill distributed on the streets of London in September, 1822. The orange-tree trick is on the bill under the name of "Enchanted Garden." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Whatever may be said of Pinetti's charlatanism, it must be admitted that he gave to the art of conjuring a great impetus which was felt for several generations. It is not remarkable, therefore, that when the French magician Cornillot appeared in London in 1822 he announced himself as the pupil and successor of Pinetti. This was when Robert-Houdin was seventeen years of age, twenty-three years before he made his professional début, and on Cornillot's programme we find another version of the now famous and almost familiar tree trick. As will be seen from the accompanying reproduction of a Cornillot handbill, the tree now appears as "An Enchanted Garden," and, if the wording of the bill is to be believed, Cornillot had improved the trick and was using more than one tree or plant. Cornillot remained in England for some time and is classed among the conjurers of good repute. Another bill in my collection shows that he played at the Theatre of Variety, Catherine Street, Strand, in October, 1823. He was then assisted by several singers and dancers, including the famous Misses Hamilton and Howe, pupils of M. Corri. In his company was also an Anglo-Chinese juggler, who, in addition to feats of juggling, "swallows an egg, a sword, and a stone, a la Ramo Samee." To sum up the evidence against Robert-Houdin in this particular trick: Four magicians of high repute gave public performances before Robert-Houdin knew and operated the orange-tree trick. Three eminent writers exposed it clearly and accurately. Robert-Houdin, as an indefatigable student of the history of magic, must have known of the trick and its _modus operandum_. He may have purchased it from Cornillot, or as a clever mechanician he had only to reproduce the trick invented by his predecessors, train his confederate in its operation--and--by his cleverly written autobiography--attempt to establish his claim to its invention. CHAPTER III THE WRITING AND DRAWING FIGURE In his "Memoirs" Robert-Houdin eulogizes the various automata which he claims to have invented. The picturesque fashion in which he describes the tremendous effort put forth ere success crowned his labors would render his arguments most convincing--if stern historical facts did not contradict his every statement. One of the most extraordinary mechanical figures which he exploits as his invention was the writing and drawing figure, which he exhibited at the Quinquennial Exhibition in 1844, but never used in his public performances, though he asserts that he planned to exhibit it between performances at his own theatre. This automaton, he says, laid the foundation of his financial success and opened the way to realizing his dream of appearing as a magician. [Illustration: Writing and drawing figure claimed by Robert-Houdin as his invention. From Manning's Robert-Houdin brochure.] On page 196 of his "Memoirs," American edition, he starts his romantic description of its conception and manufacture. According to this he had just planned what promised to be the most brilliant of his mechanical inventions when financial difficulties intervened. He was obliged to raise two thousand francs to meet a pressing debt. He applied to the ever-convenient Monsieur G----, who had bought automata from him before. He described the writing and drawing figure minutely to his patron, who immediately agreed to advance two thousand five hundred francs, and if the figure was completed in eighteen months, two thousand five hundred francs more were to be paid for it, making five thousand francs in all. If the figure was never completed, then Monsieur G---- was to reimburse himself for the amount advanced by selecting automatic toys from Robert-Houdin's regular stock. After liquidating his debt, Robert-Houdin retired to Belleville, a suburb of Paris, where for eighteen months he worked upon the figure, seeing his family only twice a week, and living in the most frugal fashion. He employed a wood-carver to make the head, but the result was so unsatisfactory that in the end he was obliged, not only to make all the complicated machinery which operated the figure, but to carve the head itself, which, he adds, in some miraculous fashion, resembled himself. This resemblance, however, cannot be traced in existing cuts of the figure. The chapter devoted to this particular automaton is so diverting that I quote literally from its pages, thus giving my readers an opportunity to take the true measure of the writer and the literary style of his "Memoirs." Here is his description of his moment of triumph: "I had only to press a spring in order to enjoy the long-waited-for result. My heart beat violently, and though I was alone I trembled at the mere thought of this imposing trial. I had just laid the first sheet of paper before my writer and asked him this question: 'Who is the author of your being?' I pressed the spring, and the clockwork started--began acting. I dared hardly breathe through fear of disturbing the operations. The automaton bowed to me, and I could not refrain from smiling on it as on my own son. But when I saw the eyes fix an attentive glance on the paper--when the arm, a few seconds before numb and lifeless, began to move and trace my signature in a firm hand--the tears started in my eyes and I fervently thanked Heaven for granting me success. And it was not alone the satisfaction I experienced as an inventor, but the certainty I had of being able to restore some degree of comfort to my family, that caused my deep feeling of gratitude. "After making my Sosia repeat my signature a thousand times, I gave it this question: 'What o'clock is it?' The automaton, acting in obedience to the clock, wrote, 'It is two in the morning.' This was a timely warning. I profited by it and went straight to bed." [Illustration: Specimens of penmanship executed by the Droz writing automaton in 1796 and 1906 respectively. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchatel, Switzerland.] Robert-Houdin injects a little humor into this chapter, for he relates that as Molière and J. J. Rousseau consulted their servants, he decided to do likewise; so early the next morning he invited his portress and her husband, Auguste, a stone-mason, to be present at the first performance of the figure. The mason's wife chose the question, "What is the emblem of fidelity?" The automaton replied by drawing a pretty little greyhound, lying on a cushion. The stone-mason wished to see the works, saying: "I understand about that sort of thing, for I have always greased the vane on the church steeple, and have even taken it down twice." When the work was completed, according to page 208 of the American edition of his "Memoirs," he returned to Paris, collected the remaining two thousand five hundred francs due him from Monsieur G----, to whom he delivered the figure, and two thousand francs more on an automatic nightingale made for a rich merchant of St. Petersburg. Incidentally he mentions that during his absence his business had prospered, but he fails to state who managed it for him, and here is where I believe credit should be given Opre, the Dutch inventor, who was unquestionably Robert-Houdin's assistant for years. In 1844 he claims to have borrowed the writing and drawing figure from the obliging Monsieur G---- to exhibit it at the Quinquennial Exposition, where it attracted the attention of Louis Philippe and his court, thus insuring its exhibitor the silver medal. At this point Robert-Houdin deliberately drops the writing and drawing figure, leaving his readers to believe that it was returned to its rightful owner, Monsieur G----, but, unfortunately for his claims, another historian steps in here to cast reflections on Monsieur G---- 's ownership of the figure. This writer is the world's greatest showman, the late P. T. Barnum, who purchased the figure at this same exposition of 1844, paying for it a goodly sum, and this incident is one of the significant omissions of the Robert-Houdin "Memoirs." Either Robert-Houdin sold the figure to Mr. Barnum for Monsieur G----, or such a person as Monsieur G---- never existed, for in his own book Mr. Barnum writes: "When I was abroad in 1844 I went to Paris expressly to attend the 'Quinquennial Exposition'--an exhibition then held every five years. I met and became well acquainted with a celebrated conjurer, as he called himself, Robert-Houdin, but who was not only a prestidigitateur and legerdemain performer, but a mechanic of absolute genius. I bought at the exposition the best automaton he exhibited and for which he obtained a gold medal. I paid a round price for this most ingenious little figure, which was an automaton writer and artist. It sat on a small table, pencil in hand; and, if asked, for instance, for an emblem of 'fidelity,' it would instantly draw the picture of a handsome dog; if love was wanted, a cupid was exquisitely pencilled. The automaton would also answer many questions in writing. I took this curiosity to London, where it was exhibited for some time at the Royal Adelaide Gallery, and then I sent it across the Atlantic to my American Museum, where it attracted great attention from the people and the press. During my visit, Houdin was giving evening legerdemain performances, and by his pressing invitation I frequently was present. He took great pains, too, to introduce me to other inventors and exhibitors of moving figures, which I liberally purchased, making them prominent features in the attractions of the American Museum." [Illustration: The late P. T. Barnum, the world's greatest showman, who bought the writing and drawing figure from Robert-Houdin, and wrote at length of the French conjurer in his autobiography. Born July 5, 1810. Died April 7, 1891. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: The figure of Cupid as executed by the Droz drawing figure. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchatel, Switzerland.] Barnum then continued to describe Robert-Houdin's greatness and his cleverness in the use of electricity. The showman was always a welcome guest at the magician's house, and he relates how, at luncheon time, Robert-Houdin would touch a knob and through the floor would rise a table, laden with inviting viands. These details in the Barnum book make it all the more inexplicable that Robert-Houdin should omit all mention of the great showman's name in his "Memoirs." [Illustration: Hanger advertising the Professor Faber talking machine, exhibited by P. T. Barnum during 1873 in his museum department. This automaton was the first talking figure. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Just at this time the amusement-seeking public seemed greatly interested in automata, so it was only natural that Barnum, great showman that he was, should scour Europe for mechanical figures. Soon after he purchased the writing and drawing figure claimed by Robert-Houdin, he brought to America a talking figure invented by Professor Faber of Vienna, to which he refers most entertainingly in his address to the public dated 1873: "The Museum department contains 100,000 curiosities, including Professor Faber's wonderful talking machine, costing me $20,000 for its use for six months; also the National Portrait Gallery of one hundred life-size paintings, including all the Presidents of the United States, etc.; John Rogers' groups of historic statuary; almost an endless variety of curiosities, including numberless automaton musicians, mechanicians, and moving scenes, etc., etc., made in Paris and Geneva." It can be imagined how wonderful this talking machine must have been when Barnum gave it special emphasis, selecting it from the hundreds of curios he had on exhibition. As this talking machine is probably forgotten, I will reproduce the bill used at the time of its appearance in London, England. When Barnum was in London in 1844, with Gen. Tom Thumb, who was then performing at the Egyptian Hall, he first saw the automatic talking machine and engaged it to strengthen his show. Thirty years later Prof. Faber's nephew was the lecturer who explained to the American public the automaton's mechanism and also the performer who manipulated the machine. Barnum always speaks of the talking automaton as being a life-size figure, but the pictures used for advertising purposes show that it was only a head. The fate of both the talking automaton and the writing and drawing figure is shrouded in mystery. If they were in the Barnum Museum when the latter was swept by fire in 1865, they were destroyed. If they had been taken back to Europe, they may now be lying in some cellar or loft, moth-eaten and dust-covered, ignominious end for such ingenious brain-work and handicraft. So much for the claims of Robert-Houdin. Now to disprove them. The earliest record of a writing figure I have found is in the "Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines," compiled by Andrew Ure, M.D., and published in New York in 1842 by Le Roy Sunderland, 126 Fulton Street. On page 83, under the heading of "Automaton," is this statement: "Frederick Von Knauss completed a writing machine at Vienna in the year 1760. It is now in the model cabinet of the Polytechnic Institute, and consists of a globe two feet in diameter, containing the mechanism, upon which sits a figure seven inches high and writes, upon a sheet of paper fixed to a frame, whatever has been placed beforehand upon a regulating cylinder. At the end of each line it raises and moves its hand sideways, in order to begin a new line." [Illustration: Portrait and autograph of Pierre Jacquet-Droz. Born 1721, died 1790. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland.] This does not answer the description of the figure which Robert-Houdin claims, but it is interesting as showing that mechanical genius ran along such lines almost a hundred years before Robert-Houdin claims to have invented the famous automaton. The writing and drawing figure claimed by Robert-Houdin as his original invention can be traced back directly to the shop door of Switzerland's most noted inventor, Pierre Jacquet-Droz, who with his son, Henri-Louis, laid the foundation of the famous Swiss watch-and music-box industry. In the latter part of the eighteenth century, probably about 1770, the Jacquet-Drozes turned out a drawing figure which also inscribed a few set phrases or titles of the drawings. In mechanism, appearance, and results it tallies almost exactly with the automaton claimed by Robert-Houdin as originating in his brain. The Jacquet-Droz figure showed a child clad in quaint, flowing garments, seated at a desk. The Robert-Houdin figure was modernized, and showed a court youth in knee breeches and powdered peruque, seated at a desk. The Jacquet-Droz figure drew a dog, a cupid, and the heads of reigning monarchs. The Robert-Houdin figure, made seventy-five years later, by some inexplicable coincidence drew a dog as the symbol of fidelity, a cupid as the emblem of love, and the heads of reigning monarchs. The history of the Jacquet-Drozes is written in the annals of Switzerland as well as the equally reputable annals of scientific inventions, and cannot be refuted. Pierre Jacquet-Droz was born July 28th, 1721, in a small village, La-Chaux-de-Fonds, near Neuchâtel, Switzerland. According to some authorities, his father was a clock-maker, but the brochure issued by "Société d'Histoire et d'Archéologie" of the city of Neuchâtel, which has recently acquired many of the Jacquet-Droz automata, states that he was the son of a farmer and was sent to a theological seminary at Basle. Here the youth's natural talent for mechanics overbalanced his interest in "isms" and "ologies," and he spent every spare moment at work with his tools. On his return to his native town he turned his attention seriously to clock- and watch-making, constructing a marvellous clock with two peculiar hands which, in passing each other, touched the dial and rewound the clock. [Illustration: Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz, son of Pierre Jacquet-Droz, and the superior of his father as a mechanician. Born Oct. 13th, 1752, died November 15th, 1791. From the Jaquet-Droz brochure, issued by the Neuchâtel Society of History and Archæology.] At this time his work attracted the attention of Lord Keith, Governor of Neuchâtel, then a province of Prussia, who induced the young inventor to visit the court of Ferdinand VI. of Spain, providing the necessary introductions. Pierre Jacquet-Droz remained for some time in Madrid and made a clock of most complicated pattern. This was a perpetual calendar. For hands, he utilized artificial sunbeams, shooting out from the sun's face which formed the dial, to denote the hours, days, etc. With the money received from the Spanish monarch he returned to Switzerland to find that his son, Henri-Louis, had inherited his remarkable inventive gifts. He sent his boy to Nancy to study music, drawing, mechanics, and physics. During his son's absence in all probability he produced the first of the marvellous automata which made the Jacquet-Drozes famous the modern world over, namely, the writing figure. With the return of Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz from college commenced what may be termed the golden age of mechanics in Switzerland. Associated with father and son were the former's pupils or apprentices, Jean-Frédéric Leschot, Jean-David Maillardet, and Jean Pierre Droz, a blood relation who afterward became director of the mint at Paris and a mechanician of rare talent. Jean Pierre Droz is credited with having invented a machine for cutting, stamping, and embossing medals on the face and on the edges at one insertion. [Illustration: Jean-Frédéric Leschot. Born 1747, died 1824. Portrait published by Société des Arts de Genève. Presented to the author by Mons. Blind (Magicus) of Geneva.] The output of this shop and its staff of gifted workers included the first Swiss music box, the singing birds which sprang from watches and jewel caskets, the drawing figure which was an improvement on the writing figure, the spinet player, and the grotto with its many automatic animals of diminutive size but exquisite workmanship. Years were spent in perfecting the various automata, and none of them have been equalled or even approached by later mechanicians and inventors. Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz was conceded to be the superior of his father, Pierre Jacquet-Droz. In a German encyclopædia which I found at the King's Library, Munich, it is stated that when Vaucanson, celebrated as the inventor of "The Flute Player," "The Mechanical Duck," "The Talking Machine," etc., saw the work of the younger Droz, he cried loudly, "Why, that boy commences where I left off!" According to the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchâtel, and an article contributed by Dr. Alfred Gradenwits to _The Scientific American_ of June 22d, 1907, the writing and drawing figures are made and operated as follows: [Illustration: The Jacquet-Droz writing automaton. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland.] "The writer represented a child of about four years of age, sitting at his little table, patiently waiting with the pen in his hand until the clockwork is started. He then sets to work and, after looking at the sheet of paper before him, lifts his hand and moves it toward the ink-stand, in which he dips the pen. The little fellow then throws off an excess of ink and slowly and calmly, like an industrious child, begins writing on the paper the prescribed sentence. His handwriting is careful, conscientiously distinguishing between hair strokes and ground strokes, always observing the proper intervals between letters and words and generally showing the sober and determined character of the handwriting usual at the time in the country of Neuchâtel. In order, for instance, to write a T, the writer begins tracing the letter at the top, and after slightly lifting his hand halfway, swiftly traces the transversal dash, and continues writing the original ground stroke. "How complicated a mechanism is required for insuring these effects will be inferred from the illustration, in which the automaton is shown with its back opened. In the first place a vertical disk will be noticed having at its circumference as many notches as there are letters and signs. Behind this will be seen whole columns of cam-wheels, each of a special shape, placed one above another, and all together forming a sort of spinal column for the automaton. "Whenever the little writer is to write a given letter, a pawl is introduced into the corresponding notch of the disk, thus lifting the wheel column and transmitting to the hand, by the aid of a complicated lever system and Cardan joints arranged in the elbow, the requisite movements for tracing the letter in question. The mechanism comprises five centres of motion connected together by chains. [Illustration: View of the mechanism which operates the Jacquet-Droz writing automaton. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland.] "In the 'Draftsman,' the mechanism is likewise arranged in the body itself, as in the case of the 'Writer.' The broad chest thus entailed also required a large head, which accounts for the somewhat bulky appearance of the two automatons. With the paper in position and a pencil in hand, the 'Draftsman' at first traces a few dashes and then swiftly marks the shadows, and a dog appears on the paper. The little artist knowingly examines his work, and after blowing away the dust and putting in a few last touches, stops a moment and then quickly signs, 'Mon Toutou' (My pet dog). The motions of the automaton are quite natural, and the outlines of his drawings extremely sharp. The automaton when desired willingly draws certain crowned heads now belonging to history; for example, a portrait of Louis XV., of Louis XVI., and of Marie Antoinette." [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_, 1776, advertising the writing and drawing figures, exhibited by their inventor, Mr. Jacquet-Droz. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The automata made by the Jacquet-Drozes and their confrères were exhibited in all the large cities of Great Britain and Continental Europe. According to the programmes and newspaper notices in my collection, Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz acted as their first exhibitor. As proof I am reproducing a Droz programme from the London _Post_, dated 1776. In support of this advertisement, note what the same paper says in what is probably a criticism of current amusements: [Illustration: Heads of King George and Queen Charlotte, executed in their presence by the Jacquet-Droz drawing figure in 1774. From the brochure issued by the Society of History and Archæology, Canton of Neuchâtel, Switzerland.] "This entertainment consists of three capital mechanical figures and a pastoral scene, with figures of an inferior size. The figure on the left-hand side, a beautiful boy as large as life, writes anything that is dictated to him, in a very fine hand. The second on the right hand, of the same size, draws various landscapes, etc., etc., which he finishes in a most accurate and masterly style. The third figure is a beautiful young lady who plays several elegant airs on the harpsichord, with all the bass accompaniments; her head gracefully moving to the tune, and her bosom discovering a delicate respiration. During her performance, the pastoral scene in the centre discovers a variety of mechanical figures admirably grouped, all of which seem endued, as it were, with animal life, to the admiration of the spectator. The last curiosity is a canary bird in a cage, which whistles two or three airs in the most natural manner imaginable. Upon the whole, the united collection strikes us as the most wonderful exertion of art which ever trod before so close on the heels of nature. The ingenious artist is a young man, a native of Switzerland." The inventory of Jacquet-Droz, Jr., dated 1786, quotes the "Piano Player" as valued at 4,800 livres, the "Drawing Figure" at 7,200 livres, while the "Writer" had been ceded to him by his father for 4,800 livres, in consideration of certain improvements and modifications which Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz made in the original invention. This shows that while the elder Droz did not die until 1790, his son controlled the automata previous to this date, for exhibition and other purposes. During his later years Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz was induced to take the automata to Spain. His tour was under the direction of an English manager, who, possibly for the purpose of securing greater advertisement, announced the figures as possessed of supernatural power. This brought them under the ban of the Inquisition, and Jacquet-Droz was thrown into prison. Eventually he managed to secure his freedom, and, breathing free air once more, like the proverbial Arab, he silently folded his tent and stole away, leaving the automata to their fate. Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz died in Naples, Italy, in 1791, a year after his father's death. [Illustration: A de Philipsthal programme of 1803 before the writing and drawing figure came under his control. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Poster used, March 22nd, 1811, by de Philipsthal and Maillardet during their partnership, on which the writing and drawing figure is featured. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The English manager, however, tarried in Spain. The figures were "tried" and as they proved motionless the case was dropped. The Englishman then claimed the automata as his property and sold them to a French nobleman. Their owner did not know how to operate them, so their great value was never realized by his family. After his death, during a voyage to America, they lay neglected in the castle of Mattignon, near Bayonne. After changing hands many times, about 1803 they passed into the hands of an inventor named Martin, and were controlled by his descendants for nearly a hundred years. One of his family, Henri Martin, of Dresden, Germany, exhibited them in many large cities, and advertised them for sale at 15,000 marks in the _Muenchener_ Blaetter of May 13th, 1883. After Martin's death, his widow succeeded in disposing of them to Herr Marfels, of Berlin, who had them repaired with such good results that in the fall of 1906 he sold them for 75,000 francs, or about $15,000, to the Historical Society of Neuchâtel. In April, 1907, the writing figure, the drawing figure, and the spinet player were on exhibition in Le Locle, Chaux-de-Fonds, and Neuchâtel. So far we have traced only the original writing and drawing figure. This has been done purely to show that even if Robert-Houdin had been capable of building such an automaton, he would not have been its real inventor, but would merely have copied the marvellous work of the Jacquet-Drozes. Now to trace the figure which in 1844 he claimed as his invention. With the fame of the Neuchâtel shop spreading and the demand for Swiss watches increasing, Maillardet and Jean Pierre Droz, apprentices or perhaps partners of Pierre Jacquet-Droz and Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz, removed to London and there set up a watch factory. About this time Maillardet invented a combination writing and drawing figure which was pronounced by experts of the day slightly inferior to the work of the two Jacquet-Drozes. However, it must have been worthy of exhibition, for it appeared at intervals for the next fifty years in the amusement world, particularly in London. At first Maillardet was not its exhibitor nor was his name ever mentioned on the programmes and newspaper notices, but later his name appeared as part owner and exhibitor. As the Swiss watches had created a veritable sensation and were snatched up as fast as produced, it is quite likely that he had no time to play the rôle of showman. The figure first appeared in London in 1796, when the London _Telegraph_ of January 2nd carried the advertisement reproduced on the next page. Haddock had no particular standing in the world of magic, and it is more than likely that he rented the automata which he exhibited, or merely acted as showman for the real inventors. [Illustration: Haddock advertisement in the London _Telegraph_, January, 1796, in which he features the writing automaton as an androide. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Telegraph_ in March, 1812, proving the partnership of de Philipsthal and Maillardet in an "Automatical Theatre." The Mr. Louis mentioned in the advertisement as assistant engineer later secured possession of the writing and drawing figure. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In quite a few works on automata, notably Sir David Brewster's "Letters on Natural Magic," Collinson is quoted as having interviewed Maillardet as the inventor of the combination writing and drawing figure. _The Franklin Journal_ of June, 1827, published in Philadelphia, Pa., credits this figure to Maillardet and gives the following description: "It was the figure of a boy kneeling on one knee, holding a pencil in his hand, with which he executed not only writing but drawings equal to those of the masters. When the figure began to work, an attendant dipped the pencil in ink, and fixed the paper, when, on touching a spring, the figure wrote a line, carefully dotting and stroking the letters." The Robert-Houdin figure did not kneel, but this change could be made by a mechanician of ordinary ability. [Illustration: A Louis programme of April 3rd, 1815, in which the writing and drawing figure is advertised as a juvenile artist. It also features a bird of paradise automaton which Robert-Houdin claimed to have invented thirty years later. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The writing and drawing figure does not reappear on amusement programmes in my collection until 1812, when it was featured by De Philipsthal, the inventor of "Phantasmagoria." The nature of the inventions grouped under this title can best be judged from the reproduction of a De Philipsthal programme, dated 1803-04, and reproduced in the course of this chapter. All evidence goes to prove, however, that De Philipsthal did not control the writing and drawing figure exclusively, but that it was the joint property of himself and his partner, Maillardet. One of their joint programmes is also reproduced. Wherever De Philipsthal appears as an independent entertainer, the writing and drawing figure is missing from his billing. Later the writing and drawing automaton came into the possession of a Mr. Louis, who, as it will be seen from the billing, acted as assistant engineer to De Philipsthal and Maillardet. Louis evidently controlled the wonderful little automaton in the years 1814-15. The last De Philipsthal programme in my possession is dated Summer Theatre, Hull, September 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th and 19th, 1828, when he advertises only "rope dancers and mechanical peacock," and features "special uniting fire and water" and "firework experiments." He must have died between that date and April, 1829, for a programme dated at the latter time announces a benefit at the Théâtre Wakefield for the widow and children of De Philipsthal, "the late proprietor of the Royal Mechanical and Optical Museum." This benefit programme contains no allusion to the writing and drawing figure, which goes to prove that it had not been his property, or it would have been handed down to his estate. In May, 1826, an automaton was exhibited at 161 Strand, a bill regarding which is reproduced. This mechanical figure, however, should not be confounded with the original and genuine writing and drawing figure. It seems to have lacked legitimacy and, from what I can learn from newspaper clippings, was worked like "Zoe," with a concealed confederate, or, like the famous "Psycho" featured by Maskelyne, it was worked by compressed air. This bill is interesting solely because I believe that this fake automaton exhibited at 161 Strand was the first figure of the sort foisted on the public after the Baron Von Kemplen chess-player, which is described in Halle's work on magic, published in 1784. [Illustration: Poster announcing a benefit for the widow and children of de Philipsthal at Wakefield, in April, 1829, which proves that writing and drawing figure formed no part of the estate left by the deceased showman. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Handbill advertising the fake automatic artist, exhibited also at 161 Strand, London, May 7th, 1826. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1901, while in Germany, I saw a number of these automaton artists, all frauds. The figure sat in a small chair before an easel, ready to draw portraits in short order. The figure was shown to the audience, then replaced on the chair, whereupon a man under the platform would thrust his arm through the figure and draw all that was required of the automaton. The fake was short-lived, even at the yearly fairs, and now has sunk too low for them. During this interim, that is between 1821 and 1833, the famous little figure seems to have been in the possession of one Schmidt, who, according to the programmes in my collection, exhibited it regularly. In 1833 Schmidt is programmed in London, playing at the Surrey Theatre, when the writing and drawing figure is one of twenty-four automatic devices. A program, which, judging from its printing, is of a still later date, announces Mr. Schmidt and the famous figure at New Gothic Hall, 7 Haymarket, for a short period previous to the removal of the exhibit to St. Petersburg. The dates of other programmes in my collection can be judged only from the style of printing which changed at different periods of the art's development. Some of these indicate that the writing and drawing figure was on exhibition during the early 40's in London at Paul's Head Assembly Rooms, Argyle Rooms, Regent Street, etc. It is more than likely, according to Robert-Houdin's own admission regarding his study of automata and his opportunities to repair those left at his shop, that at some time the writing and drawing figure was brought to Paris to be exhibited, needed repairing, and thus reached his shop. Whether it was bought by Monsieur G----, whose interest in automata is featured in Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs," and brought to Robert-Houdin to repair, or whether Robert-Houdin bought it for a song, and repaired it to sell to advantage to his wealthy patron, cannot be stated, but I am morally certain that Robert-Houdin never constructed, in eighteen months, a complicated mechanism on which the Jacquet-Drozes spent six years of their inventive genius and efforts. Modern mechanicians agree that such a performance would have been a physical impossibility, even had Robert-Houdin been the expert mechanician he pictured himself. [Illustration: Programme used by Mr. Schmidt in 1827, when he had possession of the writing and drawing figure. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Poster used by Mr. Schmidt in advertising the writing and drawing figure in London just before his departure for St. Petersburg, Russia. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] To sum up the evidence: The writing and drawing figure as turned out by the Jacquet-Drozes was known all over Europe. It is not possible that a man so well read and posted in magic and automata as Robert-Houdin did not know of its existence and mechanism. And if Robert-Houdin had invented the same mechanism it is hardly possible that his design would have run in precisely the same channel as that of Jacquet-Droz and Maillardet, in having the figure draw the dog, the cupid, and the heads of monarchs. In those days humble mechanicians, however well they were known in their own trade, were not exploited by the public press. Nor did they employ clever journalists to write memoirs lauding their achievements. And so it happened that for years the names of Jacquet-Droz and Maillardet were unsung; their brainwork and handicraft were claimed by Robert-Houdin, who had mastered the art of self-exploitation. To-day, after a century and a half of neglect, the laurel wreath has been lifted from the brow of Robert-Houdin, where it never should have been placed, and has been laid on the graves of the real inventors of the writing and drawing figure, Pierre Jacquet-Droz and Henri-Louis Jacquet-Droz and Jean-David Maillardet. CHAPTER IV THE PASTRY COOK OF THE PALAIS ROYAL Concerning this trick, which Robert-Houdin claims as his invention, he writes on page 79 of his "Memoirs," American edition: "The first was a small pastry cook, issuing from his shop door at the word of command, and bringing, according to the spectator's request, patties and refreshments of every description. At the side of the shop, assistant pastry cooks might be seen rolling paste and putting it in the oven." By means of handbills, programmes, and newspaper notices of magical and mechanical performances, this trick in various guises can be traced back as far as 1796. Nine reputable magicians offered it as part of their repertoire, and at times two men presented it simultaneously, showing that more than one such automaton existed. The dates of the most notable programmes or handbills selected from my collection are as follows: 1, Haddock, 1797. 2, Garnerin, 1815. 3, Gyngell, 1816 and 1823. 4, Bologna, 1820. 5, Henry, 1822. 6, Schmidt, 1827. 7, Rovere, 1828. 8, Charles, 1829. 9, Phillippe, 1841. In 1827 Schmidt and Gyngell joined forces, yet both before and after this date each performer had the wonderful little piece of mechanism on his programme. In 1841, four years before Robert-Houdin appeared as a public performer, Phillippe created a sensation in Paris, presenting among other automata "Le Confiseur Galant." In 1845, when Robert-Houdin included "The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal" in his initial programme at his own theatre in Paris, Phillippe was presenting precisely the same trick at the St. James Theatre, London. Of this goodly company, however, Rovere and Phillippe deserve more than passing notice, as both were the contemporaries of Robert-Houdin, and Rovere was his personal friend. Both also appear in Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs." The trick appears first, not as a confectioner's shop with small figures at work, but as a fruitery, then again as a Dutch Coffee-House and a Russian Inn, from which ten sorts of liquor are served. Finally, in 1823, it is featured under the name that later made it famous, the Confectioner's Shop. Haddock, the Englishman who had the writing and drawing figure in his possession for some time, featured the fruitery on his programmes dated 1796. One of his advertisements from the London _Telegraph_ is reproduced on page 106, in connection with the history of the writing and drawing figure, but for convenience I am quoting here Haddock's own description of the fruitery trick, which was even more complicated than the famous Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal: [Illustration: A Bologna poster of 1820 which features an automatic distiller who draws eight different liquors from one cask. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "A model of the neat rural mansion, and contains the following figures: First, the porter, which stands at the gate, and on being addressed, rings the bell, when the door opens, the fruiteress comes out, and any lady or gentleman may call for whatever fruit they please, and the figure will return and bring the kind required, which may be repeated and the fruit varied as often as the company orders: it will likewise receive flowers, or any small article, carry them in, and produce them again as called for. As the fruits are brought out, they will be given in charge of a watch-dog, which sits in front of the house, and on any person taking or touching them will begin to bark, and continue to do so until they are returned. The next figure belonging to this piece is the little chimney-sweeper, which will be seen coming from behind the house, will enter the door, appear at the top of the chimney, and give the usual cry of 'Sweep' several times, descend the chimney, and come out with his bag full of soot." In 1820, Haddock's programme, including the fruitery, appears with only a few minor changes as the répertoire of Bologna, a very clever conjurer who afterward became the assistant of Anderson, the Wizard of the North, and who made most of the latter's apparatus. On the Bologna programme, for a performance to be given at the Great Assembly Room, Three Tuns Tavern, the shop trick is described thus: "A curious Mechanical Fruiterer and Confectioner's Shop, kept by Kitty Comfit, who will produce at Command such Variety of Fruit and Sweetmeats as may be asked for." The marvellous little shop does not appear again on programmes of magic until 1815, when Garnerin features it as "The Dutch Coffee-House." On the programme used by Garnerin in that year for a benefit which he gave for the General Hospital at Birmingham, England, it is featured as No. 10: "A Dutch Coffee-House, a very surprising mechanical piece, in which there is the figure of a Girl, six inches high, which presents, at the Command of the Spectators, ten different sorts of Liquors." [Illustration: A Garnerin poster of 1815, advertising "A Dutch Coffee House," whose automatic hostess serves refreshments at command. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] This programme is of such historical value that I reproduce it in full. It will show that this particular mechanical trick is by no means the most important feature of Garnerin's répertoire. In fact his fame is based on his ballooning, and he is said to have been the inventor of the parachute. The ascension of the nocturnal balloon, also scheduled on this programme, is an imitation of the one which Garnerin arranged in honor of Bonaparte's coronation in 1805. On that occasion the balloon started at Paris and descended in Rome, a distance of five hundred miles which was covered in twenty-two hours. Garnerin was a contemporary of both Pinetti and Robertson and was with them in Russia when Pinetti dissipated his fortune in balloon experiments. In their correspondence, both Pinetti and Robertson spoke slightingly of Garnerin, but the Frenchman's programmes all indicate that he was not only a successful aëronaut, but a magician who could present a diverting entertainment. [Illustration: A Gyngell poster of 1816, featuring the Russian Inn, with service of various kinds of liquor. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1816 the elder Gyngell featured the trick on his programmes as "The Russian Inn," and in 1823 he changed it to "The Confectioner's Shop." These programmes are reproduced as the most convincing evidence against the claims of Robert-Houdin. The Gyngell family is one of the most interesting in the history of magic. The Christian name of the founder of the family I have never been able to ascertain, though programmes give the initial as G. He was celebrated as a Bartholomew Fair conjurer. His career started about 1788, and his contemporaries were Lane, Boaz, Ball, Jonas, Breslaw, and Flocton. At one time Gyngell and Flocton worked together, and Thomas Frost in his book, "The Lives of Conjurers," claims that at Flocton's death Gyngell received a portion of the former's wealth. [Illustration: The original Gyngell, a portrait reproduced from the book on magic written by this famous Bartholomew Fair conjurer. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Associated with him in his performances were his brother, two sons, and a daughter. The latter was not only a clever rope-dancer but a musician of more than ordinary ability and she often constituted the entire "orchestra." On Gyngell's programme offered in 1827 he proves himself a great showman, for he features Herr Schmidt's "Mechanical Automatons, Phantasmagoria, a laughing sketch entitled Wholesale Blunders, his son on the flying wire, during which he would throw a somersault through a balloon of real fire, a broadsword dance by Miss Louise and Master Gyngell, and Miss Louise's performance on the tight rope, clowned by Master Lionel." On a programme used in Hull, October 29th, 1827, a lottery was featured as follows: "On which occasion the first hundred persons paying for the gallery will be entitled by ticket to a chance of a Fat Goose, and the same number in the pit to have the same chance for a fat turkey. To be drawn for on the stage, in the same manner as the State Lottery." According to Thomas Frost, Gyngell died in 1833 and was buried in the Parish Church, Camberwell. His children, however, continued the work so excellently planned by their father. The programmes herewith reproduced I purchased from Henry Evanion, who secured them directly from the last of the Gyngell family, as the accompanying letter, now a part of my collection, will show: DOVER, February 10th, 1867. MR. EVANION: DEAR SIR--Yours of the 5th inst. I received just as I was leaving Folkestown, and it was forwarded from Guilford. I am sorry I have not one of my old bills with me, neither do I think any of my family could find one at home. I may have some among my old conjuring things, and when I return to Guilford I will look them over and send you what I can find. I was sorry I was not at home when you were in Guilford, for I feel much pleasure in meeting a responsible professional. I am not certain when I shall return, but most likely not for six weeks. I will keep your address; so should you change your residence, write to me about that time. I was looking over some old papers some time last summer, and found a bill of my father's, nearly 60 years ago, when his great trick was cutting off the cock's head and restoring it to life again. And a great wonder it was considered and brought crowded rooms. I was Master Gyngell, the wonderful performer on the slack wire; and now in my 71st year I am lecturer, pyrotechnist, and high-rope walker, for I did that last summer. My life has been a simple one of ups and downs. I am, dear sir, yours truly, J. D. G. GYNGELL. [Illustration: A Gyngell programme of 1823, advertising "A Confectioner's Shop," whose attendant will serve automatically any sort of confectionery demanded. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The signature of this letter, "J. D. G. Gyngell," clears up considerable uncertainty regarding the names of the two Gyngell sons. At times the clever young tight-rope performer has been spoken of as Joseph, and at others as Gellini. It is quite probable that the two names were really part of one, and the full baptismal name was "Joseph D. Gellini." It was as Gellini Gyngell that he met Henry Evanion at Deal, February 20th, 1862, when the latter was performing as a magician at the Deal and Walmer Institute, while Gellini Gyngell gave an exhibition of fireworks and a magic-lantern display on the South Esplanade. A fine notice of both performances was published in the Deal _Telegram_ of February 23d, when the hope was expressed that Gyngell's collection, taken among those who enjoyed his outdoor performance, repaid him for his admirable entertainment. Gyngell was landlord of the Bowling Green Tavern at this time, and travelled as an entertainer only at intervals. The next appearance of the trick is in a book published by M. Henry, a ventriloquist, who played London and the provinces from 1820 to 1828. During an engagement at the Adelphia Theatre, London, which according to the programme was about 1822, Henry published a book entitled "Conversazione; or, Mirth and Marvels," in which he interspersed witty conversation with descriptions of his various tricks. On page 11 he thus describes the automaton under consideration: [Illustration: Reproduction of a rare old colored lithograph in three sections. This section represents Gyngell. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Illusion Third. A curious mechanical trick; an inn, from which issues the hostess for orders, upon receiving which, she returns into the inn and brings out the various liquors as called for by the audience, and at last waiting for the money, which, having received, goes in and shuts the door. Mr. Henry says he has produced the inn in preference to palaces, though more stupendous and magnificent, thinking, as a certain author wrote, the heartiest welcome is to be found at the inn." In the same year Henry issued a challenge open to the whole world, defying any performer to equal his manipulation of the cup and ball trick. He also employed as an adjunct of his conjuring performances Signor de Fedori of Rome, an armless wonder, who used his feet to play the drum, violin, and triangle. A contemporary of Henry was Charles, the great ventriloquist, who varied his performance as did all ventriloquists of his day, by presenting "Philosophical and Mechanical Experiments" to make up a two-hour-and-a-half performance. Charles made several tours of the English provinces, and played in London at intervals. On a London programme which is undated, but which announces M. Charles as playing at Mr. Wigley's Large Room, Spring Gardens, the second automaton on his list is described as "The Russian Inn, out of which comes a little Woman and brings the Liquor demanded for." Two of his programmes dated Theatre Royal, Hull, April, 1829, now in my collection, carry a pathetic foot-note written in the handwriting of the collector through whom they came into my possession: "The audiences on both the evenings were extremely small, and the money was refunded." By referring to the chapter on the writing and drawing figure, Chapter III, Page 113, a Schmidt programme of 1827 will be found, in which he features "The Enchanted Dutch Coffee-House, an elegant little building. On the traveller ringing the bell, the door opens, the hostess attends and provides him with any liquor he may call for." [Illustration: A Charles poster dated about 1829 in which the Russian Inn and its obedient little figure are featured. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Schmidt seems to have confined his exhibitions to London and the provinces and was often connected with other magicians, including Gyngell and Buck. The latter was an English conjurer, best known as the man who was horribly injured when presenting "The Gun Delusion." This consisted of having a marked bullet shot at the performer, who caught it between his teeth on a plate, or on the point of a needle or knife. Some miscreant loaded the gun with metal after Buck had it prepared for the trick, and the unfortunate performer's right cheek was literally shot away. In 1828 Jules de Rovere, a French conjurer, whose fame rests principally on the fact that he coined the new title "prestidigitator," appeared at the Haymarket Theatre, London, and also toured the English provinces. A clipping from the Oxford _Herald_ of that year includes this description of his automaton: "One of the clowns vanishes from the box, and instantly at the top of the hall a little lady, in a little hotel brilliantly illuminated, gives out wines and liquors to them who ask for them, without any apparent communication with the artiste, and yet the lady is only six inches high." In the late 30's Rovere made his headquarters in Paris, and there he and Robert-Houdin met. The latter refers to this meeting on page 153 of his "Memoirs," when writing of the misfortunes which had overtaken Father Roujol, whose shop had once been headquarters for conjurers: "Still I had the luck to form here the acquaintance of Jules de Rovere, the first to employ a title now generally given to fashionable conjurers." And after Rovere, Phillippe, who is by far the most important presenter of the Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal, as bearing upon Robert-Houdin's claims. For Phillippe's early history we must depend largely upon Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs." According to these, Phillippe started life as a confectioner or maker of sweets, and his real name was Phillippe Talon. According to an article published in _L'Illusionniste_ in January, 1902, he was born in Alias, near Nîmes, December 25th, 1802, and died in Bokhara, Turkey, June 27th, 1878. [Illustration: Reproduction of pastel portrait of Phillippe. Only known likeness of the conjurer in existence. Made for him by a Vienna artist. Original now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] Like many a genius and successful man, his early history was written in a minor key. According to Robert-Houdin his sweets did not catch the Parisian fancy, and he went to London, where at that time French bonbons were in high favor. But for some reason he failed in London, and went on to Aberdeen, Scotland, where he was very soon reduced to sore straits. In his hour of extremity his cleverness saved the day. In Aberdeen at the same time was a company of actors almost as unfortunate as himself. They were presenting a pantomime which the public refused to patronize. The young confectioner approached the manager of the pantomime and suggested that they join forces. In addition to the regular admission to the pantomime each patron was to pay sixpence and receive in return a paper of mixed sugar plums and a lottery ticket by which he might gain the first prize of the value of five pounds. In addition, Talon promised not only to provide the sweets free of cost to the management, but to present a new and startling feature at the close of the performance. The novel announcement crowded the house, the pantomime and the bonbons alike found favor, but the significant feature of the performance was young Talon's appearance in the finale in the rôle of "Punch," for which he was admirably made up. He executed an eccentric dance, at the finish of which he pretended to fall and injure himself. In a faint voice he demanded pills to relieve his pain, and a fellow-actor brought on pills of such enormous size that the audience stopped sympathizing with the actor and began to laugh. But the pills all disappeared down the dancer's throat, for Talon was not only an able confectioner and an agile dancer, but a sleight-of-hand performer. From that hour he exchanged the spoon of the confectioner for the wand of the magician. The fortunes of both the pantomime and Phillippe, as he now called himself, improved. Quite probably he remained with the pantomime company until the close of the season and then struck out as an independent performer. [Illustration: Poster used by Phillippe during his engagement at the Strand Theatre, London, 1845-46. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Another story which is gleaned from a biography of John Henry Anderson, the Wizard of the North, tells how Phillippe started his career as a pastry cook in the household of one Lord Panmure, and I quote this literally from the Anderson book, because I believe it to be truthful, as material gathered from Anderson literature has proved to be: "It was at this time that he came in contact with a person who afterward, under the designation of M. Phillippe, became celebrated in France as a magician. Phillipee (for so was he named in Scotland) was originally a cook in the services of the late Lord Panmure. Leaving that employment, he settled down and remained for a number of years in Aberdeen. He heard of the fame of the youthful magician, was induced to visit his 'temple,' and was struck with his performances; and having made the acquaintance of Mr. Anderson, he solicited from him and obtained an insight into his profession, and fac-similes of his then humble apparatus. Phillippe improved to such a degree upon the knowledge he thus acquired that, leaving England for France, he earned the reputation of being one of the most accomplished magicians ever seen in the country." The date of his initial performance is not known, but he must have remained in Scotland, perfecting his act, for the earliest Phillippe programme in my collection is dated February 3d, 1837, when he opened at Waterloo Rooms, Edinburgh, and announced: "The high character which Mons. Phillippe has obtained from the Aberdeen, Glasgow, Greenock and Paisley Press, being the only four towns in Britain where he has made his appearance, is a sufficient guarantee to procure him a visit from the inhabitants of this enlightened Metropolis, where talent had always been supported when actually deserved." [Illustration: Phillippe and his Scotch assistant, Domingo. The latter became famous as a magician under the name of Macallister, introducing in America Phillippe's gift show. From a lithograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] Evidently, however, Phillippe made rapid progress, for a programme dated Saturday, April 21st, 1838, shows that his last daytime or matinée performance in Waterloo Rooms was given under the patronage of such members of the nobility as the Right Honorable Lady Gifford, the Right Honorable Lady H. Stuart Forbes, etc. In an Edinburgh programme, dated probably 1837, he is shown as performing his tricks, clad in peculiar evening clothes, knickerbockers and waistcoat matching, with a mere suggestion of the swallow-tail coat. In his 1838 bill he is shown clad in the flowing robes of the old-time magician, and he advertises the Chinese tricks, notably the gold-fish trick, which demanded voluminous draperies. According to Robert-Houdin, Phillippe built a small wooden theatre in Glasgow. Humble as this building was, however, it brought a significant factor into Phillippe's life. This was a young bricklayer named Andrew Macallister who had a natural genius for tricks and models, and who became Phillippe's apprentice, later appearing as Domingo, his assistant on the stage, wearing black make-up. In either Edinburgh or Dublin Phillippe met the Chinese juggler or conjurer who taught him the gold-fish trick and the secret of the Chinese rings. Armed with these two striking tricks, Phillippe determined to satisfy his yearning to return to his native land, and in 1841 he appeared at the Salle Montesquieu, Paris. Later, the Bonne-Nouvelle, a temple of magic, was opened for Phillippe in Paris, and there he enjoyed the brilliant run to which Robert-Houdin refers in his "Memoirs." Phillippe was an indefatigable worker and traveller, and one brilliant engagement followed another. During the 40's he appeared, according to my collection of programmes, all over Continental Europe, and in most of his programmes this paragraph is featured: "PART III. "An unexpected present at once gratuitous and laughable, composed of twelve prizes, nine lucky and three unfortunate, in which the general public will participate." He also continued to distribute bonbons from an inexhaustible source, probably a cornucopia, calling this trick "a new system of making sweetmeats, or Le Confiseur Moderne." During his first engagement in Vienna he had painted for advertising purposes a pastel portrait, showing him clad in his magician's robes at the finale of the gold-fish trick. From this picture his later cuts were made. By some mistake he left the original pastel in Vienna, where I bought it at a special sale for my collection. It remains an exquisite piece of color work, even at this day. So far it is the only real likeness of Phillippe I have been able to unearth. In 1845-46 he was at the height of his popularity in London, where he had a tremendous run. In June, 1845, we find him playing at the St. James Theatre, under Mitchell's direction, and on September 29th, under his own management, he moves to the Strand, where he is still found in January of 1846. During all this time he featured The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal under the title of "Le Confiseur Galant." [Illustration: 1. Cuisine de Parafaragamus; 2. Le Chapelier de 1943; 3. Le Paon magique; 4. La Bouteille enchantée; 5. La Chaîne hydonstaine; 6. La Tête infernale; 7. Le Chapeau merveilleux; 8. L'Arlequin savant; 9. Le Confiseur galant et le Liquoriste impromptu; 10. Le Bassin de Neptune ou les poissons d'or et la ménagerie prodigieuse; 11. �clairage de tout le théâtre improvisé par un coup de pistolet. Reproduction of a large lithograph showing all of Phillippe's tricks, including "Le Confiseur Galant" scheduled as No. 9. From the original lithograph dated 1842 now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] As proofs that Phillippe used the pastry-cook trick both before and during Robert-Houdin's career as a magician, I offer several programmes containing accurate descriptions of the automaton, and also a page illustration from a current publication dated Paris, 1843, which shows the confectioner or pastry-cook standing in the doorway of his house, while the key explaining the various tricks reads: "No. 9. Le Confiseur galant et le Liquoriste impromptu." Robert-Houdin devotes nearly an entire chapter to the history of Phillippe and a description of his tricks and automata, yet curiously forgets to mention the pastry cook, which he later claims as his own invention. Ernest Basch, formerly of Basch Brothers, conjurers, and the richest manufacturer of illusions in the world, claims that the original trick is now in his possession. Herr Basch is located in Hanover, Germany, where he builds large illusions only. The wonderful mechanical house passed to Basch by a bequest on the death of Baron von Sandhovel, a wealthy resident of Amsterdam, Holland. Von Sandhovel had bought the trick from the heirs of Robert-Houdin on the death of the latter, because he believed it to be the brain and handwork of Opre, a Dutch mechanician of great talent. Ernest Basch shares this belief, and with other well-read conjurers thinks that Opre was Robert-Houdin's assistant and built most of his automata, including The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal, The Windmill or Dutch Inn, Auriel and Debureau, The French Gymnasts, The Harlequin, and The Chausseur. Opre was a man of ability, but lacked presence and personality properly to present his inventions. So far I have found his name in three places only: On the frontispiece of a Dutch book on magic, published in Amsterdam; in Ernest Basch's correspondence about conjurers; and on page 77 of Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs," when he speaks of Opre as the maker of the Harlequin figure which Torrini asked Robert-Houdin to repair during their travels. [Illustration: Ernest Basch and "Le Confiseur Galant," which he claims is the original Robert-Houdin "Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal." From a photograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] With such convincing proof, some of which was contemporary, that other men had exhibited The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal in its identical or slightly different guise, it was daring indeed of Robert-Houdin to claim it as his own invention. [Illustration: David Leendert Bamberg, of the second generation of the Bamberg family. Born 1786; died 1869. The above daguerrotype was presented to the author by Herr Ernest Basch, and is the only one in existence.] The most direct information regarding Opre comes through that eminent family of conjurers known as the Bambergs of Holland. At this writing, "Papa" (David) Bamberg, of the fourth generation, is prominent on the Dutch stage, and his son Tobias David, known as Okito, of the fifth generation, is a cosmopolitan magician, presenting a Chinese act. According to the family history, traceable by means of handbills, programmes, and personal correspondence, the original Bamberg (Eliazar) had a vaulting figure in his collection of automata in 1790, fifty years before Robert-Houdin became a professional entertainer. This figure was made by Opre, to whom all conjurers of that time looked for automata and apparatus. David Leendert Bamberg, of the second generation, who also had the vaulting figure, was the intimate friend and confidant of Opre and was authority for the statement that Opre's son sold in Paris the various automata made by his father, which later Robert-Houdin claimed as his own invention. It may be noted that Robert-Houdin never invented a single automaton after he went on the stage in 1845, and as Opre died in 1846, the coincidence is nothing if not significant. CHAPTER V THE OBEDIENT CARDS--THE CABALISTIC CLOCK--THE TRAPEZE AUTOMATON _The Obedient Cards._ To trace here the history of three very common tricks claimed by Robert-Houdin as his own inventions would be sheer waste of time, if the exposure did not prove beyond doubt that in announcing the various tricks of his répertoire as the output of his own brain he was not only flagrant and unscrupulous, but he did not even give his readers credit for enough intelligence to recognize tricks performed repeatedly by his predecessors whom they had seen. Not satisfied with purloining tricks so important that one or two would have been sufficient to establish the reputation of any conjurer or inventor, he must needs lay claim to having invented tricks long the property of mountebanks as well as reputable magicians. The tricks referred to are the obedient card, the cabalistic clock, and the automaton known as Diavolo Antonio or Le Voltigeur au Trapèze. [Illustration: Card trick as featured by Anderson in 1836-37. From a poster in the Harry Houdini Collection.] The obedient-card trick, mentioned on page 245 of the American edition of his "Memoirs," as "a novel experiment invented by M. Robert-Houdin," can be found on the programme of every magician who ever laid claim to dexterity of hand. Whether they accomplished the effect by clock-work or with a black silk thread or a human hair, the result was one and the same. It has also been worked by using a fine thread with a piece of wax at the end. The wax is fastened to the card, and the thread draws it up. The simplest method of all is to place the thread over and under the cards, weaving it in and out as it were, and then, by pulling the thread, to bring the different cards selected into view. So common was the trick that its description was written in every work on magic published from 1784 to the date of Robert-Houdin's first appearance, and in at least one volume printed as early as 1635. The majority of French encyclopædias described the trick and exposed it according to one method or another, and Robert-Houdin admits having been a great reader of encyclopædias. The trick first appears in print in various editions of "Hocus Pocus," twenty in all, starting with 1635. The majority contain feats with cards, showing how to bring them up or out of a pack with a black thread, a hair spring, or an elastic. In 1772 the rising-card trick was shown in Guyot's "Physical and Mathematical Recreations," also in the Dutch or Holland translations of the same work. In 1791 it was minutely explained by Hofrath von Eckartshausen, who wrote five different books on the subject of magic. The fourth, being devoted principally to the art of the conjurer, was entitled "Die Gauckeltasche, oder vollständiger Unterricht in Taschenspieler u. s. w.," which translated means "The Conjurer's Pocket or Thorough Instructions in the Art of Conjuring." The title was due to the fact that in olden days conjurers worked with the aid of a large outside pocket. The five books, published under the general title of "Aufschlüsse zur Magie," bear date of Munich, Germany. On page 138 of the third edition of Gale's "Cabinet of Knowledge," published in London in 1800, will be found a description of the rising-card trick as done with pin and thread, and the same book shows how it is accomplished with wax and a hair. This book seems to have been compiled from Philip Breslaw's work on magic, "The Last Legacy," published in 1782. Benton, who published the English edition of Decremps' famous work on magic, exposing Pinetti's répertoire, also described the trick. "Natural Magic," by Astley, the circus man, and Hooper's "Recreations," in four volumes, published in 1784, expose the same trick. [Illustration: CONJURER UNMASKED OR _the Art of Sleight of hand_ Reproduction of frontispiece in Breslaw's book on magic, "The Last Legacy," published in 1782. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] As to magicians who performed the trick, their names are legion, and only a few of the most prominent conjurers will be mentioned in this connection. [Illustration: J. H. Anderson's birth place as drawn by him from memory. The following is written under the sketch in his own handwriting: "A rough sketch of the farm house called 'Red Stanes,' on the estate of Craigmyle, Parish of Kincardine O'Neil, Aberdeenshire. The house was built by my grandfather, John Robertson, in the year 1796, and in it I was born on the 15th day of July, 1814. John Henry Anderson." Photographed from the original now in the possession of Mrs. Leona A. Anderson, by the author.] The man who obtained the best effects with this trick was John Henry Anderson, who startled the world of magic and amusements by his audacity, in 1836, nine years before Robert-Houdin trod the stage as a professional entertainer. Anderson was born in Kincardine, Scotland, in 1814, and started his professional career as an actor. He must have been a very poor one, too, for he states that he was once complimented by a manager for having brought bad acting to the height of perfection. [Illustration: John Henry Anderson, wife and son, from a rare photograph taken in 1847 or 1848. Said to be an especially good likeness of Mrs. Anderson and the only one extant. Photograph loaned by Mrs. Leona A. Anderson, daughter-in-law of the "Wizard of the North."] [Illustration: Very rare poster of 1838 in which John Henry Anderson is billed as "The Great Magician." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Cover design of Anderson's book, exposing the Davenport Brothers; now a very rare book. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Anderson was first known as the Caledonian magician, then assumed the title of the Wizard of the North, which he said was bestowed on him by Sir Walter Scott. Thomas Frost belittles this statement, on the grounds that Scott was stricken with paralysis in 1830. However, Anderson became famous in 1829, so he should be given the benefit of the doubt. He was the greatest advertiser that the world of magic has ever known, and he left nothing undone that might boom attendance at his performances. He started newspapers, gave masked balls, and donated thousands of dollars to charities. He was known in every city of the world, and, when so inclined, built his own theatres. He sold books on magic during his own performances, and would sell any trick he presented for a nominal sum. His most unique advertising dodge was to offer $500 in gold as prizes for the best conundrums written by spectators during his performances. To make this scheme more effective, he carried with him his own printing-press and set it up back of the scenes. While the performance was under way, the conundrums handed in by the spectators were printed, and, after the performance, any one might buy a sheet of the questions and puns at the door. As every one naturally wanted to see his conundrum in print, Anderson sold millions of these bits of paper. In 1852, while playing at Metropolitan Hall, New York City, he advertised his conundrum contest and sold his book of tricks, etc., and such notables as Jenny Lind and General Kossuth entered conundrums. He was among the first performers to expose the Davenport Brothers, whose spiritualistic tricks and rope-tying had astonished America. Directly on witnessing a performance and solving their methods, Anderson hurried back to England and exposed the tricks. To sum up his history, he stands unique in the annals of magic as a doer of daring things. He rushed into print on the slightest pretext, was a hard fighter with his rivals and aired his quarrels in the press, and he was a game loser when trouble came his way. Not a brilliant actor or performer, he yet had the gift of securing excellent effects in his _mise en scène_. He made and lost several fortunes, generally recouping as quickly as he lost. He was burned out several times, the most notable fire being that of Covent Garden, London, in 1856. He was liked in spite of his eccentricities, but when he died, February 3d, 1874, his fortune was small. [Illustration: Anderson billing of 1838, featuring obedient cards as "Napoleon's Trick." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Jacobs poster, featuring "The Travelling Card." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Anderson had numerous imitators, including M. Jacobs, "Barney" Eagle, and E. W. Young, all of whom used the rising-or obedient-card trick. They copied not only his tricks, but the very names he had used and the style of his billing. All three of these men were professional magicians before Robert-Houdin appeared, and Anderson was his very active contemporary. A Jacobs bill is here reproduced, showing the card trick featured among other attractions. The lithograph of Jacobs used in this connection is an actual likeness and I believe it to be as rare as it is timely. [Illustration: Lithograph used by E. W. Young, who copied all of John Henry Anderson's billing and featured the obedient-card trick. This setting shows how cumbersome was the apparatus employed by magicians before Wiljalba Frikell proved that he could score with apparently no apparatus. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Frontispiece from Eagle's book, in which he exposes Anderson's gun delusion. Said by Henry Evanion, who knew Eagle, to be a fine likeness. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Young's name has been handed down in history because he made money on Anderson's reputation, by the boldest of imitations, assuming the title of Wizard of the North with his own name in small type. One of his bills is also reproduced. Barnedo or "Barney" Eagle is the man of the trio of the imitators who deserves more than passing notice. He became Anderson's bitterest enemy, and their rivalry made money for the printers. Eagle could neither read nor write, but having a quick brain he hired a clever writer to indite his speeches and duplicated Anderson's show so closely that Anderson's pride was hurt. He therefore decided to expose Eagle, and thousands of bills, constituting a virulent attack upon his imitator, were distributed. One of these is reproduced. It is so rare that I doubt whether another is in existence. [Illustration: An Anderson poster, exposing "Barney" Eagle's tricks. Only bill of this sort in existence. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Window poster issued by Anderson to belittle his imitator "Barney" Eagle and show how the latter secured royal patronage. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] As Eagle had advertised that he was patronized by royalty, Anderson had another bill printed, showing Eagle playing before the King at the Ascot race-track, and an assistant passing the hat in mountebank fashion. In revenge, Eagle had a book published, in which he exposed Anderson's best drawing trick, The Gun Delusion, in which the magician allowed any one from the audience to shoot a gun at him using marked bullets. These bullets were caught in his mouth or on the point of a knife. This trick became as common as the obedient-card trick. In the face of such overwhelming evidence, Robert-Houdin's claim to having invented the obedient-card trick is nothing short of farcical. [Illustration: A "Barney" Eagle poster on which the obedient-card trick is featured as "The Walking Cards." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] _The Cabalistic or Obedient Clock_ There might be said to exist a very reasonable doubt as to the exact date at which Robert-Houdin produced the cabalistic clock which he included among his other doubtful claims to inventions. On page 250 of the American edition of his "Memoirs" he has the Cabalistic Clock on his opening programme for July 3d, 1845, but in the appendix of the French edition he states that the clock first made its appearance at the opening of the season of 1847. In nearly all his statements he is equally inaccurate. The mysterious clock might be termed the obedient clock, for the trick consists in causing the hand or hands to obey the will of the conjurer or the wishes of the audience. The hands will point to a figure, move with rapidity, or as slowly as possible, or in time to music. In fact the performer has full control of the hands--he can make them do his every bidding. The mysterious clock is a trick as old as the obedient-card trick, if not older. It was explained according to various methods in books before Robert-Houdin's appearance on the stage. In fact, the majority of old-time conjuring books explain mysterious clocks carefully. Before electricity was introduced, magnets were employed, but the earliest method was to make use of thread wound about the spindle of the clock hand, and that method is still the very best used to-day, owing to its simplicity. The clock, on being presented to the audience, may be hung or placed in the position best suited to the particular method by which it is being "worked." It shows a transparent clock face, such as you see in any jewelry shop. Some magicians utilize only one hand, which permits the easy use of electricity or magnet, while others employ two and even three hands. When more than one hand is used the hours and minutes are indicated simultaneously and, if cards are pasted on the clock face, the largest hand is used to find the chosen cards. The clock may be placed on a pedestal, in an upright position, or hung in midair on two ribbons or strings. It can be hung on a stand made expressly for the purpose, on the style of a music stand, or it can be swung in a frame. In fact, as stated before, it is usually placed so as to facilitate the method of working. [Illustration: M. Jacobs, magician, ventriloquist, and bold imitator of John Henry Anderson. From a rare lithograph now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] When the cabalistic clock is taken off the hook or the stand on which it is placed, and handed to one of the spectators to hold, the latter places the hand on the pin in the centre of the glass face, and revolves it. The arrow or hand is worked by a counterweight, controlled by the performer, who has it fixed before he hands it to the innocent spectator. The clock can be purchased from any reliable dealer of conjuring apparatus, in almost any part of the world. For a clock worked by counterweight the hand of thin brass is prepared in the centre, where there is a weight of peculiar shape which has at the thin or tapering end a small pin. This pin is fixed permanently to the weight and can be revolved about the small plate on which it is riveted. Through this plate there is a hole, exactly in the centre. This hand has all this covered with a brass cap, and, to make the arrow point to any given number, you simply move the weight with your thumb. The pin clicks and allows you to feel it as it moves from one hole to another. With very little practice you can move this weight, while in the act of handing it to some one to place it on the centre of the clock face; and when spun, the weight, of its own accord, will land on the bottom, causing the hand to point where it is forced by the law of gravity. The plate on which the weight is fastened is grooved or milled, so that it answers to the slightest movement of your thumb. When the clock is on the stage and the hand moves simply by the command of the performer or audience, it is manipulated by an assistant behind the scenes, either by the aid of electricity or by an endless thread which is wrapped about the spindle and runs through the two ribbons or strings that hold the clock in midair. Some conjurers work the clock so arranged as to make a combination trick; first by having it worked by the concealed confederate; then, taking the clock off the stand and bringing it down in the midst of the audience. But for this trick you can use only one hand. [Illustration: The above diagram exposes the magic clock trick, as offered in the time of Hofrath von Eckartshausen, a German writer on magic in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries. Fig. 15 shows the clock in position for the trick, hung against the rear wall or "drop." Gaily-colored ribbons hide thin leather tubes through which run two sets of stout silk thread or catgut, connecting with the hour and minute hands. The thread then passes through the two iron rings, p and o in Figures 17 and 19, which are screwed to the ceiling; thence to the hidden confederate, who manipulates the clock hands as the hour and minute are announced by magician or spectator. Fig. 16 shows the two faces of the clock, with the fine connecting rod around which the string is wound to manipulate the hands. This mechanism is hidden by a flat brass band which encircles the edges of the two transparent faces. From Eckartshausen's "The Conjurer's Pocket," edition of 1791.] Years ago when I introduced this trick in my performance, I called a young man on my stage and asked him to place the hand on the spindle. It would then revolve and stop at any number named. But first I made him inform the audience the number he had chosen, which gave me time to fix the weight with my thumb. I then gave him the hand, but he was a skilled mechanic, and possibly knew the trick. Instead of holding the clock by the ring at the top, which was there for that purpose, he grasped the dial at the bottom, causing the number 6 instead of 12 to be on top. When the hand started to turn, of course it would have stopped at the wrong number. I managed to escape humiliation by pretending I was afraid he would break the clock by letting it fall, so took it away from him, holding it myself. [Illustration: Newspaper clipping of 1782, showing that Katterfelto used the cabalistic clock. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Reproduction of rare engraving of Johann Nep. Hofzinser, who invented the clock worked by a counter-weight, and who was one of the world's greatest card tricksters. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] The mechanic walked off the stage winking at me in the most roguish manner. Robert-Houdin worked The Mystic Bell trick in connection with The Clock. This was manipulated in the same way. The bell was worked with thread, pulling a small pin, which in turn caused the handle to fall against the glass bell. Naturally, having electricity at his command at that time, he made use of that force whenever it suited his fancy. I am positive that Robert-Houdin presented the electrical clock, because T. Bolin, of Moscow, visited Paris and bought the trick from Voisin, the French manufacturer of conjuring apparatus. The trick which Robert-Houdin presented, according to his claims, was with the clock hanging in midair to prove that it was not electrically connected, but the truth of the matter is that the strings which held the clock suspended in midair concealed the wires through which his electrical current ran. In my library of old conjuring books the thread method is ably described by Hofrath von Eckartshausen, mentioned earlier in this chapter. In fact in the pictorial appendix of this work he gives this trick prominence by minutely illustrating the same. He makes use of two hands, and to make the trick infallible he explains that the best way would be to use two glass disks, have them held together by a brass rim, and your threads will work with absolute certainty. The spectators imagine that they are seeing only one glass clock. Johann Conrad Gutle, the well-known delver after secrets of natural magic, also explains several cabalistic clock tricks in his book published in 1802. [Illustration: Reproduction of a triple colored lithograph. This section features Breslaw in stage costume. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] I am reproducing herewith a number of programmes describing the effect of the trick and proving that it was no novelty when Robert-Houdin "invented" it. In fact the trick was so common that only the supreme egotism of the man can explain his having introduced it into the pages of his book as an original trick. The mysterious clock worked by the counterweight, which has been described, is credited as having been the invention of Johann Nep. Hofzinser. [Illustration: Katterfelto, the bombastic conjurer, who is famous for having sold sulphur matches in 1784, before the Lucifer match is supposed to have been discovered. Reproduced from a rare copy of "The European Magazine," dated June, 1783, now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In an advertisement, published in the _London Post_ of May 23d, 1778, included in my collection, this announcement, among others of much interest, will be found: "PART II.--Breslaw will exhibit many of his newly invented deceptions with a grand apparatus and experiments and particularly the Magic Clock, Sympathetic Bell, and Pyramidical Glasses in a manner entirely new." In 1781, while showing at Greenwood's Rooms, Haymarket, London, Breslaw heavily advertised, "Particularly an experiment on a newly invented mechanical clock will be displayed, under the direction of Sieur Castinia, just arrived from Naples, the like never attempted before in this metropolis." There is every reason to believe that Katterfelto, the greatest of bombastic conjurers, used the electrical clock in his performances, as he made a feature of the various late discoveries, and in his programme of 1782 he advertises "feats and experiments in Magnetical, Electrical, Optical, Chymical, Philosophical, Mathematical, etc., etc." Among implements and instruments or articles mentioned I found Watches, Caskets, Dice, Cards, Mechanical Clocks, Pyramidical Glasses, etc., etc. Gyngell, Sr., the celebrated Bartholomew Fair conjurer, whose career started about 1788, had on his early programmes, "A Pedestal Clock, so singularly constructed that it is obedient to the word of command." On the same programme (Catherine Street Theatre, London, February 15th, 1816) I find "The Russian Inn," "The Confectioner's Shop," and "The Automaton Rope Vaulter." This programme is reproduced in full in Chapter IV. Without devoting further space to Robert-Houdin's absurd claim to having invented this clock, we will proceed to discuss his claims to the automaton rope walker, which he called a trapeze performer. _The Trapeze Automaton_ Though "Diavolo Antonio" or "Le Voltigeur Trapeze" was not a simple trick, but a cleverly constructed automaton, worked by a concealed confederate, it was a common feature on programmes long before Robert-Houdin claimed it as his invention. Yet with the daring of one who believes that all proof has been destroyed, he announces on page 312 of the American edition of his "Memoirs" that he invented "The Trapeze Performer" for his season of 1848. In the illustrated appendix of his French edition he states that the figure made its first appearance at his Paris theatre, October 1st, 1849. He thus describes the automaton: [Illustration: Copy of a poster used by Robert-Houdin to advertise his trapeze performer. This proves how accurately he duplicated the Pinetti figure, even to the arrangement of floral garlands. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "The figure is the size of an infant, and I carry the little artist on my arm in a box. I put him on the trapeze and ask him questions, which he answers by moving his head. Then he bows gracefully to the audience, turning first this way, then that; suspends himself by his hands and draws himself up in time to the music. He also goes through the motions of a strong man, hangs by his head, hands, and feet, and with his legs making the motions of aërial telegraphy." [Illustration: Reproduction of an illustration in "Aufschlüsse zur Magie," by Hofrath von Eckartshausen, showing the automatic rope vaulter as exhibited in 1784 by Pinetti. Original in the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: A Bologna bill of 1812, featuring the automatic rope dancers. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Decremps in his exposé, "The Conjurer Unmasked," published in 1784, thus describes the automaton and its work: "Our attention was next called to observe an automaton figure, that vaulted upon a rope, performing all the postures and evolutions of the most expert tumblers, keeping exact time to music. By seeing Mr. Van Estin wind up the figures, and being shown the wheels and levers contained in the body of the automaton, caused us to believe it moved by its own springs, when Mr. Van Estin thus explained the deception: 'To make a figure of this kind depends a great deal on the proportion and the materials with which it is composed: The legs and thighs are formed out of heavy wood, such as ash or oak; the body of birch or willow, and made hollow, and the head, for lightness, of papier-maché. The figure is joined by its hands to a bar of iron, that passes through a partition, and is turned by a confederate; the arms are inflexible at the elbows, but move freely at the shoulders by means of a bolt that goes through the body; and the thighs and legs move in the same manner at the hips and knees, and are stayed by pieces of leather to prevent them from bending in the wrong way. The bar is covered with hollow twisted tubes, and ornamented with artificial flowers, so as no part of it can be seen to turn; the confederate by giving the handle a quarter of a turn to the left, the automaton, whose arms are parallel to the horizon, lift themselves by little and little, till they become vertical and parallel to the rest of the body; if in following the same direction, the other part of the body moves forward; and by watching the motions through a hole, he seizes the instant that a leg passes before the bar, to leave the automaton astride; afterward he balances it by jerks, and causes it to take a turn around, keeping time with the music as if it was sensible of harmony. "N.B.--Three circumstances concur here to favor the illusion: First, by the assistance of a wire, the confederate can separate the bar from the automaton, which, falling to the ground, persuades one it loses itself by real machinery. Secondly, in winding up the levers shown in the body, confirms the spectators in the idea that there is no need of a confederate. Thirdly, the tubes that are twisted around the bar, except where the automaton is joined to it, seem to be the rope itself, and being without motion, as is seen by the garlands which surround them, it cannot be suspected that the bar turns in the inside, from whence it is concluded that the figure moves by its own machinery." According to one of de Philipsthal's advertisements, page 103, the trapeze automaton which he featured was six feet in height. But Pinetti programmes show that he had a smaller figure known as the rope vaulter. This is probably the trick exposed in Decremps' book. On page 108 will be found a Louis programme of 1815, on which a figure is thus featured: "TWO ELEGANT AUTOMATA As large as nature, the one representing a beautiful POLONNESE, the other a little boy. Nothing can surpass the admirable construction of these Pieces. The large figure seems almost endowed with human Faculties, exhibiting the usual feats of a Rope-Dancer, in the fullest imitation of life. The small Figure is invested with equally astonishing powers of action. To such ladies as are spectators it must be a very pleasing circumstance that these exertions do not excite those disagreeable sensations which arise from the sight of Figures fraught with life, performing feats attended with so much danger." By referring to page 113 the reader will find a Schmidt programme, dated 1827, on which the figure is featured as follows: "THE ROPE DANCER, Whose surprising performances surpass, in agility, attitudes, and evolutions, every Professor of the art, keeping correct time to the music of the machinery." A Gyngell programme, dated 1823, which is reproduced in the chapter devoted to "The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal," page 125, reads as follows: "Two automatons, one of which will execute wonderful feats on the tight rope, and the other dance a characteristic hornpipe." As Gyngell figured in the amusement world from 1788 to 1844, the little figure must have been tolerably well known to the magic-loving public of England by the time Robert-Houdin appeared in London in 1848. [Illustration: A de Philipsthal programme of 1806 on which both the automatic tight-rope performer and the magnetic clock were featured. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: A Thiodon bill of 1825, in which he claims the invention of a figure that could be lifted on or off the stage or pole. This was twenty-five years before Robert-Houdin claimed the same invention. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] A magician named York, who appeared in London in 1844, the year before Robert-Houdin made his professional début, featured under date of January 29th "two automatons, one of which will execute wonderful feats on the Tight Rope, and the other dance a characteristic Hornpipe." Bologna announced for his performance at the Sans Pareil Theatre, Strand, London, under date of March 18th, 1812, "The Two Automaton Rope Dancers from St. Petersburg, whose Feats of Agility were never equalled, and cannot be surpassed, will perform together in a style of Excellence hitherto unknown in this country." De Philipsthal also featured a pair of automatic tight-rope performers from 1804 until his death; and in the early 30's the figures were exhibited by his widow. By referring to Chapter III. a De-Philipsthal programme of 1806 is reproduced as evidence. From 1825 to 1855 J. F. Thiodon played London and the provinces, advertising on his programmes: "FOURTH PIECE.--The Wonderful and Unrivalled Automaton on the Flying Rope. The only one of this construction in the Kingdom; and forms a more extraordinary Novelty from the circumstances of its not being fastened on the Rope by the Hands, like others hitherto exhibited. The Rope will be in continual Motion, and the Figure will sit perfectly easy and in a graceful attitude while on the Swing, and perform the most surprising Evolutions, scarcely to be distinguished from a Living Performer, as it moves with the utmost Correctness, without any apparent Machinery." From this overwhelming evidence it can be argued beyond doubt that if Robert-Houdin even constructed the automaton he merely copied figures presented by both his predecessors and his contemporaries, and he was fully aware of the existence of several such automata when he advertised his as an original invention. They were made by many mechanicians. In the illustrated appendix of the French edition of his "Memoirs" he goes further; he deliberately misrepresents the mechanism of the figure and insinuates that the automaton is a self-working one. This is not true, as it was worked by a concealed confederate, as described above by Decremps. Robert-Houdin even used the garlands of flowers to hide the moving bars as Pinetti and others of his predecessors had done. The truth was not in him. CHAPTER VI THE INEXHAUSTIBLE BOTTLE While Robert-Houdin claims to have invented "The Inexhaustible Bottle" for a special programme designed to create a sensation at the opening of his season of 1848, in the illustrated appendix of the original French edition of his "Memoirs" he states that it had its premier presentation December 1st, 1847. These discrepancies occur with such frequency that it is difficult to refute his claims in chronological order. Perhaps he adopted this method intentionally, to confuse future historians of magic, particularly concerning his own achievements. In order to emphasize the brilliancy of this trick, Robert-Houdin turned boastful in describing it. On page 348 of the American edition of his "Memoirs," he states that the trick had created such a sensation and was so much exploited in the London newspapers that the fame of his inexhaustible bottle spread to the provinces, and on his appearance in Manchester with the bottle in his hand the workmen who made up the audience nearly mobbed him. In fact, the description of this scene is the most dramatic pen-picture in his "Memoirs." The truth, sad to state, is that the bottle trick did not create the sensation he claims for it in London, nor did the press eulogize it. It was classed with other ordinary tricks, and twenty London papers bear mute testimony to this fact. In a complete collection of press clippings regarding his first London appearance, only four of the London papers mention the trick. _The Times_, the great conservative English paper, in reviewing Robert-Houdin's performance in its issue of May 3d, 1847, ignored the trick entirely. The four London papers which made mention of the bottle trick, and then only in a passing comment, were _The Chronicle_, _The Globe_, _The Lady's Newspaper_, and _The Court Journal_. Any one acquainted with the two last-named periodicals will know that they rarely reach the hands of the humble artisans in Manchester. _Punch_, London's great comic paper, gave the trick some space, however. The trick of pouring several sorts of liquors from the same bottle has been presented in various forms and under different names. To prove the futility of Robert-Houdin's claims I will explain the mystery of this trick, which is of an interesting nature. To all intents and purposes the bottle used looks like glass; but it is invariably made of tin, heavily japanned. Ranged around the central space, which is free from deception, are five compartments, each tapering to a narrow-mouthed tube which terminates about an inch or an inch and a half from within the neck of the bottle. A small pinhole is drilled through the outer surface of the bottle into each compartment, the holes being so placed that when the bottle is grasped with the hand in the ordinary way, the performer covers all but one of the pinholes with his fingers and thumb. The centre section is left empty, but the other compartments are filled with a funnel which has a tapering nozzle made specially for this purpose. The trick is generally started by proving to the audience that the bottle is empty. It is then filled with water, which is immediately poured out again, all this time the five pinholes being covered tightly with the hand or fingers which are holding the bottle. When a liquor is called for, the performer raises the finger over the air-hole above that particular liquor, and the liquor will flow out. When a large number of liquors may be called for, the performer has one compartment filled with a perfectly colorless liquor, which he pours into glasses previously flavored with strong essences. Certain gins and cordials can be simulated in this fashion. Various improvements have been made in this bottle trick. For instance, after the bottle has yielded its various sorts of liquors, it is broken, and from the bottle the performer produces some borrowed article which has been "vanished" in a previous trick and then apparently forgotten. This may have been a ring, glove, or handkerchief, which will be discovered tied around the neck of a small guinea-pig or dove taken from the broken bottle. This is accomplished by having the bottle especially constructed. Its compartments end a few inches above the bottom of the bottle and the portion below having a wavy or cracked appearance, is made to slip on and off. The conjurer goes through the motions of actually breaking the bottle by tapping it near the bottom with a small hammer or wand, and the appearance of the guinea-pig or lost article causes surprise, so that the pretended breaking of the bottle passes unnoticed. Again, this bottle can be genuine, with no loose bottom at all, and a small article can be inserted, but this makes a great deal of trouble, and the effect is not greatly increased. In doing the trick thus, I was always compelled to have an optician cut the bottom from the bottle, and then at times even he would break it. To explain further how the article is "loaded" into the bottle, the performer borrows several articles, for example a ring and two watches. He will place the ring and watches into a funnel at the end of a large horse-pistol, and shoot them at the target. The two watches appear on the target or in a frame or any place that he may choose. In obtaining the articles, he may have wrapped them up in a handkerchief which he has hidden in the front of his vest. Alexander Herrmann was exceptionally clever in making this exchange, his iron nerve and perpetual smile being great aids in the trick. The performer now places the duplicate handkerchief on the table in full view of the audience, and walks to another table for a gun. While reaching for this gun, he places the original articles which he borrowed behind his table on a servante, so that his hidden assistant may reach for them, place the two watches on the "turn-about target," tie the ring on the neck of the guinea-pig, shove him into the bottle, and insert the false bottom. The trick is then ready in its entirety. The magician calls for something to use as a target, and the assistant responds with the revolving target or frame. When the conjurer shoots, the two watches appear on the target or in the frame. This part of the trick is accomplished by having the centre of the target revolve, or, if the frame is used, by having a black velvet curtain pulled up by rapid springs or strong rubbers. While all this is going on, some one has brought on the stage the loaded bottle, and as no attention is called to this, by the time the watches have been restored to the owners the conjurer introduces the bottle trick, pours out the various liquors, and eventually breaks the bottle and reproduces the borrowed article tied about the neck of the guinea-pig or dove. Many names have been given to this trick. The old-time magicians who remained for months in one theatre had to change their programmes frequently, so for one night they would present the bottle without breaking it, and on the next they would break the bottle, so as to vary the trick. This bottle trick originated in "The Inexhaustible Barrel." The first trace that I can find of this wonderful barrel is in "Hocus Pocus, Jr., The Anatomie of Legerdemain," written by Henry Dean in 1635 (Second Edition). On page 21 is described a barrel with a single spout, from which can be drawn three different kinds of liquors. This was worked precisely on the same principle as was the inexhaustible bottle trick centuries later, by shutting up the air-holes of compartments from which liquors were not flowing. Its first public appearance, according to the data in my collection, clipped from London papers of 1707 and 1712, was when the "famous water-works of the late ingenious Mr. Henry Winstanly" were exhibited by his servants for the benefit of his widow; and the exhibition included a view of "the Barrel that plays so many Liquors and is broke in pieces before the Spectators." In 1780 Dr. Desaguliers presented in London a performance entitled "A Course of Experimental Philosophy wherein the Principles of Mechanics, Hydrostatics, Pneumatics, and Optics are proved and demonstrated by more than 300 Experiments." In the course of these lectures he produced a sort of barrel, worked by holding the fingers over the air-holes. He also exposed the real source of strength of the notorious strong man of his day, John Carl von Eckeberg, who allowed horses to pull against him, permitted heavy stones to be broken on his bare chest, and who broke heavy ropes simply by stretching or straightening his knees. These lectures and exposés made Dr. Desaguliers so famous that he has been given considerable space in Sir David Brewster's "Letters on Natural Magic," published in London in 1851, in which book the various deceptions used by strong men are fully described. In fact the book is one that should be in every conjurer's library. The old Dutch books explain the barrel trick, and in 1803 Charles Hutton, professor of Woolwich Royal Academy, translated four books from Ozanam and Montucla, exposing quite a number of old conjuring tricks. The barrel trick will be found on page 94 of Volume II. The first use of "The Inexhaustible Bottle" by modern conjurers I found in an announcement of Herr Schmidt, a German performer, who for a time controlled the original writing and drawing figure, as will be found by reference to Chapter III., which is devoted to the history of that automaton. The programme published in that chapter is dated 1827, and does not include the famous bottle, because it was no longer a novelty in Herr Schmidt's répertoire; but the advertisement reproduced herewith, dated 1821, schedules the bottle trick thus: "The Bottle of Sobriety and Inebriety, proving the inutility of a set of decanters, when various liquors can be produced by one." Thus Schmidt antedated Houdin's offering of the trick by more than a quarter of a century. [Illustration: A Schmidt programme of 1821, featuring the "Bottle of Sobriety and Inebriety." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Next the bottle turned up in 1835 in London, where it was presented by a German who styled himself "Falck of Koenigsberg, Pupil of the celebrated Chevalier Pinnetty," and who introduced the programme with which Döbler made such a sensation in 1842. [Illustration: Poster used by Falck of Koenigsberg in 1835, featuring the trick of exchange of wine. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Mr. Falck opened at the Queen's Bazaar, Oxford Street, London, November 8th, 1835. Before opening, however, he gave a private performance for the press, and received quite a number of notices. A half-column clipping in my collection, dated November 4th, 1835, which I think is cut from _The Chronicle_ or _The Globe_, mentions the trick among other effects like "Flora's Gift," "The Card in the Pocket," etc., and adds that the "exchange of wine was so that if once in Mr. Falck's company, we should not wish to exchange it, for he poured three sorts of wine, Port, Sherry, and Champagne, out of one bottle. Then he put them together, and from such a mixture produced sherry in one glass, and port in another." From this notice it will be seen that Falck had "The Inexhaustible Bottle," and had some method of returning all the liquors not drunk back into the bottle and then pouring out two different kinds of liquor. Perhaps he resorted to chemicals, but one thing is evident--the bottle was used for six different kinds of liquors at one and the same time. [Illustration: Poster used by Phillippe during his Edinburgh engagement in 1838, featuring "The Infernal Bottle." From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Phillippe from 1836 to 1838 featured "An Infernal Bottle" trick, also "The Inexhaustible Bottle" trick. The trick also was seen on programmes used by John Henry Anderson, the Wizard of the North, in the same years. According to these programmes Phillippe and Anderson showed the bottle empty, filled it with water, and then served five different liquors. On April 30th, 1838, Anderson thus announced the trick on a programme used at Victoria Rooms, Hull: "Handkerchiefs will be borrowed from three gentlemen; the magician will load his mystic gun, in which he will place the handkerchiefs; he will fire a bottle containing wine, the bottle will be broken and the handkerchiefs will appear." Programmes in my collection show that Anderson presented the trick, serving various sorts of liquors, when he played London in 1840, but little attention was drawn to the wonderful bottle. In 1842 Ludwig Döbler, Germany's best-beloved magician, came to London and featured what he termed "The Travelling Bottle." [Illustration: Reproduction of a political cartoon in _Punch_, published during Anderson's London engagement, April, 1843, proving that the "Inexhaustible Bottle Trick" was used by Anderson before Robert-Houdin was a professional entertainer. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Ludwig Döbler in his prime, taken about 1839. The original of this rare picture was discovered by the author in a small print shop in Moscow, Russia. It is now a part of his Collection.] Ludwig Leopold Döbler was born in Vienna in 1801. He was the best-beloved magician who ever trod the stage. He started life as an engraver of metals, but his fancy turned to necromancy. He gave his best performances in his native city. In 1841 he was touring Holland, and in a letter now in my possession, which he wrote to a director and editor in Vienna under date of March 15th, 1842, he informs his friend that he has sent all his baggage to London from Amsterdam, and is on a visit to Paris. He regrets that he has not all of his apparatus with him, but has given several performances, and mentions the fact that "to-morrow I am engaged to give a performance in the private parlor of Rothschild and then by the Count Montaliset, minister of the King's mansions." He also informs his friend that he expects to visit Paris the next season and build his own theatre. He states a fact most interesting to all magicians, namely, that he has rented the St. James Theatre in London for two thousand francs ($400) a night, or more than $2,400 rent for one week. Döbler drew such big audiences and made so much money that he refused to give private performances, only breaking this rule when presenting his show before H. M. Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort. [Illustration: A Döbler programme from the Evanion collection, dated 1842, now in the possession of the author.] He played the provinces, then went over to Dublin, where, although unable to speak English, he was a veritable sensation. In 1844 Döbler played a return date at the St. James Theatre, London, and this time he had Anderson as a rival at the Théâtre Royal Adelphia. Döbler amassed a fortune very rapidly; in fact he retired in 1847, and never again appeared on the stage. He always explained his early retirement by saying: "The public loves me, and I want it to always love me. I may return and be a failure, so it is best to know just when to stop." He died in a little village near Tunitz, on April 17th, 1864, when one of God's noblemen was laid to rest. "The Travelling Bottle" alluded to by Döbler in his programmes was nothing more or less than "The Inexhaustible Bottle." The following excerpt from the London _Chronicle_ during Döbler's engagement at the St. James Theatre, April, 1842, is illuminating: [Illustration: Döbler's farewell programme in verse, used when he played his last engagement in the Josephstadter Theatre, Vienna. Original given by Döbler personally to Henry Evanion; now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Ludwig Döbler in his prime, offering his most popular trick, "The Creation of Flowers." From a rare lithograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] "D�BLER--ST. JAMES THEATRE.--Among the illusions that more particularly struck our fancy was one entitled 'The Travelling Bottle,' where Herr Döbler, filling a common bottle with water, transformed this water into a collection of wines of all countries, amicably assembled together in one receptacle, and he fills out first a glass of sherry, then one of port, then one of champagne, and so on." The critic then describes how the bottle was broken, and the borrowed handkerchief was found inside the bottle. [Illustration: Döbler programme with illustrations of his tricks, used during his engagement at the St. James Theatre, London. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Probably because of the prominence which Herr Döbler gave to this trick it attracted more attention when Anderson presented it during his London run of 1843. He announced it as "Water vs. Wine, or Changing Water into Different Liquids--Sherry, Port, Champagne, Gin, Milk, Rum, and Water." [Illustration: Programme used by Macallister at the Bowery Theatre, August 11th, 1852, during his second engagement in New York City. Featuring the "Magic Bottle" from which twenty-two kinds of liquor could be drawn. Careful reading will unearth Macallister's ill-will toward Anderson. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The London _Sun_ of April 18th, 1843, says: "Mr. Anderson, besides the feats by which his reputation was established in his former exhibitions in the metropolis, performed with perfect ease and success some of greater difficulty than those by which Herr Döbler astonished the world, such as serving several kinds of wines from the same bottle." _The Morning Advertiser_ (London) of the same date said: "With the utmost ease he produced from an empty bottle wine, water, port, sherry, and champagne, and immediately afterward, under a blaze of wax and gas, he broke the same bottle and produced from it half a dozen cambric handkerchiefs, which had previously been deposited under lock and key at a considerable distance." [Illustration: Andrew Macallister as he appeared during his engagement in the United States. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Macallister, the Scotch brick-mason, who became the pupil and assistant of Phillippe, as described in the chapter on "The Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal," also claimed the bottle trick as his invention. I have been unable to obtain any of the early programmes used by Macallister, but I am reproducing the one he utilized during his engagement at the Bowery Theatre, New York City, in 1852. This was not his first appearance in New York, however. In December, 1848, and January, 1849, he played at the same theatre, and announced that he had just concluded a successful engagement at the Grand Theatre Tacon, Havana, Cuba. [Illustration: The original Compars Herrmann, who was Robert-Houdin's very active rival during the latter's first engagement in London. Best portrait now in existence, and only one showing Herrmann in his prime. Original photograph loaned for this work by James L. Kernan, of Baltimore, Md., U. S. A.] Although Macallister claims to have invented "The Inexhaustible Bottle" trick, it is more likely that, having been connected so long with Phillippe, he knew the secret several years before Robert-Houdin appeared in public. But as Macallister also claimed to have invented the peacock and the harlequin automata, both of which are recognized as the inventions of his predecessors, his claim cannot be given serious consideration. He advertised to produce twenty-two kinds of liquors from one bottle, and therefore he must have utilized the essence glasses in connection with the bottle. What must have been Robert-Houdin's feeling when, on arriving in London in 1848, he found another magician, Compars Herrmann, heavily advertised at the Théâtre Royal, and already offering each and every trick included by the Frenchman in his répertoire. Even the much-vaunted bottle was in Herrmann's list of tricks. No one seems able to tell where Compars Herrmann obtained the tricks he used, but he must be given credit for never advertising them as his own inventions. His record in this respect was clean throughout his life as a mysterious entertainer. The programme presented by Herrmann at the Théâtre Royal during Robert-Houdin's opening week at the St. James Theatre is herewith reproduced. Herrmann remained some time in London, playing at the Adelphia, then at the Royal Princess, and finally at the Surrey Theatre. A bill used by Herrmann at the Princess is reproduced on page 232. It evidently proved satisfactory to the public and he used it without change for many years. [Illustration: Billing used by Compars Herrmann when he played in opposition to Robert-Houdin on the latter's arrival in London. This shows that Herrmann duplicated all of Robert-Houdin's tricks. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Probably the most notable warfare waged over the honor of having invented this trick arose between Robert-Houdin and Henri Robin, who were contemporaries. [Illustration: A Herrmann programme dated April, 1848, showing that Herrmann presented the inexhaustible bottle two months before Robert-Houdin appeared in London.] [Illustration: Henri Robin, generally conceded to have been the most polished conjurer in the history of magic. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Robin, whose right name was Dunkell, was of Holland birth and died in Paris in 1874. He was at his prime about 1839-40, when he toured the Continent. He was popular in London, Paris, and both the English and French provinces. A polished man, famous for the elegance of his speech and manners, he conducted his performance and all his business in a quiet, conservative fashion. In both Paris and London, he had playhouses named temporarily in his honor, Salle de Robin, and at one time in London he also appeared at the Egyptian Hall. He published his own magazine, _L'Almanach d'Cagliostro_, an illustrated periodical which was quite pretentious. Robin presented all the tricks and automata that Robert-Houdin claimed as his original inventions, and in the famous controversy, Robert-Houdin came out second best. Robin proved that he had used the bottle trick before Robert-Houdin did, by showing back numbers of his magazine, whose illustrations pictured Robin performing the trick at his theatre in Milan, Italy, July 6th, 1844, or three years before Robert-Houdin presented it in Paris. Robin, however, never wrote an autobiography nor any exhaustive work dealing with the history of magic, while Robert-Houdin did. The latter set forth his claims over other magicians so skilfully that for more than half a century the intelligent and thoughtful reading public has been deceived and has accepted his statements as authoritative. According to an article published in _L'Illusionniste_, scientists to this day, in explaining the law of physics as operated by the use of air-holes in the inexhaustible bottle, refer to it as the "Robert-Houdin bottle," when in reality the honor of its invention belongs to some obscure mechanic or magician whose name must remain forever unsung by writers on magic. CHAPTER VII SECOND SIGHT Evidently second sight was the foundation-stone of Robert-Houdin's success. Reading between the lines of his autobiography, one finds that this was the trick which carried him into the salons of fashion and royalty. Before he introduced second sight into his répertoire, his tricks were so commonplace that they did not arouse the interest of the court circle, whose approval furnished the seal of success. This trick of second sight he claims body and soul, as the favorite child of his brain. He even goes as far as to relate a story to prove that the trick came to him in the form of an inspiration. I quote directly from the American edition of his "Memoirs," page 255: "My two children were playing one day in the drawing-room at a game they had invented for their own amusement; the younger had bandaged his elder brother's eyes and made him guess the objects that he touched, and when the latter happened to guess right they changed places. This simple game suggested to me the most complicated idea that ever crossed my mind. Pursued by the notion, I ran and shut myself in my workshop, and was fortunately in that happy state when the mind follows easily the combinations traced by fancy. I rested my head in my hands, and in my excitement laid down the first principles of second sight." [Illustration: Robert-Houdin and his son Emile, presenting second sight. Here the bell is used as it was by Henri Robin. From an illustration in the original French edition of the Robert-Houdin "Memoirs."] Then, picking up the long idle quill of Baron Munchausen, he proceeds to explain the methods by which he perfected the trick and trained his son. To the layman these methods read most entertainingly. To the experienced conjurer or his humblest assistant they appeal as absurd and impossible, a sheer waste of time, of which a man who reproduced the tricks of his predecessors as rapidly as Robert-Houdin did, would not be guilty. [Illustration: Robert and Haidee Heller from photographs taken at the time that they were presenting second sight according to the Robert-Houdin method by an electric code. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] He claims to have trained the eye and memory of his son, by leading the latter past shop windows, and after allowing him one glance, demanding the names of articles seen at this single glance. When the boy could mention forty things after passing the window, his education was pronounced good. Robert-Houdin also tells in his "Memoirs" of spending hours with his son in poring over an enormous collection of coins, medals, etc., which severe lesson helped them both in future performances. To the conjurer, this tale is farcical. Not only was there no need of forcing the boy to become a coin expert, but the task was one which could not be accomplished in the brief time which Robert-Houdin allowed himself for perfecting the trick. The only knowledge required about coins is to recognize a coin when you see it. Some one may hand a coin of peculiar stamp, and the operator must signal to his medium the metal and all he knows about it. Of course, if both know the various coins, then they can understand each other with less signaling than if the coins were unfamiliar to either. Inaudi, the French calculator, can look at a blackboard filled with numbers for a few seconds, then turn his back upon them and add the entire amount that he has just seen and memorized. But let the reader understand that Inaudi is peculiarly gifted by nature, while second sight is a trick in which the person on the stage known as the medium is assisted by words, signs, prearranged movements, or articles or figures in rotation, which to the layman have the appearance of being unprepared. At a familiar cue, however, the operator touches articles that have been memorized, a ring, a watch, a scarf-pin, a lady's fan, an opera glass, all in rotation. At a snap of the fingers the medium will know that the articles are to be named in consecutive order, and only after the snap of the fingers or another cue agreed upon. [Illustration: Programme used by Robert Heller in 1851-52, when he was about eighteen years of age. Probably the only programme of this date in existence. Now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] Robert-Houdin presented the trick for the first time at his own theatre, February 12th, 1846. Unquestionably at this time he employed the speaking code, wherein the answer is contained in the question asked of the medium by the performer. As he describes scene after scene in which he and his son participated, it is almost possible for a conjurer or any one interested in magic to follow his code. Apparently the amusement-loving public became familiar with his speaking code, for three years later, according to the illustrated appendix of the French edition of his "Memoirs," he adopted a code of signals, which he states was especially arranged to confuse those whom he terms his "fearless discoverers." A mysterious bell was used in this connection, but he admits that it mattered not whether the bell struck or was silent, his son could name the object under consideration or answer the question. While Robert-Houdin asserts that he did not employ electricity for working his silent code, investigations make it almost certain that this was the method used. It is known throughout the world of conjuring that in 1850-51 Robert Heller (William Henry Palmer) reproduced Robert-Houdin's entire répertoire of tricks, with the exception of the suspension, and all worked precisely by Robert-Houdin's methods. In the second-sight trick, which he first presented with a young man as the medium, then later with Miss Haidee Heller, the medium was seated on a sofa fully equipped with wires and electric batteries. Heller's second sight was worked with both the speaking and silent codes. His confederate was concealed behind the scenes watching Heller through a peep-hole, or possibly he used another, seated in the audience, and had the wires strung under his chair, arranging the signal button so that it could be easily reached on the arm or front part of the seat. The receiving instrument was attached to the sofa on which the medium was seated. The latter would be silently informed as to what was being shown and would answer all questions. As proof that these statements are not mere hearsay, the Heller sofa can now be seen in the possession of Mr. Francis J. Martinka, of New York; and Dr. W. Golden Mortimer, who once presented "Mortimer's Mysteries," a show on the style of Heller's performance, furnishes the information that when Heller died in Philadelphia, November 28th, 1878, he engaged the dead magician's chief assistant, an expert electrician named E. J. Dale, who had acted as secret confederate, assisting the medium. [Illustration: Poster used by Robert Heller during his Boston engagement in 1853. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] After travelling with Mortimer some time, Dale eventually returned to England, and retired from the profession. He opened a large shop in London under the firm name of H. & E. J. Dale, Manufacturing Electricians, 4 Little Britain, E. C., in October, 1882. It was the easiest thing imaginable for Robert-Houdin to have his theatre arranged with secret confederates and wires back of the scenes, where a man with powerful opera-glasses could stand. The place being small, he could look all over the room and see the minutest article. When not making use of the talking code, the simplest method employed by second-sight artists is to have a confederate in the audience, with either an electrical push button or a pneumatic bulb, who gives the medium the signal. This is received by a miniature piston, which requires only a small hole in the stage, while the medium has a matching hole in the sole of his shoe. This allows the piston to touch the sole of the foot whenever the confederate presses the bulb or pushes the button. [Illustration: The author at the long-neglected grave of Robert Heller, in Mt. Moriah Cemetery, Philadelphia, U. S. A. From a photograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] From this array of facts it will be seen that second sight is and always has been a matter of well-drilled phrases or signals, prearranged rotation of articles, well-built apparatus or well-trained confederates, but never a feat of actual thought-transferrence. Some of Robert-Houdin's ardent supporters insist that in claiming the invention or discovery of second sight, the French conjurer was merely an unconscious plagiarist, having stumbled upon, quite by accident, a trick which he did not know that others had offered before him. Such a statement is illogical and absurd. Books of magic to which Robert-Houdin had access and which he admits having read describe the trick in a more or less crude form. Pinetti, whose tricks were fully described to Robert-Houdin by his old friend Torrini, used the second-sight mystification with excellent effect. Robert-Houdin could not have been ignorant of its existence as a trick. In making the claim to its discovery in his "Memoirs" he simply trusted to the ignorance of the reading public in the history of magic. According to programmes and newspaper clippings in my collection, Philip Breslaw was the first conjurer to feature second sight in his performance. Breslaw was a clever German who so established himself in the hearts of amusement-loving Englishmen that he remained in England for forty years, dying in Liverpool in 1803. In 1781, while playing at Greenwood's Rooms, Haymarket, London, he announced as Part One of his entertainment: "Mr. Breslaw will exhibit his new magical deceptions, Letters, Medals, Dice, Pocket pieces, Rings, etc., etc., and particularly communicate the thoughts of any person to another without the assistance of speech or writing." Pinetti comes next as an eminent presenter of second sight. Between these two well-known conjurers there may have been various unimportant, unchronicled performers who made use of Breslaw's trick, but they have no place in the history of magic. The trick appeared on a Pinetti programme at the Royal Haymarket, London, England, December 1st, 1784, almost sixty-two years before Robert-Houdin presented it as his original invention. [Illustration: Clipping from the London _Post_, December 1st, 1784, in which Pinetti featured second sight. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The London _Morning Post and Daily Advertiser_ of December 1st, 1784, contains the above advertisement, reproduced from my collection. The talking code employed by Pinetti was not original with him, as it dates back to the automaton worked by a concealed confederate who controlled the piston for the mechanical figure or pulled the strings to manipulate the dancing coins or moving head. It was novel only in its application to the supposed thought-transferrence by a human being instead of an automaton. This code is described by various reliable authors. On page 388, Volume III. of Hooper's "Recreations," edition 1782, it is stated that the confederate worked the apparatus from another room. "By certain words, previously agreed on, make it known to the confederate," is the advice given to would-be conjurers. Beckman in his "History of Inventions" relates that he knew an exhibitor of a "talking figure" whose concealed confederate was cued to answer certain questions, the answers being given in the manner of putting the question, also by different signs. These instructions will be found on page 311 of Volume II., edition of 1817. [Illustration: Reproduction of front and back of original handbill distributed on London streets in 1831, to advertise Master M'Kean. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Decremps undertook to expose Pinetti's method of working the second-sight trick in his famous book, but in this attempt he scored one of the few failures which marked the bitter fight he waged against Pinetti. In his book "La Magie Blanche Dévoilée" (White Magic Exposed), first edition, 1784, he offers on page 40 "Les Cartes dévinées, les yeux bandés" (The Divination of Cards with the Eyes Blindfolded). In this feat Decremps explains that Pinetti would allow cards to be drawn, then a lady (Signora Pinetti) would appear on the stage, would be blindfolded, and would name all the cards that were drawn. Decremps explains the prearranged pack of cards for this trick, also outlining the manner of giving the medium the cue for certain phrases. For instance, while explaining to the audience that he will not speak at all, in the very sentences addressed to the spectators he informs the medium which cards have been selected. Pinetti's code must have been clever, as Decremps was unable to explain the entire second-sight act. He has omitted the principal part of the mystification, that is, naming the articles held up for the performer to see. That the card trick was only one test of his second-sight performance, and that Pinetti's medium did not retire after naming the cards, are facts shown by the following clipping from one of his announcements: "Signora Pinetti will have the special honor and satisfaction of exhibiting various experiments of new discovery, no less curious than seemingly incredible, particularly that of her being seated in one of the front boxes with an handkerchief over her eyes, and guess at everything imagined and proposed to her by any person in the company." Third on the list of second-sight performers, according to the data in my collection, was Louis Gordon M'Kean, who created a sensation at the Egyptian Hall Bazaar, Piccadilly, London, in 1831, or fifteen years before Robert-Houdin, according to his claims, "discovered" second sight. Young M'Kean was featured as possessing double, not second, sight, and one of his bills is reproduced on page 212. Another programme in my collection, dated the Théâtre Scarboro, Friday evening, August 4th, 1837, announces "For a limited engagement of three nights the Three Talented Highlanders and most extraordinary Second-Sighted Young Highlanders." [Illustration: Decoration on the broadside used to advertise a young Dutchwoman who created a sensation in the early part of the eighteenth century. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] These lads, I believe, were three brothers, one the original M'Kean, or the latter working in conjunction with two other boys trained to the tricks in order to secure more impressive results. The trio appeared eight years before Robert-Houdin became a professional entertainer. Holland also contributed a successful performer of second-sight tricks, the medium in this case being a Dutchwoman who created a profound sensation while touring Germany in the early part of the eighteenth century. The billing used at the yearly fairs is an enormous poster which would be unintelligible if reduced to a size suitable for reproduction. It is now a part of my collection and reads as follows: [Illustration: Reproduction of original billing matter used by the mysterious lady who offered second sight in the United States in 1841-42-43. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Reproduction of the cut used on the mysterious lady's handbills, distributed in America in 1841. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "The Holland Maid, Twenty Years of Age, from Amsterdam, whose powers, both in her residence there and in all other places to which she has gone, have excited great astonishment and much applause, and she will also in this place endeavor to obtain the same tribute of public applause. She will after the exhibition place herself before the eyes of all the spectators on the outside and gravely stand thereon and at all times give an answer of assurance to any one present to whom her judgment in all questions gives the most accurate response. She contrives also by her acuteness to discover and reply to the least thought, not until then explored. She guesses the age of every one, whether they be married or not; how many children they have, of what sex, and whether they be living or dead at the present time, etc. She does the like for any one having a chance in the lottery, as to what is its number, and what will be its share of gains. She also guesses at every one of the most different sorts of coin, and even at the year with which they were stamped. She guesses at every number which any one shall secretly set down, even though it amount to upward a million. She moreover tells exactly whether any one be in the Army, under how many Monarchs he has served, in how many battles he has been engaged, and whether he has ever been wounded and how many wounds he has received. By throwing the Dice, she will every time exactly tell the very number of spots which may have been determined on." This wordy announcement is signed by W. Sahm, of Holland. In my collection there is also an interesting handbill advertising the tour of "The Mysterious Lady" who offered second-sight tricks in the eastern part of the United States in 1842-43. Her name was never stated on the programmes, but the latter, together with a clipping dated Boston, February 20th, 1843, will suffice to prove my claim that she was offering second-sight before Robert-Houdin did, and therefore could not be copying his trick. She also appeared in England fully a year before Robert-Houdin "discovered" second sight. Henri Robin and his wife featured second sight in Italy just when Robert-Houdin first offered it in Paris. It is barely possible that they antedated Robert-Houdin in the production of this trick, for I have in my collection a brochure entitled "Album des Soirées de M. et Mme. Robin," which contains an engraving of the couple offering second-sight, a short poem in honor of Mme. Robin's remarkable gifts as a second-sight artist, and a poem generally eulogistic of M. Robin's talents dated distinctly February 7th, 1846. Robert-Houdin presented second-sight for the first time, according to his own "Memoirs," on February 12th, 1846. [Illustration: Second sight as offered by M. and Mme. Robin, in which Robin employed the bell and the goblet. From the latter she sipped liquor, claiming it tasted like the wine secretly named by a spectator. Robin's stage was equipped with electrical appliances. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] To prove the utter folly of Robert-Houdin's claims to having trained his son's eye and memory by patient effort so as to have a mutual transferrence of thought, I will next show that animals had been trained for years to do tricks by secret signals before the alleged "discovery" of second sight. Two rare old bills in my collection advertise the marvellous "mind-reading" performances of a goose and a blindfolded dog respectively. The first, dated 1789, announces that a Mr. Beckett, a trunk-maker of No. 31 Haymarket, is exhibiting "a Learned Goose, just lately arrived from abroad. "It performs the following tricks: performing upon cards, money, and watches, telling the time of the month, year, and date, also the value of any piece either English or foreign, distinguishing all sorts of colors and (most prodigiously and certainly unbelieving to those who know the intellects of a goose) she tells the number of ladies and gentlemen in the company or any person's thoughts; any lady or gentleman drawing a card out of the pack, though ever so secret, the Goose, blindfolded at the same time, will find out the card they drew. Admittance two shillings each person." The second bill features Don Carlo, the Double-Sighted dog, which gave an exhibition of his mysterious skill at the Pavillion by special command, before King William and the royal family on December 17th, 1831. This dog was blindfolded and could present almost in duplicate the second-sight tests offered by the Highland lad who five days later gave a similar exhibition before the royal family at the same place. [Illustration: Rare poster announcing the performance of the learned goose, one of the first of the second-sight animal artists. Traced from the original poster in the British Museum by the author.] [Illustration: Billing used for Don Carlos, the double-sighted dog. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] This proof regarding the use of animals as "mediums" is offered not to belittle the human mediums, but to prove that from start to finish, from the day that Breslaw offered the trick to the present moment, when a number of skilful so-called mind-readers still mystify the public, some sort of speaking or signal code has been used. Robert-Houdin used both the speaking and the signal code, but so did Breslaw, and all evidence points to the fact that Robert-Houdin merely improved upon the trick employed by Breslaw, Pinetti, and others among his predecessors in magic, by utilizing the newly found assistant to the magician, electricity. In his tiny theatre it would have been entirely feasible to have had electric wires run from all points of the auditorium to the stage, thus doing away with both the speaking and ordinary signal codes, even the pneumatic tube. For this improvement, and this alone, should Robert-Houdin be given credit. Nearly all magicians improve or redress tricks or apparatus handed down to them by their predecessors, but Robert-Houdin was not willing to admit that he owed anything to his predecessors. CHAPTER VIII THE SUSPENSION TRICK In chapters XVI. and XVII. of the American edition of his "Memoirs," Robert-Houdin states that he closed his theatre during the months of July, August, and September, 1847, and devoted his time to producing new tricks for the coming season. He chronicles as the result of these labors the following additions to his répertoire: "The Crystal Box," "The Fantastic Portfolio," "The Trapeze Tumbler," "The Garde Française," "The Origin of Flowers," "The Crystal Balls," "The Inexhaustible Bottle," "The Ethereal Suspension," etc. Had these inventions really been original with the man who claimed them as the result of his own brain-work and handicraft, three years would not have sufficed to bring them to the perfection in which they were presented at that time. It is not always the actual work that makes a trick a success, nor the material from which it is constructed, but it takes time to plan a new trick; and then after you have worked out the idea, it takes more time to make it practical. The same piece of apparatus may have to be made dozens of times, in as many shapes, before it is presentable. Therefore, when Robert-Houdin claims to have invented and built with his own hands the tricks mentioned in the list given above, it is time to prove the improbability and falsity of his statements. [Illustration: A Robert-Houdin poster on which his complete repertoire appears, under date of June 14th, 1852. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Poster used by Robert-Houdin during his first London engagement, featuring suspension. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Inventions are a matter of evolution, but as the tricks which Robert-Houdin presented in his new répertoire were not new, he was able to offer them as the result of three months' work. To the expert mechanician or builder of conjuring apparatus his claim is farcical. The majority of the tricks mentioned require skilled hands and infinite patience, if they work in a way that will completely deceive the public. Particularly is this true of the first suspension apparatus such as Robert-Houdin must have used. This included a steel corset or frame for the subject, and both the corset and the supporting rods had to be strong, invisible to the audience, and still be perfect in mechanism. Robert-Houdin, with characteristic ambiguity, does not refer to a complicated mechanism, but lays stress on his ability to keep his tricks up-to-date and in line with popular movements of the hour. In writing of the suspension trick, he gives the impression that but for the sensation created by the use of ether as an anæsthetic he would never have thought out the new trick. His own words as presented on page 312 of the American edition of his "Memoirs" are reproduced in this connection: "It will be remembered that in 1847 the insensibility produced by inhaling ether began to be applied to surgical operations; all the world talked about the marvellous effect of this anæsthetic and its extraordinary results. In the eyes of the people it seemed much akin to magic. Seeing that the surgeons had invaded my domain, I asked myself if this did not allow me to make reprisals. I did so by inventing my ethereal suspension, which I believe was far more surprising than any result obtained by my surgical brethren. This trick was much applauded, and I am bound to say that my arrangements were excellently made. This was the first time that I tried to direct the surprise of my spectators by gradually heightening it up to the next moment, when, so to speak, it exploded." While Robert-Houdin, in his "Memoirs," claims to have invented the trick for the season of 1847-48, in the illustrated appendix of the French edition he states that the first production of the trick, with improvements, was in October, 1849. The improvement consisted of working the trick with a stool upon a platform, when, previous to this date, he had used only the ordinary platform and rod. During the course of researches covering many years, during which I visited national libraries in various countries, the first trace of the suspension trick was discovered in the writings of Ian Batuta, who flourished about the thirteenth century. He mentions two conjurers who performed before the court of the Mogul in Delhi. One of the men assumed the form of a cube and rose into the air, where he remained suspended. The other man then took off his shoe, struck it against a rock, and it also rose and hung in midair, close to the suspended conjurer or human cube. On being touched on the neck, the cube descended to the ground, and the conjurer resumed his natural form. The historical verity of this tale cannot be determined, and it may be classed with the familiar story which crops up periodically, describing the ball of cord thrown into the air for a youth to climb into the clouds. Once out of sight, the youth is said to draw the cord up after him; then presently a leg falls from the unseen heights, then another, followed by an arm, a rib or two, and so on until the entire body is scattered upon the ground, the head coming last with the neck standing upward. At the command of the magician, the body seems to crawl together, so runs the tale, and eventually the youth stands up to be examined by the astonished populace. [Illustration: Reproduction of an engraving in an old German Encyclopædia in the Harry Houdini Collection, which credits to the Chinese the trick of climbing into the air and having the body fall down piecemeal and being set together again.] These stories belong in the very first of the travellers' tales. In 1356 Sir John Mandeville, called by some authorities "the Father of English Prose," after travelling thirty-four years, published a book detailing some of his marvellous "witnessings." Though many of his stories are absolutely impossible, yet so popular did his works become that, barring the Scriptures, more copies and manuscripts of the books containing his various "Magician Stories" have been handed down to posterity and exist to-day than any works of his contemporaries. Still, Mandeville did not mention this suspension trick, which is sometimes attributed to the Chinese and sometimes to the Hindoos. In Cologne, Germany, I purchased an encyclopædia, published in 1684, from which I reproduce a double-page engraving, which shows the Chinese magicians doing the tricks previously accredited, in the stories of travellers, to Hindoo conjurers. In "Lives of the Conjurers," Thomas Frost describes the suspension trick as offered about 1828 or 1829 at Madras by an old Brahmin with no better apparatus than a piece of plank with four legs. This he had formed into a stool, and upon it, in a little brass socket, he placed a hollow bamboo stick in a perpendicular position. Projecting from the stick was a kind of crutch, covered with a piece of common hide. These properties he carried with him in a bag, which was shown to all those who desired to witness his exhibition. The servants of the household then held a blanket before him, and, when it was withdrawn, he was discovered poised in midair about four feet from the ground, in a sitting posture, with the outer edge of one hand merely touching the crutch, while the fingers deliberately counted beads, and the other hand and arm were held in an upright position. The blanket was again held up before him, and the spectators caught a gurgling sound, like that occasioned by wind escaping from a bladder or tube. When the screen or blanket was again withdrawn, the conjurer was standing on the ground. [Illustration: The Brahmin suspension as shown in an illustration found in Robin's l'Almanach de Cagliostro.] The mystery was supposed to have been solved when Sheshal, commonly known as "the Brahmin of the Air," exhibited the trick in 1832 in Madras. It was observed that his stool was ornamented with two inlaid stars, and it was suggested that one of these might conceal a socket for a steel rod, passing through the bamboo, and that another rod, screwed to the perpendicular one and concealed by the piece of hide, might be connected with a mechanism of the same metal, passing up the sleeve and down the back, and forming a circular seat. This conjecture probably was not far from the truth, for while Frost is by no means the greatest of authorities on magic and magicians, in this particular instance I believe that his explanation of the trick is correct. The next authentic early information I have gathered regarding suspension concerns that wonderful performer who called himself Ching Lau Lauro. Presumably he was a Chinaman, and from the programmes in my collection he evidently appeared first in England, in 1828, when he was engaged to perform between scenes of various plays, including "Tom and Jerry," at the Coburg. I reproduce on page 231 one of Ching Lau Lauro's programmes. About 1833, or possibly a year earlier, he cut out some of his singing, and introduced the suspension with which he closed his performance. At this time he gave the entire programme. According to his programmes, in some places he excluded the public from the gallery, so I judge that his suspension was accomplished by the use of the iron rod from the back, which would have been in plain sight from the gallery. The stage would not permit the suspension to be worked out of range of the gallery gods. [Illustration: Ching Lau Lauro handbill featuring suspension in 1832. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: A Compars Herrmann programme of 1848 in which suspension is featured. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] When Robert-Houdin went to London in 1848 he found in the field of magic a clever rival, Compars Herrmann; a few months later came John Henry Anderson, the Wizard of the North. Both of these men presented the suspension trick in precisely the same manner claimed by Robert-Houdin as his original invention of 1847. Neither Anderson nor Herrmann claimed the honor of having invented the trick, and it is more than likely that the mechanician who made their apparatus for the suspension trick made the one used by Robert-Houdin also. Herrmann, like Robert-Houdin, called the trick ethereal suspension. Anderson gave it the title of "Chloriforeene Suspension," as the reproduction of an Anderson lithograph on page 234 will prove. During precisely the same period of time a brilliantly successful German conjurer, Alexander, was presenting the same trick in America, where he remained as a professional entertainer for ten years. In my collection, together with corroborative handbills and programmes, there will be found this statement from Alexander: "The suspension was at first produced by me in 1845 or 1846, after reading in an Oriental annual, edited by several officers of the Indian Army, the trick of a fakir who made a companion sit in the air by using a bamboo stick. My trick had no success, because the sitting was too near the ground. I then made him stand in the air, and the effect was marvellous." My meeting with Alexander, of which this correspondence was the result, marked an era in my search for material for this volume. Having read in a small book on magic, dated 1896, that a man named Heimburger, who had travelled in America as "Alexander the Conjurer," was living in his native town of Münster, in Westphalia, I determined to secure an interview with him if possible. [Illustration: "Suspension Chloriforeene," as presented by Anderson and his son, from a lithograph used by him on his return from the Continent, December, 1848. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] On March 17th, 1903, while playing in Cologne, I boarded an express train and arrived in Münster bright and early. From the city directory I learned that one Heimburger resided in Krumpentippen, 16. Hailing a passing droschke I was soon carried to my destination, where a bright-faced German girl opened the door and ushered me, without formality, into the presence of the man to whom I desired to pay my respects. An old man, bent with years, snow-white of beard and gray of head, came forward slowly to greet me. Finding that he was quite deaf, I raised my voice and fairly trumpeted my mission, adding that I felt especially honored to stand in the presence of the only magician who, up to that date, had ever appeared at the White House, Washington, by request of the President of the United States, my native land. Alexander had been asked to entertain President Polk and his guests on several occasions, and the fact that I knew this seemed to please the old conjurer and pave the way to a pleasant and profitable interview. In a few moments we were sitting side by side, and he was adding to my store of information by relating the most fascinating experiences, stories of fellow-magicians long since dead, and tales which he could corroborate by his own collection of bills, programmes, etc., his diary, and his personal correspondence. He had known Robert-Houdin, Frikell, Bosco, Count Pererilli, John Henry Anderson, Blitz, the original Bamberg of Amsterdam, Compars Herrmann, and many lesser lights among the old-time magicians. Robert-Houdin had told him personally that being pressed for time he had entrusted the writing of his "Memoirs" to a Parisian journalist. [Illustration: Mrs. Leona A. Anderson, daughter-in-law of John Henry Anderson, as she appeared with him in the suspension trick about 1868. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] As he warmed up to these reminiscences, he held me spellbound. Had he risen from the grave to tell of his contemporaries, he could not have riveted my attention more securely. Here was a man of eighty-four, whose memory quickened at the coming of one interested in his beloved art, whose eye brightened with each fresh detail of a long and successful professional life, and who, in fifty years of retirement, had not only written a book, but had kept in touch with the world of magic, giving me information which the most exhaustive encyclopædia could not yield, answering questions on topics never yet discussed in dusty parchments and fading scripts. It was like having the history of magic unrolled before my eager eyes, in a living, palpitating, human scroll. It had been my intention to remain but a few hours in Münster, but the old master held me as if hypnotized and the hours fairly drifted past. Letter after letter, clipping after clipping, token after token, he spread before my fascinated eyes; and I allowed him to speak without question or interruption of any sort. Early in our interview he had remarked that he was beginning to feel old and that only the impetus of my presence was responsible for his unusual strength of speech. For over seventy years he had been collecting books on conjuring and kindred topics, which he was able to read in English, French, Spanish, and German. The dinner hour found us still engrossed in conversation, and Frau Heimburger extended a most hospitable and cordial invitation for me to join the family circle. But my hunger was purely mental, and the true savor of the meal was the reminiscent chat of Herr Heimburger, who, from his post at the head of his household, looked as hale and hearty as if he had found the Elixir of Life which so many of his charlatan predecessors claimed to have "discovered." [Illustration: Alexander Heimburger, a veteran conjurer who presented the suspension trick in 1845-46 during his American tour. From a photograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1904 I paid the old master a second visit. To his professions of pleasure at meeting me once more, he added the gift of several rare programmes now in my collection, and when our hands met in a farewell clasp he told me that he had set all things in order and was ready for the coming of the Grim Reaper. Soon after that visit, however, I received a card with the following melancholy message: MY DEAR FRIEND--Have not been very well of late, and have been expecting my last days. All preparations have been made and Death the Visitor arrived, but instead of calling for me, he has taken away my beloved wife. I am not capable of writing more. God be with you. From your old friend, ALEXANDER HEIMBURGER. Alexander Heimburger or, as he was billed, Alexander the Conjurer, was born December 4th, 1818. From 1844 to 1854 he toured North and South America, returning to his native country with the intention of there following his calling as a professional entertainer. But his fame had preceded him, and, as his fortune was large, his souvenirs and tales of travel many and interesting, he was taken up by the world of fashion and lionized. This practically closed his career as a conjurer, for in those days magicians occupied no such reputable position in the professional world as they do to-day, and to have returned to his stage work would have closed the doors of aristocracy to him. He married one of Münster's prettiest girls, who bore him six children, two sons and four daughters. So he passed the remainder of his days, living modestly but comfortably on the money he had amassed in America, entertained by a large circle of appreciative friends, and well content to live thus, far from the madding crowd in which the professional entertainer must move. While the recollections of his public career and his meetings with other magicians, as well as notable men in other walks of life, were fresh, he wrote his book, "Der Moderne Zauberer" (The Modern Magician), which he claims, with much justice, is rated as one of the gems of German literature, as well as the best book ever written by a conjurer. It is built from extracts from his diary and is on the style of Sig. Blitz's book, but is far more diversified and interesting. [Illustration: Alexander Heimburger, known in conjuring as Alexander the Conjurer, from a quaint illustration in "The North American," published in Mexico.] His scrap-book also told a most romantic tale of vicissitudes. A half-page article in the New York _Tribune_, dated October, 1845, showed Alexander arrayed in a Chinese costume, and producing huge bowls of water, flowers, and various sorts of heavy articles. This proves conclusively that Ching Ling Foo was not the first conjurer to offer this Chinese trick in America, as it is generally supposed. Alexander added that all the old-timers would change their programmes by introducing the Chinese tricks, and, to verify his statement, readers need only to see the following files in Astor Library, New York City: New York _Herald_, New York _Tribune_, and New York _Evening Gazette_ of November 6th, 1845. Herr Alexander had arrived in New York almost penniless, after a disastrous tour of other American cities. He tried to hire Niblo's Garden, but was informed that the auditorium was never opened in winter. Through the intercession of Mrs. Niblo, however, he finally secured it at a rental of twenty dollars per night. He opened to a small house and for three nights did not even pay expenses, but the fourth night witnessed a change in his fortunes and for three months he played literally to standing room. Then because he had no new tricks to offer, and his pride forbade his presenting his old répertoire until receipts grew lighter, he closed his New York season. While playing in Saratoga, Alexander was approached by the late P. T. Barnum, who was accompanied by Gen. Tom Thumb. Alexander declined Mr. Barnum's offer because he thought to join the Barnum staff of entertainers would injure his professional rating. Barnum's admission fee was 25 cents, while Alexander charged 50 cents and $1. About this time the fame of Alexander attracted the attention of no less a personage than S. F. B. Morse, of telegraphic fame; and Alexander had on his programme one trick which mystified Morse, who honestly believed that the conjurer had discovered some new law of nature that might be of service to scientists. [Illustration: Alexander Heimburger presenting the suspension trick during his engagement in Brazil. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Alexander called this trick "The Spirit Bell," and, worked by one method or another, it has been used by many magicians. Some employ a thread and hook, causing the clapper to strike by pulling the thread which runs through an innocent-looking ribbon on which the bell hangs. Others use an electric magnet. Herr Alexander placed his bell on top of a fancy case which he could set anywhere, and the bell would ring at command. The secret was a small bird, trained to jump from one rung of a tiny ladder to another, at word of command or the waving of a stick or wand which the bird could see from its point of imprisonment. Every time that it jumped from one rung to another, it would pull down a step which was so arranged that by the smallest overweight it would release a catch, which in turn would throw the hammer against the glass. When the bird stepped off, the hammer would again come back to its original position and be ready for the second blow. This bird he bought from a street fortune-teller, who had trained it to go up different steps of a ladder and select envelopes containing variously printed fortunes. Alexander enjoyed personal acquaintance with President Polk, Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, Calhoun, and their fellow-statesmen in the United States. Through his friendship with President Polk he carried to the West Indies and Brazil letters so influential that the aristocracy in these countries opened its doors to him. He was welcomed at the palace of Dom Pedro, and has in his possession letters from both the King and his consort, dated 1850. So much for the history of a man who was brave enough to admit that he developed the suspension trick from principles laid down by humble Indian fakirs. The crudest method used for accomplishing the suspension trick consisted of a steel corset, an iron rod painted to resemble wood, and a platform. The steel rod was fitted into a special place in the corset, also in the platform. This method was improved, first to make it a self-raising suspension, then eventually with a steel rod from the back of the stage, eliminating the use of both rods under the arms. Spectators and reviewers commented on the rigid, almost painful, carriage of Robert-Houdin's son during the performance, which they laid to the effect of ether. Unquestionably Robert-Houdin used this crude corset-and-rod method of working the trick. The fumes of ether which reached the audience, he admits, were caused by pouring a little ether over hot irons in the wings. But whatever the method employed by Robert-Houdin to secure the effects of "suspension éthéréenne," he was merely introducing a century-old trick, which other contemporary magicians were also exhibiting. The name of the real maker of the apparatus may never be known, but some clever mechanician supplied Robert-Houdin, Compars Herrmann, and John Henry Anderson with precisely the same method of working the trick, at precisely the same time. Robert-Houdin alone was audacious enough to claim the invention as his own. CHAPTER IX THE DISAPPEARING HANDKERCHIEF Supreme egotism and utter disregard for the truth may be traced in all of Robert-Houdin's writings, but they reached a veritable climax when he indited chapter XVI. of his "Memoirs." During the course of this chapter he described the so-called invention and first production of the disappearing-handkerchief trick. According to the American edition of his "Memoirs," page 303, he received a command to appear before Louis Philippe and his family at St. Cloud in November, 1846. During the six days intervening between the official invitation and his appearance before the royal family, he arranged a trick from which, he states, he had every reason to expect excellent results. On page 305 he goes even further in his claims and announces: "All my tricks were favorably received, and the one I had invented for the occasion gained me unbounded applause." He then gives the following description of the trick and its performance: "I borrowed from my noble spectators several handkerchiefs, which I made into a parcel, and laid on the table. Then, at my request, different persons wrote on the cards the names of places whither they desired their handkerchiefs to be invisibly transported. "When this had been done, I begged the King to take three of the cards at hazard, and choose from them the place he might consider most suitable. "'Let us see,' Louis Philippe said, 'what this one says: "I desire the handkerchiefs to be found beneath one of the candelabra on the mantelpiece." That is too easy for a sorcerer; so we will pass to the next card: "The handkerchiefs are to be transported to the dome of the Invalides." That would suit me, but it is much too far, not for the handkerchiefs, but for us. Ah, ah!' the King added, looking at the last card, 'I am afraid, M. Robert-Houdin, I am about to embarrass you. Do you know what this card proposes?' "'Will your Majesty deign to inform me?' "'It is desired that you should send the handkerchiefs into the chest of the last orange-tree on the right of the avenue.' "'Only that, Sire? Deign to order, and I shall obey.' "'Very good, then; I should like to see such a magic act: I, therefore, choose the orange-tree chest.' "The King gave some orders in a low voice, and I directly saw several persons run to the orange-tree, in order to watch it and prevent any fraud. "I was delighted at this precaution, which must add to the effect of my experiment, for the trick was already arranged, and the precaution hence too late. "I had now to send the handkerchiefs on their travels, so I placed them beneath a bell of opaque glass, and, taking my wand, I ordered my invisible travellers to proceed to the spot the King had chosen. "I raised the bell; the little parcel was no longer there, and a white turtle-dove had taken its place. "The King then walked quickly to the door, whence he looked in the direction of the orange-tree, to assure himself that the guards were at their post; when this was done, he began to smile and shrug his shoulders. "'Ah! M. Robert-Houdin,' he said, somewhat ironically, 'I much fear for the virtue of your magic staff.' Then he added, as he returned to the end of the room, where several servants were standing, 'Tell William to open immediately the last chest at the end of the avenue, and bring me carefully what he finds there--if he does find anything.' "William soon proceeded to the orange-tree, and, though much astonished at the orders given him, he began to carry them out. "He carefully removed one of the sides of the chest, thrust his hand in, and almost touched the roots of the tree before he found anything. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise as he drew out a small iron coffer eaten by the rust. "This curious find, after having been cleaned from the mould, was brought in and placed on a small ottoman by the King's side. "'Well, M. Robert-Houdin,' Louis Philippe said to me, with a movement of impatient curiosity, 'here is a box; am I to conclude it contains the handkerchiefs?' "'Yes, Sire,' I replied with assurance, 'and they have been there, too, for a long period.' "'How can that be? The handkerchiefs were lent you scarce a quarter of an hour ago.' "'I cannot deny it, Sire; but what would my magic powers avail me if I could not perform incomprehensible tricks? Your Majesty will doubtless be still more surprised when I prove to your satisfaction that this coffer as well as its contents was deposited in the chest of the orange-tree sixty years ago.' [Illustration: Reproduction of a very rare pastel portrait of Cagliostro. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "'I should like to believe your statement,' the King replied with a smile; 'but that is impossible, and I must, therefore, ask for proofs of your assertion.' "'If your Majesty will be kind enough to open this casket they will be supplied.' "'Certainly; but I shall require a key for that.' "'It only depends on yourself, Sire, to have one. Deign to remove it from the neck of this turtle dove, which has just brought it to you.' "Louis Philippe unfastened a ribbon that held a small rusty key with which he hastened to unlock the coffer. The first thing that caught the King's eye was a parchment, on which he read the following statements: "'This day, the sixth of June, 1786, this iron box, containing six handkerchiefs, was placed among the roots of an orange tree by me, Balsamo, Count of Cagliostro, to serve in performing an act of magic which will be executed on the same day sixty years hence before Louis Philippe of Orléans and his family.' "'There is, decidedly, witchcraft about this,' the King said, more and more amazed. 'Nothing is wanting, for the seal and signature of the celebrated sorcerer are placed at the foot of this statement, which, Heaven pardon me, smells strongly of sulphur.' "At this jest the audience began to laugh. "'But,' the King added, taking out of the box a carefully sealed packet, 'can the handkerchiefs, by possibility, be in this?' "'Indeed, Sire, they are; but, before opening the parcel, I would request your Majesty to notice that it, also, bears the impression of Cagliostro's seal.' "This seal, once rendered so famous by being placed on the celebrated alchemist's bottles of elixir and liquid gold, I had obtained from Torrini, who had been an old friend of Cagliostro's. "'It is certainly the same,' my royal spectator answered, after comparing the two seals. Still, in his impatience to learn the contents of the parcel, the King quickly tore open the envelope, and soon displayed before the astonished spectators the six handkerchiefs, which, a few moments before, were still on my table." While the use of the Cagliostro seal really formed no part of the trick, its possession by Robert-Houdin goes to show how indefatigably he collected conjuring curios and how quick he was to utilize any part of his collection, and score thereby a brilliant showing. Cagliostro seals were by no means rare. This prince of charlatans had seals, like adventures, in great variety; and in this connection, it is not out of place to tell something of Cagliostro and thus explain why the parchment bearing his seal created such a sensation at St. Cloud. Cagliostro has no match in the annals of magic. Not a conjurer in the sense of being a public entertainer, he yet mystified and bewitched his thousands. Something of a physician, more of an alchemist, and altogether a charlatan, he left behind him a trail of brilliant chicanery, daring adventure, and ignominious failure and undoing unequalled in the history of Europe. [Illustration: Reproduction of a rare portrait of Seraphinia Feliciani, Comtesse de Cagliostro, wrongfully called Lorenzo in the Encyclopædia Britannica. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Cagliostro was born Joseph Balsamo, in Palermo, Italy, June 8th, 1743. His parents were in humble circumstances and he started his career as a novice in the Convent of Benfratelli, from which he was expelled for incorrigibility. Then he plunged into a life of dissipation and cleverly planned, ofttimes brilliantly executed crimes. He fled Palermo after forging theatre tickets and a will, and duping a goldsmith out of sixty pieces of gold. At Messina he fell in with an alchemist named Althotas, a man of some learning who spoke a variety of languages. These two adventurers travelled in Egypt, and when Althotas died Cagliostro went to Naples and Rome, where he married a beautiful girdle-maker named Seraphinia Feliciani. This woman shared both his triumphs and his disgrace. In 1776 they arrived in London, where he announced himself as the Count di Cagliostro. The title was assumed, the name was borrowed from his mother's side of the house. Here for the first time Cagliostro announced himself also a worker of miracles or wonders. He exhibited two mysterious substances, "Materia Prima," with which he transmuted all baser metals into gold, and "Egyptian Wine," with which he claimed to prolong life. His wife, who was just past twenty, he declared was more than sixty, her youthful appearance being due to the use of his elixir. He founded a spurious Egyptian rite in connection with the Masonic order which has been recognized as a blot upon Masonic history, and he claimed thousands of Masonic dupes. All over the Continent he and his beautiful wife travelled, now healing the poor for nothing, now duping the rich, but always living in a most picturesque, voluptuous fashion. He dipped into spiritualism and mesmerism, but wherever he went his converts followed after. [Illustration: Very rare Testot handbill printed about 1800, presented by Testot to Henry Evanion. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In 1789, while in Rome, he was seized by that invincible power, the Holy Inquisition, and was condemned to death. Later Pope Pius VI. changed the sentence to life imprisonment. Confinement made him more daring than ever. He asked for a confessor, and when a Capuchin monk was permitted to enter his cell in this capacity Cagliostro endeavored to choke him and escape in his robes. The monk fought for his life so effectually that it was he, and not Cagliostro, who escaped. Cagliostro was literally buried alive in a subterranean dungeon, as punishment for his final offence, and his wife immured herself in a Roman convent, where she died in 1794. [Illustration: Testot programme, featuring "Cabalistic Art" in 1826. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] In Paris, perhaps, Cagliostro enjoyed his greatest triumphs of charlatanism, and it is not remarkable that the appearance of his seal in the midst of Robert-Houdin's trick should seem almost uncanny to the royal family. But to return to the disappearing-handkerchief trick. Robert-Houdin did not invent this trick. It was presented by a number of conjurers before Robert-Houdin was known in the world of magic. Robert-Houdin simply employed the trick familiar to both his predecessors and contemporaries and redressed it to tickle the fancy of his royal patron. In England this trick was known among old conjurers as "The Ne Plus Ultra of the Cabalistic Art." In 1826 one M. Félix Testot, who claimed to be a compatriot of Robert-Houdin, presented the trick in the British provinces, and one of his bills I am reproducing because it shows that the trick he offered the provincial Britons and the trick which Robert-Houdin offered the royal family at St. Cloud were identical. It also proves that London had seen the trick; and what London had seen, Paris, including Robert-Houdin, had heard of. [Illustration: Marriot programme featuring "Cabalistic Art" in 1831, or fifteen years before Robert-Houdin claims to have invented the disappearing handkerchief trick. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] A programme used by "The Celebrated Mr. Marriot, Professor of Recreative Philosophy," in 1831, contains word for word the announcement of the trick used on Testot's bill, which goes to show that a popular test was to have articles passed from the Adelphia Theatre to the gun which was being watched by a sentinel. [Illustration: Jefferini handbill, dated 1833, in which he announces that any article will be made to fly 500 miles a minute.] February 22d, 1833, found a Mr. Jefferini at the Royal Clarence Theatre, Liverpool Street, King's Cross, Liverpool. He agreed to make "an article fly at the rate of five hundred miles an hour, from King's Cross to the Centre of Greece." The original Buck featured on his programme a similar trick which he called "The Loaf Trick." On a bill dated October 26th, 1840, it is announced as follows: "Watch in a loaf. The magician will command any gentleman's watch to disappear. It will be found in a loaf at any baker's shop in Town." The senior Ingleby changed the trick somewhat, sending out to any market for a shoulder of mutton, which, on being cut, would yield up a card previously drawn by some spectator. He thus describes his trick in his book "Whole Art of Legerdemain," published in London in 1815: "TRICK FOUR. "To cut out of a Shoulder of Mutton a Card which one of the Company had previously drawn out of the Pack. [Illustration: Only known portrait of the clever English conjurer, Buck. From an engraving in the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Having desired a person to draw a Card out of several which you hold to him, and to remember it, which he promises to do, you tell him it shall be in a shoulder of mutton which you will send for. "Accordingly you desire a servant to go to the butcher's and bring one. When brought, it is examined, and then ordered to be put down to roast. After performing some tricks, you recollect the shoulder of mutton, which is immediately brought half-roasted, and after cutting it for some time you at length find the card, and produce it. [Illustration: Ingleby handbill, dated 1808. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Explanation: "Having forced a card on one of the company, your confederate has an opportunity, when the mutton is sent to be roasted, of conveying a thin duplicate of that card folded into a narrow compass into the fleshy part near the shank, which can be easily done by means of a sharp penknife. "This trick, though remarkably simple, has created universal astonishment at the Minor Theatre, where it was frequently exhibited by Mr. Ingleby." [Illustration: Frontispiece from Ingleby's book, "Whole Art of Legerdemain," said to be an excellent likeness of the conjurer-author. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] The method of performing the trick was so familiar to conjurers of Robert-Houdin's time and earlier that Henry Evans Evanion was able to describe it to me from actual witnessings. Acting on his explanation, on my return to America I offered the trick, without any great amount of preparation and without a hitch, at a matinée entertainment given by a secret organization. I will describe precisely how this was done, and allow my readers to judge of the similarity of the trick offered years ago by humble travelling magicians whose names have been written most faintly in the annals of conjuring, and the much-vaunted trick "invented" by Robert-Houdin for the entertainment of his sovereign. The hall in which the matinée was given was located in Harlem, Borough of Manhattan, New York City, and I had decided that the handkerchiefs which were to make the flying journey should be "desired" by some one present to appear under the top step of the winding staircase in the Statue of Liberty, which is located in New York Harbor. This meant a half-hour ride from the hall to the boat in a Subway train; then a run across New York Harbor to the Statue. These boats left the dock on the hour and the half-hour, so I timed my performance to fill just half an hour, starting with some sleight-of-hand, the egg-bag trick, and swallowing a package of needles and bringing them up threaded, which latter trick was introduced into magical performances in Europe by K. K. Kraus in 1816. [Illustration: Reproduction of a rare Buck handbill, dated 1844. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Just before 3:30 o'clock I borrowed three handkerchiefs and tied them together for easier handling. I had three handkerchiefs, similarly tied together, under my vest, and just at 3:30, I switched the two sets of handkerchiefs, so that the handkerchiefs furnished by the spectators were under my vest and the bogus handkerchiefs in my hand. First I dropped the bogus handkerchiefs on the table-trap, picking up the opaque glass cover with which they were to be hidden, and, by a carefully rehearsed bit of carelessness, dropped and broke it. Then, leaving the bogus handkerchiefs on the table trap, I stepped toward the wings, apparently to secure another glass bell or cover. To all intents and purposes, I did not pass from the view of the audience, for fully half of my body was on the stage, but as my assistant handed me a new glass cover, he deftly extracted the real handkerchiefs from under my vest. Then, while I returned to the stage with my patter and description of the flight the handkerchiefs were about to make, my assistant, with the handkerchiefs in his pocket, walked unnoticed from the door, and, once out of sight, ran madly to the Subway station. There he boarded an express and reached the boat landing just in time to catch the 4 o'clock boat. At the Statue, my brother and a tinsmith were waiting for him. The handkerchiefs were placed in the tin box, securely soldered, and then this box was placed inside a second iron box, which was locked. The "plant" was then taken upstairs and hidden under the top step. In the mean time, with my thoughts following my assistant every step of his trip, I was playing out my end of the game. The audience was supplied with blank cards on which they might write the name of the place where the handkerchiefs should reappear. This, of course, took some time, and when the cards, each folded to hide the writing thereon, were collected in a hat, I shook them up thoroughly, and then turned them out upon a plate, deftly adding, on the top, three cards which I had concealed in my hand. This was sleight-of-hand purely, and I next picked out those three prepared cards on each of which was written "Can you send the handkerchiefs under the top step of the Statue of Liberty?" Explaining that I had in my hand three cards chosen at haphazard, I wished the final choice to be made by a disinterested party. A baby was finally chosen to select the card. Naturally, I refused even to take the slip of paper from the baby's hand, and one of the lodge members read the question. Murmurs of surprise and incredulity echoed from all over the hall. The test was too difficult! I then announced that if the audience would select its own committee, making sure to pick out men who could not be bribed, I would accompany them, and we would surely return with the handkerchiefs, sealed in double boxes, as found under the famous stairway. As an elaborate course luncheon was to be served, the committee had time to act, and away we went, leaving the lodge to its feast. So much time had been lost in selecting the committee that we reached the wharf just in time to catch the 5 o'clock boat. On landing I received a prearranged signal from my assistants that all was well, and as I watched my committee dash up the stairs I knew that their quest would be rewarded. When the committee and the writer returned to the lodge-room, a mechanic was required to pry open the box. There lay the identical handkerchiefs furnished by my spectators, who could hardly believe their eyes. On other occasions I have asked my audience to select a spokesman, who in a loud voice would announce the point at which the handkerchiefs would be found, and then my man, waiting just outside the door, would mount his bicycle and pedal like mad for the hiding-place, naturally outstripping any committee appointed. But the first method, that of selecting the place beforehand and having all arrangements made, even to the three prepared cards, is safest and is probably the one used by Robert-Houdin to deceive the French monarch. I doubt if he even had three different cards prepared, as he claims. I believe he exaggerated his feat, for that would have been taking long chances. For this trick I claim not an iota of originality. I simply fitted it to the time, the place, and the audience, and that I believe is all Robert-Houdin did when he "invented" the disappearing handkerchief trick for the amusement of his sovereign. CHAPTER X ROBERT-HOUDIN'S IGNORANCE OF MAGIC AS BETRAYED BY HIS OWN PEN Statements in Robert-Houdin's various works on the conjurer's art corroborate my claim that he was not a master-magician, but a clever purloiner and adapter of the tricks invented and used by his predecessors and contemporaries. Whenever, in these books, he attempts to explain or expose a trick which was not part of his répertoire, he betrays an ignorance which would be impossible in a conjurer versed in the finer and more subtle branches of his art. Neither do these explanations show that he was clever enough as a mechanic to have invented the apparatus which he claimed as his handiwork. He states that practice and still more practice are essential, yet no intelligent performer, amateur or professional, can study my collection of Robert-Houdin programmes, handbills, and press notices without realizing that his répertoire contained little or no trace of what should be the foundation of successful conjuring, sleight-of-hand. Changing his fingers over the various air-holes of the inexhaustible bottle was as near as he ever came to sleight-of-hand, even when he was in the height of his success. According to the press notices he had a pleasing stage presence, and also dressed and set forth his tricks richly, but it must be borne in mind that then, as often to-day, the man sent by an editor to criticise a conjurer's performance knew little or nothing about the art and could not institute comparisons between different magicians. To-day Robert-Houdin would shine as an exhibitor of illusions or mechanical toys. A pistol shot, a puff of smoke--and his confederate or assistant has done the real work behind the scenes. His lack of finesse as a sleight-of-hand performer is nowhere more clearly shown than in his own writings. On page 37 of his French exposé of the secrets of magic, entitled "Comment on Devient Sorcier" (page 51 of the English translation by Professor Hoffmann, "The Secrets of Conjuring and Magic"), he thus naïvely describes his masterpiece of coin-palming: "I myself practised palming long and perseveringly, and acquired thereat a very considerable degree of skill. I used to be able to palm two five-franc pieces at once, the hand, nevertheless, remaining as freely open as though it held nothing whatever." An amateur of his own day would have blushed to admit that he could palm but two coins. Men like T. Nelson Downs, "The Koin King," think nothing of palming twenty five-franc or silver dollars, or forty half-dollars, and even this record has been broken. Even two writers who contributed to the translation and editing of his works, R. Shelton Mackenzie and Professor Hoffmann (Angelo J. Lewis), and who have drawn rich royalties for the same, apologize for his flagrant mis-statements, which, they realize, any man or woman with but a slight knowledge of conjuring must recognize. His first contribution to the history of magic was his "Memoirs"; and while he does not feature exposures of tricks in this work, he offers, in passing, explanations of tricks and automata presented by other magicians. For the most part these explanations are obviously incorrect, and so prove that he was ignorant of certain fundamental principles of the art in which he claimed to have shone. In the introduction of the American edition, published in 1850, Mr. Mackenzie, the editor, thus apologizes for one of Robert-Houdin's most flagrant mistakes in tracing the history of magic: "One error which M. Houdin makes must not be passed over. His account of M. de Kempelen's celebrated automaton chess-player (afterward Maëlzel's) is entirely wrong. This remarkable piece of mechanism was constructed in 1769, and not in 1796; it was the Empress Maria-Theresa of Austria who played with it, and not Catherine II. of Russia; it was in 1783 that it first visited Paris, where it played at the Café de la Regence; it was not taken to London until 1784, and again in 1819; it was brought to America in 1825, by M. Maëlzel, and visited our principal cities, its chief resting-place being Philadelphia; M. Maëlzel's death was in 1838, on the voyage from Cuba to the United States, and not, as M. Houdin says, on his return to France; and the automaton, so far from being taken back to France, was sold by auction here, finally purchased by the late Dr. J. K. Mitchell, of Philadelphia, reconstructed by him, and finally deposited in the Chinese Museum (formerly Peale's), where it was consumed in the great fire which destroyed the National Theatre (now the site of the Continental Hotel, corner of Ninth and Chestnut Streets), and, extending to the Chinese Museum, burnt it down on July 5th, 1854. An interesting account of the Automaton Chess-Player, written by Prof. George Allen, of this city, will be found in 'The Book of the First American Chess Congress,' recently published in New York." Signor Blitz, in his book "Fifty Years in the Magic Circle," corroborates the Mackenzie correction, by telling how he saw Maëlzel in Havana, Cuba, where the famous German met his professional Waterloo, first in small audiences, then in the death of his faithful confederate, Schlomberg. Finally, broken in health and spirit, Maëlzel sailed from Havana for Philadelphia, but death overtook him at sea. His body was consigned to the ocean's depths, and his few effects were sold to liquidate the cost of passage and other debts. That Robert-Houdin should make an error concerning a world-famous automaton the history of which could be traced through contemporary periodicals and libraries, is almost inconceivable and proves the carelessness with which he gathered and presented facts. His inability to grasp the principles on which other performers built their tricks is shown most clearly when he attempts to describe and explain the performances of the Arabian mountebanks whom he saw during his stay in Algiers. These tricks have been handed down from one generation to another, and now that Arabian conjurers and acrobats are imported for hippodrome and vaudeville performances in all civilized countries, the tricks described by Robert-Houdin are familiar to the general public. They are also copied by performers of other nationalities, and can be seen in circus side-shows and at fairs, as well as in the better grade of houses. Having worked on the same bill with genuine Arabian performers, I know just how the tricks are accomplished. Robert-Houdin undertakes to explain these tricks in chapter XXII. of the American edition of his "Memoirs." So long as he quotes reliable authorities like the _Journal des Sciences_, the explanations are correct. Directly he attempts an independent exposure, he strikes far from the correct explanation. On page 424 he states: "In the following experiment, two Arabs held a sabre, one by the hilt, the other by the point; a third then came forward, and after raising his clothes so as to leave the abdomen quite bare, laid himself flat on the edge of the blade, while a fourth mounted on his back, and seemed to press the whole weight of his body on him. "This trick may be easily explained. "Nothing proves to the audience that the sabre is really sharpened, or that the edge is more cutting than the back, although the Arab who holds it by the point is careful to wrap it up in a handkerchief--in this, imitating the jugglers who pretend they have cut their fingers with one of the daggers they use in their tricks. "Besides, in performing this trick, the invulnerable turned his back on the audience. He knew the advantage to be derived from this circumstance; hence, at the moment when about to lay himself on the sabre, he very adroitly pulled back over his stomach that portion of his clothing he had raised. Lastly, when the fourth actor mounted on his back, he rested his hands on the shoulders of the Arabs who held the sabre. The latter apparently maintained his balance, but, in reality, they supported the whole weight of his body. Hence, the only requirement for this trick is to have the stomach more or less pressed in, and I will explain presently that this can be effected without any danger or injury." [Illustration: A Rannin lithograph, showing him doing the sword-walking act which Robert-Houdin claimed to have been a fraud. Rannin is still working in Germany, imitated by many, equalled by none. From a photograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In this explanation Robert-Houdin is entirely wrong. The real secret of lying on top of a sharp-edged razor, sword, or sabre rests on the fact that the performer does actually lie upon it in a perfectly motionless position. Were he to move but the width of a hair, backward or forward or sidewise, the weapon would slice his body, resulting in instant death or horrible mutilation. I have watched cheap performers of this class of work, in dime museums or fairs, walk up a ladder of sharp swords which I had previously held in my hand. They would place the foot down with infinite precision and then press it into place. This position will not result in cutting, but let the performer slip or slide and the flesh would be cut instantly. I have also seen an acrobat, working in a circus, select two razors in first-class condition, place them on a socket with the edges of the razors uppermost, and with his bare hands he would do what is known as a hand-stand on the keen edges of the blades. This trick of absolute balance is acquired by persistent practice from youth up. Again Robert-Houdin errs wofully in comparing the sabre-swallower to the swallower of broken bottle-heels and stones. Sabre-swallowing is one trick, swallowing pebbles and broken glass belongs in quite a different class. And when I say this I do not mean powdered glass, but pieces of glass first broken, then chewed, and finally swallowed. On page 426 Robert-Houdin puts the two tricks in the same class, as follows: "When the trick of swallowing bottle-heels and pebbles was to be done, the Aïssaoua really put them in his mouth, but I believe, I may say certainly, that he removed them at the moment when he placed his head in the folds of the Mokadem's burnous. However, had he swallowed them, there would have been nothing wonderful about this, when we compare it with what was done some thirty years back in France by a mountebank called 'the Sabre-Swallower.' "This man, who performed in the streets, threw back his head so as to form a straight line with his throat, and really thrust down his gullet a sabre, of which only the hilt remained outside his mouth. "He also swallowed an egg without cracking it, or even nails and pebbles, which he caused to resound, by striking his stomach with his fist. "These tricks were the result of a peculiar formation in the mountebank's throat, but, if he had lived among the Aïssaoua, he would have assuredly been the leading man of the company." The sabre-swallower never releases his hold on the weapon. The pebble and bottle-heel swallower does--but brings them up again, by a system of retching which results from long practice. The Japanese have an egg-swallowing trick in which they swallow either small-sized ivory balls or eggs, and reproduce them by a retching so unnoticeable that they could easily show the mouth empty. This trick dates back to the offerings of that celebrated water-spouter, Blaise Manfrede, or de Manfre, who travelled all over Europe. This man could swallow huge quantities of water and then eject it in streams or in small quantities or fill all sorts of glasses. In fact this one trick made him famous. _The European Magazine_, London, March, 1765, pages 194-5, gives a most diverting description of his trick, taken from an old letter, and here quoted: "I have seen, at the September fair in Francfort, a man who professed drinking fifty quarts of water in a day, and indeed proved that he was capable of executing what he pretended to. I saw him perform frequently, and remember it as well as if it was but yesterday. He said he was an Italian; he was short and squat, his chest, face, forehead, eyes, and mouth very large. He pretended to be fifty years old, though he did not seem forty. [Illustration: Blasius de Manfre or Blaise Manfrede, from a rare old woodcut in the Harry Houdini Collection.] "He was called the famous Blaise Manfrede, a native of Malta. At Francfort he frequently performed three times a day: for, besides his performances twice a day on the public stage (which nobody approached without paying), he attended private houses when called upon by great people. "He called for a large bucket of fair warm water, and twenty little glass bottles, flat like cupping glasses, so that they could stand topside turvy. Some of these he filled with water, plunging them into the bucket with a good deal of ceremony, and usually swallowed two or three to wash his mouth and gargle his throat. He threw up the water again immediately, to shew the spectators that he had no drugs between his teeth, whence he could be suspected to derive any advantage. "After this plausible prelude, he made an Italian harangue, which I cannot acquaint you with the merits of, because I am a stranger to the language.... After his harangue he usually took off two dozen of his little bottles, which he filled from the bucket, and a moment afterwards returned the liquor through his mouth. But what is most extraordinary is that this water, which he threw out with violence, appeared red like wine. And when he had discharged it into two different bottles, it was red in one and russet like beer in the other; as soon as he shifted the bottles to the contrary sides, they changed their complexion respectively to that of wine or beer, and so successively so long as he continued vomiting; in the mean time, I observed that the water grew less discolored in proportion as he continued to discharge. This was the first act. Then he ranged his two dozen of bottles opposite to him on a table, and exposed to everybody's view. Then he took an equal number of bottles, plunged them anew into the bucket, swallowed them too, and returned them in water very transparent, rose-water, orange-flower-water, and brandy. "I have smelt the several odours of his liquors; nay, I have seen him set fire to a handkerchief dipt in that which smelt like brandy, and it burnt blue like spirituous liquors.... Nay, he frequently promised at Venice to give the water back again in milk and oil. But I think he did not keep his word. In short, he concluded this scene with swallowing successfully thirty or forty glasses of water, always from the same bucket, and after having given notice to the company by his man (who served as an interpreter) that he was going to disembogue, he threw his head back, and spouting out the fair water, he made it spring up with an impetuosity like that of the strongest _jet d'eau_. This last feat delighted the people infinitely more than all the rest, and during the month he was at Francfort numbers from all parts came to see this slovenly exercise. Though he repeated it more than once a day he had more than four hundred spectators at a time. Some threw their handkerchiefs, and some their gloves upon the stage, that he might wet them with the water he had cast up, and he returned them differently perfumed, sometimes with rose-water, sometimes with orange-flower-water, and sometimes with brandy." Another famous juggler and water-spouter was Floram Marchand, whose picture is herewith reproduced. Judging from his dress, he antedated Manfrede. Bell's _Messenger_ of July 16th, 1816, tells of a sword-swallower whose work is extremely pertinent to this discussion, and the clipping is quoted verbatim: [Illustration: Floram Marchand. From an old, undated English publication in the Harry Houdini Collection.] "The French papers give a curious account of one James de Falaise, a Norman, about fifty years of age, living in the Rue St. Honoré. It is said that this extraordinary man will swallow whole walnuts, shell and all, a tobacco pipe, three cards rolled together, a rose with all its leaves, long stalk, and thorns, a living bird, and a living mouse, and, lastly, a live eel. Like to the Indian jugglers, he swallows the blade of a sabre about thirteen inches long of polished steel. This operation he performs very slowly, and with some precaution; though he evinces no symptom of pain. After every solid body that he swallows, he always takes a small dose of wine expressly prepared for him. He does not seem to make any effort to kill the living animals that he takes in his mouth, but boasts that he feels them moving in his stomach." [Illustration: Position taken by the subject in the Indian basket trick before he is covered by the sheet.] In my collection is the handbill of a stone-swallower who exhibited at No. 10 Cockspur Street, London, charging an admission fee of half-a-crown. [Illustration: Indian fakir seated in the basket after the subject has been "vanished."] These performers actually swallowed the water, stones, pebbles, etc., and retched them up again so cleverly and at such carefully selected instants that the audience did not know that the disgorging had been accomplished. Swallowing glass was a different matter, and the modern human ostriches have all wound up at city hospitals where surgeons have removed broken glass, knife blades, and other foreign matter by means of an operation. I quote the above instances simply to prove that the stones were actually swallowed and then disgorged, and not hidden, as Robert-Houdin claims, in the folds of the Mokadem's burnous. In this one chapter alone Robert-Houdin quotes six authorities in explaining the tricks he witnessed, which fact only strengthens my belief that he borrowed his tricks, as well as his explanations, from able and graphic writers on the art of magic. The next work descriptive of the conjurer's art offered by Robert-Houdin was "Les Secrets de la Prestidigitation et de la Magie." Under the title of "The Secrets of Conjuring and Magic; or, How to Become a Wizard," it was translated and edited by Professor Hoffmann and published in 1878 by George Routledge & Co., London and New York. Absolutely no originality is displayed in this book, and the majority of the tricks explained can be found in French books of a similar character which appeared before Robert-Houdin turned author. The proof of this statement can be found by reading any of the following works upon which Robert-Houdin patently drew for his material: "Nouvelle Magie Blanche Dévoilée et Cours Complet de Prestidigitation," in two volumes, by J. N. Ponsin, published in Paris in 1853; "Grande Initiation au vraie Pratique des Célèbres Physiciens-Prestidigitateurs," Paris, 1855; "Nouveau Manuel Complet Sorciers, les scènes de Ventriloquie exécutées et communiquées par M. Conte, Physicien du Roi," Paris, 1837; "Anciens et Nouvaux Tours d'Escamotage," of which there are innumerable editions; "Le Manuel des Sorciers. Recréations Physiques, Mathématiques, Tours de Cartes et de Gibecière; suivre, des Jeux de Société," Paris, 1802. [Illustration: Position of the "vanished" Hindoo while concealed in the basket. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] His third work, "Magie et Physique Amusante," translated by Professor Hoffmann under the title of "The Secrets of Stage Conjuring," and published in English in 1881, is marred by an almost continuous strain of mis-statements, incorrect explanations, and downright falsification. On page 17 of the American edition Robert-Houdin starts his dramatic tale of inventing a detector lock by which he protected a rich neighbor, M. de l'Escalopier, from robbery, and incidentally in return secured funds with which to open his theatre in the Palais Royal. In his "Mémoirs" Robert-Houdin states that the opening of the theatre was made possible by the invention of the writing and drawing automaton whose history has been traced in chapter III. The reader can choose between the two stories. One is as plausible as the other. But to return to the detector lock. Count or M. De l'Escalopier having complained grievously to his humble neighbor, the watchmaker Robert-Houdin, that he and his family were being robbed, begged that the latter suggest some means of catching the thief. Robert-Houdin then recalled a childish device by which he had caught his school-fellows in the act of pilfering his desk, etc., and he proposed to the Count that the same device, elaborated to meet the strength of a full-grown man, be attached to his wealthy patron's desk. As first planned, the detector lock was to shoot off a pistol on being tampered with, and then brand the hand of the thief with nitrate of silver. Count de l'Escalopier objected to branding a man for life, so Robert-Houdin substituted for the nitrate of silver a sort of cat's claw which would clamp down on the robber's hand and draw blood. The Count deposited ten thousand francs in his desk and caught the robber, his confidential servant, red-handed. The ten thousand francs he presented to Robert-Houdin as a reward for stopping the thefts. A charming tale this makes, but, unfortunately for Robert-Houdin's claims to originality, the detector lock was not a novelty in his day. The lock which would first alarm the household by setting off a pistol and then brand the thief's hand, is described by the Marquis of Worcester in his book "Centurie of Inventions." As locks and locksmithing form my hobby, while in England I purchased the entire set of patent-books, to add to a collection of locks and fastenings from every known country of the world. In the introduction of the first book of patents for inventions relating to locks, latches, bolts, etc., from A.D. 1774 to 1866, the following quotation will be found: "The Marquis of Worcester in his 'Centurie of Inventions' thus describes the first detector lock invented, A.D. 1640, by some mechanical genius of that day: 'This lock is so constructed that, if a stranger attempts to open it, it catches his hand as a trap catches a fox, though not as far as maiming him for life, yet so far marketh him that if suspected he might easily be detected.'" It appears that to this lock was fitted a steel barb which, if a certain tumbler was overlifted in the act of picking or otherwise, was projected against the hand of the operator by a spring. I have seen such a lock as this in the collection of Hobbs, Hart & Co., London, who have had it in their possession many years. In every respect it answers the description of the invention claimed by Robert-Houdin as his own. Chapter VII. of "Secrets of Stage Conjuring" is devoted to Robert-Houdin's very incorrect explanation of the famous Indian Basket Trick. Even his own translator, Professor Hoffmann, takes issue with Robert-Houdin, as will be seen by reading his foot-note on page 104: "We will not venture to question the fact vouched for by so high an authority as Robert-Houdin, that the Indian Basket Trick may sometimes be performed after the manner above described, but we doubt very much whether such is the usual or customary method." [Illustration: A Ramo Samee handbill, featuring his stone-swallowing act. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] [Illustration: Handbill used by the original Indian jugglers in England during 1818, in which the sword-swallowing trick is featured. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Robert-Houdin states that the child is placed in the basket, and the Indian fastens down the lid with leather straps. To facilitate this operation, he rests his knees against the basket, and the bottom of the latter thus being turned toward the audience, the boy slips out through a cunningly contrived trap and quickly conceals himself under the robe of the magician, whose attitude favors this concealment. As the basket trick is the Hindoo magician's most wonderful offering, a truthful account of his methods of performing the same may be interesting. In the first place, Robert-Houdin's explanation is impossible and unreasonable because the Hindoo magician does not wear flowing robes in which the child could be concealed. Every Hindoo performer I have ever seen wore short trousers and was barefooted. The correct method of performing the trick, which has been handed down through generations of Hindoos, is as follows: The boy subject is placed in a net in which he is firmly tied, after having had his big toes and thumbs fastened down with bandages. Then, with many a grunt and a groan, he is lifted into the basket. The subject, however, pretends that the basket is too small, so he is really seated on one side and keeps his back in the air. This is done to give the appearance eventually that it was impossible for him to crouch down or around the basket. The lid of the basket is now placed on his back, and a large sheet is thrown over the entire apparatus, which conceals from the audience every movement made by the subject. Now commences the Hindoo "patter," in reality yells, groans, and incantations, while the magician and his assistant strike the basket with swords or canes, stamp on the ground, gnash their teeth, etc. Gradually the cover of the basket sinks until the basket seems empty, to the spectators at least. The fakir now takes off the cover of the basket, leaving the sheet over it, however. Then he jumps into the presumably empty basket, stamps all around, and takes out the net in which are found the turban worn by the subject and the thumb tie. To prove further that the basket is still empty, the fakir seats himself in the basket, as shown in the illustration. The lid of the basket is now replaced, and under this friendly cover the sheet is taken off and the basket tied up. Now commences the true Hindoo magic. The magician is a real actor. He apparently adjures Mahomet. He gets very angry and with fierce looks, ejaculations, and muttered curses he grabs up a sword or cane and jabs it through different parts of the basket. During all this time the subject, who is something of a contortionist, is wriggling about on the bottom of the basket, keeping out of reach of the sword, and in fact often guiding its thrusts between his legs, as every movement on the part of the fakir has been carefully thought out and rehearsed in advance. By this time the fakir has convinced his audience that the basket is empty. To be sure he has not allowed any spectators to come too near him or the basket, nor has any hand save his touched it, but his clever acting almost persuades even an intelligent or sceptical onlooker that the basket is empty. With the lid of the basket replaced, this time above the friendly sheet, and the basket tied, he resumes his weird incantations. He screams and runs back and forth, playing on a small instrument with a hideous tone which is a cross between the whistle of a locomotive with a cold, and a sawed-off and hammered-down flute in which has been inserted a tin whistle. As this nerve-racking music holds the spectators under its awful spell, the basket begins to rock, the contortionist-subject gradually raises himself inside the basket, and when the noise is at its height he straightens up in the basket and raises it with his back as far as it will go. To the uninitiated it actually appears as if he had returned to an empty basket in his original position. The trick is a marvellous deception, but only a Hindoo can exhibit it with success, for no white person would ever indulge in the screechings, imbecilities, and contortions which are the spectacular and convincing features of the trick. Sometimes the trick is varied. Instead of the subject being found in his original position he is seen running toward the crowd as from a distance. This is accomplished by having two subjects, one in the basket and one hidden on the outskirts of the crowd, who are "doubles" or at least who show a marked resemblance and are dressed exactly alike. The earliest programmes of Hindoo jugglers in my collection are dated 1818. The "Mr. Ramosamee" featured on this bill later split his name thus, "Ramo Samee," and was engaged to perform alone between the acts of "The Broken Heart" at the Garrick Theatre, London. From Ramo Samee, Continental and British magicians learned the trick of juggling brass balls. On page 135 Professor Hoffmann, in a foot-note, commends Robert-Houdin for the very impartial manner in which he approaches the question of spiritualism and spiritualistic manifestations, in his day a comparative novelty: "In default of absolute certainty, he wisely reserves his opinion. Where, however, as in the case of the Davenport Brothers, he had an opportunity of personally observing the alleged 'phenomena,' he has neither difficulty in penetrating nor hesitation in denouncing the imposture. We venture to believe that any of the so-called spiritualistic manifestations which had come under the test of Robert-Houdin's examination would have met a similar fate." With this commendation I cannot agree. Robert-Houdin once had all the leeway he wished at a most remarkable manifestation and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was baffled by the "phenomena." The "Memoirs of Marquis de Mirville" contain a Robert-Houdin letter in which he admits that he could find no explanation of tests just witnessed. The letter, translated from "Die Magie des XIX. Jahrhunderts von Uriarte," 1896, published in Berlin, Germany, by Heusers Verlag, is herewith quoted: "I returned from the séance as greatly astonished as it was possible for me to be, and I am thoroughly convinced that it was entirely out of the possibility, and no chance whatever, that it was either by accident or practised trickery to produce such wonderful materializations. Robert-Houdin, May 18th, 1847." He further shows his ignorance of séances as offered in his times, by his attempt to describe the methods employed by the Davenport Brothers, to whom he devotes chapter XIII., which might be described as a chapter of errors. These picturesque American entertainers, the Davenport Brothers, hailed from Buffalo, N. Y., U.S.A. Ira Erastus was born September 17th, 1839, and William Henry, February 1st, 1841. They fairly startled the world by their so-called manifestations of spiritualism during the 60's, and were alternately lauded and reviled for their performances. [Illustration: The Davenport Brothers in their prime, from photographs furnished by them to the contemporary press, now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] Both were below medium height, rather handsome men, and, as will be seen from the accompanying engraving, looked much alike. Their career, which started in America, ran from about 1853 to the early 70's. They made a trip to Europe in 1864, remaining until August, 1869. Both married abroad; Ira a daughter of France, Mlle. Louise Toulet, and William Henry a Polish girl, Miss Matilda Mag. On the whole, their foreign tour was most profitable, though in some cities they paid a high price for their notoriety. In England they waged bitter warfare with John Henry Anderson, Tolmaque, and Professor Redmond. On the occasion of their Paris opening at the Salle Herz they claimed that the hoodlum element mobbed the theatre and broke up their performance at the instigation of Henri Robin, who was playing in opposition. Hamilton, who had succeeded to the management of Robert-Houdin's theatre, in a letter published after witnessing their initial performance announced that he shared this belief; but as Robert-Houdin and Henri Robin were bitter rivals, I believe Hamilton's letter was the result of two things: first the intense ill-will he harbored against Robin, and second, as he had Robert-Houdin as his mentor, he was really ignorant of the Davenport methods and therefore not in a position to defend them. The letter, which is given in full, appeared in _Gazette des �trangers_, Paris, September 27th, 1865: "Messrs. Davenport: Yesterday I had the pleasure of being present at the séance you gave, and I came away from it convinced that jealousy alone was the cause of the outcry raised against you. The phenomena produced surpassed my expectations, and your experiments were full of interest to me. I consider it my duty to add that these phenomena are inexplicable; and the more so by such persons as have thought themselves able to guess your supposed secret, and who are, in fact, far indeed from having discovered the truth. Hamilton." [Illustration: The cabinet trick offered by the Davenport Brothers. From an old print in the Harry Houdini Collection.] After their return to America the Davenport Brothers retired from public life, purchased a farm, and rested on their laurels and a corpulent bank account. One of them is said to have admitted that all their work was skilful manipulation and not spiritualistic manifestations. Nevertheless, their names will live so long as spiritualism is talked of or cabinet effects tolerated by the public. The trick as offered by the Davenport Brothers consisted of their being tied hand and foot at opposite ends of the cabinet, which was hung with musical instruments, bells, etc. The two men slipped in and out of the ropes without delay or apparent damage to the ropes, and musical instruments were played with arms presumably in bondage. Robert-Houdin, in attempting to expose the trick, makes two flagrant errors. First he claims that "by dint of special practice on the part of our mediums, the thumb is made to lie flat in the hand, when the whole assumes a cylindrical form of scarcely greater diameter than the wrist"; and second that the Davenport Brothers had trained themselves to see in the dark. [Illustration: Announcement used by the Davenport Brothers on their return to London, England, after their tour of the Continent in April, 1868. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] As releasing myself from fastenings of all sorts, from ropes to strait-jackets, has been my profession for twenty years, I am in a position to contradict Robert-Houdin's first claim positively. I have met thousands of persons who claimed that the rope, as well as the handcuff trick, was accomplished by folding the hand together or making the wrist larger than the hand, but never have I met men or women who could make their hands smaller than their wrists. I have even gone so far as to have iron bands made and press my hands together, hoping eventually to make my hands smaller than my wrists, but this has failed, too. Even if the entire thumb were cut away, I believe it would still be impossible to slip a rope that was properly bound around the wrist. You may take any cuff of the adjustable make, or a ratchet cuff, place it about a small woman's wrist, and you will find that even she will be unable to slip her wrists. I do not mean by this any hand-cuff that will not come to any size, or the common cuffs which when locked will lock only to a certain size, but I mean a cuff that can be locked and adjusted to any size of wrist. In rope-tying, the principal trick is to allow yourself to be tied according to certain methods of crossing your hands or wrists, so that by eventually straightening your hands you have made enough room to allow them to slip out very easily. It is not always the size of the wrist that counts. It is the manner of holding your hands when the knots are being tied. The gift of seeing in the dark, with which Robert-Houdin endowed the Davenports, is equally preposterous. Professor Hoffmann defends Robert-Houdin by citing instances of prisoners who had been confined in cells for an indefinite period and who had learned to see in the dark. This is quite true, but they did not alternate daylight and darkness. Eminent opticians and oculists inform me that the faculty of seeing in the dark cannot be acquired by parties like the Davenports, who spent most of their time in the light. While the Davenports were pioneers in rope-tying and cabinet séances, had Robert-Houdin been the clever sleight-of-hand performer and inventor he claims to have been, these tricks would have been clear and solvable to him. But as he obviously joined the ranks of the amazed and bewildered masses, making only a futile attempt to explain the performances, he convicts himself of ignorance regarding his own art. A man who has made a fortune in the world of magic and who desires to hand down to posterity a clean record of his attainments will be clever enough and manly enough to avoid any attempt to explain that which he does not understand. By his flagrant mis-statements regarding the tricks of his predecessors and contemporaries, Robert-Houdin, however, convicts himself of ignorance regarding the fundamental principles of magic, and arouses in the minds of broad, intelligent readers doubts regarding his claims to the invention of the various tricks and automata which he declares to have been the output of his brain, the production of his own deft hands. CHAPTER XI THE NARROWNESS OF ROBERT-HOUDIN'S "MEMOIRS" The charm of true memoirs lies far beyond the printed pages, in the depth and breadth of the writer's soul. The greatest of all autobiographies are those which detail not only the lives of the men who penned them, but which abound in diverting anecdotes and character studies of the men and women among whom the writer moved. They are not autobiographies alone, but vivid, broad-minded pen-pictures of the period in which the writer was a vigorous, respect-compelling figure. Memoirs written with a view to settling old scores seldom live to accomplish their ends. The narrowness and pettiness of the writer, which intelligent reading of history is bound to disclose, destroy all other charms which the book may possess. At personal exploitation Robert-Houdin is a brilliant success. As a writer of memoirs he is a wretched failure. Whenever he writes of himself, his pen seems fairly to scintillate. Whenever he refers to other magicians of his times, his pen lags and drops on the pages blots which can emanate only from a narrow, petty, jealous nature. Even when he writes of his own family, this peculiar trait of petty egotism may be read between the lines. He mentions the name of his son �mile, apparently because the lad shared his stage triumphs. His other children he never mentions by name. The second wife, who, he grudgingly admits, stood valiantly by him in his days of poverty and disappointment, he does not honor by so much as stating her name before marriage. Rather, he refers to her as a person whom he was constrained to place in charge of his household in order that he might continue his experiments and his work on automata. A less gracious tribute to wifely devotion was never penned. But it is in dealing with contemporary magicians or those whose handiwork in bygone years he cleverly purloined and proclaimed as his original inventions, that the petty jealousy of the man comes to the surface. Whenever he desires to claim for himself credit due a predecessor in the world of magic, he either ignores the man's very existence or writes of his competitor in such a manner that the latter's standing as man and magician is lowered. Not that he makes broad, sweeping statements. Rather, he indulges in the innuendo which is far more dangerous to the party attacked. He never strikes a pen-blow which, because of its brutality, might arouse the sympathy of his readers for the object of his attack. Here, in the gentle art of innuendo and belittling, if not in the conjurer's art, Robert-Houdin is a master. [Illustration: Wiljalba Frikell in his youth, showing the peculiar costume worn by conjurers at that time. The author secured this portrait a few weeks before Frikell's death and sent it to the veteran conjurer, who was amazed to learn that this print was in existence. Now in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In writing his "Memoirs" he deliberately ignores Compars Herrmann, Henri Robin, Wiljalba Frikell, M. Jacobs, and P. T. Barnum, all of whom he knew personally. He might have written most entertainingly of these men, but in each case he had an object in avoiding reference to the acquaintance. P. T. Barnum knew the true history of the writing and drawing figure, as reference to chapter III. of this book will show. Frikell was the pioneer in dispensing with cumbersome stage draperies. Robert-Houdin claimed this innovation as the product of his own ingenuity. Compars Herrmann was playing in London when Robert-Houdin made his English début under Mitchell's direction, and was presenting, trick for trick, the répertoire claimed by Robert-Houdin as original with him. Henri Robin disputed Robert-Houdin's claim to having invented the inexhaustible bottle, and proved his case, as will be seen by reference to chapter VIII. Jacobs was one of Anderson's cleverest imitators and a rival of Robert-Houdin in the English provinces. The adroit manner in which Robert-Houdin flays Pinetti, Anderson, and Bosco would arouse admiration were his pen-lashings devoted to men who deserved such treatment. Under existing circumstances--his debt to Bosco and Pinetti, whose tricks he filched remorselessly, and the fact that Anderson's popularity outlived his own in England--his efforts to belittle these men are unworthy of one who called himself a man and a master magician. The truly great and successful man rises above petty jealousy and personalities. This, Robert-Houdin could not do, even when he sat pen in hand, in retirement, with the fear of competition removed. It seems almost incredible that Robert-Houdin should ignore Henri Robin in his "Memoirs," for Robin was one of the most interesting characters of that day. He still stands in magic's history as the Chesterfield of conjuring, a man of many gifts, charming address, and broad education. Even in his dispute with Robert-Houdin regarding the invention of the inexhaustible bottle, he never forgot his dignity, but proved his case by that most potent of arguments, a well-edited magazine published under his direction, in which an illustration showed him actually performing the trick in 1844, or a full three years before it appeared on Robert-Houdin's programme. Robert-Houdin was indebted to Robin for another trick, the Garde Française, introduced by Robert-Houdin in October, 1847. Henri Robin had precisely the same figure, doing precisely the same feats, in the garb of an Arab. An illustration from Robin's magazine, _L'Almanach Cagliostro_, shows Robin offering this figure in March, 1846, or a year and seven months before it was presented by Robert-Houdin. Yet the only reference made by Robert-Houdin to this popular and gifted contemporary is in "The Secrets of Stage Conjuring" where he remarks slightingly that Robin spoiled Mr. Pepper's business by giving a poor imitation of the latter's ghost show. Again, in ignoring Herrmann, he proves his narrowness of mind, his utter unwillingness to admit any ability in his rivals. Compars Herrmann was no ordinary trickster or mountebank, but a conjurer who remained in London almost a year, playing the very best houses, and later scoring equal popularity in the provinces. He was decorated by various monarchs and was famous for his large gifts to charities. Even the present generation, including theatre-goers and students of magic, remembers the name of Herrmann, when Robert-Houdin is forgotten or would be but for his cleverly written autobiography. Wiljalba Frikell, to whom should go the credit of cutting out heavy stage draperies, never claimed the innovation as a carefully planned conceit, but as an accident. His paraphernalia were destroyed in a fire, but he desired to live up to his contract and give a performance as announced. He therefore offered sleight-of-hand, pure and simple, with the aid of a few tables, chairs, and other common properties which were absolutely undraped. He was also compelled to don regulation, severely plain, evening clothes. The absence of draperies, which naturally aid a conjurer in attaining results, created so pleasing a sensation that Frikell never again draped his stage nor wore fancy raiment. Had Robert-Houdin told the truth about his so-called innovation, he must have given Frikell credit, wherefore he conveniently ignores Frikell completely. It is entirely characteristic of Robert-Houdin that he did not openly assail Pinetti in the pages of his "Memoirs." With cleverness worthy of a better cause, he quotes the bitter verbal attack as issuing from the lips of the friend and mentor of his youth, Signor Torrini. The major portion of chapter VI., pages 92 to 104 inclusive, American edition of his autobiography, is devoted to assailing Pinetti's abilities as a conjurer and his reputation as a man. Granted that Pinetti did put Torrini to shame on the Neapolitan stage, such revenge for a wholesale duplication of the magician's tricks might be termed almost human and natural. Had a minor magician, amateur or professional, dogged the footsteps of Robert-Houdin, copying his tricks, the entire répertoire upon which he depended for a livelihood, thus endangering his future, I doubt that even the author of "Confidences d'un Prestidigitateur" would have hesitated to unmask and undo his rival. In fact, by reference to the editorial note, foot of page 421, American edition of Robert-Houdin's "Memoirs," it will be seen that in 1850 Robert-Houdin appealed to the law for protection in just such a case. An employee was sent to prison for two years, as judgment for selling to an amateur some of his master's secrets. [Illustration: Bartolomeo Bosco in his prime. From an engraving in the Harry Houdini Collection.] But in attacking Pinetti, Robert-Houdin goes a step too far and falsifies, not directly but by innuendo, when he permits the impression to go forth that Pinetti was hounded and ruined both financially and professionally by Torrini, as is set forth on page 104. He pictures Torrini as dogging the footsteps of Pinetti through all Italy and finally driving him in a state of abject misery to Russia, where he died in the home of a nobleman, who sheltered him through sheer compassion. Robert-Houdin must have known this was absolutely untrue, for he quotes Robertson, who published Pinetti's true experiences in Russia. Pinetti took a fortune with him to Russia, acquired more wealth there, and then lost his entire financial holdings through his passion for balloon experiments, as is set forth in chapter II. of this book. Then, to show his own inconsistency, after picturing Pinetti in his "Memoirs" as a charlatan, a conjurer of vulgar, uncouth pretensions rather than as a good showman of real ability, Robert-Houdin is forced to admit on page 25 of "Secrets of Magic" that later conjurers employed Pinetti programmes as a foundation upon which their performances were built! Even here, however, Robert-Houdin fails to acknowledge an iota of the heavy debt which he personally owed the despised Chevalier Pinetti. Robert-Houdin devotes the greater part of chapter X., American edition of his autobiography, to belittling Bosco, a conjurer whose popularity all over Europe was long-lived. First, he pictures Bosco as a most cruel creature who literally tortured to death the birds used in his performances. Here, as in his attack on Pinetti, Robert-Houdin throws the responsibility for criticism on the shoulders of another. His old friend Antonio accompanies him to watch Bosco's performance, and it is Antonio throughout the narrative who inveighs against Bosco's cruelty and Antonio who insists upon leaving before the performance closes, because the cruelty of the conjurer nauseates him. At that time no society for the protection of animals existed, and, even if it had, I doubt whether Bosco's performance would have come under the ban. Certain magicians of to-day employ many of Bosco's tricks in which birds and even small animals are used, but the conjuring is so deftly done that the public of 1907, like that of 1838, thinks it is all sleight-of-hand work and that the birds are neither hurt nor killed. Even in Bosco's time the bird trick was not in his répertoire exclusively. All English magicians employed it. Apparently the head of the fowl was amputated, but often in reality it was tucked under the wing, and the head and neck of another fowl was shown by sleight-of-hand. Quite probably the Parisian public did not consider Bosco cruel. Robert-Houdin and his friend Antonio, being versed in sleight-of-hand and conjuring methods, read cruelty between the deft movements. Certain it is that the name of Bosco has not been handed down to posterity by other writers as a synonym of cruelty. The animus of Robert-Houdin's attack on Bosco is evident at every point of the narrative. Now he accuses him of bad taste in appearing in the box-office. Again he suggests that the somewhat impressive opening of Bosco's act savors of both charlatanism and burlesque, when in reality the secret of showmanship consists not of what you really do, but what the mystery-loving public thinks you do. Bosco undoubtedly secured precisely the effect he desired, because Robert-Houdin devotes more than a page to a most unnecessary attempt to explain away what he considered Bosco's undeserved popularity. Bosco was not only a clever magician, but a man of many adventures, so that his life reads like a romance. This soldier of fortune, Bartolomeo Bosco, was born of a noble Piedmont family, on January 11th, 1793, in Turin, Italy. From boyhood he showed great ability as a necromancer, but at the age of nineteen he was forced to serve under Napoleon I. in the Russian campaign. He was a fusilier in the Eleventh Infantry, and at the battle of Borodino was injured in an engagement with Cossacks. Pierced by a lance, he lay upon the ground apparently dead. A Cossack callously roamed among the dead and dying, rifling pockets and belts. When he came to the form of Bosco, that youth feigned death, knowing that resistance to the ghoul meant a death wound. But while the Cossack robbed the Italian soldier, the latter stealthily raised his unwounded arm and by sleight-of-hand rifled the well-filled pockets of the ghoul, which fact was not discovered by the Cossack until he was far from the field of the dead and dying, where he had left one of the enemy considerably better off, thanks to Bosco's conjuring gifts. Later Bosco was sent captive to Siberia, where he perfected his sleight-of-hand while amusing fellow-prisoners and jailers. In 1814 he was released and returned to his native land, where he studied medicine, but eventually decided to become a public entertainer. He was not only a clever entertainer, but a good business man, and he planned each year on saving enough money to insure a life of ease in his old age. But events intervened to ruin all his well-laid plans. The sins of his youth brought their penalty. An illegitimate son, Eugene, became a heavy drag upon the retired magician, who was compelled to pay large sums to the young man in order to prevent his playing in either France or Germany or assuming the name of Bosco. In a German antiquary's shop at Bonn on the Rhine I found an agreement in which Bosco agreed to pay this youth five thousand francs for not using the name of Bosco. This agreement is too long for reproduction in this volume, but unquestionably it is genuine and tells all too eloquently the troubles which beset Bosco in his old age. Eugene was said to be the superior of his famous father in sleight-of-hand, but he was wild and given to excesses. Women and wine checked what might have been a brilliant professional career. Disabled, poverty-stricken, and respected by none, he soon disappeared from the conjuring world, and according to Carl Willman in the "Zauberwelt" he died miserably in Hungary in 1891. [Illustration: Only photograph of Madame Bosco, given to the author by Mrs. Mueller, Madame Bosco's niece, at the funeral of Wiljalba Frikell.] [Illustration: The author at the grave of Bosco. From a photograph in the Harry Houdini Collection.] In the mean time, Bosco and his wife lived in poverty in Dresden, where the once brilliant conjurer died March 2nd, 1863. His wife died three years later and was interred in the grave with her husband in a cemetery on Friedrichstrasse. There was nothing on the tombstone to indicate the double interment, and I discovered the fact only by investigating the municipal and cemetery records. Here I also learned that the grave had merely been leased, and as the lease was about to expire the bones of the great conjurer and his faithful wife might soon be disinterred and reburied in a neglected corner of the graveyard devoted to the poor and unclaimed dead. To prevent this, I purchased the lot and tombstone, and presented the same to the Society of American Magicians, of which organization, at the present writing, I am a member. A man of noble birth and brilliant attainments was the original Bosco, and his name became a by-word all over the Continent as the synonym, not of cruelty, but of clever deception, yet never has posterity put the name of a great performer to such ignoble uses. For who has not heard the cry of the modern Bosco, "Eat-'em-alive"? To-day I can close my eyes and summon two visions. First I see myself standing bareheaded before a neglected grave in the quiet cemetery on Friedrichstrasse, Dresden, the sunlight pouring down upon the tombstone which bears not only the cup-and-balls and wand, insignia of Bosco's most famous trick, but this inscription: "Ici repose le célèbre Bartolomeo Bosco.--Né à Turin le 11 Janvier, 1793; décédé à Dresden le 2 Mars, 1863." The history of this clever conjurer, with all its lights and shadows, sweeps before me like a mental panorama. The second vision carries me into the country, to the fairs of England and the side-shows of America: "Bosco! Bosco! Eat-'em-alive Bosco. You can't afford to miss this marvel. Bosco! Bosco!" Follow me into the enclosure and gaze down into a den. There lies a half-naked human being. His hair is long and matted, a loin cloth does wretched duty as clothing. Torn sandals are on his feet. The eulogistic lecturer dilates upon the powers of this twentieth-century Bosco, but you do not listen. Your fascinated gaze is fixed on various hideous, wriggling, writhing forms on the floor of the den. Snakes--scores of them! Now the creature, half-animal, half-human, glances up to make sure that attention is riveted upon him, then grasps one of the serpents in his hideous hands and in a flash bites off its head. The writhing body falls back to the ground. You grip the railing in a sudden faintness. Has your brain deceived your eyes, or your eyes your brain? If you are a conjurer you try to convince yourself that it is all a clever sleight-of-hand exhibition, but in your heart you know it is not true. This creature, so near a beast, has debauched his manhood for a few paltry dollars, and in dragging himself down has dragged down the name of a worthy, a brilliant, a world-famous performer. Of the twentieth-century Boscos there are, alas, many. You will find them all over the world, in street carnivals, side-shows, fair-booths, and museums, and why the public supports such debasing exhibitions I have never yet been able to understand. I have seen half-starved Russians pick food from refuse-barrels. I have seen besotted Americans creep out from low dives to draw the dregs of beer-barrels into tomato cans. I have seen absinthe fiends in Paris trade body and soul to obtain their beloved stimulant. I have heard morphine fiends in Russia promise to exhibit the effect of the needle in return for the price of an injection. But never has my soul so risen in revolt as at sight of this bestial exhibition with which the name of Bosco, a nobleman and a conjurer of merit, has been linked. [Illustration: Anderson's opening programme at the Strand Theatre, Christmas week, 1848, showing that he duplicated the tricks offered by Robert-Houdin, who, in his "Memoirs," claims that Anderson's programme was stale and uninteresting by comparison with his own.] Even more despicable than his attack upon Bosco is Robert-Houdin's flaying of John Henry Anderson. In this he is both unmanly and untruthful. Hinging his attack on his surprise at the press methods and advertising adopted in England as opposed to the less spectacular means employed in France, he insinuates that Anderson's entire success was built not upon merit, ability, originality, or diversified programmes, but solely upon sensational advertising. On page 325 of the American edition of his "Memoirs" Robert-Houdin writes thus of his competitor: "On my arrival in England a conjurer of the name of Anderson, who assumed the title of Great Wizard of the North, had been performing for a long period at the little Strand Theatre. "This artist, fearing, doubtlessly, that public attention might be divided, tried to crush the publicity of my performances; hence he sent out on London streets a cavalcade thus organized: "Four enormous carriages, covered with posters and pictures representing all sorts of witchcraft, opened the procession. Then followed four-and-twenty merry men, each bearing a banner on which was painted a letter a yard in height. "At each cross-road the four carriages stopped side by side and presented a bill some twenty-five yards in length, while all the men (I should say letters), on receiving the word of command, drew themselves up in a line, like the vehicles. "Seen in front the letters formed this phrase: THE CELEBRATED ANDERSON ! ! ! While on the other side of the banners could be read: THE GREAT WIZARD OF THE NORTH. [Illustration: Handbill used by Anderson in Germany. January, 1848, when Robert-Houdin claimed that he was playing in the English provinces. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] "Unfortunately for the Wizard, his performances were attacked by a mortal disease; too long a stay in London had ended by producing satiety. Besides, his repertory was out-of-date, and could not contend against the new tricks which I was offering. What could he present to the public in opposition to the second sight, the suspension, and the inexhaustible bottle? Hence he was obliged to close his theatre and start for the provinces, where he managed, as usual, to make excellent receipts, owing to his powerful means of notoriety." In the first place, Robert Houdin insinuates that when they played in opposition John Henry Anderson's répertoire was stale and uninteresting. Is it possible that Robert-Houdin could not read Anderson's bills, or were his statements deliberate falsehoods, emanating from a malicious, wilful desire to injure Anderson? What did Anderson have to offer in opposition to Robert-Houdin's much-vaunted Suspension, Second Sight, and Inexhaustible Bottle? Consult the Anderson programme, reproduced, and you will find that the great Wizard of the North duplicated the French conjurer's répertoire. "The Ethereal Suspension" of Robert-Houdin's programme was "Suspension Chloroforeene" on Anderson's. Second Sight appeared on both bills. "The Inexhaustible Bottle" had wisely been dropped by Anderson because he had been using it in one form or another for ten years preceding the date of Robert-Houdin's appearance in London, as is proven in chapter IX. of this book. Therefore, if Anderson's programme was passé and uninteresting, so also must have been the one offered by Robert-Houdin! [Illustration: Poster used by Anderson during his closing week at the Strand Theatre, London, January 11th, 1848. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Second, John Henry Anderson was not in London when Robert-Houdin arrived there in May, 1848. He was on the Continent, and a bill reproduced will show that he was in Germany in January, 1848, and did not open at the Strand Theatre until December 26th, 1848. Then it was Robert-Houdin who had just returned from the provinces, not Anderson. Anderson had been playing the capitals of Europe. Robert-Houdin had been in Manchester, England. Robert-Houdin again skilfully twists the truth to suit his own ends. He actually states that Anderson, returning from a tour of the provinces, used a new poster, a caricature of the famous painting, "Napoleon's Return from Elba": "In the foreground Anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the great man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner bearing the words 'The Wonder of the World'; while, behind him and somewhat lost in the shade, the Emperor of Russia and several other monarchs stood in a respectful posture. As in the original picture, the fanatic admirers of the Wizard embraced his knees, while an immense crowd received him triumphantly. In the distance could be seen the equestrian statue of the Iron Duke, who, hat in hand, bowed before him, the Great Wizard; and lastly, the very dome of St. Paul's bent towards him most humbly. "At the bottom was the inscription, RETURN OF THE NAPOLEON OF NECROMANCY. "Regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad taste; but as a caricature it is excessively comic. Besides, it had the double result of making the London public laugh and bringing a great number of shillings into the skilful puffer's pockets." [Illustration: Eugene Bosco, son of the original Bosco. From the Harry Houdini Collection.] Reference to my collection of Anderson programmes and press clippings proves that while on the Continent his performances had created such a sensation that, according to the ethics and etiquette of his profession, Anderson was quite justified in assuming the title of "The Napoleon of Necromancy" and in depicting even kings and noblemen admiring his abilities as a conjurer. But, alas, Robert-Houdin had played only before English and French monarchs, not before the other crowned heads of Europe, including the Czar of Russia and the German Kaiser! It required weeks and months of browsing in old book- and print-shops, national libraries, and rare collections on my part to prove that Anderson had really played these engagements, when his bitter rival, Robert-Houdin, his heart eaten with jealousy until his sense of honor and truth was hopelessly blunted, was claiming that Anderson had just returned from a trip in the English provinces. It will be noted by reference to the Anderson programme that he had been engaged only for the Christmas holidays, but despite Robert-Houdin's claim that he was a failure and was obliged to close and seek new fields of conquest in the provinces, Anderson's engagement was extended. He remained at the Strand until January 11th, 1848, then after a brief provincial tour he actually returned to London and played to big receipts. Again and again he appeared in London. Far from being the unpopular, forgotten ex-magician pictured by Robert-Houdin, he performed with great success at the St. James Theatre, London, in 1851. Robert-Houdin appeared in London for the last time in 1853, but in 1865 "the despised and forgotten Anderson" was there again, creating a furor in his exposure of the Davenport Brothers. [Illustration: John Henry Anderson as he appeared in his later years. From a cut in the Harry Houdini Collection.] Robert-Houdin might have been justified in criticising Anderson's sensational advertising methods, for these were entirely opposed to the more elegant and conservative methods employed by the French conjurer. But certainly he was not justified in picturing his rival as one who had passed his prime, whose popularity had waned, whose répertoire no longer attracted the public. For, in addition to duplicating Robert-Houdin's entire répertoire, Anderson offered tricks of which Robert-Houdin knew nothing, and for years to come he constantly reconstructed his programmes, keeping them strictly up-to-date. Anderson did die a poor man, but this was not because the amusement-loving public had wearied of him. A popular performer, like so many of his class he did not know how to invest his huge earnings. It is known that he gave $20,000 to various charities, while no record of Robert-Houdin's charities exists. He was burned out several times. He lost money through a bad contract made for his Australian tour. Certain investments dropped in value because of the Civil War in the United States, during which England sympathized with the South. Finally, during his American tour after the Civil War, Anderson played the Southern States, then steeped in bitterness toward the North, and was unfortunate enough to bill himself as "The Great Wizard of the North." This roused the Southern prejudice to white heat, he was almost mobbed, and was finally driven from that section of the country. He went into bankruptcy, November 19th, 1866, and died at Darlington, County Durham, England, Feb. 3rd, 1874. His remains were interred, in accordance with his dying request, at Aberdeen, Scotland. So ends the true history of Robert-Houdin. The master-magician, unmasked, stands forth in all the hideous nakedness of historical proof, the prince of pilferers. That he might bask for a few hours in public adulation, he purloined the ideas of magicians long dead and buried, and proclaimed these as the fruits of his own inventive genius. That he might be known to posterity as the king of conjurers, he sold his birthright of manhood and honor for a mere mess of pottage, his "Memoirs," written by the hand of another man, who at his instigation belittled his contemporaries, and juggled facts and truth to further his egotistical, jealous ambitions. But the day of reckoning is come. Upon the history of magic as promulgated by Robert-Houdin the searchlight of modern investigation has been turned. Credit has been given where it belongs, to those magicians who preceded Robert-Houdin and upon whose abilities and achievements Robert-Houdin built his unearned, unmerited fame. The dust of years has been swept from names long forgotten, which should forever shine in the annals of magic. Thus end, also, my researches, covering almost two decades of time, researches in which my veneration for old-time magicians grew with each newly discovered bit of history; researches during which my respect for the profession of magic has grown by leaps and bounds. And the fruits of these researches I now lay before the only true jury, the great reading public. My task is finished. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: Inventions and and Discoveries=> Inventions and Discoveries {pg 14} from his autobigraphy=> from his autobiography {pg 34} is supposed so have been engraved=> is supposed to have been engraved {pg 59 illustration caption} is his autobiography=> in his autobiography {pg 89 illustration caption} woudn=> wound {pg 160} perfomances=> performances {pg 187} though as far as maiming him for life=> though not as far as maiming him for life {pg 281} the frontispiese=> the frontispiece {pg 48 illustration caption} 
14591	----	Proofreading Team [Illustration: Faust] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: _Have you not led this life quite long enough?_] FAUST _by_ _Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_ WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY _Harry Clarke_ TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, IN THE ORIGINAL METRES, BY _Bayard Taylor_ _An Illustrated Edition_ THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY CLEVELAND, OHIO NEW YORK, N.Y. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA [Illustration] [Illustration] CONTENTS PREFACE AN GOETHE DEDICATION PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN SCENE I. NIGHT (_Faust's Monologue_) II. BEFORE THE CITY-GATE III. THE STUDY (_The Exorcism_) IV. THE STUDY (_The Compact_) V. AUERBACH'S CELLAR VI. WITCHES' KITCHEN VII. A STREET VIII. EVENING IX. PROMENADE X. THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE XI. STREET XII. GARDEN XIII. A GARDEN-ARBOR XIV. FOREST AND CAVERN XV. MARGARET'S ROOM XVI. MARTHA'S GARDEN XVII. AT THE FOUNTAIN XVIII. DONJON (_Margaret's Prayer_) XIX. NIGHT (_Valentine's Death_) XX. CATHEDRAL XXI. WALPURGIS-NIGHT XXII. OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN WEDDING XXIII. DREARY DAY XXIV. NIGHT XXV. DUNGEON [Illustration] FAUST [Illustration] [Illustration: Preface] It is twenty years since I first determined to attempt the translation of _Faust_, in the original metres. At that time, although more than a score of English translations of the First Part, and three or four of the Second Part, were in existence, the experiment had not yet been made. The prose version of Hayward seemed to have been accepted as the standard, in default of anything more satisfactory: the English critics, generally sustaining the translator in his views concerning the secondary importance of form in Poetry, practically discouraged any further attempt; and no one, familiar with rhythmical expression through the needs of his own nature, had devoted the necessary love and patience to an adequate reproduction of the great work of Goethe's life. Mr. Brooks was the first to undertake the task, and the publication of his translation of the First Part (in 1856) induced me, for a time, to give up my own design. No previous English version exhibited such abnegation of the translator's own tastes and habits of thought, such reverent desire to present the original in its purest form. The care and conscience with which the work had been performed were so apparent, that I now state with reluctance what then seemed to me to be its only deficiencies,--a lack of the lyrical fire and fluency of the original in some passages, and an occasional lowering of the tone through the use of words which are literal, but not equivalent. The plan of translation adopted by Mr. Brooks was so entirely my own, that when further residence in Germany and a more careful study of both parts of _Faust_ had satisfied me that the field was still open,--that the means furnished by the poetical affinity of the two languages had not yet been exhausted,--nothing remained for me but to follow him in all essential particulars. His example confirmed me in the belief that there were few difficulties in the way of a nearly literal yet thoroughly rhythmical version of _Faust_, which might not be overcome by loving labor. A comparison of seventeen English translations, in the arbitrary metres adopted by the translators, sufficiently showed the danger of allowing license in this respect: the white light of Goethe's thought was thereby passed through the tinted glass of other minds, and assumed the coloring of each. Moreover, the plea of selecting different metres in the hope of producing a similar effect is unreasonable, where the identical metres are possible. The value of form, in a poetical work, is the first question to be considered. No poet ever understood this question more thoroughly than Goethe himself, or expressed a more positive opinion in regard to it. The alternative modes of translation which he presents (reported by Riemer, quoted by Mrs. Austin, in her "Characteristics of Goethe," and accepted by Mr. Hayward),[A] are quite independent of his views concerning the value of form, which we find given elsewhere, in the clearest and most emphatic manner.[B] Poetry is not simply a fashion of expression: it is the form of expression absolutely required by a certain class of ideas. Poetry, indeed, may be distinguished from Prose by the single circumstance, that it is the utterance of whatever in man cannot be perfectly uttered in any other than a rhythmical form: it is useless to say that the naked meaning is independent of the form: on the contrary, the form contributes essentially to the fullness of the meaning. In Poetry which endures through its own inherent vitality, there is no forced union of these two elements. They are as intimately blended, and with the same mysterious beauty, as the sexes in the ancient Hermaphroditus. To attempt to represent Poetry in Prose, is very much like attempting to translate music into speech.[C] [A] "'There are two maxims of translation,' says he: 'the one requires that the author, of a foreign nation, be brought to us in such a manner that we may regard him as our own; the other, on the contrary, demands of us that we transport ourselves over to him, and adopt his situation, his mode of speaking, and his peculiarities. The advantages of both are sufficiently known to all instructed persons, from masterly examples.'" Is it necessary, however, that there should always be this alternative? Where the languages are kindred, and equally capable of all varieties of metrical expression, may not both these "maxims" be observed in the same translation? Goethe, it is true, was of the opinion that _Faust_ ought to be given, in French, in the manner of Clement Marot; but this was undoubtedly because he felt the inadequacy of modern French to express the naive, simple realism of many passages. The same objection does not apply to English. There are a few archaic expressions in _Faust_, but no more than are still allowed--nay, frequently encouraged--in the English of our day. [B] "You are right," said Goethe; "there are great and mysterious agencies included in the various forms of Poetry. If the substance of my 'Roman Elegies' were to be expressed in the tone and measure of Byron's 'Don Juan,' it would really have an atrocious effect."--_Eckermann_. "The rhythm," said Goethe, "is an unconscious result of the poetic mood. If one should stop to consider it mechanically, when about to write a poem, one would become bewildered and accomplish nothing of real poetical value."--_Ibid_. "_All that is poetic in character should be rythmically treated_! Such is my conviction; and if even a sort of poetic prose should be gradually introduced, it would only show that the distinction between prose and poetry had been completely lost sight of."--_Goethe to Schiller_, 1797. Tycho Mommsen, in his excellent essay, _Die Kunst des Deutschen Uebersetzers aus neueren Sprachen_, goes so far as to say: "The metrical or rhymed modelling of a poetical work is so essentially the germ of its being, that, rather than by giving it up, we might hope to construct a similar work of art before the eyes of our countrymen, by giving up or changing the substance. The immeasurable result which has followed works wherein the form has been retained--such as the Homer of Voss, and the Shakespeare of Tieck and Schlegel--is an incontrovertible evidence of the vitality of the endeavor." [C] "Goethe's poems exercise a great sway over me, not only by their meaning, but also by their rhythm. It is a language which stimulates me to composition."--_Beethoven_. The various theories of translation from the Greek and Latin poets have been admirably stated by Dryden in his Preface to the "Translations from Ovid's Epistles," and I do not wish to continue the endless discussion,--especially as our literature needs examples, not opinions. A recent expression, however, carries with it so much authority, that I feel bound to present some considerations which the accomplished scholar seems to have overlooked. Mr. Lewes[D] justly says: "The effect of poetry is a compound of music and suggestion; this music and this suggestion are intermingled in words, which to alter is to alter the effect. For words in poetry are not, as in prose, simple representatives of objects and ideas: they are parts of an organic whole,--they are tones in the harmony." He thereupon illustrates the effect of translation by changing certain well-known English stanzas into others, equivalent in meaning, but lacking their felicity of words, their grace and melody. I cannot accept this illustration as valid, because Mr. Lewes purposely omits the very quality which an honest translator should exhaust his skill in endeavoring to reproduce. He turns away from the _one best_ word or phrase in the English lines he quotes, whereas the translator seeks precisely that one best word or phrase (having _all_ the resources of his language at command), to represent what is said in _another_ language. More than this, his task is not simply mechanical: he must feel, and be guided by, a secondary inspiration. Surrendering himself to the full possession of the spirit which shall speak through him, he receives, also, a portion of the same creative power. Mr. Lewes reaches this conclusion: "If, therefore, we reflect what a poem _Faust_ is, and that it contains almost every variety of style and metre, it will be tolerably evident that no one unacquainted with the original can form an adequate idea of it from translation,"[E] which is certainly correct of any translation wherein something of the rhythmical variety and beauty of the original is not retained. That very much of the rhythmical character may be retained in English, was long ago shown by Mr. Carlyle,[F] in the passages which he translated, both literally and rhythmically, from the _Helena_ (Part Second). In fact, we have so many instances of the possibility of reciprocally transferring the finest qualities of English and German poetry, that there is no sufficient excuse for an unmetrical translation of _Faust_. I refer especially to such subtile and melodious lyrics as "The Castle by the Sea," of Uhland, and the "Silent Land" of Salis, translated by Mr. Longfellow; Goethe's "Minstrel" and "Coptic Song," by Dr. Hedge; Heine's "Two Grenadiers," by Dr. Furness and many of Heine's songs by Mr Leland; and also to the German translations of English lyrics, by Freiligrath and Strodtmann.[G] [D] Life of Goethe (Book VI.). [E] Mr. Lewes gives the following advice: "The English reader would perhaps best succeed who should first read Dr. Anster's brilliant paraphrase, and then carefully go through Hayward's prose translation." This is singularly at variance with the view he has just expressed. Dr. Anster's version is an almost incredible dilution of the original, written in _other_ metres; while Hayward's entirely omits the element of poetry. [F] Foreign Review, 1828. [G] When Freiligrath can thus give us Walter Scott:-- "Kommt, wie der Wind kommt, Wenn Wälder erzittern Kommt, wie die Brandung Wenn Flotten zersplittern! Schnell heran, schnell herab, Schneller kommt Al'e!--Häuptling und Bub' und Knapp, Herr und Vasalle!" or Strodtmann thus reproduce Tennyson:-- "Es fällt der Strahl auf Burg und Thal, Und schneeige Gipfel, reich an Sagen; Viel' Lichter wehn auf blauen Seen, Bergab die Wasserstürze jagen! Blas, Hüfthorn, blas, in Wiederhall erschallend: Blas, Horn--antwortet, Echos, hallend, hallend, hallend!" --it must be a dull ear which would be satisfied with the omission of rhythm and rhyme. I have a more serious objection, however, to urge against Mr. Hayward's prose translation. Where all the restraints of verse are flung aside, we should expect, at least, as accurate a reproduction of the sense, spirit, and tone of the original, as the genius of our language will permit. So far from having given us such a reproduction, Mr. Hayward not only occasionally mistakes the exact meaning of the German text,[H] but, wherever two phrases may be used to express the meaning with equal fidelity, he very frequently selects that which has the less grace, strength, or beauty.[I] [H] On his second page, the line _Mein Lied ertönt der unbekannten Menge_, "My song sounds to the unknown multitude," is translated: "My _sorrow_ voices itself to the strange throng." Other English translators, I notice, have followed Mr. Hayward in mistaking _Lied_ for _Leid_. I: I take but one out of numerous instances, for the sake of illustration. The close of the Soldier's Song (Part I. Scene II.) is:-- "Kühn is das Mühen, Herrlich der Lohn! Und die Soldaten Ziehen davon." Literally: Bold is the endeavor, Splendid the pay! And the soldiers March away. This Mr. Hayward translates:-- Bold the adventure, Noble the reward-- And the soldiers Are off. For there are few things which may not be said, in English, in a twofold manner,--one poetic, and the other prosaic. In German, equally, a word which in ordinary use has a bare prosaic character may receive a fairer and finer quality from its place in verse. The prose translator should certainly be able to feel the manifestation of this law in both languages, and should so choose his words as to meet their reciprocal requirements. A man, however, who is not keenly sensible to the power and beauty and value of rhythm, is likely to overlook these delicate yet most necessary distinctions. The author's thought is stripped of a last grace in passing through his mind, and frequently presents very much the same resemblance to the original as an unhewn shaft to the fluted column. Mr. Hayward unconsciously illustrates his lack of a refined appreciation of verse, "in giving," as he says, "_a sort of rhythmical arrangement_ to the lyrical parts," his object being "to convey some notion of the variety of versification which forms one great charm of the poem." A literal translation is always possible in the unrhymed passages; but even here Mr. Hayward's ear did not dictate to him the necessity of preserving the original rhythm. While, therefore, I heartily recognize his lofty appreciation of _Faust_,--while I honor him for the patient and conscientious labor he has bestowed upon his translation,--I cannot but feel that he has himself illustrated the unsoundness of his argument. Nevertheless, the circumstance that his prose translation of _Faust_ has received so much acceptance proves those qualities of the original work which cannot be destroyed by a test so violent. From the cold bare outline thus produced, the reader unacquainted with the German language would scarcely guess what glow of color, what richness of changeful life, what fluent grace and energy of movement have been lost in the process. We must, of course, gratefully receive such an outline, where a nearer approach to the form of the original is impossible, but, until the latter has been demonstrated, we are wrong to remain content with the cheaper substitute. It seems to me that in all discussions upon this subject the capacities of the English language have received but scanty justice. The intellectual tendencies of our race have always been somewhat conservative, and its standards of literary taste or belief, once set up, are not varied without a struggle. The English ear is suspicious of new metres and unaccustomed forms of expression: there are critical detectives on the track of every author, and a violation of the accepted canons is followed by a summons to judgment. Thus the tendency is to contract rather than to expand the acknowledged excellences of the language.[J] [J] I cannot resist the temptation of quoting the following passage from Jacob Grimm: "No one of all the modern languages has acquired a greater force and strength than the English, through the derangement and relinquishment of its ancient laws of sound. The unteachable (nevertheless _learnable_) profusion of its middle-tones has conferred upon it an intrinsic power of expression, such as no other human tongue ever possessed. Its entire, thoroughly intellectual and wonderfully successful foundation and perfected development issued from a marvelous union of the two noblest tongues of Europe, the Germanic and the Romanic. Their mutual relation in the English language is well known, since the former furnished chiefly the material basis, while the latter added the intellectual conceptions. The English language, by and through which the greatest and most eminent poet of modern times--as contrasted with ancient classical poetry--(of course I can refer only to Shakespeare) was begotten and nourished, has a just claim to be called a language of the world; and it appears to be destined, like the English race, to a higher and broader sway in all quarters of the earth. For in richness, in compact adjustment of parts, and in pure intelligence, none of the living languages can be compared with it,--not even our German, which is divided even as we are divided, and which must cast off many imperfections before it can boldly enter on its career."--_Ueber den Ursprung der Sprache_. The difficulties in the way of a nearly literal translation of _Faust_ in the original metres have been exaggerated, because certain affinities between the two languages have not been properly considered. With all the splendor of versification in the work, it contains but few metres of which the English tongue is not equally capable. Hood has familiarized us with dactylic (triple) rhymes, and they are remarkably abundant and skillful in Mr. Lowell's "Fable for the Critics": even the unrhymed iambic hexameter of the _Helena_ occurs now and then in Milton's _Samson Agonistes_. It is true that the metrical foot into which the German language most naturally falls is the _trochaic_, while in English it is the _iambic_: it is true that German is rich, involved, and tolerant of new combinations, while English is simple, direct, and rather shy of compounds; but precisely these differences are so modified in the German of _Faust_ that there is a mutual approach of the two languages. In _Faust_, the iambic measure predominates; the style is compact; the many licenses which the author allows himself are all directed towards a shorter mode of construction. On the other hand, English metre compels the use of inversions, admits many verbal liberties prohibited to prose, and so inclines towards various flexible features of its sister-tongue that many lines of _Faust_ may be repeated in English without the slightest change of meaning, measure, or rhyme. There are words, it is true, with so delicate a bloom upon them that it can in no wise be preserved; but even such words will always lose less when they carry with them their rhythmical atmosphere. The flow of Goethe's verse is sometimes so similar to that of the corresponding English metre, that not only its harmonies and caesural pauses, but even its punctuation, may be easily retained. I am satisfied that the difference between a translation of _Faust_ in prose or metre is chiefly one of labor,--and of that labor which is successful in proportion as it is joyously performed. My own task has been cheered by the discovery, that the more closely I reproduced the language of the original, the more of its rhythmical character was transferred at the same time. If, now and then, there was an inevitable alternative of meaning or music, I gave the preference to the former. By the term "original metres" I do not mean a rigid, unyielding adherence to every foot, line, and rhyme of the German original, although this has very nearly been accomplished. Since the greater part of the work is written in an irregular measure, the lines varying from three to six feet, and the rhymes arranged according to the author's will, I do not consider that an occasional change in the number of feet, or order of rhyme, is any violation of the metrical plan. The single slight liberty I have taken with the lyrical passages is in Margaret's song,--"The King of Thule,"--in which, by omitting the alternate feminine rhymes, yet retaining the metre, I was enabled to make the translation strictly literal. If, in two or three instances, I have left a line unrhymed, I have balanced the omission by giving rhymes to other lines which stand unrhymed in the original text. For the same reason, I make no apology for the imperfect rhymes, which are frequently a translation as well as a necessity. With all its supreme qualities, _Faust_ is far from being a technically perfect work.[K] [K] "At present, everything runs in technical grooves, and the critical gentlemen begin to wrangle whether in a rhyme an _s_ should correspond with an _s_ and not with _sz_. If I were young and reckless enough, I would purposely offend all such technical caprices: I would use alliteration, assonance, false rhyme, just according to my own will or convenience--but, at the same time, I would attend to the main thing, and endeavor to say so many good things that every one would be attracted to read and remember them."--_Goethe_, in 1831. The feminine and dactylic rhymes, which have been for the most part omitted by all metrical translators except Mr. Brooks, are indispensable. The characteristic tone of many passages would be nearly lost, without them. They give spirit and grace to the dialogue, point to the aphoristic portions (especially in the Second Part), and an ever-changing music to the lyrical passages. The English language, though not so rich as the German in such rhymes, is less deficient than is generally supposed. The difficulty to be overcome is one of construction rather than of the vocabulary. The present participle can only be used to a limited extent, on account of its weak termination, and the want of an accusative form to the noun also restricts the arrangement of words in English verse. I cannot hope to have been always successful; but I have at least labored long and patiently, bearing constantly in mind not only the meaning of the original and the mechanical structure of the lines, but also that subtile and haunting music which seems to govern rhythm instead of being governed by it. B.T. [Illustration] AN GOETHE _Erhabener Geist, im Geisterreich verloren! Wo immer Deine lichte Wohnung sey, Zum höh'ren Schaffen bist Du neugeboren, Und singest dort die voll're Litanei. Von jenem Streben das Du auserkoren, Vom reinsten Aether, drin Du athmest frei, O neige Dich zu gnädigem Erwiedern Des letzten Wiederhalls von Deinen Liedern! II Den alten Musen die bestäubten Kronen Nahmst Du, zu neuem Glanz, mit kühner Hand: Du löst die Räthsel ältester Aeonen Durch jüngeren Glauben, helleren Verstand, Und machst, wo rege Menschengeister wohnen, Die ganze Erde Dir zum Vaterland; Und Deine Jünger sehn in Dir, verwundert, Verkörpert schon das werdende Jahrhundert. III Was Du gesungen, Aller Lust und Klagen, Des Lebens Wiedersprüche, neu vermählt,-- Die Harfe tausendstimmig frisch geschlagen, Die Shakspeare einst, die einst Homer gewählt,-- Darf ich in fremde Klänge übertragen Das Alles, wo so Mancher schon gefehlt? Lass Deinen Geist in meiner Stimme klingen, Und was Du sangst, lass mich es Dir nachsingen!_ B.T. [Illustration] [Illustration: =Dedication=] Again ye come, ye hovering Forms! I find ye, As early to my clouded sight ye shone! Shall I attempt, this once, to seize and bind ye? Still o'er my heart is that illusion thrown? Ye crowd more near! Then, be the reign assigned ye, And sway me from your misty, shadowy zone! My bosom thrills, with youthful passion shaken, From magic airs that round your march awaken. Of joyous days ye bring the blissful vision; The dear, familiar phantoms rise again, And, like an old and half-extinct tradition, First Love returns, with Friendship in his train. Renewed is Pain: with mournful repetition Life tracks his devious, labyrinthine chain, And names the Good, whose cheating fortune tore them From happy hours, and left me to deplore them. They hear no longer these succeeding measures, The souls, to whom my earliest songs I sang: Dispersed the friendly troop, with all its pleasures, And still, alas! the echoes first that rang! I bring the unknown multitude my treasures; Their very plaudits give my heart a pang, And those beside, whose joy my Song so flattered, If still they live, wide through the world are scattered. And grasps me now a long-unwonted yearning For that serene and solemn Spirit-Land: My song, to faint Aeolian murmurs turning, Sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned. I thrill and tremble; tear on tear is burning, And the stern heart is tenderly unmanned. What I possess, I see far distant lying, And what I lost, grows real and undying. [Illustration] [Illustration: =Prelude at the Theatre=] MANAGER DRAMATIC POET MERRY-ANDREW MANAGER You two, who oft a helping hand Have lent, in need and tribulation. Come, let me know your expectation Of this, our enterprise, in German land! I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated, Especially since it lives and lets me live; The posts are set, the booth of boards completed. And each awaits the banquet I shall give. Already there, with curious eyebrows raised, They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed. I know how one the People's taste may flatter, Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel: What they're accustomed to, is no great matter, But then, alas! they've read an awful deal. How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,-- Important matter, yet attractive too? For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging, When to our booth the current sets apace, And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging, Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace: By daylight even, they push and cram in To reach the seller's box, a fighting host, And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine, To get a ticket break their necks almost. This miracle alone can work the Poet On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it. POET Speak not to me of yonder motley masses, Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song! Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes, And in its whirlpool forces us along! No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses The purer joys that round the Poet throng,-- Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion! Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,-- Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,-- Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast; Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing, Its perfect stature stands at last confessed! What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit: What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit. MERRY-ANDREW Posterity! Don't name the word to me! If _I_ should choose to preach Posterity, Where would you get contemporary fun? That men _will_ have it, there's no blinking: A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking, Is something worth, to every one. Who genially his nature can outpour, Takes from the People's moods no irritation; The wider circle he acquires, the more Securely works his inspiration. Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin! Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,-- Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,-- But have a care, lest Folly be omitted! MANAGER Chiefly, enough of incident prepare! They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Reel off a host of threads before their faces, So that they gape in stupid wonder: then By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces, And are, at once, most popular of men. Only by mass you touch the mass; for any Will finally, himself, his bit select: Who offers much, brings something unto many, And each goes home content with the effect, If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it: A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it! 'Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent. What use, a Whole compactly to present? Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it! POET You do not feel, how such a trade debases; How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true! The botching work each fine pretender traces Is, I perceive, a principle with you. MANAGER Such a reproach not in the least offends; A man who some result intends Must use the tools that best are fitting. Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting, And then, observe for whom you write! If one comes bored, exhausted quite, Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers, And, worst of all, full many a wight Is fresh from reading of the daily papers. Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, Mere curiosity their spirits warming: The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid, Without a salary their parts performing. What dreams are yours in high poetic places? You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold? Draw near, and view your patrons' faces! The half are coarse, the half are cold. One, when the play is out, goes home to cards; A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses: Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards, For ends like these, the gracious Muses? I tell you, give but more--more, ever more, they ask: Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory. Seek to confound your auditory! To satisfy them is a task.-- What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure? POET Go, find yourself a more obedient slave! What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave, The highest right, supreme Humanity, Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure? Whence o'er the heart his empire free? The elements of Life how conquers he? Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim, To wind the world in unison with him? When on the spindle, spun to endless distance, By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, And the discordant tones of all existence In sullen jangle are together hurled, Who, then, the changeless orders of creation Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance? Who brings the One to join the general ordination, Where it may throb in grandest consonance? Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom? In brooding souls the sunset burn above? Who scatters every fairest April blossom Along the shining path of Love? Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting Desert with fame, in Action's every field? Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting? The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed. MERRY-ANDREW So, these fine forces, in conjunction, Propel the high poetic function, As in a love-adventure they might play! You meet by accident; you feel, you stay, And by degrees your heart is tangled; Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled; You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe, And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know! Let us, then, such a drama give! Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live! Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: Where'er you touch, there's interest without end. In motley pictures little light, Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite, Thus the best beverage is supplied, Whence all the world is cheered and edified. Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower Of youth collect, to hear the revelation! Each tender soul, with sentimental power, Sucks melancholy food from your creation; And now in this, now that, the leaven works. For each beholds what in his bosom lurks. They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see: A mind, once formed, is never suited after; One yet in growth will ever grateful be. POET Then give me back that time of pleasures, While yet in joyous growth I sang,-- When, like a fount, the crowding measures Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! Then bright mist veiled the world before me, In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me! I nothing had, and yet enough for youth-- Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,-- O, give me back my youth again! MERRY ANDREW Youth, good my friend, you certainly require When foes in combat sorely press you; When lovely maids, in fond desire, Hang on your bosom and caress you; When from the hard-won goal the wreath Beckons afar, the race awaiting; When, after dancing out your breath, You pass the night in dissipating:-- But that familiar harp with soul To play,--with grace and bold expression, And towards a self-erected goal To walk with many a sweet digression,-- This, aged Sirs, belongs to you, And we no less revere you for that reason: Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true; We're only genuine children still, in Age's season! MANAGER The words you've bandied are sufficient; 'Tis deeds that I prefer to see: In compliments you're both proficient, But might, the while, more useful be. What need to talk of Inspiration? 'Tis no companion of Delay. If Poetry be your vocation, Let Poetry your will obey! Full well you know what here is wanting; The crowd for strongest drink is panting, And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew. What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do. Waste not a day in vain digression: With resolute, courageous trust Seize every possible impression, And make it firmly your possession; You'll then work on, because you must. Upon our German stage, you know it, Each tries his hand at what he will; So, take of traps and scenes your fill, And all you find, be sure to show it! Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,-- Squander the stars in any number, Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber, Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night! Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere, The circle of Creation will appear, And move, as we deliberately impel, From Heaven, across the World, to Hell! [Illustration] [Illustration] PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN THE LORD THE HEAVENLY HOST _Afterwards_ MEPHISTOPHELES (_The_ THREE ARCHANGELS _come forward_.) RAPHAEL The sun-orb sings, in emulation, 'Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round: His path predestined through Creation He ends with step of thunder-sound. The angels from his visage splendid Draw power, whose measure none can say; The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day. GABRIEL And swift, and swift beyond conceiving, The splendor of the world goes round, Day's Eden-brightness still relieving The awful Night's intense profound: The ocean-tides in foam are breaking, Against the rocks' deep bases hurled, And both, the spheric race partaking, Eternal, swift, are onward whirled! MICHAEL And rival storms abroad are surging From sea to land, from land to sea. A chain of deepest action forging Round all, in wrathful energy. There flames a desolation, blazing Before the Thunder's crashing way: Yet, Lord, Thy messengers are praising The gentle movement of Thy Day. THE THREE Though still by them uncomprehended, From these the angels draw their power, And all Thy works, sublime and splendid, Are bright as in Creation's hour. MEPHISTOPHELES Since Thou, O Lord, deign'st to approach again And ask us how we do, in manner kindest, And heretofore to meet myself wert fain, Among Thy menials, now, my face Thou findest. Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after With lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned: My pathos certainly would move Thy laughter, If Thou hadst not all merriment unlearned. Of suns and worlds I've nothing to be quoted; How men torment themselves, is all I've noted. The little god o' the world sticks to the same old way, And is as whimsical as on Creation's day. Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason--thence his power's increased, To be far beastlier than any beast. Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me A long-legged grasshopper appears to be, That springing flies, and flying springs, And in the grass the same old ditty sings. Would he still lay among the grass he grows in! Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in. THE LORD Hast thou, then, nothing more to mention? Com'st ever, thus, with ill intention? Find'st nothing right on earth, eternally? MEPHISTOPHELES No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be. Man's misery even to pity moves my nature; I've scarce the heart to plague the wretched creature. THE LORD Know'st Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES The Doctor Faust? THE LORD My servant, he! MEPHISTOPHELES Forsooth! He serves you after strange devices: No earthly meat or drink the fool suffices: His spirit's ferment far aspireth; Half conscious of his frenzied, crazed unrest, The fairest stars from Heaven he requireth, From Earth the highest raptures and the best, And all the Near and Far that he desireth Fails to subdue the tumult of his breast. THE LORD Though still confused his service unto Me, I soon shall lead him to a clearer morning. Sees not the gardener, even while buds his tree, Both flower and fruit the future years adorning? MEPHISTOPHELES What will you bet? There's still a chance to gain him, If unto me full leave you give, Gently upon _my_ road to train him! THE LORD As long as he on earth shall live, So long I make no prohibition. While Man's desires and aspirations stir, He cannot choose but err. MEPHISTOPHELES My thanks! I find the dead no acquisition, And never cared to have them in my keeping. I much prefer the cheeks where ruddy blood is leaping, And when a corpse approaches, close my house: It goes with me, as with the cat the mouse. THE LORD Enough! What thou hast asked is granted. Turn off this spirit from his fountain-head; To trap him, let thy snares be planted, And him, with thee, be downward led; Then stand abashed, when thou art forced to say: A good man, through obscurest aspiration, Has still an instinct of the one true way. MEPHISTOPHELES Agreed! But 'tis a short probation. About my bet I feel no trepidation. If I fulfill my expectation, You'll let me triumph with a swelling breast: Dust shall he eat, and with a zest, As did a certain snake, my near relation. THE LORD Therein thou'rt free, according to thy merits; The like of thee have never moved My hate. Of all the bold, denying Spirits, The waggish knave least trouble doth create. Man's active nature, flagging, seeks too soon the level; Unqualified repose he learns to crave; Whence, willingly, the comrade him I gave, Who works, excites, and must create, as Devil. But ye, God's sons in love and duty, Enjoy the rich, the ever-living Beauty! Creative Power, that works eternal schemes, Clasp you in bonds of love, relaxing never, And what in wavering apparition gleams Fix in its place with thoughts that stand forever! (_Heaven closes: the_ ARCHANGELS _separate_.) MEPHISTOPHELES (_solus_) I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a noble Lord So humanly to gossip with the Devil! [Illustration] [Illustration] FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY I NIGHT (_A lofty-arched, narrow, Gothic chamber_. FAUST, _in a chair at his desk, restless_.) FAUST I've studied now Philosophy And Jurisprudence, Medicine,-- And even, alas! Theology,-- From end to end, with labor keen; And here, poor fool! with all my lore I stand, no wiser than before: I'm Magister--yea, Doctor--hight, And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right, These ten years long, with many woes, I've led my scholars by the nose,-- And see, that nothing can be known! _That_ knowledge cuts me to the bone. I'm cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers, Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers; Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me, Nor Hell nor Devil can longer affright me. For this, all pleasure am I foregoing; I do not pretend to aught worth knowing, I do not pretend I could be a teacher To help or convert a fellow-creature. Then, too, I've neither lands nor gold, Nor the world's least pomp or honor hold-- No dog would endure such a curst existence! Wherefore, from Magic I seek assistance, That many a secret perchance I reach Through spirit-power and spirit-speech, And thus the bitter task forego Of saying the things I do not know,-- That I may detect the inmost force Which binds the world, and guides its course; Its germs, productive powers explore, And rummage in empty words no more! O full and splendid Moon, whom I Have, from this desk, seen climb the sky So many a midnight,--would thy glow For the last time beheld my woe! Ever thine eye, most mournful friend, O'er books and papers saw me bend; But would that I, on mountains grand, Amid thy blessed light could stand, With spirits through mountain-caverns hover, Float in thy twilight the meadows over, And, freed from the fumes of lore that swathe me, To health in thy dewy fountains bathe me! Ah, me! this dungeon still I see. This drear, accursed masonry, Where even the welcome daylight strains But duskly through the painted panes. Hemmed in by many a toppling heap Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust, Which to the vaulted ceiling creep, Against the smoky paper thrust,-- With glasses, boxes, round me stacked, And instruments together hurled, Ancestral lumber, stuffed and packed-- Such is my world: and what a world! And do I ask, wherefore my heart Falters, oppressed with unknown needs? Why some inexplicable smart All movement of my life impedes? Alas! in living Nature's stead, Where God His human creature set, In smoke and mould the fleshless dead And bones of beasts surround me yet! Fly! Up, and seek the broad, free land! And this one Book of Mystery From Nostradamus' very hand, Is't not sufficient company? When I the starry courses know, And Nature's wise instruction seek, With light of power my soul shall glow, As when to spirits spirits speak. Tis vain, this empty brooding here, Though guessed the holy symbols be: Ye, Spirits, come--ye hover near-- Oh, if you hear me, answer me! (_He opens the Book, and perceives the sign of the Macrocosm_.) Ha! what a sudden rapture leaps from this I view, through all my senses swiftly flowing! I feel a youthful, holy, vital bliss In every vein and fibre newly glowing. Was it a God, who traced this sign, With calm across my tumult stealing, My troubled heart to joy unsealing, With impulse, mystic and divine, The powers of Nature here, around my path, revealing? Am I a God?--so clear mine eyes! In these pure features I behold Creative Nature to my soul unfold. What says the sage, now first I recognize: "The spirit-world no closures fasten; Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead: Disciple, up! untiring, hasten To bathe thy breast in morning-red!" (_He contemplates the sign_.) How each the Whole its substance gives, Each in the other works and lives! Like heavenly forces rising and descending, Their golden urns reciprocally lending, With wings that winnow blessing From Heaven through Earth I see them pressing, Filling the All with harmony unceasing! How grand a show! but, ah! a show alone. Thee, boundless Nature, how make thee my own? Where you, ye beasts? Founts of all Being, shining, Whereon hang Heaven's and Earth's desire, Whereto our withered hearts aspire,-- Ye flow, ye feed: and am I vainly pining? (_He turns the leaves impatiently, and perceives the sign of the Earth-Spirit_.) How otherwise upon me works this sign! Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer: Even now my powers are loftier, clearer; I glow, as drunk with new-made wine: New strength and heart to meet the world incite me, The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me, And though the shock of storms may smite me, No crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me! Clouds gather over me-- The moon conceals her light-- The lamp's extinguished!-- Mists rise,--red, angry rays are darting Around my head!--There falls A horror from the vaulted roof, And seizes me! I feel thy presence, Spirit I invoke! Reveal thyself! Ha! in my heart what rending stroke! With new impulsion My senses heave in this convulsion! I feel thee draw my heart, absorb, exhaust me: Thou must! thou must! and though my life it cost me! (_He seizes the book, and mysteriously pronounces the sign of the Spirit. A ruddy flame flashes: the Spirit appears in the flame_.) SPIRIT Who calls me? FAUST (_with averted head_) Terrible to see! SPIRIT Me hast thou long with might attracted, Long from my sphere thy food exacted, And now-- FAUST Woe! I endure not thee! SPIRIT To view me is thine aspiration, My voice to hear, my countenance to see; Thy powerful yearning moveth me, Here am I!--what mean perturbation Thee, superhuman, shakes? Thy soul's high calling, where? Where is the breast, which from itself a world did bear, And shaped and cherished--which with joy expanded, To be our peer, with us, the Spirits, banded? Where art thou, Faust, whose voice has pierced to me, Who towards me pressed with all thine energy? _He_ art thou, who, my presence breathing, seeing, Trembles through all the depths of being, A writhing worm, a terror-stricken form? FAUST Thee, form of flame, shall I then fear? Yes, I am Faust: I am thy peer! SPIRIT In the tides of Life, in Action's storm, A fluctuant wave, A shuttle free, Birth and the Grave, An eternal sea, A weaving, flowing Life, all-glowing, Thus at Time's humming loom 'tis my hand prepares The garment of Life which the Deity wears! FAUST Thou, who around the wide world wendest, Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee! SPIRIT Thou'rt like the Spirit which thou comprehendest, Not me! (_Disappears_.) FAUST (_overwhelmed_) Not thee! Whom then? I, image of the Godhead! Not even like thee! (_A knock_). O Death!--I know it--'tis my Famulus! My fairest luck finds no fruition: In all the fullness of my vision The soulless sneak disturbs me thus! (_Enter_ WAGNER_, in dressing-gown and night-cap, a lamp in his hand. _FAUST_ turns impatiently_.) WAGNER Pardon, I heard your declamation; 'Twas sure an old Greek tragedy you read? In such an art I crave some preparation, Since now it stands one in good stead. I've often heard it said, a preacher Might learn, with a comedian for a teacher. FAUST Yes, when the priest comedian is by nature, As haply now and then the case may be. WAGNER Ah, when one studies thus, a prisoned creature, That scarce the world on holidays can see,-- Scarce through a glass, by rare occasion, How shall one lead it by persuasion? FAUST You'll ne'er attain it, save you know the feeling, Save from the soul it rises clear, Serene in primal strength, compelling The hearts and minds of all who hear. You sit forever gluing, patching; You cook the scraps from others' fare; And from your heap of ashes hatching A starveling flame, ye blow it bare! Take children's, monkeys' gaze admiring, If such your taste, and be content; But ne'er from heart to heart you'll speak inspiring, Save your own heart is eloquent! WAGNER Yet through delivery orators succeed; I feel that I am far behind, indeed. FAUST Seek thou the honest recompense! Beware, a tinkling fool to be! With little art, clear wit and sense Suggest their own delivery; And if thou'rt moved to speak in earnest, What need, that after words thou yearnest? Yes, your discourses, with their glittering show, Where ye for men twist shredded thought like paper, Are unrefreshing as the winds that blow The rustling leaves through chill autumnal vapor! WAGNER Ah, God! but Art is long, And Life, alas! is fleeting. And oft, with zeal my critic-duties meeting, In head and breast there's something wrong. How hard it is to compass the assistance Whereby one rises to the source! And, haply, ere one travels half the course Must the poor devil quit existence. FAUST Is parchment, then, the holy fount before thee, A draught wherefrom thy thirst forever slakes? No true refreshment can restore thee, Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks. WAGNER Pardon! a great delight is granted When, in the spirit of the ages planted, We mark how, ere our times, a sage has thought, And then, how far his work, and grandly, we have brought. FAUST O yes, up to the stars at last! Listen, my friend: the ages that are past Are now a book with seven seals protected: What you the Spirit of the Ages call Is nothing but the spirit of you all, Wherein the Ages are reflected. So, oftentimes, you miserably mar it! At the first glance who sees it runs away. An offal-barrel and a lumber-garret, Or, at the best, a Punch-and-Judy play, With maxims most pragmatical and hitting, As in the mouths of puppets are befitting! WAGNER But then, the world--the human heart and brain! Of these one covets some slight apprehension. FAUST Yes, of the kind which men attain! Who dares the child's true name in public mention? The few, who thereof something really learned, Unwisely frank, with hearts that spurned concealing, And to the mob laid bare each thought and feeling, Have evermore been crucified and burned. I pray you, Friend, 'tis now the dead of night; Our converse here must be suspended. WAGNER I would have shared your watches with delight, That so our learned talk might be extended. To-morrow, though, I'll ask, in Easter leisure, This and the other question, at your pleasure. Most zealously I seek for erudition: Much do I know--but to know all is my ambition. [_Exit_. FAUST (_solus_) That brain, alone, not loses hope, whose choice is To stick in shallow trash forevermore,-- Which digs with eager hand for buried ore, And, when it finds an angle-worm, rejoices! Dare such a human voice disturb the flow, Around me here, of spirit-presence fullest? And yet, this once my thanks I owe To thee, of all earth's sons the poorest, dullest! For thou hast torn me from that desperate state Which threatened soon to overwhelm my senses: The apparition was so giant-great, It dwarfed and withered all my soul's pretences! I, image of the Godhead, who began-- Deeming Eternal Truth secure in nearness-- Ye choirs, have ye begun the sweet, consoling chant, Which, through the night of Death, the angels ministrant Sang, God's new Covenant repeating? CHORUS OF WOMEN With spices and precious Balm, we arrayed him; Faithful and gracious, We tenderly laid him: Linen to bind him Cleanlily wound we: Ah! when we would find him, Christ no more found we! CHORUS OF ANGELS Christ is ascended! Bliss hath invested him,-- Woes that molested him, Trials that tested him, Gloriously ended! FAUST Why, here in dust, entice me with your spell, Ye gentle, powerful sounds of Heaven? Peal rather there, where tender natures dwell. Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given; The dearest child of Faith is Miracle. I venture not to soar to yonder regions Whence the glad tidings hither float; And yet, from childhood up familiar with the note, To Life it now renews the old allegiance. Once Heavenly Love sent down a burning kiss Upon my brow, in Sabbath silence holy; And, filled with mystic presage, chimed the church-bell slowly, And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss. A sweet, uncomprehended yearning Drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free, And while a thousand tears were burning, I felt a world arise for me. These chants, to youth and all its sports appealing, Proclaimed the Spring's rejoicing holiday; And Memory holds me now, with childish feeling, Back from the last, the solemn way. Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild! My tears gush forth: the Earth takes back her child! CHORUS OF DISCIPLES Has He, victoriously, Burst from the vaulted Grave, and all-gloriously Now sits exalted? Is He, in glow of birth, Rapture creative near? Ah! to the woe of earth Still are we native here. We, his aspiring Followers, Him we miss; Weeping, desiring, Master, Thy bliss! CHORUS OF ANGELS Christ is arisen, Out of Corruption's womb: Burst ye the prison, Break from your gloom! Praising and pleading him, Lovingly needing him, Brotherly feeding him, Preaching and speeding him, Blessing, succeeding Him, Thus is the Master near,-- Thus is He here! [Illustration] II BEFORE THE CITY-GATE (_Pedestrians of all kinds come forth_.) SEVERAL APPRENTICES Why do you go that way? OTHERS We're for the Hunters' lodge, to-day. THE FIRST We'll saunter to the Mill, in yonder hollow. AN APPRENTICE Go to the River Tavern, I should say. SECOND APPRENTICE But then, it's not a pleasant way. THE OTHERS And what will _you_? A THIRD As goes the crowd, I follow. A FOURTH Come up to Burgdorf? There you'll find good cheer, The finest lasses and the best of beer, And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me! A FIFTH You swaggering fellow, is your hide A third time itching to be tried? I won't go there, your jolly rows disgust me! SERVANT-GIRL No,--no! I'll turn and go to town again. ANOTHER We'll surely find him by those poplars yonder. THE FIRST That's no great luck for me, 'tis plain. You'll have him, when and where you wander: His partner in the dance you'll be,-- But what is all your fun to me? THE OTHER He's surely not alone to-day: He'll be with Curly-head, I heard him say. A STUDENT Deuce! how they step, the buxom wenches! Come, Brother! we must see them to the benches. A strong, old beer, a pipe that stings and bites, A girl in Sunday clothes,--these three are my delights. CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER Just see those handsome fellows, there! It's really shameful, I declare;-- To follow servant-girls, when they Might have the most genteel society to-day! SECOND STUDENT (_to the First_) Not quite so fast! Two others come behind,-- Those, dressed so prettily and neatly. My neighbor's one of them, I find, A girl that takes my heart, completely. They go their way with looks demure, But they'll accept us, after all, I'm sure. THE FIRST No, Brother! not for me their formal ways. Quick! lest our game escape us in the press: The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress. CITIZEN He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster! Since he's installed, his arrogance grows faster. How has he helped the town, I say? Things worsen,--what improvement names he? Obedience, more than ever, claims he, And more than ever we must pay! BEGGAR (_sings_) Good gentlemen and lovely ladies, So red of cheek and fine of dress, Behold, how needful here your aid is, And see and lighten my distress! Let me not vainly sing my ditty; He's only glad who gives away: A holiday, that shows your pity, Shall be for me a harvest-day! ANOTHER CITIZEN On Sundays, holidays, there's naught I take delight in, Like gossiping of war, and war's array, When down in Turkey, far away, The foreign people are a-fighting. One at the window sits, with glass and friends, And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding: And blesses then, as home he wends At night, our times of peace abiding. THIRD CITIZEN Yes, Neighbor! that's my notion, too: Why, let them break their heads, let loose their passions, And mix things madly through and through, So, here, we keep our good old fashions! OLD WOMAN (_to the Citizen's Daughter_) Dear me, how fine! So handsome, and so young! Who wouldn't lose his heart, that met you? Don't be so proud! I'll hold my tongue, And what you'd like I'll undertake to get you. CITIZEN'S DAUGHTER Come, Agatha! I shun the witch's sight Before folks, lest there be misgiving: 'Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew's Night, My future sweetheart, just as he were living. THE OTHER She showed me mine, in crystal clear, With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover: I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer, And yet, somehow, his face I can't discover. SOLDIERS Castles, with lofty Ramparts and towers, Maidens disdainful In Beauty's array, Both shall be ours! Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! Lads, let the trumpets For us be suing,-- Calling to pleasure, Calling to ruin. Stormy our life is; Such is its boon! Maidens and castles Capitulate soon. Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! And the soldiers go marching, Marching away! FAUST AND WAGNER FAUST Released from ice are brook and river By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring; The colors of hope to the valley cling, And weak old Winter himself must shiver, Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king: Whence, ever retreating, he sends again Impotent showers of sleet that darkle In belts across the green o' the plain. But the sun will permit no white to sparkle; Everywhere form in development moveth; He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth, And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red, He takes these gaudy people instead. Turn thee about, and from this height Back on the town direct thy sight. Out of the hollow, gloomy gate, The motley throngs come forth elate: Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard, To honor the Day of the Risen Lord! They feel, themselves, their resurrection: From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable; From the bonds of Work, from Trade's restriction; From the pressing weight of roof and gable; From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys; From the churches' solemn and reverend night, All come forth to the cheerful light. How lively, see! the multitude sallies, Scattering through gardens and fields remote, While over the river, that broadly dallies, Dances so many a festive boat; And overladen, nigh to sinking, The last full wherry takes the stream. Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking, Their clothes are colors that softly gleam. I hear the noise of the village, even; Here is the People's proper Heaven; Here high and low contented see! Here I am Man,--dare man to be! WAGNER To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters; 'Tis honor, profit, unto me. But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters, Since all that's coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,--these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song! PEASANTS, UNDER THE LINDEN-TREE (_Dance and Song_.) All for the dance the shepherd dressed, In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest Himself with care arraying: Around the linden lass and lad Already footed it like mad: Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah--tarara-la! The fiddle-bow was playing. He broke the ranks, no whit afraid, And with his elbow punched a maid, Who stood, the dance surveying: The buxom wench, she turned and said: "Now, you I call a stupid-head!" Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah--tarara-la! "Be decent while you're staying!" Then round the circle went their flight, They danced to left, they danced to right: Their kirtles all were playing. They first grew red, and then grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm,-- Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah--tarara-la! And hips and elbows straying. Now, don't be so familiar here! How many a one has fooled his dear, Waylaying and betraying! And yet, he coaxed her soon aside, And round the linden sounded wide. Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah--tarara-la! And the fiddle-bow was playing. OLD PEASANT Sir Doctor, it is good of you, That thus you condescend, to-day, Among this crowd of merry folk, A highly-learned man, to stray. Then also take the finest can, We fill with fresh wine, for your sake: I offer it, and humbly wish That not alone your thirst is slake,-- That, as the drops below its brink, So many days of life you drink! FAUST I take the cup you kindly reach, With thanks and health to all and each. (_The People gather in a circle about him_.) OLD PEASANT In truth, 'tis well and fitly timed, That now our day of joy you share, Who heretofore, in evil days, Gave us so much of helping care. Still many a man stands living here, Saved by your father's skillful hand, That snatched him from the fever's rage And stayed the plague in all the land. Then also you, though but a youth, Went into every house of pain: Many the corpses carried forth, But you in health came out again. FAUST No test or trial you evaded: A Helping God the helper aided. ALL Health to the man, so skilled and tried. That for our help he long may abide! FAUST To Him above bow down, my friends, Who teaches help, and succor sends! (_He goes on with_ WAGNER.) WAGNER With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou Receive the people's honest veneration! How lucky he, whose gifts his station With such advantages endow! Thou'rt shown to all the younger generation: Each asks, and presses near to gaze; The fiddle stops, the dance delays. Thou goest, they stand in rows to see, And all the caps are lifted high; A little more, and they would bend the knee As if the Holy Host came by. FAUST A few more steps ascend, as far as yonder stone!-- Here from our wandering will we rest contented. Here, lost in thought, I've lingered oft alone, When foolish fasts and prayers my life tormented. Here, rich in hope and firm in faith, With tears, wrung hands and sighs, I've striven, The end of that far-spreading death Entreating from the Lord of Heaven! Now like contempt the crowd's applauses seem: Couldst thou but read, within mine inmost spirit, How little now I deem, That sire or son such praises merit! My father's was a sombre, brooding brain, Which through the holy spheres of Nature groped and wandered, And honestly, in his own fashion, pondered With labor whimsical, and pain: Who, in his dusky work-shop bending, With proved adepts in company, Made, from his recipes unending, Opposing substances agree. There was a Lion red, a wooer daring, Within the Lily's tepid bath espoused, And both, tormented then by flame unsparing, By turns in either bridal chamber housed. If then appeared, with colors splendid, The young Queen in her crystal shell, This was the medicine--the patients' woes soon ended, And none demanded: who got well? Thus we, our hellish boluses compounding, Among these vales and hills surrounding, Worse than the pestilence, have passed. Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving; And I must hear, by all the living, The shameless murderers praised at last! WAGNER Why, therefore, yield to such depression? A good man does his honest share In exercising, with the strictest care, The art bequeathed to his possession! Dost thou thy father honor, as a youth? Then may his teaching cheerfully impel thee: Dost thou, as man, increase the stores of truth? Then may thine own son afterwards excel thee. FAUST O happy he, who still renews The hope, from Error's deeps to rise forever! That which one does not know, one needs to use; And what one knows, one uses never. But let us not, by such despondence, so The fortune of this hour embitter! Mark how, beneath the evening sunlight's glow, The green-embosomed houses glitter! The glow retreats, done is the day of toil; It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring; Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil, Upon its track to follow, follow soaring! Then would I see eternal Evening gild The silent world beneath me glowing, On fire each mountain-peak, with peace each valley filled, The silver brook to golden rivers flowing. The mountain-chain, with all its gorges deep, Would then no more impede my godlike motion; And now before mine eyes expands the ocean With all its bays, in shining sleep! Yet, finally, the weary god is sinking; The new-born impulse fires my mind,-- I hasten on, his beams eternal drinking, The Day before me and the Night behind, Above me heaven unfurled, the floor of waves beneath me,-- A glorious dream! though now the glories fade. Alas! the wings that lift the mind no aid Of wings to lift the body can bequeath me. Yet in each soul is born the pleasure Of yearning onward, upward and away, When o'er our heads, lost in the vaulted azure, The lark sends down his flickering lay,-- When over crags and piny highlands The poising eagle slowly soars, And over plains and lakes and islands The crane sails by to other shores. WAGNER I've had, myself, at times, some odd caprices, But never yet such impulse felt, as this is. One soon fatigues, on woods and fields to look, Nor would I beg the bird his wing to spare us: How otherwise the mental raptures bear us From page to page, from book to book! Then winter nights take loveliness untold, As warmer life in every limb had crowned you; And when your hands unroll some parchment rare and old, All Heaven descends, and opens bright around you! FAUST One impulse art thou conscious of, at best; O, never seek to know the other! Two souls, alas! reside within my breast, And each withdraws from, and repels, its brother. One with tenacious organs holds in love And clinging lust the world in its embraces; The other strongly sweeps, this dust above, Into the high ancestral spaces. If there be airy spirits near, 'Twixt Heaven and Earth on potent errands fleeing, Let them drop down the golden atmosphere, And bear me forth to new and varied being! Yea, if a magic mantle once were mine, To waft me o'er the world at pleasure, I would not for the costliest stores of treasure-- Not for a monarch's robe--the gift resign. WAGNER Invoke not thus the well-known throng, Which through the firmament diffused is faring, And danger thousand-fold, our race to wrong. In every quarter is preparing. Swift from the North the spirit-fangs so sharp Sweep down, and with their barbéd points assail you; Then from the East they come, to dry and warp Your lungs, till breath and being fail you: If from the Desert sendeth them the South, With fire on fire your throbbing forehead crowning, The West leads on a host, to cure the drouth Only when meadow, field, and you are drowning. They gladly hearken, prompt for injury,-- Gladly obey, because they gladly cheat us; From Heaven they represent themselves to be, And lisp like angels, when with lies they meet us. But, let us go! 'Tis gray and dusky all: The air is cold, the vapors fall. At night, one learns his house to prize:-- Why stand you thus, with such astonished eyes? What, in the twilight, can your mind so trouble? FAUST Seest thou the black dog coursing there, through corn and stubble? WAGNER Long since: yet deemed him not important in the least. FAUST Inspect him close: for what tak'st thou the beast? WAGNER Why, for a poodle who has lost his master, And scents about, his track to find. FAUST Seest thou the spiral circles, narrowing faster, Which he, approaching, round us seems to wind? A streaming trail of fire, if I see rightly, Follows his path of mystery. WAGNER It may be that your eyes deceive you slightly; Naught but a plain black poodle do I see. FAUST It seems to me that with enchanted cunning He snares our feet, some future chain to bind. WAGNER I see him timidly, in doubt, around us running, Since, in his master's stead, two strangers doth he find. FAUST The circle narrows: he is near! WAGNER A dog thou seest, and not a phantom, here! Behold him stop--upon his belly crawl--His tail set wagging: canine habits, all! FAUST Come, follow us! Come here, at least! WAGNER 'Tis the absurdest, drollest beast. Stand still, and you will see him wait; Address him, and he gambols straight; If something's lost, he'll quickly bring it,-- Your cane, if in the stream you fling it. FAUST No doubt you're right: no trace of mind, I own, Is in the beast: I see but drill, alone. WAGNER The dog, when he's well educated, Is by the wisest tolerated. Yes, he deserves your favor thoroughly,-- The clever scholar of the students, he! (_They pass in the city-gate_.) [Illustration] [Illustration] III THE STUDY FAUST (_Entering, with the poodle_.) Behind me, field and meadow sleeping, I leave in deep, prophetic night, Within whose dread and holy keeping The better soul awakes to light. The wild desires no longer win us, The deeds of passion cease to chain; The love of Man revives within us, The love of God revives again. Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot! Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be? Behind the stove repose thee in quiet! My softest cushion I give to thee. As thou, up yonder, with running and leaping Amused us hast, on the mountain's crest, So now I take thee into my keeping, A welcome, but also a silent, guest. Ah, when, within our narrow chamber The lamp with friendly lustre glows, Flames in the breast each faded ember, And in the heart, itself that knows. Then Hope again lends sweet assistance, And Reason then resumes her speech: One yearns, the rivers of existence, The very founts of Life, to reach. Snarl not, poodle! To the sound that rises, The sacred tones that my soul embrace, This bestial noise is out of place. We are used to see, that Man despises What he never comprehends, And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends, Finding them often hard to measure: Will the dog, like man, snarl _his_ displeasure? But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger, Contentment flows from out my breast no longer. Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us, And burning thirst again assail us? Therein I've borne so much probation! And yet, this want may be supplied us; We call the Supernatural to guide us; We pine and thirst for Revelation, Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent, Than here, in our New Testament. I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,-- With honest purpose, once for all, The hallowed Original To change to my beloved German. (_He opens a volume, and commences_.) 'Tis written: "In the Beginning was the _Word_." Here am I balked: who, now can help afford? The _Word?_--impossible so high to rate it; And otherwise must I translate it. If by the Spirit I am truly taught. Then thus: "In the Beginning was the _Thought_" This first line let me weigh completely, Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly. Is it the _Thought_ which works, creates, indeed? "In the Beginning was the _Power,"_ I read. Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested, That I the sense may not have fairly tested. The Spirit aids me: now I see the light! "In the Beginning was the _Act_," I write. If I must share my chamber with thee, Poodle, stop that howling, prithee! Cease to bark and bellow! Such a noisy, disturbing fellow I'll no longer suffer near me. One of us, dost hear me! Must leave, I fear me. No longer guest-right I bestow; The door is open, art free to go. But what do I see in the creature? Is that in the course of nature? Is't actual fact? or Fancy's shows? How long and broad my poodle grows! He rises mightily: A canine form that cannot be! What a spectre I've harbored thus! He resembles a hippopotamus, With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see: O, now am I sure of thee! For all of thy half-hellish brood The Key of Solomon is good. SPIRITS (_in the corridor_) Some one, within, is caught! Stay without, follow him not! Like the fox in a snare, Quakes the old hell-lynx there. Take heed--look about! Back and forth hover, Under and over, And he'll work himself out. If your aid avail him, Let it not fail him; For he, without measure, Has wrought for our pleasure. FAUST First, to encounter the beast, The Words of the Four be addressed: Salamander, shine glorious! Wave, Undine, as bidden! Sylph, be thou hidden! Gnome, be laborious! Who knows not their sense (These elements),-- Their properties And power not sees,-- No mastery he inherits Over the Spirits. Vanish in flaming ether, Salamander! Flow foamingly together, Undine! Shine in meteor-sheen, Sylph! Bring help to hearth and shelf. Incubus! Incubus! Step forward, and finish thus! Of the Four, no feature Lurks in the creature. Quiet he lies, and grins disdain: Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain. Now, to undisguise thee, Hear me exorcise thee! Art thou, my gay one, Hell's fugitive stray-one? The sign witness now, Before which they bow, The cohorts of Hell! With hair all bristling, it begins to swell. Base Being, hearest thou? Knowest and fearest thou The One, unoriginate, Named inexpressibly, Through all Heaven impermeate, Pierced irredressibly! Behind the stove still banned, See it, an elephant, expand! It fills the space entire, Mist-like melting, ever faster. 'Tis enough: ascend no higher,-- Lay thyself at the feet of the Master! Thou seest, not vain the threats I bring thee: With holy fire I'll scorch and sting thee! Wait not to know The threefold dazzling glow! Wait not to know The strongest art within my hands! MEPHISTOPHELES (_while the vapor is dissipating, steps forth from behind the stove, in the costume of a Travelling Scholar_.) Why such a noise? What are my lord's commands? FAUST This was the poodle's real core, A travelling scholar, then? The _casus_ is diverting. MEPHISTOPHELES The learned gentleman I bow before: You've made me roundly sweat, that's certain! FAUST What is thy name? MEPHISTOPHELES A question small, it seems, For one whose mind the Word so much despises; Who, scorning all external gleams, The depths of being only prizes. FAUST With all you gentlemen, the name's a test, Whereby the nature usually is expressed. Clearly the latter it implies In names like Beelzebub, Destroyer, Father of Lies. Who art thou, then? MEPHISTOPHELES Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good. FAUST What hidden sense in this enigma lies? MEPHISTOPHELES I am the Spirit that Denies! And justly so: for all things, from the Void Called forth, deserve to be destroyed: 'Twere better, then, were naught created. Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,-- Destruction,--aught with Evil blent,-- That is my proper element. FAUST Thou nam'st thyself a part, yet show'st complete to me? MEPHISTOPHELES The modest truth I speak to thee. If Man, that microcosmic fool, can see Himself a whole so frequently, Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night,-- Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light, The haughty Light, which now disputes the space, And claims of Mother Night her ancient place. And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe'er it weaves, Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves: It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies; By bodies is its course impeded; And so, but little time is needed, I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies! FAUST I see the plan thou art pursuing: Thou canst not compass general ruin, And hast on smaller scale begun. MEPHISTOPHELES And truly 'tis not much, when all is done. That which to Naught is in resistance set,-- The Something of this clumsy world,--has yet, With all that I have undertaken, Not been by me disturbed or shaken: From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano's brand, Back into quiet settle sea and land! And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood,-- What use, in having that to play with? How many have I made away with! And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood. It makes me furious, such things beholding: From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding, A thousand germs break forth and grow, In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly; And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really, There's nothing special of my own to show! FAUST So, to the actively eternal Creative force, in cold disdain You now oppose the fist infernal, Whose wicked clench is all in vain! Some other labor seek thou rather, Queer Son of Chaos, to begin! MEPHISTOPHELES Well, we'll consider: thou canst gather My views, when next I venture in. Might I, perhaps, depart at present? FAUST Why thou shouldst ask, I don't perceive. Though our acquaintance is so recent, For further visits thou hast leave. The window's here, the door is yonder; A chimney, also, you behold. MEPHISTOPHELES I must confess that forth I may not wander, My steps by one slight obstacle controlled,-- The wizard's-foot, that on your threshold made is. FAUST The pentagram prohibits thee? Why, tell me now, thou Son of Hades, If that prevents, how cam'st thou in to me? Could such a spirit be so cheated? MEPHISTOPHELES Inspect the thing: the drawing's not completed. The outer angle, you may see, Is open left--the lines don't fit it. FAUST Well,--Chance, this time, has fairly hit it! And thus, thou'rt prisoner to me? It seems the business has succeeded. MEPHISTOPHELES The poodle naught remarked, as after thee he speeded; But other aspects now obtain: The Devil can't get out again. FAUST Try, then, the open window-pane! MEPHISTOPHELES For Devils and for spectres this is law: Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw. The first is free to us; we're governed by the second. FAUST In Hell itself, then, laws are reckoned? That's well! So might a compact be Made with you gentlemen--and binding,--surely? MEPHISTOPHELES All that is promised shall delight thee purely; No skinflint bargain shalt thou see. But this is not of swift conclusion; We'll talk about the matter soon. And now, I do entreat this boon-- Leave to withdraw from my intrusion. FAUST One moment more I ask thee to remain, Some pleasant news, at least, to tell me. MEPHISTOPHELES Release me, now! I soon shall come again; Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me. FAUST I have not snares around thee cast; Thyself hast led thyself into the meshes. Who traps the Devil, hold him fast! Not soon a second time he'll catch a prey so precious. MEPHISTOPHELES An't please thee, also I'm content to stay, And serve thee in a social station; But stipulating, that I may With arts of mine afford thee recreation. FAUST Thereto I willingly agree, If the diversion pleasant be. MEPHISTOPHELES My friend, thou'lt win, past all pretences, More in this hour to soothe thy senses, Than in the year's monotony. That which the dainty spirits sing thee, The lovely pictures they shall bring thee, Are more than magic's empty show. Thy scent will be to bliss invited; Thy palate then with taste delighted, Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow! All unprepared, the charm I spin: We're here together, so begin! SPIRITS Vanish, ye darking Arches above him! Loveliest weather, Born of blue ether, Break from the sky! O that the darkling Clouds had departed! Starlight is sparkling, Tranquiller-hearted Suns are on high. Heaven's own children In beauty bewildering, Waveringly bending, Pass as they hover; Longing unending Follows them over. They, with their glowing Garments, out-flowing, Cover, in going, Landscape and bower, Where, in seclusion, Lovers are plighted, Lost in illusion. Bower on bower! Tendrils unblighted! Lo! in a shower Grapes that o'ercluster Gush into must, or Flow into rivers Of foaming and flashing Wine, that is dashing Gems, as it boundeth Down the high places, And spreading, surroundeth With crystalline spaces, In happy embraces, Blossoming forelands, Emerald shore-lands! And the winged races Drink, and fly onward-- Fly ever sunward To the enticing Islands, that flatter, Dipping and rising Light on the water! Hark, the inspiring Sound of their quiring! See, the entrancing Whirl of their dancing! All in the air are Freer and fairer. Some of them scaling Boldly the highlands, Others are sailing, Circling the islands; Others are flying; Life-ward all hieing,-- All for the distant Star of existent Rapture and Love! MEPHISTOPHELES He sleeps! Enough, ye fays! your airy number Have sung him truly into slumber: For this performance I your debtor prove.-- Not yet art thou the man, to catch the Fiend and hold him!-- With fairest images of dreams infold him, Plunge him in seas of sweet untruth! Yet, for the threshold's magic which controlled him, The Devil needs a rat's quick tooth. I use no lengthened invocation: Here rustles one that soon will work my liberation. The lord of rats and eke of mice, Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice, Summons thee hither to the door-sill, To gnaw it where, with just a morsel Of oil, he paints the spot for thee:-- There com'st thou, hopping on to me! To work, at once! The point which made me craven Is forward, on the ledge, engraven. Another bite makes free the door: So, dream thy dreams, O Faust, until we meet once more! FAUST _(awaking)_ Am I again so foully cheated? Remains there naught of lofty spirit-sway, But that a dream the Devil counterfeited, And that a poodle ran away? [Illustration] IV THE STUDY FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST A knock? Come in! Again my quiet broken? MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis I! FAUST Come in! MEPHISTOPHELES Thrice must the words be spoken. FAUST Come in, then! MEPHISTOPHELES Thus thou pleasest me. I hope we'll suit each other well; For now, thy vapors to dispel, I come, a squire of high degree, In scarlet coat, with golden trimming, A cloak in silken lustre swimming, A tall cock's-feather in my hat, A long, sharp sword for show or quarrel,-- And I advise thee, brief and flat, To don the self-same gay apparel, That, from this den released, and free, Life be at last revealed to thee! FAUST This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire. What from the world have I to gain? Thou shalt abstain--renounce--refrain! Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings,-- That unrelieved, our whole life long, Each hour, in passing, hoarsely sings. In very terror I at morn awake, Upon the verge of bitter weeping, To see the day of disappointment break, To no one hope of mine--not one--its promise keeping:-- That even each joy's presentiment With wilful cavil would diminish, With grinning masks of life prevent My mind its fairest work to finish! Then, too, when night descends, how anxiously Upon my couch of sleep I lay me: There, also, comes no rest to me, But some wild dream is sent to fray me. The God that in my breast is owned Can deeply stir the inner sources; The God, above my powers enthroned, He cannot change external forces. So, by the burden of my days oppressed, Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest! MEPHISTOPHELES And yet is never Death a wholly welcome guest. FAUST O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances, The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth! Whom, after rapid, maddening dances, In clasping maiden-arms he findeth! O would that I, before that spirit-power, Ravished and rapt from life, had sunken! MEPHISTOPHELES And yet, by some one, in that nightly hour, A certain liquid was not drunken. FAUST Eavesdropping, ha! thy pleasure seems to be. MEPHISTOPHELES Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me. FAUST Though some familiar tone, retrieving My thoughts from torment, led me on, And sweet, clear echoes came, deceiving A faith bequeathed from Childhood's dawn, Yet now I curse whate'er entices And snares the soul with visions vain; With dazzling cheats and dear devices Confines it in this cave of pain! Cursed be, at once, the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes! Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes! Cursed be the lying dream's impression Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow! Cursed, all that flatters as possession, As wife and child, as knave and plow! Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasures To restless action spurs our fate! Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures, He lays for us the pillows straight! Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar,-- The highest favor Love lets fall! Cursed, also, Hope!--cursed Faith, the spectre! And cursed be Patience most of all! CHORUS OF SPIRITS (_invisible_) Woe! woe! Thou hast it destroyed, The beautiful world, With powerful fist: In ruin 'tis hurled, By the blow of a demigod shattered! The scattered Fragments into the Void we carry, Deploring The beauty perished beyond restoring. Mightier For the children of men, Brightlier Build it again, In thine own bosom build it anew! Bid the new career Commence, With clearer sense, And the new songs of cheer Be sung thereto! MEPHISTOPHELES These are the small dependants Who give me attendance. Hear them, to deeds and passion Counsel in shrewd old-fashion! Into the world of strife, Out of this lonely life That of senses and sap has betrayed thee, They would persuade thee. This nursing of the pain forego thee, That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast! The worst society thou find'st will show thee Thou art a man among the rest. But 'tis not meant to thrust Thee into the mob thou hatest! I am not one of the greatest, Yet, wilt thou to me entrust Thy steps through life, I'll guide thee,-- Will willingly walk beside thee,-- Will serve thee at once and forever With best endeavor, And, if thou art satisfied, Will as servant, slave, with thee abide. FAUST And what shall be my counter-service therefor? MEPHISTOPHELES The time is long: thou need'st not now insist. FAUST No--no! The Devil is an egotist, And is not apt, without a why or wherefore, "For God's sake," others to assist. Speak thy conditions plain and clear! With such a servant danger comes, I fear. MEPHISTOPHELES _Here_, an unwearied slave, I'll wear thy tether, And to thine every nod obedient be: When _There_ again we come together, Then shalt thou do the same for me. FAUST The _There_ my scruples naught increases. When thou hast dashed this world to pieces, The other, then, its place may fill. Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources; Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses; And when from these my life itself divorces, Let happen all that can or will! I'll hear no more: 'tis vain to ponder If there we cherish love or hate, Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder, A High and Low our souls await. MEPHISTOPHELES In this sense, even, canst thou venture. Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture, And thou mine arts with joy shalt see: What no man ever saw, I'll give to thee. FAUST Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever? When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor, E'er understood by such as thou? Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,-- The restless, ruddy gold hast thou, That runs, quicksilver-like, one's fingers through,-- A game whose winnings no man ever knew,-- A maid that, even from my breast, Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances, And Honor's godlike zest, The meteor that a moment dances,-- Show me the fruits that, ere they're gathered, rot, And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them! MEPHISTOPHELES Such a demand alarms me not: Such treasures have I, and can show them. But still the time may reach us, good my friend. When peace we crave and more luxurious diet. FAUST When on an idler's bed I stretch myself in quiet. There let, at once, my record end! Canst thou with lying flattery rule me, Until, self-pleased, myself I see,-- Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me, Let that day be the last for me! The bet I offer. MEPHISTOPHELES Done! FAUST And heartily! When thus I hail the Moment flying: "Ah, still delay--thou art so fair!" Then bind me in thy bonds undying, My final ruin then declare! Then let the death-bell chime the token. Then art thou from thy service free! The clock may stop, the hand be broken, Then Time be finished unto me! MEPHISTOPHELES Consider well: my memory good is rated. FAUST Thou hast a perfect right thereto. My powers I have not rashly estimated: A slave am I, whate'er I do-- If thine, or whose? 'tis needless to debate it. MEPHISTOPHELES Then at the Doctors'-banquet I, to-day, Will as a servant wait behind thee. But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee, Give me a line or two, I pray. FAUST Demand'st thou, Pedant, too, a document? Hast never known a man, nor proved his word's intent? Is't not enough, that what I speak to-day Shall stand, with all my future days agreeing? In all its tides sweeps not the world away, And shall a promise bind my being? Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear: Who would himself therefrom deliver? Blest he, whose bosom Truth makes pure and fair! No sacrifice shall he repent of ever. Nathless a parchment, writ and stamped with care, A spectre is, which all to shun endeavor. The word, alas! dies even in the pen, And wax and leather keep the lordship then. What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say?-- Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay? The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated? I freely leave the choice to thee. MEPHISTOPHELES Why heat thyself, thus instantly, With eloquence exaggerated? Each leaf for such a pact is good; And to subscribe thy name thou'lt take a drop of blood. FAUST If thou therewith art fully satisfied, So let us by the farce abide. MEPHISTOPHELES Blood is a juice of rarest quality. FAUST Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever? The promise that I make to thee Is just the sum of my endeavor. I have myself inflated all too high; My proper place is thy estate: The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply, And Nature shuts on me her gate. The thread of Thought at last is broken, And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. Let us the sensual deeps explore, To quench the fervors of glowing passion! Let every marvel take form and fashion Through the impervious veil it wore! Plunge we in Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of Circumstance! Then may delight and distress, And worry and success, Alternately follow, as best they can: Restless activity proves the man! MEPHISTOPHELES For you no bound, no term is set. Whether you everywhere be trying, Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying, May it agree with you, what you get! Only fall to, and show no timid balking. FAUST But thou hast heard, 'tis not of joy we're talking. I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain, Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain. My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated, Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested, And all of life for all mankind created Shall be within mine inmost being tested: The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow, Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow, And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded, I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded! MEPHISTOPHELES Believe me, who for many a thousand year The same tough meat have chewed and tested, That from the cradle to the bier No man the ancient leaven has digested! Trust one of us, this Whole supernal Is made but for a God's delight! _He_ dwells in splendor single and eternal, But _us_ he thrusts in darkness, out of sight, And _you_ he dowers with Day and Night. FAUST Nay, but I will! MEPHISTOPHELES A good reply! One only fear still needs repeating: The art is long, the time is fleeting. Then let thyself be taught, say I! Go, league thyself with a poet, Give the rein to his imagination, Then wear the crown, and show it, Of the qualities of his creation,-- The courage of the lion's breed, The wild stag's speed, The Italian's fiery blood, The North's firm fortitude! Let him find for thee the secret tether That binds the Noble and Mean together. And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure To love by rule, and hate by measure! I'd like, myself, such a one to see: Sir Microcosm his name should be. FAUST What am I, then, if 'tis denied my part The crown of all humanity to win me, Whereto yearns every sense within me? MEPHISTOPHELES Why, on the whole, thou'rt--what thou art. Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee, Wear shoes an ell in height,--the truth betrays thee, And thou remainest--what thou art. FAUST I feel, indeed, that I have made the treasure Of human thought and knowledge mine, in vain; And if I now sit down in restful leisure, No fount of newer strength is in my brain: I am no hair's-breadth more in height, Nor nearer, to the Infinite, MEPHISTOPHELES Good Sir, you see the facts precisely As they are seen by each and all. We must arrange them now, more wisely, Before the joys of life shall pall. Why, Zounds! Both hands and feet are, truly-- And head and virile forces--thine: Yet all that I indulge in newly, Is't thence less wholly mine? If I've six stallions in my stall, Are not their forces also lent me? I speed along, completest man of all, As though my legs were four-and-twenty. Take hold, then! let reflection rest, And plunge into the world with zest! I say to thee, a speculative wight Is like a beast on moorlands lean, That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight, While all about lie pastures fresh and green. FAUST Then how shall we begin? MEPHISTOPHELES We'll try a wider sphere. What place of martyrdom is here! Is't life, I ask, is't even prudence, To bore thyself and bore the students? Let Neighbor Paunch to that attend! Why plague thyself with threshing straw forever? The best thou learnest, in the end Thou dar'st not tell the youngsters--never! I hear one's footsteps, hither steering. FAUST To see him now I have no heart. MEPHISTOPHELES So long the poor boy waits a hearing, He must not unconsoled depart. Thy cap and mantle straightway lend me! I'll play the comedy with art. (_He disguises himself_.) My wits, be certain, will befriend me. But fifteen minutes' time is all I need; For our fine trip, meanwhile, prepare thyself with speed! [_Exit_ FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES (_In_ FAUST'S _long mantle_.) Reason and Knowledge only thou despise, The highest strength in man that lies! Let but the Lying Spirit bind thee With magic works and shows that blind thee, And I shall have thee fast and sure!-- Fate such a bold, untrammelled spirit gave him, As forwards, onwards, ever must endure; Whose over-hasty impulse drave him Past earthly joys he might secure. Dragged through the wildest life, will I enslave him, Through flat and stale indifference; With struggling, chilling, checking, so deprave him That, to his hot, insatiate sense, The dream of drink shall mock, but never lave him: Refreshment shall his lips in vain implore-- Had he not made himself the Devil's, naught could save him, Still were he lost forevermore! (_A_ STUDENT _enters_.) STUDENT A short time, only, am I here, And come, devoted and sincere, To greet and know the man of fame, Whom men to me with reverence name. MEPHISTOPHELES Your courtesy doth flatter me: You see a man, as others be. Have you, perchance, elsewhere begun? STUDENT Receive me now, I pray, as one Who comes to you with courage good, Somewhat of cash, and healthy blood: My mother was hardly willing to let me; But knowledge worth having I fain would get me. MEPHISTOPHELES Then you have reached the right place now. STUDENT I'd like to leave it, I must avow; I find these walls, these vaulted spaces Are anything but pleasant places. Tis all so cramped and close and mean; One sees no tree, no glimpse of green, And when the lecture-halls receive me, Seeing, hearing, and thinking leave me. MEPHISTOPHELES All that depends on habitude. So from its mother's breasts a child At first, reluctant, takes its food, But soon to seek them is beguiled. Thus, at the breasts of Wisdom clinging, Thou'lt find each day a greater rapture bringing. STUDENT I'll hang thereon with joy, and freely drain them; But tell me, pray, the proper means to gain them. MEPHISTOPHELES Explain, before you further speak, The special faculty you seek. STUDENT I crave the highest erudition; And fain would make my acquisition All that there is in Earth and Heaven, In Nature and in Science too. MEPHISTOPHELES Here is the genuine path for you; Yet strict attention must be given. STUDENT Body and soul thereon I'll wreak; Yet, truly, I've some inclination On summer holidays to seek A little freedom and recreation. MEPHISTOPHELES Use well your time! It flies so swiftly from us; But time through order may be won, I promise. So, Friend (my views to briefly sum), First, the _collegium logicum_. There will your mind be drilled and braced, As if in Spanish boots 'twere laced, And thus, to graver paces brought, 'Twill plod along the path of thought, Instead of shooting here and there, A will-o'-the-wisp in murky air. Days will be spent to bid you know, What once you did at a single blow, Like eating and drinking, free and strong,-- That one, two, three! thereto belong. Truly the fabric of mental fleece Resembles a weaver's masterpiece, Where a thousand threads one treadle throws, Where fly the shuttles hither and thither. Unseen the threads are knit together. And an infinite combination grows. Then, the philosopher steps in And shows, no otherwise it could have been: The first was so, the second so, Therefore the third and fourth are so; Were not the first and second, then The third and fourth had never been. The scholars are everywhere believers, But never succeed in being weavers. He who would study organic existence, First drives out the soul with rigid persistence; Then the parts in his hand he may hold and class, But the spiritual link is lost, alas! _Encheiresin natures_, this Chemistry names, Nor knows how herself she banters and blames! STUDENT I cannot understand you quite. MEPHISTOPHELES Your mind will shortly be set aright, When you have learned, all things reducing, To classify them for your using. STUDENT I feel as stupid, from all you've said, As if a mill-wheel whirled in my head! MEPHISTOPHELES And after--first and foremost duty--Of Metaphysics learn the use and beauty! See that you most profoundly gain What does not suit the human brain! A splendid word to serve, you'll find For what goes in--or won't go in--your mind. But first, at least this half a year, To order rigidly adhere; Five hours a day, you understand, And when the clock strikes, be on hand! Prepare beforehand for your part With paragraphs all got by heart, So you can better watch, and look That naught is said but what is in the book: Yet in thy writing as unwearied be, As did the Holy Ghost dictate to thee! STUDENT No need to tell me twice to do it! I think, how useful 'tis to write; For what one has, in black and white, One carries home and then goes through it. MEPHISTOPHELES Yet choose thyself a faculty! STUDENT I cannot reconcile myself to Jurisprudence. MEPHISTOPHELES Nor can I therefore greatly blame you students: I know what science this has come to be. All rights and laws are still transmitted Like an eternal sickness of the race,-- From generation unto generation fitted, And shifted round from place to place. Reason becomes a sham, Beneficence a worry: Thou art a grandchild, therefore woe to thee! The right born with us, ours in verity, This to consider, there's, alas! no hurry. STUDENT My own disgust is strengthened by your speech: O lucky he, whom you shall teach! I've almost for Theology decided. MEPHISTOPHELES I should not wish to see you here misguided: For, as regards this science, let me hint 'Tis very hard to shun the false direction; There's so much secret poison lurking in 't, So like the medicine, it baffles your detection. Hear, therefore, one alone, for that is best, in sooth, And simply take your master's words for truth. On _words_ let your attention centre! Then through the safest gate you'll enter The temple-halls of Certainty. STUDENT Yet in the word must some idea be. MEPHISTOPHELES Of course! But only shun too over-sharp a tension, For just where fails the comprehension, A word steps promptly in as deputy. With words 'tis excellent disputing; Systems to words 'tis easy suiting; On words 'tis excellent believing; No word can ever lose a jot from thieving. STUDENT Pardon! With many questions I detain you. Yet must I trouble you again. Of Medicine I still would fain Hear one strong word that might explain you. Three years is but a little space. And, God! who can the field embrace? If one some index could be shown, 'Twere easier groping forward, truly. MEPHISTOPHELES (_aside_) I'm tired enough of this dry tone,-- Must play the Devil again, and fully. (_Aloud_) To grasp the spirit of Medicine is easy: Learn of the great and little world your fill, To let it go at last, so please ye, Just as God will! In vain that through the realms of science you may drift; Each one learns only--just what learn he can: Yet he who grasps the Moment's gift, He is the proper man. Well-made you are, 'tis not to be denied, The rest a bold address will win you; If you but in yourself confide, At once confide all others in you. To lead the women, learn the special feeling! Their everlasting aches and groans, In thousand tones, Have all one source, one mode of healing; And if your acts are half discreet, You'll always have them at your feet. A title first must draw and interest them, And show that yours all other arts exceeds; Then, as a greeting, you are free to touch and test them, While, thus to do, for years another pleads. You press and count the pulse's dances, And then, with burning sidelong glances, You clasp the swelling hips, to see If tightly laced her corsets be. STUDENT That's better, now! The How and Where, one sees. MEPHISTOPHELES My worthy friend, gray are all theories, And green alone Life's golden tree. STUDENT I swear to you, 'tis like a dream to me. Might I again presume, with trust unbounded, To hear your wisdom thoroughly expounded? MEPHISTOPHELES Most willingly, to what extent I may. STUDENT I cannot really go away: Allow me that my album first I reach you,-- Grant me this favor, I beseech you! MEPHISTOPHELES Assuredly. (_He writes, and returns the book_.) STUDENT (_reads_) _Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum_. (_Closes the book with reverence, and withdraws_) MEPHISTOPHELES Follow the ancient text, and the snake thou wast ordered to trample! With all thy likeness to God, thou'lt yet be a sorry example! (FAUST _enters_.) FAUST Now, whither shall we go? MEPHISTOPHELES As best it pleases thee. The little world, and then the great, we'll see. With what delight, what profit winning, Shalt thou sponge through the term beginning! FAUST Yet with the flowing beard I wear, Both ease and grace will fail me there. The attempt, indeed, were a futile strife; I never could learn the ways of life. I feel so small before others, and thence Should always find embarrassments. MEPHISTOPHELES My friend, thou soon shalt lose all such misgiving: Be thou but self-possessed, thou hast the art of living! FAUST How shall we leave the house, and start? Where hast thou servant, coach and horses? MEPHISTOPHELES We'll spread this cloak with proper art, Then through the air direct our courses. But only, on so bold a flight, Be sure to have thy luggage light. A little burning air, which I shall soon prepare us, Above the earth will nimbly bear us, And, if we're light, we'll travel swift and clear: I gratulate thee on thy new career! [Illustration] V AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPZIG CAROUSAL OF JOLLY COMPANIONS FROSCH Is no one laughing? no one drinking? I'll teach you how to grin, I'm thinking. To-day you're like wet straw, so tame; And usually you're all aflame. BRANDER Now that's your fault; from you we nothing see, No beastliness and no stupidity. FROSCH (_Pours a glass of wine over_ BRANDER'S _head_.) There's both together! BRANDER Twice a swine! FROSCH You wanted them: I've given you mine. SIEBEL Turn out who quarrels--out the door! With open throat sing chorus, drink and roar! Up! holla! ho! ALTMAYER Woe's me, the fearful bellow! Bring cotton, quick! He's split my ears, that fellow. SIEBEL When the vault echoes to the song, One first perceives the bass is deep and strong. FROSCH Well said! and out with him that takes the least offence! _Ah, tara, lara da_! ALTMAYER _Ah, tara, lara, da_! FROSCH The throats are tuned, commence! (_Sings_.) _The dear old holy Roman realm, How does it hold together_? BRANDER A nasty song! Fie! a political song-- A most offensive song! Thank God, each morning, therefore, That you have not the Roman realm to care for! At least, I hold it so much gain for me, That I nor Chancellor nor Kaiser be. Yet also we must have a ruling head, I hope, And so we'll choose ourselves a Pope. You know the quality that can Decide the choice, and elevate the man. FROSCH (_sings_) _Soar up, soar up, Dame Nightingale! Ten thousand times my sweetheart hail!_ SIEBEL No, greet my sweetheart not! I tell you, I'll resent it. FROSCH My sweetheart greet and kiss! I dare you to prevent it! (_Sings_.) _Draw the latch! the darkness makes: Draw the latch! the lover wakes. Shut the latch! the morning breaks_. SIEBEL Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her! I'll wait my proper time for laughter: Me by the nose she led, and now she'll lead you after. Her paramour should be an ugly gnome, Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her: An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home, Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her! A fellow made of genuine flesh and blood Is for the wench a deal too good. Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting, To smash her windows be a greeting! BRANDER (_pounding on the table_) Attention! Hearken now to me! Confess, Sirs, I know how to live. Enamored persons here have we, And I, as suits their quality, Must something fresh for their advantage give. Take heed! 'Tis of the latest cut, my strain, And all strike in at each refrain! (_He sings_.) There was a rat in the cellar-nest, Whom fat and butter made smoother: He had a paunch beneath his vest Like that of Doctor Luther. The cook laid poison cunningly, And then as sore oppressed was he As if he had love in his bosom. CHORUS (_shouting_) As if he had love in his bosom! BRANDER He ran around, he ran about, His thirst in puddles laving; He gnawed and scratched the house throughout. But nothing cured his raving. He whirled and jumped, with torment mad, And soon enough the poor beast had, As if he had love in his bosom. CHORUS As if he had love in his bosom! BRANDER And driven at last, in open day, He ran into the kitchen, Fell on the hearth, and squirming lay, In the last convulsion twitching. Then laughed the murderess in her glee: "Ha! ha! he's at his last gasp," said she, "As if he had love in his bosom!" CHORUS As if he had love in his bosom! SIEBEL How the dull fools enjoy the matter! To me it is a proper art Poison for such poor rats to scatter. BRANDER Perhaps you'll warmly take their part? ALTMAYER The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted: Misfortune tames him by degrees; For in the rat by poison bloated His own most natural form he sees. FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES Before all else, I bring thee hither Where boon companions meet together, To let thee see how smooth life runs away. Here, for the folk, each day's a holiday: With little wit, and ease to suit them, They whirl in narrow, circling trails, Like kittens playing with their tails? And if no headache persecute them, So long the host may credit give, They merrily and careless live. BRANDER The fact is easy to unravel, Their air's so odd, they've just returned from travel: A single hour they've not been here. FROSCH You've verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear: Paris in miniature, how it refines its people! SIEBEL Who are the strangers, should you guess? FROSCH Let me alone! I'll set them first to drinking, And then, as one a child's tooth draws, with cleverness, I'll worm their secret out, I'm thinking. They're of a noble house, that's very clear: Haughty and discontented they appear. BRANDER They're mountebanks, upon a revel. ALTMAYER Perhaps. FROSCH Look out, I'll smoke them now! MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Not if he had them by the neck, I vow, Would e'er these people scent the Devil! FAUST Fair greeting, gentlemen! SIEBEL Our thanks: we give the same. (_Murmurs, inspecting_ MEPHISTOPHELES _from the side_.) In one foot is the fellow lame? MEPHISTOPHELES Is it permitted that we share your leisure? In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here, Your company shall give us pleasure. ALTMAYER A most fastidious person you appear. FROSCH No doubt 'twas late when you from Rippach started? And supping there with Hans occasioned your delay? MEPHISTOPHELES We passed, without a call, to-day. At our last interview, before we parted Much of his cousins did he speak, entreating That we should give to each his kindly greeting. (_He bows to_ FROSCH.) ALTMAYER (_aside_) You have it now! he understands. SIEBEL A knave sharp-set! FROSCH Just wait awhile: I'll have him yet. MEPHISTOPHELES If I am right, we heard the sound Of well-trained voices, singing chorus; And truly, song must here rebound Superbly from the arches o'er us. FROSCH Are you, perhaps, a virtuoso? MEPHISTOPHELES O no! my wish is great, my power is only so-so. ALTMAYER Give us a song! MEPHISTOPHELES If you desire, a number. SIEBEL So that it be a bran-new strain! MEPHISTOPHELES We've just retraced our way from. Spain, The lovely land of wine, and song, and slumber. (_Sings_.) There was a king once reigning, Who had a big black flea-- FROSCH Hear, hear! A flea! D'ye rightly take the jest? I call a flea a tidy guest. MEPHISTOPHELES (_sings_) There was a king once reigning, Who had a big black flea, And loved him past explaining, As his own son were he. He called his man of stitches; The tailor came straightway: Here, measure the lad for breeches. And measure his coat, I say! BRANDER But mind, allow the tailor no caprices: Enjoin upon him, as his head is dear, To most exactly measure, sew and shear, So that the breeches have no creases! MEPHISTOPHELES In silk and velvet gleaming He now was wholly drest-- Had a coat with ribbons streaming, A cross upon his breast. He had the first of stations, A minister's star and name; And also all his relations Great lords at court became. And the lords and ladies of honor Were plagued, awake and in bed; The queen she got them upon her, The maids were bitten and bled. And they did not dare to brush them, Or scratch them, day or night: We crack them and we crush them, At once, whene'er they bite. CHORUS (_shouting_) We crack them and we crush them, At once, whene'er they bite! FROSCH Bravo! bravo! that was fine. SIEBEL Every flea may it so befall! BRANDER Point your fingers and nip them all! ALTMAYER Hurrah for Freedom! Hurrah for wine! MEPHISTOPHELES I fain would drink with you, my glass to Freedom clinking, If 'twere a better wine that here I see you drinking. SIEBEL Don't let us hear that speech again! MEPHISTOPHELES Did I not fear the landlord might complain, I'd treat these worthy guests, with pleasure, To some from out our cellar's treasure. SIEBEL Just treat, and let the landlord me arraign! FROSCH And if the wine be good, our praises shall be ample. But do not give too very small a sample; For, if its quality I decide, With a good mouthful I must be supplied. ALTMAYER (_aside_) They're from the Rhine! I guessed as much, before. MEPHISTOPHELES Bring me a gimlet here! BRANDER What shall therewith be done? You've not the casks already at the door? ALTMAYER Yonder, within the landlord's box of tools, there's one! MEPHISTOPHELES (_takes the gimlet_) (_To_ FROSCH.) Now, give me of your taste some intimation. FROSCH How do you mean? Have you so many kinds? MEPHISTOPHELES The choice is free: make up your minds. ALTMAYER (_to_ FROSCH) Aha! you lick your chops, from sheer anticipation. FROSCH Good! if I have the choice, so let the wine be Rhenish! Our Fatherland can best the sparkling cup replenish. MEPHISTOPHELES (_boring a hole in the edge of the table, at the place where_ FROSCH _sits_) Get me a little wax, to make the stoppers, quick! ALTMAYER Ah! I perceive a juggler's trick. MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ BRANDER) And you? BRANDER Champagne shall be my wine, And let it sparkle fresh and fine! MEPHISTOPHELES (_bores: in the meantime one has made the wax stoppers, and plugged the holes with them_.) BRANDER What's foreign one can't always keep quite clear of, For good things, oft, are not so near; A German can't endure the French to see or hear of, Yet drinks their wines with hearty cheer. SIEBEL (_as_ MEPHISTOPHELES _approaches his seat_) For me, I grant, sour wine is out of place; Fill up my glass with sweetest, will you? MEPHISTOPHELES (_boring_) Tokay shall flow at once, to fill you! ALTMAYER No--look me, Sirs, straight in the face! I see you have your fun at our expense. MEPHISTOPHELES O no! with gentlemen of such pretence, That were to venture far, indeed. Speak out, and make your choice with speed! With what a vintage can I serve you? ALTMAYER With any--only satisfy our need. (_After the holes have been bored and plugged_) MEPHISTOPHELES (_with singular gestures_) Grapes the vine-stem bears, Horns the he-goat wears! The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood, The wooden table gives wine as good! Into the depths of Nature peer,-- Only believe there's a miracle here! Now draw the stoppers, and drink your fill! ALL (_as they draw out the stoppers, and the wine which has been desired flows into the glass of each)_ O beautiful fountain, that flows at will! MEPHISTOPHELES But have a care that you nothing spill! (_They drink repeatedly_.) ALL (_sing_) As 'twere five hundred hogs, we feel So cannibalic jolly! MEPHISTOPHELES See, now, the race is happy--it is free! FAUST To leave them is my inclination. MEPHISTOPHELES Take notice, first! their bestiality Will make a brilliant demonstration. SIEBEL (_drinks carelessly: the wine spills upon the earth, and turns to flame_) Help! Fire! Help! Hell-fire is sent! MEPHISTOPHELES (_charming away the flame)_ Be quiet, friendly element! (_To the revellers_) A bit of purgatory 'twas for this time, merely. SIEBEL What mean you? Wait!--you'll pay for't dearly! You'll know us, to your detriment. FROSCH Don't try that game a second time upon us! ALTMAYER I think we'd better send him packing quietly. SIEBEL What, Sir! you dare to make so free, And play your hocus-pocus on us! MEPHISTOPHELES Be still, old wine-tub. SIEBEL Broomstick, you! You face it out, impertinent and heady? BRANDER Just wait! a shower of blows is ready. ALTMAYER (_draws a stopper out of the table: fire flies in his face_.) I burn! I burn! SIEBEL 'Tis magic! Strike-- The knave is outlawed! Cut him as you like! (_They draw their knives, and rush upon_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) MEPHISTOPHELES (_with solemn gestures_) False word and form of air, Change place, and sense ensnare! Be here--and there! (_They stand amazed and look at each other_.) ALTMAYER Where am I? What a lovely land! FROSCH Vines? Can I trust my eyes? SIEBEL And purple grapes at hand! BRANDER Here, over this green arbor bending, See what a vine! what grapes depending! (_He takes_ SIEBEL _by the nose: the others do the same reciprocally, and raise their knives_.) MEPHISTOPHELES (_as above_) Loose, Error, from their eyes the band, And how the Devil jests, be now enlightened! (_He disappears with_ FAUST: _the revellers start and separate_.) SIEBEL What happened? ALTMAYER How? FROSCH Was that your nose I tightened? BRANDER (_to_ SIEBEL) And yours that still I have in hand? ALTMAYER It was a blow that went through every limb! Give me a chair! I sink! my senses swim. FROSCH But what has happened, tell me now? SIEBEL Where is he? If I catch the scoundrel hiding, He shall not leave alive, I vow. ALTMAYER I saw him with these eyes upon a wine-cask riding Out of the cellar-door, just now. Still in my feet the fright like lead is weighing. (_He turns towards the table_.) Why! If the fount of wine should still be playing? SIEBEL 'Twas all deceit, and lying, false design! FROSCH And yet it seemed as I were drinking wine. BRANDER But with the grapes how was it, pray? ALTMAYER Shall one believe no miracles, just say! [Illustration] [Illustration] VI WITCHES' KITCHEN (_Upon a low hearth stands a great caldron, under which a fire is burning. Various figures appear in the vapors which rise from the caldron. An ape sits beside it, skims it, and watches lest it boil over. The he-ape, with the young ones, sits near and warms himself. Ceiling and walls are covered with the most fantastic witch-implements_.) FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST These crazy signs of witches' craft repel me! I shall recover, dost thou tell me, Through this insane, chaotic play? From an old hag shall I demand assistance? And will her foul mess take away Full thirty years from my existence? Woe's me, canst thou naught better find! Another baffled hope must be lamented: Has Nature, then, and has a noble mind Not any potent balsam yet invented? MEPHISTOPHELES Once more, my friend, thou talkest sensibly. There is, to make thee young, a simpler mode and apter; But in another book 'tis writ for thee, And is a most eccentric chapter. FAUST Yet will I know it. MEPHISTOPHELES Good! the method is revealed Without or gold or magic or physician. Betake thyself to yonder field, There hoe and dig, as thy condition; Restrain thyself, thy sense and will Within a narrow sphere to flourish; With unmixed food thy body nourish; Live with the ox as ox, and think it not a theft That thou manur'st the acre which thou reapest;-- That, trust me, is the best mode left, Whereby for eighty years thy youth thou keepest! FAUST I am not used to that; I cannot stoop to try it-- To take the spade in hand, and ply it. The narrow being suits me not at all. MEPHISTOPHELES Then to thine aid the witch must call. FAUST Wherefore the hag, and her alone? Canst thou thyself not brew the potion? MEPHISTOPHELES That were a charming sport, I own: I'd build a thousand bridges meanwhile, I've a notion. Not Art and Science serve, alone; Patience must in the work be shown. Long is the calm brain active in creation; Time, only, strengthens the fine fermentation. And all, belonging thereunto, Is rare and strange, howe'er you take it: The Devil taught the thing, 'tis true, And yet the Devil cannot make it. (_Perceiving the Animals_) See, what a delicate race they be! That is the maid! the man is he! (_To the Animals_) It seems the mistress has gone away? THE ANIMALS Carousing, to-day! Off and about, By the chimney out! MEPHISTOPHELES What time takes she for dissipating? THE ANIMALS While we to warm our paws are waiting. MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) How findest thou the tender creatures? FAUST Absurder than I ever yet did see. MEPHISTOPHELES Why, just such talk as this, for me, Is that which has the most attractive features! (_To the Animals_) But tell me now, ye cursed puppets, Why do ye stir the porridge so? THE ANIMALS We're cooking watery soup for beggars. MEPHISTOPHELES Then a great public you can show. THE HE-APE (_comes up and fawns on_ MEPHISTOPHELES) O cast thou the dice! Make me rich in a trice, Let me win in good season! Things are badly controlled, And had I but gold, So had I my reason. MEPHISTOPHELES How would the ape be sure his luck enhances. Could he but try the lottery's chances! (_In the meantime the young apes have been playing with a large ball, which they now roll forward_.) THE HE-APE The world's the ball: Doth rise and fall, And roll incessant: Like glass doth ring, A hollow thing,-- How soon will't spring, And drop, quiescent? Here bright it gleams, Here brighter seems: I live at present! Dear son, I say, Keep thou away! Thy doom is spoken! 'Tis made of clay, And will be broken. MEPHISTOPHELES What means the sieve? THE HE-APE (_taking it down_) Wert thou the thief, I'd know him and shame him. (_He runs to the_ SHE-APE, _and lets her look through it_.) Look through the sieve! Know'st thou the thief, And darest not name him? MEPHISTOPHELES (_approaching the fire)_ And what's this pot? HE-APE AND SHE-APE The fool knows it not! He knows not the pot, He knows not the kettle! MEPHISTOPHELES Impertinent beast! THE HE-APE Take the brush here, at least, And sit down on the settle! (_He invites_ MEPHISTOPHELES _to sit down_.) FAUST (_who during all this time has been standing before a mirror, now approaching and now retreating from it_) What do I see? What heavenly form revealed Shows through the glass from Magic's fair dominions! O lend me, Love, the swiftest of thy pinions, And bear me to her beauteous field! Ah, if I leave this spot with fond designing, If I attempt to venture near, Dim, as through gathering mist, her charms appear!-- A woman's form, in beauty shining! Can woman, then, so lovely be? And must I find her body, there reclining, Of all the heavens the bright epitome? Can Earth with such a thing be mated? MEPHISTOPHELES Why, surely, if a God first plagues Himself six days, Then, self-contented, _Bravo_! says, Must something clever be created. This time, thine eyes be satiate! I'll yet detect thy sweetheart and ensnare her, And blest is he, who has the lucky fate, Some day, as bridegroom, home to bear her. (FAUST _gazes continually in the mirror_. MEPHISTOPHELES, _stretching himself out on the settle, and playing with the brush, continues to speak_.) So sit I, like the King upon his throne: I hold the sceptre, here,--and lack the crown alone. THE ANIMALS (_who up to this time have been making all kinds of fantastic movements together bring a crown to_ MEPHISTOPHELES _with great noise_.) O be thou so good With sweat and with blood The crown to belime! (_They handle the crown awkwardly and break it into two pieces, with which they spring around_.) 'Tis done, let it be! We speak and we see, We hear and we rhyme! FAUST (_before the mirror_) Woe's me! I fear to lose my wits. MEPHISTOPHELES (_pointing to the Animals_) My own head, now, is really nigh to sinking. THE ANIMALS If lucky our hits, And everything fits, 'Tis thoughts, and we're thinking! FAUST (_as above_) My bosom burns with that sweet vision; Let us, with speed, away from here! MEPHISTOPHELES (_in the same attitude_) One must, at least, make this admission-- They're poets, genuine and sincere. (_The caldron, which the_ SHE-APE _has up to this time neglected to watch, begins to boil over: there ensues a great flame_, _which blazes out the chimney. The_ WITCH _comes careering down through the flame, with terrible cries_.) THE WITCH Ow! ow! ow! ow! The damnéd beast--the curséd sow! To leave the kettle, and singe the Frau! Accurséd fere! (_Perceiving_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) What is that here? Who are you here? What want you thus? Who sneaks to us? The fire-pain Burn bone and brain! (_She plunges the skimming-ladle into the caldron, and scatters flames towards_ FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, _and the Animals. The Animals whimper_.) MEPHISTOPHELES (_reversing the brush, which he has been holding in his hand, and striding among the jars and glasses_) In two! in two! There lies the brew! There lies the glass! The joke will pass, As time, foul ass! To the singing of thy crew. (_As the_ WITCH _starts back, full of wrath and horror_) Ha! know'st thou me? Abomination, thou! Know'st thou, at last, thy Lord and Master? What hinders me from smiting now Thee and thy monkey-sprites with fell disaster? Hast for the scarlet coat no reverence? Dost recognize no more the tall cock's-feather? Have I concealed this countenance?-- Must tell my name, old face of leather? THE WITCH O pardon, Sir, the rough salute! Yet I perceive no cloven foot; And both your ravens, where are _they_ now? MEPHISTOPHELES This time, I'll let thee 'scape the debt; For since we two together met, 'Tis verily full many a day now. Culture, which smooth the whole world licks, Also unto the Devil sticks. The days of that old Northern phantom now are over: Where canst thou horns and tail and claws discover? And, as regards the foot, which I can't spare, in truth, 'Twould only make the people shun me; Therefore I've worn, like many a spindly youth, False calves these many years upon me. THE WITCH (_dancing_) Reason and sense forsake my brain, Since I behold Squire Satan here again! MEPHISTOPHELES Woman, from such a name refrain! THE WITCH Why so? What has it done to thee? MEPHISTOPHELES It's long been written in the Book of Fable; Yet, therefore, no whit better men we see: The Evil One has left, the evil ones are stable. Sir Baron call me thou, then is the matter good; A cavalier am I, like others in my bearing. Thou hast no doubt about my noble blood: See, here's the coat-of-arms that I am wearing! (_He makes an indecent gesture_.) THE WITCH (_laughs immoderately_) Ha! ha! That's just your way, I know: A rogue you are, and you were always so. MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) My friend, take proper heed, I pray! To manage witches, this is just the way. THE WITCH Wherein, Sirs, can I be of use? MEPHISTOPHELES Give us a goblet of the well-known juice! But, I must beg you, of the oldest brewage; The years a double strength produce. THE WITCH With all my heart! Now, here's a bottle, Wherefrom, sometimes, I wet my throttle, Which, also, not the slightest, stinks; And willingly a glass I'll fill him. (_Whispering_) Yet, if this man without due preparation drinks, As well thou know'st, within an hour 'twill kill him. MEPHISTOPHELES He is a friend of mine, with whom it will agree, And he deserves thy kitchen's best potation: Come, draw thy circle, speak thine adjuration, And fill thy goblet full and free! THE WITCH (_with fantastic gestures draws a circle and places mysterious articles therein; meanwhile the glasses begin to ring, the caldron to sound, and make a musical accompaniment. Finally she brings a great book, and stations in the circle the Apes, who are obliged to serve as reading-desk, and to hold the torches. She then beckons_ FAUST _to approach_.) FAUST (_to_ MEPHISTOPHELES) Now, what shall come of this? the creatures antic, The crazy stuff, the gestures frantic,-- All the repulsive cheats I view,-- Are known to me, and hated, too. MEPHISTOPHELES O, nonsense! That's a thing for laughter; Don't be so terribly severe! She juggles you as doctor now, that, after, The beverage may work the proper cheer. (_He persuades_ FAUST _to step into the circle_.) THE WITCH (_begins to declaim, with much emphasis, from the book_) See, thus it's done! Make ten of one, And two let be, Make even three, And rich thou 'It be. Cast o'er the four! From five and six (The witch's tricks) Make seven and eight, 'Tis finished straight! And nine is one, And ten is none. This is the witch's once-one's-one! FAUST She talks like one who raves in fever. MEPHISTOPHELES Thou'lt hear much more before we leave her. 'Tis all the same: the book I can repeat, Such time I've squandered o'er the history: A contradiction thus complete Is always for the wise, no less than fools, a mystery. The art is old and new, for verily All ages have been taught the matter,-- By Three and One, and One and Three, Error instead of Truth to scatter. They prate and teach, and no one interferes; All from the fellowship of fools are shrinking. Man usually believes, if only words he hears, That also with them goes material for thinking! THE WITCH (_continues_) The lofty skill Of Science, still From all men deeply hidden! Who takes no thought, To him 'tis brought, 'Tis given unsought, unbidden! FAUST What nonsense she declaims before us! My head is nigh to split, I fear: It seems to me as if I hear A hundred thousand fools in chorus. MEPHISTOPHELES O Sibyl excellent, enough of adjuration! But hither bring us thy potation, And quickly fill the beaker to the brim! This drink will bring my friend no injuries: He is a man of manifold degrees, And many draughts are known to him. (_The_ WITCH, _with many ceremonies, pours the drink into a cup; as_ FAUST _sets it to his lips, a light flame arises_.) Down with it quickly! Drain it off! 'Twill warm thy heart with new desire: Art with the Devil hand and glove, And wilt thou be afraid of fire? (_The_ WITCH _breaks the circle_: FAUST _steps forth_.) MEPHISTOPHELES And now, away! Thou dar'st not rest. THE WITCH And much good may the liquor do thee! MEPHISTOPHELES (_to the_ WITCH) Thy wish be on Walpurgis Night expressed; What boon I have, shall then be given unto thee. THE WITCH Here is a song, which, if you sometimes sing, You'll find it of peculiar operation. MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Come, walk at once! A rapid occupation Must start the needful perspiration, And through thy frame the liquor's potence fling. The noble indolence I'll teach thee then to treasure, And soon thou'lt be aware, with keenest thrills of pleasure, How Cupid stirs and leaps, on light and restless wing. FAUST One rapid glance within the mirror give me, How beautiful that woman-form! MEPHISTOPHELES No, no! The paragon of all, believe me, Thou soon shalt see, alive and warm. _(Aside)_ Thou'lt find, this drink thy blood compelling, Each woman beautiful as Helen! [Illustration] [Illustration] VII STREET FAUST MARGARET _(passing by)_ FAUST Fair lady, let it not offend you, That arm and escort I would lend you! MARGARET I'm neither lady, neither fair, And home I can go without your care. [_She releases herself, and exit_. FAUST By Heaven, the girl is wondrous fair! Of all I've seen, beyond compare; So sweetly virtuous and pure, And yet a little pert, be sure! The lip so red, the cheek's clear dawn, [Illustration:] I'll not forget while the world rolls on! How she cast down her timid eyes, Deep in my heart imprinted lies: How short and sharp of speech was she, Why, 'twas a real ecstasy! (MEPHISTOPHELES _enters_) FAUST Hear, of that girl I'd have possession! MEPHISTOPHELES Which, then? FAUST The one who just went by. MEPHISTOPHELES She, there? She's coming from confession, Of every sin absolved; for I, Behind her chair, was listening nigh. So innocent is she, indeed, That to confess she had no need. I have no power o'er souls so green. FAUST And yet, she's older than fourteen. MEPHISTOPHELES How now! You're talking like Jack Rake, Who every flower for himself would take, And fancies there are no favors more, Nor honors, save for him in store; Yet always doesn't the thing succeed. FAUST Most Worthy Pedagogue, take heed! Let not a word of moral law be spoken! I claim, I tell thee, all my right; And if that image of delight Rest not within mine arms to-night, At midnight is our compact broken. MEPHISTOPHELES But think, the chances of the case! I need, at least, a fortnight's space, To find an opportune occasion. FAUST Had I but seven hours for all, I should not on the Devil call, But win her by my own persuasion. MEPHISTOPHELES You almost like a Frenchman prate; Yet, pray, don't take it as annoyance! Why, all at once, exhaust the joyance? Your bliss is by no means so great As if you'd use, to get control, All sorts of tender rigmarole, And knead and shape her to your thought, As in Italian tales 'tis taught. FAUST Without that, I have appetite. MEPHISTOPHELES But now, leave jesting out of sight! I tell you, once for all, that speed With this fair girl will not succeed; By storm she cannot captured be; We must make use of strategy. FAUST Get me something the angel keeps! Lead me thither where she sleeps! Get me a kerchief from her breast,-- A garter that her knee has pressed! MEPHISTOPHELES That you may see how much I'd fain Further and satisfy your pain, We will no longer lose a minute; I'll find her room to-day, and take you in it. FAUST And shall I see--possess her? MEPHISTOPHELES No! Unto a neighbor she must go, And meanwhile thou, alone, mayst glow With every hope of future pleasure, Breathing her atmosphere in fullest measure. FAUST Can we go thither? MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis too early yet. FAUST A gift for her I bid thee get! [_Exit_. MEPHISTOPHELES Presents at once? That's good: he's certain to get at her! Full many a pleasant place I know, And treasures, buried long ago: I must, perforce, look up the matter. _[Exit_. [Illustration] VIII EVENING A SMALL, NEATLY KEPT CHAMBER MARGARET (_plaiting and binding up the braids of her hair_) I'd something give, could I but say Who was that gentleman, to-day. Surely a gallant man was he, And of a noble family; And much could I in his face behold,-- And he wouldn't, else, have been so bold! [_Exit_ MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES Come in, but gently: follow me! FAUST (_after a moment's silence_) Leave me alone, I beg of thee! MEPHISTOPHELES (_prying about_) Not every girl keeps things so neat. FAUST (_looking around_) O welcome, twilight soft and sweet, That breathes throughout this hallowed shrine! Sweet pain of love, bind thou with fetters fleet The heart that on the dew of hope must pine! How all around a sense impresses Of quiet, order, and content! This poverty what bounty blesses! What bliss within this narrow den is pent! (_He throws himself into a leathern arm-chair near the bed_.) Receive me, thou, that in thine open arms Departed joy and pain wert wont to gather! How oft the children, with their ruddy charms, Hung here, around this throne, where sat the father! Perchance my love, amid the childish band, Grateful for gifts the Holy Christmas gave her, Here meekly kissed the grandsire's withered hand. I feel, O maid! thy very soul Of order and content around me whisper,-- Which leads thee with its motherly control, The cloth upon thy board bids smoothly thee unroll, The sand beneath thy feet makes whiter, crisper. O dearest hand, to thee 'tis given To change this hut into a lower heaven! And here! (_He lifts one of the bed-curtains_.) What sweetest thrill is in my blood! Here could I spend whole hours, delaying: Here Nature shaped, as if in sportive playing, The angel blossom from the bud. Here lay the child, with Life's warm essence The tender bosom filled and fair, And here was wrought, through holier, purer presence, The form diviner beings wear! And I? What drew me here with power? How deeply am I moved, this hour! What seek I? Why so full my heart, and sore? Miserable Faust! I know thee now no more. Is there a magic vapor here? I came, with lust of instant pleasure, And lie dissolved in dreams of love's sweet leisure! Are we the sport of every changeful atmosphere? And if, this moment, came she in to me, How would I for the fault atonement render! How small the giant lout would be, Prone at her feet, relaxed and tender! MEPHISTOPHELES Be quick! I see her there, returning. FAUST Go! go! I never will retreat. MEPHISTOPHELES Here is a casket, not unmeet, Which elsewhere I have just been earning. Here, set it in the press, with haste! I swear, 'twill turn her head, to spy it: Some baubles I therein had placed, That you might win another by it. True, child is child, and play is play. FAUST I know not, should I do it? MEPHISTOPHELES Ask you, pray? Yourself, perhaps, would keep the bubble? Then I suggest, 'twere fair and just To spare the lovely day your lust, And spare to me the further trouble. You are not miserly, I trust? I rub my hands, in expectation tender-- (_He places the casket in the press, and locks it again_.) Now quick, away! The sweet young maiden to betray, So that by wish and will you bend her; And you look as though To the lecture-hall you were forced to go,-- As if stood before you, gray and loath, Physics and Metaphysics both! But away! [_Exeunt_. MARGARET (_with a lamp_) It is so close, so sultry, here! (_She opens the window_) And yet 'tis not so warm outside. I feel, I know not why, such fear!-- Would mother came!--where can she bide? My body's chill and shuddering,-- I'm but a silly, fearsome thing! (_She begins to sing while undressing_) There was a King in Thule, Was faithful till the grave,-- To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave. Naught was to him more precious; He drained it at every bout: His eyes with tears ran over, As oft as he drank thereout. When came his time of dying, The towns in his land he told, Naught else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold. He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree, In the lofty hall of his fathers In the Castle by the Sea. There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below. He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea: Then fell his eyelids forever, And never more drank he! (_She opens the press in order to arrange her clothes, and perceives the casket of jewels_.) How comes that lovely casket here to me? I locked the press, most certainly. 'Tis truly wonderful! What can within it be? Perhaps 'twas brought by some one as a pawn, And mother gave a loan thereon? And here there hangs a key to fit: I have a mind to open it. What is that? God in Heaven! Whence came Such things? Never beheld I aught so fair! Rich ornaments, such as a noble dame On highest holidays might wear! How would the pearl-chain suit my hair? Ah, who may all this splendor own? (_She adorns herself with the jewelry, and steps before the mirror_.) Were but the ear-rings mine, alone! One has at once another air. What helps one's beauty, youthful blood? One may possess them, well and good; But none the more do others care. They praise us half in pity, sure: To gold still tends, On gold depends All, all! Alas, we poor! [Illustration] [Illustration] IX PROMENADE (FAUST, _walking thoughtfully up and down. To him_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) MEPHISTOPHELES By all love ever rejected! By hell-fire hot and unsparing! I wish I knew something worse, that I might use it for swearing! FAUST What ails thee? What is't gripes thee, elf? A face like thine beheld I never. MEPHISTOPHELES I would myself unto the Devil deliver, If I were not a Devil myself! FAUST Thy head is out of order, sadly: It much becomes thee to be raving madly. MEPHISTOPHELES Just think, the pocket of a priest should get The trinkets left for Margaret! The mother saw them, and, instanter, A secret dread began to haunt her. Keen scent has she for tainted air; She snuffs within her book of prayer, And smells each article, to see If sacred or profane it be; So here she guessed, from every gem, That not much blessing came with them. "My child," she said, "ill-gotten good Ensnares the soul, consumes the blood. Before the Mother of God we'll lay it; With heavenly manna she'll repay it!" But Margaret thought, with sour grimace, "A gift-horse is not out of place, And, truly! godless cannot be The one who brought such things to me." A parson came, by the mother bidden: He saw, at once, where the game was hidden, And viewed it with a favor stealthy. He spake: "That is the proper view,-- Who overcometh, winneth too. The Holy Church has a stomach healthy: Hath eaten many a land as forfeit, And never yet complained of surfeit: The Church alone, beyond all question, Has for ill-gotten goods the right digestion." FAUST A general practice is the same, Which Jew and King may also claim. MEPHISTOPHELES Then bagged the spangles, chains, and rings, As if but toadstools were the things, And thanked no less, and thanked no more Than if a sack of nuts he bore,-- Promised them fullest heavenly pay, And deeply edified were they. FAUST And Margaret? MEPHISTOPHELES Sits unrestful still, And knows not what she should, or will; Thinks on the jewels, day and night, But more on him who gave her such delight. FAUST The darling's sorrow gives me pain. Get thou a set for her again! The first was not a great display. MEPHISTOPHELES O yes, the gentleman finds it all child's-play! FAUST Fix and arrange it to my will; And on her neighbor try thy skill! Don't be a Devil stiff as paste, But get fresh jewels to her taste! MEPHISTOPHELES Yes, gracious Sir, in all obedience! [_Exit_ FAUST. Such an enamored fool in air would blow Sun, moon, and all the starry legions, To give his sweetheart a diverting show. [_Exit_. [Illustration] X THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE MARTHA (_solus_) God forgive my husband, yet he Hasn't done his duty by me! Off in the world he went straightway,-- Left me lie in the straw where I lay. And, truly, I did naught to fret him: God knows I loved, and can't forget him! (_She weeps_.) Perhaps he's even dead! Ah, woe!-- Had I a certificate to show! MARGARET (_comes_) Dame Martha! MARTHA Margaret! what's happened thee? MARGARET I scarce can stand, my knees are trembling! I find a box, the first resembling, Within my press! Of ebony,-- And things, all splendid to behold, And richer far than were the old. MARTHA You mustn't tell it to your mother! 'Twould go to the priest, as did the other. MARGARET Ah, look and see--just look and see! MARTHA (_adorning her_) O, what a blessed luck for thee! MARGARET But, ah! in the streets I dare not bear them, Nor in the church be seen to wear them. MARTHA Yet thou canst often this way wander, And secretly the jewels don, Walk up and down an hour, before the mirror yonder,-- We'll have our private joy thereon. And then a chance will come, a holiday, When, piece by piece, can one the things abroad display, A chain at first, then other ornament: Thy mother will not see, and stories we'll invent. MARGARET Whoever could have brought me things so precious? That something's wrong, I feel suspicious. (_A knock_) Good Heaven! My mother can that have been? MARTHA (_peeping through the blind_) 'Tis some strange gentleman.--Come in! (MEPHISTOPHELES _enters_.) MEPHISTOPHELES That I so boldly introduce me, I beg you, ladies, to excuse me. (_Steps back reverently, on seeing_ MARGARET.) For Martha Schwerdtlein I'd inquire! MARTHA I'm she: what does the gentleman desire? MEPHISTOPHELES (_aside to her_) It is enough that you are she: You've a visitor of high degree. Pardon the freedom I have ta'en,-- Will after noon return again. MARTHA (_aloud_) Of all things in the world! Just hear-- He takes thee for a lady, dear! MARGARET I am a creature young and poor: The gentleman's too kind, I'm sure. The jewels don't belong to me. MEPHISTOPHELES Ah, not alone the jewelry! The look, the manner, both betray-- Rejoiced am I that I may stay! MARTHA What is your business? I would fain-- MEPHISTOPHELES I would I had a more cheerful strain! Take not unkindly its repeating: Your husband's dead, and sends a greeting. MARTHA Is dead? Alas, that heart so true! My husband dead! Let me die, too! MARGARET Ah, dearest dame, let not your courage fail! MEPHISTOPHELES Hear me relate the mournful tale! MARGARET Therefore I'd never love, believe me! A loss like this to death would grieve me. MEPHISTOPHELES Joy follows woe, woe after joy comes flying. MARTHA Relate his life's sad close to me! MEPHISTOPHELES In Padua buried, he is lying Beside the good Saint Antony, Within a grave well consecrated, For cool, eternal rest created. MARTHA He gave you, further, no commission? MEPHISTOPHELES Yes, one of weight, with many sighs: Three hundred masses buy, to save him from perdition! My hands are empty, otherwise. MARTHA What! Not a pocket-piece? no jewelry? What every journeyman within his wallet spares, And as a token with him bears, And rather starves or begs, than loses? MEPHISTOPHELES Madam, it is a grief to me; Yet, on my word, his cash was put to proper uses. Besides, his penitence was very sore, And he lamented his ill fortune all the more. MARGARET Alack, that men are so unfortunate! Surely for his soul's sake full many a prayer I'll proffer. MEPHISTOPHELES You well deserve a speedy marriage-offer: You are so kind, compassionate. MARGARET O, no! As yet, it would not do. MEPHISTOPHELES If not a husband, then a beau for you! It is the greatest heavenly blessing, To have a dear thing for one's caressing. MARGARET The country's custom is not so. MEPHISTOPHELES Custom, or not! It happens, though. MARTHA Continue, pray! MEPHISTOPHELES I stood beside his bed of dying. 'Twas something better than manure,-- Half-rotten straw: and yet, he died a Christian, sure, And found that heavier scores to his account were lying. He cried: "I find my conduct wholly hateful! To leave my wife, my trade, in manner so ungrateful! Ah, the remembrance makes me die! Would of my wrong to her I might be shriven!" MARTHA (_weeping_) The dear, good man! Long since was he forgiven. MEPHISTOPHELES "Yet she, God knows! was more to blame than I." MARTHA He lied! What! On the brink of death he slandered? MEPHISTOPHELES In the last throes his senses wandered, If I such things but half can judge. He said: "I had no time for play, for gaping freedom: First children, and then work for bread to feed 'em,-- For bread, in the widest sense, to drudge, And could not even eat my share in peace and quiet!" MARTHA Had he all love, all faith forgotten in his riot? My work and worry, day and night? MEPHISTOPHELES Not so: the memory of it touched him quite. Said he: "When I from Malta went away My prayers for wife and little ones were zealous, And such a luck from Heaven befell us, We made a Turkish merchantman our prey, That to the Soldan bore a mighty treasure. Then I received, as was most fit, Since bravery was paid in fullest measure, My well-apportioned share of it." MARTHA Say, how? Say, where? If buried, did he own it? MEPHISTOPHELES Who knows, now, whither the four winds have blown it? A fair young damsel took him in her care, As he in Naples wandered round, unfriended; And she much love, much faith to him did bear, So that he felt it till his days were ended. MARTHA The villain! From his children thieving! Even all the misery on him cast Could not prevent his shameful way of living! MEPHISTOPHELES But see! He's dead therefrom, at last. Were I in _your_ place, do not doubt me, I'd mourn him decently a year, And for another keep, meanwhile, my eyes about me. MARTHA Ah, God! another one so dear As was my first, this world will hardly give me. There never was a sweeter fool than mine, Only he loved to roam and leave me, And foreign wenches and foreign wine, And the damned throw of dice, indeed. MEPHISTOPHELES Well, well! That might have done, however, If he had only been as clever, And treated _your_ slips with as little heed. I swear, with this condition, too, I would, myself, change rings with you. MARTHA The gentleman is pleased to jest. MEPHISTOPHELES I'll cut away, betimes, from here: She'd take the Devil at his word, I fear. (_To_ MARGARET) How fares the heart within your breast? MARGARET What means the gentleman? MEPHISTOPHELES (_aside_) Sweet innocent, thou art! (_Aloud_.) Ladies, farewell! MARGARET Farewell! MARTHA A moment, ere we part! I'd like to have a legal witness, Where, how, and when he died, to certify his fitness. Irregular ways I've always hated; I want his death in the weekly paper stated. MEPHISTOPHELES Yes, my good dame, a pair of witnesses Always the truth establishes. I have a friend of high condition, Who'll also add his deposition. I'll bring him here. MARTHA Good Sir, pray do! MEPHISTOPHELES And this young lady will be present, too? A gallant youth! has travelled far: Ladies with him delighted are. MARGARET Before him I should blush, ashamed. MEPHISTOPHELES Before no king that could be named! MARTHA Behind the house, in my garden, then, This eve we'll expect the gentlemen. [Illustration] XI A STREET FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST How is it? under way? and soon complete? MEPHISTOPHELES Ah, bravo! Do I find you burning? Well, Margaret soon will still your yearning: At Neighbor Martha's you'll this evening meet. A fitter woman ne'er was made To ply the pimp and gypsy trade! FAUST Tis well. MEPHISTOPHELES Yet something is required from us. FAUST One service pays the other thus. MEPHISTOPHELES We've but to make a deposition valid That now her husband's limbs, outstretched and pallid, At Padua rest, in consecrated soil. FAUST Most wise! And first, of course, we'll make the journey thither? MEPHISTOPHELES _Sancta simplicitas_! no need of such a toil; Depose, with knowledge or without it, either! FAUST If you've naught better, then, I'll tear your pretty plan! MEPHISTOPHELES Now, there you are! O holy man! Is it the first time in your life you're driven To bear false witness in a case? Of God, the world and all that in it has a place, Of Man, and all that moves the being of his race, Have you not terms and definitions given With brazen forehead, daring breast? And, if you'll probe the thing profoundly, Knew you so much--and you'll confess it roundly!-- As here of Schwerdtlein's death and place of rest? FAUST Thou art, and thou remain'st, a sophist, liar. MEPHISTOPHELES Yes, knew I not more deeply thy desire. For wilt thou not, no lover fairer, Poor Margaret flatter, and ensnare her, And all thy soul's devotion swear her? FAUST And from my heart. MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis very fine! Thine endless love, thy faith assuring, The one almighty force enduring,-- Will that, too, prompt this heart of thine? FAUST Hold! hold! It will!--If such my flame, And for the sense and power intense I seek, and cannot find, a name; Then range with all my senses through creation, Craving the speech of inspiration, And call this ardor, so supernal, Endless, eternal and eternal,-- Is that a devilish lying game? MEPHISTOPHELES And yet I'm right! FAUST Mark this, I beg of thee! And spare my lungs henceforth: whoever Intends to have the right, if but his tongue be clever, Will have it, certainly. But come: the further talking brings disgust, For thou art right, especially since I must. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII GARDEN (MARGARET _on_ FAUST'S _arm_. MARTHA _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES _walking up and down_.) MARGARET I feel, the gentleman allows for me, Demeans himself, and shames me by it; A traveller is so used to be Kindly content with any diet. I know too well that my poor gossip can Ne'er entertain such an experienced man. FAUST A look from thee, a word, more entertains Than all the lore of wisest brains. (_He kisses her hand_.) MARGARET Don't incommode yourself! How could you ever kiss it! It is so ugly, rough to see! What work I do,--how hard and steady is it! Mother is much too close with me. [_They pass_. MARTHA And you, Sir, travel always, do you not? MEPHISTOPHELES Alas, that trade and duty us so harry! With what a pang one leaves so many a spot, And dares not even now and then to tarry! MARTHA In young, wild years it suits your ways, This round and round the world in freedom sweeping; But then come on the evil days, And so, as bachelor, into his grave a-creeping, None ever found a thing to praise. MEPHISTOPHELES I dread to see how such a fate advances. MARTHA Then, worthy Sir, improve betimes your chances! [_They pass_. MARGARET Yes, out of sight is out of mind! Your courtesy an easy grace is; But you have friends in other places, And sensibler than I, you'll find. FAUST Trust me, dear heart! what men call sensible Is oft mere vanity and narrowness. MARGARET How so? FAUST Ah, that simplicity and innocence ne'er know Themselves, their holy value, and their spell! That meekness, lowliness, the highest graces Which Nature portions out so lovingly-- MARGARET So you but think a moment's space on me, All times I'll have to think on you, all places! FAUST No doubt you're much alone? MARGARET Yes, for our household small has grown, Yet must be cared for, you will own. We have no maid: I do the knitting, sewing, sweeping, The cooking, early work and late, in fact; And mother, in her notions of housekeeping, Is so exact! Not that she needs so much to keep expenses down: We, more than others, might take comfort, rather: A nice estate was left us by my father, A house, a little garden near the town. But now my days have less of noise and hurry; My brother is a soldier, My little sister's dead. True, with the child a troubled life I led, Yet I would take again, and willing, all the worry, So very dear was she. FAUST An angel, if like thee! MARGARET I brought it up, and it was fond of me. Father had died before it saw the light, And mother's case seemed hopeless quite, So weak and miserable she lay; And she recovered, then, so slowly, day by day. She could not think, herself, of giving The poor wee thing its natural living; And so I nursed it all alone With milk and water: 'twas my own. Lulled in my lap with many a song, It smiled, and tumbled, and grew strong. FAUST The purest bliss was surely then thy dower. MARGARET But surely, also, many a weary hour. I kept the baby's cradle near My bed at night: if 't even stirred, I'd guess it, And waking, hear. And I must nurse it, warm beside me press it, And oft, to quiet it, my bed forsake, And dandling back and forth the restless creature take, Then at the wash-tub stand, at morning's break; And then the marketing and kitchen-tending, Day after day, the same thing, never-ending. One's spirits, Sir, are thus not always good, But then one learns to relish rest and food. [_They pass_. MARTHA Yes, the poor women are bad off, 'tis true: A stubborn bachelor there's no converting. MEPHISTOPHELES It but depends upon the like of you, And I should turn to better ways than flirting. MARTHA Speak plainly, Sir, have you no one detected? Has not your heart been anywhere subjected? MEPHISTOPHELES The proverb says: One's own warm hearth And a good wife, are gold and jewels worth. MARTHA I mean, have you not felt desire, though ne'er so slightly? MEPHISTOPHELES I've everywhere, in fact, been entertained politely. MARTHA I meant to say, were you not touched in earnest, ever? MEPHISTOPHELES One should allow one's self to jest with ladies never. MARTHA Ah, you don't understand! MEPHISTOPHELES I'm sorry I'm so blind: But I am sure--that you are very kind. [_They pass_. FAUST And me, thou angel! didst thou recognize, As through the garden-gate I came? MARGARET Did you not see it? I cast down my eyes. FAUST And thou forgiv'st my freedom, and the blame To my impertinence befitting, As the Cathedral thou wert quitting? MARGARET I was confused, the like ne'er happened me; No one could ever speak to my discredit. Ah, thought I, in my conduct has he read it-- Something immodest or unseemly free? He seemed to have the sudden feeling That with this wench 'twere very easy dealing. I will confess, I knew not what appeal On your behalf, here, in my bosom grew; But I was angry with myself, to feel That I could not be angrier with you. FAUST Sweet darling! MARGARET Wait a while! (_She plucks a star-flower, and pulls off the leaves, one after the other_.) FAUST Shall that a nosegay be? MARGARET No, it is just in play. FAUST How? MARGARET Go! you'll laugh at me. (_She pulls off the leaves and murmurs_.) FAUST What murmurest thou? MARGARET (_half aloud_) He loves me--loves me not. FAUST Thou sweet, angelic soul! MARGARET (_continues_) Loves me--not--loves me--not-- (_plucking the last leaf, she cries with frank delight_:) He loves me! FAUST Yes, child! and let this blossom-word For thee be speech divine! He loves thee! Ah, know'st thou what it means? He loves thee! (_He grasps both her hands_.) MARGARET I'm all a-tremble! FAUST O tremble not! but let this look, Let this warm clasp of hands declare thee What is unspeakable! To yield one wholly, and to feel a rapture In yielding, that must be eternal! Eternal!--for the end would be despair. No, no,--no ending! no ending! MARTHA (_coming forward_) The night is falling. MEPHISTOPHELES Ay! we must away. MARTHA I'd ask you, longer here to tarry, But evil tongues in this town have full play. It's as if nobody had nothing to fetch and carry, Nor other labor, But spying all the doings of one's neighbor: And one becomes the talk, do whatsoe'er one may. Where is our couple now? MEPHISTOPHELES Flown up the alley yonder, The wilful summer-birds! MARTHA He seems of her still fonder. MEPHISTOPHELES And she of him. So runs the world away! [Illustration] [Illustration] XIII A GARDEN-ARBOR (MARGARET _comes in, conceals herself behind the door, puts her finger to her lips, and peeps through the crack_.) MARGARET He comes! FAUST (_entering_) Ah, rogue! a tease thou art: I have thee! (_He kisses her_.) MARGARET (_clasping him, and returning the kiss_) Dearest man! I love thee from my heart. (MEPHISTOPHELES _knocks_) FAUST (_stamping his foot_) Who's there? MEPHISTOPHELES A friend! FAUST A beast! MEPHISTOPHELES Tis time to separate. MARTHA (_coming_) Yes, Sir, 'tis late. FAUST May I not, then, upon you wait? MARGARET My mother would--farewell! FAUST Ah, can I not remain? Farewell! MARTHA Adieu! MARGARET And soon to meet again! [_Exeunt_ FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES. MARGARET Dear God! However is it, such A man can think and know so much? I stand ashamed and in amaze, And answer "Yes" to all he says, A poor, unknowing child! and he-- I can't think what he finds in me! [_Exit_. [Illustration] XIV FOREST AND CAVERN FAUST (_solus_) Spirit sublime, thou gav'st me, gav'st me all For which I prayed. Not unto me in vain Hast thou thy countenance revealed in fire. Thou gav'st me Nature as a kingdom grand, With power to feel and to enjoy it. Thou Not only cold, amazed acquaintance yield'st, But grantest, that in her profoundest breast I gaze, as in the bosom of a friend. The ranks of living creatures thou dost lead Before me, teaching me to know my brothers In air and water and the silent wood. And when the storm in forests roars and grinds, The giant firs, in falling, neighbor boughs And neighbor trunks with crushing weight bear down, And falling, fill the hills with hollow thunders,-- Then to the cave secure thou leadest me, Then show'st me mine own self, and in my breast The deep, mysterious miracles unfold. And when the perfect moon before my gaze Comes up with soothing light, around me float From every precipice and thicket damp The silvery phantoms of the ages past, And temper the austere delight of thought. That nothing can be perfect unto Man I now am conscious. With this ecstasy, Which brings me near and nearer to the Gods, Thou gav'st the comrade, whom I now no more Can do without, though, cold and scornful, he Demeans me to myself, and with a breath, A word, transforms thy gifts to nothingness. Within my breast he fans a lawless fire, Unwearied, for that fair and lovely form: Thus in desire I hasten to enjoyment, And in enjoyment pine to feel desire. (MEPHISTOPHELES _enters_.) MEPHISTOPHELES Have you not led this life quite long enough? How can a further test delight you? 'Tis very well, that once one tries the stuff, But something new must then requite you. FAUST Would there were other work for thee! To plague my day auspicious thou returnest. MEPHISTOPHELES Well! I'll engage to let thee be: Thou darest not tell me so in earnest. The loss of thee were truly very slight,-- comrade crazy, rude, repelling: [Illustration] One has one's hands full all the day and night; If what one does, or leaves undone, is right, From such a face as thine there is no telling. FAUST There is, again, thy proper tone!-- That thou hast bored me, I must thankful be! MEPHISTOPHELES Poor Son of Earth, how couldst thou thus alone Have led thy life, bereft of me? I, for a time, at least, have worked thy cure; Thy fancy's rickets plague thee not at all: Had I not been, so hadst thou, sure, Walked thyself off this earthly ball Why here to caverns, rocky hollows slinking, Sit'st thou, as 'twere an owl a-blinking? Why suck'st, from sodden moss and dripping stone, Toad-like, thy nourishment alone? A fine way, this, thy time to fill! The Doctor's in thy body still. FAUST What fresh and vital forces, canst thou guess, Spring from my commerce with the wilderness? But, if thou hadst the power of guessing, Thou wouldst be devil enough to grudge my soul the blessing. MEPHISTOPHELES A blessing drawn from supernatural fountains! In night and dew to lie upon the mountains; All Heaven and Earth in rapture penetrating; Thyself to Godhood haughtily inflating; To grub with yearning force through Earth's dark marrow, Compress the six days' work within thy bosom narrow,-- To taste, I know not what, in haughty power, Thine own ecstatic life on all things shower, Thine earthly self behind thee cast, And then the lofty instinct, thus-- (_With a gesture_:) at last,-- daren't say how--to pluck the final flower! FAUST Shame on thee! MEPHISTOPHELES Yes, thou findest that unpleasant! Thou hast the moral right to cry me "shame!" at present. One dares not that before chaste ears declare, Which chaste hearts, notwithstanding, cannot spare; And, once for all, I grudge thee not the pleasure Of lying to thyself in moderate measure. But such a course thou wilt not long endure; Already art thou o'er-excited, And, if it last, wilt soon be plighted To madness and to horror, sure. Enough of that! Thy love sits lonely yonder, By all things saddened and oppressed; Her thoughts and yearnings seek thee, tenderer, fonder,-- mighty love is in her breast. First came thy passion's flood and poured around her As when from melted snow a streamlet overflows; Thou hast therewith so filled and drowned her, That now _thy_ stream all shallow shows. Methinks, instead of in the forests lording, The noble Sir should find it good, The love of this young silly blood At once to set about rewarding. Her time is miserably long; She haunts her window, watching clouds that stray O'er the old city-wall, and far away. "Were I a little bird!" so runs her song, Day long, and half night long. Now she is lively, mostly sad, Now, wept beyond her tears; Then again quiet she appears,--Always love-mad. FAUST Serpent! Serpent! MEPHISTOPHELES _(aside)_ Ha! do I trap thee! FAUST Get thee away with thine offences, Reprobate! Name not that fairest thing, Nor the desire for her sweet body bring Again before my half-distracted senses! MEPHISTOPHELES What wouldst thou, then? She thinks that thou art flown; And half and half thou art, I own. FAUST Yet am I near, and love keeps watch and ward; Though I were ne'er so far, it cannot falter: I envy even the Body of the Lord The touching of her lips, before the altar. MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis very well! _My_ envy oft reposes On your twin-pair, that feed among the roses. FAUST Away, thou pimp! MEPHISTOPHELES You rail, and it is fun to me. The God, who fashioned youth and maid, Perceived the noblest purpose of His trade, And also made their opportunity. Go on! It is a woe profound! 'Tis for your sweetheart's room you're bound, And not for death, indeed. FAUST What are, within her arms, the heavenly blisses? Though I be glowing with her kisses, Do I not always share her need? I am the fugitive, all houseless roaming, The monster without air or rest, That like a cataract, down rocks and gorges foaming, Leaps, maddened, into the abyss's breast! And side-wards she, with young unwakened senses, Within her cabin on the Alpine field Her simple, homely life commences, Her little world therein concealed. And I, God's hate flung o'er me, Had not enough, to thrust The stubborn rocks before me And strike them into dust! She and her peace I yet must undermine: Thou, Hell, hast claimed this sacrifice as thine! Help, Devil! through the coming pangs to push me; What must be, let it quickly be! Let fall on me her fate, and also crush me,-- One ruin whelm both her and me! MEPHISTOPHELES Again it seethes, again it glows! Thou fool, go in and comfort her! When such a head as thine no outlet knows, It thinks the end must soon occur. Hail him, who keeps a steadfast mind! Thou, else, dost well the devil-nature wear: Naught so insipid in the world I find As is a devil in despair. [Illustration] [Illustration] XV MARGARET'S ROOM MARGARET (_at the spinning-wheel, alone_) My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! Save I have him near. The grave is here; The world is gall And bitterness all. My poor weak head Is racked and crazed; My thought is lost, My senses mazed. My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! To see him, him only, At the pane I sit; To meet him, him only, The house I quit. His lofty gait, His noble size, The smile of his mouth, The power of his eyes, And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, ah! his kiss! My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah, dared I clasp him, And hold, and own! And kiss his mouth, To heart's desire, And on his kisses At last expire! [Illustration] XVI MARTHA'S GARDEN MARGARET FAUST MARGARET Promise me, Henry!-- FAUST What I can! MARGARET How is't with thy religion, pray? Thou art a dear, good-hearted man, And yet, I think, dost not incline that way. FAUST Leave that, my child! Thou know'st my love is tender; For love, my blood and life would I surrender, And as for Faith and Church, I grant to each his own. MARGARET That's not enough: we must believe thereon. FAUST Must we? MARGARET Would that I had some influence! Then, too, thou honorest not the Holy Sacraments. FAUST I honor them. MARGARET Desiring no possession 'Tis long since thou hast been to mass or to confession. Believest thou in God? FAUST My darling, who shall dare "I believe in God!" to say? Ask priest or sage the answer to declare, And it will seem a mocking play, A sarcasm on the asker. MARGARET Then thou believest not! FAUST Hear me not falsely, sweetest countenance! Who dare express Him? And who profess Him, Saying: I believe in Him! Who, feeling, seeing, Deny His being, Saying: I believe Him not! The All-enfolding, The All-upholding, Folds and upholds he not Thee, me, Himself? Arches not there the sky above us? Lies not beneath us, firm, the earth? And rise not, on us shining, Friendly, the everlasting stars? Look I not, eye to eye, on thee, And feel'st not, thronging To head and heart, the force, Still weaving its eternal secret, Invisible, visible, round thy life? Vast as it is, fill with that force thy heart, And when thou in the feeling wholly blessed art, Call it, then, what thou wilt,-- Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! I have no name to give it! Feeling is all in all: The Name is sound and smoke, Obscuring Heaven's clear glow. MARGARET All that is fine and good, to hear it so: Much the same way the preacher spoke, Only with slightly different phrases. FAUST The same thing, in all places, All hearts that beat beneath the heavenly day-- Each in its language--say; Then why not I, in mine, as well? MARGARET To hear it thus, it may seem passable; And yet, some hitch in't there must be For thou hast no Christianity. FAUST Dear love! MARGARET I've long been grieved to see That thou art in such company. FAUST How so? MARGARET The man who with thee goes, thy mate, Within my deepest, inmost soul I hate. In all my life there's nothing Has given my heart so keen a pang of loathing, As his repulsive face has done. FAUST Nay, fear him not, my sweetest one! MARGARET I feel his presence like something ill. I've else, for all, a kindly will, But, much as my heart to see thee yearneth, The secret horror of him returneth; And I think the man a knave, as I live! If I do him wrong, may God forgive! FAUST There must be such queer birds, however. MARGARET Live with the like of him, may I never! When once inside the door comes he, He looks around so sneeringly, And half in wrath: One sees that in nothing no interest he hath: 'Tis written on his very forehead That love, to him, is a thing abhorréd. I am so happy on thine arm, So free, so yielding, and so warm, And in his presence stifled seems my heart. FAUST Foreboding angel that thou art! MARGARET It overcomes me in such degree, That wheresoe'er he meets us, even, I feel as though I'd lost my love for thee. When he is by, I could not pray to Heaven. That burns within me like a flame, And surely, Henry, 'tis with thee the same. FAUST There, now, is thine antipathy! MARGARET But I must go. FAUST Ah, shall there never be A quiet hour, to see us fondly plighted, With breast to breast, and soul to soul united? MARGARET Ah, if I only slept alone! I'd draw the bolts to-night, for thy desire; But mother's sleep so light has grown, And if we were discovered by her, 'Twould be my death upon the spot! FAUST Thou angel, fear it not! Here is a phial: in her drink But three drops of it measure, And deepest sleep will on her senses sink. MARGARET What would I not, to give thee pleasure? It will not harm her, when one tries it? FAUST If 'twould, my love, would I advise it? MARGARET Ah, dearest man, if but thy face I see, I know not what compels me to thy will: So much have I already done for thee, That scarcely more is left me to fulfil. (_Enter_ MEPHISTOPHELES.) [_Exit_. MEPHISTOPHELES The monkey! Is she gone? FAUST Hast played the spy again? MEPHISTOPHELES I've heard, most fully, how she drew thee. The Doctor has been catechised, 'tis plain; Great good, I hope, the thing will do thee. The girls have much desire to ascertain If one is prim and good, as ancient rules compel: If there he's led, they think, he'll follow them as well. FAUST Thou, monster, wilt nor see nor own How this pure soul, of faith so lowly, So loving and ineffable,-- The faith alone That her salvation is,--with scruples holy Pines, lest she hold as lost the man she loves so well! MEPHISTOPHELES Thou, full of sensual, super-sensual desire, A girl by the nose is leading thee. FAUST Abortion, thou, of filth and fire! MEPHISTOPHELES And then, how masterly she reads physiognomy! When I am present she's impressed, she knows not how; She in my mask a hidden sense would read: She feels that surely I'm a genius now,-- Perhaps the very Devil, indeed! Well, well,--to-night--? FAUST What's that to thee? MEPHISTOPHELES Yet my delight 'twill also be! [Illustration] [Illustration] XVII AT THE FOUNTAIN MARGARET _and_ LISBETH _With pitchers_. LISBETH Hast nothing heard of Barbara? MARGARET No, not a word. I go so little out. LISBETH It's true, Sibylla said, to-day. She's played the fool at last, there's not a doubt. Such taking-on of airs! MARGARET How so? LISBETH It stinks! She's feeding two, whene'er she eats and drinks. MARGARET Ah! LISBETH And so, at last, it serves her rightly. She clung to the fellow so long and tightly! That was a promenading! At village and dance parading! As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her. 'Twas kissing and coddling, on and on! So now, at the end, the flower is gone. MARGARET The poor, poor thing! LISBETH Dost pity her, at that? When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne'er let us out the door She sported with her paramour. On the door-bench, in the passage dark, The length of the time they'd never mark. So now her head no more she'll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner's shift! MARGARET He'll surely take her for his wife. LISBETH He'd be a fool! A brisk young blade Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade. Besides, he's gone. MARGARET That is not fair! LISBETH If him she gets, why let her beware! The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor, And we'll scatter chaff before her door! [_Exit_. MARGARET (_returning home_) How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others' vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high,-- And now--a living sin am I! Yet--all that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true! [Illustration] [Illustration] XVIII DONJON (_In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it_.) MARGARET (_putting fresh flowers in the pots_) Incline, O Maiden, Thou sorrow-laden, Thy gracious countenance upon my pain! The sword Thy heart in, With anguish smarting, Thou lookest up to where Thy Son is slain! Thou seest the Father; Thy sad sighs gather, And bear aloft Thy sorrow and His pain! Ah, past guessing, Beyond expressing, The pangs that wring my flesh and bone! Why this anxious heart so burneth, Why it trembleth, why it yearneth, Knowest Thou, and Thou alone! Where'er I go, what sorrow, What woe, what woe and sorrow Within my bosom aches! Alone, and ah! unsleeping, I'm weeping, weeping, weeping, The heart within me breaks. The pots before my window, Alas! my tears did wet, As in the early morning For thee these flowers I set. Within my lonely chamber The morning sun shone red: I sat, in utter sorrow, Already on my bed. Help! rescue me from death and stain! O Maiden! Thou sorrow-laden, Incline Thy countenance upon my pain! [Illustration] [Illustration] XIX NIGHT STREET BEFORE MARGARET'S DOOR VALENTINE (_a soldier_, MARGARET'S _brother_) When I have sat at some carouse. Where each to each his brag allows, And many a comrade praised to me His pink of girls right lustily, With brimming glass that spilled the toast, And elbows planted as in boast: I sat in unconcerned repose, And heard the swagger as it rose. And stroking then my beard, I'd say, Smiling, the bumper in my hand: "Each well enough in her own way. But is there one in all the land Like sister Margaret, good as gold,-- One that to her can a candle hold?" Cling! clang! "Here's to her!" went around The board: "He speaks the truth!" cried some; "In her the flower o' the sex is found!" And all the swaggerers were dumb. And now!--I could tear my hair with vexation. And dash out my brains in desperation! With turned-up nose each scamp may face me, With sneers and stinging taunts disgrace me, And, like a bankrupt debtor sitting, A chance-dropped word may set me sweating! Yet, though I thresh them all together, I cannot call them liars, either. But what comes sneaking, there, to view? If I mistake not, there are two. If _he's_ one, let me at him drive! He shall not leave the spot alive. FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST How from the window of the sacristy Upward th'eternal lamp sends forth a glimmer, That, lessening side-wards, fainter grows and dimmer, Till darkness closes from the sky! The shadows thus within my bosom gather. MEPHISTOPHELES I'm like a sentimental tom-cat, rather, That round the tall fire-ladders sweeps, And stealthy, then, along the coping creeps: Quite virtuous, withal, I come, A little thievish and a little frolicsome. I feel in every limb the presage Forerunning the grand Walpurgis-Night: Day after to-morrow brings its message, And one keeps watch then with delight. FAUST Meanwhile, may not the treasure risen be, Which there, behind, I glimmering see? MEPHISTOPHELES Shalt soon experience the pleasure, To lift the kettle with its treasure. I lately gave therein a squint-- Saw splendid lion-dollars in 't. FAUST Not even a jewel, not a ring, To deck therewith my darling girl? MEPHISTOPHELES I saw, among the rest, a thing That seemed to be a chain of pearl. FAUST That's well, indeed! For painful is it To bring no gift when her I visit. MEPHISTOPHELES Thou shouldst not find it so annoying, Without return to be enjoying. Now, while the sky leads forth its starry throng, Thou'lt hear a masterpiece, no work completer: I'll sing her, first, a moral song, The surer, afterwards, to cheat her. (_Sings to the cither_.) What dost thou here In daybreak clear, Kathrina dear, Before thy lover's door? Beware! the blade Lets in a maid. That out a maid Departeth nevermore! The coaxing shun Of such an one! When once 'tis done Good-night to thee, poor thing! Love's time is brief: Unto no thief Be warm and lief, But with the wedding-ring! VALENTINE (_comes forward_) Whom wilt thou lure? God's-element! Rat-catching piper, thou!--perdition! To the Devil, first, the instrument! To the Devil, then, the curst musician! MEPHISTOPHELES The cither's smashed! For nothing more 'tis fitting. VALENTINE There's yet a skull I must be splitting! MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Sir Doctor, don't retreat, I pray! Stand by: I'll lead, if you'll but tarry: Out with your spit, without delay! You've but to lunge, and I will parry. VALENTINE Then parry that! MEPHISTOPHELES Why not? 'tis light. VALENTINE That, too! MEPHISTOPHELES Of course. VALENTINE I think the Devil must fight! How is it, then? my hand's already lame: MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Thrust home! VALENTINE (_jails_) O God! MEPHISTOPHELES Now is the lubber tame! But come, away! 'Tis time for us to fly; For there arises now a murderous cry. With the police 'twere easy to compound it, But here the penal court will sift and sound it. [_Exit with_ FAUST. MARTHA (_at the window_) Come out! Come out! MARGARET (_at the window_) Quick, bring a light! MARTHA (_as above_) They swear and storm, they yell and fight! PEOPLE Here lies one dead already--see! MARTHA (_coming from the house_) The murderers, whither have they run? MARGARET (_coming out_) Who lies here? PEOPLE 'Tis thy mother's son! MARGARET Almighty God! what misery! VALENTINE I'm dying! That is quickly said, And quicker yet 'tis done. Why howl, you women there? Instead, Come here and listen, every one! (_All gather around him_) My Margaret, see! still young thou art, But not the least bit shrewd or smart, Thy business thus to slight: So this advice I bid thee heed-- Now that thou art a whore indeed, Why, be one then, outright! MARGARET My brother! God! such words to me? VALENTINE In this game let our Lord God be! What's done's already done, alas! What follows it, must come to pass. With one begin'st thou secretly, Then soon will others come to thee, And when a dozen thee have known, Thou'rt also free to all the town. When Shame is born and first appears, She is in secret brought to light, And then they draw the veil of night Over her head and ears; Her life, in fact, they're loath to spare her. But let her growth and strength display, She walks abroad unveiled by day, Yet is not grown a whit the fairer. The uglier she is to sight, The more she seeks the day's broad light. The time I verily can discern When all the honest folk will turn From thee, thou jade! and seek protection As from a corpse that breeds infection. Thy guilty heart shall then dismay thee. When they but look thee in the face:-- Shalt not in a golden chain array thee, Nor at the altar take thy place! Shalt not, in lace and ribbons flowing, Make merry when the dance is going! But in some corner, woe betide thee! Among the beggars and cripples hide thee; And so, though even God forgive, On earth a damned existence live! MARTHA Commend your soul to God for pardon, That you your heart with slander harden! VALENTINE Thou pimp most infamous, be still! Could I thy withered body kill, 'Twould bring, for all my sinful pleasure, Forgiveness in the richest measure. MARGARET My brother! This is Hell's own pain! VALENTINE I tell thee, from thy tears refrain! When thou from honor didst depart It stabbed me to the very heart. Now through the slumber of the grave I go to God as a soldier brave. (_Dies_.) [Illustration] [Illustration] XX CATHEDRAL SERVICE, ORGAN _and_ ANTHEM. (MARGARET _among much people: the_ EVIL SPIRIT _behind_ MARGARET.) EVIL SPIRIT HOW otherwise was it, Margaret, When thou, still innocent, Here to the altar cam'st, And from the worn and fingered book Thy prayers didst prattle, Half sport of childhood, Half God within thee! Margaret! Where tends thy thought? Within thy bosom What hidden crime? Pray'st thou for mercy on thy mother's soul, That fell asleep to long, long torment, and through thee? Upon thy threshold whose the blood? And stirreth not and quickens Something beneath thy heart, Thy life disquieting With most foreboding presence? MARGARET Woe! woe! Would I were free from the thoughts That cross me, drawing hither and thither Despite me! CHORUS _Diesira, dies illa, Solvet soeclum in favilla_! _(Sound of the organ_.) EVIL SPIRIT Wrath takes thee! The trumpet peals! The graves tremble! And thy heart From ashy rest To fiery torments Now again requickened, Throbs to life! MARGARET Would I were forth! I feel as if the organ here My breath takes from me, My very heart Dissolved by the anthem! CHORUS _Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet, ad parebit, Nil inultum remanebit_. MARGARET I cannot breathe! The massy pillars Imprison me! The vaulted arches Crush me!--Air! EVIL SPIRIT Hide thyself! Sin and shame Stay never hidden. Air? Light? Woe to thee! CHORUS _Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, Quem patronem rogaturus, Cum vix Justus sit securus_? EVIL SPIRIT They turn their faces, The glorified, from thee: The pure, their hands to offer, Shuddering, refuse thee! Woe! CHORUS _Quid sum miser tune dicturus_? MARGARET Neighbor! your cordial! (_She falls in a swoon_.) [Illustration] [Illustration] XXI WALPURGIS-NIGHT THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. _District of Schierke and Elend_. FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES DOST thou not wish a broomstick-steed's assistance? The sturdiest he-goat I would gladly see: The way we take, our goal is yet some distance. FAUST So long as in my legs I feel the fresh existence. This knotted staff suffices me. What need to shorten so the way? Along this labyrinth of vales to wander, Then climb the rocky ramparts yonder, Wherefrom the fountain flings eternal spray, Is such delight, my steps would fain delay. The spring-time stirs within the fragrant birches, And even the fir-tree feels it now: Should then our limbs escape its gentle searches? MEPHISTOPHELES I notice no such thing, I vow! 'Tis winter still within my body: Upon my path I wish for frost and snow. How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy, The moon's lone disk, with its belated glow, And lights so dimly, that, as one advances, At every step one strikes a rock or tree! Let us, then, use a Jack-o'-lantern's glances: I see one yonder, burning merrily. Ho, there! my friend! I'll levy thine attendance: Why waste so vainly thy resplendence? Be kind enough to light us up the steep! WILL-O'-THE-WISP My reverence, I hope, will me enable To curb my temperament unstable; For zigzag courses we are wont to keep. MEPHISTOPHELES Indeed? he'd like mankind to imitate! Now, in the Devil's name, go straight, Or I'll blow out his being's flickering spark! WILL-O'-THE-WISP You are the master of the house, I mark, And I shall try to serve you nicely. But then, reflect: the mountain's magic-mad to-day, And if a will-o'-the-wisp must guide you on the way, You mustn't take things too precisely. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, WILL-O'-THE-WISP (_in alternating song_) We, it seems, have entered newly In the sphere of dreams enchanted. Do thy bidding, guide us truly, That our feet be forwards planted In the vast, the desert spaces! See them swiftly changing places, Trees on trees beside us trooping, And the crags above us stooping, And the rocky snouts, outgrowing,-- Hear them snoring, hear them blowing! O'er the stones, the grasses, flowing Stream and streamlet seek the hollow. Hear I noises? songs that follow? Hear I tender love-petitions? Voices of those heavenly visions? Sounds of hope, of love undying! And the echoes, like traditions Of old days, come faint and hollow. Hoo-hoo! Shoo-hoo! Nearer hover Jay and screech-owl, and the plover,-- Are they all awake and crying? Is't the salamander pushes, Bloated-bellied, through the bushes? And the roots, like serpents twisted, Through the sand and boulders toiling, Fright us, weirdest links uncoiling To entrap us, unresisted: Living knots and gnarls uncanny Feel with polypus-antennae For the wanderer. Mice are flying, Thousand-colored, herd-wise hieing Through the moss and through the heather! And the fire-flies wink and darkle, Crowded swarms that soar and sparkle, And in wildering escort gather! Tell me, if we still are standing, Or if further we're ascending? All is turning, whirling, blending, Trees and rocks with grinning faces, Wandering lights that spin in mazes, Still increasing and expanding! MEPHISTOPHELES Grasp my skirt with heart undaunted! Here a middle-peak is planted, Whence one seeth, with amaze, Mammon in the mountain blaze. FAUST How strangely glimmers through the hollows A dreary light, like that of dawn! Its exhalation tracks and follows The deepest gorges, faint and wan. Here steam, there rolling vapor sweepeth; Here burns the glow through film and haze: Now like a tender thread it creepeth, Now like a fountain leaps and plays. Here winds away, and in a hundred Divided veins the valley braids: There, in a corner pressed and sundered, Itself detaches, spreads and fades. Here gush the sparkles incandescent Like scattered showers of golden sand;-- But, see! in all their height, at present, The rocky ramparts blazing stand. [Illustration: _Under the old ribs of the rock retreating_,] MEPHISTOPHELES Has not Sir Mammon grandly lighted His palace for this festal night? 'Tis lucky thou hast seen the sight; The boisterous guests approach that were invited. FAUST How raves the tempest through the air! With what fierce blows upon my neck 'tis beating! MEPHISTOPHELES Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear'st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing? Yes, the mountain's side along, Sweeps an infuriate glamouring song! WITCHES (_in chorus_) The witches ride to the Brocken's top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. There gathers the crowd for carnival: Sir Urian sits over all. And so they go over stone and stock; The witch she-----s, and-----s the buck. A VOICE Alone, old Baubo's coming now; She rides upon a farrow-sow. CHORUS Then honor to whom the honor is due! Dame Baubo first, to lead the crew! A tough old sow and the mother thereon, Then follow the witches, every one. A VOICE Which way com'st thou hither? VOICE O'er the Ilsen-stone. I peeped at the owl in her nest alone: How she stared and glared! VOICE Betake thee to Hell! Why so fast and so fell? VOICE She has scored and has flayed me: See the wounds she has made me! WITCHES (_chorus_) The way is wide, the way is long: See, what a wild and crazy throng! The broom it scratches, the fork it thrusts, The child is stifled, the mother bursts. WIZARDS (_semichorus_) As doth the snail in shell, we crawl: Before us go the women all. When towards the Devil's House we tread, Woman's a thousand steps ahead. OTHER SEMICHORUS We do not measure with such care: Woman in thousand steps is theft. But howsoe'er she hasten may, Man in one leap has cleared the way. VOICE (_from above_) Come on, come on, from Rocky Lake! VOICE (_from below_) Aloft we'd fain ourselves betake. We've washed, and are bright as ever you will, Yet we're eternally sterile still. BOTH CHORUSES The wind is hushed, the star shoots by. The dreary moon forsakes the sky; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. VOICE (_from below_) Halt, there! Ho, there! VOICE (_from above_) Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? VOICE (_below_) Take me, too! take me, too! I'm climbing now three hundred years, And yet the summit cannot see: Among my equals I would be. BOTH CHORUSES Bears the broom and bears the stock, Bears the fork and bears the buck: Who cannot raise himself to-night Is evermore a ruined wight. HALF-WITCH (_below_) So long I stumble, ill bestead, And the others are now so far ahead! At home I've neither rest nor cheer, And yet I cannot gain them here. CHORUS OF WITCHES To cheer the witch will salve avail; A rag will answer for a sail; Each trough a goodly ship supplies; He ne'er will fly, who now not flies. BOTH CHORUSES When round the summit whirls our flight, Then lower, and on the ground alight; And far and wide the heather press With witchhood's swarms of wantonness! (_They settle down_.) MEPHISTOPHELES They crowd and push, they roar and clatter! They whirl and whistle, pull and chatter! They shine, and spirt, and stink, and burn! The true witch-element we learn. Keep close! or we are parted, in our turn, Where art thou? FAUST (_in the distance_) Here! MEPHISTOPHELES What! whirled so far astray? Then house-right I must use, and clear the way. Make room! Squire Voland comes! Room, gentle rabble, room! Here, Doctor, hold to me: in one jump we'll resume An easier space, and from the crowd be free: It's too much, even for the like of me. Yonder, with special light, there's something shining clearer Within those bushes; I've a mind to see. Come on! we'll slip a little nearer. FAUST Spirit of Contradiction! On! I'll follow straight. 'Tis planned most wisely, if I judge aright: We climb the Brocken's top in the Walpurgis-Night, That arbitrarily, here, ourselves we isolate. MEPHISTOPHELES But see, what motley flames among the heather! There is a lively club together: In smaller circles one is not alone. FAUST Better the summit, I must own: There fire and whirling smoke I see. They seek the Evil One in wild confusion: Many enigmas there might find solution. MEPHISTOPHELES But there enigmas also knotted be. Leave to the multitude their riot! Here will we house ourselves in quiet. It is an old, transmitted trade, That in the greater world the little worlds are made. I see stark-nude young witches congregate, And old ones, veiled and hidden shrewdly: On my account be kind, nor treat them rudely! The trouble's small, the fun is great. I hear the noise of instruments attuning,-- Vile din! yet one must learn to bear the crooning. Come, come along! It _must_ be, I declare! I'll go ahead and introduce thee there, Thine obligation newly earning. That is no little space: what say'st thou, friend? Look yonder! thou canst scarcely see the end: A hundred fires along the ranks are burning. They dance, they chat, they cook, they drink, they court: Now where, just tell me, is there better sport? FAUST Wilt thou, to introduce us to the revel, Assume the part of wizard or of devil? MEPHISTOPHELES I'm mostly used, 'tis true, to go incognito, But on a gala-day one may his orders show. The Garter does not deck my suit, But honored and at home is here the cloven foot. Perceiv'st thou yonder snail? It cometh, slow and steady; So delicately its feelers pry, That it hath scented me already: I cannot here disguise me, if I try. But come! we'll go from this fire to a newer: I am the go-between, and thou the wooer. (_To some, who are sitting around dying embers_:) Old gentlemen, why at the outskirts? Enter! I'd praise you if I found you snugly in the centre, With youth and revel round you like a zone: You each, at home, are quite enough alone. GENERAL Say, who would put his trust in nations, Howe'er for them one may have worked and planned? For with the people, as with women, Youth always has the upper hand. MINISTER They're now too far from what is just and sage. I praise the old ones, not unduly: When we were all-in-all, then, truly, _Then_ was the real golden age. PARVENU We also were not stupid, either, And what we should not, often did; But now all things have from their bases slid, Just as we meant to hold them fast together. AUTHOR Who, now, a work of moderate sense will read? Such works are held as antiquate and mossy; And as regards the younger folk, indeed, They never yet have been so pert and saucy. MEPHISTOPHELES (_who all at once appears very old_) I feel that men are ripe for Judgment-Day, Now for the last time I've the witches'-hill ascended: Since to the lees _my_ cask is drained away, The world's, as well, must soon be ended. HUCKSTER-WITCH Ye gentlemen, don't pass me thus! Let not the chance neglected be! Behold my wares attentively: The stock is rare and various. And yet, there's nothing I've collected-- No shop, on earth, like this you'll find!-- Which has not, once, sore hurt inflicted Upon the world, and on mankind. No dagger's here, that set not blood to flowing; No cup, that hath not once, within a healthy frame Poured speedy death, in poison glowing: No gems, that have not brought a maid to shame; No sword, but severed ties for the unwary, Or from behind struck down the adversary. MEPHISTOPHELES Gossip! the times thou badly comprehendest: What's done has happed--what haps, is done! 'Twere better if for novelties thou sendest: By such alone can we be won. FAUST Let me not lose myself in all this pother! This is a fair, as never was another! MEPHISTOPHELES The whirlpool swirls to get above: Thou'rt shoved thyself, imagining to shove. FAUST But who is that? MEPHISTOPHELES Note her especially, Tis Lilith. FAUST Who? MEPHISTOPHELES Adam's first wife is she. Beware the lure within her lovely tresses, The splendid sole adornment of her hair! When she succeeds therewith a youth to snare, Not soon again she frees him from her jesses. FAUST Those two, the old one with the young one sitting, They've danced already more than fitting. MEPHISTOPHELES No rest to-night for young or old! They start another dance: come now, let us take hold! FAUST (_dancing with the young witch_) A lovely dream once came to me; I then beheld an apple-tree, And there two fairest apples shone: They lured me so, I climbed thereon. THE FAIR ONE Apples have been desired by you, Since first in Paradise they grew; And I am moved with joy, to know That such within my garden grow. MEPHISTOPHELES (_dancing with the old one_) A dissolute dream once came to me: Therein I saw a cloven tree, Which had a-----------------; Yet,-----as 'twas, I fancied it. THE OLD ONE I offer here my best salute Unto the knight with cloven foot! Let him a-----------prepare, If him------------------does not scare. PROKTOPHANTASMIST Accurséd folk! How dare you venture thus? Had you not, long since, demonstration That ghosts can't stand on ordinary foundation? And now you even dance, like one of us! THE FAIR ONE (_dancing_) Why does he come, then, to our ball? FAUST (_dancing_) O, everywhere on him you fall! When others dance, he weighs the matter: If he can't every step bechatter, Then 'tis the same as were the step not made; But if you forwards go, his ire is most displayed. If you would whirl in regular gyration As he does in his dull old mill, He'd show, at any rate, good-will,-- Especially if you heard and heeded his hortation. PROKTOPHANTASMIST You still are here? Nay, 'tis a thing unheard! Vanish, at once! We've said the enlightening word. The pack of devils by no rules is daunted: We are so wise, and yet is Tegel haunted. To clear the folly out, how have I swept and stirred! Twill ne'er be clean: why, 'tis a thing unheard! THE FAIR ONE Then cease to bore us at our ball! PROKTOPHANTASMIST I tell you, spirits, to your face, I give to spirit-despotism no place; My spirit cannot practise it at all. (_The dance continues_) Naught will succeed, I see, amid such revels; Yet something from a tour I always save, And hope, before my last step to the grave, To overcome the poets and the devils. MEPHISTOPHELES He now will seat him in the nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he's most assured: And when upon his rump the leeches hang and fuddle, He'll be of spirits and of Spirit cured. (_To_ FAUST, _who has left the dance_:) Wherefore forsakest thou the lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang? FAUST Ah! in the midst of it there sprang A red mouse from her mouth--sufficient reason. MEPHISTOPHELES That's nothing! One must not so squeamish be; So the mouse was not gray, enough for thee. Who'd think of that in love's selected season? FAUST Then saw I--. MEPHISTOPHELES What? FAUST Mephisto, seest thou there, Alone and far, a girl most pale and fair? She falters on, her way scarce knowing, As if with fettered feet that stay her going. I must confess, it seems to me As if my kindly Margaret were she. MEPHISTOPHELES Let the thing be! All thence have evil drawn: It is a magic shape, a lifeless eidolon. Such to encounter is not good: Their blank, set stare benumbs the human blood, And one is almost turned to stone. Medusa's tale to thee is known. FAUST Forsooth, the eyes they are of one whom, dying, No hand with loving pressure closed; That is the breast whereon I once was lying,-- The body sweet, beside which I reposed! MEPHISTOPHELES Tis magic all, thou fool, seduced so easily! Unto each man his love she seems to be. FAUST The woe, the rapture, so ensnare me, That from her gaze I cannot tear me! And, strange! around her fairest throat A single scarlet band is gleaming, No broader than a knife-blade seeming! MEPHISTOPHELES Quite right! The mark I also note. Her head beneath her arm she'll sometimes carry; Twas Perseus lopped it, her old adversary. Thou crav'st the same illusion still! Come, let us mount this little hill; The Prater shows no livelier stir, And, if they've not bewitched my sense, I verily see a theatre. What's going on? SERVIBILIS 'Twill shortly recommence: A new performance--'tis the last of seven. To give that number is the custom here: 'Twas by a Dilettante written, And Dilettanti in the parts appear. That now I vanish, pardon, I entreat you! As Dilettante I the curtain raise. MEPHISTOPHELES When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, I find it good: for that's your proper place. [Illustration] [Illustration] XXII WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM OBERON AND TITANIA's GOLDEN WEDDING INTERMEZZO MANAGER Sons of Mieding, rest to-day! Needless your machinery: Misty vale and mountain gray, That is all the scenery. HERALD That the wedding golden be. Must fifty years be rounded: But _the Golden_ give to me, When the strife's compounded. OBERON Spirits, if you're here, be seen-- Show yourselves, delighted! Fairy king and fairy queen, They are newly plighted. PUCK Cometh Puck, and, light of limb, Whisks and whirls in measure: Come a hundred after him, To share with him the pleasure. ARIEL Ariel's song is heavenly-pure, His tones are sweet and rare ones: Though ugly faces he allure, Yet he allures the fair ones. OBERON Spouses, who would fain agree, Learn how we were mated! If your pairs would loving be, First be separated! TITANIA If her whims the wife control, And the man berate her, Take him to the Northern Pole, And her to the Equator! ORCHESTRA. TUTTI. _Fortissimo_. Snout of fly, mosquito-bill, And kin of all conditions, Frog in grass, and cricket-trill,-- These are the musicians! SOLO See the bagpipe on our track! 'Tis the soap-blown bubble: Hear the _schnecke-schnicke-schnack_ Through his nostrils double! SPIRIT, JUST GROWING INTO FORM Spider's foot and paunch of toad, And little wings--we know 'em! A little creature 'twill not be, But yet, a little poem. A LITTLE COUPLE Little step and lofty leap Through honey-dew and fragrance: You'll never mount the airy steep With all your tripping vagrance. INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER Is't but masquerading play? See I with precision? Oberon, the beauteous fay, Meets, to-night, my vision! ORTHODOX Not a claw, no tail I see! And yet, beyond a cavil, Like "the Gods of Greece," must he Also be a devil. NORTHERN ARTIST I only seize, with sketchy air, Some outlines of the tourney; Yet I betimes myself prepare For my Italian journey. PURIST My bad luck brings me here, alas! How roars the orgy louder! And of the witches in the mass, But only two wear powder. YOUNG WITCH Powder becomes, like petticoat, A gray and wrinkled noddy; So I sit naked on my goat, And show a strapping body. MATRON We've too much tact and policy To rate with gibes a scolder; Yet, young and tender though you be, I hope to see you moulder. LEADER OF THE BAND Fly-snout and mosquito-bill, Don't swarm so round the Naked! Frog in grass and cricket-trill, Observe the time, and make it! WEATHERCOCK (_towards one side_) Society to one's desire! Brides only, and the sweetest! And bachelors of youth and fire. And prospects the completest! WEATHERCOCK (_towards the other side_) And if the Earth don't open now To swallow up each ranter, Why, then will I myself, I vow, Jump into hell instanter! XENIES Us as little insects see! With sharpest nippers flitting, That our Papa Satan we May honor as is fitting. HENNINGS How, in crowds together massed, They are jesting, shameless! They will even say, at last, That their hearts are blameless. MUSAGETES Among this witches' revelry His way one gladly loses; And, truly, it would easier be Than to command the Muses. CI-DEVANT GENIUS OF THE AGE The proper folks one's talents laud: Come on, and none shall pass us! The Blocksberg has a summit broad, Like Germany's Parnassus. INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER Say, who's the stiff and pompous man? He walks with haughty paces: He snuffles all he snuffle can: "He scents the Jesuits' traces." CRANE Both clear and muddy streams, for me Are good to fish and sport in: And thus the pious man you see With even devils consorting. WORLDLING Yes, for the pious, I suspect, All instruments are fitting; And on the Blocksberg they erect Full many a place of meeting. DANCER A newer chorus now succeeds! I hear the distant drumming. "Don't be disturbed! 'tis, in the reeds, The bittern's changeless booming." DANCING-MASTER How each his legs in nimble trip Lifts up, and makes a clearance! The crooked jump, the heavy skip, Nor care for the appearance. GOOD FELLOW The rabble by such hate are held, To maim and slay delights them: As Orpheus' lyre the brutes compelled, The bagpipe here unites them. DOGMATIST I'll not be led by any lure Of doubts or critic-cavils: The Devil must be something, sure,-- Or how should there be devils? IDEALIST This once, the fancy wrought in me Is really too despotic: Forsooth, if I am all I see, I must be idiotic! REALIST This racking fuss on every hand, It gives me great vexation; And, for the first time, here I stand On insecure foundation. SUPERNATURALIST With much delight I see the play, And grant to these their merits, Since from the devils I also may Infer the better spirits. SCEPTIC The flame they follow, on and on, And think they're near the treasure: But _Devil_ rhymes with _Doubt_ alone, So I am here with pleasure. LEADER OF THE BAND Frog in green, and cricket-trill. Such dilettants!--perdition! Fly-snout and mosquito-bill,-- Each one's a fine musician! THE ADROIT _Sans souci_, we call the clan Of merry creatures so, then; Go a-foot no more we can, And on our heads we go, then. THE AWKWARD Once many a bit we sponged, but now, God help us! that is done with: Our shoes are all danced out, we trow, We've but naked soles to run with. WILL-O'-THE WISPS From the marshes we appear, Where we originated; Yet in the ranks, at once, we're here As glittering gallants rated. SHOOTING-STAR Darting hither from the sky, In star and fire light shooting, Cross-wise now in grass I lie: Who'll help me to my footing? THE HEAVY FELLOWS Room! and round about us, room! Trodden are the grasses: Spirits also, spirits come, And they are bulky masses. PUCK Enter not so stall-fed quite, Like elephant-calves about one! And the heaviest weight to-night Be Puck, himself, the stout one! ARIEL If loving Nature at your back, Or Mind, the wings uncloses, Follow up my airy track To the mount of roses! ORCHESTRA _pianissimo_ Cloud and trailing mist o'erhead Are now illuminated: Air in leaves, and wind in reed, And all is dissipated. [Illustration] XXIII DREARY DAY A FIELD FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST In misery! In despair! Long wretchedly astray on the face of the earth, and now imprisoned! That gracious, ill-starred creature shut in a dungeon as a criminal, and given up to fearful torments! To this has it come! to this!--Treacherous, contemptible spirit, and thou hast concealed it from me!--Stand, then,--stand! Roll the devilish eyes wrathfully in thy head! Stand and defy me with thine intolerable presence! Imprisoned! In irretrievable misery! Delivered up to evil spirits, and to condemning, unfeeling Man! And thou hast lulled me, meanwhile, with the most insipid dissipations, hast concealed from me her increasing wretchedness, and suffered her to go helplessly to ruin! [Illustration: _Roll the devilish eyes wrathfully in thy head_] MEPHISTOPHELES She is not the first. FAUST Dog! Abominable monster! Transform him, thou Infinite Spirit! transform the reptile again into his dog-shape? in which it pleased him often at night to scamper on before me, to roll himself at the feet of the unsuspecting wanderer, and hang upon his shoulders when he fell! Transform him again into his favorite likeness, that he may crawl upon his belly in the dust before me,--that I may trample him, the outlawed, under foot! Not the first! O woe! woe which no human soul can grasp, that more than one being should sink into the depths of this misery,--that the first, in its writhing death-agony under the eyes of the Eternal Forgiver, did not expiate the guilt of all others! The misery of this single one pierces to the very marrow of my life; and thou art calmly grinning at the fate of thousands! MEPHISTOPHELES Now we are already again at the end of our wits, where the understanding of you men runs wild. Why didst thou enter into fellowship with us, if thou canst not carry it out? Wilt fly, and art not secure against dizziness? Did we thrust ourselves upon thee, or thou thyself upon us? FAUST Gnash not thus thy devouring teeth at me? It fills me with horrible disgust. Mighty, glorious Spirit, who hast vouchsafed to me Thine apparition, who knowest my heart and my soul, why fetter me to the felon-comrade, who feeds on mischief and gluts himself with ruin? MEPHISTOPHELES Hast thou done? FAUST Rescue her, or woe to thee! The fearfullest curse be upon thee for thousands of ages! MEPHISTOPHELES I cannot loosen the bonds of the Avenger, nor undo his bolts. Rescue her? Who was it that plunged her into ruin? I, or thou? (FAUST _looks around wildly_.) Wilt thou grasp the thunder? Well that it has not been given to you, miserable mortals! To crush to pieces the innocent respondent--that is the tyrant-fashion of relieving one's self in embarrassments. FAUST Take me thither! She shall be free! MEPHISTOPHELES And the danger to which thou wilt expose thyself? Know that the guilt of blood, from thy hand, still lies upon the town! Avenging spirits hover over the spot where the victim fell, and lie in wait for the returning murderer. FAUST That, too, from thee? Murder and death of a world upon thee, monster! Take me thither, I say, and liberate her! MEPHISTOPHELES I will convey thee there; and hear, what I can do! Have I all the power in Heaven and on Earth? I will becloud the jailer's senses: get possession of the key, and lead her forth with human hand! I will keep watch: the magic steeds are ready, I will carry you off. So much is in my power. FAUST Up and away! [Illustration] XXIV NIGHT OPEN FIELD (FAUST _and_ MEPHISTOPHELES _speeding onward on black horses_.) FAUST What weave they there round the raven-stone? MEPHISTOPHELES I know not what they are brewing and doing. FAUST Soaring up, sweeping down, bowing and bending! MEPHISTOPHELES A witches'-guild. FAUST They scatter, devote and doom! MEPHISTOPHELES On! on! [Illustration] XXV DUNGEON FAUST (_with a bunch of keys and a lamp, before an iron door_) A shudder, long unfelt, comes o'er me; Mankind's collected woe o'erwhelms me, here. She dwells within the dark, damp walls before me, And all her crime was a delusion dear! What! I delay to free her? I dread, once again to see her? On! my shrinking but lingers Death more near. (_He grasps the lock: the sound of singing is heard inside_.) _My mother, the harlot, Who put me to death; My father, the varlet, Who eaten me hath! Little sister, so good, Laid my bones in the wood, In the damp moss and clay:_ _Then was I a beautiful bird o' the wood; Fly away! Fly away_! FAUST _(unlocking)_ She does not dream her lover listens near; That he the rattling chain, the rustling straw, can hear. _(He enters_.) MARGARET (_hiding herself on the pallet_) Woe! woe! They come. O death of bitterness! FAUST (_whispering_) Hush! hush! The hour is come that frees thee. MARGARET (_throwing herself before him_) Art thou a man, then pity my distress! FAUST Thy cries will wake the guards, and they will seize thee! (_He takes hold of the fetters to unlock them_.) MARGARET (_on her knees_) Who, headsman! unto thee such power Over me could give? Thou'rt come for me at midnight-hour: Have mercy on me, let me live! Is't not soon enough when morning chime has run? (_She rises_.) And I am yet so young, so young! And now Death comes, and ruin! I, too, was fair, and that was my undoing. My love was near, but now he's far; Torn lies the wreath, scattered the blossoms are. Seize me not thus so violently! Spare me! What have I done to thee? Let me not vainly entreat thee! I never chanced, in all my days, to meet thee! FAUST Shall I outlive this misery? MARGARET Now am I wholly in thy might. But let me suckle, first, my baby! I blissed it all this livelong night; They took 't away, to vex me, maybe, And now they say I killed the child outright. And never shall I be glad again. They sing songs about me! 'tis bad of the folk to do it! There's an old story has the same refrain; Who bade them so construe it? FAUST (_falling upon his knees_) Here lieth one who loves thee ever, The thraldom of thy woe to sever. MARGARET (_flinging herself beside him_) O let us kneel, and call the Saints to hide us! Under the steps beside us, The threshold under, Hell heaves in thunder! The Evil One With terrible wrath Seeketh a path His prey to discover! FAUST (_aloud_) Margaret! Margaret! MARGARET (_attentively listening_) That was the voice of my lover! (_She springs to her feet: the fetters fall off_.) Where is he? I heard him call me. I am free! No one shall enthrall me. To his neck will I fly, On his bosom lie! On the threshold he stood, and _Margaret_! calling, Midst of Hell's howling and noises appalling, Midst of the wrathful, infernal derision, I knew the sweet sound of the voice of the vision! FAUST 'Tis I! MARGARET 'Tis thou! O, say it once again! (_Clasping him_.) 'Tis he! 'tis he! Where now is all my pain? The anguish of the dungeon, and the chain? 'Tis thou! Thou comest to save me, And I am saved!-- Again the street I see Where first I looked on thee; And the garden, brightly blooming, Where I and Martha wait thy coming. FAUST (_struggling to leave_) Come! Come with me! MARGARET Delay, now! So fain I stay, when thou delayest! (_Caressing him_.) FAUST Away, now! If longer here thou stayest, We shall be made to dearly rue it. MARGARET Kiss me!--canst no longer do it? My friend, so short a time thou'rt missing, And hast unlearned thy kissing? Why is my heart so anxious, on thy breast? Where once a heaven thy glances did create me, A heaven thy loving words expressed, And thou didst kiss, as thou wouldst suffocate me-- Kiss me! Or I'll kiss thee! (_She embraces him_.) Ah, woe! thy lips are chill, And still. How changed in fashion Thy passion! Who has done me this ill? (_She turns away from him_.) FAUST Come, follow me! My darling, be more bold: I'll clasp thee, soon, with warmth a thousand-fold; But follow now! 'Tis all I beg of thee. MARGARET (_turning to him_) And is it thou? Thou, surely, certainly? FAUST 'Tis I! Come on! MARGARET Thou wilt unloose my chain, And in thy lap wilt take me once again. How comes it that thou dost not shrink from me?-- Say, dost thou know, my friend, whom thou mak'st free? FAUST Come! come! The night already vanisheth. MARGARET My mother have I put to death; I've drowned the baby born to thee. Was it not given to thee and me? Thee, too!--'Tis thou! It scarcely true doth seem-- Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream! Thy dear, dear hand!--But, ah, 'tis wet! Why, wipe it off! Methinks that yet There's blood thereon. Ah, God! what hast thou done? Nay, sheathe thy sword at last! Do not affray me! FAUST O, let the past be past! Thy words will slay me! MARGARET No, no! Thou must outlive us. Now I'll tell thee the graves to give us: Thou must begin to-morrow The work of sorrow! The best place give to my mother, Then close at her side my brother, And me a little away, But not too very far, I pray! And here, on my right breast, my baby lay! Nobody else will lie beside me!-- Ah, within thine arms to hide me, That was a sweet and a gracious bliss, But no more, no more can I attain it! I would force myself on thee and constrain it, And it seems thou repellest my kiss: And yet 'tis thou, so good, so kind to see! FAUST If thou feel'st it is I, then come with me! MARGARET Out yonder? FAUST To freedom. MARGARET If the grave is there, Death lying in wait, then come! From here to eternal rest: No further step--no, no! Thou goest away! O Henry, if I could go! FAUST Thou canst! Just will it! Open stands the door. MARGARET I dare not go: there's no hope any more. Why should I fly? They'll still my steps waylay! It is so wretched, forced to beg my living, And a bad conscience sharper misery giving! It is so wretched, to be strange, forsaken, And I'd still be followed and taken! FAUST I'll stay with thee. MARGARET Be quick! Be quick! Save thy perishing child! Away! Follow the ridge Up by the brook, [Illustration: _=If the grave is there, Death lying in wait, then come=_!] Over the bridge, Into the wood, To the left, where the plank is placed In the pool! Seize it in haste! 'Tis trying to rise, 'Tis struggling still! Save it! Save it! FAUST Recall thy wandering will! One step, and thou art free at last! MARGARET If the mountain we had only passed! There sits my mother upon a stone,-- I feel an icy shiver! There sits my mother upon a stone, And her head is wagging ever. She beckons, she nods not, her heavy head falls o'er; She slept so long that she wakes no more. She slept, while we were caressing: Ah, those were the days of blessing! FAUST Here words and prayers are nothing worth; I'll venture, then, to bear thee forth. MARGARET No--let me go! I'll suffer no force! Grasp me not so murderously! I've done, else, all things for the love of thee. FAUST The day dawns: Dearest! Dearest! MARGARET Day? Yes, the day comes,--the last day breaks for me! My wedding-day it was to be! Tell no one thou has been with Margaret! Woe for my garland! The chances Are over--'tis all in vain! We shall meet once again, But not at the dances! The crowd is thronging, no word is spoken: The square below And the streets overflow: The death-bell tolls, the wand is broken. I am seized, and bound, and delivered-- Shoved to the block--they give the sign! Now over each neck has quivered The blade that is quivering over mine. Dumb lies the world like the grave! FAUST O had I ne'er been born! MEPHISTOPHELES (_appears outside_) Off! or you're lost ere morn. Useless talking, delaying and praying! My horses are neighing: The morning twilight is near. MARGARET What rises up from the threshold here? He! he! suffer him not! What does he want in this holy spot? He seeks me! FAUST Thou shalt live. MARGARET Judgment of God! myself to thee I give. MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Come! or I'll leave her in the lurch, and thee! MARGARET Thine am I, Father! rescue me! Ye angels, holy cohorts, guard me, Camp around, and from evil ward me! Henry! I shudder to think of thee. MEPHISTOPHELES She is judged! VOICE (_from above_) She is saved! MEPHISTOPHELES (_to_ FAUST) Hither to me! (_He disappears with_ FAUST.) VOICE (_from within, dying away_) Henry! Henry! [illustration] [Illustration] 
955	----	THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ by L. FRANK BAUM Affectionately Dedicated to my young friend Sumner Hamilton Britton of Chicago Prologue Through the kindness of Dorothy Gale of Kansas, afterward Princess Dorothy of Oz, an humble writer in the United States of America was once appointed Royal Historian of Oz, with the privilege of writing the chronicle of that wonderful fairyland. But after making six books about the adventures of those interesting but queer people who live in the Land of Oz, the Historian learned with sorrow that by an edict of the Supreme Ruler, Ozma of Oz, her country would thereafter be rendered invisible to all who lived outside its borders and that all communication with Oz would, in the future, be cut off. The children who had learned to look for the books about Oz and who loved the stories about the gay and happy people inhabiting that favored country, were as sorry as their Historian that there would be no more books of Oz stories. They wrote many letters asking if the Historian did not know of some adventures to write about that had happened before the Land of Oz was shut out from all the rest of the world. But he did not know of any. Finally one of the children inquired why we couldn't hear from Princess Dorothy by wireless telegraph, which would enable her to communicate to the Historian whatever happened in the far-off Land of Oz without his seeing her, or even knowing just where Oz is. That seemed a good idea; so the Historian rigged up a high tower in his back yard, and took lessons in wireless telegraphy until he understood it, and then began to call "Princess Dorothy of Oz" by sending messages into the air. Now, it wasn't likely that Dorothy would be looking for wireless messages or would heed the call; but one thing the Historian was sure of, and that was that the powerful Sorceress, Glinda, would know what he was doing and that he desired to communicate with Dorothy. For Glinda has a big book in which is recorded every event that takes place anywhere in the world, just the moment that it happens, and so of course the book would tell her about the wireless message. And that was the way Dorothy heard that the Historian wanted to speak with her, and there was a Shaggy Man in the Land of Oz who knew how to telegraph a wireless reply. The result was that the Historian begged so hard to be told the latest news of Oz, so that he could write it down for the children to read, that Dorothy asked permission of Ozma and Ozma graciously consented. That is why, after two long years of waiting, another Oz story is now presented to the children of America. This would not have been possible had not some clever man invented the "wireless" and an equally clever child suggested the idea of reaching the mysterious Land of Oz by its means. L. Frank Baum. "OZCOT" at Hollywood in California LIST OF CHAPTERS 1 - Ojo and Unc Nunkie 2 - The Crooked Magician 3 - The Patchwork Girl 4 - The Glass Cat 5 - A Terrible Accident 6 - The Journey 7 - The Troublesome Phonograph 8 - The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey 9 - They Meet the Woozy 10 - Shaggy Man to the Rescue 11 - A Good Friend 12 - The Giant Porcupine 13 - Scraps and the Scarecrow 14 - Ojo Breaks the Law 15 - Ozma's Prisoner 16 - Princess Dorothy 17 - Ozma and Her Friends 18 - Ojo is Forgiven 19 - Trouble with the Tottenhots 20 - The Captive Yoop 21 - Hip Hopper the Champion 22 - The Joking Horners 23 - Peace is Declared 24 - Ojo Finds the Dark Well 25 - They Bribe the Lazy Quadling 26 - The Trick River 27 - The Tin Woodman Objects 28 - The Wonderful Wizard of Oz The Patchwork Girl of Oz Chapter One Ojo and Unc Nunkie "Where's the butter, Unc Nunkie?" asked Ojo. Unc looked out of the window and stroked his long beard. Then he turned to the Munchkin boy and shook his head. "Isn't," said he. "Isn't any butter? That's too bad, Unc. Where's the jam then?" inquired Ojo, standing on a stool so he could look through all the shelves of the cupboard. But Unc Nunkie shook his head again. "Gone," he said. "No jam, either? And no cake--no jelly--no apples--nothing but bread?" "All," said Unc, again stroking his beard as he gazed from the window. The little boy brought the stool and sat beside his uncle, munching the dry bread slowly and seeming in deep thought. "Nothing grows in our yard but the bread tree," he mused, "and there are only two more loaves on that tree; and they're not ripe yet. Tell me, Unc; why are we so poor?" The old Munchkin turned and looked at Ojo. He had kindly eyes, but he hadn't smiled or laughed in so long that the boy had forgotten that Unc Nunkie could look any other way than solemn. And Unc never spoke any more words than he was obliged to, so his little nephew, who lived alone with him, had learned to understand a great deal from one word. "Why are we so poor, Unc?" repeated the boy. "Not," said the old Munchkin. "I think we are," declared Ojo. "What have we got?" "House," said Unc Nunkie. "I know; but everyone in the Land of Oz has a place to live. What else, Unc?" "Bread." "I'm eating the last loaf that's ripe. There; I've put aside your share, Unc. It's on the table, so you can eat it when you get hungry. But when that is gone, what shall we eat, Unc?" The old man shifted in his chair but merely shook his head. "Of course," said Ojo, who was obliged to talk because his uncle would not, "no one starves in the Land of Oz, either. There is plenty for everyone, you know; only, if it isn't just where you happen to be, you must go where it is." The aged Munchkin wriggled again and stared at his small nephew as if disturbed by his argument. "By to-morrow morning," the boy went on, "we must go where there is something to eat, or we shall grow very hungry and become very unhappy." "Where?" asked Unc. "Where shall we go? I don't know, I'm sure," replied Ojo. "But you must know, Unc. You must have traveled, in your time, because you're so old. I don't remember it, because ever since I could remember anything we've lived right here in this lonesome, round house, with a little garden back of it and the thick woods all around. All I've ever seen of the great Land of Oz, Unc dear, is the view of that mountain over at the south, where they say the Hammerheads live--who won't let anybody go by them--and that mountain at the north, where they say nobody lives." "One," declared Unc, correcting him. "Oh, yes; one family lives there, I've heard. That's the Crooked Magician, who is named Dr. Pipt, and his wife Margolotte. One year you told me about them; I think it took you a whole year, Unc, to say as much as I've just said about the Crooked Magician and his wife. They live high up on the mountain, and the good Munchkin Country, where the fruits and flowers grow, is just the other side. It's funny you and I should live here all alone, in the middle of the forest, isn't it?" "Yes," said Unc. "Then let's go away and visit the Munchkin Country and its jolly, good-natured people. I'd love to get a sight of something besides woods, Unc Nunkie." "Too little," said Unc. "Why, I'm not so little as I used to be," answered the boy earnestly. "I think I can walk as far and as fast through the woods as you can, Unc. And now that nothing grows in our back yard that is good to eat, we must go where there is food." Unc Nunkie made no reply for a time. Then he shut down the window and turned his chair to face the room, for the sun was sinking behind the tree-tops and it was growing cool. By and by Ojo lighted the fire and the logs blazed freely in the broad fireplace. The two sat in the firelight a long time--the old, white-bearded Munchkin and the little boy. Both were thinking. When it grew quite dark outside, Ojo said: "Eat your bread, Unc, and then we will go to bed." But Unc Nunkie did not eat the bread; neither did he go directly to bed. Long after his little nephew was sound asleep in the corner of the room the old man sat by the fire, thinking. Chapter Two The Crooked Magician Just at dawn next morning Unc Nunkie laid his hand tenderly on Ojo's head and awakened him. "Come," he said. Ojo dressed. He wore blue silk stockings, blue knee pants with gold buckles, a blue ruffled waist and a jacket of bright blue braided with gold. His shoes were of blue leather and turned up at the toes, which were pointed. His hat had a peaked crown and a flat brim, and around the brim was a row of tiny golden bells that tinkled when he moved. This was the native costume of those who inhabited the Munchkin Country of the Land of Oz, so Unc Nunkie's dress was much like that of his nephew. Instead of shoes, the old man wore boots with turnover tops and his blue coat had wide cuffs of gold braid. The boy noticed that his uncle had not eaten the bread, and supposed the old man had not been hungry. Ojo was hungry, though; so he divided the piece of bread upon the table and ate his half for breakfast, washing it down with fresh, cool water from the brook. Unc put the other piece of bread in his jacket pocket, after which he again said, as he walked out through the doorway: "Come." Ojo was well pleased. He was dreadfully tired of living all alone in the woods and wanted to travel and see people. For a long time he had wished to explore the beautiful Land of Oz in which they lived. When they were outside, Unc simply latched the door and started up the path. No one would disturb their little house, even if anyone came so far into the thick forest while they were gone. At the foot of the mountain that separated the Country of the Munchkins from the Country of the Gillikins, the path divided. One way led to the left and the other to the right--straight up the mountain. Unc Nunkie took this right-hand path and Ojo followed without asking why. He knew it would take them to the house of the Crooked Magician, whom he had never seen but who was their nearest neighbor. All the morning they trudged up the mountain path and at noon Unc and Ojo sat on a fallen tree-trunk and ate the last of the bread which the old Munchkin had placed in his pocket. Then they started on again and two hours later came in sight of the house of Dr. Pipt. It was a big house, round, as were all the Munchkin houses, and painted blue, which is the distinctive color of the Munchkin Country of Oz. There was a pretty garden around the house, where blue trees and blue flowers grew in abundance and in one place were beds of blue cabbages, blue carrots and blue lettuce, all of which were delicious to eat. In Dr. Pipt's garden grew bun-trees, cake-trees, cream-puff bushes, blue buttercups which yielded excellent blue butter and a row of chocolate-caramel plants. Paths of blue gravel divided the vegetable and flower beds and a wider path led up to the front door. The place was in a clearing on the mountain, but a little way off was the grim forest, which completely surrounded it. Unc knocked at the door of the house and a chubby, pleasant-faced woman, dressed all in blue, opened it and greeted the visitors with a smile. "Ah," said Ojo; "you must be Dame Margolotte, the good wife of Dr. Pipt." "I am, my dear, and all strangers are welcome to my home." "May we see the famous Magician, Madam?" "He is very busy just now," she said, shaking her head doubtfully. "But come in and let me give you something to eat, for you must have traveled far in order to get our lonely place." "We have," replied Ojo, as he and Unc entered the house. "We have come from a far lonelier place than this." "A lonelier place! And in the Munchkin Country?" she exclaimed. "Then it must be somewhere in the Blue Forest." "It is, good Dame Margolotte." "Dear me!" she said, looking at the man, "you must be Unc Nunkie, known as the Silent One." Then she looked at the boy. "And you must be Ojo the Unlucky," she added. "Yes," said Unc. "I never knew I was called the Unlucky," said Ojo, soberly; "but it is really a good name for me." "Well," remarked the woman, as she bustled around the room and set the table and brought food from the cupboard, "you were unlucky to live all alone in that dismal forest, which is much worse than the forest around here; but perhaps your luck will change, now you are away from it. If, during your travels, you can manage to lose that 'Un' at the beginning of your name 'Unlucky,' you will then become Ojo the Lucky, which will be a great improvement." "How can I lose that 'Un,' Dame Margolotte?" "I do not know how, but you must keep the matter in mind and perhaps the chance will come to you," she replied. Ojo had never eaten such a fine meal in all his life. There was a savory stew, smoking hot, a dish of blue peas, a bowl of sweet milk of a delicate blue tint and a blue pudding with blue plums in it. When the visitors had eaten heartily of this fare the woman said to them: "Do you wish to see Dr. Pipt on business or for pleasure?" Unc shook his head. "We are traveling," replied Ojo, "and we stopped at your house just to rest and refresh ourselves. I do not think Unc Nunkie cares very much to see the famous Crooked Magician; but for my part I am curious to look at such a great man." The woman seemed thoughtful. "I remember that Unc Nunkie and my husband used to be friends, many years ago," she said, "so perhaps they will be glad to meet again. The Magician is very busy, as I said, but if you will promise not to disturb him you may come into his workshop and watch him prepare a wonderful charm." "Thank you," replied the boy, much pleased. "I would like to do that." She led the way to a great domed hall at the back of the house, which was the Magician's workshop. There was a row of windows extending nearly around the sides of the circular room, which rendered the place very light, and there was a back door in addition to the one leading to the front part of the house. Before the row of windows a broad seat was built and there were some chairs and benches in the room besides. At one end stood a great fireplace, in which a blue log was blazing with a blue flame, and over the fire hung four kettles in a row, all bubbling and steaming at a great rate. The Magician was stirring all four of these kettles at the same time, two with his hands and two with his feet, to the latter, wooden ladles being strapped, for this man was so very crooked that his legs were as handy as his arms. Unc Nunkie came forward to greet his old friend, but not being able to shake either his hands or his feet, which were all occupied in stirring, he patted the Magician's bald head and asked: "What?" "Ah, it's the Silent One," remarked Dr. Pipt, without looking up, "and he wants to know what I'm making. Well, when it is quite finished this compound will be the wonderful Powder of Life, which no one knows how to make but myself. Whenever it is sprinkled on anything, that thing will at once come to life, no matter what it is. It takes me several years to make this magic Powder, but at this moment I am pleased to say it is nearly done. You see, I am making it for my good wife Margolotte, who wants to use some of it for a purpose of her own. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Unc Nunkie, and after I've finished my task I will talk to you." "You must know," said Margolotte, when they were all seated together on the broad window-seat, "that my husband foolishly gave away all the Powder of Life he first made to old Mombi the Witch, who used to live in the Country of the Gillikins, to the north of here. Mombi gave to Dr. Pipt a Powder of Perpetual Youth in exchange for his Powder of Life, but she cheated him wickedly, for the Powder of Youth was no good and could work no magic at all." "Perhaps the Powder of Life couldn't either," said Ojo. "Yes; it is perfection," she declared. "The first lot we tested on our Glass Cat, which not only began to live but has lived ever since. She's somewhere around the house now." "A Glass Cat!" exclaimed Ojo, astonished. "Yes; she makes a very pleasant companion, but admires herself a little more than is considered modest, and she positively refuses to catch mice," explained Margolotte. "My husband made the cat some pink brains, but they proved to be too high-bred and particular for a cat, so she thinks it is undignified in her to catch mice. Also she has a pretty blood-red heart, but it is made of stone--a ruby, I think--and so is rather hard and unfeeling. I think the next Glass Cat the Magician makes will have neither brains nor heart, for then it will not object to catching mice and may prove of some use to us." "What did old Mombi the Witch do with the Powder of Life your husband gave her?" asked the boy. "She brought Jack Pumpkinhead to life, for one thing," was the reply. "I suppose you've heard of Jack Pumpkinhead. He is now living near the Emerald City and is a great favorite with the Princess Ozma, who rules all the Land of Oz." "No; I've never heard of him," remarked Ojo. "I'm afraid I don't know much about the Land of Oz. You see, I've lived all my life with Unc Nunkie, the Silent One, and there was no one to tell me anything." "That is one reason you are Ojo the Unlucky," said the woman, in a sympathetic tone. "The more one knows, the luckier he is, for knowledge is the greatest gift in life." "But tell me, please, what you intend to do with this new lot of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt is making. He said his wife wanted it for some especial purpose." "So I do," she answered. "I want it to bring my Patchwork Girl to life." "Oh! A Patchwork Girl? What is that?" Ojo asked, for this seemed even more strange and unusual than a Glass Cat. "I think I must show you my Patchwork Girl," said Margolotte, laughing at the boy's astonishment, "for she is rather difficult to explain. But first I will tell you that for many years I have longed for a servant to help me with the housework and to cook the meals and wash the dishes. No servant will come here because the place is so lonely and out-of-the-way, so my clever husband, the Crooked Magician, proposed that I make a girl out of some sort of material and he would make her live by sprinkling over her the Powder of Life. This seemed an excellent suggestion and at once Dr. Pipt set to work to make a new batch of his magic powder. He has been at it a long, long while, and so I have had plenty of time to make the girl. Yet that task was not so easy as you may suppose. At first I couldn't think what to make her of, but finally in searching through a chest I came across an old patchwork quilt, which my grandmother once made when she was young." "What is a patchwork quilt?" asked Ojo. "A bed-quilt made of patches of different kinds and colors of cloth, all neatly sewed together. The patches are of all shapes and sizes, so a patchwork quilt is a very pretty and gorgeous thing to look at. Sometimes it is called a 'crazy-quilt,' because the patches and colors are so mixed up. We never have used my grandmother's many-colored patchwork quilt, handsome as it is, for we Munchkins do not care for any color other than blue, so it has been packed away in the chest for about a hundred years. When I found it, I said to myself that it would do nicely for my servant girl, for when she was brought to life she would not be proud nor haughty, as the Glass Cat is, for such a dreadful mixture of colors would discourage her from trying to be as dignified as the blue Munchkins are." "Is blue the only respectable color, then?" inquired Ojo. "Yes, for a Munchkin. All our country is blue, you know. But in other parts of Oz the people favor different colors. At the Emerald City, where our Princess Ozma lives, green is the popular color. But all Munchkins prefer blue to anything else and when my housework girl is brought to life she will find herself to be of so many unpopular colors that she'll never dare be rebellious or impudent, as servants are sometimes liable to be when they are made the same way their mistresses are." Unc Nunkie nodded approval. "Good i-dea," he said; and that was a long speech for Unc Nunkie because it was two words. "So I cut up the quilt," continued Margolotte, "and made from it a very well-shaped girl, which I stuffed with cotton-wadding. I will show you what a good job I did," and she went to a tall cupboard and threw open the doors. Then back she came, lugging in her arms the Patchwork Girl, which she set upon the bench and propped up so that the figure would not tumble over. Chapter Three The Patchwork Girl Ojo examined this curious contrivance with wonder. The Patchwork Girl was taller than he, when she stood upright, and her body was plump and rounded because it had been so neatly stuffed with cotton. Margolotte had first made the girl's form from the patchwork quilt and then she had dressed it with a patchwork skirt and an apron with pockets in it--using the same gay material throughout. Upon the feet she had sewn a pair of red leather shoes with pointed toes. All the fingers and thumbs of the girl's hands had been carefully formed and stuffed and stitched at the edges, with gold plates at the ends to serve as finger-nails. "She will have to work, when she comes to life," said Margolotte. The head of the Patchwork Girl was the most curious part of her. While she waited for her husband to finish making his Powder of Life the woman had found ample time to complete the head as her fancy dictated, and she realized that a good servant's head must be properly constructed. The hair was of brown yarn and hung down on her neck in several neat braids. Her eyes were two silver suspender-buttons cut from a pair of the Magician's old trousers, and they were sewed on with black threads, which formed the pupils of the eyes. Margolotte had puzzled over the ears for some time, for these were important if the servant was to hear distinctly, but finally she had made them out of thin plates of gold and attached them in place by means of stitches through tiny holes bored in the metal. Gold is the most common metal in the Land of Oz and is used for many purposes because it is soft and pliable. The woman had cut a slit for the Patchwork Girl's mouth and sewn two rows of white pearls in it for teeth, using a strip of scarlet plush for a tongue. This mouth Ojo considered very artistic and lifelike, and Margolotte was pleased when the boy praised it. There were almost too many patches on the face of the girl for her to be considered strictly beautiful, for one cheek was yellow and the other red, her chin blue, her forehead purple and the center, where her nose had been formed and padded, a bright yellow. "You ought to have had her face all pink," suggested the boy. "I suppose so; but I had no pink cloth," replied the woman. "Still, I cannot see as it matters much, for I wish my Patchwork Girl to be useful rather than ornamental. If I get tired looking at her patched face I can whitewash it." "Has she any brains?" asked Ojo. "No; I forgot all about the brains!" exclaimed the woman. "I am glad you reminded me of them, for it is not too late to supply them, by any means. Until she is brought to life I can do anything I please with this girl. But I must be careful not to give her too much brains, and those she has must be such as are fitted to the station she is to occupy in life. In other words, her brains mustn't be very good." "Wrong," said Unc Nunkie. "No; I am sure I am right about that," returned the woman. "He means," explained Ojo, "that unless your servant has good brains she won't know how to obey you properly, nor do the things you ask her to do." "Well, that may be true," agreed Margolotte; "but, on the contrary, a servant with too much brains is sure to become independent and high-and-mighty and feel above her work. This is a very delicate task, as I said, and I must take care to give the girl just the right quantity of the right sort of brains. I want her to know just enough, but not too much." With this she went to another cupboard which was filled with shelves. All the shelves were lined with blue glass bottles, neatly labeled by the Magician to show what they contained. One whole shelf was marked: "Brain Furniture," and the bottles on this shelf were labeled as follows: "Obedience," "Cleverness," "Judgment," "Courage," "Ingenuity," "Amiability," "Learning," "Truth," "Poesy," "Self Reliance." "Let me see," said Margolotte; "of those qualities she must have 'Obedience' first of all," and she took down the bottle bearing that label and poured from it upon a dish several grains of the contents. "'Amiability' is also good and 'Truth.'" She poured into the dish a quantity from each of these bottles. "I think that will do," she continued, "for the other qualities are not needed in a servant." Unc Nunkie, who with Ojo stood beside her, touched the bottle marked "Cleverness." "Little," said he. "A little 'Cleverness'? Well, perhaps you are right, sir," said she, and was about to take down the bottle when the Crooked Magician suddenly called to her excitedly from the fireplace. "Quick, Margolotte! Come and help me." She ran to her husband's side at once and helped him lift the four kettles from the fire. Their contents had all boiled away, leaving in the bottom of each kettle a few grains of fine white powder. Very carefully the Magician removed this powder, placing it all together in a golden dish, where he mixed it with a golden spoon. When the mixture was complete there was scarcely a handful, all told. "That," said Dr. Pipt, in a pleased and triumphant tone, "is the wonderful Powder of Life, which I alone in the world know how to make. It has taken me nearly six years to prepare these precious grains of dust, but the little heap on that dish is worth the price of a kingdom and many a king would give all he has to possess it. When it has become cooled I will place it in a small bottle; but meantime I must watch it carefully, lest a gust of wind blow it away or scatter it." Unc Nunkie, Margolotte and the Magician all stood looking at the marvelous Powder, but Ojo was more interested just then in the Patchwork Girl's brains. Thinking it both unfair and unkind to deprive her of any good qualities that were handy, the boy took down every bottle on the shelf and poured some of the contents in Margolotte's dish. No one saw him do this, for all were looking at the Powder of Life; but soon the woman remembered what she had been doing, and came back to the cupboard. "Let's see," she remarked; "I was about to give my girl a little 'Cleverness,' which is the Doctor's substitute for 'Intelligence'--a quality he has not yet learned how to manufacture." Taking down the bottle of "Cleverness" she added some of the powder to the heap on the dish. Ojo became a bit uneasy at this, for he had already put quite a lot of the "Cleverness" powder in the dish; but he dared not interfere and so he comforted himself with the thought that one cannot have too much cleverness. Margolotte now carried the dish of brains to the bench. Ripping the seam of the patch on the girl's forehead, she placed the powder within the head and then sewed up the seam as neatly and securely as before. "My girl is all ready for your Powder of Life, my dear," she said to her husband. But the Magician replied: "This powder must not be used before to-morrow morning; but I think it is now cool enough to be bottled." He selected a small gold bottle with a pepper-box top, so that the powder might be sprinkled on any object through the small holes. Very carefully he placed the Powder of Life in the gold bottle and then locked it up in a drawer of his cabinet. "At last," said he, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "I have ample leisure for a good talk with my old friend Unc Nunkie. So let us sit down cosily and enjoy ourselves. After stirring those four kettles for six years I am glad to have a little rest." "You will have to do most of the talking," said Ojo, "for Unc is called the Silent One and uses few words." "I know; but that renders your uncle a most agreeable companion and gossip," declared Dr. Pipt. "Most people talk too much, so it is a relief to find one who talks too little." Ojo looked at the Magician with much awe and curiosity. "Don't you find it very annoying to be so crooked?" he asked. "No; I am quite proud of my person," was the reply. "I suppose I am the only Crooked Magician in all the world. Some others are accused of being crooked, but I am the only genuine." He was really very crooked and Ojo wondered how he managed to do so many things with such a twisted body. When he sat down upon a crooked chair that had been made to fit him, one knee was under his chin and the other near the small of his back; but he was a cheerful man and his face bore a pleasant and agreeable expression. "I am not allowed to perform magic, except for my own amusement," he told his visitors, as he lighted a pipe with a crooked stem and began to smoke. "Too many people were working magic in the Land of Oz, and so our lovely Princess Ozma put a stop to it. I think she was quite right. There were several wicked Witches who caused a lot of trouble; but now they are all out of business and only the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, is permitted to practice her arts, which never harm anybody. The Wizard of Oz, who used to be a humbug and knew no magic at all, has been taking lessons of Glinda, and I'm told he is getting to be a pretty good Wizard; but he is merely the assistant of the great Sorceress. I've the right to make a servant girl for my wife, you know, or a Glass Cat to catch our mice--which she refuses to do--but I am forbidden to work magic for others, or to use it as a profession." "Magic must be a very interesting study," said Ojo. "It truly is," asserted the Magician. "In my time I've performed some magical feats that were worthy of the skill of Glinda the Good. For instance, there's the Powder of Life, and my Liquid of Petrifaction, which is contained in that bottle on the shelf yonder--over the window." "What does the Liquid of Petrifaction do?" inquired the boy. "Turns everything it touches to solid marble. It's an invention of my own, and I find it very useful. Once two of those dreadful Kalidahs, with bodies like bears and heads like tigers, came here from the forest to attack us; but I sprinkled some of that Liquid on them and instantly they turned to marble. I now use them as ornamental statuary in my garden. This table looks to you like wood, and once it really was wood; but I sprinkled a few drops of the Liquid of Petrifaction on it and now it is marble. It will never break nor wear out." "Fine!" said Unc Nunkie, wagging his head and stroking his long gray beard. "Dear me; what a chatterbox you're getting to be, Unc," remarked the Magician, who was pleased with the compliment. But just then there came a scratching at the back door and a shrill voice cried: "Let me in! Hurry up, can't you? Let me in!" Margolotte got up and went to the door. "Ask like a good cat, then," she said. "Mee-ee-ow-w-w! There; does that suit your royal highness?" asked the voice, in scornful accents. "Yes; that's proper cat talk," declared the woman, and opened the door. At once a cat entered, came to the center of the room and stopped short at the sight of strangers. Ojo and Unc Nunkie both stared at it with wide open eyes, for surely no such curious creature had ever existed before--even in the Land of Oz. Chapter Four The Glass Cat The cat was made of glass, so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels, and it had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds, but aside from these colors all the rest of the animal was clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful. "Well, Doc Pipt, do you mean to introduce us, or not?" demanded the cat, in a tone of annoyance. "Seems to me you are forgetting your manners." "Excuse me," returned the Magician. "This is Unc Nunkie, the descendant of the former kings of the Munchkins, before this country became a part of the Land of Oz." "He needs a haircut," observed the cat, washing its face. "True," replied Unc, with a low chuckle of amusement. "But he has lived alone in the heart of the forest for many years," the Magician explained; "and, although that is a barbarous country, there are no barbers there." "Who is the dwarf?" asked the cat. "That is not a dwarf, but a boy," answered the Magician. "You have never seen a boy before. He is now small because he is young. With more years he will grow big and become as tall as Unc Nunkie." "Oh. Is that magic?" the glass animal inquired. "Yes; but it is Nature's magic, which is more wonderful than any art known to man. For instance, my magic made you, and made you live; and it was a poor job because you are useless and a bother to me; but I can't make you grow. You will always be the same size--and the same saucy, inconsiderate Glass Cat, with pink brains and a hard ruby heart." "No one can regret more than I the fact that you made me," asserted the cat, crouching upon the floor and slowly swaying its spun-glass tail from side to side. "Your world is a very uninteresting place. I've wandered through your gardens and in the forest until I'm tired of it all, and when I come into the house the conversation of your fat wife and of yourself bores me dreadfully." "That is because I gave you different brains from those we ourselves possess--and much too good for a cat," returned Dr. Pipt. "Can't you take 'em out, then, and replace 'em with pebbles, so that I won't feel above my station in life?" asked the cat, pleadingly. "Perhaps so. I'll try it, after I've brought the Patchwork Girl to life," he said. The cat walked up to the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined and looked at her attentively. "Are you going to make that dreadful thing live?" she asked. The Magician nodded. "It is intended to be my wife's servant maid," he said. "When she is alive she will do all our work and mind the house. But you are not to order her around, Bungle, as you do us. You must treat the Patchwork Girl respectfully." "I won't. I couldn't respect such a bundle of scraps under any circumstances." "If you don't, there will be more scraps than you will like," cried Margolotte, angrily. "Why didn't you make her pretty to look at?" asked the cat. "You made me pretty--very pretty, indeed--and I love to watch my pink brains roll around when they're working, and to see my precious red heart beat." She went to a long mirror, as she said this, and stood before it, looking at herself with an air of much pride. "But that poor patched thing will hate herself, when she's once alive," continued the cat. "If I were you I'd use her for a mop, and make another servant that is prettier." "You have a perverted taste," snapped Margolotte, much annoyed at this frank criticism. "I think the Patchwork Girl is beautiful, considering what she's made of. Even the rainbow hasn't as many colors, and you must admit that the rainbow is a pretty thing." The Glass Cat yawned and stretched herself upon the floor. "Have your own way," she said. "I'm sorry for the Patchwork Girl, that's all." Ojo and Unc Nunkie slept that night in the Magician's house, and the boy was glad to stay because he was anxious to see the Patchwork Girl brought to life. The Glass Cat was also a wonderful creature to little Ojo, who had never seen or known anything of magic before, although he had lived in the Fairyland of Oz ever since he was born. Back there in the woods nothing unusual ever happened. Unc Nunkie, who might have been King of the Munchkins, had not his people united with all the other countries of Oz in acknowledging Ozma as their sole ruler, had retired into this forgotten forest nook with his baby nephew and they had lived all alone there. Only that the neglected garden had failed to grow food for them, they would always have lived in the solitary Blue Forest; but now they had started out to mingle with other people, and the first place they came to proved so interesting that Ojo could scarcely sleep a wink all night. Margolotte was an excellent cook and gave them a fine breakfast. While they were all engaged in eating, the good woman said: "This is the last meal I shall have to cook for some time, for right after breakfast Dr. Pipt has promised to bring my new servant to life. I shall let her wash the breakfast dishes and sweep and dust the house. What a relief it will be!" "It will, indeed, relieve you of much drudgery," said the Magician. "By the way, Margolotte, I thought I saw you getting some brains from the cupboard, while I was busy with my kettles. What qualities have you given your new servant?" "Only those that an humble servant requires," she answered. "I do not wish her to feel above her station, as the Glass Cat does. That would make her discontented and unhappy, for of course she must always be a servant." Ojo was somewhat disturbed as he listened to this, and the boy began to fear he had done wrong in adding all those different qualities of brains to the lot Margolotte had prepared for the servant. But it was too late now for regret, since all the brains were securely sewn up inside the Patchwork Girl's head. He might have confessed what he had done and thus allowed Margolotte and her husband to change the brains; but he was afraid of incurring their anger. He believed that Unc had seen him add to the brains, and Unc had not said a word against it; but then, Unc never did say anything unless it was absolutely necessary. As soon as breakfast was over they all went into the Magician's big workshop, where the Glass Cat was lying before the mirror and the Patchwork Girl lay limp and lifeless upon the bench. "Now, then," said Dr. Pipt, in a brisk tone, "we shall perform one of the greatest feats of magic possible to man, even in this marvelous Land of Oz. In no other country could it be done at all. I think we ought to have a little music while the Patchwork Girl comes to life. It is pleasant to reflect that the first sounds her golden ears will hear will be delicious music." As he spoke he went to a phonograph, which screwed fast to a small table, and wound up the spring of the instrument and adjusted the big gold horn. "The music my servant will usually hear," remarked Margolotte, "will be my orders to do her work. But I see no harm in allowing her to listen to this unseen band while she wakens to her first realization of life. My orders will beat the band, afterward." The phonograph was now playing a stirring march tune and the Magician unlocked his cabinet and took out the gold bottle containing the Powder of Life. They all bent over the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte stood behind, near the windows, Ojo at one side and the Magician in front, where he would have freedom to sprinkle the powder. The Glass Cat came near, too, curious to watch the important scene. "All ready?" asked Dr. Pipt. "All is ready," answered his wife. So the Magician leaned over and shook from the bottle some grains of the wonderful Powder, and they fell directly on the Patchwork Girl's head and arms. Chapter Five A Terrible Accident "It will take a few minutes for this powder to do its work," remarked the Magician, sprinkling the body up and down with much care. But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the crooked man's hand and sent it flying across the room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled that they both leaped backward and bumped together, and Unc's head joggled the shelf above them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of Petrifaction. The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With these two the charm worked promptly. They stood motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly the positions they were in when the Liquid struck them. Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear for the only friend and protector he had ever known. When he grasped Unc's hand it was cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was solid marble. The Crooked Magician was dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair, calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak to him, to come to life again! The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her fright, now came nearer and looked from one to another of the people with deep interest. Then she looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the mirror, she stood before it and examined her extraordinary features with amazement--her button eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then, addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed: "Whee, but there's a gaudy dame! Makes a paint-box blush with shame. Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle! Howdy-do, Miss What's-your-name?" She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then she laughed again, long and merrily, and the Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said: "I don't blame you for laughing at yourself. Aren't you horrid?" "Horrid?" she replied. "Why, I'm thoroughly delightful. I'm an Original, if you please, and therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd, rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte could have managed to invent such an unreasonable being as I? But I'm glad--I'm awfully glad!--that I'm just what I am, and nothing else." "Be quiet, will you?" cried the frantic Magician; "be quiet and let me think! If I don't think I shall go mad." "Think ahead," said the Patchwork Girl, seating herself in a chair. "Think all you want to. I don't mind." "Gee! but I'm tired playing that tune," called the phonograph, speaking through its horn in a brazen, scratchy voice. "If you don't mind, Pipt, old boy, I'll cut it out and take a rest." The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine. "What dreadful luck!" he wailed, despondently. "The Powder of Life must have fallen on the phonograph." He went up to it and found that the gold bottle that contained the precious powder had dropped upon the stand and scattered its life-giving grains over the machine. The phonograph was very much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs of the table to which it was attached, and this dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to hold it quiet. "You were bad enough before," said the Magician, resentfully; "but a live phonograph is enough to drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark crazy." "No insults, please," answered the phonograph in a surly tone. "You did it, my boy; don't blame me." "You've bungled everything, Dr. Pipt," added the Glass Cat, contemptuously. "Except me," said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up to whirl merrily around the room. "I think," said Ojo, almost ready to cry through grief over Unc Nunkie's sad fate, "it must all be my fault, in some way. I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." "That's nonsense, kiddie," retorted the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. "No one can be unlucky who has the intelligence to direct his own actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What's the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?" "The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and turned them into marble," he sadly replied. "Well, why don't you sprinkle some of that powder on them and bring them to life again?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician gave a jump. "Why, I hadn't thought of that!" he joyfully cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with which he ran to Margolotte. Said the Patchwork Girl: "Higgledy, piggledy, dee-- What fools magicians be! His head's so thick He can't think quick, So he takes advice from me." Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the top of his wife's head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of despair. "Gone--gone! Every bit gone," he cried. "Wasted on that miserable phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!" Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry. Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly: "You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt." "Yes; but it will take me six years--six long, weary years of stirring four kettles with both feet and both hands," was the agonized reply. "Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image." "Can't anything else be done?" asked the Patchwork Girl. The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and looked up. "There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life," said he. "It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands and both feet." "All right; let's find the things, then," suggested the Patchwork Girl. "That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the kettles." "That's the idea, Scraps," said the Glass Cat, approvingly. "I'm glad to find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see 'em work; they're pink." "Scraps?" repeated the girl. "Did you call me 'Scraps'? Is that my name?" "I--I believe my poor wife had intended to name you 'Angeline,'" said the Magician. "But I like 'Scraps' best," she replied with a laugh. "It fits me better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?" "I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite undignified for one of my importance," answered the cat. "She called me 'Bungle.'" "Yes," sighed the Magician; "you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and brittle thing never before existed." "I'm not so brittle as you think," retorted the cat. "I've been alive a good many years, for Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so far I've never broken or cracked or chipped any part of me." "You seem to have a chip on your shoulder," laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went to the mirror to see. "Tell me," pleaded Ojo, speaking to the Crooked Magician, "what must we find to make the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?" "First," was the reply, "I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved clovers are very scarce, even there." "I'll find it for you," promised Ojo. "The next thing," continued the Magician, "is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That color can only be found in the yellow country of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City." "I'll find it," declared Ojo. "Is that all?" "Oh, no; I'll get my Book of Recipes and see what comes next." Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered with blue leather. Looking through the pages he found the recipe he wanted and said: "I must have a gill of water from a dark well." "What kind of a well is that, sir?" asked the boy. "One where the light of day never penetrates. The water must be put in a gold bottle and brought to me without any light ever reaching it." "I'll get the water from the dark well," said Ojo. "Then I must have three hairs from the tip of a Woozy's tail, and a drop of oil from a live man's body." Ojo looked grave at this. "What is a Woozy, please?" he inquired. "Some sort of an animal. I've never seen one, so I can't describe it," replied the Magician. "If I can find a Woozy, I'll get the hairs from its tail," said Ojo. "But is there ever any oil in a man's body?" The Magician looked in the book again, to make sure. "That's what the recipe calls for," he replied, "and of course we must get everything that is called for, or the charm won't work. The book doesn't say 'blood'; it says 'oil,' and there must be oil somewhere in a live man's body or the book wouldn't ask for it." "All right," returned Ojo, trying not to feel discouraged; "I'll try to find it." The Magician looked at the little Munchkin boy in a doubtful way and said: "All this will mean a long journey for you; perhaps several long journeys; for you must search through several of the different countries of Oz in order to get the things I need." "I know it, sir; but I must do my best to save Unc Nunkie." "And also my poor wife Margolotte. If you save one you will save the other, for both stand there together and the same compound will restore them both to life. Do the best you can, Ojo, and while you are gone I shall begin the six years job of making a new batch of the Powder of Life. Then, if you should unluckily fail to secure any one of the things needed, I will have lost no time. But if you succeed you must return here as quickly as you can, and that will save me much tiresome stirring of four kettles with both feet and both hands." "I will start on my journey at once, sir," said the boy. "And I will go with you," declared the Patchwork Girl. "No, no!" exclaimed the Magician. "You have no right to leave this house. You are only a servant and have not been discharged." Scraps, who had been dancing up and down the room, stopped and looked at him. "What is a servant?" she asked. "One who serves. A--a sort of slave," he explained. "Very well," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'm going to serve you and your wife by helping Ojo find the things you need. You need a lot, you know, such as are not easily found." "It is true," sighed Dr. Pipt. "I am well aware that Ojo has undertaken a serious task." Scraps laughed, and resuming her dance she said: "Here's a job for a boy of brains: A drop of oil from a live man's veins; A six-leaved clover; three nice hairs From a Woozy's tail, the book declares Are needed for the magic spell, And water from a pitch-dark well. The yellow wing of a butterfly To find must Ojo also try, And if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; But if he doesn't get 'em, Unc Will always stand a marble chunk." The Magician looked at her thoughtfully. "Poor Margolotte must have given you some of the quality of poesy, by mistake," he said. "And, if that is true, I didn't make a very good article when I prepared it, or else you got an overdose or an underdose. However, I believe I shall let you go with Ojo, for my poor wife will not need your services until she is restored to life. Also I think you may be able to help the boy, for your head seems to contain some thoughts I did not expect to find in it. But be very careful of yourself, for you're a souvenir of my dear Margolotte. Try not to get ripped, or your stuffing may fall out. One of your eyes seems loose, and you may have to sew it on tighter. If you talk too much you'll wear out your scarlet plush tongue, which ought to have been hemmed on the edges. And remember you belong to me and must return here as soon as your mission is accomplished." "I'm going with Scraps and Ojo," announced the Glass Cat. "You can't," said the Magician. "Why not?" "You'd get broken in no time, and you couldn't be a bit of use to the boy and the Patchwork Girl." "I beg to differ with you," returned the cat, in a haughty tone. "Three heads are better than two, and my pink brains are beautiful. You can see 'em work." "Well, go along," said the Magician, irritably. "You're only an annoyance, anyhow, and I'm glad to get rid of you." "Thank you for nothing, then," answered the cat, stiffly. Dr. Pipt took a small basket from a cupboard and packed several things in it. Then he handed it to Ojo. "Here is some food and a bundle of charms," he said. "It is all I can give you, but I am sure you will find friends on your journey who will assist you in your search. Take care of the Patchwork Girl and bring her safely back, for she ought to prove useful to my wife. As for the Glass Cat--properly named Bungle--if she bothers you I now give you my permission to break her in two, for she is not respectful and does not obey me. I made a mistake in giving her the pink brains, you see." Then Ojo went to Unc Nunkie and kissed the old man's marble face very tenderly. "I'm going to try to save you, Unc," he said, just as if the marble image could hear him; and then he shook the crooked hand of the Crooked Magician, who was already busy hanging the four kettles in the fireplace, and picking up his basket left the house. The Patchwork Girl followed him, and after them came the Glass Cat. Chapter Six The Journey Ojo had never traveled before and so he only knew that the path down the mountainside led into the open Munchkin Country, where large numbers of people dwelt. Scraps was quite new and not supposed to know anything of the Land of Oz, while the Glass Cat admitted she had never wandered very far away from the Magician's house. There was only one path before them, at the beginning, so they could not miss their way, and for a time they walked through the thick forest in silent thought, each one impressed with the importance of the adventure they had undertaken. Suddenly the Patchwork Girl laughed. It was funny to see her laugh, because her cheeks wrinkled up, her nose tipped, her silver button eyes twinkled and her mouth curled at the corners in a comical way. "Has something pleased you?" asked Ojo, who was feeling solemn and joyless through thinking upon his uncle's sad fate. "Yes," she answered. "Your world pleases me, for it's a queer world, and life in it is queerer still. Here am I, made from an old bedquilt and intended to be a slave to Margolotte, rendered free as air by an accident that none of you could foresee. I am enjoying life and seeing the world, while the woman who made me is standing helpless as a block of wood. If that isn't funny enough to laugh at, I don't know what is." "You're not seeing much of the world yet, my poor, innocent Scraps," remarked the Cat. "The world doesn't consist wholly of the trees that are on all sides of us." "But they're part of it; and aren't they pretty trees?" returned Scraps, bobbing her head until her brown yarn curls fluttered in the breeze. "Growing between them I can see lovely ferns and wild-flowers, and soft green mosses. If the rest of your world is half as beautiful I shall be glad I'm alive." "I don't know what the rest of the world is like, I'm sure," said the cat; "but I mean to find out." "I have never been out of the forest," Ojo added; "but to me the trees are gloomy and sad and the wild-flowers seem lonesome. It must be nicer where there are no trees and there is room for lots of people to live together." "I wonder if any of the people we shall meet will be as splendid as I am," said the Patchwork Girl. "All I have seen, so far, have pale, colorless skins and clothes as blue as the country they live in, while I am of many gorgeous colors--face and body and clothes. That is why I am bright and contented, Ojo, while you are blue and sad." "I think I made a mistake in giving you so many sorts of brains," observed the boy. "Perhaps, as the Magician said, you have an overdose, and they may not agree with you." "What had you to do with my brains?" asked Scraps. "A lot," replied Ojo. "Old Margolotte meant to give you only a few--just enough to keep you going--but when she wasn't looking I added a good many more, of the best kinds I could find in the Magician's cupboard." "Thanks," said the girl, dancing along the path ahead of Ojo and then dancing back to his side. "If a few brains are good, many brains must be better." "But they ought to be evenly balanced," said the boy, "and I had no time to be careful. From the way you're acting, I guess the dose was badly mixed." "Scraps hasn't enough brains to hurt her, so don't worry," remarked the cat, which was trotting along in a very dainty and graceful manner. "The only brains worth considering are mine, which are pink. You can see 'em work." After walking a long time they came to a little brook that trickled across the path, and here Ojo sat down to rest and eat something from his basket. He found that the Magician had given him part of a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. He broke off some of the bread and was surprised to find the loaf just as large as it was before. It was the same way with the cheese: however much he broke off from the slice, it remained exactly the same size. "Ah," said he, nodding wisely; "that's magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat." "Why do you put those things into your mouth?" asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. "Do you need more stuffing? Then why don't you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?" "I don't need that kind," said Ojo. "But a mouth is to talk with, isn't it?" "It is also to eat with," replied the boy. "If I didn't put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve. "Ah, I didn't know that," she said. "Give me some." Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth. "What next?" she asked, scarcely able to speak. "Chew it and swallow it," said the boy. Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed. "I must get hungry and starve, for I can't eat," she said. "Neither can I," announced the cat; "but I'm not fool enough to try. Can't you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?" "Why should I understand that, or anything else?" asked the girl. "Don't bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way." With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again. "Be careful, or you'll fall in the water," warned Ojo. "Never mind." "You'd better. If you get wet you'll be soggy and can't walk. Your colors might run, too," he said. "Don't my colors run whenever I run?" she asked. "Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur--no color at all, you know." "Then," said the Patchwork Girl, "I'll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful." "Pah!" sneered the Glass Cat, "such colors are not beautiful; they're ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I'm transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains--you can see 'em work." "Shoo--shoo--shoo!" cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. "And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can't see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you're very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo--shoo--shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you'd be too stuck up for anything." She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said: "Whoop-te-doodle-doo! The cat has lost her shoe. Her tootsie's bare, but she don't care, So what's the odds to you?" "Dear me, Ojo," said the cat; "don't you think the creature is a little bit crazy?" "It may be," he answered, with a puzzled look. "If she continues her insults I'll scratch off her suspender-button eyes," declared the cat. "Don't quarrel, please," pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. "Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way." It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time. This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn. "Mercy me!" exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. "Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?" "Do you mean me?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Of course," he replied. "You misjudge my ancestry. I'm not a crazy-quilt; I'm patchwork," she said. "There's no difference," he replied, beginning to laugh again. "When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life." "It was the Magic Powder that did it," explained Ojo. "Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for--Well, I declare! here's a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it's against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people--or things--or glass spectacles--or crazy-quilts--or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you'll be arrested." "We're going there, anyhow," declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs. "If any of us takes a rest, We'll be arrested sure, And get no restitution 'Cause the rest we must endure." "I see," said the woodchopper, nodding; "you're as crazy as the crazy-quilt you're made of." "She really is crazy," remarked the Glass Cat. "But that isn't to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she's made of. For my part, I'm made of pure glass--except my jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see 'em work." "So I can," replied the woodchopper; "but I can't see that they accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him." "A tin woodchopper?" said Ojo. "That is strange." "My friend wasn't always tin," said the man, "but he was careless with his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin." "And could he chop wood then?" asked the boy. "He could if he didn't rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with her to the Emerald City, where he made his fortune. He is now one of the favorites of Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of the Winkies--the Country where all is yellow." "Who is Dorothy?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but is now a Princess of Oz. She's Ozma's best friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal palace." "Is Dorothy made of tin?" inquired Ojo. "Is she patchwork, like me?" inquired Scraps. "No," said the man; "Dorothy is flesh, just as I am. I know of only one tin person, and that is Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician that sees you will refuse to make another one like you." "I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we are going to the Country of the Winkies," said the boy. "What for?" asked the woodchopper. "To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "It is a long journey," declared the man, "and you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross rivers and traverse dark forests before you get there." "Suits me all right," said Scraps. "I'll get a chance to see the country." "You're crazy, girl. Better crawl into a rag-bag and hide there; or give yourself to some little girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to meet trouble; that's why I stay at home." The woodchopper then invited them all to stay the night at his little hut, but they were anxious to get on and so left him and continued along the path, which was broader, now, and more distinct. They expected to reach some other house before it grew dark, but the twilight was brief and Ojo soon began to fear they had made a mistake in leaving the woodchopper. "I can scarcely see the path," he said at last. "Can you see it, Scraps?" "No," replied the Patchwork Girl, who was holding fast to the boy's arm so he could guide her. "I can see," declared the Glass Cat. "My eyes are better than yours, and my pink brains--" "Never mind your pink brains, please," said Ojo hastily; "just run ahead and show us the way. Wait a minute and I'll tie a string to you; for then you can lead us." He got a string from his pocket and tied it around the cat's neck, and after that the creature guided them along the path. They had proceeded in this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue light appeared ahead of them. "Good! there's a house at last," cried Ojo. "When we reach it the good people will surely welcome us and give us a night's lodging." But however far they walked the light seemed to get no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short, saying: "I think the light is traveling, too, and we shall never be able to catch up with it. But here is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?" "Where is the house, Bungle?" "Just here beside us, Scraps." Ojo was now able to see a small house near the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to the door and knocked. "Who is there?" cried a voice from within. "I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat," he replied. "What do you want?" asked the Voice. "A place to sleep," said Ojo. "Come in, then; but don't make any noise, and you must go directly to bed," returned the Voice. Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was very dark inside and he could see nothing at all. But the cat exclaimed: "Why, there's no one here!" "There must be," said the boy. "Some one spoke to me." "I can see everything in the room," replied the cat, "and no one is present but ourselves. But here are three beds, all made up, so we may as well go to sleep." "What is sleep?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "It's what you do when you go to bed," said Ojo. "But why do you go to bed?" persisted the Patchwork Girl. "Here, here! You are making altogether too much noise," cried the Voice they had heard before. "Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed." The cat, which could see in the dark, looked sharply around for the owner of the Voice, but could discover no one, although the Voice had seemed close beside them. She arched her back a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered to Ojo: "Come!" and led him to a bed. With his hands the boy felt of the bed and found it was big and soft, with feather pillows and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it. "Lie down and keep quiet," whispered the cat, warningly. "Can't I sing?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I whistle?" asked Scraps. "No." "Can't I dance till morning, if I want to?" asked Scraps. "You must keep quiet," said the cat, in a soft voice. "I don't want to," replied the Patchwork Girl, speaking as loudly as usual. "What right have you to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or whistle--" Before she could say anything more an unseen hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the door, which closed behind her with a sharp slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in the road and when she got up and tried to open the door of the house again she found it locked. "What has happened to Scraps?" asked Ojo. "Never mind. Let's go to sleep, or something will happen to us," answered the Glass Cat. So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell asleep, and he was so tired that he never wakened until broad daylight. Chapter Seven The Troublesome Phonograph When the boy opened his eyes next morning he looked carefully around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the room except the boy and Bungle. Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he went to the table and said: "I wonder if this is my breakfast?" "Eat it!" commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped. But no person could he see. He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat. "Come on, Bungle," said he; "we must go." He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air, he said: "Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I'm much obliged." There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door, the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought you were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time." "What did you do all night?" asked the boy. "Sat here and watched the stars and the moon," she replied. "They're interesting. I never saw them before, you know." "Of course not," said Ojo. "You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors," remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey. "That's all right," said Scraps. "If I hadn't been thrown out I wouldn't have seen the stars, nor the big gray wolf." "What wolf?" inquired Ojo. "The one that came to the door of the house three times during the night." "I don't see why that should be," said the boy, thoughtfully; "there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I slept in a nice bed." "Don't you feel tired?" asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that the boy yawned. "Why, yes; I'm as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very well." "And aren't you hungry?" "It's strange," replied Ojo. "I had a good breakfast, and yet I think I'll now eat some of my crackers and cheese." Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang: "Kizzle-kazzle-kore; The wolf is at the door, There's nothing to eat but a bone without meat, And a bill from the grocery store." "What does that mean?" asked Ojo. "Don't ask me," replied Scraps. "I say what comes into my head, but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat or--very much else." "No," said the cat; "she's stark, staring, raving crazy, and her brains can't be pink, for they don't work properly." "Bother the brains!" cried Scraps. "Who cares for 'em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?" Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph with a big gold horn. "Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for me!" "Goodness me; it's that music thing which the Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life over," said Ojo. "So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are you doing here, anyhow?" "I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that I've found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to." Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends. "We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll excuse me if I say we can't be bothered." "How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph. "I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere else." "This is very unkind treatment, I must say," whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. "Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people." "It isn't you we hate, especially," observed the Glass Cat; "it's your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt." "That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven't a clear record," answered the machine. "Just the same, you'll have to go away," said Ojo. "Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?" "Victor Columbia Edison," it answered. "Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said the Patchwork Girl. "Go ahead and play something." "It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat. "I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic." "The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly classical composition." "A what?" inquired Scraps. "It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?" "Not in the least," said Scraps. "Then, listen!" At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh. "Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough." But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played. "Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully: "What's the matter? Don't you love classical music?" "No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink." "Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time tune on the other side," said the machine. "What's rag-time?" "The opposite of classical." "All right," said Scraps, and turned over the record. The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other extreme. It's extremely bad!" Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on. "If you don't shut off that music I'll smash your record," threatened Ojo. The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: "What's the matter now? Is it possible you can't appreciate rag-time?" "Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said the cat; "but I simply can't stand it; it makes my whiskers curl." "It is, indeed, dreadful!" exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder. "It's enough to drive a crazy lady mad," murmured the Patchwork Girl. "I'll tell you what, Vic," she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, "for some reason or other you've missed your guess. You're not a concert; you're a nuisance." "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," asserted the phonograph sadly. "Then we're not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician's pardon." "Never! He'd smash me." "That's what we shall do, if you stay here," Ojo declared. "Run along, Vic, and bother some one else," advised Scraps. "Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world." The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village. "Is that the way we go?" asked Bungle anxiously. "No," said Ojo; "I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City." Chapter Eight The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey On they went, and half an hour's steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: "Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers." When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: "Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let's go in." The boy knocked at the door. "Come in!" called a deep bass voice. So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors. "Good morning," said the donkey, in his deep voice, which seemed bigger than he was. "Did you come to us for advice?" "Why, we came, anyhow," replied Scraps, "and now we are here we may as well have some advice. It's free, isn't it?" "Certainly," said the donkey. "Advice doesn't cost anything--unless you follow it. Permit me to say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you merely by appearances, I think you'd better talk to the Foolish Owl yonder." They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered its wings and stared back at them with its big eyes. "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!" cried the owl. "Fiddle-cum-foo, Howdy-do? Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum, Too-ra-la-loo!" "That beats your poetry, Scraps," said Ojo. "It's just nonsense!" declared the Glass Cat. "But it's good advice for the foolish," said the donkey, admiringly. "Listen to my partner, and you can't go wrong." Said the owl in a grumbling voice: "Patchwork Girl has come to life; No one's sweetheart, no one's wife; Lacking sense and loving fun, She'll be snubbed by everyone." "Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I declare," exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at Scraps. "You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and I fancy you'd make a splendid pincushion. If you belonged to me, I'd wear smoked glasses when I looked at you." "Why?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Because you are so gay and gaudy." "It is my beauty that dazzles you," she asserted. "You Munchkin people all strut around in your stupid blue color, while I--" "You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin," interrupted the donkey, "for I was born in the Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz on the day it was shut off from all the rest of the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I confess it is a very pleasant country to live in." "Hoot-ti-toot!" cried the owl; "Ojo's searching for a charm, 'Cause Unc Nunkie's come to harm. Charms are scarce; they're hard to get; Ojo's got a job, you bet!" "Is the owl so very foolish?" asked the boy. "Extremely so," replied the donkey. "Notice what vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl for the reason that she is positively foolish. Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally, that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be interesting to the wise." The owl flapped its wings again, muttering these words: "It's hard to be a glassy cat-- No cat can be more hard than that; She's so transparent, every act Is clear to us, and that's a fact." "Have you noticed my pink brains?" inquired Bungle, proudly. "You can see 'em work." "Not in the daytime," said the donkey. "She can't see very well by day, poor thing. But her advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it." "The owl hasn't given us any advice, as yet," the boy declared. "No? Then what do you call all those sweet poems?" "Just foolishness," replied Ojo. "Scraps does the same thing." "Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish Owl must be foolish or she wouldn't be the Foolish Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner, indeed," asserted the donkey, rubbing his front hoofs together as if highly pleased. "The sign says that you are wise," remarked Scraps to the donkey. "I wish you would prove it." "With great pleasure," returned the beast. "Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I'll prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye." "What is the best way to get to the Emerald City?" asked Ojo. "Walk," said the donkey. "I know; but what road shall I take?" was the boy's next question. "The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads directly to the Emerald City." "And how shall we find the road of yellow bricks?" "By keeping along the path you have been following. You'll come to the yellow bricks pretty soon, and you'll know them when you see them because they're the only yellow things in the blue country." "Thank you," said the boy. "At last you have told me something." "Is that the extent of your wisdom?" asked Scraps. "No," replied the donkey; "I know many other things, but they wouldn't interest you. So I'll give you a last word of advice: move on, for the sooner you do that the sooner you'll get to the Emerald City of Oz." "Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!" screeched the owl; "Off you go! fast or slow, Where you're going you don't know. Patches, Bungle, Munchkin lad, Facing fortunes good and bad, Meeting dangers grave and sad, Sometimes worried, sometimes glad-- Where you're going you don't know, Nor do I, but off you go!" "Sounds like a hint, to me," said the Patchwork Girl. "Then let's take it and go," replied Ojo. They said good-bye to the Wise Donkey and the Foolish Owl and at once resumed their journey. Chapter Nine They Meet the Woozy "There seem to be very few houses around here, after all," remarked Ojo, after they had walked for a time in silence. "Never mind," said Scraps; "we are not looking for houses, but rather the road of yellow bricks. Won't it be funny to run across something yellow in this dismal blue country?" "There are worse colors than yellow in this country," asserted the Glass Cat, in a spiteful tone. "Oh; do you mean the pink pebbles you call your brains, and your red heart and green eyes?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "No; I mean you, if you must know it," growled the cat. "You're jealous!" laughed Scraps. "You'd give your whiskers for a lovely variegated complexion like mine." "I wouldn't!" retorted the cat. "I've the clearest complexion in the world, and I don't employ a beauty-doctor, either." "I see you don't," said Scraps. "Please don't quarrel," begged Ojo. "This is an important journey, and quarreling makes me discouraged. To be brave, one must be cheerful, so I hope you will be as good-tempered as possible." They had traveled some distance when suddenly they faced a high fence which barred any further progress straight ahead. It ran directly across the road and enclosed a small forest of tall trees, set close together. When the group of adventurers peered through the bars of the fence they thought this forest looked more gloomy and forbidding than any they had ever seen before. They soon discovered that the path they had been following now made a bend and passed around the enclosure, but what made Ojo stop and look thoughtful was a sign painted on the fence which read: "BEWARE OF THE WOOZY!" "That means," he said, "that there's a Woozy inside that fence, and the Woozy must be a dangerous animal or they wouldn't tell people to beware of it." "Let's keep out, then," replied Scraps. "That path is outside the fence, and Mr. Woozy may have all his little forest to himself, for all we care." "But one of our errands is to find a Woozy," Ojo explained. "The Magician wants me to get three hairs from the end of a Woozy's tail." "Let's go on and find some other Woozy," suggested the cat. "This one is ugly and dangerous, or they wouldn't cage him up. Maybe we shall find another that is tame and gentle." "Perhaps there isn't any other, at all," answered Ojo. "The sign doesn't say: 'Beware a Woozy'; it says: 'Beware the Woozy,' which may mean there's only one in all the Land of Oz." "Then," said Scraps, "suppose we go in and find him? Very likely if we ask him politely to let us pull three hairs out of the tip of his tail he won't hurt us." "It would hurt him, I'm sure, and that would make him cross," said the cat. "You needn't worry, Bungle," remarked the Patchwork Girl; "for if there is danger you can climb a tree. Ojo and I are not afraid; are we, Ojo?" "I am, a little," the boy admitted; "but this danger must be faced, if we intend to save poor Unc Nunkie. How shall we get over the fence?" "Climb," answered Scraps, and at once she began climbing up the rows of bars. Ojo followed and found it more easy than he had expected. When they got to the top of the fence they began to get down on the other side and soon were in the forest. The Glass Cat, being small, crept between the lower bars and joined them. Here there was no path of any sort, so they entered the woods, the boy leading the way, and wandered through the trees until they were nearly in the center of the forest. They now came upon a clear space in which stood a rocky cave. So far they had met no living creature, but when Ojo saw the cave he knew it must be the den of the Woozy. It is hard to face any savage beast without a sinking of the heart, but still more terrifying is it to face an unknown beast, which you have never seen even a picture of. So there is little wonder that the pulses of the Munchkin boy beat fast as he and his companions stood facing the cave. The opening was perfectly square, and about big enough to admit a goat. "I guess the Woozy is asleep," said Scraps. "Shall I throw in a stone, to waken him?" "No; please don't," answered Ojo, his voice trembling a little. "I'm in no hurry." But he had not long to wait, for the Woozy heard the sound of voices and came trotting out of his cave. As this is the only Woozy that has ever lived, either in the Land of Oz or out of it, I must describe it to you. The creature was all squares and flat surfaces and edges. Its head was an exact square, like one of the building-blocks a child plays with; therefore it had no ears, but heard sounds through two openings in the upper corners. Its nose, being in the center of a square surface, was flat, while the mouth was formed by the opening of the lower edge of the block. The body of the Woozy was much larger than its head, but was likewise block-shaped--being twice as long as it was wide and high. The tail was square and stubby and perfectly straight, and the four legs were made in the same way, each being four-sided. The animal was covered with a thick, smooth skin and had no hair at all except at the extreme end of its tail, where there grew exactly three stiff, stubby hairs. The beast was dark blue in color and his face was not fierce nor ferocious in expression, but rather good-humored and droll. Seeing the strangers, the Woozy folded his hind legs as if they had been hinged and sat down to look his visitors over. "Well, well," he exclaimed; "what a queer lot you are! At first I thought some of those miserable Munchkin farmers had come to annoy me, but I am relieved to find you in their stead. It is plain to me that you are a remarkable group--as remarkable in your way as I am in mine--and so you are welcome to my domain. Nice place, isn't it? But lonesome--dreadfully lonesome." "Why did they shut you up here?" asked Scraps, who was regarding the queer, square creature with much curiosity. "Because I eat up all the honey-bees which the Munchkin farmers who live around here keep to make them honey." "Are you fond of eating honey-bees?" inquired the boy. "Very. They are really delicious. But the farmers did not like to lose their bees and so they tried to destroy me. Of course they couldn't do that." "Why not?" "My skin is so thick and tough that nothing can get through it to hurt me. So, finding they could not destroy me, they drove me into this forest and built a fence around me. Unkind, wasn't it?" "But what do you eat now?" asked Ojo. "Nothing at all. I've tried the leaves from the trees and the mosses and creeping vines, but they don't seem to suit my taste. So, there being no honey-bees here, I've eaten nothing for years. "You must be awfully hungry," said the boy. "I've got some bread and cheese in my basket. Would you like that kind of food?" "Give me a nibble and I will try it; then I can tell you better whether it is grateful to my appetite," returned the Woozy. So the boy opened his basket and broke a piece off the loaf of bread. He tossed it toward the Woozy, who cleverly caught it in his mouth and ate it in a twinkling. "That's rather good," declared the animal. "Any more?" "Try some cheese," said Ojo, and threw down a piece. The Woozy ate that, too, and smacked its long, thin lips. "That's mighty good!" it exclaimed. "Any more?" "Plenty," replied Ojo. So he sat down on a Stump and fed the Woozy bread and cheese for a long time; for, no matter how much the boy broke off, the loaf and the slice remained just as big. "That'll do," said the Woozy, at last; "I'm quite full. I hope the strange food won't give me indigestion." "I hope not," said Ojo. "It's what I eat." "Well, I must say I'm much obliged, and I'm glad you came," announced the beast. "Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?" "Yes," said Ojo earnestly, "you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will." "What is it?" asked the Woozy. "Name the favor and I will grant it." "I--I want three hairs from the tip of your tail," said Ojo, with some hesitation. "Three hairs! Why, that's all I have--on my tail or anywhere else," exclaimed the beast. "I know; but I want them very much." "They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature," said the Woozy, uneasily. "If I give up those three hairs I--I'm just a blockhead." "Yet I must have them," insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh: "I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you." "Thank you! Thank you very much," cried the boy, joyfully. "May I pull out the hairs now?" "Any time you like," answered the Woozy. So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast. "What's the trouble?" asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair. "It won't come," said the boy, panting. "I was afraid of that," declared the beast. "You'll have to pull harder." "I'll help you," exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy's side. "You pull the hair, and I'll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily." "Wait a jiffy," called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn't be dragged around by the pull. "All ready, now. Go ahead!" Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn't budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo's hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave. "Give it up," advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. "A dozen strong men couldn't pull out those hairs. I believe they're clinched on the under side of the Woozy's thick skin." "Then what shall I do?" asked the boy, despairingly. "If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life." "They're goners, I guess," said the Patchwork Girl. "Never mind," added the cat. "I can't see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow." But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry. The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully. "Why don't you take me with you?" asked the beast. "Then, when at last you get to the Magician's house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs." Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion. "That's it!" he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. "If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won't matter if they are still in your body." "It can't matter in the least," agreed the Woozy. "Come on, then," said the boy, picking up his basket; "let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know." But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way: "How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?" That puzzled them all for a time. "Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way," suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure. "How did you get in?" asked the Woozy. "We climbed over," answered Ojo. "I can't do that," said the beast. "I'm a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can't climb at all, and I'm too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence." Ojo tried to think what to do. "Can you dig?" he asked. "No," answered the Woozy, "for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth." "You're not such a terrible creature, after all," remarked Scraps. "You haven't heard me growl, or you wouldn't say that," declared the Woozy. "When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy." "Please don't growl, then," begged Ojo, earnestly. "There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not." "Real fire?" asked Ojo. "Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they'd flash imitation fire?" inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone. "In that case, I've solved the riddle," cried Scraps, dancing with glee. "Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free." "Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago," said the Woozy. "But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry." "Can't you get angry 'bout something, please?" asked Ojo. "I'll try. You just say 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me." "Will that make you angry?" inquired the boy. "Terribly angry." "What does it mean?" asked Scraps. "I don't know; that's what makes me so angry," replied the Woozy. He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out "Krizzle-Kroo!" Then Ojo said "Krizzle-Kroo!" and the Glass Cat said "Krizzle-Kroo!" The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried "Krizzle-Kroo!" together, and that made the beast's eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly: "Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren't they?" "Reg'lar fireworks," replied Scraps, admiringly. In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them whipped the fire until it was extinguished. "We don't want to burn the whole fence down," said he, "for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they'll be rather surprised when they find he's escaped." "So they will," declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. "When they find I'm gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they'll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before." "That reminds me," said the boy, "that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company." "None at all?" "Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can't afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I'll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you." "All right; I'll promise," said the Woozy, cheerfully. "And when I promise anything you can depend on it, 'cause I'm square." "I don't see what difference that makes," observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. "The shape doesn't make a thing honest, does it?" "Of course it does," returned the Woozy, very decidedly. "No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he is crooked; but a square Woozy couldn't do anything crooked if he wanted to." "I am neither square nor crooked," said Scraps, looking down at her plump body. "No; you're round, so you're liable to do anything," asserted the Woozy. "Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back." Scraps didn't understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again. Chapter Ten Shaggy Man to the Rescue They had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like. It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble. "I wonder," said Ojo, looking up and down the road, "which way to go." "Where are you bound for?" asked the Woozy. "The Emerald City," he replied. "Then go west," said the Woozy. "I know this road pretty well, for I've chased many a honey-bee over it." "Have you ever been to the Emerald City?" asked Scraps. "No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven't mingled much in society." "Are you afraid of men?" inquired the Patchwork Girl. "Me? With my heart-rending growl--my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything," declared the Woozy. "I wish I could say the same," sighed Ojo. "I don't think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful." "I hope nothing will break me," said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. "I'm a little brittle, you know, and can't stand many hard knocks." "If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "I'm not sure you have a heart," Ojo reminded her. "Then it would break my cotton," persisted Scraps. "Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?" she asked anxiously. "They seem fast enough when you run," he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: "Oh, what lovely trees!" They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely. "Why, they are not trees at all," said Scraps; "they are just monstrous plants." That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl's head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue--gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and grays--each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape. The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest. Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem. "Why, she's gone!" gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem. "Look out," cried the Woozy. "Run! Run fast, or you are lost." Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight. The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides. At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: "Let me go! Let me go!" But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner. Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them. "I might have expected it," he sobbed, miserably. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me." He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position. The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again. No sound came to him through the leaf; all around was intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo's ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious. Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him. Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him--a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes. He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair--but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger. "Oh!" exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: "Who has saved me, sir?" "Can't you see?" replied the other, with a smile; "I'm the Shaggy Man." "Yes; I can see that," said the boy, nodding. "Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?" "None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again." Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still. The man now took Ojo's arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling. "You see, the music charms 'em," said he. "Singing or whistling--it doesn't matter which--makes 'em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by 'em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and--out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn't it?" "You were very kind," said Ojo, "and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?" "What companions?" asked the Shaggy Man. "The leaves grabbed them all," said the boy. "There's a Patchwork Girl and--" "A what?" "A girl made of patchwork, you know. She's alive and her name is Scraps. And there's a Glass Cat--" "Glass?" asked the Shaggy Man. "All glass." "And alive?" "Yes," said Ojo; "she has pink brains. And there's a Woozy--" "What's a Woozy?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "Why, I--I--can't describe it," answered the boy, greatly perplexed. "But it's a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won't come out and--" "What won't come out?" asked the Shaggy Man; "the tail?" "The hairs won't come out. But you'll see the Woozy, if you'll please rescue it, and then you'll know just what it is." "Of course," said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo's traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying: "My dear, you're a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow." When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants. Chapter Eleven A Good Friend Soon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested. "I've seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz," said he, "but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted." "Haven't you always lived in the Land of Oz?" asked the Munchkin boy. "No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay." "How do you like Oz?" asked Scraps. "Isn't the country and the climate grand?" "It's the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland, and I'm happy every minute I live in it," said the Shaggy Man. "But tell me something about yourselves." So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy's tail. "We found the Woozy," explained the boy, "and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn't pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us." "I see," returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. "But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy's tail." "Try it, if you like," said the Woozy. So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy's tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said: "It doesn't matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract 'em. What are the other things you are to find?" "One," said Ojo, "is a six-leaved clover." "You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City," said the Shaggy Man. "There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one." "Thank you," replied Ojo. "The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly." "For that you must go to the Winkie Country," the Shaggy Man declared. "I've never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it's ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman." "Oh, I've heard of him!" exclaimed Ojo. "He must be a wonderful man." "So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I'm sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte." "The next thing I must find," said the Munchkin boy, "is a gill of water from a dark well." "Indeed! Well, that is more difficult," said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. "I've never heard of a dark well; have you?" "No," said Ojo. "Do you know where one may be found?" inquired the Shaggy Man. "I can't imagine," said Ojo. "Then we must ask the Scarecrow." "The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can't know anything." "Most scarecrows don't, I admit," answered the Shaggy Man. "But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz." "Better than mine?" asked Scraps. "Better than mine?" echoed the Glass Cat. "Mine are pink, and you can see 'em work." "Well, you can't see the Scarecrow's brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking," asserted the Shaggy Man. "If anyone knows where a dark well is, it's my friend the Scarecrow." "Where does he live?" inquired Ojo. "He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace." "Then we will ask him about the dark well," said Ojo. "But what else does this Crooked Magician want?" asked the Shaggy Man. "A drop of oil from a live man's body." "Oh; but there isn't such a thing." "That is what I thought," replied Ojo; "but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn't be called for by the recipe if it couldn't be found, and therefore I must search until I find it." "I wish you good luck," said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; "but I imagine you'll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man's body. There's blood in a body, but no oil." "There's cotton in mine," said Scraps, dancing a little jig. "I don't doubt it," returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. "You're a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity." "I hate dignity," cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. "Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I'm neither the one nor the other." "She's just crazy," explained the Glass Cat. The Shaggy Man laughed. "She's delightful, in her way," he said. "I'm sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?" "Yes," replied Ojo. "I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there." "I'll go with you," said the Shaggy Man, "and show you the way." "Thank you," exclaimed Ojo. "I hope it won't put you out any." "No," said the other, "I wasn't going anywhere in particular. I've been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I've been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I've met you and your friends I'm sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends." "That will be very nice," said the boy, gratefully. "I hope your friends are not dignified," observed Scraps. "Some are, and some are not," he answered; "but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me." "There's some sense in that," said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. "Come on, and let's get to the Emerald City as soon as possible." With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them. "It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City," remarked the Shaggy Man, "so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I'm an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. 'Take it easy' is my motto. If you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can." After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it. "When I start out on my travels," said he, "I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I'll indulge in one now, as long as we're stopping anyway." Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo's finger-nails. "That," announced the Shaggy Man, "is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Woggle-Bug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate-drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal." "I'm square," said the Woozy. "Give me one, please." So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling. "You have now had a six course dinner," declared the Shaggy Man. "Pshaw!" said the Woozy, ungratefully, "I want to taste something. There's no fun in that sort of eating." "One should only eat to sustain life," replied the Shaggy Man, "and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food." "I don't care for it. I want something I can chew and taste," grumbled the Woozy. "You are quite wrong, my poor beast," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. "Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet--which you can swallow in a jiffy." "Chewing isn't tiresome; it's fun," maintained the Woozy. "I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo." "No, no! You've already eaten a big dinner!" protested the Shaggy Man. "May be," answered the Woozy; "but I guess I'll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what's going into me." Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy. At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance. "Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. "What has happened to you?" "Nothing much," replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters." "Are you so broken up that you can't play?" asked Scraps. "No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I've a record on tap that is really superb," said the phonograph, growing more cheerful. "That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you." "Then why was I ever invented?" demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest. They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said: "I'd like to hear the phonograph play." Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we met you, sir," he said. "I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?" "It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it." "Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it's dangerous." "Wild with joy, I mean," explained the phonograph. "Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich--for an author. It is called 'My Lulu.'" Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression: "Ah wants mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu; Ah wants mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu! Ah loves mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu, There ain't nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!" "Here--shut that off!" cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. "What do you mean by such impertinence?" "It's the latest popular song," declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice. "A popular song?" "Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs." "That time won't come to us, just yet," said the Shaggy Man, sternly: "I'm something of a singer myself, and I don't intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your coal-black one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall--" But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view. The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. "Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph," said he; "for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way." During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby under-brush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance. But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here: "We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let's wait until morning before we tackle it." They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth. For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy. When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight--there being no furniture of any sort in the place--Ojo said to the Shaggy Man: "Won't you tell us a story?" "I'm not good at stories," was the reply; "but I sing like a bird." "Raven, or crow?" asked the Glass Cat. "Like a song bird. I'll prove it. I'll sing a song I composed myself. Don't tell anyone I'm a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don't tell 'em I can sing, or they'd want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven't time to be a public benefactor, so I'll just sing you this little song for your own amusement." They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant: "I'll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell, Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes. Our Ruler's a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please; She's always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do. And then there's Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose, A lass from Kansas, where they don't grow fairies, I suppose; And there's the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw, Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe. I'll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Woggle-Bug, who's highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride. Jack Pumpkinhead's a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he's made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could. And now I'll introduce a beast that ev'ryone adores-- The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear 'most ev'ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right. There's Tik-Tok--he's a clockwork man and quite a funny sight-- He talks and walks mechanically, when he's wound up tight; And we've a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat. It's hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land's acquired; 'Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen. Just search the whole world over--sail the seas from coast to coast-- No other nation in creation queerer folk can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass, A Woozy, and--last but not least--a crazy Patchwork Lass." Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws--gently, so as not to break them--and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about. "I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company," remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. "Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps." "Tell me," said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, "do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?" "Every one of 'em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy's Pink Kitten." "For goodness sake!" exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. "A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?" "No; just ordinary kitten." "Then it can't amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see 'em work." "Dorothy's kitten is all pink--brains and all--except blue eyes. Name's Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace," said the Shaggy Man, yawning. The Glass Cat seemed annoyed. "Do you think a pink kitten--common meat--is as pretty as I am?" she asked. "Can't say. Tastes differ, you know," replied the Shaggy Man, yawning again. "But here's a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you'll be solid at the palace." "I'm solid now; solid glass." "You don't understand," rejoined the Shaggy Man, sleepily. "Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you'll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers." "Would anyone at the royal palace break a Glass Cat?" "Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble--if you can. And now I'm going to bed." Bungle considered the Shaggy Man's advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep. Chapter Twelve The Giant Porcupine Next morning they started out bright and early to follow the road of yellow bricks toward the Emerald City. The little Munchkin boy was beginning to feel tired from the long walk, and he had a great many things to think of and consider besides the events of the journey. At the wonderful Emerald City, which he would presently reach, were so many strange and curious people that he was half afraid of meeting them and wondered if they would prove friendly and kind. Above all else, he could not drive from his mind the important errand on which he had come, and he was determined to devote every energy to finding the things that were necessary to prepare the magic recipe. He believed that until dear Unc Nunkie was restored to life he could feel no joy in anything, and often he wished that Unc could be with him, to see all the astonishing things Ojo was seeing. But alas Unc Nunkie was now a marble statue in the house of the Crooked Magician and Ojo must not falter in his efforts to save him. The country through which they were passing was still rocky and deserted, with here and there a bush or a tree to break the dreary landscape. Ojo noticed one tree, especially, because it had such long, silky leaves and was so beautiful in shape. As he approached it he studied the tree earnestly, wondering if any fruit grew on it or if it bore pretty flowers. Suddenly he became aware that he had been looking at that tree a long time--at least for five minutes--and it had remained in the same position, although the boy had continued to walk steadily on. So he stopped short, and when he stopped, the tree and all the landscape, as well as his companions, moved on before him and left him far behind. Ojo uttered such a cry of astonishment that it aroused the Shaggy Man, who also halted. The others then stopped, too, and walked back to the boy. "What's wrong?" asked the Shaggy Man. "Why, we're not moving forward a bit, no matter how fast we walk," declared Ojo. "Now that we have stopped, we are moving backward! Can't you see? Just notice that rock." Scraps looked down at her feet and said: "The yellow bricks are not moving." "But the whole road is," answered Ojo. "True; quite true," agreed the Shaggy Man. "I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn't realize where we were." "It will carry us back to where we started from," predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous. "No," replied the Shaggy Man; "it won't do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I've traveled this way before, you know. Turn around, all of you, and walk backward." "What good will that do?" asked the cat. "You'll find out, if you obey me," said the Shaggy Man. So they all turned their backs to the direction in which they wished to go and began walking backward. In an instant Ojo noticed they were gaining ground and as they proceeded in this curious way they soon passed the tree which had first attracted his attention to their difficulty. "How long must we keep this up, Shags?" asked Scraps, who was constantly tripping and tumbling down, only to get up again with a laugh at her mishap. "Just a little way farther," replied the Shaggy Man. A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground. "That task is well over," observed the Shaggy Man. "It's a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it." With new courage and energy they now trudged forward and after a time came to a place where the road cut through a low hill, leaving high banks on either side of it. They were traveling along this cut, talking together, when the Shaggy Man seized Scraps with one arm and Ojo with another and shouted: "Stop!" "What's wrong now?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "See there!" answered the Shaggy Man, pointing with his finger. Directly in the center of the road lay a motionless object that bristled all over with sharp quills, which resembled arrows. The body was as big as a ten-bushel-basket, but the projecting quills made it appear to be four times bigger. "Well, what of it?" asked Scraps. "That is Chiss, who causes a lot of trouble along this road," was the reply. "Chiss! What is Chiss? "I think it is merely an overgrown porcupine, but here in Oz they consider Chiss an evil spirit. He's different from a reg'lar porcupine, because he can throw his quills in any direction, which an American porcupine cannot do. That's what makes old Chiss so dangerous. If we get too near, he'll fire those quills at us and hurt us badly." "Then we will be foolish to get too near," said Scraps. "I'm not afraid," declared the Woozy. "The Chiss is cowardly, I'm sure, and if it ever heard my awful, terrible, frightful growl, it would be scared stiff." "Oh; can you growl?" asked the Shaggy Man. "That is the only ferocious thing about me," asserted the Woozy with evident pride. "My growl makes an earthquake blush and the thunder ashamed of itself. If I growled at that creature you call Chiss, it would immediately think the world had cracked in two and bumped against the sun and moon, and that would cause the monster to run as far and as fast as its legs could carry it." "In that case," said the Shaggy Man, "you are now able to do us all a great favor. Please growl." "But you forget," returned the Woozy; "my tremendous growl would also frighten you, and if you happen to have heart disease you might expire." "True; but we must take that risk," decided the Shaggy Man, bravely. "Being warned of what is to occur we must try to bear the terrific noise of your growl; but Chiss won't expect it, and it will scare him away." The Woozy hesitated. "I'm fond of you all, and I hate to shock you," it said. "Never mind," said Ojo. "You may be made deaf." "If so, we will forgive you." "Very well, then," said the Woozy in a determined voice, and advanced a few steps toward the giant porcupine. Pausing to look back, it asked: "All ready?" "All ready!" they answered. "Then cover up your ears and brace yourselves firmly. Now, then--look out!" The Woozy turned toward Chiss, opened wide its mouth and said: "Quee-ee-ee-eek." "Go ahead and growl," said Scraps. "Why, I--I did growl!" retorted the Woozy, who seemed much astonished. "What, that little squeak?" she cried. "It is the most awful growl that ever was heard, on land or sea, in caverns or in the sky," protested the Woozy. "I wonder you stood the shock so well. Didn't you feel the ground tremble? I suppose Chiss is now quite dead with fright." The Shaggy Man laughed merrily. "Poor Wooz!" said he; "your growl wouldn't scare a fly." The Woozy seemed to be humiliated and surprised. It hung its head a moment, as if in shame or sorrow, but then it said with renewed confidence: "Anyhow, my eyes can flash fire; and good fire, too; good enough to set fire to a fence!" "That is true," declared Scraps; "I saw it done myself. But your ferocious growl isn't as loud as the tick of a beetle--or one of Ojo's snores when he's fast asleep." "Perhaps," said the Woozy, humbly, "I have been mistaken about my growl. It has always sounded very fearful to me, but that may have been because it was so close to my ears." "Never mind," Ojo said soothingly; "it is a great talent to be able to flash fire from your eyes. No one else can do that." As they stood hesitating what to do Chiss stirred and suddenly a shower of quills came flying toward them, almost filling the air, they were so many. Scraps realized in an instant that they had gone too near to Chiss for safety, so she sprang in front of Ojo and shielded him from the darts, which stuck their points into her own body until she resembled one of those targets they shoot arrows at in archery games. The Shaggy Man dropped flat on his face to avoid the shower, but one quill struck him in the leg and went far in. As for the Glass Cat, the quills rattled off her body without making even a scratch, and the skin of the Woozy was so thick and tough that he was not hurt at all. When the attack was over they all ran to the Shaggy Man, who was moaning and groaning, and Scraps promptly pulled the quill out of his leg. Then up he jumped and ran over to Chiss, putting his foot on the monster's neck and holding it a prisoner. The body of the great porcupine was now as smooth as leather, except for the holes where the quills had been, for it had shot every single quill in that one wicked shower. "Let me go!" it shouted angrily. "How dare you put your foot on Chiss?" "I'm going to do worse than that, old boy," replied the Shaggy Man. "You have annoyed travelers on this road long enough, and now I shall put an end to you." "You can't!" returned Chiss. "Nothing can kill me, as you know perfectly well." "Perhaps that is true," said the Shaggy Man in a tone of disappointment. "Seems to me I've been told before that you can't be killed. But if I let you go, what will you do?" "Pick up my quills again," said Chiss in a sulky voice. "And then shoot them at more travelers? No; that won't do. You must promise me to stop throwing quills at people." "I won't promise anything of the sort," declared Chiss. "Why not?" "Because it is my nature to throw quills, and every animal must do what Nature intends it to do. It isn't fair for you to blame me. If it were wrong for me to throw quills, then I wouldn't be made with quills to throw. The proper thing for you to do is to keep out of my way." "Why, there's some sense in that argument," admitted the Shaggy Man, thoughtfully; "but people who are strangers, and don't know you are here, won't be able to keep out of your way." "Tell you what," said Scraps, who was trying to pull the quills out of her own body, "let's gather up all the quills and take them away with us; then old Chiss won't have any left to throw at people." "Ah, that's a clever idea. You and Ojo must gather up the quills while I hold Chiss a prisoner; for, if I let him go, he will get some of his quills and be able to throw them again." So Scraps and Ojo picked up all the quills and tied them in a bundle so they might easily be carried. After this the Shaggy Man released Chiss and let him go, knowing that he was harmless to injure anyone. "It's the meanest trick I ever heard of," muttered the porcupine gloomily. "How would you like it, Shaggy Man, if I took all your shags away from you?" "If I threw my shags and hurt people, you would be welcome to capture them," was the reply. Then they walked on and left Chiss standing in the road sullen and disconsolate. The Shaggy Man limped as he walked, for his wound still hurt him, and Scraps was much annoyed because the quills had left a number of small holes in her patches. When they came to a flat stone by the roadside the Shaggy Man sat down to rest, and then Ojo opened his basket and took out the bundle of charms the Crooked Magician had given him. "I am Ojo the Unlucky," he said, "or we would never have met that dreadful porcupine. But I will see if I can find anything among these charms which will cure your leg." Soon he discovered that one of the charms was labelled: "For flesh wounds," and this the boy separated from the others. It was only a bit of dried root, taken from some unknown shrub, but the boy rubbed it upon the wound made by the quill and in a few moments the place was healed entirely and the Shaggy Man's leg was as good as ever. "Rub it on the holes in my patches," suggested Scraps, and Ojo tried it, but without any effect. "The charm you need is a needle and thread," said the Shaggy Man. "But do not worry, my dear; those holes do not look badly, at all." "They'll let in the air, and I don't want people to think I'm airy, or that I've been stuck up," said the Patchwork Girl. "You were certainly stuck up until we pulled out those quills," observed Ojo, with a laugh. So now they went on again and coming presently to a pond of muddy water they tied a heavy stone to the bundle of quills and sunk it to the bottom of the pond, to avoid carrying it farther. Chapter Thirteen Scraps and the Scarecrow From here on the country improved and the desert places began to give way to fertile spots; still no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There were some hills, with valleys between them, and on reaching the top of one of these hills the travelers found before them a high wall, running to the right and the left as far as their eyes could reach. Immediately in front of them, where the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom. They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of use. "Well," said Scraps, "I guess we'll stop here." "It's a good guess," replied Ojo. "Our way is barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if no one had passed through in many years." "Looks are deceiving," declared the Shaggy Man, laughing at their disappointed faces, "and this barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz." "It prevents our going any farther, anyhow," said Scraps. "There is no one to mind the gate and let people through, and we've no key to the padlock." "True," replied Ojo, going a little nearer to peep through the bars of the gate. "What shall we do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get to the Emerald City I won't be able to find the things to restore Unc Nunkie to life." "All very true," answered the Shaggy Man, quietly; "but I know this gate, having passed through it many times." "How?" they all eagerly inquired. "I'll show you how," said he. He stood Ojo in the middle of the road and placed Scraps just behind him, with her padded hands on his shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat, holding fast to the Woozy's tail with her glass jaws. "Now," said the Shaggy Man, "you must all shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until I tell you to open them." "I can't," objected Scraps. "My eyes are buttons, and they won't shut." So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over the Patchwork Girl's eyes and examined all the others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut and could see nothing. "What's the game, anyhow--blind-man's-buff?" asked Scraps. "Keep quiet!" commanded the Shaggy Man, sternly. "All ready? Then follow me." He took Ojo's hand and led him forward over the road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding fast to one another they all followed in a row, expecting every minute to bump against the iron bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count, he stopped and said: "Now you may open your eyes." They did so, and to their astonishment found the wall and the gateway far behind them, while in front the former Blue Country of the Munchkins had given way to green fields, with pretty farm-houses scattered among them. "That wall," explained the Shaggy Man, "is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn't exist at all. It's the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it's all seeming and not true. You will notice that the wall--or what we thought was a wall--separates the Munchkin Country from the green country that surrounds the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy once traveled the other way, and met with more dangers than we did. But all our troubles are over for the present, as another day's journey will bring us to the great Emerald City." They were delighted to know this, and proceeded with new courage. In a couple of hours they stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no great astonishment, for they were accustomed to seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz. The woman of this house got her needle and thread and sewed up the holes made by the porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl's body, after which Scraps was assured she looked as beautiful as ever. "You ought to have a hat to wear," remarked the woman, "for that would keep the sun from fading the colors of your face. I have some patches and scraps put away, and if you will wait two or three days I'll make you a lovely hat that will match the rest of you." "Never mind the hat," said Scraps, shaking her yarn braids; "it's a kind offer, but we can't stop. I can't see that my colors have faded a particle, as yet; can you?" "Not much," replied the woman. "You are still very gorgeous, in spite of your long journey." The children of the house wanted to keep the Glass Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered a good home if she would remain; but the cat was too much interested in Ojo's adventures and refused to stop. "Children are rough playmates," she remarked to the Shaggy Man, "and although this home is more pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and girls." After they had rested themselves they renewed their journey, finding the road now smooth and pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald City. By and by Ojo began to walk on the green grass, looking carefully around him. "What are you trying to find?" asked Scraps. "A six-leaved clover," said he. "Don't do that!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man, earnestly. "It's against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma's consent." "She wouldn't know it," declared the boy. "Ozma knows many things," said the Shaggy Man. "In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or travelers happen to be. She may be watching the picture of us even now, and noticing everything that we do." "Does she always watch the Magic Picture?" asked Ojo. "Not always, for she has many other things to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us this very minute." "I don't care," said Ojo, in an obstinate tone of voice; "Ozma's only a girl." The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise. "You ought to care for Ozma," said he, "if you expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma, she will gladly assist you. As for her being a girl, that is another reason why you should obey her laws, if you are courteous and polite. Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies, for she is as just as she is powerful." Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the road and kept away from the green clover. The boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour or two afterward, because he could really see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy Man had said he considered Ozma's law to be unjust. They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall and stately trees, through which the road wound in sharp curves--first one way and then another. As they were walking through this grove they heard some one in the distance singing, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until they could distinguish the words, although the bend in the road still hid the singer. The song was something like this: "Here's to the hale old bale of straw That's cut from the waving grain, The sweetest sight man ever saw In forest, dell or plain. It fills me with a crunkling joy A straw-stack to behold, For then I pad this lucky boy With strands of yellow gold." "Ah!" exclaimed the Shaggy Man; "here comes my friend the Scarecrow." "What, a live Scarecrow?" asked Ojo. "Yes; the one I told you of. He's a splendid fellow, and very intelligent. You'll like him, I'm sure." Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came around the bend in the road, riding astride a wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its rider's legs nearly touched the ground. The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the Munchkins, in which country he was made, and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was tied around his waist to hold him in shape, for he was stuffed with straw in every part of him except the top of his head, where at one time the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened to the body at the neck, and on the front of this bag was painted the face--ears, eyes, nose and mouth. The Scarecrow's face was very interesting, for it bore a comical and yet winning expression, although one eye was a bit larger than the other and ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him together with close stitches and therefore some of the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined to stick out between the seams. His hands consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at the tops of them. The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider. It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw logs upon, so that its body was a short length of a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted into four holes made in the body. The tail was formed by a small branch that had been left on the log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes, and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse heard very distinctly. This queer wooden horse was a great favorite with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems. It had never worn a bridle. As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl in wonder, while she in turn stared at him. "Shags," he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man aside, "pat me into shape, there's a good fellow!" While his friend punched and patted the Scarecrow's body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps turned to Ojo and whispered: "Roll me out, please; I've sagged down dreadfully from walking so much and men like to see a stately figure." She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork covering and the body had lengthened to its fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and again they faced each other. "Allow me, Miss Patchwork," said the Shaggy Man, "to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches; Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow--Scraps; Scraps--Scarecrow." They both bowed with much dignity. "Forgive me for staring so rudely," said the Scarecrow, "but you are the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld." "That is a high compliment from one who is himself so beautiful," murmured Scraps, casting down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her head. "But, tell me, good sir, are you not a trifle lumpy?" "Yes, of course; that's my straw, you know. It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my efforts to keep it even. Doesn't your straw ever bunch?" "Oh, I'm stuffed with cotton," said Scraps. "It never bunches, but it's inclined to pack down and make me sag." "But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic, than straw," said the Scarecrow politely. "Still, it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely should have the best stuffing there is going. I--er--I'm so glad I've met you, Miss Scraps! Introduce us again, Shaggy." "Once is enough," replied the Shaggy Man, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm. "Then tell me where you found her, and--Dear me, what a queer cat! What are you made of--gelatine?" "Pure glass," answered the cat, proud to have attracted the Scarecrow's attention. "I am much more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I'm transparent, and Scraps isn't; I've pink brains--you can see 'em work; and I've a ruby heart, finely polished, while Scraps hasn't any heart at all." "No more have I," said the Scarecrow, shaking hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on the fact. "I've a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has a heart, but I find I get along pretty well without one. And so--Well, well! here's a little Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How are you?" Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw in his glove crackled. Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod foot. "Take that, you monster!" it cried angrily. The Woozy never even winked. "To be sure," he said; "I'll take anything I have to. But don't make me angry, you wooden beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you up." The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away and said to the Scarecrow: "What a sweet disposition that creature has! I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and you can't fall off." "I think the trouble is that you haven't been properly introduced," said the Scarecrow, regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had never seen such a queer animal before. "The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride him--as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some one--perhaps yourself--will tell me your name, your rank and station, and your history, it will give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse. This will lead to mutual respect and friendship." The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said: "This square beast is called the Woozy, and he isn't of much importance except that he has three hairs growing on the tip of his tail." The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true. "But," said he, in a puzzled way, "what makes those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused him of being important." So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie's transformation into a marble statue, and told how he had set out to find the things the Crooked Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that would restore his uncle to life. One of the requirements was three hairs from a Woozy's tail, but not being able to pull out the hairs they had been obliged to take the Woozy with them. The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he shook his head several times, as if in disapproval. "We must see Ozma about this matter," he said. "That Crooked Magician is breaking the Law by practicing magic without a license, and I'm not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your uncle to life." "Already I have warned the boy of that," declared the Shaggy Man. At this Ojo began to cry. "I want my Unc Nunkie!" he exclaimed. "I know how he can be restored to life, and I'm going to do it--Ozma or no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my Unc Nunkie a statue forever?" "Don't worry about that just now," advised the Scarecrow. "Go on to the Emerald City, and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and I'm sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma's best friend, and if you can win her to your side your uncle is pretty safe to live again." Then he turned to the Woozy and said: "I'm afraid you are not important enough to be introduced to the Sawhorse, after all." "I'm a better beast than he is," retorted the Woozy, indignantly. "My eyes can flash fire, and his can't." "Is this true?" inquired the Scarecrow, turning to the Munchkin boy. "Yes," said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had set fire to the fence. "Have you any other accomplishments?" asked the Scarecrow. "I have a most terrible growl--that is, sometimes," said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl's laugh made the Scarecrow forget all about the Woozy. He said to her: "What an admirable young lady you are, and what jolly good company! We must be better acquainted, for never before have I met a girl with such exquisite coloring or such natural, artless manners." "No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow," replied Scraps. "When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see you again," continued the Scarecrow. "Just now I am going to call upon an old friend--an ordinary young lady named Jinjur--who has promised to repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and faded, which affects my hearing on that side. Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn." "When do you expect to return to the Emerald City?" asked the Shaggy Man. "I'll be there this evening, for I'm anxious to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it, Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?" "Anything that suits you suits me," returned the wooden horse. So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse darted away so swiftly that they were out of sight in an instant. Chapter Fourteen Ojo Breaks the Law "What a queer man," remarked the Munchkin boy, when the party had resumed its journey. "And so nice and polite," added Scraps, bobbing her head. "I think he is the handsomest man I've seen since I came to life." "Handsome is as handsome does," quoted the Shaggy Man; "but we must admit that no living scarecrow is handsomer. The chief merit of my friend is that he is a great thinker, and in Oz it is considered good policy to follow his advice." "I didn't notice any brains in his head," observed the Glass Cat. "You can't see 'em work, but they're there, all right," declared the Shaggy Man. "I hadn't much confidence in his brains myself, when first I came to Oz, for a humbug Wizard gave them to him; but I was soon convinced that the Scarecrow is really wise; and, unless his brains make him so, such wisdom is unaccountable." "Is the Wizard of Oz a humbug?" asked Ojo. "Not now. He was once, but he has reformed and now assists Glinda the Good, who is the Royal Sorceress of Oz and the only one licensed to practice magic or sorcery. Glinda has taught our old Wizard a good many clever things, so he is no longer a humbug." They walked a little while in silence and then Ojo said: "If Ozma forbids the Crooked Magician to restore Unc Nunkie to life, what shall I do?" The Shaggy Man shook his head. "In that case you can't do anything," he said. "But don't be discouraged yet. We will go to Princess Dorothy and tell her your troubles, and then we will let her talk to Ozma. Dorothy has the kindest little heart in the world, and she has been through so many troubles herself that she is sure to sympathize with you." "Is Dorothy the little girl who came here from Kansas?" asked the boy. "Yes. In Kansas she was Dorothy Gale. I used to know her there, and she brought me to the Land of Oz. But now Ozma has made her a Princess, and Dorothy's Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are here, too." Here the Shaggy Man uttered a long sigh, and then he continued: "It's a queer country, this Land of Oz; but I like it, nevertheless." "What is queer about it?" asked Scraps. "You, for instance," said he. "Did you see no girls as beautiful as I am in your own country?" she inquired. "None with the same gorgeous, variegated beauty," he confessed. "In America a girl stuffed with cotton wouldn't be alive, nor would anyone think of making a girl out of a patchwork quilt." "What a queer country America must be!" she exclaimed in great surprise. "The Scarecrow, whom you say is wise, told me I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen." "I know; and perhaps you are--from a scarecrow point of view," replied the Shaggy Man; but why he smiled as he said it Scraps could not imagine. As they drew nearer to the Emerald City the travelers were filled with admiration for the splendid scenery they beheld. Handsome houses stood on both sides of the road and each had a green lawn before it as well as a pretty flower garden. "In another hour," said the Shaggy Man, "we shall come in sight of the walls of the Royal City." He was walking ahead, with Scraps, and behind them came the Woozy and the Glass Cat. Ojo had lagged behind, for in spite of the warnings he had received the boy's eyes were fastened on the clover that bordered the road of yellow bricks and he was eager to discover if such a thing as a six-leaved clover really existed. Suddenly he stopped short and bent over to examine the ground more closely. Yes; here at last was a clover with six spreading leaves. He counted them carefully, to make sure. In an instant his heart leaped with joy, for this was one of the important things he had come for--one of the things that would restore dear Unc Nunkie to life. He glanced ahead and saw that none of his companions was looking back. Neither were any other people about, for it was midway between two houses. The temptation was too strong to be resisted. "I might search for weeks and weeks, and never find another six-leaved clover," he told himself, and quickly plucking the stem from the plant he placed the prized clover in his basket, covering it with the other things he carried there. Then, trying to look as if nothing had happened, he hurried forward and overtook his comrades. The Emerald City, which is the most splendid as well as the most beautiful city in any fairyland, is surrounded by a high, thick wall of green marble, polished smooth and set with glistening emeralds. There are four gates, one facing the Munchkin Country, one facing the Country of the Winkies, one facing the Country of the Quadlings and one facing the Country of the Gillikins. The Emerald City lies directly in the center of these four important countries of Oz. The gates had bars of pure gold, and on either side of each gateway were built high towers, from which floated gay banners. Other towers were set at distances along the walls, which were broad enough for four people to walk abreast upon. This enclosure, all green and gold and glittering with precious gems, was indeed a wonderful sight to greet our travelers, who first observed it from the top of a little hill; but beyond the wall was the vast city it surrounded, and hundreds of jeweled spires, domes and minarets, flaunting flags and banners, reared their crests far above the towers of the gateways. In the center of the city our friends could see the tops of many magnificent trees, some nearly as tall as the spires of the buildings, and the Shaggy Man told them that these trees were in the royal gardens of Princess Ozma. They stood a long time on the hilltop, feasting their eyes on the splendor of the Emerald City. "Whee!" exclaimed Scraps, clasping her padded hands in ecstacy, "that'll do for me to live in, all right. No more of the Munchkin Country for these patches--and no more of the Crooked Magician!" "Why, you belong to Dr. Pipt," replied Ojo, looking at her in amazement. "You were made for a servant, Scraps, so you are personal property and not your own mistress." "Bother Dr. Pipt! If he wants me, let him come here and get me. I'll not go back to his den of my own accord; that's certain. Only one place in the Land of Oz is fit to live in, and that's the Emerald City. It's lovely! It's almost as beautiful as I am, Ojo." "In this country," remarked the Shaggy Man, "people live wherever our Ruler tells them to. It wouldn't do to have everyone live in the Emerald City, you know, for some must plow the land and raise grains and fruits and vegetables, while others chop wood in the forests, or fish in the rivers, or herd the sheep and the cattle." "Poor things!" said Scraps. "I'm not sure they are not happier than the city people," replied the Shaggy Man. "There's a freedom and independence in country life that not even the Emerald City can give one. I know that lots of the city people would like to get back to the land. The Scarecrow lives in the country, and so do the Tin Woodman and Jack Pumpkinhead; yet all three would be welcome to live in Ozma's palace if they cared to. Too much splendor becomes tiresome, you know. But, if we're to reach the Emerald City before sundown, we must hurry, for it is yet a long way off." The entrancing sight of the city had put new energy into them all and they hurried forward with lighter steps than before. There was much to interest them along the roadway, for the houses were now set more closely together and they met a good many people who were coming or going from one place or another. All these seemed happy-faced, pleasant people, who nodded graciously to the strangers as they passed, and exchanged words of greeting. At last they reached the great gateway, just as the sun was setting and adding its red glow to the glitter of the emeralds on the green walls and spires. Somewhere inside the city a band could be heard playing sweet music; a soft, subdued hum, as of many voices, reached their ears; from the neighboring yards came the low mooing of cows waiting to be milked. They were almost at the gate when the golden bars slid back and a tall soldier stepped out and faced them. Ojo thought he had never seen so tall a man before. The soldier wore a handsome green and gold uniform, with a tall hat in which was a waving plume, and he had a belt thickly encrusted with jewels. But the most peculiar thing about him was his long green beard, which fell far below his waist and perhaps made him seem taller than he really was. "Halt!" said the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, not in a stern voice but rather in a friendly tone. They halted before he spoke and stood looking at him. "Good evening, Colonel," said the Shaggy Man. "What's the news since I left? Anything important?" "Billina has hatched out thirteen new chickens," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, "and they're the cutest little fluffy yellow balls you ever saw. The Yellow Hen is mighty proud of those children, I can tell you." "She has a right to be," agreed the Shaggy Man. "Let me see; that's about seven thousand chicks she has hatched out; isn't it, General?" "That, at least," was the reply. "You will have to visit Billina and congratulate her." "It will give me pleasure to do that," said the Shaggy Man. "But you will observe that I have brought some strangers home with me. I am going to take them to see Dorothy." "One moment, please," said the soldier, barring their way as they started to enter the gate. "I am on duty, and I have orders to execute. Is anyone in your party named Ojo the Unlucky?" "Why, that's me!" cried Ojo, astonished at hearing his name on the lips of a stranger. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers nodded. "I thought so," said he, "and I am sorry to announce that it is my painful duty to arrest you." "Arrest me!" exclaimed the boy. "What for?" "I haven't looked to see," answered the soldier. Then he drew a paper from his breast pocket and glanced at it. "Oh, yes; you are to be arrested for willfully breaking one of the Laws of Oz." "Breaking a law!" said Scraps. "Nonsense, Soldier; you're joking." "Not this time," returned the soldier, with a sigh. "My dear child--what are you, a rummage sale or a guess-me-quick?--in me you behold the Body-Guard of our gracious Ruler, Princess Ozma, as well as the Royal Army of Oz and the Police Force of the Emerald City." "And only one man!" exclaimed the Patchwork Girl. "Only one, and plenty enough. In my official positions I've had nothing to do for a good many years--so long that I began to fear I was absolutely useless--until to-day. An hour ago I was called to the presence of her Highness, Ozma of Oz, and told to arrest a boy named Ojo the Unlucky, who was journeying from the Munchkin Country to the Emerald City and would arrive in a short time. This command so astonished me that I nearly fainted, for it is the first time anyone has merited arrest since I can remember. You are rightly named Ojo the Unlucky, my poor boy, since you have broken a Law of Oz. "But you are wrong," said Scraps. "Ozma is wrong--you are all wrong--for Ojo has broken no Law." "Then he will soon be free again," replied the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Anyone accused of crime is given a fair trial by our Ruler and has every chance to prove his innocence. But just now Ozma's orders must be obeyed." With this he took from his pocket a pair of handcuffs made of gold and set with rubies and diamonds, and these he snapped over Ojo's wrists. Chapter Fifteen Ozma's Prisoner The boy was so bewildered by this calamity that he made no resistance at all. He knew very well he was guilty, but it surprised him that Ozma also knew it. He wondered how she had found out so soon that he had picked the six-leaved clover. He handed his basket to Scraps and said: "Keep that, until I get out of prison. If I never get out, take it to the Crooked Magician, to whom it belongs." The Shaggy Man had been gazing earnestly in the boy's face, uncertain whether to defend him or not; but something he read in Ojo's expression made him draw back and refuse to interfere to save him. The Shaggy Man was greatly surprised and grieved, but he knew that Ozma never made mistakes and so Ojo must really have broken the Law of Oz. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers now led them all through the gate and into a little room built in the wall. Here sat a jolly little man, richly dressed in green and having around his neck a heavy gold chain to which a number of great golden keys were attached. This was the Guardian of the Gate and at the moment they entered his room he was playing a tune upon a mouth-organ. "Listen!" he said, holding up his hand for silence. "I've just composed a tune called 'The Speckled Alligator.' It's in patch-time, which is much superior to rag-time, and I've composed it in honor of the Patchwork Girl, who has just arrived." "How did you know I had arrived?" asked Scraps, much interested. "It's my business to know who's coming, for I'm the Guardian of the Gate. Keep quiet while I play you 'The Speckled Alligator.'" It wasn't a very bad tune, nor a very good one, but all listened respectfully while he shut his eyes and swayed his head from side to side and blew the notes from the little instrument. When it was all over the Soldier with the Green Whiskers said: "Guardian, I have here a prisoner." "Good gracious! A prisoner?" cried the little man, jumping up from his chair. "Which one? Not the Shaggy Man?" "No; this boy." "Ah; I hope his fault is as small as himself," said the Guardian of the Gate. "But what can he have done, and what made him do it?" "Can't say," replied the soldier. "All I know is that he has broken the Law." "But no one ever does that!" "Then he must be innocent, and soon will be released. I hope you are right, Guardian. Just now I am ordered to take him to prison. Get me a prisoner's robe from your Official Wardrobe." The Guardian unlocked a closet and took from it a white robe, which the soldier threw over Ojo. It covered him from head to foot, but had two holes just in front of his eyes, so he could see where to go. In this attire the boy presented a very quaint appearance. As the Guardian unlocked a gate leading from his room into the streets of the Emerald City, the Shaggy Man said to Scraps: "I think I shall take you directly to Dorothy, as the Scarecrow advised, and the Glass Cat and the Woozy may come with us. Ojo must go to prison with the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, but he will be well treated and you need not worry about him." "What will they do with him?" asked Scraps. "That I cannot tell. Since I came to the Land of Oz no one has ever been arrested or imprisoned--until Ojo broke the Law." "Seems to me that girl Ruler of yours is making a big fuss over nothing," remarked Scraps, tossing her yarn hair out of her eyes with a jerk of her patched head. "I don't know what Ojo has done, but it couldn't be anything very bad, for you and I were with him all the time." The Shaggy Man made no reply to this speech and presently the Patchwork Girl forgot all about Ojo in her admiration of the wonderful city she had entered. They soon separated from the Munchkin boy, who was led by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers down a side street toward the prison. Ojo felt very miserable and greatly ashamed of himself, but he was beginning to grow angry because he was treated in such a disgraceful manner. Instead of entering the splendid Emerald City as a respectable traveler who was entitled to a welcome and to hospitality, he was being brought in as a criminal, handcuffed and in a robe that told all he met of his deep disgrace. Ojo was by nature gentle and affectionate and if he had disobeyed the Law of Oz it was to restore his dear Unc Nunkie to life. His fault was more thoughtless than wicked, but that did not alter the fact that he had committed a fault. At first he had felt sorrow and remorse, but the more he thought about the unjust treatment he had received--unjust merely because he considered it so--the more he resented his arrest, blaming Ozma for making foolish laws and then punishing folks who broke them. Only a six-leaved clover! A tiny green plant growing neglected and trampled under foot. What harm could there be in picking it? Ojo began to think Ozma must be a very bad and oppressive Ruler for such a lovely fairyland as Oz. The Shaggy Man said the people loved her; but how could they? The little Munchkin boy was so busy thinking these things--which many guilty prisoners have thought before him--that he scarcely noticed all the splendor of the city streets through which they passed. Whenever they met any of the happy, smiling people, the boy turned his head away in shame, although none knew who was beneath the robe. By and by they reached a house built just beside the great city wall, but in a quiet, retired place. It was a pretty house, neatly painted and with many windows. Before it was a garden filled with blooming flowers. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers led Ojo up the gravel path to the front door, on which he knocked. A woman opened the door and, seeing Ojo in his white robe, exclaimed: "Goodness me! A prisoner at last. But what a small one, Soldier." "The size doesn't matter, Tollydiggle, my dear. The fact remains that he is a prisoner," said the soldier. "And, this being the prison, and you the jailer, it is my duty to place the prisoner in your charge." "True. Come in, then, and I'll give you a receipt for him." They entered the house and passed through a hall to a large circular room, where the woman pulled the robe off from Ojo and looked at him with kindly interest. The boy, on his part, was gazing around him in amazement, for never had he dreamed of such a magnificent apartment as this in which he stood. The roof of the dome was of colored glass, worked into beautiful designs. The walls were paneled with plates of gold decorated with gems of great size and many colors, and upon the tiled floor were soft rugs delightful to walk upon. The furniture was framed in gold and upholstered in satin brocade and it consisted of easy chairs, divans and stools in great variety. Also there were several tables with mirror tops and cabinets filled with rare and curious things. In one place a case filled with books stood against the wall, and elsewhere Ojo saw a cupboard containing all sorts of games. "May I stay here a little while before I go to prison?" asked the boy, pleadingly. "Why, this is your prison," replied Tollydiggle, "and in me behold your jailor. Take off those handcuffs, Soldier, for it is impossible for anyone to escape from this house." "I know that very well," replied the soldier and at once unlocked the handcuffs and released the prisoner. The woman touched a button on the wall and lighted a big chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling, for it was growing dark outside. Then she seated herself at a desk and asked: "What name?" "Ojo the Unlucky," answered the Soldier with the Green Whiskers. "Unlucky? Ah, that accounts for it," said she. "What crime?" "Breaking a Law of Oz." "All right. There's your receipt, Soldier; and now I'm responsible for the prisoner. I'm glad of it, for this is the first time I've ever had anything to do, in my official capacity," remarked the jailer, in a pleased tone. "It's the same with me, Tollydiggle," laughed the soldier. "But my task is finished and I must go and report to Ozma that I've done my duty like a faithful Police Force, a loyal Army and an honest Body-Guard--as I hope I am." Saying this, he nodded farewell to Tollydiggle and Ojo and went away. "Now, then," said the woman briskly, "I must get you some supper, for you are doubtless hungry. What would you prefer: planked whitefish, omelet with jelly or mutton-chops with gravy?" Ojo thought about it. Then he said: "I'll take the chops, if you please." "Very well; amuse yourself while I'm gone; I won't be long," and then she went out by a door and left the prisoner alone. Ojo was much astonished, for not only was this unlike any prison he had ever heard of, but he was being treated more as a guest than a criminal. There were many windows and they had no locks. There were three doors to the room and none were bolted. He cautiously opened one of the doors and found it led into a hallway. But he had no intention of trying to escape. If his jailor was willing to trust him in this way he would not betray her trust, and moreover a hot supper was being prepared for him and his prison was very pleasant and comfortable. So he took a book from the case and sat down in a big chair to look at the pictures. This amused him until the woman came in with a large tray and spread a cloth on one of the tables. Then she arranged his supper, which proved the most varied and delicious meal Ojo had ever eaten in his life. Tollydiggle sat near him while he ate, sewing on some fancy work she held in her lap. When he had finished she cleared the table and then read to him a story from one of the books. "Is this really a prison?" he asked, when she had finished reading. "Indeed it is," she replied. "It is the only prison in the Land of Oz." "And am I a prisoner?" "Bless the child! Of course." "Then why is the prison so fine, and why are you so kind to me?" he earnestly asked. Tollydiggle seemed surprised by the question, but she presently answered: "We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways--because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners." Ojo thought this over very carefully. "I had an idea," said he, "that prisoners were always treated harshly, to punish them." "That would be dreadful!" cried Tollydiggle. "Isn't one punished enough in knowing he has done wrong? Don't you wish, Ojo, with all your heart, that you had not been disobedient and broken a Law of Oz?" "I--I hate to be different from other people," he admitted. "Yes; one likes to be respected as highly as his neighbors are," said the woman. "When you are tried and found guilty, you will be obliged to make amends, in some way. I don't know just what Ozma will do to you, because this is the first time one of us has broken a Law; but you may be sure she will be just and merciful. Here in the Emerald City people are too happy and contented ever to do wrong; but perhaps you came from some faraway corner of our land, and having no love for Ozma carelessly broke one of her Laws." "Yes," said Ojo, "I've lived all my life in the heart of a lonely forest, where I saw no one but dear Unc Nunkie." "I thought so," said Tollydiggle. "But now we have talked enough, so let us play a game until bedtime." Chapter Sixteen Princess Dorothy Dorothy Gale was sitting in one of her rooms in the royal palace, while curled up at her feet was a little black dog with a shaggy coat and very bright eyes. She wore a plain white frock, without any jewels or other ornaments except an emerald-green hair-ribbon, for Dorothy was a simple little girl and had not been in the least spoiled by the magnificence surrounding her. Once the child had lived on the Kansas prairies, but she seemed marked for adventure, for she had made several trips to the Land of Oz before she came to live there for good. Her very best friend was the beautiful Ozma of Oz, who loved Dorothy so well that she kept her in her own palace, so as to be near her. The girl's Uncle Henry and Aunt Em--the only relatives she had in the world--had also been brought here by Ozma and given a pleasant home. Dorothy knew almost everybody in Oz, and it was she who had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, as well as Tik-Tok the Clockwork Man. Her life was very pleasant now, and although she had been made a Princess of Oz by her friend Ozma she did not care much to be a Princess and remained as sweet as when she had been plain Dorothy Gale of Kansas. Dorothy was reading in a book this evening when Jellia Jamb, the favorite servant-maid of the palace, came to say that the Shaggy Man wanted to see her. "All right," said Dorothy; "tell him to come right up." "But he has some queer creatures with him--some of the queerest I've ever laid eyes on," reported Jellia. "Never mind; let 'em all come up," replied Dorothy. But when the door opened to admit not only the Shaggy Man, but Scraps, the Woozy and the Glass Cat, Dorothy jumped up and looked at her strange visitors in amazement. The Patchwork Girl was the most curious of all and Dorothy was uncertain at first whether Scraps was really alive or only a dream or a nightmare. Toto, her dog, slowly uncurled himself and going to the Patchwork Girl sniffed at her inquiringly; but soon he lay down again, as if to say he had no interest in such an irregular creation. "You're a new one to me," Dorothy said reflectively, addressing the Patchwork Girl. "I can't imagine where you've come from." "Who, me?" asked Scraps, looking around the pretty room instead of at the girl. "Oh, I came from a bed-quilt, I guess. That's what they say, anyhow. Some call it a crazy-quilt and some a patchwork quilt. But my name is Scraps--and now you know all about me." "Not quite all," returned Dorothy with a smile. "I wish you'd tell me how you came to be alive." "That's an easy job," said Scraps, sitting upon a big upholstered chair and making the springs bounce her up and down. "Margolotte wanted a slave, so she made me out of an old bed-quilt she didn't use. Cotton stuffing, suspender-button eyes, red velvet tongue, pearl beads for teeth. The Crooked Magician made a Powder of Life, sprinkled me with it and--here I am. Perhaps you've noticed my different colors. A very refined and educated gentleman named the Scarecrow, whom I met, told me I am the most beautiful creature in all Oz, and I believe it." "Oh! Have you met our Scarecrow, then?" asked Dorothy, a little puzzled to understand the brief history related. "Yes; isn't he jolly?" "The Scarecrow has many good qualities," replied Dorothy. "But I'm sorry to hear all this 'bout the Crooked Magician. Ozma'll be mad as hops when she hears he's been doing magic again. She told him not to." "He only practices magic for the benefit of his own family," explained Bungle, who was keeping at a respectful distance from the little black dog. "Dear me," said Dorothy; "I hadn't noticed you before. Are you glass, or what?" "I'm glass, and transparent, too, which is more than can be said of some folks," answered the cat. "Also I have some lovely pink brains; you can see 'em work." "Oh; is that so? Come over here and let me see." The Glass Cat hesitated, eyeing the dog. "Send that beast away and I will," she said. "Beast! Why, that's my dog Toto, an' he's the kindest dog in all the world. Toto knows a good many things, too; 'most as much as I do, I guess." "Why doesn't he say anything?" asked Bungle. "He can't talk, not being a fairy dog," explained Dorothy. "He's just a common United States dog; but that's a good deal; and I understand him, and he understands me, just as well as if he could talk." Toto, at this, got up and rubbed his head softly against Dorothy's hand, which she held out to him, and he looked up into her face as if he had understood every word she had said. "This cat, Toto," she said to him, "is made of glass, so you mustn't bother it, or chase it, any more than you do my Pink Kitten. It's prob'ly brittle and might break if it bumped against anything." "Woof!" said Toto, and that meant he understood. The Glass Cat was so proud of her pink brains that she ventured to come close to Dorothy, in order that the girl might "see 'em work." This was really interesting, but when Dorothy patted the cat she found the glass cold and hard and unresponsive, so she decided at once that Bungle would never do for a pet. "What do you know about the Crooked Magician who lives on the mountain?" asked Dorothy. "He made me," replied the cat; "so I know all about him. The Patchwork Girl is new--three or four days old--but I've lived with Dr. Pipt for years; and, though I don't much care for him, I will say that he has always refused to work magic for any of the people who come to his house. He thinks there's no harm in doing magic things for his own family, and he made me out of glass because the meat cats drink too much milk. He also made Scraps come to life so she could do the housework for his wife Margolotte." "Then why did you both leave him?" asked Dorothy. "I think you'd better let me explain that," interrupted the Shaggy Man, and then he told Dorothy all of Ojo's story and how Unc Nunkie and Margolotte had accidentally been turned to marble by the Liquid of Petrifaction. Then he related how the boy had started out in search of the things needed to make the magic charm, which would restore the unfortunates to life, and how he had found the Woozy and taken him along because he could not pull the three hairs out of its tail. Dorothy listened to all this with much interest, and thought that so far Ojo had acted very well. But when the Shaggy Man told her of the Munchkin boy's arrest by the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, because he was accused of wilfully breaking a Law of Oz, the little girl was greatly shocked. "What do you s'pose he's done?" she asked. "I fear he has picked a six-leaved clover," answered the Shaggy Man, sadly. "I did not see him do it, and I warned him that to do so was against the Law; but perhaps that is what he did, nevertheless." "I'm sorry 'bout that," said Dorothy gravely, "for now there will be no one to help his poor uncle and Margolotte 'cept this Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat." "Don't mention it," said Scraps. "That's no affair of mine. Margolotte and Unc Nunkie are perfect strangers to me, for the moment I came to life they came to marble." "I see," remarked Dorothy with a sigh of regret; "the woman forgot to give you a heart." "I'm glad she did," retorted the Patchwork Girl. "A heart must be a great annoyance to one. It makes a person feel sad or sorry or devoted or sympathetic--all of which sensations interfere with one's happiness." "I have a heart," murmured the Glass Cat. "It's made of a ruby; but I don't imagine I shall let it bother me about helping Unc Nunkie and Margolotte." "That's a pretty hard heart of yours," said Dorothy. "And the Woozy, of course--" "Why, as for me," observed the Woozy, who was reclining on the floor with his legs doubled under him, so that he looked much like a square box, "I have never seen those unfortunate people you are speaking of, and yet I am sorry for them, having at times been unfortunate myself. When I was shut up in that forest I longed for some one to help me, and by and by Ojo came and did help me. So I'm willing to help his uncle. I'm only a stupid beast, Dorothy, but I can't help that, and if you'll tell me what to do to help Ojo and his uncle, I'll gladly do it." Dorothy walked over and patted the Woozy on his square head. "You're not pretty," she said, "but I like you. What are you able to do; anything 'special?" "I can make my eyes flash fire--real fire--when I'm angry. When anyone says: 'Krizzle-Kroo' to me I get angry, and then my eyes flash fire." "I don't see as fireworks could help Ojo's uncle," remarked Dorothy. "Can you do anything else?" "I--I thought I had a very terrifying growl," said the Woozy, with hesitation; "but perhaps I was mistaken." "Yes," said the Shaggy Man, "you were certainly wrong about that." Then he turned to Dorothy and added: "What will become of the Munchkin boy?" "I don't know," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "Ozma will see him 'bout it, of course, and then she'll punish him. But how, I don't know, 'cause no one ever has been punished in Oz since I knew anything about the place. Too bad, Shaggy Man, isn't it?" While they were talking Scraps had been roaming around the room and looking at all the pretty things it contained. She had carried Ojo's basket in her hand, until now, when she decided to see what was inside it. She found the bread and cheese, which she had no use for, and the bundle of charms, which were curious but quite a mystery to her. Then, turning these over, she came upon the six-leaved clover which the boy had plucked. Scraps was quick-witted, and although she had no heart she recognized the fact that Ojo was her first friend. She knew at once that because the boy had taken the clover he had been imprisoned, and she understood that Ojo had given her the basket so they would not find the clover in his possession and have proof of his crime. So, turning her head to see that no one noticed her, she took the clover from the basket and dropped it into a golden vase that stood on Dorothy's table. Then she came forward and said to Dorothy: "I wouldn't care to help Ojo's uncle, but I will help Ojo. He did not break the Law--no one can prove he did--and that green-whiskered soldier had no right to arrest him." "Ozma ordered the boy's arrest," said Dorothy, "and of course she knew what she was doing. But if you can prove Ojo is innocent they will set him free at once." "They'll have to prove him guilty, won't they?'' asked Scraps. "I s'pose so." "Well, they can't do that," declared the Patchwork Girl. As it was nearly time for Dorothy to dine with Ozma, which she did every evening, she rang for a servant and ordered the Woozy taken to a nice room and given plenty of such food as he liked best. "That's honey-bees," said the Woozy. "You can't eat honey-bees, but you'll be given something just as nice," Dorothy told him. Then she had the Glass Cat taken to another room for the night and the Patchwork Girl she kept in one of her own rooms, for she was much interested in the strange creature and wanted to talk with her again and try to understand her better. Chapter Seventeen Ozma and Her Friends The Shaggy Man had a room of his own in the royal palace, so there he went to change his shaggy suit of clothes for another just as shaggy but not so dusty from travel. He selected a costume of pea-green and pink satin and velvet, with embroidered shags on all the edges and iridescent pearls for ornaments. Then he bathed in an alabaster pool and brushed his shaggy hair and whiskers the wrong way to make them still more shaggy. This accomplished, and arrayed in his splendid shaggy garments, he went to Ozma's banquet hall and found the Scarecrow, the Wizard and Dorothy already assembled there. The Scarecrow had made a quick trip and returned to the Emerald City with his left ear freshly painted. A moment later, while they all stood in waiting, a servant threw open a door, the orchestra struck up a tune and Ozma of Oz entered. Much has been told and written concerning the beauty of person and character of this sweet girl Ruler of the Land of Oz--the richest, the happiest and most delightful fairyland of which we have any knowledge. Yet with all her queenly qualities Ozma was a real girl and enjoyed the things in life that other real girls enjoy. When she sat on her splendid emerald throne in the great Throne Room of her palace and made laws and settled disputes and tried to keep all her subjects happy and contented, she was as dignified and demure as any queen might be; but when she had thrown aside her jeweled robe of state and her sceptre, and had retired to her private apartments, the girl--joyous, light-hearted and free--replaced the sedate Ruler. In the banquet hall to-night were gathered only old and trusted friends, so here Ozma was herself--a mere girl. She greeted Dorothy with a kiss, the Shaggy Man with a smile, the little old Wizard with a friendly handshake and then she pressed the Scarecrow's stuffed arm and cried merrily: "What a lovely left ear! Why, it's a hundred times better than the old one." "I'm glad you like it," replied the Scarecrow, well pleased. "Jinjur did a neat job, didn't she? And my hearing is now perfect. Isn't it wonderful what a little paint will do, if it's properly applied?" "It really is wonderful," she agreed, as they all took their seats; "but the Sawhorse must have made his legs twinkle to have carried you so far in one day. I didn't expect you back before to-morrow, at the earliest." "Well," said the Scarecrow, "I met a charming girl on the road and wanted to see more of her, so I hurried back." Ozma laughed. "I know," she returned; "it's the Patchwork Girl. She is certainly bewildering, if not strictly beautiful." "Have you seen her, then?" the straw man eagerly asked. "Only in my Magic Picture, which shows me all scenes of interest in the Land of Oz." "I fear the picture didn't do her justice," said the Scarecrow. "It seemed to me that nothing could be more gorgeous," declared Ozma. "Whoever made that patchwork quilt, from which Scraps was formed, must have selected the gayest and brightest bits of cloth that ever were woven." "I am glad you like her," said the Scarecrow in a satisfied tone. Although the straw man did not eat, not being made so he could, he often dined with Ozma and her companions, merely for the pleasure of talking with them. He sat at the table and had a napkin and plate, but the servants knew better than to offer him food. After a little while he asked: "Where is the Patchwork Girl now?" "In my room," replied Dorothy. "I've taken a fancy to her; she's so queer and--and--uncommon." "She's half crazy, I think," added the Shaggy Man. "But she is so beautiful!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, as if that fact disarmed all criticism. They all laughed at his enthusiasm, but the Scarecrow was quite serious. Seeing that he was interested in Scraps they forbore to say anything against her. The little band of friends Ozma had gathered around her was so quaintly assorted that much care must be exercised to avoid hurting their feelings or making any one of them unhappy. It was this considerate kindness that held them close friends and enabled them to enjoy one another's society. Another thing they avoided was conversing on unpleasant subjects, and for that reason Ojo and his troubles were not mentioned during the dinner. The Shaggy Man, however, related his adventures with the monstrous plants which had seized and enfolded the travelers, and told how he had robbed Chiss, the giant porcupine, of the quills which it was accustomed to throw at people. Both Dorothy and Ozma were pleased with this exploit and thought it served Chiss right. Then they talked of the Woozy, which was the most remarkable animal any of them had ever before seen--except, perhaps, the live Sawhorse. Ozma had never known that her dominions contained such a thing as a Woozy, there being but one in existence and this being confined in his forest for many years. Dorothy said she believed the Woozy was a good beast, honest and faithful; but she added that she did not care much for the Glass Cat. "Still," said the Shaggy Man, "the Glass Cat is very pretty and if she were not so conceited over her pink brains no one would object to her as a companion." The Wizard had been eating silently until now, when he looked up and remarked: "That Powder of Life which is made by the Crooked Magician is really a wonderful thing. But Dr. Pipt does not know its true value and he uses it in the most foolish ways." "I must see about that," said Ozma, gravely. Then she smiled again and continued in a lighter tone: "It was Dr. Pipt's famous Powder of Life that enabled me to become the Ruler of Oz." "I've never heard that story," said the Shaggy Man, looking at Ozma questioningly. "Well, when I was a baby girl I was stolen by an old Witch named Mombi and transformed into a boy," began the girl Ruler. "I did not know who I was and when I grew big enough to work, the Witch made me wait upon her and carry wood for the fire and hoe in the garden. One day she came back from a journey bringing some of the Powder of Life, which Dr. Pipt had given her. I had made a pumpkin-headed man and set it up in her path to frighten her, for I was fond of fun and hated the Witch. But she knew what the figure was and to test her Powder of Life she sprinkled some of it on the man I had made. It came to life and is now our dear friend Jack Pumpkinhead. That night I ran away with Jack to escape punishment, and I took old Mombi's Powder of Life with me. During our journey we came upon a wooden Sawhorse standing by the road and I used the magic powder to bring it to life. The Sawhorse has been with me ever since. When I got to the Emerald City the good Sorceress, Glinda, knew who I was and restored me to my proper person, when I became the rightful Ruler of this land. So you see had not old Mombi brought home the Powder of Life I might never have run away from her and become Ozma of Oz, nor would we have had Jack Pumpkinhead and the Sawhorse to comfort and amuse us." That story interested the Shaggy Man very much, as well as the others, who had often heard it before. The dinner being now concluded, they all went to Ozma's drawing-room, where they passed a pleasant evening before it came time to retire. Chapter Eighteen Ojo is Forgiven The next morning the Soldier with the Green Whiskers went to the prison and took Ojo away to the royal palace, where he was summoned to appear before the girl Ruler for judgment. Again the soldier put upon the boy the jeweled handcuffs and white prisoner's robe with the peaked top and holes for the eyes. Ojo was so ashamed, both of his disgrace and the fault he had committed, that he was glad to be covered up in this way, so that people could not see him or know who he was. He followed the Soldier with the Green Whiskers very willingly, anxious that his fate might be decided as soon as possible. The inhabitants of the Emerald City were polite people and never jeered at the unfortunate; but it was so long since they had seen a prisoner that they cast many curious looks toward the boy and many of them hurried away to the royal palace to be present during the trial. When Ojo was escorted into the great Throne Room of the palace he found hundreds of people assembled there. In the magnificent emerald throne, which sparkled with countless jewels, sat Ozma of Oz in her Robe of State, which was embroidered with emeralds and pearls. On her right, but a little lower, was Dorothy, and on her left the Scarecrow. Still lower, but nearly in front of Ozma, sat the wonderful Wizard of Oz and on a small table beside him was the golden vase from Dorothy's room, into which Scraps had dropped the stolen clover. At Ozma's feet crouched two enormous beasts, each the largest and most powerful of its kind. Although these beasts were quite free, no one present was alarmed by them; for the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger were well known and respected in the Emerald City and they always guarded the Ruler when she held high court in the Throne Room. There was still another beast present, but this one Dorothy held in her arms, for it was her constant companion, the little dog Toto. Toto knew the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger and often played and romped with them, for they were good friends. Seated on ivory chairs before Ozma, with a clear space between them and the throne, were many of the nobility of the Emerald City, lords and ladies in beautiful costumes, and officials of the kingdom in the royal uniforms of Oz. Behind these courtiers were others of less importance, filling the great hall to the very doors. At the same moment that the Soldier with the Green Whiskers arrived with Ojo, the Shaggy Man entered from a side door, escorting the Patchwork Girl, the Woozy and the Glass Cat. All these came to the vacant space before the throne and stood facing the Ruler. "Hullo, Ojo," said Scraps; "how are you?" "All right," he replied; but the scene awed the boy and his voice trembled a little with fear. Nothing could awe the Patchwork Girl, and although the Woozy was somewhat uneasy in these splendid surroundings the Glass Cat was delighted with the sumptuousness of the court and the impressiveness of the occasion--pretty big words but quite expressive. At a sign from Ozma the soldier removed Ojo's white robe and the boy stood face to face with the girl who was to decide his punishment. He saw at a glance how lovely and sweet she was, and his heart gave a bound of joy, for he hoped she would be merciful. Ozma sat looking at the prisoner a long time. Then she said gently: "One of the Laws of Oz forbids anyone to pick a six-leaved clover. You are accused of having broken this Law, even after you had been warned not to do so." Ojo hung his head and while he hesitated how to reply the Patchwork Girl stepped forward and spoke for him. "All this fuss is about nothing at all," she said, facing Ozma unabashed. "You can't prove he picked the six-leaved clover, so you've no right to accuse him of it. Search him, if you like, but you won't find the clover; look in his basket and you'll find it's not there. He hasn't got it, so I demand that you set this poor Munchkin boy free." The people of Oz listened to this defiance in amazement and wondered at the queer Patchwork Girl who dared talk so boldly to their Ruler. But Ozma sat silent and motionless and it was the little Wizard who answered Scraps. "So the clover hasn't been picked, eh?" he said. "I think it has. I think the boy hid it in his basket, and then gave the basket to you. I also think you dropped the clover into this vase, which stood in Princess Dorothy's room, hoping to get rid of it so it would not prove the boy guilty. You're a stranger here, Miss Patches, and so you don't know that nothing can be hidden from our powerful Ruler's Magic Picture--nor from the watchful eyes of the humble Wizard of Oz. Look, all of you!" With these words he waved his hands toward the vase on the table, which Scraps now noticed for the first time. From the mouth of the vase a plant sprouted, slowly growing before their eyes until it became a beautiful bush, and on the topmost branch appeared the six-leaved clover which Ojo had unfortunately picked. The Patchwork Girl looked at the clover and said: "Oh, so you've found it. Very well; prove he picked it, if you can." Ozma turned to Ojo. "Did you pick the six-leaved clover?" she asked. "Yes," he replied. "I knew it was against the Law, but I wanted to save Unc Nunkie and I was afraid if I asked your consent to pick it you would refuse me." "What caused you to think that?" asked the Ruler. "Why, it seemed to me a foolish law, unjust and unreasonable. Even now I can see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover. And I--I had not seen the Emerald City, then, nor you, and I thought a girl who would make such a silly Law would not be likely to help anyone in trouble." Ozma regarded him musingly, her chin resting upon her hand; but she was not angry. On the contrary she smiled a little at her thoughts and then grew sober again. "I suppose a good many laws seem foolish to those people who do not understand them," she said; "but no law is ever made without some purpose, and that purpose is usually to protect all the people and guard their welfare. As you are a stranger, I will explain this Law which to you seems so foolish. Years ago there were many Witches and Magicians in the Land of Oz, and one of the things they often used in making their magic charms and transformations was a six-leaved clover. These Witches and Magicians caused so much trouble among my people, often using their powers for evil rather than good, that I decided to forbid anyone to practice magic or sorcery except Glinda the Good and her assistant, the Wizard of Oz, both of whom I can trust to use their arts only to benefit my people and to make them happier. Since I issued that Law the Land of Oz has been far more peaceful and quiet; but I learned that some of the Witches and Magicians were still practicing magic on the sly and using the six-leaved clovers to make their potions and charms. Therefore I made another Law forbidding anyone from plucking a six-leaved clover or from gathering other plants and herbs which the Witches boil in their kettles to work magic with. That has almost put an end to wicked sorcery in our land, so you see the Law was not a foolish one, but wise and just; and, in any event, it is wrong to disobey a Law." Ojo knew she was right and felt greatly mortified to realize he had acted and spoken so ridiculously. But he raised his head and looked Ozma in the face, saying: "I am sorry I have acted wrongly and broken your Law. I did it to save Unc Nunkie, and thought I would not be found out. But I am guilty of this act and whatever punishment you think I deserve I will suffer willingly." Ozma smiled more brightly, then, and nodded graciously. "You are forgiven," she said. "For, although you have committed a serious fault, you are now penitent and I think you have been punished enough. Soldier, release Ojo the Lucky and--" "I beg your pardon; I'm Ojo the Unlucky," said the boy. "At this moment you are lucky," said she. "Release him, Soldier, and let him go free." The people were glad to hear Ozma's decree and murmured their approval. As the royal audience was now over, they began to leave the Throne Room and soon there were none remaining except Ojo and his friends and Ozma and her favorites. The girl Ruler now asked Ojo to sit down and tell her all his story, which he did, beginning at the time he had left his home in the forest and ending with his arrival at the Emerald City and his arrest. Ozma listened attentively and was thoughtful for some moments after the boy had finished speaking. Then she said: "The Crooked Magician was wrong to make the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl, for it was against the Law. And if he had not unlawfully kept the bottle of Liquid of Petrifaction standing on his shelf, the accident to his wife Margolotte and to Unc Nunkie could not have occurred. I can understand, however, that Ojo, who loves his uncle, will be unhappy unless he can save him. Also I feel it is wrong to leave those two victims standing as marble statues, when they ought to be alive. So I propose we allow Dr. Pipt to make the magic charm which will save them, and that we assist Ojo to find the things he is seeking. What do you think, Wizard?" "That is perhaps the best thing to do," replied the Wizard. "But after the Crooked Magician has restored those poor people to life you must take away his magic powers." "I will," promised Ozma. "Now tell me, please, what magic things must you find?" continued the Wizard, addressing Ojo. "The three hairs from the Woozy's tail I have," said the boy. "That is, I have the Woozy, and the hairs are in his tail. The six-leaved clover I--I--" "You may take it and keep it," said Ozma. "That will not be breaking the Law, for it is already picked, and the crime of picking it is forgiven." "Thank you!" cried Ojo gratefully. Then he continued: "The next thing I must find is a gill of water from a dark well." The Wizard shook his head. "That," said he, "will be a hard task, but if you travel far enough you may discover it." "I am willing to travel for years, if it will save Unc Nunkie," declared Ojo, earnestly. "Then you'd better begin your journey at once," advised the Wizard. Dorothy had been listening with interest to this conversation. Now she turned to Ozma and asked: "May I go with Ojo, to help him?" "Would you like to?" returned Ozma. "Yes. I know Oz pretty well, but Ojo doesn't know it at all. I'm sorry for his uncle and poor Margolotte and I'd like to help save them. May I go?" "If you wish to," replied Ozma. "If Dorothy goes, then I must go to take care of her," said the Scarecrow, decidedly. "A dark well can only be discovered in some out-of-the-way place, and there may be dangers there." "You have my permission to accompany Dorothy," said Ozma. "And while you are gone I will take care of the Patchwork Girl." "I'll take care of myself," announced Scraps, "for I'm going with the Scarecrow and Dorothy. I promised Ojo to help him find the things he wants and I'll stick to my promise." "Very well," replied Ozma. "But I see no need for Ojo to take the Glass Cat and the Woozy." "I prefer to remain here," said the cat. "I've nearly been nicked half a dozen times, already, and if they're going into dangers it's best for me to keep away from them." "Let Jellia Jamb keep her till Ojo returns," suggested Dorothy. "We won't need to take the Woozy, either, but he ought to be saved because of the three hairs in his tail." "Better take me along," said the Woozy. "My eyes can flash fire, you know, and I can growl--a little." "I'm sure you'll be safer here," Ozma decided, and the Woozy made no further objection to the plan. After consulting together they decided that Ojo and his party should leave the very next day to search for the gill of water from a dark well, so they now separated to make preparations for the journey. Ozma gave the Munchkin boy a room in the palace for that night and the afternoon he passed with Dorothy--getting acquainted, as she said--and receiving advice from the Shaggy Man as to where they must go. The Shaggy Man had wandered in many parts of Oz, and so had Dorothy, for that matter, yet neither of them knew where a dark well was to be found. "If such a thing is anywhere in the settled parts of Oz," said Dorothy, "we'd prob'ly have heard of it long ago. If it's in the wild parts of the country, no one there would need a dark well. P'raps there isn't such a thing." "Oh, there must be!" returned Ojo, positively; "or else the recipe of Dr. Pipt wouldn't call for it." "That's true," agreed Dorothy; "and, if it's anywhere in the Land of Oz, we're bound to find it." "Well, we're bound to search for it, anyhow," said the Scarecrow. "As for finding it, we must trust to luck." "Don't do that," begged Ojo, earnestly. "I'm called Ojo the Unlucky, you know." Chapter Nineteen Trouble with the Tottenhots A day's journey from the Emerald City brought the little band of adventurers to the home of Jack Pumpkinhead, which was a house formed from the shell of an immense pumpkin. Jack had made it himself and was very proud of it. There was a door, and several windows, and through the top was stuck a stovepipe that led from a small stove inside. The door was reached by a flight of three steps and there was a good floor on which was arranged some furniture that was quite comfortable. It is certain that Jack Pumpkinhead might have had a much finer house to live in had he wanted it, for Ozma loved the stupid fellow, who had been her earliest companion; but Jack preferred his pumpkin house, as it matched himself very well, and in this he was not so stupid, after all. The body of this remarkable person was made of wood, branches of trees of various sizes having been used for the purpose. This wooden framework was covered by a red shirt--with white spots in it--blue trousers, a yellow vest, a jacket of green-and-gold and stout leather shoes. The neck was a sharpened stick on which the pumpkin head was set, and the eyes, ears, nose and mouth were carved on the skin of the pumpkin, very like a child's jack-o'-lantern. The house of this interesting creation stood in the center of a vast pumpkin-field, where the vines grew in profusion and bore pumpkins of extraordinary size as well as those which were smaller. Some of the pumpkins now ripening on the vines were almost as large as Jack's house, and he told Dorothy he intended to add another pumpkin to his mansion. The travelers were cordially welcomed to this quaint domicile and invited to pass the night there, which they had planned to do. The Patchwork Girl was greatly interested in Jack and examined him admiringly. "You are quite handsome," she said; "but not as really beautiful as the Scarecrow." Jack turned, at this, to examine the Scarecrow critically, and his old friend slyly winked one painted eye at him. "There is no accounting for tastes," remarked the Pumpkinhead, with a sigh. "An old crow once told me I was very fascinating, but of course the bird might have been mistaken. Yet I have noticed that the crows usually avoid the Scarecrow, who is a very honest fellow, in his way, but stuffed. I am not stuffed, you will observe; my body is good solid hickory." "I adore stuffing," said the Patchwork Girl. "Well, as for that, my head is stuffed with pumpkin-seeds," declared Jack. "I use them for brains, and when they are fresh I am intellectual. Just now, I regret to say, my seeds are rattling a bit, so I must soon get another head." "Oh; do you change your head?" asked Ojo. "To be sure. Pumpkins are not permanent, more's the pity, and in time they spoil. That is why I grow such a great field of pumpkins--that I may select a new head whenever necessary." "Who carves the faces on them?" inquired the boy. "I do that myself. I lift off my old head, place it on a table before me, and use the face for a pattern to go by. Sometimes the faces I carve are better than others--more expressive and cheerful, you know--but I think they average very well." Before she had started on the journey Dorothy had packed a knapsack with the things she might need, and this knapsack the Scarecrow carried strapped to his back. The little girl wore a plain gingham dress and a checked sunbonnet, as she knew they were best fitted for travel. Ojo also had brought along his basket, to which Ozma had added a bottle of "Square Meal Tablets" and some fruit. But Jack Pumpkinhead grew a lot of things in his garden besides pumpkins, so he cooked for them a fine vegetable soup and gave Dorothy, Ojo and Toto, the only ones who found it necessary to eat, a pumpkin pie and some green cheese. For beds they must use the sweet dried grasses which Jack had strewn along one side of the room, but that satisfied Dorothy and Ojo very well. Toto, of course, slept beside his little mistress. The Scarecrow, Scraps and the Pumpkinhead were tireless and had no need to sleep, so they sat up and talked together all night; but they stayed outside the house, under the bright stars, and talked in low tones so as not to disturb the sleepers. During the conversation the Scarecrow explained their quest for a dark well, and asked Jack's advice where to find it. The Pumpkinhead considered the matter gravely. "That is going to be a difficult task," said he, "and if I were you I'd take any ordinary well and enclose it, so as to make it dark." "I fear that wouldn't do," replied the Scarecrow. "The well must be naturally dark, and the water must never have seen the light of day, for otherwise the magic charm might not work at all." "How much of the water do you need?" asked Jack. "A gill." "How much is a gill?" "Why--a gill is a gill, of course," answered the Scarecrow, who did not wish to display his ignorance. "I know!" cried Scraps. "Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch--" "No, no; that's wrong," interrupted the Scarecrow. "There are two kinds of gills, I think; one is a girl, and the other is--" "A gillyflower," said Jack. "No; a measure." "How big a measure?" "Well, I'll ask Dorothy." So next morning they asked Dorothy, and she said: "I don't just know how much a gill is, but I've brought along a gold flask that holds a pint. That's more than a gill, I'm sure, and the Crooked Magician may measure it to suit himself. But the thing that's bothering us most, Jack, is to find the well." Jack gazed around the landscape, for he was standing in the doorway of his house. "This is a flat country, so you won't find any dark wells here," said he. "You must go into the mountains, where rocks and caverns are." "And where is that?" asked Ojo. "In the Quadling Country, which lies south of here," replied the Scarecrow. "I've known all along that we must go to the mountains." "So have I," said Dorothy. "But--goodness me!--the Quadling Country is full of dangers," declared Jack. "I've never been there myself, but--" "I have," said the Scarecrow. "I've faced the dreadful Hammerheads, which have no arms and butt you like a goat; and I've faced the Fighting Trees, which bend down their branches to pound and whip you, and had many other adventures there." "It's a wild country," remarked Dorothy, soberly, "and if we go there we're sure to have troubles of our own. But I guess we'll have to go, if we want that gill of water from the dark well." So they said good-bye to the Pumpkinhead and resumed their travels, heading now directly toward the South Country, where mountains and rocks and caverns and forests of great trees abounded. This part of the Land of Oz, while it belonged to Ozma and owed her allegiance, was so wild and secluded that many queer peoples hid in its jungles and lived in their own way, without even a knowledge that they had a Ruler in the Emerald City. If they were left alone, these creatures never troubled the inhabitants of the rest of Oz, but those who invaded their domains encountered many dangers from them. It was a two days journey from Jack Pumkinhead's house to the edge of the Quadling Country, for neither Dorothy nor Ojo could walk very fast and they often stopped by the wayside to rest. The first night they slept on the broad fields, among the buttercups and daisies, and the Scarecrow covered the children with a gauze blanket taken from his knapsack, so they would not be chilled by the night air. Toward evening of the second day they reached a sandy plain where walking was difficult; but some distance before them they saw a group of palm trees, with many curious black dots under them; so they trudged bravely on to reach that place by dark and spend the night under the shelter of the trees. The black dots grew larger as they advanced and although the light was dim Dorothy thought they looked like big kettles turned upside down. Just beyond this place a jumble of huge, jagged rocks lay scattered, rising to the mountains behind them. Our travelers preferred to attempt to climb these rocks by daylight, and they realized that for a time this would be their last night on the plains. Twilight had fallen by the time they came to the trees, beneath which were the black, circular objects they had marked from a distance. Dozens of them were scattered around and Dorothy bent near to one, which was about as tall as she was, to examine it more closely. As she did so the top flew open and out popped a dusky creature, rising its length into the air and then plumping down upon the ground just beside the little girl. Another and another popped out of the circular, pot-like dwelling, while from all the other black objects came popping more creatures--very like jumping-jacks when their boxes are unhooked--until fully a hundred stood gathered around our little group of travelers. By this time Dorothy had discovered they were people, tiny and curiously formed, but still people. Their skins were dusky and their hair stood straight up, like wires, and was brilliant scarlet in color. Their bodies were bare except for skins fastened around their waists and they wore bracelets on their ankles and wrists, and necklaces, and great pendant earrings. Toto crouched beside his mistress and wailed as if he did not like these strange creatures a bit. Scraps began to mutter something about "hoppity, poppity, jumpity, dump!" but no one paid any attention to her. Ojo kept close to the Scarecrow and the Scarecrow kept close to Dorothy; but the little girl turned to the queer creatures and asked: "Who are you?" They answered this question all together, in a sort of chanting chorus, the words being as follows: "We're the jolly Tottenhots; We do not like the day, But in the night 'tis our delight To gambol, skip and play. "We hate the sun and from it run, The moon is cool and clear, So on this spot each Tottenhot Waits for it to appear. "We're ev'ry one chock full of fun, And full of mischief, too; But if you're gay and with us play We'll do no harm to you. "Glad to meet you, Tottenhots," said the Scarecrow solemnly. "But you mustn't expect us to play with you all night, for we've traveled all day and some of us are tired." "And we never gamble," added the Patchwork Girl. "It's against the Law." These remarks were greeted with shouts of laughter by the impish creatures and one seized the Scarecrow's arm and was astonished to find the straw man whirl around so easily. So the Tottenhot raised the Scarecrow high in the air and tossed him over the heads of the crowd. Some one caught him and tossed him back, and so with shouts of glee they continued throwing the Scarecrow here and there, as if he had been a basket-ball. Presently another imp seized Scraps and began to throw her about, in the same way. They found her a little heavier than the Scarecrow but still light enough to be tossed like a sofa-cushion, and they were enjoying the sport immensely when Dorothy, angry and indignant at the treatment her friends were receiving, rushed among the Tottenhots and began slapping and pushing them until she had rescued the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl and held them close on either side of her. Perhaps she would not have accomplished this victory so easily had not Toto helped her, barking and snapping at the bare legs of the imps until they were glad to flee from his attack. As for Ojo, some of the creatures had attempted to toss him, also, but finding his body too heavy they threw him to the ground and a row of the imps sat on him and held him from assisting Dorothy in her battle. The little brown folks were much surprised at being attacked by the girl and the dog, and one or two who had been slapped hardest began to cry. Then suddenly they gave a shout, all together, and disappeared in a flash into their various houses, the tops of which closed with a series of pops that sounded like a bunch of firecrackers being exploded. The adventurers now found themselves alone, and Dorothy asked anxiously: "Is anybody hurt?" "Not me," answered the Scarecrow. "They have given my straw a good shaking up and taken all the lumps out of it. I am now in splendid condition and am really obliged to the Tottenhots for their kind treatment." "I feel much the same way," said Scraps. "My cotton stuffing had sagged a good deal with the day's walking and they've loosened it up until I feel as plump as a sausage. But the play was a little rough and I'd had quite enough of it when you interfered." "Six of them sat on me," said Ojo, "but as they are so little they didn't hurt me much." Just then the roof of the house in front of them opened and a Tottenhot stuck his head out, very cautiously, and looked at the strangers. "Can't you take a joke?" he asked, reproachfully; "haven't you any fun in you at all?" "If I had such a quality," replied the Scarecrow, "your people would have knocked it out of me. But I don't bear grudges. I forgive you." "So do I," added Scraps. "That is, if you behave yourselves after this." "It was just a little rough-house, that's all," said the Tottenhot. "But the question is not if we will behave, but if you will behave? We can't be shut up here all night, because this is our time to play; nor do we care to come out and be chewed up by a savage beast or slapped by an angry girl. That slapping hurts like sixty; some of my folks are crying about it. So here's the proposition: you let us alone and we'll let you alone." "You began it," declared Dorothy. "Well, you ended it, so we won't argue the matter. May we come out again? Or are you still cruel and slappy?" "Tell you what we'll do," said Dorothy. "We're all tired and want to sleep until morning. If you'll let us get into your house, and stay there until daylight, you can play outside all you want to." "That's a bargain!" cried the Tottenhot eagerly, and he gave a queer whistle that brought his people popping out of their houses on all sides. When the house before them was vacant, Dorothy and Ojo leaned over the hole and looked in, but could see nothing because it was so dark. But if the Tottenhots slept there all day the children thought they could sleep there at night, so Ojo lowered himself down and found it was not very deep. "There's a soft cushion all over," said he. "Come on in." Dorothy handed Toto to the boy and then climbed in herself. After her came Scraps and the Scarecrow, who did not wish to sleep but preferred to keep out of the way of the mischievous Tottenhots. There seemed no furniture in the round den, but soft cushions were strewn about the floor and these they found made very comfortable beds. They did not close the hole in the roof but left it open to admit air. It also admitted the shouts and ceaseless laughter of the impish Tottenhots as they played outside, but Dorothy and Ojo, being weary from their journey, were soon fast asleep. Toto kept an eye open, however, and uttered low, threatening growls whenever the racket made by the creatures outside became too boisterous; and the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl sat leaning against the wall and talked in whispers all night long. No one disturbed the travelers until daylight, when in popped the Tottenhot who owned the place and invited them to vacate his premises. Chapter Twenty The Captive Yoop As they were preparing to leave, Dorothy asked: "Can you tell us where there is a dark well?" "Never heard of such a thing," said the Tottenhot. "We live our lives in the dark, mostly, and sleep in the daytime; but we've never seen a dark well, or anything like one." "Does anyone live on those mountains beyond here?" asked the Scarecrow. "Lots of people. But you'd better not visit them. We never go there," was the reply. "What are the people like?" Dorothy inquired. "Can't say. We've been told to keep away from the mountain paths, and so we obey. This sandy desert is good enough for us, and we're not disturbed here," declared the Tottenhot. So they left the man snuggling down to sleep in his dusky dwelling, and went out into the sunshine, taking the path that led toward the rocky places. They soon found it hard climbing, for the rocks were uneven and full of sharp points and edges, and now there was no path at all. Clambering here and there among the boulders they kept steadily on, gradually rising higher and higher until finally they came to a great rift in a part of the mountain, where the rock seemed to have split in two and left high walls on either side. "S'pose we go this way," suggested Dorothy; "it's much easier walking than to climb over the hills." "How about that sign?" asked Ojo. "What sign?" she inquired. The Munchkin boy pointed to some words painted on the wall of rock beside them, which Dorothy had not noticed. The words read: "LOOK OUT FOR YOOP." The girl eyed this sign a moment and turned to the Scarecrow, asking: "Who is Yoop; or what is Yoop?" The straw man shook his head. Then looked at Toto and the dog said "Woof!" "Only way to find out is to go on," said Scraps. This being quite true, they went on. As they proceeded, the walls of rock on either side grew higher and higher. Presently they came upon another sign which read: "BEWARE THE CAPTIVE YOOP." "Why, as for that," remarked Dorothy, "if Yoop is a captive there's no need to beware of him. Whatever Yoop happens to be, I'd much rather have him a captive than running around loose." "So had I," agreed the Scarecrow, with a nod of his painted head. "Still," said Scraps, reflectively: "Yoop-te-hoop-te-loop-te-goop! Who put noodles in the soup? We may beware but we don't care, And dare go where we scare the Yoop." "Dear me! Aren't you feeling a little queer, just now?" Dorothy asked the Patchwork Girl. "Not queer, but crazy," said Ojo. "When she says those things I'm sure her brains get mixed somehow and work the wrong way. "I don't see why we are told to beware the Yoop unless he is dangerous," observed the Scarecrow in a puzzled tone. "Never mind; we'll find out all about him when we get to where he is," replied the little girl. The narrow canyon turned and twisted this way and that, and the rift was so small that they were able to touch both walls at the same time by stretching out their arms. Toto had run on ahead, frisking playfully, when suddenly he uttered a sharp bark of fear and came running back to them with his tail between his legs, as dogs do when they are frightened. "Ah," said the Scarecrow, who was leading the way, "we must be near Yoop." Just then, as he rounded a sharp turn, the Straw man stopped so suddenly that all the others bumped against him. "What is it?" asked Dorothy, standing on tip-toes to look over his shoulder. But then she saw what it was and cried "Oh!" in a tone of astonishment. In one of the rock walls--that at their left--was hollowed a great cavern, in front of which was a row of thick iron bars, the tops and bottoms being firmly fixed in the solid rock. Over this cavern was a big sign, which Dorothy read with much curiosity, speaking the words aloud that all might know what they said: "MISTER YOOP--HIS CAVE The Largest Untamed Giant in Captivity. Height, 21 Feet.--(And yet he has but 2 feet.) Weight, 1640 Pounds.--(But he waits all the time.) Age, 400 Years 'and Up' (as they say in the Department Store advertisements). Temper, Fierce and Ferocious.--(Except when asleep.) Appetite, Ravenous.--(Prefers Meat People and Orange Marmalade.) STRANGERS APPROACHING THIS CAVE DO SO AT THEIR OWN PERIL! P.S.--Don't feed the Giant yourself." "Very well," said Ojo, with a sigh; "let's go back." "It's a long way back," declared Dorothy. "So it is," remarked the Scarecrow, "and it means a tedious climb over those sharp rocks if we can't use this passage. I think it will be best to run by the Giant's cave as fast as we can go. Mister Yoop seems to be asleep just now." But the Giant wasn't asleep. He suddenly appeared at the front of his cavern, seized the iron bars in his great hairy hands and shook them until they rattled in their sockets. Yoop was so tall that our friends had to tip their heads way back to look into his face, and they noticed he was dressed all in pink velvet, with silver buttons and braid. The Giant's boots were of pink leather and had tassels on them and his hat was decorated with an enormous pink ostrich feather, carefully curled. "Yo-ho!" he said in a deep bass voice; "I smell dinner." "I think you are mistaken," replied the Scarecrow. "There is no orange marmalade around here." "Ah, but I eat other things," asserted Mister Yoop. "That is, I eat them when I can get them. But this is a lonely place, and no good meat has passed by my cave for many years; so I'm hungry." "Haven't you eaten anything in many years?" asked Dorothy. "Nothing except six ants and a monkey. I thought the monkey would taste like meat people, but the flavor was different. I hope you will taste better, for you seem plump and tender." "Oh, I'm not going to be eaten," said Dorothy. "Why not?" "I shall keep out of your way," she answered. "How heartless!" wailed the Giant, shaking the bars again. "Consider how many years it is since I've eaten a single plump little girl! They tell me meat is going up, but if I can manage to catch you I'm sure it will soon be going down. And I'll catch you if I can." With this the Giant pushed his big arms, which looked like tree-trunks (except that tree-trunks don't wear pink velvet) between the iron bars, and the arms were so long that they touched the opposite wall of the rock passage. Then he extended them as far as he could reach toward our travelers and found he could almost touch the Scarecrow--but not quite. "Come a little nearer, please," begged the Giant. "I'm a Scarecrow." "A Scarecrow? Ugh! I don't care a straw for a scarecrow. Who is that bright-colored delicacy behind you?" "Me?" asked Scraps. "I'm a Patchwork Girl, and I'm stuffed with cotton." "Dear me," sighed the Giant in a disappointed tone; "that reduces my dinner from four to two--and the dog. I'll save the dog for dessert." Toto growled, keeping a good distance away. "Back up," said the Scarecrow to those behind him. "Let us go back a little way and talk this over." So they turned and went around the bend in the passage, where they were out of sight of the cave and Mister Yoop could not hear them. "My idea," began the Scarecrow, when they had halted, "is to make a dash past the cave, going on a run." "He'd grab us," said Dorothy. "Well, he can't grab but one at a time, and I'll go first. As soon as he grabs me the rest of you can slip past him, out of his reach, and he will soon let me go because I am not fit to eat." They decided to try this plan and Dorothy took Toto in her arms, so as to protect him. She followed just after the Scarecrow. Then came Ojo, with Scraps the last of the four. Their hearts beat a little faster than usual as they again approached the Giant's cave, this time moving swiftly forward. It turned out about the way the Scarecrow had planned. Mister Yoop was quite astonished to see them come flying toward him, and thrusting his arms between the bars he seized the Scarecrow in a firm grip. In the next instant he realized, from the way the straw crunched between his fingers, that he had captured the non-eatable man, but during that instant of delay Dorothy and Ojo had slipped by the Giant and were out of reach. Uttering a howl of rage the monster threw the Scarecrow after them with one hand and grabbed Scraps with the other. The poor Scarecrow went whirling through the air and so cleverly was he aimed that he struck Ojo's back and sent the boy tumbling head over heels, and he tripped Dorothy and sent her, also, sprawling upon the ground. Toto flew out of the little girl's arms and landed some distance ahead, and all were so dazed that it was a moment before they could scramble to their feet again. When they did so they turned to look toward the Giant's cave, and at that moment the ferocious Mister Yoop threw the Patchwork Girl at them. Down went all three again, in a heap, with Scraps on top. The Giant roared so terribly that for a time they were afraid he had broken loose; but he hadn't. So they sat in the road and looked at one another in a rather bewildered way, and then began to feel glad. "We did it!" exclaimed the Scarecrow, with satisfaction. "And now we are free to go on our way." "Mister Yoop is very impolite," declared Scraps. "He jarred me terribly. It's lucky my stitches are so fine and strong, for otherwise such harsh treatment might rip me up the back." "Allow me to apologize for the Giant," said the Scarecrow, raising the Patchwork Girl to her feet and dusting her skirt with his stuffed hands. "Mister Yoop is a perfect stranger to me, but I fear, from the rude manner in which he has acted, that he is no gentleman." Dorothy and Ojo laughed at this statement and Toto barked as if he understood the joke, after which they all felt better and resumed the journey in high spirits. "Of course," said the little girl, when they had walked a way along the passage, "it was lucky for us the Giant was caged; for, if he had happened to be loose, he--he--" "Perhaps, in that case, he wouldn't be hungry any more," said Ojo gravely. Chapter Twenty-One Hip Hopper the Champion They must have had good courage to climb all those rocks, for after getting out of the canyon they encountered more rock hills to be surmounted. Toto could jump from one rock to another quite easily, but the others had to creep and climb with care, so that after a whole day of such work Dorothy and Ojo found themselves very tired. As they gazed upward at the great mass of tumbled rocks that covered the steep incline, Dorothy gave a little groan and said: "That's going to be a ter'ble hard climb, Scarecrow. I wish we could find the dark well without so much trouble." "Suppose," said Ojo, "you wait here and let me do the climbing, for it's on my account we're searching for the dark well. Then, if I don't find anything, I'll come back and join you." "No," replied the little girl, shaking her head positively, "we'll all go together, for that way we can help each other. If you went alone, something might happen to you, Ojo." So they began the climb and found it indeed difficult, for a way. But presently, in creeping over the big crags, they found a path at their feet which wound in and out among the masses of rock and was quite smooth and easy to walk upon. As the path gradually ascended the mountain, although in a roundabout way, they decided to follow it. "This must be the road to the Country of the Hoppers," said the Scarecrow. "Who are the Hoppers?" asked Dorothy. "Some people Jack Pumpkinhead told me about," he replied. "I didn't hear him," replied the girl. "No; you were asleep," explained the Scarecrow. "But he told Scraps and me that the Hoppers and the Horners live on this mountain." "He said in the mountain," declared Scraps; "but of course he meant on it." "Didn't he say what the Hoppers and Horners were like?" inquired Dorothy. "No; he only said they were two separate nations, and that the Horners were the most important." "Well, if we go to their country we'll find out all about 'em," said the girl. "But I've never heard Ozma mention those people, so they can't be very important." "Is this mountain in the Land of Oz?" asked Scraps. "Course it is," answered Dorothy. "It's in the South Country of the Quadlings. When one comes to the edge of Oz, in any direction, there is nothing more to be seen at all. Once you could see sandy desert all around Oz; but now it's diff'rent, and no other people can see us, any more than we can see them." "If the mountain is under Ozma's rule, why doesn't she know about the Hoppers and the Horners?" Ojo asked. "Why, it's a fairyland," explained Dorothy, "and lots of queer people live in places so tucked away that those in the Emerald City never even hear of 'em. In the middle of the country it's diff'rent, but when you get around the edges you're sure to run into strange little corners that surprise you. I know, for I've traveled in Oz a good deal, and so has the Scarecrow." "Yes," admitted the straw man, "I've been considerable of a traveler, in my time, and I like to explore strange places. I find I learn much more by traveling than by staying at home." During this conversation they had been walking up the steep pathway and now found themselves well up on the mountain. They could see nothing around them, for the rocks beside their path were higher than their heads. Nor could they see far in front of them, because the path was so crooked. But suddenly they stopped, because the path ended and there was no place to go. Ahead was a big rock lying against the side of the mountain, and this blocked the way completely. "There wouldn't be a path, though, if it didn't go somewhere," said the Scarecrow, wrinkling his forehead in deep thought. "This is somewhere, isn't it?" asked the Patchwork Girl, laughing at the bewildered looks of the others. "The path is locked, the way is blocked, Yet here we've innocently flocked; And now we're here it's rather queer There's no front door that can be knocked." "Please don't, Scraps," said Ojo. "You make me nervous." "Well," said Dorothy, "I'm glad of a little rest, for that's a drea'ful steep path." As she spoke she leaned against the edge of the big rock that stood in their way. To her surprise it slowly swung backward and showed behind it a dark hole that looked like the mouth of a tunnel. "Why, here's where the path goes to!" she exclaimed. "So it is," answered the Scarecrow. "But the question is, do we want to go where the path does?" "It's underground; right inside the mountain," said Ojo, peering into the dark hole. "Perhaps there's a well there; and, if there is, it's sure to be a dark one." "Why, that's true enough!" cried Dorothy with eagerness. "Let's go in, Scarecrow; 'cause, if others have gone, we're pretty safe to go, too." Toto looked in and barked, but he did not venture to enter until the Scarecrow had bravely gone first. Scraps followed closely after the straw man and then Ojo and Dorothy timidly stepped inside the tunnel. As soon as all of them had passed the big rock, it slowly turned and filled up the opening again; but now they were no longer in the dark, for a soft, rosy light enabled them to see around them quite distinctly. It was only a passage, wide enough for two of them to walk abreast--with Toto in between them--and it had a high, arched roof. They could not see where the light which flooded the place so pleasantly came from, for there were no lamps anywhere visible. The passage ran straight for a little way and then made a bend to the right and another sharp turn to the left, after which it went straight again. But there were no side passages, so they could not lose their way. After proceeding some distance, Toto, who had gone on ahead, began to bark loudly. They ran around a bend to see what was the matter and found a man sitting on the floor of the passage and leaning his back against the wall. He had probably been asleep before Toto's barks aroused him, for he was now rubbing his eyes and staring at the little dog with all his might. There was something about this man that Toto objected to, and when he slowly rose to his foot they saw what it was. He had but one leg, set just below the middle of his round, fat body; but it was a stout leg and had a broad, flat foot at the bottom of it, on which the man seemed to stand very well. He had never had but this one leg, which looked something like a pedestal, and when Toto ran up and made a grab at the man's ankle he hopped first one way and then another in a very active manner, looking so frightened that Scraps laughed aloud. Toto was usually a well behaved dog, but this time he was angry and snapped at the man's leg again and again. This filled the poor fellow with fear, and in hopping out of Toto's reach he suddenly lost his balance and tumbled heel over head upon the floor. When he sat up he kicked Toto on the nose and made the dog howl angrily, but Dorothy now ran forward and caught Toto's collar, holding him back. "Do you surrender?" she asked the man. "Who? Me?" asked the Hopper. "Yes; you," said the little girl. "Am I captured?" he inquired. "Of course. My dog has captured you," she said. "Well," replied the man, "if I'm captured I must surrender, for it's the proper thing to do. I like to do everything proper, for it saves one a lot of trouble." "It does, indeed," said Dorothy. "Please tell us who you are." "I'm Hip Hopper--Hip Hopper, the Champion." "Champion what?" she asked in surprise. "Champion wrestler. I'm a very strong man, and that ferocious animal which you are so kindly holding is the first living thing that has ever conquered me." "And you are a Hopper?" she continued. "Yes. My people live in a great city not far from here. Would you like to visit it?" "I'm not sure," she said with hesitation. "Have you any dark wells in your city?" "I think not. We have wells, you know, but they're all well lighted, and a well lighted well cannot well be a dark well. But there may be such a thing as a very dark well in the Horner Country, which is a black spot on the face of the earth." "Where is the Horner Country?" Ojo inquired. "The other side of the mountain. There's a fence between the Hopper Country and the Horner Country, and a gate in the fence; but you can't pass through just now, because we are at war with the Horners." "That's too bad," said the Scarecrow. "What seems to be the trouble?" "Why, one of them made a very insulting remark about my people. He said we were lacking in understanding, because we had only one leg to a person. I can't see that legs have anything to do with understanding things. The Horners each have two legs, just as you have. That's one leg too many, it seems to me." "No," declared Dorothy, "it's just the right number." "You don't need them," argued the Hopper, obstinately. "You've only one head, and one body, and one nose and mouth. Two legs are quite unnecessary, and they spoil one's shape." "But how can you walk, with only one leg?" asked Ojo. "Walk! Who wants to walk?" exclaimed the man. "Walking is a terribly awkward way to travel. I hop, and so do all my people. It's so much more graceful and agreeable than walking." "I don't agree with you," said the Scarecrow. "But tell me, is there any way to get to the Horner Country without going through the city of the Hoppers?" "Yes; there is another path from the rocky lowlands, outside the mountain, that leads straight to the entrance of the Horner Country. But it's a long way around, so you'd better come with me. Perhaps they will allow you to go through the gate; but we expect to conquer them this afternoon, if we get time, and then you may go and come as you please." They thought it best to take the Hopper's advice, and asked him to lead the way. This he did in a series of hops, and he moved so swiftly in this strange manner that those with two legs had to run to keep up with him. Chapter Twenty-Two The Joking Horners It was not long before they left the passage and came to a great cave, so high that it must have reached nearly to the top of the mountain within which it lay. It was a magnificent cave, illumined by the soft, invisible light, so that everything in it could be plainly seen. The walls were of polished marble, white with veins of delicate colors running through it, and the roof was arched and fantastic and beautiful. Built beneath this vast dome was a pretty village--not very large, for there seemed not more than fifty houses altogether--and the dwellings were of marble and artistically designed. No grass nor flowers nor trees grew in this cave, so the yards surrounding the houses carved in designs both were smooth and bare and had low walls around them to mark their boundaries. In the streets and the yards of the houses were many people all having one leg growing below their bodies and all hopping here and there whenever they moved. Even the children stood firmly upon their single legs and never lost their balance. "All hail, Champion!" cried a man in the first group of Hoppers they met; "whom have you captured?" "No one," replied the Champion in a gloomy voice; "these strangers have captured me." "Then," said another, "we will rescue you, and capture them, for we are greater in number." "No," answered the Champion, "I can't allow it. I've surrendered, and it isn't polite to capture those you've surrendered to." "Never mind that," said Dorothy. "We will give you your liberty and set you free." "Really?" asked the Champion in joyous tones. "Yes," said the little girl; "your people may need you to help conquer the Horners." At this all the Hoppers looked downcast and sad. Several more had joined the group by this time and quite a crowd of curious men, women and children surrounded the strangers. "This war with our neighbors is a terrible thing," remarked one of the women. "Some one is almost sure to get hurt." "Why do you say that, madam?" inquired the Scarecrow. "Because the horns of our enemies are sharp, and in battle they will try to stick those horns into our warriors," she replied. "How many horns do the Horners have?" asked Dorothy. "Each has one horn in the center of his forehead," was the answer. "Oh, then they're unicorns," declared the Scarecrow. "No; they're Horners. We never go to war with them if we can help it, on account of their dangerous horns; but this insult was so great and so unprovoked that our brave men decided to fight, in order to be revenged," said the woman. "What weapons do you fight with?" the Scarecrow asked. "We have no weapons," explained the Champion. "Whenever we fight the Horners, our plan is to push them back, for our arms are longer than theirs." "Then you are better armed," said Scraps. "Yes; but they have those terrible horns, and unless we are careful they prick us with the points," returned the Champion with a shudder. "That makes a war with them dangerous, and a dangerous war cannot be a pleasant one." "I see very clearly," remarked the Scarecrow, "that you are going to have trouble in conquering those Horners--unless we help you." "Oh!" cried the Hoppers in a chorus; "can you help us? Please do! We will be greatly obliged! It would please us very much!" and by these exclamations the Scarecrow knew that his speech had met with favor. "How far is it to the Horner Country?" he asked. "Why, it's just the other side of the fence," they answered, and the Champion added: "Come with me, please, and I'll show you the Horners." So they followed the Champion and several others through the streets and just beyond the village came to a very high picket fence, built all of marble, which seemed to divide the great cave into two equal parts. But the part inhabited by the Horners was in no way as grand in appearance as that of the Hoppers. Instead of being marble, the walls and roof were of dull gray rock and the square houses were plainly made of the same material. But in extent the city was much larger than that of the Hoppers and the streets were thronged with numerous people who busied themselves in various ways. Looking through the open pickets of the fence our friends watched the Horners, who did not know they were being watched by strangers, and found them very unusual in appearance. They were little folks in size and had bodies round as balls and short legs and arms. Their heads were round, too, and they had long, pointed ears and a horn set in the center of the forehead. The horns did not seem very terrible, for they were not more than six inches long; but they were ivory white and sharp pointed, and no wonder the Hoppers feared them. The skins of the Horners were light brown, but they wore snow-white robes and were bare-footed. Dorothy thought the most striking thing about them was their hair, which grew in three distinct colors on each and every head--red, yellow and green. The red was at the bottom and sometimes hung over their eyes; then came a broad circle of yellow and the green was at the top and formed a brush-shaped top-knot. None of the Horners was yet aware of the presence of strangers, who watched the little brown people for a time and then went to the big gate in the center of the dividing fence. It was locked on both sides and over the latch was a sign reading: "WAR IS DECLARED" "Can't we go through?" asked Dorothy. "Not now," answered the Champion. "I think," said the Scarecrow, "that if I could talk with those Horners they would apologize to you, and then there would be no need to fight." "Can't you talk from this side?" asked the Champion. "Not so well," replied the Scarecrow. "Do you suppose you could throw me over that fence? It is high, but I am very light." "We can try it," said the Hopper. "I am perhaps the strongest man in my country, so I'll undertake to do the throwing. But I won't promise you will land on your feet." "No matter about that," returned the Scarecrow. "Just toss me over and I'll be satisfied." So the Champion picked up the Scarecrow and balanced him a moment, to see how much he weighed, and then with all his strength tossed him high into the air. Perhaps if the Scarecrow had been a trifle heavier he would have been easier to throw and would have gone a greater distance; but, as it was, instead of going over the fence he landed just on top of it, and one of the sharp pickets caught him in the middle of his back and held him fast prisoner. Had he been face downward the Scarecrow might have managed to free himself, but lying on his back on the picket his hands waved in the air of the Horner Country while his feet kicked the air of the Hopper Country; so there he was. "Are you hurt?" called the Patchwork Girl anxiously. "Course not," said Dorothy. "But if he wiggles that way he may tear his clothes. How can we get him down, Mr. Champion?" The Champion shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "If he could scare Horners as well as he does crows, it might be a good idea to leave him there." "This is terrible," said Ojo, almost ready to cry. "I s'pose it's because I am Ojo the Unlucky that everyone who tries to help me gets into trouble." "You are lucky to have anyone to help you," declared Dorothy. "But don't worry. We'll rescue the Scarecrow somehow." "I know how," announced Scraps. "Here, Mr. Champion; just throw me up to the Scarecrow. I'm nearly as light as he is, and when I'm on top the fence I'll pull our friend off the picket and toss him down to you." "All right," said the Champion, and he picked up the Patchwork Girl and threw her in the same manner he had the Scarecrow. He must have used more strength this time, however, for Scraps sailed far over the top of the fence and, without being able to grab the Scarecrow at all, tumbled to the ground in the Horner Country, where her stuffed body knocked over two men and a woman and made a crowd that had collected there run like rabbits to get away from her. Seeing the next moment that she was harmless, the people slowly returned and gathered around the Patchwork Girl, regarding her with astonishment. One of them wore a jeweled star in his hair, just above his horn, and this seemed a person of importance. He spoke for the rest of his people, who treated him with great respect. "Who are you, Unknown Being?" he asked. "Scraps," she said, rising to her feet and patting her cotton wadding smooth where it had bunched up. "And where did you come from?" he continued. "Over the fence. Don't be silly. There's no other place I could have come from," she replied. He looked at her thoughtfully. "You are not a Hopper," said he, "for you have two legs. They're not very well shaped, but they are two in number. And that strange creature on top the fence--why doesn't he stop kicking?--must be your brother, or father, or son, for he also has two legs." "You must have been to visit the Wise Donkey," said Scraps, laughing so merrily that the crowd smiled with her, in sympathy. "But that reminds me, Captain--or King--" "I am Chief of the Horners, and my name is Jak." "Of course; Little Jack Horner; I might have known it. But the reason I volplaned over the fence was so I could have a talk with you about the Hoppers." "What about the Hoppers?" asked the Chief, frowning. "You've insulted them, and you'd better beg their pardon," said Scraps. "If you don't, they'll probably hop over here and conquer you." "We're not afraid--as long as the gate is locked," declared the Chief. "And we didn't insult them at all. One of us made a joke that the stupid Hoppers couldn't see." The Chief smiled as he said this and the smile made his face look quite jolly. "What was the joke?" asked Scraps. "A Horner said they have less understanding than we, because they've only one leg. Ha, ha! You see the point, don't you? If you stand on your legs, and your legs are under you, then--ha, ha, ha!--then your legs are your under-standing. Hee, hee, hee! Ho, ho! My, but that's a fine joke. And the stupid Hoppers couldn't see it! They couldn't see that with only one leg they must have less under-standing than we who have two legs. Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Ho, ho!" The Chief wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes with the bottom hem of his white robe, and all the other Horners wiped their eyes on their robes, for they had laughed just as heartily as their Chief at the absurd joke. "Then," said Scraps, "their understanding of the understanding you meant led to the misunderstanding." "Exactly; and so there's no need for us to apologize," returned the Chief. "No need for an apology, perhaps, but much need for an explanation," said Scraps decidedly. "You don't want war, do you?" "Not if we can help it," admitted Jak Horner. "The question is, who's going to explain the joke to the Horners? You know it spoils any joke to be obliged to explain it, and this is the best joke I ever heard." "Who made the joke?" asked Scraps. "Diksey Horner. He is working in the mines, just now, but he'll be home before long. Suppose we wait and talk with him about it? Maybe he'll be willing to explain his joke to the Hoppers." "All right," said Scraps. "I'll wait, if Diksey isn't too long." "No, he's short; he's shorter than I am. Ha, ha, ha! Say! that's a better joke than Diksey's. He won't be too long, because he's short. Hee, hee, ho!" The other Horners who were standing by roared with laughter and seemed to like their Chief's joke as much as he did. Scraps thought it was odd that they could be so easily amused, but decided there could be little harm in people who laughed so merrily. Chapter Twenty-Three Peace Is Declared "Come with me to my dwelling and I'll introduce you to my daughters," said the Chief. "We're bringing them up according to a book of rules that was written by one of our leading old bachelors, and everyone says they're a remarkable lot of girls." So Scraps accompanied him along the street to a house that seemed on the outside exceptionally grimy and dingy. The streets of this city were not paved nor had any attempt been made to beautify the houses or their surroundings, and having noticed this condition Scraps was astonished when the Chief ushered her into his home. Here was nothing grimy or faded, indeed. On the contrary, the room was of dazzling brilliance and beauty, for it was lined throughout with an exquisite metal that resembled translucent frosted silver. The surface of this metal was highly ornamented in raised designs representing men, animals, flowers and trees, and from the metal itself was radiated the soft light which flooded the room. All the furniture was made of the same glorious metal, and Scraps asked what it was. "That's radium," answered the Chief. "We Horners spend all our time digging radium from the mines under this mountain, and we use it to decorate our homes and make them pretty and cosy. It is a medicine, too, and no one can ever be sick who lives near radium." "Have you plenty of it?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "More than we can use. All the houses in this city are decorated with it, just the same as mine is." "Why don't you use it on your streets, then, and the outside of your houses, to make them as pretty as they are within?" she inquired. "Outside? Who cares for the outside of anything?" asked the Chief. "We Horners don't live on the outside of our homes; we live inside. Many people are like those stupid Hoppers, who love to make an outside show. I suppose you strangers thought their city more beautiful than ours, because you judged from appearances and they have handsome marble houses and marble streets; but if you entered one of their stiff dwellings you would find it bare and uncomfortable, as all their show is on the outside. They have an idea that what is not seen by others is not important, but with us the rooms we live in are our chief delight and care, and we pay no attention to outside show." "Seems to me," said Scraps, musingly, "it would be better to make it all pretty--inside and out." "Seems? Why, you're all seams, my girl!" said the Chief; and then he laughed heartily at his latest joke and a chorus of small voices echoed the chorus with "tee-hee-hee! ha, ha!" Scraps turned around and found a row of girls seated in radium chairs ranged along one wall of the room. There were nineteen of them, by actual count, and they were of all sizes from a tiny child to one almost a grown woman. All were neatly dressed in spotless white robes and had brown skins, horns on their foreheads and three-colored hair. "These," said the Chief, "are my sweet daughters. My dears, I introduce to you Miss Scraps Patchwork, a lady who is traveling in foreign parts to increase her store of wisdom." The nineteen Horner girls all arose and made a polite curtsey, after which they resumed their seats and rearranged their robes properly. "Why do they sit so still, and all in a row?" asked Scraps. "Because it is ladylike and proper," replied the Chief. "But some are just children, poor things! Don't they ever run around and play and laugh, and have a good time?" "No, indeed," said the Chief. "That would be improper in young ladies, as well as in those who will sometime become young ladies. My daughters are being brought up according to the rules and regulations laid down by a leading bachelor who has given the subject much study and is himself a man of taste and culture. Politeness is his great hobby, and he claims that if a child is allowed to do an impolite thing one cannot expect the grown person to do anything better." "Is it impolite to romp and shout and be jolly?" asked Scraps. "Well, sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't," replied the Horner, after considering the question. "By curbing such inclinations in my daughters we keep on the safe side. Once in a while I make a good joke, as you have heard, and then I permit my daughters to laugh decorously; but they are never allowed to make a joke themselves." "That old bachelor who made the rules ought to be skinned alive!" declared Scraps, and would have said more on the subject had not the door opened to admit a little Horner man whom the Chief introduced as Diksey. "What's up, Chief?" asked Diksey, winking nineteen times at the nineteen girls, who demurely cast down their eyes because their father was looking. The Chief told the man that his joke had not been understood by the dull Hoppers, who had become so angry that they had declared war. So the only way to avoid a terrible battle was to explain the joke so they could understand it. "All right," replied Diksey, who seemed a good-natured man; "I'll go at once to the fence and explain. I don't want any war with the Hoppers, for wars between nations always cause hard feelings." So the Chief and Diksey and Scraps left the house and went back to the marble picket fence. The Scarecrow was still stuck on the top of his picket but had now ceased to struggle. On the other side of the fence were Dorothy and Ojo, looking between the pickets; and there, also, were the Champion and many other Hoppers. Diksey went close to the fence and said: "My good Hoppers, I wish to explain that what I said about you was a joke. You have but one leg each, and we have two legs each. Our legs are under us, whether one or two, and we stand on them. So, when I said you had less understanding than we, I did not mean that you had less understanding, you understand, but that you had less standundering, so to speak. Do you understand that?" The Hoppers thought it over carefully. Then one said: "That is clear enough; but where does the joke come in?'" Dorothy laughed, for she couldn't help it, although all the others were solemn enough. "I'll tell you where the joke comes in," she said, and took the Hoppers away to a distance, where the Horners could not hear them. "You know," she then explained, "those neighbors of yours are not very bright, poor things, and what they think is a joke isn't a joke at all--it's true, don't you see?" "True that we have less understanding?" asked the Champion. "Yes; it's true because you don't understand such a poor joke; if you did, you'd be no wiser than they are." "Ah, yes; of course," they answered, looking very wise. "So I'll tell you what to do," continued Dorothy. "Laugh at their poor joke and tell 'em it's pretty good for a Horner. Then they won't dare say you have less understanding, because you understand as much as they do." The Hoppers looked at one another questioningly and blinked their eyes and tried to think what it all meant; but they couldn't figure it out. "What do you think, Champion?" asked one of them. "I think it is dangerous to think of this thing any more than we can help," he replied. "Let us do as this girl says and laugh with the Horners, so as to make them believe we see the joke. Then there will be peace again and no need to fight." They readily agreed to this and returned to the fence laughing as loud and as hard as they could, although they didn't feel like laughing a bit. The Horners were much surprised. "That's a fine joke--for a Horner--and we are much pleased with it," said the Champion, speaking between the pickets. "But please don't do it again." "I won't," promised Diksey. "If I think of another such joke I'll try to forget it." "Good!" cried the Chief Horner. "The war is over and peace is declared." There was much joyful shouting on both sides of the fence and the gate was unlocked and thrown wide open, so that Scraps was able to rejoin her friends. "What about the Scarecrow?" she asked Dorothy. "We must get him down, somehow or other," was the reply. "Perhaps the Horners can find a way," suggested Ojo. So they all went through the gate and Dorothy asked the Chief Horner how they could get the Scarecrow off the fence. The Chief didn't know how, but Diksey said: "A ladder's the thing." "Have you one?" asked Dorothy. "To be sure. We use ladders in our mines," said he. Then he ran away to get the ladder, and while he was gone the Horners gathered around and welcomed the strangers to their country, for through them a great war had been avoided. In a little while Diksey came back with a tall ladder which he placed against the fence. Ojo at once climbed to the top of the ladder and Dorothy went about halfway up and Scraps stood at the foot of it. Toto ran around it and barked. Then Ojo pulled the Scarecrow away from the picket and passed him down to Dorothy, who in turn lowered him to the Patchwork Girl. As soon as he was on his feet and standing on solid ground the Scarecrow said: "Much obliged. I feel much better. I'm not stuck on that picket any more." The Horners began to laugh, thinking this was a joke, but the Scarecrow shook himself and patted his straw a little and said to Dorothy: "Is there much of a hole in my back?" The little girl examined him carefully. "There's quite a hole," she said. "But I've got a needle and thread in the knapsack and I'll sew you up again." "Do so," he begged earnestly, and again the Hoppers laughed, to the Scarecrow's great annoyance. While Dorothy was sewing up the hole in the straw man's back Scraps examined the other parts of him. "One of his legs is ripped, too!" she exclaimed. "Oho!" cried little Diksey; "that's bad. Give him the needle and thread and let him mend his ways." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Chief, and the other Horners at once roared with laughter. "What's funny?" inquired the Scarecrow sternly. "Don't you see?" asked Diksey, who had laughed even harder than the others. "That's a joke. It's by odds the best joke I ever made. You walk with your legs, and so that's the way you walk, and your legs are the ways. See? So, when you mend your legs, you mend your ways. Ho, ho, ho! hee, hee! I'd no idea I could make such a fine joke!" "Just wonderful!" echoed the Chief. "How do you manage to do it, Diksey?" "I don't know," said Diksey modestly. "Perhaps it's the radium, but I rather think it's my splendid intellect." "If you don't quit it," the Scarecrow told him, "there'll be a worse war than the one you've escaped from." Ojo had been deep in thought, and now he asked the Chief: "Is there a dark well in any part of your country?" "A dark well? None that ever I heard of," was the answer. "Oh, yes," said Diksey, who overheard the boy's question. "There's a very dark well down in my radium mine." "Is there any water in it?" Ojo eagerly asked. "Can't say; I've never looked to see. But we can find out." So, as soon as the Scarecrow was mended, they decided to go with Diksey to the mine. When Dorothy had patted the straw man into shape again he declared he felt as good as new and equal to further adventures. "Still," said he, "I prefer not to do picket duty again. High life doesn't seem to agree with my constitution." And then they hurried away to escape the laughter of the Horners, who thought this was another joke. Chapter Twenty-Four Ojo Finds the Dark Well They now followed Diksey to the farther end of the great cave, beyond the Horner city, where there were several round, dark holes leading into the ground in a slanting direction. Diksey went to one of these holes and said: "Here is the mine in which lies the dark well you are seeking. Follow me and step carefully and I'll lead you to the place." He went in first and after him came Ojo, and then Dorothy, with the Scarecrow behind her. The Patchwork Girl entered last of all, for Toto kept close beside his little mistress. A few steps beyond the mouth of the opening it was pitch dark. "You won't lose your way, though," said the Horner, "for there's only one way to go. The mine's mine and I know every step of the way. How's that for a joke, eh? The mine's mine." Then he chuckled gleefully as they followed him silently down the steep slant. The hole was just big enough to permit them to walk upright, although the Scarecrow, being much the taller of the party, often had to bend his head to keep from hitting the top. The floor of the tunnel was difficult to walk upon because it had been worn smooth as glass, and pretty soon Scraps, who was some distance behind the others, slipped and fell head foremost. At once she began to slide downward, so swiftly that when she came to the Scarecrow she knocked him off his feet and sent him tumbling against Dorothy, who tripped up Ojo. The boy fell against the Horner, so that all went tumbling down the slide in a regular mix-up, unable to see where they were going because of the darkness. Fortunately, when they reached the bottom the Scarecrow and Scraps were in front, and the others bumped against them, so that no one was hurt. They found themselves in a vast cave which was dimly lighted by the tiny grains of radium that lay scattered among the loose rocks. "Now," said Diksey, when they had all regained their feet, "I will show you where the dark well is. This is a big place, but if we hold fast to each other we won't get lost." They took hold of hands and the Horner led them into a dark corner, where he halted. "Be careful," said he warningly. "The well is at your feet." "All right," replied Ojo, and kneeling down he felt in the well with his hand and found that it contained a quantity of water. "Where's the gold flask, Dorothy?" he asked, and the little girl handed him the flask, which she had brought with her. Ojo knelt again and by feeling carefully in the dark managed to fill the flask with the unseen water that was in the well. Then he screwed the top of the flask firmly in place and put the precious water in his pocket. "All right!" he said again, in a glad voice; "now we can go back." They returned to the mouth of the tunnel and began to creep cautiously up the incline. This time they made Scraps stay behind, for fear she would slip again; but they all managed to get up in safety and the Munchkin boy was very happy when he stood in the Horner city and realized that the water from the dark well, which he and his friends had traveled so far to secure, was safe in his jacket pocket. Chapter Twenty-Five They Bribe the Lazy Quadling "Now," said Dorothy, as they stood on the mountain path, having left behind them the cave in which dwelt the Hoppers and the Horners, "I think we must find a road into the Country of the Winkies, for there is where Ojo wants to go next." "Is there such a road?" asked the Scarecrow. "I don't know," she replied. "I s'pose we can go back the way we came, to Jack Pumpkinhead's house, and then turn into the Winkie Country; but that seems like running 'round a haystack, doesn't it?" "Yes," said the Scarecrow. "What is the next thing Ojo must get?" "A yellow butterfly," answered the boy. "That means the Winkie Country, all right, for it's the yellow country of Oz," remarked Dorothy. "I think, Scarecrow, we ought to take him to the Tin Woodman, for he's the Emp'ror of the Winkies and will help us to find what Ojo wants." "Of course," replied the Scarecrow, brightening at the suggestion. "The Tin Woodman will do anything we ask him, for he's one of my dearest friends. I believe we can take a crosscut into his country and so get to his castle a day sooner than if we travel back the way we came." "I think so, too," said the girl; "and that means we must keep to the left." They were obliged to go down the mountain before they found any path that led in the direction they wanted to go, but among the tumbled rocks at the foot of the mountain was a faint trail which they decided to follow. Two or three hours walk along this trail brought them to a clear, level country, where there were a few farms and some scattered houses. But they knew they were still in the Country of the Quadlings, because everything had a bright red color. Not that the trees and grasses were red, but the fences and houses were painted that color and all the wild-flowers that bloomed by the wayside had red blossoms. This part of the Quadling Country seemed peaceful and prosperous, if rather lonely, and the road was more distinct and easier to follow. But just as they were congratulating themselves upon the progress they had made they came upon a broad river which swept along between high banks, and here the road ended and there was no bridge of any sort to allow them to cross. "This is queer," mused Dorothy, looking at the water reflectively. "Why should there be any road, if the river stops everyone walking along it?" "Wow!" said Toto, gazing earnestly into her face. "That's the best answer you'll get," declared the Scarecrow, with his comical smile, "for no one knows any more than Toto about this road." Said Scraps: "Ev'ry time I see a river, I have chills that make me shiver, For I never can forget All the water's very wet. If my patches get a soak It will be a sorry joke; So to swim I'll never try Till I find the water dry." "Try to control yourself, Scraps," said Ojo; "you're getting crazy again. No one intends to swim that river." "No," decided Dorothy, "we couldn't swim it if we tried. It's too big a river, and the water moves awful fast." "There ought to be a ferryman with a boat," said the Scarecrow; "but I don't see any." "Couldn't we make a raft?" suggested Ojo. "There's nothing to make one of," answered Dorothy. "Wow!" said Toto again, and Dorothy saw he was looking along the bank of the river. "Why, he sees a house over there!" cried the little girl. "I wonder we didn't notice it ourselves. Let's go and ask the people how to get 'cross the river." A quarter of a mile along the bank stood a small, round house, painted bright red, and as it was on their side of the river they hurried toward it. A chubby little man, dressed all in red, came out to greet them, and with him were two children, also in red costumes. The man's eyes were big and staring as he examined the Scarecrow and the Patchwork Girl, and the children shyly hid behind him and peeked timidly at Toto. "Do you live here, my good man?" asked the Scarecrow. "I think I do, Most Mighty Magician," replied the Quadling, bowing low; "but whether I'm awake or dreaming I can't be positive, so I'm not sure where I live. If you'll kindly pinch me I'll find out all about it!" "You're awake," said Dorothy, "and this is no magician, but just the Scarecrow." "But he's alive," protested the man, "and he oughtn't to be, you know. And that other dreadful person--the girl who is all patches--seems to be alive, too." "Very much so," declared Scraps, making a face at him. "But that isn't your affair, you know." "I've a right to be surprised, haven't I?" asked the man meekly. "I'm not sure; but anyhow you've no right to say I'm dreadful. The Scarecrow, who is a gentleman of great wisdom, thinks I'm beautiful," retorted Scraps. "Never mind all that," said Dorothy. "Tell us, good Quadling, how we can get across the river." "I don't know," replied the Quadling. "Don't you ever cross it?" asked the girl. "Never." "Don't travelers cross it?" "Not to my knowledge," said he. They were much surprised to hear this, and the man added: "It's a pretty big river, and the current is strong. I know a man who lives on the opposite bank, for I've seen him there a good many years; but we've never spoken because neither of us has ever crossed over." "That's queer," said the Scarecrow. "Don't you own a boat?" The man shook his head. "Nor a raft?" "Where does this river go to?" asked Dorothy. "That way," answered the man, pointing with one hand, "it goes into the Country of the Winkies, which is ruled by the Tin Emperor, who must be a mighty magician because he's all made of tin, and yet he's alive. And that way," pointing with the other hand, "the river runs between two mountains where dangerous people dwell." The Scarecrow looked at the water before them. "The current flows toward the Winkie Country," said he; "and so, if we had a boat, or a raft, the river would float us there more quickly and more easily than we could walk." "That is true," agreed Dorothy; and then they all looked thoughtful and wondered what could be done. "Why can't the man make us a raft?" asked Ojo. "Will you?" inquired Dorothy, turning to the Quadling. The chubby man shook his head. "I'm too lazy," he said. "My wife says I'm the laziest man in all Oz, and she is a truthful woman. I hate work of any kind, and making a raft is hard work." "I'll give you my em'rald ring," promised the girl. "No; I don't care for emeralds. If it were a ruby, which is the color I like best, I might work a little while." "I've got some Square Meal Tablets," said the Scarecrow. "Each one is the same as a dish of soup, a fried fish, a mutton pot-pie, lobster salad, charlotte russe and lemon jelly--all made into one little tablet that you can swallow without trouble." "Without trouble!" exclaimed the Quadling, much interested; "then those tablets would be fine for a lazy man. It's such hard work to chew when you eat." "I'll give you six of those tablets if you'll help us make a raft," promised the Scarecrow. "They're a combination of food which people who eat are very fond of. I never eat, you know, being straw; but some of my friends eat regularly. What do you say to my offer, Quadling?" "I'll do it," decided the man. "I'll help, and you can do most of the work. But my wife has gone fishing for red eels to-day, so some of you will have to mind the children." Scraps promised to do that, and the children were not so shy when the Patchwork Girl sat down to play with them. They grew to like Toto, too, and the little dog allowed them to pat him on his head, which gave the little ones much joy. There were a number of fallen trees near the house and the Quadling got his axe and chopped them into logs of equal length. He took his wife's clothesline to bind these logs together, so that they would form a raft, and Ojo found some strips of wood and nailed them along the tops of the logs, to render them more firm. The Scarecrow and Dorothy helped roll the logs together and carry the strips of wood, but it took so long to make the raft that evening came just as it was finished, and with evening the Quadling's wife returned from her fishing. The woman proved to be cross and bad-tempered, perhaps because she had only caught one red eel during all the day. When she found that her husband had used her clothesline, and the logs she had wanted for firewood, and the boards she had intended to mend the shed with, and a lot of gold nails, she became very angry. Scraps wanted to shake the woman, to make her behave, but Dorothy talked to her in a gentle tone and told the Quadling's wife she was a Princess of Oz and a friend of Ozma and that when she got back to the Emerald City she would send them a lot of things to repay them for the raft, including a new clothesline. This promise pleased the woman and she soon became more pleasant, saying they could stay the night at her house and begin their voyage on the river next morning. This they did, spending a pleasant evening with the Quadling family and being entertained with such hospitality as the poor people were able to offer them. The man groaned a good deal and said he had overworked himself by chopping the logs, but the Scarecrow gave him two more tablets than he had promised, which seemed to comfort the lazy fellow. Chapter Twenty-Six The Trick River Next morning they pushed the raft into the water and all got aboard. The Quadling man had to hold the log craft fast while they took their places, and the flow of the river was so powerful that it nearly tore the raft from his hands. As soon as they were all seated upon the logs he let go and away it floated and the adventurers had begun their voyage toward the Winkie Country. The little house of the Quadlings was out of sight almost before they had cried their good-byes, and the Scarecrow said in a pleased voice: "It won't take us long to get to the Winkie Country, at this rate." They had floated several miles down the stream and were enjoying the ride when suddenly the raft slowed up, stopped short, and then began to float back the way it had come. "Why, what's wrong?" asked Dorothy, in astonishment; but they were all just as bewildered as she was and at first no one could answer the question. Soon, however, they realized the truth: that the current of the river had reversed and the water was now flowing in the opposite direction--toward the mountains. They began to recognize the scenes they had passed, and by and by they came in sight of the little house of the Quadlings again. The man was standing on the river bank and he called to them: "How do you do? Glad to see you again. I forgot to tell you that the river changes its direction every little while. Sometimes it flows one way, and sometimes the other." They had no time to answer him, for the raft was swept past the house and a long distance on the other side of it. "We're going just the way we don't want to go," said Dorothy, "and I guess the best thing we can do is to get to land before we're carried any farther." But they could not get to land. They had no oars, nor even a pole to guide the raft with. The logs which bore them floated in the middle of the stream and were held fast in that position by the strong current. So they sat still and waited and, even while they were wondering what could be done, the raft slowed down, stopped, and began drifting the other way--in the direction it had first followed. After a time they repassed the Quadling house and the man was still standing on the bank. He cried out to them: "Good day! Glad to see you again. I expect I shall see you a good many times, as you go by, unless you happen to swim ashore." By that time they had left him behind and were headed once more straight toward the Winkie Country. "This is pretty hard luck," said Ojo in a discouraged voice. "The Trick River keeps changing, it seems, and here we must float back and forward forever, unless we manage in some way to get ashore." "Can you swim?" asked Dorothy. "No; I'm Ojo the Unlucky." "Neither can I. Toto can swim a little, but that won't help us to get to shore." "I don't know whether I could swim, or not," remarked Scraps; "but if I tried it I'd surely ruin my lovely patches." "My straw would get soggy in the water and I would sink," said the Scarecrow. So there seemed no way out of their dilemma and being helpless they simply sat still. Ojo, who was on the front of the raft, looked over into the water and thought he saw some large fishes swimming about. He found a loose end of the clothesline which fastened the logs together, and taking a gold nail from his pocket he bent it nearly double, to form a hook, and tied it to the end of the line. Having baited the hook with some bread which he broke from his loaf, he dropped the line into the water and almost instantly it was seized by a great fish. They knew it was a great fish, because it pulled so hard on the line that it dragged the raft forward even faster than the current of the river had carried it. The fish was frightened, and it was a strong swimmer. As the other end of the clothesline was bound around the logs he could not get it away, and as he had greedily swallowed the gold hook at the first bite he could not get rid of that, either. When they reached the place where the current had before changed, the fish was still swimming ahead in its wild attempt to escape. The raft slowed down, yet it did not stop, because the fish would not let it. It continued to move in the same direction it had been going. As the current reversed and rushed backward on its course it failed to drag the raft with it. Slowly, inch by inch, they floated on, and the fish tugged and tugged and kept them going. "I hope he won't give up," said Ojo anxiously. "If the fish can hold out until the current changes again, we'll be all right." The fish did not give up, but held the raft bravely on its course, till at last the water in the river shifted again and floated them the way they wanted to go. But now the captive fish found its strength failing. Seeking a refuge, it began to drag the raft toward the shore. As they did not wish to land in this place the boy cut the rope with his pocket-knife and set the fish free, just in time to prevent the raft from grounding. The next time the river backed up the Scarecrow managed to seize the branch of a tree that overhung the water and they all assisted him to hold fast and prevent the raft from being carried backward. While they waited here, Ojo spied a long broken branch lying upon the bank, so he leaped ashore and got it. When he had stripped off the side shoots he believed he could use the branch as a pole, to guide the raft in case of emergency. They clung to the tree until they found the water flowing the right way, when they let go and permitted the raft to resume its voyage. In spite of these pauses they were really making good progress toward the Winkie Country and having found a way to conquer the adverse current their spirits rose considerably. They could see little of the country through which they were passing, because of the high banks, and they met with no boats or other craft upon the surface of the river. Once more the trick river reversed its current, but this time the Scarecrow was on guard and used the pole to push the raft toward a big rock which lay in the water. He believed the rock would prevent their floating backward with the current, and so it did. They clung to this anchorage until the water resumed its proper direction, when they allowed the raft to drift on. Floating around a bend they saw ahead a high bank of water, extending across the entire river, and toward this they were being irresistibly carried. There being no way to arrest the progress of the raft they clung fast to the logs and let the river sweep them on. Swiftly the raft climbed the bank of water and slid down on the other side, plunging its edge deep into the water and drenching them all with spray. As again the raft righted and drifted on, Dorothy and Ojo laughed at the ducking they had received; but Scraps was much dismayed and the Scarecrow took out his handkerchief and wiped the water off the Patchwork Girl's patches as well as he was able to. The sun soon dried her and the colors of her patches proved good, for they did not run together nor did they fade. After passing the wall of water the current did not change or flow backward any more but continued to sweep them steadily forward. The banks of the river grew lower, too, permitting them to see more of the country, and presently they discovered yellow buttercups and dandelions growing amongst the grass, from which evidence they knew they had reached the Winkie Country. "Don't you think we ought to land?" Dorothy asked the Scarecrow. "Pretty soon," he replied. "The Tin Woodman's castle is in the southern part of the Winkie Country, and so it can't be a great way from here." Fearing they might drift too far, Dorothy and Ojo now stood up and raised the Scarecrow in their arms, as high as they could, thus allowing him a good view of the country. For a time he saw nothing he recognized, but finally he cried: "There it is! There it is!" "What?" asked Dorothy. "The Tin Woodman's tin castle. I can see its turrets glittering in the sun. It's quite a way off, but we'd better land as quickly as we can." They let him down and began to urge the raft toward the shore by means of the pole. It obeyed very well, for the current was more sluggish now, and soon they had reached the bank and landed safely. The Winkie Country was really beautiful, and across the fields they could see afar the silvery sheen of the tin castle. With light hearts they hurried toward it, being fully rested by their long ride on the river. By and by they began to cross an immense field of splendid yellow lilies, the delicate fragrance of which was very delightful. "How beautiful they are!" cried Dorothy, stopping to admire the perfection of these exquisite flowers. "Yes," said the Scarecrow, reflectively, "but we must be careful not to crush or injure any of these lilies." "Why not?" asked Ojo. "The Tin Woodman is very kind-hearted," was the reply, "and he hates to see any living thing hurt in any way." "Are flowers alive?" asked Scraps. "Yes, of course. And these flowers belong to the Tin Woodman. So, in order not to offend him, we must not tread on a single blossom." "Once," said Dorothy, "the Tin Woodman stepped on a beetle and killed the little creature. That made him very unhappy and he cried until his tears rusted his joints, so he couldn't move 'em." "What did he do then?" asked Ojo. "Put oil on them, until the joints worked smooth again." "Oh!" exclaimed the boy, as if a great discovery had flashed across his mind. But he did not tell anybody what the discovery was and kept the idea to himself. It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, and they did not mind it a bit. Late in the afternoon they drew near to the wonderful tin castle of the Emperor of the Winkies, and Ojo and Scraps, who had never seen it before, were filled with amazement. Tin abounded in the Winkie Country and the Winkies were said to be the most skillful tinsmiths in all the world. So the Tin Woodman had employed them in building his magnificent castle, which was all of tin, from the ground to the tallest turret, and so brightly polished that it glittered in the sun's rays more gorgeously than silver. Around the grounds of the castle ran a tin wall, with tin gates; but the gates stood wide open because the Emperor had no enemies to disturb him. When they entered the spacious grounds our travelers found more to admire. Tin fountains sent sprays of clear water far into the air and there were many beds of tin flowers, all as perfectly formed as any natural flowers might be. There were tin trees, too, and here and there shady bowers of tin, with tin benches and chairs to sit upon. Also, on the sides of the pathway leading up to the front door of the castle, were rows of tin statuary, very cleverly executed. Among these Ojo recognized statues of Dorothy, Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wizard, the Shaggy Man, Jack Pumpkinhead and Ozma, all standing upon neat pedestals of tin. Toto was well acquainted with the residence of the Tin Woodman and, being assured a joyful welcome, he ran ahead and barked so loudly at the front door that the Tin Woodman heard him and came out in person to see if it were really his old friend Toto. Next moment the tin man had clasped the Scarecrow in a warm embrace and then turned to hug Dorothy. But now his eye was arrested by the strange sight of the Patchwork Girl, and he gazed upon her in mingled wonder and admiration. Chapter Twenty-Seven The Tin Woodman Objects The Tin Woodman was one of the most important personages in all Oz. Though Emperor of the Winkies, he owed allegiance to Ozma, who ruled all the land, and the girl and the tin man were warm personal friends. He was something of a dandy and kept his tin body brilliantly polished and his tin joints well oiled. Also he was very courteous in manner and so kind and gentle that everyone loved him. The Emperor greeted Ojo and Scraps with cordial hospitality and ushered the entire party into his handsome tin parlor, where all the furniture and pictures were made of tin. The walls were paneled with tin and from the tin ceiling hung tin chandeliers. The Tin Woodman wanted to know, first of all, where Dorothy had found the Patchwork Girl, so between them the visitors told the story of how Scraps was made, as well as the accident to Margolotte and Unc Nunkie and how Ojo had set out upon a journey to procure the things needed for the Crooked Magician's magic charm. Then Dorothy told of their adventures in the Quadling Country and how at last they succeeded in getting the water from a dark well. While the little girl was relating these adventures the Tin Woodman sat in an easy chair listening with intense interest, while the others sat grouped around him. Ojo, however, had kept his eyes fixed upon the body of the tin Emperor, and now he noticed that under the joint of his left knee a tiny drop of oil was forming. He watched this drop of oil with a fast-beating heart, and feeling in his pocket brought out a tiny vial of crystal, which he held secreted in his hand. Presently the Tin Woodman changed his position, and at once Ojo, to the astonishment of all, dropped to the floor and held his crystal vial under the Emperor's knee joint. Just then the drop of oil fell, and the boy caught it in his bottle and immediately corked it tight. Then, with a red face and embarrassed manner, he rose to confront the others. "What in the world were you doing?" asked the Tin Woodman. "I caught a drop of oil that fell from your knee-joint," confessed Ojo. "A drop of oil!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman. "Dear me, how careless my valet must have been in oiling me this morning. I'm afraid I shall have to scold the fellow, for I can't be dropping oil wherever I go." "Never mind," said Dorothy. "Ojo seems glad to have the oil, for some reason." "Yes," declared the Munchkin boy, "I am glad. For one of the things the Crooked Magician sent me to get was a drop of oil from a live man's body. I had no idea, at first, that there was such a thing; but it's now safe in the little crystal vial." "You are very welcome to it, indeed," said the Tin Woodman. "Have you now secured all the things you were in search of?" "Not quite all," answered Ojo. "There were five things I had to get, and I have found four of them. I have the three hairs in the tip of a Woozy's tail, a six-leaved clover, a gill of water from a dark well and a drop of oil from a live man's body. The last thing is the easiest of all to get, and I'm sure that my dear Unc Nunkie--and good Margolotte, as well--will soon be restored to life." The Munchkin boy said this with much pride and pleasure. "Good!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman; "I congratulate you. But what is the fifth and last thing you need, in order to complete the magic charm?" "The left wing of a yellow butterfly," said Ojo. "In this yellow country, and with your kind assistance, that ought to be very easy to find." The Tin Woodman stared at him in amazement. "Surely you are joking!" he said. "No," replied Ojo, much surprised; "I am in earnest." "But do you think for a moment that I would permit you, or anyone else, to pull the left wing from a yellow butterfly?" demanded the Tin Woodman sternly. "Why not, sir?" "Why not? You ask me why not? It would be cruel--one of the most cruel and heartless deeds I ever heard of," asserted the Tin Woodman. "The butterflies are among the prettiest of all created things, and they are very sensitive to pain. To tear a wing from one would cause it exquisite torture and it would soon die in great agony. I would not permit such a wicked deed under any circumstances!" Ojo was astounded at hearing this. Dorothy, too, looked grave and disconcerted, but she knew in her heart that the Tin Woodman was right. The Scarecrow nodded his head in approval of his friend's speech, so it was evident that he agreed with the Emperor's decision. Scraps looked from one to another in perplexity. "Who cares for a butterfly?" she asked. "Don't you?" inquired the Tin Woodman. "Not the snap of a finger, for I have no heart," said the Patchwork Girl. "But I want to help Ojo, who is my friend, to rescue the uncle whom he loves, and I'd kill a dozen useless butterflies to enable him to do that." The Tin Woodman sighed regretfully. "You have kind instincts," he said, "and with a heart you would indeed be a fine creature. I cannot blame you for your heartless remark, as you cannot understand the feelings of those who possess hearts. I, for instance, have a very neat and responsive heart which the wonderful Wizard of Oz once gave me, and so I shall never--never--never permit a poor yellow butterfly to be tortured by anyone." "The yellow country of the Winkies," said Ojo sadly, "is the only place in Oz where a yellow butterfly can be found." "I'm glad of that," said the Tin Woodman. "As I rule the Winkie Country, I can protect my butterflies." "Unless I get the wing--just one left wing--" said Ojo miserably, "I can't save Unc Nunkie." "Then he must remain a marble statue forever," declared the Tin Emperor, firmly. Ojo wiped his eyes, for he could not hold back the tears. "I'll tell you what to do," said Scraps. "We'll take a whole yellow butterfly, alive and well, to the Crooked Magician, and let him pull the left wing off." "No, you won't," said the Tin Woodman. "You can't have one of my dear little butterflies to treat in that way." "Then what in the world shall we do?" asked Dorothy. They all became silent and thoughtful. No one spoke for a long time. Then the Tin Woodman suddenly roused himself and said: "We must all go back to the Emerald City and ask Ozma's advice. She's a wise little girl, our Ruler, and she may find a way to help Ojo save his Unc Nunkie." So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie--unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud. "Is anything hurting you?" inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky," replied the boy. "I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do." "Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause." "Thirteen's my lucky number, too," remarked the Scarecrow. "And mine," said Scraps. "I've just thirteen patches on my head." "But," continued Ojo, "I'm left-handed." "Many of our greatest men are that way," asserted the Emperor. "To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed." "And I've a wart under my right arm," said Ojo. "How lucky!" cried the Tin Woodman. "If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way." "For all those reasons," said the Munchkin boy, "I have been called Ojo the Unlucky." "Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky," declared the tin man. "Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky." "How can I?" asked the boy, "when all my attempts to save my dear uncle have failed?" "Never give up, Ojo," advised Dorothy. "No one ever knows what's going to happen next." Ojo did not reply, but he was so dejected that even their arrival at the Emerald City failed to interest him. The people joyfully cheered the appearance of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow and Dorothy, who were all three general favorites, and on entering the royal palace word came to them from Ozma that she would at once grant them an audience. Dorothy told the girl Ruler how successful they had been in their quest until they came to the item of the yellow butterfly, which the Tin Woodman positively refused to sacrifice to the magic potion. "He is quite right," said Ozma, who did not seem a bit surprised. "Had Ojo told me that one of the things he sought was the wing of a yellow butterfly I would have informed him, before he started out, that he could never secure it. Then you would have been saved the troubles and annoyances of your long journey." "I didn't mind the journey at all," said Dorothy; "it was fun." "As it has turned out," remarked Ojo, "I can never get the things the Crooked Magician sent me for; and so, unless I wait the six years for him to make the Powder of Life, Unc Nunkie cannot be saved." Ozma smiled. "Dr. Pipt will make no more Powder of Life, I promise you," said she. "I have sent for him and had him brought to this palace, where he now is, and his four kettles have been destroyed and his book of recipes burned up. I have also had brought here the marble statues of your uncle and of Margolotte, which are standing in the next room." They were all greatly astonished at this announcement. "Oh, let me see Unc Nunkie! Let me see him at once, please!" cried Ojo eagerly. "Wait a moment," replied Ozma, "for I have something more to say. Nothing that happens in the Land of Oz escapes the notice of our wise Sorceress, Glinda the Good. She knew all about the magic-making of Dr. Pipt, and how he had brought the Glass Cat and the Patchwork Girl to life, and the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and of Ojo's quest and his journey with Dorothy. Glinda also knew that Ojo would fail to find all the things he sought, so she sent for our Wizard and instructed him what to do. Something is going to happen in this palace, presently, and that 'something' will, I am sure, please you all. And now," continued the girl Ruler, rising from her chair, "you may follow me into the next room." Chapter Twenty-Eight The Wonderful Wizard of Oz When Ojo entered the room he ran quickly to the statue of Unc Nunkie and kissed the marble face affectionately. "I did my best, Unc," he said, with a sob, "but it was no use!" Then he drew back and looked around the room, and the sight of the assembled company quite amazed him. Aside from the marble statues of Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, the Glass Cat was there, curled up on a rug; and the Woozy was there, sitting on its square hind legs and looking on the scene with solemn interest; and there was the Shaggy Man, in a suit of shaggy pea-green satin, and at a table sat the little Wizard, looking quite important and as if he knew much more than he cared to tell. Last of all, Dr. Pipt was there, and the Crooked Magician sat humped up in a chair, seeming very dejected but keeping his eyes fixed on the lifeless form of his wife Margolotte, whom he fondly loved but whom he now feared was lost to him forever. Ozma took a chair which Jellia Jamb wheeled forward for the Ruler, and back of her stood the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and Dorothy, as well as the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger. The Wizard now arose and made a low bow to Ozma and another less deferent bow to the assembled company. "Ladies and gentlemen and beasts," he said, "I beg to announce that our Gracious Ruler has permitted me to obey the commands of the great Sorceress, Glinda the Good, whose humble Assistant I am proud to be. We have discovered that the Crooked Magician has been indulging in his magical arts contrary to Law, and therefore, by Royal Edict, I hereby deprive him of all power to work magic in the future. He is no longer a crooked magician, but a simple Munchkin; he is no longer even crooked, but a man like other men." As he pronounced these words the Wizard waved his hand toward Dr. Pipt and instantly every crooked limb straightened out and became perfect. The former magician, with a cry of joy, sprang to his feet, looked at himself in wonder, and then fell back in his chair and watched the Wizard with fascinated interest. "The Glass Cat, which Dr. Pipt lawlessly made," continued the Wizard, "is a pretty cat, but its pink brains made it so conceited that it was a disagreeable companion to everyone. So the other day I took away the pink brains and replaced them with transparent ones, and now the Glass Cat is so modest and well behaved that Ozma has decided to keep her in the palace as a pet." "I thank you," said the cat, in a soft voice. "The Woozy has proved himself a good Woozy and a faithful friend," the Wizard went on, "so we will send him to the Royal Menagerie, where he will have good care and plenty to eat all his life." "Much obliged," said the Woozy. "That beats being fenced up in a lonely forest and starved." "As for the Patchwork Girl," resumed the Wizard, "she is so remarkable in appearance, and so clever and good tempered, that our Gracious Ruler intends to preserve her carefully, as one of the curiosities of the curious Land of Oz. Scraps may live in the palace, or wherever she pleases, and be nobody's servant but her own." "That's all right," said Scraps. "We have all been interested in Ojo," the little Wizard continued, "because his love for his unfortunate uncle has led him bravely to face all sorts of dangers, in order that he might rescue him. The Munchkin boy has a loyal and generous heart and has done his best to restore Unc Nunkie to life. He has failed, but there are others more powerful than the Crooked Magician, and there are more ways than Dr. Pipt knew of to destroy the charm of the Liquid of Petrifaction. Glinda the Good has told me of one way, and you shall now learn how great is the knowledge and power of our peerless Sorceress." As he said this the Wizard advanced to the statue of Margolote and made a magic pass, at the same time muttering a magic word that none could hear distinctly. At once the woman moved, turned her head wonderingly this way and that, to note all who stood before her, and seeing Dr. Pipt, ran forward and threw herself into her husband's outstretched arms. Then the Wizard made the magic pass and spoke the magic word before the statue of Unc Nunkie. The old Munchkin immediately came to life and with a low bow to the Wizard said: "Thanks." But now Ojo rushed up and threw his arms joyfully about his uncle, and the old man hugged his little nephew tenderly and stroked his hair and wiped away the boy's tears with a handkerchief, for Ojo was crying from pure happiness. Ozma came forward to congratulate them. "I have given to you, my dear Ojo and Unc Nunkie, a nice house just outside the walls of the Emerald City," she said, "and there you shall make your future home and be under my protection." "Didn't I say you were Ojo the Lucky?" asked the Tin Woodman, as everyone crowded around to shake Ojo's hand. "Yes; and it is true!" replied Ojo, gratefully. 
959	----	THE LOST PRINCESS OF OZ by L. FRANK BAUM This Book is Dedicated To My Granddaughter OZMA BAUM To My Readers Some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. This pleases me. Imagination has brought mankind through the Dark Ages to its present state of civilization. Imagination led Columbus to discover America. Imagination led Franklin to discover electricity. Imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities. So I believe that dreams--day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain-machinery whizzing--are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. The imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization. A prominent educator tells me that fairy tales are of untold value in developing imagination in the young. I believe it. Among the letters I receive from children are many containing suggestions of "what to write about in the next Oz Book." Some of the ideas advanced are mighty interesting, while others are too extravagant to be seriously considered--even in a fairy tale. Yet I like them all, and I must admit that the main idea in "The Lost Princess of Oz" was suggested to me by a sweet little girl of eleven who called to see me and to talk about the Land of Oz. Said she: "I s'pose if Ozma ever got lost, or stolen, ev'rybody in Oz would be dreadful sorry." That was all, but quite enough foundation to build this present story on. If you happen to like the story, give credit to my little friend's clever hint. L. Frank Baum Royal Historian of Oz LIST OF CHAPTERS 1 A Terrible Loss 2 The Troubles of Glinda the Good 3 The Robbery of Cayke the Cookie Cook 4 Among the Winkies 5 Ozma's Friends Are Perplexed 6 The Search Party 7 The Merry-Go-Round Mountains 8 The Mysterious City 9 The High Coco-Lorum of Thi 10 Toto Loses Something 11 Button-Bright Loses Himself 12 The Czarover of Herku 13 The Truth Pond 14 The Unhappy Ferryman 15 The Big Lavender Bear 16 The Little Pink Bear 17 The Meeting 18 The Conference 19 Ugu the Shoemaker 20 More Surprises 21 Magic Against Magic 22 In the Wicker Castle 23 The Defiance of Ugu the Shoemaker 24 The Little Pink Bear Speaks Truly 25 Ozma of Oz 26 Dorothy Forgives THE LOST PRINCESS BY L. FRANK BAUM CHAPTER 1 A TERRIBLE LOSS There could be no doubt of the fact: Princess Ozma, the lovely girl ruler of the Fairyland of Oz, was lost. She had completely disappeared. Not one of her subjects--not even her closest friends--knew what had become of her. It was Dorothy who first discovered it. Dorothy was a little Kansas girl who had come to the Land of Oz to live and had been given a delightful suite of rooms in Ozma's royal palace just because Ozma loved Dorothy and wanted her to live as near her as possible so the two girls might be much together. Dorothy was not the only girl from the outside world who had been welcomed to Oz and lived in the royal palace. There was another named Betsy Bobbin, whose adventures had led her to seek refuge with Ozma, and still another named Trot, who had been invited, together with her faithful companion Cap'n Bill, to make her home in this wonderful fairyland. The three girls all had rooms in the palace and were great chums; but Dorothy was the dearest friend of their gracious Ruler and only she at any hour dared to seek Ozma in her royal apartments. For Dorothy had lived in Oz much longer than the other girls and had been made a Princess of the realm. Betsy was a year older than Dorothy and Trot was a year younger, yet the three were near enough of an age to become great playmates and to have nice times together. It was while the three were talking together one morning in Dorothy's room that Betsy proposed they make a journey into the Munchkin Country, which was one of the four great countries of the Land of Oz ruled by Ozma. "I've never been there yet," said Betsy Bobbin, "but the Scarecrow once told me it is the prettiest country in all Oz." "I'd like to go, too," added Trot. "All right," said Dorothy. "I'll go and ask Ozma. Perhaps she will let us take the Sawhorse and the Red Wagon, which would be much nicer for us than having to walk all the way. This Land of Oz is a pretty big place when you get to all the edges of it." So she jumped up and went along the halls of the splendid palace until she came to the royal suite, which filled all the front of the second floor. In a little waiting room sat Ozma's maid, Jellia Jamb, who was busily sewing. "Is Ozma up yet?" inquired Dorothy. "I don't know, my dear," replied Jellia. "I haven't heard a word from her this morning. She hasn't even called for her bath or her breakfast, and it is far past her usual time for them." "That's strange!" exclaimed the little girl. "Yes," agreed the maid, "but of course no harm could have happened to her. No one can die or be killed in the Land of Oz, and Ozma is herself a powerful fairy, and she has no enemies so far as we know. Therefore I am not at all worried about her, though I must admit her silence is unusual." "Perhaps," said Dorothy thoughtfully, "she has overslept. Or she may be reading or working out some new sort of magic to do good to her people." "Any of these things may be true," replied Jellia Jamb, "so I haven't dared disturb our royal mistress. You, however, are a privileged character, Princess, and I am sure that Ozma wouldn't mind at all if you went in to see her." "Of course not," said Dorothy, and opening the door of the outer chamber, she went in. All was still here. She walked into another room, which was Ozma's boudoir, and then, pushing back a heavy drapery richly broidered with threads of pure gold, the girl entered the sleeping-room of the fairy Ruler of Oz. The bed of ivory and gold was vacant; the room was vacant; not a trace of Ozma was to be found. Very much surprised, yet still with no fear that anything had happened to her friend, Dorothy returned through the boudoir to the other rooms of the suite. She went into the music room, the library, the laboratory, the bath, the wardrobe, and even into the great throne room, which adjoined the royal suite, but in none of these places could she find Ozma. So she returned to the anteroom where she had left the maid, Jellia Jamb, and said: "She isn't in her rooms now, so she must have gone out." "I don't understand how she could do that without my seeing her," replied Jellia, "unless she made herself invisible." "She isn't there, anyhow," declared Dorothy. "Then let us go find her," suggested the maid, who appeared to be a little uneasy. So they went into the corridors, and there Dorothy almost stumbled over a queer girl who was dancing lightly along the passage. "Stop a minute, Scraps!" she called, "Have you seen Ozma this morning?" "Not I!" replied the queer girl, dancing nearer. "I lost both my eyes in a tussle with the Woozy last night, for the creature scraped 'em both off my face with his square paws. So I put the eyes in my pocket, and this morning Button-Bright led me to Aunt Em, who sewed 'em on again. So I've seen nothing at all today, except during the last five minutes. So of course I haven't seen Ozma." "Very well, Scraps," said Dorothy, looking curiously at the eyes, which were merely two round, black buttons sewed upon the girl's face. There were other things about Scraps that would have seemed curious to one seeing her for the first time. She was commonly called "the Patchwork Girl" because her body and limbs were made from a gay-colored patchwork quilt which had been cut into shape and stuffed with cotton. Her head was a round ball stuffed in the same manner and fastened to her shoulders. For hair, she had a mass of brown yarn, and to make a nose for her a part of the cloth had been pulled out into the shape of a knob and tied with a string to hold it in place. Her mouth had been carefully made by cutting a slit in the proper place and lining it with red silk, adding two rows of pearls for teeth and a bit of red flannel for a tongue. In spite of this queer make-up, the Patchwork Girl was magically alive and had proved herself not the least jolly and agreeable of the many quaint characters who inhabit the astonishing Fairyland of Oz. Indeed, Scraps was a general favorite, although she was rather flighty and erratic and did and said many things that surprised her friends. She was seldom still, but loved to dance, to turn handsprings and somersaults, to climb trees and to indulge in many other active sports. "I'm going to search for Ozma," remarked Dorothy, "for she isn't in her rooms, and I want to ask her a question." "I'll go with you," said Scraps, "for my eyes are brighter than yours, and they can see farther." "I'm not sure of that," returned Dorothy. "But come along, if you like." Together they searched all through the great palace and even to the farthest limits of the palace grounds, which were quite extensive, but nowhere could they find a trace of Ozma. When Dorothy returned to where Betsy and Trot awaited her, the little girl's face was rather solemn and troubled, for never before had Ozma gone away without telling her friends where she was going, or without an escort that befitted her royal state. She was gone, however, and none had seen her go. Dorothy had met and questioned the Scarecrow, Tik-Tok, the Shaggy Man, Button-Bright, Cap'n Bill, and even the wise and powerful Wizard of Oz, but not one of them had seen Ozma since she parted with her friends the evening before and had gone to her own rooms. "She didn't say anything las' night about going anywhere," observed little Trot. "No, and that's the strange part of it," replied Dorothy. "Usually Ozma lets us know of everything she does." "Why not look in the Magic Picture?" suggested Betsy Bobbin. "That will tell us where she is in just one second." "Of course!" cried Dorothy. "Why didn't I think of that before?" And at once the three girls hurried away to Ozma's boudoir, where the Magic Picture always hung. This wonderful Magic Picture was one of the royal Ozma's greatest treasures. There was a large gold frame in the center of which was a bluish-gray canvas on which various scenes constantly appeared and disappeared. If one who stood before it wished to see what any person anywhere in the world was doing, it was only necessary to make the wish and the scene in the Magic Picture would shift to the scene where that person was and show exactly what he or she was then engaged in doing. So the girls knew it would be easy for them to wish to see Ozma, and from the picture they could quickly learn where she was. Dorothy advanced to the place where the picture was usually protected by thick satin curtains and pulled the draperies aside. Then she stared in amazement, while her two friends uttered exclamations of disappointment. The Magic Picture was gone. Only a blank space on the wall behind the curtains showed where it had formerly hung. CHAPTER 2 THE TROUBLES OF GLINDA THE GOOD That same morning there was great excitement in the castle of the powerful Sorceress of Oz, Glinda the Good. This castle, situated in the Quadling Country, far south of the Emerald City where Ozma ruled, was a splendid structure of exquisite marbles and silver grilles. Here the Sorceress lived, surrounded by a bevy of the most beautiful maidens of Oz, gathered from all the four countries of that fairyland as well as from the magnificent Emerald City itself, which stood in the place where the four countries cornered. It was considered a great honor to be allowed to serve the good Sorceress, whose arts of magic were used only to benefit the Oz people. Glinda was Ozma's most valued servant, for her knowledge of sorcery was wonderful, and she could accomplish almost anything that her mistress, the lovely girl Ruler of Oz, wished her to. Of all the magical things which surrounded Glinda in her castle, there was none more marvelous than her Great Book of Records. On the pages of this Record Book were constantly being inscribed, day by day and hour by hour, all the important events that happened anywhere in the known world, and they were inscribed in the book at exactly the moment the events happened. Every adventure in the Land of Oz and in the big outside world, and even in places that you and I have never heard of, were recorded accurately in the Great Book, which never made a mistake and stated only the exact truth. For that reason, nothing could be concealed from Glinda the Good, who had only to look at the pages of the Great Book of Records to know everything that had taken place. That was one reason she was such a great Sorceress, for the records made her wiser than any other living person. This wonderful book was placed upon a big gold table that stood in the middle of Glinda's drawing room. The legs of the table, which were incrusted with precious gems, were firmly fastened to the tiled floor, and the book itself was chained to the table and locked with six stout golden padlocks, the keys to which Glinda carried on a chain that was secured around her own neck. The pages of the Great Book were larger in size than those of an American newspaper, and although they were exceedingly thin, there were so many of them that they made an enormous, bulky volume. With its gold cover and gold clasps, the book was so heavy that three men could scarcely have lifted it. Yet this morning when Glinda entered her drawing room after breakfast, the good Sorceress was amazed to discover that her Great Book of Records had mysteriously disappeared. Advancing to the table, she found the chains had been cut with some sharp instrument, and this must have been done while all in the castle slept. Glinda was shocked and grieved. Who could have done this wicked, bold thing? And who could wish to deprive her of her Great Book of Records? The Sorceress was thoughtful for a time, considering the consequences of her loss. Then she went to her Room of Magic to prepare a charm that would tell her who had stolen the Record Book. But when she unlocked her cupboard and threw open the doors, all of her magical instruments and rare chemical compounds had been removed from the shelves. The Sorceress has now both angry and alarmed. She sat down in a chair and tried to think how this extraordinary robbery could have taken place. It was evident that the thief was some person of very great power, or the theft could not have been accomplished without her knowledge. But who, in all the Land of Oz, was powerful and skillful enough to do this awful thing? And who, having the power, could also have an object in defying the wisest and most talented Sorceress the world has ever known? Glinda thought over the perplexing matter for a full hour, at the end of which time she was still puzzled how to explain it. But although her instruments and chemicals were gone, her KNOWLEDGE of magic had not been stolen, by any means, since no thief, however skillful, can rob one of knowledge, and that is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to acquire. Glinda believed that when she had time to gather more magical herbs and elixirs and to manufacture more magical instruments, she would be able to discover who the robber was and what had become of her precious Book of Records. "Whoever has done this," she said to her maidens, "is a very foolish person, for in time he is sure to be found out and will then be severely punished." She now made a list of the things she needed and dispatched messengers to every part of Oz with instructions to obtain them and bring them to her as soon as possible. And one of her messengers met the little Wizard of Oz, who was seated on the back of the famous live Sawhorse and was clinging to its neck with both his arms, for the Sawhorse was speeding to Glinda's castle with the velocity of the wind, bearing the news that Royal Ozma, Ruler of all the great Land of Oz, had suddenly disappeared and no one in the Emerald City knew what had become of her. "Also," said the Wizard as he stood before the astonished Sorceress, "Ozma's Magic Picture is gone, so we cannot consult it to discover where she is. So I came to you for assistance as soon as we realized our loss. Let us look in the Great Book of Records." "Alas," returned the Sorceress sorrowfully, "we cannot do that, for the Great Book of Records has also disappeared!" CHAPTER 3 THE ROBBERY OF CAYKE THE COOKIE COOK One more important theft was reported in the Land of Oz that eventful morning, but it took place so far from either the Emerald City or the castle of Glinda the Good that none of those persons we have mentioned learned of the robbery until long afterward. In the far southwestern corner of the Winkie Country is a broad tableland that can be reached only by climbing a steep hill, whichever side one approaches it. On the hillside surrounding this tableland are no paths at all, but there are quantities of bramble bushes with sharp prickers on them, which prevent any of the Oz people who live down below from climbing up to see what is on top. But on top live the Yips, and although the space they occupy is not great in extent, the wee country is all their own. The Yips had never--up to the time this story begins--left their broad tableland to go down into the Land of Oz, nor had the Oz people ever climbed up to the country of the Yips. Living all alone as they did, the Yips had queer ways and notions of their own and did not resemble any other people of the Land of Oz. Their houses were scattered all over the flat surface; not like a city, grouped together, but set wherever their owners' fancy dictated, with fields here, trees there, and odd little paths connecting the houses one with another. It was here, on the morning when Ozma so strangely disappeared from the Emerald City, that Cayke the Cookie Cook discovered that her diamond-studded gold dishpan had been stolen, and she raised such a hue and cry over her loss and wailed and shrieked so loudly that many of the Yips gathered around her house to inquire what was the matter. It was a serious thing in any part of the Land of Oz to accuse one of stealing, so when the Yips heard Cayke the Cookie Cook declare that her jeweled dishpan had been stolen, they were both humiliated and disturbed and forced Cayke to go with them to the Frogman to see what could be done about it. I do not suppose you have ever before heard of the Frogman, for like all other dwellers on that tableland, he had never been away from it, nor had anyone come up there to see him. The Frogman was in truth descended from the common frogs of Oz, and when he was first born he lived in a pool in the Winkie Country and was much like any other frog. Being of an adventurous nature, however, he soon hopped out of his pool and began to travel, when a big bird came along and seized him in its beak and started to fly away with him to its nest. When high in the air, the frog wriggled so frantically that he got loose and fell down, down, down into a small hidden pool on the tableland of the Yips. Now that pool, it seems, was unknown to the Yips because it was surrounded by thick bushes and was not near to any dwelling, and it proved to be an enchanted pool, for the frog grew very fast and very big, feeding on the magic skosh which is found nowhere else on earth except in that one pool. And the skosh not only made the frog very big so that when he stood on his hind legs he was as tall as any Yip in the country, but it made him unusually intelligent, so that he soon knew more than the Yips did and was able to reason and to argue very well indeed. No one could expect a frog with these talents to remain in a hidden pool, so he finally got out of it and mingled with the people of the tableland, who were amazed at his appearance and greatly impressed by his learning. They had never seen a frog before, and the frog had never seen a Yip before, but as there were plenty of Yips and only one frog, the frog became the most important. He did not hop any more, but stood upright on his hind legs and dressed himself in fine clothes and sat in chairs and did all the things that people do, so he soon came to be called the Frogman, and that is the only name he has ever had. After some years had passed, the people came to regard the Frogman as their adviser in all matters that puzzled them. They brought all their difficulties to him, and when he did not know anything, he pretended to know it, which seemed to answer just as well. Indeed, the Yips thought the Frogman was much wiser than he really was, and he allowed them to think so, being very proud of his position of authority. There was another pool on the tableland which was not enchanted but contained good, clear water and was located close to the dwellings. Here the people built the Frogman a house of his own, close to the edge of the pool so that he could take a bath or a swim whenever he wished. He usually swam in the pool in the early morning before anyone else was up, and during the day he dressed himself in his beautiful clothes and sat in his house and received the visits of all the Yips who came to him to ask his advice. The Frogman's usual costume consisted of knee-breeches made of yellow satin plush, with trimmings of gold braid and jeweled knee-buckles; a white satin vest with silver buttons in which were set solitaire rubies; a swallow-tailed coat of bright yellow; green stockings and red leather shoes turned up at the toes and having diamond buckles. He wore, when he walked out, a purple silk hat and carried a gold-headed cane. Over his eyes he wore great spectacles with gold rims, not because his eyes were bad, but because the spectacles made him look wise, and so distinguished and gorgeous was his appearance that all the Yips were very proud of him. There was no King or Queen in the Yip Country, so the simple inhabitants naturally came to look upon the Frogman as their leader as well as their counselor in all times of emergency. In his heart the big frog knew he was no wiser than the Yips, but for a frog to know as much as a person was quite remarkable, and the Frogman was shrewd enough to make the people believe he was far more wise than he really was. They never suspected he was a humbug, but listened to his words with great respect and did just what he advised them to do. Now when Cayke the Cookie Cook raised such an outcry over the theft of her diamond-studded dishpan, the first thought of the people was to take her to the Frogman and inform him of the loss, thinking that of course he would tell her where to find it. He listened to the story with his big eyes wide open behind his spectacles, and said in his deep, croaking voice, "If the dishpan is stolen, somebody must have taken it." "But who?" asked Cayke anxiously. "Who is the thief?" "The one who took the dishpan, of course," replied the Frogman, and hearing this all the Yips nodded their heads gravely and said to one another, "It is absolutely true!" "But I want my dishpan!" cried Cayke. "No one can blame you for that wish," remarked the Frogman. "Then tell me where I may find it," she urged. The look the Frogman gave her was a very wise look, and he rose from his chair and strutted up and down the room with his hands under his coattails in a very pompous and imposing manner. This was the first time so difficult a matter had been brought to him, and he wanted time to think. It would never do to let them suspect his ignorance, and so he thought very, very hard how best to answer the woman without betraying himself. "I beg to inform you," said he, "that nothing in the Yip Country has ever been stolen before." "We know that already," answered Cayke the Cookie Cook impatiently. "Therefore," continued the Frogman, "this theft becomes a very important matter." "Well, where is my dishpan?" demanded the woman. "It is lost, but it must be found. Unfortunately, we have no policemen or detectives to unravel the mystery, so we must employ other means to regain the lost article. Cayke must first write a Proclamation and tack it to the door of her house, and the Proclamation must read that whoever stole the jeweled dishpan must return it at once." "But suppose no one returns it," suggested Cayke. "Then," said the Frogman, "that very fact will be proof that no one has stolen it." Cayke was not satisfied, but the other Yips seemed to approve the plan highly. They all advised her to do as the Frogman had told her to, so she posted the sign on her door and waited patiently for someone to return the dishpan--which no one ever did. Again she went, accompanied by a group of her neighbors, to the Frogman, who by this time had given the matter considerable thought. Said he to Cayke, "I am now convinced that no Yip has taken your dishpan, and since it is gone from the Yip Country, I suspect that some stranger came from the world down below us in the darkness of night when all of us were asleep and took away your treasure. There can be no other explanation of its disappearance. So if you wish to recover that golden, diamond-studded dishpan, you must go into the lower world after it." This was indeed a startling proposition. Cayke and her friends went to the edge of the flat tableland and looked down the steep hillside to the plains below. It was so far to the bottom of the hill that nothing there could be seen very distinctly, and it seemed to the Yips very venturesome, if not dangerous, to go so far from home into an unknown land. However, Cayke wanted her dishpan very badly, so she turned to her friends and asked, "Who will go with me?" No one answered the question, but after a period of silence one of the Yips said, "We know what is here on the top of this flat hill, and it seems to us a very pleasant place, but what is down below we do not know. The chances are it is not so pleasant, so we had best stay where we are." "It may be a far better country than this is," suggested the Cookie Cook. "Maybe, maybe," responded another Yip, "but why take chances? Contentment with one's lot is true wisdom. Perhaps in some other country there are better cookies than you cook, but as we have always eaten your cookies and liked them--except when they are burned on the bottom--we do not long for any better ones." Cayke might have agreed to this argument had she not been so anxious to find her precious dishpan, but now she exclaimed impatiently, "You are cowards, all of you! If none of you are willing to explore with me the great world beyond this small hill, I will surely go alone." "That is a wise resolve," declared the Yips, much relieved. "It is your dishpan that is lost, not ours. And if you are willing to risk your life and liberty to regain it, no one can deny you the privilege." While they were thus conversing, the Frogman joined them and looked down at the plain with his big eyes and seemed unusually thoughtful. In fact, the Frogman was thinking that he'd like to see more of the world. Here in the Yip Country he had become the most important creature of them all, and his importance was getting to be a little tame. It would be nice to have other people defer to him and ask his advice, and there seemed no reason so far as he could see why his fame should not spread throughout all Oz. He knew nothing of the rest of the world, but it was reasonable to believe that there were more people beyond the mountain where he now lived than there were Yips, and if he went among them he could surprise them with his display of wisdom and make them bow down to him as the Yips did. In other words, the Frogman was ambitious to become still greater than he was, which was impossible if he always remained upon this mountain. He wanted others to see his gorgeous clothes and listen to his solemn sayings, and here was an excuse for him to get away from the Yip Country. So he said to Cayke the Cookie Cook, "I will go with you, my good woman," which greatly pleased Cayke because she felt the Frogman could be of much assistance to her in her search. But now, since the mighty Frogman had decided to undertake the journey, several of the Yips who were young and daring at once made up their minds to go along, so the next morning after breakfast the Frogman and Cayke the Cookie Cook and nine of the Yips started to slide down the side of the mountain. The bramble bushes and cactus plants were very prickly and uncomfortable to the touch, so the Frogman quickly commanded the Yips to go first and break a path, so that when he followed them he would not tear his splendid clothes. Cayke, too, was wearing her best dress and was likewise afraid of the thorns and prickers, so she kept behind the Frogman. They made rather slow progress and night overtook them before they were halfway down the mountainside, so they found a cave in which they sought shelter until morning. Cayke had brought along a basket full of her famous cookies, so they all had plenty to eat. On the second day the Yips began to wish they had not embarked on this adventure. They grumbled a good deal at having to cut away the thorns to make the path for the Frogman and the Cookie Cook, for their own clothing suffered many tears, while Cayke and the Frogman traveled safely and in comfort. "If it is true that anyone came to our country to steal your diamond dishpan," said one of the Yips to Cayke, "it must have been a bird, for no person in the form of a man, woman or child could have climbed through these bushes and back again." "And, allowing he could have done so," said another Yip, "the diamond-studded gold dishpan would not have repaid him for his troubles and his tribulations." "For my part," remarked a third Yip, "I would rather go back home and dig and polish some more diamonds and mine some more gold and make you another dishpan than be scratched from head to heel by these dreadful bushes. Even now, if my mother saw me, she would not know I am her son." Cayke paid no heed to these mutterings, nor did the Frogman. Although their journey was slow, it was being made easy for them by the Yips, so they had nothing to complain of and no desire to turn back. Quite near to the bottom of the great hill they came upon a great gulf, the sides of which were as smooth as glass. The gulf extended a long distance--as far as they could see in either direction--and although it was not very wide, it was far too wide for the Yips to leap across it. And should they fall into it, it was likely they might never get out again. "Here our journey ends," said the Yips. "We must go back again." Cayke the Cookie Cook began to weep. "I shall never find my pretty dishpan again, and my heart will be broken!" she sobbed. The Frogman went to the edge of the gulf and with his eye carefully measured the distance to the other side. "Being a frog," said he, "I can leap, as all frogs do, and being so big and strong, I am sure I can leap across this gulf with ease. But the rest of you, not being frogs, must return the way you came." "We will do that with pleasure," cried the Yips, and at once they turned and began to climb up the steep mountain, feeling they had had quite enough of this unsatisfactory adventure. Cayke the Cookie Cook did not go with them, however. She sat on a rock and wept and wailed and was very miserable. "Well," said the Frogman to her, "I will now bid you goodbye. If I find your diamond-decorated gold dishpan, I will promise to see that it is safely returned to you." "But I prefer to find it myself!" she said. "See here, Frogman, why can't you carry me across the gulf when you leap it? You are big and strong, while I am small and thin." The Frogman gravely thought over this suggestion. It was a fact that Cayke the Cookie Cook was not a heavy person. Perhaps he could leap the gulf with her on his back. "If you are willing to risk a fall," said he, "I will make the attempt." At once she sprang up and grabbed him around his neck with both her arms. That is, she grabbed him where his neck ought to be, for the Frogman had no neck at all. Then he squatted down, as frogs do when they leap, and with his powerful rear legs he made a tremendous jump. Over the gulf they sailed, with the Cookie Cook on his back, and he had leaped so hard--to make sure of not falling in--that he sailed over a lot of bramble bushes that grew on the other side and landed in a clear space which was so far beyond the gulf that when they looked back they could not see it at all. Cayke now got off the Frogman's back and he stood erect again and carefully brushed the dust from his velvet coat and rearranged his white satin necktie. "I had no idea I could leap so far," he said wonderingly. "Leaping is one more accomplishment I can now add to the long list of deeds I am able to perform." "You are certainly fine at leap-frog," said the Cookie Cook admiringly, "but, as you say, you are wonderful in many ways. If we meet with any people down here, I am sure they will consider you the greatest and grandest of all living creatures." "Yes," he replied, "I shall probably astonish strangers, because they have never before had the pleasure of seeing me. Also, they will marvel at my great learning. Every time I open my mouth, Cayke, I am liable to say something important." "That is true," she agreed, "and it is fortunate your mouth is so very wide and opens so far, for otherwise all the wisdom might not be able to get out of it." "Perhaps nature made it wide for that very reason," said the Frogman. "But come, let us now go on, for it is getting late and we must find some sort of shelter before night overtakes us." CHAPTER 4 AMONG THE WINKIES The settled parts of the Winkie Country are full of happy and contented people who are ruled by a tin Emperor named Nick Chopper, who in turn is a subject of the beautiful girl Ruler, Ozma of Oz. But not all of the Winkie Country is fully settled. At the east, which part lies nearest the Emerald City, there are beautiful farmhouses and roads, but as you travel west, you first come to a branch of the Winkie River, beyond which there is a rough country where few people live, and some of these are quite unknown to the rest of the world. After passing through this rude section of territory, which no one ever visits, you would come to still another branch of the Winkie River, after crossing which you would find another well-settled part of the Winkie Country extending westward quite to the Deadly Desert that surrounds all the Land of Oz and separates that favored fairyland from the more common outside world. The Winkies who live in this west section have many tin mines, from which metal they make a great deal of rich jewelry and other articles, all of which are highly esteemed in the Land of Oz because tin is so bright and pretty and there is not so much of it as there is of gold and silver. Not all the Winkies are miners, however, for some till the fields and grow grains for food, and it was at one of these far-west Winkie farms that the Frogman and Cayke the Cookie Cook first arrived after they had descended from the mountain of the Yips. "Goodness me!" cried Nellary the Winkie wife when she saw the strange couple approaching her house. "I have seen many queer creatures in the Land of Oz, but none more queer than this giant frog who dresses like a man and walks on his hind legs. Come here, Wiljon," she called to her husband, who was eating his breakfast, "and take a look at this astonishing freak." Wiljon the Winkie came to the door and looked out. He was still standing in the doorway when the Frogman approached and said with a haughty croak, "Tell me, my good man, have you seen a diamond-studded gold dishpan?" "No, nor have I seen a copper-plated lobster," replied Wiljon in an equally haughty tone. The Frogman stared at him and said, "Do not be insolent, fellow!" "No," added Cayke the Cookie Cook hastily, "you must be very polite to the great Frogman, for he is the wisest creature in all the world." "Who says that?" inquired Wiljon. "He says so himself," replied Cayke, and the Frogman nodded and strutted up and down, twirling his gold-headed cane very gracefully. "Does the Scarecrow admit that this overgrown frog is the wisest creature in the world?" asked Wiljon. "I do not know who the Scarecrow is," answered Cayke the Cookie Cook. "Well, he lives at the Emerald City, and he is supposed to have the finest brains in all Oz. The Wizard gave them to him, you know." "Mine grew in my head," said the Frogman pompously, "so I think they must be better than any wizard brains. I am so wise that sometimes my wisdom makes my head ache. I know so much that often I have to forget part of it, since no one creature, however great, is able to contain so much knowledge." "It must be dreadful to be stuffed full of wisdom," remarked Wiljon reflectively and eyeing the Frogman with a doubtful look. "It is my good fortune to know very little." "I hope, however, you know where my jeweled dishpan is," said the Cookie Cook anxiously. "I do not know even that," returned the Winkie. "We have trouble enough in keeping track of our own dishpans without meddling with the dishpans of strangers." Finding him so ignorant, the Frogman proposed that they walk on and seek Cayke's dishpan elsewhere. Wiljon the Winkie did not seem greatly impressed by the great Frogman, which seemed to that personage as strange as it was disappointing. But others in this unknown land might prove more respectful. "I'd like to meet that Wizard of Oz," remarked Cayke as they walked along a path. "If he could give a Scarecrow brains, he might be able to find my dishpan." "Poof!" grunted the Frogman scornfully. "I am greater than any wizard. Depend on ME. If your dishpan is anywhere in the world, I am sure to find it." "If you do not, my heart will be broken," declared the Cookie Cook in a sorrowful voice. For a while the Frogman walked on in silence. Then he asked, "Why do you attach so much importance to a dishpan?" "It is the greatest treasure I possess," replied the woman. "It belonged to my mother and to all my grandmothers since the beginning of time. It is, I believe, the very oldest thing in all the Yip Country--or was while it was there--and," she added, dropping her voice to an awed whisper, "it has magic powers!" "In what way?" inquired the Frogman, seeming to be surprised at this statement. "Whoever has owned that dishpan has been a good cook, for one thing. No one else is able to make such good cookies as I have cooked, as you and all the Yips know. Yet the very morning after my dishpan was stolen, I tried to make a batch of cookies and they burned up in the oven! I made another batch that proved too tough to eat, and I was so ashamed of them that I buried them in the ground. Even the third batch of cookies, which I brought with me in my basket, were pretty poor stuff and no better than any woman could make who does not own my diamond-studded gold dishpan. In fact, my good Frogman, Cayke the Cookie Cook will never be able to cook good cookies again until her magic dishpan is restored to her." "In that case," said the Frogman with a sigh, "I suppose we must manage to find it." CHAPTER 5 OZMA'S FRIENDS ARE PERPLEXED "Really," said Dorothy, looking solemn, "this is very s'prising. We can't even find a shadow of Ozma anywhere in the Em'rald City, and wherever she's gone, she's taken her Magic Picture with her." She was standing in the courtyard of the palace with Betsy and Trot, while Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, danced around the group, her hair flying in the wind. "P'raps," said Scraps, still dancing, "someone has stolen Ozma." "Oh, they'd never dare do that!" exclaimed tiny Trot. "And stolen the Magic Picture, too, so the thing can't tell where she is," added the Patchwork Girl. "That's nonsense," said Dorothy. "Why, ev'ryone loves Ozma. There isn't a person in the Land of Oz who would steal a single thing she owns." "Huh!" replied the Patchwork Girl. "You don't know ev'ry person in the Land of Oz." "Why don't I?" "It's a big country," said Scraps. "There are cracks and corners in it that even Ozma doesn't know of." "The Patchwork Girl's just daffy," declared Betsy. "No, she's right about that," replied Dorothy thoughtfully. "There are lots of queer people in this fairyland who never come near Ozma or the Em'rald City. I've seen some of 'em myself, girls. But I haven't seen all, of course, and there MIGHT be some wicked persons left in Oz yet, though I think the wicked witches have all been destroyed." Just then the Wooden Sawhorse dashed into the courtyard with the Wizard of Oz on his back. "Have you found Ozma?" cried the Wizard when the Sawhorse stopped beside them. "Not yet," said Dorothy. "Doesn't Glinda the Good know where she is?" "No. Glinda's Book of Records and all her magic instruments are gone. Someone must have stolen them." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Dorothy in alarm. "This is the biggest steal I ever heard of. Who do you think did it, Wizard?" "I've no idea," he answered. "But I have come to get my own bag of magic tools and carry them to Glinda. She is so much more powerful than I that she may be able to discover the truth by means of my magic quicker and better than I could myself." "Hurry, then," said Dorothy, "for we've all gotten terr'bly worried." The Wizard rushed away to his rooms but presently came back with a long, sad face. "It's gone!" he said. "What's gone?" asked Scraps. "My black bag of magic tools. Someone must have stolen it!" They looked at one another in amazement. "This thing is getting desperate," continued the Wizard. "All the magic that belongs to Ozma or to Glinda or to me has been stolen." "Do you suppose Ozma could have taken them, herself, for some purpose?" asked Betsy. "No indeed," declared the Wizard. "I suspect some enemy has stolen Ozma and for fear we would follow and recapture her has taken all our magic away from us." "How dreadful!" cried Dorothy. "The idea of anyone wanting to injure our dear Ozma! Can't we do ANYthing to find her, Wizard?" "I'll ask Glinda. I must go straight back to her and tell her that my magic tools have also disappeared. The good Sorceress will be greatly shocked, I know." With this, he jumped upon the back of the Sawhorse again, and the quaint steed, which never tired, dashed away at full speed. The three girls were very much disturbed in mind. Even the Patchwork Girl seemed to realize that a great calamity had overtaken them all. Ozma was a fairy of considerable power, and all the creatures in Oz as well as the three mortal girls from the outside world looked upon her as their protector and friend. The idea of their beautiful girl Ruler's being overpowered by an enemy and dragged from her splendid palace a captive was too astonishing for them to comprehend at first. Yet what other explanation of the mystery could there be? "Ozma wouldn't go away willingly, without letting us know about it," asserted Dorothy, "and she wouldn't steal Glinda's Great Book of Records or the Wizard's magic, 'cause she could get them any time just by asking for 'em. I'm sure some wicked person has done all this." "Someone in the Land of Oz?" asked Trot. "Of course. No one could get across the Deadly Desert, you know, and no one but an Oz person could know about the Magic Picture and the Book of Records and the Wizard's magic or where they were kept, and so be able to steal the whole outfit before we could stop 'em. It MUST be someone who lives in the Land of Oz." "But who--who--who?" asked Scraps. "That's the question. Who?" "If we knew," replied Dorothy severely, "we wouldn't be standing here doing nothing." Just then two boys entered the courtyard and approached the group of girls. One boy was dressed in the fantastic Munchkin costume--a blue jacket and knickerbockers, blue leather shoes and a blue hat with a high peak and tiny silver bells dangling from its rim--and this was Ojo the Lucky, who had once come from the Munchkin Country of Oz and now lived in the Emerald City. The other boy was an American from Philadelphia and had lately found his way to Oz in the company of Trot and Cap'n Bill. His name was Button-Bright; that is, everyone called him by that name and knew no other. Button-Bright was not quite as big as the Munchkin boy, but he wore the same kind of clothes, only they were of different colors. As the two came up to the girls, arm in arm, Button-Bright remarked, "Hello, Dorothy. They say Ozma is lost." "WHO says so?" she asked. "Ev'rybody's talking about it in the City," he replied. "I wonder how the people found it out," Dorothy asked. "I know," said Ojo. "Jellia Jamb told them. She has been asking everywhere if anyone has seen Ozma." "That's too bad," observed Dorothy, frowning. "Why?" asked Button-Bright. "There wasn't any use making all our people unhappy till we were dead certain that Ozma can't be found." "Pshaw," said Button-Bright, "it's nothing to get lost. I've been lost lots of times." "That's true," admitted Trot, who knew that the boy had a habit of getting lost and then finding himself again, "but it's diff'rent with Ozma. She's the Ruler of all this big fairyland, and we're 'fraid that the reason she's lost is because somebody has stolen her away." "Only wicked people steal," said Ojo. "Do you know of any wicked people in Oz, Dorothy?" "No," she replied. "They're here, though," cried Scraps, dancing up to them and then circling around the group. "Ozma's stolen; someone in Oz stole her; only wicked people steal; so someone in Oz is wicked!" There was no denying the truth of this statement. The faces of all of them were now solemn and sorrowful. "One thing is sure," said Button-Bright after a time, "if Ozma has been stolen, someone ought to find her and punish the thief." "There may be a lot of thieves," suggested Trot gravely, "and in this fairy country they don't seem to have any soldiers or policemen." "There is one soldier," claimed Dorothy. "He has green whiskers and a gun and is a Major-General, but no one is afraid of either his gun or his whiskers, 'cause he's so tender-hearted that he wouldn't hurt a fly." "Well, a soldier is a soldier," said Betsy, "and perhaps he'd hurt a wicked thief if he wouldn't hurt a fly. Where is he?" "He went fishing about two months ago and hasn't come back yet," explained Button-Bright. "Then I can't see that he will be of much use to us in this trouble," sighed little Trot. "But p'raps Ozma, who is a fairy, can get away from the thieves without any help from anyone." "She MIGHT be able to," answered Dorothy reflectively, "but if she had the power to do that, it isn't likely she'd have let herself be stolen. So the thieves must have been even more powerful in magic than our Ozma." There was no denying this argument, and although they talked the matter over all the rest of that day, they were unable to decide how Ozma had been stolen against her will or who had committed the dreadful deed. Toward evening the Wizard came back, riding slowly upon the Sawhorse because he felt discouraged and perplexed. Glinda came later in her aerial chariot drawn by twenty milk-white swans, and she also seemed worried and unhappy. More of Ozma's friends joined them, and that evening they all had a big talk together. "I think," said Dorothy, "we ought to start out right away in search of our dear Ozma. It seems cruel for us to live comf'tably in her palace while she is a pris'ner in the power of some wicked enemy." "Yes," agreed Glinda the Sorceress, "someone ought to search for her. I cannot go myself, because I must work hard in order to create some new instruments of sorcery by means of which I may rescue our fair Ruler. But if you can find her in the meantime and let me know who has stolen her, it will enable me to rescue her much more quickly." "Then we'll start tomorrow morning," decided Dorothy. "Betsy and Trot and I won't waste another minute." "I'm not sure you girls will make good detectives," remarked the Wizard, "but I'll go with you to protect you from harm and to give you my advice. All my wizardry, alas, is stolen, so I am now really no more a wizard than any of you, but I will try to protect you from any enemies you may meet." "What harm could happen to us in Oz?" inquired Trot. "What harm happened to Ozma?" returned the Wizard. "If there is an Evil Power abroad in our fairyland, which is able to steal not only Ozma and her Magic Picture, but Glinda's Book of Records and all her magic, and my black bag containing all my tricks of wizardry, then that Evil Power may yet cause us considerable injury. Ozma is a fairy, and so is Glinda, so no power can kill or destroy them, but you girls are all mortals and so are Button-Bright and I, so we must watch out for ourselves." "Nothing can kill me," said Ojo the Munchkin boy. "That is true," replied the Sorceress, "and I think it may be well to divide the searchers into several parties, that they may cover all the land of Oz more quickly. So I will send Ojo and Unc Nunkie and Dr. Pipt into the Munchkin Country, which they are well acquainted with; and I will send the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman into the Quadling Country, for they are fearless and brave and never tire; and to the Gillikin Country, where many dangers lurk, I will send the Shaggy Man and his brother, with Tik-Tok and Jack Pumpkinhead. Dorothy may make up her own party and travel into the Winkie Country. All of you must inquire everywhere for Ozma and try to discover where she is hidden." They thought this a very wise plan and adopted it without question. In Ozma's absence, Glinda the Good was the most important person in Oz, and all were glad to serve under her direction. CHAPTER 6 THE SEARCH PARTY Next morning as soon as the sun was up, Glinda flew back to her castle, stopping on the way to instruct the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, who were at that time staying at the college of Professor H. M. Wogglebug, T.E., and taking a course of his Patent Educational Pills. On hearing of Ozma's loss, they started at once for the Quadling Country to search for her. As soon as Glinda had left the Emerald City, Tik-Tok and the Shaggy Man and Jack Pumpkinhead, who had been present at the conference, began their journey into the Gillikin Country, and an hour later Ojo and Unc Nunkie joined Dr. Pipt and together they traveled toward the Munchkin Country. When all these searchers were gone, Dorothy and the Wizard completed their own preparations. The Wizard hitched the Sawhorse to the Red Wagon, which would seat four very comfortably. He wanted Dorothy, Betsy, Trot and the Patchwork Girl to ride in the wagon, but Scraps came up to them mounted upon the Woozy, and the Woozy said he would like to join the party. Now this Woozy was a most peculiar animal, having a square head, square body, square legs and square tail. His skin was very tough and hard, resembling leather, and while his movements were somewhat clumsy, the beast could travel with remarkable swiftness. His square eyes were mild and gentle in expression, and he was not especially foolish. The Woozy and the Patchwork Girl were great friends, and so the Wizard agreed to let the Woozy go with them. Another great beast now appeared and asked to go along. This was none other than the famous Cowardly Lion, one of the most interesting creatures in all Oz. No lion that roamed the jungles or plains could compare in size or intelligence with this Cowardly Lion, who--like all animals living in Oz--could talk and who talked with more shrewdness and wisdom than many of the people did. He said he was cowardly because he always trembled when he faced danger, but he had faced danger many times and never refused to fight when it was necessary. This Lion was a great favorite with Ozma and always guarded her throne on state occasions. He was also an old companion and friend of the Princess Dorothy, so the girl was delighted to have him join the party. "I'm so nervous over our dear Ozma," said the Cowardly Lion in his deep, rumbling voice, "that it would make me unhappy to remain behind while you are trying to find her. But do not get into any danger, I beg of you, for danger frightens me terribly." "We'll not get into danger if we can poss'bly help it," promised Dorothy, "but we shall do anything to find Ozma, danger or no danger." The addition of the Woozy and the Cowardly Lion to the party gave Betsy Bobbin an idea, and she ran to the marble stables at the rear of the palace and brought out her mule, Hank by name. Perhaps no mule you ever saw was so lean and bony and altogether plain looking as this Hank, but Betsy loved him dearly because he was faithful and steady and not nearly so stupid as most mules are considered to be. Betsy had a saddle for Hank, and he declared she would ride on his back, an arrangement approved by the Wizard because it left only four of the party to ride on the seats of the Red Wagon--Dorothy and Button-Bright and Trot and himself. An old sailor man who had one wooden leg came to see them off and suggested that they put a supply of food and blankets in the Red Wagon inasmuch as they were uncertain how long they would be gone. This sailor man was called Cap'n Bill. He was a former friend and comrade of Trot and had encountered many adventures in company with the little girl. I think he was sorry he could not go with her on this trip, but Glinda the Sorceress had asked Cap'n Bill to remain in the Emerald City and take charge of the royal palace while everyone else was away, and the one-legged sailor had agreed to do so. They loaded the back end of the Red Wagon with everything they thought they might need, and then they formed a procession and marched from the palace through the Emerald City to the great gates of the wall that surrounded this beautiful capital of the Land of Oz. Crowds of citizens lined the streets to see them pass and to cheer them and wish them success, for all were grieved over Ozma's loss and anxious that she be found again. First came the Cowardly Lion, then the Patchwork Girl riding upon the Woozy, then Betsy Bobbin on her mule Hank, and finally the Sawhorse drawing the Red Wagon, in which were seated the Wizard and Dorothy and Button-Bright and Trot. No one was obliged to drive the Sawhorse, so there were no reins to his harness; one had only to tell him which way to go, fast or slow, and he understood perfectly. It was about this time that a shaggy little black dog who had been lying asleep in Dorothy's room in the palace woke up and discovered he was lonesome. Everything seemed very still throughout the great building, and Toto--that was the little dog's name--missed the customary chatter of the three girls. He never paid much attention to what was going on around him, and although he could speak, he seldom said anything, so the little dog did not know about Ozma's loss or that everyone had gone in search of her. But he liked to be with people, and especially with his own mistress, Dorothy, and having yawned and stretched himself and found the door of the room ajar, he trotted out into the corridor and went down the stately marble stairs to the hall of the palace, where he met Jellia Jamb. "Where's Dorothy?" asked Toto. "She's gone to the Winkie Country," answered the maid. "When?" "A little while ago," replied Jellia. Toto turned and trotted out into the palace garden and down the long driveway until he came to the streets of the Emerald City. Here he paused to listen, and hearing sounds of cheering, he ran swiftly along until he came in sight of the Red Wagon and the Woozy and the Lion and the Mule and all the others. Being a wise little dog, he decided not to show himself to Dorothy just then, lest he be sent back home, but he never lost sight of the party of travelers, all of whom were so eager to get ahead that they never thought to look behind them. When they came to the gates in the city wall, the Guardian of the Gates came out to throw wide the golden portals and let them pass through. "Did any strange person come in or out of the city on the night before last when Ozma was stolen?" asked Dorothy. "No indeed, Princess," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "Of course not," said the Wizard. "Anyone clever enough to steal all the things we have lost would not mind the barrier of a wall like this in the least. I think the thief must have flown through the air, for otherwise he could not have stolen from Ozma's royal palace and Glinda's faraway castle in the same night. Moreover, as there are no airships in Oz and no way for airships from the outside world to get into this country, I believe the thief must have flown from place to place by means of magic arts which neither Glinda nor I understand." On they went, and before the gates closed behind them, Toto managed to dodge through them. The country surrounding the Emerald City was thickly settled, and for a while our friends rode over nicely paved roads which wound through a fertile country dotted with beautiful houses, all built in the quaint Oz fashion. In the course of a few hours, however, they had left the tilled fields and entered the Country of the Winkies, which occupies a quarter of all the territory in the Land of Oz but is not so well known as many other parts of Ozma's fairyland. Long before night the travelers had crossed the Winkie River near to the Scarecrow's Tower (which was now vacant) and had entered the Rolling Prairie where few people live. They asked everyone they met for news of Ozma, but none in this district had seen her or even knew that she had been stolen. And by nightfall they had passed all the farmhouses and were obliged to stop and ask for shelter at the hut of a lonely shepherd. When they halted, Toto was not far behind. The little dog halted, too, and stealing softly around the party, he hid himself behind the hut. The shepherd was a kindly old man and treated the travelers with much courtesy. He slept out of doors that night, giving up his hut to the three girls, who made their beds on the floor with the blankets they had brought in the Red Wagon. The Wizard and Button-Bright also slept out of doors, and so did the Cowardly Lion and Hank the Mule. But Scraps and the Sawhorse did not sleep at all, and the Woozy could stay awake for a month at a time if he wished to, so these three sat in a little group by themselves and talked together all through the night. In the darkness, the Cowardly Lion felt a shaggy little form nestling beside his own, and he said sleepily, "Where did you come from, Toto?" "From home," said the dog. "If you roll over, roll the other way so you won't smash me." "Does Dorothy know you are here?" asked the Lion. "I believe not," admitted Toto, and he added a little anxiously, "Do you think, friend Lion, we are now far enough from the Emerald City for me to risk showing myself, or will Dorothy send me back because I wasn't invited?" "Only Dorothy can answer that question," said the Lion. "For my part, Toto, I consider this affair none of my business, so you must act as you think best." Then the huge beast went to sleep again, and Toto snuggled closer to the warm, hairy body and also slept. He was a wise little dog in his way, and didn't intend to worry when there was something much better to do. In the morning the Wizard built a fire, over which the girls cooked a very good breakfast. Suddenly Dorothy discovered Toto sitting quietly before the fire, and the little girl exclaimed, "Goodness me, Toto! Where did YOU come from?" "From the place you cruelly left me," replied the dog in a reproachful tone. "I forgot all about you," admitted Dorothy, "and if I hadn't, I'd prob'ly left you with Jellia Jamb, seeing this isn't a pleasure trip but stric'ly business. But now that you're here, Toto, I s'pose you'll have to stay with us, unless you'd rather go back again. We may get ourselves into trouble before we're done, Toto." "Never mind that," said Toto, wagging his tail. "I'm hungry, Dorothy." "Breakfas'll soon be ready, and then you shall have your share," promised his little mistress, who was really glad to have her dog with her. She and Toto had traveled together before, and she knew he was a good and faithful comrade. When the food was cooked and served, the girls invited the old shepherd to join them in the morning meal. He willingly consented, and while they ate he said to them, "You are now about to pass through a very dangerous country, unless you turn to the north or to the south to escape its perils." "In that case," said the Cowardly Lion, "let us turn, by all means, for I dread to face dangers of any sort." "What's the matter with the country ahead of us?" inquired Dorothy. "Beyond this Rolling Prairie," explained the shepherd, "are the Merry-Go-Round Mountains, set close together and surrounded by deep gulfs so that no one is able to get past them. Beyond the Merry-Go-Round Mountains it is said the Thistle-Eaters and the Herkus live." "What are they like?" demanded Dorothy. "No one knows, for no one has ever passed the Merry-Go-Round Mountains," was the reply, "but it is said that the Thistle-Eaters hitch dragons to their chariots and that the Herkus are waited upon by giants whom they have conquered and made their slaves." "Who says all that?" asked Betsy. "It is common report," declared the shepherd. "Everyone believes it." "I don't see how they know," remarked little Trot, "if no one has been there." "Perhaps the birds who fly over that country brought the news," suggested Betsy. "If you escaped those dangers," continued the shepherd, "you might encounter others still more serious before you came to the next branch of the Winkie River. It is true that beyond that river there lies a fine country inhabited by good people, and if you reached there, you would have no further trouble. It is between here and the west branch of the Winkie River that all dangers lie, for that is the unknown territory that is inhabited by terrible, lawless people." "It may be, and it may not be," said the Wizard. "We shall know when we get there." "Well," persisted the shepherd, "in a fairy country such as ours, every undiscovered place is likely to harbor wicked creatures. If they were not wicked, they would discover themselves and by coming among us submit to Ozma's rule and be good and considerate, as are all the Oz people whom we know." "That argument," stated the little Wizard, "convinces me that it is our duty to go straight to those unknown places, however dangerous they may be, for it is surely some cruel and wicked person who has stolen our Ozma, and we know it would be folly to search among good people for the culprit. Ozma may not be hidden in the secret places of the Winkie Country, it is true, but it is our duty to travel to every spot, however dangerous, where our beloved Ruler is likely to be imprisoned." "You're right about that," said Button-Bright approvingly. "Dangers don't hurt us. Only things that happen ever hurt anyone, and a danger is a thing that might happen and might not happen, and sometimes don't amount to shucks. I vote we go ahead and take our chances." They were all of the same opinion, so they packed up and said goodbye to the friendly shepherd and proceeded on their way. CHAPTER 7 THE MERRY-GO-ROUND MOUNTAINS The Rolling Prairie was not difficult to travel over, although it was all uphill and downhill, so for a while they made good progress. Not even a shepherd was to be met with now, and the farther they advanced the more dreary the landscape became. At noon they stopped for a "picnic luncheon," as Betsy called it, and then they again resumed their journey. All the animals were swift and tireless, and even the Cowardly Lion and the Mule found they could keep up with the pace of the Woozy and the Sawhorse. It was the middle of the afternoon when first they came in sight of a cluster of low mountains. These were cone-shaped, rising from broad bases to sharp peaks at the tops. From a distance the mountains appeared indistinct and seemed rather small--more like hills than mountains--but as the travelers drew nearer, they noted a most unusual circumstance: the hills were all whirling around, some in one direction and some the opposite way. "I guess these are the Merry-Go-Round Mountains, all right," said Dorothy. "They must be," said the Wizard. "They go 'round, sure enough," agreed Trot, "but they don't seem very merry." There were several rows of these mountains, extending both to the right and to the left for miles and miles. How many rows there might be none could tell, but between the first row of peaks could be seen other peaks, all steadily whirling around one way or another. Continuing to ride nearer, our friends watched these hills attentively, until at last, coming close up, they discovered there was a deep but narrow gulf around the edge of each mountain, and that the mountains were set so close together that the outer gulf was continuous and barred farther advance. At the edge of the gulf they all dismounted and peered over into its depths. There was no telling where the bottom was, if indeed there was any bottom at all. From where they stood it seemed as if the mountains had been set in one great hole in the ground, just close enough together so they would not touch, and that each mountain was supported by a rocky column beneath its base which extended far down in the black pit below. From the land side it seemed impossible to get across the gulf or, succeeding in that, to gain a foothold on any of the whirling mountains. "This ditch is too wide to jump across," remarked Button-Bright. "P'raps the Lion could do it," suggested Dorothy. "What, jump from here to that whirling hill?" cried the Lion indignantly. "I should say not! Even if I landed there and could hold on, what good would it do? There's another spinning mountain beyond it, and perhaps still another beyond that. I don't believe any living creature could jump from one mountain to another when both are whirling like tops and in different directions." "I propose we turn back," said the Wooden Sawhorse with a yawn of his chopped-out mouth as he stared with his knot eyes at the Merry-Go-Round Mountains. "I agree with you," said the Woozy, wagging his square head. "We should have taken the shepherd's advice," added Hank the Mule. The others of the party, however they might be puzzled by the serious problem that confronted them, would not allow themselves to despair. "If we once get over these mountains," said Button-Bright, "we could probably get along all right." "True enough," agreed Dorothy. "So we must find some way, of course, to get past these whirligig hills. But how?" "I wish the Ork was with us," sighed Trot. "But the Ork isn't here," said the Wizard, "and we must depend upon ourselves to conquer this difficulty. Unfortunately, all my magic has been stolen, otherwise I am sure I could easily get over the mountains." "Unfortunately," observed the Woozy, "none of us has wings. And we're in a magic country without any magic." "What is that around your waist, Dorothy?" asked the Wizard. "That? Oh, that's just the Magic Belt I once captured from the Nome King," she replied. "A Magic Belt! Why, that's fine. I'm sure a Magic Belt would take you over these hills." "It might if I knew how to work it," said the little girl. "Ozma knows a lot of its magic, but I've never found out about it. All I know is that while I am wearing it, nothing can hurt me." "Try wishing yourself across and see if it will obey you," suggested the Wizard. "But what good would that do?" asked Dorothy. "If I got across, it wouldn't help the rest of you, and I couldn't go alone among all those giants and dragons while you stayed here." "True enough," agreed the Wizard sadly. And then, after looking around the group, he inquired, "What is that on your finger, Trot?" "A ring. The Mermaids gave it to me," she explained, "and if ever I'm in trouble when I'm on the water, I can call the Mermaids and they'll come and help me. But the Mermaids can't help me on the land, you know, 'cause they swim, and--and--they haven't any legs." "True enough," repeated the Wizard, more sadly. There was a big, broad, spreading tree near the edge of the gulf, and as the sun was hot above them, they all gathered under the shade of the tree to study the problem of what to do next. "If we had a long rope," said Betsy, "we could fasten it to this tree and let the other end of it down into the gulf and all slide down it." "Well, what then?" asked the Wizard. "Then, if we could manage to throw the rope up the other side," explained the girl, "we could all climb it and be on the other side of the gulf." "There are too many 'if's' in that suggestion," remarked the little Wizard. "And you must remember that the other side is nothing but spinning mountains, so we couldn't possibly fasten a rope to them, even if we had one." "That rope idea isn't half bad, though," said the Patchwork Girl, who had been dancing dangerously near to the edge of the gulf. "What do you mean?" asked Dorothy. The Patchwork Girl suddenly stood still and cast her button eyes around the group. "Ha, I have it!" she exclaimed. "Unharness the Sawhorse, somebody. My fingers are too clumsy." "Shall we?" asked Button-Bright doubtfully, turning to the others. "Well, Scraps has a lot of brains, even if she IS stuffed with cotton," asserted the Wizard. "If her brains can help us out of this trouble, we ought to use them." So he began unharnessing the Sawhorse, and Button-Bright and Dorothy helped him. When they had removed the harness, the Patchwork Girl told them to take it all apart and buckle the straps together, end to end. And after they had done this, they found they had one very long strap that was stronger than any rope. "It would reach across the gulf easily," said the Lion, who with the other animals had sat on his haunches and watched this proceeding. "But I don't see how it could be fastened to one of those dizzy mountains." Scraps had no such notion as that in her baggy head. She told them to fasten one end of the strap to a stout limb of the tree, pointing to one which extended quite to the edge of the gulf. Button-Bright did that, climbing the tree and then crawling out upon the limb until he was nearly over the gulf. There he managed to fasten the strap, which reached to the ground below, and then he slid down it and was caught by the Wizard, who feared he might fall into the chasm. Scraps was delighted. She seized the lower end of the strap, and telling them all to get out of her way, she went back as far as the strap would reach and then made a sudden run toward the gulf. Over the edge she swung, clinging to the strap until it had gone as far as its length permitted, when she let go and sailed gracefully through the air until she alighted upon the mountain just in front of them. Almost instantly, as the great cone continued to whirl, she was sent flying against the next mountain in the rear, and that one had only turned halfway around when Scraps was sent flying to the next mountain behind it. Then her patchwork form disappeared from view entirely, and the amazed watchers under the tree wondered what had become of her. "She's gone, and she can't get back," said the Woozy. "My, how she bounded from one mountain to another!" exclaimed the Lion. "That was because they whirl so fast," the Wizard explained. "Scraps had nothing to hold on to, and so of course she was tossed from one hill to another. I'm afraid we shall never see the poor Patchwork Girl again." "I shall see her," declared the Woozy. "Scraps is an old friend of mine, and if there are really Thistle-Eaters and Giants on the other side of those tops, she will need someone to protect her. So here I go!" He seized the dangling strap firmly in his square mouth, and in the same way that Scraps had done swung himself over the gulf. He let go the strap at the right moment and fell upon the first whirling mountain. Then he bounded to the next one back of it--not on his feet, but "all mixed up," as Trot said--and then he shot across to another mountain, disappearing from view just as the Patchwork Girl had done. "It seems to work, all right," remarked Button-Bright. "I guess I'll try it." "Wait a minute," urged the Wizard. "Before any more of us make this desperate leap into the beyond, we must decide whether all will go or if some of us will remain behind." "Do you s'pose it hurt them much to bump against those mountains?" asked Trot. "I don't s'pose anything could hurt Scraps or the Woozy," said Dorothy, "and nothing can hurt ME, because I wear the Magic Belt. So as I'm anxious to find Ozma, I mean to swing myself across too." "I'll take my chances," decided Button-Bright. "I'm sure it will hurt dreadfully, and I'm afraid to do it," said the Lion, who was already trembling, "but I shall do it if Dorothy does." "Well, that will leave Betsy and the Mule and Trot," said the Wizard, "for of course I shall go that I may look after Dorothy. Do you two girls think you can find your way back home again?" he asked, addressing Trot and Betsy. "I'm not afraid. Not much, that is," said Trot. "It looks risky, I know, but I'm sure I can stand it if the others can." "If it wasn't for leaving Hank," began Betsy in a hesitating voice. But the Mule interrupted her by saying, "Go ahead if you want to, and I'll come after you. A mule is as brave as a lion any day." "Braver," said the Lion, "for I'm a coward, friend Hank, and you are not. But of course the Sawhorse--" "Oh, nothing ever hurts ME," asserted the Sawhorse calmly. "There's never been any question about my going. I can't take the Red Wagon, though." "No, we must leave the wagon," said the wizard, "and also we must leave our food and blankets, I fear. But if we can defy these Merry-Go-Round Mountains to stop us, we won't mind the sacrifice of some of our comforts." "No one knows where we're going to land!" remarked the Lion in a voice that sounded as if he were going to cry. "We may not land at all," replied Hank, "but the best way to find out what will happen to us is to swing across as Scraps and the Woozy have done." "I think I shall go last," said the Wizard, "so who wants to go first?" "I'll go," decided Dorothy. "No, it's my turn first," said Button-Bright. "Watch me!" Even as he spoke, the boy seized the strap, and after making a run swung himself across the gulf. Away he went, bumping from hill to hill until he disappeared. They listened intently, but the boy uttered no cry until he had been gone some moments, when they heard a faint "Hullo-a!" as if called from a great distance. The sound gave them courage, however, and Dorothy picked up Toto and held him fast under one arm while with the other hand she seized the strap and bravely followed after Button-Bright. When she struck the first whirling mountain, she fell upon it quite softly, but before she had time to think, she flew through the air and lit with a jar on the side of the next mountain. Again she flew and alighted, and again and still again, until after five successive bumps she fell sprawling upon a green meadow and was so dazed and bewildered by her bumpy journey across the Merry-Go-Round Mountains that she lay quite still for a time to collect her thoughts. Toto had escaped from her arms just as she fell, and he now sat beside her panting with excitement. Then Dorothy realized that someone was helping her to her feet, and here was Button-Bright on one side of her and Scraps on the other, both seeming to be unhurt. The next object her eyes fell upon was the Woozy, squatting upon his square back end and looking at her reflectively, while Toto barked joyously to find his mistress unhurt after her whirlwind trip. "Good!" said the Woozy. "Here's another and a dog, both safe and sound. But my word, Dorothy, you flew some! If you could have seen yourself, you'd have been absolutely astonished." "They say 'Time flies,'" laughed Button-Bright, "but Time never made a quicker journey than that." Just then, as Dorothy turned around to look at the whirling mountains, she was in time to see tiny Trot come flying from the nearest hill to fall upon the soft grass not a yard away from where she stood. Trot was so dizzy she couldn't stand at first, but she wasn't at all hurt, and presently Betsy came flying to them and would have bumped into the others had they not retreated in time to avoid her. Then, in quick succession, came the Lion, Hank and the Sawhorse, bounding from mountain to mountain to fall safely upon the greensward. Only the Wizard was now left behind, and they waited so long for him that Dorothy began to be worried. But suddenly he came flying from the nearest mountain and tumbled heels over head beside them. Then they saw that he had wound two of their blankets around his body to keep the bumps from hurting him and had fastened the blankets with some of the spare straps from the harness of the Sawhorse. CHAPTER 8 THE MYSTERIOUS CITY There they sat upon the grass, their heads still swimming from their dizzy flights, and looked at one another in silent bewilderment. But presently, when assured that no one was injured, they grew more calm and collected, and the Lion said with a sigh of relief, "Who would have thought those Merry-Go-Round Mountains were made of rubber?" "Are they really rubber?" asked Trot. "They must be," replied the Lion, "for otherwise we would not have bounded so swiftly from one to another without getting hurt." "That is all guesswork," declared the Wizard, unwinding the blankets from his body, "for none of us stayed long enough on the mountains to discover what they are made of. But where are we?" "That's guesswork," said Scraps. "The shepherd said the Thistle-Eaters live this side of the mountains and are waited on by giants." "Oh no," said Dorothy, "it's the Herkus who have giant slaves, and the Thistle-Eaters hitch dragons to their chariots." "How could they do that?" asked the Woozy. "Dragons have long tails, which would get in the way of the chariot wheels." "And if the Herkus have conquered the giants," said Trot, "they must be at least twice the size of giants. P'raps the Herkus are the biggest people in all the world!" "Perhaps they are," assented the Wizard in a thoughtful tone of voice. "And perhaps the shepherd didn't know what he was talking about. Let us travel on toward the west and discover for ourselves what the people of this country are like." It seemed a pleasant enough country, and it was quite still and peaceful when they turned their eyes away from the silently whirling mountains. There were trees here and there and green bushes, while throughout the thick grass were scattered brilliantly colored flowers. About a mile away was a low hill that hid from them all the country beyond it, so they realized they could not tell much about the country until they had crossed the hill. The Red Wagon having been left behind, it was now necessary to make other arrangements for traveling. The Lion told Dorothy she could ride upon his back as she had often done before, and the Woozy said he could easily carry both Trot and the Patchwork Girl. Betsy still had her mule, Hank, and Button-Bright and the Wizard could sit together upon the long, thin back of the Sawhorse, but they took care to soften their seat with a pad of blankets before they started. Thus mounted, the adventurers started for the hill, which was reached after a brief journey. As they mounted the crest and gazed beyond the hill, they discovered not far away a walled city, from the towers and spires of which gay banners were flying. It was not a very big city, indeed, but its walls were very high and thick, and it appeared that the people who lived there must have feared attack by a powerful enemy, else they would not have surrounded their dwellings with so strong a barrier. There was no path leading from the mountains to the city, and this proved that the people seldom or never visited the whirling hills, but our friends found the grass soft and agreeable to travel over, and with the city before them they could not well lose their way. When they drew nearer to the walls, the breeze carried to their ears the sound of music--dim at first, but growing louder as they advanced. "That doesn't seem like a very terr'ble place," remarked Dorothy. "Well, it LOOKS all right," replied Trot from her seat on the Woozy, "but looks can't always be trusted." "MY looks can," said Scraps. "I LOOK patchwork, and I AM patchwork, and no one but a blind owl could ever doubt that I'm the Patchwork Girl." Saying which, she turned a somersault off the Woozy and, alighting on her feet, began wildly dancing about. "Are owls ever blind?" asked Trot. "Always, in the daytime," said Button-Bright. "But Scraps can see with her button eyes both day and night. Isn't it queer?" "It's queer that buttons can see at all," answered Trot. "But good gracious! What's become of the city?" "I was going to ask that myself," said Dorothy. "It's gone!" "It's gone!" The animals came to a sudden halt, for the city had really disappeared, walls and all, and before them lay the clear, unbroken sweep of the country. "Dear me!" exclaimed the Wizard. "This is rather disagreeable. It is annoying to travel almost to a place and then find it is not there." "Where can it be, then?" asked Dorothy. "It cert'nly was there a minute ago." "I can hear the music yet," declared Button-Bright, and when they all listened, the strains of music could plainly be heard. "Oh! There's the city over at the left," called Scraps, and turning their eyes, they saw the walls and towers and fluttering banners far to the left of them. "We must have lost our way," suggested Dorothy. "Nonsense," said the Lion. "I, and all the other animals, have been tramping straight toward the city ever since we first saw it." "Then how does it happen--" "Never mind," interrupted the Wizard, "we are no farther from it than we were before. It is in a different direction, that's all, so let us hurry and get there before it again escapes us." So on they went directly toward the city, which seemed only a couple of miles distant. But when they had traveled less than a mile, it suddenly disappeared again. Once more they paused, somewhat discouraged, but in a moment the button eyes of Scraps again discovered the city, only this time it was just behind them in the direction from which they had come. "Goodness gracious!" cried Dorothy. "There's surely something wrong with that city. Do you s'pose it's on wheels, Wizard?" "It may not be a city at all," he replied, looking toward it with a speculative glance. "What COULD it be, then?" "Just an illusion." "What's that?" asked Trot. "Something you think you see and don't see." "I can't believe that," said Button-Bright. "If we only saw it, we might be mistaken, but if we can see it and hear it, too, it must be there." "Where?" asked the Patchwork Girl. "Somewhere near us," he insisted. "We will have to go back, I suppose," said the Woozy with a sigh. So back they turned and headed for the walled city until it disappeared again, only to reappear at the right of them. They were constantly getting nearer to it, however, so they kept their faces turned toward it as it flitted here and there to all points of the compass. Presently the Lion, who was leading the procession, halted abruptly and cried out, "Ouch!" "What's the matter?" asked Dorothy. "Ouch--Ouch!" repeated the Lion, and leaped backward so suddenly that Dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. At the same time Hank the Mule yelled "Ouch!" "Ouch! Ouch!" repeated the Lion and leaped backward so suddenly that Dorothy nearly tumbled from his back. At the same time, Hank the Mule yelled "Ouch!" almost as loudly as the Lion had done, and he also pranced backward a few paces. "It's the thistles," said Betsy. "They prick their legs." Hearing this, all looked down, and sure enough the ground was thick with thistles, which covered the plain from the point where they stood way up to the walls of the mysterious city. No pathways through them could be seen at all; here the soft grass ended and the growth of thistles began. "They're the prickliest thistles I ever felt," grumbled the Lion. "My legs smart yet from their stings, though I jumped out of them as quickly as I could." "Here is a new difficulty," remarked the Wizard in a grieved tone. "The city has stopped hopping around, it is true, but how are we to get to it over this mass of prickers?" "They can't hurt ME," said the thick-skinned Woozy, advancing fearlessly and trampling among the thistles. "Nor me," said the Wooden Sawhorse. "But the Lion and the Mule cannot stand the prickers," asserted Dorothy, "and we can't leave them behind." "Must we all go back?" asked Trot. "Course not!" replied Button-Bright scornfully. "Always when there's trouble, there's a way out of it if you can find it." "I wish the Scarecrow was here," said Scraps, standing on her head on the Woozy's square back. "His splendid brains would soon show us how to conquer this field of thistles." "What's the matter with YOUR brains?" asked the boy. "Nothing," she said, making a flip-flop into the thistles and dancing among them without feeling their sharp points. "I could tell you in half a minute how to get over the thistles if I wanted to." "Tell us, Scraps!" begged Dorothy. "I don't want to wear my brains out with overwork," replied the Patchwork Girl. "Don't you love Ozma? And don't you want to find her?" asked Betsy reproachfully. "Yes indeed," said Scraps, walking on her hands as an acrobat does at the circus. "Well, we can't find Ozma unless we get past these thistles," declared Dorothy. Scraps danced around them two or three times without reply. Then she said, "Don't look at me, you stupid folks. Look at those blankets." The Wizard's face brightened at once. "Why didn't we think of those blankets before?" "Because you haven't magic brains," laughed Scraps. "Such brains as you have are of the common sort that grow in your heads, like weeds in a garden. I'm sorry for you people who have to be born in order to be alive." But the Wizard was not listening to her. He quickly removed the blankets from the back of the Sawhorse and spread one of them upon the thistles, just next the grass. The thick cloth rendered the prickers harmless, so the Wizard walked over this first blanket and spread the second one farther on, in the direction of the phantom city. "These blankets," said he, "are for the Lion and the Mule to walk upon. The Sawhorse and the Woozy can walk on the thistles." So the Lion and the Mule walked over the first blanket and stood upon the second one until the Wizard had picked up the one they had passed over and spread it in front of them, when they advanced to that one and waited while the one behind them was again spread in front. "This is slow work," said the Wizard, "but it will get us to the city after a while." "The city is a good half mile away yet," announced Button-Bright. "And this is awful hard work for the Wizard," added Trot. "Why couldn't the Lion ride on the Woozy's back?" asked Dorothy. "It's a big, flat back, and the Woozy's mighty strong. Perhaps the Lion wouldn't fall off." "You may try it if you like," said the Woozy to the Lion. "I can take you to the city in a jiffy and then come back for Hank." "I'm--I'm afraid," said the Cowardly Lion. He was twice as big as the Woozy. "Try it," pleaded Dorothy. "And take a tumble among the thistles?" asked the Lion reproachfully. But when the Woozy came close to him, the big beast suddenly bounded upon its back and managed to balance himself there, although forced to hold his four legs so close together that he was in danger of toppling over. The great weight of the monster Lion did not seem to affect the Woozy, who called to his rider, "Hold on tight!" and ran swiftly over the thistles toward the city. The others stood on the blanket and watched the strange sight anxiously. Of course, the Lion couldn't "hold on tight" because there was nothing to hold to, and he swayed from side to side as if likely to fall off any moment. Still, he managed to stick to the Woozy's back until they were close to the walls of the city, when he leaped to the ground. Next moment the Woozy came dashing back at full speed. "There's a little strip of ground next the wall where there are no thistles," he told them when he had reached the adventurers once more. "Now then, friend Hank, see if you can ride as well as the Lion did." "Take the others first," proposed the Mule. So the Sawhorse and the Woozy made a couple of trips over the thistles to the city walls and carried all the people in safety, Dorothy holding little Toto in her arms. The travelers then sat in a group on a little hillock just outside the wall and looked at the great blocks of gray stone and waited for the Woozy to bring Hank to them. The Mule was very awkward, and his legs trembled so badly that more than once they thought he would tumble off, but finally he reached them in safety, and the entire party was now reunited. More than that, they had reached the city that had eluded them for so long and in so strange a manner. "The gates must be around the other side," said the Wizard. "Let us follow the curve of the wall until we reach an opening in it." "Which way?" asked Dorothy. "We must guess that," he replied. "Suppose we go to the left. One direction is as good as another." They formed in marching order and went around the city wall to the left. It wasn't a big city, as I have said, but to go way around it outside the high wall was quite a walk, as they became aware. But around it our adventurers went without finding any sign of a gateway or other opening. When they had returned to the little mound from which they had started, they dismounted from the animals and again seated themselves on the grassy mound. "It's mighty queer, isn't it?" asked Button-Bright. "There must be SOME way for the people to get out and in," declared Dorothy. "Do you s'pose they have flying machines, Wizard?" "No," he replied, "for in that case they would be flying all over the Land of Oz, and we know they have not done that. Flying machines are unknown here. I think it more likely that the people use ladders to get over the walls." "It would be an awful climb over that high stone wall," said Betsy. "Stone, is it?" Scraps, who was again dancing wildly around, for she never tired and could never keep still for long. "Course it's stone," answered Betsy scornfully. "Can't you see?" "Yes," said Scraps, going closer. "I can SEE the wall, but I can't FEEL it." And then, with her arms outstretched, she did a very queer thing. She walked right into the wall and disappeared. "For goodness sake!" Dorothy, amazed, as indeed they all were. CHAPTER 9 THE HIGH COCO-LORUM OF THI And now the Patchwork Girl came dancing out of the wall again. "Come on!" she called. "It isn't there. There isn't any wall at all." "What? No wall?" exclaimed the Wizard. "Nothing like it," said Scraps. "It's a make-believe. You see it, but it isn't. Come on into the city; we've been wasting our time." With this, she danced into the wall again and once more disappeared. Button-Bright, who was rather venture-some, dashed away after her and also became invisible to them. The others followed more cautiously, stretching out their hands to feel the wall and finding, to their astonishment, that they could feel nothing because nothing opposed them. They walked on a few steps and found themselves in the streets of a very beautiful city. Behind them they again saw the wall, grim and forbidding as ever, but now they knew it was merely an illusion prepared to keep strangers from entering the city. But the wall was soon forgotten, for in front of them were a number of quaint people who stared at them in amazement as if wondering where they had come from. Our friends forgot their good manners for a time and returned the stares with interest, for so remarkable a people had never before been discovered in all the remarkable Land of Oz. Their heads were shaped like diamonds, and their bodies like hearts. All the hair they had was a little bunch at the tip top of their diamond-shaped heads, and their eyes were very large and round, and their noses and mouths very small. Their clothing was tight fitting and of brilliant colors, being handsomely embroidered in quaint designs with gold or silver threads; but on their feet they wore sandals with no stockings whatever. The expression of their faces was pleasant enough, although they now showed surprise at the appearance of strangers so unlike themselves, and our friends thought they seemed quite harmless. "I beg your pardon," said the Wizard, speaking for his party, "for intruding upon you uninvited, but we are traveling on important business and find it necessary to visit your city. Will you kindly tell us by what name your city is called?" They looked at one another uncertainly, each expecting some other to answer. Finally, a short one whose heart-shaped body was very broad replied, "We have no occasion to call our city anything. It is where we live, that is all." "But by what name do others call your city?" asked the Wizard. "We know of no others except yourselves," said the man. And then he inquired, "Were you born with those queer forms you have, or has some cruel magician transformed you to them from your natural shapes?" "These are our natural shapes," declared the Wizard, "and we consider them very good shapes, too." The group of inhabitants was constantly being enlarged by others who joined it. All were evidently startled and uneasy at the arrival of strangers. "Have you a King?" asked Dorothy, who knew it was better to speak with someone in authority. But the man shook his diamond-like head. "What is a King?" he asked. "Isn't there anyone who rules over you?" inquired the Wizard. "No," was the reply, "each of us rules himself, or at least tries to do so. It is not an easy thing to do, as you probably know." The Wizard reflected. "If you have disputes among you," said he after a little thought, "who settles them?" "The High Coco-Lorum," they answered in a chorus. "And who is he?" "The judge who enforces the laws," said the man who had first spoken. "Then he is the principal person here?" continued the Wizard. "Well, I would not say that," returned the man in a puzzled way. "The High Coco-Lorum is a public servant. However, he represents the laws, which we must all obey." "I think," said the Wizard, "we ought to see your High Coco-Lorum and talk with him. Our mission here requires us to consult one high in authority, and the High Coco-Lorum ought to be high, whatever else he is." The inhabitants seemed to consider this proposition reasonable, for they nodded their diamond-shaped heads in approval. So the broad one who had been their spokesman said, "Follow me," and turning led the way along one of the streets. The entire party followed him, the natives falling in behind. The dwellings they passed were quite nicely planned and seemed comfortable and convenient. After leading them a few blocks, their conductor stopped before a house which was neither better nor worse than the others. The doorway was shaped to admit the strangely formed bodies of these people, being narrow at the top, broad in the middle and tapering at the bottom. The windows were made in much the same way, giving the house a most peculiar appearance. When their guide opened the gate, a music box concealed in the gatepost began to play, and the sound attracted the attention of the High Coco-Lorum, who appeared at an open window and inquired, "What has happened now?" But in the same moment his eyes fell upon the strangers and he hastened to open the door and admit them--all but the animals, which were left outside with the throng of natives that had now gathered. For a small city there seemed to be a large number of inhabitants, but they did not try to enter the house and contented themselves with staring curiously at the strange animals. Toto followed Dorothy. Our friends entered a large room at the front of the house, where the High Coco-Lorum asked them to be seated. "I hope your mission here is a peaceful one," he said, looking a little worried, "for the Thists are not very good fighters and object to being conquered." "Are your people called Thists?" asked Dorothy. "Yes. I thought you knew that. And we call our city Thi." "Oh!" "We are Thists because we eat thistles, you know," continued the High Coco-Lorum. "Do you really eat those prickly things?" inquired Button-Bright wonderingly. "Why not?" replied the other. "The sharp points of the thistles cannot hurt us, because all our insides are gold-lined." "Gold-lined!" "To be sure. Our throats and stomachs are lined with solid gold, and we find the thistles nourishing and good to eat. As a matter of fact, there is nothing else in our country that is fit for food. All around the City of Thi grow countless thistles, and all we need do is to go and gather them. If we wanted anything else to eat, we would have to plant it, and grow it, and harvest it, and that would be a lot of trouble and make us work, which is an occupation we detest." "But tell me, please," said the Wizard, "how does it happen that your city jumps around so, from one part of the country to another?" "The city doesn't jump. It doesn't move at all," declared the High Coco-Lorum. "However, I will admit that the land that surrounds it has a trick of turning this way or that, and so if one is standing upon the plain and facing north, he is likely to find himself suddenly facing west or east or south. But once you reach the thistle fields, you are on solid ground." "Ah, I begin to understand," said the Wizard, nodding his head. "But I have another question to ask: How does it happen that the Thists have no King to rule over them?" "Hush!" whispered the High Coco-Lorum, looking uneasily around to make sure they were not overheard. "In reality, I am the King, but the people don't know it. They think they rule themselves, but the fact is I have everything my own way. No one else knows anything about our laws, and so I make the laws to suit myself. If any oppose me or question my acts, I tell them it's the law and that settles it. If I called myself King, however, and wore a crown and lived in royal style, the people would not like me and might do me harm. As the High Coco-Lorum of Thi, I am considered a very agreeable person." "It seems a very clever arrangement," said the Wizard. "And now, as you are the principal person in Thi, I beg you to tell us if the Royal Ozma is a captive in your city." "No," answered the diamond-headed man. "We have no captives. No strangers but yourselves are here, and we have never before heard of the Royal Ozma." "She rules over all of Oz," said Dorothy, "and so she rules your city and you, because you are in the Winkie Country, which is a part of the Land of Oz." "It may be," returned the High Coco-Lorum, "for we do not study geography and have never inquired whether we live in the Land of Oz or not. And any Ruler who rules us from a distance and unknown to us is welcome to the job. But what has happened to your Royal Ozma?" "Someone has stolen her," said the Wizard. "Do you happen to have any talented magician among your people, one who is especially clever, you know?" "No, none especially clever. We do some magic, of course, but it is all of the ordinary kind. I do not think any of us has yet aspired to stealing Rulers, either by magic or otherwise." "Then we've come a long way for nothing!" exclaimed Trot regretfully. "But we are going farther than this," asserted the Patchwork Girl, bending her stuffed body backward until her yarn hair touched the floor and then walking around on her hands with her feet in the air. The High Coco-Lorum watched Scraps admiringly. "You may go farther on, of course," said he, "but I advise you not to. The Herkus live back of us, beyond the thistles and the twisting lands, and they are not very nice people to meet, I assure you." "Are they giants?" asked Betsy. "They are worse than that," was the reply. "They have giants for their slaves and they are so much stronger than giants that the poor slaves dare not rebel for fear of being torn to pieces." "How do you know?" asked Scraps. "Everyone says so," answered the High Coco-Lorum. "Have you seen the Herkus yourself?" inquired Dorothy. "No, but what everyone says must be true, otherwise what would be the use of their saying it?" "We were told before we got here that you people hitch dragons to your chariots," said the little girl. "So we do," declared the High Coco-Lorum. "And that reminds me that I ought to entertain you as strangers and my guests by taking you for a ride around our splendid City of Thi." He touched a button, and a band began to play. At least, they heard the music of a band, but couldn't tell where it came from. "That tune is the order to my charioteer to bring around my dragon-chariot," said the High Coco-Lorum. "Every time I give an order, it is in music, which is a much more pleasant way to address servants than in cold, stern words." "Does this dragon of yours bite?" asked Button-Bright. "Mercy no! Do you think I'd risk the safety of my innocent people by using a biting dragon to draw my chariot? I'm proud to say that my dragon is harmless, unless his steering gear breaks, and he was manufactured at the famous dragon factory in this City of Thi. Here he comes, and you may examine him for yourselves." They heard a low rumble and a shrill squeaking sound, and going out to the front of the house, they saw coming around the corner a car drawn by a gorgeous jeweled dragon, which moved its head to right and left and flashed its eyes like headlights of an automobile and uttered a growling noise as it slowly moved toward them. When it stopped before the High Coco-Lorum's house, Toto barked sharply at the sprawling beast, but even tiny Trot could see that the dragon was not alive. Its scales were of gold, and each one was set with sparkling jewels, while it walked in such a stiff, regular manner that it could be nothing else than a machine. The chariot that trailed behind it was likewise of gold and jewels, and when they entered it, they found there were no seats. Everyone was supposed to stand up while riding. The charioteer was a little, diamond-headed fellow who straddled the neck of the dragon and moved the levers that made it go. "This," said the High Coco-Lorum pompously, "is a wonderful invention. We are all very proud of our auto-dragons, many of which are in use by our wealthy inhabitants. Start the thing going, charioteer!" The charioteer did not move. "You forgot to order him in music," suggested Dorothy. "Ah, so I did." He touched a button and a music box in the dragon's head began to play a tune. At once the little charioteer pulled over a lever, and the dragon began to move, very slowly and groaning dismally as it drew the clumsy chariot after it. Toto trotted between the wheels. The Sawhorse, the Mule, the Lion and the Woozy followed after and had no trouble in keeping up with the machine. Indeed, they had to go slow to keep from running into it. When the wheels turned, another music box concealed somewhere under the chariot played a lively march tune which was in striking contrast with the dragging movement of the strange vehicle, and Button-Bright decided that the music he had heard when they first sighted this city was nothing else than a chariot plodding its weary way through the streets. All the travelers from the Emerald City thought this ride the most uninteresting and dreary they had ever experienced, but the High Coco-Lorum seemed to think it was grand. He pointed out the different buildings and parks and fountains in much the same way that the conductor does on an American "sightseeing wagon" does, and being guests they were obliged to submit to the ordeal. But they became a little worried when their host told them he had ordered a banquet prepared for them in the City Hall. "What are we going to eat?" asked Button-Bright suspiciously. "Thistles," was the reply. "Fine, fresh thistles, gathered this very day." Scraps laughed, for she never ate anything, but Dorothy said in a protesting voice, "OUR insides are not lined with gold, you know." "How sad!" exclaimed the High Coco-Lorum, and then he added as an afterthought, "but we can have the thistles boiled, if you prefer." "I'm 'fraid they wouldn't taste good even then," said little Trot. "Haven't you anything else to eat?" The High Coco-Lorum shook his diamond-shaped head. "Nothing that I know of," said he. "But why should we have anything else when we have so many thistles? However, if you can't eat what we eat, don't eat anything. We shall not be offended, and the banquet will be just as merry and delightful." Knowing his companions were all hungry, the Wizard said, "I trust you will excuse us from the banquet, sir, which will be merry enough without us, although it is given in our honor. For, as Ozma is not in your city, we must leave here at once and seek her elsewhere." "Sure we must!" Dorothy, and she whispered to Betsy and Trot, "I'd rather starve somewhere else than in this city, and who knows, we may run across somebody who eats reg'lar food and will give us some." So when the ride was finished, in spite of the protests of the High Coco-Lorum, they insisted on continuing their journey. "It will soon be dark," he objected. "We don't mind the darkness," replied the Wizard. "Some wandering Herku may get you." "Do you think the Herkus would hurt us?" asked Dorothy. "I cannot say, not having had the honor of their acquaintance. But they are said to be so strong that if they had any other place to stand upon they could lift the world." "All of them together?" asked Button-Bright wonderingly. "Any one of them could do it," said the High Coco-Lorum. "Have you heard of any magicians being among them?" asked the Wizard, knowing that only a magician could have stolen Ozma in the way she had been stolen. "I am told it is quite a magical country," declared the High Coco-Lorum, "and magic is usually performed by magicians. But I have never heard that they have any invention or sorcery to equal our wonderful auto-dragons." They thanked him for his courtesy, and mounting their own animals rode to the farther side of the city and right through the Wall of Illusion out into the open country. "I'm glad we got away so easily," said Betsy. "I didn't like those queer-shaped people." "Nor did I," agreed Dorothy. "It seems dreadful to be lined with sheets of pure gold and have nothing to eat but thistles." "They seemed happy and contented, though," remarked the Wizard, "and those who are contented have nothing to regret and nothing more to wish for." CHAPTER 10 TOTO LOSES SOMETHING For a while the travelers were constantly losing their direction, for beyond the thistle fields they again found themselves upon the turning-lands, which swung them around one way and then another. But by keeping the City of Thi constantly behind them, the adventurers finally passed the treacherous turning-lands and came upon a stony country where no grass grew at all. There were plenty of bushes, however, and although it was now almost dark, the girls discovered some delicious yellow berries growing upon the bushes, one taste of which set them all to picking as many as they could find. The berries relieved their pangs of hunger for a time, and as it now became too dark to see anything, they camped where they were. The three girls lay down upon one of the blankets--all in a row--and the Wizard covered them with the other blanket and tucked them in. Button-Bright crawled under the shelter of some bushes and was asleep in half a minute. The Wizard sat down with his back to a big stone and looked at the stars in the sky and thought gravely upon the dangerous adventure they had undertaken, wondering if they would ever be able to find their beloved Ozma again. The animals lay in a group by themselves, a little distance from the others. "I've lost my growl!" said Toto, who had been very silent and sober all that day. "What do you suppose has become of it?" "If you had asked me to keep track of your growl, I might be able to tell you," remarked the Lion sleepily. "But frankly, Toto, I supposed you were taking care of it yourself." "It's an awful thing to lose one's growl," said Toto, wagging his tail disconsolately. "What if you lost your roar, Lion? Wouldn't you feel terrible?" "My roar," replied the Lion, "is the fiercest thing about me. I depend on it to frighten my enemies so badly that they won't dare to fight me." "Once," said the Mule, "I lost my bray so that I couldn't call to Betsy to let her know I was hungry. That was before I could talk, you know, for I had not yet come into the Land of Oz, and I found it was certainly very uncomfortable not to be able to make a noise." "You make enough noise now," declared Toto. "But none of you have answered my question: Where is my growl?" "You may search ME," said the Woozy. "I don't care for such things, myself." "You snore terribly," asserted Toto. "It may be," said the Woozy. "What one does when asleep one is not accountable for. I wish you would wake me up sometime when I'm snoring and let me hear the sound. Then I can judge whether it is terrible or delightful." "It isn't pleasant, I assure you," said the Lion, yawning. "To me it seems wholly unnecessary," declared Hank the Mule. "You ought to break yourself of the habit," said the Sawhorse. "You never hear me snore, because I never sleep. I don't even whinny as those puffy meat horses do. I wish that whoever stole Toto's growl had taken the Mule's bray and the Lion's roar and the Woozy's snore at the same time." "Do you think, then, that my growl was stolen?" "You have never lost it before, have you?" inquired inquired the Sawhorse. "Only once, when I had a sore throat from barking too long at the moon." "Is your throat sore now?" asked the Woozy. "No," replied the dog. "I can't understand," said Hank, "why dogs bark at the moon. They can't scare the moon, and the moon doesn't pay any attention to the bark. So why do dogs do it?" "Were you ever a dog?" asked Toto. "No indeed," replied Hank. "I am thankful to say I was created a mule--the most beautiful of all beasts--and have always remained one." The Woozy sat upon his square haunches to examine Hank with care. "Beauty," he said, "must be a matter of taste. I don't say your judgment is bad, friend Hank, or that you are so vulgar as to be conceited. But if you admire big, waggy ears and a tail like a paintbrush and hoofs big enough for an elephant and a long neck and a body so skinny that one can count the ribs with one eye shut--if that's your idea of beauty, Hank, then either you or I must be much mistaken." "You're full of edges," sneered the Mule. "If I were square as you are, I suppose you'd think me lovely." "Outwardly, dear Hank, I would," replied the Woozy. "But to be really lovely, one must be beautiful without and within." The Mule couldn't deny this statement, so he gave a disgusted grunt and rolled over so that his back was toward the Woozy. But the Lion, regarding the two calmly with his great, yellow eyes, said to the dog, "My dear Toto, our friends have taught us a lesson in humility. If the Woozy and the Mule are indeed beautiful creatures as they seem to think, you and I must be decidedly ugly." "Not to ourselves," protested Toto, who was a shrewd little dog. "You and I, Lion, are fine specimens of our own races. I am a fine dog, and you are a fine lion. Only in point of comparison, one with another, can we be properly judged, so I will leave it to the poor old Sawhorse to decide which is the most beautiful animal among us all. The Sawhorse is wood, so he won't be prejudiced and will speak the truth." "I surely will," responded the Sawhorse, wagging his ears, which were chips set in his wooden head. "Are you all agreed to accept my judgment?" "We are!" they declared, each one hopeful. "Then," said the Sawhorse, "I must point out to you the fact that you are all meat creatures, who tire unless they sleep and starve unless they eat and suffer from thirst unless they drink. Such animals must be very imperfect, and imperfect creatures cannot be beautiful. Now, I am made of wood." "You surely have a wooden head," said the Mule. "Yes, and a wooden body and wooden legs, which are as swift as the wind and as tireless. I've heard Dorothy say that 'handsome is as handsome does,' and I surely perform my duties in a handsome manner. Therefore, if you wish my honest judgment, I will confess that among us all I am the most beautiful." The Mule snorted, and the Woozy laughed; Toto had lost his growl and could only look scornfully at the Sawhorse, who stood in his place unmoved. But the Lion stretched himself and yawned, saying quietly, "Were we all like the Sawhorse, we would all be Sawhorses, which would be too many of the kind. Were we all like Hank, we would be a herd of mules; if like Toto, we would be a pack of dogs; should we all become the shape of the Woozy, he would no longer be remarkable for his unusual appearance. Finally, were you all like me, I would consider you so common that I would not care to associate with you. To be individual, my friends, to be different from others, is the only way to become distinguished from the common herd. Let us be glad, therefore, that we differ from one another in form and in disposition. Variety is the spice of life, and we are various enough to enjoy one another's society; so let us be content." "There is some truth in that speech," remarked Toto reflectively. "But how about my lost growl?" "The growl is of importance only to you," responded the Lion, "so it is your business to worry over the loss, not ours. If you love us, do not afflict your burdens on us; be unhappy all by yourself." "If the same person stole my growl who stole Ozma," said the little dog, "I hope we shall find him very soon and punish him as he deserves. He must be the most cruel person in all the world, for to prevent a dog from growling when it is his nature to growl is just as wicked, in my opinion, as stealing all the magic in Oz." CHAPTER 11 BUTTON-BRIGHT LOSES HIMSELF The Patchwork Girl, who never slept and who could see very well in the dark, had wandered among the rocks and bushes all night long, with the result that she was able to tell some good news the next morning. "Over the crest of the hill before us," she said, "is a big grove of trees of many kinds on which all sorts of fruits grow. If you will go there, you will find a nice breakfast awaiting you." This made them eager to start, so as soon as the blankets were folded and strapped to the back of the Sawhorse, they all took their places on the animals and set out for the big grove Scraps had told them of. As soon as they got over the brow of the hill, they discovered it to be a really immense orchard, extending for miles to the right and left of them. As their way led straight through the trees, they hurried forward as fast as possible. The first trees they came to bore quinces, which they did not like. Then there were rows of citron trees and then crab apples and afterward limes and lemons. But beyond these they found a grove of big, golden oranges, juicy and sweet, and the fruit hung low on the branches so they could pluck it easily. They helped themselves freely and all ate oranges as they continued on their way. Then, a little farther along, they came to some trees bearing fine, red apples, which they also feasted on, and the Wizard stopped here long enough to tie a lot of the apples in one end of a blanket. "We do not know what will happen to us after we leave this delightful orchard," he said, "so I think it wise to carry a supply of apples with us. We can't starve as long as we have apples, you know." Scraps wasn't riding the Woozy just now. She loved to climb the trees and swing herself by the branches from one tree to another. Some of the choicest fruit was gathered by the Patchwork Girl from the very highest limbs and tossed down to the others. Suddenly, Trot asked, "Where's Button-Bright?" and when the others looked for him, they found the boy had disappeared. "Dear me!" cried Dorothy. "I guess he's lost again, and that will mean our waiting here until we can find him." "It's a good place to wait," suggested Betsy, who had found a plum tree and was eating some of its fruit. "How can you wait here and find Button-Bright at one and the same time?" inquired the Patchwork Girl, hanging by her toes on a limb just over the heads of the three mortal girls. "Perhaps he'll come back here," answered Dorothy. "If he tries that, he'll prob'ly lose his way," said Trot. "I've known him to do that lots of times. It's losing his way that gets him lost." "Very true," said the Wizard. "So all the rest of you must stay here while I go look for the boy." "Won't YOU get lost, too?" asked Betsy. "I hope not, my dear." "Let ME go," said Scraps, dropping lightly to the ground. "I can't get lost, and I'm more likely to find Button-Bright than any of you." Without waiting for permission, she darted away through the trees and soon disappeared from their view. "Dorothy," said Toto, squatting beside his little mistress, "I've lost my growl." "How did that happen?" she asked. "I don't know," replied Toto. "Yesterday morning the Woozy nearly stepped on me, and I tried to growl at him and found I couldn't growl a bit." "Can you bark?" inquired Dorothy. "Oh, yes indeed." "Then never mind the growl," said she. "But what will I do when I get home to the Glass Cat and the Pink Kitten?" asked the little dog in an anxious tone. "They won't mind if you can't growl at them, I'm sure," said Dorothy. "I'm sorry for you, of course, Toto, for it's just those things we can't do that we want to do most of all; but before we get back, you may find your growl again." "Do you think the person who stole Ozma stole my growl?" Dorothy smiled. "Perhaps, Toto." "Then he's a scoundrel!" cried the little dog. "Anyone who would steal Ozma is as bad as bad can be," agreed Dorothy, "and when we remember that our dear friend, the lovely Ruler of Oz, is lost, we ought not to worry over just a growl." Toto was not entirely satisfied with this remark, for the more he thought upon his lost growl, the more important his misfortune became. When no one was looking, he went away among the trees and tried his best to growl--even a little bit--but could not manage to do so. All he could do was bark, and a bark cannot take the place of a growl, so he sadly returned to the others. Now Button-Bright had no idea that he was lost at first. He had merely wandered from tree to tree seeking the finest fruit until he discovered he was alone in the great orchard. But that didn't worry him just then, and seeing some apricot trees farther on, he went to them. Then he discovered some cherry trees; just beyond these were some tangerines. "We've found 'most ev'ry kind of fruit but peaches," he said to himself, "so I guess there are peaches here, too, if I can find the trees." He searched here and there, paying no attention to his way, until he found that the trees surrounding him bore only nuts. He put some walnuts in his pockets and kept on searching, and at last--right among the nut trees--he came upon one solitary peach tree. It was a graceful, beautiful tree, but although it was thickly leaved, it bore no fruit except one large, splendid peach, rosy-cheeked and fuzzy and just right to eat. In his heart he doubted this statement, for this was a solitary peach tree, while all the other fruits grew upon many trees set close to one another; but that one luscious bite made him unable to resist eating the rest of it, and soon the peach was all gone except the pit. Button-Bright was about to throw this peach pit away when he noticed that it was of pure gold. Of course, this surprised him, but so many things in the Land of Oz were surprising that he did not give much thought to the golden peach pit. He put it in his pocket, however, to show to the girls, and five minutes afterward had forgotten all about it. For now he realized that he was far separated from his companions, and knowing that this would worry them and delay their journey, he began to shout as loud as he could. His voice did not penetrate very far among all those trees, and after shouting a dozen times and getting no answer, he sat down on the ground and said, "Well, I'm lost again. It's too bad, but I don't see how it can be helped." As he leaned his back against a tree, he looked up and saw a Bluefinch fly down from the sky and alight upon a branch just before him. The bird looked and looked at him. First it looked with one bright eye and then turned its head and looked at him with the other eye. Then, fluttering its wings a little, it said, "Oho! So you've eaten the enchanted peach, have you?" "Was it enchanted?" asked Button-Bright. "Of course," replied the Bluefinch. "Ugu the Shoemaker did that." "But why? And how was it enchanted? And what will happen to one who eats it?" questioned the boy. "Ask Ugu the Shoemaker. He knows," said the bird, preening its feathers with its bill. "And who is Ugu the Shoemaker?" "The one who enchanted the peach and placed it here--in the exact center of the Great Orchard--so no one would ever find it. We birds didn't dare to eat it; we are too wise for that. But you are Button-Bright from the Emerald City, and you, YOU, YOU ate the enchanted peach! You must explain to Ugu the Shoemaker why you did that." And then, before the boy could ask any more questions, the bird flew away and left him alone. Button-Bright was not much worried to find that the peach he had eaten was enchanted. It certainly had tasted very good, and his stomach didn't ache a bit. So again he began to reflect upon the best way to rejoin his friends. "Whichever direction I follow is likely to be the wrong one," he said to himself, "so I'd better stay just where I am and let THEM find ME--if they can." A White Rabbit came hopping through the orchard and paused a little way off to look at him. "Don't be afraid," said Button-Bright. "I won't hurt you." "Oh, I'm not afraid for myself," returned the White Rabbit. "It's you I'm worried about." "Yes, I'm lost," said the boy. "I fear you are, indeed," answered the Rabbit. "Why on earth did you eat the enchanted peach?" The boy looked at the excited little animal thoughtfully. "There were two reasons," he explained. "One reason was that I like peaches, and the other reason was that I didn't know it was enchanted." "That won't save you from Ugu the Shoemaker," declared the White Rabbit, and it scurried away before the boy could ask any more questions. "Rabbits and birds," he thought, "are timid creatures and seem afraid of this shoemaker, whoever he may be. If there was another peach half as good as that other, I'd eat it in spite of a dozen enchantments or a hundred shoemakers!" Just then, Scraps came dancing along and saw him sitting at the foot of the tree. "Oh, here you are!" she said. "Up to your old tricks, eh? Don't you know it's impolite to get lost and keep everybody waiting for you? Come along, and I'll lead you back to Dorothy and the others." Button-Bright rose slowly to accompany her. "That wasn't much of a loss," he said cheerfully. "I haven't been gone half a day, so there's no harm done." Dorothy, however, when the boy rejoined the party, gave him a good scolding. "When we're doing such an important thing as searching for Ozma," said she, "it's naughty for you to wander away and keep us from getting on. S'pose she's a pris'ner in a dungeon cell! Do you want to keep our dear Ozma there any longer than we can help?" "If she's in a dungeon cell, how are you going to get her out?" inquired the boy. "Never you mind. We'll leave that to the Wizard. He's sure to find a way." The Wizard said nothing, for he realized that without his magic tools he could do no more than any other person. But there was no use reminding his companions of that fact; it might discourage them. "The important thing just now," he remarked, "is to find Ozma, and as our party is again happily reunited, I propose we move on." As they came to the edge of the Great Orchard, the sun was setting and they knew it would soon be dark. So it was decided to camp under the trees, as another broad plain was before them. The Wizard spread the blankets on a bed of soft leaves, and presently all of them except Scraps and the Sawhorse were fast asleep. Toto snuggled close to his friend the Lion, and the Woozy snored so loudly that the Patchwork Girl covered his square head with her apron to deaden the sound. CHAPTER 12 THE CZAROVER OF HERKU Trot wakened just as the sun rose, and slipping out of the blankets, went to the edge of the Great Orchard and looked across the plain. Something glittered in the far distance. "That looks like another city," she said half aloud. "And another city it is," declared Scraps, who had crept to Trot's side unheard, for her stuffed feet made no sound. "The Sawhorse and I made a journey in the dark while you were all asleep, and we found over there a bigger city than Thi. There's a wall around it, too, but it has gates and plenty of pathways." "Did you get in?" asked Trot. "No, for the gates were locked and the wall was a real wall. So we came back here again. It isn't far to the city. We can reach it in two hours after you've had your breakfasts." Trot went back, and finding the other girls now awake, told them what Scraps had said. So they hurriedly ate some fruit--there were plenty of plums and fijoas in this part of the orchard--and then they mounted the animals and set out upon the journey to the strange city. Hank the Mule had breakfasted on grass, and the Lion had stolen away and found a breakfast to his liking; he never told what it was, but Dorothy hoped the little rabbits and the field mice had kept out of his way. She warned Toto not to chase birds and gave the dog some apple, with which he was quite content. The Woozy was as fond of fruit as of any other food except honey, and the Sawhorse never ate at all. Except for their worry over Ozma, they were all in good spirits as they proceeded swiftly over the plain. Toto still worried over his lost growl, but like a wise little dog kept his worry to himself. Before long, the city grew nearer and they could examine it with interest. In outward appearance the place was more imposing than Thi, and it was a square city, with a square, four-sided wall around it, and on each side was a square gate of burnished copper. Everything about the city looked solid and substantial; there were no banners flying, and the towers that rose above the city wall seemed bare of any ornament whatever. A path led from the fruit orchard directly to one of the city gates, showing that the inhabitants preferred fruit to thistles. Our friends followed this path to the gate, which they found fast shut. But the Wizard advanced and pounded upon it with his fist, saying in a loud voice, "Open!" At once there rose above the great wall a row of immense heads, all of which looked down at them as if to see who was intruding. The size of these heads was astonishing, and our friends at once realized that they belonged to giants who were standing within the city. All had thick, bushy hair and whiskers, on some the hair being white and on others black or red or yellow, while the hair of a few was just turning gray, showing that the giants were of all ages. However fierce the heads might seem, the eyes were mild in expression, as if the creatures had been long subdued, and their faces expressed patience rather than ferocity. "What's wanted?" asked one old giant in a low, grumbling voice. "We are strangers, and we wish to enter the city," replied the Wizard. "Do you come in war or peace?" asked another. "In peace, of course," retorted the Wizard, and he added impatiently, "Do we look like an army of conquest?" "No," said the first giant who had spoken, "you look like innocent tramps; but you never can tell by appearances. Wait here until we report to our masters. No one can enter here without the permission of Vig, the Czarover." "Who's that?" inquired Dorothy. But the heads had all bobbed down and disappeared behind the walls, so there was no answer. They waited a long time before the gate rolled back with a rumbling sound, and a loud voice cried, "Enter!" But they lost no time in taking advantage of the invitation. On either side of the broad street that led into the city from the gate stood a row of huge giants, twenty of them on a side and all standing so close together that their elbows touched. They wore uniforms of blue and yellow and were armed with clubs as big around as treetrunks. Each giant had around his neck a broad band of gold, riveted on, to show he was a slave. As our friends entered riding upon the Lion, the Woozy, the Sawhorse and the Mule, the giants half turned and walked in two files on either side of them, as if escorting them on their way. It looked to Dorothy as if all her party had been made prisoners, for even mounted on their animals their heads scarcely reached to the knees of the marching giants. The girls and Button-Bright were anxious to know what sort of a city they had entered, and what the people were like who had made these powerful creatures their slaves. Through the legs of the giants as they walked, Dorothy could see rows of houses on each side of the street and throngs of people standing on the sidewalks, but the people were of ordinary size and the only remarkable thing about them was the fact that they were dreadfully lean and thin. Between their skin and their bones there seemed to be little or no flesh, and they were mostly stoop-shouldered and weary looking, even to the little children. More and more, Dorothy wondered how and why the great giants had ever submitted to become slaves of such skinny, languid masters, but there was no chance to question anyone until they arrived at a big palace located in the heart of the city. Here the giants formed lines to the entrance and stood still while our friends rode into the courtyard of the palace. Then the gates closed behind them, and before them was a skinny little man who bowed low and said in a sad voice, "If you will be so obliging as to dismount, it will give me pleasure to lead you into the presence of the World's Most Mighty Ruler, Vig the Czarover." "I don't believe it!" said Dorothy indignantly. "What don't you believe?" asked the man. "I don't believe your Czarover can hold a candle to our Ozma." "He wouldn't hold a candle under any circumstances, or to any living person," replied the man very seriously, "for he has slaves to do such things and the Mighty Vig is too dignified to do anything that others can do for him. He even obliges a slave to sneeze for him, if ever he catches cold. However, if you dare to face our powerful ruler, follow me." "We dare anything," said the Wizard, "so go ahead." Through several marble corridors having lofty ceilings they passed, finding each corridor and doorway guarded by servants. But these servants of the palace were of the people and not giants, and they were so thin that they almost resembled skeletons. Finally, they entered a great circular room with a high, domed ceiling, where the Czarover sat on a throne cut from a solid block of white marble and decorated with purple silk hangings and gold tassels. The ruler of these people was combing his eyebrows when our friends entered the throne room and stood before him, but he put the comb in his pocket and examined the strangers with evident curiosity. Then he said, "Dear me, what a surprise! You have really shocked me. For no outsider has ever before come to our City of Herku, and I cannot imagine why you have ventured to do so." "We are looking for Ozma, the Supreme Ruler of the Land of Oz," replied the Wizard. "Do you see her anywhere around here?" asked the Czarover. "Not yet, Your Majesty, but perhaps you may tell us where she is." "No, I have my hands full keeping track of my own people. I find them hard to manage because they are so tremendously strong." "They don't look very strong," said Dorothy. "It seems as if a good wind would blow 'em way out of the city if it wasn't for the wall." "Just so, just so," admitted the Czarover. "They really look that way, don't they? But you must never trust to appearances, which have a way of fooling one. Perhaps you noticed that I prevented you from meeting any of my people. I protected you with my giants while you were on the way from the gates to my palace so that not a Herku got near you." "Are your people so dangerous, then?" asked the Wizard. "To strangers, yes. But only because they are so friendly. For if they shake hands with you, they are likely to break your arms or crush your fingers to a jelly." "Why?" asked Button-Bright. "Because we are the strongest people in all the world." "Pshaw!" exclaimed the boy. "That's bragging. You prob'ly don't know how strong other people are. Why, once I knew a man in Philadelphi' who could bend iron bars with just his hands!" "But mercy me, it's no trick to bend iron bars," said His Majesty. "Tell me, could this man crush a block of stone with his bare hands?" "No one could do that," declared the boy. "If I had a block of stone, I'd show you," said the Czarover, looking around the room. "Ah, here is my throne. The back is too high, anyhow, so I'll just break off a piece of that." He rose to his feet and tottered in an uncertain way around the throne. Then he took hold of the back and broke off a piece of marble over a foot thick. "This," said he, coming back to his seat, "is very solid marble and much harder than ordinary stone. Yet I can crumble it easily with my fingers, a proof that I am very strong." Even as he spoke, he began breaking off chunks of marble and crumbling them as one would a bit of earth. The Wizard was so astonished that he took a piece in his own hands and tested it, finding it very hard indeed. Just then one of the giant servants entered and exclaimed, "Oh, Your Majesty, the cook has burned the soup! What shall we do?" "How dare you interrupt me?" asked the Czarover, and grasping the immense giant by one of his legs, he raised him in the air and threw him headfirst out of an open window. "Now, tell me," he said, turning to Button-Bright, "could your man in Philadelphia crumble marble in his fingers?" "I guess not," said Button-Bright, much impressed by the skinny monarch's strength. "What makes you so strong?" inquired Dorothy. "It's the zosozo," he explained, "which is an invention of my own. I and all my people eat zosozo, and it gives us tremendous strength. Would you like to eat some?" "No thank you," replied the girl. "I--I don't want to get so thin." "Well, of course one can't have strength and flesh at the same time," said the Czarover. "Zosozo is pure energy, and it's the only compound of its sort in existence. I never allow our giants to have it, you know, or they would soon become our masters, since they are bigger that we; so I keep all the stuff locked up in my private laboratory. Once a year I feed a teaspoonful of it to each of my people--men, women and children--so every one of them is nearly as strong as I am. Wouldn't YOU like a dose, sir?" he asked, turning to the Wizard. "Well," said the Wizard, "if you would give me a little zosozo in a bottle, I'd like to take it with me on my travels. It might come in handy on occasion." "To be sure. I'll give you enough for six doses," promised the Czarover. "But don't take more than a teaspoonful at a time. Once Ugu the Shoemaker took two teaspoonsful, and it made him so strong that when he leaned against the city wall, he pushed it over, and we had to build it up again." "Who is Ugu the Shoemaker?" Button-Bright curiously, for he now remembered that the bird and the rabbit had claimed Ugu the Shoemaker had enchanted the peach he had eaten. "Why, Ugu is a great magician who used to live here. But he's gone away now," replied the Czarover. "Where has he gone?" asked the Wizard quickly. "I am told he lives in a wickerwork castle in the mountains to the west of here. You see, Ugu became such a powerful magician that he didn't care to live in our city any longer for fear we would discover some of his secrets. So he went to the mountains and built him a splendid wicker castle which is so strong that even I and my people could not batter it down, and there he lives all by himself." "This is good news," declared the Wizard, "for I think this is just the magician we are searching for. But why is he called Ugu the Shoemaker?" "Once he was a very common citizen here and made shoes for a living," replied the monarch of Herku. "But he was descended from the greatest wizard and sorcerer who ever lived in this or in any other country, and one day Ugu the Shoemaker discovered all the magical books and recipes of his famous great-grandfather, which had been hidden away in the attic of his house. So he began to study the papers and books and to practice magic, and in time he became so skillful that, as I said, he scorned our city and built a solitary castle for himself." "Do you think," asked Dorothy anxiously, "that Ugu the Shoemaker would be wicked enough to steal our Ozma of Oz?" "And the Magic Picture?" asked Trot. "And the Great Book of Records of Glinda the Good?" asked Betsy. "And my own magic tools?" asked the Wizard. "Well," replied the Czarover, "I won't say that Ugu is wicked, exactly, but he is very ambitious to become the most powerful magician in the world, and so I suppose he would not be too proud to steal any magic things that belonged to anybody else--if he could manage to do so." "But how about Ozma? Why would he wish to steal HER?" questioned Dorothy. "Don't ask me, my dear. Ugu doesn't tell me why he does things, I assure you." "Then we must go and ask him ourselves," declared the little girl. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," advised the Czarover, looking first at the three girls and then at the boy and the little Wizard and finally at the stuffed Patchwork Girl. "If Ugu has really stolen your Ozma, he will probably keep her a prisoner, in spite of all your threats or entreaties. And with all his magical knowledge he would be a dangerous person to attack. Therefore, if you are wise, you will go home again and find a new Ruler for the Emerald City and the Land of Oz. But perhaps it isn't Ugu the Shoemaker who has stolen your Ozma." "The only way to settle that question," replied the Wizard, "is to go to Ugu's castle and see if Ozma is there. If she is, we will report the matter to the great Sorceress Glinda the Good, and I'm pretty sure she will find a way to rescue our darling ruler from the Shoemaker." "Well, do as you please," said the Czarover, "but if you are all transformed into hummingbirds or caterpillars, don't blame me for not warning you." They stayed the rest of that day in the City of Herku and were fed at the royal table of the Czarover and given sleeping rooms in his palace. The strong monarch treated them very nicely and gave the Wizard a little golden vial of zosozo to use if ever he or any of his party wished to acquire great strength. Even at the last, the Czarover tried to persuade them not to go near Ugu the Shoemaker, but they were resolved on the venture, and the next morning bade the friendly monarch a cordial goodbye and, mounting upon their animals, left the Herkus and the City of Herku and headed for the mountains that lay to the west. CHAPTER 13 THE TRUTH POND It seems a long time since we have heard anything of the Frogman and Cayke the Cookie Cook, who had left the Yip Country in search of the diamond-studded dishpan which had been mysteriously stolen the same night that Ozma had disappeared from the Emerald City. But you must remember that while the Frogman and the Cookie Cook were preparing to descend from their mountaintop, and even while on their way to the farmhouse of Wiljon the Winkie, Dorothy and the Wizard and their friends were encountering the adventures we have just related. So it was that on the very morning when the travelers from the Emerald City bade farewell to the Czarover of the City of Herku, Cayke and the Frogman awoke in a grove in which they had passed the night sleeping on beds of leaves. There were plenty of farmhouses in the neighborhood, but no one seemed to welcome the puffy, haughty Frogman or the little dried-up Cookie Cook, and so they slept comfortably enough underneath the trees of the grove. The Frogman wakened first on this morning, and after going to the tree where Cayke slept and finding her still wrapped in slumber, he decided to take a little walk and seek some breakfast. Coming to the edge of the grove, he observed half a mile away a pretty yellow house that was surrounded by a yellow picket fence, so he walked toward this house and on entering the yard found a Winkie woman picking up sticks with which to build a fire to cook her morning meal. "For goodness sake!" she exclaimed on seeing the Frogman. "What are you doing out of your frog-pond?" "I am traveling in search of a jeweled gold dishpan, my good woman," he replied with an air of great dignity. "You won't find it here, then," said she. "Our dishpans are tin, and they're good enough for anybody. So go back to your pond and leave me alone." She spoke rather crossly and with a lack of respect that greatly annoyed the Frogman. "Allow me to tell you, madam," said he, "that although I am a frog, I am the Greatest and Wisest Frog in all the world. I may add that I possess much more wisdom than any Winkie--man or woman--in this land. Wherever I go, people fall on their knees before me and render homage to the Great Frogman! No one else knows so much as I; no one else is so grand, so magnificent!" "If you know so much," she retorted, "why don't you know where your dishpan is instead of chasing around the country after it?" "Presently," he answered, "I am going where it is, but just now I am traveling and have had no breakfast. Therefore I honor you by asking you for something to eat." "Oho! The Great Frogman is hungry as any tramp, is he? Then pick up these sticks and help me to build the fire," said the woman contemptuously. "Me! The Great Frogman pick up sticks?" he exclaimed in horror. "In the Yip Country where I am more honored and powerful than any King could be, people weep with joy when I ask them to feed me." "Then that's the place to go for your breakfast," declared the woman. "I fear you do not realize my importance," urged the Frogman. "Exceeding wisdom renders me superior to menial duties." "It's a great wonder to me," remarked the woman, carrying her sticks to the house, "that your wisdom doesn't inform you that you'll get no breakfast here." And she went in and slammed the door behind her. The Frogman felt he had been insulted, so he gave a loud croak of indignation and turned away. After going a short distance, he came upon a faint path which led across a meadow in the direction of a grove of pretty trees, and thinking this circle of evergreens must surround a house where perhaps he would be kindly received, he decided to follow the path. And by and by he came to the trees, which were set close together, and pushing aside some branches he found no house inside the circle, but instead a very beautiful pond of clear water. Now the Frogman, although he was so big and well educated and now aped the ways and customs of human beings, was still a frog. As he gazed at this solitary, deserted pond, his love for water returned to him with irresistible force. "If I cannot get a breakfast, I may at least have a fine swim," said he, and pushing his way between the trees, he reached the bank. There he took off his fine clothing, laying his shiny purple hat and his gold-headed cane beside it. A moment later, he sprang with one leap into the water and dived to the very bottom of the pond. The water was deliciously cool and grateful to his thick, rough skin, and the Frogman swam around the pond several times before he stopped to rest. Then he floated upon the surface and examined the pond. The bottom and sides were all lined with glossy tiles of a light pink color; just one place in the bottom where the water bubbled up from a hidden spring had been left free. On the banks, the green grass grew to the edge of the pink tiling. And now, as the Frogman examined the place, he found that on one side of the pool, just above the water line, had been set a golden plate on which some words were deeply engraved. He swam toward this plate, and on reaching it read the following inscription: _This is_ THE TRUTH POND _Whoever bathes in this water must always afterward tell_ THE TRUTH. This statement startled the Frogman. It even worried him, so that he leaped upon the bank and hurriedly began to dress himself. "A great misfortune has befallen me," he told himself, "for hereafter I cannot tell people I am wise, since it is not the truth. The truth is that my boasted wisdom is all a sham, assumed by me to deceive people and make them defer to me. In truth, no living creature can know much more than his fellows, for one may know one thing, and another know another thing, so that wisdom is evenly scattered throughout the world. But--ah me!--what a terrible fate will now be mine. Even Cayke the Cookie Cook will soon discover that my knowledge is no greater than her own, for having bathed in the enchanted water of the Truth Pond, I can no longer deceive her or tell a lie." More humbled than he had been for many years, the Frogman went back to the grove where he had left Cayke and found the woman now awake and washing her face in a tiny brook. "Where has Your Honor been?" she asked. "To a farmhouse to ask for something to eat," said he, "but the woman refused me." "How dreadful!" she exclaimed. "But never mind, there are other houses where the people will be glad to feed the Wisest Creature in all the World." "Do you mean yourself?" he asked. "No, I mean you." The Frogman felt strongly impelled to tell the truth, but struggled hard against it. His reason told him there was no use in letting Cayke know he was not wise, for then she would lose much respect for him, but each time he opened his mouth to speak, he realized he was about to tell the truth and shut it again as quickly as possible. He tried to talk about something else, but the words necessary to undeceive the woman would force themselves to his lips in spite of all his struggles. Finally, knowing that he must either remain dumb or let the truth prevail, he gave a low groan of despair and said, "Cayke, I am NOT the Wisest Creature in all the World; I am not wise at all." "Oh, you must be!" she protested. "You told me so yourself, only last evening." "Then last evening I failed to tell you the truth," he admitted, looking very shamefaced for a frog. "I am sorry I told you this lie, my good Cayke, but if you must know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I am not really as wise as you are." The Cookie Cook was greatly shocked to hear this, for it shattered one of her most pleasing illusions. She looked at the gorgeously dressed Frogman in amazement. "What has caused you to change your mind so suddenly?" she inquired. "I have bathed in the Truth Pond," he said, "and whoever bathes in that water is ever afterward obliged to tell the truth." "You were foolish to do that," declared the woman. "It is often very embarrassing to tell the truth. I'm glad I didn't bathe in that dreadful water!" The Frogman looked at his companion thoughtfully. "Cayke," said he, "I want you to go to the Truth Pond and take a bath in its water. For if we are to travel together and encounter unknown adventures, it would not be fair that I alone must always tell you the truth, while you could tell me whatever you pleased. If we both dip in the enchanted water, there will be no chance in the future of our deceiving one another." "No," she asserted, shaking her head positively, "I won't do it, Your Honor. For if I told you the truth, I'm sure you wouldn't like me. No Truth Pond for me. I'll be just as I am, an honest woman who can say what she wants to without hurting anyone's feelings." With this decision the Frogman was forced to be content, although he was sorry the Cookie Cook would not listen to his advice. CHAPTER 14 THE UNHAPPY FERRYMAN Leaving the grove where they had slept, the Frogman and the Cookie Cook turned to the east to seek another house, and after a short walk came to one where the people received them very politely. The children stared rather hard at the big, pompous Frogman, but the woman of the house, when Cayke asked for something to eat, at once brought them food and said they were welcome to it. "Few people in need of help pass this way," she remarked, "for the Winkies are all prosperous and love to stay in their own homes. But perhaps you are not a Winkie," she added. "No," said Cayke, "I am a Yip, and my home is on a high mountain at the southeast of your country." "And the Frogman, is he also a Yip?" "I do not know what he is, other than a very remarkable and highly educated creature," replied the Cookie Cook. "But he has lived many years among the Yips, who have found him so wise and intelligent that they always go to him for advice." "May I ask why you have left your home and where you are going?" said the Winkie woman. Then Cayke told her of the diamond-studded gold dishpan and how it had been mysteriously stolen from her house, after which she had discovered that she could no longer cook good cookies. So she had resolved to search until she found her dishpan again, because a Cookie cook who cannot cook good cookies is not of much use. The Frogman, who had wanted to see more of the world, had accompanied her to assist in the search. When the woman had listened to this story, she asked, "Then you have no idea as yet who has stolen your dishpan?" "I only know it must have been some mischievous fairy, or a magician, or some such powerful person, because none other could have climbed the steep mountain to the Yip Country. And who else could have carried away my beautiful magic dishpan without being seen?" The woman thought about this during the time that Cayke and the Frogman ate their breakfast. When they had finished, she said, "Where are you going next?" "We have not decided," answered the Cookie cook. "Our plan," explained the Frogman in his important way, "is to travel from place to place until we learn where the thief is located and then to force him to return the dishpan to its proper owner." "The plan is all right," agreed the woman, "but it may take you a long time before you succeed, your method being sort of haphazard and indefinite. However, I advise you to travel toward the east." "Why?" asked the Frogman. "Because if you went west, you would soon come to the desert, and also because in this part of the Winkie Country no one steals, so your time here would be wasted. But toward the east, beyond the river, live many strange people whose honesty I would not vouch for. Moreover, if you journey far enough east and cross the river for a second time, you will come to the Emerald City, where there is much magic and sorcery. The Emerald City is ruled by a dear little girl called Ozma, who also rules the Emperor of the Winkies and all the Land of Oz. So, as Ozma is a fairy, she may be able to tell you just who has taken your precious dishpan. Provided, of course, you do not find it before you reach her." "This seems to be to be excellent advice," said the Frogman, and Cayke agreed with him. "The most sensible thing for you to do," continued the woman, "would be to return to your home and use another dishpan, learn to cook cookies as other people cook cookies, without the aid of magic. But if you cannot be happy without the magic dishpan you have lost, you are likely to learn more about it in the Emerald City than at any other place in Oz." They thanked the good woman, and on leaving her house faced the east and continued in that direction all the way. Toward evening they came to the west branch of the Winkie River and there, on the riverbank, found a ferryman who lived all alone in a little yellow house. This ferryman was a Winkie with a very small head and a very large body. He was sitting in his doorway as the travelers approached him and did not even turn his head to look at them. "Good evening," said the Frogman. The ferryman made no reply. "We would like some supper and the privilege of sleeping in your house until morning," continued the Frogman. "At daybreak, we would like some breakfast, and then we would like to have you row us across the river." The ferryman neither moved nor spoke. He sat in his doorway and looked straight ahead. "I think he must be deaf and dumb," Cayke whispered to her companion. Then she stood directly in front of the ferryman, and putting her mouth close to his ear, she yelled as loudly as she could, "Good evening!" The ferryman scowled. "Why do you yell at me, woman?" he asked. "Can you hear what I say?" asked in her ordinary tone of voice. "Of course," replied the man. "Then why didn't you answer the Frogman?" "Because," said the ferryman, "I don't understand the frog language." "He speaks the same words that I do and in the same way," declared Cayke. "Perhaps," replied the ferryman, "but to me his voice sounded like a frog's croak. I know that in the Land of Oz animals can speak our language, and so can the birds and bugs and fishes; but in MY ears, they sound merely like growls and chirps and croaks." "Why is that?" asked the Cookie Cook in surprise. "Once, many years ago, I cut the tail off a fox which had taunted me, and I stole some birds' eggs from a nest to make an omelet with, and also I pulled a fish from the river and left it lying on the bank to gasp for lack of water until it died. I don't know why I did those wicked things, but I did them. So the Emperor of the Winkies--who is the Tin Woodman and has a very tender tin heart--punished me by denying me any communication with beasts, birds or fishes. I cannot understand them when they speak to me, although I know that other people can do so, nor can the creatures understand a word I say to them. Every time I meet one of them, I am reminded of my former cruelty, and it makes me very unhappy." "Really," said Cayke, "I'm sorry for you, although the Tin Woodman is not to blame for punishing you." "What is he mumbling about?" asked the Frogman. "He is talking to me, but you don't understand him," she replied. And then she told him of the ferryman's punishment and afterward explained to the ferryman that they wanted to stay all night with him and be fed. He gave them some fruit and bread, which was the only sort of food he had, and he allowed Cayke to sleep in a room of his cottage. But the Frogman he refused to admit to his house, saying that the frog's presence made him miserable and unhappy. At no time would he look directly at the Frogman, or even toward him, fearing he would shed tears if he did so; so the big frog slept on the riverbank where he could hear little frogs croaking in the river all the night through. But that did not keep him awake; it merely soothed him to slumber, for he realized how much superior he was to them. Just as the sun was rising on a new day, the ferryman rowed the two travelers across the river--keeping his back to the Frogman all the way--and then Cayke thanked him and bade him goodbye and the ferryman rowed home again. On this side of the river, there were no paths at all, so it was evident they had reached a part of the country little frequented by travelers. There was a marsh at the south of them, sandhills at the north, and a growth of scrubby underbrush leading toward a forest at the east. So the east was really the least difficult way to go, and that direction was the one they had determined to follow. Now the Frogman, although he wore green patent-leather shoes with ruby buttons, had very large and flat feet, and when he tramped through the scrub, his weight crushed down the underbrush and made a path for Cayke to follow him. Therefore they soon reached the forest, where the tall trees were set far apart but were so leafy that they shaded all the spaces between them with their branches. "There are no bushes here," said Cayke, much pleased, "so we can now travel faster and with more comfort." CHAPTER 15 THE BIG LAVENDER BEAR It was a pleasant place to wander, and the two travelers were proceeding at a brisk pace when suddenly a voice shouted, "Halt!" They looked around in surprise, seeing at first no one at all. Then from behind a tree there stepped a brown, fuzzy bear whose head came about as high as Cayke's waist--and Cayke was a small woman. The bear was chubby as well as fuzzy; his body was even puffy, while his legs and arms seemed jointed at the knees and elbows and fastened to his body by pins or rivets. His ears were round in shape and stuck out in a comical way, while his round, black eyes were bright and sparkling as beads. Over his shoulder the little brown bear bore a gun with a tin barrel. The barrel had a cork in the end of it, and a string was attached to the cork and to the handle of the gun. Both the Frogman and Cayke gazed hard at this curious bear, standing silent for some time. But finally the Frogman recovered from his surprise and remarked, "It seems to me that you are stuffed with sawdust and ought not to be alive." "That's all you know about it," answered the little Brown Bear in a squeaky voice. "I am stuffed with a very good quality of curled hair, and my skin is the best plush that was ever made. As for my being alive, that is my own affair and cannot concern you at all, except that it gives me the privilege to say you are my prisoners." "Prisoners! Why do you speak such nonsense?" the Frogman angrily. "Do you think we are afraid of a toy bear with a toy gun?" "You ought to be," was the confident reply, "for I am merely the sentry guarding the way to Bear Center, which is a city containing hundreds of my race, who are ruled by a very powerful sorcerer known as the Lavender Bear. He ought to be a purple color, you know, seeing he is a King, but he's only light lavender, which is, of course, second cousin to royal purple. So unless you come with me peaceably as my prisoners, I shall fire my gun and bring a hundred bears of all sizes and colors to capture you." "Why do you wish to capture us?" inquired the Frogman, who had listened to his speech with much astonishment. "I don't wish to, as a matter of fact," replied the little Brown Bear, "but it is my duty to, because you are now trespassing on the domain of His Majesty, the King of Bear Center. Also, I will admit that things are rather quiet in our city just now, and the excitement of your capture, followed by your trial and execution, should afford us much entertainment." "We defy you!" said the Frogman. "Oh no, don't do that," pleaded Cayke, speaking to her companion. "He says his King is a sorcerer, so perhaps it is he or one of his bears who ventured to steal my jeweled dishpan. Let us go to the City of the Bears and discover if my dishpan is there." "I must now register one more charge against you," remarked the little Brown Bear with evident satisfaction. "You have just accused us of stealing, and that is such a dreadful thing to say that I am quite sure our noble King will command you to be executed." "But how could you execute us?" inquired the Cookie Cook. "I've no idea. But our King is a wonderful inventor, and there is no doubt he can find a proper way to destroy you. So tell me, are you going to struggle, or will you go peaceably to meet your doom?" It was all so ridiculous that Cayke laughed aloud, and even the Frogman's wide mouth curled in a smile. Neither was a bit afraid to go to the Bear City, and it seemed to both that there was a possibility they might discover the missing dishpan. So the Frogman said, "Lead the way, little Bear, and we will follow without a struggle." "That's very sensible of you, very sensible indeed," declared the Brown Bear. "So for-ward, MARCH!" And with the command he turned around and began to waddle along a path that led between the trees. Cayke and the Frogman, as they followed their conductor, could scarce forbear laughing at his stiff, awkward manner of walking, and although he moved his stuffy legs fast, his steps were so short that they had to go slowly in order not to run into him. But after a time they reached a large, circular space in the center of the forest, which was clear of any stumps or underbrush. The ground was covered by a soft, gray moss, pleasant to tread upon. All the trees surrounding this space seemed to be hollow and had round holes in their trunks, set a little way above the ground, but otherwise there was nothing unusual about the place and nothing, in the opinion of the prisoners, to indicate a settlement. But the little Brown Bear said in a proud and impressive voice (although it still squeaked), "This is the wonderful city known to fame as Bear Center!" "But there are no houses, there are no bears living here at all!" exclaimed Cayke. "Oh indeed!" retorted their captor, and raising his gun he pulled the trigger. The cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" and at once from every hole in every tree within view of the clearing appeared the head of a bear. They were of many colors and of many sizes, but all were made in the same manner as the bear who had met and captured them. At first a chorus of growls arose, and then a sharp voice cried, "What has happened, Corporal Waddle?" "Captives, Your Majesty!" answered the Brown Bear. "Intruders upon our domain and slanderers of our good name." "Ah, that's important," answered the voice. Then from out the hollow trees tumbled a whole regiment of stuffed bears, some carrying tin swords, some popguns and others long spears with gay ribbons tied to the handles. There were hundreds of them, altogether, and they quietly formed a circle around the Frogman and the Cookie Cook, but kept at a distance and left a large space for the prisoners to stand in. Presently, this circle parted, and into the center of it stalked a huge toy bear of a lovely lavender color. He walked upon his hind legs, as did all the others, and on his head he wore a tin crown set with diamonds and amethysts, while in one paw he carried a short wand of some glittering metal that resembled silver but wasn't. "His Majesty the King!" Corporal Waddle, and all the bears bowed low. Some bowed so low that they lost their balance and toppled over, but they soon scrambled up again, and the Lavender King squatted on his haunches before the prisoners and gazed at them steadily with his bright, pink eyes. CHAPTER 16 THE LITTLE PINK BEAR "One Person and one Freak," said the big Lavender Bear when he had carefully examined the strangers. "I am sorry to hear you call poor Cayke the Cookie Cook a Freak," remonstrated the Frogman. "She is the Person," asserted the King. "Unless I am mistaken, it is you who are the Freak." The Frogman was silent, for he could not truthfully deny it. "Why have you dared intrude in my forest?" demanded the Bear King. "We didn't know it was your forest," said Cayke, "and we are on our way to the far east, where the Emerald City is." "Ah, it's a long way from here to the Emerald City," remarked the King. "It is so far away, indeed, that no bear among us has even been there. But what errand requires you to travel such a distance?" "Someone has stolen my diamond-studded gold dishpan," explained Cayke, "and as I cannot be happy without it, I have decided to search the world over until I find it again. The Frogman, who is very learned and wonderfully wise, has come with me to give me his assistance. Isn't it kind of him?" The King looked at the Frogman. "What makes you so wonderfully wise?" he asked. "I'm not," was the candid reply. "The Cookie Cook and some others in the Yip Country think because I am a big frog and talk and act like a man that I must be very wise. I have learned more than a frog usually knows, it is true, but I am not yet so wise as I hope to become at some future time." The King nodded, and when he did so, something squeaked in his chest. "Did Your Majesty speak?" asked Cayke. "Not just then," answered the Lavender Bear, seeming to be somewhat embarrassed. "I am so built, you must know, that when anything pushes against my chest, as my chin accidentally did just then, I make that silly noise. In this city it isn't considered good manners to notice. But I like your Frogman. He is honest and truthful, which is more than can be said of many others. As for your late lamented dishpan, I'll show it to you." With this he waved three times the metal wand which he held in his paw, and instantly there appeared upon the ground midway between the King and Cayke a big, round pan made of beaten gold. Around the top edge was a row of small diamonds; around the center of the pan was another row of larger diamonds; and at the bottom was a row of exceedingly large and brilliant diamonds. In fact, they all sparkled magnificently, and the pan was so big and broad that it took a lot of diamonds to go around it three times. Cayke stared so hard that her eyes seemed about to pop out of her head. "O-o-o-h!" she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath of delight. "Is this your dishpan?" inquired the King. "It is, it is!" cried the Cookie Cook, and rushing forward, she fell on her knees and threw her arms around the precious pan. But her arms came together without meeting any resistance at all. Cayke tried to seize the edge, but found nothing to grasp. The pan was surely there, she thought, for she could see it plainly; but it was not solid; she could not feel it at all. With a moan of astonishment and despair, she raised her head to look at the Bear King, who was watching her actions curiously. Then she turned to the pan again, only to find it had completely disappeared. "Poor creature!" murmured the King pityingly. "You must have thought, for the moment, that you had actually recovered your dishpan. But what you saw was merely the image of it, conjured up by means of my magic. It is a pretty dishpan, indeed, though rather big and awkward to handle. I hope you will some day find it." Cayke was grievously disappointed. She began to cry, wiping her eyes on her apron. The King turned to the throng of toy bears surrounding him and asked, "Has any of you ever seen this golden dishpan before?" "No," they answered in a chorus. The King seemed to reflect. Presently he inquired, "Where is the Little Pink Bear?" "At home, Your Majesty," was the reply. "Fetch him here," commanded the King. Several of the bears waddled over to one of the trees and pulled from its hollow a tiny pink bear, smaller than any of the others. A big, white bear carried the pink one in his arms and set it down beside the King, arranging the joints of its legs so that it would stand upright. This Pink Bear seemed lifeless until the King turned a crank which protruded from its side, when the little creature turned its head stiffly from side to side and said in a small, shrill voice, "Hurrah for the King of Bear Center!" "Very good," said the big Lavender Bear. "He seems to be working very well today. Tell me, my Pink Pinkerton, what has become of this lady's jeweled dishpan?" "U-u-u," said the Pink Bear, and then stopped short. The King turned the crank again. "U-g-u the Shoemaker has it," said the Pink Bear. "Who is Ugu the Shoemaker?" demanded the King, again turning the crank. "A magician who lives on a mountain in a wickerwork castle," was the reply. "Where is the mountain?" was the next question. "Nineteen miles and three furlongs from Bear Center to the northeast." "And is the dishpan still at the castle of Ugu the Shoemaker?" asked the King. "It is." The King turned to Cayke. "You may rely on this information," said he. "The Pink Bear can tell us anything we wish to know, and his words are always words of truth." "Is he alive?" asked the Frogman, much interested in the Pink Bear. "Something animates him when you turn his crank," replied the King. "I do not know if it is life or what it is or how it happens that the Little Pink Bear can answer correctly every question put to him. We discovered his talent a long time ago, and whenever we wish to know anything--which is not very often--we ask the Pink Bear. There is no doubt whatever, madam, that Ugu the Magician has your dishpan, and if you dare to go to him, you may be able to recover it. But of that I am not certain." "Can't the Pink Bear tell?" asked Cayke anxiously. "No, for that is in the future. He can tell anything that HAS happened, but nothing that is going to happen. Don't ask me why, for I don't know." "Well," said the Cookie Cook after a little thought, "I mean to go to this magician, anyhow, and tell him I want my dishpan. I wish I knew what Ugu the Shoemaker is like." "Then I'll show him to you," promised the King. "But do not be frightened. It won't be Ugu, remember, but only his image." With this, he waved his metal wand, and in the circle suddenly appeared a thin little man, very old and skinny, who was seated on a wicker stool before a wicker table. On the table lay a Great Book with gold clasps. The Book was open, and the man was reading in it. He wore great spectacles which were fastened before his eyes by means of a ribbon that passed around his head and was tied in a bow at the neck. His hair was very thin and white; his skin, which clung fast to his bones, was brown and seared with furrows; he had a big, fat nose and little eyes set close together. On no account was Ugu the Shoemaker a pleasant person to gaze at. As his image appeared before them, all were silent and intent until Corporal Waddle, the Brown Bear, became nervous and pulled the trigger of his gun. Instantly, the cork flew out of the tin barrel with a loud "pop!" that made them all jump. And at this sound, the image of the magician vanished. "So THAT'S the thief, is it?" said Cayke in an angry voice. "I should think he'd be ashamed of himself for stealing a poor woman's diamond dishpan! But I mean to face him in his wicker castle and force him to return my property." "To me," said the Bear King reflectively, "he looked like a dangerous person. I hope he won't be so unkind as to argue the matter with you." The Frogman was much disturbed by the vision of Ugu the Shoemaker, and Cayke's determination to go to the magician filled her companion with misgivings. But he would not break his pledged word to assist the Cookie Cook, and after breathing a deep sigh of resignation, he asked the King, "Will Your Majesty lend us this Pink Bear who answers questions that we may take him with us on our journey? He would be very useful to us, and we will promise to bring him safely back to you." The King did not reply at once. He seemed to be thinking. "PLEASE let us take the Pink Bear," begged Cayke. "I'm sure he would be a great help to us." "The Pink Bear," said the King, "is the best bit of magic I possess, and there is not another like him in the world. I do not care to let him out of my sight, nor do I wish to disappoint you; so I believe I will make the journey in your company and carry my Pink Bear with me. He can walk when you wind the other side of him, but so slowly and awkwardly that he would delay you. But if I go along, I can carry him in my arms, so I will join your party. Whenever you are ready to start, let me know." "But Your Majesty!" exclaimed Corporal Waddle in protest, "I hope you do not intend to let these prisoners escape without punishment." "Of what crime do you accuse them?" inquired the King. "Why, they trespassed on your domain, for one thing," said the Brown Bear. "We didn't know it was private property, Your Majesty," said the Cookie Cook. "And they asked if any of us had stolen the dishpan!" continued Corporal Waddle indignantly. "That is the same thing as calling us thieves and robbers and bandits and brigands, is it not?" "Every person has the right to ask questions," said the Frogman. "But the Corporal is quite correct," declared the Lavender Bear. "I condemn you both to death, the execution to take place ten years from this hour." "But we belong in the Land of Oz, where no one ever dies," Cayke reminded him. "Very true," said the King. "I condemn you to death merely as a matter of form. It sounds quite terrible, and in ten years we shall have forgotten all about it. Are you ready to start for the wicker castle of Ugu the Shoemaker?" "Quite ready, Your Majesty." "But who will rule in your place while you are gone?" asked a big Yellow Bear. "I myself will rule while I am gone," was the reply. "A King isn't required to stay at home forever, and if he takes a notion to travel, whose business is it but his own? All I ask is that you bears behave yourselves while I am away. If any of you is naughty, I'll send him to some girl or boy in America to play with." This dreadful threat made all the toy bears look solemn. They assured the King in a chorus of growls that they would be good. Then the big Lavender Bear picked up the little Pink Bear, and after tucking it carefully under one arm, he said, "Goodbye till I come back!" and waddled along the path that led through the forest. The Frogman and Cayke the Cookie Cook also said goodbye to the bears and then followed after the King, much to the regret of the little Brown Bear, who pulled the trigger of his gun and popped the cork as a parting salute. CHAPTER 17 THE MEETING While the Frogman and his party were advancing from the west, Dorothy and her party were advancing from the east, and so it happened that on the following night they all camped at a little hill that was only a few miles from the wicker castle of Ugu the Shoemaker. But the two parties did not see one another that night, for one camped on one side of the hill while the other camped on the opposite side. But the next morning, the Frogman thought he would climb the hill and see what was on top of it, and at the same time Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, also decided to climb the hill to find if the wicker castle was visible from its top. So she stuck her head over an edge just as the Frogman's head appeared over another edge, and both, being surprised, kept still while they took a good look at one another. Scraps recovered from her astonishment first, and bounding upward, she turned a somersault and landed sitting down and facing the big Frogman, who slowly advanced and sat opposite her. "Well met, Stranger!" cried the Patchwork Girl with a whoop of laughter. "You are quite the funniest individual I have seen in all my travels." "Do you suppose I can be any funnier than you?" asked the Frogman, gazing at her in wonder. "I'm not funny to myself, you know," returned Scraps. "I wish I were. And perhaps you are so used to your own absurd shape that you do not laugh whenever you see your reflection in a pool or in a mirror." "No," said the Frogman gravely, "I do not. I used to be proud of my great size and vain of my culture and education, but since I bathed in the Truth Pond, I sometimes think it is not right that I should be different from all other frogs." "Right or wrong," said the Patchwork Girl, "to be different is to be distinguished. Now in my case, I'm just like all other Patchwork Girls because I'm the only one there is. But tell me, where did you come from?" "The Yip Country," said he. "Is that in the Land of Oz?" "Of course," replied the Frogman. "And do you know that your Ruler, Ozma of Oz, has been stolen?" "I was not aware that I had a Ruler, so of course I couldn't know that she was stolen." "Well, you have. All the people of Oz," explained Scraps, "are ruled by Ozma, whether they know it or not. And she has been stolen. Aren't you angry? Aren't you indignant? Your Ruler, whom you didn't know you had, has positively been stolen!" "That is queer," remarked the Frogman thoughtfully. "Stealing is a thing practically unknown in Oz, yet this Ozma has been taken, and a friend of mine has also had her dishpan stolen. With her I have traveled all the way from the Yip Country in order to recover it." "I don't see any connection between a Royal Ruler of Oz and a dishpan!" declared Scraps. "They've both been stolen, haven't they?" "True. But why can't your friend wash her dishes in another dishpan?" asked Scraps. "Why can't you use another Royal Ruler? I suppose you prefer the one who is lost, and my friend wants her own dishpan, which is made of gold and studded with diamonds and has magic powers." "Magic, eh?" exclaimed Scraps. "THERE is a link that connects the two steals, anyhow, for it seems that all the magic in the Land of Oz was stolen at the same time, whether it was in the Emerald City of in Glinda's castle or in the Yip Country. Seems mighty strange and mysterious, doesn't it?" "It used to seem that way to me," admitted the Frogman, "but we have now discovered who took our dishpan. It was Ugu the Shoemaker." "Ugu? Good gracious! That's the same magician we think has stolen Ozma. We are now on our way to the castle of this Shoemaker." "So are we," said the Frogman. "Then follow me, quick! And let me introduce you to Dorothy and the other girls and to the Wizard of Oz and all the rest of us." She sprang up and seized his coatsleeve, dragging him off the hilltop and down the other side from that whence he had come. And at the foot of the hill, the Frogman was astonished to find the three girls and the Wizard and Button-Bright, who were surrounded by a wooden Sawhorse, a lean Mule, a square Woozy, and a Cowardly Lion. A little black dog ran up and smelled at the Frogman, but couldn't growl at him. "I've discovered another party that has been robbed," shouted Scraps as she joined them. "This is their leader, and they're all going to Ugu's castle to fight the wicked Shoemaker!" They regarded the Frogman with much curiosity and interest, and finding all eyes fixed upon him, the newcomer arranged his necktie and smoothed his beautiful vest and swung his gold-headed cane like a regular dandy. The big spectacles over his eyes quite altered his froglike countenance and gave him a learned and impressive look. Used as she was to seeing strange creatures in the Land of Oz, Dorothy was amazed at discovering the Frogman. So were all her companions. Toto wanted to growl at him, but couldn't, and he didn't dare bark. The Sawhorse snorted rather contemptuously, but the Lion whispered to the wooden steed, "Bear with this strange creature, my friend, and remember he is no more extraordinary than you are. Indeed, it is more natural for a frog to be big than for a Sawhorse to be alive." On being questioned, the Frogman told them the whole story of the loss of Cayke's highly prized dishpan and their adventures in search of it. When he came to tell of the Lavender Bear King and of the Little Pink Bear who could tell anything you wanted to know, his hearers became eager to see such interesting animals. "It will be best," said the Wizard, "to unite our two parties and share our fortunes together, for we are all bound on the same errand, and as one band we may more easily defy this shoemaker magician than if separate. Let us be allies." "I will ask my friends about that," replied the Frogman, and he climbed over the hill to find Cayke and the toy bears. The Patchwork Girl accompanied him, and when they came upon the Cookie Cook and the Lavender Bear and the Pink Bear, it was hard to tell which of the lot was the most surprised. "Mercy me!" cried Cayke, addressing the Patchwork Girl. "However did you come alive?" Scraps stared at the bears. "Mercy me!" she echoed, "You are stuffed, as I am, with cotton, and you appear to be living. That makes me feel ashamed, for I have prided myself on being the only live cotton-stuffed person in Oz." "Perhaps you are," returned the Lavender Bear, "for I am stuffed with extra-quality curled hair, and so is the Little Pink Bear." "You have relieved my mind of a great anxiety," declared the Patchwork Girl, now speaking more cheerfully. "The Scarecrow is stuffed with straw and you with hair, so I am still the Original and Only Cotton-Stuffed!" "I hope I am too polite to criticize cotton as compared with curled hair," said the King, "especially as you seem satisfied with it." Then the Frogman told of his interview with the party from the Emerald City and added that the Wizard of Oz had invited the bears and Cayke and himself to travel in company with them to the castle of Ugu the Shoemaker. Cayke was much pleased, but the Bear King looked solemn. He set the Little Pink Bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "Is it safe for us to associate with those people from the Emerald City?" And the Pink Bear at once replied, "Safe for you and safe for me; Perhaps no others safe will be." "That 'perhaps' need not worry us," said the King, "so let us join the others and offer them our protection." Even the Lavender Bear was astonished, however, when on climbing over the hill he found on the other side the group of queer animals and the people from the Emerald City. The bears and Cayke were received very cordially, although Button-Bright was cross when they wouldn't let him play with the Little Pink Bear. The three girls greatly admired the toy bears, and especially the pink one, which they longed to hold. "You see," explained the Lavender King in denying them this privilege, "he's a very valuable bear, because his magic is a correct guide on all occasions, and especially if one is in difficulties. It was the Pink Bear who told us that Ugu the Shoemaker had stolen the Cookie Cook's dishpan." "And the King's magic is just as wonderful," added Cayke, "because it showed us the Magician himself." "What did he look like?" inquired Dorothy. "He was dreadful!" "He was sitting at a table and examining an immense Book which had three golden clasps," remarked the King. "Why, that must have been Glinda's Great Book of Records!" exclaimed Dorothy. "If it is, it proves that Ugu the Shoemaker stole Ozma, and with her all the magic in the Emerald City." "And my dishpan," said Cayke. And the Wizard added, "It also proves that he is following our adventures in the Book of Records, and therefore knows that we are seeking him and that we are determined to find him and reach Ozma at all hazards." "If we can," added the Woozy, but everybody frowned at him. The Wizard's statement was so true that the faces around him were very serious until the Patchwork Girl broke into a peal of laughter. "Wouldn't it be a rich joke if he made prisoners of us, too?" she said. "No one but a crazy Patchwork Girl would consider that a joke," grumbled Button-Bright. And then the Lavender Bear King asked, "Would you like to see this magical shoemaker?" "Wouldn't he know it?" Dorothy inquired. "No, I think not." Then the King waved his metal wand and before them appeared a room in the wicker castle of Ugu. On the wall of the room hung Ozma's Magic Picture, and seated before it was the Magician. They could see the Picture as well as he could, because it faced them, and in the Picture was the hillside where they were now sitting, all their forms being reproduced in miniature. And curiously enough, within the scene of the Picture was the scene they were now beholding, so they knew that the Magician was at this moment watching them in the Picture, and also that he saw himself and the room he was in become visible to the people on the hillside. Therefore he knew very well that they were watching him while he was watching them. In proof of this, Ugu sprang from his seat and turned a scowling face in their direction; but now he could not see the travelers who were seeking him, although they could still see him. His actions were so distinct, indeed, that it seemed he was actually before them. "It is only a ghost," said the Bear King. "It isn't real at all except that it shows us Ugu just as he looks and tells us truly just what he is doing." "I don't see anything of my lost growl, though," said Toto as if to himself. Then the vision faded away, and they could see nothing but the grass and trees and bushes around them. CHAPTER 18 THE CONFERENCE "Now then," said the Wizard, "let us talk this matter over and decide what to do when we get to Ugu's wicker castle. There can be no doubt that the Shoemaker is a powerful Magician, and his powers have been increased a hundredfold since he secured the Great Book of Records, the Magic Picture, all of Glinda's recipes for sorcery, and my own black bag, which was full of tools of wizardry. The man who could rob us of those things and the man with all their powers at his command is one who may prove somewhat difficult to conquer, therefore we should plan our actions well before we venture too near to his castle." "I didn't see Ozma in the Magic Picture," said Trot. "What do you suppose Ugu has done with her?" "Couldn't the Little Pink Bear tell us what he did with Ozma?" asked Button-Bright. "To be sure," replied the Lavender King. "I'll ask him." So he turned the crank in the Little Pink Bear's side and inquired, "Did Ugu the Shoemaker steal Ozma of Oz?" "Yes," answered the Little Pink Bear. "Then what did he do with her?" asked the King. "Shut her up in a dark place," answered the Little Pink Bear. "Oh, that must be a dungeon cell!" cried Dorothy, horrified. "How dreadful!" "Well, we must get her out of it," said the Wizard. "That is what we came for, and of course we must rescue Ozma. But how?" Each one looked at some other one for an answer, and all shook their heads in a grave and dismal manner. All but Scraps, who danced around them gleefully. "You're afraid," said the Patchwork Girl, "because so many things can hurt your meat bodies. Why don't you give it up and go home? How can you fight a great magician when you have nothing to fight with?" Dorothy looked at her reflectively. "Scraps," said she, "you know that Ugu couldn't hurt you a bit, whatever he did, nor could he hurt ME, 'cause I wear the Gnome King's Magic Belt. S'pose just we two go on together and leave the others here to wait for us." "No, no!" said the Wizard positively. "That won't do at all. Ozma is more powerful than either of you, yet she could not defeat the wicked Ugu, who has shut her up in a dungeon. We must go to the Shoemaker in one mighty band, for only in union is there strength." "That is excellent advice," said the Lavender Bear approvingly. "But what can we do when we get to Ugu?" inquired the Cookie Cook anxiously. "Do not expect a prompt answer to that important question," replied the Wizard, "for we must first plan our line of conduct. Ugu knows, of course, that we are after him, for he has seen our approach in the Magic Picture, and he has read of all we have done up to the present moment in the Great Book of Records. Therefore we cannot expect to take him by surprise." "Don't you suppose Ugu would listen to reason?" asked Betsy. "If we explained to him how wicked he has been, don't you think he'd let poor Ozma go?" "And give me back my dishpan?" added the Cookie Cook eagerly. "Yes, yes, won't he say he's sorry and get on his knees and beg our pardon?" cried Scraps, turning a flip-flop to show her scorn of the suggestion. "When Ugu the Shoemaker does that, please knock at the front door and let me know." The Wizard sighed and rubbed his bald head with a puzzled air. "I'm quite sure Ugu will not be polite to us," said he, "so we must conquer this cruel magician by force, much as we dislike to be rude to anyone. But none of you has yet suggested a way to do that. Couldn't the Little Pink Bear tell us how?" he asked, turning to the Bear King. "No, for that is something that is GOING to happen," replied the Lavender Bear. "He can only tell us what already HAS happened." Again, they were grave and thoughtful. But after a time, Betsy said in a hesitating voice, "Hank is a great fighter. Perhaps HE could conquer the magician." The Mule turned his head to look reproachfully at his old friend, the young girl. "Who can fight against magic?" he asked. "The Cowardly Lion could," said Dorothy. The Lion, who was lying with his front legs spread out, his chin on his paws, raised his shaggy head. "I can fight when I'm not afraid," said he calmly, "but the mere mention of a fight sets me to trembling." "Ugu's magic couldn't hurt the Sawhorse," suggested tiny Trot. "And the Sawhorse couldn't hurt the Magician," declared that wooden animal. "For my part," said Toto, "I am helpless, having lost my growl." "Then," said Cayke the Cookie Cook, "we must depend upon the Frogman. His marvelous wisdom will surely inform him how to conquer the wicked Magician and restore to me my dishpan." All eyes were now turned questioningly upon the Frogman. Finding himself the center of observation, he swung his gold-headed cane, adjusted his big spectacles, and after swelling out his chest, sighed and said in a modest tone of voice: "Respect for truth obliges me to confess that Cayke is mistaken in regard to my superior wisdom. I am not very wise. Neither have I had any practical experience in conquering magicians. But let us consider this case. What is Ugu, and what is a magician? Ugu is a renegade shoemaker, and a magician is an ordinary man who, having learned how to do magical tricks, considers himself above his fellows. In this case, the Shoemaker has been naughty enough to steal a lot of magical tools and things that did not belong to him, and he is more wicked to steal than to be a magician. Yet with all the arts at his command, Ugu is still a man, and surely there are ways in which a man may be conquered. How, do you say, how? Allow me to state that I don't know. In my judgment, we cannot decide how best to act until we get to Ugu's castle. So let us go to it and take a look at it. After that, we may discover an idea that will guide us to victory." "That may not be a wise speech, but it sounds good," said Dorothy approvingly. "Ugu the Shoemaker is not only a common man, but he's a wicked man and a cruel man and deserves to be conquered. We mustn't have any mercy on him till Ozma is set free. So let's go to his castle as the Frogman says and see what the place looks like." No one offered any objection to this plan, and so it was adopted. They broke camp and were about to start on the journey to Ugu's castle when they discovered that Button-Bright was lost again. The girls and the Wizard shouted his name, and the Lion roared and the Donkey brayed and the Frogman croaked and the Big Lavender Bear growled (to the envy of Toto, who couldn't growl but barked his loudest), yet none of them could make Button-Bright hear. So after vainly searching for the boy a full hour, they formed a procession and proceeded in the direction of the wicker castle of Ugu the Shoemaker. "Button-Bright's always getting lost," said Dorothy. "And if he wasn't always getting found again, I'd prob'ly worry. He may have gone ahead of us, and he may have gone back, but wherever he is, we'll find him sometime and somewhere, I'm almost sure." CHAPTER 19 UGU THE SHOEMAKER A curious thing about Ugu the Shoemaker was that he didn't suspect in the least that he was wicked. He wanted to be powerful and great, and he hoped to make himself master of all the Land of Oz that he might compel everyone in that fairy country to obey him, His ambition blinded him to the rights of others, and he imagined anyone else would act just as he did if anyone else happened to be as clever as himself. When he inhabited his little shoemaking shop in the City of Herku, he had been discontented, for a shoemaker is not looked upon with high respect, and Ugu knew that his ancestors had been famous magicians for many centuries past and therefore his family was above the ordinary. Even his father practiced magic when Ugu was a boy, but his father had wandered away from Herku and had never come back again. So when Ugu grew up, he was forced to make shoes for a living, knowing nothing of the magic of his forefathers. But one day, in searching through the attic of his house, he discovered all the books of magical recipes and many magical instruments which had formerly been in use in his family. From that day, he stopped making shoes and began to study magic. Finally, he aspired to become the greatest magician in Oz, and for days and weeks and months he thought on a plan to render all the other sorcerers and wizards, as well as those with fairy powers, helpless to oppose him. From the books of his ancestors, he learned the following facts: (1) That Ozma of Oz was the fairy ruler of the Emerald City and the Land of Oz and that she could not be destroyed by any magic ever devised. Also, by means of her Magic Picture she would be able to discover anyone who approached her royal palace with the idea of conquering it. (2) That Glinda the Good was the most powerful Sorceress in Oz, among her other magical possessions being the Great Book of Records, which told her all that happened anywhere in the world. This Book of Records was very dangerous to Ugu's plans, and Glinda was in the service of Ozma and would use her arts of sorcery to protect the girl Ruler. (3) That the Wizard of Oz, who lived in Ozma's palace, had been taught much powerful magic by Glinda and had a bag of magic tools with which he might be able to conquer the Shoemaker. (4) That there existed in Oz--in the Yip Country--a jeweled dishpan made of gold, which dishpan would grow large enough for a man to sit inside it. Then, when he grasped both the golden handles, the dishpan would transport him in an instant to any place he wished to go within the borders of the Land of Oz. No one now living except Ugu knew of the powers of the Magic Dishpan, so after long study, the shoemaker decided that if he could manage to secure the dishpan, he could by its means rob Ozma and Glinda and the Wizard of Oz of all their magic, thus becoming himself the most powerful person in all the land. His first act was to go away from the City of Herku and build for himself the Wicker Castle in the hills. Here he carried his books and instruments of magic, and here for a full year he diligently practiced all the magical arts learned from his ancestors. At the end of that time, he could do a good many wonderful things. Then, when all his preparations were made, he set out for the Yip Country, and climbing the steep mountain at night he entered the house of Cayke the Cookie Cook and stole her diamond-studded gold dishpan while all the Yips were asleep, Taking his prize outside, he set the pan upon the ground and uttered the required magic word. Instantly, the dishpan grew as large as a big washtub, and Ugu seated himself in it and grasped the two handles. Then he wished himself in the great drawing room of Glinda the Good. He was there in a flash. First he took the Great Book of Records and put it in the dishpan. Then he went to Glinda's laboratory and took all her rare chemical compounds and her instruments of sorcery, placing these also in the dishpan, which he caused to grow large enough to hold them. Next he seated himself amongst the treasures he had stolen and wished himself in the room in Ozma's palace which the Wizard occupied and where he kept his bag of magic tools. This bag Ugu added to his plunder and then wished himself in the apartments of Ozma. Here he first took the Magic Picture from the wall and then seized all the other magical things which Ozma possessed. Having placed these in the dishpan, he was about to climb in himself when he looked up and saw Ozma standing beside him. Her fairy instinct had warned her that danger was threatening her, so the beautiful girl Ruler rose from her couch and leaving her bedchamber at once confronted the thief. Ugu had to think quickly, for he realized that if he permitted Ozma to rouse the inmates of her palace, all his plans and his present successes were likely to come to naught. So he threw a scarf over the girl's head so she could not scream, and pushed her into the dishpan and tied her fast so she could not move. Then he climbed in beside her and wished himself in his own wicker castle. The Magic Dishpan was there in an instant, with all its contents, and Ugu rubbed his hands together in triumphant joy as he realized that he now possessed all the important magic in the Land of Oz and could force all the inhabitants of that fairyland to do as he willed. So quickly had his journey been accomplished that before daylight the robber magician had locked Ozma in a room, making her a prisoner, and had unpacked and arranged all his stolen goods. The next day he placed the Book of Records on his table and hung the Magic Picture on his wall and put away in his cupboards and drawers all the elixirs and magic compounds he had stolen. The magical instruments he polished and arranged, and this was fascinating work and made him very happy. By turns the imprisoned Ruler wept and scolded the Shoemaker, haughtily threatening him with dire punishment for the wicked deeds he had done. Ugu became somewhat afraid of his fairy prisoner, in spite of the fact that he believed he had robbed her of all her powers; so he performed an enchantment that quickly disposed of her and placed her out of his sight and hearing. After that, being occupied with other things, he soon forgot her. But now, when he looked into the Magic Picture and read the Great Book of Records, the Shoemaker learned that his wickedness was not to go unchallenged. Two important expeditions had set out to find him and force him to give up his stolen property. One was the party headed by the Wizard and Dorothy, while the other consisted of Cayke and the Frogman. Others were also searching, but not in the right places. These two groups, however, were headed straight for the wicker castle, and so Ugu began to plan how best to meet them and to defeat their efforts to conquer him. CHAPTER 20 MORE SURPRISES All that first day after the union of the two parties, our friends marched steadily toward the wicker castle of Ugu the Shoemaker. When night came, they camped in a little grove and passed a pleasant evening together, although some of them were worried because Button-Bright was still lost. "Perhaps," said Toto as the animals lay grouped together for the night, "this Shoemaker who stole my growl and who stole Ozma has also stolen Button-Bright." "How do you know that the Shoemaker stole your growl?" demanded the Woozy. "He has stolen about everything else of value in Oz, hasn't he?" replied the dog. "He has stolen everything he wants, perhaps," agreed the Lion, "but what could anyone want with your growl?" "Well," said the dog, wagging his tail slowly, "my recollection is that it was a wonderful growl, soft and low and--and--" "And ragged at the edges," said the Sawhorse. "So," continued Toto, "if that magician hadn't any growl of his own, he might have wanted mine and stolen it." "And if he has, he will soon wish he hadn't," remarked the Mule. "Also, if he has stolen Button-Bright, he will be sorry." "Don't you like Button-Bright, then?" asked the Lion in surprise. "It isn't a question of liking him," replied the Mule. "It's a question of watching him and looking after him. Any boy who causes his friends so much worry isn't worth having around. I never get lost." "If you did," said Toto, "no one would worry a bit. I think Button-Bright is a very lucky boy because he always gets found." "See here," said the Lion, "this chatter is keeping us all awake, and tomorrow is likely to be a busy day. Go to sleep and forget your quarrels." "Friend Lion," retorted the dog, "if I hadn't lost my growl, you would hear it now. I have as much right to talk as you have to sleep." The Lion sighed. "If only you had lost your voice when you lost your growl," said he, "you would be a more agreeable companion." But they quieted down after that, and soon the entire camp was wrapped in slumber. Next morning they made an early start, but had hardly proceeded on their way an hour when, on climbing a slight elevation, they beheld in the distance a low mountain on top of which stood Ugu's wicker castle. It was a good-sized building and rather pretty because the sides, roofs and domes were all of wicker, closely woven as it is in fine baskets. "I wonder if it is strong?" said Dorothy musingly as she eyed the queer castle. "I suppose it is, since a magician built it," answered the Wizard. "With magic to protect it, even a paper castle might be as strong as if made of stone. This Ugu must be a man of ideas, because he does things in a different way from other people." "Yes. No one else would steal our dear Ozma," sighed tiny Trot. "I wonder if Ozma is there?" said Betsy, indicating the castle with a nod of her head. "Where else could she be?" asked Scraps. "Suppose we ask the Pink Bear," suggested Dorothy. That seemed a good idea, so they halted the procession, and the Bear King held the little Pink Bear on his lap and turned the crank in its side and asked, "Where is Ozma of Oz?" And the little Pink Bear answered, "She is in a hole in the ground a half mile away at your left." "Good gracious!" cried Dorothy. "Then she is not in Ugu's castle at all." "It is lucky we asked that question," said the Wizard, "for if we can find Ozma and rescue her, there will be no need for us to fight that wicked and dangerous magician." "Indeed!" said Cayke. "Then what about my dishpan?" The Wizard looked puzzled at her tone of remonstrance, so she added, "Didn't you people from the Emerald City promise that we would all stick together, and that you would help me to get my dishpan if I would help you to get your Ozma? And didn't I bring to you the little Pink Bear, which has told you where Ozma is hidden?" "She's right," said Dorothy to the Wizard. "We must do as we agreed." "Well, first of all, let us go and rescue Ozma," proposed the Wizard. "Then our beloved Ruler may be able to advise us how to conquer Ugu the Shoemaker." So they turned to the left and marched for half a mile until they came to a small but deep hole in the ground. At once, all rushed to the brim to peer into the hole, but instead of finding there Princess Ozma of Oz, all that they saw was Button-Bright, who was lying asleep on the bottom. Their cries soon wakened the boy, who sat up and rubbed his eyes. When he recognized his friends, he smiled sweetly, saying, "Found again!" "Where is Ozma?" inquired Dorothy anxiously. "I don't know," answered Button-Bright from the depths of the hole. "I got lost yesterday, as you may remember, and in the night while I was wandering around in the moonlight trying to find my way back to you, I suddenly fell into this hole." "And wasn't Ozma in it then?" "There was no one in it but me, and I was sorry it wasn't entirely empty. The sides are so steep I can't climb out, so there was nothing to be done but sleep until someone found me. Thank you for coming. If you'll please let down a rope, I'll empty this hole in a hurry." "How strange!" said Dorothy, greatly disappointed. "It's evident the Pink Bear didn't tell the truth." "He never makes a mistake," declared the Lavender Bear King in a tone that showed his feelings were hurt. And then he turned the crank of the little Pink Bear again and asked, "Is this the hole that Ozma of Oz is in?" "Yes," answered the Pink Bear. "That settles it," said the King positively. "Your Ozma is in this hole in the ground." "Don't be silly," returned Dorothy impatiently. "Even your beady eyes can see there is no one in the hole but Button-Bright." "Perhaps Button-Bright is Ozma," suggested the King. "And perhaps he isn't! Ozma is a girl, and Button-Bright is a boy." "Your Pink Bear must be out of order," said the Wizard, "for, this time at least, his machinery has caused him to make an untrue statement." The Bear King was so angry at this remark that he turned away, holding the Pink Bear in his paws, and refused to discuss the matter in any further way. "At any rate," said the Frogman, "the Pink Bear has led us to your boy friend and so enabled you to rescue him." Scraps was leaning so far over the hole trying to find Ozma in it that suddenly she lost her balance and pitched in head foremost. She fell upon Button-Bright and tumbled him over, but he was not hurt by her soft, stuffed body and only laughed at the mishap. The Wizard buckled some straps together and let one end of them down into the hole, and soon both Scraps and the boy had climbed up and were standing safely beside the others. They looked once more for Ozma, but the hole was now absolutely vacant. It was a round hole, so from the top they could plainly see every part of it. Before they left the place, Dorothy went to the Bear King and said, "I'm sorry we couldn't believe what the little Pink Bear said, 'cause we don't want to make you feel bad by doubting him. There must be a mistake, somewhere, and we prob'ly don't understand just what the little Pink Bear said. Will you let me ask him one more question?" The Lavender Bear King was a good-natured bear, considering how he was made and stuffed and jointed, so he accepted Dorothy's apology and turned the crank and allowed the little girl to question his wee Pink Bear. "Is Ozma REALLY in this hole?" asked Dorothy. "No," said the little Pink Bear. This surprised everybody. Even the Bear King was now puzzled by the contradictory statements of his oracle. "Where IS she?" asked the King. "Here, among you," answered the little Pink Bear. "Well," said Dorothy, "this beats me entirely! I guess the little Pink Bear has gone crazy." "Perhaps," called Scraps, who was rapidly turning "cartwheels" all around the perplexed group, "Ozma is invisible." "Of course!" cried Betsy. "That would account for it." "Well, I've noticed that people can speak, even when they've been made invisible," said the Wizard. And then he looked all around him and said in a solemn voice, "Ozma, are you here?" There was no reply. Dorothy asked the question, too, and so did Button-Bright and Trot and Betsy, but none received any reply at all. "It's strange, it's terrible strange!" muttered Cayke the Cookie Cook. "I was sure that the little Pink Bear always tells the truth." "I still believe in his honesty," said the Frogman, and this tribute so pleased the Bear King that he gave these last speakers grateful looks, but still gazed sourly on the others. "Come to think of it," remarked the Wizard, "Ozma couldn't be invisible, for she is a fairy, and fairies cannot be made invisible against their will. Of course, she could be imprisoned by the magician or enchanted or transformed, in spite of her fairy powers, but Ugu could not render her invisible by any magic at his command." "I wonder if she's been transformed into Button-Bright?" said Dorothy nervously. Then she looked steadily at the boy and asked, "Are you Ozma? Tell me truly!" Button-Bright laughed. "You're getting rattled, Dorothy," he replied. "Nothing ever enchants ME. If I were Ozma, do you think I'd have tumbled into that hole?" "Anyhow," said the Wizard, "Ozma would never try to deceive her friends or prevent them from recognizing her in whatever form she happened to be. The puzzle is still a puzzle, so let us go on to the wicker castle and question the magician himself. Since it was he who stole our Ozma, Ugu is the one who must tell us where to find her." CHAPTER 21 MAGIC AGAINST MAGIC The Wizard's advice was good, so again they started in the direction of the low mountain on the crest of which the wicker castle had been built. They had been gradually advancing uphill, so now the elevation seemed to them more like a round knoll than a mountaintop. However, the sides of the knoll were sloping and covered with green grass, so there was a stiff climb before them yet. Undaunted, they plodded on and had almost reached the knoll when they suddenly observed that it was surrounded by a circle of flame. At first, the flames barely rose above the ground, but presently they grew higher and higher until a circle of flaming tongues of fire taller than any of their heads quite surrounded the hill on which the wicker castle stood. When they approached the flames, the heat was so intense that it drove them back again. "This will never do for me!" exclaimed the Patchwork Girl. "I catch fire very easily." "It won't do for me either," grumbled the Sawhorse, prancing to the rear. "I also strongly object to fire," said the Bear King, following the Sawhorse to a safe distance and hugging the little Pink Bear with his paws. "I suppose the foolish Shoemaker imagines these blazes will stop us," remarked the Wizard with a smile of scorn for Ugu. "But I am able to inform you that this is merely a simple magic trick which the robber stole from Glinda the Good, and by good fortune I know how to destroy these flames as well as how to produce them. Will some one of you kindly give me a match?" You may be sure the girls carried no matches, nor did the Frogman or any of the animals. But Button-Bright, after searching carefully through his pockets, which contained all sorts of useful and useless things, finally produced a match and handed it to the Wizard, who tied it to the end of a branch which he tore from a small tree growing near them. Then the little Wizard carefully lighted the match, and running forward thrust it into the nearest flame. Instantly, the circle of fire began to die away, and soon vanished completely leaving the way clear for them to proceed. "That was funny!" laughed Button-Bright. "Yes," agreed the Wizard, "it seems odd that a little match could destroy such a great circle of fire, but when Glinda invented this trick, she believed no one would ever think of a match being a remedy for fire. I suppose even Ugu doesn't know how we managed to quench the flames of his barrier, for only Glinda and I know the secret. Glinda's Book of Magic which Ugu stole told how to make the flames, but not how to put them out." They now formed in marching order and proceeded to advance up the slope of the hill, but had not gone far when before them rose a wall of steel, the surface of which was thickly covered with sharp, gleaming points resembling daggers. The wall completely surrounded the wicker castle, and its sharp points prevented anyone from climbing it. Even the Patchwork Girl might be ripped to pieces if she dared attempt it. "Ah!" exclaimed the Wizard cheerfully, "Ugu is now using one of my own tricks against me. But this is more serious than the Barrier of Fire, because the only way to destroy the wall is to get on the other side of it." "How can that be done?" asked Dorothy. The Wizard looked thoughtfully around his little party, and his face grew troubled. "It's a pretty high wall," he sadly remarked. "I'm pretty sure the Cowardly Lion could not leap over it." "I'm sure of that, too!" said the Lion with a shudder of fear. "If I foolishly tried such a leap, I would be caught on those dreadful spikes." "I think I could do it, sir," said the Frogman with a bow to the Wizard. "It is an uphill jump as well as being a high jump, but I'm considered something of a jumper by my friends in the Yip Country, and I believe a good, strong leap will carry me to the other side." "I'm sure it would," agreed the Cookie Cook. "Leaping, you know, is a froglike accomplishment," continued the Frogman modestly, "but please tell me what I am to do when I reach the other side of the wall." "You're a brave creature," said the Wizard admiringly. "Has anyone a pin?" Betsy had one, which she gave him. "All you need do," said the Wizard to the Frogman, giving him the pin, "is to stick this into the other side of the wall." "But the wall is of steel!" exclaimed the big frog. "I know. At least, it SEEMS to be steel, but do as I tell you. Stick the pin into the wall, and it will disappear." The Frogman took off his handsome coat and carefully folded it and laid it on the grass. Then he removed his hat and laid it together with his gold-headed cane beside the coat. He then went back a way and made three powerful leaps in rapid succession. The first two leaps took him to the wall, and the third leap carried him well over it, to the amazement of all. For a short time, he disappeared from their view, but when he had obeyed the Wizard's injunction and had thrust the pin into the wall, the huge barrier vanished and showed them the form of the Frogman, who now went to where his coat lay and put it on again. "We thank you very much," said the delighted Wizard. "That was the most wonderful leap I ever saw, and it has saved us from defeat by our enemy. Let us now hurry on to the castle before Ugu the Shoemaker thinks up some other means to stop us." "We must have surprised him so far," declared Dorothy. "Yes indeed. The fellow knows a lot of magic--all of our tricks and some of his own," replied the Wizard. "So if he is half as clever as he ought to be, we shall have trouble with him yet." He had scarcely spoken these words when out from the gates of the wicker castle marched a regiment of soldiers, clad in gay uniforms and all bearing long, pointed spears and sharp battle axes. These soldiers were girls, and the uniforms were short skirts of yellow and black satin, golden shoes, bands of gold across their foreheads and necklaces of glittering jewels. Their jackets were scarlet, braided with silver cords. There were hundreds of these girl-soldiers, and they were more terrible than beautiful, being strong and fierce in appearance. They formed a circle all around the castle and faced outward, their spears pointed toward the invaders, and their battle axes held over their shoulders, ready to strike. Of course, our friends halted at once, for they had not expected this dreadful array of soldiery. The Wizard seemed puzzled, and his companions exchanged discouraged looks. "I'd no idea Ugu had such an army as that," said Dorothy. "The castle doesn't look big enough to hold them all." "It isn't," declared the Wizard. "But they all marched out of it." "They seemed to, but I don't believe it is a real army at all. If Ugu the Shoemaker had so many people living with him, I'm sure the Czarover of Herku would have mentioned the fact to us." "They're only girls!" laughed Scraps. "Girls are the fiercest soldiers of all," declared the Frogman. "They are more brave than men, and they have better nerves. That is probably why the magician uses them for soldiers and has sent them to oppose us." No one argued this statement, for all were staring hard at the line of soldiers, which now, having taken a defiant position, remained motionless. "Here is a trick of magic new to me," admitted the Wizard after a time. "I do not believe the army is real, but the spears may be sharp enough to prick us, nevertheless, so we must be cautious. Let us take time to consider how to meet this difficulty." While they were thinking it over, Scraps danced closer to the line of girl soldiers. Her button eyes sometimes saw more than did the natural eyes of her comrades, and so after staring hard at the magician's army, she boldly advanced and danced right through the threatening line! On the other side, she waved her stuffed arms and called out, "Come on, folks. The spears can't hurt you." said the Wizard gaily. "An optical illusion, as I thought. Let us all follow the Patchwork Girl." The three little girls were somewhat nervous in attempting to brave the spears and battle axes, but after the others had safely passed the line, they ventured to follow. And when all had passed through the ranks of the girl army, the army itself magically disappeared from view. All this time our friends had been getting farther up the hill and nearer to the wicker castle. Now, continuing their advance, they expected something else to oppose their way, but to their astonishment nothing happened, and presently they arrived at the wicker gates, which stood wide open, and boldly entered the domain of Ugu the Shoemaker. CHAPTER 22 IN THE WICKER CASTLE No sooner were the Wizard of Oz and his followers well within the castle entrance when the big gates swung to with a clang and heavy bars dropped across them. They looked at one another uneasily, but no one cared to speak of the incident. If they were indeed prisoners in the wicker castle, it was evident they must find a way to escape, but their first duty was to attend to the errand on which they had come and seek the Royal Ozma, whom they believed to be a prisoner of the magician, and rescue her. They found they had entered a square courtyard, from which an entrance led into the main building of the castle. No person had appeared to greet them so far, although a gaudy peacock perched upon the wall cackled with laughter and said in its sharp, shrill voice, "Poor fools! Poor fools!" "I hope the peacock is mistaken," remarked the Frogman, but no one else paid any attention to the bird. They were a little awed by the stillness and loneliness of the place. As they entered the doors of the castle, which stood invitingly open, these also closed behind them and huge bolts shot into place. The animals had all accompanied the party into the castle because they felt it would be dangerous for them to separate. They were forced to follow a zigzag passage, turning this way and that, until finally they entered a great central hall, circular in form and with a high dome from which was suspended an enormous chandelier. The Wizard went first, and Dorothy, Betsy and Trot followed him, Toto keeping at the heels of his little mistress. Then came the Lion, the Woozy and the Sawhorse, then Cayke the Cookie Cook and Button-Bright, then the Lavender Bear carrying the Pink Bear, and finally the Frogman and the Patchwork Girl, with Hank the Mule tagging behind. So it was the Wizard who caught the first glimpse of the big, domed hall, but the others quickly followed and gathered in a wondering group just within the entrance. Upon a raised platform at one side was a heavy table on which lay Glinda's Great Book of Records, but the platform was firmly fastened to the floor and the table was fastened to the platform and the Book was chained fast to the table, just as it had been when it was kept in Glinda's palace. On the wall over the table hung Ozma's Magic Picture. On a row of shelves at the opposite side of the hall stood all the chemicals and essences of magic and all the magical instruments that had been stolen from Glinda and Ozma and the Wizard, with glass doors covering the shelves so that no one could get at them. And in a far corner sat Ugu the Shoemaker, his feet lazily extended, his skinny hands clasped behind his head. He was leaning back at his ease and calmly smoking a long pipe. Around the magician was a sort of cage, seemingly made of golden bars set wide apart, and at his feet, also within the cage, reposed the long-sought diamond-studded dishpan of Cayke the Cookie Cook. Princess Ozma of Oz was nowhere to be seen. "Well, well," said Ugu when the invaders had stood in silence for a moment, staring about them. "This visit is an unexpected pleasure, I assure you. I knew you were coming, and I know why you are here. You are not welcome, for I cannot use any of you to my advantage, but as you have insisted on coming, I hope you will make the afternoon call as brief as possible. It won't take long to transact your business with me. You will ask me for Ozma, and my reply will be that you may find her--if you can." "Sir," answered the Wizard in a tone of rebuke, "you are a very wicked and cruel person. I suppose you imagine, because you have stolen this poor woman's dishpan and all the best magic in Oz, that you are more powerful than we are and will be able to triumph over us." "Yes," said Ugu the Shoemaker, slowly filling his pipe with fresh tobacco from a silver bowl that stood beside him, "that is exactly what I imagine. It will do you no good to demand from me the girl who was formerly the Ruler of Oz, because I will not tell you where I have hidden her, and you can't guess in a thousand years. Neither will I restore to you any of the magic I have captured. I am not so foolish. But bear this in mind: I mean to be the Ruler of Oz myself, hereafter, so I advise you to be careful how you address your future Monarch." "Ozma is still Ruler of Oz, wherever you may have hidden her," declared the Wizard. "And bear this in mind, miserable Shoemaker: we intend to find her and to rescue her in time, but our first duty and pleasure will be to conquer you and then punish you for your misdeeds." "Very well, go ahead and conquer," said Ugu. "I'd really like to see how you can do it." Now although the little Wizard had spoken so boldly, he had at the moment no idea how they might conquer the magician. He had that morning given the Frogman, at his request, a dose of zosozo from his bottle, and the Frogman had promised to fight a good fight if it was necessary, but the Wizard knew that strength alone could not avail against magical arts. The toy Bear King seemed to have some pretty good magic, however, and the Wizard depended to an extent on that. But something ought to be done right away, and the Wizard didn't know what it was. While he considered this perplexing question and the others stood looking at him as their leader, a queer thing happened. The floor of the great circular hall on which they were standing suddenly began to tip. Instead of being flat and level, it became a slant, and the slant grew steeper and steeper until none of the party could manage to stand upon it. Presently they all slid down to the wall, which was now under them, and then it became evident that the whole vast room was slowly turning upside down! Only Ugu the Shoemaker, kept in place by the bars of his golden cage, remained in his former position, and the wicked magician seemed to enjoy the surprise of his victims immensely. First they all slid down to the wall back of them, but as the room continued to turn over, they next slid down the wall and found themselves at the bottom of the great dome, bumping against the big chandelier which, like everything else, was now upside down. The turning movement now stopped, and the room became stationary. Looking far up, they saw Ugu suspended in his cage at the very top, which had once been the floor. "Ah," said he, grinning down at them, "the way to conquer is to act, and he who acts promptly is sure to win. This makes a very good prison, from which I am sure you cannot escape. Please amuse yourselves in any way you like, but I must beg you to excuse me, as I have business in another part of my castle." Saying this, he opened a trap door in the floor of his cage (which was now over his head) and climbed through it and disappeared from their view. The diamond dishpan still remained in the cage, but the bars kept it from falling down on their heads. "Well, I declare," said the Patchwork Girl, seizing one of the bars of the chandelier and swinging from it, "we must peg one for the Shoemaker, for he has trapped us very cleverly." "Get off my foot, please," said the Lion to the Sawhorse. "And oblige me, Mr. Mule," remarked the Woozy, "by taking your tail out of my left eye." "It's rather crowded down here," explained Dorothy, "because the dome is rounding and we have all slid into the middle of it. But let us keep as quiet as possible until we can think what's best to be done." "Dear, dear!" wailed Cayke, "I wish I had my darling dishpan," and she held her arms longingly toward it. "I wish I had the magic on those shelves up there," sighed the Wizard. "Don't you s'pose we could get to it?" asked Trot anxiously. "We'd have to fly," laughed the Patchwork Girl. But the Wizard took the suggestion seriously, and so did the Frogman. They talked it over and soon planned an attempt to reach the shelves where the magical instruments were. First the Frogman lay against the rounding dome and braced his foot on the stem of the chandelier; then the Wizard climbed over him and lay on the dome with his feet on the Frogman's shoulders; the Cookie Cook came next; then Button-Bright climbed to the woman's shoulders; then Dorothy climbed up and Betsy and Trot, and finally the Patchwork Girl, and all their lengths made a long line that reached far up the dome, but not far enough for Scraps to touch the shelves. "Wait a minute. Perhaps I can reach the magic," called the Bear King, and began scrambling up the bodies of the others. But when he came to the Cookie Cook, his soft paws tickled her side so that she squirmed and upset the whole line. Down they came, tumbling in a heap against the animals, and although no one was much hurt, it was a bad mix-up, and the Frogman, who was at the bottom, almost lost his temper before he could get on his feet again. Cayke positively refused to try what she called "the pyramid act" again, and as the Wizard was now convinced they could not reach the magic tools in that manner, the attempt was abandoned. "But SOMETHING must be done," said the Wizard, and then he turned to the Lavender Bear and asked, "Cannot Your Majesty's magic help us to escape from here?" "My magic powers are limited," was the reply. "When I was stuffed, the fairies stood by and slyly dropped some magic into my stuffing. Therefore I can do any of the magic that's inside me, but nothing else. You, however, are a wizard, and a wizard should be able to do anything." "Your Majesty forgets that my tools of magic have been stolen," said the Wizard sadly, "and a wizard without tools is as helpless as a carpenter without a hammer or saw." "Don't give up," pleaded Button-Bright, "'cause if we can't get out of this queer prison, we'll all starve to death." "Not I!" laughed the Patchwork Girl, now standing on top of the chandelier at the place that was meant to be the bottom of it. "Don't talk of such dreadful things," said Trot, shuddering. "We came here to capture the Shoemaker, didn't we?" "Yes, and to save Ozma," said Betsy. "And here we are, captured ourselves, and my darling dishpan up there in plain sight!" wailed the Cookie Cook, wiping her eyes on the tail of the Frogman's coat. "Hush!" called the Lion with a low, deep growl. "Give the Wizard time to think." "He has plenty of time," said Scraps. "What he needs is the Scarecrow's brains." After all, it was little Dorothy who came to their rescue, and her ability to save them was almost as much a surprise to the girl as it was to her friends. Dorothy had been secretly testing the powers of her Magic Belt, which she had once captured from the Nome King, and experimenting with it in various ways ever since she had started on this eventful journey. At different times she had stolen away from the others of her party and in solitude had tried to find out what the Magic Belt could do and what it could not do. There were a lot of things it could not do, she discovered, but she learned some things about the Belt which even her girl friends did not suspect she knew. For one thing, she had remembered that when the Nome King owned it, the Magic Belt used to perform transformations, and by thinking hard she had finally recalled the way in which such transformations had been accomplished. Better than this, however, was the discovery that the Magic Belt would grant its wearer one wish a day. All she need do was close her right eye and wiggle her left toe and then draw a long breath and make her wish. Yesterday she had wished in secret for a box of caramels, and instantly found the box beside her. Today she had saved her daily wish in case she might need it in an emergency, and the time had now come when she must use the wish to enable her to escape with her friends from the prison in which Ugu had caught them. So without telling anyone what she intended to do--for she had only used the wish once and could not be certain how powerful the Magic Belt might be--Dorothy closed her right eye and wiggled her left big toe and drew a long breath and wished with all her might. The next moment the room began to revolve again, as slowly as before, and by degrees they all slid to the side wall and down the wall to the floor--all but Scraps, who was so astonished that she still clung to the chandelier. When the big hall was in its proper position again and the others stood firmly upon the floor of it, they looked far up the dome and saw the Patchwork girl swinging from the chandelier. "Good gracious!" cried Dorothy. "How ever will you get down?" "Won't the room keep turning?" asked Scraps. "I hope not. I believe it has stopped for good," said Princess Dorothy. "Then stand from under, so you won't get hurt!" shouted the Patchwork Girl, and as soon as they had obeyed this request, she let go the chandelier and came tumbling down heels over head and twisting and turning in a very exciting manner. Plump! She fell on the tiled floor, and they ran to her and rolled her and patted her into shape again. CHAPTER 23 THE DEFIANCE OF UGU THE SHOEMAKER The delay caused by Scraps had prevented anyone from running to the shelves to secure the magic instruments so badly needed. Even Cayke neglected to get her diamond-studded dishpan because she was watching the Patchwork Girl. And now the magician had opened his trap door and appeared in his golden cage again, frowning angrily because his prisoners had been able to turn their upside-down prison right side up. "Which of you has dared defy my magic?" he shouted in a terrible voice. "It was I," answered Dorothy calmly. "Then I shall destroy you, for you are only an Earth girl and no fairy," he said, and began to mumble some magic words. Dorothy now realized that Ugu must be treated as an enemy, so she advanced toward the corner in which he sat, saying as she went, "I am not afraid of you, Mr. Shoemaker, and I think you'll be sorry, pretty soon, that you're such a bad man. You can't destroy me, and I won't destroy you, but I'm going to punish you for your wickedness." Ugu laughed, a laugh that was not nice to hear, and then he waved his hand. Dorothy was halfway across the room when suddenly a wall of glass rose before her and stopped her progress. Through the glass she could see the magician sneering at her because she was a weak little girl, and this provoked her. Although the glass wall obliged her to halt, she instantly pressed both hands to her Magic Belt and cried in a loud voice, "Ugu the Shoemaker, by the magic virtues of the Magic Belt, I command you to become a dove!" The magician instantly realized he was being enchanted, for he could feel his form changing. He struggled desperately against the enchantment, mumbling magic words and making magic passes with his hands. And in one way he succeeded in defeating Dorothy's purpose, for while his form soon changed to that of a gray dove, the dove was of an enormous size, bigger even than Ugu had been as a man, and this feat he had been able to accomplish before his powers of magic wholly deserted him. And the dove was not gentle, as doves usually are, for Ugu was terribly enraged at the little girl's success. His books had told him nothing of the Nome King's Magic Belt, the Country of the Nomes being outside the Land of Oz. He knew, however, that he was likely to be conquered unless he made a fierce fight, so he spread his wings and rose in the air and flew directly toward Dorothy. The Wall of Glass had disappeared the instant Ugu became transformed. Dorothy had meant to command the Belt to transform the magician into a Dove of Peace, but in her excitement she forgot to say more than "dove," and now Ugu was not a Dove of Peace by any means, but rather a spiteful Dove of War. His size made his sharp beak and claws very dangerous, but Dorothy was not afraid when he came darting toward her with his talons outstretched and his sword-like beak open. She knew the Magic Belt would protect its wearer from harm. But the Frogman did not know that fact and became alarmed at the little girl's seeming danger. So he gave a sudden leap and leaped full upon the back of the great dove. Then began a desperate struggle. The dove was as strong as Ugu had been, and in size it was considerably bigger than the Frogman. But the Frogman had eaten the zosozo, and it had made him fully as strong as Ugu the Dove. At the first leap he bore the dove to the floor, but the giant bird got free and began to bite and claw the Frogman, beating him down with its great wings whenever he attempted to rise. The thick, tough skin of the big frog was not easily damaged, but Dorothy feared for her champion, and by again using the transformation power of the Magic Belt, she made the dove grow small until it was no larger than a canary bird. Ugu had not lost his knowledge of magic when he lost his shape as a man, and he now realized it was hopeless to oppose the power of the Magic Belt and knew that his only hope of escape lay in instant action. So he quickly flew into the golden jeweled dishpan he had stolen from Cayke the Cookie Cook, and as birds can talk as well as beasts or men in the Fairyland of Oz, he muttered the magic word that was required and wished himself in the Country of the Quadlings, which was as far away from the wicker castle as he believed he could get. Our friends did not know, of course, what Ugu was about to do. They saw the dishpan tremble an instant and then disappear, the dove disappearing with it, and although they waited expectantly for some minutes for the magician's return, Ugu did not come back again. "Seems to me," said the Wizard in a cheerful voice, "that we have conquered the wicked magician more quickly than we expected to." "Don't say 'we.' Dorothy did it!" cried the Patchwork Girl, turning three somersaults in succession and then walking around on her hands. "Hurrah for Dorothy!" "I thought you said you did not know how to use the magic of the Nome King's Belt," said the Wizard to Dorothy. "I didn't know at that time," she replied, "but afterward I remembered how the Nome King once used the Magic Belt to enchant people and transform 'em into ornaments and all sorts of things, so I tried some enchantments in secret, and after a while I transformed the Sawhorse into a potato masher and back again, and the Cowardly Lion into a pussycat and back again, and then I knew the thing would work all right." "When did you perform those enchantments?" asked the Wizard, much surprised. "One night when all the rest of you were asleep but Scraps, and she had gone chasing moonbeams." "Well," remarked the Wizard, "your discovery has certainly saved us a lot of trouble, and we must all thank the Frogman, too, for making such a good fight. The dove's shape had Ugu's evil disposition inside it, and that made the monster bird dangerous." The Frogman was looking sad because the bird's talons had torn his pretty clothes, but he bowed with much dignity at this well-deserved praise. Cayke, however, had squatted on the floor and was sobbing bitterly. "My precious dishpan is gone!" she wailed. "Gone, just as I had found it again!" "Never mind," said Trot, trying to comfort her, "it's sure to be SOMEWHERE, so we'll cert'nly run across it some day." "Yes indeed," added Betsy, "now that we have Ozma's Magic Picture, we can tell just where the Dove went with your dishpan. They all approached the Magic Picture, and Dorothy wished it to show the enchanted form of Ugu the Shoemaker, wherever it might be. At once there appeared in the frame of the Picture a scene in the far Quadling Country, where the Dove was perched disconsolately on the limb of a tree and the jeweled dishpan lay on the ground just underneath the limb. "But where is the place? How far or how near?" asked Cayke anxiously. "The Book of Records will tell us that," answered the Wizard. So they looked in the Great Book and read the following: "Ugu the Magician, being transformed into a dove by Princess Dorothy of Oz, has used the magic of the golden dishpan to carry him instantly to the northeast corner of the Quadling Country." "Don't worry, Cayke, for the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman are in that part of the country looking for Ozma, and they'll surely find your dishpan." "Good gracious!" exclaimed Button-Bright. "We've forgot all about Ozma. Let's find out where the magician hid her." Back to the Magic Picture they trooped, but when they wished to see Ozma wherever she might be hidden, only a round black spot appeared in the center of the canvas. "I don't see how THAT can be Ozma!" said Dorothy, much puzzled. "It seems to be the best the Magic Picture can do, however," said the Wizard, no less surprised. "If it's an enchantment, looks as if the magician had transformed Ozma into a chunk of pitch." CHAPTER 24 THE LITTLE PINK BEAR SPEAKS TRULY For several minutes they all stood staring at the black spot on the canvas of the Magic Picture, wondering what it could mean. "P'r'aps we'd better ask the little Pink Bear about Ozma," suggested Trot. "Pshaw!" said Button-Bright. "HE don't know anything." "He never makes a mistake," declared the King. "He did once, surely," said Betsy. "But perhaps he wouldn't make a mistake again." "He won't have the chance," grumbled the Bear King. "We might hear what he has to say," said Dorothy. "It won't do any harm to ask the Pink Bear where Ozma is." "I will not have him questioned," declared the King in a surly voice. "I do not intend to allow my little Pink Bear to be again insulted by your foolish doubts. He never makes a mistake." "Didn't he say Ozma was in that hole in the ground?" asked Betsy. "He did, and I am certain she was there," replied the Lavender Bear. Scraps laughed jeeringly, and the others saw there was no use arguing with the stubborn Bear King, who seemed to have absolute faith in his Pink Bear. The Wizard, who knew that magical things can usually be depended upon and that the little Pink Bear was able to answer questions by some remarkable power of magic, thought it wise to apologize to the Lavender Bear for the unbelief of his friends, at the same time urging the King to consent to question the Pink Bear once more. Cayke and the Frogman also pleaded with the big Bear, who finally agreed, although rather ungraciously, to put the little Bear's wisdom to the test once more. So he sat the little one on his knee and turned the crank, and the Wizard himself asked the questions in a very respectful tone of voice. "Where is Ozma?" was his first query. "Here in this room," answered the little Pink Bear. They all looked around the room, but of course did not see her. "In what part of the room is she?" was the Wizard's next question. "In Button-Bright's pocket," said the little Pink Bear. This reply amazed them all, you may be sure, and although the three girls smiled and Scraps yelled "Hoo-ray!" in derision, the Wizard turned to consider the matter with grave thoughtfulness. "In which one of Button-Bright's pockets is Ozma?" he presently inquired. "In the left-hand jacket pocket," said the little Pink Bear. "The pink one has gone crazy!" exclaimed Button-Bright, staring hard at the little bear on the big bear's knee. "I am not so sure of that," declared the Wizard. "If Ozma proves to be really in your pocket, then the little Pink Bear spoke truly when he said Ozma was in that hole in the ground. For at that time you were also in the hole, and after we had pulled you out of it, the little Pink Bear said Ozma was not in the hole." "He never makes a mistake," asserted the Bear King stoutly. "Empty that pocket, Button-Bright, and let's see what's in it," requested Dorothy. So Button-Bright laid the contents of his left jacket pocket on the table. These proved to be a peg top, a bunch of string, a small rubber ball and a golden peach pit. "What's this?" asked the Wizard, picking up the peach pit and examining it closely. "Oh," said the boy, "I saved that to show to the girls, and then forgot all about it. It came out of a lonesome peach that I found in the orchard back yonder, and which I ate while I was lost. It looks like gold, and I never saw a peach pit like it before." "Nor I," said the Wizard, "and that makes it seem suspicious." All heads were bent over the golden peach pit. The Wizard turned it over several times and then took out his pocket knife and pried the pit open. As the two halves fell apart, a pink, cloud-like haze came pouring from the golden peach pit, almost filling the big room, and from the haze a form took shape and settled beside them. Then, as the haze faded away, a sweet voice said, "Thank you, my friends!" and there before them stood their lovely girl Ruler, Ozma of Oz. With a cry of delight, Dorothy rushed forward and embraced her. Scraps turned gleeful flipflops all around the room. Button-Bright gave a low whistle of astonishment. The Frogman took off his tall hat and bowed low before the beautiful girl who had been freed from her enchantment in so startling a manner. For a time, no sound was heard beyond the low murmur of delight that came from the amazed group, but presently the growl of the big Lavender Bear grew louder, and he said in a tone of triumph, "He never makes a mistake!" CHAPTER 25 OZMA OF OZ "It's funny," said Toto, standing before his friend the Lion and wagging his tail, "but I've found my growl at last! I am positive now that it was the cruel magician who stole it." "Let's hear your growl," requested the Lion. "G-r-r-r-r-r!" said Toto. "That is fine," declared the big beast. "It isn't as loud or as deep as the growl of the big Lavender Bear, but it is a very respectable growl for a small dog. Where did you find it, Toto?" "I was smelling in the corner yonder," said Toto, "when suddenly a mouse ran out--and I growled." The others were all busy congratulating Ozma, who was very happy at being released from the confinement of the golden peach pit, where the magician had placed her with the notion that she never could be found or liberated. "And only to think," cried Dorothy, "that Button-Bright has been carrying you in his pocket all this time, and we never knew it!" "The little Pink Bear told you," said the Bear King, "but you wouldn't believe him." "Never mind, my dears," said Ozma graciously, "all is well that ends well, and you couldn't be expected to know I was inside the peach pit. Indeed, I feared I would remain a captive much longer than I did, for Ugu is a bold and clever magician, and he had hidden me very securely." "You were in a fine peach," said Button-Bright, "the best I ever ate." "The magician was foolish to make the peach so tempting," remarked the Wizard, "but Ozma would lend beauty to any transformation." "How did you manage to conquer Ugu the Shoemaker?" inquired the girl Ruler of Oz. Dorothy started to tell the story, and Trot helped her, and Button-Bright wanted to relate it in his own way, and the Wizard tried to make it clear to Ozma, and Betsy had to remind them of important things they left out, and all together there was such a chatter that it was a wonder that Ozma understood any of it. But she listened patiently, with a smile on her lovely face at their eagerness, and presently had gleaned all the details of their adventures. Ozma thanked the Frogman very earnestly for his assistance, and she advised Cayke the Cookie Cook to dry her weeping eyes, for she promised to take her to the Emerald City and see that her cherished dishpan was restored to her. Then the beautiful Ruler took a chain of emeralds from around her own neck and placed it around the neck of the little Pink Bear. "Your wise answers to the questions of my friends," said she, "helped them to rescue me. Therefore I am deeply grateful to you and to your noble King." The bead eyes of the little Pink Bear stared unresponsive to this praise until the Big Lavender Bear turned the crank in its side, when it said in its squeaky voice, "I thank Your Majesty." "For my part," returned the Bear King, "I realize that you were well worth saving, Miss Ozma, and so I am much pleased that we could be of service to you. By means of my Magic Wand I have been creating exact images of your Emerald City and your Royal Palace, and I must confess that they are more attractive than any places I have ever seen--not excepting Bear Center." "I would like to entertain you in my palace," returned Ozma sweetly, "and you are welcome to return with me and to make me a long visit, if your bear subjects can spare you from your own kingdom." "As for that," answered the King, "my kingdom causes me little worry, and I often find it somewhat tame and uninteresting. Therefore I am glad to accept your kind invitation. Corporal Waddle may be trusted to care for my bears in my absence." "And you'll bring the little Pink Bear?" asked Dorothy eagerly. "Of course, my dear. I would not willingly part with him." They remained in the wicker castle for three days, carefully packing all the magical things that had been stolen by Ugu and also taking whatever in the way of magic the shoemaker had inherited from his ancestors. "For," said Ozma, "I have forbidden any of my subjects except Glinda the Good and the Wizard of Oz to practice magical arts, because they cannot be trusted to do good and not harm. Therefore Ugu must never again be permitted to work magic of any sort." "Well," remarked Dorothy cheerfully, "a dove can't do much in the way of magic, anyhow, and I'm going to keep Ugu in the form of a dove until he reforms and becomes a good and honest shoemaker." When everything was packed and loaded on the backs of the animals, they set out for the river, taking a more direct route than that by which Cayke and the Frogman had come. In this way they avoided the Cities of Thi and Herku and Bear Center and after a pleasant journey reached the Winkie River and found a jolly ferryman who had a fine, big boat and was willing to carry the entire party by water to a place quite near to the Emerald City. The river had many windings and many branches, and the journey did not end in a day, but finally the boat floated into a pretty lake which was but a short distance from Ozma's home. Here the jolly ferryman was rewarded for his labors, and then the entire party set out in a grand procession to march to the Emerald City. News that the Royal Ozma had been found spread quickly throughout the neighborhood, and both sides of the road soon became lined with loyal subjects of the beautiful and beloved Ruler. Therefore Ozma's ears heard little but cheers, and her eyes beheld little else than waving handkerchiefs and banners during all the triumphal march from the lake to the city's gates. And there she met a still greater concourse, for all the inhabitants of the Emerald City turned out to welcome her return, and all the houses were decorated with flags and bunting, and never before were the people so joyous and happy as at this moment when they welcomed home their girl Ruler. For she had been lost and was now found again, and surely that was cause for rejoicing. Glinda was at the royal palace to meet the returning party, and the good Sorceress was indeed glad to have her Great Book of Records returned to her, as well as all the precious collection of magic instruments and elixirs and chemicals that had been stolen from her castle. Cap'n Bill and the Wizard at once hung the Magic Picture upon the wall of Ozma's boudoir, and the Wizard was so light-hearted that he did several tricks with the tools in his black bag to amuse his companions and prove that once again he was a powerful wizard. For a whole week there was feasting and merriment and all sorts of joyous festivities at the palace in honor of Ozma's safe return. The Lavender Bear and the little Pink Bear received much attention and were honored by all, much to the Bear King's satisfaction. The Frogman speedily became a favorite at the Emerald City, and the Shaggy Man and Tik-Tok and Jack Pumpkinhead, who had now returned from their search, were very polite to the big frog and made him feel quite at home. Even the Cookie Cook, because she was quite a stranger and Ozma's guest, was shown as much deference as if she had been a queen. "All the same, Your Majesty," said Cayke to Ozma, day after day with tiresome repetition, "I hope you will soon find my jeweled dishpan, for never can I be quite happy without it." CHAPTER 26 DOROTHY FORGIVES The gray dove which had once been Ugu the Shoemaker sat on its tree in the far Quadling Country and moped, chirping dismally and brooding over its misfortunes. After a time, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman came along and sat beneath the tree, paying no heed to the mutterings of the gray dove. The Tin Woodman took a small oilcan from his tin pocket and carefully oiled his tin joints with it. While he was thus engaged, the Scarecrow remarked, "I feel much better, dear comrade, since we found that heap of nice, clean straw and you stuffed me anew with it." "And I feel much better now that my joints are oiled," returned the Tin Woodman with a sigh of pleasure. "You and I, friend Scarecrow, are much more easily cared for than those clumsy meat people, who spend half their time dressing in fine clothes and who must live in splendid dwellings in order to be contented and happy. You and I do not eat, and so we are spared the dreadful bother of getting three meals a day. Nor do we waste half our lives in sleep, a condition that causes the meat people to lose all consciousness and become as thoughtless and helpless as logs of wood." "You speak truly," responded the Scarecrow, tucking some wisps of straw into his breast with his padded fingers. "I often feel sorry for the meat people, many of whom are my friends. Even the beasts are happier than they, for they require less to make them content. And the birds are the luckiest creatures of all, for they can fly swiftly where they will and find a home at any place they care to perch. Their food consists of seeds and grains they gather from the fields, and their drink is a sip of water from some running brook. If I could not be a Scarecrow or a Tin Woodman, my next choice would be to live as a bird does." The gray dove had listened carefully to this speech and seemed to find comfort in it, for it hushed its moaning. And just then the Tin Woodman discovered Cayke's dishpan, which was on the ground quite near to him. "Here is a rather pretty utensil," he said, taking it in his tin hand to examine it, "but I would not care to own it. Whoever fashioned it of gold and covered it with diamonds did not add to its usefulness, nor do I consider it as beautiful as the bright dishpans of tin one usually sees. No yellow color is ever so handsome as the silver sheen of tin," and he turned to look at his tin legs and body with approval. "I cannot quite agree with you there," replied the Scarecrow. "My straw stuffing has a light yellow color, and it is not only pretty to look at, but it crunkles most delightfully when I move." "Let us admit that all colors are good in their proper places," said the Tin Woodman, who was too kind-hearted to quarrel, "but you must agree with me that a dishpan that is yellow is unnatural. What shall we do with this one, which we have just found?" "Let us carry it back to the Emerald City," suggested the Scarecrow. "Some of our friends might like to have it for a foot-bath, and in using it that way, its golden color and sparkling ornaments would not injure its usefulness." So they went away and took the jeweled dishpan with them. And after wandering through the country for a day or so longer, they learned the news that Ozma had been found. Therefore they straightway returned to the Emerald City and presented the dishpan to Princess Ozma as a token of their joy that she had been restored to them. Ozma promptly gave the diamond-studded gold dishpan to Cayke the Cookie Cook, who was delighted at regaining her lost treasure that she danced up and down in glee and then threw her skinny arms around Ozma's neck and kissed her gratefully. Cayke's mission was now successfully accomplished, but she was having such a good time at the Emerald City that she seemed in no hurry to go back to the Country of the Yips. It was several weeks after the dishpan had been restored to the Cookie Cook when one day, as Dorothy was seated in the royal gardens with Trot and Betsy beside her, a gray dove came flying down and alighted at the girl's feet. "I am Ugu the Shoemaker," said the dove in a soft, mourning voice, "and I have come to ask you to forgive me for the great wrong I did in stealing Ozma and the magic that belonged to her and to others." "Are you sorry, then?" asked Dorothy, looking hard at the bird. "I am VERY sorry," declared Ugu. "I've been thinking over my misdeeds for a long time, for doves have little else to do but think, and I'm surprised that I was such a wicked man and had so little regard for the rights of others. I am now convinced that even had I succeeded in making myself ruler of all Oz, I should not have been happy, for many days of quiet thought have shown me that only those things one acquires honestly are able to render one content." "I guess that's so," said Trot. "Anyhow," said Betsy, "the bad man seems truly sorry, and if he has now become a good and honest man, we ought to forgive him." "I fear I cannot become a good MAN again," said Ugu, "for the transformation I am under will always keep me in the form of a dove. But with the kind forgiveness of my former enemies, I hope to become a very good dove and highly respected." "Wait here till I run for my Magic Belt," said Dorothy, "and I'll transform you back to your reg'lar shape in a jiffy." "No, don't do that!" pleaded the dove, fluttering its wings in an excited way. "I only want your forgiveness. I don't want to be a man again. As Ugu the Shoemaker I was skinny and old and unlovely. As a dove I am quite pretty to look at. As a man I was ambitious and cruel, while as a dove I can be content with my lot and happy in my simple life. I have learned to love the free and independent life of a bird, and I'd rather not change back." "Just as you like, Ugu," said Dorothy, resuming her seat. "Perhaps you are right, for you're certainly a better dove than you were a man, and if you should ever backslide an' feel wicked again, you couldn't do much harm as a gray dove." "Then you forgive me for all the trouble I caused you?" he asked earnestly. "Of course. Anyone who's sorry just has to be forgiven." "Thank you," said the gray dove, and flew away again. THE END The Wonderful Oz Books by L. Frank Baum The Wizard of Oz The Land of Oz Ozma of Oz Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz The Road to Oz The Emerald City of Oz The Patchwork Girl of Oz Tik-Tok of Oz The Scarecrow of Oz Rinkitink in Oz The Lost Princess of Oz The Tin Woodman of Oz The Magic of Oz Glinda of Oz 
4282	----	DON RODRIGUEZ CHRONICLES OF SHADOW VALLEY By LORD DUNSANY To WILLIAM BEEBE CHRONOLOGY After long and patient research I am still unable to give to the reader of these Chronicles the exact date of the times that they tell of. Were it merely a matter of history there could be no doubts about the period; but where magic is concerned, to however slight an extent, there must always be some element of mystery, arising partly out of ignorance and partly from the compulsion of those oaths by which magic protects its precincts from the tiptoe of curiosity. Moreover, magic, even in small quantities, appears to affect time, much as acids affect some metals, curiously changing its substance, until dates seem to melt into a mercurial form that renders them elusive even to the eye of the most watchful historian. It is the magic appearing in Chronicles III and IV that has gravely affected the date, so that all I can tell the reader with certainty of the period is that it fell in the later years of the Golden Age in Spain. CONTENTS THE FIRST CHRONICLE HOW HE MET AND SAID FAREWELL TO MINE HOST OF THE DRAGON AND KNIGHT THE SECOND CHRONICLE HOW HE HIRED A MEMORABLE SERVANT THE THIRD CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO THE HOUSE OF WONDER THE FOURTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SUN THE FIFTH CHRONICLE HOW HE RODE IN THE TWILIGHT AND SAW SERAFINA THE SIXTH CHRONICLE HOW HE SANG TO HIS MANDOLIN AND WHAT CAME OF HIS SINGING THE SEVENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO SHADOW VALLEY THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR THE NINTH CHRONICLE HOW HE WON A CASTLE IN SPAIN THE TENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME BACK TO LOWLIGHT THE ELEVENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE TURNED TO GARDENING AND HIS SWORD RESTED THE TWELFTH CHRONICLE THE BUILDING OF CASTLE RODRIGUEZ AND THE ENDING OF THESE CHRONICLES DON RODRIGUEZ THE FIRST CHRONICLE HOW HE MET AND SAID FAREWELL TO MINE HOST OF THE DRAGON AND KNIGHT Being convinced that his end was nearly come, and having lived long on earth (and all those years in Spain, in the golden time), the Lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez, whose heights see not Valladolid, called for his eldest son. And so he addressed him when he was come to his chamber, dim with its strange red hangings and august with the splendour of Spain: "O eldest son of mine, your younger brother being dull and clever, on whom those traits that women love have not been bestowed by God; and know my eldest son that here on earth, and for ought I know Hereafter, but certainly here on earth, these women be the arbiters of all things; and how this be so God knoweth only, for they are vain and variable, yet it is surely so: your younger brother then not having been given those ways that women prize, and God knows why they prize them for they are vain ways that I have in my mind and that won me the Valleys of Arguento Harez, from whose heights Angelico swore he saw Valladolid once, and that won me moreover also ... but that is long ago and is all gone now ... ah well, well ... what was I saying?" And being reminded of his discourse, the old lord continued, saying, "For himself he will win nothing, and therefore I will leave him these my valleys, for not unlikely it was for some sin of mine that his spirit was visited with dullness, as Holy Writ sets forth, the sins of the fathers being visited on the children; and thus I make him amends. But to you I leave my long, most flexible, ancient Castilian blade, which infidels dreaded if old songs be true. Merry and lithe it is, and its true temper singeth when it meets another blade as two friends sing when met after many years. It is most subtle, nimble and exultant; and what it will not win for you in the wars, that shall be won for you by your mandolin, for you have a way with it that goes well with the old airs of Spain. And choose, my son, rather a moonlight night when you sing under those curved balconies that I knew, ah me, so well; for there is much advantage in the moon. In the first place maidens see in the light of the moon, especially in the Spring, more romance than you might credit, for it adds for them a mystery to the darkness which the night has not when it is merely black. And if any statue should gleam on the grass near by, or if the magnolia be in blossom, or even the nightingale singing, or if anything be beautiful in the night, in any of these things also there is advantage; for a maiden will attribute to her lover all manner of things that are not his at all, but are only outpourings from the hand of God. There is this advantage also in the moon, that, if interrupters come, the moonlight is better suited to the play of a blade than the mere darkness of night; indeed but the merry play of my sword in the moonlight was often a joy to see, it so flashed, so danced, so sparkled. In the moonlight also one makes no unworthy stroke, but hath scope for those fair passes that Sevastiani taught, which were long ago the wonder of Madrid." The old lord paused, and breathed for a little space, as it were gathering breath for his last words to his son. He breathed deliberately, then spoke again. "I leave you," he said, "well content that you have the two accomplishments, my son, that are most needful in a Christian man, skill with the sword and a way with the mandolin. There be other arts indeed among the heathen, for the world is wide and hath full many customs, but these two alone are needful." And then with that grand manner that they had at that time in Spain, although his strength was failing, he gave to his eldest son his Castilian sword. He lay back then in the huge, carved, canopied bed; his eyes closed, the red silk curtains rustled, and there was no sound of his breathing. But the old lord's spirit, whatever journey it purposed, lingered yet in its ancient habitation, and his voice came again, but feebly now and rambling; he muttered awhile of gardens, such gardens no doubt as the hidalgos guarded in that fertile region of sunshine in the proudest period of Spain; he would have known no others. So for awhile his memory seemed to stray, half blind among those perfumed earthly wonders; perhaps among these memories his spirit halted, and tarried those last few moments, mistaking those Spanish gardens, remembered by moonlight in Spring, for the other end of his journey, the glades of Paradise. However it be, it tarried. These rambling memories ceased and silence fell again, with scarcely the sound of breathing. Then gathering up his strength for the last time and looking at his son, "The sword to the wars," he said. "The mandolin to the balconies." With that he fell back dead. Now there were no wars at that time so far as was known in Spain, but that old lord's eldest son, regarding those last words of his father as a commandment, determined then and there in that dim, vast chamber to gird his legacy to him and seek for the wars, wherever the wars might be, so soon as the obsequies of the sepulture were ended. And of those obsequies I tell not here, for they are fully told in the Black Books of Spain, and the deeds of that old lord's youth are told in the Golden Stories. The Book of Maidens mentions him, and again we read of him in Gardens of Spain. I take my leave of him, happy, I trust, in Paradise, for he had himself the accomplishments that he held needful in a Christian, skill with the sword and a way with the mandolin; and if there be some harder, better way to salvation than to follow that which we believe to be good, then are we all damned. So he was buried, and his eldest son fared forth with his legacy dangling from his girdle in its long, straight, lovely scabbard, blue velvet, with emeralds on it, fared forth on foot along a road of Spain. And though the road turned left and right and sometimes nearly ceased, as though to let the small wild flowers grow, out of sheer good will such as some roads never have; though it ran west and east and sometimes south, yet in the main it ran northward, though wandered is a better word than ran, and the Lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez who owned no valleys, or anything but a sword, kept company with it looking for the wars. Upon his back he had slung his mandolin. Now the time of the year was Spring, not Spring as we know it in England, for it was but early March, but it was the time when Spring coming up out of Africa, or unknown lands to the south, first touches Spain, and multitudes of anemones come forth at her feet. Thence she comes north to our islands, no less wonderful in our woods than in Andalusian valleys, fresh as a new song, fabulous as a rune, but a little pale through travel, so that our flowers do not quite flare forth with all the myriad blaze of the flowers of Spain. And all the way as he went the young man looked at the flame of those southern flowers, flashing on either side of him all the way, as though the rainbow had been broken in Heaven and its fragments fallen on Spain. All the way as he went he gazed at those flowers, the first anemones of the year; and long after, whenever he sang to old airs of Spain, he thought of Spain as it appeared that day in all the wonder of Spring; the memory lent a beauty to his voice and a wistfulness to his eyes that accorded not ill with the theme of the songs he sang, and were more than once to melt proud hearts deemed cold. And so gazing he came to a town that stood on a hill, before he was yet tired, though he had done nigh twenty of those flowery miles of Spain; and since it was evening and the light was fading away, he went to an inn and drew his sword in the twilight and knocked with the hilt of it on the oaken door. The name of it was the Inn of the Dragon and Knight. A light was lit in one of the upper windows, the darkness seemed to deepen at that moment, a step was heard coming heavily down a stairway; and having named the inn to you, gentle reader, it is time for me to name the young man also, the landless lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez, as the step comes slowly down the inner stairway, as the gloaming darkens over the first house in which he has ever sought shelter so far from his father's valleys, as he stands upon the threshold of romance. He was named Rodriguez Trinidad Fernandez, Concepcion Henrique Maria; but we shall briefly name him Rodriguez in this story; you and I, reader, will know whom we mean; there is no need therefore to give him his full names, unless I do it here and there to remind you. The steps came thumping on down the inner stairway, different windows took the light of the candle, and none other shone in the house; it was clear that it was moving with the steps all down that echoing stairway. The sound of the steps ceased to reverberate upon the wood, and now they slowly moved over stone flags; Rodriguez now heard breathing, one breath with every step, and at length the sound of bolts and chains undone and the breathing now very close. The door was opened swiftly; a man with mean eyes, and expression devoted to evil, stood watching him for an instant; then the door slammed to again, the bolts were heard going back again to their places, the steps and the breathing moved away over the stone floor, and the inner stairway began again to echo. "If the wars are here," said Rodriguez to himself and his sword, "good, and I sleep under the stars." And he listened in the street for the sound of war and, hearing none, continued his discourse. "But if I have not come as yet to the wars I sleep beneath a roof." For the second time therefore he drew his sword, and began to strike methodically at the door, noting the grain in the wood and hitting where it was softest. Scarcely had he got a good strip of the oak to look like coming away, when the steps once more descended the wooden stair and came lumbering over the stones; both the steps and the breathing were quicker, for mine host of the Dragon and Knight was hurrying to save his door. When he heard the sound of the bolts and chains again Rodriguez ceased to beat upon the door: once more it opened swiftly, and he saw mine host before him, eyeing him with those bad eyes; of too much girth, you might have said, to be nimble, yet somehow suggesting to the swift intuition of youth, as Rodriguez looked at him standing upon his door-step, the spirit and shape of a spider, who despite her ungainly build is agile enough in her way. Mine host said nothing; and Rodriguez, who seldom concerned himself with the past, holding that the future is all we can order the scheme of (and maybe even here he was wrong), made no mention of bolts or door and merely demanded a bed for himself for the night. Mine host rubbed his chin; he had neither beard nor moustache but wore hideous whiskers; he rubbed it thoughtfully and looked at Rodriguez. Yes, he said, he could have a bed for the night. No more words he said, but turned and led the way; while Rodriguez, who could sing to the mandolin, wasted none of his words on this discourteous object. They ascended the short oak stairway down which mine host had come, the great timbers of which were gnawed by a myriad rats, and they went by passages with the light of one candle into the interior of the inn, which went back farther from the street than the young man had supposed; indeed he perceived when they came to the great corridor at the end of which was his appointed chamber, that here was no ordinary inn, as it had appeared from outside, but that it penetrated into the fastness of some great family of former times which had fallen on evil days. The vast size of it, the noble design where the rats had spared the carving, what the moths had left of the tapestries, all testified to that; and, as for the evil days, they hung about the place, evident even by the light of one candle guttering with every draught that blew from the haunts of the rats, an inseparable heirloom for all who disturbed those corridors. And so they came to the chamber. Mine host entered, bowed without grace in the doorway, and extended his left hand, pointing into the room. The draughts that blew from the rat-holes in the wainscot, or the mere action of entering, beat down the flame of the squat, guttering candle so that the chamber remained dim for a moment, in spite of the candle, as would naturally be the case. Yet the impression made upon Rodriguez was as of some old darkness that had been long undisturbed and that yielded reluctantly to that candle's intrusion, a darkness that properly became the place and was a part of it and had long been so, in the face of which the candle appeared an ephemeral thing devoid of grace or dignity or tradition. And indeed there was room for darkness in that chamber, for the walls went up and up into such an altitude that you could scarcely see the ceiling, at which mine host's eyes glanced, and Rodriguez followed his look. He accepted his accommodation with a nod; as indeed he would have accepted any room in that inn, for the young are swift judges of character, and one who had accepted such a host was unlikely to find fault with rats or the profusion of giant cobwebs, dark with the dust of years, that added so much to the dimness of that sinister inn. They turned now and went back, in the wake of that guttering candle, till they came again to the humbler part of the building. Here mine host, pushing open a door of blackened oak, indicated his dining-chamber. There a long table stood, and on it parts of the head and hams of a boar; and at the far end of the table a plump and sturdy man was seated in shirt-sleeves feasting himself on the boar's meat. He leaped up at once from his chair as soon as his master entered, for he was the servant at the Dragon and Knight; mine host may have said much to him with a flash of his eyes, but he said no more with his tongue than the one word, "Dog": he then bowed himself out, leaving Rodriguez to take the only chair and to be waited upon by its recent possessor. The boar's meat was cold and gnarled, another piece of meat stood on a plate on a shelf and a loaf of bread near by, but the rats had had most of the bread: Rodriguez demanded what the meat was. "Unicorn's tongue," said the servant, and Rodriguez bade him set the dish before him, and he set to well content, though I fear the unicorn's tongue was only horse: it was a credulous age, as all ages are. At the same time he pointed to a three-legged stool that he perceived in a corner of the room, then to the table, then to the boar's meat, and lastly at the servant, who perceived that he was permitted to return to his feast, to which he ran with alacrity. "Your name?" said Rodriguez as soon as both were eating. "Morano," replied the servant, though it must not be supposed that when answering Rodriguez he spoke as curtly as this; I merely give the reader the gist of his answer, for he added Spanish words that correspond in our depraved and decadent language of to-day to such words as "top dog," "nut" and "boss," so that his speech had a certain grace about it in that far-away time in Spain. I have said that Rodriguez seldom concerned himself with the past, but considered chiefly the future: it was of the future that he was thinking now as he asked Morano this question: "Why did my worthy and entirely excellent host shut his door in my face?" "Did he so?" said Morano. "He then bolted it and found it necessary to put the chains back, doubtless for some good reason." "Yes," said Morano thoughtfully, and looking at Rodriguez, "and so he might. He must have liked you." Verily Rodriguez was just the young man to send out with a sword and a mandolin into the wide world, for he had much shrewd sense. He never pressed a point, but when something had been said that might mean much he preferred to store it, as it were, in his mind and pass on to other things, somewhat as one might kill game and pass on and kill more and bring it all home, while a savage would cook the first kill where it fell and eat it on the spot. Pardon me, reader, but at Morano's remark you may perhaps have exclaimed, "That is not the way to treat one you like." Not so did Rodriguez. His attention passed on to notice Morano's rings which he wore in great profusion upon his little fingers; they were gold and of exquisite work and had once held precious stones, as large gaps testified; in these days they would have been priceless, but in an age when workers only worked at arts that they understood, and then worked for the joy of it, before the word artistic became ridiculous, exquisite work went without saying; and as the rings were slender they were of little value. Rodriguez made no comment upon the rings; it was enough for him to have noticed them. He merely noted that they were not ladies' rings, for no lady's ring would have fitted on to any one of those fingers: the rings therefore of gallants: and not given to Morano by their owners, for whoever wore precious stone needed a ring to wear it in, and rings did not wear out like hose, which a gallant might give to a servant. Nor, thought he, had Morano stolen them, for whoever stole them would keep them whole, or part with them whole and get a better price. Besides Morano had an honest face, or a face at least that seemed honest in such an inn: and while these thoughts were passing through his mind Morano spoke again: "Good hams," said Morano. He had already eaten one and was starting upon the next. Perhaps he spoke out of gratitude for the honour and physical advantage of being permitted to sit there and eat those hams, perhaps tentatively, to find out whether he might consume the second, perhaps merely to start a conversation, being attracted by the honest looks of Rodriguez. "You are hungry," said Rodriguez. "Praise God I am always hungry," answered Morano. "If I were not hungry I should starve." "Is it so?" said Rodriguez. "You see," said Morano, "the manner of it is this: my master gives me no food, and it is only when I am hungry that I dare to rob him by breaking in, as you saw me, upon his viands; were I not hungry I should not dare to do so, and so ..." He made a sad and expressive movement with both his hands suggestive of autumn leaves blown hence to die. "He gives you no food?" said Rodriguez. "It is the way of many men with their dog," said Morano. "They give him no food," and then he rubbed his hands cheerfully, "and yet the dog does not die." "And he gives you no wages?" said Rodriguez. "Just these rings." Now Rodriguez had himself a ring upon his finger (as a gallant should), a slender piece of gold with four tiny angels holding a sapphire, and for a moment he pictured the sapphire passing into the hands of mine host and the ring of gold and the four small angels being flung to Morano; the thought darkened his gaiety for no longer than one of those fleecy clouds in Spring shadows the fields of Spain. Morano was also looking at the ring; he had followed the young man's glance. "Master," he said, "do you draw your sword of a night?" "And you?" said Rodriguez. "I have no sword," said Morano. "I am but as dog's meat that needs no guarding, but you whose meat is rare like the flesh of the unicorn need a sword to guard your meat. The unicorn has his horn always, and even then he sometimes sleeps." "It is bad, you think, to sleep," Rodriguez said. "For some it is very bad, master. They say they never take the unicorn waking. For me I am but dog's meat: when I have eaten hams I curl up and sleep; but then you see, master, I know I shall wake in the morning." "Ah," said Rodriguez, "the morning's a pleasant time," and he leaned back comfortably in his chair. Morano took one shrewd look at him, and was soon asleep upon his three-legged stool. The door opened after a while and mine host appeared. "It is late," he said. Rodriguez smiled acquiescently and mine host withdrew, and presently leaving Morano whom his master's voice had waked, to curl up on the floor in a corner, Rodriguez took the candle that lit the room and passed once more through the passages of the inn and down the great corridor of the fastness of the family that had fallen on evil days, and so came to his chamber. I will not waste a multitude of words over that chamber; if you have no picture of it in your mind already, my reader, you are reading an unskilled writer, and if in that picture it appear a wholesome room, tidy and well kept up, if it appear a place in which a stranger might sleep without some faint foreboding of disaster, then I am wasting your time, and will waste no more of it with bits of "descriptive writing" about that dim, high room, whose blackness towered before Rodriguez in the night. He entered and shut the door, as many had done before him; but for all his youth he took some wiser precautions than had they, perhaps, who closed that door before. For first he drew his sword; then for some while he stood quite still near the door and listened to the rats; then he looked round the chamber and perceived only one door; then he looked at the heavy oak furniture, carved by some artist, gnawed by rats, and all blackened by time; then swiftly opened the door of the largest cupboard and thrust his sword in to see who might be inside, but the carved satyr's heads at the top of the cupboard eyed him silently and nothing moved. Then he noted that though there was no bolt on the door the furniture might be placed across to make what in the wars is called a barricado, but the wiser thought came at once that this was too easily done, and that if the danger that the dim room seemed gloomily to forebode were to come from a door so readily barricadoed, then those must have been simple gallants who parted so easily with the rings that adorned Morano's two little fingers. No, it was something more subtle than any attack through that door that brought his regular wages to Morano. Rodriguez looked at the window, which let in the light of a moon that was getting low, for the curtains had years ago been eaten up by the moths; but the window was barred with iron bars that were not yet rusted away, and looked out, thus guarded, over a sheer wall that even in the moonlight fell into blackness. Rodriguez then looked round for some hidden door, the sword all the while in his hand, and very soon he knew that room fairly well, but not its secret, nor why those unknown gallants had given up their rings. It is much to know of an unknown danger that it really is unknown. Many have met their deaths through looking for danger from one particular direction, whereas had they perceived that they were ignorant of its direction they would have been wise in their ignorance. Rodriguez had the great discretion to understand clearly that he did not know the direction from which danger would come. He accepted this as his only discovery about that portentous room which seemed to beckon to him with every shadow and to sigh over him with every mournful draught, and to whisper to him unintelligible warnings with every rustle of tattered silk that hung about his bed. And as soon as he discovered that this was his only knowledge he began at once to make his preparations: he was a right young man for the wars. He divested himself of his shoes and doublet and the light cloak that hung from his shoulder and cast the clothes on a chair. Over the back of the chair he slung his girdle and the scabbard hanging therefrom and placed his plumed hat so that none could see that his Castilian blade was not in its resting-place. And when the sombre chamber had the appearance of one having undressed in it before retiring Rodriguez turned his attention to the bed, which he noticed to be of great depth and softness. That something not unlike blood had been spilt on the floor excited no wonder in Rodriguez; that vast chamber was evidently, as I have said, in the fortress of some great family, against one of whose walls the humble inn had once leaned for protection; the great family were gone: how they were gone Rodriguez did not know, but it excited no wonder in him to see blood on the boards: besides, two gallants may have disagreed; or one who loved not dumb animals might have been killing rats. Blood did not disturb him; but what amazed him, and would have surprised anyone who stood in that ruinous room, was that there were clean new sheets on the bed. Had you seen the state of the furniture and the floor, O my reader, and the vastness of the old cobwebs and the black dust that they held, the dead spiders and huge dead flies, and the living generation of spiders descending and ascending through the gloom, I say that you also would have been surprised at the sight of those nice clean sheets. Rodriguez noted the fact and continued his preparations. He took the bolster from underneath the pillow and laid it down the middle of the bed and put the sheets back over it; then he stood back and looked at it, much as a sculptor might stand back from his marble, then he returned to it and bent it a little in the middle, and after that he placed his mandolin on the pillow and nearly covered it with the sheet, but not quite, for a little of the curved dark-brown wood remained still to be seen. It looked wonderfully now like a sleeper in the bed, but Rodriguez was not satisfied with his work until he had placed his kerchief and one of his shoes where a shoulder ought to be; then he stood back once more and eyed it with satisfaction. Next he considered the light. He looked at the light of the moon and remembered his father's advice, as the young often do, but considered that this was not the occasion for it, and decided to leave the light of his candle instead, so that anyone who might be familiar with the moonlight in that shadowy chamber should find instead a less sinister light. He therefore dragged a table to the bedside, placed the candle upon it, and opened a treasured book that he bore in his doublet, and laid it on the bed near by, between the candle and his mandolin-headed sleeper; the name of the book was Notes in a Cathedral and dealt with the confessions of a young girl, which the author claimed to have jotted down, while concealed behind a pillow near the Confessional, every Sunday for the entire period of Lent. Lastly he pulled a sheet a little loose from the bed, until a corner of it lay on the floor; then he lay down on the boards, still keeping his sword in his hand, and by means of the sheet and some silk that hung from the bed, he concealed himself sufficient for his purpose, which was to see before he should be seen by any intruder that might enter that chamber. And if Rodriguez appear to have been unduly suspicious, it should be borne in mind not only that those empty rings needed much explanation, but that every house suggests to the stranger something; and that whereas one house seems to promise a welcome in front of cosy fires, another good fare, another joyous wine, this inn seemed to promise murder; or so the young man's intuition said, and the young are wise to trust to their intuitions. The reader will know, if he be one of us, who have been to the wars and slept in curious ways, that it is hard to sleep when sober upon a floor; it is not like the earth, or snow, or a feather bed; even rock can be more accommodating; it is hard, unyielding and level, all night unmistakable floor. Yet Rodriguez took no risk of falling asleep, so he said over to himself in his mind as much as he remembered of his treasured book, Notes in a Cathedral, which he always read to himself before going to rest and now so sadly missed. It told how a lady who had listened to a lover longer than her soul's safety could warrant, as he played languorous music in the moonlight and sang soft by her low balcony, and how she being truly penitent, had gathered many roses, the emblems of love (as surely, she said at confession, all the world knows), and when her lover came again by moonlight had cast them all from her from the balcony, showing that she had renounced love; and her lover had entirely misunderstood her. It told how she often tried to show him this again, and all the misunderstandings are sweetly set forth and with true Christian penitence. Sometimes some little matter escaped Rodriguez's memory and then he longed to rise up and look at his dear book, yet he lay still where he was: and all the while he listened to the rats, and the rats went on gnawing and running regularly, scared by nothing new; Rodriguez trusted as much to their myriad ears as to his own two. The great spiders descended out of such heights that you could not see whence they came, and ascended again into blackness; it was a chamber of prodigious height. Sometimes the shadow of a descending spider that had come close to the candle assumed a frightening size, but Rodriguez gave little thought to it; it was of murder he was thinking, not of shadows; still, in its way it was ominous, and reminded Rodriguez horribly of his host; but what of an omen, again, in a chamber full of omens. The place itself was ominous; spiders could scarce make it more so. The spider itself was big enough, he thought, to be impaled on his Castilian blade; indeed, he would have done it but that he thought it wiser to stay where he was and watch. And then the spider found the candle too hot and climbed in a hurry all the way to the ceiling, and his horrible shadow grew less and dwindled away. It was not that the rats were frightened: whatever it was that happened happened too quietly for that, but the volume of the sound of their running had suddenly increased: it was not like fear among them, for the running was no swifter, and it did not fade away; it was as though the sound of rats running, which had not been heard before, was suddenly heard now. Rodriguez looked at the door, the door was shut. A young Englishman would long ago have been afraid that he was making a fuss over nothing and would have gone to sleep in the bed, and not seen what Rodriguez saw. He might have thought that hearing more rats all at once was merely a fancy, and that everything was all right. Rodriguez saw a rope coming slowly down from the ceiling, he quickly determined whether it was a rope or only the shadow of some huge spider's thread, and then he watched it and saw it come down right over his bed and stop within a few feet of it. Rodriguez looked up cautiously to see who had sent him that strange addition to the portents that troubled the chamber, but the ceiling was too high and dim for him to perceive anything but the rope coming down out of the darkness. Yet he surmised that the ceiling must have softly opened, without any sound at all, at the moment that he heard the greater number of rats. He waited then to see what the rope would do; and at first it hung as still as the great festoons dead spiders had made in the corners; then as he watched it it began to sway. He looked up into the dimness then to see who was swaying the rope; and for a long time, as it seemed to him lying gripping his Castilian sword on the floor he saw nothing clearly. And then he saw mine host coming down the rope, hand over hand quite nimbly, as though he lived by this business. In his right hand he held a poniard of exceptional length, yet he managed to clutch the rope and hold the poniard all the time with the same hand. If there had been something hideous about the shadow of the spider that came down from that height the shadow of mine host was indeed demoniac. He too was like a spider, with his body at no time slender all bunched up on the rope, and his shadow was six times his size: you could turn from the spider's shadow to the spider and see that it was for the most part a fancy of the candle half crazed by the draughts, but to turn from mine host's shadow to himself and to see his wicked eyes was to say that the candle's wildest fears were true. So he climbed down his rope holding his poniard upward. But when he came within perhaps ten feet of the bed he pointed it downward and began to sway about. It will be readily seen that by swaying his rope at a height mine host could drop on any part of the bed. Rodriguez as he watched him saw him scrutinise closely and continue to sway on his rope. He feared that mine host was ill satisfied with the look of the mandolin and that he would climb away again, well warned of his guest's astuteness, into the heights of the ceiling to devise some fearfuller scheme; but he was only looking for the shoulder. And then mine host dropped; poniard first, he went down with all his weight behind it and drove it through the bolster below where the shoulder should be, just where we slant our arms across our bodies, when we lie asleep on our sides, leaving the ribs exposed: and the soft bed received him. And the moment that mine host let go of his rope Rodriguez leaped to his feet. He saw Rodriguez, indeed their eyes met as he dropped through the air, but what could mine host do? He was already committed to his stroke, and his poniard was already deep in the mattress when the good Castilian blade passed through his ribs. THE SECOND CHRONICLE HOW HE HIRED A MEMORABLE SERVANT When Rodriguez woke, the birds were singing gloriously. The sun was up and the air was sparkling over Spain. The gloom had left his high chamber, and much of the menace had gone from it that overnight had seemed to bode in the corners. It had not become suddenly tidy; it was still more suitable for spiders than men, it still mourned and brooded over the great family that it had nursed and that evil days had so obviously overtaken; but it no longer had the air of finger to lips, no longer seemed to share a secret with you, and that secret Murder. The rats still ran round the wainscot, but the song of the birds and the jolly, dazzling sunshine were so much larger than the sombre room that the young man's thoughts escaped from it and ran free to the fields. It may have been only his fancy but the world seemed somehow brighter for the demise of mine host of the Dragon and Knight, whose body still lay hunched up on the foot of his bed. Rodriguez jumped up and went to the high, barred window and looked out of it at the morning: far below him a little town with red roofs lay; the smoke came up from the chimneys toward him slowly, and spread out flat and did not reach so high. Between him and the roofs swallows were sailing. He found water for washing in a cracked pitcher of earthenware and as he dressed he looked up at the ceiling and admired mine host's device, for there was an open hole that had come noiselessly, without any sounds of bolts or lifting of trap-doors, but seemed to have opened out all round on perfectly oiled grooves, to fit that well-to-do body, and down from the middle of it from some higher beam hung the rope down which mine host had made his last journey. Before taking leave of his host Rodriguez looked at his poniard, which was a good two feet in length, not counting the hilt, and was surprised to find it an excellent blade. It bore a design on the steel representing a town, which Rodriguez recognised for the towers of Toledo; and had held moreover a jewel at the end of the hilt, but the little gold socket was empty. Rodriguez therefore perceived that the poniard was that of a gallant, and surmised that mine host had begun his trade with a butcher's knife, but having come by the poniard had found it to be handier for his business. Rodriguez being now fully dressed, girt his own blade about him, and putting the poniard under his cloak, for he thought to find a use for it at the wars, set his plumed hat upon him and jauntily stepped from the chamber. By the light of day he saw clearly at what point the passages of the inn had dared to make their intrusion on the corridors of the fortress, for he walked for four paces between walls of huge grey rocks which had never been plastered and were clearly a breach in the fortress, though whether the breach were made by one of the evil days that had come upon the family in their fastness, and whether men had poured through it with torches and swords, or whether the gap had been cut in later years for mine host of the Dragon and Knight, and he had gone quietly through it rubbing his hands, nothing remained to show Rodriguez now. When he came to the dining-chamber he found Morano astir. Morano looked up from his overwhelming task of tidying the Inn of the Dragon and Knight and then went on with his pretended work, for he felt a little ashamed of the knowledge he had concerning the ways of that inn, which was more than an honest man should know about such a place. "Good morning, Morano," said Rodriguez blithely. "Good morning," answered the servant of the Dragon and Knight. "I am looking for the wars. Would you like a new master, Morano?" "Indeed," said Morano, "a good master is better to some men's minds than a bad one. Yet, you see señor, my bad master has me bound never to leave him, by oaths that I do not properly understand the meaning of, and that might blast me in any world were I to forswear them. He hath bound me by San Sathanas, with many others. I do not like the sound of that San Sathanas. And so you see, señor, my bad master suits me better than perhaps to be whithered in this world by a levin-stroke, and in the next world who knows?" "Morano," said Rodriguez, "there is a dead spider on my bed." "A dead spider, master?" said Morano, with as much concern in his voice as though no spider had ever sullied that chamber before. "Yes," said Rodriguez, "I shall require you to keep my bed tidy on our way to the wars." "Master," said Morano, "no spider shall come near it, living or dead." And so our company of one going northward through Spain looking for romance became a company of two. "Master," said Morano, "as I do not see him whom I serve, and his ways are early ways, I fear some evil has overtaken him, whereby we shall be suspect, for none other dwells here: and he is under special protection of the Garda Civil; it would be well therefore to start for the wars right early." "The guard protect mine host then." Rodriguez said with as much surprise in his tones as he ever permitted himself. "Master," Morano said, "it could not be otherwise. For so many gallants have entered the door of this inn and supped in this chamber and never been seen again, and so many suspicious things have been found here, such as blood, that it became necessary for him to pay the guard well, and so they protect him." And Morano hastily slung over his shoulder by leather straps an iron pot and a frying-pan and took his broad felt hat from a peg on the wall. Rodriguez' eyes looked so curiously at the great cooking utensils dangling there from the straps that Morano perceived his young master did not fully understand these preparations: he therefore instructed him thus: "Master, there be two things necessary in the wars, strategy and cooking. Now the first of these comes in use when the captains speak of their achievements and the historians write of the wars. Strategy is a learned thing, master, and the wars may not be told of without it, but while the war rageth and men be camped upon the foughten field then is the time for cooking; for many a man that fights the wars, if he hath not his food, were well content to let the enemy live, but feed him and at once he becometh proud at heart and cannot a-bear the sight of the enemy walking among his tents but must needs slay him outright. Aye, master, the cooking for the wars; and when the wars are over you who are learned shall study strategy." And Rodriguez perceived that there was wisdom in the world that was not taught in the College of San Josephus, near to his father's valleys, where he had learned in his youth the ways of books. "Morano," he said, "let us now leave mine host to entertain la Garda." And at the mention of the guard hurry came on Morano, he closed his lips upon his store of wisdom, and together they left the Inn of the Dragon and Knight. And when Rodriguez saw shut behind him that dark door of oak that he had so persistently entered, and through which he had come again to the light of the sun by many precautions and some luck, he felt gratitude to Morano. For had it not been for Morano's sinister hints, and above all his remark that mine host would have driven him thence because he liked him, the evil look of the sombre chamber alone might not have been enough to persuade him to the precautions that cut short the dreadful business of that inn. And with his gratitude was a feeling not unlike remorse, for he felt that he had deprived this poor man of a part of his regular wages, which would have been his own gold ring and the setting that held the sapphire, had all gone well with the business. So he slipped the ring from his finger and gave it to Morano, sapphire and all. Morano's expressions of gratitude were in keeping with that flowery period in Spain, and might appear ridiculous were I to expose them to the eyes of an age in which one in Morano's place on such an occasion would have merely said, "Damned good of you old nut, not half," and let the matter drop. I merely record therefore that Morano was grateful and so expressed himself; while Rodriguez, in addition to the pleasant glow in the mind that comes from a generous action, had another feeling that gives all of us pleasure, or comfort at least (until it grows monotonous), a feeling of increased safety; for while he had the ring upon his finger and Morano went unpaid the thought could not help occurring, even to a generous mind, that one of these windy nights Morano might come for his wages. "Master," said Morano looking at the sapphire now on his own little finger near the top joint, the only stone amongst his row of rings, "you must surely have great wealth." "Yes," said Rodriguez slapping the scabbard that held his Castilian blade. And when he saw that Morano's eyes were staring at the little emeralds that were dotted along the velvet of the scabbard he explained that it was the sword that was his wealth: "For in the wars," he said, "are all things to be won, and nothing is unobtainable to the sword. For parchment and custom govern all the possessions of man, as they taught me in the College of San Josephus. Yet the sword is at first the founder and discoverer of all possessions; and this my father told me before he gave me this sword, which hath already acquired in the old time fair castles with many a tower." "And those that dwelt in the castles, master, before the sword came?" said Morano. "They died and went dismally to Hell," said Rodriguez, "as the old songs say." They walked on then in silence. Morano, with his low forehead and greater girth of body than of brain to the superficial observer, was not incapable of thought. However slow his thoughts may have come, Morano was pondering surely. Suddenly the puckers on his little forehead cleared and he brightly looked at Rodriguez as they went on side by side. "Master," Morano said, "when you choose a castle in the wars, let it above all things be one of those that is easy to be defended; for castles are easily got, as the old songs tell, and in the heat of combat positions are quickly stormed, and no more ado; but, when wars are over, then is the time for ease and languorous days and the imperilling of the soul, though not beyond the point where our good fathers may save it." "Nay, Morano," Rodriguez said, "no man, as they taught me well in the College of San Josephus, should ever imperil his soul." "But, master," Morano said, "a man imperils his body in the wars yet hopes by dexterity and his sword to draw it safely thence: so a man of courage and high heart may surely imperil his soul and still hope to bring it at the last to salvation." "Not so," said Rodriguez, and gave his mind to pondering upon the exact teaching he had received on this very point, but could not clearly remember. So they walked in silence, Rodriguez thinking still of this spiritual problem, Morano turning, though with infinite slowness, to another thought upon a lower plane. And after a while Rodriguez' eyes turned again to the flowers, and he felt his meditation, as youth will, and looking abroad he saw the wonder of Spring calling forth the beauty of Spain, and he lifted up his head and his heart rejoiced with the anemones, as hearts at his age do: but Morano clung to his thought. It was long before Rodriguez' fanciful thoughts came back from among the flowers, for among those delicate earliest blooms of Spring his youthful visions felt they were with familiars; so they tarried, neglecting the dusty road and poor gross Morano. But when his fancies left the flowers at last and looked again at Morano, Rodriguez perceived that his servant was all troubled with thought: so he left Morano in silence for his thought to come to maturity, for he had formed a liking already for the judgments of Morano's simple mind. They walked in silence for the space of an hour, and at last Morano spoke. It was then noon. "Master," he said, "at this hour it is the custom of la Garda to enter the Inn of the Dragon and to dine at the expense of mine host." "A merry custom," said Rodriguez. "Master," said Morano, "if they find him in less than his usual health they will get their dinners for themselves in the larder and dine and afterwards sleep. But after that; master, after that, should anything inauspicious have befallen mine host, they will seek out and ask many questions concerning all travellers, too many for our liking." "We are many good miles from the Inn of the Dragon and Knight," said Rodriguez. "Master, when they have eaten and slept and asked questions they will follow on horses," said Morano. "We can hide," said Rodriguez, and he looked round over the plain, very full of flowers, but empty and bare under the blue sky of any place in which a man might hide to escape from pursuers on horse back. He perceived then that he had no plan. "Master," said Morano, "there is no hiding like disguises." Once more Rodriguez looked round him over the plain, seeing no houses, no men; and his opinion of Morano's judgment sank when he said disguises. But then Morano unfolded to him that plan which up to that day had never been tried before, so far as records tell, in all the straits in which fugitive men have been; and which seems from my researches in verse and prose never to have been attempted since. The plan was this, astute as Morano, and simple as his naive mind. The clothing for which Rodriguez searched the plain vainly was ready to hand. No disguise was effective against la Garda, they had too many suspicions, their skill was to discover disguises. But in the moment of la Garda's triumph, when they had found out the disguise, when success had lulled the suspicions for which they were infamous, then was the time to trick la Garda. Rodriguez wondered; but the slow mind of Morano was sure, and now he came to the point, the fruit of his hour's thinking. Rodriguez should disguise himself as Morano. When la Garda discovered that he was not the man he appeared to be, a study to which they devoted their lives, their suspicions would rest and there would be an end of it. And Morano should disguise himself as Rodriguez. It was a new idea. Had Rodriguez been twice his age he would have discarded it at once; for age is guided by precedent which, when pursued, is a dangerous guide indeed. Even as it was he was critical, for the novelty of the thing coming thus from his gross servant surprised him as much as though Morano had uttered poetry of his own when he sang, as he sometimes did, certain merry lascivious songs of Spain that any one of the last few centuries knew as well as any of the others. And would not la Garda find out that he was himself, Rodriguez asked, as quickly as they found out he was not Morano. "That," said Morano, "is not the way of la Garda. For once let la Garda come by a suspicion, such as that you, master, are but Morano, and they will cling to it even to the last, and not abandon it until they needs must, and then throw it away as it were in disgust and ride hence at once, for they like not tarrying long near one who has seen them mistaken." "They will soon then come by another suspicion," said Rodriguez. "Not so, master," answered Morano, "for those that are as suspicious as la Garda change their suspicions but slowly. A suspicion is an old song to them." "Then," said Rodriguez, "I shall be hard set ever to show that I am not you if they ever suspect I am." "It will be hard, master," Morano answered; "but we shall do it, for we shall have truth upon our side." "How shall we disguise ourselves?" said Rodriguez. "Master," said Morano, "when you came to our town none knew you and all marked your clothes. As for me my fat body is better known than my clothes, yet am I not too well known by la Garda, for, being an honest man, whenever la Garda came I used to hide." "You did well," said Rodriguez. "Certainly I did well," said Morano, "for had they seen me they might, on account of certain matters, have taken me to prison, and prison is no place for an honest man." "Let us disguise ourselves," said Rodriguez. "Master," answered Morano, "the brain is greater than the stomach, and now more than at any time we need the counsel of the brain; let us therefore appease the clamours of the stomach that it be silent." And he drew out from amongst his clothing a piece of sacking in which was a mass of bacon and some lard, and unslung his huge frying-pan. Rodriguez had entirely forgotten the need of food, but now the memory of it had rushed upon him like a flood over a barrier, as soon as he saw the bacon. And when they had collected enough of tiny inflammable things, for it was a treeless plain, and Morano had made a fire, and the odour of the bacon became perceptible, this memory was hugely intensified. "Let us eat while they eat, master," said Morano, "and plan while they sleep, and disguise ourselves while they pursue." And this they did: for after they had eaten they dug up earth and gathered leaves with which to fill the gaps in Morano's garments when they should hang on Rodriguez, they plucked a geranium with whose dye they deepened Rodriguez' complexion, and with the sap from the stalk of a weed Morano toned to a pallor the ruddy brown of his tough cheeks. Then they changed clothes altogether, which made Morano gasp: and after that nothing remained but to cut off the delicate black moustachios of Rodriguez and to stick them to the face of Morano with the juice of another flower that he knew where to find. Rodriguez sighed when he saw them go. He had pictured ecstatic glances cast some day at those moustachios, glances from under long eyelashes twinkling at evening from balconies; and looking at them where they were now, he felt that this was impossible. For one moment Morano raised his head with an air, as it were preening himself, when the new moustachios had stuck; but as soon as he saw, or felt, his master's sorrow at their loss he immediately hung his head, showing nothing but shame for the loss he had caused his master, or for the impropriety of those delicate growths that so ill become his jowl. And now they took the road again, Rodriguez with the great frying-pan and cooking-pot; no longer together, but not too far apart for la Garda to take them both at once, and to make the doubly false charge that should so confound their errand. And Morano wore that old triumphant sword, and carried the mandolin that was ever young. They had not gone far when it was as Morano had said; for, looking back, as they often did, to the spot where their road touched the sky-line, they saw la Garda spurring, seven of them in their unmistakable looped hats, very clear against the sky which a moment ago seemed so fair. When the seven saw the two they did not spare the dust; and first they came to Morano. "You," they said, "are Rodriguez Trinidad Fernandez, Concepcion Henrique Maria, a Lord of the Valleys of Arguento Harez." "No, masters," said Morano. Oh but denials were lost upon la Garda. Denials inflamed their suspicions as no other evidence could. Many a man had they seen with his throat in the hands of the public garrotter; and all had begun with denials who ended thus. They looked at the mandolin, at the gay cloak, at the emeralds in the scabbard, for wherever emeralds go there is evidence to identify them, until the nature of man changes or the price of emeralds. They spoke hastily among themselves. "Without doubt," said one of them, "you are whom we said." And they arrested Morano. Then they spurred on to Rodriguez. "You are," they said, "as no man doubts, one Morano, servant at the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, whose good master is, as we allege, dead." "Masters," answered Rodriguez, "I am but a poor traveller, and no servant at any inn." Now la Garda, as I have indicated, will hear all things except denials; and thus to receive two within the space of two moments infuriated them so fiercely that they were incapable of forming any other theory that day except the one they held. There are many men like this; they can form a plausible theory and grasp its logical points, but take it away from them and destroy it utterly before their eyes, and they will not so easily lash their tired brains at once to build another theory in place of the one that is ruined. "As the saints live," they said, "you are Morano." And they arrested Rodriguez too. Now when they began to turn back by the way they had come Rodriguez began to fear overmuch identification, so he assured la Garda that in the next village ahead of them were those who would answer all questions concerning him, as well as being the possessors of the finest vintage of wine in the kingdom of Spain. Now it may be that the mention of this wine soothed the anger caused in the men of la Garda by two denials, or it may be that curiosity guided them, at any rate they took the road that led away from last night's sinister shelter, Rodriguez and five of la Garda. Two of them stayed behind with Morano, undecided as yet which way to take, though looking wistfully the way that that wine was said to be; and Rodriguez left Morano to his own devices, in which he trusted profoundly. Now Rodriguez knew not the name of the next village that they would come to nor the names of any of the dwellers in it. Yet he had a plan. As he went by the side of one of the horses he questioned the rider. "Can Morano write?" he said. La Garda laughed. "Can Morano talk Latin?" he said. La Garda crossed themselves, all five men. And after some while of riding, and hard walking for Rodriguez, to whom they allowed a hand on a stirrup leather, there came in sight the tops of the brown roofs of a village over a fold of the plain. "Is this your village?" said one of his captors. "Surely," answered Rodriguez. "What is its name?" said one. "It has many names," said Rodriguez. And then another one of them recognised it from the shape of its roofs. "It is Saint Judas-not-Iscariot," he said. "Aye, so strangers call it," said Rodriguez. And where the road turned round that fold of the plain, lolling a little to its left in the idle Spanish air, they came upon the village all in view. I do not know how to describe this village to you, my reader, for the words that mean to you what it was are all the wrong words to use. "Antique," "old-world," "quaint," seem words with which to tell of it. Yet it had no antiquity denied to the other villages; it had been brought to birth like them by the passing of time, and was nursed like them in the lap of plains or valleys of Spain. Nor was it quainter than any of its neighbours, though it was like itself alone, as they had their characters also; and, though no village in the world was like it, it differed only from the next as sister differs from sister. To those that dwelt in it, it was wholly apart from all the world of man. Most of its tall white houses with green doors were gathered about the market-place, in which were pigeons and smells and declining sunlight, as Rodriguez and his escort came towards it, and from round a corner at the back of it the short, repeated song of one who would sell a commodity went up piercingly. This was all very long ago. Time has wrecked that village now. Centuries have flowed over it, some stormily, some smoothly, but so many that, of the village Rodriguez saw, there can be now no more than wreckage. For all I know a village of that name may stand on that same plain, but the Saint Judas-not-Iscariot that Rodriguez knew is gone like youth. Queerly tiled, sheltered by small dense trees, and standing a little apart, Rodriguez recognised the house of the Priest. He recognised it by a certain air it had. Thither he pointed and la Garda rode. Again he spoke to them. "Can Morano speak Latin?" he said. "God forbid!" said la Garda. They dismounted and opened a gate that was gilded all over, in a low wall of round boulders. They went up a narrow path between thick ilices and came to the green door. They pulled a bell whose handle was a symbol carved in copper, one of the Priest's mysteries. The bell boomed through the house, a tiny musical boom, and the Priest opened the door; and Rodriguez addressed him in Latin. And the Priest answered him. At first la Garda had not realised what had happened. And then the Priest beckoned and they all entered his house, for Rodriguez had asked him for ink. Into a room they came where a silver ink-pot was, and the grey plume of the goose. Picture no such ink-pot, my reader, as they sell to-day in shops, the silver no thicker than paper, and perhaps a pattern all over it guaranteed artistic. It was molten silver well wrought, and hollowed for ink. And in the hollow there was the magical fluid, the stuff that rules the world and hinders time; that in which flows the will of a king, to establish his laws for ever; that which gives valleys unto new possessors; that whereby towers are held by their lawful owners; that which, used grimly by the King's judge, is death; that which, when poets play, is mirth for ever and ever. No wonder la Garda looked at it in awe, no wonder they crossed themselves again: and then Rodriguez wrote. In the silence that followed the jaws of la Garda dropped, while the old Priest slightly smiled, for he somewhat divined the situation already; and, being the people's friend, he loved not la Garda more than he was bound by the rules of his duty to man. Then one of la Garda spoke, bringing back his confidence with a bluster. "Morano has sold his soul to Satan," he said, "in exchange for Satan's aid, and Satan has taught his tongue Latin and guides his fingers in the affairs of the pen." And so said all la Garda, rejoicing at finding an explanation where a moment ago there was none, as all men at such times do: little it matters what the explanation be: does a man in Sahara, who finds water suddenly, inquire with precision what its qualities are? And then the Priest said a word and made a sign, against which Satan himself can only prevail with difficulty, and in presence of which his spells can never endure. And after this Rodriguez wrote again. Then were la Garda silent. And at length the leader said, and he called on them all to testify, that he had made no charge whatever against this traveller; moreover, they had escorted him on his way out of respect for him, because the roads were dangerous, and must now depart because they had higher duties. So la Garda departed, looking before them with stern, preoccupied faces and urging their horses on, as men who go on an errand of great urgency. And Rodriguez, having thanked them for their protection upon the road, turned back into the house and the two sat down together, and Rodriguez told his rescuer the story of the hospitality of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight. Not as confession he told it, but as a pleasant tale, for he looked on the swift demise of la Garda's friend, in the night, in the spidery room, as a fair blessing for Spain, a thing most suited to the sweet days of Spring. The spiritual man rejoiced to hear such a tale, as do all men of peace to hear talk of violent deeds in which they may not share. And when the tale was ended he reproved Rodriguez exceedingly, explaining to him the nature of the sin of blood, and telling him that absolution could be come by now, though hardly, but how on some future occasion there might be none to be had. And Rodriguez listened with all the gravity of expression that youth knows well how to wear while its thoughts are nimbly dancing far away in fair fields of adventure or love. And darkness came down and lamps were carried in: and the reverend father asked Rodriguez in what other affairs of violence his sword had unhappily been. And Rodriguez knew well the history of that sword, having gathered all that concerned it out of spoken legend or song. And although the reverend man frowned minatorily whenever he heard of its passings through the ribs of the faithful, and nodded as though his head gave benediction when he heard of the destruction of God's most vile enemy the infidel, and though he gasped a little through his lips when he heard of certain tarryings of that sword, in scented gardens, while Christian knights should sleep and their swords hang on the wall, though sometimes even a little he raised his hands, yet he leaned forward always, listening well, and picturing clearly as though his gleaming eyes could see them, each doleful tale of violence or sin. And so night came, and began to wear away, and neither knew how late the hour was. And then as Rodriguez spoke of an evening in a garden, of which some old song told well, a night in early summer under the evening star, and that sword there as always; as he told of his grandfather as poets had loved to tell, going among the scents of the huge flowers, familiar with the dark garden as the moths that drifted by him; as he spoke of a sigh heard faintly, as he spoke of danger near, whether to body or soul; as the reverend father was about to raise both his hands; there came a thunder of knockings upon the locked green door. THE THIRD CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO THE HOUSE OF WONDER It was the gross Morano. Here he had tracked Rodriguez, for where la Garda goes is always known, and rumour of it remains long behind them, like the scent of a fox. He told no tale of his escape more than a dog does who comes home some hours late; a dog comes back to his master, that is all, panting a little perhaps; someone perhaps had caught him and he escaped and came home, a thing too natural to attempt to speak of by any of the signs that a dog knows. Part of Morano's method seems to have resembled Rodriguez', for just as Rodriguez spoke Latin, so Morano fell back upon his own natural speech, that he as it were unbridled and allowed to run free, the coarseness of which had at first astounded, and then delighted, la Garda. "And did they not suspect that you were yourself?" said Rodriguez. "No, master," Morano answered, "for I said that I was the brother of the King of Aragon." "The King of Aragon!" Rodriguez said, going to the length of showing surprise. "Yes, indeed, master." said Morano, "and they recognised me." "Recognised you!" exclaimed the Priest. "Indeed so," said Morano, "for they said that they were themselves the Kings of Aragon; and so, father, they recognised me for their brother." "That you should not have said," the Priest told Morano. "Reverend father," replied Morano, "as Heaven shines, I believed that what I said was true." And Morano sighed deeply. "And now," he said, "I know it is true no more." Whether he sighed for the loss of his belief in that exalted relationship, or whether for the loss of that state of mind in which such beliefs come easily, there was nothing in his sigh to show. They questioned him further, but he said no more: he was here, there was no more to say: he was here and la Garda was gone. And then the reverend man brought for them a great supper, even at that late hour, for many an hour had slipped softly by as he heard the sins of the sword; and wine he set out, too, of a certain golden vintage, long lost--I fear--my reader: but this he gave not to Morano lest he should be once more, what the reverend father feared to entertain, that dread hidalgo, the King of Aragon's brother. And after that, the stars having then gone far on their ways, the old Priest rose and offered a bed to Rodriguez; and even as he eyed Morano, wondering where to put him, and was about to speak, for he had no other bed, Morano went to a corner of the room and curled up and lay down. And by the time his host had walked over to him and spoken, asking anxiously if he needed nothing more, he was almost already asleep, and muttered in answer, after having been spoken to twice, no more than "Straw, reverend father, straw." An armful of this the good man brought him, and then showed Rodriguez to his room; and they can scarcely have reached it before Morano was back in Aragon again, walking on golden shoes (which were sometimes wings), proud among lesser princes. As precaution for the night Rodriguez took one more glance at his host's kind face; and then, with sword out of reach and an unlocked door, he slept till the songs of birds out of the deeps of the ilices made sleep any longer impossible. The third morning of Rodriguez' wandering blazed over Spain like brass; flowers and grass and sky were twinkling all together. When Rodriguez greeted his host Morano was long astir, having awakened with dawn, for the simpler and humbler the creature the nearer it is akin to the earth and the sun. The forces that woke the birds and opened the flowers stirred the gross lump of Morano, ending his sleep as they ended the nightingale's song. They breakfasted hurriedly and Rodriguez rose to depart, feeling that he had taken hospitality that had not been offered. But against his departure was the barrier of all the politeness of Spain. The house was his, said his host, and even the small grove of ilices. If I told you half of the things that the reverend man said, you would say: "This writer is affected. I do not like all this flowery mush." I think it safer, my reader, not to tell you any of it. Let us suppose that he merely said, "Quite all right," and that when Rodriguez thanked him on one knee he answered, "Not at all;" and that so Rodriguez and Morano left. If here it miss some flash of the fair form of Truth it is the fault of the age I write for. The road again, dust again, birds and the blaze of leaves, these were the background of my wanderers, until the eye had gone as far as the eye can roam, and there were the tips of some far pale-blue mountains that now came into view. They were still in each other's clothes; but the village was not behind them very far when Morano explained, for he knew the ways of la Garda, that having arrested two men upon this road, they would now arrest two men each on all the other roads, in order to show the impartiality of the Law, which constantly needs to be exhibited; and that therefore all men were safe on the road they were on for a long while to come. Now there seemed to Rodriguez to be much good sense in what Morano had said; and so indeed there was for they had good laws in Spain, and they differed little, though so long ago, from our own excellent system. Therefore they changed once more, giving back to each other everything but, alas, those delicate black moustachios; and these to Rodriguez seemed gone for ever, for the growth of new ones seemed so far ahead to the long days of youth that his hopes could scarce reach to them. When Morano found himself once more in those clothes that had been with him night and day for so many years he seemed to expand; I mean no metaphor here; he grew visibly fatter. "Ah," said Morano after a huge breath, "last night I dreamed, in your illustrious clothes, that I was in lofty station. And now, master, I am comfortable." "Which were best, think you," said Rodriguez, "if you could have but one, a lofty place or comfort?" Even in those days such a question was trite, but Rodriguez uttered it only thinking to dip in the store of Morano's simple wisdom, as one may throw a mere worm to catch a worthy fish. But in this he was disappointed; for Morano made no neat comparison nor even gave an opinion, saying only, "Master, while I have comfort how shall I judge the case of any who have not?" And no more would he say. His new found comfort, lost for a day and night, seemed so to have soothed his body that it closed the gates of the mind, as too much luxury may, even with poets. And now Rodriguez thought of his quest again, and the two of them pushed on briskly to find the wars. For an hour they walked in silence an empty road. And then they came upon a row of donkeys; piled high with the bark of the cork-tree, that men were bringing slowly from far woods. Some of the men were singing as they went. They passed slow in the sunshine. "Oh, master," said Morano when they were gone, "I like not that lascivious loitering." "Why, Morano?" said Rodriguez. "It was not God that made hurry." "Master," answered Morano, "I know well who made hurry. And may he not overtake my soul at the last. Yet it is bad for our fortunes that these men should loiter thus. You want your castle, master; and I, I want not always to wander roads, with la Garda perhaps behind and no certain place to curl up and sleep in front. I look for a heap of straw in the cellar of your great castle." "Yes, yes, you shall have it," his master said, "but how do these folks hinder you?" For Morano was scowling at them over his shoulder in a way that was somehow spoiling the gladness of Spring. "The air is full of their singing," Morano said. "It is as though their souls were already flying to Hell, and cawing hoarse with sin all the way as they go. And they loiter, and they linger..." Oh, but Morano was angry. "But," said Rodriguez, "how does their lingering harm you?" "Where are the wars, master? Where are the wars?" blurted Morano, his round face turning redder. "The donkeys would be dead, the men would be running, there would be shouts, cries, and confusion, if the wars were anywhere near. There would be all things but this." The men strolled on singing and so passed slow into distance. Morano was right, though I know not how he knew. And now the men and the donkeys were nearly out of sight, but had not yet at all emerged from the wrath of Morano. "Lascivious knaves," muttered that disappointed man. And whenever he faintly heard dim snatches of their far song that a breeze here, and another there, brought over the plain as it ran on the errands of Spring, he cursed their sins under his breath. Though it seemed not so much their sins that moved his wrath as the leisure they had for committing them. "Peace, peace, Morano," said Rodriguez. "It is that," said Morano, "that is troubling me." "What?" "This same peace." "Morano," said Rodriguez, "I had when young to study the affairs of men; and this is put into books, and so they make history. Now I learned that there is no thing in which men have taken delight, that is ever put away from them; for it seems that time, which altereth every custom, hath altered none of our likings: and in every chapter they taught me there were these wars to be found." "Master, the times are altered," said Morano sadly. "It is not now as in old days." And this was not the wisdom of Morano, for anger had clouded his judgment. And a faint song came yet from the donkey-drivers, wavering over the flowers. "Master," Morano said, "there are men like those vile sin-mongers, who have taken delight in peace. It may be that peace has been brought upon the world by one of these lousy likings." "The delight of peace," said Rodriguez, "is in its contrast to war. If war were banished this delight were gone. And man lost none of his delights in any chapter I read." The word and the meaning of CONTRAST were such as is understood by reflective minds, the product of education. Morano felt rather than reflected; and the word CONTRAST meant nothing to him. This ended their conversation. And the songs of the donkey-drivers, light though they were, being too heavy to be carried farther by the idle air of Spring, Morano ceased cursing their sins. And now the mountains rose up taller, seeming to stretch themselves and raise their heads. In a while they seemed to be peering over the plain. They that were as pale ghosts, far off, dim like Fate, in the early part of the morning, now appeared darker, more furrowed, more sinister, more careworn; more immediately concerned with the affairs of Earth, and so more menacing to earthly things. Still they went on and still the mountains grew. And noon came, when Spain sleeps. And now the plain was altering, as though cool winds from the mountains brought other growths to birth, so that they met with bushes straggling wild; free, careless and mysterious, as they do, where there is none to teach great Nature how to be tidy. The wanderers chose a clump of these that were gathered near the way, like gypsies camped awhile midway on a wonderful journey, who at dawn will rise and go, leaving but a bare trace of their resting and no guess of their destiny; so fairy-like, so free, so phantasmal those dark shrubs seemed. Morano lay down on the very edge of the shade of one, and Rodriguez lay fair in the midst of the shade of another, whereby anyone passing that way would have known which was the older traveller. Morano, according to his custom, was asleep almost immediately; but Rodriguez, with wonder and speculation each toying with novelty and pulling it different ways between them, stayed awhile wakeful. Then he too slept, and a bird thought it safe to return to an azalea of its own; which it lately fled from troubled by the arrival of these two. And Rodriguez the last to sleep was the first awake, for the shade of the shrub left him, and he awoke in the blaze of the sun to see Morano still sheltered, well in the middle now of the shadow he chose. The gross sleep of Morano I will not describe to you, reader. I have chosen a pleasant tale for you in a happy land, in the fairest time of year, in a golden age: I have youth to show you and an ancient sword, birds, flowers and sunlight, in a plain unharmed by any dream of commerce: why should I show you the sleep of that inelegant man whose bulk lay cumbering the earth like a low, unseemly mountain? Rodriguez overtook the shade he had lost and lay there resting until Morano awoke, driven all at once from sleep by a dream or by mere choking. Then from the intricacies of his clothing, which to him after those two days was what home is to some far wanderer, Morano drew out once more a lump of bacon. Then came the fry-pan and then a fire: it was the Wanderers' Mess. That mess-room has stood in many lands and has only one roof. We are proud of that roof, all we who belong to that Mess. We boast of it when we show it to our friends when it is all set out at night. It has Aldebaran in it, the Bear and Orion, and at the other end the Southern Cross. Yes we are proud of our roof when it is at its best. What am I saying? I should be talking of bacon. Yes, but there is a way of cooking it in our Mess that I want to tell you and cannot. I've tasted bacon there that isn't the same as what you get at the Ritz. And I want to tell you how that bacon tastes; and I can't so I talk about stars. But perhaps you are one of us, reader, and then you will understand. Only why the hell don't we get back there again where the Evening Star swings low on the wall of the Mess? When they rose from table, when they got up from the earth, and the frying-pan was slung on Morano's back, adding grease to the mere surface of his coat whose texture could hold no more, they pushed on briskly for they saw no sign of houses, unless what Rodriguez saw now dimly above a ravine were indeed a house in the mountains. They had walked from eight till noon without any loitering. They must have done fifteen miles since the mountains were pale blue. And now, every mile they went, on the most awful of the dark ridges the object Rodriguez saw seemed more and more like a house. Yet neither then, nor as they drew still nearer, nor when they saw it close, nor looking back on it after years, did it somehow seem quite right. And Morano sometimes crossed himself as he looked at it, and said nothing. Rodriguez, as they walked ceaselessly through the afternoon, seeing his servant show some sign of weariness, which comes not to youth, pointed out the house looking nearer than it really was on the mountain, and told him that he should find there straw, and they would sup and stay the night. Afterwards, when the strange appearance of the house, varying with different angles, filled him with curious forebodings, Rodriguez would make no admission to his servant, but held to the plan he had announced, and so approached the queer roofs, neglecting the friendly stars. Through the afternoon the two travellers pushed on mostly in silence, for the glances that house seemed to give him from the edge of its perilous ridge, had driven the mirth from Rodriguez and had even checked the garrulity on the lips of the tougher Morano, if garrulity can be ascribed to him whose words seldom welled up unless some simple philosophy troubled his deeps. The house seemed indeed to glance at him, for as their road wound on, the house showed different aspects, different walls and edges of walls, and different curious roofs; all these walls seemed to peer at him. One after another they peered, new ones glided imperceptibly into sight as though to say, We see too. The mountains were not before them but a little to the right of their path, until new ones appeared ahead of them like giants arising from sleep, and then their path seemed blocked as though by a mighty wall against which its feeble wanderings went in vain. In the end it turned a bit to its right and went straight for a dark mountain, where a wild track seemed to come down out of the rocks to meet it, and upon this track looked down that sinister house. Had you been there, my reader, you would have said, any of us had said, Why not choose some other house? There were no other houses. He who dwelt on the edge of the ravine that ran into that dark mountain was wholly without neighbours. And evening came, and still they were far from the mountain. The sun set on their left. But it was in the eastern sky that the greater splendour was; for the low rays streaming across lit up some stormy clouds that were brooding behind the mountain and turned their gloomy forms to an astounding purple. And after this their road began to rise toward the ridges. The mountains darkened and the sinister house was about to merge with their shadows, when he who dwelt there lit candles. The act astonished the wayfarers. All through half the day they had seen the house, until it seemed part of the mountains; evil it seemed like their ridges, that were black and bleak and forbidding, and strange it seemed with a strangeness that moved no fears they could name, yet it seemed inactive as night. Now lights appeared showing that someone moved. Window after window showed to the bare dark mountain its gleaming yellow glare; there in the night the house forsook the dark rocks that seemed kin to it, by glowing as they could never glow, by doing what the beasts that haunted them could not do: this was the lair of man. Here was the light of flame but the rocks remained dark and cold as the wind of night that went over them, he who dwelt now with the lights had forsaken the rocks, his neighbours. And, when all were lit, one light high in a tower shone green. These lights appearing out of the mountain thus seemed to speak to Rodriguez and to tell him nothing. And Morano wondered, as he seldom troubled to do. They pushed on up the steepening path. "Like you the looks of it?" said Rodriguez once. "Aye, master," answered Morano, "so there be straw." "You see nothing strange there, then?" Rodriguez said. "Master," Morano said, "there be saints for all requirements." Any fears he had felt about that house before, now as he neared it were gone; it was time to put away fears and face the event; thus worked Morano's philosophy. And he turned his thoughts to the achievements upon earth of a certain Saint who met Satan, and showed to the sovereign of Hell a discourtesy alien to the ways of the Church. It was dark now, and the yellow lights got larger as they drew nearer the windows, till they saw large shadows obscurely passing from room to room. The ascent was steep now and the pathway stopped. No track of any kind approached the house. It stood on a precipice-edge as though one of the rocks of the mountain: they climbed over rocks to reach it. The windows flickered and blinked at them. Nothing invited them there in the look of that house, but they were now in such a forbidding waste that shelter had to be found; they were all among edges of rock as black as the night and hard as the material of which Cosmos was formed, at first upon Chaos' brink. The sound of their climbing ran noisily up the mountain but no sound came from the house: only the shadows moved more swiftly across a room, passed into other rooms and came hurrying back. Sometimes the shadows stayed and seemed to peer; and when the travellers stood and watched to see what they were they would disappear and there were no shadows at all, and the rooms were filled instead with their wondering speculation. Then they pushed on over rocks that seemed never trodden by man, so sharp were they and slanting, all piled together: it seemed the last waste, to which all shapeless rocks had been thrown. Morano and these black rocks seemed shaped by a different scheme; indeed the rocks had never been shaped at all, they were just raw pieces of Chaos. Morano climbed over their edges with moans and discomfort. Rodriguez heard him behind him and knew by his moans when he came to the top of each sharp rock. The rocks became savager, huger, even more sharp and more angular. They were there in the dark in multitudes. Over these Rodriguez staggered, and Morano clambered and tumbled; and so they came, breathing hard, to the lonely house. In the wall that their hands had reached there was no door, so they felt along it till they came to the corner, and beyond the corner was the front wall of the house. In it was the front door. But so nearly did this door open upon the abyss that the bats that fled from their coming, from where they hung above the door of oak, had little more to do than fall from their crannies, slanting ever so slightly, to find themselves safe from man in the velvet darkness, that lay between cliffs so lonely they were almost strangers to Echo. And here they floated upon errands far from our knowledge; while the travellers coming along the rocky ledge between destruction and shelter, knocked on the oaken door. The sound of their knocking boomed huge and slow through the house as though they had struck the door of the very mountain. And no one came. And then Rodriguez saw dimly in the darkness the great handle of a bell, carved like a dragon running down the wall: he pulled it and a cry of pain arose from the basement of the house. Even Morano wondered. It was like a terrible spirit in distress. It was long before Rodriguez dare touch the handle again. Could it have been the bell? He felt the iron handle and the iron chain that went up from it. How could it have been the bell! The bell had not sounded: he had not pulled hard enough: that scream was fortuitous. The night on that rocky ledge had jangled his nerves. He pulled again and more firmly. The answering scream was more terrible. Rodriguez could doubt no longer, as he sprang back from the bell-handle, that with the chain he had pulled he inflicted some unknown agony. The scream had awakened slow steps that now came towards the travellers, down corridors, as it sounded, of stone. And then chains fell on stone and the door of oak was opened by some one older than what man hopes to come to, with small, peaked lips as those of some woodland thing. "Señores," the old one said, "the Professor welcomes you." They stood and stared at his age, and Morano blurted uncouthly what both of them felt. "You are old, grandfather," he said. "Ah, Señores," the old man sighed, "the Professor does not allow me to be young. I have been here years and years but he never allowed it. I have served him well but it is still the same. I say to him, 'Master, I have served you long ...' but he interrupts me for he will have none of youth. Young servants go among the villages, he says. And so, and so..." "You do not think your master can give you youth!" said Rodriguez. The old man knew that he had talked too much, voicing that grievance again of which even the rocks were weary. "Yes," he said briefly, and bowed and led the way into the house. In one of the corridors running out of the hall down which he was leading silently, Rodriguez overtook that old man and questioned him to his face. "Who is this professor?" he said. By the light of a torch that spluttered in an iron clamp on the wall Rodriguez questioned him with these words, and Morano with his wondering, wistful eyes. The old man halted and turned half round, and lifted his head and answered. "In the University of Saragossa," he said with pride, "he holds the Chair of Magic." Even the names of Oxford or Cambridge, Harvard or Yale or Princeton, move some respect, and even yet in these unlearned days. What wonder then that the name of Saragossa heard on that lonely mountain awoke in Rodriguez some emotion of reverence and even awed Morano. As for the Chair of Magic, it was of all the royal endowments of that illustrious University the most honoured and dreaded. "At Saragossa!" Rodriguez muttered. "At Saragossa," the old man affirmed. Between that ancient citadel of learning and this most savage mountain appeared a gulf scarce to be bridged by thought. "The Professor rests in his mountain," the old man said, "because of a conjunction of the stars unfavourable to study, and his class have gone to their homes for many weeks." He bowed again and led on along that corridor of dismal stone. The others followed, and still as Rodriguez went that famous name Saragossa echoed within his mind. And then they came to a door set deep in the stone, and their guide opened it and they went in; and there was the Professor in a mystical hat and a robe of dim purple, seated with his back to them at a table, studying the ways of the stars. "Welcome, Don Rodriguez," said the Professor before he turned round; and then he rose, and with small steps backwards and sideways and many bows, he displayed all those formulae of politeness that Saragossa knew in the golden age and which her professors loved to execute. In later years they became more elaborate still, and afterwards were lost. Rodriguez replied rather by instinct than knowledge; he came of a house whose bows had never missed graceful ease and which had in some generations been a joy to the Court of Spain. Morano followed behind him; but his servile presence intruded upon that elaborate ceremony, and the Professor held up his hand, and Morano was held in mid stride as though the air had gripped him. There he stood motionless, having never felt magic before. And when the Professor had welcomed Rodriguez in a manner worthy of the dignity of the Chair that he held at Saragossa, he made an easy gesture and Morano was free again. "Master," said Morano to the Professor, as soon as he found he could move, "master, it looks like magic." Picture to yourself some yokel shown into the library of a professor of Greek at Oxford, taking down from a shelf one of the books of the Odyssey, and saying to the Professor, "It looks like Greek"! Rodriguez felt grieved by Morano's boorish ignorance. Neither he nor his host answered him. The Professor explained that he followed the mysteries dimly, owing to a certain aspect of Orion, and that therefore his class were gone to their homes and were hunting; and so he studied alone under unfavourable auspices. And once more he welcomed Rodriguez to his roof, and would command straw to be laid down for the man that Rodriguez had brought from the Inn of the Dragon and Knight; for he, the Professor, saw all things, though certain stars would hide everything. And when Rodriguez had appropriately uttered his thanks, he added with all humility and delicate choice of phrase a petition that he might be shown some mere rudiment of the studies for which that illustrious chair in Saragossa was famous. The Professor bowed again and, in accepting the well-rounded compliments that Rodriguez paid to the honoured post he occupied, he introduced himself by name. He had been once, he said, the Count of the Mountain, but when his astral studies had made him eminent and he had mastered the ways of the planet nearest the sun he took the title Magister Mercurii, and by this had long been known; but had now forsaken this title, great as it was, for a more glorious nomenclature, and was called in the Arabic language the Slave of Orion. When Rodriguez heard this he bowed very low. And now the Professor asked Rodriguez in which of the activities of life his interest lay; for the Chair of Magic at Saragossa, he said, was concerned with them all. "In war," said Rodriguez. And Morano unostentatiously rubbed his hands; for here was one, he thought, who would soon put his master on the right way, and matters would come to a head and they would find the wars. But far from concerning himself with the wars of that age, the Slave of Orion explained that as events came nearer they became grosser or more material, and that their grossness did not leave them until they were some while passed away; so that to one whose studies were with aetherial things, near events were opaque and dim. He had a window, he explained, through which Rodriguez should see clearly the ancient wars, while another window beside it looked on all wars of the future except those which were planned already or were coming soon to earth, and which were either invisible or seen dim as through mist. Rodriguez said that to be privileged to see so classical an example of magic would be to him both a delight and honour. Yet, as is the way of youth, he more desired to have a sight of the wars than he cared for all the learning of the Professor. And to him who held the Chair of Magic at Saragossa it was a precious thing that his windows could be made to show these marvels, while the guest to whom he was about to display these two gems of his learning was thinking of little but what he should see through the windows, and not at all of what spells, what midnight oil, what incantations, what witchcrafts, what lonely hours among bats, had gone to the gratification of his young curiosity. It is usually thus. The Professor rose: his cloak floated out from him as he left the chamber, and Rodriguez following where he guided saw, by the torchlight in the corridors, upon the dim purple border signs that, to his untutored ignorance of magic, were no more than hints of the affairs of the Zodiac. And if these signs were obscure it were better they were obscurer, for they dealt with powers that man needs not to possess, who has the whole earth to regulate and control; why then should he seek to govern the course of any star? And Morano followed behind them, hoping to be allowed to get a sight of the wars. They came to a room where two round windows were; each of them larger than the very largest plate, and of very thick glass indeed, and of a wonderful blue. The blue was like the blue of the Mediterranean at evening, when lights are in it both of ships and of sunset, and lights of harbours being lit one by one, and the light of Venus perhaps and about two other stars, so deeply did it stare and so twinkled, near its edges, with lights that were strange to that room, and so triumphed with its clear beauty over the night outside. No, it was more magical than the Mediterranean at evening, even though the peaks of the Esterels be purple and their bases melting in gold and the blue sea lying below them smiling at early stars: these windows were more mysterious than that; it was a more triumphant blue; it was like the Mediterranean seen with the eyes of Shelley, on a happy day in his youth, or like the sea round Western islands of fable seen by the fancy of Keats. They were no windows for any need of ours, unless our dreams be needs, unless our cries for the moon be urged by the same Necessity as makes us cry for bread. They were clearly concerned only with magic or poetry; though the Professor claimed that poetry was but a branch of his subject; and it was so regarded at Saragossa, where it was taught by the name of theoretical magic, while by the name of practical magic they taught dooms, brews, hauntings, and spells. The Professor stood before the left-hand window and pointed to its deep-blue centre. "Through this," he said, "we see the wars that were." Rodriguez looked into the deep-blue centre where the great bulge of the glass came out towards him; it was near to the edges where the glass seemed thinner that the little strange lights were dancing; Morano dared to tiptoe a little nearer. Rodriguez looked and saw no night outside. Just below and near to the window was white mist, and the dim lines and smoke of what may have been recent wars; but farther away on a plain of strangely vast dimensions he saw old wars that were. War after war he saw. Battles that long ago had passed into history and had been for many ages skilled, glorious and pleasant encounters he saw even now tumbling before him in their savage confusion and dirt. He saw a leader, long glorious in histories he had read, looking round puzzled, to see what was happening, and in a very famous fight that he had planned very well. He saw retreats that History called routs, and routs that he had seen History calling retreats. He saw men winning victories without knowing they had won. Never had man pried before so shamelessly upon History, or found her such a liar. With his eyes on the great blue glass Rodriguez forgot the room, forgot time, forgot his host and poor excited Morano, as he watched those famous fights. And now my reader wishes to know what he saw and how it was that he was able to see it. As regards the second, my reader will readily understand that the secrets of magic are very carefully guarded, and any smatterings of it that I may ever have come by I possess, for what they are worth, subjects to oaths and penalties at which even bad men shudder. My reader will be satisfied that even those intimate bonds between reader and writer are of no use to him here. I say him as though I had only male readers, but if my reader be a lady I leave the situation confidently to her intuition. As for the things he saw, of all of these I am at full liberty to write, and yet, my reader, they would differ from History's version: never a battle that Rodriguez saw on all the plain that swept away from that circular window, but History wrote differently. And now, my reader, the situation is this: who am I? History was a goddess among the Greeks, or is at least a distinguished personage, perhaps with a well-earned knighthood, and certainly with widespread recognition amongst the Right Kind of People. I have none of these things. Whom, then, would you believe? Yet I would lay my story confidently before you, my reader, trusting in the justice of my case and in your judicial discernment, but for one other thing. What will the Goddess Clio say, or the well-deserving knight, if I offend History? She has stated her case, Sir Bartimeus has written it, and then so late in the day I come with a different story, a truer but different story. What will they do? Reader, the future is dark, uncertain and long; I dare not trust myself to it if I offend History. Clio and Sir Bartimeus will make hay of my reputation; an innuendo here, a foolish fact there, they know how to do it, and not a soul will suspect the goddess of personal malice or the great historian of pique. Rodriguez gazed then through the deep blue window, forgetful of all around, on battles that had not all the elegance or neatness of which our histories so tidily tell. And as he gazed upon a merry encounter between two men on the fringe of an ancient fight he felt a touch on his shoulder and then almost a tug, and turning round beheld the room he was in. How long he had been absent from it in thought he did not know, but the Professor was still standing with folded arms where he had left him, probably well satisfied with the wonder that his most secret art had awakened in his guest. It was Morano who touched his shoulder, unable to hold back any longer his impatience to see the wars; his eyes as Rodriguez turned round were gazing at his master with dog-like wistfulness. The absurd eagerness of Morano, his uncouth touch on his shoulder, seemed only pathetic to Rodriguez. He looked at the Professor's face, the nose like a hawk's beak, the small eyes deep down beside it, dark of hue and dreadfully bright, the silent lips. He stood there uttering no actual prohibition, concerning which Rodriguez's eyes had sought; so, stepping aside from his window, Rodriguez beckoned Morano, who at once ran forward delighted to see those ancient wars. A slight look of scorn showed faint upon the Professor's face such as you may see anywhere when a master-craftsman perceives the gaze of the ignorant turned towards his particular subject. But he said no word, and soon speech would have been difficult, for the loud clamour of Morano filled the room: he had seen the wars and his ecstasies were ungoverned. As soon as he saw those fights he looked for the Infidels, for his religious mind most loved to see the Infidel slain. And if my reader discern or suppose some gulf between religion and the recent business of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, Morano, if driven to admit any connection between murder and his daily bread, would have said, "All the more need then for God's mercy through the intercession of His most blessed Saints." But these words had never passed Morano's lips, for shrewd as he was in enquiry into any matter that he desired to know, his shrewdness was no less in avoiding enquiry where there might be something that he desired not to know, such as the origin of his wages as servant of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, those delicate gold rings with settings empty of jewels. Morano soon recognized the Infidel by his dress, and after that no other wars concerned him. He slapped his thigh, he shouted encouragement, he howled vile words of abuse, partly because he believed that this foul abuse was rightly the due of the Infidel, and partly because he believed it delighted God. Rodriguez stood and watched, pleased at the huge joy of the simple man. The Slave of Orion stood watching in silence too, but who knows if he felt pleasure or any other emotion? Perhaps his mind was simply like ours; perhaps, as has been claimed by learned men of the best-informed period, that mind had some control upon the comet, even when farthest out from the paths we know. Morano turned round for a moment to Rodriguez: "Good wars, master, good wars," he said with a vast zest, and at once his head was back again at that calm blue window. In that flash of the head Rodriguez had seen his eyes, blue, round and bulging; the round man was like a boy who in some shop window has seen, unexpected, huge forbidden sweets. Clearly, in the war he watched things were going well for the Cross, for such cries came from Morano as "A pretty stroke," "There now, the dirty Infidel," "Now see God's power shown," "Spare him not, good knight; spare him not," and many more, till, uttered faster and faster, they merged into mere clamorous rejoicing. But the battles beyond the blue window seemed to move fast, and now a change was passing across Morano's rejoicings. It was not that he swore more for the cause of the Cross, but brief, impatient, meaningless oaths slipped from him now; he was becoming irritable; a puzzled look, so far as Rodriguez could see, was settling down on his features. For a while he was silent except for the little, meaningless oaths. Then he turned round from the glass, his hands stretched out, his face full of urgent appeal. "Masters," he said, "God's enemy wins!" In answer to Morano's pitiful look Rodriguez' hand went to his sword-hilt; the Slave of Orion merely smiled with his lips; Morano stood there with his hands still stretched out, his face still all appeal, and something more for there was reproach in his eyes that men could tarry while the Cross was in danger and the Infidel lived. He did not know that it was all finished and over hundreds of years ago, a page of history upon which many pages were turned, and which lay as unalterable as the fate of some warm swift creature of early Eocene days over whose fossil today the strata lie long and silent. "But can nothing be done, master?" he said when Rodriguez told him this. And when Rodriguez failed him here, he turned away from the window. To him the Infidel were game, but to see them defeating Christian knights violated the deeps of his feelings. Morano sulky excited little more notice from his host and his master who had watched his rejoicings, and they seem to have forgotten this humble champion of Christendom. The Professor slightly bowed to Rodriguez and extended a graceful hand. He pointed to the other window. Reader, your friend shows you his collection of stamps, his fossils, his poems, or his luggage labels. One of them interests you, you look at it awhile, you are ready to go away: then your friend shows you another. This also must be seen; for your friend's collection is a precious thing; it is that point upon huge Earth on which his spirit has lit, on which it rests, on which it shelters even (who knows from what storms?). To slight it were to weaken such hold as his spirit has, in its allotted time, upon this sphere. It were like breaking the twig of a plant upon which a butterfly rests, and on some stormy day and late in the year. Rodriguez felt all this dimly, but no less surely; and went to the other window. Below the window were those wars that were soon coming to Spain, hooded in mist and invisible. In the centre of the window swam as profound a blue, dwindling to paler splendour at the edge, the wandering lights were as lovely, as in the other window just to the left; but in the view from the right-hand window how sombre a difference. A bare yard separated the two. Through the window to the left was colour, courtesy, splendour; there was Death at least disguising himself, well cloaked, taking mincing steps, bowing, wearing a plume in his hat and a decent mask. In the right-hand window all the colours were fading, war after war they grew dimmer; and as the colours paled Death's sole purpose showed clearer. Through the beautiful left-hand window were killings to be seen, and less mercy than History supposes, yet some of the fighters were merciful, and mercy was sometimes a part of Death's courtly pose, which went with the cloak and the plume. But in the other window through that deep, beautiful blue Rodriguez saw Man make a new ally, an ally who was only cruel and strong and had no purpose but killing, who had no pretences or pose, no mask and no manner, but was only the slave of Death and had no care but for his business. He saw it grow bigger and stronger. Heart it had none, but he saw its cold steel core scheming methodical plans and dreaming always destruction. Before it faded men and their fields and their houses. Rodriguez saw the machine. Many a proud invention of ours that Rodriguez saw raging on that ruinous plain he might have anticipated, but not for all Spain would he have done so: it was for the sake of Spain that he was silent about much that he saw through that window. As he looked from war to war he saw almost the same men fighting, men with always the same attitude to the moment and with similar dim conception of larger, vaguer things; grandson differed imperceptibly from grandfather; he saw them fight sometimes mercifully, sometimes murderously, but in all the wars beyond that twinkling window he saw the machine spare nothing. Then he looked farther, for the wars that were farthest from him in time were farther away from the window. He looked farther and saw the ruins of Peronne. He saw them all alone with their doom at night, all drenched in white moonlight, sheltering huge darkness in their stricken hollows. Down the white street, past darkness after darkness as he went by the gaping rooms that the moon left mourning alone, Rodriguez saw a captain going back to the wars in that far-future time, who turned his head a moment as he passed, looking Rodriguez in the face, and so went on through the ruins to find a floor on which to lie down for the night. When he was gone the street was all alone with disaster, and moonlight pouring down, and the black gloom in the houses. Rodriguez lifted his eyes and glanced from city to city, to Albert, Bapaume, and Arras, his gaze moved over a plain with its harvest of desolation lying forlorn and ungathered, lit by the flashing clouds and the moon and peering rockets. He turned from the window and wept. The deep round window glowed with serene blue glory. It seemed a foolish thing to weep by that beautiful glass. Morano tried to comfort him. That calm, deep blue, he felt, and those little lights, surely, could hurt no one. What had Rodriguez seen? Morano asked. But that Rodriguez would not answer, and told no man ever after what he had seen through that window. The Professor stood silent still: he had no comfort to offer; indeed his magical wisdom had found none for the world. You wonder perhaps why the Professor did not give long ago to the world some of these marvels that are the pride of our age. Reader, let us put aside my tale for a moment to answer this. For all the darkness of his sinister art there may well have been some good in the Slave of Orion; and any good there was, and mere particle even, would surely have spared the world many of those inventions that our age has not spared it. Blame not the age, it is now too late to stop; it is in the grip of inventions now, and has to go on; we cannot stop content with mustard-gas; it is the age of Progress, and our motto is Onwards. And if there was no good in this magical man, then may it not have been he who in due course, long after he himself was safe from life, caused our inventions to be so deadly divulged? Some evil spirit has done it, then why not he? He stood there silent: let us return to our story. Perhaps the efforts of poor clumsy Morano to comfort him cheered Rodriguez and sent him back to the window, perhaps he turned from them to find comfort of his own; but, however he came by it, he had a hope that this was a passing curse that had come on the world, whose welfare he cared for whether he lived or died, and that looking a little farther into the future he would see Mother Earth smiling and her children happy again. So he looked through the deep-blue luminous window once more, beyond the battles we know. From this he turned back shuddering. Again he saw the Professor smile with his lips, though whether at his own weakness, or whether with cynical mirth at the fate of the world, Rodriguez could not say. THE FOURTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SUN The Professor said that in curiosity alone had been found the seeds of all that is needful for our damnation. Nevertheless, he said, if Rodriguez cared to see more of his mighty art the mysteries of Saragossa were all at his guest's disposal. Rodriguez, sad and horrified though he was, forgot none of his courtesy. He thanked the Professor and praised the art of Saragossa, but his faith in man and his hope for the world having been newly disappointed, he cared little enough for the things we should care to see or for any of the amusements that are usually dear to youth. "I shall be happy to see anything, señor," he said to the Slave of Orion, "that is further from our poor Earth, and to study therein and admire your famous art." The Professor bowed. He drew small curtains over the windows, matching his cloak. Morano sought a glimpse through the right-hand window before the curtains covered it. Rodriguez held him back. Enough had been seen already, he thought, through that window for the peace of mind of the world: but he said no word to Morano. He held him by the arm, and the Professor covered the windows. When the little mauve curtains were drawn it seemed to Rodriguez that the windows behind them disappeared and were there no more; but this he only guessed from uncertain indications. Then the Professor drew forth his wand and went to his cupboard of wonder. Thence he brought condiments, oils, and dews of amazement. These he poured into a vessel that was in the midst of the room, a bowl of agate standing alone on a table. He lit it and it all welled up in flame, a low broad flame of the colour of pale emerald. Over this he waved his wand, which was of exceeding blackness. Morano watched as children watch the dancer, who goes from village to village when spring is come, with some new dance out of Asia or some new song.[Footnote: He doesn't, but why shouldn't he?] Rodriguez sat and waited. The Professor explained that to leave this Earth alive, or even dead, was prohibited to our bodies, unless to a very few, whose names were hidden. Yet the spirits of men could by incantation be liberated, and being liberated, could be directed on journeys by such minds as had that power passed down to them from of old. Such journeys, he said, were by no means confined by the hills of Earth. "The Saints," exclaimed Morano, "guard us utterly!" But Rodriguez smiled a little. His faith was given to the Saints of Heaven. He wondered at their wonders, he admired their miracles, he had little faith to spare for other marvels; in fact he did not believe the Slave of Orion. "Do you desire such a journey?" said the Professor. "It will delight me," answered Rodriguez, "to see this example of your art." "And you?" he said to Morano. The question seemed to alarm the placid Morano, but "I follow my master," he said. At once the Professor stretched out his ebony wand, calling the green flame higher. Then he put out his hands over the flame, without the wand, moving them slowly with constantly tremulous fingers. And all at once they heard him begin to speak. His deep voice flowed musically while he scarcely seemed to be speaking but seemed only to be concerned with moving his hands. It came soft, as though blown faint from fabulous valleys, illimitably far from the land of Spain. It seemed full not so much of magic as mere sleep, either sleep in an unknown country of alien men, or sleep in a land dreamed sleeping a long while since. As the travellers heard it they thought of things far away, of mythical journeys and their own earliest years. They did not know what he said or what language he used. At first Rodriguez thought Moorish, then he deemed it some secret language come down from magicians of old, while Morano merely wondered; and then they were lulled by the rhythm of those strange words, and so enquired no more. Rodriguez pictured some sad wandering angel, upon some mountain-peak of African lands, resting a moment and talking to the solitudes, telling the lonely valley the mysteries of his home. While lulled though Morano was he gave up his alertness uneasily. All the while the green flame flooded upwards: all the while the tremulous fingers made curious shadows. The shadow seemed to run to Rodriguez and beckon him thence: even Morano felt them calling. Rodriguez closed his eyes. The voice and the Moorish spells made now a more haunting melody: they were now like a golden organ on undiscoverable mountains. Fear came on Morano at the thought: who had power to speak like this? He grasped Rodriguez by the wrist. "Master!" he said, but at that moment on one of those golden spells the spirit of Rodriguez drifted away from his body, and out of the greenish light of the curious room; unhampered by weight, or fatigue, or pain, or sleep; and it rose above the rocks and over the mountain, an unencumbered spirit: and the spirit of Morano followed. The mountain dwindled at once; the Earth swept out all round them and grew larger, and larger still, and then began to dwindle. They saw then that they were launched upon some astounding journey. Does my reader wonder they saw when they had no eyes? They saw as they had never seen before, with sight beyond what they had ever thought to be possible. Our eyes gather in light, and with the little rays of light that they bring us we gather a few images of things as we suppose them to be. Pardon me, reader, if I call them things as we suppose them to be; call them by all means Things As They Really Are, if you wish. These images then, this tiny little brainful that we gather from the immensities, are all brought in by our eyesight upside-down, and the brain corrects them again; and so, and so we know something. An oculist will tell you how it all works. He may admit it is all a little clumsy, or for the dignity of his profession he may say it is not at all. But be this as it may, our eyes are but barriers between us and the immensities. All our five senses that grope a little here and touch a little there, and seize, and compare notes, and get a little knowledge sometimes, they are only barriers between us and what there is to know. Rodriguez and Morano were outside these barriers. They saw without the imperfections of eyesight; they heard on that journey what would have deafened ears; they went through our atmosphere unburned by speed, and were unchilled in the bleak of the outer spaces. Thus freed of the imperfections of the body they sped, no less upon a terrible journey, whose direction as yet Rodriguez only began to fear. They had seen the stars pale rapidly and then the flash of dawn. The Sun rushed up and at once began to grow larger. Earth, with her curved sides still diminishing violently, was soon a small round garden in blue and filmy space, in which mountains were planted. And still the Sun was growing wider and wider. And now Rodriguez, though he knew nothing of Sun or planets, perceived the obvious truth of their terrible journey: they were heading straight for the Sun. But the spirit of Morano was merely astounded; yet, being free of the body he suffered none of those inconveniences that perturbation may bring to us: spirits do not gasp, or palpitate, or weaken, or sicken. The dwindling Earth seemed now no more than the size of some unmapped island seen from a mountain-top, an island a hundred yards or so across, looking like a big table. Speed is comparative: compared to sound, their pace was beyond comparison; nor could any modern projectile attain any velocity comparable to it; even the speed of explosion was slow to it. And yet for spirits they were moving slowly, who being independent of all material things, travel with such velocities as that, for instance, of thought. But they were controlled by one still dwelling on Earth, who used material things, and the material that the Professor was using to hurl them upon their journey was light, the adaptation of which to this purpose he had learned at Saragossa. At the pace of light they were travelling towards the Sun. They crossed the path of Venus, far from where Venus then was, so that she scarcely seemed larger to them; Earth was but little bigger than the Evening Star, looking dim in that monstrous daylight. Crossing the path of Mercury, Mercury appeared huger than our Moon, an object weirdly unnatural; and they saw ahead of them the terrific glare in which Mercury basks, from a Sun whose withering orb had more than doubled its width since they came from the hills of Earth. And after this the Sun grew terribly larger, filling the centre of the sky, and spreading and spreading and spreading. It was now that they saw what would have dazzled eyes, would have burned up flesh and would have shrivelled every protection that our scientists' ingenuity could have devised even today. To speak of time there is meaningless. There is nothing in the empty space between the Sun and Mercury with which time is at all concerned. Far less is there meaning in time wherever the spirits of men are under stress. A few minutes' bombardment in a trench, a few hours in a battle, a few weeks' travelling in a trackless country; these minutes, these hours, these weeks can never be few. Rodriguez and Morano had been travelling about six or seven minutes, but it seems idle to say so. And then the Sun began to fill the whole sky in front of them. And in another minute, if minutes had any meaning, they were heading for a boundless region of flame that, left and right, was everywhere, and now towered above them, and went below them into a flaming abyss. And now Morano spoke to Rodriguez. He thought towards him, and Rodriguez was aware of his thinking: it is thus that spirits communicate. "Master," he said, "when it was all spring in Spain, years ago when I was thin and young, twenty years gone at least; and the butterflies were come, and song was everywhere; there came a maid bare-footed over a stream, walking through flowers, and all to pluck the anemones." How fair she seemed even now, how bright that far spring day. Morano told Rodriguez not with his blundering lips: they were closed and resting deeply millions of miles away: he told him as spirits tell. And in that clear communication Rodriguez saw all that shone in Morano's memory, the grace of the young girl's ankles, the thrill of Spring, the anemones larger and brighter than anemones ever were, the hawks still in clear sky; earth happy and heaven blue, and the dreams of youth between. You would not have said, had you seen Morano's coarse fat body, asleep in a chair in the Professor's room, that his spirit treasured such delicate, nymph-like, pastoral memories as now shone clear to Rodriguez. No words the blunt man had ever been able to utter had ever hinted that he sometimes thought like a dream of pictures by Watteau. And now in that awful space before the power of the terrible Sun, spirit communed with spirit, and Rodriguez saw the beauty of that far day, framed all about the beauty of one young girl, just as it had been for years in Morano's memory. How shall I tell with words what spirit sang wordless to spirit? We poets may compete with each other in words; but when spirits give up the purest gold of their store, that has shone far down the road of their earthly journey, cheering tired hearts and guiding mortal feet, our words shall barely interpret. Love, coming long ago over flowers in Spain, found Morano; words did not tell the story, words cannot tell it; as a lake reflects a cloud in the blue of heaven, so Rodriguez understood and felt and knew this memory out of the days of Morano's youth. "And so, master," said Morano, "I sinned, and would indeed repent, and yet even now at this last dread hour I cannot abjure that day; and this is indeed Hell, as the good father said." Rodriguez tried to comfort Morano with such knowledge as he had of astronomy, if knowledge it could be called. Indeed, if he had known anything he would have perplexed Morano more, and his little pieces of ignorance were well adapted for comfort. But Morano had given up hope, having long been taught to expect this very fire: his spirit was no wiser than it had been on Earth, it was merely freed of the imperfections of the five senses and so had observation and expression beyond those of any artist the world has known. This was the natural result of being freed of the body; but he was not suddenly wiser; and so, as he moved towards this boundless flame, he expected every moment to see Satan charge out to meet him: and having no hope for the future he turned to the past and fondled the memory of that one spring day. His was a backsliding, unrepentant spirit. As that monstrous sea of flame grew ruthlessly larger Rodriguez felt no fear, for spirits have no fear of material things: but Morano feared. He feared as spirits fear spiritual things; he thought he neared the home of vast spirits of evil and that the arena of conflict was eternity. He feared with a fear too great to be borne by bodies. Perhaps the fat body that slept on a chair on earth was troubled in dreams by some echo of that fear that gripped the spirit so sorely. And it may be from such far fears that all our nightmares come. When they had travelled nearly ten minutes from Earth and were about to pass into the midst of the flame, that magician who controlled their journey halted them suddenly in Space, among the upper mountain-peaks of the Sun. There they hovered as the clouds hover that leave their companions and drift among crags of the Alps: below them those awful mountains heaved and thundered. All Atlas, and Teneriffe, and lonely Kenia might have lain amongst them unnoticed. As often as the earthquake rocked their bases it loosened from near their summits wild avalanches of gold that swept down their flaming slopes with unthinkable tumult. As they watched, new mountains rode past them, crowned with their frightful flames; for, whether man knew it or not, the Sun was rotating, but the force of its gravity that swung the planets had no grip upon spirits, who were held by the power of that tremendous spell that the Professor had learned one midnight at Saragossa from one of that dread line who have their secrets from a source that we do not know in a distant age. There is always something tremendous in the form of great mountains; but these swept by, not only huger than anything Earth knows, but troubled by horrible commotions, as though overtaken in flight by some ceaseless calamity. Rodriguez and Morano, as they looked at them, forgetting the gardens of Earth, forgetting Spring and Summer and the sweet beneficence of sunshine, felt that the purpose of Creation was evil! So shocking a thought may well astound us here, where green hills slope to lawns or peer at a peaceful sea; but there among the flames of those dreadful peaks the Sun seemed not the giver of joy and colour and life, but only a catastrophe huger than everlasting war, a centre of hideous violence and ruin and anger and terror. There came by mountains of copper burning everlasting, hurling up to unthinkable heights their mass of emerald flame. And mountains of iron raged by and mountains of salt, quaking and thundering and clothed with their colours, the iron always scarlet and the salt blue. And sometimes there came by pinnacles a thousand miles high that from base to summit were fire, mountains of pure flame that had no other substance. And these explosive mountains, born of thunder and earthquake, hurling down avalanches the size of our continents, and drawing upward out of the deeps of the Sun new material for splendour and horror, this roaring waste, this extravagant destruction, were necessary for every tint that our butterflies wear on their wings. Without those flaming ranges of mountains of iron they would have no red to show; even the poppy could have no red for her petals: without the flames that were blasting the mountains of salt there could be no answering blue in any wing, or one blue flower for all the bees of Earth: without the nightmare light of those frightful canyons of copper that awed the two spirits watching their ceaseless ruin, the very leaves of the woods we love would be without their green with which to welcome Spring; for from the flames of the various metals and wonders that for ever blaze in the Sun, our sunshine gets all its colours that it conveys to us almost unseen, and thence the wise little insects and patient flowers softly draw the gay tints that they glory in; there is nowhere else to get them. And yet to Rodriguez and Morano all that they saw seemed wholly and hideously evil. How long they may have watched there they tried to guess afterwards, but as they looked on those terrific scenes they had no way to separate days from minutes: nothing about them seemed to escape destruction, and time itself seemed no calmer than were those shuddering mountains. Then the thundering ranges passed; and afterwards there came a gleaming mountain, one huge and lonely peak, seemingly all of gold. Had our whole world been set beside it and shaped as it was shaped, that golden mountain would yet have towered above it: it would have taken our moon as well to reach that flashing peak. It rode on toward them in its golden majesty, higher than all the flames, save now and then when some wild gas seemed to flee from the dread earthquakes of the Sun, and was overtaken in the height by fire, even above that mountain. As that mass of gold that was higher than all the world drew near to Rodriguez and Morano they felt its unearthly menace; and though it could not overcome their spirits they knew there was a hideous terror about it. It was in its awful scale that its terror lurked for any creature of our planet. Though they could not quake or tremble they felt that terror. The mountain dwarfed Earth. Man knows his littleness, his own mountains remind him; many countries are small, and some nations: but the dreams of Man make up for our faults and failings, for the brevity of our lives, for the narrowness of our scope; they leap over boundaries and are away and away. But this great mountain belittled the world and all: who gazed on it knew all his dreams to be puny. Before this mountain Man seemed a trivial thing, and Earth, and all the dreams Man had of himself and his home. The golden mass drew opposite those two watchers and seemed to challenge with its towering head the pettiness of the tiny world they knew. And then the whole gleaming mountain gave one shudder and fell into the awful plains of the Sun. Straight down before Rodriguez and Morano it slipped roaring, till the golden peak was gone, and the molten plain closed over it; and only ripples remained, the size of Europe, as when a tumbling river strikes the rocks of its bed and on its surface heaving circles widen and disappear. And then, as though this horror left nothing more to be shown, they felt the Professor beckon to them from Earth. Over the plains of the Sun a storm was sweeping in gusts of howling flame as they felt the Professor's spell drawing them home. For the magnitude of that storm there are no words in use among us; its velocity, if expressed in figures, would have no meaning; its heat was immeasurable. Suffice it to say that if such a tempest could have swept over Earth for a second, both the poles would have boiled. The travellers left it galloping over that plain, rippled from underneath by the restless earthquake and whipped into flaming foam by the force of the storm. The Sun already was receding from them, already growing smaller. Soon the storm seemed but a cloud of light sweeping over the empty plain, like a murderous mourner rushing swiftly away from the grave of that mighty mountain. And now the Professor's spell gripped them in earnest: rapidly the Sun grew smaller. As swiftly as he had sent them upon that journey he was now drawing them home. They overtook thunders that they had heard already, and passed them, and came again to the silent spaces which the thunders of the Sun are unable to cross, so that even Mercury is undisturbed by them. I have said that spirits neither fade nor weary. But a great sadness was on them; they felt as men feel who come whole away from periods of peril. They had seen cataclysms too vast for our imagination, and a mournfulness and a satiety were upon them. They could have gazed at one flower for days and needed no other experience, as a wounded man may be happy staring at the flame of a candle. Crossing the paths of Mercury and Venus, they saw that these planets had not appreciably moved, and Rodriguez, who knew that planets wander in the night, guessed thereby that they had not been absent from Earth for many hours. They rejoiced to see the Sun diminishing steadily. Only for a moment as they started their journey had they seen that solar storm rushing over the plains of the Sun; but now it appeared to hang halted in its mid anger, as though blasting one region eternally. Moving on with the pace of light, they saw Earth, soon after crossing the path of Venus, beginning to grow larger than a star. Never had home appeared more welcome to wanderers, who see their house far off, returning home. And as Earth grew larger, and they began to see forms that seemed like seas and mountains, they looked for their own country, but could not find it: for, travelling straight from the Sun, they approached that part of the world that was then turned towards it, and were heading straight for China, while Spain lay still in darkness. But when they came near Earth and its mountains were clear, then the Professor drew them across the world, into the darkness and over Spain; so that those two spirits ended their marvellous journey much as the snipe ends his, a drop out of heaven and a swoop low over marshes. So they came home, while Earth seemed calling to them with all her voices; with memories, sights and scents, and little sounds; calling anxiously, as though they had been too long away and must be home soon. They heard a cock crow on the edge of the night; they heard more little sounds than words can say; only the organ can hint at them. It was Earth calling. For, talk as we may of our dreams that transcend this sphere, or our hopes that build beyond it, Mother Earth has yet a mighty hold upon us; and her myriad sounds were blending in one cry now, knowing that it was late and that these two children of hers were nearly lost. For our spirits that sometimes cross the path of the angels, and on rare evenings hear a word of their talk, and have brief equality with the Powers of Light, have the duty also of moving fingers and toes, which freeze if our proud spirits forget their task for too long. And just as Earth was despairing they reached the Professor's mountain and entered the room in which their bodies were. Blue and cold and ugly looked the body of Morano, but for all its pallor there was beauty in the young face of Rodriguez. The Professor stood before them as he had stood when their spirits left, with the table between him and the bodies, and the bowl on the table which held the green flame, now low and flickering desperately, which the Professor watched as it leaped and failed, with an air of anxiety that seemed to pinch his thin features. With an impatience strange to him he waved a swift hand towards each of the two bodies where they sat stiff, illumined by the last of the green light; and at those rapid gestures the travellers returned to their habitations. They seemed to be just awakening out of deep sleep. Again they saw the Professor standing before them. But they saw him only with blinking eyes, they saw him only as eyes can see, guessing at his mind from the lines of his face, at his thoughts from the movements of his hands, guessing as men guess, blindly: only a moment before they had known him utterly. Now they were dazed and forgetting: slow blood began to creep again to their toes and to come again to its place under fingernails: it came with intense pain: they forgot their spirits. Then all the woes of Earth crowded their minds at once, so that they wished to weep, as infants weep. The Professor gave this mood time to change, as change it presently did. For the warm blood came back and lit their cheeks, and a tingling succeeded the pain in their fingers and toes, and a mild warmth succeeded the tingling: their thoughts came back to the things of every day, to mundane things and the affairs of the body. Therein they rejoiced, and Morano no less than Rodriguez; though it was a coarse and common body that Morano's spirit inhabited. And when the Professor saw that the first sorrow of Earth, which all spirits feel when they land here, had passed away, and that they were feeling again the joy of mundane things, only then did he speak. "Señor," he said, "beyond the path of Mars run many worlds that I would have you know. The greatest of these is Jupiter, towards whom all that follow my most sacred art show reverent affection. The smallest are those that sometimes strike our world, flaming all green upon November nights, and are even as small as apples." He spoke of our world with a certain air and a pride, as though, through virtue of his transcendent art, the world were only his. "The world that we name Argola," he said, "is far smaller than Spain and, being invisible from Earth, is only known to the few who have spoken to spirits whose wanderings have surpassed the path of Mars. Nearly half of Argola you shall find covered with forests, which though very dense are no deeper than moss, and the elephants in them are not larger than beetles. You shall see many wonders of smallness in this world of Argola, which I desire in especial to show you, since it is the orb with which we who study the Art are most familiar, of all the worlds that the vulgar have not known. It is indeed the prize of our traffic in those things that far transcend the laws that have forbidden them." And as he said this the green flame in the bowl before him died, and he moved towards his cupboard of wonder. Rodriguez hastily thanked the Professor for his great courtesy in laying bare before him secrets that the centuries hid, and then he referred to his own great unworthiness, to the lateness of the hour, to the fatigue of the Professor, and to the importance to Learning of adequate rest to refresh his illustrious mind. And all that he said the Professor parried with bows, and drew enchantments from his cupboard of wonder to replenish the bowl on the table. And Rodriguez saw that he was in the clutch of a collector, one who having devoted all his days to a hobby will exhibit his treasures to the uttermost, and that the stars that magic knows were no less to the Professor than all the whatnots that a man collects and insists on showing to whomsoever enters his house. He feared some terrible journey, perhaps some bare escape; for though no material thing can quite encompass a spirit, he knew not what wanderers he might not meet in lonely spaces beyond the path of Mars. So when his last polite remonstrance failed, being turned aside with a pleasant phrase and a smile from the grim lips, and looking at Morano he saw that he shared his fears, then he determined to show whatever resistance were needed to keep himself and Morano in this old world that we know, or that youth at least believes that it knows. He watched the Professor return with his packets of wonder; dust from a fallen star, phials of tears of lost lovers, poison and gold out of elf-land, and all manner of things. But the moment that he put them into the bowl Rodriguez' hand flew to his sword-hilt. He heaved up his elbow, but no sword came forth, for it lay magnetised to its scabbard by the grip of a current of magic. When Rodriguez saw this he knew not what to do. The Professor went on pouring into the bowl. He added an odour distilled out of dream-roses, three drops from the gall-bladder of a fabulous beast, and a little dust that had been man. More too he added, so that my reader might wonder were I to tell him all; yet it is not so easy to free our spirits from the gross grip of our bodies. Wonder not then, my reader, if the Professor exerted strange powers. And all the while Morano was picking at a nail that fastened on the handle to his frying-pan. And just as the last few mysteries were shaken into the bowl,--and there were two among them of which even Asia is ignorant,--just as the dews were blended with the powers in a grey-green sinister harmony, Morano untwisted his nail and got the handle loose. The Professor kindled the mixture in the bowl; again green flame arose, again that voice of his began to call to their spirits, and its beauty and the power of its spell were as of some fallen angel. The spirit of Rodriguez was nearly passing helplessly forth again on some frightful journey, when Morano losed his scabbard and sword from its girdle and tied the handle of his frying-pan across it a little below the hilt with a piece of string. Across the table the Professor intoned his spell, across a narrow table, but it seemed to come from the far side of the twilight, a twilight red and golden in long layers, of an evening wonderfully long ago. It seemed to take its music out of the lights that it flowed through and to call Rodriguez from immediately far away, with a call which it were sacrilege to refuse, and anguish even, and hard toil such as there was no strength to do. And then Morano held up the sword in its scabbard with the handle of the frying-pan tied across. Rodriguez, disturbed by a stammer in the spell, looked up and saw the Professor staring at the sword where Morano held it up before his face in the green light of the flame from the bowl. He did not seem like a fallen angel now. His spell had stopped. He seemed like a professor who had forgotten the theme of his lecture, while the class waits. For Morano was holding up the sign of the cross. "You have betrayed me!" shouted the Slave of Orion: the green flame died, and he strode out of the room, his purple cloak floating behind him. "Master," Morano said, "it was always good against magic." The sword was loose in the scabbard as Rodriguez took it back; there was no longer a current of magic gripping the steel. A little uneasily Rodriguez thanked Morano: he was not sure if Morano had behaved as a guest's servant should. But when he thought of the Professor's terrible spells, which had driven them to the awful crags of the sun, and might send them who knows where to hob-nob with who knows what, his second thoughts perceived that Morano was right to cut short those arts that the Slave of Orion loved, even by so extreme a step: and he praised Morano as his ready shrewdness deserved. "We were very nearly too late back from that outing, master," remarked Morano. "How know you that?" said Rodriguez. "This old body knew," said Morano. "Those heart-thumpings, this warmness, and all the things that make a fat body comfortable, they were stopping, master, they were spoiling, they were getting cold and strange: I go no more errands for that señor." A certain diffidence about criticising his host even now; and a very practical vein that ran through his nature, now showing itself in anxiety for a bed at so late an hour, led Rodriguez to change the subject. He wanted that aged butler, yet dare not ring the bell; for he feared lest with all the bells there might be in use that frightful practice that he had met by the outer door, a chain connected with some hideous hook that gave anguish to something in the basement whenever one touched the handle, so that the menials of that grim Professor were shrilly summoned by screams. And therefore Rodriguez sought counsel of Morano, who straightway volunteered to find the butler's quarters, by a certain sense that he had of the fitness of things: and forth he went, but would not leave the room without the scabbard and the handle of the frying-pan lashed to it, which he bore high before him in both his hands as though he were leading some austere procession. And even so he returned with that aged man the butler, who led them down dim corridors of stone; but, though he showed the way, Morano would go in front, still holding up that scabbard and handle before him, while Rodriguez held the bare sword. And so they came to a room lit by the flare of one candle, which their guide told them the Professor had prepared for his guest. In the vastness of it was a great bed. Shadows and a whir as of wings passed out of the door as they entered. "Bats," said the ancient guide. But Morano believed he had routed powers of evil with the handle of his frying-pan and his master's scabbard. Who could say what they were in such a house, where bats and evil spirits sheltered perennially from the brooms of the just? Then that ancient man with the lips of some woodland thing departed, and Rodriguez went to the great bed. On a pile of straw that had been cast into the room Morano lay down across the door, setting the scabbard upright in a rat-hole near his head, while Rodriguez lay down with the bare sword in his hand. There was only one door in the room, and this Morano guarded. Windows there were, but they were shuttered with raw oak of enormous thickness. He had already enquired with his sword behind the velvet curtains. He felt secure in the bulk of Morano across the only door, at least from creatures of this world: and Morano feared no longer either spirit or spell, believing that he had vanquished the Professor with his symbol, and all such allies as he may have had here or elsewhere. But not thus easily do we overcome the powers of evil. A step was heard such as man walks with at the close of his later years, coming along the corridor of stone; and they knew it for the Professor's butler returning. The latch of the door trembled and lifted, and the great oak door bumped slowly against Morano, who arose grumbling, and the old man appeared. "The Professor," he said, while Morano watched him grudgingly, "returns with all his household to Saragossa at once, to resume those studies for which his name resounds, a certain conjunction of the stars having come favourably." Even Morano doubted that so suddenly the courses of the stars, which he deemed to be gradual, should have altered from antagonism towards the Professor's art into a favourable aspect. Rodriguez sleepily acknowledged the news and settled himself to sleep, still sword in hand, when the servitor repeated with as much emphasis as his aged voice could utter, "With all his household, señor." "Yes," muttered Rodriguez. "Farewell." And repeating again, "He takes his household with him," the old man shuffled back from the room and hesitatingly closed the door. Before the sound of his slow footsteps had failed to reach the room Morano was asleep under his cross. Rodriguez still watched for a while the shadows leaping and shuddering away from the candle, riding over the ceiling, striding hugely along the walls, towards him and from him, as draughts swayed the ruddy flame; then, gripping his sword still firmer in his hand, as though that could avail against magic, he fell into the sleep of tired men. No sound disturbed Rodriguez or Morano till both awoke in late morning upon the rocks of the mountain. The sun had climbed over the crags and now shone on their faces. Rodriguez was still lying with his sword gripped in his hand, but the cross had fallen by Morano and now lay on the rocks beside him with the handle of the frying-pan still tied in its place by string. A young, wild, woodland squirrel gambolled near, though there were no woods for it anywhere within sight: it leaped and played as though rejoicing in youth, with such merriment as though youth had but come to it newly or been lost and restored again. All over the mountain they looked but there was no house, nor any sign of dwelling of man or spirit. THE FIFTH CHRONICLE HOW HE RODE IN THE TWILIGHT AND SAW SERAFINA Rodriguez, who loved philosophy, turned his mind at once to the journey that lay before him, deciding which was the north; for he knew that it was by the north that he must leave Spain, which he still desired to leave since there were no wars in that country. Morano knew not clearly what philosophy was, yet he wasted no thoughts upon the night that was gone; and, fitting up his frying-pan immediately, he brought out what was left of his bacon and began to look for material to make a fire. The bacon lay waiting in the frying-pan for some while before this material was gathered, for nothing grew on the mountain but a heath; and of that there were few bushes, scattered here and there. Rodriguez, far from ruminating upon the events of the previous night, realised as he watched these preparations that he was enormously hungry. And when Morano had kindled a fire and the smell of cooking arose, he who had held the chair of magic at Saragossa was banished from both their minds, although upon this very spot they had spent so strange a night; but where bacon is, and there be hungry men, the things of yesterday are often forgotten. "Morano," said Rodriguez, "we must walk far to-day." "Indeed, master," said Morano, "we must push on to these wars; for you have no castle, master, no lands, no fortune ..." "Come," said Rodriguez. Morano slung his frying-pan behind him: they had eaten up the last of his bacon: he stood up, and they were ready for the journey. The smoke from their meagre fire went thinly into the air, the small grey clouds of it went slowly up: nothing beside remained to bid them farewell, or for them to thank for their strange night's hospitality. They climbed till they reached the rugged crest of the mountain; thence they saw a wide plain and the morning: the day was waiting for them. The northern slope of the mountain was wholly different from that black congregation of angry rocks through which they had climbed by night to the House of Wonder. The slope that now lay before them was smooth and grassy, flowing before them far, a gentle slope that was soon to lend speed to Rodriguez' feet, adding nimbleness even to youth. Soon, too, it was to lift onward the dull weight of Morano as he followed his master towards unknown wars, youth going before him like a spirit and the good slope helping behind. But before they gave themselves to that waiting journey they stood a moment and looked at the shining plain that lay before them like an open page, on which was the whole chronicle of that day's wayfaring. There was the road they should travel by, there were the streams it crossed and narrow woods they might rest in, and dim on the farthest edge was the place they must spend that night. It was all, as it were written, upon the plain they watched, but in a writing not intended for them, and, clear although it be, never to be interpreted by one of our race. Thus they saw clear, from a height, the road they would go by, but not one of all the events to which it would lead them. "Master," said Morano, "shall we have more adventures to-day?" "I trust so," said Rodriguez. "We have far to go, and it will be dull journeying without them." Morano turned his eyes from his master's face and looked back to the plain. "There, master," he said, "where our road runs through a wood, will our adventure be there, think you? Or there, perhaps," and he waved his hand widely farther. "No," said Rodriguez, "we pass that in bright daylight." "Is that not good for adventure?" said Morano. "The romances teach," said Rodriguez, "that twilight or night are better. The shade of deep woods is favourable, but there are no such woods on this plain. When we come to evening we shall doubtless meet some adventure, far over there." And he pointed to the grey rim of the plain where it started climbing towards hills. "These are good days," said Morano. He forgot how short a time ago he had said regretfully that these days were not as the old days. But our race, speaking generally, is rarely satisfied with the present, and Morano's cheerfulness had not come from his having risen suddenly superior to this everyday trouble of ours; it came from his having shifted his gaze to the future. Two things are highly tolerable to us, and even alluring, the past and the future. It was only with the present that Morano was ever dissatisfied. When Morano said that the days were good Rodriguez set out to find them, or at least that one that for some while now lay waiting for them on the plain. He strode down the slope at once and, endowing nature with his own impatience, he felt that he heard the morning call to him wistfully. Morano followed. For an hour these refugees escaping from peace went down the slope; and in that hour they did five swift miles, miles that seemed to run by them as they walked, and so they came lightly to the level plain. And in the next hour they did four miles more. Words were few, either because Morano brooded mainly upon one thought, the theme of which was his lack of bacon, or because he kept his breath to follow his master who, with youth and the morning, was coming out of the hills at a pace not tuned to Morano's forty years or so. And at the end of these nine miles Morano perceived a house, a little way from the road, on the left, upon rising ground. A mile or so ahead they saw the narrow wood that they had viewed in the morning from the mountain running across the plain. They saw now by the lie of the ground that it probably followed a stream, a pleasant place in which to take the rest demanded by Spain at noon. It was just an hour to noon; so Rodriguez, keeping the road, told Morano to join him where it entered the wood when he had acquired his bacon. And then as they parted a thought occurred to Rodriguez, which was that bacon cost money. It was purely an afterthought, an accidental fancy, such as inspirations are, for he had never had to buy bacon. So he gave Morano a fifth part of his money, a large gold coin the size of one of our five-shilling pieces, engraved of course upon one side with the glories and honours of that golden period of Spain, and upon the other with the head of the lord the King. It was only by chance he had brought any at all; he was not what our newspapers will call, if they ever care to notice him, a level-headed business man. At the sight of the gold piece Morano bowed, for he felt this gift of gold to be an occasion; but he trusted more for the purchase of the bacon to some few small silver coins of his own that he kept among lumps of lard and pieces of string. And so they parted for a while, Rodriguez looking for some great shadowy oak with moss under it near a stream, Morano in quest of bacon. When Rodriguez entered the wood he found his oak, but it was not such an oak as he cared to rest beneath during the heat of the day, nor would you have done so, my reader, even though you have been to the wars and seen many a pretty mess; for four of la Garda were by it and were arranging to hang a man from the best of the branches. "La Garda again," said Rodriguez nearly aloud. His eye drooped, his look was listless, he gazed at other things; while a glance that you had not noticed, flashed slantingly at la Garda, satisfied Rodriguez that all four were strangers: then he walked straight towards them merrily. The man they proposed to hang was a stranger too. He appeared at first to be as stout as Morano, and he was nearly half a foot taller, but his stoutness turned out to be sheer muscle. The broad man was clothed in old brown leather and had blue eyes. Now there was something about the poise of Rodriguez' young head which gave him an air not unlike that which the King himself sometimes wore when he went courting. It suited his noble sword and his merry plume. When la Garda saw him they were all politeness at once, and invited him to see the hanging, for which Rodriguez thanked them with amplest courtesy. "It is not a bull-fight," said the chief of la Garda almost apologetically. But Rodriguez waved aside his deprecations and declared himself charmed at the prospect of a hanging. Bear with me, reader, while I champion a bad cause and seek to palliate what is inexcusable. As we travel about the world on our way through life we meet and pass here and there, in peace or in war, other men, fellow-travellers: and sometimes there is no more than time for a glance, eye to eye. And in that glance you see the sort of man: and chiefly there are two sorts. The one sort always brooding, always planning; mean, silent men, collecting properties and money; keeping the law on their side, keeping everything on their side; except women and heaven, and the late, leisurely judgment of simple people: and the others merry folk, whose eyes twinkle, whose money flies, who will sooner laugh than plan, who seem to inherit rightfully the happiness that the others plot for, and fail to come by with all their schemes. In the man who was to provide the entertainment Rodriguez recognised the second kind. Now even though the law had caught a saint that had strayed too far outside the boundary of Heaven, and desired to hang him, Rodriguez knew that it was his duty to help the law while help was needed, and to applaud after the thing was done. The law to Rodriguez was the most sacred thing man had made, if indeed it were not divine; but since the privilege that two days ago had afforded him of studying it more closely, it appeared to him the blindest, silliest thing with which he had had to do since the kittens were drowned that his cat Tabitharina had had at Arguento Harez. It was in this deplorable state of mind that Rodriguez' glance fell on the merry eyes and the solemn predicament of the man in the leather coat, standing pinioned under a long branch of the oak-tree: and he determined from that moment to disappoint la Garda and, I fear also, my reader, perhaps to disappoint you, of the hanging that they at least had promised themselves. "Think you," said Rodriguez, "that for so stout a knave this branch of yours suffices?" Now it was an excellent branch. But it was not so much Rodriguez' words as the anxious way in which he looked at the branch that aroused the anxieties of la Garda: and soon they were looking about to find a better tree; and when four men start doing this in a wood time quickly passes. Meanwhile Morano drew near, and Rodriguez went to meet him. "Master," said Morano, all out of breath, "they had no bacon. But I got these two bottles of wine. It is strong wine, which is a rare deluder of the senses, which will need to be deluded if we are to go hungry." Rodriguez was about to cut short Morano's chatter when he thought of a use for the wine, and was silent a moment. And as he pondered Morano looked up and saw la Garda and at the same time perceived the situation, for he had as quick an eye for a bad business as any man. "No one with the horses," was his comment; for they were tethered a little apart. But Rodriguez' mind had already explored a surer method than the one that Morano seemed to be contemplating. This method he told Morano. And now, from little tugs that they were giving to the doubled rope that hung over the branch of the oak-tree, it was clear enough that the men of the law were returning to their confidence in that very sufficient branch. They looked up with questions ripe to drop from their lips when they saw Rodriguez returning with Morano. But before one of them spoke Morano flung to them from far off a little piece of his wisdom: for cast a truth into an occasion and it will always trouble the waters, usually stirring up contradiction, but always bringing something to the surface. "Señores," he said, "no man can enjoy a hanging with a dry throat." Thus he turned their attention a while from the business in hand, changing their thoughts from the stout neck of the prisoner to their own throats, wondering were they dry; and you do not wonder long about this in the south without finding that what you feared is true. And then he let them see the two great bottles, all full of wine, for the invention of the false bottom that gives to our champagne-bottles the place they rightly hold among famous deceptions had not as yet been discovered. "It is true," said la Garda. And Rodriguez made Morano put one of the bottles away in a piece of a sack that he carried: and when la Garda saw one of the two bottles disappear it somehow decided them to have the other, though how this came to be so there is no saying; and thus the hanging was postponed again. Now the drink was a yellow wine, sweet and heavy and stronger than our port; only our whisky could out-triumph it, but there in the warm south it answered its purpose. Rodriguez beckoned Morano up and offered the bottle to one of la Garda; but scarcely had he put it to his lips when Rodriguez bade him stop, saying that he had had his share. And he did the same with the next man. Now there be few things indeed which la Garda resent more than meagre hospitality in the matter of drink, and with all their wits striving to cope with this vicious defect in Rodriguez, as they rightly or wrongly regarded it, how should they have any to spare for obvious precautions? As the third man drank, Rodriguez turned to speak to Morano; and the representative of the law took such advantage of an opportunity that he feared to be fleeting, that when Rodriguez turned round again the bottle was just half empty. Rodriguez had timed it very nicely. Next Rodriguez put the bottle to his lips and held it there a little time, while the fourth man of the law, who was guarding the prisoner, watched Rodriguez wistfully, and afterwards Morano, who took the bottle next. Yet neither Rodriguez nor Morano drank. "You can finish the bottle," said Rodriguez to this anxious watcher, who came forward eagerly though full of doubts, which changed to warm feelings of exuberant gratitude when he found how much remained. Thus he obtained not much less than two tumblerfuls of wine that, as I have said, was stronger than port; and noon was nearing and it was spring in Spain. And then he returned to guard his prisoner under the oak-tree and lay down there on the moss, remembering that it was his duty to keep awake. And afterwards with one hand he took hold of a rope that bound the prisoner's ankles, so that he might still guard his prisoner even though he should fall asleep. Now two of the men had had little more than the full of a sherry glass each. To these Morano made signs that there was another bottle, and, coming round behind his master, he covertly uncorked it and gave them their heart's desire; and a little was left over for the man who drank third on the first occasion. And presently the spirits of all four of la Garda grew haughty and forgot their humble bodies, and would fain have gone forth to dwell with the sons of light, while their bodies lay on the moss and the sun grew warmer and warmer, shining dappled in amongst the small green leaves. All seemed still but for the winged insects flashing through shafts of the sunlight out of the gloom of the trees and disappearing again like infinitesimal meteors. But our concern is with the thoughts of man, of which deeds are but the shadows: wherever these are active it is wrong to say all is still; for whether they cast their shadows, which are actions, or whether they remain a force not visibly stirring matter, they are the source of the tales we write and the lives we lead; it is they that gave History her material and they that bade her work it up into books. And thoughts were very active about that oak-tree. For while the thoughts of la Garda arose like dawn, and disappeared into mists, their prisoner was silently living through the sunny days of his life, which are at no time quite lost to us, and which flash vivid and bright and near when memory touches them, herself awakened by the nearness of death. He lived again days far from the day that had brought him where he stood. He drew from those days (that is to say) that delight, that essence of hours, that something which we call life. The sun, the wind, the rough sand, the splash of the sea, on the star-fish, and all the things that it feels during its span, are stored in something like its memory, and are what we call its life: it is the same with all of us. Life is feeling. The prisoner from the store of his memory was taking all he had. His head was lifted, he was gazing northwards, far further than his eyes could see, to shining spaces in great woods; and there his threatened being walked in youth, with steps such as spirits take, over immortal flowers, which were dim and faint but unfading because they lived on in memory. In memory he walked with some who were now far from his footsteps. And, seen through the gloaming of that perilous day, how bright did those far days appear! Did they not seem sunnier than they really were? No, reader; for all the radiance that glittered so late in his mind was drawn from those very days; it was their own brightness that was shining now: we are not done with the days that were as soon as their sunsets have faded, but a light remains from them and grows fairer and fairer, like an afterglow lingering among tremendous peaks above immeasurable slopes of snow. The prisoner had scarcely noticed Rodriguez or his servant, any more than he noticed his captors; for there come an intensity to those who walk near death that makes them a little alien from other men, life flaring up in them at the last into so grand a flame that the lives of the others seem a little cold and dim where they dwell remote from that sunset that we call mortality. So he looked silently at the days that were as they came dancing back again to him from where they had long lain lost in chasms of time, to which they had slipped over dark edges of years. Smiling they came, but all wistfully anxious, as though their errand were paramount and their span short: he saw them cluster about him, running now, bringing their tiny gifts, and scarcely heard the heavy sigh of his guard as Rodriguez gagged him and Morano tied him up. Had Rodriguez now released the prisoner they could have been three to three, in the event of things going wrong with the sleep of la Garda; but, since in the same time they could gag and bind another, the odds would be the same at two to two, and Rodriguez preferred this to the slight uncertainties that would be connected with the entry of another partner. They accordingly gagged the next man and bound his wrists and ankles. And that Spanish wine held good with the other two and bound them far down among the deeps of dreams: and so it should, for it was of a vine that grew in the vales of Spain and had ripened in one of the years of the golden age. They bound one as easily as they had bound the other two; and the last Rodriguez watched while Morano cut the ropes off the prisoner, for he had run out of bits of twine and all other improvisations. With these ropes he ran back to his master, and they tied up the last prisoner but did not gag him. "Shall we gag him, master, like the rest?" said Morano. "No," said Rodriguez. "He has nothing to say." And though this remark turned out to be strictly untrue, it well enough answered its purpose. And then they saw standing before them the man they had freed. And he bowed to Rodriguez like one that had never bowed before. I do not mean that he bowed with awkwardness, like imitative men unused to politeness, but he bowed as the oak bows to the woodman; he stood straight, looking Rodriguez in the eyes, then he bowed as though he had let his spirit break, which allowed him to bow to never a man before. Thus, if my pen has been able dimly to tell of it, thus bowed the man in the old leathern jacket. And Rodriguez bowed to him in answer with the elegance that they that had dwelt at Arguento Harez had slowly drawn from the ages. "Señor, your name," said the stranger. "Lord of Arguento Harez," said Rodriguez. "Señor," he said, "being a busy man, I have seldom time to pray. And the blessed Saints, being more busy than I, I think seldom hear my prayers: yet your name shall go up to them. I will often tell it them quietly in the forest, and not on their holy days when bells are ringing and loud prayers fill Heaven. It may be ..." "Señor," Rodriguez said, "I profoundly thank you." Even in these days, when bullets are often thicker than prayers, we are not quite thankless for the prayers of others: in those days they were what "closing quotations" are on the Stock Exchange, ink in Fleet Street, machinery in the Midlands; common but valued; and Rodriguez' thanks were sincere. And now that the curses of the ungagged one of la Garda were growing monotonous, Rodriguez turned to Morano. "Ungag the rest," he said, "and let them talk to each other." "Master," Morano muttered, feeling that there was enough noise already for a small wood, but he went and did as he was ordered. And Rodriguez was justified of his humane decision, for the pent thoughts of all three found expression together and, all four now talking at once, mitigated any bitterness there may have been in those solitary curses. And now Rodriguez could talk undisturbed. "Whither?" said the stranger. "To the wars," said Rodriguez, "if wars there be." "Aye," said the stranger, "there be always wars somewhere. By which road go you?" "North," said Rodriguez, and he pointed. The stranger turned his eyes to the way Rodriguez pointed. "That brings you to the forest," he said, "unless you go far around, as many do." "What forest?" said Rodriguez. "The great forest named Shadow Valley," said the stranger. "How far?" said Rodriguez. "Forty miles," said the stranger. Rodriguez looked at la Garda and then at their horses, and thought. He must be far from la Garda by nightfall. "It is not easy to pass through Shadow Valley," said the stranger. "Is it not?" said Rodriguez. "Have you a gold great piece?" the stranger said. Rodriguez held out one of his remaining four: the stranger took it. And then he began to rub it on a stone, and continued to rub while Rodriguez watched in silence, until the image of the lord the King was gone and the face of the coin was scratchy and shiny and flat. And then he produced from a pocket or pouch in his jacket a graving tool with a round wooden handle, which he took in the palm of his hand, and the edge of the steel came out between his forefinger and thumb: and with this he cut at the coin. And Morano rejoined them from his merciful mission and stood and wondered at the cutting. And while he cut they talked. They did not ask him how he came to be chosen for hanging, because in every country there are about a hundred individualists, varying to perhaps half a hundred in poor ages. They go their hundred ways, or their half-dozen ways; and there is a hundred and first way, or a seventh way, which is the way that is cut for the rest: and if some of the rest catch one of the hundred, or one of the six, they naturally hang him, if they have a rope, and if hanging is the custom of the country, for different countries use different methods. And you saw by this man's eyes that he was one of the hundred. Rodriguez therefore only sought to know how he came to be caught. "La Garda found you, señor?" he said. "As you see," said the stranger. "I came too far from my home." "You were travelling?" said Rodriguez. "Shopping," he said. At this word Morano's interest awakened wide. "Señor," he said, "what is the right price for a bottle of this wine that la Garda drink?" "I know not," said the man in the brown jacket; "they give me these things." "Where is your home, señor?" Rodriguez asked. "It is Shadow Valley," he said. One never saw Rodriguez fail to understand anything: if he could not clear a situation up he did not struggle with it. Morano rubbed his chin: he had heard of Shadow Valley only dimly, for all the travellers he had known out of the north had gone round it. Rodriguez and Morano bent their heads and watched a design that was growing out of the gold. And as the design grew under the hand of the strange worker he began to talk of the horses. He spoke as though his plans had been clearly established by edict, and as though no others could be. "When I have gone with two horses," he said, "ride hard with the other two till you reach the village named Lowlight, and take them to the forge of Fernandez the smith, where one will shoe them who is not Fernandez." And he waved his hand northwards. There was only one road. Then all his attention fell back again to his work on the gold coin; and when those blue eyes were turned away there seemed nothing left to question. And now Rodriguez saw the design was a crown, a plain gold circlet with oak leaves rising up from it. And this woodland emblem stood up out of the gold, for the worker had hollowed the coin away all around it, and was sloping it up to the edge. Little was said by the watchers in the wonder of seeing the work, for no craft is very far from the line beyond which is magic, and the man in the leather coat was clearly a craftsman: and he said nothing for he worked at a craft. And when the arboreal crown was finished, and its edges were straight and sharp, an hour had passed since he began near noon. Then he drilled a hole near the rim and, drawing a thin green ribbon from his pocket, he passed it through the hole and, rising, he suddenly hung it round Rodriguez' neck. "Wear it thus," he said, "while you go through Shadow Valley." As he said this he stepped back among the trees, and Rodriguez followed to thank him. Not finding him behind the tree where he thought to find him, he walked round several others, and Morano joined his search; but the stranger had vanished. When they returned again to the little clearing they heard sounds of movement in the wood, and a little way off where the four horses had grazed there were now only two, which were standing there with their heads up. "We must ride, Morano," said Rodriguez. "Ride, master?" said Morano dolefully. "If we walk away," said Rodriguez, "they will walk after us." "They" meant la Garda. It was unnecessary for him to tell Morano what I thus tell the reader, for in the wood it was hard to hear anyone else, while to think of anyone else was out of the question. "What shall I do to them, master?" said Morano. They were now standing close to their captives and this simple question calmed the four men's curses, all of a sudden, like shutting the door on a storm. "Leave them," Rodriguez said. And la Garda's spirits rose and they cursed again. "Ah. To die in the wood," said Morano. "No," said Rodriguez; and he walked towards the horses. And something in that "No" sounding almost contemptuous, Morano's feelings were hurt, and he blurted out to his master "But how can they get away to get their food? It is good knots that I tie, master." "Morano," Rodriguez said, "I remember ten ways in the books of romance whereby bound men untie themselves; and doubtless one or two more I have read and forgot; and there may be other ways in the books that I have not read, besides any way that there be of which no books tell. And in addition to these ways, one of them may draw a comrade's sword with his teeth and thus ..." "Shall I pull out their teeth?" said Morano. "Ride," said Rodriguez, for they were now come to the horses. And sorrowfully Morano looked at the horse that was to be his, as a man might look at a small, uncomfortable boat that is to carry him far upon a stormy day. And then Rodriguez helped him into the saddle. "Can you stay there?" Rodriguez said. "We have far to go." "Master," Morano answered, "these hands can hold till evening." And then Rodriguez mounted, leaving Morano gripping the high front of the saddle with his large brown hands. But as soon as the horses started he got a grip with his heels as well, and later on with his knees. Rodriguez led the way on to the straggling road and was soon galloping northwards, while Morano's heels kept his horse up close to his master's. Morano rode as though trained in the same school that some while later taught Macaulay's equestrian, who rode with "loose rein and bloody spur." Yet the miles went swiftly by as they galloped on soft white dust, which lifted and settled, some of it, back on the lazy road, while some of it was breathed by Morano. The gold coin on the green silk ribbon flapped up and down as Rodriguez rode, till he stuffed it inside his clothing and remembered no more about it. Once they saw before them the man they had snatched from the noose: he was going hard and leading a loose horse. And then where the road bent round a low hill he galloped out of sight and they saw him no more. He had the loose horse to change on to as soon as the other was tired: they had no prospect of overtaking him. And so he passed out of their minds as their host had done who went away with his household to Saragossa. At first Rodriguez' mandolin, that was always slung on his back, bumped up and down uncomfortably; but he eased it by altering the strap: small things like this bring contentment. And then he settled down to ride. But no contentment came near Morano nor did he look for it. On the first day of his wanderings he had worn his master's clothes, which has been an experience standing somewhat where toothache does, which is somewhere about half-way between discomfort and agony. On the second day he had climbed at the end of a weary journey over those sharp rocks whose shape was adapted so ill to his body. On the third day he was riding. He did not look for comfort. But he met discomfort with an easy resignation that almost defeated the intention of Satan who sends it, unless--as is very likely--it be from Heaven. And in spite of all discomforts he gaily followed Rodriguez. In a thousand days at the Inn of the Dragon and Knight no two were so different to Morano that one stood out from the other, or any from the rest. It was all as though one day were repeated again and again; and at some point in this monotonous repetition, like a milestone shaped as the rest on a perfectly featureless road, life would end and the meaningless repetition stop: and looking back on it there would only be one day to see, or, if he could not look back, it would be all gone for nothing. And then, into that one day that he was living on in the gloaming of that grim inn, Rodriguez had appeared, and Morano had known him for one of those wandering lights that sometimes make sudden day among the stars. He knew--no, he felt--that by following him, yesterday today and tomorrow would be three separate possessions in memory. Morano gladly gave up that one dull day he was living for the new strange days through which Rodriguez was sure to lead him. Gladly he left it: if this be not true how then has a man with a dream led thousands to follow his fancy, from the Crusades to whatever gay madness be the fashion when this is read? As they galloped the scent of the flowers rushed into Rodriguez' nostrils, while Morano mainly breathed the dust from the hooves of his master's horse. But the quest was favoured the more by the scent of the flowers inspiring its leader's fancies. So Morano gained even from this. In the first hour they shortened by fifteen miles the length of their rambling quest. In the next hour they did five miles; and in the third hour ten. After this they rode slowly. The sun was setting. Morano regarded the sunset with delight, for it seemed to promise jovially the end of his sufferings, which except for brief periods when they went on foot, to rest--as Rodriguez said--the horses, had been continuous and even increasing since they started. Rodriguez, perhaps a little weary too, drew from the sunset a more sombre feeling, as sensitive minds do: he responded to its farewell, he felt its beauty, and as little winds turned cool and the shine of blades of grass faded, making all the plain dimmer, he heard, or believed he heard, further off than he could see, sounds on the plain beyond ridges, in hollows, behind clumps of bushes; as though small creatures all unknown to his learning played instruments cut from reeds upon unmapped streams. In this hour, among these fancies, Rodriguez saw clear on a hill the white walls of the village of Lowlight. And now they began to notice that a great round moon was shining. The sunset grew dimmer and the moonlight stole in softly, as a cat might walk through great doors on her silent feet into a throne-room just as the king had gone: and they entered the village slowly in the perfect moment of twilight. The round horizon was brimming with a pale but magical colour, welling up to the tips of trees and the battlements of white towers. Earth seemed a mysterious cup overfull of this pigment of wonder. Clouds wandering low, straying far from their azure fields, were dipped in it. The towers of Lowlight turned slowly rose in that light, and glowed together with the infinite gloaming, so that for this brief hour the things of man were wed with the things of eternity. It was into this wide, pale flame of aetherial rose that the moon came stealing like a magician on tip-toe, to enchant the tips of the trees, low clouds and the towers of Lowlight. A blue light from beyond our world touched the pink that is Earth's at evening: and what was strange and a matter for hushed voices, marvellous but yet of our earth, became at that touch unearthly. All in a moment it was, and Rodriguez gasped to see it. Even Morano's eyes grew round with the coming of wonder, or with some dim feeling that an unnoticed moment had made all things strange and new. For some moments the spell of moonlight on sunlight hovered: the air was brimming and quivering with it: magic touched earth. For some moments, some thirty beats of a heron's wing, had the angels sung to men, had their songs gone earthward into that rosy glow, gliding past layers of faintly tinted cloud, like moths at dusk towards a briar-rose; in those few moments men would have known their language. Rodriguez reined in his horse in the heavy silence and waited. For what he waited he knew not: some unearthly answer perhaps to his questioning thoughts that had wandered far from earth, though no words came to him with which to ask their question and he did not know what question they would ask. He was all vibrating with the human longing: I know not what it is, but perhaps philosophers know. He sat there waiting while a late bird sailed homeward, sat while Morano wondered. And nothing spake from anywhere. And now a dog began to notice the moon: now a child cried suddenly that had been dragged back from the street, where it had wandered at bedtime: an old dog rose from where it had lain in the sun and feebly yet confidently scratched at a door: a cat peered round a corner: a man spoke: Rodriguez knew there would be no answer now. Rodriguez hit his horse, the tired animal went forward, and he and Morano rode slowly up the street. Dona Serafina of the Valley of Dawnlight had left the heat of the room that looked on the fields, and into which the sun had all day been streaming, and had gone at sunset to sit in the balcony that looked along the street. Often she would do this at sunset; but she rather dreamed as she sat there than watched the street, for all that it had to show she knew without glancing. Evening after evening as soon as winter was over the neighbour would come from next door and stretch himself and yawn and sit on a chair by his doorway, and the neighbour from opposite would saunter across the way to him, and they would talk with eagerness of the sale of cattle, and sometimes, but more coldly, of the affairs of kings. She knew, but cared not to know, just when the two old men would begin their talk. She knew who owned every dog that stretched itself in the dust until chilly winds blew in the dusk and they rose up dissatisfied. She knew the affairs of that street like an old, old lesson taught drearily, and her thoughts went far away to vales of an imagination where they met with many another maiden fancy, and they all danced there together through the long twilight in Spring. And then her mother would come and warn her that the evening grew cold, and Serafina would turn from the mystery of evening into the house and the candle-light. This was so evening after evening all through spring and summer for two long years of her youth. And then, this evening, just as the two old neighbours began to discuss whether or not the subjugation of the entire world by Spain would be for its benefit, just as one of the dogs in the road was rising slowly to shake itself, neighbours and dogs all raised their heads to look, and there was Rodriguez riding down the street and Morano coming behind him. When Serafina saw this she brought her eyes back from dreams, for she dreamed not so deeply but that the cloak and plume of Rodriguez found some place upon the boundaries of her day-dream. When she saw the way he sat his horse and how he carried his head she let her eyes flash for a little moment along the street from her balcony. And if some critical reader ask how she did it I answer, "My good sir, I can't tell you, because I don't know," or "My dear lady, what a question to ask!" And where she learned to do it I cannot think, but nothing was easier. And then she smiled to think that she had done the very thing that her mother had warned her there was danger in doing. "Serafina," her mother said in that moment at the large window, "the evening grows cold. It might be dangerous to stay there longer." And Serafina entered the house, as she had done at the coming of dusk on many an evening. Rodriguez missed as much of that flash of her eyes, shot from below the darkness of her hair, as youth in its first glory and freedom misses. For at the point on the road called life at which Rodriguez was then, one is high on a crag above the promontories of watchmen, lower only than the peaks of the prophets, from which to see such things. Yet it did not need youth to notice Serafina. Beggars had blessed her for the poise of her head. She turned that head a little as she went between the windows, till Rodriguez gazing up to her saw the fair shape of her neck: and almost in that moment the last of the daylight died. The windows shut; and Rodriguez rode on with Morano to find the forge that was kept by Fernandez the smith. And presently they came to the village forge, a cottage with huge, high roof whose beams were safe from sparks; and its fire was glowing redly into the moonlight through the wide door made for horses, although there seemed no work to be done, and a man with a swart moustache was piling more logs on. Over the door was burned on oak in ungainly great letters-- "FERNANDEZ" "For whom do you seek, señor?" he said to Rodriguez, who had halted before him with his horse's nose inside the doorway sniffing. "I look," he said, "for him who is not Fernandez." "I am he," said the man by the fire. Rodriguez questioned no further but dismounted, and bade Morano lead the horses in. And then he saw in the dark at the back of the forge the other two horses that he had seen in the wood. And they were shod as he had never seen horses shod before. For the front pair of shoes were joined by a chain riveted stoutly to each, and the hind pair also; and both horses were shod alike. The method was equally new to Morano. And now the man with the swart moustache picked up another bunch of horseshoes hanging in pairs on chains. And Rodriguez was not far out when he guessed that whenever la Garda overtook their horses they would find that Fernandez was far away making holiday, while he who shod them now would be gone upon other business. And all this work seemed to Rodriguez not to be his affair. "Farewell," he said to the smith that was not Fernandez; and with a pat for his horse he left it, having obtained a promise of oats. And so Rodriguez and Morano went on foot again, Morano elated in spite of fatigue and pain, rejoicing to feel the earth once more, flat under the soles of his feet; Rodriguez a little humbled. THE SIXTH CHRONICLE HOW HE SANG TO HIS MANDOLIN AND WHAT CAME OF HIS SINGING They walked back slowly in silence up the street down which they had ridden. Earth darkened, the moon grew brighter: and Rodriguez gazing at the pale golden disk began to wonder who dwelt in the lunar valleys; and what message, if folk were there, they had for our peoples; and in what language such message could ever be, and how it could fare across that limpid remoteness that wafted light on to the coasts of Earth and lapped in silence on the lunar shores. And as he wondered he thought of his mandolin. "Morano," he said, "buy bacon." Morano's eyes brightened: they were forty-five miles from the hills on which he had last tasted bacon. He selected his house with a glance, and then he was gone. And Rodriguez reflected too late that he had forgotten to tell Morano where he should find him, and this with night coming on in a strange village. Scarcely, Rodriguez reflected, he knew where he was going himself. Yet if old tunes lurking in its hollows, echoing though imperceptibly from long-faded evenings, gave the mandolin any knowledge of human affairs that other inanimate things cannot possess, the mandolin knew. Let us in fancy call up the shade of Morano from that far generation. Let us ask him where Rodriguez is going. Those blue eyes, dim with the distance over which our fancy has called them, look in our eyes with wonder. "I do not know," he says, "where Don Rodriguez is going. My master did not tell me." Did he notice nothing as they rode by that balcony? "Nothing," Morano answers, "except my master riding." We may let Morano's shade drift hence again, for we shall discover nothing: nor is this an age to which to call back spirits. Rodriguez strolled slowly on the deep dust of that street as though wondering all the while where he should go; and soon he and his mandolin were below that very balcony whereon he had seen the white neck of Serafina gleam with the last of the daylight. And now the spells of the moon charmed Earth with their full power. The balcony was empty. How should it have been otherwise? And yet Rodriguez grieved. For between the vision that had drawn his footsteps and that bare balcony below shuttered windows was the difference between a haven, sought over leagues of sea, and sheer, uncharted cliff. It brought a wistfulness into the music he played, and a melancholy that was all new to Rodriguez, yet often and often before had that mandolin sent up through evening against unheeding Space that cry that man cannot utter; for the spirit of man needs a mandolin as a comrade to face the verdict of the chilly stars as he needs a bulldog for more mundane things. Soon out of the depth of that stout old mandolin, in which so many human sorrows had spun tunes out of themselves, as the spiders spin misty grey webs, till it was all haunted with music, soon the old cry went up to the stars again, a thread of supplication spun of the matter which else were distilled in tears, beseeching it knew not what. And, but that Fate is deaf, all that man asks in music had been granted then. What sorrows had Rodriguez known in his life that he made so sad a melody? I know not. It was the mandolin. When the mandolin was made it knew at once all the sorrows of man, and all the old unnamed longings that none defines. It knew them as the dog knows the alliance that its forefathers made with man. A mandolin weeps the tears that its master cannot shed, or utters the prayers that are deeper than its master's lips can draw, as a dog will fight for his master with teeth that are longer than man's. And if the moonlight streamed on untroubled, and though Fate was deaf, yet beauty of those fresh strains going starward from under his fingers touched at least the heart of Rodriguez and gilded his dreams and gave to his thoughts a mournful autumnal glory, until he sang all newly as he never had sung before, with limpid voice along the edge of tears, a love-song old as the woods of his father's valleys at whose edge he had heard it once drift through the evening. And as he played and sang with his young soul in the music he fancied (and why not, if they care aught for our souls in Heaven?) he fancied the angles putting their hands each one on a star and leaning out of Heaven through the constellations to listen. "A vile song, señor, and a vile tune with it," said a voice quite close. However much the words hurt his pride in his mandolin Rodriguez recognised in the voice the hidalgo's accent and knew that it was an equal that now approached him in the moonlight round a corner of the house with the balcony; and he knew that the request he courteously made would be as courteously granted. "Señor," he said, "I pray you to permit me to lean my mandolin against the wall securely before we speak of my song." "Most surely, señor," the stranger replied, "for there is no fault with the mandolin." "Señor," Rodriguez said, "I thank you profoundly." And he bowed to the gallant, whom he now perceived to be young, a youth tall and lithe like himself, one whom we might have chosen for these chronicles had we not found Rodriguez. Then Rodriguez stepped back a short way and placed his kerchief on the ground; and upon this he put his mandolin and leaned it against the wall. When the mandolin was safe from dust or accident he approached the stranger and drew his sword. "Señor," he said, "we will now discuss music." "Right gladly, señor," said the young man, who now drew his sword also. There were no clouds; the moon was full; the evening promised well. Scarcely had the flash of thin rapiers crossing each other by moonlight begun to gleam in the street when Morano appeared beside them and stood there watching. He had bought his bacon and gone straight to the house with the balcony. For though he knew no Latin he had not missed the silent greeting that had welcomed his master to that village, or failed to interpret the gist of the words that Rodriguez' dumb glance would have said. He stood there watching while each combatant stood his ground. And Rodriguez remembered all those passes and feints that he had had from his father, and which Sevastiani, a master of arms in Madrid, had taught in his father's youth: and some were famous and some were little known. And all these passes, as he tried them one by one, his unknown antagonist parried. And for a moment Rodriguez feared that Morano would see those passes in which he trusted foiled by that unknown sword, and then he reflected that Morano knew nothing of the craft of the rapier, and with more content at that thought he parried thrusts that were strange to him. But something told Morano that in this fight the stranger was master and that along that pale-blue, moonlit, unknown sword lurked a sure death for Rodriguez. He moved from his place of vantage and was soon lost in large shadows; while the rapiers played and blade rippled on blade with a sound as though Death were gently sharpening his scythe in the dark. And now Rodriguez was giving ground, now his antagonist pressed him; thrusts that he believed invincible had failed; now he parried wearily and had at once to parry again; the unknown pressed on, was upon him, was scattering his weakening parries; drew back his rapier for a deadlier pass, learned in a secret school, in a hut on mountains he knew, and practised surely; and fell in a heap upon Rodriguez' feet, struck full on the back of the head by Morano's frying-pan. "Most vile knave," shouted Rodriguez as he saw Morano before him with his frying-pan in his hand, and with something of the stupid expression that you see on the face of a dog that has done some foolish thing which it thinks will delight its master. "Master! I am your servant," said Morano. "Vile, miserable knave," replied Rodriguez. "Master," Morano said plaintively, "shall I see to your comforts, your food, and not to your life?" "Silence," thundered Rodriguez as he stooped anxiously to his antagonist, who was not unconscious but only very giddy and who now rose to his feet with the help of Rodriguez. "Alas, señor," said Rodriguez, "the foul knave is my servant. He shall be flogged. He shall be flayed. His vile flesh shall be cut off him. Does the hurt pain you, señor? Sit and rest while I beat the knave, and then we will continue our meeting." And he ran to his kerchief on which rested his mandolin and laid it upon the dust for the stranger. "No, no," said he. "My head clears again. It is nothing." "But rest, señor, rest," said Rodriguez. "It is always well to rest before an encounter. Rest while I punish the knave." And he led him to where the kerchief lay on the ground. "Let me see the hurt, señor," he continued. And the stranger removed his plumed hat as Rodriguez compelled him to sit down. He straightened out the hat as he sat, and the hurt was shown to be of no great consequence. "The blessed Saints be praised," Rodriguez said. "It need not stop our encounter. But rest awhile, señor." "Indeed, it is nothing," he answered. "But the indignity is immeasurable," sighed Rodriguez. "Would you care, señor, when you are well rested to give the chastisement yourself?" "As far as that goes," said the stranger, "I can chastise him now." "If you are fully recovered, señor," Rodriguez said, "my own sword is at your disposal to beat him sore with the flat of it, or how you will. Thus no dishonour shall touch your sword from the skin of so vile a knave." The stranger smiled: the idea appealed to him. "You make a noble amend, señor," he said as he bowed over Rodriguez' proffered sword. Morano had not moved far, but stood near, wondering. "What should a servant do if not work for his master?" he wondered. And how work for him when dead? And dead, as it seemed to Morano, through his own fault if he allowed any man to kill him when he perceived him about to do so. He stood there puzzled. And suddenly he saw the stranger coming angrily towards him in the clear moonlight with a sword. Morano was frightened. As the hidalgo came up to him he stretched out his left hand to seize Morano by the shoulder. Up went the frying-pan, the stranger parried, but against a stroke that no school taught or knew, and for the second time he went down in the dust with a reeling head. Rodriguez turned toward Morano and said to him ... No, realism is all very well, and I know that my duty as author is to tell all that happened, and I could win mighty praise as a bold, unconventional writer; at the same time, some young lady will be reading all this next year in some far country, or in twenty years in England, and I would sooner she should not read what Rodriguez said. I do not, I trust, disappoint her. But the gist of it was that he should leave that place now and depart from his service for ever. And hearing those words Morano turned mournfully away and was at once lost in the darkness. While Rodriguez ran once more to help his fallen antagonist. "Señor, señor," he said with an emotion that some wearing centuries and a cold climate have taught us not to show, and beyond those words he could find no more to say. "Giddy, only giddy," said the stranger. A tear fell on his forehead as Rodriguez helped him to his feet. "Señor," Rodriguez said fervently, "we will finish our encounter come what may. The knave is gone and ..." "But I am somewhat giddy," said the other. "I will take off one of my shoes," said Rodriguez, "leaving the other on. It will equalise our unsteadiness, and you shall not be disappointed in our encounter. Come," he added kindly. "I cannot see so clearly as before," the young hidalgo murmured. "I will bandage my right eye also," said Rodriguez, "and if this cannot equalise it ..." "It is a most fair offer," said the young man. "I could not bear that you should be disappointed of your encounter," Rodriguez said, "by this spirit of Hell that has got itself clothed in fat and dares to usurp the dignity of man." "It is a right fair offer," the young man said again. "Rest yourself, señor," said Rodriguez, "while I take off my shoe," and he indicated his kerchief which was still on the ground. The stranger sat down a little wearily, and Rodriguez sitting upon the dust took off his left shoe. And now he began to think a little wistfully of the face that had shone from that balcony, where all was dark now in black shadow unlit by the moon. The emptiness of the balcony and its darkness oppressed him; for he could scarcely hope to survive an encounter with that swordsman, whose skill he now recognised as being of a different class from his own, a class of which he knew nothing. All his own feints and passes were known, while those of his antagonist had been strange and new, and he might well have even others. The stranger's giddiness did not alter the situation, for Rodriguez knew that his handicap was fair and even generous. He believed he was near his grave, and could see no spark of light to banish that dark belief; yet more chances than we can see often guard us on such occasions. The absence of Serafina saddened him like a sorrowful sunset. Rodriguez rose and limped with his one shoe off to the stranger, who was sitting upon his kerchief. "I will bandage my right eye now, señor," he said. The young man rose and shook the dust from the kerchief and gave it to Rodriguez with a renewed expression of his gratitude at the fairness of the strange handicap. When Rodriguez had bandaged his eye the stranger returned his sword to him, which he had held in his hand since his effort to beat Morano, and drawing his own stepped back a few paces from him. Rodriguez took one hopeless look at the balcony, saw it as empty and as black as ever, then he faced his antagonist, waiting. "Bandage one eye, indeed!" muttered Morano as he stepped up behind the stranger and knocked him down for the third time with a blow over the head from his frying-pan. The young hidalgo dropped silently. Rodriguez uttered one scream of anger and rushed at Morano with his sword. Morano had already started to run; and, knowing well that he was running for his life, he kept for awhile the start that he had of the rapier. Rodriguez knew that no plump man of over forty could last against his lithe speed long. He saw Morano clearly before him, then lost sight of him for a moment and ran confidently on pursuing. He ran on and on. And at last he recognised that Morano had slipped into the darkness, which lies always so near to the moonlight, and was not in front of him at all. So he returned to his fallen antagonist and found him breathing heavily where he fell, scarcely conscious. The third stroke of the frying-pan had done its work surely. Rodriguez' fury died down, only because it is difficult to feel two emotions at once: it died down as pity took its place, though every now and then it would suddenly flare and fall again. He returned his sword and lifted the young hidalgo and carried him to the door of the house under which they had fought. With one fist he beat on the door without putting the hurt man down, and continued to hit it until steps were heard, and bolts began to grumble, as though disturbed too early from their rusty sleep in stone sockets. The door of the house with the balcony was opened by a servant who, when he saw who it was that Rodriguez carried, fled into the house in alarm, as one who runs with bad news. He carried one candle and, when he had disappeared with the steaming flame, Rodriguez found himself in a long hall lit by the moonlight only, which was looking in through the small contorted panes of the upper part of a high window. Alone with echoes and shadows Rodriguez carried the hurt man through the hall, who was muttering now as he came back to consciousness. And, as he went, there came to Rodriguez thoughts between wonder and hope, for he had had no thought at all when he beat on the door except to get shelter and help for the hurt man. At the end of the hall they came to an open door that led into a chamber partly shining with moonlight. "In there," said the man that he carried. Rodriguez carried him in and laid him on a long couch at the end of the room. Large pictures of men in the blackness, out of the moon's rays, frowned at Rodriguez mysteriously. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he somehow knew they frowned. Two portraits that were clear in the moonlight eyed him with absolute apathy. So cold a welcome from that house's past generations boded no good to him from those that dwelt there today. Rodriguez knew that in carrying the hurt man there he helped at a Christian deed; and yet there was no putting the merits of the case against the omens that crowded the chamber, lurking along the edge of moonlight and darkness, disappearing and reappearing till the gloom was heavy with portent. The omens knew. In a weak voice and few words the hurt man thanked him, but the apathetic faces seemed to say What of that? And the frowning faces that he could not see still filled the darkness with anger. And then from the end of the chamber, dressed in white, and all shining with moonlight, came Serafina. Rodriguez in awed silence watched her come. He saw her pass through the moonlight and grow dimmer, and glide to the moonlight again that streamed through another window. A great dim golden circle appeared at the far end of the chamber whence she had come, as the servant returned with his candle and held it high to give light for Dona Serafina. But that one flame seemed to make the darkness only blacker; and for any cheerfulness it brought to the gloom it had better never have challenged those masses of darkness at all in that high chamber among the brooding portraits it seemed trivial, ephemeral, modern, ill able to cope with the power of ancient things, dead days and forgotten voices, which make their home in the darkness because the days that have usurped them have stolen the light of the sun. And there the man stood holding his candle high, and the rays of the moon became more magical still beside that little mundane, flickering thing. And Serafina was moving through the moonlight as though its rays were her sisters, which she met noiselessly and brightly upon some island, as it seemed to Rodriguez, beyond the coasts of Earth, so quietly and so brightly did her slender figure move and so aloof from him appeared her eyes. And there came on Rodriguez that feeling that some deride and that others explain away, the feeling of which romance is mainly made and which is the aim and goal of all the earth. And his love for Serafina seemed to him not only to be an event in his life but to have some part in veiled and shadowy destinies and to have the blessing of most distant days: grey beards seemed to look out of graves in forgotten places to wag approval: hands seemed to beckon to him out of far-future times, where faces were smiling quietly: and, dreaming on further still, this vast approval that gave benediction to his heart's youthful fancy seemed to widen and widen like the gold of a summer's evening or, the humming of bees in summer in endless rows of limes, until it became a part of the story of man. Spring days of his earliest memory seemed to have their part in it, as well as wonderful evenings of days that were yet to be, till his love for Serafina was one with the fate of earth; and, wandering far on their courses, he knew that the stars blessed it. But Serafina went up to the man on the couch with no look for Rodriguez. With no look for Rodriguez she bent over the stricken hidalgo. He raised himself a little on one elbow. "It is nothing," he said, "Serafina." Still she bent over him. He laid his head down again, but now with open and undimmed eyes. She put her hand to his forehead, she spoke in a low voice to him; she lavished upon him sympathy for which Rodriguez would have offered his head to swords; and all, thought Rodriguez for three blows from a knave's frying-pan: and his anger against Morano flared up again fiercely. Then there came another thought to him out of the shadows, where Serafina was standing all white, a figure of solace. Who was this man who so mysteriously blended with the other unknown things that haunted the gloom of that chamber? Why had he fought him at night? What was he to Serafina? Thoughts crowded up to him from the interior of the darkness, sombre and foreboding as the shadows that nursed them. He stood there never daring to speak to Serafina; looking for permission to speak, such as a glance might give. And no glance came. And now, as though soothed by her beauty, the hurt man closed his eyes. Serafina stood beside him anxious and silent, gleaming in that dim place. The servant at the far end of the chamber still held his one candle high, as though some light of earth were needed against the fantastic moon, which if unopposed would give everything over to magic. Rodriguez stood there, scarcely breathing. All was silent. And then through the door by which Serafina had come, past that lonely, golden, moon-defying candle, all down the long room across moonlight and blackness, came the lady of the house, Serafina's mother. She came, as Serafina came, straight toward the man on the couch, giving no look to Rodriguez, walking something as Serafina walked, with the same poise, the same dignity, though the years had carried away from her the grace Serafina had: so that, though you saw that they were mother and daughter, the elder lady called to mind the lovely things of earth, large gardens at evening, statues dim in the dusk, summer and whatsoever binds us to earthly things; but Serafina turned Rodriguez' thoughts to the twilight in which he first saw her, and he pictured her native place as far from here, in mellow fields near the moon, wherein she had walked on twilight outlasting any we know, with all delicate things of our fancy, too fair for the rugged earth. As the lady approached the couch upon which the young man was lying, and still no look was turned towards Rodriguez, his young dreams fled as butterflies sailing high in the heat of June that are suddenly plunged in night by a total eclipse of the sun. He had never spoken to Serafina, or seen before her mother, and they did not know his name; he knew that he, Rodriguez, had no claim to a welcome. But his dreams had flocked so much about Serafina's face, basking so much in her beauty, that they now fell back dying; and when a man's dreams die what remains, if he lingers awhile behind them? Rodriguez suddenly felt that his left shoe was off and his right eye still bandaged, things that he had not noticed while his only thought was for the man he carried to shelter, but torturing his consciousness now that he thought of himself. He opened his lips to explain; but before words came to him, looking at the face of Serafina's mother, standing now by the couch, he felt that, not knowing how, he had somehow wronged the Penates of this house, or whatever was hid in the dimness of that long chamber, by carrying in this young man there to rest from his hurt. Rodriguez' depression arose from these causes, but having arisen, it grew of its own might: he had had nothing to eat since morning, and in the favouring atmosphere of hunger his depression grew gigantic. He opened his lips once more to say farewell, was oppressed by all manner of thoughts that held him dumb, and turned away in silence and left the house. Outside he recovered his mandolin and his shoe. He was tired with the weariness of defeated dreams that slept in his spirit exhausted, rather than with any fatigue his young muscles had from the journey. He needed sleep; he looked at the shuttered houses; then at the soft dust of the road in which dogs lay during the daylight. But the dust was near to his mood, so he lay down where he had fought the unknown hidalgo. A light wind wandered the street like a visitor come to the village out of a friendly valley, but Rodriguez' four days on the roads had made him familiar with all wandering things, and the breeze on his forehead troubled him not at all: before it had wearied of wandering in the night Rodriguez had fallen asleep. Just by the edge of sleep, upon which side he knew not, he heard the window of the balcony creak, and looked up wide awake all in a moment. But nothing stirred in the darkness of the balcony and the window was fast shut. So whatever sound came from the window came not from its opening but shutting: for a while he wondered; and then his tired thoughts rested, and that was sleep. A light rain woke Rodriguez, drizzling upon his face; the first light rain that had fallen in a romantic tale. Storms there had been, lashing oaks to terrific shapes seen at night by flashes of lightning, through which villains rode abroad or heroes sought shelter at midnight; hurricanes there had been, flapping huge cloaks, fierce hail and copious snow; but until now no drizzle. It was morning; dawn was old; and pale and grey and unhappy. The balcony above him, still empty, scarcely even held romance now. Rain dripped from it sadly. Its cheerless bareness seemed worse than the most sinister shadows of night. And then Rodriguez saw a rose lying on the ground beside him. And for all the dreams, fancies, and hopes that leaped up in Rodriguez' mind, rising and falling and fading, one thing alone he knew and all the rest was mystery: the rose had lain there before the rain had fallen. Beneath the rose was white dust, while all around it the dust was turning grey with rain. Rodriguez tried to guess how long the rain had fallen. The rose may have lain beside him all night long. But the shadows of mystery receded no farther than this one fact that the rose was there before the rain began. No sign of any kind came from the house. Rodriguez put the rose safe under his coat, wrapped in the kerchief that had guarded the mandolin, to carry it far from Lowlight, through places familiar with roses and places strange to them; but it remained for him a thing of mystery until a day far from then. Sadly he left the house in the sad rain, marching away alone to look for his wars. THE SEVENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME TO SHADOW VALLEY Rodriguez still believed it to be the duty of any Christian man to kill Morano. Yet, more than comfort, more than dryness, he missed Morano's cheerful chatter, and his philosophy into which all occasions so easily slipped. Upon his first day's journey all was new; the very anemones kept him company; but now he made the discovery that lonely roads are long. When he had suggested food or rest Morano had fallen in with his wishes; when he had suggested winning a castle in vague wars Morano had agreed with him. Now he had dismissed Morano and had driven him away at the rapier's point. There was no one now either to cook his food or to believe in the schemes his ambition made. There was no one now to speak of the wars as the natural end of the journey. Alone in the rain the wars seemed far away and castles hard to come by. The unromantic rain in which no dreams thrive fell on and on. The village of Lowlight was some way behind him, as he went with mournful thoughts through the drizzling rain, when he caught the smell of bacon. He looked for a house but the plain was bare except for small bushes. He looked up wind, which was blowing from the west, whence came the unmistakable smell of bacon: and there was a small fire smoking greyly against a bush; and the fat figure crouching beside it, although the face was averted, was clearly none but Morano. And when Rodriguez saw that he was tenderly holding the infamous frying-pan, the very weapon that had done the accursed deed, then he almost felt righteous anger; but that frying-pan held other memories too, and Rodriguez felt less fury than what he thought he felt. As for killing Morano, Rodriguez believed, or thought he believed, that he was too far from the road for it to be possible to overtake him to mete out his just punishment. As for the bacon, Rodriguez scorned it and marched on down the road. Now one side of the frying-pan was very hot, for it was tilted a little and the lard had run sideways. By tilting it back again slowly Morano could make the fat run back bit by bit over the heated metal, and whenever it did so it sizzled. He now picked up the frying-pan and one log that was burning well and walked parallel with Rodriguez. He was up-wind of him, and whenever the bacon-fat sizzled Rodriguez caught the smell of it. A small matter to inspire thoughts; but Rodriguez had eaten nothing since the morning before, and ideas surged through his head; and though they began with moral indignation they adapted themselves more and more to hunger, until there came the idea that since his money had bought the bacon the food was rightfully his, and he had every right to eat it wherever he found it. So much can slaves sometimes control the master, and the body rule the brain. So Rodriguez suddenly turned and strode up to Morano. "My bacon," he said. "Master," Morano said, for it was beginning to cool, "let me make another small fire." "Knave, call me not master," said Rodriguez. Morano, who knew when speech was good, was silent now, and blew on the smouldering end of the log he carried and gathered a handful of twigs and shook the rain off them; and soon had a small fire again, warming the bacon. He had nothing to say which bacon could not say better. And when Rodriguez had finished up the bacon he carefully reconsidered the case of Morano, and there were points in it which he had not thought of before. He reflected that for the execution of knaves a suitable person was provided. He should perhaps give Morano up to la Garda. His next thought was where to find la Garda. And easily enough another thought followed that one, which was that although on foot and still some way behind four of la Garda were trying to find him. Rodriguez' mind, which was looking at life from the point of view of a judge, changed somewhat at this thought. He reflected next that, for the prevention of crime, to make Morano see the true nature of his enormity so that he should never commit it again might after all be as good as killing him. So what we call his better nature, his calmer judgment, decided him now to talk to Morano and not to kill him: but Morano, looking back upon this merciful change, always attributed it to fried bacon. "Morano," said Rodriguez' better nature, "to offend the laws of Chivalry is to have against you the swords of all true men." "Master," Morano said, "that were dreadful odds." "And rightly," said Rodriguez. "Master," said Morano, "I will keep those laws henceforth. I may cook bacon for you when you are hungry, I may brush the dust from your cloak, I may see to your comforts. This Chivalry forbids none of that. But when I see anyone trying to kill you, master; why, kill you he must, and welcome." "Not always," said Rodriguez somewhat curtly, for it struck him that Morano spoke somehow too lightly of sacred things. "Not always?" asked Morano. "No," said Rodriguez. "Master, I implore you tell me," said Morano, "when they may kill you and when they may not, so that I may never offend again." Rodriguez cast a swift glance at him but found his face so full of puzzled anxiety that he condescended to do what Morano had asked, and began to explain to him the rudiments of the laws of Chivalry. "In the wars," he said, "you may defend me whoever assails me, or if robbers or any common persons attack me, but if I arrange a meeting with a gentleman, and any knave basely interferes, then is he damned hereafter as well as accursed now; for, the laws of Chivalry being founded on true religion, the penalty for their breach is by no means confined to this world." "Master," replied Morano thoughtfully, "if I be not damned already I will avoid those fires of Hell; and none shall kill you that you have not chosen to kill you, and those that you choose shall kill you whenever you have a mind." Rodriguez opened his lips to correct Morano but reflected that, though in his crude and base-born way, he had correctly interpreted the law so far as his mind was able. So he briefly said "Yes," and rose and returned to the road, giving Morano no order to follow him; and this was the last concession he made to the needs of Chivalry on account of the sin of Morano. Morano gathered up the frying-pan and followed Rodriguez, and when they came to the road he walked behind him in silence. For three or four miles they walked thus, Morano knowing that he followed on sufferance and calling no attention to himself with his garrulous tongue. But at the end of an hour the rain lifted; and with the coming out of the sun Morano talked again. "Master," he said, "the next man that you choose to kill you, let him be one too base-born to know the tricks of the rapier, too ignorant to do aught but wish you well, some poor fat fool over forty who shall be too heavy to elude your rapier's point and too elderly for it to matter when you kill him at your Chivalry, the best of life being gone already at forty-five." "There is timber here," said Rodriguez. "We will have some more bacon while you dry my cloak over a fire." Thus he acknowledged Morano again for his servant but never acknowledged that in Morano's words he had understood any poor sketch of Morano's self, or that the words went to his heart. "Timber, Master?" said Morano, though it did not need Rodriguez to point out the great oaks that now began to stand beside their journey, but he saw that the other matter was well and thus he left well alone. Rodriguez waved an arm towards the great trees. "Yes, indeed," said Morano, and began to polish up the frying-pan as he walked. Rodriguez, who missed little, caught a glimpse of tears in Morano's eyes, for all that his head was turned downward over the frying-pan; yet he said nothing, for he knew that forgiveness was all that Morano needed, and that he had now given him: and it was much to give, reflected Rodriguez, for so great a crime, and dismissed the matter from his mind. And now their road dipped downhill, and they passed a huge oak and then another. More and more often now they met these solitary giants, till their view began to be obscured by them. The road dwindled till it was no better than a track, the earth beside it was wild and rocky; Rodriguez wondered to what manner of land he was coming. But continually the branches of some tree obscured his view and the only indication he had of it was from the road he trod, which seemed to tell him that men came here seldom. Beyond every huge tree that they passed as they went downhill Rodriguez hoped to get a better view, but always there stood another to close the vista. It was some while before he realised that he had entered a forest. They were come to Shadow Valley. The grandeur of this place, penetrated by shafts of sunlight, coloured by flashes of floating butterflies, filled by the chaunt of birds rising over the long hum of insects, lifted the fallen spirits of Rodriguez as he walked on through the morning. He still would not have exchanged his rose for the whole forest; but in the mighty solemnity of the forest his mourning for the lady that he feared he had lost no longer seemed the only solemn thing: indeed, the sombre forest seemed well attuned to his mood; and what complaint have we against Fate wherever this is so. His mood was one of tragic loss, the defeat of an enterprise that his hopes had undertaken, to seize victory on the apex of the world, to walk all his days only just outside the edge of Paradise, for no less than that his hopes and his first love promised each other; and then he walked despairing in small rain. In this mood Fate had led him to solemn old oaks standing huge among shadows; and the grandeur of their grey grip on the earth that had been theirs for centuries was akin to the grandeur of the high hopes he had had, and his despair was somehow soothed by the shadows. And then the impudent birds seemed to say "Hope again." They walked for miles into the forest and lit a fire before noon, for Rodriguez had left Lowlight very early. And by it Morano cooked bacon again and dried his master's cloak. They ate the bacon and sat by the fire till all their clothes were dry, and when the flames from the great logs fell and only embers glowed they sat there still, with hands spread to the warmth of the embers; for to those who wander a fire is food and rest and comfort. Only as the embers turned grey did they throw earth over their fire and continue their journey. Their road grew smaller and the forest denser. They had walked some miles from the place where they lit their fire, when a somewhat unmistakable sound made Rodriguez look ahead of him. An arrow had struck a birch tree on the right side, ten or twelve paces in front of him; and as he looked up another struck it from the opposite side just level with the first; the two were sticking in it ten feet or so from the ground. Rodriguez drew his sword. But when a third arrow went over his head from behind and struck the birch tree, whut! just between the other two, he perceived, as duller minds could have done, that it was a hint, and he returned his sword and stood still. Morano questioned his master with his eyes, which were asking what was to be done next. But Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders: there was no fighting with an invisible foe that could shoot like that. That much Morano knew, but he did not know that there might not be some law of Chivalry that would demand that Rodriguez should wave his sword in the air or thrust at the birch tree until someone shot him. When there seemed to be no such rule Morano was well content. And presently men came quietly on to the road from different parts of the wood. They were dressed in brown leather and wore leaf-green hats, and round each one's neck hung a disk of engraved copper. They came up to the travellers carrying bows, and the leader said to Rodriguez: "Señor, all travellers here bring tribute to the King of Shadow Valley," at the mention of whom all touched hats and bowed their heads. "What do you bring us?" Rodriguez thought of no answer; but after a moment he said, for the sake of loyalty: "I know one king only." "There is only one king in Shadow Valley," said the bowman. "He brings a tribute of emeralds," said another, looking at Rodriguez' scabbard. And then they searched him and others search Morano. There were eight or nine of them, all in their leaf-green hats, with ribbons round their necks of the same colour to hold the copper disks. They took a gold coin from Morano and grey greasy pieces of silver. One of them took his frying-pan; but he looked so pitifully at them as he said simply, "I starve," that the frying-pan was restored to him. They unbuckled Rodriguez' belt and took from him sword and scabbard and three gold pieces from his purse. Next they found the gold piece that was hanging round his neck, still stuffed inside his clothes where he had put it when he was riding. Having examined it they put it back inside his clothes, while the leader rebuckled his sword-belt about his waist and returned him his three gold-pieces. Others returned his money to Morano. "Master," said the leader, bowing to Rodriguez, his green hat in hand, "under our King, the forest is yours." Morano was pleased to hear this respect paid to his master, but Rodriguez was so surprised that he who was never curt without reason found no more to say than "Why?" "Because we are your servants," said the other. "Who are you?" asked Rodriguez. "We are the green bowmen, master," he said, "who hold this forest against all men for our King." "And who is he?" said Rodriguez. And the bowman answered: "The King of Shadow Valley," at which the others all touched hats and bowed heads again. And Rodriguez seeing that the mystery would grow no clearer for any information to be had from them said: "Conduct me to your king." "That, master, we cannot do," said the chief of the bowmen. "There be many trees in this forest, and behind any one of them he holds his court. When he needs us there is his clear horn. But when men need him who knows which shadow is his of all that lie in the forest?" Whether or not there was anything interesting in the mystery, to Rodriguez it was merely annoying; and finding it grew no clearer he turned his attention to shelter for the night, to which all travellers give a thought at least once, between noon and sunset. "Is there any house on this road, señor," he said, "in which we could rest the night?" "Ten miles from here," said he, "and not far from the road you take is the best house we have in the forest. It is yours, master, for as long as you honour it." "Come then," said Rodriguez, "and I thank you, señor." So they all started together, Rodriguez with the leader going in front and Morano following with all the bowmen. And soon the bowmen were singing songs of the forest, hunting songs, songs of the winter; and songs of the long summer evenings, songs of love. Cheered by this merriment, the miles slipped by. And Rodriguez gathered from the songs they sang something of what they were and of how they lived in the forest, living amongst the woodland creatures till these men's ways were almost as their ways; killing what they needed for food but protecting the woodland things against all others; straying out amongst the villages in summer evenings, and always welcome; and owning no allegiance but to the King of the Shadow Valley. And the leader told Rodriguez that his name was Miguel Threegeese, given him on account of an exploit in his youth when he lay one night with his bow by one of the great pools in the forest, where the geese come in winter. He said the forest was a hundred miles long, lying mostly along a great valley, which they were crossing. And once they had owned allegiance to kings of Spain, but now to none but the King of the Shadow Valley, for the King of Spain's men had once tried to cut some of the forest down, and the forest was sacred. Behind him the men sang on of woodland things, and of cottage gardens in the villages: with singing and laughter they came to their journey's end. A cottage as though built by peasants with boundless material stood in the forest. It was a thatched cottage built in the peasant's way but of enormous size. The leader entered first and whispered to those within, who rose and bowed to Rodriguez as he entered, twenty more bowmen who had been sitting at a table. One does not speak of the banqueting-hall of a cottage, but such it appeared, for it occupied more than half of the cottage and was as large as the banqueting-hall of any castle. It was made of great beams of oak, and high at either end just under the thatch were windows with their little square panes of bulging bluish glass, which at that time was rare in Spain. A table of oak ran down the length of it, cut from a single tree, polished and dark from the hands of many men that had sat at it. Boar spears hung on the wall, great antlers and boar's tusks and, carved in the oak of the wall and again on a high, dark chair that stood at the end of the long table empty, a crown with oak leaves that Rodriguez recognised. It was the same as the one that was cut on his gold coin, which he had given no further thought to, riding to Lowlight, and which the face of Serafina had driven from his mind altogether. "But," he said, and then was silent, thinking to learn more by watching than by talking. And his companions of the road came in and all sat down on the benches beside the ample table, and a brew was brought, a kind of pale mead, that they called forest water. And all drank; and, sitting at the table, watching them more closely than he could as he walked in the forest, Rodriguez saw by the sunlight that streamed in low through one window that on the copper disks they wore round their necks on green ribbon the design was again the same. It was much smaller than his on the gold coin but the same strange leafy crown. "Wear it as you go through Shadow Valley," he now seemed to remember the man saying to him who put it round his neck. But why? Clearly because it was the badge of this band of men. And this other man was one of them. His eyes strayed back to the great design on the wall. "The crown of the forest," said Miguel as he saw his eyes wondering at it, "as you doubtless know, señor." Why should he know? Of course because he bore the design himself. "Who wears it?" said Rodriguez. "The King of Shadow Valley." Morano was without curiosity; he did not question good drink; he sat at the table with a cup of horn in his hand, as happy as though he had come to his master's castle, though that had not yet been won. The sun sank under the oaks, filling the hall with a ruddy glow, turning the boar spears scarlet and reddening the red faces of the merry men of the bow. A dozen of the men went out; to relieve the guard in the forest, Miguel explained. And Rodriguez learned that he had come through a line of sentries without ever seeing one. Presently a dozen others came in from their posts and unslung their bows and laid them on pegs on the wall and sat down at the table. Whereat there were whispered words and they all rose and bowed to Rodriguez. And Rodriguez had caught the words "A prince of the forest." What did it mean? Soon the long hall grew dim, and his love for the light drew Rodriguez out to watch the sunset. And there was the sun under indescribable clouds, turning huge and yellow among the trunks of the trees and casting glory munificently down glades. It set, and the western sky became blood-red and lilac: from the other end of the sky the moon peeped out of night. A hush came and a chill, and a glory of colour, and a dying away of light; and in the hush the mystery of the great oaks became magical. A blackbird blew a tune less of this earth than of fairy-land. Rodriguez wished that he could have had a less ambition than to win a castle in the wars, for in those glades and among those oaks he felt that happiness might be found under roofs of thatch. But having come by his ambition he would not desert it. Now rushlights were lit in the great cottage and the window of the long room glowed yellow. A fountain fell in the stillness that he had not heard before. An early nightingale tuned a tentative note. "The forest is fair, is it not?" said Miguel. Rodriguez had no words to say. To turn into words the beauty that was now shining in his thoughts, reflected from the evening there, was no easier than for wood to reflect all that is seen in the mirror. "You love the forest," he said at last. "Master," said Miguel, "it is the only land in which we should live our days. There are cities and roads but man is not meant for them. I know not, master, what God intends about us; but in cities we are against the intention at every step, while here, why, we drift along with it." "I, too, would live here always," said Rodriguez. "The house is yours," said Miguel. And Rodriguez answered: "I go tomorrow to the wars." They turned round then and walked slowly back to the cottage, and entered the candlelight and the loud talk of many men out of the hush of the twilight. But they passed from the room at once by a door on the left, and came thus to a large bedroom, the only other room in the cottage. "Your room, master," said Miguel Threegeese. It was not so big as the hall where the bowmen sat, but it was a goodly room. The bed was made of carved wood, for there were craftsmen in the forest, and a hunt went all the way round it with dogs and deer. Four great posts held a canopy over it: they were four young birch-trees seemingly still wearing their bright bark, but this had been painted on their bare timber by some woodland artist. The chairs had not the beauty of the great ages of furniture, but they had a dignity that the age of commerce has not dreamed of. Each one was carved out of a single block of wood: there was no join in them anywhere. One of them lasts to this day. The skins of deer covered the long walls. There were great basins and jugs of earthenware. All was forest-made. The very shadows whispering among themselves in corners spoke of the forest. The room was rude; but being without ornament, except for the work of simple craftsmen, it had nothing there to offend the sense of right of anyone entering its door, by any jarring conflict with the purposes and traditions of the land in which it stood. All the woodland spirits might have entered there, and slept--if spirits sleep--in the great bed, and left at dawn unoffended. In fact that age had not yet learned vulgarity. When Miguel Threegeese left Morano entered. "Master," he said, "they are making a banquet for you." "Good," said Rodriguez. "We will eat it." And he waited to hear what Morano had come to say, for he could see that it was more than this. "Master," said Morano, "I have been talking with the bowman. And they will give you whatever you ask. They are good people, master, and they will give you all things, whatever you asked of them." Rodriguez would not show to his servant that it all still puzzled him. "They are very amiable men," he said. "Master," said Morano, coming to the point, "that Garda, they will have walked after us. They must be now in Lowlight. They have all to-night to get new shoes on their horses. And to-morrow, master, to-morrow, if we be still on foot..." Rodriguez was thinking. Morano seemed to him to be talking sense. "You would like another ride?" he said to Morano. "Master," he answered, "riding is horrible. But the public garrotter, he is a bad thing too." And he meditatively stroked the bristles under his chin. "They would give us horses?" said Rodriguez. "Anything, master, I am sure of it. They are good people." "They'll have news of the road by which they left Lowlight," said Rodriguez reflectively. "They say la Garda dare not enter the forest," Morano continued, "but thirty miles from here the forest ends. They could ride round while we go through." "They would give us horses?" said Rodriguez again. "Surely," said Morano. And then Rodriguez asked where they cooked the banquet, since he saw that there were only two rooms in the great cottage and his inquiring eye saw no preparations for cooking about the fireplace of either. And Morano pointed through a window at the back of the room to another cottage among the trees, fifty paces away. A red glow streamed from its windows, growing strong in the darkening forest. "That is their kitchen, master," he said. "The whole house is kitchen." His eyes looked eagerly at it, for, though he loved bacon, he welcomed the many signs of a dinner of boundless variety. As he and his master returned to the long hall great plates of polished wood were being laid on the table. They gave Rodriguez a place on the right of the great chair that had the crown of the forest carved on the back. "Whose chair is that?" said Rodriguez. "The King of Shadow Valley," they said. "He is not here then," said Rodriguez. "Who knows?" said a bowman. "It is his chair," said another; "his place is ready. None knows the ways of the King of Shadow Valley." "He comes sometimes at this hour," said a third, "as the boar comes to Heather Pool at sunset. But not always. None knows his ways." "If they caught the King," said another, "the forest would perish. None loves it as he, none knows its ways as he, no other could so defend it." "Alas," said Miguel, "some day when he be not here they will enter the forest." All knew whom he meant by they. "And the goodly trees will go." He spoke as a man foretelling the end of the world; and, as men to whom no less was announced, the others listened to him. They all loved Shadow Valley. In this man's time, so they told Rodriguez, none entered the forest to hurt it, no tree was cut except by his command, and venturous men claiming rights from others than him seldom laid axe long to tree before he stood near, stepping noiselessly from among shadows of trees as though he were one of their spirits coming for vengeance on man. All this they told Rodriguez, but nothing definite they told of their king, where he was yesterday, where he might be now; and any questions he asked of such things seemed to offend a law of the forest. And then the dishes were carried in, to Morano's great delight: with wide blue eyes he watched the produce of that mighty estate coming in through the doorway cooked. Boars' heads, woodcock, herons, plates full of fishes, all manner of small eggs, a roe-deer and some rabbits, were carried in by procession. And the men set to with their ivory-handled knives, each handle being the whole tusk of a boar. And with their eating came merriment and tales of past huntings and talk of the forest and stories of the King of Shadow Valley. And always they spoke of him not only with respect but also with the discretion, Rodriguez thought, of men that spoke of one who might be behind them at that moment, and one who tolerated no trifling with his authority. Then they sang songs again, such as Rodriguez had heard on the road, and their merry lives passed clearly before his mind again, for we live in our songs as no men live in histories. And again Rodriguez lamented his hard ambition and his long, vague journey, turning away twice from happiness; once in the village of Lowlight where happiness deserted him, and here in the goodly forest where he jilted happiness. How well could he and Morano live as two of this band, he thought; leaving all cares in cities: for there dwelt cares in cities even then. Then he put the thought away. And as the evening wore away with merry talk and with song, Rodriguez turned to Miguel and told him how it was with la Garda and broached the matter of horses. And while the others sang Miguel spoke sadly to him. "Master," he said, "la Garda shall never take you in Shadow Valley, yet if you must leave us to make your fortune in the wars, though your fortune waits you here, there be many horses in the forest, and you and your servant shall have the best." "Tomorrow morning, señor?" said Rodriguez. "Even so," said Miguel. "And how shall I send them to you again?" said Rodriguez. "Master, they are yours," said Miguel. But this Rodriguez would not have, for as yet he only guessed what claim at all he had upon Shadow Valley, his speculations being far more concerned with the identity of the hidalgo that he had fought the night before, how he concerned Serafina, who had owned the rose that he carried: in fact his mind was busy with such studies as were proper to his age. And at last they decided between them on the house of a lowland smith, who was the furthest man that the bowmen knew who was secretly true to their king. At his house Rodriguez and Morano should leave the horses. He dwelt sixty miles from the northern edge of the forest, and would surely give Rodriguez fresh horses if he possessed them, for he was a true man to the bowman. His name was Gonzalez and he dwelt in a queer green house. They turned then to listen a moment to a hunting song that all the bowmen were singing about the death of a boar. Its sheer merriment constrained them. Then Miguel spoke again. "You should not leave the forest," he said sadly. Rodriguez sighed: it was decided. Then Miguel told him of his road, which ran north-eastward and would one day bring him out of Spain. He told him how towns on the way, and the river Ebro, and with awe and reverence he spoke of the mighty Pyrenees. And then Rodriguez rose, for the start was to be at dawn, and walked quietly through the singing out of the hall to the room where the great bed was. And soon he slept, and his dreams joined in the endless hunt through Shadow Valley that was carved all round the timbers of his bed. All too soon he heard voices, voices far off at first, to which he drew nearer and nearer; thus he woke grudgingly out of the deeps of sleep. It was Miguel and Morano calling him. When at length he reached the hall all the merriment of the evening was gone from it but the sober beauty of the forest flooded in through both windows with early sunlight and bird-song; so that it had not the sad appearance of places in which we have rejoiced, when we revisit them next day or next generation and find them all deserted by dance and song. Rodriguez ate his breakfast while the bowmen waited with their bows all strung by the door. When he was ready they all set off in the early light through the forest. Rodriguez did not criticise his ambition; it sailed too high above his logic for that; but he regretted it, as he went through the beauty of the forest among these happy men. But we must all have an ambition, and Rodriguez stuck to the one he had. He had another, but it was an ambition with weak wings that could not come to hope. It depended upon the first. If he could win a castle in the wars he felt that he might even yet hope towards Lowlight. Little was said, and Rodriguez was all alone with his thoughts. In two hours they met a bowman holding two horses. They had gone eight miles. "Farewell to the forest," said Miguel to Rodriguez. There was almost a query in his voice. Would Rodriguez really leave them? it seemed to say. "Farewell," he answered. Morano too had looked sideways towards his master, seeming almost to wonder what his answer would be: when it came he accepted it and walked to the horses. Rodriguez mounted: willing hands helped up Morano. "Farewell," said Miguel once more. And all the bowmen shouted "Farewell." "Make my farewell," said Rodriguez, "to the King of Shadow Valley." A twig cracked in the forest. "Hark," said Miguel. "Maybe that was a boar." "I cannot wait to hunt," said Rodriguez, "for I have far to go." "Maybe," said Miguel, "it was the King's farewell to you." Rodriguez looked into the forest and saw nothing. "Farewell," he said again. The horses were fresh and he let his go. Morano lumbered behind him. In two miles they came to the edge of the forest and up a rocky hill, and so to the plains again, and one more adventure lay behind them. Rodriguez turned round once on the high ground and took a long look back on the green undulations of peace. The forest slept there as though empty of men. Then they rode. In the first hour, easily cantering, they did ten miles. Then they settled down to what those of our age and country and occupation know as a hound-jog, which is seven miles an hour. And after two hours they let the horses rest. It was the hour of the frying-pan. Morano, having dismounted, stretched himself dolefully; then he brought out all manner of meats. Rodriguez looked wonderingly at them. "For the wars, master," said Morano. To whatever wars they went, the green bowmen seemed to have supplied an ample commissariat. They ate. And Rodriguez thought of the wars, for the thought of Serafina made him sad, and his rejection of the life of the forest saddened him too; so he sought to draw from the future the comfort that he could not get from the past. They mounted again and rode again for three hours, till they saw very far off on a hill a village that Miguel had told them was fifty miles from the forest. "We rest the night there," said Rodriguez pointing, though it was yet seven or eight miles away. "All the Saints be praised," said Morano. They dismounted then and went on foot, for the horses were weary. At evening they rode slowly into the village. At an inn whose hospitable looks were as cheerfully unlike the Inn of the Dragon and Knight as possible, they demanded lodging for all four. They went first to the stable, and when the horses had been handed over to the care of a groom they returned to the inn, and mine host and Rodriguez had to help Morano up the three steps to the door, for he had walked nine miles that day and ridden fifty and he was too weary to climb the steps. And later Rodriguez sat down alone to his supper at a table well and variously laden, for the doors of mine hosts' larder were opened wide in his honour; but Rodriguez ate sparingly, as do weary men. And soon he sought his bed. And on the old echoing stairs as he and mine host ascended they met Morano leaning against the wall. What shall I say of Morano? Reader, your sympathy is all ready to go out to the poor, weary man. He does not entirely deserve it, and shall not cheat you of it. Reader, Morano was drunk. I tell you this sorry truth rather than that the knave should have falsely come by your pity. And yet he is dead now over three hundred years, having had his good time to the full. Does he deserve your pity on that account? Or your envy? And to whom or what would you give it? Well, anyhow, he deserved no pity for being drunk. And yet he was thirsty, and too tired to eat, and sore in need of refreshment, and had had no more cause to learn to shun good wine than he had had to shun the smiles of princesses; and there the good wine had been, sparkling beside him merrily. And now, why now, fatigued as he had been an hour or so ago (but time had lost its tiresome, restless meaning), now he stood firm while all things and all men staggered. "Morano," said Rodriguez as he passed that foolish figure, "we go sixty miles to-morrow." "Sixty, master?" said Morano. "A hundred: two hundred." "It is best to rest now," said his master. "Two hundred, master, two hundred," Morano replied. And then Rodriguez left him, and heard him muttering his challenge to distance still, "Two hundred, two hundred," till the old stairway echoed with it. And so he came to his chamber, of which he remembered little, for sleep lurked there and he was soon with dreams, faring further with them than my pen can follow. THE EIGHTH CHRONICLE HOW HE TRAVELLED FAR One blackbird on a twig near Rodriguez' window sang, then there were fifty singing, and morning arose over Spain all golden and wonderful. Rodriguez descended and found mine host rubbing his hands by his good table, with a look on his face that seemed to welcome the day and to find good auguries concerning it. But Morano looked as one that, having fallen from some far better place, is ill-content with earth and the mundane way. He had scorned breakfast; but Rodriguez breakfasted. And soon the two were bidding mine host farewell. They found their horses saddled, they mounted at once, and rode off slowly in the early day. The horses were tired and, slowly trotting and walking, and sometimes dismounting and dragging the horses on, it was nearly two hours before they had done ten miles and come to the house of the smith in a rocky village: the street was cobbled and the houses were all of stone. The early sparkle had gone from the dew, but it was still morning, and many a man but now sat down to his breakfast, as they arrived and beat on the door. Gonzalez the smith opened it, a round and ruddy man past fifty, a citizen following a reputable trade, but once, ah once, a bowman. "Señor," said Rodriguez, "our horses are weary. We have been told you will change them for us." "Who told you that?" said Gonzalez. "The green bowmen in Shadow Valley," the young man answered. As a meteor at night lights up with its greenish glare flowers and blades of grass, twisting long shadows behind them, lights up lawns and bushes and the deep places of woods, scattering quiet night for a moment, so the unexpected answer of Rodriguez lit memories in the mind of the smith all down the long years; and a twinkle and a sparkle of those memories dancing in woods long forsaken flashed from his eyes. "The green bowmen, señor," said Gonzalez. "Ah, Shadow Valley!" "We left it yesterday," said Rodriguez. When Gonzalez heard this he poured forth questions. "The forest, señor; how is it now with the forest? Do the boars still drink at Heather Pool? Do the geese go still to Greatmarsh? They should have come early this year. How is it with Larios, Raphael, Migada? Who shoots woodcock now?" The questions flowed on past answering, past remembering: he had not spoken of the forest for years. And Rodriguez answered as such questions are always answered, saying that all was well, and giving Gonzalez some little detail of some trifling affair of the forest, which he treasured as small shells are treasured in inland places when travellers bring them from the sea; but all that he heard of the forest seemed to the smith like something gathered on a far shore of time. Yes, he had been a bowman once. But he had no horses. One horse that drew a cart, but no horses for riding at all. And Rodriguez thought of the immense miles lying between him and the foreign land, keeping him back from his ambition; they all pressed on his mind at once. The smith was sorry, but he could not make horses. "Show him your coin, master," said Morano. "Ah, a small token," said Rodriguez, drawing it forth still on its green ribbon under his clothing. "The bowman's badge, is it not?" Gonzalez looked at it, then looked at Rodriguez. "Master," he said, "you shall have your horses. Give me time: you shall have them. Enter, master." And he bowed and widely opened the door. "If you will breakfast in my house while I go to the neighbours you shall have some horses, master." So they entered the house, and the smith with many bows gave the travellers over to the care of his wife, who saw from her husband's manner that these were persons of importance and as such she treated them both, and as such entertained them to their second breakfast. And this meant they ate heartily, as travellers can, who can go without a breakfast or eat two; and those who dwell in cities can do neither. And while the plump dame did them honour they spoke no word of the forest, for they knew not what place her husband's early years had in her imagination. They had barely finished their meal when the sound of hooves on cobbles was heard and Gonzalez beat on the door. They all went to the door and found him there with two horses. The horses were saddled and bridled. They fixed the stirrups to please them, then the travellers mounted at once. Rodriguez made his grateful farewell to the wife of the smith: then, turning to Gonzalez, he pointed to the two tired horses which had waited all the while with their reins thrown over a hook on the wall. "Let the owner of these have them till his own come back," he said, and added: "How far may I take these?" "They are good horses," said the smith. "Yes," said Rodriguez. "They could do fifty miles to-day," Gonzalez continued, "and to-morrow, why, forty, or a little more." "And where will that bring me?" said Rodriguez, pointing to the straight road which was going his way, north-eastward. "That," said Gonzalez, "that should bring you some ten or twenty miles short of Saspe." "And where shall I leave the horses?" Rodriguez asked. "Master," Gonzalez said, "in any village where there be a smith, if you say 'these are the horses of the smith Gonzalez, who will come for them one day from here,' they will take them in for you, master." "But," and Gonzalez walked a little away from his wife, and the horses walked and he went beside them, "north of here none knows the bowmen. You will get no fresh horses, master. What will you do?" "Walk," said Rodriguez. Then they said farewell, and there was a look on the face of the smith almost such as the sons of men might have worn in Genesis when angels visited them briefly. They settled down into a steady trot and trotted thus for three hours. Noon came, and still there was no rest for Morano, but only dust and the monotonous sight of the road, on which his eyes were fixed: nearly an hour more passed, and at last he saw his master halt and turn round in his saddle. "Dinner," Rodriguez said. All Morano's weariness vanished: it was the hour of the frying-pan once more. They had done more than twenty-one miles from the house of Gonzalez. Nimbly enough, in his joy at feeling the ground again, Morano ran and gathered sticks from the bushes. And soon he had a fire, and a thin column of grey smoke going up from it that to him was always home. When the frying-pan warmed and lard sizzled, when the smell of bacon mingled with the smoke, then Morano was where all wise men and all unwise try to be, and where some of one or the other some times come for awhile, by unthought paths and are gone again; for that smoky, mixed odour was happiness. Not for long men and horses rested, for soon Rodriguez' ambition was drawing him down the road again, of which he knew that there remained to be travelled over two hundred miles in Spain, and how much beyond that he knew not, nor greatly cared, for beyond the frontier of Spain he believed there lay the dim, desired country of romance where roads were long no more and no rain fell. They mounted again and pushed on for this country. Not a village they saw but that Morano hoped that here his affliction would end and that he would dismount and rest; and always Rodriguez rode on and Morano followed, and with a barking of dogs they were gone and the village rested behind them. For many an hour their slow trot carried them on; and Morano, clutching the saddle with worn arms, already was close to despair, when Rodriguez halted in a little village at evening before an inn. They had done their fifty miles from the house of Gonzalez, and even a little more. Morano rolled from his horse and beat on the small green door. Mine host came out and eyed them, preening the point of his beard; and Rodriguez sat his horse and looked at him. They had not the welcome here that Gonzalez gave them; but there was a room to spare for Rodriguez, and Morano was promised what he asked for, straw; and there was shelter to be had for the horses. It was all the travellers needed. Children peered at the strangers, gossips peeped out of doors to gather material concerning them, dogs noted their coming, the eyes of the little village watched them curiously, but Rodriguez and Morano passed into the house unheeding; and past those two tired men the mellow evening glided by like a dream. Tired though Rodriguez was he noticed a certain politeness in mine host while he waited at supper, which had not been noticeable when he had first received him, and rightly put this down to some talk of Morano's; but he did not guess that Morano had opened wide blue eyes and, babbling to his host, had guilelessly told him that his master a week ago had killed an uncivil inn-keeper. Scarcely were late birds home before Rodriguez sought his bed, and not all of them were sleeping before he slept. Another morning shone, and appeared to Spain, and all at once Rodriguez was wide awake. It was the eighth day of his wanderings. When he had breakfasted and paid his due in silver he and Morano departed, leaving mine host upon his doorstep bowing with an almost perplexed look on his shrewd face as he took the points of moustachios and beard lightly in turn between finger and thumb: for we of our day enter vague details about ourselves in the book downstairs when we stay at inns, but it was mine host's custom to gather all that with his sharp eyes. Whatever he gathered, Rodriguez and Morano were gone. But soon their pace dwindled, the trot slackening and falling to a walk; soon Rodriguez learned what it is to travel with tired horses. To Morano riding was merely riding, and the discomforts of that were so great that he noticed no difference. But to Rodriguez, his continual hitting and kicking his horse's sides, his dislike of doing it, the uselessness of it when done, his ambition before and the tired beast underneath, the body always some yards behind the beckoning spirit, were as great vexation as a traveller knows. It came to dismounting and walking miles on foot; even then the horses hung back. They halted an hour over dinner while the horses grazed and rested, and they returned to their road refreshed by the magic that was in the frying-pan, but the horses were no fresher. When our bodies are slothful and lie heavy, never responding to the spirit's bright promptings, then we know dullness: and the burden of it is the graver for hearing our spirits call faintly, as the chains of a buccaneer in some deep prison, who hears a snatch of his comrades' singing as they ride free by the coast, would grow more unbearable than ever before. But the weight of his tired horse seemed to hang heavier on the fanciful hopes that Rodriguez' dreams had made. Farther than ever seemed the Pyrenees, huger than ever their barrier, dimmer and dimmer grew the lands of romance. If the hopes of Rodriguez were low, if his fancies were faint, what material have I left with which to make a story with glitter enough to hold my readers' eyes to the page: for know that mere dreams and idle fancies, and all amorous, lyrical, unsubstantial things, are all that we writers have of which to make a tale, as they are all that the Dim Ones have to make the story of man. Sometimes riding, sometimes going on foot, with the thought of the long, long miles always crowding upon Rodriguez, overwhelming his hopes; till even the castle he was to win in the wars grew too pale for his fancy to see, tired and without illusions, they came at last by starlight to the glow of a smith's forge. He must have done forty-five miles and he knew they were near Caspe. The smith was working late, and looked up when Rodriguez halted. Yes, he knew Gonzalez, a master in the trade: there was a welcome for his horses. But for the two human travellers there were excuses, even apologies, but no spare beds. It was the same in the next three or four houses that stood together by the road. And the fever of Rodriguez' ambition drove him on, though Morano would have lain down and slept where they stood, though he himself was weary. The smith had received his horses; after that he cared not whether they gave him shelter or not, the alternative being the road, and that bringing nearer his wars and the castle he was to win. And that fancy that led his master Morano allowed always to lead him too, though a few more miles and he would have fallen asleep as he walked and dropped by the roadside and slept on. Luckily they had gone barely two miles from the forge where the horses rested, when they saw a high, dark house by the road and knocked on the door and found shelter. It was an old woman who let them in, a farmer's wife, and she had room for them and one mattress, but no bed. They were too tired to eat and did not ask for food, but at once followed her up the booming stairs of her house, which were all dark but for her candle, and so came among huge minuetting shadows to the long loft at the top. There was a mattress there which the old woman laid out for Rodriguez, and a heap of hay for Morano. Just for a moment, as Rodriguez climbed the last step of the stair and entered the loft where the huge shadows twirled between the one candle's light and the unbeaten darkness in corners, just for a moment romance seemed to beckon to him; for a moment, in spite of his fatigue and dejection, in spite of the possibility of his quest being crazy, for a moment he felt that great shadows and echoing boards, the very cobwebs even that hung from the black rafters, were all romantic things; he felt that his was a glorious adventure and that all these things that filled the loft in the night were such as should fitly attend on youth and glory. In a moment that feeling was gone he knew not why it had come. And though he remembered it till grey old age, when he came to know the causes of many things, he never knew what romance might have to do with shadows or echoes at night in an empty room, and only knew of such fancies that they came from beyond his understanding, whether from wisdom or folly. Morano was first asleep, as enormous snores testified, almost before the echoes had died away of the footsteps of the old woman descending the stairs; but soon Rodriguez followed him into the region of dreams, where fantastic ambitions can live with less of a struggle than in the broad light of day: he dreamed he walked at night down a street of castles strangely colossal in an awful starlight, with doors too vast for any human need, whose battlements were far in the heights of night; and chose, it being in time of war, the one that should be his; but the gargoyles on it were angry and spoiled the dream. Dream followed dream with furious rapidity, as the dreams of tired men do, racing each other, jostling and mingling and dancing, an ill-assorted company: myriads went by, a wild, grey, cloudy multitude; and with the last walked dawn. Rodriguez rose more relieved to quit so tumultuous a rest than refreshed by having had it. He descended, leaving Morano to sleep on, and not till the old dame had made a breakfast ready did he return to interrupt his snores. Even as he awoke upon his heap of hay Morano remained as true to his master's fantastic quest as the camel is true to the pilgrimage to Mecca. He awoke grumbling, as the camel grumbles at dawn when the packs are put on him where he lies, but never did he doubt that they went to victorious wars where his master would win a castle splendid with towers. Breakfast cheered both the travellers. And then the old lady told Rodriguez that Caspe was but a three hours' walk, and that cheered them even more, for Caspe is on the Ebro, which seemed to mark for Rodriguez a stage in his journey, being carried easily in his imagination, like the Pyrenees. What road he would take when he reached Caspe he had not planned. And soon Rodriguez expressed his gratitude, full of fervour, with many a flowery phrase which lived long in the old dame's mind; and the visit of those two travellers became one of the strange events of that house and was chief of the memories that faintly haunted the rafters of the loft for years. They did not reach Caspe in three hours, but went lazily, being weary; for however long a man defies fatigue the hour comes when it claims him. The knowledge that Caspe lay near with sure lodging for the night, soothed Rodriguez' impatience. And as they loitered they talked, and they decided that la Garda must now be too far behind to pursue any longer. They came in four hours to the bank of the Ebro and there saw Caspe near them; but they dined once more on the grass, sitting beside the river, rather than enter the town at once, for there had grown in both travellers a liking for the wanderers' green table of earth. It was a time to make plans. The country of romance was far away and they were without horses. "Will you buy horses, master?" said Morano. "We might not get them over the Pyrenees," said Rodriguez, though he had a better reason, which was that three gold pieces did not buy two saddled horses. There were no more friends to hire from. Morano grew thoughtful. He sat with his feet dangling over the bank of the Ebro. "Master," he said after a while, "this river goes our way. Let us come by boat, master, and drift down to France at our ease." To get a river over a range of mountains is harder than to get horses. Some such difficulty Rodriguez implied to him; but Morano, having come slowly by an idea, parted not so easily with it. "It goes our way, master," he repeated, and pointed a finger at the Ebro. At this moment a certain song that boatmen sing on that river, when the current is with them and they have nothing to do but be idle and their lazy thoughts run to lascivious things, came to the ears of Rodriguez and Morano; and a man with a bright blue sash steered down the Ebro. He had been fishing and was returning home. "Master," Morano said, "that knave shall row us there." Rodriguez seeing that the idea was fixed in Morano's mind determined that events would move it sooner than argument, and so made no reply. "Shall I tell him, master?" asked Morano. "Yes," said Rodriguez, "if he can row us over the Pyrenees." This was the permission that Morano sought, and a hideous yell broke from his throat hailing the boatman. The boatman looked up lazily, a young man with strong brown arms, turning black moustaches towards Morano. Again Morano hailed him and ran along the bank, while the boat drifted down and the boatman steered in towards Morano. Somehow Morano persuaded him to come in to see what he wanted; and in a creek he ran his boat aground, and there he and Morano argued and bargained. But Rodriguez remained where he was, wondering why it took so long to turn his servant's mind from that curious fancy. At last Morano returned. "Well?" said Rodriguez. "Master," said Morano, "he will row us to the Pyrenees." "The Pyrenees!" said Rodriguez. "The Ebro runs into the sea." For they had taught him this at the college of San Josephus. "He will row us there," said Morano, "for a gold piece a day, rowing five hours each day." Now between them they had but four gold pieces; but that did not make the Ebro run northward. It seemed that the Ebro, after going their way, as Morano had said, for twenty or thirty miles, was joined by the river Segre, and that where the Ebro left them, turning eastwards, the course of the Segre took them on their way: but it would be rowing against the current. "How far is it?" said Rodriguez. "A hundred miles, he says," answered Morano. "He knows it well." Rodriguez calculated swiftly. First he added thirty miles; for he knew that his countrymen took a cheerful view of distance, seldom allowing any distance to oppress them under its true name at the out set of a journey; then he guessed that the boatman might row five miles an hour for the first thirty miles with the stream of the Ebro, and he hoped that he might row three against the Segre until they came near the mountains, where the current might grow too strong. "Morano," he said, "we shall have to row too." "Row, master?" said Morano. "We can pay him for four days," said Rodriguez. "If we all row we may go far on our way." "It is better than riding," replied Morano with entire resignation. And so they walked to the creek and Rodriguez greeted the boatman, whose name was Perez; and they entered the boat and he rowed them down to Caspe. And, in the house of Perez, Rodriguez slept that night in a large dim room, untidy with diverse wares: they slept on heaps of things that pertained to the river and fishing. Yet it was late before Rodriguez slept, for in sight of his mind came glimpses at last of the end of his journey; and, when he slept at last, he saw the Pyrenees. Through the long night their mighty heads rejected him, staring immeasurably beyond him in silence, and then in happier dreams they beckoned him for a moment. Till at last a bird that had entered the city of Caspe sang clear and it was dawn. With that first light Rodriguez arose and awoke Morano. Together they left that long haven of lumber and found Perez already stirring. They ate hastily and all went down to the boat, the unknown that waits at the end of all strange journeys quickening their steps as they went through the early light. Perez rowed first and the others took their turns and so they went all the morning down the broad flood of the Ebro, and came in the afternoon to its meeting place with the Segre. And there they landed and stretched their limbs on shore and lit a fire and feasted, before they faced the current that would be henceforth against them. Then they rowed on. When they landed by starlight and unrolled a sheet of canvas that Perez had put in the boat, and found what a bad time starlight is for pitching a tent, Rodriguez and Morano had rowed for four hours each and Perez had rowed for five. They carried no timber in the boat but used the oars for tent-poles and cut tent-pegs with a small hatchet that Perez had brought. They stumbled on rocks, tore the canvas on bushes, lost the same thing over and over again; in fact they were learning the craft of wandering. Yet at last their tent was up and a good fire comforting them outside, and Morano had cooked the food and they had supped and talked, and after that they slept. And over them sleeping the starlight faded away, and in the greyness that none of them dreamed was dawn five clear notes were heard so shrill in the night that Rodriguez half waking wondered what bird of the darkness called, and learned from the answering chorus that it was day. He woke Morano who rose in that chilly hour and, striking sparks among last night's embers, soon had a fire: they hastily made a meal and wrapped up their tent and soon they were going onward against the tide of the Segre. And that day Morano rowed more skilfully; and Rodriguez unwrapped his mandolin and played, reclining in the boat while he rested from rowing. And the mandolin told them all, what the words of none could say, that they fared to adventure in the land of Romance, to the overthrow of dullness and the sameness of all drear schemes and the conquest of discontent in the spirit of man; and perhaps it sang of a time that has not yet come, or the mandolin lied. That evening three wiser men made their camp before starlight. They were now far up the Segre. For thirteen hours next day they toiled at the oars or lay languid. And while Rodriguez rested he played on his mandolin. The Segre slipped by them. They seemed like no men on their way to war, but seemed to loiter as the bright river loitered, which slid seaward in careless ease and was wholly freed from time. On this day they heard men speak of the Pyrenees, two men and a woman walking by the river; their voices came to the boat across the water, and they spoke of the Pyrenees. And on the next day they heard men speak of war. War that some farmers had fled from on the other side of the mountain. When Rodriguez heard these chance words his dreams came nearer till they almost touched the edges of reality. It was the last day of Perez' rowing. He rowed well although they neared the cradle of the Segre and he struggled against them in his youth. Grey peaks began to peer that had nursed that river. Grey faces of stone began to look over green hills. They were the Pyrenees. When Rodriguez saw at last the Pyrenees he drew a breath and was unable to speak. Soon they were gone again below the hills: they had but peered for a moment to see who troubled the Segre. And the sun set and still they did not camp, but Perez rowed on into the starlight. That day he rowed six hours. They pitched their tent as well as they could in the darkness; and, breathing a clear new air all crisp from the Pyrenees, they slept outside the threshold of adventure. Rodriguez awoke cold. Once more he heard the first blackbird who sings clear at the edge of night all alone in the greyness, the nightingale's only rival; a rival like some unknown in the midst of a crowd who for a moment leads some well-loved song, in notes more liquid than a master-singer's; and all the crowd joins in and his voice is lost, and no one learns his name. At once a host of birds answered him out of dim bushes, whose shapes had barely as yet emerged from night. And in this chorus Perez awoke, and even Morano. They all three breakfasted together, and then the wanderers said good-bye to Perez. And soon he was gone with his bright blue sash, drifting homewards with the Segre, well paid yet singing a little sadly as he drifted; for he had been one of a quest, and now he left it at the edge of adventure, near solemn mountains and, beyond them, romantic, near-unknown lands. So Perez left and Rodriguez and Morano turned again to the road, all the more lightly because they had not done a full day's march for so long, and now a great one unrolled its leagues before them. The heads of the mountains showed themselves again. They tramped as in the early days of their quest. And as they went the mountains, unveiling themselves slowly, dropping film after film of distance that hid their mighty forms, gradually revealed to the wanderers the magnificence of their beauty. Till at evening Rodriguez and Morano stood on a low hill, looking at that tremendous range, which lifted far above the fields of Earth, as though its mountains were no earthly things but sat with Fate and watched us and did not care. Rodriguez and Morano stood and gazed in silence. They had come twenty miles since morning, they were tired and hungry, but the mountains held them: they stood there looking neither for rest nor food. Beyond them, sheltering under the low hills, they saw a little village. Smoke straggled up from it high into the evening: beyond the village woods sloped away upwards. But far above smoke or woods the bare peaks brooded. Rodriguez gazed on their austere solemnity, wondering what secret they guarded there for so long, guessing what message they held and hid from man; until he learned that the mystery they guarded among them was of things that he knew not and could never know. Tinkle-ting said the bells of a church, invisible among the houses of that far village. Tinkle-ting said the crescent of hills that sheltered it. And after a while, speaking out of their grim and enormous silences with all the gravity of their hundred ages, Tinkle-ting said the mountains. With this trivial message Echo returned from among the homes of the mighty, where she had run with the small bell's tiny cry to trouble their crowned aloofness. Rodriguez and Morano pressed on, and the mountains cloaked themselves as they went, in air of many colours; till the stars came out and the lights of the village gleamed. In darkness, with surprise in the tones of the barking dogs, the two wanderers came to the village where so few ever came, for it lay at the end of Spain, cut off by those mighty rocks, and they knew not much of what lands lay beyond. They beat on a door below a hanging board, on which was written "The Inn of the World's End": a wandering scholar had written it and had been well paid for his work, for in those days writing was rare. The door was opened for them by the host of the inn, and they entered a room in which men who had supped were sitting at a table. They were all of them men from the Spanish side of the mountains, farmers come into the village on the affairs of Mother Earth; next day they would be back at their farms again; and of the land the other side of the mountains that was so near now they knew nothing, so that it still remained for the wanderers a thing of mystery wherein romance could dwell: and because they knew nothing of that land the men at the inn treasured all the more the rumours that sometimes came from it, and of these they talked, and mine host listened eagerly, to whom all tales were brought soon or late; and most he loved to hear tales from beyond the mountains. Rodriguez and Morano sat still and listened, and the talk was all of war. It was faint and vague like fable, but rumour clearly said War, and the other side of the mountains. It may be that no man has a crazy ambition without at moments suspecting it; but prove it by the touchstone of fact and he becomes at once as a woman whose invalid son, after years of seclusion indoors, wins unexpectedly some athletic prize. When Rodriguez heard all this talk of wars quite near he thought of his castle as already won; his thoughts went further even, floating through Lowlight in the glowing evening, and drifting up and down past Serafina's house below the balcony where she sat for ever. Some said the Duke would never attack the Prince because the Duke's aunt was a princess from the Troubadour's country. Another said that there would surely be war. Others said that there was war already, and too late for man to stop it. All said it would soon be over. And one man said that it was the last war that would come, because gunpowder made fighting impossible. It could smite a man down, he said, at two hundred paces, and a man be slain not knowing whom he fought. Some loved fighting and some loved peace, he said, but gunpowder suited none. "I like not the sound of that gunpowder, master," said Morano to Rodriguez. "Nobody likes it," said the man at the table. "It is the end of war." And some sighed and some were glad. But Rodriguez determined to push on before the last war was over. Next morning Rodriguez paid the last of his silver pieces and set off with Morano before any but mine host were astir. There was nothing but the mountains in front of them. They climbed all the morning and they came to the fir woods. There they lit a good fire and Morano brought out his frying-pan. Over the meal they took stock of their provisions and found that, for all the store Morano had brought from the forest, they had now only food for three days; and they were quite without money. Money in those uplifted wastes seemed trivial, but the dwindling food told Rodriguez that he must press on; for man came among those rocky monsters supplied with all his needs, or perished unnoticed before their stony faces. All the afternoon they passed through the fir woods, and as shadows began to grow long they passed the last tree. The village and all the fields about it and the road by which they had come were all spread out below them like little trivial things dimly remembered from very long ago by one whose memory weakens. Distance had dwarfed them, and the cold regard of those mighty peaks ignored them. And then a shadow fell on the village, then tiny lights shone out. It was night down there. Still the two wanderers climbed on in the daylight. With their faces to the rocks they scarce saw night climb up behind them. But when Rodriguez looked up at the sky to see how much light was left, and met the calm gaze of the evening star, he saw that Night and the peaks were met together, and understood all at once how puny an intruder is man. "Morano," said Rodriguez, "we must rest here for the night." Morano looked round him with an air of discontent, not with his master's words but with the rocks' angular hardness. There was scarce a plant of any kind near them now. They were near the snow, which had flushed like a wild rose at sunset but was now all grey. Grey cliffs seemed to be gazing sheer at eternity; and here was man, the creature of a moment, who had strayed in the cold all homeless among his betters. There was no welcome for them there: whatever feeling great mountains evoke, THAT feeling was clear in Rodriguez and Morano. They were all amongst those that have other aims, other ends, and know naught of man. A bitter chill from the snow and from starry space drove this thought home. They walked on looking for a better place, as men will, but found none. And at last they lay down on the cold earth under a rock that seemed to give shelter from the wind, and there sought sleep; but cold came instead, and sleep kept far from the tremendous presences of the peaks of the Pyrenees that gazed on things far from here. An ageing moon arose, and Rodriguez touched Morano and rose up; and the two went slowly on, tired though they were. Picture the two tiny figures, bent, shivering and weary, walking with clumsy sticks cut in the wood, amongst the scorn of those tremendous peaks, which the moon showed all too clearly. They got little warmth from walking, they were too weary to run; and after a while they halted and burned their sticks, and got a little warmth for some moments from their fire, which burned feebly and strangely in those inhuman solitudes. Then they went on again and their track grew steeper. They rested again for fatigue, and rose and climbed again because of the cold; and all the while the peaks stared over them to spaces far beyond the thought of man. Long before Spain knew anything of dawn a monster high in heaven smiled at the sun, a peak out-towering all its aged children. It greeted the sun as though this lonely thing, that scorned the race of man since ever it came, had met a mighty equal out in Space. The vast peak glowed, and the rest of its grey race took up the greeting leisurely one by one. Still it was night in all Spanish houses. Rodriguez and Morano were warmed by that cold peak's glow, though no warmth came from it at all; but the sight of it cheered them and their pulses rallied, and so they grew warmer in that bitter hour. And then dawn came, and showed them that they were near the top of the pass. They had come to the snow that gleams there everlastingly. There was no material for a fire but they ate cold meats, and went wearily on. They passed through that awful assemblage of peaks. By noon they were walking upon level ground. In the afternoon Rodriguez, tired with the journey and with the heat of the sun, decided that it was possible to sleep, and, wrapping his cloak around him, he lay down, doing what Morano would have done, by instinct. Morano was asleep at once and Rodriguez soon after. They awoke with the cold at sunset. Refreshed amazingly they ate some food and started their walk again to keep themselves warm for the night. They were still on level ground and set out with a good stride in their relief at being done with climbing. Later they slowed down and wandered just to keep warm. And some time in the starlight they felt their path dip, and knew that they were going downward now to the land of Rodriguez' dreams. When the peaks glowed again, first meeting day in her earliest dancing-grounds of filmy air, they stood now behind the wanderers. Below them still in darkness lay the land of their dream, but hitherto it had always faded at dawn. Now hills put up their heads one by one through films of mist; woods showed, then hedges, and afterwards fields, greyly at first and then, in the cold hard light of morning, becoming more and more real. The sight of the land so long sought, at moments believed by Morano not to exist on earth, perhaps to have faded away when fables died, swept their fatigue from the wanderers, and they stepped out helped by the slope of the Pyrenees and cheered by the rising sun. They came at last to things that welcome man, little shrubs flowering, and--at noon--to the edge of a fir wood. They entered the wood and lit a merry fire, and heard birds singing, at which they both rejoiced, for the great peaks had said nothing. They ate the food that Morano cooked, and drew warmth and cheer from the fire, and then they slept a little: and, rising from sleep, they pushed on through the wood, downward and downward toward the land of their dreams, to see if it was true. They passed the wood and came to curious paths, and little hills, and heath, and rocky places, and wandering vales that twisted all awry. They passed through them all with the slope of the mountain behind them. When level rays from the sunset mellowed the fields of France the wanderers were walking still, but the peaks were far behind them, austerely gazing on the remotest things, forgetting the footsteps of man. And walking on past soft fields in the evening, all tilted a little about the mountain's feet, they had scarcely welcomed the sight of the evening star, when they saw before them the mild glow of a window and knew they were come again to the earth that is mother to man. In their cold savagery the inhuman mountains decked themselves out like gods with colours they took from the sunset; then darkened, all those peaks, in brooding conclave and disappeared in the night. And the hushed night heard the tiny rap of Morano's hands on the door of the house that had the glowing window. THE NINTH CHRONICLE HOW HE WON A CASTLE IN SPAIN The woman that came to the door had on her face a look that pleased Morano. "Are you soldiers?" she said. And her scared look portended war. "My master is a traveller looking for the wars," said Morano. "Are the wars near?" "Oh, no, not near," said the woman; "not near." And something in the anxious way she said "not near" pleased Morano also. "We shall find those wars, master," he said. And then they both questioned her. It seemed the wars were but twenty miles away. "But they will move northward," she said. "Surely they will move farther off?" Before the next night was passed Rodriguez' dream might come true! And then the man came to the door anxious at hearing strange voices; and Morano questioned him too, but he understood never a word. He was a French farmer that had married a Spanish girl, out of the wonderful land beyond the mountains: but whether he understood her or not he never understood Spanish. But both Rodriguez and the farmer's wife knew the two languages, and he had no difficulty in asking for lodging for the night; and she looked wistfully at him going to the wars, for in those days wars were small and not every man went. The night went by with dreams that were all on the verge of waking, which passed like ghosts along the edge of night almost touched by the light of day. It was Rodriguez whom these dreams visited. The farmer and his wife wondered awhile and then slept; Morano slept with all his wonted lethargy; but Rodriguez with his long quest now on the eve of fulfilment slept a tumultuous sleep. Sometimes his dreams raced over the Pyrenees, running south as far as Lowlight; and sometimes they rushed forward and clung like bats to the towers of the great castle that he should win in the war. And always he lay so near the edge of sleep that he never distinguished quite between thought and dream. Dawn came and he put by all the dreams but the one that guided him always, and went and woke Morano. They ate hurriedly and left the house, and again the farmer's wife looked curiously at Rodriguez, as though there were something strange in a man that went to wars: for those days were not as these days. They followed the direction that had been given them, and never had the two men walked so fast. By the end of four hours they had done sixteen miles. They halted then, and Morano drew out his frying-pan with a haughty flourish, and cooked in the grand manner, every movement he made was a triumphant gesture; for they had passed refugees! War was now obviously close: they had but to take the way that the refugees were not taking. The dream was true: Morano saw himself walking slowly in splendid dress along the tapestried corridors of his master's castle. He would have slept after eating and would have dreamed more of this, but Rodriguez commanded him to put the things together: so what remained of the food disappeared again in a sack, the frying-pan was slung over his shoulders, and Morano stood ready again for the road. They passed more refugees: their haste was unmistakable, and told more than their lips could have told had they tarried to speak: the wars were near now, and the wanderers went leisurely. As they strolled through the twilight they came over the brow of a hill, a little fold of the earth disturbed eras ago by the awful rushing up of the Pyrenees; and they saw the evening darkening over the fields below them and a white mist rising only just clear of the grass, and two level rows of tents greyish-white like the mist, with a few more tents scattered near them. The tents had come up that evening with the mist, for there were men still hammering pegs. They were lighting fires now as evening settled in. Two hundred paces or so separated each row. It was two armies facing each other. The gloaming faded: mist and the tents grew greyer: camp-fires blinked out of the dimness and grew redder and redder, and candles began to be lit beside the tents till all were glowing pale golden: Rodriguez and Morano stood there wondering awhile as they looked on the beautiful aura that surrounds the horrors of war. They came by starlight to that tented field, by twinkling starlight to the place of Rodriguez' dream. "For which side will you fight, master?" said Morano in his ear. "For the right," said Rodriguez and strode on towards the nearest tents, never doubting that he would be guided, though not trying to comprehend how this could be. They met with an officer going among his tents. "Where do you go?" he shouted. "Señor," Rodriguez said, "I come with my mandolin to sing songs to you." And at this the officer called out and others came from their tents; and Rodriguez repeated his offer to them not without confidence, for he knew that he had a way with the mandolin. And they said that they fought a battle on the morrow and could not listen to song: they heaped scorn on singing for they said they must needs prepare for the fight: and all of them looked with scorn on the mandolin. So Rodriguez bowed low to them with doffed hat and left them; and Morano bowed also, seeing his master bow; and the men of that camp returned to their preparations. A short walk brought Rodriguez and his servant to the other camp, over a flat field convenient for battle. He went up to a large tent well lit, the door being open towards him; and, having explained his errand to a sentry that stood outside, he entered and saw three persons of quality that were sitting at a table. To them he bowed low in the tent door, saying: "Señors, I am come to sing songs to you, playing the while upon my mandolin." And they welcomed him gladly, saying: "We fight tomorrow and will gladly cheer our hearts with the sound of song and strengthen our men thereby." And so Rodriguez sang among the tents, standing by a great fire to which they led him; and men came from the tents and into the circle of light, and in the darkness outside it were more than Rodriguez saw. And he sang to the circle of men and the vague glimmer of faces. Songs of their homes he sang them, not in their language, but songs that were made by old poets about the homes of their infancy, in valleys under far mountains remote from the Pyrenees. And in the song the yearnings of dead poets lived again, all streaming homeward like swallows when the last of the storms is gone: and those yearnings echoed in the hearts that beat in the night around the campfire, and they saw their own homes. And then he began to touch his mandolin; and he played them the tunes that draw men from their homes and that march them away to war. The tunes flowed up from the firelight: the mandolin knew. And the men heard the mandolin saying what they would say. In the late night he ended, and a hush came down on the camp while the music floated away, going up from the dark ring of men and the fire-lit faces, touching perhaps the knees of the Pyrenees and drifting thence wherever echoes go. And the sparks of the camp-fire went straight upwards as they had done for hours, and the men that sat around it saw them go: for long they had not seen the sparks stream upwards, for their thoughts were far away with the mandolin. And all at once they cheered. And Rodriguez bowed to the one whose tent he had entered, and sought permission to fight for them in the morning. With good grace this was accorded him, and while he bowed and well expressed his thanks he felt Morano touching his elbow. And as soon as he had gone aside with Morano that fat man's words bubbled over and were said. "Master, fight not for these men," he exclaimed, "for they listen to song till midnight while the others prepare for battle. The others will win the fight, master, and where will your castle be?" "Morano," said Rodriguez, "there seems to be truth in that. Yet must we fight for the right. For how would it be if those that have denied song should win and thrive? The arm of every good man must be against them. They have denied song, Morano! We must fight against them, you and I, while we can lay sword to head." "Yes, indeed, master," said Morano. "But how shall you come by your castle?" "As for that," said Rodriguez, "it must some day be won, yet not by denying song. These have given a welcome to song, and the others have driven it forth. And what would life be if those that deny song are to be permitted to thrive unmolested by all good men?" "I know not, master," said Morano, "but I would have that castle." "Enough," said Rodriguez. "We must fight for the right." And so Rodriguez remained true to those that had heard him sing. And they gave him a casque and breast-plate, proof, they said, against any sword, and offered a sword that they said would surely cleave any breast-plate. For they fought not in battle with the nimble rapier. But Rodriguez did not forsake that famous exultant sword whose deeds he knew from many an ancient song; which he had brought so far to give it its old rich drink of blood. He believed it the bright key of the castle he was to win. And they gave Rodriguez a good bed on the ground in the tent of the three leaders, the tent to which he first came; for they honoured him for the gift of song that he had, and because he was a stranger, and because he had asked permission to fight for them in their battle. And Rodriguez took one look by the light of a lantern at the rose he had carried from Lowlight, then slept a sleep through whose dreams loomed up the towers of castles. Dawn came and he slept on still; but by seven all the camp was loudly astir, for they had promised the enemy to begin the battle at eight. Rodriguez breakfasted lightly; for, now that the day of his dreams was come at last and all his hopes depended on the day, an anxiety for many things oppressed him. It was as though his castle, rosy and fair in dreams, chilled with its huge cold rocks all the air near it: it was as though Rodriguez touched it at last with his hands and felt a dankness of which he had never dreamed. Then it came to the hour of eight and his anxieties passed. The army was now drawn up before its tents in line, but the enemy was not yet ready and so they had to wait. When the signal at length was given and the cannoniers fired their pieces, and the musketoons were shot off, many men fell. Now Rodriguez, with Morano, was placed on the right, and either through a slight difference in numbers or because of an unevenness in the array of battle they a little overlapped the enemy's left. When a few men fell wounded there by the discharge of the musketoons this overlapping was even more pronounced. Now the leaders of that fair army scorned all unknightly devices, and would never have descended to any vile ruse de guerre. The reproach can therefore never be made against them that they ever intended to outflank their enemy. Yet, when both armies advanced after the discharge of the musketoons and the merry noise of the cannon, this occurred as the result of chance, which no leader can be held accountable for; so that those that speak of treachery in this battle, and deliberate outflanking, lie. Now Rodriguez as he advanced with his sword, when the musketoons were empty, had already chosen his adversary. For he had carefully watched those opposite to him, before any smoke should obscure them, and had selected the one who from the splendour of his dress might be expected to possess the finest castle. Certainly this adversary outshone those amongst whom he stood, and gave fair promise of owning goodly possessions, for he wore a fine green cloak over a dress of lilac, and his helm and cuirass had a look of crafty workmanship. Towards him Rodriguez marched. Then began fighting foot to foot, and there was a pretty laying on of swords. And had there been a poet there that day then the story of their fight had come down to you, my reader, all that way from the Pyrenees, down all those hundreds of years, and this tale of mine had been useless, the lame repetition in prose of songs that your nurses had sung to you. But they fought unseen by those that see for the Muses. Rodriguez advanced upon his chosen adversary and, having briefly bowed, they engaged at once. And Rodriguez belaboured his helm till dints appeared, and beat it with swift strokes yet till the dints were cracks, and beat the cracks till hair began to appear: and all the while his adversary's strokes grew weaker and wilder, until he tottered to earth and Rodriguez had won. Swift then as cats, while Morano kept off others, Rodriguez leaped to his throat, and, holding up the stiletto that he had long ago taken as his legacy from the host of the Dragon and Knight, he demanded the fallen man's castle as ransom for his life. "My castle, señor?" said his prisoner weakly. "Yes," said Rodriguez impatiently. "Yes, señor," said his adversary and closed his eyes for awhile. "Does he surrender his castle, master?" asked Morano. "Yes, indeed," said Rodriguez. They looked at each other: all at last was well. The battle was rolling away from them and was now well within the enemy's tents. History says of that day that the good men won. And, sitting, a Muse upon her mythical mountain, her decision must needs be one from which we may not appeal: and yet I wonder if she is ever bribed. Certainly the shrewd sense of Morano erred for once; for those for whom he had predicted victory, because they prepared so ostentatiously upon the field, were defeated; while the others, having made their preparations long before, were able to cheer themselves with song before the battle and to win it when it came. And so Rodriguez was left undisturbed in possession of his prisoner and with the promise of his castle as a ransom. The battle was swiftly over, as must needs be where little armies meet so close. The enemy's camp was occupied, his army routed, and within an hour of beginning the battle the last of the fighting ceased. The army returned to its tents to rejoice and to make a banquet, bringing with them captives and horses and other spoils of war. And Rodriguez had honour among them because he had fought on the right and so was one of those that had broken the enemy's left, from which direction victory had come. And they would have feasted him and done him honour, both for his work with the sword and for his songs to the mandolin; and they would have marched away soon to their own country and would have taken him with them and advanced him to honour there. But Rodriguez would not stay with them for he had his castle at last, and must needs march off at once with his captive and Morano to see the fulfilment of his dream. And therefore he thanked the leaders of that host with many a courtesy and many a well-bent bow, and explained to them how it was about his castle, and felicitated them on the victory of their good cause, and so wished them farewell. And they said farewell sorrowfully: but when they saw he would go, they gave him horses for himself and Morano, and another for his captive; and they heaped them with sacks of provender and blankets and all things that could give him comfort upon a journey: all this they brought him out of their spoils of war, and they would give him no less that the most that the horses could carry. And then Rodriguez turned to his captive again, who now stood on his feet. "Señor," he said, "pray tell us all of your castle wherewith you ransom your life." "Señor," he answered, "I have a castle in Spain." "Master," broke in Morano, his eyes lighting up with delight, "there are no castles like the Spanish ones." They got to horse then, all three; the captive on a horse of far poorer build than the other two and well-laden with sacks, for Rodriguez took no chance of his castle cantering, as it were, away from him on four hooves through the dust. And when they heard that his journey was by way of the Pyrenees four knights of that army swore they would ride with him as far as the frontier of Spain, to bear him company and bring him fuel in the lonely cold of the mountains. They all set off and the merry army cheered. He left them making ready for their banquet, and never knew the cause for which he had fought. They came by evening again to the house to which Rodriguez had come two nights before, when he had slept there with his castle yet to win. They all halted before it, and the man and the woman came to the door terrified. "The wars!" they said. "The wars," said one of the riders, "are over, and the just cause has won." "The Saints be praised!" said the woman. "But will there be no more fighting?" "Never again," said the horseman, "for men are sick of gunpowder." "The Saints be thanked," she said. "Say not that," said the horseman, "for Satan invented gunpowder." And she was silent; but, had none been there, she had secretly thanked Satan. They demanded the food and shelter that armed men have the right to demand. In the morning they were gone. They became a memory, which lingered like a vision, made partly of sunset and partly of the splendour of their cloaks, and so went down the years that those two folk had, a thing of romance, magnificence and fear. And now the slope of the mountain began to lift against them, and they rode slowly towards those unearthly peaks that had deserted the level fields before ever man came to them, and that sat there now familiar with stars and dawn with the air of never having known of man. And as they rode they talked. And Rodriguez talked with the four knights that rode with him, and they told tales of war and told of the ways of fighting of many men: and Morano rode behind them beside the captive and questioned him all the morning about his castle in Spain. And at first the captive answered his questions slowly, as if he were weary, or as though he were long from home and remembered its features dimly; but memory soon returned and he answered clearly, telling of such a castle as Morano had not dreamed; and the eyes of the fat man bulged as he rode beside him, growing rounder and rounder as they rode. They came by sunset to that wood of firs in which Rodriguez had rested. In the midst of the wood they halted and tethered their horses to trees; they tied blankets to branches and made an encampment; and in the midst of it they made a fire, at first, with pine-needles and the dead lower twigs and then with great logs. And there they feasted together, all seven, around the fire. And when the feast was over and the great logs burning well, and red sparks went up slowly towards the silver stars, Morano turned to the prisoner seated beside him and "Tell the señors," he said, "of my master's castle." And in the silence, that was rather lulled than broken by the whispering wind from the snow that sighed through the wood, the captive slowly lifted up his head and spoke in his queer accent. "Señors, in Aragon, across the Ebro, are many goodly towers." And as he spoke they all leaned forward to listen, dark faces bright with firelight. "On the Ebro's southern bank stands," he went on, "my home." He told of strange rocks rising from the Ebro; of buttresses built among them in unremembered times; of the great towers lifting up in multitudes from the buttresses; and of the mighty wall, windowless until it came to incredible heights, where the windows shone all safe from any ladder of war. At first they felt in his story his pride in his lost home, and wondered, when he told of the height of his towers, how much he added in pride. And then the force of that story gripped them all and they doubted never a battlement, but each man's fancy saw between firelight and starlight every tower clear in the air. And at great height upon those marvellous towers the turrets of arches were; queer carvings grinned down from above inaccessible windows; and the towers gathered in light from the lonely air where nothing stood but they, and flashed it far over Aragon; and the Ebro floated by them always new, always amazed by their beauty. He spoke to the six listeners on the lonely mountain, slowly, remembering mournfully; and never a story that Romance has known and told of castles in Spain has held men more than he held his listeners, while the sparks flew up toward the peaks of the Pyrenees and did not reach to them but failed in the night, giving place to the white stars. And when he faltered through sorrow, or memory weakening, Morano always, watching with glittering eyes, would touch his arm, sitting beside him, and ask some question, and the captive would answer the question and so talk sadly on. He told of the upper terraces, where heliotrope and aloe and oleander took sunlight far above their native earth: and though but rare winds carried the butterflies there, such as came to those fragrant terraces lingered for ever. And after a while he spoke on carelessly, and Morano's questions ended, and none of the men in the firelight said a word; but he spoke on uninterrupted, holding them as by a spell, with his eyes fixed far away on black crags of the Pyrenees, telling of his great towers: almost it might have seemed he was speaking of mountains. And when the fire was only a deep red glow and white ash showed all round it, and he ceased speaking, having told of a castle marvellous even amongst the towers of Spain: all sitting round the embers felt sad with his sadness, for his sad voice drifted into their very spirits as white mists enter houses, and all were glad when Rodriguez said to him that one of his ten tall towers the captive should keep and should live in it for ever. And the sad man thanked him sadly and showed no joy. When the tale of the castle and those great towers was done, the wind that blew from the snow touched all the hearers; they had seemed to be away by the bank of the Ebro in the heat and light of Spain, and now the vast night stripped them and the peaks seemed to close round on them. They wrapped themselves in blankets and lay down in their shelters. For a while they heard the wind waving branches and the thump of a horse's hoof restless at night; then they all slept except one that guarded the captive, and the captive himself who long lay thinking and thinking. Dawn stole through the wood and waked none of the sleepers; the birds all shouted at them, still they slept on; and then the captive's guard wakened Morano and he stirred up the sparks of the fire and cooked, and they breakfasted late. And soon they left the wood and faced the bleak slope, all of them going on foot and leading their horses. And the track crawled on till it came to the scorn of the peaks, winding over a shoulder of the Pyrenees, where the peaks gaze cold and contemptuous away from the things of man. In the presence of those that bore them company Rodriguez and Morano felt none of the deadly majesty of those peaks that regard so awfully over the solitudes. They passed through them telling cheerfully of wars the four knights had known: and descended and came by sunset to the lower edge of the snow. They pushed on a little farther and then camped; and with branches from the last camp that they had heaped on their horses they made another great fire and, huddling round it in the blankets that they had brought, found warmth even there so far from the hearths of men. And dawn and the cold woke them all on that treeless slope by barely warm embers. Morano cooked again and they ate in silence. And then the four knights rose sadly and one bowed and told Rodriguez how they must now go back to their own country. And grief seized on Rodriguez at his words, seeing that he was to lose four old friends at once and perhaps for ever, for when men have fought under the same banner in war they become old friends on that morning. "Señors," said Rodriguez, "we may never meet again!" And the other looked back to the peaks beyond which the far lands lay, and made a gesture with his hands. "Señor, at least," said Rodriguez, "let us camp once more together." And even Morano babbled a supplication. "Methinks, señor," he answered, "we are already across the frontier, and when we men of the sword cross frontiers misunderstandings arise, so that it is our custom never to pass across them save when we push the frontier with us, adding the lands over which we march to those of our liege lord." "Señors," said Rodriguez, "the whole mountain is the frontier. Come with us one day further." But they would not stay. All the good things that could be carried they loaded on to the three horses whose heads were turned towards Spain; then turned, all four, and said farewell to the three. And long looked each in the face of Rodriguez as he took his hand in fare well, for they had fought under the same banner and, as wayfaring was in those days, it was not likely that they would ever meet again. They turned and went with their horses back towards the land they had fought for. Rodriguez and his captive and Morano went sadly down the mountain. They came to the fir woods, and rested, and Morano cooked their dinner. And after a while they were able to ride their horses. They came to the foot of the mountains, and rode on past the Inn of the World's End. They camped in the open; and all night long Rodriguez or Morano guarded the captive. For two days and part of the third they followed their old course, catching sight again and again of the river Segre; and then they turned further west ward to come to Aragon further up the Ebro. All the way they avoided houses and camped in the open, for they kept their captive to themselves: and they slept warm with their ample store of blankets. And all the while the captive seemed morose or ill at ease, speaking seldom and, when he did, in nervous jerks. Morano, as they rode, or by the camp fire at evening, still questioned him now and then about his castle; and sometimes he almost seemed to contradict himself, but in so vast a castle may have been many styles of architecture, and it was difficult to trace a contradiction among all those towers and turrets. His name was Don Alvidar-of-the-Rose-pink-Castle on-Ebro. One night while all three sat and gazed at the camp-fire as men will, when the chilly stars are still and the merry flames are leaping, Rodriguez, seeking to cheer his captive's mood, told him some of his strange adventures. The captive listened with his sombre air. But when Rodriguez told how they woke on the mountain after their journey to the sun; and the sun was shining on their faces in the open, but the magician and his whole house were gone; then there came another look into Alvidar's eyes. And Rodriguez ended his tale and silence fell, broken only by Morano saying across the fire, "It is true," and the captive's thoughtful eyes gazed into the darkness. And then he also spoke. "Señor," he said, "near to my rose-pink castle which looks into the Ebro dwells a magician also." "Is it so?" said Rodriguez. "Indeed so, señor," said Don Alvidar. "He is my enemy but dwells in awe of me, and so durst never molest me except by minor wonders." "How know you that he is a magician?" said Rodriguez. "By those wonders," answered his captive. "He afflicts small dogs and my poultry. And he wears a thin, high hat: his beard is also extraordinary." "Long?" said Morano. "Green," answered Don Alvidar. "Is he very near the castle?" said Rodriguez and Morano together. "Too near," said Don Alvidar. "Is his house wonderful?" Rodriguez asked. "It is a common house," was the answer. "A mean, long house of one story. The walls are white and it is well thatched. The windows are painted green; there are two doors in it and by one of them grows a rose tree." "A rose tree?" exclaimed Rodriguez. "It seemed a rose tree," said Don Alvidar. "A captive lady chained to the wall perhaps, changed by magic," suggested Morano. "Perhaps," said Don Alvidar. "A strange house for a magician," said Rodriguez, for it sounded like any small farmhouse in Spain. "He much affects mortal ways," replied Don Alvidar. Little more was then said, the fire being low: and Rodriguez lay down to sleep while Morano guarded the captive. And the day after that they came to Aragon, and in one day more they were across the Ebro; and then they rode west for a day along its southern bank looking all the while as they rode for Rodriguez' castle. And more and more silent and aloof, as they rode, grew Don Alvidar-of-the-Rose-pink-Castle-on-Ebro. And just before sunset a cry broke from the captive. "He has taken it!" he said. And he pointed to just such a house as he had described, a jolly Spanish farmhouse with white walls and thatch and green shutters, and a rose tree by one of the doors just as he had told. "The magician's house. But the castle is gone," he said. Rodriguez looked at his face and saw real alarm in it. He said nothing but rode on in haste, a dim hope in his mind that explanations at the white cottage might do something for his lost castle. And when the hooves were heard a woman came out of the cottage door by the rose tree leading a small child by the hand. And the captive called to the woman, "Maria, we are lost. And I gave my great castle with rose-pink towers that stood just here as ransom to this señor for my life. But now, alas, I see that that magician who dwelt in the house where you are now has taken it whither we know not." "Yes, Pedro," said the woman, "he took it yesterday." And she turned blue eyes upon Rodriguez. And then Morano would be silent no longer. He had thought vaguely for some days and intensely for the last few hundreds yards, and now he blurted out the thoughts that boiled in him. "Master," he shouted, "he has sold his cattle and bought this raiment of his, and that helmet that you opened up for him, and never had any castle on the Ebro with any towers to it, and never knew any magician, but lived in this house himself, and now your castle is gone, master, and as for his life ..." "Be silent a moment, Morano," said Rodriguez, and he turned to the woman whose eyes were on him still. "Was there a castle in this place?" he said. "Yes, señor. I swear it," she said. "And my husband, though a poor man, always spoke the truth." "She lies," said Morano, and Rodriguez silenced him with a gesture. "I will get neighbours who will swear it too," she said. "A lousy neighbourhood," said Morano. Again Rodriguez silenced him. And then the child spoke in a frightened voice, holding up a small cross that it had been taught to revere. "I swear it too," it said. Rodriguez heaved a sigh and turned away. "Master," Morano cried in pained astonishment, "you will not believe their swearings." "The child swore by the cross," he answered. "But, master!" Morano exclaimed. But Rodriguez would say no more. And they rode away aimless in silence. Galloping hooves were heard and Pedro was there. He had come to give up his horse. He gave its reins to the scowling Morano but Rodriguez said never a word. Then he ran round and kissed Rodriguez' hand, who still was silent, for his hopes were lost with the castle; but he nodded his head and so parted for ever from the man whom his wife called Pedro, who called himself Don Alvidar-of-the-Rose-pink-Castle-on-Ebro. THE TENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE CAME BACK TO LOWLIGHT "Master," Morano said. But Rodriguez rode ahead and would not speak. They were riding vaguely southward. They had ample provisions on the horse that Morano led, as well as blankets, which gave them comfort at night. That night they both got the sleep they needed, now that there was no captive to guard. All the next day they rode slowly in the April weather by roads that wandered among tended fields; but a little way off from the fields there shone low hills in the sunlight, so wild, so free of man, that Rodriguez remembering them in later years, wondered if their wild shrubs just hid the frontiers of fairyland. For two days they rode by the edge of unguessable regions. Had Pan piped there no one had marvelled, nor though fauns had scurried past sheltering clumps of azaleas. In the twilight no tiny queens had court within rings of toadstools: yet almost, almost they appeared. And on the third day all at once they came to a road they knew. It was the road by which they had ridden when Rodriguez still had his dream, the way from Shadow Valley to the Ebro. And so they turned into the road they knew, as wanderers always will; and, still without aim or plan, they faced towards Shadow Valley. And in the evening of the day that followed that, as they looked about for a camping-ground, there came in sight the village on the hill which Rodriguez knew to be fifty miles from the forest: it was the village in which they had rested the first night after leaving Shadow Valley. They did not camp but went on to the village and knocked at the door of the inn. Habit guides us all at times, even kings are the slaves of it (though in their presence it takes the prouder name of precedent); and here were two wanderers without any plans at all; they were therefore defenceless in the grip of habit and, seeing an inn they knew, they loitered up to it. Mine host came again to the door. He cheerfully asked Rodriguez how he had fared on his journey, but Rodriguez would say nothing. He asked for lodging for himself and Morano and stabling for the horses: he ate and slept and paid his due, and in the morning was gone. Whatever impulses guided Rodriguez as he rode and Morano followed, he knew not what they were or even that there could be any. He followed the road without hope and only travelled to change his camping-grounds. And that night he was half-way between the village and Shadow Valley. Morano never spoke, for he saw that his master's disappointment was still raw; but it pleased him to notice, as he had done all day, that they were heading for the great forest. He cooked their evening meal in their camp by the wayside and they both ate it in silence. For awhile Rodriguez sat and gazed at the might-have-beens in the camp-fire: and when these began to be hidden by white ash he went to his blankets and slept. And Morano went quietly about the little camp, doing all that needed to be done, with never a word. When the horses were seen to and fed, when the knives were cleaned, when everything was ready for the start next morning, Morano went to his blankets and slept too. And in the morning again they wandered on. That evening they saw the low gold rays of the sun enchanting the tops of a forest. It almost surprised Rodriguez, travelling without an aim, to recognise Shadow Valley. They quickened their slow pace and, before twilight faded, they were under the great oaks; but the last of the twilight could not pierce the dimness of Shadow Valley, and it seemed as if night had entered the forest with them. They chose a camping-ground as well as they could in the darkness and Morano tied the horses to trees a little way off from the camp. Then he returned to Rodriguez and tied a blanket to the windward side of two trees to make a kind of bedroom for his master, for they had all the blankets they needed. And when this was done he set the emblem and banner of camps, anywhere all over the world in any time, for he gathered sticks and branches and lit a camp-fire. The first red flames went up and waved and proclaimed a camp: the light made a little circle, shadows ran away to the forest, and the circle of light on the ground and on the trees that stood round it became for that one night home. They heard the horses stamp as they always did in the early part of the night; and then Morano went to give them their fodder. Rodriguez sat and gazed into the fire, his mind as full of thoughts as the fire was full of pictures: one by one the pictures in the fire fell in; and all his thoughts led nowhere. He heard Morano running back the thirty or forty yards he had gone from the camp-fire "Master," Morano said, "the three horses are gone." "Gone?" said Rodriguez. There was little more to say; it was too dark to track them and he knew that to find three horses in Shadow Valley was a task that might take years. And after more thought than might seem to have been needed he said; "We must go on foot." "Have we far to go, master?" said Morano, for the first time daring to question him since they left the cottage in Spain. "I have nowhere to go," said Rodriguez. His head was downcast as he sat by the fire: Morano stood and looked at him unhappily, full of a sympathy that he found no words to express. A light wind slipped through the branches and everything else was still. It was some while before he lifted his head; and then he saw before him on the other side of the fire, standing with folded arms, the man in the brown leather jacket. "Nowhere to go!" said he. "Who needs go anywhere from Shadow Valley?" Rodriguez stared at him. "But I can't stay here!" he said. "There is no fairer forest known to man," said the other. "I know many songs that prove it." Rodriguez made no answer but dropped his eyes, gazing with listless glance once more at the ground. "Come, señor," said the man in the leather jacket. "None are unhappy in Shadow Valley." "Who are you?" said Rodriguez. Both he and Morano were gazing curiously at the man whom they had saved three weeks ago from the noose. "Your friend," answered the stranger. "No friend can help me," said Rodriguez. "Señor," said the stranger across the fire, still standing with folded arms, "I remain under an obligation to no man. If you have an enemy or love a lady, and if they dwell within a hundred miles, either shall be before you within a week." Rodriguez shook his head, and silence fell by the camp-fire. And after awhile Rodriguez, who was accustomed to dismiss a subject when it was ended, saw the stranger's eyes on him yet, still waiting for him to say more. And those clear blue eyes seemed to do more than wait, seemed almost to command, till they overcame Rodriguez' will and he obeyed and said, although he could feel each word struggling to stay unuttered, "Señor, I went to the wars to win a castle and a piece of land thereby; and might perchance have wed and ended my wanderings, with those of my servant here; but the wars are over and no castle is won." And the stranger saw by his face in the firelight, and knew from the tones of his voice in the still night, the trouble that his words had not expressed. "I remain under an obligation to no man," said the stranger. "Be at this place in four weeks' time, and you shall have a castle as large as any that men win by war, and a goodly park thereby." "Your castle, master!" said Morano delighted, whose only thought up to then was as to who had got his horses. But Rodriguez only stared: and the stranger said no more but turned on his heel. And then Rodriguez awoke out of his silence and wonder. "But where?" he said. "What castle?" "That you will see," said the stranger. "But, but how ..." said Rodriguez. What he meant was, "How can I believe you?" but he did not put it in words. "My word was never broken," said the other. And that is a good boast to make, for those of us who can make it; if we need boast at all. "Whose word?" said Rodriguez, looking him in the eyes. The smoke from the fire between them was thickening greyly as though something had been cast on it. "The word," he said, "of the King of Shadow Valley." Rodriguez gazing through the increasing smoke saw not to the other side. He rose and walked round the fire, but the strange man was gone. Rodriguez came back to his place by the fire and sat long there in silence. Morano was bubbling over to speak, but respected his master's silence: for Rodriguez was gazing into the deeps of the fire seeing pictures there that were brighter than any that he had known. They were so clear now that they seemed almost true. He saw Serafina's face there looking full at him. He watched it long until other pictures hid it, visions that had no meaning for Rodriguez. And not till then he spoke. And when he spoke his face was almost smiling. "Well, Morano," he said, "have we come by that castle at last?" "That man does not lie, master," he answered: and his eyes were glittering with shrewd conviction. "What shall we do then?" said Rodriguez. "Let us go to some village, master," said Morano, "until the time he said." "What village?" Rodriguez asked. "I know not, master," answered Morano, his face a puzzle of innocence and wonder; and Rodriguez fell back into thought again. And the dancing flames calmed down to a deep, quiet glow; and soon Rodriguez stepped back a yard or two from the fire to where Morano had prepared his bed; and, watching the fire still, and turning over thoughts that flashed and changed as fast as the embers, he went to wonderful dreams that were no more strange or elusive than that valley's wonderful king. When he spoke in the morning the camp-fire was newly lit and there was a smell of bacon; and Morano, out of breath and puzzled, was calling to him. "Master," he said, "I was mistaken about those horses." "Mistaken?" said Rodriguez. "They were just as I left them, master, all tied to the tree with my knots." Rodriguez left it at that. Morano could make mistakes and the forest was full of wonders: anything might happen. "We will ride," he said. Morano's breakfast was as good as ever; and, when he had packed up those few belongings that make a dwelling-place of any chance spot in the wilderness, they mounted the horses, which were surely there, and rode away through sunlight and green leaves. They rode slow, for the branches were low over the path, and whoever canters in a forest and closes his eyes against a branch has to consider whether he will open them to be whipped by the next branch or close them till he bumps his head into a tree. And it suited Rodriguez to loiter, for he thought thus to meet the King of Shadow Valley again or his green bowmen and learn the answers to innumerable questions about his castle which were wandering through his mind. They ate and slept at noon in the forest's glittering greenness. They passed afterwards by the old house in the wood, in which the bowmen feasted, for they followed the track that they had taken before. They knocked loud on the door as they passed but the house was empty. They heard the sound of a multitude felling trees, but whenever they approached the sound of chopping ceased. Again and again they left the track and rode towards the sound of chopping, and every time the chopping died away just as they drew close. They saw many a tree half felled, but never a green bowman. And at last they left it as one of the wonders of the forest and returned to the track lest they lose it, for the track was more important to them than curiosity, and evening had come and was filling the forest with dimness, and shadows stealing across the track were beginning to hide it away. In the distance they heard the invisible woodmen chopping. And then they camped again and lit their fire; and night came down and the two wanderers slept. The nightingale sang until he woke the cuckoo: and the cuckoo filled the leafy air so full of his two limpid notes that the dreams of Rodriguez heard them and went away, back over their border to dreamland. Rodriguez awoke Morano, who lit his fire: and soon they had struck their camp and were riding on. By noon they saw that if they hurried on they could come to Lowlight by nightfall. But this was not Rodriguez' plan, for he had planned to ride into Lowlight, as he had done once before, at the hour when Serafina sat in her balcony in the cool of the evening, as Spanish ladies in those days sometimes did. So they tarried long by their resting-place at noon and then rode slowly on. And when they camped that night they were still in the forest. "Morano," said Rodriguez over the camp-fire, "tomorrow brings me to Lowlight." "Aye, master," said Morano, "we shall be there tomorrow." "That señor with whom I had a meeting there," said Rodriguez, "he ..." "He loves me not," said Morano. "He would surely kill you," replied Rodriguez. Morano looked sideways at his frying-pan. "It would therefore be better," continued Rodriguez, "that you should stay in this camp while I give such greetings of ceremony in Lowlight as courtesy demands." "I will stay, master," said Morano. Rodriguez was glad that this was settled, for he felt that to follow his dreams of so many nights to that balconied house in Lowlight with Morano would be no better than visiting a house accompanied by a dog that had bitten one of the family. "I will stay," repeated Morano. "But, master ..." The fat man's eyes were all supplication. "Yes?" said Rodriguez. "Leave me your mandolin," implored Morano. "My mandolin?" said Rodriguez. "Master," said Morano, "that señor who likes my fat body so ill he would kill me, he ..." "Well?" said Rodriguez, for Morano was hesitating. "He likes your mandolin no better, master." Rodriguez resented a slight to his mandolin as much as a slight to his sword, but he smiled as he looked at Morano's anxious face. "He would kill you for your mandolin," Morano went on eagerly, "as he would kill me for my frying-pan." And at the mention of that frying-pan Rodriguez frowned, although it had given him many a good meal since the night it offended in Lowlight. And he would sooner have gone to the wars without a sword than under the balcony of his heart's desire without a mandolin. So Rodriguez would hear no more of Morano's request; and soon he left the fire and went to lie down; but Morano sighed and sat gazing on into the embers unhappily; while thoughts plodded slow through his mind, leading to nothing. Late that night he threw fresh logs on the camp-fire, so that when they awoke there was still fire in the embers And when they had eaten their breakfast Rodriguez said farewell to Morano, saying that he had business in Lowlight that might keep him a few days. But Morano said not farewell then, for he would follow his master as far as the midday halt to cook his next meal. And when noon came they were beyond the forest. Once more Morano cooked bacon. Then while Rodriguez slept Morano took his cloak and did all that could be done by brushing and smoothing to give back to it that air that it some time had, before it had flapped upon so many winds and wrapped Rodriguez on such various beds, and met the vicissitudes that make this story. For the plume he could do little. And his master awoke, late in the afternoon, and went to his horse and gave Morano his orders. He was to go back with two of the horses to their last camp in the forest and take with him all their kit except one blanket and make himself comfortable there and wait till Rodriguez came. And then Rodriguez rode slowly away, and Morano stood gazing mournfully and warningly at the mandolin; and the warnings were not lost upon Rodriguez, though he would never admit that he saw in Morano's staring eyes any wise hint that he heeded. And Morano sighed, and went and untethered his horses; and soon he was riding lonely back to the forest. And Rodriguez taking the other way saw at once the towers of Lowlight. Does my reader think that he then set spurs to his horse, galloping towards that house about whose balcony his dreams flew every night? No, it was far from evening; far yet from the colour and calm in which the light with never a whisper says farewell to Earth, but with a gesture that the horizon hides takes silent leave of the fields on which she has danced with joy; far yet from the hour that shone for Serafina like a great halo round her and round her mother's house. We cannot believe that one hour more than another shone upon Serafina, or that the dim end of the evening was only hers: but these are the Chronicles of Rodriguez, who of all the things that befell him treasured most his memory of Serafina in the twilight, and who held that this hour was hers as much as her raiment and her balcony: such therefore it is in these chronicles. And so he loitered, waiting for the slow sun to set: and when at last a tint on the walls of Lowlight came with the magic of Earth's most faery hour he rode in slowly not perhaps wholly unwitting, for all his anxious thoughts of Serafina, that a little air of romance from the Spring and the evening followed this lonely rider. From some way off he saw that balcony that had drawn him back from the other side of the far Pyrenees. Sometimes he knew that it drew him and mostly he knew it not; yet always that curved balcony brought him nearer, ever since he turned from the field of the false Don Alvidar: the balcony held him with invisible threads, such as those with which Earth draws in the birds at evening. And there was Serafina in her balcony. When Rodriguez saw Serafina sitting there in the twilight, just as he had often dreamed, he looked no more but lowered his head to the withered rose that he carried now in his hand, the rose that he had found by that very balcony under another moon. And, gazing still at the rose, he rode on under the balcony, and passed it, until his hoof-beats were heard no more in Lowlight and he and his horse were one dim shape between the night and the twilight. And still he held on. He knew not yet, but only guessed, who had thrown that rose from the balcony on the night when he slept on the dust: he knew not who it was that he fought on the same night, and dared not guess what that unknown hidalgo might be to Serafina. He had no claim to more from that house, which once gave him so cold a welcome, than thus to ride by it in silence. And he knew as he rode that the cloak and the plume that he wore scarce seemed the same as those that had floated by when more than a month ago he had ridden past that balcony; and the withered rose that he carried added one more note of autumn. And yet he hoped. And so he rode into twilight and was hid from the sight of the village, a worn, pathetic figure, trusting vaguely to vague powers of good fortune that govern all men, but that favour youth. And, sure enough, it was not yet wholly moonlight when cantering hooves came down the road behind him. It was once more that young hidalgo. And as soon as he drew rein beside Rodriguez both reached out merry hands as though their former meeting had been some errand of joy. And as Rodriguez looked him in the eyes, while the two men leaned over clasping hands, in light still clear though faded, he could not doubt Serafina was his sister. "Señor," said his old enemy, "will you tarry with us, in our house a few days, if your journey is not urgent?" Rodriguez gasped for joy; for the messenger from Lowlight, the certainty that here was no rival, the summons to the house of his dreams' pilgrimage, came all together: his hand still clasped the stranger's. Yet he answered with the due ceremony that that age and land demanded: then they turned and rode together towards Lowlight. And first the young men told each other their names; and the stranger told how he dwelt with his mother and sister in the house that Rodriguez knew, and his name was Don Alderon of the Valley of Dawnlight. His house had dwelt in that valley since times out of knowledge; but then the Moors had come and his forbears had fled to Lowlight: the Moors were gone now, for which Saint Michael and all fighting Saints be praised; but there were certain difficulties about his right to the Valley of Dawnlight. So they dwelt in Lowlight still. And Rodriguez told of the war that there was beyond the Pyrenees and how the just cause had won, but little more than that he was able to tell, for he knew scarce more of the cause for which he had fought than History knows of it, who chooses her incidents and seems to forget so much. And as they talked they came to the house with the balcony. A waning moon cast light over it that was now no longer twilight; but was the light of wild things of the woods, and birds of prey, and men in mountains outlawed by the King, and magic, and mystery, and the quests of love. Serafina had left her place: lights gleamed now in the windows. And when the door was opened the hall seemed to Rodriguez so much less hugely hollow, so much less full of ominous whispered echoes, that his courage rose high as he went through it with Alderon, and they entered the room together that they had entered together before. In the long room beyond many candles he saw Dona Serafina and her mother rising up to greet him. Neither the ceremonies of that age nor Rodriguez' natural calm would have entirely concealed his emotion had not his face been hidden as he bowed. They spoke to him; they asked him of his travels; Rodriguez answered with effort. He saw by their manner that Don Alderon must have explained much in his favour. He had this time, to cheer him, a very different greeting; and yet he felt little more at ease than when he had stood there late at night before, with one eye bandaged and wearing only one shoe, suspected of he knew not what brawling and violence. It was not until Dona Mirana, the mother of Serafina, asked him to play to them on his mandolin that Rodriguez' ease returned. He bowed then and brought round his mandolin, which had been slung behind him; and knew a triumphant champion was by him now, one old in the ways of love and wise in the sorrows of man, a slender but potent voice, well-skilled to tell what there were not words to say; a voice unhindered by language, unlimited even by thought, whose universal meaning was heard and understood, sometimes perhaps by wandering spirits of light, beaten far by some evil thought for their heavenly courses and passing close along the coasts of Earth. And Rodriguez played no tune he had ever known, nor any airs that he had heard men play in lanes in Andalusia; but he told of things that he knew not, of sadnesses that he had scarcely felt and undreamed exaltations. It was the hour of need, and the mandolin knew. And when all was told that the mandolin can tell of whatever is wistfulest in the spirit of man, a mood of merriment entered its old curved sides and there came from its hollows a measure such as they dance to when laughter goes over the greens in Spain. Never a song sang Rodriguez; the mandolin said all. And what message did Serafina receive from those notes that were strange even to Rodriguez? Were they not stranger to her? I have said that spirits blown far out of their course and nearing the mundane coasts hear mortal music sometimes, and hearing understand. And if they cannot understand those snatches of song, all about mortal things and human needs, that are wafted rarely to them by chance passions, how much more surely a young mortal heart, so near Rodriguez, heard what he would say and understood the message however strange. When Dona Mirana and her daughter rose, exchanging their little curtsies for the low bows of Rodriguez, and so retired for the night, the long room seemed to Rodriguez now empty of threatening omens. The great portraits that the moon had lit, and that had frowned at him in the moonlight when he came here before, frowned at him now no longer. The anger that he had known to lurk in the darkness on pictured faces of dead generations had gone with the gloom that it haunted: they were all passionless now in the quiet light of the candles. He looked again at the portraits eye to eye, remembering looks they had given him in the moonlight, and all looked back at him with ages of apathy; and he knew that whatever glimmer of former selves there lurks about portraits of the dead and gone was thinking only of their own past days in years remote from Rodriguez. Whether their anger had flashed for a moment over the ages on that night a month from now, or whether it was only the moonlight, he never knew. Their spirits were back now surely amongst their own days, whence they deigned not to look on the days that make these chronicles. Not till then did Rodriguez admit, or even know, that he had not eaten since his noonday meal. But now he admitted this to Don Alderon's questions; and Don Alderon led him to another chamber and there regaled him with all the hospitality for which that time was famous. And when Rodriguez had eaten, Don Alderon sent for wine, and the butler brought it in an olden flagon, dark wine of a precious vintage: and soon the two young men were drinking together and talking of the wickedness of the Moors. And while they talked the night grew late and chilly and still, and the hour came when moths are fewer and young men think of bed. Then Don Alderon showed his guest to an upper room, a long room dim with red hangings, and carvings in walnut and oak, which the one candle he carried barely lit but only set queer shadows scampering. And here he left Rodriguez, who was soon in bed, with the great red hangings round him. And awhile he wondered at the huge silence of the house all round him, with never a murmur, never an echo, never a sigh; for he missed the passing of winds, branches waving, the stirring of small beasts, birds of prey calling, and the hundred sounds of the night; but soon through the silence came sleep. He did not need to dream, for here in the home of Serafina he had come to his dreams' end. Another day shone on another scene; for the sunlight that went in a narrow stream of gold and silver between the huge red curtains had sent away the shadows that had stalked overnight through the room, and had scattered the eeriness that had lurked on the far side of furniture, and all the dimness was gone that the long red room had harboured. And for a while Rodriguez did not know where he was; and for a while, when he remembered, he could not believe it true. He dressed with care, almost with fear, and preened his small moustachios, which at last had grown again just when he would have despaired. Then he descended, and found that he had slept late, though the three of that ancient house were seated yet at the table, and Serafina all dressed in white seemed to Rodriguez to be shining in rivalry with the morning. Ah dreams and fancies of youth! THE ELEVENTH CHRONICLE HOW HE TURNED TO GARDENING AND HIS SWORD RESTED These were the days that Rodriguez always remembered; and, side by side with them, there lodged in his memory, and went down with them into his latter years, the days and nights when he went through the Pyrenees and walked when he would have slept but had to walk or freeze: and by some queer rule that guides us he treasured them both in his memory, these happy days in this garden and the frozen nights on the peaks. For Serafina showed Rodriguez the garden that behind the house ran narrow and long to the wild. There were rocks with heliotrope pouring over them and flowers peeping behind them, and great azaleas all in triumphant bloom, and ropes of flowering creepers coming down from trees, and oleanders, and a plant named popularly Joy of the South, and small paths went along it edged with shells brought from the far sea. There was only one street in the village, and you did not go far among the great azaleas before you lost sight of the gables; and you did not go far before the small paths ended with their shells from the distant sea, and there was the mistress of all gardeners facing you, Mother Nature nursing her children, the things of the wild. She too had azaleas and oleanders, but they stood more solitary in their greater garden than those that grew in the garden of Dona Mirana; and she too had little paths, only they were without borders and without end. Yet looking from the long and narrow garden at the back of that house in Lowlight to the wider garden that sweeps round the world, and is fenced by Space from the garden in Venus and by Space from the garden in Mars, you scarce saw any difference or noticed where they met: the solitary azaleas beyond were gathered together by distance, and from Lowlight to the horizon seemed all one garden in bloom. And afterwards, all his years, whenever Rodriguez heard the name of Spain, spoken by loyal men, it was thus that he thought of it, as he saw it now. And here he used to walk with Serafina when she tended flowers in the cool of the morning or went at evening to water favourite blooms. And Rodriguez would bring with him his mandolin, and sometimes he touched it lightly or even sang, as they rested on some carved seat at the garden's end, looking out towards shadowy shrubs on the shining hill, but mostly he heard her speak of the things she loved, of what moths flew to their garden, and which birds sang, and how the flowers grew. Serafina sat no longer in her balcony but, disguising idleness by other names, they loitered along those paths that the seashells narrowed; yet there was a grace in their loitering such as we have not in our dances now. And evening stealing in from the wild places, from darkening azaleas upon distant hills, still found them in the garden, found Rodriguez singing in idleness undisguised, or anxiously helping in some trivial task, tying up some tendril that had gone awry, helping some magnolia that the wind had wounded. Almost unnoticed by him the sunlight would disappear, and the coloured blaze of the sunset, and then the gloaming; till the colours of all the flowers queerly changed and they shone with that curious glow which they wear in the dusk. They returned then to the house, the garden behind them with its dim hushed air of a secret, before them the candlelight like a different land. And after the evening meal Alderon and Rodriguez would sit late together discussing the future of the world, Rodriguez holding that it was intended that the earth should be ruled by Spain, and Alderon fearing it would all go to the Moors. Days passed thus. And then one evening Rodriguez was in the garden with Serafina; the flowers, dim and pale and more mysterious than ever, poured out their scent towards the coming night, luring huge hawk-moths from the far dusk that was gathering about the garden, to hover before each bloom on myriad wingbeats too rapid for human eye: another inch and the fairies had peeped out from behind azaleas, yet both of these late loiterers felt fairies were surely there: it seemed to be Nature's own most secret hour, upon which man trespasses if he venture forth from his house: an owl from his hidden haunt flew nearer the garden and uttered a clear call once to remind Rodriguez of this: and Rodriguez did not heed, but walked in silence. He had played his mandolin. It had uttered to the solemn hush of the understanding evening all it was able to tell; and after that cry, grown piteous with so many human longings, for it was an old mandolin, Rodriguez felt there was nothing left for his poor words to say. So he went dumb and mournful. Serafina would have heard him had he spoken, for her thoughts vibrated yet with the voice of the mandolin, which had come to her hearing as an ambassador from Rodriguez, but he found no words to match with the mandolin's high mood. His eyes said, and his sighs told, what the mandolin had uttered; but his tongue was silent. And then Serafina said, as he walked all heavy with silence past a curving slope of dimly glowing azaleas, "You like flowers, señor?" "Señorita, I adore them," he replied. "Indeed?" said Dona Serafina. "Indeed I do," said Rodriguez. "And yet," asked Dona Serafina, "was it not a somewhat withered or altogether faded flower that you carried, unless I fancied wrong, when you rode past our balcony?" "It was indeed faded," said Rodriguez, "for the rose was some weeks old." "One who loved flowers, I thought," said Serafina, "would perhaps care more for them fresh." Half-dumb though Rodriguez was his shrewdness did not desert him. To have said that he had the rose from Serafina would have been to claim as though proven what was yet no more than a hope. "Señorita," he said, "I found the flower on holy ground." "I did not know," she said, "that you had travelled so far." "I found it here," he said, "under your balcony." "Perchance I let it fall," said she. "It was idle of me." "I guard it still," he said, and drew forth that worn brown rose. "It was idle of me," said Serafina. But then in that scented garden among the dim lights of late evening the ghost of that rose introduced their spirits one to the other, so that the listening flowers heard Rodriguez telling the story of his heart, and, bending over the shell-bordered path, heard Serafina's answer; and all they seemed to do was but to watch the evening, with leaves uplifted in the hope of rain. Film after film of dusk dropped down from where twilight had been, like an army of darkness slowly pitching their tents on ground that had been lost to the children of light. Out of the wild lands all the owls flew nearer: their long, clear cries and the huge hush between them warned all those lands that this was not man's hour. And neither Rodriguez nor Serafina heard them. In pale blue sky where none had thought to see it one smiling star appeared. It was Venus watching lovers, as men of the crumbled centuries had besought her to do, when they named her so long ago, kneeling upon their hills with bended heads, and arms stretched out to her sweet eternal scrutiny. Beneath her wandering rays as they danced down to bless them Rodriguez and Serafina talked low in the sight of the goddess, and their voices swayed through the flowers with whispers and winds, not troubling the little wild creatures that steal out shy in the dusk, and Nature forgave them for being abroad in that hour; although, so near that a single azalea seemed to hide it, so near seemed to beckon and whisper old Nature's eldest secret. When flowers glimmered and Venus smiled and all things else were dim, they turned on one of those little paths hand in hand homeward. Dona Mirana glanced once at her daughter's eyes and said nothing. Don Alderon renewed his talk with Rodriguez, giving reasons for his apprehension of the conquest of the world by the Moors, which he had thought of since last night; and Rodriguez agreed with all that Don Alderon said, but understood little, being full of dreams that seemed to dance on the further, side of the candlelight to a strange, new, unheard tune that his heart was aware of. He gazed much at Serafina and said little. He drank no wine that night with Don Alderon: what need had he of wine? On wonderful journeys that my pen cannot follow, for all the swiftness of the wing from which it came; on darting journeys outspeeding the lithe swallow or that great wanderer the white-fronted goose, his young thoughts raced by a myriad of golden evenings far down the future years. And what of the days he saw? Did he see them truly? Enough that he saw them in vision. Saw them as some lone shepherd on lifted downs sees once go by with music a galleon out of the East, with windy sails, and masts ablaze with pennants, and heroes in strange dress singing new songs; and the galleon goes nameless by till the singing dies away. What ship was it? Whither bound? Why there? Enough that he has seen it. Thus do we glimpse the glory of rare days as we swing round the sun; and youth is like some high headland from which to see. On the next day he spoke with Dona Mirano. There was little to say but to observe the courtesies appropriate to this occasion, for Dona Mirana and her daughter had spoken long together already; and of one thing he could say little, and indeed was dumb when asked of it, and that was the question of his home. And then he said that he had a castle; and when Dona Mirana asked him where it was he said vaguely it was to the North. He trusted the word of the King of Shadow Valley and so he spoke of his castle as a man speaks the truth. And when she asked him of his castle again, whether on rock or river or in leafy lands, he began to describe how its ten towers stood, being builded of a rock that was slightly pink, and how they glowed across a hundred fields, especially at evening; and suddenly he ceased, perceiving all in a moment he was speaking unwittingly in the words of Don Alvidar and describing to Dona Mirana that rose-pink castle on Ebro. And Dona Mirana knew then that there was some mystery about Rodriguez' home. She spoke kindly to Rodriguez, yet she neither gave her consent nor yet withheld it, and he knew there was no immediate hope in her words. Graceful as were his bows as he withdrew, he left with scarcely another word to say. All day his castle hung over him like a cloud, not nebulous and evanescent only, but brooding darkly, boding storms, such as the orange blossoms dread. He walked again in the garden with Serafina, but Dona Mirana was never far, and the glamour of the former evening, lit by one star, was driven from the garden by his anxieties about that castle of which he could not speak. Serafina asked him of his home. He would not parry her question, and yet he could not tell her that all their future hung on the promise of a man in an old leathern jacket calling himself a king. So the mystery of his habitation deepened, spoiling the glamour of the evening. He spoke, instead, of the forest, hoping she might know something of that strange monarch to whom they dwelt so near; but she glanced uneasily towards Shadow Valley and told him that none in Lowlight went that way. Sorrow grew heavier round Rodriguez' heart at this: believing in the promise of a man whose eyes he trusted he had asked Serafina to marry him, and Serafina had said Yes; and now he found she knew nothing of such a man, which seemed somehow to Rodriguez to weaken his promise, and, worst of all, she feared the place where he lived. He welcomed the approach of Dona Mirana, and all three returned to the house. For the rest of that evening he spoke little; but he had formed his project. When the two ladies retired Rodriguez, who had seemed tongue-tied for many hours, turned to Don Alderon. His mother had told Don Alderon nothing yet; for she was troubled by the mystery of Rodriguez' castle, and would give him time to make it clear if he could; for there was something about Rodriguez of which with many pages I have tried to acquaint my reader but which was clear when first she saw him to Dona Mirana. In fact she liked him at once, as I hope that perhaps by now my reader may. He turned to Don Alderon, who was surprised to see the vehemence with which his guest suddenly spoke after those hours of silence, and Rodriguez told him the story of his love and the story of both his castles, that which had vanished from the bank of the Ebro and that which was promised him by the King of Shadow Valley. And often Don Alderon interrupted. "Oh, Rodriguez," he said, "you are welcome to our ancient, unfortunate house": and later he said, "I have met no man that had a prettier way with the sword." But Rodriguez held on to the end, telling all he had to tell; and especially that he was landless and penniless but for that one promise; and as for the sword, he said, he was but as a child playing before the sword of Don Alderon. And this Don Alderon said was in no wise so, though there were a few cunning passes that he had learned, hoping that the day might come for him to do God a service thereby by slaying some of the Moors: and heartily he gave his consent and felicitation. But this Rodriguez would not have: "Come with me," he said, "to the forest to the place where I met this man, and if we find him not there we will go to the house in which his bowmen feast and there have news of him, and he shall show us the castle of his promise and, if it be such a castle as you approve, then your consent shall be given, but if not ..." "Gladly indeed," said Don Alderon. "We will start tomorrow." And Rodriguez took his words literally, though his host had meant no more than what we should call "one of these days," but Rodriguez was being consumed with a great impatience. And so they arranged it, and Don Alderon went to bed with a feeling, which is favourable to dreams, that on the next day they went upon an adventure; for neither he nor anyone in that village had entered Shadow Valley. Once more next morning Rodriguez walked with Serafina, with something of the romance of the garden gone, for Dona Mirana walked there too; and romance is like one of those sudden, wonderful colours that flash for a moment out of a drop of dew; a passing shadow obscures them; and ask another to see it, and the colour is not the same: move but a yard and the ray of enchantment is gone. Dona Mirana saw the romance of that garden, but she saw it from thirty years away; it was all different what she saw, all changed from a certain day (for love was love in the old days): and to Rodriguez and Serafina it seemed that she could not see romance at all, and somehow that dimmed it. Almost their eyes seemed to search amongst the azaleas for the romance of that other evening. And then Rodriguez told Serafina that he was riding away with her brother to see about the affairs of his castle, and that they would return in a few days. Scarcely a hint he gave that those affairs might not prosper, for he trusted the word of the King of Shadow Valley. His confidence had returned: and soon, with swords at side and cloaks floating brilliant on light winds of April, Rodriguez and Alderon rode away together. Soon in the distance they saw Shadow Valley. And then Rodriguez bethought him of Morano and of the foul wrong he committed against Don Alderon with his frying-pan, and how he was there in the camp to which he was bringing his friend. And so he said: "That vile knave Morano still lives and insists on serving me." "If he be near," said Don Alderon, "I pray you to disarm him of his frying-pan for the sake of my honour, which does not suffer me to be stricken with culinary weapons, but only with the sword, the lance, or even bolts of cannon or arquebuss ..." He was thinking of yet more weapons when Rodriguez put spurs to his horse. "He is near," he said; "I will ride on and disarm him." So Rodriguez came cantering into the forest while Don Alderon ambled a mile or so behind him. And there he found his old camp and saw Morano, sitting upon the ground by a small fire. Morano sprang up at once with joy in his eyes, his face wreathed with questions, which he did not put into words for he did not pry openly into his master's affairs. "Morano," said Rodriguez, "give me your frying-pan." "My frying-pan?" said Morano. "Yes," said Rodriguez. And when he held in his hand that blackened, greasy utensil he told Morano, "That señor you met in Lowlight rides with me." The cheerfulness faded out of Morano's face as light fades at sunset. "Master," he said, "he will surely slay me now." "He will not slay you," said Rodriguez. "Master," Morano said, "he hopes for my fat carcase as much as men hope for the unicorn, when they wear their bright green coats and hunt him with dogs in Spring." I know not what legend Morano stored in his mind, nor how much of it was true. "And when he finds me without my frying-pan he will surely slay me." "That señor," said Rodriguez emphatically, "must not be hit with the frying-pan." "That is a hard rule, master," said Morano. And Rodriguez was indignant, when he heard that, that anyone should thus blaspheme against an obvious law of chivalry: while Morano's only thought was upon the injustice of giving up the sweets of life for the sake of a frying-pan. Thus they were at cross-purposes. And for some while they stood silent, while Rodriguez hung the reins of his horse over the broken branch of a tree. And then Don Alderon rode into the wood. All then that was most pathetic in Morano's sense of injustice looked out of his eyes as he turned them upon his master. But Don Alderon scarcely glanced at all at Morano, even when he handed to him the reins of his horse as he walked on towards Rodriguez. And there in that leafy place they rested all through the evening, for they had not started so early upon their journey as travellers should. Eight days had gone since Rodriguez had left that small camp to ride to Lowlight, and to the apex of his life towards which all his days had ascended; and in that time Morano had collected good store of wood and, in little ways unthought of by dwellers in cities, had made the place like such homes as wanderers find. Don Alderon was charmed with their roof of towering greenness, and with the choirs of those which inhabited it and which were now all coming home to sing. And at some moment in the twilight, neither Rodriguez nor Alderon noticed when, Morano repossessed himself of his frying-pan, unbidden by Rodriguez, but acting on a certain tacit permission that there seemed to be in the twilight or in the mood of the two young men as they sat by the fire. And soon he was cooking once more, at a fire of his own, with something of the air that you see upon a Field Marshal's face who has lost his baton and found it again. Have you ever noticed it, reader? And when the meal was ready Morano served it in silence, moving unobtrusively in the gloom of the wood; for he knew that he was forgiven, yet not so openly that he wished to insist on his presence or even to imply his possession of the weapon that fried the bacon. So, like a dryad he moved from tree to tree, and like any fabulous creature was gone again. And the two young men supped well, and sat on and on, watching the sparks go up on innumerable journeys from the fire at which they sat, to be lost to sight in huge wastes of blackness and stars, lost to sight utterly, lost like the spirit of man to the gaze of our wonder when we try to follow its journey beyond the hearths that we know. All the next day they rode on through the forest, till they came to the black circle of the old fire of their next camp. And here Rodriguez halted on account of the attraction that one of his old camps seems to have for a wanderer. It drew his feet towards it, this blackened circle, this hearth that for one night made one spot in the wilderness home. Don Alderon did not care whether they tarried or hurried; he loved his journey through this leafy land; the cool night-breeze slipping round the tree-trunks was new to him, and new was the comradeship of the abundant stars; the quest itself was a joy to him; with his fancy he built Rodriguez' mysterious castle no less magnificently than did Don Alvidar. Sometimes they talked of the castle, each of the young men picturing it as he saw it; but in the warmth of the camp-fire after Morano slept they talked of more than these chronicles can tell. In the morning they pressed on as fast as the forest's low boughs would allow them. They passed somewhere near the great cottage in which the bowmen feasted; but they held on, as they had decided after discussion to do, for the last place in which Rodriguez had seen the King of Shadow Valley, which was the place of his promise. And before any dimness came even to the forest, or golden shafts down colonnades which were before all cathedrals, they found the old camp that they sought, which still had a clear flavour of magic for Morano on account of the moth-like coming and going of his three horses after he had tied them to that tree. And here they looked for the King of Shadow Valley; and then Rodriguez called him; and then all three of them called him, shouting "King of Shadow Valley" all together. No answer came: the woods were without echo: nothing stirred but fallen leaves. But before those miles of silence could depress them Rodriguez hit upon a simple plan, which was that he and Alderon should search all round, far from the track, while Morano stayed in the camp and shouted frequently, and they would not go out of hearing of his voice: for Shadow Valley had a reputation of being a bad forest for travellers to find their way there; indeed, few ever attempted to. So they did as he said, he and Alderon searching in different directions, while Morano remained in the camp, lifting a large and melancholy voice. And though rumour said it was hard to find the way when twenty yards from the track in Shadow Valley, it did not say it was hard to find the green bowmen: and Rodriguez, knowing that they guarded the forest as the shadows of trees guard the coolness, was assured he would meet with some of them even though he should miss their master. So he and Alderon searched till the forest darkness came and only birds on high branches still had light; and they never saw the King of Shadow Valley or any trace whatever of any man. And Alderon first returned to the encampment; but Rodriguez searched on into the night, searching and calling through the darkness, and feeling, as every minute went by and every faint call of Morano, that his castle was fading away, slipping past oak-tree and thorn-bush, to take its place among the unpitying stars. And when he returned at last from his useless search he found Morano standing by a good fire, and the sight of it a little cheered Rodriguez, and the sight of the firelight on Morano's face, and the homely comfort of the camp, for everything is comparative. And over their supper Rodriguez and Alderon agreed that they had come to a part of the forest too remote from the home of the King of Shadow Valley, and decided to go the next day to the house of the green bowmen: and before he slept Rodriguez felt once more that all was well with his castle. Yet when the next day came they searched again, for Rodriguez remembered how it was to this very place that the King of Shadow Valley had bidden him come in four weeks, and though this period was not yet accomplished, he felt, and Alderon fully agreed, they had waited long enough: so they searched all the morning, and then fulfilled their decision of overnight by riding for the great cottage Rodriguez knew. All the way they met no one. And Rodriguez' gaiety came back as they rode, for he and Don Alderon recognised more and more clearly that the bowmen's great cottage was the place they should have gone at first. In early evening they were just at their journey's end; but barely had they left the track that they had ridden the day before, barely taken the smaller path that led after a few hundred yards to the cottage when they found themselves stopped by huge chains that hung from tree to tree. High into the trees went the chains above their heads where they sat their horses, and a chain ran every six inches down to the very ground: the road was well blocked. Rodriguez and Alderon hastily consulted; then, leaving the horses with Morano, they followed the chains through dense forest to find a place where they could get the horses through. Finding the chains go on and on and on, and as evening was drawing in, the two friends divided, Alderon going back and Rodriguez on, agreeing to meet again on the path where Morano was. It was darkening when they met there, Rodriguez having found nothing but that iron barrier going on from trunk to trunk, and Alderon having found a great gateway of iron; but it was shut. Through the silent shadows stealing abroad at evening the three men crashed their way on foot, leading their horses, towards this gate; but their way was slow and difficult for no path at all led up to it. It was dark when they reached it and they saw the high gate in the night, a black barrier among the trees where no one would wish to come, and in forest that seemed to these three to be nearly impenetrable. And what astonished Rodriguez most of all was that the chains had not been across the path when he had feasted with the green bowmen. They stood there gazing, all three, at the dark locked gate, and then they saw two shields that met in the midst of it, and Rodriguez mounted his horse and stretched up to feel what device there was on the beaten iron; and both the shields were blank. There they camped as well as men can when darkness has fallen before they reach their camping-ground; and Morano lit a great fire before the gate, and the smooth blank shields touching shoulders there up above them shone on Rodriguez and Alderon in the firelight. For a while they wondered at that strange gate that stood there dividing the wilderness; and then sleep came. As soon as they woke they called loudly, but no one guarded that gate, no step but theirs stirred in the forest. Then, leaving Morano in the camp with its great gate that led nowhere, the two young men climbed up by branches and chains, and were soon on the other side of the gate and pressing on through the silence of the forest to find the cottage in which Rodriguez had slept. And almost at once the green bowmen appeared, ten of them with their bows, in front of Rodriguez and Alderon. "Stop," said the ten green bowmen. When the bowmen said that, there was nothing else to do. "What do you seek?" said the bowmen. "The King of Shadow Valley," answered Rodriguez. "He is not here," they said. "Where is he?" asked Rodriguez. "He is nowhere," said one, "when he does not wish to be seen." "Then show me the castle that he promised me," said Rodriguez. "We know nothing of any castle," said one of the bowmen, and they all shook their heads. "No castle?" said Rodriguez. "No," they said. "Has the King of Shadow Valley no castle?" he asked, beginning now to despair. "We know of none," they said. "He lives in the forest." Before Rodriguez quite despaired he asked each one if they knew not of any castle of which their King was possessed; and each of them said that there was no castle in all Shadow Valley. The ten still stood in front of them with their bows: and Rodriguez turned away then indeed in despair, and walked slowly back to the camp, and Alderon walked behind him. In silence they reached their camp by the great gate that led nowhere, and there Rodriguez sat down on a log beside the dwindling fire, gazing at the grey ashes and thinking of his dead hopes. He had not the heart to speak to Alderon, and the silence was unbroken by Morano who, for all his loquacity, knew when his words were not welcome. Don Alderon tried to break that melancholy silence, saying that these ten bowmen did not know the whole world; but he could not cheer Rodriguez. For, sitting there in dejection on his log, thinking of all the assurance with which he had often spoken of his castle, there was one more thing to trouble him than Don Alderon knew. And this was that when the bowmen had appeared he had hung once more round his neck that golden badge that was worked for him by the King of Shadow Valley; and they must have seen it, and they had paid no heed to it whatever: its magic was wholly departed. And one thing troubled him that Rodriguez did not know, a very potent factor in human sorrow: he had left in the morning so eagerly that he had had no breakfast, and this he entirely forgot and knew not how much of his dejection came from this cause, thinking that the loss of his castle was of itself enough. So with downcast head he sat empty and hopeless, and the little camp was silent. In this mournful atmosphere while no one spoke, and no one seemed to watch, stood, when at last Rodriguez raised his head, with folded arms before the gate to nowhere, the King of Shadow Valley. His face was surly, as though the face of a ghost, called from important work among asteroids needing his care, by the trivial legerdemain of some foolish novice. Rodriguez, looking into those angry eyes, wholly forgot it was he that had a grievance. The silence continued. And then the King of Shadow Valley spoke. "When have I broken my word?" he said. Rodriguez did not know. The man was still looking at him, still standing there with folded arms before the great gate, confronting him, demanding some kind of answer: and Rodriguez had nothing to say. "I came because you promised me the castle," he said at last. "I did not bid you come here," the man with the folded arms answered. "I went where you bade me," said Rodriguez, "and you were not there." "In four weeks, I said," answered the King angrily. And then Alderon spoke. "Have you any castle for my friend?" he said. "No," said the King of Shadow Valley. "You promised him one," said Don Alderon. The King of Shadow Valley raised with his left hand a horn that hung below his elbow by a green cord round his body. He made no answer to Don Alderon, but put the horn against his lips and blew. They watched him all three in silence, till the silence was broken by many men moving swiftly through covert, and the green bowmen appeared. When seven or eight were there he turned and looked at them. "When have I broken my word?" he said to his men. And they all answered him, "Never!" More broke into sight through the bushes. "Ask them" he said. And Rodriguez did not speak. "Ask them," he said again, "when I have broken my word." Still Rodriguez and Alderon said nothing. And the bowmen answered them. "He has never broken his word," every bowman said. "You promised me a castle," said Rodriguez, seeing that man's fierce eyes upon him still. "Then do as I bid you," answered the King of Shadow Valley; and he turned round and touched the lock of the gates with some key that he had. The gates moved open and the King went through. Don Alderon ran forward after him, and caught up with him as he strode away, and spoke to him, and the King answered. Rodriguez did not hear what they said, and never afterwards knew. These words he heard only, from the King of Shadow Valley as he and Don Alderon parted: ".... and therefore, señor, it were better for some holy man to do his blessed work before we come." And the King of Shadow Valley passed into the deeps of the wood. As the great gates were slowly swinging to, Don Alderon came back thoughtfully. The gates clanged, clicked, and were shut again. The King of Shadow Valley and all his bowmen were gone. Don Alderon went to his horse, and Rodriguez and Morano did the same, drawn by the act of the only man of the three that seemed to have made up his mind. Don Alderon led his horse back toward the path, and Rodriguez followed with his. When they came to the path they mounted in silence; and presently Morano followed them, with his blankets rolled up in front of him on his horse and his frying-pan slung behind him. "Which way?" said Rodriguez. "Home," said Don Alderon. "But I cannot go to your home," said Rodriguez. "Come," said Don Alderon, as one whose plans were made. Rodriguez without a home, without plans, without hope, went with Don Alderon as thistledown goes with the warm wind. They rode through the forest till it grew all so dim that only a faint tinge of greenness lay on the dark leaves: above were patches of bluish sky like broken pieces of steel. And a star or two were out when they left the forest. And cantering on they came to Lowlight when the Milky Way appeared. And there were Dona Mirana and Serafina in the hall to greet them as they entered the door. "What news?" they asked. But Rodriguez hung back; he had no news to give. It was Don Alderon that went forward, speaking cheerily to Serafina, and afterwards to his mother, with whom he spoke long and anxiously, pointing toward the forest sometimes, almost, as Rodriguez thought, in fear. And a little later, when the ladies had retired, Don Alderon told Rodriguez over the wine, with which he had tried to cheer his forlorn companion, that it was arranged that he should marry Serafina. And when Rodriguez lamented that this was impossible he replied that the King of Shadow Valley wished it. And when Rodriguez heard this his astonishment equalled his happiness, for he marvelled that Don Alderon should not only believe that strange man's unsupported promise, but that he should even obey him as though he held him in awe. And on the next day Rodriguez spoke with Dona Mirana as they walked in the glory of the garden. And Dona Mirana gave him her consent as Don Alderon had done: and when Rodriguez spoke humbly of postponement she glanced uneasily towards Shadow Valley, as though she too feared the strange man who ruled over the forest which she had never entered. And so it was that Rodriguez walked with his lady, with the sweet Serafina in that garden again. And walking there they forgot the need of house or land, forgot Shadow Valley with its hopes and its doubts, and all the anxieties of the thoughts that we take for the morrow: and when evening came and the birds sang in azaleas, and the shadows grew solemn and long, and winds blew cool from the blazing bed of the Sun, into the garden now all strange and still, they forgot our Earth and, beyond the mundane coasts, drifted on dreams of their own into aureate regions of twilight, to wander in lands wherein lovers walk briefly and only once. THE TWELFTH CHRONICLE THE BUILDING OF CASTLE RODRIGUEZ AND THE ENDING OF THESE CHRONICLES When the King of Shadow Valley met Rodriguez, for the first time in the forest, and gave him his promise and left him by his camp-fire, he went back some way towards the bowmen's cottage and blew his horn; and his hundred bowmen were about him almost at once. To these he gave their orders and they went back, whence they had come, into the forest's darkness. But he went to the bowmen's cottage and paced before it, a dark and lonely figure of the night; and wherever he paced the ground he marked it with small sticks. And next morning the hundred bowmen came with axes as soon as the earliest light had entered the forest, and each of them chose out one of the giant trees that stood before the cottage, and attacked it. All day they swung their axes against the forest's elders, of which nearly a hundred were fallen when evening came. And the stoutest of these, great trunks that were four feet through, were dragged by horses to the bowmen's cottage and laid by the little sticks that the King of Shadow Valley had put overnight in the ground. The bowmen's cottage and the kitchen that was in the wood behind it, and a few trees that still stood, were now all enclosed by four lines of fallen trees which made a large rectangle on the ground with a small square at each of its corners. And craftsmen came, and smoothed and hollowed the inner sides of the four rows of trees, working far into the night. So was the first day's work accomplished and so was built the first layer of the walls of Castle Rodriguez. On the next day the bowmen again felled a hundred trees; the top of the first layer was cut flat by carpenters; at evening the second layer was hoisted up after their under sides had been flattened to fit the layer below them; quantities more were cast in to make the floor when they had been gradually smoothed and fitted: at the end of the second day a man could not see over the walls of Castle Rodriguez. And on the third day more craftsmen arrived, men from distant villages at the forest's edge, whence the King of Shadow Valley had summoned them; and they carved the walls as they grew. And a hundred trees fell that day, and the castle was another layer higher. And all the while a park was growing in the forest, as they felled the great trees; but the greatest trees of all the bowmen spared, oaks that had stood there for ages and ages of men; they left them to grip the earth for a while longer, for a few more human generations. On the fourth day the two windows at the back of the bowmen's cottage began to darken, and that evening Castle Rodriguez was fifteen feet high. And still the hundred bowmen hewed at the forest, bringing sunlight bright on to grass that was shadowed by oaks for ages. And at the end of the fifth day they began to roof the lower rooms and make their second floor: and still the castle grew a layer a day, though the second storey they built with thinner trees that were only three feet through, which were more easily carried to their place by the pulleys. And now they began to heap up rocks in a mass of mortar against the wall on the outside, till a steep slope guarded the whole of the lower part of the castle against fire from any attacker if war should come that way, in any of the centuries that were yet to be: and the deep windows they guarded with bars of iron. The shape of the castle showed itself clearly now, rising on each side of the bowmen's cottage and behind it, with a tower at each of its corners. To the left of the old cottage the main doorway opened to the great hall, in which a pile of a few huge oaks was being transformed into a massive stair. Three figures of strange men held up this ceiling with their heads and uplifted hands, when the castle was finished; but as yet the carvers had only begun their work, so that only here and there an eye peeped out, or a smile flickered, to give any expression to the curious faces of these fabulous creatures of the wood, which were slowly taking their shape out of three trees whose roots were still in the earth below the floor. In an upper storey one of these trees became a tall cupboard; and the shelves and the sides and the back and the top of it were all one piece of oak. All the interior of the castle was of wood, hollowed into alcoves and polished, or carved into figures leaning out from the walls. So vast were the timbers that the walls, at a glance, seemed almost one piece of wood. And the centuries that were coming to Spain darkened the walls as they came, through autumnal shades until they were all black, as though they all mourned in secret for lost generations; but they have not yet crumbled. The fireplaces they made with great square red tiles, which they also put in the chimneys amongst rude masses of mortar: and these great dark holes remained always mysterious to those that looked for mystery in the family that whiled away the ages in that castle. And by every fireplace two queer carved creatures stood upholding the mantlepiece, with mystery in their faces and curious limbs, uniting the hearth with fable and with tales told in the wood. Years after the men that carved them were all dust the shadows of these creatures would come out and dance in the room, on wintry nights when all the lamps were gone and flames stole out and flickered above the smouldering logs. In the second storey one great saloon ran all the length of the castle. In it was a long table with eight legs that had carvings of roses rambling along its edges: the table and its legs were all of one piece with the floor. They would never have hollowed the great trunk in time had they not used fire. The second storey was barely complete on the day that Rodriguez and Don Alderon and Morano came to the chains that guarded the park. And the King of Shadow Valley would not permit his gift to be seen in anything less than its full magnificence, and had commanded that no man in the world might enter to see the work of his bowmen and craftsmen until it should frown at all comers a castle formidable as any in Spain. And then they heaped up the mortar and rock to the top of the second storey, but above that they let the timbers show, except where they filled in plaster between the curving trunks: and the ages blackened the timber in amongst the white plaster; but not a storm that blew in all the years that came, nor the moss of so many Springs, ever rotted away those beams that the forest had given and on which the bowmen had laboured so long ago. But the castle weathered the ages and reached our days, worn, battered even, by its journey through the long and sometimes troubled years, but splendid with the traffic that it had with history in many gorgeous periods. Here Valdar the Excellent came once in his youth. And Charles the Magnificent stayed a night in this castle when on a pilgrimage to a holy place of the South. It was here that Peter the Arrogant in his cups gave Africa, one Spring night, to his sister's son. What grandeurs this castle has seen! What chronicles could be writ of it! But not these chronicles, for they draw near their close, and they have yet to tell how the castle was built. Others shall tell what banners flew from all four of its towers, adding a splendour to the wind, and for what cause they flew. I have yet to tell of their building. The second storey was roofed, and Castle Rodriguez still rose one layer day by day, with a hauling at pulleys and the work of a hundred men: and all the while the park swept farther into the forest. And the trees that grew up through the building were worked by the craftsmen in every chamber into which they grew: and a great branch of the hugest of them made a little crooked stair in an upper storey. On the floors they laid down skins of beasts that the bowmen slew in the forest; and on the walls there hung all manner of leather, tooled and dyed as they had the art to do in that far-away period in Spain. When the third storey was finished they roofed the castle over, laying upon the huge rafters red tiles that they made of clay. But the towers were not yet finished. At this time the King of Shadow Valley sent a runner into Lowlight to shoot a blunt arrow with a message tied to it into Don Alderon's garden, near to the door, at evening. And they went on building the towers above the height of the roof And near the top of them they made homes for archers, little turrets that leaned like swallows' nests out from each tower, high places where they could see and shoot and not be seen from below. And little narrow passages wound away behind perched battlements of stone, by which archers could slip from place to place, and shoot from here or from there and never be known. So were built in that distant age the towers of Castle Rodriguez. And one day four weeks from the felling of the first oak, the period of his promise being accomplished, the King of Shadow Valley blew his horn. And standing by what had been the bowmen's cottage, now all shut in by sheer walls of Castle Rodriguez, he gathered his bowmen to him. And when they were all about him he gave them their orders. They were to go by stealth to the village of Lowlight, and were to be by daylight before the house of Don Alderon; and, whether wed or unwed, whether she fled or folk defended the house, to bring Dona Serafina of the Valley of Dawnlight to be the chatelaine of Castle Rodriguez. For this purpose he bade them take with them a chariot that he thought magnificent, though the mighty timbers that gave grandeur to Castle Rodriguez had a cumbrous look in the heavy vehicle that was to the bowmen's eyes the triumphal car of the forest. So they took their bows and obeyed, leaving the craftsmen at their work in the castle, which was now quite roofed over, towers and all. They went through the forest by little paths that they knew, going swiftly and warily in the bowmen's way: and just before nightfall they were at the forest's edge, though they went no farther from it than its shadows go in the evening. And there they rested under the oak trees for the early part of the night except those whose art it was to gather news for their king; and three of those went into Lowlight and mixed with the villagers there. When white mists moved over the fields near dawn and wavered ghostly about Lowlight, the green bowman moved with them. And just out of hearing of the village, behind wild shrubs that hid them, the bowmen that were coming from the forest met the three that had spent the night in taverns of Lowlight. And the three told the hundred of the great wedding that there was to be in the Church of the Renunciation that morning in Lowlight: and of the preparations that were made, and how holy men had come from far on mules, and had slept the night in the village, and the Bishop of Toledo himself would bless the bridegroom's sword. The bowmen therefore retired a little way and, moving through the mists, came forward to points whence they could watch the church, well concealed on the wild plain, which here and there gave up a field to man but was mostly the playground of wild creatures whose ways were the bowmen's ways. And here they waited. This was the wedding of Rodriguez and Serafina, of which gossips often spoke at their doors in summer evenings, old women mumbling of fair weddings that each had seen; and they had been children when they saw this wedding; they were those that threw small handfuls of anemones on the path before the porch. They told the tale of it till they could tell no more. It is the account of the last two or three of them, old, old women, that came at last to these chronicles, so that their tongues may wag as it were a little longer through these pages although they have been for so many centuries dead. And this is all that books are able to do. First there was bell-ringing and many voices, and then the voices hushed, and there came the procession of eight divines of Murcia, whose vestments were strange to Lowlight. Then there came a priest from the South, near the border of Andalusia, who overnight had sanctified the ring. (It was he who had entertained Rodriguez when he first escaped from la Garda, and Rodriguez had sent for him now.) Each note of the bells came clear through the hush as they entered the church. And then with suitable attendants the bishop strode by and they saw quite close the blessed cope of Toledo. And the bridegroom followed him in, wearing his sword, and Don Alderon went with him. And then the voices rose again in the street: the bells rang on: they all saw Dona Mirana. The little bunches of bright anemones grew sticky in their hands: the bells seemed louder: cheering rose in the street and came all down it nearer. Then Dona Serafina walked past them with all her maids: and that is what the gossips chiefly remembered, telling how she smiled at them, and praising her dress, through those distant summer evenings. Then there was music in the church. And afterwards the forest-people had come. And the people screamed, for none knew what they would do. But they bowed so low to the bride and bridegroom, and showed their great hunting bows so willingly to all who wished to see, that the people lost their alarm and only feared lest the Bishop of Toledo should blast the merry bowmen with one of his curses. And presently the bride and bridegroom entered the chariot, and the people cheered; and there were farewells and the casting of flowers; and the bishop blessed three of their bows; and a fat man sat beside the driver with folded arms, wearing bright on his face a look of foolish contentment; and the bowmen and bride and bridegroom all went away to the forest. Four huge white horses drew that bridal chariot, the bowmen ran beside it, and soon it was lost to sight of the girls that watched it from Lowlight; but their memories held it close till their eyes could no longer see to knit and they could only sit by their porches in fine weather and talk of the days that were. So came Rodriguez and his bride to the forest; he silent, perplexed, wondering always to what home and what future he brought her; she knowing less than he and trusting more. And on the untended road that the bowmen shared with stags and with rare, very venturous travellers, the wheels of the woodland chariot sank so deep in the sandy earth that the escort of bowmen needed seldom to run any more; and he who sat by the driver climbed down and walked silent for once, perhaps awed by the occasion, though he was none other than Morano. Serafina was delighted with the forest, but between Rodriguez and its beautiful grandeur his anxieties crowded thickly. He leaned over once from the chariot and asked one of the bowmen again about that castle; but the bowman only bowed and answered with a proverb of Spain, not easily carried so far from its own soil to thrive in our language, but signifying that the morrow showeth all things. He was silent then, for he knew that there was no way to a direct answer through those proverbs, and after a while perhaps there came to him some of Serafina's trustfulness. By evening they came to a wide avenue leading to great gates. Rodriguez did not know the avenue, he knew no paths so wide in Shadow Valley; but he knew those gates. They were the gates of iron that led nowhere. But now an avenue went from them upon the other side, and opened widely into a park dotted with clumps of trees. And the two great iron shields, they too had changed with the changes that had bewitched the forest, for their surfaces that had glowed so unmistakably blank, side by side in the firelight, not many nights before, blazoned now the armorial bearings of Rodriguez upon the one and those of the house of Dawnlight upon the other. Through the opened gates they entered the young park that seemed to wonder at its own ancient trees, where wild deer drifted away from them like shadows through the evening: for the bowmen had driven in deer for miles through the forest. They passed a pool where water-lilies lay in languid beauty for hundreds of summers, but as yet no flower peeped into the water, for the pond was all hallowed newly. A clump of trees stood right ahead of their way; they passed round it; and Castle Rodriguez came all at once into view. Serafina gasped joyously. Rodriguez saw its towers, its turrets for archers, its guarded windows deep in the mass of stone, its solemn row of battlements, but he did not believe what he saw. He did not believe that here at last was his castle, that here was his dream fulfilled and his journey done. He expected to wake suddenly in the cold in some lonely camp, he expected the Ebro to unfold its coils in the North and to come and sweep it away. It was but another strayed hope, he thought, taking the form of dream. But Castle Rodriguez still stood frowning there, and none of its towers vanished, or changed as things change in dreams; but the servants of the King of Shadow Valley opened the great door, and Serafina and Rodriguez entered, and all the hundred bowmen disappeared. Here we will leave them, and let these Chronicles end. For whoever would tell more of Castle Rodriguez must wield one of those ponderous pens that hangs on the study wall in the house of historians. Great days in the story of Spain shone on those iron-barred windows, and things were said in its banqueting chamber and planned in its inner rooms that sometimes turned that story this way or that, as rocks turn a young river. And as a traveller meets a mighty river at one of its bends, and passes on his path, while the river sweeps on to its estuary and the sea, so I leave the triumphs and troubles of that story which I touched for one moment by the door of Castle Rodriguez. My concern is but with Rodriguez and Serafina and to tell that they lived here in happiness; and to tell that the humble Morano found his happiness too. For he became the magnificent steward of Castle Rodriguez, the majordomo, and upon august occasions he wore as much red plush as he had ever seen in his dreams, when he saw this very event, sleeping by dying camp-fires. And he slept not upon straw but upon good heaps of wolf-skins. But pining a little in the second year of his somewhat lonely splendour, he married one of the maidens of the forest, the child of a bowman that hunted boars with their king. And all the green bowmen came and built him a house by the gates of the park, whence he walked solemnly on proper occasions to wait upon his master. Morano, good, faithful man, come forward for but a moment out of the Golden Age and bow across all those centuries to the reader: say one farewell to him in your Spanish tongue, though the sound of it be no louder than the sound of shadows moving, and so back to the dim splendour of the past, for the Señor or Señora shall hear your name no more. For years Rodriguez lived a chieftain of the forest, owning the overlordship of the King of Shadow Valley, whom he and Serafina would entertain with all the magnificence of which their castle was capable on such occasions as he appeared before the iron gates. They seldom saw him. Sometimes they heard his horn as he went by. They heard his bowmen follow. And all would pass and perhaps they would see none. But upon occasions he came. He came to the christening of the eldest son of Rodriguez and Serafina, for whom he was godfather. He came again to see the boy shoot for the first time with a bow. And later he came to give little presents, small treasures of the forest, to Rodriguez' daughters; who treated him always, not as sole lord of that forest that travellers dreaded, but as a friend of their very own that they had found for themselves. He had his favourites among them and none quite knew which they were. And one day he came in his old age to give Rodriguez a message. And he spoke long and tenderly of the forest as though all its glades were sacred. And soon after that day he died, and was buried with the mourning of all his men in the deeps of Shadow Valley, where only Rodriguez and the bowmen knew. And Rodriguez became, as the old king had commanded, the ruler of Shadow Valley and all its faithful men. With them he hunted and defended the forest, holding all its ways to be sacred, as the old king had taught. It is told how Rodriguez ruled the forest well. And later he made a treaty with the Spanish King acknowledging him sole Lord of Spain, including Shadow Valley, saving that certain right should pertain to the foresters and should be theirs for ever. And these rights are written on parchment and sealed with the seal of Spain; and none may harm the forest without the bowmen's leave. Rodriguez was made Duke of Shadow Valley and a Magnifico of the first degree; though little he went with other hidalgos to Court, but lived with his family in Shadow Valley, travelling seldom beyond the splendour of the forest farther than Lowlight. Thus he saw the glory of autumn turning the woods to fairyland: and when the stags were roaring and winter coming on he would take a boar-spear down from the wall and go hunting through the forest, whose twigs were black and slender and still against the bright menace of winter. Spring found him viewing the fields that his men had sown, along the forest's edge, and finding in the chaunt of the myriad birds a stirring of memories, a beckoning towards past days. In summer he would see his boys and girls at play, running through shafts of sunlight that made leaves and grass like pale emeralds. He gave his days to the forest and the four seasons. Thus he dwelt amidst splendours such as History has never seen in any visit of hers to the courts of men. Of him and Serafina it has been written and sung that they lived happily ever after; and though they are now so many centuries dead, may they have in the memories of such of my readers as will let them linger there, that afterglow of life that remembrance gives, which is all that there is on earth for those that walked it once and that walk the paths of their old haunts no more. 
41071	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). A SON OF PERDITION An Occult Romance by FERGUS HUME Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "Lady Jim of Curzon Street," "The Mother of Emeralds," "The Jew's House," etc., etc. New & Cheaper Edition. London William Rider & Son, Ltd. TO MRS. ANNIE BESANT PRESIDENT THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY WHO IS ELOQUENT, WISE, PATIENT, AND TOLERANT _NOTE_ _The Author is indebted for the description of the Star-Worship contained in Chapter XV to Mr. C. W. Leadbeater's articles on "Ancient Chaldea," which appeared in the February, March, and April numbers of "The Theosophical Review" during the year 1900._ CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. LOVE IN IDLENESS 1 II. THE PROPHECY 16 III. THE FULFILMENT 31 IV. PLOTTING 47 V. THE MEETING 66 VI. A CONVERSATION 83 VII. BEHIND THE SCENES 99 VIII. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM 112 IX. THE WARNING 128 X. IN CORNWALL 144 XI. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 160 XII. SMALL BEER CHRONICLES 177 XIII. FURTHER SMALL BEER CHRONICLES 196 XIV. PREPARATION 215 XV. THE TRANCE 231 XVI. THE DISCIPLE OF LOVE 248 XVII. THE DISCIPLE OF HATE 267 XVIII. THE NIGHT BEFORE 282 XIX. THE MORNING AFTER 298 XX. THE UNEXPECTED 317 XXI. THE CHOICE 333 XXII. RIGHT IS MIGHT 350 XXIII. THE ETERNAL STRIFE 368 XXIV. DAWN 386 CHAPTER I LOVE IN IDLENESS "How can any one hope to transfer that to canvas?" asked the artist, surveying the many-coloured earth and sky and sea with despairing eyes. "Easily enough," replied the girl at his elbow, "those who see twice as vividly as others, can make others see once as vividly as they do. That is what we call genius." "A large word for my small capabilities, Miss Enistor. Am I a genius?" "Ask yourself, Mr. Hardwick, for none other than yourself can answer truly." Outside his special gift the artist was not over clever, so he lounged on the yielding turf of the slope to turn the speech over in his mind and wait results. This tall solidly built Saxon only arrived at conclusions by slow degrees of laborious reflection. With his straight athletic figure, closely clipped fair hair and a bronzed complexion, against which his moustache looked almost white, he resembled a soldier rather than a painter. Yet a painter he was of some trifling fame, but being only moderately creative, he strove to supply what was wanting by toilsome work. He had not so much the steady fire of genius as the crackling combustion of talent. Thus the grim Cornish country and the far-stretching Atlantic waters, so magically beautiful under an opalescent sunset, baffled him for the moment. "I have the beginnings of genius," he finally decided, "that is, I can see for myself, but I cannot pass the vision on to others by production." "Half a loaf is better than none," said Miss Enistor soothingly. "I am not so sure that your proverb is true, so I reply with another. If indeed appetite comes with eating, as the French say, it is useless to invite it with half a loaf, when, for complete satisfaction, one requires the whole." "There is something in that," admitted the girl, smiling, "but try and secure your desired whole loaf by sitting mousey-quiet and letting what is before you sink into your innermost being. Then you may create." Crossing his legs and gripping his ankles, Hardwick, seated in the approved attitude of a fakir, did his best to adopt this advice, although he might well despair of fixing on canvas the fleeting vision of that enchanted hour. From the cromlech, near which the couple were stationed, a purple carpet of heather rolled down to a winding road, white and dusty and broad. On the hither side of the loosely built wall which skirted this, stretched many smooth green fields, divided and subdivided by boundaries of piled stones, feathery with ferns and coarse grasses. Beyond the confines of this ordered world, a chaos of bracken and ling, of small shrubs and stunted trees, together with giant masses of silvery granite, islanded amidst a sea of gold-besprinkled gorse, tumbled pell-mell to the jagged edge of the cliffs. Finally, the bluish plain of ocean glittered spaciously to the far sharp horizon-line. Thence rose billowy clouds of glorious hues threaded with the fires of the sinking sun, heaping themselves in rainbow tints higher and higher towards the radiant azure of the zenith. No ship was on the water, no animals moved on the land, and even the grey huddle of houses, to which the smooth level road led, appeared to be without inhabitants. For all that could be seen of sentient life, the two on the hilltop were alone in this world of changeful beauty: the Adam and Eve of a new creation. "Yet," murmured the girl, to whom this stillness suggested thoughts, "around us are nature-spirits, invisible and busy, both watchful and indifferent. Oh, Mr. Hardwick, how I should love to see the trolls, the pixies, the gnomes and the nixies." "Rhyme, if not reason," laughed the artist lazily, "one must have the eye of faith to see such impossible things." "Impossible?" Miss Enistor shrugged her shoulders and declined to combat his scepticism beyond the query of the one word. As that did not invite conversation, Hardwick gave himself up to the mere contentment of looking at her. Amidst the warm splendours of the hour, she somehow conveyed to him the sensation of a grey and pensive autumn day, haunting, yet elusive in its misty beauty. He was wholly unable to put this feeling into words, but he conceived it dimly as a subtle blurring of the picture she had bidden him create. His love for her was like a veil before his conception, and until that veil was removed by his surrender of the passion, the execution of the landscape on canvas was impossible. Yet so sweet was this drawback to his working powers that he could not wish it away. Yet it was strange that the girl should be attractive to a man of his limitations, since her alluring qualities were not aggressively apparent. A delicate oval face, exquisitely moulded, with a transparent colourless skin, and mystical eyes of larkspur blue, were scarcely what his blunt perceptions approved of as absolute beauty. Slim and dainty and fragile in shape and stature, her unusual looks suggested a cloistered nun given to visions or some peaked elfin creature of moonlight and mist. She might have been akin to the fairies she spoke about, and even in the strong daylight she was a creature of dreams ethereal and evanescent. Hardwick was much too phlegmatic a man to analyse shadows. A Celt would have comprehended the hidden charm which drew him on; the Saxon could only wonder what there was in the girl to impress him. "You are not my ideal of beauty, you know, Miss Enistor," he said in such a puzzled way as to rob the speech of premeditated rudeness; "yet there is something about you which makes me adore you!" The girl flushed and shrugged her shoulders again. "What a flamboyant word is 'adored'!" "It is the only word I can use," said Hardwick stoutly. "The Venus of Milo, Brynhild in the Volsung poem, Jael who slew Sisera, Rubens' robust nymphs: these were the types which appealed to me--until I met you." "How complimentary to my small commonplace looks! What caused you to change your mind, Mr. Hardwick?" "Something you possess, which is not apparent." "You talk in riddles. What attracts any one must be apparent." "Well, that is uncertain. I am not a deep thinker, you know. But there is such a thing as glamour." "There is. But you are not the man to comprehend the meaning of the word." "I admit that: all the same I feel its influence--in you!" "I don't know what you mean," said the girl indifferently. "Nor do I. Yet the feeling is here," and he touched his heart. "If I could only shape that feeling into words,"--he hesitated and blushed. "Well?" "I might be able to tell you much--Alice." "Why do you use my Christian name?" "Why not? We are man and woman on a hillside, and not over-civilised beings in a drawing-room. You are Alice: I am Julian. It is quite simple." "But too intimate," she objected, "you have known me only six months." "Do you reckon knowledge by Time?" "You have no knowledge: you confessed as much lately." Hardwick looked at her earnestly. "I have this much, that I know how deeply I love you, my dear!" and he took her hand gently between his palms. Alice let it lie there undisturbed, but did not return his pressure. For a few moments she looked straightly at the sunset. "I am sorry to hear you say that," was her calm remark when she did decide to speak. "Why?" "Because I can never love you!" "Love can create love," urged Julian, again pressing her hand and again receiving no answering caress. "Not between you and me. You may be fire, but I am not tow to catch alight." The flush had disappeared from her face, leaving it pure and white and calm to such a degree that the man dropped her hand. It was like holding a piece of ice, and he felt chilled by the aloofness of touch and look. "But you are a woman," he said roughly in his vexation, "you must know what love means." "I don't: really I don't." Alice hugged her knees and stared with the sublime quietness of an Egyptian statue at his perturbed countenance. As he did not answer, she continued to speak in a deliberate way, which showed that his proposal had not touched her heart in the least. "My mother died when I was born, and I had Dame Trevel in the village yonder as my foster-mother until I was ten years of age. Then my father sent me to a Hampstead boarding school for eleven years. I returned only twelve months ago to live at Tremore"--she nodded towards a long low grey house, which basked on a neighbouring hilltop like a sullen reptile in the sunshine. "But your father----?" "My father," interrupted the girl in a melancholy tone, "has no love for any one but himself. At times I think he hates me for causing the death of my mother by being born." "Surely not." "Well, you have seen my father. I leave you to judge." Hardwick was puzzled how to reply. "He is not a man who shows his feelings, you know," he said delicately. "I don't think he has any feelings to show," replied Alice indifferently. "I am used to his neglect, and so have schooled myself to be quietly agreeable without expecting any demonstrations of affection." Hardwick nodded. "I have noticed, when dining at Tremore, that you are more like well-bred acquaintances than father and daughter. Perhaps," he added in a dreamy tone, "that is what first made me fall in love with you." "I see," said Miss Enistor ironically, "you have come across the line of Shakespeare which says that pity is akin to love." "I have never read Shakespeare's plays," admitted Mr. Hardwick simply. "I'm not a clever chap, you know. But you looked so forlorn in that dismal house, and seemed so starving for kind words and actions, that I wanted to take you away with me and make you happier. Yes," the artist quite brightened at his own perspicuity, "that is what drew me to you--a desire to give you a really good time." Alice looked at him gravely, but with a suspicion of a smile on her pale lips. "Do you know, Julian, that I believe you to be a good man." The artist blushed again: he had the trick of blushing on occasions, which showed him to possess still the modesty of boyhood. "Oh, I say," he murmured almost inaudibly; then to cover his confusion added: "You call me Julian." "Yes," Alice nodded her head in a stately way. "Henceforth let us be the greatest of friends." "Lovers," he urged, "true honest lovers." "No, Julian. We would be neither true nor honest as lovers. Our marriage would not be one of those made in heaven." "Are any marriages made in heaven?" he asked somewhat cynically. She looked at him in surprise. "Of course. When one soul meets another soul capable of blending with it, that is a heavenly marriage." "Well then," he cried impetuously, "my soul and your soul?" Alice shook her head. "We don't strike the same note: we are not in harmony, Julian. As friends we can esteem one another, but as lovers, as man and wife, you would end in boring me as I should finally bore you." "One would think you were fifty to hear you talk so," said Hardwick crossly. "Do you reckon knowledge by Time?" she asked, harking back to the phrase he had used earlier in the conversation. He had no reply ready. "Still it is odd to hear a girl of twenty-one talk as you do, Alice." "You are speaking of my new suit of clothes. I am as old as the world." "Oh, that is the queer stuff your father talks. He believes in reincarnation, doesn't he?" "He does, and so do I." "I wonder that you can. A sensible girl like you----" "My dear Julian, you speak without knowledge," she interrupted placidly. "That can't be knowledge which can't be proved." "I think you must be a reincarnation of Nicodemus," retorted Miss Enistor. "That is no answer." "Now how can I give you an answer, when you have not the capability of grasping the answer, Julian? If a peasant wanted a mathematical problem proved to him, he would have to learn mathematics to understand it." "Yes, I suppose so. But you mean----" "I mean that you have to live the life to understand the doctrine. Christ said that two thousand years ago, and it is as true to-day as it was then." With his slow habit of thinking Hardwick had to revolve this speech in his mind before replying. Alice, with an impish look of mischief on her face, laughed also to prevent his answering. "I am taking you into deep water and you will be drowned," she said lightly, "suppose you begin your picture." "No," said the man soberly. "I don't feel like painting the picture. I don't believe I ever could," and he looked at the fading glories of sea and land regretfully. "Next time you are born you will be a genius," said Miss Enistor cheerfully, "as you are building up in this life the brain required by a master-painter. Meantime I wish you to be my friend." "Well, it is hard to decline from love to friendship, but----" "No 'buts.' Friendship is love from another point of view." "Not my point of view." Alice raised an admonitory finger. "You mustn't be selfish," she said severely. "Selfish? I? How can I be?" "By wishing me to give for your gratification what I cannot give for my own. I cannot love you as you desire, because there is not that spiritual link between us which means true love. Therefore to make me happy, if you really love me, you should be prepared to sacrifice yourself to the lower feeling of friendship." "That is too high for me," murmured Hardwick despondingly, "but I see that you won't have me as your husband." "Certainly not. I want a man to love me, not to pity me." "It isn't exactly pity." "Yes it is," she insisted, "you are sorry for me because I live in a dull house with a neglectful father. It is very nice of you to think so, and it is still nicer to think that you are willing to help me by tying yourself to a woman you do not really love. But I can't accept that sacrifice. You must be my friend, Julian--my true honest friend." Hardwick glanced into her deep blue eyes, and unintelligent as he was in such subtle matters read his answer therein. "I shall do my best," he said with a deep sigh; "but you must give me time to cool down from passion to friendship. I want you to be my wife, and like all women you offer to be a sister to me." "Or I will be your cousin if the relation will suit you better," said the girl, laughing outright at his rueful looks. Julian took offence. "You don't pity me?" "Not at all, since your feeling is not one of genuine love," was the cool response. "I would if it were." "One would think you were a hardened woman of the world to hear you speak in this way." "Perhaps I was a woman of the world in my last incarnation, Julian. I seem to have brought over a great deal of common sense to this life. You are a dear, sweet, placid thing, but although you have seen more of human nature and worldly existence this time than I have, you don't know half so much." "Alice, you are conceited." "Ah, that speech shows you are yet heart-whole, Julian. If you were really in love you would never dare to speak so to your divinity." "Well, I daresay I shall get over it. But it's hard on a fellow." "Not at all. Hard on your vanity perhaps, but vanity isn't you. Come," Alice sprang to her feet and took up her smart silver-headed cane, "the sun will soon go down and I must get home. We are friends, are we not?" she held out her hand smiling. "Of course we are." Hardwick bent to kiss her hand and she snatched it away swiftly. "That isn't friendship." "Oh, with you friendship means: 'You may look, but you mustn't touch.'" "Exactly," said Miss Enistor lightly, "consider me if you please as a valuable Dresden china ornament under a glass shade." Julian heaved another sigh and began to collect his painting materials. "I must if I must," he admitted grudgingly; "there isn't another man, I suppose?" The face of the girl grew grave. "There isn't another man whom I love, if that is what you mean," she said, reluctantly. "I have not yet met with my Prince, who will wake me to love and beauty. But there is a man who wants, as you do, to be the Prince." "Oh hang him, who is he?" "Don Pablo Narvaez!" "That old mummy. Impossible!" "It is both possible and disagreeable. He hinted the other day that he----" "Loved you? What impertinence!" "No," said Alice dryly, "he did not commit himself so far. But he hinted that he would like me to be his wife. My father afterwards told me that it would be a good match for me, as Don Pablo is wealthy." "Wealthy be blessed, Alice," rejoined Hardwick with great heat. "You don't want to take your husband from a museum." "I don't and I won't," she replied with great determination, "and for that reason I wish you to be my friend." "Why, what can I do?" "Stand by me. If my father insists upon my marrying Don Pablo, you must say that I am engaged to you, and this will give you the right to interfere." Hardwick packed his traps, and swung up the hill on the home-path alongside the girl. "How can you ask me to take up such a position when you know that I love you, Alice?" "If I thought that you did I should not ask for your help, Julian. But in your own heart you know that you really do not love me. It is only what you call the glamour of my personality that has caught you for the moment. It is not improbable," she went on musingly, "that there may be some slight link between us dating from our meeting in former lives, but it is not a strong enough one to bring us together this time as man and wife!" "Oh, this mystical talk makes me tired," cried the painter in quite an American way, "it's silly." "So it is from your point of view," said Miss Enistor promptly, "let us get down to what you call common sense in your robust Anglo-Saxon style. I want you to stand between me and Don Pablo in the way I suggest. Will you?" "Yes. That is--give me a day or two to think the matter over. I am flesh and blood, you know, Alice, and not stone." "Oh, nonsense, you deceive yourself," she retorted impatiently. "Don't I tell you that if I thought your feeling for me was really genuine I should not be so wicked as to risk your unhappiness? But I know you better than you do yourself. If you loved me, would you have chatted about this, that and the other thing so lightly after I had rejected you?" "There is something in that," admitted Hardwick, as Alice had done previously with regard to his whole-loaf argument. "Well, I daresay I shall appear as your official lover. Don Pablo shan't worry you if I can help it." "Thanks, you dear good boy," rejoined the girl gratefully and squeezed the artist's arm. "Don't you feel fire running through your veins when I touch you, Julian?" "No," said Hardwick stolidly. "Doesn't your heart beat nineteen to the dozen: haven't you the feeling that this is heaven on earth?" "Not a bit." Alice dropped his arm with a merry laugh. "And you talk about being in love with me! Can't you see now how wise I was to refuse you?" "Well," said Hardwick reluctantly, for he felt that she was perfectly right in her diagnosis; "there may be something in what you say." "There is everything in what I say," she insisted; "however, I shall give you another chance. Catch me before I reach Tremore and I shall be your wife." Before Hardwick could accept or refuse, she sprang up the narrow winding path as lightly as Atalanta. More out of pique than absolute desire the artist followed. Although he now began to see that he had taken a false Eros for the true one, he resolutely sped after the flying figure, if only to have the pleasure of refusing the prize when he won it. But he might as well have attempted to catch an air-bubble. Alice was swifter than he was, and ran in a flying way which reminded him of a darting swallow. Down the declivity she dropped, following the twists of the pathway amongst the purple heather, and sprang across the brawling stream at the bottom of the valley before he was half-way down. Then up she mounted, with an arch backward glance, to scale the hill whereon Tremore gloomed amidst its muffling trees. At the gate set in the mouldering brick wall he nearly caught her, for pride winged his feet. But she eluded his grasp with a laugh and disappeared amongst the foliage of the miniature forest. When next she came in sight, he beheld her standing at the sombre porch of the squat mansion binding up her tresses of black hair, which had become loose with her exertions. "You don't love me," panted Alice, who had scarcely got her breath, "if you did I should have been in your arms by this time." "Pouf!" puffed Hardwick, wiping his wet brow. "Pouf! pouf! pouf!" "Is that all you have to say?" "It is all I am able to say. Pouf! Pouf! Well, my dear girl, Saul went to look for his asses and found a kingdom. I went to look for a kingdom of love and find an ass--in myself." "Oh no! no!" protested Alice, rather distressed. "Oh yes! yes! The love-mood has come and gone in the space of an afternoon, Miss Enistor." "Alice to you, Julian," and she held out her hand. The artist did not attempt to kiss it this time. "Brother and sister," he said, giving the hand a hearty shake, "and official lover when necessary." "It's a bargain," replied Miss Enistor beaming, and so it was arranged. CHAPTER II THE PROPHECY From the hilltop where Alice and her rejected lover had conversed, the house called Tremore could be plainly seen in its grey nakedness. But on the other side, in front and at the back, it was screened from the salt Atlantic winds by a dismal wood of stone-pines, yews, cypress-trees and giant cedars, planted by various Enistors in the long-distant past, when they had first set up their tent on the waste moorland. The gloomy disposition of the race could be seen, not only in the funereal types of trees chosen for sheltering the mansion, but in the grim look of the mansion itself. Never was there so dreary a place. Tremore means "great dwelling" in the Celtic tongue, but the name could only apply to this particular house from the unusual space of ground it covered, since it was only one storey high. Built of untrimmed granite blocks and roofed with dull hued slates, it stretched in a narrow line towards the rear of the hill on which it stood. Here it divided into two other narrow lines, forming on the whole the exact shape of the letter "Y." One of the forks contained the kitchen, the servants' sleeping apartments and the domestic offices: the other held the bedrooms of the gentry, while the main stem of the letter was made up of drawing-room, library, sitting-room and dining-room. It was an odd place quaintly planned and curiously built: but then the Enistors were odd people. One markedly strange thing amongst others was the absence of vegetation about the house, since nothing would grow near it. Flowers were conspicuous by their absence, turf was wanting, and not even weeds would flourish. The very trees stood aloof in sulky darkness, leaving the building isolated in an arid space of beaten earth. There it stood on the bare ground with its heavy porch, its thick walls and many small windows, bleak in its nakedness for want of draping ivy. True enough there was a kitchen-garden and a small orchard at the back, beyond the screen of trees, which flourished tolerably, but round the house greenery was wanting, as if the place was cursed. Perhaps it was, as the Enistors had borne a sinister reputation for generations. But whatever the reason might be, Tremore might have been built in the desert from the way in which it lay like a sullen snake on the barren earth. And a two-headed snake at that, like some demon of a fairy tale. The interior of this undesirable mansion was desperately gloomy, as all the rooms were small with low ceilings, and for the most part panelled with black oak dull and unpolished. The kitchen and servants' rooms were more agreeable, as here Mr. Enistor had conformed to modern ideas of cheerfulness so far as to paper and tile the walls brightly. But his own particular portion of the house he would not allow to be touched, and although it was comfortable enough, it was decidedly depressing, with its sombre tints and stuffy atmosphere. Often did Alice leave its dark chambers and its dismal surroundings to breathe freely on the vast spaces of the moors. East and West and North and South stretched the treeless lands, covered with heather and dangerous with the shafts of worked-out mines. The village of Polwellin below belonged to the Enistors, and over it and its inhabitants the present head of the old family exercised a feudal sway. But beyond this particular collection of dwellings, containing one hundred people, more or less, there was no house or hamlet for some leagues. Perchton, a watering-place haunted by artists, was the nearest town, and that was ten miles distant. Tremore would have suited a misanthrope, but it was not a place wherein Alice cared to live. She was young and inclined to mix with her fellow creatures, but never did any chance come by which she could enter society. It was no wonder that the girl was peaked and pining, and could see things invisible to the ordinary person. Isolation was unhealthy for one of her temperament. Seated at the heavy mahogany table, whence, in old-fashioned style, the cloth had been removed for dessert, Alice almost regretted that she had not accepted Hardwick's proposal to remove her from such sad surroundings. The dull carved panelling of the walls, the sombre family portraits, the cumbersome furniture, together with the lowness of the ceiling and the limited space of the room, stifled her and depressed her spirits to such a degree that she could scarcely eat. Mr. Enistor and Don Pablo--the latter dined at Tremore on this particular night--were in accurate evening dress, and the whole apartment bore an aspect of good-breeding and stately ceremonial. The host was attached to the customs of his ancestors, and his meals were always served with quite royal etiquette. And by the light of the many wax candles in silver holders which illuminated the room--Mr. Enistor would have nothing to do with lamps--Alice looked curiously at the two men, whose want of vitality, as she vaguely thought, drew the life-power from herself. She was wrong as regarded her father, for Korah Enistor was a handsome, healthy man in the prime of life, and had plenty of vitality in his robust frame. He looked somewhat austere with his dark hair, scarcely touched with white, his dark eyes and powerful face, which lacked colour as much as her own did. Like Hardwick, the man resembled a soldier, as he was tall and lean, well-built and active. Also, he possessed the imperious manner of one accustomed to command men, and spoke in a slow deliberate manner with compelling glances of his dark eyes. The most casual observer would have noted that here was a strong personality given to dominate rather than to obey. All the same, Alice noticed that her strong-willed father pointedly deferred to Don Pablo Narvaez, in a way which argued that he rendered _him_ obedience. It was strange that she should entertain this idea seeing that the Spaniard was as frail as Enistor was strong, and did not at all look like one who could, or would, rule so aggressive a personality. This odd deference had puzzled her on previous occasions, but to-night the feeling that her father was thrall to Don Pablo was particularly strong. A breath, she thought, could have blown the guest away like thistledown, so frail and weak did he appear. What his age was she could not guess, but conceived that he was an octogenarian. His scanty white hair, his shrunken figure, his small wrinkled face, and the false teeth which showed when he smiled, all favoured this belief. Don Pablo was like an expiring flame, which the slightest breath might extinguish, and the only thing, hinting to the girl's mind at enduring life, were his eyes. These were of a brighter blue than her own, extraordinarily large and piercing, so that few could bear their direct gaze. The idea entered Alice's head at the moment that here was a bunch of blooming flowers in a cracked vase of great age, or to be less fanciful, she told herself that Narvaez had a weak body dominated by a powerful will which kept the life intact. She could imagine him stepping out of that fragile shape, and still be alive, more powerful and more vitalised in another. His brain was clear, his speech was incisive, and always he used his dominating eyes to compel all those he gazed at to surrender to the spell of his powerful mind. There was something sinister about his interior youthfulness and exterior senility. The girl both hated and dreaded him. Being sensitive she was responsive to influences which a coarser nature--say that of Hardwick--would never feel. Don Pablo impressed her as something terrible in spite of his weak looks. His frail body was only the jungle, as it were, that concealed the tiger, and she could imagine him putting forth powers whose force would shatter the aging tenement. What such powers might be she did not know, as he revealed nothing of his dominating nature to her. But she vaguely felt that what force he possessed was deadly evil, and would be used for purely evil purposes. Therefore, warned instinctively by her pure soul, she kept out of his way as much as possible. The stealthy attempts of her father to bring youth and age together, Alice resisted as best she could. But it was difficult to fight against two such commanding natures, and all the time there was the insistent feeling of being drawn into darkness. Alice often blamed herself for thinking in this hostile way of her father, but could never get rid of her doubts. It was firmly rooted in her mind that Narvaez and Enistor were dwelling in an atmosphere of evil, which they wished to extend so as to include herself. At the moment the pressure was particularly strong, and she sighed with weariness as the invisible forces came up against her. Hardly had the sound left her lips when Don Pablo glanced swiftly at his host. "You are tired, Alice," said Enistor, rising to open the door. "The heat is oppressive to-night. Take a turn in the garden and you will feel better. Is your head aching?" "Yes, father," replied the girl almost inaudibly, and glided out of the room like an unquiet ghost to seek the life-giving moorland air. Her father returned to the table in his stately fashion, and poured himself out a fresh glass of water. On the shining mahogany there were no decanters of wine: only dishes of fruit, crystal jugs of water, and the three empty coffee-cups. Neither Narvaez nor his host drank any alcoholic liquor: they did not indulge in smoking and were extremely temperate in eating. An ordinary man would have missed the smiling good-fellowship which is usually to be found at a dinner-table. Had these two even laughed outright they would have appeared more human. But they did not, and throughout their conversation maintained a sinister calmness disconcerting in its aloofness from the chatter and merriment of commonplace mortals. Yet somehow this profound quietness seemed to suit the room with its menacing atmosphere. "It is difficult," murmured Don Pablo, with a glance at the door. "But not impossible," returned Enistor, answering the thought rather than the words. These two were versed in mind-reading beyond the ordinary. "That is as it may be, my friend!" Enistor frowned. "You mean her innocence?" "Is it necessary for you to put that into words?" demanded the older man in a mocking way; "of course I mean her innocence. That very purity which makes the girl so valuable to me is the wall which protects her from the influence I wish to exercise over her." "Constant dropping of water wears away a stone, Master." "That proverb does not apply in every case," retorted the other darkly. "I tell you that I am helpless before your daughter. I am too old for her to love me, therefore her heart is safe. She is not greedy for money, or admiration, or position, or dress, or for half a dozen things which would tempt an ordinary girl. There is no foothold to be obtained." The host cast an uneasy glance round, and his eyes grew piercing, as if he would force the invisible to become apparent. "She is guarded, we know!" Narvaez' wrinkled face grew even darker than before. "Yes, she is guarded. I am aware of the power that guards her." "So you have said several times, Master. Why not explain more fully?" "The time has not yet come to explain. If you were advanced enough to read the Akashic Records, then you might see much that would explain things." Enistor nodded gloomily. "I understand. The present situation is the outcome of the past." "Everything in life is an outcome of the past," said Narvaez, "even a neophyte such as you are should be certain of that. Cause and effect govern all things." "But if you would explain the cause, I might see how to deal with the effect, Master." "I daresay," returned the other dryly, "but in spite of my superior knowledge, I am not yet omnipotent, Enistor. I can read a trifle of the records, but not easily. There are veils before my eyes which prevent me from knowing the exact state of affairs which has brought things to this pass in this set of lives. All I can say is that you and I and your daughter, together with two other people, were in Chaldea over five thousand years ago, and the lives then are linked with the lives now. The Karma of that period has to be worked out while we are all in the flesh to-day." "Do you know who the other two people are?" asked Enistor eagerly. "I know one. He is powerful, and hostile to you and to me!" "He does not follow the Left-hand Path then?" "No. He is a White Magician. You will see him some day when the hour strikes. I am teaching you all I can so that you may be able to confront him." "I am not afraid of any one," snapped Enistor sharply. "Oh, you have courage enough," admitted Narvaez, "but knowledge must be added to that, if you are to be victorious. As to the other person who has to play a part in the working out of this Karma----" "Well! Well! Well?" "I don't know who or what he is," confessed the other. "He is a man then?" "Yes, I know that much!" Narvaez drank a glass of water, and rose with an effort as if his bones pained him. "We had better understand the situation." In spite of his mind-reading Enistor could not understand and said as much with a puzzled air. Narvaez laughed softly for a moment and then became his usual calm self. "I refer to the position on the physical plane of you and myself and those surrounding us--the flesh and blood puppets I mean with which we have to deal." "Are they puppets?" demanded Enistor dubiously. "One is not. You can guess that I mean our powerful adversary. But the others--bah!" he swept the air with one lean hand. "I think I can deal with them, if you give me your assistance." "I have promised to give it--at a price," said Enistor tartly. The guest stared at him with a sphinx-like expression. "I know your price and you shall have your price," he dropped into his chair again with an air of fatigue, and his eyes grew brighter than ever. "Listen, my friend. I came here from Spain three years ago in search of you, as I learned by my arts that you would be useful to me. You have the blood of my race in your veins, as you know, since that Spanish sailor, who was wrecked on these coasts in a galleon of the Great Armada, married your ancestress from whom you are descended." "I know all this, Master." "Quite so, but I wish to refresh your memory. I found you here a poor man----" "Which I am still," interrupted Enistor gloomily. "Of course. The time is not yet ripe for you to gain your wish!" "My wish! my wish!" the host rose and raised his arms, with a fierce look on his powerful face. "When will it be gratified? I want money--a large amount--thousands of pounds, since money means power." "And power is the real thing you desire. The money, as we know, is only the means to obtain that power. You wish to influence men at all costs; to rule the masses; to be famous as a leader!" The sneer with which Narvaez made this speech irritated Enistor, although he was sufficiently educated in mystic lore to be aware how important absolute self-command is to those who deal with occultism. That is, he knew such was the case, more or less, but could never attain to the necessary calm. "It is not a contemptible ambition," he snarled savagely. "Our adversary of the Right-hand Path would say so," rejoined Narvaez coolly, "since you desire power and rule and money in order to gratify Self." "I never knew that you worked for other people, Narvaez," sneered Enistor. The Spaniard smiled coldly. "I don't, I never shall. I strive, as you do, for power, and, thanks to my knowledge, I have more than you, although it is not enough to content me. It is because your aims are the same as mine that we can work together. But Alice does not desire anything and that is what baffles both of us." "In that case, she is useless to you, Master, and therefore it is no good your marrying her." "Once she is my wife, I can influence her more easily, Enistor. As you know, I have no feeling of love for either man or woman. That philanthropic sentiment of sacrifice for humanity is disagreeable to me. In black magic, as in white, one must live like what is called a saint to be powerful. To be absolutely free you should never have married." "Yet you propose to make the same mistake." "There is no mistake about the matter," said Narvaez calmly, "my marriage with your daughter will be no marriage in the accepted sense of the word. I simply wish to bind her to me, so that I can train the clairvoyance she possesses which is so valuable to me. I can give her plenty of money----" "You won't give it to me," interposed the other hastily. "Of course not. Why should I? Nothing for nothing is the rule of the Left-hand Path. But that I require your services and cannot dispense with them I should not waste my time teaching you my knowledge. However, the situation stands thus. I am to marry your daughter, and when I train her clairvoyantly--waken her sleeping powers, that is--we may learn from her reading of the Akashic Records what danger threatens." "There is a danger then?" "Yes, and a very real one, which has to do with this adversary I told you about. A desire to defeat him brought me to you, and as he is your enemy as well as mine, you are wise to obey me in all things." "Yet I know that when you have no further use for me, you will cast me aside as of no account," said Enistor bitterly. "Why not?" rejoined the other coolly. "You would act in the same way." "I am not so sure that I would." "Ah. You have still some human weakness to get rid of before you can progress on the path along which you ask me to lead you. I have no use for weaklings, Enistor. Remember that." The host drew himself up haughtily. "I am no weakling!" "For your own sake, to-morrow, I hope you are not." "Why to-morrow?" "Because a blow will fall on you." Enistor looked uneasy. "A blow! What kind of a blow?" "Something to do with a loss of expected money. That is all I can tell you, my friend. You keep certain things from me, so if you are not entirely frank, how can you expect me to aid you?" Enistor dropped into his chair again, and the perspiration beaded his dark face. "A loss of expected money," he muttered, "and Lucy is ill." "Who is Lucy?" "My sister who lives in London. A widow called Lady Staunton. She has five thousand a year which she promised years ago to leave to me, so that I might restore the fortunes of the Enistor family. I had news a week ago that she is very ill, and this week I was going up to see her in order to make sure she had not changed her mind." "It is useless your going to see Lady Staunton," said Narvaez leisurely, "for she _has_ changed her mind and has made a new will." Enistor scowled and clenched his hands. "How do you know?" "Well, I don't know details," said the Spaniard agreeably, "those have to be supplied by you. All I am certain of is that to-morrow you will receive a letter stating that you have lost some expected money. As the sole money you hope to receive is to come from Lady Staunton, it is logical to think that this is what will be lost. You should have told me about this and I could have worked on her mind to keep her true to you." "But it is impossible," cried Enistor, rising to stride up and down in an agitated way. "Lucy is as proud of our family as I am, and always said she would leave her fortune to restore us to our old position in the country." "Lady Staunton is a woman, and women are fickle," said Narvaez cruelly. "I fear you have lost your chance this time." "You may be wrong." "I may be, but I don't think so. I was looking over your horoscope last evening, Enistor, and from what I read therein I made further inquiries, which have to do with invisible powers I can control." "Elementals?" "And other things," said the magician carelessly; "however I learned positively that you will get bad news of the nature I explained to-morrow. It is too late to counteract what has been done." "The will----?" "Exactly, the will. From what you say I feel convinced that my knowledge applies to Lady Staunton and her fortune. See what comes of not being frank with me, Enistor. You are a fool." "I don't believe what you say." "As you please. It does not matter to me; except," he added with emphasis, "that it makes my hold over you more secure." "What do you mean by that?" "My poor friend!" Narvaez glanced back from the door towards which he had walked slowly. "You are losing what little powers you have obtained, since you cannot read my mind. Why, I mean that with five thousand a year you might not be inclined to give me your daughter in marriage. As a poor man you are forced to do so." "It seems to me," said Enistor angrily, "that in any case I must do so, if I wish to learn the danger which threatens me as well as you." "Why, that is true. You are clever in saying that." "But perhaps this possible loss of money is the danger." "No. The danger is a greater one than the loss of money. It has to do with your life and my life in Chaldea; with our adversary and with the unknown man, who is coming to take part in the drama of repayment. I have a feeling," said Narvaez, passing his hand across his brow, "that the curtain rises on our drama with this loss of money." "I don't believe Lucy will cheat me," cried Enistor desperately. "Wait until to-morrow's post," said Narvaez significantly, "you will find that I am a true prophet. Our bargain of my marriage with Alice must continue on its present basis, as the want of money will still prevent your becoming independent. I might suggest," he added, opening the door, "that you forbid your daughter to see too much of young Hardwick. She might fall in love with him and that would in a great measure destroy her clairvoyant powers. She will be of no use to either of us then. Good night! When you sleep we shall meet as usual on the other plane!" Narvaez departed chuckling, for disagreeables befalling others always amused him. He was absolutely without a heart and without feelings, since for ages in various bodies he had worked hard to rid himself of his humanity. Enistor was on the same evil path, but as yet was human enough to worry over the inevitable. Until he slept he did his best to convince himself that Narvaez spoke falsely, but failed utterly in the attempt. CHAPTER III THE FULFILMENT Next morning Enistor was gloomy and apprehensive, for he had slept very badly during the hours of darkness. He tried to persuade himself that the Spaniard prophesied falsely, but some inward feeling assured him that this was not the case. Before the sun set he was convinced, against his inclinations, that the sinister prediction would be fulfilled. Therefore he picked up his morning letters nervously, quite expecting to find a legal one stating that Lady Staunton was dead and had left her five thousand a year to some stranger. Fortunately for his peace of mind there was no letter of the kind, and he made a better breakfast than he might have done. All the same he was morose and sullen, so that Alice had anything but a pleasant time. Towards the end of the meal he relieved his feelings by scolding the girl. "I forbid you to see much of that young Hardwick," he declared imperiously, "he is in love with you, and I don't wish you to marry a pauper painter!" Aware that her father wished her to accept Narvaez, it would have been wise for the girl to have held her tongue, since a later confession of a feigned engagement to the artist was her sole chance of resisting the loveless marriage. But Enistor was one of those people who invariably drew what was worst in a person to the surface, and she answered prematurely. "Mr. Hardwick proposed yesterday and I refused him. Therefore I can see as much of him as I want to, without running any risk of becoming his wife." Enistor ignored the latter part of her reply, proposing to deal with it later. "You refused him? And why, may I ask?" "He is not the man I want for my husband. He does not complete me!" "Are you then incomplete?" sneered Enistor scornfully. "To my mind every woman and every man must be incomplete until a true marriage takes place!" "What is a true marriage, you silly girl?" "A marriage of souls!" "Pooh! Pooh! That foolish affinity business." "Is it foolish?" queried Alice sedately. "It appears to me to be a great truth." "Appears to you!" scoffed her father. "What does a child such as you are know about such things? At your age you should be healthy enough not to think of your soul and even forget that you have one. Nevertheless I am glad that you have refused Hardwick, as I have other views for you." "If they include marriage with Don Pablo, I decline to entertain them." "Do you indeed? Rubbish! You are my daughter and shall do as I order." "I am a human being also, and in this instance I shall not obey." Enistor frowned like a thunderstorm. "You dare to set your will against my will?" he demanded, looking at her piercingly. "In this instance I do," replied Alice, meeting his gaze firmly. "I am quite willing to be an obedient daughter to you in all else. But marriage concerns my whole future and therefore I have a right to choose for myself." "You have no rights, save those I allow you to have! In refusing Hardwick you have shown more sense than I expected. But Don Pablo you must marry!" "Must I, father? And why?" "He is wealthy and he adores you." Alice in spite of her nervousness laughed outright. "I am woman enough to see that Don Pablo only adores himself. He wants a hostess to sit at the foot of his table and entertain his friends: he has no use for a wife. As to his wealth, I would sooner be happy with a pauper than with a millionaire, provided I loved him." "Silly romance: silly romance." "Perhaps it is. But that is my view!" Enistor frowned still more darkly, as he saw very plainly that, frail as she was, he could not hope to bend her to his will. In some way he could not explain the girl baffled his powerful personality. Yet it was necessary that she should become the wife of Narvaez, if the danger which the old man hinted at was to be known and conquered. "Alice, listen to me," said the man entreatingly, "we are very poor and Don Pablo is very rich. If you marry him, you will soon be his wealthy widow, as he cannot live long. Then with the money you will be able to restore the fortunes of our family and marry whomsoever you desire. Be sensible!" "I refuse to sacrifice myself to a loveless marriage for your sake," said Alice doggedly, and standing up like a weak lily against the force of a tempest. "You don't love me, father: you have never loved me, so why----" "I am not going to argue the point with you any longer," stormed Enistor, rising hastily; "I shall force you to marry Don Pablo." "In that case I shall marry Julian Hardwick and ask him to protect me," said the girl, rising in her turn, shaking and white, but sullenly determined. "Protect you! Who can protect you against me? I can deal with Hardwick and with you in a way you little dream of." "What you can do to Mr. Hardwick I do not know," said the girl steadily, "but me you cannot harm in any way, nor can you compel me, else you would long ago have used your boasted power." "Are you aware that you are speaking to your father?" demanded Enistor, astonished at her daring. "Perfectly! I wish to be a good daughter to you, father, but in a matter which concerns my whole life I must decline to yield either to your commands or prayers!" Enistor could have struck her pale face in his wrath, but, sensitive to invisible things, he became aware that there was a barrier around her which kept him at arm's length. He knew instinctively that the powerful influence pervading the room had to do with the unknown individual whom Narvaez called "Our Adversary," and felt that he was not prepared to measure his strength against such a force. So uncomfortable and daunted did he feel, that his one desire was to leave the room, and he began to back towards the door. Alice was astonished to see the perspiration beading her father's forehead and watched his departure in dismay. Unaware of what was taking place, she looked upon the withdrawal as a declaration of war, and believed, with some truth, that she would have to suffer for opposing resistance to the marriage with Narvaez. Yet she still held out, as she felt a singular sense of security. The same power which weakened Enistor strengthened her, but not being a trained occultist, she wondered how she could dare to face her father so boldly. "I shall talk to you later," breathed Enistor with an effort, so hostile was the atmosphere. "Meanwhile you may as well know that if you decline to become Don Pablo's wife, you will ruin me." The Squire--that was his title as the owner of Polwellin village--left his obstinate daughter in the room, and went to the library, which was his own particular domain. Here the opposing influence did not follow him. Sitting down heavily, he began to breathe more freely, and wondered why he had been so craven as to fly from the field of battle. Although he had been anxious all his life to acquire forbidden lore, he had only learned something of the practical side of occultism since the arrival of Narvaez, some three years ago. That ancient sinner was accomplished in black arts, and for his own ends was willing to impart something of his knowledge to Enistor. A considerable amount of sinister teaching had been given to the Squire, but as yet he was but a neophyte, and ignorant of many things. Narvaez withheld much purposely, as he was keenly aware of Enistor's powerful will and unscrupulous greed for power. The Spaniard did not so much desire to instruct his host as to make use of him. Those servants of Christ, who walk on the Right-hand Path, are possessed entirely by the Spirit of Love, and are only too anxious to teach to the ignorant all that they may be capable of assimilating. But the Brothers of the Shadow are too inherently selfish to be generous, and merely give out sufficient knowledge to render their pupils useful servants and docile slaves. Narvaez had no intention of cultivating Enistor's latent powers to such a strength that they might be dangerous to himself. Consequently, although the man was on the threshold of power, he had not yet crossed it, and therefore was unable to deal with the force in the dining-room, the strength of which he could not calculate. To influence Alice to work for self in a way which would lure her from behind the barrier of the protecting power required more knowledge than Enistor possessed. Yet Narvaez likewise professed fear of the Adversary, and could only use cunning instead of command. The Squire smiled grimly to himself as he reflected that the Master himself would have been ignominiously driven from the dining-room in the same way, had he been present. Of course Enistor did not wish to injure his daughter in any way at which the world would look askance. He merely desired her to make a loveless marriage so as to acquire the wealth of Narvaez, and so that she might be educated in clear-seeing for the purpose of averting a possible danger. What that danger might be Enistor did not know, and so far as he could guess Don Pablo was equally ignorant. Therefore it was absolutely necessary that the latent clairvoyant powers of the girl should be brought to the surface and trained, if the safety of the Black Magician and his pupil was to be assured. Enistor was aggressively selfish, and to save himself was ready to sacrifice his daughter and a dozen human beings if necessary to the Dark Powers. Her body, her fortune, her honour, would not be injured, but--as Enistor very well knew--her soul would be in danger. For this however he cared nothing. Better that the girl should perish than that he should be balked of his daring ambition. But he did not intend to surrender Alice to Don Pablo unless his price was paid, and that price included unlimited wealth together with unlimited power over weaker mortals. Narvaez alone could instruct him in the arts which could command such things. Meanwhile, as Enistor needed money, it was necessary for him to attend to practical matters, which had to do with Lady Staunton! For many years Enistor had influenced his sister strongly to leave her entire fortune to him, and until Narvaez had spoken on the previous evening, he had every reason to believe that he would get what he wanted. But the prediction rendered him uneasy, even though the expected letter had not yet arrived. The Ides of March had truly come, but had not passed, and although the fatal epistle had failed to appear in the morning's batch of letters, it might be delivered by the evening post. All that day Enistor was naturally uncomfortable and apprehensive. Positive that his sister would leave him her fortune, he had rejoiced when the news of her illness arrived, and in his fancied security he had not even gone up to London to make sure that all was safe. Certainly he had never dreamed of taking so long a journey to console the old lady on her death-bed; but he deeply regretted for the sake of the inheritance that he had not sought her company during her sickness. Also it might have been advisable to enlist the evil services of Narvaez to clinch the matter, and this omission the Squire deeply lamented. However, it was now too late to do anything save wait for the post and hope for the best. He suffered as only a selfish nature can suffer, and the agonies of a truly selfish man are very great when he is thwarted. It was close upon three o'clock when he was put out of his misery by the arrival of an unexpected stranger. Enistor, finding that Alice had betaken herself to the safer spaces of the moorlands, had no one to torment, so he busied himself with evil practices in his gloomy library. That is, he used the teaching of Narvaez to concentrate his will-power on Lady Staunton, so that she might still desire to leave him her money. With her visualised image in his mind's eye, he was sending powerful thoughts to her sick-bed insisting that he and he only should benefit by the will. An ignorant person would have laughed at the idea of any one being so controlled from a distance, but Enistor knew perfectly well what he was doing, and made ardent use of his unholy telepathy. Later when the footman announced that Lady Staunton's solicitor, Mr. Cane, desired an interview, Enistor granted it without delay. It was better, he wisely thought, to know the best or the worst at once, without suffering the agonies of suspense until the evening post. The new-comer was a bustling, rosy-cheeked little man, well dressed, expansive and voluble. He had no nerves to speak of, and still less imagination, therefore he was not in the least impressed by the grey atmosphere of Tremore. In fact before he condescended to business, he complimented his host on the breezy altitude of the house and the beauty of the surroundings. His courtesy was not at all appreciated, as Enistor soon let him know. "I don't suppose you came here to admire the view, Mr. Cane," said the Squire irritably. "Your unexpected presence argues that my sister is dead." Mr. Cane's lively face assumed a solemn expression, and his airy manner became heavily professional. "You are right, Mr. Enistor," he said pompously, "my lamented client, Lady Staunton, passed away to the better land in a peaceful frame of mind at ten o'clock last night." Enistor frowned and winced as he remembered his wasted telepathy. "I am sorry," he said conventionally, "and I regret greatly that I was not at hand to soothe her last moments. But unexpected business prevented my taking the journey. Still, had I guessed that she was likely to die, I should have managed to be with her." "Pray do not grieve, Mr. Enistor," exclaimed the solicitor with unintentional irony. "My lamented client's last moments were tenderly soothed by her best friend." "Her best friend?" "So Lady Staunton termed Mr. Montrose!" "I never heard of him," said Enistor abruptly. "Who is he?" A most unexpected reply took away the Squire's breath. "He is the fortunate young gentleman who inherits Lady Staunton's property." Enistor rose in a black fury, with clenched fists and incredulous looks. "I don't understand: you must be mistaken," he said hoarsely. "I am not mistaken," replied Cane dryly. "I was never more in earnest in my life, sir. It is hard on you as my late lamented client's nearest relative, I admit. In fact Lady Staunton thought so too, and asked me to come down as soon as she died to explain her reasons for leaving the money to Mr. Montrose. Otherwise, since your sister, Mr. Enistor, did not encourage legal matters being attended to out of order, you would not have heard the news until the reading of the will after the funeral. As Lady Staunton died last night, the burial will take place in four days. I have no doubt as a sincere mourner you will be there." "A sincere mourner!" cried Enistor, pacing the room hastily to work off his rage. "How can I be that when my sister has cheated me in this way?" "Oh, not cheated, Mr. Enistor, not cheated," pleaded the rosy-cheeked little man more volubly than ever. "Lady Staunton's money was her own to dispose of as she desired. Besides, she did not forget you entirely: she has left you the sum of one thousand pounds." "Really!" sneered the Squire savagely, "and this Montrose creature inherits five thousand a year! It is wicked: infamous, scandalous. I shall upset the will, Mr. Cane!" The lawyer remonstrated mildly. "I fear that is impossible, Mr. Enistor. My lamented client was quite in her right senses when she signed the will, and as I drew it up in accordance with her instructions, you may be certain that all is in good order. I feel for you: upon my word I feel for you," added Mr. Cane plaintively, "and my errand cannot be called a pleasant one!" "Oh, hang your feelings: what do I care for your feelings! It is my sister's iniquitous will that I am thinking about. She knew how poor I was: she was proud of being an Enistor, and she faithfully promised that I should have the money in order to mend our family fortunes. What devil made her change her intentions?" "No devil that I am aware of," said Cane with puny dignity. "Lady Staunton did make a will in your favour. But a year ago she signed a new one leaving her income to Mr. Montrose, who is now my client. I decline on these grounds to hear him spoken of as a devil." "Oh. Then it was this Montrose beast who made her change her mind?" "No. Certainly he did not. He is not even aware that he has inherited, as Lady Staunton asked me to see you first. Only when the will is read, after the funeral in four days, will Mr. Montrose learn of his good fortune." "Montrose does not know," said Enistor, striding forward to stand over the little lawyer in a threatening way. "Then why not destroy this last will and read the old one which is in my favour!" Cane wriggled beneath Enistor's fiery gaze and slipped sideways out of his chair. "Are you in your right senses to----" he began, puffing indignantly. Enistor cut him short. "Oh, the deuce take your heroics! You know perfectly well that I should benefit rather than a stranger. I want the money and I intend to get the money. By righting this wrong you will be doing a good act, since it seems you have a conscience of sorts. If it is a matter of money----" This time it was Cane who interrupted. "You insult me," he vociferated shrilly. "I am an honest lawyer----" "Rather an anomaly," interpolated Enistor scoffingly. "An honest lawyer," continued the little man sturdily, "and as such I am bound to consider the wishes of my client. You are asking me to commit a felony, Mr. Enistor. How dare you! How dare you!" he mopped his perspiring brow. "What have you seen in me to lead you to make so infamous a proposition?" "I thought I saw some vestiges of common sense," said Enistor dryly. "But it seems that you are a fool with a conscience!" "I have a conscience, but I am no fool, Mr. Enistor! I have a great mind to tell the world at large how you endeavoured to tempt me!" "If you do, I shall put forth a counter-slander saying that you came down here to tempt _me_." "To tempt you? To tempt you, sir?" "Why not? If I say that you offered to destroy the last will and substitute the first provided I gave you a large sum of money, who will refuse to believe the statement?" "Any one who knows me." "Ah. But the whole world does not know you, Mr. Cane. Your immediate friends may reject the calumny, but the majority of people won't. My word is as good as yours, you know!" "You will not dare----" "Oh yes, I shall dare if you dare!" "Am I dealing with a gentleman or a scoundrel?" asked Cane, appealing to the carved ceiling. "Pooh! Pooh!" said Enistor cynically. "What is the use of calling names? Why, a gentleman is only a scoundrel who is clever enough not to be found out." "I disagree: I disagree entirely." "I thought you would. You are not strong enough to be original. However, all this chatter will not alter circumstances. My sister has sold me in favour of this--what do you say his name is?" "Mr. Montrose. Douglas Montrose!" said Cane sulkily. "He is----" "Won't you sit down and explain? You will be more comfortable." "No I won't," said Cane sharply and still fretted by the proposition which had been made to him. "I doubt if it would not be better for me to retire after what you have said." "Oh," said Enistor ironically, "your duty to your late lamented client forbids." "It does, and therefore I remain to explain. But I shall not sit down again in your presence, nor drink your wine, nor eat your food." "Better wait until you are asked, Mr. Cane. Go on and tell me about Montrose." Confounded by his host's disconcerting calm, the little lawyer came to the point, but delivered his explanation standing. "Mr. Montrose is a young Scotchman, poor and handsome and clever. He is a poet and a journalist, who lives in a Bloomsbury garret, ambitious of literary fame. Eighteen months ago he saved Lady Staunton's life when her horses bolted in Hyde Park. He stopped them at the risk of his limbs, and prevented a serious accident!" "Silly ass," muttered Enistor, "if Lucy had died then, the money would have come to me. Go on." Appalled by this crudely evil speech, Cane started back. "Are you a man or a demon, Mr. Enistor?" "You can ask riddles when you have delivered your message. Though, to be sure," said Enistor, sitting down, "there is little need. This handsome young pauper paid court to my sister, who was always weak and silly. His sham heroism and his good looks and effusive compliments worked on her feeble mind, and she made him her heir. Am I right?" "Lady Staunton made Mr. Montrose her heir certainly," said Cane, shutting up his little black bag and putting on his hat to leave. "But your description of my new client is wrong. He does not flatter any one, and his heroism was not a sham. Nor was your sister feeble-minded, but a very clever----" "Woman," ended Enistor sharply, "and being so became the prey of this adventurer. Well, Mr. Cane, now that you have delivered your message you can go, and I shall be obliged if you will send me the one thousand pounds as soon as possible." "Oh, certainly," cried Cane eagerly. Enistor saw why he spoke so agreeably. "You think that by taking the one thousand pounds I condone the testament of Lady Staunton. Perhaps you are right, but I have more strings to my bow than one. I have been infamously treated and I shall have my revenge." "You cannot revenge yourself on your sister who is dead," said Cane rebukingly, "and to punish Mr. Montrose, who is perfectly innocent of harming you, would not be the act of a Christian." "Ah, but you see I am nothing so feeble-minded as a Christian." "What are you then?" Cane stared. "A wronged man, who intends to be revenged." "I shall protect my client," cried the lawyer vigorously. "Naturally, your fees will be larger if you do. But don't protect him at the cost of my character, or it will be the worse for your own." "I am not afraid!" "Indeed you are! Horribly afraid. However, you needn't faint on my doorstep as that would be inconvenient. Good-day: your trap is waiting." Cane got away at once, quite convinced that Enistor was not wholly in his right mind. His rosy cheeks were pale as he drove away, and his courage was dashed by Enistor's unscrupulous threat. "He is dangerous," thought the lawyer. "I must hold my tongue!" and he did. CHAPTER IV PLOTTING The prophecy of Narvaez should have softened the blow to Enistor in the moment of its fulfilment. But it did not, for the simple reason that he had tried his best to disbelieve the Spaniard, in spite of his knowledge of the man's powers. Don Pablo, as the result of prying beyond the boundaries of the visible, possessed in active working super-senses latent in the ordinary man, and so he could literally see through a brick wall. Certainly his vision was not invariably clear, and at times the details of his prognostications were incorrect. In the present instance he had foretold that Enistor should receive his bad news by letter, whereas Mr. Cane had come down personally to convey the disagreeable intelligence. But the actual fact that Enistor would lose the money had been proved beyond all doubt, and the Squire found the one undeniable truth so unpleasant that he was careless about minor mistakes. As soon as Cane, without bite or sup, had driven away in the direction of Perchton, Enistor made his way across the moors to the back-country where Narvaez had his abode. It was impossible that he could keep the knowledge of his bad fortune to himself, and moreover he wanted advice with regard to his future actions. The Squire was clever as men go, and usually decided all matters for himself; but in this instance it was necessary to consult a mastermind. Don Pablo was not only a shrewd and highly educated man, versed in knowledge of the world, but also possessed super-physical information which was both dangerous and useful. That is, the lore was dangerous to any who did not possess the spirit of love, and useful to an unscrupulous and wholly selfish man. Both Enistor and his master thought only of themselves and were prepared to crush without remorse all that stood in their way. At the present moment the unknown Montrose was an obstacle in Enistor's path and he wished Narvaez to assist in his removal. The Spaniard would only give his services if he saw that their use would benefit himself. And as the Squire knew that the wily old man wished him to remain poor in order to retain mastery over him, it was not likely that he would help him to gain a fortune. Enistor therefore was not certain that he would be aided, and more for the sake of talking himself free of care than for any other reason sought the cottage of the magician. And Don Pablo's abode was really and truly a four-roomed cottage, where he lived along with a simple-minded old Cornish woman of sixty, who attended to his few wants. Enistor knew that Narvaez was immensely rich, and wondered why he should live so penuriously and humbly. But the man was almost wholly devoid of desire for things which mankind covets. He ate and drank sparingly: he cared nothing for society: his dress was plain but neat, and he was too much taken up with study to entertain. Narvaez, as his neighbour soon found out, was consumed by a passion for power: not that kind of power which is displayed openly by royalty or politicians or merchant-princes, but the secret power which sways the destinies of individuals and nations without apparent sign. For this he studied day and night, and crossed constantly the boundaries between the worlds visible and invisible. He obtained no physical benefit from the exercise of such command, but the passion of hidden sovereignty satisfied his soul, and that was all he cared about. He had long since risen above the sphere wherein the virtues and vices of men dispute pre-eminence, and lived above the healthy necessary turmoil of ordinary life to reign in solitude as a cold, calm, intellectual and merciless tyrant, doing evil because it gratified Self. He disobeyed the law of love which is giving, and isolated himself in a kingdom of his own, which his desire for rule had cut off from the great empire of God. His sole connection with men and women was to destroy their protecting will and make them slaves to his whims. In this way he acted with regard to Enistor, else he would not have taught the man anything about dark magic. But Narvaez knew well that Enistor, possessed of as fierce and unscrupulous a nature as his own, and almost as powerful a will, would never be a slave. Consequently he was obliged to act cautiously in his association with him. Enistor, if he became too learned in forbidden lore, might well become Don Pablo's rival, to dispute the bad sovereignty which the Spaniard loved. As a matter of fact Narvaez would not have meddled with the Cornish squire at all but that he knew that a common danger menaced both, which Enistor, through his daughter, might avert. Narvaez was clever and powerful, and wholly given to self-worship, but he was by no means omnipotent, and at times it was necessary to defend his position. Thus by the offer to teach Enistor how to realise his ambitions, he managed to make the man more or less obedient: but there was always the danger of revolt should Enistor learn too thoroughly the laws of the invisible world, which interpenetrates the visible. Don Pablo, however, was content with the position of affairs, as his pupil was not yet strong enough to measure swords. And before he was, the Spaniard hoped to secure his ends and leave Enistor in the lurch. The cottage was of grey stone, a clumsy rugged-looking habitation set on the side of a purple-clothed hill, beside a grass-grown lane, which meandered down the valley. On the slope of the hill were many disused mining shafts with huge mounds of earth and ruined buildings beside them. The hilltops had been a Roman camp, and the boundaries could still be defined. In the centre and amongst many gigantic stones was a sacrificial altar of the Druids, with grooves cut in its hardness so that the blood of the victims might stream to the ground. Alice never liked this unholy hill, as she was sensitive enough to feel the influence which clung round it. But Narvaez had established his home beside the miniature mountain, because on moonless nights he could perform uncanny ceremonies on the altar, which was given over to the Dark Powers he worshipped and propitiated. Enistor had likewise taken part in these sacrilegious doings and shivered at the memory of certain things, when he sighted the sinister grey monoliths which crowned the hill. Great as was his courage, it was not entirely proof against the deadly influences of the evil beings who haunted the place, although in a lesser degree than Narvaez he could compel them to service by performing certain rites. Enistor was ushered into Don Pablo's study by the housekeeper, a brown-faced cheery old woman, too simple-minded to understand her master's weird powers. The apartment was of no great size, and the limited space was but sparsely furnished. There were only a table, which served as a desk, two chairs, a well-filled bookcase and a ponderous iron safe, wherein Narvaez stored what valuables he had by him. The walls were draped with dull red cloth, and the floor, oddly enough, was covered with a black carpet. The effect was menacing and impressive. When the visitor entered, a fire-place wherein large logs flamed faced him, while opposite the one window looking out on to the hilltop was a closed door leading to a sealed apartment, which Don Pablo allowed no one to enter into save himself and his pupil. Across the passage was a dining-room together with a tiny kitchen and a bedroom for the housekeeper at the back. The cottage itself was placed in a disorderly uncultivated garden surrounded by a loosely built stone wall. There was no upstairs, and the house being roofed with slate covered with moss presented a sombre appearance. In its greyness it resembled a huge toad squatting amongst the heather. "How can you bear a fire on this hot day?" asked Enistor, throwing himself into the vacant chair and speaking irritably. "You are in that kind of humour which seeks any outlet for its relief," was the Spaniard's irrelevant reply. "How often have I told you that it is necessary for you to get complete command of your temper. I have a fire because this body I occupy just now is nearly worn out and requires artificial heat to sustain it." "Why don't you get a new one?" demanded the visitor still crossly. "Some day I shall," rejoined Narvaez significantly, "at present this one serves me tolerably well. I control it thoroughly: you do not manage yours properly: it is your master, Enistor. Ah! you have much to learn." "I have reason to be cross." "No one has any reason to be cross. To lose one's temper simply shows that one is not yet free from ordinary human limitations. However, at your stage of learning I excuse you. It is hard to lose a large income, as you have done." "What, you know----?" "Not by any super-physical means, Enistor," said Narvaez, coolly leaning back in his chair. "I walked to the top of the hill with a field-glass, and saw that you had a visitor. As so few people come here, it is only logical on my part to assume that the man was some messenger sent to tell you of Lady Staunton's death and your own loss." "Well, the news did not come in a letter, as you prophesied," snapped Enistor. "I am not the Pope to be infallible," said Don Pablo dryly, "and the matter is so trivial that I did not examine into things sufficiently to be entirely certain of details." "Trivial to you: not to me!" said the Squire gloomily. "Nonsense! Your possession of that income is only delayed. You have not lost it altogether!" Enistor looked up sharply. "Did you make an invisible third at my interview with Cane?" "I?" Don Pablo shrugged his aged shoulders. "Do you think that I have nothing to do but to waste my time in that way? No! I only say that you will regain the money, because I shall assist you to get it. You must have your price even though it is but a temporary one." "What do you mean by temporary?" asked Enistor unpleasantly. "Any one who works for money, or earthly fame, or earthly power has to surrender what he gains when death comes. But he who labours to acquire super-physical powers as I do--those powers which can dominate men without their knowing, gets what he can never lose, however many the deaths or lives!" "I shall work for that later, Master. At present I require money so as to take my proper position in the world, and sway men at will." "A limited ambition," scoffed Narvaez. "However, what you desire you shall acquire, as you won't let me have your daughter without a price." "Would you do something for nothing yourself, Don Pablo?" "No," said the magician honestly. "I take what I want if I am strong enough to do so. Otherwise I buy what I require. Nothing for nothing and something for something--if there is no other way of getting it. That is my rule." "It is the rule of the majority of mankind." "True, my friend," chuckled Narvaez, settling himself comfortably. "Mankind has a long way to travel before the law of love is learned." "The law of love?" "You give all and ask no return! Think of it: how dull life would be then, Enistor! However, we have argued enough, and my time is valuable. What about your interview with this lawyer? I must have details if I am to assist you." Enistor looked at his master with a sneer. "I should have thought that a man with your powers would have known everything without requiring explanations." "If it had been worth my while I would have made myself acquainted with all that took place," said the other man blandly; "but your affairs do not interest me save the necessity of paying your price. Well?" The Squire looked again at Narvaez, and this time with gloomy distaste. It was often borne in upon him how entirely selfish Don Pablo was. But by this time he knew beyond question that those who take the Left-hand Path are forgetful of all save themselves. And Enistor could scarcely blame Narvaez for owning a quality which was almost as highly developed in his own nature. "Might is Right!" is the rule of black magic, and the survival of the fittest is the sole way to attain supremacy. Enistor had fully committed himself to the worship of his own being, yet there was sufficient good in him to struggle at times against the isolating power of selfishness. However it was worse than useless to argue away accepted facts, so he swallowed his anger and quietly detailed all that had taken place. "Hum!" said Narvaez, smoothing his wrinkled face when the last word was spoken. "You have made my task more difficult than was necessary." "In what way?" scowled the Squire, who disliked correction. "In several ways," was the serene response. "Your idea of threatening Cane was a good one, and had you called me to your assistance I could have worked along those lines. The man--from what you say--is weak, and my power added to yours would have secured the destruction of the second will, and the substitution of the first. Then you would have got the money without trouble. By weakening in your attack, you have simply turned Cane into your enemy." "He won't dare to say anything, if that is what you mean." "It is not what I mean, Enistor. Of course, since a lawyer, like Cæsar's wife, should be above reproach, Cane will not speak lest you should accuse him of offering to suppress the second will. But that doesn't much matter. The point is that you had him at a disadvantage and did not press your point. A well-directed thought would have brought me to your house, and I could have compelled the man to yield." "I am not so sure of that. He is honest." "What does that matter?" asked Don Pablo, opening his eyes contemptuously. "Honest or not, I should have obsessed him to such a degree that he would have committed himself too far to retreat. Of course if he was guarded my control would have effected nothing. But our Adversary only protects Alice, and in this instance would not have interfered. And yet," Narvaez suddenly looked round, as though aware of some new influence, "he might have prevented my exercise of power. It is necessary for the money to go to Montrose so that the Chaldean Drama should be played out in this set of lives." "Is Montrose the other man you spoke of at dinner last night?" Don Pablo threw up his hand to compel silence, closed his eyes to shut out the world of sense and listened intently. As he did so, his face grew dark and angry. "I defy you: I defy you!" he said vehemently, addressing some invisible person, as it appeared to Enistor. "Plot as you will, I can counterplot!" then he was silent for a moment, and opening his eyes lowered his hand. "The Adversary," he said quietly to his guest, but still looked fierce. "He is aware of our schemes, and says they will not succeed, if he can prevent their success. Well, I shall pit my strength against his." "The Adversary then is not absolutely certain of success?" asked Enistor. "No. Because man has free-will. If Montrose and Alice are guided by the Adversary, our task will indeed be difficult. But if you and I can make either stumble, the game will end in our favour. As I said, Enistor, this loss of money is the beginning of the drama. You can see for yourself, because by its going to Montrose it brings him on to the stage. And yet," added Narvaez with a furious gesture, "had you called me in to deal with that lawyer, I might have suppressed the second will and have prevented Montrose coming into the matter. The Adversary told me just now that he would have intervened also, but Cane being weak and having free-will--as all men have--could not have stood out against my domination." "Well," said Enistor gloomily; "it seems that owing to my ignorance----" "Your folly," interrupted the other sharply. "Folly if you will then. But owing to my ignorance or folly we have lost the first move in the game. What now?" Narvaez shrugged. "We must take a roundabout way instead of going by the direct path. That is closed by your not pressing your advantage with Cane. Now Montrose will obtain the money! Very good. He can retain it until I get it back from him to give it to you." "The money is rightfully mine," cried Enistor vehemently, "and come what may I intend to gain it!" "You will never gain it if you bluster and fume in that way," said Don Pablo coldly; "keep your temper and self-control, and we shall soon be at grips with the Adversary. He is no mean antagonist, I assure you." "Well, Master, what is to be done? I leave myself in your hands!" "I wouldn't assist you otherwise." Narvaez considered for a few moments. "I think it will be best to send Alice to London for a few months. The time of her stay will depend upon her chances of falling in love with Montrose." Enistor jumped up and stamped. "She doesn't know Montrose," he declared in an angry manner, "she will never know him if I can help it." "You are unable to help it," said Narvaez frigidly. "The Karma of Chaldea is bound to bring Montrose and Alice together. This much I am sure of, although I am ignorant of the details. Well, let us carry the war into the enemy's camp, Enistor. With this thousand pounds which you inherit, give Alice a few months in London on the plea that she requires a gay life to cheer her up. She will meet Montrose and he will fall in love with her. I am certain of this as his fate and her fate are intermingled. Then you can give your consent to the marriage----" "What about your desire to marry Alice?" interrupted the Squire, much puzzled. "That can be gratified later," said Don Pablo coolly. "Don't you see what I mean, Enistor? When Alice desires to marry Montrose, you will naturally invite your proposed son-in-law here to acquaint yourself with his character. Once he is on the spot"--Narvaez smiled cruelly and drew a deep breath--"I think you can safely leave him to me." "What will you do?" "Never mind. I have a plan in my head which may or may not succeed. There is no need to tell you what it is. You shall see its results. Your work is to send Alice to London." "I don't quite understand," said Enistor, trying to read his master's thoughts, but in vain. "But I shall obey your instructions. But if Alice is to meet Montrose in society I fear it will be difficult to induce her to go out for enjoyment so soon after her aunt's death." "Oh, Montrose as the heir of Lady Staunton will feel the same way. But it is not necessary for the two to meet at public functions. A quiet evening here, a little dinner there, and the introduction is accomplished. You need not trouble about details, Enistor. The accumulated result of good and evil, which we call Karma, will bring them together." "You are willing to surrender Alice, I see." "Oh, dear me, no! Montrose can make love to her until he is in my net. Afterwards, when the money comes to you and Montrose comes to the gallows, Alice can be my wife." "The gallows. You don't mean----" "I mean nothing at present," interrupted Narvaez impatiently, "but you can't fight battles with squirts. Montrose is in your path and mine, so he has to be removed. The means may be unpleasant, but they will not harm you in any way. I assure you of that emphatically." "Will they harm Alice?" "Only through her affections; not otherwise. What a heap of scruples you have, Enistor," sneered the old man; "one would think you were a school-girl instead of a grown man. You don't care for Montrose, or for your daughter." "Not at all," admitted Enistor selfishly. "All the same, murder----!" "Oh, if the word frightens you, call it blood-atonement. And the restitution of the fortune may be managed without the sacrifice of Montrose's life, if you will insist upon this silly weakness. If you wish to tread the Left-hand Path, Enistor, you must get rid of scruples. Trample on every one, slay, ruin, devastate: as the stronger you have the right to do so." The Squire winced at this abominable teaching, although in his innermost heart he subscribed to it. And after all, as he thought, in the world of to-day the weaker is still the prey of the stronger. He was only carrying out more thoroughly what every one did in a lesser degree. Without further pangs he gave in to the necessity of Montrose being removed by a legal death. "But his hanging will involve the commission of a murder by him," he said suddenly. "Perhaps," said the other man ambiguously. "But you had better wait and see, Enistor. I can't waste time in arguing down your scruples. If you can't face these things, leave the matter alone and deal with the future danger yourself. But remember that only Alice can describe what that danger is, and she must become my wife to be trained as a clairvoyante." "You didn't want her to love Hardwick because you said the passion would destroy her powers," said Enistor irrelevantly. "What about her love for this Montrose? Won't that do harm?" "Unfortunately it will," sighed Narvaez vexedly, "but I can't prevent the blossoming of the love. The great law of Karma is stronger than I am. I can only deal with the free-will of both and warp their natures if possible. I think you had better go now. I have much to do!" Enistor scowled at the imperious tone and tried--as he often did--to match his will against that of Narvaez. It suddenly came to him that he could find an easier way out of the difficulty and reduce Don Pablo's power over him by acting in the ordinary selfish way sanctioned by custom. "One moment," he said testily. "Montrose has the money, it is true, and legally there is no chance of getting it from him. But if he becomes my son-in-law, I shall be able to keep the income in the family." "Quite so," assented Narvaez indifferently. "If you want the money for the family--to build up the Enistor fortunes as county people I suppose you mean--your suggestion is excellent. Montrose can take your name and along with his wife will be great in the land. Where you will be I leave you to say." "I don't want Montrose to be great in the land, and I don't suppose that he has the brains to become so. But he and Alice will probably allow me to handle the income and----" "And you will use it for your own advancement. Eh?" "Why not? My advancement as head of the family will mean theirs." "Probably, if you wish to waste time, energy and cash in building up your decayed race. But Montrose may have his own ideas to carry out, and those may not include consent to your possession of the family purse. Complete ownership of the money makes him stronger than you are." "Stronger than I am? We shall see," and Enistor laughed at the idea. "Very likely, when it is too late, you probably will see, and won't be pleased with what you do see. However, it is your business, not mine. I can return to Spain and learn what I wish to learn in other ways." "But the teaching you are giving me?" Narvaez sneered. "With an obedient son-in-law possessed of five thousand a year you will not want the teaching." The Squire looked as alarmed as a self-confident man well could. He had scarcely counted upon this attitude being taken by his master. "I want the teaching more than I want the money," he confessed uneasily. "You can have both if you will permit me to carry out my plans," said Don Pablo, acidly polite. "Otherwise you must be satisfied to sink back into the ordinary rank and file of humanity. My fee for teaching super-physical knowledge is possession of your daughter as my wife. Therefore your idea of securing the handling of this money by forwarding her marriage with Montrose does not meet with my approval. You can take your choice. I--as you will be pleased to observe--do not coerce you in any way." "You can't," cried the Squire with sudden fury. "Let us leave it at that," rejoined the Spaniard amiably. Enistor stamped, swore under his breath and bit his nails angrily, while Narvaez smiled in a hatefully bland manner. Certainly the marriage of Montrose and Alice would bring back the money to the family; but it might not--and here the egotist saw danger--put it into his own particular pocket. Lady Staunton's heir might be self-willed, obstinate and foolish--there was no knowing what qualities he might possess likely to thwart his proposed father-in-law's schemes. And should he prove to be recalcitrant, Enistor recognised that the marriage would only make matters worse. He would gain by it neither the teaching nor the fortune, and would have bartered the substance for the shadow. To have the money would be good: to acquire the secret lore would be better: to have both would be best of all. And both he could have for certain if he agreed to allow Narvaez to take command. For the teaching would make him a minor god, while the five thousand a year--even if he got it, which was doubtful--would not even make him a millionaire. "You remind me," said the tempter, smiling as hatefully as ever, "of an ass between two bundles of hay. With my help I repeat you can have both." "The money and the teaching: the teaching and the money." Enistor opened and shut his hands, drawing deep breaths and thinking profoundly. "Exactly! On condition that I marry Alice." "I agree." Enistor came to the decision swiftly. "Understand! I am to have a free hand and your obedience." The other man nodded, not knowing how fatal to himself was that sign of acquiescence. At that moment he stood at the cross-roads, free to choose good or evil, and his fierce greed led him to take the Left-hand Path down which this dark guide beckoned him to destruction. With a little chuckling laugh Narvaez received his victim's allegiance, and turned to his work. Then in the same tone of voice he made exactly the same remark as he had made when Enistor first hesitated. "I think you had better go now; I have much to do." Enistor thus abruptly dismissed returned home pondering deeply on the way. By this time he was sufficiently infected with the cynicism of Narvaez to accept the situation, and to do what was necessary to turn Alice into a decoy for Montrose. Whether the bird would be lured into Don Pablo's nest he could not be sure, as Cane might warn his client of danger. Enistor now saw how very foolish he had been to make the man his enemy. But he comforted himself with the idea that the little lawyer would not dare to speak in the face of a possible accusation of having offered to suppress the second will. Also, even if he did speak, Montrose being in love would never listen to him. On the whole therefore, Enistor felt confident on reflection that the fortunate young man would appear at Tremore. Then he could be left to the malignant devices of Don Pablo Narvaez. That evening at dinner Enistor abruptly announced the death of his sister, the loss of the money, and the good fortune of Mr. Douglas Montrose. He listened quietly to Alice's regrets, then informed her that she could go to London for a month in a very short space of time. The girl demurred. "I can't go out into society when Aunt Lucy is dead," she said. "There's no need for you to go into society," said her father, who anticipated the objection. "You can stay quietly in town and enjoy yourself in a small way. This place is rather dull for so young a girl as you are. The question is who can chaperon you, seeing that your Aunt Lucy is dead." "Mrs. Barrast can, father," said Alice eagerly and much flushed, for the prospect of escaping from that gloomy house was delightful. "Who is she?" "Julian's--I mean Mr. Hardwick's sister. I met her at Perchton last Christmas, and so did you." "Oh, I remember; that frivolous little fool of a woman with no more brains than a sparrow. Yes! you can go to her, if she will have you." "She will be very glad," said Alice eagerly. "She is fond of me." "Very good." Enistor rose deliberately. "Then that is settled!" CHAPTER V THE MEETING Having settled that Alice should go to London in that singularly short and abrupt conversation, Enistor refused to discuss the matter further. He ran up to town himself within the next four days, not so much to appear at his sister's funeral, which he duly attended, as to get the promised thousand pounds. He did not meet Montrose, since he purposely kept out of the young man's way, in spite of Cane's suggestion that there should be a meeting. Enistor, instructed by his master, decided that it would be best to let Montrose fall in love with Alice, and approach him in the character of a proposed son-in-law. Of course the Squire had no doubt but what the affections of the young people would be engaged as Narvaez predicted. The fulfilment of the prophecy concerning the loss of the money had considerably strengthened his faith in the Spaniard's powers. With Cane the Squire got on much better, as he was anxious to obliterate, for obvious reasons, the bad impression he had made on the little man. Enistor pretended that he had only acted as he had done to see if Cane was honest, and professed himself quite willing to be content with his scanty inheritance. Whether the solicitor believed him or not it was impossible to say, but he feigned a belief and behaved with extraordinary civility to Enistor. Cane even went so far as to pay the thousand pounds out of his private account, so that the Squire should not have to wait for the winding up of Lady Staunton's estate. By the acceptance of this money, it was tacitly understood that Enistor would not contest the will, and Cane drew a long breath of relief when the receipt was given. There certainly was no chance that the second will could be upset, but the lawyer did not wish for any public action to be taken, lest mention should be made of the visit to Tremore. For even though that visit had been authorised by the dead woman, the vague threat of the Squire might come out in open court. Cane was quite innocent of wishing to destroy the will, and could deny the possible assertion on oath. But he knew well that however guiltless a man may be, there are always those who quote the "No smoke without fire" proverb. Therefore Cane was sincerely glad to have the matter settled without dispute, and for that very reason had given Enistor a cheque on his private account. When the Squire departed, the little man felt that all danger was at an end. Enistor arrived back at Polwellin in very good spirits, as for many a long year he had not handled so large a sum of money. Being of a luxurious nature he bought many unnecessary things, and spent on himself a considerable sum which could have been used for better purposes. However, on the sprat-to-catch-a-mackerel theory, he set aside a certain ample amount for Alice's season in London. Acting the part of a fond father, he told her that she was to spare no expense, but to have all she wanted in the matter of clothes and jewellery and enjoyment. The girl was secretly amazed at this sudden kindness on the part of her usually neglectful parent, but being young, and being a woman, she gladly took advantage of the opportunity to purchase pretty things. In the selection of frocks and hats and feminine frippery she had the benefit of Mrs. Barrast's taste, and the little woman congratulated her on having so lavish a father. "You will like Amy when you know her better," Hardwick had said to Alice, when the subject of chaperonage was broached; "but you will soon grow tired of her. Her sole idea in life is chiffons. She will be delighted to introduce you into her particular set of frivolous kill-time wastrels, but with your nature, Alice, you will never meet a man at her house likely to appeal to you as a husband!" This was perfectly true, as in spite of her youth Miss Enistor was a thoughtful girl, who wanted more food for her mind than an endless round of bridge-parties and whist-drives and Cinderella dances and theatre visits, coupled with airy gossip about this person and that. Mrs. Barrast was only too pleased to chaperon a tolerably pretty girl of good family who was possessed of plenty of money, and she did her best to give her guest an amusing time. But what Julian prophesied soon came to pass. Alice grew weary of the dainty little woman's frivolity and shallow nature. It was like an industrious bee living with a butterfly. "You are a darling," said Mrs. Barrast when Alice had been a week in the charming house in Hans Crescent; "quite the nicest thing I ever met. And your good looks don't clash with mine. That is so satisfactory, isn't it?" "I am not good-looking," said Alice soberly. "Of course not. Good-looking is a word which one applies to a man. But you are lovely in a moonlight, misty kind of vapoury way," babbled the other. "I think you look charming in that mourning, and Madame Coralie has such good taste. I wish you would marry Julian, dear: you are just the sort of romantic head-in-the-clouds darling he loves." "Julian would not suit me, nor would I suit Julian," said Miss Enistor decidedly. "We have arranged to be brother and sister." Mrs. Barrast sighed. "Such a dull relationship. Frederick and I live together something in the same way. Of course he's my husband and I'm his wife, although I don't know why I ever married him. But he goes his own way to Blue Books and politics and vestry-meetings and those horridly dull things, while I go mine, seeking for a heart that will understand me." "That is a dangerous quest, Mrs. Barrast," said Alice seriously. Mrs. Barrast pounced on her guest with many kisses. "You chilly darling, why don't you call me Amy, as I have asked you to again and again!" "Well then, Amy, you should not let all these young men make love to you." "But they will, my dear. There is something about me which draws them in spite of themselves, poor dears. And after all I don't mean anything wrong, you know, Alice. Platonic friendships are my delight." "That is a dangerous word between a married woman and an unmarried man." "Dangerous quest: dangerous word. My dear, you talk as if you were one hundred and forty years of age," cried Mrs. Barrast petulantly. "I have lived much alone and have thought deeply, Amy." "Oh, my dear, you shouldn't think. It always wrinkles one dreadfully to think, you know. Frederick thinks and just look at him. One would take him to be my grandfather." "I like Mr. Barrast very much," said Alice quietly, and she did, for the master of the house was the only person to whom she could talk sensibly. "Run away with him then. No," Mrs. Barrast reflected, "don't do that. After all Frederick is rich and my husband, though I don't know why I married him." "Would you have married him had he been poor?" Mrs. Barrast screamed in a pretty playful way. "Of course not, darling. What odd things you say. All Frederick's attraction lies in his money and his brains. He is clever, you know, and is too much taken up with politics to look at any other woman, which is so satisfactory. I was so poor when I met him that I was glad to marry him. And I'm sure I make him a very good wife, Alice," ended Mrs. Barrast in an injured tone, "so you needn't raise your eyebrows in that nasty sort of way." "I only meant----" "I know what you mean. It's sure to be something to do with Dr. Watts's hymns, as you are that sort of girl. I wish you weren't so particular about mourning, dear, as then I could take you to heaps and heaps of places where one can have a really good time. We'll go to Hurlingham this afternoon. Now you can't refuse. I've set my heart on your going to Hurlingham." It was little use Alice refusing, as Mrs. Barrast was one of those desperately persistent people who always get their own way. Miss Enistor, who had been fond of her Aunt Lucy, really wished to go out as little as possible, and but that she was anxious to escape from gloomy Tremore and the attentions of Don Pablo, would never have come to live with the butterfly. However, her hostess was so kind, and Alice was so young, and the contrast between London life and Cornish life was so great, that she really did enjoy herself immensely. Besides there was always Frederick to talk to, a tall grave man with iron-grey hair, who treated his pretty young wife in a most indulgent manner, and was as amused with her shallow frivolity as Richelieu must have been with the pranks of his kittens. There was really no harm in the dainty little woman and, in spite of her platonic philanderings, she never gave Frederick any serious cause for rebuke. One cannot be angry with a morsel of thistledown, and that is the best description of Mrs. Barrast. Always charmingly dressed and delightfully vivacious, she floated from house to house in a frolicsome fairy kind of way. Dullness fled when Mrs. Barrast entered a room. It was strange that so airy and nimble-witted a woman should be the sister of a stolid giant like Julian, with his serious views of art and life. But he was very fond of Amy Barrast, although she flouted his advice and told him frequently that he was as dull as tombs, a witticism she had picked up from an American admirer. Hardwick came several times to London while Alice stayed in Hans Crescent, but always returned to his beloved west country, as the frivolity of his sister's circle was altogether too much for him. By this time he had accepted the rôle of Miss Enistor's brother, and the two were most confidential. "Are you tired of all this, Alice?" asked Julian, after a particularly frivolous luncheon. "This rubbish must bore one of your thoughtful disposition." Alice, who was looking unusually charming, laughed gaily. "I have left my thoughtful disposition at Tremore," she said in a light tone. "While I am in Rome I must do as the Romans do." "Do?" said Hardwick; "they don't do anything!" "But they do, Julian. They work harder than any labourer to kill time. I do not think that I should like to lead this life always, but it is a change from the dullness of Polwellin, you know. The month I have been here has improved my health and spirits. I am sure that I thought too much." "Possibly! All work and no play is as bad as all play and no work. When do you return?" "I have no settled time to return. Father says that I can stay as long as I like. Though of course I don't want to outstay my welcome." "You won't, Alice. Never think that. Amy likes to have you here, and Frederick says that you are the most sensible girl he ever met. You should go with Amy to Cowes later on." Alice shook her head. "I am not sure. I must go back some time or another, as father won't let me remain away for ever. Besides I really think that I shall grow weary of pleasure. Blue skies and constant sunshine bore one." "Yes, I quite understand. But remember when you come back you will again be exposed to the attentions of that old mummy." Alice shuddered. "Don Pablo? Is he as often at Tremore as ever?" "More often. And when he isn't at Tremore, your father goes to his cottage on the moors. I can't understand why your father likes him so much. There seems to be something evil about Narvaez." "Oh!" Alice laid a trembling hand on his arm; "have you felt that also?" "Yes. I'm not a sensitive chap as a rule, but Narvaez makes me uncomfortable--just like Mr. Hyde in Stevenson's story, you know. Whatever you do, don't consent to be his wife, Alice." "I certainly shall not, whatever my father may say. At the worst I can always marry you." "That isn't a compliment," murmured Hardwick, mortified. "Well, you know what I mean. I respect you and like you, even if I don't love you, Julian. And if I did marry you I should never give you cause to complain of coldness on my part." "Oh, Alice"--his face lighted up. "No! No! No! The compact still stands. Until I am driven into a corner we are only brother and sister." "Of course. It's an odd arrangement." "Well, I admit that, and only a really kind-hearted, sensible man such as you are would understand and keep to such an arrangement. Sometimes I think I am doing wrong in holding you to our compact, but on reflection I don't think that I am doing wrong. If you loved me as a man should love a woman, it would be different and then I should be playing with fire. But you don't." "No," said Julian honestly, "you are quite right. I like you: I have a deep affection for you, and at all costs would protect your happiness. But I am quite sure now that I don't love you in the way you would like to be loved." Alice drew a deep breath of relief. "How nice to hear you talk so reasonably, Julian. We quite understand one another, don't we?" "Quite," he hesitated, and then spoke softly. "Have you seen any one who----" "Of course I haven't," interrupted the girl hastily; "you said that I should meet with no one to suit me here. Not that I am looking out for a husband, you know, Julian!" "I do know. All the same you are sure to come across Prince Charming some day, and then I shall surrender my guardianship to him. You are certain to choose some nice fellow, who won't mind our continuing our brother and sister arrangement when you are Mrs. Somebody." "H'm!" said the girl dubiously; "if Mr. Somebody loves me, he may object to a triangle of that sort. Besides, you may marry yourself, Julian." "I may," said Hardwick in his stolid way, "but at present I am at your service as a stop-gap husband if Don Pablo and your father drive you into a corner, Alice." "How dreadfully immoral a stop-gap husband sounds!" laughed Miss Enistor, but appreciated the offer all the same. It was impossible to combat alone two strong natures like those of her father and Narvaez; therefore to have Hardwick on her side was a great gain. Nothing would ever induce her to marry Don Pablo. Alice was certain of that. But as speedy events proved it was not necessary for Julian to hold himself at Miss Enistor's disposal in this loyal way. Six weeks after Alice was in London, circumstances brought about the meeting with Montrose. The girl knew that this young man had inherited her aunt's money, but as Enistor, when informing her of the fact, had said nothing very bitter, she had no grudge against the fortunate legatee. Certainly she regretted the loss for her father's sake, but decided with instinctive fairness that Lady Staunton had a right to do what she would with her own. Alice had seen but little of her aunt in past years, although the old lady had sometimes invited her to pay a visit. Consequently she had heard nothing of Montrose, and wondered what he was like. When Mrs. Barrast mentioned the name, Alice was curious to see the young man. And there was every chance that she would, as it appeared that Mrs. Barrast's doctor wished to bring him to dinner. "And Dr. Eberstein is such a delightful man that any friend of his is certain to be a darling," babbled the little woman. "You haven't met my doctor, have you, dear. He attends me for nerves! I am a great sufferer from nerves, and I'm sure if those Christian martyrs they make such a fuss over suffered as much as I do, I quite understand them being praised. But I am sure they never did." "Have you ever met Mr. Montrose?" asked Alice anxiously, for she wanted to have a sketch of the young man beforehand. "No, my dear. Dr. Eberstein says he is very handsome and very nice, and has a lot of money!" "That is quite true, Amy. Mr. Montrose inherited my aunt's money." "Oh, my dear, what a disagreeable thing for you. I shall write to Dr. Eberstein and say that I can't ask him and his friend to dinner." "Why not?" asked Alice bluntly. "Well, you don't want to meet a man who has robbed you of----" "He has not robbed me." "Your father, I mean, Alice." "Nor my father, Amy. Lady Staunton had a perfect right to do what she liked with her money. My father is not at all annoyed, nor am I." "What a perfect, Christian feeling!" exclaimed Mrs. Barrast; "and how odd that you shouldn't be angry! How much money have you lost?" "None at all," said Miss Enistor rather impatiently; "but my aunt left Mr. Montrose five thousand a year." "Oh, how dreadful! My dear, if I were in your shoes I should scratch his eyes out. Of course your father is rich----" "My father is very poor. I only had this season in town because my aunt did leave him a little money." "Your father is poor! That makes his conduct and yours the odder, if there is such a word. I think it's very unjust, a sister not leaving her money to a brother and keeping it in the family. My dear," added Mrs. Barrast impressively, "this wrong must be put right. You shall marry this young man, if he is nice and agreeable. Then the money will come back to you." "Don't make such plans, Amy. I don't want to marry any one." "My dear, that's quite immoral." "Oh, nonsense! If you begin to be a match-maker I shall refuse to meet Mr. Montrose." "Then you don't want me to ask him to dinner?" "Ask him if you like: only don't expect me to fall into his arms." "As if I expected you to do anything so silly," said Mrs. Barrast, and withdrew to pen her invitation to the doctor and his friend. By this time, in her own mind, she was quite determined to arrange a match between Montrose and Alice, being one of those busybodies who will meddle with what does not concern them in the least. But Mrs. Barrast did not look at her proposed scheming in this light. She thought she was behaving very kindly to Alice. The girl herself was really anxious to meet Montrose now that there was a chance of doing so. Never having felt the want of money, she had not given much thought to the loss of the inheritance, and did not know how vexed her father was to see Montrose get the income. Enistor had particularly refrained from expressing his vexation, since he did not wish Alice to be biased against the fortunate youth. Therefore Alice was quite prepared to be just towards Montrose, and to like him, if his personality appealed to her. A very unsophisticated maiden was Miss Enistor. In a similar position Mrs. Barrast would have schemed to recover the lost fortune by marriage, if the man had been as ugly as a Cyclops, and indeed, as can be seen, really did intend to right things in this way. But Alice was quite content to let Montrose remain a bachelor and enjoy the money after his own fashion. Mr. Barrast had to attend to his political duties on the evening appointed for the dinner, which was perhaps the reason why his frivolous wife selected that special evening. Frederick was a kill-joy, she said, and moreover she did not wish to ask an extra woman to dinner. Mr. Montrose could attend to Alice and she, as the hostess, could attend to Dr. Eberstein. They would enjoy a pleasant meal, and afterwards could chat and have music in the drawing-room. Also Dr. Eberstein might be induced to tell their fortune, or prophesy events, or do wonderful things which, according to Mrs. Barrast, he was capable of doing when willing. As a matter of fact, Eberstein had the reputation of being a psychic doctor, and of knowing more about the unseen than most people. But in spite of Mrs. Barrast's babbling, he never by any chance performed the wonders which she spoke about. All the same, with the pertinacity of her nature Mrs. Barrast intended to ask him to give an exhibition of his powers, and as Frederick did not approve of such things, this was another reason why she chose an evening when he would be engaged. "Frederick is quite a heathen, you know, dear," said Mrs. Barrast, when the two ladies were in the drawing-room waiting for the two guests, "he says that to help poor people is better than being religious." "To help the poor _is_ to be religious," said Alice quietly. Mrs. Barrast made a grimace and looked in a near mirror to see that her hair was in good order. "Oh, I know you are that sort of person also, dear. Julian tells me that you are hand in glove with your vicar." "The vicar of Polwellin is a good man, Amy." "How dull! I never did like good people, who are fond of the ragged poor and starving children and all that slum sort of thing. Though I'm sure I have helped dozens of times in bazaars and charity dances to get money for them. And I really needed the money more than they did," concluded Mrs. Barrast plaintively. She flitted round the drawing-room in her usual restless manner, arranging the flowers, rearranging the many useless objects of luxury, and generally passing the time in meddling, chattering continuously. The drawing-room was suggestive of her brainless nature, as it was filled with costly things of no possible use; frivolous rubbish that had taken her fancy for the moment and then had been more or less forgotten. There was ample space, plenty of light and colour, and all the appliances of civilisation for an easy, luxurious existence. But repose was lacking, as the hostess had communicated to the room some of her abnormal restlessness. Mrs. Barrast was always screwed up to concert pitch and never gave herself, or any one in her vicinity, a single moment of peace. This incessant desire to say something or to do something, however silly, was gradually forcing Alice to consider seriously the necessity of cutting short her visit. There was an excess of oxygen in the atmosphere of Mrs. Barrast that disturbed the girl's serene nature. "Oh, here they are at last," cried the hostess with another glance into the mirror, as her quick ear caught a sound outside the door. "I am so glad, as I am so hungry. Then you see, dear--oh, Dr. Eberstein, how are you? So very glad to see you. And Mr. Montrose! It _is_ Mr. Montrose, isn't it? How do you do? So pleased to meet you. Dr. Eberstein, this is Miss Enistor, who is staying with me for a few weeks. Mr. Montrose, Miss Enistor. And now we can go to dinner. I am sure you are both dying for food!" The doctor bowed gravely to Alice and remained somewhat in the background talking, or rather listening, to the voluble Mrs. Barrast. It seemed as if he had stepped back to be a spectator of the meeting between the younger people, for Alice felt, rather than saw, that his eyes were upon her. But she was too much taken up with Montrose to consider this for a moment. The young man advanced silently, a tall slim figure, graceful and virile. His dark eyes were fixed on Alice in a puzzled sort of way, as if something about her perplexed him greatly. On her part, the girl rose from the chair to meet his gaze more directly than was consistent with the first introduction of a youth and a maiden. She did not know why he appeared to be familiar to her. It was not his looks, for these were new to her. But in his eyes there was something which hinted that he was less a stranger than a very dear friend. Of course, what knowledge of reincarnation she had gained from her father told her that the body was nothing and the soul was everything. Certainly she had never seen Montrose before in the flesh, but through his eyes there looked a soul which she knew. All this flashed through her troubled mind in a second and the blood crimsoned her face as she impulsively held out her hand. With a soft quick indrawn breath the young man took it. He was evidently as perplexed as she was. Only by an effort did he release the girl's slim hand and find his voice. "I am glad to meet you, Miss Enistor!" His voice broke the spell, and Alice became aware--at least she thought as much--that she had been acting foolishly. Of course he would be confused to meet the niece of the lady whose money he had inherited. That was the reason of his odd look and strange silence. But she would put him at his ease at once, since there was nothing to be gained by being stiff with a perfectly innocent person. And then--here came in the momentary memory again--she liked him at sight more than any one she had ever seen. She repeated his words. "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Montrose!" and then the two smiled at one another in a somewhat embarrassed way. "There's the gong," cried Mrs. Barrast gaily, "your arm, doctor. We shall have a pleasant dinner and a delightful evening!" "I am sure of that, Mrs. Barrast," said the other positively. "The evening has commenced most auspiciously." Alice asked herself what he meant and laid her hand on Montrose's arm. She did not get an answer to her mental question until much later. CHAPTER VI A CONVERSATION Dinner was served, not in the large dining-room, used on high days and festivals, but in a small octagonal apartment, reserved for such minor occasions. Its walls were of polished white wood, gaily painted with wreaths of flowers bound with knots of blue ribbon and held by naked cupids, dimpled and rosy. There was a blue-tiled fire-place in which stood a brass cradle for the flaming coals, though at present, the weather being warm, this was filled with ferns and bulrushes. The ceiling was painted with sunset clouds, the carpet was moss-green sprinkled with bunches of daisies, and the furniture was of cream-coloured wood. In the centre stood a round table of no great size, at which the hostess and her guests took their seats. Two smart parlour-maids attended to their wants, as Mrs. Barrast preferred to dispense with footmen and butler, save when she gave a state dinner to people she did not care about. "Frederick's friends, you know," she explained airily, when unfolding her napkin. "The people who like things-as-they-ought-to-be. I think things-as-they-ought-not-to-be are more amusing myself. More of a surprise, you know." "If you pushed that theory to extremes, Mrs. Barrast," said Dr. Eberstein in a dry way, "you would find the world excessively disagreeable." "Oh, I don't know, doctor. People in society all say the same things and do the same things and think the same things. I adore originality myself." "If originality made you uncomfortable you would change your mind." "I daresay. But that would be no novelty. I am always changing my mind!" "Consequently your nervous system gets out of order and you have to come to me to have it set right." "If I and others did not come to you where would your practice be?" asked Mrs. Barrast, accepting fish from the parlour-maid. "If one didn't change one's mind the world would stand still." Dr. Eberstein laughed. "That is a deeper remark than you guess, Mrs. Barrast," he said quietly. "But there is one change of mind and another change of mind." "Of course," the frivolous little woman opened her eyes widely, "if there were not another change of mind there would be no change at all." "True, O Queen! You speak wiser than you know." "Tell Frederick that, doctor. He says I have no ideas, and what I have aren't ideas at all. No! I don't mean that! But he says--well, I don't know exactly what Frederick says. Nobody ever does, especially when he gets up to make a speech in the House. But he's a dear fellow all the same, and do try that hock, doctor. It is particularly good!" Eberstein smiled and refused, as he drank nothing but water. He looked on Mrs. Barrast as an irresponsible delightful child, who had everything to learn, yet who could not be taught, as it was impossible for her to concentrate her attention for one whole minute. A butterfly herself, she chased other butterflies and danced along a sunny path careless of whither she was going. The doctor knew that in the nature of things she would have to learn what life meant some day: but did not tell her so. Mrs. Barrast would not have understood him if he had. While eating and listening to the remarks of Montrose, the youngest member of the party stole frequent looks at Eberstein. He was not very tall, rather stout, some years over fifty, and had a healthy clean-shaven face. Alice by no means considered him handsome, but when he smiled there was a kind and helpful look in his grey eyes which drew her to him. She felt that he was cool, wise, tolerant, and anxious to aid his fellow mortals. Mr. Montrose--so ran her thoughts--was very fortunate to have such a friend. In the hour of need Eberstein would prove staunch. Alice was positive of this although she had no experience of the man's nature. But added to the ordinary feminine intuition she possessed a subtle clairvoyant instinct, undeveloped though it was, and without any positive proof she would have staked her existence on Eberstein's being a really good and helpful man. One in a thousand. But as a woman her feelings inclined to Montrose, since he was extremely handsome and likewise fascinating. The unusual combination of auburn hair and dark eyes was striking, and his clearly cut features of the Greek type impressed her with a sense of belonging to a thoroughbred stock. His shapely body, his slim hands and feet, his lithe active strength, suggested a racehorse perfection. A well-formed head showed that he had brains, and a resolute chin revealed courage and decision. Altogether Miss Enistor was favourably impressed with the looks of the young man who had inherited Lady Staunton's money, and thought that he would make good use of it. As to her other feeling, of his soul being familiar to her, she had not yet reasoned that out in a way to satisfy herself. At present all she knew was that she and Montrose seemed to be old acquaintances, and they chatted as if they were friends of many years' standing. Mrs. Barrast remarked this. "You two get on very well together," she said shrewdly, when the dessert was placed on the table, and Eberstein smiled when she made the remark. "We seem to suit one another," was Montrose's reply: then added, to avert personal remarks on the part of Mrs. Barrast: "I wonder how it is that one is repelled by some people and drawn to others at first sight." "Ask Miss Enistor for the explanation," said Eberstein quietly. Alice was startled by the directness of his speech. "How do you know that I can explain, doctor?" "Oh, Dr. Eberstein knows all manner of things other people don't know," chimed in the hostess. "I am quite afraid of him sometimes. He is as wise as the sea and as deep!" "And as useful, I hope," said the doctor, smiling genially. "However, Montrose has not yet asked Miss Enistor for a reply to his question." The young man laughed and looked at the flower-like face of his neighbour with great admiration. "How is it some people repel while others attract?" "The doctrine of reincarnation explains," replied the girl, forced to answer plainly while the doctor's calm, grey eyes were on her. "Those people who repel have done one an injury in some previous life: those who attract have done good, or at least have been friendly." "Likewise in other lives?" questioned the doctor. "Of course. Although I do not know if you believe in reincarnation?" "Oh," Mrs. Barrast uttered a little shriek and dabbled her fingers in the bowl of rose-water at her elbow. "He believes in all manner of dreadful things, my dear. How he can do so I cannot understand, when he is so clever. I think reincarnation is rubbish myself." "Oh, no! no!" protested Montrose. "What! You believe in our having lived before also? Really it is very odd and queer of you. Alice too. My dear, where did you learn such awful nonsense?" "From my father," said Miss Enistor dryly; "and if you met him, Amy, you would not think he was the man to teach nonsense!" "Then he's got a bee in his bonnet." "He doesn't wear a bonnet." "Oh, Alice, you know perfectly well what I mean. He's crazy!" Miss Enistor laughed. "I think my father is the sanest person I have ever met, Amy. Why shouldn't reincarnation be a great truth?" "It isn't in the Bible," said Mrs. Barrast pettishly, for the conversation being beyond her was somewhat boring to her small intellect. "And what isn't in the Bible is wrong." "You are of the Caliph Omar's opinion with regard to the Koran when he ordered the library of Alexandria to be burnt," observed Eberstein; "but if you will read St. Matthew, verse 14, chapter xi, you will find that reincarnation is plainly acknowledged. Also in St. John's Gospel, chapter ix, verses 2 and 3, it is plainly hinted at. Origen, the most learned of the Christian Fathers, believed in the law of rebirth and----" "Oh, it's all nonsense," interrupted Mrs. Barrast, weary of the explanation. "So be it," admitted the doctor quietly, "it is all nonsense. _Your_ brain is the measure of the universe." "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Frederick says that I haven't any brain to speak of: as if I could live if I haven't," said Mrs. Barrast incoherently. "Let us have coffee here while you gentlemen smoke. Oh, I forgot: you don't smoke, doctor. Mr. Montrose?" "Thank you," and the young man accepted a cigarette from Mrs. Barrast's own particular case. "You smoke yourself, I see." "Oh, yes." Mrs. Barrast lighted her little roll of tobacco. "It soothes me. I am all nerves, you know. Alice, will you----?" "No, thank you. I am not all nerves!" "I'm sure I wonder you aren't, living in Cornwall with sea-gulls and moors and those sort of things. You will like this coffee, Dr. Eberstein. There is a vanilla bean in each cup, which makes it so nice." "Very good coffee," said the other, sipping gravely, and wondering if Mrs. Barrast was aware of the rubbish she talked. The little woman apparently was not, as she conversed volubly, darting from this subject to that after the manner of a swallow. She mentioned several novels which had attracted her frivolous attention, talked of some musical comedies she had seen, criticised the fashions, told one or two tales dealing with scandals concerning various people, and in every way monopolised the conversation, until it was time to return to the drawing-room. Alice, who wished to converse with Montrose, was pleased when this move was made, as it appeared to be the only chance of ending Mrs. Barrast's airy nothings. For a few moments she was alone with her hostess and seized the chance of asking if Dr. Eberstein was a German. "I suppose he is," said Mrs. Barrast gravely, "his name sounds like it. But I can't say what he is. He talks all languages as well as he talks English, and never says anything about his father and mother. But he's very nice, isn't he, Alice? A kind of soul-doctor, you know, who tells his patients that mind is stronger than matter. Not exactly Christian Science, but something like it. He has never come to dinner before. I'm sure I don't know why, as I have asked him dozens of times." Alice thought that she knew the reason, which had to do with Mrs. Barrast's frothy chatter, but was too polite to put her idea into words. "What do you think of Mr. Montrose?" she asked, anxious for a second opinion. "Good-looking but stupid," was Mrs. Barrast's verdict; "not a second idea in his head. However, he has money--your money, dear, so you ought to marry him." "He has not got my money," said Miss Enistor tartly, "and even if he had I certainly should not marry him for his wealth." "I daresay: you are such a funny girl. Not at all like a human being. It's silly not to eat a pear that has fallen into your mouth." "Mr. Montrose being the pear?" "Of course. He is head over ears in love with you already. I'm not his style evidently. Not that I care," ended Mrs. Barrast, caring very much indeed. "Go in and win, Alice, and let me design the bridesmaids' dresses. Pink silk and white----" Mrs. Barrast's chatter about chiffons was put a stop to by the entrance of the gentlemen. As if it had been arranged, Dr. Eberstein walked over to Mrs. Barrast and engaged her in conversation. Montrose hesitated, then came to the corner wherein Alice was seated. He looked extremely handsome and attractive; she was more than ever taken with his appearance. Smiling amiably, she made room for him to sit down beside her on the ottoman, but waited for him to begin the conversation. He did so with an abruptness which startled her. "I hope you are not my enemy," said the young man earnestly. Alice raised her eyebrows. "Why should I be?" "Well, you see Lady Staunton left me her money!" "Why not, Mr. Montrose? It was her own money!" "Yes. But do you think it was right that she should leave it away from her relations?" "If she wished to. Why not?" "You don't regret the loss?" He looked at her very directly. "Not at all. I have never given the matter any consideration." "And your father?" "He is quite satisfied with the legacy left to him by Aunt Lucy," said Alice unhesitatingly, for she knew nothing of Enistor's wrath about the loss. Montrose drew a long breath of relief. "I am glad to hear you say that," he said thankfully. "I don't mind telling you, Miss Enistor, that, when I heard of my good fortune, it was my first intention to surrender the money to your father. I was persuaded not to do so by Dr. Eberstein." "He is a friend of yours?" she asked carelessly. "The best friend a man ever had: the best friend a man could have. He cares for nothing save to do good. I see you raise your eyebrows, thinking of how he advised me to keep Lady Staunton's money. But he did so, because it was necessary." "Why?" demanded Alice point-blank. "I can't tell you. He said it was necessary, so I obeyed him." "Would you have obeyed him if he had told you to give my father the money?" "Yes," said Montrose truthfully and unhesitatingly. "And to put it plainly, Miss Enistor, it is harder for me to keep the money than to surrender it. I don't require so large an income." "Yet my father heard from Mr. Cane that you were poor." "Very poor. I was starving when I first made Lady Staunton's acquaintance, Miss Enistor. My parents died when I was a child, and I was brought up by an old aunt in Edinburgh. When I was eighteen years of age she passed away, leaving me what little she had. I came to London with the idea of writing poetry and plays. But my work would not sell, and when my money came to an end, I starved until I managed to drift into journalism. Even then I only managed to keep body and soul together in a Bloomsbury garret. When I saved your aunt's life, she gave me employment as her secretary to deal with her many charities. But I assure you that she never expressed any intention of leaving her money to me. If she had, I should have objected, since her brother was alive. However, she did leave me this large income, and I was ready to give it up, until Eberstein told me it was necessary to keep it." "I wonder why?" said Alice thoughtfully, and greatly interested in the story he had told. "Eberstein will not tell me. But he has a good reason for what he says and I always obey him, knowing his true friendship. A few years ago I was dying of starvation and pneumonia in my attic, and he saved my life. Since then I have been with him constantly. As you believe in reincarnation, Miss Enistor, I may as well tell you that there is some tie between you and me dating from former lives. What it is I cannot say, as Eberstein refuses to explain. He brought me here to-night to meet you." "Oh!" Alice darted a swift piercing look at the young man's earnest face and wondered if he was as guileless as he appeared to be. "How did he know that I was here?" "He is Mrs. Barrast's doctor, you know," said Montrose simply. The girl did not reply immediately. She was considering if there was not some conspiracy on foot to entangle her in a marriage bond. Dr. Eberstein looked kindly and sympathetic, yet for his own ends he might have brought herself and Montrose together. Was he an honest man, or a schemer? Was Montrose his victim, or his accomplice? And what had she to do with either of the two men? As she thought thus, there came a wave of that same overpowering influence which she had felt in the Tremore dining-room. It seemed to sweep away the suggestion of evil with which she had almost unconsciously credited Eberstein and his young friend. "I don't understand," she said faintly and turned white. "Are you ill?" asked Montrose, alarmed. It was plain that he did not feel the influence as she did. "No! No! I shall be all right soon. The heat----" here she broke off with a surprised look. "Why, I _am_ all right. I never felt better in my life. Did you feel anything just now?" "Feel anything?" Montrose looked puzzled. "What do you mean, Miss Enistor?" "Nothing at all," she replied quickly and evasively, for she decided that it would not do to be too frank with this young man until she knew more of him. "Only the heat, you know, and these dinners. I am a quiet country girl, Mr. Montrose, and am not accustomed to London life." "I like the country myself, Miss Enistor," sighed the young man wistfully. "I have long since wanted to live in the country, as London in some ways worries me. I can't explain myself more fully. "I know what you feel like," said Alice, nodding wisely. "You are sensitive as I am. To be in the country is like being in clean water, while London is like bathing in a dirty pool." "Oh," Montrose's face flushed and brightened. "How did you guess?" "Because I feel as you do. It is the evil thoughts that are in London which affect you. My father knows something about psychic matters and has taught me a little. That is why I believe in reincarnation." Montrose nodded in his turn. "Eberstein first spoke to me on the subject and placed life in a new light before me. I used to wonder why I had such a bad time, and complained greatly about my lot. But he made all things plain to me. I can bear life's burdens now with a serene heart." Alice was amused when she reflected on his position. "You have health and wealth, good looks and a good friend. It is easy to bear such burdens." "Ah, but you forget that I went through many a long year of sorrow and bewildered pain, Miss Enistor. Besides, money does not bring happiness. I never can be enthusiastic over money." "People with large incomes can afford to say that," said Alice cynically. "Is that a hit at me?" retorted Montrose good-humouredly; "if so it misses its mark, I assure you. I am quite willing to give back the money to your father if Eberstein tells me to." "Why should you obey him?" "Because he knows more than I do. I look upon him as a guide." Alice shook her head. "Every man should think for himself." "So Eberstein says," replied Montrose unexpectedly; "and all he does is to give me hints, leaving me to take them or reject them as I choose. Fortunately I know how little I do know, and I am glad to have a more experienced man to help me." "Experienced?" "Yes. In the things of this world and the next." "Is Dr. Eberstein religious then?" "Not in the narrow sense in which the word religious is used. But he is a wonderful man, as you will learn when you see more of him. I don't want you to think me weak and without will-power, Miss Enistor, because I constantly quote Eberstein. But the most accomplished general is glad to obey the guidance of a man who knows the lie of the land when marching through the enemy's country." "The enemy's country?" "You might call the world so." Miss Enistor moved restlessly. "What an odd conversation we are having!" she said in a nervous way. "We have only met to-night for the first time, and yet we are quite confidential." "It is better to talk as we are doing than to gossip," said Montrose sententiously. "And how do you know we have met for the first time to-night?" "I have never seen you before," said the girl sharply. "You have not seen Douglas Montrose, nor have I seen Alice Enistor," was the reply. "But in other bodies, in other lives, we have been friends: the very best of friends." "How do you know that?" asked Alice, wilfully dense, although her heart endorsed every word the young man said. "Need I explain?" He stared at her hard. "No," she answered after a short pause. "I can guess your meaning. When we shook hands we were drawn together by--well, I can't say." "By the friendship of the past!" "Yes," she hesitated; "I suppose so! But other people would think we were talking sad nonsense, Mr. Montrose." "What does it matter what other people think?" said the young man calmly. "Not much. But one has to consider the world in which one lives." "Mrs. Barrast?" "No! No! No!" Alice laughed outright and rose, as she felt that he was getting on altogether too fast. "She is very tolerant." "That is something in her favour, considering how narrow people are as a rule in this world." Montrose got on his feet also. "Before we join her and Eberstein, let me hear you assure me that you do not look upon me as a grasping enemy who has taken your father's money." "I assure you of that certainly," said the girl frankly, and gave him her hand with a smile. "If you had not mentioned the subject I should never have referred to it. Keep the money, Mr. Montrose, and make what use you will of it. Both my father and myself are quite content," and she said this about Enistor once more, entirely unaware of its falsity. "You are good," said Montrose impetuously. "Few people would take a loss so kindly." "Well, like yourself I cannot get up any enthusiasm about money. Come, let us join Mrs. Barrast." "One moment. Shall I see you again?" "If you like. I am staying here for a few weeks!" "If I like." The young man's face was eloquent and the look in his eyes betrayed his heart to Alice in a moment. With a laugh to hide her confusion she turned away to join her hostess, and came face to face with Dr. Eberstein. "Well met, Miss Enistor," said the elder man in a genial manner and staring at her very directly. "I was just coming to take Montrose away." "Yes," called out Mrs. Barrast, "he is going, and at eleven o'clock too. So very early. What can we do with the rest of the evening?" "I advise bed," said Eberstein pointedly. "Bed for me," endorsed Alice gaily. "I feel rather tired." "I don't think you do," said the doctor calmly: and to Miss Enistor's surprise on consideration she did not. But as he spoke she again felt a wave of that strange uplifting influence and drew back, startled to find that it emanated from the doctor. Eberstein smiled quietly, "Good-night!" "Good-night, Mr. Montrose," said Mrs. Barrast pointedly. "Next time you come, talk to me as well as to Miss Enistor!" "I apologise for my bad manners," said Montrose quickly. "What a compliment to me!" laughed Alice, shrugging her shoulders. "Oh, you understand me, I think, Miss Enistor," he looked at her straightly. She returned his look flushing. "I think I do," was her low reply. "Such nonsense," said Mrs. Barrast irritably: for her the evening had not been a success. CHAPTER VII BEHIND THE SCENES It was a delightfully warm summer night when Eberstein and his young friend left the house. For some little distance they walked on in silence, as Eberstein was never voluble and Montrose felt disinclined to speak at the moment. Oblivious of his surroundings, more or less, he moved mechanically by the doctor's side, dreaming of Alice and of the love which existed between them. Considering he had met her for the first time an hour or so previously, it seemed ridiculous, even in a dream, to think that she had any such tender feeling for him. But something in the deeps of his own nature was struggling to the surface to assure him that his dream was truth. Much as he valued Eberstein's company, he wished him away at the moment that he might puzzle out the meaning of this strange intuition. "But that is impossible, just now," said the doctor quietly. "I wish you to come to my house, as I have much to say, and something to show." Montrose was startled, as he often was at Eberstein's speeches. "You know what I am thinking about?" "Is that so strange?" "Well, it isn't, really. You have extraordinary penetration. Sometimes I am quite afraid of you." "You are never afraid of me," replied Eberstein, shaking his head with a benevolent smile. "Think!" "No!" Montrose reflected for a few moments. "It is true. I am not afraid!" The doctor smiled approvingly. "That is right. Fear would prevent my aiding you in any way, and you need aid more than you guess. Remember what the Bible says, my friend: 'In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.'" "Faith and peace of mind are so hard to get," complained the young man sadly. "Very hard. The Blessed One said that the Path was difficult." "The Blessed One!" "Christ: your Master and mine," replied Eberstein solemnly. "Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth to life and few there be that find it." "And those who do not find it are lost?" "For the time being, not eternally. God is very gentle with His straying sheep, and we have many lives, many opportunities to find the way to the fold. You are coming to the strait gate, Montrose; therefore my aid is given to you lest you should faint on the hard uphill journey." "I am not good enough even to approach the gate," sighed the young man. "So you think! But the standard of goodness is not kept on earth, but in heaven, my friend. However"--Eberstein broke off to hail a taxi--"we can talk of these things when we reach my house. Get in, Montrose!" The young man did so, and was followed by his master, who told the chauffeur to drive to Bloomsbury. Eberstein lived in that unfashionable district, not-withstanding the fact that his practice lay largely amongst wealthy and aristocratic people. Many of the doctor's patients wondered why he did not select a better-class neighbourhood, but Eberstein never gave them any information on this point. Yet his known character might have revealed the reason to an ordinarily shrewd person very easily. The man was greatly given to helping the poor and needy. Not so much the proverbial ragged paupers of the slums--although he helped those also when necessary--as poor curates, badly paid clerks, shabby governesses, struggling ladies, and such-like persons, who had to keep up some sort of appearance on nothing. His money, his sympathy, his medical skill, were all wholly at the service of those who could not pay, and the fees received from his rich patients went to ameliorate the sufferings of the self-respecting, who never complained and showed their pauperism as little as was possible. Eberstein made no boast of his philanthropy: he never even spoke of his many good works. It was perfectly natural for him to go silently attentive about the work of his Master Christ, as he knew he could act in no other way without going contrary to his whole being. To feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to teach the ignorant, to comfort the desolate: for these purposes he was in the world. In one of his exploring expeditions Eberstein had found Montrose dying in a garret and had set him on his legs again in a sympathetic brotherly way which had not offended the young man's pride. More than that, he had supplied food for the starving soul as well as for the starving body, and by explaining the riddles of Life in a perfectly reasonable way he had entirely changed Montrose's outlook. His protégé had been puzzled by this absolutely unselfish conduct, not understanding from inexperience that no return was demanded for these great gifts. But as his limitations began to expand through the teaching, he began to comprehend, and finally he accepted Eberstein as a kind of angel in the flesh, sent to help him in his hour of need. And the philanthropist was so unaffectedly sincere, so reasonable and sympathetic, that the rescued man grew to love him with a reverence rare in the younger generation. The doctor restored his faith in human existence. "Here we are," said Eberstein, alighting from the taxi and dismissing it. "We can now have an undisturbed hour for conversation." The doctor admitted himself into the quiet house with his latch-key, as the servants were all in bed. They were never kept up late by their considerate employer, since he recognised that they required their necessary sleep. So the two men entered the hall, ascended the stairs, and betook themselves to a large room at the very top of the mansion. Eberstein kept this entirely to himself, not even seeing his friends therein, much less his patients. Therefore it was with some surprise and more curiosity that Montrose stepped into the apartment and closed the door after him. Then he uttered an exclamation of pleasure--a soft exclamation, for the atmosphere of the place suggested a church. "What a wonderful room," breathed Montrose, staring round him, "and how holy." He scarcely knew what caused him to utter the last word, unless it was the unusual looks of the spacious room. Everything was white; the walls, the carpet, the ceiling, and even the light which radiated from two large lamps with opaque globes. The table, the few chairs, the bookcase, and the sofa were of white wood with silken cushions like mounds of snow, and the draperies which veiled the volumes and the windows were also the hue of milk. Yet there was no suggestion of winter in the colourless expanse, for the air was warm and the atmosphere so charged with perfect peace that Montrose felt quite at home. The room, he felt, expressed Eberstein himself. It might have been the chapel of The Holy Grail. "You never brought me here before," said the young man, feeling that his dark garments were a blot on the purity of the surroundings, "although you have known me for three years, more or less." "No," assented the doctor, seating himself before the table and indicating a chair for his guest, "it was not necessary." "Is it necessary to-night?" "I should not have brought you here, had it not been." "But why this night of all nights?" persisted the other wonderingly. "You have met Miss Enistor." Montrose was more bewildered than ever. "What has she got to do with it, or with me, or with anything?" "Ask yourself," said Eberstein, and looked steadily into the eyes of Montrose. "I ask myself!" murmured the guest, mechanically compelled to the speech. Those kind grey eyes on a level with his own a little distance away poured, as it seemed, such a flood of light towards him that Montrose voluntarily closed his own. Yet it was not a dazzling light which need have frightened him, but an all-enfolding steady radiance, which bathed his whole being in luminous splendour, until he felt that he was partaking of that peace of God which passeth understanding. The tide of glory lifted him up higher and higher beyond the gross envelope of the physical body until he felt himself soaring without wings into an all-embracing sphere of glorious music which expressed itself in colour. In this ocean of rainbow hues he floated, aware that he was using super-physical senses to view super-physical scenes. On him descended, with the swiftness of thought, a golden cloud more brilliant than the noonday sun, and this dissolved away to reveal the form of a young girl clothed in floating white draperies. The face was fair, the hair corn-coloured, the eyes deeply blue and the figure majestic and graceful. Anything more unlike the elfin beauty of Alice can scarcely be imagined. Yet he knew beyond all doubt that this was Alice in another shape which she had worn in another clime under alien stars. His soul flowed out to blend with her soul in one flame of unity. But there was a barrier between them which Montrose strove to break through. Try as he might he could not. Even in that heaven-world, despair seized him, when he found that the invisible barrier withheld him from his beloved. On her side she seemed equally desirous to come to him, and held out her arms in vain longing. On his face and her face were looks of appealing love baffled by the impossibility of meeting heart to heart. Then a shadow grew up between them swiftly; the shadow menacing and dark of a yellow-skinned man, rather like a Chinese, from whose throat ran a stream of blood. Who this man was Montrose could not tell, even though he had recognised Alice in a different guise. And the enemy--Montrose felt that the wounded creature was an enemy--grew larger and larger until the blackness of which he was part blotted out the splendour of the girl. Blotted out also the atmosphere of colour and music and radiancy, until Montrose, sinking downward in the gloom, opened his physical eyes to find himself seated in the chair opposite Eberstein. Only a single moment had elapsed, for the journey had been as swift as that of Mahomet to the seventh heaven mounted on Al Borak, but he seemed to have been away for hours. The discrepancy was to Montrose impossible to reconcile, even though he grasped confusedly the fact that he had been--in the Fourth Dimension say--where there is no time. "You now know what Alice Enistor has to do with you," said Eberstein in a quiet impressive tone. "I don't in one way," faltered the still bewildered young man, "and yet I do in another. All I can be certain of is that she is mine." "Undoubtedly. She is yours and you are hers." "Then why could we not come together?" "The shadow of your sin came between and parted you." "My sin?" "That which you committed five thousand years ago," explained the doctor patiently. "Then, self-willed, self-centred, you would not wait the striking of the hour which would have made you one, and therefore, seeking to obtain your desire by force, you broke the Great Law. The Great Law broke you, as it breaks all who disobey. For many ages your soul and her soul have been asunder, but now in the fullness of time you meet again on this physical plane in new vestments of flesh. But your sin has not yet been expiated, and you cannot yet be one with her you love. The shadow stands between you twain and will stand until the debt is paid." "The shadow--the man?" stammered Montrose confusedly. "You owe him a life!" "But he is my enemy. I feel strongly that he is my enemy." "He was and is: it depends greatly upon you if he continues to be. If one obeys truly the Law of Love, one must not be angered even with one's enemy. What says the Blessed Son of the Most High God?" As if the words had been placed in his mouth, Montrose replied softly: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you!" Eberstein bowed his stately head. "Such is the Law of Love." Rubbing his eyes to make certain that he was entirely awake, Montrose sought for an interpretation. "I do not quite understand." "There is no need for you to understand further, my friend. This much enlightenment has been vouchsafed you through the mercy of God. For the rest you must work and walk by faith, seeing as in a glass darkly, obeying the Great Law of your own free will, so that your unselfish love may cause hatred to cease." "Whose hatred?" "That of the man you sinned against. Only with the aid of the Blessed One!"--Eberstein made the sign of the cross--"can you prevent the Son of Perdition from descending into the Abyss." "Who is the Son of Perdition?" "Your enemy, whom Christ loves as He loves you. Your task is to make yourself a channel through which the grace of the Blessed One can freely pour for the salvation of this erring soul. Oh, think how glorious it is that you should be permitted to be the instrument of Christ in this mighty work." "But I do not know how to go about the work!" exclaimed the bewildered man. "Watch and pray, my son, for the time when you must act is near at hand. Only by making yourself receptive to the holy influence will you know how to act when the time is ripe." "You will help me?" "I am bound to help you since I am obedient to the Law. But much has to be done by yourself, Montrose. I cannot command, as each man has free-will with which even the Logos Himself does not interfere. Christ stands at the door of your heart, but will not enter unless you invite His entrance. Only by doing what you ought to do will the Spirit of Love enter and sup with you." "But what am I to do?" demanded Montrose desperately. "Ask your own heart." "It says nothing." "The time is not yet ripe for it to say anything. Watch and pray! Come," the doctor spoke in a more matter-of-fact tone, "it is growing late. Go home and sleep: you are becoming exhausted." "But tell me, Eberstein, if I am right in what I think," pleaded Montrose earnestly. "I know intuitively that I met Miss Enistor in some previous life and that I loved her, as I love her now when we come together for the first time in this incarnation. I had all the feeling of being her friend. Oh what do I say! Friend is too weak a word--of being her lover. If I understand rightly, some sin committed by me has parted us, and that sin I have to expiate before we can come together again." "That is the case. But ask me no more now. With the aid of the Blessed One you must work out your salvation in fear and trembling." "Indicate my enemy and I shall forgive him for Alice's sake," cried the young man with impetuous generosity. "You must forgive him for his own." "How can I when I don't know why we are enemies?" "You will know when it is necessary you should know." Montrose passed his hands across his brow and stood up slowly. "It is all bewildering and difficult." "Very bewildering and very difficult. I answered that question earlier in the evening. We talk in a circle. To do so is a waste of time. Good-night!" Another question was trembling on Montrose's lips, but he refrained from putting it, and with a silent hand-shake departed slowly. Accustomed to come and go at will in this house, which was more a home to him than any habitation he had known, the young man descended the stairs and let himself out into the silent square. The balmy summer night was brilliant with stars, and charged with some mysterious healing influence, which soothed and relaxed his weary nerves. On all sides the great city was yet awake and alive with people, each one intent upon the realisation of his or her desire. But here, isolated from the roaring thoroughfares, the quadrangle was comparatively lonely and dark, as the passers-by were few and the lights widely scattered. The central gardens, with their trees and shrubs and turf and flowers, slept within the rusty iron railings, speaking every now and then as a wandering breeze woke the leaves to sigh and whisper. The hurrying steps of a wayfarer, the measured heavy tread of a policeman, the murmur of distant life: Montrose heard these things without hearing as it were, as without seeing he stared at the silent cats gliding through the shadows. He walked along, wrapped up in his own thoughts, seeking mechanically his rooms and bed. Notwithstanding his accession to considerable wealth, the fortunate youth had but slightly changed his mode of living. He enjoyed better lodgings, better clothes, more nourishing food, and was free from the obligation of compulsory work to exist. But he still lived in unfashionable Bloomsbury, a quiet, inexpensive, and somewhat recluse life, not seeking to enter what is known as society. With his good looks and undeniable talents and newly acquired wealth, he would have been welcome to the gay throng who flutter in the sunshine of pleasure. But there was nothing in Montrose which responded to such aimless allurements. Once or twice friends had taken him to this house and that, where the butterflies gathered, and on this particular night Eberstein had induced him to dine at Mrs. Barrast's. But entertainments of all kinds bored Montrose immensely, and only the presence of Alice had aided him to endure the shallow chatter of his hostess and the artificiality of his surroundings. The after-events in Eberstein's room had both startled and awed him, so that he was still greatly moved by what had taken place when he reached his modest lodgings. But, as common sense told him, thinking would not help him, as his thoughts spun in a circle and always brought him back to the same point. That point was the meeting with Alice and the weird feelings which contact with her personality had aroused in him. She belonged to his life in some way which he could not quite put into words, and he belonged to hers. They were together and yet apart, but what parted them it was impossible to say, as the vision had not indicated in detail the especial sin, or what had led to the commission of that sin. Soon he would know more--Eberstein had assured him of that. Therefore it would be best to wait for the knowledge. He had been given light enough in the darkness of the path to take the next step, and that light revealed Alice waiting for him to come to her. He was only too willing to do so, as the feeling that he loved her deeply grew with overwhelming swiftness. When she knew what was in his heart and he knew what was in hers, then the next step could be taken. What it might be and where it would lead to Montrose could not say. However, the doctor had given him necessary instructions for the moment in the phrase "Watch and pray!" To watch for the dawning love in Alice and to pray that he might be worthy of such love seemed to be his task, and a very delightful task it would be. Therefore Montrose knelt down and prayed with all his clean heart that every possible blessing might befall the girl and that, if it was God's will, he might become her husband to cherish and protect her. Then he went to bed in a peaceful frame of mind. Sleep came to him almost immediately, but before his eyes closed he felt that Alice was near him, and knew that in some wordless manner Alice spoke to him. "We have much to learn and there is pain in the learning," she whispered, "but we are together to suffer together." "Suffering does not matter," said Montrose, as in a dream, "we are together!" CHAPTER VIII LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM After the storm comes the calm, and when trouble has endured for a season peace descends to refresh the exhausted soul. Montrose had suffered a great deal during the five-and-twenty years of his present life, and it was time that he should enjoy a rest. Ever since he could remember, dark clouds had enshrouded him, and with a fainting heart he had groped his way through the gloom. The meeting with Eberstein had been the end of sorrow and the beginning of joy, for the doctor had bidden him raise his eyes to the hills made glorious by the rising sun. With the legacy of Lady Staunton the dawn had come, but only when he met Alice did Montrose feel that the sun was above the horizon. As by magic the darkness was swept away, and now he walked in golden sunshine, no longer alone. She was beside him, and he wondered how he could have endured life without her dear presence. For the next three weeks he was in heaven rather than on earth. Of course the first desire of Montrose was to share with Alice the wonderful knowledge that he had acquired so strangely. But a note from Eberstein prevented this. The doctor wrote that he was going abroad for a few weeks, and that in the meanwhile Montrose was to tell the girl nothing of his late experiences. "Woo her as an ordinary youth woos an ordinary maid," said the letter. "She is yours and you are hers, so nothing can come between you for the time being. I say for the time being, since there is an ordeal which you must face before you stand before the altar. Whether you ever do stand there to take her as your wife depends upon your courage and forbearance and love. Meantime keep what you have seen and what you have heard to yourself. When I return I shall explain what is necessary for you to know!" This note was delivered the first thing in the morning after Montrose's weird experience, and when he called round to see Eberstein he found that the doctor had already departed for Paris. There was nothing left for him to do but to obey instructions. Montrose did this very willingly. After all he was a man living in the world of men, and wished to make love like an ordinary person. Certainly Alice was an angel, and might not be satisfied with ordinary love-making, but she also was human, and appreciated the domesticity of life. Montrose remembered reading in some book Eberstein had lent him: "For every step you take in other planes, take two on the plane you know, since you are here to learn the lessons of this plane!" Thus the young man abandoned for the moment his search after super-physical knowledge and gave himself up to the joy of being an ordinary mortal. And in one way or another he hoped to elevate a commonplace wooing to a romantic passion, but all strictly within the limitations of the physical brain. When the gods descended from Olympus to follow after nymphs, they came as mere men. In a like way did Montrose set about his courting of Alice as the one woman in the world for him. Mrs. Barrast quite approved of the romance. For a time she had been rather annoyed that so handsome and rich a young man had not laid himself at her feet. But being really good-natured, if extraordinarily vain, the little woman had ceased to play the part of dog in the manger, and forwarded the aim of Montrose by every means in her power. At heart she was a great match-maker like most women, and the fact that Montrose possessed Lady Staunton's wealth made her zealous to bring about the marriage. She looked upon herself as quite a _dea ex machinâ_, and, certain that all would turn out as she wished, had already arranged how the bridesmaids should be dressed, what people ought to be asked to the wedding, what present she would give, and where the young couple should spend their honeymoon. There was no doubt that Mrs. Barrast, like many another frivolous person, was a great hand at counting her chickens before they were hatched. "But the dinky little things will come out of the eggs all right," she said to Alice, a week after that young lady had made the acquaintance of Montrose. "He's a nice boy and any one can see he's head over heels in love with you, my dear. But I wish you would dress in colours, Alice. It looks so silly for an engaged girl to go about in black." "I am not engaged yet," replied Miss Enistor doubtfully, "and I never may be, Amy. My father has to be consulted." "My dear," said Mrs. Barrast impressively, "he'll jump at the chance of getting the money back into the family." "There is Don Pablo, who wants to marry me," ventured Alice anxiously. "And there's Julian also," retorted the little woman. "What of that? Why, I had dozens of offers before I met Frederick, though why I took him I really don't know. Of course, as you told me this Don What's-his-name is rich and if Douglas--you don't mind my calling him Douglas, do you, dear?--was poor, I shouldn't advise you to throw the old thing over. But youth and good looks and money and all those nice things are better than an old man. And I am glad after all that you did not accept Julian," ended Mrs. Barrast candidly. "He isn't rich either, and life's horrid without money. Besides, I wish Julian to marry a rich girl." "If he loves her." "Pooh, what has love to do with marriage? What old-fashioned ideas you have, Alice. I suppose you wouldn't marry Douglas if you didn't love him." "Certainly not," said the girl firmly. Mrs. Barrast made a grimace. "It's lucky you like him then, my dear. Of course it's not right to marry for money only," added the butterfly, contradicting herself boldly, "but when you meet a man with a banking account try and love him as hard as ever you can." "I love Douglas for himself alone. If he was a pauper I should love him." "I daresay you would. I'm sure there is madness in your family. It's a mercy Douglas is well off. Five thousand a year is very nice. Be sure you make him take a house near ours, dear, and get a smart motor-car with one of those nice chauffeurs who look like engineers but aren't. They're lots cleaner than engineers, aren't they? And do wear a blue dress, dear: blue suits you." "No! no! I am still in mourning for my aunt." "I'm sure you needn't be. I wouldn't mourn for a horrid, lean, old thing--she was lean, you know--who didn't leave me a penny." "She left my father one thousand pounds, Amy." "Just enough to make him hate her. I'm sure I would if I'd been treated in that nasty way. And do make Douglas take you out more. I'll come too as your chaperon, though perhaps I'm too young for the part." "I go out quite enough, Amy. With my aunt in her grave----" "Oh, don't talk about graves," cried Mrs. Barrast, rising in a hurry, "you set my nerves on edge, if nerves ever do have an edge, which I'm sure I don't know if they have. Not that it matters of course. Has Douglas proposed?" "No. But we understand one another." "Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Barrast in despair, "what is the use of that? I like everything to be signed, sealed, and delivered--I come of a legal family, you know, dear--to make certain. Don't lose your salmon after you've hooked him. Men do wriggle, you know, and if he sees another girl, he will----" "He won't," interrupted Alice, with very red cheeks. "How can you talk so? I am the only girl Douglas has ever loved." "Oh, he told you the usual lie then," sniggered the little woman provokingly. "How can men be so silly as to think we believe them! I wish you'd ask him to make love here, Alice, as I'd like to hear how he goes about it. It's absurd meeting in Kensington Gardens as you do. It isn't respectable." "Then I am not going to be respectable this afternoon," said Alice, escaping from this wasp, "for we meet there in two hours." "Make him give you an engagement ring," cried Mrs. Barrast, who always insisted upon having the last word, "diamonds, you know, dear. If the engagement is broken you won't want to keep the ring and can always get market value for the stones. I feel it is only right that you should have some of that money. Remember what I say, darling: remember what I say." Alice, on her way to her own room, did not hear the end of this speech, although it was screamed out after her. She was rather offended that Mrs. Barrast should advise Montrose's capture like an unwilling fish, as if any marriage could possibly be happy with a reluctant bridegroom. But when putting on her hat, the girl laughed at her reflection in the mirror, and excused the little woman's well-meant speech. Amy really did mean well, although she had a rather brutal way of putting things. Miss Enistor wondered if Frederick had been bargained for in this mercantile way, and thought it was very probable. Mrs. Barrast was exceedingly modern, and modern women are very businesslike in dealing with what was formerly called romance. The Barrast marriage was a kind of mutual aid society. Frederick had secured a pretty woman to do the honours of his house, and Amy had captured a rich husband who supplied her with plenty of money and let her go her own frivolous way. Alice decided that the shrewd butterfly had made the best bargain, and was taking full advantage of her cleverness. Then she put Mrs. Barrast out of her head and started for the place of meeting in Kensington Gardens. It was a warm afternoon, but not too dazzling, as a thin veil of clouds was drawn across the sky. Alice alighted from her taxi at the park gates and leisurely walked up the broad path towards the Round Pond. She preferred to meet Douglas here rather than in the Hans Crescent house, because Mrs. Barrast would always have been interrupting. And the girl was sufficiently in love to think that two was company and three a nuisance. As a matter of fact, she acknowledged to herself she was as deeply in love with Montrose as he obviously was with her, though neither of them had put the feeling into words. On this occasion, however, Alice decided that it would be just as well to come to some sort of understanding, since it was probable that she would not remain much longer in town. At least she fancied so, for her father had been grumbling about the money she was spending. Of course she had only known Douglas for seven days, and it was rather early to fall in love with him. But she felt convinced that in previous lives she had loved the young man, and that the present wooing was only the continuation of one interrupted in the distant past. What had interrupted it she could not say, but this time she was determined to bring it to a head, and learn for certain if Douglas felt towards her as she felt towards him. If glances and attentions went for anything, he assuredly did, but modesty or nervousness apparently prevented his plain speaking. Expecting at any minute to be summoned back to the gloom of Tremore, Alice felt that she could not go away without knowing what Montrose's feelings were. And if he really did love her to the extent of making her his wife, she gratefully recognised that she would have some one beside her to resist the pressure put upon her by Don Pablo and her father. On arriving at the tree under which she usually met her lover, she was surprised not to find him waiting for her. His absence piqued her, especially as she was late, for he certainly should have been watching for her arrival with his heart in his eyes. With a pout she sat down on one of the two green chairs and stared unseeingly at the many children playing about the grass and sailing toy ships on the Round Pond. What would her father say if he knew that she was meeting Montrose, and now loved him to the extent of thwarting Enistor's darling project of uniting her to Narvaez. Poor ignorant girl! She little knew that Don Pablo by his black arts was keeping Enistor advised of all that was taking place, and that the two men were calmly watching her innocent luring of the fly into the web. Eberstein could have warned her of this infernal espionage, but he was absent, and neither Alice nor her lover had any knowledge how to guard themselves. They were even ignorant that protection was necessary, and it was only when the worst was at an end that they learned how the guardianship of the master had been withdrawn for the time being. The children had to learn to walk alone in their own strength and by their own will. Therefore, in the Garden of Eden represented by Kensington Gardens, did they lie open to the assault of the Serpent in the person of Don Pablo. But their ignorance and innocence and natural leanings towards the good baffled the black magic of the evil creature for the moment. "A penny for your thoughts," said Montrose suddenly, and Alice raised her eyes to find that he had slipped silently into the chair placed a trifle behind that on which she was seated. "They are only worth a halfpenny," she retorted rebukingly. "I was thinking how little you must care for my company when you are so late!" "I have been hiding behind yonder tree ever since you arrived," explained Montrose, laughing, "and for quite an hour I have been waiting." Alice laughed also. The boyishness of his action appealed to her. "But we are too old to play at Peep Boo like babies," she said, shaking her head with a would-be attempt at primness which was quite a failure. "We are not old," denied Montrose, placing his chair in line with hers. "We are young: we shall always be young, for the gods love us. As to babies, look into my eyes and you will see yourself as a baby." But Alice would not look, and the colour came to her cheeks. "There was a girl at school who talked of babies in the eyes. It was amusing to hear her talk, but rather silly." "The silly things are the serious things of life at this moment." "How do you explain that epigram, Mr. Montrose?" "Do epigrams require explanations?" "This one does, I fancy." "Oh, no, it doesn't. You must guess that the explanation lies in the words I used. 'At this moment,' I said." "Why this moment rather than others, Mr. Montrose?" The young man drew back rather disappointed. "No. I see you don't understand, Miss Enistor, or you would not call me Mr. Montrose." "You call me Miss Enistor!" replied Alice, wilfully dense. For the sake of beating her with her own weapons, he answered in kind. "Naturally I do. I am a very polite person. But I daresay, in other lives, in other climes, and when we were clothed in other bodies, I called you Chloe, or Octavia, or Isabeau, or Edith." "Greek, Roman, French, and Anglo-Saxon," commented Alice, amused; "you seem to have settled the countries we lived in. I suppose I called you Damon, or Marcus, or Jehan, or Harold--that is, supposing we were together in those days in those places." "We have always been together," said Douglas decisively. "I am quite sure." "Have you any proof?" "Only the proof of my own feelings. I am not clairvoyant to the extent of remembering my former incarnations, nor can I--as some can--consciously leave my physical body at will and return to it with a recollection of what I have seen. Now you are more advanced." "Indeed, I am not. I have learned much from my father, who knows a great deal about such psychic matters. But I have never been properly instructed and my knowledge is very limited." "But you believe in the doctrine of reincarnation?" urged Montrose eagerly. "Of course. It is a most sensible doctrine to believe, and explains nearly everything in a common-sense way. But I cannot prove my belief." "There is no need to prove it to me," said Montrose, thinking of his vision, "for I know beyond all question that we have lived and loved before." "Yes," assented the girl dreamily, "I knew you the moment you entered Mrs. Barrast's drawing-room." The young man glanced round, and, seeing that they were more or less sheltered from observation, gently took her hand. She did not remove it, although her whole body thrilled to the touch. "You knew me as what?" asked Montrose. "I can't say more than that I knew you as a familiar friend." "So cold a word," pleaded the other softly. "What other word can I use to you when we have only known each other for a single week?" "That is in this life. In other existences we knew each other for years." Alice looked down timidly. "It--is--probable," she breathed. "Then why not take up the new life at the point where the old one left off?" "We don't know how it left off, Mr. Montrose." "No. But assuredly it did at a point where you called me by my then Christian name--Alice." Her heart fluttered as he spoke thus intimately. "Perhaps we were not Christians," she said, rather embarrassed. "Ah!" he dropped her hand, "you are fencing. I merely spoke in the style of to-day to illustrate my point." "Now you are angry!" "I never could be angry with you; only you will not understand." "Perhaps I do," said Alice, with a whimsical smile. "If so, why aren't you plain with me?" said Montrose, ruffled. The mothering instinct, which makes every woman see in every man a child to be soothed and petted, rose within her. "Let us slap the bad, naughty table that has hurt baby," she said demurely, and Montrose looked up to see the laughter in her eyes. "You little witch!" He caught her hand again and this time so roughly that she winced at the delicious pain. "You know quite well what I mean." "I do--Douglas!" "Oh!" He leaned towards her so violently that she swung aside in alarm. "The eyes of Europe are on us," she said hastily, indicating the throng of children and nursemaids and grown-up people round the pond and on the paths and lying on the grass. "Bother the eyes of Europe." But he saw that she was right and he did not dare proclaim his love by taking her in his arms. It was rather a poor thing to content himself with squeezing her hand. But he did, and so hard that she uttered an exclamation. "Mr. Montrose, you are hurting me." "Am I? Poor hand! I wish I could kiss it!" with a swift look round, he managed to do so. "There--Alice. Don't you dare to call me anything but Douglas." "I believe you wish to take me by storm," she pouted, not ill-pleased. "What! capture my own city?" "Your own city? What do you mean?" "I mean that I dwell in your heart. That city is mine." "How conceited you are." "Indeed, I am not. You know quite well that I am only speaking the truth. I loved you in the past and I love you now. All preliminaries of love were gone through ages ago. Why fence, as if we now meet for the first time? When I saw you in Mrs. Barrast's drawing-room I said, 'She is mine!' When you saw me you said, 'I am his'----" "I'm sure I didn't," interrupted Alice hastily. "You thought it, though." "I shan't tell you." "There is no need for you to do so. Oh, my dear," he went on entreatingly, "is there so much love in the world that you and I can afford to throw what we possess away? All my life I have been lonely: all my life I have wanted to meet you, to adore you, to----" "How could you when you didn't know that I existed?" "Fencing again. As if you didn't know that spirit is everything and form is nothing. We have been apart on earth until last week; but we have always been together in higher worlds, although neither you nor I can remember our companionship." Alice laughed in a rather anxious manner. "Any one listening to us would be certain both of us were insane." "I daresay. But as no one is listening, it doesn't matter. For the convenience of a world that doesn't understand such things, let us behave in a conventional manner. I shall visit at Mrs. Barrast's and court you in the approved style. In due time I shall write and ask your father if I may make you my wife. Meanwhile I want your assurance that you love me and have always loved me in the past." "But a single week----" "Time doesn't matter. You know it doesn't. You love me, Alice?" "Yes!" She saw that the time for fencing was ended. "I love you, Douglas!" He kissed her hand again, then, aware that the place was too public for him to take her in his arms, suppressed his feelings. Side by side they sat in a stiff kind of way, while each longed for demonstrations which the situation forbade. It was decidedly uncomfortable to be thus conventional. But it was just as well that they thus came to an understanding in the eye of the sun, as the self-control was quite an education. "One would think we were a couple of old married people, sitting side by side in this stiff manner," said Montrose with a vexed laugh. "I should like to be a Sabine and carry you away by force." "Perhaps you will have to do so," said Alice, thinking of Don Pablo. "My father will never consent to my becoming your wife." Montrose looked amazed and anxious. "Why not? There is nothing against my character and position," he said rapidly, "and as I have inherited Lady Staunton's money, your father will be glad that I should bring it into the Enistor family again by making you my wife." "I don't think my father cares anything about the money," said Alice, ignorant of her parent's true feelings. "He wants me to marry Don Pablo." "A Spaniard. Who is he?" "A Spaniard, as you have said. He is my father's greatest friend." "Young and handsome and wealthy?" "Wealthy, certainly. But very ugly, just like a mummy, and as old as the hills--older, I believe. He must be eighty." "Then why does your father wish you to marry him?" "Because Don Pablo is rich." "Well, I am rich also. Five thousand a year is riches." "Don Pablo has more, I fancy." "I don't care what he has. He hasn't got you for a wife and he never will have. You will marry me and no one else." "Yes, I promise you that, Douglas. But there will be trouble." "Pooh!" Montrose laughed joyously. "I'd face a universe of trouble if you were the prize to be obtained by enduring it. Besides, Eberstein says that we belong to one another." "How does he know?" "He knows many things that are strange and true. When he comes back he will explain. He promised to do so. Meantime, all we have to do is to be true to one another. We are engaged. Say we are engaged, Alice." "Yes. We are engaged. I shall marry no one but you." "Hurrah! Then we shall be happy for ever and ever----" "Amen," said the girl thankfully. "All the same, I fear Don Pablo." Montrose tucked her arm within his own. "We are together," he said. "Unity is strength. You understand, dear!" And Alice did understand, smiling happily. "It is the birthday of the soul," she said; "of your soul and mine, which are one." CHAPTER IX THE WARNING Mindful that a premature engagement might lead to gossip, Montrose and his beloved acted with great discretion. They gave vent to their ardent feelings in private, and behaved prudently in public. Certainly the young man paid many visits to Mrs. Barrast's house, and was markedly attentive to her visitor. But it was natural that a bachelor should admire a pretty maid, so people merely remarked indulgently that evidently Montrose was falling in love with Miss Enistor. They little knew that the inevitable had already happened, and in a scandalously short space of time. Mrs. Barrast, with a shrewdness which did her credit, guessed that the couple understood one another better than they would admit; but even she did not guess how far matters had gone. She would have been annoyed had she really known the truth, not because of the private engagement, but for the simple reason that she had not been admitted into the confidence of the lovers. As it was, all she saw led her to believe that Montrose was conventionally approaching her guest with a view to marriage, and quite approved of his intentions. Therefore she welcomed him to the house, and made use of him and his money. It was only right, she thought, that he should pay for her kindness in forwarding his aims. And the payment took the form of Mrs. Barrast plundering Montrose on all and every occasion. Frederick supplied her with ample funds for her frivolity, but Mrs. Barrast always wanted more than she could reasonably obtain, and cleverly got what she desired from Douglas. As both lovers were in deep mourning for Lady Staunton, the aunt of one and the benefactress of the other, they did not take much part in the gaieties of the waning season. All the same, Mrs. Barrast made Montrose give her concert tickets and boxes at theatres, which she used freely for herself and her friends. And as on these occasions she usually left Alice to entertain the donor in the Hans Crescent house, the young man was quite willing to be lavish in this direction. Indeed, he was in others also, for he supplied the butterfly with flowers and scent and gloves and similar trifles, which every woman likes to have and which no woman likes to pay for. Alice did not object at the outset to this generosity, as it was necessary to keep Mrs. Barrast in a good temper; but in the end she protested against such wholesale robbery. "You will ruin Mr. Montrose if you take everything he gives you," she said to Amy, two weeks after that momentous agreement in Kensington Gardens. "Oh, nonsense!" replied Mrs. Barrast airily. "The man has got more money than he knows what to do with. It's a man's duty to be agreeable. But of course, dear, if you are jealous----" "I--jealous?" Mrs. Barrast shrugged her elegant shoulders. "Well, my dear, it looks like it, you know. You needn't be if you are, I'm sure, for I can't marry him, and I have no intention of running away with the dear thing." "He wouldn't run away with you if you wanted to," said Alice crossly, and could have bitten out her tongue for the speech. "Really!" Mrs. Barrast tittered significantly. "Has it gone as far as that?" "What do you mean?" Alice grew red. "My dear! You are a woman talking to a woman, so there is no need for you to try and deceive me. You want to marry this charming young fellow!" "I don't admit that, Amy." "Whether you admit it or deny it, what I state is the case." "You have no right to say so. I like Mr. Montrose. I admire him!" "Words! Words! Words! You love him. Look at yourself in the glass, my dear. I think your colour tells the truth." "What if it does?" "Ah! Then you admit that I am right?" Alice saw that it was useless to fence with Mrs. Barrast, who was much too clever to be deceived and far too dangerous to be tampered with. "Yes! I am in love with--Mr. Montrose." "Why not say with Douglas?" tittered the little woman. "Douglas, if it pleases you." "My dear, the question is if it pleases _you_ and--him. Am I blind?" asked Mrs. Barrast dramatically. "Am I a fool? Do you think that during the past three weeks I have left you and that nice boy together without guessing the truth ages and ages ago? I never ask for tickets. He gives them to me to get me out of the way, which"--ended the butterfly justly--"is not complimentary to me." "I don't mind Mr.--well then, Douglas, giving you boxes at the theatres," said Alice petulantly; "but why take flowers and gloves and----" "Because I want such things," retorted Mrs. Barrast coolly. "If you are foolish enough not to take presents from him, I don't see why I should not. But I am glad that we have come to an understanding, dear, as I wish to know if you are in earnest, or if you are merely flirting." "And if I am flirting?" "Then I think it's very horrid of you. He has a heart and hearts can be broken. I don't flirt myself," said Mrs. Barrast, uttering the lie with the greatest composure, "but if you are making a fool of that nice boy I shall take him off your hands and be a--a--well, a mother to him." Alice laughed outright. "You are much too young and pretty to be a mother to any one, Amy!" "That's right. Taunt me because I haven't any children. Frederick is always complaining, as if it was my fault, which I'm sure it isn't. But as to this flirting----" "It isn't flirting. Douglas and I understand one another." "Really. How sly you are! Has he said anything?" "All that I wished him to say." "Then he has proposed?" "Yes!" Alice contented herself with the affirmative and did not trouble to give the date of the proposal. Mrs. Barrast understood that it had taken place within the last day or so, and even that displeased her. "It's quite immoral for him to be so hasty," she exclaimed, because the idea of Montrose adoring Alice and not herself was annoying and hurt her vanity. The girl smiled, wondering what her hostess would say if she knew that the proposal had been made three weeks previously. "He's in love, you see!" "There is sense in all things, my dear. He has only known you a month." "Of course! But love at first sight----" "I don't believe in such a thing." "Oh, Amy, what about Romeo and Juliet?" "They are only things in a play. I don't think Juliet was at all respectable, and if she had lived in London instead of Verona, I should never have allowed her to visit me. Mr. Montrose should have behaved himself properly." "What do you call proper behaviour on his part?" "Well, he should have spoken to me first!" "Douglas's idea of propriety differs from yours, Amy. He thought it was best to tell my father that he wished to marry me, before speaking to you." "He could do no less," snapped Mrs. Barrast, still ruffled. "Has he written to Mr. Enistor?" "Yes. Two days ago; but he has not yet received an answer. Nor have I, for I wrote to my father at the same time, asking him to consent to our engagement." "Oh, he'll consent quick enough--your father, that is," sniffed the little woman. "He owes me a great deal for bringing back that lost money to the family. If he is nice--I suppose he _is_ nice, though Julian doesn't like him at all--I expect he'll give me a bracelet, or a muff-chain, or a----" "Do you really mean that?" interrupted Alice, opening her eyes very wide. "Of course! Why shouldn't I mean what I say?" "How rapacious you are, Amy." "What a nasty word when I'm only sensible. What is the use of men if they don't give us things?" "Douglas will give you all you want, dear. After all, you brought us together." This diplomatic remark cleared the air and banished the frown from Mrs. Barrast's small-featured face. "Of course I did. I saw that you two were meant for each other the moment you set eyes on one another. I advised you to get back your aunt's money by marriage, didn't I?" "You certainly did," admitted Miss Enistor dryly, not thinking it necessary to explain that she loved Montrose for himself alone. "What you said has come true, Amy. Douglas desires to make me his wife, if my father consents." "Oh, bother your father," cried Mrs. Barrast vigorously. "What does his consent matter when you have hooked a rich man?" "Don't be vulgar, Amy!" said Alice, wincing. "And don't be romantic. You can't deceive me. Mr. Montrose is rich." "I would marry him without a sixpence." "So you will," rejoined Mrs. Barrast caustically. "He has the sixpence, remember. I am glad, dear: you have played your cards well. Frederick will be pleased. He likes Mr. Montrose immensely, and you a great deal." "I am glad he does," said Alice soberly, "but don't say anything until we hear from my father, Amy!" It was with some difficulty that Miss Enistor induced the little woman to be silent, for Mrs. Barrast was so immensely pleased with what she took to be her own cleverness in bringing the matter to a favourable issue that she wanted to trumpet the news all over the place. There was no word now of impropriety or hasty wooing, for Alice let the butterfly think that the match was quite of her own making, and the butterfly spread sheltering wings over the happy pair. She did not tell Frederick, and as Frederick was wholly occupied with politics he did not see what was going on under his very nose. But with many mysterious becks and smiles and significant looks, the little woman managed to intimate that she was the fairy godmother of these particular lovers, whose romance was rapidly progressing towards fulfilment. Thus she made everything safe in a respectable way for Montrose to be constantly invited to dinner, and to be left alone with Alice more frequently than would have met with public approval had he not been courting. The young man's gratitude showed itself substantially and took the form of several pieces of jewellery, which the guardian angel was pleased to accept. Everything went as merry as a marriage bell, pending the reply of Enistor to Montrose's letter. That came four days after Alice had remonstrated with Mrs. Barrast for her shameless looting. Mr. Enistor had written not only to Montrose but to his daughter with regard to the proposal, and when the two came together on this particular evening, they let one another know immediately that the fatal missives had been received. Luckily Mrs. Barrast, with a merry party, had gone to the Empire Music Hall and would not return until late. Montrose, as usual, had provided the box, purposely having done so to rid himself of an inconvenient third. Frederick was at the House, so he could not interfere, and Douglas had Alice all to himself in the large drawing-room. Mrs. Barrast, for the sake of propriety, had made him promise to await her return and have supper. Therefore everything was nicely arranged, and when quite alone, the lovers sat together on the sofa and looked into one another's eyes. "Now," said Alice breathlessly, "the letters!" "Not just yet," replied Montrose, taking her in his arms, "remember I have not seen you for forty-eight hours!" "Oh, you foolish boy!" Alice had some excuse for calling him so, although she liked the foolishness he displayed immensely. He dropped on his knees, holding her waist in his arms, and said all manner of delightful things, only interrupting his speeches to kiss her again and again and again. What he babbled need not be reported, as the talk of lovers, however pleasing to themselves, is extraordinarily silly when repeated to others. But the splendid glamour of love was over this pair, and what Douglas said sounded sublimely sensible to the girl, while the looks of Alice were those of a goddess to her adorer. Yet Montrose was a common-sense young man, and Miss Enistor only a tolerably pretty girl. The misleading passion of love excused each regarding the other as a divinity. They certainly did so and were as foolishly happy as Antony and Cleopatra were in their day of power. And like those famous lovers they would have regarded the world as well lost for love. "But really!" cried Alice at last, recovering her reason first, which was natural since she was a woman, "we must be sensible." "I think we are very sensible indeed." "Other people would not think so." "Why trouble about other people?" replied Montrose, reluctantly getting on his feet. "There are no other people. You and I are alone in the world." "Indeed, I think we shall be unless my father consents," sighed Miss Enistor. "Not that there will be any loneliness with you beside me," she added. "Darling!" Then another kiss and embrace before settling down to more prosaic conversation. "Tell me, dear, what does he say to you?" "Much the same as he writes to you, Douglas, I expect." Alice took the letter from her pocket. "He is not angry as I expected he would be, and says nothing about Don Pablo. All he desires--so he says--is my happiness, and if he approves of you he is quite willing that we should marry." "If he approves of me," echoed Montrose, reading the paternal letter over Alice's shoulder, "quite so. But suppose he doesn't approve?" "Don't try to cross the bridge until you come to it, Douglas. Why shouldn't my father approve, now that he evidently has given up his idea of my marrying Don Pablo? Has my father asked you down to Tremore?" "Yes!" said Montrose, producing his letter in turn, "how clever of you to guess that, dearest." "I did not guess it, as you might have seen if you read my father's letter properly," said Alice quickly. "He says that he has asked you down, or intends to ask you down. I don't know which." "Oh, here is the invitation," remarked the young man, waving his letter. "Mr. Enistor says that before he can consent to place your future in my hands he must become well acquainted with me. He invites me to Tremore for a visit of one month. In four weeks he hopes to give his decision." Alice disconsolately replaced her epistle in her pocket and watched her lover put away his communication. "That doesn't sound very promising." "Oh, but I think it does," said Montrose hopefully. "I don't see what else he could say if he entertains at all the idea of my marrying you. It is only natural that he should wish to know what kind of a husband I am likely to be to his adored daughter." "Oh!" said Alice ironically, "does my father call me that?" "Twice he calls you that in his letter." "He doesn't mean it," the girl assured Montrose in a troubled way; "my father and I endure one another's society, but little love exists between us. The fault isn't mine, Douglas, as I was willing enough to love him when I came from school. But father has always kept me at arm's length, and hitherto my life has been loveless--save for Julian." "Julian!" There was a jealous note in the young man's voice. "That is the name of Mrs. Barrast's brother, is it not?" "Yes. I call him Julian and he calls me Alice." "Confound his impudence!" fumed Montrose angrily. "No impudence at all, Douglas. Julian is my very good friend: nothing more, I assure you. But if I had not met you, and if my father had insisted upon my becoming Don Pablo's wife, I should have married Julian." "Oh, Alice," in a tone of deep reproach, "do you love him and not me?" "No. I respect him. If I loved him you would not now be sitting beside me." Still Montrose was not satisfied. "Is he good-looking?" "Very; in a large stolid Anglo-Saxon way. He's an artist, but I don't think one would call him clever except as a painter of pictures." "I see that you don't love him," said Douglas, his brow clearing; "but does Hardwick--that is his name, isn't it?--love you?" "No," rejoined Alice promptly, "he thought that he did, but he really does not in the way a woman wants to be loved. He proposed and I rejected him on those grounds. Now he understands that I am right, and we have settled to be great friends." "All the same you said you would have married him if----" "If my father had insisted on my becoming the wife of Don Pablo," interrupted Alice swiftly. "Can't you understand, Douglas? I detest this Spaniard, who is such a friend of my father, and of two evils I was prepared to choose the lesser. I did not want to marry Julian any more than I wanted to marry Don Pablo. But Julian is at least human, so----" "Isn't Don Pablo human?" asked Montrose, interrupting in his turn. "I don't believe he is," said Alice thoughtfully, "there is something dreadfully wicked about him. I can't explain, but when you meet him you will in some way guess my meaning." "Humph! I shall certainly accept your father's invitation both to see this Spaniard and Hardwick also." "And you understand my position?" urged Alice anxiously. "Yes. I think I do. All the same I want you to assure me positively that you love no one else but me." "There is no need to tell you what you already know," returned the girl in a calm positive way. "We are made for one another!" "Darling!" he caught her in his arms, "I know. But I hope your father will think as we do." "He means well," said Miss Enistor with a sigh of relief, "or he would not ask you down to Tremore." It was at this interesting point in their interview that the lovers were interrupted. The footman opened the door to announce Dr. Eberstein, and when that gentleman entered the room the servant promptly retired. Montrose came forward with a look of amazed inquiry, which was reflected on the face of Alice. Both the young people were astonished by the unexpected appearance of the doctor. "I thought you were still in Paris, Eberstein," cried Douglas, as his friend shook hands with both. "I arrived in London to-day!" "Why didn't you let me know?" "There was no need to. It was necessary that you should quite understand one another before I came on the scene." Eberstein looked from one flushed face to the other with a smile. "You do understand, I see." "We are engaged," blurted out Montrose awkwardly. "Then that means an understanding," said the doctor cheerfully, with a benevolent look in his grey eyes. "I hope it means also mutual trust." "I am quite sure it does," cried Alice vehemently, "nothing Douglas could say or do would ever make me doubt him." "And I would believe in Alice if all the world were against her," said the young man decisively. "That is good hearing," observed the doctor pleasantly, "union is strength." "Every one knows that, don't they, doctor?" said Miss Enistor rather pertly. "Perhaps," he replied, "but few practise it. You wonder why I have come here to-night. It is because you both need me. All seems to be sunshine at the present moment. You love one another devotedly: you think that Mr. Enistor is well disposed towards your engagement----" "Oh!" interrupted Alice, with a frightened look in her eyes. "How do you know that my father is aware of our engagement?" "The letters you received to-day----" This time Montrose interrupted, and there was a note of awe in his voice. "I believe you know everything, Eberstein." "I know that you are invited down to Cornwall, so that Mr. Enistor may judge if you are the man he would choose to be his son-in-law." "But how do you know?" said Alice, startled. "You make me afraid!" Eberstein took her hand and gazed directly into her eyes. "Are you sure that I make you afraid?" he asked gently. "Why, no!" Alice felt the momentary fear vanish in an unaccountable way. "And you trust me even though you have known me such a short time? Remember, you have only met me once, Miss Enistor." He loosened his soft, reassuring grasp and leaned back in his chair. "I do trust you," said the girl promptly, "you have been kind to Douglas." "Is that the sole reason?" Alice stared at him doubtfully. "It is the only reason I can give. No one but a good man and a kind friend would have saved Douglas's life as you did." "Perhaps no, perhaps yes," said the doctor enigmatically, "but I advised our friend here to keep Lady Staunton's money. My interest in him may not be so philanthropic as you imagine it to be." "Doctor!" said Montrose indignantly, "how can you talk so?" "Hush!" Eberstein threw up his hand. "I want Miss Enistor to speak." "What can I say but that I trust you? I am sure there is some good reason why Douglas should keep my aunt's money. You would not have advised him to keep it otherwise." "But if your father pointed out that he should have enjoyed the fortune and that I wish Montrose to keep it so that I can make use of the money through him? What then?" "Still I must believe in you and trust you," persisted Alice steadily. "My father does not want the fortune." Eberstein smiled slightly. "Oh, I assure you he does not. He has said nothing about it. As to doubting you, doctor, he does not know you." "He will some day and then he may doubt me. Remember when he does and tries to turn you against me that I have foretold the possibility of such a warning. You say you will trust me. Good! I accept the assurance. Montrose?" "I believe in you now as I always have done," said the young man eagerly. "I don't understand why you are talking in this way, though." "You don't understand many things at present," said Eberstein dryly; "when you do, pain will come with the knowledge. Necessary pain. Go to Cornwall and meet Mr. Enistor. While the sun still shines you will not see me. But when dark clouds obscure the light, then I shall be at your side." "You will come to Cornwall?" asked Alice quickly. "When the need arises." "Will it arise?" Eberstein looked from one to the other quietly. "Yes! The need will arise." "What need?" demanded Montrose, bewildered. "Enough for the day is the evil thereof," said Eberstein serenely, "and that also applies to the good. All is well with you as yet, so enjoy the passing moment and draw from peace the necessary strength for conflict. Gold must be refined in the fire, and you must both be cast into the furnace. Yet be not afraid. The same God who saved Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego will save you. You are neither of you afraid," he ended positively. Arm in arm the lovers stood and they glanced at one another as the doctor spoke. "We are not afraid," they declared simultaneously, and spoke the truth. "Behold then," said Eberstein solemnly, "how great is Love which can cast out fear!" and over them he made the holy sign. CHAPTER X IN CORNWALL It was August when Alice returned home. As soon as her father learned that she had become engaged to Montrose, he sent for her. Now that the mouse had entered the trap there was no need for the girl to remain in London and spend money. Mrs. Barrast was sorry to lose the companionship of Miss Enistor, not only because she liked her as much as one of her shallow nature could like any one, but for a more selfish reason. With Alice departed Montrose, and although he did not go immediately down to Cornwall, he scarcely came near the house in Hans Crescent. Thus Mrs. Barrast was deprived of the many presents which she loved to receive. However, she had done very well, and made the best of her loss, since the girl's visit, because of Montrose's love-making, had not been unprofitable to her. Mrs. Barrast was very affectionate when Alice departed, and made her promise to return when she became Mrs. Douglas Montrose. Alice readily consented, for though Amy was vain and selfish, yet the fact that the love-romance had taken place beneath her roof made the girl regard her as a most excellent friend. All the same she was not sorry to return to Cornwall, as she was weary of the frivolous London life. In the railway train Alice became quite depressed. She was coming back to dreary Tremore, to her father's uncongenial society, and perhaps to the unpleasant attentions of Don Pablo. But on this latter point she was reassured by her father's letter. Although he had not quite consented to the marriage with Montrose, and would not consent until he had seen the young man, yet, in the face of his half-approval, he certainly would not allow her to be troubled by Don Pablo. Certainly the Spaniard had great influence with the squire of Polwellin, and might not be inclined to surrender the girl whom he desired to make his wife. But Douglas, as Alice reflected, would soon be on the spot, and he would deal with Narvaez, if the old man became troublesome. On the whole, therefore, even though matters were a trifle unsettled, Alice concluded that the new life would be better than the old. At all events she would not be quite so lonely, and that was something. Of course Dr. Eberstein had predicted trouble, but also he had agreed to come down when the trouble arrived. This comforted the girl not a little, as she had the greatest confidence in Montrose's friend. Why, she could scarcely say, as she knew next to nothing about him. But his mere look, let alone the touch of his hand, was enough to make her feel strangely brave and happy. If Don Pablo was all evil, Dr. Eberstein was all good. Yet why one should be this and the other that, Alice could not tell. Doubtless, as Douglas had suggested, Eberstein could have enlightened both on this point. But he had not done so, and beyond warning them that they could count upon his help in the trouble which was surely coming, he had said very little. Therefore, these two young people had to walk by faith, and very bravely did so. At Perchton, which was the nearest station to Polwellin, Alice quite expected to find her father waiting for her, since, little as he loved her, he must surely be anxious to see how she looked after her long absence. But Mr. Enistor was not on the platform, and Alice with a rather forlorn feeling alighted from her compartment. In London she had grown accustomed to love and attention, so the neglect of the present moment brought on her depression again. But that vanished in a trice when a strong hand took the small bag she was carrying, and a strong voice sounded in her ears. "Here you are at last," said Julian brightly. "I have been waiting for nearly an hour, Alice." "Oh, Julian!" she took his hand, to press it warmly. "I am so glad you are here. I was feeling quite dismal because father has not come to meet me." "I thought you would be. Yesterday I asked him if he intended to come to Perchton, but as he said that he had no time I came in his stead." "And left your painting. How good of you." "Not at all. We are brother and sister, are we not?" "I don't think many brothers would take so much trouble to be kind to their sisters," said Alice brightly. "Did father send the carriage?" "No. One of the horses is laid up. But a friend of mine has a motor, so I made him lend it to take you to Tremore. Where is your baggage?" "Oh, I must look for it in the van and get a porter and----" "You'll do nothing of the sort," interrupted Hardwick quickly, "go and sit in the motor; there it is. I can see to your boxes. How many?" "Two large and one small," said Alice, and gladly settled herself in the very comfortable vehicle, while Julian went back into the station. Shortly he returned with a porter and the boxes were duly placed on the motor. Julian stepped in beside the girl, and a word to the chauffeur sent the splendid machine humming down the narrow street like a giant bee. Then the two had time to look at one another, and Julian approved of the girl's appearance. Love had made her blossom like a rose. She was less ethereal than she had been, and the sad look on her delicate face had vanished. Also, as Mrs. Barrast had attended to her frocks, and had introduced her to Madame Coralie, the girl was singularly smart and attractive as regards clothes. A smile was on Julian's face as he looked at her. "You went away a duckling and you return a swan," he said. "Oh, what a doubtful compliment," said Alice gaily; "am I then, or rather was I, an ugly duckling?" "No, my dear, you were never an _ugly_ duckling, but what I mean is that you have turned from a fairy into a pretty nymph." "That is better," said Miss Enistor graciously, as the motor whizzed out of the town and began to climb the long winding road to the moors. "You are improving, Julian. But you don't ask me how I have enjoyed myself." "There is no need. Your appearance speaks for you." Alice laughed. "Do you think that my looks are due simply to a short season of pleasure in London?" "Well, not exactly," rejoined Hardwick in his stolid way; "in fact, seeing that you have been staying with Amy, I expected you to look more fagged than you do. Amy makes a toil of pleasure and is certainly a very wearing woman to live with." "She is a dear," said Miss Enistor warmly, "and has been most kind. But you are right about her feverish pursuit of pleasure," she said, with an after-thought. "Amy never rests!" "And never lets any one else rest, which is worse," said Julian grimly; he looked at her sideways. "Yes! Mere London pleasure cannot account for your happy looks. Well, let me know who he is!" "Let you know who he is?" repeated Alice, blushing and looking prettier than ever, "do you mean----" "I think you know what I mean. You are in love at last." Like a woman Alice did not reply directly to the remark. "Are you very angry, Julian?" she asked, laying a timid hand on his arm. "My dear, I am not angry at all. We are brother and sister, you know. Long ago I discovered that you were right as to my proposal and I was wrong. All that I could do for you was to accept the situation of your future husband if Don Pablo insisted upon marrying you. But I presume I can now resign that position," ended Hardwick gravely. "He is called Douglas Montrose," said Alice, still evasive. "A very pretty name for Prince Charming. Yes, your father mentioned to me that the young man had written to him, and he also mentioned that Montrose is the fortunate person who has inherited Lady Staunton's money. So Amy got her own way, as I knew she would. An inveterate matchmaker is Amy." Alice opened her eyes widely. "Did you guess then?" "Not so much guess as know," replied Hardwick composedly. "Amy wrote about her desire that you should become Mrs. Montrose." "And you?" "I was pleased, of course. Amy told me how deeply you loved the man." "She could not tell that for certain," pouted Alice doubtfully. "I am not so sure of that. Women are proverbially clever and shrewd in anything that has to do with love-making. However, it seems she was right: your bright eyes and crimson cheeks tell me as much." "I may as well confess that I love Douglas," admitted Alice boldly, "and he loves me. Already we have asked father's consent to our marriage." "He will give it without doubt, Alice. It is a happy way of getting back the lost money." "Oh the money! the money!" she cried petulantly; "you talk just as Amy talks, Julian. As if I cared for money. I love Douglas, and if he were a pauper I would marry him. And my father has not jumped at the chance of getting back the money, as you seem to think. He won't say yes and he won't say no." "He must say something," remarked Julian, with a shrug. "Nothing. He refuses to give his decision until he knows more about Douglas." Hardwick nodded. "That is natural and sensible. So the young man is coming to Tremore to be put through his paces?" "How clever of you to guess that. He is--in a few days. Oh, how anxious I feel, Julian. So much depends upon my father." "He will consent, I am sure, Alice. With such a disposition as you have, you could choose no one but a really good man for your husband." Alice laughed a trifle bitterly, which was strange considering her prospects and happy state of mind. "Goodness or badness matter very little when one is in love, Julian. And they do not matter at all to my father so long as I marry a rich man. It is a good thing for me that Douglas has plenty of money, for only in that way will things run smoothly for both of us. Otherwise I feel certain that my father would still insist upon my marrying Don Pablo." "Humph!" said Hardwick meditatively. "The question is, 'Would Don Pablo marry you?' my dear girl." "He is supposed to be in love with me," said Alice, puzzled. "You know how he has bothered me, Julian." "Oh, yes, I know. But there is Rose Penwin, you know, that fisherman's pretty daughter." Alice turned to look at him in astonishment. "What about her?" "Señor Narvaez has taken an unaccountable admiration for her since you departed for London." "Unaccountable!" Miss Enistor's lip curled. "There is nothing unaccountable in any man admiring a pretty girl, and Rose is more than pretty!" "She is," said Hardwick calmly. "Pretty is not the word to apply to a beautiful and stately woman such as Rose Penwin is." "Brunhild or Brynhild--what do you call that Norse goddess you said you so admired until you met me?" "I never admired any Norse goddess," said Hardwick, laughing. "I simply quoted Brynhild as a type. Yes, Rose Penwin is of that type, but I am not in love with her." "Don Pablo is?" "So I am given to understand from village gossip. You know I chatter frequently to the fishermen and their wives. Well, Don Pablo has been paying great attention to Rose; giving her presents and----" "Does she accept his attentions?" interrupted Miss Enistor, astonished. "Yes and no. She does in a way, as she wants to make Job Trevel jealous!" "Job Trevel," said Alice thoughtfully; "to be sure! He is my foster-brother, Julian, as I told you how Dame Trevel brought me up. But I thought it was understood that Rose was to marry Job." "Too thoroughly understood," said Julian dryly. "It seems that Job is so certain of Rose that he does not trouble to pay her those pretty attentions which a lover should. Thus, to make him jealous, Rose pretends to accept the attentions of Don Pablo." "That old mummy. He can't even feel love." "No! I agree with you there, and I am puzzled to know what his game is. Why should an old man of eighty run after a girl of nineteen?" "He ran after me and bothered me enough, as you know," said Alice in a thoughtful manner. "He must be mad. Yet I do not think a madman would or could exercise such an influence over my father. However, Job can scarcely be jealous of Señor Narvaez, who might be Rose's great-grandfather." "He is jealous, however. Don Pablo is wealthy and Rose likes pretty things, you know. She may not love the old reprobate: she could not. All the same the prospect of unlimited money----" "Oh, nonsense!" broke in Alice vigorously, "she would not be so wicked. If I see anything of her treating Job badly I shall speak to her. I am very fond of my foster-brother even though he has a bad temper." "All the worse for Don Pablo if he has," said Hardwick significantly. "Rose is playing with fire. Love on one hand, wealth on the other: which will she choose, do you think? I assure you, Alice, that there are the elements of a tragedy in these things." "It may be all imagination on your part," said the girl after a pause, "and in any case, if Don Pablo now admires Rose, he will leave me alone, and my father will have no excuse to forbid my marrying Douglas." Julian wrinkled his brow disapprovingly. "Isn't that a selfish way of looking at the matter?" "It is! It is!" acknowledged Alice with sudden compunction. "Love does make one selfish, Julian." "Yet love should have the opposite effect, my dear girl. You usually have such a high standard that it seems strange you should fall short of it in this way. But you have been with Amy, and although she is my own sister, even a short time in her company does harm. She is not bad--I don't mean that, Alice: but Amy is excessively selfish and she seems to have contaminated you in some way." Alice grew scarlet, as never before had Julian dared to speak to her in this reproving style. Yet she felt that he was right, and took no offence. "I am glad you have said what you have said, Julian. I should not have spoken as I did. It was narrow and selfish, as you say. I must think of others even if love for Douglas fills my heart. I shall see Dame Trevel and Job and in some way I shall learn the truth. You may be sure that I shall do what I can to put matters right between Rose and Job." Hardwick patted her hand. "That is spoken like the trump you are, Alice, my dear. I knew that you were not thinking of what you were saying. As you are in love, there is some excuse----" "No! No! Don't weaken your good advice, Julian. There is no excuse for one to fall short of one's standard. Your warning has done me good. You are a dear kind boy, and if I had not met Douglas----" "You would have loved me," ended Hardwick, smiling. "No, dear, don't deceive yourself. If we had married we should have been comrades, but never man and wife in the true spiritual sense. The marriage made in heaven is the only true marriage. You said something of that sort when you refused me. How entirely right you were, Alice!" The girl looked at him with a whimsical look in her eyes and wondered at his simplicity. "What a child you are, Julian. Nine women out of ten would take offence at such a cool assurance that your love for me has perished." "Probably," returned Julian composedly, "nine women out of ten are dogs in the manger, but you, my dear Alice, are the tenth. I shall be glad to see Montrose. Tell me all about him." "That is difficult," said Miss Enistor absently, "let me think for a moment." Julian could not see why it should be difficult for a young girl in the first delicious phase of a perfect passion to talk to an intimate friend, such as he truly was, of her feelings. But he did not understand what was passing in Alice's mind. Her wooing was of so unusual a character, and had so much to do with psychic matters concerning which Hardwick knew nothing, that it was hard to explain the swift love which had drawn her and Douglas together. For one moment she hesitated, and the next decided not to speak. Julian would not understand, and she evaded a direct answer to his question by a truly feminine subterfuge. "I would rather you judged Douglas for yourself without looking at him through my eyes. He will be here in a few days and then you can give me your opinion." "Well," said Julian in his usual stolid way, "perhaps you are right!" after which calm acceptance of the situation he became silent. While the two young people had been talking, the car had pursued its way towards Tremore steadily and swiftly. Along the winding white roads it glided, with the spreading no-man's-land of purple heather on either side. How Alice loved it all; the vast moorlands sprinkled with grey blocks of granite; the tumbled steepness of black cliffs; the far-stretching spaces of the gleaming ocean and the life-giving winds that breathed across the limitless lands. For the moment she wondered how she had ever endured the narrow, muffling London streets, with their twice-breathed airs and garish lights. Like a thing of life the great car swung untiringly along, and the landscape widened out at every turn of the road. She felt as though she had come out of a stifling cavern into a spacious world, and flung out her hands in ecstatic greeting to the majesty of Nature. Reborn through love into a wider consciousness, the girl's seeing and hearing now embraced an appreciation of much to which she had been formerly deaf and blind. Sound seemed sweeter, colour more vivid and life dearer. There was a feeling of spring in the autumnal air, and Alice felt that she wished to dance and sing and generally rejoice out of sheer lightheartedness. "I am made one with Nature," she exclaimed, thrilling to the beauty of land and sea. "Doesn't Shelley say something like that in 'Adonais'?" "I never read poetry," replied Julian stolidly. "To my mind poets only say in many words what a journalist says in few." "What a pagan sentiment," cried Miss Enistor gaily, "and how untrue. Oh, there is Tremore!" Assuredly it was, and the grey house looked more sinister than ever in the pale sunshine. It placed its dark spell on Alice, for as the motor-car breasted the hill, her gay spirits left her and she became as pale as hitherto she had been rosy. With wonderment and regret Julian saw again the wan girl who had left for London weeks before, and anxiously inquired if she felt ill. "No," said Alice, rousing herself with an effort from the lethargy which had fallen on her. "I feel quite well, but less full of vitality than when I arrived at Perchton. It is the idea of Tremore, I think," she shuddered. "You know what a gloomy house it is." "Montrose will dispel the gloom when he arrives," suggested Hardwick. Alice brightened. "Oh, I am sure he will. But how nice of you to say that. You are not a bit jealous." "I believe you are annoyed because I am not, my dear girl," laughed the artist. "Julian, how can you say such a thing?" she replied absently; then added in a markedly irrelevant manner, "I hope father will be glad to see me." Mr. Enistor may have been glad, but he certainly did not appear at the door to show his gladness. Alice's boxes were taken into the house, and Julian departed in the car, declining to enter, on the plea that father and daughter would have much to say to one another. Alice did not seek to stay him. She felt chilled by the absence of welcome and the sombre atmosphere of the big house. The beaten space of ground upon which it stood seemed to isolate it from the warm laughing world of vivid life, and she entered with the feeling that she was descending into a vault. Nor did the greeting of her father tend to dissipate this impression of dismay. He received her in the library with a cold kiss and without rising from his chair. "Well, Alice, how are you?" He looked at her keenly as she stood by the table, white and frozen into silence. "Your stay in town does not appear to have done you much good." "Oh, I feel all right," said the girl, with an effort to be her true self. "You don't look all right," snapped Enistor, rather disappointed. "After all the money you have spent you certainly should have a more healthy appearance. H'm! I think I understand," he paused a moment, then added bitingly, "your new lover has disappointed you. Is that it?" "No!" Alice roused herself to offer a protest. "Douglas is all that I can wish, father." "I hope for your sake that he is all _I_ can wish. If he isn't I shall certainly not allow you to marry him. There is always Don Pablo to----" At this speech Alice did wake up and a colour flushed her cheeks. "Don Pablo, if I am to believe Julian, has fallen in love with Rose Penwin." "I didn't know that Hardwick was such a gossip," said Enistor coolly. "As to falling in love, Narvaez is much too sensible a man. He admires the girl for her beauty and has given her several presents of jewellery. At Don Pablo's age no one can object to that." "Job Trevel can, and Job Trevel does." "More gossip," sneered Enistor. "Your artist friend appears to have informed himself accurately of the situation. But it matters nothing to you or to me, since neither of us has any right to interfere with Don Pablo's likes or dislikes. You are the one he loves, Alice." "I thought you said a moment ago that he was too sensible to fall in love!" The Squire shrugged his shoulders. "I meant in the silly way of boys and girls. Narvaez' love is of a deeper and more spiritual kind. He admires Rose as a beautiful girl; he adores you as a soul." "I don't want his adoration!" said Alice wearily, for it seemed hard that the usual wrangling should begin the moment she returned home. "You prefer Montrose's adoration no doubt. Well, I have no objection so long as I approve of the young man and he does what I want." "What is that?" "He must restore the money which your aunt left him." "I thought you did not care for the money, father?" "I care very much indeed for the money, although I have never emphasised the fact. Only because he has it did I even consider the possibility of your marrying him. I should much prefer you to be Narvaez' wife. However, we shall see when the young man arrives. Meantime you had better lie down as you seem to be worn out by your journey. It's waste of money to send you away." Alice bit her lips to keep back her tears and breathed a prayer that Eberstein should help her to throw off the deadly influence of the house. Even as she did so the relief came, and she felt a wave of vitality run through her body. The weary, languid sense of utter desolation left her; the colour returned to her cheeks, the brightness to her eyes and the strength to her whole being. Enistor saw the statue come to life, and in place of a wan, weak girl beheld a living, breathing woman, very much alive. He stared amazed. "What has come to you?" he demanded, startled and puzzled. "Love," said Alice quietly, "love and life instead of hate and death!" Enistor quivered, since he knew that the first mentioned forces were at war with himself and his dark Master. CHAPTER XI THE SPIDER AND THE FLY Alice returned to her home with the feeling that she was entering a hostile city. The atmosphere of the house was inimical, charged with disintegrating forces, which strove to break up and scatter her protective power. That the power came from Dr. Eberstein she was now perfectly certain in her own mind, as she had experienced his help so plainly when she arrived. Before her visit to London, Enistor had so dominated her with his cold cynicism and cruel insistence that he had almost entirely conquered her will. She had been like a bird in the coils of a serpent, and only absence had enabled her to regain her freedom. In surroundings less charged with deadly evil, the girl had recovered the youthful spirits which were her rightful heritage, and the unifying influence of Montrose's love had strengthened her considerably. Therefore, when fear again threatened to control her, she had been able to assert herself, but, on reflection, she felt positive that the attempt would have been vain had she not mentally appealed to Eberstein. Why she had thus called upon him for help she scarcely knew, as she was ignorant of matters connected with the occult. All she did know was that the doctor had always soothed her with his serene strength when she was in his presence, and half unconsciously she had wished for him to be beside her when the insidious evil which overshadowed Tremore had surged round her to paralyse and control. Eberstein had not come himself, but his power had, and like an impassable wall it had fenced her in from danger. The hint that such help was obtainable in such a manner was enough for the girl. She persistently and particularly dwelt upon Eberstein's powerful personality, and whenever uncomfortable feelings assailed her, she swiftly imagined that he was close at hand to defend her. Also she constantly visualised the image of her lover, knowing that he was willing to lay down his life for her safety, and this in a lesser degree filled her with life and strength. If Enistor on his daughter's return doubted that the visit to London had done her good, he had no reason to doubt afterwards. Alice recovered, as by magic, the brightness of her eyes and the roses of her cheeks. She went about the dark house gaily and hopefully busy with domestic affairs, always cheerful and merry even to the extent of singing while at work. It might be thought that Enistor was glad to see how the girl had recovered her spirits and had benefited by the change. But in place of showing satisfaction, he gloomed and glowered in high displeasure. "There is less chance than ever of our gaining authority over her," he complained to Narvaez, when on a visit to the magician's cottage. "We nearly controlled her before she left for London, but now her resisting strength has increased tremendously." "It is not her own strength that defends her," replied Don Pablo quietly. "Then it is the strength of love awakened by Montrose. You might have known, Master--you who have such means of obtaining knowledge--that there was that risk when I let her go to Mrs. Barrast's." "I am not omnipotent and omniscient," answered the old man dryly. "Great as is my power, there are still many things beyond my control. I implied as much when I told you that the present situation is the outcome of the past. You know the Law of Karma--the Law of Cause and Effect--the Law of 'As ye sow so shall ye reap,' which governs the evolution of the present creation, and knowing so much, you should not be surprised that we are mastered by it as are all beings. Sooner or later Alice was bound to come into contact with our enemies." "Who are they?" "Dr. Eberstein and Douglas Montrose!" "Alice told me how she had met Eberstein and how much she liked him. But she gave me no hint that he was an enemy." "How could she, seeing she does not know," retorted Narvaez sharply. "Eberstein is the White Magician, against whom I warned you weeks ago. He is coming down here soon, as I prophesied he would. And Montrose also comes. We were all together in Chaldea five thousand years ago, and there engendered causes which have to be worked out in the flesh to-day. Why do you blame me for Alice going to London?" "She has gained strength by going there and meeting these men. You should have warned me." "I warned you as much as I could," snapped Narvaez, acridly sharp, "but I could not prevent the inevitable. Alice had to meet them, and the loss of that money under the will which left it to Montrose was the means used to bring them together. All I could do, being impotent under the Karmic Law, was to so arrange matters that Montrose might be brought down here along with Dr. Eberstein. That I have managed and now comes the tug of war. You are by no means a satisfactory pupil, Enistor, as I have again and again to explain matters which you already know." "Then I take it that Eberstein has already declared war by bringing Montrose and Alice together?" "The Great Law did that. Eberstein's declaration of war is the help that he is giving Alice to withstand the influence we strive to bring to bear upon her. For the moment, as you saw, she nearly relapsed into her former condition when she returned from her visit. But her intuition told her to call upon her guardian Eberstein and the help came. Her innocence protected her before: now she has the more powerful protection of love, both from Montrose in a personal sense, and in an impersonal way from Eberstein." "Is he very powerful?" "Yes," grinned Narvaez with a look of hate in his cold blue eyes. "He follows the Right-hand Path of Love, and has the universal power behind him. You and I on the Left-hand Path of Hate possess only a portion of that power." "In that case it seems impossible to conquer," said Enistor irresolutely. The Satanic pride of Don Pablo rose in arms against this insinuation. "Eberstein will find me no mean adversary," he snarled. "I shall fight and fight to the last. Already the fly in the person of Montrose has walked into my parlour." "Oh! So you are the spider?" "Yes! And I shall devour Montrose if I can. Already I have made my plans and started my work by paying attentions to that silly Rose Penwin, thus arousing the jealousy of Trevel." "But I don't see----" "Never mind what you see," interrupted Narvaez impatiently. "Leave me to do what I intend to do, and then Eberstein will not find it easy to save Montrose, in spite of his power." "But if he has more power than you----?" "Can't you understand?" cried Don Pablo, exasperated. "Montrose and Alice both have free-will. Eberstein can guide and coax; he cannot command. If the two yield to Self, then we triumph." "And if they renounce Self?" "Then we fail. But be of good cheer. Neither is yet so strong as to have entirely conquered the animal self, and that will fight in each for its existence. What you have to do is to play the courteous host, to permit the engagement of Alice and Montrose: then leave the rest to me." This was only one of many conversations which Enistor had with his Master, while awaiting the arrival of his guest. He could not quite understand the situation, and Narvaez declined to explain further than was in his opinion necessary. All Enistor knew was that Montrose was to be trapped in some way, and that Don Pablo's courting of Rose Penwin with gifts had to do with the trapping. Contented with this knowledge, the man was markedly amiable to his daughter, and Alice felt nervously surprised by the unusual attention which her ordinarily indifferent father paid her. Formerly she had, with some reason, dreaded the sinister influence emanating from him, but now seeing in his demonstrations of affection a sign that he truly loved her, she regretted her possible misjudgment. In many ways she attempted to show her appreciation of the miraculous change from blame to praise, and on the whole found domestic life at Tremore unexpectedly pleasant. Nevertheless the natures of father and daughter clashed at odd moments, and it was only by constantly acting parts they did not truly feel that they could keep things smooth. More than ever did Alice long for the arrival of Montrose, so that she could display her true nature and exercise her true love. Enistor's unnatural complaisance extended to Hardwick, as, now that he was aware of the artist's rejection, he did not forbid his visits. Julian guessed that the Squire merely tolerated him, and simply came to Tremore on all and every occasion to aid Alice, since he knew that she was something of an alien in her home. His host was always pointedly agreeable, and so--strange to say--was Don Pablo. The dark dour old man, for some hidden reason, appeared to take a great interest in the artist. As he had formerly neglected him in every way, Julian was puzzled to know why he should be thus honoured. Not liking Narvaez, he did not reciprocate this belated amiability, and always escaped with Alice on to the moors when it was possible. He trained her to observe the beauties of Nature, and opened her eyes to a more glorious world of form and colour. Alice accepted such behaviour with sisterly thankfulness, and looked upon him as a large comfortable Newfoundland dog, able to protect and please her. Therefore the young people found life very pleasant, and all was sunshine for the moment, as Eberstein had predicted. That more glorious sunshine would come with her lover's arrival Alice knew very well, but she never forgot that clouds would sooner or later overshadow the summer sky, although she could not see in which quarter they would arise. A vague feeling, however, intimated that disaster would come with Montrose, and that her belief in his love would be severely tested. Nevertheless, she looked forward to his arrival, knowing that Eberstein would follow him shortly. And in the doctor she had the most implicit confidence, assured that whatever sorrow descended upon her or her lover, Eberstein would guard them and help them in every way. Also there was Julian upon whom she could rely in the hour of her need. The suspense indeed was unpleasant, but Alice fought it with prayer and high thinking, girding herself as it were with armour of light against the time when the Dark Powers would assault the citadel of her being. But in her innocence she was ignorant, save from the hints of Eberstein, that an assault was intended. At length came the golden day when Douglas was to arrive, and Alice rejoiced to receive a letter stating that the young man would leave London by the early morning train at five o'clock. At half-past three he would be at Perchton, and there Julian was to meet him in his friend's motor-car which he had again procured, so that Montrose might be with Alice as speedily as was possible. Enistor, indeed, mindful of Don Pablo's injunction to be courteous, had offered to send the carriage, but Alice, anxious that some swifter method should be found to bring her lover to her longing arms, had accepted the offer of Julian. She did not go to the Perchton station herself, but waited a mile beyond Polwellin village in a green nook beside the high road for the happy moment. Hardwick had purposely arranged to bring the lover to Tremore, as he was anxious for the sake of the girl's happiness to see what was the nature of the man she had chosen to be her husband, and deemed that he could discover the same more easily when Alice was not present. Apparently his reading of Montrose's character was satisfactory, for when the car came swirling round the corner, Alice saw that the two young men were chatting together as if they had known one another for years. Of course when Alice was espied waving her hand on the green hill above the nook, the car was stopped on the dusty white road, and equally of course Montrose jumped down to run like a deer up the ascent. In another moment she was in his fond arms, and heart was beating against heart. Neither could speak, so full of joyful emotion was the moment, and guessing this, Julian told the chauffeur to drive on. With some astonishment the couple saw the motor slipping round the bend of the road, through the village, and up towards Tremore, bearing the portmanteau of Montrose. They were alone in the purple world amongst the gorgeous coloured bracken, which was vivid with autumnal tints. The sun was just sinking and the glory of its rainbow hues bathed them in opal lights. "That is one of the nicest fellows I ever met," said Montrose, when the first surprise at Julian's prompt action was over. "And he is so sensible. He knew I wanted to be alone with you at the first opportunity." "Julian is always considerate," said Alice gaily. "You call him Julian--Mrs. Barrast's brother?" said Montrose jealously. "Dear," she took him by the lapels of his coat and looked into his dark eyes. "Of course I call him by his Christian name. I told you about Julian in London. How he proposed to me: how I refused him, and how we are now like brother and sister. There is no need to be----" Montrose stopped her mouth with a kiss. "Don't say the word. I am a fool," he said penitently. "I remember what you said in Town. And Hardwick is a brick; a really true, honest-hearted fellow. I like him immensely. And--and--oh, we have so much to talk about, Alice, that we need not waste the time in discussing Hardwick, even though he is so decent." Alice quite agreed with this sentiment, so the two started to climb the hills on their way to Tremore, and talked all the way of near and dear matters so necessary and interesting to lovers, and so dull when a third person overhears. They went over their meeting in Hans Crescent, recalled what he had said and what she had replied; explained how each had been hungry for this precious moment of meeting and punctuated the enthralling conversation with frequent kisses. And as the magical light died out of the western sky, they conversed on graver subjects which had to do with some vague thought of evil coming to them both. Montrose explained how he had seen Eberstein shortly before leaving London. "He sent for me yesterday," said the young man, fumbling at his breast, "and gave me this, which he said was necessary for my protection." "Your protection," echoed Alice with a sudden qualm, and she stared at the small golden heart swung on a thin golden chain, which Montrose had produced unexpectedly. "Why should you want protection, Douglas?" "Ah, that I cannot truly say. But I am so accustomed to obey the doctor implicitly that I did as he asked me and wear this amulet round my neck. He has always a reason for what he does, Alice. Remember, dear, he said plainly that our sunshine would not last for ever," ended Montrose gravely. "There is to be a period of sorrow, I know," murmured Alice, nestling close to her lover's side. "But with Dr. Eberstein's help we shall come out of the darkness into the light once more. I don't know what he means," she added after a pause. "Why should sorrow come?" "I have an idea that it has something to do with our meeting in former lives, Alice, and that we have enemies to encounter and conquer." "Don Pablo very likely." "I think so, although I am not sure." Montrose spoke dreamily, remembering his wonderful vision and the warning of Eberstein. "We must watch and pray, dear, for, more or less, we are moving in the darkness. This will aid us," and he held up the talisman, which glittered in the sunset rays. "But how can that golden heart help?" asked Alice disbelievingly. "You only see the exterior, dear. It holds," Montrose made the sign of the cross on his breast, "a portion of the Host, as Dr. Eberstein told me, and is therefore powerful against evil. I called it an amulet: rightly, I should have said a reliquary. Look, dearest!" Then a most wonderful thing happened. The two had reached the shade of the wood surrounding Tremore, and had halted on its verge in a spot where the sunlight could not penetrate. But as Alice stared at the golden heart it blazed as a star with a far more brilliant light than any she had ever seen before. In a flash of thought she knew that her interior senses had been opened by the mightiest influence on earth. She was looking through the sheath of metal at the very Host itself in its supernal aspect, radiant, glorious, wonderful, holy. "Oh!" she breathed in a hushed voice and bowed her head reverently. "What is it?" asked her lover in surprise, for her expression was angelic. "Do you not see the light that is brighter than the sun?" "No," he whispered nervously, and seized her hand, like a child seeking for the comfort of a mother's touch. "Where is the light?" "It is gone now." Alice passed her disengaged hand across her brow. "It disappeared when you touched me. When you held up that heart it shone like a marvellous star of splendour." Then Montrose understood. "You have seen the Power itself," he murmured, and with trembling hands restored the reliquary to his breast. For the moment what Alice had seen shook him to the core of his being. "How glorious to be able to see through the veil even for a single moment. But why should you not when it is said, 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God'?" Like children they clung to one another on the borders of that dark wood, and it was some time before they could proceed. The sacred light they felt was yet around them, and would act as a shield against all evil. That it did so far as Alice was concerned was certain, for while walking under the yews amidst the heavy darkness, her sense of protection was unusually strong. Not so Montrose, for even though he carried the reliquary, he was less sensitive to its helpful influence than the girl who was more attuned to spirituality. It might be that with him the preponderance of earthly desires placed him more in touch with the lower planes than with the higher, but undoubtedly he felt strongly the tremendous pressure of the evil around him. And when the two halted on the verge of the beaten ground, barren of herb and flower, the house of hate bulked largely, silent, black, brooding and menacing. "Alice, how can you live here?" demanded Montrose, grasping her hand tightly. "You feel it also?" she whispered, "that sense of doom and dread?" "I feel the power that rends and tears and parts asunder: the disintegrating force of Chaos, which is necessary for creation before Cosmos--the Cosmos of Love can be formed!" and unconsciously he gripped her hand with crushing force, so great was the emotion which stirred him. "Douglas, you hurt me," cried the girl, writhing. "Oh, forgive me," he descended to the commonplace and tenderly kissed the pained finger. "But the feeling of dread was so strong that I forgot what I was doing. There," he kissed her hand twice, "is it better, darling?" Alice laughed. "You are a child," she said, advancing towards the house. Her lover sighed. "We are all children, I think. Afraid of the dark." "There is no darkness where God is, dear. Think of God and the light comes." "You are nearer to the Great Spirit of Love than I am," said Douglas, peering nervously into the gloom. Then he made an effort to throw off the still persistent influence of evil. "Let us get into the lamplight." "Come then," said Alice, and stepping into the porch, she laid her hand on the handle of the door. Immediately, as by magic, it retreated from her fingers, and the portal swung wide to reveal Enistor on the threshold, dimly seen in what light still radiated from the fading sunset over the heavy tree-tops. "I heard your voices," he explained genially, "and knew that our guest had arrived. Welcome to Tremore, Mr. Montrose." "Thank you, sir, oh, thank you," replied the young man, reassured by this reception and warmly clasping the hand extended to him. As he did so a strong feeling of repulsion possessed his mind with overwhelming force, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from wrenching his hand away. Not that there was any need for the action on his part, for Enistor actually translated the thought into swift doing, and loosened his grip, to stand back with a startled look. Without doubt the same repugnance at the same instant of time obsessed the older man, but, less self-controlled, he had been unable to prevent the unfriendly action. In the twilight each man strove to see the face of the other, but it was impossible to distinguish clearly. In shadows they met as shadows. It was Alice who broke the spell of confused hatred, as, in spite of her clairvoyant faculty, she was apparently ignorant of the thunder in the air. "I am sure you will be glad to have tea, Douglas. Is it in the library, father?" "Yes!" muttered Enistor, regaining his self-control by a powerful effort, and with that one word he led the way into the lamplight. Douglas followed arm in arm with the girl, feeling that but for her and all she meant to him he would have escaped immediately from the grim house and its unseen owner. In the mellow radiance which flooded the library Enistor beheld a slim and delicate man with the dreamy face of a poet. Scorning himself that such a stripling should cause him even momentary dread, and despising him as one of the enemies indicated by Narvaez, the Squire became good-naturedly tolerant. During tea-time he behaved courteously, and proved himself to be a genial and hospitable host. But Montrose was markedly silent, as his repulsion increased immediately he caught sight of that dark and powerful countenance. Also in his heart there lurked an uncomfortable fear that Enistor was in a position to injure him in some inexplicable way. It was not physical fear, for Montrose was a brave man, but a hateful influence which seemed in some way to paralyse him. Why this should be so he was naturally unable to guess, but the desire to fly the neighbourhood of an implacable foe was so strong that it took him all his strength to resist the desire for an ignominious retreat. But for Alice's sake he did so resist, as her gracious presence enabled him to bear the strain with some equanimity. Therefore, as he had been trained by Eberstein to control his feelings, he drank and ate in quite a conventional manner. Alice, still ignorant of the hatred with which her father and her lover regarded one another, presided over what was outwardly a merry little meal, chatting and laughing in a smiling and whole-hearted way, as though she had not a care in the world. As indeed she had not for the moment. "I fear you will feel dull here, Mr. Montrose," said Enistor, formal and cold. "Oh, father, what a compliment to me!" "My dear, we are quiet folk at Tremore, you must admit." "I like quietness," said Montrose, smiling, "and would much rather be here than in London. And of course with Alice----" "It is paradise," ended Enistor cynically. "You have the usual stock-in-trade of pretty phrases which lovers delight in. Well, we must see what we can do to amuse you. I am usually busy myself, but Alice can be your guide to the few sights of the neighbourhood. You can ride a horse, or a bicycle, and drive in the carriage or dog-cart. There is a tennis-lawn at the back of the house and golf-links in Perchton. Then you can go sketching on the moors with Mr. Hardwick and Alice; or Job Trevel will take you out fishing. Mr. Sparrow, the vicar of Polwellin, will show you the church and cromlechs and rocking-stones and other such things, as he is something of an archæologist. We can have music and bridge and conversation in the evenings, and----" "Stop! Stop!" interrupted Montrose, now more at his ease, as he saw that the Squire was endeavouring to make himself agreeable. "It would require six months to do all these things. I shall enjoy myself immensely, especially if you will introduce me to Señor Narvaez." "What do you know about him?" asked Enistor sharply, and frowning. "All that Alice and Hardwick could tell me. He seems to be a very interesting man, and an unusual character." "He is original," assented Enistor quickly, "so much so that he does not choose to know every one. However, as he is my very good friend I daresay I shall be able to induce him to meet you here. You will find him very interesting indeed," ended the Squire significantly, and he stared hard at Montrose, wondering if he guessed how the Spaniard regarded him. But the young man, having nothing to conceal, and quite innocent of Don Pablo's enmity towards him, met the Squire's gaze with a forced friendly smile. "I like interesting people," he said amiably. "And I hope you do also, Mr. Enistor, as my friend Dr. Eberstein is coming to Perchton shortly." "I shall be pleased to welcome any friend of yours," replied the elder man in a formal way, and then rose to leave the room. He felt that he had done enough as host for the time being and wished to be alone, so that he might send mental messages to Narvaez about the new arrival. "You will excuse me until dinner-time, Mr. Montrose. Alice will entertain you." When the Squire departed Alice did her best in the way of entertainment, but found it difficult to banish the thoughtful look from her lover's face. Pleading fatigue, the young man soon sought the room assigned to him, and pondered over the odd distaste which the sight of Enistor induced. He could not account for it, and wished that Eberstein would appear to elucidate the problem. Across his mind flashed insistently the question of Ahab, "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?" and the deadly answer of Elijah the seer, "I _have_ found thee!" Much as he loved Alice, he felt that the situation was uncomfortable and perplexing and quite beyond human explanation. CHAPTER XII SMALL BEER CHRONICLES "The emphasis of the soul is always right!" says Emerson, meaning thereby that the immediate feeling which individuals have for one another at first sight is a hint from the divine within them as to whether they should be friends or foes. This subtle impulse is never felt again, as self-interest and custom gradually blunt the spiritual perceptions, and those who cross each other's path behave as worldly circumstances bid them. And naturally so, for whenever the desires of the animal-self come into operation, the more latent powers of the Higher-Self are obscured. Therefore, he is the wise man who accepts the emphasis of the soul as guidance in the choice of friends and in the doing of deeds. Because men, influenced by selfishness, do not follow such a lead, their path in life becomes much more complicated than it need be. They hear the blatant trumpeting of desire: not the still small voice of conscience. Not being particularly metaphysical, Montrose was ignorant of this safeguard, and did not heed the warning of danger given at his first meeting with Enistor. That schemer, better informed, accepted the knowledge that here was a foe to be wary of. It would have been surprising had he not done so, as apart from the hatred which sprang into lively being at the first touch of hands, Narvaez had spoken plainly, and moreover Montrose was the detestable person who had secured Lady Staunton's fortune. To regain it and allow the Spaniard to execute his dark designs, Enistor masked his hatred under a fine show of courtesy, behaving with such apparent sincerity that Douglas was entirely deceived. As the days slipped by and there was no change in the gracious attitude of his host, he grew to like him, to admire him and to enjoy his companionship. This was little to be wondered at, as Enistor, being well-read and well-bred, could make himself extremely agreeable when he chose to do so. For obvious reasons he did so choose, and so did away with the mysterious repulsion of the first meeting that it became only a dim memory to Montrose. At the end of seven days the visitor persuaded himself without any great difficulty that Enistor was a most excellent man, an agreeable friend, and one likely to prove an ideal father-in-law. Alice was relieved to see that the two men got on so well together, and more than ever decided that she had deceived herself with regard to her father's true character. "You have, I think, bridged the gulf between us," she explained one Sunday morning, when with Montrose she was descending the hill to Polwellin church. "Father and I never got on well until you came." "Dearest, your father's character takes time to realise," was the prompt reply. "He looks stern and is of a reserved nature. But when one comes to know him he has a sweet kernel for all his rugged rind. At first I did not think we should get on well together, but that was a mistake. He's a ripping fine chap, and as good as they make 'em." "Do you like my father for his own sake or for mine?" asked Alice doubtfully. "For both sakes," rejoined the young man positively. "And seeing that I am here to rob him of his dearest treasure, I think he is behaving wonderfully." "H'm!" murmured Alice, not wholly agreeing with this valuation. "Are you so sure? Father looks at me in a different way from what you do." "Naturally. It is a different kind of love. From what you said, I quite expected to find your father a bear and a tyrant. Instead of being either he is delightful in every way. I don't think you are quite fair to him." "Perhaps," the girl was still undecided. "He has altered much since you came, Douglas. You have brought the best out of him. He is more human. All the same----" she stopped abruptly. "Well then--all the same?" "Nothing," said Alice abruptly, and passed swiftly into the church, where further speaking was out of the question, much to her relief. What she had meant to say and did not say was concerned with an uncomfortable under-current of thought regarding her father's surprising attitude. Owing to the relationship between them it was difficult to judge him impartially; yet Alice wished to do so, if only to satisfy her own conscience. Remembering the man's lifelong indifference and coldness and utter want of consideration, the girl left that this aggressive amiability was assumed for some purpose. What that purpose might be she could not conjecture, unless it had to do with the recovery of the fortune which she now knew he had not lost with equanimity. But even if the marriage with Douglas took place, it was hard to see how her father hoped to benefit, and she knew from experience that he did not hold with altruism. Filial sentiment made her strive to please him on the forced assumption that in spite of appearance he really did love her. But somehow she could not convince herself that such was the case. He was acting the affectionate father as she was acting the affectionate daughter, yet she did not think that he believed in her any more than she believed in him. It was all very difficult and very disagreeable. It was useless to discuss the matter with Montrose, and for this reason she had ended their conversation by entering the church. The young man and her father had become excellent friends, and he would never believe that Enistor was anything but what he presented himself to be. In fact, Douglas had told her very plainly that she had misjudged her father, and her own surface-thoughts implying that such was the case inflicted a pang. But intuition scouted the idea of misjudgment. As one human being adjusting herself to another human being she knew how to act, but as a child striving to understand her parent she was quite bewildered. Finally, she decided that the only thing to be done was to accept the situation as her father wished it to be accepted, if only for the sake of peace and quietness. The Squire was willing to permit the marriage, and was doing his best to be agreeable to his future son-in-law. Nothing else mattered for the moment. Having arrived at this sensible conclusion, Alice compelled herself to attend to the service. It was by no means an interesting one, as there was a want of warmth and colour about it which reduced the whole to a monotonous repetition of fine phrases. The vicar was a thoroughly good man, earnest and self-sacrificing, but with so moral a temperament that he entirely failed to understand sinners. And not understanding them he was unable to give them that sympathetic help which a practical experience of temptation teaches. He would scold a wrong-doer with great anger--box his ears so to speak--not because he was a bad-tempered man, but for the simple reason that he could not see the sin from the wrong-doer's point of view. As Mr. Sparrow said again and again, he did not want to run away with his neighbour's wife; he did not desire to drink too much, or to cheat, or to swear, so why--he asked plaintively--should his parishioners desire to do such uninviting things? By this inborn obtuseness he missed his aim, as he invariably attempted to bully ignorant wrong into becoming enlightened right without necessary explanations. Naturally those he genuinely tried to help resented a process which robbed them of their self-respect, and which gave them no logical reason for doing other than their crude desires bade them. Therefore while some remained members of the church, and accepted ecclesiastical scoldings stolidly as part of the burdens of life which they were called upon to bear because they could not help the bearing, others took refuge in the beer-shops and rejected all authority. Also, there were a few who joined Nonconformist sects of the democratic type, where the congregation controlled the preacher, and turned him out if his views were unsatisfactory to their narrow understandings. The result of these things was chaos, and Mr. Sparrow lamented that he had to deal with such stiff-necked people. Yet had he been able to explain reasonably what he taught, and had he possessed the tact to coax instead of bullying, he would soon have reduced the whole parish to order. As a matter of fact in one way the vicar was better than his religion: not that his religion was not true and helpful, but because he knew it only externally, and taught by the letter rather than by the spirit. In the first lesson he read about the angry and jealous God of the Jews, and in the second declared the everlasting Love of the Father, Who sent His beloved Son to suffer for His children. Naturally the congregation could not understand such a contradiction, and Mr. Sparrow did not explain, because he did not understand himself. Therefore on Sundays he was rather a failure, while on week-days he was highly successful. The fishermen and their wives could comprehend a parson who helped them in their small needs and talked kindly to them, and shared their joys as well as their sorrows. But what they could not comprehend was the priest who tried to bully them into seeking a vague state of existence, which to them appeared to be vapour and moonshine. They wanted proofs, or at least reason, and they got neither. In his sermons Mr. Sparrow told those who listened drowsily that if they were black with sin, they would go to hell: if they kept innocently white, they would arrive in a dreamland heaven: but he made no provision for the grey people. And as the majority of the congregation, if not the whole, belonged to the third category, being neither particularly good nor particularly sinful, the alternatives did not interest them much. Those in church adopted various attitudes, said certain words, sang certain tunes, and went through a set ceremony, with a vague idea that it was all necessary somehow to arrange matters for a vague future. When Montrose came out he commented on their orderly behaviour, and utter ignorance of what it all meant. "Though of course," he added truthfully, "there were some who understood more than the rest. Still, what a clockwork ceremony!" "Oh, but, Douglas, the liturgy of the Church of England is very beautiful." "The most beautiful the mind of man can conceive," he admitted readily. "What can be more glorious than the Litany, which includes all possible petitions that mortals can offer. Said understandingly nothing can be more helpful." "Mr. Sparrow read it beautifully, and the responses were made correctly." "Oh yes! But I missed the living spirit. It was all words, repeated parrot-fashion by the majority--I don't say all--of those present." "But what can the vicar do, Douglas? You know how dull the people are?" "They are children, more or less stupid," said Montrose with conviction, "and can grasp very little. Since Mr. Sparrow teaches them to love God and love their neighbour, he is doing all that he can do. But he could colour the greyness of his sermon: he could speak in parables as the Master did. Then he would arrest their attention, and some ideas, if put picturesquely, would stick in their minds. A man will forget a series of admonitions if stated baldly: he will certainly remember some if connected with a story." "Perhaps," said Alice doubtfully. "But Mr. Sparrow is a really good man." "Isn't that rather irrelevant?" observed the young man dryly. "I quite admit that he is a good man. It is not his fault that the Church has lost her esoteric knowledge, which was reserved for the intellectual, who wished to believe with the head as well as with the heart. But he is only a sample of many parsons. His intentions are of the best, but he does not speak with conviction to my mind." "He is a true believer," urged the girl, rather distressed. "I am sure he is everything that is genuine and kind," replied her lover, a trifle impatiently. "But he lacks that wisdom which comes from logical reasoning on the things he discourses about." "But can religion be proved logically?" "Certainly; but only when one knows the esoteric teaching which the Church had, but which the Church has lost. Eberstein has taught much of it to me during the last three years, and there are few questions connected with religion and the Bible which I cannot answer in at least a reasonable way. Go to Mr. Sparrow and he will assure you that half the questions you ask are a mystery into which you must not pry. What is the result, Alice?" "I'm sure I can't say," she answered good-humouredly. "The result is," continued Montrose, growing more vehement, "that whenever a man begins to think, he leaves the Church from sheer inability to gain the information which is needed to reconcile what is taught with common sense. Only the people who don't think, who are Christians because they happen to have been brought up Christians, remain in the Church, and accept emotionally and blindly whatever is told them on ecclesiastical authority. That, when examined, is no authority at all to the thinking man." "And the inner teaching?" "It gives a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation which proves that the exoteric teaching is true. I believe all that the Church sets forth save the one word 'eternal' before the one word 'hell.' But then I know why I believe and can defend my belief in a most positive manner, so that any man with common sense must admit the logic of my arguments. Think if the parsons knew of this teaching, and gave it out, how the churches would be thronged. People are not irreligious nowadays. There never was a time when men and women wished to know about the truth more anxiously than they do to-day. But they go to those in authority and are given a stone in place of bread." "Why will not the parsons take this teaching?" "I cannot say. It changes nothing they teach outwardly, save the horrible doctrine of eternal punishment, and gives back to all in a rational and convincing way the faith they are gradually losing. Yet the Church goes on blindly repeating the same things Sunday after Sunday, until they have lost their force. The inner teaching would revive that force, if accepted, and the Church would be able to fulfil her true mission, which is to lead civilisation. As it is, her children will not stay with her. Pain is forcing the most advanced souls to try and understand the problems of existence, and this understanding the esoteric teaching gives, as I have proved myself. But the Church should be the teacher: not pain, which comes from ignorance." "But these fishermen and women would only be bewildered if they sought to understand the problems of life in the way you do." "Of course: because I am at a higher point of evolution. But what they are I was, and only pain drove me to acquire further knowledge, as pain will drive them in future lives. What Mr. Sparrow teaches them is all right: they are satisfied with bread and do not desire cake. But what I maintain is that the vicar should know more, and then he could do more good with his simple instruction by luring them on to think D E F as well as A B C. However, he is a good man and does his best according to his lights, and that is well. I daresay he is an interesting man when he talks archæology, because that is his hobby and he is sincere." "Oh, Douglas, I am sure Mr. Sparrow's religion is sincere." "I am sure it is," assented Montrose quickly. "But his understanding is so limited that he is unable to make religion interesting. And believe me, Alice, that since I met Eberstein and learned what religion really is, I find it the most interesting thing in the world. I know little as yet, as I learn but slowly. Still I am beginning to grasp the great scheme of the present creation, and it is so glorious and beautiful that I shall never rest until I understand it sufficiently to take a conscious part in it, and do the work appointed to me as Douglas Montrose." Alice was silent. What her lover said was beyond her understanding, as, save some discussions with the limited Mr. Sparrow, she had never talked about such great subjects. Her father never spoke of religion and never went to church, so she really only knew what the vicar could teach her. So far as that went all was well, but she sometimes yearned for a fuller comprehension of creation and for reasonable explanations of life's riddles. From what Montrose had said it seemed likely that he could teach her what she wished to know, and that Eberstein, to whom he had referred, could teach her more when the time came. Her face glowed at the idea and she felt anxious to be instructed at once. But by this time they had wandered down the path to the beach, below the black cliffs, and her lover was talking of other things. She therefore left theology alone for lighter conversation, and approved of Montrose's appreciation of the beauty which clothed sea and land. "What a lovely place, Alice. I am sure the fairies dance on these yellow sands in the moonlight." "Of course they do," said Alice, now talking on a subject about which she knew a great deal. "Fairies really exist, you know. Señor Narvaez calls them Nature-spirits. He showed me some one day." Montrose turned on her in surprise. "Are you clairvoyant?" "Yes! Señor Narvaez says so!" "And does he know anything about clairvoyance?" "A great deal. So does my father. They both take an interest in such things, you see, and study them." "And you?" "Oh, I know very little, save what information Don Pablo has given me. He says that my clairvoyant faculty must be trained before it can be of any use." "True enough. Eberstein told me also that clairvoyance must be trained. But is Señor Narvaez the man to train it?" "He knows much about the unseen, Douglas." "I should not be surprised to learn that what he does know is of the worst, Alice," said Douglas dryly. "There is something evil about that man. I have only met him twice and each time I was uncomfortable in his presence. He is like a snake, a toad--a--a--oh, any noxious animal. And to think that he wanted to marry you. I never heard of such insolence." "He means well," said Alice soothingly. "I doubt it. Anything he means is to his own advantage. I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he was a Brother of the Shadow, since he knows about unseen things." "A Brother of the Shadow?" "So Eberstein tells me Black Magicians are called." "But are there really such men?" "Yes. There are White Magicians and Black. They both have acquired super-physical powers the same in essence, acting differently when used differently. Good men use them to help: bad men use them to hurt. Just like dynamite, you know, dear. You can use it for a good purpose to blow up rocks blocking a harbour, or for a bad one to destroy life. But the thing itself and the action of the thing are the same. How did you see these fairies?" "Nature-spirits," insisted Alice quickly. "Oh, one day when I was on the moor Don Pablo came along. He told me about them and I did not believe in such things. Then he took my hand, saying I was clairvoyant. In some way his touch or some power which he poured into me opened"--Alice was puzzled how the experience could be explained--"opened a third eye, as it might be. I don't know exactly how to put it, but in some way I saw----" "Saw what?" "Little men and women on the heather. Some were playing and others were at work. The ground I sat on was alive with them. Yet when Don Pablo took his hand away, the third eye closed and they vanished. But of course they were still around me, though I could not see them. I told Julian about pixies and nixies, and he laughingly said that it needed the eye of faith to see them. I daresay that was my third eye. Do you understand?" "Perfectly. Eberstein has explained some of these things to me. And I had an experience----" Douglas broke off abruptly, remembering that the doctor had asked him to say nothing about his vision. "Well, it doesn't matter. But I quite believe that the veil can be lifted, or perhaps--a better way of putting it--the veil can be seen through." It was lucky for Montrose that Alice's attention was distracted at the moment, as she might have pressed him overhard to relate his experience. And as she had her full share of feminine curiosity, she would not have been put off with evasive replies. But at the rude jetty a boat had arrived and in the boat was a tall girl, whom Miss Enistor recognised at once. She told Montrose to stay where he was and ran down the slope to speak with Rose Penwin. The reason why she did not want Douglas to accompany her was obvious. "Oh, Rose, why have you not been up to see me?" asked Alice, when the girl moored her boat to the jetty and stepped ashore. "I have been too busy, miss," replied Rose, smiling, and showing a set of very white teeth. "Did you want me?" "It's about Job Trevel." "Oh!" Rose flushed and drew herself up. "What's he been saying?" "Nothing. I haven't seen him. But people are talking, Rose." "Let them talk," retorted the girl sullenly. "If I'd a shilling for every bad word they say of me I should be rich." Alice looked at her in pained silence. Rose was a magnificent-looking woman, tall and stately, highly coloured and beautiful. With her black hair and black eyes and perfectly moulded figure, she looked the embodiment of a sea-goddess. Also her dress was picturesque, with a touch of colour here and there pleasing to the eye. But what Alice looked at most was a snake bracelet of Indian workmanship in silver which clung round her right wrist. "Do you think it right to let Don Pablo give you such presents?" Rose flushed still deeper and her eyes flashed with anger. "He might be my grandfather," she snapped in a savage manner. "But he isn't," replied Alice earnestly. "Oh, Rose, you know how hot-blooded Job is. And if you give him cause to be jealous----" "I don't care if he's jealous or not, miss. The likes of me is a sight too good for the likes of him." "But he's an honest man----" "So is Don Pablo, and what's more he's a richer man. If he was young I wouldn't let him give me things. But whatever they may say, an old gentleman like that don't mean no harm. Besides, I haven't said yes to Job." "But you will say yes." "That depends upon how Job behaves himself, miss. I'm not going to have him glowering and swearing as if I was doing something wrong, which I ain't. And begging your pardon, miss, I don't see what you've got to do with it." "I don't want to see you get into trouble," said Alice indiscreetly. Rose flashed round furiously. "Who said I was going to get into trouble? I like pretty things, and if an old gentleman gives them to me, where's the harm, I should like to know?" "Job's jealousy----" "Let him keep it to himself," interrupted Rose, who was in a fine rage. "I ain't his wife yet to be at his beck and call. And perhaps I never shall be if it comes to that. Don Pablo says that a girl like me would make plenty of money in London as an artist's model: or I might go on the stage." "I think Don Pablo should be ashamed of himself to poison your mind in this way," burst out Alice, angry in her turn. "Don't be a fool." Inherited respect for the Squire's daughter kept Rose within bounds, but for the moment she looked as though she would strike Alice. With an effort she turned away, biting her lip and clenching her hands. "I'll forget myself if I stay, miss. You'd best keep away from me!" and before Miss Enistor could stop her she fairly ran up the path past Montrose on her hurried way to the village. Douglas turned to stare after the flying figure, and wondered what Alice had said to send the girl away with such wrath depicted on her face. At the same moment as Rose disappeared Alice heard a deep male voice speaking to her, and turned to see Job clambering up on the hither side of the jetty. He was a tall, bulky, powerful man, with red hair and keen blue eyes, handsome and virile in a common way, and exhibited a strength which appealed to every woman for miles around. At one time it appealed to Rose, but since Don Pablo had poisoned her mind she had risked an unpleasant exhibition of that strength by her coquettish behaviour. Job looked dour and dangerous, and there was a spark in his blue eyes. "I heard what you said, Miss Alice," he remarked, drawing a deep breath. "I was under the jetty waiting for her coming. But when you spoke to her I thought I'd just wait to hear if she'd listen to sense." "It doesn't seem like it, Job," said Alice sadly, and looked with distress on the splendid figure of her foster-brother. "No, it don't, miss," he responded gloomily. "She's got the bit between her teeth, she has. It's all that foreign devil, begging your pardon for the word, Miss Alice. I'd like to strangle him." "Don't be silly, talking in that way, Job. It's dangerous." "It will be for him, if he don't sheer off," muttered the man vengefully. "Job, you know quite well that Don Pablo is an old man: he must be eighty if an hour. You can't be jealous of him." "But I am, Miss Alice, and it ain't no good saying as I'm not. What right has he to give her presents and talk about taking her to London? I'll break his neck if he goes on with such talk." Alice tried to defend the Spaniard, not because she thought he was acting rightly, but for the simple reason that she wished to talk Job into a calmer state of mind. At the moment the man was dangerous. "Don Pablo only admires Rose as a beautiful woman," she urged. "Then he shan't. No one shall admire her but me. And if he wants to marry, Miss Alice----" "Oh, nonsense," she broke in. "Why, he's too old." "Well, they did say as you were going to marry him," retorted Trevel coolly. "I am going to do nothing of the sort," cried the girl, stamping her foot. "I think you should be more sensible than to suggest such a thing." "I didn't suggest it," said Job stolidly. "But the Squire wants----" "I don't care what the Squire wants," interrupted Alice, with another stamp. "People say things they have no right to say. You are my foster-brother, Job, and I allow you more licence than most. But you must never speak to me in this way again." "I didn't mean any harm, Miss Alice, and my heart is sore." "Poor Job!" Alice became sorry for the big man. "You do suffer, and Rose ought to be ashamed of herself to cause you such pain. Get her to marry you at once and laugh at Don Pablo." "She won't. He's got her fair under his thumb, Miss Alice," said Trevel gloomily. "I hate him, and so does everyone else. He's the only man as I ever heard the parson have a bad word for. There's something about that foreign chap," Job clenched a huge fist, "as makes you want to squash him like a toad." Alice nodded comprehendingly. "All the same you must do him no harm, or you will get into trouble. And remember, Job, that I am your friend"--she gave him her hand--"and to prove it I shall tell you what will please you. I am engaged to that gentleman over there--Mr. Montrose." Trevel shook the hand heartily and his face grew good-natured. "I'm fair glad of it, miss. I've seen the gentleman and like the gentleman. He's been down in the village with Mr. Hardwick, as we like also. As to that foreigner, miss--ugh!" Job scowled and turned away, while Alice went back to Douglas. "I have been trying to reconcile two lovers, but I have failed," she told him. "What is the cause of the quarrel?" asked the young man, amused. "A dangerous one. Don Pablo," and she gave details. "What an old beast!" said Montrose. "If I were that fisherman I'd screw his neck." "Don't put such ideas into Job's head," cried Alice rebukingly. "He is angry enough as it is!" "All the worse for Don Pablo, my dear!" and so they left the matter, which was of less importance then than it became afterwards. CHAPTER XIII FURTHER SMALL BEER CHRONICLES When the young people went to church, Enistor took the opportunity of paying a visit to Narvaez. The effort to keep up an appearance of friendship for a man he hated was not easy, and the Squire wished to unbend in the society of one who knew his true sentiments. Also he greatly desired to learn what were Don Pablo's plans regarding the restoration of the fortune, for the Spaniard did not seem to be moving in the matter at all, and valuable time was being wasted. And since Enistor was anxious to get rid of Montrose as speedily as possible, he thought it was just as well to suggest that the scheme--whatever it might be--should be completed as soon as could be conveniently managed. The master of Tremore wanted to handle the coveted income; he wished to see his daughter married to Narvaez, and finally he desired to learn the nature of this danger at which Don Pablo hinted so frequently. Of course the marriage with the Spaniard, by making possible the training of Alice's clairvoyant powers, would soon disclose this last. Enistor walked leisurely over the moor to where the evil mount with its crown of monoliths was indistinctly outlined against the grey sky. As it was now autumn, the heavens had lost their summer azure, and the earth had been stripped of its flowering splendour. He wandered through a ruined world, where the red and brown and yellow of the dying bracken were veiled in chilly mists. The ground was sodden, the herbage was dripping wet, and the cries of the birds sounded mournful, as though they were regretting the passing of warm weather. That Enistor should see the prostrate body of a man lying amidst the fantastic colours of the moorland seemed to be so much in keeping with the general air of decay and sadness that he did not even start when he bent over the still form. But he did utter an ejaculation when he looked at the white face and recognised Julian Hardwick. Why the artist should be here in an unconscious condition Enistor did not pause to inquire. He was above all a man of action, and as it was necessary to revive Hardwick, he hastened to fill his cap with water at a convenient pool. The chill of the fluid on the white face flushed it with returning life, and when Enistor loosened the collar, and shook the body, Julian opened his eyes languidly. In a half-dazed way he murmured something about brandy, a hint which the Squire acted upon by searching the artist's pockets. He soon found what he looked for, and a drink of the generous liquor revived Hardwick so speedily that he was soon able to sit up and talk. "My heart is weak," he said in a stronger voice, buttoning his collar. Enistor was frankly amazed. "Why, you always look singularly healthy." "Because I am big and well-covered with flesh it is natural you should think so, Mr. Enistor. But the heart doesn't do its work properly. That is why I live so much in the open air, and----" "Don't talk so much. You are exhausting yourself." Hardwick took a second drink of brandy, and as the heart quickened he began to look more like his old self. "I am all right now," he assured his helper, "I can manage to crawl to my lodgings and lie down for a time." He got on to his feet and stretched himself languidly. "I always carry brandy on the chance of these attacks!" "You couldn't have used the brandy had I not been here to help you," said the Squire bluntly. "If you are liable to such seizures you should not venture to wander on these lonely moors by yourself." "Perhaps not! But it is rarely I become so incapable. Thank you very much for being so kind. I shall go home now." Then Enistor made an effort which rather amazed himself. "Let me take you home, Hardwick. You are not fit to go by yourself." Hardwick was as amazed as the man who made this offer. "I didn't think you would bother about me in that way," he said weakly: then he straightened himself with an effort. "Thank you all the same, but I can manage!" And giving his preserver a friendly handshake, he moved along the path which meandered towards Polwellin. The Squire stood looking after him, thinking that he might fall again and require further assistance. But the tall figure moved steadily through the mists, apparently possessed of sufficient vital power to reach the haven of home in safety. Then the Squire thoughtfully resumed his way to Don Pablo's cottage, wondering at the discovery he had made. Hardwick looked so strong and well, and was so massive and imposing in appearance, that no one could possibly have guessed that his heart was weak. But Enistor did not wonder at this alone: he wondered also at his own kind offer to go out of his way to help any one in distress. It was rather a weak thing to do, he reflected, and not at all an action of which Narvaez would approve. All the same Enistor resolved to tell the Spaniard if only for his own glorification. Don Pablo was seated by a huge fire in his sinister study, with a paper in his hands covered with odd signs and hieroglyphics. With his usual serenity he murmured a welcome and pointed to a chair. But he did not speak further for the moment and Enistor employed the time in trying to read the inscrutable face, which was seamed with a thousand wrinkles and made quite inhuman by the passionless look of the cold, steady, blue eyes. Shortly the old man laid the paper aside with a sigh of satisfaction. "What are you doing?" asked Enistor curiously. "I have been casting Hardwick's horoscope," was the unexpected reply. "For the satisfaction of his own curiosity he gave me the day and hour of his birth," he smiled in a cruel way. "I don't think he will be pleased at what I have to tell him." A telepathic message passed swiftly from one trained brain to the other and Enistor nodded in a surprised manner. "He may die at any moment," said the Squire, translating Don Pablo's thoughts. "Well, that is very likely. I found him unconscious on the moor a short time ago." "He is not dead?" questioned Narvaez, with unusual interest. "Oh no. I revived him with water and some brandy he had in his pocket. Also I offered to see him home." "Why?" demanded the other coldly. "Well, he seemed weak and----" "How often have I told you that other people's troubles do not concern you, Enistor! If you choose to waste your powers on assisting weaker persons, you will lose much force better employed in your own gain." "I am not quite so hard as you are," snapped the Squire, sharply. "Not quite so wise, you mean," was the unmoved response. "However, I pardon your weakness on this occasion, as I don't want Hardwick to die--yet." "Do you wish him to die at all?" "My last word implied that I did. It is part of my plan to get the fortune you desire, which also means that I shall secure your daughter as my wife." "But I don't see----" "There is no need for you to see," said Narvaez tyrannically; "you do what I tell you and all will be well." "Do you mean to kill Hardwick?" "No! There is no need for me to move a finger. His horoscope shows an early death from natural causes. Having found him unconscious, I leave you to guess what those causes will be." "I have no need to guess. Hardwick's heart is weak." "Exactly. The organs of his body are healthy, but he has not a sufficiently strong heart. If he could get a fresh supply of vitality he would be a powerful and _long-lived_ man." "Do you intend to give him that vitality?" sneered the visitor. Narvaez chuckled. "Yes! You will see that splendid body walking about filled with strenuous life some day soon." "The body walking about." Enistor stared keenly at the mocking, cruel face. "I must say you speak very strangely." "I speak as I speak, and what I mean to say I say," rejoined Don Pablo enigmatically. "Let us change the subject, as I am busy. Your errand?" "I only came to get the taste of that young prig out of my mouth!" "And waste my time. Why can't you rely on your own strength? I am not going to have you here draining mine, particularly when this body I have at present is so frail. Act the courteous host and give the young fool as much of your daughter's company as he desires. The rest can be left to me." "But when are you going to move in the matter?" "When the time is ripe and when I choose. How often am I to tell you that it is impossible to hurry things? Corn takes time to grow: a rose takes time to unfold, and everything in the visible and invisible world progresses inch by inch, step by step. Nature, as you should know by this time, is a tortoise and not a kangaroo." "There is another reason why I came," said Enistor, accepting the rebuke with a meekness foreign to his nature; "that fisherman--Trevel!" "Well? He is annoyed because I give the girl jewels, and waken her ambition to be something better than a domestic drudge." "His annoyance extends to an intention to kill you," said Enistor dryly. "I advise you to be careful, Master. Trevel is dangerous." "Dangerous!" Narvaez spoke with supreme contempt. "You know what I am and yet talk of danger to me from an ignorant boor. I could guard myself in a hundred ways if I so chose. But," ended Narvaez deliberately, "I do not choose." "I wonder what you mean?" "You may wonder. Threatened men live long. Content yourself with that proverb. And now go; I am busy!" Without a word Enistor rose and walked to the door. There he paused to say a few words not complimentary to Narvaez, and he said them with a black look of suppressed rage. "You treat me like a dog," snarled the weaker man. "Be careful that I do not bite you like a dog." "I trust you as little as any one else, and am always on my guard," said the magician mildly, and stared in a cold sinister way at his pupil. Enistor felt a wave of some cruel force surge against him--a force which struck him with the dull stunning blows of a hammer, and which twisted his nerves so sharply that but for dogged pride he would have shrieked with pain. As it was he writhed and grew deadly pale, the sweat beading his brow showing what agony he suffered. Hours seemed to be concentrated into that one long minute during which Narvaez held him in the vice of his will, and made him suffer the torments of the damned. "I beat my dog when he bites," said an unemotional voice. "Go!" And Enistor, conquered by supreme pain, crept away in silence. As the door closed, he heard his master chuckle like a parrot over a piece of cake. The Squire returned painfully to Tremore, cursing himself for having been such a fool as to defy a man possessed of super-physical powers. Twice before he had done so, and each time Don Pablo had inflicted torments. The man, more learned than an ordinary hypnotist, simply used in a greater degree the will and suggestion which such a one employs. A hypnotist can make his subject believe that he has toothache, or has taken poison, by insisting with superior force that he shall so believe. Narvaez, more learned in the laws which govern this creation, compelled Enistor in this way to feel the torments of a heretic on the rack, without resorting to the ordinary necessity of casting his subject into a hypnotic trance. If Enistor had concentrated his will, he could have repelled the suggestion, but he had not the terrific power of concentration which ages of exercise had given Don Pablo. He was in the presence of a powerful influence, directed by an equally powerful will, and therefore had no weapons with which to fight his dark master. In a fury Enistor wished that he could make Narvaez suffer in the same degree, but he knew that he could never hope to do so. Even if he became possessed of knowledge, of concentration, and of a more powerful will than was human, the Spaniard knew of ways which could baffle the attack. The sole consolation which Enistor had to pacify his wounded pride was that there was no disgrace in a mere mortal being beaten by a superman. Narvaez, in a minor degree, was a god, a very evil god, and those worshippers who did not obey him felt very speedily what their deity could do. Enistor had no wish to measure forces with so powerful a being again. For the rest of that week he left the magician alone and devoted himself to entertaining his guest. It was impossible to induce Narvaez to act until he chose to act, and all that could be done was to obey his instructions and behave agreeably to Montrose, so that the visitor might be lulled into false security. Never was there so amiable a host as the Squire; never was there so genial a companion, and Douglas became quite fascinated with a personality which transcended his own. The young man was so much weaker than his host that the latter wondered why Narvaez did not compel him to surrender the fortune by putting forth resistless power. Had Enistor guessed that Montrose's desire to do good and to love every one nullified the evil spell, he would have wondered less. And at the same time Enistor would have understood how, not having unselfish love in his own breast, he lay open to the assaults of the magician. As he treated others so he was treated, and a realisation of this golden truth would have enabled him to defy Narvaez and his suggestions. But the mere fact that he wished to exercise the same might-over-right free-lance law prevented his understanding how to defend himself from a more accomplished devil. And Don Pablo was as much a devil as there is possible to be one, since he wholly obeyed the instincts, carefully fostered, of hate and selfishness. Enistor was a very minor devil indeed, as he had too much of the milk of human kindness in him as yet to equal or rival the superior fiend. In his determination to act his comedy thoroughly, Enistor went to the great length of asking the vicar and his wife to dinner. As Mr. Sparrow had never before been invited to break bread under the Squire's roof, he was extremely surprised by the unexpected honour. At first he was minded to decline, since Enistor never came to church and never took the least interest in matters connected with the parish. But Mrs. Sparrow pointed out that this desire for their company might be a sign of grace, and that if they went, it might entail the reformation of their host. Also the dinner was sure to be good, and she could wear her new dress in decent society, which she very rarely had an opportunity of doing. Urged in this way and having a certain amount of curiosity of his own regarding the splendours of the big house, Mr. Sparrow sent an acceptance in his neat Oxford calligraphy. The Squire gave it to his daughter and told her to order the dinner. "See that it is a good one," said Enistor genially. "Sparrow is as lean as a fasting friar and won't object to a decent meal for once. It isn't Lent or any of their confounded Church feasts, is it?" "No!" answered Alice, very much puzzled by this unusual behaviour; "but why do you ask Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow to dinner? I thought you didn't like them." "I don't! They are a couple of bores. But it is rather dull here for Montrose, and we must get what society we can to cheer him up." "I think Douglas is very well satisfied with my company," retorted the girl, rather nettled by the implied slight, "and these two bores, as you call them, certainly will not amuse him." "Very well; ask Hardwick also. He isn't a bore and Montrose likes him." "Julian isn't very well, father. He hasn't been since you found him on the moor fainting. But I shall send the invitation. Shall you ask Señor Narvaez?" "No!" said her father sharply and uneasily, for his body still tingled with the memory of Don Pablo's reproof. "I shan't submit him to the ordeal of enduring so dull a set of people." "Complimentary to us all," said Alice dryly, then regretted the retort; "I am sure you wish to make things pleasant for Douglas." "Of course! I wish him to stay here as long as he likes," said Enistor, with an emphasis which she could not quite understand. "See that everything is all right, my dear. I want the dinner-party to be a success." Rather amazed at the way in which her usually selfish father sacrificed himself, Alice consulted the housekeeper, and made all preparations for this rare festivity. When the evening came, the parson and his wife duly arrived and at their heels followed Hardwick, who had willingly accepted the chance of an evening in the company of Alice, whom he loved as a sister, and Montrose, who appealed to him as an unusually agreeable and decent fellow. The Squire welcomed his guests cordially, and took Mrs. Sparrow in to dinner. She was a faded, colourless woman with a washed-out appearance, markedly accentuated by the gauzy grey dress she wore. Alice in a delicate pink frock, which set off her evasive beauty to great advantage, looked like a fresh sunrise beside a wet, misty autumn day. Douglas could not keep his eyes off her and Hardwick was equally pressing in his attentions. "But you must not over-tax your strength, Julian," said Alice, when she found herself at the dinner-table between the artist and Mr. Sparrow, who had escorted her thereto. "Oh, I am all right now," replied Hardwick, "no better and no worse than I ever was. You were surprised when your father told you?" "I was greatly grieved, Julian. And it seems so strange that a big man such as you are should be so delicate. You should see a doctor." "I have seen several, but they can do me no good," said the artist sadly. "In every way I am healthy, so there is nothing to cure. All I lack is what they cannot give me, and that is a new supply of life-force." "If it is vitality you want, Hardwick," said Montrose, speaking across the table, "you should consult Dr. Eberstein, who is coming down shortly to Perchton. He is wonderful in many ways and I am certain he would do you good." "He cannot breathe more breath of life into a man than what that man already has," said Mr. Sparrow, in a tone of sad rebuke. "God alone is able to do that." "Therefore," murmured Mrs. Sparrow, in an equally sad tone, "you should pray for strength, Mr. Hardwick. We are told to do so." "I thought that was spiritual strength?" "And what more do you want?" replied the lady, forgetting the exact point under discussion. "Let us watch and pray lest we fall into temptation." "My dear!" murmured the vicar in an undertone, for he felt that this conversation was too professional for the occasion. "Quite so," said Mrs. Sparrow, taking the hint, and did not open her mouth for some time save to eat and drink. All the same she watched for an opportunity to lead the conversation towards such religious topics as she and her husband were interested in. This was to be done with a view of surprising the Squire with the extent of her husband's knowledge. Now she had managed to enter the big house, she did not intend to go out again in a hurry. Enistor was a valuable parishioner, and if he could be brought to defer to Mr. Sparrow much could be done with him and with his money. The table looked charming with its snow-white napery, on which glittered crystal and silver, while the dinner-service was a thing of beauty. The scarlet and golden autumn leaves which decorated the board, the mellow light of the many wax candles, the well-cooked food and the delicious wines, all impressed the vicar's wife greatly. She even felt a little angry that such a heathen as the Squire surely was should possess these luxuries, while Mr. Sparrow--capable of being a bishop in her opinion--was content with unlovely surroundings and plain viands, prepared in anything but an inviting way by their one servant. No, not content--that was the wrong word to use. He put up with ascetic living, while the wicked--meaning Mr. Enistor--lived on the fat of the land. It was enough to shake the faith of a Christian lady in the fairness of things. And truth to tell, Mrs. Sparrow, in spite of her anxious faith, frequently doubted if the world was governed justly. She and her husband did all that the Bible told them to do in the way of living uprightly and unselfishly, therefore they should certainly long before this have sat under their own fig-tree, possessing beeves and lands according to the promise. As it was, they were as poor as rats, or rather as church mice, which seemed to be the more ecclesiastical comparison. Clearly there was something wrong somewhere in the way in which mundane matters were ordered. Meantime, the Squire had started Mr. Sparrow on archæology, as the best way of keeping him off theology, and the parson was talking eagerly about a certain red granite heart, inscribed with weird signs, which he had dug up on the hill where the Roman camp was to be seen. "Near the cottage of that Spanish gentleman," he explained precisely. "I know," said Enistor; and indeed he knew the hill very well in a way of which Mr. Sparrow would scarcely have approved. "There is a Druidical altar there," went on the clergyman eagerly, "and I have no doubt many dreadful sacrifices took place there in the old days. This heart--which I shall be delighted to show you if you call at the vicarage, Mr. Enistor--no doubt had to do with the terrible rites." "Earlier than that," put in Montrose unexpectedly, "the heart was the symbol of the Atlantean race, as the cross is the symbol of the Aryan. The hieroglyphics on it mean doubtless the sacred word 'Tau.' Aum is the sacred word of our present people." "Tau! Aum! Atlantean!" echoed Sparrow, much perplexed. "What do you mean?" "It would take too long to explain, sir. Dr. Eberstein, who told me about these things, is the best person to consult." "I wish to consult no one," said the parson, drawing himself up. "I believe the heart to be a symbol of the Druids." "A symbol of Atlantis rather," insisted Montrose; "this very land on which we are was part of the great continent of Atlantis." "A mere fable, sir. You are thinking of the myth which Plato mentions." "It is no myth, but an actual truth, Mr. Sparrow. Atlantis did exist and was overwhelmed by that flood you will find mentioned in the Bible." "Absurd! The name of Atlantis is not mentioned in Holy Scripture. There is no proof that what Plato says is true." "This much proof, that as far back as archæologists can go the civilisation of Egypt was in full swing. Where did that civilisation come from?" "It grew up in the Valley of the Nile." "Certainly, but the beginnings were brought to the Valley of the Nile by a highly civilised race. Remember it was the Egyptian priests who told Plato about Atlantis. They knew, because Egypt was a colony of that mighty continent. There was another colony in Central America, and you will find the vast ruins of its cities described in a book by Désiré Charnay. The civilisation of Mexico and Peru destroyed by the Spaniards was the last remains of the splendour of the Atlanteans." "Where did you hear all this, Mr. Montrose?" asked the Squire quickly. "From Dr. Eberstein. You can ask him for yourself when he comes down." "I should like to meet him," said Mr. Sparrow primly, "but I do not think that I shall agree with a single word he says." "Then why ask him?" asked Montrose, very naturally. "To confute him, sir. What we know of the early world is all contained in Genesis. There is no mention of Atlantis there, although there is of Egypt." "What about the chronology of the Bible? It has been proved, Mr. Sparrow--and you as an archæologist must admit this--that the civilisation of Egypt extends further back than the date given in Genesis as the beginning of the world. What do you say to that?" "I could say a great deal," retorted the parson, whose archæological knowledge was always struggling with his religious beliefs; "but this is not the time or the place to say more. When Dr. Eberstein, who is your authority for these startling statements, arrives I shall be happy to thresh the matter out with him. It will be an intellectual pleasure. I get few opportunities of that sort down here." "That is very probable," said Hardwick, nodding; "your parishioners are a good sort, but not very learned." "They have no need to be learned, Mr. Hardwick. Let them fulfil their daily task, and be satisfied with the position in which they have been placed." "If they take your advice," said the Squire dryly, "there will be no chance of their rising in the world." "Why should they try to rise?" demanded Mrs. Sparrow, coming to her husband's aid. "Well, my dear lady, it is said that the common or garden millionaire usually starts his pile with the proverbial halfpenny. If he accepted your husband's ruling, he would never attempt to rise." "It is divinely ordained that some people must be high and some low." "Rather hard on the low people. I think every one should be dissatisfied, myself: that is the only thing that makes for progress." "Did you promulgate this extraordinary doctrine in the village, Mr. Enistor?" "No!" replied the Squire, glancing at the parson, who spoke. "Why?" "Because some of my parishioners are very dissatisfied indeed. Mrs. Trevel was hard up last winter, and prayed for money. She did not get it, and told me that she did not intend to pray any more, as it seemed useless." "And what explanation did you give her?" asked Alice anxiously. "I was horrified at her impiety, Miss Enistor, as any right-minded person would be." "Of course," murmured Montrose ironically, "how dare she ask for money when she was hard up." Mr. Sparrow took no notice of him. "I told her that God thought she required discipline and that she must not complain." "Why should she require discipline rather than a millionaire?" asked Julian. "She may have more original sin in her," said Mr. Sparrow, floundering in a bog and getting quite out of his depth. "Well," said Montrose grimly, "if according to your teaching, Mr. Sparrow, we all start as brand-new souls, given a set of circumstances over which we have no control at the outset, and with the same goal of heaven or hell at the end, it seems to me that every one ought to start at scratch." "Not at all," said the parson, doggedly illogical, "some are rich and some are poor; some are clever and some are stupid; some are ill and some are well. It is all divinely ordained." "But so unfair," urged Julian, seeing the absurdity of the speech. "What, sir, shall the clay say to the potter what it wants to be?" "I really don't see why the clay shouldn't," put in Mr. Enistor, who liked to see the parson driven into a corner, "especially when the clay has nerves." "All is divinely ordained," repeated Mr. Sparrow piously, "we must not murmur. I regard Mrs. Trevel as a most impious person for daring to rebel when her prayers are not answered." "I told her that," said his wife, "and she only laughed." "Bitterly, I expect," murmured Montrose; "poor soul, I shall give her some money in the morning." "No, don't," said Mr. Sparrow. "It will only confirm her in disbelief." "On the contrary it will restore her faith," remarked the Squire coolly, "as it will show that her prayers are answered after all." Mr. Sparrow had nothing to say after this, although he greatly longed to preach a sermon to those present. But not being in the pulpit he feared lest his statements should be contradicted by these ribald people. Therefore he wisely held his tongue on religious subjects for the rest of the evening. On the way home, however, he made one scathing remark to his wife. "They are all atheists, Jane. Just the kind I expected to find under the roof of a man who does not come to church." CHAPTER XIV PREPARATION On the morning of the third day after the dinner, Montrose received a letter from Dr. Eberstein saying that he was arriving in Perchton that same evening. At once the young man decided to see his friend at the watering-place and stay there for the night. He was anxious to tell the doctor how Enistor's character had been misunderstood, and what an agreeable man he was to live with. Also he asked the Squire if he could bring back Eberstein for a few hours' visit, to which Enistor heartily agreed. The schemer was looking forward to meeting the man--if he was simply a man and not something greater--whom Narvaez called "The Adversary." Confident of receiving support from Don Pablo, the Squire was anxious to come to grips with the opposing power that wished to thwart his plans. The suspense of the delay in any decided action being taken chafed Enistor considerably, and he wished to arrive at the desired conclusion as swiftly as possible. Narvaez advised waiting and Enistor rejected the advice. He had not the inexhaustible patience of his master. Alice suggested that as Hardwick was going on that day to Perchton to consult a doctor about his health, Douglas should accompany him. The artist as usual had borrowed his rich friend's motor-car, and when a message was sent to him, replied that he would be delighted to have Montrose with him. To avoid the necessity of the car climbing the hill to Tremore, Douglas went down to Polwellin with a medium-sized bag, containing what necessaries he required for his night's absence. Alice walked with him, and they left the bag at Hardwick's lodgings, where the car was to arrive some time during the afternoon. It was already long after midday, and having to get rid of an hour of waiting, the girl proposed that they should call on Dame Trevel. "You said you would help her, Douglas," she reminded him. "Of course. I should have seen her on the morning after the dinner, when I told Mr. Sparrow that I would give her money. It was wrong of me not to keep my promise. The vicar will think that I am like every one else, and say much but do little." "I don't think the vicar will think anything about the matter," said Alice candidly. "Mrs. Trevel is a heretic in his eyes!" "Simply because she won't believe blindly against her better reason. There is a great want of logic about priestly authority. With the teachers of exoteric knowledge it is 'Obey or be damned!' which is something like the reported motto of the French Revolution: 'Be my brother, or I'll kill you.'" "But Mr. Sparrow is a good man, Douglas." "I admitted long ago that he was a good man, my dear. But a good man with a limited understanding can do more harm than a bad man. There are other ways of teaching a child than by boxing his ears until he is stupid with pain." "I don't think Dame Trevel would like to be called a child," said Alice, with an amused laugh. "My dear, the majority of human beings _are_ children. The longer I live, the more I see that. I am a child myself in many ways, although, as Eberstein is widening my limitations, I am beginning to grow up. Children," Montrose spoke half to himself and half to his companion, "what else? Instead of cake and toys, we want gold and lands, and power and pleasure. Whether we deserve them or not we clamour for them, just like a child. We become cross when things don't go as we wish them, and slap the bad naughty table that has hurt baby in the shape of anything which impedes our getting what we desire. Good Lord, how can any man be angry with another man, when he knows that his enemy is but a child? But to know that one must be more than a child oneself." "Do you call me a child?" asked Alice, pouting. At the very door of Dame Trevel's cottage Montrose bent to kiss her. "A very charming child, who shall never be put into the corner by me." "You talk as though you were the only wise man in existence." "Yes!" assented Montrose, laughing. "I speak as though I were the judge of the earth instead of being a denizen. La Rochefoucauld says that. Go in, Alice, and let us get our interview over. We haven't overmuch time." Mrs. Trevel received her visitors in a clean little room, poorly furnished but fairly comfortable. She was a gaunt old creature, London born and London bred, so she did not speak in the Cornish way. But indeed, thanks to the authority of school-boards, the local dialects are fast disappearing, and the girl idly remembered at the moment how ordinary was the wording of Rose Penwin and her fisherman-lover. The sight of Dame Trevel seated in her big chair suggested the names, as the absence of the West Country shibboleth in her speech suggested the thought of the younger generation whose dialect had been, so to speak, wiped out. The old woman was glad, as usual, to see her nursling and highly approved of the handsome young man who was to marry her, as all Polwellin knew by this time. "I hope it will be all sunshine with you two," said Mrs. Trevel, when her visitors were seated. "And that you'll live to see your children's children playing about your knees, my dears." "With Alice beside me it is bound to be sunshine," replied Douglas heartily. "She is an angel." "Ah, my young sir, men always call women so before marriage; but what do they call them afterwards?" "That depends mainly on the woman, I fancy," said Montrose dryly. "A wife can make her husband whatever she chooses." "A silk purse out of a sow's ear," retorted Miss Enistor saucily. "But Douglas and I understand one another, nurse, and there will be no cause for quarrels." "I wish I could say the same about my lad and the girl he has set his heart on marrying," sighed Dame Trevel, laying down her knitting and removing her spectacles. "It's more her fault than his, though. Rose is a flighty piece." "She won't listen to reason," said Alice, shaking her head wisely. "Does any woman ever listen to reason?" inquired Montrose with a shrug. "From a man she won't; but from a woman she will. Don't be cynical. But I have talked to Rose without success," ended Alice, turning to her nurse. "So have I, my dearie, and then she told me to mind my own business; as if it wasn't my business to see that my lad got a decent wife." "There's no real harm in Rose," cried Alice hastily. "I'm not saying there is. But why she should take jewels from that foreign gentleman and make Job wild, I don't understand." "Women are fond of jewels," suggested Douglas. "And why not if they get them in the right way?" snapped Mrs. Trevel ungraciously. "But Rose is to marry my lad, and he don't want her visiting that old gentleman and taking presents." "Old is the word, nurse," said Alice swiftly. "Job can't be jealous." "But he is, and his jealousy is dangerous, just as his father's was before him, dearie. And the foreign gentleman puzzles me," added the old woman, taking up her knitting again. "They did say he was to marry you, my love--by your father's wish, I swear, and never by your own will. December and May. Ha! A pretty match that would be." "I marry Douglas and no one else, nurse, whatever my father may say or do." "He's a dour gentleman is the Squire," said Mrs. Trevel, shaking her head, "and not pleasant to cross. He never treated your mother well, and she faded like a delicate flower blown upon by cold winds. To me, dearie, he behaves cruel in the way of rent, for all my bringing you up." "He doesn't mean to," said Alice, distressed, and driven to defending her father, although she knew only too well his high-handed methods with tenants who could not or would not pay. "Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh," quoted Mrs. Trevel in a sour way. "If he doesn't mean it, why does he do it?" "Do what?" "Says he'll turn me out bag and baggage if I don't pay the rent," cried the old woman excitedly. "How can I when the fishing's been bad and Job can't earn enough to keep things going? I make a trifle by my knitting, but that won't boil the pot. And winter's approaching too. Oh, what's to be done?" Montrose glanced at Alice and handed a piece of paper to the speaker. "Pay the rent with that, and use what is over to buy food and coal." Mrs. Trevel grasped the banknote, with a vivid spot of colour on each faded cheek, and could scarcely speak in her excitement. "What is it: oh, what is it?" "The answer to your prayer," said Alice, rising and looking solemn. "My prayer! Why, it's a fifty-pound note. Oh, sir, I can't take such a large sum of money from you." "It is not from me," said Montrose hastily. "I am merely the instrument. God sends the money because you asked Him to help you." The tears fell down the worn old face. "And I told the passon as it wasn't no use praying," she moaned regretfully. "Well, you see it is. He takes His own time and means, but in the end every petition receives the answer He deems best. Thank Him, Mrs. Trevel." "I thank Him, and I thank you too, sir. Bless you, how the sight of this money do set my mind at rest. If it wasn't for Job and the contrary ways of that silly girl I'd be as happy as an angel." "Pray for Job and Rose," advised Alice gently. "Well, it do seem worth it, dearie. If He sends me this, He may turn Rose into a reasonable girl, which she isn't at present." Mrs. Trevel was about to put away her treasure-trove when she hesitated. "Should I take it, Miss Alice?" "Yes. Of course you must take it. Mr. Montrose is rich and can well afford to give it to you." "And the riches I have," said Douglas quietly, "are but given to me as a steward of Christ to dispense according to His will." He did not say this priggishly, although to an ordinary man of the world such a way of regarding wealth would seem priggish. Nine people out of ten would have considered the speech as one made for effect, but Alice was the tenth and knew the absolutely impersonal way in which her lover looked at the money. With joyful tears Dame Trevel showered blessings on the young couple when they left her house, and was a happy woman for the rest of the day. Even the prospect of Rose's behaviour rousing Job's jealousy to the extent of leading to serious trouble ceased to cause her anxiety for the moment. Angels had come and left their gifts behind them. The old woman resolved to go to the vicarage and confess with penitent tears that she had been wrong to doubt the efficacy of prayer. "Do you really regard yourself as Christ's steward?" asked Alice, when the two were on their way to Julian's lodgings, more from curiosity than because she doubted. "Yes. I thought you knew me well enough to believe so, darling. Of course when you are my wife I shall use the money to make us both comfortable, and we shall have even the luxuries of life. But we must share our good fortune with less fortunate people." "Why not sell all we have and give it to the poor?" "I suppose there comes a stage when one does that," mused Montrose, more to himself than to the girl. "But I have not yet reached that point. I know what poverty is in its most sordid aspect, and I don't wish to undergo the experience again. The most I can do is to share----" he paused, then went on in a doubtful manner: "I expect the Blessed One knew that the young man who had great possessions, to whom He said that, was a miser. He was perfect in all ways, but he loved money." "The Bible doesn't say so," insisted Alice quickly. "I am reading between the lines, dear. And if Christ gives any one wealth to administer as a steward, what would be the use of the steward nullifying his office by getting rid at one sweep of what he has to administer? It's a hard saying in any case, Alice. I must ask Eberstein what he thinks about the matter. Besides, my dear----" he hesitated and closed his lips. "Well?" asked the girl, curiously. "Nothing," answered Douglas, as Alice had answered on a previous occasion, but there was a puzzled and rather pained look in his eyes as he spoke the word. The car was already standing at the door of Julian's lodgings and Julian himself was already in the vehicle. While Montrose bundled in beside him, Alice stared at the artist and laughed at his healthy looks, for he seemed to have entirely recovered from his experience on the moors. "What a fraud you are, Julian, talking about your heart being weak," she said in a jesting manner. "You look big and strong and healthy. Your eyes are bright, your colour is ruddy and you are the picture of a Samson." Julian nodded gaily. "I feel like a Samson to-day," he said, tucking the rug about his companion's legs and his own. "Sometimes, as at present, I could jump over the moon. At other times you could knock me down with a feather." "How strange," said the girl thoughtfully. "Man's a queer animal," cried Douglas lightly, and waved his hand as the big car got under way. "I'll be back to-morrow, dear. Think of me!" and he smiled at Miss Enistor's bright face, little guessing what it would look like when he next set eyes on its beauty. Shortly they were clear of the village and spinning along the winding levels towards the watering-place. Julian, as Alice had noted, was full of life, and chatted a great deal about this thing and that. Also he asked Montrose questions about the teaching of Eberstein, since his curiosity had been aroused long since by some of the apparently odd things which the young man said so simply and serenely. It was not the first time that they had conversed on the subject of reincarnation and its kindred associations. Julian was not prepared to accept what he termed the theory of successive lives as gospel, and wanted physical proof for super-physical knowledge. This, as Montrose assured him, was absurd. "When you are able to leave your body consciously and enter into the Unseen World, you will be given positive proof regarding the truth of Reincarnation and the Law of Cause and Effect, which is termed Karma by Eastern teachers. But until that time comes you must accept both laws on logical grounds, since they alone explain without a flaw the riddles of life." "Can _you_ leave your body consciously?" asked the artist with scepticism. "No! I shall some day, as Eberstein is training me. But you can't hurry the hour and you can't delay the hour. You have just to wait." "It requires immense patience." "Immense," assented Douglas, "but if you want a big thing you have to do big things to get it. Only by living the life of Christ can you attain to the Christ-like powers. Love, purity, unselfishness, serenity, kindness of thought and word and action: these things arouse the latent faculties which, inherent in every man, enable him to come into contact with other worlds. These are the laws of the Kingdom of Heaven by which one acquires the powers." Julian thought for a few moments. "I had a talk with Narvaez the other day," he said after a pause, "and he offered to cast my horoscope. He seems, so far as I can judge in my limited way, to have powers beyond the reach of the ordinary man. Does he practise love and unselfishness and all the rest of the necessary requirements?" "No!" said Montrose decidedly. "I don't think Narvaez is a good man, although I have no positive reason to say that he is a bad one. But an evil man--I am not speaking of Don Pablo, understand--can gain some of the power of the Kingdom by sheer force of will. Christ says: 'He that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber!' So those who get in otherwise than through Christ the Door of the sheep--the door of love, that is--are the evil people who acquire super-physical powers by strength of will, and make use of them selfishly. It is black magic to do that. But those who follow the Master and enter through Him, as the Door, by living the prescribed life to which I have referred, get the powers. But these use them for the benefit of others and not to aggrandise themselves. That is white magic." "It seems strange to use the word 'magic' in connection with Christ." "The word has become polarised," said Montrose indifferently, "you can call anything that happens by working an unknown law of Nature 'a miracle,' or 'a wonder,' or 'a magical performance.' The one who performs such exceptional things, of course, can exercise the unknown law I speak of." "Christ, being superhuman, could," argued Hardwick seriously, "because He had wisdom without measure. But the ordinary man----" "If the ordinary man loves Christ and keeps His commandments and walks in His footsteps, he can gain knowledge of the power to work what are termed miracles. The Master said so Himself, when His disciples marvelled at His doings, and told them that if they followed Him they would do greater things. As you know, some of the apostles did work miracles in His name. They learned by living the life how to use the laws rightly, by means of the power of Love which came through the Blessed One." "You appear to know a lot about these things, Montrose?" "Indeed, I know very little. Eberstein can give much, but I cannot take all he is willing to give, because my understanding is yet limited. But everything will come in time. I must wait patiently." This interesting conversation was necessarily ended when the car reached Perchton, and the young men parted for the time being. Douglas sought out the hotel where Eberstein was staying, while Hardwick went in search of his doctor. The artist arranged to meet Eberstein later, as Montrose was anxious he should do so, if only to gain an answer to certain questions. The young man being a neophyte could not explain much that Julian desired to know. But he was positive that Eberstein could and would answer all questions, as he never withheld any knowledge from a sincere inquirer. In a quiet hotel, high up on the cliffs, the doctor occupied a light and airy sitting-room, delightfully peaceful and cheerful and bright. Through the expansive windows could be seen the calm waters of the bay, with little wavelets breaking on the crescent of yellow sand, and the tall white column of the lighthouse shooting up from the reddish-hued rocks of the promontory. Montrose, after early greetings had taken place, noted none of these things, but flung himself into the nearest chair, feeling unaccountably weary. Eberstein, who had welcomed his young friend in his usual sincere and kindly manner, looked at him keenly, as he observed the boy's wilted appearance. "You seem to be tired," he remarked gently. "Well, I am," admitted Montrose, with a perplexed expression. "I don't know why I should be, as I slept all right last night and came here in a comfortable motor-car." "Whom did you come with?" "A fellow called Hardwick, who is an artist. A really capital chap, who is a first-rate friend. He got the car from some one he knows and gave me a lift." "Is he ill?" asked Eberstein, after a pause. "Strange you should ask that. He isn't ill, and he isn't well; that is, he suffers from a weak heart--not enough vitality. He is seeing a doctor." "I understand." "You understand what?" Montrose stared. "Why you look tired. In quite an unconscious way, this Hardwick has been drawing the vitality out of you." "Can that be done?" "Oh, yes! The weaker body frequently replenishes its life forces from any stronger body that is at hand. You have heard it said how old age eats up youth. That is a great truth." "David and Abishag," murmured Montrose wearily. Then he opened his eyes with an astonished look. "I am growing stronger." Eberstein smiled in an understanding manner. "I am giving you strength, and strength you will need very shortly, I assure you." "You said in London that trouble was coming. But so far everything is all right. Enistor is an extremely pleasant man, who quite approves of my marriage with Alice. We get on capitally together." "Was your first impression of him pleasant?" "No! I disliked him no end when we first met. But as there was no reason for me to do so I grew to like him." "Ah!" said the doctor with a world of meaning, "second thoughts are not always best. Have you met the man who wanted to marry Alice?" "Narvaez? Yes! He's a beast. I shall never get over my dislike for him." "You must not dislike him or any one," corrected Eberstein softly. "Pity Narvaez and pity Enistor, but be on your guard against both." "What can they do?" asked Montrose, with the disdainful confidence of youth. "Enistor can do nothing alone. Directed by Narvaez he can do much. And he will," concluded the doctor with emphasis. "Does the trouble you predicted come from that quarter?" "Yes!" "Well, it is two against two. Alice and I can fight her father and Narvaez." "Don't be over-confident, or you will invite disaster," said the doctor dryly. "There is much doing of which you know nothing. That is why I am here to aid you, my friend. I cannot do everything, as a great deal has to be done by you and Alice with what intuition and strength you possess. With Alice the ordeal has already commenced." Montrose started to his feet. "Is she in danger?" he asked excitedly. "If so, I must go back to Tremore at once." "There is no need. What she has to do must be done alone, and you would do her more harm than good by going to her assistance. Hitherto I have protected her with my strength, which has increased her own. Now for a certain time that strength has been withdrawn. Narvaez will know the moment I cease to guard her." "What will he do?" demanded the young man, clenching his fists. "Nothing that physical strength can deal with, so don't get ready to fight, my friend. Narvaez will not hurt the girl, but he will endeavour to learn from her something he has long wished to know. It is necessary that he should know and that his pupil should know also. Therefore, for a time he is permitted to work his will. There! There! He will only make use of her clairvoyant powers, so she will suffer little." "I don't want her to suffer at all." "Unless she does in some degree, she will not progress." "Narvaez is such a beast." "No. He is only a man blinded by pride in his intellectual knowledge. You must pity him for his blindness and do your best to help him. Hate only ceases when Love is used to vanquish it. Calm yourself, Montrose. What must be must be if the Will of God is to be done." "I wish you hadn't told me," cried the young man, greatly agitated. "That is a weak thing to say. I told you purposely, so that you may develop faith and patience. Can you not trust me?" "Yes! Yes! Yes!" "Then show it by waiting quietly here until I tell you to return to Tremore, my friend. This is the time of preparation to meet and baffle the trouble I warned you against. Stand in the strength of Christ and not in your own strength. He never fails those who trust in Him. To-morrow morning you must come with me to early celebration. By partaking of the Body and Blood of The Blessed One"--Eberstein made the sign of the cross--"you will gain the necessary strength to stand up bravely against the Powers of Darkness." "Narvaez?" Eberstein bowed his stately head. "God pity him and save him," he murmured, with infinite compassion. CHAPTER XV THE TRANCE A man on a suburban road at noonday, with the sun shining brilliantly, walks along thinking of his private affairs and heedless of surroundings. But when the toils of day are ended, and he proceeds along that same road in a darkness scarcely illuminated by a few lamps, his feelings are less comfortable. Of course much depends upon the man being sensitive or stolid, but in any case this matters little in the present instance, as the illustration is merely used to symbolise the mental state of Alice during the evening of her lover's absence. One moment she was clothed in the radiance of perfect security and peace; the next, and a dreadful gloom descended upon her bringing anguish and distress. Naturally there was no physical change, but in some inexplicable way she felt that an inward light was quenched. Alice had never read St. Teresa's "Castles of the Soul," or the explanations of that terrible saint would have given her the key to her condition. As it was she felt as though the sun had fallen from the sky, and quailed in the dense darkness pricked with feeble lights which now surrounded her. Little as she knew it, those same lights represented the sum of what experience she had gained with painful learning through many successive lives. The knowledge and attainments of Eberstein, who had reached an infinitely higher level than herself, beamed in that splendour which had been withdrawn. But what little light she possessed and what greater light he had gained were only what each could receive of The True Light "which lighteth every man that cometh into the world!" Hitherto, Eberstein had given for her use what glory he had earned; now--since the child must learn to walk alone if it ever hopes to come to maturity--he had stood aside for the moment, so that she could make the attempt with what strength she possessed. But Alice did not know all this, and could only feel supremely wretched and forsaken. So listless did she feel that there was no energy in her to dress for dinner. For two hours she sat in the drawing-room, already darkened by the early gloom of the short autumnal day, longing to be in the haven of her lover's arms. Her lonely soul cried aloud for human sympathy, for human protection, since the higher love seemed to have withdrawn itself, and she put forth all the longing of her being to call back Douglas to her side. But no answer came. The gloom waxed denser, the silence became more oppressive, and all the girl could do was to concentrate her mind on Christ and His saving grace. There was some comfort to be got in murmuring that holy name over and over again. She felt as though she were drowning in a bitterly salt sea under a leaden sky, and that despairing trust in the Blessed One was the spar to which she clung in the hope of rescue. And unprotected as she was for the moment, save by her intuitive faith, she felt the evil forces of the house bear down upon her shuddering soul with terrific weight. She little knew how these destroying influences were being directed by a Brother of the Shadow, and as little did she guess that he would be permitted to go so far and no farther. Knowledge of this state being a necessary ordeal would have helped her to bear it; but the ignorance which made her sufferings more acute was part of the ordeal itself. And silent, unseen, motionless, the Powers of Good watched her endurance of the test. In the library Narvaez, in an extraordinary state of excitement for one so trained to serenity, was conversing hurriedly with his pupil. He had come over a quarter of an hour previously and was informing Enistor of the girl's defenceless state. The Adversary had withdrawn his protection, as Don Pablo knew in some mysterious way which he declined to explain to the Squire, so now was the time to put forth the dark influence of evil and make use of the girl's clairvoyant powers. "They are untrained, it is true," said Narvaez, striving to be calm, since he knew how much depended upon perfect self-control. "But she is so pure and so powerful in her purity that when I loosen her soul from the bonds of the flesh, she will be able to reach that exalted plane where she can read the past truthfully. Information will come through little coloured by her personality. I assure you, Enistor, as in so young and innocent a girl, it is not yet particularly strong. Where is she?" "In the drawing-room! Moping in the dark." "Ah, she feels the absence of her guardian, and is greatly bewildered. All the better for our purpose." "How are you going to manage?" said the Squire anxiously. "Alice hates you, and will never submit to do anything for you." Narvaez sneered. "But for The Adversary, I should have dominated her long ago without difficulty. Now that the protection has been withdrawn she is quite at the mercy of my superior knowledge and power. She can never oppose her will to mine, as she is ignorant and I am wise." "You won't hurt her," said Enistor uneasily, and silently astonished with himself for giving way to such a kindly human feeling. "No. Of course I won't," retorted the other impatiently. "I shall send her to find out what we want, and then recall her. Why she is unsupported now I cannot learn; but certainly for the moment she has been left to walk alone. This is our hour, Enistor, so let us make the best of it." "How do you intend to act?" questioned the father tensely. "Place that arm-chair in the middle of the room: put the lamp behind yonder screen. I shall sit here by the window where she cannot see me: you take up your position near the fire. Give me a saucer, a plate, a vase--anything." The Squire obeyed these directions and sat down as instructed to watch the doings of Don Pablo. That gentleman, taking a red-hot coal from the fire, dropped it on a bronze saucer of Indian workmanship which Enistor had selected from amongst the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Placing this on a small table which stood near the central chair, Narvaez shook over the burning coal some special incense which he carried in a tiny golden box. At once a thick white smoke fumed upward, and the room was filled gradually with a stupefying fragrance. With the lamp behind the Chinese screen, the apartment was only faintly illuminated by the red glow of the fire, which smouldered without flames in the grate. The Spaniard moved about with an activity surprising in a man of his years, and when he had completed his preparations retreated into the darkness near the heavily curtained window. Thence his voice came low, clear and piercing to the Squire. "I am putting out my power to draw her here. Tell her when she comes to sit in the arm-chair yonder. My influence and the scent of the incense will bring about the separation of the bodies, and she will go to the appointed place. You ask the questions, as my voice may move her to rebellion. Keep your brain passive and I will impress upon you what I wish to ask. You have been already trained to be receptive in this way, so you know what to do." "Yes!" breathed Enistor, sitting well back in his chair and fixing his eyes on the library door, dimly seen in the reddish glow of the fire. Narvaez did not waste time in replying, but the Squire felt that he was now radiating a tremendous influence, which seemed to extend beyond the walls of the library and throughout the entire house. Shortly, swift unhesitating footsteps were heard, and Alice simply raced into the room, so speedily did she respond to the call. She had all her waking senses about her, and was puzzled to understand the impulse which had sent her headlong in search of her father. "Do you want me?" she asked, with quick laboured breathing, for the oppression of the room was terrible. "Why are you in the dark? What is the matter?" "I want to talk to you about Montrose," said Enistor softly. "Sit down in that arm-chair over there." "About Douglas!" Alice, with a weary sigh, dropped into the central chair, near the table where the incense curled upward in faint grey spirals, not discernible in the half-light. A whiff of the scent made the girl drowsy, and closing her eyes, she rested her head on the back of the chair. The action brought her face nearer to the bronze dish, and with the next breath she inhaled a lung-ful of the burning perfume. With a choking sensation she strove to open her eyes and lean forward, but her body would not obey her will, and she rested, inert and powerless, where she was. There was a momentary struggle between spirit and matter, a sick sensation of loosened bonds, and then she found herself standing upright gazing at her motionless body lying in the chair. It was alive and breathing, for she saw the rise and fall of the breast, but she, in a similar body, stood apart from her physical vehicle, distinct, and--so far as she knew--unattached. Before she had time to grasp the situation, the library vanished, and she was environed by a restless atmosphere of colour. It was as if she was clothed with the splendour of sunset, for there was no hard-and-fast outline; no visible form: all was cloud and colour, materials waiting to be shaped by the will into something which the soul desired. The silence was like a benediction of peace. "Higher! Higher!" said the far-away voice of her father. "Seek out the past where it is to be found. See yourself and those you know, in other times, in other climes, in other flesh." There was a pause, and then came the telephonic voice again, repeating the orders of Narvaez. "Use for the past the names by which you and those you know are called to-day. Higher! Higher!" Alice again felt that struggle of spirit and matter, and--no longer afraid as she had been--passed out of her second body to become conscious in a third one. Now, as she knew intuitively, she moved in the sphere of Tone, and everywhere rainbow light spoke in music, though still she wandered in a cloudy atmosphere as in the heart of a many-hued opal. Wave after wave of murmuring light rolled over her, but there was no horizon, no boundaries, no up or down. She was in a dimension about which, as Alice Enistor, she knew nothing. But her eternal Self knew that the place was familiar, as she--having stepped behind two veils of matter--knew the Eternal Self. "Seek out the Book of Time," commanded the thin voice which directed her doings, and ghost of a sound as it was, it penetrated to her through the choral harmonies of the glorious music. In a moment everything as it were became solid, and she felt that she had dropped again to the earth. Clothed in a larger and more majestic body than that she wore as Alice Enistor, she moved amidst familiar surroundings, knowing the landscape she moved through and the people whom she found herself amongst. Then she was aware that she was still on a higher plane and had travelled in time through five thousand years to re-live for the moment an incarnation of the past. The Book of Time, as she dimly sensed it, was not a book, as the physical brain knows a book, but a state of consciousness. At this moment, when the rainbow had vanished and the music had ceased, and--as it might be--she was living amongst the living, her father's voice came for the third time. "What do you see? What do you do? Who are you, and who are those you mingle with? Speak!" So she was not entirely detached from her body of Alice Enistor after all, since a thin thread of light ran from where she was to where she had been when starting on the journey. Down that thread of light--so it seemed--she sent her voice: telegraphed, or telephoned, all that her father wished to know. The necessary goal had been reached, the necessary communication between the mental and physical planes had been established, and she proceeded to reply, compelled by some unknown influence which forced her to speak. In the library Narvaez wiped the perspiration from his bald forehead, and sighed heavily with the efforts he had made to bring things to this point. But he did not speak with his own tongue, lest the sound of his voice should reach the girl in those far-off regions and make her rebellious. Silently he impressed his desires upon Enistor, and softly Enistor voiced those same desires, while he looked at the motionless figure of his daughter reclining in the deep arm-chair. "What do you see?" asked Enistor, scarcely moving his lips, and in a thin silvery utterance, soft as a summer breeze, came the answer: "I am looking on Chaldea, far back in the deeps of time. No--not looking: I am living in Chaldea, as the priestess of a great Star-Angel." "The name of the Star-Angel?" "You would call Him, Mars, although He has a different name in Chaldea. He is the Planetary Spirit of Mars, and I serve in His temple. The Chaldeans worship the Host of Heaven, as manifestations of the Logos, whose visible symbol is the Sun. The Star-Angels of the seven planets are the seven Spirits before the Throne, mentioned in the Book of Revelation. The Logos is not the Absolute God from Whom emanated the Universes, but the Being whose Body and Creation is the Solar System. He is the only God our consciousness can conceive. He is the One of this creation manifesting Himself in the many: we are the many ever striving to return to Him, by learning through experience how voluntarily to choose good instead of evil." "Do the Chaldeans worship the Stars themselves?" "No. They worship the Angels of the Stars: the power inherent in each planet which emanates from the mightier Power of the Sun-Logos. And His Power emanates from the Absolute God." "Has each Angel a temple?" "Yes! And the Logos has a Temple also. These are all placed on a wide plain in a fashion symbolising the Solar System: like an orrery. One collection of temples stands on one plain, another on another plain, and so on throughout Chaldea. On this plain where I live there is the great Temple of the Sun and near it the Temple of Vulcan; next that of Mercury, then that of Venus, until the last temple far away in the distance is dedicated to Neptune. The situations of the temples are reckoned to scale, and represent our System." "Is there a Temple to the Earth-Angel?" "No! There is one to the Moon-Angel, and near it a small dome of black marble typifying the Earth. But it is not a shrine." "You are a priestess in the Temple of Mars?" "Yes! I wear a brilliant scarlet dress. The priestesses of Venus are in sky blue, and those of the Moon are clothed in silver, while the priests of the Sun wear cloth of gold. Each Star-Angel has His particular colour, and each is worshipped in His own shrine. On great festivals all meet in the great Sun-Temple to worship the Logos." There was a restless movement in Don Pablo's corner. Enistor, overwhelmed with curiosity, was asking questions on his own account, thereby irritating his master, who wished for more intimate information. A twist of pain brought Enistor to his senses, and he hastily submitted his will to that of Narvaez. "Do you see me?" was the next question asked, as instructed. "Yes! You are the High Priest of Mars: a big fat man like a Chinaman, with a rather cruel face. All the Chaldeans are like Chinese with yellow skins and oblong eyes." "Perhaps they are Chinese." "No! No. They are Turanians, the ancestors of the Mongolians. I am of the Aryan race, and I don't like the Turanians, who are brutal and lawless. Perhaps that is why you are so cruel." "Am I cruel? Why am I cruel?" "You like power, and desire to see every one at your feet. I am a vestal of the temple gifted with clairvoyance, and you use me to foresee the future and learn about other spheres. All this knowledge you turn to your own advantage. Oh, you are wicked. You really don't worship the Star-Angel." "Whom or What do I worship then?" asked Enistor, again breaking away from Don Pablo's guidance, as the picture drawn by the clairvoyante did not please him. "The Powers of Darkness: the Elemental Powers. Sometimes you steal away from the Temple after dark to see a very evil man, who is teaching you how to get power in a wrong way, through offering blood sacrifices." "Who is the man?" questioned Enistor, still using his own will, in spite of signals from Narvaez. "He is Don Pablo now. Then he was an Atlantean magician: one of the Lords of the Dark Face. You are his pupil, or rather his slave. He uses your intellect to make himself more powerful. There is some good in you, however, and you try to break away every now and then, but the chains that bind you are too strong." For the first time Don Pablo spoke in a quietly enraged tone. "Stop asking questions on your own account, or I shall hurt you, Enistor." A shiver passed through the body in the chair, as if that hated voice had penetrated even to where Alice was, and had recalled the detestation in which she held the speaker. Enistor was minded to rebel, but he swiftly considered that if he did so at the moment, he might break the spell, and then would not learn about the threatened danger. Therefore, he was obedient and set himself to obey his evil master. Narvaez became quiet again, and through his instrument asked another question. "Do you live in the Temple of Mars?" "Yes, along with other vestals. But none of them possess such great clairvoyant powers as I do, and that is why I am valuable to you. But you use my powers for bad purposes and I hate you. Behind you there is Don Pablo, with his dark designs, but I am supported," her voice took on a note of triumph, "I am supported by a good man, who is a priest of the Sun. He works for good, and is trying to take me away from your influence." "That is The Adversary." "I don't know whom you mean by The Adversary. But he is now Dr. Eberstein. Oh, and I see Douglas. He is a Chaldean noble and he loves me. He wants to carry me away from the Temple and from you, as you are killing me with the demands you are making on my powers of clairvoyance. I love Douglas: I want to run away with him. But he is hot-headed and foolish and will not take me away quietly. Dr. Eberstein tells him, when he goes to the Sun-Temple, that if he waits everything will come out right. But Douglas will not wait." "Do you see Hardwick?" asked Narvaez, through Enistor's tongue. "He is an old beggar-man who sits outside the Temple. I give him alms every day and speak kindly to him. That is why he is so willing to help me now." "Does Douglas carry you away?" There was a pause, and then the voice of the girl came sweet and clear: "I am in the Sun-Temple. It is a great festival. All the worshippers of the various Star-Angels are there in the dress and colour appointed to each. The Temple is built in the form of a cross with a hemispherical dome where the arms of the cross meet. It is something like St. Paul's Cathedral. But between the arms of the cross are passages leading to vast halls, so the plan is different. In the east arm of the cross there is an altar to the Sun, and the west arm contains an altar to the Moon. The great northern altar is for the whole Solar System, I think. The worship now is at this altar." "What is the worship?" asked Enistor, to Narvaez' unspeakable annoyance. "It is night, and along the roof of the northern arm of the cross there is a slit through which the stars shine. Mars is being worshipped, and his ruddy light shines through the slit on to a large silver mirror--I think it is silver, but I am not sure. It is concave. Beneath it is a brazier on which I am throwing incense. The priests and priestesses are singing and the worshippers are bowing their heads, as the Star gleams from the mirror through the grey smoke of the incense. And then----" "Have done with all this nonsense," said Narvaez angrily, in his own voice. "Tell me about the carrying away." The body in the chair shivered again, but the soul was obedient to the powerful influence. "Douglas is there with many of his slaves. Towards the end of the service, he breaks through the crowd of priests and takes me up in his arms. The priests try to stop him, but many are struck down. There is a great tumult. You, father, as the High Priest of Mars, thrust at Douglas with a spear snatched from one of the slaves. Douglas lets me down for a moment, as I have fainted, and stabs at you with a knife. Oh," the voice shook with horror, "he has stabbed you in the throat. You fall and die, cursing him. I see Douglas carrying me away. Don Pablo is running beside him. He is drawing the life from me, and Dr. Eberstein is looking on sadly. He can do nothing: he can do nothing." "Why not?" demanded Narvaez harshly, and now careless of using Enistor as his instrument. "I owe you a life. I fell into your power when you were a magician in Atlantis--in the City of the Golden Gates. You have a right to take my life, or to forgive me, as I killed you centuries before." "But I did not forgive you. I never intend to forgive you," said Narvaez grimly. "You were mine then and suffered: you shall be mine again and pay." "Never! Never! By taking my life in Chaldea you lost your power. I was reborn free from your influence of the past, and you have tried again and again to get me once more under your spell. But Dr. Eberstein guards me. He will save me from you this time, as he has saved me before." "He won't," declared the Spaniard savagely. "You shall marry me and again become my slave to use your powers for my benefit." "I shall not marry you. I paid my debt of the past in Chaldea when you killed me. Douglas carried me safely away and then found that I was dead: you drew the life out of me in revenge for what I did to you in Atlantis. Douglas would have been killed for his sacrilege, but Dr. Eberstein as his friend, the Priest of the Sun, helped him to escape from Chaldea. Douglas became a hermit and died very penitent. Dr. Eberstein told him that he had lost me for thousands of years through his hot-headed haste, but that we would come together again when the past was expiated." "But it is not," cried Don Pablo triumphantly. "Montrose owes Enistor a life. To pay that he must give his own life: he is at your father's mercy." "Douglas will pay the debt, but not in the way you wish him to pay it." "Enistor will enforce payment." "Yes," said the Squire, his eyes glittering. "Now I know why I hated him the moment we met. He killed me in Chaldea: he has robbed me in England; I shall demand the payment of both debts." "I feel the evil forces that are working in you both," said Alice wearily, "and they hurt me. The book is closed: do let me come back." "Stay where you are and search out the future," commanded Narvaez, with a snarl of fierce command. "Search." "I cannot see the future. It is on a higher plane where past and present are one," came the thin, tired voice, for the girl was becoming exhausted physically with the long-continued strain. "Go to the higher plane: you can do so." "Something stops me. There is a barrier I cannot pass. You are not permitted to know. Father and I and Douglas have to work out by our knowledge in the flesh the drama begun in Chaldea. This much is allowed: no more." "But the danger which threatens me?" "There are black clouds: red clouds: wicked clouds. You are cutting yourself off from the Life of God: you are isolating yourself from creation. You want to drag my father with you, out of space, out of Time, out of the arms of God. Oh, it is too terrible: it is too terrible. Let me return." "See the future," shouted Narvaez, defiant as Satan in his isolating pride. "I cannot: I dare not: I will not. I call upon Christ for help. Save me from this wicked being, O Power of Love. Deliver me from evil, Our Father who art in Heaven." What happened at the moment Enistor never quite knew. He saw Narvaez advance to the middle of the room, looking powerful and making defiant gestures of insane pride. Then all the strength seemed to leave him, and he dropped on the floor like a stone, becoming motionless and powerless, a mere mass of evil matter uncontrolled by his wicked will. At the same time Alice stirred, sighed, opened her eyes and looked through the dim lights to where her father gripped the mantelpiece appalled at the conquest of his dark master by some invisible power he could neither hear, nor see, nor feel. "You wish to speak to me about Douglas, father?" asked Alice languidly, and taking up her life at the point it had ceased when Narvaez laid his wicked spell upon her. "Oh!" she rose with a gesture of repulsion as she saw the prostrate form. "Don Pablo. I would not have come if I had known he was here." "That is all right, Alice," said Enistor, recovering his will-power and speech. "He only came a short time ago, and withdrew into the shadow while I spoke to you about Douglas." "But I didn't see him fall. I didn't hear him fall!" stammered the girl. "The perfume made you faint for the moment," said the Squire, taking the lamp from behind the screen. "We must postpone our talk, Alice, as the heat of the room has made Narvaez faint. Go to bed. I shall attend to him." "Good-night," said the girl, without arguing, and touching her father's lips with her own she went away. The hour of darkness had passed, and though she felt languid--with the strain she supposed that she had endured in the drawing-room--yet the light had returned and she felt safe. Enistor, left alone, touched the old man, wondering how he would be able to revive him, as this was no ordinary faint. But the moment Alice left the room Narvaez sat up, apparently his usual self. "Did The Adversary strike you down?" asked the Squire, still pale and unstrung. "No! It was One I do not choose to name. But I defy Him! I defy Him!" He shook his fists in the air with impotent anger. "I shall win yet! I shall win yet!" CHAPTER XVI THE DISCIPLE OF LOVE Next day at noon, Montrose returned to Tremore accompanied by the doctor, to be received by the housekeeper, as Mr. Enistor had gone to see Señor Narvaez, and Alice was still in bed. Knowing from Eberstein that the girl had been submitted to an ordeal, Douglas anxiously demanded if she was ill. But, much to his relief, the answer immediately reassured him. "Ill, sir? No, sir," responded the housekeeper, who was a voluble talker, "though she did go to bed early last night with no dinner and only a glass of milk to keep her up, which isn't enough nourishment for a young thing like Miss Alice. But she was sleeping so lovely that the master said she had better sleep on. But I think she is getting up now, sir, and when she knows that you are here, sir----" the housekeeper looked significantly at the young man and departed smiling, with her sentence uncompleted. She was an old and valued servant, who quite approved of the match. "You are sure Alice hasn't suffered?" demanded Montrose for the twentieth time, and prowling restlessly about the drawing-room. "Nothing to speak of," answered the doctor serenely, explaining himself as he would have done to a child. "Narvaez and his pupil were permitted to go so far and no farther. They have learned what they wished to know, and I hope the knowledge will do them both good." "What is the knowledge?" "There is no need for you to know at present, my friend. You saw what you did see in my London house, and with that you must be content to work out your present Destiny." "If it is a case of Destiny I am helpless, doctor." "I think not. Certain things must happen because you put certain forces into action five thousand years ago. But such events will work out for good or bad, as you apply the Law of Love or the Law of Hate. Man makes his own Karma, but he can modify the same to a certain extent by using his will-power." Montrose sighed. "I am so much in the dark, I don't know how to act." "You will know how to act when the time comes, if you are true to the teaching of Christ," said Eberstein gently. "But if you would only advise me what to do?" "In that case you would only gain the Karma of obedience: good in itself, but less than is demanded. Your future has to do at the moment with Alice and her father and Narvaez, but if I told you the precise reasons why you have come together, you would be hampered in your actions. Watch and pray, my friend, and abide by the Law of Love. Then you will receive the guidance of the Blessed One, who is building up Himself within you." "I shall do my best." "That is all that is asked of you and of any one. If a man acts up to the highest ideal he can conceive, nothing more is demanded. And one word of warning, Montrose. Alice is quite ignorant of the use made of her clairvoyant powers last night. Therefore do not ask indiscreet questions." "Do you mean to say that she does not know what she told Narvaez and her father?" "No, she does not. Ignorance is as necessary for her as for you at present." Montrose objected. "If you would only point out the pitfalls to both of us, doctor, we might avoid them." "These same pitfalls are the creation of your own free-will, and of your own free-will you must avoid them," said Eberstein decisively. "Only experience will teach the necessary lesson which has to be learned, and by making yourself receptive to the Eternal Ego you can always gain the guidance of the Great One, who works through that same Ego." The young man sighed again, for this epigrammatic teaching was so difficult and--to him--so involved that he wondered why Eberstein did not speak plainly and have done with it. Walking to the window and looking out at the dark woodland a stone's-throw away, where the trees were being tormented by a blustering wind, he pondered over the problem, but could find no answer thereto. After a pause, Eberstein advanced and laid a kind hand on his shoulder, reading his thoughts and pitying his perplexity. "Our teaching is meant to stimulate the mind," he said impressively. "Therefore hints are given rather than full explanations, and the pupil has to use his brains to expand those hints into the necessary knowledge. In this way he progresses, as what he gains by this system of instruction is thoroughly learned, which would not be the case if his path were made easier." "I think Christ taught in the way you mention," mused Montrose. "I remember how many of His sayings puzzled me--and for the matter of that still do." Eberstein nodded. "Regarding earthly things He spoke plainly, as in the case of giving tribute to Cæsar, because people could understand. But as they were unable to comprehend heavenly things the Blessed One could only instruct them in parables, and give hints. By doing this last He roused those He spoke to into puzzling out the meaning." "Give me an example." "The Four Gospels are filled with examples. To take one instance. When the people asked: 'Who is this Son of Man?' Jesus replied, 'Yet a little while is the light with you!' If the people could have connected the saying about the Light of the World with this speech, they would have grasped the fact that He spoke of Himself. He was the Son of Man: He was the Light of the World. But," quoted Eberstein sadly from St. John's Gospel, "though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him." Before Montrose could comment on this speech, Alice entered the room and flew like a homing bird to her nest in his arms. She looked weak and very pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and had a general appearance of debility. For the moment she did not notice the doctor, but could only weep on her lover's breast. Mindful that he was not to ask indiscreet questions, Douglas could only smooth her hair and whisper comfortable endearments. After a time, Alice responded to this gentle treatment. "I am so glad you have come, Douglas," she faltered wearily. "Last night I had two hours of great suffering in this very room. I felt as though all light were withdrawn and just as if I had fallen into an Abyss of Darkness. Then I heard, or fancied I heard, my father calling for me and went into the library, where he was sitting almost in the dark. He said that he wanted to speak about you. But I saw Señor Narvaez lying on the floor, and refused to stay. I went to bed and slept for hours and hours. I have just got up." "Why was Señor Narvaez lying on the floor?" asked Eberstein quietly, and more to set her at her ease than because he wished for a reply. "Oh, doctor, how are you? I am so glad you have come. Don't think me rude not saying anything. I feel so upset. My father said that Señor Narvaez had fainted with the heat of the room. It was hot." "How long were you in the library?" asked Douglas with anxiety. "Only a few moments. I could not bear to stay where Señor Narvaez was." Eberstein glanced significantly at Montrose to draw attention to the fact that Alice was quite unaware of the flight of time when undergoing her ordeal. Then he asked her to sit down and spoke gently as he took her two hands within his own. "You said that you were in darkness. That is not the case now." "No, it isn't, doctor. The feeling of light came back when I went to bed, and I did not feel so miserable. I was glad to sleep. And yet," Alice looked at the two men in a bewildered manner, "the rest doesn't seem to have done me any good. I feel as if I had walked miles. Do you think that what I suffered from the darkness last night has exhausted me?" "Yes," replied Eberstein quietly. "That was the hour of your Gethsemane. Now you are feeling better: the light is around you again: the life-forces are rebuilding your strength. Look into my eyes." Instinctively obedient, Alice did so. Already through the doctor's hands she felt a warm current passing up her arms and into her body, but when she met his steady grey eyes the magnetism of the life-power he was giving her tingled throughout her entire frame. The brightness returned to her eyes, the colour of health flushed her cheeks: her nerves ceased to thrill with pain, and her muscles grew strong. In silent astonishment Montrose looked at the rapid transformation which was taking place under his eyes. From a colourless statue, the girl warmed into rosy life, and when Eberstein dropped her hands she sprang to her feet to stand in the shaft of sunlight which had broken through the heavy clouds of the autumnal day. "Oh, I feel that I have been born again to a more splendid life," she cried in ecstasy, and looked as though she were transfigured, which certainly was the case. "Oh, thank you, doctor: thank you: thank you. How did you do it?" "Yes. How did you do it?" asked Douglas, also intensely curious. "I suppose you would call it a case of hypnotic suggestion," smiled Eberstein, putting his explanation in simple words which they could understand. "I have stimulated Alice's will to command the inflowing of the life-currents from the vital body into the physical, and have added a trifle of my own strength, which I can well spare." "It is wonderful: wonderful," cried Alice, radiant with unusual life, and smiling like the goddess of spring. "All things are wonderful, because all things are God. He manifests in the many. Thank Him, my child!" Alice was silent for a moment and breathed an inward prayer of profound gratitude, which was echoed in the thoughts of her lover. Then she descended to earth and apologised for the absence of her father. "He went to see if Don Pablo was better, and will be back to luncheon. That was the message he sent up to my room." "I quite understand," said Eberstein, nodding gravely. "Of course Don Pablo is an old man, and has not much strength." "You could give it to him," said Alice, rejoicing in her glorious vitality. "I could but cannot, because Don Pablo would refuse to accept help from me, and I could but will not, because he would turn such strength to an evil purpose." Alice nodded and shivered. "He is not a good man. I hate him." "You must pity him. He is not good, it is true, but that is because he is dominated by his lower self. For him as for all men God has nothing but everlasting love." "But he is my enemy," remonstrated the girl, perplexed. "I feel that he is my enemy, doctor." "What of that? Does not the Great Master tell us to love our enemies?" "But that standard is impossible to reach," said Montrose quickly. "If you act in your own strength it is. But all things are possible with God, and only in His strength do we conquer. Do not think of Narvaez as bad, for by doing so your angry thoughts add to the burden of evil he bears. Send thoughts of love and pity to refresh his struggling soul, which the animal forces are striving to overwhelm." "I am sorry for him in one way," murmured Alice. "At least I think that I am sorry." "You have every reason to be, but I don't think you truly are," said Eberstein dryly. "Because you read the letter of the commandment and do not comprehend the spirit. I cannot very well explain either to you or to Montrose, as your limitations are yet great. But I ask you both to pity the man and to hope that he may grow better." "Oh, I shall do that," said Douglas readily. "There is great room for improvement, isn't there?" "In Narvaez, as in you, and in Alice, and in Enistor. Who can afford to throw a stone at any one?" Montrose flushed a trifle at the implied rebuke, but never dreamed of defending himself, as he looked upon the doctor as an oracle to be listened to and obeyed with all reverence. Eberstein smiled approvingly when he noted how the young man curbed both thought and word, then changed the subject by commenting on the impressive looks of the house and its commanding situation. Alice was gratified to hear Tremore praised, but hinted at the uncomfortable atmosphere of the place. "I always feel as though I were battling against depression here, doctor. The rooms and furniture are both so sombre." "Every house has its own psychic atmosphere, which comes from the sayings and doings of those who live in it," explained the visitor. "I cannot say that the influence of this beautiful place tends to calm the spirit." Montrose agreed. "When I first came here I felt that it was a kind of battle-ground, full of tumult and war." "And so it is. Invisible forces of good and evil strive here continuously as I can feel. You sense them also, Alice, as you are more or less clairvoyant." "Yes, I know," admitted the girl, with a nervous glance round the room. "And the evil is stronger than the good, I fancy." "At present that is the case. But we must change the conditions and make this house a centre of holy power to bless instead of curse." "You will have to keep Narvaez out of the place then," observed Douglas abruptly. "And that will be difficult, as he is a friend of the Squire's." "Quite so," said Eberstein calmly. "I came here to aid Mr. Enistor, as well as to help you and Alice. He is being wrongly guided by Narvaez." As if the mention of his name had evoked his presence, the Squire made his appearance unexpectedly. He did not look pleased, as Don Pablo had refused to see him, for the first time during their acquaintanceship. Enistor therefore returned in a somewhat gloomy frame of mind, but smoothed his brow and assumed his company manners when he greeted the doctor. He knew well enough that his guest was "The Adversary" so often mentioned by Narvaez, but knew also how the Law of Love which Eberstein obeyed prevented hostile treatment. He therefore felt safe and indeed rather contemptuous, since he was unfettered by scruples himself, and did not care what means he employed against the aims of the doctor, whatever they might be. Yet the downfall of Narvaez on the previous night should have warned him against over-confidence, and would have done so had not the man been so besotted with intellectual pride. Eberstein knew of this Satanic attitude, but gave no sign of his knowledge beyond a pitying glance at Enistor's powerful face when they shook hands. "You have a beautiful place here," he remarked lightly. "I was just admiring the position when you came in." "It is well enough, but a trifle lonely," said the Squire rather ungraciously. "Still, I can amuse you by showing our family treasures, which are many. How do you feel, Alice?" he asked, turning abruptly to his daughter, and anxiously wondering if she was aware of the information she had given on the previous night. "I hope you are better." "Oh, I am quite well now, father. Dr. Eberstein has done me good." "I have an excellent bedside manner," interposed Eberstein quickly, as he did not wish Alice to explain too much. "And I have cheered up Miss Enistor." "That is well. She had a fit of the blues last night, and would not listen to what I had to say to her in the library." "Señor Narvaez was there and he always makes me uncomfortable," protested the girl in a troubled way. "You are full of fancies, Alice," retorted Enistor in an acid tone. "And as Narvaez had fainted you might have remained to help me. However, it was just as well you retired to bed and slept for such a long time, as you were not quite yourself last night. Well," he added with an assumption of benevolence, "as Montrose was away from you, it was natural you should feel dismal. Ah, these young men, doctor: they steal the hearts of our children." "And exhibit no shame in doing so," said Eberstein humorously. "Cupid was ever a robber, Mr. Enistor." Then the gong thundered an invitation to luncheon, which proved to be a truly delightful meal. Alice, with her recovered strength, was filled with the joy of life, and Douglas, seeing her in such good spirits, was very merry in his turn. As to the doctor, he made himself so entertaining in talking of all that was going on in the great world that Enistor unbent considerably, and silently acknowledged that The Adversary was better company than Narvaez. By the end of the meal, both Squire and doctor were on the best of terms. Not for many a long day had such gaiety reigned at Tremore. After luncheon Alice and Douglas stole away after the fashion of lovers who desire solitude to express their feelings freely. Enistor was left alone to entertain his guest, and conducted the doctor to the library, to show him certain black-letter folios which were of great antiquity and great value. Eberstein, charmed with the treasures of the library and with the spacious room, revealed himself to be no mean judge of books and furniture and ancient manuscripts. More than ever Enistor felt that this debonair gentleman was not to be feared and became uncommonly friendly with him. "I wish you would come and stay here for a week, doctor," he said impulsively. "It is such a pleasure to meet any one so well read and well informed on all subjects as you are." "You flatter me," responded the doctor cordially. "I should be delighted to accept your invitation, and may do at a later date. Meanwhile, I have business which detains me in Perchton for a short time. But you have the society of Señor Narvaez," he added, with a keen glance. "And I hear from Mr. Hardwick, whom I met yesterday, that he is most entertaining." "Hardly the word to be used," said Enistor composedly, and wondering why the reference was made. "He is learned and serious." "I don't see why learning need necessarily involve seriousness. Knowledge should make one happy, and happiness shows itself in gaiety." Enistor, fidgeting with a parchment, frowned. "Do you think that knowledge should make one happy?" "Why not, if the knowledge be rightly applied?" "In what way?" "To help others less learned." "Why should it be?" demanded Enistor defiantly. "Why should it not be?" countered the doctor swiftly. "What is the use of hiding one's light under a bushel?" "That is a strange sentiment from you, doctor. It implies vanity, as if you wished others to see and envy your light. Well, I suppose that would be a source of gratification to any one." "It is but a narrow mind that finds gratification in possessing what another person lacks. You will find the explanation of my real meaning in saying what surprises you in the text: 'Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.' It is the Father who does the works, and the Father therefore should surely receive the praise." "Who is the Father?" "In the greater sense God, in the minor degree The Ego, which is a part of God. Through the minor power the greater power works, and to Him be the glory, Mr. Enistor. I daresay you know something of these things." "I know a great deal," said the Squire in a proud tone, "but I do not interpret them as you do. If I do anything I take the praise to myself. It is I who do it, not this Father, big or little, you talk about." Eberstein quoted solemnly: "Thou couldst have no power at all against Me, except it were given thee from above." "That is from the Bible, I take it," said Enistor scornfully. "Well, you see, I don't believe in the Bible. It is a series of old documents filled with contradictions and mistakes and impossibilities." "Ah, you think so because you read the letter and do not understand the spirit. If you were not so limited you would comprehend the true meaning of the contradictions and mistakes which puzzle you." "They don't puzzle me," retorted the other resentfully. "Such rubbish is not worth puzzling about. And I am not limited in any way." "Ah. Then your knowledge is as wide as that of--shall we say Narvaez?" "No. But then he is an older man and has had more time to study. But I am learning swiftly." "And the personality you know as Squire Enistor of Tremore is taking all that learning to use for its own ends." "Why not, when such personality is myself?" "The lower self: all the self you know," corrected Eberstein serenely. "What other self is there?" "The Greater Self: that spark of God, which is you--the Eternal You. Bring your learning to That, Enistor, and you will become One with the Great Father through Christ the Son by the influence of the Holy Ghost." "Well, if I am that Greater Self, as you say, I work for myself, and therefore deserve praise for my work and the reward also." "You work only for the limited self which you know. You are not aware of your Greater Self, because it is veiled from you. All you are doing at present is to thicken those veils instead of thinning them. Are you not aware that God is the One manifesting Himself in us, the Many? We are all striving to return to Him, the source of our Being. This being the case, through life after life we have to widen our limitations, so that instead of knowing ourselves as man--as you do--we come to know ourselves as gods, one with the Great God, yet individualised for His holy purpose. Why do you seek to limit your powers, to circumscribe your knowledge?" "What rubbish you talk, doctor," cried the Squire, opening his eyes in genuine amazement. "Why, I am trying hard to increase my knowledge and gain power." "Power for yourself," said Eberstein quickly, "and by so doing you are narrowing your circle of action. By giving, you widen out to the consciousness of the Deity: by taking, you build yourself a little hut in which you sit as a very shabby little god." "But Narvaez has powers you do not dream of." "I know more about Narvaez than you think, Mr. Enistor. He is doing in a much greater degree what you are striving to do in a smaller way under his misguided instruction. Was not the warning given last night in this very room enough to shake your faith in his powers?" The Squire started back frowning. "You know what took place?" "Of course I know, and you know that I know. Come, Enistor, let us talk freely, for I want to help you, and you need more help than you dream of. Narvaez calls me The Adversary, and so I am: not so much adverse to you and him, as to your doings. Your spirit is one with my spirit, as is that of Narvaez', and I wish to aid that other part of myself to fight against the animal self which is trying to overpower it. The spirit cannot be harmed overmuch truly; but the soul can be made a slave to the senses." "Have you come here to measure your strength against mine?" demanded Enistor in a furious manner. Eberstein smiled. "If I put forth my strength against Narvaez, much less against you, the result would surprise you. But I act under the Law of Love, which gives every man free-will, and does not allow domination." "Narvaez was dominated last night," admitted the Squire reluctantly. "Did you strike him down?" "No. A Great Power struck him down in very mercy, as he was going too far, and it is hoped that the warning may turn him from his evil ways. He is my brother as well as you are, Enistor, and I wish to help you both." "I don't want your help, unless you can make me rich and powerful." "I could make you both, and you would use what I gave you to damn yourself yet deeper. Narvaez is dragging you down to the abyss into which he is surely descending. In Atlantis he lured you into his nets by promising to gratify your desire for personal power over men; by giving you wealth to pander to your animal passions. Life after life, as in Chaldea, he has made you more and more his slave by working through your senses." "I am not a slave!" cried Enistor indignantly. "Indeed you are. To Narvaez and to your own evil passions. You, who are a god in the making, obey him. Like Judas Iscariot he is a son of perdition and wishes to make you one also, because your intellect is useful to him. Again and again, in many lives, you have been helped in order that you may break away from this bondage; but you will not, and until of your own free will you elect to break away, nothing can be done to save you." "Where is the boasted power of Christ?" sneered Enistor contemptuously. "Poor soul, why blaspheme? Christ stands at the door of your heart waiting until you open the door. He does not enter unless He is invited, so how can He use what you call His boasted power, unless you will accept His aid. Humble yourself, Enistor. Say as did the prodigal son: 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' Then you will learn how great is His mercy: how sweet His compassion." "I refuse: I refuse! I am myself: none shall rule me." "Narvaez rules you, and will you bend to him rather than to the Holy One?" "I make use of Narvaez!" "He makes use of you rather. Oh, blind, blind! Already he is plotting and scheming to gain you riches in this life as he did in others, so that he may bind you the more securely to him." "If that is the case why don't you thwart his schemes?" taunted Enistor. "He has free-will, and must act according to his own judgment. Moreover, those he plots against are delivered into his hand by their own acts. One is, at all events. Alice escaped from his rule in Chaldea when he slew her by his black magic, and since then he has striven vainly to enchain her again. Montrose is at his mercy and at yours, because of the crime he committed in the Temple of the Star-Angel. He stabbed you and carried away a vestal, in spite of my warnings. For this reason Narvaez has power over him, and as, through love, the Karma of Alice is connected with the Karma of Montrose, she has to suffer in a vicarious way. But Narvaez cannot rule her." "He can rule Montrose however," sneered the Squire. "Not in the way you think. Ignorance has made Montrose helpless, as he sinned through blind passion. But he has not deliberately given himself over to the Dark Powers as you have." "I have not given myself over." "You have--believe me you have," insisted Eberstein. "And even now your evil master fears lest you should escape, as your soul is striving mightily. There are germs of good in you which I am trying to awaken. Now a great chance is being given to you to escape from the bondage of sin. See that you take it." "What chance?" "Montrose owes you a life: he is possessed of a fortune which you think you ought to have. Forgive him his sin against you, and admit that he has a right to keep the fortune. Then your chains will break." "And if I refuse?" "The greater will be your sufferings, both in this life and in others." "You threaten, do you?" "I plead and warn. But I see that you will not listen, therefore I talk in vain." Eberstein was silent for a moment, then added quietly, "But it may be that the Blessed One working through Montrose may save you yet. Great is the mercy of God and great is His patience." Eberstein then left the room. Enistor gazed after him with a sneer. "Why, I believe he is afraid of me," he muttered, with inconceivable foolishness. CHAPTER XVII THE DISCIPLE OF HATE Dr. Eberstein came and went like a gleam of sunshine. His mere presence comforted the lovers, since they felt that he would be a source of strength in time of trouble. Truly that time had not yet arrived, but the hint given of its proximity made those who were destined to suffer both uneasy and apprehensive. As the doctor refused to explain what was about to take place sooner or later, the suspense was extraordinarily trying, and only the profound faith of the lovers in their tried friend enabled them to endure. At present, things certainly went smoothly, since Narvaez had ceased to persecute and Enistor was apparently agreeable to the marriage. Nevertheless the young couple felt insecure and sensed clouds gathering swiftly in the summer sky. It was the ominous calm before the breaking of the storm, and the sole comfort lay in the fact that Eberstein remained at Perchton, able and willing on their behalf to deal with the problematic future. As to Enistor, after his one interview with the doctor he scoffed at the idea of such a man endangering the success of his schemes. In common with the majority of people, the Squire considered a loving disposition to be a distinct sign of weakness, and Eberstein's tolerant arguments only strengthened this belief. Judging the disciple of love by his own limitations, Enistor assured himself that if the doctor really possessed power he would make use of it to gain what he wanted. The Squire was not very clear in his mind as to what Eberstein really did want, but nevertheless believed that to secure his ends he would long since have exhibited some capacity to enforce obedience on his enemies. But far from doing this, or even threatening, the doctor had merely talked ethically. Enistor scouted such chatter, since he could not, and indeed would not, believe that the power of love was stronger than, or even as strong as, the power of hate. The fact that Narvaez had been reduced to impotence when exercising his evil will should have warned the Squire that he had to deal with overwhelming forces, but he shut his eyes to such a plain revelation and persisted obstinately in believing that he was superior to the gigantic power of good. It was simply a case of "neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead," and Enistor declined to believe the evidence of his own eyes. There is nothing stops the progress of any one so much as intellectual pride, since it persistently distorts the truth into what it wishes to believe _is_ the truth. Don Pablo could have enlightened him, since he was not foolish enough to underestimate the forces with which he fought, even though in his insane pride he pitted himself against those very forces. But Don Pablo had shut himself in his cottage, and again and again refused to see his pupil. And Enistor could not force himself upon the seclusion of the sage, as he knew by experience that Narvaez, less considerate than Eberstein, would do him an injury if annoyed. So the Squire likewise had to wait as did Alice and her lover. The nerves of all three were strung up to breaking-point, and the atmosphere of Tremore became more than ever insistently oppressive. To escape the pressure Alice went down to see Dame Trevel in the village, leaving Douglas to write sundry letters. Afterwards he was to join her on the moors, so that they might go for a lengthy walk before dinner. The old nurse was at home as usual, but Alice was surprised to find Hardwick with her. The artist looked like a wax image for paleness, and was seated in the pet chair of the hostess with the appearance of a man who had not long to live. The momentary improvement in his health when he had gone to Perchton had passed away, and Alice uttered an exclamation of dismay. "Oh, Julian, how ill you look! You should be in bed." "And that's what I tell him, my dear," said Mrs. Trevel, looking anxiously at the young man. "Bed for the likes of he, say I." "I'm sick of bed," said Julian, in a pettish tone quite foreign to his usual speech. "It does me no good to lie like a log day after day. Thank God, it won't be long now before the end comes." "Oh, Julian, don't talk in that way," cried Alice tearfully. "My dear, I have done all I can, and the result is of the worst. The Perchton doctor can do no good, and even Montrose's friend says that I shall never get better. There is nothing organically wrong. I am just dying of sheer debility." "But careful nursing----" Mrs. Trevel shook her ancient head. "Nursing and doctors and medicine won't do the gentleman any good, Miss Alice. He's come to me for some herbal cure, but there's nothing I can give. Only the Almighty can renew his strength." "The Almighty does not see fit to do so," said Julian moodily. "Don't cry, for heaven's sake, Alice. Tears are of no use. After all it is just as well you refused to marry me, as I should soon have left you a widow, and an unprovided-for widow at that. Until your father found me insensible on the moor no one knew my secret, not even my sister; and I always managed to keep up, even to racing you to Tremore, if you remember." "Yes, I remember! I never dreamed you had anything the matter with you." "Nor did any one else save a London doctor. But of late this debility has gained on me, and the end is very near. My dear, I was selfish to propose to you without telling the truth." "Oh, don't say that, Julian. Can nothing be done?" "Nothing! My heart may stop at any moment, as the Perchton doctor says. One comfort I have and that is an easy death awaits me." Hardwick began to laugh in a feeble manner. "I don't look like a man who is able to enjoy a legacy, do I, Alice?" "A legacy? What do you mean?" "Why, Don Pablo, who always objected to me because I loved you, has turned out to be an unexpected friend. He came yesterday to see me and explained that he had left all his money to me. If I could only live, Alice, I should be a very wealthy man." "Why has Señor Narvaez done this?" asked the girl, puzzled. "Lord knows," replied Julian indifferently. "He says he has taken a fancy to me, and that as you are to marry Montrose he and I are in the same boat, as your rejected lovers. He's not a bad old fellow after all." Alice shivered. "I can never like Don Pablo." "Oh, I don't know. He's eccentric rather than bad, and perhaps he really did love you. At all events, he has behaved most kindly towards me during my illness, sending grapes and wine and other delicacies. I used to dislike him and wanted to refuse them, but he came and behaved so sympathetically that I accepted what he offered. But his legacy," Julian shook his head, "I shall never live to enjoy that." But Alice could not bring herself to believe that Narvaez was the good unselfish man Hardwick made him out to be. "I wonder what is behind all this amiable behaviour, Julian?" she asked, pondering. "Wickedness, dearie!" cried Dame Trevel unexpectedly. "Don't you never think as the leopard can change them spots of his. That foreign gentleman is the devil, if ever there was one, with horns and hoofs, and as black as a coal from the pit. He's got some wicked design on you, Mr. Hardwick, as he has with that silly girl, Rose Penwin." "Oh, there is nothing wrong about what he is doing for Rose," said Julian, with a faint smile. "He told me that she had great dramatic talent and should go on the stage. He is willing to help her." "He is willing to make a fool of her," said Mrs. Trevel, knitting vigorously, "and that's a fact. Why can't he leave the girl alone to marry Job and do her best to be a good wife; not that she ever will be, the pretty fool. Your Don Babbler, or Pabbler, or whatever you call him, will get his neck twisted by my lad, if he don't mind his own business. All the village knows how he's come between Job and his promised missus." "He means well: he means well!" said Hardwick, rising and looking like an old and feeble man in spite of his great stature; "but perhaps he would be wise to leave Rose alone. Alice, will you give me your arm to my lodgings? I see that Dame Trevel can do me no good." "I would if I could, my dear gentleman, but you're past the power of man to mend, as any one can see." "Don't say that," cried Alice hastily, and helping Julian to the door. "It will be best for him to come to Tremore and let me nurse him. As to Rose Penwin I shall see Don Pablo." "You'll do no good, dearie, and it ain't for the likes of you to go after so wicked a man." "I shall appeal to his kind heart, as Mr. Hardwick says he has one. I want Job and Rose to be happy, so I shall ask Don Pablo to leave her alone to live out her life in Polwellin." "I think if you put it to him in the right way he will," murmured Julian. "If he don't, murder will come of it," said Mrs. Trevel wisely, and then stood at her door to see the artist being helped down the narrow street by Alice in a most tender manner. "Poor gentleman," thought the old woman, "there's death in his face, and such a fine figure of a man too. Him dying, and Rose taking jewels from that foreign beast, and my lad with murder in his heart--oh, it's a weary world." All Alice's persuasions could not gain Julian's consent to go to Tremore to be nursed. But the girl could not bear to think of him dying in lonely lodgings, so she determined to write a letter to Mrs. Barrast and get her to visit Cornwall. Julian laughed at the idea. "My dear, Amy won't come. And if she did she would only worry me. Let me die in peace. I can leave this world quite happy, as you are to marry such a good fellow as Montrose is. Oh, here we are. How lucky my sitting-room is on the ground floor, Alice, along with my bedroom. I don't think I am strong enough to climb stairs." "Julian, I can't bear to leave you like this." "You can do no good by stopping beside me. I am not suffering any pain, remember; only fading out of life as it were. I don't know whether it is owing to the fall of the year, or over-exertion on my part, but it is surprising to think how swiftly I have broken up altogether." "I never dreamed that you were so weak." Julian laughed and nodded. "I kept my secret well by only seeing you and others when I was feeling stronger than usual. However, I can play my part no longer, and anyhow it matters little. Now I shall get to bed. Look in occasionally and get Montrose to call when he has time." Alice, greatly distressed, but wholly unable to improve matters in any way, took a tearful leave of the sick man and climbed up the path leading across the moors to the hill of the Roman encampment. There, by the Druidical altar, she had arranged to meet Douglas, and as the pathway ran past Don Pablo's cottage she decided to see the man about his interference in Job Trevel's love-affairs. The fisherman was certainly growing dangerous, and much as the girl disliked Narvaez, she had no wish to see him strangled. Besides, if her foster-brother allowed his temper to get the better of him to this extent he would undoubtedly be hanged, and that would break Dame Trevel's heart. More than ever Alice wondered why the Spaniard should wish to benefit Rose by giving her a chance of exhibiting her beauty on the stage, and should desire to make Julian a wealthy man. So far as she could understand, Narvaez was anything but a philanthropist, and, although he had succeeded in convincing Hardwick of his kindly nature and generous disposition, Miss Enistor had her doubts. It was borne in upon her that for his own mysterious ends Don Pablo was acting a comedy which might--and in the case of Job certainly would--turn into a tragedy. Regarding Julian's legacy Alice had no wish to interfere, but so far as Rose was concerned she thought it would be just as well to warn the Spaniard that he was playing with fire. With this determination she came in sight of Don Pablo's cottage about half an hour before the time appointed for the meeting with Douglas on the mount. It was such a glorious day that there were quite a number of people on the moors, mostly women, who were gathering bracken and cutting peat. The blustering winds of previous days had died away, and rain had ceased to deluge the country, so that the vast spaces of many-coloured herbage spread largely and clearly under the grey-blue sky. There were no mists to veil the view or blur the outline of distant hills, and but for the keen nip in the air and the presence of frost in deep hollows where the pools were iced over, it might have been summer. Alice quite enjoyed the walk in the pale sunshine, and her cheeks grew more rosy and her eyes brighter while she advanced towards the trysting-place. When she came unexpectedly upon Don Pablo taking the air, some trifling distance from his cottage, Miss Enistor looked more charming than ever the old man had seen her. He was aware of her coming with that preternatural acuteness which distinguished him, and came forward with a gallant air of greeting which ill accorded with his withered looks. The man appeared to be older than ever, and--as Alice thought--more wicked. "This is indeed a surprise," smirked the elderly lover, bowing; "are you on your way to see me?" "I am on my way to see Mr. Montrose," replied Alice coldly, for the man revolted her now as always; "but I did intend to call in at your cottage." "How kind of you. Permit me to lead you into my humble abode." "No, thank you. I can talk to you here. It is about Rose Penwin." "Indeed! She has been telling you how I wish to forward her fortunes." "No. But Dame Trevel told me and I came to expostulate." Narvaez grinned wickedly. "For doing a kind action. Surely not." "I don't see where the kindness comes in, to launch a girl on the London stage and place her in the midst of temptation, when she could be a happy wife in Polwellin." "You talk like a woman of fifty, my dear Alice. What do you know of temptation, or of life at all? As for Rose being the happy wife of a rude fisherman, that is impossible to one of her beauty and talents. As one old enough to be her great-grandfather surely I am permitted to help her to do something in the world." "Polwellin is all the world Rose needs," said Alice resolutely; "until you interfered she was quite content to marry Job. Why did you meddle?" "Ask yourself that question, my dear," retorted Narvaez, coolly adjusting his fur coat. "I was engaged to you----" "Never! Never! Never!" "And you threw me over," continued Don Pablo, just as if she had not spoken; "therefore I tried to comfort my heart by doing good. Marry me and I shall leave Rose to become that oaf's wife." "I shall not marry you." "So you say, but I think differently. The game is not yet played out." "What game?" asked Alice, looking at his malicious face with distaste. Narvaez chuckled wickedly. "You know, yet you don't know," he rejoined enigmatically. "When you are my wife this problem will be explained to you." "I shall never be your wife." "Indeed you shall and your lover's fortune shall be restored to your father, who ought to have it. There are wheels within wheels, my dear girl, and much is going on of which you are ignorant." "I daresay," said Alice firmly, "you are capable of any wickedness. But it is impossible for you to harm me or Douglas. You forget that we have a friend in Dr. Eberstein." The Spaniard's wrinkled face grew black, and he looked like a wicked little gnome bent upon mischief. "I defy Eberstein and his silly power," he said shrilly. "He can do much, but I can do more. No one can hurt me." "Job can and Job will, Señor Narvaez. You don't know the tempers of our West Country men. Already he is dangerous, and if you do not leave Rose alone he will break your neck." "My neck is not so easily broken," retorted Don Pablo tartly. "I am not so feeble as my appearance warrants. There are other ways than those of mere brute force by which I can defend myself. Eberstein--pouf!" he snapped his fingers in disdain. "Job Trevel--pouf!" he repeated the action; "but Montrose," he added with a sudden change of tone, and raising his voice so that some women working in a near depression of the ground heard him. "I am afraid of Montrose. He may kill me." "You are talking rubbish," said Alice, startled by the meaning hate in his tones. "Douglas scarcely knows you." "He will know me better soon. I see him coming along yonder. Doubtless to meet you and enjoy those kisses which should be mine." Don Pablo with surprising activity leaped to the girl's side. "Do you think that I shall surrender you to him?" His hot breath fanned her cheek. "Shall I permit a fool to triumph over me? No!" He gripped her wrist before she could swerve aside. "You are mine. You shall be my wife, my slave, my helper, my instrument. And this is the sign of your bondage." "Douglas! Douglas!" Alice shrieked as the hateful Spaniard threw his arm round her waist and endeavoured to press his withered lips to her own. "Mine! Mine!" cried Narvaez, and the girl felt faint with disgust as he clung to her like a loathsome snake. The next instant he was whirled away by a strong arm, and Douglas was sustaining Alice, while the women from their work of peat-cutting and some men with them ran up, crying loudly. "You beastly little devil," shouted the young man furiously, "I shall break every bone in your body." "You hear! you hear!" screamed Don Pablo, raising himself on his hands and knees with an effort; "he threatens me. He wants to kill me." Narvaez was no favourite in Polwellin, but he was rich and had made friends with the mammon of unrighteousness in the village. Therefore the men and women murmured something about the shame of a young man striking so old a gentleman. They had not seen the entire episode, and even if they had would not have blamed the Spaniard overmuch, since it was popularly reported that the younger man had stolen the promised bride of the older one. "Lat um be," said one of the men, stretching out his arm to prevent Montrose again falling on Don Pablo, which he seemed inclined to do. "Yes, let him be," panted Alice, clinging to her lover, "he is mad. I shall tell my father how he has insulted me." "Insult you!" shrieked Narvaez, crawling up with the expression of a fiend. "I wonder you think any one can insult you." Montrose broke away from Alice and, gripping Narvaez firmly, shook him like a terrier shaking a rat. "You wicked wretch, how dare you! I'll kill you if you insult Miss Enistor further." "Lat um be," growled the same man who had spoken before; "um be bad fur sure, but um be old, my young sir." "Pah!" Douglas flung the little gnome away and took Alice's arm within his own. "Let him keep out of my way then. If he crosses my path again I shall rid the world of his accursed presence." "You hear! You hear!" shouted Don Pablo again. "He threatens to kill me. If anything happens to me, remember all of you what has been said." "Aye, we'll remember. But why didn't you lat her as is to be his wife alone?" "She was to be my wife and he robbed me of her," snarled Narvaez, arranging his disordered attire. "Come away! come away," murmured Alice, with white lips and dragging Douglas aside, for the young man's fury was overpowering him again. "Yes, I'll go. I am not master of myself while that little reptile is about--oh, you toad--you----" Words failed Montrose, and he walked hurriedly away with Alice, after shaking his fist at Narvaez. "You threatened to kill me: I'll remember that," shouted the Spaniard after him. "You threatened in the presence of witnesses." Montrose, walking swiftly home with Alice, paid no attention to the cry, but turned to the girl with a white face of suppressed anger and dilated nostrils. "Why didn't you let me twist his neck?" he growled. "He's an old man," apologised Alice, shivering. "An old beast. Is age to protect him from being punished? I shall tell your father, and Narvaez will never enter again into Tremore. He won't come near me again in a hurry, I'll warrant, after that shaking." "He is dangerous! dangerous!" said the girl, trembling violently. "There is some meaning in what he did. You heard how he called on those men and women to witness that you had threatened him." "I'll do more than threaten if he dares to as much as look at you again." "Douglas, he is dangerous. Keep away from him." "I don't want to have anything to do with him. He is old as you say, and I can't thrash the life out of him as I should like to. Come, Alice, you will be all right soon. You have done with Narvaez; he has cut his own throat." "He is dangerous! He is dangerous!" and that was all the girl could say, or think, since a dim feeling that future evil would come out of present evil haunted her in a way she could not explain. Had the two overheard what Narvaez was saying and seen what he was doing, Douglas also might have deemed the man dangerous. He gave money to the men and women who had witnessed the affair, and told them to remember the threats of Montrose. "I am an old man. I love Miss Enistor as a daughter," whimpered Don Pablo, "yet my life is in danger. I shall get the police to protect me. As it is, this young ruffian has almost killed me," and with a feeble gait he tottered into his cottage. There he smiled grimly when within four walls and rubbed his hands. "That is the first act of the drama: now for the second." CHAPTER XVIII THE NIGHT BEFORE Enistor was furious when he was told how Narvaez had insulted his daughter, for although he had little love for the girl, yet his family pride rose up in arms against such behaviour. Don Pablo was useful to him, as he knew a great deal about super-physical laws, which the Squire desired to know also, and in which he was being instructed. All the same the Spaniard had proved to be a hard master, and moreover had talked much about the recovery of the fortune, but had done little towards enabling it to be regained. Then again, Narvaez had been struck down in the moment of triumph by a stronger force than any he possessed, and that made him out to be less powerful than he claimed he was. In one word, Enistor was beginning to consider Don Pablo to be something of a humbug. Certainly there were the pains to which he could subject his pupil when he so chose. But that was, as Enistor knew, mere hypnotic suggestion and could be nullified by an opposing will. Narvaez hitherto had possessed the more dominating influence, but since his capabilities appeared to be shattered by the intervention of the higher powers, it might be that he could not inflict further hurt. The Squire wondered if he could make his dark master suffer by taking him unawares while his forces were weak, and determined to do so if he could, if only to be avenged for the series of petty insults to which he had long been subjected. Why Narvaez should behave in such a crude animal way to Alice, the girl's father could not think. But as he had over-stepped the mark, it gave Enistor an opportunity of becoming openly hostile. Enistor was selfish and unscrupulous, but there was that in him which resented the treatment to which Alice had been subjected. Perhaps the germs of good to which Eberstein had referred were sprouting with unexpected swiftness. But be it as it may, Enistor sought the moorland cottage breathing out fire and fury against his former friend. Narvaez refused to see him, and when Enistor, sternly angry, sent word by the old housekeeper that he would break his way in and take the consequence, he still refused. However, he improved upon his former message by sending an intimation that he would receive the Squire on the following afternoon. With this Enistor was fain to be content, as by breaking in he would only cause a scandal, which for Alice's sake was not to be thought of. The master of Tremore was a very proud man, and could not bear to think that his family name should be made the subject of police-court gossip. But when he returned home, he believed more than ever that Narvaez was a fraud, as he had not even attempted to inflict the usual pains by suggestion. The man was getting so old that he was losing his nerve, and shortly would not be worth considering whether as friend or foe. Having therefore lost the magician's dark assistance, Enistor decided to try to recover the fortune in his own way. Alice, shaken by Don Pablo's conduct, had retired early to bed and Montrose was seated in the library with his host over after-dinner coffee and tobacco. He was still seething with anger, but since the Squire had taken matters into his own hands, he could do nothing but look on. After a full discussion of the affair, Enistor insisted that it should be shelved. "We have talked enough about it," he said in a peremptory tone. "I promise you that Narvaez shall not enter these doors again. To-morrow I shall explain my opinion to him, and then he can go hang for me. With regard to his desire to marry Alice----" "Surely after what has taken place, sir, you would never think of any possible marriage," cried Montrose, glowing with wrath, "let alone the fact that you have tacitly agreed to Alice becoming my wife." "I certainly refuse to think further of Narvaez as my son-in-law," said the Squire stiffly, "in spite of his wealth. But as regards yourself the possibility of your making my daughter your wife rests with you entirely." The young man laughed and rested his reddish-hued head against the back of the chair. "If it rests with me the matter is soon settled," he said, with a relieved expression in his eyes. He thought that the Squire was talking in a remarkably sensible way. "That depends upon how you reply to the question I am about to ask," said Enistor dryly. "You inherit the fortune of my sister?" "Yes!" Douglas sat up, aware that the conversation was becoming serious. "We have not spoken about this matter before, sir, but I would have you know, now that the ice is broken between us, that never in any way did I seek that fortune. It was a surprise to me when I heard the will read by Mr. Cane." "So I understand from Mr. Cane himself. I absolve you from fortune-hunting, since you knew nothing of Lady Staunton's intentions. But do you think it was quite fair of her to leave the money away from her own family?" "That is rather a difficult question to put to the man who has benefited, Mr. Enistor. And let me remind you that by marrying Alice I bring back the fortune to your family." "I think not. Your wife benefits, but I don't." "Both Alice and I are prepared to be your bankers," said Montrose uneasily. "To give me what is rightfully my own," retorted the Squire, with a curling lip. "Thank you for nothing. No, that won't do. Until my sister met you it was always her intention to leave the money to me, to restore the position of our family in the county. I want the fortune you hold to myself, as I am a poor man. It is not for a base ambition that I seek the income, but for the sake of going into Parliament and helping to govern. I want power, I want a great sphere to work in. Without money I am condemned to stay in this cramped neighbourhood eating out my heart." "I quite understand that with such ambitions you feel the need of money, Mr. Enistor, and with Alice's permission I am willing to give you any reasonable sum you desire to forward your aims." Enistor did not appear to be overcome by this generous offer, or even thankful for the same. "I take nothing as a gift and I claim my rights." "The whole fortune of your sister?" "Certainly! She ought to have willed it to me." "I understood from Alice that you were quite agreeable that Lady Staunton should do what she wished with her own," said Montrose slowly. "I don't tell Alice everything, Montrose. I accepted my small legacy and said nothing about the matter, as there was nothing to be done until you came. Now," Enistor fixed his dominating gaze on Douglas, "I ask you to let me have the money by deed of gift. In return you shall marry Alice." "And what are we to live on?" "I shall allow you five hundred a year." "In return for five thousand." Montrose laughed at the boldness of the demand. "No, sir. I cannot do what you ask." "Then you are a fortune-hunter after all," said the Squire bitterly. "I am not!" Douglas sprang to his feet with the hot blood making red his cheeks. "So far as I am personally concerned I don't care for money, although I don't deny that I am glad my days of poverty are over. But this money has been given to me in trust to help others. I cannot be false to my trust." Enistor waved his hand disdainfully. "That is only a young man's talk. Why should you help others? Let them look after themselves." "I think differently. Dr. Eberstein has taught me differently." "Dr. Eberstein," said the other with a sneer, "is a visionary. If you are to be my son-in-law you must allow me to advise you." "I have always acted on my own responsibility during life," said Montrose sharply, "and I shall continue to do so. Dr. Eberstein knows so much about things not of this world that I am always glad to hear what he has to say." "And do what he tells you." "Certainly, in things which have to do with my spiritual welfare. But as regards earthly affairs I take my own way. Still, I admit," ended the young man frankly, "that in this instance Eberstein advises me to keep the money." "Naturally! He can do what he likes with you and the money will be useful to him and his ambitions." The taunt was so puerile that it failed to disturb Montrose. "Eberstein has no ambition save to do good, and is rich enough to execute his plans without aid from me. He cannot do what he likes with me, as you think, although I am always willing to take his advice, which is of the best. I am not a child, Mr. Enistor, but one who has gained experience through bitter trials. I may add that Eberstein's teaching inculcates self-reliance and individual judgment, so that each man may learn to stand alone." "He is a dreamer as you are. However I care nothing for him or his teaching in any way. You have heard my conditions. Surrender the fortune to me and you marry my daughter: otherwise you must leave my house and never see Alice again. I give you three days in which to make up your mind." "I make it up now," said Montrose, resolute but calm. "The money I have, and the money I keep. With or without your consent Alice shall be my wife." "As you please," replied the Squire, frigidly polite. "You have heard my determination, from which I shall not swerve. In three days we can talk about this subject again; meanwhile let things go on as usual." And the conversation terminated in what might be called an armed neutrality. To remain in the house on such a footing was by no means palatable to a young hot-headed man as Douglas truly was. His first impulse was to leave Tremore and do battle with Enistor from a distance: his second to stay where he was and give Alice the safeguard of his presence. Should he depart it might be that Enistor could coerce the girl into obedience, thereby causing her unnecessary suffering. Montrose loved Alice too well to submit her to such sorrow, so he swallowed his pride and said nothing about the conversation. As he was sufficiently self-controlled to appear at his ease Alice had not the faintest idea of what had taken place. Perhaps if she had observed her father's sudden change towards her lover from geniality to chilly politeness she might have been enlightened. But the insolent conduct of Narvaez had made her nervously ill, and she was too languid to take much interest in any one or anything. So matters remained much as usual, although the visitor felt that the atmosphere of the big house was insistently menacing and sinister. Eberstein could have told him that the conditions heralded the breaking of a storm, but Eberstein, watchful and silent, stayed at Perchton, saying nothing, but thinking much. Meanwhile Polwellin seethed with gossip. The first item had to do with the sudden illness of Hardwick, who was said to be dying. Every one regretted the news, as the artist was a favourite in the neighbourhood in which he had lived so long. The doctor from Perchton came to see the sick man, and Mr. Sparrow, always a help in time of trouble, visited the bedside. Hardwick was grateful to see them both, but was too weak to take much interest in either his body or his soul. He was simply fading out of life, and things of this world were losing their interest for the departing spirit. The second item concerned the quarrel of Narvaez and Montrose, which had been reported by those who witnessed it, with many additions. It was freely stated that Montrose had threatened to murder the Spaniard for the insult offered to Miss Enistor, and the gossips said that if he did he would only be forestalling Job Trevel, who was equally bent upon "doing for the foreign gentleman." It puzzled the simple villagers to understand why Don Pablo should return to Miss Enistor, when he had left her to philander with Rose Penwin, and arrived at the conclusion that he was a bad lot. Nevertheless, because the stranger was rich and scattered his money freely, there were a few who spoke in his favour. But the majority were hostile, since the mere presence of Narvaez seemed to irritate those he was with into quarrelling, even though there was no cause to do so. Undoubtedly the man had an evil influence, and the inhabitants of Polwellin would not have been displeased to see this male Atê leave the place. Then Mr. Montrose could marry the Squire's daughter and Job could make Rose his wife, which would mean wedding festivities and plenty to eat and drink. In this way the gossips talked and the rumours grew, so that shortly the whole village was infected with uneasy fear as to what would happen. It seemed as though the influence of the dark house on the hill had descended upon Polwellin. Perhaps it had, and perhaps it had been guided in its descent by that man who dealt with supernatural things in the cottage which squatted like a toad amongst the heather. To that same cottage Enistor repaired the next afternoon to keep his appointment. He found Narvaez, looking older and more withered than ever, crouching over the fire, moody, broken-up and peevish; altogether unlike his ordinary serene self. At the first glance the Squire decided that his master was quite helpless and sat down with a glow of pleasure to take the upper hand. It pleased him immensely to show Narvaez that he also had a will, that he also could bully, and that the former relationship was now reversed. All the latent cruelty in Enistor rose to the surface at the sight of his helpless tyrant. The late under-dog now intended to bite and worry as the top-dog had done. "Well, sir," said Enistor shortly, "what have you to say for yourself?" Narvaez whimpered and crouched still lower over the fire. "I am an old man," he moaned, "a very old man." "An old scoundrel, you mean. How dare you insult my daughter yesterday?" "Are you against me also? Do you want to see Montrose murder me?" "It would serve you right if you did get murdered," snapped the Squire with contempt; "you are of no use in the world that I can see." "You did not think so once," muttered Don Pablo humbly. "No! That is true. Because I believed you to be a clever man. Now I know that you are a fraud laying claim to a power you never possessed." "You have felt my power," snarled Narvaez savagely. "I admit that I have. And why? Because you had a trained will which you could concentrate to compel me to feel what you wished. That is a thing of the past. The Great Power that laid you low the other night has broken your will, and you are no longer able to control me." "That is true! that is true! I have had a shock, a great shock." "So if I put forth my will," continued the Squire mercilessly, "I could make you endure the pains you inflicted on me when I disobeyed." "And would you?" "I have a mind to do so at this moment. You set the example. As you did to me so I wish to do to you." "I daresay." Narvaez straightened himself a trifle, and some of his old fire sparkled in his dull eyes. "But I am not yet so feeble that I cannot defend myself if necessary. I cannot control you, certainly, as The Adversary has scattered and weakened my will, but I can prevent you from hurting me." "Well, I shall let you off this time," said Enistor, sneering, yet wondering why he should show mercy after Don Pablo's teaching. "Let me off! Let me off!" screamed the Spaniard fiercely. "Try, if you dare, to measure your powers against mine, shattered as I am. I can gather myself together again, remember; then you take care, you take care." Enistor felt a qualm, wondering if Narvaez was so weak as he pretended to be. There was a look in the rekindled light of those steady eyes which made him doubtful of his ground. Bold as he was, he felt that it would be rash to advance, and therefore he retreated skilfully by changing the conversation immediately. "You are wrong to think that Eberstein struck you down the other night. It was a Higher Power." "Who told you that?" "Eberstein himself. It shows me how broken you are, Narvaez, when you don't know that the man has been trying to convert me to his way of thinking." "Yes! Yes! I am brought very low: very low indeed," muttered Don Pablo with a groan; "but if Eberstein tried to convert you he hasn't succeeded very well, since it is only the remains of my power that prevent you from giving me pain." "I don't agree with what Eberstein says," retorted the Squire tartly. "He talked the usual weak Christianity of benefiting one's neighbours instead of one's self." "Why not take his advice?" asked Narvaez, looking up with his former keen glance. "Benefiting one's self has brought me to this. If you follow my teaching you also may come to these depths." "That is a strange thing for you to advise, Narvaez." "Very strange! But I should not advise if I dreamed for one moment that you were disposed to take the Right-hand Path. The Power of Self is too strong for you, Enistor. Age after age it has dominated you." "So Eberstein told me! But this time I have broken your bonds." "Have you indeed?" said Narvaez in a strange tone, staring into the fire. "Ah! that will please Eberstein. Of course I lose a pupil and he gains one." "No! I stand alone!" said Enistor proudly. The answer seemed to satisfy Don Pablo and he chuckled. "I hope you will be able to stand alone against Montrose, now that I cannot aid you. He has the fortune, remember, and he will keep it." "I have given him three days to surrender it or lose Alice for ever. And the mention of her name," cried the Squire, lashing himself into a fury, "makes me wonder that I don't thrash you for daring to insult her." "No! No!" cried Narvaez, and his voice broke. "I am such an old man. Besides I can still help you. Montrose has a secret which you can use against him." "What is that secret?" Enistor's hand, which he had raised to strike, fell by his side. "Montrose is already married." "It's a lie!" "Ask your young friend if it is a lie. You talk about my having insulted your daughter, Enistor: what about the insult of a married man coming to woo the girl in so shameless a fashion?" The Squire frowned and was too astounded to speak for a few moments, during which Don Pablo eyed him curiously. When he did speak it was again to deny the truth of the amazing statement. "Beyond the fact that Montrose will not give up the money which should be mine I have nothing against him. He is a well-bred gentleman and----" "Very well bred to pose as a bachelor," sneered Narvaez contemptuously. "I don't believe it. The man is honest. You will have to prove what you say, Narvaez. Do you hear?" "Since you are shouting so loudly I can safely say that I do. Prove what I say: oh, certainly. Send Montrose here to-night and I can give him absolute proof that my statement is correct." "I shall come with him." "No!" said Narvaez sharply. "If you come I shall refuse to give the proof in any way. Montrose will be convinced that I can prevent him from marrying your daughter, and to put things straight he may be willing to give up the money." "Even then," cried Enistor furiously, "I can't allow him to marry Alice. He would be a bigamist." "That is his affair and hers," said Don Pablo cynically. "What you want is the money." "I do, but not at the price of seeing my daughter's life ruined." "Pooh! What does her ruin or his matter to you? Are you bent upon following the feeble Christianity of Eberstein?" "Feeble! He was too strong for you the other night." "He was not!" Narvaez raised himself to his full height and seemed to recover a trifle of his former dominance. "I could have dealt with The Adversary alone, but the power he summoned to his aid overwhelmed me. However, this is not to the point." The man collapsed again into a weak condition. "Do what I tell you about sending Montrose here at eight o'clock this evening. I can prove that he is a married man. If you like I can get him, through threats to expose him to Alice, to give you the money." "I shall deal with that," said Enistor angrily. "All you have to do is to prove your statement. He can come alone and when he returns he shall explain what you say. But I don't believe that he is married." "I think Montrose will believe," chuckled Narvaez, and then waved his thin hand. "Go now, Enistor. I am tired." "Don't order me about in that arrogant way," shouted the Squire, "you have not the power to do so. You will be tired enough when Montrose has done with you, I can tell you." "Perhaps I will. He threatened to murder me, and to keep his secret he may do so. I don't care: this body is very old and weak. I shall be glad to get a new one." "To work more evil. Remember how you were warned on that night when----" "Go away! Go away!" cried Don Pablo in a shrill voice of anger, and his eyes flamed viciously. "I know more about the warning than you do and I despise it. Do you hear? I despise it!" And as on the night when Alice's soul had been loosened from its bonds of flesh he shook his fists in the air. Enistor did not argue any longer, but went away with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. He was more than ever convinced that Narvaez had little power left: all the same the wounded snake might strike in hopeless rage, so it was not wise to tempt the man too far. Besides, on his way back to Tremore, the Squire was filled with rage against Douglas for tricking him. To think that the young scoundrel was married and yet came down to make love to Alice. Eberstein must have known that Montrose was not free, and yet he also had kept silent. So much for the Christianity he professed. It was with a black face and an angry heart that Enistor returned home. He found that Alice and her lover had gone down to see Hardwick in Polwellin, therefore he nursed his wrath until they returned, and it lost nothing by the delay. Even then the Squire did not immediately attack the young man, since the girl was present. After dinner, as he decided, he would be able to bring Montrose to book for his monstrous behaviour. Alice could scarcely eat and retired early from the table. Julian was at death's door, as she told her father, and she doubted if Mrs. Barrast--to whom she had written--would arrive in time to take a last farewell. With the Squire's permission she returned to the dying man accompanied by the housekeeper. Enistor did not object as he rather liked Hardwick, and was sorry to hear that he was passing out of life at so early an age. But he put the matter out of his mind when alone with Montrose. "I saw Narvaez to-day," he said abruptly. "He tells me that you are already married, and swears that he can give proof." Montrose sprang up almost too startled to speak. "Is he mad to say so?" "Mad or not, he declares that such is the case. What have you to say?" "Say? Why, such an accusation is not worth answering. I have never looked at a woman until I met Alice. As to being married," the young man paused with an angry, bewildered look, "the thing is preposterous," he cried indignantly. "Preposterous or not, Narvaez declares that if you go up to him to-night at eight o'clock, he will give you proof." "Oh, will he!" Montrose glanced at his watch. "It is twenty-five to eight now. I will go at once, and shall arrive at Don Pablo's cottage shortly after the hour he mentions. Then----" "Well, what then?" demanded the Squire grimly. "I'll force the lie down his throat," raged Montrose, who was quite beside himself with anger, and, unable to speak further, he left the room hurriedly. "Is he or Narvaez the liar?" Enistor asked himself, but could find no reply. CHAPTER XIX THE MORNING AFTER After breakfast disastrous news came from two quarters, and concerned both Don Pablo and Julian Hardwick. While the Squire, his daughter and his guest were ending their meal, the housekeeper rushed into the room with an agitated face to announce evil. Like all her class she was delighted to be the bearer of bad tidings, and counted upon making a sensation, which she assuredly did. Enistor had scarcely raised his eyebrows at her unceremonious entry when she burst into voluble speech. "Oh! sir: oh! miss, here's dreadful goings on. That poor young gentleman who painted pictures is dead and gone." "I thought he would die," said Alice, with a sob. "He had no strength when I left him last night. Oh! poor Julian: poor Julian." "But that ain't the worst, miss. Señor Narvaez is murdered!" Enistor started to his feet and overturned his chair. He could not believe his ears. "Murdered! Don Pablo! Be careful what you say." "I am careful, sir," cried the housekeeper resentfully. "He's as dead as a doornail, lying outside his cottage with a broken neck. Mrs. Boyce as looked after him came on the corpse this morning, and is now in the kitchen crying dreadful and exhausted, as she well may be, having rushed across the moor at her age to tell of the wicked crime." "But is it a crime?" asked Alice, deadly pale and anxious. "For sure, miss. Men don't break their own necks." "Who killed him?" demanded Montrose sharply. "No one knows, miss--I mean, sir. Mrs. Boyce said as Señor Narvaez had some one to see him last night, but who he was she don't rightly know." Enistor's eyes rested on Montrose, who started and flushed. "When did Mrs. Boyce discover the body?" "When she got up early to make the old gentleman's breakfast," said the voluble housekeeper. "He wasn't in his room, as usual, but she thought he might have gone out for a stroll, as he sometimes did. Then later, as he did not return, Mrs. Boyce went out to look and found him dead just outside the gate, looking as quiet as pussy. And please, sir, she wants to know what she's to do, having come as quick as ever she could to tell, so that it mayn't be thought to be her fault, which it ain't, she being one as wouldn't kill a fly." "Tell Mrs. Boyce that I shall go over to the cottage and see what is to be done," said Enistor quickly, "and send one of the men down to the village for the policeman. We must communicate with the Perchton Inspector." "And what about Mr. Hardwick as is dead and----" "You needn't trouble about that. Do what I say." The housekeeper vanished reluctantly, as she dearly wished to remain and discuss the deaths. The moment the door was closed Enistor turned to Montrose with a frown. "What do you know of this?" he asked imperiously. Alice started and spoke before her lover could open his mouth. "Douglas cannot possibly know anything," she cried indignantly. "What do you mean, father?" "I mean that Montrose was the last person who saw Don Pablo alive." "You can't be sure of that," said the young man, very pale but very quiet. "I certainly called on Don Pablo shortly after eight o'clock, to question him concerning the lie he told about me. But I left him some time before nine perfectly well. His death is as great a surprise to me as to you, Mr. Enistor." "I hope the police will take that view," sneered the Squire. "You returned here after nine and went straight to bed, when you might have guessed that I was in the library waiting for your report." "I was too upset to give any report," said Montrose shortly. "Oh, I quite believe that." "Douglas! father," cried Alice imploringly, as she could not yet understand the precise situation. "What does it all mean?" "It means so far as I can judge that Montrose forced the lie down Narvaez' throat, as he said he would, and very thoroughly." "Do you accuse me of killing the man?" said Montrose hoarsely. "Yes!" said the Squire, looking at him with grim directness. "Then I deny absolutely what you say," declared the other vehemently; "as I said before, I left Narvaez in his room shortly before nine o'clock, after he had confessed to me that what he mentioned to you was untrue." "What did he mention to father?" questioned the girl, terrified at the furious looks of the two men. "I was with Julian until eleven, and when I returned home you had gone to bed, Douglas. I came to tell you about Julian, father, but you did not say that anything had happened." "Nothing had happened then so far as I know," said Enistor quickly. "My dear, I saw Don Pablo yesterday and he told me that Montrose was already married." "Married! Married!" Alice started back the picture of dismay. "It is a lie!" cried Douglas fiercely, and passed round the table to take her in his arms. "I swear it is a lie, dear. When your father told me after dinner I went at once to Narvaez. He confessed calmly that he had spoken falsely so as to prejudice my chances of making you my wife. Had he been a younger man I should have thrashed the life out of him. As it was I told him my opinion and then left him quite unharmed. I swear that I never laid a finger on him, but returned here shortly after nine o'clock to go to bed. I was too indignant at what had been said to seek out your father and explain." Enistor laughed coldly. "That is a very neat story. Do you believe it, Alice?" The girl clung to her lover. "Believe it: of course I believe it. Douglas would not tell a lie." "Not even to save his own neck?" "My neck isn't in danger," said Montrose haughtily. "I don't know so much about that. The other day you threatened to kill Narvaez for the insult he offered to Alice, and many people heard that threat, as you know. To demand explanation of a lie--I daresay it was a lie--you left this house breathing fire and fury against Narvaez. When you returned it was to retire to bed without a word of explanation. Now we hear that the man, whom you regarded as your enemy, is dead--murdered. The evidence in favour of your having killed Narvaez is very strong." "Purely circumstantial evidence," said Montrose, but turned paler than ever when he realised his position. "Innocent men have been hanged on circumstantial evidence before now," said Enistor coolly. "Although on the face of it I do not admit your innocence." "Father, how can you think Douglas would murder any one!" "Ah, I have not the belief in him that you have, Alice." "Indeed that is true," said Montrose bitterly. "You have always been hostile to me, although for a time you masked your feelings. Now it seems that without a shadow of proof you believe me to be a murderer." "A shadow of proof!" echoed the Squire tauntingly. "Upon my word, I think there is much more than a shadow of proof. You threatened Narvaez and----" "And so did Job Trevel," interrupted Alice defiantly. "It is probable that Job murdered Don Pablo." "Probable, but scarcely possible," said her father coldly. "However, I shall send for the Perchton police and strict justice shall be done. Until the truth comes to light, Montrose must lie under suspicion. Leave him, Alice." "Never! Never! Never!" cried the girl, with her arms round Montrose's neck. "He is innocent: wholly innocent." Enistor stepped forward and wrenched his daughter from the young man. "Obey me, Alice, I command you," he cried imperiously. "So far you have had your own way, but now the time has come for me to have mine. Go to your room and stay there until I look into the matter. As to you," he faced Montrose, who was quiet and pale and as still as a statue, "I should order you out of my house but that justice must be done." "You mean to have me arrested on a charge of murder?" "I mean to explain the whole circumstance to the Perchton Inspector and let him deal with the matter," retorted Enistor haughtily. "Meantime, if you try to escape you will be taken in charge at my instance by the Polwellin policeman. You understand." "I understand that you are bent upon my destruction, Mr. Enistor. But you need have no fear. Being perfectly innocent, I shall not attempt to escape." "Oh, Douglas! Douglas!" "You _will_ disobey me." Enistor dragged back his daughter and forced her to the door. "Go to your room, I tell you." Montrose clenched his hands on seeing the girl he loved so roughly handled, but he could do nothing against the authority of her father. With one last sorrowful look, Alice disappeared and Enistor followed, leaving the unfortunate young man alone with his misery. The wicked atmosphere of the house seemed to bear down upon him with such force that he could almost feel the physical pressure. But this probably was imagination, as he was not sufficiently clairvoyant either to see or hear or feel the unseen. But in this agonising moment when it seemed that he was being swept away by a flood of evil, his thoughts turned swiftly to Eberstein. In that man he hoped to find aid, but even as he dwelt on the doctor's assistance a line from one of the Psalms flashed insistently into his mind. "Vain is the help of man" was the phrase, and he became vividly aware by some sixth sense that salvation could only come from the Great Power of Love as manifested in the Lord of Compassion. So intolerable a sense of his peril seized him that, almost unconsciously, the cry for help issued from his lips. "Oh, Christ!" he breathed audibly. "Lord help me, lest I perish." It might have been that the intense agony of the moment opened his interior senses, for he became conscious that some glorious light, not of the world, was enfolding him in its radiance. It welled--so he believed--from the golden heart on his breast, as if the stored-up sacramental power was issuing forth to do battle with the dark influence. But be this as it may, Montrose became aware that the gloom was receding, that the evil was being baffled, and that he was growing stronger by virtue of some higher force to resist the terrors pressing in upon him. The radiance which clothed him as with a garment gradually died away, and he found himself standing in the common light of day; but the peaceful, holy, uplifting feeling remained. He knew his innocence, and he knew also with profound thankfulness that God would make that innocence apparent to others. The trouble prophesied by Eberstein had indeed arrived, and very terrible it was; but behind the clouds which environed him shone the sun of righteousness, and its glory would sooner or later dispel the gloom. Having arrived at this knowledge in some way which he was wholly unable to explain, Montrose left Tremore and descended to Polwellin. Here he walked straight to the post-office and sent a wire to Eberstein asking him to come over at once. He would have gone to Perchton instead, but that he did not wish Enistor to put his threat into execution and have him arrested by the village policeman. As it was, he became an object of suspicion to the fishermen and their wives. The news of Narvaez' violent death had travelled swiftly from ear to ear, and Montrose was apparently looked upon as the criminal. The evidence of those who had heard his threats against the man was too clear to admit of doubt, and already accusations had been spread broadcast, judging from the horrified looks which met Montrose's gaze on all sides. He had been tried and condemned without loss of time, and in spite of the sustaining power he felt his heart sink with purely human fear. It was with a feeling of relief that he met the vicar face to face. From a more educated man he at least hoped to have justice. "Mr. Montrose," said the vicar, who looked more solemn than ever and was certainly more stiff, "are you wise to walk through the village just now?" "Why should I not?" asked the young man defiantly. "Well, there are rumours: rumours," said Mr. Sparrow, removing his clerical hat to brush his bald head with a nervous hand. "Señor Narvaez is dead, as you know, and it is said that you are responsible." "Why should I be?" "He insulted Miss Enistor the other day in your presence and you threatened to kill him, I understand. Of course I am not a believer in your guilt," added the parson quickly, "as from what I have seen of you I do not think for a moment that you would shed the blood of a human being." "Thank you," said Montrose simply, and extended his hand. Sparrow took it with a flush on his parchment face. "It's all rubbish as I have said," he burst out with very human wrath. "And as you are staying at Tremore, undoubtedly you will be able to show that you did not see Señor Narvaez last night." It was on the tip of Montrose's tongue to confess his visit, but something--perhaps common sense--prevented him from incriminating himself. Instead, a question sprang to his lips to which he was extremely anxious to get an answer. "What about Job Trevel?" "There you are," said the vicar quickly. "A rough hot-tempered man like Job is much more likely to have done the deed, though God forbid I should accuse him or any one unjustly. Yet Job certainly hated Señor Narvaez on account of Rose Penwin, and uttered many threats against him. But when the news came of this murder, Mr. Montrose, I at once went to see Dame Trevel, remembering Job's enmity. She tells me that Job went out fishing last night early and has not returned. Therefore he cannot be guilty." "Then who can have murdered Narvaez?" "It is hard to say. Of course he lived in a lonely situation and had much wealth, if rumour is to be believed. We shall see when the police come from Perchton. They should be here soon. I believe that Mr. Enistor and our village constable have gone to the cottage to see the body. Meanwhile, Mr. Montrose, I advise you to return to Tremore and wait until we learn more. Señor Narvaez was no favourite, yet it is dangerous for you to walk about amongst my rough parishioners, as they seem to think that you are guilty." Montrose was no coward, yet he did not see the necessity of courting danger when no benefit could be derived from such foolhardiness. He bowed his head and accepted the warning, thankful to think that Mr. Sparrow did not believe him to have committed the crime. "And Hardwick is dead," he said sadly. "Yes! Yes! Yes! It is a world of trouble, Mr. Montrose. I have just seen the body, and the poor fellow looks asleep rather than dead. Strange that he should die on the very morning when this tragic event takes place. Polwellin is such a quiet place: nothing of moment ever happens here. Yet now we have two deaths: one from natural causes and one by violence. It never rains but it pours. I have much to do: much to do. Now go back to Tremore, my dear young friend, and rest assured that God will prove your innocence in His own good time. You have my sympathy and my wife's sympathy." "You are a good man and she is a good woman, Mr. Sparrow," said Montrose, deeply moved. "I assure you I shall not forget how you are standing by me." "Pooh! Pooh! Of course I stand by you, and so will Mr. Enistor. There is absolutely no ground for these rumours against you, save your unhappy threat. You should keep your temper, Mr. Montrose: you should keep your temper." "Rather hard to do when a lady is insulted," said Douglas dryly. "Of course: quite so. If it had been Mrs. Sparrow now, I should have forgotten my calling. Still we must fight the enemy of evil feelings even against those who strive to harm us. Good-day: good-day and hope for the best." Montrose, climbing the hill to Tremore, would have smiled on any other occasion at Mr. Sparrow's fight between human failings and the divine command to turn the other cheek to the smiter. But he did not smile, as he was very grateful to the man for his advocacy, and thought highly of him for standing up so boldly against public opinion. Sparrow was limited in many ways, but he had a considerable fund of common sense, which he used to the best advantage. He followed his Master as best he knew how and was very close to Him in his present attitude, which was one few men would have assumed in the face of such hostility. Montrose determined that when his innocence was assured he would repay the vicar in one way or another. Meanwhile he had to deal strenuously with his very disagreeable situation. After midday Enistor returned and requested an interview with his guest in the library. The young man appeared, looking haggard and anxious, which was very natural considering the dangerous position in which he stood. Also he was angry at not seeing Alice, for by Enistor's orders she was not allowed out of her bedroom, the housekeeper being on guard. Douglas insisted that he should be permitted to have a conversation with the girl. "You have no right to keep us apart," said Montrose indignantly. "Until you clear your character I have," said Enistor coldly. "But you don't think that I am guilty: you can't think so. Why, even Mr. Sparrow, whom you say is narrow-minded, does not believe that I killed Narvaez." "Mr. Sparrow does not know of your visit to the cottage last night. Nor does any one but myself and my daughter. The Perchton Inspector came with several policemen and has examined the cottage and the body, and Mrs. Boyce, who looked after things for Narvaez. She declares that someone called last night, but could not say who it was." "Perhaps Job Trevel?" "Job went out fishing last night early and has not returned. Rose was with her mother all day and all night. Neither of these two can be guilty. And from your open threats it is said that you struck the blow, or rather broke the man's neck." "I am not strong enough to do that," said Montrose, looking at his hands. "Rage can make any one strong," said Enistor coolly. "And as you had every reason to be in a rage, seeing that Narvaez told what I believe was a wicked lie, you may have handled him too roughly." "I did not handle him at all. How dare you say so!" "Don't dare me too far, Montrose, or you may suffer. As it is I have a proposition to make to you. Only Alice and I and you know of your visit to the cottage last night. Alice because she loves you will hold her tongue. I am willing to do so also, if you will make over the fortune by deed of gift to me straightaway. Narvaez' lawyer from Perchton came with the police, as it seems my dead friend has left his money to Hardwick for some reason. It is a vain gift, as Hardwick is also dead. However, that is not the point. What I mean is that this lawyer can make out the deed of gift to-day and you can sign it. Then I shall hold my tongue." "And if I refuse?" asked Montrose, seeing himself placed perilously between the devil and the deep sea. "I shall then tell how you visited Narvaez last night, and I need hardly inform you that such an action coupled with your previous threats will bring you within reasonable distance of the hangman's noose." Montrose nodded and swallowed, as his mouth and throat were very dry. "I see my danger. All the same I decline to give you the money." "Then you must take the consequence." "I am ready to do so. And I give you the credit of not believing in my guilt or you would scarcely compound a felony." "You don't know what I would do or what I would not do," said Enistor coolly, "as you know little of my character. But you are in my power to hang, and hanged you shall be unless you surrender the money. I don't think," ended the man with a sneer, "that your dear friend Eberstein can aid you in this dilemma. What do you think yourself?" "I think nothing about it," rejoined Montrose decisively. "I have wired to Dr. Eberstein to come over, but----" "But he has not yet put in an appearance," interrupted the Squire, with a harsh laugh. "And he never will." "I disagree. When he knows of my peril he will come." "He knows of your peril without your telling him, if he is the wonderful man you have made him out to be. However, this is an unprofitable discussion. The question is, will you give me the money to save your neck?" "No!" said Montrose obstinately. "I shall give you until six o'clock to decide," replied the Squire calmly. "And then, if you still refuse, I shall inform the Inspector about your visit to Narvaez last night. That will mean your immediate arrest and subsequent punishment." "It will mean the first undoubtedly, but I may escape the second. I trust in God to prove my innocence." "The age of miracles is past," said Enistor with a shrug, and left the library to again interview the Inspector. Montrose remained where he was wondering why Eberstein did not either come over to help him, or at least reply to his wire. Enistor's taunt was surely true, for the young man had sufficient knowledge of Eberstein's wonderful powers to be certain he was aware of all that had taken place. With his ability to procure super-physical knowledge, he probably knew who had murdered Narvaez, so he would surely come to the rescue. But an hour passed and the shadows began to deepen without any information. Montrose began to feel his spirits sink, and again tried to invoke the helpful power which had aided him before, but without success. He felt desperately angry against the Squire for behaving so wickedly, and resented the hate directed against him. "Hate only ceases by love," as Eberstein had said, but how could he love, or even tolerate, a man who was bent upon encompassing his destruction. Montrose asked himself this question several times without getting any reply, and was well nigh in despair, when an interruption came. This was none other than the unexpected appearance of Alice. "Oh, my dear, my dear," she cried, hastening across the shadowy room to throw herself into his longing arms. "I have been broken-hearted over you, but I could not get out to see you. Father came some time ago and said that I could try to persuade you to give up the money." "And what do you say?" Montrose asked her softly. "Give it up: give it up. What does this miserable money matter?" "I care nothing for the money as you well know. But Eberstein told me to keep it, and I obey him in this as I obey him in all things." "But why hasn't he come to help you?" sobbed the girl, trembling. "He will come: he will do something. I have every confidence in him. Remember how he prophesied this woe, and said that we had to learn to walk alone. I can't believe that one who has helped me so much will desert me in my hour of need. Depend upon it, Alice, all will be well. What have you got here?" "It is the Bible," she offered him the book. "I have been trying to find comfort in it. But I can't: I can't. Everything seems to be against us." "Eberstein said that it would be," replied her lover gloomily, "and he has proved himself a true prophet. However, we can only wait and let your father do what he wants to do. I refuse to buy my safety by giving up the money." "But why not?" "Because such a surrender would be tantamount to my admitting guilt. Since Job can prove an alibi I don't know who murdered Narvaez, but I know my own innocence, and am prepared to face the worst." "Then--then--" faltered Alice with white lips, "there is the danger that you may be condemned. Oh, Douglas, if my father reveals your visit, the evidence is so strong against you. Why not hide until we can find out the truth?" "Would you have me sneak away like a cur?" cried the young man in high anger. "No. I am innocent and therefore can meet my accusers with a calm mind." "But the evidence is so strong," pleaded Alice again. "If we can only get time to learn the truth there will be some chance of proving that evidence false." "How can we get time?" "You must hide, and meanwhile I shall see Dr. Eberstein and search for the person who is guilty. Oh, if Julian were only alive," moaned Alice, clasping her hands, "he would help. But he is dead: dead, and we have no friends to help us in any way." "We have God, and Eberstein who is a servant of God," said Montrose tenderly. "Dearest, I must have faith and so must you. Besides, even if I did hide I know of no place where I could be concealed." "I do," said Alice eagerly, and thinking that this speech was a sign of yielding. "There is a cave in the cliffs some distance away from the jetty where the boats go out for the fishing. I could guide you there and you could take provisions and candles and something to drink. There you could wait until things grew quiet, and with Dr. Eberstein I could find out the truth." "The cave would be discovered." "No. I have thought of that. No one but I knows of the cave--at least I fancy so. I found it one day by chance. And no one would ever think of looking for you there. They would never think you had taken refuge in a cave." "My dear, I can't admit guilt by running away." "If you don't, my father will destroy you." This was true enough, and undoubtedly Enistor would press on the charge as strongly as possible. Montrose wavered. "It might be reasonable to gain the delay," he muttered. "Oh, I wish Eberstein were here to advise." As if in answer to his speech, one of the servants entered with a telegram, which proved to be from the doctor. Montrose opened it when the maid had left the room, and found the message rather cryptic: also unsigned, save by the initial "E." It ran: "Matthew x. 23, twelve words!" "Look up the text, Alice," said the young man eagerly. The girl, luckily having the Bible with her, rapidly skimmed over the leaves and took the book to the window to read the small print in the fast-failing light. "But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another," she read slowly, and would have continued the verse, but that her lover stopped her with a gesture. "Those are the twelve words," he said, folding up the telegram. "The rest of the verse doesn't matter. So Eberstein wants me to fly. I wonder why," and he looked woefully disappointed. "Take his advice," said Alice eagerly, and glad that such a powerful opinion backed her up. "You always obey him, you know." "Yes. All the same I did not think he would tell me to sneak away. It seems to be cowardly: it seems like admitting guilt." "I said in London that I believed in Dr. Eberstein and I say the same now, Douglas," was Alice's decided answer. "He knows more than we do about things, as he prophesied that we should have trouble. Do what he says." Montrose frowned and bit his lip, for his faith in the doctor was being sorely tried. He never expected to get advice coinciding with that of Alice. And the idea of flight was opposed to his sense of manhood. All the same there was no sense in being heedlessly rash, and undoubtedly Eberstein must have some powerful reason to telegraph as he had done. Alice watched his changing face eagerly and inwardly prayed that he might yield. She saw no safety for the present but in flight. Finally with a sigh he took her face between his two hands and kissed her. "I shall go to your cave," he murmured, but winced at such resignation to what he regarded as an ignoble course. The two put the plan into execution at once and stole away across the moor into the gathering night after certain preparations. In the space of an hour Alice regained her room, and was apparently innocent of what had taken place. But Douglas was safe in the unknown cave with a scanty store of food, and wine, and a few candles. "Gone," said Enistor furiously. "Then he is guilty after all." CHAPTER XX THE UNEXPECTED As Montrose had stated to Alice, his flight was looked upon as a tacit admission of guilt. Up to that moment Enistor had not been quite certain that Douglas was the culprit, as the young man had never given him the impression that he was one likely to proceed to such extremities. But this sudden disappearance could only mean that he had done so, therefore Enistor very naturally concluded that Montrose had been infuriated by Don Pablo's bitter tongue into revenging himself hastily. Probably he now regretted that haste, but whether he did so or not mattered little to the Squire. All that the master of Tremore knew was that his enemy was now at his mercy, and he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity. His first step was to inform the Perchton Inspector of that fatal visit to the cottage. Then, very speedily, the hue and cry was out, and for miles round the police explored the country. There was no doubt in any one's mind as to the actual truth. The threats of Montrose, his presence at the cottage at the time when the crime had taken place, and now the unexpected disappearance--these things showed that Douglas and none other was the guilty person. The next day every one was searching far and wide for the criminal, and Enistor was so vindictive that he offered a reward he could ill afford for the capture of the unfortunate young man. This he did to gratify the hatred which had existed for many incarnations, and also because he believed that when Montrose found it was impossible to escape the gallows, he would make over his wrongfully inherited money to Alice. And once Alice was in possession of the income, her father felt convinced that he would be able to handle the same. It was a very plausible plan, and Enistor worked hard to carry it out. As Alice had come and gone in the space of an hour, and her absence had not been noticed, save by the housekeeper, the Squire was far from suspecting that his daughter had organised the flight and selected the hiding-place. As to the housekeeper, she was quite on the side of the lovers, since she did not believe for one moment that a nice young gentleman like Montrose had so vilely murdered Don Pablo. Therefore she procured the food and wine and the candles which Montrose had taken with him, and also promised to hold her tongue in spite of all temptation. Alice trusted her, and she was right to do so, for the woman was perfectly staunch. Moreover the girl was glad to have some one to whom she could talk freely. During those dark days she saw little of her father, but remained in her bedroom praying constantly for the safety of her lover. It was a terrible ordeal for one so young and delicate and friendless, but Alice felt that she was being supported by the Master of Love, and that out of sorrow would come enduring joy. Mrs. Sparrow came to see her, and the narrow-minded grey woman proved to be unusually sympathetic. Neither she nor her husband could bring themselves to believe that Douglas was guilty, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, and for this loyal support Alice was duly grateful. Of course the vicar's wife was excessively aggravating with her platitudes, which did not give much comfort. "All is for the best!" "We must not murmur at the rod!" "It is for your good that you suffer!"--these cut-and-dried phrases dropped incessantly from Mrs. Sparrow's prim lips, and wrought on Alice's nerves to such an extent that sometimes she could have screamed. But knowing that the grey woman meant well, and appreciating her defence of Montrose, the girl controlled her feelings, and accepted these exasperating condolences as genuine, which they assuredly were. But she longed for the presence of Dr. Eberstein and wondered why he did not put in an appearance. Yet he remained absent and silent, not even sending a letter to comfort her in trouble. Still Alice had such a belief in the man that she did not resent his apparent neglect. All the same, her faith was being sorely tried. Job Trevel did not return. According to his mother he had gone away in his boat to the fishing-grounds at six o'clock on the evening of the murder. No one therefore could suspect that he had anything to do with the matter, but the Polwellin folk wondered at his absence. Rose could give no explanation, as the death of her patron caused her so much grief that she took to her bed. There was no chance now that she would go to London and appear on the stage, and beyond possessing some jewels and a few articles of costly clothing, she had benefited little by Don Pablo's sinister friendship. She would not even have his name mentioned, and now that the man was dead both Dame Trevel and Mrs. Penwin hoped that Rose would marry Job and settle down. The gaudy bubble blown by Narvaez had burst, and the disappointed beauty had to do the best she could. Therefore, she and the two old women looked forward to the return of Job as the best thing that could happen to put the crooked straight. And as the weather had been stormy, it was presumed that Job had been driven for shelter into some distant cove, whence he would come back in due time. Polwellin was quite excited over the tragic events which had taken place, and the village was in a ferment over the possibility of this person and that gaining the reward offered by the Squire. But although every acre of the moorland was searched the fugitive could not be discovered. It was over forty-eight hours before the first clue was found, and that clue came from a quarter least expected. Also it was given to the man who most wanted to learn the whereabouts of Montrose, on the second day after the commission of the crime. Enistor was the man, and Mr. Sparrow was the person who put him into communication with the individual who afforded the desired information. "The most wonderful thing has happened, Mr. Enistor," said the vicar, entering the library on the afternoon of the second day. "The age of miracles is not yet past, my dear friend." Enistor scowled. He did not like to be called a dear friend by the parson, as he thought the man was an ass, and he was quite sure in his own mind that miracles were all rubbish. He told Mr. Sparrow as much. "This isn't Palestine to be gulled by such things, and we live in a scientific era." "In a very godless era," said the vicar in a tone of reproof. "And I only hope that the wonderful thing that has happened will convert those who do not believe in an Almighty Being to a more reverent frame of mind." This was a hit at the Squire, who was looked upon as an atheist by Mr. Sparrow. But Enistor did not take up the challenge. "What is your miracle?" "Mr. Hardwick is alive." "What?" the Squire could not but feel startled at the announcement. "Ah, I thought you would be amazed," said Mr. Sparrow complacently. "Wonderful are the works of God and----" "Oh, hang your platitudes! You talk rubbish. Why, you told me yourself that Hardwick was dead." "I did. I saw him lying dead on his bed, and mentioned to Mr. Montrose that he looked as though he were asleep. It might be a case of suspended animation," continued Mr. Sparrow, brushing his bald head thoughtfully, "something of a cataleptic nature it may be." "Well? Well? Well? Go on." "There is nothing further to say, Mr. Enistor. The presumed dead man revived this morning and is now as well as you or I. I was sent for immediately by the landlady and called to express my astonishment. I have telegraphed for the Perchton doctor who deposed to the death. He will be amazed to learn what has taken place. Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful!" "It is no doubt a case of catalepsy as you say," growled the Squire, turning to his desk again. "A good thing for Hardwick that he wasn't buried alive. Now he can enjoy Narvaez' fortune and have a good time." "I hope he will be a good man, seeing that he has been raised from the dead like Lazarus. Not that Mr. Hardwick was bad. Indeed I always thought that he had signs of grace about him. Well! Well! His resurrection gives me a text for next Sunday. I thought you would be pleased." "I am not pleased and I am not sorry," retorted Enistor. "Hardwick is a nonentity and is nothing to me." "I thought you were friends, Mr. Enistor. He asks to see you, saying that he is sure you will come down to him at once." "He presumes too much. I have quite enough to do in searching for this scoundrel who murdered my dear friend." "I don't believe he did," said Sparrow decidedly. "Mr. Montrose is not the man to shed blood." "He didn't," said the Squire grimly, "he broke the man's neck. And if he did not murder Narvaez, who did? Not Job Trevel, who was the other person who uttered threats." "It is a great mystery," sighed the vicar, putting on his hat. "Like this confounded resurrection of Hardwick. Why the deuce couldn't he stay in the next world after taking the trouble to go there? He's not much use in this one so far as I can see." "Question not the decrees of the Almighty," said Mr. Sparrow rebukingly. "But there: I am speaking to a deaf adder. May I see Miss Enistor to comfort her and offer up a prayer in her present sorrow?" "Yes. She's moping in her room and behaving like a fool. Offer up what prayers you like: they won't do any good. It is all her folly in getting engaged to that young criminal that has brought things to this pass." "Mr. Montrose is innocent," said Sparrow obstinately, "and in due time God will prove his innocence. I wish you a softer heart, Mr. Enistor, and good-day," and the worthy parson stalked out of the room to seek Alice and console her. Enistor did not resume his work immediately. It had to do with the disappearance of Montrose, as he was writing to the Perchton Inspector. Before the entrance of Sparrow with his wonderful news, the work had seemed very important, but now Enistor felt inclined to lay it aside and seek the lodgings of the artist. Certainly it was wonderful that Hardwick should recover, after he had been lying dead--as the doctor insisted--for so long a time. Undoubtedly it was a case of catalepsy, and Enistor felt curious to see the man who had been so nearly buried alive. His sister was due the next day to see about the funeral, and Enistor laughed when he thought how the frivolous little woman would be surprised. Disappointed also it might be, as she, being the next of kin, would have enjoyed Narvaez' money had her brother really passed away. It was all very strange, and after a moment's hesitation the Squire put on his cap and walked down to Polwellin. He would see for himself what had taken place, and would question Hardwick concerning what he had seen during his trance. For trance it was the Squire felt sure, and the recovery--in his opinion--was a perfectly natural one. There was quite a crowd round the lodging, and Hardwick's landlady was recounting her feelings when the dead man had come to life. She certainly looked as though she had sustained a shock, and seemed rather disappointed that there was to be no funeral. Enistor listened grimly to her incoherent explanations, then pushed his way into the house and sought the artist's sitting-room. He found Hardwick dressed in his usual clothes and presenting an unusually vigorous appearance. His face was more highly coloured, his eyes were full of fire, and he moved about with the swift grace of a panther, alert, vital, impetuously and wonderfully alive. Enistor stared in amazement at the sight. Never had he seen before so splendid and powerful a man, or one so charged with life-force. "Dying seems to have done you good, Hardwick," he observed dryly. "It looks like it," replied the other, and although he spoke in his usual mellow voice, the Squire pricked up his ears and looked at him inquiringly. The tone was more imperious than that ordinarily used by Hardwick, and had in it a dominant, crushing quality which startled the visitor. The two men stared hard at one another. Hardwick took up his position on the hearth-rug, leaning easily against the mantelpiece, while Enistor took possession of a deep arm-chair near the window. The door was closed, as was the window, so they were quite alone; entirely free from observation and eavesdropping. The Squire felt that in spite of Hardwick's late cataleptic trance the artist was more alive than he was, since wave after wave of powerful animal vitality seemed to emanate from him and fill the little room. Then Enistor cried out with sudden terror. He had reason to do so. Every nerve in his body was aching with agony, and every muscle was twisted with pain. Some force ran through his frame like fire, excruciating, insistent and terrible. He could not rise from the chair, he could not even move a finger, but lay where he was inert and helpless, with that devouring flame tormenting him to madness. And indeed Enistor wondered why he did not go mad with the frenzy of pain, while Hardwick smiled on him quietly and calmly and unwinkingly, like an avenging god. After that one cry the miserable man uttered no other. He felt that it would be useless to protest in any weak human way. He was in the grip of a tremendous force and as helpless as a fly in the claws of a spider. "I don't think you will taunt me any more with the loss of my power," said Hardwick suavely. "I am a fraud, am I? my will has been shattered? Eh? How do you like that, my dear friend?" and again there came another surge of the biting fire, which caused the perspiration to break out on Enistor's forehead. "Who--who--who are you?" stammered the Squire brokenly. He was beginning to have an inkling of the appalling truth, for he well knew that only one man--if man he were--could exercise such devilish power. "I think you can tell me that." "Narvaez!" "Exactly!" The magician withdrew his intense gaze, and loosened his victim from the bonds of torment, then sat down quietly, smiling and bland. "I think you have had enough proof." Enistor feebly moved his limbs and wiped his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief. His mouth was so dry that he could scarcely speak, and he thankfully poured out a glass of water from a carafe which was on the table. As he drank, a delicious sense of freedom from pain passed through him, and he knew that the man lounging in the chair was curing what he had hurt. "I have had enough proof," gasped Enistor, setting down the empty glass. "You are Don Pablo in Hardwick's body." "Yes! I am very well satisfied with my new suit of clothes," said the other, looking at his limbs complacently. "Hardwick's retiring soul left its earthly vehicle in good order. The organs are all sound, the blood is of the best, and the whole mechanism only needed the extra vitality which I am able to supply." "How can you get the vitality?" asked Enistor rather nervously, for the sight before him was enough to shake an ordinary man to the core of his being. "Never mind. I know how to tap the source of life and use what I will. Hardwick could not do that, being ignorant, therefore he died from sheer lack of vitality. A lucky thing for me, as it gave me a chance of replacing my worn-out body with this very splendid instrument." "Did you kill Hardwick?" "No. There was no need to kill him. His Ego had been drawing the soul back for a long time, and knowing that he would soon die, I made my arrangements accordingly so as to enter the body." "Then your lie to lure Montrose to the cottage----" "_Was_ a lie--in your interest," said Narvaez-Hardwick coolly. "It was necessary that Montrose should be there so as to be inculpated in my death. Do you understand now why I insulted Alice so that Montrose might publicly quarrel with me?" "Oh!" The Squire turned pale as he began to comprehend the infernal ingenuity with which the magician had wrought out his scheme. "Then Montrose is not the guilty man?" "No more than you are. My insult to your daughter was a comedy to deceive the public as to Montrose's feelings towards me. My behaviour when you called to taunt me was part of the same comedy. I think I played my part excellently well, Enistor, or you would have been afraid to say what you did. I suppose you are now convinced that I still have my powers: if not----" he leaned forward to fix the other man with his eye. "No! No! No, I am quite convinced," and Enistor cowered in his chair. "You are Narvaez true enough." "To you and to The Adversary whom no disguise can deceive. But the rest of the world will know me as Julian Hardwick. When Montrose is disposed of, my friend, I can then marry Alice as arranged. She was not averse to becoming Hardwick's wife, so there will be no difficulty over that. And I am still rich, as I made over all my fortune by will to Hardwick, and inherit my own money. I have sent for the lawyer, who will come and see me to-morrow to arrange about the transfer of the property when my late body is buried. And I think," ended Narvaez-Hardwick pensively, "that I shall follow the corpse of my benefactor to the grave. Grace my own funeral," he laughed, much amused. "Where is Hardwick's soul?" stammered Enistor, who felt the hair of his head rising with the natural terror of the human for the superhuman. "Purging its baser qualities on the Astral Plane," said the other carelessly. "He won't stay long there, as he was such a pious ass he will probably get his share of heaven before long. I am not interested in him. I have done him no harm in taking his body. It was useless to him and is useful to me. Oh!" Narvaez-Hardwick rose and stretched himself. "It is splendid to have so magnificent a vehicle. In it I shall live years and years gaining wider and wider knowledge to extend my empire." "But the Great Power that struck you down and warned you----" "Hold your tongue," snarled the magician, with a look which transformed the kindly face of Hardwick into the semblance of a fiend. "Leave me to deal with powers higher or lower as the case may be. I have held my own for centuries against all. Are you about to become a pupil of The Adversary as I suggested when you taunted me in the cottage?" "No. And yet The Adversary has greater power than you have." "It's a lie," shouted Narvaez-Hardwick imperiously. "What struck me down was a much Mightier Power, which I don't choose to name. I told you that before. Hold to me, Enistor, and I can give you the kingdoms of the earth." "At what price?" Enistor shivered at the look on the other's face. "You know the price. You must give me Alice for my wife, and you must obey me in every way. I cannot instruct you unless you do. And now that Montrose is in your power and has to pay back the life he took from you in Chaldea, you can force him to give up the fortune." "He refuses." "He dare not refuse if he wants to save his neck." "But is he guilty?" "No." Narvaez-Hardwick laughed contemptuously. "You might have guessed that no pupil of The Adversary would be bold enough to commit murder. He is full of silly scruples. You know who killed me!" "No, I don't." "Then you are a fool," said the magician roundly. "Job Trevel is the man." Enistor started from his chair. "Impossible! Job was away in his----" "Job was at the cottage on the evening when I died," interrupted Narvaez-Hardwick grimly. "I sent for Rose Penwin to come and see me some time after eight, knowing that Job would follow. I contrived to let him know by impressing a message on his foolish brain. He really was going out in his boat, and at six was about to start when he felt compelled to come to the cottage. He saw Rose on the moor and followed her. By that time I had drawn Montrose to the cottage, so as to incriminate him, and you know the means I used. After I had confessed that I had told a lie about the marriage he went away, and I saw Rose, to talk nonsense and rouse Job's jealousy. I went with her to the gate and kissed her there. She didn't mind, as I was an old man and had promised she should go to London next week. Job was waiting for her at the gate, having seen her enter the cottage. Then he sprang on me and broke my neck. After that Rose ran away and Job returned to his boat." "He has not come back yet," said Enistor, horror-struck at the callous way in which Narvaez-Hardwick detailed his wickedness. "Nor will he. He fears lest the truth should come to light and he should be hanged for my murder. Rose knows, but for her own sake she will hold her tongue. So you see that Montrose cannot escape. He can offer no defence and must be hanged. Go to him and offer him his life on condition that he surrenders the fortune. Then hang him, or pardon him if you will. I don't care in the least. You are bound to me by stronger bonds when the money is gained, and as Julian Hardwick I shall marry Alice and train her as a clairvoyante. We shall go to Spain, where I have my home, as Narvaez, and which as Julian Hardwick I inherit. I think I have managed everything very cleverly." "Yes," faltered Enistor, awed by the power and frightened by the unscrupulous cruelty of this strange being. "But Montrose has disappeared." Narvaez-Hardwick frowned. "I know that, but I don't know where he is. I have searched and searched without success." "But you have not yet been out of doors." "You fool, have I no means of searching other than in the physical?" cried the man wrathfully. "I have been looking for him from the other side. It is as easy for me to use my astral body as this physical one. But The Adversary has placed a veil round him. I cannot see where he is. Still Alice knows; I am certain of that. She will want to see him: follow her, and then deal with the man as you will. I have placed him at your mercy. But I am bound to say that this would not have been the case had he not killed you in Chaldea, my friend. The Adversary would have interfered." "He may interfere now," said Enistor, rising slowly. "He cannot. Montrose owes you the life of which he robbed you. You can do what you like. Where he is I cannot tell, as he is protected so far. But his evil Karma is too powerful for this protection to continue. He must work out his fate. Follow Alice: she will lead you to him." "I am sure Alice does not know, Narvaez." "Call me Hardwick, you fool, else you will be considered a lunatic and will be shut up for one. Alice does know. This much I am aware of. She assisted him to fly: she knows where he is hidden. Now I think that is all I have to see you about. You can go." Enistor's pride revolted at being ordered about like a dog. "I wish you would speak more civilly, Hardwick," he said, scowling. "You spoke civilly to me when you thought I had lost my power, didn't you?" jeered the other. "Don't bend your brows at me, or I shall make you suffer. I have done much for you and expect repayment. Nothing for nothing is the rule of the Left-hand Path." "I'd like to kill you." "Oh, my dog is showing his teeth, is he? Take care! I have shown you what I can do. If you want to be shown further----" "No! No!" Enistor winced at the thought of again enduring that cruel pain. "Then obey me. Go away and watch Alice so that she may unknowingly lead you to Montrose's burrow. When he is found come to me again. Good-bye." Enistor gnashed his teeth at the insults hurled at him, but being in the grip of a greater force than he had within himself, there was nothing for it but to yield. He departed with a gloomy face, to carry out his orders. Narvaez, in the splendid body of Hardwick, rejoiced with unholy glee. "I am winning," he cried exultingly. "Winning all along the line." CHAPTER XXI THE CHOICE Enistor returned to Tremore in a black silent rage, wishing heartily that he could find some one with whom to discuss the position in which he found himself. But there was no one, as the mere statement that Narvaez had taken possession of Hardwick's body would be scouted by the most credulous. There were some things which could not possibly be believed, and this was one of them. The present generation was too material to entertain, for a single moment, so wild an idea, and Enistor knew--as his master had warned him--that he ran a very good chance of being locked up as a lunatic, if he even hinted at the astounding truth. Thus the Squire's dabbling in unholy matters had isolated him from his fellow-creatures, and, at the moment, he felt the deprivation keenly. There was nothing he could do but shut himself up in his library and think over his position. It was not a pleasant one. By his own acts in this and previous lives he had committed himself to bondage, and was treated like a slave who had no rights of his own. What a fool he had been to doubt Narvaez' power, since again and again he had received proofs of it. On the evil hill beside the Druidical altar he had seen with other than physical eyes the terrible elemental creatures which Don Pablo could evoke, and whom he controlled by his powerful will. Any doctor would have told him that it was a case of mere hallucination brought about by the hypnotic suggestion of certain weird ceremonies. But the Squire knew better. There were ways of entering the invisible world which interpenetrates the visible sphere, and Narvaez, by centuries of study and training, had learned how to open the door. He had flung it wide to his pupil, but it could not be closed again, as Enistor did not know the necessary conjuration. This in itself showed the man how impossible it was for his ignorance to cope with the knowledge of Don Pablo. And now that the magician's black arts had secured a new body, the perfection of which assured him a valuable instrument for many years wherewith to rule on the physical plane, Enistor saw painfully clearly that he would be more of a slave to him than ever. He had to obey Narvaez, as he had ample proof of how the man could enforce his will by inflicting torments. For the first time, therefore, the Squire began to consider how he could escape from his thraldom, and ruefully confessed the truth of the significant text, "The way of the transgressor is hard!" Had Enistor been master instead of slave he would not have troubled about the saying, but being at the beck and call of a merciless tyrant, he wondered why he had been such a fool as to take the Left-hand Path. So far as he could see there was no chance of retracing his steps. Yet he had one great hope. With his own eyes he had seen the powerful Lord of the Dark Face struck down in the moment of his wicked triumph, so there was no doubt that the Power of Good was infinitely greater than the Power of Evil. It was in Enistor's mind to seek out Eberstein and ask for his assistance. The doctor knew as much about the unseen as Narvaez, and perhaps more, since he was in communication with higher planes than the magician could reach. Undoubtedly, Eberstein, always bent upon doing good, would willingly give his aid, but the price demanded would be the renunciation of revenge. That price the Squire felt that he could not pay, especially now, when Montrose lay at his mercy. The death in Chaldea he might overlook, since it was more or less, to the conception of his physical brain, the figment of a vision. But the money which Montrose unjustly withheld could not be given up, as Enistor needed it desperately to forward his plans for success in the social and political worlds. Therefore he did not seek out Eberstein, as the price which the doctor would ask for giving aid was too great. When the Squire came to this conclusion he heard a faint regretful sigh, which startled him not a little. There was no one in the library and both door and windows were closed. Yet the sound was quite distinct, and Enistor ardently wished that he was sufficiently clairvoyant to see who was present. In a fanciful moment he wondered if his guardian angel had taken his departure, seeing that it was hopeless to induce him to turn from evil to good. But the idea was ridiculous, as the Squire could see no use in anything that did not benefit himself. He rose to his feet fully determined to find Montrose and give him his choice of life or death. If the young man surrendered the money he would be permitted to escape; if he declined, then an uncomfortable death awaited him at no very distant date. Enistor felt quite virtuous in offering the alternative, as he considered that he was giving Montrose a chance of salvation which the man would be foolish not to accept. As to Narvaez, Enistor hoped that shortly the magician--physically at all events--would remove himself from his path. If Montrose would only act sensibly and escape to Australia or America, after giving up the fortune, then Alice could marry Don Pablo, and go with him to Spain. Thus Enistor would be left free from all domestic relations and with five thousand a year to act as his ambition urged him. And of course the girl would think she was marrying Julian, for whom she had a great regard; so, failing the fugitive becoming her husband, which on the face of it was impossible, Narvaez, in the body of Hardwick, would have little difficulty in gaining his ends. In this way everything would be very nicely arranged and he could dispense with the assistance of Eberstein. In his insane egotism, strengthened by the wicked teaching of Don Pablo, the Squire never gave a thought to the idea that he was deliberately ruining an innocent man. He was too imbued with the iron rule of the Left-hand Path to flinch at such villainy, and considered that the weaker must give way to the stronger. That was only fair and logical. The irony of this thought was that Enistor, as inferior to Don Pablo, did not wish to submit to him, although the strength of the latter compelled him to do so. Yet he was exercising towards Montrose the very tyranny he resented being exercised towards himself. But no amount of argument could have convinced Enistor that he was illogical. At afternoon tea Alice made her appearance, looking anxious but determined, since her faith in Eberstein, and in the Great Master of Eberstein, braced her to face the worst serenely. Things were dreadfully tangled, the outlook was black, and, humanly speaking, it seemed that there was no possible chance of happiness for herself and her lover. But since the doctor had foretold not only the coming of calamity, but the passing of the same, if bravely endured, Alice was perfectly certain in her own mind that in some mysterious way God would answer her constant prayers for joy and peace. Thus, although she was pale, her eyes were bright and steady, and she behaved in a calm reasonable manner, as though everything went well with her. Enistor marvelled at her composure, and would have dearly loved to shake it by announcing that he knew she had contrived the flight of Montrose. But this he could not do lest he should place the girl on her guard. Therefore he said nothing, having arranged mentally to follow her when she stole out to seek the hiding-place. "There is no news of that young scoundrel," said Enistor, unable to withstand the gibe. "He has concealed himself very cleverly." "Douglas is no scoundrel," said Alice steadily; "circumstances are against him, and he does well to hide, seeing how bitter you are against him." "A lie set forth in bad English," sneered the Squire. "He is a scoundrel, as every murderer is, and I am not bitter against him. I only wish to see justice done." "You care nothing for justice, father. All you wish is to use this accusation to force Douglas to give up Aunt Lucy's money." "You are very impertinent, but you speak truly enough. My main desire is to get that money, and unless Montrose surrenders it he shall hang." "You will have to catch him first," said the girl coldly, but said no more. For her father was behaving so wickedly in her opinion that she found it difficult to speak to him with any degree of civility. Enistor peered at her from under his strongly marked eyebrows and scowled in a menacing manner. It occurred to him that she might have gone to see Montrose during the afternoon, in which event she would assuredly not seek him after dark, and therefore he would not be able to follow her to the hiding-place. "Where have you been these last few hours?" he asked acidly. "I went to see Rose Penwin, who is ill," said Alice quietly. Enistor, bearing in mind what Narvaez had stated, started violently. "What did she tell you?" "Nothing! What is there she could tell?" "One never knows what a silly girl like that will say," retorted the Squire, reassured that the secret of the murder was safe. "What else have you done?" "I saw Dame Trevel and learned that Job had not yet returned. Then, as I was told how Julian had recovered from his cataleptic trance, I called on him!" "You must have gone to his lodgings immediately after I left," said Enistor quickly. "Well, don't you think his recovery is wonderful?" "Yes! Mr. Sparrow said the doctor was sure Julian was dead, so it is little less than a miracle that he is alive and well. But----" Alice hesitated, and looked highly perplexed. "But what?" "Julian is different from what he was." "In a way I admit that, Alice. He has more strength. It is a wonderful recovery, and I expect the case will be reported in _The Lancet_." "I don't mean that exactly," replied the girl reluctantly; "but somehow Julian is quite different. I liked him very much, as he was always so good and kind," she hesitated again, then ended abruptly: "I don't like him now." "Rather whimsical, don't you think?" said her father tartly, and wondering if the girl's intuition had informed her of the marvellous truth. "I suppose it is," said his daughter wearily; "but whatever may be the reason Julian's illness has changed him into something different. I used to be so happy when with him, but now I shudder in his presence. He has the same terrifying effect on me that Don Pablo used to have." "You are talking nonsense," said the Squire roughly. "I know I am. An illness could not change any one into other than he was. I can't help my impression all the same. Julian was good, now he is evil. I never wish to see him again." "That is a pity," said the man slowly, "for now that Narvaez is dead and Montrose has proved himself to be unworthy of your hand, I wish you to marry Julian Hardwick." Alice started to her feet. "Never! Never! Never!" she cried vehemently. "You are capricious, my dear. You were willing enough to marry Julian rather than Don Pablo." "Of two evils I chose the least." "You shall choose the least still, if Julian is the least. I objected to you marrying him because he was poor. Now that he has inherited the money of Narvaez he is a good match for you." "No!" Alice struck the table so violently that the cups rattled in the saucers. "Douglas is innocent and Douglas shall be my husband. Even when Julian was his own dear self I would not have married him after meeting Douglas; much less would I do so now, when he has changed into something horrid." Enistor saw that she sensed the presence of Don Pablo's black soul in Hardwick's body, but as she could not explain and would not be believed if she did explain, he merely laughed at her vehemence. "You are a silly girl to talk in this way. First you like the man, then you don't, and talk of a change which only exists in your imagination. Are you going mad?" "I may be," said Alice moodily. "I have had enough to send me mad. But you will understand this, father, that I love Douglas and intend to marry him." This was her final determination, and before Enistor could argue further she left the room, fearing a breakdown. When alone she flung herself face downward on the bed and tried to compose her mind. It was necessary that she should do so, as late at night she intended to steal out with food for her lover. Her father--as she thought--would never suspect her, and she could leave the house when he and the servants were in bed. Already the housekeeper had made up a bundle, which lay in a convenient cupboard, and would have accompanied her as chaperon, but that her mistress declined such companionship. Montrose was nearer at hand than any one suspected, so it was just as well that as few people as possible should seek the hiding-place. Alice, nerved by love to walk the lonely moors in the chilly gloom, intended to go alone, and in holding to this resolve became more heroic than she ever thought she could be. But in her heart perfect love had cast out fear, and she would have faced an army to succour the man she intended to marry. The dinner was quiet and the evening was quiet, as Enistor spoke little and Alice was not inclined for conversation. Indeed there was nothing to say, as father and daughter were silently hostile to one another. Owing to the Squire's want of paternal affection they never had been friendly, and now that he wished to ruin her life by handing over Montrose to the police, Alice felt that she hated her father. Eberstein would have told her that it was wrong to do so, even in the face of excellent reasons. But Eberstein was absent and silent, so in this dark hour the girl had to fight entirely unaided. As a matter of fact, she was being guided along the dreadful path skilfully, and her every movement was being watched, as her every thought was known to her guardian. But her clairvoyant power being in abeyance, she did not guess this, and so far as she was aware, only the strength of her love for Douglas enabled her to battle against the dark influences which tried hard to sap her strength. When Enistor retired to his library, Alice excused herself on the plea of a bad headache and went to her room. There she sat in the faint light of a solitary candle sending loving thoughts to the lonely lover in the cave under the cliffs. Nine o'clock struck and then ten, but it was not until eleven that the house became dark and quiet. A stolen visit to the library assured her that her father had gone to rest, so, thinking that all was well, the girl put on a warm cloak with a hood and took the basket, to leave by a side door which the housekeeper had left unlatched. In ten minutes she was through the darkling wood and on the bare spaces of the moor. But she did not see that her father was following with the skill of a Redskin on the trail. Enistor had watched and waited pertinaciously, and had little difficulty in getting on the track. It was a stormy, blowy night, with a mighty wind rushing inward from the sea, and Alice struggled against the blast incessantly on her way to the cliffs. Every now and then there was a lull and she could hear the clamour of the waves and the thunder of the waters hammering against the rocks. In the vast hollow of the sky, black clouds were hurtling across the firmament at tremendous speed, unveiling every now and then a haggard moon, full-orbed yet with waning fire. It was a Walpurgis night, when warlocks and witches should have been abroad, rather than this delicately nurtured girl, made heroic by love. Enistor, toiling after her at a distance, wondered at a strength of character which he had been far from thinking his daughter possessed, and laughed grimly to think that unknowingly she was placing her lover within reach of the gripping hands of justice. Amidst the clash and clang of the elemental forces the girl, on her mission of love, and the man, on his errand of vengeance, staggered across the waste land drenched by the fierce rain and buffeted by the roaring winds. Occasionally a zigzag flash cut through the inky clouds, but the subsequent thunder was almost lost in the furious crying of sea and wind. Great as was the hate of Enistor to enable him to face such forces, greater was the love which strengthened Alice to attempt such a task of high endeavour. Alice led her father down to the very verge of the cliffs, and halted there a stone's-throw from the coastguard station. Lurking in the background, the Squire strained his eyes to see her, and did see her, a momentarily clear silhouette against the pale illumination of the horizon, where the moonlight struggled to assert itself. Then a big black cloud drove ponderously across the moon, and when it passed, Alice was no longer to be seen. In some way she had descended the cliffs, and a cold feeling of fear lest she should fall and be dashed to pieces gripped Enistor's heart, rather to his surprise. He had never thought that he possessed sufficient love for Alice to make him wince in this way. But the love was evidently latent in him, and sent the man pell-mell towards the lip of the land to stay the girl from her rash adventure. Bending over to look into the seething hell of water below, which bubbled and boiled like a witches' cauldron, Enistor caught sight, in the fitful moonlight, of a tiny dark figure dropping down to some unknown destination. Alice was safe as yet in spite of the fury of wind and wave, and scrambled down a narrow track with the sure-footedness of a goat. Not for nothing had she adventured her life in hazardous ways during the past year, and now the nerve she had gained came in useful when her lover's neck was in danger. She did not think of her own at the moment, but Enistor's heart was in his mouth, as the saying is, as he lay on his stomach peering down at the daring girl. Then a turn of the path below concealed the clambering figure from his eyes, and he debated within himself as to the best course to adopt. He was surprised to think that Montrose was concealed so near to the coastguard station, and no great distance from Tremore itself. But in the very daring of selecting so dangerous a hiding-place lay its safety, as he soon came to comprehend. But what Alice with her youth and lightness could do Enistor did not dare to attempt. He decided to wait until she came up the cliff again, and then he could force her to reveal the exact spot where Montrose lay hidden. Rolling into the shelter of a venturesome gorse bush which grew near the verge, he kept his eyes partly on the light of the not far distant station and partly on the place where the girl had descended. In this way he hoped to seize his daughter and to guard against being surprised by the Navy men, although these latter would be useful at a pinch to arrest the fugitive, when Alice was forced to reveal the truth. So Enistor lay there and the rain beat upon him, the wind blew, and the thunder rolled overhead a challenge to the tumult of the waves below. Meanwhile Alice, never suspecting that she had led her father to within a stone's-throw of her lover's lurking-place, swung still further downward from the point where Enistor had lost sight of her. Finally the path, which was a mere goat's track, excessively narrow and dangerous, terminated in a small jagged hole no very great distance up the cliff from the sands and rocks below. It was marked by bushes, and would have passed unnoticed even by an experienced climber. The girl had found it during a day in spring, never thinking that it would ever be required for the purpose for which it was now being used. Speedily thrusting herself into this rabbit-burrow, as it might be called, she scrambled on hands and knees along a narrow passage until she emerged into a fair-sized cave. There she saw Montrose ready to greet her with a candle in his hand, and this he soon put down to take her in his arms. "My darling! My darling! How brave you are!" "Oh, my dear! My dear! My dearest!" She could only cling to him and kiss him and feel that she had reached the heaven of his embrace. "You are trembling!" Montrose lighted another candle from the stock she had brought and made her sit down on a block of stone fallen from the roof. "No wonder I tremble when I think of you climbing down that terrible cliff. You must not do it again. Do you hear? I would rather give myself up than expose you to such a risk. You might fall and----" Alice stopped his protestations with a kiss. "I shall not fall. Again and again I have gone down that path out of a spirit of sheer adventure. Shall I then not come when your life depends upon my coming?" "There never was such a woman as you are," cried Douglas brokenly, "but oh, my darling heart, how can you love me when I lurk here so shamefully?" "You are doing right. Dr. Eberstein said that you were to fly. When the truth comes to light you can reappear." "Will it ever come to light?" questioned Montrose uneasily. "Everything is dead against me. I must stay here for ever." "You will not stay here for ever!" said a quiet steady voice, and the lovers turned their heads with a start to see Eberstein standing some little distance away, calm, benevolent, and encouraging as he ever was. Alice cried out with natural terror at the sudden appearance of a man whom they supposed to be miles away, and Montrose, thrilled with the deadly fear of the supernatural, could scarcely speak. "How--how--did--you--come here?" he gasped, holding Alice tightly to his breast. "In a way you know not," replied Eberstein, smiling so kindly as to strengthen both. "My true physical body is asleep in the hotel at Perchton. This I use now is one created for the moment, so that I may be seen and heard to speak by you both." But for that reassuring smile and their knowledge of Eberstein's goodwill the lovers would have been terrified out of their lives. "But you are--you are flesh and blood," stammered Alice nervously. "In one way, yes: in another way, no. The knowledge of certain laws which has been entrusted to me enables me to materialise myself in this way." He advanced to place one hand on the girl's shoulder and the other on that of Montrose. "You can feel my touch, can you not?" "We can feel, hear and see," said Douglas, and his inclination was to kneel before his Master who manifested such power. All fear had departed now both from himself and Alice. It was as if an angel had come to them. "Kneel only to God," said Eberstein solemnly. "It is His great mercy that permits me to come to your aid. The moment is at hand which will decide your future--the future of you both. Before you, Montrose, will be placed good and evil: as you choose so shall it be." "I shall choose the good," cried the young man impetuously. "Be not over-confident, lest you fall," warned the Master gravely. "One whom you wronged in the past has you at his mercy." "My father?" questioned Alice, with a gasp. Eberstein bowed his head. "In Chaldea you killed him, Montrose, and therefore you owe him a life for a life. Humanly speaking you are in his power for the moment, and he can hand you over to the officers of law." "But I am innocent of the crime!" "Yes! And he knows that you are innocent. But the teaching of the son of perdition, whom you know as Narvaez, has warped his nature, and to gain the money he claims he will place you, if he can, in the shadow of the gallows." "He does not know where I am! He is----" "Peace!" The Master raised his arm slowly. "What will be, will be as love or hate, fear or trust triumphs in your breast. Ascend the cliff, alone!" "Alone!" Alice uttered a shriek. "No! No! Let me go also." "Ascend the cliff alone," repeated Eberstein calmly, "and you, my daughter, kneel here in prayer that good may triumph over evil. May the will of God be fulfilled, and may the love of Christ"--he made the sign of the cross--"be with you in the hour of need, with the saving grace of the Holy Ghost." Where he had been there was but the gloom of the cave faintly illuminated by the candlelight. Motionless with awe the lovers clung to one another, and Montrose, looking upward when movement came to him, breathed a voiceless prayer. Then he bent to kiss Alice, who had sunk on her knees, and loosening his clasp moved slowly towards the entrance to the cave. She did not seek to stay him, but with folded hands looked at his retiring form--it might be for the last time. But as she looked the exaltation and awe of that solemn moment opened her interior senses, and she saw a triangle of white flame, which showered on her lover's head purple rays of ineffable beauty. These shaped themselves into a cross as he disappeared, and then drew inward to a star, radiant and glorious, which shone in the gloom as the symbol of hope and salvation. To that high splendour--to the Power beyond--to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost proceeding from the Father through the Son, did she pray fervently. Not that her earthly parent might be spared the commission of a crime, not that her lover might be saved, but that the holy purpose of God, unknown and inexplicable, might be fulfilled according to His will. To such a height of trust in the Love which saves had the ever-compassionate Mercy of The Christ raised this weak, faltering, bruised soul. CHAPTER XXII RIGHT IS MIGHT Montrose was so accustomed to obey his Master that he never questioned the order to climb the cliff and leave Alice alone in the cave. Yet as he straightened himself behind the bush which masked the entrance he wondered why such instructions had been given. Neither he nor the girl knew that Enistor watched for their coming, so the young man could only conjecture that Eberstein wished him to surrender to those officers of the law who were hunting for him. This seemed strange in the face of the doctor's telegram advising him to fly; but for want of knowledge Montrose was not in a state of mind to reconcile the apparent contradiction. His sole idea was to do what he had been told to do, even though--as seemed to be the case--he was risking loss of liberty and life. And indeed, with regard to the last Montrose believed that he might lose it otherwise than on the gallows. The narrow, tortuous path sloped upward abruptly, with the cliff soaring high above it and the cliff dropping steeply below to unfathomable depths. Fortunately the mighty wind, which roared inland from the sea, enabled him to cling the more surely to the rocky face of the precipice, and by slow degrees he crawled towards his goal overhead. In a less degree than Alice was the young man accustomed to such perilous wayfaring, and only by persistent will-power did he manage to control his nerves. What with the screaming of the tempest above and the bellowing of the waters below, he nearly lost his head. The tumult of sound, the stormy darkness only fitfully dispersed by gleams of moonlight, his dangerous position midway between heaven and earth--these things were enough to daunt the bravest man. But that he had been supported by unseen powers, Montrose would never have succeeded in scaling that tremendous cliff. Yet he did so, painfully crawling upward inch by inch, shaken like a leaf in the grip of the wind and stunned by the uproar of great waters. At length, after many hours--so it seemed to him who had lost count of time--he reached the summit and cast himself breathlessly on the wet herbage. Panting painfully, he sat up after a pause, and then the lightning flaring in the dark sky showed him a tall figure rushing towards him. And at the very moment of the onset the winds swept clear the face of the moon to reveal in her waning light that Enistor had found him at last. "I have you now," shouted the Squire, stumbling towards his victim with eager haste. "You shall not escape." Montrose had no thought of escape and could not have saved himself even had he been so inclined. He was wholly spent with that fearful climb and was unable to cry out, much less shape his breath into speech. Yet with the instinct of self-preservation--since he was dangerously near the verge of the precipice--he rolled blindly to one side as Enistor dashed heedlessly towards him. One moment he saw the big man reeling with extended hands to clutch and capture in the half-light; the next and his enemy had disappeared over the cliff, crying hoarsely as he realised that he had underestimated the distance. The cry was echoed by Montrose, who nearly lost what few senses remained to him in the horror of the moment. Then it flashed across his bewildered mind that Enistor was dead and that there was no chance of capture for the moment. Striving to regain his breath, to control his mind, to master his nerves, that effort was the insistent thought which governed his whole being. Utterly unmanned, he sobbed hysterically. But the loss of self-control did not last long. By a powerful exercise of the will Montrose succeeded in gaining the mastery of his being and on hands and knees crawled towards the edge of the cliff. He did not expect to see Enistor, as in his impetuous rush the man must have hurled himself directly into the thundering waves which broke far below in white and furious foam. In the moonlight, which radiated strongly for the time being against the face of the sea-front, Montrose saw a dark body half-way down. The Squire had fallen straightly for some distance, then had cannoned off one rock to strike against another, and finally came to rest on a projecting spur, where the senseless body remained, hanging helplessly above the boiling of the witches' cauldron below. Clearly and distinctly Montrose saw the perilous position of his enemy: clearly and distinctly he knew that his enemy could be saved. It remained with him to allow Enistor to die terribly (since the man's first movement when he revived would precipitate him into the hell beneath) or to descend and effect a rescue. How could he do so without a rope and lacking assistance? The young man did not know, but what he did know, and the thought burnt into his brain, was that Enistor could be saved, or doomed. And the choice lay with him. The temptation was almost overpowering. Only Enistor could depose to that fatal visit to the cottage, and if such a proof was wanting Montrose knew positively that he could not even be accused, much less arrested. He was aware of his innocence, yet Enistor, who hated him, could prove him to be guilty, and hand him over to an unmerited death. This the man would assuredly do, and Montrose winced to think how his name would be covered with ignominy and how greatly Alice would suffer. Why should he save one who designed his disgrace; who desired his death? He asked himself this question, and then asked it of God. No reply came either from himself or from the Unseen. He felt as though the guidance of the Higher Powers had been withdrawn, and that he was left to choose unbiased, uninstructed, completely free. Then he recollected how Eberstein had said that both good and evil would be placed before him, and how swiftly he had declared he would select the good. His memory recurred to the subsequent warning: "Be not over-confident lest you fall." This was the time of choice, the crucial moment, which decided all. If he saved Enistor he saved the only witness who could bring about his condemnation: if he did not rescue the man he would be free to marry Alice, to enjoy the money, and to lead a peaceful life. But could a peaceful life be built up upon a crime? for a crime it was to allow his enemy to perish. No! Come what might, arrest, trial, condemnation, and shameful death, it was impossible to hesitate longer. Enistor must be rescued and he must be the man to do the deed. In a frenzy of eagerness, and in deadly fear lest the evil should overpower the good, Montrose sprang to his feet and hurried impetuously towards the lights of the coastguard station. There was not a moment to be lost, so he literally fell against the door and clamoured for admittance. "What's the row? What's the row?" asked a gruff voice, as the door opened violently and a coastguard appeared. "You, sir!" The man had seen him before and recognised him in a moment. "Have you come to give yourself up?" "Do what you like about that," gasped Montrose, clinging to the door, a wild figure ragged and streaming with water, "only help me to save Enistor." "The Squire! What's that about the Squire?" and another coastguard laid down his pipe to step hurriedly forward. "He has fallen over the cliff." "You threw him over!" cried both men simultaneously. "No! No! I swear I did not. But what does it matter? You can arrest me afterwards if you choose. Just now I want to save Enistor. His body is hanging halfway down. Get me a rope, a lantern; come and assist. I must save him." And Montrose, feeling a new and powerful life move him to action, rushed into the darkness. The startled coastguards followed, both to see what had happened and to arrest the fugitive for whom the whole country-side was searching. But discipline prevailed in spite of their natural bewilderment, and they came to the verge of the cliff when Montrose shouted, with lanterns and a stout rope. The young man was lying on his stomach pointing downward to where the body was plainly seen in the moonlight. The coastguards recoiled in dismay. "Is that the Squire?" cried one. "Then he's dead for certain." "No! Tie the rope round me. I shall descend," said Montrose feverishly. "It's almost sure death, sir," declared the other man more respectfully, for if the fugitive intended to descend upon such an errand of mercy it was impossible that he could be guilty of the murder. "Death or life, I'm going," retorted Montrose, and hastily bound the rope under his armpits, assisted by the two men, while he slung one of the lanterns round his neck. "Now! Pay out the rope!" and he let himself down gradually, clinging dexterously to the scanty herbage of the precipice. Luckily the storm was dying away and the wind had rapidly swept the greater part of the heavens clear of vapours. In the starry space above the sealine the moon shone out more strongly than usual, so Montrose had ample light to negotiate his downward course. The coastguards peered over the edge of the cliff, and twisted the rope round a convenient rock, measuring it out gradually. But hardened men as they were, they shivered as every now and then the daring adventurer swung clear, to hang like a spider at the end of the slender line, while the cruel rocks and hungry waters waited below for their prey. But the Power that had supported Montrose before supported him now, and he felt singularly clear-headed and strong. Slowly but surely he dropped down the face of the precipice and finally alighted gently on the projecting spur of rock. Very cautiously he looped a twist of the rope round Enistor's body, knotting it to himself, for the least mistake would have tumbled both from the insecure foothold. As it was the spur trembled and vibrated dangerously under the added weight of Montrose, even though he was greatly supported by the line. However he managed to bind the Squire's insensible body to himself, then gave the signal to be drawn up. The coastguards made sure that the rope was safely attached to the rock, and then, hoping that it would not give way under the strain, they began to haul up the two men. With one arm round Enistor, who was bound more or less tightly to him by the rope, Montrose assisted as best he could with the arm left free and with his feet. But it was a perilous journey, and the two men above, as well as Montrose, heaved sighs of relief when willing hands dragged rescuer and rescued into safety. Notwithstanding the immense strain to which he had been subjected, the young man still felt able to deal with the situation. "Have you any brandy?" he asked the nearest man, as the three of them looked down at the insensible body. "Yes, sir," and a flask was handed over. Montrose knelt and forced the clenched teeth apart to pour down the ardent spirit. The Squire still lived, for his heart was beating faintly, but his face was woefully scratched, his head was bruised, and the mackintosh he wore was ripped to shreds by the tearing and rending of the rocks and shrubs which he had struck during his fall. That he was alive was a miracle, and so the bluff coastguards thought as they held the lanterns for Montrose to do his office of mercy. They respected the young hero intensely for what he had done, as few men would have dared the perils of such a descent in the stormy gloom of the night. But they did not know how truly heroic Montrose had been in saving the life of one who could condemn him to a shameless death for a deed he had never committed. Montrose himself did not consider the action further, being wholly occupied in aiding Enistor to recover his senses. What he had done he had done. There was no more to be said. "Better?" asked the young man softly, when Enistor feebly opened his eyes to stare into the pale face bending over him. "What's the--the matter?" murmured the broken man faintly. "You fell over the cliff. Hush, don't talk. Take some brandy: you will be all right soon." "No! I think--I think--my back--broken," the voice died away in a drawl of exhaustion and the eyes closed. With a last effort they opened again, and Enistor asked a question. "Who saved me?" "I did!" "You!" The voice expressed astonishment, disbelief, hatred, scorn; a whole gamut of disordered passion, as some all-comprehending sixth sense told Montrose. Then the sick man relapsed into insensibility. "Help me to carry him to Tremore one of you," said Montrose, rising and looking at the men, who were staring curiously at him in the mingled light of the moon and the lanterns. "The sooner a doctor sees him the better." "I can take him along with my mate here, sir," said a coastguard gruffly; "if you go you will be arrested for the murder of that old foreign cove." "As I am innocent I don't mind being arrested. And if you two hand me over to the police I understand that a certain reward----" "Don't speak like that, sir," broke in the other man hastily; "a gentleman what risked his life to save him as was hunting him down ain't no murderer." "Thank you," said Montrose thankfully and simply. "All the same I am going to surrender. Meantime, we must take the Squire home." The men stared and wondered, admiring Montrose more than ever, since he was risking his liberty as he had risked his life to save the man who was so bitter against him. One coastguard returned to the station, but Montrose and the other carried the body of Enistor on a hurdle--taken from a near sheepfold--to Tremore. They took a long time to cover the distance across the dark misty moorland, and as they approached the great house Montrose little by little felt the artificial strength which had sustained him so far ebbing away. He wondered why it was leaving him: he wondered what would happen when the police took him: he wondered if Alice was still in the cave: and finally broke down altogether on the threshold of the dark house. When the coastguard rang the bell and roused the servants he handed over two insensible men to be taken indoors. Like a blood horse Montrose had kept up the pace until he reached the goal, and then had fallen into as unconscious a state as that of the man whom he had saved. But as his senses left him he glimpsed a glorious radiance round about him: he saw the smiling, approving face of his Master, and knew that a hand was raised in benediction. And soundlessly the words of a Beatitude came to him as soft and refreshing as summer rain. "Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy!" After that gracious saying he knew no more. Then Montrose lost count of time. From the moment when he sank in the darkness before the door of Tremore until the hour he woke in his own bed time had no existence. A screened lamp illuminated the room, the blinds were drawn, the door was closed, and a fire was burning in the grate. He was clasping a tender hand, and his eyes opened to see the face of Alice bending over him with that motherly look which all women give to men in time of sickness. It was certainly night, Montrose thought dreamily, and he probably had been carried to his bedroom a few minutes since. But how had Alice come so swiftly from the cave? Was this another miracle in this life of miracles? "Did you come after us?" he asked weakly. The girl uttered a cry as his lips moved and thankful tears fell on his pale face. "Douglas! do you know me?" "Alice! Yes, I know. Alice! I am all right." He strove to rise, but fell back. "You are weak still," said the girl, arranging his pillow, "don't attempt too much, dearest. Take this," and a strengthening drink was held to his lips. "But I must see what is happening," muttered Montrose impatiently, his brain becoming gradually clearer. "Your father lies insensible at the door with that coastguard in charge." "Father is in bed and the coastguard is gone, Douglas. It was last night you came here." "Last night! Impossible! It is night still." "My dear one, you have slept for twenty-four hours. The doctor said it was the best thing that could happen after the strain you have undergone. You will soon grow strong. I am your nurse and have been watching you for hours and hours. Now," Alice rose and moved towards the fire, "you shall have some soup." "I do feel tremendously hungry," admitted the patient; "and your father?" "Hush!" Alice's face grew sad. "You must not talk. Shortly you shall know all that has taken place. Drink the soup and then try to sleep." Montrose wilfully argued and objected, but the girl was firm. Finally he finished the bowl of broth and closed his eyes again. When he was quite asleep Alice left the housekeeper to watch beside him through the night and retired to her own room for a much-needed rest. Anxious as she was about many matters both with regard to her lover and her father, weariness, mental and physical, demanded its due and she slept soundly until ten o'clock the next morning. Her first waking thought was for her father, and after she had learned his present condition she sought the sick-room of her lover. But Montrose was no longer sick. He was up and dressed, with a healthy colour in his cheeks and very bright eyes, ready for his breakfast and anxious to learn what had taken place during his insensible condition. Even the thought that he might be arrested on that very day did not daunt him. Knowing his innocence, and aware that he had conquered selfish fear to the extent of saving the life of the sole witness who could condemn him, he felt convinced that in some way--he did not know how--things would be made smooth. Therefore he went down to the dining-room with Alice and, after making a good meal, he accompanied her to her very own sitting-room to hear explanations. "Your father is in danger of death, you say?" he asked, when they were seated. "Yes, Douglas. The fall hurt his spine and the doctor does not think that he will recover. However, he is sensible enough and can talk." "What does he say?" asked Montrose nervously. "Scarcely a word. And that is why I am so anxious to hear from you all that took place after you left the cave. Both the coastguards told me much; but you can tell me more. In the first place, where did you meet my father?" "In the first place," said Montrose, asking a counter-question, "am I to be arrested for murdering Narvaez?" "No! While you have been asleep wonderful discoveries have been made and your character has been entirely cleared. It was Job Trevel who broke Don Pablo's neck." "Job? But his mother said that he went out fishing some hours before the death!" said the young man, startled and puzzled by the revelation. "So his mother truly thought. Job did go down to take his boat out, but jealousy of Rose brought him back to Polwellin. He suspected that she intended to see Don Pablo, and when he found she had gone out he followed her to the cottage on chance. Rose was there after you left and Don Pablo came out with her to the gate. Then Job, crazy with anger, sprang on him and--you know the rest." "I don't know how Job escaped, or why Rose held her tongue when I was in danger of arrest for what I did not do!" "Rose ran home terribly afraid lest she should be accused of having had something to do with the murder, and took to her bed intending to be silent out of selfish fear. Job returned to his boat and went away. He has not yet returned, and I don't think he ever will." "But how was this found out?" "The doctor who attended Rose became suspicious of something she said when half delirious. He told the Perchton Inspector, who saw Rose and forced her to reveal the truth. Now the police are hunting for Job, and you are entirely exonerated, although you will no doubt be called upon to state the hour when you left Don Pablo." "Thank God for his mercies," said Montrose devoutly. "It is a most amazing thing, Alice. And to think that last night I nearly decided to let your father die, since he alone would witness against me." "I expect that was the test that Dr. Eberstein spoke of, Douglas. I don't know how my father came to be on the spot unless he followed me by stealth when I came to see you at the cave." Montrose nodded. "No doubt your father suspected you and followed as you say, dear. The moment I reached the top of the cliff, he rushed at me, but making a mistake about the distance in the gloom, he hurled himself over the precipice. I saw that his body was lying half way down, and it was in my mind to leave him there. Oh! what a struggle I had," cried the young man passionately, "only Christ's love could have nerved me to save the man." "Yes! Yes!" Alice fondled his hand. "The descent was very dangerous." "It is not that I was thinking about. That was nothing. But my doubts, my hesitation: my desire to save my own life at the cost of his. I wonder my hair has not turned grey. And to think that all the time things were coming to a point which would proclaim my innocence. Had I let your father die I should have committed a purposeless crime. But thanks be to Christ the All-Loving and All-Powerful, I did as I would be done by, and gave my enemy his life. What a moment of anguish it was: what a bitter, bitter moment," and the young man wiped the perspiration from his brow. Alice drew his head down on her breast and murmured over him as a mother murmurs over a child. And Montrose really was a child at the moment as what he had passed through shook him still to the core of his being. "It's all right now, dear; it's all right now," she urged gently. "You have conquered your greatest enemy." "Your father?" "No, dear, yourself. And perhaps my father also. He does not seem to be so bitter against you as he was. Twice he smiled when your name was mentioned." "Then he has recovered?" "He will never recover," said the girl sadly. "The doctor says that his spine is injured." "Poor man!" cried Douglas generously, "can I not see him?" "Not at present. The doctor says he is to be kept quiet just now." Alice burst into distressful tears. "Heaven only knows that I have little reason to love my father; but it is heart-rending to see him lying there, broken down and helpless, with no future save a painful death." This time it was her lover's turn to soothe and console. Drawing the sobbing girl closer to his heart, he said what he could. "Death is the gate of Life, we are told, dear." Alice made no reply. The phrase did not tend to disperse her grief, which was rather that of pity than of love, although the two are so much akin that the one can scarcely be distinguished from the other. Montrose wisely said no more, thinking truly that silence was more comforting than words, and they both remained silent for some minutes. A knock at the door parted them, and Alice dried her tears to receive a card from the incoming servant. At once her sad face lighted up with pleasure and hope. "Oh, Douglas, Dr. Eberstein has come," she exclaimed joyfully. "Bring the gentleman here at once, at once!" And when the servant had departed the girl turned to her lover with an air of relief. "The doctor will put everything right. I feel certain of that." "So do I," replied Douglas confidently. "He may even cure your father." Eberstein was shown in at this moment, and when the door was closed, he walked over to Montrose with a glad smile to place his two hands on the young man's shoulders. "You have conquered, my son. As a true follower of the Blessed One you have forgiven your enemy in the face of overwhelming temptation to act otherwise." "Then Mr. Enistor truly was my enemy?" asked Montrose hurriedly. "Life after life he has been your enemy. Remember the vision which you saw in London, and the wounded man who came between you and the girl you love." "Enistor!" Eberstein bowed his head. "He was then a priest of the Star-Angel, Mars, in Chaldea. Alice was a vestal and you a noble who loved her. I warned you then not to pluck the fruit before it was ripe, but you would, and in carrying away the girl you murdered Enistor. This is the sin which has parted you and Alice for many ages. Now the debt is paid; for the life you destroyed you have given a life in saving your enemy. The shadow has vanished, and now," Eberstein placed the hand of Alice in that of Montrose, "now you are one once more. In union lies strength, therefore let the sorrows you have passed through bind you truly together for service to God." "How wonderful! How wonderful!" gasped Alice, holding tightly to her lover as if she feared to lose him again. "Will there be no more trouble?" "The troubles which all undergo when dwelling in the flesh. But these, in many cases, you will be able to avert, since you have much light and more will be given. But the dark Karma of Chaldea has been dispersed for ever. Thank God, my children, that you have been so wonderfully guided through the mists of error into the clear day of truth." "We do thank Him," said Douglas reverently, "and you for so guiding us." "I am but the instrument used for God's high purpose," said Eberstein, with a solemn look, "and I thank Him that I have been so honoured. Now you both must do as you have been done by, and aid in the salvation of Korah Enistor." "My father! How can we do that?" inquired Alice anxiously. "We must wait for the arrival of that Son of Perdition who wishes to keep that most unhappy soul in bondage. Then will Love and Hate battle for the prize. The result depends upon that soul's choice." "But Narvaez is dead," said Montrose, puzzled. "Narvaez is more alive than ever in the body of Julian Hardwick." "Oh!" Alice recognised the truth of this astounding statement at once. "I knew Julian was different: that he was evil instead of good." "You sensed Narvaez' black soul in Hardwick's body," said Eberstein simply. "Be strong, be ready; for the hour of strife is at hand." "Let us pray!" cried Alice fervently, and the two did pray with full hearts, while the Master strengthened the selfless petition. CHAPTER XXIII THE ETERNAL STRIFE For three days Enistor lingered on, fighting inch by inch for his life with obstinate courage. The doctor told him that there was no hope, but he declined to believe in such croakings. With all his pride and all his will he resisted the coming dissolution of his body, and therefore lived much longer than would have been the case had he been of a less resolute nature. Night and day Alice and the housekeeper nursed him by turns, and he seemed grateful for their attentions, although he said very little to either. Montrose wished to see the dying man and assure him of forgiveness, but Enistor declined an interview. Narvaez-Hardwick also called with feigned expressions of regret, but was forced to depart without seeing the man his wickedness had brought so low. As to Dr. Eberstein, he took lodgings in the village, so as to be at hand at the last moment, and waited patiently for a summons to the bedside. "It will come," he assured Montrose. "It will surely come, since the last act of this terrible drama has to be played by all who have taken part in it, with the exception of Hardwick, who has done his share and passed over. But you and Alice and Narvaez and I have to face Enistor." "For what purpose?" The doctor answered rather irrelevantly. "The extension of Enistor's life beyond what is natural, considering his injuries, is not permitted without a good reason. The poor creature is taking part in a tremendous struggle between the little good he has in him, and the enormous quantity of evil which, through ignorance, he has accumulated in this and other lives. I am trying constantly to increase that good, while Narvaez is putting forth all his wicked power to strengthen the evil." "Who will win, you or Narvaez?" asked Montrose abruptly. "Only God knows the issue of the conflict, my son, since Enistor, having free-will, can choose either the good or the bad, the Left-hand Path or the Right-hand Path. You were given the same choice in another way, but with you the Power of Love prevailed. Whether it will prevail with this miserable man depends upon himself." "But cannot you tell, Master? You know so much." "I know much, but I do not know all. God alone is omniscient. Did not one of your poets say: 'We mortal millions live alone'? That is a great truth greatly put. Each soul must find God for itself through Christ by the power of the Holy Ghost. It can be helped and instructed by those who, like myself, are humble servants of the Most High, but the soul alone can choose whether to rise or fall. I tell you, Montrose, much as Enistor suffers physically, he is infinitely more tormented mentally. Night and day, and day and night, the strife continues between evil and good, in which Narvaez and I take part. Only Enistor can elect which side will win." "Can I not help?" asked the young man, distressed at the terrible plight of his whilom enemy. "You have helped--helped greatly. Enistor is constantly trying to understand why you saved him, when he could have, and would have, condemned you to a shameful and unmerited death. It is well nigh impossible for him to grasp such self-abnegation, but the positive fact that you acted as you did is the spar to which he clings, and which prevents him from sinking in the troubled waters of evil desires which Narvaez is bringing up against him." "Why don't you smash Narvaez?" "That would be against the law of justice. Narvaez has his rights, as every one else has. If he chooses to abuse those rights he will bring destruction on himself, as he is surely doing. Hate only ceases by love, so all that I can do is to offer Narvaez the assistance which he refuses to take. With my greater powers, poured through me for selfless ends by the God of All, I could use force and render him harmless. But such force would mean employment of the power of Hate. The influence is always the same in its essence, but becomes good or evil as we employ it." "Still, if you ended Don Pablo's wickedness, Enistor would be saved." "I cannot tell. But he cannot be saved at the cost of injustice to Narvaez, my son. By his own acts in this life and others he has placed himself in the power of Narvaez, and must abide by his choice." "Still he may want to escape?" "If so, and I truly hope that such will be the case, he has only to open his heart to the incoming of Christ, and the Mighty Power of the Blessed One will sweep away Narvaez like a straw. Love is stronger than evil, and must prevail when election is made to use it. Now go, my son, for even now the Son of Perdition is putting forth his strength to overwhelm the soul, and I must withstand him. Pray constantly, my child, and tell Alice to pray; for the fight is desperately bitter." Without a word Montrose departed, leaving Eberstein to wrestle with the Powers of Darkness. Seeking Alice, he brought her to the altar of the parish church, and there they remained kneeling for many hours. It was well that they fled for refuge to the tabernacle of God, for within all was light, and the Dark Powers halted at the door, helpless, fierce and furious, and--baffled. During those days of the struggle Montrose's worldly position had been made secure. The confession of Rose, who had seen Narvaez murdered, proved beyond all doubt that Job Trevel was the culprit. That man never returned now or thereafter, and it could only be conjectured that he had been lost at sea in the storm which took place when the crime was committed. But Montrose was fully exonerated, and in their rough way the villagers of Polwellin apologised for their wrongful suspicions. He more than regained the place he had lost in their affections, for the coastguards had told everywhere how the Squire had been rescued and at what a cost. That Enistor should have been saved at all was a matter of regret to his tenants, who detested him for his many acts of oppression. Throughout the village there was not heard one pitying word for the man now at the point of death, so doubtless this feeling of ill-will also tormented Enistor in his then sensitive state. But as the man had sown, so the man had to reap, and by his own acts he was condemned to a punishment which went far to excuse his wickedness. In reply to Alice's telegram Mrs. Barrast came down to see the last of her brother and was desperately annoyed to find--as she thought--that he had completely recovered. Of course for his own ends Narvaez-Hardwick played the part of a grateful brother, and to get rid of the little woman he gave her a handsome cheque out of the property he had acquired. That the same had merely been transferred from Narvaez to Narvaez was a fact not known to Mrs. Barrast, who quite believed--and very naturally--that Julian had been cured in some miraculous way of his illness by the Perchton doctor. What that gentleman himself thought no one ever knew, as he held his tongue very wisely, through sheer inability to explain matters. But his practice benefited greatly, and he made full use of his enhanced reputation. Mrs. Barrast thanked him for the wonder he had wrought, said that she would mention his skill to her friends and send them to Perchton for treatment. Then she went across the Channel with Frederick to spend the handsome cheque in Paris and did not trouble any further about her brother. Which was just what the individual masquerading in that brother's body desired. Hardwick's sister was such a trifling little butterfly that it was not worth while breaking her on a wheel. Even if, out of sheer malicious amusement, the magician had wished to do so, he had no time. All his energies were taken up in fighting the strong power of Eberstein for the soul of his escaping slave. The adversaries came to grips on the night of the fourth day after Montrose had wiped out his sin by the rescue of his enemy. After dinner on that evening, Alice and her lover were waiting in the library, feeling sorrowful and depressed. The young man was seated in an arm-chair before the fire and Alice, on the hearth-rug, inclined her dark head against his knees. Having watched throughout the previous night by the bedside, she had slept all day, and now was giving her whole attention to Douglas before returning to her new vigil in the sick-room. Neither of the two was speaking, as the shadow of evil lay thicker and blacker than ever on the house, and there was a feeling still more terrible in the air. Montrose felt little of such things, cased as he was in less sensitive flesh; but Alice was alive to battling forces, invisible and menacing, which thrilled her soul with agony and helpless grief. "Death is here," she said at length, without removing her gaze from the burning logs, and Montrose knew enough of her clairvoyant powers not to exclaim at the weird remark. "Do you think he will die to-night?" he asked, looking nervously round the brilliantly lighted room. "I think so. Something dreadful is coming nearer and nearer. Very cold, very powerful, yet very merciful." Montrose shuddered and recalled a play by Maeterlinck which he had read some years back. The atmosphere of the library was exactly that suggested by "L'Intruse," and he felt, as did the characters in that wonderful piece of writing, that the being with the scythe was about to enter the door. When a sharp knock came, his shaken nerves extorted a start and a cry. But it was only the housekeeper who came to announce that she wanted Alice to take up the watch by Enistor's bedside and also to tell both the young people that two gentlemen had arrived simultaneously at Tremore. "Mr. Hardwick and Dr. Eberstein," said the housekeeper. "Tell them to come in," replied Alice quietly, in marked contrast to her lover, who started to his feet much perturbed. "Why do they come together?" he asked uneasily. "They have never met before to my knowledge." "It is the beginning of the end, Douglas!" "They then bring death with them?" "Señor Narvaez brings death and Dr. Eberstein brings life," said Alice, still in the unemotional tone which she had used throughout. "But not in a physical way, you understand. Hush! Here they are." The two men entered quietly: Narvaez, splendid and strong in the beauty of his stolen body, and Eberstein, elderly, grey-haired, and weary-looking. But Alice, looking through the masks of flesh, saw that they lied. Eberstein was the ever-young, glorious soul, radiant with immortal life, and Narvaez but a black evil shadow, distorted and venomous. Outwardly the magician resembled Milton's fallen archangel, magnificently sinful, while the doctor, like his Great Master the Man of Sorrows, seemed to bear the burden of other people's sins. Here indeed were the representatives of the eternal strife, the types of Heaven and Hell, bearing the cross and the wine-cup. And the world-battle on a smaller scale was about to be fought out between them. As Alice greeted the one and the other, the housekeeper turned at the door to speak. "The Squire knows that Dr. Eberstein and Mr. Hardwick have come, miss, as I told him. He would like to see them along with you and Mr. Montrose. But I don't think it is wise, miss." "You can go," said the girl quietly, and the housekeeper departed, grumbling at the risk of visitors to the sick man. "Shall we see my father now?" She addressed Eberstein, who bowed, for the situation was too tense for the use of many words. But Narvaez spoke with an insolent smile. "I hope Mr. Enistor will not be the worse for my coming." "I think he will be very much the worse, Don Pablo." "I am your dear friend, Julian Hardwick," sneered the magician. "I know better." "Clever girl. But you do not know all," he taunted. "Enough to be aware that you are an evil man, exercising more than human power. Also Dr. Eberstein has recalled to my recollection what I saw during the trance. I know who you are, Señor Narvaez, and what you are. With me you cannot masquerade as an angel of light." "I leave that rôle to our friend here," scoffed the other with a shrug. Eberstein did not take the slightest notice. With Narvaez he was very watchful, but intensely quiet: always on his guard, but never offering the fuel of words to kindle useless argument. And time being precious at the moment, he softly intimated to Alice that it would be as well to seek the bedroom immediately. Without objection the girl led the way, and shortly the whole party were in the presence of the Squire. Enistor lay in bed, propped up with many pillows. Other than a shaded lamp on a small table beside him, there was no illumination save the crimson glimmer of the fire, so that the room was filled with a kind of artificial twilight, sinister and eerie. It was a large apartment furnished in that heavy cumbersome style prevalent during the first half of the last century, eminently comfortable but markedly inartistic. The green rep curtains of the bed were looped back to show the white suffering face and sunken eyes of the sick man, on whom the gaze of the quartette was centred. The silence was intense; as the rain had ceased, the wind had died away, and only the heavy breathing of those present, or the fall of a burning coal, broke the stillness. This calm before the storm suggested itself to Alice as much more terrible than the storm itself could possibly be. It seemed as though the whole of creation waited anxiously to hear what choice the dying man would make between evil and good. The words came slowly from him, as he fixed his weary eyes on Montrose with wondering inquiry. "Why did you save my life?" he asked. "I was sorry for you." "Sorry for one who intended to have you hanged for a crime you did not commit. Impossible!" "That I saved you showed it was not impossible. I had a struggle: oh, yes, I had a great struggle. Not knowing that my character would be cleared, I nearly decided to let you perish lest you should condemn me. But I could not: I could not." "Why?" demanded Enistor insistently. "Why? Why?" Montrose pressed his hands tightly together to control his emotions. "How can I explain? Something higher than my ordinary self acted for me." "The Christ, Who is building Himself up within you, spoke," said Eberstein gravely. "Weakness spoke," struck in the magician. "The weakness of a coward who was afraid to remove an obstacle from his path." "Montrose did remove an obstacle," said the doctor, addressing Narvaez-Hardwick for the first time. "One which was blocking his upward path." "His murder of me in Chaldea?" questioned Enistor, after a pause. "Yes! He owed you a life. Only by giving back in another way what he had robbed you of could he learn his lesson and cleanse his soul." "Where is the life that has been given?" sneered Narvaez-Hardwick. "There is Enistor dying. A valuable gift indeed." "Montrose did not know that Enistor was fatally injured by his fall. So far as he was aware he gave back what he had taken and at the risk of losing his present life unjustly. The sheet is clean." "Sophistry! Sophistry! You are trying to make black white." "Not so. Man is judged by his intention in whatever he does. Thought precedes both words and acts, so if the first be right the two last cannot be wrong." "We are here to listen to a sermon, it appears," said the other man mockingly. "You are woefully dull." Eberstein ignored the spiteful speech to advance towards the bed. "Enistor, you are about to pass away from the physical plane to reap as you have sown, and painful will be the harvesting of your sheaves." "Tares he should call them," mocked Narvaez-Hardwick contemptuously. "Not all tares. Always the germs of good have been in your victim." "A victim! I?" cried the Squire, pride and indignation lighting up his faded eyes, to the delight of his dark master, who approved of the sinister quality. "Yes," said Eberstein steadily. "Age after age, life after life, you have been the victim, the slave, the tool of this man, who is stronger than you are. By taking his gifts, you have submitted yourself to his will. Break your chain, Enistor: now, at this very moment, assert your freedom as a son of God, owing allegiance only to that Power of Love which is co-extensive with creation." "And by so doing you render yourself the servant of all," said Narvaez-Hardwick vehemently. "Whatever you gain you must use for the benefit of others and not for yourself. Think of it." "Yes," came the quiet voice of the White Master. "Think of it, and think of how the powers you gain through evil are used for the benefit of your dark tyrant. He does not even give you gratitude." "I give more than gratitude: my gifts are more substantial. Virtue is not its own reward in my service. Service indeed. And who has done service? I ask you, Enistor. Did I not scheme to place this young fool in your power, and did I not do so? You failed to use the golden moment properly and crush him, or you would by now have been wealthy, by regaining your lost property, and he would have been waiting his trial in prison. Have I not rendered you a great service? Do I not deserve gratitude in return?" "Gratitude for ruining me," said Enistor, wincing at the fiery glances cast upon him. "You ask too much. You have plotted and planned, it is true, but your schemes have been brought to naught." "By you," said Narvaez-Hardwick scornfully, "since you failed to grasp the prize I placed within your reach." "It was Douglas who conquered," said Alice suddenly. "He chose the good instead of the evil, and hate was overcome by love. Father," she moved forward swiftly to kneel beside the bed, "you have no bitterness against Douglas now: you cannot have since he has saved your life." "For the moment," scoffed the magician, "a pretty saving truly." "I have had a terrible time since regaining my senses," said the Squire feebly. "All my old life has been broken up, and I am beginning to see things in a new light. Love is stronger than Hate, I admit that, since Montrose acted so unselfishly as he did. Douglas," he held out a trembling hand, which the young man gladly took, "I thank you for what you have done, and I ask you to forgive me." "Willingly! Willingly," said Montrose, with fervour. "If we had only understood one another better, you would not now be dying." "There is no question of dying," cried Narvaez-Hardwick, furious to see how his empire was slipping from his grasp. "Don't hearken to this weak babble, Enistor. Listen, I can cure you: I can make you as well as ever you were." The girl and her lover started up with incredulous looks and Enistor gasped in amazement. "Can he do this?" he demanded, looking at Eberstein. "Yes," assented the other calmly. "His knowledge is great, even though it is wrongly used." "Wrongly used to cure the sick? Ha! What of your Master who saved the lives of those past human aid?" "He saved through the power of love, and left those He saved free. You would use that same power after your own evil fashion, changing its good into bad, so that you can bind Enistor the more closely to you as a slave." "Slave! Slave! What parrot repetition. Always slave: victim: tool! Lies, I tell you, Enistor, lies. You are my friend. If I did make you suffer, it was to test your strength, so that you might become strong enough to handle those great powers which I use. I can make you omnipotent as I am myself." "Omnipotent," echoed the Squire doubtfully. "How can that be when you were struck down in your moment of triumph?" "I was taken by surprise," said Narvaez-Hardwick sullenly. "Had I been on my guard I could have held my own." "I think not," observed the doctor gently; then addressing Enistor directly, with marked emphasis: "My son, creation is sustained by love, and where love is not, destruction must needs come. By pandering to self, this man has acquired a small empire, which he has cut off from the great one of God. His force is only that little which he has gained and which he is strong enough to hold. But my force," Eberstein stood up very straightly, "is the force of the whole, which is necessarily greater than the force of the part acquired by Narvaez. Through me, as through all who strive to work selflessly, the mighty power of love is poured, for the benefit of those who need aid. Only this can give you power, and will you consent to be a slave in the petty kingdom of this man, which will be destroyed when his measure is full?" "It will never be destroyed," cried the magician, hatefully proud. "For centuries I have endured alone, defying all." "You seek isolation, and isolation you shall have," said Eberstein sadly. "Life after life you are building thicker and thicker the prison-house which shuts you in from the source of all life. Oh, my Brother, have we not pleaded with you again and again to repent, and turn to Him who alone sustains the worlds, and you will not, in your mad pride of self. Rapidly and surely you are descending into the Abyss, and would drag this man with you. But so great is the Love of Christ, who died for you and for all, that He will forgive you even at the eleventh hour, as He forgives this poor mortal." "I haven't asked for forgiveness!" growled Enistor savagely. "No. Don't be so weak," said Narvaez-Hardwick eagerly. "Eberstein talks rubbish. If you turn to his foolish ways will he save your life?" "No," said the doctor with decision. "Enistor must pass on to exhaust the evil that he has made by suffering. But in that necessary suffering he will be supported and aided by Him who suffered Himself." "There," the magician turned triumphantly towards Enistor, "you see that he can only promise pain. A nice bribe for you to turn into a silly saint, isn't it, my friend? Now I"--the man's voice became dangerously persuasive and bland--"I can make you whole again by curing your hurt and renewing your vital powers. You have heard Eberstein admit that I can do so. Then, since you have stood the tests of inflicted pain, which were necessary, I can now instruct you in the higher magic, which will give you power over men. Also I can make you rich. Let this money of your sister's remain with Montrose and let him marry your daughter and pass out of your life. You and I, my dear friend, will go to Spain, and there you shall share in my greatness. Together we shall sway this generation, making and unmaking men and nations." "Don't listen to him: don't listen to him," implored Alice, putting her arms round her father's neck. "Remember how cruel he has been to you: remember how he was struck down by God: remember how his schemes have failed. He is a liar, like his Father the Devil." "There is no devil but what man makes for himself," sneered Narvaez-Hardwick. "But we will let that pass. You have heard, Enistor. Eberstein offers you death in this world and pain in the next----" "Through which you will pass to a wider and more glorious life, when the past has been expiated," said the doctor swiftly. "While I," went on the magician, paying no heed to the interruption, "can give you a long physical life with power and wealth, and ease and knowledge. Also in the next world I have my empire and you shall share it when we pass over this time, to return more powerful when we next incarnate. Choose! Choose!" "Aye, choose," said Eberstein solemnly. "The Path of Pleasure, which leads to destruction, or the Path of Pain, which ends in the radiant light of the Godhead. The narrow way: the broad way: the Way of the Cross, or the Way of the Wine-cup in which the serpent of self lurks." On one side of the bed stood the Dark Master, on the other stood the White Master, and between, prone with anguish, lay the body which contained the soul for which the opposing forces of good and evil struggled. Alice clung to her father and Montrose knelt prayerfully by the bed. The room was charged with battling powers, but in that dread moment of choice the influence of both stood aloof from the soul, which had to make its choice by what knowledge it had garnered painfully through many incarnations. Enistor felt suddenly feeble, felt that he was in a dense gloom, pricked here and there with wan lights, which represented all the good he had gained: and great indeed was the blackness of evil. Of himself he could do nothing, yet he knew intuitively that behind the gloom was a glorious and radiant Power of Love, which would dispel the evil when called upon. Narvaez offered him the kingdoms of the world, which rise and fall and pass away as a burning scroll: Eberstein offered him the glories of eternal good, which endure for ever and ever. He had in many lives tested the lower: now was the time to reach out to the higher. Yet so strong was the temptation of the flesh that the man paused, hesitated, faltered and held his peace. Alice sensed the conflict, and strove to surrender her gain of good to him who had treated her so cruelly. "If it is permitted, let what I can give go to help my father," she cried, and then the miracle happened. Enistor felt an inrush of light, not very strong yet wholly pure, and it was sufficient to turn the scale in spite of the strong insistence of the evil darkness. Yet not in such strength could he conquer. Something greater was needed, but the aid of Alice gave him power to call upon the greater might. "Hear us, oh! Christ: graciously hear us, oh! Lord Christ," he cried, in the suddenly remembered words of the Litany, and in broken tones. Narvaez retreated suddenly with a snarl of baffled rage, driven back by a glorious power, which flooded the being of his escaping victim with ineffable light. As by magic the darkness vanished, and the radiant tenderness of Perfect Love descended upon the weary soul. Enistor's face grew young and bright. With an expression of joyful awe, he stretched out imploring hands of surrender and remorse. What he beheld Eberstein saw, as his head was reverently bent, and Narvaez saw also, for he fell back slowly towards the door; driven into his self-created darkness by the overwhelming glory of the Cross. Alice, clinging to Montrose, murmured incoherently: "Do you see Him: do you see Him? There. With His hand on my father's head." The Lord of the Dark Face had vanished: the Lord of Compassion had come in power. Like a child who is weary the dying man fell dead on the pillows, his soul passing onward so gently that the two young people scarcely realised that all was over. A moment later, and the Presence was gone. The supernal light, visible to all save Douglas, faded away, and Eberstein stepped forward silently to close the tired eyes. "May God lead him to a place of refreshment, light and peace," he said in solemn tones, and over the body he traced the holy emblem of salvation. "Amen," murmured the two who knelt by the bedside. And away into the night fled the Son of Perdition, baffled, broken and beaten, despoiled of his slave, who was lost to him for ever. And his was the eternal torment of self, which flies though no man pursueth. CHAPTER XXIV DAWN For six months after the death of her father Alice travelled abroad, with Mrs. Sparrow as her chaperon and companion. The strain to which she had been subjected demanded removal from surroundings so intimately connected with the ordeal, and meanwhile Tremore could be safely left in charge of the housekeeper. It was with some reluctance that Montrose agreed to the Continental tour, which had been suggested by Eberstein, as it parted him for half a year from the girl he loved. But the doctor pointed out that absence would make Alice more self-reliant, since she would have to deal single-handed with her sorrow, unaided by her lover's sympathy and companionship. Each human being, he declared, must learn to become a centre of power, depending on God alone for help, since only in this way can such a one develop the necessary strength to act as a useful servant of Christ. It was a drastic training for the young people, at which they winced; but when Eberstein fully convinced them that the flesh must be dominated by the spirit at all costs, they agreed to the separation. It was a final test of their obedience, and a great one. Alice selected Mrs. Sparrow to accompany her, for two reasons. First, she was sorry for the childish woman, who led so dull a life, and wished to brighten her grey existence. Secondly, the girl was immensely grateful to both the vicar and his wife for their championship of Montrose in the face of strong evidence as to his guilt, and desired to give some tangible proof of her feelings. Indeed she asked Mr. Sparrow to come abroad also, but met with a refusal, since he could not see his way to leave his parish for so lengthy a period. However, Douglas induced the good man to pay him a few visits in London during his wife's absence, and these gave great pleasure to Mr. Sparrow, besides which they helped to widen his views. Therefore he was delighted to think that his better half should chaperon Miss Enistor, and took unselfish pleasure in the preparations for the great event. As to Mrs. Sparrow, to journey abroad, and see with her own eyes very many things she had only read about, was like a glimpse of paradise, or a drink of water to a thirsty man. She left behind her a colourless life of scraping and screwing, of cutting and contriving, to enjoy comfortable days of ample means and constant novelty. France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany: Mrs. Sparrow saw them all, and wrote daily letters to her husband concerning her experiences. Her being blossomed like a rose in the sunlight of prosperity, and she regained in a great measure the youth which had been crushed out of her by sordid cares. Alice enjoyed the naive delight of her rejuvenated companion as much as she did the sights which brought forth such an expression of pleasure, and in this way, amongst others, was aided to forget her late trials. The tour was a complete success, and when the two returned to England during the early blossoming of spring, they were bubbling over with the joy of life. And the end of the journey terminated in lovers meeting, which was fit and proper, according to the dictum of Shakespeare. The sorely tried pair were married quietly in London. Mr. Sparrow came up to perform the ceremony, Mrs. Sparrow acted as the one and only bridesmaid, while Dr. Eberstein gave the bride away. Then came a pleasant wedding breakfast and the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Montrose to Eastbourne for a delightful honeymoon. Mrs. Barrast was annoyed that she had not been asked to the great event, since the wooing had taken place in her house, but she soon got over her pique, and sent a present to the happy pair, together with a letter in which she complained that Julian, exiled in Spain, took not the slightest notice of her. Douglas laughed over the characteristic selfishness of the butterfly, and wondered openly what she would say if she really knew the weird truth. Alice replied that she would never believe it, which was extremely probable, considering Mrs. Barrast's limitations. "And I only hope that Don Pablo will leave her alone," continued Mrs. Montrose. "He is just the kind of man who would play her some malicious trick." "I don't think he would be permitted to do that," rejoined Douglas thoughtfully. "Narvaez is a kind of super-human criminal, and will be kept within bounds by the Great Powers which control the world. Mrs. Barrast is a frivolous little woman, who does no harm, even if she does no good, so she will be protected until she is strong enough to endure suffering." "It seems rather cruel that if one gains strength and improves one's character, one should only grow better to invite sorrow." "We cannot become gods in any other way, dear. The burden is always fitted to the bearer, and what is demanded from the strong is not asked from the weak. 'Whom God loveth, He chasteneth,' you know." "I could never understand that text," objected Alice, raising her eyebrows. "Eberstein explained it to me," replied her husband. "Through ignorance one accumulates bad Karma, life after life, which is gradually paid off in such a way as not to bear too hardly on those who have to suffer. And until that Karma, which is of our own making, is paid off, we are unprofitable servants working--so to speak--only for ourselves, since it is to get rid of the burdens which inconvenience us that we labour. But when any one vows himself or herself to the service of Christ and desires to work, as the Master did, for humanity at large, the evil Karma must be got rid of very speedily, so as to leave freedom for the work." "Well?" asked Alice, when he paused, and still not seeing clearly. "Cannot you understand? The quicker the Karma is paid off, the sooner will the servant of Christ be free to do what he or she wants in the service of the Master. Thus an appeal is made by the soul to God for such freedom, and it is answered by the payment of the evil being concentrated in three or four lives, whereas, ordinarily speaking, it would be spread over a hundred. Therefore at the soul's request, trouble after trouble descends without intermission, and the greater speed means the greater pain. Thus do we see many people of blameless lives suffering terribly and, humanly speaking, unjustly. But the chastening is only the love of God drawing them swiftly to Himself by allowing them--at their own request, mind you--to pay off the evil of past ignorance at one sweep--so to speak--instead of by instalments." "I see. But Mrs. Barrast?" "She is in the A B C class. Only easy payments are demanded from her." "What about ourselves? Are we free?" "In a great measure I think we are--for this incarnation at least, since we have been so bitterly tried. But of course I cannot tell if we have discharged all the evil debts of the past. I don't much care. What is gained is well worth the pain." Alice shivered. "The pain is very great." "So is the gain. If one works for super-human things, one must be content to suffer more than the ordinary person. But don't distress yourself over such things, dear heart," added her husband, taking her in his arms. "We have passed through the clouds and now stand in the sunshine, so what we have to do is to help others as we were helped." "I have helped Mrs. Sparrow, and you have helped her husband," said Alice thankfully. "She is quite a different woman, so gay and bright and hopeful." "And Sparrow is as happy as the day is long. As the living is in your gift, Alice, I have arranged to add to the income, so that the two may enjoy more of the good things of this life. And when we live at Tremore we can do much good in the parish." "Yes! Yes!" Mrs. Montrose's face lighted up. "I am quite anxious to get back and begin some good work. But"--her face clouded--"it will not be pleasant to live in Tremore: it is such a gloomy house, and the atmosphere--ugh!" she shuddered at the memory. Montrose laughed in an encouraging manner. "As you gave me permission to do what I liked with the house during your absence, I have made very great improvements," he said significantly; "also Dr. Eberstein is there at present." "Why?" Alice was curious. "Wait and see. I don't fancy you will find Tremore such a disappointing residence as you think it will be." Try as Alice might, she could get no further satisfaction on this point, and consequently became desperately anxious to return and see what had taken place. Montrose resisted her desire to go back until he received a telegram from the doctor, and then agreed that they should start for Cornwall on the next day. During the journey from Eastbourne to London, and the journey from Paddington to Perchton, they talked hopefully about the future and made many agreeable plans, mainly concerned with asking less fortunate people to share the happiness and wealth which they enjoyed. For unlike ordinary mortals this bride and bridegroom looked to finding happiness in clothing the naked and feeding the hungry, in teaching the ignorant and comforting the desolate. Only the man who has had toothache can fully sympathise with the man who has it, and in a like manner what Douglas and Alice had suffered made them intensely anxious to save others if possible from the purgatory of pain. It was an astonishingly unselfish attitude for a happy pair returning from their honeymoon to adopt, since such people are usually wrapped up entirely in themselves. But then they had been fortunate enough to have the friendship of Eberstein and the enmity of Narvaez to bring them to such a pitch of noble resolve. At Perchton, the bride and bridegroom were received by the vicar and his wife, a very different couple from what they had been some months previously. There was no greyness about the bright-faced woman: no stolid endurance of a dismal life about the genial man. Mr. Sparrow was cheery and helpful: Mrs. Sparrow smiled on one and all, beautifully dressed, and looking years younger. They had learned to be optimistic, instead of giving themselves over to religious pessimism, and were able to enjoy the gracious beauty of the world without the rebuke of a morbid conscience. Sparrow preached more about the Loving Father of the New Testament, and dwelt less on the jealous and angry God of the Jewish theology. Alice and her husband had begun their work well, for they had humanised two people by helpful kindness, and had their reward when they saw the beaming looks of the couple. "And Dr. Eberstein is at Tremore," said the vicar, when the motor-car was whirling across the long, white moorland road. "You will be pleased to see him, Mrs. Montrose." "Of course, Mr. Sparrow. Dr. Eberstein is the best friend my husband and I ever had, or ever could have." "I agree," said Mrs. Sparrow brightly. "He is a most delightful man." "I think so myself, and I approve of him," remarked the vicar thoughtfully, "although his views are scarcely orthodox. He believes in the strange doctrine of Reincarnation; although I am bound to say he did not attempt to convert me to his way of thinking." "Did you attempt to convert him?" asked Montrose, with twinkling eyes. "Well, I did," confessed Mr. Sparrow, "as it seemed a pity such a man should be in error, and credit a pagan belief which has come down to us from the dark ages. But he merely smiled and declined to argue. It is a great pity," repeated the vicar regretfully, "as he does much good and possesses a really fine nature. However, we must not lose heart. He may yet change his views." "I scarcely think he will," said Montrose dryly. "And as he is a servant of Christ as you are, what does it matter?" "There is much to be said on that point," retorted Mr. Sparrow sententiously. "For you know that Christ said nothing about Reincarnation and----" "Edgar," interrupted Mrs. Sparrow quickly, "this is not the time to talk of such things. Later, dear, later. Meanwhile, I am sure that Alice is anxious to know all that has taken place in Polwellin since she went away." "Nothing has taken place, Jane. Things remain as they were. Though I am glad to say," ended the vicar hopefully, "that the parishioners pay greater attention to my sermons than they did." "Because you preach more cheerfully, dear," said his wife, and then addressed herself to Alice: "Dame Trevel is quite reconciled to the loss of her son." "Has he not returned?" asked the girl quickly. "No. And the police cannot find him. He has vanished altogether, and as there was a storm on the night he murdered Don Pablo, it is thought that he has been drowned." "It is very probable," struck in the vicar. "Job went away without his mates--urged to flight by a guilty conscience no doubt--and so could not handle the heavy boat by himself. I am sure he has been drowned. It is just as well--if you do not think me harsh in saying so--for he would only have survived to be hanged, and that would have broken his mother's heart." "It is already broken," said Mrs. Sparrow, with an expression of pain. "But I can't say the same for Rose Penwin," she added energetically. "That misguided girl has gone to London with the idea of appearing on the stage." "Well, she is beautiful and clever. She may succeed as an actress." "But the temptations, Montrose! They are many. I consider Señor Narvaez did wrong in putting such ideas into her head. Rose has been trained in my Sunday school, and may resist temptation, but I dread the worst." "I hope for the best. Let us not be hard on her, Edgar. We are none of us perfect, you know, dear." "You are," the vicar patted his wife's hand, and by so doing added the beauty of a fond smile to her face. "And I am sure Montrose thinks that his wife is." "That goes without saying," replied the newly made bridegroom, in high good humour. "Here is Polwellin at last." The villagers received the couple with loudly expressed joy, having an eye to the future. Enistor had been a tyrant, and so desperately poor that he had extorted the last penny of rent from those who could ill afford it. But the new Squire and his wife were young, and rich, and soft-hearted, so the tenants hoped for glorious times of peace and plenty. And the hope was duly fulfilled, for the relationship between Polwellin and Tremore became much more friendly than it had been in the old bad days. Douglas, as the vicar's right hand, laboured as the Moses to his Aaron in dealing with the temporal prosperity of the parish, while Alice acted as Lady Bountiful for ever and a day. Therefore, having such true premonitions of a joyful future, it was no wonder that the bluff fishermen and their tall womenfolk welcomed their benefactors with loud cheers and smiling faces, as they called down profuse blessings on their young heads. At the foot of the hill rising to Tremore, Montrose and his wife sent on the car with their luggage, and alighted to visit the grave of Enistor, which Alice wished to do before re-entering her old home. The vicar and Mrs. Sparrow took their departure, and the girl with her husband turned aside to the grey windy God's acre wherein so many generations of the family were laid to rest. Here, over the last Squire's remains, rose a broken column of white marble, emblematic of his abruptly ended life. On its base was inscribed the name "Korah Enistor," with the date of birth and the time of death, together with the significant text from the Psalms: "Thou also shalt light my candle: the Lord my God shall make my darkness to be light!" None but Alice and her husband and Eberstein understood the full meaning of the hopeful saying, therefore much comment was made on its mystery. But aware that through God's mercy her father had set his feet on the way of the Cross, which leads to Eternal Light, the girl was able to pray for the dead without tears. Douglas also removed his hat and offered up a petition for his former enemy, after which he led his wife from the churchyard towards the great house on the hill. "Welcome! Welcome! thrice welcome," said Dr. Eberstein, who waited for them with outstretched hands at the door. "Now indeed, made one by the sacrament of marriage, do you step forward into the full sunshine of peace and joy, to work for the Great Master by helping His children." Alice and her husband each clasped a hand, but could say nothing, as their hearts were too full to speak. But the servants, headed by the smiling housekeeper, demanded attention, so the young couple controlled their feelings and graciously thanked one and all for their kindly greeting. Then the domestics retired to a festival of eating and drinking in the kitchen, while Eberstein conducted Douglas and Alice through many rooms which had been rendered brighter and lighter by modern improvements. There was still the dark oak panelling, the grave family portraits, the low ceilings and old-fashioned furniture. But everything had been renovated in the best possible taste, and the effect of the whole was less gloomy than it had been. But something more than furbishing up rooms and furniture had been done to make the house feel so cheerful and bright. What it was Alice could not say, and looked round with a puzzled air. The doctor enjoyed her perplexity, and when he finally led the pair into the library, guided the girl to one of the low casements. "Do you see any change in the ground?" he asked, smiling. Alice, who had not taken notice of her surroundings when entering the house, looked out wonderingly. The dark wood had a more cheerful appearance, as many of the trees were budding with spring green, fresh and delicate, while the ever-leafy branches of cedars and stone-pines and yews sparkled with the refreshment of a light shower, so that they also hinted at renewed youth. But the greatest marvel of all was that the space of beaten ground immediately surrounding the house was covered with an emerald carpet of turf, and the golden crocus, the pale snowdrop, and many violets were to be seen here, there, and everywhere like gleams of faint many-coloured fire. Out of doors a new life seemed to burgeon and bloom, while within there was a fresh living atmosphere, charged with creative power and fertile with the promise of glorious doings, noble, unselfish, holy. Quite unable to explain this mystic change from death to life, which made Tremore a centre of joy and abiding tranquillity, Alice turned to inquire mutely how the miracle had come about. Apparently Douglas knew, for Douglas smiled; but he waited for the master to enlighten his wife. "I have cleansed the house," said Eberstein gravely. "All those forces of hate and destruction, which created so evil an atmosphere, have been broken up and dispersed. They had their source in the selfish thoughts of your father, strongly accentuated by Don Pablo's wicked teaching. Now that the Squire is dead and Narvaez has departed for ever, the shadow has lifted. By the performance of a powerful ceremony I have exorcised the dark elementals. And now----" he touched Alice lightly between the eyes, bidding her use the clairvoyant sense he had thus awakened. The room was filled with a luminous rosy light, alive with scintillation of diamond brilliancy. And her sight, piercing the walls, beheld the whole house bathed in this celestial radiance, although towards the back, where the servants congregated, the clearness was somewhat dimmed by their ignorant thoughts of self. Life was everywhere, pulsating in great waves, welling up gloriously from the heart of the world, so that, within and without, Tremore was alive with the splendour of unhampered force. Alice could now understand how the beaten ground round the house, formerly rendered barren by hate, was now covered with verdure and many-hued with flowers. Love was in the mansion, love was in the garden, love was in the woodland, and that mighty power had caused the desert to blossom like a rose. The light sang, softly, musical with the murmur of innumerable bees, and the girl felt as though she were in the heart of an opalescent sphere which vibrated with harmony. When her eyes looked again on physical things, the doctor was speaking. "See that you do not disturb the harmony by any thought or word or deed of self. Here you have a centre of holy power, to which those tormented by the warring forces of the world can come to find peace and heavenly refreshment. Such in the days of old were the shrines, whither pilgrims travelled for the healing of their souls. You and your husband are the guardians of this place, and here many weary men and women will come for solace. See that you send them not empty away. A great trust is reposed in you, my children; a great work is given you to do. Thank therefore the Christ who has chosen you for this service of love." After this solemn admonition, Eberstein became his usual quiet genial self, and passed a very pleasant evening with the young couple. After dinner he discoursed to them at length, giving many wise counsels, and instructing them how to deal with the future. When they retired to rest he told them to rise at sunrise and meet him in the garden, since it was his intention to leave Tremore before breakfast. Knowing that he had much work to do, Douglas and Alice never thought of pressing him to stay, although they greatly regretted that he could not give them more of his company. They said little to one another, for all that had taken place awed them considerably. But when the east was radiant with the promise of another day, and awaking birds twittered amongst the darkling trees, they came out on to the dewy lawn, to find their guest ready to depart. He was dressed for travelling, his portmanteau was already on a motor, which panted far away at the gate of the avenue, and in the silence of the dawn he came forward to bid them farewell. Taking each by the hand, Eberstein led them to a small hill towards the back of the house, where the sun could be seen rising over the undulating line of the moorlands. An arc of fire was just showing above the horizon, and a splendour of light was changing the rosy hues of the eastern sky into a golden haze. Silently prayerful, the three stood looking at this aerial magnificence. It was the doctor who spoke first. "See there the promise of your future," he said quietly. "The darkness of the night has fled away before the glory of the celestial orb. So have the black clouds amidst which you walked of late been dispersed by the Sun of Righteousness, which has risen with healing on His wings. You know what work you are appointed to do?" "Yes," said Montrose gravely. "Six months in the year Alice and I must live in London, seeking out the lame, the halt, and the blind; both the spiritually sick and the physically crippled. We must give to them money, attention, sympathy, love and instruction, looking on every man as a brother and on every woman as a sister, irrespective of race or creed." "Just so," said Eberstein, nodding, "because all are one, and you are in others as others are in you, all being in the Father, through the Son by the power of the Holy Spirit. And then?" he turned to Alice. "For six months in the year Douglas and I must live here," she said, equally gravely, "and here we must bring those who need rest and help. We must not pauperise them by indiscriminate charity, but must teach each to become a centre of power, to develop his or her latent faculties. Finally, we must never think of self, but let the Power of Good flow through us unhindered by selfish desire." "Just so," said Eberstein again, and smiled approvingly. "Remember that to be channels of the Divine power you must surrender all. A single thought of self and the channel is choked. Freely the power is given to you, so freely must you give it to others, and in passing through you on its beneficent mission it will cleanse you both body and soul, strengthening each so that you may be strong, wholesome servants of The Christ. You have learned your lesson well, my children, so it only remains for me to go." "We shall see you again, I hope?" asked Douglas anxiously. "Oh, yes," responded the doctor cheerfully. "Every year I shall come and stay with you, for there is much instruction in higher things to be given. By following the Master and living as nearly as possible His gracious life, you will refine your physical bodies to such a degree that in time you will be able to link up with the desire body and the mental body--consciously, that is. Already every night you both work and help in the next world, although you cannot yet remember what you do. But when the time is ripe you will remember, and consciously pass from this world to the other. Afterwards you will pass consciously from the desire world to the mental sphere, and so you will work constantly on three planes as the servants of Him who died on the Cross. Think then, my children, how glorious is your future." The faces of both brightened, but Douglas spoke rather mournfully. "There is much to do in the physical world alone," he protested. "Look at the unrest that prevails everywhere." "Be of good courage, my son. This unrest you fear shows how rapidly humanity is progressing. This is the era of individualisation, when each has to think for himself. Is it then any wonder that opposing wills clash, when all are so ignorant? But Chaos must precede Cosmos, and the human race is in a very hot furnace being shaped towards the ends intended by the God of All. The inner teaching is being given out freely to the West and to the East, to the North and to the South, therefore is a new spirit being infused into all religions for the enlightenment of mankind." "Into _all_ religions?" questioned Alice dubiously. "Yes! All the great religions are true in their essence, for all worship the One True God in Trinity, or in Duality, or in Unity. What men quarrel over and what they reprobate are only those external things which have been added by the ignorance of man. But the time is at hand when such errors will be dispelled, and then all religions will be unified by the Blessed One. To this nation and that God has spoken in different ways: soon He will speak to all with one mighty voice, and all men will learn that they are the sons of one great Father. Notwithstanding the turmoil of the present, be of good cheer, I say, for 'All things work together for good,' as St. Paul has set forth." In the glory of the sun, now wholly above the horizon, Alice and her husband walked down the avenue to where the motor-car throbbed as if impatient to start. There was a clean, fresh look about the world, as if it had been newly made, and although husband and wife were a trifle sad at the departure of Eberstein, yet their hearts were singing with joy, and they were filled with gratitude to God for what He had done for them. "Farewell, and may the Master bless you," said Eberstein, from the body of the car. "When I come again let me find that you have worked in the vineyard as true labourers. And so----" he traced the sign of the cross in the air, and Alice saw it visibly outlined in dazzling light as the motor sped swiftly down the hill, through Polwellin and towards Perchton over the purple moors. "Dear!" Douglas took his wife in his arms, "do not cry." "These are joyful tears, I think," said Alice, smiling. "God is so good." "Let us try to show ourselves worthy of His goodness," replied the young man, with an answering smile. "Come, dear, our work awaits us." And in the glory of the spring morning, under the budding green of the trees, and across the soft grass of the lawn, they passed into their dear home, no longer the house of hate, but the Mansion Beautiful, wherein great works were to be done by them in their day and generation. Ballantyne & Company Ltd Tavistock Street Covent Garden London * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation and printer's errors were corrected. Inconsistent hyphenation was retained. On page 372, "illwill" was changed to "ill-will" (so doubtless this feeling of ill-will). On page 134, "Amy" was changed to "Alice" ("I am glad he does," said Alice soberly). 
7082	----	generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. [Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been numbered sequentially and moved to the end of the text.] LIVES OF THE NECROMANCERS: OR AN ACCOUNT OF THE MOST EMINENT PERSONS IN SUCCESSIVE AGES, WHO HAVE CLAIMED FOR THEMSELVES, OR TO WHOM HAS BEEN IMPUTED BY OTHERS, THE EXERCISE OF MAGICAL POWER. BY WILLIAM GODWIN. LONDON Frederick J Mason, 444, West Strand 1834 PREFACE. The main purpose of this book is to exhibit a fair delineation of the credulity of the human mind. Such an exhibition cannot fail to be productive of the most salutary lessons. One view of the subject will teach us a useful pride in the abundance of our faculties. Without pride man is in reality of little value. It is pride that stimulates us to all our great undertakings. Without pride, and the secret persuasion of extraordinary talents, what man would take up the pen with a view to produce an important work, whether of imagination and poetry, or of profound science, or of acute and subtle reasoning and intellectual anatomy? It is pride in this sense that makes the great general and the consummate legislator, that animates us to tasks the most laborious, and causes us to shrink from no difficulty, and to be confounded and overwhelmed with no obstacle that can be interposed in our path. Nothing can be more striking than the contrast between man and the inferior animals. The latter live only for the day, and see for the most part only what is immediately before them. But man lives in the past and the future. He reasons upon and improves by the past; he records the acts of a long series of generations: and he looks into future time, lays down plans which he shall be months and years in bringing to maturity, and contrives machines and delineates systems of education and government, which may gradually add to the accommodations of all, and raise the species generally into a nobler and more honourable character than our ancestors were capable of sustaining. Man looks through nature, and is able to reduce its parts into a great whole. He classes the beings which are found in it, both animate and inanimate, delineates and describes them, investigates their properties, and records their capacities, their good and evil qualities, their dangers and their uses. Nor does he only see all that is; but he also images all that is not. He takes to pieces the substances that are, and combines their parts into new arrangements. He peoples all the elements from the world of his imagination. It is here that he is most extraordinary and wonderful. The record of what actually is, and has happened in the series of human events, is perhaps the smallest part of human history. If we would know man in all his subtleties, we must deviate into the world of miracles and sorcery. To know the things that are not, and cannot be, but have been imagined and believed, is the most curious chapter in the annals of man. To observe the actual results of these imaginary phenomena, and the crimes and cruelties they have caused us to commit, is one of the most instructive studies in which we can possibly be engaged. It is here that man is most astonishing, and that we contemplate with most admiration the discursive and unbounded nature of his faculties. But, if a recollection of the examples of the credulity of the human mind may in one view supply nourishment to our pride, it still more obviously tends to teach us sobriety and humiliation. Man in his genuine and direct sphere is the disciple of reason; it is by this faculty that he draws inferences, exerts his prudence, and displays the ingenuity of machinery, and the subtlety of system both in natural and moral philosophy. Yet what so irrational as man? Not contented with making use of the powers we possess, for the purpose of conducing to our accommodation and well being, we with a daring spirit inquire into the invisible causes of what we see, and people all nature with Gods "of every shape and size" and angels, with principalities and powers, with beneficent beings who "take charge concerning us lest at any time we dash our foot against a stone," and with devils who are perpetually on the watch to perplex us and do us injury. And, having familiarised our minds with the conceptions of these beings, we immediately aspire to hold communion with them. We represent to ourselves God, as "walking in the garden with us in the cool of the day," and teach ourselves "not to forget to entertain strangers, lest by so doing we should repel angels unawares." No sooner are we, even in a slight degree, acquainted with the laws of nature, than we frame to ourselves the idea, by the aid of some invisible ally, of suspending their operation, of calling out meteors in the sky, of commanding storms and tempests, of arresting the motion of the heavenly bodies, of producing miraculous cures upon the bodies of our fellow-men, or afflicting them with disease and death, of calling up the deceased from the silence of the grave, and compelling them to disclose "the secrets of the world unknown." But, what is most deplorable, we are not contented to endeavour to secure the aid of God and good angels, but we also aspire to enter into alliance with devils, and beings destined for their rebellion to suffer eternally the pains of hell. As they are supposed to be of a character perverted and depraved, we of course apply to them principally for purposes of wantonness, or of malice and revenge. And, in the instances which have occurred only a few centuries back, the most common idea has been of a compact entered into by an unprincipled and impious human being with the sworn enemy of God and man, in the result of which the devil engages to serve the capricious will and perform the behests of his blasphemous votary for a certain number of years, while the deluded wretch in return engages to renounce his God and Saviour, and surrender himself body and soul to the pains of hell from the end of that term to all eternity. No sooner do we imagine human beings invested with these wonderful powers, and conceive them as called into action for the most malignant purposes, than we become the passive and terrified slaves of the creatures of our own imaginations, and fear to be assailed at every moment by beings to whose power we can set no limit, and whose modes of hostility no human sagacity can anticipate and provide against. But, what is still more extraordinary, the human creatures that pretend to these powers have often been found as completely the dupes of this supernatural machinery, as the most timid wretch that stands in terror at its expected operation; and no phenomenon has been more common than the confession of these allies of hell, that they have verily and indeed held commerce and formed plots and conspiracies with Satan. The consequence of this state of things has been, that criminal jurisprudence and the last severities of the law have been called forth to an amazing extent to exterminate witches and witchcraft. More especially in the sixteenth century hundreds and thousands were burned alive within the compass of a small territory; and judges, the directors of the scene, a Nicholas Remi, a De Lancre, and many others, have published copious volumes, entering into a minute detail of the system and fashion of the witchcraft of the professors, whom they sent in multitudes to expiate their depravity at the gallows and the stake. One useful lesson which we may derive from the detail of these particulars, is the folly in most cases of imputing pure and unmingled hypocrisy to man. The human mind is of so ductile a character that, like what is affirmed of charity by the apostle, it "believeth all things, and endureth all things." We are not at liberty to trifle with the sacredness of truth. While we persuade others, we begin to deceive ourselves. Human life is a drama of that sort, that, while we act our part, and endeavour to do justice to the sentiments which are put down for us, we begin to believe we are the thing we would represent. To shew however the modes in which the delusion acts upon the person through whom it operates, is not properly the scope of this book. Here and there I have suggested hints to this purpose, which the curious reader may follow to their furthest extent, and discover how with perfect good faith the artist may bring himself to swallow the grossest impossibilities. But the work I have written is not a treatise of natural magic. It rather proposes to display the immense wealth of the faculty of imagination, and to shew the extravagances of which the man may be guilty who surrenders himself to its guidance. It is fit however that the reader should bear in mind, that what is put down in this book is but a small part and scantling of the acts of sorcery and witchcraft which have existed in human society. They have been found in all ages and countries. The torrid zone and the frozen north have neither of them escaped from a fruitful harvest of this sort of offspring. In ages of ignorance they have been especially at home; and the races of men that have left no records behind them to tell almost that they existed, have been most of all rife in deeds of darkness, and those marvellous incidents which especially astonish the spectator, and throw back the infant reason of man into those shades and that obscurity from which it had so recently endeavoured to escape. I wind up for the present my literary labours with the production of this book. Nor let any reader imagine that I here put into his hands a mere work of idle recreation. It will be found pregnant with deeper uses. The wildest extravagances of human fancy, the most deplorable perversion of human faculties, and the most horrible distortions of jurisprudence, may occasionally afford us a salutary lesson. I love in the foremost place to contemplate man in all his honours and in all the exaltation of wisdom and virtue; but it will also be occasionally of service to us to look into his obliquities, and distinctly to remark how great and portentous have been his absurdities and his follies. _May_ 29, 1834. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION AMBITIOUS NATURE OF MAN HIS DESIRE TO PENETRATE INTO FUTURITY DIVINATION AUGURY CHIROMANCY PHYSIOGNOMY INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS CASTING OF LOTS ASTROLOGY ORACLES DELPHI THE DESIRE TO COMMAND AND CONTROL FUTURE EVENTS COMMERCE WITH THE INVISIBLE WORLD SORCERY AND ENCHANTMENT WITCHCRAFT COMPACTS WITH THE DEVIL IMPS TALISMANS AND AMULETS NECROMANCY ALCHEMY FAIRIES ROSICRUCIANS SYLPHS AND GNOMES, SALAMANDERS AND UNDINES EXAMPLES OF NECROMANCY AND WITCHCRAFT FROM THE BIBLE THE MAGI, OR WISE MEN OF THE EAST EGYPT STATUE OF MEMNON TEMPLE OF JUPITER AMMON: ITS ORACLES CHALDEA AND BABYLON ZOROASTER GREECE DEITIES OF GREECE DEMIGODS DAEDALUS THE ARGONAUTS MEDEA CIRCE ORPHEUS AMPHION TIRESIAS ABARIS PYTHAGORAS EPIMENIDES EMPEDOCLES ARISTEAS HERMOTIMUS THE MOTHER OF DEMARATUS, KING OF SPARTA ORACLES INVASION OF XERXES INTO GREECE DEMOCRITUS SOCRATES ROME VIRGIL POLYDORUS DIDO ROMULUS NUMA TULLUS HOSTILIUS ACCIUS NAVIUS SERVIUS TULLIUS THE SORCERESS OF VIRGIL CANIDIA ERICHTHO SERTORIUS CASTING OUT DEVILS SIMON MAGUS ELYMAS, THE SORCERER NERO VESPASIAN APOLLONIUS OF TYANA APULEIUS ALEXANDER THE PAPHLAGONIAN REVOLUTION PRODUCED IN THE HISTORY OF NECROMANCY AND WITCHCRAFT UPON THE ESTABLISHMENT OF CHRISTIANITY MAGICAL CONSULTATIONS RESPECTING THE LIFE OF THE EMPEROR HISTORY OF NECROMANCY IN THE EAST GENERAL SILENCE OF THE EAST RESPECTING INDIVIDUAL NECROMANCERS ROCAIL HAKEM, OTHERWISE MACANNA ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS PERSIAN TALES STORY OF A GOULE ARABIAN NIGHTS RESEMBLANCE OF THE TALES OF THE EAST AND OF EUROPE CAUSES OF HUMAN CREDULITY DARK AGES OF EUROPE MERLIN ST. DUNSTAN COMMUNICATION OF EUROPE AND THE SARACENS GERBERT, POPE SILVESTER II BENEDICT THE NINTH GREGORY THE SEVENTH DUFF, KING OF SCOTLAND MACBETH VIRGIL ROBERT OF LINCOLN MICHAEL SCOT THE DEAN OF BADAJOZ MIRACLE OF THE TUB OF WATER INSTITUTION OF FRIARS ALBERTUS MAGNUS ROGER BACON THOMAS AQUINAS PETER OF APONO ENGLISH LAW OF HIGH TREASON ZIITO TRANSMUTATION OF METALS ARTEPHIUS RAYMOND LULLI ARNOLD OF VILLENEUVE ENGLISH LAWS RESPECTING TRANSMUTATION REVIVAL OF LETTERS JOAN OF ARC ELEANOR COBHAM, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER RICHARD III SANGUINARY PROCEEDINGS AGAINST WITCHCRAFT SAVONAROLA TRITHEMIUS LUTHER CORNELIUS AGRIPPA FAUSTUS SABELLICUS PARACELSUS CARDAN QUACKS, WHO IN COOL BLOOD UNDERTOOK TO OVERREACH MANKIND BENVENUTO CELLINI NOSTRADAMUS DOCTOR DEE EARL OF DERBY KING JAMES'S VOYAGE TO NORWAY JOHN FIAN KING JAMES'S DEMONOLOGY STATUTE, 1 JAMES I FORMAN AND OTHERS LATEST IDEAS OF JAMES ON THE SUBJECT LANCASHIRE WITCHES LADY DAVIES EDWARD FAIRFAX DOCTOR LAMB URBAIN GRANDIER ASTROLOGY WILLIAM LILLY MATTHEW HOPKINS CROMWEL DOROTHY MATELEY WITCHES HANGED BY SIR MATTHEW HALE WITCHCRAFT IN SWEDEN WITCHCRAFT IN NEW ENGLAND CONCLUSION LIVES OF THE NECROMANCERS The improvements that have been effected in natural philosophy have by degrees convinced the enlightened part of mankind that the material universe is every where subject to laws, fixed in their weight, measure and duration, capable of the most exact calculation, and which in no case admit of variation and exception. Whatever is not thus to be accounted for is of mind, and springs from the volition of some being, of which the material form is subjected to our senses, and the action of which is in like manner regulated by the laws of matter. Beside this, mind, as well as matter, is subject to fixed laws; and thus every phenomenon and occurrence around us is rendered a topic for the speculations of sagacity and foresight. Such is the creed which science has universally prescribed to the judicious and reflecting among us. It was otherwise in the infancy and less mature state of human knowledge. The chain of causes and consequences was yet unrecognized; and events perpetually occurred, for which no sagacity that was then in being was able to assign an original. Hence men felt themselves habitually disposed to refer many of the appearances with which they were conversant to the agency of invisible intelligences; sometimes under the influence of a benignant disposition, sometimes of malice, and sometimes perhaps from an inclination to make themselves sport of the wonder and astonishment of ignorant mortals. Omens and portents told these men of some piece of good or ill fortune speedily to befal them. The flight of birds was watched by them, as foretokening somewhat important. Thunder excited in them a feeling of supernatural terror. Eclipses with fear of change perplexed the nations. The phenomena of the heavens, regular and irregular, were anxiously remarked from the same principle. During the hours of darkness men were apt to see a supernatural being in every bush; and they could not cross a receptacle for the dead, without expecting to encounter some one of the departed uneasily wandering among graves, or commissioned to reveal somewhat momentous and deeply affecting to the survivors. Fairies danced in the moonlight glade; and something preternatural perpetually occurred to fill the living with admiration and awe. All this gradually reduced itself into a system. Mankind, particularly in the dark and ignorant ages, were divided into the strong and the weak; the strong and weak of animal frame, when corporeal strength more decidedly bore sway than in a period of greater cultivation; and the strong and weak in reference to intellect; those who were bold, audacious and enterprising in acquiring an ascendancy over their fellow-men, and those who truckled, submitted, and were acted upon, from an innate consciousness of inferiority, and a superstitious looking up to such as were of greater natural or acquired endowments than themselves. The strong in intellect were eager to avail themselves of their superiority, by means that escaped the penetration of the multitude, and had recourse to various artifices to effect their ends. Beside this, they became the dupes of their own practices. They set out at first in their conception of things from the level of the vulgar. They applied themselves diligently to the unravelling of what was unknown; wonder mingled with their contemplation; they abstracted their minds from things of ordinary occurrence, and, as we may denominate it, of real life, till at length they lost their true balance amidst the astonishment they sought to produce in their inferiors. They felt a vocation to things extraordinary; and they willingly gave scope and line without limit to that which engendered in themselves the most gratifying sensations, at the same time that it answered the purposes of their ambition. As these principles in the two parties, the more refined and the vulgar, are universal, and derive their origin from the nature of man, it has necessarily happened that this faith in extraordinary events, and superstitious fear of what is supernatural, has diffused itself through every climate of the world, in a certain stage of human intellect, and while refinement had not yet got the better of barbarism. The Celts of antiquity had their Druids, a branch of whose special profession was the exercise of magic. The Chaldeans and Egyptians had their wise men, their magicians and their sorcerers. The negroes have their foretellers of events, their amulets, and their reporters and believers of miraculous occurrences. A similar race of men was found by Columbus and the other discoverers of the New World in America; and facts of a parallel nature are attested to us in the islands of the South Seas. And, as phenomena of this sort were universal in their nature, without distinction of climate, whether torrid or frozen, and independently of the discordant manners and customs of different countries, so have they been very slow and recent in their disappearing. Queen Elizabeth sent to consult Dr. John Dee, the astrologer, respecting a lucky day for her coronation; King James the First employed much of his learned leisure upon questions of witchcraft and demonology, in which he fully believed and sir Matthew Hale in the year 1664 caused two old women to be hanged upon a charge of unlawful communion with infernal agents. The history of mankind therefore will be very imperfect, and our knowledge of the operations and eccentricities of the mind lamentably deficient, unless we take into our view what has occurred under this head. The supernatural appearances with which our ancestors conceived themselves perpetually surrounded must have had a strong tendency to cherish and keep alive the powers of the imagination, and to penetrate those who witnessed or expected such things with an extraordinary sensitiveness. As the course of events appears to us at present, there is much, though abstractedly within the compass of human sagacity to foresee, which yet the actors on the scene do not foresee: but the blindness and perplexity of short-sighted mortals must have been wonderfully increased, when ghosts and extraordinary appearances were conceived liable to cross the steps and confound the projects of men at every turn, and a malicious wizard or a powerful enchanter might involve his unfortunate victim in a chain of calamities, which no prudence could disarm, and no virtue could deliver him from. They were the slaves of an uncontrolable destiny, and must therefore have been eminently deficient in the perseverance and moral courage, which may justly be required of us in a more enlightened age. And the men (but these were few compared with the great majority of mankind), who believed themselves gifted with supernatural endowments, must have felt exempt and privileged from common rules, somewhat in the same way as the persons whom fiction has delighted to pourtray as endowed with immeasurable wealth, or with the power of rendering themselves impassive or invisible. But, whatever were their advantages or disadvantages, at any rate it is good for us to call up in review things, which are now passed away, but which once occupied so large a share of the thoughts and attention of mankind, and in a great degree tended to modify their characters and dictate their resolutions. As has already been said, numbers of those who were endowed with the highest powers of human intellect, such as, if they had lived in these times, would have aspired to eminence in the exact sciences, to the loftiest flights of imagination, or to the discovery of means by which the institutions of men in society might be rendered more beneficial and faultless, at that time wasted the midnight oil in endeavouring to trace the occult qualities and virtues of things, to render invisible spirits subject to their command, and to effect those wonders, of which they deemed themselves to have a dim conception, but which more rational views of nature have taught us to regard as beyond our power to effect. These sublime wanderings of the mind are well entitled to our labour to trace and investigate. The errors of man are worthy to be recorded, not only as beacons to warn us from the shelves where our ancestors have made shipwreck, but even as something honourable to our nature, to show how high a generous ambition could sour, though in forbidden paths, and in things too wonderful for us. Nor only is this subject inexpressibly interesting, as setting before us how the loftiest and most enterprising minds of ancient days formerly busied themselves. It is also of the highest importance to an ingenuous curiosity, inasmuch as it vitally affected the fortunes of so considerable a portion of the mass of mankind. The legislatures of remote ages bent all their severity at different periods against what they deemed the unhallowed arts of the sons and daughters of reprobation. Multitudes of human creatures have been sacrificed in different ages and countries, upon the accusation of having exercised arts of the most immoral and sacrilegious character. They were supposed to have formed a contract with a mighty and invisible spirit, the great enemy of man, and to have sold themselves, body and soul, to everlasting perdition, for the sake of gratifying, for a short term of years, their malignant passions against those who had been so unfortunate as to give them cause of offence. If there were any persons who imagined they had entered into such a contract, however erroneous was their belief, they must of necessity have been greatly depraved. And it was but natural that such as believed in this crime, must have considered it as atrocious beyond all others, and have regarded those who were supposed guilty of it with inexpressible abhorrence. There are many instances on record, where the persons accused of it, either from the depth of their delusion, or, which is more probable, harassed by persecution, by the hatred of their fellow-creatures directed against them, or by torture, actually confessed themselves guilty. These instances are too numerous, not to constitute an important chapter in the legislation of past ages. And, now that the illusion has in a manner passed away from the face of the earth, we are on that account the better qualified to investigate this error in its causes and consequences, and to look back on the tempest and hurricane from which we have escaped, with chastened feelings, and a sounder estimate of its nature, its reign, and its effects. AMBITIOUS NATURE OF MAN Man is a creature of boundless ambition. It is probably our natural wants that first awaken us from that lethargy and indifference in which man may be supposed to be plunged previously to the impulse of any motive, or the accession of any uneasiness. One of our earliest wants may be conceived to be hunger, or the desire of food. From this simple beginning the history of man in all its complex varieties may be regarded as proceeding. Man in a state of society, more especially where there is an inequality of condition and rank, is very often the creature of leisure. He finds in himself, either from internal or external impulse, a certain activity. He finds himself at one time engaged in the accomplishment of his obvious and immediate desires, and at another in a state in which these desires have for the present been fulfilled, and he has no present occasion to repeat those exertions which led to their fulfilment. This is the period of contemplation. This is the state which most eminently distinguishes us from the brutes. Here it is that the history of man, in its exclusive sense, may be considered as taking its beginning. Here it is that he specially recognises in himself the sense of power. Power in its simplest acceptation, may be exerted in either of two ways, either in his procuring for himself an ample field for more refined accommodations, or in the exercise of compulsion and authority over other living creatures. In the pursuit of either of these, and especially the first, he is led to the attainment of skill and superior adroitness in the use of his faculties. No sooner has man reached to this degree of improvement, than now, if not indeed earlier, he is induced to remark the extreme limitedness of his faculties in respect to the future; and he is led, first earnestly to desire a clearer insight into the future, and next a power of commanding those external causes upon which the events of the future depend. The first of these desires is the parent of divination, augury, chiromancy, astrology, and the consultation of oracles; and the second has been the prolific source of enchantment, witchcraft, sorcery, magic, necromancy, and alchemy, in its two branches, the unlimited prolongation of human life, and the art of converting less precious metals into gold. HIS DESIRE TO PENETRATE INTO FUTURITY. Nothing can suggest to us a more striking and stupendous idea of the faculties of the human mind, than the consideration of the various arts by which men have endeavoured to penetrate into the future, and to command the events of the future, in ways that in sobriety and truth are entirely out of our competence. We spurn impatiently against the narrow limits which the constitution of things has fixed to our aspirings, and endeavour by a multiplicity of ways to accomplish that which it is totally beyond the power of man to effect. DIVINATION. Divination has been principally employed in inspecting the entrails of beasts offered for sacrifice, and from their appearance drawing omens of the good or ill success of the enterprises in which we are about to engage. What the divination by the cup was which Joseph practised, or pretended to practise, we do not perhaps exactly understand. We all of us know somewhat of the predictions, to this day resorted to by maid-servants and others, from the appearance of the sediment to be found at the bottom of a tea-cup. Predictions of a similar sort are formed from the unpremeditated way in which we get out of bed in a morning, or put on our garments, from the persons or things we shall encounter when we first leave our chamber or go forth in the air, or any of the indifferent accidents of life. AUGURY. Augury has its foundation in observing the flight of birds, the sounds they utter, their motions whether sluggish or animated, and the avidity or otherwise with which they appear to take their food. The college of augurs was one of the most solemn institutions of ancient Rome. CHIROMANCY. Chiromancy, or the art of predicting the various fortunes of the individual, from an inspection of the minuter variations of the lines to be found in the palm of the human hand, has been used perhaps at one time or other in all the nations of the world. PHYSIOGNOMY. Physiognomy is not so properly a prediction of future events, as an attempt to explain the present and inherent qualities of a man. By unfolding his propensities however, it virtually gave the world to understand the sort of proceedings in which he was most likely to engage. The story of Socrates and the physiognomist is sufficiently known. The physiognomist having inspected the countenance of the philosopher, pronounced that he was given to intemperance, sensuality, and violent bursts of passion, all of which was so contrary to his character as universally known, that his disciples derided the physiognomist as a vain-glorious pretender. Socrates however presently put them to silence, by declaring that he had had an original propensity to all the vices imputed to him, and had only conquered the propensity by dint of a severe and unremitted self-discipline. INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS. Oneirocriticism, or the art of interpreting dreams, seems of all the modes of prediction the most inseparable from the nature of man. A considerable portion of every twenty-four hours of our lives is spent in sleep; and in sleep nothing is at least more usual, than for the mind to be occupied in a thousand imaginary scenes, which for the time are as realities, and often excite the passions of the mind of the sleeper in no ordinary degree. Many of them are wild and rambling; but many also have a portentous sobriety. Many seem to have a strict connection with the incidents of our actual lives; and some appear as if they came for the very purpose to warn us of danger, or prepare us for coming events. It is therefore no wonder that these occasionally fill our waking thoughts with a deep interest, and impress upon us an anxiety of which we feel it difficult to rid ourselves. Accordingly, in ages when men were more prone to superstition, than at present, they sometimes constituted a subject of earnest anxiety and inquisitiveness; and we find among the earliest exercises of the art of prediction, the interpretation of dreams to have occupied a principal place, and to have been as it were reduced into a science. CASTING OF LOTS. The casting of lots seems scarcely to come within the enumeration here given. It was intended as an appeal to heaven upon a question involved in uncertainty, with the idea that the supreme Ruler of the skies, thus appealed to, would from his omniscience supply the defect of human knowledge. Two examples, among others sufficiently remarkable, occur in the Bible. One of Achan, who secreted part of the spoil taken in Jericho, which was consecrated to the service of God, and who, being taken by lot, confessed, and was stoned to death. [1] The other of Jonah, upon whom the lot fell in a mighty tempest, the crew of the ship enquiring by this means what was the cause of the calamity that had overtaken them, and Jonah being in consequence cast into the sea. ASTROLOGY. Astrology was one of the modes most anciently and universally resorted to for discovering the fortunes of men and nations. Astronomy and astrology went hand in hand, particularly among the people of the East. The idea of fate was most especially bound up in this branch of prophecy. If the fortune of a man was intimately connected with the position of the heavenly bodies, it became evident that little was left to the province of his free will. The stars overruled him in all his determinations; and it was in vain for him to resist them. There was something flattering to the human imagination in conceiving that the planets and the orbs on high were concerned in the conduct we should pursue, and the events that should befal us. Man resigned himself to his fate with a solemn, yet a lofty feeling, that the remotest portions of the universe were concerned in the catastrophe that awaited him. Beside which, there was something peculiarly seducing in the apparently profound investigation of the professors of astrology. They busied themselves with the actual position of the heavenly bodies, their conjunctions and oppositions; and of consequence there was a great apparatus of diagrams and calculation to which they were prompted to apply themselves, and which addressed itself to the eyes and imaginations of those who consulted them. ORACLES. But that which seems to have had the greatest vogue in times of antiquity, relative to the prediction of future events, is what is recorded of oracles. Finding the insatiable curiosity of mankind as to what was to happen hereafter, and the general desire they felt to be guided in their conduct by an anticipation of things to come, the priests pretty generally took advantage of this passion, to increase their emoluments and offerings, and the more effectually to inspire the rest of their species with veneration and a willing submission to their authority. The oracle was delivered in a temple, or some sacred place; and in this particular we plainly discover that mixture of nature and art, of genuine enthusiasm and contriving craft, which is so frequently exemplified in the character of man. DELPHI. The oracle of Apollo at Delphi is the most remarkable; and respecting it we are furnished with the greatest body of particulars. The locality of this oracle is said to have been occasioned by the following circumstance. A goat-herd fed his flocks on the acclivity of mount Parnassus. As the animals wandered here and there in pursuit of food, they happened to approach a deep and long chasm which appeared in the rock. From this chasm a vapour issued; and the goats had no sooner inhaled a portion of the vapour, than they began to play and frisk about with singular agility. The goat-herd, observing this, and curious to discover the cause, held his head over the chasm; when, in a short time, the fumes having ascended to his brain, he threw himself into a variety of strange attitudes, and uttered words, which probably he did not understand himself, but which were supposed to convey a prophetic meaning. This phenomenon was taken advantage of, and a temple to Apollo was erected on the spot. The credulous many believed that here was obviously a centre and focus of divine inspiration. On this mountain Apollo was said to have slain the serpent Python. The apartment of the oracle was immediately over the chasm from which the vapour issued. A priestess delivered the responses, who was called Pythia, probably in commemoration of the exploit which had been performed by Apollo. She sat upon a tripod, or three-legged stool, perforated with holes, over the seat of the vapours. After a time, her figure enlarged itself, her hair stood on end, her complexion and features became altered, her heart panted and her bosom swelled, and her voice grew more than human. In this condition she uttered a number of wild and incoherent phrases, which were supposed to be dictated by the God. The questions which were offered by those who came to consult the oracle were then proposed to her, and her answers taken down by the priest, whose office was to arrange and methodize them, and put them into hexameter verse, after which they were delivered to the votaries. The priestess could only be consulted on one day in every month. Great ingenuity and contrivance were no doubt required to uphold the credit of the oracle; and no less boldness and self-collectedness on the part of those by whom the machinery was conducted. Like the conjurors of modern times, they took care to be extensively informed as to all such matters respecting which the oracle was likely to be consulted. They listened probably to the Pythia with a superstitious reverence for the incoherent sentences she uttered. She, like them, spent her life in being trained for the office to which she was devoted. All that was rambling and inapplicable in her wild declamation they consigned to oblivion. Whatever seemed to bear on the question proposed they preserved. The persons by whom the responses were digested into hexameter verse, had of course a commission attended with great discretionary power. They, as Horace remarks on another occasion, [2] divided what it was judicious to say, from what it was prudent to omit, dwelt upon one thing, and slurred over and accommodated another, just as would best suit the purpose they had in hand. Beside this, for the most part they clothed the apparent meaning of the oracle in obscurity, and often devised sentences of ambiguous interpretation, that might suit with opposite issues, whichever might happen to fall out. This was perfectly consistent with a high degree of enthusiasm on the part of the priest. However confident he might be in some things, he could not but of necessity feel that his prognostics were surrounded with uncertainty. Whatever decisions of the oracle were frustrated by the event, and we know that there were many of this sort, were speedily forgotten; while those which succeeded, were conveyed from shore to shore, and repeated by every echo. Nor is it surprising that the transmitters of the sentences of the God should in time arrive at an extraordinary degree of sagacity and skill. The oracles accordingly reached to so high a degree of reputation, that, as Cicero observes, no expedition for a long time was undertaken, no colony sent out, and often no affair of any distinguished family or individual entered on, without the previously obtaining their judgment and sanction. Their authority in a word was so high, that the first fathers of the Christian church could no otherwise account for a reputation thus universally received, than by supposing that the devils were permitted by God Almighty to inform the oracles with a more than human prescience, that all the world might be concluded in idolatry and unbelief, [3] and the necessity of a Saviour be made more apparent. The gullibility of man is one of the most prominent features of our nature. Various periods and times, when whole nations have as it were with one consent run into the most incredible and the grossest absurdities, perpetually offer themselves in the page of history; and in the records of remote antiquity it plainly appears that such delusions continued through successive centuries. THE DESIRE TO COMMAND AND CONTROL FUTURE EVENTS. Next to the consideration of those measures by which men have sought to dive into the secrets of future time, the question presents itself of those more daring undertakings, the object of which has been by some supernatural power to control the future, and place it in subjection to the will of the unlicensed adventurer. Men have always, especially in ages of ignorance, and when they most felt their individual weakness, figured to themselves an invisible strength greater than their own; and, in proportion to their impatience, and the fervour of their desires, have sought to enter into a league with those beings whose mightier force might supply that in which their weakness failed. COMMERCE WITH THE INVISIBLE WORLD. It is an essential feature of different ages and countries to vary exceedingly in the good or ill construction, the fame or dishonour, which shall attend upon the same conduct or mode of behaviour. In Egypt and throughout the East, especially in the early periods of history, the supposed commerce with invisible powers was openly professed, which, under other circumstances, and during the reign of different prejudices, was afterwards carefully concealed, and barbarously hunted out of the pale of allowed and authorised practice. The Magi of old, who claimed a power of producing miraculous appearances, and boasted a familiar intercourse with the world of spirits, were regarded by their countrymen with peculiar reverence, and considered as the first and chiefest men in the state. For this mitigated view of such dark and mysterious proceedings the ancients were in a great degree indebted to their polytheism. The Romans are computed to have acknowledged thirty thousand divinities, to all of whom was rendered a legitimate homage; and other countries in a similar proportion. SORCERY AND ENCHANTMENT. In Asia, however, the Gods were divided into two parties, under Oromasdes, the principle of good, and Arimanius, the principle of evil. These powers were in perpetual contention with each other, sometimes the one, and sometimes the other gaining the superiority. Arimanius and his legions were therefore scarcely considered as entitled to the homage of mankind. Those who were actuated by benevolence, and who desired to draw down blessings upon their fellow-creatures, addressed themselves to the principle of good; while such unhappy beings, with whom spite and ill-will had the predominance, may be supposed often to have invoked in preference the principle of evil. Hence seems to have originated the idea of sorcery, or an appeal by incantations and wicked arts to the demons who delighted in mischief. These beings rejoiced in the opportunity of inflicting calamity and misery on mankind. But by what we read of them we might be induced to suppose that they were in some way restrained from gratifying their malignant intentions, and waited in eager hope, till some mortal reprobate should call out their dormant activity, and demand their aid. Various enchantments were therefore employed by those unhappy mortals whose special desire was to bring down calamity and plagues upon the individuals or tribes of men against whom their animosity was directed. Unlawful and detested words and mysteries were called into action to conjure up demons who should yield their powerful and tremendous assistance. Songs of a wild and maniacal character were chaunted. Noisome scents and the burning of all unhallowed and odious things were resorted to. In later times books and formulas of a terrific character were commonly employed, upon the reading or recital of which the prodigies resorted to began to display themselves. The heavens were darkened; the thunder rolled; and fierce and blinding lightnings flashed from one corner of the heavens to the other. The earth quaked and rocked from side to side. All monstrous and deformed things shewed themselves, "Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire," enough to cause the stoutest heart to quail. Lastly, devils, whose name was legion, and to whose forms and distorted and menacing countenances superstition had annexed the most frightful ideas, crowded in countless multitudes upon the spectator, whose breath was flame, whose dances were full of terror, and whose strength infinitely exceeded every thing human. Such were the appalling conceptions which ages of bigotry and ignorance annexed to the notion of sorcery, and with these they scared the unhappy beings over whom this notion had usurped an ascendancy into lunacy, and prepared them for the perpetrating flagitious and unheard-of deeds. The result of these horrible incantations was not less tremendous, than the preparations might have led us to expect. The demons possessed all the powers of the air, and produced tempests and shipwrecks at their pleasure. "Castles toppled on their warder's heads, and palaces and pyramids sloped their summits to their foundations;" forests and mountains were torn from their roots, and cast into the sea. They inflamed the passions of men, and caused them to commit the most unheard-of excesses. They laid their ban on those who enjoyed the most prosperous health, condemned them to peak and pine, wasted them into a melancholy atrophy, and finally consigned them to a premature grave. They breathed a new and unblest life into beings in whom existence had long been extinct, and by their hateful and resistless power caused the sepulchres to give up their dead. WITCHCRAFT. Next to sorcery we may recollect the case of witchcraft, which occurs oftener, particularly in modern times, than any other alleged mode of changing by supernatural means the future course of events. The sorcerer, as we shall see hereafter, was frequently a man of learning and intellectual abilities, sometimes of comparative opulence and respectable situation in society. But the witch or wizard was almost uniformly old, decrepid, and nearly or altogether in a state of penury. The functions however of the witch and the sorcerer were in a great degree the same. The earliest account of a witch, attended with any degree of detail, is that of the witch of Endor in the Bible, who among other things, professed the power of calling up the dead upon occasion from the peace of the sepulchre. Witches also claimed the faculty of raising storms, and in various ways disturbing the course of nature. They appear in most cases to have been brought into action by the impulse of private malice. They occasioned mortality of greater or less extent in man and beast. They blighted the opening prospect of a plentiful harvest. They covered the heavens with clouds, and sent abroad withering and malignant blasts. They undermined the health of those who were so unfortunate as to incur their animosity, and caused them to waste away gradually with incurable disease. They were notorious two or three centuries ago for the power of the "evil eye." The vulgar, both great and small, dreaded their displeasure, and sought, by small gifts, and fair speeches, but insincere, and the offspring of terror only, to avert the pernicious consequences of their malice. They were famed for fabricating small images of wax, to represent the object of their persecution; and, as these by gradual and often studiously protracted degrees wasted before the fire, so the unfortunate butts of their resentment perished with a lingering, but inevitable death. COMPACTS WITH THE DEVIL. The power of these witches, as we find in their earliest records, originated in their intercourse with "familiar spirits," invisible beings who must be supposed to be enlisted in the armies of the prince of darkness. We do not read in these ancient memorials of any league of mutual benefit entered into between the merely human party, and his or her supernatural assistant. But modern times have amply supplied this defect. The witch or sorcerer could not secure the assistance of the demon but by a sure and faithful compact, by which the human party obtained the industrious and vigilant service of his familiar for a certain term of years, only on condition that, when the term was expired, the demon of undoubted right was to obtain possession of the indentured party, and to convey him irremissibly and for ever to the regions of the damned. The contract was drawn out in authentic form, signed by the sorcerer, and attested with his blood, and was then carried away by the demon, to be produced again at the appointed time. IMPS. These familiar spirits often assumed the form of animals, and a black dog or cat was considered as a figure in which the attendant devil was secretly hidden. These subordinate devils were called Imps. Impure and carnal ideas were mingled with these theories. The witches were said to have preternatural teats from which their familiars sucked their blood. The devil also engaged in sexual intercourse with the witch or wizard, being denominated _incubus_, if his favourite were a woman, and _succubus_, if a man. In short, every frightful and loathsome idea was carefully heaped up together, to render the unfortunate beings to whom the crime of witchcraft was imputed the horror and execration of their species. TALISMANS AND AMULETS. As according to the doctrine of witchcraft, there were certain compounds, and matters prepared by rules of art, that proved baleful and deadly to the persons against whom their activity was directed, so there were also preservatives, talismans, amulets and charms, for the most [Errata: _read_ for the most part] to be worn about the person, which rendered him superior to injury, not only from the operations of witchcraft, but in some cases from the sword or any other mortal weapon. As the poet says, he that had this, Might trace huge forests and unhallowed heaths,-- Yea there, where very desolation dwells, By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades, nay, in the midst of every tremendous assailant, "might pass on with unblenched majesty," uninjured and invulnerable. NECROMANCY. Last of all we may speak of necromancy, which has something in it that so strongly takes hold of the imagination, that, though it is one only of the various modes which have been enumerated for the exorcise of magical power, we have selected it to give a title to the present volume. There is something sacred to common apprehension in the repose of the dead. They seem placed beyond our power to disturb. "There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave." After life's fitful fever they sleep well: Nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch them further. Their remains moulder in the earth. Neither form nor feature is long continued to them. We shrink from their touch, and their sight. To violate the sepulchre therefore for the purpose of unholy spells and operations, as we read of in the annals of witchcraft, cannot fail to be exceedingly shocking. To call up the spirits of the departed, after they have fulfilled the task of life, and are consigned to their final sleep, is sacrilegious. Well may they exclaim, like the ghost of Samuel in the sacred story, "Why hast thou disquieted me?" There is a further circumstance in the case, which causes us additionally to revolt from the very idea of necromancy, strictly so called. Man is a mortal, or an immortal being. His frame either wholly "returns to the earth as it was, or his spirit," the thinking principle within him, "to God who gave it." The latter is the prevailing sentiment of mankind in modern times. Man is placed upon earth in a state of probation, to be dealt with hereafter according to the deeds done in the flesh. "Some shall go away into everlasting punishment; and others into life eternal." In this case there is something blasphemous in the idea of intermedding with the state of the dead. We must leave them in the hands of God. Even on the idea of an interval, the "sleep of the soul" from death to the general resurrection, which is the creed of no contemptible sect of Christians, it is surely a terrific notion that we should disturb the pause, which upon that hypothesis, the laws of nature have assigned to the departed soul, and come to awake, or to "torment him before the time." ALCHEMY. To make our catalogue of supernatural doings, and the lawless imaginations of man, the more complete, it may be further necessary to refer to the craft, so eagerly cultivated in successive ages of the world of converting the inferior metals into gold, to which was usually joined the _elixir vitae_, or universal medicine, having the quality of renewing the youth of man, and causing him to live for ever. The first authentic record on this subject is an edict of Dioclesian about three hundred years after Christ, ordering a diligent search to be made in Egypt for all the ancient books which treated of the art of making gold and silver, that they might without distinction be consigned to the flames. This edict however necessarily presumes a certain antiquity to the pursuit; and fabulous history has recorded Solomon, Pythagoras and Hermes among its distinguished votaries. From this period the study seems to have slept, till it was revived among the Arabians after a lapse of five or six hundred years. It is well known however how eagerly it was cultivated in various countries of the world for many centuries after it was divulged by Geber. Men of the most wonderful talents devoted their lives to the investigation; and in multiplied instances the discovery was said to have been completed. Vast sums of money were consumed in the fruitless endeavour; and in a later period it seems to have furnished an excellent handle to vain and specious projectors, to extort money from those more amply provided with the goods of fortune than themselves. The art no doubt is in itself sufficiently mystical, having been pursued by multitudes, who seemed to themselves ever on the eve of consummation, but as constantly baffled when to their own apprehension most on the verge of success. The discovery indeed appears upon the face of it to be of the most delicate nature, as the benefit must wholly depend upon its being reserved to one or a very few, the object being unbounded wealth, which is nothing unless confined. If the power of creating gold is diffused, wealth by such diffusion becomes poverty, and every thing after a short time would but return to what it had been. Add to which, that the nature of discovery has ordinarily been, that, when once the clue has been found, it reveals itself to several about the same period of time. The art, as we have said, is in its own nature sufficiently mystical, depending on nice combinations and proportions of ingredients, and upon the addition of each ingredient being made exactly in the critical moment, and in the precise degree of heat, indicated by the colour of the vapour arising from the crucible or retort. This was watched by the operator with inexhaustible patience; and it was often found or supposed, that the minutest error in this respect caused the most promising appearances to fail of the expected success. This circumstance no doubt occasionally gave an opportunity to an artful impostor to account for his miscarriage, and thus to prevail upon his credulous dupe to enable him to begin his tedious experiment again. But, beside this, it appears that those whose object was the transmutation of metals, very frequently joined to this pursuit the study of astrology, and even the practice of sorcery. So much delicacy and nicety were supposed to be required in the process for the transmutation of metals, that it could not hope to succeed but under a favourable conjunction of the planets; and the most flourishing pretenders to the art boasted that they had also a familiar intercourse with certain spirits of supernatural power, which assisted them in their undertakings, and enabled them to penetrate into things undiscoverable to mere human sagacity, and to predict future events. FAIRIES. Another mode in which the wild and erratic imagination of our ancestors manifested itself, was in the creation of a world of visionary beings of a less terrific character, but which did not fail to annoy their thoughts, and perplex their determinations, known by the name of Fairies. There are few things more worthy of contemplation, and that at the same time tend to place the dispositions of our ancestors in a more amiable point of view, than the creation of this airy and fantastic race. They were so diminutive as almost to elude the organs of human sight. They were at large, even though confined to the smallest dimensions. They "could be bounded in a nutshell, and count themselves kings of infinite space." Their midnight revels, by a forest-side Or fountain, the belated peasant saw, Or dreamed he saw, while overhead the moon Sat arbitress, and nearer to the earth Wheeled her pale course--they, on their mirth and dance Intent, with jocund music charmed his ear; At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. Small circles marked the grass in solitary places, the trace of their little feet, which, though narrow, were ample enough to afford every accommodation to their pastime. The fairy tribes appear to have been every where distinguished for their patronage of truth, simplicity and industry, and their abhorrence of sensuality and prevarication. They left little rewards in secret, as tokens of their approbation of the virtues they loved, and by their supernatural power afforded a supplement to pure and excellent intentions, when the corporeal powers of the virtuous sank under the pressure of human infirmity. Where they conceived displeasure, the punishments they inflicted were for the most part such as served moderately to vex and harass the offending party, rather than to inflict upon him permanent and irremediable evils. Their airy tongues would syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. They were supposed to guide the wandering lights, that in the obscurity of the night beguiled the weary traveller "through bog, through bush, through brake, through briar." But their power of evil only extended, or was only employed, to vex those who by a certain obliquity of conduct gave occasion for their reproofs. They besides pinched and otherwise tormented the objects of their displeasure; and, though the mischiefs they executed were not of the most vital kind, yet, coming from a supernatural enemy, and being inflicted by invisible hands, they could not fail greatly to disturb and disorder those who suffered from them. There is at first sight a great inconsistency in the representations of these imaginary people. For the most part they are described to us as of a stature and appearance, almost too slight to be marked by our grosser human organs. At other times however, and especially in the extremely popular tales digested by M. Perrault, they shew themselves in indiscriminate assemblies, brought together for some solemn festivity or otherwise, and join the human frequenters of the scene, without occasioning enquiry or surprise. They are particularly concerned in the business of summarily and without appeal bestowing miraculous gifts, sometimes as a mark of special friendship and favour, and sometimes with a malicious and hostile intention.--But we are to consider that spirits Can every form assume; so soft And uncompounded is their essence pure; Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they choose, Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, Can execute their airy purposes, And works of love or enmity fulfil. And then again, as their bounties were shadowy, so were they specially apt to disappear in a moment, the most splendid palaces and magnificent exhibitions vanishing away, and leaving their disconcerted dupe with his robes converted into the poorest rags, and, instead of glittering state, finding himself suddenly in the midst of desolation, and removed no man knew whither. One of the mischiefs that were most frequently imputed to them, was the changing the beautiful child of some doating parents, for a babe marked with ugliness and deformity. But this idea seems fraught with inconsistency. The natural stature of the fairy is of the smallest dimensions; and, though they could occasionally dilate their figure so as to imitate humanity, yet it is to be presumed that this was only for a special purpose, and, that purpose obtained, that they shrank again habitually into their characteristic littleness. The change therefore can only be supposed to have been of one human child for another. ROSICRUCIANS. Nothing very distinct has been ascertained respecting a sect, calling itself Rosicrucians. It is said to have originated in the East from one of the crusaders in the fourteenth century; but it attracted at least no public notice till the beginning of the seventeenth century. Its adherents appear to have imbibed their notions from the Arabians, and claimed the possession of the philosopher's stone, the art of transmuting metals, and the _elixir vitae_. SYLPHS AND GNOMES, SALAMANDERS AND UNDINES. But that for which they principally excited public attention, was their creed respecting certain elementary beings, which to grosser eyes are invisible, but were familiarly known to the initiated. To be admitted to their acquaintance it was previously necessary that the organs of human sight should be purged by the universal medicine, and that certain glass globes should be chemically prepared with one or other of the four elements, and for one month exposed to the beams of the sun. These preliminary steps being taken, the initiated immediately had a sight of innumerable beings of a luminous substance, but of thin and evanescent structure, that people the elements on all sides of us. Those who inhabited the air were called Sylphs; and those who dwelt in the earth bore the name of Gnomes; such as peopled the fire were Salamanders; and those who made their home in the waters were Undines. Each class appears to have had an extensive power in the elements to which they belonged. They could raise tempests in the air, and storms at sea, shake the earth, and alarm the inhabitants of the globe with the sight of devouring flames. These appear however to have been more formidable in appearance than in reality. And the whole race was subordinate to man, and particularly subject to the initiated. The gnomes, inhabitants of the earth and the mines, liberally supplied to the human beings with whom they conversed, the hidden treasures over which they presided. The four classes were some of them male, and some female; but the female sex seems to have preponderated in all. These elementary beings, we are told, were by their constitution more long-lived than man, but with this essential disadvantage, that at death they wholly ceased to exist. In the mean time they were inspired with an earnest desire for immortality; and there was one way left for them, by which this desire might be gratified. If they were so happy as to awaken in any of the initiated a passion the end of which was marriage, then the sylph who became the bride of a virtuous man, followed his nature, and became immortal; while on the other hand, if she united herself to an immoral being and a profligate, the husband followed the law of the wife, and was rendered entirely mortal. The initiated however were required, as a condition to their being admitted into the secrets of the order, to engage themselves in a vow of perpetual chastity as to women. And they were abundantly rewarded by the probability of being united to a sylph, a gnome, a salamander, or an undine, any one of whom was inexpressibly more enchanting than the most beautiful woman, in addition to which her charms were in a manner perpetual, while a wife of our own nature is in a short time destined to wrinkles, and all the other disadvantages of old age. The initiated of course enjoyed a beatitude infinitely greater than that which falls to the lot of ordinary mortals, being conscious of a perpetual commerce with these wonderful beings from whose society the vulgar are debarred, and having such associates unintermittedly anxious to perform their behests, and anticipate their desires. [4] We should have taken but an imperfect survey of the lawless extravagancies of human imagination, if we had not included a survey of this sect. There is something particularly soothing to the fancy of an erratic mind, in the conception of being conversant with a race of beings the very existence of which is unperceived by ordinary mortals, and thus entering into an infinitely numerous and variegated society, even when we are apparently swallowed up in entire solitude. The Rosicrucians are further entitled to our special notice, as their tenets have had the good fortune to furnish Pope with the beautiful machinery with which he has adorned the Rape of the Lock. There is also, of much later date, a wild and poetical fiction for which we are indebted to the same source, called Undine, from the pen of Lamotte Fouquet. EXAMPLES OF NECROMANCY AND WITCHCRAFT FROM THE BIBLE. The oldest and most authentic record from which we can derive our ideas on the subject of necromancy and witchcraft, unquestionably is the Bible. The Egyptians and Chaldeans were early distinguished for their supposed proficiency in magic, in the production of supernatural phenomena, and in penetrating into the secrets of future time. The first appearance of men thus extraordinarily gifted, or advancing pretensions of this sort, recorded in Scripture, is on occasion of Pharoah's dream of the seven years of plenty, and seven years of famine. At that period the king "sent and called for all the magicians of Egypt and all the wise men; but they could not interpret the dream," [5] which Joseph afterwards expounded. Their second appearance was upon a most memorable occasion, when Moses and Aaron, armed with miraculous powers, came to a subsequent king of Egypt, to demand from him that their countrymen might be permitted to depart to another tract of the world. They produced a miracle as the evidence of their divine mission: and the king, who was also named Pharoah, "called before him the wise men and the sorcerers of Egypt, who with their enchantments did in like manner" as Moses had done; till, after some experiments in which they were apparently successful, they at length were compelled to allow themselves overcome, and fairly to confess to their master, "This is the finger of God!" [6] The spirit of the Jewish history loudly affirms, that the Creator of heaven and earth had adopted this nation for his chosen people, and therefore demanded their exclusive homage, and that they should acknowledge no other God. It is on this principle that it is made one of his early commands to them, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." [7] And elsewhere the meaning of this prohibition is more fully explained: "There shall not be found among you any one that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer: [8] these shall surely be put to death; they shall stone them with stones." [9] The character of an enchanter is elsewhere more fully illustrated in the case of Balaam, the soothsayer, who was sent for by Balak, the king of Moab, that he might "curse the people of Israel. The messengers of the king came to Balaam with the rewards of divination in their hand;" [10] but the soothsayer was restrained from his purpose by the God of the Jews, and, where he came to curse, was compelled to bless. He therefore "did not go, as at other times, to seek for enchantments," [11] but took up his discourse, and began, saying, "Surely there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there any divination against Israel!" [12] Another example of necromantic power or pretension is to be found in the story of Saul and the witch of Endor. Saul, the first king of the Jews, being rejected by God, and obtaining "no answer to his enquiries, either by dreams, or by prophets, said to his servants, seek me a woman that has a familiar spirit. And his servants, said, Lo, there is a woman that has a familiar spirit at Endor." Saul accordingly had recourse to her. But, previously to this time, in conformity to the law of God, he "had cut off those that had familiar spirits, and the wizards out of the land;" and the woman therefore was terrified at his present application. Saul re-assured her; and in consequence the woman consented to call up the person he should name. Saul demanded of her to bring up the ghost of Samuel. The ghost, whether by her enchantments or through divine interposition we are not told, appeared, and prophesied to Saul, that he and his son should fall in battle on the succeeding day, [13] which accordingly came to pass. Manasseh, a subsequent king in Jerusalem, "observed times, and used enchantments, and dealt with familiar spirits and wizards, and so provoked God to anger." [14] It appears plainly from the same authority, that there were good spirits and evil spirits, "The Lord said, Who shall persuade Ahab, that he may go up, and fall before Ramoth Gilead? And there came a spirit, and stood before the Lord, and said, I will persuade him: I will go forth, and be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets. And the Lord said, Thou shall persuade him." [15] In like manner, we are told, "Satan stood up against Israel, and provoked David to number the people; and God was displeased with the thing, and smote Israel, so that there fell of the people seventy thousand men." [16] Satan also, in the Book of Job, presented himself before the Lord among the Sons of God, and asked and obtained leave to try the faithfulness of Job by "putting forth his hand," and despoiling the patriarch of "all that he had." Taking these things into consideration, there can be no reasonable doubt, though the devil and Satan are not mentioned in the story, that the serpent who in so crafty a way beguiled Eve, was in reality no other than the malevolent enemy of mankind under that disguise. We are in the same manner informed of the oracles of the false Gods; and an example occurs of a king of Samaria, who fell sick, and who "sent messengers, and said to them, Go, and enquire of Baalzebub, the God of Ekron, whether I shall recover of this disease." At which proceeding the God of the Jews was displeased, and sent Elijah to the messengers to say, "Is it because there is not a God in Israel, that you go to enquire of Baalzebub, the God of Ekron? Because the king has done this, he shall not recover; he shall surely die." [17] The appearance of the Wise Men of the East again occurs in considerable detail in the Prophecy of Daniel, though they are only brought forward there, as discoverers of hidden things, and interpreters of dreams. Twice, on occasion of dreams that troubled him, Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, "commanded to be called to him the magicians, and the astrologers, and the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans" of his kingdom, and each time with similar success. They confessed their incapacity; and Daniel, the prophet of the Jews, expounded to the king that in which they had failed. Nebuchadnezzar in consequence promoted Daniel to be master of the magicians. A similar scene occurred in the court of Belshazzar, the son of Nebuchadnezzar, in the case of the hand-writing on the wall. It is probable that the Jews considered the Gods of the nations around them as so many of the fallen angels, or spirits of hell, since, among other arguments, the coincidence of the name of Beelzebub, the prince of devils, [18] with Baalzebub, the God of Ekron, could scarcely have fallen out by chance. It seemed necessary to enter into these particulars, as they occur in the oldest and most authentic records from which we can derive our ideas on the subject of necromancy, witchcraft, and the claims that were set up in ancient times to the exercise of magcial power. Among these examples there is only one, that of the contention for superiority between Moses and the Wise Men of Egypt in which we are presented with their pretensions to a visible exhibition of supernatural effects. THE MAGI, OR WISE MEN OF THE EAST. The Magi, or Wise Men of the East, extended their ramifications over Egypt, Babylonia, Persia, India, and probably, though with a different name, over China, and indeed the whole known world. Their profession was of a mysterious nature. They laid claim to a familiar intercourse with the Gods. They placed themselves as mediators between heaven and earth, assumed the prerogative of revealing the will of beings of a nature superior to man, and pretended to show wonders and prodigies that surpassed any power which was merely human. To understand this, we must bear in mind the state of knowledge in ancient times, where for the most part the cultivation of the mind, and an acquaintance with either science or art, were confined to a very small part of the population. In each of the nations we have mentioned, there was a particular caste or tribe of men, who, by the prerogative of their birth, were entitled to the advantages of science and a superior education, while the rest of their countrymen were destined to subsist by manual labour. This of necessity gave birth in the privileged few to an overweening sense of their own importance. They scarcely regarded the rest of their countrymen as beings of the same species with themselves; and, finding a strong line of distinction cutting them off from the herd, they had recourse to every practicable method for making that distinction still stronger. Wonder is one of the most obvious means of generating deference; and, by keeping to themselves the grounds and process of their skill, and presenting the results only, they were sure to excite the admiration and reverence of their contemporaries. This mode of proceeding further produced a re-action upon themselves. That which supplied and promised to supply to them so large a harvest of honour and fame, unavoidably became precious in their eyes. They pursued their discoveries with avidity, because few had access to their opportunities in that respect, and because, the profounder were their researches, the more sure they were of being looked up to by the public as having that in them which was sacred and inviolable. They spent their days and nights in these investigations. They shrank from no privation and labour. At the same time that in these labours they had at all times an eye to their darling object, an ascendancy over the minds of their countrymen at large, and the extorting from them a blind and implicit deference to their oracular decrees. They however loved their pursuits for the pursuits themselves. They felt their abstraction and their unlimited nature, and on that account contemplated them with admiration. They valued them (for such is the indestructible character of the human mind) for the pains they had bestowed on them. The sweat of their brow grew into a part as it were of the intrinsic merit of the articles; and that which had with so much pains been attained by them, they could not but regard as of inestimable worth. EGYPT. The Egyptians took the lead in early antiquity, with respect to civilisation and the stupendous productions of human labour and art, of all other known nations of the world. The pyramids stand by themselves as a monument of the industry of mankind. Thebes, with her hundred gates, at each of which we are told she could send out at once two hundred chariots and ten thousand warriors completely accoutred, was one of the noblest cities on record. The whole country of Lower Egypt was intersected with canals giving a beneficent direction to the periodical inundations of the Nile; and the artificial lake Moeris was dug of a vast extent, that it might draw off the occasional excesses of the overflowings of the river. The Egyptians had an extraordinary custom of preserving their dead, so that the country was peopled almost as numerously with mummies prepared by extreme assiduity and skill, as with the living. And, in proportion to their edifices and labours of this durable sort, was their unwearied application to all the learning that was then known. Geometry is said to have owed its existence to the necessity under which they were placed of every man recognising his own property in land, as soon as the overflowings of the Nile had ceased. They were not less assiduous in their application to astronomy. The hieroglyphics of Egypt are of universal notoriety. Their mythology was of the most complicated nature. Their Gods were infinitely varied in their kind; and the modes of their worship not less endlessly diversified. All these particulars still contributed to the abstraction of their studies, and the loftiness of their pretensions to knowledge. They perpetually conversed with the invisible world, and laid claim to the faculty of revealing things hidden, of foretelling future events, and displaying wonders that exceeded human power to produce. A striking illustration of the state of Egypt in that respect in early times, occurs incidentally in the history of Joseph in the Bible. Jacob had twelve sons, among whom his partiality for Joseph was so notorious, that his brethren out of envy sold him as a slave to the wandering Midianites. Thus it was his fortune to be placed in Egypt, where in the process of events he became the second man in the country, and chief minister of the king. A severe famine having visited these climates, Jacob sent his sons into Egypt to buy corn, where only it was to be found. As soon as Joseph saw them, he knew them, though they knew not him in his exalted situation; and he set himself to devise expedients to settle them permanently in the country in which he ruled. Among the rest he caused a precious cup from his stores to be privily conveyed into the corn-sack of Benjamin, his only brother by the same mother. The brothers were no sooner departed, than Joseph sent in pursuit of them; and the messengers accosted them with the words, "Is not this the cup in which my lord drinketh, and whereby also he divineth? Ye have done evil in taking it away." [19] They brought the strangers again into the presence of Joseph, who addressed them with severity, saying, "What is this deed that ye have done? Wot ye not that such a man as I could certainly divine?" [20] From this story it plainly appears, that the art of divination was extensively exercised in Egypt, that the practice was held in honour, and that such was the state of the country, that it was to be presumed as a thing of course, that a man of the high rank and distinction of Joseph should professedly be an adept in it. In the great contention for supernatural power between Moses and the magicians of Egypt, it is plain that they came forward with confidence, and did not shrink from the debate. Moses's rod was turned into a serpent; so were their rods: Moses changed the waters of Egypt into blood; and the magicians did the like with their enchantments: Moses caused frogs to come up, and cover the land of Egypt; and the magicians also brought frogs upon the country. Without its being in any way necessary to enquire how they effected these wonders, it is evident from the whole train of the narrative, that they must have been much in the practice of astonishing their countrymen with their feats in such a kind, and, whether it were delusion, or to whatever else we may attribute their success, that they were universally looked up to for the extraordinariness of their performances. While we are on this subject of illustrations from the Bible, it may be worth while to revert more particularly to the story of Balaam. Balak the king of Moab, sent for Balaam that he might come and curse the invaders of his country; and in the sequel we are told, when the prophet changed his curses into a blessing, that he did not "go forth, as at other times, to seek for enchantments." It is plain therefore that Balak did not rely singly upon the eloquence and fervour of Balaam to pour out vituperations upon the people of Israel, but that it was expected that the prophet should use incantations and certain mystical rites, upon which the efficacy of his foretelling disaster to the enemy principally depended. STATUE OF MEMNON. The Magi of Egypt looked round in every quarter for phenomena that might produce astonishment among their countrymen, and induce them to believe that they dwelt in a land which overflowed with the testimonies and presence of a divine power. Among others the statue of Memnon, erected over his tomb near Thebes, is recorded by many authors. Memnon is said to have been the son of Aurora, the Goddess of the morning; and his statue is related to have had the peculiar faculty of uttering a melodious sound every morning when touched by the first beams of day, as if to salute his mother; and every night at sunset to have imparted another sound, low and mournful, as lamenting the departure of the day. This prodigy is spoken of by Tacitus, Strabo, Juvenal and Philostratus. The statue uttered these sounds, while perfect; and, when it was mutilated by human violence, or by a convulsion of nature, it still retained the property with which it had been originally endowed. Modern travellers, for the same phenomenon has still been observed, have asserted that it does not owe its existence to any prodigy, but to a property of the granite, of which the statue or its pedestal is formed, which, being hollow, is found in various parts of the world to exhibit this quality. It has therefore been suggested, that the priests, having ascertained its peculiarity, expressly formed the statue of that material, for the purpose of impressing on it a supernatural character, and thus being enabled to extend their influence with a credulous people. [21] TEMPLE OF JUPITER AMMON: ITS ORACLES. Another of what may be considered as the wonders of Egypt, is the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the midst of the Great Desert. This temple was situated at a distance of no less than twelve days' journey from Memphis, the capital of the Lower Egypt. The principal part of this space consisted of one immense tract of moving sand, so hot as to be intolerable to the sole of the foot, while the air was pregnant with fire, so that it was almost impossible to breathe in it. Not a drop of water, not a tree, not a blade of grass, was to be found through this vast surface. It was here that Cambyses, engaged in an impious expedition to demolish the temple, is said to have lost an army of fifty thousand men, buried in the sands. When you arrived however, you were presented with a wood of great circumference, the foliage of which was so thick that the beams of the sun could not pierce it. The atmosphere of the place was of a delicious temperature; the scene was every where interspersed with fountains; and all the fruits of the earth were found in the highest perfection. In the midst was the temple and oracle of the God, who was worshipped in the likeness of a ram. The Egyptian priests chose this site as furnishing a test of the zeal of their votaries; the journey being like the pilgrimage to Jerusalem or Mecca, if not from so great a distance, yet attended in many respects with perils more formidable. It was not safe to attempt the passage but with moderate numbers, and those expressly equipped for expedition. Bacchus is said to have visited this spot in his great expedition to the East, when Jupiter appeared to him in the form of a ram, having struck his foot upon the soil, and for the first time occasioned that supply of water, with which the place was ever after plentifully supplied. Alexander the Great in a subsequent age undertook the same journey with his army, that he might cause himself to be acknowledged for the son of the God, under which character he was in all due form recognised. The priests no doubt had heard of the successful battles of the Granicus and of Issus, of the capture of Tyre after a seven months' siege, and of the march of the great conqueror in Egypt, where he carried every thing before him. Here we are presented with a striking specimen of the mode and spirit in which the oracles of old were accustomed to be conducted. It may be said that the priests were corrupted by the rich presents which Alexander bestowed on them with a liberal hand. But this was not the prime impulse in the business. They were astonished at the daring with which Alexander with a comparative handful of men set out from Greece, having meditated the overthrow of the great Persian empire. They were astonished with his perpetual success, and his victorious progress from the Hellespont to mount Taurus, from mount Taurus to Pelusium, and from Pelusium quite across the ancient kingdom of Egypt to the Palus Mareotis. Accustomed to the practice of adulation, and to the belief that mortal power and true intellectual greatness were the same, they with a genuine enthusiastic fervour regarded Alexander as the son of their God, and acknowledged him as such.--Nothing can be more memorable than the way in which belief and unbelief hold a divided empire over the human mind, our passions hurrying us into belief, at the same time that our intervals of sobriety suggest to us that it is all pure imposition. CHALDEA AND BABYLON. The history of the Babylonish monarchy not having been handed down to us, except incidentally as it is touched upon by the historians of other countries, we know little of those anecdotes respecting it which are best calculated to illustrate the habits and manners of a people. We know that they in probability preceded all other nations in the accuracy of their observations on the phenomena of the heavenly bodies. We know that the Magi were highly respected among them as an order in the state; and that, when questions occurred exciting great alarm in the rulers, "the magicians, the astrologers, the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans," were called together, to see whether by their arts they could throw light upon questions so mysterious and perplexing, and we find sufficient reason, both from analogy, and from the very circumstance that sorcerers are specifically named among the classes of which their Wise Men consisted, to believe that the Babylonian Magi advanced no dubious pretensions to the exercise of magical power. ZOROASTER. Among the Chaldeans the most famous name is that of Zoroaster, who is held to have been the author of their religion, their civil policy, their sciences, and their magic. He taught the doctrine of two great principles, the one the author of good, the other of evil. He prohibited the use of images in the ceremonies of religion, and pronounced that nothing deserved homage but fire, and the sun, the centre and the source of fire, and these perhaps to be venerated not for themselves, but as emblematical of the principle of all good things. He taught astronomy and astrology. We may with sufficient probability infer his doctrines from those of the Magi, who were his followers. He practised enchantments, by means of which he would send a panic among the forces that were brought to make war against him, rendering the conflict by force of arms unnecessary. He prescribed the use of certain herbs as all-powerful for the production of supernatural effects. He pretended to the faculty of working miracles, and of superseding and altering the ordinary course of nature.--There was, beside the Chaldean Zoroaster, a Persian known by the same name, who is said to have been a contemporary of Darius Hystaspes. GREECE. Thus obscure and general is our information respecting the Babylonians. But it was far otherwise with the Greeks. Long before the period, when, by their successful resistance to the Persian invasion, they had rendered themselves of paramount importance in the history of the civilised world, they had their poets and annalists, who preserved to future time the memory of their tastes, their manners and superstitions, their strength, and their weakness. Homer in particular had already composed his two great poems, rendering the peculiarities of his countrymen familiar to the latest posterity. The consequence of this is, that the wonderful things of early Greece are even more frequent than the record of its sober facts. As men advance in observation and experience, they are compelled more and more to perceive that all the phenomena of nature are one vast chain of uninterrupted causes and consequences: but to the eye of uninstructed ignorance every thing is astonishing, every thing is unexpected. The remote generations of mankind are in all cases full of prodigies: but it is the fortune of Greece to have preserved its early adventures, so as to render the beginning pages of its history one mass of impossible falsehoods. DEITIES OF GREECE. The Gods of the Greeks appear all of them once to have been men. Their real or supposed adventures therefore make a part of what is recorded respecting them. Jupiter was born in Crete, and being secreted by his mother in a cave, was suckled by a goat. Being come to man's estate, he warred with the giants, one of whom had an hundred hands, and two others brethren, grew nine inches every month, and, when nine years old, were fully qualified to engage in all exploits of corporeal strength. The war was finished, by the giants being overwhelmed with the thunderbolts of heaven, and buried under mountains. Minerva was born from the head of her father, without a mother; and Bacchus, coming into the world after the death of his female parent, was inclosed in the thigh of Jupiter, and was thus produced at the proper time in full vigour and strength. Minerva had a shield, in which was preserved the real head of Medusa, that had the property of turning every one that looked on it into stone. Bacchus, when a child, was seized on by pirates with the intention to sell him for a slave: but he waved a spear, and the oars of the sailors were turned into vines, which climbed the masts, and spread their clusters over the sails; and tigers, lynxes and panthers, appeared to swim round the ship, so terrifying the crew that they leaped overboard, and were changed into dolphins. Bacchus, in his maturity, is described as having been the conqueror of India. He did not set out on this expedition like other conquerors, at the head of an army. He rode in an open chariot, which was drawn by tame lions. His attendants were men and women in great multitudes, eminently accomplished in the arts of rural industry. Wherever he came, he taught men the science of husbandry, and the cultivation of the vine. Wherever he came, he was received, not with hostility, but with festivity and welcome. On his return however, Lycurgus, king of Thrace, and Pentheus, king of Thebes, set themselves in opposition to the improvements which the East had received with the most lively gratitude; and Bacchus, to punish them, caused Lycurgus to be torn to pieces by wild horses, and spread a delusion among the family of Pentheus, so that they mistook him for a wild boar which had broken into their vineyards, and of consequence fell upon him, and he expired amidst a thousand wounds. Apollo was the author of plagues and contagious diseases; at the same time that, when he pleased, he could restore salubrity to a climate, and health and vigour to the sons of men. He was the father of poetry, and possessed in an eminent degree the gift of foretelling future events. Hecate, which was one of the names of Diana, was distinguished as the Goddess of magic and enchantments. Venus was the Goddess of love, the most irresistible and omnipotent impulse of which the heart of man is susceptible. The wand of Mercury was endowed with such virtues, that whoever it touched, if asleep, would start up into life and alacrity, and, if awake, would immediately fall into a profound sleep. When it touched the dying, their souls gently parted from their mortal frame; and, when it was applied to the dead, the dead returned to life. Neptune had the attribute of raising and appeasing tempests: and Vulcan, the artificer of heaven and earth, not only produced the most exquisite specimens of skill, but also constructed furniture that was endowed with a self-moving principle, and would present itself for use or recede at the will of its proprietor. Pluto, in perpetrating the rape of Proserpine, started up in his chariot through a cleft of the earth in the vale of Enna in Sicily, and, having seized his prize, disappeared again by the way that he came. Ceres, the mother of Proserpine, in her search after her lost daughter, was received with peculiar hospitality by Celeus, king of Eleusis. She became desirous of remunerating his liberality by some special favour. She saw his only child laid in a cradle, and labouring under a fatal distemper. She took him under her protection. She fed him with milk from her own breast, and at night covered him with coals of fire. Under this treatment he not only recovered his strength, but shot up miraculously into manhood, so that what in other men is the effect of years, was accomplished in Triptolemus in as many hours. She gave him for a gift the art of agriculture, so that he is said to have been the first to teach mankind to sow and to reap corn, and to make bread of the produce. Prometheus, one of the race of the giants, was peculiarly distinguished for his proficiency in the arts. Among other extraordinary productions he formed a man of clay, of such exquisite workmanship, as to have wanted nothing but a living soul to cause him to be acknowledged as the paragon of the world. Minerva beheld the performance of Prometheus with approbation, and offered him her assistance. She conducted him to heaven, where he watched his opportunity to carry off on the tip of his wand a portion of celestial fire from the chariot of the sun. With this he animated his image; and the man of Prometheus moved, and thought, and spoke, and became every thing that the fondest wishes of his creator could ask. Jupiter ordered Vulcan to make a woman, that should surpass this man. All the Gods gave her each one a several gift: Venus gave her the power to charm; the Graces bestowed on her symmetry of limb, and elegance of motion; Apollo the accomplishments of vocal and instrumental music; Mercury the art of persuasive speech; Juno a multitude of rich and gorgeous ornaments; and Minerva the management of the loom and the needle. Last of all, Jupiter presented her with a sealed box, of which the lid was no sooner unclosed, than a multitude of calamities and evils of all imaginable sorts flew out, only Hope remaining at the bottom. Deucalion was the son of Prometheus and Pyrrha, his niece. They married. In their time a flood occurred, which as they imagined destroyed the whole human race; they were the only survivors. By the direction of an oracle they cast stones over their shoulders; when, by the divine interposition, the stones cast by Deucalion became men, and those cast by Pyrrha women. Thus the earth was re-peopled. I have put down a few of these particulars, as containing in several instances the qualities of what is called magic, and thus furnishing examples of some of the earliest occasions upon which supernatural powers have been alleged to mix with human affairs. DEMIGODS. The early history of mortals in Greece is scarcely separated from that of the Gods. The first adventurer that it is perhaps proper to notice, as his exploits have I know not what of magic in them, is Perseus, the founder of the metropolis and kingdom of Mycenae. By way of rendering his birth illustrious, he is said to have been the son of Jupiter, by Danae, the daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos. The king, being forewarned by an oracle that his daughter should bear a son, by whose hand her father should be deprived of life, thought proper to shut her up in a tower of brass. Jupiter, having metamorphosed himself into a shower of gold, found his way into her place of confinement, and became the father of Perseus. On the discovery of this circumstance, Acrisius caused both mother and child to be inclosed in a chest, and committed to the waves. The chest however drifted upon the lands of a person of royal descent in the island of Seriphos, who extended his care and hospitality to both. When Perseus grew to man's estate, he was commissioned by the king of Seriphos to bring him the head of Medusa, one of the Gorgons. Medusa had the wonderful faculty, that whoever met her eyes was immediately turned into stone; and the king, who had conceived a passion for Danae, sent her son on this enterprise, with the hope that he would never come back alive. He was however favoured by the Gods; Mercury gave him wings to fly, Pluto an invisible helmet, and Minerva a mirror-shield, by looking in which he could discover how his enemy was disposed, without the danger of meeting her eyes. Thus equipped, he accomplished his undertaking, cut off the head of the Gorgon, and pursed it in a bag. From this exploit he proceeded to visit Atlas, king of Mauritania, who refused him hospitality, and in revenge Perseus turned him into stone. He next rescued Andromeda, daughter of the king of Ethiopia, from a monster sent by Neptune to devour her. And, lastly, returning to his mother, and finding the king of Seriphos still incredulous and obstinate, he turned him likewise into a stone. The labours of Hercules, the most celebrated of the Greeks of the heroic age, appear to have had little of magic in them, but to have been indebted for their success to a corporal strength, superior to that of all other mortals, united with an invincible energy of mind, which disdained to yield to any obstacle that could be opposed to him. His achievements are characteristic of the rude and barbarous age in which he lived: he strangled serpents, and killed the Erymanthian boar, the Nemaean lion, and the Hydra. DAEDALUS. Nearly contemporary with the labours of Hercules is the history of Pasiphae and the Minotaur; and this brings us again within the sphere of magic. Pasiphae was the wife of Minos, king of Crete, who conceived an unnatural passion for a beautiful white bull, which Neptune had presented to the king. Having found the means of gratifying her passion, she became the mother of a monster, half-man and half-bull, called the Minotaur. Minos was desirous of hiding this monster from the observation of mankind, and for this purpose applied to Daedalus, an Athenian, the most skilful artist of his time, who is said to have invented the axe, the wedge, and the plummet, and to have found out the use of glue. He first contrived masts and sails for ships, and carved statues so admirably, that they not only looked as if they were alive, but had actually the power of self-motion, and would have escaped from the custody of their possessor, if they had not been chained to the wall. Daedalus contrived for Minos a labyrinth, a wonderful structure, that covered many acres of ground. The passages in this edifice met and crossed each other with such intricacy, that a stranger who had once entered the building, would have been starved to death before he could find his way out. In this labyrinth Minos shut up the Minotaur. Having conceived a deep resentment against the people of Athens, where his only son had been killed in a riot, he imposed upon them an annual tribute of seven noble youths, and as many virgins to be devoured by the Minotaur. Theseus, son of the king of Athens, put an end to this disgrace. He was taught by Ariadne, the daughter of Minos, how to destroy the monster, and furnished with a clue by which afterwards to find his way out of the labyrinth. Daedalus for some reason having incurred the displeasure of Minos, was made a prisoner by him in his own labyrinth. But the artist being never at an end of his inventions, contrived with feathers and wax to make a pair of wings for himself, and escaped. Icarus, his son, who was prisoner along with him, was provided by his father with a similar equipment. But the son, who was inexperienced and heedless, approached too near to the sun in his flight; and, the wax of his wings being melted with the heat, he fell into the sea and was drowned. THE ARGONAUTS. Contemporary with the reign of Minos occurred the expedition of the Argonauts. Jason, the son of the king of Iolchos in Thessaly, was at the head of this expedition. Its object was to fetch the golden fleece, which was hung up in a grove sacred to Mars, in the kingdom of Colchis, at the eastern extremity of the Euxine sea. He enlisted in this enterprise all the most gallant spirits existing in the country, and among the rest Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus and Amphion. After having passed through a multitude of perils, one of which was occasioned by the Cyanean rocks at the entrance of the Euxine, that had the quality of closing upon every vessel which attempted to make its way between them and crushing it to pieces, a danger that could only be avoided by sending a dove before as their harbinger, they at length arrived. MEDEA. The golden fleece was defended by bulls, whose hoofs were brass, and whose breath was fire, and by a never-sleeping dragon that planted itself at the foot of the tree upon which the fleece was suspended. Jason was prepared for his undertaking by Medea, the daughter of the king of the country, herself an accomplished magician, and furnished with philtres, drugs and enchantments. Thus equipped, he tamed the bulls, put a yoke on their necks, and caused them to plough two acres of the stiffest land. He killed the dragon, and, to complete the adventure, drew the monster's teeth, sowed them in the ground, and saw an army of soldiers spring from the seed. The army hastened forward to attack him; but he threw a large stone into the midst of their ranks, when they immediately turned from him, and, falling on each other, were all killed with their mutual weapons. The adventure being accomplished, Medea set out with Jason on his return to Thessaly. On their arrival, they found Aeson, the father of Jason, and Pelias, his uncle, who had usurped the throne, both old and decrepid. Jason applied to Medea, and asked her whether among her charms she had none to make an old man young again. She replied she had: she drew the impoverished and watery blood from the body of Aeson; she infused the juice of certain potent herbs into his veins; and he rose from the operation as fresh and vigorous a man as his son. The daughters of Pelias professed a perfect willingness to abdicate the throne of Iolchos; but, before they retired, they requested Medea to do the same kindness for their father which she had already done for Aeson. She said she would. She told them the method was to cut the old man in pieces, and boil him in a kettle with an infusion of certain herbs, and he would come out as smooth and active as a child. The daughters of Pelias a little scrupled the operation. Medea, seeing this, begged they would not think she was deceiving them. If however they doubted, she desired they would bring her the oldest ram from their flocks, and they should see the experiment. Medea cut up the ram, cast in certain herbs, and the old bell-wether came out as beautiful and innocent a he-lamb as was ever beheld. The daughters of Pelias were satisfied. They divided their father in pieces; but he was never restored either to health or life. From Iolchos, upon some insurrection of the people, Medea and Jason fled to Corinth. Here they lived ten years in much harmony. At the end of that time Jason grew tired of his wife, and fell in love with Glauce, daughter of the king of Corinth. Medea was greatly exasperated with his infidelity, and, among other enormities, slew with her own hand the two children she had borne him before his face, Jason hastened to punish her barbarity; but Medea mounted a chariot drawn by fiery dragons, fled through the air to Athens, and escaped. At Athens she married Aegeus, king of that city. Aegeus by a former wife had a son, named Theseus, who for some reason had been brought up obscure, unknown and in exile. At a suitable time he returned home to his father with the intention to avow his parentage. But Medea was beforehand with him. She put a poisoned goblet into the hands of Aegeus at an entertainment he gave to Theseus, with the intent that he should deliver it to his son. At the critical moment Aegeus cast his eyes on the sword of Theseus, which he recognised as that which he had delivered with his son, when a child, and had directed that it should be brought by him, when a man, as a token of the mystery of his birth. The goblet was cast away; the father and son rushed into each other's arms; and Medea fled from Athens in her chariot drawn by dragons through the air, as she had years before fled from Corinth. CIRCE. Circe was the sister of Aeetes and Pasiphae, and was, like Medea, her niece, skilful in sorcery. She had besides the gift of immortality. She was exquisitely beautiful; but she employed the charms of her person, and the seducing grace of her manners to a bad purpose. She presented to every stranger who landed in her territory an enchanted cup, of which she intreated him to drink. He no sooner tasted it, than he was turned into a hog, and was driven by the magician to her sty. The unfortunate stranger retained under this loathsome appearance the consciousness of what he had been, and mourned for ever the criminal compliance by which he was brought to so melancholy a pass. ORPHEUS. Cicero [22] quotes Aristotle as affirming that there was no such man as Orpheus. But Aristotle is at least single in that opinion. And there are too many circumstances known respecting Orpheus, and which have obtained the consenting voice of all antiquity, to allow us to call in question his existence. He was a native of Thrace, and from that country migrated into Greece. He travelled into Egypt for the purpose of collecting there the information necessary to the accomplishment of his ends. He died a violent death; and, as is almost universally affirmed, fell a sacrifice to the resentment and fury of the women of his native soil. [23] Orpheus was doubtless a poet; though it is not probable that any of his genuine productions have been handed down to us. He was, as all the poets of so remote a period were, extremely accomplished in all the arts of vocal and instrumental music. He civilised the rude inhabitants of Greece, and subjected them to order and law. He formed them into communities. He is said by Aristophanes [24] and Horace [25] to have reclaimed the savage man, from slaughter, and an indulgence in food that was loathsome and foul. And this has with sufficient probability been interpreted to mean, that he found the race of men among whom he lived cannibals, and that, to cure them the more completely of this horrible practice, he taught them to be contented to subsist upon the fruits of the earth. [26] Music and poetry are understood to have been made specially instrumental by him to the effecting this purpose. He is said to have made the hungry lion and the famished tiger obedient to his bidding, and to put off their wild and furious natures. This is interpreted by Horace [27] and other recent expositors to mean no more than that he reduced the race of savages as he found them, to order and civilisation. But it was at first perhaps understood more literally. We shall not do justice to the traditions of these remote times, if we do not in imagination transport ourselves among them, and teach ourselves to feel their feelings, and conceive their conceptions. Orpheus lived in a time when all was enchantment and prodigy. Gifted and extraordinary persons in those ages believed that they were endowed with marvellous prerogatives, and acted upon that belief. We may occasionally observe, even in these days of the dull and the literal, how great is the ascendancy of the man over the beast, when he feels a full and entire confidence in that ascendancy. The eye and the gesture of man cannot fail to produce effects, incredible till they are seen. Magic was the order of the day; and the enthusiasm of its heroes was raised to the highest pitch, and attended with no secret misgivings. We are also to consider that, in all operations of a magical nature, there is a wonderful mixture of frankness and _bonhommie_ with a strong vein of cunning and craft. Man in every age is full of incongruous and incompatible principles; and, when we shall cease to be inconsistent, we shall cease to be men. It is difficult fully to explain what is meant by the story of Orpheus and Eurydice; but in its circumstances it bears a striking resemblance to what has been a thousand times recorded respecting the calling up of the ghosts of the dead by means of sorcery. The disconsolate husband has in the first place recourse to the resistless aid of music. [28] After many preparatives he appears to have effected his purpose, and prevailed upon the powers of darkness to allow him the presence of his beloved. She appears in the sequel however to have been a thin and a fleeting shadow. He is forbidden to cast his eyes on her; and, if he had obeyed this injunction, it is uncertain how the experiment would have ended. He proceeds however, as he is commanded, towards the light of day. He is led to believe that his consort is following his steps. He is beset with a multitude of unearthly phenomena. He advances for some time with confidence. At length he is assailed with doubts. He has recourse to the auricular sense, to know if she is following him. He can hear nothing. Finally he can endure this uncertainty no longer; and, in defiance of the prohibition he has received, cannot refrain from turning his head to ascertain whether he is baffled, and has spent all his labour in vain. He sees her; but no sooner he sees her, than she becomes evanescent and impalpable; farther and farther she retreats before him; she utters a shrill cry, and endeavours to articulate; but she grows more and more imperceptible; and in the conclusion he is left with the scene around him in all respects the same as it had been before his incantations. The result of the whole that is known of Orpheus, is, that he was an eminently great and virtuous man, but was the victim of singular calamity. We have not yet done with the history of Orpheus. As has been said, he fell a sacrifice to the resentment and fury of the women of his native soil. They are affirmed to have torn him limb from limb. His head, divided from his body, floated down the waters of the Hebrus, and miraculously, as it passed along to the sea, it was still heard to exclaim in mournful accents, Eurydice, Eurydice! [29] At length it was carried ashore on the island of Lesbos. [30] Here, by some extraordinary concurrence of circumstances, it found a resting-place in a fissure of a rock over-arched by a cave, and, thus domiciliated, is said to have retained the power of speech, and to have uttered oracles. Not only the people of Lesbos resorted to it for guidance in difficult questions, but also the Asiatic Greeks from Ionia and Aetolia; and its fame and character for predicting future events even extended to Babylon. [31] AMPHION. The story of Amphion is more perplexing than that of the living Orpheus. Both of them turn in a great degree upon the miraculous effects of music. Amphion was of the royal family of Thebes, and ultimately became ruler of the territory. He is said, by the potency of his lyre, or his skill in the magic art, to have caused the stones to follow him, to arrange themselves in the way he proposed, and without the intervention of a human hand to have raised a wall about his metropolis. [32] It is certainly less difficult to conceive the savage man to be rendered placable, and to conform to the dictates of civilisation, or even wild beasts to be made tame, than to imagine stones to obey the voice and the will of a human being. The example however is not singular; and hereafter we shall find related that Merlin, the British enchanter, by the power of magic caused the rocks of Stonehenge, though of such vast dimensions, to be carried through the air from Ireland to the place where we at present find them.--Homer mentions that Amphion, and his brother Zethus built the walls of Thebes, but does not describe it as having been done by miracle. [33] TIRESIAS. Tiresias was one of the most celebrated soothsayers of the early ages of Greece. He lived in the times of Oedipus, and the war of the seven chiefs against Thebes. He was afflicted by the Gods with blindness, in consequence of some displeasure they conceived against him; but in compensation they endowed him beyond all other mortals with the gift of prophecy. He is said to have understood the language of birds. He possessed the art of divining future events from the various indications that manifest themselves in fire, in smoke, and in other ways, [34] but to have set the highest value upon the communications of the dead, whom by spells and incantations he constrained to appear and answer his enquiries; [35] and he is represented as pouring out tremendous menaces against them, when they shewed themselves tardy to attend upon his commands. [36] ABARIS. Abaris, the Scythian, known to us for his visit to Greece, was by all accounts a great magician. Herodotus says [37] that he is reported to have travelled over the world with an arrow, eating nothing during his journey. Other authors relate that this arrow was given to him by Apollo, and that he rode upon it through the air, over lands, and seas, and all inaccessible places. [38] The time in which he flourished is very uncertain, some having represented him as having constructed the Palladium, which, as long as it was preserved, kept Troy from being taken by an enemy, [39] and others affirming that he was familiar with Pythagoras, who lived six hundred years later, and that he was admitted into his special confidence. [40] He is said to have possessed the faculty of foretelling earthquakes, allaying storms, and driving away pestilence; he gave out predictions wherever he went; and is described as an enchanter, professing to cure diseases by virtue of certain words which he pronounced over those who were afflicted with them. [41] PYTHAGORAS. The name of Pythagoras is one of the most memorable in the records of the human species; and his character is well worthy of the minutest investigation. By this name we are brought at once within the limits of history properly so called. He lived in the time of Cyrus and Darius Hystaspes, of Croesus, of Pisistratus, of Polycrates, tyrant of Samos, and Amasis, king of Egypt. Many hypotheses have been laid down respecting the precise period of his birth and death; but, as it is not to our purpose to enter into any lengthened discussions of that sort, we will adopt at once the statement that appears to be the most probable, which is that of Lloyd, [42] who fixes his birth about the year before Christ 586, and his death about the year 506. Pythagoras was a man of the most various accomplishments, and appears to have penetrated in different directions into the depths of human knowledge. He sought wisdom in its retreats of fairest promise, in Egypt and other distant countries. [43] In this investigation he employed the earlier period of his life, probably till he was forty, and devoted the remainder to such modes of proceeding, as appeared to him the most likely to secure the advantage of what he had acquired to a late posterity. [44] He founded a school, and delivered his acquisitions by oral communication to a numerous body of followers. He divided his pupils into two classes, the one neophytes, to whom was explained only the most obvious and general truths, the other who were admitted into the entire confidence of the master. These last he caused to throw their property into a common stock, and to live together in the same place of resort. [45] He appears to have spent the latter half of his life in that part of Italy, called Magna Graecia, so denominated in some degree from the numerous colonies of Grecians by whom it was planted, and partly perhaps from the memory of the illustrious things which Pythagoras achieved there. [46] He is said to have spread the seeds of political liberty in Crotona, Sybaris, Metapontum, and Rhegium, and from thence in Sicily to Tauromenium, Catana, Agrigentum and Himera. [47] Charondas and Zaleucus, themselves famous legislators, derived the rudiments of their political wisdom from the instructions of Pythagoras. [48] But this marvellous man in some way, whether from the knowlege he received, or from his own proper discoveries, has secured to his species benefits of a more permanent nature, and which shall outlive the revolutions of ages, and the instability of political institutions. He was a profound geometrician. The two theorems, that the internal angles of every right-line triangle are equal to two right angles, [49] and that the square of the hypothenuse of every right angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides, [50] are ascribed to him. In memory of the latter of these discoveries he is said to have offered a public sacrifice to the Gods; and the theorem is still known by the name of the Pythagorean theorem. He ascertained from the length of the Olympic course, which was understood to have measured six hundred of Hercules's feet, the precise stature of that hero. [51] Lastly, Pythagoras is the first person, who is known to have taught the spherical figure of the earth, and that we have antipodes; [52] and he propagated the doctrine that the earth is a planet, and that the sun is the centre round which the earth and the other planets move, now known by the name of the Copernican system. [53] To inculcate a pure and a simple mode of subsistence was also an express object of pursuit to Pythagoras. He taught a total abstinence from every thing having had the property of animal life. It has been affirmed, as we have seen, [54] that Orpheus before him taught the same thing. But the claim of Orpheus to this distinction is ambiguous; while the theories and dogmas of the Samian sage, as he has frequently been styled, were more methodically digested, and produced more lasting and unequivocal effects. He taught temperance in all its branches, and a resolute subjection of the appetites of the body to contemplation and the exercises of the mind; and, by the unremitted discipline and authority he exerted over his followers, he caused his lessons to be constantly observed. There was therefore an edifying and an exemplary simplicity that prevailed as far as the influence of Pythagoras extended, that won golden opinions to his adherents at all times that they appeared, and in all places. [55] One revolution that Pythagoras worked, was that, whereas, immediately before, those who were most conspicuous among the Greeks as instructors of mankind in understanding and virtue, styled themselves sophists, professors of wisdom, this illustrious man desired to be known only by the appellation of a philosopher, a lover of wisdom. [56] The sophists had previously brought their denomination into discredit and reproach, by the arrogance of their pretensions, and the imperious way in which they attempted to lay down the law to the world. The modesty of this appellation however did not altogether suit with the deep designs of Pythagoras, the ascendancy he resolved to acquire, and the oracular subjection in which he deemed it necessary to hold those who placed themselves under his instruction. This wonderful man set out with making himself a model of the passive and unscrupulous docility which he afterwards required from others. He did not begin to teach till he was forty years of age, and from eighteen to that period he studied in foreign countries, with the resolution to submit to all his teachers enjoined, and to make himself master of their least communicated and most secret wisdom. In Egypt in particular, we are told that, though he brought a letter of recommendation from Polycrates, his native sovereign, to Amasis, king of that country, who fully concurred with the views of the writer, the priests, jealous of admitting a foreigner into their secrets, baffled him as long as they could, referring him from one college to another, and prescribing to him the most rigorous preparatives, not excluding the rite of circumcision. [57] But Pythagoras endured and underwent every thing, till at length their unwillingness was conquered, and his perseverance received its suitable reward. When in the end Pythagoras thought himself fully qualified for the task he had all along had in view, he was no less strict in prescribing ample preliminaries to his own scholars. At the time that a pupil was proposed to him, the master, we are told, examined him with multiplied questions as to his principles, his habits and intentions, observed minutely his voice and manner of speaking, his walk and his gestures, the lines of his countenance, and the expression and management of his eye, and, when he was satisfied with these, then and not till then admitted him as a probationer. [58] It is to be supposed that all this must have been personal. As soon however as this was over, the master was withdrawn from the sight of the pupil; and a noviciate of three and five, in all eight years, [59] was prescribed to the scholar, during which time he was only to hear his instructor from behind a curtain, and the strictest silence was enjoined him through the whole period. As the instructions Pythagoras received in Egypt and the East admitted of no dispute, so in his turn he required an unreserved submission from those who heard him: autos iphae "the master has said it," was deemed a sufficient solution to all doubt and uncertainty. [60] To give the greater authority and effect to his communications Pythagoras hid himself during the day at least from the great body of his pupils, and was only seen by them at night. Indeed there is no reason to suppose that any one was admitted into his entire familiarity. When he came forth, he appeared in a long garment of the purest white, with a flowing beard, and a garland upon his head. He is said to have been of the finest symmetrical form, with a majestic carriage, and a grave and awful countenance. [61] He suffered his followers to believe that he was one of the Gods, the Hyperborean Apollo, [62] and is said to have told Abaris that he assumed the human form, that he might the better invite men to an easiness of approach and to confidence in him. [63] What however seems to be agreed in by all his biographers, is that he professed to have already in different ages appeared in the likeness of man: first as Aethalides, the son of Mercury; and, when his father expressed himself ready to invest him with any gift short of immortality, he prayed that, as the human soul is destined successively to dwell in various forms, he might have the privilege in each to remember his former state of being, which was granted him. From, Aethalides he became Euphorbus, who slew Patroclus at the siege of Troy. He then appeared as Hermotimus, then Pyrrhus, a fisherman of Delos, and finally Pythagoras. He said that a period of time was interposed between each transmigration, during which he visited the seat of departed souls; and he professed to relate a part of the wonders he had seen. [64] He is said to have eaten sparingly and in secret, and in all respects to have given himself out for a being not subject to the ordinary laws of nature. [65] Pythagoras therefore pretended to miraculous endowments. Happening to be on the sea-shore when certain fishermen drew to land an enormous multitude of fishes, he desired them to allow him to dispose of the capture, which they consented to, provided he would name the precise number they had caught. He did so, and required that they should throw their prize into the sea again, at the same time paying them the value of the fish. [66] He tamed a Daunian bear by whispering in his ear, and prevailed on him henceforth to refrain from the flesh of animals, and to feed on vegetables. By the same means he induced an ox not to eat beans, which was a diet specially prohibited by Pythagoras; and he called down an eagle from his flight, causing him to sit on his hand, and submit to be stroked down by the philosopher. [67] In Greece, when he passed the river Nessus in Macedon, the stream was heard to salute him with the words "Hail, Pythagoras!" [68] When Abaris addressed him as one of the heavenly host, he took the stranger aside, and convinced him that he was under no mistake, by exhibiting to him his thigh of gold: or, according to another account, he used the same sort of evidence at a certain time, to satisfy his pupils of his celestial descent. [69] He is said to have been seen on the same day at Metapontum in Italy, and at Taurominium in Sicily, though these places are divided by the sea, so that it was conceived that it would cost several days to pass from one to the other. [70] In one instance he absented himself from his associates in Italy for a whole year; and when he appeared again, related that he had passed that time in the infernal regions, describing likewise the marvellous things he had seen. [71] Diogenes Laertius, speaking of this circumstance affirms however that he remained during this period in a cave, where his mother conveyed to him intelligence and necessaries, and that, when he came once more into light and air, he appeared so emaciated and colourless, that he might well be believed to have come out of Hades. The close of the life of Pythagoras was, according to every statement, in the midst of misfortune and violence. Some particulars are related by Iamblichus, [72] which, though he is not an authority beyond all exception, are so characteristic as seem to entitle them to the being transcribed. This author is more circumstantial than any other in stating the elaborate steps by which the pupils of Pythagoras came to be finally admitted into the full confidence of the master. He says, that they passed three years in the first place in a state of probation, carefully watched by their seniors, and exposed to their occasional taunts and ironies, by way of experiment to ascertain whether they were of a temper sufficiently philosophical and firm. At the expiration of that period they were admitted to a noviciate, in which they were bound to uninterrupted silence, and heard the lectures of the master, while he was himself concealed from their view by a curtain. They were then received to initiation, and required to deliver over their property to the common stock. They were admitted to intercourse with the master. They were invited to a participation of the most obscure theories, and the abstrusest problems. If however in this stage of their progress they were discovered to be too weak of intellectual penetration, or any other fundamental objection were established against them, they were expelled the community; the double of the property they had contributed to the common stock was paid down to them; a head-stone and a monument inscribed with their names were set up in the place of meeting of the community; they were considered as dead; and, if afterwards they met by chance any of those who were of the privileged few, they were treated by them as entirely strangers. Cylon, the richest man, or, as he is in one place styled, the prince, of Crotona, had manifested the greatest partiality to Pythagoras. He was at the same time a man of rude, impatient and boisterous character. He, together with Perialus of Thurium, submitted to all the severities of the Pythagorean school. They passed the three years of probation, and the five years of silence. They were received into the familiarity of the master. They were then initiated, and delivered all their wealth into the common stock. They were however ultimately pronounced deficient in intellectual power, or for some other reason were not judged worthy to continue among the confidential pupils of Pythagoras. They were expelled. The double of the property they had contributed was paid back to them. A monument was set up in memory of what they had been; and they were pronounced dead to the school. It will easily be conceived in what temper Cylon sustained this degradation. Of Perialus we hear nothing further. But Cylon, from feelings of the deepest reverence and awe for Pythagoras, which he had cherished for years, was filled even to bursting with inextinguishable hatred and revenge. The unparalleled merits, the venerable age of the master whom he had so long followed, had no power to control his violence. His paramount influence in the city insured him the command of a great body of followers. He excited them to a frame of turbulence and riot. He represented to them how intolerable was the despotism of this pretended philosopher. They surrounded the school in which the pupils were accustomed to assemble, and set it on fire. Forty persons perished in the flames. [73] According to some accounts Pythagoras was absent at the time. According to others he and two of his pupils escaped. He retired from Crotona to Metapontum. But the hostility which had broken out in the former city, followed him there. He took refuge in the Temple of the Muses. But he was held so closely besieged that no provisions could be conveyed to him; and he finally perished with hunger, after, according to Laertius, forty days' abstinence. [74] It is difficult to imagine any thing more instructive, and more pregnant with matter for salutary reflection, than the contrast presented to us by the character and system of action of Pythagoras on the one hand, and those of the great enquirers of the last two centuries, for example, Bacon, Newton and Locke, on the other. Pythagoras probably does not yield to any one of these in the evidences of true intellectual greatness. In his school, in the followers he trained resembling himself, and in the salutary effects he produced on the institutions of the various republics of Magna Graecia and Sicily, he must be allowed greatly to have excelled them. His discoveries of various propositions in geometry, of the earth as a planet, and of the solar system as now universally recognised, clearly stamp him a genius of the highest order. Yet this man, thus enlightened and philanthropical, established his system of proceeding upon narrow and exclusive principles, and conducted it by methods of artifice, quackery and delusion. One of his leading maxims was, that the great and fundamental truths to the establishment of which he devoted himself, were studiously to be concealed from the vulgar, and only to be imparted to a select few, and after years of the severest noviciate and trial. He learned his earliest lessons of wisdom in Egypt after this method, and he conformed through life to the example which had thus been delivered to him. The severe examination that he made of the candidates previously to their being admitted into his school, and the years of silence that were then prescribed to them, testify this. He instructed them by symbols, obscure and enigmatical propositions, which they were first to exercise their ingenuity to expound. The authority and dogmatical assertions of the master were to remain unquestioned; and the pupils were to fashion themselves to obsequious and implicit submission, and were the furthest in the world from being encouraged to the independent exercise of their own understandings. There was nothing that Pythagoras was more fixed to discountenance, than the communication of the truths upon which he placed the highest value, to the uninitiated. It is not probable therefore that he wrote any thing: all was communicated orally, by such gradations, and with such discretion, as he might think fit to adopt and to exercise. Delusion and falsehood were main features of his instruction. With what respect therefore can we consider, and what manliness worthy of his high character and endowments can we impute to, his discourses delivered from behind a curtain, his hiding himself during the day, and only appearing by night in a garb assumed for the purpose of exciting awe and veneration? What shall we say to the story of his various transmigrations? At first sight it appears in the light of the most audacious and unblushing imposition. And, if we were to yield so far as to admit that by a high-wrought enthusiasm, by a long train of maceration and visionary reveries, he succeeded in imposing on himself, this, though in a different way, would scarcely less detract from the high stage of eminence upon which the nobler parts of his character would induce us to place him. Such were some of the main causes that have made his efforts perishable, and the lustre which should have attended his genius in a great degree transitory and fugitive. He was probably much under the influence of a contemptible jealousy, and must be considered as desirous that none of his contemporaries or followers should eclipse their master. All was oracular and dogmatic in the school of Pythagoras. He prized and justly prized the greatness of his attainments and discoveries, and had no conception that any thing could go beyond them. He did not encourage, nay, he resolutely opposed, all true independence of mind, and that undaunted spirit of enterprise which is the atmosphere in which the sublimest thoughts are most naturally generated. He therefore did not throw open the gates of science and wisdom, and invite every comer; but on the contrary narrowed the entrance, and carefully reduced the number of aspirants. He thought not of the most likely methods to give strength and permanence and an extensive sphere to the progress of the human mind. For these reasons he wrote nothing; but consigned all to the frail and uncertain custody of tradition. And distant posterity has amply avenged itself upon the narrowness of his policy; and the name of Pythagoras, which would otherwise have been ranked with the first luminaries of mankind, and consigned to everlasting gratitude, has in consequence of a few radical and fatal mistakes, been often loaded with obloquy, and the hero who bore it been indiscriminately classed among the votaries of imposture and artifice. EPIMENIDES. Epimenides has been mentioned among the disciples of Pythagoras; but he probably lived at an earlier period. He was a native of Crete. The first extraordinary circumstance that is recorded of him is, that, being very young, he was sent by his father in search of a stray sheep, when, being overcome by the heat of the weather, he retired into a cave, and slept fifty-seven years. Supposing that he had slept only a few hours, he repaired first to his father's country-house, which he found in possession of a new tenant, and then to the city, where he encountered his younger brother, now grown an old man, who with difficulty was brought to acknowledge him. [75] It was probably this circumstance that originally brought Epimenides into repute as a prophet, and a favourite of the Gods. Epimenides appears to have been one of those persons, who make it their whole study to delude their fellow-men, and to obtain for themselves the reputation of possessing supernatural gifts. Such persons, almost universally, and particularly in ages of ignorance and wonder, become themselves the dupes of their own pretensions. He gave out that he was secretly subsisted by food brought to him by the nymphs; and he is said to have taken nourishment in so small quantities, as to be exempted from the ordinary necessities of nature. [76] He boasted that he could send his soul out of his body, and recal it, when he pleased; and alternately appeared an inanimate corpse, and then again his life would return to him, and he appear capable of every human function as before. [77] He is said to have practised the ceremony of exorcising houses and fields, and thus rendering them fruitful and blessed. [78] He frequently uttered prophecies of events with such forms of ceremony and such sagacious judgment, that they seemed to come to pass as he predicted. One of the most memorable acts of his life happened in this manner. Cylon, the head of one of the principal families in Athens, set on foot a rebellion against the government, and surprised the citadel. His power however was of short duration. Siege was laid to the place, and Cylon found his safety in flight. His partisans forsook their arms, and took refuge at the altars. Seduced from this security by fallacious promises, they were brought to judgment and all of them put to death. The Gods were said to be offended with this violation of the sanctions of religion, and sent a plague upon the city. All things were in confusion, and sadness possessed the whole community. Prodigies were perpetually seen; the spectres of the dead walked the streets; and terror universally prevailed. The sacrifices offered to the gods exhibited the most unfavourable symptoms. [79] In this emergency the Athenian senate resolved to send for Epimenides to come to their relief. His reputation was great. He was held for a holy and devout man, and wise in celestial things by inspiration from above. A vessel was fitted out under the command of one of the first citizens of the state to fetch Epimenides from Crete. He performed various rites and purifications. He took a certain number of sheep, black and white, and led them to the Areopagus, where he caused them to be let loose to go wherever they would. He directed certain persons to follow them, and mark the place where they lay down. He enquired to what particular deity the spot was consecrated, and sacrificed the sheep to that deity; and in the result of these ceremonies the plague was stayed. According to others he put an end to the plague by the sacrifice of two human victims. The Athenian senate, full of gratitude to their benefactor, tendered him the gift of a talent. But Epimenides refused all compensation, and only required, as an acknowledgment of what he had done, that there should be perpetual peace between the Athenians and the people of Gnossus, his native city. [80] He is said to have died shortly after his return to his country, being of the age of one hundred and fifty-seven years. [81] EMPEDOCLES. Empedocles has also been mentioned as a disciple of Pythagoras. But he probably lived too late for that to have been the case. His principles were in a great degree similar to those of that illustrious personage; and he might have studied under one of the immediate successors of Pythagoras. He was a citizen of Agrigentum in Sicily; and, having inherited considerable wealth, exercised great authority in his native place. [82] He was a distinguished orator and poet. He was greatly conversant in the study of nature, and was eminent for his skill in medicine. [83] In addition to these accomplishments, he appears to have been a devoted adherent to the principles of liberty. He effected the dissolution of the ruling council of Agrigentum, and substituted in their room a triennial magistracy, by means of which the public authority became not solely in the hands of the rich as before, but was shared by them with expert and intelligent men of an inferior class. [84] He opposed all arbitrary exercises of rule. He gave dowries from his own stores to many young maidens of impoverished families, and settled them in eligible marriages. [85] He performed many cures upon his fellow-citizens; and is especially celebrated for having restored a woman to life, who had been apparently dead, according to one account for seven days, but according to others for thirty. [86] But the most memorable things known of Empedocles, are contained in the fragments of his verses that have been preserved to us. In one of them he says of himself, "I well remember the time before I was Empedocles, that I once was a boy, then a girl, a plant, a glittering fish, a bird that cut the air." [87] Addressing those who resorted to him for improvement and wisdom, he says, "By my instructions you shall learn medicines that are powerful to cure disease, and re-animate old age; you shall be able to calm the savage winds which lay waste the labours of the husbandman, and, when you will, shall send forth the tempest again; you shall cause the skies to be fair and serene, or once more shall draw down refreshing showers, re-animating the fruits of the earth; nay, you shall recal the strength of the dead man, when he has already become the victim of Pluto." [88] Further, speaking of himself, Empedocles exclaims: "Friends, who inhabit the great city laved by the yellow Acragas, all hail! I mix with you a God, no longer a mortal, and am every where honoured by you, as is just; crowned with fillets, and fragrant garlands, adorned with which when I visit populous cities, I am revered by both men and women, who follow me by ten thousands, enquiring the road to boundless wealth, seeking the gift of prophecy, and who would learn the marvellous skill to cure all kinds of diseases." [89] The best known account of the death of Empedocles may reasonably be considered as fabulous. From what has been said it sufficiently appears, that he was a man of extraordinary intellectual endowments, and the most philanthropical dispositions; at the same time that he was immoderately vain, aspiring by every means in his power to acquire to himself a deathless remembrance. Working on these hints, a story has been invented that he aspired to a miraculous way of disappearing from among men; and for this purpose repaired, when alone, to the top of Mount Aetna, then in a state of eruption, and threw himself down the burning crater: but it is added, that in the result of this perverse ambition he was baffled, the volcano having thrown up one of his brazen sandals, by means of which the mode of his death became known. [90] ARISTEAS. Herodotus tells a marvellous story of one Aristeas, a poet of Proconnesus, an island of the Propontis. This man, coming by chance into a fuller's workshop in his native place, suddenly fell down dead. As the man was of considerable rank, the fuller immediately, quitting and locking up his shop, proceeded to inform his family of what had happened. The relations went accordingly, having procured what was requisite to give the deceased the rites of sepulture, to the shop; but, when it was opened, they could discover no vestige of Aristeas, either dead or alive. A traveller however from the neighbouring town of Cyzicus on the continent, protested that he had just left that place, and, as he set foot in the wherry which had brought him over, had met Aristeas, and held a particular conversation with him. Seven years after, Aristeas reappeared at Proconnesus, resided there a considerable time, and during this abode wrote his poem of the wars of the one-eyed Arimaspians and the Gryphons. He then again disappeared in an unaccountable manner. But, what is more than all extraordinary, three hundred and forty years after this disappearance, he shewed himself again at Metapontum, in Magna Graecia, and commanded the citizens to erect a statue in his honour near the temple of Apollo in the forum; which being done, he raised himself in the air; and flew away in the form of a crow. [91] HERMOTIMUS. Hermotimus, or, as Plutarch names him, Hermodorus of Clazomene, is said to have possessed, like Epimenides, the marvellous power of quitting his body, and returning to it again, as often, and for as long a time as he pleased. In these absences his unembodied spirit would visit what places he thought proper, observe every thing that was going on, and, when he returned to his fleshy tabernacle, make a minute relation of what he had seen. Hermotimus had enemies, who, one time when his body had lain unanimated unusually long, beguiled his wife, made her believe that he was certainly dead, and that it was disrespectful and indecent to keep him so long in that state. The woman therefore placed her husband on the funeral pyre, and consumed him to ashes; so that, continues the philosopher, when the soul of Hermotimus came back again, it no longer found its customary receptacle to retire into. [92] Certainly this kind of treatment appeared to furnish an infallible criterion, whether the seeming absences of the soul of this miraculous man were pretended or real. THE MOTHER OF DEMARATUS, KING OF SPARTA. Herodotus [93] tells a story of the mother of Demaratus, king of Sparta, which bears a striking resemblance to the fairy tales of modern times. This lady, afterward queen of Sparta, was sprung from opulent parents, but, when she was born, was so extravagantly ugly, that her parents hid her from all human observation. According to the mode of the times however, they sent the babe daily in its nurse's arms to the shrine of Helen, now metamorphosed into a Goddess, to pray that the child might be delivered from its present preternatural deformity. On these occasions the child was shrouded in many coverings, that it might escape being seen. One day as the nurse came out of the temple, a strange woman met her, and asked her what she carried so carefully concealed. The nurse said it was a female child, but of opulent parents, and she was strictly enjoined that it should be seen by no one. The stranger was importunate, and by dint of perseverance overcame the nurse's reluctance. The woman took the babe in her arms, stroked down its hair, kissed it, and then returning it to the nurse, said that it should grow up the most perfect beauty in Sparta. So accordingly it proved: and the king of the country, having seen her, became so enamoured of her, that, though he already had a wife, and she a husband, he overcame all obstacles, and made her his queen. ORACLES. One of the most extraordinary things to be met with in the history of ancient times is the oracles. They maintained their reputation for many successive centuries. The most famous perhaps were that of Delphi in Greece, and that of Jupiter Ammon in the deserts of Lybia. But they were scattered through many cities, many plains, and many islands. They were consulted by the foolish and the wise; and scarcely anything considerable was undertaken, especially about the time of the Persian invasion into Greece, without the parties having first had recourse to these; and they in most cases modified the conduct of princes and armies accordingly. To render the delusion more successful, every kind of artifice was put in practice. The oracle could only be consulted on fixed days; and the persons who resorted to it, prefaced their application with costly offerings to the presiding God. Their questions passed through the hands of certain priests, residing in and about the temple. These priests received the embassy with all due solemnity, and retired. A priestess, or Pythia, who was seldom or never seen by any of the profane vulgar, was the immediate vehicle of communication with the God. She was cut off from all intercourse with the world, and was carefully trained by the attendant priests. Spending almost the whole of her time in solitude, and taught to consider her office as ineffably sacred, she saw visions, and was for the most part in a state of great excitement. The Pythia, at least of the Delphian God, was led on with much ceremony to the performance of her office, and placed upon the sacred tripod. The tripod, we are told, stood over a chasm in the rock, from which issued fumes of an inebriating quality. The Pythia became gradually penetrated through every limb with these fumes, till her bosom swelled, her features enlarged, her mouth foamed, her voice seemed supernatural, and she uttered words that could sometimes scarcely be called articulate. She could with difficulty contain herself, and seemed to be possessed, and wholly overpowered, with the God. After a prelude of many unintelligible sounds, uttered with fervour and a sort of frenzy, she became by degrees more distinct. She uttered incoherent sentences, with breaks and pauses, that were filled up with preternatural efforts and distorted gestures; while the priests stood by, carefully recording her words, and then reducing them into a sort of obscure signification. They finally digested them for the most part into a species of hexameter verse. We may suppose the supplicants during this ceremony placed at a proper distance, so as to observe these things imperfectly, while the less they understood, they were ordinarily the more impressed with religious awe, and prepared implicitly to receive what was communicated to them. Sometimes the priestess found herself in a frame, not entirely equal to her function, and refused for the present to proceed with the ceremony. The priests of the oracle doubtless conducted them in a certain degree like the gipsies and fortune-tellers of modern times, cunningly procuring to themselves intelligence in whatever way they could, and ingeniously worming out the secrets of their suitors, at the same time contriving that their drift should least of all be suspected. But their main resource probably was in the obscurity, almost amounting to unintelligibleness, of their responses. Their prophecies in most cases required the comment of the event to make them understood; and it not seldom happened, that the meaning in the sequel was found to be the diametrically opposite of that which the pious votaries had originally conceived. In the mean time the obscurity of the oracles was of inexpressible service to the cause of superstition. If the event turned out to be such as could in no way be twisted to come within the scope of the response, the pious suitor only concluded that the failure was owing to the grossness and carnality of his own apprehension, and not to any deficiency in the institution. Thus the oracle by no means lost credit, even when its meaning remained for ever in its original obscurity. But, when, by any fortunate chance, its predictions seemed to be verified, then the unerringness of the oracle was lauded from nation to nation; and the omniscience of the God was admitted with astonishment and adoration. It would be a vulgar and absurd mistake however, to suppose that all this was merely the affair of craft, the multitude only being the dupes, while the priests in cold blood carried on the deception, and secretly laughed at the juggle they were palming on the world. They felt their own importance; and they cherished it. They felt that they were regarded by their countrymen as something more than human; and the opinion entertained of them by the world around them, did not fail to excite a responsive sentiment in their own bosoms. If their contemporaries willingly ascribed to them an exclusive sacredness, by how much stronger an impulse were they led fully to receive so flattering a suggestion! Their minds were in a perpetual state of exaltation; and they believed themselves specially favoured by the God whose temple constituted their residence. A small matter is found sufficient to place a creed which flatters all the passions of its votaries, on the most indubitable basis. Modern philosophers think that by their doctrine of gases they can explain all the appearances of the Pythia; but the ancients, to whom this doctrine was unknown, admitted these appearances as the undoubted evidence of an interposition from heaven. It is certainly a matter of the extremest difficulty, for us in imagination to place ourselves in the situation of those who believed in the ancient polytheistical creed. And yet these believers nearly constituted the whole of the population of the kingdoms of antiquity. Even those who professed to have shaken off the prejudices of their education, and to rise above the absurdities of paganism, had still some of the old leaven adhering to them. One of the last acts of the life of Socrates, was to order the sacrifice of a cock to be made to Aesculapius. Now the creed of paganism is said to have made up to the number of thirty thousand deities. Every kingdom, every city, every street, nay, in a manner every house, had its protecting God. These Gods were rivals to each other; and were each jealous of his own particular province, and watchful against the intrusion of any neighbour deity upon ground where he had a superior right. The province of each of these deities was of small extent; and therefore their watchfulness and jealousy of their appropriate honours do not enter into the slightest comparison with the Providence of the God who directs the concerns of the universe. They had ample leisure to employ in vindicating their prerogatives. Prophecy was of all means the plainest and most obvious for each deity to assert his existence, and to inforce the reverence and submission of his votaries. Prophecy was that species of interference which was least liable to the being confuted and exposed. The oracles, as we have said, were delivered in terms and phrases that were nearly unintelligible. If therefore they met with no intelligible fulfilment, this lost them nothing; and, if it gained them no additional credit, neither did it expose them to any disgrace. Whereas every example, where the obscure prediction seemed to tally with, and be illustrated by any subsequent event, was hailed with wonder and applause, confirmed the faith of the true believers, and was held forth as a victorious confutation of the doubts of the infidel. INVASION OF XERXES INTO GREECE. It is particularly suitable in this place to notice the events which took place at Delphi upon occasion of the memorable invasion of Xerxes into Greece. This was indeed a critical moment for the heathen mythology. The Persians were pointed and express in their hostility against the altars and the temples of the Greeks. It was no sooner known that the straits of Thermopylae had been forced, than the priests consulted the God, as to whether they should bury the treasures of the temple, so to secure them against the sacrilege of the invader. The answer of the oracle was: "Let nothing be moved; the God is sufficient for the protection of his rights." The inhabitants therefore of the neighbourhood withdrew: only sixty men and the priest remained. The Persians in the mean time approached. Previously to this however, the sacred arms which were placed in the temple, were seen to be moved by invisible hands, and deposited on the declivity which was on the outside of the building. The invaders no sooner shewed themselves, than a miraculous storm of thunder and lightning rebounded and flashed among the multiplied hills which surrounded the sacred area, and struck terror into all hearts. Two vast fragments were detached from the top of mount Parnassus, and crushed hundreds in their fall. A voice of warlike acclamation issued from within the walls. Dismay seized the Persian troops. The Delphians then, rushing from their caverns, and descending from the summits, attacked them with great slaughter. Two persons, exceeding all human stature, and that were said to be the demigods whose fanes were erected near the temple of Apollo, joined in the pursuit, and extended the slaughter. [94] It has been said that the situation of the place was particularly adapted to this mode of defence. Surrounded and almost overhung with lofty mountain-summits, the area of the city was inclosed within crags and precipices. No way led to it but through defiles, narrow and steep, shadowed with wood, and commanded at every step by fastnesses from above. In such a position artificial fires and explosion might imitate a thunder storm. Great pains had been taken, to represent the place as altogether abandoned; and therefore the detachment of rocks from the top of mount Parnassus, though effected by human hands, might appear altogether supernatural. Nothing can more forcibly illustrate the strength of the religious feeling among the Greeks, than the language of the Athenian government at the time of the second descent of the Persian armament upon their territory, when they were again compelled to abandon their houses and land to the invader. Mardonius said to them: "I am thus commissioned by the king of Persia, he will release and give back to you your country; he invites you to choose a further territory, whatever you may think desirable, which he will guarantee to you to govern as you shall judge fit. He will rebuild for you, without its costing you either money or labour, the temples which in his former incursion he destroyed with fire. It is in vain for you to oppose him by force, for his armies are innumerable." To which the Athenians replied, "As long as the sun pursues his course in the heavens, so long will we resist the Persian invader." Then turning to the Spartan ambassadors who were sent to encourage and animate them to persist, they added, "It is but natural that your employers should apprehend that we might give way and be discouraged. But there is no sum of money so vast, and no region so inviting and fertile, that could buy us to concur in the enslaving of Greece. Many and resistless are the causes which induce us to this resolve. First and chiefest, the temples and images of the Gods, which Xerxes has burned and laid in ruins, and which we are called upon to avenge to the utmost, instead of forming a league with him who made this devastation. Secondly, the consideration of the Grecian race, the same with us in blood and in speech, the same in religion and manners, and whose cause we will never betray. Know therefore now, if you knew not before, that, as long as a single Athenian survives, we will never swerve from the hostility to Persia to which we have devoted ourselves." Contemplating this magnanimous resolution, it is in vain for us to reflect on the absurdity, incongruity and frivolousness, as we apprehend it, of the pagan worship, inasmuch as we find, whatever we may think of its demerits, that the most heroic people that ever existed on earth, in the hour of their direst calamity, regarded a zealous and fervent adherence to that religion as the most sacred of all duties. [95] DEMOCRITUS. The fame of Democritus has sustained a singular fortune. He is represented by Pliny as one of the most superstitious of mortals. This character is founded on certain books which appeared in his name. In these books he is made to say, that, if the blood of certain birds be mingled together, the combination will produce a serpent, of which whoever eats will become endowed with the gift of understanding the language of birds. [96] He attributes a multitude of virtues to the limbs of a dead camelion: among others that, if the left foot of this animal be grilled, and there be added certain herbs, and a particular unctuous preparation, it will have the quality to render the person who carries it about him invisible. [97] But all this is wholly irreconcileable with the known character of Democritus, who distinguished himself by the hypothesis that the world was framed from the fortuitous concourse of atoms, and that the soul died with the body. And accordingly Lucian, [98] a more judicious author than Pliny, expressly cites Democritus as the strenuous opposer of all the pretenders to miracles. "Such juggling tricks," he says, "call for a Democritus, an Epicurus, a Metrodorus, or some one of that temper, who should endeavour to detect the illusion, and would hold it for certain, even if he could not fully lay open the deceit, that the whole was a lying pretence, and had not a spark of reality in it." Democritus was in reality one of the most disinterested characters on record in the pursuit of truth. He has been styled the father of experimental philosophy. When his father died, and the estate came to be divided between him and two brothers, he chose the part which was in money, though the smallest, that he might indulge him [Errata: _read_ himself] in travelling in pursuit of knowledge. He visited Egypt and Persia, and turned aside into Ethiopia and India. He is reported to have said, that he had rather be the possessor of one of the cardinal secrets of nature, than of the diadem of Persia. SOCRATES. Socrates is the most eminent of the ancient philosophers. He lived in the most enlightened age of Greece, and in Athens, the most illustrious of her cities. He was born in the middle ranks of life, the son of a sculptor. He was of a mean countenance, with a snub nose, projecting eyes, and otherwise of an appearance so unpromising, that a physiognomist, his contemporary, pronounced him to be given to the grossest vices. But he was of a penetrating understanding, the simplest manners, and a mind wholly bent on the study of moral excellence. He at once abjured all the lofty pretensions, and the dark and recondite pursuits of the most applauded teachers of his time, and led those to whom he addressed his instructions from obvious and irresistible data to the most unexpected and useful conclusions. There was something in his manner of teaching that drew to him the noblest youth of Athens. Plato and Xenophon, two of the most admirable of the Greek writers, were among his pupils. He reconciled in his own person in a surprising degree poverty with the loftiest principles of independence. He taught an unreserved submission to the laws of our country. He several times unequivocally displayed his valour in the field of battle, while at the same time he kept aloof from public offices and trusts. The serenity of his mind never forsook him. He was at all times ready to teach, and never found it difficult to detach himself from his own concerns, to attend to the wants and wishes of others. He was uniformly courteous and unpretending; and, if at any time he indulged in a vein of playful ridicule, it was only against the presumptuously ignorant, and those who were without foundation wise in their own conceit. Yet, with all these advantages and perfections, the name of Socrates would not have been handed down with such lustre to posterity but for the manner of his death. He made himself many enemies. The plainness of his manner and the simplicity of his instructions were inexpressibly wounding to those (and they were many), who, setting up for professors, had hitherto endeavoured to dazzle their hearers by the loftiness of their claims, and to command from them implicit submission by the arrogance with which they dictated. It must be surprising to us, that a man like Socrates should be arraigned in a country like Athens upon a capital accusation. He was charged with instilling into the youth a disobedience to their duties, and propagating impiety to the Gods, faults of which he was notoriously innocent. But the plot against him was deeply laid, and is said to have been twenty years in the concoction. And he greatly assisted the machinations of his adversaries, by the wonderful firmness of his conduct upon his trial, and his spirited resolution not to submit to any thing indirect and pusillanimous. He defended himself with a serene countenance and the most cogent arguments, but would not stoop to deprecation and intreaty. When sentence was pronounced against him, this did not induce the least alteration of his conduct. He did not think that a life which he had passed for seventy years with a clear conscience, was worth preserving by the sacrifice of honour. He refused to escape from prison, when one of his rich friends had already purchased of the jailor the means of his freedom. And, during the last days of his life, and when he was waiting the signal of death, which was to be the return of a ship that had been sent with sacrifices to Delos, he uttered those admirable discourses, which have been recorded by Xenophon and Plato to the latest posterity. But the question which introduces his name into this volume, is that of what is called the demon of Socrates. He said that he repeatedly received a divine premonition of dangers impending over himself and others; and considerable pains have been taken to ascertain the cause and author of these premonitions. Several persons, among whom we may include Plato, have conceived that Socrates regarded himself as attended by a supernatural guardian who at all times watched over his welfare and concerns. But the solution is probably of a simpler nature. Socrates, with all his incomparable excellencies and perfections, was not exempt from the superstitions of his age and country. He had been bred up among the absurdities of polytheism. In them were included, as we have seen, a profound deference for the responses of oracles, and a vigilant attention to portents and omens. Socrates appears to have been exceedingly regardful of omens. Plato tells us that this intimation, which he spoke of as his demon, never prompted him to any act, but occasionally interfered to prevent him or his friends from proceeding in any thing that would have been attended with injurious consequences. [99] Sometimes he described it as a voice, which no one however heard but himself; and sometimes it shewed itself in the act of sneezing. If the sneezing came, when he was in doubt to do a thing or not to do it, it confirmed him; but if, being already engaged in any act, he sneezed, this he considered as a warning to desist. If any of his friends sneezed on his right hand, he interpreted this as a favourable omen; but, if on his left, he immediately relinquished his purpose. [100] Socrates vindicated his mode of expressing himself on the subject, by saying that others, when they spoke of omens, for example, by the voice of a bird, said the bird told me this, but that he, knowing that the omen was purely instrumental to a higher power, deemed it more religious and respectful to have regard only to the higher power, and to say that God had graciously warned him. [101] One of the examples of this presage was, that, going along a narrow street with several companions in earnest discourse, he suddenly stopped, and turned another way, warning his friends to do the same. Some yielded to him, and others went on, who were encountered by the rushing forward of a multitude of hogs, and did not escape without considerable inconvenience and injury. [102] In another instance one of a company among whom was Socrates, had confederated to commit an act of assassination. Accordingly he rose to quit the place, saying to Socrates, "I will be back presently." Socrates, unaware of his purpose, but having received the intimation of his demon, said to him earnestly, "Go not." The conspirator sat down. Again however he rose, and again Socrates stopped him. At length he escaped, without the observation of the philosopher, and committed the act, for which he was afterwards brought to trial. When led to execution, he exclaimed, "This would never have happened to me, if I had yielded to the intimation of Socrates." [103] In the same manner, and by a similar suggestion, the philosopher predicted the miscarriage of the Athenian expedition to Sicily under Nicias, which terminated with such signal disaster. [104] This feature in the character of Socrates is remarkable, and may shew the prevalence of superstitious observances, even in persons whom we might think the most likely to be exempt from this weakness. ROME. VIRGIL. From the Greeks let us turn to the Romans. The earliest examples to our purpose occur in the Aeneid. And, though Virgil is a poet, yet is he so correct a writer, that we may well take for granted, that he either records facts which had been handed down by tradition, or that, when he feigns, he feigns things strikingly in accord with the manners and belief of the age of which he speaks. POLYDORUS. One of the first passages that occur, is of the ghost of the deceased Polydorus on the coast of Thrace. Polydorus, the son of Priam, was murdered by the king of that country, his host, for the sake of the treasures he had brought with him from Troy. He was struck through with darts made of the wood of the myrtle. The body was cast into a pit, and earth thrown upon it. The stems of myrtle grew and flourished. Aeneas, after the burning of Troy, first attempted a settlement in this place. Near the spot where he landed he found a hillock thickly set with myrtle. He attempted to gather some, thinking it might form a suitable screen to an altar which he had just raised. To his astonishment and horror he found the branches he had plucked, dropping with blood. He tried the experiment again and again. At length a voice from the mound was heard, exclaiming, "Spare me! I am Polydorus;" and warning him to fly the blood-stained and treacherous shore. DIDO. We have a more detailed tale of necromancy, when Dido, deserted by Aeneas, resolves on self-destruction. To delude her sister as to her secret purpose, she sends for a priestess from the gardens of the Hesperides, pretending that her object is by magical incantations again to relumine the passion of love in the breast of Aeneas. This priestess is endowed with the power, by potent verse to free the oppressed soul from care, and by similar means to agitate the bosom with passion which is free from its empire. She can arrest the headlong stream, and cause the stars to return back in their orbits. She can call up the ghosts of the dead. She is able to compel the solid earth to rock, and the trees of the forest to descend from their mountains. To give effect to the infernal spell, Dido commands that a funeral pyre shall be set up in the interior court of her palace, and that the arms of Aeneas, what remained of his attire, and the marriage bed in which Dido had received him, shall be heaped upon it. The pyre is hung round with garlands, and adorned with branches of cypress. The sword of Aeneas and his picture are added. Altars are placed round the pyre; and the priestess, with dishevelled hair, calls with terrific charms upon her three hundred Gods, upon Erebus, chaos, and the three-faced Hecate. She sprinkles around the waters of Avernus, and adds certain herbs that had been cropped by moonlight with a sickle of brass. She brings with her the excrescence which is found upon the forehead of a new-cast foal, of the size of a dried fig, and which unless first eaten by the mare, the mother never admits her young to the nourishment of her milk. After these preparations, Dido, with garments tucked up, and with one foot bare, approached the altars, breaking over them a consecrated cake, and embracing them successively in her arms. The pyre was then to be set on fire; and, as the different objects placed upon it were gradually consumed, the charm became complete, and the ends proposed to the ceremony were expected to follow. Dido assures her sister, that she well knew the unlawfulness of her proceeding, and protests that nothing but irresistible necessity should have compelled her to have recourse to these unhallowed arts. She finally stabs herself, and expires. ROMULUS. The early history of Rome is, as might be expected, interspersed with prodigies. Romulus himself, the founder, after a prosperous reign of many years, disappeared at last by a miracle. The king assembled his army to a general review, when suddenly, in the midst of the ceremony, a tempest arose, with vivid lightnings and tremendous crashes of thunder. Romulus became enveloped in a cloud, and, when, shortly after, a clear sky and serene heavens succeeded, the king was no more seen, and the throne upon which he had sat appeared vacant. The people were somewhat dissatisfied with the event, and appear to have suspected foul play. But the next day Julius Proculus, a senator of the highest character, shewed himself in the general assembly, and assured them, that, with the first dawn of the morning, Romulus had stood before him, and certified to him that the Gods had taken him up to their celestial abodes, authorising him withal to declare to his citizens, that their arms should be for ever successful against all their enemies. [105] NUMA. Numa was the second king of Rome: and, the object of Romulus having been to render his people soldiers and invincible in war, Numa, an old man and a philosopher, made it his purpose to civilise them, and deeply to imbue them with sentiments of religion. He appears to have imagined the thing best calculated to accomplish this purpose, was to lead them by prodigies and the persuasion of an intercourse with the invisible world. A shield fell from heaven in his time, which he caused to be carefully kept and consecrated to the Gods; and he conceived no means so likely to be effectual to this end, as to make eleven other shields exactly like the one which had descended by miracle, so that, if an accident happened to any one, the Romans might believe that the one given to them by the divinity was still in their possession.[106] Numa gave to his people civil statutes, and a code of observances in matters of religion; and these also were inforced with a divine sanction. Numa met the goddess Egeria from time to time in a cave; and by her was instructed in the institutions he should give to the Romans: and this barbarous people, awed by the venerable appearance of their king, by the sanctity of his manners, and still more by the divine favour which was so signally imparted to him, received his mandates with exemplary reverence, and ever after implicitly conformed themselves to all that he had suggested. [107] TULLUS HOSTILIUS. Tullus Hostilius, the third king of Rome, restored again the policy of Romulus. In his time, Alba, the parent state, was subdued and united to its more flourishing colony. In the mean time Tullus, who during the greater part of his reign had been distinguished by martial achievements, in the latter part became the victim of superstitions. A shower of stones fell from heaven, in the manner, as Livy tells us, of a hail-storm. A plague speedily succeeded to this prodigy. [108] Tullus, awed by these events, gave his whole attention to the rites of religion. Among other things he found in the sacred books of Numa an account of a certain ceremony, by which, if rightly performed, the appearance of a God, named Jupiter Elicius, would be conjured up. But Tullus, who had spent his best days in the ensanguined field, proved inadequate to this new undertaking. Some defects having occurred in his performance of the magical ceremony, not only no God appeared at his bidding, but, the anger of heaven being awakened, a thunderbolt fell on the palace, and the king, and the place of his abode were consumed together. [109] ACCIUS NAVIUS. In the reign of Tarquinius Priscus, the fifth king of Rome, another famous prodigy is recorded. The king had resolved to increase the number of the Roman cavalry. Romulus had raised the first body with the customary ceremony of augury. Tarquinius proposed to proceed in the present case, omitting this ceremony. Accius Navius, the chief augur, protested against the innovation. Tarquin, in contempt of his interference, addressed Accius, saying, "Come, augur, consult your birds, and tell me, whether the thing I have now in my mind can be done, or cannot be done." Accius proceeded according to the rules of his art, and told the king it could be done. "What I was thinking of," replied Tarquinius, "was whether you could cut this whetstone in two with this razor." Accius immediately took the one instrument and the other, and performed the prodigy in the face of the assembled people. [110] SERVIUS TULLIUS. Servius Tullius, the sixth king of Rome, was the model of a disinterested and liberal politician, and gave to his subjects those institutions to which, more than to any other cause, they were indebted for their subsequent greatness. Tarquinius subjected nearly the whole people of Latium to his rule, capturing one town of this district after another. In Corniculum, one of these places, Servius Tullius, being in extreme youth, was made a prisoner of war, and subsequently dwelt as a slave in the king's palace. One day as he lay asleep in the sight of many, his head was observed to be on fire. The bystanders, terrified at the spectacle, hastened to bring water that they might extinguish the flames. The queen forbade their assiduity, regarding the event as a token from the Gods. By and by the boy awoke of his own accord, and the flames at the same instant disappeared. The queen, impressed with the prodigy, became persuaded that the youth was reserved for high fortunes, and directed that he should be instructed accordingly in all liberal knowledge. In due time he was married to the daughter of Tarquinius, and was destined in all men's minds to succeed in the throne, which took place in the sequel. [111] In the year of Rome two hundred and ninety one, forty-seven years after the expulsion of Tarquin, a dreadful plague broke out in the city, and carried off both the consuls, the augurs, and a vast multitude of the people. The following year was distinguished by numerous prodigies; fires were seen in the heavens, and the earth shook, spectres appeared, and supernatural voices were heard, an ox spoke, and a shower of raw flesh fell in the fields. Most of these prodigies were not preternatural; the speaking ox was probably received on the report of a single hearer; and the whole was invested with exaggerated terror by means of the desolation of the preceding year. [112] THE SORCERESS OF VIRGIL. Prodigies are plentifully distributed through the earlier parts of the Roman history; but it is not our purpose to enter into a chronological detail on the subject. And in reality those already given, except in the instance of Tullus Hostilius, do not entirely fall within the scope of the present volume. The Roman poets, Virgil, Horace, Ovid and Lucan, give a fuller insight than the Latin prose-writers, into the conceptions of their countrymen upon the subject of incantations and magic. The eighth eclogue of Virgil, entitled Pharmaceutria, is particularly to our purpose in this point. There is an Idyll of Theocritus under the same name; but it is of an obscurer character; and the enchantress is not, like that of Virgil, triumphant in the success of her arts. The sorceress is introduced by Virgil, giving direction to her female attendant as to the due administration of her charms. Her object is to recal Daphnis, whom she styles her husband, to his former love for her. At the same time, she says, she will endeavour by magic to turn him away from his wholesome sense. She directs her attendant to burn vervain and frankincense; and she ascribes the highest efficacy to the solemn chant, which, she says, can call down the moon from its sphere, can make the cold-blooded snake burst in the field, and was the means by which Circe turned the companions of Ulysses into beasts. She orders his image to be thrice bound round with fillets of three colours, and then that it be paraded about a prepared altar, while in binding the knots the attendant shall still say, "Thus do I bind the fillets of Venus." One image of clay and one of wax are placed before the same fire; and as the image of clay hardens, so does the heart of Daphnis harden towards his new mistress; and as the image of wax softens, so is the heart of Daphnis made tender towards the sorceress. She commands a consecrated cake to be broken over the image, and crackling laurels to be burned before it, that as Daphnis had tormented her by his infidelity, so he in his turn may be agitated with a returning constancy. She prays that as the wanton heifer pursues the steer through woods and glens, till at length, worn out with fatigue, she lies down on the oozy reeds by the banks of the stream, and the night-dew is unable to induce her to withdraw, so Daphnis may be led on after her for ever with inextinguishable love. She buries the relics of what had belonged to Daphnis beneath her threshold. She bruises poisonous herbs of resistless virtue which had been gathered in the kingdom of Pontus, herbs, which enabled him who gave them to turn himself into a hungry wolf prowling amidst the forests, to call up ghosts from the grave, and to translate the ripened harvest from the field where it grew to the lands of another. She orders her attendant to bring out to the face of heaven the ashes of these herbs, and [Errata: _dele_ and] to cast them over her head into the running stream, and at the same time taking care not to look behind her. After all her efforts the sorceress begins to despair. She says, "Daphnis heeds not my incantations, heeds not the Gods." She looks again; she perceives the ashes on the altar emit sparkles of fire; she hears her faithful house-dog bark before the door; she says, "Can these things be; or do lovers dream what they desire? It is not so! The real Daphnis comes; I hear his steps; he has left the deluding town; he hastens to my longing arms!" CANIDIA. In the works of Horace occurs a frightful and repulsive, but a curious detail of a scene of incantation. [113] Four sorceresses are represented as assembled, Canidia, the principal, to perform, the other three to assist in, the concoction of a charm, by means of which a certain youth, named Varus, for whom Canidia had conceived a passion, but who regards the hag with the utmost contempt, may be made obsequious to her desires. Canidia appears first, the locks of her dishevelled hair twined round with venomous and deadly serpents, ordering the wild fig-tree and the funereal cypress to be rooted up from the sepulchres on which they grew, and these, together with the egg of a toad smeared with blood, the plumage of the screech-owl, various herbs brought from Thessaly and Georgia, and bones torn from the jaws of a famished dog, to be burned in flames fed with perfumes from Colchis. Of the assistant witches, one traces with hurried steps the edifice, sprinkling it, as she goes, with drops from the Avernus, her hair on her head stiff and erect, like the quills of the sea-hedge-hog, or the bristles of a hunted boar; and another, who is believed by all the neighbourhood to have the faculty of conjuring the stars and the moon down from heaven, contributes her aid. But, which is most horrible, the last of the assistant witches is seen, armed with a spade, and, with earnest and incessant labour, throwing up earth, that she may dig a trench, in which is to be plunged up to his chin a beardless youth, stripped of his purple robe, the emblem of his noble descent, and naked, that, from his marrow already dry and his liver (when at length his eye-balls, long fixed on the still renovated food which is withheld from his famished jaws, have no more the power to discern), may be concocted the love-potion, from which these hags promise themselves the most marvellous results. Horace presents before us the helpless victim of their malice, already inclosed in the fatal trench, first viewing their orgies with affright, asking, by the Gods who rule the earth and all the race of mortals, what means the tumult around him? He then intreats Canidia, by her children if ever she had offspring, by the visible evidences of his high rank, and by the never-failing vengeance of Jupiter upon such misdeeds, to say why she casts on him glances, befitting the fury of a stepmother, or suited to a beast already made desperate by the wounds of the hunter. At length, no longer exhausting himself in fruitless intreaties, the victim has recourse in his agonies to curses on his executioners. He says, his ghost shall haunt them for ever, for no vengeance can expiate such cruelty. He will tear their cheeks with his fangs, for that power is given to the shades below. He will sit, a night-mare, on their bosoms, driving away sleep from their eyes; while the enraged populace shall pursue them with stones, and the wolves shall gnaw and howl over their unburied members. The unhappy youth winds up all with the remark, that his parents who will survive him, shall themselves witness this requital of the sorceresses' infernal deeds. Canidia, unmoved by these menaces and execrations, complains of the slow progress of her charms. She gnaws her fingers with rage. She invokes the night and the moon, beneath whose rays these preparations are carried on, now, while the wild beasts lie asleep in the forests, and while the dogs alone bay the superanuated letcher, who relies singly on the rich scents with which he is perfumed for success, to speed her incantations, and signalise their power beneath the roof of him whose love she seeks. She impatiently demands why her drugs should be of less avail than those of Medea, with which she poisoned a garment, that, once put on, caused Creusa, daughter of the king of Corinth, to expire in intolerable torments? She discovers that Varus had hitherto baffled her power by means of some magical antidote; and she resolves to prepare a mightier charm, that nothing from earth or hell shall resist. "Sooner," she says, "shall the sky be swallowed up in the sea, and the earth be stretched a covering over both, than thou, my enemy, shalt not be wrapped in the flames of love, as subtle and tenacious as those of burning pitch." It is not a little curious to remark the operation of the antagonist principles of superstition and scepticism among the Romans in this enlightened period, as it comes illustrated to us in the compositions of Horace on this subject. In the piece, the contents of which have just been given, things are painted in all the solemnity and terror which is characteristic of the darkest ages. But, a few pages further on, we find the poet in a mock Palinodia deprecating the vengeance of the sorceress, who, he says, has already sufficiently punished him by turning through her charms his flaxen hair to hoary white, and overwhelming him by day and night with ceaseless anxieties. He feels himself through her powerful magic tortured, like Hercules in the envenomed shirt of Nessus, or as if he were cast down into the flames of Aetna; nor does he hope that she will cease compounding a thousand deadly ingredients against him, till his very ashes shall have been scattered by the resistless winds. He offers therefore to expiate his offence at her pleasure either by a sacrifice of an hundred oxen, or by a lying ode, in which her chastity and spotless manners shall be applauded to the skies. What Ovid gives is only a new version of the charms and philtres of Medea. [114] ERICHTHO. Lucan, in his Pharsalia, [115] takes occasion, immediately before the battle which was to decide the fate of the Roman world, to introduce Sextus, the younger son of Pompey, as impatient to enquire, even by the most sacrilegious means, into the important events which are immediately impending. He is encouraged in the attempt by the reflection, that the soil upon which they are now standing, Thessaly, had been notorious for ages as the noxious and unwholesome seat of sorcery and witchcraft. The poet therefore embraces this occasion to expatiate on the various modes in which this detested art was considered as displaying itself. And, however he may have been ambitious to seize this opportunity to display the wealth of his imagination, the whole does not fail to be curious, as an exhibition of the system of magical power so far as the matter in hand is concerned. The soil of Thessaly, says the poet, is in the utmost degree fertile in poisonous herbs, and her rocks confess the power of the sepulchral song of the magician. There a vegetation springs up of virtue to compel the Gods; and Colchis itself imports from Thessaly treasures of this sort which she cannot boast as her own. The chaunt of the Thessalian witch penetrates the furthest seat of the Gods, and contains words so powerful, that not the care of the skies, or of the revolving spheres, can avail as an excuse to the deities to decline its force. Babylon and Memphis yield to the superior might; and the Gods of foreign climes fly to fulfil the dread behests of the magician. Prompted by Thessalian song, love glides into the hardest hearts; and even the severity of age is taught to burn with youthful fires. The ingredients of the poisoned cup, nor the excrescence found on the forehead of the new-cast foal, can rival in efficacy the witching incantation. The soul is melted by its single force. The heart which not all the attractions of the genial bed could fire, nor the influence of the most beautiful form, the wheel of the sorceress shall force from its bent. But the effects are perhaps still more marvellous that are produced on inanimate and unintellectual nature. The eternal succession of the world is suspended; day delays to rise on the earth; the skies no longer obey their ruler. Nature becomes still at the incantation: and Jove, accustomed to guide the machine, is astonished to find the poles disobedient to his impulse. Now the sorceress deluges the plains with rain, hides the face of heaven with murky clouds, and the thunders roll, unbidden by the thunderer. Anon she shakes her hair, and the darkness is dispersed, and the whole horizon is cleared. At one time the sea rages, urged by no storm; and at another is smooth as glass, in defiance of the tempestuous North. The breath of the enchanter carries along the bark in the teeth of the wind; the headlong torrent is suspended, and rivers run back to their source. The Nile overflows not in the summer; the crooked Meander shapes to itself a direct course; the sluggish Arar gives new swiftness to the rapid Rhone; and the mountains bow their heads to their foundations. Clouds shroud the peaks of the cloudless Olympus; and the Scythian snows dissolve, unurged by the sun. The sea, though impelled by the tempestuous constellations, is counteracted by witchcraft, and no longer beats along the shore. Earthquakes shake the solid globe; and the affrighted inhabitants behold both hemispheres at once. The animals most dreaded for their fury, and whose rage is mortal, become tame; the hungry tiger and the lordly lion fawn at the sorceress's feet; the snake untwines all her folds amidst the snow; the viper, divided by wounds, unites again its severed parts; and the envenomed serpent pines and dies under the power of a breath more fatal than his own. What, exclaims the poet, is the nature of the compulsion thus exercised on the Gods, this obedience to song and to potent herbs, this fear to disobey and scorn the enchanter? Do they yield from necessity, or is it a voluntary subjection? Is it the piety of these hags that obtains the reward, or by menaces do they secure their purpose? Are all the Gods subject to this control, or, is there one God upon whom it has power, who, himself compelled, compels the elements? The stars fall from heaven at their command. The silver moon yields to their execrations, and burns with a smouldering flame, even as when the earth comes between her and the sun, and by its shadow intercepts its rays; thus is the moon brought lower and more low, till she covers with her froth the herbs destined to receive her malignant influence. But Erichtho, the witch of the poet, flouts all these arts, as too poor and timid for her purposes. She never allows a roof to cover her horrid head, or confesses the influence of the Houshold Gods. She inhabits the deserted tomb, and dwells in a grave from which the ghost of the dead has been previously expelled. She knows the Stygian abodes, and the counsels of the infernals. Her countenance is lean; and her complexion overspread with deadly paleness. Her hair is neglected and matted. But when clouds and tempests obscure the stars, then she comes forth, and defies the midnight lightning. Wherever she treads, the fruits of the earth become withered, and the wholesome air is poisoned with her breath. She offers no prayers, and pours forth no supplications; she has recourse to no divination. She delights to profane the sacred altar with a funereal flame, and pollutes the incense with a torch from the pyre. The Gods yield at once to her voice, nor dare to provoke her to a second mandate. She incloses the living man within the confines of the grave; she subjects to sudden death those who were destined to a protracted age; and she brings back to life the corses of the dead. She snatches the smoaking cinders, and the bones whitened with flame, from the midst of the pile, and wrests the torch from the hand of the mourning parent. She seizes the fragments of the burning shroud, and the embers yet moistened with blood. But, where the sad remains are already hearsed in marble, it is there that she most delights to exercise her sacrilegious power. She tears the limbs of the dead, and digs out their eyes. She gnaws their fingers. She separates with her teeth the rope on the gibbet, and tears away the murderer from the cross on which he hung suspended. She applies to her purposes the entrails withered with the wind, and the marrow that had been dried by the sun. She bears away the nails which had pierced the hands and feet of the criminal, the clotted blood which had distilled from his wounds, and the sinews that had held him suspended. She pounces upon the body of the dead in the battle-field, anticipating the vulture and the beast of prey; but she does not divide the limbs with a knife, nor tear them asunder with her hands: she watches the approach of the wolf, that she may wrench the morsels from his hungry jaws. Nor does the thought of murder deter her, if her rites require the living blood, first spurting from the lacerated throat. She drags forth the foetus from its pregnant mother, by a passage which violence has opened. Wherever there is occasion for a bolder and more remorseless ghost, with her own hand she dismisses him from life; man at every period of existence furnishes her with materials. She drags away the first down from the cheek of the stripling, and with her left hand cuts the favourite lock from the head of the young man. Often she watches with seemingly pious care the dying hours of a relative, and seizes the occasion to bite his lips, to compress his windpipe, and whisper in his expiring organ some message to the infernal shades. Sextus, guided by the general fame of this woman, sought her in her haunts. He chose his time, in the depth of the night, when the sun is at its lowermost distance from the upper sky. He took his way through the desert fields. He took for companions the associates, the accustomed ministers of his crimes. Wandering among broken graves and crumbling sepulchres, they discovered her, sitting sublime on a ragged rock, where mount Haemus stretches its roots to the Pharsalic field. She was mumbling charms of the Magi and the magical Gods. For she feared that the war might yet be transferred to other than the Emathian fields. The sorceress was busy therefore enchanting the soil of Philippi, and scattering on its surface the juice of potent herbs, that it might be heaped with carcasses of the dead, and saturated with their blood, that Macedon, and not Italy, might receive the bodies of departed kings and the bones of the noble, and might be amply peopled with the shades of men. Her choicest labour was as to the earth where should be deposited the prostrate Pompey, or the limbs of the mighty Caesar. Sextus approached, and bespoke her thus: "Oh, glory of Haemonia, that hast the power to divulge the fates of men, or canst turn aside fate itself from its prescribed course, I pray thee to exercise thy gift in disclosing events to come. Not the meanest of the Roman race am I, the offspring of an illustrious chieftain, lord of the world in the one case, or in the other the destined heir to my father's calamity. I stand on a tremendous and giddy height: snatch me from this posture of doubt; let me not blindly rush on, and blindly fall; extort this secret from the Gods, or force the dead to confess what they know." To whom the Thessalian crone replied: "If you asked to change the fate of an individual, though it were to restore an old man, decrepid with age, to vigorous youth, I could comply; but to break the eternal chain of causes and consequences exceeds even our power. You seek however only a foreknowledge of events to come, and you shall be gratified. Meanwhile it were best, where slaughter has afforded so ample a field, to select the body of one newly deceased, and whose flexible organs shall be yet capable of speech, not with lineaments already hardened in the sun." Saying thus, Erichtho proceeded (having first with her art made the night itself more dark, and involved her head in a pitchy cloud), to explore the field, and examine one by one the bodies of the unburied dead. As she approached, the wolves fled before her, and the birds of prey, unwillingly sheathing their talons, abandoned their repast, while the Thessalian witch, searching into the vital parts of the frames before her, at length fixed on one whose lungs were uninjured, and whose organs of speech had sustained no wound. The fate of many hung in doubt, till she had made her selection. Had the revival of whole armies been her will, armies would have stood up obedient to her bidding. She passed a hook beneath the jaw of the selected one, and, fastening it to a cord, dragged him along over rocks and stones, till she reached a cave, overhung by a projecting ridge. A gloomy fissure in the ground was there, of a depth almost reaching to the Infernal Gods, where the yew-tree spread thick its horizontal branches, at all times excluding the light of the sun. Fearful and withering shade was there, and noisome slime cherished by the livelong night. The air was heavy and flagging as that of the Taenarian promontory; and hither the God of hell permits his ghosts to extend their wanderings. It is doubtful whether the sorceress called up the dead to attend her here, or herself descended to the abodes of Pluto. She put on a fearful and variegated robe; she covered her face with her dishevelled hair, and bound her brow with a wreath of vipers. Meanwhile she observed Sextus afraid, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his companions trembling; and thus she reproached them. "Lay aside," she said, "your vainly-conceived terrors! You shall behold only a living and a human figure, whose accents you may listen to with perfect security. If this alarms you, what would you say, if you should have seen the Stygian lakes, and the shores burning with sulphur unconsumed, if the furies stood before you, and Cerberus with his mane of vipers, and the giants chained in eternal adamant? Yet all these you might have witnessed unharmed; for all these would quail at the terror of my brow." She spoke, and next plied the dead body with her arts. She supples his wounds, and infuses fresh blood into his veins: she frees his scars from the clotted gore, and penetrates them with froth from the moon. She mixes whatever nature has engendered in its most fearful caprices, foam from the jaws of a mad dog, the entrails of the lynx, the backbone of the hyena, and the marrow of a stag that had dieted on serpents, the sinews of the remora, and the eyes of a dragon, the eggs of the eagle, the flying serpent of Arabia, the viper that guards the pearl in the Red Sea, the slough of the hooded snake, and the ashes that remain when the phoenix has been consumed. To these she adds all venom that has a name, the foliage of herbs over which she has sung her charms, and on which she had voided her rheum as they grew. At length she chaunts her incantation to the Stygian Gods, in a voice compounded of all discords, and altogether alien to human organs. It resembles at once the barking of a dog, and the howl of a wolf; it consists of the hooting of the screech-owl, the yelling of a ravenous wild beast, and the fearful hiss of a serpent. It borrows somewhat from the roar of tempestuous waves, the hollow rushing of the winds among the branches of the forest, and the tremendous crash of deafening thunder. "Ye furies," she cries, "and dreadful Styx, ye sufferings of the damned, and Chaos, for ever eager to destroy the fair harmony of worlds, and thou, Pluto, condemned to an eternity of ungrateful existence, Hell, and Elysium, of which no Thessalian witch shall partake, Proserpine, for ever cut off from thy health-giving mother, and horrid Hecate, Cerebrus [Errata: _read_ Cerberus] curst with incessant hunger, ye Destinies, and Charon endlessly murmuring at the task I impose of bringing back the dead again to the land of the living, hear me!--if I call on you with a voice sufficiently impious and abominable, if I have never sung this chaunt, unsated with human gore, if I have frequently laid on your altars the fruit of the pregnant mother, bathing its contents with the reeking brain, if I have placed on a dish before you the head and entrails of an infant on the point to be born-- "I ask not of you a ghost, already a tenant of the Tartarean abodes, and long familiarised to the shades below, but one who has recently quitted the light of day, and who yet hovers over the mouth of hell: let him hear these incantations, and immediately after descend to his destined place! Let him articulate suitable omens to the son of his general, having so late been himself a soldier of the great Pompey! Do this, as you love the very sound and rumour of a civil war!" Saying this, behold, the ghost of the dead man stood erect before her, trembling at the view of his own unanimated limbs, and loth to enter again the confines of his wonted prison. He shrinks to invest himself with the gored bosom, and the fibres from which death had separated him. Unhappy wretch, to whom death had not given the privilege to die! Erichtho, impatient at the unlooked for delay, lashes the unmoving corpse with one of her serpents. She calls anew on the powers of hell, and threatens to pronounce the dreadful name, which cannot be articulated without consequences never to be thought of, nor without the direst necessity to be ventured upon. At length the congealed blood becomes liquid and warm; it oozes from the wounds, and creeps steadily along the veins and the members; the fibres are called into action beneath the gelid breast, and the nerves once more become instinct with life. Life and death are there at once. The arteries beat; the muscles are braced; the body raises itself, not by degrees, but at a single impulse, and stands erect. The eyelids unclose. The countenance is not that of a living subject, but of the dead. The paleness of the complexion, the rigidity of the lines, remain; and he looks about with an unmeaning stare, but utters no sound. He waits on the potent enchantress. "Speak!" said she; "and ample shall be your reward. You shall not again be subject to the art of the magician. I will commit your members to such a sepulchre; I will burn your form with such wood, and will chaunt such a charm over your funeral pyre, that all incantations shall thereafter assail you in vain. Be it enough, that you have once been brought back to life! Tripods, and the voice of oracles deal in ambiguous responses; but the voice of the dead is perspicuous and certain to him who receives it with an unshrinking spirit. Spare not! Give names to things; give places a clear designation; speak with a full and articulate voice." Saying this, she added a further spell, qualified to give to him who was to answer, a distinct knowledge of that respecting which he was about to be consulted. He accordingly delivers the responses demanded of him; and, that done, earnestly requires of the witch to be dismissed. Herbs and magic rites are necessary, that the corpse may be again unanimated, and the spirit never more be liable to be recalled to the realms of day. The sorceress constructs the funeral pile; the dead man places himself thereon; Erichtho applies the torch; and the charm is for ever at an end. Lucan in this passage is infinitely too precise, and exhausts his muse in a number of particulars, where he had better have been more succinct and select. He displays the prolific exuberance of a young poet, who had not yet taught himself the multiplied advantages of compression. He had not learned the principle, _Relinquere quae desperat tractata nitescere posse_. [116] But, as this is the fullest enumeration of the forms of witchcraft that occurs in the writers of antiquity, it seemed proper to give it to the reader entire. SERTORIUS. The story of Sertorius and his hind, which occurred about thirty years before, may not be improperly introduced here. It is told by Plutarch in the spirit of a philosopher, and as a mere deception played by that general, to render the barbarous people of Spain more devoted to his service. But we must suppose that it had, at least for the time, the full effect of something preternatural. Sertorius was one of the most highly gifted and well balanced characters that is to be found in Roman story. He considered with the soundest discernment the nature of the persons among whom he was to act, and conducted himself accordingly. The story in Plutarch is this. "So soone as Sertorius arriued from Africa, he straight leauied men of warre, and with them subdued the people of Spaine fronting upon his marches, of which the more part did willingly submit themselves, upon the bruit that ran of him to be mercifull and courteous, and a valiant man besides in present danger, Furthermore, he lacked no fine deuises and subtilties to win their goodwils: as among others, the policy, and deuise of the hind. There was a poore man of the countrey called Spanus, who meeting by chance one day with a hind in his way that had newly calved, flying from the hunters, he let the damme go, not being able to take her; and running after her calfe tooke it, which was a young hind, and of a strange haire, for she was all milk-white. It chanced so, that Sertorius was at that time in those parts. So, this poore man presented Sertorius with his young hind, which he gladly receiued, and which with time he made so tame, that she would come to him when he called her, and follow him where-euer he went, being nothing the wilder for the daily sight of such a number of armed souldiers together as they were, nor yet afraid of the noise and tumult of the campe. Insomuch as Sertorius by little and little made it a miracle, making the simple barbarous people beleeue that it was a gift that Diana had sent him, by the which she made him understand of many and sundrie things to come: knowing well inough of himselfe, that the barbarous people were men easily deceiued, and quickly caught by any subtill superstition, besides that by art also he brought them to beleeue it as a thing verie true. For when he had any secret intelligence giuen him, that the enemies would inuade some part of the countries and prouinces subject vnto him, or that they had taken any of his forts from him by any intelligence or sudden attempt, he straight told them that his hind spake to him as he slept, and had warned him both to arme his men, and put himselfe in strength. In like manner if he had heard any newes that one of his lieutenants had wonne a battell, or that he had any aduantage of his enemies, he would hide the messenger, and bring his hind abroad with a garland and coller of nosegayes: and then say, it was a token of some good newes comming towards him, perswading them withall to be of good cheare; and so did sacrifice to the Gods, to giue them thankes for the good tidings he should heare before it were long. Thus by putting this superstition into their heades, he made them the more tractable and obedient to his will, in so much as they thought they were not now gouerned any more by a stranger wiser than themselues, but were steadfastly perswaded that they were rather led by some certaine God."-- "Now was Sertorius very heauie, that no man could tell him what was become of his white hind: for thereby all his subtilltie and finenesse to keepe the barbarous people in obedience was taken away, and then specially when they stood in need of most comfort. But by good hap, certaine of his souldiers that had lost themselves in the night, met with the hind in their way, and knowing her by her colour, tooke her and brought her backe againe. Sertorius hearing of her, promised them a good reward, so that they would tell no liuing creature that they brought her againe, and thereupon made her to be secretly kept. Then within a few dayes after, he came abroad among them, and with a pleasant countenance told the noble men and chiefe captaines of these barbarous people, how the Gods had reuealed it to him in his dreame, that he should shortly have a maruellous good thing happen to him: and with these words sate downe in his chaire to give audience. Whereupon they that kept the hind not farre from thence, did secretly let her go. The hind being loose, when she had spied Sertorius, ranne straight to his chaire with great joy, and put her head betwixt his legges, and layed her mouth in his right hand, as she before was wont to do. Sertorius also made very much of her, and of purpose appeared maruellous glad, shewing such tender affection to the hind, as it seemed the water stood in his eyes for joy. The barbarous people that stood there by and beheld the same, at the first were much amazed therewith, but afterwards when they had better bethought themselues, for ioy they clapped their hands together, and waited upon Sertorius to his lodging with great and ioyfull shouts, saying, and steadfastly beleeuing, that he he was a heavenly creature, and beloued of the Gods." [117] CASTING OUT DEVILS. We are now brought down to the era of the Christian religion; and there is repeated mention of sorcery in the books of the New Testament. One of the most frequent miracles recorded of Jesus Christ is called the "casting out devils." The Pharisees in the Evangelist, for the purpose of depreciating this evidence of his divine mission, are recorded to have said, "this fellow doth not cast out devils, but by Beelzebub, the prince of devils." Jesus, among other remarks in refutation of this opprobrium, rejoins upon them, "If I by Beelzebub cast out devils, by whom do your children cast them out?" [118] Here then we have a plain insinuation of sorcery from the lips of Christ himself, at the same time that he appears to admit that his adversaries produced supernatural achievements similar to his own. SIMON MAGUS. But the most remarkable passage in the New Testament on the subject of sorcery, is one which describes the proceedings of Simon Magus, as follows. "Then Philip went down to the city of Samaria, and preached Christ unto them. But there was a certain man, called Simon, which before time in the same city used sorcery, and bewitched the people of Samaria, giving out that himself was some great one. To whom they all gave heed, from the least to the greatest, saying, This man is the great power of God. And to him they had regard, because that of long time he had bewitched them with sorceries. But, when they believed Philip, preaching the things concerning the kingdom of God and the name of Jesus Christ, they were baptized both men and women. Then Simon himself believed also. And, when he was baptized, he continued with Philip, and wondered, beholding the miracles and signs which were done. "Now, when the apostles which were at Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received the word of God, they sent unto them Peter and John. Who, when they were come down, prayed for them, that they might receive the Holy Ghost. For as yet he was fallen upon none of them: only they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus. Then laid they their hands on them, and they received the Holy Ghost. "And, when Simon saw that, through the laying on of the apostles' hands, the Holy Ghost was given, he offered them money, saying, Give me also this power, that on whomsoever I lay hands he may receive the Holy Ghost. But Peter said unto him, Thy money perish with thee! because thou hast thought that the gift of God might be purchased with money. Thou hast neither part nor lot in this matter: for thy heart is not right in the sight of God. Repent therefore of this thy wickedness, and pray God, if perhaps the thought of thy heart may be forgiven thee: for I perceive that thou art in the gall of bitterness, and in the bond of iniquity. Then answered Simon, and said, Pray ye to the Lord for me, that none of these things which ye have spoken come upon me." [119] This passage of the New Testament leaves us in considerable uncertainty as to the nature of the sorceries, by which "of a long time Simon had bewitched the people of Samaria." But the fathers of the church, Clemens Romanus and Anastasius Sinaita, have presented us with a detail of the wonders he actually performed. When and to whom he pleased he made himself invisible; he created a man out of air; he passed through rocks and mountains without encountering an obstacle; he threw himself from a precipice uninjured; he flew along in the air; he flung himself in the fire without being burned. Bolts and chains were impotent to detain him. He animated statues, so that they appeared to every beholder to be men and women; he made all the furniture of the house and the table to change places as required, without a visible mover; he metamorphosed his countenance and visage into that of another person; he could make himself into a sheep, or a goat, or a serpent; he walked through the streets attended with a multitude of strange figures, which he affirmed to be the souls of the departed; he made trees and branches of trees suddenly to spring up where he pleased; he set up and deposed kings at will; he caused a sickle to go into a field of corn, which unassisted would mow twice as fast as the most industrious reaper. [120] Thus endowed, it is difficult to imagine what he thought he would have gained by purchasing from the apostles their gift of working miracles. But Clemens Romanus informs us that he complained that, in his sorceries, he was obliged to employ tedious ceremonies and incantations; whereas the apostles appeared to effect their wonders without difficulty and effort, by barely speaking a word. [121] ELYMAS, THE SORCERER. But Simon Magus is not the only magician spoken of in the New Testament. When the apostle Paul came to Paphos in the isle of Cyprus, he found the Roman governor divided in his preference between Paul and Elymas, the sorcerer, who before the governor withstood Paul to his face. Then Paul, prompted by his indignation, said, "Oh, full of all subtlety and mischief, child of the devil, enemy of all righteousness, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord? And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind, not seeing the sun for a season." What wonders Elymas effected to deceive the Roman governor we are not told: but "immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness; and he went about, seeking some to lead him by the hand." [122] In another instance we find certain vagabond Jews, exorcists, who pretended to cast out devils from the possessed. But they came to the apostle, and "confessed, and shewed their deeds. Many of them also which used curious arts, brought their books together, and burned them before all. And they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver." [123] It is easy to see however on which side the victory lay. The apostles by their devotion and the integrity of their proceedings triumphed; while those whose only motive was selfishness, the applause of the vulgar, or the admiration of the superficial, gained the honours of a day, and were then swept away into the gulf of general oblivion. NERO. The arts of the magician are said to have been called into action by Nero upon occasion of the assassination of his mother, Agrippina. He was visited with occasional fits of the deepest remorse in the recollection of his enormity. Notwithstanding all the ostentatious applauses and congratulations which he obtained from the senate, the army and the people, he complained that he was perpetually haunted with the ghost of his mother, and pursued by the furies with flaming torches and whips. He therefore caused himself to be attended by magicians, who employed their arts to conjure up the shade of Agrippina, and to endeavour to obtain her forgiveness for the crime perpetrated by her son. [124] We are not informed of the success of their evocations. VESPASIAN. In the reign of Vespasian we meet with a remarkable record of supernatural power, though it does not strictly fall under the head of magic. It is related by both Tacitus and Suetonius. Vespasian having taken up his abode for some months at Alexandria, a blind man, of the common people, came to him, earnestly intreating the emperor to assist in curing his infirmity, alleging that he was prompted to apply by the admonition of the God Serapis, and importuning the prince to anoint his cheeks and the balls of his eyes with the royal spittle. Vespasian at first treated the supplication with disdain; but at length, moved by the fervour of the petitioner, inforced as it was by the flattery of his courtiers, the emperor began to think that every thing would give way to his prosperous fortune, and yielded to the poor man's desire. With a confident carriage therefore, the multitude of those who stood by being full of expectation, he did as he was requested, and the desired success immediately followed. Another supplicant appeared at the same time, who had lost the use of his hands, and intreated Vespasian to touch the diseased members with his foot; and he also was cured.[125] Hume has remarked that many circumstances contribute to give authenticity to this miracle, "if," as he says, "any evidence could avail to establish so palpable a falsehood. The gravity, solidity, age and probity of so great an emperor, who, through the whole course of his life, conversed in a familiar manner with his friends and courtiers, and never affected any airs of divinity: the historian, a contemporary writer, noted for candour and veracity, and perhaps the greatest and most penetrating genius of all antiquity: and lastly, the persons from whose authority he related the miracle, who we may presume to have been of established character for judgment and honour; eye-witnesses of the fact, and confirming their testimony, as Tacitus goes on to say, after the Flavian family ceased to be in power, and could no longer give any reward as the price of a lie." [126] APOLLONIUS OF TYANA. Apollonius of Tyana in Asia Minor was born nearly at the same time as Jesus Christ, and acquired great reputation while he lived, and for a considerable time after. He was born of wealthy parents, and seems early to have betrayed a passion for philosophy. His father, perceiving this, placed him at fourteen years of age under Euthydemus, a rhetorician of Tarsus; but the youth speedily became dissatisfied with the indolence and luxury of the citizens, and removed himself to Aegas, a neighbouring town, where was a temple of Aesculapius, and where the God was supposed sometimes to appear in person. Here he became professedly a disciple of the sect of Pythagoras. He refrained from animal food, and subsisted entirely on fruits and herbs. He went barefoot, and wore no article of clothing made from the skins of animals. [127] He further imposed on himself a noviciate of five years silence. At the death of his father, he divided his patrimony equally with his brother; and, that brother having wasted his estate by prodigality, he again made an equal division with him of what remained. [128] He travelled to Babylon and Susa in pursuit of knowledge, and even among the Brachmans of India, and appears particularly to have addicted himself to the study of magic. [129] He was of a beautiful countenance and a commanding figure, and, by means of these things, combined with great knowledge, a composed and striking carriage, and much natural eloquence, appears to have won universal favour wherever he went. He is said to have professed the understanding of all languages without learning them, to read the thoughts of men, and to be able to interpret the language of animals. A power of working miracles attended him in all places. [130] On one occasion he announced to the people of Ephesus the approach of a terrible pestilence; but the citizens paid no attention to his prophecy. The calamity however having overtaken them, they sent to Apollonius who was then at Smyrna, to implore his assistance. He obeyed the summons. Having assembled the inhabitants, there was seen among them a poor, old and decrepid beggar, clothed in rags, hideous of visage, and with a peculiarly fearful and tremendous expression in his eyes. Apollonius called out to the Ephesians, "This is an enemy to the Gods; turn all your animosity against him, and stone him to death!" The old man in the most piteous tones besought their mercy. The citizens were shocked with the inhumanity of the prophet. Some however of the more thoughtless flung a few stones, without any determined purpose. The old man, who had stood hitherto crouching, and with his eyes half-closed, now erected his figure, and cast on the crowd glances, fearful, and indeed diabolical. The Ephesians understood at once that this was the genius of the plague. They showered upon him stones without mercy, so as not only to cover him, but to produce a considerable mound where he had stood. After a time Apollonius commanded them to take away the stones, that they might discover what sort of an enemy they had destroyed. Instead of a man they now saw an enormous black dog, of the size of a lion, and whose mouth and jaws were covered with a thick envenomed froth. [131] Another miracle was performed by Apollonius in favour of a young man, named Menippus of Corinth, five and twenty years of age, for whom the prophet entertained a singular favour. This man conceived himself to be beloved by a rich and beautiful woman, who made advances to him, and to whom he was on the point of being contracted in marriage. Apollonius warned his young friend against the match in an enigmatical way, telling him that he nursed a serpent in his bosom. This however did not deter Menippus. All things were prepared; and the wedding table was spread. Apollonius meanwhile came among them, and prevented the calamity. He told the young man that the dishes before him, the wine he was drinking, the vessels of gold and silver that appeared around him, and the very guests themselves were unreal and illusory; and to prove his words, he caused them immediately to vanish. The bride alone was refractory. She prayed the philosopher not to torment her, and not to compel her to confess what she was. He was however inexorable. She at length owned that she was an empuse (a sort of vampire), and that she had determined to cherish and pamper Menippus, that she might in the conclusion eat his flesh, and lap up his blood. [132] One of the miracles of Apollonius consisted in raising the dead. A young woman of beautiful person was laid out upon a bier, and was in the act of being conveyed to the tomb. She was followed by a multitude of friends, weeping and lamenting, and among others by a young man, to whom she had been on the point to be married. Apollonius met the procession, and commanded those who bore it, to set down the bier. He exhorted the proposed bridegroom to dry up his tears. He enquired the name of the deceased, and, saluting her accordingly, took hold of her hand, and murmured over her certain mystical words. At this act the maiden raised herself on her seat, and presently returned home, whole and sound, to the house of her father. [133] Towards the end of his life Apollonius was accused before Domitian of having conspired with Nerva to put an end to the reign of the tyrant. He appears to have proved that he was at another place, and therefore could not have engaged in the conspiracy that was charged upon him. Domitian publicly cleared him from the accusation, but at the same time required him not to withdraw from Rome, till the emperor had first had a private conference with him. To this requisition Apollonius replied in the most spirited terms. "I thank your majesty," said he, "for the justice you have rendered me. But I cannot submit to what you require. How can I be secure from the false accusations of the unprincipled informers who infest your court? It is by their means that whole towns of your empire are unpeopled, that provinces are involved in mourning and tears, your armies are in mutiny, your senate full of suspicion and alarms, and the islands are crowded with exiles. It is not for myself that I speak, my soul is invulnerable to your enmity; and it is not given to you by the Gods to become master of my body." And, having thus given utterance to the virtuous anguish of his spirit, he suddenly became invisible in the midst of a full assembly, and was immediately after seen at Puteoli in the neighbourhood of Mount Vesuvius. [134] Domitian pursued the prophet no further; and he passed shortly after to Greece, to Ionia, and finally to Ephesus. He every where delivered lectures as he went, and was attended with crowds of the most distinguished auditors, and with the utmost popularity. At length at Ephesus, when he was in the midst of an eloquent harangue, he suddenly became silent. He seemed as if he saw a spectacle which engrossed all his attention. His countenance expressed fervour and the most determined purpose. He exclaimed, "Strike the tyrant; strike him!" and immediately after, raising himself, and addressing the assembly, he said, "Domitian is no more; the world is delivered of its bitterest oppressor."--The next post brought the news that the emperor was killed at Rome, exactly on the day and at the hour when Apollonius had thus made known the event at Ephesus. [135] Nerva succeeded Domitian, between whom and Apollonius there subsisted the sincerest friendship. The prophet however did not long survive this event. He was already nearly one hundred years old. But what is most extraordinary, no one could tell precisely when or where he died. No tomb bore the record of his memory; and his biographer inclines to the opinion that he was taken up into heaven. [136] Divine honours were paid to this philosopher, both during his life, and after his death. The inhabitants of Tyana built a temple to him, and his image was to be found in many other temples. [137] The emperor Adrian collected his letters, and treated them as an invaluable relic. Alexander Severus placed his statue in his oratory, together with those of Jesus Christ, Abraham and Orpheus, to whom he was accustomed daily to perform the ceremonies of religion. [138] Vopiscus, in his Life of Aurelian, [139] relates that this emperor had determined to rase the city of Tyana, but that Apollonius, whom he knew from his statues, appeared to him, and said, "Aurelian, if you would conquer, do not think of the destruction of my citizens: Aurelian, if you would reign, abstain from the blood of the innocent: Aurelian, if you would conquer, distinguish yourself by acts of clemency." It was at the desire of Julia, the mother of Severus, that Philostratus composed the life of Apollonius, to which he is now principally indebted for his fame. [140] The publicity of Apollonius and his miracles has become considerably greater, from the circumstance of the early enemies of the Christian religion having instituted a comparison between the miracles of Christ and of this celebrated philosopher, for the obvious purpose of undermining one of the most considerable evidences of the truth of divine revelation. It was probably with an indirect view of this sort that Philostratus was incited by the empress Julia to compose his life of this philosopher; and Hierocles, a writer of the time of Dioclesian, appears to have penned an express treatise in the way of a parallel between the two, attempting to shew a decisive superiority in the miracles of Apollonius. APULEIUS. Apuleius of Madaura in Africa, who lived in the time of the Antonines, appears to have been more remarkable as an author, than for any thing that occurs in the history of his life. St. Augustine and Lactantius however have coupled him with Apollonius of Tyana, as one of those who for their pretended miracles were brought into competition with the author of the Christian religion. But this seems to have arisen from their misapprehension respecting his principal work, the Golden Ass, which is a romance detailing certain wonderful transformations, and which they appear to have thought was intended as an actual history of the life of the author. The work however deserves to be cited in this place, as giving a curious representation of the ideas which were then prevalent on the subjects of magic and witchcraft. The author in the course of his narrative says: "When the day began to dawn, I chanced to awake, and became desirous to know and see some marvellous and strange things, remembering that I was now in the midst of Thessaly, where, by the common report of the world, sorceries and enchantments are most frequent. I viewed the situation of the place in which I was; nor was there any thing I saw, that I believed to be the same thing which it appeared. Insomuch that the very stones in the street I thought were men bewitched and turned into that figure, and the birds I heard chirping, the trees without the walls, and the running waters, were changed from human creatures into the appearances they wore. I persuaded myself that the statues and buildings could move, that the oxen and other brute beasts could speak and tell strange tidings, and that I should see and hear oracles from heaven, conveyed on the beams of the sun." ALEXANDER THE PAPHLAGONIAN. At the same time with Apuleius lived Alexander the Paphlagonian, of whom so extraordinary an account is transmitted to us by Lucian. He was the native of an obscure town, called Abonotica, but was endowed with all that ingenuity and cunning which enables men most effectually to impose upon their fellow-creatures. He was tall of stature, of an impressive aspect, a fair complexion, eyes that sparkled with an awe-commanding fire as if informed by some divinity, and a voice to the last degree powerful and melodious. To these he added the graces of carriage and attire. Being born to none of the goods of fortune, he considered with himself how to turn these advantages to the greatest account; and the plan he fixed upon was that of instituting an oracle entirely under his own direction. He began at Chalcedon on the Thracian Bosphorus; but, continuing but a short time there, he used it principally as an opportunity for publishing that Aesculapius, with Apollo, his father, would in no long time fix his residence at Abonotica. This rumour reached the fellow-citizens of the prophet, who immediately began to lay the foundations of a temple for the reception of the God. In due time Alexander made his appearance; and he so well managed his scheme, that, by means of spies and emissaries whom he scattered in all directions, he not only collected applications to his prophetic skill from the different towns of Ionia, Cilicia and Galatia, but presently extended his fame to Italy and Rome. For twenty years scarcely any oracle of the known world could vie with that of Abonotica; and the emperor Aurelius himself is said to have relied for the success of a military expedition upon the predictions of Alexander the Paphlagonian. Lucian gives, or pretends to give, an account of the manner in which Alexander gained so extraordinary a success. He says, that this young man in his preliminary travels, coming to Pella in Macedon, found that the environs of this city were distinguished from perhaps all other parts of the world, by a breed of serpents of extraordinary size and beauty. Our author adds that these serpents were so tame, that they inhabited the houses of the province, and slept in bed with the children. If you trod upon them, they did not turn again, or shew tokens of anger, and they sucked the breasts of the women to whom it might be of service to draw off their milk. Lucian says, it was probably one of these serpents, that was found in the bed of Olympias, and gave occasion to the tale that Alexander the Great was begotten by Jupiter under the form of a serpent. The prophet bought the largest and finest serpent he could find, and conveyed it secretly with him into Asia. When he came to Abonotica, he found the temple that was built surrounded with a moat; and he took an opportunity privately of sinking a goose-egg, which he had first emptied of its contents, inserting instead a young serpent just hatched, and closing it again with great care. He then told his fellow-citizens that the God was arrived, and hastening to the moat, scooped up the egg in an egg-cup in presence of the whole assembly. He next broke the shell, and shewed the young serpent that twisted about his fingers in presence of the admiring multitude. After this he suffered several days to elapse, and then, collecting crowds from every part of Paphlagonia, he exhibited himself, as he had previously announced he should do, with the fine serpent he had brought from Macedon twisted in coils about the prophet's neck, and its head hid under his arm-pit, while a head artfully formed with linen, and bearing some resemblance to a human face, protruded itself, and passed for the head of the reptile. The spectators were beyond measure astonished to see a little embryo serpent, grown in a few days to so magnificent a size, and exhibiting the features of a human countenance. Having thus far succeeded, Alexander did not stop here. He contrived a pipe which passed seemingly into the mouth of the animal, while the other end terminated in an adjoining room, where a man was placed unseen, and delivered the replies which appeared to come from the mouth of the serpent. This immediate communication with the God was reserved for a few favoured suitors, who bought at a high price the envied distinction. The method with ordinary enquirers was for them to communicate their requests in writing, which they were enjoined to roll up and carefully seal; and these scrolls were returned to them in a few days, with the seals apparently unbroken, but with an answer written within, strikingly appropriate to the demand that was preferred.--It is further to be observed, that the mouth of the serpent was occasionally opened by means of a horsehair skilfully adjusted for the purpose, at the same time that by similar means the animal darted out its biforked tongue to the terror of the amazed bystanders. REVOLUTION PRODUCED IN THE HISTORY OF NECROMANCY AND WITCHCRAFT UPON THE ESTABLISHMENT OF CHRISTIANITY. It is necessary here to take notice of the great revolution that took place under Constantine, nearly three hundred years after the death of Christ, when Christianity became the established religion of the Roman empire. This was a period which produced a new era in the history of necromancy and witchcraft. Under the reign of polytheism, devotion was wholly unrestrained in every direction it might chance to assume. Gods known and unknown, the spirits of departed heroes, the Gods of heaven and hell, abstractions of virtue or vice, might unblamed be made the objects of religious worship. Witchcraft therefore, and the invocation of the spirits of the dead, might be practised with toleration; or at all events were not regarded otherwise than as venial deviations from the religion of the state. It is true, there must always have been a horror of secret arts, especially of such as were of a maleficent nature. At all times men dreaded the mysterious power of spells and incantations, of potent herbs and nameless rites, which were able to control the eternal order of the planets, and the voluntary operations of mind, which could extinguish or recal life, inflame the passions of the soul, blast the works of creation, and extort from invisible beings and the dead the secrets of futurity. But under the creed of the unity of the divine nature the case was exceedingly different. Idolatry, and the worship of other Gods than one, were held to be crimes worthy of the utmost abhorrence and the severest punishment. There was no medium between the worship of heaven and hell. All adoration was to be directed to God the Creator through the mediation of his only begotten Son; or, if prayers were addressed to inferior beings, and the glorified spirits of his saints, at least they terminated in the Most High, were a deprecation of his wrath, a soliciting his favour, and a homage to his omnipotence. On the other hand sorcery and witchcraft were sins of the blackest dye. In opposition to the one only God, the creator of heaven and earth, was the "prince of darkness," the "prince of the power of the air," who contended perpetually against the Almighty, and sought to seduce his creatures and his subjects from their due allegiance. Sorcerers and witches were supposed to do homage and sell themselves to the devil, than which it was not in the mind of man to conceive a greater enormity, or a crime more worthy to cause its perpetrators to be exterminated from the face of the earth. The thought of it was of power to cause the flesh of man to creep and tingle with horror: and such as were prone to indulge their imaginations to the utmost extent of the terrible, found a perverse delight in conceiving this depravity, and were but too much disposed to fasten it upon their fellow-creatures. MAGICAL CONSULTATIONS RESPECTING THE LIFE OF THE EMPEROR. It was not within the range of possibility, that such a change should take place in the established religion of the empire as that from Paganism to Christianity, without convulsions and vehement struggle. The prejudices of mankind on a subject so nearly concerned with their dearest interests and affections must inevitably be powerful and obstinate; and the lucre of the priesthood, together with the strong hold they must necessarily have had on the weakness and superstition of their flocks, would tend to give force and perpetuity to the contention. Julian, a man of great ability and unquestionable patriotism, succeeded to the empire only twenty-four years after the death of Constantine; and he employed the most vigorous measures for the restoration of the ancient religion. But the reign of Julian was scarcely more than eighteen months in duration: and that of Jovian, his successor, who again unfurled the standard of Christianity, lasted hardly more than half a year. The state of things bore a striking similarity to that of England at the time of the Protestant Reformation, where the opposite faiths of Edward the Sixth and his sister Mary, and the shortness of their reigns, gave preternatural keenness to the feelings of the parties, and instigated them to hang with the most restless anticipation upon the chances of the demise of the sovereign, and the consequences, favourable or unfavourable, that might arise from a new accession. The joint reign of Valentinian and Valens, Christian emperors, had now lasted several years, when information was conveyed to these princes, and particularly to the latter, who had the rule of Asia, that numerous private consultations were held, as to the duration of their authority, and the person of the individual who should come after them. The succession of the Roman empire was elective; and consequently there was almost an unlimited scope for conjecture in this question. Among the various modes of enquiry that were employed we are told, that the twenty-four letters of the alphabet were artificially disposed in a circle, and that a magic ring, being suspended over the centre, was conceived to point to the initial letters of the name of him who should be the future emperor. Theodorus, a man of most eminent qualifications, and high popularity, was put to death by the jealousy of Valens, on the vague evidence that this kind of trial had indicated the early letters of his name. [141] It may easily be imagined, that, where so restless and secret an investigation was employed as to the successor that fate might provide, conspiracy would not always be absent. Charges of this sort were perpetually multiplied; informers were eager to obtain favour or rewards by the disclosures they pretended to communicate; and the Christians, who swayed the sceptre of the state, did not fail to aggravate the guilt of those who had recourse to these means for satisfying their curiosity, by alleging that demons were called up from hell to aid in the magic solution. The historians of these times no doubt greatly exaggerate the terror and the danger, when they say, that the persons apprehended on such charges in the great cities outnumbered the peaceable citizens who were left unsuspected, and that the military who had charge of the prisoners, complained that they were wholly without the power to restrain the flight of the captives, or to control the multitude of partisans who insisted on their immediate release. [142] The punishments were barbarous and indiscriminate; to be accused was almost the same thing as to be convicted; and those were obliged to hold themselves fortunate, who escaped with a fine that in a manner swallowed up their estates. HISTORY OF NECROMANCY IN THE EAST. From the countries best known in what is usually styled ancient history, in other words from Greece and Rome, and the regions into which the spirit of conquest led the people of Rome and Greece, it is time we should turn to the East, and those remoter divisions of the world, which to them were comparatively unknown. With what has been called the religion of the Magi, of Egypt, Persia and Chaldea, they were indeed superficially acquainted; but for a more familiar and accurate knowledge of the East we are chiefly indebted to certain events of modern history; to the conquests of the Saracens, when they possessed themselves of the North of Africa, made themselves masters of Spain, and threatened in their victorious career to subject France to their standard; to the crusades; to the spirit of nautical discovery which broke out in the close of the fifteenth century; and more recently to the extensive conquests and mighty augmentation of territory which have been realised by the English East India Company. The religion of Persia was that of Zoroaster and the Magi. When Ardshir, or Artaxerxes, the founder of the race of the Sassanides, restored the throne of Persia in the year of Christ 226, he called together an assembly of the Magi from all parts of his dominions, and they are said to have met to the number of eighty thousand. [143] These priests, from a remote antiquity, had to a great degree preserved their popularity, and had remarkably adhered to their ancient institutions. They seem at all times to have laid claim to the power of suspending the course of nature, and producing miraculous phenomena. But in so numerous a body there must have been some whose pretensions were of a more moderate nature, and others who displayed a loftier aspiration. The more ambitious we find designated in their native language by the name of _Jogees_, [144] of the same signification as the Latin _juncti_. Their notions of the Supreme Being are said to have been of the highest and abstrusest character, as comprehending every possible perfection of power, wisdom and goodness, as purely spiritual in his essence, and incapable of the smallest variation and change, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever. Such as they apprehended him to be, such the most perfect of their priests aspired to make themselves. They were to put off all human weakness and frailty; and, in proportion as they _assimilated_, or rather _became one_ with the Deity, they supposed themselves to partake of his attributes, to become infinitely wise and powerful and good. Hence their claim to suspend the course of nature, and to produce miraculous phenomena. For this purpose it was necessary that they should abstract themselves from every thing mortal, have no human passions or partialities, and divest themselves as much as possible of all the wants and demands of our material frame. Zoroaster appears indeed to have preferred morality to devotion, to have condemned celibacy and fasting, and to have pronounced, that "he who sows the ground with diligence and care, acquires a greater stock of religious merit than he who should repeat ten thousand prayers." But his followers at least did not abide by this decision. They found it more practicable to secure to themselves an elevated reputation by severe observances, rigid self-denial, and the practice of the most inconceivable mortifications. This excited wonder and reverence and a sort of worship from the bystander, which industry and benevolence do not so assuredly secure. They therefore in frequent instances lacerated their flesh, and submitted to incredible hardships. They scourged themselves without mercy, wounded their bodies with lancets and nails, [145] and condemned themselves to remain for days and years unmoved in the most painful attitudes. It was no unprecedented thing for them to take their station upon the top of a high pillar; and some are said to have continued in this position, without ever coming down from it, for thirty years. The more they trampled under foot the universal instincts of our nature, and shewed themselves superior to its infirmities, the nearer they approached to the divine essence, and to the becoming one with the Omnipresent. They were of consequence the more sinless and perfect; their will became the will of the Deity, and they were in a sense invested with, and became the mediums of the acts of, his power. The result of all this is, that they who exercised the art of magic in its genuine and unadulterated form, at all times applied it to purposes of goodness and benevolence, and that their interference was uniformly the signal of some unequivocal benefit, either to mankind in general, or to those individuals of mankind who were best entitled to their aid. It was theirs to succour virtue in distress, and to interpose the divine assistance in cases that most loudly and unquestionably called for it. Such, we are told, was the character of the pure and primitive magic, as it was handed down from the founder of their religion. It was called into action by the Jogees, men who, by an extraordinary merit of whatever sort, had in a certain sense rendered themselves one with the Deity. But the exercise of magical power was too tempting an endowment, not in some cases to be liable to abuse. Even as we read of the angels in heaven, that not all of them stood, and persevered in their original sinlessness and integrity, so of the Jogees some, partaking of the divine power, were also under the direction of a will celestial and divine, while others, having derived, we must suppose, a mighty and miraculous power from the gift of God, afterwards abused it by applying it to capricious, or, as it should seem, to malignant purposes. This appears to have been every where essential to the history of magic. If those who were supposed to possess it in its widest extent and most astonishing degree, had uniformly employed it only in behalf of justice and virtue, they would indeed have been regarded as benefactors, and been entitled to the reverence and love of mankind. But the human mind is always prone to delight in the terrible. No sooner did men entertain the idea of what was supernatural and uncontrolable, than they began to fear it and to deprecate its hostility. They apprehended they knew not what, of the dead returning to life, of invisible beings armed with the power and intention of executing mischief, and of human creatures endowed with the prerogative of bringing down pestilence and slaughter, of dispensing wealth and poverty, prosperity and calamity at their pleasure, of causing health and life to waste away by insensible, but sure degrees, of producing lingering torments, and death in its most fearful form. Accordingly it appears that, as there were certain magicians who were as Gods dispensing benefits to those who best deserved it, so there were others, whose only principle of action was caprice, and against whose malice no innocence and no degree of virtue would prove a defence. As the former sort of magicians were styled _Jogees_, and were held to be the deputies and instruments of infinite goodness, so the other sort were named _Ku-Jogees_, that is, persons who possessing the same species of ascendancy over the powers of nature, employed it only in deeds of malice and wickedness. In the mean time these magicians appear to have produced the wonderful effects which drew to them the reverence of the vulgar, very frequently by the intervention of certain beings of a nature superior to the human, who should seem, though ordinarily invisible, to have had the faculty of rendering themselves visible when they thought proper, and assuming what shape they pleased. These are principally known by the names of Peris, Dives, [146] and Gins, or Genii. Richardson, in the preface to his Persian Dictionary, from which our account will principally be taken, refers us to what he calls a romance, but from which he, appears to derive the outline of his Persian mythology. In this romance Kahraman, a mortal, is introduced in conversation with Simurgh, a creature partaking of the nature of a bird and a griffon, who reveals to him the secrets of the past history of the earth. She tells him that she has lived to see the world seven times peopled with inhabitants of so many different natures, and seven times depopulated, the former inhabitants having been so often removed, and giving place to their successors. The beings who occupied the earth previously to man, were distinguished into the Peris and the Dives; and, when they no longer possessed the earth in chief, they were, as it should seem, still permitted, in an airy and unsubstantial form, and for the most part invisibly, to interfere in the affairs of the human race. These beings ruled the earth during seventy-two generations. The last monarch, named Jan bin Jan, conducted himself so ill, that God sent the angel Haris to chastise him. Haris however became intoxicated with power, and employed his prerogative in the most reprehensible manner. God therefore at length created Adam, the first of men, crowning him with glory and honour, and giving him dominion over all other earthly beings. He commanded the angels to obey him; but Haris refused, and the Dives followed his example. The rebels were for the most part sent to hell for their contumacy; but a part of the Dives, whose disobedience had been less flagrant, were reserved, and allowed for a certain term to walk the earth, and by their temptations to put the virtue and constancy of man to trial. Henceforth the human race was secretly surrounded by invisible beings of two species, the Peris, who were friendly to man, and the Dives, who exercised their ingenuity in involving them in error and guilt. The Peris were beautiful and benevolent, but imperfect and offending beings; they are supposed to have borne a considerable resemblance to the Fairies of the western world. The Dives were hideous in form, and of a malignant disposition. The Peris subsist wholly on perfumes, which the Dives, being of a grosser nature, hold in abhorrence. This mythology is said to have been unknown in Arabia till long after Mahomet: the only invisible beings we read of in their early traditions are the Gins, which term, though now used for the most part as synonimous with Dives, originally signified nothing more than certain infernal fiends of stupendous power, whose agency was hostile to man. There was perpetual war between the Peris and the Dives, whose proper habitation was Kaf, or Caucasus, a line of mountains which was supposed to reach round the globe. In these wars the Peris generally came off with the worst; and in that case they are represented in the traditional tales of the East, as applying to some gallant and heroic mortal to reinforce their exertions. The warriors who figure in these narratives appear all to have been ancient Persian kings. Tahmuras, one of the most celebrated of them, is spoken of as mounting upon Simurgh, surrounded with talismans and enchanted armour, and furnished with a sword the dint of which nothing could resist. He proceeds to Kaf, or Ginnistan, and defeats Arzshank, the chief of the Dives, but is defeated in turn by a more formidable competitor. The war appears to be carried on for successive ages with alternate advantage and disadvantage, till after the lapse of centuries Rustan kills Arzshank, and finally reduces the Dives to a subject and tributary condition. In all this there is a great resemblance to the fables of Scandinavia; and the Northern and the Eastern world seem emulously to have contributed their quota of chivalry and romance, of heroic achievements and miraculous events, of monsters and dragons, of amulets and enchantment, and all those incidents which most rouse the imagination, and are calculated to instil into generous and enterprising youth a courage the most undaunted and invincible. GENERAL SILENCE OF THE EAST RESPECTING INDIVIDUAL NECROMANCERS. Asia has been more notorious than perhaps any other division of the globe for the vast multiplicity and variety of its narratives of sorcery and magic. I have however been much disappointed in the thing I looked for in the first place, and that is, in the individual adventures of such persons as might be supposed to have gained a high degree of credit and reputation for their skill in exploits of magic. Where the professors are many (and they have been perhaps no where so numerous as those of magic in the East), it is unavoidable but that some should have been more dextrous than others, more eminently gifted by nature, more enthusiastic and persevering in the prosecution of their purpose, and more fortunate in awakening popularity and admiration among their contemporaries. In the instances of Apollonius Tyanaeus and others among the ancients, and of Cornelius Agrippa, Roger Bacon and Faust among the moderns, we are acquainted with many biographical particulars of their lives, and can trace with some degree of accuracy, their peculiarities of disposition, and observe how they were led gradually from one study and one mode of action to another. But the magicians of the East, so to speak, are mere abstractions, not characterised by any of those habits which distinguish one individual of the human race from another, and having those marking traits and petty lineaments which make the person, as it were, start up into life while he passes before our eyes. They are merely reported to us as men prone to the producing great signs and wonders, and nothing more. Two of the most remarkable exceptions that I have found to this rule, occur in the examples of Rocail, and of Hakem, otherwise called Mocanna. ROCAIL. The first of these however is scarcely to be called an exception, as lying beyond the limits of all credible history, Rocail is said to have been the younger brother of Seth, the son of Adam. A Dive, or giant of mount Caucasus, being hard pressed by his enemies, sought as usual among the sons of men for aid that might extricate him out of his difficulties. He at length made an alliance with Rocail, by whose assistance he arrived at the tranquillity he desired, and who in consequence became his grand vizier, or prime minister. He governed the dominions of his principal for many years with great honour and success; but, ultimately perceiving the approaches of old age and death, he conceived a desire to leave behind him a monument worthy of his achievements in policy and war. He according erected, we are not told by what means, a magnificent palace, and a sepulchre equally worthy of admiration. But what was most entitled to notice, he peopled this palace with statues of so extraordinary a quality, that they moved and performed all the functions and offices of living men, so that every one who beheld them would have believed that they were actually informed with souls, whereas in reality all they did was by the power of magic, in consequence of which, though they were in fact no more than inanimate matter, they were enabled to obey the behests, and perform the will, of the persons by whom they were visited. [147] HAKEM, OTHERWISE MOCANNA. Hakem was a leader in one of the different divisions of the followers of Mahomet. To inspire the greater awe into the minds of his supporters, he pretended that he was the Most High God, the creator of heaven and earth, under one of the different forms by which he has in successive ages become incarnate, and made himself manifest to his creatures. He distinguished himself by the peculiarity of always wearing a thick and impervious veil, by which, according to his followers, he covered the dazzling splendour of his countenance, which was so great that no mortal could behold it and live, but that, according to his enemies, only served to conceal the hideousness of his features, too monstrously deformed to be contemplated without horror. One of his miracles, which seems the most to have been insisted on, was that he nightly, for a considerable space of time, caused an orb, something like the moon, to rise from a sacred well, which gave a light scarcely less splendid than the day, that diffused its beams for many miles around. His followers were enthusiastically devoted to his service, and he supported his authority unquestioned for a number of years. At length a more formidable opponent appeared, and after several battles he became obliged to shut himself up in a strong fortress. Here however he was so straitly besieged as to be driven to the last despair, and, having administered poison to his whole garrison, he prepared a bath of the most powerful ingredients, which, when he threw himself into it, dissolved his frame, even to the very bones, so that nothing remained of him but a lock of his hair. He acted thus, with the hope that it would be believed that he was miraculously taken up into heaven; nor did this fail to be the effect on the great body of his adherents. [148] ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS. The most copious record of stories of Asiatic enchantment that we possess, is contained in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments; to which we may add the Persian Tales, and a few other repositories of Oriental adventures. It is true that these are delivered to us in a garb of fiction; but they are known to present so exact a picture of Eastern manners and customs, and so just a delineation of the follies, the weaknesses and credulity of the races of men that figure in them, that, in the absence of materials of a strictly historical sort of which we have to complain, they may not inadequately supply the place, and may furnish us with a pretty full representation of the ideas of sorcery and magic which for centuries were entertained in this part of the world. They have indeed one obvious defect, which it is proper the reader should keep constantly in mind. The mythology and groundwork of the whole is Persian: but the narrator is for the most part a Mahometan. Of consequence the ancient Fire-worshippers, though they contribute the entire materials, and are therefore solely entitled to our gratitude and deference for the abundant supply they have furnished to our curiosity, are uniformly treated in these books with disdain and contumely as unworthy of toleration, while the comparative upstart race of the believers in the Koran are held out to us as the only enlightened and upright among the sons of men. Many of the matters most currently related among these supernatural phenomena, are tales of transformation. A lady has two sisters of the most profligate and unprincipled character. They have originally the same share of the paternal inheritance as herself. But they waste it in profusion and folly, while she improves her portion by good judgment and frugality. Driven to the extremity of distress, they humble themselves, and apply to her for assistance. She generously imparts to them the same amount of wealth that they originally possessed, and they are once more reduced to poverty. This happens again and again. At length, finding them incapable of discretion, she prevails on them to come and live with her. By wearisome and ceaseless importunity they induce her to embark in a mercantile enterprise. Here she meets with a prince, who had the misfortune to be born in a region of fire-worshippers, but was providentially educated by a Mahometan nurse. Hence, when his countrymen were by divine vengeance all turned into stones, he alone was saved alive. The lady finds him in this situation, endowed with sense and motion amidst a petrified city, and they immediately fall in love with each other. She brings him away from this melancholy scene, and together they go on board the vessel which had been freighted by herself and her sisters. But the sisters become envious of her good fortune, and conspire, while she and the prince are asleep, to throw them overboard. The prince is drowned; but the lady with great difficulty escapes. She finds herself in a desert island, not far from the place where she had originally embarked on her adventure; and, having slept off the fatigues she had encountered, beholds on her awaking a black woman with an agreeable countenance, a fairy, who leads in her hand two black bitches coupled together with a cord. These black bitches are the lady's sisters, thus metamorphosed, as a punishment for their ingratitude and cruelty. The fairy conveys her through the air to her own house in Bagdad, which she finds well stored with all sorts of commodities, and delivers to her the two animals, with an injunction that she is to whip them every day at a certain hour as a further retribution for their crimes. This was accordingly punctually performed; and, at the end of each day's penance, the lady, having before paid no regard to the animals' gestures and pitiable cries, wept over them, took them in her arms, kissed them, and carefully wiped the moisture from their eyes. Having persevered for a length of time in this discipline, the offenders are finally, by a counter-incantation, restored to their original forms, being by the severities they had suffered entirely cured of the vices which had occasioned their calamitous condition. Another story is of a calender, a sort of Mahometan monk, with one eye, who had originally been a prince. He had contracted a taste for navigation and naval discoveries; and, in one of his voyages, having been driven by stress of weather into unknown seas, he suddenly finds himself attracted towards a vast mountain of loadstone, which first, by virtue of the iron and nails in the ship, draws the vessel towards itself, and then, by its own intrinsic force, extracts the nails, so that the ship tumbles to pieces, and every one on board is drowned. The mountain, on the side towards the sea, is all covered with nails, which had been drawn from vessels that previously suffered the same calamity; and these nails at once preserve and augment the fatal power of the mountain. The prince only escapes; and he finds himself in a desolate island, with a dome of brass, supported by brazen pillars, and on the top of it a horse of brass, and a rider of the same metal. This rider the prince is fated to throw down, by means of an enchanted arrow, and thus to dissolve the charm which had been fatal to thousands. From the desolate island he embarked on board a boat, with a single rower, a man of metal, and would have been safely conveyed to his native country, had he not inadvertently pronounced the name of God, that he had been warned not to do, and which injunction he had observed many days. On this the boat immediately sunk; but the prince was preserved, who comes into a desolate island, where he finds but one inhabitant, a youth of fifteen. This youth is hid in a cavern, it having been predicted of him that he should be killed after fifty days, by the man that threw down the horse of brass and his rider. A great friendship is struck up between the unsuspecting youth and the prince, who nevertheless fulfils the prediction, having by a pure accident killed the youth on the fiftieth day. He next arrives at a province of the main land, where he visits a castle, inhabited by ten very agreeable young men, each blind of the right eye. He dwells with them for a month, and finds, after a day of pleasant entertainment, that each evening they do penance in squalidness and ashes. His curiosity is greatly excited to obtain an explanation of what he saw, but this they refuse, telling him at the same time, that he may, if he pleases, pass through the same adventure as they have done, and, if he does, wishing it may be attended with a more favourable issue. He determines to make the experiment; and by their direction, after certain preparations, is flown away with through the air by a roc, a stupendous bird, that is capable in the same manner of carrying off an elephant. By this means he is brought to a castle of the most extraordinary magnificence, inhabited by forty ladies of exquisite beauty. With these ladies he lives for eleven months in a perpetual succession of delights. But in the twelfth month they tell him, that they are obliged to leave him till the commencement of the new year. In the mean time they give him for his amusement the keys of one hundred apartments, all but one of which he is permitted to open. He is delighted with the wonders of these apartments till the last day. On that day he opens the forbidden room, where the rarity that most strikes him is a black horse of admirable shape and appearance, with a saddle and bridle of gold. He leads this horse into the open air, and is tempted to mount him. The horse first stands still; but at length, being touched with a switch, spreads a pair of wings which the prince had not before perceived, and mounts to an amazing height in the air. The horse finally descends on the terrace of a castle, where he throws his rider, and leaves him, having first dashed out his right eye with a sudden swing of his tail. The prince goes down into the castle, and to his surprise finds himself in company with the ten young men, blind of one eye, who had passed through the same adventure as he had done, and all been betrayed by means of the same infirmity. PERSIAN TALES. These two stories are from the Arabian Nights: the two following are from the Persian Tales.--Fadlallah, king of Mousel, contracted an intimacy with a young dervise, a species of Turkish friar, who makes a vow of perpetual poverty. The dervise, to ingratiate himself the more with the prince, informed him of a secret he possessed, by means of a certain incantation, of projecting his soul into the body of any dead animal he thought proper. To convince the king that this power was no empty boast, he offered to quit his own body, and animate that of a doe, which Fadlallah had just killed in hunting. He accordingly executed what he proposed, took possession of the body of the doe, displayed the most surprising agility, approached the king, fawning on him with every expression of endearment, and then, after various bounds, deserting the limbs of the animal, and repossessing his own frame, which during the experiment had lain breathless on the ground. Fadlallah became earnest to possess the secret of the dervise; and, after some demurs, it was communicated to him. The king took possession of the body of the doe; but his treacherous confident no sooner saw the limbs of Fadlallah stretched senseless on the ground, than he conveyed his own spirit into them, and, bending his bow, sought to destroy the life of his defenceless victim. The king by his agility escaped; and the dervise, resorting to the palace, took possession of the throne, and of the bed of the queen, Zemroude, with whom Fadlallah was desperately enamoured. The first precaution of the usurper was to issue a decree that all the deer within his dominions should be killed, hoping by this means to destroy the rightful sovereign. But the king, aware of his danger, had deserted the body of the doe, and entered that of a dead nightingale that lay in his path. In this disguise he hastened to the palace, and placed himself in a wide-spreading tree, which grew immediately before the apartment of Zemroude. Here he poured out his complaints and the grief that penetrated his soul in such melodious notes, as did not fail to attract the attention of the queen. She sent out her bird-catchers to make captive the little warbler; and Fadlallah, who desired no better, easily suffered himself to be made their prisoner. In this new position he demonstrated by every gesture of fondness his partiality to the queen; but if any of her women approached him, he pecked at them in anger, and, when the impostor made his appearance, could not contain the vehemence of his rage. It happened one night that the queen's lap-dog died; and the thought struck Fadlallah that he would animate the corpse of this animal. The next morning Zemroude found her favourite bird dead in his cage, and immediately became inconsolable. Never, she said, was so amiable a bird; he distinguished her from all others; he seemed even to entertain a passion for her; and she felt as if she could not survive his loss. The dervise in vain tried every expedient to console her. At length he said, that, if she pleased, he would cause her nightingale to revive every morning, and entertain her with his tunes as long as she thought proper. The dervise accordingly laid himself on a sopha, and by means of certain cabalistic words, transported his soul into the body of the nightingale, and began to sing. Fadlallah watched his time; he lay in a corner of the room unobserved; but no sooner had the dervise deserted his body, than the king proceeded to take possession of it. The first thing he did was to hasten to the cage, to open the door with uncontrolable impatience, and, seizing the bird, to twist off its head. Zemroude, amazed, asked him what he meant by so inhuman an action. Fadlallah in reply related to her all the circumstances that had befallen him; and the queen became so struck with agony and remorse that she had suffered her person, however innocently, to be polluted by so vile an impostor, that she could not get over the recollection, but pined away and died from a sense of the degradation she had endured. But a much more perplexing and astounding instance of transformation occurs in the history of the Young King of Thibet and the Princess of the Naimans. The sorcerers in this case are represented as, without any intermediate circumstance to facilitate their witchcraft, having the ability to assume the form of any one they please, and in consequence to take the shape of one actually present, producing a duplication the most confounding that can be imagined.--Mocbel, the son of an artificer of Damascus, but whose father had bequeathed him considerable wealth, contrived to waste his patrimony and his youth together in profligate living with Dilnouaze, a woman of dissolute manners. Finding themselves at once poor and despised, they had recourse to the sage Bedra, the most accomplished magician of the desert, and found means to obtain her favour. In consequence she presented them with two rings, which had the power of enabling them to assume the likeness of any man or woman they please. Thus equipped, Mocbel heard of the death of Mouaffack, prince of the Naimans, who was supposed to have been slain in a battle, and whose body had never been found. The niece of Mouaffack now filled the throne; and under these circumstances Mocbel conceived the design of personating the absent Mouaffack, exciting a rebellion among his countrymen, and taking possession of the throne. In this project he succeeded; and the princess driven into exile, took refuge in the capital of Thibet. Here the king saw her, fell in love with her, and espoused her. Being made acquainted with her history, he resolved to re-conquer her dominions, and sent a defiance to the usurper. Mocbel, terrified at the thought of so formidable an invader, first pretended to die, and then, with Dilnouaze, who during his brief reign had under the form of a beautiful woman personated his queen, proceeded in his original form to the capital of Thibet. Here his purpose was to interrupt the happiness of those who had disturbed him in his deceitful career. Accordingly one night, when the queen, previously to proceeding to her repose, had shut herself up in her closet to read certain passages of the Alcoran, Dilnouaze, assuming her form with the minutest exactness, hastened to place herself in the royal bed by the side of the king. After a time, the queen shut her book, and went along the gallery to the king's bedchamber, Mocbel watched his time, and placed himself, under the form of a frightful apparition, directly in the queen's path. She started at the sight, and uttered a piercing shriek. The king recognised her voice, and hastened to see what had happened to her. She explained; but the king spoke of something much more extraordinary, and asked her how it could possibly happen that she should be in the gallery, at the same moment that he had left her, undressed and in bed. They proceeded to the chamber to unravel the mystery. Here a contention occurred between the real and the seeming queen, each charging the other with imposture. The king turned from one to the other, and was unable to decide between their pretensions. The courtiers and the ladies of the bedchamber were called, and all were perplexed with uncertainty and doubt. At length they determine in favour of the false queen, It was then proposed that the other should be burned for a sorceress. The king however forbade this. He was not yet altogether decided; and could not resolve to consign his true queen, as it might possibly be, to a cruel death. He was therefore content to strip her of her royal robes, to clothe her in rags, and thrust her ignominiously from his palace. Treachery however was not destined to be ultimately triumphant. The king one day rode out a hunting; and Mocbel, that he might the better deceive the guards of the palace, seizing the opportunity, assumed his figure, and went to bed to Dilnouaze. The king meanwhile recollected something of importance, that he had forgotten before he went out to hunt, and returning upon his steps, proceeded to the royal chamber. Here to his utter confusion he found a man in bed with his queen, and that man to his greater astonishment the exact counterpart of himself. Furious at the sight, he immediately drew his scymetar. The man contrived to escape down the backstairs. The woman however remained in bed; and, stretching out her hands to intreat for mercy, the king struck off the hand which had the ring on it, and she immediately appeared, as she really was, a frightful hag. She begged for life; and, that she might mollify his rage, explained the mystery, told him that it was by means of a ring that she effected the delusion, and that by a similar enchantment her paramour had assumed the likeness of the king. The king meanwhile was inexorable, and struck off her head. He next turned in pursuit of the adulterer. Mocbel however had had time to mount on horseback. But the king mounted also; and, being the better horseman, in a short time overtook his foe. The impostor did not dare to cope with him, but asked his life; and the king, considering him as the least offender of the two, pardoned him upon condition of his surrendering the ring, in consequence of which he passed the remainder of his life in poverty and decrepitude. STORY OF A GOULE. A story in the Arabian Nights, which merits notice for its singularity, and as exhibiting a particular example of the credulity of the people of the East, is that of a man who married a sorceress, without being in any way conscious of her character in that respect. She was sufficiently agreeable in her person, and he found for the most part no reason to be dissatisfied with her. But he became uneasy at the strangeness of her behaviour, whenever they sat together at meals. The husband provided a sufficient variety of dishes, and was anxious that his wife should eat and be refreshed. But she took scarcely any nourishment. He set before her a plate of rice. From this plate she took somewhat, grain by grain; but she would taste of no other dish. The husband remonstrated with her upon her way of eating, but to no purpose; she still went on the same. He knew it was impossible for any one to subsist upon so little as she ate; and his curiosity was roused. One night, as he lay quietly awake, he perceived his wife rise very softly, and put on her clothes. He watched, but made as if he saw nothing. Presently she opened the door, and went out. He followed her unperceived, by moonlight, and tracked her into a place of graves. Here to his astonishment he saw her joined by a Goule, a sort of wandering demon, which is known to infest ruinous buildings, and from time to time suddenly rushes out, seizes children and other defenceless people, strangles, and devours them. Occasionally, for want of other food, this detested race will resort to churchyards, and, digging up the bodies of the newly-buried, gorge their appetites upon the flesh of these. The husband followed his wife and her supernatural companion, and watched their proceedings. He saw them digging in a new-made grave. They extracted the body of the deceased; and, the Goule cutting it up joint by joint, they feasted voraciously, and, having satisfied their appetites, cast the remainder into the grave again, and covered it up as before. The husband now withdrew unobserved to his bed, and the wife followed presently after. He however conceived a horrible loathing of such a wife; and she discovers that he is acquainted with her dreadful secret. They can no longer live together; and a metamorphosis followed. She turned him into a dog, which by ill usage she drove from her door; and he, aided by a benevolent sorceress, first recovers his natural shape, and then, having changed her into a mare, by perpetual hard usage and ill treatment vents his detestation of the character he had discovered in her. ARABIAN NIGHTS. A compilation of more vigorous imagination and more exhaustless variety than the Arabian Nights, perhaps never existed. Almost every thing that can be conceived of marvellous and terrific is there to be found. When we should apprehend the author or authors to have come to an end of the rich vein in which they expatiate, still new wonders are presented to us in endless succession. Their power of comic exhibition is not less extraordinary than their power of surprising and terrifying. The splendour of their painting is endless; and the mind of the reader is roused and refreshed by shapes and colours for ever new. RESEMBLANCE OF THE TALES OF THE EAST AND OF EUROPE. It is characteristic of this work to exhibit a faithful and particular picture of Eastern manners, customs, and modes of thinking and acting. And yet, now and then, it is curious to observe the coincidence of Oriental imagination with that of antiquity and of the North of Europe, so that it is difficult to conceive the one not to be copied from the other. Perhaps it was so; and perhaps not. Man is every where man, possessed of the same faculties, stimulated by the same passions, deriving pain and pleasure from the same sources, with similar hopes and fears, aspirations and alarms. In the Third Voyage of Sinbad he arrives at an island were he finds one man, a negro, as tall as a palm-tree, and with a single eye in the middle of his forehead. He takes up the crew, one by one, and selects the fattest as first to be devoured. This is done a second time. At length nine of the boldest seize on a spit, while he lay on his back asleep, and, having heated it red-hot, thrust it into his eye.--This is precisely the story of Ulysses and the Cyclops. The story of the Little Hunchback, who is choaked with a fish-bone, and, after having brought successive individuals into trouble on the suspicion of murdering him, is restored to life again, is nearly the best known of the Arabian Tales. The merry jest of Dan Hew, Monk of Leicester, who "once was hanged, and four times slain," bears a very striking resemblance to this. [149] A similar resemblance is to be found, only changing the sex of the aggressor, between the well known tale of Patient Grizzel, and that of Cheheristany in the Persian Tales. This lady was a queen of the Gins, who fell in love with the emperor of China, and agrees to marry him upon condition that she shall do what she pleases, and he shall never doubt that what she does is right. She bears him a son, beautiful as the day, and throws him into the fire. She bears him a daughter, and gives her to a white bitch, who runs away with her, and disappears. The emperor goes to war with the Moguls; and the queen utterly destroys the provisions of his army. But the fire was a salamander, and the bitch a fairy, who rear the children in the most admirable manner; and the provisions of the army were poisoned by a traitor, and are in a miraculous manner replaced by such as were wholesome and of the most invigorating qualities. CAUSES OF HUMAN CREDULITY. Meanwhile, though the stories above related are extracted from books purely and properly of fiction, they exhibit so just a delineation of Eastern manners and habits of mind, that, in the defect of materials strictly historical, they may to a certain degree supply the place. The principal feature they set before us is credulity and a love of the marvellous. This is ever found characteristic of certain ages of the world; but in Asia it prevails in uninterrupted continuity. Wherever learning and the exercise of the intellectual faculties first shew themselves, there mystery and a knowledge not to be communicated but to the select few must be expected to appear. Wisdom in its natural and genuine form seeks to diffuse itself; but in the East on the contrary it is only valued in proportion to its rarity. Those who devoted themselves to intellectual improvement, looked for it rather in solitary abstraction, than in free communication with the minds of others; and, when they condescended to the use of the organ of speech, they spoke in enigmas and ambiguities, and in phrases better adapted to produce wonder and perplexity, than to enlighten and instruct. When the more consummate instructed the novice, it was by slow degrees only, and through the medium of a long probation. In consequence of this state of things the privileged few conceived of their own attainments with an over-weening pride, and were puffed up with a sense of superiority; while the mass of their fellow-creatures looked to them with astonishment; and, agreeably to the Oriental creed of two independent and contending principles of good and of evil, regarded these select and supernaturally endowed beings anon as a source of the most enviable blessings, and anon as objects of unmingled apprehension and terror, before whom their understandings became prostrate, and every thing that was most appalling and dreadful was most easily believed. In this state superstition unavoidably grew infectious; and the more the seniors inculcated and believed, the more the imagination of the juniors became a pliant and unresisting slave. The Mantra, or charm, consisting of a few unintelligible words repeated again and again, always accompanied, or rather preceded, the supposed miraculous phenomenon that was imposed on the ignorant. Water was flung over, or in the face of, the thing or person upon whom the miraculous effect was to be produced. Incense was burned; and such chemical substances were set on fire, the dazzling appearance of which might confound the senses of the spectators. The whole consisted in the art of the juggler. The first business was to act on the passions, to excite awe and fear and curiosity in the parties; and next by a sort of slight of hand, and by changes too rapid to be followed by an unpractised eye, to produce phenomena, wholly unanticipated, and that could not be accounted for. Superstition was further an essential ingredient; and this is never perfect, but where the superior and more active party regards himself as something more than human, and the party acted upon beholds in the other an object of religious reverence, or tingles with apprehension of he knows not what of fearful and calamitous. The state of the party acted on, and indeed of either, is never complete, till the senses are confounded, what is imagined is so powerful as in a manner to exclude what is real, in a word, till, as the poet expresses it, "function is smothered in surmise, and nothing is, but what is not." It is in such a state of the faculties that it is entirely natural and simple, that one should mistake a mere dumb animal for one's relative or near connection in disguise. And, the delusion having once begun, the deluded individual gives to every gesture and motion of limb and eye an explanation that forwards the deception. It is in the same way that in ignorant ages the notion of changeling has been produced. The weak and fascinated mother sees every feature with a turn of expression unknown before, all the habits of the child appear different and strange, till the parent herself denies her offspring, and sees in the object so lately cherished and doated on, a monster uncouth and horrible of aspect. DARK AGES OF EUROPE In Europe we are slenderly supplied with historians, and with narratives exhibiting the manners and peculiarities of successive races of men, from the time of Theodosius in the close of the fourth century of the Christian era to the end of the tenth. Mankind during that period were in an uncommon degree wrapped up in ignorance and barbarism. We may be morally sure that this was an interval beyond all others, in which superstition and an implicit faith in supernatural phenomena predominated over this portion of the globe. The laws of nature, and the everlasting chain of antecedents and consequents, were little recognised. In proportion as illumination and science have risen on the world, men have become aware that the succession of events is universally operating, and that the frame of men and animals is every where the same, modified only by causes not less unchangeable in their influence than the internal constitution of the frame itself. We have learned to explain much; we are able to predict and investigate the course of things; and the contemplative and the wise are not less intimately and profoundly persuaded that the process of natural events is sure and simple and void of all just occasion for surprise and the lifting up of hands in astonishment, where we are not yet familiarly acquainted with the developement of the elements of things, as where we are. What we have not yet mastered, we feel confidently persuaded that the investigators that come after us will reduce to rules not less obvious, familiar and comprehensible, than is to us the rising of the sun, or the progress of animal and vegetable life from the first bud and seed of existence to the last stage of decrepitude and decay. But in these ages of ignorance, when but few, and those only the most obvious, laws of nature were acknowledged, every event that was not of almost daily occurrence, was contemplated with more or less of awe and alarm. These men "saw God in clouds, and heard him in the wind." Instead of having regard only to that universal Providence, which acts not by partial impulses, but by general laws, they beheld, as they conceived, the immediate hand of the Creator, or rather, upon most occasions, of some invisible intelligence, sometimes beneficent, but perhaps oftener malignant and capricious, interfering, to baffle the foresight of the sage, to humble the pride of the intelligent, and to place the discernment of the most gifted upon a level with the drivellings of the idiot, and the ravings of the insane. And, as in events men saw perpetually the supernatural and miraculous, so in their fellow-creatures they continually sought, and therefore frequently imagined that they found, a gifted race, that had command over the elements, held commerce with the invisible world, and could produce the most stupendous and terrific effects. In man, as we now behold him, we can ascertain his nature, the strength and pliability of his limbs, the accuracy of his eye, the extent of his intellectual acquisitions, and the subtlety of his powers of thought, and can therefore in a great measure anticipate what we have to hope or to fear from him. Every thing is regulated by what we call natural means. But, in the times I speak of, all was mysterious: the powers of men were subject to no recognised laws: and therefore nothing that imagination could suggest, exceeded the bounds of credibility. Some men were supposed to be so rarely endowed that "a thousand liveried angels" waited on them invisibly, to execute their behests for the benefit of those they favoured; while, much oftener, the perverse and crookedly disposed, who delighted in mischief, would bring on those to whom, for whatever capricious reason, they were hostile, calamities, which no sagacity could predict, and no merely human power could baffle and resist. After the tenth century enough of credulity remained, to display in glaring colours the aberrations of the human mind, and to furnish forth tales which will supply abundant matter for the remainder of this volume. But previously to this period, we may be morally sure, reigned most eminently the sabbath of magic and sorcery, when nothing was too wild, and remote from the reality of things, not to meet with an eager welcome, when terror and astonishment united themselves with a nameless delight, and the auditor was alarmed even to a sort of madness, at the same time that he greedily demanded an ever-fresh supply of congenial aliment. The more the known laws of the universe and the natural possibility of things were violated, with the stronger marks of approbation was the tale received: while the dextrous impostor, aware of the temper of his age, and knowing how most completely to blindfold and lead astray his prepared dupes, made a rich harvest of the folly of his contemporaries. But I am wrong to call him an impostor. He imposed upon himself, no less than on the gaping crowd. His discourses, even in the act of being pronounced, won upon his own ear; and the dexterity with which he baffled the observation of others, bewildered his ready sense, and filled him with astonishment at the magnitude of his achievements. The accomplished adventurer was always ready to regard himself rather as a sublime being endowed with great and stupendous attributes, than as a pitiful trickster. He became the God of his own idolatry, and stood astonished, as the witch of Endor in the English Bible is represented to have done, at the success of his incantations. But all these things are passed away, and are buried in the gulf of oblivion. A thousand tales, each more wonderful than the other, marked the year as it glided away. Every valley had its fairies; and every hill its giants. No solitary dwelling, unpeopled with human inhabitants, was without its ghosts; and no church-yard in the absence of day-light could be crossed with impunity. The gifted enchanter "bedimmed The noon-tide sun, willed forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war; to the dread, rattling thunder He gave forth fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt, the strong-based promontory He made to shake, and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar." It is but a small remnant of these marvellous adventures that has been preserved. The greater part of them are swallowed up in that gulf of oblivion, to which are successively consigned after a brief interval all events as they occur, except so far as their memory is preserved through the medium of writing and records. From the eleventh century commences a stream of historical relation, which since that time never entirely eludes the search of the diligent enquirer. Before this period there occasionally appears an historian or miscellaneous writer: but he seems to start up by chance; the eddy presently closes over him, and all is again impenetrable darkness. When this succession of writers began, they were unavoidably induced to look back upon the ages that had preceded them, and to collect here and there from tradition any thing that appeared especially worthy of notice. Of course any information they could glean was wild and uncertain, deeply stamped with the credulity and wonder of an ignorant period, and still increasing in marvellousness and absurdity from every hand it passed through, and from every tongue which repeated it. MERLIN. One of the most extraordinary personages whose story is thus delivered to us, is Merlin. He appears to have been contemporary with the period of the Saxon invasion of Britain in the latter part of the fifth century; but probably the earliest mention of his name by any writer that has come down to us is not previous to the eleventh. We may the less wonder therefore at the incredible things that are reported of him. He is first mentioned in connection with the fortune of Vortigern, who is represented by Geoffrey of Monmouth as at that time king of England. The Romans having withdrawn their legions from this island, the unwarlike Britons found themselves incompetent to repel the invasions of the uncivilised Scots and Picts, and Vortigern perceived no remedy but in inviting the Saxons from the northern continent to his aid. The Saxons successfully repelled the invader; but, having done this, they refused to return home. They determined to settle here, and, having taken various towns, are represented as at length inviting Vortigern and his principal nobility to a feast near Salisbury under pretence of a peace, where they treacherously slew three hundred of the chief men of the island, and threw Vortigern into chains. Here, by way of purchasing the restoration of his liberty, they induced him to order the surrender of London, York, Winchester, and other principal towns. Having lost all his strong holds, he consulted his magicians as to how he was to secure himself from this terrible foe. They advised him to build an impregnable tower, and pointed out the situation where it was to be erected. But so unfortunately did their advice succeed, that all the work that his engineers did in the building one day, the earth swallowed, so that no vestige was to be found on the next. The magicians were consulted again on this fresh calamity; and they told the king that that there was no remedying this disaster, other than by cementing the walls of his edifice with the blood of a human being, who was born of no human father. Vortigern sent out his emissaries in every direction in search of this victim; and at length by strange good fortune they lighted on Merlin near the town of Caermarthen, who told them that his mother was the daughter of a king, but that she had been got with child of him by a being of an angelic nature, and not a man. No sooner had they received this information, than they seized him, and hurried him away to Vortigern as the victim required. But in presence of the king he baffled the magicians; he told the king that the ground they had chosen for his tower, had underneath it a lake, which being drained, they would find at the bottom two dragons of inextinguishable hostility, that under that form figured the Britons and Saxons, all of which upon the experiment proved to be true. Vortigern died shortly after, and was succeeded first by Ambrosius, and then by Uther Pendragon. Merlin was the confident of all these kings. To Uther he exhibited a very criminal sort of compliance. Uther became desperately enamoured of Igerna, wife of the duke of Cornwal, and tried every means to seduce her in vain. Having consulted Merlin, the magician contrived by an extraordinary unguent to metamorphose Uther into the form of the duke. The duke had shut up his wife for safety in a very strong tower; but Uther in his new form gained unsuspected entrance; and the virtuous Igerna received him to her embraces, by means of which he begot Arthur, afterwards the most renowned sovereign of this island. Uther now contrived that the duke, her husband, should be slain in battle, and immediately married the fair Igerna, and made her his queen. The next exploit of Merlin was with the intent to erect a monument that should last for ever, to the memory of the three hundred British nobles that were massacred by the Saxons. This design produced the extraordinary edifice called Stonehenge. These mighty stones, which by no human power could be placed in the position in which we behold them, had originally been set up in Africa, and afterwards by means unknown were transported to Ireland. Merlin commanded that they should be carried over the sea, and placed where they now are, on Salisbury Plain. The workmen, having received his directions, exerted all their power and skill, but could not move one of them. Merlin, having for some time watched their exertions, at length applied his magic; and to the amazement of every one, the stones spontaneously quitted the situation in which they had been placed, rose to a great height in the air, and then pursued the course which Merlin had prescribed, finally settling themselves in Wiltshire, precisely in the position in which we now find them, and which they will for ever retain. The last adventure recorded of Merlin proceeded from a project he conceived for surrounding his native town of Caermarthen with a brazen wall. He committed the execution of this project to a multitude of fiends, who laboured upon the plan underground in a neighbouring cavern. [150] In the mean while Merlin had become enamoured of a supernatural being, called the Lady of the Lake. The lady had long resisted his importunities, and in fact had no inclination to yield to his suit. One day however she sent for him in great haste; and Merlin was of course eager to comply with her invitation. Nevertheless, before he set out, he gave it strictly in charge to the fiends, that they should by no means suspend their labours till they saw him return. The design of the lady was to make sport with him, and elude his addresses. Merlin on the contrary, with the hope to melt her severity, undertook to shew her the wonders of his art. Among the rest he exhibited to her observation a tomb, formed to contain two bodies; at the same time teaching her a charm, by means of which the sepulchre would close, and never again be opened. The lady pretended not to believe that the tomb was wide enough for its purpose, and inveigled the credulous Merlin to enter it, and place himself as one dead. No sooner had she so far succeeded, than she closed the lid of the sepulchre, and pronouncing the charm, rendered it impossible that it should ever be opened again till the day of judgment. Thus, according to the story, Merlin was shut in, a corrupted and putrifying body with a living soul, to which still inhered the faculty of returning in audible sounds a prophetic answer to such as resorted to it as an oracle. Meanwhile the fiends, at work in the cavern near Caermarthen, mindful of the injunction of their taskmaster, not to suspend their labours till his return, proceed for ever in their office; and the traveller who passes that way, if he lays his ear close to the mouth of the cavern, may hear a ghastly noise of iron chains and brazen caldrons, the loud strokes of the hammer, and the ringing sound of the anvil, intermixed with the pants and groans of the workmen, enough to unsettle the brain and confound the faculties of him that for any time shall listen to the din. As six hundred years elapsed between the time of Merlin and the earliest known records of his achievements, it is impossible to pronounce what he really pretended to perform, and how great were the additions which successive reporters have annexed to the wonders of his art, more than the prophet himself perhaps ever dreamed of. In later times, when the historians were the contemporaries of the persons by whom the supposed wonders were achieved, or the persons who have for these causes been celebrated have bequeathed certain literary productions to posterity, we may be able to form some conjecture as to the degree in which the heroes of the tale were deluding or deluded, and may exercise our sagacity in the question by what strange peculiarity of mind adventures which we now hold to be impossible obtained so general belief. But in a case like this of Merlin, who lived in a time so remote from that in which his history is first known to have been recorded, it is impracticable to determine at what time the fiction which was afterwards generally received began to be reported, or whether the person to whom the miracles were imputed ever heard or dreamed of the extraordinary things he is represented as having achieved. ST. DUNSTAN. An individual scarcely less famous in the dark ages, and who, like Merlin, lived in confidence with successive kings, was St. Dunstan. He was born and died in the tenth century. It is not a little instructive to employ our attention upon the recorded adventures, and incidents occurring in the lives, of such men, since, though plentifully interspersed with impossible tales, they serve to discover to us the tastes and prepossessions of the times in which these men lived, and the sort of accomplishments which were necessary to their success. St. Dunstan is said to have been a man of distinguished birth, and to have spent the early years of his life in much licentiousness. He was however doubtless a person of the most extraordinary endowments of nature. Ambition early lighted its fire in his bosom; and he displayed the greatest facility in acquiring any talent or art on which he fixed his attention. His career of profligacy was speedily arrested by a dangerous illness, in which he was given over by his physicians. While he lay apparently at the point of death, an angel was suddenly seen, bringing a medicine to him which effected his instant cure. The saint immediately rose from his bed, and hastened to the nearest church to give God thanks for his recovery. As he passed along, the devil, surrounded with a pack of black dogs, interposed himself to obstruct his way. Dunstan however intrepidly brandished a rod that he held in his hand, and his opposers took to flight. When he came to the church, he found the doors closed. But the same angel, who effected his cure, was at hand, and, taking him up softly by the hair of his head, placed him before the high altar, where he performed his devotions with suitable fervour. That he might expiate the irregularities of his past life, St. Dunstan now secluded himself entirely from the world, and constructed for his habitation a cell in the abbey of Glastonbury, so narrow that he could neither stand upright in it, nor stretch out his limbs in repose. He took scarcely so much sustenance as would support life, and mortified his flesh with frequent castigations. He did not however pass his time during this seclusion in vacuity and indolence. He pursued his studies with the utmost ardour, and made a great proficiency in philosophy, divinity, painting, sculpture and music. Above all, he was an admirable chemist, excelled in manufactures of gold and other metals, and was distinguished by a wonderful skill in the art of magic. During all these mortifications and the severeness of his industry, he appears to have become a prey to extraordinary visions and imaginations. Among the rest, the devil visited him in his cell, and, thrusting his head in at the window, disturbed the saint with obscene and blasphemous speeches, and the most frightful contortions of the features of his countenance. Dunstan at length, wearied out with his perseverance, seized the red-hot tongs with which he was engaged in some chemical experiment, and, catching the devil by the nose, held him with the utmost firmness, while Satan filled the whole neighbourhood for many miles round with his bellowings. Extraordinary as this may appear, it constitutes one of the most prominent incidents in the life of the saint; and the representations of it were for ever repeated in ancient carvings, and in the illuminations of church-windows. This was the precise period at which the pope and his adherents were gaining the greatest ascendancy in the Christian world. The doctrine of transubstantiation was now in the highest vogue; and along with it a precept still more essential to the empire of the Catholic church, the celibacy of the clergy. This was not at first established without vehement struggles. The secular clergy, who were required at once to cast off their wives as concubines, and their children as bastards, found every impulse of nature rising in arms against the mandate. The regular clergy, or monks, were in obvious rivalship with the seculars, and engrossed to themselves, as much as possible, all promotions and dignities, as well ecclesiastical as civil. St. Augustine, who first planted Christianity in this island, was a Benedictine monk; and the Benedictines were for a long time in the highest reputation in the Catholic church. St. Dunstan was also a Benedictine. In his time the question of the celibacy of the clergy was most vehemently agitated; and Dunstan was the foremost of the champions of the new institution in England. The contest was carried on with great vehemence. Many of the most powerful nobility, impelled either by pity for the sufferers, or induced by family affinities, supported the cause of the seculars. Three successive synods were held on the subject; and the cause of nature it is said would have prevailed, had not Dunstan and his confederates called in the influence of miracles to their aid. In one instance, a crucifix, fixed in a conspicuous part of the place of assembly, uttered a voice at the critical moment, saying, "Be steady! you have once decreed right; alter not your ordinances." At another time the floor of the place of meeting partially gave way, precipitating the ungodly opposers of celibacy into the place beneath, while Dunstan and his party, who were in another part of the assembly, were miraculously preserved unhurt. In these instances Dunstan seemed to be engaged in the cause of religion, and might be considered as a zealous, though mistaken, advocate of Christian simplicity and purity. But he was not contented with figuring merely as a saint. He insinuated himself into the favour of Edred, the grandson of Alfred, and who, after two or three short reigns, succeeded to the throne. Edred was an inactive prince, but greatly under the dominion of religious prejudices; and Dunstan, being introduced to him, found him an apt subject for his machinations. Edred first made him abbot of Glastonbury, one of the most powerful ecclesiastical dignities in England, and then treasurer of the kingdom. During the reign of this prince, Dunstan disposed of all ecclesiastical affairs, and even of the treasures of the kingdom, at his pleasure. But Edred filled the throne only nine years, and was succeeded by Edwy at the early age of seventeen, who is said to have been endowed with every grace of form, and the utmost firmness and intrepidity of spirit. Dunstan immediately conceived a jealousy of these qualities, and took an early opportunity to endeavour to disarm them. Edwy entertained a passion for a princess of the royal house, and even proceeded to marry her, though within the degrees forbidden by the canon law. The rest of the story exhibits a lively picture of the manners of these barbarous times. Odo, archbishop of Canterbury, the obedient tool of Dunstan, on the day of the coronation obtruded himself with his abettor into the private apartment, to which the king had retired with his queen, only accompanied by her mother; and here the ambitious abbot, after loading Edwy with the bitterest reproaches for his shameless sensuality, thrust him back by main force into the hall, where the nobles of the kingdom were still engaged at their banquet. The spirited young prince conceived a deep resentment of this unworthy treatment, and, seizing an opportunity, called Dunstan to account for malversation in the treasury during the late king's life-time. The priest refused to answer; and the issue was that he was banished the realm. But he left behind him a faithful and implicit coadjutor in archbishop Odo. This prelate is said actually to have forced his way with a party of soldiers into the palace, and, having seized the queen, barbarously to have seared her cheeks with a red-hot iron, and sent her off a prisoner to Ireland. He then proceeded to institute all the forms of a divorce, to which the unhappy king was obliged to submit. Meanwhile the queen, having recovered her beauty, found means to escape, and, crossing the Channel, hastened to join her husband. But here again the priests manifested the same activity as before. They intercepted the queen in her journey, and by the most cruel means undertook to make her a cripple for life. The princess however sunk under the experiment, and ended her existence and her woes together. A rebellion was now excited against the sacrilegious Edwy; and the whole north of England, having rebelled, was placed under the dominion of his brother, a boy of thirteen years of age. In the midst of these adventures Dunstan returned from the continent, and fearlessly shewed himself in his native country. His party was every where triumphant; Odo being dead, he was installed archbishop of Canterbury, and Edwy, oppressed with calamity on every side, sunk to an untimely grave. The rest of the life of Dunstan was passed in comparatively tranquillity. He made and unmade kings as he pleased. Edgar, the successor of Edwy, discovered the happy medium of energy and authority as a sovereign, combined with a disposition to indulge the ambitious policy of the priesthood. He was licentious in his amours, without losing a particle of his ascendancy as a sovereign. He however reigned only a few years; but Dunstan at his death found means to place his eldest son on the throne under his special protection, in defiance of the intrigues of the ambitious Elfrida, the king's second wife, who moved heaven and earth to cause the crown to descend upon her own son, as yet comparatively an infant. In this narrative we are presented with a lively picture of the means by which ambition climbed to its purposes in the darkness of the tenth century. Dunstan was enriched with all those endowments which might seem in any age to lead to the highest distinction. Yet it would appear to have been in vain that he was thus qualified, if he had not stooped to arts that fell in with the gross prejudices of his contemporaries. He had continual recourse to the aid of miracles. He gave into practices of the most rigorous mortification. He studied, and excelled in, all the learning and arts that were then known. But his main dependence was on the art of magic. The story of his taking the devil by the nose with a pair of red-hot tongs, seems to have been of greater service to him than any other single adventure of his life. In other times he might have succeeded in the schemes of his political ambition by seemly and specious means. But it was necessary for him in the times in which he lived, to proceed with eclat, and in a way that should confound all opposers. The utmost resolution was required to overwhelm those who might otherwise have been prompted to contend against him. Hence it appears that he took a right measure of the understanding of his contemporaries, when he dragged the young king from the scene of his retirement, and brought him back by force into the assembly of the nobles. And the inconceivable barbarity practised to the queen, which would have rendered his name horrible in a more civilised age, was exactly calculated to overwhelm the feelings and subject the understandings of the men among whom he lived. The great quality by which he was distinguished was confidence, a frame of behaviour which shewed that he acted from the fullest conviction, and never doubted that his proceedings had the immediate approbation of heaven. COMMUNICATION OF EUROPE AND THE SARACENS It appears to have been about the close of the tenth century that the more curious and inquisitive spirits of Europe first had recourse to the East as a source of such information and art, as they found most glaringly deficient among their countrymen. We have seen that in Persia there was an uninterrupted succession of professors in the art of magic: and, when the followers of Mahomet by their prowess had gained the superiority over the greater part of Asia, over all that was known of Africa, and a considerable tract of Europe, they gradually became awake to the desire of cultivating the sciences, and in particular of making themselves masters of whatever was most liberal and eminent among the disciples of Zoroaster. To this they added a curiosity respecting Greek learning, especially as it related to medicine and the investigation of the powers of physical nature. Bagdad became an eminent seat of learning; and perhaps, next to Bagdad, Spain under the Saracens, or Moors, was a principal abode for the professors of ingenuity and literature. GERBERT, POPE SILVESTER II. As a consequence of this state of things the more curious men of Europe by degrees adopted the practice of resorting to Spain for the purpose of enlarging their sphere of observation and knowledge. Among others Gerbert is reported to have been the first of the Christian clergy, who strung themselves up to the resolution of mixing with the followers of Mahomet, that they might learn from thence things, the knowledge of which it was impossible for them to obtain at home. This generous adventurer, prompted by an insatiable thirst for information, is said to have secretly withdrawn himself from his monastery of Fleury in Burgundy, and to have spent several years among the Saracens of Cordova. Here he acquired a knowledge of the language and learning of the Arabians, particularly of their astronomy, geometry and arithmetic; and he is understood to have been the first that imparted to the north and west of Europe a knowledge of the Arabic numerals, a science, which at first sight might be despised for its simplicity, but which in its consequences is no inconsiderable instrument in subtilising the powers of human intellect. He likewise introduced the use of clocks. He is also represented to have made an extraordinary proficiency in the art of magic; and among other things is said to have constructed a brazen head, which would answer when it was spoken to, and oracularly resolve many difficult questions. [151] The same historian assures us that Gerbert by the art of necromancy made various discoveries of hidden treasures, and relates in all its circumstances the spectacle of a magic palace he visited underground, with the multiplied splendours of an Arabian tale, but distinguished by this feature, that, though its magnificence was dazzling to the sight, it would not abide the test of feeling, but vanished into air, the moment it was attempted to be touched. It happened with Gerbert, as with St. Dunstan, that he united an aspiring mind and a boundless spirit of ambition, with the intellectual curiosity which has already been described. The first step that he made into public life and the career for which he panted, consisted in his being named preceptor, first to Robert, king of France, the son of Hugh Capet, and next to Otho the Third, emperor of Germany. Hugh Capet appointed him archbishop of Rheims; but, that dignity being disputed with him, he retired into Germany, and, becoming eminently a favourite with Otho the Third, he was by the influence of that prince raised, first to be archbishop of Ravenna, and afterwards to the papacy by the name of Silvester the Second. [152] Cardinal Benno, who was an adherent of the anti-popes, and for that reason is supposed to have calumniated Gerbert and several of his successors, affirms that he was habitually waited on by demons, that by their aid he obtained the papal crown, and that the devil to whom he had sold himself, faithfully promised him that he should live, till he had celebrated high mass at Jerusalem. This however was merely a juggle of the evil spirit; and Gerbert actually died, shortly after having officially dispensed the sacrament at the church of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem, which is one of the seven districts of the city of Rome. This event occurred in the year 1008. [153] BENEDICT THE NINTH. According to the same authority sorcery was at this time extensively practised by some of the highest dignitaries of the church, and five or six popes in succession were notorious for these sacrilegious practices. About the same period the papal chair was at its lowest state of degradation; this dignity was repeatedly exposed for sale; and the reign of Gerbert, a man of consummate abilities and attainments, is almost the only redeeming feature in the century in which he lived. At length the tiara became the purchase of an ambitious family, which had already furnished two popes, in behalf of a boy of twelve years of age, who reigned by the name of Benedict the Ninth. This youth, as he grew up, contaminated his rule with every kind of profligacy and debauchery. But even he, according to Benno, was a pupil in the school of Silvester, and became no mean proficient in the arts of sorcery. Among other things he caused the matrons of Rome by his incantations to follow him in troops among woods and mountains, being bewitched and their souls subdued by the irresistible charms of his magic. [154] GREGORY THE SEVENTH. Benno presents us with a regular catalogue of the ecclesiastical sorcerers of this period: Benedict the Ninth, and Laurence, archbishop of Melfi, (each of whom, he says, learned the art of Silvester), John XX and Gregory VI. But his most vehement accusations are directed against Gregory VII, who, he affirms, was in the early part of his career, the constant companion and assistant of these dignitaries in unlawful practices of this sort. Gregory VII, whose original name was Hildebrand, is one of the great champions of the Romish church, and did more than any other man to establish the law of the celibacy of the clergy, and to take the patronage of ecclesiastical dignities out of the hands of the laity. He was eminently qualified for this undertaking by the severity of his manners, and the inflexibility of his resolution to accomplish whatever he undertook. His great adversary was Henry the Fourth, emperor of Germany, a young prince of high spirit, and at that time (1075) twenty-four years of age. Gregory sent to summon him to Rome, to answer an accusation, that he, as all his predecessors had done, being a layman, had conferred ecclesiastical dignities. Henry refused submission, and was immediately declared excommunicated. In retaliation for this offence, the emperor, it is said, gave his orders to a chief of brigands, who, watching his opportunity, seized the pope in the act of saying mass in one of the churches of Rome, and carried him prisoner to a tower in the city which was in the possession of this adventurer. But no sooner was this known, than the citizens of Rome, rose _en masse_, and rescued their spiritual father. Meanwhile Henry, to follow up his blow, assembled a synod at Worms, who pronounced on the pope, that for manifold crimes he was fallen from his supreme dignity, and accordingly fulminated a decree of deposition against him. But Henry had no forces to carry this decree into execution; and Gregory on his side emitted a sentence of degradation against the emperor, commanding the Germans to elect a new emperor in his place. It then became evident that, in this age of ignorance and religious subjugation, the spiritual arm, at least in Germany, was more powerful than the temporal; and Henry, having maturely considered the perils that surrounded him, took the resolution to pass the Alps with a few domestics only, and, repairing to the presence of the pope, submit himself to such penance as the pontiff should impose. Gregory was at this time at Canosa, a fortress beyond Naples, which was surrounded with three walls. Henry, without any attendant, was admitted within the first wall. Here he was required to cast off all the symbols of royalty, to put on a hair-shirt, and to wait barefoot his holiness's pleasure. He stood accordingly, fasting from morn to eve, without receiving the smallest notice from the pontiff. It was in the month of January. He passed through the same trial the second day, and the third. On the fourth day in the morning he was admitted to the presence of the holy father. They parted however more irreconcileable in heart than ever, though each preserved the appearance of good will. The pope insisted that Henry should abide the issue of the congress in Germany, of which he constituted himself president; and the emperor, exasperated at the treatment he had received, resolved to keep no terms with Gregory. Henry proceeded to the election of an anti-pope, Clement the Third, and Gregory patronised a new emperor, Rodolph, duke of Suabia. Henry had however generally been successful in his military enterprises; and he defeated Rodolph in two battles, in the last of which his opponent was slain. In the synod of Brixen, in which Clement the Third was elected, Gregory was sentenced as a magician and a necromancer. The emperor, puffed up with his victories, marched against Rome, and took it, with the exception of the castle of St. Angelo, in which the pope shut himself up; and in the mean time Henry caused the anti-pope, his creature, to be solemnly inaugurated in the church of the Lateran. Gregory however, never dismayed, and never at an end of his expedients, called in the Normans, who had recently distinguished themselves by their victories in Naples and Sicily. Robert Guiscard, a Norman chieftain, drove the Germans out of Rome; but, some altercations ensuing between the pontiff and his deliverer, the city was given up to pillage, and Gregory was glad to take refuge in Salerno, the capital of his Norman ally, where he shortly after expired, an exile and a fugitive. Gregory was no doubt a man of extraordinary resources and invincible courage. He did not live to witness the triumph of his policy; but his projects for the exaltation of the church finally met with every success his most sanguine wishes could have aspired to. In addition to all the rest it happened, that the countess Matilda, a princess who in her own right possessed extensive sovereignties in Italy, nearly commensurate with what has since been styled the ecclesiastical state, transferred to the pope in her life-time, and confirmed by her testament, all these territories, thus mainly contributing to render him and his successors so considerable as temporal princes, as since that time they have appeared. It is, however, as a sorcerer, that Gregory VII (Hildebrand) finds a place in this volume. Benno relates that, coming one day from his Alban villa, he found, just as he was entering the church of the Lateran, that he had left behind him his magical book, which he was ascustomed to carry about his person. He immediately sent two trusty servants to fetch it, at the same time threatening them most fearfully if they should attempt to look into the volume. Curiosity however got the better of their fear. They opened the book, and began to read; when presently a number of devils appeared, saying, "We are come to obey your commands, but, if we find ourselves trifled with, we shall certainly fall upon and destroy you." The servants, exceedingly terrified, replied, "Our will is that you should immediately throw down so much of the wall of the city as is now before us." The devils obeyed; and the servants escaped the danger that hung over them. [155] It is further said, that Gregory was so expert in the arts of magic, that he would throw out lightning by shaking his arm, and dart thunder from his sleeve. [156] But the most conspicuous circumstance in the life of Gregory that has been made the foundation of a charge of necromancy against him, is that, when Rodolph marched against Henry IV, the pope was so confident of his success, as to venture publicly to prophesy, both in speech and in writing, that his adversary should be conquered and perish in this campaign. "Nay," he added, "this prophecy shall be accomplished before St. Peter's day; nor do I desire any longer to be acknowledged for pope, than on the condition that this comes to pass." It is added, that Rodolph, relying on the prediction, six times renewed the battle, in which finally he perished instead of his competitor. But this does not go far enough to substantiate a charge of necromancy. It is further remarked, that Gregory was deep in the pretended science of judicial astrology; and this, without its being necessary to have recourse to the solution of diabolical aid, may sufficiently account for the undoubting certainty with which he counted on the event. In the mean time this statement is of great importance, as illustrative of the spirit of the times in general, and the character of Gregory in particular. Rodolph, the competitor for the empire, has his mind wrought up to such a pitch by this prophetic assurance, that, five times repulsed, he yet led on his forces a sixth time, and perished the victim of his faith. Nor were his followers less animated than he, and from the same cause. We see also from the same story, that Gregory was not an artful and crafty impostor, but a man spurred on by a genuine enthusiasm. And this indeed is necessary to account for the whole of his conduct. The audacity with which he opposed the claims of Henry, and the unheard-of severity with which he treated him at the fortress of Canosa, are to be referred to the same feature of character. Invincible perseverance, when united with great resources of intellect and a lofty spirit, will enable a man thoroughly to effect, what a person of inferior endowments would not have dared so much as to dream of. And Gregory, like St. Dunstan, achieved incredible things, by skilfully adapting himself to circumstances, and taking advantage of the temper and weakness of his contemporaries. DUFF, KING OF SCOTLAND. It is not to be wondered at, when such things occurred in Italy, the principal seat of all the learning and refinement then existing in Europe, that the extreme northerly and western districts should have been given up to the blindest superstition. Among other instances we have the following account in relation to Duff, king of Scotland, who came to the crown about the year 968. He found his kingdom in the greatest disorder from numerous bands of robbers, many of whom were persons of high descent, but of no competent means of subsistence. Duff resolved to put an end to their depredations, and to secure those who sought a quiet support from cultivating the fruits of the earth from forcible invasion. He executed the law against these disturbers without respect of persons, and hence made himself many and powerful enemies. In the midst of his activity however he suddenly fell sick, and became confined to his bed. His physicians could no way account for his distemper. They found no excess of any humour in his body to which they could attribute his illness; his colour was fresh, and his eyes lively; and he had a moderate and healthful appetite. But with all this he was a total stranger to sleep; he burst out into immoderate perspirations; and there was scarcely any thing that remained of him, but skin and bone. In the meantime secret information was brought that all this evil was the result of witchcraft. And, the house being pointed out in which the sorcerers held their sabbath, a band of soldiers was sent to surprise them. The doors being burst open, they found one woman roasting upon a spit by the fire a waxen image of the king, so like in every feature, that no doubt was entertained that it was modelled by the art of the devil, while another sat by, busily engaged in reciting certain verses of enchantment, by which means, as the wax melted, the king was consumed with perspiration, and, as soon as it was utterly dissolved, his death should immediately follow. The witches were seized, and from their own confession burned alive. The image was broken to pieces, and every fragment of it destroyed. And no sooner was this effected, than Duff had all that night the most refreshing and healthful sleep, and the next day rose without any remains of his infirmity. [157] This reprieve however availed him but for a short time. He was no sooner recovered, than he occupied himself as before with pursuing the outlaws, whom he brought indiscriminately to condign punishment. Among these there chanced to be two young men, near relations of the governor of the castle of Fores, who had hitherto been the king's most faithful adherents. These young men had been deluded by ill company: and the governor most earnestly sued to Duff for their pardon. But the king was inexorable. Meanwhile, as he had always placed the most entire trust in their father, he continued to do so without the smallest suspicion. The night after the execution, the king slept in the castle of Fores, as he had often done before; but the governor, conceiving the utmost rancour at the repulse he had sustained, and moreover instigated by his wife, in the middle of the night murdered Duff in his bed, as he slept. His reign lasted only four years. [158] MACBETH. The seventh king of Scotland after Duff, with an interval of sixty-eight years, was Macbeth. The historian begins his tale of witchcraft, towards the end of the reign of Duncan, his predecessor, with observing, "Shortly after happened a strange and uncouth wonder, which afterward was the cause of much trouble in the realm of Scotland. It fortuned, as Macbeth and Banquo journeyed towards Fores, where the king as then lay, they went sporting by the way together, without other company save only themselves, passing through the woods and fields, when suddenly, in the midst of a laund, there met them three women in strange and ferly apparel, resembling creatures of an elder world, whom when they attentively beheld, wondering much at the sight, the first of them spake and said, All hail, Macbeth, thane of Glamis (for he had lately entered into that dignity and office by the death of his father Synel). The second of them said, Hail, Macbeth, thane of Cawdor. But the third said, All hail, Macbeth, that hereafter shall be king of Scotland. Then Banquo, What sort of women, said he, are you, that seem so little favourable unto me, whereas to my fellow here, besides high offices, ye assign also the kingdom, appointing forth nothing for me at all? Yes, saith the first of them, we promise greater benefits unto thee than unto him, for he shall reign indeed, but with an unlucky end, neither shall he leave any issue behind him to succeed in his place; where contrarily thou indeed shall not reign at all, but of thee those shall be born, which shall govern the Scottish kingdom by long order of continual descent. Herewith the foresaid women vanished immediately out of their sight. "This was reputed at the first but some vain fantastical illusion by Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that Banquo would call Macbeth in jest king of Scotland, and Macbeth again would call him in sport likewise the father of many kings. But afterwards the common opinion was, that these women were either the weird sisters, that is (as you would say) the goddesses of destiny, or else some nymphs or fairies, endued with knowledge of prophecy by their necromantical science, because every thing came to pass as they had spoken. "For shortly after, the thane of Cawdor, being condemned at Fores of treason against the king committed, his lands, livings and offices were given of the king's liberality unto Macbeth." [159] Malcolm, the preceding king of Scotland, had two daughters, one of them the mother of Duncan, and the other of Macbeth; and in virtue of this descent Duncan succeeded to the crown. The accession of Macbeth therefore was not very remote, if he survived the present king. Of consequence Macbeth, though he thought much of the prediction of the weird sisters, yet resolved to wait his time, thinking that, as had happened in his former preferment, this might come to pass without his aid. But Duncan had two sons, Malcolm Cammore and Donald Bane. The law of succession in Scotland was, that, if at the death of the reigning sovereign he that should succeed were not of sufficient age to take on him the government, he that was next of blood to him should be admitted. Duncan however at this juncture created his eldest son Malcolm prince of Cumberland, a title which was considered as designating him heir to the throne. Macbeth was greatly troubled at this, as cutting off the expectation he thought he had a right to entertain: and, the words of the weird sisters still ringing in his ears, and his wife with ambitious speeches urging him to the deed, he, in conjunction with some trusty friends, among whom was Banquo, came to a resolution to kill the king at Inverness. The deed being perpetrated, Malcolm, the eldest son of Duncan, fled for safety into Cumberland, and Donald, the second, into Ireland. [160] Macbeth, who became king of Scotland in the year 1010, reigned for ten years with great popularity and applause, but at the end of that time changed his manner of government, and became a tyrant. His first action in this character was against Banquo. He remembered that the weird sisters had promised to Banquo that he should be father to a line of kings. Haunted with this recollection, Macbeth invited Banquo and his son Fleance to a supper, and appointed assassins to murder them both on their return. Banquo was slain accordingly; but Fleance, under favour of the darkness of the night, escaped. [161] This murder brought Macbeth into great odium, since every man began to doubt of the security of his life, and Macbeth at the same time to fear the ill will of his subjects. He therefore proceeded to destroy all against whom he entertained any suspicion, and every day more and more to steep his hands in blood. Further to secure himself, he built a castle on the top of a high hill, called Dunsinnan, which was placed on such an elevation, that it seemed impossible to approach it in a hostile manner. This work he carried on by means of requiring the thanes of the kingdom, each one in turn, to come with a set of workmen to help forward the edifice. When it came to the turn of Macduff, thane of Fife, he sent workmen, but did not come himself, as the others had done. Macbeth from that time regarded Macduff with an eye of perpetual suspicion. [162] Meanwhile Macbeth, remembering that the origin of his present greatness consisted in the prophecy of the weird sisters, addicted himself continually to the consulting of wizards. Those he consulted gave him a pointed warning to take heed of Macduff, who in time to come would seek to destroy him. This warning would unquestionably have proved fatal to Macduff; had not on the other hand Macbeth been buoyed up in security, by the prediction of a certain witch in whom he had great trust, that he should never be vanquished till the wood of Bernane came to the castle of Dunsinnan, and that he should not be slain by any man that was born of a woman; both which he judged to be impossibilities. [163] This vain confidence however urged him to do many outrageous things; at the same time that such was his perpetual uneasiness of mind, that in every nobleman's house he had one servant or another in fee, that he might be acquainted with every thing that was said or meditated against him. About this time Macduff fled to Malcolm, who had now taken refuge in the court of Edward the Confessor; and Macbeth came with a strong party into Fife with the purpose of surprising him. The master being safe, those within Macduff's castle threw open the gates, thinking that no mischief would result from receiving the king. But Macbeth, irritated that he missed of his prey, caused Macduff's wife and children, and all persons who were found within the castle, to be slain. [164] Shortly after, Malcolm and Macduff, reinforced by ten thousand English under the command of Seyward, earl of Northumberland, marched into Scotland. The subjects of Macbeth stole away daily from him to join the invaders; but he had such confidence in the predictions that had been delivered to him, that he still believed he should never be vanquished. Malcolm meanwhile, as he approached to the castle of Dunsinnan, commanded his men to cut down, each of them, a bough from the wood of Bernane, as large as he could bear, that they might take the tyrant the more by surprise. Macbeth saw, and thought the wood approached him; but he remembered the prophecy, and led forth and marshalled his men. When however the enemy threw down their boughs, and their formidable numbers stood revealed, Macbeth and his forces immediately betook themselves to flight. Macduff pursued him, and was hard at his heels, when the tyrant turned his horse, and exclaimed, "Why dost thou follow me? Know, that it is ordained that no creature born of a woman can ever overcome me." Macduff instantly retorted, "I am the man appointed to slay thee. I was not born of a woman, but was untimely ripped from my mother's womb." And, saying this, he killed him on the spot. Macbeth reigned in the whole seventeen years. [165] VIRGIL. One of the most curious particulars, and which cannot be omitted in a history of sorcery, is the various achievements in the art of magic which have been related of the poet Virgil. I bring them in here, because they cannot be traced further back than the eleventh or twelfth century. The burial-place of this illustrious man was at Pausilippo, near Naples; the Neapolitans had for many centuries cherished a peculiar reverence for his memory; and it has been supposed that the old ballads, and songs of the minstrels of the north of Italy, first originated this idea respecting him. [166] The vulgar of this city, full of imagination and poetry, conceived the idea of treating him as the guardian genius of the place; and, in bodying forth this conception, they represented him in his life-time as gifted with supernatural powers, which he employed in various ways for the advantage of a city that he so dearly loved. Be this as it will, it appears that Gervais of Tilbury, chancellor to Otho the Fourth, emperor of Germany, Helinandus, a Cisterian monk, and Alexander Neckam, all of whom lived about this time, first recorded these particulars in their works. They tell us, that Virgil placed a fly of brass over one of the gates of the city, which, as long as it continued there, that is, for a space of eight years, had the virtue of keeping Naples clear from moskitoes and all noxious insects: that he built a set of shambles, the meat in which was at all times free from putrefaction: that he placed two images over the gates of the city, one of which was named Joyful, and the other Sad, one of resplendent beauty, and the other hideous and deformed, and that whoever entered the town under the former image would succeed in all his undertakings, and under the latter would as certainly miscarry: that he caused a brazen statue to be erected on a mountain near Naples, with a trumpet in his mouth, which when the north wind blew, sounded so shrill as to drive to the sea the fire and smoke which issued from the neighbouring forges of Vulcan: that he built different baths at Naples, specifically prepared for the cure of every disease, which were afterwards demolished by the malice of the physicians: and that he lighted a perpetual fire for the refreshment of all travellers, close to which he placed an archer of brass, with his bow bent, and this inscription, "Whoever strikes me, I will let fly my arrow:" that a fool-hardy fellow notwithstanding struck the statue, when the arrow was immediately shot into the fire, and the fire was extinguished. It is added, that, Naples being infested with a vast multitude of contagious leeches, Virgil made a leech of gold, which he threw into a pit, and so delivered the city from the infection: that he surrounded his garden with a wall of air, within which the rain never fell: that he built a bridge of brass that would transport him wherever he pleased: that he made a set of statues, which were named the salvation of Rome, which had the property that, if any one of the subject nations prepared to revolt, the statue, which bore the name of, and was adored by that nation, rung a bell, and pointed with its finger in the direction of the danger: that he made a head, which had the virtue of predicting things future: and lastly, amidst a world of other wonders, that he cut a subterranean passage through mount Pausilippo, that travellers might pass with perfect safety, the mountain having before been so infested with serpents and dragons, that no one could venture to cross it. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. The most eminent person next, after popes Silvester II and Gregory VII, who labours under the imputation of magic, is Robert Grossetête, or Robert of Lincoln, appointed bishop of that see in the year 1235. He was, like those that have previously been mentioned, a man of the most transcendant powers of mind, and extraordinary acquirements. His parents are said to have been so poor, that he was compelled, when a boy, to engage in the meanest offices for bread, and even to beg on the highway. At length the mayor of Lincoln, struck with his appearance, and the quickness of his answers to such questions as were proposed to him, took him into his family, and put him to school. Here his ardent love of learning, and admirable capacity for acquiring it, soon procured him many patrons, by whose assistance he was enabled to prosecute his studies, first at Cambridge, afterwards at Oxford, and finally at Paris. He was master of the Greek and Hebrew languages, then very rare accomplishments; and is pronounced by Roger Bacon, a very competent judge, of whom we shall presently have occasion to speak, to have spent much of his time, for nearly forty years, in the study of geometry, astronomy, optics, and other branches of mathematical learning, in all of which he much excelled. So that, as we are informed from the same authority, this same Robert of Lincoln, and his friend, Friar Adam de Marisco, were the two most learned men in the world, and excelled the rest of mankind in both human and divine knowledge. This great man especially distinguished himself by his firm and undaunted opposition to the corruptions of the court of Rome. Pope Innocent IV, who filled the papal chair upwards of eleven years, from 1243 to 1254, appears to have exceeded all his predecessors in the shamelessness of his abuses. We are told, that the hierarchy of the church of England was overwhelmed like a flood with an inundation of foreign dignitaries, of whom not a few were mere boys, for the most part without learning, ignorant of the language of the island, and incapable of benefiting the people nominally under their care, the more especially as they continued to dwell in their own countries, and scarcely once in their lives visited the sees to which they had been appointed. [167] Grossetête lifted up his voice against these scandals. He said that it was impossible the genuine apostolic see, which received its authority from the Lord Jesus for edification, and not for destruction, could be guilty of such a crime, for that would forfeit all its glory, and plunge it into the pains of hell. He did not scruple therefore among his most intimate friends to pronounce the reigning pope to be the true Antichrist; and he addressed the pontiff himself in scarcely more measured terms. Among the other accomplishments of bishop Grossetête he is said to have been profoundly skilled in the art of magic: and the old poet Gower relates of him that he made a head of brass, expressly constructed in such a manner as to be able to answer such questions as were propounded to it, and to foretel future events. MICHAEL SCOT. Michael Scot of Balwirie in the county of Fife, was nearly contemporary with bishop Grossetête. He was eminent for his knowledge of the Greek and Arabic languages. He was patronised by the emperor Frederic II, who encouraged him to undertake a translation of the works of Aristotle into Latin. He addicted himself to astrology, chemistry, and the still more frivolous sciences of chiromancy and physiognomy. It does not appear that he made any pretences to magic; but the vulgar, we are told, generally regarded him as a sorcerer, and are said to have carried their superstition so far as to have conceived a terror of so much as touching his works. THE DEAN OF BADAJOZ. There is a story related by this accomplished scholar, in a collection of aphorisms and anecdotes entitled _Mensa Philosophica_, which deserves to be cited as illustrating the ideas then current on the subject of sorcery. A certain great necromancer, or nigromancer, had once a pupil of considerable rank, who professed himself extremely desirous for once to have the gratification of believing himself an emperor. The necromancer, tired with his importunities, at length assented to his prayer. He took measures accordingly, and by his potent art caused his scholar to believe that one province and dignity fell to him after another, till at length his utmost desires became satisfied. The magician however appeared to be still at his elbow; and one day, when the scholar was in the highest exultation at his good fortune, the master humbly requested him to bestow upon him some landed possession, as a reward for the extraordinary benefit he had conferred. The imaginary emperor cast upon the necromancer a glance of the utmost disdain and contempt. "Who are you?" said he, "I really have not the smallest acquaintance with you." "I am he," replied the magician, with withering severity of countenance and tone, "that gave you all these things, and will take them away." And, saying this, the illusion with which the poor scholar had been inebriated, immediately vanished; and he became what he had before been, and no more. The story thus briefly told by Michael Scot, afterwards passed through many hands, and was greatly dilated. In its last form by the abbé Blanchet, it constituted the well known and agreeable tale of the dean of Badajoz. This reverend divine comes to a sorcerer, and intreats a specimen of his art. The magician replies that he had met with so many specimens of ingratitude, that he was resolved to be deluded no more. The dean persists, and at length overcomes the reluctance of the master. He invites his guest into the parlour, and orders his cook to put two partridges to the fire, for that the dean of Badajoz will sup with him. Presently he begins his incantations; and the dean becomes in imagination by turns a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope. The magician then claims his reward. Meanwhile the dean, inflated with his supposed elevation, turns to his benefactor, and says, "I have learned with grief that, under pretence of secret science, you correspond with the prince of darkness. I command you to repent and abjure; and in the mean time I order you to quit the territory of the church in three days, under pain of being delivered to the secular arm, and the rigour of the flames." The sorcerer, having been thus treated, presently dissolves the incantation, and calls aloud to his cook, "Put down but one partridge, the dean of Badajoz does not sup with me to-night." MIRACLE OF THE TUB OF WATER. This story affords an additional example of the affinity between the ancient Asiatic and European legends, so as to convince us that it is nearly impossible that the one should not be in some way borrowed from the other. There is, in a compilation called the Turkish Tales, a story of an infidel sultan of Egypt, who took the liberty before a learned Mahometan doctor, of ridiculing some of the miracles ascribed to the prophet, as for example his transportation into the seventh heaven, and having ninety thousand conferences with God, while in the mean time a pitcher of water, which had been thrown down in the first step of his ascent, was found with the water not all spilled at his return. The doctor, who had the gift of working miracles, told the sultan that, with his consent, he would give him a practical proof of the possibility of the circumstance related of Mahomet. The sultan agreed. The doctor therefore directed that a huge tub of water should be brought in, and, while the prince stood before it with his courtiers around, the holy man bade him plunge his head into the water, and draw it out again. The sultan immersed his head, and had no sooner done so, than he found himself alone at the foot of a mountain on a desert shore. The prince first began to rave against the doctor for this piece of treachery and witchcraft. Perceiving however that all his rage was vain, and submitting himself to the imperiousness of his situation, he began to seek for some habitable tract. By and by he discovered people cutting down wood in a forest, and, having no remedy, he was glad to have recourse to the same employment. In process of time he was brought to a town; and there by great good fortune, after other adventures, he married a woman of beauty and wealth, and lived long enough with her, for her to bear him seven sons and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced to want, so as to be obliged to ply in the streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day, as he walked alone on the sea-shore, ruminating on his hard fate, he was seized with a fit of devotion, and threw off his clothes, that he might wash himself, agreeably to the Mahometan custom, previously to saying his prayers. He had no sooner however plunged into the sea, and raised his head again above water, than he found himself standing by the side of the tub that had been brought in, with all the great persons of his court round him, and the holy man close at his side. He found that the long series of imaginary adventures he had passed through, had in reality occupied but one minute of time. INSTITUTION OF FRIARS. About this time a great revolution took place in the state of literature in Europe. The monks, who at one period considerably contributed to preserve the monuments of ancient learning, memorably fell off in reputation and industry. Their communities by the donations of the pious grew wealthy; and the monks themselves inhabited splendid palaces, and became luxurious, dissipated and idle. Upon the ruins of their good fame rose a very extraordinary race of men, called Friars. The monks professed celibacy, and to have no individual property; but the friars abjured all property, both private and in common. They had no place where to lay their heads, and subsisted as mendicants upon the alms of their contemporaries. They did not hide themselves in refectories and dormitories, but lived perpetually before the public. In the sequel indeed they built Friaries for their residence; but these were no less distinguished for the simplicity and humbleness of their appearance, than the monasteries were for their grandeur and almost regal magnificence. The Friars were incessant in preaching and praying, voluntarily exposed themselves to the severest hardships, and were distinguished by a fervour of devotion and charitable activity that knew no bounds. We might figure them to ourselves as swallowed up in these duties. But they added to their merits an incessant earnestness in learning and science. A new era in intellect and subtlety of mind began with them; and a set of the most wonderful men in depth of application, logical acuteness, and discoveries in science distinguished this period. They were few indeed, in comparison of the world of ignorance that every where surrounded them; but they were for that reason only the more conspicuous. They divided themselves principally into two orders, the Dominicans and Franciscans. And all that was most illustrious in intellect at this period belonged either to the one or the other. ALBERTUS MAGNUS. Albertus Magnus, a Dominican, was one of the most famous of these. He was born according to some accounts in the year 1193, and according to others in 1205. It is reported of him, that he was naturally very dull, and so incapable of instruction, that he was on the point of quitting the cloister from despair of learning what his vocation required, when the blessed virgin appeared to him in a vision, and enquired of him in which he desired to excel, philosophy or divinity. He chose philosophy; and the virgin assured him that he should become incomparable in that, but, as a punishment for not having chosen divinity, he should sink, before he died, into his former stupidity. It is added that, after this apparition, he had an infinite deal of wit, and advanced in science with so rapid a progress as utterly to astonish the masters. He afterwards became bishop of Ratisbon. It is related of Albertus, that he made an entire man of brass, putting together its limbs under various constellations, and occupying no less than thirty years in its formation. This man would answer all sorts of questions, and was even employed by its maker as a domestic. But what is more extraordinary, this machine is said to have become at length so garrulous, that Thomas Aquinas, being a pupil of Albertus, and finding himself perpetually disturbed in his abstrusest speculations by its uncontrolable loquacity, in a rage caught up a hammer, and beat it to pieces. According to other accounts the man of Albertus Magnus was composed, not of metal, but of flesh and bones like other men; but this being afterwards judged to be impossible, and the virtue of images, rings, and planetary sigils being in great vogue, it was conceived that this figure was formed of brass, and indebted for its virtue to certain conjunctions and aspects of the planets. [168] A further extraordinary story is told of Albertus Magnus, well calculated to exemplify the ideas of magic with which these ages abounded. William, earl of Holland, and king of the Romans, was expected at a certain time to pass through Cologne. Albertus had set his heart upon obtaining from this prince the cession of a certain tract of land upon which to erect a convent. The better to succeed in his application he conceived the following scheme. He invited the prince on his journey to partake of a magnificent entertainment. To the surprise of every body, when the prince arrived, he found the preparations for the banquet spread in the open air. It was in the depth of winter, when the earth was bound up in frost, and the whole face of things was covered with snow. The attendants of the court were mortified, and began to express their discontent in loud murmurs. No sooner however was the king with Albertus and his courtiers seated at table, than the snow instantly disappeared, the temperature of summer shewed itself, and the sun burst forth with a dazzling splendour. The ground became covered with the richest verdure; the trees were clothed at once with foliage, flowers and fruits: and a vintage of the richest grapes, accompanied with a ravishing odour, invited the spectators to partake. A thousand birds sang on every branch. A train of pages shewed themselves, fresh and graceful in person and attire, and were ready diligently to supply the wants of all, while every one was struck with astonishment as to who they were and from whence they came. The guests were obliged to throw off their upper garments the better to cool themselves. The whole assembly was delighted with their entertainment, and Albertus easily gained his suit of the king. Presently after, the banquet disappeared; all was wintry and solitary as before; the snow lay thick upon the ground; and the guests in all haste snatched up the garments they had laid aside, and hurried into the apartments, that by numerous fires on the blazing hearth they might counteract the dangerous chill which threatened to seize on their limbs. [169] ROGER BACON. Roger Bacon, of whom extraordinary stories of magic have been told, and who was about twenty years younger than Albertus, was one of the rarest geniuses that have existed on earth. He was a Franciscan friar. He wrote grammars of the Latin, Greek and Hebrew languages. He was profound in the science of optics. He explained the nature of burning-glasses, and of glasses which magnify and diminish, the microscope and the telescope. He discovered the composition of gunpowder. He ascertained the true length of the solar year; and his theory was afterwards brought into general use, but upon a narrow scale, by Pope Gregory XIII, nearly three hundred years after his death. [170] But for all these discoveries he underwent a series of the most bitter persecutions. It was imputed to him by the superiors of his order that the improvements he suggested in natural philosophy were the effects of magic, and were suggested to him through an intercourse with infernal spirits. They forbade him to communicate any of his speculations. They wasted his frame with rigorous fasting, often restricting him to a diet of bread and water, and prohibited all strangers to have access to him. Yet he went on indefatigably in pursuit of the secrets of nature. [171] At length Clement IV, to whom he appealed, procured him a considerable degree of liberty. But, after the death of that pontiff, he was again put under confinement, and continued in that state for a further period of ten years. He was liberated but a short time before his death. Freind says, [172] that, among other ingenious contrivances, he put statues in motion, and drew articulate sounds from a brazen head, not however by magic, but by an artificial application of the principles of natural philosophy. This probably furnished a foundation for the tale of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungy, which was one of the earliest productions to which the art of printing was applied in England. These two persons are said to have entertained the project of inclosing England with a wall, so as to render it inaccessible to any invader. They accordingly raised the devil, as the person best able to inform them how this was to be done. The devil advised them to make a brazen head, with all the internal structure and organs of a human head. The construction would cost them much time; and they must then wait with patience till the faculty of speech descended upon it. It would finally however become an oracle, and, if the question were propounded to it, would teach them the solution of their problem. The friars spent seven years in bringing the structure to perfection, and then waited day after day, in expectation that it would utter articulate sounds. At length nature became exhausted in them, and they lay down to sleep, having first given it strictly in charge to a servant of theirs, clownish in nature, but of strict fidelity, that he should awaken them the moment the image began to speak. That period arrived. The head uttered sounds, but such as the clown judged unworthy of notice. "Time is!" it said. No notice was taken; and a long pause ensued. "Time was!" A similar pause, and no notice. "Time is passed!" And the moment these words were uttered, a tremendous storm ensued, with thunder and lightning, and the head was shivered into a thousand pieces. Thus the experiment of friar Bacon and friar Bungy came to nothing. THOMAS AQUINAS. Thomas Aquinas, who has likewise been brought under the imputation of magic, was one of the profoundest scholars and subtlest logicians of his day. He also furnishes a remarkable instance of the ascendant which the friars at that time obtained over the minds of ingenuous young men smitten with the thirst of knowledge. He was a youth of illustrious birth, and received the rudiments of his education under the monks of Monte Cassino, and in the university of Naples. But, not contented with these advantages, he secretly entered himself into the society of Preaching Friars, or Dominicans, at seventeen years of age. His mother, being indignant that he should thus take the vow of poverty, and sequester himself from the world for life, employed every means in her power to induce him to alter his purpose, but in vain. The friars, to deliver him from her importunities, removed him from Naples to Terracina, from Terracina to Anagnia, and from Anagnia to Rome. His mother followed him in all these changes of residence, but was not permitted so much as to see him. At length she spirited up his two elder brothers to seize him by force. They waylaid him in his road to Paris, whither he was sent to complete his course of instruction, and carried him off to the castle of Aquino where he had been born. Here he was confined for two years; but he found a way to correspond with the superiors of his order, and finally escaped from a window in the castle. St. Thomas Aquinas (for he was canonised after his death) exceeded perhaps all men that ever existed in the severity and strictness of his metaphysical disquisitions, and thus acquired the name of the Seraphic Doctor. It was to be expected that a man, who thus immersed himself in the depths of thought, should be an inexorable enemy to noise and interruption. We have seen that he dashed to pieces the artificial man of brass, that Albertus Magnus, who was his tutor, had spent thirty years in bringing to perfection, being impelled to this violence by its perpetual and unceasing garrulity. [173] It is further said, that his study being placed in a great thoroughfare, where the grooms were all day long exercising their horses, he found it necessary to apply a remedy to this nuisance. He made by the laws of magic a small horse of brass, which he buried two or three feet under ground in the midst of this highway; and, having done so, no horse would any longer pass along the road. It was in vain that the grooms with whip and spur sought to conquer their repugnance. They were finally compelled to give up the attempt, and to choose another place for their daily exercise. [174] It has further been sought to fix the imputation of magic upon Thomas Aquinas by imputing to him certain books written on that science; but these are now acknowledged to be spurious. [175] PETER OF APONO. Peter of Apono, so called from a village of that name in the vicinity of Padua, where he was born in the year 1250, was an eminent philosopher, mathematician and astrologer, but especially excelled in physic. Finding that science at a low ebb in his native country, he resorted to Paris, where it especially flourished; and after a time returning home, exercised his art with extraordinary success, and by this means accumulated great wealth. But all his fame and attainments were poisoned to him by the accusation of magic. Among other things he was said to possess seven spirits, each of them inclosed in a crystal vessel, from whom he received every information he desired in the seven liberal arts. He was further reported to have had the extraordinary faculty of causing the money he expended in his disbursements, immediately to come back into his own purse. He was besides of a hasty and revengeful temper. In consequence of this it happened to him, that, having a neighbour, who had an admirable spring of water in his garden, and who was accustomed to suffer the physician to send for a daily supply, but who for some displeasure or inconvenience withdrew his permission, Peter d'Apono, by the aid of the devil, removed the spring from the garden in which it had flowed, and turned it to waste in the public street. For some of these accusations he was called to account by the tribunal of the inquisition. While he was upon his trial however, the unfortunate man died. But so unfavourable was the judgment of the inquisitors respecting him, that they decreed that his bones should be dug up, and publicly burned. Some of his friends got intimation of this, and saved him from the impending disgrace by removing his remains. Disappointed in this, the inquisitors proceeded to burn him in effigy. ENGLISH LAW OF HIGH TREASON. It may seem strange that in a treatise concerning necromancy we should have occasion to speak of the English law of high treason. But on reflection perhaps it may appear not altogether alien to the subject. This crime is ordinarily considered by our lawyers as limited and defined by the statute of 25 Edward III. As Blackstone has observed, "By the ancient common law there was a great latitude left in the breast of the judges, to determine what was treason, or not so: whereby the creatures of tyrannical power had opportunity to create abundance of constructive treasons; that is, to raise, by forced and arbitrary constructions, offences into the crime and punishment of treason, which were never suspected to be such. To prevent these inconveniences, the statute of 25 Edward III was made." [176] This statute divides treason into seven distinct branches; and the first and chief of these is, "when a man doth compass or imagine the death of our lord the king." Now the first circumstance that strikes us in this affair is, why the crime was not expressed in more perspicuous and appropriate language? Why, for example, was it not said, that the first and chief branch of treason was to "kill the king?" Or, if that limitation was not held to be sufficiently ample, could it not have been added, it is treason to "attempt, intend, or contrive to kill the king?" We are apt to make much too large an allowance for what is considered as the vague and obsolete language of our ancestors. Logic was the element in which the scholars of what are called the dark ages were especially at home. It was at that period that the description of human geniuses, called the Schoolmen, principally flourished. The writers who preceded the Christian era, possessed in an extraordinary degree the gift of imagination and invention. But they had little to boast on the score of arrangement, and discovered little skill in the strictness of an accurate deduction. Meanwhile the Schoolmen had a surprising subtlety in weaving the web of an argument, and arriving by a close deduction, through a multitude of steps, to a sound and irresistible conclusion. Our lawyers to a certain degree formed themselves on the discipline of the Schoolmen. Nothing can be more forcibly contrasted, than the mode of pleading among the ancients, and that which has characterised the processes of the moderns. The pleadings of the ancients were praxises of the art of oratorical persuasion; the pleadings of the moderns sometimes, though rarely, deviate into oratory, but principally consist in dextrous subtleties upon words, or a nice series of deductions, the whole contexture of which is endeavoured to be woven into one indissoluble substance. Several striking examples have been preserved of the mode of pleading in the reign of Edward II, in which the exceptions taken for the defendant, and the replies supporting the mode of proceeding on behalf of the plaintiff, in no respect fall short of the most admired shifts, quirks and subtleties of the great lawyers of later times. [177] It would be certainly wrong therefore to consider the legal phrase, to "compass or imagine the death of the king," as meaning the same thing as to "kill, or intend to kill" him. At all events we may take it for granted, that to "compass" does not mean to accomplish; but rather to "take in hand, to go about to effect." There is therefore no form of words here forbidding to "kill the king." The phrase, to "imagine," does not appear less startling. What is, to a proverb, more lawless than imagination? Evil into the mind of God or man May come and go, so unapproved, and leave No spot or blame behind. What can be more tyrannical, than an inquisition into the sports and freaks of fancy? What more unsusceptible of detection or evidence? How many imperceptible shades of distinction between the guilt and innocence that characterise them!--Meanwhile the force and propriety of these terms will strikingly appear, if we refer them to the popular ideas of witchcraft. Witches were understood to have the power of destroying life, without the necessity of approaching the person whose life was to be destroyed, or producing any consciousness in him of the crime about to be perpetrated. One method was by exposing an image of wax to the action of fire; while, in proportion as the image wasted away, the life of the individual who was the object contrived against, was undermined and destroyed. Another was by incantations and spells. Either of these might fitly be called the "compassing or imagining the death." Imagination is, beside this, the peculiar province of witchcraft. And in these pretended hags the faculty is no longer desultory and erratic. Conscious of their power, they are supposed to have subjected it to system and discipline. They apply its secret and trackless energy with an intentness and a vigour, which ordinary mortals may in vain attempt to emulate in an application of the force of inert matter, or of the different physical powers by means of which such stupendous effects have often been produced.--How universal and familiar then must we consider the ideas of witchcraft to have been before language which properly describes the secret practices of such persons, and is not appropriate to any other, could have been found to insinuate itself into the structure of the most solemn act of our legislature, that act which beyond all others was intended to narrow or shut out the subtle and dangerous inroads of arbitrary power! ZIITO. Very extraordinary things are related of Ziito, a sorcerer, in the court of Wenceslaus, king of Bohemia and afterwards emperor of Germany, in the latter part of the fourteenth century. This is perhaps, all things considered, the most wonderful specimen of magical power any where to be found. It is gravely recorded by Dubravius, bishop of Olmutz, in his History of Bohemia. It was publicly exhibited on occasion of the marriage of Wenceslaus with Sophia, daughter of the elector Palatine of Bavaria, before a vast assembled multitude. The father-in-law of the king, well aware of the bridegroom's known predilection for theatrical exhibitions and magical illusions, brought with him to Prague, the capital of Wenceslaus, a whole waggon-load of morrice-dancers and jugglers, who made their appearance among the royal retinue. Meanwhile Ziito, the favourite magician of the king, took his place obscurely among the ordinary spectators. He however immediately arrested the attention of the strangers, being remarked for his extraordinary deformity, and a mouth that stretched completely from ear to ear. Ziito was for some time engaged in quietly observing the tricks and sleights that were exhibited. At length, while the chief magician of the elector Palatine was still busily employed in shewing some of the most admired specimens of his art, the Bohemian, indignant at what appeared to him the bungling exhibitions of his brother-artist, came forward, and reproached him with the unskilfulness of his performances. The two professors presently fell into warm debate. Ziito, provoked at the insolence of his rival, made no more ado but swallowed him whole before the multitude, attired as he was, all but his shoes, which he objected to because they were dirty. He then retired for a short while to a closet, and presently returned, leading the magician along with him. Having thus disposed of his rival, Ziito proceeded to exhibit the wonders of his art. He shewed himself first in his proper shape, and then in those of different persons successively, with countenances and a stature totally dissimilar to his own; at one time splendidly attired in robes of purple and silk, and then in the twinkling of an eye in coarse linen and a clownish coat of frieze. He would proceed along the field with a smooth and undulating motion without changing the posture of a limb, for all the world as if he were carried along in a ship. He would keep pace with the king's chariot, in a car drawn by barn-door fowls. He also amused the king's guests as they sat at table, by causing, when they stretched out their hands to the different dishes, sometimes their hands to turn into the cloven feet of an ox, and at other times into the hoofs of a horse. He would clap on them the antlers of a deer, so that, when they put their heads out at window to see some sight that was going by, they could by no means draw them back again; while he in the mean time feasted on the savoury cates that had been spread before them, at his leisure. At one time he pretended to be in want of money, and to task his wits to devise the means to procure it. On such an occasion he took up a handful of grains of corn, and presently gave them the form and appearance of thirty hogs well fatted for the market. He drove these hogs to the residence of one Michael, a rich dealer, but who was remarked for being penurious and thrifty in his bargains. He offered them to Michael for whatever price he should judge reasonable. The bargain was presently struck, Ziito at the same time warning the purchaser, that he should on no account drive them to the river to drink. Michael however paid no attention to this advice; and the hogs no sooner arrived at the river, than they turned into grains of corn as before. The dealer, greatly enraged at this trick, sought high and low for the seller that he might be revenged on him. At length he found him in a vintner's shop seemingly in a gloomy and absent frame of mind, reposing himself, with his legs stretched out on a form. The dealer called out to him, but he seemed not to hear. Finally he seized Ziito by one foot, plucking at it with all his might. The foot came away with the leg and thigh; and Ziito screamed out, apparently in great agony. He seized Michael by the nape of the neck, and dragged him before a judge. Here the two set up their separate complaints, Michael for the fraud that had been committed on him, and Ziito for the irreparable injury he had suffered in his person. From this adventure came the proverb, frequent in the days of the historian, speaking of a person who had made an improvident bargain, "He has made just such a purchase as Michael did with his hogs." TRANSMUTATION OF METALS. Among the different pursuits, which engaged the curiosity of active minds in these unenlightened ages, was that of the transmutation of the more ordinary metals into gold and silver. This art, though not properly of necromantic nature, was however elevated by its professors, by means of an imaginary connection between it and astrology, and even between it and an intercourse with invisible spirits. They believed, that their investigations could not be successfully prosecuted but under favourable aspects of the planets, and that it was even indispensible to them to obtain supernatural aid. In proportion as the pursuit of transmutation, and the search after the elixir of immortality grew into vogue, the adepts became desirous of investing them with the venerable garb of antiquity. They endeavoured to carry up the study to the time of Solomon; and there were not wanting some who imputed it to the first father of mankind. They were desirous to track its footsteps in Ancient Egypt; and they found a mythological representation of it in the expedition of Jason after the golden fleece, and in the cauldron by which Medea restored the father of Jason to his original youth. [178] But, as has already been said, the first unquestionable mention of the subject is to be referred to the time of Dioclesian. [179] From that period traces of the studies of the alchemists from time to time regularly discover themselves. The study of chemistry and its supposed invaluable results was assiduously cultivated by Geber and the Arabians. ARTEPHIUS. Artephius is one of the earliest names that occur among the students who sought the philosopher's stone. Of him extraordinary things are told. He lived about the year 1130, and wrote a book of the Art of Prolonging Human Life, in which he professes to have already attained the age of one thousand and twenty-five years. [180] He must by this account have been born about one hundred years after our Saviour. He professed to have visited the infernal regions, and there to have seen Tantalus seated on a throne of gold. He is also said by some to be the same person, whose life has been written by Philostratus under the name of Apollonius of Tyana. [181] He wrote a book on the philosopher's stone, which was published in Latin and French at Paris in the year 1612. RAYMOND LULLI. Among the European students of these interesting secrets a foremost place is to be assigned to Raymond Lulli and Arnold of Villeneuve. Lulli was undoubtedly a man endowed in a very eminent degree with the powers of intellect. He was a native of the island of Majorca, and was born in the year 1234. He is said to have passed his early years in profligacy and dissipation, but to have been reclaimed by the accident of falling in love with a young woman afflicted with a cancer. This circumstance induced him to apply himself intently to the study of chemistry and medicine, with a view to discover a cure for her complaint, in which he succeeded. He afterwards entered into the community of Franciscan friars. Edward the First was one of the most extraordinary princes that ever sat on a throne. He revived the study of the Roman civil law with such success as to have merited the title of the English Justinian. He was no less distinguished as the patron of arts and letters. He invited to England Guido dalla Colonna, the author of the Troy Book, and Raymond Lulli. This latter was believed in his time to have prosecuted his studies with such success as to have discovered the _elixir vitae_, by means of which he could keep off the assaults of old age, at least for centuries, and the philosopher's stone. He is affirmed by these means to have supplied to Edward the First six millions of money, to enable him to carry on war against the Turks. But he was not only indefatigable in the pursuit of natural science. He was also seized with an invincible desire to convert the Mahometans to the Christian faith. For this purpose he entered earnestly upon the study of the Oriental languages. He endeavoured to prevail on different princes of Europe to concur in his plan, and to erect colleges for the purpose, but without success. He at length set out alone upon his enterprise, but met with small encouragement. He penetrated into Africa and Asia. He made few converts, and was with difficulty suffered to depart, under a solemn injunction that he should not return. But Lulli chose to obey God rather than man, and ventured a second time. The Mahometans became exasperated with his obstinacy, and are said to have stoned him to death at the age of eighty years. His body was however transported to his native place; and miracles are reported to have been worked at his tomb. [182] Raymond Lulli is beside famous for what he was pleased to style his Great Art. The ordinary accounts however that are given of this art assume a style of burlesque, rather than of philosophy. He is said to have boasted that by means of it he could enable any one to argue logically on any subject for a whole day together, independently of any previous study of the subject in debate. To the details of the process Swift seems to have been indebted for one of the humorous projects described by him in his voyage to Laputa. Lulli recommended that certain general terms of logic, metaphysics, ethics or theology should first be collected. These were to be inscribed separately upon square pieces of parchment. They were then to be placed on a frame so constructed that by turning a handle they might revolve freely, and form endless combinations. One term would stand for a subject, and another for a predicate. The student was then diligently to inspect the different combinations that fortuitously arose, and exercising the subtlety of his faculties to select such as he should find best calculated for his purposes. He would thus carry on the process of his debate; and an extraordinary felicity would occasionally arise, suggesting the most ingenious hints, and leading on to the most important discoveries. [183]--If a man with the eminent faculties which Lulli otherwise appeared to have possessed really laid down the rules of such an art, all he intended by it must have been to satirize the gravity with which the learned doctors of his time carried on their grave disputations in mood and figure, having regard only to the severity of the rule by which they debated, and holding themselves totally indifferent whether they made any real advances in the discovery of truth. ARNOLD OF VILLENEUVE. Arnold of Villeneuve, who lived about the same time, was a man of eminent attainments. He made a great proficiency in Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic. He devoted himself in a high degree to astrology, and was so confident in his art, as to venture to predict that the end of the world would occur in a few years; but he lived to witness the fallaciousness of his prophecy. He had much reputation as a physician. He appears to have been a bold thinker. He maintained that deeds of charity were of more avail than the sacrifice of the mass, and that no one would be damned hereafter, but such as were proved to afford an example of immoral conduct. Like all the men of these times who were distinguished by the profoundness of their studies, he was accused of magic. For this, or upon a charge of heresy, he was brought under the prosecution of the inquisition. But he was alarmed by the fate of Peter of Apono, and by recantation or some other mode of prudent contrivance was fortunate enough to escape. He is one of the persons to whom the writing of the book, _De Tribus Impostoribus_, Of the Three Impostors (Moses, Jesus Christ and Mahomet) was imputed! [184] ENGLISH LAWS RESPECTING TRANSMUTATION. So great an alarm was conceived about this time respecting the art of transmutation, that an act of parliament was passed in the fifth year of Henry IV, 1404, which lord Coke states as the shortest of our statutes, determining that the making of gold or silver shall be deemed felony. This law is said to have resulted from the fear at that time entertained by the houses of lords and commons, lest the executive power, finding itself by these means enabled to increase the revenue of the crown to any degree it pleased, should disdain to ask aid from the legislature; and in consequence should degenerate into tyranny and arbitrary power. [185] George Ripley, of Ripley in the county of York, is mentioned, towards the latter part of the fifteenth century, as having discovered the philosopher's stone, and by its means contributed one hundred thousand pounds to the knights of Rhodes, the better to enable them to carry on their war against the Turks. [186] About this time however the tide appears to have turned, and the alarm respecting the multiplication of the precious metals so greatly to have abated, that patents were issued in the thirty-fifth year of Henry VI, for the encouragement of such as were disposed to seek the universal medicine, and to endeavour the transmutation of inferior metals into gold. [187] REVIVAL OF LETTERS. While these things were going on in Europe, the period was gradually approaching, when the energies of the human mind were to loosen its shackles, and its independence was ultimately to extinguish those delusions and that superstition which had so long enslaved it. Petrarch, born in the year 1304, was deeply impregnated with a passion for classical lore, was smitten with the love of republican institutions, and especially distinguished himself for an adoration of Homer. Dante, a more sublime and original genius than Petrarch, was his contemporary. About the same time Boccaccio in his Decamerone gave at once to Italian prose that purity and grace, which none of his successors in the career of literature have ever been able to excel. And in our own island Chaucer with a daring hand redeemed his native tongue from the disuse and ignominy into which it had fallen, and poured out the immortal strains that the genuine lovers of the English tongue have ever since perused with delight, while those who are discouraged by its apparent crabbedness, have yet grown familiar with his thoughts in the smoother and more modern versification of Dryden and Pope. From that time the principles of true taste have been more or less cultivated, while with equal career independence of thought and an ardent spirit of discovery have continually proceeded, and made a rapid advance towards the perfect day. But the dawn of literature and intellectual freedom were still a long time ere they produced their full effect. The remnant of the old woman clung to the heart with a tenacious embrace. Three or four centuries elapsed, while yet the belief in sorcery and witchcraft was alive in certain classes of society. And then, as is apt to occur in such cases, the expiring folly occasionally gave tokens of its existence with a convulsive vehemence, and became only the more picturesque and impressive through the strong contrast of lights and shadows that attended its manifestations. JOAN OF ARC. One of the most memorable stories on record is that of Joan of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans. Henry the Fifth of England won the decisive battle of Agincourt in the year 1415, and some time after concluded a treaty with the reigning king of France, by which he was recognised, in case of that king's death, as heir to the throne. Henry V died in the year 1422, and Charles VI of France in less than two months after. Henry VI was only nine months old at the time of his father's death; but such was the deplorable state of France, that he was in the same year proclaimed king in Paris, and for some years seemed to have every prospect of a fortunate reign. John duke of Bedford, the king's uncle, was declared regent of France: the son of Charles VI was reduced to the last extremity; Orleans was the last strong town in the heart of the kingdom which held out in his favour; and that place seemed on the point to surrender to the conqueror. In this fearful crisis appeared Joan of Arc, and in the most incredible manner turned the whole tide of affairs. She was a servant in a poor inn at Domremi, and was accustomed to perform the coarsest offices, and in particular to ride the horses to a neighbouring stream to water. Of course the situation of France and her hereditary king formed the universal subject of conversation; and Joan became deeply impressed with the lamentable state of her country and the misfortunes of her king. By dint of perpetual meditation, and feeling in her breast the promptings of energy and enterprise, she conceived the idea that she was destined by heaven to be the deliverer of France. Agreeably to the state of intellectual knowledge at that period, she persuaded herself that she saw visions, and held communication with the saints. She had conversations with St. Margaret, and St. Catherine of Fierbois. They told her that she was commissioned by God to raise the siege of Orleans, and to conduct Charles VII to his coronation at Rheims. St. Catherine commanded her to demand a sword which was in her church at Fierbois, which the Maid described by particular tokens, though she had never seen it. She then presented herself to Baudricourt, governor of the neighbouring town of Vaucouleurs, telling him her commission, and requiring him to send her to the king at Chinon. Baudricourt at first made light of her application; but her importunity and the ardour she expressed at length excited him. He put on her a man's attire, gave her arms, and sent her under an escort of two gentlemen and their attendants to Chinon. Here she immediately addressed the king in person, who had purposely hid himself behind his courtiers that she might not know him. She then delivered her message, and offered in the name of the Most High to raise the siege of Orleans, and conduct king Charles to Rheims to be anointed. As a further confirmation she is said to have revealed to the king before a few select friends, a secret, which nothing but divine inspiration could have discovered to her. Desperate as was then the state of affairs, Charles and his ministers immediately resolved to seize the occasion that offered, and put forward Joan as an instrument to revive the prostrate courage of his subjects. He had no sooner determined on this, than he pretended to submit the truth of her mission to the most rigorous trial. He called together an assembly of theologians and doctors, who rigorously examined Joan, and pronounced in her favour. He referred the question to the parliament of Poitiers; and they, who met persuaded that she was an impostor, became convinced of her inspiration. She was mounted on a high-bred steed, furnished with a consecrated banner, and marched, escorted by a body of five thousand men, to the relief of Orleans. The French, strongly convinced by so plain an interposition of heaven, resumed the courage to which they had long been strangers. Such a phenomenon was exactly suited to the superstition and credulity of the age. The English were staggered with the rumours that every where went before her, and struck with a degree of apprehension and terror that they could not shake off. The garrison, informed of her approach, made a sally on the other side of the town; and Joan and her convoy entered without opposition. She displayed her standard in the market-place, and was received as a celestial deliverer. She appears to have been endowed with a prudence, not inferior to her courage and spirit of enterprise. With great docility she caught the hints of the commanders by whom she was surrounded; and, convinced of her own want of experience and skill, delivered them to the forces as the dictates of heaven. Thus the knowledge and discernment of the generals were brought into play, at the same time that their suggestions acquired new weight, when falling from the lips of the heaven-instructed heroine. A second convoy arrived; the waggons and troops passed between the redoubts of the English; while a dead silence and astonishment reigned among the forces, so lately enterprising and resistless. Joan now called on the garrison no longer to stand upon the defensive, but boldly to attack the army of the besiegers. She took one redoubt and then another. The English, overwhelmed with amazement, scarcely dared to lift a hand against her. Their veteran generals became spell-bound and powerless; and their soldiers were driven before the prophetess like a flock of sheep. The siege was raised. Joan followed the English garrison to a fortified town which they fixed on as their place of retreat. The siege lasted ten days; the place was taken; and all the English within it made prisoners. The late victorious forces now concentred themselves at Patay in the Orleanois; Joan advanced to meet them. The battle lasted not a moment; it was rather a flight than a combat; Fastolfe, one of the bravest of our commanders, threw down his arms, and ran for his life; Talbot and Scales, the other generals, were made prisoners. The siege of Orleans was raised on the eighth of May, 1429; the battle of Patay was fought on the tenth of the following month. Joan was at this time twenty-two years of age. This extraordinary turn having been given to the affairs of the kingdom, Joan next insisted that the king should march to Rheims, in order to his being crowned. Rheims lay in a direction expressly through the midst of the enemies' garrisons. But every thing yielded to the marvellous fortune that attended upon the heroine. Troyes opened its gates; Chalons followed the example; Rheims sent a deputation with the keys of the city, which met Charles on his march. The proposed solemnity took place amidst the extacies and enthusiastic shouts of his people. It was no sooner over, than Joan stept forward. She said, she had now performed the whole of what God had commissioned her to do; she was satisfied; she intreated the king to dismiss her to the obscurity from which she had sprung. The ministers and generals of France however found Joan too useful an instrument, to be willing to part with her thus early; and she yielded to their earnest expostulations. Under her guidance they assailed Laon, Soissons, Chateau Thierry, Provins, and many other places, and took them one after another. She threw herself into Compiegne, which was besieged by the Duke of Burgundy in conjunction with certain English commanders. The day after her arrival she headed a sally against the enemy; twice she repelled them; but, finding their numbers increase every moment with fresh reinforcements, she directed a retreat. Twice she returned upon her pursuers, and made them recoil, the third time she was less fortunate. She found herself alone, surrounded with the enemy; and after having enacted prodigies of valour, she was compelled to surrender a prisoner. This happened on the twenty-fifth of May, 1430. It remained to be determined what should be the fate of this admirable woman. Both friends and enemies agreed that her career had been attended with a supernatural power. The French, who were so infinitely indebted to her achievements, and who owed the sudden and glorious reverse of their affairs to her alone, were convinced that she was immediately commissioned by God, and vied with each other in reciting the miraculous phenomena which marked every step in her progress. The English, who saw all the victorious acquisitions of Henry V crumbling from their grasp, were equally impressed with the manifest miracle, but imputed all her good-fortune to a league with the prince of darkness. They said that her boasted visions were so many delusions of the devil. They determined to bring her to trial for the tremendous crimes of sorcery and witchcraft. They believed that, if she were once convicted and led out to execution, the prowess and valour which had hitherto marked their progress would return to them, and that they should obtain the same superiority over their disheartened foes. The devil, who had hitherto been her constant ally, terrified at the spectacle of the flames that consumed her, would instantly return to the infernal regions, and leave the field open to English enterprise and energy, and to the interposition of God and his saints. An accusation was prepared against her, and all the solemnities of a public trial were observed. But the proofs were so weak and unsatisfactory, and Joan, though oppressed and treated with the utmost severity, displayed so much acuteness and presence of mind, that the court, not venturing to proceed to the last extremity, contented themselves with sentencing her to perpetual imprisonment, and to be allowed no other nourishment than bread and water for life. Before they yielded to this mitigation of punishment, they caused her to sign with her mark a recantation of her offences. She acknowledged that the enthusiasm that had guided her was an illusion, and promised never more to listen to its suggestions. The hatred of her enemies however was not yet appeased. They determined in some way to entrap her. They had clothed her in a female garb; they insidiously laid in her way the habiliments of a man. The fire smothered in the bosom of the maid, revived at the sight; she was alone; she caught up the garments, and one by one adjusted them to her person. Spies were set upon her to watch for this event; they burst into the apartment. What she had done was construed into no less offence than that of a relapsed heretic; there was no more pardon for such confirmed delinquency; she was brought out to be burned alive in the market-place of Rouen, and she died, embracing a crucifix, and in her last moments calling upon the name of Jesus. A few days more than twelve months, had elapsed between the period of her first captivity and her execution. ELEANOR COBHAM, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER. This was a period in which the ideas of witchcraft had caught fast hold of the minds of mankind; and those accusations, which by the enlightened part of the species would now be regarded as worthy only of contempt, were then considered as charges of the most flatigious [Errata: _read_ flagitious] nature. While John, duke of Bedford, the eldest uncle of king Henry VI, was regent of France, Humphrey of Gloucester, next brother to Bedford, was lord protector of the realm of England. Though Henry was now nineteen years of age, yet, as he was a prince of slender capacity, Humphrey still continued to discharge the functions of sovereignty. He was eminently endowed with popular qualities, and was a favourite with the majority of the nation. He had however many enemies, one of the chief of whom was Henry Beaufort, great-uncle to the king, and cardinal of Winchester. One of the means employed by this prelate to undermine the power of Humphrey, consisted in a charge of witchcraft brought against Eleanor Cobham, his wife. This woman had probably yielded to the delusions, which artful persons, who saw into the weakness of her character, sought to practise upon her. She was the second wife of Humphrey, and he was suspected to have indulged in undue familiarity with her, before he was a widower. His present duchess was reported to have had recourse to witchcraft in the first instance, by way of securing his wayward inclinations. The duke of Bedford had died in 1435; and Humphrey now, in addition to the actual exercise of the powers of sovereigny, was next heir to the crown in case of the king's decease. This weak and licentious woman, being now duchess of Gloucester, and wife to the lord protector, directed her ambition to the higher title and prerogatives of a queen, and by way of feeding her evil passions, called to her counsels Margery Jourdain, commonly called the witch of Eye, Roger Bolingbroke, an astrologer and supposed magician, Thomas Southwel, canon of St. Stephen's, and one John Hume, or Hun, a priest. These persons frequently met the duchess in secret cabal. They were accused of calling up spirits from the infernal world; and they made an image of wax, which they slowly consumed before a fire, expecting that, as the image gradually wasted away, so the constitution and life of the poor king would decay and finally perish. Hume, or Hun, is supposed to have turned informer, and upon his information several of these persons were taken into custody. After previous examination, on the twenty-fifth of July, 1441, Bolingbroke was placed upon a scaffold before the cross of St. Paul's, with a chair curiously painted, which was supposed to be one of his implements of necromancy, and dressed in mystical attire, and there, before the archbishop of Canterbury, the cardinal of Winchester, and several other bishops, made abjuration of all his unlawful arts. A short time after, the duchess of Gloucester, having fled to the sanctuary at Westminster, her case was referred to the same high persons, and Bolingbroke was brought forth to give evidence against her. She was of consequence committed to custody in the castle of Leeds near Maidstone, to take her trial in the month of October. A commission was directed to the lord treasurer, several noblemen, and certain judges of both benches, to enquire into all manner of treasons, sorceries, and other things that might be hurtful to the king's person, and Bolingbroke and Southwel as principals, and the duchess of Gloucester as accessory, were brought before them. Margery Jourdain was arraigned at the same time; and she, as a witch and relapsed heretic, was condemned to be burned in Smithfield. The duchess of Gloucester was sentenced to do penance on three several days, walking through the streets of London, with a lighted taper in her hand, attended by the lord mayor, the sheriffs, and a select body of the livery, and then to be banished for life to the isle of Man. Thomas Southwel died in prison; and Bolingbroke was hanged at Tyburn on the eighteenth of November. RICHARD III. An event occurred not very long after this, which deserves to be mentioned, as being well calculated to shew how deep an impression ideas of witchcraft had made on the public mind even in the gravest affairs and the counsels of a nation. Richard duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III, shortly before his usurpation of the crown in 1483, had recourse to this expedient for disarming the power of his enemies, which he feared as an obstacle to his project. Being lord protector, he came abruptly into the assembly of the council that he had left but just before, and suddenly asked, what punishment they deserved who should be found to have plotted against his life, being the person, as nearest akin to the young king, intrusted in chief with the affairs of the nation? And, a suitable answer being returned, he said the persons he accused were the queen-dowager, and Jane Shore, the favourite concubine of the late king, who by witchcraft and forbidden arts had sought to destroy him. And, while he spoke, he laid bare his left arm up to the elbow, which appeared shrivelled and wasted in a pitiable manner. "To this condition," said he, "have these abandoned women reduced me."--The historian adds, that it was well known that his arm had been thus wasted from his birth. In January 1484, the parliament met which recognised the title of Richard, and pronounced the marriage of Edward IV null, and its issue illegitimate. [188] The same parliament passed an act of attainder against Henry earl of Richmond, afterwards Henry VII, the countess of Richmond, his mother, and a great number of other persons, many of them the most considerable adherents of the house of Lancaster. Among these persons are enumerated Thomas Nandick and William Knivet, necromancers. In the first parliament of Henry VII this attainder was reversed, and Thomas Nandick of Cambridge, conjurer, is specially nominated as an object of free pardon. [189] SANGUINARY PROCEEDINGS AGAINST WITCHCRAFT. I am now led to the most painful part of my subject, but which does not the less constitute one of its integral members, and which, though painful, is deeply instructive, and constitutes a most essential branch in the science of human nature. Wherever I could, I have endeavoured to render the topics which offered themselves to my examination, entertaining. When men pretended to invert the known laws of nature, "murdering impossibility; to make what cannot be, slight work;" I have been willing to consider the whole as an ingenious fiction, and merely serving as an example how far credulity could go in setting aside the deductions of our reason, and the evidence of sense. The artists in these cases did not fail to excite admiration, and gain some sort of applause from their contemporaries, though still with a tingling feeling that all was not exactly as it should be, and with a confession that the professors were exercising unhallowed arts. It was like what has been known of the art of acting; those who employed it were caressed and made every where welcome, but were not allowed the distinction of Christian burial. But, particularly in the fifteenth century, things took a new turn. In the dawn of the day of good sense, and when historical evidence at length began to be weighed in the scales of judgment, men became less careless of truth, and regarded prodigies and miracles with a different temper. And, as it often happens, the crisis, the precise passage from ill to better, shewed itself more calamitous, and more full of enormities and atrocity, than the period when the understanding was completely hood-winked, and men digested absurdities and impossibility with as much ease as their every day food. They would not now forgive the tampering with the axioms of eternal truth; they regarded cheat and imposture with a very different eye; and they had recourse to the stake and the faggot, for the purpose of proving that they would no longer be trifled with. They treated the offenders as the most atrocious of criminals, and thus, though by a very indirect and circuitous method, led the way to the total dispersion of those clouds, which hung, with most uneasy operation, on the human understanding. The university of Paris in the year 1398 promulgated an edict, in which they complained that the practice of witchcraft was become more frequent and general than at any former period. [190] A stratagem was at this time framed by the ecclesiastical persecutors, of confounding together the crimes of heresy and witchcraft. The first of these might seem to be enough in the days of bigotry and implicit faith, to excite the horror of the vulgar; but the advocates of religious uniformity held that they should be still more secure of their object, if they could combine the sin of holding cheap the authority of the recognised heads of Christian faith, with that of men's enlisting under the banners of Satan, and becoming the avowed and sworn vassals of his infernal empire. They accordingly seem to have invented the ideas of a sabbath of witches, a numerous assembly of persons who had cast off all sense of shame, and all regard for those things which the rest of the human species held most sacred, where the devil appeared among them in his most forbidding form, and, by rites equally ridiculous and obscene, the persons present acknowledged themselves his subjects. And, having invented this scene, these cunning and mischievous persecutors found means, as we shall presently see, of compelling their unfortunate victims to confess that they had personally assisted at the ceremony, and performed all the degrading offices which should consign them in the world to come to everlasting fire. While I express myself thus, I by no means intend to encourage the idea that the ecclesiastical authorities of these times were generally hypocrites. They fully partook of the narrowness of thought of the period in which they lived. They believed that the sin of heretical pravity was "as the sin of witchcraft;" [191] they regarded them alike with horror, and were persuaded that there was a natural consent and alliance between them. Fully impressed with this conception, they employed means from which our genuine and undebauched nature revolts, to extort from their deluded victims a confession of what their examiners apprehended to be true; they asked them leading questions; they suggested the answers they desired to receive; and led the ignorant and friendless to imagine that, if these answers were adopted, they might expect immediately to be relieved from insupportable tortures. The delusion went round. These unhappy wretches, finding themselves the objects of universal abhorrence, and the hatred of mankind, at length many of them believed that they had entered into a league with the devil, that they had been transported by him through the air to an assembly of souls consigned to everlasting reprobation, that they had bound themselves in acts of fealty to their infernal taskmasters [Errata: _read_ taskmaster], and had received from him in return the gift of performing superhuman and supernatural feats. This is a tremendous state of degradation of what Milton called the "the faultless proprieties of nature," [192] which cooler thinking and more enlightened times would lead us to regard as impossible, but to which the uncontradicted and authentic voice of history compels us to subscribe. The Albigenses and Waldenses were a set of men, who, in the flourishing provinces of Languedoc, in the darkest ages, and when the understandings of human creatures by a force not less memorable than that of Procrustes were reduced to an uniform stature, shook off by some strange and unaccountable freak, the chains that were universally imposed, and arrived at a boldness of thinking similar to that which Luther and Calvin after a lapse of centuries advocated with happier auspices. With these manly and generous sentiments however they combined a considerable portion of wild enthusiasm. They preached the necessity of a community of goods, taught that it was necessary to wear sandals, because sandals only had been worn by the apostles, and devoted themselves to lives of rigorous abstinence and the most severe self-denial. The Catholic church knew no other way in those days of converting heretics, but by fire and sword; and accordingly pope Innocent the Third published a crusade against them. The inquisition was expressly appointed in its origin to bring back these stray sheep into the flock of Christ; and, to support this institution in its operations, Simon Montfort marched a numerous army for the extermination of the offenders. One hundred thousand are said to have perished. They disappeared from the country which had witnessed their commencement, and dispersed themselves in the vallies of Piedmont, in Artois, and in various other places. This crusade occurred in the commencement of the thirteenth century; and they do not again attract the notice of history till the middle of the fifteenth. Monstrelet, in his Chronicle, gives one of the earliest accounts of the proceedings at this time instituted against these unfortunate people, under the date of the year 1459. "In this year," says he, "in the town of Arras, there occurred a miserable and inhuman scene, to which, I know not why, was given the name of _Vaudoisie_. There were taken up and imprisoned a number of considerable persons inhabitants of this town, and others of a very inferior class. These latter were so cruelly put to the torture, that they confessed, that they had been transported by supernatural means to a solitary place among woods, where the devil appeared before them in the form of a man, though they saw not his face. He instructed them in the way in which they should do his bidding, and exacted from them acts of homage and obedience. He feasted them, and after, having put out the lights, they proceeded to acts of the grossest licentiousness." These accounts, according to Monstrelet, were dictated to the victims by their tormentors; and they then added, under the same suggestion, the names of divers lords, prelates, and governors of towns and bailliages, whom they affirmed they had seen at these meetings, and who joined in the same unholy ceremonies. The historian adds, that it cannot be concealed that these accusations were brought by certain malicious persons, either to gratify an ancient hatred, or to extort from the rich sums of money, by means of which they might purchase their escape from further prosecution. The persons apprehended were many of them put to the torture so severely, and for so long a time, and were tortured again and again, that they were obliged to confess what was laid to their charge. Some however shewed so great constancy, that they could by no means be induced to depart from the protestation of their innocence. In fine, many of the poorer victims were inhumanly burned; while the richer with great sums of money procured their discharge, but at the same time were compelled to banish themselves to distant places, remote from the scene of this cruel outrage.--Balduinus of Artois gives a similar account, and adds that the sentence of the judges was brought, by appeal under the revision of the parliament of Paris, and was reversed by that judicature in the year 1491. [193] I have not succeeded in tracing to my satisfaction from the original authorities the dates of the following examples, and therefore shall refer them to the periods assigned them in Hutchinson on Witchcraft. The facts themselves rest for the most part on the most unquestionable authority. Innocent VIII published about the year 1484 a bull, in which he affirms: "It has come to our ears, that numbers of both sexes do not avoid to have intercourse with the infernal fiends, and that by their sorceries they afflict both man and beast; they blight the marriage-bed, destroy the births of women, and the increase of cattle; they blast the corn on the ground, the grapes of the vineyard, the fruits of the trees, and the grass and herbs of the field." For these reasons he arms the inquisitors with apostolic power to "imprison, convict and punish" all such as may be charged with these offences.--The consequences of this edict were dreadful all over the continent, particularly in Italy, Germany and France. Alciatus, an eminent lawyer of this period, relates, that a certain inquisitor came about this time into the vallies of the Alps, being commissioned to enquire out and proceed against heretical women with whom those parts were infested. He accordingly consigned more than one hundred to the flames, every day, like a new holocaust, sacrificing such persons to Vulcan, as, in the judgment of the historian, were subjects demanding rather hellebore than fire; till at length the peasantry of the vicinity rose in arms, and drove the merciless judge out of the country. The culprits were accused of having dishonoured the crucifix, and denying Christ for their God. They were asserted to have solemnised after a detestable way the devil's sabbath, in which the fiend appeared personally among them, and instructed them in the ceremonies of his worship. Meanwhile a question was raised whether they personally assisted on the occasion, or only saw the solemnities in a vision, credible witnesses having sworn that they were at home in their beds, at the very time that they were accused of having taken part in these blasphemies. [194] In 1515, more than five hundred persons are said to have suffered capitally for the crime of witchcraft in the city of Geneva in the course of three months. [195] In 1524, one thousand persons were burned on this accusation in the territory of Como, and one hundred per annum for several year after. [196] Danaeus commences his Dialogue of Witches with this observation. "Within three months of the present time (1575) an almost infinite number of witches have been taken, on whom the parliament of Paris has passed judgment: and the same tribunal fails not to sit daily, as malefactors accused of this crime are continually brought before them out of all the provinces." In the year 1595 Nicholas Remi, otherwise Remigius, printed a very curious work, entitled Demonolatreia, in which he elaborately expounds the principles of the compact into which the devil enters with his mortal allies, and the modes of conduct specially observed by both parties. He boasts that his exposition is founded on an exact observation of the judicial proceedings which had taken place under his eye in the duchy of Lorraine, where for the preceding fifteen years nine hundred persons, more or less, had suffered the extreme penalty of the law for the crime of sorcery. Most of the persons tried seem to have been sufficiently communicative as to the different kinds of menace and compulsion by which the devil had brought them into his terms, and the various appearances he had exhibited, and feats he had performed: but others, says the author, had, "by preserving an obstinate silence, shewn themselves invincible to every species of torture that could be inflicted on them." But the most memorable record that remains to us on the subject of witchcraft, is contained in an ample quarto volume, entitled A Representation (_Tableau_) of the Ill Faith of Evil Spirits and Demons, by Pierre De Lancre, Royal Counsellor in the Parliament of Bordeaux. This man was appointed with one coadjutor, to enquire into certain acts of sorcery, reported to have been committed in the district of Labourt, near the foot of the Pyrenees; and his commission bears date in May, 1609, and by consequence twelve months before the death of Henry the Fourth. The book is dedicated to M. de Silleri, chancellor of France; and in the dedication the author observes, that formerly those who practised sorcery were well known for persons of obscure station and narrow intellect; but that now the sorcerers who confess their misdemeanours, depose, that there are seen in the customary meetings held by such persons a great number of individuals of quality, whom Satan keeps veiled from ordinary gaze, and who are allowed to approach near to him, while those of a poorer and more vulgar class are thrust back to the furthest part of the assembly. The whole narrative assumes the form of a regular warfare between Satan on the one side, and the royal commissioners on the other. At first the devil endeavoured to supply the accused with strength to support the tortures by which it was sought to extort confession from them, insomuch that, in an intermission of the torture, the wretches declared that, presently falling asleep, they seemed to be in paradise, and to enjoy the most beautiful visions. The commissioners however, observing this, took care to grant them scarcely any remission, till they had drawn from them, if possible, an ample confession. The devil next proceeded to stop the mouths of the accused that they might not confess. He leaped on their throats, and evidently caused an obstruction of the organs of speech, so that in vain they endeavoured to relieve themselves by disclosing all that was demanded of them. The historian proceeds to say that, at these sacrilegious assemblings, they now began to murmur against the devil, as wanting power to relieve them in their extremity. The children, the daughters, and other relatives of the victims reproached him, not scrupling to say, "Out upon you! you promised that our mothers who were prisoners should not die; and look how you have kept your word with us! They have been burned, and are a heap of ashes." In answer to this charge the devil stoutly affirmed, that their parents, who seemed to have suffered, were not dead, but were safe in a foreign country, assuring the malcontents that, if they called on them, they would receive an answer. The children called accordingly, and by an infernal illusion an answer came, exactly in the several voices of the deceased, declaring that they were in a state of happiness and security. Further to satisfy the complainers, the devil produced illusory fires, and encouraged the dissatisfied to walk through them, assuring them that the fires lighted by a judicial decree were as harmless and inoffensive as these. The demon further threatened that he would cause the prosecutors to be burned in their own fire, and even proceeded to make them in semblance hover and alight on the branches of the neighbouring trees. He further caused a swarm of toads to appear like a garland to crown the heads of the sufferers, at which when in one instance the bystanders threw stones to drive them away, one monstrous black toad remained to the last uninjured, and finally mounted aloft, and vanished from sight. De Lancre goes on to describe the ceremonies of the sabbath of the devil; and a plate is inserted, presenting the assembly in the midst of their solemnities. He describes in several chapters the sort of contract entered into between the devil and the sorcerers, the marks by which they may be known, the feast with which the demon regaled them, their distorted and monstrous dance, the copulation between the fiend and the witch, and its issue.--It is easy to imagine with what sort of fairness the trials were conducted, when such is the description the judge affords us of what passed at these assemblies. Six hundred were burned under this prosecution. The last chapter is devoted to an accurate account of what took place at an _auto da fe_ in the month of November 1610 at Logrogno on the Ebro in Spain, the victims being for the greater part the unhappy wretches, who had escaped through the Pyrenees from the merciless prosecution that had been exercised against them by the historian of the whole. SAVONAROLA. Jerome Savonarola was one of the most remarkable men of his time, and his fortunes are well adapted to illustrate the peculiarities of that period. He was born in the year 1452 at Ferrara in Italy. He became a Dominican Friar at Bologna without the knowledge of his parents in the twenty-second year of his age. He was first employed by his superiors in elucidating the principles of physics and metaphysics. But, after having occupied some years in this way, he professed to take a lasting leave of these subtleties, and to devote himself exclusively to the study of the Scriptures. In no long time he became an eminent preacher, by the elegance and purity of his style acquiring the applause of hearers of taste, and by the unequalled fervour of his eloquence securing the hearts of the many. It was soon obvious, that, by his power gained in this mode, he could do any thing he pleased with the people of Florence among whom he resided. Possessed of such an ascendancy, he was not contented to be the spiritual guide of the souls of men, but further devoted himself to the temporal prosperity and grandeur of his country. The house of Medici was at this time masters of the state, and the celebrated Lorenzo de Medici possessed the administration of affairs. But the political maxims of Lorenzo were in discord with those of our preacher. Lorenzo sought to concentre all authority in the opulent few; but Savonarola, proceeding on the model of the best times of ancient Rome, endeavoured to vest the sovereign power in the hands of the people. He had settled at Florence in the thirty-fourth year of his age, being invited to become prior of the convent of St. Mark in that city: and such was his popularity, that, four years after, Lorenzo on his death-bed sent for Savonarola to administer to him spiritual consolation. Meanwhile, so stern did this republican shew himself, that he insisted on Lorenzo's renunciation of his absolute power, before he would administer to him the sacrament and absolution: and Lorenzo complied with these terms. The prince being dead, Savonarola stepped immediately into the highest authority. He reconstituted the state upon pure republican principles, and enjoined four things especially in all his public preachings, the fear of God, the love of the republic, oblivion of all past injuries, and equal rights to all for the future. But Savonarola was not contented with the delivery of Florence, where he is said to have produced a total revolution of manners, from libertinism to the most exemplary purity and integrity; he likewise aspired to produce an equal effect on the entire of Italy. Alexander VI, the most profligate of popes, then filled the chair at Rome; and Savonarola thundered against him in the cathedral at Florence the most fearful denunciations. The pope did not hesitate a moment to proceed to extremities against the friar. He cited him to Rome, under pain, if disobeyed, of excommunication to the priest, and an interdict to the republic that harboured him. The Florentines several times succeeded in causing the citation to be revoked, and, making terms with the sovereign pontiff, Jerome again and again suspending his preachings, which were however continued by other friars, his colleagues and confederates. Savonarola meanwhile could not long be silent; he resumed his philippics as fiercely as ever. At this time faction raged strongly at Florence. Jerome had many partisans; all the Dominicans, and the greater part of the populace. But he had various enemies leagued against him; the adherents of the house of Medici, those of the pope, the libertines, and all orders of monks and friars except the Dominicans, The violence proceeded so far, that the preacher was not unfrequently insulted in his pulpit, and the cathedral echoed with the dissentions of the parties. At length a conspiracy was organized against Savonarola; and, his adherents having got the better, the friar did not dare to trust the punishment of his enemies to the general assembly, where the question would have led to a scene of warfare, but referred it to a more limited tribunal, and finally proceeded to the infliction of death on its sole authority. This extremity rendered his enemies more furious against him. The pope directed absolution, the communion, and the rites of sepulture, to be refused to his followers. He was now expelled from the cathedral at Florence, and removed his preachings to the chapel of his convent, which was enlarged in its accommodations to adapt itself to his numerous auditors. In this interim a most extraordinary scene took place. One Francis de Pouille offered himself to the trial of fire, in favour of the validity of the excommunication of the pope against the pretended inspiration and miracles of the prophet. He said he did not doubt to perish in the experiment, but that he should have the satisfaction of seeing Savonarola perish along with him. Dominic de Pescia however and another Dominican presented themselves to the flames instead of Jerome, alledging that he was reserved for higher things. De Pouille at first declined the substitution, but was afterwards prevailed on to submit. A vast fire was lighted in the marketplace for the trial; and a low and narrow gallery of iron passed over the middle, on which the challenger and the challenged were to attempt to effect their passage. But a furious deluge of rain was said to have occurred at the instant every thing was ready; the fire was extinguished; and the trial for the present was thus rendered impossible. Savonarola in the earnestness of his preachings pretended to turn prophet, and confidently to predict future events. He spoke of Charles VIII of France as the Cyrus who should deliver Italy, and subdue the nations before him; and even named the spring of the year 1498 as the period that should see all these things performed. But it was not in prophecy alone that Savonarola laid claim to supernatural aid. He described various contests that he had maintained against a multitude of devils at once in his convent. They tormented in different ways the friars of St. Mark, but ever shrank with awe from his personal interposition. They attempted to call upon him by name; but the spirit of God overruled them, so that they could never pronounce his name aright, but still misplaced syllables and letters in a ludicrous fashion. They uttered terrific threatenings against him, but immediately after shrank away with fear, awed by the holy words and warnings which he denounced against them. Savonarola besides undertook to expel them by night, by sprinkling holy water, and the singing of hymns in a solemn chorus. While however he was engaged in these sacred offices, and pacing the cloister of his convent, the devils would arrest his steps, and suddenly render the air before him so thick, that it was impossible for him to advance further. On another occasion one of his colleagues assured Francis Picus of Mirandola, the writer of his Life, that he had himself seen the Holy Ghost in the form of a dove more than once, sitting on Savonarola's shoulder, fluttering his feathers, which were sprinkled with silver and gold, and, putting his beak to his ear, whispering to him his divine suggestions. The prior besides relates in a book of his own composition at great length a dialogue that he held with the devil, appearing like, and having been mistaken by the writer for, a hermit. The life of Savonarola however came to a speedy and tragical close. The multitude, who are always fickle in their impulses, conceiving an unfavourable impression in consequence of his personally declining the trial by fire, turned against him. The same evening they besieged the convent where he resided, and in which he had taken refuge. The signory, seeing the urgency of the case, sent to the brotherhood, commanding them to surrender the prior, and the two Dominicans who had presented themselves in his stead to the trial by fire. The pope sent two judges to try them on the spot. They were presently put to the torture. Savonarola, who we are told was of a delicate habit of body, speedily confessed and expressed contrition for what he had done. But no sooner was he delivered from the strappado, than he retracted all that he had before confessed. The experiment was repeated several times, and always with the same success. At length he and the other two were adjudged to perish in the flames. This sentence was no sooner pronounced than Savonarola resumed all the constancy of a martyr. He advanced to the place of execution with a steady pace and a serene countenance, and in the midst of the flames resignedly commended his soul into the hands of his maker. His adherents regarded him as a witness to the truth, and piously collected his relics; but his judges, to counteract this defiance of authority, commanded his remains and his ashes to be cast into the river. [197] TRITHEMIUS. A name that has in some way become famous in the annals of magic, is that of John Trithemius, abbot of Spanheim, or Sponheim, in the circle of the Upper Rhine. He was born in the year 1462. He early distinguished himself by his devotion to literature; insomuch that, according to the common chronology, he was chosen in the year 1482, being about twenty years of age, abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St. Martin at Spanheim. He has written a great number of works, and has left some memorials of his life. Learning was at a low ebb when he was chosen to this dignity. The library of the convent consisted of little more than forty volumes. But, shortly after, under his superintendence it amounted to many hundreds. He insisted upon his monks diligently employing themselves in the multiplication of manuscripts. The monks, who had hitherto spent their days in luxurious idleness, were greatly dissatisfied with this revolution, and led their abbot a very uneasy life. He was in consequence removed to preside over the abbey of St. Jacques in Wurtzburg in 1506, where he died in tranquillity and peace in 1516. Trithemius has been accused of necromancy and a commerce with demons. The principal ground of this accusation lies in a story that has been told of his intercourse with the emperor Maximilian. Maximilian's first wife was Mary of Burgundy, whom he lost in the prime of her life. The emperor was inconsolable upon the occasion; and Trithemius, who was called in as singularly qualified to comfort him, having tried all other expedients in vain, at length told Maximilian that he would undertake to place his late consort before him precisely in the state in which she had lived. After suitable preparations, Mary of Burgundy accordingly appeared. The emperor was struck with astonishment. He found the figure before him in all respects like the consort he had lost. At length he exclaimed, "There is one mark by which I shall infallibly know whether this is the same person. Mary, my wife, had a wart in the nape of her neck, to the existence of which no one was privy but myself." He examined, and found the wart there, in all respects as it had been during her life. The story goes on to say, that Maximilian was so disgusted and shocked with what he saw, that he banished Trithemius his presence for ever. This tale has been discredited, partly on the score of the period of the death of Mary of Burgundy, which happened in 1481, when Trithemius was only nineteen years of age. He himself expressly disclaims all imputation of sorcery. One ground of the charge has been placed upon the existence of a work of his, entitled Steganographia, or the art, by means of a secret writing, of communicating our thoughts to a person absent. He says however, that in this work he had merely used the language of magic, without in any degree having had recourse to their modes of proceeding. Trithemius appears to have been the first writer who has made mention of the extraordinary feats of John Faust of Wittenburg, and that in a way that shews he considered these enchantments as the work of a supernatural power. [198] LUTHER. It is particularly proper to introduce some mention of Luther in this place; not that he is in any way implicated in the question of necromancy, but that there are passages in his writings in which he talks of the devil in what we should now think a very extraordinary way. And it is curious, and not a little instructive, to see how a person of so masculine an intellect, and who in many respects so far outran the illumination of his age, was accustomed to judge respecting the intercourse of mortals with the inhabitants of the infernal world. Luther was born in the year 1483. It appears from his Treatise on the Abuses attendant on Private Masses, that he had a conference with the devil on the subject. He says, that this supernatural personage caused him by his visits "many bitter nights and much restless and wearisome repose." Once in particular he came to Luther, "in the dead of the night, when he was just awaked out of sleep. The devil," he goes on to say, "knows well how to construct his arguments, and to urge them with the skill of a master. He delivers himself with a grave, and yet a shrill voice. Nor does he use circumlocutions, and beat about the bush, but excels in forcible statements and quick rejoinders. I no longer wonder," he adds, "that the persons whom he assails in this way, are occasionally found dead in their beds. He is able to compress and throttle, and more than once he has so assaulted me and driven my soul into a corner, that I felt as if the next moment it must leave my body. I am of opinion that Gesner and Oecolampadius and others in that manner came by their deaths. The devil's manner of opening a debate is pleasant enough; but he urges things so peremptorily, that the respondent in a short time knows not how to acquit himself." [199] He elsewhere says, "The reasons why the sacramentarians understood so little of the Scriptures, is that they do not encounter the true opponent, that is, the devil, who presently drives one up in a corner, and thus makes one perceive the just interpretation. For my part I am thoroughly acquainted with him, and have eaten a bushel of salt with him. He sleeps with me more frequently, and lies nearer to me in bed, than my own wife does." [200] CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. Henry Cornelius Agrippa was born in the year 1486. He was one of the most celebrated men of his time. His talents were remarkably great; and he had a surprising facility in the acquisition of languages. He is spoken of with the highest commendations by Trithemius, Erasmus, Melancthon, and others, the greatest men of his times. But he was a man of the most violent passions, and of great instability of temper. He was of consequence exposed to memorable vicissitudes. He had great reputation as an astrologer, and was assiduous in the cultivation of chemistry. He had the reputation of possessing the philosopher's stone, and was incessantly experiencing the privations of poverty. He was subject to great persecutions, and was repeatedly imprisoned. He received invitations at the same time from Henry VIII, from the chancellor of the emperor, from a distinguished Italian marquis, and from Margaret of Austria, governess of the Low Countries. He made his election in favour of the last, and could find no way so obvious of showing his gratitude for her patronage, as composing an elaborate treatise on the Superiority of the Female Sex, which he dedicated to her. Shortly after, he produced a work not less remarkable, to demonstrate the Vanity and Emptiness of Scientifical Acquirements. Margaret of Austria being dead, he was subsequently appointed physician to Louisa of Savoy, mother to Francis I. This lady however having assigned him a task disagreeable to his inclination, a calculation according to the rules of astrology, he made no scruple of turning against her, and affirming that he should henceforth hold her for a cruel and perfidious Jezebel. After a life of storms and perpetual vicissitude, he died in 1534, aged 48 years. He enters however into the work I am writing, principally on account of the extraordinary stories that have been told of him on the subject of magic. He says of himself, in his Treatise on the Vanity of Sciences, "Being then a very young man, I wrote in three books of a considerable size Disquisitions concerning Magic." The first of the stories I am about to relate is chiefly interesting, inasmuch as it is connected with the history of one of the most illustrious ornaments of our early English poetry, Henry Howard earl of Surrey, who suffered death at the close of the reign of King Henry VIII. The earl of Surrey, we are told, became acquainted with Cornelius Agrippa at the court of John George elector of Saxony. On this occasion were present, beside the English nobleman, Erasmus, and many other persons eminent in the republic of letters. These persons shewed themselves enamoured of the reports that had been spread of Agrippa, and desired him before the elector to exhibit something memorable. One intreated him to call up Plautus, and shew him as he appeared in garb and countenance, when he ground corn in the mill. Another before all things desired to see Ovid. But Erasmus earnestly requested to behold Tully in the act of delivering his oration for Roscius. This proposal carried the most votes. And, after marshalling the concourse of spectators, Tully appeared, at the command of Agrippa, and from the rostrum pronounced the oration, precisely in the words in which it has been handed down to us, "with such astonishing animation, so fervent an exaltation of spirit, and such soul-stirring gestures, that all the persons present were ready, like the Romans of old, to pronounce his client innocent of every charge that had been brought against him." The story adds, that, when sir Thomas More was at the same place, Agrippa shewed him the whole destruction of Troy in a dream. To Thomas Lord Cromwel he exhibited in a perspective glass King Henry VIII and all his lords hunting in his forest at Windsor. To Charles V he shewed David, Solomon, Gideon, and the rest, with the Nine Worthies, in their habits and similitude as they had lived. Lord Surrey, in the mean time having gotten into familiarity with Agrippa, requested him by the way side as they travelled, to set before him his mistress, the fair Geraldine, shewing at the same time what she did, and with whom she talked. Agrippa accordingly exhibited his magic glass, in which the noble poet saw this beautiful dame, sick, weeping upon her bed, and inconsolable for the absence of her admirer.--It is now known, that the sole authority for this tale is Thomas Nash, the dramatist, in his Adventures of Jack Wilton, printed in the year 1593. Paulus Jovius relates that Agrippa always kept a devil attendant upon him, who accompanied him in all his travels in the shape of a black dog. When he lay on his death-bed, he was earnestly exhorted to repent of his sins. Being in consequence struck with a deep contrition, he took hold of the dog, and removed from him a collar studded with nails, which formed a necromantic inscription, at the same time saying to him, "Begone, wretched animal, which hast been the cause of my entire destruction!"--It is added, that the dog immediately ran away, and plunged itself in the river Soane, after which it was seen no more. [201] It is further related of Agrippa, as of many other magicians, that he was in the habit, when he regaled himself at an inn, of paying his bill in counterfeit money, which at the time of payment appeared of sterling value, but in a few days after became pieces of horn and worthless shells. [202] But the most extraordinary story of Agrippa is told by Delrio, and is as follows. Agrippa had occasion one time to be absent for a few days from his residence at Louvain. During his absence he intrusted his wife with the key of his Museum, but with an earnest injunction that no one on any account should be allowed to enter. Agrippa happened at that time to have a boarder in his house, a young fellow of insatiable curiosity, who would never give over importuning his hostess, till at length he obtained from her the forbidden key. The first thing in the Museum that attracted his attention, was a book of spells and incantations. He spread this book upon a desk, and, thinking no harm, began to read aloud. He had not long continued this occupation, when a knock was heard at the door of the chamber. The youth took no notice, but continued reading. Presently followed a second knock, which somewhat alarmed the reader. The space of a minute having elapsed, and no answer made, the door was opened, and a demon entered. "For what purpose am I called?" said the stranger sternly. "What is it you demand to have done?" The youth was seized with the greatest alarm, and struck speechless. The demon advanced towards him, seized him by the throat, and strangled him, indignant that his presence should thus be invoked from pure thoughtlessness and presumption. At the expected time Agrippa came home, and to his great surprise found a number of devils capering and playing strange antics about, and on the roof of his house. By his art he caused them to desist from their sport, and with authority demanded what was the cause of this novel appearance. The chief of them answered. He told how they had been invoked, and insulted, and what revenge they had taken. Agrippa became exceedingly alarmed for the consequences to himself of this unfortunate adventure. He ordered the demon without loss of time to reanimate the body of his victim, then to go forth, and to walk the boarder three or four times up and down the market-place in the sight of the people. The infernal spirit did as he was ordered, shewed the student publicly alive, and having done this, suffered the body to fall down, the marks of conscious existence being plainly no more. For a time it was thought that the student had been killed by a sudden attack of disease. But, presently after, the marks of strangulation were plainly discerned, and the truth came out. Agrippa was then obliged suddenly to withdraw himself, and to take up his residence in a distant province. [203] Wierus in his well known book, _De Praestigiis Demonum_, informs us that he had lived for years in daily attendance on Cornelius Agrippa, and that the black dog respecting which such strange surmises had been circulated, was a perfectly innocent animal that he had often led in a string. He adds, that the sole foundation for the story lay in the fact, that Agrippa had been much attached to the dog, which he was accustomed to permit to eat off the table with its master, and even to lie of nights in his bed. He further remarks, that Agrippa was accustomed often not to go out of his room for a week together, and that people accordingly wondered that he could have such accurate information of what was going on in all parts of the world, and would have it that his intelligence was communicated to him by his dog. He subjoins however, that Agrippa had in fact correspondents in every quarter of the globe, and received letters from them daily, and that this was the real source of his extraordinary intelligence. [204] Naudé, in his Apology for Great Men accused of Magic, mentions, that Agrippa composed a book of the Rules and Precepts of the Art of Magic, and that, if such a work could entitle a man to the character of a magician, Agrippa indeed well deserved it. But he gives it as his opinion that this was the only ground for fastening the imputation on this illustrious character. Without believing however any of the tales of the magic practices of Cornelius Agrippa, and even perhaps without supposing that he seriously pretended to such arts, we are here presented with a striking picture of the temper and credulity of the times in which he lived. We plainly see from the contemporary evidence of Wierus, that such things were believed of him by his neighbours; and at that period it was sufficiently common for any man of deep study, of recluse habits, and a certain sententious and magisterial air to undergo these imputations. It is more than probable that Agrippa was willing by a general silence and mystery to give encouragement to the wonder of the vulgar mind. He was flattered by the terror and awe which his appearance inspired. He did not wish to come down to the ordinary level. And if to this we add his pursuits of alchemy and astrology, with the formidable and various apparatus supposed to be required in these pursuits, we shall no longer wonder at the results which followed. He loved to wander on the brink of danger, and was contented to take his chance of being molested, rather than not possess that ascendancy over the ordinary race of mankind which was evidently gratifying to his vanity. FAUSTUS. Next in respect of time to Cornelius Agrippa comes the celebrated Dr. Faustus. Little in point of fact is known respecting this eminent personage in the annals of necromancy. His pretended history does not seem to have been written till about the year 1587, perhaps half a century after his death. This work is apparently in its principal features altogether fictitious. We have no reason however to deny the early statements as to his life. He is asserted by Camerarius and Wierus to have been born at Cundling near Cracow in the kingdom of Poland, and is understood to have passed the principal part of his life at the university of Wittenberg. He was probably well known to Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus. Melancthon mentions him in his Letters; and Conrad Gessner refers to him as a contemporary. The author of his Life cites the opinions entertained respecting him by Luther. Philip Camerarius speaks of him in his Horae Subsecivae as a celebrated name among magicians, apparently without reference to the Life that has come down to us; [205] and Wierus does the same thing. [206] He was probably nothing more than an accomplished juggler, who appears to have practised his art with great success in several towns of Germany. He was also no doubt a pretender to necromancy. On this basis the well known History of his Life has been built. The author has with great art expanded very slender materials, and rendered his work in a striking degree a code and receptacle of all the most approved ideas respecting necromancy and a profane and sacrilegious dealing with the devil. He has woven into it with much skill the pretended arts of the sorcerers, and has transcribed or closely imitated the stories that have been handed down to us of many of the extraordinary feats they were said to have performed. It is therefore suitable to our purpose to dwell at some length upon the successive features of this history. The life has been said to have been originally written in Spain by Franciscus Schottus of Toledo, in the Latin language. [207] But this biographical work is assigned to the date of 1594, previously to which the Life is known to have existed in German. It is improbable that a Spanish writer should have chosen a German for the hero of his romance, whereas nothing can be more natural than for a German to have conceived the idea of giving fame and notoriety to his countryman. The mistake seems to be the same, though for an opposite reason, as that which appears to have been made in representing the Gil Blas of Le Sage as a translation. The biographical account professes to have been begun by Faustus himself, though written in the third person, and to have been continued by Wagner, his confidential servant, to whom the doctor is affirmed to have bequeathed his memoirs, letters and manuscripts, together with his house and its furniture. Faustus then, according to his history, was the son of a peasant, residing on the banks of the Roda in the duchy of Weimar, and was early adopted by an uncle, dwelling in the city of Wittenberg, who had no children. Here he was sent to college, and was soon distinguished by the greatness of his talents, and the rapid progress he made in every species of learning that was put before him. He was destined by his relative to the profession of theology. But singularly enough, considering that he is represented as furnishing materials for his own Memoirs, he is said ungraciously to have set at nought his uncle's pious intentions by deriding God's word, and thus to have resembled Cain, Reuben and Absalom, who, having sprung from godly parents, afflicted their fathers' hearts by their apostasy. He went through his examinations with applause, and carried off all the first prizes among sixteen competitors. He therefore obtained the degree of doctor in divinity; but his success only made him the more proud and headstrong. He disdained his theological eminence, and sighed for distinction as a man of the world. He took his degree as a doctor of medicine, and aspired to celebrity as a practitioner of physic. About the same time he fell in with certain contemporaries, of tastes similar to his own, and associated with them in the study of Chaldean, Greek and Arabic science, of strange incantations and supernatural influences, in short, of all the arts of a sorcerer. Having made such progress as he could by dint of study and intense application, he at length resolved to prosecute his purposes still further by actually raising the devil. He happened one evening to walk in a thick, dark wood, within a short distance from Wittenberg, when it occurred to him that that was a fit place for executing his design. He stopped at a solitary spot where four roads met, and made use of his wand to mark out a large circle, and then two small ones within the larger. In one of these he fixed himself, appropriating the other for the use of his expected visitor. He went over the precise range of charms and incantations, omitting nothing. It was now dark night between the ninth and tenth hour. The devil manifested himself by the usual signs of his appearance. "Wherefore am I called?" said he, "and what is it that you demand?" "I require," rejoined Faustus, "that you should sedulously attend upon me, answer my enquiries, and fulfil my behests." Immediately upon Faustus pronouncing these words, there followed a tumult over head, as if heaven and earth were coming together. The trees in their topmost branches bended to their very roots. It seemed as if the whole forest were peopled with devils, making a crash like a thousand waggons, hurrying to the right and the left, before and behind, in every possible direction, with thunder and lightning, and the continual discharge of great cannon. Hell appeared to have emptied itself, to have furnished the din. There succeeded the most charming music from all sorts of instruments, and sounds of hilarity and dancing. Next came a report as of a tournament, and the clashing of innumerable lances. This lasted so long, that Faustus was many times about to rush out of the circle in which he had inclosed himself, and to abandon his preparations. His courage and resolution however got the better; and he remained immoveable. He pursued his incantations without intermission. Then came to the very edge of the circle a griffin first, and next a dragon, which in the midst of his enchantments grinned at him horribly with his teeth, but finally fell down at his feet, and extended his length to many a rood. Faustus persisted. Then succeeded a sort of fireworks, a pillar of fire, and a man on fire at the top, who leaped down; and there immediately appeared a number of globes here and there red-hot, while the man on fire went and came to every part of the circle for a quarter of an hour. At length the devil came forward in the shape of a grey monk, and asked Faustus what he wanted. Faustus adjourned their further conference, and appointed the devil to come to him at his lodgings. He in the mean time busied himself in the necessary preparations. He entered his study at the appointed time, and found the devil waiting for him. Faustus told him that he had prepared certain articles, to which it was necessary that the demon should fully accord,--that he should attend him at all times, when required, for all the days of his life, that he should bring him every thing he wanted, that he should come to him in any shape that Faustus required, or be invisible, and Faustus should be invisible too, whenever he desired it, that he should deny him nothing, and answer him with perfect veracity to every thing he demanded. To some of these requisitions the spirit could not consent, without authority from his master, the chief of devils. At length all these concessions were adjusted. The devil on his part also prescribed his conditions. That Faustus should abjure the Christian religion and all reverence for the supreme God; that he should enjoy the entire command of his attendant demon for a certain term of years, and that at the end of that period the devil should dispose of him body and soul at his pleasure [the term was fixed for twenty-four years]; that he should at all times stedfastly refuse to listen to any one who should desire to convert him, or convince him of the error of his ways, and lead him to repentance; that Faustus should draw up a writing containing these particulars, and sign it with his blood, that he should deliver this writing to the devil, and keep a duplicate of it for himself, that so there might be no misunderstanding. It was further appointed by Faustus that the devil should usually attend him in the habit of cordelier, with a pleasing countenance and an insinuating demeanour. Faustus also asked the devil his name, who answered that he was usually called Mephostophiles (perhaps more accurately Nephostophiles, a lover of clouds). Previously to this deplorable transaction, in which Faustus sold himself, soul and body, to the devil, he had consumed his inheritance, and was reduced to great poverty. But he was now no longer subjected to any straits. The establishments of the prince of Chutz, the duke of Bavaria, and the archbishop of Saltzburgh were daily put under contribution for his more convenient supply. By the diligence of Mephostophiles provisions of all kinds continually flew in at his windows; and the choicest wines were perpetually found at his board to the annoyance and discredit of the cellarers and butlers of these eminent personages, who were extremely blamed for defalcations in which they had no share. He also brought him a monthly supply of money, sufficient for the support of his establishment. Besides, he supplied him with a succession of mistresses, such as his heart desired, which were in truth nothing but devils disguised under the semblance of beautiful women. He further gave to Faustus a book, in which were amply detailed the processes of sorcery and witchcraft, by means of which the doctor could obtain whatever he desired. One of the earliest indulgences which Faustus proposed to himself from the command he possessed over his servant-demon, was the gratification of his curiosity in surveying the various nations of the world. Accordingly Mephostophiles converted himself into a horse, with two hunches on his back like a dromedary, between which he conveyed Faustus through the air where-ever he desired. They consumed fifteen months in their travels. Among the countries they visited the history mentions Pannonia, Austria, Germany, Bohemia, Silesia, Saxony, Misnia, Thuringia, Franconia, Suabia, Bavaria, Lithuania, Livonia, Prussia, Muscovy, Friseland, Holland, Westphalia, Zealand, Brabant, Flanders, France, Spain, Italy, Poland, and Hungary; and afterwards Turkey, Egypt, England, Sweden, Denmark, India, Africa and Persia. In most of these countries Mephostophiles points out to his fellow-traveller their principal curiosities and antiquities. In Rome they sojourned three days and three nights, and, being themselves invisible, visited the residence of the pope and the other principal palaces. At Constantinople Faustus visited the emperor of the Turks, assuming to himself the figure of the prophet Mahomet. His approach was preceded by a splendid illumination, not less than that of the sun in all his glory. He said to the emperor, "Happy art thou, oh sultan, who art found worthy to be visited by the great prophet." And the emperor in return fell prostrate before him, thanking Mahomet for his condescension in this visit. The doctor also entered the seraglio, where he remained six days under the same figure, the building and its gardens being all the time environed with a thick darkness, so that no one, not the emperor himself, dared to enter. At the end of this time the doctor, still under the figure of Mahomet, was publicly seen, ascending, as it seemed, to heaven. The sultan afterwards enquired of the women of his seraglio what had occurred to them during the period of the darkness; and they answered, that the God Mahomet had been with them, that he had enjoyed them corporeally, and had told them that from his seed should arise a great people, capable of irresistible exploits. Faustus had conceived a plan of making his way into the terrestrial paradise, without awakening suspicion in his demon-conductor. For this purpose he ordered him to ascend the highest mountains of Asia. At length they came so near, that they saw the angel with the flaming sword forbidding approach to the garden. Faustus, perceiving this, asked Mephostophiles what it meant. His conductor told him, but added that it was in vain for them, or any one but the angels of the Lord, to think of entering within. Having gratified his curiosity in other ways, Faustus was seized with a vehement desire to visit the infernal regions. He proposed the question to Mephostophiles, who told him that this was a matter out of his department, and that on that journey he could have no other conductor than Beelzebub. Accordingly, every thing being previously arranged, one day at midnight Beelzebub appeared, being already equipped with a saddle made of dead men's bones. Faustus speedily mounted. They in a short time came to an abyss, and encountered a multitude of enormous serpents; but a bear with wings came to their aid, and drove the serpents away. A flying bull next came with a hideous roar, so fierce that Beelzebub appeared to give way, and Faustus tumbled at once heels-over-head into the pit. After having fallen to a considerable depth, two dragons with a chariot came to his aid, and an ape helped him to get into the vehicle. Presently however came on a storm with thunder and lightning, so dreadful that the doctor was thrown out, and sunk in a tempestuous sea to a vast depth. He contrived however to lay hold of a rock, and here to secure himself a footing. He looked down, and perceived a great gulph, in which lay floating many of the vulgar, and not a few emperors, kings, princes, and such as had been mighty lords. Faustus with a sudden impulse cast himself into the midst of the flames with which they were surrounded, with the desire to snatch one of the damned souls from the pit. But, just as he thought he had caught him by the hand, the miserable wretch slided from between his fingers, and sank again. At length the doctor became wholly exhausted with the fatigue he had undergone, with the smoke and the fog, with the stifling, sulphureous air, with the tempestuous blasts, with the alternate extremes of heat and cold, and with the clamours, the lamentations, the agonies, and the howlings of the damned everywhere around him,--when, just in the nick of time, Beelzebub appeared to him again, and invited him once more to ascend the saddle, which he had occupied during his infernal journey. Here he fell asleep, and, when he awoke, found himself in his own bed in his house. He then set himself seriously to reflect on what had passed. At one time he believed that he had been really in hell, and had witnessed all its secrets. At another he became persuaded that he had been subject to an illusion only, and that the devil had led him through an imaginary scene, which was truly the case; for the devil had taken care not to shew him the real hell, fearing that it might have caused too great a terror, and have induced him to repent him of his misdeeds perhaps before it was too late. It so happened that, once upon a time, the emperor Charles V was at Inspruck, at a time when Faustus also resided there. His courtiers informed the emperor that Faustus was in the town, and Charles expressed a desire to see him. He was introduced. Charles asked him whether he could really perform such wondrous feats as were reported of him. Faustus modestly replied, inviting the emperor to make trial of his skill. "Then," said Charles, "of all the eminent personages I have ever read of, Alexander the Great is the man who most excites my curiosity, and whom it would most gratify my wishes to see in the very form in which he lived." Faustus rejoined, that it was out of his power truly to raise the dead, but that he had spirits at his command who had often seen that great conqueror, and that Faustus would willingly place him before the emperor as he required. He conditioned that Charles should not speak to him, nor attempt to touch him. The emperor promised compliance. After a few ceremonies therefore, Faustus opened a door, and brought in Alexander exactly in the form in which he had lived, with the same garments, and every circumstance corresponding. Alexander made his obeisance to the emperor, and walked several times round him. The queen of Alexander was then introduced in the same manner. Charles just then recollected, he had read that Alexander had a wart on the nape of his neck; and with proper precautions Faustus allowed the emperor to examine the apparition by this test. Alexander then vanished. As doctor Faustus waited in court, he perceived a certain knight, who had fallen asleep in a bow-window, with his head out at window. The whim took the doctor, to fasten on his brow the antlers of a stag. Presently the knight was roused from his nap, when with all his efforts he could not draw in his head on account of the antlers which grew upon it. The courtiers laughed exceedingly at the distress of the knight, and, when they had sufficiently diverted themselves, Faustus took off his conjuration, and set the knight at liberty. Soon after Faustus retired from Inspruck. Meanwhile the knight, having conceived a high resentment against the conjuror, waylaid him with seven horsemen on the road by which he had to pass. Faustus however perceived them, and immediately made himself invisible. Meanwhile the knight spied on every side to discover the conjuror; but, as he was thus employed, he heard a sudden noise of drums and trumpets and cymbals, and saw a regiment of horse advancing against him. He immediately turned off in another direction; but was encountered by a second regiment of horse. This occurred no less than six times; and the knight and his companions were compelled to surrender at discretion. These regiments were so many devils; and Faustus now appeared in a new form as the general of this army. He obliged the knight and his party to dismount, and give up their swords. Then with a seeming generosity he gave them new horses and new swords, But this was all enchantment. The swords presently turned into switches; and the horses, plunging into a river on their road, vanished from beneath their riders, who were thoroughly drenched in the stream, and scarcely escaped with their lives. Many of Faustus's delusions are rather remarkable as tricks of merry vexation, than as partaking of those serious injuries which we might look for in an implement of hell. In one instance he inquired of a countryman who was driving a load of hay, what compensation he would judge reasonable for the doctor's eating as much of his hay as he should be inclined to. The waggoner replied, that for half a stiver (one farthing) he should be welcome to eat as much as he pleased. The doctor presently fell to, and ate at such a rate, that the peasant was frightened lest his whole load should be consumed. He therefore offered Faustus a gold coin, value twenty-seven shillings, to be off his bargain. The doctor took it; and, when the countryman came to his journey's end, he found his cargo undiminished even by a single blade. Another time, as Faustus was walking along the road near Brunswick, the whim took him of asking a waggoner who was driving by, to treat him with a ride in his vehicle. "No, I will not," replied the boor; "my horses will have enough to do to drag their proper load." "You churl," said the doctor, "since you will not let your wheels carry me, you shall carry them yourself as far as from the gates of the city." The wheels then detached themselves, and flew through the air, to the gates of the town from which they came. At the same time the horses fell to the ground, and were utterly unable to raise themselves up. The countryman, frightened, fell on his knees to the doctor, and promised, if he would forgive him, never to offend in like manner again. Faustus now, relenting a little, bade the waggoner take a handful of sand from the road, and scatter on his horses, and they would be well. At the same time he directed the man to go to the four gates of Brunswick, and he would find his wheels, one at each gate. In another instance, Faustus went into a fair, mounted on a noble beast, richly caparisoned, the sight of which presently brought all the horse-fanciers about him. After considerable haggling, he at last disposed of his horse to a dealer for a handsome price, only cautioning him at parting, how he rode the horse to water. The dealer, despising the caution that had been given him, turned his horse the first thing towards the river. He had however no sooner plunged in, than the horse vanished, and the rider found himself seated on a saddle of straw, in the middle of the stream. With difficulty he waded to the shore, and immediately, enquiring out the doctor's inn, went to him to complain of the cheat. He was directed to Faustus's room, and entering found the conjuror on his bed, apparently asleep. He called to him lustily, but the doctor took no notice. Worked up beyond his patience, he next laid hold of Faustus's foot, that he might rouse him the more effectually. What was his surprise, to find the doctor's leg and foot come off in his hand! Faustus screamed, apparently in agony of pain, and the dealer ran out of the room as fast as he could, thinking that he had the devil behind him. In one instance three young noblemen applied to Faustus, having been very desirous to be present at the marriage of the son of the duke of Bavaria at Mentz, but having overstaid the time, in which it would have been possible by human means to accomplish the journey. Faustus, to oblige them, led them into his garden, and, spreading a large mantle upon a grass-plot, desired them to step on it, and placed himself in the midst. He then recited a certain form of conjuration. At the same time he conditioned with them, that they should on no account speak to any one at the marriage, and, if spoken to, should not answer again. They were carried invisibly through the air, and arrived in excellent time. At a certain moment they became visible, but were still bound to silence. One of them however broke the injunction, and amused himself with the courtiers. The consequence was that, when the other two were summoned by the doctor to return, he was left behind. There was something so extraordinary in their sudden appearance, and the subsequent disappearance of the others, that he who remained was put in prison, and threatened with the torture the next day, if he would not make a full disclosure. Faustus however returned before break of day, opened the gates of the prison, laid all the guards asleep, and carried off the delinquent in triumph. On one occasion Faustus, having resolved to pass a jovial evening, took some of his old college-companions, and invited them to make free with the archbishop of Saltzburgh's cellar. They took a ladder, and scaled the wall. They seated themselves round, and placed a three-legged stool, with bottles and glasses in the middle. They were in the heart of their mirth, when the butler made his appearance, and began to cry thieves with all his might. The doctor at once conjured him, so that he could neither speak nor move. There he was obliged to sit, while Faustus and his companions tapped every vat in the cellar. They then carried him along with them in triumph. At length they came to a lofty tree, where Faustus ordered them to stop; and the butler was in the greatest fright, apprehending that they would do no less than hang him. The doctor however was contented, by his art to place him on the topmost branch, where he was obliged to remain trembling and almost dead with the cold, till certain peasants came out to their work, whom he hailed, and finally with great difficulty they rescued him from his painful eminence, and placed him safely on the ground. On another occasion Faustus entertained several of the junior members of the university of Wittenberg at his chambers. One of them, referring to the exhibition the doctor had made of Alexander the Great to the emperor Charles V, said it would gratify him above all things, if he could once behold the famous Helen of Greece, whose beauty was so great as to have roused all the princes of her country to arms, and to have occasioned a ten years' war. Faustus consented to indulge his curiosity, provided all the company would engage to be merely mute spectators of the scene. This being promised, he left the room, and presently brought in Helen. She was precisely as Homer has described her, when she stood by the side of Priam on the walls of Troy, looking on the Grecian chiefs. Her features were irresistibly attractive; and her full, moist lips were redder than the summer cherries. Faustus shortly after obliged his guests with her bust in marble, from which several copies were taken, no one knowing the name of the original artist. No long time elapsed after this, when the doctor was engaged in delivering a course of lectures on Homer at Erfurth, one of the principal cities of Germany. It having been suggested to him that it would very much enhance the interest of his lectures, if he would exhibit to the company the heroes of Greece exactly as they appeared to their contemporaries, Faustus obligingly yielded to the proposal. The heroes of the Trojan war walked in procession before the astonished auditors, no less lively in the representation than Helen had been shewn before, and each of them with some characteristic attitude and striking expression of countenance. When the doctor happened to be at Frankfort, there came there four conjurors, who obtained vast applause by the trick of cutting off one another's heads, and fastening them on again. Faustus was exasperated at this proceeding, and regarded them as laying claim to a skill superior to his own. He went, and was invisibly present at their exhibition. They placed beside them a vessel with liquor which they pretended was the elixir of life, into which at each time they threw a plant resembling the lily, which no sooner touched the liquor than its buds began to unfold, and shortly it appeared in full blossom. The chief conjuror watched his opportunity; and, when the charm was complete, made no more ado but struck off the head of his fellow that was next to him, and dipping it in the liquor, adjusted it to the shoulders, where it became as securely fixed as before the operation. This was repeated a second and a third time. At length it came to the turn of the chief conjuror to have his head smitten off. Faustus stood by invisibly, and at the proper time broke off the flower of the lily without any one being aware of it. The head therefore of the principal conjuror was struck off; but in vain was it steeped in the liquor. The other conjurors were at a loss to account for the disappearance of the lily, and fumbled for a long time with the old sorcerer's head, which would not stick on in any position in which it could be placed. Faustus was in great favour with the Prince of Anhalt. On one occasion, after residing some days in his court, he said to the prince, "Will your highness do me the favour to partake of a small collation at a castle which belongs to me out at your city-gates?" The prince graciously consented. The prince and princess accompanied the doctor, and found a castle which Faustus had erected by magic during the preceding night. The castle, with five lofty towers, and two great gates, inclosing a spacious court, stood in the midst of a beautiful lake, stocked with all kinds of fish, and every variety of water-fowl. The court exhibited all sorts of animals, beside birds of every colour and song, which flitted from tree to tree. The doctor then ushered his guests into the hall, with an ample suite of apartments, branching off on each side. In one of the largest they found a banquet prepared, with the pope's plate of gold, which Mephostophiles had borrowed for the day. The viands were of the most delicious nature, with the choicest wines in the world. The banquet being over, Faustus conducted the prince and princess back to the palace. But, before they had gone far, happening to turn their heads, they saw the whole castle blown up, and all that had been prepared for the occasion vanish at once in a vast volume of fire. One Christmas-time Faustus gave a grand entertainment to certain distinguished persons of both sexes at Wittenberg. To render the scene more splendid, he contrived to exhibit a memorable inversion of the seasons. As the company approached the doctor's house, they were surprised to find, though there was a heavy snow through the neighbouring fields, that Faustus's court and garden bore not the least marks of the season, but on the contrary were green and blooming as in the height of summer. There was an appearance of the freshest vegetation, together with a beautiful vineyard, abounding with grapes, figs, raspberries, and an exuberance of the finest fruits. The large, red Provence roses, were as sweet to the scent as the eye, and looked perfectly fresh and sparkling with dew. As Faustus was now approaching the last year of his term, he seemed to resolve to pamper his appetite with every species of luxury. He carefully accumulated all the materials of voluptuousness and magnificence. He was particularly anxious in the selection of women who should serve for his pleasures. He had one Englishwoman, one Hungarian, one French, two of Germany, and two from different parts of Italy, all of them eminent for the perfections which characterised their different countries. As Faustus's demeanour was particularly engaging, there were many respectable persons in the city in which he lived, that became interested in his welfare. These applied to a certain monk of exemplary purity of life and devotion, and urged him to do every thing he could to rescue the doctor from impending destruction. The monk began with him with tender and pathetic remonstrances. He then drew a fearful picture of the wrath of God, and the eternal damnation which would certainly ensue. He reminded the doctor of his extraordinary gifts and graces, and told him how different an issue might reasonably have been expected from him. Faustus listened attentively to all the good monk said, but replied mournfully that it was too late, that he had despised and insulted the Lord, that he had deliberately sealed a solemn compact to the devil, and that there was no possibility of going back. The monk answered, "You are mistaken. Cry to the Lord for grace; and it shall still be given. Shew true remorse; confess your sins; abstain for the future from all acts of sorcery and diabolical interference; and you may rely on final salvation." The doctor however felt that all endeavours would be hopeless, He found in himself an incapacity, for true repentance. And finally the devil came to him, reproached him for breach of contract in listening to the pious expostulations of a saint, threatened that in case of infidelity he would take him away to hell even before his time, and frightened the doctor into the act of signing a fresh contract in ratification of that which he had signed before. At length Faustus ultimately arrived at the end of the term for which he had contracted with the devil. For two or three years before it expired, his character gradually altered. He became subject to fits of despondency, was no longer susceptible of mirth and amusement, and reflected with bitter agony on the close in which the whole must terminate. During the last month of his period, he no longer sought the services of his infernal ally, but with the utmost unwillingness saw his arrival. But Mephostophiles now attended him unbidden, and treated him with biting scoffs and reproaches. "You have well studied the Scriptures," he said, "and ought to have known that your safety lay in worshipping God alone. You sinned with your eyes open, and can by no means plead ignorance. You thought that twenty-four years was a term that would have no end; and you now see how rapidly it is flitting away. The term for which you sold yourself to the devil is a very different thing; and, after the lapse of thousands of ages, the prospect before you will be still as unbounded as ever. You were warned; you were earnestly pressed to repent; but now it is too late." After the demon, Mephostophiles, had long tormented Faustus in this manner, he suddenly disappeared, consigning him over to wretchedness, vexation and despair. The whole twenty-four years were now expired. The day before, Mephostophiles again made his appearance, holding in his hand the bond which the doctor had signed with his blood, giving him notice that the next day, the devil, his master, would come for him, and advising him to hold himself in readiness. Faustus, it seems, had earned himself much good will among the younger members of the university by his agreeable manners, by his willingness to oblige them, and by the extraordinary spectacles with which he occasionally diverted them. This day he resolved to pass in a friendly farewel. He invited a number of them to meet him at a house of public reception, in a hamlet adjoining to the city. He bespoke a large room in the house for a banqueting room, another apartment overhead for his guests to sleep in, and a smaller chamber at a little distance for himself. He furnished his table with abundance of delicacies and wines. He endeavoured to appear among them in high spirits; but his heart was inwardly sad. When the entertainment was over, Faustus addressed them, telling them that this was the last day of his life, reminding them of the wonders with which he had frequently astonished them, and informing them of the condition upon which he had held this power. They, one and all, expressed the deepest sorrow at the intelligence. They had had the idea of something unlawful in his proceedings; but their notions had been very far from coming up to the truth. They regretted exceedingly that he had not been unreserved in his communications at an earlier period. They would have had recourse in his behalf to the means of religion, and have applied to pious men, desiring them to employ their power to intercede with heaven in his favour. Prayer and penitence might have done much for him; and the mercy of heaven was unbounded. They advised him still to call upon God, and endeavour to secure an interest in the merits of the Saviour. Faustus assured them that it was all in vain, and that his tragical fate was inevitable. He led them to their sleeping apartment, and recommended to them to pass the night as they could, but by no means, whatever they might happen to hear, to come out of it; as their interference could in no way be beneficial to him, and might be attended with the most serious injury to themselves. They lay still therefore, as he had enjoined them; but not one of them could close his eyes. Between twelve and one in the night they heard first a furious storm of wind round all sides of the house, as if it would have torn away the walls from their foundations. This no sooner somewhat abated, than a noise was heard of discordant and violent hissing, as if the house was full of all sorts of venomous reptiles, but which plainly proceeded from Faustus's chamber. Next they heard the doctor's room-door vehemently burst open, and cries for help uttered with dreadful agony, but a half-suppressed voice, which presently grew fainter and fainter. Then every thing became still, as if the everlasting motion of the world was suspended. When at length it became broad day, the students went in a body into the doctor's apartment. But he was no where to be seen. Only the walls were found smeared with his blood, and marks as if his brains had been dashed out. His body was finally discovered at some distance from the house, his limbs dismembered, and marks of great violence about the features of his face. The students gathered up the mutilated parts of his body, and afforded them private burial at the temple of Mars in the village where he died. A ludicrous confusion of ideas has been produced by some persons from the similarity of names of Faustus, the supposed magician of Wittenberg, and Faust or Fust of Mentz, the inventor, or first establisher of the art of printing. It has been alleged that the exact resemblance of the copies of books published by the latter, when no other mode of multiplying copies was known but by the act of transcribing, was found to be such, as could no way be accounted for by natural means, and that therefore it was imputed to the person who presented these copies, that he must necessarily be assisted by the devil. It has further been stated, that Faust, the printer, swore the craftsmen he employed at his press to inviolable secrecy, that he might the more securely keep up the price of his books. But this notion of the identity of the two persons is entirely groundless. Faustus, the magician, is described in the romance as having been born in 1491, twenty-five years after the period at which the printer is understood to have died, and there is no one coincidence between the histories of the two persons, beyond the similarity of names, and a certain mystery (or magical appearance) that inevitably adheres to the practice of an art hitherto unknown. If any secret reference had been intended in the romance to the real character of the illustrious introducer of an art which has been productive of such incalculable benefits to mankind, it would be impossible to account for such a marvellous inconsistence in the chronology. Others have carried their scepticism so far, as to have started a doubt whether there was ever really such a person as Faustus of Wittenberg, the alleged magician. But the testimony of Wierus, Philip Camerarius, Melancthon and others, his contemporaries, sufficiently refutes this supposition. The fact is, that there was undoubtedly such a man, who, by sleights of dexterity, made himself a reputation as if there was something supernatural in his performances, and that he was probably also regarded with a degree of terror and abhorrence by the superstitious. On this theme was constructed a romance, which once possessed the highest popularity, and furnished a subject to the dramatical genius of Marlow, Leasing, Goethe, and others.--It is sufficiently remarkable, that the notoriety of this romance seems to have suggested to Shakespear the idea of sending the grand conception of his brain, Hamlet, prince of Denmark, to finish his education at the university of Wittenberg. And here it may not be uninstructive to remark the different tone of the record of the acts of Ziito, the Bohemian, and Faustus of Wittenburg, though little more than half a century elapsed between the periods at which they were written. Dubravius, bishop of Olmutz in Moravia, to whose pen we are indebted for what we know of Ziito, died in the year 1553. He has deemed it not unbecoming to record in his national history of Bohemia, the achievements of this magician, who, he says, exhibited them before Wenceslaus, king of the country, at the celebration of his marriage. A waggon-load of sorcerers arrived at Prague on that occasion for the entertainment of the company. But, at the close of that century, the exploits of Faustus were no longer deemed entitled to a place in national history, but were more appropriately taken for the theme of a romance. Faustus and his performances were certainly contemplated with at least as much horror as the deeds of Ziito. But popular credulity was no longer wound to so high a pitch: the marvels effected by Faustus are not represented as challenging the observation of thousands at a public court, and on the occasion of a royal festival. They "hid their diminished heads," and were performed comparatively in a corner. SABELLICUS. A pretended magician is recorded by Naudé, as living about this time, named Georgius Sabellicus, who, he says, if loftiness and arrogance of assumption were enough to establish a claim to the possession of supernatural gifts, would beyond all controversy be recognised for a chief and consummate sorcerer. It was his ambition by the most sounding appellations of this nature to advance his claim to immortal reputation. He called himself, "The most accomplished Georgius Sabellicus, a second Faustus, the spring and centre of necromantic art, an astrologer, a magician, consummate in chiromancy, and in agromancy, pyromancy and hydromancy inferior to none that ever lived." I mention this the rather, as affording an additional proof how highly Faustus was rated at the time in which he is said to have flourished. It is specially worthy of notice, that Naudé, whose book is a sort of register of all the most distinguished names in the annals of necromancy, drawn up for the purpose of vindicating their honour, now here [Errata: _read_ no where] mentions Faustus, except once in this slight and cursory way. PARACELSUS Paracelsus, or, as he styled himself, Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Paracelsus de Hohenheim, was a man of great notoriety and eminence, about the same time as Dr. Faustus. He was born in the year 1493, and died in 1541. His father is said to have lived in some repute; but the son early became a wanderer in the world, passing his youth in the occupation of foretelling future events by the stars and by chiromancy, invoking the dead, and performing various operations of alchemy and magic. He states Trithemius to have been his instructor in the science of metals. He was superficial in literature, and says of himself that at one time he did not open a book for ten years together. He visited the mines of Bohemia, Sweden and the East to perfect himself in metallic knowledge. He travelled through Prussia, Lithuania, Poland, Transylvania and Illyria, conversing indifferently with physicians and old women, that he might extract from them the practical secrets of their art. He visited Egypt, Tartary and Constantinople, at which last place, as he says, he learned the transmutation of metals and the philosopher's stone. He boasts also of the elixir of life, by means of which he could prolong the life of man to the age of the antediluvians. He certainly possessed considerable sagacity and a happy spirit of daring, which induced him to have recourse to the application of mercury and opium in the cure of diseases, when the regular physicians did not venture on the use of them. He therefore was successfully employed by certain eminent persons in desperate cases, and was consulted by Erasmus. He gradually increased in fame, and in the year 1526 was chosen professor of natural philosophy and surgery in the university of Bale. Here he delivered lectures in a very bold and presumptuous style. He proclaimed himself the monarch of medicine, and publicly burned the writings of Galen and Avicenna as pretenders and impostors. This however was the acme of his prosperity. His system was extremely popular for one year; but then he lost himself by brutality and intemperance. He had drunk water only for the first five-and-twenty years of his life; but now indulged himself in beastly crapulence with the dregs of society, and scarcely ever took off his clothes by day or night. After one year therefore spent at Bale, he resumed his former vagabond life, and, having passed through many vicissitudes, some of them of the most abject poverty, he died at the age of forty-eight. Paracelsus in fact exhibited in his person the union of a quack, a boastful and impudent pretender, with a considerable degree of natural sagacity and shrewdness. Such an union is not uncommon in the present day; but it was more properly in its place, when the cultivation of the faculties of the mind was more restricted than now, and the law of criticism of facts and evidence was nearly unknown. He took advantage of the credulity and love of wonder incident to the generality of our species; and, by dint of imposing on others, succeeded in no small degree in imposing on himself. His intemperance and arrogance of demeanour gave the suitable finish to his character. He therefore carefully cherished in those about him the idea that there was in him a kind of supernatural virtue, and that he had the agents of an invisible world at his command. In particular he gave out that he held conferences with a familiar or demon, whom for the convenience of consulting he was in the habit of carrying about with him in the hilt of his sword. CARDAN. Jerome Cardan, who was only a few years younger than Paracelsus, was a man of a very different character. He had considerable refinement and discrimination, and ranked among the first scholars of his day. He is however most of all distinguished for the Memoirs he has left us of his life, which are characterised by a frankness and unreserve which are almost without a parallel. He had undoubtedly a considerable spice of madness in his composition. He says of himself, that he was liable to extraordinary fits of abstraction and elevation of mind, which by their intenseness became so intolerable, that he gladly had recourse to very severe bodily pain by way of getting rid of them. That in such cases he would bite his lips till they bled, twist his fingers almost to dislocation, and whip his legs with rods, which he found a great relief to him. That he would talk purposely of subjects which he knew were particularly offensive to the company he was in; that he argued on any side of a subject, without caring whether he was right or wrong; and that he would spend whole nights in gaming, often venturing as the stake he played for, the furniture of his house, and his wife's jewels. Cardan describes three things of himself, which he habitually experienced, but respecting which he had never unbosomed himself to any of his friends. The first was, a capacity which he felt in himself of abandoning his body in a sort of extacy whenever he pleased. He felt in these cases a sort of splitting of the heart, as if his soul was about to withdraw, the sensation spreading over his whole frame, like the opening of a door for the dismissal of its guest. His apprehension was, that he was out of his body, and that by an energetic exertion he still retained a small hold of his corporeal figure. The second of his peculiarities was, that he saw, when he pleased, whatever he desired to see, not through the force of imagination, but with his material organs: he saw groves, animals, orbs, as he willed. When he was a child, he saw these things, as they occurred, without any previous volition or anticipation that such a thing was about to happen. But, after he had arrived at years of maturity, he saw them only when he desired, and such things as he desired. These images were in perpetual succession, one after another. The thing incidental to him which he mentions in the third place was, that he could not recollect any thing that ever happened to him, whether good, ill, or indifferent, of which he had not been admonished, and that a very short time before, in a dream. These things serve to shew of what importance he was in his own eyes, and also, which is the matter he principally brings it to prove, the subtlety and delicacy of his animal nature. Cardan speaks uncertainly and contradictorily as to his having a genius or demon perpetually attending him, advising him of what was to happen, and forewarning him of sinister events. He concludes however that he had no such attendant, but that it was the excellence of his nature, approaching to immortality. He was much addicted to the study of astrology, and laid claim to great skill as a physician. He visited the court of London, and calculated the nativity of king Edward VI. He was sent for as a physician by cardinal Beaton, archbishop of St Andrews, whom, according to Melvile, [208] he recovered to speech and health, and the historian appears to attribute the cure to magic. He calculated the nativity of Jesus Christ, which was imputed to him as an impious undertaking, inasmuch as it supposed the creator of the world to be subject to the influence of the stars. He also predicted his own death, and is supposed by some to have forwarded that event, by abstinence from food at the age of seventy-five, that he might not bely his prediction. QUACKS, WHO IN COOL BLOOD UNDERTOOK TO OVERREACH MANKIND. Hitherto we have principally passed such persons in review, as seem to have been in part at least the victims of their own delusions. But beside these there has always been a numerous class of men, who, with minds perfectly disengaged and free, have applied themselves to concert the means of overreaching the simplicity, or baffling the penetration, of those who were merely spectators, and uninitiated in the mystery of the arts that were practised upon them. Such was no doubt the case with the speaking heads and statues, which were sometimes exhibited in the ancient oracles. Such was the case with certain optical delusions, which were practised on the unsuspecting, and were contrived to produce on them the effect of supernatural revelations. Such is the story of Bel and the Dragon in the book of Apocrypha, where the priests daily placed before the idol twelve measures of flour, and forty sheep, and six vessels of wine, pretending that the idol consumed all these provisions, when in fact they entered the temple by night, by a door under the altar, and removed them. BENVENUTO CELLINI. We have a story minutely related by Benvenuto Cellini in his Life, which it is now known was produced by optical delusion, but which was imposed upon the artist and his companions as altogether supernatural. It occurred a very short time before the death of pope Clement the Seventh in 1534, and is thus detailed. It took place in the Coliseum at Rome. "It came to pass through a variety of odd accidents, that I made acquaintance with a Sicilian priest, who was a man of genius, and well versed in the Greek and Latin languages. Happening one day to have some conversation with him, where the subject turned upon the art of necromancy, I, who had a great desire to know something of the matter, told him, that I had all my life had a curiosity to be acquainted with the mysteries of this art. The priest made answer, that the man must be of a resolute and steady temper, who entered on that study. I replied, that I had fortitude and resolution enough to desire to be initiated in it. The priest subjoined, 'If you think you have the heart to venture, I will give you all the satisfaction you can desire.' Thus we agreed to enter upon a scheme of necromancy. "The priest one evening prepared to satisfy me, and desired me to look for a companion or two. I invited one Vincenzio Romoli, who was my intimate acquaintance, and he brought with him a native of Pistoia who cultivated the art of necromancy himself. We repaired to the Coliseum; and the priest, according to the custom of conjurors, began to draw circles on the ground, with the most impressive ceremonies imaginable. He likewise brought with him all sorts of precious perfumes and fire, with some compositions which diffused noisome and bad odours. As soon as he was in readiness, he made an opening to the circle, and took us by the hand, and ordered the other necromancer, his partner, to throw perfumes into the fire at a proper time, intrusting the care of the fire and the perfumes to the rest; and then he began his incantations. "This ceremony lasted above an hour and a half, when there appeared several legions of devils, so that the amphitheatre was quite filled with them. I was busy about the perfumes, when the priest, who knew that there was a sufficient number of infernal spirits, turned about to me, and said, 'Benvenuto, ask them something.' I answered, 'Let them bring me into company with my Sicilian mistress, Angelica.' That night we obtained no answer of any sort; but I received great satisfaction in having my curiosity so far indulged. "The necromancer told me that it was requisite we should go a second time, assuring me that I should be satisfied in whatever I asked; but that I must bring with me a boy that had never known woman. I took with me my apprentice, who was about twelve years of age; with the same Vincenzio Romoli, who had been my companion the first time, and one Agnolino Gaddi, an intimate acquaintance, whom I likewise prevailed on to assist at the ceremony. When we came to the place appointed, the priest, having made his preparations as before with the same and even more striking ceremonies, placed us within the circle, which he had drawn with a more wonderful art and in a more solemn manner, than at our former meeting. Thus having committed the care of the perfumes and the fire to my friend Vincenzio, who was assisted by Gaddi, he put into my hands a pintacolo, or magical chart, and bid me turn it towards the places to which he should direct me; and under the pintacolo I held my apprentice. The necromancer, having begun to make his most tremendous invocations, called by their names a multitude of demons who were the leaders of the several legions, and questioned them, by the virtue and power of the eternal, uncreated God, who lives for ever, in the Hebrew language, as also in Latin and Greek; insomuch that the amphitheatre was filled, almost in an instant, with demons a hundred times more numerous than at the former conjuration. Vincenzio meanwhile was busied in making a fire with the assistance of Gaddi, and burning a great quantity of precious perfumes. I, by the direction of the necromancer, again desired to be in company with my Angelica. He then turning upon me said, 'Know, they have declared that in the space of a month you shall be in her company.' "He then requested me to stand by him resolutely, because the legions were now above a thousand more in number than he had designed; and besides these were the most dangerous; so that, after they had answered my question, it behoved him to be civil to them, and dismiss them quietly. At the same time the boy under the pintacolo was in a terrible fright, saying, that there were in the place a million of fierce men who threatened to destroy us; and that, besides, there were four armed giants of enormous stature, who endeavoured to break into our circle. During this time, while the necromancer, trembling with fear, endeavoured by mild means to dismiss them in the best way he could, Vincenzio, who quivered like an aspen leaf, took care of the perfumes. Though I was as much afraid as any of them, I did my utmost to conceal it; so that I greatly contributed to inspire the rest with resolution; but the truth is, I gave myself over for a dead man, seeing the horrid fright the necromancer was in. "The boy had placed his head between his knees; and said, 'In this attitude will I die; for we shall all surely perish.' I told him that those demons were under us, and what he saw was smoke and shadow; so bid him hold up his head and take courage. No sooner did he look up, than he cried out, 'The whole amphitheatre is burning, and the fire is just falling on us.' So, covering his eyes with his hands, he again exclaimed, that destruction was inevitable, and he desired to see no more. The necromancer intreated me to have a good heart, and to take care to burn proper perfumes; upon which I turned to Vincenzio, and bade him burn all the most precious perfumes he had. At the same time I cast my eyes upon Gaddi, who was terrified to such a degree, that he could scarcely distinguish objects, and seemed to be half dead. Seeing him in this condition, I said to him, 'Gaddi, upon these occasions a man should not yield to fear, but stir about to give some assistance; so come directly, and put on more of these perfumes.' Gaddi accordingly attempted to move; but the effect was annoying both to our sense of hearing and smell, and overcame the perfumes. "The boy perceiving this, once more ventured to raise his head, and, seeing me laugh, began to take courage, and said, 'The devils are flying away with a vengeance.' In this condition we staid, till the bell rang for morning prayers. The boy again told us, that there remained but few devils, and those were at a great distance. When the magician had performed the rest of his ceremonies, he stripped off his gown, and took up a wallet full of books, which he had brought with him. We all went out of the circle together, keeping as close to each other as we possibly could, especially the boy, who placed himself in the middle, holding the necromancer by the coat, and me by the cloak. "As we were going to our houses in the quarter of Banchi, the boy told us, that two of the demons whom we had seen at the amphitheatre, went on before us leaping and skipping, sometimes running upon the roofs of the houses, and sometimes on the ground. The priest declared that, as often as he had entered magic circles, nothing so extraordinary had ever happened to him. As we went along, he would fain have persuaded me to assist at the consecrating a book, from which he said we should derive immense riches. We should then ask the demons to discover to us the various treasures with which the earth abounds, which would raise us to opulence and power; but that those love-affairs were mere follies from which no good could be expected. I made answer, that I would readily have accepted his proposal if I had understood Latin. He assured me that the knowledge of Latin was nowise material; but that he could never meet with a partner of resolution and intrepidity equal to mine, and that that would be to him an invaluable acquisition." Immediately subsequent to this scene, Cellini got into one of those scrapes, in which he was so frequently involved by his own violence and ferocity; and the connection was never again renewed. The first remark that arises out of this narrative is, that nothing is actually done by the supernatural personages which are exhibited. The magician reports certain answers as given by the demons; but these answers do not appear to have been heard from any lips but those of him who was the creator or cause of the scene. The whole of the demons therefore were merely figures, produced by the magic lantern (which is said to have been invented by Roger Bacon), or by something of that nature. The burning of the perfumes served to produce a dense atmosphere, that was calculated to exaggerate, and render more formidable and terrific, the figures which were exhibited. The magic lantern, which is now the amusement only of servant-maids, and boys at school in their holidays, served at this remote period, and when the power of optical delusions was unknown, to terrify men of wisdom and penetration, and make them believe that legions of devils from the infernal regions were come among them, to produce the most horrible effects, and suspend and invert the laws of nature. It is probable, that the magician, who carried home with him a "wallet full of books," also carried at the same time the magic lantern or mirror, with its lights, which had served him for his exhibition, and that this was the cause of the phenomenon, that they observed two of the demons which they had seen at the amphitheatre, going before them on their return, "leaping and skipping, sometimes running on the roofs of the houses, and sometimes on the ground." [209] NOSTRADAMUS. Michael Nostradamus, a celebrated astrologer, was born at St. Remi in Provence in the year 1503. He published a Century of Prophecies in obscure and oracular terms and barbarous verse, and other works. In the period in which he lived the pretended art of astrological prediction was in the highest repute; and its professors were sought for by emperors and kings, and entertained with the greatest distinction and honour. Henry the Second of France, moved with his great renown, sent for Nostradamus to court, received much gratification from his visit, and afterward ordered him to Blois, that he might see the princes, his sons, calculate their horoscopes, and predict their future fortunes. He was no less in favour afterwards with Charles the Ninth. He died in the year 1566. DOCTOR DEE. Dr. John Dee was a man who made a conspicuous figure in the sixteenth century. He was born at London in the year 1527. He was an eminent mathematician, and an indefatigable scholar. He says of himself, that, having been sent to Cambridge when he was fifteen, he persisted for several years in allowing himself only four hours for sleep in the twenty-four, and two for food and refreshment, and that he constantly occupied the remaining eighteen (the time for divine service only excepted) in study. At Cambridge he superintended the exhibition of a Greek play of Aristophanes, among the machinery of which he introduced an artificial scarabaeus, or beetle, which flew up to the palace of Jupiter, with a man on his back, and a basket of provisions. The ignorant and astonished spectators ascribed this feat to the arts of the magician; and Dee, annoyed by these suspicions, found it expedient to withdraw to the continent. Here he resided first at the university of Louvaine, at which place, his acquaintance was courted by the dukes of Mantua and Medina, and from thence proceeded to Paris, where he gave lectures on Euclid with singular applause. In 1551 he returned to England, and was received with distinction by sir John Check, and introduced to secretary Cecil, and even to king Edward, from whom he received a pension of one hundred crowns _per annum_, which he speedily after exchanged for a small living in the church. In the reign of queen Mary he was for some time kindly treated; but afterwards came into great trouble, and even into danger of his life. He entered into correspondence with several of the servants of queen Elizabeth at Woodstock, and was charged with practising against Mary's life by enchantments. Upon this accusation, he was seized and confined; and, being after several examinations discharged of the indictment, was turned over to bishop Bonner to see if any heresy could be found in him. After a tedious persecution he was set at liberty in 1555, and was so little subdued by what he had suffered, that in the following year he presented a petition to the queen, requesting her co-operation in a plan for preserving and recovering certain monuments of classical antiquity. The principal study of Dee however at this time lay in astrology; and accordingly, upon the accession of Elizabeth, Robert Dudley, her chief favourite, was sent to consult the doctor as to the aspect of the stars, that they might fix on an auspicious day for celebrating her coronation. Some years after we find him again on the continent; and in 1571, being taken ill at Louvaine, we are told the queen sent over two physicians to accomplish his cure. Elizabeth afterwards visited him at his house at Mortlake, that she might view his magazine of mathematical instruments and curiosities; and about this time employed him to defend her title to countries discovered in different parts of the globe. He says of himself, that he received the most advantageous offers from Charles V, Ferdinand, Maximilian II, and Rodolph II, emperors of Germany, and from the czar of Muscovy an offer of L.2000 sterling _per annum_, upon condition that he would reside in his dominions. All these circumstances were solemnly attested by Dee in a Compendious Rehearsal of his Life and Studies for half-a-century, composed at a later period, and read by him at his house at Mortlake to two commissioners appointed by Elizabeth to enquire into his circumstances, accompanied with evidences and documents to establish the particulars. [210] Had Dee gone no further than this, he would undoubtedly have ranked among the profoundest scholars and most eminent geniuses that adorned the reign of the maiden queen. But he was unfortunately cursed with an ambition that nothing could satisfy; and, having accustomed his mind to the wildest reveries, and wrought himself up to an extravagant pitch of enthusiasm, he pursued a course that involved him in much calamity, and clouded all his latter days with misery and ruin. He dreamed perpetually of the philosopher's stone, and was haunted with the belief of intercourse of a supramundane character. It is almost impossible to decide among these things, how much was illusion, and how much was forgery. Both were inextricably mixed in his proceedings; and this extraordinary victim probably could not in his most dispassionate moments precisely distinguish what belonged to the one, and what to the other. As Dee was an enthusiast, so he perpetually interposed in his meditations prayers of the greatest emphasis and fervour. As he was one day in November 1582, engaged in these devout exercises, he says that there appeared to him the angel Uriel at the west window of his Museum, who gave him a translucent stone, or chrystal, of a convex form, that had the quality, when intently surveyed, of presenting apparitions, and even emitting sounds, in consequence of which the observer could hold conversations, ask questions and receive answers from the figures he saw in the mirror. It was often necessary that the stone should be turned one way and another in different positions, before the person who consulted it gained the right focus; and then the objects to be observed would sometimes shew themselves on the surface of the stone, and sometime in different parts of the room by virtue of the action of the stone. It had also this peculiarity, that only one person, having been named as seer, could see the figures exhibited, and hear the voices that spoke, though there might be various persons in the room. It appears that the person who discerned these visions must have his eyes and his ears uninterruptedly engaged in the affair, so that, as Dee experienced, to render the communication effectual, there must be two human beings concerned in the scene, one of them to describe what he saw, and to recite the dialogue that took place, and the other immediately to commit to paper all that his partner dictated. Dee for some reason chose for himself the part of the amanuensis, and had to seek for a companion, who was to watch the stone, and repeat to him whatever he saw and heard. It happened opportunely that, a short time before Dee received this gift from on high, he contracted a familiar intercourse with one Edward Kelly of Worcestershire, whom he found specially qualified to perform the part which it was necessary to Dee to have adequately filled. Kelly was an extraordinary character, and in some respects exactly such a person as Dee wanted. He was just twenty-eight years younger than the memorable personage, who now received him as an inmate, and was engaged in his service at a stipulated salary of fifty pounds a year. Kelly entered upon life with a somewhat unfortunate adventure. He was accused, when a young man, of forgery, brought to trial, convicted, and lost his ears in the pillory. This misfortune however by no means daunted him. He was assiduously engaged in the search for the philosopher's stone. He had an active mind, great enterprise, and a very domineering temper. Another adventure in which he had been engaged previously to his knowledge of Dee, was in digging up the body of a man, who had been buried only the day before, that he might compel him by incantations, to answer questions, and discover future events. There was this difference therefore between the two persons previously to their league. Dee was a man of regular manners and unspotted life, honoured by the great, and favourably noticed by crowned heads in different parts of the world; while Kelly was a notorious profligate, accustomed to the most licentious actions, and under no restraint from morals or principle. One circumstance that occurred early in the acquaintance of Kelly and Dee it is necessary to mention. It serves strikingly to illustrate the ascendancy of the junior and impetuous party over his more gifted senior. Kelly led Dee, we are not told under what pretence, to visit the celebrated ruins of Glastonbury Abbey in Somersetshire. Here, as these curious travellers searched into every corner of the scene, they met by some rare accident with a vase containing a certain portion of the actual _elixir vitae_, that rare and precious liquid, so much sought after, which has the virtue of converting the baser metals into gold and silver. It had remained here perhaps ever since the time of the highly-gifted St. Dunstan in the tenth century. This they carried off in triumph: but we are not told of any special use to which they applied it, till a few years after, when they were both on the continent. The first record of their consultations with the supramundane spirits, was of the date of December 2, 1581, at Lexden Heath in the county of Essex; and from this time they went on in a regular series of consultations with and enquiries from these miraculous visitors, a great part of which will appear to the uninitiated extremely puerile and ludicrous, but which were committed to writing with the most scrupulous exactness by Dee, the first part still existing in manuscript, but the greater portion from 28 May 1583 to 1608, with some interruptions, having been committed to the press by Dr. Meric Casaubon in a well-sized folio in 1659, under the title of "A True and Faithful Relation of what passed between Dr. John Dee and some Spirits, tending, had it succeeded, to a general alteration of most states and kingdoms of the world." Kelly and Dee had not long been engaged in these supernatural colloquies, before an event occurred which gave an entirely new turn to their proceedings. Albert Alaski, a Polish nobleman, lord palatine of the principality of Siradia, came over at this time into England, urged, as he said, by a desire personally to acquaint himself with the glories of the reign of Elizabeth, and the evidences of her unrivalled talents. The queen and her favourite, the earl of Leicester, received him with every mark of courtesy and attention, and, having shewn him all the wonders of her court at Westminster and Greenwich, sent him to Oxford, with a command to the dignitaries and heads of colleges, to pay him every attention, and to lay open to his view all their rarest curiosities. Among other things worthy of notice, Alaski enquired for the celebrated Dr. Dee, and expressed the greatest impatience to be acquainted with him. Just at this juncture the earl of Leicester happened to spy Dr. Dee among the crowd who attended at a royal levee. The earl immediately advanced towards him; and, in his frank manner, having introduced him to Alaski, expressed his intention of bringing the Pole to dine with the doctor at his house at Mortlake. Embarrassed with this unexpected honour, Dee no sooner got home, than he dispatched an express to the earl, honestly confessing that he should be unable to entertain such guests in a suitable manner, without being reduced to the expedient of selling or pawning his plate, to procure him the means of doing so. Leicester communicated the doctor's perplexity to Elizabeth; and the queen immediately dispatched a messenger with a present of forty angels, or twenty pounds, to enable him to receive his guests as became him. A great intimacy immediately commenced between Dee and the stranger. Alaski, though possessing an extensive territory, was reduced by the prodigality of himself or his ancestors to much embarrassment; and on the other hand this nobleman appeared to Dee an instrument well qualified to accomplish his ambitious purposes. Alaski was extremely desirous to look into the womb of time; and Dee, it is likely, suggested repeated hints of his extraordinary power from his possession of the philosopher's stone. After two or three interviews, and much seeming importunity on the part of the Pole, Dee and Kelly graciously condescended to admit Alaski as a third party to their secret meetings with their supernatural visitors, from which the rest of the world were carefully excluded. Here the two Englishmen made use of the vulgar artifice, of promising extraordinary good fortune to the person of whom they purposed to make use. By the intervention of the miraculous stone they told the wondering traveller, that he should shortly become king of Poland, with the accession of several other kingdoms, that he should overcome many armies of Saracens and Paynims, and prove a mighty conqueror. Dee at the same time complained of the disagreeable condition in which he was at home, and that Burleigh and Walsingham were his malicious enemies. At length they concerted among themselves, that they, Alaski, and Dee and Kelly with their wives and families, should clandestinely withdraw out of England, and proceed with all practicable rapidity to Alaski's territory in the kingdom of Poland. They embarked on this voyage 21 September, and arrived at Siradia the third of February following. At this place however the strangers remained little more than a month. Alaski found his finances in such disorder, that it was scarcely possible for him to feed the numerous guests he had brought along with him. The promises of splendid conquests which Dee and Kelly profusely heaped upon him, were of no avail to supply the deficiency of his present income. And the elixir they brought from Glastonbury was, as they said, so incredibly rich in virtue, that they were compelled to lose much time in making projection by way of trial, before they could hope to arrive at the proper temperament for producing the effect they desired. In the following month Alaski with his visitors passed to Cracow, the residence of the kings of Poland. Here they remained five months, Dee and Kelly perpetually amusing the Pole with the extraordinary virtue of the stone, which had been brought from heaven by an angel, and busied in a thousand experiments with the elixir, and many tedious preparations which they pronounced to be necessary, before the compound could have the proper effect. The prophecies were uttered with extreme confidence; but no external indications were afforded, to shew that in any way they were likely to be realised. The experiments and exertions of the laboratory were incessant; but no transmutation was produced. At length Alaski found himself unable to sustain the train of followers he had brought out of England. With mountains of wealth, the treasures of the world promised, they were reduced to the most grievous straits for the means of daily subsistence. Finally the zeal of Alaski diminished; he had no longer the same faith in the projectors that had deluded him; and he devised a way of sending them forward with letters of recommendation to Rodolph II, emperor of Germany, at his imperial seat of Prague, where they arrived on the ninth of August. Rodolph was a man, whose character and habits of life they judged excellently adapted to their purpose. Dee had a long conference with the emperor, in which he explained to him what wonderful things the spirits promised to this prince, in case he proved exemplary of life, and obedient to their suggestions, that he should be the greatest conqueror in the world, and should take captive the Turk in his city of Constantinople. Rodolph was extremely courteous in his reception, and sent away Dee with the highest hopes that he had at length found a personage with whom he should infallibly succeed to the extent of his wishes. He sought however a second interview, and was baffled. At one time the emperor was going to his country palace near Prague, and at another was engaged in the pleasures of the chace. He also complained that he was not sufficiently familiar with the Latin tongue, to manage the conferences with Dee in a satisfactory manner in person. He therefore deputed Curtzius, a man high in his confidence, to enter into the necessary details with his learned visitor. Dee also contrived to have Spinola, the ambassador from Madrid to the court of the emperor, to urge his suit. The final result was that Rodolph declined any further intercourse with Dee. He turned a deaf ear to his prophecies, and professed to be altogether void of faith as to his promises respecting the philosopher's stone. Dee however was led on perpetually with hopes of better things from the emperor, till the spring of the year 1585. At length he was obliged to fly from Prague, the bishop of Placentia, the pope's nuncio, having it in command from his holiness to represent to Rodolph how discreditable it was for him to harbour English magicians, heretics, at his court. From Prague Dee and his followers proceeded to Cracow. Here he found means of introduction to Stephen, king of Poland, to whom immediately he insinuated as intelligence from heaven, that Rodolph, the emperor, would speedily be assassinated, and that Stephen would succeed him in the throne of Germany. Stephen appears to have received Dee with more condescension than Rodolph had done, and was once present at his incantation and interview with the invisible spirits. Dee also lured him on with promises respecting the philosopher's stone. Meanwhile the magician was himself reduced to the strangest expedients for subsistence. He appears to have daily expected great riches from the transmutation of metals, and was unwilling to confess that he and his family were in the mean time almost starving. When king Stephen at length became wearied with fruitless expectation, Dee was fortunate enough to meet with another and more patient dupe in Rosenburg, a nobleman of considerable wealth at Trebona in the kingdom of Bohemia. Here Dee appears to have remained till 1589, when he was sent for home by Elizabeth. In what manner he proceeded during this interval, and from whence he drew his supplies, we are only left to conjecture. He lured on his victim with the usual temptation, promising him that he should be king of Poland. In the mean time it is recorded by him, that, on the ninth of December, 1586, he arrived at the point of projection, having cut a piece of metal out of a brass warming-pan; and merely heating it by the fire, and pouring on it a portion of the elixir, it was presently converted into pure silver. We are told that he sent the warming-pan and the piece of silver to queen Elizabeth, that she might be convinced by her own eyes how exactly they tallied, and that the one had unquestionably been a portion of the other. About the same time it is said, that Dee and his associate became more free in their expenditure; and in one instance it is stated as an example, that Kelly gave away to the value of four thousand pounds sterling in gold rings on occasion of the celebration of the marriage of one of his maid-servants. On the twenty-seventh and thirtieth of July, 1587, Dee has recorded in his journal his gratitude to God for his unspeakable mercies on those days imparted, which has been interpreted to mean further acquisitions of wealth by means of the elixir. Meanwhile perpetual occasions of dissention occurred between the two great confederates, Kelly and Dee. They were in many respects unfitted for each other's society. Dee was a man, who from his youth upward had been indefatigable in study and research, had the consciousness of great talents and intellect, and had been universally recognised as such, and had possessed a high character for fervent piety and blameless morals. Kelly was an impudent adventurer, a man of no principles and of blasted reputation; yet fertile in resources, full of self-confidence, and of no small degree of ingenuity. In their mutual intercourse the audacious adventurer often had the upper hand of the man who had lately possessed a well-earned reputation. Kelly frequently professed himself tired of enacting the character of interpreter of the Gods under Dee. He found Dee in all cases running away with the superior consideration; while he in his own opinion best deserved to possess it. The straitness of their circumstances, and the misery they were occasionally called on to endure, we may be sure did not improve their good understanding. Kelly once and again threatened to abandon his leader. Dee continually soothed him, and prevailed on him to stay. Kelly at length started a very extraordinary proposition. Kelly, as interpreter to the spirits, and being the only person who heard and saw any thing, we may presume made them say whatever he pleased. Kelly and Dee had both of them wives. Kelly did not always live harmoniously with the partner of his bed. He sometimes went so far as to say that he hated her. Dee was more fortunate. His wife was a person of good family, and had hitherto been irreproachable in her demeanour. The spirits one day revealed to Kelly, that they must henceforth have their wives in common. The wife of Kelly was barren, and this curse could no otherwise be removed. Having started the proposition, Kelly played the reluctant party. Dee, who was pious and enthusiastic, inclined to submit. He first indeed started the notion, that it could only be meant that they should live in mutual harmony and good understanding. The spirits protested against this, and insisted upon the literal interpretation. Dee yielded, and compared his case to that of Abraham, who at the divine command consented to sacrifice his son Isaac. Kelly alleged that these spirits, which Dee had hitherto regarded as messengers from God, could be no other than servants of Satan. He persisted in his disobedience; and the spirits declared that he was no longer worthy to be their interpreter, and that another mediator must be found. They named Arthur Dee, the son of the possessor of the stone, a promising and well-disposed boy of only eight years of age. Dee consecrated the youth accordingly to his high function by prayers and religious rites for several days together. Kelly took horse and rode away, protesting that they should meet no more. Arthur entered upon his office, April 15, 1587. The experiment proved abortive. He saw something; but not to the purpose. He heard no voices. At length Kelly, on the third day, entered the room unexpectedly, "by miraculous fortune," as Dee says, "or a divine fate," sate down between them, and immediately saw figures, and heard voices, which the little Arthur was not enabled to perceive. In particular he saw four heads inclosed in an obelisk, which he perceived to represent the two magicians and their wives, and interpreted to signify that unlimited communion in which they were destined to engage. The matter however being still an occasion of scruple, a spirit appeared, who by the language he used was plainly no other than the Saviour of the world, and took away from them the larger stone; for now it appears there were two stones. This miracle at length induced all parties to submit; and the divine command was no sooner obeyed, than the stone which had been abstracted, was found again under the pillow of the wife of Dee. It is not easy to imagine a state of greater degradation than that into which this person had now fallen. During all the prime and vigour of his intellect, he had sustained an eminent part among the learned and the great, distinguished and honoured by Elizabeth and her favourite. But his unbounded arrogance and self-opinion could never be satisfied. And seduced, partly by his own weakness, and partly by the insinuations of a crafty adventurer, he became a mystic of the most dishonourable sort. He was induced to believe in a series of miraculous communications without common sense, engaged in the pursuit of the philosopher's stone, and no doubt imagined that he was possessed of the great secret. Stirred up by these conceptions, he left his native country, and became a wanderer, preying upon the credulity of one prince and eminent man after another, and no sooner was he discarded by one victim of credulity, than he sought another, a vagabond on the earth, reduced from time to time to the greatest distress, persecuted, dishonoured and despised by every party in their turn. At length by incessant degrees he became dead to all moral distinctions, and all sense of honour and self-respect. "Professing himself to be wise he became a fool, walked in the vanity of his imagination," and had his understanding under total eclipse. The immoral system of conduct in which he engaged, and the strange and shocking blasphemy that he mixed with it, render him at this time a sort of character that it is painful to contemplate. Led on as Dee at this time was by the ascendancy and consummate art of Kelly, there was far from existing any genuine harmony between them; and, after many squabbles and heart-burnings, they appear finally to have parted in January 1589, Dee having, according to his own account, at that time delivered up to Kelly, the elixir and the different implements by which the transmutation of metals was to be effected. Various overtures appear to have passed now for some years between Dee and queen Elizabeth, intended to lead to his restoration to his native country. Dee had upon different occasions expressed a wish to that effect; and Elizabeth in the spring of 1589 sent him a message, that removed from him all further thought of hesitation and delay. He set out from Trebona with three coaches, and a baggage train correspondent, and had an audience of the queen at Richmond towards the close of that year. Upon the whole it is impossible perhaps not to believe, that Elizabeth was influenced in this proceeding by the various reports that had reached her of his extraordinary success with the philosopher's stone, and the boundless wealth he had it in his power to bestow. Many princes at this time contended with each other, as to who should be happy enough by fair means or by force to have under his control the fortunate possessor of the great secret, and thus to have in his possession the means of inexhaustible wealth. Shortly after this time the emperor Rodolph seized and committed to prison Kelly, the partner of Dee in this inestimable faculty, and, having once enlarged him, placed him in custody a second time. Meanwhile Elizabeth is said to have made him pressing overtures of so flattering a nature that he determined to escape and return to his native country. For this purpose he is said to have torn the sheets of his bed, and twisted them into a rope, that by that means he might descend from the tower in which he was confined. But, being a corpulent man of considerable weight, the rope broke with him before he was half way down, and, having fractured one or both his legs, and being otherwise considerably bruised, he died shortly afterwards. This happened in the year 1595. Dee (according to his own account, delivered to commissioners appointed by queen Elizabeth to enquire into his circumstances) came from Trebona to England in a state little inferior to that of an ambassador. He had three coaches, with four horses harnessed to each coach, two or three loaded waggons, and a guard, sometimes of six, and sometimes of twenty-four soldiers, to defend him from enemies, who were supposed to lie in wait to intercept his passage. Immediately on his arrival he had an audience of the queen at Richmond, by whom he was most graciously received. She gave special orders, that he should do what he would in chemistry and philosophy, and that no one should on any account molest him. But here end the prosperity and greatness of this extraordinary man. If he possessed the power of turning all baser metals into gold, he certainly acted unadvisedly in surrendering this power to his confederate, immediately before his return to his native country. He parted at the same time with his gift of prophecy, since, though he brought away with him his miraculous stone, and at one time appointed one Bartholomew, and another one Hickman, his interpreters to look into the stone, to see the marvellous sights it was expected to disclose, and to hear the voices and report the words that issued from it, the experiments proved in both instances abortive. They wanted the finer sense, or the unparalleled effrontery and inexhaustible invention, which Kelly alone possessed. The remainder of the voyage of the life of Dee was "bound in shallows and in miseries." Queen Elizabeth we may suppose soon found that her dreams of immense wealth to be obtained through his intervention were nugatory. Yet would she not desert the favourite of her former years. He presently began to complain of poverty and difficulties. He represented that the revenue of two livings he held in the church had been withheld from him from the time of his going abroad. He stated that, shortly after that period, his house had been broken into and spoiled by a lawless mob, instigated by his ill fame as a dealer in prohibited and unlawful arts. They destroyed or dispersed his library, consisting of four thousand volumes, seven hundred of which were manuscripts, and of inestimable rarity. They ravaged his collection of curious implements and machines. He enumerated the expences of his journey home by Elizabeth's command, for which he seemed to consider the queen as his debtor. Elizabeth in consequence ordered him at several times two or three small sums. But this being insufficient, she was prevailed upon in 1592 to appoint two members of her privy council to repair to his house at Mortlake to enquire into particulars, to whom he made a Compendious Rehearsal of half a hundred years of his life, accompanied with documents and vouchers. It is remarkable that in this Rehearsal no mention occurs of the miraculous stone brought down to him by an angel, or of his pretensions respecting the transmutation of metals. He merely rests, his claims to public support upon his literary labours, and the acknowledged eminence of his intellectual faculties. He passes over the years he had lately spent in foreign countries, in entire silence, unless we except his account of the particulars of his journey home. His representation to Elizabeth not being immediately productive of all the effects he expected, he wrote a letter to archbishop Whitgift two years after, lamenting the delay of the expected relief, and complaining of the "untrue reports, opinions and fables, which had for so many years been spread of his studies." He represents these studies purely as literary, frank, and wholly divested of mystery. If the "True Relation of what passed for many years between Dr. Dee and certain Spirits" had not been preserved, and afterwards printed, we might have been disposed to consider all that was said on this subject as a calumny. The promotion which Dee had set his heart on, was to the office of master of St. Cross's Hospital near Winchester, which the queen had promised him when the present holder should be made a bishop. But this never happened. He obtained however in lieu of it the chancellorship of St. Paul's cathedral, 8 December 1594, which in the following year he exchanged for the wardenship of the college at Manchester. In this last office he continued till the year 1602 (according to other accounts 1604), during which time he complained of great dissention and refractoriness on the part of the fellows; though it may perhaps be doubted whether equal blame may not fairly be imputed to the arrogance and restlessness of the warden. At length he receded altogether from public life, and retired to his ancient domicile at Mortlake. He made one attempt to propitiate the favour of king James; but it was ineffectual. Elizabeth had known him in the flower and vigour of his days; he had boasted the uniform patronage of her chief favourite; he had been recognised by the philosophical and the learned as inferior to none of their body, and he had finally excited the regard of his ancient mistress by his pretence to revelations, and the promises he held out of the philosopher's stone. She could not shake off her ingrafted prejudice in his favour; she could not find in her heart to cast him aside in his old age and decay. But then came a king, to whom in his prosperity and sunshine he had been a stranger. He wasted his latter days in dotage, obscurity and universal neglect. No one has told us how he contrived to subsist. We may be sure that his constant companions were mortification and the most humiliating privations. He lingered on till the year 1608; and the ancient people in the time of Antony Wood, nearly a century afterwards, pointed to his grave in the chancel of the church at Mortlake, and professed to know the very spot where his remains were desposited. The history of Dee is exceedingly interesting, not only on its own account; not only for the eminence of his talents and attainments, and the incredible sottishness and blindness of understanding which marked his maturer years; but as strikingly illustrative of the credulity and superstitious faith of the time in which he lived. At a later period his miraculous stone which displayed such wonders, and was attended with so long a series of supernatural vocal communications would have deceived nobody: it was scarcely more ingenious than the idle tricks of the most ordinary conjurer. But at this period the crust of long ages of darkness had not yet been fully worn away. Men did not trust to the powers of human understanding, and were not familiarised with the main canons of evidence and belief. Dee passed six years on the continent, proceeding from the court of one prince or potent nobleman to another, listened to for a time by each, each regarding his oracular communications with astonishment and alarm, and at length irresolutely casting him off, when he found little or no difficulty in running a like career with another. It is not the least curious circumstance respecting the life of Dee, that in 1659, half a century after his death, there remained still such an interest respecting practices of this sort, as to authorise the printing a folio volume, in a complex and elaborate form, of his communications with spirits. The book was brought out by Dr. Meric Casaubon, no contemptible name in the republic of letters. The editor observes respecting the hero and his achievements in the Preface, that, "though his carriage in certain respects seemed to lay in works of darkness, yet all was tendered by him to kings and princes, and by all (England alone excepted) was listened to for a good while with good respect, and by some for a long time embraced and entertained." He goes on to say, that "the fame of it made the pope bestir himself, and filled all, both learned and unlearned, with great wonder and astonishment." He adds, that, "as a whole it is undoubtedly not to be paralleled in its kind in any age or country." In a word the editor, though disavowing an entire belief in Dee's pretensions, yet plainly considers them with some degree of deference, and insinuates to how much more regard such undue and exaggerated pretensions are entitled, than the impious incredulity of certain modern Sadducees, who say that "there is no resurrection; neither angel, nor spirit." The belief in witchcraft and sorcery has undoutedly met with some degree of favour from this consideration, inasmuch as, by recognising the correspondence of human beings with the invisible world, it has one principle in common with the believers in revelation, of which the more daring infidel is destitute. EARL OF DERBY. The circumstances of the death of Ferdinand, fifth earl of Derby, in 1594, have particularly engaged the attention of the contemporary historians. Hesket, an emissary of the Jesuits and English Catholics abroad, was importunate with this nobleman to press his title to the crown, as the legal representative of his great-grandmother Mary, youngest daughter to king Henry the Seventh. But the earl, fearing, as it is said, that this was only a trap to ensnare him, gave information against Hesket to the government, in consequence of which he was apprehended, tried and executed. Hesket had threatened the earl that, if he did not comply with his suggestion, he should live only a short time. Accordingly, four months afterwards, the earl was seized with a very uncommon disease. A waxen image was at the same time found in his chamber with hairs in its belly exactly of the same colour as those of the earl. [211] The image was, by some zealous friend of lord Derby, burned; but the earl grew worse. He was himself thoroughly persuaded that he was bewitched. Stow has inserted in his Annals a minute account of his disease from day to day, with a description of all the symptoms. KING JAMES'S VOYAGE TO NORWAY. While Elizabeth amused herself with the supernatural gifts to which Dee advanced his claim, and consoled the adversity and destitution to which the old man, once so extensively honoured, was now reduced, a scene of a very different complexion was played in the northern part of the island. Trials for sorcery were numerous in the reign of Mary queen of Scots; the comparative darkness and ignorance of the sister kingdom rendered it a soil still more favourable than England to the growth of these gloomy superstitions. But the mind of James, at once inquisitive, pedantic and self-sufficient, peculiarly fitted him for the pursuit of these narrow-minded and obscure speculations. One combination of circumstances wrought up this propensity within him to the greatest height. James was born in the year 1566. He was the only direct heir to the crown of Scotland; and he was in near prospect of succession to that of England. The zeal of the Protestant Reformation had wrought up the anxiety of men's minds to a fever of anticipation and forecast. Consequently, towards the end of the reign of Elizabeth, a point which greatly arrested the general attention was the expected marriage of the king of Scotland. Elizabeth, with that petty jealousy which obscured the otherwise noble qualities of her spirit, sought to countermine this marriage, that her rival and expected successor might not be additionally graced with the honours of offspring. James fixed his mind upon a daughter of the king of Denmark. By the successful cabals of Elizabeth he was baffled in this suit; and the lady was finally married to the duke of Bavaria. The king of Denmark had another daughter; and James made proposals to this princess. Still he was counteracted; till at length he sent a splendid embassy, with ample powers and instructions, and the treaty was concluded. The princess embarked; but, when she had now for some time been expected in Scotland, news was brought instead, that she had been driven back by tempests on the coast of Norway. The young king felt keenly his disappointment, and gallantly resolved to sail in person for the port, where his intended consort was detained by the shattered condition of her fleet. James arrived on the twenty-second of October 1589, and having consummated his marriage, was induced by the invitation of his father-in-law to pass the winter at Copenhagen, from whence he did not sail till the spring, and, after having encountered a variety of contrary winds and some danger, reached Edinburgh on the first of May in the following year. It was to be expected that variable weather and storms should characterise the winter-season in these seas. But the storms were of longer continuance and of more frequent succession, than was usually known. And at this period, when the proposed consort of James first, then the king himself, and finally both of them, and the hope of Protestant succession, were committed to the mercy of the waves, it is not wonderful that the process of the seasons should be accurately marked, and that those varieties, which are commonly ascribed to second causes, should have been imputed to extraordinary and supernatural interference. It was affirmed that, in the king's return from Denmark, his ship was impelled by a different wind from that which acted on the rest of his fleet. It happened that, soon after James's return to Scotland, one Geillis Duncan, a servant-maid, for the extraordinary circumstances that attended certain cures which she performed, became suspected of witchcraft. Her master questioned her on the subject; but she would own nothing. Perceiving her obstinacy, the master took upon himself of his own authority, to extort confession from her by torture. In this he succeeded; and, having related divers particulars of witchcraft of herself, she proceeded to accuse others. The persons she accused were cast into the public prison. One of these, Agnes Sampson by name, at first stoutly resisted the torture. But, it being more strenuously applied, she by and by became extremely communicative. It was at this period that James personally engaged in the examinations. We are told that he "took great delight in being present," and putting the proper questions. The unhappy victim was introduced into a room plentifully furnished with implements of torture, while the king waited in an apartment at a convenient distance, till the patient was found to be in a suitable frame of mind to make the desired communications. No sooner did he or she signify that they were ready, and should no longer refuse to answer, than they were introduced, fainting, sinking under recent sufferings which they had no longer strength to resist, into the royal presence. And here sat James, in envied ease and conscious "delight," wrapped up in the thought of his own sagacity, framing the enquiries that might best extort the desired evidence, and calculating with a judgment by no means to be despised, from the bearing, the turn of features, and the complexion of the victim, the probability whether he was making a frank and artless confession, or had still the secret desire to impose on the royal examiner, or from a different motive was disposed to make use of the treacherous authority which the situation afforded, to gratify his revenge upon some person towards whom he might be inspired with latent hatred and malice. Agnes Sampson related with what solicitude she had sought to possess some fragment of the linen belonging to the king. If he had worn it, and it had contracted any soil from his royal person, this would be enough: she would infallibly, by applying her incantations to this fragment, have been able to undermine the life of the sovereign. She told how she with two hundred other witches had sailed in sieves from Leith to North Berwick church, how they had there encountered the devil in person, how they had feasted with him, and what obscenities had been practised. She related that in this voyage they had drowned a cat, having first baptised him, and that immediately a dreadful storm had arisen, and in this very storm the king's ship had been separated from the rest of his fleet. She took James aside, and, the better to convince him, undertook to repeat to him the conversation, the dialogue which had passed from the one to the other, between the king and queen in their bedchamber on the wedding-night. Agnes Sampson was condemned to the flames. JOHN FIAN. Another of the miserable victims on this occasion was John Fian, a schoolmaster at Tranent near Edinburgh, a young man, whom the ignorant populace had decorated with the style of doctor. He was tortured by means of a rope strongly twisted about his head, and by the boots. He was at length brought to confession. He told of a young girl, the sister of one of his scholars, with whom he had been deeply enamoured. He had proposed to the boy to bring him three hairs from the most secret part of his sister's body, possessing which he should be enabled by certain incantations to procure himself the love of the girl. The boy at his mother's instigation brought to Fian three hairs from a virgin heifer instead; and, applying his conjuration to them, the consequence had been that the heifer forced her way into his school, leaped upon him in amorous fashion, and would not be restrained from following him about the neighbourhood. This same Fian acted an important part in the scene at North Berwick church. As being best fitted for the office, he was appointed recorder or clerk to the devil, to write down the names, and administer the oaths to the witches. He was actively concerned in the enchantment, by means of which the king's ship had nearly been lost on his return from Denmark. This part of his proceeding however does not appear in his own confession, but in that of the witches who were his fellow-conspirators. He further said, that, the night after he made his confession, the devil appeared to him, and was in a furious rage against him for his disloyalty to his service, telling him that he should severely repent his infidelity. According to his own account, he stood firm, and defied the devil to do his worst. Meanwhile the next night he escaped out of prison, and was with some difficulty retaken. He however finally denied all his former confessions, said that they were falshoods forced from him by mere dint of torture, and, though he was now once more subjected to the same treatment to such an excess as must necessarily have crippled him of his limbs for ever, he proved inflexible to the last. At length by the king's order he was strangled, and his body cast into the flames. Multitudes of unhappy men and women perished in this cruel persecution. [212] KING JAMES'S DEMONOLOGY. It was by a train of observations and experience like this, that James was prompted seven years after to compose and publish his Dialogues on Demonology in Three Books. In the Preface to this book he says, "The fearfull abounding at this time in this countrey, of these detestable slaves of the Diuel, the Witches or enchaunters, hath moved me (beloued Reader) to dispatch in post this following Treatise of mine, not in any wise (as I protest) to serue for a shew of my learning and ingine, but onely (moued of conscience) to preasse thereby, so farre as I can, to resolue the doubting hearts of many, both that such assaults of Satan are most certainely practised, and that the instruments thereof merits most seuerely to be punished." In the course of the treatise he affirms, "that barnes, or wiues, or neuer so diffamed persons, may serue for sufficient witnesses and proofes in such trialls; for who but Witches can be prooves, and so witnesses of the doings of Witches?" [213] But, lest innocent persons should be accused, and suffer falsely, he tells us, "There are two other good helps that may be used for their trial: the one is, the finding of their marke [a mark that the devil was supposed to impress upon some part of their persons], and the trying the insensibleness thereof: the other is their fleeting on the water: for, as in a secret murther, if the dead carkasse be at any time thereafter handled by the murtherer, it will gush out of bloud, as if the bloud were crying to the heauen for revenge of the murtherer, God hauing appointed that secret supernaturall signe, for triall of that secret unnaturall crime, so it appears that God hath appointed (for a supernaturall signe of the monstrous impietie of Witches) that the water shall refuse to receive them in her bosome, that haue shaken off them the sacred water of Baptisme, and wilfully refused the benefite thereof: No, not so much as their eyes are able to shed teares (threaten and torture them as ye please) while first they repent (God not permitting them to dissemble their obstinacie in so horrible a crime.)" [214] STATUTE, 1 JAMES I. In consequence of the strong conviction James entertained on the subject, the English parliament was induced, in the first year of his reign, to supersede the milder proceedings of Elizabeth, and to enact that "if any person shall use, practice, or exercise any invocation or conjuration of any evil and wicked spirit, or shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any evil and wicked spirit, to or for any intent and purpose; or take up any dead man, woman, or child out of their grave, or the skin, bone, or any part of any dead person, to be used in any manner of witchcraft, sorcery or enchantment, or shall use any witchcraft, sorcery or enchantment, whereby any person shall be killed, destroyed, wasted, consumed, pined or lamed in his or her body, or any part thereof; that then every such offender, their aiders, abettors and counsellors shall suffer the pains of death." And upon this statute great numbers were condemned and executed. FORMAN AND OTHERS. There is a story of necromancy which unfortunately makes too prominent a figure in the history of the court and character of king James the First. Robert earl of Essex, son of queen Elizabeth's favourite, and who afterwards became commander in chief of the parliamentary forces in the civil wars, married lady Frances Howard, a younger daughter of the earl of Suffolk, the bride and bridegroom being the one thirteen, the other fourteen years old at the time of the marriage. The relatives of the countess however, who had brought about the match, thought it most decorous to separate them for some time, and, while she remained at home with her friends, the bridegroom travelled for three or four years on the continent. The lady proved the greatest beauty of her time, but along with this had the most libertine and unprincipled dispositions. The very circumstance that she had vowed her faith at the altar when she was not properly capable of choice, inspired into the wayward mind of the countess a repugnance to her husband. He came from the continent, replete with accomplishments; and we may conclude, from the figure he afterwards made in the most perilous times, not without a competent share of intellectual abilities. But the countess shrank from all advances on his part. He loved retirement, and woed the lady to scenes most favourable to the development of the affections: she had been bred in court, and was melancholy and repined in any other scene. So capricious was her temper, that she is said at the same time to have repelled the overtures of the accomplished and popular prince Henry, the heir to the throne. It happened about this period that a beautiful young man, twenty years of age, and full of all martial graces, appeared on the stage. King James was singularly partial to young men who were distinguished for personal attractions. By an extraordinary accident this person, Robert Carr by name, in the midst of a court-spectacle, just when it was his cue to present a buckler with a device to the king, was thrown from his horse, and broke his leg. This was enough: James naturally became interested in the misfortune, attached himself to Carr, and even favoured him again and again with a royal visit during his cure. Presently the young man became an exclusive favourite; and no honours and graces could be obtained of the sovereign but by his interference. This circumstance fixed the wavering mind of the countess of Essex. Voluptuous and self-willed in her disposition, she would hear of no one but Carr. But her opportunities of seeing him were both short and rare. In this emergency she applied to Mrs. Turner, a woman whose profession it was to study and to accommodate the fancies of such persons as the countess. Mrs. Turner introduced her to Dr. Forman, a noted astrologer and magician, and he, by images made of wax, and various uncouth figures and devices, undertook to procure the love of Carr to the lady. At the same time he practised against the earl, that he might become impotent, at least towards his wife. This however did not satisfy the lady; and having gone the utmost lengths towards her innamorato, she insisted on a divorce in all the forms, and a legal marriage with the youth she loved. Carr appears originally to have had good dispositions; and, while that was the case, had assiduously cultivated the friendship of Sir Thomas Overbury, one of the most promising young courtiers of the time. Sir Thomas earnestly sought to break off the intimacy of Carr with lady Essex, and told him how utterly ruinous to his reputation and prospects it would prove, if he married her. But Carr, instead of feeling how much obliged he was to Overbury for this example of disinterested friendship, went immediately and told the countess what the young man said. From this time the destruction of Overbury was resolved on between them. He was first committed to the Tower by an arbitrary mandate of James for refusing an embassage to Russia, next sequestered from all visitors, and finally attacked with poison, which, after several abortive attempts, was at length brought to effect. Meanwhile a divorce was sued for by the countess upon an allegation of impotence; and another female was said to have been substituted in her room, to be subjected to the inspection of a jury of matrons in proof of her virginity. After a lapse of two years the murder was brought to light, the inferior criminals, Mrs. Turner and the rest, convicted and executed, and Carr, now earl of Somerset, and his countess, found guilty, but received the royal pardon.--It is proper to add, in order to give a just idea of the state of human credulity at this period, that, Forman having died at the time that his services were deemed most necessary, one Gresham first, and then a third astrologer and enchanter were brought forward, to consummate the atrocious projects of the infamous countess. It is said that she and her second husband were ultimately so thoroughly alienated from each other, that they resided for years under the same roof, with the most careful precautions that they might not by any chance come into each other's presence. [215] LATEST IDEAS OF JAMES ON THE SUBJECT. It is worthy of remark however that king James lived to alter his mind extremely on the question of witchcraft. He was active in his observations on the subject; and we are told that "the frequency of forged possessions which were detected by him wrought such an alteration in his judgment, that he, receding from what he had written in his early life, grew first diffident of, and then flatly to deny, the working of witches and devils, as but falshoods and delusions." [216] LANCASHIRE WITCHES. A more melancholy tale does not occur in the annals of necromancy than that of the Lancashire witches in 1612. The scene of this story is in Pendlebury Forest, four or five miles from Manchester, remarkable for its picturesque and gloomy situation. Such places were not sought then as now, that they might afford food for the imagination, and gratify the refined taste of the traveller. They were rather shunned as infamous for scenes of depredation and murder, or as the consecrated haunts of diabolical intercourse. Pendlebury had been long of ill repute on this latter account, when a country magistrate, Roger Nowel by name, conceived about this time that he should do a public service, by rooting out a nest of witches, who rendered the place a terror to all the neighbouring vulgar. The first persons he seized on were Elizabeth Demdike and Ann Chattox, the former of whom was eighty years of age, and had for some years been blind, who subsisted principally by begging, though she had a miserable hovel on the spot, which she called her own. Ann Chattox was of the same age, and had for some time been threatened with the calamity of blindness. Demdike was held to be so hardened a witch, that she had trained all her family to the mystery; namely, Elizabeth Device, her daughter, and James and Alison Device, her grandchildren. In the accusation of Chattox was also involved Ann Redferne, her daughter. These, together with John Bulcock, and Jane his mother, Alice Nutter, Catherine Hewit, and Isabel Roby, were successively apprehended by the diligence of Nowel and one or two neighbouring magistrates, and were all of them by some means induced, some to make a more liberal, and others a more restricted confession of their misdeeds in witchcraft, and were afterwards hurried away to Lancaster Castle, fifty miles off, to prison. Their crimes were said to have universally proceeded from malignity and resentment; and it was reported to have repeatedly happened for poor old Demdike to be led by night from her habitation into the open air by some member of her family, when she was left alone for an hour to curse her victim, and pursue her unholy incantations, and was then sought, and brought again to her hovel. Her curses never failed to produce the desired effect. These poor wretches had been but a short time in prison, when information was given, that a meeting of witches was held on Good Friday, at Malkin's Tower, the habitation of Elizabeth Device, to the number of twenty persons, to consult how by infernal machinations to kill one Covel, an officer, to blow up Lancaster Castle, and deliver the prisoners, and to kill another man of the name of Lister. The last was effected. The other plans by some means, we are not told how, were prevented. The prisoners were kept in jail till the summer assizes; and in the mean time it fortunately happened that the poor blind Demdike died in confinement, and was never brought up to trial. The other prisoners were severally indicted for killing by witchcraft certain persons who were named, and were all found guilty. The principal witnesses against Elizabeth Device were James Device and Jennet Device, her grandchildren, the latter only nine years of age. When this girl was put into the witness-box, the grandmother, on seeing her, set up so dreadful a yell, intermixed with bitter curses, that the child declared that she could not go on with her evidence, unless the prisoner was removed. This was agreed to; and both brother and sister swore, that they had been present, when the devil came to their grandmother in the shape of a black dog, and asked her what she desired. She said, the death of John Robinson; when the dog told her to make an image of Robinson in clay, and after crumble it into dust, and as fast as the image perished, the life of the victim should waste away, and in conclusion the man should die. This evidence was received; and upon such testimony, and testimony like this, ten persons were led to the gallows, on the twentieth of August, Ann Chattox of eighty years of age among the rest, the day after the trials, which lasted two days, were finished. The judges who presided on these trials were sir James Altham and sir Edward Bromley, barons of the exchequer. [217] From the whole of this story it is fair to infer, that these old women had played at the game of commerce with the devil. It had flattered their vanity, to make their simpler neighbours afraid of them. To observe the symptoms of their rustic terror, even of their hatred and detestation, had been gratifying to them. They played the game so long, that in an imperfect degree they deceived themselves. Human passions are always to a certain degree infectious. Perceiving the hatred of their neighbours, they began to think that they were worthy objects of detestation and terror, that their imprecations had a real effect, and their curses killed. The brown horrors of the forest were favourable to visions; and they sometimes almost believed, that they met the foe of mankind in the night.--But, when Elizabeth Device actually saw her grandchild of nine years old placed in the witness-box, with the intention of consigning her to a public and an ignominious end, then the reveries of the imagination vanished, and she deeply felt the reality, that, where she had been somewhat imposing on the child in devilish sport, she had been whetting the dagger that was to take her own life, and digging her own grave. It was then no wonder that she uttered a preternatural yell, and poured curses from the bottom of her heart. It must have been almost beyond human endurance, to hear the cry of her despair, and to witness the curses and the agony in which it vented itself. Twenty-two years elapsed after this scene, when a wretched man, of the name of Edmund Robinson, conceived on the same spot the scheme of making himself a profitable speculation from a similar source. He trained his son, eleven years of age, and furnished him with the necessary instructions. He taught him to say that one day in the fields he had met with two dogs, which he urged on to hunt a hare. They would not budge; and he in revenge tied them to a bush and whipped them; when suddenly one of them was transformed into an old woman and the other into a child, a witch and her imp. This story succeeded so well, that the father soon after gave out that his son had an eye that could distinguish a witch by sight, and took him round to the neighbouring churches, where he placed him standing on a bench after service, and bade him look round and see what he could observe. The device, however clumsy, succeeded, and no less than seventeen persons were apprehended at the boy's selection, and conducted to Lancaster Castle. These seventeen persons were tried at the assizes, and found guilty; but the judge, whose name has unfortunately been lost, unlike sir James Altham and sir Edward Bromley, saw something in the case that excited his suspicion, and, though the juries had not hesitated in any one instance, respited the convicts, and sent up a report of the affair to the government. Twenty-two years on this occasion had not elapsed in vain. Four of the prisoners were by the judge's recommendation sent for to the metropolis, and were examined first by the king's physicians, and then by Charles the First in person. The boy's story was strictly scrutinised. In fine he confessed that it was all an imposture; and the whole seventeen received the royal pardon. [218] LADY DAVIES. Eleanor Tuchet, daughter of George lord Audley, married sir John Davies, an eminent lawyer in the time of James the First, and author of a poem of considerable merit on the Immortality of the Soul. This lady was a person of no contemptible talents; but what she seems most to have valued herself upon, was her gift of prophecy; and she accordingly printed a book of Strange and Wonderful Predictions. She professed to receive her prophecies from a spirit, who communicated to her audibly things about to come to pass, though the voice could be heard by no other person. Sir John Davies was nominated lord chief justice of the king's bench in 1626. Before he was inducted into the office, lady Eleanor, sitting with him on Sunday at dinner, suddenly burst into a passion of tears. Sir John asked her what made her weep. To which she replied, "These are your funeral tears." Sir John turned off the prediction with a merry answer. But in a very few days he was seized with an apoplexy, of which he presently died. [219]--She also predicted the death of the duke of Buckingham in the same year. For this assumption of the gift of prophecy, she was cited before the high-commission-court and examined in 1634. [220] EDWARD FAIRFAX. It is a painful task to record, that Edward Fairfax, the harmonious and elegant translator of Tasso, prosecuted six of his neighbours at York assizes in the year 1622, for witchcraft on his children. "The common facts of imps, fits, and the apparition of the witches, were deposed against the prisoners." The grand jury found the bill, and the accused were arraigned. But, we are told, "the judge, having a certificate of the sober behaviour of the prisoners, directed the jury so well as to induce them to bring in a verdict of acquittal." [221] The poet afterwards drew up a bulky argument and narrative in vindication of his conduct. DOCTOR LAMB. Dr. Lamb was a noted sorcerer in the time of Charles the First. The famous Richard Baxter, in his Certainty of the World of Spirits, printed in 1691, has recorded an appropriate instance of the miraculous performances of this man. Meeting two of his acquaintance in the street, and they having intimated a desire to witness some example of his skill, he invited them home with him. He then conducted them into an inner room, when presently, to their no small surprise, they saw a tree spring up in the middle of the apartment. They had scarcely ceased wondering at this phenomenon, when in a moment there appeared three diminutive men, with little axes in their hands for the purpose of cutting down this tree. The tree was felled; and the doctor dismissed his guests, fully satisfied of the solidity of his pretensions. That very night however a tremendous hurricane arose, causing the house of one of the guests to rock from side to side, with every appearance that the building would come down, and bury him and his wife in the ruins. The wife in great terror asked, "Were you not at Dr. Lamb's to-day?" The husband confessed it was true. "And did you not bring away something from his house?" The husband owned that, when the little men felled the tree, he had been idle enough to pick up some of the chips, and put them in his pocket. Nothing now remained to be done, but to produce the chips, and get rid of them as fast as they could. This ceremony performed, the whirlwind immediately ceased, and the remainder of the night became perfectly calm and serene. Dr. Lamb at length became so odious by his reputation for these infernal practices, that the populace rose upon him in 1640, and tore him to pieces in the streets.--Nor did the effects of his ill fame terminate here. Thirteen years after, a woman, who had been his servant-maid, was apprehended on a charge of witchcraft, was tried, and in expiation of her crime was executed at Tyburn. URBAIN GRANDIER. A few years previously to the catastrophe of Dr. Lamb, there occurred a scene in France which it is eminently to the purpose of this work to record. Urbain Grandier, a canon of the church, and a popular preacher of the town of Loudun in the district of Poitiers, was in the year 1634 brought to trial upon the accusation of magic. The first cause of his being thus called in question was the envy of his rival preachers, whose fame was eclipsed by his superior talents. The second cause was a libel falsely imputed to him upon cardinal Richelieu, who with all his eminent qualities had the infirmity of being inexorable upon the question of any personal attack that was made upon him. Grandier, beside his eloquence, was distinguished for his courage and resolution, for the gracefulness of his figure, and the extraordinary attention he paid to the neatness of his dress and the decoration of his person, which last circumstance brought upon him the imputation of being too much devoted to the service of the fair. About this time certain nuns of the convent of Ursulines at Loudun were attacked with a disease which manifested itself by very extraordinary symptoms, suggesting to many the idea that they were possessed with devils. A rumour was immediately spread that Grandier, urged by some offence he had conceived against these nuns, was the author, by the skill he had in the arts of sorcery, of these possessions. It unfortunately happened, that the same capuchin friar who assured cardinal Richelieu that Grandier was the writer of the libel against him, also communicated to him the story of the possessed nuns, and the suspicion which had fallen on the priest on their account. The cardinal seized with avidity on this occasion of private vengeance, wrote to a counsellor of state at Loudun, one of his creatures, to cause a strict investigation to be made into the charge, and in such terms as plainly implied that what he aimed at was the destruction of Grandier. The trial took place in the month of August 1634; and, according to the authorised copy of the trial, Grandier was convicted upon the evidence of Astaroth, a devil of the order of Seraphims, and chief of the possessing devils, of Easas, of Celsus, of Acaos, of Cedon, of Asmodeus of the order of thrones, of Alex, of Zabulon, of Naphthalim, of Cham, of Uriel, and of Achas of the order of principalities, and sentenced to be burned alive. In other words, he was convicted upon the evidence of twelve nuns, who, being asked who they were, gave in these names, and professed to be devils, that, compelled by the order of the court, delivered a constrained testimony. The sentence was accordingly executed, and Grandier met his fate with heroic constancy. At his death an enormous drone fly was seen buzzing about his head; and a monk, who was present at the execution, attested that, whereas the devils are accustomed to present themselves in the article of death to tempt men to deny God their Saviour, this was Beelzebub, which in Hebrew signifies the God of flies, come to carry away to hell the soul of the victim. [222] ASTROLOGY. The supposed science of astrology is of a nature less tremendous, and less appalling to the imagination, than the commerce with devils and evil spirits, or the raising of the dead from the peace of the tomb to effect certain magical operations, or to instruct the living as to the events that are speedily to befal them. Yet it is well worthy of attention in a work of this sort, if for no other reason, because it has prevailed in almost all nations and ages of the world, and has been assiduously cultivated by men, frequently of great talent, and who were otherwise distinguished for the soundness of their reasoning powers, and for the steadiness and perseverance of their application to the pursuits in which they engaged. The whole of the question was built upon the supposed necessary connection of certain aspects and conjunctions or oppositions of the stars and heavenly bodies, with the events of the world and the characters and actions of men. The human mind has ever confessed an anxiety to pry into the future, and to deal in omens and prophetic suggestions, and, certain coincidences having occurred however fortuitously, to deduce from them rules and maxims upon which to build an anticipation of things to come. Add to which, it is flattering to the pride of man, to suppose all nature concerned with and interested in what is of importance to ourselves. Of this we have an early example in the song of Deborah in the Old Testament, where, in a fit of pious fervour and exaltation, the poet exclaims, "They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses fought against Sisera." [223] The general belief in astrology had a memorable effect on the history of the human mind. All men in the first instance have an intuitive feeling of freedom in the acts they perform, and of consequence of praise or blame due to them in just proportion to the integrity or baseness of the motives by which they are actuated. This is in reality the most precious endowment of man. Hence it comes that the good man feels a pride and self-complacency in acts of virtue, takes credit to himself for the independence of his mind, and is conscious of the worth and honour to which he feels that he has a rightful claim. But, if all our acts are predetermined by something out of ourselves, if, however virtuous and honourable are our dispositions, we are overruled by our stars, and compelled to the acts, which, left to ourselves, we should most resolutely disapprove, our condition becomes slavery, and we are left in a state the most abject and hopeless. And, though our situation in this respect is merely imaginary, it does not the less fail to have very pernicious results to our characters. Men, so far as they are believers in astrology, look to the stars, and not to themselves, for an account of what they shall do, and resign themselves to the omnipotence of a fate which they feel it in vain to resist. Of consequence, a belief in astrology has the most unfavourable tendency as to the morality of man; and, were it not that the sense of the liberty of our actions is so strong that all the reasonings in the world cannot subvert it, there would be a fatal close to all human dignity and all human virtue. WILLIAM LILLY. One of the most striking examples of the ascendancy of astrological faith is in the instance of William Lilly. This man has fortunately left us a narrative of his own life; and he comes sufficiently near to our time, to give us a feeling of reality in the transactions in which he was engaged, and to bring the scenes home to our business and bosoms. Before he enters expressly upon the history of his life, he gives us incidentally an anecdote which merits our attention, as tending strongly to illustrate the credulity of man at the periods of which we treat. Lilly was born in the year 1602. When certain circumstances led his yet undetermined thoughts to the study of astrology as his principal pursuit, he put himself in the year 1632 under the tuition of one Evans, whom he describes as poor, ignorant, drunken, presumptuous and knavish, but who had a character, as the phrase was, for erecting a figure, predicting future events, discovering secrets, restoring stolen goods, and even for raising a spirit when he pleased. Sir Kenelm Digby was one of the most promising characters of these times, extremely handsome and graceful in his person, accomplished in all military exercises, endowed with high intellectual powers, and indefatigably inquisitive after knowledge. To render him the more remarkable, he was the eldest son of Everard Digby, who was the most eminent sufferer for the conspiracy of the Gunpowder Treason. It was, as it seems, some time before Lilly became acquainted with Evans, that lord Bothwel and sir Kenelm Digby came to Evans at his lodgings in the Minories, for the express purpose of desiring him to shew them a spirit. Sir Kenelm was born in the year 1603; he must have been therefore at this time a young man, but sufficiently old to know what he sought, and to choose the subjects of his enquiry with a certain discretion. Evans consented to gratify the curiosity of his illustrious visitors. He drew a circle, and placed himself and the two strangers within the circle. He began his invocations. On a sudden, Evans was taken away from the others, and found himself, he knew not how, in Battersea Fields near the Thames. The next morning a countryman discovered him asleep, and, having awaked him, in answer to his enquiries told him where he was. Evans in the afternoon sent a messenger to his wife, to inform her of his safety, and to calm the apprehensions she might reasonably entertain. Just as the messenger arrived, sir Kenelm Digby came to the house, curious to enquire respecting the issue of the adventure of yesterday. Lilly received this story from Evans; and, having asked him how such an event came to attend on the experiment, was answered that, in practising the invocation, he had heedlessly omitted the necessary suffumigation, at which omission the spirit had taken offence. Lilly made some progress in astrology under Evans, and practised the art in minor matters with a certain success; but his ambition led him to aspire to the highest place in his profession. He made an experiment to discover a hidden treasure in Westminster Abbey; and, having obtained leave for that purpose from the bishop of Lincoln, dean of Westminster, he resorted to the spot with about thirty persons more, with divining rods. He fixed on the place according to the rules, and began to dig; but he had not proceeded far, before a furious storm came on, and he judged it advisable to "dismiss the demons," and desist. These supernatural assistants, he says, had taken offence at the number and levity of the persons present; and, if he had not left off when he did, he had no doubt that the storm would have grown more and more violent, till the whole structure would have been laid level with the ground. He purchased himself a house to which to retire in 1636 at Hersham near Walton on Thames, having, though originally bred in the lowest obscurity, twice enriched himself in some degree by marriage. He came to London with a view to practise his favourite art in 1641; but, having received a secret monition warning him that he was not yet sufficiently an adept, he retired again into the country for two years, and did not finally commence his career till 1644, when he published a Prophetical Almanac, which he continued to do till about the time of his death. He then immediately began to rise into considerable notice. Mrs. Lisle, the wife of one of the commissioners of the great seal, took to him the urine of Whitlocke, one of the most eminent lawyers of the time, to consult him respecting the health of the party, when he informed the lady that the person would recover from his present disease, but about a month after would be very dangerously ill of a surfeit, which accordingly happened. He was protected by the great Selden, who interested himself in his favour; and he tells us that Lenthal, speaker of the house of commons, was at all times his friend. He further says of himself that he was originally partial to king Charles and to monarchy: but, when the parliament had apparently the upper hand, he had the skill to play his cards accordingly, and secured his favour with the ruling powers. Whitlocke, in his Memorials of Affairs in his Own Times, takes repeated notice of him, says that, meeting him in the street in the spring of 1645, he enquired of Lilly as to what was likely speedily to happen, who predicted to him the battle of Naseby, and notes in 1648 that some of his prognostications "fell out very strangely, particularly as to the king's fall from his horse about this time." Lilly applied to Whitlocke in favour of his rival, Wharton, the astrologer, and his prayer was granted, and again in behalf of Oughtred, the celebrated mathematician. Lilly and Booker, a brother-astrologer, were sent for in great form, with a coach and four horses, to the head-quarters of Fairfax at Windsor, towards the end of the year 1647, when they told the general, that they were "confident that God would go along with him and his army, till the great work for which they were ordained was perfected, which they hoped would be the conquering their and the parliament's enemies, and a quiet settlement and firm peace over the whole nation." The two astrologers were sent for in the same state in the following year to the siege of Colchester, which they predicted would soon fall into possession of the parliament. Lilly in the mean while retained in secret his partiality to Charles the First. Mrs. Whorwood, a lady who was fully in the king's confidence, came to consult him, as to the place to which Charles should retire when he escaped from Hampton Court. Lilly prescribed accordingly; but Ashburnham disconcerted all his measures, and the king made his inauspicious retreat to the isle of Wight. Afterwards he was consulted by the same lady, as to the way in which Charles should proceed respecting the negociations with the parliamentary commissioners at Newport, when Lilly advised that the king should sign all the propositions, and come up immediately with the commissioners to London, in which case Lilly did not doubt that the popular tide would turn in his favour, and the royal cause prove triumphant. Finally, he tells us that he furnished the saw and _aqua fortis_, with which the king had nearly removed the bars of the window of his prison in Carisbrook Castle, and escaped. But Charles manifested the same irresolution at the critical moment in this case, which had before proved fatal to his success. In the year 1649 Lilly received a pension of one hundred pounds _per annum_ from the council of state, which, after having been paid him for two years, he declined to accept any longer. In 1659 he received a present of a gold chain and medal from Charles X king of Sweden, in acknowledgment of the respectful mention he had made of that monarch in his almanacs. Lilly lived to a considerable age, not having died till the year 1681. In the year 1666 he was summoned before a committee of the house of commons, on the frivolous ground that, in his Monarchy or No Monarchy published fifteen years before, he had introduced sixteen plates, among which was one, the eighth, representing persons digging graves, with coffins, and other emblems significative of mortality, and, in the thirteenth, a city in flames. He was asked whether these things referred to the late plague and fire of London. Lilly replied in a manner to intimate that they did; but he ingenuously confessed that he had not known in what year they would happen. He said, that he had given these emblematical representations without any comment, that those who were competent might apprehend their meaning, whilst the rest of the world remained in the ignorance which was their appointed portion. MATTHEW HOPKINS. Nothing can place the credulity of the English nation on the subject of witchcraft about this time, in a more striking point of view, than the history of Matthew Hopkins, who, in a pamphlet published in 1647 in his own vindication, assumes to himself the surname of the Witch-finder. He fell by accident, in his native county of Suffolk, into contact with one or two reputed witches, and, being a man of an observing turn and an ingenious invention, struck out for himself a trade, which brought him such moderate returns as sufficed to maintain him, and at the same time gratified his ambition by making him a terror to many, and the object of admiration and gratitude to more, who felt themselves indebted to him for ridding them of secret and intestine enemies, against whom, as long as they proceeded in ways that left no footsteps behind, they felt they had no possibility of guarding themselves. Hopkins's career was something like that of Titus Oates in the following reign, but apparently much safer for the adventurer, since Oates armed against himself a very formidable party, while Hopkins seemed to assail a few only here and there, who were poor, debilitated, impotent and helpless. After two or three successful experiments, Hopkins engaged in a regular tour of the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex and Huntingdonshire. He united to him two confederates, a man named John Stern, and a woman whose name has not been handed down to us. They visited every town in their route that invited them, and secured to them the moderate remuneration of twenty shillings and their expences, leaving what was more than this to the spontaneous gratitude of those who should deem themselves indebted to the exertions of Hopkins and his party. By this expedient they secured to themselves a favourable reception; and a set of credulous persons who would listen to their dictates as so many oracles. Being three of them, they were enabled to play the game into one another's hands, and were sufficiently strong to overawe all timid and irresolute opposition. In every town to which they came, they enquired for reputed witches, and having taken them into custody, were secure for the most part of a certain number of zealous abettors, who took care that they should have a clear stage for their experiments. They overawed their helpless victims with a certain air of authority, as if they had received a commission from heaven for the discovery of misdeeds. They assailed the poor creatures with a multitude of questions constructed in the most artful manner. They stripped them naked, in search for the devil's marks in different parts of their bodies, which were ascertained by running pins to the head into those parts, that, if they were genuine marks, would prove themselves such by their insensibility. They swam their victims in rivers and ponds, it being an undoubted fact, that, if the persons accused were true witches, the water, which was the symbol of admission into the Christian church, would not receive them into its bosom. If the persons examined continued obstinate, they seated them in constrained and uneasy attitudes, occasionally binding them with cords, and compelling them to remain so without food or sleep for twenty-four hours. They walked them up and down the room, two taking them under each arm, till they dropped down with fatigue. They carefully swept the room in which the experiment was made, that they might keep away spiders and flies, which were supposed to be devils or their imps in that disguise. The most plentiful inquisition of Hopkins and his confederates was in the years 1644, 1645 and 1646. At length there were so many persons committed to prison upon suspicion of witchcraft, that the government was compelled to take in hand the affair. The rural magistrates before whom Hopkins and his confederates brought their victims, were obliged, willingly or unwillingly, to commit them for trial. A commission was granted to the earl of Warwick and others to hold a sessions of jail-delivery against them for Essex at Chelmsford, Lord Warwick was at this time the most popular nobleman in England. He was appointed by the parliament lord high admiral during the civil war. He was much courted by the independent clergy, was shrewd, penetrating and active, and exhibited a singular mixture of pious demeanour with a vein of facetiousness and jocularity. With him was sent Dr. Calamy, the most eminent divine of the period of the Commonwealth, to see (says Baxter [224]) that no fraud was committed, or wrong done to the parties accused. It may well be doubted however whether the presence of this clergyman did not operate unfavourably to the persons suspected. He preached before the judges. It may readily be believed, considering the temper of the times, that he insisted much upon the horrible nature of the sin of witchcraft, which could expect no pardon, either in this world or the world to come. He sat on the bench with the judges, and participated in their deliberations. In the result of this inquisition sixteen persons were hanged at Yarmouth in Norfolk, fifteen at Chelmsford, and sixty at various places in the county of Suffolk. Whitlocke in his Memorials of English Affairs, under the date of 1649, speaks of many witches being apprehended about Newcastle, upon the information of a person whom he calls the Witch-finder, who, as his experiments were nearly the same, though he is not named, we may reasonably suppose to be Hopkins; and in the following year about Boston in Lincolnshire. In 1652 and 1653 the same author speaks of women in Scotland, who were put to incredible torture to extort from them a confession of what their adversaries imputed to them. The fate of Hopkins was such us might be expected in similar cases. The multitude are at first impressed with horror at the monstrous charges that are advanced. They are seized, as by contagion, with terror at the mischiefs which seem to impend over them, and from which no innocence and no precaution appear to afford them sufficient protection. They hasten, as with an unanimous effort, to avenge themselves upon these malignant enemies, whom God and man alike combine to expel from society. But, after a time, they begin to reflect, and to apprehend that they have acted with too much precipitation, that they have been led on with uncertain appearances. They see one victim led to the gallows after another, without stint or limitation. They see one dying with the most solemn asseverations of innocence, and another confessing apparently she knows not what, what is put into her mouth by her relentless persecutors. They see these victims, old, crazy and impotent, harassed beyond endurance by the ingenious cruelties that are practised against them. They were first urged on by implacable hostility and fury, to be satisfied with nothing but blood. But humanity and remorse also have their turn. Dissatisfied with themselves, they are glad to point their resentment against another. The man that at first they hailed as a public benefactor, they presently come to regard with jealous eyes, and begin to consider as a cunning impostor, dealing in cool blood with the lives of his fellow-creatures for a paltry gain, and, still more horrible, for the lure of a perishable and short-lived fame. The multitude, we are told, after a few seasons, rose upon Hopkins, and resolved to subject him to one of his own criterions. They dragged him to a pond, and threw him into the water for a witch. It seems he floated on the surface, as a witch ought to do. They then pursued him with hootings and revilings, and drove him for ever into that obscurity and ignominy which he had amply merited. CROMWEL. There is a story of Cromwel recorded by Echard, the historian, which well deserves to be mentioned, as strikingly illustrative of the credulity which prevailed about this period. It takes its date from the morning of the third of September, 1651, when Cromwel gained the battle of Worcester against Charles the Second, which he was accustomed to call by a name sufficiently significant, his "crowning victory." It is told on the authority of a colonel Lindsey, who is said to have been an intimate friend of the usurper, and to have been commonly known by that name, as being in reality the senior captain in Cromwel's own regiment. "On this memorable morning the general," it seems, "took this officer with him to a woodside not far from the army, and bade him alight, and follow him into that wood, and to take particular notice of what he saw and heard. After having alighted, and secured their horses, and walked some little way into the wood, Lindsey began to turn pale, and to be seized with horror from some unknown cause. Upon which Cromwel asked him how he did, or how he felt himself. He answered, that he was in such a trembling and consternation, that he had never felt the like in all the conflicts and battles he had ever been engaged in: but whether it proceeded from the gloominess of the place, or the temperature of his body, he knew not. 'How now?' said Cromwel, 'What, troubled with the vapours? Come forward, man.' They had not gone above twenty yards further, before Lindsey on a sudden stood still, and cried out, 'By all that is good I am seized with such unaccountable terror and astonishment, that it is impossible for me to stir one step further.' Upon which Cromwel called him, 'Fainthearted fool!' and bade him, 'stand there, and observe, or be witness.' And then the general, advancing to some distance from him, met a grave, elderly man with a roll of parchment in his hand, who delivered it to Cromwel, and he eagerly perused it, Lindsey, a little recovered from his fear, heard several loud words between them: particularly Cromwel said, 'This is but for seven years; I was to have had it for one-and-twenty; and it must, and shall be so.' The other told him positively, it could not be for more than seven. Upon which Cromwel cried with great fierceness, 'It shall however be for fourteen years.' But the other peremptorily declared, 'It could not possibly be for any longer time; and, if he would not take it so, there were others that would.' Upon which Cromwel at last took the parchment: and, returning to Lindsey with great joy in his countenance, he cried, 'Now, Lindsey, the battle is our own! I long to be engaged.' Returning out of the wood, they rode to the army, Cromwel with a resolution to engage as soon as possible, and the other with a design to leave the army as soon. After the first charge, Lindsey deserted his post, and rode away with all possible speed day and night, till he came into the county of Norfolk, to the house of an intimate friend, one Mr. Thoroughgood, minister of the parish of Grimstone. Cromwel, as soon as he missed him, sent all ways after him, with a promise of a great reward to any that should bring him alive or dead. When Mr. Thoroughgood saw his friend Lindsey come into his yard, his horse and himself much tired, in a sort of a maze, he said, 'How now, colonel? We hear there is likely to be a battle shortly: what, fled from your colours?' 'A battle,' said the other; 'yes there has been a battle, and I am sure the king is beaten. But, if ever I strike a stroke for Cromwel again, may I perish eternally! For I am sure he has made a league with the devil, and the devil will have him in due time.' Then, desiring his protection from Cromwel's inquisitors, he went in, and related to him the story in all its circumstances." It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that Cromwel died on that day seven years, September the third, 1658. Echard adds, to prove his impartiality as an historian, "How far Lindsey is to be believed, and how far the story is to be accounted incredible, is left to the reader's faith and judgment, and not to any determination of our own." DOROTHY MATELEY. I find a story dated about this period, which, though it does not strictly belong to the subject of necromancy or dealings with the devil, seems well to deserve to be inserted in this work. The topic of which I treat is properly of human credulity; and this infirmity of our nature can scarcely be more forcibly illustrated than in the following example. It is recorded by the well-known John Bunyan, in a fugitive tract of his, entitled the Life and Death of Mr. Badman, but which has since been inserted in the works of the author in two volumes folio. In minuteness of particularity and detail it may vie with almost any story which human industry has collected, and human simplicity has ever placed upon record. "There was," says my author, "a poor woman, by name Dorothy Mateley, who lived at a small village, called Ashover, in the county of Derby. The way in which she earned her subsistence, was by washing the rubbish that came from the lead-mines in that neighbourhood through a sieve, which labour she performed till the earth had passed the sieve, and what remained was particles and small portions of genuine ore. This woman was of exceedingly low and coarse habits, and was noted to be a profane swearer, curser, liar and thief; and her usual way of asserting things was with an imprecation, as, 'I would I might sink into the earth, if it be not so,' or, 'I would that God would make the earth open and swallow me up, if I tell an untruth.' "Now it happened on the 23rd of March, 1660, [according to our computation 1661], that she was washing ore on the top of a steep hill about a quarter of a mile from Ashover, when a lad who was working on the spot missed two-pence out of his pocket, and immediately bethought himself of charging Dorothy with the theft. He had thrown off his breeches, and was working in his drawers. Dorothy with much seeming indignation denied the charge, and added, as was usual with her, that she wished the ground might open and swallow her up, if she had the boy's money. "One George Hopkinson, a man of good report in Ashover, happened to pass at no great distance at the time. He stood a while to talk to the woman. There stood also near the tub a little child, who was called to by her elder sister to come away. Hopkinson therefore took the little girl by the hand to lead her to her that called her. But he had not gone ten yards from Dorothy, when he heard her crying out for help, and turning back, to his great astonishment he saw the woman, with her tub and her sieve, twirling round and round, and sinking at the same time in the earth. She sunk about three yards, and then stopped, at the same time calling lustily for assistance. But at that very moment a great stone fell upon her head, and broke her skull, and the earth fell in and covered her. She was afterwards digged up, and found about four yards under ground, and the boy's two pennies were discovered on her person, but the tub and the sieve had altogether disappeared." WITCHES HANGED BY SIR MATTHEW HALE. One of the most remarkable trials that occur in the history of criminal jurisprudence, was that of Amy Duny and Rose Cullender at Bury St. Edmund's in the year 1664. Not for the circumstances that occasioned it; for they were of the coarsest and most vulgar materials. The victims were two poor, solitary women of the town of Lowestoft in Suffolk, who had by temper and demeanour rendered themselves particularly obnoxious to their whole neighbourhood. Whenever they were offended with any one, and this frequently happened, they vented their wrath in curses and ill language, muttered between their teeth, and the sense of which could scarcely be collected; and ever and anon they proceeded to utter dark predictions of evil, which should happen in revenge for the ill treatment they received. The fishermen would not sell them fish; and the boys in the street were taught to fly from them with horror, or to pursue them with hootings and scurrilous abuse. The principal charges against them were, that the children of two families were many times seized with fits, in which they exclaimed that they saw Amy Duny and Rose Cullender coming to torment them. They vomited, and in their vomit were often found pins, and once or twice a two-penny nail. One or two of the children died; for the accusations spread over a period of eight years, from 1656 to the time of the trial. To back these allegations, a waggoner appeared, whose waggon had been twice overturned in one morning, in consequence of the curses of one of the witches, the waggon having first run against her hovel, and materially injured it. Another time the waggon stuck fast in a gate-way, though the posts on neither side came in contact with the wheels; and, one of the posts being cut down, the waggon passed easily along. This trial, as I have said, was no way memorable for the circumstances that occasioned it, but for the importance of the persons who were present, and had a share in the conduct of it. The judge who presided was sir Matthew Hale, then chief baron of the exchequer, and who had before rendered himself remarkable for his undaunted resistance to one of the arbitrary mandates of Cromwel, then in the height of his power, which was addressed to Hale in his capacity of judge. Hale was also an eminent author, who had treated upon the abstrusest subjects, and was equally distinguished for his piety and inflexible integrity. Another person, who was present, and accidentally took part in the proceedings, was sir Thomas Browne, the superlatively eloquent and able author of the Religio Medici. (He likewise took a part on the side of superstition in the trial of the Lancashire witches in 1634.) A judge also who assisted at the trial was Keeling, who afterwards occupied the seat of chief justice. Sir Matthew Hale apparently paid deep attention to the trial, and felt much perplexed by the evidence. Seeing sir Thomas Browne in court, and knowing him for a man of extensive information and vast powers of intellect, Hale appealed to him, somewhat extrajudicially, for his thoughts on what had transpired. Sir Thomas gave it as his opinion that the children were bewitched, and inforced his position by something that had lately occured in Denmark. Keeling dissented from this, and inclined to the belief that it might all be practice, and that there was nothing supernatural in the affair. The chief judge was cautious in his proceeding. He even refused to sum up the evidence, lest he might unawares put a gloss of his own upon any thing that had been sworn, but left it all to the jury. He told them that the Scriptures left no doubt that there was such a thing as witchcraft, and instructed them that all they had to do was, first, to consider whether the children were really bewitched, and secondly, whether the witchcraft was sufficiently brought home to the prisoners at the bar. The jury returned a verdict of guilty; and the two women were hanged on the seventeenth of March 1664, one week after their trial. The women shewed very little activity during the trial, and died protesting their innocence. [225] This trial is particularly memorable for the circumstances that attended it. It has none of the rust of ages: no obscurity arises from a long vista of years interposed between. Sir Matthew Hale and sir Thomas Browne are eminent authors; and there is something in such men, that in a manner renders them the contemporaries of all times, the living acquaintance of successive ages of the world. Names generally stand on the page of history as mere abstract idealities; but in the case of these men we are familiar with their tempers and prejudices, their virtues and vices, their strength and their weakness. They proceed in the first place upon the assumption that there is such a thing as witchcraft, and therefore have nothing to do but with the cogency or weakness of evidence as applied to this particular case. Now what are the premises on which they proceed in this question? They believe in a God, omniscient, all wise, all powerful, and whose "tender mercies are over all his works." They believe in a devil, awful almost as God himself, for he has power nearly unlimited, and a will to work all evil, with subtlety, deep reach of thought, vigilant, "walking about, seeking whom he may devour." This they believe, for they refer to "the Scriptures, as confirming beyond doubt that there is such a thing as witchcraft." Now what office do they assign to the devil, "the prince of the power of the air," at whose mighty attributes, combined with his insatiable malignity, the wisest of us might well stand aghast? It is the first law of sound sense and just judgment, --_servetur ad imum, Qualis ab incoepto processerit, et sibi constet_; that every character which we place on the scene of things should demean himself as his beginning promises, and preserve a consistency that, to a mind sufficiently sagacious, should almost serve us in lieu of the gift of prophecy. And how is this devil employed according to sir Matthew Hale and sir Thomas Browne? Why in proffering himself as the willing tool of the malice of two doting old women. In afflicting with fits, in causing them to vomit pins and nails, the children of the parents who had treated the old women with barbarity and cruelty. In judgment upon these women sit two men, in some respects the most enlightened of an age that produced Paradise Lost, and in confirmation of this blessed creed two women are executed in cool blood, in a country which had just achieved its liberties under the guidance and the virtues of Hampden. What right we have in any case to take away the life of a human being already in our power, and under the forms of justice, is a problem, one of the hardest that can be proposed for the wit of man to solve. But to see some of the wisest of men, sitting in judgment upon the lives of two human creatures in consequence of the forgery and tricks of a set of malicious children, as in this case undoubtedly it was, is beyond conception deplorable. Let us think for a moment of the inexpressible evils which a man encounters when dragged from his peaceful home under a capital accusation, of his arraignment in open court, of the orderly course of the evidence, and of the sentence awarded against him, of the "damned minutes and days he counts over" from that time to his execution, of his being finally brought forth before a multitude exasperated by his supposed crimes, and his being cast out from off the earth as unworthy so much as to exist among men, and all this being wholly innocent. The consciousness of innocence a hundred fold embitters the pang. And, if these poor women were too obtuse of soul entirely to feel the pang, did that give their superiors a right to overwhelm and to crush them? WITCHCRAFT IN SWEDEN. The story of witchcraft, as it is reported to have passed in Sweden in the year 1670, and has many times been reprinted in this country, is on several accounts one of the most interesting and deplorable that has ever been recorded. The scene lies in Dalecarlia, a country for ever memorable as having witnessed some of the earliest adventures of Gustavus Vasa, his deepest humiliation, and the first commencement of his prosperous fortune. The Dalecarlians are represented to us as the simplest, the most faithful, and the bravest of the sons of men, men undebauched and unsuspicious, but who devoted themselves in the most disinterested manner for a cause that appeared to them worthy of support, the cause of liberty and independence against the cruelest of tyrants. At least such they were in 1520, one hundred and fifty years before the date of the story we are going to recount.--The site of these events was at Mohra and Elfdale in the province that has just been mentioned. The Dalecarlians, simple and ignorant, but of exemplary integrity and honesty, who dwelt amidst impracticable mountains and spacious mines of copper and iron, were distinguished for superstition among the countries of the north, where all were superstitious. They were probably subject at intervals to the periodical visitation of alarms of witches, when whole races of men became wild with the infection without any one's being well able to account for it. In the year 1670, and one or two preceding years, there was a great alarm of witches in the town of Mohra. There were always two or three witches existing in some of the obscure quarters of this place. But now they increased in number, and shewed their faces with the utmost audacity. Their mode on the present occasion was to make a journey through the air to Blockula, an imaginary scene of retirement, which none but the witches and their dupes had ever seen. Here they met with feasts and various entertainments, which it seems had particular charms for the persons who partook of them. The witches used to go into a field in the environs of Mohra, and cry aloud to the devil in a peculiar sort of recitation, "Antecessor, come and carry us to Blockula!" Then appeared a multitude of strange beasts, men, spits, posts, and goats with spits run through their entrails and projecting behind that all might have room. The witches mounted these beasts of burthen or vehicles, and were conveyed through the air over high walls and mountains, and through churches and chimneys, without perceptible impediment, till they arrived at the place of their destination. Here the devil feasted them with various compounds and confections, and, having eaten to their hearts' content, they danced, and then fought. The devil made them ride on spits, from which they were thrown; and the devil beat them with the spits, and laughed at them. He then caused them to build a house to protect them against the day of judgment, and presently overturned the walls of the house, and derided them again. All sorts of obscenities were reported to follow upon these scenes. The devil begot on the witches sons and daughters: this new generation intermarried again, and the issue of this further conjunction appears to have been toads and serpents. How all this pedigree proceeded in the two or three years in which Blockula had ever been heard of, I know not that the witches were ever called on to explain. But what was most of all to be deplored, the devil was not content with seducing the witches to go and celebrate this infernal sabbath; he further insisted that they should bring the children of Mohra along with them. At first he was satisfied, if each witch brought one; but now he demanded that each witch should bring six or seven for her quota. How the witches managed with the minds of the children we are at a loss to guess. These poor, harmless innocents, steeped to the very lips in ignorance and superstition, were by some means kept in continual alarm by the wicked, or, to speak more truly, the insane old women, and said as their prompters said. It does not appear that the children ever left their beds, at the time they reported they had been to Blockula. Their parents watched them with fearful anxiety. At a certain time of the night the children were seized with a strange shuddering, their limbs were agitated, and their skins covered with a profuse perspiration. When they came to themselves, they related that they had been to Blockula, and the strange things they had seen, similar to what had already been described by the women. Three hundred children of various ages are said to have been seized with this epidemic. The whole town of Mohra became subject to the infection, and were overcome with the deepest affliction. They consulted together, and drew up a petition to the royal council at Stockholm, intreating that they would discover some remedy, and that the government would interpose its authority to put an end to a calamity to which otherwise they could find no limit. The king of Sweden was at that time Charles the Eleventh, father of Charles the Twelfth, and was only fourteen years of age. His council in their wisdom deputed two commissioners to Mohra, and furnished them with powers to examine witnesses, and to take whatever proceedings they might judge necessary to put an end to so unspeakable a calamity. They entered on the business of their commission on the thirteenth of August, the ceremony having been begun with two sermons in the great church of Mohra, in which we may be sure the damnable sin of witchcraft was fully dilated on, and concluding with prayers to Almighty God that in his mercy he would speedily bring to an end the tremendous misfortune, with which for their sins he had seen fit to afflict the poor people of Mohra. The next day they opened their commission. Seventy witches were brought before them. They were all at first stedfast in their denial, alleging that the charges were wantonly brought against them, solely from malice and ill will. But the judges were earnest in pressing them, till at length first one, and then another; burst into tears, and confessed all. Twenty-three were prevailed on thus to disburthen their consciences; but nearly the whole, as well those who owned the justice of their sentence, as those who protested their innocence to the last, were executed. Fifteen children confessed their guilt, and were also executed. Thirty-six other children (who we may infer did not confess), between the ages of nine and sixteen, were condemned to run the gauntlet, and to be whipped on their hands at the church-door every Sunday for a year together. Twenty others were whipped on their hands for three Sundays. [226] This is certainly a very deplorable scene, and is made the more so by the previous character which history has impressed on us, of the simplicity, integrity, and generous love of liberty of the Dalecarlians. For the children and their parents we can feel nothing but unmingled pity. The case of the witches is different. That three hundred children should have been made the victims of this imaginary witchcraft is doubtless a grievous calamity. And that a number of women should have been found so depraved and so barbarous, as by their incessant suggestions to have practised on the minds of these children, so as to have robbed them of sober sense, to have frightened them into fits and disease, and made them believe the most odious impossibilities, argued a most degenerate character, and well merited severe reprobation, but not death. Add to which, many of these women may be believed innocent, otherwise a great majority of those who were executed, would not have died protesting their entire freedom from what was imputed to them. Some of the parents no doubt, from folly and ill judgment, aided the alienation of mind in their children which they afterwards so deeply deplored, and gratified their senseless aversion to the old women, when they were themselves in many cases more the real authors of the evil than those who suffered. WITCHCRAFT IN NEW ENGLAND. As a story of witchcraft, without any poetry in it, without any thing to amuse the imagination, or interest the fancy, but hard, prosy, and accompanied with all that is wretched, pitiful and withering, perhaps the well known story of the New England witchcraft surpasses every thing else upon record. The New Englanders were at this time, towards the close of the seventeenth century, rigorous Calvinists, with long sermons and tedious monotonous prayers, with hell before them for ever on one side, and a tyrannical, sour and austere God on the other, jealous of an arbitrary sovereignty, who hath "mercy on whom he will have mercy, and whom he will he hardeneth." These men, with long and melancholy faces, with a drawling and sanctified tone, and a carriage that would "at once make the most severely disposed merry, and the most cheerful spectators sad," constituted nearly the entire population of the province of Massachuset's Bay. The prosecutions for witchcraft continued with little intermission principally at Salem, during the greater part of the year 1692. The accusations were of the most vulgar and contemptible sort, invisible pinchings and blows, fits, with the blastings and mortality of cattle, and wains stuck fast in the ground, or losing their wheels. A conspicuous feature in nearly the whole of these stories was what they named the "spectral sight;" in other words, that the profligate accusers first feigned for the most part the injuries they received, and next saw the figures and action of the persons who inflicted them, when they were invisible to every one else. Hence the miserable prosecutors gained the power of gratifying the wantonness of their malice, by pretending that they suffered by the hand of any one whose name first presented itself, or against whom they bore an ill will. The persons so charged, though unseen by any but the accuser, and who in their corporal presence were at a distance of miles, and were doubtless wholly unconscious of the mischief that was hatching against them, were immediately taken up, and cast into prison. And what was more monstrous and incredible, there stood at the bar the prisoner on trial for his life, while the witnesses were permitted to swear that his spectre had haunted them, and afflicted them with all manner of injuries. That the poor prosecuted wretch stood astonished at what was alleged against him, was utterly overwhelmed with the charges, and knew not what to answer, was all of it interpreted as so many presumptions of his guilt. Ignorant as they were, they were unhappy and unskilful in their defence; and, if they spoke of the devil, as was but natural, it was instantly caught at as a proof how familiar they were with the fiend that had seduced them to their damnation. The first specimen of this sort of accusation in the present instance was given by one Paris, minister of a church at Salem, in the end of the year 1691, who had two daughters, one nine years old, the other eleven, that were afflicted with fits and convulsions. The first person fixed on as the mysterious author of what was seen, was Tituba, a female slave in the family, and she was harassed by her master into a confession of unlawful practices and spells. The girls then fixed on Sarah Good, a female known to be the victim of a morbid melancholy, and Osborne, a poor man that had for a considerable time been bed-rid, as persons whose spectres had perpetually haunted and tormented them: and Good was twelve months after hanged on this accusation. A person, who was one of the first to fall under the imputation, was one George Burroughs, also a minister of Salem. He had, it seems, buried two wives, both of whom the busy gossips said he had used ill in their life-time, and consequently, it was whispered, had murdered them. This man was accustomed foolishly to vaunt that he knew what people said of him in his absence; and this was brought as a proof that he dealt with the devil. Two women, who were witnesses against him, interrupted their testimony with exclaiming that they saw the ghosts of the murdered wives present (who had promised them they would come), though no one else in the court saw them; and this was taken in evidence. Burroughs conducted himself in a very injudicious way on his trial; but, when he came to be hanged, made so impressive a speech on the ladder, with fervent protestations of innocence, as melted many of the spectators into tears. The nature of accusations of this sort is ever found to operate like an epidemic. Fits and convulsions are communicated from one subject to another. The "spectral sight," as it was called, is obviously a theme for the vanity of ignorance. "Love of fame," as the poet teaches, is an "universal passion." Fame is placed indeed on a height beyond the hope of ordinary mortals. But in occasional instances it is brought unexpectedly within the reach of persons of the coarsest mould; and many times they will be apt to seize it with proportionable avidity. When too such things are talked of, when the devil and spirits of hell are made familiar conversation, when stories of this sort are among the daily news, and one person and another, who had a little before nothing extraordinary about them, become subjects of wonder, these topics enter into the thoughts of many, sleeping and waking: "their young men see visions, and their old men dream dreams." In such a town as Salem, the second in point of importance in the colony, such accusations spread with wonderful rapidity. Many were seized with fits, exhibited frightful contortions of their limbs and features, and became a fearful spectacle to the bystander. They were asked to assign the cause of all this; and they supposed, or pretended to suppose, some neighbour, already solitary and afflicted, and on that account in ill odour with the townspeople, scowling upon, threatening, and tormenting them. Presently persons, specially gifted with the "spectral sight," formed a class by themselves, and were sent about at the public expence from place to place, that they might see what no one else could see. The prisons were filled with the persons accused. The utmost horror was entertained, as of a calamity which in such a degree had never visited that part of the world. It happened, most unfortunately, that Baxter's Certainty of the World of Spirits had been published but the year before, and a number of copies had been sent out to New England. There seemed a strange coincidence and sympathy between vital Christianity in its most honourable sense, and the fear of the devil, who appeared to be "come down unto them, with great wrath." Mr. Increase Mather, and Mr. Cotton Mather, his son, two clergymen of highest reputation in the neighbourhood, by the solemnity and awe with which they treated the subject, and the earnestness and zeal which they displayed, gave a sanction to the lowest superstition and virulence of the ignorant. All the forms of justice were brought forward on this occasion. There was no lack of judges, and grand juries, and petty juries, and executioners, and still less of prosecutors and witnesses. The first person that was hanged was on the tenth of June, five more on the nineteenth of July, five on the nineteenth of August, and eight on the twenty-second of September. Multitudes confessed that they were witches; for this appeared the only way for the accused to save their lives. Husbands and children fell down on their knees, and implored their wives and mothers to own their guilt. Many were tortured by being tied neck and heels together, till they confessed whatever was suggested to them. It is remarkable however that not one persisted in her confession at the place of execution. The most interesting story that occurred in this affair was of Giles Cory, and Martha, his wife. The woman was tried on the ninth of September, and hanged on the twenty-second. In the interval, on the sixteenth, the husband was brought up for trial. He said, he was not guilty; but, being asked how he would be tried? he refused to go through the customary form, and say, "By God and my country." He observed that, of all that had been tried, not one had as yet been pronounced not guilty; and he resolutely refused in that mode to undergo a trial. The judge directed therefore that, according to the barbarous mode prescribed in the mother-country, he should be laid on his back, and pressed to death with weights gradually accumulated on the upper surface of his body, a proceeding which had never yet been resorted to by the English in North America. The man persisted in his resolution, and remained mute till he expired. The whole of this dreadful tragedy was kept together by a thread. The spectre-seers for a considerable time prudently restricted their accusations to persons of ill repute, or otherwise of no consequence in the community. By and by however they lost sight of this caution, and pretended they saw the figures of some persons well connected, and of unquestioned honour and reputation, engaged in acts of witchcraft. Immediately the whole fell through in a moment. The leading inhabitants presently saw how unsafe it would be to trust their reputations and their lives to the mercy of these profligate accusers. Of fifty-six bills of indictment that were offered to the grand-jury on the third of January, 1693, twenty-six only were found true bills, and thirty thrown out. On the twenty-six bills that were found, three persons only were pronounced guilty by the petty jury, and these three received their pardon from the government. The prisons were thrown open; fifty confessed witches, together with two hundred persons imprisoned on suspicion, were set at liberty, and no more accusations were heard of. The "afflicted," as they were technically termed, recovered their health; the "spectral sight" was universally scouted; and men began to wonder how they could ever have been the victims of so horrible a delusion. [227] CONCLUSION. The volume of records of supposed necromancy and witchcraft is sufficiently copious, without its being in any way necessary to trace it through its latest relics and fragments. Superstition is so congenial to the mind of man, that, even in the early years of the author of the present volume, scarcely a village was unfurnished with an old man or woman who laboured under an ill repute on this score; and I doubt not many remain to this very day. I remember, when a child, that I had an old woman pointed out to me by an ignorant servant-maid, as being unquestionably possessed of the ominous gift of the "evil eye," and that my impulse was to remove myself as quickly as might be from the range of her observation. But witchcraft, as it appears to me, is by no means so desirable a subject as to make one unwilling to drop it. It has its uses. It is perhaps right that we should be somewhat acquainted with this repulsive chapter in the annals of human nature. As the wise man says in the Bible, "It is good for us to resort to the house of those that mourn;" for there is a melancholy which is attended with beneficial effects, and "by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better." But I feel no propensity to linger in these dreary abodes, and would rather make a speedy exchange for the dwellings of healthfulness and a certain hilarity. We will therefore with the reader's permission at length shut the book, and say, "Lo, it is enough." There is no time perhaps at which we can more fairly quit the subject, than when the more enlightened governments of Europe have called for the code of their laws, and have obliterated the statute which annexed the penalty of death to this imaginary crime. So early as the year 1672, Louis XIV promulgated an order of the council of state, forbidding the tribunals from proceeding to judgment in cases where the accusation was of sorcery only. [228] In England we paid a much later tribute to the progress of illumination and knowledge; and it was not till the year 1736 that a statute was passed, repealing the law made in the first year of James I, and enacting that no capital prosecution should for the future take place for conjuration, sorcery and enchantment, but restricting the punishment of persons pretending to tell fortunes and discover stolen goods by witchcraft, to that appertaining to a misdemeanour. As long as death could by law be awarded against those who were charged with a commerce with evil spirits, and by their means inflicting mischief on their species, it is a subject not unworthy of grave argument and true philanthropy, to endeavour to detect the fallacy of such pretences, and expose the incalculable evils and the dreadful tragedies that have grown out of accusations and prosecutions for such imaginary crimes. But the effect of perpetuating the silly and superstitious tales that have survived this mortal blow, is exactly opposite. It only serves to keep alive the lingering folly of imbecile minds, and still to feed with pestiferous clouds the thoughts of the ignorant. Let us rather hail with heart-felt gladness the light which has, though late, broken in upon us, and weep over the calamity of our forefathers, who, in addition to the inevitable ills of our sublunary state, were harassed with imaginary terrors, and haunted by suggestions, Whose horrid image did unfix their hair, And make their seated hearts knock at their ribs, Against the use of nature. THE END. FOOTNOTES [1] Joshua, vii. 16, _et seq_. [2] De Arte Poetica, v. 150. [3] Romans, xi. 32. [4] Comte de Gabalis. [5] Genesis xli, 8, 25, &c. [6] Exodus, vii. 11; viii. 19. [7] Ibid, xxii. 18. [8] Deuteronomy, xviii. 10,11. [9] Leviticus, xx. 27. [10] Numbers, xxii. 5,6,7. [11] Numbers, xxiv, 1. [12] Ibid, xxiii. 23. [13] 1 Sam. xxviii. 6, _et seq_. [14] 2 Kings, xxi. 6. [15] 1 Kings, xxii. 20, _et seqq_. [16] 1 Chron. xxi. 1,7,14. [17] 2 Kings, i. 2,3,4. [18] Matthew, xii. 24. [19] Genesis, xliv. 5. [20] Genesis, xliv. 15. [21] Brewster on Natural Magic, Letter IX. [22] De Natura Deorum, Lib. I, c. 38. [23] Plato, De Republica, Lib. X, _sub finem_. [24] Batrachos, v. 1032. [25] De Arte Poetica, v.391. [26] Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions, Tom. V, p. 117. [27] De Arte Poetica, v. 391, 2, 3. [28] Virgil, Georgiea, Lib. IV. v. 461, _et seqq_. [29] Georgiea, iv, 525. [30] Metamorphoses, xi, 55. [31] Philostratus, Heroica, cap. v. [32] Horat, de Arte Poetica, v. 394. Pausanias. [33] Odyssey, Lib. XI, v. 262. [34] Statius, Thebais, Lib. X. v. 599. [35] Ibid, Lib. IV, v. 599. [36] Ibid, Lib. IV, v. 409, _et seqq_. [37] Lib. IV, c. 36. [38] Iamblichus. [39] Julius Firmicus, _apud_ Scaliger, in Eusebium. [40] Iamblichus, Vita Pythagorae. [41] Pluto, Charmides. [42] Chronological Account of Pythagoras and his Contemporaries. [43] Laertius, Lib. VIII, c. 3. [44] Lloyd, _ubi supra_. [45] Iamblichus, c. 17. [46] Iamblichus, c. 29. [47] Ibid, c. 7. [48] Laertius, c. 15. [49] Ibid, c. 11. [50] Plutarchus, Symposiaca, Lib. VIII, Quaestio 2. [51] Aulus Gellius, Lib. I, c. 1, from Plutarch. [52] Laertius, c.19. [53] Bailly, Histoire de l'Astronomie, Lib VIII, S.3. [54] Plutarchus, de Esu Carnium. Ovidius, Metamorphoses, Lib. XV. Laertius, c. 12. [55] Iamblichus, c. 16. [56] Laertius, c. 6. [57] Clemens Alexandrinus, Stromata, Lib. I, p. 302. [58] Iamblichus, c.17. [59] Laertius, c. 8. Iamblichus, c. 17. [60] Cicero de Natura Deorum, Lib. I, c. 5. [61] Laertius, c. 9. [62] Ibid. [63] Iamblichus, c. 19. [64] Laertius, c.1. [65] Ibid, c. 18. [66] Iamblichus, c. 8. [67] Ibid, c. 13. [68] Laertius, c. 9. Iamblichus, c. 28. [69] Laertius, c. 9. Iamblichus, c. 18. [70] Ibid, c. 28. [71] Laertius, c.21. [72] Iamblichus, c.17. [73] Iamblichus, c. 35. Laertius, c. 21. [74] Laertius, c. 21. [75] Laertius, Lib. I, c. 109. Plinius, Lib. VII, c. 52. [76] Laertius, c. 113. [77] Ibid. [78] Ibid. c. 111. [79] Plutarch, Vita Solonis. Laertius, Lib. I, c. 109. [80] Plutarch, Vita Solonis. Laertius, Lib. I, c. 110. [81] Ibid. [82] Laertius, Lib. VIII, c. 51, 64. [83] Ibid, c. 57. [84] Ibid, c. 66. [85] Ibid, c. 73. [86] Plinius, Lib. VII, c. 52. Laertius, c. 61. [87] Laertius, c. 77. [88] Ibid, c. 59. [89] Ibid, c. 62. [90] Laertias, c. 69. Horat, De Arte Poetica, v. 463. [91] Herodotus, Lib. III, c. 14, 15. Plinius, Lib. VII, c. 52. [92] Plutarch, De Genio Socratis. Lucian, Muscae Encomium. Plinius, Lib. VII, c. 52. [Errata: _dele_ Plinius] [93] Plinius, Lib. III, c, 61, 62. [94] Herodotus, Lib. VIII, c. 36, 37, 38, 39. [95] Herodotus, Lib. VIII, c. 140, _et seqq_. [96] Historia Naturalis, Lib. X, c. 40. [97] Plinius, Lib. XXVIII. c. 8. [98] Pseudomantis, c. 17. See also Philopseudes, c. 32. [99] Theages. [100] Plutarch, De Genio Socratis. [101] Xenophon, Memorabilia, Lib. I, c. 1. [102] Plutarch, _ubi supra_. [103] Plato, Theages. [104] Ibid. [105] Livius, Lib. I, c. 16. [106] Dionysius Halicarnassensis. [107] Livius, Lib. I, c. 19, 21. [108] Livius, Lib. I, c. 31. [109] Ibid. [110] Livius, Lib. I, c. 36. [111] Livius, Lib. I, c. 39. [112] Livius, Lib. III, c. 6, _et seqq_. [113] Epod. V. [114] Metamorphoses, Lib. VII. [115] Lib. VI. [116] Horat., de Arte Poetica, v. 150. [117] Plutarch, North's Translation. [118] Matt. c. xii, v. 24, 27. [119] Acts, c. viii. [120] Clemens Romanus, Recognitiones, Lib. II, cap. 9. Anastasius Sinaita, Quaestiones; Quaestio 20. [121] Clemens Romanus, Constitutiones Apostolici, Lib. VI, cap. 7. [122] Acts, c. xiii. [123] Ibid, c. xix. [124] Suetonius, Lib. VI, cap. 14. [125] Tacitus, Historiae, Lib. IV, cap. 81. Suetonius, Lib. VIII, cap. 7. [126] Hume, Essays, Part III, Section X. [127] Philostratus, Vita Apollonii, Lib. I, cap. 5, 6. [128] Philostratus, Vita Apollonii, Lib. I, c. 10. [129] Ibid, c.13. [130] Ibid, c. 13, 14. [131] Philostratus, Lib. IV, c. 10. [132] Philostratus, Lib. IV, c. 25. [133] Philostratus, Lib. IV, c. 45. [134] Philostratus, Lib. VIII, c. 5. [135] Ibid, c. 26. [136] Philostratus, Lib. VIII, c. 29, 30. [137] Ibid, c. 29. [138] Lampridius, in Vita Alex. Severi, c. 29. [139] C. 24. [140] Philostratus, Lib. I, c. 3. [141] Zosimus, Lib, IV, cap. 13. Gibbon observes, that the name of Theodosius, who actually succeeded, begins with the same letters which were indicated in this magic trial. [142] Zosimus, Lib. IV, cap. 14. [143] Gibbon, Chap. VIII. [144] This word is of Sanscrit original. [145] "They cut themselves with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them." I Kings, xviii, 28. [146] Otherwise, Deeves. [147] D'Herbelot, Bibliothèque Orientale. [148] D'Herbelot, Bibliothèque Orientale. [149] It is in Selden's Collection of Ballads in the Bodleian Library. See Letters from the Bodleian, Vol. I, p. 120 to 126. [150] Spenser, Fairy Queen, Book III, Canto III, stanza 9, _et seqq_. [151] William of Malmesbury, Lib. II, c. 10. [152] William of Malmesbury, Lib. II, c. 10. [153] Naudé, Apologie des Grands Hommes Accusés de Magie. Malmesbury, _ubi supra_. [154] Naudé, Apologie des Grands Hommes Accusés de Magie, chap. 19. [155] Mornay, Mysterium Iniquitalis, p. 258. Coeffeteau, Reponse à ditto, p. 274. [156] Ibid. [157] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 206, 207. [158] Ibid. p. 207, 208. [159] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 243, 244. [160] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 244, 245. [161] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 246. [162] Ibid, p. 248, 249. [163] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 249. [164] Ibid. [165] Hollinshed, History of Scotland, p. 251. [166] Naudé. [167] Godwin, Praesulibus, art. Gronthead. [168] Naudé c. 18. [169] Johannes de Becka, _apud_ Trithemii Chronica, ann. 1254. [170] Freind, History of Physick, Vol. II, p. 234 to 239. [171] Bacon, Epist. ad Clement. IV. [172] Ubi supra. [173] See page 261. [174] Naudé, Cap. 17. [175] Ibid. [176] Commentaries, Book IV. chap. vi. [177] Life of Chaucer, c. xviii. [178] Wotton, Reflections on Learning, Chap. X. [179] See above, p. 29. [180] Biographic Universelle. [181] Naudé. [182] Moreri. [183] Enfield, History of Philosophy, Book VIII, chapter i. [184] Moreri. [185] Watson, Chemical Essays, Vol. I. [186] Fuller, Worthies of England. [187] Watson, _ubi supra_. [188] Sir Thomas More, History of Edward the Fifth. [189] Buck, Life and Reign of Richard III. [190] Hutchinson on Witchcraft. [191] I Samuel, xv, 23. [192] Doctrine of Divorce, Preface. [193] Delrio, Disquisitiones Magicae, p. 746. [194] Alciatus, Parergon Juris, L. VIII, cap. 22. [195] Danaeus, _apud_ Delrio, Proloquium. [196] Bartholomaeus de Spina, De Strigibus, c. 13. [197] Biographie Universelle. [198] Biographie Universelle. [199] Hospinian, Historia Sacramentaria, Part II, fol. 131. [200] Bayle. [201] Paulus Jovius, Elogia Doctorum Virorum, c.101. [202] Delrio, Disquisitiones Magicae, Lib. II, Quaestio xi, S. 18. [203] Delrio, Lib. II, Quaestio xxix. S. 7. [204] Wierus, Lib. II, c.v. S. 11, 12. [205] Cent. I, cap. 70. [206] De Praestigiis Demonum, Lib. II, cap. iv, sect. 8. [207] Durrius, _apud_ Schelhorn, Amoenitates Literariae, Tom. V, p.50, _et seqq_. [208] Memoirs, p. 14. [209] Brewster, Letters on Natural Magic, Letter IV. [210] Appendix to Johannes Glastoniensis, edited by Hearne. [211] Camden, anno 1693, 1694. [212] Pitcairn, Trials in Scotland in Five Volumes, 4to. [213] King James's Works, p. 135. [214] King James's Works, p. 135, 136. [215] Truth brought to Light by Time. Wilson, History of James I. [216] Fuller, Church History of Britain, Book X, p. 74. See also Osborn's Works, Essay I: where the author says, he "gave charge to his judges, to be circumspect in condemning those, committed by ignorant justices for diabolical compacts. Nor had he concluded his advice in a narrower circle, as I have heard, than the denial of any such operations, but out of reason of state, and to gratify the church, which hath in no age thought fit to explode out of the common people's minds an apprehension of witchcraft." The author adds, that he "must confess James to have been the promptest man living in his dexterity to discover an imposture," and subjoins a remarkable story in confirmation of this assertion. [217] Discovery of the Witches, 1612, printed by order of the Court. [218] History of Whalley, by Thomas Dunham Whitaker, p. 215. [219] Wood, Athenae Oxonienses, Vol. II, p. 507. [220] Heylyn, Life of Laud. [221] Hutchinson on Witchcraft. [222] Menagiana, Tom. II, p. 252, _et seqq_. [223] Judges, v, 20. [224] Certainty of the World of Spirits. [225] Trial of the Witches executed at Bury St. Edmund's. [226] Narrative translated by Dr. Horneck, _apud_ Satan's Invisible World by Sinclair, and Sadducismus Triumphatus by Glanville. [227] Cotton Mather, Wonders of the Invisible World; Calef, More Wonders of the Invisible World; Neal, History of New England. [228] Menagiana, Tom II, p. 264. Voltaire, Siècle de Louis XIV, Chap. xxxi.