TTbe Worl&'s Classics 
 
 cxcm 
 
 SELECTED ENGLISH SHORT 
 STORIES 
 
 (NINETEENTH CENTURY) 
 
The pr&ent selection of English Short Stories was first 
 published in ' The World's Classics ' in 1914. 
 
 -O' 
 
sw 
 
 THE SHOET STORY IN ENGLISH 
 
 ' WHATEVER men do ' is a phrase which describes the 
 theme of the story-teller as well as that of the satirist. 
 The most universal of human interests is the interest 
 of man in his brother man. We should expect this 
 universal interest to manifest itself early, and to do so 
 first in a direct and simple rather than in an indirect 
 and critical fashion. And this is what we actually find. 
 The literary critic can with reasonable accuracy trace 
 the rise of satire ; but who shall assign an origin to the 
 story ? Even the higher criticism would place Genesis 
 comparatively speaking fairly near the beginning of 
 things ; and Genesis contains some of the finest tales 
 ever penned. When the curtain rises on the literature 
 of Greece, it reveals an Iliad and an Odyssey, each 
 of which is a long story skilfully woven out of many 
 short tales. So, again, when light breaks through the 
 darkness of the North, it discloses that great collection 
 of the heroic legends of Scandinavia, the Edda; and 
 when our own branch of the Teutonic race migrated 
 from the Continent, among the furniture it deemed too 
 precious to be left behind was, apparently, the group 
 of legends from which sprang Beowulf. That Celtic race 
 which these Teutons found in possession of the land 
 had its own heroic myths, the modern forms of which 
 point back to a past far beyond the dawn of authentic, or 
 
vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 at least of written history ; and the differences between 
 these two groups of stories have furnished part of the 
 foundation for those theories of Teutonism on the one 
 hand and of Celticism on the other, which, after having 
 pervaded history and criticism for the last half -century, 
 are now seriously threatened by the newer anthro- 
 pology. 
 
 The story, then, is very old, and from its appearance 
 at the dawn of literature the inference might be drawn 
 that there can be no great difficulty in telling it. But 
 such an inference would be unsound. It is only by 
 comparison that Genesis stands near the beginning of 
 things ; and if there is anything certain in literary 
 criticism it is that the Iliad and the Odyssey are the 
 fine fruit of a very long process of development. 
 Evolution has taught us to think in millenniums instead 
 of decades. And while it is true that the story is, or 
 may be, simple, it is a profound mistake to suppose 
 that it can be effectively told by any one and without 
 art. In truth, literary simplicity is one of the most 
 difficult of all things to attain, though the non- literary 
 variety is within the reach of the dullest. It was the 
 latter that Shakespeare ridiculed in Dame Quickly, and 
 Johnson in his well-known parody of the ballad style : 
 
 I put my hat upon my head 
 And walked into the Strand, 
 
 And there I met another man, 
 With his hat in his hand. 
 
 But probably more poets have rivalled the Words- 
 worth of the Ode on Intimations of Immortality than 
 have rivalled the Wordsworth of Michael. Further, 
 simplicity is in no way inconsistent with the extremest 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH vii 
 
 depth of poignancy, a depth attainable only by the 
 profoundest students of the human heart. It is a story 
 of childlike simplicity that leads up to that ' great and 
 exceeding bitter cry' of Esau, which has echoed through 
 every century since it was uttered. 
 
 While, however, the short story as a form of literature 
 is of immemorial antiquity, that particular type of it 
 with which we have here to deal, namely, the short story 
 told in prose and in the English language, is of quite 
 recent growth. In the main it is an affair of the nine- 
 teenth century, and the very beginnings of it apart 
 from translations and adaptations cannot be traced 
 back much farther than the age of Elizabeth. For 
 Beowulf is an epic in verse, and Chaucer, the first great 
 story-teller who was English in the modern sense of 
 the word, likewise used verse as his medium. It is 
 true, Chaucer intersperses among his vivid and racy 
 stories in verse the prose Tale of Meliboeus and The 
 Parson's Tale, but these are not original, and they are 
 anything but lively. Chaucer's only rival in those 
 early days, the author of The Friars of Berwick, 
 likewise wrote in verse. The early tales of both the 
 Scandinavian and the Germanic branches of the 
 Teutonic family are in verse. The poetic Edda precedes 
 the prose Edda, and it was in verse that the Germans 
 celebrated Arminius and other early heroes of their 
 race. Herein certainly English literature has developed 
 on Teutonic and not on Celtic lines ; for the Celts seem 
 to have used prose in their tales more freely and at 
 a date relatively earlier than either the Teutonic or 
 the Graeco -Italic peoples. In English the earliest great 
 name in the history of prose fiction is that of Malory. 
 
viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 But though the Morte d 1 Arthur is a great possession, 
 and though it contains an element, probably con- 
 siderable, of original matter, it is still, in essence, an 
 adaptation from the French. In that language the 
 short story was already firmly rooted. It had been 
 still longer and was still more deeply rooted in Italian. 
 These were the sources from which in Elizabethan 
 times it was transplanted into English. At first we 
 find simply translation. That great storehouse of plots 
 for the use of the dramatist, Painter's Palace of Pleasure 
 (1566-7), is compiled from the resources supplied by 
 Boccaccio, Bandello, Margaret of Navarre, and others. 
 But ten years later, in The Petite Pallace of Pettie his 
 Pleasure, as Professor Atkins points out, 1 we find 
 occasional additions made by the translator to the 
 original ; and five years later still, ' of the eight stories 
 which make up Rich his Farewell to the Militarie 
 Profession (1581), while three are taken from the 
 Italian, the remaining five are frankly " forged onely for 
 delight 'V 
 
 Thus original prose fiction was at last established in 
 England and in the English language. It had its birth 
 somewhat before the date last mentioned. Critics are 
 now generally agreed that Euphues is the earliest 
 English novel ; and the first part of Euphues was 
 published in 1578. The wonder is that the development 
 was so long delayed, for there are numerous indica- 
 tions that the popular appetite for tales was so keen 
 that it might fairly be called voracious. There was, 
 therefore, plenty of stimulus to invention. One indica- 
 tion of this appetite is the success of translations like 
 
 1 Cambridge History of English Literature, iii, 343. 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH ix 
 
 those of Painter and Fenton ; another is the fact that 
 men like Greene, who made a precarious living by the 
 pen, found it worth their while to write similar tales. 
 But one reason for the late development may at once be 
 assigned. It is that the skill necessary to produce 
 either the short tale, or that longer sort of tale which 
 we now call a novel, did not exist. Highly gifted as 
 the Elizabethans were, they had not this particular 
 sort of talent. To say that English prose was still 
 unformed is certainly insufficient, and is only partially 
 true. Painter does well enough, and Malory and 
 Berne rs do brilliantly well, when they are working on 
 materials supplied by others. When it comes to 
 invention, Lyly flounders hopelessly, and others, like 
 Greene and Nash, achieve only an occasional and 
 partial success. Euphues no doubt has merits which 
 at one time were denied to it ; but more than enough 
 has of late been made of those merits, and, such 
 as they are, they are certainly not merits of con- 
 struction. The story is naught. The simple truth is, 
 that far the greater part of original English prose of 
 the Elizabethan age can now be read with enjoyment 
 only by the few who have steeped themselves in the 
 spirit of the time. And this means, as those few are 
 apt to forget, that the prose in question falls a long 
 way short of greatness. No such preparation is 
 needed for the enjoyment of North's Plutarch, or of 
 Malory, or Berners. These men are saved through the 
 guidance of the great artists whom they translated, 
 or whose materials they worked up. The same holds 
 true of poetry. For the enjoyment of Shakespeare we 
 need no preparation, except such training of soul 
 
x INTRODUCTION 
 
 and mind as will suffice for the comprehension of 
 greatness of any age from Adam downwards. But for 
 the enjoyment of the minor dramatists some special 
 preparation is needed ; and the preparation must be 
 extensive in inverse proportion to the stature of the 
 dramatist. Hence we may formulate a useful rule for 
 discriminating between what is assuredly great, and 
 what is only more or less dubiously so. The assuredly 
 great is never caviare to the general ; while the critic 
 who rediscovers greatness that for some reason has 
 gone out of fashion and sunk into oblivion had better 
 consider carefully the terms in which he proclaims his 
 discovery. It was some weakness in the writer that 
 caused the oblivion : if he had been great enough, he 
 would never have been forgotten. The writer whom 
 the critic has discovered may not be wholly insignifi- 
 cant, but that he is not a demigod is certain, and that 
 he is not a giant is in the highest degree probable. The 
 possibilities involved in such a cataclysm as the over- 
 throw of Rome by the barbarians are incalculable ; 
 but, such cases excepted, the rule here laid down will 
 be found trustworthy. 
 
 Now in this predicament Elizabethan prose fiction 
 stands. It is a rediscovery ; the world had forgotten 
 all about it ; but the revival of interest in Elizabethan 
 poetry which accompanied the modern revival of 
 romance, led to a renewed interest in the prose founda- 
 tions on which much of that poetry, in its dramatic 
 form, rested. It was found that there were storehouses 
 of materials, partly original, largely borrowed, from 
 which the dramatists had drawn. Antiquaries set to 
 work to edit rare tracts or print forgotten manuscripts, 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xi 
 
 and critics followed in their steps to appraise them. Both 
 fell into the mistake of exaggerating the importance of 
 their discoveries. Nothing that they found can be 
 ranked either in the first class or in the second. What 
 they did establish was that stories in considerable 
 number and of considerable bulk in the aggregate were 
 produced by the Elizabethan writers, and that these 
 writers were the pioneers of prose fiction in English 
 as well as of the English drama. They showed, further, 
 that this prose fiction was tolerably varied as well as 
 extensive. The short story and the novel, romance and 
 realism, were all represented. Lyly has already been 
 mentioned as the first novelist, or rather as the writer of 
 the first novel, for he hardly knew what he was doing ; 
 Greene may be taken as the best representative of 
 romance ; and Nash as representative of the picaresque 
 writers. There was much talent and some genius in 
 their work. Yet in the main it failed. Its highest 
 praise is that part of it was built into the fabric of the 
 drama. Shakespeare, as is well known, used Lodge's 
 Eosalynd for As You Like It, and Greene's Pandosto 
 for the Winter's Tale ; but whoever turns back from the 
 plays to the sources will find there the story without 
 the glamour of genius, and in consequence will be apt 
 to think the story rather commonplace. 
 
 Vigorous as it appeared for a few years, the plant of 
 Elizabethan prose fiction soon withered away. The 
 cause was partly the extraordinary success of the 
 drama: the story enacted on the stage was more 
 popular than the story read in the closet. Partly, no 
 doubt, it lay in the defects of the story-tellers. They 
 had no clear end in view. They did not understand 
 a3 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 the limits of their medium, prose, or the conditions 
 of its use. Greene, for instance, encumbered himself 
 with all the weight of euphuism. He increased the 
 load by undertaking to point a moral before he had 
 learnt to tell a plain tale. Of adornment his tales have 
 only too much. He interrupts his narrative to preach, 
 he thinks to impart variety by digression an error 
 serious in every kind of narrative, and fatal in short 
 stories. Though he claimed to be learned, he has more 
 anachronisms than Shakespeare. In Penelope's Web, 
 which introduces the wife of Ulysses and her attendants, 
 the women speak of Anacreon, Menander, and Ovid. 
 What is far worse is the fact that Greene violates 
 that appropriateness to character which Shakespeare 
 observe while he flings chronology to the winds. Thus, 
 in the same piece, the old Nurse expresses her surprise 
 * that Romans who covet to surpass the Grecians in all 
 honourable and virtuous action, did not see into their 
 own folly, when they erect temples unto Flora ' 
 a speech hardly more fit for her mouth than it would be 
 for that of the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 Only a few of Greene's romances can be called 
 short stories. Mamillia y which fills a considerable 
 volume, goes beyond the limit. Even Menaphon 
 and Pandosto are upon the confines. But Penelope's 
 Web and Perimedes the Black-Smith both contain short 
 stories properly so called, and it is only want of skill 
 in construction and want of precision of purpose that 
 prevent Greene from ranking as a story-teller still to 
 be reckoned with. 
 
 Greene occasionally crossed the space which divides 
 romance from realism ; Nash was a realist by habit 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xiii 
 
 and preference. But Nash has little to do with the 
 history of the short story. The satirical portraits 
 which he drew with no small skill belong to a different 
 category, and The Unfortunate Traveller, or the Life of 
 Jack Wilton (1594), by virtue of which he ranks as the 
 forerunner of Defoe, is a long story rather than a short 
 one, and, like the picaresque tales in general, is destitute 
 of construction. The man who came nearest to success 
 in this particular form was one who was older in years 
 but younger in the art than they. If Thomas Deloney 
 was born, as is supposed, in 1543, he lived to the good 
 old age of fifty-six or fifty-seven, instead of the thirty 
 years or so which bounded the lives of so many of his 
 literary companions. He was far past the latter limit 
 before he entered upon a literary career. He drifted 
 from silk- weaving into ballad- writing, but he eeems not 
 to have made letters his profession much before 1586. 
 Most of his verse is sad doggerel. The prose narratives, 
 with which alone we are concerned, were all produced 
 during the last three or four years of his life. Deloney 
 was not only more mature than his rivals, but, writing 
 after them, he had the advantage of their example and 
 experience to guide him. The Gentle Craft, a collection 
 of stories relating to the craft of the shoemaker, is 
 decidedly the best book of its kind that we owe to the 
 Elizabethans. Jack ofNewbury and Thomas of Reading 
 have somewhat more the character, and approach 
 nearer to the dimensions, of novels ; yet they, too, are 
 in the main groups of stories loosely strung together 
 on the thread of a central character. In all of them 
 Deloney shows greater skill in construction than any 
 of his rivals, his characters are better drawn, his 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 humour is richer, his wit less strained. The cause 
 of his success was that he was content to tell a plain 
 story plainly, drawing from his own experience and 
 depicting men and women whom he knew. It is true 
 he is not without his affectations. Quaint and incon- 
 gruous fragments of euphuism and tags of romance 
 remind the reader of the age to which he belonged. 
 But in the main he is free from the strained ingenuities 
 and far-fetched conceits which are so wearisome in his 
 contemporaries. He is essentially a realist, and, like 
 the giant of old, he has gained strength by contact with 
 mother-earth. He probably gains, too, by the very 
 absence of poetry from his nature, as Lyly and Greene 
 were led astray by its presence. 
 
 The short story seemed, then, to be on the point of 
 success. It was really on the verge of eclipse. When 
 Deloney died in 1600 the short story passed into a state 
 of suspended animation, from which it was destined, 
 indeed, to be revived, but not through the influence 
 of the Elizabethan story-tellers. The break between 
 them and their modern successors is complete. The 
 most potent cause of this eclipse was probably the 
 overwhelming success of the drama. Deloney 's stories 
 might have held their ground against the stiffness of 
 Gorboduc and the crudity of Gammer Garten's Needle. 
 But just about the time when Deloney abandoned silk- 
 weaving for ballad- making Shakespeare migrated from 
 Stratford to London, and when the former died the 
 latter was in mid-career. Jack of Newbury and The 
 Gentle Craft are nearly contemporaneous with As You 
 Like It and Twelfth Night. Ben Jonson, Webster, 
 Massinger, Beaumont, and Fletcher, were all to come. 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xv 
 
 To their blaze the light of poor Deloney was as a 
 farthing rushlight to the sun. 
 
 The eclipse was of long duration. Until the Puritans 
 closed the theatres, the drama maintained the ascen- 
 dancy it had won, and afterwards the energy which 
 might have gone to the creation of stories was largely 
 absorbed in polemics, political and religious. Such 
 literary talent as was still artistically disinterested 
 devoted itself to the delineation of characters rather 
 than to narration. It was Overbury, not Deloney, who 
 left successors. Somewhat later Bunyan proved him- 
 self to be an unsurpassed story-teller ; but his religious 
 allegories stand apart. It is not till we reach the 
 eighteenth century that we find anything to the 
 purpose ; and in the early part even of the eighteenth 
 century we find rather promise than performance. 
 Swift unquestionably possessed the gift of story- telling, 
 but he made narrative merely the vehicle of^his satire. 
 So did his friend Arbuthnot. And while Robinson 
 Crusoe is conclusive proof of Defoe's mastership, both 
 it and his picaresque stories are among the incunabida 
 of the novel, not of the short story. The periodical paper, 
 as created and developed by Steele and Addison, seemed 
 to be a promising medium for the publication of short 
 stories ; and in their dreams and allegories these 
 writers approached the verge of the tale, as in the De 
 Coverley papers they all but made a novel. But in 
 both cases what they gave was rather hints and 
 suggestions than the thing itself. Nevertheless, the 
 medium they created was as good for the tale as it was 
 for the essay of manners and society, and in due time 
 the tale was born anew. Not, however, until after the 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 birth of the novel. It might have been expected 
 a priori that story-tellers would work up from small 
 to great. In point of fact they did the opposite, and 
 when Tom Jones was published hardly a beginning had 
 been made with the short story. The first of the 
 periodicals in which stories were a conspicuous feature 
 was The Adventurer, and to its conductor, Hawkes- 
 worth, must be assigned the credit of this development. 
 Even in The Adventurer the tale was used in a tentative 
 way, as if Hawkesworth thought that it required 
 some justification other than its merit as a tale. Each 
 of his stories embodies some moral and inculcates 
 a lesson. This affords great comfort to the conscien- 
 tious Nathan Drake, who praises the story of Amurath, 
 perhaps Hawkesworth' s masterpiece, because * its 
 instructive tendency is so great, its imagery and inci- 
 dents are so ingeniously appropriate, that few compilers 
 for youth have omitted to avail themselves of the 
 lesson '. The tale is a good one, but the praise, though 
 deserved, will probably be felt at the present time to be 
 a dubious recommendation. Since the days of Sandford 
 and Merton compilers for youth have learnt to be less 
 direct in their methods. The moral pill is now more 
 thickly coated with the sugar of adventure and incident. 
 Amurath is, as the name indicates, an Eastern tale ; 
 and this was the sort which Hawkesworth particularly 
 affected. He was conscious, however, of the advantage 
 of variety ; indeed, the search for variety is the most 
 notable feature of his conduct of The Adventurer. 
 Accordingly we find tales of English life as well as tales 
 of the East. The one feature common to all is that they 
 have invariably that ' instructive tendency ', which 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xvii 
 
 was so pleasing to the conscience of Drake, however 
 the natural man in him may have delighted in story 
 pure and simple. And Drake's criticism is impor- 
 tant, not because it expresses his own opinion, but 
 because it is a deduction from the actual practice of 
 the eighteenth -century story-tellers ; it was either their 
 opinion, or the opinion which they felt themselves 
 obliged to adopt. 
 
 Hawkesworth's innovation proved to be popular, 
 and his example was followed in several of the 
 periodical essays subsequent to The Adventurer. 
 By far the greatest of those who in this respect 
 imitated him was Oliver Goldsmith, whose Asem, an 
 Eastern Tale : or a Vindication of the Wisdom of 
 Providence in the Moral Government of the World, is 
 exactly in the manner of Hawkesworth. It has the 
 same Eastern setting and the same ' instructive 
 tendency '. But it has also the beauty of style which 
 enabled Goldsmith to adorn all he touched, and in 
 addition to that it has a force and depth of thought 
 which deserve the attention of those who accept the 
 ' inspired idiot ' theory with regard to its author. 
 The Adventures of a Strolling Player shows that Gold- 
 smith could tell another kind of tale as well. 
 
 After Goldsmith the periodical essay was moribund ; 
 but the tale was doomed to no second Rip Van 
 Winkle sleep. For now not the drama but prose 
 fiction was becoming the dominant form of literature, 
 and prose had shaken itself free from poetic tradition 
 and influence. Thanks to the Queen Anne writers, the 
 secret of a lucid and simple structure of sentence was 
 attainable by any one who would take a little trouble. 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Through two centuries of experience and effort the 
 limits of what was possible, or of what it was expedient 
 to attempt, had been more or less determined. Hence 
 the revival of romance produced no such result as had 
 followed in the wake of the earlier romance. The 
 Elizabethan romancer rambled where he pleased. He 
 could not deny himself the pleasure of producing an 
 effect which seemed to him good in itself. His suc- 
 cessor of the later eighteenth century, generally a less 
 richly gifted man, had a keener eye to business and 
 a sounder sense of what was relevant, and therefore 
 effective, because not merely good in itself, but good 
 in its setting. Lyly had a richer mind than Mrs. Rad- 
 cliffe, but The Mysteries of Udolpho is, as a story, incom- 
 parably better than Euphues than which, indeed, 
 nothing could well be worse. The indispensable con- 
 ditions of the art had at last been learnt ; there were 
 Englishmen who combined with the power to tell 
 stories with effect, the will to tell them for their own 
 sake, and no longer for their ' instructive tendency '. 
 
 One of the difficulties of the short story had hitherto 
 been that of publication. The tale was not a thing 
 that could stand alone, as it were. The long story, the 
 novel, had, naturally, a substantive existence of its 
 own : it was a book. The short story required support. 
 This had not been so great a difficulty in the earlier 
 days of frequent and multifarious tracts and pamphlets. 
 But that mode of publication had long ceased to be 
 one that was favourable to the prospects of a short 
 story. ' Burning questions ' could be discussed, 
 because readers were drawn by the blaze and heat ; but 
 the short story had no such power of attraction. The 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xix 
 
 periodical, as Steele and Addison and their successors 
 understood it, might have afforded the solution of the 
 difficulty ; but. as we have seen, it was now itself in 
 decay. Its decay was, however, coincident with the 
 rise of another species of periodical, which has supplied 
 just the medium necessary for the short story. The 
 ' magazine ', by its very name, indicates a scope and 
 a variety which were never aimed at by The Taller, The 
 Spectator, or The Rambler. Already The Gentleman's 
 Magazine illustrated that variety, and the day was 
 approaching when the periodicals similarly varied were 
 destined to multiply beyond the dreams of an earlier 
 time. There is the closest connexion between the 
 development of this class of periodicals and the short 
 story. They have acted and reacted upon one another, 
 and each has been in turn cause and effect of the 
 increase of the other. The more magazines the more 
 need of stories to fill them, and the more stories the 
 wider the demand for magazines. It is therefore a fact 
 of the first importance in the history of the story that, 
 while The Taller and The Spectator were fading into 
 The Mirror and The Lounger and The Looker-on, and 
 these in turn into The Euminator, The Reasoner, The 
 Moderator, and The Spy, about which few people know 
 more than they learn from the industrious Drake, there 
 sprang into being that other periodical literature of 
 more diversified contents which has since grown to 
 such astonishing proportions. The earlier periodical 
 was the nurse of the essay. The periodical of our own 
 day nourishes it still, but with a difference. We rather 
 like our essay to be solid, to embody facts, to be 
 useful ; and the light play of Addison scarcely reaches 
 
xx INTRODUCTION 
 
 our standard of utility. Men have been known to think 
 that poetry itself would be much more satisfactory if 
 it only proved something, and even poets have been 
 known to give them some excuse by professing to 
 ' justify ' something to something else. In this respect 
 the modern magazine is less literary than the eighteenth- 
 century periodical. But there seems to be a law of 
 compensation at work ; for, per contra, the story, which 
 the modern magazine nourishes also, now needs to be 
 nothing but a story. It requires no longer to be written 
 with one eye upon the tale and the other upon the * com- 
 pilers for youth '. The imagery and incidents have to 
 be ingeniously appropriate to nothing but the story 
 itself. It is a blessed emancipation. It is the final and 
 indispensable step which alone can make literature 
 fully and emphatically literary. 
 
 * I'll larn ye for bein' a toad,' is the exclamation of 
 the little boy who feels himself an instrument of divine 
 vengeance in beating the poor ugly creature to death. 
 The rigid moralist who prides himself on being nothing 
 but a moralist, and who is hardly more competent to 
 judge than is the little boy to be the agent of omnipo- 
 tence, would ' larn ' all literature that does not carry 
 its moral on the surface ' for bein' literary '. To him 
 it is ugly; and with ludicrous inconsistency he, who 
 cares nothing for beauty, acts on the principle that 
 ugliness is the unpardonable sin. He might seem to 
 be negligible ; but he is not, he has repeatedly been 
 a power in the land. He has imposed his principle on 
 every form of literature in turn. Milton himself was 
 influenced by it. Wordsworth ruined much of his 
 work by his determination to be a teacher. Not that 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxi 
 
 the determination was itself wrong ; the error lay in the 
 poet's failure to perceive that he was a better teacher 
 in proportion as he forgot that he was anything but 
 a poet. So if our moralist selected a volume of essays, 
 among the contents would be dissertations buttressed 
 with columns of figures and stiff with facts, and 
 ' useful ' discussions as to the best means of supplying 
 the negroes of the West Indies with moral pocket- 
 handkerchiefs. The literary selector would insert 
 instead something from Lamb, as sinuous and as sweet 
 as a tendril of honeysuckle. And in the long run, by 
 the mysterious alchemy of nature, the essay on Roast 
 Pig would prove a more potent agent of morality than 
 the essay on moral pocket-handkerchiefs. The little 
 boy was wrong. He was not an instrument of divine 
 vengeance. If any supernatural power guided him, 
 it was one of a widely different sort. It is best not 
 to ' larn ' the toad to be anything but a toad. The 
 business of literature is just to be literary, and every 
 form of it has a right to develop in its own way, subject 
 only to the laws of beauty. A great poet has declared 
 beauty to be identical with truth. We may follow him 
 at least so far as to believe that they are closely con- 
 neoted, and then draw the further easy inference that 
 morality, if it be sound, cannot be far off from the pair. 
 This priceless freedom was won for the short story 
 in the nineteenth century. It was partly due to the 
 multiplicity of the magazines ; for what was unpleasing 
 to one editor might be the very thing another desired. 
 And hence the nineteenth century is, with the few years 
 of the present century that are already gone, emphati- 
 cally the period of the short story in English. What 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 went before was merely preparatory. To that freedom 
 is due the variety, grave and gay, weird and grotesque, 
 romantic and realistic, illustrated in the present volume. 
 To the ample practice it ensured must be ascribed, too, 
 the skill in construction here shown. A Robert Louis 
 Stevenson would have been impossible in the Eliza- 
 bethan age. Possibly Shakespeare could have told the 
 story of Markheim if he had tried ; but we may be sure 
 that no lesser contemporary could have done so. 
 
 Perhaps a word of caution may be necessary with 
 regard to what has been said above concerning the 
 moral in the story. Some of the stories here printed 
 embody a moral. Wherein, therefore, it may be asked, 
 do they differ from the stories of the eighteenth century 
 to which reference has been made? The answer is 
 twofold. In the first place, occasionally to convey 
 a moral is a very different thing from feeling under the 
 obligation to convey a moral always. That feeling 
 marks one excess, which is bad. In the eighteenth 
 century it stunted the development of the story. But 
 reaction led, in criticism at least, to an opposite excess. 
 It cannot be sound to criticize the novel of purpose, 
 as it has frequently been criticized, because of the 
 presence of the purpose. The question always is, how is 
 the purpose handled ? And this leads to the second part 
 of the answer. It is certainly true that some of the 
 stories here included are stories with a moral. The 
 selections from Hawthorne are clearly of that character ; 
 and yet most people will feel that they are among the 
 most artistic of all. How, then, can that be good in 
 Hawthorne which is bad, or at the best dubiously good, 
 in Hawkesworth and Goldsmith ? The difference is the 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxiii 
 
 difference between perfect and imperfect fusion. In 
 Hawkesworth the moral is obtruded, and the story 
 seems to labour under its weight ; in Hawthorne there 
 is perfect balance the story is the moral. Sydney 
 Smith jested about the diminutive body of his friend 
 Jeffrey. Jeffrey, he said, had not body enough to cover 
 his mind, his intellect was ' indecently exposed '. So 
 it is with the moral of the story. There is artistic 
 indecency in the exposure of the moral in Hawkes- 
 worth's stories. In Hawthorne's case, for the reason 
 already given, there is no exposure at all. We have to 
 strip off the covering of story before we see the moral. 
 Hawkesworth had his moral first clear before his mind, 
 and then asked how he was to illustrate it. Hawthorne 
 was the Puritan grown into an artist, who could not 
 have separated story from moral if he had tried. 
 Probably no other man has blended the two so perfectly 
 as Hawthorne ; but where a direct moral is conveyed 
 at all, success is to be measured by the nearness of 
 approach to him. On this principle, and on no other, 
 can purpose be judged. 
 
 . It is in construction that the nineteenth- century 
 story-tellers are most conspicuously superior to their 
 predecessors. Strange as it seems in the case of men 
 who were dramatists, the Elizabethans were absolutely 
 incompetent in this respect ; and Deloney, who was no 
 dramatist, is the only exception among them. In the 
 eighteenth century the story was made to develop in 
 obedience to a law which was external to itself. But in 
 the nineteenth century the story-tellers had become con- 
 scious of the vital importance of skilful evolution, and 
 were convinced that the evolution must be from within. 
 
 
xxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 They showed this mastery from the first. Scott's 
 Wandering Willie is almost faultless in construction, 
 and, much as Scott has been criticized for careless- 
 ness in matters of art .there is no better example in 
 English of art skilfully applied to this purpose. The 
 result is all the finer because Scott probably gave very 
 little conscious heed to the matter. The art is con- 
 cealed from the reader until he deliberately reflects, 
 because it was almost as completely hid from the 
 writer. Other examples hardly less perfect may be 
 found in this volume. Hawthorne's, Bret Harte's, and 
 Stevenson's stories are models of literary art an art, 
 however, which is somewhat more obtruded than it is 
 in the case of Scott. This is especially true in the case 
 of Poe. His stories lack nothing of art except the 
 concealment of art. They grow under his hand like 
 a building at the bidding of the architect, with stroke 
 of axe and clang of hammer. Wandering Willie seems 
 to spring from the brain of the author as silently as 
 Solomon's temple rose. No other story in the language 
 gives quite the same impression of masterly ease. 
 
 This mastery of the art of construction was partly 
 due to the example and transmitted experience of the 
 novelists. In Tom Jones Fielding had supplied a model 
 which has rarely been equalled in its own kind. For 
 the short story this art was even more important than 
 for the novel, because flaws which would be serious in 
 the former may pass unobserved in the latter. The 
 miniature-painter is not greater than the portrait- 
 painter, but his work must necessarily be finer. Hence 
 the importance of avoiding divagation and irrelevancy. 
 Thackeray may stop the progress of Vanity Fair in 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxv 
 
 order to preach a sermon, Dickens may introduce 
 a crowd of characters who have little or nothing to do 
 with the story ; and it remains an open question 
 whether the gain in richness be not more than sufficient 
 compensation for the loss of symmetry. But in a short 
 story redundancy would be like a splash of vivid colour 
 from a large brush on a miniature ; and consequently 
 strict limitation to the matter in hand is among the 
 laws of perfect obligation. Now one of the conditions 
 without which obedience to the law is impossible is 
 that the writer must be perfectly clear in his own mind 
 as to the effect he wishes to produce. Here was the 
 rock on which the Elizabethans made shipwreck. 
 They did not know clearly their own purpose, and were 
 in consequence ready to take up any suggestion of the 
 moment. Like the Knights of the Round Table they 
 followed wandering fires. The Galahad who finds the 
 Grail is he who knows precisely what he seeks, and 
 seeks that alone. We have such Galahads of art 
 among the nineteenth- century story-tellers. Take, for 
 example, either Bret Harte's Tennessee's Partner or 
 Higgles, or Stevenson's Markheim. In each of these 
 stories the writer knows beyond all peradventure what 
 he wishes to do, and he does it, and rigidly excludes 
 all else. Another condition, without which perfect 
 obedience to the law would hardly be possible, is that 
 the matter in hand must be simple. But, as has 
 already been shown, simple here is far from meaning 
 superficial. The story may be as profound as the writer 
 is capable of making it. Hawthorne again and again 
 handles problems deeper than human plummet ever 
 sounded, and he shows that the essence of the most 
 
xxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 carefully wrought novel may be condensed into the 
 tale. The Minister's Black Veil, a story for which 
 space has not been found, is The Scarlet Letter in 
 abstract and brief summary. But while profundity is 
 not excluded, complexity is. That which is complex 
 requires lengthy treatment, and it obscures the dis- 
 tinction between the relevant and the irrelevant. Thus 
 the outlines are blurred, and that unity of impression 
 which is essential to the short story becomes exceed- 
 ingly difficult, if not impossible, of attainment. 
 
 Unity of impression is the end, and limitation to the 
 matter in hand, the means. Here, perhaps, light is 
 thrown upon the failure of the Elizabethans. The 
 principles of the short story are more akin to the laws 
 of the Greek than to those of the Elizabethan drama. 
 It was because the Greeks aimed at unity of impression 
 that they obeyed the law of the three unities. The 
 Elizabethans, aiming at holding the mirror up to 
 nature, flung two of the unities to the winds, and 
 greatly modified the third. Nature is not simple, she 
 is highly complex ; the impression she produces is not 
 one, but multifarious. The dramatic experience of the 
 Elizabethans may therefore have been misleading 
 rather than helpful. Their genius for the stage may 
 have militated against their success, as their genius 
 for poetry certainly did ; and the fact that the one 
 successful story-teller among them was not a dramatist 
 may be less paradoxical than at first it seems. 
 
 The stories of the nineteenth century are remarkable 
 for their variety. They cover nearly the whole range of 
 human interests and appeal to every emotion, from 
 horror and fear to tenderness and pity. They touch 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxvii 
 
 heaven and earth and hell. They are dreamy or 
 intensely active, domestic or adventurous. They 
 illustrate crime almost inhuman or virtue almost super- 
 human. They are such as boys may read and fully 
 understand, or they convey suggestions which the 
 wisest man cannot wholly exhaust they are stories 
 of adventure or profound pyschological studies. They 
 are masterpieces of construction, or they are so simply 
 put together that it is doubtful whether they should 
 be called essays or stories. Such, for example, is the 
 case with Rob and his Friends. But has not Brown 
 himself settled the question by calling the first part 
 a story, and declaring his opinion that ' Homer, or 
 King David, or Sir Walter, alone were worthy to 
 rehearse ' it ? All or nearly all this variety is illustrated 
 in the present volume. But it must be borne in mind 
 that the selection here presented has been partly 
 determined by conditions of space. Thus Mrs. Gaskell's 
 Cousin Phillis is perhaps the finest example in English 
 of the domestic idyll, and is surpassed among its 
 author's works only by the exquisite Cranford. But 
 Cousin Phillis is too long to be included. Again, Hogg's 
 Confessions of a Justified Sinner is one of the most 
 masterly psychological studies we possess, and if it had 
 been possible this ought certainly to have been included, 
 both for its intrinsic merits, and as an example of a 
 single triumph won by a man who wrote many stories, 
 but no other than this which is worth reading. Bui, 
 again, the Confessions is too long ; and so the collection 
 is the poorer for the absence of a tale which is unique 
 in English. The same consideration explains the ab- 
 sence of two other great names. On their merit as 
 
xxviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 stories De Quincey's Kalmuck Tartars and Ruskin's 
 King of the Golden River certainly deserved inclusion ; 
 but they would take too much space. William Carleton, 
 too, has been regretfully excluded. His Tubber Derg 
 would have been among the stories selected, but for 
 the fact that it is too long ; while such stories of his 
 as are suitable in length seemed hardly to harmonize 
 in tone with the volume as a whole. 
 
 The list of authors shows clearly enough, as we 
 should expect, a close connexion between novel- writing 
 and the telling of short stories. Many of the most 
 prominent novelists, English and American, are here 
 represented. Scott, Dickens, Hawthorne, Meredith, 
 and Stevenson, all contribute. On the other hand, the 
 names that are absent are almost as striking as those 
 that are present. We have no Thackeray, no George 
 Eliot, no Bronte, no Jane Austen. Why is it that the 
 female absentees so much outnumber the male ? 
 Except Mrs. Gaskell, not one of our first-rate women 
 novelists appears. Have the women disdained the art, 
 or is there something hi its conditions which renders 
 it less perfectly adapted to their genius than the novel ? 
 Certainly there are differences between the two forms. 
 Notwithstanding their occasional success, we should 
 hardly rank either Scott or Dickens as typical narrators 
 of short stories. It may be merely that they were too 
 busy telling long ones ; but at any rate the fact remains 
 that their short stories are few and relatively unim- 
 portant. On the other hand, there are great novelists 
 who are equally great in both arts, or who perhaps in 
 the short tale excel their own work on the larger scale. 
 There may be a doubt even about Hawthorne. He 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxix 
 
 has written two or three very great novels, but so many 
 very great tales that a volume might be compiled from 
 him alone. Stevenson, again, notwithstanding the 
 triumph of Weir of Hermiston, is perhaps even greater 
 in the tale than in the novel ; and Bret Harte is so 
 beyond any question. Comparatively few who have 
 not written novels appear on the list, but they are 
 sufficient to demonstrate that the highest success may 
 be achieved in the tale by those who are not novelists. 
 No one will dispute Poe's extraordinary skill, and Wash- 
 ington Irving' s Rip Van Winkle is unsurpassed for 
 charm. 
 
 The fact that the two writers just named are Ameri- 
 cans suggests the reflection that the American element 
 is remarkably conspicuous in this volume. If a selection 
 were made of essays, English and American, or of 
 lyrical poems, the American element would certainly 
 be in much smaller proportion to the whole. Here, 
 measured by number of tales, about one-third are 
 American. Would any competent judge give, for the 
 period covered, a proportion of one-tenth in poetry ? 
 It is interesting to speculate as to the cause of this 
 relative preponderance, but very difficult to find 
 a satisfactory explanation. We might imagine that 
 the hurry of American life had something to do with it. 
 Is not the short story the literary form we should 
 expect to find nourishing in a country where there is 
 hardly time to eat meals ? The whole tone of the 
 stories selected negatives any such supposition. They 
 seem to emanate from and to be written for Sleepy 
 Hollow. This is the character not only of Washington 
 Irving' s tale, but of Hawthorne's stories as well. The 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 author of the Twice-Told Tales had time to brood and 
 meditate, and he expected his readers to find time too. 
 They are not the sort of literature to be taken on the 
 street-car and read to the * scoosh ' of the electric wire. 
 Hawthorne, it is true, belongs to a time when English 
 influence was more potent in American literature than 
 it is now. But even Bret Harte's tales, written in the 
 midst of the rush and tumult of the Californian gold 
 fever, are fanciful and introspective rather than 
 hurried and adventurous. The curtain rises that we 
 may see Tennessee's Partner conduct a funeral, and his 
 heart is in the coffin there with Tennessee. Life has 
 come to a stop with Higgles, and the whole point of the 
 story is to illustrate her fidelity to the paralytic Jim. 
 The outcasts of Poker Flat are shown at the moment 
 when the problem before them is just how to die and 
 how to die, not in action, not with the tense strain of 
 every muscle, but simply in the mood of acquiescence 
 in inevitable fate. To come down to a still later date, 
 the exquisite New England pictures of Miss Wilkins 
 are pictures of quietude, and sometimes of stagnation. 
 There are undoubtedly correlations between literature 
 and life, but they are of a subtle kind. The suggested 
 correlation between a bustling life and a literature of 
 hurry and adventure is too obvious. And it is not true, 
 the facts contradict it. There is more ground for the 
 theory that the cause is to be found in the freedom 
 which American publishers have enjoyed and taken 
 to print the works of English authors without paying 
 for them. They were not likely to pay for native talent 
 when the works of the English romancers from Scott 
 downwards were theirs already. In the case of the 
 
THE SHORT STORY IN ENGLISH xxxi 
 
 novel this was a weighty consideration ; in the case of 
 the short story it was much less important. And other 
 considerations had to be taken into account. Local 
 colour could only be supplied by men of the locality. 
 New England had a life and traditions of its own ; the 
 Southern States had their negroes ; only a Californian 
 could thoroughly understand California. But though 
 we may believe that there is an element of truth in this 
 theory, it would be rash to take it as a full explanation 
 of the fact. If it were, the case of poetry ought to 
 correspond with that of prose. We should expect 
 England to produce the long epics and the ambitious 
 tragedies, but both countries to be equally prolific of 
 lyrics and occasional verse. But it is not so. While the 
 American story-tellers are the equals of any, not only 
 Shelley and Keats and Coleridge, but in later days 
 Tennyson and Browning and Swinburne stand as 
 supreme in the lyric as they do in their longer works. 
 It must suffice to note the fact that there is no other 
 form of literature in which America is so eminent as in 
 the writing of short stories, and to leave it unexplained. 
 The wind of genius bloweth where it listeth. Science 
 can imperfectly explain the direction of the winds, and 
 criticism can explain still more imperfectly the activities 
 of genius. 
 
 HUGH WALKER. 
 
 ST. DAVID'S COLLEGE, 
 LAMPETER. 
 
NOTE 
 
 THE task of selecting the stories for this volume and 
 that of writing the introduction have fallen to different 
 persons ; but, as they have proceeded by way of 
 friendly criticism and suggestion, they are not unwilling 
 to accept a joint responsibility for the volume as a 
 whole. The aim has been to make the selection 
 representative of the best work of the kind in the 
 nineteenth century ; and, while many excellent stories 
 have necessarily been excluded, it is hoped that none 
 has been included which wise criticism would pronounce 
 unworthy. 
 
 HUGH WALKEB, 
 H. S. MILFOBD. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832 
 
 The Two Drovers . . ; * .' 1 
 
 Wandering Willie's Tale (Redgauntlet) .. , . 31 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834 
 
 The Witch Aunt (Mrs. Leicester's School) . 53 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, 1783-1859 
 
 Rip Van Winkle . . . . .61 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1804-64 
 
 The Snow-Image 79 
 
 The Threefold Destiny 97 
 
 Dr. Heidegger's Experiment . . . .106 
 Howe's Masquerade . . . , fk . 117 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI, EARL OF BEACONS- 
 FIELD, 1804-81 
 
 Ixion in Heaven . . ""V " "' . "*., ". 133 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 1809-49 
 
 The Fall of the House of Usher . . .162 
 
 vThe Pit and the Pendulum . .V . . 183 
 
 Eleonora . . . ... , . . 200 
 
 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL, 1810-65 
 
 The Squire's Story 207 
 
 DR. JOHN BROWN, 1810-82 
 
 Rab^and his Friends 225 
 
xxxiv CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, 1812-70 
 
 The Seven Poor Travellers . . . .241 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 1815-82 
 
 Malachi's Cove . . Yj> ' >. . . 271 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH, 1828-1909 
 
 The Punishment of Shahpesh, the Persian, on 
 Khipil, the Builder . . -t-i- J;V . 294 
 
 (By kind permission of Messrs. Constable & Co., 
 London, and Charles Scribner's Sons, New 
 York.) 
 
 WILLIAM HALE WHITE ('MARK RUTHER- 
 FORD'), 1831-1913 
 
 Mr. Whittaker's Retirement . .''!"" . 301 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS, 1834-96 
 
 The Story of the Unknown Church . ^ . 313 
 
 RICHARD GARNETT, 1835-1906 
 
 The Dumb Oracle . . . '' ': " .324 
 
 (By kind permission of Mr. John Lane.) 
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839-1902 
 
 Miggles . . . . . .^ . 
 
 * Tennessee's Partner . ' . ' . .'"" . % '.' 
 
 The Iliad of Sandy Bar . i: . ' . 
 
 ' 
 
 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, 1850-94 
 
 >/Markheim 
 
 Thrawn Janet . . 
 Providence and the Guitar . . "'I ' 
 (By kind permission of Messrs. Chatto 
 Windus.) 
 
CONTENTS xxxv 
 
 PAQB 
 
 GEORGE GISSING, 1857-1903 
 
 Christopherson 458 
 
 (By kind permission of George Oissing's 
 Executors.) 
 
 MARY COLERIDGE, 1861-1907 
 
 The King is dead, Long live the King . . 476 
 (By kind permission of Miss Edith Sichel.) 
 
 HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, 1870-96 
 
 Saint-Pe 484 
 
 (By kind permission of Mrs. Crackanthorpe 
 and Mr. William Heinemann.) 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 1771-1832 
 
 THE TWO DROVERS 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was the day after Doune Fair when my story com- 
 mences. It had been a brisk market ; several dealers 
 had attended from the northern and midland counties 
 in England, and English money had flown so merrily 
 about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. 
 Many large droves were about to set off for England, 
 under the protection of their owners, or of the tops- 
 men whom they employed in the tedious, laborious, 
 and responsible office of driving the cattle for many 
 hundred miles, from the market where they had been 
 purchased, to the fields or farm-yards where they were 
 to be fattened for the shambles. 
 
 The Highlanders, in particular, are masters of this 
 difficult trade of driving, which seems to suit them as 
 well as the trade of war. It affords exercise for all 
 their habits of patient endurance and active exertion. 
 They are required to know perfectly the drove-roads, 
 which lie over the wildest tracts of the country, and 
 to avoid as much as possible the highways, which 
 distress the feet of the bullocks, and the turnpikes, 
 which annoy the spirit of the drover ; whereas, on 
 the broad green or grey track, which leads across the 
 pathless moor, the herd not only move at ease and 
 without taxation, but, if they mind their business, 
 may pick up a mouthful of food by the way. At 
 night, the drovers usually sleep along with their cattle, 
 let the weather be what it will; and many of these 
 hardy men do not once rest under a roof during 
 
2 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 a journey on foot from Locnaber to Lincolnshire. 
 They are paid very highly, for the trust reposed is of 
 the last importance, as it depends on their prudence, 
 vigilance, and honesty, whether the cattle reach the 
 final market in good order, and afford a profit to the 
 grazier. But as they maintain themselves at their own 
 expense, they are especially economical in that par- 
 ticular. At the period we speak of, a Highland drover 
 was victualled for his long and toilsome journey with 
 a few handfuls of oatmeal, and two or three onions, 
 renewed from time to time, and a ram's horn filled 
 with whisky, which he used regularly, but sparingly, 
 every night and morning. His dirk, or skene-dhu 
 (i.e. black-knife), so worn as to be concealed beneath 
 the arm, or by the folds of the plaid, was his only 
 weapon, excepting the cudgel with which he directed 
 the movements of the cattle. A Highlander was never 
 so happy as on these occasions. There was a variety 
 in the whole journey, which exercised the Celt's 
 natural curiosity and love of motion ; there were the 
 constant change of place and scene, the petty adven- 
 tures incidental to the traffic, and the intercourse with 
 the various farmers, graziers, and traders, intermingled 
 with occasional merry-makings, not the less acceptable 
 to Donald that they were void of expense ; and there 
 was the consciousness of superior skill ; for the High- 
 lander, a child amongst flocks, is a prince amongst 
 herds, and his natural habits induce him to disdain 
 the shepherd's slothful life, so that he feels himself 
 nowhere more at home than when following a gallant 
 drove of his country cattle in the character of their 
 guardian. 
 
 Of the number who left Doune in the morning, and 
 with the purpose we described, not a Glunamie of them 
 all cocked his bonnet more briskly, or gartered his 
 tartan hose under knee over a pair of more promising 
 spiogs (legs) than did Robin Oig M'Combich, called 
 familiarly Robin Oig, that is, Young, or the Lesser, 
 Robin. Though small of stature, as the epithet Oig 
 implies, and not very strongly limbed, he was as light 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 3 
 
 and alert as one of the deer of his mountains. He had 
 an elasticity of step which, in the course of a long 
 march, made many a stout fellow envy him ; and the 
 manner in which he busked his plaid and adjusted his 
 bonnet, argued a consciousness that so smart a John 
 Highlandman as himself would not pass unnoticed 
 among the Lowland lasses. The ruddy cheek, red lips, 
 and white teeth, set off a countenance which had 
 gained by exposure to the weather a healthful and 
 hardy rather than a rugged hue. If Robin Oig did 
 not laugh, or even smile frequently, as indeed is not 
 the practice among his countrymen, his bright eyes 
 usually gleamed from under his bonnet with an expres- 
 sion of cheerfulness ready to be turned into mirth. 
 
 The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the 
 little town, in and near which he had many friends, 
 male and female. He was a topping person in his way, 
 transacted considerable business on his own behalf, 
 and was entrusted by the best farmers in the High- 
 lands, in preference to any other drover in that district. 
 He might have increased his business to any extent 
 had he condescended to manage it by deputy ; but 
 except a lad or two, sister's sons of his own, Robin 
 rejected the idea of assistance, conscious, perhaps, how 
 much his reputation depended upon his attending in 
 person to the practical discharge of his duty in every 
 instance. He remained, therefore, contented with the 
 highest premium given to persons of his description, 
 and comforted himself with the hopes that a few 
 journeys to England might enable him to conduct 
 business on his own account, in a manner becoming 
 his birth. For Robin Oig's father, Lachlan M'Combich 
 (or son of my friend, his actual clan-surname being 
 M'Gregor), had been so called by the celebrated Rob 
 Roy, because of the particular friendship which had 
 subsisted between the grandsire of Robin and that 
 renowned cateran. Some people even say that Robin 
 Oig derived his Christian name from one as renowned 
 in the wilds of Loch Lomond as ever was his namesake 
 Robin Hood, in the precincts of merry Sherwood. 
 
4 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 ' Of such ancestry,' as James Boswell says, * who 
 would not be proud ? ' Robin Oig was proud accord- 
 ingly ; but his frequent visits to England and to the 
 Lowlands had given him tact enough to know that 
 pretensions, which still gave him a little right to 
 distinction in his own lonely glen, might be both 
 obnoxious and ridiculous if preferred elsewhere. The 
 pride of birth, therefore, was like the miser's treasure, 
 the secret subject of his contemplation, but never 
 exhibited to strangers as a subject of boasting. 
 
 Many were the words of gratulation and good luck 
 which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The judges com- 
 mended his drove, especially Robin's own property, 
 which were the best of them. Some thrust out their 
 snuff-mulls for the parting pinch others tendered the 
 doch-an-dorrach, or parting cup. All cried ' Good luck 
 travel out with you and come home with you. Give 
 you luck in the Saxon market brave notes in the 
 leabhar-dhu' (black pocket-book), ' and plenty of English 
 gold in the sporran ' (pouch of goatskin). 
 
 The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, 
 and more than one, it was said, would have given her 
 best brooch to be certain that it was upon her that 
 his eye last rested as he turned towards the road. 
 
 Robin Oig had just given the preliminary ' Hoo- 
 hoo / ' to urge forward the loiterers of the drove, 
 when there was a cry behind him. 
 
 ' Stay, Robin bide a blink. Here is Janet of 
 Tomahourich auld Janet, your father's sister.' 
 
 ' Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and 
 spaewife,' said a farmer from the Carse of Stirling ; 
 ' she'll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle.' 
 
 ' She canna do that,' said another sapient of the 
 same profession ' Robin Oig is no the lad to leave 
 any of them, without tying St. Mungo's knot on their 
 tails, and that will put to her speed the best witch that 
 ever flew over Dimayet upon a broomstick.' 
 
 It may not be indifferent to the reader to know, that 
 the Highland cattle are peculiarly liable to be taken, 
 or infected, by spells and witchcraft ; which judicious 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 5 
 
 people guard against by knitting knots of peculiar 
 complexity on the tuft of hair which terminates the 
 animal's tail. 
 
 But the old woman who was the object of the farmer's 
 suspicion, seemed only busied about the drover, with- 
 out paying any attention to the drove. Robin, on the 
 contrary, appeared rather impatient of her presence. 
 
 ' What auld-world fancy,' he said, ' has brought you 
 so early from the ingle-side this morning, Muhme ? 
 I am sure I bid you good-even, and had your God- 
 speed, last night.' 
 
 ' And left me more siller than the useless old woman 
 will use till you come back again, bird of my bosom,' 
 said the sibyl. ' But it is little I would care for the 
 food that nourishes me, or the fire that warms me, or 
 for God's blessed sun itself, if aught but weel should 
 happen to the grandson of my father. So let me walk 
 the deasil round you, that you may go safe out into 
 the foreign land, and come safe home.' 
 
 Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, 
 and signing to those near that he only complied with 
 the old woman to soothe her humour. In the mean- 
 time, she traced around him, with wavering steps, 
 the propitiation, which some have thought has been 
 derived from the Druidical mythology. It consists, as 
 is well known, in the person who makes the deasil 
 walking three times round the person who is the 
 object of the ceremony, taking care to move according 
 to the course of the sun. At once, however, she 
 stopped short, and exclaimed, in a voice of alarm and 
 horror, ' Grandson of my father, there is blood on 
 your hand.' 
 
 ' Hush, for God's sake, aunt,' said Robin Oig ; 
 ' you will bring more trouble on yourself with this 
 taishataragh ' (second sight) ' than you will be able to 
 get out of for many a day.' 
 
 The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, 
 ' There is blood on your hand, and it is English blood. 
 The blood of the Gael is richer and redder. Let us 
 see let us' 
 
6 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, 
 could only have been done by positive violence, so 
 hasty and peremptory were her proceedings, she had 
 drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds 
 of his plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the 
 weapon gleamed clear and bright in the sun, ' Blood, 
 blood Saxon blood again. Robin Oig M'Combich, go 
 not this day to England ! ' 
 
 ' Prutt trutt,' answered Robin Oig, ' that will never 
 do neither it would be next thing to running the 
 country. For shame, Muhme give me the dirk. 
 You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt 
 the blood of a black bullock and a white one, and you 
 speak of knowing Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men 
 have their blood from Adam, Muhme. Give me my 
 skene-dhu, and let me go on my road. I should have 
 been half-way to Stirling Brig by this time. Give 
 me my dirk, and let me go.' 
 
 ' Never will I give it to you,' said the old woman 
 ' Never will I quit my hold on your plaid, unless you 
 promise me not to wear that unhappy weapon.' 
 
 The women around him urged him also, saying few 
 of his aunt's words fell to the ground ; and as the 
 Lowland farmers continued to look moodily on the 
 scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any sacrifice. 
 
 ' Well, then,' said the young drover, giving the 
 scabbard of the weapon to Hugh Morrison, * you 
 Lowlanders care nothing for these freats. Keep my 
 dirk for me. I cannot give it to you, because it was 
 my father's ; but your drove follows ours, and I am 
 content it should be in your keeping, not in mine. 
 Will this do, Muhme ? ' ' 
 
 ' It must,' said the old woman ' that is, if the 
 Lowlander is mad enough to carry the knife.' 
 
 The strong westlandman laughed aloud. 
 
 ' Goodwife,' said he, ' I am Hugh Morrison from 
 Glenae, come of the Manly Morrisons of auld langsyne, 
 that never took short weapon against a man in their 
 lives. And neither needed they. They had their 
 broadswords, and I have this bit supple,' showing 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 7 
 
 a formidable cudgel ' for dirking ower the board, 
 I leave that to John Highlandman Ye needna snort, 
 none of you Highlanders, and you in especial, Robin. 
 I'll keep the bit knife, if you are feared for the auld 
 spae wife's tale, and give it back to you whenever you 
 want it.' 
 
 Robin was not particularly pleased with some part 
 of Hugh Morrison's speech ; but he had learned in his 
 travels more patience than belonged to his Highland 
 constitution originally, and he accepted the service 
 of the descendant of the Manly Morrisons without 
 finding fault with the rather depreciating manner in 
 which it was offered. 
 
 ' If he had not had his morning in his head, and 
 been but a Dumfriesshire hog into the boot, he would 
 have spoken more like a gentleman. But you cannot 
 have more of a sow than a grumph. It 's shame my 
 father's knife should ever slash a haggis for the like 
 of him.' 
 
 Thus saying (but saying it in Gaelic), Robin drove 
 on his cattle, and waved farewell to all behind him. 
 He was in the greater haste, because he expected to 
 join at Falkirk a comrade and brother in profession, 
 with whom he proposed to travel in company. 
 
 Robin Oig's chosen friend was a young Englishman, 
 Harry Wakefield by name, well known at every 
 northern market, and in his way as much famed and 
 honoured as our Highland driver of bullocks. He was 
 nearly six feet high, gallantly formed to keep the 
 rounds at Smithfield, or maintain the ring at a wrestling 
 match ; and although he might have been overmatched, 
 perhaps, among the regular professors of the Fancy, 
 yet, as a yokel, or rustic, or a chance customer, he was 
 able to give a bellyful to any amateur of the pugilistic 
 art. Doncaster races saw him in his glory, betting 
 his guinea, and generally successfully ; nor was there 
 a main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons 
 of celebrity, at which he was not to be seen, if business 
 permitted. But though a sprack lad, and fond of 
 pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield was steady, 
 
8 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 and not the cautious Robin Oig M'Combich himself 
 was more attentive to the main chance. His holidays 
 were holidays indeed ; but his days of work were 
 dedicated to steady and persevering labour. In coun- 
 tenance and temper, Wakefield was the model of 
 old England's merry yeomen, whose clothyard shafts, 
 in so many hundred battles, asserted her superiority 
 over the nations, and whose good sabres, in our own 
 time, are her cheapest and most assured defence. His 
 mirth was readily excited ; for, strong in limb and 
 constitution, and fortunate in circumstances, he was 
 disposed to be pleased with everything about him; 
 and such difficulties as he might occasionally encounter 
 were, to a man of his energy, rather matter of amuse- 
 ment than serious annoyance. With all the merits of 
 a sanguine temper, our young English drover was not 
 without his defects. He was irascible, sometimes to 
 the verge of being quarrelsome ; and perhaps not the 
 less inclined to bring his disputes to a pugilistic decision, 
 because he found few antagonists able to stand up to 
 him in the boxing ring. 
 
 It is difficult to say how Harry Wakefield and Robin 
 Oig first became intimates ; but it is certain a close 
 acquaintance had taken place betwixt them, although 
 they had apparently few common subjects of con- 
 versation or of interest, so soon as their talk ceased to 
 be of bullocks. Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English 
 language rather imperfectly upon any other topics 
 but stots and kyloes, and Harry Wakefield could 
 never bring his broad Yorkshire tongue to utter 
 a single word of Gaelic. It was in vain Robin spent 
 a whole morning, during a walk over Minch Moor, in 
 attempting to teach his companion to utter, with true 
 precision, the shibboleth Llhu, which is the Gaelic for 
 a calf. From Traquair to Murder- cairn, the hill rang 
 with the discordant attempts of the Saxon upon the 
 unmanageable monosyllable, and the heartfelt laugh 
 which followed every failure. They had, however, 
 better modes of awakening the echoes ; for Wakefield 
 could sing many a ditty to the praise of Moll, Susan, 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 9 
 
 and Cicely, and Robin Oig had a particular gift at 
 whistling interminable pibrochs through all their invo- 
 lutions, and what was more agreeable to his com- 
 panion's southern ear, knew many of the northern airs, 
 both lively and pathetic, to which Wakefield learned to 
 pipe a bass. This, though Robin could hardly have 
 comprehended his companion's stories about horse- 
 racing, and cock-fighting or fox-hunting, and although 
 his own legends of clan-fights and creaghs, varied with 
 talk of Highland goblins and fairy folk, would have 
 been caviare to his companion, they contrived never- 
 theless to find a degree of pleasure in each other's 
 company, which had for three years back induced 
 them to join company and travel together, when the 
 direction of their journey permitted. Each, indeed, 
 found his advantage in this companionship ; for where 
 could the Englishman have found a guide through the 
 Western Highlands like Robin Oig M'Combich ? and 
 when they were on what Harry called the right side of 
 the Border, his patronage, which was extensive, and 
 his purse, which was heavy, were at all times at the 
 service of his Highland friend, and on many occasions 
 his liberality did him genuine yeoman's service. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Were ever two such loving friends ! 
 
 How could they disagree ? 
 Oh thus it was, he loved him dear, 
 
 And thought how to requite him, 
 And having no friend left but he, 
 
 He did resolve to fight him. 
 
 Duke upon Duke. 
 
 THE pair of friends had traversed with their usual 
 cordiality the grassy wilds of Liddesdale, and crossed 
 the opposite part of Cumberland, emphatically called 
 The Waste. In these solitary regions, the cattle under 
 the charge of our drovers derived their subsistence 
 chiefly by picking their food as they went along the 
 B 3 
 
10 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 drove-road, or sometimes by the tempting opportunity 
 of a start and owerloup, or invasion of the neighbouring 
 pasture, where an occasion presented itself. But now 
 the scene changed before them ; they were descending 
 towards a fertile and enclosed country, where no such 
 liberties could be taken with impunity, or without 
 a previous arrangement and bargain with the possessors 
 of the ground. This was more especially the case, as 
 a great northern fair was upon the eve of taking place, 
 where both the Scotch and English drover expected 
 to dispose of a part of their cattle, which it was desir- 
 able to produce in the market, rested and in good 
 order. Fields were therefore difficult to be obtained, 
 and only upon high terms. This necessity occasioned 
 a temporary separation betwixt the two friends, who 
 went to bargain, each as he could, for the separate 
 accommodation of his herd. Unhappily it chanced 
 that both of them, unknown to each other, thought 
 of bargaining for the ground they wanted on the 
 property of a country gentleman of some fortune, whose 
 estate lay in the neighbourhood. The English drover 
 applied to the bailiff on the property, who was known 
 to him. It chanced that the Cumbrian squire, who 
 had entertained some suspicions of his manager's 
 honesty, was taking occasional measures to ascertain 
 how far they were well founded, and had desired that 
 any inquiries about his enclosures, with a view to 
 occupy them for a temporary purpose, should be 
 referred to himself. As, however, Mr. Ireby had gone 
 the day before upon a journey of some miles' distance 
 to the northward, the bailiff chose to consider the check 
 upon his full powers as for the time removed, and 
 concluded that he should best consult his master's 
 interest, and perhaps his own, in making an agreement 
 with Harry Wakefield. Meanwhile, ignorant of what 
 his comrade was doing, Robin Oig, on his side, chanced 
 to be overtaken by a good-looking smart little man 
 upon a pony, most knowingly hogged and cropped, 
 as was then the fashion, the rider wearing tight leather 
 breeches and long-necked bright spurs. This cavalier 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 11 
 
 asked one or two pertinent questions about markets 
 and the price of stock. So Robin, seeing him a well- 
 judging civil gentleman, took the freedom to ask him 
 whether he could let him know if there was any grass- 
 land to be let in that neighbourhood, for the temporary 
 accommodation of his drove. He could not have put 
 the question to more willing ears. The gentleman of 
 the buckskin was the proprietor with whose bailiff 
 Harry Wakefield had dealt or was in the act of dealing. 
 
 ' Thou art in good luck, my canny Scot,' said Mr. 
 Ireby, ' to have spoken to me, for I see thy cattle have 
 done their day's work, and I have at my disposal the 
 only field within three miles that is to be let in these 
 parts.' 
 
 ' The drove can pe gang two, three, four miles very 
 pratty weel indeed,' said the cautious Highlander; 
 ' put what would his honour be axing for the peasts 
 pe the head, if she was to tak the park for twa or 
 three days ? ' 
 
 ' We won't differ, Sawney, if you let me have six 
 stots for winterers, in the way of reason.' 
 
 ' And which peasts wad your honour pe for having ? ' 
 
 ' Why let me see the two black the dun one 
 yon doddy him with the twisted horn the brocket 
 How much by the head ? ' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Robin, ' your honour is a shudge a real 
 shudge I couldna have set off the pest six peasts 
 petter mysell, me that ken them as if they were my 
 pairns, puir things.' 
 
 ' Well, how much per head, Sawney ? ' continued 
 Mr. Ireby. 
 
 ' It was high markets at Doune and Falkirk,' 
 answered Robin. 
 
 And thus the conversation proceeded, until they had 
 agreed on the prix juste for the bullocks, the squire 
 throwing in the temporary accommodation of the 
 enclosure for the cattle into the boot, and Robin 
 making, as he thought, a very good bargain, provided 
 the grass was but tolerable. The squire walked his 
 pony alongside of the drove, partly to show him the 
 
12 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 way, and see him put into possession of the field, 
 and partly to learn the latest news of the northern 
 markets. 
 
 They arrived at the field, and the pasture seemed 
 excellent. But what was their surprise when they saw 
 the bailiff quietly inducting the cattle of Harry Wake- 
 field into the grassy Goshen which had just been 
 assigned to those of Robin Oig M'Combich by the 
 proprietor himself ! Squire Ireby set spurs to his 
 horse, dashed up to his servant, and learning what 
 had passed between the parties, briefly informed the 
 English drover that his bailiff had let the ground 
 without his authority, and that he might seek grass 
 for his cattle wherever he would, since he was to get 
 none there. At the same time he rebuked his servant 
 severely for having transgressed his commands, and 
 ordered him instantly to assist in ejecting the hungry 
 and weary cattle of Harry Wakefield, which were just 
 beginning to enjoy a meal of unusual plenty, and to 
 introduce those of his comrade, whom the English 
 drover now began to consider as a rival. 
 
 The feelings which arose in Wakefield' s mind would 
 have induced him to resist Mr. Ireby' s decision ; but 
 "every Englishman has a tolerably accurate sense of 
 law and justice, and John Fleecebumpkin, the bailiff, 
 having acknowledged that he had exceeded his com- 
 mission, Wakefield saw nothing else for it than to 
 collect his hungry and disappointed charge, and drive 
 them on to seek quarters elsewhere. Robin Oig saw 
 what had happened with regret, and hastened to offer 
 to his English friend to share with him the disputed 
 possession. But Wakefield's pride was severely hurt, 
 and he answered disdainfully, ' Take it all, man 
 take it all never make two bites of a cherry thou 
 canst talk over the gentry, and blear a plain man's 
 eye Out upon you, man I would not kiss any man's 
 dirty latchets for leave to bake in his oven.' 
 
 Robin Oig, sorry but not surprised at his comrade's 
 displeasure, hastened to entreat his friend to wait but 
 an hour till he had gone to the squire's house to receive 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 13 
 
 payment for the cattle he had sold, and he would come 
 back and help him to drive the cattle into some con- 
 venient place of rest, and explain to him the whole 
 mistake they had both of them fallen into. But the 
 Englishman continued indignant : * Thou hast been 
 selling, hast thou ? Aye, aye, thou is a cunning lad 
 for kenning the hours of bargaining. Go to the devil 
 with thyself, for I will ne'er see thy fause loon's visage 
 again thou should be ashamed to look me in the 
 face.' 
 
 ' I am ashamed to look no man in the face,' said 
 Robin Oig, something moved ; ' and, moreover, I will 
 look you in the face this blessed day, if you will bide 
 at the clachan down yonder.' 
 
 ' Mayhap you had as well keep away,' said his 
 comrade ; and turning his back on his former friend, 
 he collected his unwilling associates, assisted by the 
 bailiff, who took some real and some affected interest 
 in seeing Wakefield accommodated. 
 
 After spending some time in negotiating with more 
 than one of the neighbouring farmers, who could 
 not, or would not, afford the accommodation desired, 
 Henry Wakefield at last, and in his necessity, accom- 
 plished his point by means of the landlord of the 
 ale-house at which Robin Oig and he had agreed to 
 pass the night, when they first separated from each 
 other. Mine host was content to let him turn his 
 cattle on a piece of barren moor, at a price little less 
 than the bailiff had asked for the disputed enclosure ; 
 and the wretchedness of the pasture, as well as the 
 price paid for it, were set down as exaggerations of 
 the breach of faith and friendship of his Scottish crony. 
 This turn of Wakefield' s passions was encouraged by 
 the bailiff (who had his own reasons for being offended 
 against poor Robin, as having been the unwitting 
 cause of his falling into disgrace with his master), as 
 well as by the innkeeper, and two or three chance 
 guests, who stimulated the drover in his resentment 
 against his quondam associate, some from the 
 ancient grudge against the Scots which, when it 
 
14 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 exists anywhere, Is to be found lurking in the Border 
 counties, and some from the general love of mischief, 
 which characterizes mankind in all ranks of life, to the 
 honour of Adam's children be it spoken. Good John 
 Barleycorn also, who always heightens and exaggerates 
 the prevailing passions, be they angry or kindly, was 
 not wanting in his offices on this occasion ; and con- 
 fusion to false friends and hard masters was pledged 
 in more than one tankard. 
 
 In the meanwhile Mr. Ireby found some amusement 
 in detaining the northern drover at his ancient hall. 
 He caused a cold round of beef to be placed before the 
 Scot in the butler's pantry, together with a foaming 
 tankard of home-brewed, and took pleasure in seeing 
 the hearty appetite with which these unwonted edibles 
 were discussed by Robin Oig M'Combich. The squire 
 himself lighting his pipe, compounded between his 
 patrician dignity and his love of agricultural gossip, 
 by walking up and down while he conversed with his 
 guest. 
 
 ' I passed another drove,' said the squire, ' with one 
 of your countrymen behind them they were some- 
 thing less beasts than your drove, doddies most of 
 them a big man was with them none of your kilts 
 though, but a decent pair of breeches D'ye know who 
 he may be ? ' 
 
 ' Hout aye that might, could, and would be Hughie 
 Morrison I didna think he could hae peen sae weel 
 up. He has made a day on us ; but his Argyleshires 
 will have wearied shanks. How far was he pehind ? ' 
 
 ' I think about six or seven miles,' answered the 
 squire, ' for I passed them at the Christenbury Crag, 
 and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush. If his beasts 
 be leg-weary, he will be maybe selling bargains.' 
 
 ' Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for par- 
 gains ye maun come to some Highland body like 
 Robin Oig hersell for the like of these put I maun 
 pe wishing you goot night, and twenty of them let 
 alane ane, and I maun down to the Clachan to see if 
 the lad Harry Waakfelt is out of his humdudgeons yet.' 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 15 
 
 The party at the ale-house were still in full talk, 
 and the treachery of Robin Oig still the theme of 
 conversation, when the supposed culprit entered the 
 apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in such 
 a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which 
 he had furnished the subject, and he was received by 
 the company assembled with that chilling silence which, 
 more than a thousand exclamations, tells an intruder 
 that he is unwelcome. Surprised and offended, but 
 not appalled by the reception which he experienced, 
 Robin entered with an undaunted and even a haughty 
 air. attempted no greeting as he saw he was received 
 with none, and placed himself by the side of the fire, 
 a little apart from a table at which Harry Wakefield, 
 the bailiff, and two or three other persons, were seated. 
 The ample Cumbrian kitchen would have afforded 
 plenty of room, even for a larger separation. 
 
 Robin, thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and 
 call for a pint of twopenny. 
 
 * We have no twopence ale,' answered Ralph Heskett, 
 the landlord ; ' but as thou find'st thy own tobacco, 
 it's like thou may'st find thy own liquor too it's 
 the wont of thy country, I wot.' 
 
 ' Shame, goodman,' said the landlady, a blithe 
 bustling house-wife, hastening herself to supply the 
 guest with liquor ' Thou knowest well enow what 
 the strange man wants, and it's thy trade to be civil, 
 man. Thou shouldst know, that if the Scot likes 
 a small pot, he pays a sure penny.' 
 
 Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, 
 the Highlander took the flagon in his hand, and 
 addressing the company generally, drank the interest- 
 ing toast of ' Good markets', to the party assembled. 
 
 * The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from 
 the north,' said one of the farmers, * and fewer High- 
 land runts to eat up the English meadows.' 
 
 ' Saul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my 
 friend,' answered Robin, with composure ; ' it is your 
 fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots cattle, puir 
 things.' 
 
16 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 ' I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers, 
 said another ; ' a plain Englishman canna make bread 
 within a kenning of them.' 
 
 ' Or an honest servant keep his master's favour, but 
 they will come sliding in between him and the sun- 
 shine,' said the bailiff. 
 
 ' If these pe jokes,' said Robin Oig, with the same 
 composure, ' there is ower mony jokes upon one man.' 
 
 ' It is no joke, but downright earnest,' said the 
 bailiff. ' Harkye, Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your 
 name, it's right we should tell you that we are all of 
 one opinion, and that is, that you, Mr. Robin Ogg, have 
 behaved to our friend Mr. Harry Wakefield here, like 
 a raff and a blackguard.' 
 
 ' Nae doubt, nae doubt,' answered Robin, with great 
 composure ; ' and you are a set of very pretty judges, 
 for whose prains or pehaviour I wad not gie a pinch 
 of sneeshing. If Mr. Harry Waakfelt kens where he 
 is wranged, he kens where he may be righted.' 
 
 ' He speaks truth,' said Wakefield, who had listened 
 to what passed, divided between the offence which he 
 had taken at Robin's late behaviour, and the revival 
 of his habitual feelings of regard. 
 
 He now arose, and went towards Robin, who got up 
 from his seat as he approached, and held out his hand. 
 
 ' That's right, Harry go it serve him out,' re- 
 sounded on all sides ' tip him the nailer show him 
 the mill.' 
 
 ' Hold your peace all of you, and bo ,' said 
 Wakefield ; and then addressing his comrade, he took 
 him by the extended hand, with something alike of 
 respect and defiance. ' Robin,' he said, ' thou hast 
 used me ill enough this day ; but if you mean, like 
 a frank fellow, to shake hands, and make a tussle for 
 love on the sod, why I'll forgie thee, man,, and we 
 shall be better friends than ever.' 
 
 ' And would it not pe petter to pe cood friends 
 without more of the matter ? ' said Robin ; ' we will 
 be much petter friendships with our panes hale than 
 proken.' 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 17 
 
 Harry Wakefield dropped the hand of his friend, or 
 rather threw it from him. 
 
 * I did not think I had been keeping company for 
 three years with a coward.' 
 
 ' Coward pelongs to none of my name,' said Robin, 
 whose eyes began to kindle, but keeping the com- 
 mand of his temper. * It was no coward's legs or 
 hands, Harry Waakfelt, that drew you out of the 
 fords of Frew, when you was drifting ower the plack 
 rock, and every eel in the river expected his share 
 of you.' 
 
 ' And that is true enough, too,' said the Englishman, 
 struck by the appeal. 
 
 ' Adzooks ! ' exclaimed the bailiff ' sure Harry 
 Waketield, the nattiest lad at Whitson Tryste, Wooler 
 Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank, is not going 
 to show white feather ? Ah, this comes of living so 
 long with kilts and bonnets men forget the use of 
 their daddies.' 
 
 ' I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that 
 I have not lost the use of mine,' said Wakefield, and 
 then went on. ' This will never do, Robin. We must 
 have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk of the country- 
 side. I'll be d d if I hurt thee I'll put on the 
 
 gloves gin thou like. Come, stand forward like a 
 man.' 
 
 ' To pe peaten like a dog,' said Robin ; ' is there 
 any reason in that ? If you think I have done you 
 wrong, I'll go before your shudge, though I neither 
 know his law nor his language.' 
 
 A general cry of ' No, no no law, no lawyer ! 
 a bellyful and be friends,' was echoed by the by- 
 standers. 
 
 ' But,' continued Robin, ' if I am to fight, I've no 
 skill to fight like a jackanapes, with hands and nails.' 
 
 * How would you fight, then ? ' said his antagonist ; 
 ' though I am thinking it would be hard to bring you 
 to the scratch anyhow.' 
 
 ' I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on 
 the first plood drawn like a gentlemans.' 
 
18 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, 
 which indeed had rather escaped from poor Robin's 
 swelling heart, than been the dictate of his sober 
 judgement. 
 
 ' Gentleman, quotha ! ' was echoed on all sides, with 
 a shout of unextinguishable laughter ; ' a very pretty 
 gentleman, God wot Canst get two swords for the 
 gentlemen to fight with, Ralph Heskett ? ' 
 
 ' No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and 
 lend them two forks, to be making shift with in the 
 meantime.' 
 
 ' Tush, man,' said another, ' the bonny Scots come 
 into the world with the blue bonnet on their heads, 
 and dirk and pistol at their belt.' 
 
 ' Best send post,' said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, ' to the 
 squire of Corby Castle, to come and stand second to 
 the gentleman.' 
 
 In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the 
 Highlander instinctively griped beneath the folds of 
 his plaid. 
 
 ' But it 's better not,' he said in his own language. 
 ' A hundred curses on the swine-eaters, who know 
 neither decency nor civility ! ' 
 
 ' Make room, the pack of you,' he said, advancing 
 to the door. 
 
 But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, 
 and opposed his leaving the house ; and when Robin 
 Oig attempted to make his way by force, he hit him 
 down on the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls 
 down a nine-pin. 
 
 ' A ring, a ring ! ' was now shouted, until the dark 
 rafters, and the hams that hung on them, trembled 
 again, and the very platters on the bink clattered 
 against each other. ' Well done, Harry,' ' Give it 
 him home, Harry,' ' Take care of him now, he sees 
 his own blood ! ' 
 
 Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, 
 starting from the ground, all his coldness and caution 
 lost in frantic rage, sprang at his antagonist with the 
 fury, the activity, and the vindictive purpose, of an 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 19 
 
 incensed tiger-cat. But when could rage encounter 
 science and temper ? Robin Oig again went down in 
 the unequal contest ; and as the blow was necessarily 
 a severe one, he lay motionless on the floor of the 
 kitchen. The landlady ran to offer some aid, but 
 Mr. Fleecebumpkin would not permit her to approach. 
 
 ' Let him alone,' he said, ' he will come to within 
 time, and come up to the scratch again. He has not 
 got half his broth yet.' 
 
 ' He has got all I mean to give him, though,' said 
 his antagonist, whose heart began to relent towards 
 his old associate ; ' and I would rather by half give 
 the rest to yourself, Mr. Fleecebumpkin, for you 
 pretend to know a thing or two, and Robin had not 
 art enough even to peel before setting to, but fought 
 with his plaid dangling about him. Stand up, Robin, 
 my man ! all friends now ; and let me hear the man 
 that will speak a word against you, or your country, 
 for your sake.' 
 
 Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his 
 passion, and eager to renew the onset ; but being 
 withheld on the one side by the peace- making Dame 
 Heskett, and on the other, aware that Wakefield no 
 longer meant to renew the combat, his fury sank into 
 gloomy sullenness. 
 
 ' Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man,' 
 said the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability 
 of his country, * shake hands, and we will be better 
 friends than ever.' 
 
 ' Friends ! ' exclaimed Robin Oig, with strong 
 emphasis ' friends ! Never. Look to yourself, Harry 
 Waakfelt.' 
 
 ' Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots 
 stomach, as the man says in the play, and you may 
 
 do your worst, and be d d ; for one man can say 
 
 nothing more to another after a tussle, than that he 
 is sorry for it.' 
 
 On these terms the friends parted ; Robin Oig drew 
 out, in silence, a piece of money, threw it on the table, 
 and then left the ale-house. But turning at the door, 
 
20 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 he shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his 
 forefinger upwards, in a manner which might imply 
 either a threat or a caution. He then disappeared in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 Some words passed after his departure, between 
 the bailiff, who piqued himself on being a little of a 
 bully, and Harry Wakefield, who, with generous incon- 
 sistency, was now not indisposed to begin a new combat 
 in defence of Robin Oig's reputation, ' although he 
 could not use his daddies like an Englishman, as it did 
 not come natural to him.' But Dame Heskett pre- 
 vented this second quarrel from coming to a head by 
 her peremptory interference. ' There should be no 
 more fighting in her house,' she said ; ' there had 
 been too much already. And you, Mr. Wakefield, 
 may live to learn,' she added, ' what it is to make 
 a deadly enemy out of a good friend.' 
 
 ' Pshaw, dame ! Robin Oig is an honest fellow, and 
 will never keep malice.' 
 
 ' Do not trust to that you do not know the dour 
 temper of the Scots, though you have dealt with them 
 so often. I have a right to know them, my mother 
 being a Scot.' 
 
 ' And so is well seen on her daughter,' said Ralph 
 Heskett. 
 
 This nuptial sarcasm gave the discourse another 
 turn ; fresh customers entered the tap-room or kitchen, 
 and others left it. The conversation turned on the 
 expected markets, and the report of prices from 
 different parts both of Scotland and England treaties 
 were commenced, and Harry Wakefield was lucky 
 enough to find a chap for a part of his drove, and at 
 a very considerable profit; an event of consequence 
 more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of 
 the unpleasant scuffle in the earlier part of the day. 
 But there remained one party from whose mind that 
 recollection could not have been wiped away by the 
 possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and 
 Eden. 
 
 This was Robin Oig M'Combich. ' That I should 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 21 
 
 have had no weapon,' he said, ' and for the first time 
 in my life ! Blighted be the tongue that bids the 
 Highlander part with the dirk the dirk ha ! the 
 English blood ! My Muhme's word when did her 
 word fall to the ground ? ' 
 
 The recollection of the fatal prophecy confirmed the 
 deadly intention which instantly sprang up in his mind. 
 
 ' Ha ! Morrison cannot be many miles behind ; and 
 if it were a hundred, what then ? ' 
 
 His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and 
 motive of action, and he turned the light foot of his 
 country towards the wilds, through which he knew, 
 by Mr. Ireby's report, that Morrison was advancing. 
 His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury 
 injury sustained from a friend ; and by the desire 
 of vengeance on one whom he now accounted his most 
 bitter enemy. The treasured ideas of self-importance 
 and self -opinion of ideal birth and quality, had 
 become more precious to him, like the hoard to the 
 miser, because he could only enjoy them in secret. 
 But that hoard was pillaged, the idols which he had 
 secretly worshipped had been desecrated and profaned. 
 Insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, 
 in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage 
 which he belonged to nothing was left to him 
 nothing but revenge ; and, as the reflection added 
 a galling spur to every step, he determined it should 
 be as sudden and signal as the offence. 
 
 When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, 
 seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt 
 Morrison and him. The advance of the former was 
 slow, limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle ; the 
 last left behind him stubble-field and hedge-row, crag 
 and dark heath, all glittering with frost-rime in the 
 broad November moonlight, at the rate of six miles 
 an hour. And now the distant lowing of Morrison's 
 cattle is heard ; and now they are seen creeping like 
 moles in size and slowness of motion on the broad face 
 of the moor ; and now he meets them passes them, 
 and stops their conductor. 
 
22 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 * May good betide us,' said the Southlander ' Is 
 this you, Robin M'Combich, or your wraith ? ' 
 
 ' It is Robin Oig M'Combich,' answered the High- 
 lander, ' and it is not. But never mind that, put pe 
 giving me the skene-dhu.' 
 
 ' What ! you are for back to the Highlands The 
 devil ! Have you selt all off before the fair ? This 
 beats all for quick markets ! ' 
 
 ' I have not sold I am not going north May pe 
 I will never go north again. Give me pack my dirk, 
 Hugh Morrison, or there will pe words petween us.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Robin, I'll be better advised before I gie 
 it back to you it is a wanchancy weapon in a High- 
 landman's hand, and I am thinking you will be about 
 some barns-breaking.' 
 
 ' Prutt, trutt ! let me have my weapon,' said Robin 
 Oig, impatiently. 
 
 ' Hooly, and fairly,' said his well-meaning friend. 
 ' I'll tell you what will do better than these dirking 
 doings Ye ken Highlander, and Lowlander, and 
 Border- men, are a' ae man's bairns when you are over 
 the Scots dyke. See, the Eskdale callants, and fighting 
 Charlie of Liddesdale, and the Lockerby lads, and the 
 four Dandies of Lustruther, and a wheen mair grey 
 plaids, are coming up behind, and if you are wranged, 
 there is the hand of a Manly Morrison, we'll see you 
 righted, if Carlisle and Stanwix baith took up the 
 feud.' 
 
 * To tell you the truth,' said Robin Oig, desirous of 
 eluding the suspicions of his friend, ' I have enlisted 
 with a party of the Black Watch, and must march off 
 to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Enlisted ! Were you mad or drunk ? You must 
 buy yourself off I can lend you twenty notes, and 
 twenty to that, if the drove sell.' 
 
 ' I thank you thank ye, Hughie ; but I go with 
 good will the gate that I am going, so the dirk the 
 dirk ! ' 
 
 ' There it is for you then, since less wunna serve. 
 But think on what I was saying. Waes me, it will be 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 23 
 
 sair news in the braes of Balquidder, that Robin Oig 
 M'Combich should have run an ill gate, and ta'en on.' 
 
 ' 111 news in Balquidder, indeed ! ' echoed poor 
 Robin. * But Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you 
 good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig again, 
 either at tryste or fair.' 
 
 So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaint- 
 ance, and set out in the direction from which he had 
 advanced, with the spirit of his former pace. 
 
 ' There is something wrang with the lad,' muttered 
 the Morrison to himself, ' but we'll maybe see better 
 into it the morn's morning.' 
 
 But long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe 
 of our tale had taken place. It was two hours after 
 the affray had happened, and it was totally forgotten 
 by almost every one, when Robin Oig returned to 
 Heskett's inn. The place was filled at once by various 
 sorts of men, and with noises corresponding to their 
 character. There were the grave low sounds of men 
 engaged in busy traffic, with the laugh, the song, and 
 the riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to 
 enjoy themselves. Among the last was Harry Wake- 
 field, who, amidst a grinning group of smock-frocks, 
 hobnailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was 
 trolling forth the old ditty, 
 
 What though my name be Roger, 
 Who drives the plough and cart 
 
 when he was interrupted by a well-known voice 
 saying in a high and stern tone, marked by the sharp 
 Highland accent, ' Harry Waakfelt if you be a man, 
 stand up ! ' 
 
 ' What is the matter ? what is it ? ' the guests 
 demanded of each other. 
 
 ' It is only a d d Scotsman,' said Fleecebumpkin, 
 
 who was by this time very drunk, ' whom Harry 
 Wakefield helped to his broth the day, who is now 
 come to have his cauld kail het again.' 
 
 ; Harry Waakfelt,' repeated the same ominous 
 summons, ' stand up, if you be a man ! ' 
 
24 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 There is something in the tone of deep and con- 
 centrated passion, which attracts attention and 
 imposes awe, even by the very sound. The guests 
 shrank back on every side, and gazed at the High- 
 lander as he stood in the middle of them, his brows 
 bent, and his features rigid with resolution. 
 
 ' I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, 
 but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink 
 down all unkindness. It is not the fault of your heart, 
 man, that you don't know how to clench your hands.' 
 
 But this time he stood opposite to his antagonist; 
 his open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted 
 with the stern purpose, which gleamed wild, dark, and 
 vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander. 
 
 ' 'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck 
 to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight more than 
 a schoolgirl.' 
 
 * I can fight,' answered Robin Oig sternly, but 
 calmly, ' and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakf elt, 
 showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight I show 
 you now how the Highland Dunnie-wassel fights.' 
 
 He seconded the word with the action, and plunged 
 the dagger, which he suddenly displayed, into the 
 broad breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal 
 certainty and force, that the hilt made a hollow sound 
 against the breast-bone, and the double-edged point 
 split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield 
 fell and expired with a single groan. His assassin 
 next seized the bailiff by the collar, and offered the 
 bloody poniard to his throat, whilst dread and surprise 
 rendered the man incapable of defence. 
 
 ' It were very just to lay you beside him,' he said, 
 * but the blood of a base pickthank shall never mix 
 on my father's dirk with that of a brave man.' 
 
 As he spoke, he cast the man from him with so much 
 force that he fell on the floor, while Robin, with his 
 other hand, threw the fatal weapon into the blazing 
 turf-fire. 
 
 ' There,' he said, * take me who likes and let fire 
 cleanse blood if it can.' 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 25 
 
 The pause of astonishment still continuing, Robin 
 Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a constable having 
 stepped out, he surrendered himself to his custody. 
 
 ' A bloody night's work you have made of it,' said 
 the constable. 
 
 ' Your own fault,' said the Highlander. ' Had you 
 kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would have 
 been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes 
 since.' 
 
 ' It must be sorely answered,' said the peace-officer. 
 
 ' Never you mind that death pays all debts ; it 
 will pay that too.' 
 
 The horror of the bystanders began now to give way 
 to indignation ; and the sight of a favourite com- 
 panion murdered in the midst of them, the provocation 
 being, in their opinion, so utterly inadequate to the 
 excess of vengeance, might have induced them to kill 
 the perpetrator of the deed even upon the very spot. 
 The constable, however, did his duty on this occasion, 
 and with the assistance of some of the more reason- 
 able persons present, procured horses to guard the 
 prisoner to Carlisle, to abide his doom at the next 
 assizes. While the escort was preparing, the prisoner 
 neither expressed the least interest nor attempted the 
 slightest reply. Only, before he was carried from the 
 fatal apartment, he desired to look at the dead body, 
 which, raised from the floor, had been deposited upon 
 the large table (at the head of which Harry Wakefield 
 had presided but a few minutes before, full of life, 
 vigour, and animation) until the surgeons should 
 examine the mortal wound. The face of the corpse 
 was decently covered with a napkin. To the surprise 
 and horror of the bystanders, which displayed itself 
 in a general Ah f drawn through clenched teeth and 
 half-shut lips, Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed 
 with a mournful but steady eye on the lifeless visage, 
 which had been so lately animated, that the smile of 
 good-humoured confidence in his own strength, of 
 conciliation at once and contempt towards his enemy, 
 still curled his lip. While those present expected that 
 
26 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 the wound, which had so lately flooded the apartment 
 with gore, would send forth fresh streams at the touch 
 of the homicide, Robin Oig replaced the covering, with 
 the brief exclamation ' He was a pretty man ! ' 
 
 My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate High- 
 lander stood his trial at Carlisle. I was myself present, 
 and as a young Scottish lawyer, or barrister at least, 
 and reputed a man of some quality, the politeness of 
 the Sheriff of Cumberland offered me a place on the 
 bench. The facts of the case were proved in the 
 manner I have related them ; and whatever might be 
 at first the prejudice of the audience against a crime 
 so un-English as that of assassination from revenge, 
 yet when the rooted national prejudices of the prisoner 
 had been explained, which made him consider himself 
 as stained with indelible dishonour when subjected to 
 personal violence ; when his previous patience, modera- 
 tion, and endurance, were considered, the generosity 
 of the English audience was inclined to regard his 
 crime as the wayward aberration of a false idea of 
 honour rather than as flowing from a heart naturally 
 savage, or perverted by habitual vice. I shall never 
 forget the charge of the venerable judge to the jury, 
 although not at that time liable to be much affected 
 either by that which was eloquent or pathetic. 
 
 ' We have had,' he said, ' in the previous part of our 
 duty ' (alluding to some former trials) ' to discuss 
 crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they 
 call down the well-merited vengeance of the law. It 
 is now our still more melancholy task to apply its 
 salutary though severe enactments to a case of a very 
 singular character, in which the crime (for a crime it is, 
 and a deep one) arose less out of the malevolence of 
 the heart, than the error of the understanding less 
 from any idea of committing wrong, than from an 
 unhappily perverted notion of that which is right. 
 Here we have two men, highly esteemed, it has been 
 stated, in their rank of life, and attached, it seems, to 
 each other as friends, one of whose lives has been 
 already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is about 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 27 
 
 to prove the vengeance of the offended laws ; and yet 
 both may claim our commiseration at least, as men 
 acting in ignorance of each other's national preju- 
 dices, and unhappily misguided rather than voluntarily 
 erring from the path of right conduct. 
 
 ' In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we 
 must in justice give the right to the prisoner at the 
 bar. He had acquired possession of the enclosure, 
 which was the object of competition, by a legal con- 
 tract with the proprietor, Mr. Ireby ; and yet, when 
 accosted with reproaches undeserved in themselves, 
 and galling doubtless to a temper at least sufficiently 
 susceptible of passion, he offered notwithstanding to 
 yield up half his acquisition for the sake of peace and 
 good neighbourhood, and his amicable proposal was 
 rejected with scorn. Then follows the scene at Mr. Hes- 
 kett the publican's, and you will observe how the 
 stranger was treated by the deceased, and, I am sorry 
 to observe, by those around, who seem to have urged 
 him in a manner which was aggravating in the highest 
 degree. While he asked for peace and for composition, 
 and offered submission to a magistrate, or to a mutual 
 arbiter, the prisoner was insulted by a whole company, 
 who seem on this occasion to have forgotten the 
 national maxim of " fair play " ; and while attempting 
 to escape from the place in peace, he was intercepted, 
 struck down, and beaten to the effusion of his blood. 
 
 ' Gentlemen of the jury, it was with some impatience 
 that I heard my learned brother, who opened the case 
 for the crown, give an unfavourable turn to the prisoner's 
 conduct on this occasion. He said the prisoner was 
 afraid to encounter his antagonist in fair fight, or to 
 submit to the laws of the ring ; and that therefore, 
 like a cowardly Italian, he had recourse to his fatal 
 stiletto, to murder the man whom he dared not meet 
 in manly encounter. I observed the prisoner shrink 
 from this part of the accusation with the abhorrence 
 natural to a brave man ; and as I would wish to make 
 my words impressive when I point his real crime, 
 I must secure his opinion of my impartiality, by 
 
28 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 rebutting everything that seems to me a false accusa- 
 tion. There can be no doubt that the prisoner is a man 
 of resolution too much resolution I wish to Heaven 
 that he had less, or rather that he had had a better 
 education to regulate it. 
 
 * Gentlemen, as to the laws my brother talks of, 
 they may be known in the bull-ring, or the bear- 
 garden, or the cockpit, but they are not known here. 
 Or, if they should be so far admitted as furnishing 
 a species of proof that no malice was intended in this 
 sort of combat, from which fatal accidents do some- 
 times arise, it can only be so admitted when both 
 parties are in pari casu, equally acquainted with, and 
 equally willing to refer themselves to, that species of 
 arbitrement. But will it be contended that a man of 
 superior rank and education is to be subjected, or is 
 obliged to subject himself, to this coarse and brutal 
 strife, perhaps in opposition to a younger, stronger, 
 or more skilful opponent ? Certainly even the pugi- 
 listic code, if founded upon the fair play of Merry 
 Old England, as my brother alleges it to be, can con- 
 tain nothing so preposterous. And, gentlemen of the 
 jury, if the laws would support an English gentleman, 
 wearing, we will suppose, his sword, in defending him- 
 self by force against a violent personal aggression of 
 the nature offered to this prisoner, they will not less 
 protect a foreigner and a stranger, involved in the 
 same unpleasing circumstances. If, therefore, gentle- 
 men of the jury, when thus pressed by a vis major, 
 the object of obloquy to a whole company, and of 
 direct violence from one at least, and, as he might 
 reasonably apprehend, from more, the panel had 
 produced the weapon which his countrymen, as we 
 are informed, generally carry about their persons, 
 and the same unhappy circumstance had ensued 
 which you have heard detailed in evidence, I could not 
 in my conscience have asked from you a verdict 
 of murder. The prisoner's personal defence might, 
 indeed, even in that case, have gone more or less 
 beyond the Moderamen inculpatae tutelae, spoken of 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 29 
 
 by lawyers, but the punishment incurred would have 
 been that of manslaughter, not of murder. I beg 
 leave to add that I should have thought this milder 
 species of charge was demanded in the case supposed, 
 notwithstanding the statute of James I, cap. 8, which 
 takes the case of slaughter by stabbing with a short 
 weapon, even without malice prepense, out of the 
 benefit of clergy. For this statute of stabbing, as it 
 is termed, arose out of a temporary cause ; and as the 
 real guilt is the same, whether the slaughter be com- 
 mitted by the dagger, or by sword or pistol, the 
 benignity, of the modern law places them all on the 
 same, or nearly the same footing. 
 
 ' But, gentlemen of the jury, the pinch of the case 
 lies in the interval of two hours interposed betwixt the 
 reception of the injury and the fatal retaliation. In 
 the heat of affray and chaude melee, law, compassionat- 
 ing the infirmities of humanity, makes allowance for 
 the passions which rule such a stormy moment 
 for the sense of present pain, for the apprehension of 
 further injury, for the difficulty of ascertaining with 
 due accuracy the precise degree of violence which is 
 necessary to protect the person of the individual, 
 without annoying or injuring the assailant more than 
 is absolutely requisite. But the time necessary to 
 walk twelve miles, however speedily performed, was 
 an interval sufficient for the prisoner to have recollected 
 himself ; and the violence with which he carried his 
 purpose into effect, with so many circumstances of 
 deliberate determination, could neither be induced by 
 the passion of anger, nor that of fear. It was the 
 purpose and the act of predetermined revenge, for 
 which law neither can, will, nor ought to have sympathy 
 or allowance. 
 
 ' It is true, we may repeat to ourselves, in alleviation 
 of this poor man's unhappy action, that his case is 
 a very peculiar one. The country which he inhabits, 
 was, in the days of many now alive, inaccessible to 
 the laws, not only of England, which have not even 
 yet penetrated thither, but to those to which our 
 
30 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 neighbours of Scotland are subjected, and which must 
 be supposed to be, and no doubt actually are, founded 
 upon the general principles of justice and equity which 
 pervade every civilized country. Amongst their 
 mountains, as among the North American Indians, 
 the various tribes were wont to make war upon each 
 other, so that each man was obliged to go armed for 
 his own protection. These men, from the ideas which 
 they entertained of their own descent and of their own 
 consequence, regarded themselves as so many cavaliers 
 or men-at-arms, rather than as the peasantry of 
 a peaceful country. Those laws of the ring, as my 
 brother terms them, were unknown to the race of 
 warlike mountaineers ; that decision of quarrels by 
 no other weapons than those which nature has given 
 every man, must to them have seemed as vulgar and 
 as preposterous as to the noblesse of France. Revenge, 
 on the other hand, must have been as familiar to their 
 habits of society as to those of the Cherokees or 
 Mohawks. It is indeed, as described by Bacon, at 
 bottom a kind of wild untutored justice ; for the fear 
 of retaliation must withhold the hands of the oppressor 
 where there is no regular law to check daring violence. 
 But though all this may be granted, and though we 
 may allow that, such having been the case of the 
 Highlands in the days of the prisoner's fathers, many 
 of the opinions and sentiments must still continue to 
 influence the present generation, it cannot, and ought 
 not, even in this most painful case, to alter the adminis- 
 tration of the law, either in your hands, gentlemen of 
 the jury, or in mine. The first object of civilization is 
 to place the general protection of the law, equally 
 administered, in the room of that wild justice, which 
 every man cut and carved for himself, according to 
 the length of his sword and the strength of his arm. 
 The law says to the subjects, with a voice only inferior 
 to that of the Deity, " Vengeance is mine." The 
 instant that there is time for passion to cool, and 
 reason to interpose, an injured party must become 
 aware that the law assumes the exclusive cognizance 
 
THE TWO DROVERS 31 
 
 of the right and wrong betwixt the parties, and opposes 
 her inviolable buckler to every attempt of the private 
 party to right himself. I repeat, that this unhappy 
 man ought personally to be the object rather of our 
 pity than our abhorrence, for he failed in his ignorance, 
 and from mistaken notions of honour. But his crime 
 is not the less that of murder, gentlemen, and, in your 
 high and important office, it is your duty so to find. 
 Englishmen have their angry passions as well as 
 Scots ; and should this man's action remained un- 
 punished, you may unsheath, under various pretences, 
 a thousand daggers betwixt the Land's -end and the 
 Orkneys.' 
 
 The venerable judge thus ended what, to judge by 
 his apparent emotion, and by the tears which filled 
 his eyes, was really a painful task. The jury, according 
 to his instructions, brought in a verdict of Guilty; 
 and Robin Oig M'Combich, alias M'Gregor, was sen- 
 tenced to death and left for execution, which took 
 place accordingly. He met his fate with great firmness, 
 and acknowledged the justice of his sentence. But he 
 repelled indignantly the observations of those who 
 accused him of attacking an unarmed man. ' I give 
 a life for the life I took,' he said, ' and what can 
 I do more ? ' 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 
 
 (From Redgauntlet} 
 
 YE maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet of 
 that Ilk, who lived in these parts before the dear years. 
 The country will lang mind him ; and our fathers 
 used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him 
 named. He was out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose's 
 time ; and again he was in the hills wi' Glencairn in 
 the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when 
 King Charles the Second came in, wha was in sic 
 favour as the Laird of Redgauntlet ? He was knighted 
 at Lonon court, wi' the king's ain sword ; and being 
 
32 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 a redhot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging 
 like a lion, with commissions of lieutenancy (and of 
 lunacy, for what I ken) to put down a' the Whigs and 
 Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they made of 
 it ; for the Whigs were as &QW as the Cavaliers were 
 fierce, and it was which should first tire the other. 
 Redgauntlet was ay for the strong hand ; and his 
 name is kend as wide in the country as Claverhouse's 
 or Tarn Dalyell's. Glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, 
 nor cave, could hide the puir hill-folk when Redgauntlet 
 was out with bugle and bloodhound after them, as if 
 they had been sae mony deer. And troth when they 
 fand them, they didna mak muckle mair ceremony 
 than a Hielandman wi' a roebuck it was just, * Will 
 ye tak the test ? ' if not, ' Make ready present 
 fire ! ' and there lay the recusajjjk. 
 
 Far and wide was Sir "Robert hated and feared. 
 Men thought he had a direct compact with Satan 
 that he was proof against steel and that bullets 
 happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth 
 that he had a mear that would turn a hare on the 
 side of Carrif ra-gawns l and muckle to the same pur- 
 pose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing they wared 
 on him was, ' Deil scowp wi' Redgauntlet ! ' He wasna 
 a bad master to his ain folk, though, and was weel 
 aneugh liked by his tenants ; and as for the lackies 
 and troopers that raid out wi' him to the persecutions, 
 as the Whigs caa'd those killing times, they wad hae 
 drunken themsells blind to his health at ony time. 
 
 Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on 
 Redgauntlet' s grand they ca' the place Primrose 
 Knowe. We had lived on the grand, and under the 
 Redgauntlets, since the riding days, and lang before. 
 It was a pleasant bit ; and I think the air is callerer 
 and fresher there than onywhere else in the country. 
 It 's a' deserted now ; and I sat on the broken door- 
 cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see the 
 plight the place was in; but that's a' wide o' the 
 
 1 A precipitous side of a mountain in MoSatdale. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 33 
 
 mark. There dwelt my gudesire, Steenie Steenson, 
 a rambling, rattling chiel' he had been in his young 
 days, and could play weel on the pipes ; he was 
 famous at ' Hoopers and Girders ' a' Cumberland 
 couldna touch him at ' Jockie Lattin ' and he had 
 the finest finger for the back-lilt between Berwick and 
 Carlisle. The like o' Steenie wasna the sort that they 
 made Whigs o'. And so he became a Tory, as they 
 ca' it, which we now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind 
 of needcessity, that he might belang to some side or 
 other. He had nae ill will to the Whig bodies, and 
 liked little to see the blude rin, though, being obliged 
 to follow Sir Robert in hunting and hoisting, watching 
 and warding, he saw muckle mischief, and maybe did 
 some, that he couldna avoid. 
 
 Now Steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, 
 and kend a' the folks about the castle, and was often 
 sent for to play the pipes when they were at their 
 merriment. Auld Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that 
 had followed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick 
 and thin, pool and stream, was specially fond of the 
 pipes, and ay gae my gudesire his gude word wi' the 
 laird ; for Dougal could turn his master round his 
 finger. 
 
 Weel, round came the Revolution, and it had like to 
 have broken the hearts baith of Dougal and his master. 
 But the change was not a'thegether sae great as they 
 feared, and other folk thought for. The Whigs made 
 an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld 
 enemies, and in special wi' Sir Robert Redgauntlet. 
 But there were ower mony great folks dipped in the 
 same doings, to mak a spick and span new warld. So 
 Parliament passed it a' ower easy ; and Sir Robert, 
 bating that he was held to hunting foxes instead of 
 Covenanters, remained just the man he was. 1 His 
 
 1 The caution and moderation of King William III, and 
 his principles of unlimited toleration, deprived the Camer- 
 onians of the opportunity they ardently desired, to retaliate 
 the injuries which they had received during the reign of 
 prelacy, and purify the land, as they called it, from the 
 
 193 c 
 
34 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever 
 it had been, though maybe he lacked the fines of the 
 nonconformists, that used to come to stock his larder 
 and cellar; for it is certain he began to be keener 
 about the rents than his tenants used to find him 
 before, and they behoved to be prompt to the rent- 
 day, or else the laird wasna pleased. And he was sic 
 an awsome body, that naebody cared to anger him ; 
 for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to 
 get into, and the looks that he put on, made men 
 sometimes think him a devil incarnate. 
 
 Weel, my gudesire was nae manager no that he 
 was a very great misguider but he hadna the saving 
 gift, and he got twa terms' rent in arrear. He got the 
 first brash at Whitsunday put ower wi' fair word and 
 piping ; but when Martinmas came, there was a 
 summons from the grund-omcer to come wi' the rent 
 on a day preceese, or else Steenie behoved to flit. Sair 
 wark he had to get the sillfi ; but he was weel-f reended, 
 and at last he got iHe haill scraped thegether a 
 thousand merks the maist of it was from a neighbour 
 they ca'd Laurie Lapraik a sly tod. Laurie had walth 
 o' gear could hunt wi' the hound and rin wi' the hare 
 and be Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind 
 stood. He was a professor in this Revolution warld, 
 but he liked an orra sough of this warld, and a tune 
 on the pipes weel aneugh at a bytime ; and abune 
 a', he thought he had gude security for the siHe"r lie 
 lent my gudesire ower the stocking at Primrose Knowe. 
 
 Away trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet Castle wi' 
 a heavy purse and a light heart, glad to be out of the 
 laird's danger. Weel, the first thing he learned at the 
 castle was, that Sir Robert had fretted himsell into 
 a fit of the gout, because he did not appear before 
 twelve o'clock. It wasna a' thegether for sake of the 
 
 pollution of blood. They esteemed the Revolution, there- 
 fore, only a half measure, which neither comprehended the 
 rebuilding the Kirk in its full splendour, nor the revenge 
 of the death of the Saints on their persecutors. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 35 
 
 money, Dougal thought; but because he didna like 
 to part wi' my gudesire aff the grund. Dougal was 
 glad to see Steenie, and brought him into the great oak 
 parlour, and there sat the laird his leesome lane, 
 excepting that he had beside him a great, ill-favoured 
 jackanape, that was a special pet of his ; a cankered 
 beast it was, and mony an ill-natured trick it played 
 ill to please it was, and easily angered ran about 
 the haill castle, chattering and yowling, and pinching, 
 and biting folk, specially before ill weather, or disturb- 
 ances in the state. Sir Robert caa'd it Major Weir, 
 after the warlock that was burnt ; * and few folk 
 liked either the name or the conditions of the creature 
 they thought there was something in it by ordinar 
 and my gudesire was not just easy in mind when the 
 door shut on him, and he saw himself in the room wi' 
 naebody but the laird, Dougal MacCallum, and the 
 major, a thing that hadna chanced to him before. 
 
 Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great 
 armed chair, wi' his grand velvet gown, and his feet 
 on a cradle ; for he had baith gout and gravel, and his 
 face looked as gash and ghastly as Satan's. Major 
 Weir sat opposite to him, in a red laced coat, and the 
 laird's wig on his head ; and ay as Sir Robert girned 
 wi' pain, the jackanape girned too, like a sheep's-head 
 between a pair of tangs an ill-faur'd, fearsome couple 
 they were. The laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin 
 behind him, and his broadsword and his pistols within 
 reach ; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having the 
 weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, 
 just as he used to do when he was able to loup on 
 horseback, and away after ony of the hill-folk he could 
 get speermgs of. Some said it was for fear of the 
 Whigs taking vengeance, but I judge it was just his 
 auld custom he wasna gien to fear onything. The 
 rental-book, wi' its black cover and brass clasps, was 
 lying beside him ; and a book of sculduddry sangs 
 
 1 A celebrated wizard, executed at Edinburgh for sorcery 
 and other crimes. 
 
36 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 was put betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the 
 place where it bore evidence against the Goodman of 
 Primrose Knowe, as behind the hand with his mails 
 and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a look, as 
 if he would have withered his heart in his bosom. Ye 
 maun ken he had a way of bending his brows, that men 
 saw the visible mark of a horseshoe in his forehead, 
 deep dinted, as if it had been stamped there. 
 
 ' Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom 
 whistle ? ' said Sir Robert. ' Zounds ! if you are ' 
 
 My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he could 
 put on, made a leg, and placed the bag of money on 
 the table wi' a dash, like a man that does something 
 clever. The laird drew it to him hastily ' Is it all 
 here, Steenie, man ? ' 
 
 ' Your honour will find it right,' said my gudesire. 
 
 ' Here, Dougal,' said the laird, ' gie Steenie a tacs of 
 brandy downstairs, till I count the siller and write the 
 receipt.' 
 
 But they werena weel out of the room, when Sir 
 Robert gied a yelloch that garr'd the castle rock. 
 Back ran Dougal in flew the livery-men yell on yell 
 gied the laird, ilk ane mair awfu' than the ither. My 
 gudesire knew not whether to stand or flee, but he 
 ventured back into the parlour, where a' was gaun 
 hirdy-girdie naebody to say * come in,' or ' gae out.' 
 Terribly the laird roared for cauld water to his feet, 
 and wine to cool his throat ; and Hell, hell, hell, and 
 its flames, was ay the word in his mouth. They 
 brought him water, and when they plunged his swollen 
 feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning ; and 
 folk say that it did bubble and sparkle like a seething 
 cauldron. He flung the cup at Dougal' s head, and 
 said he had given him blood instead of burgundy ; 
 and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood aff the 
 carpet the neist day. The jackanape they caa'd Major 
 Weir, it jibbered and cried as if it was mocking its 
 master ; my gudesire' s head was like to turn he 
 forgot baith siller and receipt, and downstairs he 
 banged ; but as he ran, the shrieks came faint and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 37 
 
 fainter ; there was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and 
 word gaed through the castle that the laird was dead. 
 
 Weel, away came my gudesire, wi' his finger in his 
 mouth, and his best hope was that Dougal had seen 
 the money-bag, and heard the laird speak of writing 
 the receipt. The young laird, now Sir John, came 
 from Edinburgh, to see things put to rights. Sir John 
 and his father never gree'd weel. Sir John had been 
 bred an advocate, and afterwards sat in the last Scots 
 Parliament and voted for the Union, having gotten, 
 it was thought, a rug of the compensations if his 
 father could have come out of his grave, he would 
 have brained him for it on his awn hearthstane. Some 
 thought it was easier counting with the auld rough 
 knight than the fair-spoken young ane but mair of 
 that anon. 
 
 Dougal MacCullum, poor body, neither grat nor 
 grained, but gaed about the house looking like a corpse, 
 but directing, as was his duty, a' the order of the grand 
 funeral. Now, Dougal looked ay waur and waur when 
 night was coming, and was ay the last to gang to his 
 bed, whilk was in a little round just opposite the 
 chamber of dais, whilk his master occupied while he 
 was living, and where he now lay in state, as they 
 caa'd it, weel-a-day ! The night before the funeral, 
 Dougal could keep his awn counsel nae langer; he 
 came doun with his proud spirit, and fairly asked auld 
 Hutcheon to sit in his room with him for an hour. 
 When they were in the round, Dougal took ae tass of 
 brandy to himsell, and gave another to Hutcheon, and 
 wished him all health and lang life, and said that, for 
 himsell, he wasna lang for this world ; for that, every 
 night since Sir Robert's death, his silver call had 
 sounded from the state chamber, just as it used to do 
 at nights in his lifetime, to call Dougal to help to turn 
 him in his bed. Dougal said that being alone with 
 the dead on that floor of the tower (for naebody cared 
 to wake Sir Robert Redgauntlet like another corpse) 
 he had never daured to answer the call, but that now 
 his conscience checked him for neglecting his duty; 
 
38 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 for, ' though death breaks service,' said MacCallum, 
 ' it shall never break my service to Sir Robert ; and 
 I will answer his next whistle, so be you will stand by 
 me, Hutcheon.' 
 
 Hutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he had stood 
 by Dougal in battle and broil, and he wad not fail him 
 at this pinch ; so down the jBarlegt sat ower a stoup 
 of brandy, and Hutcheon, who was something of 
 a clerk, would have read a chapter of the Bible ; but 
 Dougal would hear naething but a blaud of Davie 
 Lindsay, whilk was the w&ur. preparation. 
 
 When midnight came, and the house was quiet as the 
 grave, sure enough the silver whistle sounded as sharp 
 and shrill as if Sir Robert was blowing it, and up got 
 the twa auld serving-men, and tottered into the room 
 where the dead man lay. Hutcheon saw aneugh at 
 the first glance ; for there were torches in the room, 
 which showed him the foul fiend, in his ain shape, 
 sitting on the laird's coffin ! Ower he cowped as if he 
 had been dead. He could not tell how lang he lay in 
 a trance at the door, but when he gathered himself, 
 he cried on his neighbour, and getting nae answer, 
 raised the house, when Dougal was found lying dead 
 within twa steps of the bed where his master's coffin 
 was placed. As for the whistle, it was gaen anes and 
 ay ; but mony a time was it heard at the top of the 
 house on the bartizan, and amang the auld chimneys 
 and turrets where the howlets have their nests. Sir 
 John hushed the matter up, and the funeral passed 
 over without mair Japgle-wark. 
 
 But when a' was^ower,15icrthe laird was beginning 
 to settle his affairs, every tenant was called up for his 
 arrears, and my gudesire for the full sum that stood 
 against him in the rental-book. Weel, away he trots 
 to the castle, to tell his story, and there he is intro- 
 duced to Sir John, sitting in his father's chair, in deep 
 mourning, with weepers and hanging cravat, and 
 a small walking rapier by his side, instead of the auld 
 broadsword that had a hundredweight of steel about 
 it, what with blade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 39 
 
 heard their communing so often tauld ower, that 
 I almost think I was there mysell, though I couldna 
 be born at the time. (In fact, Alan, my companion 
 mimicked, with a good deal of humour, the nattering, 
 conciliating tone of the tenant's address, and the 
 hypocritical melancholy of the laird's reply. His 
 grandfather, he said, had, while he spoke, his eye fixed 
 on the rental-book, as if it were a mastiff-dog that he 
 was afraid would spring up and bite him.) 
 
 ' I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat, and the white 
 loaf, and the braid lairdship. Your father was a kind 
 man to friends and followers ; muckle grace to you, 
 Sir John, to fill his shoon his boots, I suld say, for 
 he seldom wore shoon, unless it were muils when he 
 had the gout.' 
 
 ' Aye, Steenie,' quoth the laird, sighing deeply, and 
 putting his napkin to his een, ' his was a sudden call, 
 and he will be missed in the country ; no time to set 
 his house in order weel prepared Godward, no doubt, 
 which is the root of the matter but left us behind 
 a tangled hesp to wind, Steenie. Hem ! hem ! We 
 maun go to business, Steenie ; much to do, and little 
 time to do it in.' 
 
 Here he opened the fatal volume. I have heard of 
 a thing they call Doomsday Book I am clear it has 
 been a rental of back-ganging tenants. 
 
 ' Stephen,' said Sir John, still in the same soft, 
 sleekit tone of voice * Stephen Stevenson, or Steenson, 
 ye are down here for a year's rent behind the hand 
 due at last term.' 
 
 Stephen. ' Please your honour, Sir John, I paid it to 
 your father.' 
 
 Sir John. ' Ye took a receipt, then, doubtless, 
 Stephen ; and can produce it ? ' 
 
 Stephen. ' Indeed I hadna time, an it like your 
 honour ; for nae sooner had I set doun the siller, and 
 just as his honour, Sir Robert, that 's gaen, drew it 
 till him to count it, and write out the receipt, he was 
 ta'en wi' the pains that removed him.' 
 
 ' That was unlucky,' said Sir John, after a pause. 
 
40 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 * But ye maybe paid it in the presence of somebody. 
 I want but a talis quails evidence, Stephen. I would 
 go ower strictly to work with no poor man.' 
 
 Stephen. * Troth, Sir John, there was naebody in 
 the room but Dougal MacCallum the butler. But, 
 as your honour kens, he has e'en followed his auld 
 master.' 
 
 ' Very unlucky again, Stephen,' said Sir John, 
 without altering his voice a single note. * The man 
 to whom ye paid the money is dead and the man 
 who witnessed the payment is dead too and the 
 siller, which should have been to the fore, is neither 
 seen nor heard tell of in the repositories. How am 
 I to believe a' this ? ' 
 
 Stephen. ' I dinna ken, your honour ; but there is 
 a bit memorandum note of the very coins ; for, God 
 help me ! I had to borrow out of twenty purses ; and 
 I am sure that ilka man there set down will take his 
 grit oath for what purpose I borrowed the money.' 
 
 Sir John. ' I have little doubt ye borrowed the 
 money, Steenie. It is the payment to my father that 
 I want to have some proof of.' 
 
 Stephen. ' The siller maun be about the house, Sir 
 John. And since your honour never got it, and his 
 honour that was canna have taen it wi' him, maybe 
 some of the family may have seen it.' 
 
 Sir John. ' We will examine the servants, Stephen ; 
 that is but reasonable.' 
 
 But lackey and lass, and page and groom, all denied 
 stoutly that they had ever seen such a bag of money 
 as my gudesire described. What was waur, he had 
 unluckily not mentioned to any living soul of them his 
 purpose of paying his rent. Ae quean had noticed 
 something under his arm, but she took it for the 
 pipes. 
 
 Sir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants out of the 
 room, and then said to my gudesire, ' Now, Steenie, 
 ye see ye have fair play ; and, as I have little doubt 
 ye ken better where to find the siller than ony other 
 body, I beg, in fair terms, and for your own sake, that 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 41 
 
 you will end this f asherie ; for, Stephen, ye maun pay 
 or flit.' 
 
 ' The Lord f orgie your opinion,' said Stephen, driven 
 almost to his wit's end ' I am an honest man.' 
 
 ' So am I, Stephen,' said his honour ; ' and so are 
 all the folks in the house, I hope. But if there be 
 a knave amongst us, it must be he that tells the story 
 he cannot prove.' He paused, and then added, mair 
 sternly, ' If I understand your trick, sir, you want to 
 take advantage of some malicious reports concerning 
 things in this family, and particularly respecting my 
 father's sudden death, thereby to cheat me out of 
 the money, and perhaps take away my character, by 
 insinuating that I have received the rent I am demand- 
 ing. Where do you suppose this money to be ? I insist 
 upon knowing.' 
 
 My gudesire saw everything look so muckle against 
 him, that he grew nearly desperate however, he 
 shifted from one foot to another, looked to every 
 corner of the room, and made no answer. 
 
 ' Speak out, sirrah,' said the laird, assuming a look 
 of his father's, a very particular ane, which he had 
 when he was angry it seemed as if the wrinkles of 
 his frown made that selfsame fearful shape of a horse's 
 shoe in the middle of his brow ; ' Speak out, sir ! 
 I will know your thoughts ; do you suppose that 
 I have this money ? ' 
 
 ' Far be it frae me to say so,' said Stephen. 
 
 * Do you charge any of my people with having 
 taken it ? ' 
 
 ' I wad be laith to charge them that may be inno- 
 cent,' said my gudesire ; ' and if there be any one 
 that is guilty, I have nae proof.' 
 
 ' Somewhere the money must be, if there is a word 
 of truth in your story,' said Sir John ; ' I ask where 
 you think it is and demand a correct answer ? ' 
 
 ' In hell, if you mill have my thoughts of it,' said 
 my gudesire, driven to extremity, ' in hell ! with your 
 father, his jackanape, and his silver whistle.* 
 
 Down the stairs he ran (for the parlour was nae 
 c3 
 
42 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 place for him after such a word) and he heard the laird 
 swearing blood and -wounds behind him, as fast as 
 ever did Sir Robert, and roaring for the bailie and the 
 baron-officer. 
 
 Away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor (him 
 they ca'd Laurie Lapraik) to try if he could make 
 onything out of him ; but when he tauld his story, he 
 got but the worst word in his wame thief, beggar, 
 and dyvour, were the saftest terms ; and to the boot 
 of these hard terms, Laurie brought up the auld story 
 of his dipping his hand in the blood of God's saunts, 
 just as if a tenant could have helped riding with the 
 laird, and that a laird like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. 
 My gudesire was, by this time, far beyond the bounds 
 of patience, and, while he and Laurie were at deil 
 speed the liars, he was "ftancliancje. aneugh to abuse 
 Lapraik' s doctrine as weel as the man, ond said things 
 that garr'd folks' flesh grue that heard them ; he wasna 
 just himsell, and he had lived wi' a wild set in his day. 
 
 At last they parted, and my gudesire was to ride 
 hame through the wood of Pitmurkie, that is a' fou 
 of black firs, as they say. I ken the wood, but the 
 firs may be black or white for what I can tell. At 
 the entry of the wood there is a wild common, and on 
 the edge of the common, a little lonely change-house, 
 that was keepit then by an ostler-wife, they suld hae 
 caa'd her Tibbie Faw, and there puir Steenie cried 
 for a mutchkin of brandy, for he had had no refresh- 
 ment the haill day. Tibbie was earnest wi' him to 
 take a bite of meat, but he couldna think o't, nor 
 would he take his foot out of the stirrup, and took off 
 the brandy wholely at twa draughts, and named 
 a toast at each : the first was the memory of Sir 
 Robert Redgauntlet, and might he never he quiet in 
 his grave till he had righted his poor bond-tenant ; 
 and the second was a health to Man's Enemy, if he 
 would but get him back the pock of siller or tell him 
 what came o't, for he saw the haill world was like to 
 regard him as a thief and a cheat, and he took that 
 waur than even the ruin of his house and hauld. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 43 
 
 On he rode, little caring where. It was a dark night 
 turned, and the trees made it yet darker, and he let 
 the beast take its ain road through the wood ; when 
 all of a sudden, from tired and wearied that it was 
 before, the nag began to spring and flee, and stend, 
 that my gudesire could harotly keep the saddle. Upon 
 the whilk, a horseman, suddenly riding up beside him, 
 said, ' That 's a mettle beast of yours, freend ; will 
 you sell him ? ' So saying, he touched the horse's 
 neck with his riding-wand, and it fell into its auld 
 heigh-ho of a stumbling trot. ' But his spunk 's soon 
 out of him, I think,' continued the stranger, ' and 
 that is like mony a man's courage, that thinks he wad 
 do great things till he come to the proof.' 
 
 My gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his 
 horse, with ' Gude e'en to you, freend.' 
 
 But it 's like the stranger was ane that doesna 
 lightly yield his point ; for, ride as Steenie liked, he 
 was ay beside him at the selfsame pace. At last my 
 gudesire, Steenie Steenson, grew half angry, and, to 
 say the truth, half feared. 
 
 ' What is it that ye want with me, freend ? ' he 
 said. ' If ye be a robber, I have nae money ; if ye be 
 a leal man, wanting company, I have nae heart to 
 mirth or speaking ; and if ye want to ken the road, 
 I scarce ken it mysell.' 
 
 ' If you will tell me your grief,' said the stranger, 
 ' I am one that, though I have been sair miscaa'd in 
 the world, am the only hand for helping my freends.' 
 
 So my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than 
 from any hope of help, told him the story from begin- 
 ning to end. 
 
 1 It 's a hard pinch,' said the stranger ; * but I think 
 I can help you.' 
 
 ' If you could lend the money, sir, and take a lang 
 day I ken nae other help on earth,' said my gudesire. 
 
 ' But there may be some under the earth,' said the 
 stranger. * Come, I'll be frank wi' you ; I could lend 
 you the money on bond, but you would maybe scruple 
 my terms. Now, I can tell you, that your auld laird 
 
44 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 is disturbed in his grave by your curses, and the 
 wailing of your family, and if ye daur venture to go 
 to see him, he will give you the receipt.' 
 
 My gudesire's hair stood on end at this proposal, 
 but he thought his companion might be some humour- 
 some chield that was trying to frighten him, and 
 might end with lending him the money. Besides, he 
 was bauld wi' brandy, and desperate wi' distress ; 
 and he said he had courage to go to the gate of hell, 
 and a step farther, for that receipt. The stranger 
 laughed. 
 
 Weel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood, 
 when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped at the door 
 of a great house ; and, but that he knew the place was 
 ten miles off, my father would have thought he was at 
 Redgauntlet Castle. They rode into the outer court- 
 yard, through the muckle faulding yetts and aneath 
 the auld pprjfaulli 3 ; and the whole front of the house 
 was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as 
 much dancing and deray within as used to be at Sir 
 Robert's house at Pace and Yule, and such high 
 seasons. They lap off, and my gudesire, as seemed to 
 him, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied 
 him to that morning, when he gaed to wait on the 
 young Sir John. 
 
 ' God ! ' said my gudesire, ' if Sir Robert's death be 
 but a dream ! ' 
 
 He knocked at the ha' door just as he was wont, 
 and his auld acquaintance, Dougal MacCallum just 
 after his wont, too, came to open the door, and said, 
 ' Piper Steenie, are ye there, lad ? Sir Robert has been 
 crying for you.' 
 
 My gudesire was like a man in a dream he looked 
 for the stranger, but he was gane for the time. At 
 last he just tried to say, ' Ha ! Dougal Driveower, are 
 ye living ? I thought ye had been dead.' 
 
 ' Never fash yoursell wi' me,' said Dougal, ' but 
 look to yoursell; and see ye tak naething frae ony 
 body here, neither meat, drink, or siller, except just 
 the receipt that is your ain.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 45 
 
 So saying, he led the way out through halls and 
 trances that were weel kend to my gudesire, and into 
 the auld oak parlour ; and there was as much singing 
 of profane sangs, and billing of red wine, and speaking 
 blasphemy and sculduddry, as had ever been in 
 Redgauntlet Castle when it was at the blithest. 
 
 But, Lord take us in keeping, what a set of ghastly 
 revellers they were that sat around that table ! My 
 gudesire kend mony that had long before gane to their 
 place, for often had he piped to the most part in the 
 hall of Redgauntlet. There was the fierce Middleton, 
 and the dissolute Rothes, and the crafty Lauderdale ; 
 and Dalyell, with his bald head and a beard to his 
 girdle ; and Earlshall, with Cameron's blude on his 
 hand; and wild Bonshaw, that tied blessed Mr. 
 Cargill's limbs till the blude sprung ; and Dunbarton 
 Douglas, the twice-turned traitor baith to country and 
 king. There was the Bluidy Advocate MacKenyie, 
 who, for his worldly wit and wisdom had been to the 
 rest as a god. And there was Claverhouse, as beautiful 
 as when he lived, with his long, dark, curled locks 
 streaming down over his laced buff-coat, and his left 
 hand always on his right spule-blade, to hide the 
 wound that the silver bullet had made. He sat apart 
 from them all, and looked at them with a melancholy, 
 haughty countenance ; while the rest hallooed, and 
 sang, and laughed, that the room rang. But their 
 smiles were fearfully contorted from time to time ; 
 and their laugh passed into such wild sounds as made 
 my gudesire's very nails grow blue, and chilled the 
 marrow in his banes. 
 
 They that waited at the table were just the wicked 
 serving-men and troopers, that had done their work 
 and cruel bidding on earth. There was the Lang Lad 
 of the Nethertown, that helped to take Argyle ; and 
 the bishop's summoner, that they called the Deil's 
 Rattle-bag ; and the wicked guardsmen in their 
 laced coats ; and the savage Highland Amorites, that 
 shed blood like water ; and many a proud serving- 
 man, haughty of heart and bloody of hand, cringing 
 
46 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 to the rich, and making them wickeder than they 
 would be ; grinding the poor to powder, when the 
 rich had broken them to fragments. And mony, mony 
 mair were coming and ganging, a' as busy in their 
 vocation as if they had been alive. 
 
 Sir Robert Redgauntlet, in the midst of a' this fearful 
 riot, cried, wi' a voice like thunder, on Steenie Piper to 
 come to the board-head where he was sitting ; his 
 legs stretched out before him, and swathed up with 
 flannel, with his holster pistols aside him, while the 
 great broadsword rested against his chair, just as my 
 gudesire had seen him the last time upon earth the 
 very cushion for the jackanape was close to him, but 
 the creature itself was not there it wasna its hour, 
 it 's likely ; for he heard them say as he came forward, 
 ' Is not the major come yet ? ' And another answered, 
 ' The jackanape will be here betimes the morn.' And 
 when my gudesire came forward, Sir Robert, or his 
 ghaist, or the deevil in his likeness, said, ' Weel, piper, 
 hae ye settled wi' my son for the year's rent ? ' 
 
 With much ado my father gat breath to say that 
 Sir John would not settle without his honour's receipt, 
 
 ' Ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes, Steenie,' 
 said the appearance of Sir Robert ' Play us up " Weel 
 hoddled, Luckie ".' 
 
 Now this was a tune my gudesire learned f rae a war- 
 lock, that heard it when they were worshipping Satan 
 at their meetings, and my gudesire had sometimes 
 played it at the ranting suppers in Redgauntlet Castle, 
 but never very willingly ; and now he grew cauld at 
 the very name of it, and said, for excuse, he hadna 
 his pipes wi' him. 
 
 * MacCallum, ye limb of Beelzebub,' said the fearfu' 
 Sir Robert, ' bring Steenie the pipes that I am keeping 
 for him ! ' 
 
 MacCallum brought a pair of pipes might have served 
 the piper of Donald of the Isles. But he gave my 
 gudesire a nudge as he offered them ; and looking 
 secretly and closely, Steenie saw that the chanter was 
 of steel, and heated to a white heat ; so he had fair 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 47 
 
 warning not to trust his fingers with it. So he excused 
 himself again, and said he was faint and frightened, 
 and had not wind aneugh to fill the bag. 
 
 ' Then ye maun eat and drink, Steenie,' said the 
 figure ; ' for we do little else here ; and it 's ill speak- 
 ing between a fou man and a fasting.' 
 
 Now these were the very words that the bloody 
 Earl of Douglas said to keep the king's messenger in 
 hand while he cut the head off MacLellan of Bombie, 
 at the Threave Castle, and that put Steenie mair and 
 mair on his guard. So he spoke up like a man, and 
 said he came neither to eat, or drink, or make min- 
 strelsy ; but simply for his ain to ken what was 
 come o' the money he had paid, and to get a discharge 
 for it ; and he was so stout-hearted by this time that 
 he charged Sir Robert for conscience- sake (he had no 
 power to say the holy name) and as he hoped for peace 
 and rest, to spread no snares for him, but just to give 
 him his ain. 
 
 The appearance gnashed its teeth and laughed, but 
 it took from a large pocket-book the receipt, and 
 handed it to Steenie. ' There is your receipt, ye pitiful 
 cur ; and for the money, my dog-whelp of a son may 
 go look for it in the Cat's Cradle.' 
 
 My gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was about to 
 retire when Sir Robert roared aloud, 'Stop, though, 
 thou sack-doudling son of a whore ! I am not done 
 with thee. HERE we do nothing for nothing ; and 
 you must return on this very day twelvemonth, to 
 pay your master the homage that you owe me for my 
 protection.' 
 
 My father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty, and 
 he said aloud, ' I refer mysell to God's pleasure, and not 
 to yours.' 
 
 He had no sooner uttered the word than all was 
 dark around him ; and he sank on the earth with such 
 a sudden shock, that he lost both breath and sense. 
 
 How lang Steenie lay there, he could not tell ; but 
 when he came to himsell, he was lying in the auld 
 kirkyard of Redgauntlet parochine just at the door of 
 
48 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 the family aisle, and the scutcheon of the auld knight, 
 Sir Robert, hanging over his head. There was a deep 
 morning fog on grass and gravestone around him, and 
 his horse was feeding quietly beside the minister's twa 
 cows. Steenie would have thought the whole was 
 a dream, but he had the receipt in his hand, fairly 
 written and signed by the auld laird ; only the last 
 letters of his name were a little disorderly, written 
 like one seized with sudden pain. 
 
 Sorely troubled in his mind, he left that dreary 
 place, rode through the mist to Redgauntlet Castle, 
 and with much ado he got speech of the laird. 
 
 ' Well, you dyvour bankrupt,' was the first word, 
 ' have you brought me my rent ? ' 
 
 ' No,' answered my gudesire, * I have not ; but 
 I have brought your honour Sir Robert's receipt for it.' 
 
 ' How, sirrah ? Sir Robert's receipt ! You told me 
 he had not given you one.' 
 
 ' Will your honour please to see if that bit line is 
 right ? ' 
 
 Sir John looked at every line, and at every letter, 
 with much attention ; and at last, at the date, which 
 my gudesire had not observed, * From my appointed 
 place,' he read, ' this twenty-fifth of November.' ' What ! 
 That is yesterday ! Villain, thou must have gone to 
 hell for this ! ' 
 
 * I got it from your honour's father whether he be 
 in heaven or hell, I know not,' said Steenie. 
 
 ' I will delate you for a warlock to the Privy Council !' 
 said Sir John. * I will send you to your master, the 
 devil, with the help of a tar-barrel and a torch ! ' 
 
 ' I intend to delate mysell to the Presbytery,' said 
 Steenie, ' and tell them all I have seen last night, 
 whilk are things fitter for them to judge of than 
 a borrel man like me.' 
 
 Sir John paused, composed himsell, and desired to 
 hear the full history; and my gudesire told it him 
 from point to point, as I have told it you word for 
 word, neither more nor less. 
 
 Sir John was silent again for a long time, and at last 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 49 
 
 he said, very composedly, ' Steenie, this story of yours 
 concerns the honour of many a noble family besides 
 mine ; and if it be a leasing-making, to keep yourself 
 out of my danger, the least you can expect is to have 
 a redhot iron driven through your tongue, and that 
 will be as bad as scauding your fingers wi' a redhot 
 chanter. But yet it may be true, Steenie ; and if the 
 money cast up, I shall not know what to think of it. 
 But where shall we find the Cat's Cradle ? There are 
 cats enough about the old house, but I think they 
 kitten without the ceremony of bed or cradle.' 
 
 ' We were best ask Hutcheon,' said my gudesire ; 
 ' he kens a' the odd corners about as weel as another 
 serving-man that is now gane, and that I wad not like 
 to name.' 
 
 Aweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told them, 
 that a ruinous turret, lang disused, next to the clock- 
 house, only accessible by a ladder, for the opening 
 was on the outside, and far above the battlements, 
 was called of old the Cat's Cradle. 
 
 ' There will I go immediately,' said Sir John ; and 
 he took (with what purpose, Heaven kens) one of his 
 father's pistols from the hall-table, where they had 
 lain since the night he died, and hastened to the 
 battlements. 
 
 It was a dangerous place to climb, for the ladder 
 was auld and frail, and wanted ane or twa rounds. 
 However, up got Sir John, and entered at the turret- 
 door, where his body stopped the only little light that 
 was in the bit turret. Something flees at him wi' 
 a vengeance, maist dang him back ower bang gaed 
 the knight's pistol, and Hutcheon, that held the 
 ladder, and my gudesire that stood beside him, hears 
 a loud skelloch. A minute after, Sir John flings the 
 body of the jackanape down to them, and cries that 
 the siller is fund, and that they should come up and 
 help him. And there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, 
 and mony orra thing besides, that had been missing 
 for mony a day. And Sir John, when he had riped the 
 turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-parlour, 
 
50 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 and took him by the hand and spoke kindly to him, 
 and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word 
 and that he would hereafter be a good master to him 
 to make amends. 
 
 ' And now, Steenie,' said Sir John, ' although this 
 vision of yours tend, on the whole, to my father's 
 credit, as an honest man, that he should, even after 
 his death, desire to see justice done to a poor man like 
 you, yet you are sensible that ill-dispositioned men 
 might make bad constructions upon it, concerning his 
 soul's health. So, I think, we had better lay the haill 
 dirdum on that ill-deedie creature, Major Weir, and 
 say naething about your dream in the wood of Pit- 
 murkie. You had taken ower muckle brandy to be 
 very certain about onything ; and, Steenie, this 
 receipt ' (his hand shook while he held it out), ' it 's 
 but a queer kind of document, and we will do best, 
 I think, to put it quietly in the fire.' 
 
 * Od, but for as queer as it is, it 's a' the voucher 
 I have for my rent,' said my gudesire, who was 
 afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit of Sir Robert's 
 discharge. 
 
 ' I will bear the contents to your credit in the rental- 
 book, and give you a discharge under my own hand,' 
 said Sir John, ' and that on the spot. And, Steenie, if 
 you can hold your tongue about this matter, you shall 
 sit, from this term downward, at an easier rent.' 
 
 ' Mony thanks to your honour,' said Steenie, who 
 saw easily in what corner the wind was ; * doubtless 
 I will be conformable to all your honour's commands ; 
 only I would willingly speak wi' some powerful minister 
 on the subject, for I do not like the sort of soumons of 
 appointment whilk your honour's father ' 
 
 ' Do not call the phantom my father ! ' said Sir John, 
 interrupting him. 
 
 ' Weel, then, the thing that was so like him,' said 
 my gudesire ; ' he spoke of my coming back to see 
 him this time twelvemonth, and it 's a weight on my 
 conscience.' 
 
 ' Aweel, then,' said Sir John, ' if you be so much 
 
WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE 51 
 
 distressed in mind, you may speak to our minister of 
 the parish ; he is a douce man, regards the honour of 
 our family, and the mair that he may look for some 
 patronage from me.' 
 
 Wi' that, my father readily agreed that the receipt 
 should be burnt, and the laird threw it into the chimney 
 with his ain hand. Burn it would not for them, 
 though ; but away it flew up the lum, wi' a lang train 
 of sparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib. 
 
 My gudesire gaed down to the Manse, and the 
 minister, when he had heard the story, said it was his 
 real opinion that though my gudesire had gaen very 
 far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet, as he 
 had refused the devil's arles (for such was the offer 
 of meat and drink) and had refused to do homage by 
 piping at his bidding, he hoped, that if he held a circum- 
 spect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advantage 
 by what was come and gane. And, indeed, my gude- 
 sire, of his ain accord, lang foreswore baith the pipes 
 and the brandy it was not even till the year was out, 
 and the fatal day past, that he would so much as take 
 the fiddle, or drink usquebaugh or tippeny. 
 
 Sir John made up his story about the jackanape as 
 he liked himsell ; and some believe till this day there 
 was no more in the matter than the niching nature 
 of the brute. Indeed, ye' 11 no hinder some to threap 
 that it was nane o' the auld Enemy that Dougal 
 and my gudesire saw in the laird's room, but only 
 that wanchancy creature, the major, capering on the 
 coffin ; and that, as to the blawing on the laird's 
 whistle that was heard after he was dead, the filthy 
 brute could do that as weel as the laird himsell, if no 
 better. But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first came 
 out by the minister's wife, after Sir John and her ain 
 gudeman were baith in the moulds. And then my 
 gudesire, wha was failed in his limbs, but not in his 
 judgement or memory at least nothing to speak of 
 was obliged to tell the real narrative to his friends, 
 for the credit of his good name. He might else have 
 been charged for a warlock. 
 
52 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 The shades of evening were growing thicker around 
 us as my conductor finished his long narrative with 
 this moral * Ye see, birkie, it is nae chancy thing to 
 tak a stranger traveller for a guide, when you are in 
 an uncouth land.' 
 
 'I should not have made that inference,' said I. 
 * Your grandfather's adventure was fortunate for 
 himself, whom it saved from ruin and distress ; and 
 fortunate for his landlord also, whom it prevented 
 from committing a gross act of injustice.' 
 
 ' Aye, but they had baith to sup the sauce o't 
 sooner or later,' said Wandering Willie ' what was 
 fristed wasna forgiven. Sir John died before he 
 was much over threescore ; and it was just like of a 
 moment's illness. And for my gudesire, though he 
 departed in fullness of life, yet there was my father, 
 a yauld man of forty-five, fell down betwixt the stilts 
 of his pleugh, and rase never again, and left nae bairn 
 but me, a puir sightless, fatherless, motherless creature, 
 could neither work nor want. Things gaed weel 
 aneugh at first; for Sir Redwald Redgauntlet, the 
 only son of Sir John, and the oye of auld Sir Robert, 
 and, waes me ! the last of the honourable house, took 
 the farm aff our hands, and brought me into his 
 household to have care of me. He liked music, and 
 I had the best teachers baith England and Scotland 
 could gie me. Mony a merry year was I wi' him ; but 
 waes me ! he gaed out with other pretty men in the 
 Forty-five I'll say nae mair about it My head never 
 settled weel since I lost him ; and if I say another 
 word about it, deil a bar will I have the heart to play 
 the night. Look out, my gentle chap,' he resumed 
 in a different tone, ' ye should see the lights at Broken- 
 burn Glen by this time.' 
 
CHARLES LAMB 
 1775-1834 
 
 THE WITCH AUNT 
 
 (From Mrs. Leicester's School : or, The History of several 
 Young Ladies related by themselves.) 
 
 I WAS brought up in the country. From my infancy 
 I was always a weak and tender-spirited girl, subject 
 to fears and depressions. My parents, and particularly 
 my mother, were of a very Different disposition. They 
 were what is usually called gay : they loved pleasure, 
 and parties, and visiting ; but as they found the turn 
 of my mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves 
 little trouble about me, but upon such occasions 
 generally left me to my choice, which was much of tener 
 to stay at home, and indulge myself in my solitude, 
 than to join in their rambling visits. I was always 
 fond of being alone, yet always in a manner afraid. 
 There was a book-closet which led into my mother's 
 dressing-room. Here I was for ever fond of being 
 shut up by myself, to take down whatever volumes 
 I pleased, and pore upon them, no matter whether 
 they were fit for my years or no, or whether I under- 
 stood them. Here, when the weather would not 
 permit my going into the dark walk, my walk, as it was 
 called, in the garden ; here when my parents have been 
 from home, I have stayed for hours together, till the 
 loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at length 
 become quite frightful, and I have rushed out of the 
 closet into the inhabited parts of the house, and sought 
 refuge in the lap of some one of the female servants, or 
 of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look pale, that 
 Hannah had been frightening herself with some of 
 those nasty books : so she used to call my favourite 
 volumes, which I would not have parted with, no not 
 
54 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 with one of the least of them, if I had had the choice to 
 be made a fine princess and to govern the world. But 
 my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and 
 say, that reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty 
 enough to think that this was only an excuse, for I found 
 that my aunt's weak eyes did not prevent her from 
 poring ten hours a day upon her prayer-book, or her 
 favourite Thomas a Kempis. But this was always her 
 excuse for not reading any of the books I recommended. 
 My aunt was my father's sister. She had never been 
 married. My father was a good deal older than my 
 mother, and my aunt was ten years older than my 
 father. As I was often left at home with her, and as 
 my serious disposition so well agreed with hers, an 
 intimacy grew up between the old lady and me, and she 
 would often say, that she only loved one person in the 
 world, and that was me. Not that she and my parents 
 were on very bad terms ; but the old lady did not feel 
 herself respected enough. The attention and fondness 
 which she showed to me, conscious as I was that I was 
 almost the only being she felt any thing like fondness to, 
 made me love her, as it was natural ; indeed I am 
 ashamed to say that I fear I almost loved her better 
 than both my parents put together. But there was an 
 oddness, a silence about my aunt, which was never 
 interrupted but by her occasional expressions of love 
 to me, that made me stand in fear of her. An odd look 
 from under her spectacles would sometimes scare me 
 away, when I had been peering up in her face to make 
 her kiss me. Then she had a way of muttering to 
 herself, which, though it was good words and religious 
 words that she was mumbling, somehow I did not like. 
 My weak spirits, and the fears I was subject to, always 
 made me afraid of any personal singularity or oddness 
 in any one. I am ashamed, ladies, to lay open so many 
 particulars of our family ; but, indeed it is necessary 
 to the understanding of what I am going to tell you, 
 of a very great weakness, if not wickedness, which I was 
 guilty of towards my aunt. But I must return to my 
 studies, and tell you what books I found in the closet, 
 
THE WITCH AUNT 55 
 
 and what reading I chiefly admired. There was a great 
 Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, or rather 
 I used to spell out meanings ; for I was too ignorant 
 to make out many words ; but there it was written all 
 about those good men who chose to be burnt alive, 
 rather than forsake their religion, and become naughty 
 papists. Some words I could make out, some I could 
 not ; but I made out enough to fill my little head with 
 vanity, and I used to think I was so courageous I could 
 be burnt too, and I would put my hands upon the 
 flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which 
 the book had, and feel them ; but, you know, ladies, 
 there is a great difference between the flames in a pic- 
 ture, and real fire, and I am now ashamed of the conceit 
 which I had of my own courage, and think how poor 
 a martyr I should have made in those days. Then 
 there was a book not so big, but it had pictures in it, 
 was called Culpepper's Herbal ; it was full of pictures 
 of plants and herbs, but I did not much care for that. 
 Then there was Salmon's Modern History, out of which 
 I picked a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, 
 and the great hooded serpent which ran strangely in my 
 fancy. There were some law books too, but the old 
 English frighted me from reading them. But above all, 
 what I relished was Stackhouse's History of the Bible, 
 where there was the picture of the Ark and all the beast* 
 getting into it. This delighted me, because it puzzled 
 me, and many an aching head have I got with poring 
 into it, and contriving how it might be built, with such 
 and such rooms, to hold all the world if there should be 
 another flood ; and sometimes settling what pretty 
 beasts should be saved, and what should not, for I 
 would have no ugly or deformed beast in my pret v 
 ark. But this was only a piece of folly and vanity, 
 that a little reflection might cure me of. Foolish girl 
 that I was ! to suppose that any creature is really ugly, 
 that has all its limbs contrived with heavenly wisdom, 
 and was doubtless formed to some beautiful end, 
 though a child cannot comprehend it. Doubtless 
 a frog or a toad is not uglier in itself than a squirrel or 
 
56 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 a pretty green lizard ; but we want understanding to 
 see it. 
 
 [Here I must remind you, my dear Miss Howe, that one 
 of the young ladies smiled, and two or three were seen to 
 titter, at this part of your narration, and you seemed, 
 I thought, a little too angry for a girl of your sense and 
 reading ; but you will remember, my dear, that young 
 heads are not always able to bear strange and unusual 
 assertions ; and if some elder person possibly, or some 
 book which you have found, had not put it into your head, 
 you would hardly have discovered by your own reflection, 
 that a frog or a toad was equal in real loveliness to a frisk- 
 ing squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as you called it ; not 
 remembering that at this very time you gave the lizard the 
 name of pretty, and left it out to the frog 50 liable we all 
 are to prejudices. But you went on with your story.'] 
 
 These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or 
 naughty perhaps, but they may be forgiven in a child 
 of six years old ; but what I am going to tell I shall be 
 ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as I live. It 
 will teach me not to form rash judgements. Besides 
 the picture of the Ark, and many others which I have 
 forgot, Stackhouse contained one picture which made 
 more impression upon my childish understanding than 
 all the rest. It was the picture of the raising up of 
 Samuel, which I used to call the Witch of Endor picture. 
 I was always very fond of picking up stories about 
 witches. There was a book called Glanvil on Witches, 
 which used to lie about in this closet ; it was thumbed 
 about, and showed it had been much read in former 
 times. This was my treasure. Here I used to pick out 
 the strangest stories. My not being able to read them 
 very well probably made them appear more strange 
 and out of the way to me. But I could collect enough 
 to understand that witches were old women who gave 
 themselves up to do mischief ; how, by the help of 
 spirits as bad as themselves, they lamed cattle, and 
 made the corn not grow ; and how they made images 
 of wax to stand for people that had done them any 
 
THE WITCH AUNT 57 
 
 injury, or they thought had done them injury ; and 
 how they burnt the images before a slow fire, and stuck 
 pins in them ; and the persons which these waxen 
 images represented, however far distant, felt all the 
 pains and torments in good earnest, which were 
 inflicted in show upon these images : and such a horror 
 I had of these wicked witches, that though I am now 
 better instructed, and look upon all these stories as 
 mere idle tales, and invented to fill people's heads with 
 nonsense, yet I cannot recall to mind the horrors which 
 I then felt, without shuddering and feeling something 
 of the old fit return. 
 
 [Here, my dear Miss Howe, you may remember, that 
 
 Miss M , the youngest of our party, shouting some 
 
 more curiosity than usual, I winked upon you to hasten 
 to your story, lest the terrors which you were describing 
 sJwuld make too much impression upon a young head, 
 and you kindly understood my sign, and said less upon 
 the subject of your fears, than I fancy you first intended.] 
 
 This foolish book of witch stories had no pictures in 
 it, but I made up for them out of my own fancy, and 
 out of the great picture of the raising up of Samuel in 
 Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand the 
 difference there was between these silly improbable 
 tales which imputed such powers to poor old women, 
 who are the most helpless things in the creation, and 
 the narrative in the Bible, which does not say, that the 
 witch, or pretended witch, raised up the dead body of 
 Samuel by her own power, but as it clearly appears, he 
 was permitted by the divine will to appear, to confound 
 the presumption of Saul ; and that the witch herself 
 was really as much frightened and confounded at the 
 miracle as Saul himself, not expecting a real appearance ; 
 but probably having prepared some juggling, slight-of- 
 hand tricks and sham appearance, to deceive the eyes 
 of Saul : whereas she, nor any one living, had ever the 
 power to raise the dead to life, but only He who made 
 them from the first. These reasons I might have read 
 in Stackhouse itself, if I had been old enough, and have 
 
58 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 read them in that very book since I was older, but at 
 that time I looked at little beyond the picture. 
 
 These stories of witches so terrified me, that my 
 sleeps were broken, and in my dreams I always had 
 a fancy of a witch being in the room with me. I know 
 now that it was only nervousness ; but though I can 
 laugh at it now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what 
 I suffered, you would be thankful that you have had 
 sensible people about you to instruct you and teach 
 you better. I was let grow up wild like an ill weed, and 
 thrived accordingly. One night that I had been 
 terrified in my sleep with my imaginations, I got out 
 of bed, and crept softly to the adjoining room. My 
 room was next to where my aunt usually sat when she 
 was alone. Into her room I crept for relief from my 
 fears. The old lady was not yet retired to rest, but was 
 sitting with her eyes half open, half closed ; her spec- 
 tacles tottering upon her nose ; her head nodding over 
 her prayer-book ; her lips mumbling the words as she 
 read them, or half read them, in her dozing posture : her 
 
 frotesque appearance ; her old-fashioned dress, resem- 
 ling what I had seen in that fatal picture in Stackhouse ; 
 all this, with the dead time of night, as it seemed to me, 
 (for I had gone through my first sleep,) all joined to 
 produce a wicked fancy in me, that the form which 
 I had beheld was not my aunt, but some witch. Her 
 mumbling of her prayers confirmed me in this shocking 
 idea. I had read in Glanvil of those wicked creatures 
 reading their prayers backwards, and I thought that 
 this was the operation which her lips were at this time 
 employed about. Instead of flying to her friendly lap 
 for that protection which I had so often experienced 
 when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk back 
 terrified and bewildered to my bed, where I lay in 
 broken sleeps and miserable fancies, till the morning, 
 which I had so much reason to wish for, came. My 
 fancies a little wore away with the light, but an impres- 
 sion was fixed, which could not for a long time be done 
 away. In the day-time, when my father and mother 
 were about the house, when I saw them familiarly 
 
THE WITCH AUNT 59 
 
 speak to my aunt, my fears all vanished ; and when 
 the good creature has taken me upon her knees, and 
 shown me any kindness more than ordinary, at such 
 times I have melted into tears, and longed to tell 
 her what naughty foolish fancies I had had of her. 
 But when night returned, that figure which I had 
 seen recurred ; the posture, the half-closed eyes, the 
 mumbling and muttering which I had heard, a con- 
 fusion was in my head, who it was I had seen that 
 night : it was my aunt, and it was not my aunt : 
 it was that good creature who loved me above all the 
 world, engaged at her good task of devotions perhaps 
 praying for some good to me. Again, it was a witch, 
 a creature hateful to God and man, reading backwards 
 the good prayers ; who would perhaps destroy me. 
 In these conflicts of mind I passed several weeks, till, 
 by a revolution in my fate, I was removed to the house 
 of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant part 
 of the county, who had come on a visit to our house, 
 and observing my lonely ways, and apprehensive of 
 the ill effect of my mode of living upon my health, 
 begged leave to take me home to her house to reside 
 for a short time. I went, with some reluctance at 
 leaving my closet, my dark walk, and even my aunt, 
 who had been such a source of both love and terror to 
 me. But I went, and soon found the good effects of 
 a change of scene. Instead of melancholy closets, and 
 lonely avenues of trees, I saw lightsome rooms and 
 cheerful faces ; I had companions of my own age ; no 
 books were allowed me but what were rational or 
 sprightly ; that gave me mirth, or gave me instruction. 
 I soon learned to laugh at witch stories ; and when 
 I returned after three or four months' absence to our 
 own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the same 
 light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, before 
 that foolish fancy possessed me, or rather, I should 
 say, more kind, more fond, more loving than before. 
 It is impossible to say how much good that lady, the 
 kind relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me 
 by changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was 
 
60 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 given to me. I became sociable and companionable : 
 my parents soon discovered a change in me, and I have 
 found a similar alteration in them. They have been 
 plainly more fond of me since that change, as from that 
 time I learned to conform myself more to their way of 
 living. I have never since had that aversion to com- 
 pany, and going out with them, which used to make 
 them regard me with less fondness than they would 
 have wished to show. I impute almost all that I had 
 to complain of in their neglect, to my having been a little 
 unsociable, uncompanionable mortal. I lived in this 
 manner for a year or two, passing my time between our 
 house, and the lady's who so kindly took me in hand, 
 till by her advice, I was sent to this school ; where I 
 have told to you, ladies, what, for fear of ridicule, 
 I never ventured to tell any person besides, the story 
 of my foolish and naughty fancy. 
 
 
WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 1783-1859 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 A TOSTHUMOUS WHITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre CABTWBIQHT. 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson 
 must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They 
 are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian 
 family, and are seen away to the west of the river, 
 swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the 
 surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
 change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, pro- 
 duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of 
 these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
 wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
 weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
 purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
 sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
 cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours about 
 their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, 
 will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
 may have descried the light smoke curling up from 
 a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, 
 just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
 the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
 village, of great antiquity, having been founded by 
 
62 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the 
 province, just about the beginning of the government 
 of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !), 
 and there were some of the houses of the original settlers 
 standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks 
 brought from Holland, having latticed windows and 
 gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
 and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
 while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 
 a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
 Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
 who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
 Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
 Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
 martial character of his ancestors. I have observed 
 that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, 
 moreover, a kind neighbour, and an obedient hen- 
 pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
 might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained 
 him such universal popularity ; for those men are most 
 apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are 
 under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, 
 doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery 
 furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture 
 is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the 
 virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant 
 wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered 
 a tolerable blessing ; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was 
 thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is that he was a great favourite among all 
 the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 
 amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and 
 never failed, whenever they talked those matters over 
 in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on 
 Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
 would shout with joy whenever he approached. He 
 assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught 
 them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 63 
 
 stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he 
 went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by 
 a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on 
 his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
 impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him through- 
 out the neighbourhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
 able aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could 
 not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for 
 he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy 
 as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, 
 even though he should not be encouraged by a single 
 nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder 
 for hours together, trudging through woods and 
 swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few 
 squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to 
 assist a neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was 
 a foremost man at all country frolics for husking 
 Indian corn, or building stone fences ; the women of 
 the village, too, used to employ him to run their 
 errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less 
 obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, 
 Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his 
 own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
 farm in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
 farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground 
 in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, 
 and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were 
 continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go 
 astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure 
 to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the 
 rain always made a point of setting hi just as he had 
 some outdoor work to do ; so that though his patri- 
 monial estate had dwindled away under his manage- 
 ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left than 
 a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was 
 the worst-conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
 belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
 
64 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
 the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen 
 trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in 
 a pair of his father's cast- off galligaskins, which he had 
 much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
 her train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
 mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
 world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can 
 be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather 
 starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to 
 himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect 
 contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
 his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the 
 ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and 
 night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything 
 he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household 
 eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all 
 lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had 
 grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook 
 his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, how- 
 ever, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so 
 that he was f ain to draw off his forces, and take to the 
 outside of the house the only side which, in truth, 
 belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
 was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
 Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
 even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of 
 his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
 points of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as 
 courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods but 
 what courage can withstand the ever-during and all- 
 besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment 
 Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped 
 to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked 
 about with a gallows air, casting many a side-long 
 glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish 
 of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with 
 yelping precipitation. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 65 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
 as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never 
 mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
 tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 
 while he used to console himself, when driven from 
 home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
 sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
 village ; which held its sessions on a bench before 
 a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his 
 Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the 
 shade through a long, lazy summer's day, talking list- 
 lessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories 
 about nothing. But it would have been worth any 
 statesman's money to have heard the profound dis- 
 cussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
 old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 
 traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the 
 contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
 schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not 
 to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dic- 
 tionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
 public events some months after they had taken 
 place. 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
 by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and 
 landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his 
 seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently 
 to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; 
 so that the neighbours could tell the hour by his move- 
 ments as accurately as by a sundial. It is true he was 
 rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. 
 His adherents, however (for every great man has his 
 adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how 
 to gather his opinions. When anything that was read 
 or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke 
 his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, 
 and angry puffs, but when pleased, he would inhale 
 the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and 
 placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from 
 his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapour curl about 
 
 193 D 
 
66 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect 
 approbation. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was 
 at length routed by his termagant wife, who would 
 suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem- 
 blage and call the members all to naught ; nor was 
 that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred 
 from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
 charged him outright with encouraging her husband in 
 habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 
 his only alternative, to escape from the labour of the 
 farm and clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand 
 and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some- 
 times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
 contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympa- 
 thized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. ' Poor Wolf,' 
 he would say, ' thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; 
 but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never 
 want a friend to stand by thee ! ' Wolf would wag his 
 tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can 
 feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment 
 with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
 Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
 parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his 
 favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still soli- 
 tudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of 
 his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late 
 in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with 
 mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. 
 From an opening between the trees he could overlook 
 all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. 
 He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below 
 him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the 
 reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, 
 here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last 
 losing itself in the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
 tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 67 
 
 with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
 lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
 some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
 gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
 their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that 
 it would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
 and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of 
 encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
 a distance, hallooing, ' Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van 
 Winkle ! ' He looked round, but could see nothing but 
 a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. 
 He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and 
 turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
 ring through the still evening air : ' Rip Van Winkle ! 
 Rip Van Winkle ! ' at the same time Wolf bristled up 
 his back, and, giving a loud growl, skulked to his 
 master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. 
 Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; 
 he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived 
 a strange figure toiling up the rocks, and bending under 
 the weight of something he carried on his back. He 
 was surprised to see any human being in this lonely 
 and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some 
 one of the neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he 
 hastened down to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at 
 the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
 a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair 
 and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
 Dutch fashion a cloth jerkin, strapped round the 
 waist several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
 volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, 
 and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder 
 a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs 
 for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
 Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquain- 
 tance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and 
 mutually relieving each other, they clambered up 
 a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
 
68 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then 
 heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that 
 seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
 between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 
 conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
 it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder- 
 showers which often take place in mountain heights, 
 he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came 
 to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
 by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
 impending trees shot their branches, so that you only 
 caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening 
 cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion 
 had laboured on in silence, for though the former 
 marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying 
 a keg of liquor up this wild mountain ; yet there was 
 something strange and incomprehensible about the 
 unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
 presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre 
 was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
 nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
 fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
 long knives in their belts, and most of them had 
 enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the 
 guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had 
 a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the 
 face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
 was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with 
 a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
 shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to 
 be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, 
 with a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced 
 doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 
 feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses 
 in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures 
 in an old Flemish painting in the parlour of Dominie 
 Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had Been 
 brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 69 
 
 though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
 yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most 
 mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melan- 
 choly party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
 interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
 balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along 
 the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
 suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
 with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- 
 couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned 
 within him, and his knees smote together. His com- 
 panion now emptied the contents of the keg into 
 large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the 
 company. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they 
 quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned 
 to their game. 
 
 By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
 He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, 
 to taste the beverage, which he found had much of 
 the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally 
 a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
 draught. One taste provoked another; and he re- 
 iterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length 
 his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, 
 his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
 whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 
 rubbed his eyes it was a bright sunny morning. The 
 birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, 
 and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the 
 pure mountain breeze. ' Surely,' thought Rip, ' I have 
 not slept here all night.' He recalled the occurrences 
 before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
 liquor the mountain ravine the wild retreat among 
 the rocks the woebegone party at ninepins the 
 flagon * Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! ' 
 thought Rip ; * what excuse shall I make to Dame Van 
 Winkle ? ' 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, 
 
70 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying 
 by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling 
 off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that 
 the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon 
 him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed 
 him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he 
 might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. 
 He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all 
 in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but 
 no dog was to be seen. 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
 gambol, and, if he met with any of the party, to demand 
 his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself 
 stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
 ' These mountain beds do not agree with me,' thought 
 Rip ; ' and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of 
 the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame 
 Van Winkle.' With some difficulty he got down into 
 the glen : he found the gully up which he and his 
 companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but, 
 to his astonishment, a mountain stream was now foam- 
 ing down it leaping from rock to rock, and filling 
 the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made 
 shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way 
 through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, 
 and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild 
 grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from 
 tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
 through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces 
 of such opening remained. The rocks presented a 
 high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came 
 tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into 
 a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the 
 surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought 
 to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; 
 he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle 
 crows, sporting higb in air about a dry tree that over- 
 hung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their 
 elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 71 
 
 man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the 
 morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 
 want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
 and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would 
 not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
 head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart 
 full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 
 As he approached the village he met a number of 
 people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat 
 surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
 with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, 
 was of a different fashion from that to which he was 
 accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 
 of surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon 
 him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant 
 recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, 
 to do the same when, to his astonishment, he found 
 his beard had grown a foot long ! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
 of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, 
 and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one 
 of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked 
 at him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it 
 was larger and more populous. There were rows of 
 houses which he had never seen before, and those 
 which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
 Strange names were over the doors strange faces at 
 the windows everything was strange. His mind now 
 misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and 
 the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this 
 was his native village, which he had left but the day 
 before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains there 
 ran the silver Hudson at a distance there was every 
 hill and dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was 
 sorely perplexed. ' That flagon last night,' thought he, 
 ' has addled my poor head sadly ! ' 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to 
 his own house, which he approached with silent awe, 
 expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of 
 Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay 
 
72 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the 
 doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked 
 like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by 
 name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed 
 on. This was an unkind cut indeed ' My very dog,' 
 sighed poor Rip, ' has forgotten me ! ' 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
 Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
 empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. The 
 desolateness overcame all his connubial fears he 
 called loudly for his wife and children the lonely 
 chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
 all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
 the village inn but it too was gone. A large rickety 
 wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
 windows, some of them broken and mended with old 
 hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
 ' The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.' Instead 
 of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
 Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked 
 pole, with something on the top that looked like a red 
 nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
 was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes all this 
 was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on 
 the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
 which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but 
 even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat 
 was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held 
 in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was deco- 
 rated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted 
 in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
 but none that Rip recollected. The very character 
 of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, 
 bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the 
 accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
 looked in vain for ttye sage Nicholas Vedder, with his 
 broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
 clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ; or 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 73 
 
 Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the con- 
 tents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, 
 a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of 
 handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights 
 of citizens elections members of Congress liberty 
 Bunker's Hill heroes of seventy -six and other words, 
 which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewil- 
 dered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
 his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
 of women and children at his heels, soon attracted 
 the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded 
 round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great 
 curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing 
 him partly aside, inquired ' on which side he voted ? ' 
 Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
 busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on 
 tiptoe, inquired in his ear, ' Whether he was Federal 
 or Democrat ? ' Rip was equally at a loss to compre- 
 hend the question ; when a knowing, self-important 
 old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way 
 through the crowd, putting them to the right and left 
 with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself 
 before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other 
 resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat pene- 
 trating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an 
 austere tone, ' What brought him to the election with 
 a gun on bis shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
 whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? ' 
 * Alas I gentlemen,' cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, 
 ' I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and 
 a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! ' 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders 
 ' A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! 
 away with him ! ' It was with great difficulty that the 
 self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; 
 and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, 
 demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came 
 there for, and whom he was seeking ? The poor man 
 humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but 
 
 D3 
 
74 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, 
 who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 ' Well who are they ? name them.' 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
 ' Where 's Nicholas Vedder ? ' 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
 man replied in a thin piping voice, * Nicholas Vedder ! 
 why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There 
 was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used 
 to tell all about him, but that 's rotten and gone too.' 
 
 ' Where's Brom Butcher ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
 war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 
 Point others say he was drowned in a squall at the 
 foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know he never came 
 back again.' 
 
 * Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? ' 
 
 * He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
 general, and is now in Congress.' 
 
 Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
 in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
 in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- 
 ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
 which he could not understand : war -Congress Stony 
 Point ; he had no courage to ask after any more 
 friends, but cried out in despair, ' Does nobody here 
 know Rip Van Winkle ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! ' exclaimed two or three, 
 ' Oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
 leaning against the tree.* 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
 himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as 
 lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
 now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
 identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 
 In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
 hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? 
 
 4 God knows,' exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; ' I'm 
 not myself I'm somebody else that's me yonder 
 no that's somebody else got into my shoes I was 
 
RIP VAX WINKLE 75 
 
 myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and 
 they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, 
 and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, 
 or who I am ! ' 
 
 The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
 nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
 their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
 securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing 
 mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self- 
 important man in the cocked hat retired with some 
 precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely 
 woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the 
 grey-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, 
 which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. * Hush, 
 Rip,' cried she, ' hush, you little fool ; the old man 
 won't hurt you.' The name of the child, the air of the 
 mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of 
 recollections in his mind. 
 
 ' What is your name, my good woman ? ' asked he. 
 
 ' Judith Gardenier.' 
 
 ' And your father's name ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 
 it's twenty years since he went away from home with 
 his gun, and never has been heard of since his dog 
 came home without him ; but whether he shot himself, 
 or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 
 I was then but a little girl.' 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put 
 it with a faltering voice : 
 
 ' Where 's your mother ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
 broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New 
 England pedler.' 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
 gence. The honest man could contain himself no 
 longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
 arms. * I am your father ! ' cried he ' Young Rip 
 Van Winkle once old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does 
 nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? ' 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
 
76 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
 peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
 ' Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle it is himself ! 
 Welcome home again, old neighbour Why, where have 
 you been these twenty long years ? ' 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
 had been to him but as one night. The neighbours 
 stared when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at 
 each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and 
 the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when 
 the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed 
 down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head 
 upon which there was a general shaking of the head 
 throughout the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of 
 old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing 
 up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of 
 that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of 
 the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant 
 of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful 
 events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He 
 recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in 
 the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company 
 that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the 
 historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always 
 been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed 
 that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer 
 of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every 
 twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being 
 permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enter- 
 prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the 
 great city called by his name. That his father had once 
 seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins 
 in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had 
 heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, 
 like distant peals of thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
 and returned to the more important concerns of the 
 election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
 her ; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE 77 
 
 cheery farmer for her husband, whom Rip recollected 
 for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. 
 As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
 seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work 
 on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to 
 attend to anything else but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
 found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
 worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred 
 making friends among the rising generation, with whom 
 he soon grew into great favour. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
 that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, 
 he took his place once more on the bench at the inn 
 door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of 
 the village, and a chronicle of the old times ' before 
 the war '. It was some time before he could get 
 into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to 
 comprehend the strange events that had taken place 
 during his torpor. How that there had been a revolu- 
 tionary war that the country had thrown off the yoke 
 of old England and that, instead of being a subject of 
 his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen 
 of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; 
 the changes of states and empires made but little 
 impression on him ; but there was one species of 
 despotism under which he had long groaned, and that 
 was petticoat government. Happily that was at an 
 end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, 
 and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
 dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever 
 her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
 shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which 
 might pass either for an expression of resignation to his 
 fate, or joy at his deliverance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
 arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at 
 first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which 
 was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. 
 It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have 
 
78 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neigh- 
 bourhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended 
 to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been 
 out of his head, and that this was one point on which 
 he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, 
 however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
 to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a 
 summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
 Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of 
 ninepins ; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked 
 husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy 
 on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught 
 out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 1804-1864 
 THE SNOW-IMAGE 
 
 A CHILDISH MIRACLE 
 
 ONE afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun 
 shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, 
 two children asked leave of their mother to run out 
 and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child was 
 a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and 
 modest disposition, and was thought to be very beauti- 
 ful, her parents, and other people who were familiar 
 with her, used to call Violet. But her brother was 
 known by the style and title of Peony, on account of 
 the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which 
 made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet 
 flowers. The father of these two children, a certain 
 Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent 
 but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in 
 hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what 
 is called the common- sense view of all matters that 
 came under his consideration. With a heart about as 
 tender as other people's, he had a head as hard and 
 impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one 
 of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to 
 sell. The mother's character, on the other hand, had 
 a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty, 
 a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had sur- 
 vived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself 
 alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony and mother- 
 hood. 
 
 So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, be- 
 sought their mother to let them run out and play in 
 
80 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary 
 and dismal, drifting downward out of the grey sky, it 
 had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was 
 shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had 
 no wider play-place than a little garden before the 
 house, divided by a white fence from the street, and 
 with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees over- 
 shadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of 
 the parlour windows. The trees and shrubs, however, 
 were now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in 
 the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry 
 foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle for the 
 fruit. 
 
 * Yes, Violet, yes, my little Peony,' said their kind 
 mother ; ' you may go out and play in the new snow.' 
 
 Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings 
 in woollen jackets and wadded sacks, and put com- 
 forters round their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters 
 on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their 
 hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell 
 to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two 
 children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them 
 at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence 
 Violet emerged like a snow-bunting, while little Peony 
 floundered out with his round face in full bloom. Then 
 what a merry time had they ! To look at them, frolick- 
 ing in the wintry garden, you would have thought that 
 the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other 
 purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and 
 Peony ; and that they themselves had been created, 
 as the snow-birds were, to take delight only in the 
 tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over 
 the earth. 
 
 At last, when they had frosted one another all over 
 with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily 
 at little Peony's figure, was struck with a new idea. 
 
 ' You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,' said 
 she, * if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts 
 me in mind ! Let us make an image out of snow, an 
 image of a little girl, and it shall be our sister, and 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 81 
 
 shall run about and play with us all winter long. 
 Won't it be nice ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! ' cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, 
 for he was but a little boy. ' That will be nice ! And 
 mamma shall see it ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Violet ; ' mamma shall see the new 
 little girl. But she must not make her come into the 
 warm parlour ; for, you know, our little snow-sister 
 will not love the warmth.' 
 
 And forthwith the children began this great business 
 of making a snow-image that should run about ; while 
 their mother, who was sitting at the window and over- 
 heard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the 
 gravity with which they set about it. They really 
 seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty 
 whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. 
 And, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, 
 it will be by putting our hands to the work in precisely 
 such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that 
 in which Violet and Peony now undertook to perform 
 one, without so much as knowing that it was a miracle. 
 So thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that 
 the new snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excel- 
 lent material to make new beings of, if it were not so 
 very cold. She gazed at the children a moment longer, 
 delighting to watch their little figures, the girl, tall 
 for her age, graceful and agile, and so delicately 
 coloured that she looked like a cheerful thought, more 
 than a physical reality, while Peony expanded in 
 breadth rather than height, and rolled along on his 
 short and sturdy legs, as substantial as an elephant, 
 though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed 
 her work. What it was I forget ; but she was either 
 trimming a silken bonnet for Violet, or darning a pair 
 of stockings for little Peony's short legs. Again, how- 
 ever, and again, and yet other agains, she could not 
 help turning her head to the window, to see how the 
 children got on with their snow-image. 
 
 Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those 
 bright little souls at their tasks ! Moreover, it was 
 
82 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skil- 
 fully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the 
 chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with 
 her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer 
 parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so 
 much to be made by the children, as to grow up under 
 their hands, while they were playing and prattling 
 about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this ; 
 and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised 
 she grew. 
 
 ' What remarkable children mine are ! ' thought she, 
 smiling with a mother's pride ; and smiling at herself, 
 too, for being so proud of them. ' What other children 
 could have made anything so like a little girl's figure 
 out of snow, at the first trial ? Well ; but now I must 
 finish Peony's new frock, for his grandfather is coming 
 to-morrow, and I want the little fellow to look hand- 
 some.' 
 
 So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at 
 work again with her needle as the two children with 
 their snow-image. But still, as the needle travelled 
 hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the 
 mother made her toil light and happy by listening to 
 the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking 
 to one another all the time, their tongues being quite 
 as active as their feet and hands. Except at intervals, 
 she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had 
 merely a sweet impression that they were in a most 
 loving mood, and were* enjoying themselves highly, 
 and that the business of making the snow-image went 
 prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet 
 and Peony happened to raise their voices, the words 
 were as audible as if they had been spoken in the very 
 parlour, where the mother sat. Oh, how delightfully 
 those words echoed in her heart, even though they 
 meant nothing so very wise or wonderful, after all ! 
 
 But you must know a mother listens with her heart, 
 much more than with her ears ; and thus she is often 
 delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other 
 people can hear nothing of the kind. 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 83 
 
 ' Peony, Peony ! ' cried Violet to her brother, who 
 had gone to another part of the garden, ' bring me 
 some of that fresh snow, Peony, from the very furthest 
 corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it 
 to shape our little snow-sister's bosom with. You know 
 that part must be quite pure, just as it came out of 
 the sky ! ' 
 
 4 Here it is, Violet ! ' answered Peony, in his bluff 
 tone, but a very sweet tone, too, as he came flounder- 
 ing through the half-trodden drifts. * Here is the snow 
 for her little bosom. Violet, how beau-ti-ful she 
 begins to look ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly ; ' our 
 snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite 
 know, Peony, that we could make such a sweet little 
 girl as this.' 
 
 The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and 
 delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or, still 
 better, if angel-children were to come from paradise, 
 and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help 
 them to make their snow-image, giving it the features 
 of celestial babyhood ! Violet and Peony would not 
 be aware of their immortal playmates, only they would 
 see that the image grew very beautiful while they 
 worked at it, and would think that they themselves 
 had done it all. 
 
 ' My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if 
 mortal children ever did ! ' said the mother to herself ; 
 and then she smiled again at her own motherly pride. 
 
 Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination ; 
 and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse out of .the 
 window, half dreaming that she might see the golden- 
 haired children of paradise sporting with her own 
 golden- haired Violet and bright- cheeked Peony. 
 
 Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and 
 earnest, but indistinct hum of the two children's voices, 
 as Violet and Peony wrought together with one happy 
 consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, 
 while Peony acted rather as a labourer, and brought 
 her the snow from far and near. And yet the little 
 
84 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the 
 matter, too ! 
 
 ' Peony, Peony ! ' cried Violet ; for her brother was 
 again at the other side of the garden. ' Bring me those 
 light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower 
 branches of the pear- tree. You can clamber on the 
 snow-drift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have 
 them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's head ! ' 
 
 ' Here they are, Violet ! ' answered the little boy. 
 ' Take care you do not break them. Well done ! Well 
 done ! How pretty ! ' 
 
 ' Does she not look sweetly ? ' said Violet, with a very 
 satisfied tone ; ' and now we must have some little 
 shining bits of ice, to make the brightness of her eyes. 
 She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very 
 beautiful she is ; but papa will say, " Tush ! nonsense ! 
 come in out of the cold ! " 
 
 ' Let us call mamma to look out,' said Peony ; and 
 then he shouted lustily, ' Mamma ! mamma ! ! mam- 
 ma ! ! ! Look out, and see what a nice 'ittle girl we 
 are making ! ' 
 
 The mother put down her work, for an instant, and 
 looked out of the window. But it so happened that the 
 sun f or this was one of the shortest days of the whole 
 year had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world, 
 that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's 
 eyes. So she was dazzled, you must understand, and 
 could not very distinctly observe what was in the 
 garden. Still, however, through all that bright, blind- 
 ing dazzle of the sun and the new snow, she beheld 
 a small white figure in the garden, that seemed to have 
 a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. And she 
 saw Violet and Peony, indeed, she looked more at 
 them than at the image, she saw the two children still 
 at work ; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violet apply- 
 ing it to the figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds 
 clay to his model. Indistinctly as she discerned the 
 snow-child, the mother thought to herself that never 
 before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor 
 ever such a dear little girl and boy to make it. 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 85 
 
 * They do everything better than other children,' 
 said she, very complacently. ' No wonder they make 
 better snow-images ! ' 
 
 She sat down again to her work, and made as much 
 haste with it as possible ; because twilight would soon 
 come, and Peony's frock was not yet finished, and 
 grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in 
 the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her 
 flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at 
 work in the garden, and still the mother listened, when- 
 ever she could catch a word. She was amused to 
 observe how their little imaginations had got mixed 
 up with what they were doing, and were carried away 
 by it. They seemed positively to think that the snow- 
 child would run about and play with them. 
 
 * What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter 
 long ! ' said Violet. ' I hope papa will not be afraid 
 of her giving us a cold ! Shan't you love her dearly, 
 Peony ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! ' cried Peony. ' And I will hug her, and 
 she shall sit down close by me, and drink some of my 
 warm milk ! ' 
 
 ' Oh no, Peony ! ' answered Violet, with grave wis- 
 dom. ' That will not do at all. Warm milk will not 
 be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Little snow- 
 people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, 
 Peony ; we must not give her anything warm to 
 drink ! ' 
 
 There was a minute or two of silence ; for Peony, 
 whose short legs were never weary, had gone on a 
 pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. All 
 of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully. 
 
 4 Look here, Peony ! Come quickly ! A light has 
 been shining on her cheek out of that rose-coloured 
 cloud ! and the colour does not go away ! Is not that 
 beautiful ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it is beau-ti-ful,' answered Peony, pronounc- 
 ing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. ' Oh, 
 Violet, only look at her hair ! It is all like gold ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' said Violet, with tranquillity, as if 
 
86 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 it were very much a matter of course. ' That colour, 
 you know, comes from the golden clouds, that we see 
 up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But 
 her lips must be made very red, redder than her 
 cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red, if we 
 both kiss them. 
 
 Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little 
 smacks, as if both her children were kissing the snow- 
 image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did not seem 
 to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed 
 that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony's 
 scarlet cheek. 
 
 c Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me ; ' cried Peony. 
 
 ' There ! she has kissed you,' added Violet, ' and 
 now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little, 
 too!' 
 
 ' Oh, what a cold kiss ! ' cried Peony. 
 
 Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind, 
 sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlour 
 windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mother 
 was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled 
 finger, to summon the two children in, when they both 
 cried out to her with one voice. The tone was not 
 a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good 
 deal excited ; it appeared rather as if they were very 
 much rejoiced at some event that had now happened, 
 but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned 
 upon all along. 
 
 ' Mamma ! mamma ! We have finished our little 
 snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with 
 us !' 
 
 ' What imaginative li ttle beings my children are ! ' 
 thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into 
 Peony's frock. ' And it is strange, too, that they make 
 me almost as much a child as they themselves are ! 
 I can hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image 
 has really come to life ! ' 
 
 ' Dear mamma ! ' cried Violet, ' pra'y look out, and 
 see what a sweet playmate we have ! ' 
 
 The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 87 
 
 delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now 
 gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance 
 of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds 
 which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But 
 there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on 
 the window or on the snow ; so that the good lady 
 could look all over the garden, and see everything and 
 everybody in it. And what do you think she saw 
 there ? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two 
 darling children. Ah, but whom or what did she 
 besides ? Why, if you will believe me, there was 
 a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose- 
 tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about 
 the garden with the two children ! A stranger though 
 she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms 
 with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the 
 three had been playmates during the whole of their 
 little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must 
 certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbours, 
 and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the 
 child had run across the street to play with them. So 
 this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the 
 little runaway into her comfortable parlour ; for, now 
 that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out 
 of doors, was already growing very cold. 
 
 But, after opening the house- door, she stood an 
 instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought 
 to ask the child to come in, or whether she should 
 even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether 
 it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath 
 of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about 
 the garden by the intensely cold west wind. There 
 was certainly something very singular in the aspect of 
 the little stranger. Among all the children of the 
 neighbourhood, the lady could remember no such face, 
 with its pure white, and delicate rose-colour, and the 
 golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks. 
 And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and 
 fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable 
 woman would put upon a little girl, when sending her 
 
88 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 out to play, in the depth of winter. It made this kind 
 and careful mother shiver only to look at those small 
 feet, with nothing in the world on them, except a very 
 thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she 
 was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest 
 inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over 
 the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in 
 its surface ; while Violet could but just keep pace with 
 her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag behind. 
 
 Once, in the course of their play, the strange child 
 placed herself between Violet and Peony, and taking 
 a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they 
 along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony 
 pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if 
 the fingers were tingling with cold ; while Violet also 
 released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely 
 remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. 
 The white-robed damsel said not a word, but danced 
 about, just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony 
 did not choose to play with her, she could make just 
 as good a playmate of the brisk and cold west wind, 
 which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took 
 such liberties with her, that they seemed to have been 
 friends for a long time. All this while, the mother 
 stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl 
 could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how 
 a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl. 
 
 She called Violet, and whispered to her. 
 
 4 Violet, my darling, what is this child's name ? ' 
 asked she. * Does she live near us ? ' 
 
 4 Why, dearest mamma,' answered Violet, laughing 
 to think that her mother did not comprehend so very 
 plain an affair, ' this is our little snow-sister, whom we 
 have just been making ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear mamma,' cried Peony, running to his 
 mother, and looking up simply into her face. ' This 
 is our snow-image ! Is it not a nice 'ittle child ? ' 
 
 At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting 
 through the air. As was very natural, they avoided 
 Violet and Peony. But, and this looked strange, 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 89 
 
 they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered 
 eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and 
 seemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. She, on 
 her part, was evidently as glad to see these little birds, 
 old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to see her, 
 and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. 
 Hereupon, they each and all tried to alight on her two 
 palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one 
 another off, with an immense fluttering of their tiny 
 wings. One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her 
 bosom ; another put its bill to her lips. They were 
 as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much in their 
 element, as you may have seen them when sporting 
 with a snow-storm. 
 
 Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight ; 
 for they enjoyed the merry time which their new play- 
 mate was having with these small-winged visitants, 
 almost as much as if they themselves took part in it. 
 
 ' Violet,' said her mother, greatly perplexed, ' tell me 
 the truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl ? ' 
 
 ' My darling mamma,' answered Violet, looking seri- 
 ously into her mother's face, and apparently surprised 
 that she should need any further explanation, ' I have 
 told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image, 
 which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell 
 you so, as well as I.' 
 
 * Yes, mamma,' asseverated Peony, with much 
 gravity in his crimson little phiz ; ' this is 'ittle snow- 
 child. Is not she a nice one ? But, mamma, her hand 
 is, oh, so very cold ! ' 
 
 While mamma still hesitated what to think and what 
 to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father 
 of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth 
 sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the 
 thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was 
 a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look 
 in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had 
 been busy all the day long, and was glad to get back 
 to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight 
 of his wife and children, although he could not help 
 
90 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding the whole 
 family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after 
 sunset too. He soon perceived the little white stranger, 
 sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow- 
 wreath, and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about 
 her head. 
 
 ' Pray, what little girl may that be ? ' inquired this 
 very sensible man. ' Surely her mother must be crazy, 
 to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been 
 to-day, with only that flimsy white gown, and those 
 thin slippers ! ' 
 
 ' My dear husband,' said his wife, ' I know no more 
 about the little thing than you do. Some neighbour's 
 child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,' she added, 
 laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, 
 ' insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which 
 they have been busy about in the garden, almost all 
 the afternoon.' 
 
 As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward 
 the spot where the children's snow-image had been 
 made. What was her surprise, on perceiving that there 
 was not the slightest trace of so much labour ! no 
 image at all ! no piled-up heap of snow ! nothing 
 whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around 
 a vacant space I 
 
 ' This is very strange I ' said she. 
 
 ' What is strange, dear mother ? ' asked Violet. 
 ' Dear father, do not you see how it is ? This is our 
 snow-image, which Peony and I have made, because 
 we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa,' said crimson Peony. * This be our 'ittle 
 snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful ? But she gave me 
 such a cold kiss ! ' 
 
 * Poh, nonsense, children ! ' cried their good, honest 
 father, who, as we have already intimated, had an 
 exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at matters. 
 ' Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. 
 Come, wife ; this little stranger must not stay out in 
 the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her 
 into the parlour ; and you shall give her a supper of 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 91 
 
 warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable 
 as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquire among the 
 neighbours ; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about 
 the streets, to give notice of a lost child.' 
 
 So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man 
 was going toward the little white damsel, with the best 
 intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each 
 seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought 
 him not to make her come in. 
 
 'Dear father,' cried Violet, putting herself before 
 him, * it is true what I have been telling you ! This 
 is our little snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer 
 than while she breathes the cold west wind. Do not 
 make her come into the hot room ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, father,' shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, 
 so mightily was he in earnest, ' this be nothing but our 
 'ittle snow-child ! She will not love the hot fire ! ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense ! ' cried the 
 father, half vexed, half laughing at what he considered 
 their foolish obstinacy. ' Run into the house, this 
 moment ! It is too late to play any longer, now. 
 I must take care of this little girl immediately, or she 
 will catch her death- a- cold ! ' 
 
 ' Husband ! dear husband ! ' said his wife, in a low 
 voice, for she had been looking narrowly at tl\e snow- 
 child, and was more perplexed than ever, 'there is 
 something very singular in all this. You will think me 
 foolish, but but may it not be that some invisible 
 angel has been attracted by the simplicity and good 
 faith with which our children set about their under- 
 taking ? May he not have spent an hour of his immor- 
 tality in playing with those dear little souls ? and so 
 the result is what we call a miracle. No, no ! Do not 
 laugh at me ; I see what a foolish thought it is I' 
 
 ' My dear wife,' replied the husband, laughing 
 heartily, ' you are as much a child as Violet and Peony.' 
 
 And in one sense so she was, for all through life she 
 had kept her heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, 
 which was as pure and clear as crystal ; and, looking 
 at all matters through this transparent medium, she 
 
92 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 sometimes saw truths so profound, that other people 
 laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity. 
 
 But now kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, 
 breaking away from his two children, who still sent 
 their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the 
 snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west 
 wind. As he approached, the snow-birds took to flight. 
 The little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking 
 her head, as if to say, ' Pray, do not touch me ! ' and 
 roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the 
 deepest of the snow. Once, the good man stumbled, 
 and floundered down upon his face, so that, gathering 
 himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough 
 pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as 
 a snow-image of the largest size. Some of the neigh- 
 bours, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, 
 wondered what could possess poor Mr. Lindsey to be 
 running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, 
 which the west wind was driving hither and thither ! 
 At length, after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the 
 little stranger into a corner, where she could not pos- 
 sibly escape him. His wife had been looking on, and, 
 it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe 
 how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how 
 she seemed to shed a glow all round about her ; and 
 when driven into the corner, she positively glistened 
 like a star ! It was a frosty kind of brightness, too, 
 like that of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife 
 thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should see 
 nothing remarkable in the snow -child's appearance. 
 
 ' Come, you odd little thing ! ' cried the honest man, 
 seizing her by the hand, 'I have caught you at last, 
 and will make you comfortable in spite of yourself. 
 We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on 
 your frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick 
 shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor white nose, I am 
 afraid, is actually frost-bitten. But we will make it 
 all right. Come along in.' 
 
 And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious 
 visage, all purple as it was with the cold, this very 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 93 
 
 well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the 
 hand and led her towards the house. She followed 
 him, droopingly and reluctant ; for all the glow and 
 sparkle was gone out of her figure ; and whereas just 
 before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed 
 evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she 
 now looked as dull and languid as a thaw. As kind 
 Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet 
 and Peony looked into his face, their eyes full of tears, 
 which froze before they could run down their cheeks 
 and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image 
 into the house. 
 
 ' Not bring her in ! ' exclaimed the kind-hearted man. 
 ' Why, you are crazy, my little Violet ! quite crazy, 
 my small Peony ! She is so cold, already, that her 
 hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick 
 gloves. Would you have her freeze to death ? ' 
 
 His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking 
 another long, earnest, almost awe- stricken gaze at the 
 little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was 
 a dream or no ; but she could not help fancying that 
 she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingers on the 
 child's neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was 
 shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat 
 with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the 
 impression quite away. 
 
 k After all, husband,' said the mother, recurring to 
 her idea that the angels would be as much delighted 
 to play with Violet and Peony as she herself was, 
 ' after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image ! 
 I do believe she is made of snow ! ' 
 
 A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, 
 and again she sparkled like a star. 
 
 ' Snow ! ' repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the 
 reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. ' No 
 wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor 
 little thing ! But a good fire will put everything to 
 rights.' 
 
 Without further talk, and always with the same best 
 intentions, this highly benevolent and common-sensible 
 
94 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 individual led the little white damsel drooping, droop- 
 ing, drooping, more and more out of the frosty air, 
 and into his comfortable parlour. A Heidenberg stove, 
 filled to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, 
 was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass of its 
 iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to 
 fume and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry 
 smell was diffused throughout the room. A thermo- 
 meter on the wall furthest from the stove stood at 
 eighty degrees. The parlour was hung with red cur- 
 tains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just 
 as warm as it felt. The difference betwixt the atmo- 
 sphere here and the cold wintry twilight out of doors, 
 was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to the 
 hottest part of India, or from the North Pole into an 
 oven. Oh, this was a fine place for the little white 
 stranger ! 
 
 The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on 
 the hearthrug, right in front of the hissing and fuming 
 stove. 
 
 ' Now she will be comfortable ! ' cried Mr. Lindsey, 
 rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the 
 pleasantest smile you ever saw. ' Make yourself at 
 home, my child.' 
 
 Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, 
 as she stood on the hearthrug, with the hot blast of 
 the stove striking through her like a pestilence. Once, 
 she threw a glance wistfully toward the windows, and 
 caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow- 
 covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and 
 all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak 
 wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning 
 her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, 
 drooping, before the hot stove ! 
 
 But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. 
 
 ' Come, wife,' said he, ' let her have a pair of thick 
 stockings and a woollen shawl or blanket directly ; and 
 tell Dora to give her some warm supper as soon as 
 the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your 
 little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding 
 
THE SNOW-IMAGE 95 
 
 herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go 
 around among the neighbours, and find out where she 
 belongs.' 
 
 The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the 
 shawl and stockings ; for her own view of the matter, 
 however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it 
 always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband. 
 Without heeding the remonstrances of his two children, 
 who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister 
 did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his 
 departure, shutting the parlour door carefully behind 
 him. Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, 
 he emerged from the house, and had barely reached 
 the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of 
 Violet and Peony, and the rapping of a thimbled finger 
 against the parlour window. 
 
 ' Husband ! husband ! ' cried his wife, showing her 
 horror-stricken face through the window-panes. ' There 
 is no need of going for the child's parents ! ' 
 
 ' We told you so, father ! ' screamed Violet and 
 Peony, as he re-entered the parlour. ' You would 
 bring her in ; and now our poor dear beau-ti-ful 
 little snow-sister is thawed ! ' 
 
 And their own sweet little faces were already dis- 
 solved in tears ; so that their father, seeing what 
 strange things occasionally happen in this everyday 
 world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might 
 be going to thaw too ! In the utmost perplexity, he 
 demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only 
 reply, that, being summoned to the parlour by the 
 cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the 
 little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap 
 of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite 
 away upon the hearthrug. 
 
 ' And there you see all that is left of it ! ' added she, 
 pointing to a pool of water, in front of the stove. 
 
 ' Yes, father,' said Violet, looking reproachfully at 
 him, through her tears, ' there is all that is left of our 
 dear little snow-sister ! ' 
 
 ' Naughty father ! ' cried Peony, stamping his foot, 
 
96 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 and I shudder to say shaking his little fist at the 
 common-sensible man. ' We told you how it would 
 be ! What for did you bring her in ? ' 
 
 And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of 
 its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like 
 a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which 
 it had done ! 
 
 This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, 
 which yet will occasionally happen, where common- 
 sense finds itself at fault. The remarkable story of the 
 snow-image, though to that sagacious class of people 
 to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs it may seem but 
 a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being 
 moralized in various methods, greatly for their edifica- 
 tion. One of its lessons, for instance, . might be, that 
 it behoves men, and especially men of benevolence, to 
 consider well what they are about, and, before acting 
 on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that 
 they comprehend the nature and all the relations of 
 the business in hand. What has been established as 
 an element of good to one being may prove absolute 
 mischief to another ; even as the warmth of the parlour 
 was proper enough for children of flesh and blood, like 
 Violet and Peony, though by no means very whole- 
 some, even for them, but involved nothing short of 
 annihilation to the unfortunate snow-image. 
 
 But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise 
 men of good Mr. Lindsey's stamp. They know every- 
 thing oh, to be sttre ! everything that has been, and 
 everything that is, and everything that, by any future 
 possibility, can be. And,' should some phenomenon of 
 nature or providence transcend their system, they will 
 not recognize it, even if it come to pass under their 
 very noses. 
 
 4 Wife,' said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit of silence, ' see 
 what a quantity of snow the children have brought in 
 on their feet ! It has made quite a puddle here before 
 the stove. Pray tell Dora to bring some towels and 
 sop it up ! ' 
 
97 
 
 THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 
 
 A FAIRY LEGEND 
 
 I HAVE sometimes produced a singular and not 
 unpleasing effect, so far as my own mind was con- 
 cerned, by imagining a train of incidents, in which the 
 spirit and mechanism of the fairy legend should be 
 combined with the characters and manners of familiar 
 life. In the little tale which follows, a subdued tinge 
 of the wild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of 
 New England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped, 
 without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. 
 Rather than a story of events claiming to be real, it 
 may be considered as an allegory, such as the writers 
 of the last century would have expressed in the shape 
 of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavoured 
 to give a more lifelike warmth than could be infused 
 into those fanciful productions. 
 
 In the twilight of a summer eve, a tall, dark figure, 
 over which long and remote travel had thrown an 
 outlandish aspect, was entering a village, not in * Fairy 
 Londe ', but within our own familiar boundaries. The 
 staff on which this traveller leaned, had been his com- 
 panion from the spot where it grew, in the jungles of 
 Hindostan ; the hat that overshadowed his sombre 
 brow, had shielded him from the suns of Spain ; but 
 his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind 
 of an, Arabian desert, and had felt the frozen breath of 
 an Arctic region. Long sojourning amid wild and 
 dangerous* men, he still wore beneath his vest the 
 ataghan which he had once struck into the throat of 
 a Turkish robber. In every foreign clime he had lost 
 something of his New England characteristics ; and, 
 perhaps, from every people he had unconsciously bor- 
 rowed a new peculiarity ; so that when the world 
 wanderer again trod the street of his native village, 
 it is no wonder that he passed unrecognized, though 
 
 193 B 
 
98 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 exciting the gaze and curiosity of all. Yet, as his arm 
 casually touched that of a young woman, who was 
 wending her way to an evening lecture, she started, 
 and almost uttered a cry. 
 
 ' Ralph Cranfield ! ' was the name that she half 
 articulated. 
 
 . * Can that be my old playmate, Faith Egerton ? ' 
 thought the traveller, looking round at her figure, but 
 without pausing. 
 
 Ralph Cranfield, from his youth upward, had felt 
 himself marked out for a high destiny. He had imbibed 
 the idea we say not whether it were revealed to him 
 by witchcraft, or in a dream of prophecy, or that his 
 brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates upon him 
 as the oracles of a Sibyl but he had imbibed the idea, 
 and held it firmest among his articles of faith, that 
 three marvellous events of his life were to be confirmed 
 to him by three signs. 
 
 The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the 
 one on which his youthful imagination had dwelt most 
 fondly, was the discovery of the maid, who alone, of 
 all the maids on earth, could make him happy by her 
 love. He was to roam around the world till he should 
 meet a beautiful woman, wearing on her bosom a jewel 
 in the shape of a heart ; whether of pearl, or ruby, or 
 emerald, or carbuncle, or a changeful opal, or perhaps 
 a priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so 
 long as it were a heart of one peculiar shape. On 
 encountering this lovely stranger, he was bound to 
 address her thus : * Maiden, I have brought you a 
 heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you ? ' ^ And 
 if she were his fated bride if their kindred souls were 
 destined to form a union here below, which all eternity 
 should only bind more closely she would reply, with 
 her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, ' This token, 
 which I have worn so long, is the assurance that you 
 may ! ' 
 
 And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that 
 there was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in the 
 earth, of which the burial-place would be revealed to 
 
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 99 
 
 none but him. When his feet should press upon the 
 mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him, 
 pointing downward whether carved of marble, or 
 hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of a rocky 
 precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air, 
 he could not tell ; but, at least, he would discern 
 a hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath 
 it the Latin word EFFODE Dig ! And digging there- 
 abouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, 
 or of whatever else the treasure might consist, would 
 be certain to reward his toil. 
 
 The third and last of the miraculous events in the 
 life of this high-destined man, was to be the attain- 
 ment of extensive influence and sway over his fellow- 
 creatures. Whether he were to be a king, and founder 
 of an hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of 
 a people contending for their freedom, or the apostle 
 of a purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity 
 to show. As messengers of the sign, by which Ralph 
 Cranfield might recognize the summons, three venerable 
 men were to claim audience of him. The chief among 
 them, a dignified and majestic person, arrayed, it may 
 be supposed, in the flowing garments of an ancient 
 sage, would be the bearer of a wand, or prophet's rod. 
 With this wand, or rod, or staff, the venerable sage 
 would trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed 
 to make known his heaven-instructed message ; which, 
 if obeyed, must lead to glorious results. 
 
 With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his 
 imaginative youth, Ralph Cranfield had set forth to 
 seek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage, 
 with his gift of extended empire. And had he found 
 them ? Alas ! it was not with the aspect of a trium- 
 phant man, who had achieved a nobler destiny than all 
 his fellows, but rather with the gloom of one struggling 
 against peculiar and continual adversity, that he now 
 passed homeward to his mother's cottage. He had 
 come back, but only for a time, to lay aside the pilgrim's 
 staff, trusting that his weary manhood would regain 
 somewhat of the elasticity of youth in the spot where 
 
100 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 his threefold fate had been foreshown him. There had 
 been few changes in the village ; for it was not one of 
 those thriving places where a year's prosperity makes 
 more than the havoc of a century's decay ; but like 
 a grey hair in a young man's head, an antiquated 
 little town, full of old maids, and aged elms, and moss- 
 grown dwellings. Few seemed to be the changes here. 
 The drooping elms, indeed, had a more majestic spread ; 
 the weather- blackened houses were adorned with a 
 denser thatch of verdant moss ; and doubtless there 
 were a few more gravestones in the burial ground, 
 inscribed with names that had once been familiar in 
 the village street. Yet, summing up all the mischief 
 that ten years had wrought, it seemed scarcely more 
 than if Ralph Cranfield had gone forth that very 
 morning, and dreamed a daydream till the twilight, 
 and then turned back again. But his heart grew cold, 
 because the village did not remember him as he remem- 
 bered the village. 
 
 ' Here is the change ! ' sighed he, striking his hand 
 upon his breast. ' Who is this man of thought and 
 care, weary with world wandering, and heavy with 
 disappointed hopes ? The youth returns not, who went 
 forth so joyously ! ' 
 
 And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother's gate, 
 in front of the small house where the old lady, with 
 slender but sufficient means, had kept herself comfort- 
 able during her son's long absence. Admitting himself 
 within the enclosure, he leaned against a great, old tree, 
 trifling with his own impatience, as people often do in 
 those intervals when years are summed into a moment. 
 He took a minute survey of the dwelling its windows, 
 brightened with the sky gleam, its doorway, with the 
 half of a millstone for a step, and the faintly-traced 
 path waving thence to the gate. He made friends 
 again with his childhood's friend, the old tree against 
 which he leaned ; and glancing his eye adown its trunk, 
 beheld something that excited a melancholy smile. 
 It was a half-obliterated inscription the Latin word 
 EFFODE which he remembered to have carved in the 
 
THE THREEFOLD DESTINE 101 
 
 bark of the tree, with a whole day's toil, when he had 
 first begun to muse about his exalted destiny. It 
 might be accounted a rather singular coincidence, that 
 the bark, just above the inscription, had put forth an 
 excrescence, shaped not unlike a hand, with the fore- 
 finger pointing obliquely at the word of fate. Such, 
 at least, was its appearance in the dusky light. 
 
 ' Now a credulous man,' said Ralph Cranfield care- 
 lessly to himself, ' might suppose that the treasure 
 which I have sought round the world, lies buried, after 
 all, at the very door of my mother's dwelling. That 
 would be a jest indeed ! ' 
 
 More he thought not about the matter ; for now the 
 door was opened, and an elderly woman appeared on 
 the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who 
 it might be that had intruded on her premises, and 
 was standing in the shadow of her tree. It was Ralph 
 Cranfield' s mother. Pass we over their greeting, and 
 leave the one to her joy and the other to his rest if 
 quiet rest be found. 
 
 But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled 
 brow ; for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been 
 full of dreams. All the fervour was rekindled with 
 which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold 
 mystery of his fate. The crowd of his early visions 
 seemed to have awaited him beneath his mother's roof, 
 and thronged riotously around to welcome his return. 
 In the well-remembered chamber on the pillow where 
 his infancy had slumbered he had passed a wilder 
 night than ever in an Arab tent, or when he had reposed 
 his head in the ghastly shades of a haunted forest. 
 A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside, and laid 
 her finger on the scintillating heart ; a hand of flame 
 had glowed amid the darkness, pointing downward to 
 a mystery within the earth ; a hoary sage had waved 
 his prophetic wand, and beckoned the dreamer onward 
 to a chair of state. The samerphantoms, though fainter 
 in the daylight, still flitted about the cottage, and 
 mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that were 
 drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cranfield's return, 
 
102 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 to bid him welcome for his mother's sake. There they 
 found him, a tall, dark, stately man, of foreign aspect, 
 courteous in demeanour and mild of speech, yet with an 
 abstracted eve, which seemed often to snatch a glance 
 at the invisible. 
 
 Meantime the widow Cranfield went bustling about 
 the house, full of joy that she again had somebody to 
 love, and be careful of, and for whom she might vex 
 and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. 
 It was nearly noon when she looked forth from the 
 door, and descried three personages of note coming 
 along the street, through the hot sunshine and the 
 masses of elm-tree shade. At length they reached her 
 gate, and undid the latch. 
 
 * See, Ralph ! ' exclaimed she, with maternal pride, 
 ' here is Squire Hawkwood and the two other selectmen 
 coming on purpose tofcee you ! Now do tell them a good 
 long story about what you have seen in foreign parts.' 
 
 The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, 
 was a very pompous, but excellent old gentleman, the 
 head and prime mover in all the affairs of the village, 
 and universally acknowledged to be one of the sagest 
 men on earth. He wore, according to a fashion even 
 then becoming antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and 
 carried a silver-headed cane, the use of which seemed 
 to be rather for flourishing in the air than for assisting 
 the progress of his legs. His two companions were 
 elderly and respectable yeomen, who, retaining an ante- 
 revolutionary reverence for rank and hereditary wealth, 
 kept a little in the Squire's rear. As they approached 
 along the pathway, Ralph Cranfield sat in an oaken 
 elbow chair, half unconsciously gazing at the three 
 visitors, and enveloping their homely figures in the 
 misty romance that pervaded his mental world. 
 
 * Here,' thought he, smiling at the conceit, ' here 
 come three elderly personages, and the first of the 
 three is a venerable sage* with a staff. What if this 
 embassy should bring me the message of my fate ! ' 
 
 While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, 
 Ralph rose from his seat, and advanced a few steps 
 
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 103 
 
 to receive them; and his stately figure and dark 
 countenance, as he bent courteously towards his guests, 
 had a natural dignity, contrasting well with the bustling 
 importance of the Squire. The old gentleman, accord- 
 ing to invariable custom, gave an elaborate preliminary 
 flourish with his cane in the air, then removed his three- 
 cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and finally 
 proceeded to make known his errand. 
 
 ' My colleagues and myself,' began the Squire, ' are 
 burdened with momentous duties, being jointly select- 
 men of this village. Our minds, for the space of three 
 days past, have been laboriously bent on the selection 
 of a suitable person to fill a most important office, and 
 take upon himself a charge and rule, which, wisely 
 considered, may be ranked no lower than those of kings 
 and potentates. And whereas you, our native towns- 
 man, are of good natural intellect, and well cultivated 
 by foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and fantasies 
 of your youth are doubtless long ago corrected ; taking 
 all these matters, I say, into due consideration, we are 
 of opinion that Providence hath sent you hither, at 
 this juncture, for our very purpose.' 
 
 During this harangue, Cranfield gazed fixedly at the 
 speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and 
 unearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the 
 Squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage, 
 instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, 
 velvet breeches and silk stockings. Nor was his wonder 
 without sufficient cause ; for the flourish of the Squire's 
 staff, marvellous to relate, had described precisely the 
 signal in the air which was to ratify the message of 
 the prophetic Sage, whom Cranfield had sought around 
 the world. 
 
 ' And what,' inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor 
 in his voice, ' what may this office be, which is to equal 
 me with kings and potentates ? ' 
 
 ' No less than instructor of our village school,' 
 answered Squire Hawkwood ; ' the office being now 
 vacant by the death of the venerable Master Whitaker, 
 after a fifty years' incumbency.' 
 
104 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 ' I will consider of your proposal,' replied Ralph 
 Oranfield, hurriedly, ' and will make known my de- 
 cision within three days.' 
 
 After a few more words, the village dignitary and his 
 companions took their leave. But to Cranfield's fancy 
 their images were still present, and became more and 
 more invested with the dim awfulness of figures which 
 had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterwards 
 had shown themselves in his waking moments, assuming 
 homely aspects among familiar things. His mind dwelt 
 upon the features of the Squire, till they grew confused 
 with those of the visionary Sage, and one appeared but 
 the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now 
 thought, had looked forth upon him from the Pyramid 
 of Cheops ; the same form had beckoned to him among 
 the colonnades of the Alhambra ; the same figure had 
 mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of 
 the Great Geyser. At every effort of his memory he 
 recognized some trait of the dreamy Messenger of 
 Destiny, in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little 
 great man of the village. Amid such musings, Ralph 
 Cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing 
 and vaguely answering his mother's thousand questions 
 about his travels and adventures. At sunset, he roused 
 himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm- tree, 
 his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand, 
 pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription. 
 
 As Cranfield walked down the street of the village, 
 the level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him ; 
 and he fancied that, as his shadow walked among 
 distant objects, so had there been a presentiment 
 stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And 
 when he drew near each object, over which his tall 
 shadow had preceded him, still it proved to be one of 
 the familiar recollections of his infancy and youth. 
 Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even 
 the more transitory characteristics of the scene were 
 the same as in bygone days. A company of cows 
 were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him 
 with their fragrant breath. ' It is sweeter,' thought 
 
THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 105 
 
 he, ' than the perfume which was wafted to our ship 
 from the Spice Islands.' The round little figure of 
 a child rolled from a doorway, and lay laughing almost 
 beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately man 
 stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to 
 his mother's arms. ' The children,' said he to him- 
 self and sighed, and smiled ' the children are to be 
 my charge ! ' And while a flow of natural feeling 
 gushed like a wellspring in his heart, he came to 
 a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. 
 A sweet voice, which seemed to come from a deep and 
 tender soul, was warbling a plaintive little air within. 
 
 He bent his head, and passed through the lowly 
 door. As his foot sounded upon the threshold, a young 
 woman advanced from the dusky interior of the house, 
 at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain step, 
 till they met face to face. There was a singular con- 
 trast in their two figures ; he dark and picturesque 
 one who had battled with the world whom all suns 
 had shone upon, and whom all winds had blown on 
 a varied course ; she neat, comely, and quiet quiet 
 even in her agitation as if all her emotions had been 
 subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. Yet their 
 faces, all unlike as they were, had an expression that 
 seemed not so alien a glow of kindred feeling, flashing 
 upward anew from half-extinguished embers. 
 
 ; You are welcome home ! ' said Faith Egerton. 
 
 But Cranfield did not immediately answer ; for his 
 eye had been caught by an ornament in the shape of 
 a Heart, which Faith wore as a brooch upon her bosom. 
 The material was the ordinary white quartz ; and he 
 recollected having himself shaped it out of one of those 
 Indian arrowheads which are so often found in the 
 ancient haunts of the red men. It was precisely on 
 the pattern of that worn by the visionary Maid. When 
 Cranfield departed on his shadowy search he had 
 bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting 
 gift to Faith Egerton. 
 
 ' So, Faith, you have kept the Heart ! ' said he, at 
 length. 
 
 E3 
 
106 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 ' Yes,' said she, blushing deeply then more gaily, 
 ' and what else have you brought me from beyond the 
 sea?' 
 
 * Faith,' replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated 
 words by an uncontrollable impulse, ' I have brought 
 you nothing but a heavy heart ! May I rest its weight 
 on you ? ' 
 
 ' This token, which I have worn so long,' said Faith, 
 laying her tremulous finger on the Heart, ' is the assur- 
 ance that you may ! ' 
 
 ' Faith ! Faith ! ' cried Cranfield, clasping her in his 
 arms, ' you have interpreted my wild and weary dream ! ' 
 
 Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find 
 the mysterious treasure, he was to till the earth around 
 his mother's dwelling, and reap its products ! Instead 
 of warlike command, or regal or religious sway, he 
 was to rule over the village children ! And now the 
 visionary Maid had faded from his fancy, and in her 
 place he saw the playmate of his childhood ! Would 
 all, who cherish such wild wishes, but look around 
 them, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, of 
 prosperity, and happiness, within those precincts, and 
 in that station, where Providence itself has cast their 
 lot. Happy they who read the riddle, without a weary 
 world search, or a lifetime spent in vain ! 
 
 DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 
 
 THAT very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once 
 invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. 
 There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Med- 
 bourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and 
 a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow 
 Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, 
 who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest 
 misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their 
 graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigour of his age, had 
 been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by 
 
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 107 
 
 a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a 
 mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best 
 years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of 
 sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of 
 pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of 
 soul and body. Mr. Gascoigue was a ruined politician, 
 a man of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had 
 buried him from the knowledge of the present genera- 
 tion, and made him obscure instead of infamous. As 
 for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was 
 a great beauty in her day ; but, for a long while past, 
 she had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain 
 scandalous stories, which had prejudiced the gentry 
 of the town against her. It is a circumstance worth 
 mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen, 
 Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, 
 were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had 
 once been on the point of cutting each others throats 
 for her sake. And, before proceeding further, I will 
 merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests 
 were sometimes thought to be a little beside them- 
 selves ; as is not unfrequently the case with old people, 
 when worried either by present troubles or woful 
 recollections. 
 
 ' My dear old friends,' said Dr. Heidegger, motioning 
 them to be seated, ' I am desirous of your assistance in 
 one of those little experiments with which I amuse 
 myself here in my study.' 
 
 If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must 
 have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- 
 fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be- 
 sprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood 
 several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which 
 were filled with rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter 
 quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered 
 duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a bronze 
 bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some 
 authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold con- 
 sultations, in all difficult cases of his practice. In the 
 obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow 
 
108 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully 
 appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases 
 hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty 
 plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among many 
 wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled 
 that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients 
 dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face 
 whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite side of 
 the chamber was ornamented with the full-length por- 
 trait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence 
 of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as 
 her dress. Above half a century ago, Dr. Heidegger 
 had been on the point of marriage with this young lady ; 
 but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had 
 swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on 
 the bridal evening. The greatest curiosity of the study 
 remains to be mentioned ; it was a ponderous folio 
 volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver 
 clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody 
 could tell the title of the book. But it was well known 
 to be a book of magic ; and once, when a chambermaid 
 had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton 
 had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady 
 had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly 
 faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the 
 brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said ' For- 
 bear !' 
 
 Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer 
 afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black 
 as ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining 
 a cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate work- 
 manship. The sunshine came through the window, 
 between the heavy festoons of two faded damask 
 curtains, and fell directly across this vase ; so that 
 a mild splendour was reflected from it on the ashen 
 visages of the five old people who sat around. Four 
 champagne glasses were also on the table. 
 
 ' My dear old friends,' repeated Dr. Heidegger, ' may 
 I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly 
 curious experiment ? ' 
 
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 109 
 
 Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentle- 
 man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for 
 a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to 
 my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back 
 to mine own veracious self ; and if any passages of 
 the present tale should startle the reader's faith, 
 I must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction- 
 monger. 
 
 When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his 
 proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more 
 wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump, 
 or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or 
 some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in 
 the habit of pestering his intimates. But without 
 waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the 
 chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, 
 bound in black leather, which common report affirmed 
 to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he 
 opened the volume, and took from among its black- 
 letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now 
 the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one 
 brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready to 
 crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. 
 
 * This rose,' said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, ' this 
 same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five 
 and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, 
 whose portrait hangs yonder ; and I meant to wear it 
 in my bosom at our wedding. Five-and-fif ty years it has 
 been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. 
 Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half 
 a century could ever bloom again ? ' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' said the Widow Wycherly, with a 
 peevish toss of her head. ' You might as well ask 
 whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom 
 again.' 
 
 ' See ! ' answered Dr. Heidegger. 
 
 He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into 
 the water which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on 
 the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its 
 moisture. Soon, however, a singular change began to be 
 
110 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and 
 assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower 
 were reviving from a deathlike slumber ; the slender 
 stalk and twigs of foliage became green ; and there was 
 the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when 
 Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was 
 scarcely full blown ; for some of its delicate red leaves 
 curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which 
 two or three dewdrops were sparkling. 
 
 ' That is certainly a very pretty deception,' said the 
 doctor's friends ; carelessly, however, for they had 
 witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show ; ' pray 
 how was it effected ? ' 
 
 ' Did you never hear of the " Fountain of Youth " ? ' 
 asked Dr. Heidegger, ' which Ponce de Leon, the 
 Spanish adventurer, went in search of, two or three 
 centuries ago ? ' 
 
 ' But did Ponce de Leon ever find it ? ' said the 
 Widow Wycherly. 
 
 ' No,' answered Dr. Heidegger, ' for he never sought 
 it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if 
 I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of 
 the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its 
 source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, 
 which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept 
 as fresh as violets, by the virtues of this wonderful 
 water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity 
 in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase.' 
 
 ' Ahem ! ' said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not 
 a word of the doctor's story ; ' and what may be the 
 effect of this fluid on the human frame ? ' 
 
 ' You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,' 
 replied Dr. Heidegger ; ' and all of you, my respected 
 friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fhiid 
 as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own 
 part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in 
 no hurry to grow young again. With your permission, 
 therefore, I will merely watch the progress of the 
 experiment.' 
 
 While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the 
 
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 111 
 
 four champagne glasses with the water of the Fountain 
 of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an 
 effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually 
 ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting 
 in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused 
 a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted now that it 
 possessed cordial and comfortable properties ; and, 
 though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they 
 were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger 
 besought them to stay a moment. 
 
 * Before you drink, my respectable old friends,' said 
 he, ' it would be well that, with the experience of a life- 
 time to direct you, you should draw up a few general 
 rules for your guidance, in passing a second time 
 through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and 
 shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, 
 you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom 
 to all the young people of the age ! ' 
 
 The doctor's four venerable friends made him no 
 answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh ; so 
 very ridiculous was the idea, that, knowing how closely 
 repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should 
 ever go astray again. 
 
 ' Drink, then,' said the doctor, bowing : * I rejoice 
 that I have so well selected the subjects of my experi- 
 ment.' 
 
 With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their 
 lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as 
 Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been 
 bestowed on four human beings who needed it more 
 wof ully. They looked as if they had never known what 
 youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of 
 Nature's dotage, and always the grey, decrepit, sapless, 
 miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the 
 doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or 
 bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing 
 young again. They drank off the water, and replaced 
 their glasses on the table. 
 
 Assuredly there was an almost immediate improve- 
 ment in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might 
 
112 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 have been produced by a glass of generous wine, 
 together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, 
 brightening over all their visages at once. There was 
 a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the 
 ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. 
 They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic 
 power had really begun to smooth away the deep and 
 sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long 
 engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly 
 adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman 
 again. 
 
 ' Give us more of this wondrous water ! ' cried they, 
 eagerly. ' We are younger but we are still too old ! 
 Quick give us more ! ' 
 
 * Patience, patience ! ' quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat 
 watching the experiment, with philosophic coolness. 
 ' You have been a long time growing old. Surely, you 
 might be content to grow young in half an hour ! But 
 the water is at your service.' 
 
 Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, 
 enough of which still remained in the vase to turn halt 
 the old people in the city to the age of their own grand- 
 children. While the bubbles were yet sparkling on the 
 brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses 
 from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single 
 gulp. Was it delusion ? even while the draught was 
 passing down their throats, it seemed to have wrought 
 a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear 
 and bright ; a dark shade deepened among their silvery 
 locks ; they sat around the table, three gentlemen of 
 middle age, and a woman hardly beyond her buxom 
 prime. 
 
 ' My dear widow, you are charming ! ' cried Colonel 
 Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, 
 while the shadows of age were flitting from it like 
 darkness from the crimson daybreak. 
 
 The fair widow knew of old that Colonel Killigrew' s 
 compliments were not always measured by sober truth ; 
 so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading 
 that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her 
 
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 113 
 
 gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such 
 a manner, as proved that the water of the Fountain of 
 Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities ; unless, 
 indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a light- 
 some dizziness, caused by the sudden removal of the 
 weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run 
 on political topics, but whether relating to the past, 
 present, or future, could not easily be determined, since 
 the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these 
 fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences 
 about patriotism, national glory, and the people's right ; 
 now he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly 
 and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own 
 conscience could scarcely catch the secret ; and now, 
 again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply 
 deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his 
 well-turned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had 
 been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his 
 glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes 
 wandered toward the buxom figure of the Widow 
 Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr. Med- 
 bourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and 
 cents, with which was strangely intermingled a project 
 for supplying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing 
 a team of whales to the polar icebergs. 
 
 As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the 
 mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, and 
 greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than 
 all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the 
 glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle 
 or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She examined 
 whether the snow had so entirely melted from her hair, 
 that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. 
 At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of 
 dancing step to the table. 
 
 'My dear old doctor,' cried she, ' pray favour me with 
 another glass ! ' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear madam, certainly ! ' replied the 
 complaisant doctor ; ' see ! I have already filled the 
 glasses.' 
 
114 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this 
 wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it effer- 
 vesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter 
 of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset, that the 
 chamber had grown duskier than ever ; but a mild and 
 moonlike splendour gleamed from within the vase, and 
 rested alike on the four guests, and on the doctor's 
 venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately- 
 carved, oaken arm-chair, with a grey dignity of aspect 
 that might have well befitted that very Father Time, 
 whose power had never been disputed, save by this 
 fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third 
 draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost 
 awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. 
 
 But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young 
 life shot through their veins. They were now in the 
 happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train 
 of cares, and sorrows, and oliseases, was remembered 
 only as the trouble of a dream, from which they had 
 joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early 
 lost, and without which the world's successive scenes 
 had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw 
 its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like 
 new-created beings, in a new-created universe. 
 
 ' We are young ! We are young ! ' they cried 
 exultingly. 
 
 Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the 
 strongly-marked characteristics of middle life, and 
 mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of 
 merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant 
 frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect 
 of their gaiety was an impulse to mock the infirmity 
 and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the 
 victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned 
 attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats 
 of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of 
 the blooming girl. One limped across the floor like 
 a gouty grandfather ; one set a pair of spectacles astride 
 of his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter 
 pages of the book of magic ; a third seated himself 
 
DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 115 
 
 in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable 
 dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, 
 and leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly 
 if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow tripped 
 up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment 
 in her rosy face. 
 
 ' Doctor, you dear old soul,' cried she, ' get up and 
 dance with me ! ' And then the four young people 
 laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure 
 the poor old doctor would cut. 
 
 ' Pray excuse me,' answered the doctor quietly. 
 ' I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were 
 over long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen 
 will be glad of so pretty a partner.' 
 
 ' Dance with me, Clara ! ' cried Colonel Killigrew. 
 
 ' No, no, I will be her partner !' shouted Mr. Gascoigne. 
 
 ' She promised me her hand, fifty years ago ! ' ex- 
 claimed Mr. Medbourne. 
 
 They all gathered round her. One caught both her 
 hands in his passionate grasp another threw his arm 
 about her waist the third buried his hand among the 
 glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. 
 Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her 
 warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she 
 strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their 
 triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of 
 youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. 
 Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of 
 the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still 
 wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures 
 of the three old, grey, withered grandsires, ridiculously 
 contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled 
 grandam. 
 
 But they were young : their burning passions proved 
 them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the 
 girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her 
 favours, the three rivals began to interchange threaten- 
 ing glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they 
 grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they 
 struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the 
 
116 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious 
 Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the 
 floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown 
 old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. 
 The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, and 
 settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. 
 
 ' Come, come, gentlemen ! come Madame Wych- 
 erly,' exclaimed the doctor, ' I really must protest 
 against this riot.' 
 
 They stood still, and shivered ; for it seemed as if 
 grey Time were calling them back from their sunny 
 youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of 
 years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in 
 his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, 
 which he had rescued from among the fragments of the 
 shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the four 
 rioters resumed their seats ; the more readily, because 
 their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful 
 though they were. 
 
 ' My poor Sylvia's rose ! ' ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, 
 holding it in the light of the sunset clouds ; ' it appears 
 to be fading again.' 
 
 And so it was. Even while the party were looking at 
 it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as 
 dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it 
 into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moisture 
 which clung to its petals. 
 
 ' I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,' 
 observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered 
 lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from 
 the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor. 
 
 His guests shivered again. A strange dullness, 
 whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was 
 creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one 
 another, and fancied that each fleeting moment 
 snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow 
 where none had been before. Was it an illusion ? Had 
 the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief 
 a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting 
 with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger ? 
 
DE. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 117 
 
 ' Are we grown old again, so soon ? ' cried they, 
 dolefully. 
 
 In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed 
 merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The 
 delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes ! 
 they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that 
 showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny 
 hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid 
 were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. 
 
 ' Yes, friends, ye are old again,' said Dr. Heidegger ; 
 ' and lo ! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the 
 ground. Well I bemoan it not ; for if the fountain 
 gushed at my doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe 
 my lips in it- no, though its delirium were for years 
 instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught 
 me !' 
 
 But the doctor's four friends had taught no such 
 lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make 
 a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, 
 and night, from the fountain of Youth. 
 
 HOWE'S MASQUERADE 
 
 ONE afternoon last summer, while walking along 
 Washington Street, my eye was attracted by a sign- 
 board protruding over a narrow archway, nearly 
 opposite the Old South Church. The sign represented 
 the front of a stately edifice, which was designated as 
 the ' OLD PROVINCE HOUSE, kept by Thomas Waite '. 
 I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long 
 entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion 
 of the old royal governors of Massachusetts ; and 
 entering the arched passage, which penetrated through 
 the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps trans- 
 ported me from the busy heart of modern Boston into 
 a small and secluded courtyard. One side of this space 
 was occupied by the square front of the Province House, 
 three stories high, and surmounted by a cupola, on the 
 
118 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, with his 
 bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at 
 the weathercock on the spire of the Old South. The 
 figure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, 
 ever since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of 
 wood, first stationed him on his long sentinel's watch 
 over the city. 
 
 The Province House is constructed of brick, which 
 seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of 
 light-coloured paint. A flight of red freestone steps, 
 fenced hi by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron, 
 ascends from the courtyard to the spacious porch, 
 over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of 
 similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. 
 These letters and figures 16 P. S. 79 are wrought 
 into the ironwork of the balcony, and probably express 
 the date of the edifice, with the initials of its founder's 
 name. A wide door with double leaves admitted me 
 into the hall or entry, on the right of which is the 
 entrance to the bar-room. 
 
 It was in this apartment, I presume, that the ancient 
 governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp, sur- 
 rounded by the military men, the councillors, the judges, 
 and other officers of the crown, while all the loyalty of 
 the province thronged to do them honour. But the 
 room, in its present condition, cannot boast even of 
 faded magnificence. The panelled wainscot is covered 
 with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier hue from the 
 deep shadow into which the Province House is thrown 
 by the brick block that shuts it in from Washington 
 Street. A ray of sunshine never visits this apartment 
 any more than the glare of the festal torches, which 
 have been extinguished from the era of the revolution. 
 The most venerable and ornamental object is a chimney- 
 piece set round with Dutch tiles of blue-figured China, 
 representing scenes from Scripture ; and, for aught 
 I know, the lady of Pownall or Bernard may have sat 
 beside this fireplace, and told her children the story of 
 each blue tile. A bar in modern style, well replenished 
 with decanters, bottles, cigar boxes, and network bags 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 119 
 
 of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump and a soda 
 fount, extends along one side of the room. At my 
 entrance, an elderly person was smacking his lips, with 
 a zest which satisfied me that the cellars of the Province 
 House still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other 
 vintages than were quaffed by the old governors. After 
 sipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skilful 
 hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy 
 successor and representative of so many historic 
 personages to conduct me over their time-honoured 
 mansion. 
 
 He readily complied ; but, to confess the truth, I was 
 forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination, in 
 order to find aught that was interesting in a house 
 which, without its historic associations, would have 
 seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favoured by 
 the custom of decent city boarders and old-fashioned 
 country gentlemen. The chambers, which were pro- 
 bably spacious in former times, are now cut up by 
 partitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each afford- 
 ing scanty room for the narrow bed, and chair, and 
 dressing-table, of a single lodger. The great staircase, 
 however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, 
 a feature of grandeur and magnificence. It winds 
 through the midst of the house by nights of broad steps, 
 each flight terminating in a square landing-place, 
 whence the ascent is continued towards the cupola. 
 A carved balustrade, freshly painted in the lower 
 stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the 
 staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined 
 pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the military 
 boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor 
 have trodden, as the wearers mounted to the cupola, 
 which afforded them so wide a view over their metro- 
 polis and the surrounding country. The cupola is an 
 octagon, with several windows, and a door opening 
 upon the roof. From this station, as I pleased myself 
 with imagining, Gage may have beheld his disastrous 
 victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of the tri-mountains 
 intervened), and Howe have marked the approaches of 
 
120 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 Washington's besieging army ; although the buildings, 
 since erected in the vicinity, have shut out almost every 
 object, save the steeple of the Old South, which seems 
 almost within arm's length. Descending from the 
 cupola, I paused in the garret to observe the ponderous 
 white-oak framework, so much more massive than the 
 frames of modern houses, and thereby resembling an 
 antique skeleton. The brick walls, the materials of 
 which were imported from Holland, and the timbers 
 of the mansion, are still as sound as ever; but the 
 floors and other interior parts being greatly decayed, it 
 is contemplated to gut the whole, and build a new 
 house within the ancient frame and brickwork. Among 
 other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host 
 mentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake 
 down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one chamber 
 upon the floor of that beneath it. 
 
 We stepped forth from the great front window into 
 the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the 
 custom of the king's representative to show himself to 
 a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up 
 hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In 
 those days, the front of the Province House looked 
 upon the street ; and the whole site now occupied by 
 the brick range of stores, as well as the present court- 
 yard, was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by trees 
 and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now, the old 
 aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage behind 
 an upstart modern building ; at one of the back 
 windows I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing, 
 and chatting, and laughing, with now and then a care- 
 less glance towards the balcony. Descending thence, 
 we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly 
 gentleman above mentioned, the smack of whose lips 
 had spoken so favourably for Mr. Waite's good liquor, 
 was still lounging in his chair. He seemed to be, if not 
 a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house, who 
 might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, 
 his summer seat at the open window, and his prescrip- 
 tive corner at the winter's fireside. Being of a sociable 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 121 
 
 aspect, I ventured to address him with a remark, 
 calculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, if 
 any such were in his mind ; and it gratified me to 
 discover, that, between memory and tradition, the old 
 gentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant 
 gossip about the Province House. The portion of his 
 talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the 
 following legend. He professed to have received it 
 at one or two removes from an eye-witness ; but this 
 derivation, together with the lapse of time, must 
 have afforded opportunities for many variations of the 
 narrative; so that, despairing of literal and abso- 
 lute truth, I have not scrupled to make such further 
 changes as seemed conducive to the reader's profit 
 and delight. 
 
 At one of the entertainments given at the Province 
 House, during the latter part of the siege of Boston, 
 there passed a scene which has never yet been satis- 
 factorily explained. The officers of the British army, 
 and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom 
 were collected within the beleaguered town, had been 
 invited to a masked ball ; for it was the policy of Sir 
 William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the 
 period, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under an 
 ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this evening, 
 if the oldest members of the provincial court circle might 
 be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous affair 
 that had occurred in the annals of the government. 
 The brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged with 
 figures that seemed to have stepped from the dark 
 canvas of historic portraits, or to have flitted forth 
 from the magic pages of romance, or at least to 
 have flown hither from one of the London theatres, 
 without a change of garments. Steeled knights of 
 the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth, 
 and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were mingled with 
 characters of comedy, such as a parti-coloured Merry 
 Andrew, jingling his cap and bells ; a Falstaff, almost as 
 provocative of laughter as his prototype ; and a Don 
 
122 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 Quixote, with a bean pole for a lance, and a pot lid for 
 a shield. 
 
 But the broadest merriment was excited by a group 
 of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals, which 
 seemed to have been purchased at a military rag fair, 
 or pilfered from some receptacle of the cast-off clothes 
 of both the French and British armies. Portions of 
 their attire had probably been worn at the siege of 
 Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might 
 have been rent and tattered by sword, ball, or bayonet, 
 as long ago as Wolfe's victory. One of these worthies 
 a tall, lank figure, brandishing a rusty sword of immense 
 longitude purported to be no less a personage than 
 General George Washington ; and the other principal 
 officers of the American army, such as Gates, Lee, 
 Putnam, Schuyler, Ward, and Heath, were represented 
 by similar scarecrows. An interview in the mock 
 heroic style, between the rebel warriors and the British 
 comniander-in-ehief, was received with immense ap- 
 plause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists 
 of the colony. There was one of the guests, however, 
 who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly and scorn- 
 fully, at once with a frown and a bitter smile. 
 
 It was an old man, formerly of high station and great 
 repute in the province, and who had been a very famous 
 soldier in his day. Some surprise had been expressed, 
 that a person of Colonel Joliffe's known Whig principles, 
 though now too old to take an active part in the con- 
 test, should have remained in Boston during the siege, 
 and especially that he should consent to show himself 
 in the mansion of Sir William Howe. But thither he 
 had come, with a fair granddaughter under his arm ; 
 and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood 
 this stern old figure, the best sustained character in the 
 masquerade, because so well representing the antique 
 spirit of his native land. The other guests affirmed that 
 Colonel Joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow 
 round about him ; although, in spite of his sombre 
 influence, their gaiety continued to blaze higher, like 
 (an ominous comparison) the flickering brilliancy of 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 123 
 
 a lamp which has but a little while to burn. Eleven 
 strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the clock 
 of the Old South, when a rumour was circulated among 
 the company that some new spectacle or pageant was 
 about to be exhibited, which should put a fitting close 
 to the splendid festivities of the night. 
 
 ' What new jest has your Excellency in hand ? ' 
 asked the Rev. Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian 
 scruples had not kept him from the entertainment. 
 ' Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than 
 beseems my cloth, at your Homeric confabulation with 
 yonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One other 
 such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my clerical 
 wig and band.' 
 
 ' Not so, good Doctor Byles,' answered Sir William 
 Howe ; ' if mirth were a crime, you had never gained 
 your doctorate in divinity. As to this new foolery, I 
 know no more about it than yourself ; perhaps not so 
 much. Honestly now, Doctor, have you not stirred up 
 the sober brains of some of your countrymen to enact 
 a scene in our masquerade ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,', slyly remarked the granddaughter of 
 Colonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by 
 many taunts against New England * perhaps we are 
 to have a mask of allegorical figures. Victory, with 
 trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill Plenty, 
 with her overflowing horn, to typify the present abun- 
 dance in this good town and Glory, with a wreath 
 for his Excellency's brow.' 
 
 Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would 
 have answered with one of his darkest frowns, had they 
 been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was spared 
 the necessity of a retort by a singular interruption. 
 A sound of music was heard without the house, as if 
 proceeding from a full band of military instruments 
 stationed in the street, playing not such a festal strain 
 as was suited to the occasion ; but a slow funeral 
 march. The drums appeared to be muffled, and the 
 trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which at once 
 hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling all with 
 
124 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 wonder, and some with apprehension. The idea occurred 
 to many, that either the funeral procession of some 
 
 geat personage had halted in front of the Province 
 ouse, or that a corpse, in a velvet- covered and 
 gorgeously-decorated coffin, was about to be borne 
 from the portal. After listening a moment, Sir William 
 Howe called, in a stern voice, to the leader of the 
 musicians, who had hitherto enlivened the entertain- 
 ment with gay and lightsome melodies. The man was 
 drum major to one of the British regiments. 
 
 ' Dighton,' demanded the general, ' what means this 
 foolery ? Bid your band silence that dead march or, 
 by my word, they shall have sufficient cause for their 
 lugubrious strains ! Silence it, sirrah ! ' 
 
 ' Please your honour,' answered the drum major, 
 whose rubicund visage had lost all its colour, ' the 
 fault is none of mine. I and my band are all here 
 together ; and I question whether there be a man of 
 us that could play that march without book. I never 
 heard it but once before, and that was at the funeral 
 of his late Majesty, King George the Second.' 
 
 ' Well, well ! ' said Sir William Howe, recovering his 
 composure ' it is the prelude to some masquerading 
 antic. Let it pass.' 
 
 A figure now presented itself, but among the many 
 fantastic masks that were dispersed through the apart- 
 ments, none could tell precisely from whence it came. 
 It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black 
 serge, and having the aspect of a steward, or principal 
 domestic in the household of a nobleman or great 
 English landholder. This figure advanced to the outer 
 door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves wide 
 open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back 
 towards the grand staircase, as if expecting some person 
 to descend. At the same time, the music in the street 
 sounded a loud and doleful summons. The eyes of 
 Sir William Howe and his guests being directed to the 
 staircase, there appeared, on the uppermost landing- 
 place that was discernible from the bottom, several 
 personages descending towards the door. The foremost 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 125 
 
 was a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple-crowned 
 hat and a skullcap beneath it ; a dark cloak, and huge 
 wrinkled boots that came half-way up his legs. Under 
 his arm was a rolled-up banner, which seemed to be 
 the banner of England, but strangely rent and torn ; 
 he had a sword in his right hand, and grasped a Bible 
 in his left. The next figure was of milder aspect, yet 
 full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which 
 descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and 
 a doublet and hose of black satin. He carried a roll 
 of manuscript in his hand. Close behind these two, 
 came a young man of very striking countenance and 
 demeanour, with deep thought and contemplation on 
 his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye. 
 His garb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antique 
 fashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. 
 In the same group with these, were three or four others, 
 all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing 
 themselves like personages who were accustomed to 
 the gaze of the multitude. It was the idea of the 
 beholders, that these figures went to join the mysterious 
 funeral that had halted in front of the Province House ; 
 yet that supposition seemed to be contradicted by the 
 air of triumph with which they waved their hands, as they 
 crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal. 
 
 ' In the devil's name, what is this ? ' muttered Sir 
 William Howe to a gentleman beside him ; ' a procession 
 of the regicide judges of King Charles the martyr ? ' 
 
 ' These,' said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost 
 for the first time that evening ' these, if I interpret 
 them aright, are the Puritan governors the rulers of 
 the old, original Democracy of Massachusetts. Endi- 
 cott, with the banner from which he had torn the 
 symbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir Henry 
 Vane, and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, and Leverett.' 
 
 ' Why had that young man a stain of blood upon his 
 ruff ? ' asked Miss Joliffe. 
 
 ' Because, in after years,' answered her grandfather, 
 ' he laid down the wisest head in England upon the 
 block, for the principles of liberty.' 
 
126 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 ' Will not your Excellency order out the guard ? ' 
 whispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers, 
 had now assembled round the General. ' There may 
 be a plot under this mummery.' 
 
 ' Tush ! we have nothing to fear,' carelessly replied 
 Sir William Howe. ' There can be no worse treason 
 in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the 
 dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best 
 policy would be to laugh it off. See here come more 
 of these gentry.' 
 
 Another group of characters had now partly de- 
 scended the staircase. The first was a venerable and 
 white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way 
 downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, 
 and stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp 
 the old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldier-like figure, 
 equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breast- 
 plate, and a long sword, which rattled against the 
 stairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich 
 and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanour ; his 
 gait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk ; and 
 chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly grew 
 wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He was 
 followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled wig, 
 such as are represented in the portraits of Queen Anne's 
 time and earlier; and the breast of his coat was 
 decorated with an embroidered star. While advancing 
 to the door, he bowed to the right hand and to the 
 left, in a very gracious and insinuating style; but 
 as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puritan 
 governors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow. 
 
 'Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor Byles,' 
 said Sir William Howe. ' What worthies are these ? ' 
 
 ' If it please your Excellency, they lived somewhat 
 before my day,' answered the doctor ; ' but doubtless our 
 friend, the Colonel, has been hand and glove with them.' 
 
 ' Their living faces I never looked upon,' said Colonel 
 Joliffe, gravely ; * although I have spoken face to face 
 with many rulers of this land, and shall greet yet 
 another with an old man's blessing, ere I die. But 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 127 
 
 we talk of these figures. I take the venerable patriarch 
 to be Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, who was 
 governor at ninety or thereabouts. The next is Sir 
 Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England school- 
 boy will tell you ; and therefore the people cast him 
 down from his high seat into a dungeon. Then comes 
 Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea captain, and 
 governor may many of his countrymen rise as high, 
 from as low an origin ! Lastly, you saw the gracious 
 Earl of Bellamont, who ruled us under King William.' 
 
 ' But what is the meaning of it all ? ' asked Lord Percy. 
 
 * Now, were I a rebel,' said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, 
 *I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors 
 had been summoned to form the funeral procession of 
 royal authority in New England.' 
 
 Several other figures were now seen at the turn of 
 the staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful, 
 anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face ; and 
 in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently 
 the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long con- 
 tinuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of 
 cringing to a greater than himself. A few steps behind 
 came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform, 
 cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by the 
 Duke of Maryborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, 
 which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have 
 marked him as a lover of the wine cup and good 
 fellowship ; notwithstanding which tokens, he appeared 
 ill at ease, and often glanced around him, as if appre- 
 hensive of some secret mischief. Next came a portly 
 gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy cloth, lined with 
 silken velvet ; he had sense, shrewdness, and humour 
 in his face, and a folio volume under his arm ; but 
 his aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented 
 beyond all patience, and harassed almost to death. 
 He went hastily down, and was followed by a dignified 
 person, dressed in a purple velvet suit, with very rich 
 embroidery ; his demeanour would have possessed 
 much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout 
 compelled him to hobble from stair to stair, with 
 
128 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 contortions of face and body. When Doctor Byles be- 
 held this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with an 
 ague, but continued to watch him, steadfastly, until 
 the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made 
 a gesture of anguish and despair, and vanished into the 
 outer gloom, whither the funeral music summoned him. 
 
 ' Governor Belcher ! my old patron ! in his very 
 shape and dress ! ' gasped Doctor Byles. ' This is an 
 awful mockery ! ' 
 
 ' A tedious foolery, rather,' said Sir William Howe, 
 with an air of indifference. ' But who were the three 
 that preceded him ? ' 
 
 * Governor Dudley, a cunning politician yet his 
 craft once brought him to a prison,' replied Colonel 
 Joliffe. ' Governor Shute, formerly a colonel under 
 Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of 
 the province ; and learned Governor Burnet, whom 
 the legislature tormented into a mortal fever.' 
 
 ' Methinks they were miserable men, these royal 
 governors of Massachusetts,' observed Miss Joliffe. 
 4 Heavens, how dim the light grows ! ' 
 
 It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which 
 illuminated the staircase now burned dim and duskily : 
 so that several figures, which passed hastily down the 
 stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared rather 
 like shadows than persons of fleshly substance. Sir 
 William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the 
 contiguous apartments, watching the progress of this 
 singular pageant, with various emotions of anger, 
 contempt, or half-acknowledged fear, but still with 
 an anxious curiosity. The shapes, which now seemed 
 hastening to join the mysterious procession, were recog- 
 nized rather by striking peculiarities of dress, or broad 
 characteristics of manner, than by any perceptible 
 resemblance of features to their prototypes. Their 
 faces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow. 
 But Dr. Byles, and other gentlemen who had long been 
 familiar with the successive rulers of the province, were 
 heard to whisper the names of Shirley, of Pownal, of 
 Sir Francis Bernard, and of the well- remembered 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 129 
 
 Hutchinson ; thereby confessing that the actors, who- 
 ever they might be, in this spectral march of governors, 
 had succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture 
 of the real personages. As they vanished from the 
 door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the 
 gloom of night, with a dread expression of woe. Fol- 
 lowing the mimic representative of Hutchinson, came 
 a military figure, holding before his face the cocked 
 hat which he had taken from his powdered head ; but 
 his epaulettes and other insignia of rank were those 
 of a general officer; and something in his mien re- 
 minded the beholders of one who had recently been 
 master of the Province House, and chief of all the 
 land. 
 
 ' The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass,' 
 exclaimed Lord Percy, turning pale. 
 
 ' No, surely,' cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically ; 
 ' it could not be Gage, or Sir William would have 
 greeted his old comrade in arms ! Perhaps he will not 
 suffer the next to pass unchallenged.' 
 
 ' Of that be assured, young lady,' answered Sir 
 William Howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked 
 expression, upon the immovable visage of her grand- 
 father. 'I have long enough delayed to pay the 
 ceremonies of a host to these departing guests. The 
 next that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy.' 
 
 A wild and dreary burst of music came through the 
 open door. It seemed as if the procession, which had 
 been gradually filling up its ranks, were now about to 
 move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets, 
 and roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some 
 loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an irresistible 
 impulse, were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if it 
 were he whom the dreary music summoned to the 
 funeral of departed power. 
 
 ' See ! here comes the last ! ' whispered Miss Joliffe, 
 pointing her tremulous finger to the staircase. 
 
 A figure had come into view as if descending the 
 stairs ; although so dusky was the region whence it 
 emerged, some of the spectators fancied that they had 
 
 193 F 
 
130 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid 
 the gloom. Downward the figure came, with a stately 
 and martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was 
 observed to be a tall man, booted and wrapped in 
 a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face 
 so as to meet the napped brim of a laced hat. The 
 features, therefore, were completely hidden. But the 
 British officers deemed that they had seen that military 
 cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery 
 on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword 
 which protruded from the folds of the cloak, and 
 glittered in a vivid gleam of light. Apart from these 
 trifling particulars, there were characteristics of gait 
 and bearing, which impelled the wondering guests to 
 glance from the shrouded figure to Sir William Howe, 
 as if to satisfy themselves that their host had not 
 suddenly vanished from the midst of them. 
 
 With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw 
 the General draw his sword and advance to meet the 
 figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one 
 pace upon the floor. 
 
 ' Villain, unmuffle yourself ! ' cried he. * You pass 
 no farther ! ' 
 
 The figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from 
 the sword which was pointed at his breast, made 
 a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from 
 about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators 
 to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had 
 evidently seen enough. The sternness of his counte- 
 nance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not 
 horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, 
 and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial 
 shape again drew the cloak about his features and 
 passed on ; but reaching the threshold, with his back 
 towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot 
 and shake his clenched hands in the air. It was after- 
 wards affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated 
 that selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow, when, for 
 the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed 
 through the portal of the Province House. 
 
HOWE'S MASQUERADE 131 
 
 ' Hark ! the procession moves,' said Miss Joliffe. 
 
 The music was dying away along the street, and its 
 dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight 
 from the steeple of the Old South, and with the roar of 
 artillery, which announced that the beleaguering army 
 of Washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer 
 height than before. As the deep boom of the cannon 
 smote upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised himself to 
 the full height of his aged form, and smiled sternly on 
 the British General. 
 
 ' Would your Excellency inquire further into the 
 mystery of the pageant ? ' said he. 
 
 ' Take care of your grey head ! ' cried Sir William 
 Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. * It has 
 stood too long on a traitor's shoulders ! ' 
 
 * You must make haste to chop it off, then,' calmly 
 replied the Colonel ; ' f or a few hours longer, and not 
 all the power of Sir William Howe, nor of his master, 
 shall cause one of these grey hairs to fall. The empire 
 of Britain, in this ancient province, is at its last gasp 
 to-night ; almost while I speak it is a dead corpse ; 
 and methinks the shadows of the old governors are 
 fit mourners at its funeral ! ' 
 
 With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, 
 and drawing his granddaughter's arm within his own, 
 retired from the last festival that a British ruler ever 
 held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It was 
 supposed that the Colonel and the young lady possessed 
 some secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious 
 pageant of that night. However this might be, such 
 knowledge has never become general. The actors in 
 the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than 
 even that wild Indian band who scattered the cargoes 
 of the tea ships on the waves, and gained a place in 
 history, yet left no names. But superstition, among 
 other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous 
 tale, that on the anniversary night of Britain's dis- 
 comfiture, the ghosts of the ancient governors of Mas- 
 sachusetts still glide through the portal of the Province 
 House. And, last of all, comes a figure shrouded in 
 
132 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 a military cloak, tossing his clenched hands into the 
 air, and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad 
 freestone steps, with a semblance of feverish despair, 
 but without the sound of a foot-tramp. 
 
 When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentle- 
 man were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked 
 round the room, striving, with the best energy of my 
 imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic 
 grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my 
 nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, clouds of 
 which the narrator had emitted by way of visible 
 emblem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his 
 tale. Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully 
 disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of 
 whisky punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling 
 for a customer. Nor did it add to the picturesque 
 appearance of the panelled walls, that the slate of the 
 Brookline stage was suspended against them, instead 
 of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended 
 governor. A stage driver sat at one of the windows, 
 reading a penny paper of the day the Boston Times 
 and presenting a figure which could nowise be brought 
 into any picture of ' Times in Boston ' seventy or 
 a hundred years ago. On the window seat lay a bundle, 
 neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which 
 I had the idle curiosity to read. ' Miss SUSAN HUGGINS, 
 at the PROVINCE HOUSE.' A pretty chambermaid, no 
 doubt. In truth, it is desperately hard work, when 
 we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over 
 localities with which the living world, and the day that 
 is passing over us, have aught to do. Yet, as I glanced 
 at the stately staircase, down which the procession of 
 the old governors had descended, and as I emerged 
 through the venerable portal, whence their figures had 
 preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill 
 of awe. Then diving through the narrow archway, 
 a few strides transported me into the densest throng 
 of Washington Street. 
 
BENJAMIN DISRAELI, EARL OF 
 BEACONSFIELD 
 
 1804-1881 
 
 IXION IN HEAVEN 
 PART I 
 
 THE thunder groaned, the wind howled, the rain 
 fell in hissing torrents, impenetrable darkness covered 
 the earth. 
 
 A blue and forky flash darted a momentary light 
 over the landscape. A Doric temple rose in the centre 
 of a small and verdant plain, surrounded on all sides 
 by green and hanging woods. 
 
 ' Jove is my only friend,' exclaimed a wanderer, as 
 he muffled himself up in his mantle ; ' and were it not 
 for the porch of his temple, this night, methinks, would 
 complete the work of my loving wife and my dutiful 
 subjects.' 
 
 The thunder died away, the wind sank into silence, 
 the rain ceased, and the parting clouds exhibited the 
 glittering crescent of the young moon. A sonorous and 
 majestic voice sounded from the skies : 
 
 ' Who art thou that hast no other friend but Jove ? ' 
 
 ' One whom all mankind unite in calling a wretch.' 
 
 " Art thou a philosopher ? ' 
 
 ' If philosophy be endurance. But for the rest, 
 I was sometime a king, and am now a scatterling.' 
 
 ' How do they call thee ? ' 
 
 ' Ixion of Thessaty.' 
 
 ' Ixion of Thessaly ! I thought he was a happy man. 
 I heard that he was just married.' 
 
 ' Father of Gods and men ! for I deem thee such, 
 
134 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 Thessaly is not Olympus. Conjugal felicity is only the 
 portion of the Immortals ! ' 
 
 ' Hem ! What ! was Dia jealous, which is common ; 
 or false, which is commoner ; or both, which is com- 
 monest ? ' 
 
 ' It may be neither. We quarrelled about nothing. 
 Where there is little sympathy, or too much, the 
 splitting of a straw is plot enough for a domestic 
 tragedy. I was careless, her friends stigmatized me as 
 callous ; she cold, her friends styled her magnanimous. 
 Public opinion was all on her side, merely because I did 
 not choose that the world should interfere between 
 me and my wife. Dia took the world's advice upon 
 every point, and the world decided that she always 
 acted rightly. However, life is life, either in a palace 
 or a cave. I am glad you ordered it to leave off 
 thundering.' 
 
 ' A cool dog this. And Dia left thee ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I left her.' 
 
 ' What, craven ! ' 
 
 ' Not exactly. The truth is 'tis a long story. 
 
 I was over head and ears in debt.' 
 
 * Ah ! that accounts for everything. Nothing is so 
 harassing as a want of money ! But what lucky 
 fellows you Mortals are with your post-obits \ We 
 Immortals are deprived of this resource. I was obliged 
 to get up a rebellion against my father, because he 
 kept me so short, and could not die.' 
 
 ' You could have married for money. I did.' 
 
 * I had no opportunity, there was so little female 
 society in those days. When I came out, there were 
 no heiresses except the Parcae, confirmed old maids ; 
 and no very rich dowager, except my grandmother, old 
 Terra.' 
 
 ' Just the thing ; the older the better. However, 
 I married Dia, the daughter of Deioneus, with a pro- 
 digious portion ; but after the . ceremony, the old 
 gentleman would not fulfil his part of the contract 
 without my giving up my stud. Can you conceive 
 anything more unreasonable ? I smothered my resent- 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 135 
 
 ment at the time ; for the truth is, my tradesmen all 
 renewed my credit on the strength of the match, and 
 so we went on very well for a year ; but at last they 
 began to smell a rat, and grew importunate. I en- 
 treated Dia to interfere ; but she was a paragon of 
 daughters, and always took the side of her father. If 
 she had only been dutiful to her husband, she would 
 have been a perfect woman. At last I invited Deioneus 
 to the Larissa races, with the intention of conciliating 
 him. The unprincipled old man bought the horse that 
 I had backed, and by which I intended to have re- 
 deemed my fortunes, and withdrew it. My book was 
 ruined. I dissembled my rage. I dug a pit in our 
 garden, and filled it with burning coals. As my father- 
 in-law and myself were taking a stroll after dinner, the 
 worthy Deioneus fell in, merely by accident. Dia 
 proclaimed me as the murderer of her father, and, 
 as a satisfaction to her wounded feelings, earnestly 
 requested her subjects to decapitate her husband. 
 She certainly was the best of daughters. There was no 
 withstanding public opinion, an infuriated rabble, and 
 a magnanimous wife at the same time. They surrounded 
 my palace : I cut my way through the greasy-capped 
 multitude, sword in hand, and gained a neighbouring 
 Court, where I solicited my brother princes to purify 
 me from the supposed murder. If I had only murdered 
 a subject, they would have supported me against the 
 people ; but Deioneus being a crowned head, like 
 themselves, they declared they would not countenance 
 so immoral a being as his son-in-law. And so, at 
 length, after much wandering, and shunned by all my 
 species, I am here, Jove, in much higher society than 
 I ever expected to mingle.' 
 
 ' Well, thou art a frank dog, and in a sufficiently 
 severe scrape. The Gods must have pity on those for 
 whom men have none. It is evident that Earth is too 
 hot for thee at present, so I think thou hadst better 
 come and stay a few weeks with us in Heaven.' 
 
 ' Take my thanks for hecatombs, great Jove. Thou 
 art, indeed, a God ! ' 
 
136 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 ' I hardly know whether our life will suit you. We 
 dine at sunset ; for Apollo is so much engaged that he 
 cannot join us sooner, and no dinner goes off well 
 without him. In the morning you are your own 
 master, and must find amusement where you can. 
 Diana will show you some tolerable sport. Do you 
 shoot ? ' 
 
 ' No arrow surer. Fear not for me, Aegiochus : I am 
 always at home. But how am I to get to you ? ' 
 
 ' I will send Mercury ; he is the best travelling com- 
 panion in the world. What ho ! my Eagle ! ' 
 
 The clouds joined, and darkness again fell over the 
 earth. 
 
 ' So ! tread softly. Don't be nervous. Are you 
 sick ? ' 
 
 ' A little nausea ; 'tis nothing.' 
 
 ' The novelty of the motion. The best thing is 
 a beef -steak. We will stop at Taurus and take one.' 
 
 ' You have been a great traveller, Mercury ? ' 
 
 ' I have seen the world.' 
 
 ' Ah ! a wondrous spectacle. I long to travel.' 
 
 ' The same thing over and over again. Little novelty 
 and much change. I am wearied with exertion, and 
 if I could get a pension would retire.' 
 
 ' And yet travel brings wisdom.' 
 
 ' It cures us of care. Seeing much we feel little, and 
 learn how very petty are all those great affairs which 
 cost us such anxiety.' 
 
 * I feel that already myself. Floating in this blue 
 ether, what the devil is my wife to me, and her dirty 
 earth ! My persecuting enemies seem so many pis- 
 mires ; and as for my debts, which have occasioned 
 me so many brooding moments, honour and infamy, 
 credit and beggary, seem to me alike ridiculous.' 
 
 'Your mind is opening, Ixion. You will soon be 
 a man of the world. To the left, and keep clear of 
 that star.' 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 137 
 
 ' Who lives there ? ' 
 
 ' The Fates know, not I. Some low people who are 
 trying to shine into notice. 'Tis a parvenu planet, and 
 only sprung into space within this century. We don't 
 visit them.' 
 
 ' Poor devils ! I feel hungry.' 
 
 .' All right. We shall get into Heaven by the first 
 dinner bolt. You cannot arrive at a strange house at 
 a better moment. We shall just have time to dress. 
 I would not spoil my appetite by luncheon. Jupiter 
 keeps a capital cook.' 
 
 ' I have heard of Nectar and Ambrosia.' 
 
 ' Poh ! nobody touches them. They are regular old- 
 fashioned celestial food, and merely put upon the side- 
 table. Nothing goes down in Heaven now but infernal 
 cookery. We took our chef from Proserpine.' 
 
 ' Were you ever hi Hell ? ' 
 
 ' Several times. 'Tis the fashion now among the 
 Olympians to pass the winter there.' 
 
 ' Is this the season in Heaven ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; you are lucky. Olympus is quite full' 
 
 ' It was very kind of Jupiter to invite me.' 
 
 'Aye ! he has his good points. And, no doubt, he 
 has taken a liking to you, which is all very well. But 
 be upon your guard. He has no heart, and is as 
 capricious as he is tyrannical.' 
 
 ' Gods cannot be more unkind to me than men have 
 been.' 
 
 * All those who have suffered think they have seen 
 the worst. A great mistake. However, you are now 
 in the high road to preferment, so we will not be dull. 
 There are some good fellows enough amongst us. You 
 will like old Neptune.' 
 
 ' Is he there now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he generally passes his summer with us. 
 There is little stirring in the ocean at that season.' 
 
 * I am anxious to see Mars.' 
 
 ' Oh ! a brute, more a bully than a hero. Not at all 
 in the best set. These mustachioed gentry are by 
 no means the rage at present in Olympus. The women 
 
 F3 
 
138 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 are all literary now, and Minerva has quite eclipsed 
 Venus. Apollo is our hero. You must read his last 
 work.' 
 
 ' 1 hate reading.' 
 
 ' So do I. I have no time, and seldom do anything 
 in that way but glance at a newspaper. Study and 
 action will not combine.' 
 
 ' I suppose I shall find the Goddesses very proud ? ' 
 
 ' You will find them as you find women below, of 
 different dispositions with the same object. Venus is 
 a flirt ; Minerva a prude, who fancies she has a correct 
 taste and a strong mind ; and Juno a politician. As 
 for the rest, faint heart never won fair lady, take 
 a friendly hint, and don't be alarmed.' 
 
 * I fear nothing. My mind mounts with my fortunes. 
 We are above the clouds. They form beneath us a vast 
 and snowy region, dim and irregular, as I have some- 
 times seen them clustering upon the horizon's ridge at 
 sunset, like a raging sea stilled by some sudden super- 
 natural frost and frozen into form ! How bright the 
 air above us, and how delicate its fragrant breath ! 
 I scarcely breathe, and yet my pulses beat like my first 
 youth. I hardly feel my being. A splendour falls upon 
 your presence. You seem indeed a God ! Am I so 
 glorious ? This, this is Heaven ! ' 
 
 in 
 
 The travellers landed on a vast flight of sparkling 
 steps of lapis-lazuli. Ascending, they entered beautiful 
 gardens ; winding walks that yielded to the feet, and 
 accelerated your passage by their rebounding pressure ; 
 fragrant shrubs covered with dazzling flowers, the 
 fleeting tints of which changed every moment ; groups 
 of tall trees, with strange birds of brilliant and varie- 
 gated plumage, singing and reposing in their sheeny 
 foliage, and fountains of perfumes. 
 
 Before them rose an illimitable and golden palace, 
 with high spreading domes of pearl, and long windows 
 of crystal. Around the huge portal of ruby was ranged 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 139 
 
 a company of winged genii, who smiled on Mercury as 
 he passed them with his charge. 
 
 * The father of Gods and men is dressing,' said the 
 son of Maia. * I shall attend his toilet and inform him 
 of your arrival. These are your rooms. Dinner will 
 be ready in half an hour. I will call for you as I go 
 down. You can be formally presented in the evening. 
 At that time, inspired by liqueurs and his matchless 
 band of wind instruments, you will agree with the 
 world that Aegiochus is the most finished God in 
 existence.' 
 
 IV 
 
 ' Now, Ixion, are you ready ? ' 
 
 ' Even so. What says Jove ? ' 
 
 ' He smiled, but said nothing. He was trying on 
 a new robe. By this time he is seated. Hark ! the 
 thunder. Come on ! ' 
 
 They entered a cupolaed hall. Seats of ivory and 
 gold were ranged round a circular table of cedar, 
 inlaid with the campaigns against the Titans, in silver 
 exquisitely worked, a nuptial present of Vulcan. The 
 service of gold plate threw all the ideas of the King of 
 Thessaly as to royal magnificence into the darkest 
 shade. The enormous plateau represented the con- 
 stellations. Ixion viewed the father of Gods and men 
 with great interest, who, however, did not notice him. 
 He acknowledged the majesty of that countenance 
 whose nod shook Olympus. Majestically robust and 
 luxuriantly lusty, his tapering waist was evidently 
 immortal, for it defied Time, and his splendid auburn 
 curls, parted on his forehead with celestial precision, 
 descended over cheeks glowing with the purple radiancy 
 of perpetual manhood. 
 
 The haughty Juno was seated on his left hand and 
 Ceres on his right. For the rest of the company there 
 was Neptune, Latona, Minerva, and Apollo, and when 
 Mercury and Ixion had taken their places, one seat 
 was still vacant. 
 
 ' Where is Diana ? ' inquired Jupiter, with a frown. 
 
140 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 * My sister is hunting,' said Apollo. 
 
 'She is always too late for dinner,' said Jupiter. 
 ' No habit is less Goddess-like.' 
 
 ' Godlike pursuits cannot be expected to induce 
 Goddess-like manners,' said Juno, with a sneer. 
 
 ' I have no doubt Diana will be here directly,' said 
 Latona, mildly. 
 
 Jupiter seemed pacified, and at that instant the 
 absent guest returned. 
 
 ' Good sport, Di ? ' inquired Neptune. 
 
 ' Very fair, uncle. Mamma,' continued the sister of 
 Apollo, addressing herself to Juno, whom she ever thus 
 styled when she wished to conciliate her, 'I have 
 brought you a new peacock.' 
 
 Juno was fond of pets, and was conciliated by the 
 present. 
 
 ' Bacchus made a great noise about this wine, 
 Mercury,' said Jupiter, ' but I think with little cause. 
 What think you ? ' 
 
 ' It pleases me, but I am fatigued, and then all wine 
 is agreeable.' 
 
 ' You have had a long journey,' replied the Thunderer. 
 * Ixion, I am glad to see you in Heaven.' 
 
 ' Your Majesty arrived to-day ? ' inquired Minerva, 
 to whom the King of Thessaly sat next. 
 
 ' Within this hour.' 
 
 ' You must leave off talking of Time now,' said 
 Minerva, with a severe smile. ' Pray is there anything 
 new in Greece ? ' 
 
 ' I have not been at all in society lately.' 
 
 * No new edition of Homer ? I admire him exceed- 
 ingly.' 
 
 ' All about Greece interests me,' said Apollo, who, 
 although handsome, was a somewhat melancholy lack- 
 a-daisical looking personage, with his shirt collar thrown 
 open, and his long curls very theatrically arranged. 
 ' All about Greece interests me. I always consider 
 Greece my peculiar property. My best poems were 
 written at Delphi. I travelled in Greece when I was 
 very young. I envy mankind.' 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 141 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Ixion. 
 
 4 Yes : they at least can look forward to a termina- 
 tion of the ennui of existence, but for us Celestials there 
 is no prospect. Say what they like, Immortality is 
 a bore.' 
 
 ' You eat nothing, Apollo,' said Ceres. 
 
 ' Nor drink,' said Neptune. 
 
 ' To eat, to drink, what is it but to live ; and what 
 is life but death, if death be that which all men deem 
 it, a thing insufferable, and to be shunned. I refresh 
 myself now only with soda-water and biscuits. Gany- 
 mede, give me some.' 
 
 Now, although the cuisine of Olympus was con- 
 sidered perfect, the forlorn poet had unfortunately 
 fixed upon the only two articles which were not com- 
 prised in its cellar or larder. In Heaven, there was 
 neither soda-water nor biscuits. A great confusion 
 consequently ensued ; but at length the bard, whose 
 love of fame was only equalled by his horror of getting 
 fat, consoled himself with a swan stuffed with truffles, 
 and a bottle of strong Tenedos wine. 
 
 ' What do you think of Homer ? * inquired Minerva 
 of Apollo. ' Is he not delightful ? ' 
 
 ' If you think so.' 
 
 ' Nay, I am desirous of your opinion.' 
 
 ' ' Then you should not have given me yours, for 
 your taste is too fine for me to dare to differ with it.' 
 
 ' I have suspected, for some time, that you are 
 rather a heretic.' 
 
 'W n Y tne truth is,' replied Apollo, playing with 
 his rings, ' I do not think much of Homer. Homer 
 was not esteemed in his own age, and our contem- 
 poraries are generally our best judges. The fact is, 
 there are very few people who are qualified to decide 
 upon matters of taste. A certain set, for certain 
 reasons, resolve to cry up a certain writer, and the 
 great mass soon join in. All is cant. And the present 
 admiration of Homer not less so. They say I have 
 borrowed a great deal from him. The truth is, I never 
 read Homer since I was a child, and I thought of him 
 
142 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 then what I think of him now, a writer of some wild 
 irregular power, totally deficient in taste. Depend 
 upon it, our contemporaries are our best judges, and 
 his contemporaries decided that Homer was nothing. 
 A great poet cannot be kept down. Look at my case. 
 Marsyas said of my first volume that it was pretty 
 good poetry for a God, and in answer I wrote a satire, 
 and flayed Marsyas alive. But what is poetry, and 
 what is criticism, and what is life ? Air. And what is 
 Air ? Do you know ? I don't. All is mystery, and 
 all is gloom, and ever and anon from out the clouds 
 a star breaks forth, and glitters, and that star is 
 Poetry.' 
 
 ' Splendid ! ' exclaimed Minerva. 
 
 ' I do not exactly understand you,* said Neptune. 
 
 * Have you heard from Proserpine, lately ? ' inquired 
 Jupiter of Ceres. 
 
 ' Yesterday,' said the domestic mother. ' They talk 
 of soon joining us. But Pluto is at present so busy, 
 owing to the amazing quantity of wars going on now, 
 that I am almost afraid he will scarcely be able to 
 accompany her.' 
 
 Juno exchanged a telegraphic nod with Ceres. The 
 Goddesses rose, and retired. 
 
 ' Come, old boy,' said Jupiter to Ixion, instantly 
 throwing off all his chivalric majesty, ' I drink your 
 welcome in a magnum of Maraschino. Damn your 
 poetry, Apollo ; and, Mercury, give us one of your 
 good stories.' 
 
 ' Well ! what do you think of him ? ' asked Juno. 
 ' He appears to have a very fine mind,' said Minerva. 
 ' Poh ! he has very fine eyes,' said Juno. 
 * He seems a very nice, quiet young gentleman,' 
 said Ceres. 
 
 ' I have no doubt he is very amiable,' said Latona. 
 ' He must have felt very strange,' said Diana. 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 143 
 
 VI 
 
 Hercules arrived with his bride Hebe ; soon after 
 the Graces dropped in, the most delightful personages 
 in the world for a soiree, so useful and ready for any- 
 thing. Afterwards came a few of the Muses, Thalia, 
 Melpomene, and -Terpsichore, famous for a charade or 
 a proverb. Jupiter liked to be amused in the evening. 
 Bacchus also came, but finding that the Gods had not 
 yet left their wine, retired to pay them a previous 
 visit. 
 
 vn 
 
 Ganymede announced coffee in the saloon of Juno. 
 Jupiter was in superb good humour. He was amused 
 by his mortal guest. He had condescended to tell one 
 of his best stories in his best style, about Leda, not too 
 scandalous, but gay. 
 
 * Those were bright days,' said Neptune. 
 
 ' We can remember,' said the Thunderer, with 
 a twinkling eye. * These youths have fallen upon 
 duller times. There are no fine women now. Ixion, 
 I drink to the health of your wife.' 
 
 * With all my heart, and may we never be nearer 
 than we are at present.' 
 
 * Good ! i'faith ; Apollo, your arm. Now for the 
 ladies. La, la, la, la ! la, la, la, la ! ' 
 
 vm 
 
 The Thunderer entered the saloon of Juno with that 
 bow which no God could rival ; all rose, and the King 
 of Heaven seated himself between Ceres and Latona. 
 The melancholy Apollo stood apart, and was soon 
 carried off by Minerva to an assembly at the house of 
 Mnemosyne. Mercury chatted with the Graces, and 
 Bacchus with Diana. The three Muses favoured 
 the company with singing, and the Queen of Heaven 
 approached Ixion. 
 
 ' Dees your Majesty dance ? ' she haughtily inquired. 
 
144 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 ' On earth ; I have few accomplishments even there, 
 and none in Heaven.' 
 
 ' You have led a strange life ! I have heard of your 
 adventures.' 
 
 ' A king who has lost his crown may generally gain 
 at least experience.' 
 
 ' Your courage is firm.' 
 
 ' I have felt too much to care for much. Yesterday 
 I was a vagabond exposed to every pitiless storm, and 
 now I am the guest of Jove. While there is life there 
 is hope, and he who laughs at Destiny will gain For- 
 tune. I would go through the past again to enjoy the 
 present, and feel that, after all, I am my wife's debtor, 
 since, through her conduct, I can gaze upon you.' 
 
 * No great spectacle. If that be all, I wish you better 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' I desire no greater.' 
 
 ' You are moderate.' 
 
 ' I am perhaps more unreasonable than you imagine.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 Their eyes met ; the dark orbs of the Thessalian did 
 not quail before the flashing vision of the Goddess. 
 Juno grew pale. Juno turned away. 
 
 PART II 
 ' Others say it was only a cloud.' 
 
 I 
 
 MERCURY and Ganymede were each lolling on an 
 opposite couch in the antechamber of Olympus. 
 ' It is wonderful,' said the son of Maia, yawning. 
 
 * It is incredible,' rejoined the cup-bearer of Jove, 
 stretching his legs. 
 
 ' A miserable mortal ! ' exclaimed the God, elevating 
 his eyebrows. 
 
 * A vile Thessalian ! ' said the beautiful Phrygian, 
 shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 * Not three days back an outcast among his own 
 wretched species ! * 
 
 ' And now commanding everybody in Heaven.' 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 145 
 
 ' He shall not command me, though,' said Mercury. 
 
 ' Will he not ? ' replied Ganymede. * Why, what 
 do you think ? only last night hark ! here he 
 comes.' 
 
 The companions jumped up from their couches ; 
 a light laugh was heard. The cedar portal was flung 
 open, and Ixion lounged in, habited in a loose morning 
 robe, and kicking before him one of his slippers. 
 
 * Ah ! ' exclaimed the King of Thessaly, ' the very 
 fellows I wanted to see ! Ganymede, bring me some 
 nectar ; and, Mercury, run and tell Jove that I shall 
 not dine at home to-day.' 
 
 The messenger and the page exchanged looks of 
 indignant consternation. 
 
 ' Well ! what are you waiting for ? ' continued 
 Ixion, looking round from the mirror in which he was 
 arranging his locks. The messenger and the page 
 disappeared. 
 
 ' So ! this is Heaven,' exclaimed the husband of 
 Dia, flinging himself upon one of the couches ; ' and 
 a very pleasant place too. These worthy Immortals 
 required their minds to be opened, and I trust I have 
 effectually performed the necessary operation. They 
 wanted to keep me down with their dull old-fashioned 
 celestial airs, but I fancy I have given them change 
 for their talent. To make your way in Heaven you 
 must command. These exclusives sink under the 
 audacious invention of an aspiring mind. Jove himself 
 is really a fine old fellow, with some notions too. I am 
 a prime favourite, and no one is greater authority with 
 Aegiochus on all subjects, from the character of the 
 fair sex or the pedigree of a courser, down to the cut 
 of a robe or the flavour of a dish. Thanks, Ganymede,' 
 continued the Thessalian, as he took the goblet from 
 his returning attendant. 
 
 ' I drink to your 'bonnes fortunes. Splendid ! This 
 nectar makes me feel quite immortal. By the by, 
 I hear sweet sounds. Who is in the Hall of Music ? ' 
 
 'The Goddesses, royal sir, practise a new air of 
 Euterpe, the words by Apollo. 'Tis pretty, and will 
 
146 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 doubtless be very popular, for it is all about moonlight 
 and the misery of existence.' 
 ' I warrant it.' 
 
 * You have a taste for poetry yourself ? ' inquired 
 Ganymede. 
 
 ' Not the least,' replied Ixion. 
 
 ' Apollo,' continued the heavenly page, ' is a great 
 genius, though Marsyas said that he never would be 
 a poet because he was a god, and had no heart. But 
 do you think, sir, that a poet does indeed need a 
 heart ? ' 
 
 ' I really cannot say. I know my wife always said 
 I had a bad heart and worse head ; but what she meant, 
 upon my honour I never could understand.' 
 
 ' Minerva will ask you to write in her album.' 
 
 * Will she indeed ! I am sorry to hear it, for I can 
 scarcely scrawl my own signature. I should think that 
 Jove himself cared little for all this nonsense.' 
 
 ' Jove loves an epigram. He does not esteem Apollo's 
 works at all. Jove is of the classical school, and 
 admires satire, provided there be no allusions to gods 
 and kings.' 
 
 * Of course ; I quite agree with him. I remember 
 we had a confounded poet at Larissa who proved my 
 family lived before the deluge, and asked me for 
 a pension. I refused him, and then he wrote an 
 epigram asserting that I sprang from the veritable 
 stones thrown by Deucalion and Pyrrha at the re- 
 peopling of the earth, and retained all the properties 
 of my ancestors.' 
 
 'Ha, ha! Hark! there's a thunderbolt. I must 
 run to Jove.' 
 
 * And I will look in on the musicians. This way, 
 I think ? ' 
 
 ' Up the ruby staircase, turn to your right, down 
 the amethyst gallery. Farewell ! ' 
 ' Good-bye ; a lively lad that ! ' 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 147 
 
 n 
 
 The King of Thessaly entered the Hall of Music with 
 its golden walls and crystal dome. The Queen of 
 Heaven was reclining in an easy-chair, cutting out 
 peacocks in small sheets of note-paper. Minerva was 
 making a pencil observation on a manuscript copy of 
 the song : Apollo listened with deference to her 
 laudatory criticisms. Another divine dame, standing 
 by the side of Euterpe, who was seated by the harp, 
 looked up as Ixion entered. The wild liquid glance of 
 her soft but radiant countenance denoted the famed 
 Goddess of Beauty. 
 
 Juno just acknowledged the entrance of Ixion by 
 a slight and very haughty inclination of the head, and 
 then resumed her employment. Minerva asked him his 
 opinion of her amendment, of which he greatly approved. 
 Apollo greeted him with a melancholy smile, and con- 
 gratulated him on being mortal. Venus complimented 
 him on his visit to Olympus, and expressed the pleasure 
 that she experienced in making his acquaintance. 
 
 ' What do you think of Heaven ? * inquired Venus, 
 in a soft still voice, and with a smile like summer 
 lightning. 
 
 ' I never found it so enchanting as at this moment,' 
 replied Ixion. 
 
 ' A little dull ? For myself, I pass my time chiefly 
 at Cnidos : you must come and visit me there. 'Tis 
 the most charming place in the world. 'Tis said, you 
 know, that our onions are like other people's roses. 
 We will take care of you, if your wife come.' 
 
 ' No fear of that. She always remains at home and 
 piques herself on her domestic virtues, which means 
 pickling, and quarrelling with her husband.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I see you are a droll. Very good indeed. 
 Well, for my part, I like a watering-place existence. 
 Cnidos, Paphos, Cythera you will usually find me at 
 one of these places. I like the easy distraction of 
 a career without any visible result. At these fascinating 
 spots your gloomy race, to whom, by the by, I am 
 
148 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 exceedingly partial, appear emancipated from the 
 wearing fetters of their regular, dull, orderly, methodical, 
 moral, political, toiling existence. I pride myself upon 
 being the Goddess of Watering-places. You really 
 must pay me a visit at Cnidos.' 
 
 ' Such an invitation requires no repetition. And 
 Cnidos is your favourite spot ? ' 
 
 ' Why, it was so ; but of late it has become so 
 inundated with invalid Asiatics and valetudinarian 
 Persians, that the simultaneous influx of the hand- 
 some heroes who swarm in from the islands to look 
 after their daughters, scarcely compensates for the 
 annoying presence of their yellow faces and shaking 
 limbs. No, I think, on the whole, Paphos is my 
 favourite.' 
 
 ' I have heard of its magnificent luxury.' 
 
 ' Oh ! 'tis lovely ! Quite my idea of country life. 
 Not a single tree ! When Cyprus is very hot, you run 
 to Paphos for a sea-breeze, and are sure to meet every 
 one whose presence is in the least desirable. All the 
 bores remain behind, as if by instinct.' 
 
 ' I remember when we married, we talked of passing 
 the honeymoon at Cythera, but Dia would have her 
 waiting-maid and a bandbox stuffed between us in the 
 chariot, so I got sulky after the first stage, and returned 
 by myself.' 
 
 ' You were quite right. I hate bandboxes : they are 
 always in the way. You would have liked Cythera if 
 you had been in the least in love. High rocks and 
 green knolls, bowery woods, winding walks, and 
 delicious sunsets. I have not been there much of late,' 
 continued the Goddess, looking somewhat sad and 
 serious, * since but I will not talk sentiment to 
 Ixion.' 
 
 ' Do you think, then, I am insensible ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right. We mortals grow callous.' 
 
 ' So I have heard. How very odd ! ' So saying, the 
 Goddess glided away and saluted Mars, who at that 
 moment entered the hall. Ixion was presented to the 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 149 
 
 military hero, who looked fierce and bowed stiffly. 
 The King of Thessaly turned upon his heel. Minerva 
 opened her album, and invited him to inscribe a stanza. 
 
 ' Goddess of Wisdom,' replied the King, * unless 
 you inspire me, the virgin page must remain pure as 
 thyself. I can scarcely sign a decree.' 
 
 * Is it Ixion of Thessaly who says this ? one who has 
 seen so much, and, if I am not mistaken, has felt and 
 thought so much. I can easily conceive why such 
 a mind may desire to veil its movements from the 
 common herd, but pray concede to Minerva the 
 gratifying compliment of assuring her that she is 
 the exception for whom this rule has been established.' 
 
 4 1 seem to listen to the inspired music of an oracle. 
 Give me a pen.' 
 
 ' Here is one, plucked from a sacred owl.' 
 
 ' So ! I write. There ! Will it do ? ' 
 
 Minerva read the inscription : 
 
 I HAVE SEEN THE WOULD, AND MORE THAN THE 
 WORLD I I HAVE STUDIED THE HEART OF MAN, 
 AND NOW I CONSORT WITH IMMORTALS. THE 
 FRUIT OF MY TREE OF KNOWLEDGE IS PLUCKED, 
 AND IT IS THIS, 
 
 ' U>b*nture* are to tfje &&benturou<$.' 
 
 Written in the Album of Minerva, by 
 
 ] lion in 
 
 ' 'Tis brief,' said the Goddess, with a musing air, 
 * but full of meaning. You have a daring soul and 
 pregnant mind.' 
 
 ' I have dared much : what I may produce we have 
 yet to see.' 
 
 ' I must to Jove,' said Minerva, ' to council. We 
 shall meet again. Farewell, Ixion.' 
 
 ' Farewell, Glaucopis.' 
 
 The King of Thessaly stood away from the remaining 
 guests, and leant with folded arms and pensive brow 
 against a wreathed column. Mars listened to Venus 
 with an air of deep devotion. Euterpe played an 
 
150 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 inspiring accompaniment to their conversation. The 
 Queen of Heaven seemed engrossed in the creation of 
 her paper peacocks. 
 
 Ixion advanced and seated himself on a couch near 
 Juno. His manner was divested of that reckless bear- 
 ing and careless coolness by which it was in general 
 distinguished. He was, perhaps, even a little embar- 
 rassed. His ready tongue deserted him. At length 
 he spoke. 
 
 ' Has your Majesty ever heard of the peacock of the 
 Queen of Mesopotamia ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Juno, with stately reserve ; and then 
 she added with an air of indifferent curiosity, ' Is it in 
 any way remarkable ? ' 
 
 ' Its breast is of silver, its wings of gold, its eyes of 
 carbuncle, its claws of amethyst.' 
 
 ' And its tail ? ' eagerly inquired Juno. 
 
 ' That is a secret,' replied Ixion. * The tail is the 
 most wonderful part of all.' 
 
 ' Oh ! tell me, pray tell me ! ' 
 
 * I forget.' 
 
 * No, no, no ; it is impossible ! ' exclaimed the 
 animated Juno. * Provoking mortal ! ' continued the 
 Goddess. * Let me entreat you ; tell me immediately.' 
 
 * There is a reason which prevents me.' 
 
 ' What can it be ? How very odd ! What reason 
 can it possibly be ? Now tell me ; as a particular, 
 a personal favour, I request you tell me. 
 
 4 What ? The tail or the reason ? The tail is wonder- 
 ful, but the reason is much more so. I can only tell 
 one. Now choose.' 
 
 * What provoking things these human beings are ! 
 The tail is wonderful, but the reason is much more so. 
 Well then, the reason no, the tail. Stop, now, as 
 a particular favour, pray tell me both. What can the 
 tail be made of, and what can the reason be ? I am 
 literally dying of curiosity.' 
 
 * Your Majesty has cut out that peacock wrong,' 
 coolly remarked Ixion. ' It is more like one of Minerva's 
 owls.' 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 151 
 
 ' Who cares about paper peacocks, when the Queen 
 of Mesopotamia has got such a miracle ! ' exclaimed 
 Juno ; and she tore the labours of the morning to 
 pieces, and threw away the fragments with vexation. 
 ' Now tell me instantly ; if you have the slightest 
 regard for me, tell me instantly. What was the tail 
 made of ? ' 
 
 ' And you do not wish to hear the reason ? ' 
 
 * That afterwards. Now ! I am all ears.' At this 
 moment Ganymede entered, and whispered the Goddess, 
 who rose in evident vexation, and retired to the pre- 
 sence of Jove. 
 
 m 
 
 The King of Thessaly quitted the HaU of Music. 
 Moody, yet not uninfluenced by a degree of wild 
 excitement, he wandered forth into the gardens of 
 Olympus. He came to a beautiful green retreat 
 surrounded by enormous cedars, so vast that it seemed 
 they must have been coeval with the creation; so 
 fresh and brilliant, you would have deemed them wet 
 with the dew of their first spring. The turf, softer than 
 down, and exhaling, as you pressed it, an exquisite 
 perfume, invited him to recline himself upon this 
 natural couch. He threw himself upon the aromatic 
 herbage, and leaning on his arm, fell into a deep 
 reverie. 
 
 Hours flew away ; the sunshiny glades that opened 
 in the distance had softened into shade. 
 
 * Ixion, how do you do ? ' inquired a voice, wild, 
 sweet, and thrilling as a bird. The King of Thessaly 
 started and looked up with the distracted air of a man 
 roused from a dream, or from complacent medita- 
 tion over some strange, sweet secret. His cheek was 
 flushed, his dark eyes flashed fire ; his brow trembled, 
 his dishevelled hair played in the fitful breeze. The 
 King of Thessaly looked up, and beheld a most beautiful 
 youth. 
 
 Apparently, he had attained about the age of 
 puberty. His stature, however, was rather tall for 
 
152 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 his age, but exquisitely moulded and proportioned. 
 Very fair, his somewhat round cheeks were tinted with 
 a rich but delicate glow, like the rose of twilight, and 
 lighted by dimples that twinkled like stars. His large 
 and deep-blue eyes sparkled with exultation, and an 
 air of ill-suppressed mockery quivered round his 
 pouting lips. His light auburn hair, braided off his 
 white forehead, clustered in massy curls on each side 
 of his face, and fell in sunny torrents down his neck. 
 And from the back of the beautiful youth there fluttered 
 forth two wings, the tremulous plumage of which 
 seemed to have been bathed in a sunset : so various, 
 so radiant, and so novel were its shif ting and wondrous 
 tints ; purple, and crimson, and gold ; streaks of 
 azure, dashes of orange and glossy black ; now a single 
 feather, whiter than light, and sparkling like the frost, 
 stars of emerald and carbuncle, and then the prismatic 
 blaze of an enormous brilliant ! A quiver hung at the 
 side of the beautiful youth, and he leant upon a bow. 
 
 ' Oh ! god ! for god thou must be ! ' at length 
 exclaimed Ixion. ' Do I behold the bright divinity of 
 Love ? ' 
 
 ' I am indeed Cupid,' replied the youth ; ' and am 
 curious to know what Ixion is thinking about.' 
 
 ' Thought is often bolder than speech.' 
 
 ' Oracular, though a mortal ! You need not be 
 afraid to trust me. My aid I am sure you must need. 
 Who ever was found in a reverie on the green turf, 
 under the shade of spreading trees, without requiring 
 the assistance of Cupid ? Come ! be frank, who is the 
 heroine ? Some love-sick nymph deserted on the far 
 earth ; or worse, some treacherous mistress, whose 
 frailty is more easily forgotten than her charms ? 
 'Tis a miserable situation, no doubt. It cannot be 
 your wife ? ' 
 
 ' Assuredly not,' replied Ixion, with great energy. 
 
 * Another man's ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' What ! an obdurate maiden ? * 
 
 Ixion shook his head. 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 153 
 
 ' It must be a widow, then,' continued Cupid. 
 ' Who ever heard before of such a piece of work about 
 a widow ! ' 
 
 ' Have pity upon me, dread Cupid ! ' exclaimed the 
 King of Thessaly, rising suddenly from the ground, 
 and falling on his knee before the God. ' Thou art the 
 universal friend of man, and all nations alike throw 
 their incense on thy altars. Thy divine discrimination 
 has not deceived thee. I am in love; desperately, 
 madly, fatally enamoured. The object of my passion 
 is neither my own wife nor another man's. In spite 
 of all they have said and sworn, I am a moral member 
 of society. She is neither a maid nor a widow. She 
 
 ' What ? what ? ' exclaimed the impatient deity. 
 
 ' A Goddess ! ' replied the King. 
 
 ' Wheugh ! ' whistled Cupid. * What ! has my mis- 
 chievous mother been indulging you with an innocent 
 flirtation ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; but it produced no effect upon me.' 
 
 ' You have a stout heart, then. Perhaps you have 
 been reading poetry with Minerva, and are caught in 
 one of her Platonic man- traps.' 
 
 ' She set one, but I broke away.' 
 
 ' You have a stout leg, then. But where are you, 
 where are you ? Is it Hebe ? It can hardly be Diana, she 
 is so very cold. Is it a Muse, or is it one of the Graces ?' 
 
 Ixion again shook his head. 
 
 ' Come, my dear fellow,' said Cupid, quite in a con- 
 fidential tone, ' you have told enough to make further 
 reserve mere affectation. Ease your heart at once, 
 and if I can assist you, depend upon my exertions.' 
 
 * Beneficent God ! ' exclaimed Ixion, ' if I ever 
 return to Larissa, the brightest temple in Greece shall 
 hail thee for its inspiring deity. I address thee with all 
 the confiding frankness of a devoted votary. Know, 
 then, the heroine of my reverie was no less a personage 
 than the Queen of Heaven herself ! ' 
 
 ' Juno ! by all that is sacred ! ' shouted Cupid. 
 
 ' I am here,' responded a voice of majestic melody. 
 
154 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 The stately form of the Queen of Heaven advanced 
 from a neighbouring bower. Ixion stood with his eyes 
 fixed upon the ground, with a throbbing heart and 
 burning cheeks. Juno stood motionless, pale, and 
 astounded. The God of Love burst into excessive 
 laughter. 
 
 ' A pretty pair,' he exclaimed, fluttering between 
 both, and laughing in their faces. ' Truly a pretty 
 pair. Well ! I see I am in your way. Good-bye ! ' 
 And so saying, the God pulled a couple of arrows from 
 his quiver, and with the rapidity of lightning shot one 
 in the respective breasts of the Queen of Heaven and 
 the King of Thessaly. 
 
 rv 
 
 The amethystine twilight of Olympus died away. 
 The stars blazed with tints of every hue. Ixion and 
 Juno returned to the palace. She leant upon his arm ; 
 her eyes were fixed upon the ground ; they were in 
 sight of the gorgeous pile, and yet she had not spoken. 
 Ixion, too, was silent, and gazed with abstraction upon 
 the glowing sky. 
 
 Suddenly, when within a hundred yards of the 
 portal, Juno stopped, and looking up into the face of 
 Ixion with an irresistible smile, she said, ' I am sure 
 you cannot now refuse to tell me what the Queen of 
 Mesopotamia's peacock's tail was made of ? ' 
 
 ' It is impossible now,' said Ixion. ' Know, then, 
 beautiful Goddess, that the tail of the Queen of Meso- 
 potamia's peacock was made of some plumage she had 
 stolen from the wings of Cupid.' 
 
 ' And what was the reason that prevented you from 
 telling me before ? ' 
 
 ' Because, beautiful Juno, I am the most discreet of 
 men, and respect the secret of a lady, however 
 trifling.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear that,' replied Juno, and they 
 re-entered the palace. 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 155 
 
 v 
 
 Mercury met Juno and Ixion in the gallery leading 
 to the grand banqueting hall. 
 
 ' I was looking for you,' said the God, shaking his 
 head. ' Jove is in a sublime rage. Dinner has been 
 ready this hour.' 
 
 The King of Thessaly and the Queen of Heaven 
 exchanged a glance and entered the saloon. Jove 
 looked up with a brow of thunder, but did not con- 
 descend to send forth a single flash of anger. Jove 
 looked up and Jove looked down. All Olympus 
 trembled as the father of Gods and men resumed his 
 soup. The rest of the guests seemed nervous and 
 reserved, except Cupid, who said immediately to Juno, 
 ' Your Majesty has been detained ? ' 
 
 6 I fell asleep in a bower reading Apollo's last poem,' 
 replied Juno. ' I am lucky, however, in finding a com- 
 panion in my negligence. Ixion, where have you 
 been ? ' 
 
 ' Take a glass of nectar, Juno,' said Cupid, with 
 eyes twinkling with mischief ; ' and perhaps Ixion will 
 join us.' 
 
 This was the most solemn banquet ever celebrated 
 in Olympus. Every one seemed out of humour or out 
 of spirits. Jupiter spoke only in monosyllables of sup- 
 pressed rage, that sounded like distant thunder. 
 
 Apollo whispered to Minerva. Mercury never 
 opened his lips, but occasionally exchanged significant 
 glances with Ganymede. Mars compensated, by his 
 attentions to Venus, for his want of conversation. 
 Cupid employed himself in asking disagreeable ques- 
 tions. At length the Goddesses retired. Mercury 
 exerted himself to amuse Jove, but the Thunderer 
 scarcely deigned to smile at his best stories. Mars 
 picked his teeth, Apollo played with his rings, Ixion 
 was buried in a profound reverie. 
 
156 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 VI 
 
 It was a great relief to all when Ganymede sum- 
 moned them to the presence of their late companions. 
 
 ' I have written a comment upon your inscription,' said 
 Minerva to Ixion, 'and am anxious for your opinion of it.' 
 
 ' I am a wretched critic,' said the King, breaking 
 away from her. Juno smiled upon him in the distance. 
 
 ' Ixion,' said Venus, as he passed by, ' come and talk 
 to me.' 
 
 The bold Thessalian blushed, he stammered out an 
 unmeaning excuse, he quitted the astonished but good- 
 natured Goddess, and seated himself by Juno, and as 
 he seated himself his moody brow seemed suddenly 
 illumined with brilliant light. 
 
 ' Is it so ? ' said Venus. 
 
 * Hem ! ' said Minerva. 
 ' Ha, ha ! ' said Cupid. 
 
 Jupiter played piquette with Mercury. 
 
 ' Everything goes wrong to-day,' said the King of 
 Heaven ; ' cards wretched, and kept waiting for dinner, 
 and by a mortal ! ' 
 
 ' Your Majesty must not be surprised,' said the good- 
 natured Mercury, with whom Ixion was no favourite. 
 ' Your Majesty must not be very much surprised at the 
 conduct of this creature. Considering what he is, and 
 where he is, I am only astonished that his head is not 
 more turned than it appears to be. A man, a thing 
 made of mud, and in Heaven ! Only think, sire ! Is 
 it not enough to inflame the brain of any child of clay ? 
 To be sure, keeping your Majesty from dinner is little 
 short of celestial high treason. I hardly expected that, 
 indeed. To order me about, to treat Ganymede as his 
 own lackey, and, in short, to command the whole 
 household ; all this might be expected from such 
 a person in such a situation, but I confess I did think 
 he had some little respect left for your Majesty.' 
 
 ' And he does order you about, eh ? ' inquired Jove. 
 * I have the spades.' 
 
 * Oh ! 'tis quite ludicrous,' responded the son of 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 157 
 
 Maia. ' Your Majesty would not expect from me the 
 offices that this absurd upstart daily requires.' 
 
 ' Eternal destiny ! is 't possible ? That is my trick. 
 And Ganymede, too ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! quite shocking, I assure you, sire,' said the 
 beautiful cupbearer, leaning over the chair of Jove 
 with all the easy insolence of a privileged favourite. 
 ' Really, sire, if Ixion is to go on in the way he does, 
 either he or I must quit.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' exclaimed Jupiter. * But I can 
 believe anything of a man who keeps me waiting for 
 dinner. Two and three make five.' 
 
 ' It is Juno that encourages him so,' said Ganymede. 
 
 ' Does she encourage him ? ' inquired Jove. 
 
 ' Everybody notices it,' protested Ganymede. 
 
 ' It is indeed a little noticed,' observed Mercury. 
 
 ' What business has such a fellow to speak to Juno ? ' 
 exclaimed Jove. ' A mere mortal, a mere miserable 
 mortal ! You have the point. How I have been 
 deceived in this fellow ! Who ever could have supposed 
 that, after all my generosity to him, he would ever have 
 kept me waiting for dinner ? ' 
 
 ' He was walking with Juno,' said Ganymede. * It 
 was all a sham about their having met by accident. 
 Cupid saw them.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said Jupiter, turning pale ; ' you don't say 
 so ! Repiqued, as I am a God. That is mine. Where 
 is the Queen ? ' 
 
 ' Talking to Ixion, sire,' said Mercury. * Oh, I beg 
 your pardon, sire ; I did not know you meant the queen 
 of diamonds.' 
 
 ' Never mind. I am repiqued, and I have been kept 
 waiting for dinner. Accursed be this day! Is Ixion 
 really talking to Juno ? We will not endure this.' 
 
 vn 
 
 ' Where is Juno ? ' demanded Jupiter. 
 ' I am sure I cannot say,' said Venus, with a smile. 
 ' I am sure I do not know,' said Minerva, with 
 a sneer. 
 
158 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 ' Where is Ixion ? ' said Cupid, laughing outright. 
 
 ' Mercury, Ganymede, find the Queen of Heaven 
 instantly,' thundered the father of Gods and men. 
 
 The celestial messenger and the heavenly page flew 
 away out of different doors. There was a terrible, an 
 immortal silence. Sublime rage lowered on the brow 
 of Jove like a storm upon the mountain-top. Minerva 
 seated herself at the card-table and played at Patience. 
 Venus and Cupid tittered in the background. Shortly 
 returned the envoys, Mercury looking very solemn, Gany- 
 mede very malignant. 
 
 ' Well ? ' inquired Jove ; and all Olympus trembled 
 at the monosyllable. 
 
 Mercury shook his head. 
 
 ' Her Majesty has been walking on the terrace with 
 the King of Thessaly,' replied Ganymede. 
 
 k Where is she now, sir ? ' demanded Jupiter. 
 
 Mercury shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Her Majesty is resting herself in the pavilion of 
 Cupid, with the King of Thessaly,' replied Ganymede. 
 
 ' Confusion ! ' exclaimed the father of Gods and 
 men ; and he rose and seized a candle from the table, 
 scattering the cards in all directions. Every one 
 present, Minerva, and Venus, and Mars, and Apollo, and 
 Mercury, and Ganymede, and the Muses, and the 
 Graces, and all the winged Genii each seized a candle ; 
 rifling the chandeliers, each followed Jove. 
 
 ' This way,' said Mercury. 
 
 * This way.' said Ganymede. 
 
 ' This way, this way ! ' echoed the celestial crowd. 
 
 ' Mischief ! ' cried Cupid ; * I must save my victims.' 
 
 They were all upon the terrace. The father of Gods 
 and men, though both in a passion and a hurry, 
 moved with dignity. It was, as customary in Heaven, 
 a clear and starry night ; but this eve Diana was 
 indisposed, or otherwise engaged, and there was no 
 moonlight. They were in sight of the pavilion. 
 
 ' What are you ? ' inquired Cupid of one of the 
 Genii, who accidentally extinguished his candle. 
 
 ' I am a Cloud,' answered the winged Genius. 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 159 
 
 ' A Cloud ! Just the thing. Now do me a shrewd 
 turn, and Cupid is ever your debtor. Fly, fly, pretty 
 Cloud, and encompass yon pavilion with your form. 
 Away! ask no questions ; swift as my word.' 
 
 * I declare there is a fog,' said Venus. 
 
 ' An evening mist in Heaven ! ' said Minerva. 
 
 * Where is Nox ? ' said Jove. ' Everything goes 
 wrong. Who ever heard of a mist in Heaven ? ' 
 
 ' My candle is out,' said Apollo. 
 
 ' And mine, too,' said Mars. 
 
 ' And mine, and mine, and mine,' said Mercury, 
 and Ganymede, and the Muses, and the Graces. 
 
 ' All the candles are out ! ' said Cupid ; ' a regular 
 fog. I cannot even see the pavilion : it must be here- 
 abouts, though,' said the God to himself. ' So, so ; 
 I should be at home in my own pavilion, and am 
 tolerably accustomed to stealing about in the dark. 
 There is a step ; and here, surely here is the lock. The 
 door opens, but the Cloud enters before me. Juno, 
 Juno,' whispered the God of Love, ' we are all here. 
 Be contented to escape, like many other innocent 
 dames, with your reputation only under a cloud : it 
 will soon disperse ; and k> ! the heaven is clearing.' 
 
 ' It must have been the heat of our flambeaux,' said 
 Venus ; ' for see, the mist is vanished ; here is the 
 pavilion.' 
 
 Ganymede ran forward, and dashed open the door. 
 Ixion was alone. 
 
 * Seize him ! ' said Jove. 
 
 ' Juno is not here,' said Mercury, with an air of 
 blended congratulation and disappointment. 
 
 * Never mind,' said Jove ; ' seize him ! He kept me 
 waiting for dinner.' 
 
 ' Is this your hospitality, Aegiochus ? ' exclaimed 
 Ixion, in a tone of bullying innocence. ' I shall defend 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Seize him, seize him ! ' exclaimed Jupiter. * What ! 
 do you all falter ? Are you afraid of a mortal ? ' 
 
 ' And a Thessalian ? ' added Ganymede. 
 
 No one advanced. 
 
160 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 ' Send for Hercules,' said Jove. 
 
 ' I will fetch him in an instant,' said Ganymede. 
 
 ' I protest,' said the King of Thessaly, ' against this 
 violation of the most sacred rights.' 
 
 * The marriage tie ? ' said Mercury. 
 
 ' The dinner-hour ? ' said Jove. 
 
 ' It is no use talking sentiment to Ixion,' said Venus ; 
 ' all mortals are callous.' 
 
 ' Adventures are to the adventurous,' said Minerva. 
 
 ' Here is Hercules ! here is Hercules ! ' 
 
 ' Seize him ! ' said Jove ; ' seize that man.' 
 
 In vain the mortal struggled with the irresistible 
 demigod. 
 
 ' Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove ? ' inquired 
 Ganymede. 
 
 4 Anything short of eternal punishment is unworthy 
 of a God,' answered Jupiter, with great dignity. ' Apollo, 
 bring me a wheel of your chariot.' 
 
 ' What shall I do to-morrow morning ? ' inquired 
 the God of Light. 
 
 ' Order an eclipse,' replied Jove. ' Bind the insolent 
 wretch to the wheel ; hurl him to Hades ; its motion 
 shall be perpetual.' 
 
 ' What am I to bind him with ? ' inquired Hercules. 
 
 ' The girdle of Venus,' replied the Thunderer. 
 
 ' What is all this ? ' inquired Juno, advancing, pale 
 and agitated. 
 
 ' Come along ; you shall see,' answered Jupiter. 
 ' Follow me, follow me.' 
 
 They all followed the leader, all the Gods, all the 
 Genii ; in the midst, the brawny husband of Hebe 
 bearing Ixion aloft, bound to the fatal wheel. They 
 reached the terrace ; they descended the sparkling 
 steps of lapis-lazuli. Hercules held his burthen on 
 high, ready, at a nod, to plunge the hapless but pre- 
 sumptuous mortal through space into Hades. The 
 heavenly group surrounded him, and peeped over the 
 starry abj^ss. It was a fine moral, and demonstrated 
 the usual infelicity that attends unequal connexions. 
 
 ' Celestial despot ! ' said Ixion. 
 
IXION IN HEAVEN 161 
 
 In a moment all sounds were hushed, as they listened 
 to the last words of the unrivalled victim. Juno, in 
 despair, leant upon the respective arms of Venus and 
 Minerva. 
 
 ' Celestial despot ! ' said Ixion, ' I defy the immortal 
 ingenuity of thy cruelty. My memory must be as 
 eternal as thy torture : that will support me.' 
 
 193 
 
EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 1809-1849 
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 
 
 Son cceur est un luth suspendu ; 
 Sitot qu'on le louche il resonne. 
 
 DE BEBANGEB. 
 
 DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day 
 in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung 
 oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing 
 alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract 
 of country ; and at length found myself, as the shades 
 of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy 
 House of Usher. I know not how it was but, with 
 the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable 
 gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; for the 
 feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, 
 because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually 
 receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate 
 or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me upon 
 the mere house, and the simple landscape features of 
 the domain upon the bleak walls upon the vacant 
 eye-like windows upon a few rank sedges and upon 
 a few white trunks of decayed trees with an utter 
 depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly 
 sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the 
 reveller upon opium the bitter lapse into every- day 
 life the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was 
 an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart an 
 unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading 
 of the imagination could torture into aught of the 
 sublime. What was it I paused to think what was 
 it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 163 
 
 House of Usher ? It was a mystery all insoluble ; nor 
 could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded 
 upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back 
 upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond 
 doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural 
 objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still 
 the analysis of this power lies among considerations 
 beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that 
 a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the 
 scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient 
 to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for 
 sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this idea, I 
 reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black 
 and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the 
 dwelling, and gazed down but with a shudder even 
 more thrilling than before upon the remodelled and 
 inverted images of the grey sedge, and the ghastly 
 tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. 
 
 Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now pro- 
 posed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its pro- 
 prietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon 
 companions in boyhood ; but many years had elapsed 
 since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately 
 reached me in a distant part of the country a letter 
 from him which, in its wildly importunate nature, 
 had admitted of no other than the personal reply. 
 The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The 
 writer spoke of acute bodily illness of a mental dis- 
 order which oppressed him and of an earnest desire 
 to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal 
 friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness 
 of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was 
 the manner in which all this, and much more, was 
 said it was the apparent heart that went with his 
 request which allowed me no room for hesitation ; 
 and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still con- 
 sidered a very singular summons. 
 
 Although, as boys, we had been even intimate asso- 
 ciates, yet I really knew little of my friend. His 
 reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was 
 
164 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 aware, however, that his very ancient family had been 
 noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of 
 temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, in 
 many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, 
 in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, 
 as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, 
 perhaps even more than to the orthodox and easily 
 recognizable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, 
 too, the very remarkable fact, that the stem of the 
 Usher race, all time-honoured as it was, had put forth, 
 at no period, any enduring branch ; in other words, 
 that the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, 
 and had always, with very trifling and very temporary 
 variation, so lain. It was this deficiency, I considered, 
 while running over in thought the perfect keeping of 
 the character of the premises with the accredited 
 character of the people, and while speculating upon 
 the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse 
 of centuries, might have exercised upon the other it 
 was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and 
 the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to 
 son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at 
 length, so identified the two as to merge the original 
 title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal appella- 
 tion of the * House of Usher ' an appellation which 
 seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who 
 used it, both the family and the family mansion. 
 
 I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat 
 childish experiment that of looking down within the 
 tarn had been to deepen the first singular impression. 
 There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the 
 rapid increase of my superstition for why should I not 
 so term it ? served mainly to accelerate the increase 
 itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical 
 law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And 
 it might have been for this reason only, that, when 
 I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its 
 image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange 
 fancy a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but men- 
 tion it to show the vivid force of the sensations which 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 165 
 
 oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination 
 as really to believe that about the whole mansion and 
 domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to them- 
 selves and their immediate vicinity an atmosphere 
 which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which 
 had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the grey 
 wall, and the silent tarn a pestilent and mystic 
 vapour, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden- 
 hued. 
 
 Shaking off from my spirit what must have been 
 a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of 
 the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that 
 of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages 
 had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole 
 exterior, hanging in a fine tangled webwork from the 
 eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary 
 dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen ; 
 and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between 
 its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling 
 condition of the individual stones. In this there was 
 much that reminded me of the specious totality of old 
 woodwork which has rotted for long years in some 
 neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath 
 of the external air. Beyond this indication of exten- 
 sive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of 
 instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer 
 might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, 
 which, extending from the roof of the building in front, 
 made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, 
 until it became lost in the sullen waters of the 
 tarn. 
 
 Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway 
 to the house. A servant in waiting took my horse, and 
 I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of 
 stealthy step, thence conducted me, in silence, through 
 many dark and intricate passages in my progress to 
 the studio of his master. Much that I encountered 
 on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten 
 the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. 
 While the objects around me while the carvings of 
 
166 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the 
 ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric 
 armorial trophies which rattled as I strode, were but 
 matters to which, or to such as which, I had been 
 accustomed from my infancy while I hesitated not to 
 acknowledge how familiar was all this I still wondered 
 to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary 
 images were stirring up. On one of the staircases 
 I met the physician of the family. His countenance, 
 I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning 
 and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and 
 passed on. The valet now threw open a door and 
 ushered me into the presence of his master. 
 
 The room in which I found myself was very large and 
 lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, 
 and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor 
 as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble 
 gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through 
 the trellised panes, and served to render sufficiently 
 distinct the more prominent objects around ; the eye, 
 however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles 
 of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and 
 fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. 
 The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, 
 and tattered. Many books and musical instruments 
 lay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality 
 to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of 
 sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom 
 hung over and pervaded all. 
 
 Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which 
 he had been lying at full length, and greeted me with 
 a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first 
 thought, of an overdone cordiality of the constrained 
 effort of the ennuye man of the world. A glance, how- 
 ever, at his countenance, convinced me of his perfect 
 sincerity. We sat down ; and for some moments, while 
 he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half 
 of pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never before so 
 terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick 
 Usher ! It was with difficulty that I could bring myself 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 167 
 
 to admit the identity of the wan being before me with 
 the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the character 
 of his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaver- 
 ousness of complexion ; an eye large, liquid, and 
 luminous beyond comparison ; lips somewhat thin 
 and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve ; 
 a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth 
 of nostril unusual in similar formations ; a finely 
 moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of 
 a want of moral energy ; hair of a more than weblike 
 softness and tenuity ; these features, with an inordinate 
 expansion above the regions of the temple, made up 
 altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten* 
 And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing 
 character of these features, and of the expression they 
 were wont to convey, lay so much of change that 
 I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor 
 of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, 
 above all things startled and even awed me. The 
 silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, 
 and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather 
 than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, 
 connect its Arabesque expression with any idea of 
 simple humanity. 
 
 In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with 
 an incoherence an inconsistency ; and I soon found 
 this to arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles 
 to overcome an habitual trepidancy an excessive 
 nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had 
 indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by 
 reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclu- 
 sions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation 
 and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious 
 and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous 
 indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in 
 abeyance) to that species of energetic concision that 
 abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow-sounding 
 enunciation that leaden, self-balanced, and perfectly 
 modulated guttural utterance, which may be observed 
 in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of 
 
168 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 opium, during the periods of his most intense excite- 
 ment. 
 
 It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, 
 of his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he 
 expected me to afford him. He entered, at some 
 length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his 
 malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family 
 evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy 
 a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which 
 would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself 
 in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he 
 detailed them, interested and bewildered me ; although, 
 perhaps, the terms, and the general manner of the 
 narration had their weight. He suffered much from 
 a morbid acuteness of the senses ; the most insipid 
 food was alone endurable ; he could wear only gar- 
 ments of certain texture ; the odours of all flowers 
 were oppressive ; his eyes were tortured by even a faint 
 light ; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these 
 from stringed instruments, which did not inspire him 
 with horror. 
 
 To an anomalous species of terror I found him a 
 bounden slave. * I shall perish,' said he, ' I must 
 perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not 
 otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the 
 future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder 
 at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, 
 which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of 
 souL I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except 
 in its absolute effect in terror. In this unnerved in 
 this pitiable condition I feel that the period will 
 sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and 
 reason together, in some struggle with the grim 
 phantasm, FEAR.' 
 
 I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken 
 and equivocal hints, another singular feature of his 
 mental condition. He was enchained by certain super- 
 stitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which 
 he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had 
 never ventured forth in regard to an influence whose 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 169 
 
 supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy 
 here to be restated an influence which some pecu- 
 liarities in the mere form and substance of his family 
 mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, 
 obtained over his spirit an effect which the physique 
 of the grey walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into 
 which they all looked down, had at length brought 
 about upon the morale of his existence. 
 
 He admitted, however, although with hesitation, 
 that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted 
 him could be traced to a more natural and far more 
 palpable origin to the severe and long-continued ill- 
 ness indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution 
 of a tenderly beloved sister his sole companion for 
 long years his last and only relative on earth. ' Her 
 decease,' he said, with a bitterness which I can never 
 forget, ' would leave him (him the hopeless and the 
 frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers.' 
 While he spoke, the Lady Madeline (for so was she 
 called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the 
 apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, 
 disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonish- 
 ment not unmingled with dread and yet I found it 
 impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation 
 of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her re- 
 treating steps. When a door at length closed upon 
 her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the 
 countenance of the brother but he had buried his 
 face in his hands, and I could only perceive that a 
 far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the 
 emaciated fingers through which trickled many pas- 
 sionate tears. 
 
 The disease of the Lady Madeline had long baffled 
 the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual 
 wasting away of the person, and frequent although 
 transient affections of a partially cataleptical character, 
 were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily 
 borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had 
 not betaken herself finally to bed ; but, on the closing 
 in of the evening of my arrival at the house, she 
 
 G3 
 
170 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 succumbed (as her brother told me at night with 
 inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of 
 the destroyer ; and I learned that the glimpse I had 
 obtained of her person would thus probably be the last 
 I should obtain that the lady, at least while living, 
 would be seen by me no more. 
 
 For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned 
 by either Usher or myself ; and during this period 
 I was busied in earnest endeavours to alleviate the 
 melancholy of my friend. We painted and read to- 
 gether ; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild 
 improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as 
 a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more 
 unreservedly into, the recesses of his spirit, the more 
 bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at 
 cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent 
 positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the 
 moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation 
 of gloom. 
 
 I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many 
 solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of 
 the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt 
 to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, 
 or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or 
 led me the way. An excited and highly distempered 
 ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long 
 improvised dirges will ring for ever in my ears. Among 
 other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular 
 perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last 
 waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which 
 his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch 
 by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the 
 more thriUingly, because I shuddered knowing not why 
 from these paintings (vivid as their images now are 
 before me) I would hi vain endeavour to educe more 
 than a small portion which should lie within the com- 
 pass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, 
 by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and over- 
 awed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that 
 mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least in the 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 171 
 
 circumstances then surrounding me there arose out 
 of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac con- 
 trived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of 
 intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in 
 the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too 
 concrete reveries of Fuseli. 
 
 One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, 
 partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, 
 may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. 
 A small picture presented the interior of an immensely 
 long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, 
 smooth, white, and without interruption or device. 
 Certain accessory points of the design served well to 
 convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceed- 
 ing depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was 
 observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch, 
 or other artificial source of light, was discernible ; yet 
 a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed 
 the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendour. 
 
 I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the 
 auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable 
 to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects 
 of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow 
 limits to which he thus confined himself upon the 
 guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the 
 fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid 
 facility of his impromptus could not be so accounted 
 for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as 
 well as in the words, of his wild fantasias (for he not 
 unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal 
 improvisations), the result of that intense mental col- 
 lectedness and concentration to which I have previously 
 alluded as observable only in particular moments of the 
 highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these 
 rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, 
 the more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, 
 because, in the under or mystic current of its meaning, 
 I fancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full 
 consciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering of 
 his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which 
 
172 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 were entitled ' The Haunted Palace ', ran very nearly, 
 if not accurately, thus : 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys, 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace 
 
 Radiant palace reared its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion 
 
 It stood there ! 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair. 
 
 n 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow 
 (This all this was in the olden 
 
 Tune long ago) ; 
 And every gentle ah- that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odour went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley 
 
 Through two luminous windows saw 
 Spirits moving musically 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 Round about a throne, where sitting 
 
 (Porphyrogene ! ) 
 In state his glory well befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 IV 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door, 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 173 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate 
 (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him, desolate!); 
 And, round about his home, the glory 
 
 That blushed and bloomed 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 VI 
 
 And travellers now within that valley, 
 
 Through the red-litten windows, see 
 Vast forms that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody; 
 While, like a rapid ghastly river, 
 
 Through the pale door, 
 A hideous throng rush out for ever, 
 
 And laugh but smile no more. 
 
 I well remember that suggestions arising from this 
 ballad led us into a train of thought wherein there 
 became manifest an opinion of Usher's, which I mention 
 not so much on account of its novelty (for other men 
 have thought thus), as on account of the pertinacity 
 with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its 
 general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable 
 things. But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had 
 assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under 
 certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. 
 I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest 
 abandon of his persuasion. The belief, however, was 
 connected (as I have previously hinted) with the grey 
 stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions 
 of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in 
 the method of collocation of these stones in the order 
 of their arrangement, as well as in that of the many 
 fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees 
 which stood around above all, in the long undisturbed 
 endurance of this arrangement, and in its reduplication 
 
174 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence the 
 evidence of the sentience was to be seen, he said (and 
 I here started as he spoke), in the gradual yet certain 
 condensation of an atmosphere of their own about the 
 waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, he 
 added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible 
 influence which for centuries had moulded the destinies 
 of his family, and which made him what I now saw 
 him what he was. Such opinions need no comment, 
 and I will make none. 
 
 Our books the books which, for years, had formed 
 no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid 
 were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with 
 this character of phantasm. We pored together over 
 such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of Gresset; 
 the Belphegor of Machiavelli ; the Heaven and Hell of 
 Swedenborg ; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas 
 Klimn, by Holberg ; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, 
 of Jean D'Indagine, and of De la Chambre ; the 
 Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck ; and the City 
 of the Sun of Campanella. One favourite volume was 
 a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium, 
 by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there 
 were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old 
 African Satyrs and Aegipans, over which Usher would 
 sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, 
 was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and 
 curious book in quarto Gothic the manual of a 
 forgotten church the Vigiliae Mortuorum secundum 
 Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae. 
 
 I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this 
 work, and of its probable influence upon the hypo- 
 chondriac, when, one evening, having informed me 
 abruptly that the Lady Madeline was no more, he 
 stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fort- 
 night (previously to its final interment), in one of the 
 numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. 
 The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular 
 proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to 
 dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution (so 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 175 
 
 he told me) by consideration of the unusual character 
 of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive 
 and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, 
 and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial- 
 ground of the family. I will not deny that when 
 I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person 
 whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my 
 arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what 
 I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no means 
 an unnatural, precaution. 
 
 At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in 
 the arrangements for the temporary entombment. The 
 body having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to 
 its rest. The vault in which we placed it ( and which had 
 been so long unopened that our torches, half smothered 
 in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity 
 for investigation) was small, damp, and entirely with- 
 out means of admission for light; lying, at great 
 depth, immediately beneath that portion of the build- 
 ing in which was my own sleeping apartment. It had 
 been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the 
 worst purposes of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, 
 as a place of deposit for powder, or some other highly 
 combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and 
 the whole interior of a long archway through which 
 we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. 
 The door, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly 
 protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually 
 sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges. 
 
 Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels 
 within this region of horror, we partially turned aside 
 the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the 
 face of the tenant. A striking similitude between the 
 brother and sister now first arrested my attention; 
 and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured 
 out some few words from which I learned that the 
 deceased and himself had been twins, and that sym- 
 pathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always 
 existed between them. Our glances, however, rested 
 not long upon the dead for we could not regard her 
 
176 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the 
 lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as usual in 
 all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, the 
 mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, 
 and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which 
 is so terrible in death. We replaced and screwed down 
 the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made 
 our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apart- 
 ments of the upper portion of the house. 
 
 And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, 
 an observable change came over the features of the 
 mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner 
 had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neglected 
 or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber 
 with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor 
 of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more 
 ghastly hue but the luminousness of his eye had 
 utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of 
 his tone was heard no more ; and a tremulous quaver, 
 as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his 
 utterance. There were times, indeed, when I thought 
 his unceasingly agitated mind was labouring with some 
 oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the 
 necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to 
 resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of mad- 
 ness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long 
 hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as 
 if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder 
 that his condition terrified that it infected me. I felt 
 creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the 
 wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive 
 superstitions. 
 
 It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the 
 night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of 
 the Lady Madeline within the donjon, that I experienced 
 the full power of such feelings. Sleep came not near 
 my couch while the hours waned and waned away. 
 I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had 
 dominion over me. I endeavoured to believe that much, 
 if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 177 
 
 influence of the gloomy furniture of the room of 
 the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into 
 motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fit- 
 fully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily 
 about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were 
 fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded 
 my frame ; and, at length, there sat upon my very 
 heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking 
 this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself 
 upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the 
 intense darkness of the chamber, hearkened I know 
 not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted 
 me to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, 
 through the pauses of the storm, at long intervals, 
 I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense senti- 
 ment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw 
 on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep 
 no more during the night), and endeavoured to arouse 
 myself from the pitiable condition into which I had 
 fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the 
 apartment. 
 
 I had taken but few turns in this manner, when 
 a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my 
 attention. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. 
 In an instant afterward he rapped, with a gentle touch, 
 at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His counte- 
 nance was, as usual, cadaverously wan but, moreover, 
 there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes an 
 evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanour. 
 His air appalled me but anything was preferable to 
 the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even 
 welcomed his presence as a relief. 
 
 ' And you have not seen it ? ' he said abruptly, after 
 having stared about him for some moments in silence 
 * you have not then seen it ? but, stay ! you shall.' 
 Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, 
 he hurried to one of the casements, and threw jt freely 
 open to the storm. 
 
 The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted 
 us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet 
 
178 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its 
 terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently 
 collected its force in our vicinity ; for there were 
 frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the 
 wind ; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which 
 hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) 
 did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity 
 with which they flew careering from all points against 
 each other, without passing away into the distance. 
 I say that even their exceeding density did not pre- 
 vent our perceiving this yet we had no glimpse of the 
 moon or stars nor was there any flashing forth of the 
 lightning. But the under surfaces of the huge masses 
 of agitated vapour, as well as all terrestrial objects 
 immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural 
 light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous 
 exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the 
 mansion. 
 
 * You must not you shall not behold this ! ' said 
 I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle 
 violence, from the window to a seat. ' These ap- 
 pearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical 
 phenomena not uncommon or it may be that they 
 have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the 
 tarn. Let us close this casement the air is chilling 
 and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your 
 favourite romances. I will read, and you shall listen 
 and so we will pass away this terrible night together.' 
 
 The antique volume which I had taken up was the 
 Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning ; but I had 
 called it a favourite of Usher's more in sad jest than 
 in earnest ; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth 
 and unimaginative prolixity which could have had 
 interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. 
 It was, however, the only book immediately at hand ; 
 and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which 
 now agitated the hypochondriac, might find relief (for 
 the history of mental disorder is full of similar anoma- 
 lies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should 
 read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild over- 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 179 
 
 strained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or 
 apparently hearkened, to the words of the tale, I might 
 well have congratulated myself upon the success of my 
 design. 
 
 I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story 
 where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought 
 in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of 
 the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by 
 force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the 
 narrative run thus : 
 
 ' And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty 
 heart, and who was now mighty withal, on account of 
 the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, 
 waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, 
 in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, 
 feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the 
 rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, 
 with blows, made quickly room in the plankings of the 
 door for his gauntleted hand ; and now pulling there- 
 with sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all 
 asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sound- 
 ing wood alarumed and reverberated throughout the 
 forest.' 
 
 At the termination of this sentence I starred, and 
 for a moment paused ; for it appeared to me (although 
 I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived 
 me) it appeared to me that, from some very remote 
 portion of the mansion, there came, indistinctly, to my 
 ears, what might have been, in its exact similarity of 
 character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) 
 of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir 
 Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, be- 
 yond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested 
 my attention ; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of 
 the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises 
 of the still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had 
 nothing, surely, which should have interested or dis- 
 turbed me. I continued the story : 
 
 ' But the good champion Ethelred, now entering 
 within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to 
 
180 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit ; but, in the 
 stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious 
 demeanour, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard 
 before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and 
 upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with 
 this legend enwritten : 
 
 Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin ; 
 Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 
 
 And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the 
 head of the dragon, which fell before him, and gave up 
 his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, 
 and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to close 
 his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, 
 the like whereof was never before heard.' 
 
 Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling 
 of wild amazement for there could be no doubt what- 
 ever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although 
 from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible 
 to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, pro- 
 tracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound 
 the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already 
 conjured up for the dragon's unnatural shriek as de- 
 scribed by the romancer. 
 
 Oppressed as I certainly was, upon the occurrence 
 of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, by 
 a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder 
 and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained 
 sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any 
 observation, the sensitive nervousness of my com- 
 panion. I was by no means certain that he had 
 noticed the sound in question ; although, assuredly, 
 a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, 
 taken place in his demeanour. From a position fronting 
 my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, 
 so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber ; 
 and thus I could but partially perceive his features, 
 although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were 
 murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his 
 breast yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 181 
 
 wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance 
 of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at 
 variance with this idea for he rocked from side to 
 side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. 
 Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the 
 narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded : 
 
 ' And now, the champion, having escaped from the 
 terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the 
 brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchant- 
 ment which was upon it, removed the carcass from 
 out of the way before him, and approached valorously 
 over the silver pavement of the castle to where the 
 shield was upon the wall ; which in sooth tarried not 
 for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the 
 silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing 
 sound.' 
 
 No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than 
 as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen 
 heavily upon a floor of silver I became aware of a dis- 
 tinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently 
 muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped 
 to my feet ; but the measured rocking movement of 
 Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which 
 he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and 
 throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony 
 rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, 
 there came a strong shudder over his whole person ; 
 a sickly smile quivered about his lips ; and I saw that 
 he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as 
 if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over 
 him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his 
 words. 
 
 ' Not hear it ? yes, I hear it, and have heard it. 
 Long long long many minutes, many hours, many 
 days, have I heard it yet I dared not oh, pity me, 
 miserable wretch that I am ! I dared not I dared 
 not speak ! We have put her living in the tomb ! Said 
 I not that my senses were acute ? I now tell you 
 that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow 
 coffin. I heard them many, many days ago yet 
 
182 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 I dared not / dared not speak ! And now to-night 
 Ethelred ha ! ha ! the breaking of the hermit's door, 
 and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangour of 
 the shield ! say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and 
 the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her 
 struggles within the coppered archway of the vault ! 
 Oh, whither shall I fly ? Will she not be here anon ? 
 Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste ? 
 Have I not heard her footstep on the stair ? Do I not 
 distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her 
 heart ? Madman ! ' here he sprang furiously to his 
 feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort 
 he were giving up his soul ' Madman ! I tell you that 
 she now stands without the door ! ' 
 
 As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance 
 there had been found the potency of a spell the huge 
 antique panels to which the speaker pointed threw 
 slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and 
 ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust 
 but then without those doors there did stand the lofty 
 and enshrouded figure of the Lady Madeline of Usher. 
 There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence 
 of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her 
 emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trem- 
 bling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold then, 
 with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon 
 the person of her brother, and in her violent and now 
 final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and 
 a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 
 
 From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled 
 aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as 
 I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly 
 there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned 
 to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued ; 
 for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind 
 me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and 
 blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that 
 once barely- discernible fissure, of which I have before 
 spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in 
 a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this 
 
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 183 
 
 fissure rapidly widened there came a fierce breath of 
 the whirlwind the entire orb of the satellite burst 
 at once upon my sight my brain reeled as I saw 
 the mighty walls rushing asunder there was a long 
 tumultuous shouting sound like a voice of a thousand 
 waters and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed 
 sullenly and silently over the fragments of the ' House 
 of Usher '. 
 
 THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 
 
 Impia tortorum longas hie turba furores, 
 Sanguinis innocui non satiata, aluit. 
 Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, 
 Mora ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. 
 
 [Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected 
 upon the site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris.'] 
 
 I WAS sick sick unto death with that long agony ; 
 and when they at length unbound me, and I was per- 
 mitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. 
 The sentence the dread sentence of death was the 
 last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. 
 After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed 
 merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It con- 
 veyed to my soul the idea of revolution perhaps from 
 its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. 
 This only for a brief period ; for presently I heard no 
 more. Yet, for a while, I saw ; but with how terrible 
 an exaggeration ! I saw the lips of the black-robed 
 judges. They appeared to me white whiter than the 
 sheet upon which I trace these words and thin even 
 to grotesqueness ; thin with the intensity of their 
 expression of firmness of immovable resolution of 
 stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the 
 decrees of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from 
 those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. 
 I saw them fashion the syllables of my name ; and 
 I shuddered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, 
 
184 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and 
 nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies 
 which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And 
 then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon 
 the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, 
 and seemed white slender angels who would save me ; 
 but then, all at once, there came a most deadly nausea 
 over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill 
 as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, 
 while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, 
 with heads of flame, and I saw that from them there 
 would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, 
 like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet 
 rest there must be in the grave. The thought came 
 gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it 
 attained full appreciation ; but just as my spirit came 
 at length properly to feel and entertain it, the figures 
 of the judges vanished, as if magically, from before 
 me ; the tall candles sank into nothingness ; their 
 flames went out utterly ; the blackness of darkness 
 supervened ; all sensations appeared swallowed up in 
 a mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then 
 silence, and stillness, and night were the universe. 
 
 I had swooned ; but still will not say that all of 
 consciousness was lost. What of it there remained 
 I will not attempt to define, or even to describe ; yet 
 all was not lost. In the deepest slumber no ! In 
 delirium no ! In a swoon no ! In death no ! even 
 in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality 
 for man. Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, 
 we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in 
 a second afterward (so frail may that web have been) 
 we remember not that we have dreamed. Jn the return 
 to life from the swoon there are two stages : first, that 
 of the sense of mental or spiritual ; secondly, that of 
 the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that 
 if, upon reaching the second stage, we could recall the 
 impressions of the first, we should find these impres- 
 sions eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond. And 
 that gulf is what ? How at least shall we distinguish 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 185 
 
 its shadows from those of the tomb ? But if the 
 impressions of what I have termed the first stage are 
 not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they 
 not come unbidden, while we marvel whence they 
 come ? He who has never swooned, is not he who 
 finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals 
 that glow ; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air 
 the sad visions that the many may not view ; is not he 
 who ponders over the perfume of some novel flower is 
 not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning 
 of some musical cadence which has never before arrested 
 his attention. 
 
 Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavours to re- 
 member ; amid earnest struggles to regather some token 
 of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul 
 had lapsed, there have been moments when I have 
 dreamed of success ; there have been brief, very brief 
 periods when I have conjured up remembrances which 
 the lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have 
 had reference only to that condition of seeming uncon- 
 sciousness. These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, 
 of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down 
 down still down till a hideous dizziness oppressed 
 me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the 
 descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, 
 on account of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then 
 comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all 
 things ; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train !) had 
 outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless, and 
 paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After 
 this I call to mind flatness and dampness ; and then 
 all is madness the madness of a memory which busies 
 itself among forbidden things. 
 
 Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion 
 and sound the tumultuous motion of the heart, and, 
 in my ears, the sound of its beating. Then a pause, in 
 which all is blank. Then again sound, and motion, 
 and touch a tingling sensation pervading my frame. 
 Then the mere consciousness of existence, without 
 thought a condition which lasted long. Then, very 
 
186 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, and earnest 
 endeavour to comprehend my true state. Then a strong 
 desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing revival 
 of soul and a successful effort to move. And now a full 
 memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable draperies, 
 of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then 
 entire f orgetfulness of all that followed ; of all that 
 a later day and much earnestness of endeavour have 
 enabled me vaguely to recall. 
 
 So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay 
 upon my back, unbound. I reached out my hand, and 
 it fell heavily upon something damp and hard. There 
 I suffered it to remain for many minutes, while I strove 
 to imagine where and what I could be. I longed, yet 
 dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first 
 glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared 
 to look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast 
 lest there should be nothing to see. At length, with 
 a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes. 
 My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The black- 
 ness of eternal night encompassed me. I struggled 
 for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to 
 oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably 
 close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise 
 my reason. I brought to mind the inquisitorial pro- 
 ceedings, and attempted from that point to deduce 
 my real condition. The sentence had passed ; and it 
 appeared to me that a very long interval of time had 
 since elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose 
 myself actually dead. Such a supposition, notwith- 
 standing what we read in fiction, is altogether incon- 
 sistent with real existence but where and in what 
 state was I ? The condemned to death, I knew, 
 perished usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these 
 had been held on the very night of the day of my 
 trial. Had I been remanded to my dungeon, to await 
 the next sacrifice, which would not take place for 
 many months ? This I at once saw could not be. Vic- 
 tims had been in immediate demand. Moreover, my 
 dungeon, as well as all the condemned cells at 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 187 
 
 Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not altogether 
 excluded. 
 
 A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in 
 torrents upon my heart, and for a brief period I once 
 more relapsed into insensibility. Upon recovering, I at 
 once started to my feet, trembling convulsively in every 
 fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and around me 
 in all directions. I felt nothing ; yet dreaded to move 
 a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a tomb. 
 Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big 
 beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew 
 at length intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, 
 with my arms extended, and my eyes straining from 
 their sockets, in the hope of catching some faint ray 
 of light. I proceeded for many paces ; but still all 
 was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely. 
 It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the 
 most hideous of fates. 
 
 And now, as I still continued to step cautiously 
 onward, there came thronging upon my recollection 
 a thousand vague rumours of the horrors of Toledo. 
 Of the dungeons there had been strange things narrated 
 fables I had always deemed them but yet strange, 
 and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was 
 I left to perish of starvation in this subterranean world 
 of darkness ; or what fate, perhaps even more fearful, 
 awaited me ? That the result would be death, and 
 a death of more than customary bitterness, I knew too 
 well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode 
 and the hour were all that occupied or distracted me. 
 
 My outstretched hands at length encountered some 
 solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone 
 masonry very smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed 
 it up, stepping with all the careful distrust with which 
 certain antique narratives had inspired me. This pro- 
 cess, however, afforded me no means of ascertaining 
 the dimensions of my dungeon ; as I might make its 
 circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, 
 without being aware of the fact ; so perfectly uniform 
 seemed the wall. I therefore sought the knife which 
 
188 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 had been in my pocket, when led into the inquisitorial 
 chamber, but it was gone ; my clothes had been ex- 
 changed for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought 
 of forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the 
 masonry, so as to identify my point of departure. The 
 difficulty, nevertheless, was but trivial ; although, in 
 the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at first insuperable. 
 I tore a part of the hem from the robe and placed the 
 fragment at full length, and at right angles to the wall. 
 In groping my way around the prison, I could not fail 
 to encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, 
 at least, I thought ; but I had not counted upon the 
 extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness. 
 The ground was moist and slippery. I staggered 
 onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My 
 excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate ; and 
 sleep soon overtook me as I lay. 
 
 Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found 
 beside me a loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too 
 much exhausted to reflect upon this circumstance, but 
 ate and drank with avidity. Shortly afterward I 
 resumed my tour around the prison, and, with much 
 toil, came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up 
 to the period when I fell, I had counted fifty- two paces, 
 and, upon resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight 
 more when I arrived at the rag. There were in all, 
 then, a hundred paces ; and, admitting two paces to 
 the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards 
 in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in 
 the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape 
 of the vault ; for vault I could not help supposing it to be. 
 
 I had little object certainly no hope in these 
 researches ; but a vague curiosity prompted me to 
 continue them. Quitting the wall, I resolved to cross 
 the area of the enclosure. At first, I proceeded with 
 extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly of 
 solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length, 
 however, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step 
 firmly endeavouring to cross in as direct a line as 
 possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve paces in 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 189 
 
 this manner, when the remnant of the torn hem of my 
 robe became entangled between my legs. I stepped 
 on it, and fell violently on my face. 
 
 In the confusion attending my fall, I did not imme- 
 diately apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, 
 which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and while I still 
 lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this : my 
 chin rested upon the floor of the prison, but my lips, 
 and the upper portion of my head, although seemingly 
 at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At 
 the same time, my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy 
 vapour, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose 
 to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered 
 to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular 
 pit, whose extent, of course, I had no means of ascer- 
 taining at the moment. Groping about the masonry 
 just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a 
 small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For 
 many seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it 
 dashed against the sides of the chasm in its descent. 
 At length, there was a sullen plunge into water, suc- 
 ceeded by loud echoes. At the same moment, there 
 came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as 
 rapid closing of a door overhead, while a fault gleam 
 of light flashed suddenly through the gloom, and as 
 suddenly faded away. 
 
 I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for 
 me, and congratulated myself upon the timely accident 
 by which I had escaped. Another step before my fall, 
 and the world had seen me no more. And the death 
 just avoided was of that very character which I had re- 
 garded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting 
 the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, there 
 was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, 
 or death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had 
 been reserved for the latter. By long suffering my 
 nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at the 
 sound of my own voice, and had become in every 
 respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which 
 awaited me. 
 
190 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the 
 wall resolving there to perish rather than risk the 
 terrors of the wells, of which my imagination now 
 pictured many in various positions about the dungeon. 
 In other conditions of mind, I might have had courage 
 to end my misery at once, by a plunge into one of 
 these abysses ; but now I was the veriest of cowards. 
 Neither could I forget what I had read of these pits 
 that the sudden extinction of life formed no part of 
 their most horrible plan. 
 
 Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long 
 hours ; but at length I again slumbered. Upon arous- 
 ing, I found by my side, as before, a loaf and a pitcher 
 of water. A burning thirst consumed me, and I 
 emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been 
 drugged for scarcely had I drunk, before I became 
 irresistibly drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me a 
 sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, of course, 
 I know not; but when, once again, I unclosed my 
 eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild, 
 sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at 
 first determine, I was enabled to see the extent and 
 aspect of the prison. 
 
 In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole 
 circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. 
 For some minutes this fact occasioned me a world of 
 vain trouble ; vain indeed for what could be of less 
 importance, under the terrible circumstances which 
 environed me, than the mere dimensions of my 
 dungeon ? But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, 
 and I busied myself in endeavours to account for the 
 error I had committed in my measurement. The truth 
 at length flashed upon me. In my first attempt at 
 exploration I had counted fifty- two paces, up to the 
 period when I fell ; I must then have been within a 
 pace or two of the fragment of serge ; in fact, I had 
 nearly performed the circuit of the vault. I then slept 
 and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon 
 my steps thus supposing the circuit nearly double 
 what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 191 
 
 me from observing that I began my tour with the wall 
 to the left, and ended it with the wall to the right. 
 
 I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of 
 the enclosure. In feeling my way, I had found many 
 angles, and thus deduced an idea of great irregularity ; 
 so potent is the effect of total darkness upon one 
 arousing from lethargy or sleep ! The angles were 
 simply those of a few slight depressions, or niches, at 
 odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was 
 square. What I had taken for masonry seemed now 
 to be iron, or some other metal, in huge plates, whose 
 sutures or joints occasioned the depression. The entire 
 surface of this metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in 
 all the hideous and repulsive devices to which the 
 charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The 
 figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton 
 forms, and other more really fearful images, overspread 
 and disfigured the walls. I observed that the outlines 
 of these monstrosities were sufficiently distinct, but 
 that the colours seemed faded and blurred, as if from 
 the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed the 
 floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned 
 the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped ; but it 
 was the only one in the dungeon. 
 
 All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort for 
 my personal condition had been greatly changed during 
 slumber. I now lay upon my back, and at full length, 
 on a species of low framework of wood. To this I was 
 securely bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle. 
 It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and 
 body, leaving at liberty only my head and my left arm 
 to such extent, that I could, by dint of much exertion, 
 supply myself with food from an earthen dish which 
 lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, that 
 the pitcher had been removed. I say, to my horror 
 for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst 
 it appeared to be the design of my persecutors to 
 stimulate for the food in the dish was meat pungently 
 seasoned. 
 
 Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. 
 
192 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 It was some thirty or forty feet overhead, and con- 
 structed much as the side walls. In one of its panels 
 a very singular figure riveted my whole attention. It 
 was the painted figure of Time as he is commonly repre- 
 sented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held what, 
 at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image 
 of a huge pendulum, such as we see on antique clocks. 
 There was something, however, in the appearance of 
 this machine which caused me to regard it more atten- 
 tively. While I gazed directly upward at it (for its 
 position was immediately over my own), I fancied that 
 I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the fancy 
 was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and, of course, 
 slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in 
 fear, but more in wonder. Wearied at length with 
 observing its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon 
 the other objects hi the cell. 
 
 A slight noise attracted my notice, and looking to 
 the floor, I saw several enormous rats traversing it. 
 They had issued from the well, which lay just within 
 view to my right. Even then, while I gazed, they 
 came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, 
 allured by the scent of the meat. From this it required 
 much effort and attention to scare them away. 
 
 It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an 
 hour (for I could take but imperfect note of time) 
 before I again cast my eyes upward. What I then 
 saw, confounded and amazed me. The sweep of the 
 pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. 
 As a natural consequence, its velocity was also much 
 greater. But what mainly disturbed me, was the idea 
 that it had perceptibly descended. I now observed 
 with what horror it is needless to say that its nether 
 extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel, 
 about a foot in length from horn to horn ; the horns 
 upward, and the under edge evidently as keen as that 
 of a razor. Like a razor also, it seemed massy and 
 heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid and broad 
 structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod of 
 brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air. 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 193 
 
 I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me 
 by monkish ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of 
 the pit had become known to the inquisitorial agents 
 the pit, whose horrors had been destined for so bold 
 a recusant as myself the pit, typical of hell, and re- 
 garded by rumour as the Ultima Thule of all their 
 punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided 
 by the merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, 
 or entrapment into torment, formed an important 
 portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths. 
 Having failed to fall, it was no part of the demon plan 
 to hurl me into the abyss ; and thus (there being no 
 alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited 
 me. Milder ! I half smiled in my agony as I thought 
 of such application of such a term. 
 
 What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of 
 horror more than mortal, during which I counted the 
 rushing oscillations of the steel ! Inch by inch line 
 by line with a descent only appreciable at intervals 
 that seemed ages down and still down it came ! Days 
 passed it might have been that many days passed 
 ere it swept so closely over me as to fan me with its 
 acrid breath. The odour of the sharp steel forced 
 itself into my nostrils. I prayed I wearied heaven 
 with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew 
 frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward 
 against the sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I 
 fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the glittering 
 death, as a child at some rare bauble. 
 
 There was another interval of utter insensibility ; it 
 was brief ; for, upon again lapsing into life, there had 
 been no perceptible descent in the pendulum. But it 
 might have been long for I knew there were demons 
 who took note of my swoon, and who could have 
 arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, 
 too, I felt very oh, inexpressibly sick and weak, as 
 if through long inanition. Even amid the agonies of 
 that period the human nature craved food. With 
 painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my 
 bonds permitted, and took possession of the email 
 
 13.1 H 
 
194 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I 
 put a portion of it within my lips, there rushed to my 
 mind a half -formed thought of joy of hope. Yet 
 what business had / with hope ? It was, as I say, a 
 half-formed thought man has many such, which are 
 never completed. I felt that it was of joy of hope ; 
 but I felt also that it had perished in its formation. 
 In vain I struggled to perfect to regain it. Long 
 suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers 
 of mind. I was an imbecile an idiot. 
 
 The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles 
 to my length. I saw that the crescent was designed to 
 cross the region of the heart. It would fray the serge 
 of my robe it would return and repeat its operations 
 again and again. Notwithstanding its terrifically 
 wide sweep (some thirty feet or more), and the hissing 
 vigour of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very 
 walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all 
 that, for several minutes, it would accomplish. And 
 at this thought I paused. I dared not go farther than 
 this reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of 
 attention as if, in so dwelling, I could arrest here the 
 descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder upon 
 the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the 
 garment upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which 
 the friction of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered 
 upon all this frivolity until my teeth were on edge. 
 
 Down steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied 
 pleasure in contrasting its downward with its lateral 
 velocity. To the right to the left far and wide 
 with the shriek of a damned spirit ! to my heart, with 
 the stealthy pace of the tiger ! I alternately laughed 
 and howled, as the one or the other idea grew pre- 
 dominant. 
 
 Down certainly, relentlessly down ! It vibrated 
 within three inches of my bosom ! I struggled violently 
 furiously to free my left arm. This was free only 
 from the elbow to the hand. I could reach the latter, 
 from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with great 
 effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 195 
 
 fastenings above the elbow, I would have seized and 
 attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as well 
 have attempted to arrest an avalanche ! 
 
 Down still unceasingly still inevitably down ! I 
 gasped and struggled at each vibration. I shrunk 
 convulsively at its every sweep. My eyes followed 
 its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness of 
 the most unmeaning despair ; they closed themselves 
 spasmodically at the descent, although death would 
 have been a relief, oh, how unspeakable ! Still I 
 quivered in every nerve to think how slight a sinking 
 of the machinery would precipitate that keen, glistening 
 axe upon my bosom. It was hope that prompted the 
 nerve to quiver the frame to shrink. It was hope 
 the hope that triumphs on the rack that whispers to 
 the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the 
 Inquisition. 
 
 I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring 
 the steel in actual contact with my robe and with 
 this observation there suddenly came over my spirit 
 all the keen, collected calmness of despair. For the 
 first time during many hours or perhaps days I 
 thought. It now occurred to me, that the bandage, or 
 surcingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I was 
 tied by no separate cord. The first stroke of the 
 razor-like crescent athwart any portion of the band, 
 would so detach it that it might be unwound from my 
 person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in 
 that case, the proximity of the steel ! The result of 
 the slightest struggle, how deadly ! Was it likely, 
 moreover, that the minions of the torturer had not 
 foreseen and provided for this possibility ? Was it 
 probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the 
 track of the pendulum ? Dreading to find my faint, 
 and, as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so far 
 elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view of my 
 breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and body 
 close in all directions save in the path of the destroying 
 crescent. 
 
 Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its 
 
196 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 original position, when there flashed upon my mind 
 what I cannot better describe than as the unformed 
 half of that idea of deliverance to which I have pre- 
 viously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated 
 indeterminately through my brain when I raised food 
 to my burning lips. The whole thought was now 
 presents feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite but 
 still entire. I proceeded at once, with the nervous 
 energy of despair, to attempt its execution. 
 
 For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low 
 framework upon which I lay had been literally swarm- 
 ing with rats. They were wild, bold, ravenous their 
 red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited but for 
 motionlessness on my part to make me their prey. 
 ' To what food,' I thought, ' have they been accus- 
 tomed in the well ? ' 
 
 They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to 
 prevent them, all but a small remnant of the contents 
 of the dish. I had fallen into an habitual see-saw, or 
 wave of the hand, about the platter ; and at length the 
 unconscious uniformity of the movement deprived it 
 of effect. In their voracity, the vermin frequently 
 fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the 
 particles of the oily and spicy viand which now re- 
 mained, I thoroughly rubbed the bandage wherever I 
 could reach it ; then, raising my hand from the floor, 
 I lay breathlessly still. 
 
 At first, the ravenous animals were startled and 
 terrified at the change at the cessation of movement. 
 They shrank alarmedly back ; many sought the well. 
 But this was only for a moment. I had not counted 
 in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I re- 
 mained without motion, one or two of the boldest 
 leaped upon the framework, and smelt at the sur- 
 cingle. This seemed the signal for a general rush. 
 Forth from the well they hurried in fresh troops. 
 They clung to the wood they overran it, and leaped 
 in hundreds upon my person. The measured move- 
 ment of the pendulum disturbed them not at all. 
 Avoiding its strokes, they busied themselves with the 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 197 
 
 anointed bandage. They pressed they swarmed upon 
 me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon 
 my throat ; their cold lips sought my own ; I was 
 half stifled by their thronging pressure ; disgust, for 
 which the world has no name, swelled my bosom, and 
 chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one 
 minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over. 
 Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. 
 I knew that in more than one place it must be already 
 severed. With a more than human resolution I lay 
 still. 
 
 Nor had I erred in my calculations nor had I en- 
 dured in vain. I at length felt that I was free. The 
 surcingle hung in ribands from my body. But the 
 stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my 
 bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had 
 cut through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, 
 and a sharp sense of pain shot through every nerve. 
 But the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave of 
 my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously away. 
 With a steady movement cautious, sidelong, shrink- 
 ing, and slow I slid from the embrace of the ban- 
 dage and beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the 
 moment, at least, / mas free. 
 
 Free ! and in the grasp of the Inquisition ! I had 
 scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of horror upon 
 the stone floor of the prison, when the motion of the 
 hellish machine ceased, and I beheld it drawn up, by 
 some invisible force, through the ceiling. This was 
 a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every 
 motion was undoubtedly watched. Free ! I had but 
 escaped death in one form of agony, to be delivered 
 unto worse than death in some other. With that 
 thought I rolled my eyes nervously around on the 
 barriers of iron that hemmed me in. Something 
 unusual some change which, at first, I could not 
 appreciate distinctly it was obvious, had taken place 
 in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy 
 and trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, 
 unconnected conjecture. During this period, I became 
 
198 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 aware, for the first time, of the origin of the sulphurous 
 light which illumined the cell. It proceeded from a 
 fissure, about half an inch in width, extending entirely 
 around the prison at the base of the walls, which thus 
 appeared, and were completely separated from the 
 floor. I endeavoured, but of course in vain, to look 
 through the aperture. 
 
 As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the 
 alteration in the chamber broke at once upon my 
 understanding. I have observed that, although the 
 outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently 
 distinct, yet the colours seemed blurred and indefinite. 
 These colours had now assumed, and were momentarily 
 assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that 
 gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect 
 that might have thrilled even firmer nerves than my 
 own. Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, 
 glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none 
 had been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid 
 lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination 
 to regard as unreal. 
 
 Unreal ! Even while I breathed there came to my 
 nostrils the breath of the vapour of heated iron ! A 
 suffocating odour pervaded the prison ! A deeper glow 
 settled each moment in the eyes that glared at my 
 agonies ! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself over 
 the pictured horrors of blood. I panted ! I gasped 
 for breath ! There could be no doubt of the design 
 of my tormentors oh ! most unrelenting ! oh ! most 
 demoniac of men ! I shrank from the glowing metal 
 to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the 
 fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the cool- 
 ness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed 
 to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. 
 The glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost 
 recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse 
 to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length 
 it forced it wrestled its way into my soul it burned 
 itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh ! for a voice 
 to speak ! oh! horror ! oh ! any horror but this ! 
 
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 199 
 
 With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried 
 my face in my hands weeping bitterly. 
 
 The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked 
 up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had 
 been a second change in the cell and now the change 
 was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vain 
 that I at first endeavoured to appreciate or understand 
 what was taking place. But not long was I left in 
 doubt. The inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried 
 by my twofold escape, and there was to be no more 
 dallying with the King of Terrors. The room had 
 been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were 
 now acute two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful 
 difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or 
 moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had 
 shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the 
 alteration stopped not here I neither hoped nor 
 desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls 
 to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. ' Death,' 
 I said, ' any death but that of the pit ! ' Fool ! might 
 I not have known that into the pit it was the object 
 of the burning iron to urge me ? Could I resist its 
 glow ? or if even that, could I withstand its pressure ? 
 And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with 
 a rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. 
 Its centre, and of course, its greatest width, came 
 just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back but the 
 closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length 
 for my seared and writhing body there was no longer 
 an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. 
 I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found 
 vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I 
 felt that I tottered upon the brink I averted my eyes 
 There was a discordant hum of human voices ! 
 There was a loud blast as of many trumpets ! There 
 was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders ! The 
 fiery walls rushed back ! An outstretched arm caught 
 my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that 
 of General Lasalle. The French army had entered 
 Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. 
 
200 
 
 ELEONORA 
 
 Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima. 
 
 RAYMOND LULLY. 
 
 I AM come of a race noted for vigour of fancy and 
 ardour of passion. Men have called me mad ; but the 
 question is not yet settled whether madness is or is 
 not the loftiest intelligence whether much that is 
 glorious whether all that is profound does not spring 
 from disease of thought from moods of mind exalted 
 at the expense of the general intellect. They who 
 dream by day are cognizant of many things which 
 escape those who dream only by night. In their grey 
 visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in 
 waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of 
 the great secret. In snatches, they learn something 
 of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere 
 knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however 
 rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the 
 ' light ineffable ', and again, like the adventures of the 
 Nubian geographer, ' agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid 
 in eo esset exploraturi'' . 
 
 We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, 
 that there are two distinct conditions of my mental 
 existence the condition of a lucid reason, not to be 
 disputed, and belonging to the memory of events form- 
 ing the first epoch of my life and a condition of 
 shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and 
 to the recollection of what constitutes the second great 
 era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the 
 earlier period, believe ; and to what I may relate of 
 the later time, give only such credit as may seem due ; 
 or doubt it altogether ; or, if doubt it ye cannot, then 
 play unto its riddle the Oedipus. 
 
 She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen 
 calmly and distinctly these remembrances, was the sole 
 daughter of the only sister of my mother long departed. 
 Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always 
 
ELEONORA 201 
 
 dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley 
 of the Many-Coloured Grass. No unguided footstep 
 ever came upon that vale ; for it lay far away up among 
 a range of giant hills that hung beetling around about 
 it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. 
 No path was trodden in its vicinity ; and, to reach 
 our happy home, there was need of putting back, with 
 force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, 
 and of crushing to death the glories of many millions 
 of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all 
 alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley 
 I, and my cousin, and her mother. 
 
 From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the 
 upper end of our encircled domain there crept out 
 a narrow and deep river, brighter than all, save the 
 eyes of Eleonora ; and, winding stealthily about in 
 mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through 
 a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those 
 whence it had issued. We called it the 'River of 
 Silence ' ; for there seemed to be a hushing influence 
 in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so 
 gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon 
 which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, 
 stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each 
 in its own old station, shining on gloriously for ever. 
 
 The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling 
 rivulets that glided through devious ways into its 
 channel, as well as the spaces that extended from the 
 margins away down into the depths of the streams 
 until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom 
 these spots, not less than the whole surface of the 
 valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled 
 it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, 
 short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so 
 besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the 
 white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby-red aspho- 
 del, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts in 
 loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God. 
 
 And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like 
 wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose 
 
 H3 
 
202 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 tall slender stems stood not upright, but slanted grace- 
 fully towards the light that peered at noonday into 
 the centre of the valley. Their bark was speckled 
 with the vivid alternate splendour of ebony and silver, 
 and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora ; 
 so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves 
 that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, 
 dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them 
 giant serpents of Syria doing homage to their Sovereign 
 the Sun. 
 
 Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, 
 roamed I with Eleonora before Love entered within 
 our hearts. It was one evening at the close of the 
 third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, 
 that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, beneath 
 the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the 
 waters of the River of Silence at our images therein. 
 We spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day ; 
 and our words even upon the morrow were tremulous 
 and few. We had drawn the god Eros from that wave, 
 and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the 
 fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had 
 for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging 
 with the fancies for which they had been equally noted, 
 and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley 
 of the Many-Coloured Grass. A change fell upon all 
 things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst 
 out upon the trees where no flowers had been known 
 before. The tints of the green carpet deepened ; and 
 when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there 
 sprang up in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red 
 asphodel. And life arose in our paths ; for the tall 
 flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, 
 flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden 
 and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom 
 of which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, 
 at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that 
 of the harp of Aeolus sweeter than all save the voice 
 of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which 
 we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated 
 
ELEONORA 203 
 
 out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and 
 settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower 
 and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the 
 mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, 
 and shutting us up, as if for ever, within a magic 
 prison-house of grandeur and of glory. 
 
 The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim ; 
 but she was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief 
 life she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised 
 the fervour of love which animated her heart, and she 
 examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked 
 together in the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass, 
 and discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately 
 taken place therein. 
 
 At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the 
 last sad change which must befall Humanity, she 
 thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful 
 theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the 
 songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same images are 
 found occurring, again and again, in every impressive 
 variation of phrase. 
 
 She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her 
 bosom that, like the ephemeron, she had been made 
 perfect in loveliness only to die ; but the terrors of 
 the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she 
 revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks 
 of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, 
 having entombed her in the Valley of the Many- 
 Coloured Grass, I would quit for ever its happy recesses, 
 transferring the love which now was so passionately 
 her own to some maiden of the outer and everyday 
 world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly 
 at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself 
 and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in 
 marriage to any daughter of Earth that I would in 
 no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or to 
 the memory of the devout affection with which she 
 had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the 
 Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. 
 And the curse which I invoked of Him and of her, 
 
204 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 a saint in Helusion, should I prove traitorous to that 
 promise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror 
 of which will not permit me to make record of it here. 
 And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my 
 words ; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been 
 taken from her breast ; and she trembled and very 
 bitterly wept ; but she made acceptance of the vow 
 (for what was she but a child ?), and it made easy to 
 her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not 
 many days afterwards, tranquilly dying, that, because 
 of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit, she 
 would watch over me in that spirit when departed, 
 and, if so it were permitted her, return to me visibly 
 in the watches of the night ; but, if this thing were, 
 indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that 
 she.jwould, at least, give me frequent indications of 
 her presence ; sighing upon me in the evening winds, 
 or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from 
 the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon 
 her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an 
 end to the first epoch of my own. 
 
 Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the 
 barrier in Time's path, formed by the death of my 
 beloved, and proceed with the second era of my exis- 
 tence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, 
 and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But 
 let me on. Years dragged themselves along heavily, 
 and still I dwelled within the Valley of the Many- 
 Coloured Grass ; but a second change had come upon 
 all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank into the 
 stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints 
 of the green carpet faded ; and, one by one, the ruby- 
 red asphodels withered away ; and there sprang up, 
 in place of them ten by ten, dark, eye-like violets, 
 that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered with 
 dew. And Life departed from our paths ; for the tall 
 flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before 
 us, but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with 
 all the gay glowing birds that had arrived in his com- 
 pany. And the golden and silver fish swam down 
 
ELEONORA 205 
 
 through the gorge at the lower end of our domain and 
 bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling 
 melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of 
 Aeolus, and more divine than all save the voice of 
 Eleonora, it died little by little away, in murmurs 
 growing lower and lower until the stream returned, at 
 length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original silence. 
 And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and 
 abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness 
 of old, fell back into the regions of Hesper, and took 
 away all its manifold golden and gorgeous glories from 
 the Valley of the Many-Coloured Grass. 
 
 Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten ; 
 for I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers 
 of the angels ; and streams of a holy perfume floated 
 ever and ever about the valley ; and at lone hours, 
 when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed 
 my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs ; and 
 indistinct murmurs filled often the night air; and 
 once oh, but once only ! I was awakened from a 
 slumber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing of 
 spiritual lips upon my own. 
 
 But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to 
 be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled 
 it to overflowing. At length the valley pained me 
 through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever 
 for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the 
 world. 
 
 I found myself within a strange city, where all things 
 might have served to blot from recollection the sweet 
 dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the 
 Many-Coloured Grass. The pomps and pageantries of 
 a stately court, and the mad clangour of arms, and 
 the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxi- 
 cated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true 
 to its vows, and the indications of the presence of 
 Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours of the 
 night. Suddenly these manifestations ceased, and the 
 world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast 
 
206 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible 
 temptations which beset me ; for there came from 
 some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay 
 court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty 
 my whole recreant heart yielded at once at whose 
 footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most 
 ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, 
 indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley 
 in comparison with the fervour, and the delirium, and 
 the spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I 
 poured out my whole soul in tears at the feet of the 
 ethereal Ermengarde ? Oh, bright was the seraph 
 Ermengarde ! and in that knowledge I had room for 
 none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde ! 
 and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial 
 eyes, I thought only of them and of her. 
 
 I wedded ; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked ; 
 and its bitterness was not visited upon me. And once 
 but once again in the silence of the night there came 
 through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken 
 me ; and they modelled themselves into familiar and 
 sweet voice, saying : 
 
 ' Sleep in peace ! for the Spirit of Love reigneth 
 and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her 
 who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons 
 which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy 
 vows unto Eleonora.' 
 
ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 1810-1865 
 THE SQUIRE'S STORY 
 
 Iisr the year 1769 the little town of Barford was thrown 
 into a state of great excitement by the intelligence that 
 a gentleman (and ' quite the gentleman ', said the land- 
 lord of the George Inn) had been looking at Mr. Claver- 
 ing's old house. This house was neither in the town nor 
 in the country. It stood on the outskirts of Barford, on 
 the roadside leading to Derby. The last occupant had 
 been a Mr. Clavering a Northumberland gentleman of 
 good family who had come to live in Barford while he 
 was but a younger son ; but when some elder branches 
 of the family died, he had returned to take possession of 
 the family estate. The house of which I speak was called 
 the White House, from its being covered with a greyish 
 kind of stucco. It had a good garden to the back, and 
 Mr. Clavering had built capital stables, with what were 
 then considered the latest improvements. The point of 
 good stabling was expected to let the house, as it was in 
 a hunting county ; otherwise it had few recommenda- 
 tions. There were many bedrooms ; some entered 
 through others, even to the number of five, leading one 
 beyond the other ; several sitting-rooms of the small 
 and poky kind, wainscoted round with wood, and then 
 painted a heavy slate colour ; one good dining-room, 
 and a drawing-room over it, both looking into the 
 garden, with pleasant bow-windows. 
 
 Such was the accommodation offered by the White 
 House. It did not seem to be very tempting to strangers, 
 though the good people of Barford rather piqued them- 
 selves on it, as the largest house in the town ; and as 
 a house in which ' townspeople ' and ' county people ' 
 
208 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 had often met at Mr. Clavering's friendly dinners. To 
 appreciate this circumstance of pleasant recollection, 
 you should have lived some years in a little country 
 town, surrounded by gentlemen's seats. You would 
 then understand howa bowor a courtesyfrom a member 
 of a county family elevates the individuals who receive 
 it almost as much, in their own eyes, as the pair of blue 
 garters fringed with silver did Mr. Bickerstaff's ward. 
 They trip lightly on air for a whole day afterwards. 
 Now Mr. Clavering was gone, where could town and 
 county mingle ? 
 
 I mention these things that you may have an idea 
 of the desirability of the letting of the White House in 
 the Barf ordites' imagination ; and to make the mixture 
 thick and slab, you must add for yourselves the bustle, 
 the mystery, and the importance which every little 
 event either causes or assumes in a small town ; and 
 then, perhaps, it will be no wonder to you that twenty 
 ragged little urchins accompanied the * gentleman ' 
 aforesaid to the door of the White House ; and that, 
 although he was above an hour inspecting it, under the 
 auspices of Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk thirty more 
 had joined themselves on to the wondering crowd before 
 his exit, and awaited such crumbs of intelligence as they 
 could gather before they were threatened or whipped 
 out of hearing distance. Presently, out came the ' gentle- 
 man ' and the lawyer's clerk. The latter was speaking 
 as he followed the former over the threshold. The 
 gentleman was tall, well-dressed, handsome ; but there 
 was a sinister cold look in his quick-glancing, light 
 blue eye, which a keen observer might not have liked. 
 There were no keen observers among the boys, and ill- 
 conditioned gaping girls. But they stood too near ; 
 inconveniently close ; and the gentleman, lifting up his 
 right hand, in which he carried a short riding-whip, 
 dealt one or two sharp blows to the nearest, with a look 
 of savage enjoyment on his face as they moved away 
 whimpering and crying. An instant after, his expres- 
 sion of countenance had changed. 
 
 ' Here ! ' said he, drawing out a handful of money, 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 209 
 
 partly silver, partly copper, and throwing it into the 
 midst of them. ' Scramble for it ! fight it out, my 
 lads ! come this afternoon, at three, to the George, and 
 I'll throw you out some more.' So the boys hurrahed 
 for him as he walked off with the agent's clerk. He 
 chuckled to himself, as over a pleasant thought. * I'll 
 have some fun with those lads,' he said ; ' I'll teach 'em 
 to come prowling and prying about me. I'll tell you 
 what I'll do. I'fi make the money so hot in the fire- 
 shovel that it shall burn their fingers. You come and 
 see the faces and the howling. I shall be very glad if 
 you will dine with me at two ; and by that time I may 
 have made up my mind respecting the house.' 
 
 Mr. Jones, the agent's clerk, agreed to come to the 
 George at two, but, somehow, he had a distaste for his 
 entertainer. Mr. Jones would not like to have said, 
 even to himself, that a man with a purse full of money, 
 who kept many horses, and spoke familiarly of noble- 
 men above all, who thought of taking the White 
 House could be anything but a gentleman ; but still 
 the uneasy wonder as to who this Mr. Robinson Higgins 
 could be, filled the clerk's mind long after Mr. Higgins, 
 Mr. Higgins' s servants, and Mr. Higgins' s stud had 
 taken possession of the White House. 
 
 The White House was re-stuccoed (this time of a pale 
 yellow colour), and put into thorough repair by the 
 accommodating and delighted landlord; while his 
 tenant seemed inclined to spend any amount of money 
 on internal decorations, which were showy and effective 
 in their character, enough to make the White House 
 a nine days' wonder to the good people of Barford. The 
 slate-coloured paints became pink, and were picked out 
 with gold ; the old-fashioned banisters were replaced 
 by newly gilt ones ; but, above all, the stables were 
 a sight to be seen. Since the days of the Roman Emperor 
 never was there such provision made for the care, the 
 comfort, and the health of horses. But every one said 
 it was no wonder, when they were led through Barford, 
 covered up to their eyes, but curving their arched and 
 delicate necks, and prancing with short high steps, in 
 
210 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 repressed eagerness. Only one groom came with them ; 
 yet they required the care of three men. Mr. Higgins, 
 however, preferred engaging two lads out of Barford ; 
 and Barford highly approved of his preference. Not 
 only was it kind and thoughtful to give employment to 
 the lounging lads themselves, but they were receiving 
 such a training in Mr. Higgins' s stables as might fit 
 them for Doncaster or Newmarket. The district of 
 Derbyshire in which Barford was situated, was too close 
 to Leicestershire not to support a hunt and a pack of 
 hounds. The master of the hounds was a certain Sir 
 Harry Manley, who was aut a huntsman aut nullus. He 
 measured a man by the ' length of his fork ', not by the 
 expression of his countenance, or the shape of his head. 
 But as Sir Harry was wont to observe, there was such 
 a thing as too long a fork, so his approbation was with- 
 held until he had seen a man on horseback ; and if his 
 seat there was square and easy, his hand light, and his 
 courage good, Sir Harry hailed him as a brother. 
 
 Mr. Higgins attended the first meet of the season, not 
 as a subscriber but as an amateur. The Barford hunts- 
 men piqued themselves on their bold riding ; and their 
 knowledge of the country came by nature ; yet this 
 new strange man, whom nobody knew, was in at the 
 death, sitting on his horse, both well breathed and calm, 
 without a hair turned on the sleek skin of the latter, 
 supremely addressing the old huntsman as he hacked 
 off the tail of the fox ; and he, the old man, who was 
 testy even under Sir Harry's slightest rebuke, and flew 
 out on any other member of the hunt that dared to utter 
 a word against his sixty years' experience as stable-boy, 
 groom, poacher, and what not he, old Isaac Wormeley, 
 was meekly listening to the wisdom of this stranger, 
 only now and then giving one of his quick, up-turning, 
 cunning glances, not unnke the sharp o'er-canny looks 
 of the poor deceased Reynard, round whom the hounds 
 were howling, unadmonished by the short whip, which 
 was now tucked into Wormeley' s well-worn pocket. 
 When Sir Harry rode into the copse full of dead brush- 
 wood and wet tangled grass and was followed by the 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 211 
 
 members of the hunt, as one by one they cantered past, 
 Mr. Higgins took off his cap and bowed half deferen- 
 tially, half insolently with a lurking smile in the corner 
 of his eye at the discomfited looks of one or two of the 
 laggards. ' A famous run, sir,' said Sir Harry. ' The 
 first time you have hunted in our country ; but I hope 
 we shall see you often.' 
 
 ' I hope to become a member of the hunt, sir,' said 
 Mr. Higgins. 
 
 ' Most happy proud, I am sure, to receive so daring 
 a rider among us. You took the Cropper-gate, I fancy ; 
 while some of our friends here ' scowling at one or two 
 cowards by way of finishing his speech. ' Allow me to 
 introduce myself master of the hounds.' He fumbled 
 in his waistcoat pocket for the card on which his name 
 was formally inscribed. ' Some of our friends here are 
 kind enough to come home with me to dinner ; might 
 I ask for the honour ? ' 
 
 ' My name is Higgins,' replied the stranger, bowing 
 low. ' I am only lately come to occupy the White House 
 at Barford, and I have not as yet presented my letters 
 of introduction.' 
 
 ' Hang it ! ' replied Sir Harry ; ' a man with a seat 
 like yours, and that good brush in your hand, might 
 ride up to any door in the county (I'm a Leicestershire 
 man !), and be a welcome guest. Mr. Higgins, I shall 
 be proud to become better acquainted with you over 
 my dinner table.' 
 
 Mr. Higgins knew pretty well how to improve the 
 acquaintance thus begun. He could sing a good song, 
 tell a good story, and was well up in practical jokes ; 
 with plenty of that keen worldly sense, which seems like 
 an instinct in some men, and which in this case taught 
 him on whom he might play off such jokes, with 
 impunity from their resentment, and with a security 
 of applause from the more boisterous, vehement, or 
 prosperous. At the end of twelve months Mr. Robinson 
 Higgins was, out-and-out, the most popular member of 
 the Barford hunt ; had beaten all the others by a couple 
 of lengths, as his first patron, Sir Harry, observed one 
 
212 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 evening, when they were just leaving the dinner-table 
 of an old hunting squire in the neighbourhood. 
 
 ' Because, you know,' said Squire Hearn, holding Sir 
 Harry by the button ' I mean, you see, this young 
 spark is looking sweet upon Catherine ; and she 's a good 
 girl, and will have ten thousand pounds down, the day 
 she's married, by her mother's will ; and excuse me, 
 Sir Harry but I should not like my girl to throw herself 
 away.' 
 
 Though Sir Harry had a long ride before him, and 
 but the early and short light of a new moon to take 
 it in, his kind heart was so much touched by Squire 
 Hearn' s trembling, tearful anxiety, that he stopped and 
 turned back into the dining-room to say, with more 
 asseverations than I care to give : 
 
 ' My good Squire, I may say, I know that man pretty 
 well by this time ; and a better fellow never existed. 
 If I had twenty daughters he should have the pick of 
 them.' 
 
 Squire Hearn never thought of asking the grounds 
 for his old friend's opinion of Mr. Higgins ; it had been 
 given with too much earnestness for any doubts to 
 cross the old man's mind as to the possibility of its not 
 being well founded. Mr. Hearn was not a doubter, or 
 a thinker, or suspicious by nature ; it was simply his 
 love for Catherine, his only daughter, that prompted 
 his anxiety in this case ; and, after what Sir Harry 
 had said, the old man could totter with an easy mind, 
 though not with very steady legs, into the drawing- 
 room, where his bonny, blushing daughter Catherine 
 and Mr. Higgins stood close together on the hearth- 
 rug he whispering, she listening with downcast eyes. 
 She looked so happy, so like her dead mother had looked 
 when the Squire was a young man, that all his thought 
 was how to please her most. His son and heir was 
 about to be married, and bring his wife to live with 
 the Squire ; Barford and the White House were not 
 distant an hour's ride ; and, even as these thoughts 
 passed through his mind, he asked Mr. Higgins, if he 
 could stay all night the young moon was already set 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 213 
 
 the roads would be dark and Catherine looked up 
 with a pretty anxiety, which, however, had not much 
 doubt in it, for the answer. 
 
 With every encouragement of this kind from the old 
 Squire, it took everybody rather by surprise when, one 
 morning, it was discovered that Miss Catherine Hearn 
 was missing ; and when, according to the usual fashion 
 in such cases, a note was found, saying that she had 
 eloped with ' the man of her heart ', and gone to Gretna 
 Green, no one could imagine why she could not quietly 
 have stopped at home and been married in the parish 
 church. She had always been a romantic, sentimental 
 girl ; very pretty and very affectionate, and very much 
 spoiled, and very much wanting in common sense. Her 
 indulgent father was deeply hurt at this want of con- 
 fidence in his never- varying affection ; but when his 
 son came, hot with indignation from the Baronet's 
 (his future father-in-law's house, where every form of 
 law and of ceremony was to accompany his own im- 
 pending marriage), Squire Hearn pleaded the cause of 
 the young couple with imploring cogency, and pro- 
 tested that it was a piece of spirit in his daughter, 
 which he admired and was proud of. However, it 
 ended with Mr. Nathaniel Hearn' s declaring that he 
 and his wife would have nothing to do with his sister 
 and her husband. ' Wait till you've seen him, Nat ! ' 
 said the old Squire, trembling with his distressful anti- 
 cipations of family discord. 'He 's an excuse for any 
 girl. Only ask Sir Harry's opinion of him.' * Confound 
 Sir Harry ! So that a man sits his horse well, Sir Harry 
 cares nothing about anything else. Who is this man 
 this fellow ? Where does he come from ? What are 
 his means ? Who are his family ? ' 
 
 * He comes from the south Surrey or Somersetshire, 
 I forget which ; and he pays his way well and liberally. 
 There 's not a tradesman in Barford but says he cares 
 no more for money than for water ; he spends like 
 a prince, Nat. I don't know who his family are, but 
 he seals with a coat of arms, which may tell you if you 
 want to know and he goes regularly to collect his 
 
214 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 rents from his estates in the south. Oh, Nat ! if you 
 would but be friendly, I should be as well pleased with 
 Kitty's marriage as any father in the county.' 
 
 Mr. Nathaniel Hearn gloomed, and muttered an oath 
 or two to himself. The poor old father was reaping the 
 consequences of his weak indulgence to his two children. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Hearn kept apart from Catherine 
 and her husband ; and Squire Hearn durst never ask 
 them to Levison Hall, though it was his own house. 
 Indeed, he stole away as if he were a culprit whenever 
 he went to visit the White House ; and if he passed 
 a night there, he was fain to equivocate when he 
 returned home the next day ; an equivocation which 
 was well interpreted by the surly, proud Nathaniel. 
 But the younger Mr. and Mrs. Hearn were the only 
 people who did not visit at the White House. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Higgins were decidedly more popular than their 
 brother and sister-in-law. She made a very pretty, 
 sweet-tempered hostess, and her education had not 
 been such as to make her intolerant of any want of 
 refinement in the associates who gathered round her 
 husband. She had gentle smiles for townspeople as 
 well as county people ; and unconsciously played an 
 admirable second in her husband's project of making 
 himself universally popular. 
 
 But there is some one to make ill-natured remarks, 
 and draw ill-natured conclusions from very simple 
 premises, in every place ; and in Barford this bird of 
 ill-omen was a Miss Pratt. She did not hunt so 
 Mr. Higgins' s admirable riding did not call out her 
 admiration. She did not drink so the well-selected 
 wines, so lavishly dispensed among his guests, could 
 never mollify Miss Pratt. She could not bear comic 
 songs, or buffo stories so, in that way, her approbation 
 was impregnable. And these three secrets of popularity 
 constituted Mr. Higgins' s great charm. Miss Pratt sat 
 and watched. Her face looked immovably grave at 
 the end of any of Mr. Higgins' s best stories ; but there 
 was a keen, needle-like glance of her unwinking little 
 eyes, which Mr. Higgins felt rather than saw, and which 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 215 
 
 made him shiver, even on a hot day, when it fell upon 
 him. Miss Pratt was a dissenter, and, to propitiate 
 this female Mordecai, Mr. Higgins asked the dissenting 
 minister whose services she attended, to dinner ; kept 
 himself and his company in good order ; gave a hand- 
 some donation to the poor of the chapel. All in vain 
 Miss Pratt stirred not a muscle more of her face towards 
 graciousness ; and Mr. Higgins was conscious that, in 
 spite of all his open efforts to captivate Mr. Davis, there 
 was a secret influence on the other side, throwing in 
 doubts and suspicions, and evil interpretations of all he 
 said or did. Miss Pratt, the little, plain old maid, living 
 on eighty pounds a year, was the thorn in the popular 
 Mr. Higgins' s side, although she had never spoken one 
 uncivil word to him ; indeed, on the contrary, had 
 treated him with a stiff and elaborate civility. 
 
 The thorn the grief to Mrs. Higgins was this. They 
 had no children ! Oh ! how she would stand and envy 
 the careless, busy motion of half a dozen children ; and 
 then, when observed, move on with a deep, deep sigh 
 of yearning regret. But it was as well. 
 
 It was noticed that Mr. Higgins was remarkably 
 careful of his health. He ate, drank, took exercise, 
 rested, by some secret rules of his own ; occasionally 
 bursting "into an excess, it is true, but only on rare 
 occasions such as when he returned from visiting his 
 estates in the south, and collecting his rents. That 
 unusual exertion and fatigue for there were no stage- 
 coaches within forty miles of Barford, and he, like most 
 country gentlemen of that day, would have preferred 
 riding if there had been seemed to require some strange 
 excess to compensate for it ; and rumours went through 
 the town that he shut himself up, and drank enor- 
 mously for some days after his return. But no one 
 was admitted to these orgies. 
 
 One day they remembered it well afterwards the 
 hounds met not far from the town ; and the fox was 
 found in a part of the wild heath, which was beginning 
 to be enclosed by a few of the more wealthy towns- 
 people, who were desirous of building themselves houses 
 
216 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 rather more in the country than those they had hitherto 
 lived in. Among these, the principal was a Mr. Dudgeon, 
 the attorney of Barford, and the agent for all the county 
 families about. The firm of Dudgeon had managed the 
 leases, the marriage-settlements, and the wills, of the 
 neighbourhood for generations. Mr. Dudgeon's father 
 had the responsibility of collecting the Ian downers' rents 
 just as the present Mr. Dudgeon had at the time of 
 which I speak : and as his son and his son's son have 
 done since. Their business was an hereditary estate to 
 them ; and with something of the old feudal feeling 
 was mixed a kind of proud humility at their position 
 towards the squires whose family secrets they had 
 mastered, and the mysteries of whose fortunes and 
 estates were better known to the Messrs. Dudgeon than 
 to themselves. 
 
 Mr. John Dudgeon had built himself a house on Wild- 
 bury Heath ; a mere cottage as he called it : but though 
 only two stories high, it spread out far and wide, and 
 workpeople from Derby had been sent for on purpose to 
 make the inside as complete as possible. The gardens 
 too were exquisite in arrangement, if not very extensive ; 
 and not a flower was grown in them but of the rarest 
 species. It must have been somewhat of a mortification 
 to the owner of this dainty place when, on the day of 
 which I speak, the fox, after a long race, during which 
 he had described a circle of many miles, took refuge 
 in the garden ; but Mr. Dudgeon put a good face on 
 the matter when a gentleman hunter, with the careless 
 insolence of the squires of those days and that place, 
 rode across the velvet lawn, and tapping at the window 
 of the dining-room with his whip-handle, asked per- 
 mission no ! that is not it rather, informed Mr. Dud- 
 geon of their intention to enter his garden in a body, 
 and have the fox unearthed. Mr. Dudgeon compelled 
 himself to smile assent, with the grace of a masculine 
 Griselda ; and then he hastily gave orders to have all 
 that the house afforded of provision set out for luncheon, 
 guessing rightly enough that a six hours' run would give 
 even homely fare an acceptable welcome. He bore 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 217 
 
 without wincing the entrance of the dirty boots into his 
 exquisitely clean rooms ; he only felt grateful for the 
 care with which Mr. Higgins strode about, laboriously 
 and noiselessly moving on the tip of his toes, as he 
 reconnoitred the rooms with a curious eye. 
 
 ' I'm going to build a house myself, Dudgeon ; and, 
 upon my word, I don't think I could take a better 
 model than yours.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my poor cottage would be too small to afford 
 any hints for such a house as you would wish to build, 
 Mr. Higgins,' replied Mr. Dudgeon, gently rubbing his 
 hands nevertheless at the compliment. 
 
 ' Not at all ! not at all ! Let me see. You have dining- 
 room, drawing-room,' he hesitated, and Mr. Dudgeon 
 filled up the blank as he expected. 
 
 ' Four sitting-rooms and the bedrooms. But allow 
 me to show you over the house. I confess I took some 
 pains in arranging it, and, though far smaller than 
 what you would require, it may, nevertheless, afford 
 you some hints.' 
 
 So they left the eating gentlemen with their mouths 
 and their plates quite full, and the scent of the fox 
 overpowering that of the hasty rashers of ham ; and 
 they carefully inspected all the ground-floor rooms. 
 Then Mr. Dudgeon said : 
 
 ' If you are not tired, Mr. Higgins it is rather my 
 hobby, so you must pull me up if you are we will go 
 upstairs, and I will show you my sanctum.' 
 
 Mr. Dudgeon's sanctum was the centre room, over 
 the porch, which formed a balcony, and which was 
 carefully filled with choice flowers in pots. Inside, 
 there were all kinds of elegant contrivances for hiding 
 the real strength of all the boxes and chests required 
 by the particular nature of Mr. Dudgeon's business : 
 for although his office was in Barford, he kept (as he 
 informed Mr. Higgins) what was the most valuable 
 here, as being safer than an office which was locked up 
 and left every night. But, as Mr. Higgins reminded 
 him with a sly poke in the side, when next they met, 
 his own house was not over-secure. A fortnight after 
 
218 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 the gentlemen of the Barford hunt lunched there, 
 Mr. Dudgeon's strong-box, in his sanctum upstairs, 
 with the mysterious spring-bolt to the window invented 
 by himself, and the secret of which was only known 
 to the inventor and a few of his most intimate friends, 
 to whom he had proudly shown it ; this strong-box, 
 containing the collected Christmas rents of half a dozen 
 landlords (there was then no bank nearer than Derby), 
 was rifled ; and the secretly rich Mr. Dudgeon had to 
 stop his agent in his purchases of paintings by Flemish 
 artists, because the money was required to make good 
 the missing rents. 
 
 The Dogberries and Verges of those days were quite 
 incapable of obtaining any clue to the robber or rob- 
 bers ; and though one or two vagrants were taken up 
 and brought before Mr. Dunover and Mr. Higgins, the 
 magistrates who usually attended in the court-room at 
 Barford, there was no evidence brought against them, 
 and after a couple of nights' durance in the lock-ups 
 they were set at liberty. But it became a standing 
 joke with Mr. Higgins to ask Mr. Dudgeon, from time 
 to time, whether he could recommend him a place of 
 safety for his valuables ; or, if he had made any more 
 inventions lately for securing houses from robbers. 
 
 About two years after this time about seven years 
 after Mr. Higgins had been married one Tuesday 
 evening, Mr. Davis was sitting reading the news in the 
 coffee-room of the George Inn. He belonged to a club 
 of gentlemen who met there occasionally to play at 
 whist, to read what few newspapers and magazines were 
 published in those days, to chat about the market at 
 Derby, and prices all over the country. This Tuesday 
 night it was a black frost ; and few people were in the 
 room. Mr. Davis was anxious to finish an article in the 
 Gentleman's Magazine ; indeed, he was making extracts 
 from it, intending to answer it, and yet unable with his 
 small income to purchase a copy. So he stayed late ; it 
 was past nine, and at ten o'clock the room was closed. 
 But while he wrote, Mr. Higgins came in. He was pale 
 and haggard with cold. Mr. Davis, who had had for 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 219 
 
 some time sole possession of the fire, moved politely on 
 one side, and handed to the new-comer the sole London 
 newspaper which the room afforded. Mr. Higgins 
 accepted it, and made some remark on the intense 
 coldness of the weather ; but Mr. Davis was too full of 
 his article, and intended reply, to fall into conversation 
 readily. Mr. Higgins hitched his chair nearer to the 
 fire, and put his feet on the fender, giving an audible 
 shudder. He put the newspaper on one end of the 
 table near him, and sat gazing into the red embers of 
 the fire, crouching down over them as if his very 
 marrow were chilled. At length he said : 
 
 ' There is no account of the murder at Bath in that 
 paper ? ' Mr. Davis, who had finished taking his notes, 
 and was preparing to go, stopped short, and asked : 
 
 ' Has there been a murder at Bath ? No ! I have 
 not seen anything of it who was murdered ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! it was a shocking, terrible murder ! ' said 
 Mr. Higgins, not raising his look from the fire, but 
 gazing on with his eyes dilated till the whites were seen 
 all round them. ' A terrible, terrible murder ! I wonder 
 what will become of the murderer ? I can fancy the red 
 glowing centre of that fire look and see how infinitely 
 distant it seems, and how the distance magnifies it into 
 something awful and unquenchable.' 
 
 ' My dear sir, you are feverish ; how you shake and 
 shiver ! ' said Mr. Davis, thinking privately that his 
 companion had symptoms of fever, and that he was 
 wandering in his mind. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' said Mr. Higgins. ' I am not feverish. It 
 is the night which is so cold.' And for a time he talked 
 with Mr. Davis about the article in the Gentleman's 
 Magazine, for he was rather a reader himself, and could 
 take more interest in Mr. Da vis's pursuits than most of 
 the people at Barford. At length it drew near to ten, 
 and Mr. Davis rose up to go home to his lodgings. 
 
 ' No, Davis, don't go. I want you here. We will 
 have a bottle of port together, and that will put 
 Saunders into good humour. I want to tell you about 
 this murder,' he continued, dropping his voice, and 
 
220 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 speaking hoarse and low. * She was an old woman, 
 and he killed her, sitting reading her Bible by her 
 own fireside ! ' He looked at Mr. Davis with a strange 
 searching gaze, as if trying to find some sympathy in 
 the horror which the idea presented to him. 
 
 ' Who do you mean, my dear sir ? What is this 
 murder you are so full of ? No one has been murdered 
 here.' 
 
 ' No, you fool ! I tell you it was in Bath ! ' said 
 Mr. Higgins, with sudden passion ; and then calming 
 himself to most velvet-smoothness of manner, he laid 
 his hand on Mr. Da vis's knee, there, as they sat by the 
 fire, and gently detaining him, began the narration of 
 the crime he was so full of ; but his voice and manner 
 were constrained to a stony quietude : he never looked 
 in Mr. Da vis's face ; once or twice, as Mr. Davis remem- 
 bered afterwards, his grip tightened like a compressing 
 vice. 
 
 * She lived in a small house in a quiet old-fashioned 
 street, she and her maid. People said she was a good 
 old woman ; but for all that, she hoarded and hoarded, 
 and never gave to the poor. Mr. Davis, it is wicked 
 not to give to the poor wicked wicked, is it not ? 
 I always give to the poor, for once I read in the Bible 
 that "Charity covereth a multitude of sins". The 
 wicked old woman never gave, but hoarded her money, 
 and saved, and saved. Some one heard of it ; I say 
 she threw a temptation in his way, and God will punish 
 her for it. And this man or it might be a woman, 
 who knows ? and this person heard also that she 
 went to church in the mornings, and her maid in the 
 afternoons ; and so while the maid was at church, 
 and the street and the house quite still, and the dark- 
 ness of a winter afternoon coming on she was nodding 
 over the Bible and that, mark you ! is a sin, and one 
 that God will avenge sooner or later ; and a step came 
 in the dusk up the stair, and that person I told you 
 of stood in the room. At first he no ! At first, it is 
 supposed for, you understand, all this is mere guess- 
 work it is supposed that he asked her civilly enough 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 221 
 
 to give him her money, or to tell him where it was ; 
 but the old miser defied him, and would not ask for 
 mercy and give up her keys, even when he threatened 
 her, but looked him in the face as if he had been 
 a baby Oh, God ! Mr. Davis, I once dreamt when 
 I was a little innocent boy that I should commit a crime 
 like this, and I wakened up crying ; and my mother 
 comforted me that is the reason I tremble so now 
 that and the cold, for it is very very cold ! ' 
 
 ' But did he murder the old lady ? ' asked Mr. Davis. 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir, but I am interested by your 
 story.' 
 
 ' Yes ! he cut her throat ; and there she lies yet 
 in her quiet little parlour, with her face upturned and 
 all ghastly white, in the middle of a pool of blood. 
 Mr. Davis, this wine is no better than water ; I must 
 have some brandy ! ' 
 
 Mr. Davis was horror-struck by the story, which 
 seemed to have fascinated him as much as it had done 
 his companion. 
 
 ' Have they got any clue to the murderer ? ' said he. 
 Mr. Higgins drank down half a tumbler of raw brandy 
 before he answered. 
 
 * No ! no clue whatever. They will never be able to 
 discover him ; and I should not wonder, Mr. Davis 
 I should not wonder if he repented after all, and did 
 bitter penance for his crime ; and if so will there be 
 mercy for him at the last day ? ' 
 
 ' God knows ! ' said Mr. Davis, with solemnity. ' It 
 is an awful story,' continued he, rousing himself ; 
 ' I hardly like to leave this warm light room and go 
 out into the darkness after hearing it. But it must be 
 done,' buttoning on his greatcoat ' I can only say 
 I hope and trust they will find out the murderer and 
 hang him. If you'll take my advice, Mr. Higgins, 
 you'll have your bed warmed, and drink a treacle- 
 posset just the last thing ; and, if you'll allow me, I'll 
 send you my answer to Philologus before it goes up to 
 old Urban.' 
 
 The next morning, Mr. Davia went to call on Miss 
 
222 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 Pratt, who was not very well ; and, by way of being 
 agreeable and entertaining, he related to her all he had 
 heard the night before about the murder at Bath ; and 
 really he made a very pretty connected story out of it, 
 and interested Miss Pratt very much in the fate of the 
 old lady partly because of a similarity in their situa- 
 tions ; for she also privately hoarded money, and had 
 but one servant, and stopped at home alone on Sunday 
 afternoons to allow her servant to go to church. 
 ' And when did all this happen ? ' she asked. 
 
 * I don't know if Mr. Higgins named the day ; and 
 yet I think it must have been on this very last Sunday.' 
 
 ' And to-day is Wednesday. Ill news travels fast.' 
 ' Yes, Mr. Higgins thought it might have been in the 
 
 London newspaper.' 
 
 ' That it could never be. Where did Mr. Higgins 
 
 learn all about it ? ' 
 
 * I don't know ; I did not ask. I think he only came 
 home yesterday : he had been south to collect his 
 rents, somebody said.' 
 
 Miss Pratt grunted. She used to vent her dislike and 
 suspicions of Mr. Higgins in a grunt whenever his name 
 was mentioned. 
 
 ' Well, I shan't see you for some days. Godfrey 
 Merton has asked me to go and stay with him and his 
 sister ; and I think it will do me good. Besides,' added 
 she, ' these whiter evenings and these murderers at 
 large in the country I don't quite like living with only 
 Peggy to call to in case of need.' 
 
 Pratt went to stay with her cousin, Mr. Merton. 
 He was an active magistrate, and enjoyed his reputa- 
 tion as such. One day he came in, having just received 
 his letters. 
 
 ' Bad account of the morals of your little town here, 
 Jessy ! ' said he, touching one of his letters. ' You've 
 either a murderer among you, or some friend of a mur- 
 derer. Here 's a poor old lady at Bath had her throat 
 cut last Sunday week ; and I've a letter from the Home 
 Office, asking to lend them " my very efficient aid ", 
 as they are pleased to call it, towards finding out the 
 
THE SQUIRE'S STORY 223 
 
 culprit. It seems he must have been thirsty, and of 
 a comfortable jolly turn ; for before going to his horrid 
 work he tapped a barrel of ginger wine the old lady had 
 set by to work ; and he wrapped the spigot round with 
 a piece of a letter taken out of his pocket, as may be 
 supposed ; and this piece of a letter was found after- 
 wards ; there are only these letters on the outside, 
 " ns, Esq., -arford, -egworth," which some one has 
 ingeniously made out to mean Barford, near Kegworth. 
 On the other side there is some allusion to a racehorse, 
 I conjecture, though the name is singular enough : 
 " Church-and-King-and-down-with-the-Rump." ' 
 
 Miss Pratt caught at this name immediately ; it had 
 hurt her feelings as a dissenter only a few months ago, 
 and she remembered it well. 
 
 ' Mr. Nat Hearn has or had (as I am speaking in 
 the witness-box, as it were, I must take care of my 
 tenses), a horse with that ridiculous name.' 
 
 'Mr. Nat Hearn,' repeated Mr. Merton, making 
 a note of the intelligence ; then he recurred to his 
 letter from the Home Office again. 
 
 ' There is also a piece of a small key, broken in the 
 futile attempt to open a desk well, well. Nothing 
 more of consequence. The letter is what we must 
 rely upon.' 
 
 ' Mr. Davis said that Mr. Higgins told him ' Miss 
 Pratt began. 
 
 ' Higgins ! ' exclaimed Mr. Merton, * ns. Is it 
 Higgins, the blustering fellow that ran away with Nat 
 Hearn' s sister ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said Miss Pratt. ' But though he has never 
 been a favourite of mine ' 
 
 ' ns,' repeated Mr. Merton. ' It is too horrible to 
 think of ; a member of the hunt kind old Squire 
 Hearn' s son-in-law ! Who else have you in Barford 
 with names that end in ns ? ' 
 
 ' There 's Jackson, and Higginson, and Blenkinsop. 
 and Davis, and Jones. Cousin ! One thing strikes me 
 how did Mr. Higgins know all about it to tell Mr. Davis 
 on Tuesday what had happened on Sunday afternoon ? ' 
 
224 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
 
 There is no need to add much more. Those curious 
 in lives of the highwayman may find the name of 
 Higgins as conspicuous among those annals as that 
 of Claude Duval. Kate Hearn's husband collected his 
 rents on the highway, like many another ' gentleman ' 
 of the day ; but, having been unlucky in one or two of 
 his adventures, and hearing exaggerated accounts of 
 the hoarded wealth of the old lady at Bath, he was 
 led on from robbery to murder, and was hung for his 
 crime at Derby, in 1775. 
 
 He had not been an unkind husband ; and his poor 
 wife took lodgings in Derby to be near him in his last 
 moments his awful last moments. Her old father 
 went with her everywhere but into her husband's cell ; 
 and wrung her heart by constantly accusing himself 
 of having promoted her marriage with a man of whom 
 he knew so little. He abdicated his squireship in 
 favour of his son Nathaniel. Nat was prosperous, and 
 the helpless silly father could be of no use to him ; but 
 to his widowed daughter the foolish fond old man was 
 all in all ; her knight, her protector, her companion 
 her most faithful loving companion. Only he ever 
 declined assuming the office of her counsellor shaking 
 his head sadly, and saying 
 
 * Ah ! Kate, Kate ! if I had had more wisdom to 
 have advised thee better, thou need'st not have been 
 an exile here in Brussels, shrinking from the sight of 
 every English person as if they knew thy story.' 
 
 I saw the White House not a month ago ; it was to 
 let, perhaps for the twentieth time since Mr. Higgins 
 occupied it ; but still the tradition goes in Barford 
 that once upon a time a highwayman lived there, and 
 amassed untold treasures ; and that the ill-gotten 
 wealth yet remains walled up in some unknown con- 
 cealed chamber ; but in what part of the house no one 
 knows. 
 
 Will any of you become tenants, and try to find out 
 this mysterious closet ? I can furnish the exact address 
 to any applicant who wishes for it. 
 
DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 1810-1882 
 
 RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 
 
 FOUR-AND-THERTY years ago, Bob Ainslie and I were 
 coming up Infirmary Street from the High School, our 
 heads together, and our arms intertwisted, as only 
 lovers and boys know how, or why. 
 
 When we got to the top of the street, and turned 
 north, we espied a crowd at the Tron Church. ' A dog- 
 fight ! ' shouted Bob, and was off ; and so was I, both 
 of us all but praying that it might not be over before 
 we got up ! And is not this boy-nature ? and human 
 nature too ? and don't we all wish a house on fire not 
 to be out before we see it ? Dogs like fighting ; old 
 Isaac says they ' delight ' in it, and for the best of all 
 reasons ; and boys are not cruel because they like to 
 see the fight. They see three of the great cardinal 
 virtues of dog or man courage, endurance, and skill 
 in intense action. This is very different from a love 
 of making dogs fight, and enjoying, and aggravating, 
 and making gain by their pluck. A boy be he ever 
 so fond himself of fighting, if he be a good boy, hates 
 and despises all this, but he would have run off with 
 Bob and me fast enough : it is a natural and a not 
 wicked interest that all boys and men have in witness- 
 ing intense energy in action. 
 
 Does any curious and finely-ignorant woman wish to 
 know how Bob's eye at a glance announced a dog-fight 
 to his brain ? He did not, he could not, see the dogs 
 fighting ; it was a flash of an inference, a rapid induc- 
 tion. The crowd round a couple of dogs fighting is 
 a crowd masculine mainly, with an occasional active, 
 compassionate woman, fluttering wildly round the out- 
 
 193 I 
 
226 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 side, and using her tongue and her hands freely upon 
 the men, as so many ' brutes ' ; it is a crowd annular, 
 compact, and mobile ; a crowd centripetal, having its 
 eyes and its heads all bent downwards and inwards, to 
 one common focus. 
 
 Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over : 
 a small thoroughbred, white bull-terrier, is busy 
 throttling a large shepherd's dog, unaccustomed to war, 
 but not to be trifled with. They are hard at it ; the 
 scientific little fellow doing his work in great style, his 
 pastoral enemy fighting wildly, but with the sharpest 
 of teeth and a great courage. Science and breeding, 
 however, soon had their own ; the Game Chicken, as 
 the premature Bob called him, working his way up, 
 took his final grip of poor Yarrow's throat, and he 
 lay gasping and done for. His master, a brown, hand- 
 some, big young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, would 
 have liked to have knocked down any man, would 
 ' drink up Esil, or eat a crocodile,' for that part, if he 
 had a chance : it was no use kicking the little dog ; 
 that would only make him hold the closer. Many were 
 the means shouted out in mouthf uls, of the best possible 
 ways of ending it. * Water ! ' but there was none near, 
 and many cried for it who might have got it from 
 the well at Blackfriars Wynd. * Bite the tail ! ' and 
 a large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged man, more 
 desirous than wise, with some struggle got the bushy 
 end of Yarrow's tail into his ample mouth, and bit it 
 with all his might. This was more than enough for 
 the much-enduring, much-perspiring shepherd, who, 
 with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, delivered 
 a terrific facer upon our large, vague, benevolent, 
 middle-aged friend, who went down like a shot. 
 
 Still the Chicken holds ; death not far off. ' Snuff ! 
 a pinch of snuff ! ' observed a calm, highly-dressed 
 young buck, with an eye-glass in his eye. * Snuff, 
 indeed ! ' growled the angry crowd, affronted and 
 glaring. ' Snuff ! a pinch of snuff ! ' again observes 
 the buck, but with more urgency ; whereupon were 
 produced several open boxes, and from a mull which 
 
RAB AND HIS FKIENDS 227 
 
 may have been at Culloden, he took a pinch, knelt 
 down, and presented it to the nose of the Chicken. 
 The laws of physiology and of snuff take their course ; 
 the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free ! 
 
 The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in 
 his arms, comforting him. 
 
 But the Bull Terrier's blood is up, and his soul 
 unsatisfied ; he grips the first dog he meets, and dis- 
 covering she is not a dog, in Homeric phrase, he makes 
 a brief sort of amende, and is off. The boys, with Bob 
 and me at their head, are after him : down Niddry 
 Street he goes, bent on mischief ; up the Cowgate like 
 an arrow Bob and I, and our small men, panting 
 behind. 
 
 There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, is 
 a huge mastiff, sauntering down the middle of the 
 causeway, as if with his hands in his pockets : he is 
 old, grey, brindled, as big as a little Highland bull, and 
 has the Shakespearian dewlaps shaking as he goes. 
 
 The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens on 
 his throat. To our astonishment, the great creature 
 does nothing but stand still, hold himself up, and roar 
 yes, roar ; a long, serious, remonstrative roar. How 
 is this ? Bob and I are up to them. He is muzzled / 
 The bailies had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his 
 master, studying strength and economy mainly, had 
 encompassed his huge jaws in a home-made apparatus, 
 constructed out of the leather of some ancient breechin. 
 His mouth was open as far as it could ; his lips curled 
 up in rage a sort of terrible grin ; his teeth gleaming, 
 ready, from out the darkness ; the strap across his 
 mouth tense as a bowstring ; his whole frame stiff with 
 indignation and surprise ; his roar asking us all round, 
 ' Did you ever see the like of this ? ' He looked a statue 
 of anger and astonishment, done in Aberdeen granite. 
 We soon had a crowd : the Chicken held on. * A 
 knife ! ' cried Bob ; and a cobbler gave him his knife : 
 you know the kind of knife, worn away obliquely to 
 a point, and always keen. I put its edge to the tense 
 leather ; it ran before it ; and then ! one sudden jerk 
 
228 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 of that enormous head, a sort of dirty mist about his 
 mouth, no noise, and the bright and fierce little fellow 
 is dropped, limp, and dead. A solemn pause : this 
 was more than any of us had bargained for. I turned 
 the little fellow over, and saw he was quite dead : the 
 mastiff had taken him by the small of the back like 
 a rat, and broken it. 
 
 He looked down at his victim appeased, ashamed, 
 and amazed ; snuffed him all over, stared at him, and 
 taking a sudden thought, turned round and trotted off. 
 Bob took the dead dog up, and said, ' John, we'll bury 
 him after tea.' ' Yes,' said I, and was off after the 
 mastiff. He made up the Cowgate at a rapid swing ; 
 he had forgotten some engagement. He turned up the 
 Candlemaker Row, and stopped at the Harrow Inn. 
 
 There was a carrier's cart ready to start, and a keen, 
 thin, impatient, black-a-vised little man, his hand at 
 his grey horse's head, looking about angrily for some- 
 thing. ' Rab, ye thief ! ' said he, aiming a kick at my 
 great friend, who drew cringing up, and avoiding the 
 heavy shoe with more agility than dignity, and watch- 
 ing his master's eye, slunk dismayed under the cart, 
 his ears down, and as much as he had of tail 
 down too. 
 
 What a man this must be thought I to whom my 
 tremendous hero turns tail ! The carrier saw the 
 muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from his neck, and 
 I eagerly told him the story, which Bob and I always 
 thought, and still think, Homer, or King David, or 
 Sir Walter, alone were worthy to rehearse. The severe 
 little man was mitigated, and condescended to say, 
 4 Rab, ma man, puir Rabbie ' whereupon the stump 
 of a tail rose up, the ears were cocked, the eyes filled, 
 and were comforted ; the two friends were reconciled. 
 * Hupp ! ' and a stroke of the whip were given to Jess ; 
 and off went the three. 
 
 Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night (we 
 had not much of a tea) in the back-green of his house, 
 in Melville Street, No. 17, with considerable gravity 
 
. RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 229 
 
 and silence ; and being at the time in the Iliad, and, 
 like all boys, Trojans, we called him Hector of course. 
 
 Six years have passed, a long time for a boy and 
 a dog : Bob Ainslie is off to the wars ; I am a medical 
 student, and clerk at Minto House Hospital. 
 
 Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednesday ; 
 and we had much pleasant intimacy. I found the way 
 to his heart by frequent scratching of his huge head, 
 and an occasional bone. When I did not notice him 
 he would plant himself straight before me, and stand 
 wagging that bud of a tail, and looking up, with his 
 head a little to the one side. His master I occasionally 
 saw; he used to call me * Maister John', but was 
 laconic as any Spartan. 
 
 One fine October afternoon, I was leaving the hos- 
 pital, when I saw the large gate open, and in walked 
 Rab, with that great and easy saunter of his. He 
 looked as if taking general possession of the place ; 
 like the Duke of Wellington entering a subdued city, 
 satiated with victory and peace. After him came Jess, 
 now white from age, with her cart ; and in it a woman 
 carefully wrapped up the carrier leading the horse 
 anxiously, and looking back. When he saw me, James 
 (for his name was James Noble) made a curt and gro- 
 tesque ' boo ', and said, ' Maister John, this is the 
 mistress ; she 's got a trouble in her breest some kind 
 o' an income we're thinkin'.' 
 
 By this time I saw the woman's face ; she was sitting 
 on a sack filled with straw, with her husband's plaid 
 round her, and his big-coat, with its large white metal 
 buttons, over her feet. 
 
 I never saw a more unforgettable face pale, serious, 
 lonely \ delicate, sweet, without being at all what we 
 call fine. She looked sixty, and had on a mutch, white 
 as snow, with its black ribbon ; her silvery, smooth 
 hair setting off her dark-grey eyes eyes such as one 
 sees only twice or thrice in a lifetime, full of suffering, 
 
 1 It is not easy giving this look by one word ; it was 
 expressive of her being so much of her life alone. 
 
230 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 full also of the overcoming of it : her eyebrows black 
 and delicate 1 , and her mouth firm, patient, and con- 
 tented, which few mouths ever are. 
 
 As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful coun- 
 tenance, or one more subdued to settled quiet. ' Ailie,' 
 said James, * this is Maister John, the young doctor ; 
 Rab's freend, ye ken. We often speak aboot you, doc- 
 tor.' She smiled, and made a movement, but said 
 nothing ; and prepared to come down, putting her 
 plaid aside and rising. Had Solomon, in all his glory, 
 been handing down the Queen of Sheba at his palace 
 gate, he could not have done it more daintily, more 
 tenderly, more like a gentleman, than did James the 
 Howgate carrier, when he lifted down Ailie his wife. 
 The contrast of his small, swarthy, weather-beaten, 
 keen, worldly face to hers pale, subdued, and beauti- 
 ful was something wonderful. Rab looked on, con- 
 cerned and puzzled, but ready for anything that might 
 turn up, were it to strangle the nurse, the porter, or 
 even me. Ailie and he seemed great friends. 
 
 * As I was sayin', she 's got a kind o' trouble in her 
 breest, doctor ; wull ye tak' a look at it ? ' We walked 
 into the consulting room, all four ; Rab grim and comic, 
 willing to be happy and confidential if cause could be 
 shown, willing also to be the reverse, on the same terms. 
 Ailie sat down, undid her open gown and her lawn 
 handkerchief round her neck, and, without a word, 
 showed me her right breast. I looked at and examined 
 it carefully she and James watching me, and Rab 
 eyeing all three. What could I say ? there it was, 
 that had once been so soft, so shapely, so white, so 
 gracious and bountiful, so ' full of alf blessed condi- 
 tions,' hard as a stone, a centre of horrid pain, making 
 that pale face, with its grey, lucid, reasonable eyes, and 
 its sweet resolved mouth, express the full measure of 
 
 . . . . Black brows, they say, 
 Become some women best ; so that there be not 
 Too much hair there, but in a semicircle. 
 Or a half-moon made with a pen. 
 
 A Winter's Tale. 
 
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 231 
 
 suffering overcome. Why was that gentle, modest, 
 sweet woman, clean and lovable, condemned by God 
 to bear such a burden ? 
 
 I got her away to bed. ' May Rab and me bide ? ' 
 said James. * You may ; and Rab, if he will behave 
 himself.' ' I'se warrant he 's do that, doctor ' ; and in 
 slunk the faithful beast. I wish you could have seen 
 him. There are no such dogs now. He belonged to 
 a lost tribe. As I have said, he was brindled, and grey 
 like Rubislaw granite ; his hair short, hard, and close, 
 like a lion's ; his body thick-set, like a little bull 
 a sort of compressed Hercules of a dog. He must have 
 been ninety pounds' weight, at the least ; he had a large 
 blunt head; his muzzle black as night, his mouth 
 blacker than any night, a tooth or two being all he 
 had gleaming out of his jaws of darkness. His head 
 was scarred with the records of old wounds, a sort of 
 series of fields of battle all over it ; one eye out, one 
 ear cropped as close as was Archbishop Leighton's 
 father's ; the remaining eye had the power of two ; 
 and above it, and in constant communication with it, 
 was a tattered rag of an ear, which was for ever un- 
 furling itself, like an old flag ; and then that bud of 
 a tail, about one inch long, if it could in any sense 
 be said to be long, being as broad as long the mobility, 
 the-instantaneousness of that bud were very funny and 
 surprising, and its expressive twinklings and winkings, 
 the intercommunications between the eye, the ear, and 
 it, were of the oddest and swiftest. 
 
 Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size ; and 
 having fought his way all along the road to absolute 
 supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius 
 Caesar or the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity 1 
 of all great fighters. 
 
 You must have often observed the likeness of certain 
 men to certain animals, and of certain dogs to men. 
 
 1 A Highland game-keeper, when asked why a certain 
 terrier, of singular pluck, was so much more solemn than 
 the other dogs, said, ' Oh, Sir, life 's full o' sariousness to 
 him he just never can get eneuch o' fechtin'.' 
 
232 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 Now, I never look at Rab without thinking of the great 
 Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller 1 . The same large, 
 heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest counte- 
 nance, the same deep inevitable eye, the same look, as 
 of thunder asleep, but ready, neither a dog nor a man 
 to be trifled with. 
 
 Next day, my master, the surgeon, examined Ailie. 
 There was no doubt it must kill her, and soon. It 
 could be removed it might never return it would 
 give her speedy relief she should have it done. She 
 curtsied, looked at James, and said, ' When ? ' 'To- 
 morrow,' said the kind surgeon a man of few words. 
 She and James and Rab and I Retired. I noticed that 
 he and she spoke little, but seemed to anticipate every- 
 thing in each other. The following day, at noon, the 
 students came in, hurrying up the great stair. At the 
 first landing-place, on a small well-known black board, 
 was a bit of paper fastened by wafers, and many 
 remains of old wafers beside it. On the paper were 
 the words, ' An operation to-day. J. B. Clerk.'' 
 
 Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places : in 
 they crowded, full of interest and talk. ' What 's the 
 case ? ' ' Which side is it ? ' 
 
 Don't think them heartless ; they are neither better 
 nor worse than you or I : they get over their pro- 
 fessional horrors, and into their proper work ; and in 
 
 1 Fuller was, in early life, when a farmer lad at Soham, 
 famous as a boxer ; not quarrelsome, but not without ' the 
 stern delight ' a man of strength and courage feels in their 
 exercise. Dr. Charles Stewart of Dunearn, whose rare gifts 
 and graces as a physician, a divine, a scholar, and a gentle- 
 man, live only in the memory of those few who knew and 
 survive him, liked to tell how Mr. Fuller used to say, that 
 when he was in the pulpit, and saw a buirdly man come 
 along the passage, he would instinctively draw himself up, 
 measure his imaginary antagonist, and forecast how he 
 would deal with him, his hands meanwhile condensing into 
 fists, and tending to ' square '. He must have been 
 a hard hitter if he boxed as he preached what ' The 
 Fancy ' would call ' an ugly customer '. 
 
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 233 
 
 them pity, as an emotion, ending in itself or at best 
 in tears and a long-drawn breath, lessens, while pity, 
 as a motive, is quickened, and gains power and purpose. 
 It is well for poor human nature that it is so. 
 
 The operating theatre is crowded ; much talk and 
 fun, and all the cordiality and stir of youth. The 
 surgeon with his staff of assistants is there. In comes 
 Ailie ; one look at her quiets and abates the eager 
 students. That beautiful old woman is too much for 
 them ; they sit down, and are dumb, and gaze at her. 
 These rough boys feel the power of her presence. She 
 walks in quickly, but without haste ; dressed in her 
 mutch, her neckerchief, her white dimity short-gown, 
 her black bombazeen petticoat, showing her white 
 worsted stockings and her carpet-shoes. Behind her 
 was James with Rab. James sat down in the distance, 
 and took that huge and noble head between his knees. 
 Rab looked perplexed and dangerous ; for ever cocking 
 his ear and dropping it as fast. 
 
 Ailie stepped up on a seat, and laid herself on the 
 table, as her friend the surgeon told her; arranged 
 herself, gave a rapid look at James, shut her eyes, rested 
 herself on me, and took my hand. The operation was 
 at once begun ; it was necessarily slow ; and chloroform 
 one of God's best gifts to his suffering children was 
 then unknown. The surgeon did his work. The pale 
 face showed its pain, but was still and silent. Rab's 
 soul was working within him ; he saw that something 
 strange was going on, blood flowing from his mistress, 
 and she suffering ; his ragged ear was up, and impor- 
 tunate ; he growled and gave now and then a sharp 
 impatient yelp ; he would have liked to have done 
 something to that man. But James had him firm, and 
 gave him a glower from time to time, and an intimation 
 of a possible kick ; all the better for James, it kept 
 his eye and his mind off Ailie. 
 
 It is over : she is dressed, steps gently and decently 
 
 down from the table, looks for James ; then, turning 
 
 to the surgeon and the students, she curtsies, and in 
 
 a low, clear voice, begs their pardon if she has behaved 
 
 i3 
 
234 DK. JOHN BROWN 
 
 ill. The students all of us wept like children ; the 
 surgeon happed her up carefully, and,resting on James 
 and me, Ailie went to her room, Rab following. We put 
 her to bed. James took off his heavy shoes, crammed 
 with tackets, heel-capt and toe-capt, and put them 
 carefully under the table, saying, ' Maister John, I'm 
 for nane o' yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailie. I'll be 
 her nurse, and I'll gang aboot on my stockin' soles as 
 canny as pussy.' And so he did ; and handy and 
 clever, and swift and tender as any woman, was that 
 horny-handed, snell, peremptory little man. Every- 
 thing she got he gave her : he seldom slept ; and often 
 I saw his small shrewd eyes out of the darkness, fixed 
 on her. As before, they spoke little. 
 
 Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how 
 meek and gentle he could be, and occasionally, in his 
 sleep, letting us know that he was demolishing some 
 adversary. He took a walk with me every day, generally 
 to the Candlemaker Row ; but he was sombre and 
 mild ; declined doing battle, though some fit cases 
 offered, and indeed submitted to sundry indignities ; 
 and was always very ready to turn, and came faster 
 back, and trotted up the stair with much lightness, and 
 went straight to that door. 
 
 Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather-worn 
 cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own dim and 
 placid meditations and confusions, on the absence of 
 her master and Rab, and her unnatural freedom from 
 the road and her cart. 
 
 For some days Ailie did well. The wound healed ' by 
 the first intention ' ; for as James said, ' Oor Ailie' s 
 skin 's ower clean to beil.' The students came in quiet 
 and anxious, and surrounded her bed. She said she 
 liked to see their young, honest faces. The surgeon 
 dressed her, and spoke to her in his own short kind 
 way, pitying her through his eyes, Rab and James 
 outside the circle, Rab being now reconciled, and even 
 cordial, and having made up his mind that as yet 
 nobody required worrying, but, as you may suppose, 
 semper paratus. 
 
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 235 
 
 So far well : but, four days after the operation, my 
 patient had a sudden and long shivering, a ' groosin' ', 
 as she called it. I saw her soon after ; her eyes were 
 too bright, her cheek coloured ; she was restless, and 
 ashamed of being so ; the balance was lost ; mischief 
 had begun. On looking at the wound, a blush of red 
 told the secret ; her pulse was rapid, her breathing 
 anxious and quick; she wasn't herself, as she said, and 
 was vexed at her restlessness. We tried what we could. 
 James did everything, was everywhere ; never in the 
 way, never out of it ; Rab subsided under the table 
 into a dark place, and was motionless, all but his eye, 
 which followed every one. Ailie got worse ; began to 
 wander in her mind, gently ; was more demonstrative 
 in her ways to James, rapid in her questions, and sharp 
 at times. He was vexed, and said, ' She was never that 
 way afore ; no, never.' For a time she knew her head 
 was wrong, and was always asking our pardon the 
 dear gentle old woman : then delirium set in strong, 
 without pause. Her brain gave way, and then came 
 that terrible spectacle, 
 
 The intellectual power, through words and things, 
 Went sounding on its dim and perilous way; 
 
 she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping sud- 
 denly, mingling the Psalms of David, and the diviner 
 words of his Son and Lord, with homely odds and ends 
 and scraps of ballads. 
 
 Nothing more touching, or in a sense more strangely 
 beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremulous, rapid, 
 affectionate, eager, Scotch voice, the swift, aimless, 
 bewildered mind, the baffled utterance, the bright and 
 perilous eye ; some wild words, some household cares, 
 something for James, the names of the dead, Rab called 
 rapidly and in a ' f remyt ' voice, and he starting up, 
 surprised, and slinking off as if he were to blame some- 
 how, or had been dreaming he heard. Many eager 
 questions and beseechings which James and I could 
 make nothing of, and on which she seemed to set her 
 all, and then sink back ununderstood. It was very 
 
236 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 sad, but better than many things that are not called 
 sad. James hovered about, put out and miserable, but 
 active and exact as ever ; read to her, when there was 
 a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and metre, 
 chanting the latter in his own rude and serious way, 
 showing great knowledge of the fit words, bearing up 
 like a man, and doating over her as his 'ain Ailie '. 
 ' Ailie, ma woman ! ' ' Ma ain bonnie wee dawtie ! ' 
 
 The end was drawing on : the golden bowl was 
 breaking ; the silver cord was fast being loosed that 
 animula, blandula, vagula, hospes, comesque, was about 
 to flee. The body and the soul companions for sixty 
 years were being sundered, and taking leave. She 
 was walking, alone, through the valley of that shadow, 
 into which one day we must all enter, and yet she 
 was not alone, for we know whose rod and staff were 
 comforting her. 
 
 One night she had fallen quiet, and, as we hoped, 
 asleep ; her eyes were shut. We put down the gas, 
 and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in bed, 
 and taking a bedgown which was lying on it rolled up, 
 she held it eagerly to her breast, to the right side. 
 We could see her eyes bright with a surprising tender- 
 ness and joy, bending over this bundle of clothes. She 
 held it as a woman holds her sucking child ; opening 
 out her night-gown impatiently, and holding it close, 
 and brooding over it, and murmuring foolish little 
 words, as over one whom his mother comforteth, and 
 who sucks and is satisfied. It was pitiful and strange 
 to see her wasted dying look, keen and yet vague her 
 immense love. 
 
 * Preserve me ! ' groaned James, giving way. And 
 then she rocked back and forward, as if to make it 
 sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her infinite fond- 
 ness. ' Wae 's me, doctor ; I declare she 'sthinkin' it's 
 that bairn.' ' What bairn ? ' * The only bairn we ever 
 had ; our wee Mysie, and she 's in the Kingdom forty 
 years and mair.' It was plainly true : the pain in the 
 breast, telling its urgent story to a bewildered, ruined 
 brain, was misread and mistaken ; it suggested to her 
 
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 237 
 
 the uneasiness of a breast full of milk, and then the 
 child ; and so again once more they were together, and 
 she had her ain wee Mysie in her bosom. 
 
 This was the close. She sank rapidly : the delirium 
 left her ; but, as she whispered, she was ' clean silly ' ; 
 it was the lightening before the final darkness. Aiter 
 having for some time lain still her eyes shut, she said, 
 ' James ! ' He came close to her, and lifting up her 
 calm, clear, beautiful eyes, she gave him a long look, 
 turned to me kindly but shortly, looked for Rab but 
 could not see him, then turned to her husband again, 
 as if she would never leave off looking, shut her eyes, 
 and composed herself. She lay for some time breathing 
 quick, and passed away so gently, that when we thought 
 she was gone, James, in his old-fashioned way, held the 
 mirror to her face. After a long pause, one small spot 
 of dimness was breathed out ; it vanished away, and 
 never returned, leaving the blank clear darkness with- 
 out a stain. ' What is our life ? it is even a vapour, which 
 appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.' 
 
 Rab all this time had been full awake and motionless : 
 he came forward beside us : Ailie's hand, which James 
 had held, was hanging down ; it was soaked with his 
 tears ; Rab licked it all over carefully, looked at her, 
 and returned to his place under the table. 
 
 James and I sat, I don't know how long, but for 
 some time, saying nothing ; he started up abruptly, 
 and with some noise went to the table, and putting 
 his right fore and middle fingers each into a shoe, 
 pulled them out, and put them on, breaking one of 
 the leather latchets, and muttering in anger, ' I never 
 did the like o' that afore ! ' 
 
 I believe he never did ; nor after either. ' Rab ! ' 
 he said roughly, and pointing with his thumb to the 
 bottom of the bed. Rab leapt up, and settled himself ; 
 his head and eye to the dead face. ' Maister John, ye' 11 
 wait for me,' said the carrier ; and disappeared in the 
 darkness, thundering down stairs in his heavy shoes. 
 I ran to a front window : there he was, already round 
 the house, and out at the gate, fleeing like a shadow. 
 
238 DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid ; so I sat 
 down beside Rab, and being wearied, fell asleep. I awoke 
 from a sudden noise outside. It was November, and 
 there had been a heavy fall of snow. Rab was in statu 
 quo ; he heard the noise too, and plainly knew it, but 
 never moved. I looked out ; and there, at the gate, 
 in the dim morning for the sun was not up, was Jess 
 and the cart, a cloud of steam rising from the old 
 mare. I did not see James ; he was already at the 
 door, and came up the stairs, and met me. It was less 
 than three hours since he left, and he must have posted 
 out who knows how ? to Howgate, full nine miles 
 off ; yoked Jess, and driven her astonished into town. 
 He had an armful of blankets, and was streaming with 
 perspiration. He nodded to me, spread out on the 
 floor two pairs of clean old blankets having at their 
 corners, 'A. G., 1794 ', in large letters in red worsted. 
 These were the initials of Alison Graeme, and James 
 may have looked in at her from without himself 
 unseen but not unthought of when he was ' wat, wat, 
 and weary ', and after having walked many a mile over 
 the hills, may have seen her sitting, while ' a' the lave 
 were sleepin' ', and by the firelight working her name 
 on the blankets, for her ain James's bed. 
 
 He motioned Rab down, and taking his wife in his 
 arms, laid her in the blankets, and happed her carefully 
 and firmly up, leaving the face uncovered ; and then 
 lifting her, he nodded again sharply to me, and with 
 a resolved but utterly miserable face, strode along the 
 passage, and downstairs, followed by Rab. I followed 
 with a light ; but he didn't need it. I went out, hold- 
 ing stupidly the candle in my hand in the calm frosty 
 air ; we were soon at the gate. I could have helped 
 him, but I saw he was not to be meddled with, and he 
 was strong, and did not need it. He laid her down as 
 tenderly, as safely, as he had lifted her out ten days 
 before as tenderly as when he had her first in his arms 
 when she was only ' A. G.', sorted her, leaving that 
 beautiful sealed face open to the heavens ; and then, 
 taking Jess by the head, he moved away. He did not 
 
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS 239 
 
 notice me, neither did Rab, who presided behind the 
 cart. 
 
 I stood till they passed through the long shadow of 
 the College, and turned up Nicolson Street. I heard 
 the solitary cart sound through the streets, and die 
 away and come again ; and I returned, thinking of 
 that company going up Libberton Brae, then along 
 Roslin Muir, the morning light touching the Pentlands, 
 and making them like on-looking ghosts ; then down 
 the hill through Auchindinny woods, past ' haunted 
 Woodhouselee ' ; and as daybreak came sweeping up 
 the bleak Lammermuirs, and fell on his own door, the 
 company would stop, and James would take the key, 
 and lift Ailie up again, laying her on her own bed, and, 
 having put Jess up, would return with Rab and shut 
 the door. 
 
 James buried his wife, with his neighbours mourning, 
 Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. It was 
 snow, and that black ragged hole would look strange 
 in the midst of the swelling spotless cushion of white. 
 James looked after everything ; then rather suddenly 
 fell ill, and took to bed ; was insensible when the doctor 
 came, and soon died. A sort of low fever was prevailing 
 in the village, and his want of sleep, his exhaustion, 
 and his misery, made him apt to take it. The grave 
 was not difficult to re-open. A fresh fall of snow had 
 again made all things white and smooth ; Rab once 
 more looked on, and slunk home to the stable. 
 
 And what of Rab ? I asked for him next week at 
 the new carrier who got the goodwill of James's business 
 and was now master of Jess and her cart. ' How 's 
 Rab ? ' He put me off, and said rather rudely, ' What' a 
 your business wi' the dowg ? ' I was not to be so put 
 off. ' Where 's Rab ? ' He, getting confused and red, 
 and intermeddling with his hair, said, ' 'Deed, sir, 
 Rab 's deid.' ' Dead ! what did he die of ?' ' Weel, 
 sir,' said he, getting redder, ' he didna exactly dee ; 
 he was killed. I had to brain him wi' a rack-pin ; 
 there was nae doin' wi' him. He lay in the treviss 
 
24Q DR. JOHN BROWN 
 
 wi' the mear, and wadna come oot. I tempit him wi' 
 kail and meat, but he wad tak naething, and keepit 
 me frae feedin' the beast, and he was aye gur gurrin', 
 and grup gruppin' me by the legs. I was laith to make 
 awa wi' the auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and 
 Thornhill, but, 'deed, sir, I could do naething else.' 
 I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and complete. 
 His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep 
 the peace, and be civil ? 
 
 He was buried on the braeface, near the burn, the 
 children of the village his companions, who used to 
 make very free with him and sit on his ample stomach 
 as he lay half asleep at the door in the sun watching 
 the solemnity from a distance. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 1812-1870 
 
 THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 
 IN THREE CHAPTERS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN THE OLD CITY OF ROCHESTER 
 
 Zr STRICTLY speaking, there were only six Poor Travel- 
 lers ; but, being a Traveller myself, though an idle one, 
 and being withal as poor as I hope to be, I brought the 
 number up to seven. This word of explanation is due 
 at once, for what says the inscription over the quaint 
 old door ? 
 
 RICHARD WATTS, Esq. 
 by his Will, dated 22 Aug. 1579, 
 
 founded this Charity 
 
 for Six poor Travellers, 
 
 who not being ROGUES, or PROCTORS, 
 
 May receive gratis for one Night, 
 
 Lodging, Entertainment, 
 
 and Fourpence each. 
 
 It was in the ancient little city of Rochester in Kent, 
 of all the good days in the year upon a Christmas Eve, 
 that I stood reading this inscription over the quaint 
 old door in question. I had been wandering about the 
 neighbouring Cathedral, and had seen the tomb of 
 Richard Watts, with the effigy of worthy Master 
 Richard starting out of it like a ship's figure-head; 
 and I had felt that I could do no less, as I gave the 
 Verger his fee, than inquire the way to Watts' s Charity. 
 
242 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 The way being very short and very plain, I had come 
 prosperously to the inscription and the quaint old door. 
 
 ' Now,' said I to myself, as I looked at the knocker, 
 ' I know I am not a Proctor ; I wonder whether I am 
 a Rogue ! ' 
 
 Upon the whole, though Conscience reproduced two 
 or three pretty faces which might have had smaller 
 attraction for a moral Goliath than they had had for 
 me, who am but a Tom Thumb in that way, I came 
 to the conclusion that I was not a Rogue. So, beginning 
 to regard the establishment as in some sort my pro- 
 perty, bequeathed to me and divers co-legatees, share 
 and share alike, by the Worshipful Master Richard 
 Watts, I stepped backward into the road to survey my 
 inheritance. 
 
 I found it to be a clean white house, of a staid and 
 venerable air, with the quaint old door already three 
 times mentioned (an arched door), choice little long 
 low lattice-windows, and a roof of three gables. The 
 silent High Street of Rochester is full of gables, with 
 old beams and timbers carved into strange faces. It 
 is oddly garnished with a queer old clock that projects 
 over the pavement out of a grave red-brick building, 
 as if Time carried on business there, and hung out his 
 sign. Sooth to say, he did an active stroke of work 
 in Rochester, in the old days of the Romans, and the 
 Saxons, and the Normans ; and down to the times of 
 King John, when the rugged castle I will not under- 
 take to say how many hundreds of years old then 
 was abandoned to the centuries of weather which have 
 so defaced the dark apertures in its walls, that the ruin 
 looks as if the rooks and daws had pecked its eyes out. 
 
 I was very well pleased, both with my property and 
 its situation. While I was yet surveying it with grow- 
 ing content, I espied, at one of the upper lattices 
 which stood open, a decent body, of a wholesome 
 matronly appearance, whose eyes I caught inquiringly 
 addressed to mine. They said so plainly, ' Do you wish 
 to see the house ? ' that I answered aloud, ' Yes, if 
 you please.' And within a minute the old door opened, 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 243 
 
 and I bent my head, and went down two steps into 
 the entry. 
 
 ' This,' said the matronly presence, ushering me 
 into a low room on the right, ' is where the Travellers 
 sit by the fire, and cook what bits of suppers they buy 
 with their fourpences.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Then they have no Entertainment ? ' said I. 
 For the inscription over the outer door was still 
 running in my head, and I was mentally repeating, in 
 a kind of tune, ' Lodging, entertainment, and four- 
 pence each.' 
 
 ' They have a fire provided for 'em,' returned the 
 matron, a mighty civil person, not, as I could make 
 out, overpaid ; ' and these cooking utensils. And this 
 what's painted on a board is the rules for their 
 behaviour. They have their fourpences when they get 
 their tickets from the steward over the way, -for 
 I don't admit 'em myself, they must get their tickets 
 first, and sometimes one buys a rasher of bacon, and 
 another a herring, and another a pound of potatoes, 
 or what not. Sometimes two or three of 'em will club 
 their fourpences together, and make a supper that way. 
 But not much of anything is to be got for fourpence, 
 at present, when provisions is so dear.' 
 
 * True indeed,' I remarked. I had been looking about 
 the room, admiring its snug fireside at the upper end, 
 its glimpse of the street through the low mullioned 
 window, and its beams overhead. ' It is very comfort- 
 able,' said I. 
 
 ' Ill-conwenient,' observed the matronly presence. 
 
 I liked to hear her say so ; for it showed a com- 
 mendable anxiety to execute in no niggardly spirit the 
 intentions of Master Richard Watts. But the room 
 was really so well adapted to its purpose that I pro- 
 tested, quite enthusiastically, against her disparagement. 
 
 'Nay, ma'am,' said I, ' I am sure it is warm in 
 winter and cool in summer. It has a look of homely 
 welcome and soothing rest. It has a remarkably cosy 
 fireside, the very blink of which, gleaming out into 
 the street upon a winter night, is enough to warm all 
 
244 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Rochester's heart. And as to the convenience of the 
 six Poor Travellers ' 
 
 ' I don't mean them,' returned the presence. ' I 
 speak of its being an ill- convenience to myself and my 
 daughter, having no other room to sit in of a night.' 
 
 This was true enough, but there was another quaint 
 room of corresponding dimensions on the opposite 
 side of the entry : so I stepped across to it, through 
 the open doors of both rooms, and asked what this 
 chamber was for. 
 
 ' This,' returned the presence, ' is the Board Room. 
 Where the gentlemen meet when they come here.' 
 
 Let me see. I had counted from the street six 
 upper windows besides these on the ground-story. 
 Making a perplexed calculation in my mind, I rejoined, 
 ' Then the six Poor Travellers sleep upstairs ? ' 
 
 My new friend shook her head. ' They sleep,' she 
 answered, ' in two little outer galleries at the back, 
 where their beds has always been, ever since the 
 Charity was founded. It being so very ill-conwenient 
 to me as things is at present, the gentlemen are going 
 to take off a bit of the back yard, and make a slip of 
 a room for 'em there, to sit in before they go to bed.' 
 
 ' And then the six Poor Travellers,' said I, ' will be 
 entirely out of the house ? ' 
 
 ' Entirely out of the house,' assented the presence, 
 comfortably smoothing her hands. ' Which is con- 
 sidered much better for all parties, and much more 
 convenient.' 
 
 I had been a little startled, in the Cathedral, by the 
 emphasis with which the effigy of Master Richard 
 Watts was bursting out of his tomb ; but I began to 
 think, now, that it might be expected to come across 
 the High Street some stormy night, and make a dis- 
 turbance here. 
 
 Howbeit, I kept my thoughts to myself, and accom- 
 panied the presence to the little galleries at the back. 
 I found them on a tiny scale, like the galleries in old 
 inn-yards ; and they were very clean. While I was 
 looking at them, the matron gave me to understand 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 245 
 
 that the prescribed number of Poor Travellers were 
 forthcoming every night from year's end to year's 
 end ; and that the beds were always occupied. My 
 questions upon this, and her replies, brought us back 
 to the Board Room so essential to the dignity of ' the 
 gentlemen ', where she showed me the printed accounts 
 of the Charity hanging up by the window. From them 
 I gathered that the greater part of the property 
 bequeathed by the Worshipful Master Richard Watts 
 for the maintenance of this foundation was, at the 
 period of his death, mere marsh-land; but that, in 
 course of time, it had been reclaimed and built upon, 
 and was very considerably increased in value. I found, 
 too, that about a thirtieth part of the annual revenue 
 was now expended on the purposes commemorated in 
 the inscription over the door; the rest being hand- 
 somely laid out in Chancery, law expenses, collector- 
 ship, receivership, poundage, and other appendages 
 of management, highly complimentary to the impor- 
 tance of the six Poor Travellers. In short, I made the 
 not entirely new discovery that it may be said of an 
 establishment like this, in dear old England, as of the 
 fat oyster in the American story, that it takes a good 
 many men to swallow it whole. 
 
 ' And pray, ma'am,' said I, sensible that the blank- 
 ness of my face began to brighten as the thought 
 occurred to me, ' could one see these Travellers ? ' 
 
 ' Well ! ' she returned dubiously, ' no ! ' 
 
 ' Not to-night, for instance ! ' said I. 
 
 ' Well ! ' she returned more positively, ' no. Nobody 
 ever asked to see them, and nobody ever did see them.' 
 
 As I am not easily baulked in a design when I am 
 set upon it, I urged to the good lady that this was 
 Christmas Eve ; that Christmas comes but once a year, 
 which is unhappily too true, for when it begins to 
 stay with us the whole year round we shall make this 
 earth a very different place ; that I was possessed by 
 the desire to treat the Travellers to a supper and 
 a temperate glass of hot Wassail ; that the voice of 
 Fame had been heard in that land, declaring my ability 
 
246 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 to make hot Wassail ; that if I were permitted to 
 hold the feast, I should be found conformable to reason, 
 sobriety, and good hours ; in a word, that I could be 
 merry and wise myself, and had been even known at 
 a pinch to keep others so, although I was decorated 
 with no badge or medal, and was not a Brother, Orator, 
 Apostle, Saint, or Prophet of any denomination what- 
 ever. In the end I prevailed, to my great joy. It was 
 settled that at nine o'clock that night a Turkey and 
 a piece of Roast Beef should smoke upon the board ; 
 and that I, fault and unworthy minister for once of 
 Master Richard Watts, should preside as the Christmas- 
 supper host of the six Poor Travellers. 
 
 I went back to my inn to give the necessary direc- 
 tions for the Turkey and Roast Beef, and, during the 
 remainder of the day, could settle to nothing for think- 
 ing of the Poor Travellers. When the wind blew hard 
 against the windows, it was a cold day, with dark 
 gusts of sleet alternating with periods of wild brightness, 
 as if the year were dying fitfully, I pictured them 
 advancing towards their resting-place along various 
 cold roads, and felt delighted to think how little they 
 foresaw the supper that awaited them. I painted their 
 portraits in my mind, and indulged in little heightening 
 touches. I made them footsore ; I made them weary ; 
 I made them carry packs and bundles ; I made them 
 stop by finger-posts and milestones, leaning on their 
 bent sticks, and looking wistfully at what was written 
 there ; I made them lose their way ; and filled their 
 five wits with apprehensions of lying out all night, and 
 being frozen to death. I took up my hat, and went 
 out, climbed to the top of the Old Castle, and looked 
 over the windy hills that slope down to the Medway, 
 almost believing that I could descry some of my 
 Travellers in the distance. After it fell dark, and the 
 Cathedral bell was heard in the invisible steeple 
 quite a bower of frosty rime when I had last seen it 
 striking five, six, seven, I became so full of my 
 Travellers that I could eat no dinner, and felt con- 
 strained to watch them still in the red coals of my 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 247 
 
 fire. They were all arrived by this time, I thought, 
 had got their tickets, and were gone in. There my 
 pleasure was dashed by the reflection that probably 
 some Travellers had come too late and were shut out. 
 
 After the Cathedral bell had struck eight, I could 
 smell a delicious savour of Turkey and Roast Beef 
 rising to the window of my adjoining bedroom, which 
 looked down into the inn- yard just where the lights 
 of the kitchen reddened a massive fragment of the 
 Castle Wall. It was high time to make the Wassail 
 now ; therefore I had up the materials (which, together 
 with their proportions and combinations, I must 
 decline to impart, as the only secret of my own I was 
 ever known to keep), and made a glorious jorum. Not 
 in a bowl ; for a bowl anywhere but on a shelf is 
 a low superstition, fraught with cooling and slopping ; 
 but in a brown earthenware pitcher, tenderly suffocated, 
 when full, with a coarse cloth. It being now upon the 
 stroke of nine, I set out for Watts' s Charity, carrying 
 my brown beauty in my arms. I would trust Ben, the 
 waiter, with untold gold ; but there are strings in the 
 human heart which must never be sounded by another, 
 and drinks that I make myself are those strings in mine. 
 
 The Travellers were all assembled, the cloth was laid, 
 and Ben had brought a great billet of wood, and had 
 laid it artfully on the top of the fire, so that a touch 
 or two of the poker after supper should make a roar- 
 ing blaze. Having deposited my brown beauty in 
 a red nook of the hearth, inside the fender, where she 
 soon began to sing like an ethereal cricket, diffusing 
 at the same time odours as of ripe vineyards, spice 
 forests, and orange groves, I say, having stationed 
 my beauty in a place of security and improvement, 
 I introduced myself to my guests by shaking hands all 
 round, and giving them a hearty welcome. 
 
 I found the party to be thus composed. Firstly, 
 myself. Secondly, a very decent man indeed, with his 
 right arm in a sling, who had a certain clean agreeable 
 smell of wood about him, from which I judged him to 
 have something to do with shipbuilding. Thirdly, 
 
248 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 a little sailor-boy, a mere child, with a profusion of 
 rich dark brown hair, and deep womanly-looking 
 eyes. Fourthly, a shabby-genteel personage in a thread- 
 bare black suit, and apparently in very bad circum- 
 stances, with a dry suspicious look ; the absent 
 buttons on his waistcoat eked out with red tape ; and 
 a bundle of extraordinarily tattered papers sticking 
 out of an inner breast-pocket. Fifthly, a foreigner by 
 birth, but an Englishman in speech, who carried his 
 pipe in the band of his hat, and lost no time in telling 
 me, in an easy, simple, engaging way, that he was 
 a watchmaker from Geneva, and travelled all about 
 the Continent, mostly on foot, working as a journey- 
 man, and seeing new countries, possibly (I thought) 
 also smuggling a watch or so, now and then. Sixthly, 
 a little widow, who had been very pretty and was still 
 very young, but whose beauty had been wrecked in 
 some great misfortune, and whose manner was remark- 
 ably timid, scared, and solitary. Seventhly and lastly, 
 a Traveller of a kind f amiliar to my boyhood, but now 
 almost obsolete, a Book-Pedlar, who had a quantity 
 of Pamphlets and Numbers with him, and who pre- 
 sently boasted that he could repeat more verses in an 
 evening than he could sell in a twelvemonth. 
 
 All these I have mentioned in the order in which 
 they sat at table. I presided, and the matronly 
 presence faced me. We were not long in taking our 
 places, for the supper had arrived with me, in the 
 following procession : 
 
 Myself with the pitcher. 
 
 Ben with Beer. 
 
 Inattentive Boy with hot plates. Inattentive Boy with 
 hot plates. 
 
 THE TUBKEY. 
 
 Female carrying sauces to be heated on the spot. 
 
 THE BEEF. 
 
 Man with Tray on his head, containing Vegetables 
 
 and Sundries. 
 
 Volunteer Hostler from Hotel, grinning, 
 And rendering no assistance. 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 249 
 
 As we passed along the High Street, comet-like, we 
 left a long tail of fragrance behind us which caused 
 the public to stop, sniffing in wonder. We had pre- 
 viously left at the corner of the inn-yard a wall-eyed 
 young man connected with the Fly department, and 
 well accustomed to the sound of a railway whistle 
 which Ben always carries in his pocket, whose instruc- 
 tions were, so soon as he should hear the whistle blown, 
 to dash into the kitchen, seize the hot plum-pudding 
 and mince-pies, and speed with them to Watts's 
 Charity, where they would be received (he was further 
 instructed) by the sauce-female, who would be pro- 
 vided with brandy in a blue state of combustion. 
 
 All these arrangements were executed in the most 
 exact and punctual manner. I never saw a finer 
 turkey, finer beef, or greater prodigality of sauce and 
 gravy ; and my Travellers olid wonderful justice to 
 everything set before them. It made my heart rejoice 
 to observe how their wind and frost hardened faces 
 softened in the clatter of plates and knives and forks, 
 and mellowed in the fire and supper heat. While 
 their hats and caps and wrappers, hanging up, a few 
 small bundles on the ground in a corner, and in another 
 corner three or four old walking-sticks, worn down at 
 the end to mere fringe, linked this snug interior with 
 the bleak outside in a golden chain. 
 
 When supper was done, and my brown beauty had 
 been elevated on the table, there was a general requisi- 
 tion to me to ' take the corner ' ; which suggested to 
 me comfortably enough how much my friends here 
 made of a fire, for when had / ever thought so highly 
 of the corner, since the days which I connected it 
 with Jack Homer ? However, as I declined, Ben, 
 whose touch on all convivial instruments is perfect, 
 drew the table apart, and instructing my Travellers to 
 open right and left on either side of me, and form 
 round the fire, closed up the centre with myself and 
 my chair, and preserved the order we had kept at 
 table. He had already, in a tranquil manner, boxed 
 the ears of the inattentive boys until they had been 
 
250 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 by imperceptible degrees boxed out of the room ; and 
 he now rapidly skirmished the sauce-female into the 
 High Street, disappeared, and softly closed the door. 
 
 This was the time for bringing the poker to bear on 
 the billet of wood. I tapped it three times, like an 
 enchanted talisman, and a brilliant host of merry- 
 makers burst out of it, and sported off by the chimney, 
 rushing up the middle in a fiery country dance, 
 and never coming down again. Meanwhile, by their 
 sparkling light, which threw our lamp into the shade, 
 I filled the glasses, and gave my Travellers, CHRISTMAS ! 
 CHRISTMAS EVE, my friends, when the shepherds, 
 who were Poor Travellers, too, in their way, heard the 
 Angels sing, ' On earth, peace. Good- will towards 
 men ! ' 
 
 I don't know who was the first among us to think 
 that we ought to take hands as we sat, in deference to 
 the toast, or whether any one of us anticipated the 
 others, but at any rate we all did it. We then drank 
 to the memory of the good Master Richard Watts. 
 And I wish his Ghost may never have had worse usage 
 under that roof than it had from us. 
 
 It was the witching time for Story-telling. ' Our 
 whole life, Travellers,' said I, ' is a story more or less 
 intelligible, generally less ; but we shall read it by 
 a clearer light when it is ended. I, for one, am so 
 divided this night between fact and fiction, that 
 I scarce know which is which. Shall I beguile the 
 time by telling you a story as we sit here ? ' 
 
 They all answered, yes. I had little to tell them, 
 but I was bound by my own proposal. Therefore, 
 after looking for awhile at the spiral column of smoke 
 wreathing up from my brown beauty, through which 
 I could have almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master 
 Richard Watts less startled than usual, I fired away. 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 251 
 CHAPTER IE 
 
 THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK 
 
 IN the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
 nine, a relative of mine came limping down, on foot, 
 to this town of Chatham. I call it this town, because 
 if anybody present knows to a nicety where Rochester 
 ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He 
 was a poor traveller, with not a farthing in his pocket. 
 He sat by the fire in this very room, and he slept one 
 night in a bed that will be occupied to-night by some 
 one here. 
 
 My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in 
 a cavalry regiment, if a cavalry regiment would have 
 him ; if not, to take King George's shilling from any 
 corporal or sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons 
 in his hat. His object was to get shot ; but he thought 
 he might as well ride to death as be at the trouble of 
 walking. 
 
 My relative's Christian name was Richard, but he 
 was better known as Dick. He dropped his own sur- 
 name on the road down, and took up that of Double- 
 dick. He was passed as Richard Doubledick; age, 
 twenty-two ; height, five foot ten ; native place, 
 Exmouth, which he had never been near in his life. 
 There was no cavalry in Chatham when he limped 
 over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty feet, 
 so he enlisted into a regiment of the line, and was glad 
 to get drunk and forget all about it. 
 
 You are to know that this relative of mine had gone 
 wrong, and run wild. His heart was in the right 
 place, but it was sealed up. He had been betrothed 
 to a good and beautiful girl, whom he had loved better 
 than she or perhaps even he believed ; but in an 
 evil hour he had given her cause to say to him solemnly, 
 ' Richard, I will never marry another man. I will live 
 single for your sake, but Mary Marshall's lips ' her 
 name was Mary Marshall ' never address another 
 word to you on earth. Go, Richard ! Heaven forgive 
 
252 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 you ! ' This finished him. This brought him down to 
 Chatham. This made him Private Richard Doubledick, 
 with a determination to be shot. 
 
 There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier 
 in Chatham barracks, in the year one thousand seven 
 hundred and ninety-nine, than Private Richard Double- 
 dick. He associated with the dregs of every regiment ; 
 he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was con- 
 stantly under punishment. It became clear to the 
 whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick 
 would very soon be flogged. 
 
 Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick' s company 
 was a young gentleman not above five years his senior, 
 whose eyes had an expression in them which affected 
 Private Richard Doubledick in a very remarkable way. 
 They were bright, handsome, dark eyes, what 'are 
 called laughing eyes generally, and, when serious, 
 rather steady than severe, but they were the only 
 eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private 
 Richard Doubledick could not stand. Unabashed by 
 evil report and punishment, defiant of everything else 
 and everybody else, he had but to know that those 
 eyes looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed. 
 He could not so much as salute Captain Taunton in 
 the street like any other officer. He was reproached 
 and confused, troubled by the mere possibility of the 
 captain's looking at him. In his worst moments, he 
 would rather turn back, and go any distance out of 
 his way, than encounter those two handsome, dark, 
 bright eyes. 
 
 One day, when Private Richard Doubledick came 
 out of the Black hole, where he had been passing the 
 last eight-and-forty hours, and in which retreat he 
 spent a good deal of his time, he was ordered to betake 
 himself to Captain Taunton' s quarters. In the stale 
 and squalid state of a man just out of the Black hole, 
 he had less fancy than ever for being seen by the 
 Captain ; but he was not so mad yet as to disobey 
 orders, and consequently went up to the terrace over- 
 looking the parade-ground, where the officers' quarters 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 253 
 
 were ; twisting and breaking in his hands, as he went 
 along, a bit of the straw that had formed the decorative 
 furniture of the Black hole. 
 
 ' Come in ! ' cried the Captain, when he knocked 
 with his knuckles at the door. Private Richard 
 Doubledick pulled off his cap, took a stride forward, 
 and felt very conscious that he stood in the light of 
 the dark, bright eyes. 
 
 There was a silent pause. Private Richard Double- 
 dick had put the straw in his mouth, and was gradually 
 doubling it up into his windpipe and choking himself. 
 
 ' Doubledick,' said the Captain, ' do you know where 
 you are going to ? ' 
 
 ' To the Devil, sir ? ' faltered Doubledick. 
 
 'Yes,' returned the Captain. ' And very fast.' 
 
 Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the 
 Black hole in his mouth, and made a miserable salute 
 of acquiescence. 
 
 ' Doubledick,' said the Captain, ' since I entered his 
 Majesty's service, a boy of seventeen, I have been 
 pained to see many men of promise going that road ; 
 but I have never been so pained to see a man deter- 
 mined to make the shameful journey as I have been, 
 ever since you joined the regiment, to see you.' 
 
 Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film 
 stealing over the floor at which he looked ; also to 
 find the legs of the Captain's breakfast- table turning 
 crooked, as if he saw them through water. 
 
 ' I am only a common soldier, sir,' said he. ' It 
 signifies very little what such a poor brute comes to.' 
 
 ' You are a man,' returned the Captain, with grave 
 indignation, ' of education and superior advantages ; 
 and if you say that, meaning what you say, you have 
 sunk lower than I had believed. How low that must 
 be, I leave you to consider, knowing what I know of 
 your disgrace, and seeing what I see.' 
 
 ' I hope to get shot soon, sir,' said Private Richard 
 Doubledick ; ' and then the regiment and the world 
 together will be rid of me.' 
 
 The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. 
 
254 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Doubledick, looking up to steady his vision, met the 
 eyes that had so strong an influence over him. He put 
 his hand before his own eyes, and the breast of his 
 disgrace- jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder. 
 
 ' I would rather,' said the young Captain, ' see this 
 in you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand 
 guineas counted out upon this table for a gift to my 
 good mother. Have you a mother ? ' 
 
 * I am thankful to say she is dead, sir.' 
 
 ' If your praises,' returned the Captain, ' were 
 sounded from mouth to mouth through the whole 
 regiment, through the whole army, through the whole 
 country, you would wish she had lived to say, with 
 pride and joy, "He is my son ! " ' 
 
 ' Spare me, sir,' said Doubledick. ' She would never 
 have heard any good of me. She would never have 
 had any pride and joy in owning herself my mother. 
 Love and compassion she might have had, and would 
 have always had, I know; but not Spare me, sir! 
 I am a broken wretch, quite at your mercy ! ' And 
 he turned his face to the wall, and stretched out his 
 imploring hand. 
 
 ' My friend ' began the Captain. 
 
 ' God bless you, sir ! ' sobbed Private Richard 
 Doubledick. 
 
 ' You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course 
 unchanged a little longer, and you know what must 
 happen. / know even better than you can imagine, 
 that, after that has happened, you are lost. No man 
 who could shed those tears could bear those marks.' 
 
 * I fully believe it, sir,' in a low, shivering voice said 
 Private Richard Doubledick. 
 
 ' But a man in any station can do his duty,' said 
 the young Captain, ' and, hi doing it, can earn his own 
 respect, even if his case should be so very unfortunate 
 and so very rare that he can earn no other man's. 
 A common soldier, poor brute though you called him 
 just now, has this advantage in the stormy times we 
 live in, that he always does his duty before a host of 
 sympathizing witnesses. Do you doubt that he may 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 255 
 
 so do it as to be extolled through a whole regiment, 
 through a whole army, through a whole country ? 
 Turn while you may yet retrieve the past, and try.' 
 
 ' I will ! I ask for only one witness, sir,' cried 
 Richard, with a bursting heart. 
 
 ' I understand you. I will be a watchful and a faith- 
 ful one.' 
 
 I have heard from Private Richard Doubledick's 
 own lips, that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed 
 that officer's hand, arose, and went out of the light of 
 the dark, bright eyes, an altered man. 
 
 In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
 nine, the French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany, 
 where not ? Napoleon Bonaparte had likewise begun 
 to stir against us in India, and most men could read 
 the signs of the great troubles that were coming on. 
 In the very next year, when we formed an alliance with 
 Austria against him, Captain Taunton's regiment was 
 on service in India. And there was not a finer non- 
 commissioned officer in it, no, nor in the whole line 
 than Corporal Richard Doubleclick. 
 
 In eighteen hundred and one, the Indian army were 
 on the coast of Egypt. Next year was the year of the 
 proclamation of the short peace, and they were recalled. 
 It had then become well known to thousands of men, 
 that wherever Captain Taunton, with the dark, bright 
 eyes, led, there, close to him, ever at his side, firm as 
 a rock, true as the sun, and brave as Mars, would be 
 certain to be found, while life beat in their hearts, that 
 famous soldier, Sergeant Richard Doubledick. 
 
 Eighteen hundred and five, besides being the great 
 year of Trafalgar, was a year of hard fighting in India. 
 That year saw such wonders done by a Sergeant-Major, 
 who cut his way single-handed through a solid mass 
 of men, recovered the colours of his regiment, which 
 had been seized from the hand of a poor boy shot 
 through the heart, and rescued his wounded Captain, 
 who was down, and in a very jungle of horses' hoofs 
 and sabres, saw such wonders done, I say, by this 
 brave Sergeant-Ma j or, that he was specially made the 
 
256 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 bearer of the colours he had won ; and Ensign Richard 
 Doubledick had risen from the ranks. 
 
 Sorely cut up in every battle, but always reinforced 
 by the bravest of men, for the fame of following the 
 old colours, shot through and through, which Ensign 
 Richard Doubledick had saved, inspired all breasts, 
 this regiment fought its way through the Peninsular 
 War, up to the investment of Badajos in eighteen 
 hundred and twelve. Again and again it had been 
 cheered through the British ranks until the tears had 
 sprung into men's eyes at the mere hearing of the 
 mighty British voice, so exultant in their valour ; and 
 there was not a drummer-boy but knew the legend, 
 that wherever the two friends, Major Taunton, with 
 the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Doubledick, 
 who was devoted to him, were seen to go, there the 
 boldest spirits in the English army became wild to 
 follow. 
 
 One day, at Badajos, not in the great storming, 
 but in repelling a hot sally of the besieged upon our 
 men at work in the trenches, who had given way, 
 the two officers found themselves hurrying forward, 
 face to face, against a party of French infantry, who 
 made a stand. There was an officer at their head, 
 encouraging his men, a courageous, handsome, gallant 
 officer of five-and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hur- 
 riedly, almost momentarily, but saw well. He par- 
 ticularly noticed this officer waving his sword, and 
 rallying his men with an eager and excited cry, when 
 they fired in obedience to his gesture, and Major 
 Taunton dropped. 
 
 It was over in ten minutes more, and Doubledick 
 returned to the spot where he had laid the best friend 
 man ever had on a coat spread upon the wet clay. 
 Major Taun ton's uniform was opened at the breast, 
 and on his shirt were three little spots of blood. 
 
 * Dear Doubledick,' said he, ' I am dying.' 
 
 ' For the love of Heaven, no ! ' exclaimed the other, 
 kneeling down beside him, and passing his arm round 
 his neck to raise his head. ' Taunton ! My preserver, 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 257 
 
 my guardian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, 
 kindest of human beings ! Taunton ! For God's 
 sake ! ' 
 
 The bright, dark eyes so very, very dark now, in 
 the pale face smiled upon him ; and the hand he 
 had kissed thirteen years ago laid itself fondly on his 
 breast. 
 
 ' Write to my mother. You will see Home again. 
 Tell her how we became friends. It will comfort her, 
 as it comforts me.' 
 
 He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment 
 towards his hair as it fluttered in the wind. The 
 Ensign understood him. He smiled again when he 
 saw that, and, gently turning his face over on the 
 supporting arm as if for rest, died, with his hand upon 
 the breast in which he had revived a soul. 
 
 No dry eye looked on Ensign Richard Doubledick 
 that melancholy day. He buried his friend on the 
 field, and became a lone, bereaved man. Beyond his 
 duty he appeared to have but two remaining cares in 
 life, one, to preserve the little packet of hair he was 
 to give to Taunton' s mother ; the other, to encounter 
 that French officer who had rallied the men under 
 whose fire Taunton fell. A new legend now began to 
 circulate among our troops ; and it was, that when he 
 and the French officer came face to face once more, 
 there would be weeping in France. 
 
 The war went on and through it went the exact 
 picture of the French officer on the one side, and the 
 bodily reality upon the other until the Battle of 
 Toulouse was fought. In the returns sent home 
 appeared these words : ' Severely wounded, but not 
 dangerously, Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.' 
 
 At Midsummer-time, in the year eighteen hundred 
 and fourteen, Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, now 
 a browned soldier, seven-and-thirty years of age, came 
 home to England invalided. He brought the hair with 
 him, near his heart. Many a French officer had he seen 
 since that day ; many a dreadful night, in searching 
 with men and lantems for his wounded, had he relieved 
 
 193 K 
 
258 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 French officers lying disabled ; but the mental picture 
 and the reality had never come together. 
 
 Though he was weak and suffered pain, he lost not 
 an hour in getting down to Frome in Somersetshire, 
 where Taunton's mother lived. In the sweet, com- 
 passionate words that naturally present themselves 
 to the mind to-night, 'he was the only son of his 
 mother, and she was a widow.' 
 
 It was a Sunday evening, and the lady sat at her 
 quiet garden -window, reading the Bible ; reading to 
 herself, in a trembling voice, that very passage in it, as 
 I have heard him tell. He heard the words : ' Young 
 man, I say unto thee, arise ! ' 
 
 * He had to pass the window ; and the bright, dark 
 eyes of his debased time seemed to look at him. Her 
 heart told her who he was ; she came to the door 
 quickly, and fell upon his neck. 
 
 ' He saved me from ruin, made me a human creature, 
 won me from infamy and shame. 0, God for ever bless 
 him ! As He will, He will ! ' 
 
 ' He will ! ' the lady answered. ' I know he is in 
 Heaven ! ' Then she piteously cried, ' But 0, my 
 darling boy, my darling boy ! ' " 
 
 Never from the hour when Private Richard Double - 
 dick enlisted at Chatham had the Private, Corporal, 
 Sergeant, Sergeant-Major, Ensign, or Lieutenant 
 breathed his right name, or the name of Mary Marshall, 
 or a word of the story of his life, into any ear except 
 his reclaimer's. That previous scene in his existence 
 was closed. He had firmly resolved that his expiation 
 should be to live unknown ; to disturb no more the 
 peace that had long grown over his old offences ; to 
 let it be revealed, when he was dead, that he had 
 striven and suffered, and had never forgotten ; and 
 then, if they could forgive him and believe him well, 
 it would be time enough time enough ! 
 
 But that night, remembering the words he had 
 cherished for two years, ' Tell her how we became 
 friends. It will comfort her, as it comforts me,' he 
 related everything. It gradually seemed to him as if 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 259 
 
 in his maturity he had recovered a'mother ; it gradually 
 seemed to her as if in her bereavement she had found 
 a son. During his stay in England, the quiet garden 
 into which he had slowly and painf ully crept, a stranger, 
 became the boundary of his home ; when he was able 
 to rejoin his regiment in the spring, he left the garden, 
 thinking was this indeed the first time he had ever 
 turned his face towards the old colours with a woman's 
 blessing ! 
 
 He followed them so ragged, so scarred and pierced 
 now, that they would scarcely hold together to Quatre 
 Bras and Ligny. He stood beside them, in an awful 
 stillness of many men, shadowy through the mist and 
 drizzle of a wet June forenoon, on the field of Waterloo. 
 And down to that hour the picture in his mind of the 
 French officer had never been compared with the reality. 
 
 The famous regiment was in action early in the 
 battle, and received its first check in many an eventful 
 year, when he was seen to fall. But it swept on to 
 avenge him, and left behind it no such creature in 
 the world of consciousness as Lieutenant Richard 
 Doubledick. 
 
 Through pits of mire, and pools of rain ; along deep 
 ditches, once roads, that were pounded and ploughed 
 to pieces by artillery, heavy wagons, tramp of men 
 and horses, and the struggle of every wheeled thing 
 that could carry wounded soldiers ; jolted among the 
 dying and the dead, so disfigured by blood and mud 
 as to be hardly recognizable for humanity ; undisturbed 
 by the moaning of men and the shrieking of horses, 
 which, newly taken from the peaceful pursuits of life, 
 could not endure the sight of the stragglers lying by 
 the wayside, never to resume their toilsome journey ; 
 dead, as to any sentient life that was in it, and yet 
 alive, the form that had been Lieutenant Richard 
 Doubledick, with whose praises England rang, was 
 conveyed to Brussels. There it was tenderly laid down 
 in hospital ; and there it lay, week after week, through 
 the long bright summer days, until the harvest, spared 
 by war, had ripened and was gathered in. 
 
260 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Over and over again the sun rose and set upon the 
 crowded city ; over and over again the moonlight 
 nights were quiet on the plains of Waterloo : and all 
 that time was a blank to what had been Lieutenant 
 Richard Doubledick. Rejoicing troops marched into 
 Brussels, and marched out ; brothers and fathers, 
 sisters, mothers, and wives, came thronging thither, 
 drew their lots of joy or agony, and departed ; so many 
 times a day the bells rang ; so many times the shadows 
 of the great buildings changed ; so many lights sprang 
 up at dusk ; so many feet passed here and there upon 
 the pavements ; so many hours of sleep and cooler 
 air of night succeeded : indifferent to all, a marble 
 face lay on a bed, like the face of a recumbent statue 
 on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard Doubledick. 
 
 Slowly labouring, at last, through a long heavy 
 dream of confused time and place, presenting faint 
 glimpses of army surgeons whom he knew, and of faces 
 that had been familiar to his youth, dearest and 
 kindest among them, Mary Marshall's, with a solicitude 
 upon it more like reality than anything he could discern, 
 Lieutenant Richard Doubledick came back to life. 
 To the beautiful life of a calm autumn evening sunset, 
 to the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with a large 
 window standing open ; a balcony beyond, in which 
 were moving leaves and sweet-smelling flowers ; be- 
 yond, again, the clear sky, with the sun full in his 
 sight, pouring its golden radiance on his bed. 
 
 It was so tranquil and so lovely that he thought he 
 had passed into another world. And he said in a faint 
 voice, ' Taunton, are you near me ? * 
 
 A face bent over him. Not his, his mother's. 
 M came to nurse you. We have nursed you many 
 weeks. You were moved here long ago. Do you 
 remember nothing ? ' 
 ' Nothing.' 
 
 The lady kissed his cheek, and held his hand, soothing 
 him. 
 
 * Where is the regiment ? What has happened ? 
 Let me call you mother. What has happened, mother? ' 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 261 
 
 ' A great victory, dear. The war is over, and the 
 regiment was the bravest in the field.' 
 
 His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he sobbed, and 
 the tears ran down his face. He was very weak, too 
 weak to move his hand. 
 
 ' Was it dark just now ? ' he asked presently. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' It was only dark to me ? Something passed away, 
 like a black shadow. But as it went, and the sun 
 the blessed sun, how beautiful it is ! touched my 
 face, I thought I saw a light white cloud pass out at 
 the door. Was there nothing that went out ? ' 
 
 She shook her head, and in a little while he fell 
 asleep, she still holding his hand, and soothing him. 
 
 From that time, he recovered. Slowly, for he had 
 been, desperately wounded in the head, and had been 
 shot in the body, but making some little advance 
 every day. When he had gained sufficient strength to 
 converse as he lay in bed, he soon began to remark 
 that Mrs. Taunton always brought him back to his 
 own history. Then he recalled his preserver's dying 
 words, and thought, ' It comforts her.' 
 
 One day he awoke out of a sleep, refreshed, and 
 asked her to read to him. But the curtain of the bed, 
 softening the light, which she always drew back when 
 he awoke, that she might see him from her table at 
 the bedside where she sat at work, was held undrawn ; 
 and a woman's voice spoke, which was not hers. 
 
 ' Can you bear to see a stranger ? ' it said softly. 
 ' Will you like to see a stranger ? ' 
 
 ' Stranger ! ' he repeated. The voice awoke old 
 memories, before the days of Private RichardDoubledick. 
 
 ' A stranger now, but not a stranger once,' it said 
 in tones that thrilled him. ' Richard, dear Richard, 
 lost through so many years, my name ' 
 
 He cried out her name, * Mary,' and she held him 
 in her arms, and his head lay on her bosom. 
 
 ' I am not breaking a rash vow, Richard. These 
 are not Mary Marshall's lips that speak. I have 
 another name.' 
 
262 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 She was married. 
 
 ' I have another name, Richard. Did you ever 
 hear it ? ' 
 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 He looked into her face, so pensively beautiful, and 
 wondered at the smile upon it through her tears. 
 
 ' Think again, Richard. Are you sure you never 
 heard my altered name ? ' 
 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 ' Don't move your head to look at me, dear Richard. 
 Let it lie here, while I tell my story. I loved a generous, 
 noble man ; loved him with my whole heart ; loved 
 him for years and years ; loved him faithfully, de- 
 votedly ; loved him with no hope of return ; loved 
 him, knowing nothing of his highest qualities not 
 even knowing that he was alive. He was a brave 
 soldier. He was honoured and beloved by thousands 
 of thousands, when the mother of his dear friend 
 found me, and showed me that in all his triumphs he 
 had never forgotten me. He was wounded in a great 
 battle. He was brought, dying, here, into Brussels. 
 I came to watch and tend him, as I would have joy- 
 fully gone, with such a purpose, to the dreariest ends 
 of the earth. When he knew no one else, he knew me. 
 When he suffered most, he bore his sufferings barely 
 murmuring, content to rest his head where yours rests 
 now. When he lay at the point of death, he married 
 me, that he might call me Wife before he died. And 
 the name, my dear love, that I took on that forgotten 
 night ' 
 
 ' I know it now ! ' he sobbed. ' The shadowy 
 remembrance strengthens. It is come back. I thank 
 Heaven that my mind is quite restored ! My Mary, 
 kiss me ; lull this weary head to rest, or I shall die of 
 gratitude. His parting words were fulfilled. I see 
 Home again ! ' 
 
 Well ! They were happy. It was a long recovery, 
 but they were happy through it all. The snow had 
 melted on the ground, and the birds were singing in 
 the leafless thickets of the early spring, when those 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 263 
 
 three were first able to ride out together, and when 
 people flocked about the open carriage to cheer and 
 congratulate Captain Richard Doubledick. 
 
 But even then it became necessary for the Captain, 
 instead of returning to England, to complete his 
 recovery in the climate of Southern France. They 
 found a spot upon the Rhone, within a ride of the old 
 town of Avignon, and within view of its broken bridge, 
 which was all they could desire ; they lived there, 
 together, six months ; then returned to England. 
 Mrs. Taunton, growing old after three years though 
 not so old as that her bright, dark eyes were dimmed 
 and remembering that her strength had been benefited 
 by the change, resolved to go back for a year to those 
 parts. So she went with a faithful servant, who had 
 often carried her son in his arms ; and she was to be 
 rejoined and escorted home, at the year's end, by 
 Captain Richard Doubleclick. 
 
 She wrote regularly to her children (as she called 
 them now), and they to her. She went to the neigh- 
 bourhood of Aix ; and there, in their own chateau 
 near the farmer's house she rented, she grew into 
 intimacy with a family belonging to that part of 
 France. The intimacy began in her often meeting 
 among the vineyards a pretty child, a girl with a most 
 compassionate heart, who was never tired of listening 
 to the solitary English lady's stories of her poor son 
 and the cruel wars. The family were as gentle as the 
 child, and at length she came to know them so well 
 that she accepted their invitation to pass the last 
 month of her residence abroad under their roof. All 
 this intelligence she wrote home, piecemeal as it came 
 about, from time to time ; and at last enclosed a polite 
 note, from the head of the chateau, soliciting, on the 
 occasion of his approaching mission to that neighbour- 
 hood, the honour of the company of cet homme si 
 justement celebre, Monsieur le Capitaine Richard 
 Doubledick. 
 
 Captain Doubledick, now a hardy, handsome man in 
 the full vigour of life, broader across the chest and 
 
264 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 shoulders than he had ever been before, dispatched 
 a courteous reply, and followed it in person. Travelling 
 through all that extent of country after three years 
 of Peace, he blessed the better days on which the 
 world had fallen. The corn was golden, not drenched 
 in unnatural red ; was bound in sheaves for food, not 
 trodden underfoot by men in mortal fight. The smoke 
 rose up from peaceful hearths, not blazing ruins. 
 The carts were laden with the fair fruits of the earth, 
 not with wounds and death. To him who had so often 
 seen the terrible reverse, these things were beautiful 
 indeed ; and they brought him in a softened spirit 
 to the old chateau near Aix upon a deep blue evening. 
 
 It was a large chateau of the genuine old ghostly 
 kind, with round towers, and extinguishers, and a high 
 leaden roof, and more windows than Aladdin's Palace. 
 The lattice blinds were all thrown open after the heat 
 of the day, and there were glimpses of rambling walls 
 and corridors within. Then there were immense out- 
 buildings fallen into partial decay, masses of dark trees, 
 terrace -gar dens, balustrades ; tanks of water, too 
 weak to play and too dirty to work ; statues, weeds, 
 and thickets of iron railing that seemed to have over- 
 grown themselves like the shrubberies, and to have 
 branched out in all manner of wild shapes. The 
 entrance doors stood open, as doors often do in that 
 country when the heat of the day is past ; and the 
 Captain saw no bell or knocker, and walked in. 
 
 He walked into a lofty stone hall, refreshingly cool 
 and gloomy after the glare of a Southern day's travel. 
 Extending along the four sides of this hall was a gallery, 
 leading to suites of rooms ; and it was lighted from 
 the top. Still no bell was to be seen. 
 
 ' Faith,' said the Captain halting, ashamed of the 
 clanking of his boots, ' this is a ghostly beginning ! ' 
 
 He started back, and felt his face turn white. In 
 the gallery, looking down at him, stood the French 
 officer the officer whose picture he had carried in his 
 mind so long and so far. Compared with the original, 
 at last in every lineament how like it was ! 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 265 
 
 He moved, and disappeared, and Captain Richard 
 Doubleclick heard his steps coming quickly down into 
 the hall. He entered through an archway. There was 
 a bright, sudden look upon his face, much such a look 
 as it had worn in that fatal moment. 
 
 Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doublediek ? En- 
 chanted to receive him ! A thousand apologies ! The 
 servants were all out in the air. There was a little fete 
 among them in the garden. In effect, it was the 
 fete day of my daughter, the little cherished and 
 protected of Madame Taunton. 
 
 He was so gracious and so frank that Monsieur le 
 Capitaine Richard Doubledick could not withhold his 
 hand. ' It is the hand of a brave Englishman,' said 
 the French officer, retaining it while he spoke. 'I 
 could respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe, 
 how much more as my friend ! I also am a soldier.' 
 
 1 He has not remembered me, as I have remembered 
 him ; he did not take such note of my face, that day, 
 as I took of his,' thought Captain Richard Doubledick. 
 ' How shall I teU him ? ' 
 
 The French officer conducted his guest into a garden 
 and presented him to his wife, an engaging and beautiful 
 woman, sitting with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old- 
 fashioned pavilion. His daughter, her fair young face 
 beaming with joy, came running to embrace him ; 
 and there was a boy-baby to tumble down among the 
 orange-trees on the broad steps, in making for his 
 father's legs. A multitude of children visitors were 
 dancing to sprightly music ; and all the servants and 
 peasants about the "chateau were dancing too. It was 
 a scene of innocent happiness that might have been 
 invented for the climax of the scenes of peace which 
 had soothed the Captain's journey. 
 
 He looked on, greatly troubled in his mind, until 
 a resounding bell rang, and the French officer begged 
 to show him his rooms. They went upstairs into the 
 gallery from which the officer had looked down ; and 
 Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick was cordially 
 welcomed to a grand outer chamber, and a smaller one 
 
 K3 
 
266 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 within, all clocks and draperies, and hearths, and 
 brazen dogs, and tiles, and cool devices, and elegance, 
 and vastness. 
 
 ' You were at Waterloo,' said the French officer. 
 
 ' I was,' said Captain Richard Doubledick. ' And at 
 Badajos.' 
 
 Left alone with the sound of his own stern voice in 
 his ears, he sat down to consider, What shall I do, and 
 how shall I tell him ? At that time, unhappily, many 
 deplorable duels had been fought between English and 
 French officers, arising out of the recent war ; and 
 these duels, and how to avoid this officer's hospitality, 
 were the uppermost thought in Captain Richard 
 Doubledick' s mind. 
 
 He was thinking, and letting the time run out in 
 which he should have dressed for dinner, when Mrs. 
 Taunton spoke to him outside the door, asking if he 
 could give her the letter he had brought from Mary. 
 ' His mother, above all,' the Captain thought. ' How 
 shall I tell her ? ' 
 
 ' You will form a friendship with your host, I hope,' 
 said Mrs. Taunton, whom he hurriedly admitted, ' that 
 will last for life. He is so true-hearted and so generous, 
 Richard, that you can hardly fail to esteem one another. 
 If He had been spared,' she kissed (not without tears) 
 the locket in which she wore his hair, ' he would have 
 appreciated him with his own magnanimity, and 
 would have been truly happy that the evil days were 
 past which made such a man his enemy.' 
 
 She left the room ; and the Captain walked, first to 
 one window, whence he could see the dancing in the 
 garden, then to another window, whence he could see 
 the smiling prospect and the peaceful vineyards. 
 
 ' Spirit of my departed friend,' said he, ' is it through 
 thee these better thoughts are rising in my mind ? 
 Is it thou who hast shown me, all the way I have been 
 drawn to meet this man, the blessings of the altered 
 time ? Is it thou who hast sent thy stricken mother 
 to me, to stay my angry hand ? Is it from thee the 
 whisper comes, that this man did his duty as thou didst, 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 267 
 
 and as I did, through thy guidance, which has 
 wholly saved me here on earth, and that he did no 
 more ? ' 
 
 He sat down, with his head buried in his hands, and, 
 when he rose up, made the second strong resolution 
 of his life, that neither to the French officer, nor to 
 the mother of his departed friend, nor to any soul, 
 while either of the two was living, would he breathe 
 what only he knew. And when he touched that French 
 officer's glass with his own, that day at dinner, he 
 secretly forgave him in the name of the Divine Forgiver 
 of injuries. 
 
 Here I ended my story as the first Poor Traveller. 
 But, if I had told it now, I could have added that the 
 time has since come when the son of Major Richard 
 Doubledick, and the son of that French officer, friends 
 as their fathers were before them, fought side by side 
 in one cause, with their respective nations, like long- 
 divided brothers whom the better times have brought 
 together, fast united. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE ROAD 
 
 MY story being finished, and the Wassail too, we 
 broke up as the Cathedral bell struck Twelve. I did 
 not take leave of my Travellers that night ; for it had 
 come into my head to reappear, in conjunction with 
 some hot coffee, at seven in the morning. 
 
 As I passed along the High Street, I heard the 
 Waits at a distance, and struck off to find them. 
 They were playing near one of the old gates of the 
 City, at the corner of a wonderfully quaint row of red- 
 brick tenements, which the clarionet obligingly in- 
 formed me were inhabited by the Minor-Canons. They 
 had odd little porches over the doors, like sounding- 
 boards over old pulpits ; and I thought I should like 
 
268 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 to see one of the Minor-Canons come out upon his top 
 step, and favour us with a little Christmas discourse 
 about the poor scholars of Rochester ; taking for his 
 text the words of his Master relative to the devouring 
 of Widows' houses. 
 
 The clarionet was so communicative, and my inclina- 
 tions were (as they generally are) of so vagabond 
 a tendency, that I accompanied the Waits across an 
 open green called the Vines, and assisted in the 
 French sense at the performance of two waltzes, two 
 polkas, and three Irish melodies, before I thought of 
 my inn any more. However, I returned to it then, 
 and found a fiddle in the kitchen, and Ben, the wall- 
 eyed young man, and two chambermaids, circling 
 round the great deal table with the utmost animation. 
 
 I had a very bad night. It cannot have been owing 
 to the turkey or the beef, and the Wassail is out of 
 the question, but in every endeavour that I made 
 to get to sleep I failed most dismally. I was never 
 asleep ; and in whatsoever unreasonable direction my 
 mind rambled, the effigy of Master Richard Watts 
 perpetually embarrassed it. 
 
 In a word, I only got out of the Worshipful Master 
 Richard Watts' s way by getting out of bed in the 
 dark at six o'clock, "and tumbling, as my custom is, 
 into all the cold water that could be accumulated for 
 the purpose. The outer air was dull and cold enough 
 in the street, when I came down there ; and the one 
 candle in our supper-room at Watts' s Charity looked as 
 pale in the burning as if it had had a bad night too. 
 But my Travellers had all slept soundly, and they took 
 to the hot coffee, and the piles of bread-and-butter, 
 which Ben had arranged like deals in a timber-yard, as 
 kindly as I could desire. 
 
 While it was yet scarcely daylight, we all came out 
 into the street together, and there shook hands. The 
 widow took the little sailor towards Chatham, where 
 he was to find a steamboat for Sheerness ; the lawyer, 
 with an extremely knowing look, went his own way, 
 without committing himself by announcing his hi ten- 
 
THE SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS 269 
 
 tions ; two more struck off by the cathedral and old 
 castle for Maidstone ; and the book- pedlar accompanied 
 me over the bridge. As for me, I was going to walk 
 by Cobham Woods, as far upon my way to London as 
 I fancied. 
 
 When I came to the stile and footpath by which 
 I was to diverge from the main road, I bade farewell 
 to my last remaining Poor Traveller, and pursued my 
 way alone. And now the mists began to rise in the 
 most beautiful manner, and the sun to shine ; and as 
 I went on through the bracing air, seeing the hoar- 
 frost sparkle everywhere, I felt as if all Nature shared 
 in the joy of the great Birthday. 
 
 Going through the woods, the softness of my tread 
 upon the mossy ground and among the brown leaves 
 enhanced the Christmas sacredness by which I felt 
 surrounded. As the whitened stems environed me, 
 I thought how the Founder of the time had never 
 raised his benignant hand, save to bless and heal, 
 except in the case of one unconscious tree. By Cobham 
 Hall, I came to the village, and the churchyard where 
 the dead had been quietly buried, 'in the sure and 
 certain hope ' which Christmas-time inspired. What 
 children could I see at play, and not be loving of, 
 recalling who had loved them ! No garden that 
 I passed was out of unison with the day, for I remem- 
 bered that the tomb was in a garden, and that ' she, 
 supposing him to be the gardener,' had said, ' Sir, if 
 thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast 
 laid him, and I will take him away.' In time, the 
 distant river with the ships came full in view, and with 
 it pictures of the poor fishermen, mending their nets, 
 who arose and followed him, of the teaching of the 
 people from a ship pushed off a little way from shore, 
 by reason of the multitude, of a majestic figure, 
 walking on the water, in the loneliness of night. My 
 very shadow on the ground was eloquent of Christmas ; 
 for did not the people lay their sick where the mere 
 shadows of the men who had heard and seen him might 
 fall as they passed along ? 
 
270 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Thus Christmas begirt me, far and near, until I had 
 come to Blackheath, and had walked down the long 
 vista of gnarled old trees in Greenwich Park, and was 
 being steam-rattled through the mists now closing in 
 once more, towards the lights of London. Brightly 
 they shone, but not so brightly as my own fire, and 
 the brighter faces around it, when we came together 
 to celebrate the day. And there I told of worthy 
 Master Richard Watts, and of my supper with the 
 Six Poor Travellers who were neither Rogues nor 
 Proctors, and from that hour to this I have never seen 
 one of them again. 
 
ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 1815-1882 
 MALACHI'S COVE 
 
 ON the northern coast of Cornwall, between Tintagel 
 and Bossiney, down on the very margin of the sea, 
 there lived not long since an old man who got his 
 living by saving sea-weed from the waves, and selling 
 it for manure. The cliffs there are bold and fine, and 
 the sea beats in upon them from the north with a grand 
 violence. I doubt whether it be not the finest morsel 
 of cliff scenery in England, though it is beaten by many 
 portions of the west coast of Ireland, and perhaps also 
 by spots in Wales and Scotland. Cliffs should be nearly 
 precipitous, they should be broken in their outlines, 
 and should barely admit here and there of an insecure 
 passage from their summit to the sand at their feet. 
 The sea should come, if not up to them, at least very 
 near to them, and then, above all things, the water 
 below them should be blue, and not of that dead 
 leaden colour which is so familiar to us in England. 
 At Tintagel all these requisites are there, except that 
 bright blue colour which is so lovely. But the cliffs 
 themselves are bold and well broken, and the margin 
 of sand at high water is very narrow, so narrow that 
 at spring-tides there is barely a footing there. 
 
 Close upon this margin was the cottage or hovel of 
 Malachi Trenglos, the old man of whom I have spoken. 
 But Malachi, or old Glos, as he was commonly called 
 by the people around him, had not built his house 
 absolutely upon the sand. There was a fissure in the 
 rock so great that at the top it formed a narrow ravine, 
 and so complete from the summit to the base that it 
 afforded an opening for a steep and rugged track from 
 
272 ANTHONY TROLLOPS 
 
 the top of the rock to the bottom. This fissure was so 
 wide at the bottom that it had afforded space for 
 Trenglos to fix his habitation on a foundation of rock, 
 and here he had lived for many years. It was told of 
 him that in the early days of his trade he had always 
 carried the weed in a basket on his back to the top, 
 but latterly he had been possessed of a donkey which 
 had been trained to go up and down the steep track 
 with a single pannier over his loins, for the rocks would 
 not admit of panniers hanging by his side ; and for 
 this assistant he had built a shed adjoining his own, 
 and almost as large as that in which he himself resided. 
 
 But, as years went on, old Glos procured other 
 assistance than that of the donkey, or, as I should 
 rather say, Providence supplied him with other help ; 
 and, indeed, had it not been so, the old man must have 
 given up his cabin and his independence and gone into 
 the workhouse at Camelford. For rheumatism had 
 afflicted him, old age had bowed him till he was nearly 
 double, and by degrees he became unable to attend 
 the donkey on its upward passage to the world above, 
 or even to assist in rescuing the coveted weed from the 
 waves. 
 
 At the time to which our story refers Trenglos had 
 not been up the cliff for twelve months, and for the 
 last six months he had done nothing towards the 
 furtherance of his trade, except to take the money 
 and keep it, if any of it was kept, and occasionally to 
 shake down a bundle of fodder for the donkey. The 
 real work of the business was done altogether by 
 Mahala Trenglos, his granddaughter. 
 
 Mally Trenglos was known to all the farmers round 
 the coast, and to all the small tradespeople in Camel- 
 ford. She was a wild-looking, almost unearthly 
 creature, with wild-flowing, black, uncombed hair, 
 small in stature, with small hands and bright black 
 eyes ; but people said that she was very strong, and 
 the children around declared that she worked day and 
 night, and knew nothing of fatigue. As to her age 
 there were many doubts. Some said she was ten, and 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 273 
 
 others five-and-twenty, but the reader may be allowed 
 to know that at this time she had in truth passed 
 her twentieth birthday. The old people spoke well of 
 Mally, because she was so good to her grandfather; 
 and it was said of her that though she carried to him 
 a little gin and tobacco almost daily, she bought 
 nothing for herself ; and as to the gin, no one who 
 looked at her would accuse her of meddling with that. 
 But she had no friends, and but few acquaintances 
 among people of her own age. They said that she was 
 fierce and ill-natured, that she had not a good word 
 for any one, and that she was, complete at all points, 
 a thorough little vixen. The young men did not care 
 for her ; for, as regarded dress, all days were alike 
 with her. She never made herself smart on Sundays. 
 She was generally without stockings, and seemed to 
 care not at all to exercise any of those feminine attrac- 
 tions which might have been hers had she studied to 
 attain them. All days were the same to her in regard 
 to dress ; and, indeed, till lately, all days had, I fear, 
 been the same to her in other respects. Old Malachi 
 had never been seen inside a place of worship since he 
 had taken to live under the cliff. 
 
 But within the last two years Mally had submitted 
 herself to the teaching of the clergyman at Tintagel, 
 and had appeared at church on Sundays, if not abso- 
 lutely with punctuality, at any rate so often that no 
 one who knew the peculiarity of her residence was 
 disposed to quarrel with her on that subject. But she 
 made no difference in her dress on these occasions. 
 She took her place on a low stone seat just inside the 
 church door, clothed as usual in her thick red serge 
 petticoat and loose brown serge jacket, such being the 
 apparel which she had found to be best adapted for 
 her hard and perilous work among the waters. She 
 had pleaded to the clergyman when he attacked her 
 on the subject of church attendance with vigour that 
 she had got no church-going clothes. He had ex- 
 plained to her that she would be received there without 
 distinction to her clothing. Mally had taken him at 
 
274 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 his word, and had gone, with a courage which certainly 
 deserved admiration, though I doubt whether there 
 was not mingled with it an obstinacy which was less 
 admirable. 
 
 For people said that old Glos was rich, and that 
 Mally might have proper clothes if she chose to buy 
 them. Mr. Polwarth, the clergyman, who, as the old 
 man could not come to him, went down the rocks to 
 the old man 5< jdi4 make some hint on the matter in 
 Mally' s absence. But old Glos, who had been patient 
 with him on other matters, turned upon him so angrily 
 when he made an allusion to money, that Mr. Polwarth 
 found himself obliged to give that matter up, and 
 Mally continued to sit upon the stone bench in her 
 short serge petticoat, with her long hair streaming 
 down her face. She did so far sacrifice to decency as 
 on such occasions to tie up her back hair with an old 
 shoe-string. So tied it would remain through the 
 Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday afternoon 
 Mally' s hair had generally managed to escape. 
 
 As to Mally' s indefatigable industry there could be 
 no manner of doubt, for the quantity of seaweed which 
 she and the donkey amassed between them was very 
 surprising. Old Glos, it was declared, had never 
 collected half what Mally gathered together ; but then 
 the article was becoming cheaper, and it was necessary 
 that the exertion should be greater. So Mally and the 
 donkey toiled -and toiled, and the seaweed came up in 
 heaps which surprised those who looked at her little 
 hands and light form. Was there not some one who 
 helped her at nights, some fairy, or demon, or the like ? 
 Mally was so snappish in her answers to people that 
 she had no right to be surprised if ill-natured things 
 were said of her. 
 
 No one ever heard Mally Trenglos complain of her 
 work, but about this time she was heard to make great 
 and loud complaints of the treatment she received from 
 some of her neighbours. It was known that she went 
 with her plaints to Mr. Polwarth ; and when he could 
 not help her, or did not give her such instant help as 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 275 
 
 she needed, she went ah, so foolishly ! to the office 
 of a certain attorney at Camelford, who was not likely 
 to prove himself a better friend than Mr. Polwarth. 
 
 Now the nature of her injury was as follows. The 
 place in which she collected her seaweed was a little 
 cove ; the people had come to call it Malachi's Cove 
 from the name of the old man who lived there ; which 
 was so formed, that the margin of the sea therein 
 could only be reached by the passage from the top 
 down to Trenglos's hut. The breadth of the cove 
 when the sea was out might perhaps be two hundred 
 yards, and on each side the rocks ran out in such 
 a way that both from north and south the domain of 
 Trenglos was guarded from intruders. And this 
 locality had been well chosen for its intended purpose. 
 
 There was a rush of the sea into the cove, which 
 carried there large, drifting masses of seaweed, leaving 
 them among the rocks when the tide was out. During 
 the equinoctial winds of the spring and autumn the 
 supply would never fail ; and even when the sea was 
 calm, the long, soft, salt-bedewed, trailing masses of 
 the weed, could be gathered there when they could 
 not be found elsewhere for miles along the coast. The 
 task of getting the weed from the breakers was often 
 difficult and dangerous, so difficult that much of it 
 was left to be carried away by the next incoming tide. 
 
 Mally doubtless did not gather half the crop that was 
 there at her feet. What was taken by the returning 
 waves she did not regret ; but when interlopers came 
 upon her cove, and gathered her wealth, her grand- 
 father's wealth, beneath her eyes, then her heart was 
 broken. It was this interloping, this intrusion, that 
 drove poor Mally to the Camelford attorney. But, 
 alas, though the Camelford attorney took Mally' s 
 money, he could do nothing for her, and her heart was 
 broken ! 
 
 She had an idea, in which no doubt her grandfather 
 shared, that the path to the cove was, at any rate, 
 their property. When she was told that the cove, and 
 sea running into the cove, were not the freeholds of 
 
276 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 her grandfather, she understood that the statement 
 might be true. But what then as to the use of the path ? 
 Who had made the path what it was ? Had she not 
 painfully, wearily, with exceeding toil, carried up bits 
 of rock with her own little hands, that her grandfather's 
 donkey might have footing for his feet ? Had she not 
 scraped together crumbs of earth along the face of 
 the cliff that she might make easier to the animal the 
 track of that rugged way ? And now, when she saw 
 big farmers' lads coming down with other donkeys, 
 and, indeed, there was one who came with a pony ; 
 no boy, but a young man, old enough to know better 
 than rob a poor old man and a young girl, she reviled 
 the whole human race, and swore that the Camelford 
 attorney was a fool. 
 
 Any attempt to explain to her that there was still 
 weed enough for her was worse than useless. Was it 
 not all hers and his, or, at any rate, was not the sole 
 way to it his and hers ? And was not her trade stopped 
 and impeded ? Had she not been forced to back her 
 laden donkey down, twenty yards she said, but it had, 
 in truth, been five, because Farmer Gunliffe's son had 
 been in the way with his thieving pony ? Farmer 
 Gunliffe had wanted to buy her weed at his own price , 
 and because she had refused he had set on his thieving 
 son to destroy her in this wicked way. 
 
 ' I'll hamstring the beast the next time as he 's 
 down here ! ' said Mally to old Glos, while the angry 
 fire literally streamed from her eyes. 
 
 Farmer Gunliffe's small homestead he held about 
 fifty acres of land was close by the village of Tintagel, 
 and not a mile from the cliff. The sea-wrack, as they 
 call it, was pretty well the only manure within his 
 reach, and no doubt he thought it hard that he should 
 be kept from using it by Mally Trenglos and her 
 obstinacy. 
 
 ' There 's heaps of other coves, Barty,' said Mally to 
 Barty Gunliffe, the farmer's son. 
 
 ' But none so nigh, Mally, nor yet none that fills 
 'emselves as this place.' 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 277 
 
 Then he explained to her that he would not take the 
 weed that came up close to hand. He was bigger than 
 she was, and stronger, and would get it from the 
 outer rocks, with which she never meddled. Then, 
 with scorn in her eye, she swore that she could get it 
 where he durst not venture, and repeated her threat 
 of hamstringing the pony. Barty laughed at her 
 wrath, jeered her because of her wild hair, and called 
 her a mermaid. 
 
 * I'll mermaid you ! ' she cried. * Mermaid, indeed ! 
 I wouldn't be a man to come and rob a poor girl and 
 an old cripple. But you're no man, Barty Gunliffe ! 
 You're not half a man.' 
 
 Nevertheless, Bartholomew Gunliffe was a very fine 
 young fellow, as far as the eye went. He was about 
 five feet eight inches high, with strong arms and legs, 
 with light curly brown hair and blue eyes. His father 
 was but in a small way as a farmer, but, nevertheless, 
 Barty Gunliffe was well thought of among the girls 
 around. Everybody liked Barty, excepting only 
 Mally Trenglos, and she hated him like poison. 
 
 Barty, when he was asked why so good-natured 
 a lad as he persecuted a poor girl and an old man, 
 threw himself upon the justice of the thing. It wouldn't 
 do at all, according to his view, that any single person 
 should take upon himself to own that which God 
 Almighty sent as the common property of all. He 
 would do Mally no harm, and so he had told her. But 
 Mally was a vixen, a wicked little vixen ; and she 
 must be taught to have a civil tongue in her head. 
 When once Mally would speak him civil as he went 
 for weed, he would get his father to pay the old man 
 some sort of toll for the use of the path. 
 
 ' Speak him civil ? ' said Mally. ' Never ; not 
 while I have a tongue in my mouth ! ' And I fear old 
 Glos encouraged her rather than otherwise in her view 
 of the matter. 
 
 But her grandfather did not encourage her to ham- 
 string the pony. Hamstringing a pony would be 
 a serious thing, and old Glos thought it might be very 
 
278 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 awkward for both of them if Mally were put into 
 prison. He suggested, therefore, that all manner of 
 impediments should be put in the way of the pony's 
 feet, surmising that the well-trained donkey might be 
 able to work in spite of them. And Barty Gunliffe, 
 on his next descent, did find the passage very awkward 
 when he came near to Malachi's hut, but he made his 
 way down, and poor Mally saw the lumps of rock at 
 which she had laboured so hard pushed on one side or 
 rolled out of the way with a steady persistency of 
 injury towards herself that almost drove her frantic. 
 
 ' Well, Barty, you're a nice boy,' said old Glos, sitting 
 in the doorway of the hut, as he watched the intruder. 
 
 ' I ain't a doing no harm to none as doesn't harm 
 me,' said Barty. ' The sea 's free to all, Malachi.' 
 
 ' And the sky 's free to all, but I musn't get up on 
 the top of your big barn to look at it,' said Mally, who 
 was standing among the rocks with a long hook in her 
 hand. The long hook was the tool with which she 
 worked in dragging the weed from the waves. ' But 
 you ain't got no justice nor yet no sperrit, or you 
 wouldn't come here to vex an old man like he.' 
 
 ' I didn't want to vex him, nor yet to vex you, 
 Mally. You let me be for a while, and we'll be friends 
 yet.' 
 
 'Friends!' exclaimed Mally. 'Who'd have the 
 likes of you for a friend ? What are you moving them 
 stones for ? -Them stones belongs to grandfather.' 
 And in her wrath she made a movement as though she 
 were going to fly at him. 
 
 ' Let him be, Mally,' said the old man ; ' let him 
 be. He'll get his punishment. He'll come to be 
 drowned some day if he comes down here when the 
 wind is in shore.' 
 
 ' That he may be drowned then ! ' said Mally, in her 
 anger. ' If he was in the big hole there among the 
 rocks, and the sea running in at half tide, I wouldn't 
 lift a hand to help him out.' 
 
 'Yes, you would, Mally; you'd fish me up with 
 your hook like a big stick of seaweed.' 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 279 
 
 She turned from him with scorn as he said this, and 
 went into the hut. It was time for her to get ready 
 for her work, and one of the great injuries done her 
 lay in this, that such a one as Barty Gunliffe should 
 come and look at her during her toil among the breakers. 
 
 It was an afternoon in April, and the hour was 
 something after four o'clock. There had been a heavy 
 wind from the north-west all the morning, with gusts 
 of rain, and the sea-gulls had been in and out of the 
 cove all the day, which was a sure sign to Mally that 
 the incoming tide would cover the rocks with weed. 
 
 The quick waves were now returning with wonderful 
 celerity over the low reefs, and the time had come at 
 which the treasure must be seized, if it was to be 
 garnered on that day. By seven o'clock it would be 
 growing dark, at nine it would be high water, and 
 before daylight the crop would be carried out again if 
 not collected. All this Mally understood very well, and 
 some of this Barty was beginning to understand also. 
 
 As Mally came down with her bare feet, bearing her 
 long hook in her hand, she saw Barty' s pony standing 
 patiently on the sand, and in her heart she longed to 
 attack the brute. Barty at this moment, with a common 
 three-pronged fork in his hand, was standing down on 
 a large rock, gazing forth towards the waters. He had 
 declared that he would gather the weed only at places 
 which were inaccessible to Mally, and he was looking 
 out that he might settle where he would begin. 
 
 'Let 'un be, let 'un be,' shouted the old man to 
 Mally, as he saw her take a step towards the beast, 
 which she hated almost as much as she hated the man. 
 
 Hearing her grandfather's voice through the wind, 
 she desisted from her purpose, if any purpose she had 
 had, and went forth to her work. As she passed down 
 the cove, and scrambled in among the rocks, she saw 
 Barty still standing on his perch ; out beyond, the 
 white-curling waves were cresting and breaking them- 
 selves with violence, and the wind was howling among 
 the caverns and abutments of the cliff. 
 
 Every now and then there came a squall of rain, 
 
280 ANTHONY TROLLOPS 
 
 and though there was sufficient light, the heavens were 
 black with clouds. A scene more beautiful might 
 hardly be found by those who love the glories of the 
 coast. The light for such objects was perfect. Nothing 
 could exceed the grandeur of the colours, the blue 
 of the open sea, the white of the breaking waves, the 
 yellow sands, or the streaks of red and brown which 
 gave such richness to the cliff. 
 
 But neither Mally nor Barty were thinking of such 
 things as these. Indeed they were hardly thinking of 
 their trade after its ordinary forms. Barty was 
 meditating how he might best accomplish his purpose 
 of working beyond the reach of Mally' s feminine 
 powers, and Mally was resolving that wherever Barty 
 went she would go farther. 
 
 And, in many respects, Mally had the advantage. 
 She knew every rock in the spot, and was sure of those 
 which gave a good foothold, and sure also of those 
 which did not. And then her activity had been made 
 perfect by practice for the purpose to which it was to 
 be devoted. Barty, no doubt, was stronger than she, 
 and quite as active. But Barty could not jump among 
 the waves from one stone to another as she could do, 
 nor was he as yet able to get aid in his work from 
 the very force of the water as she could get it. She 
 had been hunting seaweed hi that cove since she had 
 been an urchin of six years old, and she knew every 
 hole and corner and every spot of vantage. The waves 
 were her friends, and she could use them. She could 
 measure their strength, and knew when and where it 
 would cease. 
 
 Mally was great down in the salt pools of her own 
 cove, great, and very fearless. As she watched Barty 
 make his way forward from rock to rock, she told her- 
 self, gleefully, that he was going astray. The curl of 
 the wind as it blew into the cove would not carry the 
 weed up to the northern buttresses of the cove ; and 
 then there was the great hole just there, the great 
 hole of which she had spoken when she wished him 
 evil. 
 
MALACHrS COVE 281 
 
 And now she went to work, hooking up the dis- 
 hevelled hairs of the ocean, and landing many a cargo 
 on the extreme margin of the sand, from whence she 
 would be able hi the evening to drag it back before 
 the invading waters would return to reclaim the spoil. 
 
 And on his side also Barty made his heap up against 
 the northern buttresses of which I have spoken. 
 Barty's heap became big and still bigger, so that he 
 knew, let the pony work as he might, he could not take 
 it all up that evening. But still it was not as large as 
 Mally's heap. Mally's hook was better than his fork, 
 and Mally's skill was better than his strength. And 
 when he failed in some haul Mally would jeer him with 
 a wild, weird laughter, and shriek to him through the 
 wind that he was not half a man. At first he answered 
 her with laughing words, but before long, as she boasted 
 of her success and pointed to his failure, he became 
 angry, and then he answered her no more. He became 
 angry with himself, in that he missed so much of the 
 plunder before him. 
 
 The broken sea was full of the long straggling growth 
 which the waves had torn up from the bottom of the 
 ocean, but the masses were carried past him, away 
 from him, nay, once or twice over him ; and then 
 Mally's weird voice would sound in his ear, jeering 
 him. The gloom among the rocks was now becoming 
 thicker and thicker, the tide was beating hi with 
 increased strength, and the gusts of wind came with 
 quicker and greater violence. But still he worked on. 
 While Mally worked he would work, and he would 
 work for some time after she was driven in. He would 
 not be beaten by a girl. 
 
 The great hole was now full of water, but of water 
 which seemed to be boiling as though in a pot. And 
 the pot was full of floating masses, large treasures 
 of seaweed which were thrown to and fro upon its 
 surface, but lying there so thick that one would seem 
 almost able to rest upon it without sinking. 
 
 Mally knew well how useless it was to attempt to 
 rescue aught from the fury of that boiling cauldron. 
 
282 ANTHONY TROLLOPS 
 
 The hole went in under the rocks, and the side of it 
 towards the shore lay high, slippery, and steep. The 
 hole, even at low water, was never empty ; and Mally 
 believed that there was no bottom to it. Fish thrown 
 in there could escape out to the ocean, miles away, 
 so Mally in her softer moods would tell the visitors to 
 the cove. She knew the hole well. Poulnadioul she 
 was accustomed to call it ; which was supposed, when 
 translated, to mean that this was the hole of the Evil 
 One. Never did Mally attempt to make her own of 
 weed which had found its way into that pot. 
 
 But Barty Gunliffe knew no better, and she watched 
 him as he endeavoured to steady himself on the 
 treacherously slippery edge of the pool. He fixed him- 
 self there and made a haul, with some small success. 
 How he managed it she hardly knew, but she stood 
 still for a while watching him anxiously, and then she 
 saw him slip. He slipped, and recovered himself ; 
 slipped again, and again recovered himself. 
 
 * Barty, you fool ! ' she screamed ; ' if you get your- 
 self pitched in there, you'll never come out no more.' 
 
 Whether she simply wished to frighten him, or 
 whether her heart relented and she had thought of 
 his danger with dismay, who shall say ? She could 
 not have told herself. She hated him as much as ever, 
 but she could hardly have wished to see him drowned 
 before her eyes. 
 
 * You go on, and don't mind me,' said he, speaking 
 in a hoarse, angry tone. 
 
 ' Mind you ! who minds you ? ' retorted the girl. 
 And then she again prepared herself for her work. 
 
 But as she went down over the rocks with her long 
 hook balanced in her hands, she suddenly heard 
 a splash, and, turning quickly round, saw the body 
 of her enemy tumbling amidst the eddying waves in 
 the pool. The tide had now come up so far that every 
 succeeding wave washed into it and over it from the 
 side nearest to the sea, and then ran down again back 
 from the rocks, as the rolling wave receded, with 
 a noise like the fall of a cataract. And then, when the 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 283 
 
 surplus water had retreated for a moment, the surface 
 of the pool would be partly calm, though the fretting 
 bubbles would still boil up and down, and there was 
 ever a simmer on the surface, as though, in truth, the 
 cauldron were heated. But this time of comparative 
 rest was but a moment, for the succeeding breaker 
 would come up almost as soon as the foam of the 
 preceding one had gone, and then again the waters 
 would be dashed upon the rocks, and the sides would 
 echo with the roar of the angry wave. 
 
 Instantly Mally hurried across to the edge of the 
 pool, crouching down upon her hands and knees for 
 security as she did so. As a wave receded, Barty's 
 head and face was carried round near to v her, and she 
 could see that his forehead was covered with blood. 
 Whether he were alive or dead she did not know. 
 She had seen nothing but his blood, and the light- 
 coloured hair of his head lying amidst the foam. Then 
 his body was drawn along by the suction of the retreat- 
 ing wave ; but the mass of water that escaped was 
 not on this occasion large enough to carry the man 
 out with it. 
 
 Instantly Mally was at work with her hook, and 
 getting it fixed into his coat, dragged him towards the 
 spot on which she was kneeling. During the half 
 minute of repose she got him so close that she could 
 touch his shoulder. Straining herself down, laying her- 
 self over the long bending handle of the hook, she 
 strove to grasp him with her right hand. But she 
 could not do it ; she could only touch him. 
 
 Then came the next breaker, forcing itself on with 
 a roar, looking to Mally as though it must certainly 
 knock her from her resting-place, and destroy them 
 both. But she had nothing for it but to kneel, and 
 hold by her hook. 
 
 What prayer passed through her mind at that 
 moment for herself or for him, or for that old man who 
 was sitting unconsciously up at the cabin, who can 
 say ? The great wave came and rushed over her as 
 she lay almost prostrate, and when the water was gone 
 
284 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 from her eyes, and the tumult of the foam, and the 
 violence of the roaring breaker had passed by her, she 
 found herself at her length upon the rock, while his 
 body had been lifted up, free from her hook, and was 
 lying upon the slippery ledge, half in the water and 
 half out of it. As she looked at him, in that instant, 
 she could see that his eyes were open and that he was 
 struggling with his hands. 
 
 ' Hold by the hook, Barty,' she cried, pushing the 
 stick of it before him, while she seized the collar of his 
 coat in her hands. 
 
 Had he been her brother, her lover, her father, she 
 could not have clung to him with more of the energy 
 of despair. He did contrive to hold by the stick which 
 she had given him, and when the succeeding wave had 
 passed by, he was still on the ledge. In the next 
 moment she was seated a yard or two above the hole, 
 in comparative safety, while Barty lay upon the rocks 
 with his still bleeding head resting upon her lap. 
 
 What could she do now ? She could not carry him ; 
 and in fifteen minutes the sea would be up where she 
 was sitting. He was quite insensible and very pale, 
 and the blood was coming slowly, very slowly, from 
 the wound on his forehead. Ever so gently she put 
 her hand upon his hair to move it back from his face ; 
 and then she bent over his mouth to see if he breathed, 
 and as she looked at him she knew that he was beautiful. 
 
 What would she not give that he might live ? 
 Nothing now was so precious to her as his life, as 
 this life which she had so far rescued from the waters. 
 But what could she do ? Her grandfather could 
 scarcely get himself down over the rocks, if indeed he 
 could succeed in doing so much as that. Could she 
 drag the wounded man backwards, if it were only 
 a few feet, so that he might lie above the reach of the 
 waves till further assistance could be procured ? 
 
 She set herself to work and she moved him, almost 
 lifting him. As she did so she wondered at her own 
 strength, but she was very strong at that moment. 
 Slowly, tenderly, falling on the rocks herself so that he 
 
MALACBTS COVE 285 
 
 might fall on her, she got him back to the margin of 
 the sand, to a spot which the waters would not reach 
 for the next two hours. 
 
 Here her grandfather met them, having seen at last 
 what had happened from the door. 
 
 ' Dada,' she said, * he fell into the pool yonder, and 
 was battered against the rocks. See there at his 
 forehead.' 
 
 'Mally, I'm thinking that he's dead already,' said 
 old Glos, peering down over the body. 
 
 'No, dada ; he is not dead; but mayhap he's 
 dying. But I'll go at once up to the farm.' 
 
 ' Mally,' said the old man, ' look at his head. They'll 
 say we murdered him.' 
 
 'Who'll say so? Who'U lie like that? Didn't 
 I pull him out of the hole ? ' 
 
 ' What matters that ? His father' 11 say we killed 
 him.' 
 
 It was manifest to Mally that whatever any one 
 might say hereafter, her present course was plain 
 before her. She must run up the path to Gunuffe's 
 farm and get necessary assistance. If the world were 
 as bad as her grandfather said, it would be so bad that 
 she would not care to live longer in it. But be that 
 as it might, there was no doubt as to what she must 
 do now. 
 
 So away she went as fast as her naked feet could 
 carry her up the cliff. When at the top she looked 
 round to see if any person might be within ken, but 
 she saw no one. So she ran with all her speed along 
 the headland of the corn-field which led in the direction 
 of old Gunliffe's house, and as she drew near to the 
 homestead she saw that Barty's mother was leaning 
 on the gate. As she approached, she attempted to call, 
 but her breath failed her for any purpose of loud 
 speech, so she ran on till she was able to grasp Mrs. 
 Gunliffe by the arm. 
 
 'Where's himself?' she said, holding her hand 
 upon her beating heart that she might husband her 
 breath. 
 
286 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 ' Who is it you mean ? ' said Mrs. Gunliffe, who 
 participated in the family feud against Trenglos and 
 his granddaughter. ' What does the girl clutch me for 
 in that way ? ' 
 
 * He 's dying then, that 's all.' 
 
 ' Who is dying ? Is it old Malachi ? If the old 
 man 's bad, we'll send some one down.' 
 
 'It ain't dada, it's Barty ! Where's himself ? 
 where 's the master ? ' But by this time Mrs. Gunliffe 
 was in an agony of despair, and was calling out for 
 assistance lustily. Happily Gunliffe, the father, was 
 at hand, and with him a man from the neighbouring 
 village. 
 
 * Will you not send for the doctor ? ' said Mally. 
 ' Oh, man, you should send for the doctor ! ' 
 
 Whether any orders were given for the doctor she 
 did not know, but in a very few minutes she was 
 hurrying across the field again towards the path to the 
 cove, and Gunliffe with the other man and his wife 
 were following her. 
 
 As Mally went along she recovered her voice, for 
 their step was not so quick as hers, and that which to 
 them was a hurried movement, allowed her to get her 
 breath again. And as she went she tried to explain 
 to the father what had happened, saying but little, 
 however, of her own doings in the matter. The wife 
 hung behind listening, exclaiming every now and again 
 that her boy was killed, and then asking wild questions 
 as to his being yet alive. The father, as he went, said 
 little. He was known as a silent, sober man, well 
 spoken of for diligence and general conduct, but sup- 
 posed to be stern and very hard when angered. 
 
 As they drew near to the top of the path, the other 
 man whispered something to him, and then he turned 
 round upon Mally and stopped her. 
 
 ' If he has come by his death between you, your 
 blood shall be taken for his,' said he. 
 
 Then the wife shrieked out that her child had been 
 murdered, and Mally, looking round into the faces of 
 the three, saw that her grandfather's words had come 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 287 
 
 true. They suspected her of having taken the life, in 
 saving which she had nearly lost her own. 
 
 She looked round at them with awe in her face, and 
 then, without saying a word, preceded them down the 
 path. What had she to answer when such a charge 
 as that was made against her ? If they chose to say 
 that she pushed him into the pool, and hit him with 
 her hook as he lay amidst the waters, how could she 
 show that it was not so ? 
 
 Poor Mally knew little of the law of evidence, and 
 it seemed to her that she was in their hands. But as 
 she went down the steep track with a hurried step, 
 a step so quick that they could not keep up with her, 
 her heart was very full, very full and very high. She 
 had striven for the man's life as though he had been 
 her brother. The blood was yet not dry on her own 
 legs and arms, where she had torn them in his service. 
 At one moment she had felt sure that she would die 
 with him in that pool. And now they said that she 
 had murdered him ! It may be that he was not dead, 
 and what would he say if ever he should speak again ? 
 Then she thought of that moment when his eyes had 
 opened, and he had seemed to see her. She had no fear 
 for herself, for her heart was very high. But it was 
 full also, full of scorn, disdain, and wrath. 
 
 When she had reached the bottom, she stood close 
 to the door of the hut waiting for them, so that they 
 might precede her to the other group, which was 
 there in front of them, at a little distance on the 
 sand. 
 
 ' He is there, and dada is with him. Go and look 
 at him,' said Mally. 
 
 The father and mother ran on stumbling over the 
 stones, but Mally remained behind by the door of 
 the hut. 
 
 Barty Gunliffe was lying on the sand where Mally 
 had left him, and old Malachi Trenglos was standing 
 over him, resting himself with difficulty upon a stick. 
 
 ' Not a move he 's moved since she left him,' said 
 he, * not a move. I put his head on the old rug as you 
 
288 ANTHONY TROLLOPS 
 
 see, and I tried 'un with a drop of gin, but he wouldn't 
 take it, he wouldn't take it.' 
 
 * Oh, my boy ! my boy ! ' said the mother, throwing 
 herself beside her son upon the sand. 
 
 ' Haud your tongue, woman,' said the father, kneel- 
 ing down slowly by the lad's head, ' whimpering that 
 way will do 'un no good.' 
 
 Then having gazed for a minute or two upon the 
 pale face beneath him, he looked up sternly into that 
 of Malachi Trenglos. 
 
 The old man hardly knew how to bear this terrible 
 inquisition. 
 
 ' He would come,' said Malachi ; ' he brought it all 
 upon hisself.' 
 
 ' Who was it struck him ? ' said the father. 
 
 * Sure he struck hisself, as he fell among the breakers.' 
 ' Liar ! ' said the father, looking up at the old man. 
 ' They have murdered him ! they have murdered 
 
 him ! ' shrieked the mother. 
 
 ' Haud your peace, woman ! ' said the husband 
 again. ' They shall give us blood for blood.' 
 
 Mally, leaning against the corner of the hovel, heard 
 it all, but did not stir. They might say what they 
 liked. They might make it out to be murder. They 
 might drag her and her grandfather to Camelford Gaol, 
 and then to Bodmin, and the gallows ; but they could 
 not take from her the conscious feeling that was her 
 own. She had done her best to save him, her very 
 best. And she had saved him ! 
 
 She remembered her threat to him before they had 
 gone down on the rocks together, and her evil wish. 
 Those words had been very wicked ; but since that 
 she had risked her life to save his. They might say 
 what they pleased of her, and do what they pleased. 
 She knew what she knew. 
 
 Then the father raised his son's head and shoulders 
 in his arms, and called on the others to assist him in 
 carrying Barty towards the path. They raised him 
 between them carefully and tenderly, and lifted 
 their burden on towards the spot at which Mally was 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 289 
 
 standing. She never moved, but watched them at their 
 work ; and the old man followed them, hobbling after 
 them with his crutch. 
 
 When they had reached the end of the hut she looked 
 upon Barty's face, and saw that it was very pale. 
 There was no longer blood upon the forehead, but the 
 great gash was to be seen there plainly, with its jagged 
 cut, and the skin livid and blue round the orifice. His 
 light brown hair was hanging back, as she had made it 
 to hang when she had gathered it with her hand after 
 the big wave had passed over them. Ah, how beautiful 
 he was in Mally's eyes with that pale face, and the sad 
 scar upon his brow ! She turned her face away, that 
 they might not see her tears ; but she did not move, 
 nor did she speak. 
 
 But now, when they had passed the end of the hut, 
 shuffling along with their burden, she heard a sound 
 which stirred her. She roused herself quickly from 
 her leaning posture, and stretched forth her head as 
 though to listen ; then she moved to follow them. 
 Yes, they had stopped at the bottom of the path, and 
 had again laid the body on the rocks. She heard that 
 sound again, as of a long, long sigh, and then, regard- 
 less of any of them, she ran to the wounded man's 
 head. 
 
 ' He is not dead,' she said. ' There ; he is not 
 dead.' 
 
 As she spoke Barty's eyes opened, and he looked 
 about him. 
 
 ' Barty, my boy, speak to me,' said the mother. 
 
 Barty turned his face upon his mcrther, smiled, and 
 then stared about him wildly. 
 
 ' How is it with thee, lad ? ' said his father. Then 
 Barty turned his face again to the latter voice, and as he 
 did so his eyes fell upon Mally. 
 
 ' Mally ! ' he said, ' MaUy ! ' 
 
 It could have wanted nothing further to any of those 
 present to teach them that, according to Barty's own 
 view of the case, Mally had not been his enemy ; and, 
 in truth, Mally herself wanted no further triumph. 
 
 193 L 
 
290 ANTHONY TROLLOPS 
 
 That word had vindicated her, and she withdrew back 
 to the hut. 
 
 ' Dada,' she said, * Barty is not dead, and I'm think- 
 ing they won't say anything more about our hurting 
 him.' 
 
 Old Glos shook his head. He was glad the lad 
 hadn't met his death there ; he didn't want the young 
 man's blood, but he knew what folk would say. The 
 poorer he was the more sure the world would be to 
 trample on him. Mally said what she could to comfort 
 him, being full of comfort herself. 
 
 She would have crept up to the farm if she dared, 
 to ask how Barty was. But her courage failed her 
 when she thought of that, so she went to work again, 
 dragging back the weed she had saved to the spot at 
 which on the morrow she would load the donkey. As 
 she did this she saw Barty' s pony still standing patiently 
 under the rock, so she got a lock of fodder and threw it 
 down before the beast. 
 
 It had become dark down in the cove, but she was 
 still dragging back the sea -weed, when she saw the 
 glimmer of a lantern coming down the pathway. It 
 was a most unusual sight, for lanterns were not common 
 down in Malachi's Cove. Down came the lantern 
 rather slowly, much more slowly than she was in the 
 habit of descending, and then through the gloom she 
 saw the figure of a man standing at the bottom of 
 the path. She went up to him, and saw that it was 
 Mr. Gunliffe, the father. 
 
 ' Is that Mally ? ' said Gunliffe. 
 
 ' Yes, it is Mally ; and how is Barty, Mr. Gun- 
 liffe ? ' 
 
 * You must come to 'un yourself, now at once,' said 
 the farmer. 'He won't sleep a wink till he's seed 
 you. You must not say but you'll come.' 
 
 * Sure I'll come if I'm wanted,' said Mally. 
 Gunliffe waited a moment, thinking that Mally 
 
 might have to prepare herself, but Mally needed no 
 preparation. She was dripping with salt water from 
 the weed which she had been dragging, and her elfin 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 291 
 
 locks were streaming wildly from her head ; but, such 
 as she was, she was ready. 
 
 ' Dada's in bed,' she said, * and I can go now if you 
 please.' 
 
 Then Gunliffe turned round and followed her up the 
 path, wondering at the life which this girl led so far 
 away from all her sex. It was now dark night, and he 
 had found her working at the very edge of the roll- 
 ing waves by herself, in the darkness, while the only 
 human being who might seem to be her protector had 
 already gone to his bed. 
 
 When they were at the top of the cliff Gunliffe took 
 her by her hand, and led her along. She did not 
 comprehend this, but she made no attempt to take 
 her hand from his. Something he said about falling 
 on the cliffs, but it was muttered so lowly that Mally 
 hardly understood him. But, in truth, the man knew 
 that she had saved his boy's life, and that he had 
 injured her instead of thanking her. He was now taking 
 her to his heart, and as words were wanting to him, 
 he was showing his love after this silent fashion. He 
 held her by the hand as though she were a child, and 
 Mally tripped along at his side asking him no questions. 
 
 When they were at the farm-yard gate, he stopped 
 there for a moment. 
 
 * Mally, my girl,' he said, * he'll not be content till 
 he sees thee, but thou must not stay long wi' him, 
 lass. Doctor says he's weak like, and wants sleep 
 badly.' 
 
 Mally merely nodded her head, and then they entered 
 the house. Mally had never been within it before, and 
 looked about with wondering eyes at the furniture of 
 the big kitchen. Did any idea of her future destiny 
 flash upon her then, I wonder ? But she did not pause 
 here a moment, but was led up to the bedroom above 
 stairs, where Barty was lying on his mother's bed. 
 
 * Is it Mally herself ? ' said the voice of the weak 
 youth. 
 
 'It's Mally herself,' said the mother, 'so now you 
 can say what you please.' 
 
292 ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 
 ' Mally,' said he, ' Mally, it's along of you that I'm 
 alive this moment.' 
 
 ' I'll not forget it on her,' said the father, with his 
 eyes turned away from her. 'I'll never forget it 
 on her.' 
 
 ' We hadn't a one but only him,' said the mother, 
 with her apron up to her face. 
 
 ' Mally, you'll be friends with me now ? ' said 
 Barty. 
 
 To have been made lady of the manor of the cove 
 for ever, Mally couldn't have spoken a word now. It 
 was not only that the words and presence of the people 
 there cowed her and made her speechless, but the big 
 bed, and the looking-glass, and the unheard-of wonders 
 of the chamber, made her feel her own insignificance. 
 But she crept up to Barty's side, and put her hand 
 upon his. 
 
 * I'll come and get the weed, Mally ; but it shall all 
 be for you,' said Barty. 
 
 'Indeed, you won't then, Barty dear,' said the 
 mother ; ' you'll never go near the awesome place 
 again. What would we do if you were took from us ? ' 
 
 ' He musn't go near the hole if he does,' said Mally, 
 speaking at last in a solemn voice, and imparting the 
 knowledge which she had kept to herself while Barty 
 was her enemy; "specially not if the wind's any 
 way from the nor'ard.' 
 
 ' She'd better go down now,' said the father. 
 
 Barty kissed the hand which he held, and Mally, 
 looking at him as he did so, thought that he was like 
 an angel. 
 
 ' You'll come and see us to-morrow, Mally,' said he. 
 
 To this she made no answer, but followed Mrs. 
 Gunliffe out of the room. When they were down in 
 the kitchen, the mother had tea for her, and thick 
 milk, and a hot cake, all the delicacies which the 
 farm could afford. I don't know that Mally cared 
 much for the eating and drinking that night, but she 
 began to think that the Gunliffes were good people. 
 very good people. It was better thus, at any rate, 
 
MALACHI'S COVE 293 
 
 than being accused of murder and carried off to Camel- 
 ford prison. 
 
 ' I'll never forget it on her never,' the father 
 had said. 
 
 Those words stuck to her from that moment, and 
 seemed to sound in her ears all the night. How glad 
 she was that Barty had come down to the cove, oh, 
 yes, how glad ! There was no question of his dying 
 now, and as for the blow on his forehead, what harm 
 was that to a lad like him ? 
 
 ' But father shall go with you,' said Mrs. Gunliffe, 
 when Mally prepared to start for the cove by herself. 
 Mally, however, would not hear of this. She could 
 find her way to the cove whether it was light or dark. 
 
 ' Mally, thou art my child now, and I shall think 
 of thee so,' said the mother, as the girl went off by 
 herself. 
 
 Mally thought of this, too, as she walked home. 
 How could she become Mrs. Gunliffe' s child ; ah, how ? 
 
 I need not, I think, tell the tale any further. That 
 Mally did become Mrs. Gunliffe' s child, and how she 
 became so the reader will understand ; and in process 
 of time the big kitchen and all the wonders of the 
 farm-house were her own. The people said that Barty 
 Gunliffe had married a mermaid out of the sea ; but 
 when it was said in Mally' s hearing I doubt whether 
 she liked it ; and when Barty himself would call her 
 a mermaid she would frown at him, and throw about 
 her black hair, and pretend to cuff him with her little 
 hand. 
 
 Old Glos was brought up to the top of the cliff, and 
 lived his few remaining days under the roof of Mr. 
 Gunliffe' s house ; and as for the cove and the right 
 of sea-weed, from that time forth all that has been 
 supposed to attach itself to Gunliffe' s farm, and I do 
 not know that any of the neighbours are prepared to 
 dispute the right. 
 
GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 1828-1909 
 
 THE PUNISHMENT OF SHAHPESH, THE PER- 
 SIAN, ON KHIPIL, THE BUILDER 
 
 (From The Shaving of Shagpat) 
 
 THEY relate that Shahpesh, the Persian, commanded 
 the building of a palace, and Khipil was his builder. 
 The work lingered from the first year of the reign of 
 Shahpesh even to his fourth. One day Shahpesh went 
 to the river-side where it stood, to inspect it. Khipil 
 was sitting on a marble slab among the stones and 
 blocks; round him stretched lazily the masons and 
 stonecutters and slaves of burden ; and they with the 
 curve of humorous enjoyment on their lips, for he was 
 reciting to them adventures, interspersed with anec- 
 dotes and recitations and poetic instances, as was his 
 wont. They were like pleased flocks whom the shep- 
 herd hath led to a pasture freshened with brooks, 
 there to feed indolently; he, the shepherd, in the 
 midst. 
 
 Now, the King said to him, c O Khipil, show me my 
 palace where it standeth, for I desire to gratify my 
 sight with its fairness.' 
 
 Khipil abased himself before Shahpesh, and answered, 
 ' 'Tis even here, O King of the age, where thou delightest 
 the earth with thy foot and the ear of thy slave with 
 sweetness. Surely a site of vantage, one that domi- 
 nateth earth, air, and water, which is the builder's first 
 and chief requisition for a noble palace, a palace to fill 
 foreign kings and sultans with the distraction of envy ; 
 and it is, Sovereign of the time, a site, this site I have 
 chosen, to occupy the tongues of travellers and awaken 
 the flights of poets ! ' 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF KHIPIL 295 
 
 Shahpesh smiled and said, ' The site is good ! 
 the site- ! Likewise I laud the wisdom of Ebn Busrac, 
 where he exclaims : 
 
 Be sure, where Virtue faileth to appear, 
 For her a gorgeous mansion men will rear ; 
 And day and night her praises will be heard, 
 Where never yet she spake a single word.' 
 
 Then said he, ' Khipil, my builder, there was once 
 a farm-servant that, having neglected in the seed- 
 time to sow, took to singing the richness of his soil 
 when it was harvest, in proof of which he displayed 
 the abundance of weeds that coloured the land every- 
 where. Discover to me now the completeness of my 
 halls and apartments, I pray thee, Khipil, and be 
 the excellence of thy construction made visible to me 1 ' 
 
 Quoth Khipil, ' To hear is to obey.' 
 
 He conducted Shahpesh among the unfinished 
 saloons and imperfect courts and roofless rooms, and 
 by half-erected obelisks, and columns pierced and 
 chipped, of the palace of his building. And he was 
 bewildered at the words spoken by Shahpesh ; but now 
 the King exalted him, and admired the perfection of 
 his craft, the greatness of his labour, the speediness 
 of his construction, his assiduity ; feigning not to 
 behold his negligence. 
 
 Presently they went up winding balusters to a marble 
 terrace, and the King said, ' Such is thy devotion and 
 constancy in toil, Khipil, that thou shalt walk 
 before me here.' 
 
 He then commanded Khipil to precede him, and 
 Khipil was heightened with the honour. When Khipil 
 had paraded a short space he stopped quickly, and 
 said to Shahpesh, * Here is, as it chanceth, a gap, 
 O King ! and we can go no further this way.' 
 
 Shahpesh said, * All is perfect, and it is my will 
 thou delay not to advance.' 
 
 Khipil cried, ' The gap is wide, mighty King, and 
 manifest, and it is an incomplete part of thy palace.' 
 
 Then said Shahpesh, ' Khipil, I see no distinction 
 
296 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 between one part and another ; excellent are all parts 
 in beauty and proportion, and there can be no part 
 incomplete in this palace that occupieth the builder 
 four years in its building : so advance, do my bidding.' 
 
 Khipil yet hesitated, for the gap was of many 
 strides, and at the bottom of the gap was a deep water, 
 and he one that knew not the motion of swimming. 
 But Shahpesh ordered his guard to point their arrows 
 in the direction of Khipil, and Khipil stepped forward 
 hurriedly, and fell in the gap, and was swallowed by 
 the water below. When he rose the second time, 
 succour reached him, and he was drawn to land 
 trembling, his teeth chattering. And Shahpesh praised 
 him, and said, ' This is an apt contrivance for a bath, 
 Khipil, my builder ! well conceived ; one that 
 taketh by surprise ; and it shall be thy reward daily 
 when much talking hath fatigued thee.' 
 
 Then he bade Khipil lead him to the hall of state. 
 And when they were there Shahpesh said, ' For 
 a privilege, and as a mark of my approbation, I give 
 thee permission to sit in the marble chair of yonder 
 throne, even in my presence, O Khipil.' 
 
 Khipil said, ' Surely, King, the chair is not yet 
 executed.' 
 
 And Shahpesh exclaimed, ' If this be so, thou art 
 but the length of thy measure on the ground, talkative 
 one ! ' 
 
 Khipil said, ' Nay, 'tis not so, King of splendours ! 
 blind that I am ! yonder's indeed the chair.' 
 
 And Khipil feared the King, and went to the place 
 where the chair should be, and bent his body in a sitting 
 posture, eyeing the King, and made pretence to sit in 
 the chair of Shahpesh, as in conspiracy to amuse his 
 master. 
 
 Then said Shahpesh, ' For a token that I approve 
 thy execution of the chair, thou shalt be honoured by 
 remaining seated in it up to the hour of noon ; but 
 move thou to the right or to the left, showing thy soul 
 insensible of the honour done thee, transfixed thou 
 shalt be with twenty arrows and five.' 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF KHIPIL 297 
 
 The King then left him with a guard of twenty-five 
 of his body-guard ; and they stood around him with 
 bent bows, so that Khipil dared not move from his 
 sitting posture. And the masons and the people 
 crowded to see Khipil sitting on his master's chair, 
 for it became rumoured about. When they beheld 
 him sitting upon nothing, and he trembling to stir for 
 fear of the loosening of the arrows, they laughed so 
 that they rolled upon the floor of the hall, and the 
 echoes of laughter were a thousandfold. Surely the 
 arrows of the guards swayed with the laughter that 
 shook them. 
 
 Now, when the time had expired for his sitting hi 
 the chair, Shahpesh returned to him, and he was 
 cramped, pitiable to see ; and Shahpesh said, * Thou 
 hast been exalted above men, Khipil ! for that thou 
 didst execute for thy master has been found fitting 
 for thee.' 
 
 Then he bade Khipil lead the way to the noble 
 gardens of dalliance and pleasure that he had planted 
 and contrived. And Khipil went in that state described 
 by the poet, when we go draggingly, with remonstrating 
 members, 
 
 Knowing a dreadful strength behind, 
 And a dark fate before. 
 
 They came to the gardens, and behold, these were 
 full of weeds and nettles, the fountains dry, no tree 
 to be seen a desert. And Shahpesh cried, ' This is 
 indeed of admirable design, O Khipil ! Feelest thou 
 not the coolness of the fountains ? their refreshing- 
 ness ? Truly I am grateful to thee ! And these flowers, 
 pluck me now a handful, and tell me of their per- 
 fume.' 
 
 Khipil plucked a handful of the nettles that were 
 there in the place of flowers, and put his nose to them 
 before Shahpesh, till his nose was reddened ; and 
 desire to rub it waxed in him, and possessed him, and 
 became a passion, so that he could scarce refrain from 
 rubbing it even in the King's presence. And the King 
 
 L3 
 
298 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 encouraged him to sniff and enjoy their fragrance, 
 repeating the poet's words : 
 
 Methinks I am a lover and a child, 
 
 A little child and happy lover, both ! 
 
 When by the breath of flowers I am beguiled 
 
 From sense of pain, and lulled in odorous sloth. 
 
 So I adore them, that no mistress sweet 
 
 Seems worthier of the love which they awake : 
 
 In innocence and beauty more complete, 
 
 Was never maiden cheek in morning lake. 
 
 Oh, while I live, surround me with fresh flowers ! 
 
 Oh, when I die, then bury me in their bowers ! 
 
 And the King said, 'What sayest thou, my 
 builder ? that is a fair quotation, applicable to thy 
 feelings, one that expresseth them ? ' 
 
 Khipil answered, ' 'Tis eloquent, O great King ! 
 comprehensiveness would be its portion, but that it 
 alludeth not to the delight of chafing.' 
 
 Then Shahpesh laughed, and cried, ' Chafe not ! it 
 is an ill thing and a hideous ! This nosegay, Khipil, 
 it is for thee to present to thy mistress. Truly she will 
 receive thee well after its presentation ! I will have 
 it now sent in thy name, with word that thou followest 
 quickly. And for thy nettled nose, surely if the whim 
 seize thee that thou desirest its chafing, to thy neigh- 
 bour is permitted what to thy hand is refused.' 
 
 The King set a guard upon Khipil to see that his 
 orders were executed, and appointed a time for him 
 to return to the gardens. 
 
 At the hour indicated Khipil stood before Shahpesh 
 again. He was pale, saddened; his tongue drooped 
 like the tongue of a heavy bell, that when it soundeth 
 giveth forth mournful sounds only : he had also the 
 look of one battered with many beatings. So the 
 King said, * How of the presentation of the flowers of 
 thy culture, Khipil ? ' 
 
 He answered, * Surely, King, she received me with 
 wrath, and I am shamed by her.' 
 
 And the King said, 'How of my clemency in the 
 matter of the chafing ? ' 
 
THE PUNISHMENT OF KHIPIL 299 
 
 Khipil answered,' * King of splendours ! I made 
 petition to my neighbours whom I met, accosting 
 them civilly and with imploring, for I ached to chafe, 
 and it was the very raging thirst of desire to chafe 
 that was mine, devouring eagerness for solace of 
 chafing. And they chafed me, King ; yet not in 
 those parts which throbbed for the chafing, but in 
 those which abhorred it.' 
 
 Then Shahpesh smiled and said, * 'Tis certain that 
 the magnanimity of monarchs is as the rain that 
 falleth, the sun that shineth : and in this spot it 
 fertilizeth richness ; in that encourageth rankness. 
 So art thou but a weed, Khipil ! and my grace is 
 thy chastisement.' 
 
 Now, the King ceased not persecuting Khipil, under 
 pretence of doing him honour and heaping favours on 
 him. Three days and three nights was Khipil gasping 
 without water, compelled to drink of the drought of 
 the fountain, as an honour at the hands of the King. 
 And he was seven days and seven nights made to stand 
 with stretched arms, as they were the branches of 
 a tree, in each hand a pomegranate. And Shahpesh 
 brought the people of his court to regard the wondrous 
 pomegranate-shoot planted by Khipil, very wondrous, 
 and a new sort, worthy the gardens of a King. So the 
 wisdom of the King was applauded, and men wotted 
 he knew how to punish offences in coin, by the punish- 
 ment inflicted on Khipil, the builder. Before that time 
 his affairs had languished, and the currents of business 
 instead of flowing had become stagnant pools. It 
 was the fashion to do as did Khipil, and fancy the 
 tongue a constructor rather than a commentator ; and 
 there is a doom upon that people and that man which 
 runneth to seed in gabble, as the poet says in his 
 wisdom : 
 
 If thou wouldst be famous, and rich in splendid fruits, 
 Leave to bloom the flower of things, and dig among the 
 roots. 
 
 Truly after Khipil' s punishment there were few in 
 
300 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 the dominions of Shahpesh who sought to win the 
 honours bestowed by him on gabblers and idlers : as 
 again the poet : 
 
 When to loquacious fools with patience rare 
 I listen, I have thoughts of Khipil's chair : 
 His bath, his nosegay, and his fount I see, 
 Himself stretch'd out as a pomegranate-tree. 
 And that I am not Shahpesh I regret, 
 So to inmesh the babbler in his net. 
 Well is that wisdom worthy to be sung, 
 Which raised the Palace of the Wagging Tongue ! 
 
 And whoso is punished after the fashion of Shahpesh, 
 the Persian, on Khipil, the Builder, is said to be one 
 ' in the Palace of the Wagging Tongue ' to this time. 
 
WILLIAM HALE WHITE 
 ('MARK RUTHERFORD') 
 
 1831-1913 
 MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 
 
 I HAD been a partner in the house of Whittaker, 
 Johnson & Marsh, in the wholesale drug trade, for 
 twenty-five years, and, for the last ten years, senior 
 partner. For the first nine years of my seniority I was 
 not only nominally, but practically, the head of the 
 firm. I had ceased to occupy myself with details, but 
 nothing of importance was concluded without con- 
 sulting me : I was the pivot on which the management 
 turned. In the tenth year, after a long illness, my wife 
 died : I was very ill myself, and for months not a paper 
 was sent to me. When I returned to work I found that 
 the junior partners, who were pushing men, had dis- 
 tributed between them what I was accustomed to do, 
 and that some changes which they thought to be indis- 
 pensable had been made. I resumed my duties as well 
 as I could, but it was difficult to pick up the dropped 
 threads, and I was dependent for explanation upon 
 my subordinates. Many transactions too, from a desire 
 to avoid worrying me, were carried through without 
 my knowledge, although formerly, as a matter of 
 course, they would have been submitted to me. 
 Strangers, when they called, asked to see Johnson or 
 Marsh. I directed the messenger that they were to 
 be shown into my room if I was disengaged. This was 
 a failure, for, when they came, I was obliged to ask for 
 help, which was not given very generously. Sometimes 
 I sent for the papers, but it took a long time to read 
 them, and my visitors became impatient. During one 
 of these interviews, I remember that I was sorely 
 perplexed, but I had managed to say something loosely 
 
302 ' MARK RUTHERFORD ' 
 
 with no particular meaning. Johnson came in and at 
 once took up the case, argued for ten minutes while 
 I sat silent and helpless, and an arrangement was con- 
 cluded in which I really had no voice whatever. Now 
 and then I strove to assert myself by disapproval of 
 suggestions offered to me, but in the end was generally 
 forced to admit I was wrong. We had a very large 
 order for which we were obliged to make special 
 arrangements with manufacturers. Both Johnson and 
 Marsh were of opinion that a particular firm which had 
 often supplied us was not to be trusted, as our dealings 
 with them during my absence had been unsatisfactory. 
 I was inclined foolishly but naturally, to attach little 
 importance to anything which had been done entirely 
 without me, ridiculed their objections, and forced my 
 decision upon them. The firm broke down ; our con- 
 tract with them was cancelled ; another had to be 
 made under pressure, and we lost about five hundred 
 pounds. Although I was not reminded of my responsi- 
 bility in so many words, I knew that I was solely to 
 blame ; I became more than ever convinced I was 
 useless, and I was much dejected. At last I made up 
 my mind to retire. I was urged to remain, but not, 
 as I imagined, with any great earnestness, and on the 
 31st December 1856 1 left the office in Eastcheap never 
 to enter it again. 
 
 For the first two or three weeks I enjoyed my free- 
 dom, but when they had passed I had had enough of 
 it. / "had nothing to do ! Every day at the hours when 
 business was at its height, I thought of the hurry, of 
 the inquiries, of the people waiting in the ante-room, 
 of the ringing of bells, of the rapid instructions to 
 clerks, of the consultations after the letters were opened, 
 of our anxious deliberations, of the journeys to Scotland 
 at an hour's notice, and of the interviews with cus- 
 tomers. I pictured to myself that all this still went on, 
 but went on without me, while I had no better occupa- 
 tion than to unpack a parcel, pick the knots out of the 
 string, and put it in a string-box. I saw my happy 
 neighbours drive off in the morning and return in the 
 
MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 303 
 
 evening. I envied them the haste, which I had so 
 often cursed, over breakfast. I envied them, while 
 I took an hour over lunch, the chop devoured in ten 
 minutes ; I envied them the weariness with which they 
 dragged themselves along their gravel-paths, half an 
 hour late for dinner. I was thrown almost entirely 
 amongst women. I had no children, but a niece 
 thirty-five years old, devoted to evangelical church 
 affairs, kept house for me, and she had a multitude of 
 female acquaintances, two or three of whom called 
 every afternoon. Sometimes, to relieve my loneliness, 
 I took afternoon tea, and almost invariably saw the 
 curate. I was the only man present. It was just as 
 if, being strong, healthy, and blessed with a good set 
 of teeth, I were being fed on water-gruel. The bird- 
 wittedness, the absence of resistance and of difficulty, 
 were intolerable. The curate, and occasionally the 
 rector, tried to engage me, as I was a good subscriber, 
 in discussion on church affairs, but there seemed to me 
 to be nothing in these which required the force which 
 was necessary for the commonest day in the City. 
 Mrs. Coleman and the rector were once talking together 
 most earnestly when I entered the room, and I instinc- 
 tively sat down beside them, but I found that the 
 subject of their eager debate was the allotment of stalls 
 at a bazaar. They were really excited stirred I fully 
 admit to their depths. I believe they were more ab- 
 sorbed and anxious than I was on that never-to-be-for- 
 gotten morning when Mortons and Nicholsons both 
 failed, and for two hours it was just a toss-up whether 
 we should not go too. 
 
 I went with my niece one day to St. Paul's Church- 
 yard to choose a gown, but it was too much for me to 
 be in a draper's shop when the brokers' drug sales were 
 just beginning. I left my niece, walked round the 
 Churchyard as fast as I could, trying to make people 
 believe I was busy, and just as I came to Doctors 
 Commons I stumbled against Larkins, who used to 
 travel for Jackman and Larkins. 
 
 ' Hullo, Whittaker 1 ' said he, ' haven't seen you 
 
304 ' MARK RUTHERFORD ' 
 
 since you left. Lucky dog ! Wish I could do the same. 
 Ta-ta ; can't stop.' 
 
 A year ago Mr. Larkins, with the most pressing 
 engagement in front of him, would have spared me 
 just as much time as I liked to give him. 
 
 Formerly I woke up (sometimes, it is true, after a 
 restless night) with the feeling that before me lay a day 
 of adventure. I did not know what was in my letters, 
 nor what might happen. Now, when I rose I had 
 nothing to anticipate but fifteen hours of monotony 
 varied only by my meals. My niece proposed that 
 I should belong to a club, but the members of clubs 
 were not of my caste. I had taken a pride in my 
 garden and determined I would attend to it more 
 myself. I bought gardening books, but the gardener 
 knew far more than I could ever hope to know, and 
 I could not displace him. I had been in the habit of 
 looking through a microscope in the evening, although 
 I did not understand any science in which the micro- 
 scope is useful, and my slides were bought ready-made. 
 I brought it out now in the daytime, but I was soon 
 weary of it and sold it. We went to Worthing for a 
 month. We had what were called comfortable lodgings 
 and the weather was fine, but if I had been left to my- 
 self I should have gone back to Stockwell directly my 
 boxes were unpacked. We drove eastwards as far as we 
 could and then westward, and after that there was 
 nothing more to be done except to do the same thing 
 over again. At the end of the first week I could stand 
 it no longer, and we returned. I fancied my liver was 
 out of order and consulted a physician. He gave me 
 some medicine and urged me to ' cultivate cheerful 
 society ', and to take more exercise. I therefore tried 
 long walks, and often extended them beyond Croydon, 
 and once as far as Reigate, but I had never been accus- 
 tomed to walking by myself, and as I knew the names 
 of scarcely half a dozen birds or trees, my excursions 
 gave me no pleasure. I have stood on Banstead Downs 
 in the blaze of sunlight on a still October morning, and 
 when I saw the smoke-cloud black as night hang over 
 
MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 305 
 
 the horizon northwards, I have longed with the 
 yearning of an imprisoned convict to be the meanest of 
 the blessed souls enveloped in it. 
 
 I determined at last to break up my household at 
 Stockwell, to move far away into the country ; to 
 breed fowls an occupation which I was assured was 
 very profitable and very entertaining ; dismiss my 
 niece and marry again. I began to consider which lady 
 of those whom I knew would suit me best, and I found 
 one who was exactly the person I wanted. She was 
 about thirty-five years old, was cheerful, fond of going 
 out (I never was), a good housekeeper, played the piano 
 fairly well, and, as the daughter of a retired major in 
 the Army, had a certain air and manner which distin- 
 guished her from the wives and daughters of our set 
 and would secure for me an acquaintance with the 
 country gentlefolk, from which, without her, I should 
 probably be debarred. She had also told me when 
 I mentioned my project to her, but saying nothing 
 about marriage, that she doted on fowls they had 
 such pretty ways. As it was obviously prudent not 
 to engage myself until I knew more of her, I instigated 
 my niece in a careless way to invite her to stay a fort- 
 night with us. She came, and once or twice I was on 
 the verge of saying something decisive to her, but I 
 could not. A strange terror of change in my way of 
 life took hold upon me. I should now have to be 
 more at home, and although I might occupy myself with 
 the fowls during the morning and afternoon, the evening 
 must be spent in company, and I could not endure for 
 more than half an hour a drawing-room after dinner. 
 There was another reason for hesitation. I could see 
 the lady would accept me if I proposed to her, but 
 I was not quite sure why. She would in all probability 
 survive me, and I fancied that her hope of survival 
 might be her main reason for consenting. I gave her 
 up, but no sooner had she left us than I found myself 
 impelled to make an offer to a handsome girl of eight- 
 and- twenty who I was ass enough to dream might love 
 me. I was happily saved by an accident not worth 
 
306 ' MARK RUTHERFORD ' 
 
 relating, and although I afterwards dwelt much upon 
 the charms of two or three other ladies and settled with 
 myself I would take one of them, nothing came of my 
 resolution. I was greatly distressed by this growing 
 indecision. It began to haunt me. If I made up my 
 mind to-day that I would do this or that, I always had 
 on the morrow twenty reasons for not doing it. I was 
 never troubled with this malady in Eastcheap. I was 
 told that decay in the power of willing was one of the 
 symptoms of softening of the brain, and this then was 
 what was really the matter with me ! It might last for 
 years ! Wretched creature ! my life was to be nothing 
 better than that of the horse in Bewick's terrible 
 picture. I was ' waiting for death '. 
 
 Part of my income was derived from interest on 
 money lent to a cousin. Without any warning I had 
 a letter to say that he was bankrupt, and that his 
 estate would probably not pay eighteenpence in the 
 pound. It was quite clear that I must economize, and 
 what to do and whither to go was an insoluble problem 
 to me. By chance I met an old City acquaintance who 
 told me of a ' good thing ' in Spanish bonds which, 
 when information was disclosed which he possessed, 
 were certain to rise twenty per cent. If what he said 
 was true and I had no reason to doubt him I could 
 easily get back without much risk about two-thirds of 
 the money I had lost. Had I been in full work, I do 
 not believe I should have wasted a shilling on the specu- 
 lation, but the excitement attracted me, and I ventured 
 a considerable sum. In about a fortnight there was 
 a sudden jump of two per cent, in my securities, and 
 I was so much elated that I determined to go farther. 
 I doubled my stake ; in three weeks another rise was 
 announced; I again increased the investment, and 
 now I watched the market with feverish eagerness. 
 One day I was downstairs a quarter of an hour earlier 
 than usual waiting for the boy who brought the paper. 
 I tore it open and to my horror saw that there was 
 a panic on the Stock Exchange ; my bonds were worth- 
 less, and I was ruined. 
 
MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 307 
 
 I had always secretly feared that this would happen, 
 and that I should be so distracted as to lose my reason. 
 To my surprise, I was never more self-possessed, and 
 I was not so miserable as might have been expected. I 
 at once gave notice of discharge to my servants, sold 
 nearly all my furniture, and let my house. I was 
 offered help, but declined it. I moved into a little 
 villa in one of the new roads then being made at 
 Brixton, and found that I possessed a capital which, 
 placed in Consols for I would not trust anything but 
 the public funds brought me one hundred and twenty- 
 five pounds a year. This was not enough for my niece, 
 myself, and a maid, and I was forced to consider 
 whether I could not obtain some employment. To 
 return to Eastcheap was clearly out of the question, 
 but there was a possibility, although I was fifty-six, 
 that my experience might make me useful elsewhere. 
 I therefore called on Jackman and Larkins at twelve 
 o'clock, the hour at which I knew there was a chance of 
 finding them able to see me. During my prosperity 
 I always walked straight into their room marked 
 ' private ', but now I went into the clerks' office, took 
 off my hat and modestly inquired if either Mr. Jackman 
 or Mr. Larkins could spare me a minute. I was not 
 asked to sit down I, to whom these very clerks a little 
 over a twelvemonth ago would have risen when I entered ; 
 but my message was taken, and I was told in reply that 
 both Mr. Jackman and Mr. Larkins were engaged. 
 I was bold enough to send in another message and 
 was informed I might call hi two hours' time. I went 
 out, crossed London Bridge, and seeing the doors of 
 St. Saviour's, Southwark, open, rested there awhile. 
 When I returned at the end of two hours, I had to wait 
 another ten minutes until a luncheon tray came out. 
 A bell then rang, which a clerk answered, and in about 
 five minutes, with a ' come this way ' I was ushered into 
 the presence of Jackman, who was reading the news- 
 paper with a decanter and a glass of sherry by his side. 
 
 ' Well, Whittaker, what brings you here ? Ought to 
 be looking after your grapes at Stockwell but I forgot ; 
 
308 ' MARK RUTHERFORD ' 
 
 heard you 'd given up grape-growing. Ah ! odd thing, 
 a man never retires, but he gets into some mess ; 
 marries or dabbles on the Stock Exchange. I've 
 known lots of cases like yours. What can we do for 
 you ? Times are horribly bad.' Jackman evidently 
 thought I was going to borrow some money of him, and 
 his tone altered when he found I did not come on that 
 errand. 
 
 ' I was very sorry really I was, my dear fellow 
 to hear of your loss, but it was a damned foolish thing 
 to do, excuse me.' 
 
 ' Mr. Jackman,' said I, ' I have not lost all my pro- 
 perty, but I cannot quite live on what is left. Can you 
 give me some work ? My connexion and knowledge of 
 your business may be of some service.' I had put 
 hundreds of pounds in this man's pocket, but forbore 
 to urge this claim upon him. 
 
 ' Delighted, I am sure, if it were possible, but we have 
 no vacancy, and, to be quite plain with you, you are 
 much too old. We could get more out of a boy at ten 
 shillings a week than we could out of you.' 
 
 Mr. Jackman drank another glass of sherry. 
 
 ' But, sir ' (sir ! that I should ever call Tom Jack- 
 man ' sir ', but I did) ' as I just said, my experience 
 and connexion might be valuable.' 
 
 * Oh, as to experience, me and Larkins supply all 
 that, and the clerks do as they are told. Never keep 
 a clerk more than two years : he then begins to think 
 he knows too much and wants more pay. As to 
 connexion, pardon me mean nothing, of course but 
 your recommendation now wouldn't bring much.' 
 
 At this moment the door opened and Larkins entered 
 
 in haste. ' I say, Jackman ' then turning and 
 
 seeing me, ' Hullo, Whittaker, what the devil are you 
 doing here ? Jackman, I've just heard ' 
 
 * Good-bye, Whittaker,' said Jackman, ' sorry can't 
 help you.' 
 
 Neither of them offered to shake hands, and I passed 
 out into the street. The chop-houses were crammed ; 
 waiters were rushing hither and thither ; I looked up 
 
MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 309 
 
 at the first floor of that very superior house, used solely 
 by principals, where I often had my lunch, and again 
 crossed London Bridge on my way back. London 
 Bridge at half -past one ! I do not suppose I had ever 
 been there at half -past one in my life. I saw a crowd 
 still passing both southwards and northwards. At 
 half-past nine it all went one way and at half-past six 
 another. It was the morning and evening crowd 
 which was the people to me. These half-past one 
 o'clock creatures were strange to me, loafers, non- 
 descripts. I was faint and sick when I reached home, 
 for I walked all the way, and after vainly trying to eat 
 something went straight to bed. But the next post 
 brought me a note saying that Jackman and Larkins 
 were willing to engage me at a salary of 100 a year 
 much more, it was added, than they would have paid 
 for more efficient service, but conceded as a recognition 
 of the past. The truth was, as I afterwards found out, 
 that Larkins persuaded Jackman that it would increase 
 their reputation to take old Whittaker. Larkins too 
 had become a little tired of soliciting orders, and I could 
 act as his substitute. I was known to nearly all the 
 houses with which they did business and very likely 
 should gam. admittance where a stranger would be 
 denied. My hours would be long, from nine till seven, 
 and must be observed rigidly. Instead of my three- 
 and-sixpenny lunch I should now have to take in my 
 pocket whatever I wanted in the middle of the day. 
 For dinner I must substitute a supper a meal which 
 did not suit me. I should have to associate with clerks, 
 to meet as a humble subordinate those with whom I was 
 formerly intimate as an equal ; but all this was over- 
 looked, and I was happy, happy as I had not been for 
 months. 
 
 It was on a Wednesday when I received my appoint- 
 ment, and on Monday I was to begin. I said my 
 prayers more fervently that night than I had said them 
 for years, and determined that, please God, I would 
 always go to church every Sunday morning no matter 
 how fine it might be. There were only three clear 
 
310 ' MARK RUTHERFORD ' 
 
 week-days, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, to be got 
 through. I imagined them to be holidays, although 
 I had never before taken three consecutive holidays, 
 save in those wretched Augusts or Septembers, when 
 pride annually forced me away to the seaside. At 
 last Monday came : our breakfast hour was henceforth 
 fixed at half -past seven, and at eight o'clock I started 
 to walk to Kennington, and thence to ride by an omni- 
 bus to King Wilham's statue. Oh ! with what joy did 
 I shut the little garden gate and march down the road, 
 once more somebody ! I looked round, saw other little 
 front gates open, each by-street contributed, so that in 
 the Kennington Road there was almost a procession 
 moving steadily and uniformly Citywards, and / was 
 in it. I was still a part of the great world ; something 
 depended on me. Fifty-six ? yes, but what was that ? 
 Many men are at their best at fifty-six. So exhilarated 
 was I, that just before I mounted the omnibus it was 
 a cold morning, but I would not ride inside I treated 
 myself to a twopenny cigar. My excitement soon wore 
 off. I could not so far forget myself as not to make 
 suggestions now and then, and Jackman took a delight 
 in snubbing me. It was a trial to me also to sit with 
 the clerks. We had never set ourselves up as grand 
 people at Stockwell, but I had all my life been accus- 
 tomed to delicate food properly cooked, and now that 
 my appetite was declining with my years, I would almost 
 at any time have gone without a meal rather than 
 eat anything that was coarse or dirtily served. My 
 colleagues ridiculed my * Stockwell manners ', as they 
 called them, and were very witty, so they thought, in 
 their inquiries when I produced my sandwich wrapped 
 up in a clean napkin, how much it cost me for my 
 washing. They were a very cheap set, had black 
 finger-nails, and stuck their pens behind their ears. 
 One of them always brought a black- varnished canvas 
 bag with him, not respectably stiff like leather a 
 puckered, dejected-looking bag. It was deposited in 
 the washing place to be out of the way of the sun. At 
 one o'clock it was brought out and emptied of its 
 
MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 311 
 
 contents, which were usually a cold chop and a piece of 
 bread. A plate, knife and fork, and some pepper and 
 salt were produced from the desk, and after the meat, 
 which could be cut off from the chop, was devoured, the 
 bone was gnawed, wrapped up in paper, and put back 
 in the bag. The plate, knife, and fork were washed in 
 the wash-hand basin and wiped with the office jack- 
 towel. It was hard when old business friends called 
 and I had to knock at the inner door and say, ' Mr. 
 wants to see you, sir,' the object of the visit not being 
 entrusted to me. A few of them behaved politely to 
 me, but to others it seemed to be a pleasure to humble 
 me. On that very first Monday, Bullock, the junior 
 in Wiggens, Moggs, and Bullock, burst into the room. 
 He knew me very well, but took no notice of me, 
 although I was alone, except to ask 
 
 ' Is Mr. Jackman in ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir, can I do anything for you ? ' 
 
 He did not deign to say a word, but went out, slam- 
 ming the door behind him. 
 
 Nevertheless I kept up my spirits, or rather they 
 kept themselves up. At five o'clock, when the scramble 
 to get the letters signed began, I thought of our street 
 at home, so dull at that hour, of the milkman, and the 
 muffin-boy, of the curate, and of my niece's com- 
 panions, and reflected, thank God, that I was in the 
 City, a man amongst men. When seven o'clock came 
 and the gas was put out, there was the anticipation 
 also of the fight for a place hi the omnibus, especially 
 if it was a wet night, and the certainty that I should 
 meet with one or two neighbours who would recognize 
 me. No more putting up window-blinds, pulling up 
 weeds in the back garden, sticking in seeds which never 
 grew, or errands to suburban shops at midday. How 
 I used in my retirement to detest the sight of those 
 little shopkeepers when the doors of Glyn's Bank were 
 swinging to and fro ! I came home dead-beaten now, 
 it is true, but it was a luxury to be dead-beaten, and 
 I slept more soundly than I had ever slept in my life. 
 In about six months my position improved a little. 
 
312 MR. WHITTAKER'S RETIREMENT 
 
 Jackman's love for sherry grew upon him, and once or 
 twice, to Larkins's disgust, his partner was not quite as 
 fit to appear in public as he ought to have been. Very 
 often he was absent, sick. Two of the cheap clerks 
 also left in order to better themselves. I never shall 
 forget the afternoon I felt as if I could have danced 
 for joy when Larkins said to me, ' Whittaker, Mr. Jack- 
 man hasn't very good health, and if he's not here when 
 I am out, you must answer anybody who calls, but 
 don't commit yourself and let me see I was going 
 to tell you you'll have ten pounds a year more, beginning 
 next quarter and there was something else Oh ! I 
 recollect, if anybody should want to see Mr. Jackman 
 when he happens to be unwell here, and I am not with 
 him, send for me if you know where I am. If you don't 
 know, you must do the best you can.' My office coat 
 had hitherto been an old shiny, ragged thing, and I had 
 always taken off my shirt- cuffs when I began work, 
 because they so soon became dirty. I rammed the old 
 coat that night into the fire ; brought my second-best 
 coat in a brown paper parcel the next morning, and 
 wore my shirt-cuffs all day long. Continually I had 
 to think only fancy, to think once more ; in a very 
 small way, it is true, but still to think and to act upon 
 my thought, and when Larkins came in and inquired if 
 anybody had called, he now and then said ' all right ' 
 when I told him what I had done. A clerk from my 
 old office swaggered in and did not remove his hat. 
 I descended from my stool and put on my own hat. The 
 next time he came he was more polite. I have now 
 had two years of it, and have not been absent for a day. 
 I hope I may go on till I drop. My father died in a fit ; 
 his father died in a fit ; and I myself often feel giddy, 
 and things go round for a few seconds. I should not 
 care to have a fit here, because there would be a fuss 
 and a muddle, but I should like, just when everything 
 was quite straight, to be able to get home safely and 
 then go off. To lie in bed for weeks and worry about 
 my work is what I could not endure. 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 1834-1896 
 
 THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 
 
 (Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, January 1856) 
 
 I WAS the master-mason of a church that was built 
 more than six hundred years ago ; it is now two hun- 
 dred years since that church vanished from the face 
 of the earth ; it was destroyed utterly, no fragment 
 of it was left ; not even the great pillars that bore up 
 the tower at the cross, where the choir used to join the 
 nave. No one knows now even where it stood, only 
 in this very autumn-tide, if you knew the place, you 
 would see the heaps made by the earth-covered ruins 
 heaving the yellow corn into glorious waves, so that 
 the place where my church used to be is as beautiful 
 now as when it stood in all its splendour. I do not 
 remember very much about the land where my church 
 was ; I have quite forgotten the name of it, but I know 
 it was very beautiful, and even now, while I am thinking 
 of it, comes a flood of old memories, and I almost seem 
 to see it again, that old beautiful land ! only dimly 
 do I see it in spring and summer and winter, but I see 
 it in autumn- tide clearly now; yes, clearer, clearer, 
 oh ! so bright and glorious ! yet it was beautiful too in 
 spring, when the brown earth began to grow green : 
 beautiful in summer, when the blue sky looked so much 
 bluer, if you could hem a piece of it in between the 
 new white carving; beautiful in the solemn starry 
 nights, so solemn that it almost reached agony the 
 awe and joy one had in their great beauty. But of 
 all these beautiful times, I remember the whole only 
 of autumn-tide ; the others come in bits to me ; I can 
 
314 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 think only of parts of them, but all of autumn ; and 
 of all days and nights in autumn, I remember one more 
 particularly. That autumn day the church was nearly 
 finished, and the monks, for whom we were building 
 the church, and the people, who lived in the town 
 hard by, crowded round us oftentimes to watch us 
 carving. 
 
 Now the great church, and the buildings of the Abbey 
 where the monks lived, were about three miles from 
 the town, and the town stood on a hill overlooking the 
 rich autumn country: it was girt about with great 
 walls that had overhanging battlements, and towers at 
 certain places all along the walls, and often we could 
 see from the churchyard or the Abbey garden, the 
 flash of helmets and spears, and the dim shadowy 
 waving of banners, as the knights and lords and men- 
 at-arms passed to and fro along the battlements ; and 
 we could see too in the town the three spires of the 
 three churches ; and the spire of the Cathedral, which 
 was the tallest of the three, was gilt all over with gold, 
 and always at night-time a great lamp shone from it 
 that hung in the spire midway between the roof of the 
 church and the cross at the top of the spire. The 
 Abbey where we built the church was not girt by stone 
 walls, but by a circle of poplar trees, and whenever 
 a wind passed over them, were it ever so little a breath, 
 it set them all a-ripple ; and when the wind was high, 
 they bowed and swayed very low, and the wind, as it 
 lifted the leaves, and showed their silvery white sides, 
 or as again in the lulls of it, it let them drop, kept on 
 changing the trees from green to white, and white to 
 green ; moreover, through the boughs and trunks of 
 the poplars, we caught glimpses of the great golden 
 corn sea, waving, waving, waving for leagues and 
 leagues ; and among the corn grew burning scarlet 
 poppies, and blue corn-flowers ; and the corn-flowers 
 were so blue, that they gleamed, and seemed to burn 
 with a steady light, as they grew beside the poppies 
 among the gold of the wheat. Through the corn sea 
 ran a blue river, and always green meadows and lines 
 
THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 315 
 
 of tall poplars followed its windings. The old church 
 had been burned, and that was the reason why the 
 monks caused me to build the new one ; the buildings 
 of the Abbey were built at the same time as the burned- 
 down church, more than a hundred years before I was 
 born, and they were on the north side of the church, 
 and joined to it by a cloister of round arches, and in 
 the midst of the cloister was a lawn, and in the midst of 
 that lawn, a fountain of marble, carved round about 
 with flowers and strange beasts ; and at the edge of the 
 lawn, near the round arches, were a great many sun- 
 flowers that were all in blossom on that autumn day ; 
 and up many of the pillars of the cloister crept passion- 
 flowers and roses. Then farther from the church, and 
 past the cloister and its buildings, were many detached 
 buildings, and a great garden round them, all within 
 the circle of the poplar trees ; in the garden were 
 trellises covered over with roses, and convolvulus, and 
 the great-leaved fiery nasturtium ; and specially all 
 along by the poplar trees were there trellises, but on 
 these grew nothing but deep crimson roses ; the holly- 
 hocks too were all out in blossom at that time, great 
 spires of pink, and orange, and red, and white, with 
 their soft, downy leaves. I said that nothing grew on 
 the trellises by the poplars but crimson roses, but I was 
 not quite right, for in many places the wild flowers had 
 crept into the garden from without ; lush green briony, 
 with green-white blossoms, that grows so fast, one could 
 almost think that we see it grow, and deadly night- 
 shade, La bella donna, ! so beautiful ; red berry, and 
 purple, yellow-spiked flower, and deadly, cruel-looking, 
 dark green leaf, all growing together in the glorious 
 days of early autumn. And in the midst of the great 
 garden was a conduit, with its sides carved with 
 histories from the Bible, and there was on it too, as on 
 the fountain in the cloister, much carving of flowers 
 and strange beasts. Now the church itself was sur- 
 rounded on every side but the north by the cemetery, 
 and there were many graves there, both of monks and of 
 laymen, and- often the friends of those, whose bodies 
 
316 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 lay there, had planted flowers about the graves of those 
 they loved. I remember one such particularly, for at 
 the head of it was a cross of carved wood, and at the 
 foot of it, facing the cross, three tall sun-flowers ; then 
 in the midst of the cemetery was a cross of stone, carved 
 on one side with the Crucifixion of our Lord Jesus 
 Christ, and on the other with Our Lady holding the 
 Divine Child. So that day, that I specially remember, 
 in autumn- tide, when the church was nearly finished, 
 I was carving in the central porch of the west front ; 
 (for I carved all those bas-reliefs in the west front 
 with my own hand ;) beneath me my sister Margaret 
 was carving at the flower- work, and the little quatre- 
 foils that carry the signs of the zodiac and emblems 
 of the months : now my sister Margaret was'^rather 
 more than twenty years old at that time, and she was 
 very beautiful, with dark brown hair and deep calm 
 violet eyes. I had lived with her all my life, lived with 
 her almost alone latterly, for our father and mother 
 died when she was quite young, and I loved her very 
 much, though I was not thinking of her just then, as 
 she stood beneath me carving. Now the central porch 
 was carved with a bas-relief of the Last Judgement, 
 and it was divided into three parts by horizontal bands 
 of deep flower- work. In the lowest division, just over 
 the doors, was carved The Rising of the Dead ; above 
 were angels blowing long trumpets, and Michael the 
 Archangel weighing the souls, and the blessed led into 
 heaven by angels, and the lost into hell by the devil ; 
 and in the topmost division was the Judge of the world. 
 All the figures in the porch were finished except one, 
 and I remember when I woke that morning my exulta- 
 tion at the thought of my church being so nearly 
 finished ; I remember, too, how a kind of misgiving 
 mingled with the exultation, which, try all I could, 
 I was unable to shake off ; I thought then it was a 
 rebuke for my pride, well, perhaps it was. The figure 
 I had to carve was Abraham, sitting with a blossoming 
 tree on each side of him, holding in his two hands the 
 corners of his great robe, so that it made a mighty fold, 
 
THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 317 
 
 wherein, with their hands crossed over their breasts, 
 were the souls of the faithful, of whom he was called 
 Father : I stood on the scaffolding for some time, while 
 Margaret's chisel worked on bravely down below. 
 I took mine in my hand, and stood so, listening to the 
 noise of the masons inside, and two monks of the Abbey 
 came and stood below me, and a knight, holding his 
 little daughter by the hand, who every now and then 
 looked up at him, and asked him strange questions. 
 I did not think of these long, but began to think of 
 Abraham, yet I could not think of him sitting there, 
 quiet and solemn, while the Judgement-Trumpet was 
 being blown ; I rather thought of him as he looked 
 when he chased those kings so far ; riding far ahead of 
 any of his company, with his mail-hood off his head, 
 and lying in grim folds down his back, with the strong 
 west wind blowing his wild black hair far out behind 
 him, with the wind rippling the long scarlet pennon 
 of his lance ; riding there amid the rocks and the 
 sands alone ; with the last gleam of the armour of 
 the beaten kings disappearing behind the winding of 
 the pass ; with his company a long, long way behind, 
 quite out of sight, though their trumpets sounded 
 faintly among the clefts of the rocks ; and so I thought 
 I saw him, till in his fierce chase he leapt, horse and man, 
 into a deep river, quiet, swift, and smooth ; and there 
 was something in the moving of the water-lilies as the 
 breast of the horse swept them aside, that suddenly 
 took away the thought of Abraham and brought a 
 strange dream of lands I had never seen ; and the 
 first was of a place where I was quite alone, standing 
 by the side of a river, and there was the sound of 
 singing a very long way off, but no living thing of any 
 kind could be seen, and the land was quite flat, quite 
 without hills, and quite without trees too, and the river 
 wound very much, making all kinds of quaint curves, 
 and on the side where I stood there grew nothing but 
 long grass, but on the other side grew, quite on to the 
 horizon, a great sea of red corn-poppies, only paths of 
 white lilies wound all among them, with here and there 
 
318 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 a great golden sun-flower. So I looked down at the 
 river by my feet, and saw how blue it was, and how, as 
 the stream went swiftly by, it swayed to and fro the 
 long green weeds, and I stood and looked at the river 
 for long, till at last I felt some one touch me on the 
 shoulder, and, looking round, I saw standing by me 
 my friend Amyot, whom I love better than any one 
 else in the world, but I thought in my dream that I was 
 frightened when I saw him, for his face had changed so, 
 it was so bright and almost transparent, and his eyes 
 gleamed and shone as I had never seen them do before. 
 Oh ! he was so wondrously beautiful, so fearfully 
 beautiful ! and as I looked at him the distant music 
 swelled, and seemed to come close up to me, and then 
 swept by us, and fainted away, at last died off entirely ; 
 and then I felt sick at heart, and faint, and parched, 
 and I stooped to drink of the water of the river, and as 
 soon as the water touched my lips, lo ! the river 
 vanished, and the flat country with its poppies and 
 lilies, and I dreamed that I was in a boat by myself 
 again, floating in an almost land-locked bay of the 
 northern sea, under a cliff of dark basalt. I was lying 
 on my back in the boat, looking up at the intensely 
 blue sky, and a long low swell from the outer sea lifted 
 the boat up and let it fall again and carried it gradually 
 nearer and nearer towards the dark cliff ; and as I 
 moved on, I saw at last, on the top of the cliff, a castle, 
 with many towers, and on the highest tower of the 
 castle there was a great white banner floating, with a red 
 chevron on it, and three golden stars on the chevron ; 
 presently I saw too on one of the towers, growing in 
 a cranny of the worn stones, a great bunch of golden 
 and blood-red wall-flowers, and I watched the wall- 
 flowers and banner for long ; when suddenly I heard 
 a trumpet blow from the castle, and saw a rush of 
 armed men on to the battlements and there was a fierce 
 fight, till at last it was ended, and one went to the 
 banner and pulled it down, and cast it over the cliff 
 into the sea, and it came down in long sweeps, with the 
 wind making little ripples in it ; slowly, slowly it 
 
THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 319 
 
 came, till at last it fell over me and covered me from 
 my feet till over my breast, and I let it stay there and 
 looked again at the castle, and then I saw that there 
 was an amber-coloured banner floating over the castle 
 in place of the red chevron, and it was much larger 
 than the other : also now, a man stood on the battle- 
 ments, looking towards me ; he had a tilting helmet on, 
 with the visor down, and an amber-coloured surcoat 
 over his armour: his right hand was ungauntleted, 
 and he held it high above his head, and in his hand 
 was the bunch of wall-flowers that I had seen growing 
 on the wall ; and his hand was white and small, like 
 a woman's, for in my dream I could see even very far 
 off things much clearer than we see real material things 
 on the earth : presently he threw the wall-flowers over 
 the cliff, and they fell in the boat just behind my head, 
 and then I saw, looking down from the battlements 
 of the castle, Amyot. He looked down towards me 
 very sorrowfully, I thought, but, even as in the other 
 dream, said nothing ; so I thought in my dream that 
 I wept for very pity, and for love of him, for he looked 
 as a mai> just risen from a long illness, and who will 
 carry till he dies a dull pain about with him. He was 
 very thin, and his long black hair drooped all about 
 his face, as he leaned over the battlements looking at 
 me : he was quite pale, and his cheeks were hollow, but 
 his eyes large, and soft, and sad. So I reached out my 
 arms to him, and suddenly I was walking with him in 
 a lovely garden, and we said nothing, for the music 
 which I had heard at first was sounding close to us 
 now, and there were many birds in the boughs of the 
 trees : oh, such birds ! gold and ruby, and emerald, 
 but they sung not at all, but were quite silent, as 
 though they too were listening to the music. Now all 
 this time Amyot and I had been looking at each other, 
 but just then I turned my head away from him, and as 
 soon as I did so, the music ended with a long wail, and 
 when I turned again Amyot was gone ; then I felt even 
 more sad and sick at heart than I had before when I was 
 by the river, and I leaned against a tree, and put 
 
320 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 my hands before my eyes. When I looked again the 
 garden was gone, and I knew not where I was, and 
 presently all my dreams were gone. The chips were 
 flying bravely from the stone under my chisel at last, 
 and all my thoughts now were in my carving, when 
 I heard my name, ' Walter,' called, and when I looked 
 down I saw one standing below me, whom I had seen 
 in my dreams just before Amyot. I had no hopes of 
 seeing him for a long time, perhaps I might never see 
 him again, I thought, for he was away (as I thought) 
 fighting in the holy wars, and it made me almost beside 
 myself to see him standing close by me in the flesh. I 
 got down from my scaffolding as soon as I could, and 
 all thoughts else were soon drowned in the joy of having 
 him by me ; Margaret, too, how glad she must have 
 been, for she had been betrothed to him for some time 
 before he went to the wars, and he had been five years 
 away ; five years ! and how we had thought of him 
 through those many weary days ! how often his face 
 had come before me ! his brave, honest face, the most 
 beautiful among all the faces of men and women I have 
 ever seen. Yes, I remember how five years ago I held 
 his hand as we came together out of the cathedral of 
 that great, far-off city, whose name I forget now ; and 
 then I remember the stamping of the horses' feet ; 
 I remember how his hand left mine at last, and 
 then, some one looking back at me earnestly as they 
 all rode on together looking back, with his hand on 
 the saddle behind him, while the trumpets sang in long 
 solemn peals as they all rode on together, with the 
 glimmer of arms and the fluttering of banners, and the 
 clinking of the rings of the mail, that sounded like 
 the falling of many drops of water into the deep, still 
 waters of some pool that the rocks nearly meet over ; 
 and the gleam and flash of the swords, and the glimmer 
 of the lance-heads and the flutter of the rippled banners, 
 that streamed out from them, swept past me, and were 
 gone, and they seemed like a pageant in a dream, whose 
 meaning we know not ; and those sounds too, the 
 trumpets, and the clink of the mail, and the thunder 
 
THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 321 
 
 of the horse-hoofs, they seemed dream-like too and 
 it was all like a dream that he should leave me, for we 
 had said that we should always be together ; but he 
 went away, and now he is come back again. 
 
 We were by his bed-side, Margaret and I ; I stood 
 and leaned over him, and my hair fell sideways over 
 my face and touched his face ; Margaret kneeled beside 
 me, quivering in every limb, not with pain, I think, but 
 rather shaken by a passion of earnest prayer. After 
 some time (I know not how long), I looked up from his 
 face to the window underneath which he lay ; I do not 
 know what time of the day it was, but I know that it 
 was a glorious autumn day, a day soft with melting, 
 golden haze: a vine and a rose grew together, and 
 trailed half across the window, so that I could not see 
 much of the beautiful blue sky, and nothing of town or 
 country beyond ; the vine leaves were touched with 
 red here and there, and three over-blown roses, light 
 pink roses, hung amongst them. I remember dwelling 
 on the strange lines the autumn had made in red on 
 one of the gold-green vine leaves, and watching one 
 leaf of one of the over-blown roses, expecting it to 
 fall every minute ; but as I gazed, and felt disappointed 
 that the rose leaf had not fallen yet, I felt my pain 
 suddenly shoot through me, and I remembered what 
 I had lost ; and then came bitter, bitter dreams, 
 dreams which had once made me happy, dreams of 
 the things I had hoped would be, of the things that 
 would never be now ; they came between the fair vine 
 leaves and rose blossoms, and that which lay before 
 the window ; they came as before, perfect in colour and 
 form, sweet sounds and shapes. But now in every one 
 was something unutterably miserable ; they would not 
 go away, they put out the steady glow of the golden 
 haze, the sweet light of the sun through the vine 
 leaves, the soft leaning of the full-blown roses. I wan- 
 dered in them for a long time ; at last I felt a hand 
 put me aside gently, for I was standing at the head 
 of of the bed; then some one kissed my forehead, 
 and words were spoken I know not what words. The 
 
 193 M 
 
322 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 bitter dreams left me for the bitterer reality at last ; 
 for I had found him that morning lying dead, only the 
 morning after I had seen him when he had come back 
 from his long absence I had found him lying dead, 
 with his hands crossed downwards, with his eyes closed, 
 as though the angels had done that for him ; and now 
 when I looked at him he still lay there, and Margaret 
 knelt by him with her face touching his : she was not 
 quivering now, her lips moved not at all as they had 
 done just before ; and so, suddenly those words came 
 to my mind which she had spoken when she kissed 
 me, and which at the time I had only heard with my 
 outward hearing, for she had said, ' Walter, farewell, 
 and Christ keep you ; but for me, I must be with him, 
 for so I promised him last night that I would never leave 
 him any more, and God will let me go.' And verily 
 Margaret and Amyot did go, and left me very lonely 
 and sad. 
 
 It was just beneath the westernmost arch of the 
 nave, there I carved their tomb : I was a long time 
 carving it ; I did not think I should be so long at first, 
 and I said, ' I shall die when I have finished carving 
 it,' thinking that would be a very short time. But so 
 it happened after I had carved those two whom I loved, 
 lying with clasped hands like husband and wife above 
 their tomb, that I could not yet leave carving it ; and 
 so that I might be near them I became a monk, and 
 used to sit in the choir and sing, thinking of the time 
 when we should all be together again. And as I had 
 time I used to go to the westernmost arch of the nave 
 and work at the tomb that was there under the great, 
 sweeping arch ; and in process of time I raised a marble 
 canopy that reached quite up to the top of the arch, and 
 I painted it too as fair as I could, and carved it all 
 about with many flowers and histories, and in them 
 I carved the faces of those I had known on earth (for 
 I was not as one on earth now, but seemed quite away 
 out of the world). And as I carved, sometimes the 
 monks and other people too would come and gaze, and 
 watch how the flowers grew ; and sometimes too as 
 
THE STORY OF THE UNKNOWN CHURCH 323 
 
 they gazed, they would weep for pity, knowing how all 
 had been. So my life passed, and I lived in that abbey 
 for twenty years after he died, till one morning, quite 
 early, when they came into the church for matins, they 
 found me lying dead, with my chisel in my hand, 
 underneath the last lily of the tomb. 
 
RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 1835-1906 
 
 THE DUMB ORACLE 
 
 Many the Bacchi that brandish the rod : 
 Few that be filled with the fire of the God. 
 
 IN the days of King Attalus, before oracles had lost 
 their credit, one of peculiar reputation, inspired, as 
 was believed, by Apollo, existed in the city of Dory- 
 laeum, in Phrygia. Contrary to usage, its revelations 
 were imparted through the medium of a male priest. 
 It was rarely left unthronged by devout questioners, 
 whose inquiries were resolved in writing, agreeably 
 to the method delivered by the pious Lucian, in his 
 work Concerning False Prophecy. Sometimes, on extra- 
 ordinary occasions, a voice, evidently that of the deity, 
 was heard declaring the response from the innermost 
 recesses of the shrine. The treasure house of the 
 sanctuary was stored with tripods and goblets, in 
 general wrought from the precious metals ; its coffers 
 were loaded with coins and ingots ; the sacrifices of 
 wealthy suppliants, and the copious offerings in kind 
 of the country people, provided superabundantly for 
 the daily maintenance of the temple servitors ; while 
 a rich endowment in land maintained the dignity of 
 its guardians, and of the officiating priest. The latter 
 reverend personage was no less eminent for prudence 
 than for piety; on which account the Gods had re- 
 warded him with extreme obesity. At length he died, 
 whether of excess in meat or in drink is not agreed 
 among historians. 
 
THE DUMB ORACLE 325 
 
 The guardians of the temple met to choose a successor, 
 and, naturally desirous that the sanctity of the oracle 
 should suffer no abatement, elected a young priest of 
 goodly presence and ascetic life ; the humblest, purest, 
 most fervent, and most ingenuous of the sons of men. 
 So rare a choice might well be expected to be accom- 
 panied by some extraordinary manifestation, and, in 
 fact, a prodigy took place which filled the sacred 
 authorities with dismay. The responses of the oracle 
 ceased suddenly and altogether. No revelation was 
 vouchsafed to the pontiff in his slumbers ; no access 
 of prophetic fury constrained him to disclose the secrets 
 of the future ; no voice rang from the shrine ; and the 
 unanswered epistles of the suppliants lay a hopeless 
 encumbrance on the great altar. As a natural conse- 
 quence they speedily ceased to arrive ; the influx 
 of offerings into the treasury terminated along with 
 them ; the temple-courts were bare of worshippers ; 
 and the only victims whose blood smoked within 
 them were those slain by the priest himself, in the 
 hope of appeasing the displeasure of Apollo. The 
 modest hierophant took all the blame upon his own 
 shoulders; he did not doubt that he had excited 
 the Deity's wrath by some mysterious but heinous 
 pollution; and was confirmed in this opinion by the 
 unanimous verdict of all whom he approached. 
 
 One day as he sat sadly in the temple, absorbed in 
 painful meditation, and pondering how he might best 
 relieve himself of his sacred functions, he was startled 
 by the now unwonted sound of a footstep, and, looking 
 up, espied an ancient woman. Her appearance was 
 rather venerable than prepossessing. He recognized 
 her as one of the inferior ministers of the temple. 
 
 ' Reverend mother,' he addressed her, ' doubtless 
 thou comest to mingle with mine thy supplications to 
 the Deity, that it may please him to indicate the cause, 
 and the remedy of his wrath.' 
 
 * No, son,' returned the venerable personage, ' I pro- 
 pose to occasion no such needless trouble to Apollo, or 
 any other Divinity. I hold within mine own hand 
 
326 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 the power of reviving the splendour of this forsaken 
 sanctuary, and for such consideration as thou wilt thy- 
 self pronounce equitable, I am minded to impart the 
 same unto thee.' And as the astonished priest made 
 no answer, she continued 
 
 ' My price is one hundred pieces of gold.' 
 
 ' Wretch ! ' exclaimed the priest indignantly, ' thy 
 mercenary demand alone proves the vanity of thy 
 pretence of being initiated into the secrets of the Gods. 
 Depart my presence this moment ! ' 
 
 The old woman retired without a syllable of remon- 
 strance, and the incident soon passed from the mind of 
 the afflicted priest. But on the following day, at the same 
 hour, the aged woman again stood before him, and said 
 
 ' My price is two hundred pieces of gold.' 
 
 Again she was commanded to depart, and again 
 obeyed without a murmur. But the adventure now 
 occasioned the priest much serious reflection. To his 
 excited fancy, the patient persistency of the crone 
 began to assume something of a supernatural character. 
 He considered that the ways of the Gods are not as 
 our ways, and that it is rather the rule than the excep- 
 tion with them to accomplish their designs in the most 
 circuitous manner, and by the most unlikely instru- 
 ments. He also reflected upon the history of the 
 Sibyl and her books, and shuddered to think that 
 unseasonable obstinacy might in the end cost the 
 temple the whole of its revenues. The result of his 
 cogitations was a resolution, if the old woman should 
 present herself on the following day, to receive her in 
 a different manner. 
 
 Punctual to the hour she made her appearance, and 
 croaked out, ' My price is three hundred pieces of gold.' 
 
 * Venerable ambassador of Heaven,' said the priest, 
 * thy boon is granted thee. Relieve the anguish of my 
 bosom as speedily as thou mayest.' 
 
 The old woman's reply was brief and expressive. It 
 consisted in extending her open and hollow palm, into 
 which the priest counted the three hundred pieces 
 of gold with as much expedition as was compatible 
 
THE DUMB ORACLE 327 
 
 with the frequent interruptions necessitated by the 
 crone's depositing each successive handful in a leather 
 pouch ; and the scrutiny, divided between jealousy and 
 affection, which she bestowed on each individual coin. 
 
 ' And now,' said the priest, when the operation was 
 at length completed, * fulfil thy share of the compact.' 
 
 ' The cause of the oracle's silence,' returned the old 
 woman, ' is the unworthiness of the minister.' 
 
 ' Alas ! 'tis even as I feared,' sighed the priest. 
 * Declare now, wherein consists my sin ? ' 
 
 * It consists in this,' replied the old woman, ' that 
 the beard of thy understanding is not yet grown ; and 
 that the egg-shell of thy inexperience is still sticking 
 to the head of thy simplicity ; and that thy brains bear 
 no adequate proportion to the skull enveloping them ; 
 and in fine, lest I seem to speak overmuch in parables, 
 or to employ a superfluity of epithets, that thou art an 
 egregious nincompoop.' 
 
 And as the amazed priest preserved silence, she pur- 
 sued 
 
 ' Can aught be more shameful in a religious man than 
 ignorance of the very nature of religion ? Not to know 
 that the term, being rendered into the language of 
 truth, doth therein signify deception practised by the 
 few wise upon the many foolish, for the benefit of both, 
 but more particularly the former ? silly as the 
 crowds who hitherto have brought their folly here, but 
 now carry it elsewhere to the profit of wiser men than 
 thou ! O fool ! to deem that oracles were rendered by 
 Apollo ! How should this be, seeing that there is no 
 such person ? Needs there, peradventure, any greater 
 miracle for the decipherment of these epistles than a hot 
 needle ? As for the supernatural voice, it doth in truth 
 proceed from a respectable, and in some sense a sacred 
 personage, being mine own when I am concealed within 
 a certain recess prepared for me by thy lamented pre- 
 decessor, whose mistress I was in youth, and whose 
 coadjutor I have been in age. I am now ready to 
 minister to thee in the latter capacity. Be ruled by 
 me ; exchange thy abject superstition for common 
 
328 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 sense ; thy childish simplicity for discreet policy ; thy 
 unbecoming spareness for a majestic portliness ; thy 
 present ridiculous and uncomfortable situation for the 
 repute of sanctity, and the veneration of men. Thou 
 wilt own that this is cheap at three hundred pieces.* 
 
 The young priest had hearkened to the crone's 
 discourse with an expression of the most exquisite 
 distress. When she had finished, he arose, and disre- 
 garding his repulsive companion's efforts to detain him, 
 departed hastily from the temple. 
 
 II 
 
 It was the young priest's purpose, as soon as he 
 became capable of forming one, to place the greatest 
 possible distance between himself and the city of 
 Dorylaeum. The love of roaming insensibly grew upon 
 him, and ere long his active limbs had borne him over 
 a considerable portion of Asia. His simple wants were 
 easily supplied by the wild productions of the country, 
 supplemented when needful by the proceeds of light 
 manual labour. By degrees the self-contempt which 
 had originally stung him to desperation took the form 
 of an ironical compassion for the folly of mankind, and 
 the restlessness which had at first impelled him to seek 
 relief in a change of scene gave place to a spirit of 
 curiosity and observation. He learned to mix freely 
 with all orders of men, save one, and rejoiced to find 
 the narrow mysticism which he had imbibed from his 
 previous education gradually yielding to contact with 
 the great world. From one class of men, indeed, he 
 learned nothing the priests, whose society he eschewed 
 with scrupulous vigilance, nor did he ever enter the 
 temples of the Gods. Diviners, augurs, all that made 
 any pretension whatever to a supernatural character, 
 he held in utter abhorrence, and his ultimate return in 
 the direction of his native country is attributed to his 
 inability to persevere further in the path he was follow- 
 ing without danger of encountering Chaldean sooth- 
 sayers, or Persian magi, or Indian gymnosophists. 
 
THE DUMB ORACLE 329 
 
 He cherished, however, no intention of returning to 
 Phrygia, and was still at a considerable distance from 
 that region, when one night, as he was sitting in the inn 
 of a small country town, his ear caught a phrase which 
 arrested his attention. 
 
 ' As true as the oracle of Dorylaeum.' The speaker 
 was a countryman, who appeared to have been asseve- 
 rating something regarded by the rest of the company 
 as greatly in need of confirmation. The sudden start 
 and stifled cry of the ex- priest drew all eyes to him, and 
 he felt constrained to ask, with the most indifferent air 
 he could assume 
 
 ' Is the oracle of Dorylaeum, then, so exceedingly 
 renowned for veracity ? ' 
 
 * Whence comest thou to be ignorant of that ? ' 
 demanded the countryman, with some disdain. ' Hast 
 thou never heard of the priest Eubulides ? ' 
 
 ' Eubulides ! * exclaimed the young traveller, ' that 
 is my own name ! ' 
 
 ' Thou mayest well rejoice, then,' observed another 
 of the guests, * to bear the name of one so holy and pure, 
 and so eminently favoured by the happy Gods. So 
 handsome and dignified, moreover, as I may well assert 
 who have often beheld him discharging his sacred 
 functions. And truly, now that I scan thee more 
 closely, the resemblance is marvellous. Only that thy 
 namesake bears with him a certain air of divinity, not 
 equally conspicuous in thee.' 
 
 ' Divinity ! ' exclaimed another. ' Aye, if Phoebus 
 himself ministered at his own shrine, he could wear no 
 more majestic semblance than Eubulides.' 
 
 ' Or predict the future more accurately,' added a 
 priest. 
 
 ' Or deliver his oracles in more exquisite verse,' 
 subjoined a poet. 
 
 ' Yet is it not marvellous,' remarked another speaker, 
 * that for some considerable time after his installation 
 the good Eubulides was unable to deliver a single 
 oracle ? ' 
 
 'Aye, and that the first he rendered should have 
 
 M3 
 
330 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 foretold the death of an aged woman, one of the 
 ministers of the temple.' 
 
 * Ha ! ' exclaimed Eubulides, * how was that ? ' 
 
 * He prognosticated her decease on the following day, 
 which accordingly came to pass, from her being choked 
 with a piece of gold, not lawfully appertaining to herself, 
 which she was endeavouring to conceal under the root 
 of her tongue.' 
 
 ' The Gods be praised for that ! ' ejaculated Eubu- 
 lides, under his breath, * Pshaw ! as if there were 
 Gods ! If they existed, would they tolerate this vile 
 mockery ? To keep up the juggle well, I know it must 
 be so ; but to purloin my name ! to counterfeit my 
 person ! By all the Gods that are not, I will expose the 
 cheat, or perish in the endeavour.' 
 
 He arose early on the following morning and took 
 his way towards the city of Dorylaeum. The further 
 he progressed in this direction, the louder became the 
 bruit of the oracle of Apollo, and the more emphatic 
 the testimonies to the piety, prophetic endowments, 
 and personal attractions of the priest Eubulides ; his 
 own resemblance to whom was the theme of continual 
 remark. On approaching the city, he found the roads 
 swarming with throngs hastening to the temple, about 
 to take part in a great religious ceremony to be held 
 therein. The seriousness of worship blended delight- 
 fully with the glee of the festival, and Eubulides, who 
 at first regarded the gathering with bitter scorn, found 
 his moroseness insensibly yielding to the poetic charm 
 of the scene. He could not but acknowledge that the 
 imposture he panted to expose was at least the source 
 of much innocent happiness, and almost wished that 
 the importance of religion, considered as an engine of 
 policy, had been offered to his contemplation from this 
 point of view, instead of the sordid and revolting aspect 
 in which it had been exhibited by the old woman. 
 
 In this ambiguous frame of mind he entered the 
 temple. Before the high altar stood the officiating 
 priest, a young man, the image, yet not the image, of 
 himself. Lineament for lineament, the resemblance 
 
THE DUMB ORACLE 331 
 
 was exact, but over the stranger's whole figure was 
 diffused an air of majesty, of absolute serenity and 
 infinite superiority, which excluded every idea of deceit, 
 and so awed the young priest that his purpose of rushing 
 forward to denounce the impostor and drag him from 
 the shrine was immediately and involuntarily relin- 
 quished. As he stood confounded and irresolute, the 
 melodious voice of the hierophant rang through the 
 temple : 
 
 ' Let the priest Eubulides stand forth.' 
 
 This summons naturally created the greatest as- 
 tonishment in every one but Eubulides, who emerged as 
 swiftly as he could from the swaying and murmuring 
 crowd, and confronted his namesake at the altar. A 
 cry of amazement broke from the multitude as they 
 beheld the pair, whose main distinction in the eyes of 
 most was their garb. But, as they gazed, the form of 
 the officiating priest assumed colossal proportions ; 
 a circle of beams, dimming sunlight, broke forth around 
 his head ; hyacinthine locks clustered on his shoulders, 
 his eyes sparkled with supernatural radiance ; a quiver 
 depended at his back ; an unstrung bow occupied his 
 hand ; the majesty and benignity of his presence alike 
 seemed augmented tenfold. Eubulides and the crowd 
 sank simultaneously on their knees, for all recognized 
 Apollo. 
 
 All was silence for a space. It was at length broken 
 by Phoebus. 
 
 'Well, Eubulides,' inquired he, with the bland 
 raillery of an Immortal, ' has it at length occurred to 
 thee that I may have been long enough away from 
 Parnassus, filling thy place here while thou hast been 
 disporting thyself amid heretics and barbarians ? ' 
 
 The abashed Eubulides made no response. The 
 Deity continued : 
 
 'Deem not that thou hast in aught excited the dis- 
 pleasure of the Gods. In deserting their altars for 
 Truth's sake, thou didst render them the most accept- 
 able of sacrifices, the only one, it may be, by which they 
 set much store. But, Eubulides, take heed how thou 
 
332 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 again sufferest the unworthiness of men to overcome 
 the instincts of thine own nature. Thy holiest senti- 
 ments should not have been at the mercy of a knave. 
 If the oracle of Dorylaeum was an imposture, hadst 
 thou no oracle in thine own bosom ? If the voice of 
 Religion was no longer breathed from the tripod, were 
 the winds and waters silent, or had aught quenched the 
 everlasting stars ? If there was no power to impose its 
 mandates from without, couldst thou be unconscious 
 of a power within ? If thou hadst nothing to reveal 
 unto men, mightest thou not have found somewhat to 
 propound unto them ? Know this, that thou hast never 
 experienced a more truly religious emotion than that 
 which led thee to form the design of overthrowing this 
 my temple, the abode, as thou didst deem it, of fraud 
 and superstition.' 
 
 ' But now, Phoebus,' Eubulides ventured to reply, 
 ' shall I not return to the shrine purified by thy pre- 
 sence, and again officiate as thy unworthy minister ? ' 
 
 ' No, Eubulides,' returned Phoebus, with a smile ; 
 ' silver is good, but not for ploughshares. Thy strange 
 experience, thy long wanderings, thy lonely meditations, 
 and varied intercourse with men, have spoiled thee for 
 a priest, while, as I would fain hope, qualifying thee for 
 a sage. Some worthy person may easily be found to 
 preside over this temple ; and by the aid of such 
 inspiration as I may from time to time see meet to 
 vouchsafe him, administer its affairs indifferently well. 
 Do thou, Eubulides, consecrate thy powers to a more 
 august service than Apollo's, to one that shall endure 
 when Delphi and Delos know Ms no more.' 
 
 ' To whose service, Phoebus ? ' inquired Eubulides. 
 
 ' To the service of Humanity, my son,' responded 
 Apollo. 
 
FRANCIS BEET HAUTE 
 
 1839-1902 
 HIGGLES 
 
 WE were eight, including the driver. We had not 
 spoken during the passage of the last six miles, since the 
 jolting of the heavy vehicle over the roughening road 
 had spoiled the Judge's last poetical quotation. The 
 tall man beside the Judge was asleep, his arm passed 
 through the swaying strap and his head resting upon 
 it altogether a limp, helpless-looking object, as if he 
 had hanged himself and been cut down too late. The 
 French lady on the back seat was asleep, too, yet in 
 a half-conscious propriety of attitude, shown even in 
 the disposition of the handkerchief which she held to 
 her forehead, and which partially veiled her face. The 
 lady from Virginia City, travelling with her husband, 
 had long since lost all individuality in a wild confusion 
 of ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. There was no sound 
 but the rattling of wheels and the dash of rain upon the 
 roof. Suddenly the stage stopped, and we became 
 dimly aware of voices. The driver was evidently in 
 the midst of an exciting colloquy with some one in the 
 road a colloquy of which such fragments as ' bridge 
 gone ', ' twenty feet of water ', * can't pass ', were occa- 
 sionally distinguishable above the storm. Then came 
 a lull, and a mysterious voice from the road shouted the 
 parting adjuration, 
 
 'Try Higgles' s.' 
 
 We caught a glimpse of our leaders as the vehicle 
 slowly turned, of a horseman vanishing through the 
 rain, and we were evidently on our way to Higgles's. 
 
 Who and where was Higgles ? The Judge, our 
 
334 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 authority, did not remember the name, and he knew 
 the country thoroughly. The Washoe traveller thought 
 Miggles must keep a hotel. We only knew that we 
 were stopped by high water in front and rear, and that 
 Miggles was our rock of refuge. A ten minutes' splash- 
 ing through a tangled by-road, scarcely wide enough 
 for the stage, and we drew up before a barred and 
 boarded gate in a wide stone wall or fence about eight 
 feet high. Evidently Miggles's, and evidently Miggles 
 did not keep a hoteL 
 
 The driver got down and tried the gate. It was 
 securely locked. 
 
 * Miggles ! O Miggles ! ' 
 No answer. 
 
 * Migg-ells ! You Miggles ! ' continued the driver, 
 with rising wrath. 
 
 * Migglesy ! ' joined in the expressman, persuasively. 
 ' O Miggy ! Mig ! ' 
 
 But no reply came from the apparently insensate 
 Miggles. The Judge, who had finally got the window 
 down, put his head out and propounded a series of 
 questions, which if answered categorically would have 
 undoubtedly elucidated the whole mystery, but which 
 the driver evaded by replying that * if we didn't want 
 to sit in the coach all night, we had better rise up and 
 sing out for Miggles.' 
 
 So we rose up and called on Miggles in chorus ; then 
 separately. And when we had finished, a Hibernian 
 fellow-passenger from the roof called for ' Maygells ! ' 
 whereat we all laughed. While we were laughing, the 
 driver cried * Shoo ! ' 
 
 We listened. To our infinite amazement the chorus 
 of ' Miggles ' was repeated from the other side of the 
 wall, even to the final and supplemental * Maygells '. 
 
 * Extraordinary echo,' said the Judge. 
 
 * Extraordinary d d skunk ! ' roared the driver, 
 contemptuously. 'Come out of that, Miggles, and 
 show yourself ! Be a man, Miggles ! Don't hide in the 
 dark ; I wouldn't if I were you, Miggles,' continued 
 Yuba Bill, now dancing about in an excess of fury. 
 
HIGGLES 335 
 
 * Higgles ! ' continued the voice, * Higgles ! ' 
 
 * Hy good man ! Hr. Hyghail ! ' said the Judge, 
 softening the asperities of the name as much as possible. 
 ' Consider the inhospitality of refusing shelter from the 
 inclemency of the weather to helpless females. Really, 
 
 my dear sir * But a succession of ' Higgles*, ending 
 
 in a burst of laughter, drowned his voice. 
 
 Yuba Bill hesitated no longer. Taking a heavy stone 
 from the road, he battered down the gate, and with 
 the expressman entered the enclosure. We followed. 
 Nobody was to be seen. In the gathering darkness all 
 that we could distinguish was that we were in a garden 
 from the rose-bushes that scattered over us a minute 
 spray from their dripping leaves and before a long, 
 rambling wooden building. 
 
 * Do you know this Higgles ? ' asked the Judge of 
 Yuba Bill. 
 
 4 No, nor don't want to,' said Bill, shortly, who felt 
 the Pioneer Stage Company insulted in his person by the 
 contumacious Higgles. 
 
 ' But, my dear sir,' expostulated the Judge, as he 
 thought of the barred gate. 
 
 ' Lookee here,' said Yuba Bill, with fine irony, 
 * hadn't you better go back and sit in the coach till yer 
 introduced ? I'm going in,' and he pushed open the 
 door of the building. 
 
 A long room lighted only by the embers of a fire that 
 was dying on the large hearth at its further extremity. 
 The walls curiously papered, and the flickering firelight 
 bringing out its grotesque pattern ; somebody sittijig 
 in a large arm-chair by the fireplace. All this we saw 
 as we crowded together into the room, after the driver 
 and expressman. 
 
 * Hello, be you Higgles ? ' said Yuba BUI to the 
 solitary occupant. 
 
 The figure neither spoke nor stirred. Yuba Bill 
 walked wrath! ully toward it, and turned the eye of his 
 coach-lantern upon its face. It was a man's face, pre- 
 maturely old and wrinkled, with very large eyes, in 
 which there was that expression of perfectly gratuitous 
 
336 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 solemnity which I had sometimes seen in an owl's. 
 The large eyes wandered from Bill's face to the lantern, 
 and finally fixed their gaze on that luminous object, 
 without further recognition. 
 
 Bill restrained himself with an effort. 
 
 * Higgles ! Be you deaf ? You ain't dumb anyhow, 
 you know ; ' and Yuba Bill shook the insensate figure 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 To our great dismay, as Bill removed his hand, the 
 venerable stranger apparently collapsed, sinking into 
 half his size and an undistinguishable heap of clothing. 
 
 * Well, dern my skin,' said Bill, looking appealingly 
 at us, and hopelessly retiring from the contest. 
 
 The Judge now stepped forward, and we lifted the 
 mysterious invertebrate back into his original position. 
 BUI was dismissed with the lantern to reconnoitre 
 outside, for it was evident that from the helplessness 
 of this solitary man there must be attendants near at 
 hand, and we all drew around the fire. The Judge, 
 who had regained his authority, and had never lost his 
 conversational amiability, standing before us with his 
 back to the hearth, charged us, as an imaginary jury, 
 as follows : 
 
 * It is evident that either our distinguished friend 
 here has reached that condition described by Shake- 
 speare as " the sere and yellow leaf ", or has suffered 
 some premature abatement of his mental and physical 
 faculties. Whether he is really the Higgles ' 
 
 Here he was interrupted by * Higgles ! O Higgles ! 
 A^igglesy ! Hig ! ' and, in fact, the whole chorus of 
 Higgles in very much the same key as it had once before 
 been delivered unto us. 
 
 We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. 
 The Judge, in particular, vacated his position quickly, 
 as the voice seemed to come directly over his shoulder. 
 The cause, however, was soon discovered in a large 
 magpie who was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, 
 and who immediately relapsed into a sepulchral silence, 
 which contrasted singularly with his previous volu- 
 bility. It was, undoubtedly, his voice which we had 
 
HIGGLES 337 
 
 heard in the road, and our friend in the chair was not 
 responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba Bill, who re- 
 entered the room after an unsuccessful search, was 
 loath to accept the explanation, and still eyed the help- 
 less sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in 
 which he had put up his horses, but he came back 
 dripping and sceptical. ' Thar ain't nobody but him 
 within ten mile of the shanty, and that 'ar d d old 
 skeesicks knows it.' 
 
 But the faith of the majority proved to be securely 
 based. Bill had scarcely ceased growling before we 
 heard a quick step upon the porch, the trailing of a 
 wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with a flash 
 of white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter 
 absence of ceremony or diffidence, a young woman 
 entered, shut the door, and, panting, learned back 
 against it. 
 
 ' Oh, if you please, I'm Higgles ! ' 
 
 And this was Higgles ! this bright-eyed, full-throated 
 young woman, whose wet gown of coarse blue stuff 
 could not hide the beauty of the feminine curves to 
 which it clung ; from the chestnut crown of whose head, 
 topped by a man's oil-skin sou'wester, to the little feet 
 and ankles, hidden somewhere in the recesses of her 
 boy's brogans, all was grace ; this was Higgles, laugh- 
 ing at us, too, in the most airy, frank, off-hand manner 
 imaginable. 
 
 'You see, boys,' said she, quite out of breath, and 
 holding one little hand against her side, quite unheeding 
 the speechless discomfiture of our party, or the complete 
 demoralization of Yuba Bill, whose features had relaxed 
 into an expression of gratuitous and imbecile cheerful- 
 ness, * you see, boys, I was mor'n two miles away 
 when you passed down the road. I thought you might 
 pull up here, and so I ran the whole way, knowing 
 nobody was home but Jim, and and I'm out of 
 breath and that lets me out.' 
 
 And here Higgles caught her dripping oil-skin hat 
 from her head, with a mischievous swirl that scattered 
 a shower of rain-drops over us ; attempted to put back 
 
338 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 her hair ; dropped two hair-pins in the attempt ; 
 laughed and sat down beside Yuba Bill, with her hands 
 crossed lightly on her lap. 
 
 The Judge recovered himself first, and essayed an 
 extravagant compliment. 
 
 * I'll trouble you for that thar har-pin,' said Higgles, 
 gravely. Half a dozen hands were eagerly stretched 
 forward ; the missing hair-pin was restored to its fair 
 owner ; and Higgles, crossing the room, looked keenly 
 in the face of the invalid. The solemn eyes looked back 
 at hers with an expression we had never seen before. 
 Life and intelligence seemed to struggle back into the 
 rugged face. Higgles laughed again, it was a singu- 
 larly eloquent laugh, and turned her black eyes and 
 white teeth once more towards us. 
 
 ' This afflicted person is ' hesitated the Judge. 
 
 * Jim,' said Higgles. 
 
 * Your father ? ' 
 'No.' 
 
 * Brother ? ' 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Husband ? ' 
 
 Higgles darted a quick, half-defiant glance at the 
 two lady passengers who I had noticed did not parti- 
 cipate in the general masculine admiration of Higgles, 
 and said, gravely, ' No ; it's Jim.' 
 
 There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers 
 moved closer to each other; the Washoe husband 
 looked abstractedly at the fire ; and the tall man 
 apparently turned his eyes inward for self-support at 
 this emergency. But Higgles' s laugh, which was very 
 infectious, broke the silence. ' Come,' she said briskly, 
 ' you must be hungry. Who'll bear a hand to help me 
 get tea ? ' 
 
 She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments 
 Yuba Bill was engaged like Caliban in bearing logs 
 for this Hiranda ; the expressman was grinding coffee 
 on the verandah ; to myself the arduous duty of slicing 
 bacon was assigned; and the Judge lent each man 
 his good-humoured and voluble counsel. And when 
 
HIGGLES 339 
 
 Miggles, assisted by the Judge and our Hibernian ' deck 
 passenger', set the table with all the available crockery, 
 we had become quite joyous, in spite of the rain that 
 beat against windows, the wind that whirled down the 
 chimney, the two ladies who whispered together in the 
 corner, or the magpie who uttered a satirical and croak- 
 ing commentary on their conversation from his perch 
 above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see 
 that the walls were papered with illustrated journals, 
 arranged with feminine taste and discrimination. The 
 furniture was extemporized, and adapted from candle- 
 boxes and packing-cases, and covered with gay calico, 
 or the skin of some animal. The arm-chair of the 
 helpless Jim was an ingenious variation of a flour-barrel. 
 There was neatness, and even a taste for the pic- 
 turesque, to be seen in the few details of the long low 
 room. 
 
 The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was 
 a social triumph, chiefly, I think, owing to the rare 
 tact of Miggles in guiding the conversation, asking all 
 the questions herself, yet bearing throughout a frank- 
 ness that rejected the idea of any concealment on her 
 own part, so that we talked of ourselves, of our pros- 
 pects, of the journey, of the weather, of each other, of 
 everything but our host and hostess. It must be con- 
 fessed that Higgles' s conversation was never elegant, 
 rarely grammatical, and that at times she employed 
 expletives, the use of which had generally been yielded 
 to our sex. But they were delivered with such a 
 lighting up of teeth and eyes, and were usually fol- 
 lowed by a laugh a laugh peculiar to Miggles so 
 frank and honest that it seemed to clear the moral 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Once, during the meal, we heard a noise like the 
 rubbing of a heavy body against the outer walls of the 
 house. This was shortly followed by a scratching and 
 sniffing at the door. * That's Joaquin,' said Higgles, 
 in reply to our questioning glances ; ' would you like 
 to see him ? ' Before we could answer she had opened 
 the door, and disclosed a half-grown grizzly, who 
 
340 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 instantly raised himself on his haunches, with his fore- 
 paws hanging down in the popular attitude of men- 
 dicancy, and looked admiringly at Higgles, with a 
 very singular resemblance in his manner to Yuba Bill. 
 'That's my watch-dog,' said Higgles, in explanation. 
 ' Oh, he don't bite,' she added, as the two lady passengers 
 fluttered into a corner. ' Does he, old Toppy ? ' (the 
 latter remark being addressed directly to the sagacious 
 Joaquin). ' I tell you what, boys,' continued Higgles, 
 after she had fed and closed the door ori Ursa Minor, 
 ' you were in big luck that Joaquin wasn't hanging 
 round when you dropped in to-night.' ' Where was 
 he ? ' asked the Judge. ' With me,' said Higgles. ' Lord 
 love you ; he trots round with me nights like as if he 
 was a man.' 
 
 We were silent for a few moments, and listened to 
 the wind. Perhaps we all had the same picture before 
 us, of Higgles walking through the rainy woods, with 
 her savage guardian at her side. The Judge, I remem- 
 ber, said something about Una and her lion ; but Hig- 
 gles received it as she did other compliments, with quiet 
 gravity. Whether she was altogether unconscious of 
 the admiration she excited, she could hardly have 
 been oblivious of Yuba Bill's adoration, I know not ; 
 but her very frankness suggested a perfect sexual 
 equality that was cruelly humiliating to the younger 
 members of our party. 
 
 The incident of the bear did not add anything in 
 Higgles' s favour to the opinions of those of her own sex 
 who were present. In fact, the repast over, a dullness 
 radiated from the two lady passengers that no pine- 
 boughs brought in by Yuba Bill and cast as a sacrifice 
 upon the hearth could wholly overcome. Higgles felt 
 it ; and, suddenly declaring that it was time to * turn 
 in ', offered to show the ladies to their bed in an adjoin- 
 ing room. * You, boys, will have to camp out here by 
 the fire as well as you can,' she added, ' for thar ain't 
 but the one room.' 
 
 Our sex by which, my dear sir, I allude of course 
 to the stronger portion of humanity has been generally 
 
HIGGLES 341 
 
 relieved from the imputation of curiosity, or a fondness 
 for gossip. Yet I am constrained to say, that hardly 
 had the door closed on Higgles than we crowded to- 
 gether, whispering, snickering, smiling, and exchanging 
 suspicions, surmises, and a thousand speculations 
 in regard to our pretty hostess and her singular com- 
 panion. I fear that we even hustled that imbecile 
 paralytic, who sat like a voiceless Hemnon in our midst, 
 gazing with the serene indifference of the Past in his 
 passionless eyes upon our wordy counsels. In the 
 midst of an exciting discussion, the door opened again, 
 and Higgles re-entered. 
 
 But not, apparently, the same Higgles who a few 
 hours before had flashed upon us. Her eyes were 
 downcast, and as she hesitated for a moment on the 
 threshold, with a blanket on her arm, she seemed to 
 have left behind her the frank fearlessness which had 
 charmed us a moment before. Coming into the room, 
 she drew a low stool beside the paralytic's chair, sat 
 down, drew the blanket over her shoulders, and saying, 
 * If it's all the same to you, boys, as we're rather 
 crowded, I'll stop here to-night,' took the invalid's 
 withered hand in her own, and turned her eyes upon the 
 dying fire. An instinctive feeling that this was only 
 premonitory to more confidential relations, and perhaps 
 some shame at our previous curiosity, kept us silent. 
 The rain still beat upon the roof, wandering gusts of 
 wind stirred the embers into momentary brightness, 
 until, in a lull of the elements, Higgles suddenly lifted 
 up her head, and, throwing her hair over her shoulder, 
 turned her face upon the group and asked, 
 
 ' Is there any of you that knows me ? * 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 ' Think again ! I lived at Harysville in '63. Every- 
 body knew me there, and everybody had the right to 
 know me. I kept the Polka Saloon until I came to live 
 with Jim. That 's six years ago. Perhaps I've changed 
 some.' 
 
 The absence of recognition may have disconcerted 
 her. She turned her head to the fire again, and it was 
 
342 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 some seconds before she again spoke, and then more 
 rapidly, 
 
 ' Well, you see, I thought some of you must have 
 known me. There's no great harm done, anyway. 
 What I was going to say was this : Jim here ' she 
 took his hand in both of hers as she spoke ' used to 
 know me, if you didn't, and spent a heap of money upon 
 me. I reckon he spent all he had. And one day it 's 
 six years ago this winter Jim came into my back room, 
 sat down on my sofy, like as you see him in that chair, 
 and never moved again without help. He was struck 
 all of a heap, and never seemed to know what ailed him. 
 The doctors came and said as how it was caused all 
 along of his way of life, for Jim was mighty free and 
 wild like, and that he would never get better, and 
 couldn't last long anyway. They advised me to send 
 him to Frisco to the hospital, for he was no good to any 
 one and would be a baby all his life. Perhaps it was 
 something in Jim's eye, perhaps it was that I never had 
 a baby, but I said 'No'. I was rich then, for I was 
 popular with everybody, gentlemen like yourself, sir, 
 came to see me, and I sold out my business and bought 
 this yer place, because it was sort of out of the way of 
 travel, you see, and I brought my baby here.' 
 
 With a woman's intuitive tact and poetry, she had, 
 as she spoke, slowly shifted her position so as to bring 
 the mute figure of the ruined man between her and 
 her audience, hiding in the shadow behind it, as if she 
 offered it as a tacit apology for her actions. Silent 
 and expressionless, it yet spoke for her; helpless, 
 crushed, and smitten with the Divine thunderbolt, it 
 still stretched an invisible arm around her. 
 
 Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, 
 she went on, 
 
 * It was a long time before I could get the hang of 
 things about yer, for I was used to company and 
 excitement. I couldn't get any woman to help me, 
 and a man I dursent trust ; but what with the Indians 
 hereabout, who'd do odd jobs for me, and having every- 
 thing sent from the North Fork, Jim and I managed 
 
HIGGLES 34a 
 
 to worry through. The Doctor would run up from 
 Sacramento once in a while. He ' d ask to see ' ' Higgles' s 
 baby ", as he called Jim, and when he 'd go away, he 'd 
 say, " Higgles, you're a trump, God bless you ! " and 
 it didn't seem so lonely after that. But the last time 
 he was here he said, as he opened the door to go, " Do 
 you know, Higgles, your baby will grow up to be 
 a man yet and an honour to his mother ; but not here, 
 Higgles, not here ! " And I thought he went away sad 
 and and ' and here Higgles's voice and head were 
 somehow both lost completely in the shadow. 
 
 ' The folks about here are very kind,' said Higgles, 
 after a pause, coming a little into the light again. ' The 
 men from the Fork used to hang around here, until 
 they found they wasn't wanted, and the women are 
 kind and don't call. I was pretty lonely until 
 I picked up Joaquin in the woods yonder one day, 
 when he wasn't so high, and taught him to beg for his 
 dinner ; and then thar's Polly that's the magpie 
 she knows no end of tricks, and makes it quite sociable 
 of evenings with her talk, and so I don't feel like as 
 I was the only living being about the ranch. And 
 Jim here,' said Higgles, with her old laugh again, and 
 coming out quite into the firelight, ' Jim why, boys, 
 you would admire to see how much he knows for 
 a man like him. Sometimes I bring him flowers, and 
 he looks at 'em just as natural as if he knew 'em ; 
 and times, when we're sitting alone, I read him those 
 things on the wall. Why, Lord ! ' said Higgles, with 
 her frank laugh, ' I've read him that whole side of 
 the house this winter. There never was such a man 
 for reading as Jim.' 
 
 4 Why,' asked the Judge, ' do you not marry this 
 man to whom you have devoted your youthful life ? ' 
 
 4 Well, you see,' said Higgles, ' it would be playing 
 it rather low down on Jim, to take advantage of his 
 being so helpless. And then, too, if we were man and 
 wife, now, we'd both know that I was bound to do 
 what I do now of my own accord.' 
 
 * But you are young yet and attractive ' 
 
344 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 ' It 's getting late,' said Higgles, gravely, * and you'd 
 better all turn in. Good-night, boys ; ' and, throwing 
 the blanket over her head, Higgles laid herself down 
 beside Jim's chair, her head pillowed on the low stool 
 that held his feet, and spoke no more. The fire slowly 
 faded from the hearth ; we each sought our blankets 
 in silence ; and presently there was no sound in the 
 long room but the pattering of the rain upon the roof, 
 and the heavy breathing of the sleepers. 
 
 It was nearly morning when I awoke from a troubled 
 dream. The storm had passed, the stars were shining, 
 and through the shutterless window the full moon, 
 lifting itself over the solemn pines without, looked 
 into the room. It touched the lonely figure in the 
 chair with an infinite compassion, and seemed to 
 baptize with a shining flood the lowly head of the 
 woman whose hair, as in the sweet old story, bathed 
 the feet of him she loved. It even lent a kindly poetry 
 to the rugged outline of Yuba Bill, half reclining on 
 his elbow between them and his passengers, with 
 savagely patient eyes keeping watch and ward. And 
 then I fell asleep and only woke at broad day, with 
 Yuba Bill standing over me, and ' All aboard ' ringing 
 in my ears. 
 
 Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Higgles 
 was gone. We wandered about the house and lingered 
 long after the horses were harnessed, but she did not 
 return. It was evident that she wished to avoid 
 a formal leave-taking, and had so left us to depart 
 as we had come. After we had helped the ladies into 
 the coach, we returned to the house and solemnly 
 shook hands with the paralytic Jim, as solemnly settling 
 him back into position after each hand-shake. Then 
 we looked for the last time around the long low room, 
 at the stool where Higgles had sat, and slowly took our 
 seats in the waiting coach. The whip cracked, and we 
 were off ! 
 
 But as we reached the high road, Bill's dexterous 
 hand laid the six horses back on their haunches, and 
 the stage stopped with a jerk. For there, on a little 
 
HIGGLES 345 
 
 eminence beside the road, stood Higgles, her hair 
 flying, her eyes sparkling, her white handkerchief 
 waving, and her white teeth flashing a last 'good-bye '. 
 We waved our hats in return. And then Yuba Bill, as 
 if fearful of further fascination, madly lashed his horses 
 forward, and we sank back in our seats. We exchanged 
 not a word until we reached the North Fork and the 
 stage drew up at the Independence House. Then, the 
 Judge leading, we walked into the bar-room and took 
 our places gravely at the bar. 
 
 * Are your glasses charged, gentlemen ? ' said the 
 Judge, solemnly taking off his white hat. 
 
 They were. 
 
 ' Well, then, here 's to Higgles, GOD BLESS HER ! ' 
 
 Perhaps He had. Who knows ? 
 
 TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 
 
 I DO not think that we ever knew his real name. 
 Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social 
 inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men 
 were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives 
 were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as 
 in the case of ' Dungaree Jack' ; or from some pecu- 
 liarity of habit, as shown in 'Saleratus Bill', so called 
 from an undue proportion of that chemical in his 
 daily bread ; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited 
 in 'The Iron Pirate', a mild, inoffensive man, who 
 earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispro- 
 nunciation of the term 'iron pyrites'. Perhaps this 
 may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry ; 
 but I am constrained to think that it was because 
 a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his 
 own unsupported statement. ' Call yourself Clifford, 
 do you ? ' said Boston, addressing a timid new-comer 
 with infinite scorn ; ' hell is full of such Cliffords ! ' 
 He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name 
 happened to be really Clifford, as ' Jay-bird Charley ', 
 
346 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 unhallowed inspiration of the moment, that clung 
 to him ever after. 
 
 But to return to Tennessee's Partner, whom we 
 never knew by any other than this relative title ; that 
 he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individu- 
 ality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 
 he left Poker Plat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly 
 to procure a wife. He never got any farther than 
 Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young 
 person who waited upon the table at the hotel where 
 he took his meals. One morning he said something to 
 her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to some- 
 what coquettishly break a plate of toast over his 
 upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the 
 kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments 
 later, covered with more toast and victory. That day 
 week they were married by a Justice of the Peace, and 
 returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something 
 more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to 
 tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar, in the gulches 
 and bar-rooms, where all sentiment was modified 
 by a strong sense of humour. 
 
 Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps 
 for the reason that Tennessee, then living with his 
 partner, one day took occasion to say something to 
 the bride on his own account, at which, it is said, she 
 smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated, this time 
 as far as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, 
 and where they went to housekeeping without the aid 
 of a Justice of the Peace. Tennessee's Partner took 
 the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was hia 
 fashion. But to everybody's surprise, when Tennessee 
 one day returned from Marysville, without his partner's 
 wife, she having smiled and retreated with somebody 
 else, Tennessee's Partner was the first man to shake 
 his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who 
 had gathered in the canon to see the shooting were 
 naturally indignant. Their indignation might have 
 found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennes- 
 see's Partner's eye that indicated a lack of humorous 
 
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 347 
 
 appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with 
 a steady application to practical detail which was un- 
 pleasant in a difficulty. 
 
 Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had 
 grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler ; 
 he was suspected to be a thief. In these suspicions 
 Tennessee's Partner was equally compromised; his 
 continued intimacy with Tennessee after the affair 
 above quoted could only be accounted for on the 
 hypothesis of a co-partnership of crime. At last 
 Tennessee's guilt became flagrant. One day he over- 
 took a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger 
 afterwards related that Tennessee beguiled the time 
 with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogi- 
 cally concluded the interview in the following words : 
 * And now, young man, I'll trouble you for your knife, 
 your pistols, and your money. You see your weppings 
 might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your 
 money 's a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think 
 you said your address was San Francisco. I shall 
 endeavour to call.' It may be stated here that Tennes- 
 see had a fine flow of humour, which no business pre- 
 occupation could wholly subdue. 
 
 This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar 
 made common cause against the highwayman. Ten- 
 nessee was hunted in very much the same fashion as 
 his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around 
 him, he made a desperate dash through the Bar, 
 emptying his revolver at the crowd before the Arcade 
 Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canon ; but at its farther 
 extremity he was stopped by a small man on a grey 
 horse. The men looked at each other a moment in 
 silence. Both were fearless, both self-possessed and 
 independent ; and both types of a civilization that in 
 the seventeenth century would have been called 
 heroic, but, in the nineteenth, simply 'reckless'. 
 ' What have you got there ? I call,' said Tennessee, 
 quietly. * Two bowers and an ace,' said the stranger, 
 as quietly, showing two revolvers and a bowie-knife. 
 ' That takes me,' returned Tennessee ; and, with this 
 
348 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 gamblers' epigram, he threw away his useless pistol, 
 and rode back with his captor. 
 
 It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually 
 sprang up with the going down of the sun behind the 
 chaparral-crested mountain was that evening withheld 
 from Sandy Bar. The little canon was stifling with 
 heated resinous odours, and the decaying drift-wood on 
 the Bar sent forth faint, sickening exhalations. The 
 feverishness of day, and its fierce passions, still filled 
 the camp. Lights moved restlessly along the bank of 
 the river, striking no answering reflection from its 
 tawny current. Against the blackness of the pines 
 the windows of the old loft above the express-office 
 stood out staringly bright ; and through their curtain- 
 less panes the loungers below could see the forms of 
 those who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. 
 And above all this, etched on the dark firmament, rose 
 the Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with re- 
 moter passionless stars. 
 
 The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as 
 was consistent with a judge and jury who felt them- 
 selves to some extent obliged to justify, in their verdict, 
 the previous irregularities of arrest and indictment. 
 The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. 
 The excitement and personal feeling of the chase were 
 over ; with Tennessee safe in their hands, they were 
 ready to listen patiently to any defence, which they 
 were already satisfied was insufficient. There being 
 no doubt in their own minds, they were willing to give 
 the prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure 
 in the hypothesis that he ought to be hanged, on 
 general principles, they indulged him with more lati- 
 tude of defence than his reckless hardihood seemed to 
 ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than 
 the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently 
 took a grim pleasure in the responsibility he had 
 created. ' I don't take any hand in this yer game,' 
 had been his invariable but good-humoured reply to 
 all questions. The Judge who was also his captor 
 
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 349 
 
 for a moment vaguely regretted that he had not shot 
 him ' on sight ' that morning, but presently dismissed 
 this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial 
 mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door, 
 and it was said that Tennessee's Partner was there on 
 behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without 
 question. Perhaps the younger members of the jury, 
 to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely 
 thoughtful, hailed him as a relief. 
 
 For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short 
 and stout, with a square face, sunburned into a pre- 
 ternatural redness, clad in a loose duck ' juniper J 
 and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his 
 aspect under any circumstances would have been 
 quaint, and was now even ridiculous. As he stooped 
 to deposit at his feet a heavy carpet-bag he was carry- 
 ing, it became obvious, from partially developed legends 
 and inscriptions, that the material with which his 
 trousers had been patched had been originally intended 
 for a less ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with 
 great gravity, and after having shaken the hand of 
 each person in the room with laboured cordiality, he 
 wiped his serious, perplexed face on a red bandanna 
 handkerchief, a shade lighter than his complexion, laid 
 his powerful hand upon the table to steady himself, 
 and thus addressed the Judge : 
 
 ' I was passin' by,' he began, by way of apology, 
 'and I thought I'd just step in and see how things 
 was gittin' on with Tennessee thar my pardner. It 's 
 a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on 
 the Bar.' 
 
 He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any 
 other meteorological recollection, he again had recourse 
 to his pocket-handkerchief, and for some moments 
 mopped his face diligently. 
 
 ' Have you anything to say in behalf of the prisoner ? ' 
 said the Judge, finally. 
 
 'Thet's it,' said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of 
 relief. * I come yar as Tennessee's pardner knowing 
 him nigh on four year, off and on, wet and dry, in 
 
350 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 luck and out o* luck. His ways ain't allers my ways, 
 but thar ain't any p'ints in that young man, thar ain't 
 any liveliness as he 's been up to, as I don't know. 
 And you sez to me, sez you confidential-like, and 
 between man and man sez you, "Do you know 
 anything in his behalf ? " and I sez to you, sez I 
 confidential-like, as between man and man "What 
 should a man know of his pardner ? " ' 
 
 ' Is this all you have to say ? ' asked the Judge, 
 impatiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sym- 
 pathy of humour was beginning to humanize the 
 Court. 
 
 ' Thet 's so,' continued Tennessee's Partner. ' It 
 ain't for me to say anything agin' him. And now, 
 what 's the case ? Here 's Tennessee wants money, 
 wants it bad, and doesn't like to ask it of his old 
 pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do ? He lays 
 if or a stranger, and he fetches that stranger. And 
 you. lays for him, and you fetches him ; and the 
 honours is easy. And I put it to you, bein' a far- 
 minded man, and to you, gentlemen, all, as far-minded 
 men, ef this isn't so.' 
 
 ' Prisoner,' said the Judge, interrupting, * have you 
 any questions to ask this man ? * 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' continued Tennessee's Partner, hastily. 
 ' I play this yer hand alone. To come down to the 
 bed-rock, it 's just this : Tennessee, thar, has played 
 it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and 
 on this yer camp. And now, what 's the fair thing ? 
 Some would say more ; some would say less. Here's 
 seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch, 
 it 's about all my pile, and call it square ! ' And 
 before a hand could be raised to prevent him, he had 
 emptied the contents of the carpet-bag upon the table. 
 
 For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or 
 two men sprang to their feet, several hands groped 
 for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to ' throw him 
 from the window ' was only overridden by a gesture 
 from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently 
 oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee's Partner 
 
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 351 
 
 improved the opportunity to mop his face again with 
 his handkerchief. 
 
 When order was restored, and the man was made to 
 understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, 
 that Tennessee's offence could not be condone^ by 
 money, his face took a more serious anoT 'sanguinary 
 hue, and those who were nearest to him noticed that 
 his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He 
 hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to 
 the carpet-bag, as if he had not yet entirely caught 
 the elevated sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, 
 and was perplexed with the belief that he had not 
 offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and 
 saying, 'This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and 
 without my pardner,' he bowed to the jury and was 
 about to withdraw, when the Judge called him back. 
 ' If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had 
 better say it now.' For the first time that evening 
 the eyes of the prisoner and his strange advocate met. 
 Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and saying, 
 ' Euchred, old man ! * held out his hand. Tennessee's 
 Partner took it in his own, and saying, ' I just dropped 
 in as I was passin' to see how things was gettin' on,' 
 let the hand passively fall, and adding that ' it was 
 a warm night ', again mopped his face with his hand 
 kerchief, and without another word withdrew. 
 
 The two men never again met each other alive. 
 For the unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to Judge 
 Lynch who, whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was 
 at least incorruptible firmly fixed in the mind of that 
 mythical personage any wavering determination of 
 Tennessee's fate ; and at the break of day he was 
 marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the top of 
 Marley's Hill. 
 
 How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to 
 say anything, how perfect were the arrangements of 
 the committee, were all duly reported, with the 
 addition of a warning moral and example to all future 
 evil- doers, in the Red Dog Clarion, by its editor, 
 who was present, and to whose vigorous English I 
 
352 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty of that mid- 
 summer morning, the blessed amity of earth and air 
 and sky, the awakened life of the free woods and 
 hills, the joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and 
 above all, the infinite Serenity that thrilled through 
 each, was not reported, as not being a part of the 
 social lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish 
 deed was done, and a life, with its possibilities and 
 responsibilities, had passed out of the misshapen thing 
 that dangled between earth and sky, the birds sang, 
 the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as 
 before ; and possibly the Red Dog Clarion was right. 
 Tennessee's Partner was not in the group that 
 surrounded the ominous tree. But as they turned to 
 disperse, attention was drawn to the singular appear- 
 ance of a motionless donkey-cart halted at the side of 
 the road. As they approached, they at once recognized 
 the venerable ' Jenny ' and the two-wheeled cart 
 as the property of Tennessee's Partner, used by him 
 in carrying dirt from his claim ; and a few paces 
 distant the owner of the equipage himself, sitting 
 under a buckeye-tree, wiping the perspiration from his 
 glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he 
 had come for the body of the ' diseased ', ' if it was 
 all the same to the committee '. He didn't wish to 
 
 * hurry anything ' ; he could * wait '. He was not 
 working that day ; and when the gentlemen were done 
 with the ' diseased ', he would take him. ' Ef thar 
 is any present,' he added, in his simple, serious way, 
 
 * as would care to jine in the fun'l, they kin come.' 
 Perhaps it was from a sense of humour, which I have 
 already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar, per- 
 haps it was from something even better than that ; 
 but two- thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation 
 at once. 
 
 It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered 
 into the hands of his partner. As the cart drew up 
 to the fatal tree, we noticed that it contained a 
 rough oblong box, apparently made from a section of 
 sluicing, and half filled with bark and the tassels 
 
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 353 
 
 of pine. The cart was further decorated with slips 
 of willow, and made fragrant with buckeye-blossoms. 
 When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee's 
 Partner drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, and 
 gravely mounting the narrow seat in front, with his 
 feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward. 
 The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace 
 which was habitual with ' Jenny ' even under less 
 solemn circumstances. The men half-curiously, half- 
 jestingly, but all good-humouredly strolled along 
 beside the cart ; some in advance, some a little in the 
 rear of the homely catafalque. But, whether from 
 the narrowing of th^T75acTblP"*some present sense of 
 decorum, as the cart passed on the company fell to the 
 rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming 
 the external show of a formal procession. Jack 
 Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral 
 march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, 
 desisted, from a lack of sympathy and appreciation, 
 not having, perhaps, your true humourist's capacity to 
 be content with the enjoyment of his own fun. 
 
 The way led through Grizzly Canon by this time 
 clothed in funereal drapery and shadows. The red- 
 woods, burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, 
 stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth 
 benediction from their bending boughs upon the 
 passing bier. A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, 
 sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside 
 as the cortege went by. Squirrels hastened to gain 
 a secure outlook from higher boughs ; and the blue- 
 jays, spreading their wings, fluttered before them like 
 outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy Bar were 
 reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee's Partner. 
 Viewed under more favourable circumstances, it 
 would not have been a cheerful place. The unpictur- 
 esque site, the rude and unlovely outlines, the un- 
 savoury details, which distinguish the nest-building of 
 the California miner, were all here, with the dreariness 
 of decay superadded. A few paces from the cabin 
 there was a rough enclosure, which, in the brief days 
 
 193 N 
 
354 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 of Tennessee's Partner's matrimonial felicity, had 
 been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with 
 fern. As we approached it, we were surprised to find 
 that what we had taken for a recent attempt at 
 cultivation was the broken soil about an open grave. 
 
 The cart was halted before the enclosure ; and 
 rejecting the offers of assistance with the same air 
 of sun pie self-reliance he had displayed throughout, 
 Tennessee's Partner lifted the rough coffin on his 
 back, and deposited it, unaided, within the shallow 
 grave. He then nailed down the board which served 
 as a lid ; and mounting the little mound of earth 
 beside it, took off his hat, and slowly mopped his face 
 with his handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a pre- 
 liminary to speech ; and they disposed themselves 
 variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant. 
 
 * When a man,' began Tennessee's Partner, slowly, 
 ' has been running free all day, what 's the natural 
 thing for him to do ? Why, to come home. And if 
 he ain't in a condition to go home, what can his best 
 friend do ? Why, bring him home ! And here 's 
 Tennessee has been running free, and we brings him 
 home from his wandering.' He paused, and picked 
 up a fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his 
 sleeve, and went on : 'It ain't the first time that I've 
 packed him on my back, as you see'd me now. It 
 ain't the first tune that I brought him to this yer cabin 
 when he couldn't help himself ; it ain't the first tune 
 that I and " Jinny " have waited for him on yon hill, 
 and picked him up and so fetched him home, when he 
 couldn't speak, and didn't know me. And now that 
 
 it's the last time, why ' he paused, and rubbed 
 
 the quartz gently on his sleeve 'you see it's sort 
 of rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen,' he 
 added, abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, 
 ' the fun'l 's over ; and my thanks, and Tennessee's 
 thanks, to you for your trouble.' 
 
 Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill 
 in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that 
 after. a few moments' hesitation gradually withdrew. 
 
TENNESSEE'S PARTNER 355 
 
 As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar 
 from view, some, looking back, thought they could see 
 Tennessee's Partner, his work done, sitting upon the 
 grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face buried 
 in his red bandanna handkerchief. But it was argued 
 by others that you couldn't tell his face from his 
 handkerchief at that distance ; and this point remained 
 undecided. 
 
 In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement 
 of that day, Tennessee's Partner was not forgotten. 
 A secret investigation had. cleared him of any com- 
 plicity in Tennessee's guilt, and left only a suspicion 
 of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of 
 calling on him, and jgr^ffering: various uncouth but 
 well-meant kindnesses. BuFlrom that day his rude 
 health and great strength seemed visibly to decline ; 
 and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny 
 grass- blades were beginning to peep from the rocky 
 mound above Tennessee's grave, he took to his bed. 
 
 One night, when the pines beside the cabin were 
 swaying in the storm, and trailing their slender fingers 
 over the roof, and the roar and rush of the swollen 
 river were heard below, Tennessee's Partner lifted his 
 head from the pillow, saying, 'It is tune to go for 
 Tennessee ; I must put " Jinny " in the cart ; ' and 
 would have risen from his bed but for the restraint of 
 his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular 
 fancy: 'There, now, steady, "Jinny," steady, old 
 girl. How dark it is ! Look out for the ruts, and 
 look out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, 
 when he's blind drunk, he drops down right in the 
 trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of 
 the hill. Thar I told you so ! thar he is, coming 
 this way, too, all by himself, sober, and his face 
 a-shining. Tennessee ! Pardner ! ' 
 
 And so they met. 
 
356 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 
 
 BEFORE nine o'clock it was pretty well known all 
 along the river that the two parties of the ' Amity 
 Claim ' had quarrelled and separated at daybreak. At 
 that time the attention of their nearest neighbour had 
 been attracted by the sounds of altercations and two 
 consecutive pistol-shots. Running out, he had seen, 
 dimly, in the grey mist that rose from the river, the 
 tall form of Scott, one of the partners, descending the 
 hill toward the canon ; a moment later, York, the other 
 partner, had appeared from the cabin, and walked in 
 an opposite direction toward the river, passing within 
 a few feet of the curious watcher. Later it was dis- 
 covered that a serious Chinaman, cutting wood before 
 the cabin, had witnessed part of the quarrel. But 
 John was stolid, indifferent, and reticent. ' Me choppee 
 wood, me no fightee,' was his serene response to all 
 anxious queries. ' But what did they say, John ? ' 
 John did not ' sdbe '. Colonel Starbottle deftly ran 
 over the various popular epithets which a generous 
 public sentiment might accept as reasonable provo- 
 cation for an assault. But John did not recognize 
 them. ' And this yer 's the cattle,' said the Colonel, 
 with some severity, ' that some thinks oughter be 
 allowed to testify agin' a White Man! Git you 
 heathen ! ' 
 
 Still the quarrel remained inexplicable. That two 
 men, whose amiability and grave tact had earned for 
 them the title of ' The Peacemakers ', in a community 
 not greatly given to the passive virtues that these 
 men, singularly devoted to each other, should suddenly 
 and violently quarrel, might well excite the curiosity 
 of the camp. A few of the more inquisitive visited 
 the late scene of conflict, now deserted by its former 
 occupants. There was no trace of disorder or confusion 
 in the neat cabin. The rude table was arranged as 
 if for breakfast ; the pan of yellow biscuit still sat 
 upon that hearth whose dead embers might have 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 357 
 
 typified the evil passions that had raged there but an 
 hour before. But Colonel Starbottle's eye albeit, 
 somewhat bloodshot and rheumy was more intent on 
 practical details. On examination, a bullet-hole was 
 found in the doorpost, and another, nearly opposite, 
 in the casing of the window. The Colonel called atten- 
 tion to the fact that the one ' agreed with ' the bore 
 of Scott's revolver, and the other with that of York's 
 derringer. ' They must hev stood about yer,' said the 
 Colonel, taking position ; ' not mor'n three feet apart, 
 and missed ! ' There was a fine touch of pathos in 
 the falling inflection of the Colonel's voice, which was 
 not without effect. A delicate perception of wasted 
 opportunity thrilled his auditors. 
 
 But the Bar was destined to experience a greater 
 disappointment. The two antagonists had not met 
 since the quarrel, and it was vaguely rumoured that, 
 on the occasion of a second meeting, each had deter- 
 mined to kill the other ' on sight '. There was, conse- 
 quently, some excitement and, it is to be feared, no 
 little gratification when, at ten o'clock, York stepped 
 from the Magnolia Saloon into the one, long straggling 
 street of the camp, at the same moment that Scott 
 left the blacksmith's shop at the forks of the road. 
 It was evident, at a glance, that a meeting could only 
 be avoided by the actual retreat of one or the other. 
 
 In an instant the doors and windows of the adjacent 
 saloons were filled with faces. Heads unaccountably 
 appeared above the river-banks and from behind 
 boulders. An empty wagon at the cross-road was 
 suddenly crowded with people, who seemed to have 
 sprung from the earth. There was much running and 
 confusion on the hillside. On the mountain-road, 
 Mr. Jack Hamlin had reined up his horse and was 
 standing upright on the seat of his buggy. And the 
 two objects of this absorbing attention approached 
 each other. 
 
 ' York 's got the sun,' ' Scott'll line him on that 
 tree,' ' He 's waiting to draw his fire,' came from the 
 cart ; and then it was silent. But above this human 
 
358 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 breathlessness the river rushed and sang, and the wind 
 rustled the tree-tops with an indifference that seemed 
 obtrusive. Colonel Starbottle felt it, and, in a moment 
 of sublime preoccupation, without looking around, 
 waved his cane behind him warningly to all nature, 
 and said, * Shu ! ' 
 
 The men were now within a few feet of each other. 
 A hen ran across the road before one of them. A 
 feathery seed-vessel, wafted from a wayside tree, fell 
 at the feet of the other. And, unheeding this irony 
 of Nature, the two opponents came nearer, erect and 
 rigid, looked in each other's eyes, and passed ! 
 
 Colonel Starbottle had to be lifted from the cart. 
 ' This yer camp is played out,' he said, gloomily, as 
 he affected to be supported into the ' Magnolia '. With 
 what further expression he might have indicated his 
 feelings it was impossible to say, for at that moment 
 Scott joined the group. * Did you speak to me ? * he 
 asked of the Colonel, dropping his hand, as if with 
 accidental familiarity, on that gentleman's shoulder. 
 The Colonel, recognizing some occult quality in the 
 touch, and some unknown quantity in tfie glance of 
 his questioner, contented himself by replying, ' No, 
 sir,' with dignity. A few rods away, York's conduct 
 was as characteristic and peculiar. ' You had a mighty 
 fine chance ; why didn't you plump him ? ' said Jack 
 Hamlin, as York drew near the buggy. ' Because 
 I hate him,' was the reply, heard only by Jack. Con- 
 trary to popular belief, this reply was not hissed between 
 the lips of the speaker, but was said in an ordinary 
 tone. But Jack Hamlin, who was an observer of 
 mankind, noticed that the speaker's hands were cold, 
 and his lips dry, as he helped him into the buggy, and 
 accepted the seeming paradox with a smile. 
 
 When Sandy Bar became convinced that the quarrel 
 between York and Scott could not be settled after 
 the usual local methods, it gave no further concern 
 thereto. But presently it was rumoured that the 
 * Amity Claim ' was in litigation, and that its possession 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 359 
 
 would be expensively disputed by each of the partners. 
 As it was well known that the claim in question was 
 ' worked out ' and worthless, and that the partners, 
 whom it had already enriched, had talked of abandon- 
 ing it but a day or two before the quarrel, this proceed- 
 ing could only be accounted for as gratuitous spite. 
 Later, two San Francisco lawyers made their appear- 
 ance in this guileless Arcadia, and were eventually 
 taken into the saloons, and what was pretty much 
 the same thing the confidences of the inhabitants. 
 The results of this unhallowed intimacy were many 
 subpoenas ; and, indeed, when the * Amity Claim ' 
 came to trial, all of Sandy Bar that was not in compul- 
 sory attendance at the county seat came there from 
 curiosity. The gulches and ditches for miles around 
 were deserted. I do not propose to describe that 
 already famous trial. Enough that, in the language 
 of the plaintiff's counsel, ' it was one of no ordinary 
 significance, involving the inherent rights of that un- 
 tiring industry which had developed the Pactolian 
 resources of this golden land ; * and, in the homelier 
 phrase of Colonel Starbottle, * A fuss that gentlemen 
 might hev settled in ten minutes over a social glass, 
 ef they meant business ; or in ten seconds with 
 a revolver, ef they meant fun.' Scott got a verdict, 
 from which York instantly appealed. It was said that 
 he had sworn to spend his last dollar in the struggle, 
 
 In this way Sandy Bar began to accept the enmity 
 of the former partners as a lifelong feud, and the fact 
 that they had ever been friends was forgotten. The 
 few who expected to learn from the trial the origin 
 of the quarrel were disappointed. Among the various 
 conjectures, that which ascribed some occult feminine 
 influence as the cause was naturally popular, in a camp 
 given to dubious compliment of the sex. *My word 
 for it, gentlemen,' said Colonel Starbottle, who had 
 been known in Sacramento as a Gentleman of the 
 Old School, * there 's some lovely creature at the 
 bottom of this.' The gallant Colonel then proceeded to 
 illustrate his theory, by divers sprightly stories, such 
 
360 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 as Gentlemen of the Old School are in the habit of 
 repeating, but which, from deference to the prejudices 
 of gentlemen of a more recent school, I refrain from 
 transcribing here. But it would appear that even the 
 Colonel's theory was fallacious. The only woman who 
 personally might have exercised any influence over 
 the partners, was the pretty daughter of ' old man 
 Folinsbee ', of Poverty Flat, at whose hospitable house 
 which exhibited some comforts and refinements rare 
 in that crude civilization both York and Scott were 
 frequent visitors. Yet into this charming retreat York 
 strode one evening, a month after the quarrel, and, 
 beholding Scott sitting there, turned to the fair hostess 
 with the abrupt query, * Do you love this man ? ' 
 The young woman thus addressed returned that answer 
 at once spirited and evasive which would occur to 
 most of my fair readers in such an exigency. Without 
 another word, York left the house. * Miss Jo ' heaved 
 the least possible sigh as the door closed on York's 
 curls and square shoulders, and then, like a good girl, 
 turned to her insulted guest. ' But would you believe 
 it, dear ? ' she afterward related to an intimate friend, 
 ' the other creature, after glowering at me for a moment, 
 got upon its hind legs, took its hat, and left, too ; 
 and that 's the last I've seen of either.' 
 
 The same hard disregard of all other interests or 
 feelings in the gratification of their blind rancour 
 characterized all their actions. When York purchased 
 the land below Scott's new claim, and obliged the latter, 
 at a great expense, to make a long detour to carry 
 a * tail-race ' around it, Scott retaliated by building 
 a dam that overflowed York's claim on the river. 
 It was Scott, who, in conjunction with Colonel Star- 
 bottle, first organized that active opposition to the 
 Chinamen, which resulted in the driving off of York's 
 Mongolian labourers ; it was York who built the 
 wagon-road and established the express which rendered 
 Scott's mules and pack-trains obsolete ; it was Scott 
 who called into life the Vigilance Committee which 
 expatriated York's friend, Jack Hamlin ; it was York 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 361 
 
 who created the Sandy Bar Herald, which characterized 
 the act as ' a lawless outrage ' and Scott as a * Border 
 Ruffian ' ; it was Scott, at the head of twenty masked 
 men, who, one moonlight night, threw the offending 
 * forms ' into the yellow river, and scattered the types 
 in the dusty road. These proceedings were received 
 in the distant and more civilized outlying towns as 
 vague indications of progress and vitality. I have 
 before me a copy of the Poverty Flat Pioneer for the 
 week ending August 12, 1856, in which the editor, 
 under the head of ' County Improvements ', says : 
 ' The new Presbyterian Church on C Street, at Sandy 
 Bar, is completed. It stands upon the lot formerly 
 occupied by the Magnolia Saloon, which was so 
 mysteriously burnt last month. The temple, which 
 now rises like a Phoenix from the ashes of the Magnolia, 
 is virtually the free gift of H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy 
 Bar, who purchased the lot and donated the lumber. 
 Other buildings are going up in the vicinity, but the 
 most noticeable is the " Sunny South Saloon ", erected 
 by Captain Mat. Scott, nearly opposite the church. 
 Captain Scott has spared no expense in the fur- 
 nishing of this saloon, which promises to be one of the 
 most agreeable places of resort in old Tuolumne. He 
 has recently imported two new, first-class billiard* 
 tables, with cork cushions. Our old friend, "Mountain 
 Jimmy ", will dispense liquors at the bar. We refer 
 our readers to the advertisement in another column. 
 Visitors to Sandy Bar cannot do better than give 
 " Jimmy " a call.' Among the local items occurred 
 the following : * H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy Bar, has 
 offered a reward of $100 for the detection of the parties 
 who hauled away the steps of the new Presbyterian 
 Church, C Street, Sandy Bar, during divine service on 
 Sabbath evening last. Captain Scott adds another 
 hundred for the capture of the miscreants who broke 
 the magnificent plate-glass windows of the new saloon 
 on the following evening. There is some talk of re- 
 organizing the old Vigilance Committee at Sandy Bar.' 
 When, for many months of cloudless weather, the 
 
 N3 
 
362 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 hard, unwinking sun of Sandy Bar had regularly gone 
 down on the unpacified wrath of these men, there was 
 some talk of mediation. In particular, the pastor of 
 the church to which I have just referred a sincere, 
 fearless, but perhaps not fully-enlightened man 
 seized gladly upon the occasion of York's liberality 
 to attempt to reunite the former partners. He preached 
 an earnest sermon on the abstract sinfulness of dis- 
 cord and rancour. But the excellent sermons of the 
 Rev. Mr. Daws were directed to an ideal congregation 
 that did not exist at Sandy Bar a congregation of 
 beings of unmixed vices and virtues, of single impulses, 
 and perfectly logical motives, of preternatural sim- 
 plicity, of childlike faith, and grown-up responsibilities. 
 As, unfortunately, the people who actually attended 
 Mr. Daws's church were mainly very human, somewhat 
 artful, more self-excusing than self-accusing, rather 
 good-natured, and decidedly weak, they quietly shed 
 that portion of the sermon which referred to themselves, 
 and accepting York and Scott who were both in 
 defiant attendance as curious examples of those ideal 
 beings above referred to, felt a certain satisfaction 
 which, I fear, was not altogether Christian-like in 
 their ' raking-down '. If Mr. Daws expected York 
 and Scott to shake hands after the sermon, he was 
 disappointed. But he did not relax his purpose. 
 With that quiet fearlessness and determination which 
 had won for him the respect of men who were too apt 
 to regard piety as synonymous with effeminacy, he 
 attacked Scott in his own house. What he said has 
 not been recorded, but it is to be feared that it was 
 part of his sermon. When he had concluded, Scott 
 looked at him, not unkindly, over the glasses of his 
 bar, and said, less irreverently than the words might 
 convey, ' Young man, I rather like your style ; but 
 when you know York and me as well as you do God 
 Almighty, it '11 be time to talk.' 
 
 And so the feud progressed ; and so, as in more 
 illustrious examples, the private and personal enmity 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 363 
 
 of two representative men led gradually to the evolution 
 of some crude, half-expressed principle or belief. It 
 was not long before it was made evident that those 
 beliefs were identical with certain principles laid down 
 by the founders of the American Constitution, as 
 expounded by the statesmanlike A., or were the fatal 
 quicksands, on which the ship of state might be 
 wrecked, warningly pointed out by the eloquent B. 
 The practical result of all which was the nomination 
 of York and Scott to represent the opposite factions 
 of Sandy Bar in legislative councils. 
 
 For some weeks past, the voters of Sandy Bar and 
 the adjacent camps had been called upon, in large 
 type, to ' RALLY ! ' In vain the great pines at the 
 cross-roads whose trunks were compelled to bear 
 this and other legends moaned and protested from 
 their windy watch-towers. But one day, with fife and 
 drum, and naming transparency, a procession filed 
 into the triangular grove at the head of the gulch. 
 The meeting was called to order by Colonel Starbottle, 
 who, having once enjoyed legislative functions, and 
 being vaguely known as a c war-horse ', was considered 
 to be a valuable partisan of York. He concluded an 
 appeal for his friend, with an enunciation of principles, 
 interspersed with one or two anecdotes so gratuitously 
 coarse that the very pines might have been moved 
 to pelt him with their cast-off cones, as he stood there. 
 But he created a laugh, on which his candidate rode 
 into popular notice ; and when York rose to speak, 
 he was greeted with cheers. But, to the general 
 astonishment, the new speaker at once launched into 
 bitter denunciation of his rival. He not only dwelt 
 upon Scott's deeds and example, as known to Sandy 
 Bar, but spoke of facts connected with his previous 
 career, hitherto unknown to his auditors. To great 
 precision of epithet and directness of statement, the 
 speaker added the fascination of revelation and ex- 
 posure. The crowd cheered, yelled, and were delighted, 
 but when this astounding philippic was concluded, 
 there was a unanimous call for ' Scott ! * Colonel 
 
364 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 Starbottle would have resisted this manifest im- 
 propriety, but in vain. Partly from a crude sense of 
 justice, partly from a meaner craving for excitement, 
 the assemblage was inflexible ; and Scott was dragged, 
 pushed, and pulled upon the platform. 
 
 As his frowsy head and unkempt beard appeared 
 above the railing, it was evident that he was drunk. 
 But it was also evident, before he opened his lips, 
 that the orator of Sandy Bar the one man who could 
 touch their vagabond sympathies (perhaps because he 
 was not above appealing to them) stood before them. 
 A consciousness of this power lent a certain dignity 
 to his figure, and I am not sure but that his very 
 physical condition impressed them as a kind of regal 
 unbending and large condescension. Howbeit, when 
 this unexpected Hector arose from this ditch, York's 
 myrmidons trembled. 
 
 ' There 's naught, gentlemen,' said Scott, leaning 
 forward on the railing, ' there 's naught as that man 
 hez said as isn't true. I was run outer Cairo ; I did 
 belong to the Regulators ; I did desert from the army ; 
 I did leave a wife in Kansas. But thar 's one thing 
 he didn't charge me with, and, maybe, he 's for- 
 gotten. For three years, gentlemen, I was that man's 
 pardner ! ' Whether he intended to say more, I can- 
 not tell ; a burst of applause artistically rounded and 
 enforced the climax, and virtually elected the speaker. 
 That Fall he went to Sacramento ; York went abroad, 
 and for the first time in many years, distance and a new 
 atmosphere isolated the old antagonists. 
 
 With little of change in the green wood, grey rock, 
 and yellow river, but with much shifting of human 
 landmarks, and new faces in its habitations, three 
 years passed over Sandy Bar. The two men, once so 
 identified with its character, seemed to have been 
 quite forgotten. ' You will never return to Sandy 
 Bar,' said Miss Folinsbee, the ' Lily of Poverty Flat ', 
 on meeting York in Paris, * for Sandy Bar is no more. 
 They call it Riverside now ; and the new town is built 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 365 
 
 higher up on the river-bank. By the by, " Jo " says 
 that Scott has won his suit about the " Amity Claim ", 
 and that he lives in the old cabin, and is drunk half 
 his time. 0, I beg your pardon,' added the lively 
 lady, as a flush crossed York's sallow cheek ; ' but, 
 bless me, I really thought that old grudge was made up. 
 I'm sure it ought to be.' 
 
 It was three months after this conversation, and 
 a pleasant summer evening, that the Poverty Flat 
 coach drew up before the veranda of the Union Hotel 
 at Sandy Bar. Among its passengers was one, appa- 
 rently a stranger, in the local distinction of well-fitting 
 clothes and closely shaven face, who demanded a 
 private room and retired early to rest. But before 
 sunrise next morning he arose, and, drawing some 
 clothes from his carpet-bag, proceeded to array himself 
 in a pair of white duck trousers, a white duck overshirt, 
 and straw hat. When this toilet was completed, he 
 tied a red bandanna handkerchief in a loop and threw 
 it loosely over his shoulders. The transformation was 
 complete. As he crept softly down the stairs and 
 stepped into the road, no one would have detected in 
 him the elegant stranger of the previous night, and but 
 few have recognized the face and figure of Henry York 
 of Sandy Bar. 
 
 In the uncertain light of that early hour, and in the 
 change that had come over the settlement, he had to 
 pause for a moment to recall where he stood. The 
 Sandy Bar of his recollection lay below him, nearer 
 the river ; the buildings around him were of later date 
 and newer fashion. As he strode toward the river, 
 he noticed here a schoolhouse and there a church. 
 A little farther on, * The Sunny South ' came in view, 
 transformed into a restaurant, its gilding faded and 
 its paint rubbed off. He now knew where he was; 
 and running briskly down a declivity, crossed a ditch, 
 and stood upon the lower boundary of the Amity 
 Claim. 
 
 The grey mist was rising slowly from the river, 
 clinging to the tree- tops and drifting up the mountain- 
 
366 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 side, until it was caught among these rocky altars, 
 and held a sacrifice to the ascending sun. At his feet 
 the earth, cruelly gashed and scarred by his forgotten 
 engines, had, since the old days, put on a show of green- 
 ness here and there, and now smiled forgivingly up 
 at him, as if things were not so bad after all. A few 
 birds were bathing in the ditch with a pleasant sug- 
 gestion of its being a new and special provision of 
 Nature, and a hare ran into an inverted sluice-box, 
 as he approached, as if it were put there for that 
 purpose. 
 
 He had not yet dared to look in a certain direction. 
 But the sun was now high enough to paint the little 
 eminence on which the cabin stood. In spite of his self- 
 control, his heart beat faster as he raised his eyes toward 
 it. Its window and door were closed, no smoke came 
 from its adobe chimney, but it was else unchanged. 
 When within a few yards of it, he picked up a broken 
 shovel, and shouldering it with a smile, strode toward 
 the door and knocked. There was no sound from 
 within. The smile died upon his lips as he nervously 
 pushed the door open. 
 
 A figure started up angrily and came toward him, 
 a figure whose bloodshot eyes suddenly fixed into a 
 vacant stare, whose arms were at first outstretched 
 and then thrown up in warning gesticulation, a figure 
 that suddenly gasped, choked, and then fell forward 
 in a fit. 
 
 But before he touched the ground, York had him out 
 into the open air and sunshine. In the struggle, both 
 fell and rolled over on the ground. But the next 
 moment York was sitting up, holding the convulsed 
 frame of his former partner on his knee, and wiping 
 the foam from his inarticulate lips. Gradually the 
 tremor became less frequent, and then ceased ; and 
 the strong man lay unconscious in his arms. 
 
 For some moments York held him quietly thus, 
 looking in his face. Afar, the stroke of a woodman's 
 axe a mere phantom of sound was all that broke the 
 stillness. High up the mountain, a wheeling hawk 
 
THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 367 
 
 hung breathlessly above them. And then came voices, 
 and two men joined them. 
 
 * A fight ? ' No, a fit ; and would they help him 
 bring the sick man to the hotel ? 
 
 And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, 
 unconscious of aught but the visions wrought by 
 disease and fear. On the eighth day, at sunrise, he 
 rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, and 
 pressed his hand ; then he spoke : 
 
 ' And it 's you. I thought it was only whisky.' 
 
 York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly 
 working them backward and forward, as his elbow 
 rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile. 
 
 ' And you've been abroad. How did you like Paris ? ' 
 
 ' So, so. How did you like Sacramento ? ' 
 
 ' Bully ! ' 
 
 And that was all they could think to say. Presently 
 Scott opened his eyes again. 
 
 ' I'm mighty weak.' 
 
 ' You'll get better soon.' 
 
 4 Not much.' 
 
 A long silence followed, in which they could hear 
 the sounds of wood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was 
 already astir for the coming day. Then Scott slowly 
 and with difficulty turned his face to York, and said, 
 
 ' I might hev killed you once.' 
 
 ' I wish you had.' 
 
 They pressed each other's hands again, but Scott's 
 grasp was evidently failing. He seemed to summon 
 his energies for a special effort. 
 
 ' Old man ! ' 
 
 ' Old chap.' 
 
 * Closer ! ' 
 
 York bent his head toward the slowly-fading face. 
 
 ' Do ye mind that morning ? ' 
 
 4 Yes.' 
 
 A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott's blue 
 eye, as he whispered, 
 
 ' Old man, thar was too much saleratus in that 
 bread.' 
 
368 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 It is said that these were his last words. For when 
 the sun, which had so often gone down upon the idle 
 wrath of these foolish men, looked again upon them 
 reunited, it saw the hand of Scott fall cold and irre- 
 sponsive from the yearning clasp of his former partner, 
 and it knew that the feud of Sandy Bar was at an end. 
 
 MLISS 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JUST where the Sierra Nevada begins to subside in 
 gentler undulations, and the rivers grow less rapid 
 and yellow, on the side of a great red mountain, stands 
 * Smith's Pocket '. Seen from the red road at sunset, 
 in the red light and the red dust, its white houses look 
 like the outcroppings of quartz on the mountain-side. 
 The red stage topped with red-shirted passengers is 
 lost to view half a dozen times in the tortuous descent, 
 turning up unexpectedly in out-of-the-way places, and 
 vanishing altogether within a hundred yards of the 
 town. It is probably owing to this sudden twist in the 
 road that the advent of a stranger at Smith's Pocket 
 is usually attended with a peculiar circumstance. 
 Dismounting from the vehicle at the stage office, the 
 too confident traveller is apt to walk straight out of 
 town under the impression that it lies in quite another 
 direction. It is related that one of the tunnel-men, 
 two miles from town, met one of these self-reliant 
 passengers with a carpet-bag, umbrella, Harper's 
 Magazine, and other evidences of ' Civilization and 
 Refinement ', plodding along over the road he had just 
 ridden, vainly endeavouring to find the settlement of 
 Smith's Pocket. 
 
 An observant traveller might have found some com- 
 pensation for his disappointment in the weird aspect 
 of that vicinity. There were huge fissures on the 
 hillside, and displacements of the red soil, resembling 
 more the chaos of some primary elemental upheaval 
 
MLISS 369 
 
 than the work of man ; while, half-way down, a long 
 flume straddled its narrow body and disproportionate 
 legs over the chasm, like an enormous fossil of some 
 forgotten antediluvian. At every step smaller ditches 
 crossed the road, hiding in their sallow depths unlovely 
 streams that crept away to a clandestine union with 
 the great yellow torrent below, and here and there 
 were the ruins of some cabin with the chimney alone 
 left intact and the hearthstone open to the skies. 
 
 The settlement of Smith's Pocket owed its origin to 
 the finding of a ' pocket ' on its site by a veritable 
 Smith. Five thousand dollars were taken out of it in 
 one half-hour by Smith. Three thousand dollars were 
 expended by Smith and others in erecting a flume and 
 in tunnelling. And then Smith's Pocket was found 
 to be only a pocket, and subject like other pockets to 
 depletion. Although Smith pierced the bowels of the 
 great red mountain, that five thousand dollars was the 
 first and last return of his labour. The mountain grew 
 reticent of its golden secrets, and the flume steadily 
 ebbed away the remainder of Smith's fortune. Then 
 Smith went into quartz-mining; then into quartz- 
 milling ; then into hydraulics and ditching, and then 
 by easy degrees into saloon-keeping. Presently it was 
 whispered that Smith was drinking a great deal ; then 
 it was known that Smith was a habitual drunkard, and 
 then people began to think, as they are apt to, that he 
 had never been anything else. But the settlement of 
 Smith's Pocket, like that of most discoveries, was 
 happily not dependent on the fortune of its pioneer, 
 and other parties projected tunnels and found pockets. 
 So Smith's Pocket became a settlement with its two 
 fancy stores, its two hotels, its one express-office, and 
 its two first families. Occasionally its one long strag- 
 gling street was overawed by the assumption of the 
 latest San Francisco fashions, imported per express, 
 exclusively to the first families ; making outraged 
 Nature, in the ragged outline of her furrowed surface, 
 look still more homely, and putting personal insult on 
 that greater portion of the population to whom the 
 
370 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 Sabbath, with a change of linen, brought merely the 
 necessity of cleanliness, without the luxury of adorn- 
 ment. Then there was a Methodist Church, and hard 
 by a Monte Bank, and a little beyond, on the mountain- 
 side, a graveyard ; and then a little school-house. 
 
 ' The Master', as he was known to his little flock, 
 sat alone one night in the school-house, with some 
 open copy-books before him, carefully making those 
 bold and full characters which are supposed to com- 
 bine the extremes of chirographical and moral ex- 
 cellence, and had got as far as * Riches are deceitful ', 
 and was elaborating the noun with an insincerity of 
 flourish that was quite in the spirit of his text, when 
 he heard a gentle tapping. The woodpeckers had 
 been busy about the roof during the day, and the noise 
 did not disturb his work. But the opening of the 
 door, and the tapping continuing from the inside, 
 caused him to look up. He was slightly startled by 
 the figure of a young girl, dirty and shabbily clad. 
 Still, her great black eyes, her coarse, uncombed, lustre- 
 less black hair falling over her sun-burned face, her 
 red arms and feet streaked with the red soil, were all 
 familiar to him. It was Melissa Smith, Smith's 
 motherless child. 
 
 'What can she want here ?' thought the master. 
 Everybody knew * Mliss ', as she was called, throughout 
 the length and height of Red Mountain. Everybody 
 knew her as an incorrigible girl. Her fierce, ungovern- 
 able disposition, her mad freaks and lawless character, 
 were in their way as proverbial as the story of her 
 father's weaknesses, and as philosophically accepted 
 by the townsfolk. She wrangled with and fought the 
 schoolboys with keener invective and quite as powerful 
 arm. She followed the trails with a woodman's craft, 
 and the master had met her before, miles away, shoe- 
 less, stockingless, and bareheaded on the mountain 
 road. The miners' camps along the stream supplied 
 her with subsistence during these voluntary pilgrim- 
 ages, in freely offered alms. Not but that a larger protec- 
 tion had been previously extended to Mliss. The Rev. 
 
MLISS 371 
 
 Joshua McSnagley, ' stated ' preacher, had placed her 
 in the hotel as servant, by way of preliminary refine- 
 ment, and had introduced her to his scholars at Sunday 
 School. But she threw plates occasionally at the 
 landlord, and quickly retorted to the cheap witticisms 
 of the guests, and created in the Sabbath School 
 a sensation that was so inimical to the orthodox dullness 
 and placidity of that institution, that, with a decent 
 regard for the starched frocks and unblemished morals 
 of the two pink-and-white-faced children of the first 
 families, the reverend gentleman had her ignominiously 
 expelled. Such were the antecedents, and such the 
 character of Mliss, as she stood before the master. It 
 was shown in the ragged dress, the unkempt hair, and 
 bleeding feet, and asked his pity. It flashed from her 
 black, fearless eyes, and commanded his respect. 
 
 * I come here to-night,' she said rapidly and boldly, 
 keeping her hard glance on hia, * because I knew you 
 was alone. I wouldn't come here when them gals was 
 here. I hate 'em and they hates me. That's why. 
 You keep school, don't you ? I want to be teached ! ' 
 
 If to the shabbiness of her apparel and uncomeliness 
 of her tangled hair and dirty face she had added the 
 humility of tears, the . master would have extended 
 to her the usual moiety of pity, and nothing more. 
 But with the natural though illogical instincts of his 
 species, her boldness awakened in him something of 
 that respect which all original natures pay uncon- 
 sciously to one another in any grade. And he gazed 
 at her the more fixedly as she went on still rapidly, 
 her hand on that door-latch and her eyes on his : 
 
 * My name 's Mliss, Mliss Smith ! You can bet 
 your life on that. My father's Old Smith, Old 
 Bummer Smith, that 's what 's the matter with him. 
 Mliss Smith, and I'm coming to school ! ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' said the master. 
 
 Accustomed to be thwarted and opposed, often 
 wantonly and cruelly, for no other purpose than to 
 excite the violent impulses of her nature, the master's 
 phlegm evidently took her by surprise. She stopped ; 
 
372 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 she began to twist a lock of her hair between her 
 fingers ; and the rigid line of upper lip, drawn over 
 the wicked little teeth, relaxed and quivered slightly. 
 Then her eyes dropped, and something like a blush 
 struggled up to her cheek, and tried to assert itself 
 through the splashes of redder soil, and the sunburn 
 of years. Suddenly she threw herself forward, calling 
 on God to strike her dead, and fell quite weak and 
 helpless, with her face on the master's desk, crying and 
 sobbing as if her heart would break. 
 
 The master lifted her gently and waited for the 
 paroxysm to pass. When with face still averted, she 
 was repeating between her sobs the mea culpa of 
 childish penitence, that 'she'd be good, she didn't 
 mean to,' &c., it came to him to ask her why she had 
 left Sabbath School. 
 
 Why had she left the Sabbath School ? why ? Oh, 
 yes. What did he (McSnagley) want to tell her she 
 was wicked for ? What did he tell her that God hated 
 her for ? If God hated her, what did she want to go 
 to Sabbath School for ? She didn't want to be ' be- 
 holden ' to anybody who hated her. 
 
 Had she told McSnagley this ? 
 
 Yes, she had. 
 
 The master laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and 
 echoed so oddly in the little school-house, and seemed 
 so inconsistent and discordant with the sighing of the 
 pines without, that he shortly corrected himself with 
 a sigh. The sigh was quite as sincere in its way, how- 
 ever, and after a moment of serious silence he asked 
 her about her father. 
 
 Her father? What father ? Whose father ? What 
 had he ever done for her ? Why did the girls hate 
 her ? Come now ! what made the folks say, ' Old 
 Bummer Smith's Mliss ! ' when she passed ? Yes ; 
 oh, yes. She wished he was dead, she was dead, 
 everybody was dead ; and her sobs broke forth anew. 
 
 The master, then, leaning over her, told her as well 
 as he could what you or I might have said after hear- 
 ing such unnatural theories from childish lips ; only 
 
MLISS 373 
 
 bearing in mind perhaps better than you or I the 
 unnatural facts of her ragged dress, her bleeding feet, 
 and the omnipresent shadow of her drunken father. 
 Then, raising her to her feet, he wrapped his shawl 
 around her, and, bidding her come early in the morn- 
 ing, he walked with her down the road. There he 
 bade her ' good night'. The moon shone brightly on 
 the narrow path before them. He stood and watched 
 the bent little figure as it staggered down the road, 
 and waited until it had passed the little graveyard and 
 reached the curve of the hill, where it turned and 
 stood for a moment, a mere atom of suffering outlined 
 against the far-off patient stars. Then he went back 
 to his work. But the lines of the copy-book there- 
 after faded into long parallels of never-ending road, 
 over which childish figures seemed to pass sobbing 
 and crying into .the night. Then, the little school- 
 house seeming lonelier than before, he shut the door 
 and went home. 
 
 The next morning Mliss came to school. Her face 
 had been washed, and her coarse black hair bore 
 evidence of recent struggles with the comb, in which 
 both had evidently suffered. The old defiant look shone 
 occasionally in her eyes, but her manner was tamer and 
 more subdued. Then began a series of little trials and 
 self-sacrifices, in which master and pupil bore an equal 
 part, and which increased the confidence and sympathy 
 between them. Although obedient under the master's 
 eye, at times during recess, if thwarted or stung by 
 a fancied slight, Mliss would rage in ungovernable fury, 
 and many a palpitating young savage, finding himself 
 matched with his own weapons of torment, would seek 
 the master with torn jacket and scratched face, and 
 complaints of the dreadful Mliss. There was a serious 
 division among the townspeople on the subject ; some 
 threatening to withdraw their children from such evil 
 companionship, and others as warmly upholding the 
 course of the master in his work of reclamation. 
 Meanwhile, with a steady persistence that seemed quite 
 astonishing to him on looking back afterward, the 
 
374 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 master drew Mliss gradually out of the shadow of her 
 past life, as though it were but her natural progress 
 down the narrow path on which he had set her feet the 
 moonlit night of their first meeting. Remembering 
 the experience of the evangelical McSnagley, he care- 
 fully avoided that Rock of Ages on which that un- 
 skilful pilot had shipwrecked her young faith. But if, 
 in the course of her reading, she chanced to stumble 
 upon those few words which have lifted such as she 
 above the level of the older, the wiser, and the more 
 prudent, if she learned something of a faith that is 
 symbolized by suffering, and the old light softened in 
 her eyes, it did not take the shape of a lesson. A few 
 of the plainer people had made up a little sum by 
 which the ragged Mliss was enabled to assume the 
 garments of respect and civilization ; and often a rough 
 shake of the hand, and words of homely commenda- 
 tion from a red-shirted and burly figure, sent a glow 
 to the cheek of the young master, and set him to 
 thinking if it was altogether deserved. 
 
 Three months had passed from the time of their first 
 meeting, and the master was sitting late one evening 
 over the moral and sententious copies, when there 
 came a tap at the door, and again Mliss stood before 
 him. She was neatly clad and clean-faced, and there 
 was nothing, perhaps, but the long black hair and 
 bright black eyes to remind him of his former appa- 
 rition. ' Are you busy ? J she asked. ' Can you come 
 with me ? ' and on his signifying his readiness, in her 
 old wilful way she said, ' Come, then, quick ! ' 
 
 They passed out of the door together and into the 
 dark road. As they entered the town the master asked 
 her whither she was going. She replied, ' To see my 
 father.' 
 
 It was the first time he had heard her call him by 
 that filial title, or indeed anything more than ' Old 
 Smith ', or the * Old Man '. It was the first time in 
 three months that she had spoken of him at all, and 
 the master knew she had kept resolutely aloof from 
 him since her great change. Satisfied from her manner 
 
MLISS 375 
 
 that it was fruitless to question her purpose, he passively 
 followed. In out-of-the-way places, low groggeries, 
 restaurants, and saloons ; in gambling-hells and dance- 
 houses, the master, preceded by Mliss, came and went. 
 In the reeking smoke and blasphemous outcries of low 
 dens, the child, holding the master's hand, stood and 
 anxiously gazed, seemingly unconscious of all in the 
 one absorbing nature of her pursuit. Some of the 
 revellers, recognizing Mliss, called to the child to sing 
 and dance for them, and would have forced liquor 
 upon her but for the interference of the master Others, 
 recognizing him mutely, made way for them to pass. 
 So an hour slipped by. Then the child whispered in 
 his ear that there was a cabin on the other side of the 
 creek crossed by the long flume, where she thought he 
 still might be. Thither they crossed, a toilsome half- 
 hour's walk, but in vain. They were returning by 
 the ditch at the abutment of the flume, gazing at the 
 lights of the town on the opposite bank, when, suddenly, 
 sharply, a quick report rang out on the clear night air. 
 The echoes caught it, and carried it round and round 
 Red Mountain, and set the dogs to barking all along 
 the streams. Lights seemed to dance and move quickly 
 on the outskirts of the town for a few moments, the 
 stream rippled quite audibly beside them, a few stones 
 loosened themselves from the hillside, and splashed into 
 the stream, a heavy wind seemed to surge the branches 
 of the funereal pines, and then the silence seemed to 
 fall thicker, heavier, and deadlier. The master turned 
 towards Mliss with an unconscious gesture of protec- 
 tion, but the child had gone. Oppressed by a strange 
 fear, he ran quickly down the trail to the river's bed, 
 and, jumping from boulder to boulder, reached the 
 base of Red Mountain and the outskirts of the village. 
 Midway of the crossing he looked up and held his 
 breath in awe. For high above him, on the narrow 
 flume, he saw the fluttering little figure of his late 
 companion crossing swiftly in the darkness. 
 
 He climbed the bank, and, guided by a few lights 
 moving about a central point on the mountain, soon 
 
376 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 found himself breathless among a crowd of awe-stricken 
 and sorrowful men. Out from among them the child 
 appeared, and, taking the master's hand, led him 
 silently before what seemed a ragged hole in the 
 mountain. Her face was quite white, but her excited 
 manner gone, and her look that of one to whom some 
 long-expected event had at last happened, an expres- 
 sion that, to the master in his bewilderment, seemed 
 almost like relief. The walls of the cavern were partly 
 propped by decaying timbers. The child pointed to 
 what appeared to be some ragged cast-off clothes left in 
 the hole by the late occupant. The master approached 
 nearer with his naming dip, and bent over them. It 
 was Smith, already cold, with a pistol in his hand, and 
 a bullet in his heart, lying beside his empty pocket. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE opinion which McSnagley expressed in reference 
 to a ' change of heart ' supposed to be experienced 
 by Mliss was more forcibly described in the gulches 
 and tunnels. It was thought there that Mliss had 
 'struck a good lead'. So when there was a new 
 grave added to the little enclosure, and at the expense 
 of the master a little board and inscription put above 
 it, the Red Mountain Banner came out quite hand- 
 somely, and did the fair thing to the memory of one 
 of ' our oldest Pioneers ', alluding gracefully to that 
 'bane of noble intellects', and otherwise genteelly 
 shelving our dear brother with the past. ' He leaves 
 an only child to mourn his loss,' says the Banner, ' who 
 is now an exemplary scholar, thanks to the efforts 
 of the Rev. Mr. McSnagley.' The Rev. McSnagley, 
 in fact, made a strong point of Mliss' s conversion, 
 and, indirectly attributing to the unfortunate child 
 the suicide of her father, made affecting allusions in 
 Sunday School to the beneficial effects of the ' silent 
 tomb ', and in this cheerful contemplation drove 
 most of the children into speechless horror, and 
 
MLISS 377 
 
 caused the pink-and- white scions of the first families 
 to howl dismally and refuse to be comforted. 
 
 The long dry summer came. As each fierce day 
 burned itself out in little whiffs of pearl-grey smoke 
 on the mountain summits, and the upspringing breeze 
 scattered its red embers over the landscape, the green 
 wave which in early spring upheaved above Smith's 
 grave grew sere and dry and hard. In those days the 
 master, strolling in the little churchyard of a Sabbath 
 afternoon, was sometimes surprised to find a few wild- 
 flowers plucked from the damp pine-forests scattered 
 there, and oftener rude wreaths hung upon the little 
 pine cross. Most of these wreaths were formed of 
 a sweet-scented grass, which the children loved to keep 
 in their desks, intertwined with the plumes of the 
 buckeye, the syringa, and the wood-anemone ; and 
 here and there the master noticed the dark blue cowl 
 of the monk's-hood, or deadly aconite. There was 
 something in the odd association of this noxious plant 
 with these memorials which occasioned a painful 
 sensation to the master deeper than his aesthetic sense. 
 One day, during a long walk, in crossing a wooded 
 ridge he came upon Mliss in the heart of the forest, 
 perched upon a prostrate pine, on a fantastic throne 
 formed by the hanging plumes of lifeless branches, 
 her lap full of grasses and pine-burrs, and crooning 
 to herself one of the negro melodies of her younger 
 life. Recognizing him at a distance, she made room 
 for him on her elevated throne, and with a grave 
 assumption of hospitality and patronage that would 
 have been ridiculous had it not been so terribly earnest, 
 she fed him with pine-nuts and crab-apples. The 
 master took that opportunity to point out to her the 
 noxious and deadly qualities of the monk's-hood, 
 whose dark blossoms he saw in her lap, and extorted 
 from her a promise not to meddle with it as long as 
 she remained his pupil. This done, as the master 
 had tested her integrity before, he rested satisfied, 
 and the strange feeling which had overcome him on 
 seeing them died away. 
 
378 FRANCIS BEET HARTE 
 
 Of the homes that were offered Mliss when her 
 conversion became known, the master preferred that 
 of Mrs. Morpher, a womanly and kind-hearted speci- 
 men of South-western efflorescence, known in her 
 maidenhood as the ' Per-rairie Rose '. Being one of 
 those who contend resolutely against their own natures, 
 Mrs. Morpher, by a long series of self-sacrifices and 
 struggles, had at last subjugated her naturally careless 
 disposition to principles of 'order', which she con- 
 sidered, in common with Mr. Pope, as 'Heaven's 
 first law'. But she could not entirely govern the 
 orbits of her satellites, however regular her own 
 movements, and even her own ' Jeemes ' sometimes 
 collided with her. Again her old nature asserted 
 itself in her children. Lycurgus dipped into the 
 cupboard 'between meals', and Aristides came home 
 from school without shoes, leaving those important 
 articles on the threshold, for the delight of a bare- 
 footed walk down the ditches. Octavia and Cassandra 
 were 'keerless' of their clothes. So with but one 
 exception, however much the ' Prairie Rose ' might 
 have trimmed and pruned and trained her own matured 
 luxuriance, the little shoots came up defiantly wild 
 and straggling. That one exception was Clytemnestra 
 Morpher, aged fifteen. She was the realization of her 
 mother's immaculate conception, neat, orderly, and 
 dull. 
 
 It was an amiable weakness of Mrs. Morpher to 
 imagine that ' Clytie ' was a consolation and model 
 for Mliss. Following this fallacy, Mrs. Morpher threw 
 Clytie at the head of Mliss when she was 'bad', 
 and set her up before the child for adoration in her 
 penitential moments. It was not, therefore, surprising 
 to the master to hear that Clytie was coming to school, 
 obviously as a favour to the master and as an example 
 for Mliss and others. For ' Clytie ' was quite a young 
 lady. Inheriting her mother's physical peculiarities, 
 and in obedience to the climatic laws of the Red 
 Mountain region, she was an early bloomer. The 
 youth of Smith's Pocket, to whom this kind of flower 
 
MLISS 379 
 
 was rare, sighed for her in April and languished in 
 May. Enamoured swains haunted the school-house 
 at the hour of dismissal. A few were jealous of the 
 master. 
 
 Perhaps it was this latter circumstance that opened 
 the master's eyes to another. He could not help 
 noticing that Clytie was romantic ; that in school she 
 required a great deal of attention ; that her pens were 
 uniformly bad and wanted fixing; that she usually 
 accompanied the request with a certain expectation in 
 her eye that was somewhat disproportionate to the 
 quality of service she verbally required ; that she 
 sometimes allowed the curves of a round, plump white 
 arm to rest on his when he was writing her copies ; 
 that she always blushed and flung back her blond 
 curls when she did so. I don't remember whether 
 I have stated that the master was a young man, it 's 
 of little consequence, however ; he had been severely 
 educated in the school in which Clytie was taking her 
 first lesson, and, on the whole, withstood the flexible 
 curves and factitious glance like the fine young Spartan 
 that he was. Perhaps an insufficient quality of food 
 may have tended to this asceticism. He generally 
 avoided Clytie ; but one evening, when she returned to 
 the school-house after something she had forgotten, and 
 did not find it until the master walked home with her, 
 I hear that he endeavoured to make himself particu- 
 larly agreeable, partly from the fact, I imagine, that 
 his conduct was adding gall and bitterness to the 
 already overcharged hearts of Clytemnestra's admirers. 
 
 The morning after this affecting episode Mliss did 
 not come to school. Noon came, but not Mliss. Ques- 
 tioning Clytie on the subject, it appeared that they had 
 left for school together, but the wilful Mliss had taken 
 another road. The afternoon brought her not. In 
 the evening he called on Mrs. Morpher, whose motherly 
 heart was really alarmed. Mr. Morpher had spent aU 
 day in search of her, without discovering a trace that 
 might lead to her discovery. Aristides was summoned 
 as a probable accomplice, but that equitable infant 
 
380 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 succeeded in impressing the household with his inno- 
 cence. Mrs. Morpher entertained a vivid impression 
 that the child would yet be found drowned in a ditch, 
 or, what was almost as terrible, muddied and soiled 
 beyond the redemption of soap and water. Sick at 
 heart, the master returned to the school-house. As 
 he lit his lamp and seated himself at his desk, he found 
 a note lying before him addressed to himself, in Mliss's 
 handwriting. It seemed to be written on a leaf torn 
 from some old memorandum-book, and, to prevent 
 sacrilegious trifling, had been sealed with six broken 
 wafers. Opening it almost tenderly, the master read 
 as follows : 
 
 RESPECTED SIR, When you read this, I am run away. 
 Never to come back. Never, NEVER, NEVER. You 
 can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my Amerika's 
 Pride [a highly coloured lithograph from a tobacco-box] 
 to Sally Flanders. But don't you give anything to Clytie 
 Morpher. Don't you dare to. Do you know what my 
 opinion is of her, it is this, she is perfekly disgustin. That 
 is all and no more at present from 
 
 Yours respectfully, 
 
 MELISSA SMITH. 
 
 The master sat pondering on this strange epistle till 
 the moon lifted its bright face above the distant hills, 
 and illuminated the trail that led to the school-house, 
 beaten quite hard with the coming and going of little 
 feet. Then, more satisfied in mind, he tore the missive 
 into fragments and scattered them along the road. 
 
 At sunrise the next morning he was picking his way 
 through the palm-like fern and thick underbrush of the 
 pine-forest, starting the hare from its form, and awaken- 
 ing a querulous protest from a few dissipated crows, 
 who had evidently been making a night of it, and so 
 came to the wooded ridge where he had once found 
 Mliss. There he found the prostrate pine and tasselled 
 branches, but the throne was vacant. As he drew 
 nearer, what might have been some frightened animal 
 started through the crackling limbs. It ran up the 
 
MLISS 381 
 
 tossed arms of the fallen monarch, and sheltered itself 
 in some friendly foliage. The master, reaching the old 
 seat, found the nest still warm ; looking up in the 
 intertwining branches, he met the black eyes of the 
 errant Mliss. They gazed at each other without speak- 
 ing. She was first to break the silence. 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' she asked curtly. 
 
 The master had decided on a course of action. 
 * I want some crab-apples,' he said, humbly. 
 
 ' Shan't have 'em ! go away. Why don't you get 
 'em of Clytemnerestera ? ' (It seemed to be a relief 
 to Mliss to express her contempt in additional syllables 
 to that classical young woman's already long-drawn 
 title.) ' Oh, you wicked thing ! ' 
 
 'I am hungry, Lissy. I have eaten nothing since 
 dinner yesterday. I am famished ! ' and the young 
 man, in a state of remarkable exhaustion, leaned 
 against the tree. 
 
 Melissa's heart was touched. In the bitter days of 
 her gipsy life she had known the sensation he so artfully 
 simulated. Overcome by his heartbroken tone, but 
 not entirely divested of suspicion, she said, 
 
 ' Dig under the tree near the roots, and you'll find 
 lots ; but mind you don't tell,' for Mliss had her 
 hoards as well as the rats and squirrels. 
 
 But the master, of course, was unable to find them ; 
 the effects of hunger probably blinding his senses. 
 Mliss grew uneasy. At length she peered at him 
 through the leaves in an elfish way, and questioned, 
 
 * If I come down and give you some, you'll promise 
 you won't touch me ? ' 
 
 The master promised. 
 
 * Hope you'll die if you do ! ' 
 
 The master accepted instant dissolution as a forfeit. 
 Mliss slid down the tree. For a few moments nothing 
 transpired but the munching of the pine-nuts. 'Do 
 you feel better ? ' she asked, with some solicitude. 
 The master confessed to a recuperated feeling, and 
 then, gravely thanking her, proceeded to retrace his 
 steps. As he expected, he had not gone far before she 
 
382 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 called him. He turned. She was standing there 
 quite white, with tears in her widely opened orbs. The 
 master felt that the right moment had come. Going 
 up to her, he took both her hands, and, looking in her 
 tearful eyes, said, gravely, ' Lissy, do you remember 
 the first evening you came to see me ? ' 
 
 Lissy remembered. 
 
 4 You asked me if you might come to school, for you 
 wanted to learn something and be better, and I said ' 
 
 * Come,' responded the child, promptly. 
 
 * What would you say if the master now came to 
 you and said that he was lonely without his little 
 scholar, and that he wanted her to come and teach him 
 to be better ? ' 
 
 The child hung her head for a few moments in 
 silence. The master waited patiently. Tempted by 
 the quiet, a hare ran close to the couple, and raising 
 her bright eyes and velvet forepaws, sat and gazed at 
 them. A squirrel ran half-way down the furrowed 
 bark of the fallen tree, and there stopped. 
 
 'We are waiting, Lissy,' said the master, in a 
 whisper, and the child smiled. Stirred by a passing 
 breeze, the tree-tops rocked, and a long pencil of light 
 stole through their interlaced boughs full on the 
 doubting face and irresolute little figure. Suddenly 
 she took the master's hand in her quick way. What 
 she said was scarcely audible, but the master, putting 
 the black hair back from her forehead, kissed her ; and 
 so, hand in hand, they passed out of the damp aisles 
 and forest odours into the open sunlit road. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SOMEWHAT less spiteful in her intercourse with other 
 scholars, Mliss still retained an offensive attitude in 
 regard to Clytemnestra. Perhaps the jealous element 
 was not entirely lulled in her passionate little breast. 
 Perhaps it was only that the round curves and plump 
 outline offered more extended pinching surface. But 
 
MLISS 383 
 
 while such ebullitions were under the master's control, 
 her enmity occasionally took a new and irrepressible 
 form. 
 
 The master in his first estimate of the child's 
 character could not conceive that she had ever pos- 
 sessed a doll. But the master, like many other 
 professed readers of character, was safer in a pos- 
 teriori than a priori reasoning. Mliss had a doll, 
 but then it was emphatically Mliss' s doll, a smaller 
 copy of herself. Its unhappy existence had been a 
 secret discovered accidentally by Mrs. Morpher. It had 
 been the old-time companion of Mliss' s wanderings, 
 and bore evident marks of suffering. Its original 
 complexion was long since washed away by the weather 
 and anointed by the slime of ditches. It looked very 
 much as Mliss had in days past. Its one gown of 
 faded stuff was dirty and ragged as hers had been. 
 Mliss had never been known to apply to it any childish 
 term of endearment. She never exhibited it in the 
 presence of other children. It was put severely to 
 bed in a hollow tree near the school-house, and only 
 allowed exercise during Mliss' s rambles. Fulfilling 
 a stern duty to her doll, as she would to herself, it 
 knew no luxuries. 
 
 Now Mrs. Morpher, obeying a commendable impulse, 
 bought another doll and gave it to Mliss. The child 
 received it gravely and curiously. The master on 
 looking at it one day fancied he saw a slight resem- 
 blance in its round red cheeks and mild blue eyes to 
 Clytemnestra. It became evident before long that 
 Mliss had also noticed the same resemblance. Accord- 
 ingly she hammered its waxen head on the rocks when 
 she was alone, and sometimes dragged it with a string 
 round its neck to and from school. At other times, 
 setting it up on her desk, she made a pin-cushion of 
 its patient and inoffensive body. Whether this was 
 done in revenge of what she considered a second 
 figurative obtrusion of Clytie's excellences upon her, 
 or whether she had an intuitive appreciation of the 
 rites of certain other heathens, and, indulging in that 
 
384 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 * Fetish ' ceremony, imagined that the original of her 
 wax model would pine away and finally die, is a 
 metaphysical question I shall not now consider. 
 
 In spite of these moral vagaries, the master could 
 not help noticing in her different tasks the working of 
 a quick, restless, and vigorous perception. She knew 
 neither the hesitancy nor the doubts of childhood. 
 Her answers in class were always slightly dashed with 
 audacity. Of course she was not infallible. But her 
 courage and daring in passing beyond her own depth 
 and that of the floundering little swimmers around 
 her, in their minds outweighed all errors of judgement. 
 Children are not better than grown people in this 
 respect, I fancy; and whenever the little red hand 
 flashed above her desk, there was a wondering silence, 
 and even the master was sometimes oppressed with 
 a doubt of his own experience and judgement. 
 
 Nevertheless, certain attributes which at first amused 
 and entertained his fancy began to afflict him with 
 grave doubts. He could not but see that Mliss was 
 revengeful, irreverent, and wilful. That there was but 
 one better quality which pertained to her semi-savage 
 disposition, the faculty of physical fortitude and self- 
 sacrifice, and another, though not always an attribute 
 of the noble savage, Truth. Mliss was both fearless 
 and sincere ; perhaps in such a character the adjectives 
 were synonymous. 
 
 The master had been doing some hard thinking on 
 this subject, and had arrived at that conclusion quite 
 common to all who think sincerely, that he was gener- 
 ally the slave of his own prejudices, when he deter- 
 mined to call on the Rev. McSnagley for advice. This 
 decision was somewhat humiliating to his pride, as he 
 and McSnagley were not friends. But he thought of 
 Mliss, and the evening of their first meeting ; and 
 perhaps with a pardonable superstition that it was not 
 chance alone that had guided her wilful feet to the 
 school-house, and perhaps with a complacent con- 
 sciousness of the rare magnanimity of the act, he 
 choked back his dislike and went to McSnagley. 
 
MLISS 385 
 
 The reverend gentleman was glad to see him. More- 
 over, he observed that the master was looking ' pear- 
 tish ', and hoped he had got over the ' neuralgy ' and 
 ' rheumatiz '. He himself had been troubled with a 
 dumb *ager' since last Conference. But he had 
 learned to ' rastle and pray '. 
 
 Pausing a moment to enable the master to write his 
 certain method of curing the dumb ' ager ' upon the 
 book and volume of his brain, Mr. McSnagley pro- 
 ceeded to inquire after Sister Morpher. ' She is an 
 adornment to Chrisiewanity, and has a likely growin' 
 young family,' added Mr. McSnagley; 'and there's 
 that mannerly young gal, so well behaved, Miss 
 Clytie.' In fact, Cly tie's perfections seemed to affect 
 him to such an extent that he dwelt for several minutes 
 upon them. The master was doubly embarrassed. In 
 the first place, there was an enforced contrast with 
 poor Mliss in all this praise of Clytie. Secondly, there 
 was something unpleasantly confidential in his tone 
 of speaking of Mrs. Morpher' s earliest born. So that 
 the master, after a few futile efforts to say something 
 natural, found it convenient to recall another engage- 
 ment, and left without asking the information required, 
 but in his after reflections somewhat unjustly giving the 
 Rev. Mr. McSnagley the full benefit of having refused it. 
 
 Perhaps this rebuff placed the master and pupil 
 once more in the close communion of old. The child 
 seemed to notice the change in the master's manner, 
 which had of late been constrained, and in one of their 
 long post-prandial walks she stopped suddenly, and, 
 mounting a stump, looked full in his face with big 
 searching eyes. ' You ain't mad ? ' said she, with an 
 interrogative shake of the black braids. ' No.' ' Nor 
 bothered ? ' ' No.' ' Nor hungry ? ' (Hunger was to 
 Mliss a sickness that might attack a person at any 
 moment.) ' No.' ' Nor thinking of her ? ' 'Of whom, 
 Lissy ? ' ' That white girl.' (This was the latest 
 epithet invented by Mliss, who was a very dark 
 brunette, to express Clytemnestra.) 'No.' 'Upon 
 your word?' (A substitute for 'Hope you'll die ?' 
 
 193 
 
386 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 honour ? ' ' Yes.' Then Mliss gave him a fierce little 
 kiss, and, hopping down, fluttered off. For two or 
 three days after that she condescended to appear more 
 like other children, and be, as she expressed it, ' good '. 
 
 Two years had passed since the master's advent at 
 Smith's Pocket, and as his salary was not large, and 
 the prospects of Smith's Pocket eventually becoming 
 the capital of the State not entirely definite, he con- 
 templated a change. He had informed the school 
 trustees privately of his intentions, but, educated young 
 men of unblemished moral character being scarce at 
 that time, he consented to continue his school term 
 through the winter to early spring. None else knew 
 of his intention except his one friend, a Dr. Duchesne, 
 a young Creole physician known to the people of 
 Wingdam as ' Duchesny '. He never mentioned it to 
 Mrs. Morpher, Clytie, or any of his scholars. His 
 reticence was partly the result of a constitutional in- 
 disposition to fuss, partly a desire to be spared the 
 questions and surmises of vulgar curiosity, and partly 
 that he never really believed he was going to do any- 
 thing before it was done. 
 
 He did not like to think of Mliss. It was a selfish 
 instinct, perhaps, which made him try to fancy his 
 feeling for the child was foolish, romantic, and un- 
 practical. He even tried to imagine that she would do 
 better under the control of an older and sterner teacher. 
 Then she was nearly eleven, and in a few years, by the 
 rules of Red Mountain, would be a woman. He had 
 done his duty. After Smith's death he addressed 
 letters to Smith's relatives, and received one answer 
 from a sister of Melissa's mother. Thanking the 
 master, she stated her intention of leaving the Atlantic 
 States for California with her husband in a few months. 
 This was a slight superstructure for the airy castle 
 which the master pictured for Mliss' s home, but it was 
 easy to fancy that some loving, sympathetic woman, 
 with the claims of kindred, might better guide her way- 
 ward nature. Yet, when the master had read the letter, 
 
MLISS 387 
 
 Mliss listened to it carelessly, received it submissively, 
 and afterwards cut figures out of it with her scissors, 
 supposed to represent Clytemnestra, labelled ' the white 
 girl ', to prevent mistakes, and impaled them upon the 
 outer walls of the school-house. 
 
 When the summer was about spent, and the last 
 harvest had been gathered in the valleys, the master 
 bethought him of gathering in a few ripened shoots of 
 the young idea, and of having his Harvest-Home, or 
 Examination. So the savants and professionals of 
 Smith's Pocket were gathered to witness that time- 
 honoured custom of placing timid children in a con- 
 strained position, and bullying them as in a witness-box. 
 As usual in such cases, the most audacious and self- 
 possessed were the lucky recipients of the honours. 
 The reader will imagine that in the present instance 
 Mliss and Clytie were pre-eminent, and divided public 
 attention ; Mliss with her clearness of material per- 
 ception and self-reliance, Clytie with her placid self- 
 esteem and saint-like correctness of deportment. The 
 other little ones were timid and blundering. Mliss' s 
 readiness and brilliancy, of course, captivated the 
 greatest number and provoked the greatest applause. 
 Mliss's antecedents had unconsciously awakened the 
 strongest sympathies of a class whose athletic forms were 
 ranged against the walls, or whose handsome bearded 
 faces looked in at the windows. But Mliss's popularity 
 was overthrown by an unexpected circumstance. 
 
 McSnagley had invited himself, and had been going 
 through the pleasing entertainment of frightening the 
 more timid pupils by the vaguest and most ambiguous 
 questions delivered in an impressive funereal tone ; and 
 Mliss had soared into Astronomy, and was tracking 
 the course of our spotted ball through space, and 
 keeping time with the music of the spheres, and defining 
 the tethered orbits of the planets, when McSnagley 
 impressively arose. ' Meelissy ! ye were speaking of 
 the revolutions of this yere yearth and the move- 
 ments of the sun, and I think ye said it had been 
 a-doing of it since the creashun, eh ? ' Mliss nodded a 
 
388 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 scornful affirmative. ' Well, war that the truth ? ' 
 said McSnagley, folding his arms. ' Yes,' said Mliss, 
 shutting up her little red lips tightly. The handsome 
 outlines at the windows peered further in the school- 
 room, and a saintly Raphael-face, with blond beard 
 and soft blue eyes, belonging to the biggest scamp in 
 the diggings, turned toward the child and whispered, 
 ' Stick to it, Mliss ! ' The reverend gentleman heaved 
 a deep sigh, and cast a compassionate glance at the 
 master, then at the children, and then rested his look 
 on Clytie. That young woman softly elevated her 
 round, white arm. Its seductive curves were enhanced 
 by a gorgeous and massive specimen bracelet, the gift 
 of one of her humblest worshippers, worn in honour 
 of the occasion. There was a momentary silence. 
 Clytie' s round cheeks were very pink and soft. Clytie' s 
 big eyes were very bright and blue. Clytie' s low- 
 necked white book-muslin rested softly on Clytie' s 
 white, plump shoulders. Clytie looked at the master, 
 and the master nodded. Then Clytie spoke softly : 
 
 * Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it 
 obeyed him ! ' There was a low hum of applause in 
 the school-room, a triumphant expression on McSnag- 
 ley' s face, a grave shadow on the master's, and a comical 
 look of disappointment reflected from the windows. 
 Mliss skimmed rapidly over her Astronomy, and then 
 shut the book with a loud snap. A groan burst from 
 McSnagley, an expression of astonishment from the 
 school-room, a yell from the windows, as Mliss brought 
 her red fist down on the desk, with the emphatic 
 declaration, 
 
 ' It's a d n lie. I don't believe it ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE long wet season had drawn near its close. 
 Signs of spring were visible in the swelling buds and 
 rushing torrents. The pine-forests exhaled the fresher 
 spicery. The azaleas were already budding, the 
 oeanothus getting ready its lilac livery for spring. 
 
MLISS 389 
 
 On the green upland which climbed Red Mountain at 
 its southern aspect the long spike of the monk's-hood 
 shot up from its broad-leaved stool, and once more 
 shook its dark-blue bells. Again the billow above 
 Smith's grave was soft and green, its crest just tossed 
 with the foam of daisies and buttercups. The little 
 graveyard had gathered a few new dwellers in the past 
 3 7 ear, and the mounds were placed two by two by the 
 little paling until they reached Smith's grave, and 
 there there was but one. General superstition had 
 shunned it, and the plot beside Smith was vacant. 
 
 There had been several placards posted about the 
 town, intimating that, at a certain period, a celebrated 
 dramatic company would perform, for a few days, 
 a series of ' side -splitting ' and ' screaming ' farces ; 
 that, alternating pleasantly with this, there would be 
 some melodrama and a grand divertisement, which 
 would include singing, dancing, &c. These announce- 
 ments occasioned a great fluttering among the little 
 folk, and were the theme of much excitement and 
 great speculation among the master's scholars. The 
 master had promised Mliss, to whom this sort of thing 
 was sacred and rare, that she should go, and on that 
 momentous evening the master and Mliss ' assisted ' . 
 
 The performance was the prevalent style of heavy 
 mediocrity ; the melodrama was not bad enough to 
 laugh at nor good enough to excite. But the master, 
 turning wearily to the child, was astonished, and felt 
 something like self-accusation in noticing the peculiar 
 effect upon her excitable nature. The red blood 
 flushed in her cheeks at each stroke of her panting 
 little heart. Her small passionate lips were slightly 
 parted to give vent to her hurried breath. Her widely 
 opened lids threw up and arched her black eyebrows. 
 She did not laugh at the dismal comicalities of the 
 funny man, for Mliss seldom laughed. Nor was she 
 discreetly affected to the delicate extremes of the 
 corner of a white handkerchief, as was the tender- 
 hearted 'Clytie', who was talking with her 'feller' 
 and ogling the master at the same moment. But 
 
390 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 when the performance was over, and the green curtain 
 fell on the little stage, Mliss drew a long deep breath, 
 and turned to the master's grave face with a half- 
 apologetic smile and wearied gesture. Then she said, 
 ' Now take me home ! ' and dropped the lids of her 
 black eyes, as if to dwell once more in fancy on the 
 mimic stage. 
 
 On their way to Mrs. Morpher's the master thought 
 proper to ridicule the whole performance. Now he 
 shouldn't wonder if Mliss thought that the young lady 
 who acted so beautifully was really in earnest, and in 
 love with the gentleman who wore such fine clothes. 
 Well, if she were in love with him, it was a very un- 
 fortunate thing ! ' Why ? ' said Mliss, with an upward 
 sweep of the drooping lid. ' Oh ! well, he couldn't 
 support his wife at his present salary, and pay so 
 much a week for his fine clothes, and then they wouldn't 
 receive as much wages if they were married as if 
 they were merely lovers, that is,' added the master, 
 ' if they are not already married to somebody else ; 
 but I think the husband of the pretty young countess 
 takes the tickets at the door, or pulls up the curtain, 
 or snuffs the candles, or does something equally 
 refined and elegant. As to the young man with nice 
 clothes, which are really nice now, and must cost 
 at least two and a half or three dollars, not to speak 
 of that mantle of red drugget which I happen to 
 know the price of, for I bought some of it for my 
 room once, as to this young man, Lissy, he is a pretty 
 good fellow, and if he does drink occasionally, I don't 
 think people ought to take advantage of it and give 
 him black eyes, and throw him in the mud. Do you ? 
 I am sure he might owe me two dollars and a half 
 a long time, before I would throw it up in his face, as 
 the fellow did the other night at Wingdam.' 
 
 Mliss had taken his hand in both of hers and was 
 trying to look in his eyes, which the young man kept 
 as resolutely averted. Mliss had a faint idea of irony, 
 indulging herself sometimes in a species of sardonic 
 humour, which was equally visible in her actions and 
 
MLISS 391 
 
 her speech. But the young man continued in this 
 strain until they had reached Mrs. Morpher's, and he 
 had deposited Mliss in her maternal charge. Waiving 
 the invitation of Mrs. Morpher to refreshment and 
 rest, and shading his eyes with his hand to keep out 
 the blue-eyed Clytemnestra's siren glances, he excused 
 himself, and went home. 
 
 For two or three days after the advent of the 
 dramatic company, Mliss was late at school, and the 
 master's usual Friday afternoon ramble was for once 
 omitted, owing to the absence of his trustworthy 
 guide. As he was putting away his books and pre- 
 paring to leave the school-house, a small voice piped at 
 his side, ' Please, sir ! ' The master turned, and there 
 stood Aristides Morpher. 
 
 ' Well, my little man,' said the master, impatiently, 
 ' what is it ? quick ! ' 
 
 'Please, sir, me and "Kerg" thinks that Mliss is 
 going to run away agin.' 
 
 ' What's that, sir?' said the master, with that unjust 
 testiness with which we always receive disagreeable news. 
 
 ' Why, sir, she don't stay home any more, and 
 " Kerg " and me see her talking with one of those actor 
 fellers, and she 's with him now ; and please, sir, 
 yesterday she told " Kerg " and me she could make a 
 speech as well as Miss Cellerstina Montmoressy, and 
 she spouted right off by heart,' and the little fellow 
 paused in a collapsed condition. 
 
 ' What actor ? ' asked the master. 
 
 ' Him as wears the shiny hat. And hair. And 
 gold pin. And gold chain,' said the just Aristides, 
 putting periods for commas to eke out his breath. 
 
 The master put on his gloves and hat, feeling an 
 unpleasant tightness in his chest and thorax, and 
 walked out in the road. Aristides trotted along by 
 his side, endeavouring to keep pace with his short 
 legs to the master's strides, when the master stopped 
 suddenly, and Aristides bumped up against him. 
 ' Where were they talking ? ' asked the master, as if 
 continuing the conversation. 
 
392 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 ' At the Arcade,' said Aristides. 
 
 When they reached the main street the master 
 paused. ' Run down home,' said he to the boy. 
 ' If Mliss is there, come to the Arcade and tell me. 
 If she isn't there, stay home ; run ! ' And off trotted 
 the short-legged Aristides. 
 
 The Arcade was just across the way, a long, 
 rambling building containing a bar-room, billiard- 
 room, and restaurant. As the young man crossed the 
 plaza he noticed that two or three of the passers-by 
 turned and looked after him. He looked at his clothes, 
 took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, before 
 he entered the bar-room. It contained the usual 
 number of loungers, who stared at him as he entered. 
 One of them looked at him so fixedly, and with such 
 a strange expression, that the master stopped and 
 looked again, and then saw it was only his own reflec- 
 tion in a large mirror. This made the master think 
 that perhaps he was a little excited, and so he took 
 up a copy of the Red Mountain Banner from one of 
 the tables, and tried to recover his composure by 
 reading the column of advertisements. 
 
 He then walked through the bar-room, through the 
 restaurant, and into the billiard-room. The child was 
 not there. In the latter apartment a person was 
 standing by one of the tables with a broad-brimmed 
 glazed hat on his head. The master recognized him 
 as the agent of the dramatic company ; he had taken 
 a dislike to him at their first meeting, from the peculiar 
 fashion of wearing his beard and hair. Satisfied that 
 the object of his search was not there, he turned to 
 the man with a glazed hat. He had noticed the 
 master, but tried that common trick of unconscious- 
 ness, in which vulgar natures always fail. Balancing 
 a billiard- cue in his hand, he pretended to play with 
 a ball in the centre of the table. The master stood 
 opposite to him until he raised his eyes ; when their 
 glances met, the master walked up to him. 
 
 He had intended to avoid a scene or quarrel, but 
 when he began to speak, something kept rising in 
 
MLISS 393 
 
 his throat and retarded his utterance, and his own 
 voice frightened him, it sounded so distant, low, and 
 resonant. 
 
 * I understand,' he began, ' that Melissa Smith, an 
 orphan, and one of my scholars, has talked with you 
 about adopting your profession. Is that so ? ' 
 
 The man with the glazed hat leaned over the table, 
 and made an imaginary shot, that sent the ball spinning 
 round the cushions. Then walking round the table 
 he recovered the ball, and placed it upon the spot. 
 This duty discharged, getting ready for another shot, 
 he said, 
 
 ' S'pose she has ? ' 
 
 The master choked up again, but, squeezing the 
 cushion of the table in his gloved hand, he went on : 
 
 ' If you are a gentleman, I have only to tell you 
 that I am her guardian, and responsible for her career. 
 You know as well as I do the kind of life you offer 
 her. As you may learn of any one here, I have already 
 brought her out of an existence worse than death, out 
 of the streets and the contamination of vice. I am 
 trying to do so again. Let us talk like men. She 
 has neither father, mother, sister, or brother. Are 
 you seeking to give her an equivalent for these ? 
 
 The man with the glazed hat examined the point of 
 his cue, and then looked around for somebody to enjoy 
 the joke with him. 
 
 ' I know that she is a strange, wilful girl,' con- 
 tinued the master, * but she is better than she was. 
 I believe that I have some influence over her still. 
 I beg and hope, therefore, that you will take no further 
 steps in this matter, but as a man, as a gentleman, 
 leave her to me. I am willing ' But here some- 
 thing rose again in the master's throat, and the sentence 
 remained unfinished. 
 
 The man with the glazed hat, mistaking the master's 
 silence, raised his head with a coarse, brutal laugh, 
 and said in a loud voice, 
 
 ' Want her yourself, do you ? That cock won't 
 fight here, young man ! ' 
 
 o3 
 
394 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 The insult was more in the tone than the words, 
 more in the glance than tone, and more in the man's 
 instinctive nature than all these. The best appreciable 
 rhetoric to this kind of animal is a blow. The master 
 felt this, and, with his pent-up, nervous energy finding 
 expression in the one act, he struck the brute full in 
 his grinning face. The blow sent the glazed hat one 
 way and the cue another, and tore the glove and skin 
 from the master's hand from knuckle to joint. It 
 opened up the corners of the fellow's mouth, and spoilt 
 the peculiar shape of his beard for some time to come. 
 
 There was a shout, an imprecation, a scuffle, and 
 the trampling of many feet. Then the crowd parted 
 right and left, and two sharp quick reports followed 
 each other in rapid succession. Then they closed 
 again about his opponent, and the master was stand- 
 ing alone. He remembered picking bits of burning 
 wadding from his coat-sleeve with his left hand. 
 Some one was holding his other hand. Looking at it, 
 he saw it was still bleeding from the blow, but his 
 fingers were clenched around the handle of a glittering 
 knife. He could not remember when or how he got it. 
 
 The man who was holding his hand was Mr. Morpher. 
 He hurried the master to the door, but the master held 
 back, and tried to tell him as well as he could with 
 his parched throat about ' Mliss '. ' It 's all right, 
 my boy,' said Mr. Morpher. ' She 's home ! ' And 
 they passed out into the street together. As they 
 walked along Mr. Morpher said that Mliss had come 
 running into the house a few moments before, and had 
 dragged him out, saying that somebody was trying to 
 kill the master at the Arcade. Wishing to be alone, 
 the master promised Mr. Morpher that he would not 
 seek the Agent again that night, and parted from him, 
 taking the road toward the school-house. He was 
 surprised on nearing it to find the door open, still 
 more surprised to find Miss sitting there. 
 
 The master's nature, as I have hinted before, had, 
 like most sensitive organizations, a selfish basis. The 
 brutal taunt thrown out by his late adversary still 
 
MLISS 395 
 
 rankled in his heart. It was possible, he thought, 
 that such a construction might be put upon his affec- 
 tion for the child, which at best was foolish and 
 Quixotic. Besides, had she not voluntarily abnegated 
 his authority and affection ? And what had everybody 
 else said about her? Why should he alone combat 
 the opinion of all, and be at last obliged tacitly to 
 confess the truth of all they had predicted ? And he 
 had been a participant in a low bar-room fight with 
 a common boor, and risked his life, to prove what ? 
 What had he proved ? Nothing ! What would the 
 people say ? What would his friend say ? What 
 would McSnagley say ? 
 
 In his self-accusation the last person he should 
 have wished to meet was Mliss. He entered the door, 
 and, going up to his desk, told the child, in a few 
 cold words, that he was busy, and wished to be alone. 
 As she rose he took her vacant seat, and, sitting down, 
 buried his head in his hands. When he looked up 
 again she was still standing there. She was looking 
 at his face with an anxious expression. 
 
 ' Did you kill him ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No ! ' said the master. 
 
 ' That 's what I gave you the knife for ! ' said the 
 child, quickly. 
 
 ' Gave me the knife ? ' repeated the master, in 
 bewilderment. "?&X^ 
 
 ' Yes, gave you the knife. I was there under the 
 bar. Saw you hit him. Saw you both fall. He 
 dropped his old knife. I gave it to you. Why didn't 
 you stick him ? ' said Mliss rapidly, with an expressive 
 twinkle of the black eyes and a gesture of the little 
 red hand. 
 
 The master could only look his astonishment. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mliss. ' If you'd asked me, I'd told 
 you I was off with the play-actors. Why was I off 
 with the play-actors ? Because you wouldn't tell me 
 you was going away. I knew it. I heard you tell 
 the Doctor so. I wasn't a-goin' to stay here alone 
 with those Morphers. I'd rather die first.' 
 
396 FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 With a dramatic gesture which was perfectly con- 
 sistent with her character, she drew from her bosom a 
 few limp green leaves, and, holding them out at arm's 
 length, said in her quick vivid way, and in the queer 
 pronunciation of her old life, which she fell into when 
 unduly excited, 
 
 ' That 's the poison plant you said would kill me. 
 I'll go with the play-actors, or I'll eat this and die 
 here. I don't care which. I won't stay here, where 
 they hate and despise me ! Neither would you let 
 me, if you didn't hate and despise me too ! ' 
 
 The passionate little breast heaved, and two big tears 
 peeped over the edge of Mliss's eyelids, but she whisked 
 them away with the corner of her apron as if they had 
 been wasps. 
 
 ' If you lock me up in jail,' said Mliss fiercely, 
 ' to keep me from the play-actors, I'll poison myself. 
 Father killed himself, why shouldn't I ? You said 
 a mouthful of that root would kill me, and I always 
 carry it here,' and she struck her breast with her 
 clenched fist. 
 
 The master thought of the vacant plot beside Smith's 
 grave, and of the passionate little figure before him 
 Seizing her hands in his and looking full into he 
 truthful eyes, he said, 
 
 * Lissy, will you go with me ? 
 
 The child put her arms around his neck, and said 
 joyfully, ' Yes.' 
 
 ' But now to-night ? ' 
 
 ' To-night.' 
 
 And, hand in hand, they passed into the road, the 
 narrow road that had once brought her weary feet to 
 the master's door, and which it seemed she should not 
 tread again alone. The stars glittered brightly above 
 them. For good or ill the lesson had been learned, 
 and behind them the school of Red Mountain closed 
 upon them for ever. 
 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 1850-1894 
 
 MARKHEIM 
 
 ' YES,' said the dealer, ' our windfalls are of various 
 kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch 
 a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dis- 
 honest,' and here he held up the candle, so that the 
 light fell strongly on his visitor, ' and in that case,' he 
 continued, ' I profit by my virtue.' 
 
 Markheim had but just entered from the daylight 
 streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with 
 the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these 
 pointed words, and before the near presence of the 
 flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside. 
 
 The dealer chuckled. ' You come to me on Christ- 
 mas Day,' he resumed, ' when you know that I am 
 alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make 
 a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to 
 pay for that ; you will have to pay for my loss of time, 
 when I should be balancing my books ; you will have 
 to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in 
 you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discre- 
 tion, and ask no awkward questions ; but when a 
 customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for 
 it.' The dealer once more chuckled ; and then, chang- 
 ing to his usual business voice, though still with a note 
 of irony, ' You can give, as usual, a clear account of 
 how you came into the possession of the object ? ' he 
 continued. * Still your uncle's cabinet ? A remarkable 
 collector, sir ! ' 
 
 And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood 
 almost on tiptoe, looking over the top of his gold 
 spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of 
 
398 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of 
 infinite pity, and a touch of horror. 
 
 * This time,' said he, ' you are in error. I have not 
 come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose 
 of ; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the Wjainscpt ; even 
 were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Ex- 
 change, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, 
 and my errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a 
 Christmas present for a lady,' he continued, waxing 
 more fluent as he struck into the speech he had pre- 
 pared ; ' and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus 
 disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing 
 was neglected yesterday ; I must produce my little com- 
 pliment at dinner ; and, as you very well know, a rich 
 marriage is not a thing to be neglected.' 
 
 There followed a pause, during which the dealer 
 seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The 
 ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of 
 the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near 
 thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said the dealer, ' be it so. You are an 
 old customer after all ; and if, as you say, you have 
 the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to be 
 an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now,' he 
 went on, * this hand glass fifteenth century, war- 
 ranted ; comes from a good collection, too ; but I 
 reserve the name, in the interests of my customer, who 
 was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole 
 heir of a remarkable collector.' 
 
 The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and 
 biting voice, had stooped to take the object from its 
 place ; and, as he had done so, a shock had passed 
 through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a 
 sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. 
 It passed as swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond 
 a certain trembling of the hand that now received the 
 glass. 
 
 ' A glass,' he said hoarsely, and then paused, and 
 repeated it more clearly. ' A glass ? For Christinas ? 
 Surely not ? ' 
 
MARKHEIM 399 
 
 ' And why not ? ' cried the dealer. * Why not a 
 
 Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable 
 expression. ' You ask me why not ? ' he said. ' Why, 
 look here look in it look at yourself ! Do you like to 
 see it ? No ! nor I nor any man.' 
 
 The little man had jumped back when Markheim 
 had so suddenly confronted him with the mirror ; but 
 now, perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he 
 chuckled. ' Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard 
 favoured,' said he. 
 
 ' I ask you,' said Markheim, * for a Christmas 
 present, and you give me this this damned reminder 
 of years, and sins, and follies this hand-conscience I 
 Did you mean it ? Had you a thought in your mind ? 
 Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, 
 tell me about yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you 
 are in secret a very charitable man ? ' 
 
 The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was 
 very odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing ; 
 there was something in his face like an eager sparkle of 
 hope, but nothing of mirth. 
 
 ' What are you driving at ? ' the dealer asked. 
 
 ' Not charitable ? ' returned the other gloomily. 
 ' Not charitable ; not pious ; not scrupulous ; un- 
 loving, unbeloved ; a hand to get money, a sale to 
 keep it. Is that all ? Dear God, man, is that all ? ' 
 
 ' I will tell you what it is,' began the dealer, with 
 some sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle. 
 ' But I see this is a love match of yours, and you have 
 been drinking the lady's health.' 
 
 4 Ah ! ' cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. 
 ' Ah, have you been in love ? Tell me about that.' 
 
 ' I,' cried the dealer. ' I in love ! I never had the 
 time, nor have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. 
 Will you take the glass ? ' 
 
 ' Where is the hurry ? ' returned Markheim. ' It 
 is very pleasant to stand here talking ; and life is so 
 short and insecure that I would not hurry away from 
 any pleasure no, not even from so mild a one as this. 
 
400 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 We should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, 
 like a man at a cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, 
 if you think upon it a cliff a mile high high enough, 
 if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. 
 Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each 
 other : why should we wear this mask ? Let us be con- 
 fidential. Who knows, we might become friends ? ' 
 
 ' I have just one word to say to you,' said the dealer. 
 ' Either make your purchase, or walk out of my shop ! ' 
 
 ' True, true,' said Markheim. ' Enough fooling. 
 To business. Show me something else.' 
 
 The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace 
 the glass upon the shelf, his thin blond hair falling 
 over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little 
 nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat ; 
 he drew himself up and filled his lungs ; at the same 
 time many different emotions were depicted together on 
 his face terror, horror, and resolve, fascination and a 
 physical repulsion ; and through a haggard lift of his 
 upper lip, his teeth looked out. 
 
 ' This, perhaps, may suit,' observed the dealer : and 
 then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from 
 behind upon his victim. The long, skewerlike dagger 
 flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, 
 striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on 
 the floor in a heap. 
 
 Time had some score of small voices in that shop, 
 some stately and slow as was becoming to their great 
 age ; others garrulous and hurried. All these told out 
 the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then 
 the passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pave- 
 ment, broke in upon these smaller voices and startled 
 Markheim into the consciousness of his surroundings. 
 He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on 
 the counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught ; 
 and by that inconsiderable movement, the whole room 
 was filled with noiseless bustle and kept heaving like 
 a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of 
 darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, 
 the faces of the portraits and the china gods changing 
 
MARKHEIM 401 
 
 and wavering like images in water. The inner door 
 stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of shadows 
 with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. 
 
 From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes 
 returned to the body of his victim, where it lay both 
 humped and sprawling, incredibly small and strangely 
 meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, 
 in that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much 
 sawdust. Markheim had feared to see it, and, lo ! it 
 was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this bundle of 
 old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent 
 voices. There it must lie ; there was none to work the 
 cunning hinges or direct the miracle of locomotion 
 there it must lie till it was found. Found ! aye, and 
 then ? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that 
 would ring over England, and fill the world with the 
 echoes of pursuit. Aye, dead or not, this was still the 
 enemy. * Time was that when the brains were out,' 
 he thought ; and the first word struck into his mind. 
 Time, now that the deed was accomplished time, 
 which had closed for the victim, had become instant 
 and momentous for the slayer. 
 
 The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one 
 and then another, with every variety of pace and voice 
 one deep as the bell from a cathedral turret, another 
 ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz 
 the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that 
 dumb chamber staggered him. He began to bestir 
 himself, going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered 
 by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance 
 reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home design, 
 some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face 
 repeated and repeated, as it were an army of spies ; 
 his own eyes met and detected him ; and the sound 
 of his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the sur- 
 rounding quiet. And still, as he continued to fill his 
 pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening itera- 
 tion, of the thousand faults of his design. He should 
 
402 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 have chosen a more quiet hour ; he should have pre- 
 pared an alibi ; he should not have used a knife ; 
 he should have been more cautious, and only bound 
 and gagged the dealer, and not killed him ; he should 
 have been more bold, and killed the servant also ; he 
 should have done all things otherwise: poignant 
 regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change 
 what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, 
 to be the architect of the irrevocable past. Mean- 
 while, and behind all this activity, brute terrors, like 
 the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, filled the 
 more remote chambers of his brain with riot ; the hand 
 of the constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and 
 his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish ; or he beheld, 
 in galloping defile, the dock, the prison, the gallows, 
 and the black coffin. 
 
 Terror of the people in the street sat down before 
 his mind like a besieging army. It was impossible, 
 he thought, but that some rumour of the struggle 
 must have reached their ears and set on edge their 
 curiosity ; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, 
 he divined them sitting motionless and with uplifted 
 ear solitary people, condemned to spend Christmas 
 dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now 
 startingly recalled from that tender exercise ; happy 
 family parties, struck into silence round the table, 
 the mother still with raised finger : every degree and 
 age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, prying 
 and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to 
 hang him. Sometimes it seemed to him he could not 
 move too softly ; the clink of the tall Bohemian goblets 
 rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by the 
 bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the 
 clocks. And then, again, with a swift transition of 
 his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared 
 a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the 
 passer-by ; and he would step more boldly, and bustle 
 aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, 
 with elaborate bravado, the movements of a busy man 
 at ease in his own house. 
 
MARKHEIM 403 
 
 But he was now so pulled about by different alarms 
 that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and 
 cunning, another trembled on the brink of lunacy. 
 One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on 
 his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white 
 face beside his window, the passer-by arrested by a 
 horrible surmise on the pavement these could at 
 worst suspect, they could not know ; through the 
 brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could 
 penetrate. But here, within the house, was he alone ? 
 He knew he was ; he had watched the servant set 
 forth sweethearting, hi her poor best, 'out for the 
 day ' written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was 
 alone, of course ; and yet, in the bulk of empty house 
 above him, he could surely hear a stir of delicate 
 footing he was surely conscious, inexplicably con- 
 scious of some presence. Aye, surely ; to every room 
 and corner of the house his imagination followed it; 
 and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had eyes 
 to see with ; and again it was a shadow of himself ; 
 and yet again behold the image of the dead dealer, 
 reinspired with cunning and hatred. 
 
 At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at 
 the open door which still seemed to repel his eyes. 
 The house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the 
 day blind with fog ; and the light that filtered down 
 to the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed 
 dimly on the threshold of the shop. And yet, in that 
 strip of doubtful brightness, did there not hang waver- 
 ing a shadow ? 
 
 Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial 
 gentleman began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, 
 accompanying his blows with shouts and railleries in 
 which the dealer was continually called upon by name. 
 Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. 
 But no ! he lay quite still ; he was fled away far beyond 
 earshot of these blows and shoutings ; he was sunk 
 beneath seas of silence ; and his name, which would 
 once have caught his notice above the howling of a 
 storm, had become an empty sound. And presently 
 
404 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 the jovial gentleman desisted from his knocking and 
 departed. 
 
 Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to 
 be done, to get forth from this accusing neighbour- 
 hood, to plunge into a bath of London multitudes, 
 and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of 
 safety and apparent innocence his bed One visitor 
 had come : at any moment another might follow and 
 be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and yet 
 not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. 
 The money, that was now Markheim's concern ; and 
 as a means to that, the keys. 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, 
 where the shadow was still lingering and shivering ; 
 and with no conscious repugnance of the mind, yet 
 with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of 
 his victim. The human character had quite departed. 
 Like a suit half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scat- 
 tered, the trunk doubled, on the floor ; and yet the 
 thing repelled him. Although so dingy and incon- 
 siderable to the eye, he feared it might have more 
 significance to the touch. He took the body by the 
 shoulders, and turned.it on its back. It was strangely 
 light and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been 
 broken, fell into the oddest postures. The face was 
 robbed of all expression ; but it was as pale as wax, 
 and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. 
 That was, for Markheim, the one displeasing circum- 
 stance. It carried him back, upon the instant, to a 
 certain fair- day in a fishers' village : a grey day, 
 a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of 
 brasses, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a 
 ballad singer ; and a boy going to and fro, buried over 
 head in the crowd and divided between interest and 
 fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of con- 
 course, he beheld a booth and a great screen with 
 pictures, dismally designed, garishly coloured : Brown - 
 rigg with her apprentice ; the Mannings with their 
 murdered guest ; Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell ; 
 and a score besides of famous crimes. The thing was 
 
MARKHEIM 405 
 
 as clear as an illusion ; he was once again that little 
 boy ; he was looking once again, and with the same 
 sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures ; he was 
 still stunned by the thumping of the drums. A bar 
 of that day's music returned upon his memory ; and 
 at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, 
 a breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, 
 which he must instantly resist and conquer. 
 
 He judged it more prudent to confront than to 
 flee from these considerations ; looking the more 
 hardily in the dead face, bending his mind to realize 
 the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a 
 while ago that face had moved with every change of 
 sentiment, that pale mouth had spoken, that body 
 had been all on fire with governable energies ; and now, 
 and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, 
 as the horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the 
 beating of the clock. So he reasoned in vain; he 
 could rise to no more remorseful consciousness ; the 
 same heart which had shuddered before the painted 
 effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At 
 best, he felt a gleam of pity for one who had been 
 endowed in vain with all those faculties that can 
 make the world a garden of enchantment, one who 
 had never lived and who was now dead. But of peni- 
 tence, no, not a tremor. 
 
 With that, shaking himself clear of these considera- 
 tions, he found the keys and advanced towards the 
 open door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain 
 smartly ; and the sound of the shower upon the roof 
 had banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, 
 the chambers of the house were haunted by an in- 
 cessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled 
 with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim 
 approached the door, he seemed to hear, in answer 
 to his own cautious tread, the steps of another foot 
 withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated 
 loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of 
 resolve upon his muscles, and drew back the door. 
 
 The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the 
 
406 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 bare floor and stairs ; on the bright suit of armour 
 posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing ; and on 
 the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that 
 hung against the yellow panels of the wainscot. So 
 loud was the beating of the rain through all the 
 house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be dis- 
 tinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps 
 and sighs, the tread of regiments marching in the 
 distance, the chink of money in the counting, and 
 the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared 
 to mingle with the patter of the drops upon the 
 cupola- and the gushing of the water in the pipes. 
 TKe' sense that he was not alone grew upon him to 
 the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted 
 and begirt by presences. He heard them moving 
 in the upper chambers ; from the shop, he heard 
 the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began 
 with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly 
 before him and followed stealthily behind. If he were 
 but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess 
 his soul ! And then again, and hearkening with ever 
 fresh attention, he blessed himself for that unresting 
 sense which held the outposts and stood a trusty 
 sentinel upon his life. His head turned continually 
 on his neck ; his eyes, which seemed starting from 
 their orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side 
 were half-rewarded as with the tail of something 
 nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps to 
 the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. 
 
 On that first story, the doors stood ajar, three of 
 them like three ambushes, shaking his nerves like the 
 throats of cannon. He could never again, he felt, be 
 sufficiently immured and fortified from men's observing 
 eyes ; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried 
 among bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And 
 at that thought he wondered a little, recollecting 
 tales of other murderers and the fear they were said 
 to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at 
 least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, 
 in their callous and immutable procedure, they should 
 
MARKHEIM 407 
 
 preserve some damning evidence of his crime. He 
 feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, 
 some scission in the continuity of man's experience, 
 some wilful illegality of nature. He played a game 
 of skill, depending on the rules, calculating conse- 
 quence from cause ; and what if nature, as the defeated 
 tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the 
 mould of their succession ? The like had befallen 
 Napoleon (so writers said) when the winter changed 
 the time of its appearance. The like might befall 
 Markheim : the solid walls might become transparent 
 and reveal his doings like those of bees in a glass 
 hive ; the stout planks might yield under his foot like 
 quicksands and detain him in their clutch ; aye, and 
 there were soberer accidents that might destroy him : 
 if, for instance, the house should fall and imprison 
 him beside the body of his victim ; or the house next 
 door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him 
 from all sides. These things he feared ; and, in a 
 sense, these things might be called the hands of God 
 reached forth against sin. But about God Himself he 
 was at ease ; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so 
 were his excuses, which God knew ; it was there, and 
 not among men, that he felt sure of justice. 
 
 When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and 
 shut the door behind him, he was aware of a respite 
 from alarms. The room was quite dismantled^ un : 
 carpeted besides, and strewn with packing cases and 
 incongruous furniture ; several great pier-glasses, in 
 which he beheld himself at various angles, like an 
 actor on a stage ; many pictures, framed and unf ramed, 
 standing, with their faces to the wall ; a fine Sheraton 
 sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old 
 bed, with tapestry hangings. The windows opened 
 to the floor ; but by great good fortune the lower part 
 of the shutters had been closed, and this concealed 
 him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim 
 drew in a packing case before the cabinet, and began 
 to search among the keys. It was a long business, 
 for there were many ; and it was irksome, besides ; for, 
 
408 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and 
 time was on the wing. But the closeness of the occu- 
 pation sobered him. With the tail of his eye he saw 
 the door even glanced at it from time to time directly, 
 like a besieged commander pleased to verify the good 
 estate of his defences. But in truth he was at peace. 
 The rain falling in the street sounded natural and 
 pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the notes of a 
 piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the 
 voices of many children took up the air and words. 
 How stately, how comfortable was the melody ! How 
 fresh the youthful voices ! Markheim gave ear to it 
 smilingly, as he sorted out the keys ; and his mind 
 was thronged with answerable ideas and images ; 
 church-going children and the pealing of the high 
 organ ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, 
 ramblers on the brambly common, kite-flyers in the 
 windy and cloud-navigated sky ; and then, at another 
 cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the 
 somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel 
 voice of the parson (which he smiled a little to recall) 
 and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering 
 of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. 
 
 And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he 
 was startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, 
 a bursting gush of blood, went over him, and then he 
 stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the 
 stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was 
 laid upon the knob, and the lock clicked, and the door 
 opened. 
 
 Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he 
 knew not, whether the dead man walking, or the official 
 ministers of human justice, or some chance witness 
 blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. 
 But when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced 
 round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled 
 as if in friendly recognition, and then withdrew again, 
 and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from 
 his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the 
 visitant returned. 
 
MARKHEIM 409 
 
 ' Did you call me ? ' he asked pleasantly, and with 
 that he entered the room and closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. 
 Perhaps there was a film upon his sight, but the outlines 
 of the new-comer seemed to change and waver like 
 those of the idols in the wavering candlelight of the 
 shop ; and at times he thought he knew him ; and 
 at times he thought he bore a likeness to himself ; 
 and always, like a lump of living terror, there lay in his 
 bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the 
 earth and not of God. 
 
 And yet the creature had a strange air of the 
 commonplace, as he stood looking on Markheim with 
 a smile ; and when he added : ' You are looking for 
 the money, I believe ? ' it was in the tones of every- 
 day politeness. 
 
 Markheim made no answer. 
 
 ' I should warn you,' resumed the other, ' that the 
 maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and 
 will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this 
 house, I need not describe to him the consequences.' 
 
 ' You know me ? ' cried the murderer. 
 
 The visitor smiled. ' You have long been a favourite 
 of mine,' he said ; * and I have long observed and 
 often sought to help you.' 
 
 ' What are you ? ' cried Markheim : ' the devil ? ' 
 
 ' What I may be,' returned the other, ' cannot affect 
 the service I propose to render you.' 
 
 ' It can,' cried Markheim ; ' it does ! Be helped 
 by you ? No, never ; not by you ! You do not know 
 me yet ; thank God, you do not know me ! ' 
 
 4 1 know you,' replied the visitant, with a sort of kind 
 severity or rather firmness. ' I know you to the soul.' 
 
 ' Know me ! ' cried Markheim. * Who can do so ? 
 My life is but a travesty and slander on myself. I 
 have lived to belie my nature. All men do ; all men 
 are better than this disguise that grows about and 
 stifles them. You see each dragged away by life, like 
 one whom bravos have seized and muffled in a cloak. 
 
410 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 If they had their own control if you could see their 
 faces, they would be altogether different, they would 
 shine out for heroes and saints ! I am worse than 
 most ; myself is more overlaid ; my excuse is known 
 to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose 
 myself.' 
 
 ' To me ? ' inquired the visitant. 
 
 ' To you before all,' returned the murderer. ' I sup- 
 posed you were intelligent. I thought since you 
 exist you would prove a reader of the heart. And 
 yet you would propose to judge me by my acts ! 
 Think of it ; my acts ! I was born and I have lived 
 in a land of giants ; giants have dragged me by the 
 wrists since I was born out of my mother the giants 
 of circumstance. And you would judge me by my 
 acts ! But can you not look within ? Can you not 
 understand that evil is hateful to me ? Can you not 
 see within me the clear writing of conscience, never 
 blurred by any wilful sophistry, although too often 
 disregarded ? Can you not read me for a thing that 
 surely must be common as humanity the unwilling 
 sinner ? ' 
 
 4 All this is very feelingly expressed,' was the reply, 
 ' but it regards me not. These points of consis- 
 tency are beyond my province, and I care not in the 
 least by what compulsion you may have been dragged 
 away, so as you are but carried in the right direction. 
 But time flies ; the servant delays, looking in the faces 
 of the crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings, 
 but still she keeps moving nearer ; and remember, it 
 is as if the gallows itself was striding towards you 
 through the Christmas streets ! Shall I help you ; 
 I, who know all ? Shall I tell you where to find the 
 money ? ' 
 
 ' For what price ? ' asked Markheim. 
 
 ' I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,' returned 
 the other. 
 
 Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind 
 of bitter triumph. ' No,' said he, ' I will take nothing 
 at your hands ; if I were dying of thirst, and it was 
 
MARKHEIM 411 
 
 your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should find 
 the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will 
 do nothing to commit myself to evil.* 
 
 ' I have no objection to a deathbed repentance,' 
 observed the visitant. 
 
 ' Because you disbelieve their efficacy ! ' Markheim 
 cried. 
 
 ' I do not say so,' returned the other ; ' but I look 
 on these things from a different side, and when the 
 life is done my interest falls. The man has lived 
 to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of 
 religion, or to sow tares in the wheat-field, as you 
 do, in a course of weak compliance with desire. Now 
 that he draws so near to his deliverance, he can add 
 but one act of service to repent, to die smiling, and 
 thus to build up in confidence and hope the more 
 timorous of my surviving followers. I am not so 
 hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please 
 yourself in life as you have done hitherto ; please 
 yourself more amply, spread your elbows at the board ; 
 and when the night begins to fall and the curtains to 
 be drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that 
 you will find it even easy to compound your quarrel 
 with your conscience, and to make a truckling peace 
 with God. I came but now from such a deathbed, 
 and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening 
 to the man's last words : and when I looked into that 
 face, which had been set as a flint against mercy, 
 I found it smiling with hope.' 
 
 4 And do you, then, suppose me such a creature ? ' 
 asked Markheim. ' Do you think I have no more 
 generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, and, 
 at the last, sneak into heaven ? My heart rises at the 
 thought. Is this, then, your experience of mankind ? 
 or is it because you find me with red hands that you 
 presume such baseness ? and is this crime of murder 
 indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of good ? ' 
 
 4 Murder is to me no special category,' replied the 
 other. * All sins are murder, even as all life is war. 
 I behold your race, like starving mariners on a raft, 
 
412 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding 
 on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the moment 
 of their acting ; I find in all that the last consequence 
 is death ; and to my eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts 
 her mother with such taking graces on a question of 
 a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than 
 such a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow 
 sins ? I follow virtues also ; they differ not by the 
 thickness of a nail, they are both scythes for the reaping 
 angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not 
 in action but in character. The bad man is dear to 
 me ; not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow 
 them far enough down the hurtling cataract of the 
 ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of 
 the rarest virtues. And it is not because you have 
 killed a dealer, but because you are Markheim, that 
 I offer to forward your escape.' 
 
 ' I will lay my heart open to you,' answered Mark- 
 heim. ' This crime on which you find me is my last. 
 On my way to it I have learned many lessons ; itself 
 is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have 
 been driven with revolt to what I would not ; I was 
 a bond-slave to poverty, driven and scourged. There 
 are robust virtues that can stand in these temptations ; 
 mine was not so : I had a thirst of pleasure. But 
 to-day, and out of this deed, I pluck both warning 
 and riches both the power and a fresh resolve to be 
 myself. I become in all things a free actor in the 
 world ; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands 
 the agents of good, this heart at peace. Something 
 comes over me out of the past ; something of what 
 I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of 
 the church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears 
 over noble books, or talked, an innocent child, with 
 my mother. There lies my life ; I have wandered 
 a few years, but now I see once more my city of 
 destination.' 
 
 ' You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, 
 I think ? ' remarked the visitor ; * and there, if I mis- 
 take not, you have already lost some thousands ? ' 
 
MARKHEIM 413 
 
 ' Ah,' said Markheim, ' but this time I have a sure 
 thing.' 
 
 ' This time, again, you will lose,' replied the visitor 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Ah, but I keep back the half ! ' cried Markheim. 
 
 ' That also you will lose,' said the other. 
 
 The sweat started upon Markheim 's brow. ' Well, 
 then, what matter ? ' he exclaimed. ' Say it be lost, 
 say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one part of 
 me, and that the worse, continue until the end to 
 override the better ? Evil and good ran strong in 
 me, haling me both ways. I do not love the one 
 thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renun- 
 ciations, martyrdoms ; and though I be fallen to 
 such a crime as murder, pity is no stranger to my 
 thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows their trials 
 better than myself ? I pity and help them ; I prize 
 love, I love honest laughter ; there is no good thing 
 nor true thing on earth but I love it from my heart. 
 And are my vices only to direct my life, and my 
 virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber 
 of the mind ? Not so ; good, also, is a spring of 
 acts.' 
 
 But the visitant raised his finger. ' For six-and- 
 thirty years that you have been in this world,' said 
 he, ' through many changes of fortune and varieties 
 of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen 
 years ago you would have started at a theft. Three 
 years back you would have blenched at the name of 
 murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or 
 meanness, from which you still recoil ? five years 
 from now I shall detect you in the fact ! Downward, 
 downward, lies your way ; nor can anything but death 
 avail to stop you.' 
 
 ' It is true,' Markheim said huskily, ' I have in 
 some degree complied with evil. But it is so with 
 all: the very saints, in the mere exercise of living, 
 grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their sur- 
 roundings.' 
 
 ' I will propound to you one simple question,' said 
 
414 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 the other ; 4 and as you answer, I shall read to you 
 your moral horoscope. You have grown in many 
 things more lax ; possibly you do right to be so ; and 
 at any account, it is the same with all men. But 
 granting that, are you in any one particular, how- 
 ever trifling, more difficult to please with your own 
 conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser 
 rein ?' 
 
 * In any one ? ' repeated Markheim, with an anguish 
 of consideration. * No,' he added, with despair, ' in 
 none ! I have gone down in all.' 
 
 ' Then,' said the visitor, * content yourself with what 
 you are, for you will never change ; and the words of 
 your part on this stage are irrevocably written down.' 
 
 Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed 
 it was the visitor who first broke the silence. ' That 
 being so,' he said, ' shall I show you the money ? ' 
 
 ' And grace ? ' cried Markheim. 
 
 ' Have you not tried it ? ' returned the other. * Two 
 or three years ago, did I not see you on the platform 
 of revival meetings, and was not your voice the loudest 
 in the hymn ? ' 
 
 * It is true,' said Markheim ; ' and I see clearly 
 what remains for me by way of duty. I thank you 
 for these lessons from my soul ; my eyes are opened, 
 and I behold myself at last for what I am.' 
 
 At this moment, the sharp note of the door- bell 
 rang through the house ; and the visitant, as though 
 this were some concerted signal for which he had 
 been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour. 
 
 * The maid ! ' he cried. ' She has returned, as I 
 forewarned you, and there is now before you one 
 more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, 
 is ill ; you must let her in, with an assured but rather 
 serious countenance no smiles, no overacting, and 
 I promise you success ! Once the girl within, and 
 the door closed, the same dexterity that has already 
 rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger 
 in your path. Thenceforward you have the whole 
 evening the whole night, if needful to ransack the 
 
MARKHEIM 415 
 
 treasures of the house and to make good your safety. 
 This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. 
 Up ! ' he cried ; ' up, friend ; your life hangs trembling 
 in the scales : up, and act ! ' 
 
 Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. ' If 
 I be condemned to evil acts,' he said, * there is still 
 one door of freedom open I can cease from action. 
 If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though 
 I be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small 
 temptation, I can yet, by one decisive gesture, place 
 myself beyond the reach of all. My love of good is 
 damned to barrenness ; it may, and let it be ! But 
 I have still my hatred of evil ; and from that, to your 
 galling disappointment, you shall see that I can draw 
 both energy and courage.' 
 
 The features of the visitor began to undergo a 
 wonderful and lovely change : they brightened and 
 softened with a tender triumph, and, even as they 
 brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did 
 not pause to watch or understand the transformation. 
 He opened the door and went downstairs very slowly, 
 thinking to himself. His past went soberly before 
 him ; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like 
 a dream, random as chance-medley a scene of defeat. 
 Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer ; 
 but on the farther side he perceived a quiet haven 
 for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked 
 into the shop, where the candle still burned by the 
 dead body. It was strangely silent. Thoughts of the 
 dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. 
 And then the bell once more broke out into impatient 
 clamour. 
 
 He confronted the maid upon the threshold with 
 something like a smile. 
 
 ' You had better go for the police,' said he : ' I have 
 killed your master.' 
 
416 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 THRAWN JANET 
 
 THE Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of 
 the moorland parish of Balweary, in the vale of Dule. 
 A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, 
 he dwelt in the last years of his life, without relative 
 or servant or any human company, in the small and 
 lonely manse under the Hanging Shaw. In spite of 
 the iron composure of his features, his eye was wild, 
 scared, and uncertain ; and when he dwelt, in private 
 admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it 
 seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms of 
 time to the terrors of eternity. Many young persons, 
 coming to prepare themselves against the season of 
 the Holy Communion, were dreadfully affected by his 
 talk. He had a sermon on 1st Peter, v. and 8th, ' The 
 devil as a roaring lion,' on the Sunday after every 
 seventeenth of August, and he was accustomed to 
 surpass himself upon that text both by the appalling 
 nature of the matter and the terror of his bearing 
 in the pulpit. The children were frightened into fits, 
 and the old looked more than usually oracular, and 
 were, all that day, full of those hints that Hamlet 
 deprecated. The manse itself, where it stood by the 
 water of Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw 
 overhanging it on the one side, and on the other many 
 cold, moorish hilltops rising towards the sky, had 
 begun, at a very early period of Mr. Soulis' s ministry, 
 to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued 
 themselves upon their prudence ; and guidmen sitting 
 at the clachan ale-house shook their heads together at 
 the thought of passing late by that uncanny neigh- 
 bourhood. There was one spot, to be more particular, 
 which was regarded with special awe. The manse 
 stood between the high road and the water of Dule, 
 with a gable to each ; its back was towards the kirk- 
 town of Balweary, nearly half a mile away ; in front 
 of it, a bare garden, hedged with thorn, occupied the 
 land between the river and the road. The house was 
 
THRAWN JANET 417 
 
 two stories high, with two large rooms on each. It 
 opened not directly on the garden, but on a causewayed 
 path, or passage, giving on the road on the one hand, 
 and closed on the other by the tall willows and elders 
 that bordered on the stream. And it was this strip 
 of causeway that enjoyed among the young parish- 
 ioners of Balweary so infamous a reputation. 'The 
 minister walked there often after dark, sometimes 
 groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers ; 
 and when he was from home, and the manse door 
 was locked, the more daring schoolboys ventured, with 
 beating hearts, to ' follow my leader ' across that 
 legendary spot. 
 
 This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a 
 man of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was 
 a common cause of wonder and subject of inquiry among 
 the few strangers who were led by chance or business 
 into that unknown, outlying country. But many even 
 of the people of the parish were ignorant of the strange 
 events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis's 
 ministrations ; and among those who were better in- 
 formed, some were naturally reticent, and others shy 
 of that particular topic. Now and again, only, one 
 of the older folk would warm into courage over his 
 third tumbler, and recount the cause of the minister's 
 strange looks and solitary life. 
 
 Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam' first into 
 Ba' weary, he was still a young man a callant, the 
 folk said fu' o' book learnin' and grand at the exposi- 
 tion, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi' 
 nae leevin' experience in religion. The younger sort 
 were greatly taken wi' his gifts and his gab ; but auld, 
 concerned, serious men and women were moved even 
 to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a 
 self -deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae 
 ill-supplied. It was before the days o' the moderates 
 weary fa' them ; but ill things are like guid they 
 baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time ; and there 
 
 193 p 
 
418 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 were folk even then that said the Lord had left the 
 college professors to their ain devices, an' the lads that 
 went to study wi' them wad hae done mair and better 
 sittin' in a peat-bog, like their forebears of the perse- 
 cution, wi' a Bible under their oxter and a speerit o' 
 prayer in their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, 
 but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the college. 
 He was careful and troubled for mony things besides 
 the ae thing needful. He had a feck o' books wi' him 
 mair than had ever been seen before in a' that pres- 
 bytery ; and a sair wark the carrier had wi' them, for 
 they were a' like to have smoored in the Deil's Hag 
 between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o' 
 divinity, to be sure, or so they ca'd them ; but the 
 serious were o' opinion there was little service for sae 
 mony, when the hail o' God's Word would gang in the 
 neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day and 
 half the nicht forbye, which was scant decent writin', 
 nae less ; and first, they were feared he wad read his 
 sermons ; and syne it proved he was writin' a book 
 himsel', which was surely no fittin' for ane of his years 
 an' sma' experience. 
 
 Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent 
 wife to keep the manse for him an' see to his bit 
 denners ; and he was recommended to an auld limmer 
 Janet M 'Clour, they ca'd her and sae far left to 
 himsel' as to be ower persuaded. There was mony 
 advised him to the contrar, for Janet was mair than 
 suspeckit by the best folk in Ba' weary. Lang or that, 
 she had had a wean to a dragoon ; she hadnae come 
 tonit * for maybe thretty year ; and bairns had seen 
 her mumblin' to hersel' up on Key's Loan in the 
 gloamin', whilk was an unco time an' place for a God- 
 fearin* woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel' 
 that had first tauld the minister o' Janet ; and in 
 thae days he wad have gane a far gate to pleesure the 
 laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the 
 deil, it was a' superstition by his way of it ; an' when 
 
 1 To come forrit to offer oneself as a communicant. 
 
THRAWN JANET 419 
 
 they cast up the Bible to him an' the witch of Endor, 
 he wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir 
 days were a' gane by, and the deil was mercifully 
 restrained. 
 
 Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet 
 M'Ctour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were 
 fair mad wi' her an' him thegether ; and some o' the 
 guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her 
 door cheeks and chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again 
 her, frae the sodger's bairn to John Tamson's twa kye. 
 She was nae great speaker ; folk usually let her gang 
 her ain gate, an' she let them gang theirs, wi' neither 
 Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day ; but when she buckled 
 to, she had a tongue to deave the miller. Up she got, 
 an' there wasnae an auld story in Ba'weary but she 
 gart somebody lowp for it that day ; they couldnae say 
 ae thing but she could say twa to it ; till, at the hinder 
 end, the guidwives up and claught baud of her, and 
 clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her doun the 
 clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch 
 or no, soum or droun. The carline skirled till ye could 
 hear her at the Hangin' Shaw, and she focht like ten ; 
 there was mony a guidwife bure the mark of her neist 
 day an' mony a lang day after ; and just in the hottest 
 o' the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) 
 but the new minister. 
 
 ' Women,' said he (and he had a grand voice), ' I 
 charge you in the Lord's name to let her go.' 
 
 Janet ran to him she was fair wud wi' terror 
 an' clang to him, an' prayed him, for Christ's sake, 
 save > her frae the cummers ; an' they, for their pairt, 
 tauld him a' that was ken't, and maybe mair. 
 
 ' Woman,' says he to Janet, ' is this true ? ' 
 
 4 As the Lord sees me,' says she, ' as the Lord 
 made me, no a word o't. Forbye the bairn,' says she, 
 ' I've been a decent woman a' my days.' 
 
 'Will you,' says Mr. Soulis, 'in the name of God, 
 and before me, His unworthy minister, renounce the 
 devil and his works ? ' 
 
 Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she 
 
420 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 gave a girn that fairly f richtit them that saw her, an' 
 they could hear her teeth play dirl thegether in her 
 chaf ts ; but there was naething for it but the ae way 
 or the ither ; an' Janet lifted up her hand and re- 
 nounced the deil before them a'. 
 
 ' And now,' says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, 
 ' home with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His 
 forgiveness.' 
 
 And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little 
 on her but a sark, and took her up the clachan to her 
 ain door like a leddy of the land ; an' her scrieghin' 
 and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard. 
 
 There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers 
 that nicht ; but when the morn cam' there was sic 
 a fear fell upon a' Ba'weary that the bairns hid their- 
 sels, and even the men folk stood and keekit frae their 
 doors. For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan 
 her or her likeness, iiane could tell wi' her neck 
 thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body that has 
 been hangit, and a girn on her face like an unstreakit 
 corp. By-an'-by they got used wi' it, and even speered 
 at her to ken what was wrang ; but frae that day forth 
 she couldnae speak like a Christian woman, but slavered 
 and played click wi' her teeth like a pair o' shears ; 
 and frae that day forth the name o' God cam' never 
 on her lips. Whiles she would try to say it, but it 
 michtnae be. Them that kenned best said least ; but 
 they never gied that Thing the name o' Janet M'Clour ; 
 for the auld Janet, by their way o't, was in muckle 
 hell that day. But the minister was neither to haud 
 nor to bind ; he preached about naething but the folk's 
 cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy ; he 
 skelpt the bairns that meddled her ; and he had her 
 up to the manse that same nicht, and dwalled there a' 
 his lane wi' her under the Hangin' Shaw. 
 
 Weel, time gaed by : and the idler sort commenced 
 to think mair lichtly o' that black business. The 
 minister was weel thocht o' ; he was aye late at the 
 writing, folk wad see his can'le doon by the Dule 
 water after twal' at e'en ; and he seemed pleased wi' 
 
THRAWN JANET 421 
 
 himsel' and upsitten as at first, though a' body could 
 see that he was dwiniiig. As for Janet she cam' an' 
 she gaed ; if she didnae speak muckle afore, it was 
 reason she should speak less then ; she meddled 
 naebody ; but she was an eldritch thing to see, 
 an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her for Ba' weary 
 glebe. 
 
 About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, 
 the like o't never was in that country side ; it was 
 lown an' het an' heartless ; the herds couldnae win 
 up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to 
 play ; an' yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund 
 that rumm'led in the glens, and bits o' shouers that 
 slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to thun'er 
 on the morn ; but the morn cam', an' the morn's 
 morning, and it was aye the same uncanny weather, 
 sair on folks and bestial. Of a' that were the waur, 
 nane suffered like Mr. Soulis ; he could neither sleep 
 nor eat, he tauld his elders ; an' when he wasnae 
 writin' at his weary book, he wad be stravaguin' 
 ower a' the countryside like a man possessed, when 
 a' body else was blythe to keep caller ben the 
 house. 
 
 Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black 
 Hill, there 's a bit enclosed grand wi' an iron yett ; 
 and it seems, in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird 
 o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists before 
 the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was 
 a great howff o' Mr. Soulis's, onyway ; there he 
 would sit an' consider his sermons ; and indeed it 's 
 a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam' ower the wast end o' 
 the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an syne 
 fower, an' syne seeven corbie craws fleein' round an' 
 round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh 
 and heavy, an' squawked to ither as they gaed ; and 
 it was clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put 
 them frae their ordinar. He wasnae easy fleyed, an' 
 gaed straucht up to the wa's ; an' what suld he find 
 there but a man, or the appearance of a man, sittin' 
 in the inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, 
 
422 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 an' black as hell, and his e'en were singular to see. 1 
 Mr. Soulis had heard tell o' black men, mony's the time ; 
 but there was something unco about this black man that 
 daunted him. Het as he was, he took a kind o' cauld 
 grue in the marrow o' his banes ; but up he spak for 
 a' that ; an' says he : ' My friend, are you a stranger 
 in this place ? ' The black man answered never a word ; 
 he got upon his feet, an' begude to hirsle to the wa' 
 on the far side ; but he aye lookit at the minister ; 
 an' the minister stood an' lookit back ; till a' in 
 a meenute the black man was ower the wa' an' rinnin' 
 for the bield o' the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned 
 why, ran after him ; but he was sair forjaskit wi' his 
 walk an' the het, unhalesome weather ; and rin as 
 he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o' the black 
 man amang the birks, till he won doun to the 
 foot o' the hill-side, an' there he saw him ance mair, 
 gaun, hap, step, an' lowp, ower Dule water to the 
 manse. 
 
 Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome 
 gangrel suld mak' sae free wi' Ba'weary manse ; an' 
 he ran the harder, an', wet shoon, ower the burn, an' 
 up the walk ; but the deil a black man was there to 
 see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was 
 naebody there ; he gaed a' ower the gairden, but na, 
 nae black man. At the hinder end, and a bit feared 
 as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the 
 manse ; and there was Janet M'Clour before his een, 
 wi' her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to see him. 
 And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een 
 upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue. 
 
 ' Janet,' says he, * have you seen a black man ? ' 
 
 ' A black man ? ' quo' she. * Save us a' ! Ye're 
 no wise, minister. There 's nae black man in a' 
 Ba'weary.' 
 
 But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand ; 
 
 1 It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil 
 appeared as a black man. This appears in several witch 
 trials and, I think, in Law's Memorials, that delightful 
 store-house of the quaint and grisly. 
 
THRAWN JANET 423 
 
 but yam-yammered, like a powney wi' the bit in its 
 moo. 
 
 * Weel,' says he, ' Janet, if there was nae black 
 man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.' 
 
 And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth 
 chittered in his heid. 
 
 ' Hoots,' says she, * think shame to yoursel', 
 minister ; ' an' gied him a drap brandy that she keept 
 aye by her. 
 
 Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his 
 books. It's a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' 
 cauld in winter, an' no very dry even in the tap o' 
 the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae 
 doun he sat, and thocht of a' that had come an' gane 
 since he was in Ba'weary, an' his hame, an' the days 
 when he was a bairn an' ran damn' on the braes ; 
 and that black man aye ran in his heid like the ower- 
 come of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he 
 thocht o' the black man. He tried the prayer, an' the 
 words wouldnae come to him ; an' he tried, they say, 
 to write at his book, but he could nae mak' nae mair o' 
 that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was 
 at his oxter, an' the swat stood upon him cauld as well- 
 water ; and there was other whiles, when he cam' to 
 himsel' like a christened bairn and minded nae thing. 
 
 The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' 
 stood glowrin' at Dule water. The trees are unco 
 thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under the 
 manse ; an* there was Janet washin' the cla'es wi' her 
 coats kilted. She had her back to the minister, an' 
 he, for his pairt, hardly kenned what he was lookin' 
 at. Syne she turned round, an' shawed her face ; 
 Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day 
 afore, an' it was borne in upon him what folk said, 
 that Janet was deid lang syne, an' this was a bogle 
 in her clay- cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he 
 scanned her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin' in the 
 cla'es, croonin' to hersel' ; and eh ! Gude guide us, but 
 it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder, but 
 there was nae man born o' woman that could tell the 
 
424 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 words o' her sang ; an' whiles she lookit side-lang doun, 
 but there was naething there for her to look at. There 
 gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his banes ; and 
 that was Heeven's advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just 
 blamed himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir, 
 auld afflicted wife that hadnae a freend forbye him- 
 sel' ; an' he put up a bit prayer for him and her, an' 
 drank a little caller water for his heart rose again 
 the meat an' gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming. 
 
 That was a nicht that has never been forgotten 
 in Ba'weary, the nicht o' the seventeenth of August, 
 seventeen hun'er' an twaF. It had been het afore, as 
 I hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than ever. The 
 sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin' clouds ; it feU as 
 mirk as the pit ; no a star, no a breath o' wund ; ye 
 couldnae see your han' afore your face, and even the 
 auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds and lay 
 pechin' for their breath. Wi' a' that he had upon his 
 mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get 
 muckle sleep. He lay an' he tummled ; the gude, 
 caller bed that he got into brunt his very banes ; whiles 
 he slept, and whiles he waukened ; whiles he heard the 
 time o' nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin' up the muir, 
 as if somebody was deid ; whiles he thocht he heard 
 bogles claverin' in his lug, an' whiles he saw spunkies 
 in the room. He behoved, he judged, to be sick ; an 
 sick he was little he jaloosed the sickness. 
 
 At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, 
 sat up in his sark on the bedside, and fell thinkin' 
 ance mair o' the black man an' Janet. He couldnae 
 weel tell how maybe it was the cauld to his feet 
 but it cam' in upon him wi' a spate that there was 
 some connexion between thir twa, an' that either or 
 baith o' them were bogles. And just at that moment, 
 in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam' a 
 stramp o' feet as if men were wars' lin', an' then a loud 
 bang ; an' then a wund gaed reishling round the fower 
 quarters of the house ; an' then a' was aince mair as 
 seelent as the grave. 
 
 Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. 
 
THRAWN JANET 425 
 
 He got his tinder-box, an' lit a can'le, an' made three 
 steps o't ower to Janet's door. It was on the hasp, 
 an' he pushed it open, an' keeked bauldly in. It was 
 a big room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished 
 wi' grand, auld, solid gear, for he had naething else. 
 There was a fewer- posted bed wi' auld tapestry ; and 
 a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu' o' the minister's 
 divinity books, an' put there to be out o' the gate ; an' 
 a wheen duds o' Janet's lying here and there about 
 the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see ; nor 
 ony sign of a contention. In he gaed (an' there 's few 
 that wad ha'e followed him) an' lookit a' round, an' 
 listened. But there was naethin' to be heard, neither 
 inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary parish, an' naethin' 
 to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the 
 can'le. An' then a' at aince, the minister's heart played 
 dunt an' stood stock-still ; an' a cauld wund blew 
 amang the hairs o' his heid. Whaten a weary sicht was 
 that for the puir man's een ! For there was Janet 
 hangin' frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet : her 
 heid aye lay on her shoother, her een were steeked, the 
 tongue projekit frae her mouth, and her heels were twa 
 feet clear abune the floor. 
 
 4 God forgive us all ! ' thocht Mr. Soulis ; ' poor 
 Janet's dead.' 
 
 He cam' a step nearer to the corp ; an' then his heart 
 fair whammled in his inside. For by what cantrip it 
 wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she was hingin' frae 
 a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for darnin* 
 hose. 
 
 It 's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan 
 prodigies o' darkness ; but Mr. Soulis was strong in 
 the Lord. He turned an' gaed his ways oot o' that 
 room, and lockit the door ahint him ; and step by 
 step, doon the stairs, as heavy as leed ; and set doon 
 the can'le on the table at the stairfoot. He couldnae 
 pray, he couldnae think, he was dreepin' wi' caul' swat, 
 an' naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin' 
 o' his ain heart. He micht maybe have stood there 
 an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little ; when a' 
 P3 
 
426 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 o' a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer upstairs ; 
 a foot gaed to an' fro in the cha'mer whaur the corp 
 was hingin' ; syne the door was opened, though he 
 minded weel that he had lockit it ; an' syne there was 
 a step upon the landin', an' it seemed to him as if the 
 corp was lookin' ower the rail and doun upon him whaur 
 he stood. 
 
 He took up the can'le again (for he couldnae want 
 the licht), and as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht 
 out o' the manse an' to the far end o' the causeway. 
 It was aye pit-mirk ; the flame o' the can'le, when he 
 set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in 
 a room ; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin' 
 and sabbin' doon the glen, an' yon unhaly footstep 
 that cam' ploddin' doun the stairs inside the manse. 
 He kenned the foot over weel, for it was Janet's ; and 
 at ilka step that cam' a wee thing nearer, the cauld 
 got deeper in his vitals. He commended his soul to 
 Him that made an' keepit him ; ' and O Lord,' said 
 he, 'give me strength this night to war against the 
 powers of evil.' 
 
 By this time the foot was comin' through the passage 
 for the door ; he could hear a hand skirt alang the 
 wa', as if the fearsome thing was feelin' for its way. 
 The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a lang sigh 
 cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn 
 aboot ; an' there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi' 
 her grogram goun an' her black mutch, wi' the heid aye 
 upon the shouther, an' the girn still upon the face o't 
 leevin', ye wad hae said -deid, as Mr. Soulis weel 
 kenned upon the threshold o' the manse. 
 
 It 's a strange thing that the saul of man should be 
 that thirled into his perishable body ; but the minister 
 saw that, an' his heart didnae break. 
 
 She didnae stand there lang ; she began to move 
 again an' cam' slowly towards Mr. Soulis whaur he stood 
 under the saughs. A' the life o' his body, a' the 
 strength o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his een. It 
 seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an' 
 made a sign wi' the left hand. There cam' a clap o' 
 
THRAWN JANET 427 
 
 wund, like a cat's fuff ; oot gaed the can'le, the saughs 
 skrieghed like folk ; an' Mr. Soulis kenned that, live or 
 die, this was the end o't. 
 
 ' Witch, beldame, devil ! ' he cried, ' I charge you, 
 by the power of God, begone if you be dead, to the 
 grave if you be damned, to hell.' 
 
 An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' 
 the Heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood ; the 
 auld, deid, desecrated corp o' the witch-wife, sae lang 
 keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by deils, lowed 
 up like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the 
 grand ; the thunder followed, peal on dirling peal, the 
 railing rain upon the back o' that; and Mr. Soulis 
 iowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi' skelloch 
 upon skelloch, for the clachan. 
 
 That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man 
 pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin' six ; before 
 eicht, he gaed by the change-house at Knockdow ; an' 
 no lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun linkin' 
 down the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There 's little doubt 
 but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet's body ; 
 but he was awa' at last ; and sinsyne the deil has never 
 fashed us in Ba' weary. 
 
 But it was a sair dispensation for the minister ; lang, 
 lang he lay ravin' in his bed ; and frae that hour to 
 this, he was the man ye ken the day. 
 
 PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MONSIEUR LEON BERTHELINI had a great care of 
 his appearance, and sedulously suited his deportment 
 to the costume of the hour. He affected something 
 Spanish in his air, and something of the bandit, with 
 a flavour of Rembrandt at home. In person he was 
 decidedly small and inclined to be stout ; his face was 
 the picture of good humour ; his dark eyes, which were 
 very expressive, told of a kind heart, a brisk, merry 
 nature, and the most indefatigable spirits. If he had 
 
428 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 worn the clothes of the period you would have set 
 him down for a hitherto undiscovered hybrid between 
 the barber, the innkeeper, and the affable dispensing 
 chemist. But in the outrageous bravery of velvet 
 jacket and napped hat, with trousers that were more 
 accurately described as fleshings, a white handkerchief 
 cavalierly knotted at his neck, a shock of Olympian 
 curls upon his brow, and his feet shod through all 
 weathers in the slenderest of Moliere shoes you had 
 but to look at him and you knew you were in the 
 presence of a Great Creature. When he wore an over- 
 coat he scorned to pass the sleeves ; a single button 
 held it round his shoulders ; it was tossed backwards 
 after the manner of a cloak, and carried with the gait 
 and presence of an Almaviva. I am of opinion that 
 M. Berthelini was nearing forty. But he had a boy's 
 heart, gloried in his finery, and walked through life 
 like a child in a perpetual dramatic performance. If 
 he were not Almaviva after all, it was not for lack of 
 making believe. And he enjoyed the artist's com- 
 pensation. If he were not really Almaviva, he was 
 sometimes just as happy as though he were. 
 
 I have seen him, at moments when he has fancied 
 himself alone with his Maker, adopt so gay and chival- 
 rous a bearing, and represent his own part with so 
 much warmth and conscience, that the illusion became 
 catching, and I believed implicitly in the Great Crea- 
 ture's pose. 
 
 But, alas ! life cannot be entirely conducted on 
 these principles ; man cannot live by Almavivery 
 alone ; and the Great Creature, having failed upon 
 several theatres, was obliged to step down every 
 evening from his heights, and sing from half a dozen 
 to a dozen comic songs, twang a guitar, keep a country 
 audience in good humour, and preside finally over the 
 mysteries of a tombola. 
 
 Madame Berthelini, who was art and part with him 
 in these undignified labours, had perhaps a higher 
 position in the scale of beings, and enjoyed a natural 
 dignity of her own. But her heart was not any more 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 429 
 
 rightly placed, for that would have been impossible ; 
 and she had acquired a little air of melancholy, attrac- 
 tive enough in its way, but not good to see like the 
 wholesome, sky-scraping, boyish spirits of her lord. 
 
 He, indeed, swam like a kite on a fair wind, high 
 above earthly troubles. Detonations of temper were 
 not unfrequent in the zones he travelled ; but sulky 
 fogs and tearful depressions were there alike unknown. 
 A well-delivered blow upon a table, or a noble attitude, 
 imitated from Melingue or Frederic, relieved his irrita- 
 tion like a vengeance. Though the heaven had fallen, 
 if he had played his part with propriety, Berthelini 
 had been content I And the man's atmosphere, if 
 not his example, reacted on his wife ; for the couple 
 doted on each other, and although you would have 
 thought they walked in different worlds, yet continued 
 to walk hand in hand. 
 
 It chanced one day that Monsieur and Madame 
 Berthelini descended with two boxes and a guitar in 
 a fat case at the station of the little town of Castel-le- 
 Gachis, and the omnibus carried them with their effects 
 to the Hotel of the Black Head. This was a dismal, 
 conventual building in a narrow street, capable of 
 standing siege when once the gates were shut, and 
 smelling strangely in the interior of straw and chocolate 
 and old feminine apparel. Berthelini paused upon the 
 threshold with a painful premonition. In some former 
 state, it seemed to him, he had visited a hostelry that 
 smelt not otherwise, and been ill received. 
 
 The landlord, a tragic person in a large felt hat, rose 
 from a business table under the key-rack, and came 
 forward, removing his hat with both hands as he did so. 
 
 ' Sir, I salute you. May I inquire what is your 
 charge for artists ? ' inquired Berthelini, with a courtesy 
 at once splendid and insinuating. 
 
 ' For artists ? ' said the landlord. His countenance 
 fell and the smile of welcome disappeared. ' Oh, 
 artists ! * he added brutally ; ' four francs a day.' 
 And he turned his back upon these inconsiderable 
 customers. 
 
430 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 A commercial traveller is received, he also, upon 
 a reduction yet is he welcome, yet can he command 
 the fatted calf ; but an artist, had he the manners of 
 an Almaviva, were he dressed like Solomon in all bis 
 glory, is received like a dog and served like a timid 
 lady travelling alone. 
 
 Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his profession, 
 Berthelini was unpleasantly affected by the landlord's 
 manner. 
 
 ' Elvira,' said he to his wife, ' mark my words : 
 Castel-le-Gachis is a tragic folly.' 
 
 ' Wait till we see what we take,' replied Elvira. 
 
 ' We shall take nothing,' returned Berthelini ; ' we 
 shall feed upon insults. I have an eye, Elvira ; I have 
 a spirit of divination ; and this place is accursed. 
 The landlord has been discourteous, the Commissary 
 will be brutal, the audience will be sordid and up- 
 roarious, and you will take a cold upon your throat. 
 We have been besotted enough to come ; the die is 
 cast it will be a second Sedan.' 
 
 Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, not 
 only from patriotism (for they were French, and 
 answered after the flesh to the somewhat homely 
 name of Duval), but because it had been the scene of 
 their most sad reverses. In that place they had lain 
 three weeks in pawn for their hotel bill, and had it 
 not been for a surprising stroke of fortune they might 
 have been lying there in pawn until this day. To 
 mention the name of Sedan was for the Berthelinis 
 to dip the brush in earthquake and eclipse. Count 
 Almaviva slouched his hat with a gesture expressive 
 of despair, and even Elvira felt as if ill-fortune had 
 been personally invoked. 
 
 ' Let us ask for breakfast,' said she, with a woman's 
 tact. 
 
 The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis was 
 a large red Commissary, pimpled, and subject to 
 a strong cutaneous transpiration. I have repeated the 
 name of his office because he was so very much more 
 a Commissary than a man. The spirit of his dignity 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 431 
 
 had entered into him. He carried his corporation as 
 if it were something official. Whenever he insulted 
 a common citizen it seemed to him as if he were 
 adroitly nattering the Government by a side wind ; in 
 default of dignity he was brutal from an over- weening 
 sense of duty. His office was a den, whence passers-by 
 could hear rude accents laying down, not the law, but 
 the good pleasure of the Commissary. 
 
 Six several times in the course of the day did 
 M. Berthelini hurry thither in quest of the requisite 
 permission for his evening's entertainment ; six several 
 times he found the official was abroad. Leon Berthelini 
 began to grow quite a familiar figure in the streets of 
 Castel-le-Gachis ; he became a local celebrity, and 
 was pointed out as ' the man who was looking for the 
 Commissary'. Idle children attached themselves to 
 his footsteps, and trotted after him back and forward 
 between the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he 
 liked ; he might roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he 
 might cock his hat at a dozen different jaunty inclina- 
 tions the part of Almaviva was, under the circum- 
 stances, difficult to play. 
 
 As he passed the market-place upon the seventh 
 excursion the Commissary was pointed out to him, 
 where he stood, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his 
 hands behind his back, to superintend the sale and 
 measurement of butter. Berthelini threaded his way 
 through the market-stalls and baskets, and accosted 
 the dignitary with a bow which was a triumph of the 
 histrionic art. 
 
 * I have the honour,' he asked, ' of meeting M. le 
 Commissaire ? ' 
 
 The Commissary was affected by the nobility of his 
 address. He excelled Leon in the depth if not in the 
 airy grace of his salutation. 
 
 ' The honour,' said he, ' is mine ! ' 
 
 ' I am,' continued the strolling-player, * I am, sir, an 
 artist, and I have permitted myself to interrupt you 
 on an affair of business. To-night I give a trifling 
 musical entertainment at the Cafl of the Triumphs of 
 
432 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 the Plough permit me to offer you this little pro- 
 grammeand I have come to ask you for the necessary 
 authorization.' 
 
 At the word * artist ' the Commissary had replaced 
 his hat with the air of a person who, having con- 
 descended too far, should suddenly remember the duties 
 of his rank. 
 
 ' Go, go,' said he, ' I am busy I am measuring 
 butter.' 
 
 ' Heathen Jew ! ' thought Leon. ' Permit me, sir,' 
 he resumed aloud. ' I have gone six times already ' 
 
 ' Put up your bills if you choose,' interrupted the 
 Commissary. * In an hour or so I will examine your 
 papers at the office. But now go ; I am busy.' 
 
 ' Measuring butter ! ' thought Berthelini. ' Oh, 
 France, and it is for this that we made '93 !' 
 
 The preparations were soon made ; the bills posted, 
 programmes laid on the dinner-table of every hotel in 
 the town, and a stage erected at one end of the Caf6 
 of the Triumphs of the Plough; but when Leon re- 
 turned to the office, the Commissary was once more 
 abroad. 
 
 'He is like Madame Benoiton,' thought Leon, 
 ' Fichu Commissaire ! ' 
 
 And just then he met the man face to face. 
 
 ' Here, sir,' said he, ' are my papers. Will you be 
 pleased to verify ? ' 
 
 But the Commissary was now intent upon dinner. 
 
 * No use,' he replied, ' no use ; I am busy ; I am 
 quite satisfied. Give your entertainment.' 
 
 And he hurried on. 
 
 ' Fichu Commissaire ! ' thought Leon. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE audience was pretty large ; and the proprietor 
 of the caf6 made a good thing of it in beer. But the 
 Berthelinis exerted themselves in vain. 
 
 Leon was radiant in velveteen ; he had a rakish 
 way of smoking a cigarette between his songs that was 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 433 
 
 worth money in itself ; he underlined his comic points, 
 so that the dullest numskull in Castel-le-Gachis had 
 a notion when to laugh ; and he handled his guitar 
 in a manner worthy of himself. Indeed his play with 
 that instrument was as good as a whole romantic 
 drama ; it was so dashing, so florid, and so cavalier. 
 
 Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic and 
 romantic songs with more than usual expression ; her 
 voice had charm and plangency ; and as Leon looked 
 at her, in her low-bodied maroon dress, with her arms 
 bare to the shoulder, and a red flower set provocatively 
 in her corset, he repeated to himself for the many 
 hundredth time that she was one of the loveliest 
 creatures in the world of women. 
 
 Alas ! when she went round with the tambourine, 
 the golden youth of Castel-le-Gachis turned from her 
 coldly. Here and there a single halfpenny was forth- 
 coming ; the net result of a collection never exceeded 
 half a franc ; and the Maire himself, after seven dif- 
 ferent applications, had contributed exactly twopence. 
 A certain chill began to settle upon the artists them- 
 selves ; it seemed as if they were singing to slugs ; 
 Apollo himself might have lost heart with such an 
 audience. The Berthelinis struggled against the im- 
 pression ; they put their back into their work, they 
 sang loud and louder, the guitar twanged like a living 
 thing ; and at last Leon arose in his might, and burst 
 with inimitable conviction into his great song, * Y 
 a des honnetes gens partout ! ' Never had he given 
 more proof of his artistic mastery ; it was his intimate, 
 indefeasible conviction that Castel-le-Gachis formed an 
 exception to the law he was now lyrically proclaiming, 
 and was peopled exclusively by thieves and bullies ; 
 and yet, as I say, he flung it down like a challenge, he 
 trolled it forth like an article of faith ; and his face so 
 beamed the while that you would have thought he 
 must make converts of the benches. 
 
 He was at the top of his register, with his head 
 thrown back and his mouth open, when the door 
 was thrown violently open, and a pair of new-comers 
 
434 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 marched noisily into the cafe. It was the Commissary, 
 followed by the Garde Champetre. 
 
 The undaunted Berthelini still continued to pro- 
 claim, * Y a des honnetes gens partout ! ' But now 
 the sentiment produced an audible titter among the 
 audience. Berthelini wondered why ; he did not 
 know the antecedents of the Garde Champetre ; he had 
 never heard of a little story about postage stamps. 
 But the public knew all about the postage stamps and 
 enjoyed the coincidence hugely. 
 
 The Commissary planted himself upon a vacant 
 chair with somewhat the air of Cromwell visiting the 
 Rump, and spoke in occasional whispers to the Garde 
 Champetre, who remained respectfully standing at his 
 back. The eyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, 
 who persisted in his statement. 
 
 ' Y a des honnetes gens partout,' he was just chant- 
 ing for the twentieth time ; when up got the Com- 
 missary upon his feet and waved brutally to the singer 
 with his cane. 
 
 ' Is it me you want ? ' inquired Leon, stopping in 
 his song. 
 
 ' It is you,' replied the potentate. 
 
 ' Fichu Commissaire ! ' thought Leon, and he de- 
 scended from the stage and made his way to the 
 functionary. 
 
 ' How does it happen, sir,' said the Commissary, 
 swelling in person, ' that I find you mountebanking in 
 <t public cafe without my permission ? ' 
 
 ' Without ? ' cried the indignant Leon. ' Permit 
 me to remind you ' 
 
 ' Come, come, sir ! ' said the Commissary, ' I desire 
 no explanations.' 
 
 ' I care nothing about what you desire,' returned 
 the singer. ' I choose to give them, and I will not be 
 gagged. I am an artist, sir, a distinction that you 
 cannot comprehend. I received your permission, and 
 stand here upon the strength of it ; interfere with me 
 who dare.' 
 
 ' You have not got my signature, I tell you,' cried 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 435 
 
 the Commissary. * Show me my signature ! Where is 
 my signature ? ' 
 
 That was just the question ; where was his signature ? 
 Leon recognized that he was in a hole ; but his spirit 
 rose with the occasion, and he blustered nobly, tossing 
 back his curls. The Commissary played up to him in 
 the character of tyrant ; and as the one leaned farther 
 forward, the other leaned farther back majesty con- 
 fronting fury. The audience had transferred their 
 attention to this new performance, and listened with 
 that silent gravity common to all Frenchmen in the 
 neighbourhood of the Police. Elvira had sat down, 
 she was used to these distractions, and it was rather 
 melancholy than fear that now oppressed her. 
 
 ' Another word,' cried the Commissary, ' and I arrest 
 you.' 
 
 * Arrest me ? ' shouted Leon. ' I defy you ! * 
 
 ' I am the Commissary of Police,' said the official. 
 
 Leon commanded his feelings, and replied, with great 
 delicacy of innuendo 
 
 ' So it would appear.' 
 
 The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gachis ; it 
 did not raise a smile ; and as for the Commissary, he 
 simply bade the singer follow him to his office, and 
 directed his proud footsteps towards the door. There 
 was nothing for it but to obey. Leon did so with 
 a proper pantomime of indifference, but it was a leek 
 to eat, and there was no denying it. 
 
 The Maire had slipped out and was already waiting 
 at the Commissary's door. Now the Maire, in France, 
 is the refuge of the oppressed. He stands between his 
 people and the boisterous rigours of the police. He 
 can sometimes understand what is said to him ; he is 
 not always puffed up beyond measure by his dignity. 
 'Tis a thing worth the knowledge of travellers. When 
 all seems over, and a man has made up his mind to 
 injustice, he has still, like the heroes of romance, a little 
 bugle at his belt whereon to blow ; and the Maire, 
 a comfortable deus ex machina, may still descend to 
 deliver him from the minions of the law. The Maire of 
 
436 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 Castel-le-Gachis, although inaccessible to the charms 
 of music as retailed by the Berthelinis, had no hesi- 
 tation whatever as to the rights of the matter. He 
 instantly fell foul of the Commissary in very high 
 terms, and the Commissary, pricked by this humilia- 
 tion, accepted battle on the point of fact. The argu- 
 ment lasted some little while with varying success, 
 until at length victory inclined so plainly to the Com- 
 missary's side that the Maire was fain to re-assert him- 
 self by an exercise of authority. He had been out- 
 argued, but he was still the Maire. And so, turning 
 from his interlocutor, he briefly but kindly recom- 
 mended Leon to get back instanter to his concert. 
 
 ' It is already growing late,' he added. 
 
 Leon did not wait to be told twice. He returned to 
 the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough with all expedi- 
 tion. Alas ! the audience had melted away during his 
 absence ; Elvira was sitting in a very disconsolate 
 attitude on the guitar- box ; she had watched the com- 
 pany dispersing by twos and threes, and the prolonged 
 spectacle had somewhat overwhelmed her spirits. 
 Each man, she reflected, retired with a certain pro- 
 portion of her earnings in his pocket, and she saw 
 to-night's board and to-morrow's railway expenses, 
 and finally even to-morrow's dinner, walk one after 
 another out of the cafe door and disappear into the 
 night. 
 
 * What was it ? ' she asked languidly. 
 
 But Leon did not answer. He was looking round 
 him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a score of listeners 
 remained, and these of the least promising sort. The 
 minute hand of the clock was already climbing upward 
 towards eleven. 
 
 ' It 's a lost battle,' said he, and then taking up the 
 money-box, he turned it out. ' Three francs seventy- 
 five ! ' he cried, ' as against four of board and six of 
 railway fares ; and no time for the tombola ! Elvira, 
 this is Waterloo.' And he sat down and passed both 
 hands desperately among his curls. ' Fichu Com- 
 missaire ! ' he cried, ' Fichu Gommissaire ! ' 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 437 
 
 ' Let us get the things together and be off,' returned 
 Elvira. * We might try another song, but there is not 
 six halfpence in the room.' 
 
 ' Six halfpence ? ' cried Leon, ' six hundred thousand 
 devils ! There is not a human creature in the town 
 nothing but pigs and dogs and commissaries ! Pray 
 heaven, we get safe to bed.' 
 
 ' Don't imagine things ! ' exclaimed Elvira, with 
 a shudder. 
 
 And with that they set to work on their preparations. 
 The tobacco- jar, the cigarette-holder, the three papers 
 of shirt-studs, which were to have been the prizes of 
 the tombola had the tombola come off, were made into 
 a bundle with the music ; the guitar was stowed into 
 the fat guitar- case ; and Elvira having thrown a thin 
 shawl about her neck and shoulders, the pair issued 
 from the cafe and set off for the Black Head. 
 
 As they crossed the market-place the church bell 
 rang out eleven. It was a dark, mild night, and there 
 was no one in the streets. 
 
 ' It is all very fine,' said Leon : ' but I have a pre- 
 sentiment. The night is not yet done.' 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE ' Black Head ' presented not a single chink of 
 light upon the street, and the carriage gate was closed. 
 
 ' This is unprecedented,' observed Leon. ' An inn 
 closed by five minutes after eleven ! And there were 
 several commercial travellers in the cafe up to a late 
 hour. Elvira, my heart misgives me. Let us ring the 
 bell.' 
 
 The bell had a potent note ; and being swung under 
 the arch it filled the house from top to bottom with 
 surly, clanging reverberations. The sound accentuated 
 the conventual appearance of the building ; a wintry 
 sentiment, a thought of prayer and mortification, took 
 hold upon Elvira's mind ; and, as for Leon, he seemed 
 to be reading the stage directions for a lugubrious 
 fifth act. 
 
438 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 * This is your fault,' said Elvira : ' this is what 
 comes of fancying things ! ' 
 
 Again Leon pulled the bell-rope ; again the solemn 
 tocsin awoke the echoes of the inn ; and ere they had 
 died away, a light glimmered in the carriage entrance, 
 and a powerful voice was heard upraised and tremulous 
 with wrath. 
 
 ' What 's all this ? ' cried the tragic host through the 
 spars of the gate. ' Hard upon twelve, and you come 
 clamouring like Prussians at the door of a respectable 
 hotel ? Oh ! ' he cried, ' I know you now 1 Common 
 singers ! People in trouble with the police I And you 
 present yourselves at midnight like lords and ladies ? 
 Be off with you ! ' 
 
 ' You will permit me to remind you,' replied Leon, 
 in thrilling tones, ' that I am a guest in your house, 
 that I am properly inscribed; and that I have deposited 
 baggage to the value of four hundred francs.' 
 
 ' You cannot get in at this hour,' returned the man. 
 ' This is no thieves' tavern, for mohocks and night 
 rakes and organ-grinders.' 
 
 ' Brute ! ' cried Elvira, for the organ-grinders 
 touched her home. 
 
 ' Then I demand my baggage/ said Leon, with 
 unabated dignity. 
 
 ' I know nothing of your baggage,' replied the landlord. 
 
 * You detain my baggage ? You dare to detain my 
 baggage ? ' cried the singer. 
 
 ' Who are you ? ' returned the landlord. ' It is 
 dark I cannot recognize you.' 
 
 ' Very well, then you detain my baggage,' concluded 
 Leon. ' You shall smart for this. I will weary out 
 your life with persecutions ; I will drag you from court 
 .to court; if there is justice to be had in France, it 
 shall be rendered between you and me. And I will 
 make you a byword I will put you in a song 
 a scurrilous song an indecent song a popular song 
 which the boys shall sing to you in the street, and 
 come and howl through these spars at midnight ! ' 
 
 He had gone on raising his voice at every phrase, 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 439 
 
 for all the while the landlord was very placidly retiring ; 
 and now, when the last glimmer of light had vanished 
 from the arch, and the last footstep died away in the 
 interior, Leon turned to his wife with a heroic coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 ' Elvira,' said he, ' I have now a duty in life. I shall 
 destroy that man as Eugene Sue destroyed the con- 
 cierge. Let us come at once to the Gendarmerie and 
 begin our vengeance.' 
 
 He picked up the guitar-case, which had been propped 
 against the wall, and they set forth through the silent 
 and ill-lighted town with burning hearts. 
 
 The Gendarmerie was concealed beside the telegraph 
 office at the bottom of a vast court, which was partly 
 laid out in gardens ; and here all the shepherds of the 
 public lay locked in grateful sleep. It took a deal of 
 knocking to waken one ; and he, when he came at 
 last to the door, could find no other remark but that 
 'it was none of his business'. Leon reasoned with 
 him, threatened him, besought him ; ' here,' he said, 
 * was Madame Berthelini in evening dress a delicate 
 woman in an interesting condition ' the last was 
 thrown in, I fancy, for effect ; and to all this the man- 
 at-arms made the same answer : 
 
 4 It is none of my business,' said he. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Leon, ' then we shall go to the 
 Commissary.' Thither they went ; the office was closed 
 and dark; but the house was close by, and Leon 
 was soon swinging the bell like a madman. The 
 Commissary's wife appeared at a window. She was 
 a thread- paper creature, and informed them that the 
 Commissary had not yet come home. 
 
 ' Is he at the Maire's ? ' demanded Leon. 
 
 She thought that was not unlikely. 
 
 ' Where is the Maire's house ? ' he asked. 
 
 And she gave him some rather vague information on 
 that point. 
 
 ' Stay you here, Elvira,' said Leon, ' lest I should 
 miss him by the way. If, when I return, I find you 
 here no longer, I shall follow at once to the Black Head.' 
 
440 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 And he set out to find the Maire's. It took him 
 some ten minutes wandering among blind lanes, and 
 when he arrived it was already half an hour past 
 midnight. A long white garden wall overhung by 
 some thick chestnuts, a door with a letter-box, and an 
 iron bell- pull, that was all that could be seen of the 
 Maire's domicile. Leon took the bell- pull in both 
 hands, and danced furiously upon the side-walk. The 
 bell itself was just upon the other side of the wall, it 
 responded to his activity, and scattered an alarming 
 clangour far and wide into the night. 
 
 A window was thrown open in a house across the street, 
 and a voice inquired the cause of this untimely uproar. 
 
 * I wish the Maire,' said Leon. 
 
 ' He has been in bed this hour,' returned the voice. 
 
 * He must get up again,' retorted Leon, and he was 
 for tackling the bell-pull once more. 
 
 ' You will never make him hear,' responded the 
 voice. * The garden is of great extent, the house is at 
 the farther end, and both the Maire and his house- 
 keeper are deaf.' 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said Leon, pausing. * The Maire is deaf, is 
 he ? That explains.' And he thought of the evening's 
 concert with a momentary feeling of relief. ' Ah ! ' 
 he continued, ' and so the Maire is deaf, and the garden 
 vast, and the house at the far end ? ' 
 
 ' And you might ring all night,' added the voice, 
 ' and be none the better for it. You would only keep 
 me awake.' 
 
 ' Thank you, neighbour,' replied the singer. * You 
 shall sleep.' 
 
 And he made off again at his best pace for the Com- 
 missary's. Elvira was still walking to and fro before 
 the door. 
 
 ' He has not come ? ' asked Leon. 
 
 ' Not he,' she replied. 
 
 ' Good,' returned Leon. ' I am sure our man 's 
 inside. Let me see the guitar-case. I shall lay this 
 siege in form, Elvira ; I am angry ; I am indignant ; 
 I am truculently inclined ; but I thank my Maker 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 441 
 
 I have still a sense of fun. The unjust judge shall be 
 importuned in a serenade, Elvira. Set him up and 
 set him up.' 
 
 He had the case opened by this time, struck a few 
 chords, and fell into an attitude which was irresistibly 
 Spanish. 
 
 ' Now,' he continued, ' feel your voice. Are you 
 ready ? Follow me ! ' 
 
 The guitar twanged, and the two voices upraised, 
 in harmony and with a startling loudness, the chorus 
 of a song of old Beranger's : 
 
 Commissaire ! Commissaire ! 
 Colin bat sa menag&re. 
 
 The stones of Castel-le-Gachis thrilled at this 
 audacious innovation. Hitherto had the night been 
 sacred to repose and night-caps ; and now what was 
 this ? Window after window was opened ; matches 
 scratched, and candles began to nicker ; swollen sleepy 
 faces peered forth into the starlight. There were the 
 two figures before the Commissary's house, each bolt 
 upright, with head thrown back and eyes interrogating 
 the starry heavens ; the guitar wailed, shouted, and 
 reverberated like half an orchestra; and the voices, 
 with a crisp and spirited delivery, hurled the appropriate 
 burden at the Commissary's window. All the echoes 
 repeated the functionary's name. It was more like 
 an entr'acte in a farce of Moliere's than a passage of 
 real life in Castel-le-Gachis. 
 
 The Commissary, if he was not the first, was not the 
 last of the neighbours to yield to the influence of music, 
 and furiously throw open the window of his bedroom. 
 He was beside himself with rage. He leaned far over 
 the window-sill, raving and gesticulating ; the tassel 
 of his white night-cap danced like a thing of life : 
 he opened his mouth to dimensions hitherto unpre- 
 cedented, and yet his voice, instead of escaping from 
 it in a roar, came forth shrill and choked and tottering. 
 A little more serenading, and it was clear he would be 
 better acquainted with the apoplexy. 
 
442 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 I scorn to reproduce his language ; he touched upon 
 too many serious topics by the way for a quiet story- 
 teller. Although he was known for a man who was 
 prompt with his tongue, and had a power of strong 
 expression at command, he excelled himself so remark- 
 ably this night that one maiden lady, who had got out 
 of bed like the rest to hear the serenade, was obliged 
 to shut her window at the second clause. Even what 
 she had heard disquieted her conscience ; and next 
 day she said she scarcely reckoned as a maiden lady 
 any longer. 
 
 Leon tried to explain his predicament, but he 
 received nothing but threats of arrest by way of 
 answer. 
 
 ' If I come down to you ! ' cried the Commissary. 
 
 ' Aye,' said Leon, ' do ! ' 
 
 ' I will not ! ' cried the Commissary. 
 
 ' You dare not ! ' answered Leon. 
 
 At that the Commissary closed his window. 
 
 * All is over,' said the singer. * The serenade was 
 perhaps ill-judged. These boors have no sense of 
 humour.' 
 
 ' Let us get away from here,' said Elvira with 
 a shiver. ' All these people looking it is so rude and 
 so brutal.' And then giving way once more to passion 
 ' Brutes ! ' she cried aloud to the candle-lit spec- 
 tators * brutes ! brutes ! brutes ! ' 
 
 ' Sauve qui peut,' said Leon. ' You have done it 
 now ! ' 
 
 And taking the guitar in one hand and the case in 
 the other, he led the way with something too precipitate 
 to be merely called precipitation from the scene of this 
 absurd adventure. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 To the west of Castel-le-Gachis four rows of vener- 
 able lime-trees formed, in this starry night, a twilit 
 avenue with two side aisles of pitch darkness. Here 
 and there stone benches were disposed between the 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 443 
 
 trunks. There was not a breath of wind ; a heavy 
 atmosphere of perfume hung about the alleys ; and 
 every leaf stood stock-still upon its twig. Hither, after 
 vainly knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came 
 at length to pass the night. After an amiable con- 
 tention, Leon insisted on giving his coat to Elvira, and 
 they sat down together on the first bench in silence. 
 Leon made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, 
 looking up into the trees, and, beyond them, at the 
 constellations, of which he tried vainly to recall the 
 names. The silence was broken by the church bell ; it 
 rang the four quarters on a light and tinkling measure ; 
 then followed a single deep stroke that died slowly 
 away with a thrill ; and stillness resumed its empire. 
 
 ' One,' said Leon. ' Four hours till daylight. It is 
 warm ; it is starry ; I have matches and tobacco. 
 Do not let us exaggerate, Elvira the experience is 
 positively charming. I feel a glow within me ; I am 
 born again. This is the poetry of life. Think of 
 Cooper's novels, my dear.' 
 
 ' Leon,' she said fiercely, ' how can you talk such 
 wicked, infamous nonsense ? To pass all night out of 
 doors it is like a nightmare ! We shall die.' 
 
 ' You suffer yourself to be led away,' he replied 
 soothingly. ' It is not unpleasant here ; only you 
 brood. Come, now, let us repeat a scene. Shall we 
 try Alceste and Celimene ? No ? Or a passage from 
 the Two Orphans ? Come, now, it will occupy your 
 mind ; I will play up to you as I never have played 
 before ; I feel art moving in my bones.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue,' she cried, ' or you will drive me 
 mad ! Will nothing solemnize you not even this 
 hideous situation ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, hideous ! ' objected Leon. * Hideous is not 
 the word. Why, where would you be ? " Dites, la 
 jeune belle, ou voulez-vous aller ? " ' he carolled. 
 ' Well, now,' he went on, opening the guitar-case . 
 ' there 's another idea for you sing. Sing " Dites, 
 la jeune belle " ! It will compose your spirits, Elvira, 
 I am sure.' 
 
444 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 And without waiting an answer he began to strum 
 the symphony. The first chords awoke a young man 
 who was lying asleep upon a neighbouring bench. 
 
 ' Hullo ! ' cried the young man, ' who are you ? ' 
 
 ' Under which king, Bezonian ? ' declaimed the 
 artist. ' Speak or die ! ' 
 
 Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to 
 much the same purpose from a French tragedy. 
 
 The young man drew near in the twilight. He was 
 a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat 
 puny face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a deer- 
 stalker hat of the same material ; and as he now came 
 forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm. 
 
 ' Are you camping out here too ? ' he asked with 
 a strong English accent. ' I'm not sorry for com- 
 pany.' 
 
 Leon explained their misadventure ; and the other 
 told them that he was a Cambridge undergraduate on 
 a walking tour, that he had run short of money, could 
 no longer pay for his night's lodging, had already been 
 camping out for two nights, and feared he should 
 require to continue the same manoeuvre for at least 
 two nights more. 
 
 ' Luckily, it 's jolly weather,' he concluded. 
 
 ' You hear that, Elvira,' said Leon. ' Madame 
 Berthelini,' he went on, ' is ridiculously affected by 
 this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic 
 and far from uncomfortable ; or at least,' he added, 
 shifting on the stone bench, * not quite so uncomfort- 
 able as might have been expected. But pray be 
 seated.' 
 
 'Yes,' returned the undergraduate, sitting down, 
 'it's rather nice than otherwise when once you're 
 used to it ; only it's devilish difficult to get washed. 
 I like the fresh air and these stars and things.' 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said Leon, ' Monsieur is an artist.' 
 
 ' An artist ? ' returned the other, with a blank stare. 
 ' Not if I know it ! ' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said the actor. ' What you said this 
 moment about the orbs of heaven ' 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 445 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! ' cried the Englishman. ' A fellow 
 may admire the stars and be anything he likes.' 
 
 ' You have an artist's nature, however, Mr. 
 
 I beg your pardon ; may I, without indiscretion, 
 inquire your name ? ' asked Leon. 
 
 ' My name is Stubbs,' replied the Englishman. 
 
 ' I thank you,' returned Leon. ' Mine is Berthelini 
 Leon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Mont- 
 rouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see 
 me, I have created with applause more than one 
 important role. The Press were unanimous in praise 
 of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of 
 the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, 
 is herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, 
 a better artist than her husband. She also is a creator ; 
 she created nearly twenty successful songs at one of 
 the principal Parisian music-halls. But, to continue, 
 I was saying you had an artist's nature, Monsieur 
 Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a judge in 
 such a question. I trust you will not falsify your 
 instincts ; let me beseech you to follow the career of 
 an artist.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. ' I'm 
 going to be a banker.' 
 
 * No,' said Leon, ' do not say so. Not that. A man 
 with such a nature as yours should not derogate so 
 far. What are a few privations here and there, so 
 long as you are working for a high and noble goal ? ' 
 
 ' This fellow 's mad,' thought Stubbs ; * but the 
 woman 's rather pretty, and he 's not bad fun himself, 
 if you come to that.' What he said was different. 
 ' I thought you said you were an actor ? ' 
 
 ' I certainly did so,' replied Leon. ' I am one, or, 
 alas ! I was.' 
 
 ' And so you want me to be an actor, do you ? ' 
 continued the undergraduate. * Why, man, I could 
 never so much as learn the stuff ; my memory 's like 
 a sieve ; and as for acting, I've no more idea than a cat.' 
 
 * The stage is not the only course,' said Leon. ' Be 
 a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist ; follow 
 
446 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 your heart, in short, and do some thorough work before 
 you die.' 
 
 ' And do you call all these things art ? ' inquired 
 Stubbs. 
 
 ' Why, certainly ! ' returned Leon. ' Are they not 
 all branches ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I didn't know,' replied the Englishman. 
 ' I thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.' 
 
 The singer stared at him in some surprise. 
 
 ' It is the difference of language,' he said at last. 
 ' This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for 
 it ? If I could speak English you would follow me 
 more readily.' 
 
 ' Between you and me, I don't believe I should,' 
 replied the other. ' You seem to have thought a devil 
 of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire 
 the stars, and like to have them shining it's so 
 cheery but hang me if I had an idea it had anything 
 to do with art ! It 's not in my line, you see. I'm 
 not intellectual ; I have no end of trouble to scrape 
 through my exams., I can tell you ! But I'm not a bad 
 sort at bottom,' he added, seeing his interlocutor 
 looked distressed even in the dim star-shine, ' and 
 I rather like the play, and music, and guitars, and 
 things.' 
 
 Leon had a perception that the understanding was 
 incomplete. He changed the subject. 
 
 ' And so you travel on foot ? ' he continued. * How 
 romantic ! How courageous ! And how are you 
 pleased with my land ? How does the scenery affect 
 you among these wild hills of ours ? ' 
 
 ' Well, the fact is,' began Stubbs he was about to 
 say that he didn't care for scenery, which was not at 
 all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic under- 
 graduate pretension ; but he had begun to suspect that 
 Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted 
 something else ' The fact is, I think it jolly. They 
 told me it was no good up here ; even the guide-book 
 said so ; but I don't know what they meant. I think 
 it is deuced pretty upon my word, I do.* 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 447 
 
 At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, 
 Elvira burst into tears. 
 
 * My voice ! ' she cried. ' Leon, if I stay here 
 longer I shall lose my voice ! ' 
 
 ' You shall not stay another moment,' cried the 
 actor. ' If I have to beat in a door, if I have to burn 
 the town, I shall find you shelter.' 
 
 With that he replaced the guitar, and comforting 
 her with some caresses, drew her arm through his. 
 
 ' Monsieur Stubbs,' said he, taking off his hat, ' the 
 reception I offer you is rather problematical ; but let 
 me beseech you to give us the pleasure of your society. 
 You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you 
 must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be 
 necessary. I ask it as a favour ; we must not part so 
 soon after having met so strangely.' 
 
 ' Oh, come, you know,' said Stubbs, * I can't let 
 
 a fellow like you ' And there he paused, feeling 
 
 somehow or other on a wrong tack. 
 
 ' I do not wish to employ menaces,' continued Leon 
 with a smile ; ' but if you refuse, indeed I shall not 
 take it kindly.' 
 
 ' I don't quite see my way out of it,' thought the 
 undergraduate ; and then, after a pause, he said aloud 
 and ungraciously enough, ' All right. I I'm very 
 much obliged, of course.' And he proceeded to follow 
 them, thinking in his heart, ' But it 's bad form, all 
 the same, to force an obligation on a fellow.' 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 LEON strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he 
 was going : the sobs of Madame were still faintly 
 audible, and no one uttered a word. A dog barked 
 furiously in a courtyard as they went by ; then the 
 church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks 
 followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then 
 Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house 
 on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party 
 now directed their steps. 
 
448 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 ' It is always a chance,' said Leon. 
 
 The house in question stood back from the street 
 behind an open space, part garden, part turnip-field ; 
 and several outhouses stood forward from either wing 
 at right angles to the front. One of these had recently 
 undergone some change. An enormous window, look- 
 ing towards the north, had been effected in the wall 
 and roof, and Leon began to hope it was a studio. 
 
 * If it's only a painter,' he said with a chuckle, ' ten 
 to one we get as good a welcome as we want.' 
 
 ' I thought painters were principally poor,' said 
 Stubbs. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Leon, * you do not know the world as 
 I do. The poorer the better for us ! ' 
 
 And the trio advanced into the turnip-field. 
 
 The light was in the ground floor ; as one window 
 was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, 
 it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in 
 one corner of a large apartment ; and a certain tremu- 
 lousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live 
 fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice 
 now became audible ; and the trespassers paused to 
 listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had 
 still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utter- 
 ance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct ; 
 a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and 
 again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker 
 reckoned on its virtue. 
 
 Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was 
 a woman's ; and if the man were angry, the woman 
 was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that 
 absolutely blank composure known to suffering males ; 
 that colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit 
 accurately balanced between homicide and hysterics ; 
 the tone in which the best of women sometimes utter 
 words worse than death to those most dear to them. 
 If Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed 
 with the gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would 
 it discourse. Leon was a brave man, and I fear he 
 was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 449 
 
 in a Papistical country), but the habit of childhood 
 prevailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had 
 met several women in his career. It was obvious that 
 his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice 
 broke forth instantly in a towering passion. 
 
 The undergraduate, who had not understood the 
 significance of the woman's contribution, pricked up 
 his ears at the change upon the man. 
 
 ' There's going to be a free fight,' he opined. 
 
 There was another retort from the woman, still calm 
 but a little higher. 
 
 ' Hysterics ? ' asked Leon of his wife. ' Is that the 
 stage direction ? ' 
 
 ' How should I know ? ' returned Elvira, somewhat 
 tartly. 
 
 ' Oh, woman, woman ! ' said Leon, . beginning to 
 open the guitar-case. * It is one of the burdens of my 
 life, Monsieur Stubbs ; they support each other ; they 
 always pretend there is no system; they say it's 
 nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic 
 artist ! ' 
 
 ' You are heartless, Leon,' said Elvira ; ' that 
 woman is in trouble.' 
 
 ' And the man, my angel ? ' inquired Berthelini, 
 passing the ribbon of his guitar. ' And the man, 
 ni* amour ? ' 
 
 ' He is a man,' she answered. 
 
 ' You hear that ? ' said Leon to Stubbs. * It is 
 not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,' 
 he continued, ' what are we to give them ? ' 
 
 ' Are you going to sing ? ' asked Stubbs. 
 
 ' I am a troubadour,' replied Leon. ' I claim 
 a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could 
 I do as much ? ' 
 
 * Well, you wouldn't need, you know,' answered the 
 undergraduate. 
 
 ' Egad,' said Leon, ' but that 's true. Elvira, that 
 is true.' 
 
 ' Of course it is,' she replied. * Did you not know it ? ' 
 
 ' My dear,' answered Leon impressively, * L know 
 
 193 Q 
 
450 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge 
 of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what 
 are we to give them ? It should be something appro- 
 priate.' 
 
 Visions of ' Let dogs delight ' passed through the 
 undergraduate's mind ; but it occurred to him that 
 the poetry was English and that he did not know the 
 air. Hence he contributed no suggestion. 
 
 ' Something about our houselessness,' said Elvira. 
 
 4 1 have it,' cried Leon. And he broke forth into 
 a song of Pierre Dupont's : 
 
 Savez-vous ou gite 
 Mai, ce joli mois ? 
 
 Elvira joined in ; so did Stubbs, with a good ear 
 and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the 
 music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situa- 
 tion. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with pro- 
 digality and enthusiasm ; and, as he looked up to 
 heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it 
 seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb 
 applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its 
 silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features 
 of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody 
 in particular ; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endy- 
 mion who managed to get along without encourage- 
 ment, is always the world's centre for himself. 
 
 He alone and it is to be noted, he was the worst 
 singer of the three took the music seriously to heart, 
 and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of 
 view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied 
 about their reception ; and, as for Stubbs, he con- 
 sidered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke. 
 
 ' Know you the lair of May, the lovely month ? ' 
 went the three voices in the turnip-field. 
 
 The inhabitants were plainly fluttered ; the light 
 moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, 
 paling in another ; and then the door was thrown 
 open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold 
 carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 451 
 
 with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open ; 
 his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harle- 
 quinesque disorder ; and there was something rural 
 in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers. 
 
 From immediately behind him, and indeed over his 
 shoulder, a woman's face looked out into the darkness ; 
 it was pale and a little weary, although still young ; it 
 wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be 
 quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and 
 sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain 
 drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike ; when 
 the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain 
 pale beauty might step in to take its place ; and as 
 both the mildness and the asperity were characters 
 of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both 
 would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly 
 temper. 
 
 ' What is all this ? ' cried the man. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 LEON had his hat in his hand at once. He came 
 forward with his customary grace ; it was a moment 
 which would have earned him a round of cheering on 
 the stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, 
 like a couple of Admetus's sheep following the god 
 Apollo. 
 
 ' Sir,' said Leon, ' the hour is unpardonably late, 
 and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. 
 Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, 
 I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and 
 without shelter, one a woman a delicate woman in 
 evening dress in an interesting situation. This will 
 not fail to touch the woman's heart of Madame, whom 
 I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, 
 and whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated 
 mind. Ah ! Monsieur, Madame one generous move- 
 ment, and you make three people happy ! Two or 
 
452 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 three hours beside your fire I ask it of Monsieur in 
 the name of Art I ask it of Madame by the sanctity 
 of womanhood.' 
 
 The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door. 
 
 ' Come in,' said the man. 
 
 * Entrez, Madame,' said the woman. 
 
 The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the 
 house, which was to all appearance the only sitting- 
 room. The furniture was both plain and scanty ; but 
 there were one or two landscapes on the wall hand- 
 somely framed, as if they had already visited the com- 
 mittee-rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded. 
 Leon walked up to the pictures and represented the 
 part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his 
 usual dramatic insight and force. The master of the 
 house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from 
 canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira was led 
 directly to the fire, where she proceeded to warm 
 herself, while Stubbs stood in the middle of the floor 
 and followed the proceedings of Leon with mild astonish- 
 ment in his eyes. 
 
 ' You should see them by daylight,' said the artist. 
 
 ' I promise myself that pleasure,' said Leon. ' You 
 possess, sir, if you will permit me an observation, the 
 art of composition to a T.' 
 
 * You are very good,' returned the other. ' But 
 should you not draw nearer to the fire ? ' 
 
 * With all my heart,' said Leon. 
 
 And the whole party was soon gathered at the table 
 ever a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, washed 
 down with the least of small wines. Nobody liked the 
 meal, but nobody complained ; they put a good face 
 upon it, one and all, and made a great clattering of 
 knives and forks. To see Leon eating a single cold 
 sausage was to see a triumph ; by the time he had 
 done he had got through as much pantomime as would 
 have sufficed for a baron of beef, and he had the relaxed 
 expression of the over-eaten. 
 
 As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side 
 of Leon, and Stubbs as naturally, although I believe 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 453 
 
 unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, the host and 
 hostess were left together. Yet it was to be noted that 
 they never addressed a word to each other, nor so much 
 as suffered their eyes to meet. The interrupted skir- 
 mish still survived in ill-feeling ; and the instant the 
 guests departed it would break forth again as bitterly 
 as ever. The talk wandered from this to that subject 
 for with one accord the party had declared it was 
 too late to go to bed ; but those two never relaxed 
 towards each other ; Goneril and Regan in a sisterly 
 tiff were not more bent on enmity. 
 
 It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the 
 little excitements of the night, that for once she laid 
 aside her company manners, which were both easy 
 and correct, and in the most natural manner in the 
 world leaned her head on Leon's shoulder. At the 
 same time, fatigue suggesting tenderness, she locked 
 the fingers of her right hand into those of her husband's 
 left ; and, half closing her eyes, dozed off into a golden 
 borderland between sleep and waking. But all the 
 time she was aware of what was passing, and saw the 
 painter's wife studying her with looks between con- 
 tempt and envy. 
 
 It occurred to Leon that his constitution demanded 
 the use of some tobacco ; and he undid his fingers 
 from Elvira's in order to roll a cigarette. It was 
 gently done, and he took care that his indulgence 
 should in no other way disturb his wife's position. 
 But it seemed to catch the eye of the painter's wife 
 with a special significancy. She looked straight before 
 her for an instant, and then, with a swift and stealthy 
 movement, took hold of her husband's hand below 
 the table. Alas ! she might have spared herself the 
 dexterity. For the poor fellow was so overcome by 
 this caress that he stopped with his mouth open in the 
 middle of a word, and by the expression of his face 
 plainly declared to all the company that his thoughts 
 had been diverted into softer channels. 
 
 If it had not been rather amiable, it would have 
 been absurdly droll. His wife at once withdrew her 
 
454 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 touch ; but it was plain she had to exert some force. 
 Thereupon the young man coloured and looked for 
 a moment beautiful. 
 
 Leon and Elvira both observed the by-play, and 
 a shock passed from one to the other ; for they were 
 inveterate match-makers, especially between those who 
 were already married. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Leon suddenly. * I see 
 no use in pretending. Before we came in here we heard 
 sounds indicating if I may so express myself an 
 imperfect harmony.' 
 
 ' Sir ' began the man. 
 
 But the woman was beforehand. 
 
 * It is quite true,' she said. * I see no cause to be 
 ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do 
 my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to 
 yourself, Monsieur and Madame,' she went on, for 
 she passed Stubbs over, ' that this wretched person 
 a dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter 
 receives this morning an admirable offer from an 
 uncle an uncle of my own, my mother's brother, and 
 tenderly beloved of a clerkship with nearly a hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year, and that he picture to your- 
 self ! he refuses it ! Why ? For the sake of Art, he 
 says. Look at his art, I say look at it ! Is it fit to 
 be seen ? Ask him is it fit to be sold ? And it is 
 for this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me 
 to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, 
 without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. 
 O non ! ' she cried, * non je ne me tairai pas c'est 
 plus fort que moi ! I take these gentlemen and this 
 lady for judges is this kind ? is it decent ? is it 
 manly ? Do I not deserve better at his hands after 
 having married him and ' (a visible hitch) ' done 
 everything in the world to please him ? ' 
 
 I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed com- 
 pany at a table ; every one looked like a fool ; and the 
 husband like the biggest. 
 
 ' The art of Monsieur, however,' said Elvira, break- 
 ing the silence, ' is not wanting in distinction.' 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 455 
 
 * It has this distinction,' said the wife, ' that nobody 
 will buy it.' 
 
 ' I should have supposed a clerkship ' began 
 
 Stubbs. 
 
 ' Art is Art,' swept in Leon. ' I salute Art. It is the 
 beautiful, the divine ; it is the spirit of the world, and 
 the pride of life. But ' And the actor paused. 
 
 ' A clerkship ' began Stubbs. 
 
 ' I'll tell you what it is,' said the painter. ' I am an 
 artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the 
 other ; but of course, if my wife is going to make my 
 life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and 
 drown myself out of hand.' 
 
 ' Go ! ' said his wife. * I should like to see you ! ' 
 
 ' I was going to say,' resumed Stubbs, ' that a fellow 
 may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he likes. 
 I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital water- 
 colour sketches ; he even sold one for seven-and-six.' 
 
 To both the women this seemed a plank of safety ; 
 each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her 
 lord ; even Elvira, an artist herself ! but indeed there 
 must be something permanently mercantile in the 
 female nature. The two men exchanged a glance ; it 
 was tragic ; not otherwise might two philosophers 
 salute, as at the end of a laborious life each recognized 
 that he was still a mystery to his disciples. 
 
 Leon arose. 
 
 ' Art is Art,' he repeated sadly. * It is not water- 
 colour sketches, nor practising on a piano. It is a life 
 to be lived.' 
 
 * And in the meantime people starve ! ' observed 
 the woman of the house. * If that's a life, it is not 
 one for me.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what,' burst forth Leon ; * you, Madame, 
 go into another room and talk it over with my wife ; 
 and I'll stay here and talk it over with your husband. 
 It may come to nothing, but let's try.' 
 
 ' I am very willing,' replied the young woman ; and 
 she proceeded to light a candle. ' This way, if you 
 please.' And she led Elvira upstairs into a bedroom. 
 
456 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 ' The fact is,' said she, sitting down, ' that my husband 
 cannot paint.' 
 
 'No more can mine act,' replied Elvira. 
 
 * I should have thought he could,' returned the 
 other ; * he Beems clever.' 
 
 ' He is so, and the best of men besides,' said Elvira ; 
 ' but he cannot act.' 
 
 * At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine ; he 
 can at least sing.' 
 
 ' You mistake Leon,' returned his wife warmly. 
 ' He does not even pretend to sing ; he has too fine 
 a taste ; he does so for a living. And, believe me, 
 neither of the men are humbugs. They are people with 
 a mission which they cannot carry out.' 
 
 ' Humbug or not,' replied the other, ' you came very 
 near passing the night in the fields ; and, for my part, 
 I live in terror of starvation. I should think it was 
 a man's mission to think twice about his wife. But it 
 appears not. Nothing is their mission but to play the 
 fool. Oh ! ' she broke out, ' is it not something dreary 
 to think of that man of mine ? If he could only do it, 
 who would care ? But no not he no more than I can ! ' 
 
 ' Have you any children ? ' asked Elvira. 
 
 ' No ; but then I may.' 
 
 * Children change so much,' said Elvira, with a sigh. 
 And just then from the room below there flew up 
 
 a sudden snapping chord on the guitar ; one followed 
 after another ; then the voice of Leon joined in ; and 
 there was an air being played and sung that stopped 
 the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter 
 stood like a person transfixed ; Elvira, looking into 
 her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories 
 and kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her 
 soul with every note ; it was a piece of her youth that 
 went before her ; a green French plain, the smell of 
 apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, 
 and the words and presence of love. 
 
 ' Leon has hit the nail,' thought Elvira to herself. 
 * I wonder how.' 
 
 The how was plain enough. Leon had asked the 
 
PROVIDENCE AND THE GUITAR 457 
 
 painter if there were no air connected with courtship 
 and pleasant times ; and having learnt what he wished, 
 and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into 
 mon amante, 
 6 mon desir, 
 Sachons cueillir 
 L'heure oharmante ! 
 
 ' Pardon me, Madame,' said the painter's wife, ' your 
 husband sings admirably well.' 
 
 ' He sings that with some feeling,' replied Elvira 
 critically, although she was a little moved herself, for 
 the song cut both ways in the upper chamber ; * but 
 it is as an actor and not as a musician.' 
 
 ' Life is very sad,' said the other ; * it so wastes 
 away under one's fingers.' 
 
 ' I have not found it so,' replied Elvira. ' I think 
 the good parts of it last and grow greater every day.' 
 
 ' Frankly, how would you advise me ? ' 
 
 ' Frankly, I would let my husband do what he 
 wished. He is obviously a very loving painter ; you 
 have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you know if 
 it were only as the possible father of your children 
 it is as well to keep him at his best.' 
 
 ' He is an excellent fellow,' said the wife. 
 
 They kept it up till sunrise with music and all 
 manner of good fellowship ; and at sunrise, while the 
 sky was still temperate and clear, they separated on 
 the threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for 
 each other's welfare. Castel-le-Gachis was beginning 
 to send up its smoke against the golden East ; and the 
 church bell was ringing six. 
 
 ' My guitar is a familiar spirit,' said Leon, as he and 
 Elvira took the nearest way towards the inn, ' it 
 resuscitated a Commissary, created an English tourist, 
 and reconciled a man and wife.' 
 
 Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with 
 reflections of his own. 
 
 'They are all mad,' thought he, 'all mad but 
 wonderfully decent.' 
 
 Q3 
 
GEORGE GISSING 
 
 1867-1903 
 CHRISTOPHERSON 
 
 IT was twenty years ago, and on an evening in May. 
 All day long there had been sunshine. Owing, doubt- 
 less, to the incident I am about to relate, the light 
 and warmth of that long-vanished day live with me 
 still ; I can see the great white clouds that moved 
 across the strip of sky before my window, and feel 
 again the spring langour which troubled my solitary 
 work in the heart of London. 
 
 Only at sunset did I leave the house. There was an 
 unwonted sweetness in the air ; the long vistas of 
 newly lit lamps made a golden glow under the dusking 
 flush of the sky. With no purpose but to rest and 
 breathe, I wandered for half an hour, and found myself 
 at length where Great Portland Street opens into 
 Marylebone Road. Over the way, in the shadow of 
 Trinity Church, was an old bookshop, well known to 
 me : the gas-jet shining upon the stall with its rows 
 of volumes drew me across. I began turning over 
 pages, and invariable consequence fingering what 
 money I had in my pocket. A certain book overcame 
 me ; I stepped into the little shop to- pay for it. 
 
 While standing at the stall, I had been vaguely 
 aware of some one beside me, a man who was also 
 looking over the books ; as I came out again with 
 my purchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with 
 a half-smile of peculiar interest. He seemed about 
 to say something. I walked slowly away; the man 
 moved in the same direction. Just in front of the church 
 he made a quick movement to my side, and spoke. 
 
 ' Pray excuse me, sir don't misunderstand me 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 459 
 
 I only wished to ask whether you have noticed the name 
 written on the flyleaf of the book you have just 
 bought ? ' 
 
 The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally 
 made me suppose at first that the man was going 
 to beg ; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. I 
 judged him to be about sixty years of age ; his long, 
 thin hair and straggling beard were grizzled, and 
 a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from his bloodless, 
 hollowed countenance ; he was very shabbily clad, yet 
 as a fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made 
 it clear to what class he originally belonged. The ex- 
 pression with which he regarded me had so much 
 intelligence, so much good nature, and at the same 
 time such a pathetic diffidence, that I could not but 
 answer him in the friendliest way. I had not seen the 
 name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, 
 and by the light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very 
 fine hand, ' W. R. Christopherson, 1849.' 
 
 ' It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and 
 uncertain voice. 
 
 ' Indeed ? The book used to belong to you ? ' 
 
 ' It belonged to me.' He laughed oddly, a tremulous 
 little crow of a laugh, at the same time stroking his 
 head, as if to deprecate disbelief. ' You never heard 
 of the sale of the Christopherson library ? To be sure, 
 you were too young ; it was in 1860. I have often 
 come across books with my name in them on the 
 stalls often. I had happened to notice this just before 
 you came up, and when I saw you look at it, I was 
 curious to see whether you would buy it. Pray excuse 
 the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books don't you 
 think ? ' 
 
 The broken question was completed by his look, and 
 when I said that I quite understood and agreed with 
 him he crowed his little laugh. 
 
 ' Have you a large library ? ' he inquired, eyeing me 
 wistfully. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too 
 many for one who has no house of his own.' 
 
460 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and mur- 
 mured just audibly : 
 
 ' My catalogue numbered 24,718.' 
 
 I was growing curious and interested. Venturing 
 no more direct questions, I asked whether, at the time 
 he spoke of, he lived in London. 
 
 ' If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid 
 reply, ' I will show you my house. I mean ' again 
 the little crowing laugh ' the house which was mine.' 
 
 Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short 
 distance up the road skirting Regent's Park, and 
 paused at length before a house in an imposing terrace. 
 
 ' There,' he whispered, ' I used to live. The window 
 to the right of the door that was my library. Ah ! ' 
 
 And he heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 ' A misfortune befell you,' I said, also in a subdued 
 voice. 
 
 ' The result of my own folly. I had enough for my 
 needs, but thought I needed more. I let myself be 
 drawn into business I, who knew nothing of such 
 things and there came the black day the black day.' 
 
 We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, 
 with heads bent, came in silence again to the church. 
 
 ' I wonder whether you have bought any other of 
 my books ? ' asked Christopherson, with his gentle 
 smile, when we had paused as if for leave-taking. 
 
 I replied that I did not remember to have come across 
 his name before ; then, on an impulse, asked whether 
 he would care to have the book I carried in my hand ; 
 if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner 
 were the words spoken than I saw the delight they 
 caused the hearer. He hesitated, murmured reluctance, 
 but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushed 
 with joy as he took the volume. 
 
 ' I still have a few books,' he said, under his breath, 
 as if he spoke of something he was ashamed to make 
 known. ' But it is very rarely indeed that I can add 
 to them. I feel I have not thanked you half enough.' 
 
 We shook hands and parted. 
 
 My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 461 
 
 One afternoon, perhaps a fortnight later, I had 
 walked for an hour or two, and on my way back 
 I stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some 
 one came up to my side ; I looked, and recognized 
 Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old 
 friends. 
 
 ' I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken 
 gentleman, who looked shabbier than before in the 
 broad daylight, ' but I didn't like to speak. I live 
 not far from here.' 
 
 ' Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking 
 what I said, ' do you live alone ? ' 
 
 ' Alone ? oh no. With my wife.' 
 
 There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. 
 His eyes were cast down and his head moved un- 
 easily. 
 
 We began to talk of the books on the stall, and 
 turning away together continued our conversation. 
 Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a very 
 intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some 
 proof of erudition (with the excessive modesty which 
 characterized him), I asked whether he wrote. No, 
 he had never written anything never ; he was only 
 a bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly 
 and took his leave. 
 
 It was not long before we again met by chance. We 
 came face to face at a street corner in my neighbour- 
 hood, and I was struck by a change in him. He looked 
 older ; a profound melancholy darkened his coun- 
 tenance ; the hand he gave me was limp, and his 
 pleasure at our meeting found only a faint expression. 
 
 * I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring 
 look. ' I am leaving London.' 
 
 ' For good ? ' 
 
 * I fear so, and yet ' he made an obvious effort 
 ' I am glad of it. My wife's health has not been very 
 good lately. She has need of country air. Yes, I am 
 glad we have decided to go away very glad very 
 glad indeed ! ' 
 
 He spoke with an automatic sort of emphasis, his 
 
462 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 eyes wandering, and his hands twitching nervously. 
 I was on the point of asking what part of the country 
 he had chosen for his retreat, when he abruptly added : 
 
 ' I live just over there. Will you let me show you 
 my books ? ' 
 
 Of course I gladly accepted the invitation, and a 
 couple of minutes' walk brought us to a house in 
 a decent street where most of the ground-floor windows 
 showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at 
 the door, my companion seemed to hesitate, to regret 
 having invited me. 
 
 ' I'm really afraid it isn't worth your while,' he said 
 timidly. ' The fact is, I haven't space to show my books 
 properly.' 
 
 I put aside the objection, and we entered. With 
 anxious courtesy Christopherson led me up the narrow 
 staircase to the second-floor landing, and threw open 
 a door. On the threshold I stood astonished. The 
 room was a small one, and would in any case have only 
 just sufficed for homely comfort, used as it evidently 
 was for all daytime purposes ; but certainly a third of 
 the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, 
 volumes stacked several rows deep against two of the 
 walls and almost up to the ceiling. A round table and 
 two or three chairs were the only furniture there 
 was no room, indeed, for more. The window being 
 shut, and the sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable 
 stuffiness oppressed the air. Never had I been made 
 so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper and 
 bindings. 
 
 ' But,' I exclaimed, ' you said you had only a few 
 books ! There must be five times as many here as 
 I have.' 
 
 I 1 forget the exact number,' murmured Christopher- 
 son, in great agitation. * You see, I can't arrange them 
 properly. I have a few more in in the other room.' 
 
 He led me across the landing, opened another door, 
 and showed me a little bedroom. Here the encumber- 
 ment was less remarkable, but one wall had completely 
 disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 463 
 
 the air made it a disgusting thought that two persons 
 occupied this chamber every night. 
 
 We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson 
 began picking out books from the solid mass to show 
 me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now and then 
 a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little 
 light on his history. I learnt that he had occupied 
 these lodgings for the last eight years; that he had 
 been twice married ; that the only child he had had, 
 a daughter by his first wife, had died long ago in 
 childhood ; and lastly this came in a burst of confi- 
 dence, with a very pleasant smile that his second wife 
 had been his daughter's governess. I listened with 
 keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the 
 circumstances of this singular household. 
 
 ' In the country,' I remarked, ' you will no doubt 
 have shelf room ? ' 
 
 At once his countenance fell ; he turned upon me 
 a woebegone eye. Just as I was about to speak 
 again sounds from within the house caught my atten- 
 tion ; there was a heavy foot on the stairs, and a loud 
 voice, which seemed familiar to me. 
 
 * Ah ! ' exclaimed Christopherson with a start, ' here 
 comes some one who is going to help me in the removal 
 of the books. Come in, Mr. Pomfret, come in ! ' 
 
 The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry 
 fellow, whose sandy hair, light blue eyes, jutting jaw- 
 bones, and large mouth made a picture suggestive of 
 small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome man- 
 hood. No wonder I had seemed to recognize his voice. 
 Though we only saw each other by chance at long 
 intervals, Pomfret and I were old acquaintances. 
 
 ' Hullo ! ' he roared out, ' I didn't know you knew 
 Mr. Christopherson.' 
 
 ' I'm just as much surprised to find that you know 
 him ! ' was my reply. 
 
 The old book-lover gazed at us in nervous astonish- 
 ment, then shook hands with the newcomer, who 
 greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spoke 
 with a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the 
 
464 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 angularity of demeanour which marks the typical York- 
 shireman. He came to announce that everything 
 had been settled for the packing and transporting of 
 Mr. Christopherson's library ; it remained only to 
 decide the day. 
 
 * There 's no hurry,' exclaimed Christopherson. 
 * There 's really no hurry. I'm greatly obliged to you, 
 Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking. We'll 
 settle the date in a day or two a day or two.' 
 
 With a good-humoured nod Pomfret moved to take 
 his leave. Our eyes met ; we left the house together. 
 Out in the street again I took a deep breath of the 
 summer air, which seemed sweet as in a meadow after 
 that stifling room. My companion evidently had a like 
 sensation, for he looked up to the sky and broadened 
 out his shoulders. 
 
 * Eh, but it 's a grand day ! I'd give something for 
 a walk on Ilkley Moors.' 
 
 As the best substitute within our reach we agreed 
 to walk across Regent's Park together. Pomfret's 
 business took him in that direction, and I was glad 
 of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old 
 book-lover's landlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christo- 
 pherson's story of affluence and ruin was quite true. 
 Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been 
 obliged to earn his living as a clerk or something of the 
 kind. About five years later came his second marriage. 
 
 ' You know Mrs. Christopherson ? ' asked Pomfret. 
 
 'No! I wish I did. Why?' 
 
 ' Because she 's the sort of woman it does you good 
 to know, that 's all. She 's a lady my idea of a lady. 
 Christopherson 's a gentleman too, there 's no denying 
 it ; if he wasn't, I think I should have punched his 
 head before now. Oh, I know 'em well ! why, I lived 
 in the house with 'em for several years. She 's a lady 
 to the end of her little finger, and how her husband 
 can 'a borne to see her living the life she has, it 's more 
 
 than I can understand. By ! I'd have turned 
 
 burglar, if I could 'a found no other way of keeping 
 her in comfort.' 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 465 
 
 ' She works for her living, then ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, and for his too. No, not teaching ; she 's 
 in a shop in Tottenham Court Road ; has what they 
 call a good place, and earns thirty shillings a week. 
 It 's all they have, but Christopherson buys books out 
 of it.' 
 
 ' But has he never done anything since their mar- 
 riage ? ' 
 
 ' He did for the first few years, I believe, but he had 
 an illness, and that was the end of it. Since then he 's 
 only loafed. He goes to all the book-sales, and spends 
 the rest of his time sniffing about the second-hand 
 shops. She ? Oh, she'd never say a word ! Wait till 
 you've seen her.' 
 
 ' Well, but,' I asked, ' what has happened. How is it 
 they're leaving London ? ' 
 
 * Aye, I'll tell you ; I was coming to that. Mrs. Chris- 
 topherson has relatives well off a fat and selfish lot, 
 as far as I can make out never lifted a finger to help 
 her until now. One of them 's a Mrs. Keeting, the widow 
 of some City porpoise, I'm told. Well, this woman has 
 a home down in Norfolk. She never lives there, but 
 a son of hers goes there to fish and shoot now and then. 
 Well, this is what Mrs. Christopherson tells my aunt, 
 Mrs. Keeting has offered to let her and her husband 
 live down yonder, rent free, and their food provided. 
 She 's to be housekeeper, in fact, and keep the place 
 ready for any one who goes down.' 
 
 ' Christopherson, / can see, would rather stay where 
 he is.' 
 
 ' Why, of course, he doesn't know how he'll live 
 without the bookshops. But he 's glad for all that, 
 on his wife's account. And it 's none too soon, I can 
 tell you. The poor woman couldn' t go on much longer ; 
 my aunt says she 's just about ready to drop, and 
 sometimes, I know, she looks terribly bad. Of course, 
 she won't own it, not she ; she isn't one of the com- 
 plaining sort. But she talks now and then about the 
 country the places where she used to live. I've heard 
 her, and it gives me a notion of what she's gone through 
 
466 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 all these years. I saw her a week ago, just when she 
 had Mrs. Keeting's offer, and I tell you I scarcely 
 knew who it was ! You never saw such a change in 
 any one in your life ! Her face was like that of a girl 
 of seventeen. And her laugh you should have heard 
 her laugh ! ' 
 
 ' Is she much younger than her husband ? ' I asked. 
 
 4 Twenty years at least. She 's about forty, I think.' 
 
 I mused for a few moments. 
 
 * After all, it isn't an unhappy marriage ? ' 
 
 * Unhappy ? ' cried Pomfret. * Why, there 's never 
 been a disagreeable word between them, that I'll 
 warrant. Once Christopherson gets over the change, 
 they'll have nothing more in the world to ask for. 
 He'll potter over his books ' 
 
 * You mean to tell me,' I interrupted, ' that those 
 books have all been bought out of his wife's thirty 
 shillings a week ? ' 
 
 * No, no. To begin with, he kept a few out of his 
 old library. Then, when he was earning his own living, 
 he bought a great many. He told me once that he 's 
 often lived on sixpence a day to have money for books. 
 A rum old owl ; but for all that he 's a gentleman, and 
 you can't help liking him. I shall be sorry when he 's 
 out of reach.' 
 
 For my own part, I wished nothing better than to 
 hear of Christopher son's departure. The story I had 
 heard made me uncomfortable. It was good to think 
 of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of 
 toil, and in these days of midsummer free to enjoy 
 the country she loved. A touch of envy mingled, 
 I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who 
 henceforth had not a care in the world, and without 
 reproach might delight in his hoarded volumes. One 
 could not imagine that he would suffer seriously by 
 the removal of his old haunts. I promised myself 
 to call on him in a day or two. By choosing Sunday, 
 I might perhaps be lucky enough to see his wife. 
 
 And on Sunday afternoon I was on the point of setting 
 forth to pay this visit, when in came Pomfret. He wore 
 
 X 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 467 
 
 a surly look, and kicked clumsily against the furniture 
 as he crossed the room. His appearance was a surprise, 
 for, though I had given him my address, I did not in 
 the least expect that he would come to see me ; a 
 certain pride, I suppose, characteristic of his rugged 
 strain, having always made him shy of such intimacy. 
 
 ' Did you ever hear the like of that \ ' he shouted, 
 half angrily. ' It 's all over. They're not going. 
 And all because of those blamed books ! ' 
 
 And spluttering and growling, he made known what 
 he had just learnt at his aunt's home. On the previous 
 afternoon the Christophersons had been surprised by 
 a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, 
 Mrs. Keeting. Never before had that lady called upon 
 them ; she came, no doubt (this could only be con- 
 jectured), to speak with them of their approaching 
 removal. The close of the conversation (a very brief 
 one) was overheard by the landlady, for Mrs. Keeting 
 spoke loudly as she descended the stairs. ' Impossible ! 
 Quite impossible ! I couldn't think of it ! How could 
 you dream for a moment that I would let you fill 
 my house with musty old books ? Most unhealthy ! 
 I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, 
 never ! ' And so she went out to her carriage, and was 
 driven away. And the landlady, presently having 
 occasion to go upstairs, was aware of a dead silence 
 in the room where the Christophersons were sitting. 
 She knocked prepared with some excuse and found 
 the couple side by side, smiling sadly. At once they 
 told her the truth. Mrs. Keeting had come because of 
 a letter in which Mrs. Christopherson had mentioned the 
 fact that her husband had a good many books, and 
 hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the 
 house in Norfolk. She came to see the library with 
 the result already heard. They had the choice between 
 sacrificing the books and losing what their relative 
 offered. 
 
 ' Christopherson refused ? ' I let fall. 
 
 ' I suppose his wife saw that it was too much for 
 him. At all events, they'd agreed to keep the books 
 
468 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 and lose the house. And there 's an end of it. I haven't 
 been so riled about anything for a long time ! ' 
 
 Meantime I had been reflecting. It was easy for 
 me to understand Christopherson's state of mind, and 
 without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I saw that she must 
 be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal 
 of a burden. After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so 
 very unhappy ? Was she not the kind of woman who 
 lived by sacrifice one who had far rather lead a life 
 disagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of 
 discomfort to her husband ? This view of the matter 
 irritated Pomfret, and he broke into objurgations, 
 directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly against 
 Christopherson. It was an * infernal shame ', that was 
 all he could say. And after all, I rather inclined to his 
 opinion. 
 
 When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew 
 me towards the Christophersons' dwelling. Walking 
 along the opposite side of the street, I looked up at 
 their window, and there was the face of the old biblio- 
 phile. Evidently he was standing at the window in 
 idleness, perhaps in trouble. At once he beckoned 
 to me ; but before I could knock at the house-door 
 he had descended, and came out. 
 
 ' May I walk a little way with you ? ' he asked. 
 
 There was worry on his features. For some moments 
 we went on in silence. 
 
 ' So you have changed your mind about leaving 
 London ? ' I said, as if carelessly. 
 
 * You have heard from Mr. Pomfret ? Well yes, 
 yes I think we shall stay where we are for the 
 present.' 
 
 Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed. 
 He walked with head bent, shoulders stooping ; and 
 shuffled, indeed, rather than walked. Even so might 
 a man bear himself who felt guilty of some peculiar 
 meanness. 
 
 Presently words broke from him. 
 
 ' To tell you the truth, there 's a difficulty about the 
 books.' He glanced furtively at me, and I saw he 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON . 469 
 
 was trembling in all his nerves. ' As you see, my 
 circumstances are not brilliant.' He half-choked him- 
 self with a crow. ' The fact is we were offered a house 
 in the country, on certain conditions, by a relative 
 of Mrs. Christopherson ; and, unfortunately, it turned 
 out that my library is regarded as an objection a fatal 
 objection. We have quite reconciled ourselves to stay- 
 ing where we are.' 
 
 I could not help asking, without emphasis, whether 
 Mrs. Christopherson would have cared for life in the 
 country. But no sooner were the words out of my 
 mouth than I regretted them ; so evidently did they 
 hit my companion in a tender place. 
 
 ' I think she would have liked it,' he answered, with 
 a strangely pathetic look at me, as if he entreated my 
 forbearance. 
 
 ' But,' I suggested, ' couldn't you make some arrange- 
 ments about the books ? Couldn't you take a room 
 for them in another house, for instance ? ' 
 
 Christopherson' s face was sufficient answer ; it re- 
 minded me of his pennilessness. * We think no more 
 about it,' he said. ' The matter is settled quite 
 settled.' 
 
 There was no pursuing the subject. At the next 
 parting of the ways we took leave of each other. 
 
 I think it was not more than a week later when 
 I received a postcard from Pomf ret. He wrote : ' Just 
 as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That was all. 
 
 Mrs. C. could, of course, only mean Mrs. Christo- 
 pherson. I mused over the message it took hold of 
 my imagination, wrought upon my feelings ; and that 
 afternoon I again walked along the interesting street. 
 
 There was no face at the window. After a little 
 hesitation I decided to call at the house and speak with 
 Pomfret's aunt. It was she who opened the door to me. 
 
 We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned 
 my name and said I was anxious to hear news of 
 Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into a sitting-room, and 
 began to talk confidentially. 
 
 She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike 
 
470 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 the common London landlady. ' Yes, Mrs. Chris- 
 topherson had been taken ill two days ago. It began 
 with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless 
 night ; the doctor was sent for ; and he had her 
 removed out of the stuffy, book-cumbered bedroom 
 into another chamber, which luckily happened to be 
 vacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but 
 voiceless, able only to smile at her husband, who 
 never moved from the bedside day or night. He, too,' 
 said the landlady, ' would soon break down : he looked 
 like a ghost, and seemed " half-crazed ".' 
 
 ' What,' I asked, ' could be the cause of this 
 illness ? ' 
 
 The good woman gave me an odd look, shook her 
 head, and murmured that the reason was not far to 
 
 ' Did she think,' I asked, * that disappointment 
 might have something to do with it ? ' 
 
 Why, of course she did. For a long time the poor 
 lady had been all but at the end of her strength, and 
 this came as a blow beneath which she sank. 
 
 * Your nephew and I have talked about it,' I said. 
 ' He thinks that Mr. Christopherson didn't understand 
 what a sacrifice he asked his wife to make.' 
 
 * I think so too,' was the reply. ' But he begins to 
 see it now, I can tell you. He says nothing but ' 
 
 There was a tap at the door, and a hurried tremulous 
 voice begged the landlady to go upstairs. 
 
 ' What is it, sir ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I'm afraid she 's worse,' said Christopherson, turn- 
 ing his haggard face to me with startled recognition. 
 ' Do come up at once, please.' 
 
 Without a word to me he disappeared with the 
 landlady. I could not go away ; for some ten minutes 
 I fidgeted about the little room, listening to every 
 sound in the house. Then came a footfall on the stairs, 
 and the landlady rejoined me. 
 
 ' It 's nothing,' she said. ' I almost think she might 
 drop off to sleep, if she 's left quiet. He worries her, 
 poor man, sitting there and asking her every two 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 471 
 
 minutes how she feels. I've persuaded him to go to 
 his room, and I think it might do him good if you went 
 and had a bit o' talk with him.' 
 
 I mounted at once to the second-floor sitting-room, 
 and found Christopherson sunk upon a chair, his head 
 falling forwards, the image of despairing misery. As 
 I approached he staggered to his feet. He took my hand 
 in a shrinking, shamefaced way, and could not raise 
 his eyes. I uttered a few words of encouragement, 
 but they had the opposite effect to that designed. 
 
 ' Don't tell me that,' he moaned, half resentfully. 
 ' She 's dying she 's dying say what they will, I 
 know it.' 
 
 ' Have you a good doctor ? ' 
 
 ' I think so but it 's too late it 's too late.' 
 
 As he dropped to his chair again I sat down by him. 
 The silence of a minute or two was broken by a thun- 
 derous rat-tat at the house-door. Christopherson leapt 
 to his feet, rushed from the room ; I, half fearing that 
 he had gone mad, followed to the head of the stairs. 
 
 In a moment he came up again, limp and wretched 
 as before. 
 
 ' It was the postman,' he muttered. ' I am expecting 
 a letter.' 
 
 Conversation seeming impossible, I shaped a phrase 
 preliminary to withdrawal ; but Christophsrson would 
 not let me go. 
 
 ' I should like to tell you,' he began, looking at me 
 like a dog under punishment, ' that I have done all 
 I could. As soon as my wife fell ill, and when I saw 
 I had only begun to think of it in that way how she 
 felt the disappointment, I went at once to Mrs. Keet- 
 ing's house to tell her that I would sell the books. 
 But she was out of town. I wrote to her I said 
 I regretted my folly I entreated her to forgive me 
 and to renew her land offer. There has been plenty 
 of time for a reply, but she doesn't answer.' 
 
 He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's 
 catalogue, just delivered by the postman. Mechanically 
 he tore off the wrapper and even glanced over the first 
 
472 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the 
 thing violently away. 
 
 ' The chance has gone ! ' he exclaimed, taking a 
 hurried step or two along the little strip of floor left 
 free by the mountain of books. * Of course she said 
 she would rather stay in London ! Of course she said 
 what she knew would please me ! When when did 
 she ever say anything else ! And I was cruel enough 
 base enough to let her make the sacrifice ! ' He 
 waved his arms frantically. ' Didn't I know what it 
 cost her ? Couldn't I see in her face how her heart 
 leapt at the hope of going to live in the country ! 
 I knew what she was suffering ; I knew it, I tell you ! 
 And, like a selfish coward, I let her suffer I let her 
 drop down and die die ! ' 
 
 ' Any hour,' I said, ' may bring you the reply from 
 Mrs. Keeting. Of course it will be favourable, and the 
 good news ' 
 
 ' Too late, I have killed her ! That woman won't 
 write. She 's one of the vulgar rich, and we offended 
 her pride ; and such as she never forgive.' 
 
 He sat down for a moment, but started up again in 
 an agony of mental suffering. 
 
 * She is dying and there, there, that 's what has 
 killed her ! ' He gesticulated wildly towards the books. 
 * I have sold her life for these. Oh ! oh ! ' 
 
 With this cry he seized half a dozen volumes, and, 
 before I could understand what he was about, he had 
 flung up the window-sash, and cast the books into the 
 street. Another batch followed ; I heard the thud 
 upon the pavement. Then I caught him by the arm, 
 held him fast, begged him to control himself. 
 
 ' They shall go ! ' he cried. ' I loathe the sight of 
 them. They have killed my dear wife ! ' 
 
 He said it sobbing, and at the last words tears 
 streamed from his eyes. I had no difficulty now in 
 restraining him. He met my look with a gaze of in- 
 finite pathos, and talked on while he wept. 
 
 ' If you knew what she has been to me ! When she 
 married me I was a ruined man twenty years older 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 473 
 
 I have given her nothing but toil and care. You shall 
 know everything for years and years I have lived on 
 the earnings of her labour. Worse than that, I have 
 starved and stinted her to buy books. Oh, the shame 
 of it ! The wickedness of it ! It was my vice the 
 vice that enslaved me just as if it had been drinking 
 or gambling. I couldn't resist the temptation though 
 every day I cried shame upon myself and swore to over- 
 come it. She never blamed me ; never a word nay, 
 not a look of a reproach. I lived in idleness. I never 
 tried to save her that daily toil at the shop. Do you 
 know that she worked in a shop ? She, with her know- 
 ledge and her refinement leading such a life as that ! 
 Think that I have passed the shop a thousand times, 
 coming home with a book in my hands ! I had the 
 heart to pass, and to think of her there ! Oh ! Oh ! ' 
 
 Some one was knocking at the door. I went to open, 
 and saw the landlady, her face set in astonishment, and 
 her arms full of books. 
 
 * It 's all right,' I whispered. * Put them down on 
 the floor there ; don't bring them in. An accident.' 
 
 Chris topherson stood behind me ; his look asked 
 what he durst not speak. I said it was nothing, and 
 by degrees brought him into a calmer state. Luckily, 
 the doctor came before I went away, and he was 
 able to report a slight improvement. The patient had 
 slept a little and seemed likely to sleep again. Christo- 
 pherson asked me to come again before long there 
 was no one else, he said, who cared anything about 
 him and I promised to call the next day. 
 
 I did so, early in the afternoon. Christopherson 
 must have watched for my coming ; before I could 
 raise the knocker the door flew open, and his face 
 gleamed such a greeting as astonished me. He grasped 
 my hand in both his. 
 
 ' The letter has come ! We are to have the house.' 
 
 ' And how is Mrs. Christopherson ? ' 
 
 ' Better, much better, Heaven be thanked ! She 
 slept almost from the time when you left yesterday 
 afternoon till early this morning. The letter came by 
 
474 GEORGE GISSING 
 
 the first post, and I told her not the whole truth,' 
 he added, under his breath. * She thinks I am to be 
 allowed to take the books with me ; and if you could 
 have seen her smile of contentment. But they will all 
 be sold and carried away before she knows about it ; 
 and when she sees that I don't care a snap of the 
 fingers ! ' 
 
 He had turned into the sitting-room on the ground 
 floor. Walking about excitedly, Christopherson gloried 
 in the sacrifice he had made. Already a letter was 
 dispatched to a bookseller, who would buy the whole 
 library as it stood. But would he not keep a few 
 volumes ? I asked. Surely there could be no objection 
 to a few shelves of books ; and how would he live with- 
 out them ? At first he declared vehemently that not 
 a volume should be kept he never wished to see a book 
 again as long as he lived. But Mrs. Christopherson ? 
 I urged. Would she not be glad of something to read 
 now and then ? At this he grew pensive. We discussed 
 the matter, and it was arranged that a box should 
 be packed with select volumes and taken down into 
 Norfolk together with the rest of their luggage. Not 
 even Mrs. Keeting could object to this, and I strongly 
 advised him to take her permission for granted. 
 
 And so it was done. By discreet management the 
 piled volumes were stowed in bags, carried downstairs, 
 emptied into a cart, and conveyed away, so quietly 
 that the sick woman was aware of nothing. In telling 
 me about it, Christopherson crowed as I had never 
 heard him ; but methought his eye avoided that 
 part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and 
 in the course of our conversation he now and then 
 became absent, with head bowed. Of the joy he felt 
 in his wife's recovery there could, however, be no 
 doubt. The crisis through which he had passed had 
 made him, in appearance, a yet older man ; when 
 he declared his happiness tears came into his eyes, and 
 his head shook with a senile tremor. 
 
 Before they left London, I saw Mrs. Christopherson 
 a pale, thin, slightly made woman, who had never been 
 
CHRISTOPHERSON 475 
 
 what is called good-looking, but her face, if ever face 
 did so, declared a brave and loyal spirit. She was 
 not joyous, she was not sad ; but in her eyes, as I 
 looked at them again and again, I read the profound 
 thankfulness of one to whom fate has granted her 
 soul's desire. 
 
MARY COLERIDGE 
 
 1861-1907 
 THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING 
 
 IT was not very quiet in the room where the king lay 
 dying. People were coming and going, rustling in and 
 out with hushed footsteps, whispering eagerly to each 
 other ; and where a great many people are all busy 
 making as little noise as possible, the result is apt to 
 be a kind of bustle, that weakened nerves can scarcely 
 endure. 
 
 But what did that matter ? The doctors said he 
 could hear nothing now. He gave no sign that he 
 could. Surely the sobs of h'is beautiful young wife, as 
 she knelt by the bedside, must else have moved him. 
 
 For days the light had been carefully shaded. Now, 
 in the hurry, confusion, and distress, no one remembered 
 to draw the curtains close, so that the dim eyes might 
 not be dazzled. But what did that matter ? The 
 doctors said he could see nothing now. 
 
 For days no one but his attendants had been allowed 
 to come near him. Now the room was free for all 
 who chose to enter. What did it matter ? The doctors 
 said he knew no one. 
 
 So he lay for a long time, one hand flung out upon the 
 counterpane, as if in search of something. The queen 
 took it softly in hers, but there was no answering 
 pressure. At length the eyes and mouth closed, and 
 the heart ceased to beat. 
 
 ' How beautiful he looks/ they whispered one to 
 another. 
 
 When the king came to himself it was all very still 
 wonderfully and delightfully still, as he thought, 
 wonderfully and delightfully dark. It was a strange 
 
THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING 477 
 
 unspeakable relief to Him he lay as if in heaven. 
 The room was full of the scent of flowers, and the cool 
 night air came pleasantly through an open window. 
 A row of wax tapers burned with soft radiance at the 
 foot of the bed on which he was lying, covered with 
 a velvet pall, only his head and face exposed. Four 
 or five men were keeping guard around him, but they 
 had fallen fast asleep. 
 
 So deep was the feeling of content which he ex- 
 perienced that he was loth to stir. Not till the great 
 clock of the palace struck eleven, did he so much as 
 move. Then he sat up with a light laugh. 
 
 He remembered how, when his mind was failing him, 
 and he had rallied all his powers in one last passionate 
 appeal against the injustice which was taking him 
 away from the world just when the world most needed 
 him, he had heard a voice saying : ' I will give thee 
 yet one hour after death. If, in that time, thou canst 
 find three that desire thy life, live ! ' 
 
 This was his hour, his hour that he had snatched away 
 from death. How much of it -had he lost already ? 
 He had been a good king ; he had worked night and 
 day for his subjects ; he had nothing to fear, and he 
 knew that it was very pleasant to live, how pleasant, 
 he had never known before, for, to do him justice, 
 he was not selfish ; it was his unfinished work that he 
 grieved about when the decree went forth against him. 
 Yet, as he passed out of the room where the watchers 
 sat heavily sleeping, things were changed to him 
 somehow. The burning sense of injustice was gone. 
 Now that he came to think of it, he had done very 
 little. True that it was his utmost, but there were 
 many better men in the world, and the world was 
 large, very large it seemed to him now. Everything 
 had grown larger. He loved his country and his home 
 as well as ever, but in the night it had seemed as 
 if they must perish with him, and now he knew that 
 they were still unchanged. 
 
 Outside the door he paused a moment, hesitating 
 whither to go first. Not to the queen. The very 
 
478 MARY COLERIDGE 
 
 thought of her grief unnerved him. He would not see 
 her till he could once more clasp her in his arms, and 
 bid her weep tears of joy only because he was come 
 again. After all, he had but an hour to wait. Before 
 the castle clock struck twelve, he would be back again 
 in life, remembering these things only as a dream. He 
 sighed a little to think of it. 
 
 * All that to do over again some day,' he said, as he 
 recalled his last moments. 
 
 Almost he turned again to the couch he had so lately 
 left. 
 
 ' But I have never yet done anything through fear,' 
 said the king. 
 
 And he smiled as he thought of the terms of the 
 compact. His city lay before him in the moonlight. 
 
 ' I could find three thousand as easily as three,' he 
 said. ' Are they not all my friends ? ' 
 
 As he passed out of the gate, he saw a child sitting 
 on the steps, crying bitterly. 
 
 ' What is the matter, little one ? ' said the sentinel 
 on guard, stopping a moment. 
 
 ' Father and mother have gone to the castle, because 
 the king 's dead,' sobbed the child, * and they've never 
 come back again ; and I'm so tired and so hungry ! 
 And I've had no supper, and my doll 's broken. Oh ! 
 I do wish the king were alive again ! ' 
 
 And she burst into a fresh storm of weeping. It 
 amused the king not a little. 
 
 ' So this is the first of my subjects that wants me 
 back ! ' he said. 
 
 He had no child of his own. He would have liked 
 to try and comfort the little maiden, but there were 
 other calls upon him just then. He was on his way 
 to the house of his great friend, the man whom he 
 loved more than all others. A kind of malicious delight 
 possessed him, as he pictured to himself the deep dejec- 
 tion he should find him in. 
 
 ' Poor Amyas ! ' he said. * I know what I should 
 be feeling in his place. I am glad he was not taken. 
 I could not have borne his loss.' 
 
THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING 479 
 
 As he entered the courtyard of his friend's house, 
 lights were being carried to and fro, horses were being 
 saddled, an air of bustle and excitement pervaded the 
 place. Look where he might, he could not see the face 
 he knew so well. He entered at the open door. His 
 friend was not in the hall. Room after room he vainly 
 traversed they were all empty. A sudden horror took 
 him. Surely Ainyas was not dead of grief ? 
 
 He came at length to a small private apartment, 
 in which they had spent many a happy, busy hour 
 together ; but his friend was not here either, though, 
 to judge by appearances, he could only just have left 
 it. Books and papers were tumbled all about in strange 
 confusion, and bits of broken glass strewed the floor. 
 
 A little picture was lying on the ground. The king 
 picked it up, and recognized a miniature of himself, 
 the frame of which had been broken in the fall. He 
 let it drop again, as if it had burnt him. The fire was 
 blazing brightly, and the fragments of a half-destroyed 
 letter lay, unconsumed as yet, in the fender. It was 
 in his own writing. He snatched it up, and saw it was 
 the last he had written, containing the details of an 
 elaborate scheme which he had much at heart. He had 
 only just thrown it back into the flames when two people 
 entered the room, talking together, one a lady, the other 
 a man, booted and spurred as though he came from 
 a long distance. 
 
 ' Where is Amyas ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Gone to proffer his services to the new king, of 
 course,' said the lady. ' We are, as you may think, 
 in great anxiety. He has none of the ridiculous notions 
 of his predecessor, who, indeed, hated him cordially. 
 The very favour Amyas has hitherto enjoyed will stand 
 in his way at the new court. I only hope he may 
 be in time to make his peace. He can, with truth, 
 say that he utterly disapproved of the foolish reforms 
 which his late master was bent on making. Of course, 
 he was fond of him in a way ; but we must think of 
 ourselves, you know. People in our position have no 
 time for sentiment. He started almost immediately 
 
480 MARY COLERIDGE 
 
 after the king's death. I am sending his retinue after 
 him.' 
 
 ' Quite right,' said the gentleman, whom the king 
 now knew as one of his ambassadors. * I shall follow 
 him at once. Between you and me, it is no bad thing 
 for the country. That poor boy had no notion of 
 statesmanship. He forced me to conclude a peace 
 which would have been disastrous to all our best 
 interests. Happily, we shall have war directly now. 
 Promotions in the army would have been at a standstill 
 if he had had his way.' 
 
 The king did not stay to hear more. 
 
 ' I will go to my people,' he said. ' They at least 
 have no interest to make peace with my successor. 
 He will but take from them what I gave.' 
 
 He heard the clock strike the first quarter as he went. 
 He was, indeed, a very remarkable king, for he knew 
 his way to the poorest part of his dominions. He had 
 been there before, often and often, unknown to any one ; 
 and the misery which he had there beheld had stirred 
 and steeled him to attempt what had never before 
 been attempted. 
 
 No one about the palace knew where he had caught 
 the malignant fever which carried him off. He had 
 a shrewd suspicion himself, and he went straight to that 
 quarter. 
 
 ' Fevers won't hurt me now,' he said laughing. The 
 houses were as wretched, the people looked as sickly 
 and squab* d as ever. They were standing about in 
 knots in the streets, late though it was, talking together 
 about him. His name was in every mouth. The 
 details of his illness, and the probable day of his 
 funeral, seemed to interest them more than anything 
 else. 
 
 Five or six men were sitting drinking round a table 
 in a disreputable-looking public- house, and he stopped 
 to overhear their conversation. 
 
 * And a good riddance, too ! ' said one of them, whom 
 he knew well. ' What 's the use of a king as never 
 spends a farthing more than he can help ? It gives 
 
THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING 481 
 
 no impetus to trade, it don't. The new fellow's a very 
 different sort. We shall have fine doings soon.' 
 
 * Aye ! ' struck in another, * a meddlesome, priggish 
 sort of chap, he was, always aworritting us about clean 
 houses, and such like. What right 's he got to interfere, 
 I'd like to know ? ' 
 
 * Down with all kings ! says I,' put in a third ; 
 ' but if we're to have 'em, let 'em behave as sich. 
 I like a young fellow as isn't afraid of his missus, and 
 knows port wine from sherry.' 
 
 * Wanted to abolish capital punishment, he did ! ' 
 cried a fourth. ' Thought he'd get more work out of 
 the poor fellows in prison, I suppose ? Depend on it, 
 there 's some reason like that at the bottom of it. 
 We ain't so very perticular about the lives of our 
 subjects for nothing, we ain't ; ' an expression of opinion 
 in which all the rest heartily concurred. The clock 
 struck again as the king turned away ; he felt as if 
 a storm of abuse from some one he had always hated 
 would be a precious balm just then. He entered the 
 state prison, and made for the condemned cell. Capital 
 punishment was not abolished yet, and in this particular 
 instance he had certainly felt glad of it. 
 
 The cell was tenanted only by a little haggard-looking 
 man, who was writing busily on his knee. The king had 
 only seen him once before, and he looked at him curiously. 
 
 Presently the gaoler entered, and with him the first 
 councillor, a man whom his late master had greatly 
 loved and esteemed. The convict looked up quickly. 
 
 * It was not to be till to-morrow,' he said. Then, 
 as if afraid he had betrayed some cowardice, ' but 
 I am ready at any moment. May I ask you to give this 
 paper to my wife ? ' 
 
 The king is dead,' said the first councillor gravely. 
 ' You are reprieved. His present majesty has other 
 views. You will, in all probability, be set at large 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Dead ? ' said the man with a stunned look. 
 
 1 Dead ! ' said the first councillor, with the im- 
 pressiveness of a whole board. 
 
 193 R 
 
482 MARY COLERIDGE 
 
 The man stood up, passing his hand across his brow. 
 
 ' Sir,' he said earnestly, * I respected him. For all 
 he was a king, he treated me like a gentleman. He, 
 too, had a young wife. Poor fellow, I wish he were 
 alive, again ! ' 
 
 There were tears in the man's eyes as he spoke. 
 
 The third quarter struck as the king left the prison. 
 He felt unutterably humiliated. The pity of his foe 
 was harder to bear than the scorn of his friends. He 
 would rather have died a thousand deaths than owe 
 his life to such a man. And yet, because he was 
 himself noble, he could not but rejoice to find nobility 
 in another. He said to himself sternly that it was 
 not worth what he had gone through. He reviewed 
 his position in no very self-complacent mood. The 
 affection he had so confidently relied upon was but 
 a dream. The people he was fain to work for were not 
 ripe for their own improvement. A foolish little child, 
 a generous enemy, these were his only friends. After 
 all, was it worth while to live ? Had he not better 
 get back quietly and submit, making no further effort ? 
 He had learnt his lesson ; he could ' lie down in peace, 
 and sleep, and take his rest '. The eternal powers had 
 justified themselves. What matter though every man 
 had proved a liar ? The bitterness had passed away, 
 and he seemed to see clearly. 
 
 Thick clouds had gathered over the moon, and the 
 cold struck through him. All at once a sense of loneli- 
 ness that cannot be described rushed over him, and 
 his heart sank. Was there really no one who cared 
 no one ? He would have given anything at that 
 moment for a look, a single word of real sympathy. 
 He longed with sick longing for the assurance of love. 
 
 There were yet a few moments left. How had he 
 borne to wait so long ? This, at least, he was sure of, 
 and this was all the world to him. He began to find 
 comfort and consolation in the thought ; he forgave 
 indeed he almost forgot the rest. Yet he had fallen 
 very low, for, as he stood at the door of his wife's 
 room, he hesitated whether to go in. What if this, too, 
 
THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING 483 
 
 were an illusion ? Had he not best go back before he 
 knew ? 
 
 4 But I have never yet done anything through fear,' 
 said the king. 
 
 His wife was sitting by the fire alone, her face hidden, 
 her long hair falling round her like a veil. At the first 
 sight of her, a pang of self-reproach shot through him. 
 How could he ever have doubted ? 
 
 She was wearing a ring that he had given her a ring 
 she wore always, and the light sparkled and flashed 
 from the jewel. Except for this, there was nothing 
 bright in the room. 
 
 He ardently desired to comfort her. He wondered 
 why all her ladies had left her. Surely one might have 
 stayed with her on this first night of her bereavement ? 
 She seemed to be lost in thought. If she would only 
 speak, or call his name ! But she was quite silent. 
 
 A slight noise made the king start. A secret door 
 in the wall opened, the existence of which he had 
 thought was known only to himself and his queen, 
 and a man stood before her. 
 
 She put her finger to her lips, as though to counsel 
 silence, and then threw herself into his arms. 
 
 ' You have come,' she said ' Oh, I am so glad 1 
 I had to hold his hand when he was dying. I was 
 frightened sitting here by myself. I thought his ghost 
 would come back, but he will never come back any 
 more. We may be happy always now,' and drawing 
 the ring from her finger, she kissed it, weeping, and 
 gave it to him. 
 
 When midnight struck, the watchers wakened with 
 a start, to find the king lying stark and stiff, as before, 
 but a great change had come over his countenance. 
 
 ' We must not let the queen see him again,' they said. 
 
HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE 
 
 1870-1896 
 \ SAINT-Pfi 
 
 REGULARLY, three times a week, every Tuesday, 
 Thursday, and Saturday, he and his dog came to beg. 
 
 He was very tall and very gaunt, and his clothes 
 were all plastered with quaint patches, and ravelled 
 along the hems. But he was always scrupulously 
 clean. His flowing grey beard was silky and well 
 combed, and the red skin of his hands glistened, as 
 with much polishing. And his sabots, which were 
 many sizes too large, were stuffed with clean straw ; 
 and he always left them on the doorstep, and came 
 into the house bare-footed. 
 
 He called himself Saint-Pe why, I could never 
 discover for one day he admitted to me that he had 
 been baptized altogether differently. He and the cur, 
 and the officier de sante and I represented the classes 
 at Sallespisse ; but Saint-Pe alone vivait en rentier. 
 For from sunrise to sunset he was idle ; he had not 
 done a day's work since the war. He lived in a ram- 
 shackle, one-roomed, mud-floored building, from one 
 corner of which at night, through the broken tiles he 
 could lie and watch the stars. But the house was 
 his own property, and every Tuesday, Thursday, and 
 Saturday morning, he shuffled out of it in his clumsy 
 sabots to beg around the neighbourhood. 
 
 Saint- Pe's dog was named Pluton. Once upon a time 
 he had been of the race of St. Hubert ; and Saint-Pe, 
 when he learned my name, hastened to recommend 
 the animal to my special attention. Whatever Pluton 
 had been once in the distant days of his youth, he was 
 now but a wriggling collection of bones, encased in 
 a worn-out skin. I never knew him venture to carry his 
 
SAINT-Pfi 485 
 
 tail otherwise than tight under his belly ; and whenever 
 I met him alone, or skulking along behind his master, 
 he never failed to greet me with an interminable, com- 
 plicated series of grovelling, Japanese-like obeisances. 
 
 And, as I have said, the two came to the house 
 every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and while 
 Pluton sneaked off to rummage obsequiously for refuse 
 in the scullery, Saint-Pe mumbled out the whole 
 lamentation of his woes, as lugubriously, as elaborately, 
 as if he were a complete stranger. Four sous per visit 
 was my allowance to Saint-Pe ; and when he had 
 pocketed them somewhere amid those mysterious 
 patches of his coat, he would clump away down the 
 drive, noisily praying to the Virgin for the future 
 repose of my soul. 
 
 Eudore and Saint-Pe were neighbours, and Eudore 
 hated Saint-Pe after his obstinate, uncompromising 
 fashion, and never altogether forgave me for encourag- 
 ing the old impostor. 4 C'est de la canaille,' he would 
 repeat sullenly, when, to tease him, I related Saint-Pe's 
 doings, * c'est comme des logos ; qa, vit sur les gens.' 
 
 But if, in Eudore's opinion, Saint-Pe was a worth- 
 less parasite, Pluton was a cursed thief. One night 
 Eudore had missed five of his young ducks, and he had 
 shouted across the hedge to Saint-Pe that the very 
 next time he would shoot that cur of his dead on the 
 spot. At which threat Saint-Pe shrugged his bony 
 shoulders, and Pluton retreated inside the house, 
 grovelling more obsequiously than ever. 
 
 'II est malin,' Saint-Pe confided to me the next 
 morning. * D trouve . . . ce qu'il trouve et 9a ne 
 parait point regardez.' And, indeed, despite the five 
 young ducks, Pluton looked more starved than before. 
 
 II 
 
 One Tuesday, about the time of the sowing of the 
 maize, Saint-P6 never appeared, and on the Thursday 
 I missed him again. So at sunset, when I had done 
 my work, I strolled up to his house, wondering what 
 
486 HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE 
 
 could have happened to him. The door was open ; a 
 half-cut loaf of maize-bread stood on the table, but there 
 was no sign of Saint-Pe. Then I heard the scraping 
 of a spade. Saint- Pe was behind the house, digging. 
 
 He put down his spade and shuffled up to me. And 
 he began to repeat the whole of his elaborate lamenta- 
 tion he was miserable ; he was poor ; life was hard ; 
 he had no one to look after him ; he appealed to good, 
 charitable folks to help him in his old age ; ' and now,* 
 he concluded, ' my dog, the old Pluton, the only thing 
 that the good God had left to me, my dog, my dog, 
 he is dead.' He led me behind his house, and lifting 
 his coat, all plastered with patches, uncovered poor 
 Pluton's corpse with his tail stretched behind him, 
 stark and straight, as I had never seen it while he 
 lived. 4 Et maintenant,' said Saint- Pe proudly, point- 
 ing to the half-dug grave, ' et maintenant, monsieur, 
 je travaille.' And once more, from the very beginning, 
 he went through his lamentation, concluding with the 
 appeal to the good, charitable folks to help him. 
 
 I asked him how it had happened. He jerked his 
 head towards the hedge, beyond which stood Eudore's 
 house. ' It was this morning, at day- break. A shot 
 paf ! ' (And he imitated, dramatically, the gesture of 
 shooting.) ' And it was only one that he had taken 
 just one miserable little duck. Only one. I assure you, 
 monsieur, he hadn't had time to take more than one.' 
 And for the third time he repeated his lamentation. 
 
 Eudore'came out of his house, and, seeing us, strolled 
 up to the hedge and looked over. Saint-Pe went back 
 to his digging. Eudore stood silent for several minutes; 
 presently he said, half to himself 
 
 4 Qa faisait pitie de voir une bste affamee comme ya.' 
 
 Then, turning to Saint-Pe, he called in patois 
 
 ' Stop a minute ; I will dig for you.' 
 
 He pushed his way through a gap in the hedge, and 
 taking the spade, dug out the grave. And when he had 
 finished, Saint-Pe lifted the stiff carcass tenderly and 
 placed it inside ; then shovelled the earth over it with 
 his clumsy sabots. 
 
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THE WORLD'S CLASSICS 
 
 LIST OF THE SERIES 
 
 The figures in parentheses denote the number of the book in the series 
 
 Aeschylus. The Seven Plays. Translated by LEWIS CAMPBELL. (117) 
 Ainsworth ( W. Harrison). The Tower of London. (162) 
 A Kempis (Thomas). Of the Imitation of Christ. (49) 
 Aristophanes. Frere's translation of the Acharnians, Knights, Birds, 
 
 and Frogs. Introduction by W. W. MERRY. (134) 
 Arnold (Matthew). Poems. Introduction by Sir A. T. QUILLER- 
 
 COUCH. (85) 
 Aurelius (Marcus). The Thoughts. A new translation by JOHN 
 
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 Austen (Jane). Emma. Introduction by E. V. LUCAS. (129) 
 Bacon. The Advancement of Learning, and the New .Atlantis. Intro- 
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 Essays. (24) 
 
 Barham. The Ingoldsby Legends. (9) 
 Betham-Edwards (M.) Lord of the Harvest. Introduction by 
 
 FREDERIC HARRISON. (194) 
 Blackmore (R. D.). Lorna Doone. (171) 
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 Lavengro. (66) 
 The Romany Rye. (73) 
 Bronte Sisters. 
 
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 Brown (Dr. John). Horae Subsecivae. Introduction by AUSTIN 
 
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 Browning (Elizabeth Barrett). Poems : A Selection. (176) 
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THE WORLD'S CLASSICS 
 
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 GLADSTONE. (136) 
 
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 X Carlyle. On Heroes and Hero- Worship. (62) 
 
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 Cooper (T. Fenimore). The Last of the Mohicans. (163) 
 Cowper. Letters. Selected, with Introduction, by E. V. LUCAS. (138) 
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 (82) 
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 Dickens. Great Expectations. With 6 Illustrations by WARWICK 
 
 GOBT.E. (128) 
 
 Oliver Twist (8) 
 
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 VOlS. (120, 121) 
 
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 Introduction by R. W. MACAN. (158) 
 x Eliot (George). Adam Bede. (63) 
 
 Felix Holt Introduction by VIOLA MEYNELL. (179) 
 Romola. Introduction by VIOLA MEYNELL. (178) 
 Scenes of Clerical Life. Introduction by ANNIE MATHESON. (155) 
 v Silas Marner, The Lifted Veil, and Brother Jacob. Introduction by 
 
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 The Mill on the Floss. (31) 
 
 Emerson. English Traits, and Representative Men. (3*) 
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 edited by M. DucKiTT and H. WRAGO. (102) 
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 The 'Cage' has not hitherto been reprinted. 
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 Mary Barton. (86) 
 North and South. (154) 
 Round the Sofa. (190) 
 Ruth. (88) 
 
 Round the Sofa. (190) 
 Sylvia's Lovers. (156) 
 Wives and Daughters. (157) 
 ribbon. Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. With Maps. 7 vols. 
 
 (35. 44. 5i. 55. 04, 69. 74) 
 
 Autobiography. Introduction by J. B, BURY. (139) 
 roethe. Faust, Part I (with Marlowe's Dr. Faustus). Translated by 
 
 JOHN ANSTBR. Introduction by A. W. WARD. (135) 
 roldsmith. Poems. Introduction and Notes by AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
 (123) 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield. (4) 
 
 rrant (James). The Captain of the Guard. (159) 
 [awthorne. The Scarlet Letter. (26) 
 [azlitt. Lectures on the English Comic Writers. Introduction by 
 
 R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON. (124) 
 Sketches and Essays. (15) 
 Spirit of the Age. (57) 
 Table-Talk. (5) 
 Winterslow. (25) 
 
 terbert (George). Poem*. Introduction by ARTHUR WAUOR. (109) 
 [errick. Poems. (16) 
 
6 THE WORLD'S CLASSICS 
 
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 S Holmes (Oliver "Wendell). The Autocrat of the Breakfast-T 
 
 (61) 
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 NICOLL. (95) 
 The Professor at the Breakfast-Table. Introduction by Sir W. ROB 
 
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 \ Homer. Iliad. Translated by Pope. (18) 
 N^ Odyssey. Translated by Pope. (36) 
 
 Hood. Poems. Introduction by WALTER JERROLD. (87) 
 
 Home (R. Hengist). A New Spirit of the Age. Introductiot 
 
 WALTER JERROLD. (127) 
 Hume. Essays. (33) 
 Hunt (Leigh). Essays and Sketches. Introduction by R. BRIM 
 
 JOHNSON. (115) 
 The Town. Introduction and Notes by AUSTIN DOBSON an 
 
 Frontispiece. (132) 
 
 Irving (Washington). The Conquest of Granada. (150) 
 X The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. Introduction b] 
 
 BALSTON. (173) 
 
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 WALTER JRRROLD, and 90 Illustrations by KEENE, LEECH. 
 
 DOYLE. (122) 
 
 Johnson. Lives of the English Poets. Introduction by ART 
 
 WAUGH. avols. (83,84) 
 C Keats. Poems. (7) 
 
 Keble. The Christian Year, etc. (181) 
 O Lamb. Essays of Elia, and The Last Essays of Elia. (2) 
 
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 Notes by J. FlTZMADRlCE-KELLY. 2 vols. (151, 152) 
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 *- Hiawatha, Miles Standish, Tales of a Wayside Inn, etc. (174) 
 
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 Macaulay. Lays of Ancient Rome ; Ivry ; The Armada. (27) 
 Machiavelli. The Prince. Translated by LUIGI RICCI. (43) 
 Marcus Aurelius. See Aurelius. 
 v Marlowe. Dr. Faustus (with Goethe's Faust, Part I). Introductior 
 
 A. W. WARD. See Goethe. 
 Marryat. Mr. Midshipman Easy. (160) 
 
 The King's Own. With 6 Illustrations by WARWICK GOBLE. (164 
 Mill (John Stuart). On Liberty, Representative Government, 
 the Subjection of Women. With an Introduction by 
 FAWCBTT. (170) 
 
THE WORLD'S CLASSICS 
 
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 Iton. The English Poems. (182) 
 
 mtaigne. Essays. Translated by J. FLORIO. 3 vols. (65, 70, 77) 
 
 >rris (W.). The Defence of Guinevere, The Life and Death of Jason. 
 
 and other Poems. (183) 
 rtley. Rise of the Dutch Republic. Introduction by CLEMENT 
 
 SHORTER. 3 vols. (96, 97, 98) 
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 FITZGERALD'S translation of Omar Khayyam. (133) 
 acock (W.) English Prose from Mandeville to Ruskin. (45) 
 Selected English Essays. (32) 
 
 e (Edgar Allan). Tales of Mystery and Imagination. (21) 
 rter (Jane). The Scottish Chiefs. (161) 
 id (Mayne). The Rifle Rangers. With 6 Illustrations by J. E. 
 
 SUTCLIFFE. (i 66) 
 
 The Scalp Hunters. With 6 Illustrations by A. H. COLLINS. (167) 
 ynolds (Sir Joshua). The Discourses, and the Letters to 'The 
 
 Idler.' Introduction by AUSTIN DOBSON. (149) 
 issetti (Christina). Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress, and other 
 
 Poems. (184) 
 
 ssetti (D. G.). Poems and Translations, 1850-1870. (185) 
 iskin. (Ruskin House Editions, by arrangement with George Alien and 
 
 Company, Ltd.) 
 
 'A Joy for Ever,' and The Two Paths. Illustrated. (147) 
 Sesame and Lilies, and The Ethics of the Dust (145) 
 Time and Tide, and The Crown of Wild Olive. (146) 
 Unto this Last, and Munera Pulveris. (148) 
 ott. Ivanhoe. (29) 
 
 Lives of the Novelists. Introduction by AUSTIN DOBSON. (94) 
 Poems. A Selection. (186) 
 
 .akespeare. Plays and Poems. With a Preface by A. C. SWINBURNE 
 and general Introductions to the several plays and poems by 
 EDWARD DOWDEN, and a Note by T. WATTS-DUNTON on the 
 special typographical features of this Edition. 9 vols. 
 Comedies. 3 vols. (100, 101, 102) 
 Histories and Poems. 3 vols. (103, 104, 105) 
 Tragedies. 3 vols. (106, 107, 108) 
 iclley. Poems. A Selection. (187) 
 teridan. Plays. Introduction by JOSEPH KNIGHT. (79) 
 tiith (Adam). The Wealth of Nations. 2 vols. (54, 59) 
 aollett. Travels through France and Italy. Introduction by THOMAS 
 
 SECCOMBE. (oo) 
 
 >phocles. The Seven Plays. Translated by the late LEWIS CAMPBELL. 
 (116) 
 
8 THE WORLD'S CLASSICS 
 
 List of the Series continued 
 
 Southey (Robert). Letters Selected, with an Introduction 
 
 Notes, by MAURICB H. FITZGERALD. (169) 
 Sterne. Tristram Shandy. (40) 
 Swift. Gulliver's Travels. (20) 
 V Tennyson (Lord). Poems. (3) 
 
 Thackeray. Book of Snobs, Sketches and Travels in London, Ac. 
 Henry Esmond. (28) 
 
 Pendennis. Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE. 2 vols. (gi, 92) 
 Thoreau. Walden. Introduction by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. 
 Tolstoy. Essays and Letters. Translated by AYLMER MAUDE. (46) 
 
 Twenty-three Tales. Translated by L. and A. MAUDE. (72) 
 Trollope. The Three Clerks. Introduction by W. TEIGNMOI 
 v SHORE. (143) 
 
 Virgil. Translated by-BfeYDEN. (37) 
 Watts-Dunton (Theodore). Aylwin. (s) 
 Wells (Charles). Joseph and his Brethren. With an Introductior 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, and a Note on Rossetti 
 Charles Wells by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. (143) 
 White (Gilbert). History of Selborne. (22) 
 Whittier. Poems. A Selection. (r88) 
 Wordsworth. Poems : A Selection. (189) 
 
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