PART V.

ODIN.

He hath borne all things well.

SHAKSPEARE—_Macbeth_.

“WHENCE is it, Brandomann,” said Sleipner one evening to the Scaldre,

“that among those of the heroes whose virtues and glories you are nightly

celebrating, I never heard the actions of Odin; why, while thus honouring

his friends, are you neglectful of the great father of our race? Surely

he, from whom all inspiration flows, deserves the best, ay, and the

finest fruits of your genius!” “It was only because I feared my feeble

strains would not do justice to the lofty subject,” replied Brandomann;

“the glory of the father of gods and men requires a mightier hand than

mine to celebrate it; Brage alone should strike the golden chord to his

honour—alone should sing of deeds beyond the feeble thought of mortality;

that which I can, I will; I dare not wake the voice of song, but I will

speak of his wondrous deeds, that to-night, in Valhalla, thou mayest tell

bright Asgard’s king that I have instructed this lovely maiden what

honours and love are due to the first of her race, and the friend of her

father. Will it please thee, Ildegarda, to listen to the legend of

Sigge?” “Beyond all other things,” replied the princess, pleasedly: and

Brandomann, smiling, began—

From his high and everlasting throne in Valhalla, had Odin, the dispenser

of good, poured forth, with unsparing hand, innumerable benefits upon his

attendant spirits. In the burning benevolence of his heart he forgot, or

he disregarded, that to some essences obligation is pain, and gratitude a

toil; so high did he raise some of those bright creations that stood

nearest to his throne, that they became too great for obedience, and

impatient of the most gentle restraint. Lok, the most glorious of these

glorious things, seated on the lowest step of the throne of light, saw

but one between him and the highest; and once on that, what should

restrain from him the throne of the universe? Thus he thought, and thus

he did: by his eloquence he seduced the higher spirits from their duty—by

his beauty and promises the lower. The worlds of Asgard sent their

governing spirits forth to fight under his banner, and Surter brought

myriads to his side. For the first time since the creation, the

standards of revolt flew in the cities of Asgard, and the proud Lok drove

back, with contempt, the interceding ministers of Odin, who came to

remonstrate upon his madness. Confident in his power, the giant spirit

entered Valasciolf, the city of the king, and dared even advance to

Valhalla: the immortal beings who surround the diamond throne shuddered

at his presumption, and, veiling their bright heads from the terrible

glances of Odin, wept the approaching destiny of companions once so

beloved, which they read in the eye of their master: the sovereign of the

universe gave no command to his people—he uttered no reproach—he suffered

his faithful spirits to fly before the sword of Lok and the devouring

fires of Surter—he even permitted the lost ones to approach the steps of

his eternal throne—then, when with proud exultation they advanced to

seize upon him whose power they believed departed, he calmly arose from

his seat and stretched out his right hand, armed with its invincible

falchion, towards his enemies: at that tremendous signal Niord let loose

the oceans of heaven, and, in terrific grandeur they came rolling down

upon the revolted; the winds from all the worlds were summoned up to

heaven to aid their master, and rend and scatter his offenders. Balder

deserted his throne in the orb of day,—and the mad and governless globe

flew up into Asgard, and burst its destructive flames upon the rebels.

Thor, the first-born of Odin, threw by his star-formed diadem, girded his

brow with the thunder, and, wielding the red bolt of vengeance, rushed

upon them. The sightless horror rose in his terrible strength, and the

arrows of Vile, unerring as the lance of Hela, flew among the foes: all

was confusion, terror, and despair—cries of anguish polluted the happy

city—Odin recalled his warriors, and plunged their enemies in the burning

lake, bidding the proud Lok and the ambitious Surter obtain their wish

and seat themselves on thrones.

But though the power of the infernal spirits was thus curbed, it was not

destroyed; and, still invincible in malice, they resolved to wound Odin

through his favourite, man. Lok gave birth to the snaky sin, whose folds

encircle the earth, and bade him breathe from his poisonous jaws upon her

surface the blast of contention and hate: he obeyed; and man, no longer

beneficent and kind, rose up against his brother; with bitter words he

poured curses on the father who called him into life, and smote on the

bosom that had nourished him in helplessness. The father of evil beheld

and smiled—his work was half accomplished—and he called into existence

death, to finish the deeds begun: the pale shadow stalked over the earth

and drank the crimson blood till she grew wanton in her mirth, and

besought her father for a companion: he heard, and sent Fenris up to

follow her steps, and exult in her multiplied victims. The fiends in

hell heard the sounds of their triumph, and shouted responsive, when the

shivering spirits of the slain were hurled weeping into Niftheim. At

length their cruel joy was heard in Asgard, at the same moment that

sounds of sorrow ascended from the earth, from the few who still

remembered his name. It was from Scythia the plaining voice arose, and

the monarch, looking down from his throne, beheld the last remnant of his

people sinking beneath the power of the Roman. Now then he determined to

descend to the earth, not only to lead them to conquest, but teach them

wisdom and virtue. Frea, the mother of the gods, resolved to partake the

toils of her husband; and Thor, the eldest born of Odin, the ruler of the

air, forsook his palace of nine hundred and forty halls, laid by his

terrific thunderbolt, and his diadem of twelve stars, and, debasing his

giant frame to the standard of humanity, descended with his father to the

earth. Cased in the armour of Scythians, they joined the troops of that

beloved people, and the father god bidding them contend no longer against

the power of the Romans, to whom Odin had given their country, promised

to lead them to other fields, and give them other lands for their

inheritance. The fierce Scythians yielded to the persuasive voice of him

whom they only knew as the warrior Sigge, and, rather than submit to the

slavery they abhorred, they forsook the tombs of their fathers, and

sought an empire in the north.

In vain the inhabitants of these regions sought to oppose the

establishment of the heaven-conducted Scythians; in every battle they

were defeated and driven with loss from their cities: the arrows of Frea

carried destruction to the enemy—the mallet of Thor crushed thousands—and

Odin, raging through their ranks, now as a warrior, now as a ferocious

lion, spread devastation through their armies, and drove them from the

field. The Scythians saw these wonders, and secretly acknowledged

Valhalla’s lord beneath the form of Sigge. When the rage of battle was

past, he lulled the wounded to repose, and arrested the parting spirits

of the dying with the celestial strains of his harp; the wounds of his

people were cured, and their strength restored by his celestial power,

while, from the same cause, his enemies were bereft of courage and of

vigour. Sweden and Norway yielded to the matchless warrior, and received

with joy the unknown Sigge for their king, but the Danes refused to

acknowledge the leader of armies; and Mimer, their prince, an enchanter,

and the friend of Lok, opposed himself against the victorious prince of

Scythia. Before the assembled Danes he contended with the stranger in

eloquence and poetry, and in these his own people were compelled, by the

severe laws of truth, to yield the palm to his rival. Mimer was wise,

eloquent, and brave; the strains of his harp were only inferior to those

of Sigge, and he felt deeply the injury which he had sustained by the

decision against him. Determined to recover, with his sword, the glory

he had lost, he called his armies together, and bade defiance to the

Scythians: the opposing bands drew near; furious was the contest, for

now, like a tiger sprung Mimer on his foes—now as a fiery serpent stung

their hearts, or crushed them in his mighty folds. As terrible raged

Odin in various forms, carrying dismay around him, and thinning the ranks

of the valiant Danes. At length the monarchs met—in human form stood

Mimer—in human form, prepared to oppose him, stood Valhalla’s mighty

king: but momentary was the contest, the terrible blow of the Scythian

brought the head of the Dane to his feet, as its faltering tongue

pronounced the name of Odin. The foe fled to the camp, while the father

of men again raised to life his beloved Scythians who had fallen in this,

the greatest of his fields. At length, wishing to give peace to the

weary land, he summoned the Danish chiefs to meet him in conference.

Seated on a throne, he received the warriors: in one hand he held the

sceptre of his power, the other rested on a golden dish, in which, now

richly embalmed, and adorned with a crown of gold, lay the head of the

wretched Mimer. The chiefs gazed in silence—a silence unbroken by human

sounds, but disturbed by the voice of the dead, for the ghastly head

opened its closed lips, fixed its eyes, and bade, in hollow but

authoritative tones, its countrymen no longer oppose the will of the

gods, but receive for their prince and lawgiver him who was master of the

world! Again it sunk into silence, and the astonished Danes, obeying its

dictates, fell at the feet of the conqueror of Mimer. And now, seated in

peace on the thrones of the north, more brightly shone the unmatched

virtues of Sigge. He taught his subjects husbandry—he taught them to

plough the waters—he opened to them the riches of commerce—and he dug

from the earth the treasures which ages had concealed in her bosom;—he

punished vice with severity—he rewarded virtue with munificence—he taught

them letters, instructed them in the mysteries of the Runic—and obliged

them to cultivate the milder graces of music and verse;—he allured men to

obey by the charms of his eloquence and the splendour of his glory; and

he spoke to their reason by his divine Hovamaal, which he gave them as

his best gift—his richest legacy. In this he bade them do no wrong to

each other—to honour the eternal gods—and to render up life at the

command of their country. When he beheld the good effect of his

regulations, and saw his people firmly attached to his laws, he called

around him his children, born of his mortal wives, of the daughters of

Scythia, and, dividing his dominions among them, taught them to govern

according to his ordinances and example. Satisfied with his work, he

called Frea and Thor to his side, and, blessing once more his mortal

children, ascended with them into the regions of light. Then loudly the

Danes acknowledged Odin, and paid their homage to his glory; to his race

they have ever been faithful, for they still fill the earthly thrones of

their father, who, from his abode in Asgard, looks down upon his

children, and crowns their lives with prosperity: and thus shall he do

till the long night which is to witness the last battle of the gods—the

last attack of Lok and his allies, and which for ages they have been

preparing—against Odin and the happy spirits of Asgard. In the dreadful

conflict, men and demons, oceans, earths, Niftheim, nay, even Asgard

itself, shall be involved in one general wreck—one entire and

undistinguished ruin; the infernal spirits shall fall in the

convulsions—evil shall be no more—and from the ashes of the universe

shall arise a brighter heaven—a gloomier hell, than those which have

passed away. To the glorious seats of Gimle, the city of burnished

gold—to its diamond-studded palaces and star-paved courts—shall the

spirits of the just ascend, with Odin and his triumphant sons, to the

enjoyment of one endless festival; while the cowards and wicked of the

earth shall sink with their infernal allies—the revolted of heaven—into

the caves of Nastronde, an abode more horrible than Niftheim—a den built

up of the carcasses of snakes, and illuminated by devouring flames, where

ever-enduring sorrow shall be the punishment of the lost, from which they

shall have no power to escape, again to disturb the repose of the just.

Honour and praise to Frea—victory to Thor—glory to Odin, the greatest,

and the best—hail to the master of gods and men!

* * * * *

Happily for his hearers, it was here, at length, that the merciless

Brandomann terminated his long-winded history. Sleipner had for some

time been his only auditor—Ildegarda had been nodding repeatedly—Heidruna

fidgetily trotting backwards and forwards to the portal, watching the

clouds—Serimnor had given two or three most portentous yawns—while the

two ravens who did every thing in concert, had tucked their heads under

their wings, and gone fairly to sleep:—but they all started up when the

hum of his voice had ceased, and thanked the good Brandomann as sincerely

as if they had been excessively delighted, for they were grateful that he

had finished at last, and were besides too well bred not to be charmed

with what had been done entirely for their amusement.

On the following day, during their usual rambles about the island, the

princess looked so unusually depressed, and said so little in reply to

the observations of her companion, that his attention, ever on the watch,

was aroused by her sadness; tenderly he inquired the cause. “I will tell

you,” replied Ildegarda: “when absent from you, and believing your life

in danger, my only anxiety was to return; now, when that difficulty has

passed away, I confess I am wretched respecting my father’s feelings and

conduct, when he shall discover that I have quitted him for ever; neither

is my heart without a pang when I reflect that I shall see him no more.

Oh that I knew what is to come!—that I could look into the future, and

behold my destiny and his!” “I know not that it is in my power

altogether to fulfil your wishes,” answered Brandomann; “but I can give

you a glance into the future, so as to discover its general complexion,

but not to enable you to read exactly the very page of destiny. That

which I can, to gratify your curiosity, I will do,—I will arrest for a

few minutes the flight of the triune deity Time, and, by her appearance,

we shall be able to judge of what is to come.—Urda, Werandi, Skulda!”

continued Brandomann, raising his powerful voice to its utmost pitch,

“obey the command of the lord of the Maelstrom, the mighty delegate of

Odin—pause in your flight for a moment, and stand visibly before him!”

Scarcely was the peremptory order uttered, ere a light cloud was seen

advancing towards them from the sea, and when it became stationary

Ildegarda beheld a female form slowly and gracefully emerging from its

centre; her features were indistinctly visible, and upon the floating

misty robe that enveloped her figure, many changing objects were, some

faintly, some powerfully, represented. “It is Urda the Past,” said

Brandomann to Ildegarda; “the events written upon her breast and brow are

partially concealed in her garment of oblivion and doubt; and when this

is penetrated by mortal sight, they are still seen through the mists of

passion and prejudice, by which she is ever surrounded: look now upon her

breast and brow—what objects do they represent to you?” “I see a

criminal,” said the princess, “about to suffer the sentence of

justice—the executioner is preparing to strike.” “To my view the

representation is different,” replied Brandomann; “I see a crowned king

falling beneath the murderous swords of his rebellious subjects.” “I

observe a dying parent,” continued Ildegarda, “who consigns his child to

a noble warrior who weeps by his couch, but presses the babe to his

heart.” “I also see the dying father,” said Brandomann, “but he resigns

his infant to a demon in form, and worse than a demon in heart, for he

instantly plunges a dagger in its throat: what else do you remark?”

“Many other objects,” continued the princess, “but nothing clearly; the

goddess herself is retiring slowly from my gaze, and to whom does she

give place?” “To Werandi the Present,” answered Brandomann, “in

snow-white robe, with her unveiled face and open brow and eye—how clear

she looks upon us!—and her garments will shew us our actions of this

moment:—but she retires, and Skulda the Future supplies her place; clad

in a robe of darkness, she exhibits nothing to our eyes, and the veil

which covers her person conceals also her face from our observation: she

shall withdraw it, and her smile or frown will shadow forth your

destiny.” The goddess gently withdrew her veil, and the soft enchanting

smile which she beamed upon the princess banished anxiety from her bosom,

and graced the departure of the triune spirit with the sweet attribute of

benevolence.

A few days after the prophetic smile of the deity of Time had given such

hope to the heart of Ildegarda, they were wandering about the gardens of

the palace, astonished by the roaring of thunders which announced a

distant storm: they were surprised by the sudden change from daylight to

darkness, and were puzzling each other respecting its cause, when the

storm died rapidly away, the clouds fell down in a gentle shower, and the

rainbow bridge stood out in faint splendour from the heavens. “Look,

dearest,” said Brandomann; “the spirit of the bow has lowered his

beautiful bridge—some of the lesser warriors are ascending to Valhalla—I

will address the guardian of it, and bid him render the road and its

passengers visible to your sight.—All hail Heimdaller of the coloured

crown!” continued Brandomann, “the friend of Odin speaks to thee;

beautiful spirit of the rushing wings and eyes of tender glory, let us

look upon thy face, and the road which leads to thy dwelling!” The

silvery voice of the spirit answered him, giving an immediate assent to

his desire, and in a moment the road and its travellers became visible to

Ildegarda. Slowly, and with feeble steps, the wounded warriors dragged

themselves on till they reached the summit of the bridge, when the gates

of light flew open, and the spirit, in giving them his hand bestowed upon

them strength and beauty, and thus prepared them for the presence of Odin

and the glories of the Valhalla.

While Ildegarda with intense interest was watching the solemn procession

of the dead, her eyes were suddenly dazzled by a brilliant light thrown

upon the bridge, which now shone out in tenfold splendour, colouring the

mountains of the island with tints of its beautiful hues. She looked up,

and beheld the spirit of the bow descending, glorious in his youthful

beauty; his diadem of many-coloured gems was on his lofty brow, and, in

the ineffable loveliness of his sunny smile, there was a sweetness that

made Ildegarda weep. “He goes to welcome one of the greatest of mortal

heroes,” said Brandomann—“one of the favourites of Odin; his presence

throws this glory round him, and at this moment the beings of earth, who

gaze upon the bridge, behold its colours at the brightest: but see—at the

foot of the arch there is one ascending to meet the spirit!—his wounds

are terrible—his bosom is fearfully gored—and his steps are feeble and

slow—but he has the brow and the port of a hero; as yet I know him not.”

“But _I_ do!” shrieked the hapless Ildegarda—“O Brandomann, I know him

well!” The lord of the Maelstrom looked up again, and painfully

recognised the shadow—it was indeed her father;—the pale inhabitant of

another world, whom she saw ascending slowly to meet the welcome smile of

the angel of light, was once the noble Haquin, the last friend of Harold

and his sons. Brandomann gazed in grief and terror, and the sorrow he

felt for the death of the warrior was scarcely mitigated by the change

wrought in his wearied frame by the touch of the radiant Heimdaller.

“Ildegarda!” he cried in a voice of tenderness and pity; “Ildegarda,

think not that thou art alone in the world, or that all that loved thee

have left it; look up, my dear one!—look on the happiness of thy noble

father, and cease to regret his fate; what could thy love offer him in

exchange for this?” Ildegarda mournfully assented as she saw his glory,

and her grief became more resigned and gentle. She returned to the

palace with Brandomann, who, far from attempting to console, wept with

her the loss she had sustained. In the evening her friends did not as

usual visit the island, but they explained the cause of their absence on

the next. It was in honour of Haquin they had been detained at Valhalla,

as Odin had commanded the feast earlier, in order to compliment this

noble warrior,—“who now,” continued Sleipner, “sits highest in the hall,

and nearest to Odin’s self.”

Time reconciled the princess to her father’s death, and to her hopeless

imprisonment in Moskoe. The generous Brandomann, now that she had lost

in the world all that was dear to her, and was most entirely in his

power, never spoke to her of the love which it was but too plain he bore

her. She saw and rewarded his virtue.

“Brandomann!” she said to him one day as they wandered through the

gardens of the desolate isle; “Brandomann, friend of my heart, in the

world, where my father walks no longer, I have no interest, and can never

wish to return; yet I feel that I could love and render some deserving

being more happy than a lonely destiny could make him; thou alone art

worthy of this heart, and of the duty which I will pay thee; I cannot

love thee as I once loved Haldane—as I fear I should love him still—that

feeling it is not in thy power to inspire; but I honour thy virtue, and

am grateful for its exercise. Wilt thou accept this hand—this heart? If

so, take me, Brandomann, for I am thine!”

She threw herself as she spoke, into the arms which opened transportedly

to receive her, and bowed her head upon his breast. She could not

distinguish his reply, for a sudden peal of thunder rolled above their

heads, and the earth was shaken to its foundation—a frightful darkness

covered the island, and shrieks and howlings rung in their ears, mingled

with shouts of triumph and the cheering blasts of the trumpet. Ildegarda

clung closer to her lover for protection, when a gentle, well-known voice

reassured her spirits and relieved her terrors. “Look on me, my

beloved,” it said; “look on me, and receive the reward of thy virtue, and

the approbation of Heaven on thy choice.” The princess raised her eyes

to the face of her lover, and beheld—not Brandomann, but Haldane—the one,

the only beloved, the first choice of her innocent heart; it was on his

bosom she leaned—it was his arm that supported her slender form: she

trembled with painful emotion. “But Brandomann?” she demanded—“Is at thy

feet, my beloved,” replied the graceful warrior: “beneath that hideous

form, Lok, in revenge for an ancient scorn, had condemned me to wear out

my life, unless I could inspire a royal virgin with sufficient love to

become my wife. Odin, in compassion to my sufferings, confined me to

this island, and endowed me with sufficient power to fulfil the

condition, and deceive and baffle the evil spirits themselves, by the

means of their wretched agent, the detestable Frotho. Around thee stand

the gallant chiefs and the Norwegian captives, who were sent against the

monster of the Maelstrom, and who seemed to be destroyed by my vengeance;

they are now my friends, and wait to conduct us to Denmark, where Haldane

will lay his crown at thy feet.” The chiefs paid their homage to the

princess, and immediately after, there arrived, to offer their sincere

congratulations, her tender friends of many moons, the eight-legged,

four-legged, and two-legged animals of Valhalla. Ildegarda, even on the

bosom of Haldane, wept at the parting; for she knew she should behold

them no more. They attended her to the shore, and beheld her embark in

the gallant ship which Niord, at the command of Odin, had preserved for

them in one of the ocean caves. Soon they were wafted to Denmark, and

Haldane burst upon the usurper so suddenly, that he had no time even to

arm his household guards for his defence. He was presiding at a festival

when Haldane entered his presence; some of his nobles humbly acknowledged

their prince, and the others, not caring to attack him, made the best of

their way out of the palace, leaving the miserable Frotho in the power of

his nephew, who, without giving him time to make his will, threw him

headlong into the cistern of mead before which he was sitting.

Whether Haldane, in his natural shape, was as amiable and complaisant as

he had been under his assumed one, is a question which the historian of

his life cannot answer—nor whether Ildegarda, on her throne in Denmark,

found as true friends and faithful servants as she had in the gulf of the

Maelstrom: certain it is, she lived to a great age with her glorious

husband, (who was the greatest prince of the race of Dan that ever swayed

the sceptre of the north,) and that once or twice during their lives they

had together visited the desolate isle; and the princess, to the great

scandal of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and surprise of her

husband, wept bitterly on finding that the marble palace and its

beautiful gardens had disappeared, the Moskoe isle had resumed its

ancient appearance, and nothing remained to mark it out as the scene of

such wonders as had passed in it. It has much the same character at this

hour; and it would be very difficult to persuade its inhabitants, or the

stranger who may visit its shores, that it once was a paradise only

second to the bowers of Valasciolf’s own. You, gentle reader, know

better; and complimenting you on the patience by which you have acquired

this knowledge, I bid you, for the present, farewell.

NOTES

TO THE

LORD OF THE MAELSTROM.

PART I.

_Olave the Second_—one of the early kings of Denmark, of the race of Dan.

These princes believed themselves descended from Odin. Olave was a

worthless, profligate prince, who left two sons, who succeeded him; the

elder, Frotho the Fifth, murdered his brother Harold, and afterwards the

assassin who, by his own order, had stabbed him. He endeavoured to

secure the persons of the princes his nephews; but a nobleman, friend to

their father, conveyed them out of his reach, and concealed them in a

cave till they were of an age to revenge these injuries.

_Asgard_—the country of the gods; the Olympus of the north.

Valasciolf—its chief city, in which the principal divinities and more

illustrious dead resided in magnificent palaces.

_Valhalla_—the chief palace of Valasciolf, the regal residence of Odin.

_Niftheim_—Hell. A territory of devouring flames typifying eternal

remorse; the abode of the evil principle and his attendant spirits.

_Feggo_—the brother of Harwendil, king of Jutland, and uncle to Hamlet.

The latter prince feigned madness after the murder of his father, but

killed Feggo at a festival. He succeeded to the crown, which he wore

with honour till killed in battle by Viglet, king of Denmark.

_Lok_—the evil principle. He gave birth to Midgard (sin), the snake

whose folds encircle the earth—Hela (death)—and the wolf Fenris, the

guardian of the gate of hell; these were the evil progeny of Lok,

begotten for the destruction of the human race.

_Surter_—the evil divinity of fire—the next in rank to Lok. The

Scythians represented him as a beautiful youth; the Saxons as an old man,

to whose honour they dedicated the seventh day of the week.

_Balder_—son of Odin, god of eloquence and poetry, and ruler of the

sun—the Scandinavian Apollo. He was represented as a youth with a

burning wheel upon his breast; his face resembled the sun.

_Nastronde_—According to the Scandinavian mythology, at the end of the

world, during a night which was to last a year, a tremendous battle was

to be fought between the good and evil spirits, in which the former were

to conquer and reign in Gimle, a more glorious heaven than Asgard; while

the wicked were to be banished to Nastronde, a new hell, made purposely

for them.

PART II.

_Maelstrom_, _Malestrom_, or _Moskoestrom_—a tremendous whirlpool on the

Norwegian coast, very dangerous, and often fatal to navigators venturing

too near it. Moskoe is an island situated in the gulf: there are also

several others.

_Sleipner_—the warrior horse of Odin. He had four black legs and four

white ones: he generally travelled through the air.

_Rinda_—daughter of Balder, and mother of Vile, by Odin. The favourite

goddess of the Scandinavian women.

_Hydrasil_—the tree of heaven, standing in the garden of Odin. It was

the abode of the disposer of man’s destiny.

PART III.

_Heidruna_—the immortal goat, whose milk was the hydromel served up

nightly at the festivals of Valhalla.

_Serimnor_—the wild boar, whose flesh served them for food.

_Hugo_ and _Mumin_—the raven messengers of Odin.

_Thor_—the warrior god—the eldest son of Odin, who, in his journey over

the world, defeated Midgard, and loosened his folds from the earth; he is

typical of divine justice and vengeance. In the beautiful fables of the

Scalds, he is represented as a stern warrior, armed with an enormous

mallet, and wearing a crown of twelve stars. He lived in a palace of

Valasciolf, of five hundred and forty halls, and was the ruler and

wielder of the thunderbolt.

_Forsete_—divinity of controversy. I believe this deity is peculiar to

the Scandinavians. He lived in a palace called Glitner.

_Blind horror_—Hoder—whose name was never pronounced by the Scythians

without fear and immediate expiation—son of Odin, and born blind—the

deity of strength. He was abhorred in heaven, because, from envy, he

attacked Balder, threw him from his throne, and put out the sun. Odin

interfered, and punished Hoder by the arrows of Vile (lightning), and

afterwards restored the sun. It was thus, in their beautiful and

fanciful mythology, like the Greeks, and I think no less elegantly, that

the Scalds described natural, but not understood events. This story

describes an eclipse of the sun, the strong and blind Hoder signifying

darkness.

_Lofna_—goddess of reconciliation. I believe this deity is also peculiar

to the Scythians; they have deified her with great propriety. Her post

could not have been a sinecure in a paradise where happiness consisted in

drinking and fighting.

_Hiarn_—his story is strictly historical. It was Eric the Third who was

so maddened by music as to commit murder for no other cause.

_Geysers_—boiling spouting springs in Iceland: they are near to Skalholt

and Hecla; they spout water to a tremendous and incredible height.

_Dofrefeld_—a mighty range of Norwegian mountains, intersected by rivers

and cataracts.

_Dolsteen_—a wonderful cavern beneath the Dofrefeld mountains.

_Niord_—the Scandinavian Neptune.

PART IV.

_Uffon_—this story is also historical. Shakspeare, who read Danish

history, borrowed the circumstance of Vermund’s death for that of Gloster

in King Lear.

_Lidscialf_—the throne of Odin.

_Heimdaller_—guardian of the bridge Bifrost, or the rainbow, by which the

happy dead ascended into Asgard. He received the souls who were selected

by the Valkyries, and conducted them to Odin.

_Vile_—god of archery; son of Odin and Rinda.

PART V.

_Brage_—god of music and song.

_Hovamaal_—bible of Odin.

_Odin_—a wise and virtuous warrior, whose beneficence procured him among

the early Scythians, deification. As a divinity, the father of gods and

men, he is the husband of Frea (the earth), and from the union of divine

love and the earth, spring light, heat, the elements, the seasons,

strength, and genius, typified by Balder, Thor, Frey, Hoder, and Balder

again, as orator and poet. Odin, mounted upon his horse Sleipner,

represents active benevolence.

THE SPECTRE BARBER.

Sir Ryence of North Gales greeteth well thee,

And bids thy beard anon to him send,

Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.—_Percy_.

THERE formerly lived at Bremen, a wealthy merchant named Melchior, of

whom it was remarked that he invariably stroked his chin with complacency

whenever the subject of the sermon was the rich man in the Gospel; who,

by-the-bye, in comparison with him, was only a petty retail dealer. This

said Melchior possessed such great riches, that he had caused the floor

of his dining-room to be paved with crown-pieces, which ridiculous luxury

gave great offence to his fellow-citizens and relations. They attributed

it to vanity and ostentation, but did not guess its true motive; however,

it perfectly answered the end Melchior designed by it; for, by their

constantly expressing their disapprobation of this ostentatious species

of vanity, they spread abroad the report of their neighbour’s immense

riches, and thereby augmented his credit in a most astonishing degree.

At length Melchior died suddenly, while at a corporation dinner, and

consequently had not time to make a disposition of his property by will;

so that his only son Francis, who was just of age, came into possession

of the whole. This young man was particularly favoured by fortune, both

with respect to his personal advantages and his goodness of heart; but

his immense inheritance caused his ruin. He had no sooner got into the

possession of so considerable a fortune, than he squandered it, as if it

had been a burthen to him; ran into every possible extravagance, and

neglected his concerns. Two or three years passed over without his

perceiving that, owing to his dissipations, his funds were considerably

reduced; but at length his coffers were emptied: and one day, when

Francis had drawn a draft to a very considerable amount on his banker,

who had no funds to meet it, it was returned to him protested. This

disappointment greatly vexed our prodigal, but only as it caused a

temporary check to his wishes; for he did not even then give himself the

trouble to inquire into the reason of it. After swearing and blustering

for some time, he gave his steward a positive but laconic order to _get

money_.

All the brokers, money-changers, and usurers, were put in requisition,

and the empty coffers were soon filled; for the dining-room floor was in

the eyes of the lenders a sufficient security.

This paliative had its effect for a time; but all at once a report was

spread abroad in the city that the celebrated silver floor had been taken

up: the consequence of which was, that the lenders insisted on examining

into and proving the fact, and then became urgent for payment; but as

Francis had not the means to meet their demands, they seized on all his

goods and chattels; every thing was sold by auction, and he had nothing

left excepting a few jewels, which had formed part of his heritage, and

which might for a short time keep him from starving.

He now took up his abode in a small street in one of the most remote

quarters of the city, where he lived on his straitened means. He,

however, accommodated himself to his situation; but the only resource

that he found against the _ennui_ which overpowered him was to play on

the lute; and when fatigued by this exercise, he used to stand at his

window and make observations on the weather; and his intelligent mind was

not long in discovering an object which soon entirely engrossed all his

thoughts.

Opposite his window there lived a respectable woman, who was at her

spinning wheel from morning till night, and by her industry earned a

subsistence for herself and her daughter. Meta was a young girl of great

beauty and attraction: she had known happier times: for her father had

been the proprietor of a vessel freighted by himself, in which he

annually made trading voyages to Antwerp; but he, as well as the ship and

all its cargo, was lost in a violent storm. His widow sustained this

double loss with resignation and firmness, and resolved to support

herself and her daughter by her own industry. She made over the house

and furniture to the creditors of her husband, and took up her abode in

the little bye street where Francis lodged, where, by her assiduity she

acquired a subsistence without laying herself under an obligation to any

one. She brought up her daughter to spinning and other works, and lived

with so much economy, that by her savings she was enabled to set up a

little trade in linen.

Mother Bridget (which was the appellation given to our widow,) did not,

however, calculate on terminating her existence in this penurious

situation; and the hope of better prospects sustained her courage. The

beauty and excellent qualities of her daughter, whom she brought up with

every possible care and attention, led her to think that some

advantageous offer would one day present itself. Meta lived tranquilly

and lonely with her mother, was never seen in any of the public walks,

and indeed never went out but to mass once a day.

One day, while Francis was making his metrological observations at the

window, he saw the beautiful Meta, who, under her mother’s watchful eye,

was returning from church. The heart of Francis was as yet quite free:

for the boisterous pleasures of his past life did not leave him leisure

for a true affection; but at this time, when all his senses were calm,

the appearance of one of the most enchanting female forms he had ever

seen, ravished him, and he henceforth thought solely of the adorable

object which his eyes had thus discovered. He questioned his landlord

respecting the two females who lived in the opposite house, and from him

learned the particulars we have just related.

He now regretted his want of economy, since his present miserable state

prevented him from making an offer to the charming Meta. He was,

however, constantly at the window, in hopes of seeing her; and in that

consisted his greatest delight. The mother very soon discovered the

frequent appearance of her new neighbour at his window, and attributed it

to its right cause. In consequence, she rigorously enjoined her daughter

not to show herself at the windows, which were now kept constantly shut.

Francis was not much versed in the arts of finesse, but love awakened all

the energies of his soul. He soon discovered that if he appeared much at

the window, his views would be suspected; and he resolved therefore

studiously to refrain from coming near it. He determined, however, to

continue his observation of what occurred in the opposite dwelling

without being perceived. He accordingly purchased a large mirror, and

fixed it in his chamber in such a position that it distinctly presented

to his view what passed in the abode of his opposite neighbour. Francis

not being seen at the window, the old lady relaxed in her rigour, and

Meta’s windows were once more opened. Love, more than ever, reigned

triumphant in the bosom of Francis; but how was he to make known his

attachment to its object? he could neither speak nor write to her. Love,

however, soon suggested a mode of communication which succeeded. Our

prodigal took his lute, and drew from it tones the best adapted to

express the subject of his passion: and by perseverance, in less than a

month he made a wonderful progress. He soon had the gratification of

seeing the fair hand of Meta open the little casement, when he began to

tune his instrument. When she made her appearance, he testified his joy

by an air lively and gay; but if she did not show herself, the melancholy

softness of his tones discovered the disappointment he experienced.

In the course of a short time, he created a great interest in the bosom

of his fair neighbour; and soon had reason to be convinced that Meta

shared a mutual attachment. She now endeavoured to justify him, when her

mother with acrimony spoke of his prodigality and past misconduct, by

attributing his ruin to the effect of bad example. But in so doing, she

cautiously avoided exciting the suspicions of the old lady; and seemed

less anxious to excuse him, than to take a part in the conversation that

was going on.

Circumstances, which our limits will not allow us to relate, rendered the

situation of Francis more and more difficult to be supported; his funds

had now nearly failed him; and an offer of marriage from a wealthy

brewer, who was called in the neighbourhood the “King of Hops,” but which

Meta, much to her mother’s disappointment, refused, excited still more

the apprehensions of poor Francis, lest some more fortunate suitor might

yet be received and blast his hopes for ever.

When he received the information that this opulent lover had been

rejected for his sake, with what bitterness did he lament his past

follies.

“Generous girl,” said he, “you sacrifice yourself for a miserable

creature, who has nothing but a heart fondly attached to you, and which

is riven with despair that its possessor cannot offer you the happiness

you so truly merit.”

The King of Hops soon found another female, who listened more kindly to

his vows, and whom he wedded with great splendour.

Love, however, did not leave his work incomplete; for its influence

created in the mind of Francis a desire of exerting his faculties and

actively employing himself, in order, if possible, to emerge from the

state of nothingness into which he was at present plunged; and it

inspired him also with courage to prosecute his good intention. Among

various projects which he formed, the most rational appeared that of

overlooking his father’s books, taking an account of the claimable debts,

and from that source to get all he possibly could. The produce of this

procedure would, he thought, furnish him with the means of beginning in

some small way of business; and his imagination led him to extend this to

the most remote corners of the earth. In order to equip himself for the

prosecution of his plans, he sold all the remainder of his father’s

effects, and with the money purchased a horse to begin his travels.

The idea of a separation from Meta was almost more than he could endure.

“What will she think,” said he, “of this sudden disappearance, when she

no longer meets me in her way to church? Will she not think me

perfidious, and banish me from her heart?” Such ideas as these caused

him infinite pain; and for a long while he could not devise any means of

acquainting Meta with his plans; but at length the fertile genius of love

furnished him with the following idea:—Francis went to the curate of the

church which his mistress daily frequented, and requested him, before the

sermon and during mass, to put up prayers for a happy issue to the

affairs of a young traveller; and these prayers were to be continued till

the moment of his return, when they were to be changed into those of

thanks.

Every thing being arranged for his departure, he mounted his steed, and

passed close under Meta’s window. He saluted her with a very significant

air, and with much less caution than heretofore. The young girl blushed

deeply; and mother Bridget took this opportunity of loudly expressing her

dislike to this bold adventurer, whose impertinence and foppery induced

him to form designs on her daughter.

From this period the eyes of Meta in vain searched for Francis. She

constantly heard the prayer which was put up for him; but was so entirely

absorbed by grief at no longer perceiving the object of her affection,

that she paid no attention to the words of the priest. In no way could

she account for his disappearing. Some months afterwards, her grief

being somewhat ameliorated and her mind more tranquillized, when she was

one day thinking of the last time she had seen Francis, the prayer

arrested her attention; she reflected for an instant, and quickly divined

for whom it was said; she naturally joined in it with great fervour, and

strongly recommended the young traveller to the protection of her

guardian angel.

Meanwhile Francis continued his journey, and had travelled the whole of a

very sultry day, over one of the desert cantons of Westphalia without

meeting with a single house. As night approached, a violent storm came

on: the rain fell in torrents; and poor Francis was soaked to the very

skin. In this miserable situation he anxiously looked around, and

fortunately discovered in the distance a light, towards which he directed

his horse’s steps; but as he drew near, he beheld a miserable cottage,

which did not promise him much succour, for it more resembled a stable

than the habitation of a human being. The unfeeling wretch who inhabited

it, refused him fire or water, as if he had been a banished man—he was

just about to extend himself on the straw in the midst of the cattle, and

his indolence prevented his lighting a fire for the stranger. Francis

vainly endeavoured to move the peasant to pity: the latter was

inexorable, and blew out his candle with the greatest nonchalance

possible, without bestowing a thought on Francis. However, as the

traveller hindered him from sleeping, by his incessant lamentations and

prayers, he was anxious to get rid of him.

“Friend,” said he to him, “if you wish to be accommodated, I promise you

it will not be here; but ride through the little wood to your left hand,

and you will find the castle belonging to the chevalier Eberhard

Bronkhorst, who is very hospitable to travellers; but he has a singular

mania, which is, to flagellate all whom he entertains: therefore decide

accordingly.”

Francis, after considering for some minutes, resolved on hazarding the

adventure. “In good faith,” said he, “there is no great difference

between having one’s back broken by the miserable accommodation of a

peasant, or by the chevalier Bronkhorst: friction disperses fever;

possibly its effects may prove beneficial to me, if I am compelled to

keep on my wet garments.”

Accordingly he put spurs to his horse, and very shortly found himself

before a gothic castle, at the iron gate of which he loudly knocked, and

was answered from within by—“Who’s there?” But ere he was allowed time

to reply, the gate was opened. However, in the first court he was

compelled to wait with patience, till they could learn whether it was the

lord of the castle’s pleasure to flagellate a traveller, or send him out

to pass the night under the canopy of heaven.

The lord of the castle had from his earliest infancy served in the

Imperial army, under the command of George of Funsberg, and had himself

led a company of infantry against the Venetians. At length, however,

fatigued with warfare, he had retired to his own territory, where, in

order to expiate the crimes he had committed during the several campaigns

he had been in, he did all the good and charitable acts in his power.

But his manner still retained all the roughness of his former profession.

The newly-arrived guest, although disposed to submit to the usages of the

house, for the sake of the good fare, could not help feeling a certain

trembling of fear as he heard the bolts grating, ere the doors were

opened to him; and which, by their groaning noise, seemed to presage the

catastrophe which awaited him. A cold perspiration came over him as he

passed the last door; but finding that he received the utmost attention,

his fears a little abated. The servants assisted him in getting off his

horse, and unfastened his cloak-bag; some of them led his horse to the

stable, whilst others preceding him with flambeaux, conducted him to

their master, who awaited his arrival in a room magnificently lighted up.

Poor Francis was seized with a universal tremor, when he beheld the

martial air and athletic form of the lord of the castle, who came up to

him and shook him by the hand with so much force as nearly to make him

cry out, and in a thundering voice, enough to stun him, told him he was

welcome. Francis trembled like an aspen leaf in every part of his body.

“What ails you, my young comrade?” cried the chevalier Bronkhorst; “what

makes you thus tremble, and render you as pale as if death had actually

seized you in the throat?”

Francis recovered himself; and knowing that his shoulders would pay his

reckoning, his fears gave place to a species of audacity.

“My lord,” answered he with confidence, “you see that I am so soaked with

rain that one might suppose I had swam through the Wezer; order me

therefore some dry clothes instead of these I have on, and let us then

drink a cup of hot wine, that I may, if possible, prevent the fever,

which otherwise may probably seize me. It will comfort my heart.”

“Admirable!” replied the chevalier; “ask for whatever you want, and

consider yourself here as at home.”

Accordingly Francis gave his orders like a baron of high degree: he sent

away the wet clothes, made choice of others, and, in fine, made himself

quite at his ease. The chevalier, so far from expressing any

dissatisfaction at his free and easy manners, commanded his people to

execute whatever he ordered with promptitude, and condemned some of them

as blockheads, who did not appear to know how to wait on a stranger. As

soon as the table was spread, the chevalier seated himself at it with his

guest; and they drank a cup of hot wine together.

“Do you wish for any thing to eat?” demanded the lord.

Francis desired he would order up what his house afforded, that he might

see whether his kitchen was good.

No sooner had he said this, than the steward made his appearance, and

furnished up a most delicious repast, Francis did not wait for his being

requested to partake of it: but after having made a hearty meal, he said

to the lord of the castle, “Your kitchen is by no means despicable; if

your cellar is correspondent, I cannot but say you treat your guests

nobly.”

The chevalier made a sign to his butler, who brought up some inferior

wine, and filled a large glass to his master, who drank to his guest.

Francis instantly returned the compliment.

“Well, young man, what say you to my wine?” asked the chevalier.

“‘Faith,” replied Francis, “I say it is bad, if it is the best you have

in your cellar; but if you have none worse, I do not condemn it.”

“You are a connoisseur;” answered the chevalier. “Butler, bring us a

flask of older wine.”

His orders being instantly attended to, Francis tasted it. “This is

indeed some good old wine, and we will stick to it if you please.”

The servants brought in a great pitcher of it, and the chevalier, being

in high good-humour, drank freely with his guest; and then launched out

into a long history of his several feats of prowess in the war against

the Venetians. He became so overheated by the recital, that in his

enthusiasm he overturned the bottles and glasses, and flourishing his

knife as if it were a sword, passed it so near the nose and ears of

Francis, that he dreaded he should lose them in the action.

Though the night wore away, the chevalier did not manifest any desire to

sleep; for he was quite in his elements, whenever he got on the topic of

the Venetian war. Each succeeding glass added to the heat of his

imagination as he proceeded in his narration, till at length Francis

began to apprehend that it was the prologue to the tragedy in which he

was to play the principal part; and feeling anxious to learn whether he

was to pass the night in the castle, or be turned out, he asked for a

last glass of wine to enable him to sleep well. He feared that they

would commence by filling him with wine, and that if he did not consent

to continue drinking, a pretext would be laid hold of for driving him out

of the castle with the usual chastisement.

However, contrary to his expectation, the lord of the castle broke the

thread of his narration, and said to him:—“Good friend, every thing in

its place; to-morrow we will resume our discourse.”

“Excuse me, sir knight,” replied Francis; “to-morrow, before sun-rise, I

shall be on my road. The distance from hence to Brabant is very

considerable, and I cannot tarry here longer, therefore permit me to take

leave of you now, that I may not disturb you in the morning.”

“Just as you please about that; but you will not leave the castle before

I am up; we will breakfast together, and I shall accompany you to the

outer gate, and take leave of you according to my usual custom.”

Francis needed no comment to render these words intelligible. Most

willingly would he have dispensed with the chevalier’s company to the

gate; but the latter did not appear at all inclined to deviate from his

established usage. He ordered his servant to assist the stranger in

undressing, and to take care of him till he was in bed.

Francis found his bed an excellent one; and ere he went to sleep, he

owned that so handsome a reception could not be dearly bought at the

expense of a trifling beating. The most delightful dreams (in which Meta

bore the sway) occupied him the whole night; and he would have gone on

(thus dreaming) till mid-day, if the sonorous voice of the chevalier and

the clanking of the spurs had not disturbed him.

It needed all Francis’s efforts to quit this delightful bed, in which he

was so comfortable, and where he knew himself to be in safety; he turned

from side to side; but the chevalier’s tremendous voice was like a

death-stroke to him, and at length he resolved to get up. Several

servants assisted him in dressing, and the chevalier waited for him at a

small, but well-served table; but Francis, knowing the moment of trial

was at hand, had no great inclination to feast. The chevalier tried to

persuade him to eat, telling him it was the best thing to keep out the

fog and the damp of the morning.

“Sir knight,” replied Francis, “my stomach is still loaded from your

excellent supper of last evening; but my pockets are empty, and I should

much like to fill them, in order to provide against future wants.”

The chevalier evinced his pleasure at his frankness by filling his

pockets with as much as they could contain. As soon as they brought him

his horse, which he discovered had been well groomed and fed, he drank

the last glass of wine to say Adieu, expecting that at that signal the

chevalier would take him by the collar and make him pay his welcome.

But, to his no small surprise, the chevalier contented himself with

heartily shaking him by the hand as on his arrival; and as soon as the

gate was opened, Francis rode off safe and sound.

In no way could our traveller account for his host permitting him thus to

depart without paying the usual score. At length he began to imagine

that the peasant had simply told him the story to frighten him; and

feeling a curiosity to know whether or not it had any foundation in fact,

he rode back to the castle. The chevalier had not yet quitted the gate,

and was conversing with the servants on the pace of Francis’s horse, who

appeared to trot very roughly; and seeing the traveller return, he

supposed that he had forgotten something, and by his looks seemed to

accuse his servants of negligence.

“What do you want, young man?” demanded he: “Why do you, who were so much

pressed for time, return?”

“Allow me, most noble sir,” replied Francis, “to ask you one question: It

is said, that, after having hospitably received and entertained

strangers, you make them at their departure feel the weight of your arm.

And although I gave credence to this rumour, I have omitted nothing which

might have entitled me to this mark of your favour. But, strange to say,

you have permitted me to depart in peace, without even the slightest mark

of your strength. You see my surprise; therefore do pray inform me

whether there is any foundation to the report, or whether I shall

chastise the impudent story-teller who related the false tale to me.”

“Young man,” replied Bronkhorst, “you have heard nothing but the truth;

but it needs some explanations. I open my door hospitably to every

stranger, and in Christian charity I give them a place at my table; but I

am a man who hates form or disguise: I say all I think, and only wish in

return that my guests would openly and undisguisedly ask for all they

want. There are unfortunately, however, a tribe of people, who fatigue

by their mean complaisance and ceremony, who wear me out by their

dissimulation, and stun me by propositions devoid of sense, or who do not

conduct themselves with decency during the feast. Gracious heavens! I

lose all patience when they carry their fooleries to such excess, and I

exert my right as master of the castle, by taking hold of their collars,

and giving them a tolerably severe chastisement ere I turn them out of my

gates.—But a man of your sort, my young friend, will ever be welcome

under my roof; for you boldly and openly ask for what you require, and

say what you think; and such are the persons I admire. If in your way

back you pass through this canton, promise me you will pay me another

visit. Good bye. Let me caution you never to place implicit confidence

in any thing you hear; believe only that there may be a single grain of

truth in the whole story; be always frank, and you will succeed through

life.—Heaven’s blessings attend you.”

Francis continued his journey towards Anvers most gaily, wishing as he

went, that he might every where meet with as good a reception as at the

chevalier Bronkhorst’s.

Nothing remarkable occurred during the rest of his journey, and he

entered the city full of the most sanguine hopes and expectations. In

every street his fancied riches stared him in the face. “It appears to

me,” said he, “that some of my father’s debtors must have succeeded in

business, and that they will only require my presence, to repay their

debts with honour.”

After having rested from the fatigue of his journey, he made himself

acquainted with every particular relative to the debtors, and learnt that

the greater part had become rich, and were doing extremely well. This

intelligence re-animated his hopes; he arranged his papers, and paid a

visit to each of the persons who owed him any thing. But his success was

by no means equal to what he had expected; some of the debtors pretended

that they had paid every thing; others that they had never heard mention

of Melchior of Bremen; and the rest produced accounts precisely

contradictory to those he had, and which tended to prove they were

creditors instead of debtors. In fine, ere three days had elapsed,

Francis found himself in the debtor’s prison, from whence he stood no

chance of being released till he had paid the uttermost farthing of his

father’s debts.

How pitiable was this young man’s condition! Even the horrors of the

prison were augmented by the remembrance of Meta:—nay, to such a pitch of

desperation was he carried, that he resolved to starve himself.

Fortunately, however, at twenty-seven years of age such determinations

are more easily formed, than practised.

The intention of those who put him into confinement was not merely with a

view of exacting payment of his pretended debts, but to avoid paying him

his due; so, whether the prayers put up for poor Francis at Bremeu were

effectual, or that the pretended creditors were not disposed to maintain

him during his life, I know not; but after a detention of three months,

they liberated Francis from prison, with a particular injunction to quit

the territories of Anvers within four-and-twenty hours, and never to set

his foot within that city again:—They gave him at the same time five

florins to defray his expenses on the road. As one may well imagine his

horse and baggage had been sold to defray the costs incident to the

proceedings.

With a heart overloaded with grief he quitted Anvers, in a very different

frame of mind to what he experienced at entering it. Discouraged and

irresolute, he mechanically followed the road which chance directed; he

paid no attention to the various travellers, nor indeed to any object on

the road, till hunger or thirst caused him to lift up his eyes to

discover a steeple or some other token announcing the habitation of human

beings. In this state of mind did he continue journeying on for several

days incessantly; nevertheless, a secret instinct impelled him to take

the road leading to his own country.

All on a sudden he roused, as if from a profound sleep, and recollected

the place in which he was: he stopped an instant to consider whether he

should continue the road he was then in, or return: “For,” said he, “what

a shame to return to my native city a beggar!” How could he thus return

to that city in which he formerly felt equal to the richest of its

inhabitants? How could he as a beggar present himself before Meta,

without causing her to blush for the choice she had made? He did not

allow time for his imagination to complete this miserable picture, for he

instantly turned back, as if already he had found himself before the

gates of Bremen, followed by the shouts of the children. His mind was

soon made up as to what he should do; he resolved to go to one of the

ports of the Low Countries, there to engage himself as a sailor on board

of a Spanish vessel, to go to the newly-discovered world; and not to

return to his native country till he had amassed as much wealth as he had

formerly so thoughtlessly squandered. In the whole of this project, Meta

was only thought of at an immeasurable distance; but Francis contented

himself with connecting her in idea with his future plans, and walked, or

rather strode along, as if by hurrying his pace he should sooner gain

possession of her.

Having thus attained the frontiers of the Low Countries, he arrived at

sun-set in a village situated near Rheinburg; but since entirely

destroyed in the thirty years’ war. A caravan of carriers from Liege

filled the inn so entirely, that the landlord told Francis he could not

give him a lodging; adding, that at the adjoining village he would find

accommodations.—Possibly he was actuated to this refusal by Francis’s

appearance, who certainly, in point of garb, might well be mistaken for a

vagabond.

The landlord took him for a spy to a band of thieves, sent probably to

rob carriers; so that poor Francis, in spite of his extreme lassitude,

was compelled, with his wallet at his back, to proceed on his road; and

having at his departure, muttered through his teeth some maledictions

against the cruel and unfeeling landlord, the latter appeared touched

with compassion for the stranger, and from the door of the inn called

after him: “Young man—a word with you! If you resolve on passing the

night here, I will procure you a lodging in that castle you now see on

the hill; there you will find rooms in abundance, provided you are not

afraid of being alone, for it is uninhabited. See, here are the keys

belonging to it.”

Francis joyfully accepted the landlord’s proposition, and thanked him for

it as if it had been an act of great charity.

“It is to me a matter of little moment where I pass the night, provided I

am at my ease, and have something to eat.” But the landlord was an

ill-tempered fellow, and wishing to revenge the invectives Francis had

poured forth against him, he sent him to the castle, in order that he

might be tormented by the spirits which were said to frequent it.

This castle was situated on a steep rock, and was only separated from the

village by the high road and a little rivulet. Its delightful prospects

caused it to be kept in good repair, and to be well furnished, as its

owner made use of it as a hunting seat; quitting it, however, every

night, in order to avoid the apparitions and ghosts which haunted it.

When it was quite dark, Francis, with a lantern in his hand, proceeded

towards the castle. The landlord accompanied him, and carried a little

basket of provisions, to which he added a bottle of wine (which he said

would stand the test,) as well as two candles and two wax-tapers for the

night. Francis, not thinking he should require so many things, and being

apprehensive he should have to pay for them, asked why they were all

brought.

“The light from my lantern,” said he, “will suffice me till the time of

my getting into bed; and ere I shall get out of it, the sun will have

risen, for I am worn out with fatigue.”

“I will not endeavour to conceal from you,” replied the landlord, “that

according to the current reports, this castle is haunted by evil spirits;

but do not let that frighten you; you see I live sufficiently near, that,

in case any thing extraordinary should happen to you, I shall hear you

call, and shall be in readiness with my people to render you any

assistance. At my house there is somebody stirring all night, and there

is also some one constantly on the watch. I have lived on this spot for

thirty years, and cannot say that I have seen any thing to alarm me;

indeed I believe that you may with safety attribute any noises you hear

during the night in this castle, to cats and weasels, with which the

granaries are overrun. I have only provided you with the means of

keeping up a light in a case of need, for, at best, night is but a gloomy

season; and, in addition, these candles are consecrated, and their light

will undoubtedly keep off any evil spirits, should there be such in the

castle.”

The landlord spoke only the truth, when he said he never had the courage

to set his foot within its doors after dark; and though he now spoke so

courageously, the rogue would not have ventured on any account to enter.

After having opened the door, he gave the basket to Francis, pointed out

the way he was to turn, and wished him good night; while the latter,

fully satisfied that the story of ghosts must be fabulous, gaily entered.

He recollected all that had been told him to the prejudice of the

Chevalier Bronkhorst, but unfortunately forgot what that brave Castelian

had recommended to him at parting, “always to believe there was some

truth in what he might hear.”

Conformably to the landlord’s instructions, he went up stairs, and came

to a door, which the key in his possession soon unlocked; it opened into

a long dark gallery, where his very steps re-echoed; the gallery led to a

large hall, from which issued a suite of apartments, furnished in a

costly manner: he surveyed them all, and made choice of one in which to

pass the night, that appeared more lively than the rest. The windows

looked to the high road, and every thing that passed in front of the inn

could be distinctly heard. He lighted two candles, spread the cloth, ate

very heartily, and felt completely at his ease, so long as he was thus

employed; for while eating, no thought or apprehension of spirits

molested him; but he no sooner arose from the table, than he began to

feel a sensation strongly resembling fear.

In order to render himself more secure, he locked the door, drew the

bolts, and then looked out from each window. Every thing along the high

road and in front of the inn was tranquil, where, contrary to the

landlord’s assertions, not a single light was discernible. The sound of

the horn belonging to the night-guard was the only thing that interrupted

the silence which universally prevailed.

Francis closed the windows, once looked round the room, and after

snuffing the candles, that they might burn the better, he threw himself

on the bed, which he found good and comfortable; but although greatly

fatigued, he could not get to sleep so soon as he had hoped. A slight

palpitation of the heart, which he attributed to the agitation produced

by the heat of his fatiguing journey, kept him awake for a considerable

time, till at length sleep came to his aid. After having, as he

imagined, been asleep somewhat above an hour, he awoke and started up in

a state of horror, possibly not unusual to a person whose blood is

over-heated; this idea in some degree allayed his apprehensions, and he

listened attentively, but could hear nothing excepting the clock, which

struck the hour of midnight. Again he listened for an instant, and

turning on his side, he was just going off to sleep, when he thought he

heard a distant door grinding on its hinges, and then shut with a heavy

noise. In an instant the idea of the ghost approaching caused him no

little fear; but he speedily got the better of his alarm, by fancying it

was only the wind; however, he could not comfort himself long with this

belief, for the sound approached nearer and nearer, and resembled the

clanking of chains, or the rattling of a bunch of keys.

The terror which Francis experienced was beyond all description, and he

put his head under the clothes. The doors continued to open with a

frightful noise, and at last he heard some one trying different keys at

the door of his room; one of them seemed perfectly to fit the lock, but

the bolts kept the door fast, however, a violent shock like a clap of

thunder caused them to give way, and in stalked a tall thin figure, with

a black beard, whose appearance was indicative of chagrin and melancholy.

He was habited in the antique style, and on his left shoulder wore a red

cloak or mantle, while his head was covered with a high-crowned hat.

Three times with slow and measured steps he walked round the room,

examined the consecrated candles and snuffed them: he then threw off his

cloak, unfolded a shaving apparatus, and took from it the razors, which

he sharpened on a large leather strap hanging to the belt.

No powers are adequate to describe the agonies Francis endured: he

recommended himself to the Virgin Mary, and endeavoured, as well as his

fears would permit, to form an idea of the spectre’s designs on him.

Whether he purposed to cut his throat, or only take off his beard, he was

at a loss to determine. The poor traveller was a little more composed,

when he saw the spectre take out a silver shaving pot, and in a bason of

the same metal put some water; after which he made a lather, and placed a

chair. But a cold perspiration came over Francis, when the spectre with

a grave air, made signs for him to sit in that chair.

He knew it was useless to resist this mandate, which was but too plainly

given; and thinking it most prudent to make a virtue of necessity, and to

put a good face on the matter, Francis obeyed the order, jumped nimbly

out of bed, and seated himself as directed.

The spirit placed the shaving-bib round his neck; then taking a comb and

scissors, cut off his hair and whiskers; after which he lathered,

according to rule, his beard, his eye-brows, and head, and shaved them

all off completely from his chin to the nape of his neck. This operation

ended, he washed his head, wiped and dried it very nicely, made him a low

bow, folded up his case, put his cloak on his shoulder, and made towards

the door to go away.

The consecrated candles had burnt most brilliantly during this operation;

and by their clear light Francis discovered, on looking into the glass,

that he had not a single hair remaining on his head. Most bitterly did

he deplore the loss of his beautiful brown hair; but he regained courage

on remarking, that, however great the sacrifice, all was now over, and

that the spirit had no more power over him.

In effect, the ghost walked towards the door with as grave an air as he

had entered; but after going a few steps, he stopped, looked at Francis,

with a mournful air, and stroked his beard. He three times repeated this

action; and was on the point of quitting the room, when Francis imagined

he wanted something. With great quickness of thought he imagined it

might be that he wished him to perform a like service for him to that

which he had just been executing on himself.

As the spectre, spite of his woe-begone aspect, appeared more inclined to

raillery than gravity, and as his proceedings towards Francis appeared

more of a species of frolic than absolute ill-treatment, the latter no

longer appeared to entertain any apprehension of him; and in consequence

determined to hazard the adventure. He therefore beckoned the phantom to

seat himself in the chair. It instantly returned and obeyed; taking off

its cloak, and unfolding the case, placed it on the table, and seated

itself in the chair, in the attitude of one about to be shaved. Francis

imitated precisely all he had seen it do: he cut off its hair and

whiskers, and then lathered its head. The spirit did not move an inch.

Our barber’s apprentice did not handle the razor very dexterously; so

that having taken hold of the ghost’s beard against the grain, the latter

made a horrible grimace. Francis did not feel much assured by this

action; however, he got through the job as well as he could, and rendered

the ghost’s head as bald as his own.

Hitherto the scene between the two performers had passed in profound

silence: but on a sudden it was interrupted by the ghost exclaiming, with

a smiling countenance—“Stranger, I heartily thank you for the eminent

service you have rendered me; for to you I am indebted for deliverance

from my long captivity. During the space of three hundred years I have

been immersed within these walls, and my soul has been condemned to

submit to this chastisement as a punishment for my crimes, until some

living being had the courage to exercise retaliation on me, by doing to

me what I have done by others during my life.

“Count Hartmann formerly resided in this castle; he was a man who

recognised no law nor superior; was of an arrogant and overbearing

disposition; committed every species of wickedness, and violated the most

sacred rights of hospitality; he played all sorts of malicious tricks to

strangers who sought refuge under his roof, and to the poor who solicited

his charity. I was his barber, and did every thing to please him. No

sooner did I perceive a pious pilgrim, than in an endearing tone I urged

him to come into the castle, and prepared a bath for him; and while he

was enjoying the idea of being taken care of, I shaved his beard and head

quite close, and then turned him out of the bye door with raillery and

ridicule. All this was seen by Count Hartmann from his window with a

sort of devilish pleasure, while the children would assemble round the

abused stranger and pursue him with cries of derision.

“One day there came a holy man from a far distant country: he wore a

plenipotentiary cross at his back, and his devotion had imprinted scars

on his feet, hands, and sides; his head was shaved, excepting a circle of

hair, left to resemble the crown of thorns worn by our Saviour. He asked

for some water to wash his feet as he passed by, and some bread to eat.

I instantly put him into the bath; but did not respect even his venerable

head. Upon which the pilgrim pronounced this terrible curse on

me.—‘Depraved wretch,’ said he, ‘know that at your death, the formidable

gates of heaven, of hell, and of purgatory, will alike be closed against

your sinful soul, which shall wander through this castle, in the form of

a ghost, until some man, without being invited or constrained, shall do

to you, what you have so long done to others.’

“From that moment the marrow in my bones dried up, and I became a perfect

shadow; my soul quitted my emaciated body, which remained wandering

within these walls, according to the prediction of the holy man. In vain

did I look and hope for release from the painful ties which held me to

earth; for know that no sooner is the soul separated from the body, than

it aspires to the blissful regions of peace, and the ardour of its wishes

causes years to appear as long as centuries, while it languishes in a

strange element. As a punishment, I was compelled to continue the trade

I had exercised during my life; but, alas! my nocturnal appearance soon

rendered this castle deserted. Now and then a poor pilgrim entered to

pass the night here: when they did, however, I treated them all as I have

done you; but not one has understood me, or rendered me the only service

which would deliver my soul from this sad servitude; henceforth, no

spirit will haunt this castle, for I shall now enjoy that repose of which

I have been so long in search. Once again let me thank you, gallant

youth; and believe, that had I power over the hidden treasures of the

globe, I would give them all to you, but unfortunately, during my life

riches did not fall to my lot, and this castle contains no store;

however, listen to the advice I am about to give you.

“Remain here till your hair is grown again; then return to your own

country; and at that period of the year when the days and nights are of

equal length, go on the bridge which crosses the Weser, and there remain

till a friend, whom you shall there meet, shall tell you what you ought

to do to get possession of terrestrial wealth. When you are rolling in

riches and prosperity, remember me; and on every anniversary of the day

on which you released me from the heavy maledictions which overwhelmed

me, cause a mass to be said for the repose of my soul. Adieu! I must

now leave you.”

Thus saying, the phantom vanished, and left his liberator perfectly

astonished at the strange history he had just related. For a

considerable time Francis remained immoveable, and reasoned within

himself as to the reality of what he had seen; for he could not help

fancying still that it was only a dream; but his closely shaved head soon

convinced him that the event had actually taken place. He got into bed

again, and slept soundly until mid-day.

The malicious inn-keeper had been on the watch from the dawn of day for

the appearance of the traveller, in order that he might enjoy a laugh at

his expense, and express his surprise at the night’s adventure. But

after waiting till his patience was nearly exhausted, and finding it

approached to noon, he began to apprehend that the spirit had either

strangled the stranger, or that he had died of fright. He therefore

called his servants together, and ran with them to the castle, passing

through every room till they reached the one in which he had observed the

light the over-night; there he found a strange key in the door, which was

still bolted; for Francis had drawn the bolts after the ghost had

vanished. The landlord, who was all anxiety, knocked loudly; and Francis

on waking, at first thought that it was the phantom come to pay him

another visit; but at length recognising the landlord’s voice, he got up

and opened the door.

The landlord, affecting the utmost possible astonishment, clasped his

hands, and exclaimed, “Great God and all the saints! then the red cloak

has actually been here and shaved you completely? I now see that the

story is but too well founded. But pray relate to me all the

particulars; tell me what the spirit was like; how he came thus to shave

you; and what he said to you?”

Francis, having sense enough to discover his roguery, answered him by

saying: “The spirit resembled a man wearing a red cloak; you know full

well how he performed the operation; and his conversation I perfectly

remember;—listen attentively:—‘Stranger,’ said he to me, ‘do not trust to

a certain inn-keeper, who has a figure of malice for his sign; the rogue

well knew what would happen to you.—Adieu! I now quit this abode, as my

time is come; and in future no spirit will make its appearance here. I

am now to be transformed into a night-mare, and shall constantly torment

and haunt this said inn-keeper, unless he does penance for his villainy,

by lodging, feeding, and furnishing you with every thing needful, till

your hair shall grow again, and fall in ringlets over your shoulders.”

At these words, the landlord was seized with a violent trembling: he

crossed himself and vowed to the Virgin Mary, that he would take care of

the young stranger, lodge him, and give him every thing he required free

of cost. He then conducted him to his house, and faithfully fulfilled

what he promised.

The spirit being no longer heard or seen, Francis was naturally looked on

as a conjurer. He several times passed a night in the castle; and one

evening a courageous villager accompanied him, and returned without

having lost his hair. The lord of the castle, hearing that the

formidable Red Cloak was no longer to be seen, was quite delighted; and

gave orders that the stranger who had delivered him from this spirit

should be well taken care of.

Early in the month of September, Francis’s hair began to form into

ringlets, and he prepared to depart; for all his thoughts were directed

towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped, according to the

barber’s predictions, to find the friend who would point out to him the

way to make his fortune.

When Francis took leave of the landlord, the latter presented him with a

handsome horse well appointed, and loaded with a large cloak-bag on the

back of the saddle, and gave him at the same time a sufficient sum of

money to complete his journey. This was a present from the lord of the

castle, expressive of his thanks for having his castle again rendered

habitable.

Francis arrived at his native place in high spirits. He returned to his

lodging in the little street, where he lived very retired, contenting

himself for the present with secret information respecting Meta. All the

tidings he thus gained were of a satisfactory nature; but he would

neither visit her, nor make her acquainted with his return, till his fate

was decided.

He waited with the utmost impatience for the equinox; till which, time

seemed immeasurably long. The night preceding the eventful day, he could

not close his eyes to sleep; and that he might be sure of not missing the

friend with whom he was as yet unacquainted, he took his station ere

sun-rise on the bridge, where no human being but himself was to be

discovered. Replete with hopes of future good fortune, he formed a

thousand projects in what way he should spend his money.

Already had he during the space of an hour, traversed the bridge alone,

giving full scope to his imagination; when on a sudden the bridge

presented a moving scene, and amongst others, many beggars took their

several stations on it, to levy contributions on the passengers. The

first of this tribe who asked charity of Francis was a poor vagabond with

a wooden leg, who, being a pretty good physiognomist, judged from the gay

and contented air of the young man, that his request would be crowned

with success; and his conjecture was not erroneous, for he threw a

demi-florin into his hat.

Francis, meanwhile, feeling persuaded that the friend he expected must

belong to the highest class of society, felt no surprise at not seeing

him at so early an hour, and waited therefore with patience. But as the

hour for visiting the Exchange and Courts of Justice drew near, his eyes

were in constant motion. He discovered at an immense distance every

well-dressed person who came on the bridge, and his blood was in a

perfect ferment as each approached him, for in some one of them did he

hope to discover the author of his good fortune; but in vain he looked

people in the face, no one paid attention to him. The beggars, who at

noon were seated on the ground eating their dinner, remarking that the

young man they had seen from the first of the morning, was the only

person remaining with them on the bridge, and that he had not spoken to

any one, or appeared to have any employment, took him for a lazy

vagabond; and although they had received marks of his beneficence, they

began to make game of him, and in derision called him the provost of the

bridge. The physiognomist with the wooden leg observed, that his air was

no longer so gay as in the morning, and that having drawn his hat over

his face, he appeared entirely lost in thought, for he walked slowly

along, nibbling an apple, with an abstracted air. The observer,

resolving to benefit by what he had remarked, went to the further

extremity of the bridge, and after well examining the visionary, came up

to him as a stranger, asked his charity, and succeeded to his utmost

wish; for Francis, without turning round his head, gave him another

demi-florin.

In the afternoon, a crowd of new faces presented themselves to Francis’s

observation, while he became quite weary at his friend’s tardiness; but

hope still kept up his attention. However, the fast declining sun gave

notice of the approach of night, and yet scarcely any of the passers-by

had noticed Francis. Some few, perhaps, had returned his salutation, but

not one had, as he expected and hoped, embraced him. At length, the day

so visibly declined, that the bridge became nearly deserted; for even the

beggars went away. A profound melancholy seized the heart of poor

Francis, when he found his hopes thus deceived; and giving way to

despair, he would have precipitated himself into the Weser, had not the

recollection of Meta deterred him. He felt anxious, ere he terminated

his days in so tragical a manner, to see her once again as she went to

mass, and feast on the contemplation of her features.

He was preparing to quit the bridge, when the beggar with the wooden leg

accosted him, for he had in vain puzzled his brain to discover what could

possibly have caused the young man to remain on the bridge from morning

till night. The poor cripple had waited longer than usual on account of

Francis, in order to see when he went; but as he remained longer than he

wished, curiosity at length induced him openly to address him, in order

to learn what he so ardently desired to know.

“Pray excuse me, worthy sir,” said he: “and permit me to ask you a

question.”

Francis, who was by no means in a mood to talk, and who now heard from

the mouth of a beggar the words which he had so anxiously expected from a

friend, answered him in rather an angry tone: “Well then, what is it you

want to know, old man?”

“Sir, you and I were the first persons on this bridge to-day; and here we

are still the only remaining two. As for me and my companions, it is

pretty clear that we only came to ask alms; but it is equally evident you

do not belong to our profession, and yet you have not quitted the bridge

the whole day. My dear sir, for the love of God, if it is no secret,

tell me, I entreat you, for what purpose you came, and what is the grief

that rends your heart?”

“What can it concern you, old dotard, to know where the shoe pinches me,

or what afflictions I am labouring under?”

“My good sir, I wish you well: you have twice bestowed your charity on

me, which I hope the Almighty will return to you with interest. I could

not but observe, however, this evening your countenance no longer looked

gay and happy as in the morning; and, believe me, I was sorry to see the

change.”

The unaffected interest evinced by the old man pleased Francis. “Well,”

replied he, “since you attach so much importance to the knowledge of the

reason I have for remaining the whole day here plaguing myself, I will

inform you that I came here in search of a friend who appointed to meet

me on this bridge, but whom I have expected in vain.”

“With your permission I should say your friend was a rogue, to play the

fool with you in this manner. If he had so served me, I should make him

feel the weight of my crutch whenever I met him; for if he has been

prevented from keeping his word by any unseen obstacle, he ought at least

to have sent to you, and not have kept you here on your feet a whole

day.”

“And yet I have no reason to complain of his not coming, for he promised

me nothing. In fact it was only a dream that I was told I should meet a

friend here.”

Francis spoke of it as a dream, because the history of the ghost was too

long to relate.

“That alters the case,” replied the old man. “Since you rest your hopes

on dreams, I am not astonished at your being deceived. I have also had

many dreams in my life; but I was never fool enough to pay attention to

them. If I had all the treasures that have been promised me in dreams, I

could purchase the whole city of Bremen; but I have never put faith in

dreams, and have not taken a single step to prove whether they were true

or false; for I know full well, it would be useless trouble; and I am

astonished that you should have lost so fine a day, which you might have

employed so much more usefully, merely on the strength of a dream, which

appears to me so wholly devoid of sense or meaning.”

“The event proves the justness of your remark, old father; and that

dreams generally are deceitful. But it is rather more than three months

since I had a very circumstantial dream relative to my meeting a friend

on this particular day, here on this bridge; and it was so clearly

indicated that he should communicate things of the utmost importance,

that I thought it worth while to ascertain whether this dream had any

foundation in truth.”

“Ah, sir, no one has had clearer dreams than myself; and one of them I

shall never forget. I dreamt, several years since, that my good angel

stood at the foot of my bed, in the form of a young man, and addressed me

as follows:—‘Berthold, listen attentively to my words, and do not lose

any part of what I am about to say. A treasure is allotted to you; go

and secure it, that you may be enabled to live happily the rest of your

days. To-morrow evening, when the sun is setting, take a pick-axe and

spade over your shoulder, and go out of the city by the gate leading to

Hamburgh; when you arrive facing the convent of St. Nicholas, you will

see a garden, the entrance to which is ornamented by two pillars; conceal

yourself behind one of these until the moon rises; then push the door

hard, and it will yield to your efforts; go without fear into the garden,

follow a walk covered by a treillage of vines, and to the left you will

see a great apple-tree; place yourself at the foot of the tree, with your

face turned towards the moon, and you will perceive at fifteen feet

distance, two bushy rose-trees; search between these two shrubs, and at

the depth of about six feet you will discover a great flag-stone, which

covers the treasure enclosed within an iron chest; and although it is

heavy and difficult to handle, do not regret the labour it will occasion

you to remove it from the hole where it now is. You will be well

rewarded for your pains and trouble, if you look for the key which is

under the box.’”

Francis remained like one stupified at this recital; and certainly would

have been unable to conceal his astonishment, if the darkness of the

night had not favoured him. The various particulars pointed out by the

beggar brought to his recollection a little garden which he had inherited

from his father, and which garden was the favourite spot of that good

man; but possibly for that very reason it was not held in estimation by

the son. Melchior had caused it to be laid out according to his own

taste, and his son in the height of his extravagance had sold it at a

very low price.

The beggar with his wooden leg was become a very interesting personage to

Francis, who perceived that he was the friend alluded to by the ghost in

the castle of Rummelsbourg. The first impulse of joy would have led him

to embrace the mendicant; but he restrained his feelings, thinking it

best not to communicate the result of his intelligence to him.

“Well, my good man,” said he, “what did you when you awoke? did you not

attend to the advice given by your good angel!”

“Why should I undertake a hopeless labour? It was only a vague dream;

and if my good angel was anxious to appear to me, he might choose a night

when I am not sleeping, which occurs but too frequently; but he has not

troubled his head much about me; for if he had, I should not have been

reduced, as I am now, to his shame, to beg my bread.”

Francis took from his pocket another piece of money, and gave it to the

old man, saying, “Take this to procure half a pint of wine, and drink it

ere you retire to rest. Your conversation has dispelled my sorrowful

thoughts; do not fail to come regularly to this bridge, where I hope we

shall meet again.”

The old lame man, not having for a long while made so good a day’s work,

overwhelmed Francis with his grateful benedictions. They separated, and

each went his way. Francis, whose joy was at its height from the near

prospect of his hopes being realised, very speedily reached his lodging

in the bye street.

The following day he ran to the purchaser of the little garden, and

proposed to re-purchase it. The latter, to whom this property was of no

particular value, and who, indeed, began to be tired of it, willingly

consented to part with it. They very soon agreed as to the conditions of

the purchase, and went immediately to sign the contract: with the money

he had found in his bag, as a gift from the lord of Rummelsbourg, Francis

paid down half the price: he then procured the necessary tools for

digging a hole in the earth, conveyed them to the garden, waited till the

moon was up, strictly adhered to the instructions given him by the old

beggar, set to work, and without any unlucky adventure he obtained the

hidden treasure.

His father, as a precaution against necessity, had buried this money,

without any intention to deprive his son of this considerable portion of

his inheritance; but dying suddenly, he had carried the secret to his

grave, and nothing but a happy combination of circumstances, could have

restored this lost treasure to its rightful owner.

The chest, filled with gold pieces, was too heavy for Francis to remove

to his lodging without employing some person to assist him; and feeling

unwilling to become a topic of general conversation, he preferred

concealing it in the summer-house belonging to the garden, and fetching

it at several times. On the third day the whole was safely conveyed to

his lodging in the back street.

Francis dressed himself in the best possible style, and went to church to

request that the priest would substitute for the prayers which had been

previously offered up, a thanksgiving for the safe return of a traveller

to his native country, after having happily terminated his business. He

concealed himself in a corner, where, unseen, he could observe Meta. The

sight of her gave him inexpressible delight, especially when he saw the

beautiful blush which overspread her cheeks, and the brilliancy of her

eyes, when the priest offered up the thanksgiving. A secret meeting took

place, as had been formerly arranged: and so much was Meta affected by

it, that any indifferent person might have divined the cause. Francis

repaired to the Exchange, set up again in business, and in a very short

time had enough to do; his fortune each succeeding day becoming better

known, his neighbours judged that he had had greater luck than sense in

his journey to collect his father’s debts. He hired a large house in the

best part of the town, engaged clerks, and continued his business with

laudable and indefatigable assiduity: he conducted himself with the

utmost propriety and sagacity, and abstained from the foolish

extravagances which had formerly been his ruin.

The re-establishment of Francis’s fortune formed the general topic of

conversation. Every one was astonished at the success of his foreign

voyage: but in proportion to the spreading fame of his riches, did Meta’s

tranquillity and happiness diminish; for it appeared that the silent

lover was now in a condition to declare himself, and yet he remained

dumb, and only manifested his love by the usual rencontre on coming out

of church; and even this species of rendezvous became less frequent,

which appeared to evince a diminution of his affection.

Poor Meta’s heart was now torn by jealousy; for she imagined that the

inconstant Francis was offering up his vows to some other beauty. She

had experienced secret transports of delight on learning the change of

fortune of the man she loved, not from interested motives and the wish to

participate in his better fortune herself, but from affection to her

mother, who, since the failure of the match with the rich brewer,

absolutely seemed to despair of every enjoying happiness or comfort in

this world. When she thought Francis faithless, she wished that the

prayers put up for him in the church had not been heard, and that his

journey had not been attended with such success; for had he been reduced

to means merely sufficient to procure the necessaries of life, in all

probability he would have shared them with her.

Mother Bridget failed not to perceive her daughter’s uneasiness, and

easily guessed the cause; for she had heard of her old neighbour’s

surprising return, and she knew he was now considered an industrious,

intelligent merchant: therefore she thought if his love for her daughter

was what it ought to be, he would not be thus tardy in declaring it; for

she well knew Meta’s sentiments towards him. However, feeling anxious to

avoid the probability of wounding her daughter’s feelings, she avoided

mentioning the subject to her; but the latter, no longer able to confine

her grief to her own bosom, disclosed it to her mother, and confided the

whole to her.

Mother Bridget did not reproach her daughter for her past conduct, but

employed all her eloquence to console her, and entreat her to bear up

with courage under the loss of all her hopes. “You must resign him,”

said she: “you scorned at the happiness which presented itself to your

acceptance, therefore you must now endeavour to be resigned at its

departure. Experience has taught me that those hopes which appear to be

the best founded are frequently the most delusive; follow my example, and

never again deliver up your heart. Do not reckon on any amelioration of

your condition, and you will be contented with your lot. Honour this

spinning-wheel, which produces the means of your subsistence, and then

fortune and riches will be immaterial to you: you may do without them.”

Thus saying, mother Bridget turned the wheel round with redoubled

velocity, in order to make up for the time lost in conversation. She

spoke nothing but the truth to her daughter; for, since the opportunity

was gone by when she hoped it was possible to have regained her lost

comforts, she had in such a manner simplified her present wants and

projects of future life, that it was not in the power of destiny to

produce any considerable derangement in them. But as yet Meta was not so

great a philosopher; so that her mother’s exhortations, consolations, and

doctrines, produced a precisely different effect on her from what they

were intended. Meta looked on herself as the destroyer of the flattering

hopes her mother had entertained. Although she did not formally accept

the offer of marriage proposed to her, and even then could not have

reckoned on possessing beyond the common necessaries of life; yet, since

she had heard the tidings of the great fortune obtained by the man of her

heart, her views had become enlarged, and she anticipated with pleasure

that by her choice she might realise her mother’s wishes.

Now, however, this golden dream had vanished: Francis would not come

again; and, indeed, they even began to talk of an alliance about to take

place between him and a very rich young lady of Anvers. The news was a

death-blow to poor Meta: she vowed she would banish him from her

thoughts; but still she shed very many tears.

Contrary, however, to her vow, she was one day thinking of the faithless

one; for whenever she filled her spinning-wheel, she thought of the

following distich, which her mother had frequently repeated to her to

encourage her in her work.—

“Spin the thread well, spin, spin it more,

For see your intended is now at the door.”

Some one did in reality knock gently at the door: and mother Bridget went

to see who it was. Francis entered, attired as for the celebration of a

wedding. Surprise for a while suspended mother Bridget’s faculties of

speech. Meta blushed deeply, and trembling, arose from her seat, but was

equally unable with her mother to say a word. Francis was the only one

of the three who could speak; and he candidly declared his love, and

demanded of Bridget the hand of her daughter. The good mother ever

attentive to forms, asked eight days to consider the matter, although the

tears of joy which she shed, plainly evinced her ready and prompt

acquiescence; but Francis, all impatience, would hear of no delay:

finding which, she, conformable to her duty as a mother, willing to

satisfy Francis’s ardour, adopted a midway, and left the decision to her

daughter. The latter, obeying the dictates of her own heart, placed

herself by the side of the object of her tenderest affection; and

Francis, transported with joy, thanked her with a kiss.

The two lovers then entertained themselves with talking over the delights

of the time when they so well communicated their sentiments by signs.

Francis had great difficulty in tearing himself away from Meta, and such

“converse sweet,” but he had an important duty to fulfil.

He directed his steps towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped

to find his old friend with the wooden leg, whom he had by no means

forgotten, although he had delayed making the promised visit. The latter

instantly recognised Francis; and no sooner saw him at the foot of the

bridge, than he came to meet him, and showed evident marks of pleasure at

the sight of him. “Can you, my friend,” said Francis to him, after

returning his salutation, “come with me into the new town and execute a

commission? you will be well rewarded for your trouble.”

“Why not?—with my wooden leg I walk about just as well as other people;

and, indeed, have an advantage over them, for it is never fatigued. I

beg you, however, my good sir, to have the kindness to wait till the man

with the grey greatcoat arrives.”

“What has this man with the grey great-coat to do with you?”

“He every day comes as evening approaches and gives me a demi-florin; I

know not from whom. It is not, indeed, always proper to learn all

things; so I do not breathe a word. I am sometimes tempted to believe,

that it is the devil who is anxious to buy my soul; but it matters

little, I have not consented to the bargain, therefore it cannot be

valid.”

“I verily believe that grey surtout has some malice in his head: so

follow me; and you shall have a quarter-florin over and above the

bargain.”

Francis conducted the old man to a distant corner, near the ramparts of

the city, stopped before a newly-built house, and knocked at the door.

As soon as the door was opened, he thus addressed the old beggar:—“You

have procured a very agreeable evening for me in the course of my life;

it is but just, therefore, that I should shed some comfort and joy over

your declining days. This house and every thing appertaining thereto

belongs to you. The kitchen and cellar are both well stocked; there is a

person to take care of you, and every day at dinner you will find a

quarter-florin under your plate. It is now time for you to know that the

man in the grey surtout is my servant, whom I every day sent with my alms

till this house was ready to receive you. You may, if you please,

consider me as your guardian angel, since your good angel did not acquit

himself uprightly in return for your gratitude.”

Saying this, he made the old man go into the house, where the latter

found every thing he could possibly desire or want. The table was

spread; and the old man was so much astonished at his unexpected good

fortune, that he thought it must be a dream; for he could in no way

imagine why a rich man should feel so much interest for a miserable

beggar. Francis having again assured him that every thing he saw was his

own, a torrent of tears expressed his thanks; and before he could

sufficiently recover to express his gratitude by words, Francis had

vanished.

The following day, mother Bridget’s house was filled with merchants and

shopkeepers of all descriptions, whom Francis had sent to Meta, in order

that she might purchase and get ready every thing she required for her

appearance in the world with suitable éclat. Three weeks afterwards he

conducted her to the altar. The splendour of the wedding far exceeded

that of the King of Hops. Mother Bridget enjoyed the satisfaction of

adorning her daughter’s forehead with the nuptial crown, and thereby

obtained the accomplishment of all her desires, and was recompensed for

her virtuous and active life. She witnessed her daughter’s happiness

with delight, and proved the very best of grandmothers to her daughter’s

children.

THE SLEEPING FRIAR;

OR,

THE STONE OF FATHER CUDDY.

ABOVE all the islands in the Lakes of Killarney, give me

Innisfallen—“sweet Innisfallen,” as the melodious Moore calls it. It is

in truth a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about

it; and if I had these are such unbelieving times, and people of late

have grown so sceptical, that they only smile at my stones and doubt

them.

However none will doubt that a monastery stood once upon Innisfallen

Island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its walls

dwelt certain pious and learned persons called monks. A very pleasant

set of fellows they were, I make not the least doubt; and I am sure of

this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after

dinner:—the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such

matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.

Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier

soul than Father Cuddy;—he sang a good song, he told a good story, and

had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own that was a credit to

any refectory table. He was distinguished by the name of “the fat

Father.” Now there are many that will take huff at a name: but Father

Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he laughed at it, and well

able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly reached from one ear to the

other,—his might in truth be called an open countenance. As his paunch

was no disgrace to his food, neither was his nose to his drink. ’Tis a

question to me if there were not more carbuncles upon it than ever were

seen at the bottom of the lake, which is said to be full of them. His

eyes had a right merry twinkle in them, like moonshine dancing on the

water, and his cheeks had the roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus

berries.

He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept,—what then?

He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!

Such was the tenor of his simple life; but when he prayed a certain

drowsiness would come upon him, which it must be confessed never occurred

when a well filled ‘black-jack’ stood before him. Hence his prayers were

short, and his draughts were long. The world loved him, and he saw no

reason why he should not in return love its venison and its usquebaugh.

But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or else what befell

him never would have happened.

Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of wine

into the inland monastery—demanded the presence of one of the brotherhood

of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called Muckruss. The

superintendence of this important matter was confided to Father Cuddy,

who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of any community of

which he was a member to neglect or delay such a mission. With the

morning’s light he was seen guiding his shallop across the crimson waters

of the lake towards the peninsula of Muckruss, and having moored his

little bark in safety beneath the shelter of a wave-worn rock, he

advanced with becoming dignity towards the abbey.

The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy

footsteps of the zealous father:—at the sound the startled deer, shaking

the dew from their sides, sprang up from their lair, and as they bounded

off—“Hah,” exclaimed Cuddy, “what a noble haunch goes there!—how

delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter.”

As he proceeded, the mountain bee hummed his tune of gladness around the

holy man, save when buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling upon a

fragrant bunch of thyme,—and even then, the little voice murmured out

happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight. Father Cuddy

derived no small comfort at the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin

season; and metheglin he considered no bad liquor, particularly when

there was no stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.

Arrived within the abbey gate, he was received with due respect by the

brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the wine

were completed to his entire satisfaction.—“Welcome, Father Cuddy!” said

the prior, “grace be on you.”

“Grace before meat then,” said Cuddy, “for a long walk always makes me

hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile this

morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.”

A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion as regarded

Father Cuddy’s appetite. After such consoling repast, it would have been

a reflection on monastic hospitality to have departed without partaking

of the grace-cup:—moreover Father Cuddy had a particular respect for the

antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the grace-cup well;—he

tried another,—it was no less excellent; and when he had swallowed the

third he found his heart expand, and put forth its fibres, as willing to

embrace all mankind!—Surely then there is christian love and charity in

wine!

I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in

accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a mere

psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever Father

Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him. Mirth in his eye, and melody

on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well known to be

thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let them run dry. To

please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased him, he sung, and as

“in vino veritas,” his song will well become this veritable history, I

give it.

O ’tis eggs are a treat

When so white and so sweet

From under the manger they’re taken:

And by fair Margery,

Och! ’tis she’s full of glee,

They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.

Just like daisies all spread

O’er a broad sunny mead

In the sun-beams so beauteously shining,

Are fried eggs well displayed

On a dish, when we’ve laid

The cloth, and are thinking of dining.

Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection of

Margery’s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar relish

to his liquor. The very idea caused Cuddy to raise the cup to his mouth,

and, with one hearty pull thereat, he finished its contents.

This is, and ever was, a censorious world, often construing what is only

a fair allowance into an excess;—but I scorn to reckon on any man’s drink

like an unrelenting host; therefore I cannot tell how many brimming

draughts of wine, bedecked with the venerable Bead, Father Cuddy emptied

into his “soul-case,”—so he figuratively termed the body.

His respects for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained him

until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his return to

Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic contemplation

or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare; but the honest Father

wandered on in a different direction from that in which his shallop lay.

Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor, which he had so

commended, had caused him to forget his road, or that his track was

irregular and unsteady. Oh no! he carried his drink bravely, as became a

decent man and a good christian; yet somehow, he thought he could

distinguish two moons. “Bless my eyes,” said Father Cuddy, “everything

is changed now-a-days!—the very stars are not in the same places they

used to be;—I think Camcéachta (the plough) is driving on at a rate I

never saw it before to-night, but suppose the driver is drunk, for there

are blackguards everywhere.”

Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he saw,

the form of a young woman; who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him towards

her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of the girl

floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she tripped on

before the worthy Father, archly looking back upon him over her shoulder.

“Ah, Margery,—merry Margery!” cried Cuddy, “you tempting little

rogue—‘_Et a Margery bella_—_Quæ festiva puella_.’—I see you—I see you

and the bottle!—let me but catch you, Margery _bella_.” And on he

followed, panting and smiling, after this alluring apparition.

At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged him

to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to rest in

any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on his knees.

Sleep as usual stole upon his devotions, and the morning was far advanced

when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned beneath their load of

viands, and wine poured itself free and sparkling as the mountain spring.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more he

wondered at the alterations which appeared in the face of the country.

“Bless my soul and body,” said the good Father, “I saw the stars changing

last night, but here is a change!” Doubting his senses he looked again.

The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the preceding day, and the

lake spread itself beneath his view in the same tranquil beauty, and was

studded with the same number of islands; but every smaller feature in the

landscape was strangely altered;—naked rocks were now clothed with holly

and arbutus. Whole woods had disappeared, and waste places had become

cultivated fields; and to complete the work of enchantment the very

season itself seemed changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he

had left the monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and

sound the dreariness of winter; the hard ground was covered with withered

leaves;—icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet low

note of the robin who familiarly approached him, and he felt his fingers

numbed by the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather difficult to

account for such sudden transformations, and to convince himself it was

not the illusion of a dream he was about to arise; when lo! he discovered

that both his knees were buried at least six inches in the solid stone:

for notwithstanding all these changes, he had never altered his devout

position.

Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly

cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the hard

texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it. The

great difficulty was, to explain how, in one night, summer had become

winter—whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had sprouted

up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be, urged him to

hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn some explanation

of these marvellous events.

Seeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the

midst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars,

pulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him.

Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund

corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded

admittance.

“Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what’s your business?”

demanded a stranger who occupied the porter’s place.

“Business—my business!” repeated the confounded Cuddy, “why do you not

know me? Has the wine arrived safely?”

“Hence, fellow,” said the porter’s representative, in a surly tone, “nor

think to impose on me with your monkish tales.”

“Fellow!” exclaimed the Father, “mercy upon us that I should be so spoken

to at the gate of my own house!—Scoundrel!” cried Cuddy, raising his

voice, “do you see my garb—my holy garb?”

“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys, “the garb of laziness and filthy

debauchery, which has long been expelled from out these walls. Know you

not, lazy knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and

that the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to

Master Robert Collan, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of England,

and paragon of all beauty, whom God preserve!”

“Queen of England,” said Cuddy; “there never was a sovereign queen of

England;—this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going with

the stars last night—the world’s turned upside down. But surely this is

Innisfallen Island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday morning went

over to the Abbey of Irelagh respecting the tun of wine. Do you know me

now?”

“Know you! how should I know you?” said the keeper of the abbey—“yet true

it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother remembered the man,

often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of Innisfallen, who made a profane

and godless ballad in praise of fried eggs, of which he and his vile crew

knew more than they did of the word of God, and who, being drunk, it was

said, tumbled into the lake one night and was drowned; but that must have

been a hundred—ay, more than a hundred years since.”

“’Twas I who composed that song, in praise of Margery’s fried eggs, which

is no profane and godless ballad. No other Father Cuddy than myself ever

belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy man. “A hundred

years! What was your great grandmother’s name?”

“She was a Mahony of Dunlow, Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—”

“What, merry Margery of Dunlow your great grandmother!” shouted Cuddy;

“St. Brandon help me! the wicked wench, with that tempting bottle—why

’twas only last night—a hundred years—your great grandmother said you?

Mercy on us, there has been a strange torpor over me, I must have slept

all this time!”

That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the

changes which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious one

it was for him, had taken place. Eggs fried by the pretty Margery were

no longer to be had in Innisfallen, and, with heart as heavy as his

footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he

embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine

of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its

monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the remnant

of his days.

The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen to

this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them

to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone called, remains

in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indubitable evidence of the fact: and

Spillane, the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did

to me.

* * * * *

THE END.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MILNER AND SOWERBY, PRINTERS, HALIFAX.

FOOTNOTE.

{64} An open field, in which, to satisfy the doubts of the nobles, the

Emperor Frederic II., her son, was born.