after I had been on a visit to Springfield and had beholden for the
first time the marvels of Barnum's show, I made up my mind that when
Royal and I were old enough we would unite our fortunes with those of a
circus, and in my imagination I already pictured huge and gaudy posters
announcing the blood-curdling performances of the dashing bareback
equestrian, Samuel Cowles, upon his fiery Morgan steed, Royal! This
plan was not at all approved of by Judge Phipps, who continued to
insist that it was on the turf and not in the sawdust circle that
Royal's genius lay, and to this way of thinking I was finally
converted, but not until the judge had promised to give me a sulky as
soon as Royal demonstrated his ability to make a mile in 2:40.
It is not without a sigh of regret that in my present narrative I pass
over the five years next succeeding the date of Royal's arrival. For
they were very happy years--indeed, at this distant period I am able to
recall only that my boyhood was full, brimful of happiness. I broke
Royal myself; father and the hired man stood around and made
suggestions, and at times they presumed to take a hand in the
proceedings. Virtually, however, I broke Royal to the harness and to
the saddle, and after that I was even more attached to him than ever
before--you know how it is, if ever you 've broken a colt yourself!
When I went away to college it seemed to me that leaving Royal was
almost as hard as leaving mother and father; you see the colt had
become a very large part of my boyish life--followed me like a pet dog,
was lonesome when I was n't round, used to rub his nose against my arm
and look lovingly at me out of his big, dark, mournful eyes--yes, I
cried when I said good-by to him the morning I started for
Williamstown. I was ashamed of it then, but not now--no, not now.
But my fun was all the keener, I guess, when I came home at vacation
times. Then we had it, up hill and down dale--Royal and I did! In the
summer-time along the narrow roads we trailed, and through leafy lanes,
and in my exultation I would cut at the tall weeds at the roadside and
whisk at the boughs arching overhead, as if I were a warrior mounted
for battle and these other things were human victims to my valor. In
the winter we sped away over the snow and ice, careless to the howling
of the wind and the wrath of the storm. Royal knew the favorite road,
every inch of the way; he knew, too, when Susie held the reins--Susie
was Judge Phipps' niece, and I guess she 'd have mittened me if it had
n't been that I had the finest colt in the county!
The summer I left college there came to me an overwhelming sense of
patriotic duty. Mother was the first to notice my absent-mindedness,
and to her I first confided the great wish of my early manhood. It is
hard for parents to bid a son go forth to do service upon the
battlefield, but New England in those times responded cheerfully and
nobly to Mr. Lincoln's call. The Eighth Massachusetts cavalry was the
regiment I enlisted in; a baker's dozen of us boys went together from
the quiet little village nestling in the shadow of Mount Holyoke. From
Camp Andrew I wrote back a piteous letter, complaining of the horse
that had been assigned to me; I wanted Royal; we had been inseparable
in times of peace--why should we not share together the fortunes of
war? Within a fortnight along came Royal, conducted in all dignity
by--you would never guess--by Judge Phipps! Full of patriotism and of
cheer was the judge.
"Both of ye are thoroughbreds," said he. "Ye 'll come in under the
wire first every time, I know ye will."
The judge also brought me a saddle blanket which Susie had ornamented
with wondrous and tender art.
So Royal and I went into the war together. There were times of
privation and of danger; neither of us ever complained. I am proud to
bear witness that in every emergency my horse bore himself with a
patience and a valor that seemed actually human. My comrades envied me
my gentle, stanch, obedient servant. Indeed, Royal and I became famous
as inseparable and loyal friends.
We were in five battles and neither of us got even so much as a
scratch. But one afternoon in a skirmish with the rebels near Potomac
Mills a bullet struck me in the thigh, and from the mere shock I fell
from Royal's back into the tangle of the thicket. The fall must have
stunned me, for the next thing I knew I was alone--deserted of all
except my faithful horse. Royal stood over me, and when I opened my
eyes he gave a faint whinny. I hardly knew what to do. My leg pained
me excruciatingly. I surmised that I would never be able to make my
way back to camp under the fire of the rebel picketers, for I
discovered that they were closing in.
Then it occurred to me to pin a note to Royal's saddle blanket and to
send Royal back to camp telling the boys of the trouble I was in. The
horse understood it all; off he galloped, conscious of the import of
the mission upon which he had been dispatched. Bang-bang-bang! went
the guns over yonder, as if the revengeful creatures in the far-off
brush guessed the meaning of our manoeuvering and sought to slay my
loyal friend. But not a bullet touched him--leastwise he galloped on
and on till I lost sight of him. They came for me at last, the boys
did; they were a formidable detachment, and how the earth shook as they
swept along!
"We thought you were a goner, sure," said Hi Bixby.
"I guess I would have been if it had n't been for Royal," said I.
"I guess so, myself," said he. "When we saw him stumblin' along all
bloody we allowed for sure you was dead!"
"All blood?" I cried. "Is Royal hurt?"
"As bad as a hoss can be," said he.
In camp we found them doing the best they could for him. But it was
clearly of no avail. There was a gaping, ragged hole in his side;
seeking succor for me, Royal had met his death-wound. I forgot my own
hurt; I thrust the others aside and hobbled where he lay.
"Poor old Roy!" I cried, as I threw myself beside my dying friend and
put my arms about his neck. Then I patted and stroked him and called
him again and again by name, and there was a look in his eyes that told
me he knew me and was glad that I was there.
How strange, and yet how beautiful, it was that in that far-off
country, with my brave, patient, loyal friend's fluttering heart close
unto mine, I neither saw nor thought of the scene around me.
But before my eyes came back the old, familiar places--the pasture lot,
the lane, the narrow road up the hill, the river winding along between
great stretches of brown corn, the aisle of maple trees, and the
fountain where we drank so many, many times together--and I smelled the
fragrance of the flowers and trees abloom, and I heard the dear voices
and the sweet sounds of my boyhood days.
Then presently a mighty shudder awakened me from this dreaming. And I
cried out with affright and grief, for I felt that I was alone.
THE WEREWOLF
In the reign of Egbert the Saxon there dwelt in Britain a maiden named
Yseult, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her
beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold
only, and to him she plighted her troth.
Among the other youth of whom Yseult was beloved was Alfred, and he was
sore angered that Yseult showed favor to Harold, so that one day Alfred
said to Harold: "Is it right that old Siegfried should come from his
grave and have Yseult to wife?" Then added he, "Prithee, good sir, why
do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire's name?"
Then Harold asked, "What know you of Siegfried that you taunt me? What
memory of him should vex me now?"
"We know and we know," retorted Alfred. "There are some tales told us
by our grandmas we have not forgot."
So ever after that Alfred's words and Alfred's bitter smile haunted
Harold by day and night.
Harold's grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, had been a man of cruel
violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at
certain times he was possessed of an evil spirit that wreaked its fury
on mankind. But Siegfried had been dead full many years, and there was
naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought
spear which he had from Brunehilde, the witch. This spear was such a
weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been
blunted. It hung in Harold's chamber, and it was the marvel among
weapons of that time.
Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she did not know of the bitter
words which Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for Harold was
perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the
curse of old Siegfried was upon Harold--slumbering a century, it had
awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse that
was upon him, and it was this that seemed to stand between him and
Yseult. But love is stronger than all else, and Harold loved.
Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that was upon him, for he
feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whensoever he felt the
fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, "To-morrow
I hunt the wild boar in the uttermost forest," or, "Next week I go
stag-stalking among the distant northern hills." Even so it was that
he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Yseult thought no evil
things, for she was trustful; ay, though he went many times away and
was long gone, Yseult suspected no wrong. So none beheld Harold when
the curse was upon him in its violence.
Alfred alone bethought himself of evil things. "'T is passing
strange," quoth he, "that ever and anon this gallant lover should quit
our company and betake himself whither none knoweth. In sooth 't will
be well to have an eye on old Siegfried's grandson."
Harold knew that Alfred watched him zealously, and he was tormented by
a constant fear that Alfred would discover the curse that was on him;
but what gave him greater anguish was the fear that mayhap at some
moment when he was in Yseult's presence, the curse would seize upon him
and cause him to do great evil unto her, whereby she would be destroyed
or her love for him would be undone forever. So Harold lived in
terror, feeling that his love was hopeless, yet knowing not how to
combat it.
Now, it befell in those times that the country round about was ravaged
of a werewolf, a creature that was feared by all men howe'er so
valorous. This werewolf was by day a man, but by night a wolf given to
ravage and to slaughter, and having a charmed life against which no
human agency availed aught. Wheresoever he went he attacked and
devoured mankind, spreading terror and desolation round about, and the
dream-readers said that the earth would not be freed from the werewolf
until some man offered himself a voluntary sacrifice to the monster's
rage.
Now, although Harold was known far and wide as a mighty huntsman, he
had never set forth to hunt the werewolf, and, strange enow, the
werewolf never ravaged the domain while Harold was therein. Whereat
Alfred marvelled much, and oftentimes he said: "Our Harold is a
wondrous huntsman. Who is like unto him in stalking the timid doe and
in crippling the fleeing boar? But how passing well doth he time his
absence from the haunts of the werewolf. Such valor beseemeth our
young Siegfried."
Which being brought to Harold his heart flamed with anger, but he made
no answer, lest he should betray the truth he feared.
It happened so about that time that Yseult said to Harold, "Wilt thou
go with me to-morrow even to the feast in the sacred grove?"
"That can I not do," answered Harold. "I am privily summoned hence to
Normandy upon a mission of which I shall some time tell thee. And I
pray thee, on thy love for me, go not to the feast in the sacred grove
without me."
"What say'st thou?" cried Yseult. "Shall I not go to the feast of Ste.
Aelfreda? My father would be sore displeased were I not there with the
other maidens. 'T were greatest pity that I should despite his love
thus."
"But do not, I beseech thee," Harold implored. "Go not to the feast of
Ste. Aelfreda in the sacred grove! And thou would thus love me, go
not--see, thou my life, on my two knees I ask it!"
"How pale thou art," said Yseult, "and trembling."
"Go not to the sacred grove upon the morrow night," he begged.
Yseult marvelled at his acts and at his speech. Then, for the first
time, she thought him to be jealous--whereat she secretly rejoiced
(being a woman).
"Ah," quoth she, "thou dost doubt my love," but when she saw a look of
pain come on his face she added--as if she repented of the words she
had spoken--"or dost thou fear the werewolf?"
Then Harold answered, fixing his eyes on hers, "Thou hast said it; it
is the werewolf that I fear."
"Why dost thou look at me so strangely, Harold?" cried Yseult. "By the
cruel light in thine eyes one might almost take thee to be the
werewolf!"
"Come hither, sit beside me," said Harold tremblingly, "and I will tell
thee why I fear to have thee go to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda to-morrow
evening. Hear what I dreamed last night. I dreamed I was the
werewolf--do not shudder, dear love, for 't was only a dream.
"A grizzled old man stood at my bedside and strove to pluck my soul
from my bosom.
"'What would'st thou?' I cried.
"'Thy soul is mine,' he said, 'thou shalt live out my curse. Give me
thy soul--hold back thy hands--give me thy soul, I say.'
"'Thy curse shall not be upon me,' I cried. 'What have I done that thy
curse should rest upon me? Thou shalt not have my soul.'
"'For my offence shalt thou suffer, and in my curse thou shalt endure
hell--it is so decreed.'
"So spake the old man, and he strove with me, and he prevailed against
me, and he plucked my soul from my bosom, and he said, 'Go, search and
kill'--and--and lo, I was a wolf upon the moor.
"The dry grass crackled beneath my tread. The darkness of the night
was heavy and it oppressed me. Strange horrors tortured my soul, and
it groaned and groaned, gaoled in that wolfish body. The wind
whispered to me; with its myriad voices it spake to me and said, 'Go,
search and kill.' And above these voices sounded the hideous laughter
of an old man. I fled the moor--whither I knew not, nor knew I what
motive lashed me on.
"I came to a river and I plunged in. A burning thirst consumed me, and
I lapped the waters of the river--they were waves of flame, and they
flashed around me and hissed, and what they said was, 'Go, search and
kill,' and I heard the old man's laughter again.
"A forest lay before me with its gloomy thickets and its sombre
shadows--with its ravens, its vampires, its serpents, its reptiles, and
all its hideous brood of night. I darted among its thorns and crouched
amid the leaves, the nettles, and the brambles. The owls hooted at me
and the thorns pierced my flesh. 'Go, search and kill,' said
everything. The hares sprang from my pathway; the other beasts ran
bellowing away; every form of life shrieked in my ears--the curse was
on me--I was the werewolf.
"On, on I went with the fleetness of the wind, and my soul groaned in
its wolfish prison, and the winds and the waters and the trees bade me,
'Go, search and kill, thou accursed brute; go, search and kill.'
"Nowhere was there pity for the wolf; what mercy, thus, should I, the
werewolf, show? The curse was on me and it filled me with a hunger and
a thirst for blood. Skulking on my way within myself I cried, 'Let me
have blood, oh, let me have human blood, that this wrath may be
appeased, that this curse may be removed.'
"At last I came to the sacred grove. Sombre loomed the poplars, the
oaks frowned upon me. Before me stood an old man--'twas he, grizzled
and taunting, whose curse I bore. He feared me not. All other living
things fled before me, but the old man feared me not. A maiden stood
beside him. She did not see me, for she was blind.
"Kill, kill,' cried the old man, and he pointed at the girl beside him.
"Hell raged within me--the curse impelled me--I sprang at her throat.
I heard the old man's laughter once more, and then--then I awoke,
trembling, cold, horrified."
Scarce was this dream told when Alfred strode that way.
"Now, by'r Lady," quoth he, "I bethink me never to have seen a sorrier
twain."
Then Yseult told him of Harold's going away and how that Harold had
besought her not to venture to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda in the sacred
grove.
"These fears are childish," cried Alfred boastfully. "And thou
sufferest me, sweet lady, I will bear thee company to the feast, and a
score of my lusty yeomen with their good yew-bows and honest spears,
they shall attend me. There be no werewolf, I trow, will chance about
with us."
Whereat Yseult laughed merrily, and Harold said: "'T is well; thou
shalt go to the sacred grove, and may my love and Heaven's grace
forefend all evil."
Then Harold went to his abode, and he fetched old Siegfried's spear
back unto Yseult, and he gave it into her two hands, saying, "Take this
spear with thee to the feast to-morrow night. It is old Siegfried's
spear, possessing mighty virtue and marvellous."
And Harold took Yseult to his heart and blessed her, and he kissed her
upon her brow and upon her lips, saying, "Farewell, oh, my beloved.
How wilt thou love me when thou know'st my sacrifice. Farewell,
farewell forever, oh, alder-liefest mine."
So Harold went his way, and Yseult was lost in wonderment.
On the morrow night came Yseult to the sacred grove wherein the feast
was spread, and she bore old Siegfried's spear with her in her girdle.
Alfred attended her, and a score of lusty yeomen were with him. In the
grove there was great merriment, and with singing and dancing and games
withal did the honest folk celebrate the feast of the fair Ste.
Aelfreda.
But suddenly a mighty tumult arose, and there were cries of "The
werewolf!" "The werewolf!" Terror seized upon all--stout hearts were
frozen with fear. Out from the further forest rushed the werewolf,
wood wroth, bellowing hoarsely, gnashing his fangs and tossing hither
and thither the yellow foam from his snapping jaws. He sought Yseult
straight, as if an evil power drew him to the spot where she stood.
But Yseult was not afeared; like a marble statue she stood and saw the
werewolf's coming. The yeomen, dropping their torches and casting
aside their bows, had fled; Alfred alone abided there to do the monster
battle.
At the approaching wolf he hurled his heavy lance, but as it struck the
werewolf's bristling back the weapon was all to-shivered.
Then the werewolf, fixing his eyes upon Yseult, skulked for a moment in
the shadow of the yews and thinking then of Harold's words, Yseult
plucked old Siegfried's spear from her girdle, raised it on high, and
with the strength of despair sent it hurtling through the air.
The werewolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping
throat--a cry of human agony. And Yseult saw in the werewolf's eyes
the eyes of some one she had seen and known, but 't was for an instant
only, and then the eyes were no longer human, but wolfish in their
ferocity. A supernatural force seemed to speed the spear in its
flight. With fearful precision the weapon smote home and buried itself
by half its length in the werewolf's shaggy breast just above the
heart, and then, with a monstrous sigh--as if he yielded up his life
without regret--the werewolf fell dead in the shadow of the yews.
Then, ah, then in very truth there was great joy, and loud were the
acclaims, while, beautiful in her trembling pallor, Yseult was led unto
her home, where the people set about to give great feast to do her
homage, for the werewolf was dead, and she it was that had slain him.
But Yseult cried out: "Go, search for Harold--go, bring him to me. Nor
eat, nor sleep till he be found."
"Good my lady," quoth Alfred, "how can that be, since he hath betaken
himself to Normandy?"
"I care not where he be," she cried. "My heart stands still until I
look into his eyes again."
"Surely he hath not gone to Normandy," outspake Hubert. "This very
eventide I saw him enter his abode."
They hastened thither--a vast company. His chamber door was barred.
"Harold, Harold, come forth!" they cried, as they beat upon the door,
but no answer came to their calls and knockings. Afeared, they
battered down the door, and when it fell they saw that Harold lay upon
his bed.
"He sleeps," said one. "See, he holds a portrait in his hand--and it
is her portrait. How fair he is and how tranquilly he sleeps."
But no, Harold was not asleep. His face was calm and beautiful, as if
he dreamed of his beloved, but his raiment was red with the blood that
streamed from a wound in his breast--a gaping, ghastly spear wound just
above his heart.
From "Culture's Garland"
A MARVELLOUS INVENTION
It is narrated, that, once upon a time, there lived a youth who
required so much money for the gratification of his dissolute desires,
that he was compelled to sell his library in order to secure funds.
Thereupon, he despatched a letter to his venerable father, saying,
"Rejoice with me, O father! for already am I beginning to live upon the
profits of my books."
Professor Andrew J. Thorpe has invented an ingenious machine which will
be likely to redound to the physical comfort and the intellectual
benefit of our fellow-citizens. We are disposed to treat of this
invention at length, for two reasons: first, because it is a Chicago
invention; and, second, because it seems particularly calculated to
answer an important demand that has existed in Chicago for a long time.
Professor Thorpe's machine is nothing less than a combination parlor,
library, and folding bedstead, adapted to the drawing-room, the study,
the dining-room, and the sleeping apartment--a producer capable of
giving to the world thousands upon thousands of tomes annually, and
these, too, in a shape most attractive to our public.
Professor Thorpe himself is of New-England birth and education; and,
until became West, he was called "Uncle Andy Thorpe." For many years
he lived in New Britain, Connecticut; and there he pursued the vocation
of a manufacturer of sofas, settees, settles, and bed-lounges. He came
to Chicago three years ago; and not long thereafter, he discovered that
the most imperative demand of this community was for a bed which
combined, "at one and the same time" (as he says, for he is no
rhetorician), the advantages of a bed and the advantages of a library.
In a word, Chicago was a literary centre; and it required, even in the
matter of its sleeping apparata, machines which, when not in use for
bed-purposes, could be utilized to the nobler ends of literary display.
In this emergency the fertile Yankee wit of the immigrant came to his
assistance; and about a year ago he put upon the market the ingenious
and valuable combination which has commanded the admiration and
patronage of our best literary circles, and which at this moment we are
pleased to discourse of.
It has been our good fortune to inspect the superb line of folding
library-bedsteads which Professor Thorpe offers to the public at
startlingly low figures, and we are surprised at the ingenuity and the
learning apparent in these contrivances. The Essay bedstead is a
particularly handsome piece of furniture, being made of polished
mahogany, elaborately carved, and intricately embellished throughout.
When closed, this bedstead presents the verisimilitude of a large
book-case filled with the essays of Emerson, Carlyle, Bacon, Montaigne,
Hume, Macaulay, Addison, Steele, Johnson, Budgell, Hughes, and others.
These volumes are made in one piece, of the best seasoned oak, and are
hollow within throughout; so that each shelf constitutes in reality a
chest or drawer which may be utilized for divers domestic purposes. In
these drawers a husband may keep his shirts or neckties; or in them a
wife may stow away her furs or flannel underwear in summer, and her
white piques and muslins in winter.
These drawers (each of which extends to the height of twelve inches)
are faced in superb tree-calf, and afford a perfect representation of
rows of books, the title and number of each volume being printed in
massive gold characters. The weight of the six drawers in this Essay
bedstead does not exceed twelve pounds; but the machine is so stoutly
built as to admit of the drawers containing a weight equivalent to six
hundred pounds without interfering with the ease and nicety of the
machine's operation. Upon touching a gold-mounted knob, the book-case
divides, the front part of it descends; and, presto! you have as
beautiful a couch as ever Sancho could have envied.
This Essay bedstead is sold for four hundred and fifty dollars.
Another design, with the case and bed in black walnut, the books in
papier mache, and none but English essayists in the Collection, can be
had for a hundred dollars.