About a mile from the Mission, the plain gradually ascended to a ridge

of moderate elevation, on which was a growth of dwarf oak and ilex. To

this point the eyes of the remaining inmates of the convent were

earnestly directed, as at this point the enemy was first expected to

make his appearance. Presently a few figures were seen to crown the

ridge, clearly defined against the clear evening sky. Not more than a

dozen mounted men composed this party, which all imagined must be

doubtless the vanguard of the thousand invaders. On the summit of the

ridge they halted a few minutes, as if to reconnoitre; and by this

time the Californian horsemen were halted in the plain, midway between

the Mission and the ridge, and distant from the former less than

half-a-mile, so that all the operations were clearly visible to the

lookers-on.

The enemy wound slowly, in Indian file, down the broken ground of the

descent; but when the plain was reached, they formed into something

like a line, and trotted fearlessly towards the Californians. These

began to sit uneasily in their saddles; nevertheless they made a

forward movement, and even broke into a gallop, but soon halted, and

again huddled together. Then the mountaineers quickened their pace,

and their loud shout was heard as they dashed into the middle of the

faltering troop. The sharp cracks of the rifles were heard, and the

duller reports of the smooth-bored pieces of the Californians; a cloud

of smoke and dust arose from the plain, and immediately half-a-dozen

horses, with empty saddles, broke from it, followed quickly by the

Californians, flying like mad across the level. The little steady line

of the mountaineers advanced, and puffs of smoke arose, as they loaded

and discharged their rifles at the flying horsemen. As the Americans

came on, however, one was seen to totter in his saddle, the rifle fell

from his grasp, and he tumbled headlong to the ground For an instant

his companions surrounded the fallen man, but again forming, dashed

towards the Mission, shouting fierce war-whoops, and brandishing aloft

their long and heavy rifles. Of the defeated Californians some jumped

off their horses at the door of the Mission, and sought shelter

within; others galloped off towards the sierra in panic-stricken

plight. Before the gate, however, still paced valiantly the proud

hidalgo, encumbered with his cloak, and waving with difficulty his

sword above his head. To the priest and women, who implored him to

enter, he replied with cries of defiance, of "Viva Carlos Quinto," and

"Death or glory." He shouted in vain to the flying crowd to halt; but,

seeing their panic was beyond hope, he clutched his weapon more firmly

as the Americans dashed at him, closed his teeth and his eyes, thought

once of the vega of his beloved Genil, and of Granada la Florida, and

gave himself up for lost. Those inside the Mission, when they observed

the flight of their cavalry, gave up the defence as hopeless; and

already the charging mountaineers were almost under the walls when

they observed the curious figure of the little Don making

demonstrations of hostility.

"Wagh!" exclaimed the leading hunter, (no other than our friend La

Bonte) "here's a little crittur as means to do all the fighting;" and

seizing his rifle by the barrel, he poked at the Don with the

butt-end, who parried the blow, and with such a sturdy stroke, as

nearly severed the stock in two. Another mountaineer rode up, and,

swinging his lasso over-head, threw the noose dexterously over the

Spaniard's head, and as it fell over his shoulders, drew it taut, thus

securing the arms of the pugnacious Don as in a vice.

"Quartel!" cried the latter; "por Dios, quartel!"

"Quarter be d----!" exclaimed one of the whites, who understood

Spanish; "who's agoin' to hurt you, you little crittur?"

By this time Fray Augustin was waving a white flag from the roof, in

token of surrender; and soon after he appeared trembling at the door,

beseeching the victors to be merciful and to spare the lives of the

vanquished, when all and every thing in the Mission would be freely

placed at their disposal.

"What does the niggur say?" asked old Walker, the leader of the

mountaineers, of the interpreter.

"Well, he talks so queer, this hos can't rightly make it out."

"Tell the old coon then to quit that, and make them darned greasers

clear out of the lodge, and pock some corn and shucks here for the

animals, for they're nigh give out."

This being conveyed to him in mountain Spanish, which fear alone made

him understand, the padre gave orders to the men to leave the Mission,

advising them, moreover, not to recommence hostilities, as himself was

kept as hostage, and if a finger was lifted against the mountaineers,

he would be killed at once, and the Mission burned to the ground. Once

inside, the hunters had no fear of attack, they could have kept the

building against all California; so, leaving a guard of two outside

the gate, and first seeing their worn-out animals supplied with piles

of corn and shucks, they made themselves at home, and soon were paying

attention to the hot tortillas, meat, and chile colorado which were

quickly placed before them, washing down the hot-spiced viands with

deep draughts of wine and brandy. It would have been amusing to have

seen the faces of these rough fellows as they gravely pledged each

other in the grateful liquor, and looked askance at the piles of fruit

served by the attendant Hebes. These came in for no little share of

attention, it may be imagined; but the utmost respect was paid to

them, for your mountaineer, rough and bear-like though he be, never,

by word or deed, offends the modesty of a woman, although sometimes

obliged to use a compulsory wooing, when time is not allowed for

regular courtship, and not unfrequently known to jerk a New Mexican or

Californian beauty behind his saddle, should the obdurate parents

refuse consent to their immediate union. It tickled the Americans not

a little to have all their wants supplied, and to be thus waited upon,

by what they considered the houris of paradise; and after their long

journey, and the many hardships and privations they had suffered,

their present luxurious situation seemed scarcely real.

The Hidalgo, released from the durance vile of the lasso, assisted at

the entertainment; his sense of what was due to the "sangre regular"

which ran in his veins being appeased by the fact, that he sat _above_

the wild uncouth mountaineers, these preferring to squat crosslegged on

the floor in their own fashion, to the uncomfortable and novel luxury

of a chair. Killbuck, indeed, seemed to have quite forgotten the use of

such pieces of furniture. On Fray Augustin offering him one, and

begging him, with many protestations, to be seated, that old mountain

worthy looked at it, and then at the padre, turned it round, and at

length comprehending the intention, essayed to sit. This he effected at

last, and sat grimly for some moments, when, seizing the chair by the

back, he hurled it out of the open door, exclaiming,--"Wagh! this coon

aint hamshot anyhow, and don't want such fixins, he don't;" and

gathering his legs under his body, reclined in the manner customary to

him. There was a prodigious quantity of liquor consumed that night,

the hunters making up for their many banyans; but as it was the pure

juice of the grape, it had little or no effect upon their hard heads.

They had not much to fear from attacks on the part of the Californians;

but, to provide against all emergencies, the padre and the Gachupin

were "hobbled," and confined in an inner room, to which there was no

ingress nor egress save through the door which opened into the

apartment where the mountaineers lay sleeping, two of the number

keeping watch. A fandango with the Indian girls had been proposed by

some of them, but Walker placed a decided veto on this. He said "they

had need of sleep now, for there was no knowing what to-morrow might

bring forth; that they had a long journey before them, and winter was

coming on; they would have to 'streak' it night and day, and sleep when

their journey was over, which would not be until Pike's Peak was left

behind them. It was now October, and the way they'd have to hump it

back to the mountains would take the gristle off a painter's tail."

Young Ned Wooton was not to the fore when the roll was called. He was

courting the Sonora wench Juanita, and to some purpose, for we may at

once observe, that the maiden accompanied the mountaineer to his

distant home, and at the present moment is sharing his lodge on

Hardscrabble creek of the upper Arkansa, having been duly and legally

married by Fray Augustin before their departure.

But now the snow on the ridge of the Sierra Madre, and the nightly

frosts; the angular flights of geese and ducks constantly passing

over-head; the sober tints of the foliage, and the dead leaves that

strew the ground; the withering grass on the plain, and the cold

gusts, sometimes laden with snow and sleet, that sweep from the

distant snow-clad mountains;--all these signs warn us to linger no

longer in the tempting valley of San Fernando, but at once to pack our

mules to cross the dreary and desert plains and inhospitable sierras;

and to seek with our booty one of the sheltered bayous of the Rocky

Mountains.

On the third day after their arrival, behold our mountaineers again

upon the march, driving before them--with the assistance of

half-a-dozen Indians, impressed for the first few days of the journey

until the cavallada get accustomed to travel without confusion--a band

of four hundred head of mules and horses, themselves mounted on the

strongest and fleetest they could select from at least a thousand.

Fray Augustin and the Hidalgo, from the house-top, watched them

depart: the former glad to get rid of such unscrupulous guests at any

cost, the latter rather loath to part with his boon companions, with

whom he had quaffed many a quartillo of Californian wine. Great was

the grief, and violent the sobbing, when all the girls in the Mission

surrounded Juanita to bid her adieu; as she, seated _en cavalier_ on

an easy pacing mule, bequeathed her late companions to the keeping of

every saint in the calendar, and particularly to the great St

Ferdinand himself, under whose especial tutelage all those in the

Mission were supposed to live. Pedrillo, poor forsaken Pedrillo, a

sullen sulky half-breed, was overcome, not with grief, but with anger

at the slight put upon him, and vowed revenge. He of the "sangre

regular," having not a particle of enmity in his heart, waved his

arm--that arm with which he had mowed down the enemies of Carlos

Quinto--and requested the mountaineers, if ever fate should carry them

to Spain, not to fail to visit his quinta in the vega of Genil, which,

with all in it, he placed at their worships' disposal--con muchissima

franqueza.

Fat Fray Augustin likewise waved his arm, but groaned in spirit as he

beheld the noble band of mules and horses, throwing back clouds of

dust on the plain where they had been bred. One noble roan stallion

seemed averse to leave his accustomed pasture, and again and again

broke away from the band. Luckily old Walker had taken the precaution

to secure the "_bell mare_" of the herd, and mounted on her rode

ahead, the animals all following their well-known leader. As the roan

galloped back, the padre was in ecstasy. It was a favourite steed, and

one he would have gladly ransomed at any price.

"Ya viene, ya viene!" he cried out, "now, now it's coming! hurra for

the roan!" but, under the rifle of a mountaineer, one of the

Californians dashed at it, a lasso whirling round his head, and

turning and twisting like a doubling hare, as the horse tried to avoid

him, at last threw the open coil over the animal's head, and led him

back in triumph to the band.

"Maldito sea aquel Indio--curse that Indian!" quoth the padre, and

turned away.

And now our sturdy band--less two who had gone under--were fairly on

their way. They passed the body of their comrade who had been killed

in the fight before the Mission; the wolves, or Indian dogs, had

picked it to the bones; but a mound near by, surrounded by a rude

cross, showed where the Californians (seven of whom were killed) had

been interred--the pile of stones at the foot of the cross testifying

that many an _ave maria_ had already been said by the poor Indians, to

save the souls of their slaughtered companions from the pangs of

purgatory.

For the first few days progress was slow and tedious. The confusion

attendant upon driving so large a number of animals over a country

without trail or track of any description, was sufficient to prevent

speedy travelling; and the mountaineers, desirous of improving the

pace, resolved to pursue a course more easterly, and to endeavour to

strike the great SPANISH TRAIL, which is the route followed by the New

Mexicans in their journeys to and from the towns of Puebla de los

Angeles and Santa Fe. This road, however, crosses a long stretch of

desert country, destitute alike of grass and water, save at a few

points, the regular halting-places of the caravans; and as but little

pasture is to be found at these places at any time, there was great

reason to doubt, if the Santa Fe traders had passed this season, that

there would not be sufficient grass to support the numerous cavallada,

after the herbage had been laid under contribution by the traders'

animals. However, a great saving of time would be effected by taking

this trail, although it wound a considerable distance out of the way

to avoid the impassable chain of the Sierra Nevada--the gap in those

mountains through which the Americans had come being far to the

southward, and at this late season probably obstructed by the snow.

Urged by threats and bribes, one of the Indians agreed to guide the

cavalcade to the trail, which he declared was not more than five days'

distant. As they advanced, the country became wilder and more

sterile,--the valleys, through which several small streams coursed,

being alone capable of supporting so large a number of animals. No

time was lost in hunting for game; the poorest of the mules and horses

were killed for provisions, and the diet was improved by a little

venison when a deer casually presented itself near the camping ground.

Of Indians they had seen not one; but they now approached the country

of the Diggers, who infest the district through which the Spanish

trail passes, laying contributions on the caravans of traders, and who

have been, not inaptly, termed the "Arabs of the American desert." The

Californian guide now earnestly entreated permission to return,

saying, that he should lose his life if he attempted to pass the

Digger country alone on his return. He pointed to a snow-covered peak,

at the foot of which the trail passed; and leave being accorded, he

turned his horse's head towards the Mission of San Fernando.

Although the cavallada travelled, by this time, with much less

confusion than at first, still, from the want of a track to follow,

great trouble and exertion were required to keep the proper direction.

The bell-mare led the van, carrying Walker, who was better acquainted

with the country than the others; another hunter, of considerable

distinction in the band, on a large mule, rode by his side. Then

followed the cavallada, jumping and frisking with each other, stopping

whenever a blade of grass showed, and constantly endeavouring to break

away to green patches which sometimes presented themselves in the

plains. Behind the troop, urging them on by dint of loud cries and

objurgations, rode six mountaineers, keeping as much as possible in a

line. Two others were on each flank to repress all attempts to wander,

and keep the herd in a compact body. In this order the caravan had

been crossing a broken country, up and down ridges, all day, the

animals giving infinite trouble to their drivers, when a loud shout

from the advanced guard put them all upon the _qui-vive_. Old Walker

was seen to brandish the rifle over his head and point before him, and

presently the cry of "The trail! the trail!" gladdened all hearts with

the anticipation of a respite from the harassing labour of

mule-driving. Descending a broken ridge, they at once struck into a

distinct and tolerably well-worn track, into which the cavallada

turned as easily and instinctively, as if they had all their lives

been accustomed to travel on beaten roads. Along this they travelled

merrily--their delight being, however, alloyed by frequent indications

that hunger and thirst had done their work on the mules and horses of

the caravans which had preceded them on the trail. They happened to

strike it in the centre of a long stretch of desert, extending sixty

miles without either water or pasture; and many animals had perished

here, leaving their bones to bleach upon the plain. The soil was

sandy, but rocks and stones covered the surface, disabling the feet of

many of the young horses and mules; several of which, at this early

stage of the journey, were already abandoned. Traces of the wretched

Diggers became very frequent; these abject creatures resorting to the

sandy plains for the purpose of feeding upon the lizards which there

abound. As yet they did not show; only at night they prowled around

the camp, waiting a favourable opportunity to run the animals. In the

present instance, however, many of the horses having been left on the

road, the Diggers found so plentiful a supply of meat as to render

unnecessary any attack upon the formidable mountaineers.

One evening the Americans had encamped, earlier than usual, on a creek

well-timbered with willow and quaking-ash, and affording tolerable

pasture; and although it was still rather early, they determined to

stop here, and give the animals an opportunity to fill themselves.

Several deer had jumped out of the bottom as they entered it; and La

Bonte and Killbuck had sallied from the camp with their rifles, to

hunt and endeavour to procure some venison for supper. Along the river

banks, herds of deer were feeding in every direction, within shot of

the belt of timber; and the two hunters had no difficulty in

approaching and knocking over two fine bucks within a few paces of the

thicket. They were engaged in butchering the animals, when La Bonte,

looking up from his work, saw half-a-dozen Indians dodging among the

trees, within a few yards of himself and Killbuck. At the same instant

two arrows _thudded_ into the carcass of the deer over which he knelt,

passing but a few inches from his head. Hollowing to his companion, La

Bonte immediately seized the deer, and, lifting it with main strength,

held it as a shield before him, but not before an arrow had struck him

in the shoulder. Rising from the ground he retreated, behind cover,

yelling loudly to alarm the camp, which was not five hundred yards

distant on the other side of the stream. Killbuck, when apprised of

the danger, ran bodily into the plain, and, keeping out of shot of the

timber, joined La Bonte, who now, out of arrow-shot, threw down his

shield of venison and fired his rifle at the assailants. The Indians

appeared at first afraid to leave the cover; but three or four more

joining them, one a chief, they advanced into the plain, with drawn

bows, scattering wide apart, and running swiftly towards the whites,

in a zigzag course, in order not to present a steady mark to their

unerring rifles. The latter were too cautious to discharge their

pieces, but kept a steady front, with rifle at shoulder. The Indians

evidently disliked to approach nearer; but the chief, an old grizzled

man, incited them by word and gesture,--running in advance and calling

upon the others to follow him.

"Ho, boy!" exclaimed Killbuck to his companion, "that old coon must go

under, or we'll get rubbed out by these darned critturs."

La Bonte understood him. Squatting on the ground, he planted his

wiping-stick firmly at the extent of his left arm, and resting the

long barrel of his rifle on his left hand, which was supported by the

stick, he took a steady aim and fired. The Indian, throwing out his

arms, staggered and let fall his bow,--tried hard to recover himself,

and then fell forward on his face. The others, seeing the death of

their chief, turned and made again for the cover. "You darned

critturs," roared Killbuck, "take that!" and fired his rifle at the

last one, tumbling him over as dead as a stone. The camp had also been

alarmed. Five of them waded across the creek and took the Indians in

rear; their rifles cracked within the timber, several more Indians

fell, and the rest quickly beat a retreat. The venison, however, was

not forgotten; the two deer were packed into camp, and did the duty of

mule-meat that night.

This lesson had a seasonable effect upon the Diggers, who made no

attempt on the cavallada that night or the next; for the camp remained

two days to recruit the animals.

We will not follow the party through all the difficulties and perils

of the desert route, nor detail the various devilries of the Diggers,

who constantly sought opportunities to stampede the animals, or,

approaching them in the night as they grazed, fired their arrows

indiscriminately at the herd, trusting that dead or disabled ones

would be left behind, and afford them a good supply of meat. In the

month of December, the mountaineers crossed the great dividing ridge

of the Rocky Mountains, making their way through the snowy barrier

with the utmost difficulty, and losing many mules and horses in the

attempt. On passing the ridge, they at once struck the head-springs of

the Arkansa river, and turned into the Bayou Salade. Here they found a

village of Arapahos, and were in no little fear of leaving their

cavallada with these dexterous horse-thieves. Fortunately the chief in

command was friendly to the whites, and restrained his young men; and

a present of three horses insured his good offices. Still, the near

neighbourhood of these Indians being hardly desirable, after a few

days' halt, the Americans were again on their way, and halted finally

at the juncture of the Fontaine-qui-bout with the Arkansa, where they

determined to construct a winter camp. They now considered themselves

at home, and at once set about building a log-shanty capable of

containing them all, and a large corral for securing the animals at

night, or in case of Indian alarms. This they effected by felling

several large cottonwoods, and throwing them in the form of a

horse-shoe: the entrance, however, being narrower than in that figure,

and secured by upright logs, between which poles were fixed to be

withdrawn at pleasure. The house, or, "fort"--as any thing in the

shape of a house is called in these parts, where, indeed, every man

must make his house a castle--was loopholed on all sides, and boasted

a turf chimney of rather primitive construction; but which answered

the purpose of drawing the smoke from the interior. Game was plentiful

all around;--bands of buffalo were constantly passing the Arkansa; and

there were always deer and antelope within sight of the fort. The

pasture, too, was good and abundant,--being the rich grama or buffalo

grass, which, although rather dry at this season, still retains its

fattening qualities; and the animals soon began to improve wonderfully

in condition and strength.

Of the four hundred head of mules and horses with which they had

started from California, but one-half reached the Arkansa. Many had

been killed for food, (indeed they had furnished the only provisions

during the journey,) many had been stolen by the Indians, or shot by

them at night; and many had strayed off and not been recovered. We

have omitted to mention that the Sonora girl, Juanita, and her spouse,

Ned Wooton, remained behind at Roubideau's fort and rendezvous on the

Uintah, which our band had passed on the other side of the mountains,

whence they proceeded with a party to Taos in New Mexico, and resided

there for some years, blessed with a fine family, &c. &c. &c., as the

novels end.

As soon as the animals were fat and strong, they were taken down the

Arkansa to Bent's Indian trading fort, about sixty miles below the

mouth of Fontaine-qui-bout. Here a ready sale was found for them,

mules being at that time in great demand on the frontier of the United

States, and every season the Bents carried across the plains to

Independence a considerable number collected in the Indian country,

and in the upper settlements of New Mexico. As the mountaineers

descended the Arkansa, a little incident occurred, and some of the

party very unexpectedly encountered an old friend. Killbuck and La

Bonte, who were generally companeros, were riding some distance ahead

of the cavallada, passing at the time the mouth of the Huerfano or

Orphan Creek, when, at a long distance before them, they saw the

figure of a horseman, followed by two loose animals, descending the

bluff into the timbered bottom of the river. Judging the stranger to

be Indian, they spurred their horses and galloped in pursuit, but the

figure ahead suddenly disappeared. However, they quickly followed the

track, which was plain enough in the sandy bottom, that of a horse and

two mules. Killbuck scrutinised the "sign," and puzzled over it a

considerable time; and at last exclaimed--"Wagh! this sign's as plain

as mon beaver to me; look at that hos-track, boy; did ye ever see that

afore?"

"_Well_, I have!" answered La Bonte, peering down at it: "that ar

shuffle-toe seems handy to me now, I _tell_ you."

"The man as used to ride that hos is long gone under, but the hos,

darn the old crittur, is old Bill Williams's, I'll swar by hook."

"Well, it aint nothin else," continued La Bonte, satisfying himself by

a long look; "it's the old boy's hos as shure as shootin: and them

Rapahos has rubbed him out at last, and raised his animals. Ho, boy!

let's lift their hair."

"Agreed," answered Killbuck; and away they started in pursuit,

determined to avenge the death of their old comrade.

They followed the track through the bottom and into the stream, which

it crossed, and, passing a few yards up the bank, entered the water

again, when they could see nothing more of it. Puzzled at this, they

sought on each side the river, but in vain; and, not wishing to lose

more time in the search, they proceeded through the timber on the

banks to find a good camping-place for the night, which had been their

object in riding in advance of the cavallada. On the left bank, a

short distance before them, was a heavy growth of timber, and the

river ran in one place close to a high bluff, between which and the

water was an almost impervious thicket of plum and cherry trees. The

grove of timber ended before it reached this point, and but few

scattered trees grew in the little glade which intervened, and which

was covered with tolerable grass. This being fixed upon as an

excellent camp, the two mountaineers rode into the glade, and

dismounted close to the plum and cherry thicket, which formed almost a

wall before them, and an excellent shelter from the wind. Jumping off

their horses, they were in the act of removing the saddles from their

backs, when a shrill neigh burst from the thicket not two yards behind

them; a rustling in the bushes followed, and presently a man dressed

in buck-skin, and rifle in hand, burst out of the tangled brush,

exclaiming in an angry voice--

"Do'ee hy'ar now? I was nigh upon gut-shootin some of e'e--I was now;

thought e'e was darned Rapahos, I did, and cached right off."

"Ho, Bill! what, old hos! not gone under yet?" cried both the hunters.

"Give us your paw."

"Do'ee now, if hy'ar ar'nt them boys as was rubbed out on Lodge Pole

(creek) a time ago. Do'ee hy're? if this aint 'some' now, I wouldn't

say so."

Leaving old Bill Williams and our two friends to exchange their rough

but hearty greetings, we will glance at that old worthy's history

since the time when we left him caching in the fire and smoke on the

Indian battle-ground in the Rocky Mountains. He had escaped fire and

smoke, or he would not have been here on Arkansa with his old grizzled

Nez-perce steed. On that occasion, the veteran mountaineer had lost

his two pack-animals and all his beaver. He was not the man, however,

to want a horse or mule as long as an Indian village was near at

hand. Skulking, therefore, by day in canons and deep gorges of the

mountains, and travelling by night, he followed closely on the trail

of the victorious savages, bided his time, struck his "coup," and

recovered a pair of pack-horses, which was all he required. Ever

since, he had been trapping alone in all parts of the mountains; had

visited the rendezvous but twice for short periods, and then with full

packs of beaver; and was now on his way to Bent's Fort, to dispose of

his present loads of peltry, enjoy one good carouse on Taos whisky,

and then return to some hole or corner in the mountains which he knew

of, to follow in the spring his solitary avocation. He too had had his

share of troubles, and had many Indian scrapes, but passed safely

through all, and scarcely cared to talk of what he had done, so

matter-of-fact to him were the most extraordinary of his perilous

adventures.

Arrived at Bent's Fort, the party disposed of their cavallada, and

then--respect for the pardonable weaknesses of our mountain friends

prompts us to draw a veil over the furious orgies that ensued. A

number of hunters and trappers were "in" from their hunting-grounds,

and a village of Shians and some lodges of Kioways were camped round

the fort. As long as the liquor lasted, and there was good store of

alcohol as well as of Taos whisky, the Arkansa resounded with furious

mirth--not unmixed with graver scenes; for your mountaineer, ever

quarrelsome in his cups, is quick to give and take offence, when

rifles alone can settle the difference, and much blood is spilt upon

the prairie in his wild and frequent quarrels.

Bent's Fort is situated on the left or northern bank of the river

Arkansa, about one hundred miles from the foot of the Rocky

Mountains--on a low and level bluff of the prairie which here slopes

gradually to the water's-edge. The walls are built entirely of

adobes--or sun-burned bricks--in the form of a hollow square, at two

corners of which are circular flanking towers of the same material.

The entrance is by a large gateway into the square, round which are

the rooms occupied by the traders and employes of the host. These are

small in size, with walls coloured by a white-wash made of clay found

in the prairie. Their flat roofs are defended along the exterior by

parapets of adobe, to serve as a cover to marksmen firing from the

top; and along the coping grow plants of cactus of all the varieties

common in the plains. In the centre of the square is the press for

packing the furs; and there are three large rooms, one used as a store

and magazine, another as a council-room, where the Indians assemble

for their "talks," whilst the third is the common dining-hall, where

the traders, trappers, and hunters, and all employes, feast upon the

best provender the game-covered country affords. Over the culinary

department presided of late years a fair lady of colour, Charlotte by

name, who was, as she loved to say, "de onlee lady in de dam Injun

country," and who moreover was celebrated from Long's Peak to the

Cumbres Espanolas for slap-jacks and pumpkin pies.

Here congregate at certain seasons the merchants of the plains and

mountains, with their stocks of peltry. Chiefs of the Shian, the

Kioway, and Arapaho, sit in solemn conclave with the head traders, and

smoke the "calumet" over their real and imaginary grievances. Now

O-cun-no-whurst, the Yellow Wolf, grand chief of the Shian, complains

of certain grave offences against the dignity of his nation! A trader

from the "big lodge" (the fort) has been in his village, and before

the trade was opened, in laying the customary chief's gift "on the

prairie"[9] has not "opened his hand," but "squeezed out his present

between his fingers" grudgingly and with too sparing measure. This was

hard to bear, but the Yellow Wolf would say no more!

Tah-kai-buhl or, "he who jumps," is deputed from the Kioway to warn

the white traders not to proceed to the Canadian to trade with the

Comanche. That nation is mad--a "heap mad" with the whites, and has

"dug up the hatchet" to "rub out" all who enter its country. The

Kioway loves the paleface, and gives him warning, (and "he who jumps"

looks as if he deserves something "on the prairie" for his

information.)

Shawh-noh-qua-mish, "the peeled lodge-pole," is there to excuse his

Arapaho braves, who lately made free with a band of horses belonging

to the fort. He promises the like shall never happen again, and he,

Shawh-noh-qua-mish, speaks with a "single tongue." Over clouds of

tobacco and kinnik-kinnik, these grave affairs are settled and terms

arranged.

In the corral, groups of leather-clad mountaineers, with "decks" of

"euker" and "seven up," gamble away their hard-earned peltries. The

employes--mostly St Louis Frenchmen and Canadian voyageurs--are

pressing packs of buffalo skins, beating robes, or engaged in other

duties of a trading fort. Indian squaws, the wives of mountaineers,

strut about in all the pride of beads and fanfaron, jingling with

bells and bugles, and happy as paint can make them. Hunters drop in

with animals packed with deer or buffalo meat to supply the fort;

Indian dogs look anxiously in at the gateway, fearing to enter and

encounter the enmity of their natural enemies, the whites; and outside

the fort, at any hour of the day or night, one may safely wager to see

a dozen coyotes or prairie wolves loping round, or seated on their

haunches, and looking gravely on, waiting patiently for some chance

offal to be cast outside. Against the walls, groups of Indians, too

proud to enter without an invitation, lean, wrapped in their buffalo

robes, sulky and evidently ill at ease to be so near the whites

without a chance of fingering their scalp-locks; their white lodges

shining in the sun, at a little distance from the river-banks; their

horses feeding in the plain beyond.

The appearance of the fort is very striking, standing as it does

hundreds of miles from any settlement, on the vast and lifeless

prairie, surrounded by hordes of hostile Indians, and far out of reach

of intercourse with civilised man; its mud-built walls inclosing a

little garrison of a dozen hardy men, sufficient to hold in check the

numerous tribes of savages ever thirsting for their blood. Yet the

solitary stranger passing this lone fort, feels proudly secure when he

comes within sight of the "stars and stripes" which float above the

walls.

Again we must take a jump with La Bonte over a space of several

months; when we find him, in company of half a dozen trappers, amongst

them his inseparable companero Killbuck, camped on the Greenhorn

creek, _en route_ to the settlements of New Mexico. They have a few

mules packed with beaver for the Taos market; but this expedition has

been planned more for pleasure than profit--a journey to Taos valley

being the only civilised relaxation coveted by the mountaineers. Not a

few of the present band are bound thither with matrimonial intentions;

the belles of Nuevo Mejico being to them the _ne plus ultra_ of female

perfection, uniting most conspicuous personal charms (although coated

with cosmetic _alegria_--an herb, with the juice of which the women of

Mexico hideously bedaub their faces) with all the hardworking industry

of Indian squaws. The ladies, on their part, do not hesitate to leave

the paternal abodes, and eternal tortilla-making, to share the perils

and privations of the American mountaineers in the distant wilderness.

Utterly despising their own countrymen, whom they are used to contrast

with the dashing white hunters who swagger in all the pride of fringe

and leather through their towns--they, as is but natural, gladly

accept husbands from the latter class; preferring the stranger, who

possesses the heart and strong right arm to defend them, to the

miserable, cowardly "pelados," who hold what little they have on

sufferance of savage Indians, but one degree superior to themselves.

Certainly no band of hunters that ever appeared in the vale of Taos,

numbered in its ranks a properer lot of lads than those now camped on

Greenhorn, intent on matrimonial foray into the settlements of New

Mexico. There was young Dick Wooton, who was "some" for his inches,

being six feet six, and as straight and strong as the barrel of his

long rifle. Shoulder to shoulder with this "boy," stood Rube Herring,

and not a hair's-breadth difference in height or size between them.

Killbuck, though mountain winters had sprinkled a few snow-flakes on

his head, _looked up_ to neither; and La Bonte held his own with any

mountaineer who ever set a trap in sight of Long's Peak or the Snowy

Range. Marcelline--who, though a Mexican, despised his people and

abjured his blood, having been all his life in the mountains with the

white hunters--looked down easily upon six feet and odd inches. In

form a Hercules, he had the symmetry of an Apollo; with strikingly

handsome features, and masses of long black hair hanging from his

slouching beaver over the shoulders of his buck-skin hunting shirt.

He, as he was wont to say, was "no dam Spaniard, but 'mountainee man,'

wagh!" Chabonard, a half-breed, was not lost in the crowd;--and, the

last in height, but the first in every quality which constitutes

excellence in a mountaineer, whether of indomitable courage, or

perfect indifference to death or danger; with an iron frame capable of

withstanding hunger, thirst, heat, cold, fatigue and hardships of

every kind; of wonderful presence of mind, and endless resource in

time of great peril; with the instinct of an animal, and the moral

courage of a _man_,--who was "taller" for his inches than KIT CARSON,

paragon of mountaineers?[10] Small in stature, and slenderly limbed,

but with muscles of wire, with a fair complexion and quiet intelligent

features, to look at Kit none would suppose that the mild-looking

being before him was an incarnate devil in Indian fight, and had

raised more hair from head of Redskins than any two men in the western

country; and yet, thirty winters had scarcely planted a line or furrow

on his clean-shaven face. No name, however, was better known in the

mountains--from Yellow Stone to Spanish Peaks, from Missouri to

Columbia River,--than that of Kit Carson, "raised" in Boonlick, county

of Missouri State, and a credit to the diggins that gave him birth.

On Huerfano or Orphan Creek, so called from an isolated _hutte_ which

stands on a prairie near the stream, our party fell in with a village

of Yutah Indians, at that time hostile to the whites. Both parties

were preparing for battle, when Killbuck, who spoke the language, went

forward with signs of peace, and after a talk with several chiefs,

entered into an armistice, each party agreeing not to molest the

other. After trading for a few deer-skins which the Yutahs are

celebrated for dressing delicately fine, the trappers moved hastily on

out of such dangerous company, and camped under the mountain on Oak

Creek, where they forted in a strong position, and constructed a

corral in which to secure their animals at night. At this point is a

tolerable pass through the mountains, where a break occurs in the

range, whence they gradually decrease in magnitude until they meet the

sierras of Mexico, which connect the two mighty chains of the Andes

and the Rocky Mountains. From the summit of the dividing ridge, to the

eastward, a view is had of the vast sea of prairie which stretches

away from the base of the mountains, in dreary barrenness, for nearly

a thousand miles, until it meets the fertile valley of the great

Missouri. Over this boundless expanse, nothing breaks the

uninterrupted solitude of the view. Not a tree or atom of foliage

relieves the eye; for the lines of scattered timber which belt the

streams running from the mountains, are lost in the shadow of their

stupendous height, and beyond this nothing is seen but the bare

surface of the rolling prairie. In no other part of the chain are the

grand characteristics of the Far West more strikingly displayed than

from this pass. The mountains here rise, on the eastern side, abruptly

from the plain, and the view over the great prairies is not therefore

obstructed by intervening ridges. To the westward the eye sweeps over

the broken spurs which stretch from the main range in every direction;

whilst distant peaks, for the most part snow-covered, are seen at

intervals rising isolated above the range. On all sides the scene is

wild and dismal.

Crossing by this pass, the trappers followed the Yutah trail over a

plain, skirting a pine-covered ridge, in which countless herds of

antelope, tame as sheep, were pasturing. Numerous creeks intersect it,

well timbered with oak, pine, and cedar, and well stocked with game of

all kinds. On the eleventh day from leaving the Huerfano, they struck

the Taos valley settlement on Arroyo Hondo, and pushed on at once to

the village of Fernandez--sometimes, but improperly, called Taos. As

the dashing band clattered through the village, the dark eyes of the

reboso-wrapped muchachas peered from the doors of the adobe houses,

each mouth armed with cigarito, which was at intervals removed to

allow utterance to the salutation to each hunter as he trotted past of

_Adios, Americanos_,--"Welcome to Fernandez!" and then they hurried

off to prepare for the fandango, which invariably followed the advent

of the mountaineers. The men, however, seemed scarcely so well

pleased; but leaned sulkingly against the walls, their sarapes turned

over the left shoulder, and concealing the lower part of the face, the

hand appearing from its upper folds only to remove the eternal cigarro

from their lips. They, from under their broad-brimmed sombreros,

scowled with little affection upon the stalwart hunters, who clattered

past them, scarcely deigning to glance at the sullen Pelados, but

paying incomprehensible compliments to the buxom wenches who smiled at

them from the doors. Thus exchanging salutations, they rode up to the

house of an old mountaineer, who had long been settled here with a New

Mexican wife, and who was the recognised entertainer of the hunters

when they visited Taos valley, receiving in exchange such peltry as

they brought with them.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] From the report to the Governor of California by the Head of the

Mission, in reference to the attacks by the American mountaineers.

[9] Indian expression for a free gift.

[10] Since the time of which we speak, Kit Carson has distinguished

himself in guiding the several U. S. exploring expeditions, under

Fremont, across the Rocky Mountains, and to all parts of Oregon and

California; and for his services, the President of the United States

presented the gallant mountaineer with the commission of lieutenant in

a newly raised regiment of mounted riflemen, of which his old leader

Fremont is appointed colonel.

A LEGEND FROM ANTWERP.

I scarcely know why, upon my last passage through Antwerp, I took up

my quarters at the Park Hotel, instead of alighting, according to my

previous custom, at the sign of the blessed Saint Anthony. The change

was perhaps owing to my hackney coachman, who, seeing me fagged and

bewildered by a weary jolting on the worst of European railroads,

affected to mistake my directions--a misunderstanding that possibly

resulted from his good understanding with mine host of the "Park." Be

that as it may, my baggage, before I could say nay, was in the

embraces of a cloud of waiters, who forthwith disappeared in the

recesses of the inn, whither I was fain to follow. It was a bright May

day, and I felt no way dissatisfied with the change of hostelry when,

on looking from the window of my exquisitely clean Flemish bedroom, I

saw the cheerful boulevard crowded with comely damsels and uniformed

idlers, and the spring foliage of the lime-trees fluttering freshly in

the sunshine. And having picked up the commencement of a furious

appetite during my rickety ride from Herbesthal, I replied by a

particularly willing affirmative to the inquiry of a spruce waiter,

whether _Monsieur_ would be pleased to dine at the _table-d'hote_, at

the early hour of three o'clock.

The excellent dinner of the Park Hotel was served up that day to

unusually few guests; so at least it appeared to one accustomed to

the numerous daily congregations at the public tables of France and

Germany. Twelve persons surrounded the board, or, I should rather

say, took post in two opposite rows at one extremity of the long

dresser-like table, whose capacity of accommodating six times the

number was tacit evidence that the inn was not wont to reckon its

diners by the single dozen. Of these twelve guests, three or four

were of the class _commis-voyageur--Anglice_, bagmen--whose talk,

being as usual confined to the rail and the road, their grisettes and

their samples, I did my best not to hear. There was a French singer,

then starring at the Antwerp theatre; a plump, taciturn,

respectable-looking man, in blue spectacles and a loose coat, whom I

had difficulty in recognising that evening when I saw him trip the

boards in the character of the gay Count Almaviva. Next to the man of

notes sat a thin, sunburned, middle-aged German, who informed us, in

the course of conversation, that after spending twenty years on a

cochineal farm in Mexico, he was on his way back to his native land,

to pass the latter portion of his life in the tranquil enjoyment of

pipe, beer, and competency, in the shadow of his village steeple, and

possibly--although of this he said nothing--in the peaceful

companionship of a placid, stocking-knitting, child-bearing _Frau_.

There was another German at table, a coarse, big-headed baron from

Swabia, who ate like a pig, used his fork as a toothpick, and

indulged, to a most disgusting extent, in the baronial and peculiarly

Teutonic amusement of _hawking_. These persons were all foreigners;

but the remainder of the party, myself excepted, consisted of

natives, belonging to the better class of Antwerp burghers. With one

of these, next to whom I sat, I got into conversation; and finding

him courteous, intelligent, and good-humoured, I was glad to detain

him after dinner over the best bottle of Bordeaux the "Park" cellars

could produce. This opened his heart, and he volunteered to act as my

cicerone through Antwerp. Although I had seen, upon former visits,

all the "lions" of the place, it had been under the guidance of those

odious animals called _valets-de-place_; and I now gladly availed

myself of my new friend's offer, and walked out to the citadel. He

had lived in Antwerp all his life; consequently had been there during

the siege, in reminiscences of whose incidents and episodes he

abounded--so much so, that the invalid soldier who exhibits the

fortress was kind enough to spare us his monotonous elucidations,

and, whilst opening gates, to keep his mouth closed. I lingered

willingly on the scene of that unjust aggression and gallant defence,

and saw every thing worth seeing, including the identical arm-chair

in which, as the story goes, old Chasse, gouty as he was brave, sat

and smoked and gave his orders, unruffled by the thunder of French

batteries and the storm of French shot. Daylight began to fade as we

re-entered the town, and passed, at my request, through some of its

older portions, where I begged my Antwerper to point out to me any

houses of particular antiquity, or notable as the residence of

remarkable persons. He showed me the dwellings of more than one of

those great artists of whom Flanders is so justly proud; also several

mansions of Spanish grandees, dating from the days of Alva's rule,

and built in Spanish style, with abundant and massive balconies, and

the _patio_, or inner court. At last I thought of returning to my

hotel, and was meditating an invitation to supper to my obliging

acquaintance, when, as we passed through a narrow and sequestered

street, he suddenly stood still.

"See there!" he said; "that house, although of great age, has

apparently little to distinguish it from others, equally ancient,

scattered through Antwerp; nevertheless, to us Flemings it possesses

powerful and peculiar interest. And truly no residence of painter or

grandee could tell stranger tales, were its walls to speak all that

has passed within them."

I looked curiously at the house, but could see nothing remarkable

about it, except that it was visibly very old--to all appearance one

of the oldest in the town. It was of moderate dimensions, built of

mingled stone and brick, to which time and damp had given one general

tint of dingy greenish black. Its door was low, and of unusual

strength; its windows were narrow, and defended here and there by iron

bars. Formerly these bars had been much more numerous, but many had

been sawn off close to the stone-work, in which their extremities

still remained deeply set. A shallow niche in the wall contained one

of those rudely-carved images of the Virgin and Child, once deemed an

indispensable appendage to Antwerp houses as a protection against evil

spirits, and especially against one,--a sort of municipal brownie, the

scarecrow of the honest and credulous burgesses. The features of the

images, never very delicately chiselled, were obtuse and scarcely

distinguishable with age and dirt, but vestiges of blue and crimson

were still discernible on the Virgin's garments. I observed that the

house had the appearance of having once stood alone--perhaps in the

middle of a garden, or, more probably, of a paved court--for it

receded some yards from the line of street, and the open plot in its

front was paved with blocks of stone, worn, here and there, by

frequent treading, whilst on either hand a house of modern

architecture filled up a space originally left between the centre

building and another of corresponding date. There being nothing else

out of the common in the exterior of the house, I concluded that

whatever singularity pertained to it was to be sought in its interior

or its inmates, and I looked to my companion for an explanation.

"That house," he said, replying to my mute inquiry, "was for centuries

the dwelling of the Antwerp executioner."

I started at the word. The strange customs, laws, and traditions

connected with the last minister of the law, during the less civilised

ages of the Christian era, had always exercised upon my mind a

peculiar fascination. With fresh and strong interest I gazed at the

building, and for a minute I almost fancied its front became

transparent, disclosing to me the horrid instruments of death and

torture, the grisly rack, the keen broad axe and glittering sword, the

halter and the thongs; whilst in another compartment the headsman and

his aids, sad, sullen men, in hose and jerkins of a blood-red hue, sat

moodily at their evening meal. The momentary hallucination was quickly

dispelled. The door opened, and a tall and comely damsel, whose dark

eyes, and skin of a slightly olive hue, hinted at the possible

partiality of some gay ancestress for a Spanish cavalier, issued

forth, pitcher on head, and carolling a lively air, to fetch water

from the fountain. The smiling, cheerful reality incontinently chased

away the dismal vision.

"Evidently," said I, "it is now no hangman's abode. Such fresh

flowers bloom not in the shade of the gallows-tree: the walls of the

doomster's dwelling would refuse to echo ditties so joyous."

"Perhaps," said my companion, with a smile. "And yet a tale is told

that would partly refute one of your propositions."

"A tale!" cried I, catching at the word--"about what?"

"About some former occupants of the house. A wild old story, but a

true one, as I believe."

"My dear sir!" I exclaimed, "did I not fear encroaching on your

kindness, I would beg you to grant me the evening, as you have already

given me the afternoon, and, after supping with me at the 'Park,' to

relate the tradition in question."

"Willingly," said the Antwerper, good-humouredly, "were I not pledged

to the theatre to-night. We do not often catch such a nightingale as

this Frenchman, and when we do, we make the most of him. But the

legend is in print; I have the book, and will lend it you with

pleasure."

"A thousand thanks," said I, rather cooled, however, on the subject,

by the discovery that the tale of wonder I anticipated was written

instead of oral.

"By the bye," said my companion, when we had walked a few yards in

silence, "are you acquainted with Flemish?"

"The patois of the country?" said I, smiling, perhaps a little

contemptuously--"Perfectly unacquainted."

"Then you cannot read the legend, for it is printed in that language?"

"In what language?"

"In Flemish."

If he had said in Laputan, I should hardly have been more surprised.

"I thought the patois was spoken only by the lower orders, and that to

the reading-classes it was as unintelligible as myself."

"It is not a _patois_, but a language," replied the Fleming, gravely.

"The general use of French is a modern innovation in our country, and

no good one either. Flemish is the original language of the land; and

not only is it much more widely known than you imagine, but several

very eminent writers, both of prose and poetry, compose in no other

tongue, preferring it far before the French, on account of its greater

sweetness and power."

I began to feel as much ashamed of my non-acquaintance with the

Flemish school of literature, as if I had been convicted of profound

ignorance of a Flemish school of painting. Of course, I made allowance

for a little patriotic exaggeration, when accepting my friend's

account of this host of poets and prosaists, who pass their lives in

writing a language which scarce any besides themselves understand. But

after all, thought I, why should there not be Flemish writers, just as

writers are found in other tongues, equally unknown to the world at

large? Did I not myself, when in Southern France, get shaved, clipped,

and trimmed, in the prune-producing town of Agen, by a literary

barber, hight Jessamine, who had written volume upon volume of poems

in that Gascon dialect which, according to M. Alexandre Dumas, and

other of the highest French literary authorities, is entirely

comprised in the words _Cadedis_, _Mordious_, _Capdedious_,

_Parfandious_, and eight or ten other expletives, equally profane and

energetic,--just as, according to some funny Frenchman, the essence of

the English tongue resides in a favourite anti-ocular malediction? At

any rate, it was neither civil nor grateful to let my kind companion

suspect contempt on my part for what he chose to consider his national

tongue. So I bowed humbly, and expressed my deep regret that a

defective education left it out of my power to read the legend with

which I had desired to become acquainted. The contrite tone of this

confession fully regained me any ground I had lost in my Fleming's

good opinion. He mused for a minute before again breaking silence.

"Are you bent upon leaving Antwerp to-morrow?"

"It is my present intention."

"Change it. Come to the opera to-night, breakfast with me in the

morning, and I will read you the tale between coffee and _chasse_."

"I have already had the painful honour of informing you that my

godfathers, reckless of baptismal promises, have suffered me to attain

my present mature age in profound ignorance of the Flemish tongue."

The Fleming looked at me with the half-pleased half-angry air of a dog

pelted with marrow-bones, and as if he smoked I was roasting him. I

loaded my countenance with a double charge of gravity.

"It is fortunate," he said, "that my sponsors have been less negligent

towards me with respect to French, in which language, if you will take

patience with slow reading, I doubt not of conveying to you the

substance, and in some degree the style of the tale. Nay, no thanks,"

added he, forestalling my acknowledgments. "My motives are more

selfish than you think. I want to convince you that if the Flemish

tongue is little known, there are Flemish writers well worth the

knowing."

There was no resisting such amiable pertinacity. I put off my journey,

breakfasted with my Fleming, and after breakfast--none of your tea and

toast business, but a real good _dejeuner-a-la-fourchette_, a dinner

less the soup--he produced his Flemish volume, and read me in French

the promised story. Seemingly unused to this off-hand style of

translation, and patriotically anxious to do full justice to the

original, he read so slowly that I had time to put down the narrative

nearly verbatim. As it is more than probable that none of the readers

of Maga, numberless though they be as the pebbles upon ocean's strand,

are acquainted with the Flemish, I might have arrogated to myself,

with every chance of impunity, the invention of the tale I now place

before them. But it would go against conscience thus to rob the poor;

and therefore have I taken the trouble to write these few pages, to

explain the source whence I derive the veracious legend of

THE DOOMSTER'S FIRSTBORN.

CHAP. I--THE TAVERN.

The eve of Whitsuntide, in the year of grace 1507, was unusually dark

and dismal in the good city of Antwerp, over which a dense and

impenetrable canopy of cloud had spread and settled down. It was

owing, doubtless, to this unpleasant aspect of the weather that at

nine o'clock, an hour at which few of the inhabitants were in bed,

profound silence reigned in the streets, broken only by the occasional

dull clang of a church bell, and by the melancholy dripping of the

water which a small dense noiseless rain made to stream from the eaves

and gutters. Heedless of the rain and of the raw fog from the Scheldt,

a man stood motionless and absorbed in thought upon one of the

deserted squares. His back was against a tree, his arms were folded on

his breast, his eyes were wide open; although evidently awake, he had

the appearance of one in a dream. From time to time unintelligible but

energetic words escaped his lips, and his features assumed an

expression of extraordinary wildness; then a deep and painful sigh

burst from his breast, or a sound, half groan, half gasping, like that

with which an over-burthened porter throws down his load. At times,

too, a smile passed across his face--no sign of joy, or laugh extorted

by jovial or pleasant thoughts, but the bitter smile of agony and

despair, more afflicting to behold than a flood of tears. He smiled,

certainly, but whilst his countenance yet wore the deceitful sign of

joy, he bit his lips till they bled, and his hand, thrust within his

doublet, dug its nails into his breast. Thrice wretched was this

unhappy man: for him the pains of purgatory had no new terrors, for

already, during twenty years, he had felt its direst torments in his

heart. To him the pleasant earth had been a valley of tears, an abode

of bitter sorrow. When his mother bore him, and his first cry broke

upon her ear, she pressed no kiss of welcome on his cheek. It was no

gush of tenderness and maternal joy that brought tears to her eyes,

when she knew it was a man-child she had brought forth. His father

felt no pride in the growth and beauty of his first and only son;

often he wept over him and prayed for his death, as though the child

had been the offspring of some foul and accursed sin. And when the

infant grew--although fed with his mother's tears rather than with her

milk--into a comely boy, and ventured forth to mingle in the sports of

others of his age, he was scoffed, tormented, and despised, as though

his face were the face of a devil. Yet was he so patient and gentle,

that none ever saw frown on his brow, or the flush of anger on his

features; only his father knew what bitter melancholy lurked in the

heart of his son.

Now the child had become a man. Despite his sufferings, his body had

grown into strength and vigour. He felt a craving after society, a

burning desire for the sympathy and respect of his fellows. But the

hatred and persecution that had made his youth wretched, clave to him

in manhood,--scoff and scorn were his portion wheresoever he showed

himself; and if he failed instantly to retire, with servile mien and

prayer for pity, he was driven forth, like a dog, with kick and cuff.

For him there was no justice in the wide world,--submission was his

lot, God his only comforter.

Such had been the life of the man who now leaned against the poplar

tree, a prey to the tortures of despair. Yet that man's heart was

formed for tenderness and love, his mind was intelligent, his

countenance not without nobility, his gait proud and manly, his voice

earnest and persuasive. At this moment he lifted it up to heaven,

towards which he passionately extended his arms.

"Great God!" he cried, "since thy holy will created me to suffer,

grant me also strength to endure my tortures! My heart burns! my

senses leave me! Protect me, O Lord, from despair and madness!

Preserve to me the consolatory belief in thy goodness and justice; for

my heart is rent with the agonies of doubt!"

His voice grew weaker and subsided into an inarticulate murmur.

Suddenly raising his head and starting from his leaning posture, he

hurried across the square and through two or three streets, as though

endeavouring to escape reflection by rapidity of motion. Then his pace

slackened and grew irregular, and he occasionally stood still, like

one who, absorbed in weighty thoughts, unconsciously pauses, the

better to indulge them. On a sudden a shrill harsh sound broke from

his lips; they were parched with thirst and fever.

"I must drink," he cried; "I am choked by this burning thirst."

There were many taverns in that street, and he approached the windows

of several, from the crevices of whose shutters a bright light

streamed; but he entered not, and still passed on, for in every house

he heard men's voices, and that sufficed to drive him away. In St

Jan's Street he paused somewhat longer before a public-house, and

listened attentively at all the windows. A transient gleam of

satisfaction lighted up his countenance.

"Ha!" he said to himself, "no one is there. I can drink then!"

And lifting the latch, he entered. Hearing nothing, he expected to

find no one; but how great was his disappointment, when he saw a

number of persons sitting at a long table with bottles and beer-cans

before them. The silence that had deceived him was caused by the

profound attention given to one of the party, who enacted the juggler

for his companions' amusement, and who was busied, when the stranger

listened at the window, in certain mysterious preparations for a new

trick. All eyes were fixed upon his fingers, in a vain endeavour to

detect the legerdemain.

The thirsty youth started at the sight of all these men, and took a

step backwards as if to leave the house, but observing several heads

turned toward him with curious looks, and fearing such sudden

departure might prove a signal for his pursuit and persecution, he

approached the bar and asked the landlady for a can of beer. The woman

cast a suspicious look at her new customer, and sought to distinguish

his features beneath the broad slouched brim of his hat; but,

observing this, he sank his head still more upon his breast to escape

her observation. But whilst she descended the cellar stairs to fetch

him the beer, the whole of the guests fixed their eyes upon him with

no friendly expression. Then they laid their heads together and

whispered, and made indignant gestures, and one of them in particular

appeared inflamed with anger, and looked furiously at the stranger,

as though he would fain have fallen foul of him. The stranger, his

face averted, waited silently for his beer; but he trembled with

anxiety and apprehension. The landlady made unusual haste, and handed

the full can to the object of her curiosity, who drank with hurried

eagerness, and half-emptied the vessel at a draught; then, placing it

upon the bar, he gave a small coin in payment. But whilst the woman

sought for change, one of the guests strode across the room, took up

the can, and threw the remaining beer in the young man's face.

"Accursed gallows'-bird!" he cried, "how dare you drink in our

company? What can you urge that I should not break your bones here

upon the spot? Thank heaven, thou wretched outcast, that I will not

befoul my hand by contact with thy vile carcass!"

The unfortunate being to whom this cruel and outrageous speech was

addressed, was the only son of the Antwerp executioner: his name was

Gerard, and he was little more than twenty years old. His parentage

sufficiently explains why he shunned the sight of men, from whom

hatred and persecution were the best he had to expect. What now befell

him always took place when a headsman ventured into the society of

other burghers.

Patiently bowing his head, the unhappy Gerard gazed vacantly at the

beer-stains upon his garments, without daring by word or deed to

resent the brutality of his enemy, who, continuing to overwhelm him

with abuse and maledictions, at last directed part of his indignation

against the hostess:

"You will draw no more beer for us, woman!" he said. "To-morrow night

I and my friends meet at Sebastian's. You would be giving us our

liquor in the hangman's can!"

"See, there it lies!" exclaimed the hostess, terrified for the loss of

custom, and dashing upon the ground the stone pot, which broke in

pieces. "Is it fault of mine if the hangman's bastard sneaks into an

honest house? Out with you!" cried she furiously to Gerard; "out of my

doors, dealer in dead men, torturer of living bodies! Will'st not be

gone, base panderer to the rack? Away to thy bed beneath the

scaffold!"

The youth, who had borne at first with silence and resignation the

abuse heaped upon him, was roused at last by these coarse invectives

to a sense of what manly dignity persecution had left him. Instead of

flying from the woman's execrations, he raised his head and answered

coldly and calmly.

"Woman, I go! Although a hangman's son, I would show more compassion

to my fellow-creatures than they show me. My father tortures men,

because the law and man compel him; but _men_ torture _me_ without

necessity, and without provocation. Remember that you sin against God

by treating me, his creature, like a dog."

So gentle and touching were the tones of the young man's voice, that

the hostess wondered, and could not understand how one so sorely

ill-treated could speak thus mildly. For a moment the woman got the

better of the trader, and, with something like a tear glistening in

her eye, she took up the coin Gerard had given her, and threw it over

to him.

"There," she said; "I want not thy money; take it, and go in peace."

The man who had thrown the beer in Gerard's face picked the coin from

the floor, looked at it, and threw it upon a table with a gesture of

disgust.

"See!" he cried, "there is blood upon it--human blood!"

His companions crowded round the table, and started back in horror, as

from a fresh and bleeding corpse. A murmur of loathing and aversion

assailed the ears of Gerard, who well knew the charge was false, for

he had taken the piece of money in change that very evening, from a

woman who let out praying-chairs in the church. The injustice of his

foes so irritated him, that his face turned white with passion, as a

linen cloth. Pressing his hat more firmly upon his head, he sprang

forward to the table, and confronted his enemies with the fierce bold

brow of an exasperated lion.

"Scoundrels!" he shouted, "what speak you of blood? See you not that

the metal is alloyed, and looks red, like all other coins of the kind?

But no, you are blinded by hate, and know not justice. You say I am

the hangman's son. 'Tis true,--God so willed it. But yet are ye more

despicable than I am; and proud am I to resemble neither in name nor

deed such base and heartless men!"

The words were scarcely uttered when from all sides blows and kicks

rained upon the imprudent speaker. Manfully did he defend himself, and

brought more than one assailant to the ground; but the numbers were

too great for his strength. Oaths and abuse resounded through the

apartment, tables and benches were upset, jugs and glasses broken; the

hostess screamed for help. But the strife and tumult were brief; and

Gerard suddenly found himself in the street, stunned and bruised by

the blows he had received. Settling his cloak, and smoothing his

crushed hat, he went his way, scarce bestowing another thought upon

the scuffle; for things far weightier, far more painful and

engrossing, crowded upon his excited mind.

CHAP. II--THE LOVERS.

Whilst the above occurred in the beer-house, a fair young girl waited

Gerard's coming, her heart beating fast from apprehension that some

evil had befallen him. To the headsman's son she was the angel of hope

and consolation; she alone loved him,--partly, perhaps, because she

knew that the world hated and despised him. Her love had braved her

mother's censure, her neighbours' reproaches, her companions' sneers.

Nay, more than this,--when they shouted after her, by way of scoff,

the office of Gerard's father, or called her the headsman's bride, and

the like, she rejoiced and was glad; for then she felt her love was

noble and pure, and acceptable in the sight of God. For was she not,

in loving Gerard, doing as she would be done by, comforting and

supporting him whom all men oppressed and persecuted?

This poor girl, whose name was Lina, lived in a small apartment in the

Vlier Street, with her old mother and her brother Franz, a

good-hearted, hard-handed fellow, who worked like a slave for five

days out of the seven, spent half a day in church, and a day and a

half in the beer-house, where he drank and sang to his heart's

content, and which he seldom left without a black eye. During the five

days allotted to labour, there was not in Antwerp a more clever and

indefatigable carpenter; and punctually each Saturday night he brought

his mother a round sum from his earnings, wherefore the old woman had

him in particular affection.

On the night of Gerard's ill-timed visit to the tavern, Lina sat

opposite to her mother in their humble chimney-corner, a single

slender candle burning between them,--their fingers busily engaged in

lace-making. On the other side of the room stood a joiner's bench, at

which Franz was hard at work. The room itself was clean and neat, and

strewn with white sand; a crucifix and a few pictures of saints

decorated the walls; but otherwise it contained little beyond the most

necessary furniture, for, labour as they would, its inmates' combined

efforts could earn but a scanty pittance.

Eight o'clock was the usual hour of Gerard's visit, and hitherto he

had never come later without warning Lina beforehand of the probable

delay; but now it was ten, and there were no signs of his appearance.

The maiden knew not what to think of this irregularity, and was so

uneasy and absent that she neither heard nor answered a question put

to her by her mother.

"Now then, child," cried the old woman, "your wits are surely

wool-gathering. What's the use of fretting? If he come not to-day, he

will to-morrow. There are days enough in the year."

"True, mother; but I fear some harm has happened to him, that he

misses coming. People are so ill-minded towards him!"

"Ay, that are they; but then he is the headsman's son, and hatred is

the portion of his tribe. Did not the mob murder Headsman Hansken with

stones, and drown Headsman Harmen, hard by the Kroonenburg tower?"

"And what had they done, mother?"

"I'm sure I can't tell. Nothing, I believe. But it so happens,

because the executioners hang many innocent people."

"Surely, mother, the headsman must do what the judge bids him. Why not

drown the judge, sooner than his servant?"

"Ay, ay, Lina, but it has always been so. Mind the proverb--'In a

kennel of dogs, the smallest gets fewest bits and most bites.'"

"That is a stupid proverb, mother."

And the two women gossiped on, till the old one got weary of watching,

and said to her daughter--

"Leave off work, child, and let us to bed. The night grows late."

The young girl was ill-pleased with the order, for she had not yet

given up hopes of Gerard's coming; but she could think of no pretext

to keep her mother from her bed. After brief reflection--

"Mother," she said, "wait a little longer; three more flowers and my

lace is done."

"Make haste then, dear child, or I shall sleep on my chair."

"I am not yet for bed," cried Franz from his bench. "I must finish

this sewing-cushion for the landlady at Peerdeken; she is to fetch it

early to-morrow."

"Boy, boy!" said his mother, smiling and shaking her head, "for a

certainty you drank more last Sunday at Peerdeken than your pocket

could pay for, and now you are working out your debt. Well,

well!--good-night; and forget not your prayers before laying your

heads to rest."

And with this pious injunction, the good woman got up and entered a

small adjacent closet, serving as sleeping chamber for herself and her

daughter. She could have been but a few minutes in bed when Gerard

knocked at the door, and Franz let him in.

The young man's face was pale and gloomy, but Lina wondered not at

this, for seldom had she the happiness of seeing her lover's brow

otherwise than care-laden. Slowly approaching her, Gerard took her

hand and pressed it sadly and silently to his breast. This was his

usual greeting. Of words he was habitually frugal, but his eyes

expressed heartfelt gratitude and ardent love.

"Gerard!" cried Lina, "what is wrong? Your hand is cold as ice!

Heavens! there is blood upon your throat!"

"'Tis nothing, Lina; I knocked myself in the dark. Happy for me, were

my sufferings only of the body!"

The words were followed by a deep sigh, and by a look of profound

dejection, that filled Lina with alarm. Gerard's eyes had assumed a

fixed hard look, in which she read the announcement of some terrible

novelty. With the tenderest care she cleansed his neck from the blood,

which flowed from a trifling wound; and taking her lover's hand,

clasped it in both of hers, with a glance of affectionate

encouragement. But he continued to regard her with the same unvarying

gaze, until at last, unable longer to endure the suspense and his

seeming coldness, she sank into a chair.

"Oh, Gerard!" she exclaimed, "look not thus, if you would not kill me

with your glance!"

The young man cast his eyes upon the ground, then raised them again to

Lina's face, but this time with an expression of ineffable sadness,

and took a seat by her side.

"Lina," he said, in a tone betraying the deepest emotion, "give me

patient hearing, for I have much to say. We meet for the last time."

And without attending to poor Lina's increasing agitation, he

continued--

"When children," he said, "we played together, mutually attracted by a

feeling we could not understand, and which has since grown into love.

You knew not, sweet Lina, what it is to be the headsman's firstborn.

You knew not that he who hangs and racks and brands, is laden with

more ignominy than the criminal who suffers at his hands. Later you

learned it, but your pure soul refused to become accomplice of man's

injustice, and you loved me the more, when you found how much I needed

love to save me from despair. And truly, without thee my sufferings

had long since been ended in the grave; for I no longer had faith in

any thing save in the justice of God, and that He reserved me

compensation in a better world. Men persecute me like one accursed;

the blood you have just now wiped was shed by their hatred. But I care

little for pain of body; blest with thy love, my Lina, I would bear

uncomplaining the worst tortures they could inflict. The pain, the

martyrdom is here." He paused, and pressed his hand upon his temples.

"Lina, we have ever indulged a fond dream that some unexpected event

would free me from the headsman's terrible duties. In this expectation

you have sacrificed yourself, and I, blinded by love, have hoped where

hope there was none. Beloved! the illusion has fled, the dream is

past. To-morrow I am no longer the headsman's son, but the headsman

himself! My father lies upon a bed of sickness whence he can never

rise. To-morrow there is an execution, and his odious duties devolve

on me! But think not, Lina, that I will basely claim the pledges given

in hopes of a brighter future. Think not I will expose you to the

disgrace of being pointed at as the headsman's mistress--the

headsman's wife! No, Lina, I come to release you from all promises;

from this moment you are free!"

Whilst Gerard spoke, a gradual but visible change came over the young

girl's countenance, and when he paused, it wore an expression of

joyful pride--a pride that flashed out of her eyes, and smiled in the

dimples of her cheeks. She felt that exhilaration of the heart, the

consequence and reward of generous and noble resolves.

"I understand your meaning, Gerard," she said, "and could quarrel with

you for thinking me less devoted than yourself, or less ready with a

sacrifice. O my beloved! thine I am, and thine will I remain, to-day,

to-morrow, and for ever--here or on the scaffold. Gerard, the path of

duty is plain before me; as thy wife, I will console thee for the

cruelty of men, and shed over thy life the soothing balm of love!"

"Never, Lina, never! What! thou the doomster's wife! A double curse

would be upon me, did I consent to such profanation. Dare I drag you

down into the pit of ignominy and contempt? Never, oh never!"

"And never," said the maiden, in accents of solemn determination,

"will I abandon thee, Gerard, or annul the pledges by which we are

mutually bound. Whithersoever thou goest, thither will I go; and all

thy efforts shall not detach me from thee. Our lives are indissolubly

united. Think you I would desert you on your solitary path? Friend,

did you but know how proud and happy I feel! With humble confidence

shall I approach the table of the Lord, for my heart tells me the good

and just God approves and blesses my resolve."

Gerard gazed in wondering and rapturous admiration on the pure and

beautiful countenance of his mistress, now flushed with the enthusiasm

of her generous love. There was something divine in the affection that

thus courted shame and opprobrium for the sake of the loved one. For a

moment his brow beamed with heartfelt joy, and a sigh, but not of

sorrow, escaped his lightened breast.

"Forgive me, O Lord," he exclaimed, raising his eyes to heaven,

"forgive me that I murmured! In thy great mercy thou has sent an angel

to console me!"

Whilst this affecting dialogue took place, Franz had continued his

work, without attending to the discourse of Gerard and his sister.

Now, however, having finished the cushion, he put by his tools, took

up his lamp, and approached the lovers.

"Come, Lina," said he, "I am dead with sleep, and in haste for bed.

You must bid Gerard come earlier to-morrow."

Although Gerard had still much to say to his mistress, he could not

but take the hint thus plainly but kindly given.

"Franz," said he, gloomily, to his future brother-in-law, "to-morrow I

must strike off a man's head upon the scaffold."

"Have a care, then, Gerard!" replied Franz coolly: "if you miss your

stroke they will stone you, as they did Headsman Hansken. However, in

case of mishap, there is one man at least will stand by you to the

last."

The young headsman looked mournfully at Lina, and approached the

door, a tear trembling on his eyelid. But Lina threw herself

passionately on his neck.

"To-morrow," she cried, "I will be near the scaffold. Observe me

well."

And she listened, with clasped hands and tearful cheeks, to her

lover's footsteps, as they grew fainter and more faint, and finally

died away in the distance.

CHAPTER III.--FATHER AND SON.

The house of the Antwerp executioner stood hard by the fortifications,

and was surrounded by a high stone wall, over whose solid portal a red

flag, denoting the occupation of the tenant, was displayed during the

day. The grim ensign had been some hours removed when Gerard knocked

for admission.

"Has the judge been here, Jan?" inquired the young man of the varlet

who opened.

"Yes, he has but just left. Your father desires to speak to you."

Gerard ascended the stairs, and entered the room where his sick father

lay stretched upon his bed.

The old headsman was ashy pale, and worn to the very bone; the ravages

of a terrible malady were legible in his hollow cheeks and sunken

glassy eyes. But, although sick and weak of body, his mind was still

active and vigorous as that of one in health. With a quick glance he

noted his son's entrance; but he uttered no greeting. Gerard took a

chair beside his father's pillow, sought under the bed-clothes for his

thin and feeble hand, and pressed it anxiously and affectionately.

"Father!" he cried in an unsteady voice, "tell me my doom! The judge

has been here! Say, must I assume the headsman's office?"

"My son," replied the old man, mournfully, "I have done my utmost, but

in vain. The judge will not hear of my varlet's doing the duty.

Neither gold nor entreaties softened him. My unhappy son, there is no

alternative. Headsman you must become!"

Although Gerard had foreseen his fate, this confirmation, destroying

the last ray of hope, was a terrible shock. A cold sweat broke out

upon his forehead, and he convulsively squeezed his father's hand. But

the emotion was of brief duration, and he relapsed into his habitual

calm dejection.

"To-morrow!" he exclaimed, after a short pause--"Father, to-morrow

destroys my last hope of a future happier than the past. To-morrow I

must dip my hands in the blood of a fellow-creature. To-morrow is the

first day of a life of agony. Thenceforward I am a hired murderer!"

"My son!" said the old headsman anxiously but firmly, "what must be

must, and against destiny 'tis vain to strive. It were sin to deceive

you. Be prepared for a joyless and weary existence. But there is a God

above, who takes account of human suffering, to repay it in His own

good time."

Gerard heard but the bitter portion of his father's speech--the

concluding words of comfort escaped his ear. He replied as if he had

heard nothing.

"I can conceive," he said, "my fellow-citizens' hatred of me. May I

not be called upon, any day and every day, to strike off the head of

one of them, and he perhaps innocent? They think the headsman takes

pleasure in bloodshed, that he gloats over his victim; and yet, if he

shrinks at sight of the sufferer's naked throat, if his trembling

hands refuse to wield the sword, then, indeed, they slay him with

stones, because he is no true headsman, but suffers himself to be

touched by pity!"

"Often, my son, has this inexplicable contradiction struck me."

"Methinks, father, 'tis not hard to interpret. In every society of men

a scapegoat is needed, on whom to pour out the superabundant hate and

malice of the human heart, to serve as a ready butt for the brutal, a

safe laughingstock for cowards. But, father!--is there no possible

outlet, no means of escape, unthought of or untried? Is my fate

inevitable--_must_ I steep myself in blood?"

"My son!" said the headsman, "there is no remedy. See yonder book,

left me by the judge. It is open at the page that seals thy doom."

Gerard read; then dashed the book violently to the ground.

"Accursed be the unjust law," he cried, "that sentenced me, whilst yet

in my mother's womb, to a life of infamy and blood! Thrice accursed, I

say, be the law and its makers! What! whilst I lay in my cradle,

smiling at life and at God's glorious works, in happy ignorance of the

future, men had already doomed me to live loathed and detested of all,

like the venomous reptile against which every hand is lifted? Oh,

shame, shame!"

"Despair carries you too far, Gerard," replied his father, with a

sigh. "I appreciate your sufferings--too long have I endured the like;

but, remember that the headsman's is a necessary office, and must be

filled. God has allotted it to thee, and submission to His will is the

Christian's duty. In resignation and humility wilt thou find peace."

"Peace!--have you found it, my father? Is it resignation that has laid

you thus prematurely upon the bed of sickness? Were they from the

springs of peace and contentment, those tears that during twenty long

years you shed upon your son's head? You have had courage thus long to

bear it; but I feel not such strength. Oh, that our souls might depart

together, to find mercy and peace before the judgment-seat of the Most

High! But no; I am young, and healthy, and grief does not kill,--at

least not as fast as I would have it. But, praise be to heaven! the

man who fears not death is ever master of his destiny!"

The headsman raised himself in his bed, and drawing his son towards

him, embraced him tenderly, whilst a flood of bitter tears coursed

over his cheeks, worn and wrinkled by sorrow rather than by years.

"O Gerard!" he said, "my beloved son, can you cherish thoughts of

suicide, and delight in the sinful project? What! would you precede me

to the tomb, leaving me to drag out in solitude my few remaining days

of misery? Is this kind, Gerard?--is it generous, unselfish? Think of

Him who for our sakes bore a cross, compared to which thine is of

feather's weight. Bear it, in imitation of Him, patiently and humbly.

So shall we meet hereafter in that bright and blessed world where

persecutors are not, and where the weary find rest!"

These touching and pious words made a deep impression upon Gerard. He

reproached himself for his egotism, and his whole feelings underwent a

sudden and total change. All that day and evening he had nursed

thoughts of self-destruction, which he looked upon as an enviable lot

compared to the long career of blood prescribed to him by the cruel

laws of his country. And now, out of love to his dying father, he must

abandon the idea, and cling to an existence he viewed with deepest

loathing! It cost a severe effort, but generosity and filial duty

finally prevailed, and he made up his mind to the sacrifice.

"Father!" he exclaimed, "forgive my senseless words--heedlessly and

cruelly spoken. I forget not my duty to you; and, since such is your

desire, I will ascend the scaffold and do my office firmly, horrible

though it be. Let shame and scandal fall on those who force me to a

work so repugnant to my nature. Fear not, my father, but that I will

strike the blow with a veteran's coolness, and bathe my hands in my

brother's blood, as calmly as ever butcher in that of unresisting

lamb. I have said it; the sin is not mine, but theirs who compel me.

Weep no move, father! thy son will become headsman; ay, and with a

headsman's heart!"

Those who, hearing this bold speech, should have discerned in it a

strong and sudden resolution, to be afterwards borne out by the deeds

of the speaker, would have deceived themselves, even as Gerard

deceived both himself and his father. It was but one of those fleeting

flashes of determination, which persons wavering in an alternative of

terrible evils sometimes exhibit. The resolution was dissipated with

the sound of the words it dictated. These, however, answered their

chief purpose, by carrying joy and consolation to the old man's

heart.

"I am weary, my son," he said, "yet will I give thee brief word of

advice, the fruit of long experience. To-morrow, when you mount the

scaffold, look not at the mob; the ocean of eyes will confuse you, and

make you falter. Fancy you are alone with the condemned man, and deal

your blow steadily and carefully. If the head falls not at the first

stroke, a thousand voices will cry haro on the bungling headsman: a

thousand arms will be uplifted against him, and I shall never again

behold thee alive. I will pray to God that He mercifully strengthen

thee for the terrible task. Go, my son, and His blessing be upon

thee."

Whilst the old man thus spoke, with a coolness resulting from long

habit, all Gerard's apprehensions returned with redoubled violence,

and he longed to throw himself on his knees before his father, to

declare his inability to carry out his instructions, and to recall his

promise of supporting the burthen of existence. But affection for his

sole surviving parent, and fear of accelerating the fatal termination

of his malady, stimulated him to self-restraint; and, after a last

embrace, and a murmured "good-night," he retired to his chamber.

There, however, he neither sought his bed nor found repose. The rays

of the morning sun shone upon the unhappy youth sitting in the same

place, almost in the very same posture, he had taken on entering his

room--as mute, as motionless, and nearly as pale, as statue of whitest

marble.

CHAP. IV--THE EXECUTION.

The execution of Hendrik the Mariner was fixed for six in the evening.

Long before the appointed hour, crowds of people, eager to see the

horrible spectacle, thronged through the St George's Gate, in the

direction of the place of punishment. Nothing was more seductive to

the populace of that day than the sight of a grisly head rolling upon

the scaffold, and reddening the boards with its blood. The Antwerp

burghers were not exempt from this horrible curiosity; and Headsman's

Acre, as the field was called in which capital punishments then took

place, was crowded with spectators of all ages and classes, including

women, many of them with their children in their arms, urchins of

tender age, and old men who, already on the brink of the grave,

tottered from their easy chair and chimney corner to behold a

fellow-creature expiate, by a premature death, his sin against

society. Noisy and merry was the mob collected round the tall black

gallows and the grim rusty wheel.

In the crowd, close to the scaffold, stood Lina, her heart beating

quickly and anxiously, her tears restrained from flowing only by the

reflection that she was there to give Gerard courage, and that weeping

was the worst way to do it. Her brother Franz stood beside her, in

holiday suit, his broad-leafed Spanish hat upon his head, and his

brown cloak over his shoulder, according to the fashion of the time.

Lina had represented to him, in lively colours, the frightful danger

incurred by Gerard; and he, with his usual rough good-heartedness,

swore to break the neck of the first man who threw a stone at the new

headsman.

It was late, and the shades of evening fell upon the earth, before the

executioner's varlets completed the necessary arrangements on the

scaffold. At the moment these terminated, a cart pierced the throng

amidst general stir and hum of curiosity. The criminal, attired in a

black linen gown, sat with a priest in the hinder part of the vehicle.

Gerard was on the foremost bench, his broad bright sword in his hand,

and one of his assistants beside him. None could divine, from his

countenance, what passed in his mind; his features were fixed and

rigid; his eyes, bent upon the ground, avoided the people's gaze; and

but for the weapon he bore, none could have told which of the two, he

or Hendrik, was the condemned man. Unconscious of his own movements,

he ascended the scaffold, so confused in spirit that he saw nothing,

not even Lina, although Franz several times made signs to catch his

attention.

And now the varlets would have removed the prisoner from the cart to

the scaffold; but he pretended he had not finished his confession,

which he wished now, for the first time, to make full and complete,

seeing all chance of pardon gone. Perhaps he nourished a vague hope of

escape in the darkness; for heavy clouds drifted across the sky, and

night approached so rapidly that already those upon the outskirts of

the crowd could scarcely distinguish what passed upon the scaffold. So

that the people, fearing the increasing darkness would deprive them

altogether of the show they coveted, began to clamour loudly for the

execution of the sentence. The culprit, still resisting, and claiming

delay, was brought upon the scaffold by force, and made to kneel down.

The headsman's assistant bared the condemned wretch's neck, and

pointed to it with a significant look, as if to say, "Master, strike."

At sight of the naked flesh into which he was to cut, Gerard started

as from a heavy sleep, and his limbs trembled till the scaffold shook

under him, and the broad-bladed sword fell from his hand. The varlet

picked up the weapon and gave it back to his master, who clutched it

convulsively, whilst the red rod of the superintending official gave

the signal to strike. But Gerard neither saw the rod nor heard the

voice of its bearer. Already a murmur arose amongst the crowd. "Quick,

master! quick!" said the varlet, whose ear caught the ill-omened

sound.

Summoning all the strength and courage his recent sufferings had left

him, Gerard raised the sword, with the fixed determination to strike a

bold and steady blow, when at that moment the victim turned his head,

and at sight of the impending steel, uttered a lamentable yell. No

more was wanting to upset Gerard's resolution and presence of mind.

They left him on the instant: his arms lost their strength, and he let

the sword fall on Hendrik's shoulder, but so feebly that it did not

even wound him.

At the chill touch of the blade, the criminal's whole frame quivered

with agony; but the next instant, feeling himself unhurt, and

perceiving the advantage to be derived from his executioner's

irresolution, he sprang to his feet, and stretching out his fettered

arms to the people, implored help and pity, for that he was wilfully

tortured.

At this appeal the fury of the mob burst forth with uncontrollable

vehemence.

"Strike him dead!" was the universal cry; "strike the torturer dead!"

And stones flew about Gerard's head, but in no great number, since,

fortunately for him, they were not plentiful on the field. The unhappy

youth stood for a moment stunned by the uproar; then, folding his

arms, he stepped forward to the edge of the scaffold with the air of

one for whom death has no terrors.

"Wolves!" he exclaimed;--"wolves in the garb of men! ye came for

blood--take mine, and slake your fiendish thirst!"

This rash defiance excited to madness the fury of the rabble. Women,

children, and men of the better classes, fled in all haste from the

field, leaving it occupied by the very dregs and refuse of Antwerp,

who pressed fiercely forward to the scaffold, making violent efforts

to seize the headsman, in spite of the resistance of the police and

officials. The uproar and confusion were tremendous. Around Gerard a

number of officers of justice assembled--less, however, for his

protection, than to prevent the escape of the culprit, who made

furious efforts to get rid of his manacles, and continued to appeal to

the people and shout for assistance. At this moment of confusion, when

scarcely anyone knew what his neighbour did, a man ascended the

scaffold, and approached the executioner. It was Franz.

"Gerard," he said, "Lina conjures you, in God's name, and by your love

for her, to speak to her for one moment. She is below; follow me!" And

he leaped from the scaffold, on the side where the mob was thinnest.

Gerard obeyed the charm of Lina's name. How gladly, he thought, would

he bid his beloved one more farewell before encountering the death he

deemed inevitable. In another second he stood by her side. At the same

instant Franz, stripping off his cloak, muffled Gerard in its folds,

pressed his broad hat over his eyes, and placing Lina's arm in that of

the bewildered headsman, drew them gently from the spot.

"Go quietly and fearlessly through the crowd," he said, "and wait for

me in the copse beyond the farthest gibbet."

And seeing that Lina obeyed his directions and led away Gerard, who

followed passively as a child, Franz ran round to the other side of

the scaffold, and set up such a shouting, that the mob, thinking he

had seized the delinquent headsman, rushed furiously in that

direction, leaving a free passage to the lovers. Franz continued to

shout with all his might, and to affect the most violent indignation.

"Strike him dead!" he cried; "strike him dead! Down with the base

torturer! Throw his carcass to the ravens!"

And he hurled stones at the scaffold, headed a charge on the police,

and behaved altogether like a madman let loose. Favoured by this

attracting of the attention from them, and under cover of the

darkness, Lina succeeded in getting her lover away unrecognised, for

Franz's cloak and hat completely concealed the headsman's well-known

costume. But before they reached the thicket, the mob got possession

of the scaffold, released the prisoner, and began ill-treating the

officials, to compel them to confess what had become of the

executioner. On finding that this latter personage, the cause of the

whole tumult, had disappeared, a man, one of the lowest of the people,

who had seen Franz throw his cloak over Gerard's shoulders, and who

had watched the direction taken by Lina and her disguised companion,

guessed that the fugitive was no other than the headsman himself, and

immediately started in pursuit. Before he could overtake them, Lina

and Gerard disappeared amongst the trees. His suspicions confirmed by

this mysterious conduct, the ruffian, blaspheming with exultation and

fury, rushed upon the lovers; and, tearing off Gerard's cloak, beheld

the headsman's livery. Thereupon, without word or question, he lifted

a heavy cudgel, and struck the poor fellow violently upon the head.

Gerard fell senseless to the ground. The murderer would have repeated

his blow, but Lina, with the courage of a lioness defending her young,

grappled him vigorously, and clasping her arms around his, impeded his

further movements. The sight of her lover, stunned and bleeding at her

feet, seemed to give her superhuman strength; and bethinking her that

it was better to have one enemy to contend with than a hundred, she

abstained from calling out, lest her cries should bring foes instead

of friends. Fortunately the uproar of the mob drowned the imprecations

of Gerard's assailant, who vociferated horrible curses as he strove,

with brutal violence, to shake off the heroic girl. At the very moment

when, her last strength exhausted, she was about to succumb, Franz

entered the copse, and, seeing Gerard motionless on the ground and his

sister struggling with a stranger, immediately guessed what had

occurred. A cry of rage burst from his lips, and before Lina remarked

his presence, his powerful hands were upon the shoulders of her

antagonist, who lay, the next instant, upon the grass at his feet.

"Lina!" cried Franz, seizing the fallen man and dragging him in the

direction of the scaffold, "hide Gerard in the bushes; if he still

lives, he is rescued from all he most dreads. Quick! I will return."

With these words he hurried from the copse, dragging his prisoner

after him so rapidly, that the prostrate man, his legs in Franz's iron

grasp, his head trailing in the dust, and striking violently against

each stock and stone, could make no effectual resistance. As soon as

Franz was within earshot of the mob, he shouted, more loudly than

ever--

"The headsman! here I have him--the headsman!"

"Death to the villain!" was re-echoed on all sides; and from all four

corners of the field the mob, who had dispersed to seek the object of

their hate, rushed towards Franz. When Lina's brother saw himself the

centre of a dense crowd, howling and frantic for blood, he hurled

amongst them the man whom he dragged by the feet, with the words--

"There is the headsman!"

"Death to him!" hoarsely repeated a hundred voices, and as many blows

descended upon the shrieking wretch, whose expostulations and prayers

for mercy were unheard in the mighty tumult, and whom the mob, blinded

by fury, easily mistook in the darkness for the delinquent

executioner. His cries were soon silenced by the cruel treatment he

received; in a few minutes he was dead, his clothes were torn from his

body, and his face was disfigured and mutilated so as to be wholly

unrecognisable.

Leaving the mob to their bloody work, Franz returned to his sister,

and found her weeping and praying beside the body of her lover, whom

she believed dead. On examination, however, he found Gerard's pulse

still beating. The violent blow he had received had stunned but not

slain him. Fresh water thrown upon his face and chest restored him to

consciousness, and to the caresses of his dear Lina, speechless and

almost beside herself with joy at his recovery. When his strength

returned, the trio crept stealthily from the copse, and safely reached

the town, where Gerard concealed himself during the evening in the

house of his mistress. When midnight came, and the streets of Antwerp

were deserted, he betook himself, accompanied by Franz, to his own

dwelling, and made his unexpected appearance in his father's chamber.

The old headsman, who lay broad awake upon his bed of sickness,

weeping bitterly, and deploring the death of his unhappy son, deemed

himself the sport of a deceitful vision when he saw the dead man

approach his couch. But when convinced, by Gerard's voice and

affectionate embrace, that he indeed beheld his child in solid flesh

and bone, his joy knew no bounds, and for a moment inspired the young

man with fears of his immediate dissolution.

"My son, my son!" he cried, "you know not half your good fortune. Not

only have you miraculously escaped a cruel death, but you are also

delivered from the horrible employment which has been mine, and was to

be yours. The accursed obligation that weighed upon our race ceases

with life, and you, my son, are _dead_!"

"And pure from the stain of blood!" joyfully exclaimed Gerard.

"Begone," continued the old man, "and dwell far from thine unjust

brethren. Quit Antwerp, marry thy good Lina, be faithful and kind to

her, and heaven bless thee in thy posterity! Thy sons will not be born

to wield the axe, nor wilt thou weep over them, as I have wept over

thee. The savings of thine ancestors and mine insure thee for ever

from poverty; make good use of them and be happy!"

His voice grew weak with emotion, and died away in inarticulate

benedictions. Gerard hung upon his father's neck, and stammered forth

his thanks. The events of the day appeared to him like a dream. He

could not realise the sudden transition from the depths of despair to

the utmost height of happiness.

* * * * *

For many years after these incidents there lived at Brussels, under an

assumed name, the son of the Antwerp headsman, and his beautiful wife

Lina. The old man's blessing was heard, and when Gerard's turn came to

quit a world of cares for a brighter and better abode, brave sons and

fair daughters wept around the dying bed of the DOOMSTER'S FIRSTBORN.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT NOVELS--A DIALOGUE, IN A LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.

DEAR EUSEBIUS,--Whether it be a fable or not that the Lydians invented

chess, to relieve themselves from pain and trouble, and were content

to eat one day and play another, unquestionably amusement is a most

salutary medicine to heal the "mind diseased," and even to mitigate

hunger itself.

The utilitarian ant would not have had the best of the argument with

the grasshopper,--"dance now,"--if the latter had not insisted on

dancing too long--a whole summer. Even hunger would do its dire work

in double-quick time, if left to fret incessantly on the mind as well

as the fast failing substance. Avert the thought of it, and half a

loaf will keep alive longer than a whole one, eaten together with

cankering care. "Post equitem sedet atra Cura," said the most amiable

of satirists; but Care, the real "gentleman in black," won't always be

contented to sit behind, but is apt to assume an opposite seat at the

table, and, grinning horribly, to take away your appetite "quite and

entirely." You may try, Eusebius, to run away from him, and bribe the

stoker to seventy or eighty miles an hour, but Care will telegraph

you, and thus electrify you on your arrival, when you thought him a

hundred miles or so off. I have ascertained a fact, Eusebius, that

Care is not out of one, but _in_ one, and has a lodging somewhere in

the stomach, where he sets up a diabolical laboratory, and sends his

vile fumes up, up--and so all over the brain; and from that

conjuration what blue devils do not arise, as he smokes at leisure his

infernal cigar below! Charge me not, Eusebius, with being

poetical--this is sober prose to the indescribable reality. Your

friend has been hypochondriacal. It is a shameful truth; but

confession is the demon's triumph, and so the sufferer is

punished--mocked, scoffed at, unpitied, and uncured. The Lady Dorothea

Dosewell had proposed a seventy-fifth remedy. My lady, I am in

despair: I have not as yet completed the fifty-sixth prescription; the

fifty-fifth has left me worse. The Curate, who happened to be present,

laughed at me, as all do, and said, "No wonder--you are like the man

who complained of inveterate deafness, had applied every recipe, and

was cured by the most simple one--a cork-screw. Do set aside all your

nostrums, and spend a week or two at the curacy, and I'll take care to

pack in half-a-dozen novels, and you will soon forget your own in

other folks' woes."

"I will go," I replied; "but I protest against any woes whatsoever.

When young as you, Mr Curate, I could bear them, and sit out a tragedy

stoically; but shaken nerves and increasing years won't bear the

tragic phantasmagoria now. Sentimental comedy is too much, and I

positively, with shame, cry over a child's book."

"I fear," quoth the Curate, "it is a sure sign your heart is

hardening. The sympathy that should soften it is too easily and too

quickly drawn off by the fancy to waste, and leaves the interior dry.

Come to us, and alternate your feelings between fancy and active

realities; between reading imaginary histories and entering

practically and interestingly into the true histories of the many

homes I must visit, and you will soon be fresh in spirit and sound

again."

Let me, Eusebius, use the dialogue form, as in some former letters:

suffice it only to tell you previously, that I took the Curate's

advice and invitation, and for a time did my best to throw off every

ailment, and refresh myself by country-air exercise, in the society of

the happy Curate and his wife, at the vicarage of ----, which you know

well by description. And here we read novels. Even at the Curate's

house did we read novels--those "Satan's books," as a large body of

Puritans call them, whilst they read them privately; or, if seen,

ostensibly that they may point out the wickedness in them, and thus

forbid the use of them; as an elder of the demure sect excused himself

when detected at a theatre, that he "came to see if any of their young

folk were there." How often people do what is right, and defend it as

if it was a wrong, and apologise for what gives them no shame! Thus

the Curate commenced the defence of novel-reading:--

CURATE.--What is the meaning of the absurd cry against works of

fiction? If it be true that "the proper study of mankind is man," is

it not wise to foresee, as it were, life under all its possible

contingencies? Are we not armed for coming events by knowing something

of their nature beforehand? Who learns only from the world amid which

he walks, learns from a master that conceals too much; and the greater

portion of the lesson, after all, must come out of the learner's own

mind, and it is a weary while before he has learnt by experience the

requisite shrewdness. Life is too short to learn by a process so slow,

that the pupil begins to decay before he has learnt one truth. The

preparatory education is not amiss. The early tears that tales of

fiction bid to flow scald not like the bitter ones of real sorrow; and

they, as it were by a charm of inoculation, prepare the cheek for the

after tears, that they burn not and furrow too deeply. I cannot

conceive how people came to take it into their heads that plays and

novels are wicked things necessarily. Your Lady Prudence will take

infinite pains that her young people shall not contaminate even their

fingers with the half-binding--and perhaps fail too--and for honest

simplicity induce a practice of duplicity, for fiction will be read.

It is the proper food to natural curiosity--an instinct given us to

learn; and I dare to say that letters were invented by Cadmus

purposely for that literature.

AQUILIUS.--Say nothing of Cadmus, or the serpent's teeth will be

thrown against your argument. Their sowing was not unlike the setting

up a press; and your literary men are as fierce combatants as ever

sprang from the dragon's teeth, and have as strong a propensity to

slaughter each other.

CURATE.--Yes, and even in works of fiction we have had the conflict of

authors. They write now as much against each other as formerly.

Fielding proposed to himself to write down Richardson; and religious

novelists of our days take the field against real or imaginary

opponents. Richardson, able as he was, very cunningly set about his

work--his _Clarissa_. By an assumed gravity, and well-managed

affectation of morality, he contrived to render popular among prudes a

most indecent work. The book was actually put into the hands of young

people as an antidote to novels in general. This appeared to Fielding

abominable hypocrisy, corrupting under disguise. And to this honest

indignation are we indebted to him for his _Joseph Andrews_, the

antidote to the very questionable morality, and unquestionable moral,

of the virtue-rewarded _Pamela_.

AQUILIUS.--I was told the other day by a lady, that there are few

kitchens in which _Pamela_ is not to be found. She detected her own

maid reading it, and was obliged to part with her, for setting her cap

at her son, a youth just entered at College. The girl defended her

conduct as a laudable and virtuous ambition, which the good author

encouraged,--was not the title Virtue Rewarded? So much, for _Pamela_.

You will not, however, surely defend the novel-writing system of

nearly half a century ago--the sickly sentimentalities of the _All for

Love_ school--that restless progeny not allowed to rest on circulating

library shelves till their rest was final--whose tendency was to make

young persons of either sex nothing but fools.

CURATE.--And whose authors had the fool's mark set upon them, not

unhappily, by Jenner, in his _Town Eclogues_:--

"Thrice-happy authors, who with little skill

In two short weeks can two short volumes fill!

Who take some miss, of Christian name inviting,

And plunge her deep in love and letter-writing,

Perplex her well with jealous parents' cares,

Expose her virtue to a lover's snares,

Give her false friends and perjured swains by dozens,

With all the episodes of aunts and cousins;

Make parents thwart her, and her lover scorn her,

And some mishap spring up at every corner;

Make her lament her fate with ahs and ohs,

And tell some dear Miss Willis all her woes,

Whilst now with love and now with grief she rages;

Till, having brought her through two hundred pages,

Finding at length her father's heart obdurate,

Will make her take the squire, and leave the curate;

She scales the garden-wall, or fords a river,

Elopes, gets married, and her friends forgive her."

AQUILIUS.--And was it not whimsical enough that, in the presumption of

their vanity, upstarted the Puritan school, who had ever declaimed

against novels and dramas, to counteract the mischievous tendency of

these silly love-tales, and wrote themselves much sillier, and quite

as mischievous?

CURATE.--Are you then audacious enough to pass censure upon _Coelebs_,

and suchlike?

AQUILIUS.--"Great is Diana of Ephesus!" I abominate every thing Hannah

More wrote--vain, clever, idolised, spoiled woman as she was--her

style all riddle-ma-ree. Read her lauded _What is Prayer?_ and you are

reading a conundrum. An affected woman, she wrote affectedly, with a

kind of unwomanly dishonesty. There was good natural stuff in her too,

but it was sadly spoilt in the making up.

CURATE.--You will shock the good, or rather the goody folk, who will

insist upon the religious and moral purpose of all her works.