When the rest of the household were in deep sleep, Randal stood long at
his open window, looking over the dreary, comfortless scene--the moon
gleaming from skies half-autumnal, half-wintry, upon squalid decay,
through the ragged fissures of the firs; and when he lay down to rest,
his sleep was feverish, and troubled by turbulent dreams.
However, he was up early, and with an unwonted colour in his cheeks,
which his sister ascribed to the country air. After breakfast, he took
his way towards Hazeldean, mounted upon a tolerable horse, which he
hired of a neighbouring farmer who occasionally hunted. Before noon,
the garden and terrace of the Casino came in sight. He reined in his
horse, and by the little fountain at which Leonard had been wont to
eat his radishes and con his book, he saw Riccabocca seated under the
shade of the red umbrella. And by the Italian's side stood a form that
a Greek of old might have deemed the Naiad of the Fount; for in its
youthful beauty there was something so full of poetry--something at
once so sweet and so stately--that it spoke to the imagination while it
charmed the sense.
Randal dismounted, tied his horse to the gate, and, walking down a
trellised alley, came suddenly to the spot. His dark shadow fell over
the clear mirror of the fountain just as Riccabocca had said, "All here
is so secure from evil!--the waves of the fountain are never troubled
like those of the river!" and Violante had answered in her soft native
tongue, and lifting her dark, spiritual eyes--"But the fountain would
be but a lifeless pool, oh my father, if the spray did not mount
towards the skies!"
THE MASTER THIEF.
A NORSE POPULAR TALE.
On a gloomy autumn evening I sat alone with the "proprietor," to whose
children I was then tutor, in his country house, about twenty miles
from Christiania. Out of doors something was falling which was neither
rain, nor snow, nor sleet, but a mixture of all three; and inside, in
the "proprietor's" parlour, the lights burned so sluggishly, that no
other objects were discernible through the haze than a corner cupboard,
filled with Chinese nick-nacks, a great mirror in an old-fashioned gilt
frame, and a hereditary tankard, the reward of one of the proprietor's
ancestors for service rendered to the state. That worthy individual had
nestled himself into one corner of the sofa, where he pored over the
proof-sheets of his pamphlet, entitled, "_A few Patriotic Expressions
for the Country's Good; by an Anonymous Writer_."
While brooding over this gold mine of his own ideas he gave birth to
many sagacious thoughts, which, from time to time, with a twinkle of
his grey eyes, he threw out for my edification, as I sat and tried to
read in the other corner of the sofa. After a while, warming with his
theme, he poured out a host of "patriotic expressions" and opinions,
worthy of all respect, but of which nothing save the pamphlet quoted
above, or his great _Treatise on Tithe_, can give an adequate idea.
I am ashamed to own that all this wisdom was lost upon me. I knew it
all by heart, for I had heard the same story forty times at least
before. I am not gifted with a patience of Indian-rubber; but what
could I do? Retreat to my own room was impossible, for it had been
scoured for Sunday, and was full of reek and damp. So, after some
fruitless attempts to bury myself in my book, I was forced to give
in, and to suffer myself to be carried along in the troubled stream
of the proprietor's eloquence. Of course he dilated on questions of
profound national importance, which he furbished up with all sorts of
cut-and-dried figures of speech. He was now fairly on his hobby, and
rose rapidly to the seventh heaven. He stood up and gesticulated; then
he strode up and down, and his grey dressing-gown described streaming
circles behind him, as he turned short round, and limped backwards and
forwards on his spindle-shanks,--for, like Tyrtæus, the proprietor
had a strong halt. The candles flared, flickered, and guttered, as he
passed triumphantly by the table on which they stood; and his winged
words sung in my ears like humble-bees when the linden-trees are in
bloom. Off he went on "Class Legislation" and "Judicial Reform," on
"Corn Laws and Free Trade," on "Native Industry and Centralisation,"
on the "Victorious progress of Ideas," and the "Insufficiency of our
Circulating Medium," on "Bureaucracy," and the "Aristocracy of Office,"
till he bid fair to exhaust all the _cracies_, _archies_, and _isms_
that ever existed, from King Solomon to the present time.
Mortal man could hold out no longer, and I was just on the point of
bursting out into a roar of laughter in the worthy proprietor's face,
when peal after peal of laughter resounded from the kitchen, and came
to my rescue. It was Christian the blacksmith who had the word in that
quarter of the house, and when he ceased speaking, repeated roars of
mirth followed.
"I'll just go out and hear some of the smith's stories," I cried as I
ran out, leaving the proprietor behind in the parlour with the dull
candles and his drowsy current of thought.
"Children's prate and lying stories," growled the proprietor as I shut
the door. "People of intelligence should be ashamed to listen to them;
but well-meant patriotic expressions--" The rest was lost upon me.
Light and life and mirth streamed forth in the high and airy hall; on
the hearth blazed a pile of logs, which threw a strong light into the
furthest nook. In the chimney-corner sat enthroned the proprietor's
housekeeper with her spinning-wheel; and though for many years she
had had hard struggles with the rheumatism, and barricaded the enemy
out with a multitude of undercoats and kirtles, throwing over all,
as an outwork, a huge grey woollen wrapper, yet her face shone under
her plaited cap like the full moon. At her feet lay the proprietor's
children laughing and cracking nuts; while round about sat a circle of
maids and workmen's wives, who trode their spinning-wheels with busy
feet, or plied the noisy carding-comb. In the entrance the threshers
shook off the snow from their feet, and stepping in with icicles in
their hair, sat down at the long table, where the cook served up to
them their supper--a bowl of milk and a dish of close-pressed porridge.
Against the high chimney-piece leant the smith, who smoked tobacco from
a short pipe, and whose face, while it showed traces of the smithy,
bore an expression of dry humour, which testified that he had been
telling a good story, and telling it well.
"Good afternoon, smith," said I; "what story have you been telling
which aroused so much laughter?"
"Ha, ha!" shouted the boys, "Christian has been telling us all about
the 'Devil and the Smith,' and how the smith got the fiend into a
hazel-nut; and now he's going to tell us about the Master Thief, and
how he won the Squire's daughter."
"Well, don't let me stop the story, smith," I replied, only too
glad to escape for a while from the proprietor with his "Patriotic
Expressions," his "Corn Laws and Free Trade," his "Circulating Mediums
and Bureaucracies," and to refresh myself with hearing one of these old
national tales, told in a simple childish way by one of the people.
So after one or two long-drawn puffs, the Smith began
THE MASTER THIEF.
Once upon a time there was a poor cottager who had three sons. He had
nothing to leave them when he died, and no money with which to put them
to any trade, so that he did not know what to make of them. At last
he said he would give them leave to take to anything each liked best,
and to go whithersoever they pleased, and he would go with them a bit
of the way; and so he did. He went with them till they came to a place
where three roads met, and there each of them chose a road, and their
father bade them good-bye, and went back home. I have never heard tell
what became of the two elder; but as for the youngest, he went both far
and long, as you shall hear.
So it fell out one night as he was going through a great wood that such
bad weather overtook him. It blew and drizzled so that he could scarce
keep his eyes open; and in a trice, before he knew how it was, he got
bewildered, and could not find either road or path. But as he went on
and on, at last he saw a glimmering of light far far off in the wood.
So he thought he would try and get to the light; and after a time he
did reach it. There it was in a large house, and the fire was blazing
so brightly inside that he could tell the folk had not yet gone to bed;
so he went in and saw an old dame bustling about and minding the house.
"Good evening," said the youth.
"Good evening," said the old dame.
"Hutetu! it's such foul weather out of doors to-night," said he.
"So it is," said she.
"Can I get leave to have a bed and shelter here to-night?" asked the
youth.
"You'll get no good by sleeping here," said the old dame; "for if the
folk come home and find you here, they'll kill both me and you."
"What sort of folk, then, are they who live here?" asked the youth.
"Oh, robbers! And such a bad lot of them too," said the old dame. "They
stole me away when I was little, and have kept me as their housekeeper
ever since."
"Well, for all that, I think I'll just go to bed," said the youth.
"Come what may, I'll not stir out at night in such weather."
"Very well," said the old dame; "but if you stay it will be the worse
for you."
With that the youth got into a bed which stood there, but he dared not
go to sleep, and very soon after in came the robbers; so the old dame
told them how a stranger fellow had come in whom she had not been able
to get out of the house again.
"Did you see if he had any money?" said the robbers.
"Such a one as he money!" said the old dame, "the tramper! Why, if he
had clothes to his back, it was as much as he had."
Then the robbers began to talk among themselves what they should do
with him; if they should kill him outright, or what else they should
do. Meantime the youth got up and began to talk to them, and to ask if
they did not want a servant, for it might be that he would be glad to
enter into their service.
"Oh," said they, "if you have a mind to follow the trade that we
follow, you can very well get a place here."
"It's all one to me what trade I follow," said the youth; "for when I
left home, father gave me leave to take to any trade I chose."
"Well, have you a mind to steal?" asked the robbers.
"I don't care," said the youth, for he thought it would not take long
to learn that trade.
Now there lived a man a little way off who had three oxen. One of
these he was to take to the town to sell, and the robbers had heard
what he was going to do, so they said to the youth, that if he were
good to steal the ox from the man by the way without his knowing it,
and without doing him any harm, they would give him leave to be their
serving man.
Well! the youth set off, and took with him a pretty shoe, with a silver
buckle on it, which lay about the house; and he put the shoe in the
road along which the man was going with his ox; and when he had done
that, he went into the wood and hid himself under a bush. So when the
man came by he saw the shoe at once.
"That's a nice shoe," said he. "If I only had the fellow to it, I'd
take it home with me, and perhaps I'd put my old dame into a good
humour for once." For you must know that he had an old wife, so cross
and snappish that it was not long between each time that she boxed his
ears. But then he bethought him that he could do nothing with the odd
shoe unless he had the fellow to it; so he went on his way and let the
shoe lie on the road.
Then the youth took up the shoe, and made all the haste he could to get
before the man by a short cut through the wood, and laid it down before
him in the road again. When the man came along with his ox he got quite
angry with himself for being so stupid as to leave the fellow to the
shoe lying in the road instead of taking it with him; so he tied the
ox to the fence, and said to himself, "I may just as well run back and
pick up the other, and then I'll have a pair of good shoes for my old
dame, and so, perhaps, I'll get a kind word from her for once."
So he set off, and hunted and hunted up and down for the shoe, but
no shoe did he find; and at length he had to go back with the one he
had. But, meanwhile, the youth had taken the ox and gone off with
it; and when the man came and saw that his ox was gone, he began to
cry and bewail, for he was afraid that his old dame would kill him
outright when she came to know that the ox was lost. But just then it
came across his mind that he would go home and take the second ox, and
drive it to the town, and not let the old dame know anything about
the matter. So he did this, and went home and took the ox without his
dame's knowing it, and set off with it to the town. But the robbers
knew all about it, and they said to the youth, if he could get this ox
too, without the man's knowing it, and without his doing him any harm,
he should be as good as any one of them. If that were all, the youth
said, he did not think it a very hard thing.
This time he took with him a rope, and hung himself up under the
armpits to a tree right in the man's way. So the man came along with
his ox, and when he saw such a sight hanging there he began to feel a
little queer.
"Well," said he, "whatever heavy thoughts you had who have hanged
yourself up there, it can't be helped; you may hang for what I care!
I can't breathe life into you again;" and with that he went on his
way with his ox. Down slipped the youth from the tree, and ran by a
footpath, and got before the man, and hung himself up right in his way
again.
"Bless me!" said the man, "were you really so heavy at heart that you
hanged yourself up there--or is it only a piece of witchcraft that I
see before me? Ay, ay! you may hang for all I care, whether you are a
ghost or whatever you are." So he passed on with his ox.
Now the youth did just as he had done twice before; he jumped down from
the tree, ran through the wood by a footpath, and hung himself up right
in the man's way again. But when the man saw this sight for the third
time, he said to himself,--
"Well! this is an ugly business! Is it likely now that they should have
been so heavy at heart as to hang themselves, all these three? No! I
cannot think that it is anything else than a piece of witchcraft that
I see. But now I'll soon know for certain: if the other two are still
hanging there, it must be really so; but if they are not, then it can
be nothing but witchcraft that I see."
So he tied up his ox, and ran back to see if the others were still
really hanging there. But while he went and peered up into all the
trees, the youth jumped down and took his ox and ran off with it. When
the man came back and found his ox gone, he was in a sad plight, and,
as any one might know without being told, he began to cry and bemoan;
but at last he came to take it easier, and so he thought--
"There's no other help for it than to go home and take the third ox
without my dame's knowing it, and to try and drive a good bargain with
it, so that I may get a good sum of money for it."
So he went home and set off with the ox, and his old dame knew never
a word about the matter. But the robbers, they knew all about it, and
they said to the youth, that, if he could steal this ox as he had
stolen the other two, then he should be master over the whole band.
Well, the youth set off, and ran into the wood; and as the man came by
with his ox he set up a dreadful bellowing, just like a great ox in the
wood. When the man heard that, you can't think how glad he was, for it
seemed to him that he knew the voice of his big bullock, and he thought
that now he should find both of them again; so he tied up the third ox,
and ran off from the road to look for them in the wood; but meantime
the youth went off with the third ox. Now, when the man came back and
found he had lost this ox too, he was so wild that there was no end to
his grief. He cried and roared and beat his breast, and, to tell the
truth, it was many days before he dared go home; for he was afraid lest
his old dame should kill him outright on the spot.
As for the robbers, they were not very well pleased either, when they
had to own that the youth was master over the whole band. So one day
they thought they would try their hands at something which he was
not man enough to do; and they set off all together, every man Jack
of them, and left him alone at home. Now, the first thing that he did
when they were all well clear of the house, was to drive the oxen out
to the road, so that they might run back to the man from whom he had
stolen them; and right glad he was to see them, as you may fancy. Next
he took all the horses which the robbers had, and loaded them with the
best things he could lay his hands on--gold and silver, and clothes and
other fine things; and then he bade the old dame to greet the robbers
when they came back, and to thank them for him, and to say that now he
was setting off on his travels, and that they would have hard work to
find him again; and with that, off he started.
After a good bit he came to the road along which he was going when he
fell among the robbers; and when he got near home, and could see his
father's cottage, he put on a uniform which he had found among the
clothes he had taken from the robbers, and which was made just like a
general's. So he drove up to the door as if he were any other great
man. After that he went in and asked if he could have a lodging? No;
that he couldn't at any price.
"How ever should I be able," said the man, "to make room in my house
for such a fine gentleman--I who scarce have a rag to lie upon, and
miserable rags too?"
"You were always a stingy old hunks," said the youth, "and so you are
still, when you won't take your own son in."
"What, you my son!" said the man.
"Don't you know me again?" said the youth. Well, after a little while
he did know him again.
"But what have you been turning your hand to, that you have made
yourself so great a man in such haste?" asked the man.
"Oh, I'll soon tell you," said the youth. "You said I might take to any
trade I chose, and so I bound myself apprentice to some thieves and
robbers, and now I've served my time out, and am become a Master Thief."
Now there lived a Squire close by to his father's cottage, and he had
such a great house, and such heaps of money, that he could not tell how
much he had. He had a daughter too, and a smart and pretty girl she
was. So the Master Thief set his heart upon having her to wife; and he
told his father to go to the Squire and ask for his daughter for him.
"If he asks by what trade I get my living, you can say I am a Master
Thief."
"I think you've lost your wits," said the man, "for you can't be in
your right mind when you think of such nonsense."
No! he had not lost his wits; his father must and should go up to the
Squire and ask for his daughter.
"Nay, but I tell you, I daren't go to the Squire and be your spokesman;
he who is so rich, and has so much money," said the man.
Yes, there was no help for it, said the Master Thief; he should go
whether he would or no; and if he did not go by fair means, he would
soon make him go by foul. But the man was still loath to go; so he
stepped after him, and rubbed him down with a good birch cudgel, and
kept on till the man came crying and sobbing inside the Squire's door.
How now, my man! What ails you? said the Squire.
So he told him the whole story; how he had three sons who set off
one day, and how he had given them leave to go whithersoever they
would, and to follow whatever calling they chose. "And here now is the
youngest come home, and has beaten me till he has made me come to you
and ask for your daughter for him to wife; and he bids me say, besides,
that he is a Master Thief." And so he fell to crying and sobbing again.
"Never mind, my man," said the Squire, laughing; "just go back and tell
him from me, that he must prove his skill first. If he can steal the
roast from the spit in the kitchen on Sunday, while all the household
are looking after it, he shall have my daughter. Just go and tell him
that."
So he went back and told the youth, who thought it would be an easy
job. So he set about and caught three hares alive, and put them into
a bag, and dressed himself in some old rags, until he looked so poor
and filthy that it made one's heart bleed to see; and then he sneaked
into the passage at the backdoor of the Squire's house on the Sunday
forenoon, with his bag, just like any other beggar-boy. But the Squire
himself and all his household were in the kitchen watching the roast.
Just as they were doing this, the youth let one hare go, and it set of
and ran round and round the yard in front of the house.
"Oh, just look at that hare!" said the folk in the kitchen, and were
all for running out to catch it.
Yes, the Squire saw it running too. "Oh, let it run," said he; "there's
no use in thinking to catch a hare by running after it."
A little while after, the youth let the second hare go, and they saw it
in the kitchen, and thought it was the same they had seen before, and
still wanted to run out and catch it; but the Squire said again it was
no use. It was not long before the youth let the third hare go, and it
set off and ran round and round the yard as the others before it. Now,
they saw it from the kitchen, and still thought it was the same hare
that kept on running about, and were all eager to be out after it.
"Well, it is a fine hare," said the Squire; "come, let's see if we
can't lay our hands on it."
So out he ran, and the rest with him--away they all went, the hare
before, and they after; so that it was rare fun to see. But meantime
the youth took the roast and ran of with it; and where the Squire got a
roast for his dinner that day I don't know; but one thing I know, and
that is, that he had no roast hare, though he ran after it till he was
both warm and weary.
Now it chanced that the Priest came to dinner that day, and when the
Squire told him what a trick the Master Thief had played him, he made
such game of him that there was no end to it.
"For my part," said the Priest, "I can't think how it could ever happen
to me to be made such a fool of by a fellow like that."
"Very well--only keep a sharp look-out," said the Squire; "maybe he'll
come to see you before you know a word of it." But the Priest stuck to
his text,--that he did, and made game of the Squire because he had been
so taken in.
Later in the afternoon came the Master Thief, and wanted to have the
Squire's daughter, as he had given his word. But the Squire began to
talk him over, and said, "Oh, you must first prove your skill a little
more; for what you did to-day was no great thing, after all. Couldn't
you now play off a good trick on the Priest, who is sitting in there,
and making game of me for letting such a fellow as you twist me round
his thumb."
"Well, as for that, it wouldn't be hard," said the Master Thief. So
he dressed himself up like a bird, threw a great white sheet over his
body, took the wings of a goose and tied them to his back, and so
climbed up into a great maple which stood in the Priest's garden. And
when the Priest came home in the evening, the youth began to bawl out--
"Father Laurence! Father Laurence!"--for that was the Priest's name.
"Who is that calling me?" said the Priest.
"I am an angel," said the Master Thief, "sent from God to let you know
that you shall be taken up alive into heaven for your piety's sake.
Next Monday you must hold yourself ready for the journey, for I shall
come then to fetch you in a sack; and all your gold and your silver,
and all that you have of this world's goods, you must lay together in a
heap in your dining-room."
Well, Father Laurence fell on his knees before the angel, and thanked
him; and the very next day he preached a farewell sermon, and expounded
how there had come down an angel unto the big maple in his garden,
who had told him that he was to be taken up alive into heaven for his
piety's sake; and he preached and made such a touching discourse, that
all who were at church wept, both young and old.
So the Monday after came the Master Thief like an angel again, and
the Priest fell on his knees and thanked him before he was put into
the sack; but when he had got him well in, the Master Thief drew and
dragged him over stocks and stones.
"Ow! ow!" groaned the Priest inside the sack, "wherever are we going!"
"This is the narrow way which leadeth unto the kingdom of heaven,"
said the Master Thief, who went on dragging him along till he had
nearly broken every bone in his body. At last he tumbled him into a
goose-house that belonged to the Squire, and the geese began pecking
and pinching him with their bills, so that he was more dead that alive.
"Now you are in the flames of purgatory, to be cleansed and purified
for life everlasting," said the Master Thief; and with that he went his
way, and took all the gold and silver, and all the fine things which
the Priest had laid together in his dining-room. The next morning, when
the goose-girl came to let the geese out, she heard how the priest lay
in the sack and bemoaned himself in the goose-house.
"In heaven's name, who's there, and what ails you?" she cried. "Oh!"
said the Priest, "if you are an angel from heaven, do let me out, and
let me return again to earth, for it is worse here than in hell. The
little fiends keep on pinching me with tongs."
"God help us, I am no angel at all," said the girl as she helped the
Priest out of the sack; "I only look after the Squire's geese, and like
enough they are the little fiends which have pinched your reverence."
"Oh!" groaned the Priest, "this is all that Master Thief's doing. Ah!
my gold and my silver, and my fine clothes." And he beat his breast,
and hobbled home at such a rate that the girl thought he had lost his
wits all at once.
Now when the Squire came to hear how it had gone with the Priest, and
how he had been along the narrow way, and into purgatory, he laughed
till he wellnigh split his sides. But when the Master Thief came and
asked for his daughter as he had promised, the Squire put him off
again, and said--
"You must do one masterpiece better still, that I may see plainly what
you are fit for. Now I have twelve horses in my stable, and on them I
will put twelve grooms, one on each. If you are so good a thief as to
steal the horses from under them, I'll see what I can do for you."
"Very well, I daresay I can do it," said the Master Thief; "but shall I
really have your daughter if I can?"
"Yes, if you can, I'll do my best for you," said the Squire.
So the Master Thief set off to a shop, and bought brandy enough to fill
two pocket-flasks, and into one of them he put a sleepy drink, but into
the other only brandy. After that he hired eleven men to lie in wait at
night, behind the Squire's stableyard; and last of all, for fair words
and a good bit of money, he borrowed a ragged gown and cloak from an
old woman; and so, with a staff in his hand and a bundle at his back,
he limped off, as evening drew on towards the Squire's stable. Just as
he got there they were watering the horses for the night, and had their
hands full of work.
"What the devil do you want?" said one of the grooms to the old woman.
"Oh, oh! hutetu! it is so bitter cold," said she, and shivered and
shook, and made wry faces. "Hutetu! it is so cold, a poor wretch may
easily freeze to death;" and with that she fell to shivering and
shaking again.
"Oh! for the love of heaven, can I get leave to stay here a while, and
sit inside the stable door?"
"To the devil with your leave," said one. "Pack yourself off this
minute, for if the Squire sets his eye on you he'll lead us a pretty
dance."
"Oh! the poor old bag-of-bones," said another, who seemed to take pity
on her, "the old hag may sit inside and welcome; such a one as she can
do no harm."
And the rest said, some she should stay, and some she shouldn't; but
while they were quarrelling and minding the horses, she crept further
and further into the stable, till at last she sat herself down behind
the door; and when she had got so far, no one gave any more heed to her.
As the night wore on, the men found it rather cold work to sit so
still and quiet on horseback.
"Hutetu! it is so devilish cold," said one, and beat his arms crosswise.
"That it is," said another. "I freeze so, that my teeth chatter."
"If one only had a quid to chew," said a third.
Well! there was one who had an ounce or two; so they shared it between
them, though it wasn't much, after all, that each got; and so they
chewed and spat, and spat and chewed. This helped them somewhat; but in
a little while they were just as bad as ever.
"Hutetu!" said one, and shivered and shook.
"Hutetu!" said the old woman, and shivered so, that every tooth in her
head chattered. Then she pulled out the flask with brandy in it, and
her hand shook so that the spirit splashed about in the flask, and then
she took such a gulf, that it went "bop" in her throat.
"What is that you've got in your flask, old girl?" said one of the
grooms.
"Oh! it's only a drop of brandy, old man," said she.
"Brandy! Well, I never! Do let me have a drop," screamed the whole
twelve, one after another.
"Oh! but it is such a little drop," mumbled the old woman, "it will not
even wet your mouths round." But they must and would have it; there was
no help for it; and so she pulled out the flask with the sleeping drink
in it, and put it to the first man's lips; then she shook no more,
but guided the flask so that each of them got what he wanted, and the
twelfth had not done drinking before the first sat and snored. Then the
Master Thief threw off his beggar's rags, and took one groom after the
other so softly off their horses, and set them astride on the beams
between the stalls; and so he called his eleven men, and rode off with
the Squire's twelve horses.
But when the Squire got up in the morning, and went to look after
his grooms, they had just begun to come to; and some of them fell to
spurring the beams with their spurs, till the splinters flew again, and
some fell off, and some still hung on and sat there looking like fools.
"Ho! ho!" said the Squire; "I see very well who has been here; but as
for you, a pretty set of blockheads you must be to sit here and let the
Master Thief steal the horses from between your legs."
So they all got a good leathering because they had not kept a sharper
look-out.
Further on in the day came the Master Thief again, and told how he had
managed the matter, and asked for the Squire's daughter, as he had
promised; but the Squire gave him one hundred dollars down, and said he
must do something better still.
"Do you think now," said he, "you can steal the horse from under me
while I am out riding on his back?"
"O, yes! I daresay I could," said the Master Thief, "if I were really
sure of getting your daughter."
Well, well, the Squire would see what he could do; and he told the
Master Thief a day when he would be taking a ride on a great common
where they drilled the troops. So the Master Thief soon got hold of
an old worn-out jade of a mare, and set to work, and made traces and
collar of withies and broom-twigs, and bought an old beggarly cart and
a great cask. After that he said to an old beggar woman, that he would
give her ten dollars if she would get in the cask, and keep her mouth
agape over the taphole, into which he was going to stick his finger. No
harm should happen to her; she should only be driven about a little;
and if he took his finger out more than once, she was to have ten
dollars more. Then he threw a few rags and tatters over himself, and
stuffed himself out, and put on a wig and a great beard of goat's hair,
so that no one could know him again, and set off for the common, where
the Squire had already been riding about a good bit. When he reached
the place, he went along so softly and slowly that he scarce made an
inch of way. Gee up! Gee up! and so he went on little; then he stood
stock still, and so on a little again; and altogether the pace was so
miserable that it never once came into the Squire's head that this
could be the Master Thief.
At last the Squire rode right up to him, and asked if he had seen any
one lurking about in the wood thereabouts.
"No," said the man, "I haven't seen a soul."
"Harkye, now," said the Squire, "if you have a mind to ride into the
wood, and hunt about and see if you can fall upon any one lurking about
there, you shall have the loan of my horse, and a shilling into the
bargain, to drink my health, for your pains."
"I don't see how I can go," said the man, "for I am going to a wedding
with this cask of mead, which I have been to town to fetch, and here
the tap has fallen out by the way, and so I must go along, holding my
finger in the taphole.
"Ride off," said the Squire; "I'll look after your horse and cask."
Well, on these terms the man was willing to go; but he begged the
Squire to be quick in putting his finger into the taphole when he took
his own out, and to mind and keep it there till he came back. Yes, the
Squire would do the best he could; and so the Master Thief mounted the
horse and rode off. But time went by, and hour after hour passed, and
still no one came back. At last the Squire grew weary of standing there
with his finger in the taphole, so he took it out.
"Now I shall have ten dollars more!" screamed the old woman inside
the cask; and then the Squire saw at once how the land lay, and took
himself off home; but he had not gone far before they met him with a
fresh horse, for the Master Thief had already been to his house, and
told them to send one.
The day after, he came to the Squire and would have his daughter, as
he had given his word; but the Squire put him off again with fine
words, and gave him two hundred dollars, and said he must do one more
masterpiece. If he could do that, he should have her. Well, well, the
Master Thief thought he could do it, if he only knew what it was to be.
"Do you think, now," said the Squire, "you can steal the sheet off our
bed, and the shift off my wife's back. Do you think you could do that?"
"It shall be done," said the Master Thief. "I only wish I was as sure,
of getting your daughter."
So when night began to fall, the Master Thief went out and cut down a
thief who hung on the gallows, and threw him across his shoulders, and
carried him off. Then he got a long ladder and set it up against the
Squire's bedroom window, and so climbed up, and kept bobbing the dead
man up and down, just for all the world like one who was peeping in at
the window.
"That's the Master Thief, old lass!" said the Squire, and gave his wife
a nudge on the side. "Now see if I don't shoot him, that's all."
So saying he took up a rifle which he had laid at his bedside.
"No! no! pray don't shoot him after telling him he might come and try,"
said his wife.
"Don't talk to me, for shoot him I will," said he; and so he lay there
and aimed and aimed; but as soon as the head came up before the window,
and he saw a little of it, so soon was it down again. At last he
thought he had a good aim; "bang" went the gun, down fell the dead body
to the ground with a heavy thump, and down went the Master Thief too as
fast as he could.
"Well," said the Squire, "it is quite true that I am the chief
magistrate in these parts; but people are fond of talking, and it would
be a bore if they came to see this dead man's body. I think the best
thing to be done is that I should go down and bury him."
"You must do as you think best, dear," said his wife. So the Squire got
out of bed and went down stairs, and he had scarce put his foot out of
the door before the Master Thief stole in, and went straight up-stairs
to his wife.
"Why, dear, back already!" said she, for she thought it was her husband.
"Oh yes, I only just put him into a hole, and threw a little earth over
him. It is enough that he is out of sight, for it is such a bad night
out of doors; by-and-by I'll do it better. But just let me have the
sheet to wipe myself with--he was so bloody--and I have made myself in
such a mess with him."
So he got the sheet.
After a while he said--
"Do you know I am afraid you must let me have your night-shift too, for
the sheet won't do by itself; that I can see."
So she gave him the shift also. But just then it came across his mind
that he had forgotten to lock the house-door, so he must step down and
look to that before he came back to bed, and away he went with both
shift and sheet.
A little while after came the right Squire.
"Why! what a time you've taken to lock the door, dear!" said his wife;
"and what have you done with the sheet and shift?"
"What do you say?" said the Squire.
"Why, I am asking what you have done with the sheet and shift that you
had to wipe off the blood," said she.
"What, in the devil's name!" said the Squire, "has he taken me in this
time too?"
Next day came the Master Thief and asked for the Squire's daughter as
he had promised; and then the Squire dared not do anything else than
give her to him, and a good lump of money into the bargain; for, to
tell the truth, he was afraid lest the Master Thief should steal the
eyes out of his head, and that people would begin to say spiteful
things of him if he broke his word. So the Master Thief lived well and
happily from that time forward. I don't know whether he stole any more;
but if he did, I am quite sure it was only for the sake of a bit of fun.
DAY-DREAMS OF AN EXILE.
V.
AIR--"_O Cara Memoria._"
"I perceive that there is nothing better than that a man should
rejoice in his own works, for that is his portion."--_Eccles._
iii. 22.
Sigh thou not for a happier lot,
Happier may never be;
That thou hast esteem the best,
And given by the gods to thee.
And if thy tender hopes be slain,
Fear not, they soon shall bloom again;
For the gloomiest hour
Is fair to the flower
That heeds neither wind nor rain.
Fear of change from old to strange
Follows the fullest joy;
Labour wears us more than years;
Calms, never broken, cloy.
Whatever load to thee be given,
Doubt not thy brethren too have striven;
Take what is thine
In the Earth's confine,
And hope to be blest in Heaven.
VI.
TO ----,
Led by swift thought, I scale the height,
And strive to sound the deep,
To find from whence I took my flight,
Or where I slept my sleep:
But the mists conceal that border-land
Whose hills they rest upon;
Again, with forward face, I stand,
For Gone is gone.
Sometimes I brood upon the years
I gave to self and sin;
Or call to mind how Doubts and Fears
Fled from a light within:
I might regret those errors past,
Might wish the light still shone,
Or check Life's tide that ebbs so fast;
But Gone is gone.
You, too, my loyal-hearted wife,
Saw many a weary day,
When, on your morning-sky of life,
The clouds of sorrow lay.
True friends departed--grief for them,
Joy for the False made known,
And over all this Requiem,
That Gone is gone.
The glare of many a spectral Truth
Might haunt me still unchanged,
The broken purpose of my Youth,
The loving hearts estranged.
But, turning to your love-lit eyes,
--The love-lit eyes shine on--
I thank my God with happy sighs
That Gone is gone.
VII.
Oft, in a night of April, when the ways
Are growing dark, and the hedge-hawthorns dank,
The glow-worm scatters self-adorning rays--
Earth-stars, that twinkle on the primrose bank.
And so, when Life around us gathers Night,
Too dark for Doubt, and ignorant of Sin,
The happy Heart of youth can shed a light
Earth-born, but bright, and feed it from within.
The April night wears on, the darkness wanes,
The light that glimmered in the East grows stronger;
But on the primrose banks that line the lanes,
Weary and chilled, the glow-worm shines no longer.
The night of life as quickly passes o'er,
Coldly and shuddering breaks the dawn of Truth;
Bright Day is coming, but we bear no more
The happy, self-adorning heart of Youth.
VIII.
Dream on, ye souls who slumber here,
Leave work to those who work so well;
Yet workers too should haply hear
The messages that Dreamers tell.
The aims of this World shed a light,
Which shines with dim and feeble ray,
Whose followers wander all the night,
And scarce suspect it is not Day.
Yet work who will, the Night flies fast,
Means vary, but the end is one;
Each, when the waking throb is past,
Must face the all-beholding Sun.
I will sleep on, the starry cope
Arching my head with boundless blue,
Till life's strange dream is o'er, in hope
To wake, nor find it all untrue.
IX.
COLONISATION.
(I.)
Freemen of England, nourish in your mind
Love for your Land; though poor she be and cold,
Impute it not to her that she is old,
For in her youth she was both warm and kind.
True, it fits not that you should be confined
Within a grudging Island's narrow hold,
That bred, but cannot feed you. O be bold;
Blue heaven has many an excellent fair wind.
Steer, then, in multitudes to other land,
Work ye the field, the river, and the mine,
Smooth the high hill, and fell the long-armed pine,
Till all GOD'S Earth be honourably manned;
But, that your glories may for ever stand,
Let Love be, with you, human and divine.
(II.)
Love, the foundation of the public weal,
As of the peace of houses--Love, whose breach
Sundered two bands of common race and speech,
Whose rankling wounds on each side will not heal:
Therefore be warned in time, let none conceal
Brotherly yearnings, God-sent, each for each.
Pure human sympathies are high of reach,
For the realities which they reveal
Teach us to live in earnest; give us faith,
Godward, as well as human: none can say,
"I will love only that which I have seen."
By faith's lamp, fed with hope, the wise have been
Led to the land where, as the Tarsian saith,
Love rules when Hope and Faith are passed away.
H. G. K.
_India_, 1851.
AUTUMN POLITICS.
Rarely, during the autumnal season of the year, is any very vivid
interest displayed in political matters. This is both natural and
wholesome. The soldier, after a hard campaign, requires rest and
recreation; and those whose destiny it is to occupy themselves with
public affairs and their conduct, are all the better for a short
respite from these absorbing toils. So, after the close of the
Parliamentary Session, our legislators betake themselves to the
provinces or the Continent, to the skirts of Ben Nevis, or to the
sequestered valleys of Switzerland, with all the glee of schoolboys
who have escaped from the magisterial yoke. Who can blame them? The
mountain breeze is assuredly more fresh and salubrious than the
loaded atmosphere of St Stephen's; the sound of the purling brook
is more grateful to the ear than the croakings of Joseph Hume; and
the details of a restaurant's bill of fare more interesting than the
ingenious statistics of Mr Wilson of Westbury. Nobody is sorry when
the clattering of the great machine of Parliament is silenced. It is
bad enough to be compelled to peruse the debates during the months of
winter and spring, without continuing the ordeal throughout the rest
of the year. We cannot live always in a state of excitement. Scully
and Keogh are splendid and soul-searching orators; but we would as
lieve submit to have all our dishes seasoned with ether, as allow
our nerves to be daily agitated by the roll of their irresistible
eloquence. We love John Bright, and are fascinated by the humour of
Fox, yet we can find it in our hearts to part company with them for a
season. In autumn the towns are torpid. Every one who can, endeavours
to escape from them; and to judge from the hurry on rail and river,
you would conclude that at least one-half of the population of these
islands is on the move. Subjects which a few months before engrossed
the public attention are now mentioned with a luxurious languor, and
never ardently discussed. Few people know or care what Cardinal Wiseman
may be doing. A porter with a load of grouse is a more interesting
object than Lord John Russell, even were he laden with the draught of
his new Reform Bill; and it is a matter of total indifference to the
million whether Earl Grey has gone to Howick or to Kamschatka. The only
class of men who remain indefatigably political are the popularity
hunters, more especially such of them as require a little coopering
for their somewhat leaky reputations. Old Joe sets off on a reforming
tour to the northern burghs, hoping here and there to pick up a stray
burgess ticket. Sir James Graham will go any distance to receive the
hug of fraternity from a provost, and to add to his chaplet such
fresh leaves of laurel as are in the gift of a generous town council.
Lord Palmerston undertakes to keep the electors of Tiverton in good
humour, and favours them with a funny discourse upon all manner of
topics, excepting always the projected measure of reform, on which
he judiciously keeps his thumb. These, however, are mere interludes,
and few people care about them. Most sincerely to be pitied, at this
season of the year, is the condition of the London journalists. However
scanty be the crop of events, however dry the channels of public
interest, they must find subjects for their leaders. Each day there
is a yawning gap of white paper to be filled; a topic to be selected
and discussed; and an insatiable devil to be laid. It was popularly
believed on the Border that Michael Scott was saddled with an infernal
servitor, to whom he was compelled to assign daily a sufficient modicum
of work, under the penalty, in case of failure, of a forced visit to
Pandemonium. Quite as bad is the predicament of the journalist. The
printer's demon is ever at his elbow; nor dare he attempt to escape.
It is not surprising if sometimes our unhappy brothers should be
reduced to the last extremity. Generally, nay universally, they are a
kind-hearted race of men; yet no one who hears their complaints during
a season of unusual stagnation would set them down as philanthropists.
Their aspirations are after revolutions, murders, casualties--anything,
in short, which can furnish them with a topic for a good stirring
article. All manufacturers, except the dealers in devil's-dust and
shoddy, admit that there is no possibility of constructing a passable
fabric out of inferior raw material. Whatever be the capabilities of
the artisan, or the excellence of his tools, he cannot do without a
subject to work upon. Facts, according to the approved doctrine of the
public press, are of two kinds--real and imagined. The distinction is
as wide as that which lies between history and romance. If the first
do not emerge in sufficient value or importance, recourse must be had
to the second, provided nothing be advanced for which there is not
some apparent colour. The position and prospects of parties is always
a safe autumnal theme. Some paragraph is sure to appear, some letter
to be published, some pamphlet written, or some speech delivered, from
which ingenuity can extract matter of startling commentary. One while,
supposed differences in the Cabinet are made the subject of conjecture
and discussion, though where the Cabinet is no one can tell, the
members thereof being notoriously so scattered that no two of them are
within a hundred miles of each other. Lord John Russell's resignation
has of late years become a regular autumnal event. We look for it as
confidently as the housekeeper expects her annual supply of damsons. No
one is rash enough to aver that Sir Charles Wood intends voluntarily
to resign; but somehow or other it happens that his colleagues are
annually seized in September with a burning desire to kick him out--a
species of phrenzy which only lasts until the return of the colder
weather. We really forget how often Lord Clarendon has been announced
as the coming Premier. If there be any faith in prophecy, his time must
be nigh at hand.
It was, we believe, confidently anticipated on the part of the
Liberal journals, that the present autumn would prove an exception to
the general rule, by furnishing a more than average crop of topics
acceptable to the public ear. After such a dreary lapse of time,
prosperity was expected to arrive about the middle of 1851, and that
event would of itself justify the expenditure of many columns of
poeans. True, there had been various attempts made at intervals,
during the last three or four years, to persuade the public that the
coy nymph had either arrived or was arriving on the British shores;
and some journals went so far as to discharge a royal salute in honour
of her supposed landing. But the mistake was soon discovered. If the
agriculturists were discontented, the manufacturers were depressed, and
the shopkeepers evidently sulky. Prosperity, if she really had arrived,
seemed to possess the secret of the fern-seed, and to walk invisibly,
for no one had seen her except Mr Labouchere; and on investigating his
experiences, it turned out that he had merely received his information
from others. This year, however, everything was to be put to rights.
Markets were to rise so high that even the most grumbling of the
farmers would be glad of heart, and be enabled to make such purchases
at the nearest town as would at once gratify the wife of his bosom,
and give a material impulse to the production of home manufactures.
Great were to be the profits of Manchester, Bradford, and Nottingham.
Reciprocity was to be developed; and foreign nations, convinced of the
necessity of universal brotherhood, were to fling their tariffs to the
winds, and admit our produce duty free. By this time, too, we were to
have Mr Mechi's balance-sheet before us. Mr Huxtable's pigs were to
have produced ammonia enough to fertilise the seashore; or, if that
scheme did not answer, the Netherby system of farming would be found
equally advantageous. Nay, it was even prophesied that railway stocks
would rise, and that on some hyperborean lines there was a possibility
that a dividend might be paid on the preference shares. The iron
districts were to outstrip California, and our shipping to multiply
indefinitely.
It is deeply to be deplored, on every ground, that these expectations
have not been realised. We have been repeatedly reproached by the
advocates of the new commercial system for the gloominess of our views,
and the absence of that hopeful spirit which animates the efforts, and
gives vivacity to the style, of the light and lively Free-Traders.
Now, it is quite true that we, being unable, after the most anxious
consideration of the subject in all its bearings, to discover how the
prosperity--that is, the wealth--of the nation could be increased
by measures which had the direct tendency to lower the value of its
produce, have had occasion very frequently to enunciate opinions which
could not be agreeable to the cotton-stuffed ears of Manchester. We
have periodically exposed, to the great dudgeon of the democrats, the
clumsy fallacies and egregious nonsense of the _Economist_, familiarly
known to the concoctors of statistical returns by the _soubriquet_ of
the "Cook's Oracle." We have taken sundry impostors by the nape of the
neck, and have shaken them, as was our bounden duty, until they had not
breath enough to squeak. But we maintain that the facts and results of
each successive year have borne us out in the views which we originally
entertained; and that the working of Free Trade, when brought into
operation, has proved, as we predicted it would be, utterly subversive
of the theories of the men who were its exponents, its champions, and
its abettors. So much the worse for the country. But why should we be
blamed for having simply spoken the truth? Show us your prosperity, if
that prosperity really exists; or, at all events, be kind enough to
specify to us the prominent symptoms of its coming. We need not, we are
well aware, look for these among the farmers. Ministers have given that
up--never more decidedly, though they did not probably understand the
force of the language they were using, or its inevitable conclusion,
than when they declared their hope and expectation that the British
agriculturist, depressed by foreign importations, could not fail to
profit ultimately by the improved condition of the other classes of
the community! The gentleman who devised that sentence must have had,
indeed, an implicit reliance in the gullibility of mankind! He might
just as well have told the stage-coachmen, who were driven off the road
by the substitution of the rail, that they would be sure to profit in
the long run by the bettered circumstances of the stokers! If that
is all the comfort that can be extended to the agriculturists, they
will hardly warm themselves by it. But among the manufacturers, if
anywhere, we may look for some measure of prosperity; and we grieve to
say that, if such really exists, they take especial care to conceal it.
Talk of farmers grumbling, indeed! If the whole race of corn-growers,
from Triptolemus downwards, were assembled, and entreated to state
their grievances and the causes of their dejection, we defy them to
produce such a catalogue of continued woe as has been trumpeted from
the trade circulars and reports during the last three years. Falling
markets--continued stagnation--nothing doing. Such are the phrases
with which we are familiar, and we meet with nothing else; wherefrom
we conclude either that the manufacturers are all banded together in a
league of unparalleled and very scandalous deceit, or that Free Trade,
by contracting the home market, has made wild work with their profits
also. Commercial failures, too, about which we have heard a good deal,
and are likely to hear something more, are not to be accepted as
unequivocal signs of the rising prosperity of the country.
Messrs Littledale write as follows, in their circular of 4th October,
since which date much has occurred to give weight and confirmation to
their statements:--
"Nothing seems to change the untoward course of events in this
memorable year. An abundant harvest has been gathered, with
less damage and at less cost than for many years, which was
to prove the turning-point in commercial matters; instead of
which, the depression seems only to increase from day to day,
without apparent cause or termination. This state of things
naturally begets mistrust amongst money-lenders and bankers;
and just at the time when their support is most needed,
and would prove most valuable in preventing that ruinous
depression which forced sales on a declining market ever
produce, their confidence is destroyed, and accommodation is
refused.
"The losses on imports of every kind are alarming, and yet the
tide is unabated; and unless a _more vigorous_ stand is made by
importers, either to bring down prices in the foreign market to
a parity with our own, or to get their returns home in another
form than produce, or, which perhaps is the only _true_ course,
to limit their operations to more legitimate bounds, nothing
but a commercial crisis can be expected; indeed, had it not
been for the abundance of money and the large supply of bullion
from the West, aided by a splendid harvest, we should doubtless
have had a repetition of '47 to some extent at the present
moment."
Shipowners and millers tell us a tale of similar disaster; and the
shopkeepers, if unanimous in nothing else, agree that their business is
decreasing. The working-classes have cheap bread, but at the same time
they have lowered wages; so that the advantage received on the one hand
is neutralised by the reduction on the other.
Grievous, therefore, was the disappointment of the journalists, who
had expected this year to wile away the lazy autumn in "hollaing and
singing anthems" in praise of commercial resuscitation. From that
resource they were effectually cut out. Something was wanted to vary
the monotony of leaders on the Exhibition, a capital subject whilst
its novelty lasted, but soon too familiar to admit of indefinite
protraction. Sewerage was overdone last season. People will not submit
to perpetual essays on the jakes, or diatribes on the shallowness
of cesspools: the flavour of such articles can only be enjoyed by a
thorough-paced disciple of Liebig. It was therefore with no small
anxiety that our brethren awaited the autumnal meetings of the
agricultural societies, at which, since Free Trade brought havoc to
the farmer's home, there has usually been some excitement manifested,
and some explanations required and given. The old rule, that politics
should be excluded from these assemblies, is manifestly untenable
at the present time. Until a trade is established on a sound and
substantial basis, it is ludicrous to recommend improvements involving
an enormous additional outlay. The farmers feel and know that the
blow struck at their interests has gone too deep to be healed by any
superficial nostrums. Their struggle is for existence, and they have
resolved to speak out like men.
One of the worst effects of the repeal of the Corn Laws, and that
which may prove the most permanently detrimental to the welfare of
the country, is the apparent separation which it has caused in many
cases between the interests of the landlord and the tenant. We say
"apparent," because in reality, and finally, the interest of both
classes is the same. But, in the mean time, there can be no doubt
whatever that the farmers have endured by far the greatest share of the
loss. Bound to the land by the outlay of their capital in it and upon
it, they cannot abandon their vocation, or even change their locality,
without incurring immediate ruin. It is easy for those who know nothing
about the matter, to advise them to emigrate elsewhere if they cannot
procure a livelihood here. It is still easier for a Free-trading
landlord, to whose tergiversation a great part of the mischief is
attributable, to meet the reasonable request of his tenantry for a
reduction of their rents with an intimation that he is perfectly ready
to free them from the obligation of their leases. Such conduct is not
more odiously selfish than it is grossly hypocritical, the landlord
being perfectly well aware that it is out of the power of his tenantry
to accept the offer, without at once sacrificing and abandoning nearly
the whole of their previous outlay. The farmer is tied to the stake,
and cannot escape. He must pursue his vocation, else he is a beggar;
and he cannot pursue that vocation without an annual and material loss.
Under those circumstances, a reduction of rent is all the alleviation
which the farmer can hope to obtain. In many instances he has obtained
it. We hear of remissions made to the extent of ten and fifteen per
cent; but these are alleviations only. The farmer is still a loser,
and would be a loser were the remissions infinitely greater. In former
papers we have shown that the reduction of fifty per cent on the
rents throughout Scotland would not avail to remunerate the farmers at
present prices, and we have ample testimony to prove that in England
the case is the same. On this matter of reduction we shall quote a few
sentences from a pamphlet entitled _A Treatise on the present Condition
and Prospects of the Agricultural Interest_, by a Yorkshire Farmer,
published at Leeds in the present year:--
"It appears to me that neither farmers nor landlords have been
aware of the magnitude of the evil; for the intentions of
several of our landlords, who, I have no doubt, were actuated
by a desire to bear a fair proportion of the loss, were
published in the newspapers, stating their determination to
reduce their rent from ten to fifteen per cent; and no doubt
they thought it would, to some considerable extent, countervail
the general reduction in the value of agricultural produce, and
perhaps sincerely believed they had acquitted themselves of
their duty as landlords.