CHAPTER I.

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

MELCHIOR'S DREAM

AND OTHER TALES,

BY

JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.

NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.

[Published under the direction of the General Literature

Committee.]

Dedicated

TO

FOUR BROTHERS AND FOUR SISTERS.

CONTENTS.

MELCHIOR'S DREAM

THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST

FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD

A BIT OF GREEN

MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND

THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS

A BAD HABIT

A HAPPY FAMILY

EDITOR'S PREFACE.

It is always a memorable era in a mother's life when she first

introduces a daughter into society. Many things contribute to make it

so; among which is the fact of the personal blessing to herself, in

having been permitted to see the day--to have been spared, that is, to

watch over her child in infancy, and now to see her entering life upon

her own account.

But a more uncommon privilege is the one granted to me on the present

occasion, of introducing a daughter into the literary world; and the

feelings of pride and pleasure it calls forth, are certainly not less

powerful than those created by the commoner occurrence. It is my

comfort also to add that these are not overclouded by any painful

anxiety or misgiving. There may be differences of opinion as to the

precise amount of literary merit in these tales; but viewed as the

first productions of a young author, they are surely full of promise;

while their whole tone and aim is so unmistakably high, that even

those who criticize the style will be apt to respect the writer.

I ought here to express a hope that it will not be thought

presumptuous on my part, to undertake the office of introduction. I

beg it to be understood that I address myself especially to those

readers who have (I speak it with deep gratitude and pleasure)

listened kindly and favourably to me for several years past, and who

will, I trust, be no less well disposed towards my daughter's

writings.

To them also it may be interesting to know, that in the "J.H.G." of

"Melchior's Dream," etc., they will find the original of my own

portrait of "Aunt Judy."

But I have still something more to say: another little bit of

gratification to express. What one sister has written, another has

illustrated by her pencil; a cause of double thankfulness in my heart

to Him from whom all good gifts come.

MARGARET GATTY.

NOTE.--_The foregoing Preface was written for the first

edition of "Melchior's Dream, and other Tales." This was published in

1862 under Mrs. Ewing's maiden initials, "J.H.G." It contained the

first five stories in the present volume, and these were illustrated

by the writer's eldest sister, "M.S.G."_

MELCHIOR'S DREAM.

AN ALLEGORY.

"Thou that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more--a

grateful heart."

GEORGE HERBERT.

"Well, father, I don't believe the Browns are a bit better off than we

are; and yet when I spent the day with young Brown, we cooked all

sorts of messes in the afternoon; and he wasted twice as much rum and

brandy and lemons in his trash, as I should want to make good punch

of. He was quite surprised, too, when I told him that our mince-pies

were kept shut up in the larder, and only brought out at meal-times,

and then just one apiece; he said they had mince-pies always going,

and he got one whenever he liked. Old Brown never blows up about that

sort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in the holidays,

particularly at Christmas."

The speaker was a boy--if I may be allowed to use the word in speaking

of an individual whose jackets had for some time past been resigned

to a younger member of his family, and who daily, in the privacy of

his own apartment, examined his soft cheeks by the aid of his sisters'

"back-hair glass." He was a handsome boy too; tall, and like

David--"ruddy, and of a fair countenance;" and his face, though

clouded then, bore the expression of general amiability. He was the

eldest son in a large young family, and was being educated at one of

the best public schools. He did not, it must be confessed, think

either small beer or small beans of himself; and as to the beer and

beans that his family thought of him, I think it was pale ale and

kidney-beans at least.

Young Hopeful had, however, his weak points like the rest of us; and

perhaps one of the weakest was the difficulty he found in amusing

himself without _bothering_ other people. He had quite a monomania for

proposing the most troublesome "larks" at the most inconvenient

moments; and if his plans were thwarted, an Æolian harp is cheerful

compared to the tone in which, arguing and lamenting, he

"Fought his battles o'er again,"

to the distraction of every occupied member of the household.

When the lords of the creation of all ages can find nothing else to

do, they generally take to eating and drinking; and so it came to pass

that our hero had set his mind upon brewing a jorum of punch, and

sipping it with an accompaniment of mince-pies; and Paterfamilias had

not been quietly settled to his writing for half-an-hour, when he was

disturbed by an application for the necessary ingredients. These he

had refused, quietly explaining that he could not afford to waste his

French brandy, etc., in school-boy cookery, and ending with, "You see

the reason, my dear boy?"

To which the dear boy replied as above, and concluded with the

disrespectful (not to say ungrateful) hint, "Old Brown never blows up

about that sort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in the

holidays."

Whereupon Paterfamilias made answer, in the mildly deprecating tone in

which the elder sometimes do answer the younger in these topsy-turvy

days:--

"That's quite a different case. Don't you see, my boy, that Adolphus

Brown is an only son, and you have nine brothers and sisters? If you

have punch and mince-meat to play with, there is no reason why Tom

should not have it, and James, and Edward, and William, and Benjamin,

and Jack. And then there are your sisters. Twice the amount of the

Browns' mince-meat would not serve you. I like you to enjoy yourself

in the holidays as much as young Brown or anybody; but you must

remember that I send you boys to good schools, and give you all the

substantial comforts and advantages in my power; and the Christmas

bills are very heavy, and I have a great many calls on my purse; and

you must be reasonable. Don't you see?"

"Well, father--" began the boy; but his father interrupted him. He

knew the unvarying beginning of a long grumble, and dreading the

argument, cut it short.

"I have decided. You must amuse yourself some other way. And just

remember that young Brown's is quite another case. He is an only son."

Whereupon Paterfamilias went off to his study and his sermon; and his

son, like the Princess in Andersen's story of the Swineherd, was left

outside to sing,

"O dearest Augustine,

All's clean gone away!"

Not that he did say that--that was the princess' song--what he said

was,

"_I wish I were an only son!_"

This was rather a vain wish, for round the dining-room fire (where he

soon joined them) were gathered his nine brothers and sisters, who, to

say the truth, were not looking much more lively and cheerful than

he. And yet (of all days in the year on which to be doleful and

dissatisfied!) this was Christmas Eve.

Now I know that the idea of dulness or discomfort at Christmas is a

very improper one, particularly in a story. We all know how every

little boy in a story-book spends the Christmas holidays.

First, there is the large hamper of good things sent by grandpapa,

which is as inexhaustible as Fortunatus's purse, and contains

everything, from a Norfolk turkey to grapes from the grandpaternal

vinery.

There is the friend who gives a guinea to each member of the family,

and sees who will spend it best.

There are the godpapas and godmammas, who might almost be fairy

sponsors from the number of expensive gifts that they bring upon the

scene. The uncles and aunts are also liberal.

One night is devoted to a magic-lantern (which has a perfect focus),

another to the pantomime, a third to a celebrated conjuror, a fourth

to a Christmas tree and juvenile ball.

The happy youth makes himself sufficiently ill with plum-pudding, to

testify to the reader how good it was, and how much there was of it;

but recovers in time to fall a victim to the negus and trifle at

supper for the same reason. He is neither fatigued with late hours

nor surfeited with sweets; or if he is, we do not hear of it.

But as this is a strictly candid history, I will at once confess the

truth, on behalf of my hero and his brothers and sisters. They had

spent the morning in decorating the old church, in pricking holly

about the house, and in making a mistletoe bush. Then in the afternoon

they had tasted the Christmas soup and seen it given out; they had put

a finishing touch to the snow man by crowning him with holly, and had

dragged the yule-logs home from the carpenter's. And now, the early

tea being over, Paterfamilias had gone to finish his sermon for

to-morrow; his friend was shut up in his room; and Materfamilias was

in hers, with one of those painful headaches which even Christmas will

not always keep away. So the ten children were left to amuse

themselves, and they found it rather a difficult matter.

"Here's a nice Christmas!" said our hero. He had turned his youngest

brother out of the arm-chair, and was now lying in it with his legs

over the side. "Here's a nice Christmas! A fellow might just as well

be at school. I wonder what Adolphus Brown would think of being cooped

up with a lot of children like this! It's his party to-night, and he's

to have champagne and ices. I wish I were an only son."

"Thank you," said a chorus of voices from the floor. They were all

sprawling about on the hearth-rug, pushing and struggling like so many

kittens in a sack, and every now and then with a grumbled

remonstrance:--

"Don't, Jack! you're treading on me."

"You needn't take all the fire, Tom."

"Keep your legs to yourself, Benjamin."

"It wasn't I," etc., with occasionally the feebler cry of a small

sister--

"Oh! you boys are so rough."

"And what are you girls, I wonder?" inquired the proprietor of the

arm-chair with cutting irony. "Whiney piney, whiney piney. I wish

there were no such things as brothers and sisters!"

"_You wish_ WHAT?" said a voice from the shadow by the door, as deep

and impressive as that of the ghost in Hamlet.

The ten sprang up; but when the figure came into the fire-light, they

saw that it was no ghost, but Paterfamilias's old college friend, who

spent most of his time abroad, and who, having no home or relatives of

his own, had come to spend Christmas at his friend's vicarage. "You

wish _what_?" he repeated.

"Well, brothers and sisters are a bore," was the reply. "One or two

would be all very well; but just look, here are ten of us; and it just

spoils everything. If a fellow wants to go anywhere, it's somebody

else's _turn_. If old Brown sends a basket of grapes, it's share and

share alike; all the ten must taste, and then there's about a grape

and a half for each. If anybody calls or comes to luncheon, there are

a whole lot of brats swarming about, looking as if we kept a school.

Whatever one does, the rest must do; whatever there is, the rest must

share; whereas, if a fellow was an only son, he would have the

whole--and by all the rules of arithmetic, one is better than a

tenth."

"And by the same rules ten is better than one," said the friend.

"Sold again," sang out Master Jack from the floor, and went head over

heels against the fender.

His brother boxed his ears with great promptitude, and went on, "Well,

I don't care; confess, sir, isn't it rather a nuisance?"

Paterfamilias's friend looked very grave, and said, quietly, "I don't

think I am able to judge. I never had brother or sister but one, and

he was drowned at sea. Whatever I have had, I have had the whole of,

and would have given it away willingly for some one to give it to. If

any one sent me grapes, I ate them alone. If I made anything, there

was no one to show it to. If I wanted to act, I must act all the

characters, and be my own audience. I remember that I got a lot of

sticks at last, and cut heads and faces to all of them, and carved

names on their sides, and called them my brothers and sisters. If you

want to know what I thought a nice number for a fellow to have, I can

only say that I remember carving twenty-five. I used to stick them in

the ground and talk to them. I have been only, and lonely, and alone,

all my life, and have never felt the nuisance you speak of."

This was a funny account; but the speaker looked so far from funny

that one of the sisters, who was very tender-hearted, crept up to him,

and said, gently--

"Richard is only joking; he doesn't really want to get rid of us. The

other day the curate said he wished he had a sister, and Richard

offered to sell us all for ninepence; but he is only in fun. Only it

is rather slow just now, and the boys get rather cross; at least, we

all of us do."

"It's a dreadful state of things," said the friend, smiling through

his black beard and moustachios. "What is to be done?"

"I know what would be very nice," insinuated the young lady.

"What?"

"If you wouldn't mind telling us a very short story till supper-time.

The boys like stories."

"That's a good idea," said Benjamin. "As if the girls didn't!"

But the friend proclaimed order, and seated himself with the girl in

question on his knee. "Well, what sort of a story is it to be?"

"Any sort," said Richard; "only not too true, if you please. I don't

like stories like tracts. There was an usher at a school I was at, and

he used to read tracts about good boys and bad boys to the fellows on

Sunday afternoon. He always took out the real names, and put in the

names of the fellows instead. Those who had done well in the week he

put in as good ones, and those who hadn't as the bad. He didn't like

me, and I was always put in as a bad boy, and I came to so many

untimely ends I got sick of it. I was hanged twice, and transported

once for sheep-stealing; I committed suicide one week, and broke into

the bank the next; I ruined three families, became a hopeless

drunkard, and broke the hearts of my twelve distinct parents. I used

to beg him to let me be reformed next week; but he said he never would

till I did my Cæsar better. So, if you please, we'll have a story that

can't be true."

"Very well," said the friend, laughing; "but if it isn't true, may I

put you in? All the best writers, you know, draw their characters from

their friends now-a-days. May I put you in?"

"Oh, certainly!" said Richard, placing himself in front of the fire,

putting his feet on the hob, and stroking his curls with an air which

seemed to imply that whatever he was put into would be highly

favoured.

The rest struggled, and pushed, and squeezed themselves into more

modest but equally comfortable quarters; and after a few moments of

thought, Paterfamilias's friend commenced the story of

MELCHIOR'S DREAM.

"Melchior is my hero. He was--well, he considered himself a young man,

so we will consider him so too. He was not perfect; but in these days

the taste in heroes is for a good deal of imperfection, not to say

wickedness. He was not an only son. On the contrary, he had a great

many brothers and sisters, and found them quite as objectionable as my

friend Richard does."

"I smell a moral," murmured the said Richard.

"Your scent must be keen," said the story-teller, "for it is a long

way off. Well, he had never felt them so objectionable as on one

particular night, when, the house being full of company, it was

decided that the boys should sleep in 'barracks,' as they called it;

that is, all in one large room."

"Thank goodness, we have not come to that!" said the incorrigible

Richard; but he was reduced to order by threats of being turned out,

and contented himself with burning the soles of his boots against the

bars of the grate in silence: and the friend continued:--

"But this was not the worst. Not only was he, Melchior, to sleep in

the same room with his brothers, but his bed being the longest and

largest, his youngest brother was to sleep at the other end of

it--foot to foot. True, by this means he got another pillow, for, of

course, that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb could do without one, and so he

took his; but, in spite of this, he determined that, sooner than

submit to such an indignity, he would sit up all night. Accordingly,

when all the rest were fast asleep, Melchior, with his boots off and

his waistcoat easily unbuttoned, sat over the fire in the long

lumber-room which served that night as 'barracks'. He had refused to

eat any supper downstairs to mark his displeasure, and now repaid

himself by a stolen meal according to his own taste. He had got a

pork-pie, a little bread and cheese, some large onions to roast, a

couple of raw apples, an orange, and papers of soda and tartaric acid

to compound effervescing draughts. When these dainties were finished,

he proceeded to warm some beer in a pan, with ginger, spice, and

sugar, and then lay back in his chair and sipped it slowly, gazing

before him, and thinking over his misfortunes.

"The night wore on, the fire got lower and lower, and still Melchior

sat, with his eyes fixed on a dirty old print that had hung above the

mantelpiece for years, sipping his 'brew', which was fast getting

cold. The print represented an old man in a light costume, with a

scythe in one hand and an hour-glass in the other; and underneath the

picture in flourishing capitals was the word TIME.

"'You're a nice old beggar,' said Melchior, dreamily. 'You look like

an old hay-maker who has come to work in his shirt-sleeves, and

forgotten the rest of his clothes. Time! time you went to the

tailor's, I think.'

"This was very irreverent; but Melchior was not in a respectful mood;

and as for the old man, he was as calm as any philosopher.

"The night wore on, and the fire got lower and lower, and at last went

out altogether.

"'How stupid of me not to have mended it!' said Melchior; but he had

not mended it, and so there was nothing for it but to go to bed; and

to bed he went accordingly.

"'But I won't go to sleep,' he said; 'no, no; I shall keep awake, and

to-morrow they shall know that I have had a bad night.'

"So he lay in bed with his eyes wide open, and staring still at the

old print, which he could see from his bed by the light of the candle,

which he had left alight on the mantelpiece to keep him awake. The

flame waved up and down, for the room was draughty; and as the lights

and shadows passed over the old man's face, Melchior almost fancied

that it nodded to him, so he nodded back again; and as that tired him

he shut his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, there

was no longer any doubt--the old man's head was moving; and not only

his head, but his legs, and his whole body. Finally, he put his feet

out of the frame, and prepared to step right over the mantelpiece,

candle, and all.

"'Take care,' Melchior tried to say, 'you'll set fire to your shirt.'

But he could not utter a sound; and the old man arrived safely on the

floor, where he seemed to grow larger and larger, till he was fully

the size of a man, but still with the same scythe and hour-glass, and

the same airy costume. Then he came across the room, and sat down by

Melchior's bedside.

"'Who are you?' said Melchior, feeling rather creepy.

"'TIME,' said his visitor in a deep voice, which sounded as

if it came from a distance.

"'Oh, to be sure, yes! In copper-plate capitals.'

"'What's in copper-plate capitals?' inquired Time.

"'Your name, under the print.'

"'Very likely,' said Time.

"Melchior felt more and more uneasy. 'You must be very cold,' he said.

'Perhaps you would feel warmer if you went back into the picture.'

"'Not at all,' said Time; 'I have come on purpose to see you.'

"'I have not the pleasure of knowing you,' said Melchior, trying to

keep his teeth from chattering.

"'There are not many people who have a personal acquaintance with me,'

said his visitor. 'You have an advantage--I am your godfather.'

"'Indeed,' said Melchior; 'I never heard of it.'

"'Yes,' said his visitor; 'and you will find it a great advantage.'

"'Would you like to put on my coat?' said Melchior, trying to be

civil.

"'No, thank you,' was the answer. 'You will want it yourself. We must

be driving soon.'

"'Driving!' said Melchior.

"'Yes,' was the answer; 'all the world is driving; and you must drive;

and here come your brothers and sisters.'

"Melchior sat up; and there they were, sure enough, all dressed, and

climbing one after the other on to the bed--_his_ bed!

"There was that little minx of a sister with her curls (he always

called them carrot shavings), who was so conceited (girls always are!)

and always trying to attract notice, in spite of Melchior's incessant

snubbings. There was that clever brother, with his untidy hair and

bent shoulders, who was just as bad the other way; who always ran out

of the back door when visitors called, and was for ever moping and

reading: and this, in spite of Melchior's hiding his books, and

continually telling him that he was a disgrace to the family, a

perfect bear, not fit to be seen, etc.--all with the laudable desire

of his improvement. There was that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb, as lively

as any of them, a young monkey, the worst of all; who was always in

mischief, and consorting with the low boys in the village; though

Melchior did not fail to tell him that he was not fit company for

gentlemen's sons, that he was certain to be cut when he went to

school, and that he would probably end his days by being transported,

if not hanged. There was the second brother, who was Melchior's chief

companion, and against whom he had no particular quarrel. And there

was the little pale lame sister, whom he dearly loved; but whom, odd

to say, he never tried to improve at all; his remedy for her failings

was generally, 'Let her do as she likes, will you?' There were others

who were all tiresome in their respective ways; and one after the

other they climbed up.

"'What are you doing, getting on to my bed!' inquired the indignant

brother, as soon as he could speak.

"'Don't you know the difference between a bed and a coach, godson?'

said Time, sharply.

"Melchior was about to retort, but on looking round, he saw that they

were really in a large sort of coach with very wide windows. 'I

thought I was in bed,' he muttered. 'What can I have been dreaming

of?'

"'What, indeed!' said the godfather. 'But, be quick, and sit close,

for you have all to get in; you are all brothers and sisters.'

"'Must families be together?' inquired Melchior, dolefully.

"'Yes, at first,' was the answer; 'they get separated in time. In

fact, everyone has to cease driving sooner or later. I drop them on

the road at different stages, according to my orders,' and he showed a

bundle of papers in his hands; 'but, as I favour you, I will tell you

in confidence that I have to drop all your brothers and sisters before

you. There, you four oldest sit on this side, you five others there,

and the little one must stand or be nursed.'

"'Ugh!' said Melchior, 'the coach would be well enough if one was

alone; but what a squeeze with all these brats! I say, go pretty

quick, will you?'

"'I will,' said Time, 'if you wish it. But, beware that you cannot

change your mind. If I go quicker for your sake, I shall never go slow

again; if slower, I shall not again go quick; and I only favour you so

far, because you are my godson. Here, take the check-string; when you

want me, pull it, and speak through the tube. Now we're off.'

"Whereupon the old man mounted the box, and took the reins. He had no

whip; but when he wanted to start, he shook the hour-glass, and off

they went. Then Melchior saw that the road where they were driving was

very broad, and so filled with vehicles of all kinds that he could not

see the hedges. The noise and crowd and dust were very great; and to

Melchior all seemed delightfully exciting. There was every sort of

conveyance, from the grandest coach to the humblest donkey-cart; and

they seemed to have enough to do to escape being run over. Among all

the gay people there were many whom he knew; and a very nice thing it

seemed to be to drive among all the grandees, and to show his

handsome face at the window, and bow and smile to his acquaintance.

Then it appeared to be the fashion to wrap oneself in a tiger-skin

rug, and to look at life through an opera-glass, and old Time had

kindly put one of each into the coach.

"But here again Melchior was much troubled by his brothers and

sisters. Just at the moment when he was wishing to look most

fashionable and elegant, one or other of them would pull away the rug,

or drop the glass, or quarrel, or romp, or do something that spoilt

the effect. In fact, one and all, they 'just spoilt everything;' and

the more he scolded, the worse they became. The 'minx' shook her

curls, and flirted through the window with a handsome but ill-tempered

looking man on a fine horse, who praised her 'golden locks,' as he

called them; and, oddly enough, when Melchior said the man was a lout,

and that the locks in question were corkscrewy carrot shavings, she

only seemed to like the man and his compliments the more. Meanwhile,

the untidy brother pored over his book, or if he came to the window,

it was only to ridicule the fine ladies and gentlemen, so Melchior

sent him to Coventry. Then Hop-o'-my-Thumb had taken to make signs and

exchange jokes with some disreputable-looking youths in a dog-cart;

and when his brother would have put him to 'sit still like a

gentleman' at the bottom of the coach, he seemed positively to prefer

his low companions; and the rest were little better.

"Poor Melchior! Surely there never was a clearer case of a young

gentleman's comfort destroyed, solely by other people's perverse

determination to be happy in their own way instead of in his. Surely,

no young gentleman ever knew better that if his brothers and sisters

would yield to his wishes, they would not quarrel; or ever more

completely overlooked the fact, that if he had yielded more to theirs

the same happy result might have been attained. At last he lost

patience, and pulling the check-string, bade Godfather Time drive as

fast as he could.

"'For,' said he, 'there will never be any peace while there are so

many of us in the coach; if a fellow had the rug and glass, and,

indeed, the coach to himself, he might drive and bow and talk with the

best of them; but as it is, one might as well go about in a wild-beast

caravan.'

"Godfather Time frowned, but shook his glass all the same, and away

they went at a famous pace. All at once they came to a stop.

"'Now for it,' says Melchior; 'here goes one at any rate.'

"Time called out the name of the second brother over his shoulder; and

the boy stood up, and bade his brothers and sisters good-bye.

"'It is time that I began to push my way in the world,' said he, and

passed out of the coach, and in among the crowd.

"'You have taken the only quiet boy,' said Melchior to the godfather

angrily. 'Drive fast now, for pity's sake; and let us get rid of the

tiresome ones.'

"And fast enough they drove, and dropped first one and then the other;

but the sisters, and the reading boy, and the youngest still remained.

"'What are you looking at?' said Melchior to the lame sister.

"'At a strange figure in the crowd,' she answered.

"'I see nothing,' said Melchior. But on looking again after a while,

he did see a figure wrapped in a cloak, gliding in and out among the

people, unnoticed, if not unseen.

"'Who is it?' Melchior asked of the godfather.

"'A friend of mine,' Time answered. 'His name is Death.'

"Melchior shuddered, more especially as the figure had now come up to

the coach, and put its hand in through the window, on which, to his

horror, the lame sister laid hers and smiled. At this moment the

coach stopped.

"'What are you doing?' shrieked Melchior, 'Drive on! drive on!'

"But even while he sprang up to seize the check-string the door had

opened, the pale sister's face (a little paler now) had dropped upon

the shoulder of the figure in the cloak, and he had carried her away;

and Melchior stormed and raved in vain.

"'To take her, and to leave the rest! Cruel! cruel!'

"In his rage and grief, he hardly knew it when the untidy brother was

called, and putting his book under his arm, slipped out of the coach

without looking to the right or left. Presently the coach stopped

again; and when Melchior looked up the door was open, and at it was

the fine man on the fine horse, who was lifting the sister on to the

saddle before him. 'What fool's game are you playing?' said Melchior,

angrily. 'I know that man. He is both ill-tempered and a bad

character.'

"'You never told her so before,' muttered young Hop-o'-my-Thumb.

"'Hold your tongue,' said Melchior. 'I forbade her to talk to him,

which was enough.'

"'I don't want to leave you; but he cares for me, and you don't,'

sobbed the sister; and she was carried away.

"When she had gone, the youngest brother slid down from his corner and

came up to Melchior.

"'We are alone now, Brother,' he said; 'let us be good friends. May I

sit on the front seat with you, and have half the rug? I will be very

good and polite, and will have nothing more to do with those fellows,

if you will talk to me.'

"Now Melchior really rather liked the idea, but as his brother seemed

to be in a submissive mood, he thought he would take the opportunity

of giving him a good lecture, and would then graciously relent and

forgive. So he began by asking him if he thought that he was fit

company for him (Melchior), what he thought that gentlefolks would say

to a boy who had been playing with such youths as young

Hop-o'-my-Thumb had, and whether the said youths were not scoundrels?

And when the boy refused to say that they were (for they had been kind

to him), Melchior said that his tastes were evidently as bad as ever,

and even hinted at the old transportation threat. This was too much;

the boy went angrily back to his window corner, and Melchior--like too

many of us!--lost the opportunity of making peace for the sake of

wagging his own tongue.

"'But he will come round in a few minutes,' he thought A few minutes

passed, however, and there was no sign. A few minutes more, and there

was a noise, a shout; Melchior looked up, and saw that the boy had

jumped through the open window into the road, and had been picked up

by the men in the dog-cart, and was gone.

"And so at last my hero was alone. At first he enjoyed it very much.

He shook out his hair, wrapped himself in the rug, stared through the

opera-glass, and did the fine gentleman very well indeed. But though

everyone allowed him to be the finest young fellow on the road, yet

nobody seemed to care for the fact as much as he did; they talked, and

complimented, and stared at him, but he got tired of it. For he could

not arrange his hair any better; he could not dispose the rug more

gracefully, or stare more perseveringly through the glass; and if he

could, his friends could do nothing more than they had done. In fact,

he got tired of the crowd, and found himself gazing through the

window, not to see his fine friends, but to try and catch sight of his

brothers and sisters. Sometimes he saw the youngest brother, looking

each time more wild and reckless; and sometimes the sister, looking

more and more miserable; but he saw no one else.

"At last there was a stir among the people, and all heads were turned

towards the distance, as if looking for something. Melchior asked what

it was, and was told that the people were looking for a man, the hero

of many battles, who had won honour for himself and for his country in

foreign lands, and who was coming home. Everybody stood up and gazed,

Melchior with them. Then the crowd parted, and the hero came on. No

one asked whether he were handsome or genteel, whether he kept good

company, or wore a tiger-skin rug, or looked through an opera-glass?

They knew what he had _done_, and it was enough.

"He was a bronzed hairy man, with one sleeve empty, and a breast

covered with stars; but in his face, brown with sun and wind,

overgrown with hair and scarred with wounds, Melchior saw his second

brother! There was no doubt of it. And the brother himself, though he

bowed kindly in answer to the greetings showered on him, was gazing

anxiously for the old coach, where he used to ride and be so

uncomfortable, in that time to which he now looked back as the

happiest of his life.

"'I thank you, gentlemen. I am indebted to you, gentlemen. I have been

away long. I am going home.'

"'Of course he is!' shouted Melchior, waving his arms widely with

pride and joy. 'He is coming home; to this coach, where he was--oh,

it seems but an hour ago! Time goes so fast. We were great friends

when we were young together. My brother and I, ladies and gentlemen,

the hero and I--my brother--the hero with the stars upon his

breast--he is coming home!'

"Alas! what avail stars and ribbons on a breast where the life-blood

is trickling slowly from a little wound? The crowd looked anxious; the

hero came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the old

coach; and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony. But

just when he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about to

meet, a figure passed between--a figure in a cloak.

"'I have seen you many times, Friend, face to face,' said the hero;

'but now I would fain have waited for a little while.'

"'To enjoy his well-earned honours,' murmured the crowd.

"'Nay,' he said, 'not that; but to see my home, and my brothers and

sisters. But if it may not be, friend Death, I am ready, and tired

too.' With that he held out his hand, and Death lifted up the hero of

many battles like a child, and carried him away, stars and ribbons and

all.

"'Cruel Death!' cried Melchior; 'was there no one else in all this

crowd, that you must take him?'

"His friends condoled with him; but they soon went on their own ways;

and the hero seemed to be forgotten; and Melchior, who had lost all

pleasure in the old bowings and chattings, sat sadly gazing out of the

window, to see if he could see any one for whom he cared. At last, in

a grave dark man, who was sitting on a horse, and making a speech to

the crowd, he recognized his clever untidy brother.

"'What is that man talking about?' he asked of some one near him.

"'That man!' was the answer. 'Don't you know? He is _the_ man of the

time. He is a philosopher. Everybody goes to hear him. He has found

out that--well--that everything is a mistake.'

"'Has he corrected it?' said Melchior.

"'You had better hear for yourself,' said the man. 'Listen.'

"Melchior listened, and a cold clear voice rang upon his ear,

saying:--

"'The world of fools will go on as they have ever done; but to the

wise few, to whom I address myself, I would say--Shake off at once and

for ever the fancies and feelings, the creeds and customs that shackle

you, and be true. We have come to a time when wise men will not be

led blindfold in the footsteps of their predecessors, but will tear

away the bandage and see for themselves. I have torn away mine, and

looked. There is no Faith--it is shaken to its rotten foundation;

there is no Hope--it is disappointed every day; there is no Love at

all. There is nothing for any man or for each, but his fate; and he is

happiest and wisest who can meet it most unmoved.'

"'It is a lie!' shouted Melchior. 'I feel it to be so in my heart. A

wicked foolish lie! Oh! was it to teach such evil folly as this that

you left home and us, my brother? Oh, come back! come back!'

"The philosopher turned his head coldly, and smiled. 'I thank the

gentleman who spoke,' he said, still in the same cold voice, 'for his

bad opinion, and for his good wishes. I think the gentleman spoke of

home and kindred. My experience of life has led me to find that home

is most valued when it is left, and kindred most dear when they are

parted. I have happily freed myself from such inconsistencies. I am

glad to know that fate can tear me from no place that I care for more

than the next where it shall deposit me, nor take away any friends

that I value more than those it leaves. I recommend a similar

self-emancipation to the gentleman who did me the honour of

speaking.'

"With this the philosopher went his way, and the crowd followed him.

"'There is a separation more bitter than death,' said Melchior.

"At last he pulled the check-string, and called to Godfather Time in

an humble entreating voice.

"'It is not your fault,' he began; 'it is not your fault, Godfather;

but this drive has been altogether wrong. Let us turn back and begin

again. Let us all get in afresh and begin again.'

"'But what a squeeze with all the brats!' said Godfather Time,

ironically.

"'We should be so happy,' murmured Melchior, humbly; 'and it is very

cold and chilly; we should keep each other warm.'

"'You have the tiger-skin rug and the opera-glass, you know,' said

Time.

"'Ah, do not speak of me!' cried Melchior, earnestly. 'I am thinking

of them. There is plenty of room; the little one can sit on my knee;

and we shall be so happy. The truth is, Godfather, that I have been

wrong. I have gone the wrong way to work. A little more love, and

kindness, and forbearance, might have kept my sisters with us, might

have led the little one to better tastes and pleasures, and have

taught the other by experience the truth of the faith and hope and

love which he now reviles. Oh, I have sinned! I have sinned! Let us

turn back, Godfather Time, and begin again. And oh! drive very slowly,

for partings come only too soon.'

"'I am sorry,' said the old man in the same bitter tone as before, 'to

disappoint your rather unreasonable wishes. What you say is admirably

true, with this misfortune, that your good intentions are too late.

Like the rest of the world you are ready to seize the opportunity when

it is past. You should have been kind _then_. You should have advised

_then_. You should have yielded _then_. You should have loved your

brothers and sisters while you had them. It is too late now.'

"With this he drove on, and spoke no more, and poor Melchior stared

sadly out of the window. As he was gazing at the crowd, he suddenly

saw the dog-cart, in which were his brother and his wretched

companions. Oh, how old and worn he looked! and how ragged his clothes

were! The men seemed to be trying to persuade him to do something that

he did not like, and they began to quarrel; but in the midst of the

dispute he turned his head and caught sight of the old coach; and

Melchior seeing this, waved his hands, and beckoned with all his

might. The brother seemed doubtful; but Melchior waved harder, and

(was it fancy?) Time seemed to go slower. The brother made up his

mind; he turned and jumped from the dog-cart as he had jumped from the

old coach long ago, and ducking in and out among the horses and

carriages, ran for his life. The men came after him; but he ran like

the wind--pant, pant, nearer, nearer; at last the coach was reached,

and Melchior seized the prodigal by his rags and dragged him in.

"'Oh, thank GOD, I have got you safe, my brother!'

"But what a brother! with wasted body and sunken eyes; with the old

curly hair turned to matted locks, that clung faster to his face than

the rags did to his trembling limbs; what a sight for the

opera-glasses of the crowd! What a subject for the tongues that were

ever wagging, and complimenting, and backbiting, and lying, all in a

breath, and without sense or scruple! What a sight and a subject for

the fine friends, for whose good opinion Melchior had been so anxious?

Do you think he was as anxious now? Do you think he was troubled by

what they either saw or said; or was ashamed of the wretched prodigal

lying among the cushions? I think not. I think that for the most

foolish of us there are moments in life (of real joy or real sorrow)

when we judge things by a higher standard, and care vastly little for

what 'people say'. The only shame that Melchior felt was that his

brother should have fared so hardly in the trials and temptations of

the world outside, while he had sat at ease among the cushions of the

old coach, that had been the home of both alike. Thank GOD,

it was the home of both now! And poor Hop-o'-my-Thumb was on the front

seat at last, with Melchior kneeling at his feet, and fondly stroking

the head that rested against him.

"'Has powder come into fashion, brother?' he said. 'Your hair is

streaked with white.'

"'If it has,' said the other, laughing, 'your barber is better than

mine, Melchior, for your head is as white as snow.'

"'Is it possible? are we so old? has Time gone so very fast? But what

are you staring at through the window? I shall be jealous of that

crowd, brother.'

"'I am not looking at the crowd,' said the prodigal in a low voice;

'but I see--'

"'You see what?' said Melchior.

"'A figure in a cloak, gliding in and out--'

"Melchior sprang up in horror. 'No! no!' he cried, hoarsely. 'No!

surely no!'

"Surely yes! Too surely the well-known figure came on; and the

prodigal's sunken eyes looked more sunken still as he gazed. As for

Melchior, he neither spoke nor moved, but stood in a silent agony,

terrible to see. All at once a thought seemed to strike him; he seized

his brother, and pushed him to the furthest corner of the seat, and

then planted himself firmly at the door just as Death came up and put

his hand into the coach. Then he spoke in a low steady voice, more

piteous than cries or tears.

"'I humbly beseech you, good Death, if you must take one of us, to

take me. I have had a long drive, and many comforts and blessings, and

am willing if unworthy to go. He has suffered much, and had no

pleasure; leave him for a little to enjoy the drive in peace, just for

a very little; he has suffered so much, and I have been so much to

blame; let me go instead of him.'

"Alas for Melchior! It is decreed in the Providence of GOD,

that, although the opportunities for doing good, which are in the

power of every man, are beyond count or knowledge, yet, the

opportunity once neglected, no man by any self-sacrifice can atone for

those who have fallen or suffered by his negligence. Poor Melchior! An

unalterable law made him the powerless spectator of the consequences

of his neglected opportunities. 'No man may deliver his brother, or

make agreement unto GOD for him, for it cost more to redeem

their souls, so that he must let that alone for ever.' And is it ever

so bitter to 'let alone,' as in a case where we might have acted and

did not?

"Poor Melchior! In vain he laid both his hands in Death's outstretched

palm; they fell to him again as if they had passed through air; he was

pushed aside--Death passed into the coach--'one was taken and the

other left.'

"As the cloaked figure glided in and out among the crowd, many turned

to look at his sad burden, though few heeded him. Much was said; but

the general voice of the crowd was this: 'Ah! he is gone, is he? Well!

a born rascal! It must be a great relief to his brother!' A conclusion

which was about as wise, and about as near the truth, as the world's

conclusions generally are. As for Melchior, he neither saw the figure

nor heard the crowd, for he had fallen senseless among the cushions.

"When he came to his senses, he found himself lying still upon his

face; and so bitter was his loneliness and grief, that he lay still

and did not move. He was astonished, however, by the (as it seemed to

him) unusual silence. The noise of the carriages had been deafening,

and now there was not a sound. Was he deaf? or had the crowd gone? He

opened his eyes. Was he blind? or had the night come? He sat right up,

and shook himself, and looked again. The crowd _was_ gone; so, for

matter of that, was the coach; and so was Godfather Time. He had not

been lying among cushions, but among pillows; he was not in any

vehicle of any kind, but in bed. The room was dark, and very still;

but through the 'barracks' window, which had no blind, he saw the

winter sun pushing through the mist, like a red hot cannon-ball

hanging in the frosty trees; and in the yard outside, the cocks were

crowing.

"There was no longer any doubt that he was safe in his old home; but

where were his brothers and sisters? With a beating heart he crept to

the other end of the bed; and there lay the prodigal, but with no

haggard cheeks or sunken eyes, no grey locks or miserable rags, but a

rosy yellow-haired urchin fast asleep, with his head upon his arm. 'I

took his pillow,' muttered Melchior, self-reproachfully.

"A few minutes later, young Hop-o'-my-Thumb (whom Melchior dared not

lose sight of for fear he should melt away) seated comfortably on his

brother's back, and wrapped up in a blanket, was making a tour of the

'barracks.'

"'It's an awful lark,' said he, shivering with a mixture of cold and

delight.

"If not exactly a _lark_, it was a very happy tour to Melchior, as,

hope gradually changing into certainty, he recognized his brothers in

one shapeless lump after the other in the little beds. There they all

were, sleeping peacefully in a happy home, from the embryo hero to the

embryo philosopher, who lay with the invariable book upon his pillow,

and his hair looking (as it always did) as if he lived in a high wind.

"'I say,' whispered Melchior, pointing to him, 'what did he say the

other day about being a parson?'

"'He said he should like to be one,' returned Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'but

you said he would frighten away the congregation with his looks. And

then, you know, he got very angry, and said he didn't know priests

need be dandies, and that everybody was humbuggy alike, and thought of

nothing but looks; but that he would be a philosopher like Diogenes,

who cared for nobody, and was as ugly as an ape, and lived in a tub.'

"'He will make a capital parson,' said Melchior, hastily, 'and I shall

tell him so to-morrow. And when I'm squire here, he shall be vicar,

and I'll subscribe to all his dodges without a grumble. I'm the eldest

son. And, I say, don't you think we could brush his hair for him in a

morning, till he learns to do it himself?'

"'Oh, I will!' was the lively answer; 'I'm an awful dab at brushing.

Look how I brush your best hat!'

"'True,' said Melchior. 'Where are the girls to-night?'

"'In the little room at the end of the long passage,' said

Hop-o'-my-Thumb, trembling with increased chilliness and enjoyment.

'But you're never going there! we shall wake the company, and they

will all come out to see what's the matter.'

"'I shouldn't care if they did,' said Melchior, 'it would make it feel

more real.'

"As he did not understand this sentiment, Hop-o'-my-Thumb said

nothing, but held on very tightly; and they crept softly down the cold

grey passage in the dawn. The girls' door was open; for the girls were

afraid of robbers, and left their bed-room door wide open at night, as

a natural and obvious means of self-defence. The girls slept together;

and the frill of the pale sister's prim little night-cap was buried in

the other one's uncovered curls.

"'How you do tremble!' whispered Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'are you cold?' This

inquiry received no answer; and after some minutes he spoke again. 'I

say, how very pretty they look! don't they?'

"But for some reason or other, Melchior seemed to have lost his voice;

but he stooped down and kissed both the girls very gently, and then

the two brothers crept back along the passage to the 'barracks.'

"'One thing more,' said Melchior; and they went up to the mantelpiece.

'I will lend you my bow and arrows to-morrow, on one condition--'

"'Anything!' was the reply, in an enthusiastic whisper.

"'That you take that old picture for a target, and never let me see it

again.'

"It was very ungrateful! but perfection is not in man; and there was

something in Melchior's muttered excuse--

"'I couldn't stand another night of it.'

"Hop-o'-my-Thumb was speedily put to bed again, to get warm, this time

with both the pillows; but Melchior was too restless to sleep, so he

resolved to have a shower-bath, and to dress. After which, he knelt

down by the window, and covered his face with his hands.

"'He's saying very long prayers,' thought Hop-o'-my-Thumb, glancing at

him from his warm nest; 'and what a jolly humour he is in this

morning!'

"Still the young head was bent, and the handsome face hidden; and

Melchior was finding his life every moment more real and more happy.

For there was hardly a thing, from the well-filled 'barracks' to the

brother bedfellow, that had been a hardship last night, which this

morning did not seem a blessing. He rose at last, and stood in the

sunshine, which was now pouring in; a smile was on his lips, and on

his face were two drops, which, if they were water, had not come from

the shower-bath, or from any bath at all."

* * * * *

"Is that the end?" inquired the young lady on his knee, as the story

teller paused here.

"Yes, that is the end."

"It's a beautiful story," she murmured, thoughtfully; "but what an

extraordinary one! I don't think I could have dreamt such a wonderful

dream."

"Do you think you could have eaten such a wonderful supper?" said the

friend, twisting his moustachios.

After this point, the evening's amusements were thoroughly successful.

Richard took his smoking boots from the fire-place, and was called upon

for various entertainments for which he was famous: such as the

accurate imitation of a train just starting, in which two pieces of

bone were used with considerable effect; as also of a bumble-bee, who

(very much out of season) went buzzing about, and was always being

caught with a heavy bang on the heads and shoulders of those who least

expected it; all which specimens of his talents were received with due

applause by his admiring brothers and sisters.

The bumble-bee had just been caught (for the twenty-first time) with a

loud smack on brother Benjamin's ear, when the door opened, and

Paterfamilias entered with Materfamilias (whose headache was better),

and followed by the candles. A fresh log was then thrown upon the

fire, the yule cakes and furmety were put upon the table, and

everybody drew round to supper; and Paterfamilias announced that

although he could not give the materials to play with, he had no

objection now to a bowl of moderate punch for all, and that Richard

might compound it. This was delightful; and as he sat by his father,

ladling away to the rest, Adolphus Brown could hardly have felt more

jovial, even with the champagne and ices.

The rest sat with radiant faces and shining heads in goodly order; and

at the bottom of the table, by Materfamilias, was the friend, as happy

in his unselfish sympathy as if his twenty-five sticks had come to

life, and were supping with him. As happy--nearly--as if a certain

woman's grave had never been dug under the southern sun that could not

save her, and as if the children gathered round him were those of

whose faces he had often dreamt, but might never see.

His health had been drunk, and everybody else's too, when, just as

supper was coming to a close, Richard (who had been sitting in

thoughtful silence for some minutes) got up with sudden resolution,

and said,

"I want to propose Mr. What's-his-name's health on my own account. I

want to thank him for his story, which had only one mistake in it.

Melchior should have kept the effervescing papers to put into the

beer; it's a splendid drink! Otherwise it was first-rate; though it

hit me rather hard. I want to say that though I didn't mean all I said

about being an only son (when a fellow gets put out he doesn't know

what he means), yet I know I was quite wrong, and the story is quite

right. I want particularly to say that I'm very glad there are so many

of us, for the more, you know, the merrier. I wouldn't change father

or mother, brothers or sisters, with any one in the world. It couldn't

be better, we couldn't be happier. We are all together, and to-morrow

is Christmas Day. Thank GOD."

It was very well said. It was a very good speech. It was very well and

very good that while the blessings were with him, he could feel it to

be so, and be grateful.

It was very well, and good also, that the friend, who had neither home

nor kindred to be grateful for, had something else for which he could

thank GOD as heartily. The thought of that something came to

him then as he sat at his friend's table, filling his eyes with tears.

It came to him next day as he knelt before GOD's altar,

remembering in blessed fellowship that deed of love which is the

foundation of all our hope and joy. It came to him when he went back

to his lonely wandering life, and thought with tender interest of that

boyish speech. It came--a whisper of consolation to silence envy and

regret for ever.

"There _is_ something far better. There _is_ something far happier.

There is a better Home than any earthly one, and a Family that shall

never be divided."

THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST.

"Let me not think an action mine own way,

But as Thy love shall sway,

Resigning up the rudder to Thy skill."

GEORGE HERBERT.

One day, when I was a very little girl (which is a long time ago), I

made a discovery. The place where I made it was not very remote, being

a holly-bush at the bottom of our garden; and the discovery was not a

great one in itself, though I thought it very grand. I had found a

blackbird's nest, with three young ones in it.

The discovery was made on this wise. I was sitting one morning on a

log of wood opposite this holly-bush, reading the story of Goody

Twoshoes, and thinking to myself how much I should like to be like

her, and to go about in the village with a raven, a pigeon, and a lark

on my shoulders, admired and talked about by everybody. All sorts of

nonsense passed through my head as I sat, with the book on my lap,

staring straight before me; and I was just fancying the kind

condescension with which I would behave to everybody when I became a

Goody Twoshoes, when I saw a bird come out of the holly-bush and fly

away. It was a blackbird: there was no doubt of it; and it must have a

nest in the tree, or why had it been there so long? Down went my book,

and I flew to make my discovery. A blackbird's nest, with three young

ones! I stood still at first in pure pleasure at the sight; and then,

little by little, grand ideas came into my head.

I would be very kind to these little blackbirds, I thought; I would

take them home out of this cold tree, and make a large nest of cotton

wool (which would be much softer and better for them than to be where

they were), and feed them, and keep them; and then, when they were

full-grown, they would, of course, love me better than any one, and be

very tame and grateful; and I should walk about with them on my

shoulders, like Goody Twoshoes, and be admired by everybody; for, I am

ashamed to say, most of my day dreams ended with this, _to be admired

by everybody_. I was so wrapped up in these thoughts that I did not

know, till his hands were laid upon my shoulders, that my friend, the

curate of the village, had come up behind me. He lived next door to

us, and often climbed over the wall that divided our garden to bring

me flowers for my little bed. He was a tall, dark, not very young man;

and the best hand at making fire-balloons, mending toys, and making a

broken wax doll as good as new with a hot knitting needle, that you

can imagine. I had heard grown-up people call him grave and silent,

but he always laughed and talked to me.

"What are you doing, little woman?" he said.

"I have got a nest of poor little birds," I answered; "I am so sorry

for them here in the cold; but they will be all right when I have got

them indoors. I shall make them a beautiful nest of cotton wool, and

feed them. Won't it be nice?"

I spoke confidently; for I had really so worked up my fancy that I

felt quite a contemptuous pity for all the wretched little birds who

were hatched every year without me to rear them. At the same time, I

had a general idea that grown-up people always _did_ throw cold water

on splendid plans like mine; so I was more indignant than surprised

when my friend the curate tried to show me that it was quite

impossible to do as I wished. The end of all his arguments was that I

must leave the nest in its place. But I had a great turn for

disputing, and was not at all inclined to give up my point. "You told

me on Sunday," I said, pertly, "that we were never too little to do

kind things; let me do this."

"If I could be sure," he said, looking at me, "that you only wish to

do a kind thing."

I got more angry and rude.

"Perhaps you think I want to kill them," I said.

He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely,

"Tell me, my child, which do you wish most--to be kind to these poor

little birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, and

bringing them up?"

"To be kind to them," said I, getting very red. "I don't want any

honour and glory," and I felt ready to cry.

"Well, well," he said, smiling; "then I know you will believe me when

I tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds is

to leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sit

here every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over the

nest, that no naughty boy may come near it--the curate, for instance!"

and he pulled a funny face. "That will be very kind."

"But they will never know, and I want them to like me," said I.

"I thought you only wanted to be kind," he answered. And then he began

to talk very gently about different sorts of kindness, and that if I

wished to be kind like a Christian, I must be kind without hoping for

any reward, whether gratitude or anything else. He told me that the

best followers of Jesus in all times had tried hard to do everything,

however small, simply for GOD's sake, and to put themselves

away. That they often began even their letters, etc., with such words,

as, "Glory to GOD," to remind themselves that everything they

did, to be perfect, must be done to GOD, and GOD alone. And that in

doing good kind things even, they were afraid lest, though the thing

was right, the wish to do it might have come from conceit or

presumption.

"This self-devotion," he added, "is the very highest Christian life,

and seems, I dare say, very hard for you even to understand, and much

more so to put in practice. But we must all try for it in the best way

we can, little woman; and for those who by GOD's grace really

practised it, it was almost as impossible to be downcast or

disappointed as if they were already in Heaven. They wished for

nothing to happen to themselves but GOD's will; they did

nothing but for GOD's glory. And so a very good bishop says,

'I have my end, whether I succeed or am disappointed.' So you will

have your end, my child, in being kind to these little birds in the

right way, and denying yourself, whether they know you or not."

I could not have understood all he said; but I am afraid I did not try

to understand what I might have done; however, I said no more, and

stood silent, while he comforted me with the promise of a new flower

for my garden, called "hen and chickens," which he said I was to take

care of instead of the little blackbirds.

When he was gone I went back to the holly-bush, and stood gazing at

the nest, and nursing angry thoughts in my heart. "What a _preach_," I

thought, "about nothing! as if there could be any conceit and

presumption in taking care of three poor little birds! The curate must

forget that I was growing into a big girl; and as to not knowing how

to feed them, I knew as well as he did that birds lived upon worms,

and liked bread-crumbs." And so _thinking wrong_ ended (as it almost

always does) in _doing wrong_: and I took the three little blackbirds

out of the nest, popped them into my pocket-handkerchief, and ran

home. And I took some trouble to keep them out of everyone's

sight--even out of my mother's; for I did not want to hear any more

"grown-up" opinions on the matter.

I filled a basket with cotton wool, and put the birds inside, and took

them into a little room downstairs, where they would be warm. Before I

went to bed I put two or three worms, and a large supply of soaked

bread-crumbs, in the nest, close to their little beaks. "What can they

want more?" thought I in my folly; but conscience is apt to be

restless when one is young, and I could not feel quite comfortable in

bed, though I got to sleep at last, trying to fancy myself Goody

Twoshoes, with three sleek full-fledged blackbirds on my shoulders.

In the morning, as soon as I could slip away, I went to my pets. Any

one may guess what I found; but I believe no one can understand the

shock of agony and remorse that I felt. There lay the worms that I had

dug up with reckless cruelty; there was the wasted bread; and there,

above all, lay the three little blackbirds, cold and dead!

I do not know how long I stood looking at the victims of my

presumptuous wilfulness; but at last I heard a footstep in the

passage, and fearing to be caught, I tore out of the house, and down

to my old seat near the holly-bush, where I flung myself on the

ground, and "wept bitterly." At last I heard the well-known sound of

some one climbing over the wall; and then the curate stood before me,

with the plant of "hen and chickens" in his hands. I jumped up, and

shrank away from him.

"Don't come near me," I cried; "the blackbirds are dead;" and I threw

myself down again.

I knew from experience that few things roused the anger of my friend

so strongly as to see or hear of animals being ill-treated. I had

never forgotten, one day when I was out with him, his wrath over a boy

who was cruelly beating a donkey; and now I felt, though I could not

see, the expression of his face, as he looked at the holly-bush and at

me, and exclaimed, "You took them!" And then added, in the low tone in

which he always spoke when angry, "And the mother-bird has been

wandering all night round this tree, seeking her little ones in vain,

not to be comforted, because they are not! Child, child! has

GOD the Father given life to His creatures for you to destroy

it in this reckless manner?"

His words cut my heart like a knife; but I was too utterly wretched

already to be much more miserable; I only lay still and moaned. At

last he took pity, and lifting me up on to his knee, endeavoured to

comfort me.

This was not, however, an easy matter. I knew much better than he did

how very naughty I had been; and I felt that I had murdered the poor

tender little birds.

"I can never, never, forgive myself!" I sobbed.

"But you must be reasonable," he said. "You gave way to your vanity

and wilfulness, and persuaded yourself that you only wished to be kind

to the blackbirds; and you have been punished. Is it not so?"

"O yes!" I cried; "I am so wicked! I wish I were as good as you are!"

"As I am!"--he began.

I was too young then to understand the sharp tone of self-reproach in

which he spoke. In my eyes he was perfection; only perhaps a little

_too_ good. But he went on:--

"Do you know, this fault of yours reminds me of a time when I was just

as wilful and conceited, just as much bent upon doing the great duty

of helping others in my own grand fashion, rather than in the humble

way which GOD's Providence pointed out, only it was in a much

more serious matter; I was older, too, and so had less excuse. I am

almost tempted to tell you about it; not that our cases are really

quite alike, but that the punishment which met my sin was so

unspeakably bitter in comparison with yours, that you may be thankful

to have learnt a lesson of humility at smaller cost."

I did not understand him--in fact, I did not understand many things

that he said, for he had a habit of talking to me as if he were

speaking to himself; but I had a general idea of his meaning, and said

(very truly), "I cannot fancy you doing wrong."

I was puzzled again by the curious expression of his face; but he only

said, "Shall I tell you a story?"

I knew his stories of old, and gave an eager "Yes."

"It is a sad one," he said.

"I do not think I should like a very funny one just now," I replied.

"Is it true?"

"Quite," he answered. "It is about myself." He was silent for a few

moments, as if making up his mind to speak; and then, laying his head,

as he sometimes did, on my shoulder, so that I could not see his face,

he began.

"When I was a boy (older than you, so I ought to have been better), I

might have been described in the words of Scripture--I was 'the only

son of my mother, and she was a widow.' We were badly off, and she was

very delicate, nay, ill--more ill, GOD knows, than I had any

idea of. I had long been used to the sight of the doctor once or twice

a week, and to her being sometimes better and sometimes worse; and

when our old servant lectured me for making a noise, or the doctor

begged that she might not be excited or worried, I fancied that

doctors and nurses always did say things of that sort, and that there

was no particular need to attend to them.

"Not that I was unfeeling to my dear mother, for I loved her

devotedly in my wilful worldly way. It was for her sake that I had

been so vexed by the poverty into which my father's death had plunged

us. For her sake I worried her, by grumbling before her at our narrow

lodgings and lost comforts. For her sake, child, in my madness, I

wasted the hours in which I might have soothed, and comforted, and

waited on her, in dreaming of wild schemes for making myself famous

and rich, and giving her back all and more than she had lost. For her

sake I fancied myself pouring money at her feet, and loading her with

luxuries, while she was praying for me to our common Father, and

laying up treasure for herself in Heaven.

"One day I remember, when she was remonstrating with me over a bad

report which the schoolmaster had given of me (he said I could work,

but wouldn't), my vanity overcame my prudence, and I told her that I

thought some fellows were made to 'fag,' and some not; that I had been

writing a poem in my dictionary the day that I had done so badly, and

that I hoped to be a poet long before my master had composed a

grammar. I can see now her sorrowful face as, with tears in her eyes,

she told me that all 'fellows' alike were made to do their duty

'before GOD, and Angels, and Men.' That it was by improving

the little events and opportunities of every day that men became

great, and not by neglecting them for their own presumptuous fancies.

And she entreated me to strive to do my duty, and to leave the rest

with GOD. I listened, however, impatiently to what I called a

'jaw' or a 'scold,' and then (knowing the tender interest she took in

all I did) I tried to coax her by offering to read my poem. But she

answered with just severity, that what she wished was to see me a good

man, not a great one; and that she would rather see my exercises duly

written than fifty poems composed at the expense of my neglected duty.

Then she warned me tenderly of the misery which my conceit would bring

upon me, and bade me, when I said my evening prayers, to add that

prayer of King David, 'Keep Thy servant from presumptuous sins, lest

they get the dominion over me.'

"Alas! they had got the dominion over me already, too strongly for her

words to take any hold. 'She won't even look at my poem,' I thought,

and hurried proudly from the room, banging one door and leaving

another open. And I silenced my uneasy conscience by fresh dreams of

making my fortune and hers. But the punishment came at last. One day

the doctor took me into a room alone, and told me as gently as he

could what everyone but myself knew already--my mother was dying. I

cannot tell you, child, how the blow fell upon me--how, at first, I

utterly disbelieved its truth! It seemed _impossible_ that the only

hope of my life, the object of all my schemes and fancies, was to be

taken away. But I was awakened at last, and resolved that,

GOD helping me, while she did live, I would be a better son.

I can now look back with thankfulness on the few days we were

together. I never left her. She took her food and medicine from my

hand; and I received my First Communion with her on the day she died.

The day before, kneeling by her bed, I had confessed all the sin and

vanity of my heart and those miserable dreams; had destroyed with my

own hand all my papers, and had resolved that I would apply to my

studies, and endeavour to obtain a scholarship and the necessary

preparation for Holy Orders. It was a just ambition, little woman,

undertaken humbly, in the fear of GOD, and in the path of

duty; and I accomplished it years after, when I had nothing left of my

mother but her memory."

The curate was silent, and I felt, rather than saw, that the tears

which were wetting my frock had not come from my own eyes, though I

was crying bitterly. I flung my arms round his neck, and hugged him

tight.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" I sobbed; "so very, very sorry!"

We became quieter after a bit; and he lifted up his head and smiled,

and called himself a fool for making me sad, and told me not to tell

any one what he had told me, and what babies we had been, except my

mother.

"Tell her _everything_ always," he said.

I soon cheered up, particularly as he took me over the wall, and into

his workshop, and made a coffin for the poor little blackbirds, which

we lined with cotton-wool and scented with musk, as a mark of respect.

Then he dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried them, and made a

fine high mound of earth, and put the "hen and chicken" plants all

round. And that night, sitting on my mother's knee, I told her

"everything," and shed a few more tears of sorrow and repentance in

her arms.

* * * * *

Many years have passed since then, and many showers of rain have

helped to lay the mound flat with the earth, so that the "hen and

chickens" have run all over it, and made a fine plot. The curate and

his mother have met at last; and I have transplanted many flowers that

he gave me to his grave. I sometimes wonder if, in his perfect

happiness, he knows, or cares to know, how often the remembrance of

his story has stopped the current of conceited day-dreams, and brought

me back to practical duty with the humble prayer, "Keep Thy servant

also from presumptuous sins."

FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD.

A TALE OF THE FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS.

"Nè pinger nè scolpir fia più che queti,

L'anima volta a quell' Amor divino

Ch'asserse a prender noi in Croce le braccia."

"Painting and Sculpture's aid in vain I crave,

My one sole refuge is that Love divine

Which from the Cross stretched forth its arms to save."

_Written by_ MICHAEL ANGELO _at the age of 83._

"So be it," said one of the council, as he rose and addressed the

others. "It is now finally decided. The Story Woman is to be walled

up."

The council was not an ecclesiastical one, and the woman condemned to

the barbarous and bygone punishment of being "walled up" was not an

offending nun. In fact the Story Woman (or _Märchen-Frau_ as she is

called in Germany) may be taken to represent the imaginary personage

who is known in England by the name of Mother Bunch, or Mother Goose;

and it was in this instance the name given by a certain family of

children to an old book of ballads and poems, which they were

accustomed to read in turn with special solemnities, on one particular

night in the year; the reader for the time being having a peculiar

costume, and the title of "Märchen-Frau," or Mother Bunch, a name

which had in time been familiarly adopted for the ballad-book itself.

This book was not bound in a fashionable colour, nor illustrated by a

fashionable artist; the Chiswick Press had not set up a type for it,

and Hayday's morocco was a thing unknown. It had not, in short, one of

those attractions with which in these days books are surrounded, whose

insides do not always fulfil the promise of the binding. If, however,

it was on these points inferior to modern volumes, it had on others

the advantage. It did not share a precarious favour with a dozen

rivals in mauve, to be supplanted ere the year was out by twelve new

ones in magenta. It was never thrown aside with the contemptuous

remark,--"I've read that!" On the contrary, it always had been to its

possessors, what (from the best Book downwards) a good book always

should be, a friend, and not an acquaintance--not to be too readily

criticized, but to be loved and trusted. The pages were yellow and

worn, not with profane ill-usage, but with honourable wear and tear;

and the mottled binding presented much such an appearance as might be

expected from a book that had been pressed under the pillow of one

reader, and in the pocket of another; that had been wept over and

laughed over, and warmed by winter fires, and damped in the summer

grass, and had in general seen as much of life as the venerable book

in question. It was not the property of one member of the family, but

the joint possession of all. It was not _mine_, but _ours_, as the

inscription, "For the Children," written on the blank leaf testified;

which inscription was hereafter to be a pathetic memorial to aged eyes

of days when "the children" were not yet separated, and took their

pleasures, like their meals, together.

And after all this, with the full consent of a council of the owners,

the _Märchen-Frau_ was to be "walled up."

But before I attempt to explain, or in any way excuse this seemingly

ungracious act, it may be well to give some account of the doers

thereof. Well, then:--

Providence had blessed a certain respectable tradesman, in a certain

town in Germany, with a large and promising family of children. He had

married very early the beloved of his boyhood, and had been left a

widower with one motherless baby almost before he was a man. A

neighbour, with womanly compassion, took pity upon this desolate

father, and more desolate child; and it was not until she had nursed

the babe in her own house through a dangerous sickness, and had for

long been chief adviser to the parent, that he awoke to the fact that

she had become necessary to him, and they were married.

Of this union came a family of eight, the two eldest of whom were laid

in turn in the quiet grave. The others survived, and, with the first

wife's daughter, made a goodly family party, which sometimes sorely

taxed the resources of the tradesman to provide for, though his

business was good and his wife careful. They scrambled up, however, as

children are wont to do in such circumstances; and at the time our

story opens the youngest had turned his back upon babyhood, and Marie,

the eldest, had reached that pinnacle of childish ambition--she was

"grown up."

A very good Marie she was, and always had been; from the days when she

ran to school with a little knapsack on her back, and her fair hair

hanging down in two long plaits, to the present time, when she

tenderly fastened that same knapsack on to the shoulders of a younger

sister; and when the plaits had for long been reclaimed from their

vagrant freedom, and coiled close to her head.

"Our Marie is not clever," said one of the children, who flattered

himself that _he was_ a bit of a genius; "our Marie is not clever, but

also she is never wrong."

It is with this same genius that our story has chiefly to do.

Friedrich was a child of unusual talent; a fact which, happily for

himself, was not discovered till he was more than twelve years old. He

learnt to read very quickly; and when he was once able, read every

book on which he could lay his hands, and in his father's house the

number was not great. When Marie was a child, the school was kept by a

certain old man, very gentle and learned in his quiet way. He had been

fond of his fair-haired pupil, and when she was no longer a scholar,

had passed many an odd hour in imparting to her a slight knowledge of

Latin, and of the great Linnæus' system of botany. He was now dead,

and his place filled by a less sympathizing pedagogue; and Friedrich

listened with envious ears to his more fortunate sister's stories of

her friend and master.

"So he taught you Latin--that great language! And botany--which is a

science!" the child would exclaim with envious admiration, when he had

heard for the thousandth time every particular of the old

schoolmaster's kindness.

And Marie would answer calmly, as she "refooted" one of the father's

stockings, "We did a good deal of the grammar, which I fear I have

forgotten, and I learnt by heart a few of the Psalms in Latin, which I

remember well. Also we commenced the system of Mr. Linnæus, but I was

very stupid, and ever preferred those plates which pictured the flower

itself to those which gave the torn pieces, and which he thought most

valuable. But, above all, he taught me to be good; and though I have

forgotten many of his lessons, there are words and advice of his which

I heeded little then, but which come back and teach me now. Father

once heard the Burgomaster say he was a genius, but I know that he was

good, and that is best of all;" with which, having turned the heel of

her stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and lay

the table for dinner.

And Friedrich--poor Friedrich!--groaning inwardly at his sister's

indifference to her great opportunities for learning, would speculate

to himself on the probable fate of each volume in the old

schoolmaster's library, which had been sold when he, Friedrich, was

but three years old. Thus, in these circumstances, the boy expressed

his feelings with moderation when he said, "Our Marie is not clever,

but also she is never wrong."

If the schoolmaster was dead, however, Friedrich was not,

nevertheless, friendless. There was a certain bookseller in his native

town, for whom in his spare time he ran messages, and who in return

was glad to let him spend his playhours and half-holidays among the

books in his shop. There, perched at the top of the shelves on a

ladder, or crouched upon his toes at the bottom, he devoured some

volumes and dipped into others; but what he liked best was poetry, and

this not uncommon taste with many young readers was with this one a

mania. Wherever the sight of verses met his eye, there he fastened and

read greedily.

One day, a short time before my story opens, he found, in his

wanderings from shelf to shelf, some nicely-bound volumes, one of

which he opened, and straightway verses of the most attractive-looking

metre met his eye, not, however, in German, but in a fair round Roman

text, and, alas! in a language which he did not understand. There were

customers in the shop, so he stood still in the corner with his nose

almost resting on the bookshelf, staring fiercely at the page, as if

he would force the meaning out of those fair clear-looking verses.

When the last beard had vanished through the doorway, Friedrich came

up to the counter, book in hand.

"Well, now?" said the comfortable bookseller, with a round German

smile.

"This book," said the boy; "in what language is it?"

The man stuck his spectacles on his nose, and smiled again.

"It is Italian, and these are the sonnets of Petrarch, my child. The

edition is a fine one, so be careful." Friedrich went back to his

place, sighing heavily. After a while he came out again.

"Well now, what is it?" said the bookseller, cheerfully.

"Have you an Italian grammar?"

"Only this," said the other, as he picked a book from the shelf and

laid it on the counter with a twinkle in his eye. The boy opened it

and looked up disappointed.

"It is all Italian," said he.

"No, no," was the answer; "it is in French and Italian, and was

printed at Paris. But what wouldst thou with a grammar, my child?"

The boy blushed as if he had been caught stealing, and said hastily--

"I _must_ read those poems, and I cannot if I do not learn the

language."

"And thou wouldst read Petrarch with a grammar," shouted the

bookseller; "ho! ho! ho!"

"And a dictionary," said Friedrich; "why not?"

"Why not?" repeated the other, with renewed laughter. "Why not?

Because to learn a language, my Friedrich, one must have a master, and

exercises, and a phrase-book, and progressive reading-lessons with

vocabulary; and, in short, one must learn a language in the way

everybody else learns it; that is why not, my Friedrich."

"Everybody is nobody," said Friedrich, hotly; "at least nobody worth

caring for. If I had a grammar and a dictionary, I would read those

beautiful poems."

"Hear him!" said the cheerful little bookseller. "He will read

Petrarch. He! If my volumes stop in the shelves till thou canst read

them, my child--ho! ho! ho!" and he rubbed his brushy little beard

with glee.

Friedrich's temper was not by nature of the calmest, and this

conversation rubbed its tenderest points. He answered almost

fiercely--

"Take care of your volumes. If I live, and they _do_ stop in the

shelves, I will buy them of you some day. Remember!" and he turned

sharply round to hide the tears which had begun to fall.

For a moment the good shopkeeper's little mouth became as round as his

round little eyes and his round little face; then he laid his hands on

the counter, and jumping neatly over flung his dead weight on to

Friedrich, and embraced him heartily.

"My poor child! (a kiss)--would that it had pleased Heaven to make

thee the son of a nobleman--(another kiss). But hear me. A man in

Berlin is now compiling an Italian grammar. It is to be out in a month

or two. I shall have a copy, and thou shalt see it; and if ever thou

canst read Petrarch I will give thee my volumes--(a volley of kisses).

And now, as thou hast stayed so long, come into the little room and

dine with me." With which invitation the kind-hearted German released

his young friend and led him into the back room, where they buried the

memory of Petrarch in a mess of vegetables and melted butter.

It may be added here, that the Petrarchs remained on the shelf, and

that years afterwards the round-faced little bookseller redeemed his

promise with pride.

Of these visits the father was to all intents and purposes ignorant.

He knew that Friedrich went to see the bookseller, and that the

bookseller was good-natured to him; but he never dreamt that his son

read the books with which his neighbour's shop was lined, and he knew

nothing of the wild visions which that same shop bred and nourished in

the mind of his boy, and which made the life outside its doorstep

seem a dream. The father and son saw that life from different points

of view. The boy felt that he was more talented than other boys, and

designed himself for a poet; the tradesman saw that the boy was more

talented than other boys, and designed him for the business; and the

opposite nature of these determinations was the one great misery of

Friedrich's life.

If, however, this source of the child's sorrows was a secret one, and

not spoken of to his brothers and sisters, or even to his friend the

bookseller, equally secret also were the sources of his happiness. No

eye but his own ever beheld those scraps of paper which he begged from

the bookseller, and covered with childish efforts at verse-making. No

one shared the happiness of those hours, of which perhaps a quarter

was spent in working at the poem, and three-fourths were given to the

day-dreams of the poet; or knew that the wild fancies of his brain

made Friedrich's nights more happy than his days. By day he was a

child (his family, with some reason, said a tiresome one), by night he

was a man, and a great man. He visited the courts of Europe, and

received compliments from Royalty; _his_ plays were acted in the

theatres; _his_ poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers; he made

his family rich (the boy was too young to wish for money for

himself); he made everybody happy, and himself famous.

Fame! that was the word that rang in his ears and danced before his

eyes as the hours of the night wore on, and he lived through a

glorious lifetime. And so, when the mother, candle in hand, came round

like a guardian angel among the sleeping children, to see that "all

was right," he--poor child!--must feign to be sleeping on his face, to

hide the traces of the tears which he had wept as he composed the

epitaph which was to grace the monument of the famous Friedrich ----,

poet, philosopher, etc. Whoever doubts the possibility of such

exaggerated folly, has never known an imaginative childhood, or wept

over those unreal griefs, which are not the less bitter at the time

from being remembered afterwards with a mixture of shame and

amusement. Happy or unhappy, however, in his dreams the boy was great,

and this was enough; for Friedrich was vain, as everyone is tempted to

be who feels himself in any way singular and unlike those about him.

He revelled in the honours which he showered upon himself, and so--the

night was happy; and so--the day was unwelcome when he was smartly bid

to get up and put on his stockings, and found Fame gone and himself a

child again, without honour, in his own country, and in his father's

house.

These sad dreams (sad in their uselessness) were destined, however, to

do him some good at last; and, oddly enough, the childish council that

condemned the ballad-book decided his fate also. This was how it

happened.

The children were accustomed, as we have said, to celebrate the Feast

of St. Nicholas by readings from their beloved book. St. Nicholas's

Day (the 6th of December) has for years been a favourite festival with

the children in many parts of the Continent. In France, the children

are diligently taught that St. Nicholas comes in the night down the

chimney, and fills the little shoes (which are ranged there for the

purpose) with sweetmeats or rods, according to his opinion of their

owner's conduct during the past year. The Saint is supposed to travel

through the air, and to be followed by an ass laden with two panniers,

one of which contains the good things, and the other the birch, and he

leaves his ass at the top of the chimney and comes down alone. The

same belief is entertained in Holland; and in some parts of Germany he

is even believed to carry off bad boys and girls in his sack,

answering in this respect to our English Bogy.

The day, as may be supposed, is looked forward to with no small amount

of anxiety; very clean and tidy are the little shoes placed by the

young expectants; and their parents--who have threatened and promised

in St. Nicholas's name for a year past--take care that, with one sort

of present or the other, the shoes are well filled. The great

question--rods or sweetmeats--is, however, finally settled for each

individual before breakfast-time on the great day; and before dinner,

despite maternal warnings, most of the said sweetmeats have been

consumed. And so it came to pass that Friedrich and his brothers and

sisters had hit upon a plan for ending the day, with the same spirit

and enjoyment with which it opened.

The mother, by a little kind manoeuvring, generally induced the

father to sup and take his evening pipe with a neighbour, for the

tradesman was one of those whose presence is rather a "wet blanket"

upon all innocent folly and fun. Then she good-naturedly took herself

off to household matters, and the children were left in undisturbed

possession of the stove, round which they gathered with the book, and

the game commenced. Each in turn read whichever poem he preferred; and

the reader for the time being, was wrapt in a huge hood and cloak,

kept for the purpose, and was called the "Märchen-Frau," or Story

Woman. Sometimes the song had a chorus, which all the children sang to

whichever suited best of the thousand airs that are always floating

in German brains. Sometimes, if the ballad was a favourite one, the

others would take part in any verses that contained a dialogue. This

was generally the case with some verses in the pet ballad of

Bluebeard, at that exciting point where Sister Anne is looking from

the castle window. First the Märchen-Frau read in a sonorous voice--

"Schwester Aennchen, siehst du nichts?"

(Sister Anne, do you see nothing?)

Then the others replied for Anne--

"Stäubchen fliegen, Gräschen wehen."

(A little dust flies, a little grass waves.)

Again the Märchen-Frau--

"Aennchen, lässt sich sonst nichts sehen?"

(Little Anne, is there nothing else to be seen?)

And the unsatisfactory reply--

"Schwesterchen, sonst seh' ich nichts!"

(Little sister, I see nothing else!)

After this the Märchen-Frau finished the ballad alone, and the

conclusion was received with shouts of applause and laughter, that

would have considerably astonished the good father, could he have

heard them, and that did sometimes oblige the mother to call order

from the loft above, just for propriety's sake; for, in truth, the

good woman loved to hear them, and often hummed in with a chorus to

herself as she turned over the clothes among which she was busy.

At last, however, after having been for years the crowning enjoyment

of St. Nicholas's Day, the credit of the Märchen-Frau was doomed to

fade. The last reading had been rather a failure, not because the old

ballad-book was supplanted by a new one, or because the children had

outgrown its histories; perhaps--though they did not acknowledge

it--Friedrich was in some degree to blame.

His increasing knowledge, the long readings in the bookseller's shop,

which his brothers and sisters neither shared nor knew of, had given

him a feeling of contempt for the one book on which they feasted from

year to year; and his part, as Märchen-Frau, had been on this occasion

more remarkable for yawns than for anything else. The effect of this

failure was not confined to that day. Whenever the book was brought

out, there was the same feeling that the magic of it was gone, and

very greatly were the poor children disquieted by the fact.

At last, one summer's day, in the year of which we are writing, one of

the boys was struck, as he fancied, by a brilliant idea; and as

brilliant ideas on any subject are precious, he lost no time in

summoning a council of his brothers and sisters in the garden. It was

a half-holiday, and they soon came trooping round the great linden

tree--where the bees were already in full possession--and the youngest

girl, who was but six years old, bore the book hugged fast in her two

arms.

The boy opened the case--as lawyers say--by describing the loss of

interest in their book since the last Feast of St. Nicholas. "This did

not," he said, "arise from any want of love to the stories themselves,

but from the fact of their knowing them so well. Whatever ballad the

Märchen-Frau chose, every line of it was so familiar to each one of

them that it seemed folly to repeat it. In these circumstances it was

evident that the greatest compliment they could pay the stories was to

forget them, and he had a plan for attaining this desirable end. Let

them deny themselves now for their future pleasure; let them put away

the Märchen-Frau till next St. Nicholas's Day, and, in the meantime,

let each of them do his best to forget as much of it as he possibly

could." The speaker ceased, and in the silence the bees above droned

as if in answer, and then the children below shouted applause until

the garden rang.

But now came the question, where was the Märchen-Frau to be put? and

for this the suggestive brother had also an idea. He had found

certain bricks in the thick old garden wall which were loose, and when

taken out there was a hole which was quite the thing for their

purpose. Let them wrap the book carefully up, put it in the hole, and

replace the bricks. This was his proposal, and he sat down. The bees

droned above, the children shouted below, and the proposal was carried

amid general satisfaction. "So be it," said the suggestor, in

conclusion. "It is now finally decided. The Märchen-Frau is to be

walled up."

And walled up she was forthwith, but not without a parting embrace

from each of her judges, and possibly some slight latent faith in the

suggestion of one of the party that perhaps St. Nicholas would put a

new inside and new stories into her before next December.

"I don't think I should like a new inside, though," doubted the child

before mentioned, with a shake of her tiny plaits, "or new stories

either."

As this quaint little Fräulein went into the house she met Friedrich,

who came from the bookseller's.

"Friedrich," said she, in a solemn voice, "we have walled up the

'Märchen-Frau.'"

"Have you, _Schwesterchen_?"

This was Friedrich's answer; but it may safely be stated that, if any

one had asked him what it was his sister had told him, he would have

been utterly unable to reply.

He had been to the bookseller's!

The summer passed, and the children kept faithfully to their resolve.

The little sister sometimes sat by the wall and comforted the

Märchen-Frau inside, with promises of coming out soon; but not a brick

was touched. There was something pathetic in the children's voluntary

renouncement of their one toy. The father was too absent and the

mother too busy, to notice its loss; Marie missed it and made

inquiries of the children, but she was implored to be silent, and

discreetly held her tongue. Winter drew on, and for some time a change

was visible in the manners of one of the children; he seemed restless

and uncomfortable, as if something preyed upon his mind. At last he

was induced to unburden himself to the others, when it was discovered

that he couldn't forget the poems in "Märchen-Frau." This was the

grievance.

"It seems as if I did it on purpose," groaned he in self-indignation.

"The nearer the time comes, and the more I try to forget, the clearer

I remember them everyone. You know my pet is Bluebeard; well, I

thought I would forget that altogether, every word: and then when my

turn came to be Märchen-Frau I would take it for my piece. And now, of

all the rest, this is just the one that runs in my head. It is quite

as if I did it on purpose."

Involuntarily the company--who appeared to have forgotten it as little

as he--struck up in a merry tune--

"Blaubart war ein reicher Mann," etc.[A]

"Oh, don't!" groaned the victim. "That's just how it goes in my head

all along, especially the verse--

"Stark war seines Körpers Ban,

Feurig waren seine Blicke,

Aber ach!--ein Missgeschicke!--

Aber ach! sein Bart war blau."[B]

"On Sunday, when the preacher gave out the text, I was looking at him,

and it came so strongly into my head that I nearly said it out

loud--'But ah! his beard was blue!' To-day the schoolmaster asked me a

question about Solomon. I could remember nothing but 'Ah! his beard

was blue!' I have tried this week with all my might; and the harder I

try, the better I remember every word. It is dreadful."

[Footnote A: "Bluebeard was a rich man."]

[Footnote B:

"Strong was the build of his body,

Fiery were his glances,

But ah!--disaster!--

But ah! his beard was blue."]

It was dreadful; but he was somewhat comforted to learn that the

memories of his brothers and sisters were as perverse as his own.

Those ballads were not to be easily forgotten. They refused to give up

their hold on the minds they had nourished and amused so long.

One and all the children were really distressed, with the exception of

Friedrich, who had, as usual, given about half his attention to the

subject in hand; and who now sat absently humming to himself the

account of Bluebeard's position and character, as set forth in

Gotter's ballad.

The others came to the conclusion that there was but one hope

left--that St. Nicholas might have put some new ballads into the old

book--and one and all they made for the hiding-place, followed at a

feebler pace by the little Fräulein, who ran with her lips tightly

shut, her hands clenched, and her eyes wide open with a mixture of

fear and expectation. The bricks were removed, the book unwrapped, but

alas! everything was the same, even to the rough woodcut of Bluebeard

himself, in the act of sharpening his scimitar. There was no change,

except that the volume was rather the worse for damp. It was thrown

down with a murmur of disappointment, but seized immediately by the

little Fräulein, who flung herself upon it in a passion of tears and

embraces. Hers was the only faithful affection; the charm of the

Märchen-Frau was gone.

They were all out of humour with this, and naturally looked about for

some one to find fault with. Friedrich was at hand, and so they fell

upon him and reproached him for his want of sympathy with their

vexation. The boy awoke from a brown study, and began to defend

himself:--"He was very sorry," he said; "but he couldn't see the use

of making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after all

were nothing so very wonderful."

This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where any

were to be got like them--where even _one_ might be found, when St.

Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful to

the idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated into

English, would look very like the word _humbug_. This was no answer to

the question "where were they to get a ballad?" and a fresh storm came

upon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanity

and vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that "he thought he could

write one almost as good himself."

This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctive

belief in Friedrich's talents, to which their elders had not attained.

The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he should

not be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coax

him as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before.

"Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! _Do_ write one for us. We

know thou canst!"

"I cannot," said Friedrich. "It is all nonsense. I was only joking."

"It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz--just to please

us!"

"Do!" said another. "It was only yesterday the mother was saying,

'Friedrich can do nothing useful!' But when thou hast written a poem

thou wilt have done more than any one in the house--ay, or in the

town. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and be

like Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of so

often."

Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but the

name of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heard

nothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him.

_Friedrich can do nothing useful._ "I will see what I can do," he

said, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road,

away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talk

aloud without being heard.

"Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad."

He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced.

In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up one

and all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. He

had a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight,

and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with a

moonlight meeting, an escape on horseback, pursuit, capture, despair,

suicide, and a ghostly apparition that floated over the river, and

wrung her hands under the castle window. It seems impossible for an

author to do more for his heroine than take her out of the world, and

bring her back again; but our poet was not content. He had not come

himself to the sentiment of life, and felt a rough boyish disgust at

the maundering griefs of his hero and heroine, who, moreover, were

unpleasantly like every other hero and heroine that he had ever read

of under similar circumstances; and if there was one thing more than

another that Friedrich was determined to be, it was to be original.

He had no half hopes. With the dauntlessness of young ambition, he

determined to do his very best, and that that best should be better

than anything that ever had been done by any one.

Having failed with the sentimental, he tried to write something funny.

Surely such child's tales as Bluebeard, Cinderella, etc., were easy

enough to write. He would make a _Kindeslied_--a child's song. But he

was mistaken; to write a new nursery ballad was the hardest task of

all. Time after time he struggled; and, at last, one day when he had

written and destroyed a longer effort than usual, he went to bed in

hopeless despair.

His disappointment mingled with his dreams. He dreamt that he was in

the bookseller's shop hunting among the shelves for some scraps of

paper on which he had written. He could not find them, he thought, but

came across the Petrarch volumes in their beautiful binding. He opened

one and saw--not a word of that fair-looking Italian, but--his own

ballad that he could not write, written and printed in good German

character with his name on the title-page. He took it in his hands and

went out of the shop, and as he did so it seemed to him, in his dream,

that he had become a man. He dreamt that as he came down the steps,

the people in the street gathered round him and cheered and shouted.

The women held up their children to look at him; he was a Great Man!

He thought that he turned back into the shop and went up to the

counter. There sat the smiling little bookseller as natural as life,

who smiled and bowed to him, as Friedrich had a hundred times seen

him bow and smile to the bearded men who came in to purchase.

"How many have you sold of this?" said Friedrich, in his dream.

"Forty thousand!" with another smile and bow.

Forty thousand! It seemed to him that all the world must have read it.

This was Fame.

He went out of the shop, through the shouting market-place, and home,

where his father led him in and offered pipes and a mug of ale, as if

he were the Burgomaster. He sat down, and when his mother came in,

rose to embrace her, and, doing so, knocked down the mug. Crash! it

went on the floor with a loud noise, which woke him up; and then he

found himself in bed, and that he had thrown over the mug of water

which he had put by his bedside to drink during the thirsty feverish

hours that he lay awake.

He was not a great man, but a child.

He had not written a ballad, but broken a mug.

"Friedrich can do nothing useful."

He buried his face, and wept bitterly.

In time, his tears were dried, and as it was very early he lay awake

and beat his brains. He had added nothing to his former character but

the breaking of a piece of crockery. Something must be done. No more

funny ballads now. He would write something terrible--miserable;

something that should make other people weep as he had wept. He was in

a very tragic humour indeed. He would have a hero who should go into

the world to seek his fortune, and come back to find his lady-love in

a nunnery; but that was an old story. Well, he would turn it the other

way, and put the hero into a monastery; but that wasn't new. Then he

would shut both of them up, and not let them meet again till one was a

monk and the other a nun, which would be grievous enough in all

reason; but this was the oldest of all. Friedrich gave up love stories

on the spot. It was clearly not his _forte_.

Then he thought he would have a large family of brothers and sisters,

and kill them all by a plague. But, besides the want of further

incident, this idea did not seem to him sufficiently sad. Either from

its unreality, or from their better faith, the idea of death does not

possess the same gloom for the young that it does for those older

minds that have a juster sense of the value of human life, and are,

perhaps, more heavily bound in the chains of human interests.

No; the plague story might be pathetic, but it was not miserable--not

miserable enough at any rate for Friedrich.

In truth, he felt at last that every misfortune that he could invent

was lost in the depths of the real sorrow which oppressed his own

life, and out of this knowledge came an idea for his ballad. What a

fool never to have thought of it before!

He would write the history--the miserable bitter history--of a great

man born to a small way of life, whose merits should raise him from

his low estate to a deserved and glorious fame; who should toil, and

strive, and struggle, and when his hopes and prayers seemed to be at

last fulfilled, and the reward of his labours at hand, should awake

and find that it was a dream; that he was no nearer to Fame than ever,

and that he might never reach it. Here was enough sorrow for a

tragedy. The ballad should be written now.

The next day. Friedrich plunged into the bookseller's shop.

"Well, now, what is it?" smiled the comfortable little bookseller.

"I want some paper, please," gasped Friedrich; "a good big bit if I

may have it, and, if you please, I must go now. I will come and clean

out the shop for you at the end of the week, but I am very busy

to-day."

"The condition of the shop," said the little bookseller,

grandiloquently, with a wave of his hand, "yields to more important

matters; namely, to thy condition, my child, which is not of the best.

Thou art as white as this sheet of paper, to which thou art heartily

welcome. I am silent, but not ignorant. Thou wouldst be a writer, but

art not yet a philosopher, my Friedrich. Thou art not fast-set on thy

philosophic equilibrium. Thou hast knocked down three books and a

stool since thou hast come in the shop. Be calm, my child: consider

that even if truly also the fast-bound-eternally-immutable-condition

of everlastingly-varying-circumstance--"

But by this time Friedrich was at home.

How he got through the next three days he never knew. He stumbled in

and out of the house with the awkwardness of an idiot, and was so

stupid in school that nothing but his previous good character saved

him from a flogging. The day before the Feast of St. Nicholas (which

was a holiday) the schoolmaster dismissed him with the severe inquiry,

if he meant to be a dunce all his life? and Friedrich went home with

two sentences ringing in his head--

"Do I mean to be a dunce all my life?"

"Friedrich can do nothing useful."

To-night the ballad must be finished.

He contrived to sit up beyond his usual hour, and escaped notice by

crouching behind a large linen chest, and there wrote and wrote till

his heart beat and his head felt as if it would split in pieces. At

last, the careful mother discovered that Friedrich had not bid her

good-night, and he was brought out of his hiding-place and sent to

bed.

He took a light and went softly up the ladder into the loft, and, to

his great satisfaction, found the others asleep. He said his prayers,

and got into bed, but he did not put out the light; he put a box

behind it to prevent its being seen, and drew out his paper and wrote.

The ballad was done, but he must make a fair copy for the

Märchen-Frau; and very hard work it was, in his feverish excited

state, to write out a thing that was finished. He worked resolutely,

however, and at last completed it with trembling hands, and pushed it

under his pillow.

Then he sat up in bed, and looked round him.

Time passed, and still he sat shivering and clasping his knees, and

the reason he sat so was--because he dared not lie down.

The work was done, and the overstrained mind, no longer occupied,

filled with ghastly fears and fancies. He did not dare to put out the

light, and yet its faint glimmer only made the darkness more horrible.

He did not dare to look behind him, though he knew that there was

nothing there. He trembled at the scratching sound in the wainscot,

though he knew that it was only mice. A sudden light on the window,

and a distant chorus, did not make his heart beat less wildly from

being nothing more alarming than two or three noisy students going

home with torches. Then his light took the matter into its own hands,

and first flared up with a suddenness that almost made Friedrich jump

out of his skin, and then left him in total darkness. He could endure

no longer, and, scrambling out of bed, crossed the floor to where the

warm light came up the steps of the ladder from the room beneath.

There our hero crouched without daring to move, and comforted himself

with the sounds of life below. But it was very wearying, and yet he

dared not go back. A neighbour had "dropped in," and he could see

figures passing to and fro across the kitchen.

At last his sister passed, with the light shining on her golden

plaits, and he risked a low murmur of "Marie! Marie!"

She stopped an instant, and then passed on; but after a few minutes,

she returned, and came up the ladder with her finger on her lips to

enjoin silence. He needed no caution, being instinctively aware that

if one parental duty could be more obvious than another to the

tradesman, it would be that of crushing such folly as Friedrich was

displaying by timely severity. The boy crept back to bed, and Marie

came after him.

There are unheroic moments in the lives of the greatest of men, and

though when the head is strong and clear, and there is plenty of light

and good company, it is highly satisfactory and proper to smile

condescension upon female inanity, there are times when it is not

unpleasant to be at the mercy of kind arms that pity without asking a

reason, and in whose presence one may be foolish without shame. And it

is not ill, perhaps, for some of us, whose acutely strung minds go up

with every discovery, and down with every doubt, if we have some

humble comforter (whether woman or man) on whose face a faithful

spirit has set the seal of peace--a face which in its very

steadfastness is "as the face of an angel."

Such a face looked down upon Friedrich, before which fancied horrors

fled; and he wound his arms round Marie's neck, and laid down his

head, and was comfortable, if not sublime.

After a dozen or so of purposeless kisses, she spoke--

"What is it, my beloved?"

"I--I don't think I can get to sleep," said the poet.

Marie abstained from commenting on this remark, and Friedrich was

silent and comfortable. So comfortable that, though he despised her

opinion on such matters he asked it in a low whisper--"Marie, dost

thou not think it would be the very best thing in the world to be a

great man? To labour and labour for it, and be a great man at last?"

Marie's answer was as low, but quite decided--

"No."

"Why not, Marie?"

"It is very nice to be great, and I should love to see thee a great

man, Friedrich, very well indeed, but the very best thing of all is to

be good. Great men are not always happy ones, though when they are

good also it is very glorious, and makes one think of the words of the

poor heathen in Lycaonia--'The gods have come down to us in the

likeness of men.' But if ever thou art a great man, little brother, it

will be the good and not the great things of thy life that will bring

thee peace. Nay, rather, neither thy goodness nor thy greatness, but

the mercy of GOD!"

And in this opinion Marie was obstinately fixed, and Friedrich argued

no more.

"I think I shall do now," said the hero at last; "I thank thee very

much, Marie."

She kissed him anew, and bade GOD bless him, and wished him

good-night, and went down the ladder till her golden plaits caught

again the glow of the warm kitchen, and Friedrich lost sight of her

tall figure and fair face, and was alone once more.

He was better, but still he could not sleep. Wearied and vexed, he lay

staring into the darkness till he heard steps upon the ladder, and

became the involuntary witness of--the true St. Nicholas.

It was the mother, with a basket in her hand, and Friedrich watched

her as she approached the place where all the shoes were laid out, his

among them.

The children were by no means immaculate or in any way greatly

superior to other families, but the mother was tender-hearted, and had

a poor memory for sins that were past, and Friedrich saw her fill one

shoe after another with cakes and sweetmeats. At last she came to his,

and then she stopped. He lifted up his head, and an indefinable fury

surged in his heart. He had been very tiresome since the ballad was

begun; was she going to put rods into his shoes only? _His_! He could

have borne anything but this. Meanwhile, she was fumbling in the

basket; and, at last, pulled out--not a rod, but--a paper of cakes of

another kind, to which Friedrich was particularly attached, and with

these she lined the shoes thickly, and filled them up with sweetmeats,

and passed on.

"Oh, mother! mother! Far, far too kind!" The awkwardness and

stupidity of yesterday, and of many yesterdays, smote him to the

heart, and roused once more the only too ready tears. But he did not

cry long, he had a happy feeling of community with his brothers and

sisters in getting more than they any of them deserved; to have seen

the St. Nicholas's proceedings had diverted his mind from gloomy

fancies, and altogether, with a comfortable sensation of cakes and

kindness, he fell asleep smiling, and slept soundly and well.

The next day he threw his arms round his mother, and said that the

cakes were "so nice."

"But I don't deserve them," he added.

"Thou'lt mend," said she kindly. "And no doubt the Saint knew that

thou hadst eaten but half a dinner for a week past, and brought those

cakes to tempt thee; so eat them all, my child; for, doubtless, there

are plenty more where they come from."

"I am very much obliged to whoever did think of it," said Friedrich.

"And plenty more there are," said the good woman to Marie afterwards,

as they were dishing the dinner. "Luise Jansen's shop is full of them.

But, bless the boy! he's too clever for anything. There's no playing

St. Nicholas with him."

The day went by at last, and the evening came on. The tradesman went

off of himself to see if he could meet with the Burgomaster, and the

children became rabid in their impatience for Friedrich's ballad.

He would not read it himself, so Marie was pressed into the service,

and crowned with the hood and cloak, and elected Märchen-Frau.

The author himself sat in an arm-chair, with a face as white and

miserable as if he were ordered for execution. He formed a painful

contrast to his ruddy brothers and sisters; and it would seem as if he

had begun already to experience the truth of Marie's assertion, that

"great men are not always happy ones."

The ballad was put into the Märchen-Frau's hands, and she was told

that Friedrich had written it. She gave a quick glance at it, and

asked if he had really invented it all. The children repeated the

fact, which was a pleasant but not a surprising one to them, and Marie

began.

The young poet had evidently a good ear, for the verses were easy and

musical, and the metre more than tolerably correct; and as the hero of

the ballad worked harder and harder, and got higher and higher, the

children clapped their hands, and discovered that it was "quite like

Friedrich."

Why, when that hero was almost at the height of fortune, and the

others gloried in his success, did the foolish author bury his face

upon his arms, and sob silently but bitterly in sympathy?--moreover,

with such a heavy and absorbing grief that he did not hear it, when

Marie stopped for an instant and then went on again, or know that

steps had come behind his chair, and that his father and the

Burgomaster were in the room.

The Märchen-Frau went on; the hero awoke from his unreal happiness to

his real fate, and bewailed in verse after verse the heavy weights of

birth, and poverty, and circumstance, that kept him from the heights

of fame. The ballad was ended.

Then a voice fell on Friedrich's ear, which nearly took away his

breath. It was his father's asking sternly, "What is all this?"

And then he knew that Marie was standing up, with a strange emotion on

her face, and he heard her say--

"It is a poem that Friedrich has written. He has written it all

himself. Every word. And he is but twelve years old!" She was pointing

to him, or, perhaps, the Burgomaster might not have recognized in that

huddled miserable figure the genius of the family.

His was the next voice, and what he said Friedrich could hardly

remember; the last sentences only he clearly understood.

"GOD has not blessed me with children, neighbour. My wife, as

well as I, would be ashamed if such genius were lost for want of a

little money. Give the child to me. He shall have a liberal education,

and will be a great man."

"I shall not," said the tradesman, "stand in the way of his interests

or your commands. I cannot tell what to say to your kindness,

Burgomaster. GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town."

"GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country," said the

Burgomaster.

The words rang in Friedrich's ears over and over again, like the

changes of bells. They danced before his eyes as if he saw them in a

book. They were written in his heart as if "graven with an iron pen

and lead in the rock for ever."

"GOD _willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town._"

"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._"

"_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a_ GREAT

MAN."

Friedrich tried to stand on his feet and thank the Burgomaster; who,

on any other occasion, might have been tempted to suppose him an

idiot, so white and distorted was the child's face, struggling through

tears and smiles. He could not utter a word; a mist began to come

before his eyes, through which the Burgomaster's head seemed to bob up

and down, and then his father's, and his mother's, and Marie's, with a

look of pity on her face. He tried to tell _her_ that he was now a

great man and felt quite happy; but, unfortunately, was only able to

burst into tears, and then to burst out laughing, and then a sharp

pain shot through his head, and he remembered no more.

* * * * *

Friedrich had a dim consciousness of coming round after this, and

being put to bed; then he fell asleep, and slept heavily. When he woke

Marie was sitting by his side, and it was dark. The mother had gone

downstairs, she said, and she had taken her place. Friedrich lay

silent for a bit; at last he said,

"I am very happy, Marie."

"I am very glad, dearest."

"Dost thou think father will let the Burgomaster give me a good

education, Marie?"

"Yes, dear, I am sure he will."

"It is very kind," said Friedrich, thoughtfully; "for I know he wants

me for the business. But I will help him some day. And, Marie, I will

be a good man, and when I am very rich I will give great alms to the

poor."

"Thou wilt be a good man before thou art a rich one, I trust," said

his dogmatic sister. "We are accepted in that we have, and not in that

we have not. Thou hast great talent, and wilt give it to the Lord,

whether He make thee rich or no. Wilt thou not, dearest?"

"What dost thou mean, Marie? Am I never to write anything but hymns?"

"No, no, I do not mean that," she said. "I am very ignorant and cannot

rightly explain it to thee, little brother. But genius is a great and

perilous gift; and, oh, Friedrich! Friedrich! promise me just

this:--that thou wilt never, never write anything against the faith or

the teaching of the Saviour, and that thou wilt never use the graces

of poetry to cover the hideousness of any of those sins which it is

the work of a lifetime to see justly, and to fight against manfully.

Promise me just this."

"Oh, Marie! to think that I could be so wicked!"

"No! no!" she said, covering him with kisses. "I know thou wilt be

good and great, and we shall all be proud of our little brother.

GOD give thee the pen of a ready writer, and grace to use it

to His glory!"

"I will," he said, "GOD help me! and I will write beautiful

hymns for thee, Marie, that when I am dead shall be sung in the

churches. They shall be like that Evening Hymn we sing so often. Sing

it now, my sister!"

Marie cleared her throat, and in a low voice, that steadied and grew

louder and sweeter till it filled the house and died away among the

rafters, sang the beautiful hymn that begins--

"Herr, Dein Auge geht nicht unter, wenn es bei uns Abend wird;"

(Lord! Thine eye does not go down, when it is evening with us.)

The boy lay drinking it in with that full enjoyment of simple vocal

music which is so innate in the German character; and as he lay, he

hummed his accustomed part in it, and the mother at work below caught

up the song involuntarily, and sang at her work; and Marie's clear

voice breaking through the wooden walls of the house, was heard by a

passer in the street, who struck in with the bass of the familiar

hymn, and went his way. Before it was ended, Friedrich was sleeping

peacefully once more.

But Marie sat by the stove till the watchman in the quaint old street

told the hour of midnight, when (with the childish custom taught her

by the old schoolmaster long ago) she folded her hands, and murmured,

"Nisi Dominus urbem custodiat, frustra vigilat custos."

(Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but

in vain.)

And then she slept also.

The snow fell softly on the roof, and on the walls of the old church

outside, and on the pavement of the street of the poet's native town,

and the night passed and the day came.

There is little more to tell, for that night was the last night of his

sorrowful humble childhood, and that day was the first day of his

fame.

* * * * *

The Duke of ---- was an enlightened and generous man, and a munificent

patron of the Arts and Sciences, and of literary and scientific men.

He was not exactly a genius, but he was highly accomplished. He wrote

a little, and played a little, and drew a little; and with fortune to

befriend him, as a natural consequence he published a little, and

composed a little, and framed his pictures.

But what was better and more remarkable than this, was the generous

spirit in which he loved and admired those who did great things in the

particular directions in which he did a little. He bought good

pictures while he painted bad ones; and those writers, musicians, and

artists who could say but little for his performances, had every

reason to talk loudly of his liberality. He was the special admirer of

talent born in obscurity; and at the time of which we are writing

(many years after the events related above), the favourite "lion" in

the literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was a

certain poet--the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who had

been educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and who

now had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courts

of Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays were

acted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of the

booksellers, who was a great man--Friedrich!

It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of his

favourite, walked up and down a terrace. The Duke was (as usual) in

the best possible humour. The poet (as was not uncommon) was just in

the slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one. They had been

reading a critique on his poems. It was praise, it is true, but the

praise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved.

He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet who

could write such poems should have critics created with express

capabilities for understanding him. But the good Duke was in his most

cheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffled

lion into the same condition.

"What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!" he said. "Tell

me, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career,

a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?"

"Oh, yes!" said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no!

"I don't believe it," said the Duke. "Come, now, could you, if you

were asked, describe the happiest and proudest hour of your life?"

A new expression came into the poet's eyes, and lighted up his gaunt

intellectual face. Some old memories awoke within him, and it is

doubtful if he saw the landscape at which he was gazing. But the Duke

was not quick, though kind; he thought that Friedrich had not heard

him, and repeated the question.

"Yes," said the poet. "Yes, indeed I could."

"Well, then, let me guess," said the Duke, facetiously. (He fancied

that he was bringing his crusty genius into capital condition.) "Was

it when your great tragedy of 'Boadicea' was first performed in

Berlin, and the theatre rose like one man to offer homage, and the

gods sent thunder? I wish they had ever treated my humble efforts with

as much favour. Was it then?"

"No!"

"Was it when his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of ---- was pleased to

present you with a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and to express

his opinion that your historical plays were incomparably among the

finest productions of poetic genius?"

"His Imperial Majesty," said Friedrich, "is a brave soldier; but,

a--hem!--an indifferent critic. I do not take snuff, and his Imperial

Majesty does not read poetry. The interview was gratifying, but that

was not the occasion. No!"

"Was it when you were staying with Dr. Kranz at G----, and the

students made that great supper for you, and escorted your carriage

both ways with a procession of torches?"

"Poor boys!" said the poet, laughing; "it was very kind, and they

could ill afford it. But they would have drunk quite as much wine for

any one who would have taken the inside out of the University clock,

or burnt the Principal's wig, as they did for me. It was a very

unsteady procession that brought me home, I assure you. The way they

poked the torches in each other's faces left one student, as I heard,

with no less than eight duels on his hands. And, oh! the manner in

which they howled my most pathetic love songs! No! no!"

The Duke laughed heartily.

"Is it any of the various occasions on which the fair ladies of

Germany have testified their admiration by offerings of sympathy and

handiwork?"

"No!" roared the poet.

"Are you quite sure?" said the Duke, slyly. "I have heard of

comforters, and slippers, and bouquets, and locks of hair, besides a

dozen of warm stockings knit by the fair hands of ----"

"Spare me!" groaned Friedrich, in mock indignation. "Am I a pet

preacher, that I should be smothered in female absurdities? I have

hair that would stuff a sofa, comforters that would protect a regiment

in Siberia, slippers, stockings ----. I shall sell them, I shall burn

them. I would send them back, but the ladies send nothing but their

Christian names, and to identify Luise, and Gretchen, and Catherine,

and Bettina, is beyond my powers. No!"

When they had ceased laughing the Duke continued his catechism.

"Was it when the great poet G---- (your only rival) paid that handsome

compliment to your verses on ----"

"No!" interrupted the poet. "A thousand times no! The great poet

praised the verses you allude to simply to cover his depreciation of

my 'Captive Queen,' which is among my best efforts, but too much in

his own style. How Germany can worship his bombastic ---- but that's

nothing! No."

"Was it when you passed accidentally through the streets of Dresden,

and the crowd discovered you, and carried you to the hotel on its

shoulders?"

The momentary frown passed from Friedrich's face, and he laughed

again.

"And when the men who carried me twisted my leg so that I couldn't

walk for a fortnight, to say nothing of the headache I endured from

bowing to the populace like a Chinese mandarin? No!"

"Is it any triumph you have enjoyed in any other country in Europe?"

"No!"

"My dear genius, I can guess no more; what, in the name of Fortune,

was this happy occasion--this life triumph?"

"It is a long story, your highness, and entertaining to no one but

myself."

"You do me injustice," said the Duke. "A long story from you is too

good to be lost. Sit down, and favour me."

A patron's wishes are not to be neglected; and somewhat unwillingly

the poet at last sat down, and told the story of his Ballad and of St.

Nicholas's Day, as it has been told here. The fountain of tears is

drier in middle age than in childhood, but he was not unmoved as he

concluded.

"Every circumstance of that evening," he said, "is as fresh in my

remembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die. It is a joy, a

triumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade. The words that

roused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance and

fame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, and

to bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age--

"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to the town._"

"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._"

"_He shall have a liberal education, and will be

a great man._"

"It is as good as a poem," said the delighted Duke. "I shall tell the

company to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany. I have

heard your unpublished poem. By the bye, Poet, is that ballad

published?"

"No, and never will be. It shall never know less kindly criticism than

it received then."

"And are you really in earnest? Was this indeed the happiest triumph

your talents have ever earned?"

"It was," said Friedrich. "The first blast on the trumpet of Fame is

the sweetest. Afterwards, we find it out of tune."

"Your parents are dead, I think?"

"They are, and so is my youngest sister."

"And what of Marie?"

"She married--a man who, I think, is in no way worthy of her. Not a

bad, but a stupid man, with strong Bible convictions on the subject of

marital authority. She is such an angel in his house as he can never

understand in this world."

"Do you ever see her?"

"Sometimes, when I want a rest. I went to see her not long ago, and

found her just the same as ever. I sat at her feet, and laid my head

in her lap, and tried to be a child again. I bade her tell me the

history of Bluebeard, and strove to forget that I had ever lost the

childish simplicity which she has kept so well;--and I almost

succeeded. I had forgotten that the great poet was jealous of my

'Captive Queen,' and told myself it would be a grand thing to be like

him. I thought I should like to see a live Emperor. But just when the

delusion was perfect, there was a row in the street. The people had

found me out, and I must show myself at the window. The spell was

broken. I have not tried it again."

They were on the steps of the palace.

"Your story has entertained and touched me beyond measure," said the

Duke. "But something is wanting. It does not (as they say) 'end

well.' I fear you are not happy."

"I am content," said Friedrich. "Yes, I am happy. I never could be a

child again, even if it pleased GOD to restore to me the

circumstances of my childhood. It is best as it is, but I have learnt

the truth of what Marie told me. It is the good, and not the great

things of my life that bring me peace; or rather, neither one nor the

other, but the undeserved mercies of my GOD!"

* * * * *

For those who desire to know more of the poet's life than has been

told, this is added. He did not live to be very old. A painful disease

(the result of mental toil), borne through many years, ended his life

almost in its prime. He retained his faculties till the last, and bore

protracted suffering with a heroism and endurance which he had not

always displayed in smaller trials. The medical men pronounced, on the

authority of a _post-mortem_ examination, that he must for years have

suffered a silent martyrdom. Truly, his bodily sufferings (when known

at last) might well excuse many weaknesses and much moody, irritable

impatience; especially when it is remembered that the mental

sufferings of intellectual men are generally great in proportion to

their gifts, and (when clogged with nerves and body that are ever

urged beyond their strength) that they often mock the pride of

humanity by leaving but little space between the genius and the

madman.

Another fact was not known till he had died--his charity. Then it was

discovered how much kindness he had exercised in secret, and that

three poor widows had been fed daily from his table during all the

best years of his prosperity. Before his death he arranged all his

affairs, even to the disposal of his worn-out body.

"My country has been gracious to me," he said, "and, if it cares, may

dispose of my carcase as it will. But I desire that after my death my

heart may be taken from my body and buried at the feet of my father

and my mother in the churchyard of my native town. At their feet," he

added, with some of the old imperiousness--"strong in death." "At

their feet, remember!"

In one of the largest cities of Germany, a huge marble monument is

erected to the memory of the Great Man. On three sides of the pedestal

are bas-relief designs illustrating some of his works, whereby three

fellow-countrymen added to their fame; and on the fourth is a fine

inscription in Latin, setting forth his talents, and his virtues, and

the honours conferred on him, and stating in conclusion (on the

authority of his eulogizer) that his works have gained for him

immortality.

In a quiet green churchyard, near a quiet little town, under the

shadow of the quaint old church, a little cross marks the graves of a

tradesman and of his wife who lived and laboured in their generation,

and are at rest. Near them, daisies grow above the dust of the

"Fräulein," which awaits the resurrection from the dead. And at the

feet of that simple couple lies the heart of their great son--a heart

which the sickness of earthly hope and the fever of earthly ambition

shall disturb no more.

By the Poet's own desire, "the rude memorial" that marks the spot

contains no more than his initials, and a few words in his native

tongue to mark the foundation of the only ambition that he could feel

in death--

"Ich verlasse mich auf Gottes Güte immer und ewiglich."

--_My trust is in the tender mercy of_ GOD _for

ever and ever._

A BIT OF GREEN.

"Thou oughtest, therefore, to call to mind the more heavy

sufferings of others, that so thou mayest the easier bear

thy own very small troubles."--THE IMITATION OF

CHRIST.

Children who live always with grass and flowers at their feet, and a

clear sky overhead, can have no real idea of the charm that country

sights and sounds have for those whose home is in a dirty, busy,

manufacturing town--just such a town, in fact, as I lived in when I

was a boy, which is more than twenty years ago.

My father was a doctor, with a very large, if not what is called a

"genteel," practice, and we lived in a comfortable house in a broad

street. I was born and bred there; and, ever since I could remember,

the last sound that soothed my ears at night, and the first to which I

awoke in the morning, was the eternal rumbling and rattling of the

carts and carriages as they passed over the rough stones. I never

noticed if I heard them in the day-time, but at night my chief

amusement, as I lay in bed, was to guess by the sound of the wheels

what sort of vehicle was passing.

"That light sharp rattle is a cab," I thought. "What a noise it makes,

and gone in a moment! One gentleman inside, I should think. There's an

omnibus; and there, jolty-jolt, goes a light cart; that's a carriage,

by the way the horses step; and now, rumbling heavily in the distance,

and coming slowly nearer, and heavier, and louder, this can be nothing

but a brewer's dray!" And the dray came so slowly that I was asleep

before it had got safely out of hearing.

Ours was a very noisy street, but the noise made the night cheerful;

and so did the church clock near, which struck the quarters; and so

did the light of the street lamps, which came through the blind and

fell upon my little bed. We had very little light, except gaslight and

daylight, in our street; the sunshine seldom found its way to us, and,

when it did, people were so little used to it that they pulled down

the blinds for fear it should hurt the carpets. In the room my sister

and I called our nursery, however, we always welcomed it with blinds

rolled up to the very top; and, as we had no carpet, no damage was

done.

But sunshine outside will not always make sunshine shine within, and

I remember one day when, though our nursery was unusually cheerful,

and though the windows were reflected in square patches of sunlight on

the floor, I stood in the very midst of the brightness, grumbling and

kicking at my sister's chair with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.

The reason of my ill-temper was this: Ever since I could remember, my

father had been accustomed, once a year, to take us all into the

country for change of air. Once he had taken us to the sea, but

generally we went to an old farmhouse in the middle of the beautiful

moors which lay not many miles from our dirty black town. But this

year, on this very sunshiny morning, he had announced at breakfast

that he could not let us go to what we called our moor-home. He had

even added insult to injury by expressing his thankfulness that we

were all in good health, so that the change was not a matter of

necessity. I was too indignant to speak, and rushed upstairs into the

nursery, where my little sister had also taken refuge. She was always

very gentle and obedient (provokingly so, I thought), and now she sat

rocking her doll on her knee in silent sorrow, whilst I stood kicking

her chair and grumbling in a tone which it was well the doll could not

hear, or rocking would have been of little use. I took pleasure in

trying to make her as angry as myself. I reminded her how lovely the

purple moors were looking at that moment, how sweet heather smelt,

and how good bilberries tasted. I said I thought it was "very hard."

It wasn't as if we were always paying visits, as many children did, to

their country relations; we had only one treat in the year, and father

wanted to take that away. Not a soul in the town, I said, would be as

unfortunate as we were. The children next door would go somewhere, of

course. So would the little Smiths, and the Browns, and _everybody_.

Everybody else went to the sea in the autumn; we were contented with

the moors, and he wouldn't even let us go there. And, at the end of

every burst of complaint, I discharged a volley of kicks at the leg of

the chair, and wound up with "I can't think why he can't!"

"I don't know," said my sister, timidly, "but he said something about

not affording it, and spending money, and about trade being bad, and

he was afraid there would be great distress in the town."

Oh, these illogical women! I was furious. "What on earth has that to

do with us?" I shouted at her. "Father's a doctor; trade won't hurt

him. But you are so silly, Minnie, I can't talk to you. I only know

it's very hard. Fancy staying a whole year boxed up in this beastly

town!" And I had so worked myself up that I fully believed in the

truth of the sentence with which I concluded--

"_There never_ WAS _anything so miserable!_"

Minnie said nothing, for my feelings just then were something like

those of the dogs who (Dr. Watts tells us)

"delight

To bark and bite;"

and perhaps she was afraid of being bitten. At any rate, she held her

tongue; and just then my father came into the room.

The door was open, and he must have heard my last speech as he came

along the passage; but he made no remark on it, and only said, "Would

any young man here like to go with me to see a patient?"

I went willingly, for I was both tired and half-ashamed of teasing

Minnie, and we were soon in the street. It was a broad and cheerful

one, as I said; but before long we left it for a narrower, and then

turned off from that into a side street, where the foot-path would

only allow us to walk in single file--a dirty, dark lane, where surely

the sun never did shine.

"What a horrid place!" I said. "I never was here before. Why don't

they pull such a street down?"

"What is to become of the people who live in it?" said my father.

"Let them live in one of the bigger streets," I said; "it would be

much more comfortable."

"Very likely," he said; "but they would have to pay much more for

their houses; and if they haven't the money to pay with, what's to be

done?"

I could not say, for, like older social reformers than myself, I felt

more sure that the reform was needed, than of how to accomplish it.

But before I could decide upon what to do with the dirty little

street, we had come to a place so very much worse that it put the

other quite out of my head. There is a mournful fatality about the

pretty names which are given, as if in mockery, to the most wretched

of the bye-streets in large towns. The street we had left was called

Rosemary Street, and this was Primrose Place.

Primrose Place was more like a yard than a street; the houses were all

irregular and of different ages. On one side was a gap with palings

round it, where building was going on, and beyond rose a huge black

factory. But the condition of Primrose Place was beyond description. I

had never seen anything like it before, and kept as close to my father

as was consistent with boyish, dignity. The pathway was broken up,

children squalled at the doors and quarrelled in the street, which

was strewn with rags, and bones, and bits of old iron, and shoes, and

the tops of turnips. I do not think there was a whole unbroken window

in all the row of tall miserable houses, and the wet clothes hanging

out on lines stretched across the street, flapped above our heads. I

counted three cripples as we went up Primrose Place. My father stopped

to speak to several people, and I heard many complaints of the bad

state of trade to which my sister had alluded. He gave some money to

one woman, and spoke kindly to all; but he hurried me on as fast as he

could, and we turned at last into one of the houses.

My ill-humour had by this time almost worked itself off in the fresh

air, and the novel scenes through which we had come; and, for the

present, the morning's disappointment was forgotten as I followed my

father through the crowded miserable rooms, and clambered up staircase

after staircase, till we reached the top of the house, and stumbled

through a latched door into the garret. After so much groping in the

dark, the light dazzled me, and I thought at first that the room was

empty. But at last a faint "Good day" from the corner near the window

drew my eyes that way; and there, stretched on a sort of bed, and

supported by a chair at his back, lay the patient we had come to see.

He was a young man about twenty-six years old, in the last stage of

that terrible disease so fatally common in our country--he was dying

of consumption. There was no mistaking the flushed cheek, the

painfully laborious breathing, and the incessant cough; while two old

crutches in the corner spoke of another affliction--he was a cripple.

His gaunt face lighted up with a glow of pleasure when my father came

in, who seated himself at once on the end of the bed, and began to

talk to him, whilst I looked round the room. There was absolutely

nothing in it, except the bed on which the sick man lay, the chair

that supported him, and a small three-legged table. The low roof was

terribly out of repair, and the window was patched with newspaper; but

through the glass panes that were left, in full glory streamed the

sun, and in the midst of the blaze stood a pot of musk in full bloom.

The soft yellow flowers looked so grand, and smelled so sweet, that I

was lost in admiration, till I found the sick man's black eyes fixed

on mine.

"You are looking at my bit of green, master?" he said, in a gratified

tone.

"Do you like flowers?" I inquired, coming shyly up to the bed.

"Do I like 'em?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "Ay, I love 'em well

enough--well enough," and he looked fondly at the plant, "though it's

long since I saw any but these."

"You have not been in the country for a long time?" I inquired,

compassionately. I felt sad to think that he had perhaps lain there

for months, without a taste of fresh air or a run in the fields; but I

was _not_ prepared for his answer.

"_I never was in the country, young gentleman._"

I looked at my father.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my glance, "it is quite true. William was

born here. He got hurt when a boy, and has been lame ever since. For

some years he has been entirely confined to the house. He was never

out of town, and never saw a green field."

Never out of the town! confined to the house for years! and what a

house! The tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt that angry heart-ache

which the sight of suffering produces in those who are too young to be

insensible to it, and too ignorant of GOD's Providence to

submit with "quietness and confidence" to His will.

"My son can hardly believe it, William."

"It is such a shame," I said; "it is horrible. I am very sorry for

you."

The black eyes turned kindly upon me, and the sick man said, "Thank

you heartily, Sir. You mean very kindly. I used to say the same sort

of things myself, when I was younger, and knew no better. I used to

think it was very hard, and that no one was so miserable as I was. But

I know now how much better off I am than most folks, and how many

things I have to be thankful for."

I looked round the room, and began involuntarily to count the

furniture--one, two, three. The "many things" were certainly not

chairs and tables.

But he was gazing before him, and went on: "I often think how thankful

I ought to be to die in peace, and have a quiet room to myself. There

was a girl in a consumption on the floor below me; and she used to sit

and cough, while her father and mother quarrelled so that I could hear

them through the floor. I used to send her half of anything nice I

had, but I found they took it. I did wish then," he added, with a

sudden flush, "that I had been a strong man!"

"How shocking!" I said.

"Yes," he answered; "it was that first set me thinking how many

mercies I had. And then there came such a good parson to St. John's,

and he taught me many things; and then I knew your father; and the

neighbours have been very kind. And while I could work I got good

wage, and laid by a bit; and I've sold a few things, and there'll be

these to sell when I'm gone; and so I've got what will keep me while

I do live, and pay for my coffin. What can a man want more?"

What, indeed! Unsatisfied heart, make answer!

A fit of coughing that shook the crazy room interrupted him here. When

he had recovered himself, he turned to my father.

"Ay, ay, I have many mercies, as you know, Sir. Who would have thought

I could have kept a bit of green like that plant of mine in a place

like this? But, you see, they pulled down those old houses opposite

just before I got it, and now the sun couldn't come into a king's room

better than it comes into mine. I was always afraid, year after year,

that they would build it up, and my bit of green would die; and they

are building now, but it will last my time. Indeed, indeed, I've had

much to be thankful for. Not," he added, in a low, reverential tone,

"not to mention greater blessings. The presence of the LORD!

the presence of the LORD!"

I was awed, almost frightened, by the tone in which he spoke, and by

the look of his face, on which the shadow of death was falling fast.

He lay in a sort of stupor, gazing with his black eyes at the broken

roof, as if through it he saw something invisible to us.

It was some time before he seemed to recollect that we were there, and

before I ventured to ask him. "Where did you get your plant?"

He smiled. "That's a long story, master; but it was this way. You see,

my father died quite young in a decline, and left my mother to

struggle on with eight of us as she could. She buried six, one after

another; and then she died herself, and brother Ben and I were left

alone. But we were mighty fond of one another, and got on very well. I

got plenty of employment, weaving mats and baskets for a shop in the

town, and Ben worked at the factory. One Saturday night he came home

all in a state, and said there was going to be a cheap trip on the

Monday into the country. It was the first there had been from these

parts, though there have been many since, I believe. Neither he nor I

had ever been out of the town, and he was full of it that we must go.

He had brought his Saturday wage with him, and we would work hard

afterwards. Well, you see, the landlord had been that day, and had

said he must have the rent by Tuesday, or he'd turn us out. I'd got

some of it laid by, and was looking to Ben's wages to make it up. But

I couldn't bear to see his face pining for a bit of fresh air, and so

I thought I could stay at home and work on Monday for what would make

up the rent, and he need never know. So I pretended that I didn't

want to go, and couldn't be bothered with the fuss; and at last I set

him off on Monday without me. It was late at night when he came back

like one wild. He'd got flowers in his hat, and flowers in all his

button-holes; he'd got his handkerchief filled with hay, and was

carrying something under his coat. He began laughing and crying, and

'Eh, Bill!' he said, 'thou hast been a fool. Thou hast missed summat.

But I've brought thee a bit of green, lad, I've brought thee a bit of

green.' And then he lifted up his coat, and there was the plant, which

some woman had given him. We didn't sleep much that night. He spread

the hay over the bed, for me to lay my face on, and see how the fields

smelt, and then he began and told me all about it; and after that,

when I was tired with work, or on a Sunday afternoon, I used to say,

'Now, Ben, tell us a bit about the country.' And he liked nothing

better. He used to say that I should go, if he carried me on his back;

but the LORD did not see fit. He took cold at work, and went

off three months afterwards. It was singular, the morning he died he

called me to him, and said, 'Bill, I've been a dreaming about that

trip that thou didst want to go after all. I dreamt--' and then he

stopped, and said no more; but, after a bit, he opened his eyes wide,

and pulled me to him, and he said, 'Bill, my lad, there's such

flowers in heaven, such flowers!' And so the LORD took him.

But I kept the bit of green for his sake."

Here followed another fit of coughing, which brought my father from

the end of the bed to forbid his talking any more.

"I have got to see another patient in the yard," he said, "and I will

leave my son here. He shall read you a chapter or two till I come

back; he is a good reader for his age."

And so my father went. I was, as he said, a good reader for my age;

but I felt very nervous when the sick man drew a Bible from his side,

and put it in my hands. I wondered what I should read; but it was soon

settled by his asking for certain Psalms, which I read as clearly and

distinctly as I could. At first I was rather disturbed by his

occasional remarks, and a few murmured Amens; but I soon got used to

it. He joined devoutly in the "Glory be to the Father"--with which I

concluded--and then asked for a chapter from the Revelation of St.

John. I was more at ease now, and read my best, with a happy sense of

being useful; whilst he lay in the sunshine, folding the sheet with

his bony fingers, with his eyes fixed on the beloved "bit of green,"

and drinking in the Words of Life with dying ears.

"_Blessed are they that dwell in the heavenly Jerusalem, where there

is no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the

glory of_ GOD _does lighten it, and the Lamb is the light

thereof._"

By the time that my father returned, the sick man and I were fast

friends; and I left him with his blessing on my head. As we went home,

my good kind father told me that I was nearly old enough now to take

an interest in his concerns, and began to talk of his patients, and of

the poverty and destitution of some parts of the town. Then he spoke

of the bad state of trade--that it was expected to be worse, and that

the want of work and consequent misery this year would probably be

very great. Finally he added, that when so many were likely to be

starving, he had thought it right that we should deny ourselves our

little annual treat, and so save the money to enable us to take our

part in relieving the distressed.

"Don't you think so, my boy?" he concluded, as we reached the door of

our comfortable (how comfortable!) home.

My whole heart was in my "Yes."

It is a happy moment for a son when his father first confides in him.

It is a happy moment for a father when his son first learns to

appreciate some of the labour of his life, and henceforth to obey his

commands, not only with a blind obedience, but in the sympathizing

spirit of the "perfect love" which "casts out fear." My heart was too

full to thank him then for his wise forbearance and wiser confidence;

but when after some months my sister's health made change of air to

the house of a country relative necessary, great was my pride and

thankfulness that I was well enough to remain at the post of duty by

my father's side.

One day, not long after our visit to William, he went again to see

him; and when he came back I saw by the musk-plant in his hand the

news he brought. Its flowers were lovelier than ever, but its master

was transplanted into a heavenly garden, and he had left it to me.

Mortal man does not learn any virtue in one lesson; and I have only

too often in my life been ungrateful both to GOD and man. But

the memory of lame William has often come across me when I have been

tempted to grumble about small troubles; and has given me a little

help (not to be despised) in striving after the grace of Thankfulness,

even for a "bit of green."

MONSIEUR THE

VISCOUNT'S FRIEND.

A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS.

"Sweet are the vses of aduersitie

Which like the toad, ougly and venemous,

Weares yet a precious lewell in his head."

AS YOU LIKE IT: A.D. 1623.

CHAPTER I.

It was the year of grace 1779. In one of the most beautiful corners of

beautiful France stood a grand old château. It was a fine old

building, with countless windows large and small, with high-pitched

roofs and pointed towers, which in good taste or bad, did its best to

be everywhere ornamental, from the gorgon heads which frowned from its

turrets to the long row of stables and the fantastic dovecotes. It

stood (as became such a castle) upon an eminence, and looked down.

Very beautiful indeed was what it looked upon. Terrace below terrace

glowed with the most brilliant flowers, and broad flights of steps led

from one garden to the other. On the last terrace of all, fountains

and jets of water poured into one large basin, in which were gold and

silver fish. Beyond this were shady walks, which led to a lake on

which floated water-lilies and swans. From the top of the topmost

flight of steps you could see the blazing gardens one below the other,

the fountains and the basin, the walks and the lake, and beyond these

the trees, and the smiling country, and the blue sky of France.

Within the castle, as without, beauty reigned supreme. The sunlight,

subdued by blinds and curtains, stole into rooms furnished with every

grace and luxury that could be procured in a country that then

accounted itself the most highly-civilized in the world. It fell upon

beautiful flowers and beautiful china, upon beautiful tapestry and

pictures; and it fell upon Madame the Viscountess, sitting at her

embroidery. Madame the Viscountess was not young, but she was not the

least beautiful object in those stately rooms. She had married into a

race of nobles who (themselves famed for personal beauty) had been

scrupulous in the choice of lovely wives. The late Viscount (for

Madame was a widow) had been one of the handsomest of the gay

courtiers of his day; and Madame had not been unworthy of him. Even

now, though the roses on her cheeks were more entirely artificial than

they had been in the days of her youth, she was like some exquisite

piece of porcelain. Standing by the embroidery frame was Madame's only

child, a boy who, in spite of his youth, was already Monsieur the

Viscount. He also was beautiful. His exquisitely-cut mouth had a curl

which was the inheritance of scornful generations, but which was

redeemed by his soft violet eyes and by an under-lying expression of

natural amiability. His hair was cut square across the forehead, and

fell in natural curls behind. His childish figure had already been

trained in the fencing school, and had gathered dignity from

perpetually treading upon shallow steps and in lofty rooms. From the

rosettes on his little shoes to his _chapeau à plumes_, he also was

like some porcelain figure. Surely, such beings could not exist except

in such a château as this, where the very air (unlike that breathed by

common mortals) had in the ante-rooms a faint aristocratic odour, and

was for yards round Madame the Viscountess dimly suggestive of

frangipani!

Monsieur the Viscount did not stay long by the embroidery frame; he

was entertaining to-day a party of children from the estate, and had

come for the key of an old cabinet of which he wished to display the

treasures. When tired of this, they went out on to the terrace, and

one of the children who had not been there before exclaimed at the

beauty of the view.

"It is true," said the little Viscount, carelessly, "and all, as far

as you can see, is the estate."

"I will throw a stone to the end of your property, Monsieur," said one

of the boys, laughing; and he picked one off the walk, and stepping

back, flung it with all his little strength. The stone fell before it

had passed the fountains, and the failure was received with shouts of

laughter.

"Let us see who can beat that," they cried; and there was a general

search for pebbles, which were flung at random among the flower beds.

"One may easily throw such as those," said the Viscount, who was

poking under the wall of the first terrace; "but here is a stone that

one may call a stone. Who will send this into the fish-pond? It will

make a fountain of itself."

The children drew round him as, with ruffles turned back, he tugged

and pulled at a large dirty looking stone, which was half-buried in

the earth by the wall. "Up it comes!" said the Viscount, at length;

and sure enough, up it came; but underneath it, his bright eyes

shining out of his dirty wrinkled body--horror of horrors!--there lay

a toad. Now, even in England, toads are not looked upon with much

favour, and a party of English children would have been startled by

such a discovery. But with French people, the dread of toads is

ludicrous in its intensity. In France toads are believed to have

teeth, to bite, and to spit poison; so my hero and his young guests

must be excused for taking flight at once with a cry of dismay. On the

next terrace, however, they paused, and seeing no signs of the enemy,

crept slowly back again. The little Viscount (be it said) began to

feel ashamed of himself, and led the way, with his hand upon the

miniature sword which hung at his side. All eyes were fixed upon the

fatal stone, when from behind it was seen slowly to push forth, first

a dirty wrinkled leg, then half a dirty wrinkled head, with one

gleaming eye. It was too much; with cries of, "It is he! he comes! he

spits! he pursues us!" the young guests of the château fled in good

earnest, and never stopped until they reached the fountain and the

fish-pond.

But Monsieur the Viscount stood his ground. At the sudden apparition

the blood rushed to his heart, and made him very white, then it

flooded back again and made him very red, and then he fairly drew his

sword, and shouting, "_Vive la France!_" rushed upon the enemy. The

sword if small was sharp, and stabbed the poor toad would most

undoubtedly have been, but for a sudden check received by the valiant

little nobleman. It came in the shape of a large heavy hand that

seized Monsieur the Viscount with the grasp of a giant, while a voice

which could only have belonged to the owner of such a hand said in

slow deep tones,

"_Que faites-vous?_" ("What are you doing?")

It was the tutor, who had been pacing up and down the terrace with a

book, and who now stood holding the book in his right hand, and our

hero in his left.

Monsieur the Viscount's tutor was a remarkable man. If he had not been

so, he would hardly have been tolerated at the château, since he was

not particularly beautiful, and not especially refined. He was in holy

orders, as his tonsured head and clerical costume bore witness--a

costume which, from its tightness and simplicity, only served to

exaggerate the unusual proportions of his person. Monsieur the

Preceptor had English blood in his veins, and his northern origin

betrayed itself in his towering height and corresponding breadth, as

well as by his fair hair and light blue eyes. But the most remarkable

parts of his outward man were his hands, which were of immense size,

especially about the thumbs. Monsieur the Preceptor was not exactly in

keeping with his present abode. It was not only that he was wanting in

the grace and beauty that reigned around him, but that his presence

made those very graces and beauties to look small. He seemed to have a

gift the reverse of that bestowed upon King Midas--the gold on which

his heavy hand was laid seemed to become rubbish. In the presence of

the late Viscount, and in that of Madame his widow, you would have

felt fully the deep importance of your dress being _à la mode_, and

your complexion _à la_ strawberries and cream (such influences still

exist); but let the burly tutor appear upon the scene, and all the

magic died at once out of brocaded silks and pearl-coloured stockings,

and dress and complexion became subjects almost of insignificance.

Monsieur the Preceptor was certainly a singular man to have been

chosen as an inmate of such a household; but, though young, he had

unusual talents, and added to them the not more usual accompaniments

of modesty and trustworthiness. To crown all, he was rigidly pious in

times when piety was not fashionable, and an obedient son of the

church of which he was a minister. Moreover, a family that fashion

does not permit to be demonstratively religious, may gain a reflected

credit from an austere chaplain; and so Monsieur the Preceptor

remained in the château and went his own way. It was this man who now

laid hands on the Viscount, and, in a voice that sounded like amiable

thunder, made the inquiry, "_Que faites-vous?_"

"I am going to kill this animal--this hideous horrible animal," said

Monsieur the Viscount, struggling vainly under the grasp of the tutors

finger and thumb.

"It is only a toad," said Monsieur the Preceptor, in his laconic

tones.

"_Only_ a toad, do you say, Monsieur?" said the Viscount. "That is

enough, I think. It will bite--it will spit--it will poison: it is

like that dragon you tell me of, that devastated Rhodes--I am the good

knight that shall kill it."

Monsieur the Preceptor laughed heartily. "You are misled by a vulgar

error. Toads do not bite--they have no teeth; neither do they spit

poison."

"You are wrong, Monsieur," said the Viscount; "I have seen their teeth

myself. Claude Mignon, at the lodge, has two terrible ones, which he

keeps in his pocket as a charm."

"I have seen them," said the tutor, "in Monsieur Claude's pocket. When

he can show me similar ones in a toad's head I will believe.

Meanwhile, I must beg of you, Monsieur, to put up your sword. You must

not kill this poor animal, which is quite harmless, and very useful in

a garden--it feeds upon many insects and reptiles which injure the

plants."

"It shall not be useful, in this garden," said the little Viscount,

fretfully. "There are plenty of gardeners to destroy the insects, and,

if needful, we can have more. But the toad shall not remain. My

mother would faint if she saw so hideous a beast among her beautiful

flowers."

"Jacques!" roared the tutor to a gardener who was at some distance.

Jacques started as if a clap of thunder had sounded in his ear, and

approached with low bows. "Take that toad, Jacques, and carry it to

the _potager_. It will keep the slugs from your cabbages."

Jacques bowed low and lower, and scratched his head, and then did

reverence again with Asiatic humility, but at the same time moved

gradually backwards, and never even looked at the toad.

"You also have seen the contents of Monsieur Claude's pocket?" said

the tutor, significantly, and quitting his hold of the Viscount, he

stooped down, seized the toad in his huge finger and thumb, and strode

off in the direction of the _potager_, followed at a respectful

distance by Jacques, who vented his awe and astonishment in alternate

bows and exclamations at the astounding conduct of the incomprehensible

Preceptor.

"What is the use of such ugly beasts?" said the Viscount to his tutor,

on his return from the _potager_. "Birds and butterflies are pretty,

but what can such villains as these toads have been made for?"

"You should study natural history, Monsieur--" began the priest, who

was himself a naturalist.

"That is what you always say," interrupted the Viscount, with the

perverse folly of ignorance; "but if I knew as much as you do, it

would not make me understand why such ugly creatures need have been

made."

"Nor," said the priest, firmly, "is it necessary that you should

understand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire. It is

enough for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousand

years before either of us was born."

With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept his

place in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace,

and resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interrupted

which exercise he continued till he was joined by the Curé of the

village, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religious

gossip of the day.

Monsieur the Viscount rejoined his young guests, and they fed the gold

fish and the swans, and played _Colin Maillard_ in the shady walks,

and made a beautiful bouquet for Madame, and then fled indoors at the

first approach of evening chill, and found that the Viscountess had

prepared a feast of fruit and flowers for them in the great hall.

Here, at the head of the table, with Madame at his right hand, his

guests around, and the liveried lacqueys waiting his commands,

Monsieur the Viscount forgot that anything had ever been made which

could mar beauty and enjoyment; while the two priests outside stalked

up and down under the falling twilight, and talked ugly talk of crime

and poverty that were _somewhere_ now, and of troubles to come

hereafter.

And so night fell over the beautiful sky, the beautiful château, and

the beautiful gardens; and upon the secure slumbers of beautiful

Madame and her beautiful son, and beautiful, beautiful France.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events related

in the last chapter. It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day of

rest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay,

beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday,

however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were no

gay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the public

devotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets in

some places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd,

and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound of

yells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians.

It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses,

and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to the

pathway. His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn and

soiled; his face was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideous

eagerness of a face on which famine has laid her hand--he was

starving. As this man came out from the warehouse, another man came

down the street. His dress was not beautiful, neither was he. There

was a red look about him--he wore a red flannel cap, tricolour

ribbons, and had something red upon his hands, which was neither

ribbon nor flannel. He also looked hungry; but it was not for food.

The other stopped when he saw him, and pulled something from his

pocket. It was a watch, a repeater, in a gold filigree case of

exquisite workmanship, with raised figures depicting the loves of an

Arcadian shepherd and shepherdess; and, as it lay on the white hand of

its owner, it bore an evanescent fragrance that seemed to recall

scenes as beautiful and as completely past as the days of pastoral

perfection, when

"All the world and love were young

And truth in every shepherd's tongue."

The young man held it to the other and spoke. "It was my mother's," he

said, with an appealing glance of violet eyes; "I would not part with

it but that I am starving. Will you get me food?"

"You are hiding?" said he of the red cap.

"Is that a crime in these days?" said the other, with a smile that

would in other days have been irresistible.

The man took the watch, shaded the donor's beautiful face with a rough

red cap and tricolour ribbon, and bade him follow him. He, who had but

lately come to Paris, dragged his exhausted body after his conductor,

hardly noticed the crowds in the streets, the signs by which the man

got free passage for them both, or their entrance by a little

side-door into a large dark building, and never knew till he was

delivered to one of the gaolers that he had been led into the prison

of the Abbaye. Then the wretch tore the cap of Liberty from his

victim's head, and pointed to him with a fierce laugh.

"He wants food, this aristocrat. He shall not wait long--there is a

feast in the court below, which he shall join presently. See to it,

Antoine! And you, _Monsieur_, _Mons-ieur_! listen to the banqueters."

He ceased, and in the silence yells and cries from a court below came

up like some horrid answer to imprecation.

The man continued--

"He has paid for his admission, this Monsieur. It belonged to Madame

his mother. Behold!"

He held the watch above his head, and dashed it with insane fury on

the ground, and, bidding the gaoler see to his prisoner, rushed away

to the court below.

The prisoner needed some attention. Weakness, and fasting, and horror

had overpowered a delicate body and a sensitive mind, and he lay

senseless by the shattered relic of happier times. Antoine, the gaoler

(a weak-minded man whom circumstances had made cruel), looked at him

with indifference while the Jacobin remained in the place, and with

half-suppressed pity when he had gone. The place where he lay was a

hall or passage in the prison, into which several cells opened, and a

number of the prisoners were gathered together at one end of it. One

of them had watched the proceedings of the Jacobin and his victim with

profound interest, and now advanced to where the poor youth lay. He

was a priest, and though thirteen years had passed over his head since

we saw him in the château, and though toil and suffering and anxiety

had added the traces of as many more, yet it would not have been

difficult to recognize the towering height, the candid face, and,

finally, the large thumb in the little book of ----, Monsieur the

Preceptor, who had years ago exchanged his old position for a

parochial cure. He strode up to the gaoler (whose head came a little

above the priest's elbow), and, drawing him aside, asked, with his old

abruptness, "Who is this?"

"It is the Vicomte de B----. I know his face. He has escaped the

commissaires for some days."

"I thought so. Is his name on the registers?"

"No. He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in, as you saw."

"Antoine," said the priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze that

seemed to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; "Antoine, when

you were a shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hard

winters I think you found me a friend."

"Oh! Monsieur le Curé," said Antoine, writhing; "if Monsieur le Curé

would believe that if I could save his life! But--"

"Pshaw!" said the priest, "it is not for myself, but for this boy. You

must save him, Antoine. Hear me, you _must_. Take him now to one of

the lower cells and hide him. You risk nothing. His name is not on the

prison register. He will not be called, he will not be missed; that

fanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us (Antoine

shuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle) and when this mad

fever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you. And

Antoine--"

Here the priest pocketed his book, and somewhat awkwardly with his

huge hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silk

from the lining. Monsieur le Curé's cassock seemed a cabinet of

oddities. First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix,

which he replaced; then a knot of white ribbon, which he also

restored; and, finally, a tiny pocket or bag of what had been

cream-coloured satin, embroidered with small bunches of heartsease,

and which was aromatic with otto of roses. Awkwardly, and somewhat

slowly, he drew out of this a small locket, in the centre of which was

some unreadable legend in cabalistic-looking character, and which

blazed with the finest diamonds. Heaven alone knows the secret of that

gem, or the struggle with which the priest yielded it. He put it into

Antoine's hand, talking as he did so partly to himself and partly to

the gaoler.

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry

nothing out. The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sell

for much. The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly,

and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home

in better days. And for the locket--it is but a remembrance, and to

remember is not difficult!"

As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he did

not hear it. He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount,

whom he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consented

ungraciously.

"How am I to get him there? Monsieur le Curé sees that he cannot stand

upon his feet."

Monsieur le Curé smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in his

arms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors.

"You must come no further," said Antoine, hastily.

"Ingrate!" muttered the priest in momentary anger, and then, ashamed,

he crossed himself, and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom with

the last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed his

senseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it,

and laid his burden down.

"GOD the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be with thee

now and in the dread hour of death. Adieu! we shall meet hereafter."

The look of pity, the yearning of rekindled love, the struggle of

silenced memories passed from his face and left a shining

calm--foretaste of the perpetual Light and the eternal Rest.

Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found its

old place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; but

it might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit was

with the GOD who gave it."

As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not too

sensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stone

steps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him by

the heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and was

deposited on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher of

water over his face, and locking the door securely, hurried back to

his charge.

When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself and

looked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it was

underground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to be

level with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed and

worn--a chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, and

in one corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place where

there was no fire. Stones lay scattered about, the walls were black,

and in the far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowly

down, and lizards and other reptiles crawled up.

I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a new

prisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness,

Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. It

was too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison to

command any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examined

the walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell upon

the floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about had

been raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It looked

like child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and then

he saw that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolled

together. Evidently it was something left by the former occupant of

the cell for his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for getting

away which he had not had time to perfect on his own account,

Perhaps--but by this time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur the

Viscount read the writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was the

fly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in black

chalk, the words--

"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._" (Remember the Saviour.)

He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark;

there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal from

himself that he was disappointed. How could it be otherwise? He had

been bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything that

could make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, and

all that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can be

kept, from the precincts of the beautiful château which was his home.

What were the _consolations_ of religion to him? They are offered to

those (and to those only) who need them. They were to Monsieur the

Viscount what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks of

old--foolishness.

He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it the

crowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered. Presently,

Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur the

Viscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries as

to how he came and how long he had been there. When the gaoler began

to describe him, whom he called the Curé, Monsieur the Viscount's

attention quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by the

tender interest that always hangs round the names of those whom we

have known in happier and younger days. The happy memories recalled by

hearing of his old tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes.

With French excitability, he laughed and wept alternately.

"As burly as ever, you say? The little book? I remember it, it was

his breviary. Ah! it is he. It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I have

not seen for years. Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!"

But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise.

That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was a

terrible one. The bitter chill of a Parisian autumn, the gnawings of

half-satisfied hunger, the thick walls that shut out all hope of

escape but did not exclude those fearful cries that lasted with few

intervals throughout the night, made it like some hideous dream. At

last the morning broke; at half-past two o'clock, some members of the

_commune_ presented themselves in the hall of the National Assembly

with the significant announcement:--"The prisons are empty!" and

Antoine, who had been quaking for hours, took courage, and went with

half a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water to the cell that was not

"empty." He found his prisoner struggling with a knot of white ribbon,

which he was trying to fasten in his hair. One glance at his face told

all.

"It is the fever," said Antoine; and he put down the bread and water

and fetched an old blanket and a pillow; and that day and for many

days, the gaoler hung above his prisoner's pallet with the tenderness

of a woman. Was he haunted by the vision of a burly figure that had

bent over his own sick bed in the Rue de la Croix? Did the voice

(once so familiar in counsel and benediction!) echo still in his ears?

"_The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do well, and his

curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home in

better days._"

Be this as it may, Antoine tended his patient with all the constancy

compatible with keeping his presence in the prison a secret; and it

was not till the crisis was safely past, that he began to visit the

cell less frequently, and reassumed the harsh manners which he held to

befit his office.

Monsieur the Viscount's mind rambled much in his illness. He called

for his mother, who had long been dead. He fancied himself in his own

château. He thought that all his servants stood in a body before him,

but that not one would move to wait on him. He thought that he had

abundance of the most tempting food and cooling drinks, but placed

just beyond his reach. He thought that he saw two lights like stars

near together, which were close to the ground, and kept appearing and

then vanishing away. In time he became more sensible; the château

melted into the stern reality of his prison walls; the delicate food

became bread and water; the servants disappeared like spectres; but in

the empty cell, in the dark corners near the floor, he still fancied

that he saw two sparks of light coming and going, appearing and then

vanishing away. He watched them till his giddy head would bear it no

longer, and he closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke he was much

better, but when he raised himself and turned towards the

stone--there, by the bread and the broken pitcher, sat a dirty, ugly,

wrinkled toad, gazing at him, Monsieur the Viscount, with eyes of

yellow fire.

Monsieur the Viscount had long ago forgotten the toad which had

alarmed his childhood; but his national dislike to that animal had not

been lessened by years, and the toad of the prison seemed likely to

fare no better than the toad of the château. He dragged himself from

his pallet, and took up one of the large damp stones which lay about

the floor of the cell, to throw at the intruder. He expected that when

he approached it, the toad would crawl away, and that he could throw

the stone after it; but to his surprise, the beast sat quite unmoved,

looking at him with calm shining eyes, and, somehow or other, Monsieur

the Viscount lacked strength or heart to kill it. He stood doubtful

for a moment, and then a sudden feeling of weakness obliged him to

drop the stone, and sit down, while tears sprang to his eyes with the

sense of his helplessness.

"Why should I kill it?" he said, bitterly. "The beast will live and

grow fat upon this damp and loathsomeness, long after they have put

an end to my feeble life. It shall remain. The cell is not big, but it

is big enough for us both. However large be the rooms a man builds

himself to live in, it needs but little space in which to die!"

So Monsieur the Viscount dragged his pallet away from the toad, placed

another stone by it, and removed the pitcher; and then, wearied with

his efforts, lay down and slept heavily.

When he awoke, on the new stone by the pitcher was the toad, staring

full at him with topaz eyes. He lay still this time and did not move,

for the animal showed no intention of spitting, and he was puzzled by

its tameness.

"It seems to like the sight of a man," he thought. "Is it possible

that any former inmate of this wretched prison can have amused his

solitude by making a pet of such a creature? and if there were such a

man, where is he now?"

Henceforward, sleeping or waking, whenever Monsieur the Viscount lay

down upon his pallet, the toad crawled up on to the stone, and kept

watch over him with shining lustrous eyes; but whenever there was a

sound of the key grating in the lock, and the gaoler coming his

rounds, away crept the toad, and was quickly lost in the dark corners

of the room. When the man was gone, it returned to its place, and

Monsieur the Viscount would talk to it, as he lay on his pallet.

"Ah! Monsieur Crapaud," he would say, with mournful pleasantry,

"without doubt you have had a master and a kind one; but, tell me, who

was he, and where is he now? Was he old or young, and was it in the

last stage of maddening loneliness that he made friends with such a

creature as you?"

Monsieur Crapaud looked very intelligent, but he made no reply, and

Monsieur the Viscount had recourse to Antoine.

"Who was in this cell before me?" he asked at the gaoler's next visit.

Antoine's face clouded. "Monsieur le Curé had this room. My orders

were that he was to be imprisoned in secret.'"

Monsieur le Curé had this room. There was a revelation in those words.

It was all explained now. The priest had always had a love for animals

(and for ugly, common animals), which his pupil had by no means

shared. His room at the château had been little less than a menagerie.

He had even kept a glass beehive there, which communicated with a hole

in the window through which the bees flew in and out, and he would

stand for hours with his thumb in the breviary, watching the labours

of his pets. And this also had been his room! This dark, damp cell.

Here, breviary in hand, he had stood, and lain, and knelt. Here, in

this miserable prison, he had found something to love, and on which to

expend the rare intelligence and benevolence of his nature. Here,

finally, in the last hours of his life, he had written on the fly-leaf

of his prayer-book something to comfort his successor, and, "being

dead, yet spoke" the words of consolation which he had administered in

his lifetime. Monsieur the Viscount read that paper now with different

feelings.

There is, perhaps, no argument so strong, and no virtue that so

commands the respect of young men, as consistency. Monsieur the

Preceptor's lifelong counsel and example would have done less for his

pupil than was effected by the knowledge of his consistent career, now

that it was past. It was not the nobility of the priest's principles

that awoke in Monsieur the Viscount a desire to imitate his religious

example, but the fact that he had applied them to his own life, not

only in the time of wealth, but in the time of tribulation and in the

hour of death. All that high-strung piety--that life of prayer--those

unswerving admonitions to consider the vanity of earthly treasures,

and to prepare for death--which had sounded so unreal amidst the

perfumed elegances of the château, came back now with a reality gained

from experiment. The daily life of self-denial, the conversation

garnished from Scripture and from the Fathers, had not, after all,

been mere priestly affectations. In no symbolic manner, but literally,

he had "watched for the coming of his Lord," and "taken up the cross

daily;" and so, when the cross was laid on him, and when the voice

spoke which must speak to all, "The Master is come, and calleth for

thee," he bore the burden and obeyed the summons unmoved.

_Unmoved_!--this was the fact that struck deep into the heart of

Monsieur the Viscount, as he listened to Antoine's account of the

Curé's imprisonment. What had astonished and overpowered his own

undisciplined nature had not disturbed Monsieur the Preceptor. He had

prayed in the château--he prayed in the prison. He had often spoken in

the château of the softening and comforting influences of communion

with the lower animals and with nature, and in the uncertainty of

imprisonment he had tamed a toad. "None of these things had moved

him," and, in a storm of grief and admiration, Monsieur the Viscount

bewailed the memory of his tutor.

"If he had only lived to teach me!"

But he was dead, and there was nothing for Monsieur the Viscount but

to make the most of his example. This was not so easy to follow as he

imagined. Things seemed to be different with him to what they had

been with Monsieur the Preceptor. He had no lofty meditations, no

ardent prayers, and calm and peace seemed more distant than ever.

Monsieur the Viscount met, in short, with all those difficulties that

the soul must meet with, which, in a moment of enthusiasm, has

resolved upon a higher and a better way of life, and in moments of

depression is perpetually tempted to forego that resolution. His

prison life was, however, a pretty severe discipline, and he held on

with struggles and prayers; and so, little by little, and day by day,

as the time of his imprisonment went by, the consolations of religion

became a daily strength against the fretfulness of imperious temper,

the sickness of hope deferred, and the dark suggestions of despair.

The term of his imprisonment was a long one. Many prisoners came and

went within the walls of the Abbaye, but Monsieur the Viscount still

remained in his cell; indeed, he would have gained little by leaving

it if he could have done so, as he would almost certainly have been

retaken. As it was, Antoine on more than one occasion concealed him

behind the bundles of firewood, and once or twice he narrowly escaped

detection by less friendly officials. There were times when the

guillotine seemed to him almost better than this long suspense: but

while other heads passed to the block, his remained on his shoulders;

and so weeks and even months went by. And during all this time,

sleeping or waking, whenever he lay down upon his pallet, the toad

crept up on to the stone, and kept watch over him with lustrous eyes.

Monsieur the Viscount hardly acknowledged to himself the affection

with which he came to regard this ugly and despicable animal. The

greater part of his regard for it he believed to be due to its

connection with his tutor, and the rest he set down to the score of

his own humanity, and took credit to himself accordingly: whereas in

truth Monsieur Crapaud was of incalculable service to his master, who

would lie and chatter to him for hours, and almost forget his present

discomfort in recalling past happiness, as he described the château,

the gardens, the burly tutor, and beautiful Madame, or laughed over

his childish remembrances of the toad's teeth in Claude Mignon's

pocket; whilst Monsieur Crapaud sat well-bred and silent, with a world

of comprehension in his fiery eyes. Whoever thinks this puerile must

remember that my hero was a Frenchman, and a young Frenchman, with a

prescriptive right to chatter for chattering's sake, and also that he

had not a very highly cultivated mind of his own to converse with,

even if the most highly cultivated intellect is ever a reliable

resource against the terrors of solitary confinement.

Foolish or wise, however, Monsieur the Viscount's attachment

strengthened daily; and one day something happened which showed his

pet in a new light, and afforded him fresh amusement.

The prison was much infested with certain large black spiders, which

crawled about the floor and walls; and, as Monsieur the Viscount was

lying on his pallet, he saw one of these scramble up and over the

stone on which sat Monsieur Crapaud. That good gentleman, whose eyes,

till then, had been fixed as usual on his master, now turned his

attention to the intruder. The spider, as if conscious of danger, had

suddenly stopped still. Monsieur Crapaud gazed at it intently with his

beautiful eyes, and bent himself slightly forward. So they remained

for some seconds, then the spider turned round, and began suddenly to

scramble away. At this instant Monsieur the Viscount saw his friend's

eyes gleam with an intenser fire, his head was jerked forwards; it

almost seemed as if something had been projected from his mouth, and

drawn back again with the rapidity of lightning. Then Monsieur Crapaud

resumed his position, drew in his head, and gazed mildly and sedately

before him; _but the spider was nowhere to be seen_.

Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh.

"Eh, well! Monsieur," said he, "but this is not well-bred on your

part. Who gave you leave to eat my spiders? and to bolt them in such

an unmannerly way, moreover."

In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed of

himself, and I regret to state that henceforward (with the partial

humaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amused

himself by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in an

old oyster-shell, and then setting them at liberty on the stone for

the benefit of his friend. As for him, all appeared to be fish that

came to his net--spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the damp

corners, flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone,

disappeared one after the other. The wood-lice were an especial

amusement: when Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up into

tight little balls, and in this condition he removed them to the

stone, and placed them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaud

watching the proceeding with rapt attention. After awhile the balls

would slowly open and begin to crawl away; but he was a very active

wood-louse indeed who escaped the suction of Monsieur Crapaud's

tongue, as, his eyes glowing with eager enjoyment, he bolted one after

another, and Monsieur the Viscount clapped his hands and applauded.

The grated window was a very fine field for spiders and other insects,

and by piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrived

to scramble up to it, and fill his friend's oyster-shell with the

prey.

One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at the

prison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual,

oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knew

that the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger of

being recognized through the grating. He was, therefore, not a little

startled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by a

sound of something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, he

saw that a string was dangling before the window with something

attached to the end of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, he

fancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, as

if from some window above. He proceeded to examine his prize, and

found that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women use

to polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as a

make-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter that

was tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil. The letter

was directed to "_The prisoner who finds this._" Monsieur the Viscount

opened it at once. This was the letter--

"_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2_.

"_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned? Be

good enough to answer_."

Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to

risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil

hurriedly wrote this reply:--

"_In secret, June 12, 1794_.

"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B., supposed to have

perished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I have

been imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_

you _been here_?"

The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It

came, and with it some sheets of blank paper.

"_Monsieur_,--_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, and

thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St.

Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Accept

our sympathy for your misfortunes_."

Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount's

interest--_Valerie de St. Claire_;--and for some reasons, which I do

not pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author

of these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took

possession of his mind. Who was she? was she old or young? And in

which relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, of

sister, or of daughter? And from some equally inexplicable cause

Monsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was the

latter. To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to

discover the real state of the case. He wrote a letter of thanks and

sympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of a

nobleman of the old _régime_, and addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_.

The plan succeeded. The next note he received contained these

sentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame my mother is, alas! dead.

I and my father are alone. He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, for

your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment. Are you

alone?_"

Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of the

Baron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the last

question, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where Monsieur

Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turned

towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote

hastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._"

Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience

seemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had something

to do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health. He

became paler and weaker, and more fretful. His prayers were

accompanied by greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears.

He was, however, most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaud

that he knew the exact nature and cause of the malady that was

consuming him. It resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesome

condition of his cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it swept

out. After some difficulty the gaoler consented.

It was nearly a month since Monsieur the Viscount had first been

startled by the appearance of the little pincushion. The stock of

paper had long been exhausted. He had torn up his cambric ruffles to

write upon, and Mademoiselle de St. Claire had made havoc of her

pocket-handkerchiefs for the same purpose. The Viscount was feebler

than ever, and Antoine became alarmed. The cell should be swept out

the next morning. He would come himself, he said, and bring another

man out of the town with him to help him, for the work was heavy, and

he had a touch of rheumatism. The man was a stupid fellow from the

country, who had only been a week in Paris; he had never heard of the

Viscount, and Antoine would tell him that the prisoner was a certain

young lawyer who had really died of fever in prison the day before.

Monsieur the Viscount thanked him; and it was not till the next

morning arrived, and he was expecting them every moment, that Monsieur

the Viscount remembered the toad, and that he would without doubt be

swept away with the rest in the general clearance. At first he thought

that he would beg them to leave it, but some knowledge of the petty

insults which that class of men heaped upon their prisoners made him

feel that this would probably be only an additional reason for their

taking the animal away. There was no place to hide it in, for they

would go all round the room; unless--unless Monsieur the Viscount took

it up in his hand. And this was just what he objected to do. All his

old feelings of repugnance came back; he had not even got gloves on;

his long white hands were bare, he could not touch a toad. It was true

that the beast had amused him, and that he had chatted to it; but,

after all, this was a piece of childish folly--an unmanly way, to say

the least, of relieving the tedium of captivity. What was Monsieur

Crapaud but a very ugly (and most people said a venomous) reptile? To

what a folly he had been condescending! With these thoughts, Monsieur

the Viscount steeled himself against the glances of his topaz-eyed

friend, and when the steps of the men were heard upon the stairs, he

did not move from the window where he had placed himself, with his

back to the stone.

The steps came nearer and nearer, Monsieur the Viscount began to

whistle--the key was rattled in the lock, and Monsieur the Viscount

heard a bit of bread fall, as the toad hastily descended to hide

itself as usual in the corners. In a moment his resolution was gone;

another second, and it would be too late. He dashed after the

creature, picked it up, and when the men came in he was standing with

his hands behind him, in which Monsieur Crapaud was quietly and safely

seated.

The room was swept, and Antoine was preparing to go, when the other,

who had been eyeing the prisoner suspiciously, stopped and said with a

sharp sneer, "Does the citizen always preserve that position?"

"Not he," said the gaoler, good-naturedly. "He spends most of his time

in bed, which saves his legs. Come along, François."

"I shall not come," said the other, obstinately. "Let the citizen show

me his hands."

"Plague take you!" said Antoine, in a whisper. "What sulky fit

possesses you, my comrade? Let the poor wretch alone. What wouldst

thou with his hands? Wait a little, and thou shall have his head."

"We should have few heads or prisoners either, if thou hadst the care

of them," said François, sharply. "I say that the prisoner secretes

something, and that I will see it. Show your hands, dog of an

aristocrat!"

Monsieur the Viscount set his teeth to keep himself from speaking, and

held out his hands in silence, toad and all.

Both the men started back with an exclamation, and François got behind

his comrade, and swore over his shoulder.

Monsieur the Viscount stood upright and still, with a smile on his

white face. "Behold, citizen, what I secrete, and what I desire to

keep. Behold all that I have left to secrete or to desire! There is

nothing more."

"Throw it down!" screamed François; "many a witch has been burnt for

less--throw it down."

The colour began to flood over Monsieur the Viscount's face; but still

he spoke gently, and with bated breath. "If you wish me to suffer,

citizen, let this be my witness that I have suffered. I must be very

friendless to desire such a friend. I must be brought very low to ask

such a favour. Let the Republic give me this."

"The Republic has one safe rule for aristocrats," said the other; "she

gives them nothing but their keep till she pays for their

shaving--once for all. She gave one of these dogs a few rags to dress

a wound on his back with, and he made a rope of his dressings, and let

himself down from the window. We will have no more such games. You may

be training the beast to spit poison at good citizens. Throw it down

and kill it."

Monsieur the Viscount made no reply. His hands had moved towards his

breast, against which he was holding his golden-eyed friend. There are

times in life when the brute creation contrasts favourably with the

lords thereof, and this was one of them. It was hard to part just now.

Antoine, who had been internally cursing his own folly in bringing

such a companion into the cell, now interfered. "If you are going to

stay here to be bitten or spit at, François, my friend," said he, "I

am not. Thou art zealous, my comrade, but dull as an owl. The Republic

is far-sighted in her wisdom beyond thy coarse ideas, and has more

ways of taking their heads from these aristocrats than one. Dost thou

not see?" And he tapped his forehead significantly, and looked at the

prisoner; and so, between talking and pushing, got his sulky companion

out of the cell, and locked the door after them.

"And so, my friend--my friend!" said Monsieur the Viscount, tenderly,

"we are safe once more; but it will not be for long, my Crapaud.

Something tells me that I cannot much longer be overlooked. A little

while, and I shall be gone; and thou wilt have, perchance, another

master, when I am summoned before mine."

Monsieur the Viscount's misgivings were just. François, on whose

stupidity Antoine had relied, was (as is not uncommon with people

stupid in other respects) just clever enough to be mischievous.

Antoine's evident alarm made him suspicious, and he began to talk

about the too-elegant-looking young lawyer who was imprisoned "in

secret," and permitted by the gaoler to keep venomous beasts. Antoine

was examined and committed to one of his own cells, and Monsieur the

Viscount was summoned before the revolutionary tribunal.

There was little need even for the scanty inquiry that in those days

preceded sentence. In every line of his beautiful face, marred as it

was by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, which

dirt and raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of his

birth and breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the ante-room,

he did not positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moral

certainty that left him no hope.

The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and, as he

entered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiar

faces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--a

tall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, had

a restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and a

young girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steady

quietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing their

faces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decided

with himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he begged

the man who was conducting him for a moment's delay. The man

consented. France was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and even

the executioners sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change.

As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and he

saw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair and

large eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it was

blanched with suffering; and, it is fair to say, in common with many

of them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount never

for an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in a

low voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!"

The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's face

illumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply,

"Monsieur le Vicomte?"

The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, with

a look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscount

were left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say a

great deal, and could say very little. The moments went by, and hardly

a word had been spoken.

Valerie asked if he knew his fate.

"I have not heard it," he said; "but I am morally certain. There can

be but one end in these days."

She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur,

I wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--and

me."

Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that the

desire of life was making a few fierce struggles in his own breast.

"You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness,

Mademoiselle."

The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at the

irritation of his tone.

"I think," she said, gently, "that one does not look forward _to_, but

_beyond_ it." She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, and

then spoke hurriedly and diffidently:--

"Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, who

have doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when a

child, going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for his

eloquence. He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has been

in my mind all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, and

there the weary be at rest._' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu!

Monsieur. A thousand thanks and a thousand blessings."

She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increased

colour, and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thick

mist gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face.

"Adieu! Valerie!"

"Adieu! Louis!"

So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount went

back to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was broken

for him in the chain of earthly interests.

When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a few

seconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return of

Monsieur Crapaud from his hiding-place. With one wrinkled leg after

another he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscount

started when he saw him.

"Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had said

adieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which Monsieur

Crapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes he

sprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and no

time must be lost in making my will." Monsieur Crapaud was too wise to

express any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for a

tidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They were

all rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive,

and he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polished

both. Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hour

composed and wrote busily. When it was done he lay down, and read it

to his friend. This was Monsieur the Viscount's last will and

Testament:--

"_To my successor in this cell._

"To you whom Providence has chosen to be the inheritor of my sorrows

and my captivity, I desire to make another bequest. There is in this

prison a toad. He was tamed by a man (peace to his memory!) who

tenanted this cell before me. He has been my friend and companion for

nearly two years of sad imprisonment. He has sat by my bedside, fed

from my hand, and shared all my confidence. He is ugly, but he has

beautiful eyes; he is silent, but he is attentive; he is a brute, but

I wish the men of France were in this respect more his superiors! He

is very faithful. May you never have a worse friend! He feeds upon

insects, which I have been accustomed to procure for him. Be kind to

him; he will repay it. Like other men, I bequeath what I would take

with me if I could.

"Fellow-sufferer, adieu! GOD comfort you as He has comforted

me! The sorrows of this life are sharp but short; the joys of the next

life are eternal. Think sometimes on him who commends his friend to

your pity, and himself to your prayers.

"This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie

Arnaud, Vicomte de B----."

Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficulty

squeezed into the surface of the larger of the stones. Then he hid it

where the priest had hidden _his_ bequest long ago, and then lay down

to dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last.

The next day was one of anxious suspense. In the evening, as usual, a

list of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was brought

into the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it.

It was brought to him. First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down was

his own name, "Louis de B----," and a little lower his fascinated

gaze fell upon names that stirred his heart with such a passion of

regret as he had fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St.

Claire, Valerie de St. Claire."

Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and her

calm voice to echo in his ears. "_It has been in my mind all to-day.

There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at

rest._"

_There_! He buried his face and prayed.

He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaoler

appeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror.

He had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur the

Viscount. It was only a matter of a few hours, as they were to die at

daybreak, and his request was granted.

Antoine's entrance turned the current of Monsieur the Viscount's

thoughts. No more selfish reflections now. He must comfort this poor

creature, of whose death he was to be the unintentional cause.

Antoine's first anxiety was that Monsieur the Viscount should bear

witness that the gaoler had treated him kindly, and so earned the

blessing and not the curse of Monsieur le Curé, whose powerful

presence seemed to haunt him still. On this score he was soon set at

rest, and then came the old, old story. He had been but a bad man. If

his life were to come over again, he would do differently. Did

Monsieur the Viscount think that there was any hope?

Would Monsieur the Viscount have recognized himself, could he, two

years ago, have seen himself as he was now? Kneeling by that rough,

uncultivated figure, and pleading with all the eloquence that he could

master to that rough uncultivated heart, the great Truths of

Christianity--so great and few and simple in their application to our

needs! The violet eyes had never appealed more tenderly, the soft

voice had never been softer than now, as he strove to explain to this

ignorant soul, the cardinal doctrines of Faith and Repentance, and

Charity, with an earnestness that was perhaps more effectual than his

preaching.

Monsieur the Viscount was quite as much astonished as flattered by the

success of his instructions. The faith on which he had laid hold with

such mortal struggles, seemed almost to "come natural" (as people say)

to Antoine. With abundant tears he professed the deepest penitence for

his past life, at the same time that he accepted the doctrine of the

Atonement as a natural remedy, and never seemed to have a doubt in the

Infinite Mercy that should cover his infinite guilt.

It was all so orthodox that even if he had doubted (which he did not)

the sincerity of the gaoler's contrition and belief, Monsieur the

Viscount could have done nothing but envy the easy nature of Antoine's

convictions. He forgot the difference of their respective

capabilities!

When the night was far advanced the men rose from their knees, and

Monsieur the Viscount persuaded Antoine to lie down on his pallet, and

when the gaoler's heavy breathing told that he was asleep, Monsieur

the Viscount felt relieved to be alone once more--alone, except for

Monsieur Crapaud, whose round fiery eyes were open as usual.

The simplicity with which he had been obliged to explain the truths of

Divine Love to Antoine, was of signal service to Monsieur the Viscount

himself. It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, with

which refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he paced

feebly up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which he

had striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul. How

blessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was he

that after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victory

should be so near? The way had seemed long to come, it was short to

look back upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, the

everlasting doors were open. A few more hours, and then--! and as

Monsieur the Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tears

that trickled from his fingers were literally tears of joy.

He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and lay

down on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur's Crapaud's fiery

eyes. And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness,

to take the form and features of the face of the priest, and to gaze

at him with unutterable benediction. And in his mind, like some

familiar piece of music, awoke the words that had been written on the

fly-leaf of the little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, over

and over again--

"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur_!"

(Remember the Saviour!)

In that remembrance he fell asleep.

Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream. Then

it began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping too

long, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they have

resolved upon. At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was,

he awoke. It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him.

Surely the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at an

early hour. But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke. The

hours of suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and a

key rattled into the lock. The door opened, and the gaoler appeared

with a jug of milk and a loaf. With a strange smile he set them down.

"A good appetite to you, citizens."

Antoine flew on him. "Comrade! we used to be friends. Tell me, what is

it? Is the execution deferred?"

"The execution has taken place at last," said the other,

significantly; "_Robespierre is dead!_" and he vanished.

Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers,

and flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed them

rapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face,

his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemed

almost in a stupor. Antoine got him on to the pallet, dragged the

blanket over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurse

once more.

On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awoke

from the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror was

ended!

CHAPTER III.

It was a year of Grace early in the present century.

We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is the

château once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachable

elegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The right

wing of the château is in ruins, with traces of fire upon the

blackened walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a roofless

temple are sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored part

of the château, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount has

been fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yet

regained enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as he

thinks, luxury. The long rooms are little less elegant than in former

days, and Madame the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model of

taste. Not far from it is another room, to which it forms a singular

contrast. This room belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small,

with one window. The floor and walls are bare, and it contains no

furniture; but on the floor is a worn-out pallet, by which lies a

stone, and on that a broken pitcher, and in a little frame against the

wall is preserved a crumpled bit of paper like the fly-leaf of some

little book, on which is a half-effaced inscription, which can be

deciphered by Monsieur the Viscount if by no one else. Above the

window is written in large letters, a date and the word REMEMBER.

Monsieur the Viscount is not likely to forget, but he is afraid of

himself and of prosperity lest it should spoil him.

It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along the

terrace with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, for

where the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, on

which a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscount

has not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him to

die, has taught him also how to live--an honourable, useful life.

It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets by

which Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling. Madame (who has a fair face

and ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder,

and her large eyes upon the violets.

"My friend! my friend! my friend!" It is Monsieur the Viscount's

voice, and at the sound of it, there is a rustle among the violets

that sends the perfume high into the air. Then from the parted leaves

come forth first a dirty wrinkled leg, then a dirty wrinkled head with

gleaming eyes, and Monsieur Crapaud crawls with self-satisfied dignity

on to Monsieur the Viscount's outstretched hand.

So they stay laughing and chatting, and then Monsieur the Viscount

bids his friend good-night, and holds him towards Madame that she may

do the same. But Madame (who did not enjoy Monsieur Crapaud's society

in prison) cannot be induced to do more than scratch his head

delicately with the tip of her white finger. But she respects him

greatly, at a distance, she says. Then they go back along the terrace,

and are met by a man-servant in Monsieur the Viscount's livery. Is it

possible that this is Antoine, with his shock head covered with

powder?

Yes; that grating voice, which no mental change avails to subdue, is

his, and he announces that Monsieur le Curé has arrived. It is the old

Curé of the village (who has survived the troubles of the Revolution),

and many are the evenings he spends at the château, and many the times

in which the closing acts of a noble life are recounted to him, the

life of his old friend whom he hopes ere long to see--of Monsieur the

Preceptor. He is kindly welcomed by Monsieur and by Madame, and they

pass on together into the château. And when Monsieur the Viscount's

steps have ceased to echo from the terrace, Monsieur Crapaud buries

himself once more among the violets.

* * * * *

Monsieur the Viscount is dead, and Madame sleeps also at his side;

and their possessions have descended to their son.

Not the least valued among them is a case with a glass front and

sides, in which, seated upon a stone is the body of a toad stuffed

with exquisite skill, from whose head gleam eyes of genuine topaz.

Above it in letters of gold is a date, and this inscription:--

"MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND."

ADIEU!

THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS

CHAPTER I.

"Cowards are cruel." OLD PROVERB.

This story begins on a fine autumn afternoon when, at the end of a

field over which the shadows of a few wayside trees were stalking like

long thin giants, a man and a boy sat side by side upon a stile. They

were not a happy-looking pair. The boy looked uncomfortable, because

he wanted to get away and dared not go. The man looked uncomfortable

also; but then no one had ever seen him look otherwise, which was the

more strange as he never professed to have any object in life but his

own pleasure and gratification. Not troubling himself with any

consideration of law or principle--of his own duty or other people's

comfort--he had consistently spent his whole time and energies in

trying to be jolly; and though now a grown-up young man, had so far

had every appearance of failing in the attempt. From this it will be

seen that he was not the most estimable of characters, and we shall

have no more to do with him than we can help; but as he must appear in

the story, he may as well be described.

If constant self-indulgence had answered as well as it should have

done, he would have been a fine-looking young man; as it was, the

habits of his life were fast destroying his appearance. His hair would

have been golden if it had been kept clean. His figure was tall and

strong; but the custom of slinking about places where he had no

business to be, and lounging in corners where he had nothing to do,

had given it such a hopeless slouch that for the matter of beauty he

might almost as well have been knock-kneed. His eyes would have been

handsome if the lids had been less red; and if he had ever looked you

in the face, you would have seen that they were blue. His complexion

was fair by nature and discoloured by drink. His manner was something

between a sneak and a swagger, and he generally wore his cap

a-one-side, carried his hands in his pockets and a short stick under

his arm, and whistled when any one passed him. His chief

characteristic, perhaps, was the habit he had of kicking. Indoors he

kicked the furniture, in the road he kicked the stones, if he lounged

against a wall he kicked it; he kicked all animals and such human

beings as he felt sure would not kick him again.

It should be said here that he had once announced his intention of

"turning steady, and settling, and getting wed." The object of his

choice was the prettiest girl in the village, and was as good as she

was pretty. To say the truth, the time had been when Bessy had not

felt unkindly towards the yellow-haired lad; but his conduct had long

put a gulf between them, which only the conceit of a scamp would have

attempted to pass. However, he flattered himself that he "knew what

the lasses meant when they said no;" and on the strength of this

knowledge he presumed far enough to elicit a rebuff so hearty and

unmistakable that for a week he was the laughing stock of the village.

There was no mistake this time as to what "no" meant; his admiration

turned to a hatred almost as intense, and he went faster "to the bad"

than ever.

It was Bessy's little brother who sat by him on the stile; "Beauty

Bill," as he was called, from the large share he possessed of the

family good looks. The lad was one of those people who seem born to be

favourites. He was handsome, and merry, and intelligent; and, being

well brought up, was well-conducted and amiable--the pride and pet of

the village. Why did Mother Muggins of the shop let the goody side of

her scales of justice drop the lower by one lollipop for Bill than for

any other lad, and exempt him by unwonted smiles from her general

anathema on the urchin race? There were other honest boys in the

parish, who paid for their treacle-sticks in sterling copper of the

realm! The very roughs of the village were proud of him, and would

have showed their good nature in ways little to his benefit had not

his father kept a somewhat severe watch upon his habits and conduct.

Indeed, good parents and a strict home counterbalanced the evils of

popularity with Beauty Bill, and, on the whole, he was little spoilt,

and well deserved the favour he met with. It was under cover of

friendly patronage that his companion was now detaining him; but, all

the circumstances considered, Bill felt more suspicious than

gratified, and wished Bully Tom anywhere but where he was.

The man threw out one leg before him like the pendulum of a clock.

"Night school's opened, eh?" he inquired; and back swung the pendulum

against Bill's shins.

"Yes;" and the boy screwed his legs on one side.

"You don't go, do you?"

"Yes, I do," said Bill, trying not to feel ashamed of the fact,

"Father can't spare me to the day-school now, so our Bessy persuaded

him to let me go at nights."

Bully Tom's face looked a shade darker, and the pendulum took a swing

which it was fortunate the lad avoided; but the conversation continued

with every appearance of civility.

"You come back by Yew-lane, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Why, there's no one lives your way but old Johnson; you must come

back alone?"

"Of course, I do," said Bill, beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"It must be dark now before school looses?" was the next inquiry; and

the boy's discomfort increased, he hardly knew why, as he answered--

"There's a moon."

"So there is," said Bully Tom, in a tone of polite assent; "and

there's a weathercock on the church-steeple but I never heard of

either of 'em coming down to help a body, whatever happened."

Bill's discomfort had become alarm.

"Why, what could happen?" he asked. "I don't understand you."

His companion whistled, looked up in the air, and kicked vigorously,

but said nothing. Bill was not extraordinarily brave, but he had a

fair amount both of spirit and sense; and having a shrewd suspicion

that Bully Tom was trying to frighten him, he almost made up his mind

to run off then and there. Curiosity, however, and a vague alarm which

he could not throw off, made him stay for a little more information.

"I wish you'd out with it!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "What could

happen? No one ever comes along Yew-lane; and if they did they

wouldn't hurt me."

"I know no one ever comes near it when they can help it," was the

reply; "so, to be sure, you couldn't get set upon. And a pious lad of

your sort wouldn't mind no other kind. Not like ghosts, or anything of

that."

And Bully Tom looked round at his companion; a fact disagreeable from

its rarity.

"I don't believe in ghosts," said Bill, stoutly.

"Of course you don't," sneered his tormentor; "you're too well

educated. Some people does, though. I suppose them that has seen them

does. Some people thinks that murdered men walk. P'raps some people

thinks the man as was murdered in Yew-lane walks."

"What man?" gasped Bill, feeling very chilly down the spine.

"Him that was riding by the cross-roads and dragged into Yew-lane, and

his head cut off and never found, and his body buried in the

churchyard," said Bully Tom, with a rush of superior information;

"and all I know is, if I thought he walked in Yew-lane, or any other

lane, I wouldn't go within five mile of it after dusk--that's all. But

then I'm not book-larned."

The two last statements were true if nothing else was that the man had

said; and after holding up his feet and examining his boots with his

head a-one-side, as if considering their probable efficiency against

flesh and blood, he slid from his perch, and "loafed" slowly up the

street, whistling and kicking the stones as he went along. As to

Beauty Bill, he fled home as fast as his legs would carry him. By the

door stood Bessy, washing some clothes; who turned her pretty face as

he came up.

"You're late, Bill," she said. "Go in and get your tea, it's set out.

It's night-school night, thou knows, and Master Arthur always likes

his class to time." He lingered, and she continued--"John Gardener was

down this afternoon about some potatoes, and he says Master Arthur is

expecting a friend."

Bill did not heed this piece of news, any more than the slight flush

on his sister's face as she delivered it; he was wondering whether

what Bully Tom said was mere invention to frighten him, or whether

there was any truth in it.

"Bessy!" he said, "was there a man ever murdered in Yew-lane?"

Bessy was occupied with her own thoughts, and did not notice the

anxiety of the question.

"I believe there was," she answered carelessly, "somewhere about

there. It's a hundred years ago or more. There's an old gravestone

over him in the churchyard by the wall, with an odd verse on it. They

say the parish clerk wrote it. But get your tea, or you'll be late,

and father'll be angry;" and Bessy took up her tub and departed.

Poor Bill! Then it was too true. He began to pull up his trousers and

look at his grazed legs; and the thoughts of his aching shins, Bully

Tom's cruelty, the unavoidable night-school, and the possible ghost,

were too much for him, and he burst into tears.