hermit; "yet is the latter course the better one. Wherefore abide with
me, my son, and learn in solitude those lessons of self-government
without which no man is fit to rule others."
"It is impossible," said the prince. "These fits of passion are as a
madness that comes upon me, and they are beyond cure. It only remains
to find my godfather, that he may make me less baneful to others by
taking away the power I abuse." And raising the body of the dog
tenderly in his arms, he laid it before him on his horse, and rode
away, the dumb nobleman following him.
They now entered the dominions of another king, and in due time
arrived at the capital. The prince presented himself to the king, and
asked if he had a magician in his kingdom.
"Not to my knowledge," replied the king. "But I have a remarkably wise
daughter, and if you want counsel she may be able to help you."
The princess accordingly was sent for, and she was so beautiful, as
well as witty, that the prince fell in love with her, and begged the
king to give her to him to wife. The king, of course, was unable to
refuse what the prince wished, and the wedding was celebrated without
delay; and by the advice of his wife the prince placed the body of his
faithful dog in a glass coffin, and kept it near him, that he might
constantly be reminded of the evil results of giving way to his anger.
For a time all went well. At first the prince never said a harsh word
to his wife; but by and by familiarity made him less careful, and one
day she said something that offended him, and he fell into a violent
rage. As he went storming up and down, the princess wrung her hands,
and cried, "Ah, my dear husband, I beg of you to be careful what you
say to me. You say you loved your dog, and yet you know where he
lies."
"I know that I wish you were with him, with your prating!" cried the
prince, in a fury; and the words were scarcely out of his mouth when
the princess vanished from his side, and when he ran to the glass
coffin, there she lay, pale and lifeless, with her head upon the body
of the hound.
The prince was now beside himself with remorse and misery, and when
the dumb nobleman made signs that they should pursue their search for
the magician, he only cried, "Too late! too late!"
But after a while he said, "I will return to the hermit, and pass the
rest of my miserable life in solitude and penance. And you, dear
friend, go back to my father."
But the dumb nobleman shook his head, and could not be persuaded to
leave the prince. Then they took the glass coffin on their shoulders,
and on foot, and weeping as they went, they retraced their steps to
the forest.
For some time the prince remained with the hermit, and submitted
himself to his direction. Then the hermit bade him return to his
father, and he obeyed.
Every day the prince stood by the glass coffin, and beat his breast
and cried, "Behold, murderer, the fruits of anger!" And he tried hard
to overcome the violence of his temper. When he lost heart he
remembered a saying of the hermit: "Patience had far to go, but she
was crowned at last." And after a while the prince became as gentle as
he had before been violent. And the king and all the court rejoiced
at the change; but the prince remained sad at heart, thinking of the
princess.
One day he was sitting alone, when a man approached him, dressed in a
long black robe.
"Good-day, godson," said he.
"Who calls me godson?" said the prince.
"The magician you have so long sought," said the godfather. "I have
come to reclaim my gift."
"What cruelty led you to bestow it upon me?" asked the prince.
"The king, your father, would have been dissatisfied with any ordinary
present from me," said the magician, "forgetting that the
responsibilities of common gifts, and very limited power, are more
than enough for most men to deal with. But I have not neglected you. I
was the wise woman who brought you up. Again, I was the hermit, as
your dog was sage enough to discover. I am come now to reclaim what
has caused you such suffering."
"Alas!" cried the prince, "why is your kindness so tardy? If you have
not forgotten me, why have you withheld this benefit till it is too
late for my happiness? My friend is dumb, my wife is dead, my dog is
hanged. When wishes cannot reach these, do you think it matters to me
what I may command?"
"Softly, prince," said the magician; "I had a reason for the delay.
But for these bitter lessons you would still be the slave of the
violent temper which you have conquered, and which, as it was no gift
of mine, I could not remove. Moreover, when the spell which made all
things bend to your wish is taken away, its effects also are undone.
Godson! I recall my gift."
As the magician spoke the glass sides of the coffin melted into the
air, and the princess sprang up, and threw herself into her husband's
arms. The dog also rose, stretched himself, and wagged his tail. The
dumb nobleman ran to tell the good news to the king, and all the
counsellors came back in a long train from the bottom of the sea, and
set about the affairs of state as if nothing had happened.
The old king welcomed his children with open arms, and they all lived
happily to the end of their days.
THE WIDOWS AND THE STRANGERS.
In days of yore, there were once two poor old widows who lived in the
same hamlet and under the same roof. But though the cottages joined
and one roof covered them, they had each a separate dwelling; and
although they were alike in age and circumstances, yet in other
respects they were very different. For one dame was covetous, though
she had little to save, and the other was liberal, though she had
little to give.
Now, on the rising ground opposite to the widows' cottages, stood a
monastery where a few pious and charitable brethren spent their time
in prayer, labour, and good works. And with the alms of these monks,
and the kindness of neighbours, and because their wants were few, the
old women dwelt in comfort, and had daily bread, and lay warm at
night.
One evening, when the covetous old widow was having supper, there came
a knock at her door. Before she opened it she hastily put away the
remains of her meal.
"For," said she, "it is a stormy night, and ten to one some belated
vagabond wants shelter; and when there are victuals on the table every
fool must be asked to sup."
But when she opened the door, a monk came in who had his cowl pulled
over his head to shelter him from the storm. The widow was much
disconcerted at having kept one of the brotherhood waiting, and loudly
apologized, but the monk stopped her, saying, "I fear I cut short your
evening meal, my daughter."
"Now in the name of ill-luck, how came he to guess that?" thought the
widow, as with anxious civility she pressed the monk to take some
supper after his walk; for the good woman always felt hospitably
inclined towards any one who was likely to return her kindness
sevenfold.
The brother, however, refused to sup; and as he seated himself the
widow looked sharply through her spectacles to see if she could gather
from any distention of the folds of his frock whether a loaf, a bottle
of cordial, or a new winter's cloak were most likely to crown the
visit. No undue protuberance being visible about the monk's person,
she turned her eyes to his face, and found that her visitor was one of
the brotherhood whom she had not seen before. And not only was his
face unfamiliar, it was utterly unlike the kindly but rough
countenances of her charitable patrons. None that she had ever seen
boasted the noble beauty, the chiselled and refined features of the
monk before her. And she could not but notice that, although only one
rushlight illumined her room, and though the monk's cowl went far to
shade him even from that, yet his face was lit up as if by light from
within, so that his clear skin seemed almost transparent. In short,
her curiosity must have been greatly stirred, had not greed made her
more anxious to learn what he had brought than who he was.
"It's a terrible night," quoth the monk, at length. "Such tempest
without only gives point to the indoor comforts of the wealthy; but it
chills the very marrow of the poor and destitute."
"Aye, indeed," sniffed the widow, with a shiver. "If it were not for
the charity of good Christians, what would poor folk do for comfort on
such an evening as this?"
"It was that very thought, my daughter," said the monk, with a sudden
earnestness on his shining face, "that brought me forth even now
through the storm to your cottage."
"Heaven reward you!" cried the widow, fervently.
"Heaven does reward the charitable!" replied the monk. "To no truth do
the Scriptures bear such constant and unbroken witness; even as it is
written: 'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and
look, what he layeth out it shall be paid him again.'"
"What a blessed thing it must be to be able to do good!" sighed the
widow, piously wishing in her heart that the holy man would not delay
to earn his recompense.
"My daughter," said the monk, "that blessing is not withheld from you.
It is to ask your help for those in greater need than yourself that I
am come to-night." And forthwith the good brother began to tell how
two strangers had sought shelter at the monastery. Their house had
been struck by lightning, and burnt with all it contained; and they
themselves, aged, poor, and friendless, were exposed to the fury of
the storm. "Our house is a poor one," continued the monk. "The
strangers' lodging room was already full, and we are quite without the
means of making these poor souls comfortable. You at least have a
sound roof over your head, and if you can spare one or two things for
the night, they shall be restored to you to-morrow, when some of our
guests depart."
The widow could hardly conceal her vexation and disappointment. "Now,
dear heart, holy father!" cried she, "is there not a rich body in the
place, that you come for charity to a poor old widow like me, that am
in a case rather to borrow myself than to lend to others?"
"Can you spare us a blanket?" said the monk. "These poor strangers
have been out in the storm, remember."
The widow started. "What meddling busybody told him that the Baroness
gave me a new blanket at Michaelmas?" thought she; but at last, very
unwillingly, she went to an inner room to fetch a blanket from her
bed.
"They shan't have the new one, that's flat," muttered the widow; and
she drew out the old one and began to fold it up. But though she had
made much of its thinness and insufficiency to the Baroness, she was
so powerfully affected at parting with it, that all its good qualities
came strongly to her mind.
"It's a very suitable size," she said to herself, "and easy for my
poor old arms to shake or fold. With careful usage, it would last for
years yet; but who knows how two wandering bodies that have been
tramping miles through the storm may kick about in their sleep? And
who knows if they're decent folk at all? likely enough they're two
hedge birds, who have imposed a pitiful tale on the good fathers, and
never slept under anything finer than a shock of straw in their
lives."
The more the good woman thought of this, the more sure she felt that
such was the case, and the less willing she became to lend her blanket
to "a couple of good-for-nothing tramps." A sudden idea decided her.
"Ten to one they bring fever with them!" she cried; "and dear knows I
saw enough good bedding burnt after the black fever, three years ago!
It would be a sin and a shame to burn a good blanket like this." And
repeating "a sin and a shame" with great force, the widow restored the
blanket to its place.
"The coverlet's not worth much," she thought; "but my goodman bought
it the year after we were married, and if anything happened to it I
should never forgive myself. The old shawl is good enough for tramps."
Saying which she took a ragged old shawl from a peg, and began to fold
it up. But even as she brushed and folded, she begrudged the faded
rag.
"It saves my better one on a bad day," she sighed; "but I suppose the
father must have something."
And accordingly she took it to the monk, saying, "It's not so good as
it has been, but there's warmth in it yet, and it cost a pretty penny
when new."
"And is this all that you can spare to the poor houseless strangers?"
asked the monk.
"Aye, indeed, good father," said she, "and that will cost me many a
twinge of rheumatics. Folk at my age can't lie cold at night for
nothing."
"These poor strangers," said the monk, "are as aged as yourself, and
have lost everything."
But as all he said had no effect in moving the widow's compassion, he
departed, and knocked at the door of her neighbour. Here he told the
same tale, which met with a very different hearing. This widow was one
of those liberal souls whose possessions always make them feel uneasy
unless they are being accepted, or used, or borrowed by some one else.
She blessed herself that, thanks to the Baroness, she had a new
blanket fit to lend to the king himself, and only desired to know with
what else she could serve the poor strangers and requite the charities
of the brotherhood.
The monk confessed that all the slender stock of household goods in
the monastery was in use, and one after another he accepted the loan
of almost everything the widow had. As she gave the things he put them
out through the door, saying that he had a messenger outside; and
having promised that all should be duly restored on the morrow, he
departed, leaving the widow with little else than an old chair in
which she was to pass the night.
When the monk had gone, the storm raged with greater fury than before,
and at last one terrible flash of lightning struck the widows' house,
and though it did not hurt the old women, it set fire to the roof,
and both cottages were soon ablaze. Now as the terrified old creatures
hobbled out into the storm, they met the monk, who, crying, "Come to
the monastery!" seized an arm of each, and hurried them up the hill.
To such good purpose did he help them, that they seemed to fly, and
arrived at the convent gate they hardly knew how.
Under a shed by the wall were the goods and chattels of the liberal
widow.
"Take back thine own, daughter," said the monk; "thy charity hath
brought its own reward."
"But the strangers, good father?" said the perplexed widow.
"Ye are the strangers," answered the monk; "and what thy pity thought
meet to be spared for the unfortunate, Heaven in thy misfortune hath
spared to thee."
Then turning to the other widow, he drew the old shawl from beneath
his frock, and gave it to her, saying, "I give you joy, dame, that
this hath escaped the flames. It is not so good as it has been; but
there is warmth in it yet, and it cost a pretty penny when new."
Full of confusion, the illiberal widow took back her shawl, murmuring,
"Lack-a-day! If I had but known it was ourselves the good father
meant!"
The monk gave a shrewd smile.
"Aye, aye, it would have been different, I doubt not," said he; "but
accept the lesson, my daughter, and when next thou art called upon to
help the unfortunate, think that it is thine own needs that would be
served; and it may be thou shalt judge better as to what thou canst
spare."
As he spoke, a flash of lightning lit up the ground where the monk
stood, making a vast aureole about him in the darkness of the night.
In the bright light, his countenance appeared stern and awful in its
beauty, and when the flash was passed, the monk had vanished also.
Furthermore, when the widows sought shelter in the monastery, they
found that the brotherhood knew nothing of their strange visitor.
KIND WILLIAM AND THE WATER SPRITE.
There once lived a poor weaver, whose wife died a few years after
their marriage. He was now alone in the world except for their child,
who was a very quick and industrious little lad, and, moreover, of
such an obliging disposition that he gained the nickname of Kind
William.
On his seventh birthday his father gave him a little net with a long
handle, and with this Kind William betook himself to a shallow part of
the river to fish. After wandering on for some time, he found a quiet
pool dammed in by stones, and here he dipped for the minnows that
darted about in the clear brown water. At the first and second casts
he caught nothing, but with the third he landed no less than
twenty-one little fishes, and such minnows he had never seen, for as
they leaped and struggled in the net they shone with alternate tints
of green and gold.
He was gazing at them with wonder and delight, when a voice behind
him cried, in piteous tones--
"Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little sisters!"
Kind William turned round, and saw, sitting on a rock that stood out
of the stream, a young girl weeping bitterly. She had a very pretty
face, and abundant yellow hair of marvellous length, and of such
uncommon brightness that even in the shade it shone like gold. She was
dressed in grass green, and from her knees downwards she was hidden by
the clumps of fern and rushes that grew by the stream.
"What ails you, my little lass?" said Kind William.
But the maid only wept more bitterly, and wringing her hands,
repeated, "Oh, my little sisters! Oh, my little sisters!" presently
adding in the same tone, "The little fishes! Oh, the little fishes!"
"Dry your eyes, and I will give you half of them," said the
good-natured child; "and if you have no net you shall fish with me
this afternoon."
But at this proposal the maid's sobs redoubled, and she prayed and
begged with frantic eagerness that he would throw the fish back into
the river. For some time Kind William would not consent to throw away
his prize, but at last he yielded to her excessive grief, and emptied
the net into the pool, where the glittering fishes were soon lost to
sight under the sand and pebbles.
The girl now laughed and clapped her hands.
"This good deed you shall never rue, Kind William," said she, "and
even now it shall repay you threefold. How many fish did you catch?"
"Twenty-one," said Kind William, not without regret in his tone.
The maid at once began to pull hairs out of her head, and did not stop
till she had counted sixty-three, and laid them together in her
fingers. She then began to wind the lock up into a curl, and it took
far longer to wind than the sixty-three hairs had taken to pull. How
long her hair really was Kind William never could tell, for after it
reached her knees he lost sight of it among the fern; but he began to
suspect that she was no true village maid, but a water sprite, and he
heartily wished himself safe at home.
"Now," said she, when the lock was wound, "will you promise me three
things?"
"If I can do so without sin," said Kind William.
"First," she continued, holding out the lock of hair, "will you keep
this carefully, and never give it away? It will be for your own good."
"One never gives away gifts," said Kind William, "I promise that."
"The second thing is to spare what you have spared. Fish up the river
and down the river at your will, but swear never to cast net in this
pool again."
"One should not do kindness by halves," said Kind William. "I promise
that also."
"Thirdly, you must never tell what you have now seen and heard till
thrice seven years have passed. And now come hither, my child, and
give me your little finger, that I may see if you can keep a secret."
But by this time Kind William's hairs were standing on end, and he
gave the last promise more from fear than from any other motive, and
seized his net to go.
"No hurry, no hurry," said the maiden (and the words sounded like the
rippling of a brook over pebbles). Then bending towards him, with a
strange smile, she added, "You are afraid that I shall pinch too hard,
my pretty boy. Well, give me a farewell kiss before you go."
"I kiss none but the miller's lass," said Kind William, sturdily; for
she was his little sweetheart. Besides, he was afraid that the water
witch would enchant him and draw him down. At his answer she laughed
till the echoes rang, but Kind William shuddered to hear that the
echoes seemed to come from the river instead of from the hills; and
they rang in his ears like a distant torrent leaping over rocks.
"Then listen to my song," said the water sprite. With which she drew
some of her golden hairs over her arm, and tuning them as if they had
been the strings of a harp, she began to sing:
"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:
When seven and seven and seven are told."
But when Kind William heard that the river was running with the
cadence of the tune, he could bear it no longer, and took to his
heels. When he had run a few yards he heard a splash, as if a salmon
had jumped, and on looking back he found that the yellow-haired maiden
was gone.
Kind William was trustworthy as well as obliging, and he kept his
word. He said nothing of his adventure. He put the yellow lock into an
old china teapot that had stood untouched on the mantelpiece for
years. And fishing up the river and down the river he never again cast
net into the haunted pool. And in course of time the whole affair
passed from his mind.
Fourteen years went by, and Kind William was Kind William still. He
was as obliging as ever, and still loved the miller's daughter, who,
for her part, had not forgotten her old playmate. But the miller's
memory was not so good, for the fourteen years had been prosperous
ones with him, and he was rich, whereas they had only brought bad
trade and poverty to the weaver and his son. So the lovers were not
allowed even to speak to each other.
One evening Kind William wandered by the river-side lamenting his hard
fate. It was his twenty-first birthday, and he might not even receive
the good wishes of the day from his old playmate. It was just growing
dusk, a time when prudent bodies hurry home from the neighbourhood of
fairy rings, sprite-haunted streams, and the like, and Kind William
was beginning to quicken his pace, when a voice from behind him sang:
"Warp of woollen and woof of gold:
When seven and seven and seven are told."
Kind William felt sure that he had heard this before, though he could
not recall when or where; but suspecting that it was no mortal voice
that sang, he hurried home without looking behind him. Before he
reached the house he remembered all, and also that on this very day
his promise of secrecy expired.
Meanwhile the old weaver had been sadly preparing the loom to weave a
small stock of yarn, which he had received in payment for some work.
He had set up the warp, and was about to fill the shuttle, when his
son came in and told the story, and repeated the water sprite's song.
"Where is the lock of hair, my son?" asked the old man.
"In the teapot still, if you have not touched it," said Kind William;
"but the dust of fourteen years must have destroyed all gloss and
colour."
On searching the teapot, however, the lock of hair was found to be as
bright as ever, and it lay in the weaver's hand like a coil of gold.
"It is the song that puzzles me," said Kind William. "Seven, and
seven, and seven make twenty-one. Now that is just my age."
"There is your warp of woollen, if that is anything," added the
weaver, gazing at the loom with a melancholy air.
"And this is golden enough," laughed Kind William, pointing to the
curl. "Come, father, let us see how far one hair will go on the
shuttle." And suiting the action to the word, he began to wind. He
wound the shuttle full, and then sat down to the loom and began to
throw.
The result was a fabric of such beauty that the Weavers shouted with
amazement, and one single hair served for the woof of the whole piece.
Before long there was not a town dame or a fine country lady but must
needs have a dress of the new stuff, and before the sixty-three hairs
were used up, the fortunes of the weaver and his son were made.
About this time the miller's memory became clearer, and he was often
heard to speak of an old boy-and-girl love between his dear daughter
and the wealthy manufacturer of the golden cloth. Within a year and a
day Kind William married his sweetheart, and as money sticks to money,
in the end he added the old miller's riches to his own.
Moreover there is every reason to believe that he and his wife lived
happily to the end of their days.
And what became of the water sprite?
That you must ask somebody else, for I do not know.
MURDOCH'S RATH[8].
[Footnote 8: _Rath_ = a kind of moat-surrounded spot much favoured by
Irish fairies. The ditch is generally overgrown with furze-bushes.]
There was not a nicer boy in all Ireland than Pat, and clever at his
trade too, if only he'd had one.