spirit of the strange gentleman, over whose grave the cypress is
planted. Ha! take that, and that,” and as he spoke he made a few
presents to Gideon, which seemed very like blows. “Where are your
confounded life-preservers now? Are they upon you?” and he struck
the tailor’s shins, who, looking up, beheld James Dennis, the
sexton of Ormskirk. We have hinted already that the members of
these two useful professions, during the winter, were not very
amicably disposed towards each other. After Gideon had got upon his
legs, the sexton resumed,--
“You have tried to rob me of my trade, and I have half a mind to
make you atone for it, by putting you into a grave which I have
just dug.”
“Not to night,” interrupted Gideon. “I have a work before me,
to be performed, and I shall not be buried happily till it be
accomplished. Not to night, good sir, for I fight the devil!”
A fit of shivering came over his companion, who was very
superstitious; and it is no comfortable word, that same devil, to
be heard with an atmosphere of darkness, and in a churchyard.
“Oh! oh!” groaned the sexton, “mention it not. The snow falls
heavily, and I often fancy that such is the garb of light, which we
are told he sometimes assumes.”
“Hast thou, friend,” inquired Gideon, “seen the track of his steps
here lately? Snow shews them rarely. Here they are--”
“For goodness sake, do not mention the subject,” interrupted the
sexton, as he trembled anew. The tailor, however, explained all
his warlike intentions to him: stated for what he had come to the
church-yard: and finally, received the assistance of the grave
spade, to uproot the sickly cypress. He left the spot, bearing
it on his shoulders, and the hero of the Eneïd did not stalk
with a prouder air, as he raised the heavenly shield which his
goddess-mother had induced Vulcan to forge for him, than did Gideon
Chiselwig, tailor, in Ormskirk.
The snow continued to fall heavily, and the wind drifted it about
in fury, when, a little before midnight, the two tailors (for
Jeremiah, from fear of Mrs. Chiselwig’s wrath, had thought it best
to accompany his brother) were moving in the direction of the Rough
Wood, situated at a short distance from the town. The priest, it
will be recollected, had termed the cypress black; but it had
now changed colours, and was white enough. Gideon’s nightcap was
still red, for, at his request, Jeremiah took it from the head
repeatedly, and dashed the snow from it, lest it should lose any
of its power, to call up some rather unpleasant sensations in the
mind of Satan. Many were the misfortunes which befel them on the
way; now wandering from their course, and now stumbling into a deep
wreath of snow.
“Gideon’s courage, however, was not to dissolve thereby, and
wearied as he was, by carrying the cypress, and dragging Jeremiah,
he still persevered, and at length reached the entrance of the
wood. They passed on to a convenient station, Jeremiah starting
when large flakes of snow fell upon his face, from the trees.
“No more, no more,” said Gideon, making a halt near to some
overgrown firs, and his voice sounded so hollow, even to himself,
that he almost began to be frightened. “Here is the scene of the
horrible enchantment; Jeremiah, brush my nightcap, whilst I elevate
the cypress on that huge branch.”
“Aye, aye, brother, raise it high. The book said that he would
appear at the top; do not allow him to come too near, for I never
relished sulphur much.”
When all things were in readiness, the nightcap adjusted, and the
cypress fixed, the brave knight of the needle, in a firm voice,
cried out,--
“Come, James, come!”
A flash of lightning gleamed over their heads, and a voice, by no
means musical, though merrily attuned, amidst hollow laughter,
said,--
“Here, Gideon, here.”
As soon as a circle of safe diameter had been described by their
fingers, they looked up. There Jeremiah was fated to behold eyes
of a much deeper red than his own, peering down; moreover with a
less mournful expression. He fell, but had the good sense to fall
within the magic circle, and there he groaned. Gideon was thus
left alone to brave the infernal terrors; and whatsoever some may
say respecting Beelzebub, certainly on this occasion, he did not
appear the handsome and well-favoured gentleman, equipped in boots,
shining so beautifully, that everything is reflected, except his
hoofs,--and perfumed with spices and ointments, to suppress the
strong effluvial sulphur of his person. Nor was he the noble fiend
of Milton, shorn of his glory, as the sun in a partial eclipse:
for we presume that his devilship has the right of proving the
simile false at the hour of midnight. Accordingly, horrible sights
were Gideon’s, and they were ever varying. Now the enemy assumed
some strange mixture of forms,--rolling heads, contorted legs,
and swinging tail: but before a conception could be formed in the
tailor’s mind of what they were, he was altogether changed. Light,
darkness, and smoke, were around him. The cypress leaves rustled to
the movement of his hoofs. Saucer eyes, in the edges of which there
lurked such a malicious wink and twinkle; a mouth, occasionally,
when it could be seen, as wide and black as the pit whence he came,
in which hung a tongue, bright and lurid with a serpent’s poison,
breathing out thence visibly a blue air; naked limbs, around which
a green light flickered, shewing neither skin, muscle, nor bone,
but an indescribable substance: large black hoofs, hanging from
small ancles; all these parts changed, and poor Gideon stared,
perfectly bewildered at the proportions of his opponent. He soon,
however, regained his wonted composure, and broke the silence,--
“Nay, enemy of man, think not thus to confound me, with your
childish tricks. Be a man, Nicholas, and not a fool.” In a moment
around the circle which had been made, a blue flame flashed. The
devil danced on the outside, with the cypress for his stilts. His
face was concealed, and he now wore the garb of a scrivener, with
paper and pens stuck in his belt. He leapt to the ground, and there
he stood, of small stature, but twisting and pliable.
“Gideon Chiselwig,” said the learned clerk, “you are a brave
earth-clod. I am an antiquarian in my small way, and should be glad
of your autograph on this parchment. In my desk at home, I have the
names of great warriors, statesmen, and poets, but am yet denied
the honour of that of a tailor. Mine is a rare and a valuable
museum. Friend, be so kind as to write me ‘Gideon Chiselwig’ here,
in this corner. Now,”--and he unfolded a long roll, and held it
out to Gideon. “Nay, nay, your hands are stiff and cold, with the
blowing of this storm; give me a shake, and I’ll warm them. Tush!
Gideon a coward? Then write me your initials.”
“I came not here,” solemnly returned the tailor, “to sport, but to
fight with you. Prepare for combat, or write on the parchment, a
coward.”
“What! fight without a challenge? Here are the articles; write your
name, and then I must gird myself for battle. Come, the night is
cold--cold--and I shiver.”
“That will be a change, friend, I guess,” interrupted Jeremiah,
who now venturing to raise his head, saw nothing formidable in
the enemy, “I warrant thee, that some of your associates are not
shivering at present. I suppose that during summer, there is not
much rain in your country, and during winter not much frost or
snow.”
No reply was made to the polite address of Jeremiah, but the clerk
had already placed the pen in the hand of Gideon.
“Where is the ink?”
“In your veins; prick them with a needle, or be a coward. Blood is
the challenge to deadly combat.”
“Do all other inks freeze in your country?” again inquired
Jeremiah, and again he received no answer.
Gideon did as he was directed, and wrote his name on the parchment.
He observed that the blood dried as soon as it fell from the pen,
and became indelible.
“Fool! fool!” exclaimed the fiend, with a loud shriek of joy,
“thou art for ever lost. This is a contract that you will be my
servant in hell. Two conditions are granted to you; or, rather, two
deeds to which you may command me. Next night we meet again, and
when morning comes, you are mine. Live a pleasant day to morrow.
Ask two things, and here I have pledged to grant them, or you are
free. The parchment may not be wiped, and cannot be torn!”
This was spoken in a tone so fiendish and exulting, that Gideon’s
heart failed him. He now knew that he was altogether in the power
of the enemy, with only one day to live; and then a horrible
departure from this world; and in the next world such a revolting
service in which he was to be employed. He bent down on his
knees, and clasping his hands in extreme agony and terror, looked
imploringly upon the fiend, and cried out--
“Oh! spare me! I can be of no use to you.”
“More,” was the reply, “than you are to any one on earth. Ah!
Gideon, you’ll make a good member of society there.”
“Nay, nay,” returned Gideon, “I may lie in a hot and black corner
of the pit, like an old woman by the fire, who cannot move about.
I shall do nothing but retch, and cry for water. I could not go on
any errand of yours--could not whisper mischief in any person’s
ear. You might torment me, but I should be utterly unable to serve
you. Oh! spare me!”
“Spare him,” began Jeremiah with averted face. “Had he been a
ruffian, he would have been of essential service in any vacant
situation. But, sir, and I speak with great respect, Gideon would
be the laziest footman in your employ. He could not travel from
your place to Ormskirk in less than a life-time. And then he would
have forgot your messages, and lost your letters, unless they were
put in his nightcap, and that, you know well, could not hold as
many as you require. Gideon Chiselwig an imp of darkness! why a
little infant could cheat him of an apple! Perhaps he would then be
fonder of a snow ball. Ah! he is too simple to be a man, and how
could he be a devil?”
The fiend laughed, and pointing to the name on the parchment,
written with blood, bade Gideon recollect that he was his property,
by contract and consent.
“Oh!” once more ejaculated Gideon, “spare me! What! must I leave--”
“Nelly, you mean? Fear not. I shall bring her to you in good time.
The separation cannot be long.”
“Oh!” resumed the tailor, “must I die,--have my brains dashed out
against the wall, as your victims generally are treated?”
“No, no, Gideon, they shall even then be covered with your
nightcap--”
“To leave my profession, to--”
“No, no,” was the reply, “you shall then make my pantaloons
of many colours. My wages are--but I dare not quote from that
Book.--You understand me, Gideon. You need not shriek: spare your
lungs, as they will have exercise enough, and yet they will not
require sewing and mending. They must last as long as your service,
and that is for ever. I shall never dismiss you for bad conduct,
Gideon. Eternity is the term of the engagement between us. Oh!
eternity!”--and here all the farce and pantomime vanished, as
his form changed into one of lofty power, and his voice thrilled
with eloquence from the remembrance, and the still more intense
anticipation of endless woe. “Oh! Eternity, how vast thou art.
No shore, a boundless sea! No bank, nor yet a little island, on
which the lost can alight, and, for a moment, quit the gulf, and
shake off their pain. The scroll of fate is placed in the hand,
written with woe: long and long may it unfold itself, but the last
roll never comes. Oh! Eternity! thou hast no resting place for
the bright foot of Hope:--yes,” and here Satan assumed the same
appearance as before, “Gideon, our engagement expires only with
eternity: you shall board with me, and have enough of food--not
much ale or water, however, but a great supply of fuel, and that
gratis. But before I depart, name two requests which you may wish
me to fulfil. Would you enjoy power or beauty? They shall be
granted, and the poor tailor may sit on a throne, or at the side of
a beautiful empress. Amidst all, think of the coming night, when
your appetite is about to pall, and how will it be whetted!--Name
two requests.”
Jeremiah started up, so sudden was the advent of the idea in his
mind, and no longer miserable, thinking that Gideon would now
successfully puzzle Satan. He whispered into his brother’s ear,
“Ask for the reformation of Nelly!”
“Well then,” said the tailor addressing the enemy, “the first
condition is, that you thoroughly reform my wife: make her to
love me; to give me due allowance of food, fuel, sleep, and all
necessaries, and not to beat me. She may comb my head, but must
not scratch it. She may kiss, but not bite me. The vinegar must be
taken from her temper, and honey put in. The poker must only be
used for the coals: in short, you have undertaken an impossibility.
You may have made her what she is--but you cannot unmake her.”
“Ah! master Nicholas,” chuckled Jeremiah, who was vain of having
suggested the above condition, “give it up, and confess that you
are an easy simpleton for once. A devil make an angel of a woman!
Ridiculous, quite ridiculous, Nick. You may pare her nails, but
you cannot keep her from scratching. Say no more, give it up and
depart, and carry a globe of snow on your shoulders, to your abode,
to cool some of your friends.”
Lightning flashed over Jeremiah’s head as he finished speaking, and
effectually withered up his wit, as well as his courage. A long
silence ensued, broken by the fiend at last, as he said--
“The condition shall be fulfilled. Your person shall be sacred to
your wife, no more to come in contact with poker or fist, nails
or teeth. She shall supply your grinders with every thing but her
own fingers. As for sleep, you have not much time for that, before
I come to claim you as my slave. And as for fuel, Nelly will seat
you close by the grate, and you may take warm coals in your hand
like boiled potatoes: and do not feel the least anxiety about fuel
hereafter, you shall have great abundance then. Nay, nay, Gideon,
your wife’s temper shall likewise be reformed. Oh! you are a man of
discrimination, and have perceived that it is no easy task which
you have assigned me.--Now name your other condition.”
Gideon then trembled, lest the first condition should be fulfilled,
and thought over some impossibility which he should ask the devil
to perform, as the fulfilment of the second condition.
“Then build me a wall, with stone and mortar, an hour before
daybreak to morrow.”
“Provided there be a thaw.”
“No provisions,” boldly replied Gideon,--“no provisions. And lest
there should be a thaw occasioned by crowds passing, it must not
be built in a thoroughfare, but in a field at some distance from
Ormskirk. It must be four hundred yards in length, and five feet in
height, and all finished in an hour.”
“Why, Nick,” interrupted Jeremiah, whose courage flowed as well
as ebbed, “you will take an hour to bring the sand from the
sand-hills. Besides, no honest man will lend you his horse and
cart.” No answer was returned, and the enemy walked around the
circle once or twice, and then stood full in front of Gideon, while
the parchment, with his name, burned brighter, and more bright. But
the flame did not conceal the blood by which it had been written,
and the form of a heart, weltering amidst the flame, turning in
agony, and guarded by the name.
“The conditions,” Satan exclaimed, “shall be performed, and as
soon as the wall is built, I shall escort you to your future home.
Let this parchment float, till then, before you, in your waking
moments and in your dreams. Accustom your mind to the thought of
thunder, lightning, sounds of an earthquake, the hissing of fiends,
the rolling of a deep unfathomable gulf, and the clutch of this
little, little loving hand,” and he switched out a horrible paw,
scorched, but not burned; for every joint and muscle moved with
inconceivable ease and speed. “Do not think, poor wretch, that you
shall see me then as merry as I have been at present, nor will you
be merry when limb from limb is torn and mangled? Dream of it,--it
must come to pass. A few hours, Gideon, and I meet you: till then,
adieu,” and the fiend vanished. A long track of blue light, and
dark forms hovering near it, marked the course of his flight over
the wood.
As we have been long enough in the cold and bitter storm, and as
all fire and brimstone have disappeared, we do not choose to walk
side by side with the two tailors, on their way back, amidst the
drifting of the snow, which, by this time, had fallen so heavily,
that the way was completely blocked up.
We prefer to enter the residence of the parson, and, seated
opposite to his rosy countenance, note a few observations as
to what was passing there. In a parenthesis, we have already
described the worthy man as fat and oily. Indeed, he was singularly
consistent, for whilst he preached _good living_ to others, he
did not neglect to practice it himself, though, perhaps, he had
a private interpretation of the word, and understood it in a
different sense. He told his hearers that they would, in the end,
feel the advantages resulting from it: and certainly, after fifty
years practice, he looked very comfortable himself. This regimen
had endowed him with size and colour, flesh and paint. He had
been called a light of the church; only, we presume, because his
face, in shape, resembled the moon, though scarcely so pale. Yet,
withall, Dr. Mauncel was mild and benevolent, and one of his best
properties was, that he had a beautiful daughter, who had just
reached her nineteenth winter. Many a sigh had been unconsciously
breathed as Mary leant upon her father’s arm, on their way to
church: and as she knelt in prayer, many a look had been directed
towards her, and lovers envied the vicar for the many caresses he
must receive from such a fair being, and thought what a sanctuary
her presence would make of the very humblest home. The little arch
creature knew this, and flung back her ringlets, that her face
might be seen, and then contrived to make it so demure and grave,
that one might have imagined that a ray of happy, but feverish
love, had never brightened over it. When she smiled, it was always
so friendly, that a deeper sentiment, it was thought, could not
lurk beneath it; and she would extend her hand so frankly, that
no one could venture upon retaining and kissing it,--it felt so
sisterly. And yet, the sweet rogue was in love with her cousin
William, then residing at the Vicarage; and when the good doctor
was paying his addresses either to his meals or his sermon, the
young pair were toying with each other’s hands, and his reverence
had once been startled from his reveries, by a very loud kiss.
We have, strangely enough, omitted to mention that it was
Christmas night on which all the transactions we have recorded of
the tailors, took place; so that lights were still seen in the
vicarage, and a goose, with others of the same genus, was standing
on the table very peaceably, if we except the smoke of their anger,
which was ascending, and, as the vicar facetiously remarked, much
more comfortable where they were, than without, in the fury of the
storm.
“Is all in readiness? Now, nephew, you can fence and carve, bisect
and dissect; but when you reach my age, you will only be able to
devour, decant, or digest. Stay; Mary, bring Rehoboam and Jeroboam,
with all their tribes. Rehoboam was the son of Solomon, and there
is no reason why a wise man should not be fond of him. Come, haste,
Mary, else I shall send William to bring you.”
“Nay, nay, uncle,” said the youth, “to avoid delay, I will go at
once, and chide her so, that she must despatch. Now,--dear Mary,”
and the happy couple ran out of the room together.
“Sly rogues,” chuckled the old man, who saw how matters stood.
Mary, it seems, had been refractory, for it was not until a
considerable length of time had elapsed, that she appeared,
carrying a few glasses, whilst her cousin bore two large bottles,
Rehoboam and Jeroboam.
“Ah! ah!” cried the vicar. “Fie, fie, whence come these blushes,
Mary? Let both of you approach; now kneel; and God bless you, my
dear children! Nephew William, take her hand as a Christmas present
from her father; you have already obtained her heart from herself.”
“Dear, dear uncle,” exclaimed the delighted youth, as he clasped
his relative’s knees with his hands.
“Nay, nay,” the parson interrupted, “put your arms around that
blushing neck. I have long watched you. When you read for the
old man, William, she sat beside you, gazing upon the same book,
and when your locks and cheeks were together, your voice became
agitated, and then she looked innocently into your face. You always
preferred a large folio, and she slipped her little hand in one
side, beneath it, and then you put yours through, to meet hers; and
for hours, the happy father has been delighted with your loves.
Ah! one other remembrance comes upon me. In our evening walk I was
strolling behind you, when a beautiful child left his sister’s
hand, and ran to you, Mary, and climbing up, kissed you once and
again. I was near enough to hear William say, ‘now, cousin, give
me one likewise.’ Ah! rogues, rogues,” and he took them both in
his arms, and hugged them together, when a knocking was heard at
the gate. The vicar started, but the lovers were so happy in each
other, that they had not even heard the noise.
“Some poor traveller seeking shelter from the storm. How the storm
blows without. Hark to that awful howl,” and the good man arose
from the table. He heard the servant open the door, and instantly
a form bounced into the room, all drifted and covered with snow. A
single shake served to discover Mrs. Gideon Chiselwig.
“Oh! doctor,” she exclaimed, in a tone altogether foreign to her
usual voice, “what a dream I have been visited with. The devil has
appeared to me, and shewed my dear husband’s name, affixed to a
contract, that he shall be a slave in hell, from to-morrow night,
henceforth, and for ever. He is then to come and take him from me.
Oh! I have shamefully treated Gideon, and now I love him so much,
that I could die for him. ’Twas but this evening, that I struck
him with these heavy hands. Oh! doctor, what can I do? Is there no
hope?”
Dr. Mauncel was altogether astonished and confounded. The woman
now before him had the repute of a termagent; and yet she spoke
so affectionately, and bitterly upbraided herself, for her former
cruel treatment of her husband. Nor did she appear at all under
the influence of strong drink. “Good woman,” he at length inquired,
“where is your husband?”
“He has gone and sold himself to the devil, for my conduct towards
him. I have made earth miserable, and he would rather live in hell,
than dwell with me any longer. Oh! how I could now love him! My
heart is changed, but it is too late! Yes, yes, it is too late!”
and she wrung her hands in wild agony, tore her hair, and shed more
tears than Jeremiah could have done.
“Mrs. Chiselwig,” returned the vicar, “you have, indeed, been
anything but a dutiful and affectionate wife to your spouse, but
now begin a thorough reformation. It is only a dream of evil with
which you have been visited, and Gideon shall, doubtless, be spared
to you for many a long year yet.”
“It cannot be! Although the storm rages, he is not in the house; he
has gone and sold himself for my shameful conduct. In the afternoon
I forbade him to go to bed, until I should have arisen; nay, more,
I planted these nails in his face and head, as a tender good night
for a dear husband. Ah! wretch that I am, and yet, he patiently
submitted, took the hand which had struck him, so affectionately,
and was making gaiters for the feet which had kicked him.”
“Ah! Mrs. Chiselwig, you were a sad wife,” chimed in the parson.
“What tempted you,” asked Mary Mauncel, “to be cruel to Gideon? He
was always so kind and attentive to you.”
Her cousin William approached, and whispered something which was
inaudible to all others, save Mary herself. She smiled so prettily,
and with such an affectation of malice, as she tossed her head,
and said, “Try me, you are free at present, but have given me the
chain. I’ll rule you, and beat you into the sober obedience of a
husband. You have told me frequently that you were my slave: I
shall shortly prove it.”
“Dear Mary, go on, go on, and tell me what a good little wife you
will make.”