автордың кітабын онлайн тегін оқу  The Short Stories – Volume 2

Bram Stoker

Bram Stoker – The Short Stories

 

Volume 2

 

Born in November 1847 in Dublin, Ireland, Abraham Stoker was the third of seven children. Bed ridden with health issues until aged 7 he made a complete recovery on being sent to school. He was an excellent student excelling in maths and with a keen interest in Theatre. 

 

He began his career as a theatre critic and after a favourable review was invited to meet the most important actor of the day, Henry Irving. They became great friends. After marriage to Florence Balcombe in 1878 they moved to London where he worked for Irving at his Lyceum theatre. It was here he started to write and then to travel extensively with Irving as he toured. Many of his novels are set from the places he visited though he never did go to Eastern Europe. He wrote many novels during his career but of course Dracula rises above all else.

 

In those last few moments drifting from wake to sleep we sometimes delve into thoughts of a very unpleasant kind. The hint of a shadow moving across the room can give rise to all sorts of troubling, unsettling ideas. Bram Stoker was a master of this effect. Who can forget the masterful creation of Dracula? Its realism built on diary entries, letters, newspapers clippings, ships log’s was very clever and contributes to its lasting and pervading impact. Here, his sinister tales saturate your soul and hit your heart with untold fears that, layer by layer, reveal their true unutterable horror. Here we publish another volume of his quite excellent short stories.

 

 

 

Index Of Contents

THE DUALITISTS

Chapter I - Bis Dat Qui Non Cito Dat

Chapter II - Halcyon Days

Chapter III - Rumours of Wars

Chapter IV - The Tucket Sounds

Chapter V - The First Crusade

Chapter VI - ‘Let the Dead Past Bury Its Dead’

Chapter VII - A Cloud with Golden Lining

THE MAN FROM SHORROX’

UNDER THE SUNSET

THE ROSE PRINCE

THE INVISIBLE GIANT

THE SHADOW BUILDER

HOW 7 WENT MAD

HOW POOR 7 WENT MAD

LIES AND LILIES

THE CASTLE OF THE KING

THE WONDROUS CHILD

A DREAM OF RED HANDS

CROOKEN SANDS

OLD HOGGEN: A MYSTERY

BRAM STOKER – A SHORT BIOGRAPHY

BRAM STOKER – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

 

 

THE DUALITISTS

 

Chapter I

 

Bis Dat Qui Non Cito Dat

 

There was joy in the house of Bubb.

 

For ten long years had Ephraim and Sophonisba Bubb mourned in vain the loneliness of their life. Unavailingly had they gazed into the emporia of baby-linen, and fixed their searching glances on the basket-makers’ warehouses where the cradles hung in tempting rows. In vain had they prayed, and sighed, and groaned, and wished, and waited, and wept, but never had even a ray of hope been held out by the family physician.

 

But now at last the wished-for moment had arrived. Month after month had flown by on leaden wings, and the destined days had slowly measured their course. The months had become weeks; the weeks had dwindled down to days; the days had been attenuated to hours; the hours had lapsed into minutes, the minutes had slowly died away, and but seconds remained.

 

Ephraim Bubb sat cowering on the stairs, and tried with high-strung ears to catch the strain of blissful music from the lips of his first-born. There was silence in the house—silence as of the deadly calm before the cyclone. Ah! Ephraim Bubb, little thinkest thou that another moment may for ever destroy the peaceful, happy course of thy life, and open to thy too-craving eyes the portals of that wondrous land where childhood reigns supreme, and where the tyrant infant with the wave of his tiny hand and the imperious treble of his tiny voice sentences his parent o the deadly vault beneath the castle moat. As the thought strikes thee thou becomest pale. How thou tremblest as thou findest thyself upon the brink of the abyss! Wouldst that thou could recall the past!

 

But hark! the die is cast for good or ill. The long years of praying and hoping have found an end at last. From the chamber within comes a sharp cry, which shortly after is repeated. Ah!

 

Ephraim, that cry is the feeble effort of childish lips as yet unused to the rough, worldly form of speech to frame the word ‘father’. In the glow of thy transport all doubts are forgotten; and when the doctor cometh forth as the harbinger of joy he findeth thee radiant with new-found delight.

 

‘My dear sir, allow me to congratulate you—to offer twofold felicitations. Mr Bubb, sir, you are the father of twins!’

 

 

 

Chapter II

 

Halcyon Days

 

The twins were the finest children that ever were seen—so at least said the cognoscenti, and the parents were not slow to believe. The nurse’s opinion was in itself a proof.

 

It was not, ma’am, that they was fine for twins, but they was fine for singles, and she had ought to know, for she had nursed a many in her time, both twins and singles. All they wanted was to have their dear little legs cut off and little wings on their dear little shoulders, for to be put one on each side of a white marble tombstone, cut beautiful, sacred to the relic of Ephraim Bubb, that they might, sir, if so be that missus was to survive the father of two such lovely twins—although she would make bold to say, and no offence intended, that a handsome gentleman, though a trifle or two older than his good lady, though for the matter of that she heard that gentlemen was never too old at all, and for her own part she liked them the better for it: not like bits of boys that didn’t know their own minds—that a gentleman what was the father of two such ’eavenly twins (God bless them!) couldn’t be called anything but a boy; though for the matter of that she never knowed in her experience—which it was much—of a boy as had such twins, or any twins at all so much for the matter of that. The twins were the idols of their parents, and at the same time their pleasure and their pain. Did Zerubbabel cough, Ephraim would start from his balmy slumbers with an agonized cry of consternation, for visions of innumerable twins black in the face from croup haunted his nightly pillow. Did Zacariah rail at ethereal expansion, Sophonisba with pallid hue and dishevelled locks would fly to the cradle of her offspring. Did pins torture or strings afflict, or flannel or flies tickle, or light dazzle, or darkness affright, or hunger or thirst assail the synchronous productions, the household of Bubb would be roused from quiet slumbers or the current of its manifold workings changed.

 

The twin’s grew apace; were weaned; teethed; and at length arrived at the stage of three years!

 

They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home, etc.

 

 

 

Chapter III

 

Rumours of Wars

 

Harry Merford and Tommy Santon lived in the same range of villas as Ephraim Bubb. Harry’s parents had taken up their abode in no. 25, no. 27 was happy in the perpetual sunshine of Tommy’s smiles, and between these two residences Ephraim Bubb reared his blossoms, the number of his mansion being 26. Harry and Tommy had been accustomed from the earliest times to meet each other daily. Their primal method of communication had been by the housetops, till their respective sires had been obliged to pay compensation to Bubb for damages to his roof and dormer windows; and from that time they had been forbidden by the home authorities to meet, whilst their mutual neighbour had taken the precaution of having his garden walls pebble-dashed and topped with broken glass to prevent their incursions. Harry and Tommy, however, being gifted with daring souls, lofty, ambitious, impetuous natures, and strong seats to their trousers, defied the rugged walls of Bubb and continued to meet in secret.

 

Compared with these two youths, Castor and Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Eloisa and Abelard are but tame examples of duality or constancy and friendship. All the poets from Hyginus to Schiller might sing of noble deeds and desperate dangers held as naught for friendship’s sake, but they would have been mute had they but known of the mutual affection of Harry and Tommy. Day by day, and often night by night, would these two brave the perils of nurse, and father, and mother, of whip and imprisonment, and hunger and thirst, and solitude and darkness to meet together. What they discussed in secret none other knew. What deeds of darkness were perpetrated in their symposia none could tell. Alone they met, alone they remained, and alone they departed to their several abodes. There was in the garden of Bubb a summer-house overgrown with trailing plants, and surrounded by young poplars which the fond father had planted on his children’s natal day, and whose rapid growth he had proudly watched. These trees quite obscured the summer-house, and here Harry and Tommy, knowing after a careful observation that none ever entered the place, held their conclaves. Time after time they met in full security and followed their customary pursuit of pleasure. Let us raise the mysterious veil and see what was the great Unknown at whose shrine they bent the knee.

 

Harry and Tommy had each been given as a Christmas box a new knife; and for a long time—nearly a year—these knives, similar in size and pattern, were their chief delights. With them they cut and hacked in their respective homes all things which would not be likely to be noticed; for the young gentlemen were wary and had no wish that their moments of pleasure should be atoned for by moments of pain. The insides of drawers, and desks, and boxes, the underparts of tables and chairs, the backs of pictures frames, even the floors, where corners of the carpets could surreptitiously be turned up, all bore marks of their craftsmanship; and to compare notes on these artistic triumphs was a source of joy. At length, however, a critical time came, some new field of action should be opened up, for the old appetites were sated, and the old joys had begun to pall. It was absolutely necessary that the existing schemes of destruction should be enlarged; and yet this could hardly be done without a terrible risk of discovery, for the limits of safety had long since been reached and passed. But, be the risk great or small, some new ground should be broken—some new joy found, for the old earth was barren, and the craving for pleasure was growing fiercer with each successive day.

 

The crisis had come: who could tell the issue?

 

 

 

Chapter IV

 

The Tucket Sounds

 

They met in the arbour, determined to discuss this grave question. The heart of each was big with revolution, the head of each was full of scheme and strategy, and the pocket of each was full of sweet-stuff, the sweeter for being stolen. After having dispatched the sweets, the conspirators proceeded to explain their respective views with regard to the enlargement of their artistic operations. Tommy unfolded with much pride a scheme which he had in contemplation of cutting a series of holes in the sounding board of the piano, so as to destroy its musical properties. Harry was in no wise behindhand in his ideas of reform. He had conceived the project of cutting the canvas at the back of his great-grandfather’s portrait, which his father held in high regard among his lares and penates, so that in time when the picture should be moved the skin of paint would be broken, the head fall bodily out from the frame.

 

At this point of the council a brilliant thought occurred to Tommy. ‘Why should not the enjoyment be doubled, and the musical instruments and family pictures of both establishments be sacrificed on the altar of pleasure?’ This was agreed to nem. con.; and then the meeting adjourned for dinner. When they next met it was evident that there was a screw loose somewhere—that there was ‘something rotten in the state of Denmark’. After a little fencing on both sides, it came out that all the schemes of domestic reform had been foiled by maternal vigilance, and that so sharp had been the reprimand consequent on a partial discovery of the schemes that they would have to be abandoned—till such time, at least, as increased physical strength would allow the reformers to laugh to scorn parental threats and injunctions.

 

Sadly the two forlorn youths took out their knives and regarded them; sadly, sadly they thought, as erst did Othello, of all the fair chances of honour and triumph and glory gone for ever. They compared knives with almost the fondness of doting parents. There they were—so equal in size and strength and beauty—dimmed by no corrosive rust, tarnished by no stain, and with unbroken edges of the keenness of Saladin’s sword.

 

So like were the knives that but for the initials scratched in the handles neither boy could have been sure which was his own. After a little while they began mutually to brag of the superior excellence of their respective weapons. Tommy insisted that his was the sharper, Harry asserted that his was the stronger of the two. Hotter and hotter grew the war of words. The tempers of Harry and Tommy got inflamed, and their boyish bosoms glowed with manly thoughts of daring and hate. But there was abroad in that hour a spirit of a bygone age—one that penetrated even to that dim arbour in the grove of Bubb. The world-old scheme of ordeal was whispered by the spirit in the ear of each, and suddenly the tumult was allayed. With one impulse the boys suggested that they should test the quality of their knives by the ordeal of the Hack.

 

No sooner said than done. Harry held out his knife edge uppermost; and Tommy, grasping his firmly by the handle, brought down the edge of the blade crosswise on Harry’s. The process was then reversed, and Harry became in turn the aggressor. Then they paused and eagerly looked for the result. It was not hard to see; in each knife were two great dents of equal depth; and so it was necessary to renew the contest, and seek a further proof.

 

What needs it to relate seriatim the details of that direful strife? The sun had long since gone down, and the moon with fair, smiling face had long risen over the roof of Bubb, when, wearied and jaded, Harry and Tommy sought their respective homes. Alas! the splendour of the knives was gone forever. Ichabod!—Ichabod! the glory had departed and naught remained but two useless wrecks, with keen edges destroyed, and now like unto nothing save the serried hills of Spain.

 

But though they mourned for their fondly cherished weapons, the hearts of the boys were glad; for the bygone day had opened to their gaze a prospect of pleasure as boundless as the limits of the world.

 

 

 

Chapter V

 

The First Crusade

 

From that day a new era dawned in the lives of Harry and Tommy. So long as the resources of the parental establishments could hold out so long would their new amusement continue. Subtly they obtained surreptitious possession of articles of family cutlery not in general use, and brought them one by one to their rendezvous. These came fair and spotless from the sanctity of the butler’s pantry. Alas! they returned not as they came.

 

But in course of time the stock of available cutlery became exhausted, and again the inventive faculties of the youths were called into requisition. They reasoned thus: ‘The knife game, it is true, is played out, but the excitement of the hack is not to be dispensed with. Let us carry, then, this great idea into new worlds; let us still live in the sunshine of pleasure; let us continue to hack, but with objects other than knives.’

 

It was done. Not knives now engaged the attention of the ambitious youths. Spoons and forks were daily flattened and beaten out of shape; pepper castor met pepper castor in combat, and both were borne dying from the field; candlesticks met in fray to part no more on this side of the grave; even epergnes were used as weapons in the crusade of hack.

 

At last all the resources of the butler’s pantry became exhausted, and then began a system of miscellaneous destruction that proved in a little time ruinous to the furniture of the respective homes of Harry and Tommy. Mrs Santon and Mrs Merford began to notice that the wear and tear in their households became excessive. Day after day some new domestic calamity seemed to have occurred. Today a valuable edition of some book whose luxurious binding made it an object for public display would appear to have suffered some dire misfortune, for the edges were frayed and broken and the back loose if not altogether displaced; tomorrow the same awful fate would seem to have followed some miniature frame; the day following the legs of some chair or spider-table would show signs of extraordinary hardship. Even in the nursery the sounds of lamentation were heard.

 

It was a thing of daily occurrence for the little girls to state that when going to bed at night they had laid their dear dollies in their beds with tender care, but that when again seeking them in the period of recess they had found them with all their beauty gone, with legs and arms amputated and faces beaten from all semblance of human form.

 

Then articles of crockery began to be missed. The thief could in no case be discovered, and the wages of the servants, from constant stoppages, began to be nominal rather than real. Mrs Merford and Mrs Santon mourned their losses, but Harry and Tommy gloated day after day over their spoils, which lay in an ever-increasing heap in the hidden grove of Bubb. To such an extent had the fondness of the hack now grown that with both youths it was an infatuation—a madness—a frenzy.

 

At length one awful day arrived. The butlers of the houses of Merford and Santon, harassed by constant losses and complaints, and finding that their breakage account was in excess of their wages, determined to seek some sphere of occupation where, if they did not meet with a suitable reward or recognition of their services, they would, at least, not lose whatever fortune and reputation they had already acquired. Accordingly, before rendering up their keys and the goods entrusted to their charge, they proceeded to take a preliminary stock of their own accounts, to make sure of their accredited accuracy. Dire indeed was their distress when they knew to the full the havoc which had been wrought; terrible their anguish of the present, bitter their thoughts of the future. Their hearts, bowed down with weight of woe, failed them quite; reeled the strong brains that had erst overcome foes of deadlier spirit than grief; and fell their stalwart forms prone on the floors of their respective sancta sanctorum.

 

Late in the day when their services were required they were sought for in bower and hail, and at length discovered where they lay.

 

But alas for justice! They were accused of being drunk and for having, whilst in that degraded condition, deliberately injured all the property on which they could lay hands. Were not the evidences of their guilt patent to all in the hecatombs of the destroyed? Then they were charged with all the evils wrought in the houses, and on their indignant denial Harry and Tommy, each in his own home, according to their concerted scheme of action, stepped forward and relieved their minds of the deadly weight that had for long in secret borne them down. The story of each ran that time after time he had seen the butler, when he thought that nobody was looking, knocking knives together in the pantry, chairs and books and pictures in the drawing-room and study, dolls in the nursery, and plates in the kitchen. Then, indeed, was the master of each household stern and uncompromising in his demands for justice. Each butler was committed to the charge of myrmidons of the law under the double charge of drunkenness and wilful destruction of property.

 

Softly and sweetly slept Harry and Tommy in their little beds that night. Angels seemed to whisper to them, for they smiled as though lost in pleasant dreams. The rewards given by proud and grateful parents lay in their pockets, and in their hearts the happy consciousness of having done their duty.

 

Truly sweet should be the slumbers of the just…

 

 

 

Chapter VI

 

‘Let the Dead Past Bury Its Dead’

 

It might be supposed that now the operations of Harry and Tommy would be obliged to be abandoned. Not so, however. The minds of these youths were of no common order, nor were their souls of such weak nature as to yield at the first summons of necessity. Like Nelson, they knew not fear; like Napoleon, they held ‘impossible’ to be the adjective of fools; and they revelled in the glorious truth that in the lexicon of youth is no such word as ‘fail’. Therefore on the day following the éclaircissement of the butlers’ misdeeds, they met in the arbour to plan a new campaign. In the hour when all seemed blackest to them, and when the narrowing walls of possibility hedged them in on every side, thus ran the deliberations of these dauntless youths:

 

‘We have played out the meaner things that are inanimate and inert; why not then trench on the domains of life? The dead have lapsed into the regions of the forgotten past—let the living look to themselves.’

 

That night they met when all households had retired to balmy sleep, and naught but the amorous wailings of nocturnal cats told of the existence of life and sentience. Each bore into the arbour in his arms a pet rabbit and a piece of sticking-plaster. Then, in the peaceful, quiet moonlight, commenced a work of mystery, blood, and gloom. The proceedings began by the fixing of a piece of sticking-plaster over the mouth of each rabbit to prevent it making a noise, if so inclined. Then Tommy held up his rabbit by its scutty tail, and it hung wriggling, a white mass in the moonlight. Slowly Harry raised his rabbit holding it in the same manner, and when level with his head brought it down on Tommy’s client.

 

But the chances had been miscalculated. The boys held firmly to the tails, but the chief portions of the rabbits fell to earth. Ere the doomed beasts could escape, however, the operators had pounced upon them, and this time holding them by the hind legs renewed the trial.

 

Deep into the night the game was kept up, and the eastern sky began to show signs of approaching day as each boy bore triumphantly the dead corpse of his favourite bunny and placed it within its sometime hutch.

 

Next night the same game was renewed with a new rabbit on each side, and for more than a week—so long as the hutches supplied the wherewithal—the battle was sustained. True that there were sad hearts and red eyes in the juveniles of Santon and Merford as one by one the beloved pets were found dead, but Harry and Tommy, with the hearts of heroes steeled to suffering and deaf to the pitiful cries of childhood, still fought the good fight on to the bitter end.

 

When the supply of rabbits was exhausted, other munition was not wanting, and for some days the war was continued with white mice, dormice, hedgehogs, guinea pigs, pigeons, lambs, canaries, parakeets, linnets, squirrels, parrots, marmots, poodles, ravens, tortoises, terriers, and cats. Of these, as might be expected, the most difficult to manipulate were the terriers and the cats, and of these two classes the proportion of the difficulties in the way of terrier-hacking was, when compared with those of cat-hacking, about that which the simple lac of the British pharmacopoeia bears to water in the compound which dairymen palm off upon a too-confiding public as milk. More than once when engaged in the rapturous delights of cat-hacking had Harry and Tommy wished that the silent tomb could open its ponderous and massy jaws and engulf them, for the feline victims were not patient in their death agonies, and often broke the bonds in which the security of the artists rested, and turned fiercely on their executioners.

 

At last, however, all the animals available were sacrificed; but the passion for hacking still remained. How was it all to end?

 

 

 

Chapter VII

 

A Cloud with Golden Lining

 

Tommy and Harry sat in the arbour dejected and disconsolate. They wept like two Alexanders because there were no more worlds to conquer. At last the conviction had been forced upon them that the resources available for hacking were exhausted. That very morning they had had a desperate battle, and their attire showed the ravages of direful war. Their hats were battered into shapeless masses, their shoes were soleless and heel-less and had the uppers broken, the ends of their braces, their sleeves, and their trousers were frayed, and had they indulged in the manly luxury of coat-tails these too would have gone.

 

Truly, hacking had become an absorbing passion with them. Long and fiercely had they been swept onwards on the wings of the demon of strife, and powerless at the best of times had been the promptings of good; but now, heated with combat, maddened by the equal success of arms, and with the lust for victory still unsated, they longed more fiercely than ever for some new pleasure: like tigers that have tasted blood they thirsted for a larger and more potent libation.

 

As they sat, with their souls in a tumult of desire and despair, some evil genius guided into the garden the twin blossoms of the tree of Bubb. Hand in hand Zacariah and Zerubbabel advanced from the back door; they had escaped from their nurses, and with the exploring instinct of humanity, advanced boldly into the great world—the terra incognita, the ultima Thule of the paternal domain.

 

In the course of time they approached the hedge of poplars, from behind which the anxious eyes of Harry and Tommy looked for their approach, for the boys knew that where the twins were the nurses were accustomed to be gathered together, and they feared discovery if their retreat should be cut off.

 

It was a touching sight, these lovely babes, alike in form, feature, size, expression, and dress; in fact, so like each other that one ‘might not have told either from which’. When the startling similarity was recognized by Harry and Tommy, each suddenly turned, and, grasping the other by the shoulder, spoke in a keen whisper: ‘Hack! They are exactly equal! This is the very apotheosis of our art!’

 

With excited faces and trembling hands they laid their plans to lure the unsuspecting babes within the precincts of their charnel house, and they were so successful in their efforts that in a little time the twins had toddled behind the hedge and were lost to the sight of the parental mansion.

 

Harry and Tommy were not famed for gentleness within the immediate precincts of their respective homes, but it would have delighted the heart of any philanthropist to see the kindly manner in which they arranged for the pleasures of the helpless babes. With smiling faces and playful words and gentle wiles they led them within the arbour, and then, under pretence of giving them some of those sudden jumps in which infants rejoice, they raised them from the ground. Tommy held Zacariah across his arm with his baby moon-face smiling up at the cobwebs on the arbour roof, and Harry, with a mighty effort, raised the cherubic Zerubbabel aloft.

 

Each nerved himself for a great endeavour, Harry to give, Tommy to endure a shock, and then the form of Zerubbabel was seen whirling through the air round Harry’s glowing and determined face. There was a sickening crash and the arm of Tommy yielded visibly.

 

The pasty face of Zerubbabel had fallen fair on that of Zacariah, for Tommy and Harry were by this time artists of too great experience to miss so simple a mark. The putty-like noses collapsed, the putty-like cheeks became for a moment flattened, and when in an instant more they parted, the faces of both were dabbled in gore. Immediately the firmament was rent with a series of such yells as might have awakened the dead. Forthwith from the house of Bubb came the echoes in parental cries and footsteps. As the sounds of scurrying feet rang through the mansion, Harry cried to Tommy: ‘They will be on us soon. Let us cut to the roof of the stable and draw up the ladder.’

 

Tommy answered by a nod, and the two boys, regardless of consequences, and bearing each a twin, ascended to the roof of the stable by means of a ladder which usually stood against the wall, and which they pulled up after them.

 

As Ephraim Bubb issued from his house in pursuit of his lost darlings, the sight which met his gaze froze his very soul. There, on the coping of the stable roof, stood Harry and Tommy renewing their game. They seemed like two young demons forging some diabolical implement, for each in turn the twins were lifted high in air and let fall with stunning force on the supine form of its fellow. How Ephraim felt none but a tender and imaginative father can conceive. It would be enough to wring the heart of even a callous parent to see his children, the darlings of his old age—his own beloved twins—being sacrificed to the brutal pleasure of unregenerate youths, without being made unconsciously and helplessly guilty of the crime of fratricide.

 

Loudly did Ephraim and also Sophonisba, who, with dishevelled locks, had now appeared upon the scene, bewail their unhappy lot and shriek in vain for aid; but by rare ill-chance no eyes save their own saw the work of butchery or heard the shrieks of anguish and despair. Wildly did Ephraim, mounting on the shoulders of his spouse, strive, but in vain, to scale the stable wall.

 

Baffled in every effort, he rushed into the house and appeared in a moment bearing in his hands a double-barrelled gun, into which he poured the contents of a shot pouch as he ran. He came anigh the stable and hailed the murderous youths: ‘Drop them twins and come down here or I’ll shoot you like a brace of dogs.’

 

‘Never!’ exclaimed the heroic two with one impulse, and continued their awful pastime with a zest tenfold as they knew that the agonized eyes of parents wept at the cause of their joy.

 

‘Then die!’ shrieked Ephraim, as he fired both barrels, right—left, at the hackers.

 

But, alas! love for his darlings shook the hand that never shook before. As the smoke cleared off and Ephraim recovered from the kick of his gun, he heard a loud twofold laugh of triumph and saw Harry and Tommy, all unhurt, waving in the air the trunks of the twins—the fond father had blown the heads completely off his own offspring.

 

Tommy and Harry shrieked aloud in glee, and after playing catch with the bodies for some time, seen only by the agonized eyes of the infanticide and his wife, flung them high in the air.

 

Ephraim leaped forward to catch what had once been Zacariah, and Sophonisba grabbed wildly for the loved remains of her Zerubbabel.

 

But the weight of the bodies and the height from which they fell were not reckoned by either parent, and from being ignorant of a simple dynamical formula each tried to effect an object which calm, common sense, united with scientific knowledge, would have told them was impossible. The masses fell, and Ephraim and Sophonisba were stricken dead by the falling twins, who were thus posthumously guilty of the crime of parricide.

 

An intelligent coroner’s jury found the parents guilty of the crimes of infanticide and suicide, on the evidence of Harry and Tommy, who swore, reluctantly, that the inhuman monsters, maddened by drink, had killed their offspring by shooting them into the air out of a cannon—since stolen—whence like curses they had fallen on their own heads; and that then they had slain themselves suis manibus with their own hands.

 

Accordingly Ephraim and Sophonisba were denied the solace of Christian burial, and were committed to the earth with ‘maimed rites’, and had stakes driven through their middles to pin them down in their unhallowed graves till the crack of doom.

 

Harry and Tommy were each rewarded with national honours and were knighted, even at their tender years.

 

Fortune seemed to smile upon them all the long after-years, and they lived to a ripe old age, hale of body, and respected and beloved of all.

 

Often in the golden summer eves, when all nature seemed at rest, when the oldest cask was opened and the largest lamp was lit, when the chestnuts glowed in the embers and the kid turned on the spit, when their great-grandchildren pretended to mend fictional armour and to trim an imaginary helmet’s plume, when the shuttles of the good wives of their grandchildren went flashing each through its proper loom, with shouting and with laughter they were accustomed to tell the tale of THE DUALITISTS; OR, THE DEATH DOOM OF THE DOUBLE BORN.

 

 

 

THE MAN FROM SHORROX’

 

Throth, yer ’ann’rs, I’ll tell ye wid pleasure; though, trooth to tell, it’s only poor wurrk telling the same shtory over an’ over agin. But I niver object to tell it to rale gintlemin, like yer ’ann’rs, what don’t forget that a poor min has a mouth on to him as much as Creeshus himself has.

 

The place was a market town in Kilkenny—or maybe King’s County or Queen’s County. At all evints, it was wan of them counties what Cromwell—bad cess to him!—gev his name to. An’ the house was called after him that was the Lord Liftinint an’ invinted the polis—God forgive him! It was kep’ be a min iv the name iv Misther Mickey Byrne an’ his good lady—at laste it was till wan dark night whin the bhoys mistuk him for another gindeman, an unknown man, what had bought a contagious property—mind ye the impidence iv him. Mickey was comin’ back from the Curragh Races wid his skin that tight wid the full of the whiskey inside of him that he couldn’t open his eyes to see what was goin’ on, or his mouth to set the bhoys right afther he had got the first tap on the head wid wan of the blackthorns what they done such jobs wid. The poor bhoys was that full of sorra for their mishap whin they brung him home to his widdy that the crather hadn’t the hearrt to be too sevare on thim. At the first iv course she was wroth, bein’ only a woman afther all, an’ weemun not bein’ gave to rayson like nun is. Millia murdher! but for a bit she was like a madwoman, and was nigh to have cut the heads from affav thim wid the mate chopper, till, seein’ thim so white and quite, she all at wance flung down the chopper an’ knelt down be the corp.

 

“Lave me to me dead,” she sez. “Oh mm! it’s no use more people nor is needful bein’ made unhappy over this night’s terrible wurrk. Mick Byrne would have no man worse for him whin he was living, and he’ll have harm to none for his death! Now go; an’, oh bhoys, be dacent and quite, an’ don’t thry a poor widdied sowl too hard!”

 

Well, afther that she made no change in things ginerally, but kep’ on the hotel jist the same; an’ whin some iv her friends wanted her to get help, she only sez: “Mick an’ me run this house well enough; an’ whin I’m thinkin’ of takun’ help I’ll tell yez. I’ll go on be meself, as I mane to, till Mick an’ me comes together agun.”

 

An’, sure enough, the ould place wint on jist the same, though, more betoken, there wasn’t Mick wid his shillelagh to kape the pace whin things got pretty hot on fair nights, an’ in the gran’ ould election times, when heads was bruk like eggs—glory be to God!

 

My! but she was the fine woman, was the Widdy Byrne! A gran’ crathur intirely: a fine upshtandin’ woman, nigh as tall as a modheratesized man, wid a forrm on her that’d warrm yer hearrt to look at, it sthood out that way in the right places. She had shkin like satin, wid a warrm flush in it, like the sun shinun’ on a crock iv yestherday’s crame; an’ her cheeks an’ her neck was that firrm that ye couldn’t take a pinch iv thim—though sorra wan iver dar’d to thry, the worse luck! But her hair! Begor, that was the finishing touch that set all the min crazy. It was jist wan mass iv red, like the heart iv a burnun’ furze-bush whin the smoke goes from aff iv it. Musha! but it’d make the blood come up in yer eyes to see the glint iv that hair wid the light shunun’ on it. There was niver a man, what was a man at all at all, iver kem in be the door that he didn’t want to put his two arrms round the widdy an’ giv’ her a hug immadiate. They was fine min too, some iv thim—and warrm men—big graziers from Kildare, and the like, that counted their cattle be scores, an’ used to come ridin’ in to market on huntin’ horses what they’d refuse hundlireds iv pounds for from officers in the Curragh an’ the quality. Begor, but some iv thim an’ the dhrovers was rare miii in a fight. More nor wance I seen them, forty, maybe half a hundred, strong, clear the market-place at Banagher or Athy. Well do I remimber the way the big, red, hairy wrists iv thim’d go up in the air, an’ down’d come the springy ground-ash saplins what they carried for switches. The whole lot iv thim wanted to come coortun’ the widdy; but sorra wan iv her’d look at thim. She’d flirt an’ be coy an’ taze thim and make thim mad for love iv her, as weemin likes to do. Thank God for the same! for mayhap we min wouldn’t love thim as we do only for their thricky ways; an’ thin what’d become iv the counthry wid nothin’ in it at all except single min an’ ould maids jist dyin’, and growin’ crabbed for want iv chuidher to kiss an’ tache an’ shpank an’ make love to? Shure, yer ’ann’rs, ’tis childher as makes the hearrt iv man green, jist as it is fresh wather that makes the grass grow. Divil a shtep nearer would the widdy iver let mortial man come. “No,” she’d say; “whin I see a man fit to fill Mick’s place, I’ll let yez know iv it; thank ye kindly”; an’ wid that she’d shake her head till the beautiful red hair iv it’d be like shparks iv fire—an’ the man more mad for her nor iver.

 

But, mind ye, she wasn’t no shpoil-shport; Mick’s wife knew more nor that, an’ his widdy didn’t forgit the thrick iv it. She’d lade the laugh herself if ’twas anything a dacent woman could shmile at; an’ if it wasn’t, she’d send the girrls aff to their beds, an’ tell the min they might go on talkin’ that way, for there was only herself to be insulted; an’ that’d shut thim up pretty quick I’m tellin’ yez. But av any iv thim’d thry to git affectionate, as min do whin they’ve had all they can carry, well, thin she had a playful way iv dalin’ wid thim what’d always turn the laugh agin’ thim. She used to say that she lamed the beginnun’ iv it at the school an’ the rest iv it from Mick. She always kep by her on the counther iv the bar wan iv thim rattan canes wid the curly ends, what the soldiers carries whin they can’t barry a whip, an’ are goin’ out wid their cap on three hairs, an’ thim new oiled, to scorch the girrls. An’ thin whin any iv the shuitors’d get too affectionate she’d lift the cane an’ swish them wid it, her laughin’ out iv her like mad all the time. At first wan or two iv the min’d say that a kiss at the widdy was worth a clip iv a cane; an’ wan iv thim, a warrm horse-fanner from Poul-a-Phoka, said he’d complate the job av she was to cut him into ribbons. But she was a handy woman wid the cane—which was shtrange enough, for she had no childer to be practisin’ on—an’ whin she threw what was left iv him back over the bar, wid his face like a gridiron, the other min what was laughin’ along wid her tuk the lesson to hearrt. Whiniver afther that she laid her hand on the cane, no matther how quietly, there’d be no more talk iv thryin’ for kissin’ in that quarther.

 

Well, at the time I’m comin’ to there was great divarshuns intirely goin’ on in the town. The fair was on the morra, an’ there was a power iv people in the town; an’ cattle, an’ geese, an’ turkeys, an’ butther, an’ pigs, an’ vegetables, an’ all kinds iv divilment, includin’ a berryin’—the same bein’ an ould attorney-man, savin’ yer prisince; a lone man widout friends, lyin’ out there in the gran’ room iv the hotel what they call the “Queen’s Room”. Well, I needn’t tell yer ’ann’rs that the place was pretty full that night. Musha, but it’s the fleas thimselves what had the bad time iv it, wid thim crowded out on the outside, an’ shakin’, an’ thrimblin’ wid the cowld. The widdy, av coorse, was in the bar passin’ the time iv the day wid all that kem in, an’ keepin’ her eyes afore an’ ahint her to hould the girrls up to their wurrk an’ not to be thriflin’ wid the mm. My! but there was a power iv min at the bar that night; warrm farmers from four counties, an’ graziers wid their ground-ash plants an’ big frieze coats, an’ plinty iv commercials, too. In the middle iv it all, up the shtreet at a hand gallop comes an Athy carriage wid two horses, an’ pulls up at the door wid the horses shmokin’. An’ begor’, the man in it was smokin’ too, a big cygar nigh as long as yer arm. He jumps out an’ walks up as bould as brass to the bar, jist as if there was niver a livin’ sowl but himself in the place. He chucks the widdy undher the chin at wanst, an’, taking aff his hat, sez: “I want the best room in the house. I travel for Shorrox’, the greatest long-cotton firrm in the whole worrld, an’ I want to open up a new line here! The best is what I want, an’ that’s not good enough for me!”

 

Well, gintlemun, ivery wan in the place was spacheless at his impidence; an’, begor! that was the only time in her life I’m tould whin the widdy was tuk back. But, glory be, it didn’t take long for her to recover herself, an’ sez she quitely: “I don’t doubt ye, sur! The best can’t be too good for a gintleman what makes himself so aisy at home!” an’ she shmiled at him till her teeth shone like jools.

 

God knows, gintlemin, what does be in weemin’s minds whin they’re dalin’ wid a man! Maybe it was that Widdy Byrne only wanted to kape the pace wid all thim min crowdin’ roun’ her, an’ thim clutchin’ on tight to their shticks an’ aiger for a fight wid any man on her account. Or maybe it was that she forgive him his impidence; for well I know that it’s not the most modest man, nor him what kapes his distance, that the girrls, much less the widdies, like the best. But anyhow she spake out iv her to the man from Manchesther: “I’m sorry, sur, that I can’t give ye the best room—what we call the best—for it is engaged already.”

 

“Then turn him out!” sez he.

 

“I can’t,” she says—“at laste not till tomorra; an’ ye can have the room thin iv ye like.”

 

There was a kind iv a sort iv a shnicker among some iv the min, thim knowin’ iv the corp, an’ the Manchesther man tuk it that they was laughin’ at him; so he sez: “I’ll shleep in that room tonight; the other gintleman can put up wid me iv I can wid him. Unless,” sez he, oglin’ the widdy, “I can have the place iv the masther iv the house, if there’s a priest or a parson handy in this town—an’ sober,” sez he.

 

Well, tho’ the widdy got as red as a Claddagh cloak, she jist laughed an’ turned aside, sayin’: “Throth, sur, but it’s poor Mick’s place ye might have, an’ welkim, this night.”

 

“An’ where might that be now, ma’am?” sez he, lanin’ over the bar; an’ him would have chucked her under the chin agun, only that she moved her head away that quick.

 

“In the churchyard!” she sez. “Ye might take Mick’s place there, av ye like, an’ I’ll not be wan to say ye no.”

 

At that the min round all laughed, an’ the man from Manchesther got mad, an’ shpoke out, rough enough too it seemed: “Oh, he’s all right where he is. I daresay he’s quiter times where he is than whin he had my luk out. Him an’ the Devil can toss for choice in bein’ lonely or bein’ quite.”

 

Wid that the widdy blazes up all iv a suddunt, like a live sod shtuck in the thatch, an’ sez she: “Who are ye that dares to shpake ill iv the dead, an’ to couple his name wid the Divil, an’ to his widdy’s very face? It’s aisy seen that poor Mick is gone!” an’ wid that she threw her apron over her head an’ sot down an’ rocked herself to and fro, as widdies do whin the fit is on thim iv missin’ the dead.

 

There was more nor wan man there what’d like to have shtud opposite the Manchesther man wid a bit iv a blackthorn in his hand; but they knew the widdy too well to dar to intherfere till they were let. At length wan iv thim—Mr Hogan, from nigh Portarlington, a warrm man, that’d put down a thousand pounds iv dhry money any day in the week—kem over to the bar an’ tuk aff his hat, an’ sez he: “Mrs Byrne, ma’am, as a friend of poor dear ould Mick, I’d be glad to take his quarrel on meself on his account, an’ more than proud to take it on his widdy’s, if, ma’am, ye’ll only honour me be saying the wurrd.”

 

Wid that she tuk down the apron from aff iv her head an’ wiped away the tears in her jools iv eyes wid the corner iv it.

 

“Thank ye kindly,” sez she; “but, guntlemin, Mick an’ me run this hotel long together, an’ I’ve run it alone since thin, an’ I mane to go on running’ it be meself, even if new min from Manchesther itself does be bringin’ us new ways. As to you, sur,” sez she, turnin’ to him, “it’s powerful afraid I am that there isn’t accommodation here for a guntlemin what’s so requireful. An’ so I think I’ll be askin’ ye to find convanience in some other hotel in the town.”

 

Wid that he turned on her an’ sez, “I’m here now, an’ I offer to pay me charges. Be the law ye can’t refuse to resave me or refuse me lodgmint, especially whin I’m on the primises.”

 

So the Widdy Byrne drewed herself up, an’ sez she, “Sur, ye ask yer legal rights; ye shall have them. Tell me what it is ye require.”

 

Sez he sthraight out: “I want the best room.”

 

“I’ve tould you already,” sez she, “there’s a gintleman in it.”

 

“Well,” sez he, “what other room have ye vacant?”

 

“Sorra wan at all,” sez she. “Every room in the house is tuk. Perhaps, sur, ye don’t think or remimber that there’s a fair on tomorra.”

 

She shpoke so polite that ivery man in the place knew there was somethin’ comin’—later on. The Manchesther man felt that the laugh was on him; but he didn’t want for impidence, so he up, an’ sez he: “Thin, if I have to share wid another, I’ll share wid the best! It’s the Queen’s Room I’ll be shleepin’ in this night.”

 

Well, the min shtandin’ by wasn’t too well plazed wid what was going on; for the man from Manchesther he was plumin’ himself for all the world like a cock on a dunghill. He laned agin over the bar an’ began makin’ love to the widdy hot an’ fast. He was a fine, shtout-made man, wid a bull neck on to him an’ short hair, like wan iv thim “two-to-wan-bar-wans” what I’ve seen at Punchestown an’ Fairy House an’ the Galway races. But he seemed to have no manners at all in his coortin’, but done it as quick an’ business-like as takun’ his commercial ordhers. It was like this: “I want to make love; you want to be made love to, bein’ a woman. Hould up yer head!”

 

We all could see the widdy was boilin’ mad; but, to do him fair, the man from Manchesther didn’t seem to care what any wan thought. But we all seen what he didn’t see at first, that the widdy began widout thinkin’ to handle the rattan cane on the bar. Well, prisintly he began agun to ask about his room, an’ what kind iv a man it was that was to share it wid him.

 

So sez the widdy, “A man wid less wickedness in him nor you have, an’ less impidence.”

 

“I hope he’s a quite man,” sez he.

 

So the widdy began to laugh, an’ sez she: “I’ll warrant he’s quite enough.”

 

“Does he shnore? I hate a man—or a woman ayther—what shnores.”

 

“Throth,” sez she, “there’s no shnore in him”; an’ she laughed agin.

 

Some iv the min round what knew iv the ould attorney-man—saving yer prisince—began to laugh too; and this made the Manchesther man suspicious. When the likes iv him gets suspicious he gets rale nasty; so he sez, wid a shneer: “You seem to be pretty well up in his habits, ma’am!”

 

The widdy looked round at the graziers, what was clutchin’ their ash plants hard, an’ there was a laughin’ divil in her eye that kep’ thim quite; an’ thin she turned round to the man, and sez she: “Oh, I know that much, anyhow, wid wan thing an’ another, begor!” But she looked more enticin’ nor iver at that moment. For sure the man from Manchesther thought so, for he laned nigh his whole body over the counther, an’ whispered somethin’ at her, puttin’ out his hand as he did so, an’ layin’ it on her neck to dhraw her to him. The widdy seemed to know what was comin’, an’ had her hand on the rattan; so whin he was draggin’ her to him an’ puttin’ out his lips to kiss her—an’ her first as red as a turkey-cock an’ thin as pale as a sheet—she ups wid the cane and gev him wan skelp across the face wid it, shpringin’ back as she done so. Oh jool! but that was a skelp! A big wale iv blood riz up as quick as the blow was shtruck, jist as I’ve seen on the pigs’ backs whin they do be prayin’ aloud not to be tuk where they’re wanted.

 

“Hands off, Misther Impidence!” sez she. The man from Manchesther was that mad that he ups wid the tumbler formnst him an’ was goin’ to throw it at her, whin there kem an odd sound from the graziers—a sort of “Ach!” as whin a man is workin’ a sledge, an’ I seen the ground-ash plants an’ the big fists what held thim, and the big hairy wrists go up in the air. Begor, but polis thimselves wid bayonets wouldn’t care to face thim like that! In the half of two twos the man from Manchesther would have been cut in ribbons, but there came a cry from the widdy what made the glasses ring: “Shtop! I’m not goin’ to have any fightin’ here; an’ besides, there’s bounds to the bad manners iv even a man from Shorrox’. He wouldn’t dar to shtrike me—though I have no head! Maybe I hit a thought too hard; but I had rayson to remimber that somethin’ was due on Mick’s account too. I’m sorry, sur,” sez she to the man, quite polite, “that I had to defind meself; but whin a gintleman claims the law to come into a house, an’ thin assaults th’ owner iv it, though she has no head, it’s more restrainful he should be intirely!”

 

“Hear, hear!” cried some iv the mm, an’ wan iv thim sez “Amen”, sez he, an’ they all begin to laugh. The Manchesther man he didn’t know what to do; for begor he didn’t like the look of thim ash plants up in the air, an’ yit he was not wan to like the laugh agin’ him or to take it aisy. So he turns to the widdy an’ he lifts his hat an’ sez he wid mock politeness: “I must complimint ye, ma’am, upon the shtrength iv yer arrm, as upon the mildness iv yer disposition. Throth, an’ I’m thinkin’ that it’s misther Mick that has the best iv it, wid his body lyin’ paceful in the churchyard, anyhow; though the poor sowi doesn’t seem to have much good in changin’ wan devil for another!” An’ he looked at her rale spiteful.

 

Well, for a minit her eyes blazed, but thin she shmiled at him, an’ made a low curtsey, an’ sez she—oh! mind ye, she was a gran’ woman at givin’ back as good as she got—“Thank ye kindly, sur, for yer polite remarks about me arrm. Sure me poor dear Mick often said the same; only he said more an’ wid shuparior knowledge! ‘Molly,’ sez he—‘I’d mislike the shtrength iv yer arrm whin ye shtrike, only that I forgive ye for it whin it comes to the huggin’!’ But as to poor Mick’s prisint condition I’m not goin’ to argue wid ye, though I can’t say that I forgive ye for the way you’ve shpoke iv him that’s gone. Bedad, it’s fond iv the dead y’are, for ye seem onable to kape thim out iv yer mouth. Maybe ye’ll be more respectful to thim before ye die!”

 

“I don’t want no sarmons!” sez he, wery savage. “Am I to have me room tonight, or am I not?”

 

“Did I undherstand ye to say,” sez she, “that ye wanted a share iv the Queen’s Room?”

 

“I did! an’ I demand it.”

 

“Very well, sur,” sez she very quitely, “ye shall have it!”

 

Jist thin the supper war ready, and most iv the min at the bar thronged into the coffee-room, an’ among thim the man from Manchesther, what wint bang up to the top iv the table an sot down as though he owned the place, an’ him niver in the house before.

 

A few iv the bhoys shtayed a minit to say another word to the widdy, an’ as soon as they was alone Misther Hogan up, an’ sez he: “Oh, darlint! but it’s a jool iv a woman y’ are! Do ye raly mane to put him in the room wid the corp?”

 

“He said he insisted on being in that room!” she says, quite sarious; an’ thin givin’ a look undher her lashes at the bhoys as made thim lep, sez she: “Oh! min, an ye love me give him his shkin that full that he’ll tumble into his bed this night wid his sinses obscurifled. Dhrink toasts till he misremimbers where he is! Whist! Go, quick, so that he won’t suspect nothin’!”

 

That was a warrm night, I’m telling ye! The man from Shorrox’ had wine galore wid his mate; an’ afther, whin the plates an’ dishes was tuk away an’ the nuts was brought in, Hogan got up an’ proposed his health, an’ wished him prosperity in his new line. Iv coorse he had to dhrink that; an’ thin others got up, an’ there was more toasts dhrunk than there was min in the room, till the man, him not bein’ used to whiskey-punch, began to git onsartin in his shpache. So they gev him more toasts — “Ireland as a nation”, an’ “Home Rule”, an’ “The ruimory iv Dan O’Connell”, an’ “Bad luck to Boney”, an’ “God save the Queen”, an’ “More power to Manchesther”, an’ other things what they thought would plaze him, him bein’ English. Long hours before it was time for the house to shut, he was as dhrunk as a whole row of fiddlers, an’ kep shakin’ hands wid ivery man an’ promisin’ thim to open a new line in Home Rule, an’ sich nonsinse. So they tuk him up to the door iv the Queen’s Room an’ left him there.

 

He managed to undhress himself all except his hat, and got into bed wid the corp iv th’ ould attorney-man, an’ thin an’ there fell asleep widout noticin’ him.

 

Well, prisintly he woke wid a cowid feelin’ all over him. He had lit no candle, an’ there was only the light from the passage comin’ in through the glass over the door. He felt himself nigh fallin’ out iv the bed wid him almost on the edge, an’ the cowld shtrange gindeman lyin’ shlap on the broad iv his back in the middle. He had enough iv the dhrink in him to be quarrelsome.

 

“I’ll throuble ye,” sez he, “to kape over yer own side iv the bed—or I’ll soon let ye know the rayson why.” An’ wid that he give him a shove. But iv coorse the ould attorney-man tuk no notice whatsumiver.

 

“Y’are not that warrm that one’d like to lie contagious to ye,” sez he. “Move over, I say, to yer own side!” But divil a shtir iv the corp.

 

Well, thin he began to get fightin’ angry, an’ to kick an’ shove the corp; but not gittin’ any answer at all, he turned round an’ hit him a clip on the side iv the head.

 

“Gitup,” he sez, “iv ye’re a man at all, an’ put up yer dooks.”

 

Then he got more madder shrill, for the dhrink was shtirrin’ in him, an’ he kicked an’ shoved an’ grabbed him be the leg an’ the arrm to move him.

 

“Begor!” sez he, “but ye’re the cowldest chap I iver kem anigh iv. Musha! but yer hairs is like icicles.”

 

Thin he tuk him be the head, an’ shuk him an’ brung him to the bedside, an’ kicked him clane out on to the flure on the far side iv the bed.

 

“Lie there,” he sez, “ye ould blast furnace! Ye can warrm yerself up on the flure till tomorra.”

 

Be this time the power iv the dhrink he had tuk got ahoult iv him agin, an’ he fell back in the middle iv the bed, wid his head on the pilla an’ his toes up, an’ wint aff ashleep, like a cat in the frost.

 

By-an’-by, whin the house was about shuttin’ up, the watcher from th’ undhertaker’s kem to sit be the corp till the mornin’, an’ th’ attorney him bein’ a Protestan’ there was no candles. Whin the house was quite, wan iv the girris, what was coortin’ wid the watcher, shtole into the room.

 

“Are ye there, Michael?” sez she.

 

“Yis, me darlint!” he sez, comin’ to her; an’ there they shtood be the door, wid the lamp in the passage shinin’ on the red heads iv the two iv thim.

 

“I’ve come,” sez Katty, “to kape ye company for a bit, Michael; for it’s crool lonesome worrk sittin’ there alone all night. But I mustn’t shtay long, for they’re all goin’ to bed soon, when the dishes is washed up.”

 

“Give us a kiss,” sez Michael.

 

“Oh, Michael!” sez she: “kissin’ in the prisince iv a corp! It’s ashamed iv ye I am.”

 

“Sorra cause, Katty. Sure, it’s more respectful than any other way. Isn’t it next to kissin’ in the chapel? — an’ ye do that whin ye’re bein’ married. If ye kiss me now, begor but I don’t know as it’s mortial nigh a weddin’ it is! Anyhow, give us a kiss, an’ we’ll talk iv the rights an’ wrongs iv it aftherwards.”

 

Well, somehow, yer ’ann’rs, that kiss was bein’ gave—an’ a kiss in the prisince iv a corp is a sarious thing an’ takes a long time. Thim two was payin’ such attintion to what was going on betune thim that they didn’t heed nothin’, whin suddint Katty stops, and sez: “Whist! what is that?”

 

Michael felt creepy too, for there was a quare sound comin’ from the bed. So they grabbed one another as they shtud in the doorway an looked at the bed almost afraid to breathe till the hair on both iv thim began to shtand up in horror; for the corp rose up in the bed, an’ they seen it pointin’ at thim, an’ heard a hoarse voice say, “It’s in hell I am —Divils around me! Don’t I see thim burnin’ wid their heads like flames? an’ it’s burnin’ I am too—burnin’, burnin’, burnin’! Me throat is on fire, an’ me face is burnin’! Wather! wather! Give me wather, if only a dhrop on me tongue’s tip!”

 

Well, thin Katty let one screetch out iv her, like to wake the dead, an’ tore down the passage till she kem to the shtairs, and tuk a flyin’ lep down an’ fell in a dead faint on the mat below; and Michael yelled “murdher” wid all his might.

 

It wasn’t long till there was a crowd in that room, I tell ye; an’ a mighty shtrange thing it was that sorra wan iv the graziers had even tuk his coat from aff iv him to go to bed, or laid by his shtick. An’ the widdy too, she was as nate an’ tidy as iver, though seemin’ surprised out iv a sound shleep, an’ her clothes onto her, all savin’ a white bedgown, an’ a candle in her hand. There was some others what had been in bed, min an’ wimin wid their bare feet an’ slippers on to some iv thim, wid their bracers down their backs, an’ their petticoats flung on anyhow. An’ some iv thim in big nightcaps, an’ some wid their hair all screwed up in knots wid little wisps iv paper, like farden screws iv Limerick twist or Lundy Foot snuff. Musha! but it was the ould weemin what was afraid iv things what didn’t alarrm the young wans at all. Divil resave me! but the sole thing they seemed to dhread was the min—dead or alive it was all wan to thim—an’ ’twas ghosts an’ corpses an’ mayhap divils that the rest was afeard iv.

 

Well, whin the Manchesther man seen thim all come tumblin’ into the room he began to git his wits about him; for the dhrink was wearin’ aff, an’ he was thryin’ to remimber where he was. So whin he seen the widdy he put his hand up to his face where the red welt was, an’ at wance seemed to undhershtand, for he got mad agin an’ roared out: “What does this mane? Why this invasion iv me chamber? Clear out the whole kit, or I’ll let yez know!”

 

Wid that he was goin’ to jump out of bed, but the moment they seen his toes the ould weemin let a screech out iv thim, an’ clung to the min an’ implored thim to save thim from murdher—an’ worse. An’ there was the Widdy Byrne laughin’ like mad; an’ Misther Hogan shtepped out, an’ sez he: “Do jump out, Misther Shorrox! The boys has their switches, an’ it’s a mighty handy costume ye’re in for a leatherin’!”

 

So wid that he jumped back into bed an’ covered the clothes over him.

 

“In the name of God,” sez he, “what does it all mane?”

 

“It manes this,” sez Hogan, goin’ round the bed an’ draggin’ up the corp an’ layin’ it on the bed beside him. “Begorra! but it’s cantankerous kind iv a scut y’are. First nothin’ will do ye but sharin’ a room wid a corp; an’ thin ye want the whole place to yerself.”

 

“Take it away! Take it away,” he yells out.

 

“Begorra,” sez Mister Hogan, “I’ll do no such thing. The gintleman ordhered the room first, an’ it’s he has the right to ordher you to be brung out!”

 

“Did he shnore much, sur?” says the widdy; an’ wid that she burst out laughin’ an’ cryin’ all at wanst. “That’ll tache ye to shpake ill iv the dead agin!” An’ she flung her petticoat over her head an’ run out iv the room.

 

Well, we turned the min all back to their own rooms; for the most part iv thim had plenty iv dhrink on board, an’ we feared for a row. Now that the fun was over, we didn’t want any unplisintness to follow. So two iv the graziers wint into wan bed, an’ we put the man from Manchesther in th’ other room, an’ gev him a screechin’ tumbler iv punch to put the hearrt in him agin.

 

I thought the widdy had gone to her bed; but whin I wint to put out the lights I seen one in the little room behind the bar, an’ I shtepped quite, not to dishturb her, and peeped in. There she was on a low shtool rockin’ herself to an’ fro, an’ goin’ on wid her laughin’ an’ cryin’ both together, while she tapped wid her fut on the flume. She was talkin’ to herselfin a kind iv a whisper, an’ I heerd her say: “Oh, but it’s the crool woman I am to have such a thing done in me house—an’ that poor sowl, wid none to weep for him, knocked about that a way for shport iv dhrunken min while me poor dear darlin’ himself is in the cowid clay!—But oh! Mick, Mick, if ye were only here! Wouldn’t it be you—you wid the fun iv ye an” yer merry hearrt—that’d be plazed wid the doin’s iv this night!”

 

 

 

UNDER THE SUNSET

 

Far, far away, there is a beautiful Country which no human eye has ever seen in waking hours. Under the Sunset it lies, where the distant horizon bounds the day, and where the clouds, splendid with light and colour, give a promise of the glory and beauty which encompass it.

 

Sometimes it is given to us to see it in dreams.

 

Now and again come, softly, Angels who fan with their great white wings the aching brows, and place cool hands upon the sleeping eyes. Then soars away the spirit of the sleeper. Up from the dimness and murkiness of the night season it springs. Away through the purple clouds it sails. It hies through the vast expanse of light and air. Through the deep blue of heaven’s vault it flies; and sweeping over the far-off horizon, rests in the fair Land Under the Sunset.

 

This Country is like our own Country in many ways. It has men and women, kings and queens, rich and poor; it has houses, and trees, and fields, and birds, and flowers. There is day there and night also; and heat and cold, and sickness and health. The hearts of men and women, and boys and girls, beat as they do here. There are the same sorrows and the same joys; and the same hopes and the same fears.

 

If a child from that Country was beside a child here you could not tell the difference between them, save that the clothes alone are different. They talk the same language as we do ourselves. They do not know that they are different from us; and we do not know that we are different from them. When they come to us in their dreams we do not know they are strangers; and when we go to their Country in our dreams we seem to be at home. Perhaps this is because good people’s homes are in their hearts; and wheresoever they may be they have peace.

 

The Country Under the Sunset was for long ages a wondrous and pleasant Land. Nothing there was which was not beautiful and sweet and pleasant. It was only when sin came that things there began to lose their perfect beauty. Even now it is a wondrous and pleasant land.

 

As the sun is strong there, by the sides of every road are planted great trees which spread out their thick branches. So the travellers have shelter as they pass. The milestones are fountains of sweet cold water, so clear and bright that when the wayfarer comes to one he sits down on the carved stone seat beside it and gives a sigh of relief, for he knows that there is rest.

 

When it is sunset here, it is the middle of the day there. The clouds gather and shade the Land from the great heat. Then for a little while everything goes to sleep.

 

This sweet, peaceful hour is called the Rest Time.

 

When it comes the birds stop their singling, and lie close under the wide eaves of the houses, or in the branches of the trees where they join the stems. The fishes stop darting about in the water, and lie close under the stones, with their fins and tails as still as if they were dead. The sheep and the cattle lie under the trees. The men and women get into hammocks slung between trees or under the verandahs of their houses. Then, when the sun has ceased to glare so fiercely and the clouds have melted away, the living things all wake up.

 

The only living things that are not asleep in the Rest Time are the dogs. They lie quite quiet, only half asleep, with one eye open and one ear cocked; keeping watch all the time. Then if any stranger comes during the hour of Rest, the dogs rise up and look at him, softly, without barking, lest they should disturb anyone. They know if the newcomer is harmless; and if it be so they lie down again, and the stranger lies down too till the Rest Time is over.

 

But if the dogs think that the stranger is come to do any harm, they bark loudly and growl. The cows begin to low and the sheep to bleat, and the birds to chirp and sing their loudest notes, but without any music in them; and even the fishes begin to dart about and splash the water. The men awake and jump out of their hammocks, and seize their weapons. Then it is an evil time for the intruder. Straightway he is brought into the Court and tried, and if found guilty sentenced, and either put into prison or banished.

 

Then the men go back to their hammocks, and all living things retire again till the Rest Time is over.

 

It is the same in the night as in the Rest Time, if an intruder comes to do harm. In the night only the dogs are awake, and the sick people and their nurses.

 

No one can leave the Country Under the Sunset except in one direction. Those who go there in dreams, or who come in dreams to our world, come and go they know not how; but if an inhabitant tries to leave it, he cannot except by one way. If he tries any other way he goes on and on, turning without knowing it, till he comes to the one place where only he can depart.

 

This place is called the Portal, and there the Angels keep guard.

 

Exactly in the middle of the Country is the palace of the King, and the roads stretch away from it on every side. When the King stands on the top of the tower, which rises to a great height from the middle of his palace, he can look along the roads, which are all quite straight.

 

They seem to become narrower and narrower as they get further, till at last they are lost altogether in the mere distance.

 

Round the King’s palace are gathered the houses of the great nobles, each being close in proportion to the rank of its owner. Outside these again come the houses of the lesser nobles; and then those of all the other people, getting smaller and smaller as they get further.

 

Every house, big and little, stands in the middle of a garden, which has a fountain and a stream of water in it, and big trees, and beds of beautiful flowers.

 

Farther off, away towards the Portal, the country gets wilder and wilder. Beyond this there are dense forests and great mountains full of deep caverns, as dark as night. Here wild animals and all cruel things have their home.

 

Then come bogs and fens and deep shaky morasses, and thick jungles. Then all becomes so wild that the road gets lost altogether.

 

In the wild places beyond this no man knows what dwells. Some say that the Giants who still exist, live there, and that all poisonous plants there grow. They say that there is a wicked wind there that brings out the seeds of all evil things and scatters them over the earth. Some there are who say that the same wicked wind brings out also the Diseases and Plagues that there exist. Others say that Famine lives there in the marshes, and that he stalks out when men are wicked—so wicked that the Spirits who guard the land are weeping so bitterly that they do not see him pass.

 

It is whispered that Death has his kingdom in the Solitudes beyond the marshes, and lives in a castle so awful to look at that no one has ever seen it and lived to tell what it is like. Also it is told that all the evil things that live in the marshes are the disobedient Children of Death who have left their home and cannot find their way back again.

 

But no man knows where the Castle of King Death is. All men and women, boys and girls, and even little wee children should so live that when they have to enter the Castle and see the grim King, they may not fear to behold his face.

 

For long, Death and his Children stayed without the Portal and all within was joy.

 

But there came a time when all was changed. The hearts of men grew cold and hard with pride in their prosperity, and they heeded not the lessons which they had been taught. Then when within there was coldness and indifference and disdain, the Angels on guard saw in the terrors that stood without, the means of punishment and the lesson which could do good.

 

The good lessons came—as good things very often do—after pain and trial, and they taught much. The story of their coming has a lesson for the wise.

 

At the Portal two Angels for ever kept watch and guard. These angels were so great and so watchful, and were always so steadfast in their guardianship, that there was only one name for them both. Either or both of them would, if spoken to, have been called by the whole name. One of them knew as much as the other did about anything which could have anything known about it. This was not so strange, for they both knew everything. Their name was Fid-Def.

 

Fid-Def stood on guard at the Portal. Beside them was a Child-Angel, fairer than the light of the sun. The outline of its beautiful form was so soft that it ever seemed to be melting into the air; it seemed a holy living light.

 

It did not stand as the other Angels did, but floated up and down and all around. Sometimes it was but a tiny speck, and then it would suddenly, without seeming to be making any change, be bigger than the great Guardian Spirits that were the same forever.

 

Fid-Def loved the Child-Angel, and as it rose now and again, they spread their great white wings, and it would sometimes stand on them. Its own beautiful soft wings would gently fan their faces as they turned to speak.

 

But the Child-Angel never went over the threshold. It looked out into the wilderness beyond; but it never put even the tip of its wing over the Portal.

 

It was asking questions of Fid-Def, and seemed to want to know what was without, and how all there differed from all within.

 

The questions and the answers of the Angels were not like our questions and answers, for no speech was needed. The moment a thought occurred of wanting to know anything, the question was asked and the answer given. But still the question was given by the Child-Angel and answered by Fid-Def; and if we knew the no-language that the Angels were not-speaking we would have heard thus. Fid-Def was talking to Fid-Def:

 

“Is not Chiaro beautiful?”

 

“He is very beautiful. He will be a new power in the Land.”

 

Here Chiaro, who was standing with one foot on the plume of Fid-Def’s wing, said:

 

“Tell me, Fid-Def, what are those dreadful-looking Beings beyond the Portal?”

 

Fid-Def answered:

 

“They are Children of King Death. That dreadfullest one of all, enwrapt in gloom, is Skooro, an Evil Spirit.”

 

“How horrible they look!”

 

“Very horrible, dear Chiaro; and these Children of Death want to pass through the Portal and enter the Land.”

 

Chiaro, at the terrible news, soared up aloft, and got so big that the whole of the Country Under the Sunset was made bright. Soon, however, he grew smaller and smaller till he was only a speck, like the coloured ray seen in a dark room when the sun comes in through a chink. He asked of the Angels of the Portal:

 

“Tell me, Fid-Def, why do the Children of Death want to get in?”

 

“Because, dear Child, they are wicked, and wish to corrupt the hearts of the dwellers in the Land.”

 

“But tell me, Fid-Def, can they get in? Surely, if the All-Father says, No! they must stay ever without the Land.”

 

After a pause came the answer of the Angels of the Portal:

 

“The All-Father is wiser than even the Angels can conceive. He overthroweth the wicked with their own devices, and he trappeth the hunter in his own snare. The Children of Death when they enter—as they are about to do—shall do much good in the Land, which they wish to harm. For lo! the hearts of the people are corrupt. They have forgotten the lessons which they have been taught. They do not know how thankful they should be for their happy lot, for of sorrow they wot not. Some pain or grief or sadness must be to them, that so they may see the error of their ways.”

 

As they spoke, the Angels wept in sorrow for the misdeeds of the people and the pain they must endure.

 

The Child-Angel answered in awe:

 

“Then this most horrible Being, too, is to enter the Land. Woe! woe!”

 

“Dear Child,” said the Guardian Spirits, as the Child-Angel crept into their bosoms, “on you devolves a great duty. The Children of Death are about to enter. To you has been entrusted the watching of this dread Being,Skooro. Wheresoever he goeth, there must you be also; and so naught of harm can happen—save only what is intended and allowed.”

 

The Child-Angel, awed by the greatness of the trust, resolved that his duty should be well done. Fid-Def went on:

 

“You must know, dear Child, that without darkness is no fear of the unseen; and not even the darkness of night can fright if there be light within the soul. To the good and pure there is no fear either of the evil things of the earth or of the Powers that are unseen. To you is trusted to guard the pure and true. Skooro will encompass them with his gloom; but to you is given to steal into their hearts and by your own glorious light to make the gloom of the Child of Death unseen and unknown.”

 

“But from evil-doers—from the wicked, and the ungrateful, and the unforgiving, and the impure, and the untrue you will keep afar off; and so when they look for you to comfort them—as they must ever—they will not see you. They will see only the gloom which your far-off light will make seem darker still, for the shadow will be in their very souls.”

 

“But oh, Child, our Father is kind beyond belief. He orders that should any that are evil repent, you will on the instant fly to them, and comfort them, and help them, and cheer them, and drive the shadow afar off. Should they only pretend to repent, meaning to be again wicked when the danger is past; or should they only act from fear, then will you hide your brightness so that the gloom may grow darker still over them. Now, dear Chiaro, become unseen. The time approaches when the Child of Death is to be allowed to enter the Land. He will try to steal in, and we shall let him, for we must work unseen and unknown, that we may do our duty.”

 

Then the Child-Angel faded slowly away, so that no eye—not even the eye of Fid-Def—could see him; and the Guardian Spirits stood as ever beside the Portal.

 

The Rest Time came; and all was quiet in the Land.

 

When the Children of Death afar off in the marshes saw that nothing was stirring, save that the Angels stood as ever on guard, they determined to make another effort to gain entrance to the Land.

 

Accordingly they resolved themselves into many parts. Each part took a different form, but all together they moved on towards the Portal. Thus the Children of Death drew a-nigh the threshold of the Land.

 

On the wings of a passing bird they came; on a cloud that drifted slowly in the sky; in the snakes that crawled on the earth—in the worms, and mice, and moles that crept under it; in the fishes that swam and the insects that flew. By earth and water and air they came.

 

So without let or hindrance; and in many ways, the Children of Death entered the country Under the Sunset; and from that hour all in that fair Land was changed.

 

Not all at once did the Children of Death make themselves known. One by one the bolder spirits amongst them, stalking with fell footsteps through the Land, filled all hearts with terror as they came.

 

However, each and all of them left a lesson for good in the hearts of the dwellers in the Land.

 

 

 

THE ROSE PRINCE

 

A long, long time ago—so long ago that if one tries to think ever so far back, it is farther than that again—King Mago reigned in the Country Under the Sunset.

 

He was an old king, and his white beard had grown so long that it almost touched the ground; and all his reign had been passed in trying to make his people happy.

 

He had one son, of whom he was very fond. This son, Prince Zaphir, was well worthy of all his father’s fondness, for he was as good as can be.

 

He was still only a boy, and he had never seen his beautiful sweet-faced mother, who had died when he was only a baby. It often made him very sad that he had no mother, when he thought other boys had tender mothers, at whose knees they learned to pray, and who came and kissed them in their beds at night. He felt that it was strange that many of the poor people in his father’s dominions had mothers, whilst he, the prince, had none. When he thought thus it made him very humble; for he knew that neither power, nor riches, nor youth, nor beauty will save any one from the doom of all mortals, and that the only beautiful thing in the world whose beauty lasts for ever is a pure, fair soul. He always remembered, however, that if he had no mother he had a father who loved him very dearly, and so was comforted and content.

 

He used to muse much on many things; and often even in the bright rest-time, when all the people slept, he would go out into the wood, close to the palace, and think and think on all that was beautiful and true, whilst his faithful dog Gomus would crouch at his feet and sometimes wag his tail, as much as to say—

 

“Here I am, prince; I am not asleep either.”

 

Prince Zaphir was so good and so kind that he never hurt any living thing. If he saw a worm crawling over the road before him he would step over it carefully lest it should be injured. If he saw a fly fallen in the water he would lift it tenderly out and send it forth again, free of wing, into the glorious bright air: so kind was he that all the animals that had once seen him knew him again, and when he went to his favourite seat in the wood there would arise a glad hum from all the living things. Those bright insects, whose colours change hour by hour, would put on their brightest colours, and bask about in the gleams of sunlight that came slanting down between the benches of the trees. The noisy insects put on their mufflers so that they would not disturb him; and the little birds resting on the trees would open their round bright eyes, and come out and blink and wink in the light, and pipe little joyous songs of welcome with all their sweetest notes.

 

So is it ever with tender, loving people; the living things that have voices as sweet as man’s or woman’s, and who have languages of their own, although we cannot understand them, all talk to them in joyous notes and bid them welcome in their own pretty ways.

 

King Mago was proud of his brave, good, handsome boy, and liked him to dress beautifully; and all the people loved to see his bright face and his gay clothing. The King made the great merchants search far and near till they got the largest and finest feather that had ever been seen. This feather he had put in the front of a beautiful cap, the colour of a ruby, and fastened with a brooch made of a great diamond. He gave this cap to Zaphir on his birthday.

 

As Prince Zaphir walked through the streets, the people saw the great white plume nodding from far away. All were glad when they saw it, and ran to their windows and doors and stood bowing and smiling and waving their hands as their beautiful prince went by. Zaphir always bowed and smiled in return; and he loved his people and gloried in the love that they had for him.

 

In the Court of King Mago was a companion for Zaphir whom he loved very much. This was the Princess Bluebell. She was the daughter of another king who had been wrongfully deprived of his dominion by a cruel and treacherous enemy, and who had come to King Mago to ask for help and had died in his Court after living there for many, many years. But King Mago had taken his little orphan daughter and had her brought up as his own child.

 

A great vengeance had come upon the wicked usurper. The Giants had come upon his dominions and had slain him and all his family, and had killed all the people in the land, and had even destroyed all the animals, except those wild ones that were like the Giants themselves. Then the houses began to tumble down from age and decay, and the beautiful gardens to become wild and neglected; and so when after many long years the Giants grew tired and went back to their home in the wilderness, the country that Princess Bluebell owned was such a vast desolation that no one going into it would know that people had ever dwelt there.

 

Princess Bluebell was very young and very, very beautiful. She, like Prince Zaphir, had never known a mother’s love, for her mother, too, had died whilst she was young. She loved King Mago very much, but she loved Prince Zaphir more than all the rest of the world. They had always been companions, and there was not a thought of his heart that she did not know almost before it came there. Prince Zaphir loved her too, more dearly than words can tell, and for her sake he would have done anything, no matter how full of danger. He hoped when he was a man and she a woman that she would marry him, and that they would help King Mago to rule his kingdom justly and wisely, and that there would be no pain or want in the whole country, if they could help it.

 

King Mago had two little thrones made, and when he sat in state on his great throne the two children sat one on each side of him, and learned how to be King and Queen.

 

Princess Bluebell had a robe of ermine like a Queen’s, and a little sceptre and a little crown, and Prince Zaphir had a sword as bright as a flash of lightning, and it hung in a golden scabbard.

 

Behind the King’s throne the courtiers used to gather; and there were many of these who were great and good, and there were others who were only vain and self-seeking.

 

There was Phlosbos, the Prime Minister, an old, old man with a long beard like white silk, and he carried a white wand with a gold ring on it.

 

There was Janisar, the Captain of the Guard, with fierce moustachios and a suit of heavy armour.

 

Then there was Tufto, an old courtier, a silly old man who did nothing but hang about the great nobles and pay them deference, and every one, high and low, despised him much. He was fat, and had no hair on all his face or head, not even eyebrows, and he looked—oh! so funny, with his big bald head quite white and smooth.

 

There was Sartorius, a foolish young courtier, who thought that dress was the most important thing in the world; and who accordingly dressed in the finest clothes he could possibly get. But people only smiled at him and sometimes laughed, for there is no honour due to fine clothes, but only to what is in the man himself who wears them. Sartorius always tried to push himself into the front place everywhere, in order to show off his fine clothes; and he thought that because the other courtiers did not try to push him aside in the same way, they acknowledged his right to be first. It was not so, however; they only despised him and would not do what he did.

 

There was also Skarkrou, who was just the opposite to Sartorius, and who thought—or pretended to think—that untidiness was a good thing; and was as proud or prouder of his rags than Sartorius was of his fine clothes. He too was despised, for he was vain, and his vanity made him ridiculous.

 

Then there was Gabbleander, who did nothing but talk from morning till night; and who would have talked from night till morning if he could have got any one to listen to him. He too was laughed at, for people cannot always talk sense if they talk much. The foolish things are remembered, but the wise ones are forgotten; and so these talkers of too many things come to be considered foolish.

 

But no one must think that all the Court of the good King Mago were like these people. No! there were many, many good, and great, and noble, and brave men; but such is life in every country, even the Country Under the Sunset, that there are fools as well as wise men, and cowards as well as brave men, and mean men as well as good men.

 

Children who wish to become good and great men or good and noble women, should try to know well all the people whom they meet. Thus they will find that there is no one who has not much of good; and when they see some great folly, or some meanness, or some cowardice, or some fault or weakness in another person, they should examine themselves carefully. Then they will see that, perhaps, they too have some of the same fault in themselves—although perhaps it does not come out in the same way—and then they must try to conquer that fault. So they will become more and more good as they grow up; and others will examine them, and when these find they have not the faults, they will love and honour them.

 

Well, one day King Mago sat on his throne in his robes and his crown, and holding his sceptre in his hand.

 

At his right hand sat Princess Bluebell, with her robe and crown and sceptre, and with her little dog Smg beside her.

 

This dog was a great favourite. At first it was called Sumog, because Zaphir’s dog was Gomus, and this was the name spelled backwards. But then it was called Smg because this was a name that could not he shouted out, but could only be spoken in a whisper. Bluebell had no need for more than this, for Smg was never far away, but always stayed close to his mistress and watched her.

 

At the King’s left sat Prince Zaphir, on his little throne, with his bright sword and his mighty feather.

 

Mago was making laws for the good of his people. Round him were gathered all the courtiers, and many people stood in the hall and many more in the street without.

 

Suddenly there was a loud sound heard—the cracking of a whip and the blowing of a horn—and it came nearer and nearer, and the people in the street began to murmur. Loud cries arose, the King stopped to listen, and the people turned their heads to see who was coming. The crowd opened, and a messenger booted and spurred and covered with dust, rushed into the hall and knelt on one knee before the King, and held out a paper which King Mago took and read eagerly. The people waited in silence to hear the news.

 

The King was deeply moved, but he knew his people were anxious, so he spoke to them, standing up as he did so:—

 

“My people, a grievous peril has come upon our Land. We learn from this despatch from the province of Sub-Tegmine, that a terrible Giant has come out of the marshes beyond No-Man’s-Land, and is devastating the country. But be not in fear, my people, for to-night many soldiers shall go forth with their arms, and by sunset to-morrow the Giant will have fallen, we trust.”

 

The people bowed their heads with murmured thanks, and all went quietly away to their homes.

 

That night a body of picked soldiers went out with brave hearts to fight the Giant, and the people cheered them on their way.

 

All next day and next night the people as well as the King were very anxious; and the second morning they expected news that the Giant was overthrown.

 

But no news came till nightfall; and then one weary man, covered with dust and blood, and wounded unto death, crawled into the town.

 

The people made way for him, and he came before the throne and bent low and said—

 

“Alas! King, I have to tell you that your soldiers have been slain—all save myself. The Giant triumphs and advances towards the city.”

 

Having said so, the pain of his wounds grew so great that he cried out several times and fell down; and when they lifted him up he was dead.

 

At the sad news which he told a low wail arose from the people. The widows of the slain soldiers cried loudly a little cry, and came and threw themselves before the King’s throne, and raised their hands on high and said—

 

“Oh, King! Oh, King!” and they could say no more with weeping.

 

Then the King’s heart was very, very sore, and he tried to comfort them, but his best comfort was in his tears—for the tears of friends help to make trouble light; and he spoke to the people and said—

 

“Alas! our soldiers were too few. To-night we will send an army, and perchance the Giant will fall.”

 

That night a gallant army, with many great engines of war and with flags flying and bands playing, went forth against the Giant.

 

At the head of the army rode Janisar, the captain, with his armour of steel inlaid with gold shining in the glow of the sunset. The scarlet and white trappings of his great black charger looked splendid. At his side, for some distance on his way, rode Prince Zaphir on his white palfrey.

 

The people all gathered to wish the army success on their departure; and a lot of foolish people who believed in luck threw old shoes after them. One of these shoes struck Sartorius, who was as usual pushing into the front to show himself off, and blackened his eye, and the black of the shoe came off on his new dress and spoiled it. Another shoe—a heavy one with an iron heel—struck Tufto, who was talking to Janisar—on the top of his bald head, and cut it, and then all the people laughed.

 

Just fancy how a man is despised when people laugh when he is hurt. Old Tufto danced about and got quite angry, and then the people laughed all the more; for nothing is funnier than when a person is so angry that he loses all self-control.

 

All the people cheered as the army went off. Even the poor widows of the slain soldiers cheered; and the men going away looked at them and resolved that they would conquer or die, like brave soldiers doing their duty.

 

Princess Bluebell went with King Mago to the top of the tower of the palace, and together they watched the soldiers as they marched away. The king went in soon, but Bluebell stayed on, looking at the helmets glittering and flashing in the sunset till the sun sank down over the horizon.

 

Just then Prince Zaphir, who had returned, joined her. Then in the twilight on the top of the tower, with many thousand eager, anxious hearts beating in the city below them, and with the beautiful sky overhead, the two children knelt down and prayed for the success of the army on the morrow.

 

There was no sleep in the city that night.

 

Next day the people were filled with anxiety; and as the day wore on and there was no news they grew more anxious still.

 

Towards the evening they heard the sound of a great tumult far away. They knew that a battle was on; and so they waited and waited for news.

 

They did not go to bed that night at all; but all through the city watch-fires were lighted and everyone stayed awake waiting for the news.

 

But no news came.

 

Then the fear became so great that the faces of men and women grew as white as snow, and their hearts as cold. For a long, long time they were silent, for no man dared to speak.

 

At last one of the widows of the slain soldiers rose up and said—

 

“I shall arise and go down to the battle-field, and see how fares it there; and shall bring back the news to quiet your poor beating hearts.”

 

Then many men rose and said—

 

“No! it must not be. We shall go. It were shame to our City if a woman went where men could not. We shall go.”

 

But she answered them with a sad smile—

 

“Alas! I have no fear of death since my brave husband was killed. I do not wish to live. You must defend the city, I shall go.”

 

Straightway she walked out of the city in the chill grey dawn towards the battle-field. As she moved away and faded in the distance, she seemed to the anxious people like a phantom of Hope passing away from them.

 

The sun rose and grew bright in the heavens till the rest time came; but men heeded it not, watching and waiting ever.

 

Presently they saw afar off the figure of a woman running. They ran to meet her and found it was the widow. She came amongst them and cried—

 

“Woe! woe! Alas! for our army is scattered; our mighty ones are fallen in the pride of their strength. The Giant triumphs, and I fear me all is lost.”

 

There came a great wail from the people; and a hush fell on them, so great was their fear.

 

Then the King assembled all his Court and people, and took counsel what was best to be done. Many seemed to think that a new army should go forth of all those who were willing to die, if need be, for the good of the Country; but there was much perplexity.

 

Whilst they were discussing, Prince Zaphir sat silent on his little throne; and his eyes more than once filled with tears at the thought of the sufferings of his beloved people. Now he arose and stood before the throne.

 

There was silence till he should speak.

 

As the Prince stood, cap in hand, before the King, there was in his face a look of such high resolve that those who saw it could not help having a new hope. The Prince spoke—

 

“Oh, King, Father, before you decide further, hear me. It is right that if there be danger in the Land, the first to meet it is the Prince whom the people trust. If there is pain to be felt, who should feel it before him? If death is to come to any, surely it should first strike over his corpse. King, Father, pause but one day. Let me go to-morrow against the Giant. This widow hath told you that now he sleeps after his combat. Tomorrow I shall meet him in fight. If I fall, then will be time to risk the lives of your people; and if it should be that he falls, then all is well.”

 

King Mago knew that the Prince had spoken well; and although it grieved him to see his beloved son running into such danger, he did not try to stop him, but said:

 

“Oh, son, worthy to be a king, thou hast well spoken! Be it even as thou wilt.”

 

Then the people left the Hall, and King Mago and Bluebell kissed Zaphir. Bluebell said to him:

 

“Zaphir, you have done right,” and she looked at him proudly.

 

Presently the prince went to bed, that he might sleep, and so be strong for the morrow.

 

All that night the smiths and armourers and the craftsmen of jewels worked hard and fast. Till daylight the furnaces glowed and the anvils rang; and all hands cunning at artifice plied hard.

 

In the morning they brought into the Hall, and laid before the throne as a present for Prince Zaphir, a suit of armour such as never before had been seen.

 

It was wrought of steel and gold, and was all in scales. Each scale was like a different leaf; and it was all burnished and bright as the sun. Between the leaves were jewels, and many more jewels were fastened on them like drops of dew. Thus the armour shone in the light till it dazzled the eyes of whosoever saw it—for the cunning armourers meant that when the Prince fought, his enemy might be half blinded with the glare and so miss his blows.

 

The helmet was like to a flower, and the Prince’s crest was wrought upon it, and the feather and the big diamond in his cap were fastened in front.

 

When the Prince was equipped, he looked so noble and brave that the people cried out with shouts that he must conquer; and they had new and great hopes.

 

Then his father, the King, blessed him, and Princess Bluebell kissed him and cried a few tears and gave him a lovely rose, which he fastened on his helmet.

 

Amid shouting of the people, Prince Zaphir went out to fight the Giant.

 

His dog, Gomus, wanted to go, but he could not be taken. So Gomus was shut up and howled, for he knew that his dear master was in danger and wanted to be with him.

 

When Prince Zaphir was gone, Princess Bluebell went to the top of the tower and looked after him till he got so far away that she could no longer see the flashing of his beautiful armour in the sunlight. At first, when she was saying good bye to Zaphir—and she knew that it might be good bye for ever—she did not shed a tear, lest she should pain her beloved Prince, for she knew that he was going into battle, and would need all his bravery and all his firmness. So the last look Zaphir saw on his Bluebell’s face was a loving, hopeful, trustful smile. Thus he went into the battle strengthened by the thought that her heart went with him, and that, although her body was far away, her spirit was close to him.

 

When he was gone, really gone, far away out of sight, and she stood on the top of the tower alone, Bluebell shed many tears; and the great fear of her heart that Zaphir might be killed made her sad unto death. She thought that it might be that he would be killed by the wicked Giant who had already slain two armies, and that then she would never see him again—never see the love in his dear, true eyes—never hear the tones of his tender, sweet voice—never feel the beating of his great, generous heart again.

 

And so she wept, oh! so bitterly. But as she wept the thought came to her that life does not lie in the power of men, or even of giants; and so she dried her tears, and knelt down and prayed with an humble heart, and rose up comforted, as people always do when they pray earnestly.

 

Then she went down to the great hall; but King Mago was not there. She looked for him to comfort him, for she knew that his heart must be bleeding for his son in danger.

 

She found him in his chamber, and he, too, was praying. She knelt beside him, and they put their arms round each other—the old King and the orphan child—and they prayed together; and so they both got comfort.

 

Together they waited, and waited patiently, for the return of their beloved one. All the city waited too; and neither by day nor night was there sleep in the Country Under the Sunset, for all were waiting for the return of the Prince.

 

When Zaphir left the city, he went on and on in the direction of the Giant, till the sun grew bright in the heavens, so bright that his golden armour glowed like fire; and then he walked under the shelter of the trees, and he did not pause even in the rest-time, but went ever onward.

 

Towards evening he heard and saw strange things.

 

Far off the ground seemed to shake, and a dull rumbling arose of rocks being levelled, and forests being broken down. These were the sounds of the Giant’s footsteps, as he came onwards to the city. But Prince Zaphir, although the sounds were very terrible, had no fear, and went bravely onward. Then he began to meet many living things, which swept by him at full speed—for they were the swiftest of their kind, and so had run from the Giant faster than the rest.

 

On they came, in hundreds and thousands, their numbers getting more and more as the time wore on, and as the Prince and the Giant drew nearer.

 

There were all the beasts of the field, and all the fowls of the air, and all the insects that fly and crawl. Lions and tigers, and horses and sheep, and mice and cats and rats, and cocks and hens, and foxes and geese and turkeys, all were mixed together, big and little, and all were so frightened at the Giant that they forgot to be afraid of one another. Thus there ran together, cats and mice, wolves and lambs, foxes and geese; and the weak ones did not fear, nor did the strong ones wish to harm.

 

As they came on, however, all the living things seemed to know that Prince Zaphir was braver than they were, and made room for him to pass. The weakest things, and those most afraid, did not go further in their flight, but tried to get as near the Prince as possible; and many followed him back towards the Giant rather than not be near him.

 

Further on, in a little while, he met all the old animals that could not come so fast as the rest, and all the poor wounded living things, and all those that were slow of pace. These, too, did not try to go further, for they knew that they were safer near a brave man than in helpless flight.

 

Then Prince Zaphir saw something, still far off, that looked like a mighty mountain.

 

It was moving towards him, and his heart beat high, partly with the thought of his coming battle, and partly with hope.

 

The Giant came closer and closer. His footsteps crushed the rocks, and with his mighty club he swept the forests from his path.

 

The living things behind Prince Zaphir quailed with fear, and hid their faces in the dust. Some animals, like some foolish people, think that if they do not see anything that they do not want to see, that therefore it ceases to exist.

 

It is very silly of them.

 

Then, as the Giant drew near, Prince Zaphir felt that the hour of battle had come.

 

When he was face to face with a foe more mighty than aught he had ever seen, Zaphir felt as he never felt before. It was not that he was afraid of the Giant, for he felt so brave that, for the good of his people, he could gladly have died then the most painful death. It was that he realized how small a thing he was in the great world.

 

He saw more clearly than he had ever seen that he was only a speck—a mere atom—in the great living world; and in one moment he knew that if the victory came to him it was not because his arm was strong or his heart brave, but that because it was willed by the One that rules the universe.

 

Then, in his humility, Prince Zaphir prayed for strength. He doffed his splendid armour, which shone like a sun on earth, he took off the splendid helmet, and he laid by the flashing sword; and they lay in a lifeless heap beside him.

 

It was a fair sight, that young boy kneeling by the discarded armour. The glittering heap lay all beautiful, glowing in the bright sunset with millions of coloured flashes, till it looked like even unto a living thing. Yet it was sad, and poor, and pitiful beside the boy. There he knelt paying humbly, with his deep earnest eyes lit by the truth and trust that lay in his clean heart and pure soul.

 

The glittering armour looked like the work of man’s hands—as it was, and the work of the hands of good true men; but the beautiful boy kneeling in trust and faith was the work of the hands of God.

 

As he prayed, Prince Zaphir saw all his life in the past, from the day he could first remember till even then as he was, face to face with the Giant. There was not an unworthy thought that he had ever had, not a cross word he had ever spoken, not an angry look that had ever given another pain, that did not come back to his mind. It grieved him much that there were so many; for they crowded on so thick and fast that he was amazed at their very number.

 

It is ever thus that the things which we do wrong—although they may seem little at the time, and though from the hardness of our hearts we pass them lightly by—come back to us with bitterness, when danger makes us think how little we have done to deserve help, and how much to deserve punishment.

 

Prince Zaphir’s heart was purified by repentance for all wrongs done in the past, and by high resolves to be good in the future; and when his humble prayer was finished, he rose up, and he felt in his arms a strength that he wot not of. He knew that it was not his own strength, but that he was the humble instrument of saving his beloved people; and in his heart he was very thankful.

 

The Giant saw presently the glitter of the golden armour, and knew that another enemy had come anigh him.

 

He gave a great roar of rage and anger, that sounded like the echo of a thunder-clap. On the distant hills it echoed, and it rolled through the far-off valleys, and sunk into mutterings and low growlings, as of wild beasts, in the caves and the mountain fastnesses.

 

With such sound the Giant ever began his fighting, that so he might terrify his enemies; but the brave heart of the Prince shook not with fear. He became braver than ever as he heard the sound; for he knew that there was the more need for courage, lest his people, and even the King his father, and Bluebell, should fall into the power of the Giant.

 

Whilst amongst the rocks and forests the footsteps of the Giant crashed, and whilst there uprose around his feet the dust of the desolation which he made, Prince Zaphir gathered from the brook some round pebbles.

 

He fitted one in the sling which he carried.

 

As he lifted his arm to whirl the sling round his head, the Giant saw him, and laughed, and pointed in scorn at him with his great hands, which were more savage than tiger’s claws. The laugh which the Giant thundered forth was so terrible—so harsh and grim and dreadful, that the living things that had raised their timid eyes to watch the fray buried their heads in the dust again, and quaked with fear.

 

But even as he laughed his enemy to scorn, the Giant’s doom was spoken.

 

Round Prince Zaphir’s head swung the sling, and the whistling pebble flew. It struck the Giant fair in the temple; and even with the scornful laughter on his lips, and with his outstretched hand pointing in derision, he fell prone.

 

As he fell he gave a single cry, but a cry so loud that it rolled away over the hills and valleys like a peal of thunder. At the sound the living things cowered again, and sagged with fear.

 

Afar off the people in the City heard the mighty sound; but they knew not what it meant.

 

As the Giant’s great body fell prone, the earth trembled with the shock for many a mile around; and as his great club dropped from his hand, it laid many tall trees of the forest low.

 

Then Prince Zaphir fell on his knees and prayed with fervent thankfulness for his victory.

 

Quickly he arose, and, as he knew of the bitter anxiety of the King and people, he never stopped to gather up his armour, but fled fast to the City to bring the joyful tidings.

 

The night had now fallen and the way was dark; but Prince Zaphir had trust, and he went onward into the darkness with a brave and hopeful heart.

 

Soon the living things that were noble came around him in their gratitude; and all they that could followed him closely. Many noble animals there were,—lions and tigers and bears, as well as tamer beasts; and their great fiery eyes seemed like lamps, and helped him on his way.

 

However, as they drew near to the City the wild animals began to stop, for though they trusted Zaphir they feared other men. They growled a low growl of regret and stopped; and Prince Zaphir went on alone.

 

All night long the city had been awake. In the court King Mago and Princess Bluebell waited and watched together hand in hand. The people in the streets sat around their watch-fires, and they only dared to talk in whispers.

 

So the long night wore away.

 

At last the eastern sky began to pale; and then a streak of red fire shot up over the horizon; and the sun rose in his glory; and it was day. The people, when they saw the light and heard the fresh singing of the birds, had hope; and they looked anxiously for the coming of the Prince.

 

Neither King Mago nor Princess Bluebell dared to go aloft to the tower, but waited patiently in the hall; and their faces were pale as death.

 

The watchmen of the city and those who joined them looked down the long roadway, expecting ever and anon to see Prince Zaphir’s golden armour shining in the bright morning light, and his great white plume, that they knew so well, nodding in the breeze. They knew that they could see it afar off, and so they only glanced now and again into the distance.

 

Suddenly there was a shout from all the people—and then a sudden stillness.

 

They rose to their feet, and with one accord waited for the news.

 

For oh, joy! there among them—shorn of his bright armour and his nodding plume, but hale—stood their beloved Prince.

 

VICTORY was in his look.

 

He smiled on them, raising his hands as if blessing; and pointed to the King’s palace, as though to say:

 

“Our king! his is the right to hear the earliest tidings.”

 

He passed into the hall, all the people following him.

 

When King Mago and Princess Bluebell heard the shout and felt the stillness that followed, their hearts began to beat, and they waited in great dread.

 

Princess Bluebell shuddered and cried a little, and drew closer to the King, and leaned her face on his breast.

 

As she leaned with her face hidden, she felt the King start. She looked up quickly, and there—oh, joy of joys!—was her own beloved Zaphir entering the hall, with all the people following him.

 

The King stepped down from his throne and took him in his arms, and kissed him; and Bluebell, too, put her arms round him, and kissed him on the mouth.

 

Prince Zaphir spoke and said:

 

“Oh King my Father, and oh People!—God has been good to us, and His arm has given us the victory. Lo, the Giant has fallen in the pride of his strength!”

 

Then such a shout went up from the people that the roof rang again; and the noise went out over the City on the wings of the wind. The glad multitude shouted again and again, till the sound rolled in waves over the whole Dominion, and Under the Sunset that hour there was naught but joy. The King called Zaphir his Brave Son; and Princess Bluebell kissed him again, and called him her Hero.

 

At that very time, far away in the forest, the Giant lay fallen in the pride of his strength—the foulest thing in all the land—and over his dead body ran the foxes and the stoats. The snakes crawled around his body; and thither, too, crept all the meaner living things that had fled from him when he lived.

 

From afar off gathered the vultures for their prey.

 

Close to the slain Giant, shining in the light, lay the golden armour. The great white plume rose from the helmet and even now nodded in the breeze.

 

When the people came out to see the dead Giant, they found that rank weeds had grown up already where his blood had fallen, but that round the armour that the Prince had doffed had grown a ring of lovely flowers. Fairest of all was a rose tree in bloom, for the rose that Princess Bluebell had given him had taken root, and had blossomed afresh and made a crown of living roses round the helmet and lay against the stem of the plume.

 

Then the people took reverently home the golden armour; but Prince Zaphir said that not such armour, but a true heart was the best protection, and that he would not dare to put it on again.

 

So they hung it up in the Cathedral amongst the grand old flags and the helmets of the old knights, as a memorial of the victory over the Giant.

 

Prince Zaphir took from the helmet the feather that the King his father had given him of old and he wore it again in his cap. The rose that had blossomed was planted in the centre of the palace garden; and it grew so great that many people could sit under it, and be sheltered from the sun by its wealth of flowers.

 

When Prince Zaphir’s birthday came, the people had made in secret a great preparation.

 

When he rose in the morning to go to the Cathedral, the whole people had assembled and lined the way on every side. Each person, old and young, held one rose. Those who had many roses brought them for those who had none; and each person had only one that all might be equal in the sight of the Prince whom they loved. They had taken off all the thorns from the stems that the Prince’s feet might not be hurt. As he passed they threw their roses in the way, till all the long street was a mass of flowers.

 

As the Prince went by, they stooped and gathered up the roses that his feet had touched; and they treasured them very dearly.

 

At each birthday of the Prince they did the same for all their lives long. When Zaphir and Bluebell were married, they strewed their path with roses in the same way, for the people loved them much.

 

Long and happily lived THE ROSE PRINCE—for so they called him—and his beautiful wife Princess Bluebell.

 

When in the fulness of time King Mago died—as all men must—they ruled as King and Queen. They ruled well and unselfishly, ever denying themselves and striving to make others good and happy.

 

They were blessed with peace.

 

 

 

THE INVISIBLE GIANT

 

Time goes on in the Country Under the Sunset much as it does here.

 

Many years passed away; and they wrought much change. And now we find a time when the people that lived in good King Mago’s time would hardly have known their beautiful Land if they had seen it again.

 

It had sadly changed indeed. No longer was there the same love or the same reverence towards the king—no longer was there perfect peace. People had become more selfish and more greedy, and had tried to grasp all they could for themselves. There were some very rich and there were many poor. Most of the beautiful gardens were laid waste. Houses had grown up close round the palace; and in some of these dwelt many persons who could only afford to pay for part of a house.

 

All the beautiful Country was sadly changed, and changed was the life of the dwellers in it. The people had almost forgotten Prince Zaphir, who was dead many, many years ago; and no more roses were spread on the pathways. Those who lived now in the Country Under the Sunset laughed at the idea of more Giants, and they did not fear them because they did not see them. Some of them said,

 

“Tush! what can there be to fear? Even if there over were giants there are none now.”

 

And so the people sang and danced and feasted as before, and thought only of themselves. The Spirits that guarded the Land were very, very sad. Their great white shadowy wings drooped as they stood at their posts at the Portals of the Land. They hid their faces, and their eyes were dim with continuous weeping, so that they heeded not if any evil thing went by them. They tried to make the people think of their evil-doing; but they could not leave their posts, and the people heard their moaning in the night season and said,

 

“Listen to the sighing of the breeze; how sweet it is!”

 

So is it ever with us also, that when we hear the wind sighing and moaning and sobbing round our houses in the lonely nights, we do not think our Angels may be sorrowing for our misdeeds, but only that there is a storm coming. The Angels wept evermore, and they felt the sorrow of dumbness—for though they could speak, those they spoke to would not hear.

 

Whilst the people laughed at the idea of Giants, there was one old man who shook his head, and made answer to them, when he heard them, and said:

 

“Death has many children, and there are Giants in the marshes still. You may not see them, perhaps—but they are there, and the only bulwark of safety is in a land of patient, faithful hearts.”

 

The name of this good old man was Knoal, and he lived in a house built of great blocks of stone, in the middle of a wild place far from the city.

 

In the city there were many great old houses, storey upon storey high; and in these houses lived many poor people. The higher you went up the great steep stairs the poorer were the people that lived there, so that in the garrets were some so poor that when the morning came they did not know whether they should have anything to eat the whole long day. This was very, very sad, and gentle children would have wept if they had seen their pain.

 

In one of these garrets there lived all alone a little maiden called Zaya. She was an orphan, for her father had died many years before, and her poor mother, who had toiled long and wearily for her dear little daughter—her only child—had died also not long since.

 

Poor little Zaya had wept so bitterly when she saw her dear mother lying dead, and she had been so sad and sorry for a long time, that she quite forgot that she had no means of living. However, the poor people who lived in the house had given her part of their own food, so that she did not starve.

 

Then after awhile she had tried to work for herself and earn her own living. Her mother had taught her to make flowers out of paper; so that she made a lot of flowers, and when she had a full basket she took them into the street and sold them. She made flowers of many kinds, roses and lilies, and violets, and snowdrops, and primroses, and mignonette, and many beautiful sweet flowers that only grow in the Country Under the Sunset. Some of them she could make without any pattern, but others she could not, so when she wanted a pattern she took her basket of paper and scissors, and paste, and brushes, and all the things she used, and went into the garden which a kind lady owned, where there grew many beautiful flowers. There she sat down and worked away, looking at the flowers she wanted.

 

Sometimes she was very sad, and her tears fell thick and fast as she thought of her dear dead mother. Often she seemed to feel that her mother was looking down at her, and to see her tender smile in the sunshine on the water; then her heart was glad, and she sang so sweetly that the birds came around her and stopped their own singing to listen to her.

 

She and the birds grew great friends, and sometimes when she had sung a song they would all cry out together, as they sat round her in a ring, in a few notes that seemed to say quite plainly:

 

“Sing to us again. Sing to us again.”

 

So she would sing again. Then she would ask them to sing, and they would sing till there was quite a concert. After a while the birds knew her so well that they would come into her room, and they even built their nests there, and they followed her wherever she went. The people used to say:

 

“Look at the girl with the birds; she must be half a bird herself, for see how the birds know and love her.” From so many people coming to say things like this, some silly people actually believed that she was partly a bird, and they shook their heads when wise people laughed at them, and said:

 

“Indeed she must be; listen to her singing; her voice is sweeter even than the birds.”

 

So a nickname was applied to her, and naughty boys called it after her in the street, and the nickname was “Big Bird”. But Zaya did not mind the name; and although often naughty boys said it to her, meaning to cause her pain, she did not dislike it, but the contrary, for she so gloried in the love and trust of her little sweet-voiced pets that she wished to be thought like them.

 

Indeed it would be well for some naughty little boys and girls if they were as good and harmless as the little birds that work all day long for their helpless baby birds, building nests and bringing food, and sitting so patiently hatching their little speckled eggs.

 

One evening Zaya sat alone in her garret very sad and lonely. It was a lovely summer’s evening, and she sat in the window looking out over the city. She could see over the many streets towards the great cathedral whose spire towered aloft into the sky higher by far even than the great tower of the king’s palace. There was hardly a breath of wind, and the smoke went up straight from the chimneys, getting further and fainter till it was lost altogether.

 

Zaya was very sad. For the first time for many days her birds were all away from her at once, and she did not know where they had gone. It seemed to her as if they had deserted her, and she was so lonely, poor little maid, that she wept bitter tears. She was thinking of the story which long ago her dead mother had told her, how Prince Zaphir had slain the Giant, and she wondered what the prince was like, and thought how happy the people must have been when Zaphir and Bluebell were king and queen. Then she wondered if there were any hungry children in those good days, and if, indeed, as the people said, there were no more Giants. So she went on with her work before the open window.

 

Presently she looked up from her work and gazed across the city. There she saw a terrible thing—something so terrible that she gave a low cry of fear and wonder, and leaned out of the window, shading her eyes with her hands to see more clearly.

 

In the sky beyond the city she saw a vast shadowy Form with its arms raised. It was shrouded in a great misty robe that covered it, fading away into air so that she could only see the face and the grim, spectral hands.

 

The Form was so mighty that the city below it seemed like a child’s toy. It was still far off the city.

 

The little maid’s heart seemed to stand still with fear as she thought to herself, “The Giants, then, are not dead. This is another of them.”

 

Quickly she ran down the high stairs and out into the street. There she saw some people, and cried to them,

 

“Look! look! the Giant, the Giant!” and pointed towards the Form which she still saw moving onwards to the city.

 

The people looked up, but they could not see anything, and they laughed and said,

 

“The child is mad.”

 

Then poor little Zaya was more than ever frightened, and ran down the street crying out still,

 

“Look, look! the Giant, the Giant!” But no one heeded her, and all said, “The child is mad,” and they went on their own ways.

 

Then the naughty boys came around her and cried out,

 

“Big Bird has lost her mates. She sees a bigger bird in the sky, and she wants it.” And they made rhymes about her, and sang them as they danced round.

 

Zaya ran away from them; and she hurried right through the city, and out into the country beyond it, for she still saw the great Form before her in the air.

 

As she went on, and got nearer and nearer to the Giant, it grew a little darker. She could see only the clouds; but still there was visible the form of a Giant hanging dimly in the air.

 

A cold mist closed around her as the Giant appeared to come onwards towards her. Then she thought of all the poor people in the city, and she hoped that the Giant would spare them, and she knelt down before him and lifted up her hands appealingly, and cried aloud:

 

“Oh, great Giant! spare them, spare them!”

 

But the Giant moved onwards still as though he never heard. She cried aloud all the more,

 

“Oh, great Giant! spare them, spare them!” And she bowed her head and wept, and the Giant still, though very slowly, moved onward towards the city.

 

There was an old man not far off standing at the door of a small house built of great stones, but the little maid saw him not. His face wore a look of fear and wonder, and when he saw the child kneel and raise her hands, he drew nigh and listened to her voice. When he heard her say, “Oh, great Giant!” he murmured to himself,

 

“It is then even as I feared. There are more Giants, and truly this is another.” He looked upwards, but he saw nothing, and he murmured again,

 

“I see not, yet this child can see; and yet I feared, for something told me that there was danger. Truly knowledge is blinder than innocence.”

 

The little maid, still not knowing there was any human being near her, cried out again, with a great cry of anguish:

 

“Oh, do not, do not, great Giant, do them harm. If someone must suffer, let it be me. Take me, I am willing to die, but spare them. Spare them, great Giant and do with me even as thou wilt.” But the giant heeded not.

 

And Knoal—for he was the old man—felt his eyes fill with tears, and he said to himself,

 

“Oh, noble child, how brave she is, she would sacrifice herself!” And coming closer to her, he put his hand upon her head.

 

Zaya, who was again bowing her head, started and looked round when she felt the touch. However, when she saw that it was Knoal, she was comforted, for she knew how wise and good he was, and felt that if any person could help her, he could. So she clung to him, and hid her face in his breast; and he stroked her hair and comforted her. But still he could see nothing.

 

The cold mist swept by, and when Zaya looked up, she saw that the Giant had passed by, and was moving onward to the city.

 

“Come with me, my child,” said the old man; and the two arose, and went into the dwelling built of great stones.

 

When Zaya entered, she started, for lo! the inside was as a Tomb. The old man felt her shudder, for he still held her close to him, and he said,

 

“Weep not, little one, and fear not. This place reminds me and all who enter it, that to the tomb we must all come at the last. Fear it not, for it has grown to be a cheerful home to me.”

 

Then the little maid was comforted, and began to examine all around her more closely. She saw all sorts of curious instruments, and many strange and many common herbs and simples hung to dry in bunches on the walls. The old man watched her in silence till her fear was gone, and then he said:

 

“My child, saw you the features of the Giant as he passed?”

 

She answered, “Yes.”

 

“Can you describe his face and form to me?” he asked again.

 

Whereupon she began to tell him all that she had seen. How the Giant was so great that all the sky seemed filled. How the great arms were outspread, veiled in his robe, till far away the shroud was lost in air. How the face was as that of a strong man, pitiless, yet without malice; and that the eyes were blind.

 

The old man shuddered as he heard, for he knew that the Giant was a very terrible one; and his heart wept for the doomed city where so many would perish in the midst of their sin.

 

They determined to go forth and warn again the doomed people; and making no delay, the old man and the little maid hurried towards the city.

 

As they left the small house, Zaya saw the Giant before them, moving towards the city. They hurried on; and when they had passed through the cold mist, Zaya looked back and saw the Giant behind them.

 

Presently they came to the city.

 

It was a strange sight to see that old man and that little maid flying to tell people of the terrible Plague that was coming upon them. The old man’s long white beard and hair and the child’s golden locks were swept behind them in the wind, so quick they came. The faces of both were white as death. Behind them, seen only to the eyes of the pure-hearted little maid when she looked back, came ever onward at slow pace the spectral Giant that hung a dark shadow in the evening air.

 

But those in the city never saw the Giant; and when the old man and the little maid warned them, still they heeded not, but scoffed and jeered at them, and said,

 

“Tush! there are no Giants now”; and they went on their way, laughing and jeering.

 

Then the old man came and stood on a raised place amongst them, on the lowest step of the great fountain with the little maid by his side, and he spake thus:

 

“Oh, people, dwellers in this Land, be warned in time. This pure-hearted child, round whose sweet innocence even the little birds that fear men and women gather in peace, has this night seen in the sky the form of a Giant that advances ever onward menacingly to our city. Believe, oh, believe; and be warned, whilst ye may. To myself even as to you the sky is a blank; and yet see that I believe. For listen to me: all unknowing that another Giant had invaded our land, I sat pensive in my dwelling; and, without cause or motive, there came into my heart a sudden fear for the safety of our city. I arose and looked north and south and east and west, and on high and below, but never a sign of danger could I see. So I said to myself,

 

‘Mine eyes are dim with a hundred years of watching and waiting, and so I cannot see.’ And yet, oh people, dwellers in this land, though that century has dimmed mine outer eyes, still it has quickened mine inner eyes—the eyes of my soul. Again I went forth, and lo! this little maid knelt and implored a Giant, unseen by me, to spare the city; but he heard her not, or, if he heard, answered her not, and she fell prone. So hither we come to warn you. Yonder, says the maid, he passes onward to the city. Oh, be warned; be warned in time.”

 

Still the people heeded not; but they scoffed and jeered the more, and said,

 

“Lo, the maid and the old man both are mad”; and they passed onwards to their homes—to dancing and feasting as before.

 

Then the naughty boys came and mocked them, and said that Zaya had lost her birds, and gone mad; and they made songs, and sang them as they danced round.

 

Zaya was so sorely grieved for the poor people that she heeded not the cruel boys. Seeing that she did not heed them, some of them got still more rude and wicked; they went a little way off, and threw things at them, and mocked them all the more.

 

Then, sad of heart, the old man arose, and took the little maid by the hand, and brought her away into the wilderness; and lodged her with him in the house built with great stones. That night Zaya slept with the sweet smell of the drying herbs all around her; and the old man held her hand that she might have no fear.

 

In the morning Zaya arose betimes, and awoke the old man, who had fallen asleep in his chair.

 

She went to the doorway and looked out, and then a thrill of gladness came upon her heart; for outside the door, as though waiting to see her, sat all her little birds, and many, many more. When the birds saw the little maid they sang a few loud joyous notes, and flew about foolishly for very joy—some of them fluttering their wings and looking so funny that she could not help laughing a little.

 

When Knoal and Zaya had eaten their frugal breakfast and given to their little feathered friends, they set out with sorrowful hearts to visit the city, and to try once more to warn the people. The birds flew around them as they went, and to cheer them sang as joyously as they could, although their little hearts were heavy.

 

As they walked they saw before them the great shadowy Giant; and he had now advanced to the very confines of the city.

 

Once again they warned the people, and great crowds came around them, but only mocked them more than ever; and naughty boys threw stones and sticks at the little birds and killed some of them. Poor Zaya wept bitterly, and Knoal’s heart was very sad. After a time, when they had moved from the fountain, Zaya looked up and started with joyous surprise, for the great shadowy Giant was nowhere to be seen. She cried out in joy, and the people laughed and said,

 

“Cunning child! she sees that we will not believe her, and she pretends that the Giant has gone.”

 

They surrounded her, jeering, and some of them said,

 

“Let us put her under the fountain and duck her, as a lesson to liars who would frighten us.” Then they approached her with menaces. She clung close to Knoal, who had looked terribly grave when she had said she did not see the Giant any longer, and who was now as if in a dream, thinking. But at her touch he seemed to wake up; and he spoke sternly to the people, and rebuked them. But they cried out on him also, and said that as he had aided Zaya in her lie he should be ducked also, and they advanced to lay hands on them both.

 

The hand of one who was a ringleader was already outstretched, when he gave a low cry, and pressed his hand to his side; and, whilst the others turned to look at him in wonder, he cried out in great pain, and screamed horribly. Even whilst the people looked, his face grew blacker and blacker, and he fell down before them, and writhed a while in pain, and then died.

 

All the people screamed out in terror, and ran away, crying aloud:

 

“The Giant! the Giant! he is indeed amongst us!” They feared all the more that they could not see him.

 

But before they could leave the market-place, in the centre of which was the fountain, many fell dead and their corpses lay.

 

There in the centre knelt the old man and the little maid, praying; and the birds sat perched around the fountain, mute and still, and there was no sound heard save the cries of the people far off. Then their wailing sounded louder and louder, for the Giant-Plague was amongst and around them, and there was no escaping, for it was now too late to fly.

 

Alas! in the Country Under the Sunset there was much weeping that day; and when the night came there was little sleep, for there was fear in some hearts and pain in others. None were still except the dead, who lay stark about the city, so still and lifeless that even the cold light of the moon and the shadows of the drifting clouds moving over them could not make them seem as though they lived.

 

And for many a long day there was pain and grief and death in the Country Under the Sunset.

 

Knoal and Zaya did all they could to help the poor people, but it was hard indeed to aid them, for the unseen Giant was amongst them, wandering through the city to and fro, so that none could tell where he would lay his ice-cold hand.

 

Some people fled away out of the city; but it was little use, for go how they would and fly never so fast they were still within the grasp of the unseen Giant. Ever and anon he turned their warm hearts to ice with his breath and his touch, and they fell dead.

 

Some, like those within the city, were spared, and of these some perished of hunger, and the rest crept sadly back to the city and lived or died amongst their friends. And it was all, oh! so sad, for there was nothing but grief and fear and weeping from morn till night.

 

Now, see how Zaya’s little bird friends helped her in her need.

 

They seemed to see the coming of the Giant when no one—not even the little maid herself—could see anything, and they managed to tell her when there was danger just as well as though they could talk.

 

At first Knoal and she went home every evening to the house built of great stones to sleep, and came again to the city in the morning, and stayed with the poor sick people, comforting them and feeding them, and giving them medicine which Knoal, from his great wisdom, knew would do them good. Thus they saved many precious human lives, and those who were rescued were very thankful, and henceforth ever after lived holier and more unselfish lives.

 

After a few days, however, they found that the poor sick people needed help even more at night than in the day, and so they came and lived in the city altogether, helping the stricken folk day and night.

 

At the earliest dawn Zaya would go forth to breathe the morning air; and there, just waked from sleep, would be her feathered friends waiting for her. They sang glad songs of joy, and came and perched on her shoulders and her head, and kissed her. Then, if she went to go towards any place where, during the night, the Plague had laid his deadly hand, they would flutter before her, and try to impede her, and scream out in their own tongue,

 

“Go back! go back!”

 

They pecked of her bread and drank of her cup before she touched them; and when there was danger—for the cold hand of the Giant was placed everywhere—they would cry,

 

“No, no!” and she would not touch the food, or let anyone else do so. Often it happened that, even whilst it pecked at the bread or drank of the cup, a poor little bird would fall down and flutter its wings and die; but all they that died, did so with a chirp of joy, looking at their little mistress, for whom they had gladly perished. Whenever the little birds found that the bread and the cup were pure and free from danger, they would look up at Zaya jauntily, and flap their wings and try to crow, and seemed so saucy that the poor sad little maiden would smile.

 

There was one old bird that always took a second, and often a great many pecks at the bread when it was good, so that he got quite a hearty meal; and sometimes he would go on feeding till Zaya would Shake her finger at him and say,

 

“Greedy!” and he would hop away as if he had done nothing.

 

There was one other dear little bird—a robin, with a breast as red as the sunset—that loved Zaya more than one can think. When he tried the food and found that it was safe to eat, he would take a tiny piece in his bill, and fly up and put it in her mouth.

 

Every little bird that drank from Zaya’s cup and found it good raised its head to say grace; and ever since then the little birds do the same, and they never forget to say their grace—as some thankless children do.

 

Thus Knoal and Zaya lived, although many around them died, and the Giant still remained in the city. So many people died that one began to wonder that so many were left; for it was only when the town began to get thinned that people thought of the vast numbers that had lived in it.

 

Poor little Zaya had got so pale and thin that she looked a shadow, and Knoal’s form was bent more with the sufferings of a few weeks than it had been by his century of age. But although the two were weary and worn, they still kept on their good work of aiding the sick.

 

Many of the little birds were dead.

 

One morning the old man was very weak—so weak that he could hardly stand. Zaya got frightened about him, and said,

 

“Are you ill, father?” for she always called him father now.

 

He answered her in a voice alas! hoarse and low, but very, very tender:

 

“My child, I fear the end is coming: take me home, that there I may die.”

 

At his words Zaya gave a low cry and fell on her knees beside him, and buried her head in his bosom and wept bitterly, whilst she hugged him close. But she had little time for weeping, for the old man struggled up to his feet, and, seeing that he wanted aid, she dried her tears and helped him.

 

The old man took his staff, and with Zaya helping to support him, got as far as the fountain in the midst of the market-place; and there, on the lowest step, he sank down as though exhausted. Zaya felt him grow cold as ice, and she knew that the chilly hand of the Giant had been laid upon him.

 

Then, without knowing why, she looked up to where she had last seen the Giant as Knoal and she had stood beside the fountain. And lo! as she looked, holding Knoal’s hand, she saw the shadowy form of the terrible Giant who had been so long invisible growing more and more clearly out of the clouds.

 

His face was stern as ever, and his eyes were still blind.

 

Zaya cried to the Giant, still holding Knoal tightly by the hand:

 

“Not him, not him! Oh, mighty Giant! not him! not him!” and she bowed her head and wept.

 

There was such. anguish in her hart that to the blind eyes of the shadowy Giant came tears that fell like dew on the forehead of the old man. Knoal spake to Zaya:

 

“Grieve not, my child. I am glad that you see the Giant again, for I have hope that he will leave our city free from woe. I am the last victim, and I gladly die.”

 

Then Zaya knelt to the Giant, and said:

 

“Spare him! oh! spare him and take me! but spare him! spare him!”

 

The old man raised himself upon his elbow as he lay, and spake to her:

 

“Grieve not, my little one, and repine not. Sooth I know that you would gladly give your life for mine. But we must give for the good of others that which is dearer to us than our lives. Bless you, my little one, and be good. Farewell! farewell!”

 

As he spake the last word he grew cold as death, and his spirit passed away.

 

Zaya knelt down and prayed; and when she looked up she saw the shadowy Giant moving away.

 

The Giant turned as he passed on, and Zaya saw that his blind eyes looked towards her as though he were trying to see. He raised the great shadowy arms, draped still in his shroud of mist, as though blessing her; and she thought that the wind that came by her moaning bore the echo of the words:

 

“Innocence and devotion save the land.”

 

Presently she saw far off the great shadowy Giant Plague moving away to the border of the Land, and passing between the Guardian Spirits out through the Portal into the deserts beyond—forever.

 

 

 

THE SHADOW BUILDER

 

The lonely Shadow Builder watches ever in his lonely abode.

 

The walls are of cloud, and round and through them, changing ever as they come, pass the dim shades of all the things that have been.

 

This endless, shadowy, wheeling, moving circle is called The PROCESSION OF THE DEAD PAST. In it everything is just as it has been in the great world. There is no change in any part; for each moment, as it passes, sends its shade into this dim Procession. Here there are moving people and events—cares—thoughts—follies—crimes—joys—sorrows—places—scenes—hopes and fears, and all that make the sum of life with all its lights and shadows. Every picture in nature where shadow dwells—and that is every one—has here its dim phantom. Here are all pictures that are most fair and most sad to see—the passing gloom over a sunny cornfield when with the breeze comes the dark sway of the full ears as they bend and rise; the ripple on the glassy surface of a summer sea; the dark expanse that lies beyond and without the broad track of moonlight on the water; the lacework of glare and gloom that flickers over the road as one passes in autumn when the moonlight is falling through the naked branches of overhanging trees; the cool, restful shade under the thick trees in summer timewhen the sun is flaming down on the haymaker at work; the dark clouds that flit across the moon, hiding her light, which leaps out again hollowly and coldly; the gloom of violet and black that rises on the horizon when rain is near in summer time; the dark recesses and gloomy caverns where the waterfall hurls itself shrieking into the pool below,—all these shadow pictures, and a thousand others that come by night and day, circle in the Procession among the things that have been.

 

Here, too, every act that any human being does, every thought—good and bad—every wish, every hope—everything that is secret—is pictured, and becomes a lasting record which cannot be blotted out; for at any time the Shadow Builder may summon with his special hand any one—sleeping or waking—to behold what is pictured of the Dead Past, in the dim, mysterious distance which encompasses his lonely abode.

 

In this ever-moving Procession of the Dead Past there is but one place where the circling phantoms are not, and where the cloudy walls are lost. There is here a great blackness, dense and deep, and full of gloom, and behind which lies the great real world without.

 

This blackness is called THE GATE OF DREAD.

 

The Procession afar off takes from it its course, and when passing on its way it circles again towards the darkness, the shadowy phantoms melt again into the mysterious gloom.

 

Sometimes the Shadow Builder passes through the vapoury walls of his abode and mingles in the ranks of the Procession; and sometimes a figure summoned by the wave of his spectral hand, with silent footfall stalks out of the mist and pauses beside him. Sometimes from a sleeping body the Shadow Builder summons a dreaming soul; then for a time the quick and the dead stand face to face, and men call it a dream of the Past. When this happens, friend meets friend or foe meets foe; and over the soul of the dreamer comes a happy memory long vanished, or the troubled agony of remorse. But no spectre passes through the misty wall, save to the Shadow Builder alone; and no human being—even in a dream—can enter the dimness where the Procession moves along.

 

So lives the lonely Shadow Builder amid his gloom; and his habitation is peopled by a spectral past.

 

His only people are of the past; for though he creates shadows they dwell not with him. His children go out at once to their homes in the big world, and he knows them no more till, in the fulness of time, they join the Precession of the Dead Past, and reach, in turn, the misty walls of his home.

 

For the Shadow Builder there is not night nor day, nor season of the year; but for ever round his lonely dwelling passes the silent Procession of the Dead Past.

 

Sometimes he sits and muses with eyes fixed and staring, and seeing nothing; and then out at sea there is a cloudless calm or the black gloom of night. Towards the far north or south for long months together he never looks, and then the stillness of the arctic night reigns alone. When the dreamy eyes again become conscious, the hard silence softens into the sounds of life and light.

 

Sometimes, with set frown on his face and a hard look in the eyes, which flash and gleam dark lightnings, the Shadow Builder sways resolute to his task, and round the world the shadows troop thick and fast. Over the sea sweeps the blackness of the tempest; the dim lights flicker in the cots away upon the lonely moors; and even in the palaces of kings dark shadows pass and fly and glide over all things—yea, through the hearts of the kings themselves—for the Shadow Builder is then dread to look upon.

 

Now and again, with long whiles between, the Shadow Builder as he completes his task lingers over the work as though he loves it. His heart yearns to the children of his will; and he fain would keep even one shadow to be a companion to him in his loneliness. But the voice of the Great Present is ever ringing in his ears at such times, enjoining him to haste. The giant voice booms out,

 

“Onwards, onwards.”

 

Whilst the words ring in the ears of the Shadow Builder the completed shadow fades from beneath his hands, and passing unseen through the Gate of Dread, mingles in the great world without, in which it is to play its part. When, in the fulness of time, this shadow comes into the ranks of the Procession of the Dead Past, the Shadow Builder knows it and remembers it; but in his dead heart there is no gleam of loving remembrance, for he can only love the Present, that slips ever from his grasp.

 

And oh! it is a lonely life which the Shadow Builder lives; and in the weird, sad, solemn, mysterious, silent gloom which encompasses him, he toils on ever at his lonely task.

 

But sometimes too the Shadow Builder has his joys. Baby shadows spring up, and sunny pictures, alight with sweetness and love, glide from under his touch, and are gone.

 

Before the Shadow Builder at his task lies a space wherein is neither light nor darkness, neither joy nor gloom. Whatsoever touches it fades away as sand heaps melt before the incoming tide, or like words writ on water. In it all things lose their being and become part of the great Is-Not; and this terrible line of mystery is called THE THRESHOLD. Whatsoever passes into it disappears; and whatsoever emerges from it is complete as it comes and passes into the great world as a thing to run its course. Before the Threshold the Shadow Builder himself is as naught; and in its absorbing might there is that which he cannot sway or rule.

 

When at his task he summons; and out of the impalpable nothingness of the Threshold there comes the object of his will. Sometimes the shadow bursts full and freshly and is suddenly lost in the gloom of the Gate of Dread; and sometimes it grows softly and faintly, getting fuller as it comes, and so melts away into the gloom.

 

The lonely Shadow Builder is working in his lonely abode; around him, beyond the vapoury walls, pressing onward as ever, is the circling Procession of the Dead Past. Storm and calm have each been summoned from the Threshold, and have gone; and now in this calm, wistful moment the Shadow Builder pauses at his task, and wishes and wishes till, to his lonely longing wistfulness, the nothingness of THE THRESHOLD sends an answer.

 

Forth from it grows the shadow of a Baby’s foot, stepping with tottering gait out towards the world; then follows the little round body and the big head, and the Baby shadow moves onwards, swaying and balancing with uncertain step. Swift behind it come the Mother’s hands stretched out in loving helpfulness, lest it should fall. One step—two—it totters, and is falling; but the Mother’s arms are swift, and the gentle hands bear it firmly up. The Child turns and toddles again into its Mother’s arms.

 

Again it strives to walk; and again the Mother’s watchful hands are ready. This time it needs not the help; but when the race is over, the shadow Child turns again lovingly to its Mother’s breast.

 

Once again it strives, and it walks boldly and firmly; but the Mother’s hands quiver as they hang by her side, whilst a tear sweeps down the cheek, although that cheek is gladdened by a smile.

 

The Baby shadow turns, and goes a little way off. Then over the misty Nothing on which the shadows fall, flits the flickering shadow of a tiny hand waving; and onward, with firm tread, the shadow of the little feet moves out into the misty gloom of the Gate of Dread, and passes away.

 

But the Mother’s shadow moves not. The hands are pressed to the heart, the loving face is upturned in prayer, and down the cheeks roll great tears. Then her head bows lower as the little feet pass beyond her ken; and lower and lower bends the weeping Mother till she lies prone. Even as he looks, the Shadow Builder sees the shadows fade away, away, and the terrible nothingness of the Threshold only is there.

 

Then presently in the Procession of the Dead Past circle round the misty walls the shadows that had been—the Mother and the Child.

 

Now from out the Threshold steps a Youth with brave and buoyant tread; and as on the misty veil his shadow falls, the dress and bearing proclaim him a sailor lad. Close to this shadow comes another—the Mother’s. Older and thinner she is, as if with watching, but still the same. The old loving hands array prettily the knotted kerchief hanging loosely on the open throat; and the Boy’s hands reach out, take the Mother’s face between them, and draw it forward for a kiss. The Mother’s arms fly round her Son, and in a close embrace they cling.

 

The Mother kisses her Boy again and again; and together they stand, as though to part were impossible.

 

Suddenly the Boy turns as though he heard a call. The Mother clings closer. He seems to remonstrate tenderly; but the loving arms hold tighter, till with gentle force he tears himself away. The Mother takes a step forward, and holds out the thin hands trembling in an agony of grief. The Boy stops; to one knee he bends, then, dashing away his tears, he waves his cap, and hurries on, while once again the Mother sinks to her knees, and weeps.

 

And so, slowly, once again, the shadows of the Mother and the Child grown greater in the fulness of time, pass out through the Gate of Dread, and circle among the phantoms in the Procession of the Dead Past—the Mother following hard upon the speeding footsteps of her Son.

 

In the long pause that follows, whilst the Shadow Builder watches, all seems changed. Out from the Threshold comes a mist, such as hangs sometimes over the surface of a tropic sea.

 

By little and little the mist rolls away, and forth advances, black and great, the prow of a mighty vessel. The shadows of the great sails lie faintly in the cool depths of the sea, as the sails flap idly in the breezeless air. Over the bulwark lean listless figures waiting for a wind to come. The mist on the sea melts slowly away; and by the dark shadows of men sheltering from the sunny glare and fanning themselves with their broad sailor hats, it is plain that the heat is terrible.

 

Now from far off, behind the ship, comes up over the horizon a black cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, but sweeping on with terrible speed. Also, from far away, before her course, rises the edge of a coral reef, scarcely seen above the glassy water, but darkling the depths below.

 

Those on board see neither of these things, for they shelter under their awnings, and sigh for cool breezes.

 

Quicker and quicker comes the dark cloud, sweeping faster and faster, and growing blacker and blacker and vaster and vaster as it comes.

 

Then those on board seem to know the danger. Hurried shadows fly along the decks; up the shadows of the ladders hurry shadows of men. The flapping of the great sails ceases as one by one the willing hands draw them in.

 

But quicker than the hands of men can work sweeps the tempest.

 

Onwards it rushes, and terrible things come close behind; black darkness—towering waves that break in fury and fly aloft—the spume of the sea swept heavenwards—the great clouds wheeling in fury;—and in the centre of these flying, whirling, maddening shadows, rocks the shadow of the ship.

 

As the black darkness of the heavens encompasses all, the rush of shadowy storm sweeps through the Gate of Dread.

 

As he waits and looks and sees the cyclone whirling amongst the shadows in the Procession of the Dead Past, the Shadow Builder, even in his dead heart, feels a weight of pain for the brave Sailor Boy tossed on the deep, and the anxious Mother sitting lonely at home.

 

Again from the Threshold passes a shadow, growing deeper as it comes, but very, very faint at first; for here the sun is strong, and there is but little room for shadows on the bare rock which seems to rise from the glare and the glitter of the sea deeps round.

 

On the lonely rock a Sailor Boy stands; thin and gaunt he is, and his clothing is but a few rags. Sheltering his eyes with his hand, he looks out to sea, where, afar off, the cloudless sky sinks to meet the burning sea; but no speck over the horizon—no distant glitter of a white sail—gives him a ray of hope.

 

Long, long he peers, till, wearied out, he sits down on the rock and bows his head as if in despair for a time. As the sea falls, he gathers from the rock the shellfish which has come during the tide.

 

So the day wears on, and the night comes; and in the tropic sky the stars hang like lamps.

 

In the cool silence of the night the forlorn Sailor Boy rests—sleeps, and dreams. His dreams are of home—of loving arms stretched out to meet him—of banquets spread—of green fields and waving branches, and the sheltering happiness of his mother’s love. For in his sleep the Shadow Builder summons his dreaming soul, and shows him all these blessings passing ceaselessly in the Procession of the Dead Past, and so comforts him lest he should despair and die.

 

Thus wear on many weary days; and the sailor-boy lingers on the lonely rock.

 

Afar off he can just see a hill that seems to rise over the Water. One morning when the blackening sky and the sultry air promise a storm, the distant mountain seems nearer; and he thinks that he will try to reach it by swimming.

 

Whilst he is thus resolving, the storm rushes up over the horizon and sweeps him from the lonely rock. He swims with a bold heart; but just as his strength is done, he is cast by the fury of the storm on a beach of soft sand. The storm passes on its way and the waves leave him high and dry. He goes inland, where, in a cave in the rock, he finds shelter, and sinks to sleep.

 

The Shadow Builder, as he sees all this happen in the shadows on the clouds, and land, and sea, rejoices in his dead heart that the lonely mother perhaps will not wait in vain.

 

So time wears on, and many, many weary days pass. The Boy becomes a young Man, living in the lonely island; his beard has grown, and he is clothed in a dress of leaves. All day long, save when he is not working to get food to eat, he watches from the mountain top for a ship to come. As he stands looking out over the sea, the sun casts his shadow down the hillside, so that at evening, as it sinks low in the waters, the shadow of the lonely Sailor grows longer and longer, till at the last it makes a dark streak down the hill side, even to the water’s edge.

 

The lonely Man’s heart grows heavier and heavier as he waits and watches, whilst the weary time passes and the countless days and nights come and go.

 

Time comes when he begins to get feebler and feebler. At last he grows sick to death, and lingers long a-dying.

 

Then these shadows pass away.

 

Out from the Threshold grows the shadow of an old woman, thin and worn, sitting in a lonely cottage on a jutting cliff. In the window a lamp burns in the night time to welcome the Lost One should he ever return, and to guide him to his Mother’s home. By the lamp the Mother watches, till, wearied out, she sinks to sleep.

 

As she sleeps the Shadow Builder summons her sleeping soul with the wave of his spectral hand.

 

She stands beside him in the lonely abode, whilst round them through the misty walls passes onward the Procession of the Dead Past.

 

As she looks, the Shadow Builder lifts his spectral hand to point to the vision of her Son.

 

But the Mother’s eyes are quicker than even the spectral hand that evokes all the shadows of the rushing storm, and ere the hand is raised she sees her Son among the Shadows of the Past. The Mother’s heart is filled with unspeakable joy, as she sees him alive and hale, although a prisoner amongst the tropic seas.

 

But alas! she knows not that in the dim Procession pass only the things that have been; and that although in the past the lonely Sailor lived, in the present—even at the moment—he may be dying or dead.

 

The Mother stretches out her arms to her Boy; but even as she does, her sleeping soul loses sight of the dim Procession and vanishes from the Shadow Builder’s lonely abode. For when she knows that her Boy is alive, there follows a great pain that he is lonely and waits and watches for help; and the quick heart of the Mother is overcome with grief, and she wakes with a bitter cry.

 

Then as she rises and looks past the dying lamp out into the dawn, the Mother feels that she has seen a vision of her son in sleep, and that he lives and waits for help; and her heart glows with a great resolve.

 

Quickly then from the Threshold float many shadows.

 

A lonely Mother speeding with flying feet to a distant city.

 

Grave men refusing, but not unkindly, a kneeling woman making an appeal with uplifted hands.

 

Hard men spurning a praying Mother from their doors.

 

A wild rabble of bad and thoughtless boys and girls hounding through the streets a hurrying woman.

 

A shadow of pain on a Mother’s heart.

 

The upcoming of a black cloud of despair, but which hangs far off—for it cannot advance into the bright sunlight of the Mother’s resolve.

 

Weary days with their own myriad shadows.

 

Lonely nights—black want—cold—hunger and pain; and through all these darkening shadows the swift moving shadow of the Mother’s flying feet.

 

A long long line of such pictures come ever anigh in the Procession, till the dead heart of the Shadow Builder grows icy, and his burning eyes look out savagely on all who give pain and trial to the Mother’s faithful heart.

 

And so all these shadows float out into a black mist, and are lost in the gloom of the Gate of Dread.

 

Another shadow grows out of the mist.—

 

An Old Man sits in his armchair. The firelight flickering throws his image, quaintly dancing, on the wall of the room. He is old, for the great shoulders are bowed, and the grand strong face is lined with years. There is another shadow in the room; it is the Mother’s—she is standing by the table, and is telling her story; her thin hands point away where in the distance she knows her Son is a prisoner in the lonely seas.

 

The Old Man rises; the enthusiasm of the Mother’s heart has touched him, and back to his memory rush the old love and energy and valour of his youth. The great hand rises, closes, and strikes the table with a mighty blow, as though declaring a binding promise. The Mother sinks to her knees,—she seizes the great hand and kisses it, and stands erect.

 

Other men come in—they receive orders—they hurry out.

 

Then come many shadows whose movement and swiftness and firm purpose mean life and hope.

 

At sunset, when the masts make long shadows on the harbour water, a big ship moves out on her journey to the tropic seas. Men’s shadows quickly flit up and down the rigging and along the decks.

 

As the shadows wheel round the capstan bar the anchor rises; and into the sunset passes the great vessel.

 

In the bow, like a figure of Hope, stands the Mother, gazing with eager eyes on the far-off horizon.

 

Then this shadow fades.

 

A great ship sweeps along with white sails swelling to the breeze; at the bow stands the Mother, gazing ever out into the distance before her.

 

Storms come and the ship flies before the blast; but she swerves not, for the Mother, with outstretched hand, points the way, and the helmsman swaying beside his wheel obeys the hand.

 

So this shadow also passes.

 

The shadows of days and nights come on in quick succession; and the Mother seeks ever for her Son.

 

So the records of the prosperous journey melt into a faint, dim, misty shadow through which one figure alone stands clear—the watching Mother at the vessel’s prow.

 

Now from the Threshold grow the shadows of the mountain island and of the ship drawing nigh. In the prow the Mother kneels, looking out and pointing. A boat is lowered. Men spring on board with eager feet; but before them all is the Mother. The boat nears the island; the water shallows, and on the hot white beach the men spring to land.

 

But in the boat’s prow still the Mother sits. In her long anxious hours of agony she has seen in her dreams her Son standing afar off and watching; she has seen him wave his arms with a great joy as the ship rises over the horizon’s edge; she has seen him standing on the beach waiting; she has seen him rushing through the surf so that the first thing that the lonely Sailor Boy should touch would be his Mother’s loving hands.

 

But alas! for her dreams. No figure with joyous waving arms stands on the summit of the mountain—no eager figure stands at the water’s edge or dashes to meet her through the surf. Her heart grows cold and chill with fear.

 

Has she indeed come too late?

 

The men leave the boat, comforting her as they go with shakings of the hand and kindly touches upon the shoulder. She motions them to haste and remains kneeling.

 

The time goes on. The men ascend the mountain; they search, but they find not the lost Sailor Boy, and with slow, halting feet they return to the boat.

 

The Mother hears them coming afar and rises to meet them. They hang their heads. The Mother’s arms go up, tossed aloft in the anguish of despair, and she sinks swooning in the boat.

 

The Shadow Builder in an instant summons her spirit from her senseless clay, and points to a figure passing, without movement, in the Procession of the Dead Past.

 

Then quicker than light the Mother’s soul flies back full of new-found joy.

 

She rises from the boat—she springs to land. The men follow wondering.

 

She rushes along the shore with flying feet; the sailors come close behind.

 

She stops opposite the entrance to a cave obscured with trailing brambles. Here, without turning, she motions to the men to wait. They pause and she passes within.

 

For a few moments grim darkness pours from the threshold; and then one sad, sad vision grows and passes.

 

A dim, dark cave—a worn man lying prone, and a Mother in anguish bending over the cold clay. On the icy breast she lays her hand; but alas! she cannot feel the beat of the heart she loves.

 

With a wild, heart-stricken gesture, she flings herself upon the body of her Son and holds it close, close—as though the clasp of a Mother were stronger than the grasp of Death.

 

The dead heart of the Shadow Builder is alive with pain as he turns away from the sad picture, and with anxious eyes looks where from behind the Gate of Dread, the Mother and Child must come to join the ever-swelling ranks of the Procession of the Dead Past.

 

Slowly, slowly comes the shadow of the clay cold Mariner passing on.

 

But swifter than light come the Mother’s flying feet. The arms so strong with love are stretched out—the thin hands grasp the passing shadow of her Son and tear him back beyond the Gate of Dread—to life—and liberty—and love.

 

The lonely Shadow Builder knows now that the Mother’s arms are stronger than the grasp of Death.

 

 

 

HOW 7 WENT MAD

 

On the bank of the river that flows through the Land there stands a beautiful palace, where one of the great men dwells.

 

The bank rises steep from the rushing water; and the great trees growing on the slope rise so high that their branches wave level with the palace turrets. It is a beautiful spot, where the grass is crisp and short and close like velvet, and as green as emerald. There the daisies shine like stars that have fallen, and lie scattered over the sward.

 

Many children have lived and grown to be men and women in the old palace, and they have had many pets. Amongst their pets have been many birds—for birds of all kinds love the place. In one corner is a spot which is called the Birds’ Burying Ground. Here all the pets are laid when they die; and the grass grows greenly here, and many flowers spring up among the monuments.

 

One of the boys that had here dwelt had once, as a pet, a raven. He found the bird, whose leg had been wounded, and took it home and nursed it till it grew well again; but the poor thing was lame.

 

Tineboy was the youth’s name; and the bird was called Mr. Daw. As you may imagine, the raven loved the boy and never left him. There was a cage for it in his bedroom, and there the bird went every night to roost when the sun went down. Birds go to bed quite regularly of their own accord; and if you wished to punish a bird you would make him get up. Birds are not like boys and girls. Just fancy punishing boys or girls by not letting them go to bed at sunset, or by preventing them getting up very early in the morning.

 

Well, when morning came this bird would get up and stretch himself, and wink his eyes, and give a good shake all over, and then feel quite awake and ready to begin the day.

 

A bird has a much easier time of it in getting up than a boy or a girl. Soap cannot get into its eye; or the comb will not stick in knots of hair, and its shoe-laces never get into black knots. This is because it does not use soap, or combs, or shoe-laces; if it did, perhaps it also would suffer.

 

When Mr. Daw had quite finished his own dressing, he would hop on the bed and try and wake his master and make him get up; but of the two to wake him was the easier task. When the boy went to school the bird would fly along the road beside him, and would sit near on a tree till school was over, and then would follow him home again in the same way.

 

Tineboy was very fond of Mr. Daw and he used sometimes to try to make him come into the schoolroom during school-hours. But the bird was very wise, and would not.

 

One day Tineboy was at his sums, and instead of attending to what he was doing, he kept trying to make Mr. Daw come in. The sum was “multiply 117,649 by 7.” Tineboy and Mr. Daw kept looking at one another. Tineboy made signals to the bird to come in. Mr. Daw, however, would not stir; he sat outside in the shade, for the day was very hot, and put his head on one side and looked in knowingly.

 

“Come in, Mr. Daw,” said Tineboy, “and help me to do this sum.’’ Mr. Daw only croaked.

 

“Seven times nine are seventy-seven, seven times nine are seventy-nine—no ninety-seven. Oh, I don’t know—I wish number 7 had never been invented,” said Tineboy.

 

“Croak;” said Mr. Daw.

 

The day was very hot and Tineboy was very sleepy. He thought that perhaps he would be able to do the sum better if he rested a little while, just to think; and so he put his head down on the table. He was not quite comfortable, for his forehead was on the 7, at least he thought it was; so he shifted it till it hung right down over the edge of the desk. Then, after a while, somehow, very queer things began to happen.

 

The Teacher was just going to tell them a story.

 

The scholars had all settled themselves down to listen; the Raven sat on the sill of the open window, put his head on one side, closed one eye—the eye nearest the school-room—so that they might think him asleep, and listened away harder than any of them.

 

The pupils were all happy—all except three. One because his leg went to sleep; another because she had her pocket full of curds and wanted to eat them, and couldn’t without being found out, and the curds were melting away; and the third, who was awfully sleepy, and awfully anxious to hear the story, and couldn’t do either because of the other.

 

The schoolmaster then began his story.

 

 

 

HOW POOR 7 WENT MAD

 

“The Alphabet Doctor—”

 

Here he was interrupted by Tineboy, who said—

 

“What is an Alphabet Doctor?”

 

“An Alphabet Doctor,” said the schoolmaster, “is the doctor who attends to the sicknesses and diseases of the letters of the Alphabet.”

 

“How have Alphabets diseases and sicknesses?” asked Tineboy.

 

“Oh, they have plenty. Do you never make a crooked o or a capital A with a lame leg, or a T that is not straight in its back?”

 

There was a chorus from all the class, “He does. He does often.” Ruffin, the biggest boy, said after all the others, “Very often. In fact always.”

 

“Very well, then there must be someone to put them straight again, must there not?”

 

None of the children could say that there was not. Tineboy alone was heard to mutter to himself, “I don’t believe it.”

 

The schoolmaster began again—

 

“The Alphabet Doctor was sitting down to his tea. He was very tired, for he had been out attending cases all day.”

 

Tineboy again interrupted, “What cases?”

 

“I can tell you. He had to put in an ‘i’ which had been omitted, and to alter the leg of an ‘R’ which had been twisted into a ‘B’.

 

“Well, just as he was beginning his tea a hurried knock came to the door. He went to the door, opened it, and a groom rushed into the room, breathless with running, and said—

 

“’Oh, Doctor, do come quick; there is a frightful calamity down at our place.’”

 

“’What is our place?’ said the doctor.”

 

“’Oh, you know. The Number Stables.’”

 

“What are the Number Stables?” said Tineboy, again interrupting.

 

“The Number Stables,” said the Teacher, “are the stables where the numbers are kept.”

 

“Why are they kept in stables?” said Tineboy.

 

“Because they go so fast.”

 

“How do they go fast?”

 

“You take a sum and work it and you will see at once. Or look at your multiplication table; it starts with twice one are two, and before you get down the page you are at twelve times twelve. Is that not fast going?”

 

“Well, they have to keep the numbers in sables, or else they would run away altogether and never be heard of again. At the end of the day they all come home and change their shoes, and get tied up and have their supper.”

 

“The Groom from the Number Stables was very impatient.”

 

“’What is wrong?’ said the Doctor.”

 

“’Oh, poor 7, sir.’”

 

“’What of him?’”

 

“’He is mortal bad. We don’t think he’ll ever get through it.’”

 

“’Through what?’ said the Doctor.”

 

“’Come and see,’ said the Groom.”

 

“The Doctor hurried away, taking the lantern with him, for the night was dark, and soon got to the Stables.”

 

“As he got close there was a very curious sound heard—a sound of gasping and choking, and yelling and coughing, and laughing, and a wild, unearthly screech all in one.”

 

“’Oh, do come quick!’ said the Groom.”

 

“When the Doctor entered the stables there was poor No. 7 with all the neighbours round him, and he was in a very bad way. He was foaming at the mouth and apparently quite mad. The Nurse from the Grammar Village was holding him by the hand, trying to bleed him. All the neighbours were wringing either their hands or their necks, or were helping to hold him. The Footsmith,—the man,” explained the teacher, seeing from the look on Tineboy’s face that he was going to ask a question, “the man who puts the feet on the letters and numbers to make them able to stand upright without wearing out,—was holding down the poor demented nuummbeer.”

 

“The Nurse, trying to quiet him, said:”

 

“’There now, there now, deary—don’t go and make a noise. Here comes the good Alphabet Doctor, who will make you unmad.’”

 

“’I won’t be made unmad,’ said 7, loudly.”

 

“’But, my good sir,’ said the Doctor, ‘this cannot go on. You surely are not mad enough to insist on being mad?’”

 

“’Yes, I am,’ said 7, loudly.”

 

“’Then,’ said the Doctor blandly, ‘if you are mad enough to insist on being mad, we must try to cure your madness or being mad, and then you will be unmad enough to wish to be unmad, and we will cure that too.’”

 

“I don’t understand that,’’ said Tineboy.

 

“Hush!” said the class.

 

“The Doctor took out his stethoscope, and his telescope, and his microscope, and his horoscope, and began to use them on poor mad 7.”

 

“First he put the stethoscope to the sole of his foot, and began to talk into it.”

 

“’That is not the way to use that,’ said the Nurse; ‘you ought to put it to his chest and listen to it.’”

 

“’Not at all, my dear madam,’ said the bland Doctor, ‘that is the way with sane people; but, of course, when one is insane, the fact of the disease necessitates an opposite method of treatment.’ Then he took the telescope and looked at him to see how near he was, and the microscope to look how small; and then he drew his horoscope.”

 

“Why did he draw it?” said Tineboy.

 

“Because, my dear child,” said the Teacher, “do you not see that by right a horoscope is cast; but as the poor man was mad the horoscope had to be drawn.”

 

“What is a horrorscope?” said Tineboy.

 

“It is not horrorscope, my child; it is horoscope—a very different thing.”

 

“Well, what is horoscope?”

 

“Look in your dictionary, my dear child,” said the Teacher.

 

“Well, when the doctor had used all the instruments, he said, ‘I use all these in order to find the scope of the disease. I shall now proceed to find the cause. In the first instance, I shall interrogate the patient.’”

 

“’Now, my good sir, why do you insist on being mad?’”

 

“’Because I choose.’”

 

“’Oh, my dear sir, that is not a polite answer. Why do you choose?’”

 

“’I can’t say why,’ said 7 ‘unless I make a speech.’”

 

“’Well, make a speech.’”

 

“’I can’t speak till I am set free; how can I make a speech with all these people holding me?’”

 

“’We are afraid to let you go,’ said the Nurse, ‘you will run away.’”

 

“’I will not.’”

 

“’You promise that?’ said the doctor.”

 

“’I promise,’ said 7.”

 

“’Let him go,’ said the Doctor, and accordingly they put a piece of carpet under him, and the Footsmith sat on his head, the way they do when horses fall down in the street. Then they all got clear away, and the Footsmith got away too; and after a long struggle 7 got to his feet.”

 

“’Now make the speech,’ said the Doctor.”

 

“’I can’t begin,’ said 7, ‘till I get a glass of water on a table. Who ever heard of any one making a speech without a glass of water!’”

 

“So they brought a glass of water.”

 

“’Ladies and Gentlemen—’ began 7, and then stopped.”

 

“’What are you waiting for?’ said the Doctor.”

 

“’For the applause, of course,’ said 7. ‘Who ever heard of a speech without applause?’”

 

“They all applauded.”

 

“’I am mad,’ said 7, ‘because I choose to be mad; and I never shall, will, might, could, should, would, or ought to be anything but mad. The treatment that I get is enough to make me mad.’”

 

“’Dear me, dear me!’ said the Doctor. ‘What treatment?’”

 

“’Morning, noon, and night am I treated worse than any slave. There is not in the whole range of learning any one thing that has so much to bear as I have. I work hard all the time. I never grumble. I am often a multiple; often a multiplicand. I am willing to bear my share of being a result, but I cannot stand the treatment I get. I am wrong added, wrong divided, wrong subtracted, and wrong multiplied. Other numbers are not treated as I am; and, besides, they are not orphans like me.’”

 

“’Orphans?’ asked the Doctor; ‘what do you mean?’”

 

“’I mean that the other numbers have lots of relations. But I have neither kith nor kin except old Number l, and he does not count for much; and, besides, I am only his great-great-great-great-grandson.’”

 

“’How do you mean?’ asked the Doctor.”

 

“’Oh, he is an old chap that is there all the time. He has all his children round him, and I only come six generations down.’”

 

“’Humph!’ said the doctor.”

 

“’Number 2,’ went on 7, ‘never gets into any trouble, and 4, 6, and 8 are his cousins. Number 3 is close to 6 and 9. No. 5 is half a decimal and he never gets into trouble. But as for me, I am miserable, ill-treated, and alone.’ Here poor 7 began to cry, and bending down his head sobbed bitterly.’’

 

When the Teacher got thus far there was an Interruption, for here little Tineboy began to cry too.

 

“Why are you crying?” said Ruffin, the bully boy.

 

“I am not crying,” said Tineboy, and he cried away faster than ever.

 

The Teacher went on with the story.

 

“The Alphabet Doctor tried to cheer poor 7.”

 

“’Hear, hear!’ said he.”

 

“7 stopped crying and looked at him. ‘No,’ said he, ‘you should say “speak, speak,” it is I that should say “hear, hear.”’”

 

“’Certainly,’ said the Doctor, ‘you would say that if you were sane; but then, you see, you are not sane, and being mad you say what you should not say.’”

 

“’That is false,’ said 7.”

 

“’I understand,’ said the Doctor, ‘but do not stop to argue the point. If you were sane you would say “that is true,” but you do say “that is false,” meaning that you agree with me.’”

 

“7 looked pleased at being so understood.

 

“’No,’ said he—meaning ‘yes.’”

 

“’Then,’ continued the Doctor, ‘if you say “speak, speak,” when a sane man would say “hear, hear,” of course, I should say “hear, hear,” when I mean “speak, speak,” because I am talking to a madman.’”

 

“’No, no,’ said 7—meaning, ‘yes, yes.’”

 

“’Go on with your speech,’ said the Doctor.”

 

“’No 7 took out his handkerchief and wept.”

 

“’Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘once more I must plead the cause of the poor ill-used number—that is me—this orphan number—this number without kin—’”

 

Here Tineboy interrupted the Teacher, “How had he no skin?”

 

“Kin, my child. Kin, not skin,” said the Teacher.

 

“What is the difference between kin and skin?” asked Tineboy.

 

“There will be but a small difference,” said the Teacher, “between this cane and your skin if you interrupt.” So Tineboy was quiet.

 

“Well,” said the teacher, “poor 7 went on—’I implore your pity for this forlorn number. Oh, you boys and girls, think of a poor desolate number, who has no home, no friends, no father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, son, daughter, or cousin, and is desolate and alone.’”

 

Tineboy here set up a terrible howl.

 

“What are you crying for?” said the Teacher.

 

“I want poor old 7 to be more happy. I will give him some of my lunch and a share of my bed.”

 

The Teacher turned to the Monitor.

 

“Tineboy is a good child,” he said, “let him for the next week learn 7 times 0 up, and perhaps that will comfort him.”

 

The Raven, sitting in the window, winked his eye to himself and hopped about with a suppressed merry croak, shook his wings, and seemed hugging himself and laughing. Then he hopped softly away, and stole up and hid on the top of the book-case.

 

The Schoolmaster went on with his story.

 

“Well, children, after a while poor 7 got better and promised that he would get unmad. Before the Doctor went home again all the Alphabet and Number Children came and shook poor Number 7’s hand, and promised that they would be more kind to him in future.”

 

“Now, children, what do you think of the story?”

 

They all said that they liked it, that it was beautiful, and that they too would try to be more kind to poor 7 for the future. At last Ruffin the bully boy said:

 

“I don’t believe it. And if it is true I wish he had died; we would be better without him.”

 

“Would we?” asked the teacher, “how?”

 

“Because we would not be troubled with him,” said Ruffin.

 

As he said it there was a sort of queer croak heard from the Raven, but nobody minded, except Tineboy, who said:—

 

“Mr. Daw, you and I love poor 7, at all events.”

 

The Raven hated Ruffin because he always threw stones at him, and he had tried to pull the feathers out of his tail, and when Ruffin spoke, his croak seemed to mean, ‘’Just you wait.” When no one was looking Mr. Daw stole up and hid in the rafters.

 

Then presently school broke up, and Tineboy went home; but he was not able to find Mr. Daw. He thought he was lost, and was very miserable, and went to bed crying.

 

In the meantime, when the school was locked up empty, Mr. Daw came down from the rafters very, very quietly—hobbled over to the door, and putting his head down, listened; then he flew and scrambled up on the handle of the door, and looked out through the keyhole. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear.

 

Then he got up on the Master’s desk, flapped his wings, and began to crow like a cock, only very softly, for fear he should be heard.

 

Presently he went over all the room, flying up to the big sheets of multiplication table, and turning over the pages of the books with his claws, and picking up SOMETHING with his sharp beak.

 

One would hardly believe it, but he was stealing all the Number Sevens in the place; he picked the Seven off the clock, rubbed it off the slates, and brushed it with his wings off the blackboard.

 

Mr. Daw knew that if once you can get the whole of any number out of a schoolroom no one else can use it without asking your leave.

 

Whilst he was picking out all the Sevens he was swelling out very much; and when he had got them all he was exactly Seven times his natural size.

 

He was not able to do this all at once. It took him the whole night, and when he got back to his corner in the rafters it was nearly time for school to open.

 

He was now so big that he was only just able to squeeze into the corner and no more.

 

The school time came, but there was no Master, and there were no Scholars. A whole hour passed; and then the Master came, and the Ushers, and all the Boys and Girls.

 

When they were all in the Master said—

 

“You are all very late.”

 

“Please, sir, we could not help it,” they all answered together.

 

“Why could you not help it?”

 

They all answered at once—

 

“I wasn’t called in time.”

 

“What time are you called at every morning?”

 

They all seemed about to speak, but all were silent.

 

“Why don’t you answer?” asked the Teacher.

 

They made motions will their mouths like speaking, but no one said anything.

 

The Raven up in his corner croaked a quiet laugh all to himself.

 

“Why don’t you answer?” asked the Teacher again. “If I have not my question answered at once, I shall keep you all in.”

 

“Please, sir, we can’t,” said one.

 

“Why not?”

 

‘’Because”—

 

Here Tineboy interrupted, “Why were you so late Sir?”

 

“Well, my boy, I am sorry to say I was late; but the fact is, my servant did not knock at my door at the usual hour.”

 

“What hour, sir?” asked Tineboy.

 

The Teacher seemed as if he was going to speak, but stopped.

 

“This is very queer,” he said, after a long pause.

 

Ruffin said, in a sort of swaggering way, “We are not late at all. You are here and we are here—that is all.”

 

“No, it is not all,” said the Teacher. “Ten is the hour, and it is now eleven—we have lost an hour.”

 

“How have we lost it?” asked one of the Scholars.

 

“Well, that is what puzzles me. We must only wait a little and see.”

 

Here Tineboy said suddenly, “Perhaps some one stole it!”

 

“Stole what?” said the scholars.

 

“I don’t know,” said Tineboy.

 

They all laughed.

 

“You need not laugh, something is stolen; look at my lesson!” said Tineboy, and he held up the book. Here is what they saw—

 

– 1 are –

 

– 2 ″ 14

 

– 3 ″ 21

 

– 4 ″ 28

 

– 5 ″ 35

 

– 6 ″ 42

 

– – ″ 49

 

– 8 ″ 56

 

– 9 ″ 63

 

– 10 ″ – 0

 

All the Scholars crowded round Tineboy to look at the book. Ruffin did not, for he was looking at the school clock.

 

“The clock has lost something,” said he, and sure enough it did not look all right.

 

The Teacher looked up—for he was leaning with his head on his desk, groaning.

 

“What is wrong with it?” he asked.

 

“Something is missing.”

 

“There is a number out; there are only eleven figures,” said the Teacher.

 

“No, no,” said the Scholars.

 

“Count them out, Ruffin,” said the Master.

 

“1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10 11 12.”

 

“Quite right,” said the Teacher, “you see there are twelve. No there are not—yes there are—no—yes—no, yes—what is it all about?” and he looked round the room, and then leaned his head on the desk again and groaned.

 

In the meantime the Raven had crept along the rafters till he had got over the Teacher’s desk; and then he got a good heavy Seven and dropped it right on the little bald spot on the top of the Teacher’s head. It bounded off the head and fell on the desk before him. The instant the Teacher saw it he knew what was wanting all the time. He covered over the Seven with a piece of blotting Paper. He then called up Ruffin.

 

“Ruffin, you told me that something was missing—are you sure?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

“Very well. Do you remember that you said yesterday, that you wished a certain Number had died in a madhouse?”

 

“Yes, I do; and I wish it still.”

 

“Well, that Number has been stolen by someone during the night.”

 

“Hurrah!” said Ruffin, and he threw his book up to the ceiling. It hit poor Mr. Daw, who had another Seven in his beak ready to drop it, and knocked the Seven down. It fell into Tineboy’s cap, which he held in his hand. He took it out, and stooped and petted it.

 

“Poor 7,” said Tineboy.

 

“Give me the Number,” said Ruffin.

 

“I shan’t. It belongs to me.”

 

“Then I’ll make you,” said Ruffin; and he caught hold of Tineboy—even before the Master’s face.

 

“Let me go. I’ll not give you my poor Seven,” said Tineboy, and he began to scream and cry.

 

“Ruffin, stand out,” said the Master.

 

Ruffin did so.

 

“Seven times seven?” asked the Master.

 

Ruffin did not answer. He could not, for he had not got a Seven.

 

“I know,” said Tineboy.

 

“Oh, yes,” said Ruffin, with a sneer; “he knows because he has a Number.’’

 

“Forty-nine,” said Tineboy.

 

“Right,” said the Master; “go up, Tineboy.”

 

So Tineboy went up to the top of the class, and Ruffin went down.

 

“Seven times forty-nine?” asked the Master.

 

They were all silent.

 

“Come, answer!” said the Master.

 

“What is it, yourself?” said Tineboy.

 

“Well, my boy, I am sorry to say I cannot say. Dear me, it is very queer,” and the Master put down his head on the desk again, and groaned louder than ever.

 

Just then Mr. Daw took another seven and dropped it down on the floor before Tineboy.

 

“Three hundred and forty-three,” said Tineboy, quickly; for he could answer as he had another Seven.

 

The Teacher looked up and laughed loudly.

 

“Hurrah, hurrah!” said he.

 

When the third Seven fell the Raven began to swell.

 

He got seven times as big as he was, so that he began to lift the slates off the roof.

 

The Scholars all looked up; Ruffin had his mouth open, and Mr. Daw, anxious to get rid of the Sevens, dropped one into it.

 

“Two thousand three hundred and one,” Ruffin spluttered out.

 

Mr. Daw dropped another Seven into his mouth, and he spluttered out again worse than ever, “Sixteen thousand eight hundred and seven.”

 

The Raven began hurling Sevens at him as fast as he could; and each time he threw one he grew smaller and smaller, till he got to just his natural size.

 

Ruffin kept spluttering out and gasping numbers as hard as ever he could, till he grew black in the face and fell down in a fit just as he had come to “Seventy-nine thousand seven hundred and ninety-two billion, two hundred and sixty-six thousand two hundred and ninety-seven million six hundred and twelve thousand and one.”

 

Suddenly Tineboy woke up, and found that he had been dreaming with his head down.

 

 

 

LIES AND LILIES

 

Claribel lived in peace and happiness with her father and mother, from the time she was a little baby till when, at ten years old, she went to school.

 

Her parents were good, kind people, who loved truth and tried ever to walk in the paths of the just. They taught Claribel all good things, and her mother, Fridolina, used to bring her when every day she went to visit and comfort the sick.

 

When Claribel went to school, she was even happier, for not only had she her home as it was ever, but there were many new friends also who were of her own age and whom she came to know and love. The school-mistress was very good and very nice and very old, with beautiful white hair and a sweet gentle face that never looked hard or stern, except when someone told a lie. Then the smile would fade from her face; and it was like the change in the sky when the sun has gone down, and she would look grave, and cry silently. If the child who had been wicked came and confessed the fault and promised never, never to tell a lie again, the smile would come back like sunshine. But if the child persisted in the lie her face would look stern, and afterwards the stern look would be in the memory of the liar, even when she was not there.

 

Every day she told all the children of the beauty of Truth and how a lie was so black and terrible a thing. She would also tell them stories from the Great Book; and one that she loved, and that they loved too, was of the Beautiful City where the good people shall live hereafter.

 

The children never tired of hearing of that City, like a jasper stone clear as crystal, with its twelve gates with names written thereon, and they used to ask the Mistress questions about the Angel who measured the City with a golden reed. Always towards the end of the story, the Mistresse’s voice would become very grave, and a hush would steal over the children and they would draw closer together in awe as she told them that outside that beautiful city were for ever condemned to stand “whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”

 

Then the good Mistress would tell them what a terrible thing it would be to stand there without, and lose all the beauty and eternal glory that lay within. And all for a fault which no human being need ever commit—for telling a lie. People are not very much angry even when a fault has been done, when the truth is told at once; but if a fault is made worse by a lie then everyone is justly angry. If men and women, even fathers and mothers who love their little children very tenderly, are angry, how much more will God be angry against whom the sin of a lie is made.

 

Claribel loved this story and often cried as she thought of the poor people who will have to stand without the Beautiful City forever, but she never thought that she would tell a lie herself. Indeed, she never did till temptation came. When people think themselves very good they are in danger of sin, for if we are not ever on the watch against evil we surely do some wrong thing; and as Claribel feared no evil, she was easily led into sin.

 

The children were all at their sums. A few of them knew their arithmetic and got out their answers and proved them; but some could not get out the answer right, and others stuck and could not get out any answer at all. A couple of naughty ones did not even try to get out the answers, but drew pictures on their slates and wrote their names. Claribel tried to do her sum, but she could not remember 9 times 7, and instead of beginning at “twice one are two” and going on up, she grew idle and lazy and gave up the sum and drew the beginnings of pictures and gave them up too. She looked up at the window thinking of something to draw and saw on the lower panes coloured flowers painted there so as to prevent the children looking at the people outside during lesson time. Claribel fixed on one of these flowers, a lily, and began to draw it.

 

Skooro saw her looking up and began his evil work. In order to help her to do what she ought not to do he took the shape of a lily and lay on the slate very faintly, so that she had only to draw round his edges and then there was a lily drawn. Now it is not a wrong thing to draw a lily, and if Claribel had drawn it well at a proper time she would have got praise; but a good thing may become a bad thing if it is wrongly done—and so it was with Claribel’s lily.

 

Presently the Mistress asked for the slates. When Claribel brought hers up she knew that she had done wrong and was sorry; but she was only sorry because she was afraid of being punished. When the Mistress asked for the answer she hung down her head and said she could not get it.

 

“Did you try?” asked the Mistress.

 

“Yes,” she answered, feeling that she had tried for a while.

 

“Did you idle?” she was asked, “Did you do anything but your sum?” Then she knew that she would get into trouble for idling if she told it; and so forgetting all about the Jasper City and those who are doomed to stand without its beautiful gates, she answered that she had done nothing else but sums. The mistress took her word—for she had always been truthful—and said:

 

“You were puzzled, I suppose, dear child; let me help you,” and she kindly showed her how to work the sum.

 

As she was going back to her seat, Claribel hung her head, for she knew that she had told a lie, and although it need now never he found out, she was sorrowful, and felt as if she were standing outside the shining City. Even then if she had rushed up to the mistress and said:

 

“I have done wrong; but I will be a better child again,” all would have been well; but she did not, and every minute that passed made such a thing harder to do.

 

Soon after school was over, and Claribel went sadly home. She did not care to play, for she had told a lie, and her heart was heavy.

 

When bed-time came she lay down weary, but could not sleep; and she cried very bitterly, for she could not pray. She was sorry that she had told a lie, and she thought it rather hard that her sorrow was not enough to make her happy again; but her conscience said—

 

“Will you confess to-morrow?” But she thought that it would not be necessary, for the sin was over and she had not done harm to anyone. But all the time she knew that she was wrong. Had the mistress spoken of this, she would have said—

 

“It is ever thus, dear children. A sin cannot be wiped away till the shame comes first; for without the shame and the acknowledgment of guilt the heart cannot be cleansed from the sin.”

 

At last Claribel sobbed herself to sleep.

 

Then when she slept, the Child Angel stole into the room and passed over her eyelids, so that even in her sleep she saw the beautiful light, and she thought of the City like a jasper stone, clear as crystal, with its twelve gates with names written thereon. She dreamed that she saw the Angel with the golden reed measuring the city, and Claribel was so happy that she forgot all about her sin. The Child Angel knew all her thoughts, and he grew less and less till his light all died away; and to Claribel in her dream all seemed to grow dark, and she knew that she was standing without the gate of the Beautiful City. The Angel, who held the measuring reed of gold, stood on the battlements of the city, and in a terrible voice said—

 

“Claribel, stand thou without; thou makest and lovest a lie.”

 

“Oh, no,” said Claribel, “I do not love it.”

 

“Then why not confess thy fault?”

 

Claribel was silent; but she would not confess her sin, for her heart was hard, and the Angel lifted the golden reed, and lo! it blossomed a beautiful lily. Then the Angel said—

 

“The lilies grow only for the pure, who live within the city; thou must stand without among the liars.”

 

Claribel saw the jasper walls before her towering up and up, and she knew that they were an eternal barrier to her, and that she must ever stand without the Beautiful City; and in the anguish and horror she felt how deep was her sin, and longed to confess it.

 

Skooro saw that she was repenting, for he, too, could see into her thoughts, and with the darkness of his presence he tried to blot out the whole dream of the Beautiful City.

 

But the Child Angel crept into her heart and made it light, and the seed of repentance grew and blossomed.

 

Claribel woke early, and rose and went and told her mistress of her sin, and was happy once more.

 

All her life long she loved the lilies; for she thought of her lie and of her repentance for it, and that the lilies grow within the Jasper City, which is for the pure alone.

 

 

 

THE CASTLE OF THE KING

 

When they told the poor Poet that the One he loved best was lying sick in the shadow of danger, he was nigh distraught.

 

For weeks past he had been alone; she, his Wife, having gone afar to her old home to see an aged grandsire ere he died.

 

The Poet’s heart had for some days been oppressed with a strange sorrow. He did not know the cause of it; he only knew with the deep sympathy which is the poet’s gift, that the One he loved was sick. Anxiously had he awaited tidings. When the news came, the shock, although he expected a sad message, was too much for him, and he became nigh distraught.

 

In his sadness and anxiety he went out into the garden which long years he had cultured for Her. There, amongst the bright flowers, where the old statues stood softly white against the hedges of yew, he lay down in the long uncut summer grass, and wept with his head buried low.

 

He thought of all the past-of how he had won his Wife and how they loved each other; and to him it seemed a sad and cruel thing that she was afar and in danger, and he not near to comfort her or even to share her pain.

 

Many, many thoughts came back to him, telling the story of the weary years whose gloom and solitude he had forgotten in the brightness of his lovely home.

 

How in youth they twain had met and in a moment loved. How his poverty and her greatness had kept them apart. How he had struggled and toiled in the steep and rugged road to fame and fortune.

 

How all through the weary years he had striven with the single idea of winning such a place in the history of his time, that he should be able to come and to her say, “I love you,” and to her proud relations, “I am worthy, for I too have become great.”

 

How amid all this dreaming of a happy time which might come, he had kept silent as to his love. How he had never seen her or heard her voice, or even known her habitation, lest, knowing, he should fail in the purpose of his life.

 

How time-as it ever does to those who work with honesty and singleness of purpose-crowned the labours and the patience of his life.

 

How the world had come to know his name and reverence and love it as of one who had helped the weak and weary by his example; who had purified the thoughts of all who listened to his words; and who had swept away baseness before the grandeur and simpleness of his noble thoughts.

 

How success had followed in the wake of fame.

 

How at length even to his heart, timorous with the doubt of love, had been borne the thought that he had at last achieved the greatness which justified him in seeking the hand of her he loved.

 

How he had come back to his native place, and there found her still free.

 

How when he had dared to tell her of his love she had whispered to him that she, too, had waited all the years, for that she knew that he would come to claim her at the end.

 

How she had come with him as his bride into the home which he had been making for her all these years. How, there, they had lived happily; and had dared to look into the long years to come for joy and content without a bar.

 

How he thought that even then, when though somewhat enfeebled in strength by the ceaseless toil of years and the care of hoping, he might look to the happy time to come.

 

But, alas! for hope; for who knoweth what a day may bring forth? Only a little while ago his Dear One had left him hale, departing in the cause of duty; and now she lay sick and he not nigh to help her.

 

All the sunshine of his life seemed passing away. All the long years of waiting and the patient continuance in well-doing which had crowned their years with love, seemed as but a passing dream, and was all in vain all, all in vain.

 

Now with the shadow hovering over his Beloved One, the cloud seemed to be above and around them, and to hold in its dim recesses the doom of them both.

 

“Why, oh why,” asked the poor Poet to the viewless air, “did love come to us? Why came peace and joy and happiness, if the darkening wings of peril shadow the air around her, and leave me to weep alone?”

 

Thus he moaned, and raved, and wept; and the bitter hours went by him in his solitude.

 

As he lay in the garden with his face buried in the long grass, they came to him and told him with weeping, that tidings-sad, indeed-had come.

 

As they spoke he lifted his poor head and gazed at them; and they saw in the great, dark, tender eyes that now he was quite distraught. He smiled at them sadly, as though not quite understanding the import of their words. As tenderly as they could they tried to tell him that the One he loved best was dead.

 

They said:-

 

“She has walked in the Valley of the Shadow;” but he seemed to understand them not.

 

They whispered,

 

“She has heard the Music of the Spheres,” but still he comprehended not.

 

Then they spoke to him sorrowfully and said:

 

“She now abides in the Castle of the King.”

 

He looked at them eagerly, as if to ask:

 

“What castle? What king?”

 

They bowed their heads; and as they turned away weeping they murmured to him softly-

 

“The Castle of the King of Death.”

 

He spake no word; so they turned their weeping faces to him again. They found that he had risen and stood with a set purpose on his face. Then he said sweetly:

 

“I go to find her, that where she abideth, I too may there abide.”

 

They said to him:

 

“You cannot go. Beyond the Portal she is, and in the Land of Death.”

 

Set purpose shone in the Poet’s earnest, loving eyes as he answered them for the last time:

 

“Where she has gone, there go I too. Through the Valley of the Shadow shall I wend my way. In these ears also shall ring the Music of the Spheres. I shall seek, and I shall find my Beloved in the Halls of the Castle of the King. I shall clasp her close-even before the dread face of the King of Death.”

 

As they heard these words they bowed their heads again and wept, and said:

 

“Alas! alas!”

 

The poet turned and left them; and passed away. They fain would have followed; but he motioned them that they should not stir. So, alone, in his grief he went.

 

As he passed on he turned and waved his hand to them in farewell. Then for a while with uplifted hand he stood, and turned him slowly all around.

 

Suddenly his outstretched hand stopped and pointed. His friends looking with him saw, where, away beyond the Portal, the idle wilderness spread. There in the midst of desolation the mist from the marshes hung like a pall of gloom on the far off horizon.

 

As the Poet pointed there was a gleam of happiness-very very faint it was-in his poor sad eyes, distraught with loss, as if afar he beheld some sign or hope of the Lost One.

 

Swiftly and sadly the Poet fared on through the burning day.

 

The Rest Time came; but on he journeyed. He paused not for shade or rest. Never, even for an instant did he stop to cool his parched lips with an icy draught from the crystal springs.

 

The weary wayfarers resting in the cool shadows beside the fountains raised their tired heads and looked at him with sleepy eyes as he hurried. He heeded them not; but went ever onward with set purpose in his eyes, as though some gleam of hope bursting through the mists of the distant marshes urged him on.

 

So he fared on through all the burning day, and all the silent night. In the earliest dawn, when the promise of the still unrisen sun quickened the eastern sky into a pale light, he drew anigh the Portal. The horizon stood out blackly in the cold morning light.

 

There, as ever, stood the Angels who kept watch and ward, and oh, wondrous! although invisible to human eyes, they were seen of him.

 

As he drew nigh they gazed at him pityingly and swept their great wings out wide, as if to shelter him. He spake; and from his troubled heart the sad words came sweetly through the pale lips:

 

“Say, Ye who guard the Land, has my Beloved One passed hither on the journey to the Valley of the Shadow, to hear the Music of the Spheres, and to abide in the Castle of the King?”

 

The Angels at the Portal bowed their heads in token of assent; and they turned and looked outward from the Land to where, far off in the idle wilderness, the dank mists crept from the lifeless bosom of the marsh.

 

They knew well that the poor lonely Poet was in quest of his Beloved One; so they hindered him not, neither urged they him to stay. They pitied him much for that much he loved.

 

They parted wide, that through the Portal he might pass without let.

 

So, the Poet went onwards into the idle desert to look for his Beloved One in the Castle of the King.

 

For a time he went through gardens whose beauty was riper than the gardens of the Land. The sweetness of all things stole on the senses like the odours from the Isles of the Blest.

 

The subtlety of the King of Death, who rules in the Realms of Evil, is great. He has ordered that the way beyond the Portal be made full of charm. Thus those straying from the paths ordained for good see around them such beauty that in its joy the gloom and cruelty and guilt of the desert are forgotten.

 

But as the Poet passed onwards the beauty began to fade away.

 

The fair gardens looked as gardens do when the hand of care is taken off, and when the weeds in their hideous luxuriance choke, as they spring up, the choicer life of the flowers.

 

From cool alleys under spreading branches, and from crisp sward which touched as soft as velvet the Wanderer’s aching feet, the way became a rugged stony path, full open to the burning glare. The flowers began to lose their odour, and to dwarf to stunted growth. Tall hemlocks rose on every side, infecting the air with their noisome odour.

 

Great fungi grew in the dark hollows where the pools of dank water lay. Tall trees, with branches like skeletons, rose-trees which had no leaves, and under whose shadow to pause were to die.

 

Then huge rocks barred the way. These were only passed by narrow, winding passages, overhung by the ponderous cliffs above, which ever threatened to fall and engulph the Sojourner.

 

Here the night began to fall; and the dim mist rising from the far-off marshes, took weird shapes of gloom. In the distant fastnesses of the mountains the wild beasts began to roar in their cavern lairs. The air became hideous with the fell sounds of the night season.

 

But the poor Poet heeded not ill sights or sounds of dread. Onward he went ever-unthinking of the terrors of the night. To him there was no dread of darkness-no fear of death-no consciousness of horror. He sought his Beloved One in the Castle of the King; and in that eager quest all natural terrors were forgot.

 

So fared he onward through the livelong night. Up the steep defiles he trod. Through the shadows of the huge rocks he passed unscathed. The wild animals came around him roaring fiercely-their great eyes flaming like fiery stars through the blackness of the night.

 

From the high rocks great pythons crawled and hung to seize their prey. From the crevices of the mountain steeps, and from cavernous rifts in the rocky way poisonous serpents glided and rose to strike.

 

But close though the noxious things came, they all refrained to attack; for they knew that the lonely Sojourner was bound for the Castle of their King.

 

Onward still, onward he went-unceasing-pausing not in his course-but pressing ever forward in his quest.

 

When daylight broke at last, the sun rose on a sorry sight. There toiling on the rocky way, the poor lonely Poet went ever onwards, unheeding of cold or hunger or pain.

 

His feet were bare, and his footsteps on the rock-strewn way were marked by blood. Around and behind him, and afar off keeping equal pace on the summits of the rocky ridges, came the wild beasts that looked on him as their prey, but that refrained from touching him because he sought the Castle of their King.

 

In the air wheeled the obscene birds who follow ever on the track of the dying and the lost. Hovered the bare-necked vultures with eager eyes, and hungry beaks. Their great wings flapped lazily in the idle air as they followed in the Wanderer’s track. The vulture are a patient folk, and they await the falling of the prey.

 

From the cavernous recesses in the black mountain gorges crept, with silent speed, the serpents that there lurk. Came the python, with his colossal folds and endless coils, whence looked forth cunningly the small flat head. Came the boa and all his tribe, which seize their prey by force and crush it with the dread strictness of their embrace. Came the hooded snakes and all those which with their venom destroy their prey. Here, too, came those serpents most terrible of all to their quarry-which fascinate with eyes of weird magic and by the slow gracefulness of their approach.

 

Here came or lay in wait, subtle snakes, which take the colour of herb, or leaf, or dead branch, or slimy pool, amongst which they lurk, and so strike their prey unsuspecting.

 

Great serpents there were, nimble of body, which hang from rock or branch. These gripping tight to their distant hold, strike downward with the rapidity of light as they hurl their whip-like bodies from afar upon their prey.

 

Thus came forth all these noxious things to meet the Questing Man, and to assail him. But when they knew he was bound for the dread Castle of their King, and saw how he went onward without fear, they abstained from attack.

 

The deadly python and the boa towering aloft, with colossal folds, were passive, and for the nonce, became as stone. The hooded serpents drew in again their venomous fangs. The mild, deep earnest eyes of the fascinating snake became lurid with baffled spleen, as he felt his power to charm was without avail. In its deadly descent the hanging snake arrested its course, and hung a limp line from rock or branch.

 

Many followed the Wanderer onwards into the desert wilds, waiting and hoping for a chance to destroy.

 

Many other perils also were there for the poor Wanderer in the desert idleness. As he went onward the rocky way got steeper and darker. Lurid fogs and deadly chill mists arose.

 

Then in this path along the trackless wilderness were strange and terrible things.

 

Mandrakes-half plant, half man-shrieked at him with despairing cry, as, helpless for evil, they stretched out their ghastly arms in vain.

 

Giant thorns arose in the path; they pierced his suffering feet and tore his flesh as onward he trod. He felt the pain, but he heeded it not.

 

In all the long, terrible journey he had but one idea other than his eager search for his Beloved One. He thought that the children of men might learn much from the journey towards the Castle of the King, which began so fair, amidst the odorous gardens and under the cool shadow of the spreading trees. In his heart the Poet spake to the multitude of the children of men; and from his lips the words flowed like music, for he sang of the Golden Gate which the Angels call TRUTH.

 

“Pass not the Portal of the Sunset Land! Pause where the Angels at their vigil stand. Be warned! and press not though the gates lie wide, But rest securely on the hither side. Though odorous gardens and cool ways invite, Beyond are darkest valleys of the night. Rest! Rest contented.-Pause whilst undefiled, Nor seek the horrors of the desert wild.”

 

Thus treading down all obstacles with his bleeding feet, passed ever onwards, the poor distraught Poet, to seek his Beloved One in the Castle of the King.

 

Even as onward he went the life that is of the animals seemed to die away behind him. The jackals and the more cowardly savage animals slunk away. The lions and tigers, and bears, and wolves, and all the braver of the fierce beasts of prey which followed on his track even after the others had stopped, now began to halt in their career.

 

They growled low and then roared loudly with uplifted heads; the bristles of their mouths quivered with passion, and the great white teeth champed angrily together in baffled rage. They went on a little further; and stopped again roaring and growling as before. Then one by one they ceased, and the poor Poet went on alone.

 

In the air the vultures wheeled and screamed, pausing and halting in their flight, as did the savage beasts. These too ceased at length to follow in air the Wanderer in his onward course.

 

Longest of all kept up the snakes. With many a writhe and stealthy onward glide, they followed hard upon the footsteps of the Questing Man. In the blood marks of his feet upon the flinty rocks they found a joy and hope, and they followed ever.

 

But time came when the awful aspect of the places where the Poet passed checked even the serpents in their track-the gloomy defiles whence issue the poisonous winds that sweep with desolation even the dens of the beasts of prey - the sterile fastnesses which march upon the valleys of desolation. Here even the stealthy serpents paused in their course; and they too fell away. They glided back, smiling with deadliest rancour, to their obscene clefts.

 

Then came places where plants and verdure began to cease. The very weeds became more and more stunted and inane. Farther on they declined into the sterility of lifeless rock. Then the most noxious herbs that grew in ghastly shapes of gloom and terror lost even the power to harm, which outlives their living growth. Dwarfed and stunted even of evil, they were compact of the dead rock. Here even the deadly Upas tree could strike no root into the pestiferous earth.

 

Then came places where, in the entrance to the Valley of the Shadow, even solid things lost their substance, and melted in the dank and cold mists which swept along.

 

As he passed, the distraught Poet could feel not solid earth under his bleeding feet. On shadows he walked, and amid them, onward through the Valley of the Shadow to seek his Beloved One in the Castle of the King.

 

The Valley of the Shadow seemed of endless expanse. Circled by the teeming mist, no eye could pierce to where rose the great mountains between which the Valley lay.

 

Yet they stood there-Mount Despair on the one hand, and the Hill of Fear upon the other.

 

Hitherto the poor bewildered brain of the Poet had taken no note of all the dangers, and horrors, and pains which surrounded him - save only for the lesson which they taught. But now, lost as he was in the shrouding vapour of the Valley of the Shadow, he could not but think of the terrors of the way. He was surrounded by grisly phantoms that ever and anon arose silent in the mist, and were lost again before he could catch to the full their dread import.

 

Then there flashed across his soul a terrible thought -

 

Could it be possible that hither his Beloved One had travelled? Had there come to her the pains which shook his own form with agony? Was it indeed necessary that she should have been appalled by all these surrounding horrors?

 

At the thought of her, his Beloved One, suffering such pain and dread, he gave forth one bitter cry that rang through the solitude-that cleft the vapour of the Valley, and echoed in the caverns of the mountains of Despair and Fear.

 

The wild cry prolonged with the agony of the Poet’s soul rang through the Valley, till the shadows that peopled it woke for the moment into life-in-death. They flitted dimly along, now melting away and anon springing again into life-till all the Valley of the Shadow was for once peopled with quickened ghosts.

 

Oh, in that hour there was agony to the poor distraught Poet’s soul.

 

But presently there came a calm. When the rush of his first agony passed, the Poet knew that to the Dead came not the horrors of the journey that he undertook. To the Quick alone is the horror of the passage to the Castle of the King. With the thought came to him such peace that even there-in the dark Valley of the Shadow-stole soft music that sounded in the desert gloom like the Music of the Spheres.

 

Then the poor Poet remembered what they had told him; that his Beloved One had walked through the Valley of the Shadow, that she had known the Music of the Spheres, and that she abode in the Castle of the King. So he thought that as he was now in the Valley of the Shadow, and as he heard the Music of the Spheres, that soon he should see the Castle of the King where his Beloved One abode. Thus he went on in hope.

 

But alas! that very hope was a new pain that ere this he wot not of.

 

Hitherto he had gone on blindly, recking not of where he went or what came a-nigh him, so long as he pressed onward on his quest; but now the darkness and the peril of the way had new terrors, for he thought of how they might arrest his course. Such thoughts made the way long indeed, for the moments seemed an age with hoping. Eagerly he sought for the end to come, when, beyond the Valley of the Shadow through which he fared, he should see rising the turrets of the Castle of the King.

 

Despair seemed to grow upon him; and as it grew there rang out, ever louder, the Music of the Spheres.

 

Onward, ever onward, hurried in mad haste the poor distraught Poet. The dim shadows that peopled the mist shrank back as he passed, extending towards him warning hands with long gloomy fingers of deadly cold. In the bitter silence of the moment, they seemed to say:

 

“Go back! Go back!”

 

Louder and louder rang now the Music of the Spheres. Faster and faster in mad, feverish haste rushed the Poet, amid the shrinking Shadows of the gloomy valley. The peopling shadows as they faded away before him, seemed to wail in sorrowful warning:

 

“Go back! Go back!”

 

Still in his ears rang ever the swelling tumult of the music.

 

Faster and faster he rushed onward; till, at last, wearied nature gave way and he fell prone to earth, senseless, bleeding, and alone.

 

After a time - how long he could not even guess - he awoke from his swoon.

 

For awhile he could not think where he was; and his scattered senses could not help him.

 

All was gloom and cold and sadness. A solitude reigned around him, more deadly than aught he had ever dreamt of. No breeze was in the air; no movement of a passing cloud. No voice or stir of living thing in earth, or water, or air. No rustle of leaf or sway of branch-all was silent, dead, and deserted. Amid the eternal hills of gloom around, lay the valley devoid of aught that lived or grew.

 

The sweeping mists with their multitude of peopling shadows had gone by. The fearsome terrors of the desert even were not there. The Poet, as he gazed around him, in his utter loneliness, longed for the sweep of the storm or the roar of the avalanche to break the dread horror of the silent gloom.

 

Then the Poet knew that through the Valley of the Shadow had he come; that scared and maddened though he had been, he had heard the Music of the Spheres. He thought that now hard by the desolate Kingdom of Death he trod.

 

He gazed all around him, fearing lest he should see anywhere the dread Castle of the King, where his Beloved One abode; and he groaned as the fear of his heart found voice:

 

“Not here! oh not here, amid this awful solitude.”

 

Then amid the silence around, upon distant hills his words echoed:

 

“Not here! oh not here,” till with the echoing and re-echoing rock, the idle wilderness was peopled with voices.

 

Suddenly the echo voices ceased.

 

From the lurid sky broke the terrible sound of the thunder peal. Along the distant skies it rolled. Far away over the endless ring of the grey horizon it swept-going and returning-pealing-swelling-dying away. It traversed the ether, muttering now in ominous sound as of threats, and anon crashing with the voice of dread command.

 

In its roar came a sound as of a word:

 

“Onward.”

 

To his knees the Poet sank and welcomed with tears of joy the sound of the thunder. It swept away as a Power from Above the silent desolation of the wilderness. It told him that in and above the Valley of the Shadow rolled the mighty tones of Heaven’s command.

 

Then the Poet rose to his feet, and with new heart went onwards into the wilderness.

 

As he went the roll of the thunder died away, and again the silence of desolation reigned alone.

 

So time wore on; but never came rest to the weary feet. Onwards, still onwards he went, with but one memory to cheer him-the echo of the thunder roll in his ears, as it pealed out in the Valley of Desolation:

 

“Onward! Onward!”

 

Now the road became less and less rocky, as on his way he passed. The great cliffs sank and dwindled away, and the ooze of the fens crept upward to the mountain’s feet.

 

At length the hills and hollows of the mountain fastnesses disappeared. The Wanderer took his way amid mere trackless wastes, where was nothing but quaking marsh and slime.

 

On, on he wandered; stumbling blindly with weary feet on the endless road.

 

Over his soul crept ever closer the blackness of despair. Whilst amid the mountain gorges he had been wandering, some small cheer came from the hope that at any moment some turn in the path might show him his journey’s end. Some entry from a dark defile might expose to him, looming great in the distance-or even anigh him - the dread Castle of the King. But now with the flat desolation of the silent marsh around him, he knew that the Castle could not exist without his seeing it.

 

He stood for awhile erect, and turned him slowly round, so that the complete circuit of the horizon was swept by his eager eyes. Alas! never a sight did he see. Nought was there but the black line of the horizon, where the sad earth lay against the level sky. All, all was compact of a silent gloom.

 

Still on he tottered. His breath came fast and laboured. His weary limbs quivered as they bore him feebly up. His strength - his life - was ebbing fast.

 

On, on, he hurried, ever on, with one idea desperately fixed in his poor distraught mind-that in the Castle of the King he should find his Beloved One.

 

He stumbled and fell. There was no obstacle to arrest his feet; only from his own weakness he declined.

 

Quickly he arose and went onward with flying feet. He dreaded that should he fall he might not be able to arise again.

 

Again he fell. Again he rose and went on his way desperately, with blind purpose.

 

So for a while went he onwards, stumbling and falling; but arising ever and pausing not on his way. His quest he followed, of his Beloved One abiding in the Castle of the King.

 

At last so weak he grew that when he sank he was unable to rise again.

 

Feebler and feebler he grew as he lay prone; and over his eager eyes came the film of death.

 

But even then came comfort; for he knew that his race was run, and that soon he would meet his Beloved One in the Halls of the Castle of the King.

 

To the wilderness his thoughts he spoke. His voice came forth with a feeble sound, like the moaning before a storm of the wind as it passes through reeds in the grey autumn:

 

“A little longer. Soon I shall meet her in the Halls of the King; and we shall part no more. For this it is worth to pass through the Valley of the Shadow and to listen to the Music of the Spheres with their painful hope. What boots it though the Castle be afar? Quickly speed the feet of the dead. To the fleeting spirit all distance is but a span. I fear not now to see the Castle of the King; for there, within its chiefest Hall, soon shall I meet my Beloved - to part no more.”

 

Even as he spoke he felt that the end was nigh.

 

Forth from the marsh before him crept a still, spreading mist. It rose silently, higher-higher-enveloping the wilderness for far around. It took deeper and darker shades as it arose. It was as though the Spirit of Gloom were hid within, and grew mightier with the spreading vapour.

 

To the eyes of the dying Poet the creeping mist was as a shadowy castle. Arose the tall turrets and the frowning keep. The gateway with its cavernous recesses and its beetling towers took shape as a skull. The distant battlements towered aloft into the silent air. From the very ground whereon the stricken Poet lay, grew, dim and dark, a vast causeway leading into the gloom of the Castle gate.

 

The dying Poet raised his head and looked. His fast failing eyes, quickened by the love and hope of his spirit, pierced through the dark walls of the keep and the gloomy terrors of the gateway.

 

There, within the great Hall where the grim King of Terrors himself holds his court, he saw her whom he sought. She was standing in the ranks of those who wait in patience for their Beloved to follow them into the Land of Death.

 

The Poet knew that he had but a little while to wait, and he was patient-stricken though he lay, amongst the Eternal Solitudes.

 

Afar off, beyond the distant horizon, came a faint light as of the dawn of a coming day.

 

As it grew brighter the Castle stood out more and more clearly; till in the quickening dawn it stood revealed in all its cold expanse.

 

The dying Poet knew that the end was at hand. With a last effort he raised himself to his feet, that standing erect and bold, as is the right of manhood, he might so meet face to face the grim King of Death before the eyes of his Beloved One.

 

The distant sun of the coming day rose over the horizon’s edge.

 

A ray of light shot upward.

 

As it struck the summit of the Castle keep the Poet’s Spirit in an instant of time swept along the causeway. Through the ghostly portal of the Castle it swept, and met with joy the kindred Spirit that it loved before the very face of the King of Death.

 

Quicker then than the lightning’s flash the whole Castle melted into nothingness; and the sun of the coming day shone calmly down upon the Eternal Solitudes.

 

In the Land within the Portal rose the sun of the coming day. It shone calmly and brightly on a fair garden, where, among the long summer grass lay the Poet, colder than the marble statues around him.

 

 

 

THE WONDROUS CHILD

 

Far away on the edge of a great creek, that stretched inland from the endless sea, there lay a peaceful village.

 

Here the husbandmen led a happy, prosperous life. They rose early, so that in the cool grey morn they heard the lark, all invisible in the height of the dawn, singing the morning hymn that he never forgets.

 

As sunset came stealing on, they returned to their homes, glad of the rest that nightfall brought to them.

 

In the autumn, when the harvesting was to be done, they worked late, as they were able to do; for at that time the kind Sun and his wife the Moon have a compact that they will help those who work at the harvest. So the sun stays up a little longer, and the moon gets out of her bed in the horizon a little earlier, and thus there is always light to work by.

 

The red, broad, full-faced moon that looks down on the husbandmen at work is called the Harvest Moon.

 

The Lord of the Manor of this peaceful village was a very good, kind man, that helped the poor always. At meal-time the door of his mansion stood open; and all who were hungry could enter if they chose, and take seats at the table, and be welcome guests.

 

This Lord of the Manor had three children, Sibold and May, and one little Baby Boy just come home who had no name as yet.

 

Sibold had just reached his eighth birthday, and May was within two months of her sixth. They were very fond of each other—as brother and sister should be—and had all their plays together. May thought that Sibold was very big and strong, and whatever he wished to do she always agreed to.

 

Sibold loved finding things and exploring; and at different times the two children had been over all the domain of their father.

 

They had certain secret haunts that nobody knew of except themselves. Some of these were very queer, delightful places.

 

One was in the centre of a hollow Oak tree, where so many squirrels lived that the branches were quite like the streets of a town, with their going to and fro.

 

Another place was the top of a rock, which was only reached by a narrow path between high bushes of ivy. Here there was a sort of great chair made in the rock, which just held the two; and here they often brought their lunch, and sat half the day looking out over the tree tops to where, far away in the distance, the white edge of the horizon lay on the glittering sea.

 

Then they would tell each other what they thought about, and what they would like to do, and what they would try to do when they grew up.

 

There was also another place, which was their favourite of all.

 

It was under a great Weeping Willow. This was a mighty tree, many hundreds of years old, which towered aloft above the other trees which dotted the sward. The long branches fell downwards so thickly, that even in winter, when the leaves held fallen and the benches were bare, one could hardly see into the hollow that lay within.

 

When the new spring clothes came home, the whole tree, from its high top even to the mossy ground from which it rose, was a mass of solid green; and it was difficult to get within even if one knew the way.

 

In one place one of the trailing branches had, a long time ago, been broken in a great storm, winch had laid low many forest trees; but the branches which hung next to this sent forth new green shoots to fill the empty space, and so the opening was covered with thin twigs instead of strong branches.

 

In summer the leaves covered all with a mass of green; but those who knew the opening could push the twigs aside, and so enter into the bower.

 

It was a most beautiful bower. No matter how strong the sun glared without, it was within cool and pleasant. From the ground even up to the top, till the very roof where the dark branches meeting made a black mass, all was a delicate green, for the light without came through the leaves softly and gently.

 

Sibold and May thought that so the sea must look to the Mermaids, who sing and comb their long hair with golden combs down in the cool depths of the ocean.

 

In the sward around this great tree were many beds of beautiful flowers. Asters, with their wide faces of many colours, staring up straight at the sun without ever winking, and round and over which flitted the gorgeous butterflies, with their wings like rainbows or peacocks or sunsets, or aught that is most beautiful. Sweet Mignonette, where the bees hovered with grateful hum. Pansies, with their delicate big faces trembling on their slender stalks. Tulips, opening their mouths to the sun and the rain; for the Tulip is a greedy flower, that opens his mouth till at last he opens it so wide that his head falls all to pieces and he dies. Hyacinths, with their many bells clustered on one stalk—like a big family party. Great Sunflowers, whose drooping faces shone like children of the parent Sun himself.

 

There were also great Poppies, with spreading, careless leaves, thick juicy stalks, and grand scarlet flowers, which rise and droop just as they please, and look so free and careless and independent.

 

Both Sibold and May loved these Poppies, and went every day to look at them. In the beds in the mossy sward, from which the great Willow rose, they grew to an enormous size; so high that when Sibold and May stood hand in hand beside the bed, the great Poppies towered over them till Sibold, standing on tiptoe, could not reach the scarlet flowers.

 

One day after breakfast, Sibold and May took their lunch with them, and went out to spend the day together wandering about among the woods, for it was a holiday with them. A little tiny Boy brother had arrived in the house, and everybody was busy getting things for him. The children had just seen him for an instant.

 

Hand in hand Sibold and May went round all their favourite spots. They looked at the cave in the Oak tree, and said “How do you do?” to all the squirrels that lived in the tree, and told them of the new Baby that had come home. Then they went to the rock, and sat together in the seat, and looked away over the sea.

 

There they sat for a while in the hot sunlight, and talked together of the dear little baby brother that they had seen. They wondered where he came from, and they made up a plan that they would look and look till they found a baby too. Sibold said that he must have come over the sea, and been laid in the parsley-bed by the Angels, so that nurse might find him there and bring him to comfort their poor sick mother. Then they wondered how they would be able to get away over the sea, and they planned that some day Sibold’s boat would be made bigger, and they would get into it and sail away over the sea, and search for another little baby all for themselves.

 

After a while they got tired of sitting in the hot sun; so they left the place, and, hand in hand, wandered on till they came to the level sward where the great Willow tree rose, and where the beds of flowers made the air seem full of colours and perfume.

 

Hand in hand they walked on, looking at the butterflies, and the bees, and the birds, and the beautiful flowers.

 

In one bed they found a new flower had come out. Sibold knew it, and told May it was a Tiger-lily; she was afraid to go near it till he told her it could not hurt her, as it was only a flower.

 

As they went on Sibold picked some flowers from every bed, and gave them to his sister; when they were going away from the Tiger-lily he pulled the flower, and as May was afraid to carry it, he took it himself.

 

At last they came to the great bed of Poppies. The flowers looked so bright and cool for all their flaming colour, and so careless, that May and Sibold both together thought that they would like to take a lot with them into the Willow Bower; for they were going to eat their lunch there, and they wished the place to be as gay and pretty as possible.

 

But first they went back to the Oak tree to gather a lot of leaves, for Sibold suggested that they would make the new baby brother the King of the Feast, and that they would make for him a crown of oak. As he would not be there himself, they would put the crown where they could see it well.

 

When they got to the Oak tree May called out,

 

“Oh look, Sibold, look, look!”

 

Sibold looked, and saw that on nearly every branch were a whole lot of squirrels sitting two and two, with their bushy tails over their backs, eating nuts as hard as ever they could.

 

When the squirrels saw them they were not frightened, for the children had never done them any harm. They gave a sort of queer croak all together, and a funny little skip. Sibold and May began to laugh, but they did not like to disturb them, so they gathered as many oak leaves as they wanted, and went back to the Poppy bed.

 

“Now, Sibold, dear,” said May, “we must get lots of Poppies, for the dear Ba is very very fond of them.”

 

“How do you know?” said Sibold.

 

“Because he ought to be,” she answered. “You and I are, and he is our brother, so of course he is.”

 

So Sibold pulled a lot of the Poppies, and some he took with many of the cool green leaves attached, till they had each an armful of them. Then they gathered up all the other flowers, and entered the Willow Bower to eat their lunch. Sibold went to the spring that rose in the garden, and that ran through it down to the sea. There he filled his cap with water, and brought it back as steadily as he could, so as not to spill much; and returned to the bower. May held open the leafy branches as he came, and when he passed in she let them fall again. As the leafy curtain hung all round them, the two children were alone in the Willow Bower.

 

Then they set to work to deck their leafy tent with the flowers. They twisted them round the hanging branches, and made a wreath, which they put round the trunk of the tree. Everywhere they put the Poppies as high as they could reach, and then Sibold held up May while she stuck the Tiger-lily in a cleft in the tree-trunk above all the other flowers.

 

Then the children sat down to their lunch. They were very tired and very hungry, and they enjoyed the rest and the food very much. There was only one thing which they wanted, and that was the new little Baby Brother, so that they might make him the king of the feast.

 

When lunch was finished, they felt very tired, so they lay down together with their heads on each other’s shoulders and their arms twined; and there they went to sleep with the scarlet Poppies nodding all round them.

 

After a time they were not asleep. It did not seem to be any later in the day, but to be the early morning. Neither of them felt the least sleepy or tired; on the contrary they both wanted to go on a longer expedition than ever.

 

“Come down to the creek,” said Sibold, “and let us get out my boat.”

 

May arose, and they opened the leafy door and went out. They went down to the creek; and there they found Sibold’s boat with all its white sails set.

 

“Let us get in,” said Sibold.

 

“Why?” asked May.

 

“Because then we can have a sail,” he answered.

 

“But it will not hold us; it is too small,” said May, who was rather afraid to go sailing, but did not like to say so.

 

“Let us try,” said her brother. He took hold of the cord that tied the boat to the bank, and drew it in. The line seemed very long, and Sibold appeared to be pulling it in for a great while. However, the boat came in at last. As it drew nearer, it got bigger and bigger, till when it touched the bank, they saw that it was just large enough to hold them both.

 

“Come, let us get in,” said Sibold.

 

Somehow May did not feel afraid now. She got into the boat and found that in it there were silken cushions of the colour of the Poppy flowers. Then Sibold got in, and pulled away the rope that tied the boat to shore. He sat in the stern, and held the tiller in his hand; May sat on a cushion in the bottom of the boat, and held on to the sides.

 

The white sails swelled out with a gentle breeze, and they began to move away from the shore; the tiny waves rippled from the bow of the boat. May heard the lap, lap, lap, as they touched the prow, and then fell away.

 

The sun shone very brightly. The water was as blue as the sky, and so clear that the children could see down into its depths, where the fishes were darting about. There, too, the plants and trees that grow under the water were opening and closing their branches; and the leaves were moving about as those of land trees do when the wind is blowing.

 

For a little while the boat went straight away from land till they lost sight of the tall Willow tree which rose above the others. Then it seemed to come near to the shore again, and moved on, always so close that the children could see all that was there very plainly.

 

The shore was very varied; and each moment showed something new and beautiful—

 

Now it was a jutting rock all covered with trailing plants whose flowers almost touched the water.

 

Now it was a beach, where the white sand glittered and glistened in the light, and where the waves made a pleasant humming sound as they ran up the shore and down again—as if playing at “touch” with themselves.

 

Now dark trees with dense foliage overhung the water; but through their gloom shone bright patches far away as the sun streamed down, through some opening, into the glade.

 

Again there were places where grass as green as emerald sloped right down to the water’s edge, and where the Cowslips and Buttercups that grew on the marge as they leant over almost kissed the little waves that rose to meet them.

 

Then there were places where great trees of Lilac made the air sweet for far around with the breath of their clusters of pink and white blossom, and where the laburnums seemed to shower endless streams of gold from the wealth of flowers which hung from their twisted green branches.

 

There were also great Palm-trees with their wide leaves making a cool shadow on the earth beneath. Great Cocoa-nut trees up whose stems troops of monkeys kept running to gather the cocoa-nuts which they pulled and threw down below. Aloes with great stalks laden with flowers of purple and gold—for this was the hundredth year when alone the Aloe blooms.

 

There were Poppies as large as trees; and Lilies whose flowers were bigger than tents.

 

The children liked all these places, but presently they come to a spot where there was a patch of emerald grass shaded over with giant trees. Around rose or hung or clustered every flower that grows. Tall Sugar-canes sprang from the edge of a tiny stream which ran over a bed of bright stones like jewels. Palms reared their lofty heads, and plants with great leaves rose and made shadows even in the shade. Close by was a crystal spring which bubbled into the tiny stream whence the Sugar-canes rose.

 

When they saw this place both the children cried out, “Oh, how beautiful! Let us stop here.”

 

The boat seemed to understand their wishes, for without the helm even being touched, it turned and drifted in gently to the shore.

 

Sibold got out and lifted May to land. He intended to moor the boat; but the moment May got out all the sails folded themselves of their own accord, the anchor jumped overboard, and before it was possible to do anything the boat was anchored close to the shore.

 

Sibold and May took each other’s hands, and they went round the place together, looking at everything.

 

Presently May said, in a whisper:

 

“Oh, Sibold, this place is so nice, I wonder if there is any Parsley here.”

 

“Why do you want Parsley?” he asked.

 

“Because if there was a nice bed of Parsley we might be able to find a Baby—And oh, Sibold, I do so want a Baby.”

 

“Very well then, let us look,” said her brother. “There seems to be every kind of plant here; and if there is every kind of plant, you know there must be Parsley.” For Sibold was very logical.

 

So the two children went all round the grassy dell searching; and presently, sure enough, under the spreading leaves of a Citron they found a great bed of Parsley—bigger Parsley than they had ever seen before.

 

Sibold was quite pleased with it, and said, “This is something like Parsley. Do you know, May, it always puzzled me how a Baby who is so much bigger than the Parsley can be hidden by it; and it must be hidden in it, for I often go out to look in the bed at home, and I never can find one, although nurse always finds one whenever she looks. But she does not look nearly often enough. I know if I was as lucky as she is, I would be always looking.”

 

May found the longing to find a baby grow so strong upon her that she said again:

 

“Oh, Sibold, I do so long for a Baby; I hope we will find one.”

 

As she spoke there was a queer kind of sound heard—a sort of very, very soft laugh—like a smile set to music.

 

May was surprised, and, for a moment, did not think of doing anything; she merely pointed, and said:

 

“Look, look!”

 

Sibold ran forward, and lifted up the leaf of an enormous Parsley plant; and there—oh, joy of joys!—was lying the dearest little Baby Boy that ever was seen.

 

May knelt down beside him, and lifted him up, and began to rock him, and sing “Hush a bye, baby,” whilst Sibold looked on complacently. However, after a while he got impatient, and said:

 

“Look here, you know, I found that Baby; he belongs to me.”

 

“Oh, please,” said May, “I heard him first. He is mine.”

 

“He is mine,” said Sibold; “He is mine,” said May; and both began to get a little angry.

 

Suddenly they heard a low groan—a sort of sound like as if a tune had a toothache. Both children looked down in alarm, and saw that the poor Baby was dead.

 

They were both horrorstruck, and began to cry; and both asked the other to forgive them, and promised that never, never again they would be angry. When they had done this, the Child opened its eyes, looked at them gravely, and said:

 

“Now never quarrel or be angry. If you get angry again, either of you, I shall be dead, aye, and buried too, before you can say ‘trapsticks.’”

 

“Indeed, Ba,” said May, “I shall never, never be angry again. At least, I shall try not to be.”

 

Said Sibold:

 

“I assure you, sir, that under no provocation, resulting from whatever concatenation of circumstances, shall I be guilty of the malfaisance of anger.”

 

“How pretty he speaks,” said May; and the Baby nodded his head to him familiarly, as much as to say:

 

“All right, old man, we understand each other.”

 

Then for a while they were all quite quiet. Presently the Baby turned its blue eyes up to May, and said:

 

“Please, little mother, will you sing to me?”

 

“What would you like, Ba?” said May.

 

“Oh, any little trifle; something pathetic,” he answered.

 

“Any particular style?” asked May.

 

“No, thank you; anything that comes handy. I prefer something simple—some little elementary trifle, as, for instance, any little tune beginning with a chromatic scale in consecutive fifths and octaves, pianissimo—rallentando—excellerando—crescendo—up to an inharmonic change on the dominant of the diminished flat ninth.”

 

“Oh, please, Ba,” said May, very humbly, “I do not know anything about that yet. I am only in scales, and, if you please, I do not know what it is all about.”

 

“Look, and you will see,” said the Child, and he took a piece of stick and wrote some music on the sand.

 

“I do not know yet,” said May.

 

Just then a small yellowish-brown animal appeared in the glade chasing a rat. When it came opposite them it suddenly went off like the sound of a pistol.

 

“Do you know now?” asked the Child.

 

“No, dear Ba, but it does not matter,” she answered.

 

“Very well, dear,” said the Child, kissing her, “anything you please, only let it come straight from your loving little heart;” and he kissed her again.

 

Then May sang something very sweet and pretty—so sweet and pretty that it made her cry, and Sibold also, and the Baby. She did not know the words, and she did not know the tune, and she had only a vague sort of idea what it was all about; but it was very, very pretty. All the time she was singing she kept nursing the baby, and he put his dear little fat arms round her neck, and loved her very much.

 

When she was done singing, the Child said:

 

“Chlap, Chlap, Chlap, M-chlap!”

 

“What does he mean?” she asked Sibold, in distress, for she saw that the Baby wanted something.

 

Just then a beautiful Cow put its head over the bushes, and said, “Moo-oo-oo.” The Beautiful Child clapped his hands; so did May, who said:

 

“Oh, I know now. He wants to be fed.”

 

The Cow walked in without being invited; and Sibold said:

 

“I suppose, May, I had better milk him.”

 

“Please do, dear,” said May; and she began cuddling the Baby again, and kissing, and nursing him, and telling him that he would soon be fed now.

 

Whilst she was thus engaged, she was sitting with her back to Sibold; but the Baby was looking on at the milking operation, with his blue eyes dancing with glee. All at once he began to laugh, so much that May looked round to see what he was laughing at. There was Sibold trying to milk the Cow by pulling its tail.

 

The Cow did not seem to mind him, but went on grazing.

 

“Chay, Lady,” said Sibold. The Cow began to frisk about.

 

“Oh, I say,” said Sibold, “do hurry up now, and give us some milk; the Ba wants some.”

 

The Cow answered him:

 

“The dear Ba must not want for aught.”

 

May thought it very strange that the Cow could talk; but as Sibold did not seem to think it strange, she held her tongue.

 

Sibold began to argue with the Cow: “But really now, Mister Cow, if he must not want for anything, why do you make him want?”

 

The Cow answered: “Don’t blame me. It is your own fault. Try some other way;” and it began to laugh as hard as it could.

 

Its laugh was very funny, very loud at first, but gradually getting more and more like the Child’s laugh, till May could not tell one from the other. Then the Cow stopped laughing, but the Child went on.

 

“What are you laughing at, Ba?” May asked, for she did not remember to know anything about milking, any more than Sibold. She thought this very funny, for she knew that she had often seen the cows milked at home.

 

The Baby spoke, “That is not the way to milk a cow.”

 

Then Sibold began to work the Cow’s tail up and down like the handle of a pump; but the Baby laughed more than ever.

 

All at once, without knowing how it came to pass, she felt herself pouring milk out of a watering-pot all over the Baby, who lay on the ground, with Sibold holding down its head. The Baby was crowing and laughing like mad; and when the watering-pot was all emptied, he said:

 

“Thank you both so much. I never enjoyed dinner so much in my life.”

 

“This is a very queer dear Ba!” said May, in a whisper.

 

“Very,” said Sibold.

 

Whilst they were talking there came a dreadful sound among the trees, very very far away at first, but getting nearer and nearer every moment. It was like cats who were trying to imitate thunder. The noise came booming through the trees.

 

“Meiau-u-boom-r-p-s-s-s. Yarkhow-iau-p-s-s.”

 

May was very much frightened. So also was Sibold, but he would not say so; he felt that he had to protect his little Sister and the Baby, so he got between them and the place the sound came from. May hugged the Child close, and said to him, “Do not fear, dear Ba. We will not let it touch you.”

 

“What is ‘it?’” said the Baby.

 

“I do not know, Ba,” she answered. “I wish I did. There it comes now;” for just at that moment a great angry Tiger bounded over the tops of the highest trees, and stood glaring at them out of its great green flaming eyes.

 

May looked on this terrible thing with her eyes distended with terror; but still she clasped the Baby closer and closer. She kept looking at the Tiger, and saw that he was eyeing not her nor Sibold, but the Baby. This made her more frightened than ever, and she clasped him closer. As she looked, however, she saw that the Tiger’s eyes got less and less angry every moment, till at last they were as gentle and tame as those of her own favourite tabby.

 

Then the Tiger began to purr. The purring was like a cat’s purr, but so loud that it sounded like drums. However, she did not mind it, for although loud it seemed as if it meant to be gentle and caressing. Then the Tiger came close, and crouched before the Wondrous Child, and licked his little fat hands with its great rough red tongue, but very gently. The Baby laughed, and patted the Tiger’s great nose, and pulled the long bristling whiskers, and said:

 

“Gee, gee.”

 

The Tiger went on behaving most funnily. It lay down on its back, and rolled over and over, and then stood up and purred louder than ever. Its great tail rose straight into the air, with the top moving about and knocking to and fro a great bunch of grapes that hung down from the tree above. It seemed overwhelmed with joy, and came and crouched again before the Child, and purred round him in the greatest state of happiness. Finally it lay down, smiling and purring, and watching over the Child as if on guard.

 

Presently there came from the distance another terrible Sound. It was like a great Giant hissing; and was louder than steam, and more multitudinous than a flock of geese. There was also the sound of breaking branches, of the crushing of the undergrowth; and there was a terrible dragging noise like nothing else they had ever heard.

 

Again Sibold stood out between the sound and May, who once more held the Baby to protect him from harm.

 

The Tiger rose and arched his back like an angry cat, and got ready to spring on whatsoever should come.

 

Then there appeared over the tops of the trees the head of an enormous Serpent, with small eyes that shone like sparks of fire, and two great open jaws. These jaws were so big that it really seemed as if the beast’s whole head opened in two; and between them appeared a great forked tongue which seemed to spit venom. Behind this monstrous head appeared enormous coils of the Serpent’s body moving endlessly. The Tiger growled as if about to spring; but suddenly the Serpent lowered its head submissively. It was gazing at the Wondrous Child; and May looking, also saw that the wee Baby was pointing down as if commanding the Serpent to his feet. Then the Tiger, with a low growl and afterwards a contented purr, went back to its place to watch and guard; the great Serpent came gently and coiled itself in the glade, and it also seemed as if keeping watch and guard over the Wondrous Child.

 

Again there came another terrible sound. This time it was in the air. Great wings seemed to flap louder than thunder; and from far away the air was darkened by a mighty Bird of Prey that made a shadow over the land with its outspread wings.

 

As the Bird of Prey swooped down, the Tiger rose again and arched his back as though about to spring to meet it, and the Serpent raised his mighty coils and opened his great jaws as if about to strike.

 

But when the Bird saw the Child it too became less fierce, and hung in mid air with its head drooped as though making submission. Presently the Serpent coiled itself and lay as before, the Tiger went back to watch and guard, and the Bird of Prey alit in the glade and watched and guarded too.

 

May and Sibold began to look with wonder on the Beautiful Boy, before whom these monsters made obeisance; but they could not see anything strange.

 

Again there was another terrible sound—this time out to sea—a rushing and swishing as if some giant thing was lashing the water.

 

Looking round, the children saw two monsters coming. These were a Shark and a Crocodile. They rose out of the sea and came up on land. The Shark was jumping along, with its tail beating about and its triple rows of great teeth grinding together. The Crocodile was crawling along with its big feet and short bent legs; and its terrible mouth was opening and shutting, snapping its big teeth together.

 

When these two got near, the Tiger and the Serpent and the Bird of Prey all rose to guard the Child; but when the newcomers saw the Baby, they too made submission, and they also kept watch and guard—the Crocodile crawling on the beach, and the Shark moving up and down in the water—just like sentries.

 

Again May and Sibold looked at the Beautiful Child and wondered.

 

Once more there was a terrible noise, more awful than had yet been.

 

The earth seemed to shake, and a deep rumbling sound came from far below. Then, a little way off, a mountain suddenly rose; its top opened, and forth burst, with a sound louder than a storm, fire and smoke. Great volumes of black vapour rose and hung, a dark cloud, overhead. Red-hot stones of enormous size were shot aloft and fell again into the crater, and were lost. Down the sides of the mountain rolled torrents of burning lava, and springs of fiercely-boiling water burst forth on every side.

 

Sibold and May were more frightened than ever, and May clasped the dear Baby closer to her breast.

 

The thunder of the burning mountain grew louder and louder, the fiery lava poured thick and fast, and from the crater rose the head of a fiery Dragon, with eyes like burning coals and teeth like tongues of flame.

 

Then the Tiger and the Serpent and the Bird of Prey, and the Crocodile and the Shark, all prepared to defend the Wondrous Child.

 

But when the fiery Dragon saw the Boy it, too, was quelled; and it crawled humbly out from the burning crater.

 

Then the fiery mountain sunk again into the earth, the burning lava disappeared; and the Dragon remained with the others to watch and guard.

 

Sibold and May were more amazed than ever, and looked at the Baby more curiously still. Suddenly May said to her brother:

 

“Sibold, I want to whisper you something.”

 

Sibold bent his head, and she whispered very softly into his ear:

 

“I think the Ba is an Angel!”

 

Sibold looked at him in awe as he answered:

 

“I think so, too, dear. What are we to do?”

 

“I do not know,” said May; “I hope he will not be angry with us for calling him ‘Ba.’”

 

“I hope not,” said Sibold.

 

May thought for a moment, and then her face lit up with a glad smile as she said:

 

“He will not be angry, Sibold. You know we entertained him unawares.”

 

“Quite true,” said Sibold.

 

Whilst they were talking, all sorts of animals and birds and fishes were coming into the glade, walking arm in arm, as well as they could—for none of them had arms. A Lion and a Lamb came first, and these two bowed to the Child, and then went and lay down together. Then came a Fox and a Goose; and then a Hawk and a Pigeon; and then a Wolf and another Lamb; then a Dog and a Cat; and then another Cat and a Mouse; and then another Fox and a Stork; and a Hare and a Tortoise; and a Pike and a Trout; and a Sparrow and a Worm; and many, many others, till all the glade was full of living things all at peace with one another.

 

They all sat round the glade in pairs, and they all looked at the Wondrous Child.

 

May whispered again to Sibold:

 

“I think if he is an Angel we ought to be very respectful to him.”

 

Sibold nodded, slowing that he agreed with her; so she cuddled up the Baby closer and said:

 

“Please, Mister Ba, do not they all look nice and pretty sitting around like that?”

 

The Beautiful Child smiled sweetly as he answered:

 

“Beautiful and sweet they look.”

 

May said again:

 

“I wish they would always be like that, and never fight nor disagree at all, dear Ba. Oh! I beg your pardon. I mean, Mister Ba.”

 

The Child asked her:

 

“Why do you beg my pardon?”

 

“Because I called you Ba, instead of Mister Ba.”

 

The Boy asked again:

 

“Why should you call me Mister Ba?”

 

May did not like to say, “Because you are an Angel,” as she would like to have said, so she cuddled the Child closer and whispered into his little pink ear:

 

“You know.”

 

The Child put his little arms round her neck and kissed her, and said, very low and very sweetly, words that all her life long she never forgot:

 

“I do know. Be always loving and sweet, dear child, and even the Angels will know your thoughts and will listen to your words.”

 

May felt very happy. She looked at Sibold, who bent over and kissed her, and called her “sweet little sister;” and all the animals in pairs, and all the terrible ones on guard, said all together like a cheer:

 

“Right!”

 

Then they stopped and made all together each of the noises in turn that any of them used to show they were happy. First they all purred, and then they all crowed, and then cackled, and squeaked, and flapped their wings and wagged their tails.

 

“Oh, how pretty!” said May again, “look, dear Ba!” She was just going to say Mister when the Child held up its finger, so she only said “Ba.”

 

The Child smiled and said:

 

“Right, you must call me only Ba.”

 

Again all the animals said together like a shout:

 

“Right, you must say only Ba,” and then they all went through the same ways of showing their joy as before.

 

May said to the Child—and somehow her voice seemed very, very loud although she did not mean it, but only to whisper.

 

“Oh, dear Ba, I do so wish they would always continue happy and at peace like this. Is there no way of doing it?”

 

The Beautiful Child opened its mouth to speak, and all the living things put up their claws, or their wings, or their fins to their cars, to listen attentively.

 

He spake, and his words seemed full of sound but very soft, like the echo of distant thunder coming over far waters on the wings of music.

 

“Know, dear children, and know ye all that list—there shall be peace on earth between all living things when the children of men are for one hour in perfect love and harmony with each other. Strive, oh! strive, each and all of you, that it may be so.”

 

As he spoke there came over all a solemn hush, and they were very still.

 

Then the Wondrous Child seemed to float out of May’s arms and to move down toward the sea. All the living things instantly hurried to make a great double line between which he passed.

 

May and Sibold followed him hand in hand. He waited for them at the marge of the sea and then kissed them both.

 

Whilst he was kissing them, the boat came close to shore; the anchor climbed on board; the white sails ran aloft, and a fresh breeze began to blow towards home.

 

The Wondrous Child moved on to the prow, and there rested. Sibold and May went on board, and took their old place; and after kissing their hands to all the living things—who were by this time dancing all together in the glade—they kept their eyes fixed on the Beautiful Boy.

 

As they sat hand in hand, the boat moved along gently, but very swiftly. The shore, with its many beautiful places, seemed gliding into a dim mist as they swept along.

 

Presently they saw their own creek, and the great Willow towering over all the other trees on shore.

 

The boat came to land. The Wondrous Child, floating in the air, moved onward towards the Willow Bower.

 

Sibold and May followed.

 

He entered the Bower; they came close after.

 

As the leafy curtain fell behind them, the figure of the Wondrous Child got dimmer and dimmer; till at last, looking at them lovingly, and waving his tiny hands, as if blessing them, he seemed to melt away into the air.

 

Sibold and May sat for a long time, hand in hand, thinking. Then both feeling sleepy, they put their arms round each other, and lay down to rest.

 

In this position they again fell asleep, with the Poppies all around them.

 

 

 

A DREAM OF RED HANDS

 

The first opinion given to me regarding Jacob Settle was a simple descriptive statement. “He’s a down-in-the-mouth chap”: but I found that it embodied the thoughts and ideas of all his fellow-workmen. There was in the phrase a certain easy tolerance, an absence of positive feeling of any kind, rather than any complete opinion, which marked pretty accurately the man’s place in public esteem. Still, there was some dissimilarity between this and his appearance which unconsciously set me thinking, and by degrees, as I saw more of the place and the workmen, I came to have a special interest in him. He was, I found, for ever doing kindnesses, not involving money expenses beyond his humble means, but in the manifold ways of forethought and forbearance and self-repression which are of the truer charities of life. Women and children trusted him implicitly, though, strangely enough, he rather shunned them, except when anyone was sick, and then he made his appearance to help if he could, timidly and awkwardly. He led a very solitary life, keeping house by himself in a tiny cottage, or rather hut, of one room, far on the edge of the moorland. His existence seemed so sad and solitary that I wished to cheer it up, and for the purpose took the occasion when we had both been sitting up with a child, injured by me through accident, to offer to lend him books. He gladly accepted, and as we parted in the grey of the dawn I felt that something of mutual confidence had been established between us.

 

The books were always most carefully and punctually returned, and in time Jacob Settle and I became quite friends. Once or twice as I crossed the moorland on Sundays I looked in on him; but on such occasions he was shy and ill at ease so that I felt diffident about calling to see him. He would never under any circumstances come into my own lodgings.

 

One Sunday afternoon, I was coming back from a long walk beyond the moor, and as I passed Settle’s cottage stopped at the door to say “how do you do?” to him. As the door was shut, I thought that he was out, and merely knocked for form’s sake, or through habit, not expecting to get any answer. To my surprise, I heard a feeble voice from within, though what was said I could not hear. I entered at once, and found Jacob lying half-dressed upon his bed. He was as pale as death, and the sweat was simply rolling off his face. His hands were unconsciously gripping the bed-clothes as a drowning man holds on to whatever he may grasp. As I came in he half arose, with a wild, hunted look in his eyes, which were wide open and staring, as though something of horror had come before him; but when he recognised me he sank back on the couch with a smothered sob of relief and closed his eyes. I stood by him for a while, quiet a minute or two, while he gasped. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, but with such a despairing, woeful expression that, as I am a living man, I would have rather seen that frozen look of horror. I sat down beside him and asked after his health. For a while he would not answer me except to say that he was not ill; but then, after scrutinising me closely, he half arose on his elbow and said—

 

“I thank you kindly, sir, but I’m simply telling you the truth. I am not ill, as men call it, though God knows whether there be not worse sicknesses than doctors know of. I’ll tell you, as you are so kind, but I trust that you won’t even mention such a think to a living soul, for it might work me more and greater woe. I am suffering from a bad dream.”

 

“A bad dream!” I said, hoping to cheer him; “but dreams pass away with the light—even with waking.” There I stopped, for before he spoke I saw the answer in his desolate look round the little place.

 

“No! no! that’s all well for people that live in comfort and with those they love around them. It is a thousand times worse for those who live alone and have to do so. What cheer is there for me, waking here in the silence of the night, with the wide moor around me full of voices and full of faces that make my waking a worse dream than my sleep? Ah, young sir, you have no past that can send its legions to people the darkness and the empty space, and I pray the good God that you may never have! As he spoke, there was such an almost irresistible gravity of conviction in his manner that I abandoned my remonstrance about his solitary life. I felt that I was in the presence of some secret influence which I could not fathom. To my relief, for I knew not what to say, he went on—

 

“Two nights past have I dreamed it. It was hard enough the first night, but I came through it. Last night the expectation was in itself almost worse than the dream—until the dream came, and then it swept away every remembrance of lesser pain. I stayed awake till just before the dawn, and then it came again, and ever since I have been in such an agony as I am sure the dying feel, and with it all the dread of tonight.” Before he had got to the end of the sentence my mind was made up, and I felt that I could speak to him more cheerfully.

 

“Try and get to sleep early tonight—in fact, before the evening has passed away. The sleep will refresh you, and I promise you there will not be any bad dreams after tonight.” He shook his head hopelessly, so I sat a little longer and then left him.

 

When I got home I made my arrangements for the night, for I had made up my mind to share Jacob Settle’s lonely vigil in his cottage on the moor. I judged that if he got to sleep before sunset he would wake well before midnight, and so, just as the bells of the city were striking eleven, I stood opposite his door armed with a bag, in which were my supper, and extra large flask, a couple of candles, and a book. The moonlight was bright, and flooded the whole moor, till it was almost as light as day; but ever and anon black clouds drove across the sky, and made a darkness which by comparison seemed almost tangible. I opened the door softly, and entered without waking Jacob, who lay asleep with his white face upward. He was still, and again bathed it sweat. I tried to imagine what visions were passing before those closed eyes which could bring with them the misery and woe which were stamped on the face, but fancy failed me, and I waited for the awakening. It came suddenly, and in a fashion which touched me to the quick, for the hollow groan that broke from the man’s white lips as he half arose and sank back was manifestly the realisation or completion of some train of thought which had gone before.

 

“If this be dreaming,” said I to myself, “then it must be based on some very terrible reality. What can have been that unhappy fact that he spoke of?”

 

While I thus spoke, he realised that I was with him. It struck me as strange that he had no period of that doubt as to whether dream or reality surrounded him which commonly marks an expected environment of waking men. With a positive cry of joy, he seized my hand and held it in his two wet, trembling hands, as a frightened child clings on to someone whom it loves. I tried to soothe him—

 

“There, there! it is all right. I have come to stay with you tonight, and together we will try to fight this evil dream.” He let go my hand suddenly, and sank back on his bed and covered his eyes with his hands.

 

“Fight it?—the evil dream! Ah! no sir no! No mortal power can fight that dream, for it comes form God—and is burned in here;” and he beat upon his forehead. Then he went on—

 

It is the same dream, ever the same, and yet it grows in its power to torture me every time it comes.”

 

“What is the dream?” I asked, thinking that the speaking of it might give him some relief, but he shrank away from me, and after a long pause said—

 

“No, I had better not tell it. It may not come again.”

 

There was manifestly something to conceal from me—something that lay behind the dream, so I answered—

 

“All right. I hope you have seen the last of it. But if it should come again, you will tell me, will you not? I ask, not out of curiosity, but because I think it may relieve you to speak.” He answered with what I thought was almost an undue amount of solemnity—

 

“If it comes again, I shall tell you all.”

 

Then I tried to get his mind away from the subject to more mundane things, so I produced supper, and made him share it with me, including the contents of the flask. After a little he braced up, and when I lit my cigar, having given him another, we smoked a full hour, and talked of many things. Little by little the comfort of his body stole over his mind, and I could see sleep laying her gentle hands on his eyelids. He felt it, too, and told me that now he felt all right, and I might safely leave him; but I told him that, right or wrong, I was going to see in the daylight. So I lit my other candle, and began to read as he fell asleep.

 

By degrees I got interested in my book, so interested that presently I was startled by its dropping out of my hands. I looked and saw that Jacob was still asleep, and I was rejoiced to see that there was on his face a look of unwonted happiness, while his lips seemed to move with unspoken words. Then I turned to my work again, and again woke, but this time to feel chilled to my very marrow by hearing the voice from the bed beside me—

 

“Not with those red hands! Never! never!” On looking at him, I found that he was still asleep. He woke, however, in an instant, and did not seem surprised to see me; there was again that strange apathy as to his surroundings. Then I said:

 

“Settle, tell me your dream. You may speak freely, for I shall hold your confidence sacred. While we both live I shall never mention what you may choose to tell me,”

 

“I said I would; but I had better tell you first what goes before the dream, that you may understand. I was a schoolmaster when I was a very young man; it was only a parish school in a little village in the West Country. No need to mention any names. Better not. I was engaged to be married to a young girl whom I loved and almost reverenced. It was the old story. While we were waiting for the time when we could afford to set up house together, another man came along. He was nearly as young as I was, and handsome, and a gentleman, with all a gentleman’s attractive ways for a woman of our class. He would go fishing, and she would meet him while I was at my work in school. I reasoned with her and implored her to give him up. I offered to get married at once and go away and begin the world in a strange country; but she would not listen to anything I could say, and I could see that she was infatuated with him. Then I took it on myself to meet the man and ask him to deal well with the girl, for I thought he might mean honestly by her, so that there might be no talk or chance of talk on the part of others. I went where I should meet him with none by, and we met!” Here Jacob Settle had to pause, for something seemed to rise in his throat, and he almost gasped for breath. Then went on—

 

“Sir, as God is above us, there was no selfish thought in my heart that day, I loved my pretty Mabel too well to be content with a part of her love, and I had thought of my own unhappiness too often not to have come to realise that, whatever might come to her, my hope was gone. He was insolent to me—you, sir, who are a gentleman, cannot know, perhaps, how galling can be the insolence of one who is above you in station—but I bore with that. I implored him to deal well with the girl, for what might be only a pastime of an idle hour with him might be the breaking of her heart. For I never had a thought of her truth, or that the worst of harm could come to her—it was only the unhappiness to her heart I feared. But when I asked him when he intended to marry her his laughter galled me so that I lost my temper and told him that I would not stand by and see her life made unhappy. Then he grew angry too, and in his anger said such cruel things of her that then and there I swore he should not live to do her harm. God knows how it came about, for in such moments of passion it is hard to remember the steps from a word to a blow, but I found myself standing over his dead body, with my hands crimson with the blood that welled from his torn throat. We were alone and he was a stranger, with none of his kin to seek for him and murder does not always out—not all at once. His bones may be whitening still, for all I know, in the pool of the river where I left him. No one suspected his absence, or why it was, except my poor Mabel, and she dared not speak. But it was all in vain, for when I came back again after an absence of months—for I could not live in the place—I learned that her shame had come and that she had died in it. Hitherto I had been borne up by the thought that my ill deed had saved her future, but now, when I learned that I had been too late, and that my poor love was smirched with that man’s sin, I fled away with the sense of my useless guilt upon me more heavily than I could bear. Ah! Sir, you that have not done such a sin don’t know what it is to carry it with you. You may think that custom makes it easy to you, but it is not so. It grows and grows with every hour, till it becomes intolerable, and with it growing, too, the feeling that you must for ever stand outside Heaven. You don’t know what that means, and I pray God that you never may. Ordinary men, to whom all things are possible, don’t often, if ever, think of Heaven. It is a name, and nothing more, and they are content to wait and let things be, but to those who are doomed to be shut out for ever you cannot think what it means, you cannot guess or measure the terrible endless longing to see the gates opened, and to be able to join the white figures within.

 

“And this brings me to my dream. It seemed that the portal was before me, with great gates of massive steel with bars of the thickness of a mast, rising to the very clouds, and so close that between them was just a glimpse of a crystal grotto, on whose shinning walls were figured many white-clad forms with faces radiant with joy. When I stood before the gate my heart and my soul were so full of rapture and longing that I forgot. And there stood at the gate two mighty angels with sweeping wings, and, oh! so stern of countenance. They held each in one hand a flaming sword, and in the other the latchet, which moved to and fro at their lightest touch. Nearer were figures all draped in black, with heads covered so that only the eyes were seen, and they handed to each who came white garments such as the angels wear. A low murmur came that told that all should put on their own robes, and without soil, or the angels would not pass them in, but would smite them down with the flaming swords. I was eager to don my own garment, and hurriedly threw it over me and stepped swiftly to the gate; but it moved not, and the angels, loosing the latchet, pointed to my dress, I looked down, and was aghast, for the whole robe was smeared with blood. My hands were red; they glittered with the blood that dripped form them as on that day by the river bank. And then the angels raised their flaming swords to smite me down, and the horror was complete—I awoke. Again, and again, and again, that awful dream comes to me. I never learn from the experience, I never remember, but at the beginning the hope if ever there to make the end more appalling; and I know that the dream does not come out of the common darkness where the dreams abide, but that it is sent from God as a punishment! Never, never shall I be able to pass the gate, for the soil on the angel garments must ever come from these bloody hands!”

 

I listened as in a spell as Jacob Settle spoke. There was something so far away in the tone of his voice—something so dreamy and mystic in the eyes that looked as if through me at some spirit beyond—something so lofty in his very diction and in such marked contrast to his workworn clothes and his poor surroundings that I wondered if the whole thing were not a dream.

 

We were both silent for a long time. I kept looking at the man before me in growing wonderment. Now that his confession had been made, his soul, which had been crushed to the very earth, seemed to leap back again to uprightness with some resilient force. I suppose I ought to have been horrified with his story, but, strange to say, I was not. It certainly is not pleasant to be made the recipient of the confidence of a murderer, but this poor fellow seemed to have had, not only so much provocation, but so much self-denying purpose in his deed of blood that I did not feel called upon to pass judgment upon him. My purpose was to comfort, so I spoke out with what calmness I could, for my heart was beating fast and heavily—

 

“You need not despair, Jacob Settle. God is very good, and his mercy is great. Live on and work on in the hope that someday you may feel that you have atoned for the past.” Here I paused, for I could see that sleep, natural sleep this time, was creeping upon him. “Go to sleep,” I said; “I shall watch with you here, and we shall have no more evil dreams tonight.”

 

He made an effort to pull himself together, and answered—

 

“I don’t know how to thank you for your goodness to me this night, but I think you had best leave me now. I’ll try and sleep this out; I feel a weight off my mind since I have told you all. If there’s anything of the man left in me, I must try and fight out life alone.”

 

“I’ll go tonight, as you wish it,” I said; “but take my advice, and do not live in such a solitary way. Go among men and women; live among them. Share their joys and sorrows, and it will help you to forget. This solitude will make you melancholy mad.”

 

“I will!” he answered, half unconsciously, for sleep was overmastering him.

 

I turned to go, and he looked after me. When I had touched the latch I dropped it, and, coming back to the bed, held out my hand. He grasped it with both his as he rose to a sitting posture, and I said my good-night, trying to cheer him—

 

“Heart, man, heart! There is work in the world for you to do, Jacob Settle. You can wear those white robes yet and pass through that gate of steel!”

 

Then I left him.

 

A week after I found his cottage deserted, and on asking at the works was told that he had “gone north,” no one exactly knew whither.

 

Two years afterwards, I was staying for a few days with my friend Dr. Munro in Glasgow. He was a busy man, and could not spare much time for going about with me, so I spent my days in excursions to the Trossachs and Loch Katrine and down the Clyde. On the second last evening of my stay I came back somewhat later than I had arranged, but found that my host was late too. The maid told me that he had been sent for to the hospital—a case of accident at the gas-works, and the dinner was postponed an hour; so telling her I would stroll down to find her master and walk back with him, I went out. At the hospital I found him washing his hands preparatory to starting for home. Casually, I asked him what his case was.

 

“Oh, the usual thing! A rotten rope and men’s lives of no account. Two men were working in a gasometer, when the rope that held their scaffolding broke. It must have occurred just before the dinner hour, for no one noticed their absence till the men had returned. There was about seven feet of water in the gasometer, so they had a hard fight for it, poor fellows. However, one of them was alive, just alive, but we have had a hard job to pull him through. It seems that he owes his life to his mate, for I have never heard of greater heroism. They swam together while their strength lasted, but at the end they were so done up that even the lights above, and the men slung with ropes, coming down to help them, could not keep them up. But one of them stood on the bottom and held up his comrade over his head, and those few breaths made all the difference between life and death. They were a shocking sight when they were taken out, for that water is like a purple dye with the gas and the tar. The man upstairs looked as if he had been washed in blood. Ugh!”

 

“And the other?”

 

“Oh, he’s worse still. But he must have been a very noble fellow. That struggle under the water must have been fearful; one can see that by the way the blood has been drawn from the extremities. It makes the idea of the Stigmata possible to look at him. Resolution like this could, you would think, do anything in the world. Ay! it might almost unbar the gates of Heaven. Look here, old man, it is not a very pleasant sight, especially just before dinner, but you are a writer, and this is an odd case. Here is something you would not like to miss, for in all human probability you will never see anything like it again.” While he was speaking he had brought me into the mortuary of the hospital.

 

On the bier lay a body covered with a white sheet, which was wrapped close round it.

 

“Looks like a chrysalis, don’t it? I say, Jack, if there be anything in the old myth that a soul is typified by a butterfly, well, then the one that this chrysalis sent forth was a very noble specimen and took all the sunlight on its wings. See here!” He uncovered the face. Horrible, indeed, it looked, as though stained with blood. But I knew him at once, Jacob Settle! My friend pulled the winding sheet further down.

 

The hands were crossed on the purple breast as they had been reverently placed by some tenderhearted person. As I saw them my heart throbbed with a great exultation, for the memory of his harrowing dream rushed across my mind. There was no stain now on those poor, brave hands, for they were blanched white as snow.

 

And somehow as I looked I felt that the evil dream was all over. That noble soul had won a way through the gate at last. The white robe had now no stain from the hands that had put it on.

 

 

 

CROOKEN SANDS

 

Mr. Arthur Fernlee Markam, who took what was known as the Red House above the Mains of Crooken, was a London merchant, and being essentially a cockney, thought it necessary when he went for the summer holidays to Scotland to provide an entire rig-out as a Highland chieftain, as manifested in chromolithographs and on the music-hall stage. He had once seen in the Empire the Great Prince—“The Bounder King”—bring down the house by appearing as “The MacSlogan of that Ilk,” and singing the celebrated Scotch song. “There’s naething like haggis to mak a mon dry!” and he had ever since preserved in his mind a faithful image of the picturesque and warlike appearance which he presented. Indeed, if the true inwardness of Mr. Markam’s mind on the subject of his selection of Aberdeenshire as a summer resort were known, it would be found that in the foreground of the holiday locality which his fancy painted stalked the many hued figure of the MacSlogan of that Ilk. However, be this as it may, a very kind fortune—certainly so far as external beauty was concerned—led him to the choice of Crooken Bay. It is a lovely spot, between Aberdeen and Peterhead, just under the rock-bound headland whence the long, dangerous reefs known as The Spurs run out into the North Sea. Between this and the “Mains of Crooken”—a village sheltered by the northern cliffs—lies the deep bay, backed with a multitude of bent-grown dunes where the rabbits are to be found in thousands. Thus at either end of the bay is a rocky promontory, and when the dawn or the sunset falls on the rocks of red syenite the effect is very lovely. The bay itself is floored with level sand and the tide runs far out, leaving a smooth waste of hard sand on which are dotted here and there the stake nets and bag nets of the salmon fishers. At one end of the bay there is a little group or cluster of rocks whose heads are raised something above high water, except when in rough weather the waves come over them green. At low tide they are exposed down to sand level; and here is perhaps the only little bit of dangerous sand on this part of the eastern coast. Between the rocks, which are apart about some fifty feet, is a small quicksand, which, like the Goodwins, is dangerous only with the incoming tide. It extends outwards till it is lost in the sea, and inwards till it fades away in the hard sand of the upper beach. On the slope of the hill which rises beyond the dunes, midway between the Spurs and the Port of Crooken, is the Red House. It rises from the midst of a clump of fir-trees which protect it on three sides, leaving the whole sea front open. A trim, old-fashioned garden stretches down to the roadway, on crossing which a grassy path, which can be used for light vehicles, threads a way to the shore, winding amongst the sand hills.

 

When the Markam family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer Ban Righ from Blackwall, with the subsequent train to Yellon and drive of a dozen miles, they all agreed that they had never seen a more delightful spot. The general satisfaction was more marked as at that very time none of the family were, for several reasons, inclined to find favourable anything or any place over the Scottish border. Though the family was a large one, the prosperity of the business allowed them all sorts of personal luxuries, amongst which was a wide latitude in the way of dress. The frequency of the Markam girls’ new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom friends and of joy to themselves.

 

Arthur Fernlee Markam had not taken his family into his confidence regarding his new costume. He was not quite certain that he should be free from ridicule, or at least from sarcasm, and as he was sensitive on the subject, he thought it better to be actually in the suitable environment before he allowed the full splendour to burst on them. He had taken some pains to insure the completeness of the Highland costume. For the purpose he had paid many visits to “The Scotch All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart” which had been lately established in Copthall-court by the Messrs. MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu. He had anxious consultations with the head of the firm—MacCullum as he called himself, resenting any such additions as “Mr.” or “Esquire.” The known stock of buckles, buttons, straps, brooches and ornaments of all kinds were examined in critical detail; and at last an eagle’s feather of sufficiently magnificent proportions was discovered, and the equipment was complete. It was only when he saw the finished costume, with the vivid hues of the tartan seemingly modified into comparative sobriety by the multitude of silver fittings, the cairngorm brooches, the philibeg, dirk and sporran that he was fully and absolutely satisfied with his choice. At first he had thought of the Royal Stuart dress tartan, but abandoned it on the MacCallum pointing out that if he should happen to be in the neighbourhood of Balmoral it might lead to complications. The MacCullum, who, by the way, spoke with a remarkable cockney accent, suggested other plaids in turn; but now that the other question of accuracy had been raised, Mr. Markam foresaw difficulties if he should by chance find himself in the locality of the clan whose colours he had usurped. The MacCallum at last undertook to have, at Markam’s expense, a special pattern woven which would not be exactly the same as any existing tartan, though partaking of the characteristics of many. It was based on the Royal Stuart, but contained suggestions as to simplicity of pattern from the Macalister and Ogilvie clans, and as to neutrality of colour from the clans of Buchanan, Macbeth, Chief of Macintosh and Macleod. When the specimen had been shown to Markam he had feared somewhat lest it should strike the eye of his domestic circle as gaudy; but as Roderick MacDhu fell into perfect ecstasies over its beauty he did not make any objection to the completion of the piece. He thought, and wisely, that if a genuine Scotchman like MacDhu liked it, it must be right—especially as the junior partner was a man very much of his own build and appearance. When the MacCallum was receiving his cheque—which, by the way, was a pretty stiff one—he remarked:

 

“I’ve taken the liberty of having some more of the stuff woven in case you or any of your friends should want it.” Markam was gratified, and told him that he should be only too happy if the beautiful stuff which they had originated between them should become a favourite, as he had no doubt it would in time. He might make and sell as much as he would.

 

Markam tried the dress on in his office one evening after the clerks had all gone home. He was pleased, though a little frightened, at the result. The MacCullum had done his work thoroughly, and there was nothing omitted that could add to the martial dignity of the wearer.

 

“I shall not, of course, take the claymore and the pistols with me on ordinary occasions,” said Markam to himself as he began to undress. He determined that he would wear the dress for the first time on landing in Scotland, and accordingly on the morning when the Ban Righ was hanging off the Girdle Ness lighthouse, waiting for the tide to enter the port of Aberdeen, he emerged from his cabin in all the gaudy splendour of his new costume. The first comment he heard was from one of his own sons, who did not recognise him at first.

 

“Here’s a guy! Great Scott! It’s the governor!” And the boy fled forthwith and tried to bury his laughter under a cushion in the saloon. Markam was a good sailor and had not suffered from the pitching of the boat, so that his naturally rubicund face was even more rosy by the conscious blush which suffused his cheeks when he had found himself at once the cynosure of all eyes. He could have wished that he had not been so bold for he knew from the cold that there was a big bare spot under one side of his jauntily worn Glengarry cap. However, he faced the group of strangers boldly. He was not, outwardly, upset even when some of their comments reached his ears.

 

“He’s off his bloomin’ chump,” said a cockney in a suit of exaggerated plaid.

 

“There’s flies on him,” said a tall thin Yankee, pale with seasickness, who was on his way to take up his residence for a time as close as he could get to the gates of Balmoral.

 

“Happy thought! Let us fill our mulls; now’s the chance!” said a young Oxford man on his way home to Inverness. But presently Mr. Markam heard the voice of his eldest daughter.

 

“Where is he? Where is he?” and she came tearing along the deck with her hat blowing behind her. Her face showed signs of agitation, for her mother had just been telling her of her father’s condition; but when she saw him she instantly burst into laughter so violent that it ended in a fit of hysterics. Something of the same kind happened to each of the other children. When they had all had their turn Mr. Markam went to his cabin and sent his wife’s maid to tell each member of the family that he wanted to see them at once. They all made their appearance, suppressing their feelings as well as they could. He said to them very quietly:

 

“My dears, don’t I provide you all with ample allowances!”

 

“Yes, father!” they all answered gravely, “no one could be more generous!”

 

“Don’t I let you dress as you please?”

 

“Yes, father!”—this a little sheepishly.

 

“Then, my dears, don’t you think it would be nicer and kinder of you not to try and make me feel uncomfortable, even if I do assume a dress which is ridiculous in your eyes, though quite common enough in the country where we are about to sojourn?” There was no answer except that which appeared in their hanging heads. He was a good father and they all knew it. He was quite satisfied and went on:

 

“There, now, run away and enjoy yourselves! We shan’t have another word about it.” Then he went on deck again and stood bravely the fire of ridicule which he recognised around him, though nothing more was said within his hearing.

 

The astonishment and the amusement which his get-up occasioned on the Ban Righ was, however, nothing to that which it created in Aberdeen. The boys and loafers, and women with babies, who waited at the landing shed, followed en masse as the Markam party took their way to the railway station; even the porters with their old-fashioned knots and their new-fashioned barrows, who await the traveller at the foot of the gang-plank, followed in wondering delight. Fortunately the Peterhead train was just about to start, so that the martyrdom was not unnecessarily prolonged. In the carriage the glorious Highland costume was unseen, and as there were but few persons at the station at Yellon, all went well there. When, however, the carriage drew near the Mains of Crooken and the fisher folk had run to their doors to see who it was that was passing, the excitement exceeded all bounds. The children with one impulse waved their bonnets and ran shouting behind the carriage; the men forsook their nets and their baiting and followed; the women clutched their babies and followed also. The horses were tired after their long journey to Yellon and back, and the hill was steep, so that there was ample time for the crowd to gather and even to pass on ahead.

 

Mrs. Markam and the elder girls would have liked to make some protest or to do something to relieve their feelings of chagrin at the ridicule which they saw on all faces, but there was a look of fixed determination on the face of the seeming Highlander which awed them a little, and they were silent. It might have been that the eagle’s feather, even when rising above the bald head, the cairngorm brooch even on the fat shoulder, and the claymore, dirk and pistols, even when belted round the extensive paunch and protruding from the stocking on the sturdy calf, fulfilled their existence as symbols of martial and terrifying import! When the party arrived at the gate of the Red House there awaited them a crowd of Crooken inhabitants, hatless and respectfully silent; the remainder of the population was painfully toiling up the hill. The silence was broken by only one sound, that of a man with a deep voice.

 

“Man! but he’s forgotten the pipes!”

 

The servants had arrived some days before, and all things were in readiness. In the glow consequent on a good lunch after a hard journey all the disagreeables of travel and all the chagrin consequent on the adoption of the obnoxious costume were forgotten.

 

That afternoon Markam, still clad in full array, walked through the Mains of Crooken. He was all alone, for, strange to say, his wife and both daughters had sick headaches, and were, as he was told, lying down to rest after the fatigue of the journey. His eldest son, who claimed to be a young man, had gone out by himself to explore the surroundings of the place, and one of the boys could not be found. The other boy, on being told that his father had sent for him to come for a walk, had managed—by accident, of course—to fall into a water butt, and had to be dried and rigged out afresh. His clothes not having been as yet unpacked this was of course impossible without delay.

 

Mr. Markam was not quite satisfied with his walk. He could not meet any of his neighbours. It was not that there were not enough people about, for every house and cottage seemed to be full; but the people when in the open were either in their doorways some distance behind him, or on the roadway a long distance in front. As he passed he could see the tops of heads and the whites of eyes in the windows or round the corners of doors. The only interview which he had was anything but a pleasant one. This was with an odd sort of old man who was hardly ever heard to speak except to join in the “Amens” in the meeting-house. His sole occupation seemed to be to wait at the window of the post-office from eight o’clock in the morning till the arrival of the mail at one, when he carried the letter-bag to a neighbouring baronial castle. The remainder of his day was spent on a seat in a draughty part of the port, where the offal of the fish, the refuse of the bait, and the house rubbish was thrown, and where the ducks were accustomed to hold high revel.

 

When Saft Tammie beheld him coming he raised his eyes, which were generally fixed on the nothing which lay on the roadway opposite his seat, and, seeming dazzled as if by a burst of sunshine, rubbed them and shaded them with his hand. Then he started up and raised his hand aloft in a denunciatory manner as he spoke:—

 

“‘Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher. All is vanity.’ Mon, be warned in time! ‘Behold the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin, yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ Mon! mon! Thy vanity is as the quicksand which swallows up all which comes within its spell. Beware vanity! Beware the quicksand, which yawneth for thee, and which will swallow thee up! See thyself! Learn thine own vanity! Meet thyself face to face, and then in that moment thou shalt learn the fatal force of thy vanity. Learn it, know it, and repent ere the quicksand swallow thee!” Then without another word he went back to his seat and sat there immovable and expressionless as before.

 

Markam could not but feel a little upset by this tirade. Only that it was spoken by a seeming madman, he would have put it down to some eccentric exhibition of Scottish humour or impudence; but the gravity of the message—for it seemed nothing else—made such a reading impossible. He was, however, determined not to give in to ridicule, and although he had not as yet seen anything in Scotland to remind him even of a kilt, he determined to wear his Highland dress. When he returned home, in less than half-an-hour, he found that every member of the family was, despite the headaches, out taking a walk. He took the opportunity afforded by their absence of locking himself in his dressing-room, took off the Highland dress, and, putting on a suit of flannels, lit a cigar and had a snooze. He was awakened by the noise of the family coming in, and at once donning his dress made his appearance in the drawing-room for tea.

 

He did not go out again that afternoon; but after dinner he put on his dress again—he had, of course, dressed for dinner as usual—and went by himself for a walk on the seashore. He had by this time come to the conclusion that he would get by degrees accustomed to the Highland dress before making it his ordinary wear. The moon was up and he easily followed the path through the sand-hills, and shortly struck the shore. The tide was out and the beach firm as a rock, so he strolled southwards to nearly the end of the bay. Here he was attracted by two isolated rocks some little way out from the edge of the dunes, so he strolled towards them. When he reached the nearest one he climbed it, and, sitting there elevated some fifteen or twenty feet over the waste of sand, enjoyed the lovely, peaceful prospect. The moon was rising behind the headland of Pennyfold, and its light was just touching the top of the furthermost rock of the Spurs some three-quarters of a mile out; the rest of the rocks were in dark shadow. As the moon rose over the headland, the rocks of the Spurs and then the beach by degrees became flooded with light.

 

For a good while Mr. Markam sat and looked at the rising moon and the growing area of light which followed its rise. Then he turned and faced eastwards, and sat with his chin in his hand looking seawards, and revelling in the peace and beauty and freedom of the scene. The roar of London—the darkness and the strife and weariness of London life—seemed to have passed quite away, and he lived at the moment a freer and higher life. He looked at the glistening water as it stole its way over the flat waste of sand, coming closer and closer insensibly—the tide had turned. Presently he heard a distant shouting along the beach very far off.

 

“The fisherman calling to each other,” he said to himself and looked around. As he did so he got a horrible shock, for though just then a cloud sailed across the moon he saw, in spite of the sudden darkness around him, his own image. For an instant, on the top of the opposite rock he could see the bald back of the head and the Glengarry cap with the immense eagle’s feather. As he staggered back his foot slipped, and he began to slide down towards the sand between the two rocks. He took no concern as to falling, for the sand was really only a few feet below him, and his mind was occupied with the figure or simulacrum of himself, which had already disappeared. As the easiest way of reaching terra firma he prepared to jump the remainder of the distance. All this had taken but a second, but the brain works quickly, and even as he gathered himself for the spring he saw the sand below him lying so marbly level shake and shiver in an odd way. A sudden fear overcame him; his knees failed, and instead of jumping he slid miserably down the rock, scratching his bare legs as he went. His feet touched the sand—went through it like water—and he was down below his knees before he realised that he was in a quicksand. Wildly he grasped at the rock to keep himself from sinking further, and fortunately there was a jutting spur or edge which he was able to grasp instinctively. To this he clung in grim desperation. He tried to shout, but his breath would not come, till after a great effort his voice rang out. Again he shouted, and it seemed as if the sound of his own voice gave him new courage, for he was able to hold on to the rock for a longer time than he thought possible—though he held on only in blind desperation. He was, however, beginning to find his grasp weakening, when, joy of joys! his shout was answered by a rough voice from just above him.

 

“God be thankit, I’m nae too late!” and a fisherman with great thigh-boots came hurriedly climbing over the rock. In an instant he recognised the gravity of the danger, and with a cheering “Haud fast, mon! I’m comin’!” scrambled down till he found a firm foothold. Then with one strong hand holding the rock above, he leaned down, and catching Markam’s wrist, called out to him, “Haud to me, mon! Haud to me wi’ your ither hond!”

 

Then he lent his great strength, and with a steady, sturdy pull, dragged him out of the hungry quicksand and placed him safe upon the rock. Hardly giving him time to draw breath, he pulled and pushed him—never letting him go for an instant—over the rock into the firm sand beyond it, and finally deposited him, still shaking from the magnitude of his danger, high up on the beach. Then he began to speak:

 

“Mon! but I was just in time. If I had no laucht at yon foolish lads and begun to rin at the first you’d a bin sinkin’ doon to the bowels o’ the airth be the noo! Wully Beagrie thocht you was a ghaist, and Tom MacPhail swore ye was only like a goblin on a puddick-steel! ‘Na!’ said I. ‘Yon’s but the daft Englishman—the loony that has escapit frae the wax-warks.’ I was thinkin’ that bein’ strange and silly—if not a whole-made feel—ye’d no ken the ways o’ the quicksan’! I shouted till warn ye, and then ran to drag ye aff, if need be. But God be thankit, be ye fule or only half-daft wi’ yer vanity, that I was no that late!” and he reverently lifted his cap as he spoke.

 

Mr. Markam was deeply touched and thankful for his escape from a horrible death; but the sting of the charge of vanity thus made once more against him came through his humility. He was about to reply angrily, when suddenly a great awe fell upon him as he remembered the warning words of the half-crazy letter-carrier: “Meet thyself face to face, and repent ere the quicksand shall swallow thee!”

 

Here, too, he remembered the image of himself that he had seen and the sudden danger from the deadly quicksand that had followed. He was silent a full minute, and then said:

 

“My good fellow, I owe you my life!”

 

The answer came with reverence from the hardy fisherman, “Na! Na! Ye owe that to God; but, as for me, I’m only too glad till be the humble instrument o’ His mercy.”

 

“But you will let me thank you,” said Mr. Markam, taking both the great hands of his deliverer in his and holding them tight. “My heart is too full as yet, and my nerves are too much shaken to let me say much; but, believe me, I am very, very grateful!” It was quite evident that the poor old fellow was deeply touched, for the tears were running down his cheeks.

 

The fisherman said, with a rough but true courtesy:

 

“Ay, sir! thank me and ye will—if it’ll do yer poor heart good. An’ I’m thinking that if it were me I’d like to be thankful too. But, sir, as for me I need no thanks. I am glad, so I am!”

 

That Arthur Fernlee Markam was really thankful and grateful was shown practically later on. Within a week’s time there sailed into Port Crooken the finest fishing smack that had ever been seen in the harbour of Peterhead. She was fully found with sails and gear of all kinds, and with nets of the best. Her master and men went away by the coach, after having left with the salmon-fisher’s wife the papers which made her over to him.

 

As Mr. Markam and the salmon-fisher walked together along the shore the former asked his companion not to mention the fact that he had been in such imminent danger, for that it would only distress his dear wife and children. He said that he would warn them all of the quicksand, and for that purpose he, then and there, asked questions about it till he felt that his information on the subject was complete. Before they parted he asked his companion if he had happened to see a second figure, dressed like himself, on the other rock as he had approached to succour him.

 

“Na! Na!” came the answer, “there is nae sic another fule in these parts. Nor has there been since the time o’ Jamie Fleeman—him that was fule to the Laird o’ Udny. Why, mon! sic a heathenish dress as ye have on till ye has nae been seen in these pairts within the memory o’ mon. An’ I’m thinkin’ that sic a dress never was for sittin’ on the cauld rock, as ye done beyont. Mon! but do ye no fear the rheumatism or the lumbagy wi’ floppin’ doon on to the cauld stanes wi’ yer bare flesh! I was thinking that it was daft ye waur when I see ye the mornin’ doon be the port, but it’s fule or eediot ye maun be for the like o’ thot!” Mr. Markam did not care to argue the point, and as they were now close to his own home he asked the salmon-fisher to have a glass of whisky—which he did—and they parted for the night. He took good care to warn all his family of the quicksand, telling them that he had himself been in some danger from it.

 

All that night he never slept. He heard the hours strike one after the other; but try how he would he could not get to sleep. Over and over again he went through the horrible episode of the quicksand, from the time that Saft Tammie had broken his habitual silence to preach to him of the sin of vanity and to warn him. The question kept ever arising in his mind—“Am I then so vain as to be in the ranks of the foolish?” and the answer ever came in the words of the crazy prophet: “‘Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.’ Meet thyself face to face, and repent ere the quicksand shall swallow thee!” Somehow a feeling of doom began to shape itself in his mind that he would yet perish in that same quicksand, for there he had already met himself face to face.

 

In the gray of the morning he dozed off, but it was evident that he continued the subject in his dreams, for he was fully awakened by his wife, who said:

 

“Do sleep quietly! That blessed Highland suit has got on your brain. Don’t talk in your sleep, if you can help it!” He was somehow conscious of a glad feeling, as if some terrible weight had been lifted from him, but he did not know any cause for it. He asked his wife what he had said in his sleep, and she answered:

 

“You said it often enough, goodness knows, for one to remember it—’Not face to face! I saw the eagle plume over the bald head! There is hope yet! Not face to face!’ Go to sleep! Do!” And then he did go to sleep, for he seemed to realize that the prophecy of the crazy man had not yet been fulfilled. He had not met himself face to face—as yet at all events.

 

He was awakened early by a maid who came to tell him that there was a fisherman at the door who wanted to see him. He dressed himself as quickly as he could—for he was not yet expert with the Highland dress—and hurried down, not wishing to keep the salmon-fisher waiting. He was surprised and not altogether pleased to find that his visitor was none other than Saft Tammie, who at once opened fire on him:

 

“I maun gang awa’ t’ the post; but I thocht that I would waste an hour on ye, and ca’ roond just to see if ye waur still that fou wi’ vanity as on the nicht gane by. An I see that ye’ve no learned the lesson. Well! the time is comin’, sure eneucht! However I have all the time i’ the marnins to my ain sel’, so I’ll aye look roond jist till see how ye gang yer ain gait to the quicksan’, and then to the de’il! I’m aff till ma wark the noo!” And he went straightway, leaving Mr. Markam considerably vexed, for the maids within earshot were vainly trying to conceal their giggles. He had fairly made up his mind to wear on that day ordinary clothes, but the visit of Saft Tammie reversed his decision. He would show them all that he was not a coward, and he would go on as he had begun—come what might. When he came to breakfast in full martial panoply the children, one and all, held down their heads and the backs of their necks became very red indeed. As, however, none of them laughed—except Titus, the youngest boy, who was seized with a fit of hysterical choking and was promptly banished from the room—he could not reprove them, but began to break his egg with a sternly determined air. It was unfortunate that as his wife was handing him a cup of tea one of the buttons of his sleeve caught in the lace of her morning wrapper, with the result that the hot tea was spilt over his bare knees. Not unnaturally, he made use of a swear word, whereupon his wife, somewhat nettled, spoke out:

 

“Well, Arthur, if you will make such an idiot of yourself with that ridiculous costume what else can you expect? You are not accustomed to it—and you never will be!” In answer he began an indignant speech with: “Madam!” but he got no further, for now that the subject was broached, Mrs. Markam intended to have her say out. It was not a pleasant say, and, truth to tell, it was not said in a pleasant manner. A wife’s manner seldom is pleasant when she undertakes to tell what she considers “truths” to her husband. The result was that Arthur Fernlee Markam undertook, then and there, that during his stay in Scotland he would wear no other costume than the one she abused. Woman-like his wife had the last word—given in this case with tears:

 

“Very well, Arthur! Of course you will do as you choose. Make me as ridiculous as you can, and spoil the poor girls’ chances in life. Young men don’t seem to care, as a general rule, for an idiot father-in-law! But I warn you that your vanity will some day get a rude shock—if indeed you are not before then in an asylum or dead!”

 

It was manifest after a few days that Mr. Markam would have to take the major part of his outdoor exercise by himself. The girls now and again took a walk with him, chiefly in the early morning or late at night, or on a wet day when there would be no one about; they professed to be willing to go at all times, but somehow something always seemed to occur to prevent it. The boys could never be found at all on such occasions, and as to Mrs. Markam she sternly refused to go out with him on any consideration so long as he should continue to make a fool of himself. On the Sunday he dressed himself in his habitual broadcloth, for he rightly felt that church was not a place for angry feelings; but on Monday morning he resumed his Highland garb. By this time he would have given a good deal if he had never thought of the dress, but his British obstinacy was strong, and he would not give in. Saft Tammie called at his house every morning, and, not being able to see him nor to have any message taken to him, used to call back in the afternoon when the letter-bag had been delivered and watched for his going out. On such occasions he never failed to warn him against his vanity in the same words which he had used at the first. Before many days were over Mr. Markam had come to look upon him as little short of a scourge.

 

By the time the week was out the enforced partial solitude, the constant chagrin, and the never-ending brooding which was thus engendered, began to make Mr. Markam quite ill. He was too proud to take any of his family into his confidence, since they had in his view treated him very badly. Then he did not sleep well at night, and when he did sleep he had constantly bad dreams. Merely to assure himself that his pluck was not failing him he made it a practice to visit the quicksand at least once every day, he hardly ever failed to go there the last thing at night. It was perhaps this habit that wrought the quicksand with its terrible experience so perpetually into his dreams. More and more vivid these became, till on waking at times he could hardly realise that he had not been actually in the flesh to visit the fatal spot. He sometimes thought that he might have been walking in his sleep.

 

One night his dream was so vivid that when he awoke he could not believe that it had only been a dream. He shut his eyes again and again, but each time the vision, if it was a vision, or the reality, if it was a reality, would rise before him. The moon was shining full and yellow over the quicksand as he approached it; he could see the expanse of light shaken and disturbed and full of black shadows as the liquid sand quivered and trembled and wrinkled and eddied as was its wont between its pauses of marble calm. As he drew close to it another figure came towards it from the opposite side with equal footsteps. He saw that it was his own figure, his very self, and in silent terror, compelled by what force he knew not, he advanced-charmed as the bird is by the snake, mesmerised or hypnotised—to meet this other self. As he felt the yielding sand closing over him he awoke in the agony of death, trembling with fear, and, strange to say, with the silly man’s prophecy seeming to sound in his ears: “‘Vanity of vanities! All is vanity!’ See thyself and repent ere the quicksand swallow thee!”

 

So convinced was he that this was no dream that he arose, early as it was, and dressing himself without disturbing his wife took his way to the shore. His heart fell when he came across a series of footsteps on the sands, which he at once recognised as his own. There was the same wide heel, the same square toe; he had no doubt now that he had actually been there, and half horrified, and half in a state of dreamy stupor, he followed the footsteps, and found them lost in the edge of the yielding quicksand. This gave him a terrible shock, for there were no return steps marked on the sand, and he felt that there was some dread mystery which he could not penetrate, and the penetration of which would, he feared, undo him.

 

In this state of affairs he took two wrong courses. Firstly he kept his trouble to himself, and, as none of his family had any clue to it, every innocent word or expression which they used supplied fuel to the consuming fire of his imagination. Secondly he began to read books professing to bear upon the mysteries of dreaming and of mental phenomena generally, with the result that every wild imagination of every crank or half-crazy philosopher became a living germ of unrest in the fertilising soil of his disordered brain. Thus negatively and positively all things began to work to a common end. Not the least of his disturbing causes was Saft Tammie, who had now become at certain times of the day a fixture at his gate. After a while, being interested in the previous state of this individual, he made inquiries regarding his past with the following result.

 

Saft Tammie was popularly believed to be the son of a laird in one of the counties round the Firth of Forth. He had been partially educated for the ministry, but for some cause which no one ever knew threw up his prospects suddenly, and, going to Peterhead in its days of whaling prosperity, had there taken service on a whaler. Here off and on he had remained for some years, getting gradually more and more silent in his habits, till finally his shipmates protested against so taciturn a mate, and he had found service amongst the fishing smacks of the northern fleet. He had worked for many years at the fishing with always the reputation of being “a wee bit daft,” till at length he had gradually settled down at Crooken, where the laird, doubtless knowing something of his family history, had given him a job which practically made him a pensioner. The minister who gave the information finished thus:—

 

“It is a very strange thing, but the man seems to have some odd kind of gift. Whether it be that ‘second sight’ which we Scotch people are so prone to believe in, or some other occult form of knowledge, I know not, but nothing of a disastrous tendency ever occurs in this place but the men with whom he lives are able to” after the event some saying of his which certainly appears to have foretold it. He gets uneasy or excited—wakes up, in fact—when death is in the air!”

 

This did not in any way tend to lessen Mr. Markam’s concern, but on the contrary seemed to impress the prophecy more deeply on his mind. Of all the books which he had read on his new subject of study none interested him so much as a German one “Der Doppelganger” by Dr. Heinrich von Aschenberg, formerly of Bonn. Here he learned for the first time of cases where men had led a double existence—each nature being quite apart from the other—the body being always a reality with one spirit, and a simulacrum with the other. Needless to say that Mr. Markam realised this theory as exactly suiting his own case. The glimpse which he had of his own back the night of his escape from the quicksand—his own footmarks disappearing into the quicksand with no return steps visible—the prophecy of Saft Tammie about his meeting himself and perishing in the quicksand—all lent aid to the conviction that he was in his own person an instance of the doppelganger. Being then conscious of a double life he took steps to prove its existence to his own satisfaction. To this end on one night before going to bed he wrote his name in chalk on the soles of his shoes. That night he dreamed of the quicksand, and of his visiting it—dreamed so vividly that on waking in the gray of the dawn he could not believe that he had not been there. Arising, without disturbing his wife, he sought his shoes.

 

The chalk signatures were undisturbed! He dressed himself and stole out softly. This time the tide was in, so he crossed the dunes and struck the shore on the further side of the quicksand. There, oh, horror of horrors! he saw his own footprints dying into the abyss!

 

He went home a desperately sad man. It seemed incredible that he, an elderly commercial man, who had passed a long and uneventful life in the pursuit of business in the midst of roaring, practical London, should thus find himself enmeshed in mystery and horror, and that he should discover that he had two existences. He could not speak of his trouble even to his own wife, for well he knew that she would at once require the fullest particulars of that other life—the one which she did not know; and that she would at the start not only imagine but charge him with all manner of infidelities on the head of it. And so his brooding grew deeper and deeper still. One evening—the tide then going out and the moon being at the full—he was sitting waiting for dinner when the maid announced that Saft Tammie was making a disturbance outside because he would not be let in to see him. He was very indignant, but did not like the maid to think that he had any fear on the subject, and so told her to bring him in. Tammie entered, walking more briskly than ever with his head up and a look of vigorous decision in the eyes that were so generally cast down. As soon as he entered he said:

 

“I have come to see ye once again—once again; and there ye sit, still just like a cockatoo on a pairch. Weel, mon, I forgie ye! Mind ye that, I forgie ye!” And without a word more he turned and walked out of the house, leaving the master in speechless indignation.

 

After dinner he determined to pay another visit to the quicksand—he would not allow even to himself that he was afraid to go. And so, about nine o’clock, in full array, he marched to the beach, and passing over the sands sat on the skirt of the nearer rock. The full moon was behind him and its light lit up the bay so that its fringe of foam, the dark outline of the headland, and the stakes of the salmon-nets were all emphasised. In the brilliant yellow glow the lights in the windows of Port Crooken and in those of the distant castle of the laird trembled like stars through the sky. For a long time he sat and drank in the beauty of the scene, and his soul seemed to feel a peace that it had not known for many days. All the pettiness and annoyance and silly fears of the past weeks seemed blotted out, and a new and holy calm took the vacant place. In this sweet and solemn mood he reviewed his late action calmly, and felt ashamed of himself for his vanity and for the obstinacy which had followed it. And then and there he made up his mind that the present would be the last time he would wear the costume which had estranged him from those whom he loved, and which had caused him so many hours and days of chagrin, vexation, and pain.

 

But almost as soon as he arrived at this conclusion another voice seemed to speak within him and mockingly to ask him if he should ever get the chance to wear the suit again, that it was too late, he had chosen his course and must now abide the issue.

 

“It is not too late,” came the quick answer of his better self; and full of the thought, he rose up to go home and divest himself of the now hateful costume right away. He paused for one look at the beautiful scene. The light lay pale and mellow, softening every outline of rock and tree and house-top, and deepening the shadows into velvety-black, and lighting, as with a pale flame, the incoming tide, that now crept fringe-like across the flat waste of sand. Then he left the rock and stepped out for the shore.

 

But as he did so a frightful spasm of horror shook him, and for an instant the blood rushing to his head shut out all the light of the full moon. Once more he saw that fatal image of himself moving beyond the quicksand from the opposite rock to the shore. The shock was all the greater for the contrast with the spell of peace which he had just enjoyed; and, almost paralysed in every sense, he stood and watched the fatal vision and the wrinkly, crawling quicksand that seemed to writhe and yearn for something that lay between. There could be no mistake this time, for though the moon behind threw the face into shadow he could see there the same shaven cheeks as his own, and the small stubby moustache of a few weeks’ growth. The light shone on the brilliant tartan, and on the eagle’s plume. Even the bald space at one side of the Glengarry cap glistened, as did the Cairngorm brooch on the shoulder and the tops of the silver buttons. As he looked he felt his feet slightly sinking, for he was still near the edge of the belt of quicksand, and he stepped back. As he did so the other figure stepped forward, so that the space between them was preserved.

 

So the two stood facing each other, as though in some weird fascination; and in the rushing of the blood through his brain Markam seemed to hear the words of the prophecy: “See thyself face to face, and repent ere the quicksand swallow thee.” He did stand face to face with himself, he had repented—and now he was sinking in the quicksand! The warning and prophecy were coming true.

 

Above him the seagulls screamed, circling round the fringe of the incoming tide, and the sound being entirely mortal recalled him to himself. On the instant he stepped back a few quick steps, for as yet only his feet were merged in the soft sand. As he did so the other figure stepped forward, and coming within the deadly grip of the quicksand began to sink. It seemed to Markam that he was looking at himself going down to his doom, and on the instant the anguish of his soul found vent in a terrible cry. There was at the same instant a terrible cry from the other figure, and as Markam threw up his hands the figure did the same. With horror-struck eyes he saw him sink deeper into the quicksand; and then, impelled by what power he knew not, he advanced again towards the sand to meet his fate. But as his more forward foot began to sink he heard again the cries of the seagulls which seemed to restore his benumbed faculties. With a mighty effort he drew his foot out of the sand which seemed to clutch it, leaving his shoe behind, and then in sheer terror he turned and ran from the place, never stopping till his breath and strength failed him, and he sank half swooning on the grassy path through the sandhills.

 

 

Arthur Markam made up his mind not to tell his family of his terrible adventure—until at least such time as he should be complete master of himself. Now that the fatal double—his other self—had been engulfed in the quicksand he felt something like his old peace of mind.

 

That night he slept soundly and did not dream at all; and in the morning was quite his old self. It really seemed as though his newer and worser self had disappeared for ever; and strangely enough Saft Tammie was absent from his post that morning and never appeared there again, but sat in his old place watching nothing, as of old, with lacklustre eye. In accordance with his resolution he did not wear his Highland suit again, but one evening tied it up in a bundle, claymore, dirk and philibeg and all, and bringing it secretly with him threw it into the quicksand. With a feeling of intense pleasure he saw it sucked below the sand, which closed above it into marble smoothness. Then he went home and announced cheerily to his family assembled for evening prayers.

 

“Well! my dears, you will be glad to hear that I have abandoned my idea of wearing the Highland dress. I see now what a vain old fool I was and how ridiculous I made myself! You shall never see it again!”

 

“Where is it, father?” asked one of the girls, wishing to say something so that such a self-sacrificing announcement as her father’s should not be passed in absolute silence. His answer was so sweetly given that the girl rose from her seat and came and kissed him. It was:

 

“In the quicksand, my dear! and I hope that my worser self is buried there along with it—for ever.”

 

 

The remainder of the summer was passed at Crooken with delight by all the family, and on his return to town Mr. Markam had almost forgotten the whole of the incident of the quicksand, and all touching on it, when one day he got a letter from the MacCallum More which caused him much thought, though he said nothing of it to his family, and left it, for certain reasons, unanswered. It ran as follows:

 

The MacCallum More and Roderick MacDhu.

 

The Scotch All-Wool Tartan Clothing Mart

 

Copthall Court, E.C.,

 

30th September, 1892.

 

DEAR SIR, trust you will pardon the liberty which I take in writing to you, but I am desirous of making an inquiry, and I am informed that you have been sojourning during the summer in Aberdeenshire (Scotland, N.B.). My partner, Mr. Roderick MacDhu—as he appears for business reasons on our bill heads and in our advertisements, his real name being Emmanuel Moses Marks of London—went early last month to Scotland (N.B.) for a tour, but as I have only once heard from him, shortly after his departure, I am anxious lest any misfortune may have befallen him. As I have been unable to obtain any news of him on making all inquiries in my power, I venture to appeal to you. His letter was written in deep dejection of spirit, and mentioned that he feared a judgment had come upon him for wishing to appear as a Scotchman on Scottish soil, as he had one moonlight night shortly after his arrival seen his ‘wraith.’ He evidently alluded to the fact that before his departure he had procured for himself a Highland costume similar to that which we had the honour to supply to you, with which, as perhaps you will remember, he was much struck. He may, however, never have worn it, as he was, to my own knowledge, diffident about putting it on, and even went so far as to tell me that he would at first only venture to wear it late at night or very early in the morning, and then only in remote places, until such time as he should get accustomed to it. Unfortunately he did not advise me of his route, so that I am in complete ignorance of his whereabouts; and I venture to ask if you may have seen or heard of a Highland costume similar to your own having been seen anywhere in the neighbourhood in which I am told you have recently purchased the estate which you temporarily occupied. I shall not expect an answer to this letter unless you can give me some information regarding my friend and partner, so pray do not trouble yourself to reply unless there be cause. I am encouraged to think that he may have been in your neighbourhood as, though his letter is not dated, the envelope is marked with the postmark of ‘Yellon,’ which I find is in Aberdeenshire, and not far from the Mains of Crooken.I have the honour to be, dear sir,

Yours very respectfully,

 

JOSHUA SHEENY COHEN BENJAMIN

(The MacCallum More.)

 

 

 

OLD HOGGEN: A MYSTERY

 

“If he had the spirit of a man in him, he would go himself,” said my mother-in-law.

 

“Indeed, I think you might, Augustus. I know I often deny myself and make efforts to please you, and you know that my dear mamma loves crabs,” said my mother-in-law’s daughter.

 

“Far be it from me to interfere,” said Cousin Jemima, as they call her, smoothing down her capstrings as she spoke. “But I do think that it would be well if Cousin Kate—who, like myself, is not at all so strong as she looks—could have something to tempt her appetite.”

 

Cousin Jemima, who was my mother-in-law’s cousin, was as robust as a Swiss guide, and had the appetite and digestion of a wild Indian. I began to get riled.

 

“What on Earth are you all talking about?” said I. “One would think you were all suffering some terrible wrong. You want crabs—and you are actually now engaged in bolting down one of the biggest crabs I ever saw. What does it all mean? Unless, indeed, you want merely to annoy me!”

 

Here my mother-in-law laid down her fork in a majestic way and glared at me, saying:

 

“If there are no crabs nearer than Bridport, then you must go there,” while her daughter began to cry.

 

This, of course, settled the matter. When my mother-in-law has a go in at me I can—although it makes me uncomfortable and unhappy—stand it; but when her daughter cries, I am done: so I made an effort by an attempt at jocularity—feeble, though, it was—to grace my capitulation and go out with the honors of war.

 

“I shall get you some crabs,” said I, “my dear mother-in-law, which even you will not be able to vanquish—or even, Cousin Jemima, with her feeble digestion.”

 

They all looked very glum, so I made another effort.

 

“Yes,” I went on. “I shall bring you some giant crabs, even if I have to find Old Hoggen first.”

 

The only answer made in words was by my mother-in-law, who cut in sharply: “If Old Hoggen was as great a brute as you, I don’t wonder that he has got rid of—”

 

Cousin Jemima endorsed the sentiment with a series of sniffs and silences, as eloquent and expressive as the stars and negative chapters of Tristram Shandy. Lucy looked at me, but it was a good look, more like my wife’s, and less like that of my mother-in-law’s daughter than had hitherto been, so tacitly we became a linked battalion.

 

There was a period of silence, which was broken by my mother-in-law:

 

“I do not see—I fail to see why you will always introduce that repulsive subject.”

 

As she began the battle, and as Lucy was now on my side, I did not shun the fight, but made a counter attack.

 

“Crabs?” I asked interrogatively, in a tone which I felt to be dangerous.

 

“No, not crabs—how dare you call the subject of my food—and you know how delicate an appetite I have—disgusting—”

 

“Well, what do you mean?” I inquired, again showing the green lamps.

 

“I call ‘disgusting’ the subject of conversation on which you always harp—that disreputable old man whom they say was murdered. I have made inquiries—many inquiries—concerning him, and I find that his life was most disreputable. Some of the details of his low amours which I have managed to find out are most improper. What do you think, Cousin Jemima—”

 

Here she whispered to the other old dear, who eagerly inclined her ear to listen.

 

“No, really! Seventeen? What a wretched old man,” and Cousin Jemima became absorbed in a moral reverie.

 

My mother-in-law went on:

 

“When you, Augustus, bring perpetually before our notice the name of this wicked man, you affront your wife.”

 

Here the worm, which had hitherto been squirming about trying to imagine that it was built on the lines of a serpent, which can threaten and strike, turned, and I spoke.

 

“I do not think it is half so bad to mention a topic of common interest, and which is forced upon us every hour of every day since we came here, as it is for you to make such a charge. I respect and love my wife too much”—here I pulled Lucy toward me, who came willingly—“to affront her even by accident. And, moreover, I think, madam, that it would be better if, instead of making such preposterous and monstrous charges, you would give me a little peace at my meals by holding your tongue and giving yourself an opportunity of getting tired and sick of crabs. I have not sat down to a meal since I came here that you have not spoiled it with your quarrelling. You quite upset my digestion. Can’t you let me alone?”

 

The effect of the attack was appalling.

 

My mother-in-law, who had by this time finished the last morsel of the crab, sat for a moment staring and speechless, and for the only time in her life burst into tears.

 

Her tears were not nearly so effective upon me as Lucy’s, and I sat unmoved. Cousin Jemima, with an inborn tendency to rest secure on the domineering side, said, audibly:

 

“Served you quite right, Cousin Kate, for interrupting the man at his supper.”

 

Lucy said nothing, but looked at me sympathetically.

 

Presently my mother-in-law, with a great effort, pulled herself together and said:

 

“Well, Augustus, perhaps you are right. We have suffered enough about Old Hoggen to make his name familiar to us.”

 

 

Indeed we suffered. The whole history of Old Hoggen had for some weeks past been written on our souls in the darkest shade of ink. We had come to Charmouth hoping to find in that fair spot the peace that we yearned for after the turmoil and troubles of the year. With the place we were more than satisfied, for it is a favored spot. In quiet, lazy Dorsetshire it lies, close to the sea, but sheltered from its blasts. The long straggling village of substantial houses runs steeply down the hillside parallel to the seaboard. Everywhere are rivulets of sweet water, everywhere are comfort and seeming plenty. A smiling and industrious peasantry are the normal inhabitants, among whom the good old customs of salutation have not died away. A town-made coat enacts a bob courtesy from the females and a salute in military fashion from the men, for the young men are all militia or volunteers.

 

We had been at Charmouth some three weeks. Our arrival had caused us to swell with importance, for, from the time we left Axminster in the diurnal omnibus till our being deposited at our pretty cottage, bowered in enticing greenery and rich with old world flowers, our advent seemed to excite interest and attention. Naturally I surmised that the rustic mind was overcome by the evidence of metropolitan high tone manifested in our clothes and air. Lucy put it down—in her own mind which her mother kindly interpreted for her—to the striking all-the-world-over effect of surpassing loveliness. Cousin Jemima attributed it to their respect for blood; and my mother-in-law took it as a just homage to the rare, if not unique, union of birth, grace, gentleness, breeding, talent, wisdom, culture and power—as embodied in herself. We soon found, however, that there was a cause different from all these.

 

There had lately come to light certain circumstances tending to show that we were objects of suspicion rather than veneration.

 

Some days before our arrival great excitement had been caused in Charmouth by the disappearance, and, consequently, rumored murder, of an old inhabitant, one Jabez Hoggen, reputed locally to be of vast wealth and miserly in the extreme. This good reputation brought him much esteem, not just in Charmouth alone, but through the country round, from Lyme Regis on the one hand as far as distant Bridport on the other.

 

Even inland the trumpet note of Old Hoggen’s wealth sounded to Axminster and even to Chard. This good repute of wealth was, however, the only good repute he had, for his social misdoings were so manifold and continuous as to interest all the social stars of Lyme. These are old ladies who inhabit the snug villas in the uplands at Lyme, and who claim as their special right the covered seats on the Madeira walk of that pretty town, and who are so select that they will not even associate with others except in massed groups or nebulae. Old Hoggen’s peccadilloes afforded them a fertile theme for gossip. There was an inexhaustible store of minute and wicked details of this famous sinner.

 

Year after year Old Hoggen moved among the law-abiding inhabitants of Charmouth, wallowing in his wickedness and adding to his store of goods in the here and ills in the hereafter.

 

Strange to say, all this time not once—not even once—did the Earth yawn and swallow him. On the contrary, he flourished. No matter what weather came he always benefited. Even if the raid did destroy one of his crops, it made another flourish exceedingly. When there was a storm, he accumulated sea rack; when there was calm, he got fish. Many of his neighbors began to have serious doubts about the Earth ever yawning and swallowing at all; and even the old ladies in Lyme Regis—those who had passed the age of proposals and begun to regret, or at least to reconsider, their youth—sometimes thought that perhaps immortality was a little too harshly condemned after all.

 

Suddenly this old man disappeared, and Charmouth woke up to the fact that he was the best known, the most respected, the most important person in the place. His ill-doing sank into insignificance, and his good stood revealed in gigantic proportions. Men pointed out his public spirit, the reforms he had instituted, the powers he had developed; women called attention to the tenderness he had always exhibited to their sex, unworthy as had been the examples of the same that had darkened the horizon of his life. More than one wise matron was heard to remark that if his lot in life had been to meet one good woman, instead of those hussies, his manner of life might have been different.

 

It is a fact worth notice that in the logic of might-have-been, which is pitying woman’s pathway to heaven, the major premise is pitying woman.

 

However, were his life good or ill, Old Hoggen had disappeared, and murder was naturally suspected. Two suppositions—no one knew whence originating—were current. The most popular was that some of his unhappy companions, knowing of his wealth and greedy of his big gold watch and his diamond ring, had incited to his murder other still more disreputable companions. The alternative belief was that some of his relations—for he was believed to have some, although no one had ever seen or heard of them—had quietly removed him so that in due time they might in legal course become possessed of his heritage.

 

Consequent upon the latter supposition suspicion attached itself to every newcomer. It was but natural that the vulture-like relatives should appear upon the scene as soon as possible, and eager eyes scanned each fresh arrival. As I soon discovered, my respected connection by marriage, Cousin Jemima, bore a strong resemblance to the missing man, and drew around our pretty resting place the whole curiosity of Charmouth and concentrated there the attention of the secret myrmidons of the law.

 

In fact, the Charmouth policeman haunted the place, and strange men in slop clothes and regulation boots came from Bridport and Lyme Regis, and even from Axminster itself.

 

These latter representatives of the intellectual subtlety of Devon, Dorset, and Wilts were indeed men full of wile and cunning of device. The bucolic mind in moments of unbending, when frank admission of incompleteness is a tribute to good fellowship, may sometimes admit that its working are slow, but even in the last stage of utter and conscious drunkenness one quality is insisted on—surety.

 

Of surety, in simple minds the correlation is tenacity of purpose and belief.

 

Thus it was that when once the idea of our guilt had been mooted and received, no amount of evidence, direct or circumstantial, could obliterate the idea from the minds of the rustic detectives. These astute men, one by one, each jealous of the other, and carrying on even among themselves the fiction of non-identification, began to seek the evidences of our guilt. It struck me as a curious trait in the inhabitants of the diocese of Salisbury that their primary intellectual effort had one tendency, and that all their other efforts were subordinate to this principle. It may have been that the idea arose from historical contemplation of the beauty of their cathedral and an unconscious effort to emulate the powers of its originators.

 

Or it may not have been.

 

But, at all events, their efforts took the shape of measuring. I fail myself to see how their measurements, be they never so accurate, could in anywise have helped them. Further, I cannot comprehend how the most rigid and exact scrutiny in this respect could have even suggested a combination of facts whence a spontaneous idea could have emanated. Still, they measured, never ceasing day or night for more than a week, and always surreptitiously. They measured one night the whole of the outside of our cottage. I heard them in the night, out on the roof, crawling about like gigantic cats, and, although we learned that one man had fallen off the roof and broken his arm, we were never officially informed of the fact. They made incursions into the house, under various pretexts, there to endeavor to measure the interior.

 

In every case a ruse was adopted. One morning, while we were out bathing, a man called to measure the gas pipes, and, after going through several of the rooms taking the dimensions of the walls, was informed by the servant that there was no gas, not only in the house, but in the village. Not being prepared with a further excuse, he said, with that nonchalance he could assume, that “it was no matter,” and went away. Another time a British workman, as he styled himself, arrayed in cricket flannels and a straw hat, came to look at the kitchen boiler for the landlord, and asked that he might begin on the roof. I saw the inevitable rule and tape measure, and told him that the landlord’s house was next door, and that he would find the boiler buried in the garden. He withdrew, thanking me with effusion, and making a note of the words “buried in the garden” in his notebook.

 

Another day a man called with fish—he had only one sole and that he carried in his hand. The cook was out and I told him we would have it. He asked if he might go into the garden to skin it. I told him he might, and went out. When I came back in about an hour’s time, I found him there still, measuring away. He had got all the dimensions of the garden and the walls, and was now engaged on the heights of the various flowers. I asked him what the dickens he was doing there still, and why he was measuring. He answered vaguely that he was not measuring.

 

“Why, man alive,” said I, “don’t tell me such a story—I saw you at it—why, you are doing it still,” as indeed he was.

 

He stood up and answered me:

 

“Well, sir, I will tell you why. I was looking to see if I could find room to bury the skin of the sole.”

 

He had not skinned the sole, which lay on a flag in the hot sunshine, and was beginning to look glassy.

 

They even measured as well as they could the height of the members of the family. When any of us passed a wall where any of these men were, he immediately spotted some place on the wall of equal height, and the moment we passed, out came the rule and he measured it.

 

Our cook was asked one night by a tall man to lay her head on his shoulder. She did so, as she told us afterward being so surprised that she did not know what to do. When she came in we saw on her black bonnet a series of reversed numbers in chalk dying away over the temple with 5 ft. 6-1⁄2 in.

 

Cousin Jemima, who was of a full habit of body—to say the least of it—was one evening stopped in the lane by two men, who put their arms round her waist from opposite sides. She distinctively said that they had something that looked like a long rope marked in yards, or, as she persisted, in chains, which, when she had escaped from them, they examined with seeming anxiety, and made some entry in books which they carried, laughing all the time heartily and digging each other in the ribs as they pointed at her.

 

Our dog was often measured, and one afternoon there was a terrible caterwauling, which we found to arise from a respectable man trying to weigh our cat in an ouncel, borrowed from a neighboring shop.

 

My mother-in-law, who had no suspicion whatever that she was an object of suspicion, waxed at times furiously indignant at the rudeness of the loiterers round our door, and now and again comported herself so violently as to cause them serious fright. I was unaware during the time of my courtship that this remarkable woman possessed such a power of invective. She certainly proved herself a consummate actress in concealing it as she did; for during that time of rapture and agony I enjoyed the contemplation and experienced the practical outcome of a sympathy and sweetness as ripe as unalloyed. My wife and I both understood the motives of the local detectives, and always recognized them under their disguises. It was a never-ending source of mirth to us to enjoy the spectacle of Cousin Jemima’s ungratified curiosity, and of my mother-in-law’s periodic anger. For the purposes of our own amusement we filled up the daily blanks caused by the slackness of the executive in keeping perpetually before them the theme of Old Hoggen. I amused myself by keeping a little note book, in which I jotted down all kinds of odd measurements for the purpose of leaving it about sometime to puzzle the detectives.

 

Thus it came about that the repulsive individuality of Old Hoggen became, in a manner, of interest to us, and his name to be interwoven in the web of our daily converse.

 

I knew that to mention Old Hoggen to my mother-in-law, when previously influenced by hunger or any collateral vexation, would have the effect of a red rag on a bull, and, as has been seen, I was not disappointed.

 

Now, however, that supper was over and the crab had been all consumed, I found myself pledged to discover by the morrow a full supply of that succulent food. I did not let the matter distress me, as I anticipated a delightful walk by the shore to Bridport, a walk which I had not yet undertaken. In the morning I awoke early, just a little after daybreak, and, leaving my wife asleep, started on my walk.

 

The atmosphere of the early dawn was delightful and refreshing, and the sight of the moving sea filled me with a great pleasure, notwithstanding the fact that an ominous shower on the water and a cold wind foretold a coming storm.

 

At this part of the Dorset coast the sea makes perpetual inroads on the land. As all the country is undulating, the shore presents from the sea an endless succession of steep cliffs, some of which rise by comparison to a scale of moderate grandeur.

 

The cliffs are either of blue clay or sandstone, which soft or friable material perpetually gives way under the undermining influence of the tides assisted by the exfiltration of springs, causing an endless series of moraines. The beach is either of fine gravel or of shingle, save at places where banks of half-formed rock full of fossils run into the sea.

 

The shingle, which forms the major portion of the road, makes walking at times trying work.

 

I passed by the target for a rifle practice, and the spot reserved tacitly as the bathing place for gentlemen, and so on under the first headland, the summits of whose bare yellow cliff is fringed with dark pine trees bent eastwards by the prevailing westerly breeze.

 

Here the shingle began to get heavier. It had been driven by successive tides and storms into a mass like a snow drift, and it was necessary to walk along the top of the ridge whence the pebbles rolled down every step.

 

The wind had now begun to rise, and as I went onward the waves increased in force till the whole shore was strewn with foam swept from the crests of the waves. Sometimes great beds of seaweed—a rare commodity on the Dorset coast—rose and fell as the waves rolled in and broke.

 

On I went as sturdily as I could. The blue-black earth of the Charmouth cliffs had now given place to sandstone, and great boulders shaped like mammoth bones—as indeed they probably were—cumbered the foreshore. I stopped to examine some of these, ostensibly from scientific interest, but in reality to rest myself. I was now getting a little tired, and more than a little hungry, for when starting I had determined to eat my breakfast at Bridport, and to test the culinary capabilities of the place.

 

As I sat on the stones looking seaward, I noticed something washing in and out among the boulders. On examination it proved to be a hat—a human hat. I hooked it in with a piece of driftwood. I turned it over, and in turning it saw something white stuck within the leather lining. Gingerly enough I made an examination, and found the white mass to be some papers, on the outside of one of which was the name “J. Hoggen.”

 

“Hullo!” said I to myself. “Here is some news of Old Hoggen at last.” I took the papers out, carefully squeezed the wet out of them, as well as I could between flat stones, and put them in the pocket of my shooting jacket. I placed the hat on a boulder and looked round to see if I could find any further signs of the missing man. All the while the breeze was freshening and the waves came rolling in in increasing volume.

 

Again I saw, some twenty yards out, something black floating, bobbing up and down with each wave. After a while I made it out to be the body of a man. By this time my excitement had grown to intensity, and I could hardly await the incoming of the body borne by the waves.

 

On and on it came, advancing a little with each wave, till at last it got so close that reaching out I hooked part of the clothing with my piece of timber, and pulled the mass close to the shore.

 

Then I took hold of the collar of the coat and pulled. The cloth, rotten with the sea water, tore away, and left the piece in my hand.

 

With much effort—for I had to be very careful—I brought the body up on the beach, and began to make an accurate examination of it.

 

While doing so I found in the pocket a tape measure, and it occurred to me that I must fulfill all the requirements of the local police, and so began to take dimensions of the corpse.

 

I measured the height, the length of the limbs, of the hands and feet. I took the girth of the shoulders and the waist, and, in fact, noted in my pocketbook a sufficiency of detail to justify a tailor in commencing sartorial operations on a full scale. Some of the dimensions struck me at the time as rather strange, but having verified the measurements I noted them down.

 

On examination of the clothes and pockets, I found the massive gold watch hanging on the chain and the big diamond ring, to whose power of inspiring greed local opinion had attributed the murder. These I put in my pocket together with the purse, studs, papers and money of the dead man. In making the examination the coat became torn, revealing a mass of bank notes between cloth and lining: in fact, the whole garment was quilted with them. There was also a small note case containing the necessary papers for a voyage to Queensland by a ship leaving Southampton the previous week.

 

These discoveries I thought so valuable that I felt it my duty to try to bring the body to the nearest place of authority, which I considered would probably be Chidiock, a village on the Bridport road which I had seen upon the map.

 

It was now blowing a whole gale, and the waves broke on the beach in thunder, dragging down the shingle in their ebb with a loud screaming. The rain fell in torrents, and the increasing of the storm decided me in my intention to carry the body with me.

 

I lifted it across my shoulder with some difficulty, for at each effort the cloths, already torn in the extrication of paper money, fell to pieces. However, at last I got it on my shoulder, face downwards, and started. I had hardly taken a step when, with an impulse which I could not restrain, I let it slip—or, rather, threw it—to the ground.

 

It had seemed to me to be alive. I certainly felt a movement. As it lay all in a heap on the beach, with the drenching rain sweeping the pale face, I grew ashamed of my impulse, and, with another, effort, took it up and started again.

 

Again there was the same impulse, with the same cause—the body seemed alive. This time, however, I was prepared, and held on, and after a while the idea wore away.

 

Presently I came to a place where a mass of great boulders strewed the shore. The stepping from one to another shook me and my burden, and as I jumped from the last of the rocks to the smooth sand which lay beyond I felt a sudden diminution of weight. As my load overbalanced, I fell on the sand higgledy piggledy with my burden.

 

Old Hoggen had parted in the middle.

 

As may be imagined, I was not long getting up. On a survey of the wreck I saw, to my intense astonishment, some large crabs walking out of the body. This, then, explained the strange movement of the corpse. It occurred to me that the presence of these fishes was incontrovertible proof that crabs did exist between Bridport and Lyme Regis, and not without a thought of Cousin Jemima and my mother-in-law, I lifted two or three and put them in the big pocket of my shooting coat.

 

Then I began to consider whether I should leave the departed Hoggen where he was or bring him on.

 

For a while I weighed the arguments pro and con, and finally concluded to bring him on with me, or it, or them, or whatever the fragments could be called. It was not an alluring task, in any aspect, and it was by a great effort that I undertook the duty.

 

I gathered the things together, and a strange looking heap they made—waxen limbs protruding from a wet heap of dishevelled rags. Then I began to lift them. It had been a task of comparative ease carrying the body over my shoulder, but now I had to pick up separate pieces and carry them altogether in my hands and under my arms. Often I had laughed, as I went through Victoria street, to see people of both sexes, worthy, but deficient of organizing power and system, coming forth from the co-operative stores bearing hosts of packages purchased without system in the various departments. Such a one I now felt myself to be. Do what I would, I could not hold all at one time the various segments of my companion. Just as I had carefully tucked the moieties of Old Hoggen under my arms, I spied some of his clothing on the shore, and in trying to raise these also lost a portion of my load. What added to the aggravation of the situation was that the wear and tear began to tell upon the person of the defunct. Thus while I was lifting the upper section, an arm came away, and from the lower a foot.

 

However, with a supreme effort I bundled the pieces together, and, lifting the mass in my arms, proceeded on my way. But now the storm was raging in full force, and I saw that I must hurry or the advancing waves, every moment rushing closer to the cliffs, would cut me off. I could see, through the blinding rain, a headland before me, and knew that if I could once pass it I would be in comparative safety.

 

So I hurried on as fast as I could, sometimes losing a portion of my burden, but never being able to wait to pick it up. Had my thoughts and ejaculations been recorded they would have been somewhat as follows:

 

“There goes a hand; it was lucky I took off the ring.”

 

“Half the coat; well that I found the bank notes.”

 

“There goes the waistcoat; a fortunate thing I have the watch.”

 

“A leg off—my! Will I ever get him home?”

 

“Another leg.”

 

“An arm gone.”

 

“His grave will be a mile long.”

 

“We must consecrate the shore that he may lay in hallowed ground.”

 

“The lower trunk gone, too. Poor fellow; no one can hit him now below the belt.”

 

“An arm gone, too; he would not be able to defend himself if they did.”

 

“Murder! But he’s going fast.”

 

“The clothes all gone, too—I had better have left him where he was.”

 

“Ugh! There goes the trunk; nothing left now but the head.”

 

“Ugh! That was a close shave anyhow. Never mind, I will keep you safe.”

 

I clung tight to the head, which was now my sole possession of the corpse.

 

It was mighty hard to hold it, for it was as slippery as glass, and the tight holding of it cramped my efforts and limited me as I leaped from rock to rock or dashed through the waves, which now touched in their onward rush to the base of the cliff.

 

At least, through the blinding rain, I saw the headland open, and with a great rush through the recoil of a big wave I rounded it and rested for a moment to breathe on the wide shore beyond.

 

Then I tried for a while to collect my scattered faculties, such being the only part of the goods scattered in the last half-hour which could be collected.

 

I felt ruefully that my effort to bring to the rites of burial the body of Old Hoggen had been a mistaken one. All had gone save the head which lay on the sand, and whose eyes actually seemed to wink at me as the flukes of the spume settled over the eyes, dissolving as the bubbles burst. The property was, I felt, safe enough. I put my hand into the pocket of my shooting coat but in an instant drew it out again with a scream of pain, for it had been severely nipped. I had forgotten the crabs.

 

Very carefully I took out one of these fish and held him legs upward, he making frantic efforts to seize me with his claws. He seemed a greedy one, indeed, for he was trying to eat the diamond ring which he had got half within that mysterious mouth which is covered with a flap like that over the lock of a portmanteau. Hence also projected part of the watch chain. I found that the brute had actually swallowed the watch, and it was with some difficulty that I relieved from his keeping both it and the ring. I took care to place the valuable property in the other pocket where the crabs were not.

 

Then I took up my head—or, rather Old Hoggen’s—and started on my way, carrying the final relic under my arm.

 

The storm began to decrease, and died away as quickly as it had arisen, so that, before I had traversed half the long stretch of sand that lay before me, instead of storm there was marked calm, and for blinding rain an almost insupportable heat.

 

I struggled on over the sand, and at length saw an opening in the cliff—which, on coming close, I found to be caused by a small stream which had worn a deep cleft in the blue-black earthy rock, and, falling and tumbling from above, became lost in the beach.

 

There was a look about the sand here that seemed to me to me somewhat peculiar. Its surface was smooth and shining, with a sort of odd dimple here and there. It looked so flat and inviting after my scramble over the rock and shingle and plodding through the deep sand, that with joy I hurried toward it—and at once began to sink.

 

By the odd shiver that traversed it I knew that I was being engulfed in quicksand.

 

It was a terrible position.

 

I had already sunk over my knees and knew that unless aid came I was utterly lost. I would at that moment have welcomed even Cousin Jemima.

 

It is the misfortune of such people as her that they never do make an appearance at a favorable time—such as this.

 

But there was no help—on one side lay the sea with never a sail in sight, and the waves still angry from the recent storm tumbling in sullenly upon the shore—on the other side was a wilderness of dark cliff; and along the shore on either way an endless waste of sand.

 

I tried to shout, but the misery and terror of the situation so overcame me that my voice clung to my jaws, and I could make no sound. I still kept Old Hoggen’s head under my arm. In moments of such danger the mind is quick to grasp an offered chance, and it suddenly occurred to me that, if I could get a foothold even for a moment, I might still manage to extricate myself. I was as yet but on the edge of the quicksand, and but a little help would suffice. With the thought came also the means—Old Hoggen’s head.

 

No sooner thought than done.

 

I laid the head on the sand before me, and pressing on it with my hands, felt that I was relieving my feet of part of their weight. With an effort I lifted one leg and placed the foot on the head now embedded some inches in the treacherous sand. Then pressing all my weight on this foot I made a great effort, and tearing up the imbedded foot leaped to the firm sand, where I slipped and fell and for a few minutes panted with exhaustion.

 

I was saved, but Old Hoggen’s head was gone forever.

 

Then I went toward the cliff, cautiously feeling my way, testing every spot on which my foot must rest, before trusting my weight to it. I gained the cliff, and resting on its firm base passed behind the fatal quicksand and went on my course to the stable strand beyond.

 

On I plodded till at last I came near a few houses built in a green cleft, whence through the cliffs a tiny stream, on whose banks stood the pretty village of Chidiock, fell into the sea.

 

There was a coast guard station here, with a little rope-railed plot, where before the row of trim houses the flagstaff rose.

 

As I drew near a coast guard and a policeman rushed toward me from behind a shed and grasped me on either side, holding me tight with a vigor which I felt to be quite disproportionate to the necessity of the occasion.

 

With the instinct of conscious innocence I struggled with them.

 

“Let me go!” I cried. “Let me go—what do you mean? Let me go I say!”

 

“Come now—none of this,” said the policeman.

 

I still struggled.

 

“Better keep quiet,” said the coast guard! “It’s no use struggling.”

 

“I will not keep quiet,” I cried, struggling more frantically than ever.

 

The policeman looked at me right savagely and gave my neckcloth a twist which nearly strangled me. “Tell you what,” he said sternly, “if you struggle any more, I’ll whale you over the head with my baton.”

 

I did not struggle anymore.

 

“Now,” said he, “remember that I caution you that anything you say or do will be afterward used in evidence against you.”

 

I thought a policy of conciliation was now best; so with what heartiness I could assume I said:

 

“My good fellow, you really make a mistake. Why you seize me I do not know.”

 

“We know,” he interrupted, with a hard laugh, “and if you say you don’t know, why then you’re a liar!”

 

I felt choking with anger. To be held is bad enough, but when the additional insult of calling one a liar is added, rage may surely be excused. My impulse on hearing the insult was to break free and strike the man, but he knew my intention and held me tighter.

 

“Take care!” he said, holding up his baton.

 

I took care.

 

“I ask you formally,” I said with all my dignity, “on what authority do you treat me thus?”

 

“On this authority!” he answered, holding up his baton, and again laughing with his harsh, exasperating cachinnation. He playfully twirled his baton as if to impress upon me a sense of his proficiency in its use.

 

He then produced a pair of handcuffs, which were put on me. I struggled very hard, but the two men were too much for me, and I had to succumb.

 

He then began to search me. First he put his hand into the pocket of my shooting coat and pulled out the watch and chain. He looked at it with exultation.

 

“That is Old Hoggen’s watch,” I said.

 

“I know it is,” he answered, at the same time pulling out the notebook and writing down my words. Next he produced the diamond ring, and the purse.

 

“That also,” said I, “and that!”

 

Again he wrote down my words—this time in silence. Then he put in his hand again and drew it out, saying:

 

“Only wet paper!”

 

He next to put his hand into the other pocket, but drew it out again in an instant—not in silence this time.

 

“Curse the thing! What is it?”

 

I smiled as he lifted a crab out of the pocket with great carefulness. When he had got thus far, he continued:

 

“Now, young fellow, what have you got to say for yourself?”

 

For the last few minutes a very unpleasant thought had in my mind been growing to colossal proportions. It was evidence that I was being arrested for the murder of Old Hoggen, and here I was arrested when in possession of his property, but with no witnesses to prove my innocence, and with no trace of the lost man himself to substantiate my story. I began to be a little frightened as to the result.

 

“What I have to tell you is very strange,” said I. “I left the Charmouth early this morning to walk to Bridport to get some crabs for my mother-in-law.”

 

“Why, you have got crabs with you,” said the policeman.

 

“I got them on the shore beyond,” said I, pointing westward.

 

“Come! Stow that!” said the policeman. “That won’t wash here. There isn’t a crab to be found on the shore between Bridport and Lyme.”

 

“That’s true, anyhow. Every fool knows that!” added the coast guard.

 

I went on:

 

“I found the body of Old Hoggen floating in the water. I tried to carry it on here, but the storm came, and it was as much as I could do to escape. Besides, the body all feel in pieces, and at last—”

 

“A nice story that!” said the policeman. “But if it fell to bits, why didn’t you bring one on with you?”

 

“I tried some, but they fell to bits.”

 

“The head didn’t,” said he. “Why did you not bring it? Eh?”

 

“I did bring it,” said I, “but I got into the quicksand and it was lost.”

 

The coast guard struck in.

 

“There’s only one bit of quicksand on all this coast, they say, for I never seen it myself. Why, man alive, it doesn’t show once in twenty years.”

 

“And the crabs?” asked the policeman.

 

“They were in Old Hoggen’s body!”

 

“And what were you doing with them?”

 

“I was bringing them to my mother-in-law.”

 

“Oh, the filthy scoundrel” ejaculated the coast guard.

 

“Did you carry them through the quicksand?” inquired the policeman.

 

“I did,” said I, “and when I got out, I found that the big fellow had eaten the watch and was trying to swallow the ring.”

 

The policeman and the coast guard seized me roughly, the latter saying:

 

“Come, take him off. He’s the plumpest liar I ever seen.”

 

“Let us finish the search first,” said the policeman, as he renewed his investigations.

 

The thought that I was in a really suspicious position now began to make me most uncomfortable. “My poor wife! My poor wife!” I kept saying to myself.

 

The policeman, in his zeal, again put his hands in the pocket with the crabs, and drew it out with a yell. Then he took out the biggest crab, which by the way, as is sometimes the case, had one claw very much larger than the other. The left claw was the larger. He threw the crab on the shore and was about to stamp on it, when the coast guard put him back, saying:

 

“Avast, there, mate. Crabs isn’t so plenty here that we walk on them. None here between Bridport and Lyme.”

 

The policeman continued his search. He took the mass of wet papers and notes from the other pocket, and threw them on the ground, and went on diving into the recesses of the pockets. The coast guard was evidently struck with something, for he stooped and looked at the papers, turned them over, and fell down on his knees beside them with a loud cry. Then, in an excited whisper, he called out:

 

“Look here! Mate, look here! Its all money. It’s thousands of pounds.”

 

The constable also dropped beside the papers, and over the mass the two men gazed at each other with excited faces.

 

“Take care of it—take care!” said the policeman.

 

“You bet!” said the other shortly.

 

“What a fortune!”

 

The two men looked at each other, and then at me furtively, and somehow I felt that they have in common some vile instinct by which I was felt to be in the way. I remained, therefore, as passive as I could.

 

The two men eyed the papers. Said the coast guard:

 

“Where are the other things?”

 

“Here!” said the policeman, slapping his pocket.

 

“Better put them all together.”

 

“Not at all. They are quite safe with me.”

 

The two men looked at each other and seemed mutually to understand, for, without a word, the policeman took the watch and ring and purse from his pocket and laid them on the shore.

 

Both men eyed the lot greedily. Suddenly the policeman looked round and ran down the beach like a maniac, shouting, “Stop thief! Stop thief!” At the very edge of the water, he stopped and lifted the crab, which had been making its escape. He brought it back and laid on its back beside the other things. As he eyed the heap suspiciously, as if to see that nothing has been removed, he said, shaking his fist at the crab:

 

“You infernal brute, you may have been stealing something.” The accent with which he said the word “you” was evidently meant as a caution and suspicion of the coast guard. The latter took it as such and said angrily:

 

“Stow that!”

 

The two men then proceeded to search me further. They took from me everything which could by any torturing of greed have been construed into a valuable. They opened a seem of my coat and turned out the lining.

 

Then, drawing away, they whispered a little together, and, returning to me, tied my legs together, put a gag in my mouth, and carried me round the point of a rock where we were out of sight of any chance comer. Then they brought hither the valuables, and, sitting down, began to record the worth of the lot.

 

One by one they open the bank notes and laid them flat. They were of all dates and numbers, and I felt as I looked that, from this fact, if once lost, there could be no possibility of tracing them. They laid the gold in a heap with the watch and the ring, and put the papers by themselves.

 

There was an immense amount of money—in gold only some 70 pounds, but in notes some 37,300 pounds.

 

When the two men had figured it all out, they looked at me with a look that made my blood run cold—for it meant murder.

 

Again they looked at each other, and, with a whisper, withdrew to a little distance.

 

I turned partly on my side so that I could watch them. There was no difficulty in this, and the fact of its being so added to my fear, for I knew that their being without fear of my taking notes of their movements meant that their minds were made up.

 

A short time sufficed them, and they turned again toward me. As they came, however, the bell of the old church at Chidiock began to ring. It was still early morning and the bell was for matins.

 

The coast guard stopped—some memory stirred within him, and with it came a doubt. He paused a moment and spoke:

 

“Mate.”

 

The policeman realized the intention of mercy in the faltering tone, and answered as roughly and harshly as he could, turning quickly, almost threateningly, as he spoke.

 

“Well!”

 

“Mate, must we kill him? Wouldn’t it do if he kept quiet, and let us get off with the money? No one knows the thing—why need they ever know?”

 

“He won’t keep quiet,” said the other. “Better cut his throat and bury him here in the sand.”

 

The sailor looked at me, and, reading the inquiry in his eyes, I answered as well as I could with mine:

 

“I will be quiet!”

 

It was it plain as daylight that my life hung on the alternative, so I did not hesitate or falter.

 

I compounded a felony with a glance.

 

Notwithstanding my acquiescence, a violent discussion arose between the two men—the preserver of the peace being the more dangerous of the two.

 

The coast guard urged and argued that it were useless to commit a murder when the end they desired was insured. The policeman stuck persistently to his one point that were safer to cut my throat.

 

To me the anguish was intense. All the misdeeds of my life rose before me, and also every reason why life should be dear. I employed the sailor with my eyes to let me speak, and after a little while he removed the gag, after cautioning me that if I spoke above a whisper, my first syllable should be my last.

 

I whispered but one argument.

 

“If you kill me, I shall be sought after. You’re safer as you are with my promise not to inform on you.”

 

The argument was cogent, and told, and sound logic usually does. So, after a terrible threatening in case of my breaking my pledge, they untied my legs and took off the handcuffs.

 

Then they brought me into a boathouse by the beach in there brushed me and removed any traces of travel or violence. Next they put me into a pony cart that stood ready by the side of the laneway leading to Chidiock, and drove me into Charmouth, depositing me at my own door. We did not meet a single person by the way.

 

The last words I heard were the whisper caution of the policeman:

 

“No one has seen you or us. Go back to your bed and pretend you were never out,” and then they drove off again.

 

I took the advice, slipped off my boots, and stole upstairs. My wife was still sleeping, so I undressed and got into bed. Lest I should wake her, I pretended to sleep, and soon despite my mental agitation, slept, too.

 

 

I was awakened by my wife, who was up and dressed.

 

“Why, Augustus, you are desperately sleepy this morning. It is after 10 o’clock, and breakfast is over long ago. Cousin Jemima would not wait. However, your breakfast is kept hot.”

 

I woke to broad consciousness, but thought it wise to feign heaviness.

 

“Never mind—I’ll get up presently.”

 

“But, my dear, you must get up now or you will miss the ’bus to Bridport. Remember, you promised to get some crabs for Cousin Jemima!”

 

“Oh, bother Cousin Jemima. There has been enough about crabs for one night.” I said this with a sudden impulse and then stopped.

 

“Well, dear. I hope you have not had indigestion, too. Cousin Jemima says she has been very poorly and that it must have been from eating the new bread.”

 

“Indeed!” said I, adding to myself, “I’m glad she suffered, too, for was all through her that I had that terrible ordeal to go through.”

 

I got up and went downstairs. All was as usual; and presently I began to think I must have been dreaming. The idea grew; and the more I thought the matter over the more unreal and dreamlike it all seemed.

 

While, however, I was finishing my breakfast the servant came in and said there were two men at the door who had crabs to sell.

 

“Send them away at once,” I called out, angrily. “I want no crabs.”

 

The servant went, and return shortly, saying: “If you please, sir, they say that they hope you will buy a crab; they have one which was got between Bridport and Lyme.”

 

This statement rather staggered me, for I felt a kind of dread that my late assailants had come to look me up. I told the servant I would see to the matter, and went out myself to the door. There stood two men—but not the least like the others. The coast guard was a small man with the big beard, and the policeman was a large man clean shaven. Of these two, one was large and the other small, but the large man had a bushy beard, and the small one was clean shaven. I thought that both men looked at me very hard, so I pretended not to notice anything except the subject of barter, and said as unconcernedly as I could:

 

“Well, my men, so I hear you have crabs to sell; let me look at them.”

 

The big man answered: “We have only one left. Here it is!” and, looking at me very searchingly, he produced from a basket a crab with a big left claw and a small right one. I could not help a start of surprise which did not pass unnoticed, so I thought it better to be more unconcerned still, and said:

 

“No; that’s not good enough. I think I do not care for it.”

 

As I spoke, my wife approach the door, coming home, and with her my mother-in-law and Cousin Jemima.

 

The man did not notice them, but the big man said to me, civil enough”

 

“All right, sir. It does not matter, but I thought it well to show it to you.”

 

As he was putting the crab back in the basket, Cousin Jemima saw it and came forward quickly.

 

“What is that, Augustus? Not a crab that you are sending away? You wretch!” the last words sotto voce.

 

After a little haggling she purchase the crab, which, strangely enough, the man seemed unwilling to sell her, and for which I had the additional pleasure of paying.

 

Cousin Jemima took the crab in triumph to the kitchen, and the men went away toward Axmouth.

 

When I went back to the sitting room, I was assailed on all sides. Cousin Jemima, in tears, said I had behaved like a brute—that I was sending away the only crab seen for days, just to vex and disappoint her.

 

My mother-in-law surmised that I did so because I wished to have to go over to Bridport, where, unnoticed I might play billiards and get tipsy, if not meet some “creature.” Her daughter, to a small degree, shared her feelings—particularly the latter.

 

I maintained a strictly negative position.

 

 

In the course of the day, the wife of the parson, George Edward Ancey, came to tea—her husband was a justice of the peace, and, as a perpetual resident, was practically the magistrate of the place. In the course of conversation she remarked that George Edward had been very much upset and worried in the morning. That two cases of insubordination had been before him. When was a coast guard, who had affronted his chief boatman before the other men, and who, on being severely censured, resigned on the spot, and had already left the village. The other was a policeman, who had refused to go on duty, and who had been accordingly summarily dismissed. Mr. Ancey regretted his departure, for he has been looked upon as the most trustworthy and active officer in the place.

 

When these small facts came to my knowledge, I felt more than ever in a perplexity, for their combination and the accurate manner in which they fitted into the history of the morning seemed conclusive proof that the whole thing was not a dream.

 

 

Before supper time I went for a walk. As I was going out my wife said:

 

“Be sure to be home in time, Gus. There is a crab for supper and Cousin Jemima’s going to dress herself—”

 

A walk on the beach did me good, for it cooled my brain, and in the serener atmosphere of the evening I began to believe again that the whole episode of finding Old Hoggen was a dream—a nightmare.

 

I returned home in a more cheerful humor, and, conscious of security and immunity from fear, felt kindly even to Cousin Jemima and tolerant of her foibles.

 

At the very threshold of my home my good resolution was tried.

 

On a chair in the hall sat Cousin Jemima awaiting my arrival, the very picture of grim, aggressive dissatisfaction. As I came in she sniffed—I saw that something was wrong and said nothing. She followed me into the dining room where, supper having just been served, my wife and her mother were seated.

 

“I said we would not wait a single moment for you, after conduct,” the latter.

 

“What’s up now?” said I.

 

“What’s up indeed!”—this with indignant sarcasm. “A nice gentlemanly trick to play upon two ladies whose appetite are not good.”

 

“O-h-h,” I said, with what I certainly intended to be utmost sarcasm spoken in the most polished way, “then you allude to something I’ve done by letter.”

 

“By letter? Certainly not! What are you talking about?”

 

“You said I played a trick on two ladies whose appetites were not good, and I presume I must have done so by letter. Do not see? The someone must be at the long distance from this, for I know no one here answering the description.”

 

“You brute!” was the comment of Cousin Jemima, while my mother-in-law said nothing, but glared at her daughter, who smiled.

 

I sat down and tried to make matters a little pleasanter.

 

“Come now mother,” I said “tell me what I’ve done and what it is all about.”

 

“The crab,” said Cousin Jemima, in tones at once sepulchral and hysterical.

 

“Well, what about it?”

 

“You did it on purpose.”

 

“What did I do? I am all in surprise.”

 

Here my wife struck in.

 

“The fact is, dear, that the crab was a fraud, and mamma and Cousin Jemima, seeing that you were talking to the men, imagine that you got the whole thing up for a joke—that it was, in fact, what you call a ‘plant’.”

 

“My dear, I am no nearer to the fact than I was. How was the crab a fraud?”

 

“Well, you see there was something very queer about it. It was quite fresh, you know, and all that, but it had been opened and was all cut to little bits with knives and then put back again, just as if someone has been searching it.”

 

Here was a staggering proof that I had not dreamed. I almost gasped for breath and felt that I turned white.

 

The three women notice the change.

 

“Are you ill, dear?” said my wife.

 

“He might well be,” said her mother.

 

“Served him right!” said Cousin Jemima.

 

I recovered myself in a moment, and laughed as well as I could.

 

“You are a parcel of sillies, and I know nothing about it. Why, it was you, Cousin Jemima, who bought the crab.”

 

After a while the conversation changed to other topics. I was now beset by a most extraordinary doubt. Was my whole adventure a dream, or was it not?

 

I cannot tell.

 

 

Some three months after our return to town, we read in the South Dorset News, which some of our seaside friends sent us regularly, the following paragraph: THE MYSTERY OF MR HOGGEN“The strange mystery regarding the late Mr. Jabez Hoggen—the Charmouth millionaire—whose disappearance set Dorset and neighboring counties in a blaze, has at last been cleared up. Our readers will of course remember the disappearance early in August last of Mr. Hoggen, whose wealth and eccentricity were fruitful topics of conversation not only in the quiet village of Charmouth, his native place—but through all the neighboring country. Lyme, on the one hand, and Bridport on the other, and the inland towns of Axminster and Chard, were well acquainted with the name of the wealthy eccentric. Mr. Hoggen was very retired and uncommunicative, and it so came to pass that when his disappearance became known not a single person could even guess at any motive or cause for such a fact. No one was in his confidence. It was for a time generally supposed that he had been murdered for the sake of his reputed wealth, and suspicion was by the police baselessly attached to certain of the summer visitors of our pleasant Dorset coast. Our contemporary, the Bridport Banner, with that gross bad taste which, equally with its mendacity, characterizes its utterances, suggested—if we remember aright, the ribald shrieking forced upon our ears by some drunken Conservative reeking with the scurrilous falsity of some paltry true blue (?) meeting—for we do not read the rag—that perhaps Mr. Hoggen had in his old age seen the error of his ways, and, overcome with remorse for his adherence to the principles of liberalism, committed suicide. Time had given the lie, as it ever does, to such paltry attacks upon the noble dead. It has come to light that Mr. Hoggen took a passage in the name of Smith for Queensland in the Tamar Indien, sailing from Southampton on the 26th of August. We are justified in supposing that the poor gentleman, oppressed with the decadent spirit which allow such vile rags as the Conservative organs to flourish in this once pure soil, and longing for the purer atmosphere where the pollution of atmosphere caused by Conservatism is not, left in sorrow his native shore. He was recognized on board by a native of Charmouth—one Miles Ruddy, a steward on the Tamar Indien. It appears that he was much upset by the recognition. The following evening, as the bell was sounding for the putting out of the ship’s lights, a splash was heard, and the dread cry ‘Man Overboard’ was raised. Every effort was made to save the life of the human creature, whose head was seen for a few minutes bobbing up and down among the foam that marked the mighty vessel’s track. But without avail. He never rose, and the ship was compelled to proceed on her course. A muster of the crew and passengers showed that the missing man was Jabez Smith, or, more properly, Jabez Hoggen. The dispositions of the captain and officers of the ship and of several of the chief passengers regarding the events have been registered in Queensland, and we hasten to lay the facts just arrived by the mail before our readers.”

 

A little time passed, and in some two months there appeared in the same print the following paragraph: STRANGE HISTORY OF TWO CHARMOUTH MEN.“The Australian mail just in bring from Victoria the details, as far as they are known, of a romance, unhappily tragic, concerning two late inhabitants of Charmouth. It appears that the two men, but a few months ago well known in our pleasant Dorset village, one having been a policeman and the other a coast guard, had but lately arrived in Melbourne. At first they did not seem of much account, but before long met with a lucky stroke of fortune—alas!—fatal to them. After but a short absence, presumably in the northern gold fields, they had evidently made some wonderfully lucky discoveries of gold pockets, for on their return they made such purchases of land and houses as showed that they must have been at the time possessed of great wealth. Suddenly they had quarreled, for some unknown reason, sold again their property, and together disappeared up country. A few days later the bodies, greatly mutilated, were discovered among the charred ruins of a deserted camp. They had either fought and killed each other, or they had been murdered. The fire of the camp had spread and partially consumed the bodies, so that nothing definite could be ascertained. In this romantic story we may read as we run of the vanity of wealth.”

 

When I read the paragraph, I felt my mind relieved, for here was assurance to me that I had not dreamed.

 

 

One evening long afterward I told my wife and her mother and Cousin Jemima the whole story.

 

My wife came and put her arms around me and whispered:

 

“Augustus, dear—you may have dreamed—I hope so; but, thank God, you are spared to us!”

 

My mother-in-law said:

 

“I think you might have managed to keep some of the money, but you never do as you ought in such things. At any rate, you might have told us before this, but I suppose you have so much to conceal that things like this get lost among them.”

 

Cousin Jemima, after frowning a while and pursing her lips as if thinking, said, sniffing:

 

“I believe it’s all a lie!”

 

“My dear Cousin Jemima!” I remonstrated.

 

“Well! Suppose it’s not,” she answered, sharply, “at any rate, you took the crabs from Old Hoggen’s body and brought them here—no you didn’t bring them here, but you let me buy them—to eat! Ugh!! You brute!!!”

 

I am still in doubt about the whole affair.

 

Was it a dream?

 

I do not know! 

 

 

 

Bram Stoker – A Short Biography

 

Abraham Stoker was born at 15 Marino Crescent, Dublin, on the 8th of November 1847. Both his parents were Irish, his father Abraham Stoker (1799-1876) from Dublin and his mother Charlotte Mathilda Blake Thornley (1818-1901) from County Sligo. He was raised as a Protestant in the Church of Ireland. He had six siblings, the eldest of whom was Sir William Thornley Stoker, who became an eminent medical writer and surgeon. Both parents belonged to the Church of Ireland Parish of Clontarf and the children regularly attended mass with their parents, and were all baptised there. Stoker was ill from birth until the age of seven when he started his schooling at a price school run by the Reverend William Woods. He was often bedridden for long periods of time but went on to make a complete recovery while at school, though it was never established quite what he had suffered from. He credited his long periods of illness as key to the formation of his contemplative mind, stating “I was naturally thoughtful, and the leisure of long illness gave opportunity for many thoughts which were fruitful according to their kind in later years”.

 

Having overcome his childhood illness Stoker went on to find athletic prowess while at Trinity College, Dublin (1864-1870), where he was named University Athlete while studying for a B.A. in Mathematics, which he achieved with honours. As auditor of the College Historical Society, one of Trinity College’s two debating societies, he oversaw the operation of arguably the oldest University society in the world. Meanwhile he acted as President of the University Philosophical Society, writing his first paper on “Sensationalism in Fiction and Society”. One of Stoker’s more notable actions as President was to propose membership for Oscar Wilde, then a young student at the college. The two maintained a respectful acquaintance throughout their lives. He found an interest in theatre during his time as a student through his friend Dr. Maunsell which led him to becoming the Dublin Evening Mail’s theatre critic. One of the paper’s co-owners was Sheridan Le Fanu, a famous author of Gothic short stories. Around this time Stoker began writing short stories and his first, The Crystal Cup, was published in 1872. Meanwhile he was developing an interest in art, and in 1874 co-founded the Dublin Sketching Club.

 

Though theatre critics were generally held in ill repute, Stoker gained notoriety for the quality of writing in his reviews themselves. One such review, of Henry Irving’s 1876 Hamlet at the Theatre Royal in Dublin, attracted the attention of Irving himself and with it an invitation to dinner at the Shelbourne Hotel, where Irving was staying. The two became friends. Stoker continued his writing and followed The Crystal Cup with The Chain of Destiny in four parts which was published in The Shamrock in 1875. Stoker’s acquaintanceship with Oscar Wilde led to his introduction to Florence Balcombe, the daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel James Balcombe, who was widely celebrated for her beauty and had been one of Wilde’s former lovers. The two became fond of each other and were eventually married in Dublin in 1878. Though this union upset Wilde and put strain upon his and Stoker’s relationship, Stoker eventually settled things and went on to visit Wilde on the Continent after his public ordeal, incarceration and loss of reputation.

 

In 1879, having struck up a strong relationship with Henry Irving which began with his review of Irving’s Hamlet, Stoker took up a position as acting manager at Irving’s Lyceum Theatre in London, which required that he and his wife move to London permanently. He proved adept at running the theatre, introducing a number of innovative practices such as seat-numbering, advertising a full season and selling advance tickets. The theatre thrived and his performance in the role ensured that he was soon promoted to business manager, a position which he would hold for the next twenty seven years. Irving was arguably the most famous actor of the decade, and his theatre certainly the busiest, meaning Stoker was both highly influential within artistic circles, and very busy. Nonetheless Stoker meanwhile embarked on non-fiction work, publishing The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland in 1879. His and Florence’s first and only child, Irving Noel Thornley Stoker, was born on the 31st of December of that year. Through Irving, Stoker was able to ingratiate himself with London’s higher society, becoming acquainted with, amongst others, the famous and celebrated painter James Abbot McNeill Whistler and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He also met Hall Caine, with whom he struck up a very close friendship, and to whom his most famous work, Dracula, is dedicated. It is clear from Stoker's memoirs that he held Irving in extremely high regard, perhaps to the extent of idolisation.

 

Irving toured the world with his theatre, and often took Stoker with him as a friend, confidant and tour manager. Though Stoker travelled widely, he never actually visited Eastern Europe, where he Dracula is famously set. Irving’s popularity in the United States saw their invitation to the White House on two occasions, and Stoker wrote fondly of his time in America. Indeed, Quincey Morris, Dracula’s protagonist, is an American. He personally knew both William McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt, and was able to meet another of his artistic idols, Walt Whitman.

 

Though kept busy by his duties at the theatre, Stoker was able to continue to satisfy his interest in travel and, in 1890, paid the visit to the English town of Whitby which is part-credited as the inspiration for Dracula. Though he conceived of the idea, it was not until 1897 that the book would be published, and Stoker wrote and published other works before then. The first of these was The Snake’s Pass in 1890, followed by The Watter’s Mou’ and The Shoulder of Shasta, both in 1895.

 

These earlier novels clearly served as a practice ground in which Stoker perfected his narrative style and voice; indeed, he deals with various themes which reoccur in a much more nuanced fashion in Dracula, and none of them were met with particularly favourable reviews. During his earlier forays into a career as an author he became a member of The Daily Telegraph’s London-based literary staff, where he continued work as a critic and honed his own writing skill.

 

Key to the conception of Dracula is Stoker’s encountering Ármin Vámbéry, a Hungarian writer and traveller, who wrote dark horror stories set in the Carpathian mountains. Clearly intrigued by the landscape and peasant culture presented by these stories, Stoker developed a fascination with the area which saw him conducting extensive research into European folklore and vampiric myth.

 

Dracula takes the form of an epistolary novel, comprising a collection of diary entries, newspaper articles and other similar disparate pieces of writing which, when compiled in a narrative form, afford the story an added dimension of realism. The form itself had been in consistent use for over three hundred years as a narrative mode. So prevalent was it that it had attracted the parody, not just of whichever story happened to employ it, but of the form itself. The most notable example of this is Henry Fielding’s 1741 novel Shamela, parodying Pamela, Samuel Richardson’s 1740 epistolary novel. Fielding addresses the unlikelihood of his protagonist managing to meticulously diarise her increasingly improbable and farcical experiences while they are still ongoing. Pamela is an example of a monologic novel, written in just one character’s voice. This was the earliest form of epistolary novel, and it evolved to dialogic, with two voices, and finally polylogic, containing three or more voices. Dracula belongs to this final category, avoiding the absurdity highlighted by Fielding and others by not relying on a protagonist capable of writing his diary while he fends off evil.

 

By the time Stoker wrote Dracula, he had learnt a wide enough variety of writing styles through his work as an essayist, a writer of non-fiction, a journalist, and critic and a novelist that he was able to write this breadth into Dracula with strong authority. It was quickly accepted into the canon of horror writing as a “straightforward horror novel” which “gave form to a universal fantasy … and became a part of popular culture”. Though “straightforward” indicates the novel’s simple purpose as a horror novel and does not remark on the complexity of the novel itself, it also disregards a clear social influence on the narrative. By the 1880s and 90s invasion literature was in incredibly high popular demand, reflecting the fragile state of the British Empire in the face of European economic and military development. Increasing hostility between the Empire and her European colonies brought with it a nervousness in the face of invasion. A popular Victorian superstition was that, while military attention was directed towards trouble in the farther reaches of the Empire, the British Isles would be defenceless and vulnerable. This idea is explored by George Tomkyns Chesney in 1871 in The Battle of Dorking, imagining a surprise German naval invasion for which the British are utterly unprepared. It was extremely popular and served as a springboard for a succession of novels fashioned in its image by authors such as H. G. Wells and Robert Louis Stevenson.

 

Though it is often referred to as the first vampire novel, there had in fact been several before it, most notably John Polidori’s 1819 The Vampyre which was conceived in the same circumstances as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, while they were staying on Lake Geneva with Lord Byron. Byron partly inspired Polidori’s vampire as a mysterious, aristocratic man, and Irving in turn inspired Dracula’s elegance and sweeping mannerisms. Stoker intended to adapt his novel for the stage and have Irving play Dracula, though he was never able to see this through. Stoker’s working title for the manuscript was The Dead Un-Dead, later shortened to The Un-Dead. Then, only a couple of weeks before publication, he came across the patronym Drăculea. This was given to the descendants of Vlad II after he had inherited the Romanian word ‘Dracul’ on being invested in the Order of the Dragon. In that context the word means ‘the dragon’ though, by the time Stoker encountered it, had become more commonly translated to ‘the devil’.

 

Though Stoker was never formally involved in politics he kept strong personal opinions, supporting Home Rule for Ireland, though insistent that it be achieved peacefully. He strongly supported William Ewart Gladstone, then Prime Minister, who saw Home Rule as a reaffirmation of Irish nationalism within the framework of the British Isles and its monarchy, rather than the oppositional, threatening separatist faction that was painted by his Conservative rivals. He observed scientific progress closely, paying particular attention to medicinal development. Alongside this progressive perspective on science he maintained a curiosity about the occult, his interest bourn of a writer’s fascination with rituals and human behaviour. This distinction is important, for he was disgusted by fraud, particularly the use of such practices as mesmerism for fraudulent purposes, condemning superstition in favour of scientific method.

 

In 1898 Stoker followed Dracula with Miss Betty, though he was unable to sustain Dracula’s popularity. It was four years before his next novel, The Mystery of the Sea (1902), and in that time Stoker was focused on theatre company tours, often in America and, most importantly tho his newest novel, to Cruden Bay in Scotland, where it is set. He had first visited the bay in 1888 with Irving for research purposes. he had since visited on holiday, and was there when he finished Dracula. In 1901 while on holiday he encountered an old woman who, according to the locals, was possessed of supernatural powers, encouraging him to write a short story, The Seer, which he expanded into The Mystery of the Sea. The novel’s protagonist, Archibald Hunter, is often considered to be autobiographical, having endured a sickly infancy and gone on to study law, both details of Stoker’s life. Moreover, the two share similar views on technology and scientific advance. The novel was met with a largely positive critical reception, called “one of those weirdly sensational stories that no living author writes better than Mr. Bram Stoker”. It addresses issues of national identity, race, and femininity, though these more socially-concerned aspects are sometimes overlooked in favour of the novel’s “glowing melodrama”.

 

In 1902 his tenure at the Lyceum Theatre ended, though his personal friendship with Irving continued until Irving’s death on the 13th October 1905. Stoker went on to publish Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving in two volumes, celebrating and remembering his close friend and business partner. Stoker went on to act as Production Manager at the Prince of Wales Theatre while continuing to write, completing five more novels including The Lady of the Shroud (1909) and The Lair of the White Worm (1911), his last novel. His health was beginning to deteriorate as he suffered numerous strokes of increasing severity until he died on the 20th of April 1912.

 

It has been postulated that he suffered from tertiary syphilis, though his death is often attributed to being overworked. Though he had been celebrated as an author during his life, it was only after his death and the enormous popularity which Dracula garnered owing to the 1922 production Nosferatu which, though immensely successful, was produced without permission from Florence, executrix of Stoker’s will and estate. Though she eventually sued the filmmakers, the story had gained such notoriety that it was only a decade before the burgeoning film industry produced an authorised version. Since then Stoker’s name has been held in high repute as an author of thrilling and intense mystery and horror, though for those readers who look further into his bibliography there is a wealth of social commentary and literary brilliance waiting to be explored.

 

 

 

Bram Stoker – A Concise Bibliography

 

Novels

The Primrose Path (1875)

The Snake's Pass (1890)

The Watter's Mou' (1895)

The Shoulder of Shasta (1895)

Dracula (1897)

Miss Betty (1898)

The Mystery of the Sea (1902)

The Jewel of Seven Stars (1903)

The Man (aka: The Gates of Life) (1905)

Lady Athlyne (1908)

The Lady of the Shroud (1909)

The Lair of the White Worm (aka: The Garden of Evil) (1911)

 

Short Story Collections

Under the Sunset – Fairy Tales For Children (1881)

Snowbound: The Record of a Theatrical Touring Party (1908)

Dracula's Guest and Other Weird Stories (1914)

 

Short Stories

The Crystal Cup (1872) 

Buried Treasures (1875) 

The Chain of Destiny (1875) 

Our New House (1895) 

The Dualitists; or, The Death Doom of the Double Born (1887) 

The Gombeen Man (1889) Chapter 3 of The Snake's Pass

The Night of the Shifting Bog (1891)

Lord Castleton Explains (1892) Chapter 10 of The Fate of Fenella

Old Hogen: A Mystery (1893) 

The Man from Shorrox (1894)

The Red Stockade (1894)

When the Sky Rains Gold (1894) 

At the Watter's Mou' (1895) 

Bengal Roses (1898) 

A Yellow Duster (1899)

A Young Widow (1899) 

A Baby Passenger (1899) 

Lucky Escapes of Sir Henry Irving (1890) 

The Seer (1902) Chapters 1 and 2 of The Mystery of the Sea

The Bridal of Death (1903) Alternate ending to The Jewel of Seven Stars

What They Confessed: A Low Comedian's Story (1908) 

The Way of Peace (1909) 

The 'Eroes of the Thames (1908) 

Greater Love (1914)

 

Non-Fiction

The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland (1879)

A Glimpse of America (1886)

Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving (1906)

Famous Impostors (1910)

 

Articles - Theater

The American Audience (1885)

Actor-Managers (1890)

Recollections of the Late W. G. Wills (1891)

Dramatic Criticism (1894)

The Art of Ellen Terry (1901)

Sir Henry Irving: An Appreciation (1904)

The Last Scenes (1905)

Henry Irving's Fight for Fame (1906)

Fifty Years on the Stage (1906)

The Question of a National Theatre (1908)

Americans as Actors (1909)

Dead-Heads (1909)

The Censorship of Stage Plays (1909)

Irving and Stage Lighting (1911)

 

Articles - Miscellaneous

The Great White Fair in Dublin (1907)

The World's Greatest Ship-Building Yard (1907)

The Censorship of Fiction (1908)

Where Hall Caine Dreams Out His Romances (1908)

The Ethics of Hall Caine (1909)

The American "Tramp" Question (1909)

 

Speeches

The Necessity for Political Honesty (1872)

Address to Henry Irving, Esq. (1876)

Personal Impressions of America (1885)

Abraham Lincoln (1886)

The Organization of a Theatre (1899)

Lecture at Westbourne Park (1906)

Fiction and the Censor (1907)

 

Interviews by Bram Stoker:

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1907)

An Interview with Winston Churchill (1907)

The Tendency of the Modern Stage (1907)

How Mr. Pinero Writes Plays (1907)

Mr. De Morgan's Habits of Work (1908)