MELCHIOR'S DREAM

 AND OTHER TALES, BY

 JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 

 LONDON: SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W. C. NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO. 

 [Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee. ]

Dedicated

TO

FOUR BROTHERS AND FOUR SISTERS. 

CONTENTS. 

 MELCHIOR'S DREAM

 THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST

 FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD

 A BIT OF GREEN

 MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND

 THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS

 A BAD HABIT

 A HAPPY FAMILY

EDITOR'S PREFACE. 

It is always a memorable era in a mother's life when she firstintroduces a daughter into society. Many things contribute to make itso; among which is the fact of the personal blessing to herself, inhaving been permitted to see the day--to have been spared, that is, towatch over her child in infancy, and now to see her entering life uponher own account. 

But a more uncommon privilege is the one granted to me on the presentoccasion, of introducing a daughter into the literary world; and thefeelings of pride and pleasure it calls forth, are certainly not lesspowerful than those created by the commoner occurrence. It is mycomfort also to add that these are not overclouded by any painfulanxiety or misgiving. There may be differences of opinion as to theprecise amount of literary merit in these tales; but viewed as thefirst productions of a young author, they are surely full of promise;while their whole tone and aim is so unmistakably high, that eventhose who criticize the style will be apt to respect the writer. 

I ought here to express a hope that it will not be thoughtpresumptuous on my part, to undertake the office of introduction. Ibeg it to be understood that I address myself especially to thosereaders who have (I speak it with deep gratitude and pleasure)listened kindly and favourably to me for several years past, and whowill, I trust, be no less well disposed towards my daughter'swritings. 

To them also it may be interesting to know, that in the "J. H. G. " of"Melchior's Dream, " etc. , they will find the original of my ownportrait of "Aunt Judy. "

But I have still something more to say: another little bit ofgratification to express. What one sister has written, another hasillustrated by her pencil; a cause of double thankfulness in my heartto Him from whom all good gifts come. 

MARGARET GATTY. 

NOTE. --_The foregoing Preface was written for the firstedition of "Melchior's Dream, and other Tales. " This was published in1862 under Mrs. Ewing's maiden initials, "J. H. G. " It contained thefirst five stories in the present volume, and these were illustratedby the writer's eldest sister, "M. S. G. "_

MELCHIOR'S DREAM. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

"Thou that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more--agrateful heart. "

GEORGE HERBERT. 

"Well, father, I don't believe the Browns are a bit better off than weare; and yet when I spent the day with young Brown, we cooked allsorts of messes in the afternoon; and he wasted twice as much rum andbrandy and lemons in his trash, as I should want to make good punchof. He was quite surprised, too, when I told him that our mince-pieswere kept shut up in the larder, and only brought out at meal-times, and then just one apiece; he said they had mince-pies always going, and he got one whenever he liked. Old Brown never blows up about thatsort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in the holidays, particularly at Christmas. "

The speaker was a boy--if I may be allowed to use the word in speakingof an individual whose jackets had for some time past been resignedto a younger member of his family, and who daily, in the privacy ofhis own apartment, examined his soft cheeks by the aid of his sisters'"back-hair glass. " He was a handsome boy too; tall, and likeDavid--"ruddy, and of a fair countenance;" and his face, thoughclouded then, bore the expression of general amiability. He was theeldest son in a large young family, and was being educated at one ofthe best public schools. He did not, it must be confessed, thinkeither small beer or small beans of himself; and as to the beer andbeans that his family thought of him, I think it was pale ale andkidney-beans at least. 

Young Hopeful had, however, his weak points like the rest of us; andperhaps one of the weakest was the difficulty he found in amusinghimself without _bothering_ other people. He had quite a monomania forproposing the most troublesome "larks" at the most inconvenientmoments; and if his plans were thwarted, an Æolian harp is cheerfulcompared to the tone in which, arguing and lamenting, he

"Fought his battles o'er again, "

to the distraction of every occupied member of the household. 

When the lords of the creation of all ages can find nothing else todo, they generally take to eating and drinking; and so it came to passthat our hero had set his mind upon brewing a jorum of punch, andsipping it with an accompaniment of mince-pies; and Paterfamilias hadnot been quietly settled to his writing for half-an-hour, when he wasdisturbed by an application for the necessary ingredients. These hehad refused, quietly explaining that he could not afford to waste hisFrench brandy, etc. , in school-boy cookery, and ending with, "You seethe reason, my dear boy?"

To which the dear boy replied as above, and concluded with thedisrespectful (not to say ungrateful) hint, "Old Brown never blows upabout that sort of thing; he likes Adolphus to enjoy himself in theholidays. "

Whereupon Paterfamilias made answer, in the mildly deprecating tone inwhich the elder sometimes do answer the younger in these topsy-turvydays:--

"That's quite a different case. Don't you see, my boy, that AdolphusBrown is an only son, and you have nine brothers and sisters? If youhave punch and mince-meat to play with, there is no reason why Tomshould not have it, and James, and Edward, and William, and Benjamin, and Jack. And then there are your sisters. Twice the amount of theBrowns' mince-meat would not serve you. I like you to enjoy yourselfin the holidays as much as young Brown or anybody; but you mustremember that I send you boys to good schools, and give you all thesubstantial comforts and advantages in my power; and the Christmasbills are very heavy, and I have a great many calls on my purse; andyou must be reasonable. Don't you see?"

"Well, father--" began the boy; but his father interrupted him. Heknew the unvarying beginning of a long grumble, and dreading theargument, cut it short. 

"I have decided. You must amuse yourself some other way. And justremember that young Brown's is quite another case. He is an only son. "

Whereupon Paterfamilias went off to his study and his sermon; and hisson, like the Princess in Andersen's story of the Swineherd, was leftoutside to sing, "O dearest Augustine, All's clean gone away!"

Not that he did say that--that was the princess' song--what he saidwas, "_I wish I were an only son!_"

This was rather a vain wish, for round the dining-room fire (where hesoon joined them) were gathered his nine brothers and sisters, who, tosay the truth, were not looking much more lively and cheerful thanhe. And yet (of all days in the year on which to be doleful anddissatisfied!) this was Christmas Eve. 

Now I know that the idea of dulness or discomfort at Christmas is avery improper one, particularly in a story. We all know how everylittle boy in a story-book spends the Christmas holidays. 

First, there is the large hamper of good things sent by grandpapa, which is as inexhaustible as Fortunatus's purse, and containseverything, from a Norfolk turkey to grapes from the grandpaternalvinery. 

There is the friend who gives a guinea to each member of the family, and sees who will spend it best. 

There are the godpapas and godmammas, who might almost be fairysponsors from the number of expensive gifts that they bring upon thescene. The uncles and aunts are also liberal. 

One night is devoted to a magic-lantern (which has a perfect focus), another to the pantomime, a third to a celebrated conjuror, a fourthto a Christmas tree and juvenile ball. 

The happy youth makes himself sufficiently ill with plum-pudding, totestify to the reader how good it was, and how much there was of it;but recovers in time to fall a victim to the negus and trifle atsupper for the same reason. He is neither fatigued with late hoursnor surfeited with sweets; or if he is, we do not hear of it. 

But as this is a strictly candid history, I will at once confess thetruth, on behalf of my hero and his brothers and sisters. They hadspent the morning in decorating the old church, in pricking hollyabout the house, and in making a mistletoe bush. Then in the afternoonthey had tasted the Christmas soup and seen it given out; they had puta finishing touch to the snow man by crowning him with holly, and haddragged the yule-logs home from the carpenter's. And now, the earlytea being over, Paterfamilias had gone to finish his sermon forto-morrow; his friend was shut up in his room; and Materfamilias wasin hers, with one of those painful headaches which even Christmas willnot always keep away. So the ten children were left to amusethemselves, and they found it rather a difficult matter. 

"Here's a nice Christmas!" said our hero. He had turned his youngestbrother out of the arm-chair, and was now lying in it with his legsover the side. "Here's a nice Christmas! A fellow might just as wellbe at school. I wonder what Adolphus Brown would think of being coopedup with a lot of children like this! It's his party to-night, and he'sto have champagne and ices. I wish I were an only son. "

"Thank you, " said a chorus of voices from the floor. They were allsprawling about on the hearth-rug, pushing and struggling like so manykittens in a sack, and every now and then with a grumbledremonstrance:--

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

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

"Keep your legs to yourself, Benjamin. "

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

"Oh! you boys are so rough. "

"And what are you girls, I wonder?" inquired the proprietor of thearm-chair with cutting irony. "Whiney piney, whiney piney. I wishthere were no such things as brothers and sisters!"

"_You wish_ WHAT?" said a voice from the shadow by the door, as deepand impressive as that of the ghost in Hamlet. 

The ten sprang up; but when the figure came into the fire-light, theysaw that it was no ghost, but Paterfamilias's old college friend, whospent most of his time abroad, and who, having no home or relatives ofhis own, had come to spend Christmas at his friend's vicarage. "Youwish _what_?" he repeated. 

"Well, brothers and sisters are a bore, " was the reply. "One or twowould be all very well; but just look, here are ten of us; and it justspoils everything. If a fellow wants to go anywhere, it's somebodyelse's _turn_. If old Brown sends a basket of grapes, it's share andshare alike; all the ten must taste, and then there's about a grapeand a half for each. If anybody calls or comes to luncheon, there area whole lot of brats swarming about, looking as if we kept a school. Whatever one does, the rest must do; whatever there is, the rest mustshare; whereas, if a fellow was an only son, he would have thewhole--and by all the rules of arithmetic, one is better than atenth. "

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

"Sold again, " sang out Master Jack from the floor, and went head overheels against the fender. 

His brother boxed his ears with great promptitude, and went on, "Well, I don't care; confess, sir, isn't it rather a nuisance?"

Paterfamilias's friend looked very grave, and said, quietly, "I don'tthink I am able to judge. I never had brother or sister but one, andhe was drowned at sea. Whatever I have had, I have had the whole of, and would have given it away willingly for some one to give it to. Ifany one sent me grapes, I ate them alone. If I made anything, therewas no one to show it to. If I wanted to act, I must act all thecharacters, and be my own audience. I remember that I got a lot ofsticks at last, and cut heads and faces to all of them, and carvednames on their sides, and called them my brothers and sisters. If youwant to know what I thought a nice number for a fellow to have, I canonly say that I remember carving twenty-five. I used to stick them inthe ground and talk to them. I have been only, and lonely, and alone, all my life, and have never felt the nuisance you speak of. "

This was a funny account; but the speaker looked so far from funnythat one of the sisters, who was very tender-hearted, crept up to him, and said, gently--

"Richard is only joking; he doesn't really want to get rid of us. Theother day the curate said he wished he had a sister, and Richardoffered to sell us all for ninepence; but he is only in fun. Only itis rather slow just now, and the boys get rather cross; at least, weall of us do. "

"It's a dreadful state of things, " said the friend, smiling throughhis black beard and moustachios. "What is to be done?"

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

"What?"

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

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

But the friend proclaimed order, and seated himself with the girl inquestion on his knee. "Well, what sort of a story is it to be?"

"Any sort, " said Richard; "only not too true, if you please. I don'tlike stories like tracts. There was an usher at a school I was at, andhe used to read tracts about good boys and bad boys to the fellows onSunday afternoon. He always took out the real names, and put in thenames of the fellows instead. Those who had done well in the week heput in as good ones, and those who hadn't as the bad. He didn't likeme, and I was always put in as a bad boy, and I came to so manyuntimely ends I got sick of it. I was hanged twice, and transportedonce for sheep-stealing; I committed suicide one week, and broke intothe bank the next; I ruined three families, became a hopelessdrunkard, and broke the hearts of my twelve distinct parents. I usedto beg him to let me be reformed next week; but he said he never wouldtill I did my Cæsar better. So, if you please, we'll have a story thatcan't be true. "

"Very well, " said the friend, laughing; "but if it isn't true, may Iput you in? All the best writers, you know, draw their characters fromtheir friends now-a-days. May I put you in?"

"Oh, certainly!" said Richard, placing himself in front of the fire, putting his feet on the hob, and stroking his curls with an air whichseemed to imply that whatever he was put into would be highlyfavoured. 

The rest struggled, and pushed, and squeezed themselves into moremodest but equally comfortable quarters; and after a few moments ofthought, Paterfamilias's friend commenced the story of

MELCHIOR'S DREAM. 

"Melchior is my hero. He was--well, he considered himself a young man, so we will consider him so too. He was not perfect; but in these daysthe taste in heroes is for a good deal of imperfection, not to saywickedness. He was not an only son. On the contrary, he had a greatmany brothers and sisters, and found them quite as objectionable as myfriend Richard does. "

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

"Your scent must be keen, " said the story-teller, "for it is a longway off. Well, he had never felt them so objectionable as on oneparticular night, when, the house being full of company, it wasdecided that the boys should sleep in 'barracks, ' as they called it;that is, all in one large room. "

"Thank goodness, we have not come to that!" said the incorrigibleRichard; but he was reduced to order by threats of being turned out, and contented himself with burning the soles of his boots against thebars of the grate in silence: and the friend continued:--

"But this was not the worst. Not only was he, Melchior, to sleep inthe same room with his brothers, but his bed being the longest andlargest, his youngest brother was to sleep at the other end ofit--foot to foot. True, by this means he got another pillow, for, ofcourse, that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb could do without one, and so hetook his; but, in spite of this, he determined that, sooner thansubmit to such an indignity, he would sit up all night. Accordingly, when all the rest were fast asleep, Melchior, with his boots off andhis waistcoat easily unbuttoned, sat over the fire in the longlumber-room which served that night as 'barracks'. He had refused toeat any supper downstairs to mark his displeasure, and now repaidhimself by a stolen meal according to his own taste. He had got apork-pie, a little bread and cheese, some large onions to roast, acouple of raw apples, an orange, and papers of soda and tartaric acidto compound effervescing draughts. When these dainties were finished, he proceeded to warm some beer in a pan, with ginger, spice, andsugar, and then lay back in his chair and sipped it slowly, gazingbefore him, and thinking over his misfortunes. 

"The night wore on, the fire got lower and lower, and still Melchiorsat, with his eyes fixed on a dirty old print that had hung above themantelpiece for years, sipping his 'brew', which was fast gettingcold. The print represented an old man in a light costume, with ascythe in one hand and an hour-glass in the other; and underneath thepicture in flourishing capitals was the word TIME. 

"'You're a nice old beggar, ' said Melchior, dreamily. 'You look likean old hay-maker who has come to work in his shirt-sleeves, andforgotten the rest of his clothes. Time! time you went to thetailor's, I think. '

"This was very irreverent; but Melchior was not in a respectful mood;and as for the old man, he was as calm as any philosopher. 

"The night wore on, and the fire got lower and lower, and at last wentout altogether. 

"'How stupid of me not to have mended it!' said Melchior; but he hadnot mended it, and so there was nothing for it but to go to bed; andto bed he went accordingly. 

"'But I won't go to sleep, ' he said; 'no, no; I shall keep awake, andto-morrow they shall know that I have had a bad night. '

"So he lay in bed with his eyes wide open, and staring still at theold print, which he could see from his bed by the light of the candle, which he had left alight on the mantelpiece to keep him awake. Theflame waved up and down, for the room was draughty; and as the lightsand shadows passed over the old man's face, Melchior almost fanciedthat it nodded to him, so he nodded back again; and as that tired himhe shut his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, therewas no longer any doubt--the old man's head was moving; and not onlyhis head, but his legs, and his whole body. Finally, he put his feetout of the frame, and prepared to step right over the mantelpiece, candle, and all. 

"'Take care, ' Melchior tried to say, 'you'll set fire to your shirt. 'But he could not utter a sound; and the old man arrived safely on thefloor, where he seemed to grow larger and larger, till he was fullythe size of a man, but still with the same scythe and hour-glass, andthe same airy costume. Then he came across the room, and sat down byMelchior's bedside. 

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

"'TIME, ' said his visitor in a deep voice, which sounded asif it came from a distance. 

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

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

"'Your name, under the print. '

"'Very likely, ' said Time. 

"Melchior felt more and more uneasy. 'You must be very cold, ' he said. 'Perhaps you would feel warmer if you went back into the picture. '

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

"'I have not the pleasure of knowing you, ' said Melchior, trying tokeep his teeth from chattering. 

"'There are not many people who have a personal acquaintance with me, 'said his visitor. 'You have an advantage--I am your godfather. '

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

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

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

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

"'Driving!' said Melchior. 

"'Yes, ' was the answer; 'all the world is driving; and you must drive;and here come your brothers and sisters. '

"Melchior sat up; and there they were, sure enough, all dressed, andclimbing one after the other on to the bed--_his_ bed!

"There was that little minx of a sister with her curls (he alwayscalled them carrot shavings), who was so conceited (girls always are!)and always trying to attract notice, in spite of Melchior's incessantsnubbings. There was that clever brother, with his untidy hair andbent shoulders, who was just as bad the other way; who always ran outof the back door when visitors called, and was for ever moping andreading: and this, in spite of Melchior's hiding his books, andcontinually telling him that he was a disgrace to the family, aperfect bear, not fit to be seen, etc. --all with the laudable desireof his improvement. There was that little Hop-o'-my-Thumb, as livelyas any of them, a young monkey, the worst of all; who was always inmischief, and consorting with the low boys in the village; thoughMelchior did not fail to tell him that he was not fit company forgentlemen's sons, that he was certain to be cut when he went toschool, and that he would probably end his days by being transported, if not hanged. There was the second brother, who was Melchior's chiefcompanion, and against whom he had no particular quarrel. And therewas the little pale lame sister, whom he dearly loved; but whom, oddto say, he never tried to improve at all; his remedy for her failingswas generally, 'Let her do as she likes, will you?' There were otherswho were all tiresome in their respective ways; and one after theother they climbed up. 

"'What are you doing, getting on to my bed!' inquired the indignantbrother, as soon as he could speak. 

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

"Melchior was about to retort, but on looking round, he saw that theywere really in a large sort of coach with very wide windows. 'Ithought I was in bed, ' he muttered. 'What can I have been dreamingof?'

"'What, indeed!' said the godfather. 'But, be quick, and sit close, for you have all to get in; you are all brothers and sisters. '

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

"'Yes, at first, ' was the answer; 'they get separated in time. Infact, everyone has to cease driving sooner or later. I drop them onthe road at different stages, according to my orders, ' and he showed abundle of papers in his hands; 'but, as I favour you, I will tell youin confidence that I have to drop all your brothers and sisters beforeyou. There, you four oldest sit on this side, you five others there, and the little one must stand or be nursed. '

"'Ugh!' said Melchior, 'the coach would be well enough if one wasalone; but what a squeeze with all these brats! I say, go prettyquick, will you?'

"'I will, ' said Time, 'if you wish it. But, beware that you cannotchange your mind. If I go quicker for your sake, I shall never go slowagain; if slower, I shall not again go quick; and I only favour you sofar, because you are my godson. Here, take the check-string; when youwant me, pull it, and speak through the tube. Now we're off. '

"Whereupon the old man mounted the box, and took the reins. He had nowhip; but when he wanted to start, he shook the hour-glass, and offthey went. Then Melchior saw that the road where they were driving wasvery broad, and so filled with vehicles of all kinds that he could notsee the hedges. The noise and crowd and dust were very great; and toMelchior all seemed delightfully exciting. There was every sort ofconveyance, from the grandest coach to the humblest donkey-cart; andthey seemed to have enough to do to escape being run over. Among allthe gay people there were many whom he knew; and a very nice thing itseemed to be to drive among all the grandees, and to show hishandsome face at the window, and bow and smile to his acquaintance. Then it appeared to be the fashion to wrap oneself in a tiger-skinrug, and to look at life through an opera-glass, and old Time hadkindly put one of each into the coach. 

"But here again Melchior was much troubled by his brothers andsisters. Just at the moment when he was wishing to look mostfashionable and elegant, one or other of them would pull away the rug, or drop the glass, or quarrel, or romp, or do something that spoiltthe effect. In fact, one and all, they 'just spoilt everything;' andthe more he scolded, the worse they became. The 'minx' shook hercurls, and flirted through the window with a handsome but ill-temperedlooking man on a fine horse, who praised her 'golden locks, ' as hecalled them; and, oddly enough, when Melchior said the man was a lout, and that the locks in question were corkscrewy carrot shavings, sheonly seemed to like the man and his compliments the more. Meanwhile, the untidy brother pored over his book, or if he came to the window, it was only to ridicule the fine ladies and gentlemen, so Melchiorsent him to Coventry. Then Hop-o'-my-Thumb had taken to make signs andexchange jokes with some disreputable-looking youths in a dog-cart;and when his brother would have put him to 'sit still like agentleman' at the bottom of the coach, he seemed positively to preferhis low companions; and the rest were little better. 

"Poor Melchior! Surely there never was a clearer case of a younggentleman's comfort destroyed, solely by other people's perversedetermination to be happy in their own way instead of in his. Surely, no young gentleman ever knew better that if his brothers and sisterswould yield to his wishes, they would not quarrel; or ever morecompletely overlooked the fact, that if he had yielded more to theirsthe same happy result might have been attained. At last he lostpatience, and pulling the check-string, bade Godfather Time drive asfast as he could. 

"'For, ' said he, 'there will never be any peace while there are somany of us in the coach; if a fellow had the rug and glass, and, indeed, the coach to himself, he might drive and bow and talk with thebest of them; but as it is, one might as well go about in a wild-beastcaravan. '

"Godfather Time frowned, but shook his glass all the same, and awaythey went at a famous pace. All at once they came to a stop. 

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

"Time called out the name of the second brother over his shoulder; andthe boy stood up, and bade his brothers and sisters good-bye. 

"'It is time that I began to push my way in the world, ' said he, andpassed out of the coach, and in among the crowd. 

"'You have taken the only quiet boy, ' said Melchior to the godfatherangrily. 'Drive fast now, for pity's sake; and let us get rid of thetiresome ones. '

"And fast enough they drove, and dropped first one and then the other;but the sisters, and the reading boy, and the youngest still remained. 

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

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

"'I see nothing, ' said Melchior. But on looking again after a while, he did see a figure wrapped in a cloak, gliding in and out among thepeople, unnoticed, if not unseen. 

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

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

"Melchior shuddered, more especially as the figure had now come up tothe coach, and put its hand in through the window, on which, to hishorror, the lame sister laid hers and smiled. At this moment thecoach stopped. 

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

"But even while he sprang up to seize the check-string the door hadopened, the pale sister's face (a little paler now) had dropped uponthe shoulder of the figure in the cloak, and he had carried her away;and Melchior stormed and raved in vain. 

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

"In his rage and grief, he hardly knew it when the untidy brother wascalled, and putting his book under his arm, slipped out of the coachwithout looking to the right or left. Presently the coach stoppedagain; and when Melchior looked up the door was open, and at it wasthe fine man on the fine horse, who was lifting the sister on to thesaddle before him. 'What fool's game are you playing?' said Melchior, angrily. 'I know that man. He is both ill-tempered and a badcharacter. '

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

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

"'I don't want to leave you; but he cares for me, and you don't, 'sobbed the sister; and she was carried away. 

"When she had gone, the youngest brother slid down from his corner andcame up to Melchior. 

"'We are alone now, Brother, ' he said; 'let us be good friends. May Isit on the front seat with you, and have half the rug? I will be verygood and polite, and will have nothing more to do with those fellows, if you will talk to me. '

"Now Melchior really rather liked the idea, but as his brother seemedto be in a submissive mood, he thought he would take the opportunityof giving him a good lecture, and would then graciously relent andforgive. So he began by asking him if he thought that he was fitcompany for him (Melchior), what he thought that gentlefolks would sayto a boy who had been playing with such youths as youngHop-o'-my-Thumb had, and whether the said youths were not scoundrels?And when the boy refused to say that they were (for they had been kindto him), Melchior said that his tastes were evidently as bad as ever, and even hinted at the old transportation threat. This was too much;the boy went angrily back to his window corner, and Melchior--like toomany of us!--lost the opportunity of making peace for the sake ofwagging his own tongue. 

"'But he will come round in a few minutes, ' he thought A few minutespassed, however, and there was no sign. A few minutes more, and therewas a noise, a shout; Melchior looked up, and saw that the boy hadjumped through the open window into the road, and had been picked upby the men in the dog-cart, and was gone. 

"And so at last my hero was alone. At first he enjoyed it very much. He shook out his hair, wrapped himself in the rug, stared through theopera-glass, and did the fine gentleman very well indeed. But thougheveryone allowed him to be the finest young fellow on the road, yetnobody seemed to care for the fact as much as he did; they talked, andcomplimented, and stared at him, but he got tired of it. For he couldnot arrange his hair any better; he could not dispose the rug moregracefully, or stare more perseveringly through the glass; and if hecould, his friends could do nothing more than they had done. In fact, he got tired of the crowd, and found himself gazing through thewindow, not to see his fine friends, but to try and catch sight of hisbrothers and sisters. Sometimes he saw the youngest brother, lookingeach time more wild and reckless; and sometimes the sister, lookingmore and more miserable; but he saw no one else. 

"At last there was a stir among the people, and all heads were turnedtowards the distance, as if looking for something. Melchior asked whatit was, and was told that the people were looking for a man, the heroof many battles, who had won honour for himself and for his country inforeign lands, and who was coming home. Everybody stood up and gazed, Melchior with them. Then the crowd parted, and the hero came on. Noone asked whether he were handsome or genteel, whether he kept goodcompany, or wore a tiger-skin rug, or looked through an opera-glass?They knew what he had _done_, and it was enough. 

"He was a bronzed hairy man, with one sleeve empty, and a breastcovered with stars; but in his face, brown with sun and wind, overgrown with hair and scarred with wounds, Melchior saw his secondbrother! There was no doubt of it. And the brother himself, though hebowed kindly in answer to the greetings showered on him, was gazinganxiously for the old coach, where he used to ride and be souncomfortable, in that time to which he now looked back as thehappiest of his life. 

"'I thank you, gentlemen. I am indebted to you, gentlemen. I have beenaway long. I am going home. '

"'Of course he is!' shouted Melchior, waving his arms widely withpride and joy. 'He is coming home; to this coach, where he was--oh, it seems but an hour ago! Time goes so fast. We were great friendswhen we were young together. My brother and I, ladies and gentlemen, the hero and I--my brother--the hero with the stars upon hisbreast--he is coming home!'

"Alas! what avail stars and ribbons on a breast where the life-bloodis trickling slowly from a little wound? The crowd looked anxious; thehero came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the oldcoach; and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony. Butjust when he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about tomeet, a figure passed between--a figure in a cloak. 

"'I have seen you many times, Friend, face to face, ' said the hero;'but now I would fain have waited for a little while. '

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

"'Nay, ' he said, 'not that; but to see my home, and my brothers andsisters. But if it may not be, friend Death, I am ready, and tiredtoo. ' With that he held out his hand, and Death lifted up the hero ofmany battles like a child, and carried him away, stars and ribbons andall. 

"'Cruel Death!' cried Melchior; 'was there no one else in all thiscrowd, that you must take him?'

"His friends condoled with him; but they soon went on their own ways;and the hero seemed to be forgotten; and Melchior, who had lost allpleasure in the old bowings and chattings, sat sadly gazing out of thewindow, to see if he could see any one for whom he cared. At last, ina grave dark man, who was sitting on a horse, and making a speech tothe crowd, he recognized his clever untidy brother. 

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

"'That man!' was the answer. 'Don't you know? He is _the_ man of thetime. He is a philosopher. Everybody goes to hear him. He has foundout that--well--that everything is a mistake. '

"'Has he corrected it?' said Melchior. 

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

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

"'The world of fools will go on as they have ever done; but to thewise few, to whom I address myself, I would say--Shake off at once andfor ever the fancies and feelings, the creeds and customs that shackleyou, and be true. We have come to a time when wise men will not beled blindfold in the footsteps of their predecessors, but will tearaway the bandage and see for themselves. I have torn away mine, andlooked. There is no Faith--it is shaken to its rotten foundation;there is no Hope--it is disappointed every day; there is no Love atall. There is nothing for any man or for each, but his fate; and he ishappiest and wisest who can meet it most unmoved. '

"'It is a lie!' shouted Melchior. 'I feel it to be so in my heart. Awicked foolish lie! Oh! was it to teach such evil folly as this thatyou left home and us, my brother? Oh, come back! come back!'

"The philosopher turned his head coldly, and smiled. 'I thank thegentleman who spoke, ' he said, still in the same cold voice, 'for hisbad opinion, and for his good wishes. I think the gentleman spoke ofhome and kindred. My experience of life has led me to find that homeis most valued when it is left, and kindred most dear when they areparted. I have happily freed myself from such inconsistencies. I amglad to know that fate can tear me from no place that I care for morethan the next where it shall deposit me, nor take away any friendsthat I value more than those it leaves. I recommend a similarself-emancipation to the gentleman who did me the honour ofspeaking. '

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

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

"At last he pulled the check-string, and called to Godfather Time inan humble entreating voice. 

"'It is not your fault, ' he began; 'it is not your fault, Godfather;but this drive has been altogether wrong. Let us turn back and beginagain. Let us all get in afresh and begin again. '

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

"'We should be so happy, ' murmured Melchior, humbly; 'and it is verycold and chilly; we should keep each other warm. '

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

"'Ah, do not speak of me!' cried Melchior, earnestly. 'I am thinkingof them. There is plenty of room; the little one can sit on my knee;and we shall be so happy. The truth is, Godfather, that I have beenwrong. I have gone the wrong way to work. A little more love, andkindness, and forbearance, might have kept my sisters with us, mighthave led the little one to better tastes and pleasures, and havetaught the other by experience the truth of the faith and hope andlove which he now reviles. Oh, I have sinned! I have sinned! Let usturn back, Godfather Time, and begin again. And oh! drive very slowly, for partings come only too soon. '

"'I am sorry, ' said the old man in the same bitter tone as before, 'todisappoint your rather unreasonable wishes. What you say is admirablytrue, with this misfortune, that your good intentions are too late. Like the rest of the world you are ready to seize the opportunity whenit is past. You should have been kind _then_. You should have advised_then_. You should have yielded _then_. You should have loved yourbrothers and sisters while you had them. It is too late now. '

"With this he drove on, and spoke no more, and poor Melchior staredsadly out of the window. As he was gazing at the crowd, he suddenlysaw the dog-cart, in which were his brother and his wretchedcompanions. Oh, how old and worn he looked! and how ragged his clotheswere! The men seemed to be trying to persuade him to do something thathe did not like, and they began to quarrel; but in the midst of thedispute he turned his head and caught sight of the old coach; andMelchior seeing this, waved his hands, and beckoned with all hismight. The brother seemed doubtful; but Melchior waved harder, and(was it fancy?) Time seemed to go slower. The brother made up hismind; he turned and jumped from the dog-cart as he had jumped from theold coach long ago, and ducking in and out among the horses andcarriages, ran for his life. The men came after him; but he ran likethe wind--pant, pant, nearer, nearer; at last the coach was reached, and Melchior seized the prodigal by his rags and dragged him in. 

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

"But what a brother! with wasted body and sunken eyes; with the oldcurly hair turned to matted locks, that clung faster to his face thanthe rags did to his trembling limbs; what a sight for theopera-glasses of the crowd! What a subject for the tongues that wereever wagging, and complimenting, and backbiting, and lying, all in abreath, and without sense or scruple! What a sight and a subject forthe fine friends, for whose good opinion Melchior had been so anxious?Do you think he was as anxious now? Do you think he was troubled bywhat they either saw or said; or was ashamed of the wretched prodigallying among the cushions? I think not. I think that for the mostfoolish of us there are moments in life (of real joy or real sorrow)when we judge things by a higher standard, and care vastly little forwhat 'people say'. The only shame that Melchior felt was that hisbrother should have fared so hardly in the trials and temptations ofthe world outside, while he had sat at ease among the cushions of theold coach, that had been the home of both alike. Thank GOD, it was the home of both now! And poor Hop-o'-my-Thumb was on the frontseat at last, with Melchior kneeling at his feet, and fondly strokingthe head that rested against him. 

"'Has powder come into fashion, brother?' he said. 'Your hair isstreaked with white. '

"'If it has, ' said the other, laughing, 'your barber is better thanmine, Melchior, for your head is as white as snow. '

"'Is it possible? are we so old? has Time gone so very fast? But whatare you staring at through the window? I shall be jealous of thatcrowd, brother. '

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

"'You see what?' said Melchior. 

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

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

"Surely yes! Too surely the well-known figure came on; and theprodigal's sunken eyes looked more sunken still as he gazed. As forMelchior, he neither spoke nor moved, but stood in a silent agony, terrible to see. All at once a thought seemed to strike him; he seizedhis brother, and pushed him to the furthest corner of the seat, andthen planted himself firmly at the door just as Death came up and puthis hand into the coach. Then he spoke in a low steady voice, morepiteous than cries or tears. 

"'I humbly beseech you, good Death, if you must take one of us, totake me. I have had a long drive, and many comforts and blessings, andam willing if unworthy to go. He has suffered much, and had nopleasure; leave him for a little to enjoy the drive in peace, just fora very little; he has suffered so much, and I have been so much toblame; let me go instead of him. '

"Alas for Melchior! It is decreed in the Providence of GOD, that, although the opportunities for doing good, which are in thepower of every man, are beyond count or knowledge, yet, theopportunity once neglected, no man by any self-sacrifice can atone forthose who have fallen or suffered by his negligence. Poor Melchior! Anunalterable law made him the powerless spectator of the consequencesof his neglected opportunities. 'No man may deliver his brother, ormake agreement unto GOD for him, for it cost more to redeemtheir souls, so that he must let that alone for ever. ' And is it everso bitter to 'let alone, ' as in a case where we might have acted anddid not?

"Poor Melchior! In vain he laid both his hands in Death's outstretchedpalm; they fell to him again as if they had passed through air; he waspushed aside--Death passed into the coach--'one was taken and theother left. '

"As the cloaked figure glided in and out among the crowd, many turnedto look at his sad burden, though few heeded him. Much was said; butthe general voice of the crowd was this: 'Ah! he is gone, is he? Well!a born rascal! It must be a great relief to his brother!' A conclusionwhich was about as wise, and about as near the truth, as the world'sconclusions generally are. As for Melchior, he neither saw the figurenor heard the crowd, for he had fallen senseless among the cushions. 

"When he came to his senses, he found himself lying still upon hisface; and so bitter was his loneliness and grief, that he lay stilland did not move. He was astonished, however, by the (as it seemed tohim) unusual silence. The noise of the carriages had been deafening, and now there was not a sound. Was he deaf? or had the crowd gone? Heopened his eyes. Was he blind? or had the night come? He sat right up, and shook himself, and looked again. The crowd _was_ gone; so, formatter of that, was the coach; and so was Godfather Time. He had notbeen lying among cushions, but among pillows; he was not in anyvehicle of any kind, but in bed. The room was dark, and very still;but through the 'barracks' window, which had no blind, he saw thewinter sun pushing through the mist, like a red hot cannon-ballhanging in the frosty trees; and in the yard outside, the cocks werecrowing. 

"There was no longer any doubt that he was safe in his old home; butwhere were his brothers and sisters? With a beating heart he crept tothe other end of the bed; and there lay the prodigal, but with nohaggard cheeks or sunken eyes, no grey locks or miserable rags, but arosy yellow-haired urchin fast asleep, with his head upon his arm. 'Itook his pillow, ' muttered Melchior, self-reproachfully. 

"A few minutes later, young Hop-o'-my-Thumb (whom Melchior dared notlose sight of for fear he should melt away) seated comfortably on hisbrother's back, and wrapped up in a blanket, was making a tour of the'barracks. '

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

"If not exactly a _lark_, it was a very happy tour to Melchior, as, hope gradually changing into certainty, he recognized his brothers inone shapeless lump after the other in the little beds. There they allwere, sleeping peacefully in a happy home, from the embryo hero to theembryo philosopher, who lay with the invariable book upon his pillow, and his hair looking (as it always did) as if he lived in a high wind. 

"'I say, ' whispered Melchior, pointing to him, 'what did he say theother day about being a parson?'

"'He said he should like to be one, ' returned Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'butyou said he would frighten away the congregation with his looks. Andthen, you know, he got very angry, and said he didn't know priestsneed be dandies, and that everybody was humbuggy alike, and thought ofnothing but looks; but that he would be a philosopher like Diogenes, who cared for nobody, and was as ugly as an ape, and lived in a tub. '

"'He will make a capital parson, ' said Melchior, hastily, 'and I shalltell him so to-morrow. And when I'm squire here, he shall be vicar, and I'll subscribe to all his dodges without a grumble. I'm the eldestson. And, I say, don't you think we could brush his hair for him in amorning, till he learns to do it himself?'

"'Oh, I will!' was the lively answer; 'I'm an awful dab at brushing. Look how I brush your best hat!'

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

"'In the little room at the end of the long passage, ' saidHop-o'-my-Thumb, trembling with increased chilliness and enjoyment. 'But you're never going there! we shall wake the company, and theywill all come out to see what's the matter. '

"'I shouldn't care if they did, ' said Melchior, 'it would make it feelmore real. '

"As he did not understand this sentiment, Hop-o'-my-Thumb saidnothing, but held on very tightly; and they crept softly down the coldgrey passage in the dawn. The girls' door was open; for the girls wereafraid of robbers, and left their bed-room door wide open at night, asa natural and obvious means of self-defence. The girls slept together;and the frill of the pale sister's prim little night-cap was buried inthe other one's uncovered curls. 

"'How you do tremble!' whispered Hop-o'-my-Thumb; 'are you cold?' Thisinquiry received no answer; and after some minutes he spoke again. 'Isay, how very pretty they look! don't they?'

"But for some reason or other, Melchior seemed to have lost his voice;but he stooped down and kissed both the girls very gently, and thenthe two brothers crept back along the passage to the 'barracks. '

"'One thing more, ' said Melchior; and they went up to the mantelpiece. 'I will lend you my bow and arrows to-morrow, on one condition--'

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

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

"It was very ungrateful! but perfection is not in man; and there wassomething in Melchior's muttered excuse--

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

"Hop-o'-my-Thumb was speedily put to bed again, to get warm, this timewith both the pillows; but Melchior was too restless to sleep, so heresolved to have a shower-bath, and to dress. After which, he kneltdown by the window, and covered his face with his hands. 

"'He's saying very long prayers, ' thought Hop-o'-my-Thumb, glancing athim from his warm nest; 'and what a jolly humour he is in thismorning!'

"Still the young head was bent, and the handsome face hidden; andMelchior was finding his life every moment more real and more happy. For there was hardly a thing, from the well-filled 'barracks' to thebrother bedfellow, that had been a hardship last night, which thismorning did not seem a blessing. He rose at last, and stood in thesunshine, which was now pouring in; a smile was on his lips, and onhis face were two drops, which, if they were water, had not come fromthe shower-bath, or from any bath at all. "

 * * * * *

"Is that the end?" inquired the young lady on his knee, as the storyteller paused here. 

"Yes, that is the end. "

"It's a beautiful story, " she murmured, thoughtfully; "but what anextraordinary one! I don't think I could have dreamt such a wonderfuldream. "

"Do you think you could have eaten such a wonderful supper?" said thefriend, twisting his moustachios. 

After this point, the evening's amusements were thoroughly successful. Richard took his smoking boots from the fire-place, and was called uponfor various entertainments for which he was famous: such as theaccurate imitation of a train just starting, in which two pieces ofbone were used with considerable effect; as also of a bumble-bee, who(very much out of season) went buzzing about, and was always beingcaught with a heavy bang on the heads and shoulders of those who leastexpected it; all which specimens of his talents were received with dueapplause by his admiring brothers and sisters. 

The bumble-bee had just been caught (for the twenty-first time) with aloud smack on brother Benjamin's ear, when the door opened, andPaterfamilias entered with Materfamilias (whose headache was better), and followed by the candles. A fresh log was then thrown upon thefire, the yule cakes and furmety were put upon the table, andeverybody drew round to supper; and Paterfamilias announced thatalthough he could not give the materials to play with, he had noobjection now to a bowl of moderate punch for all, and that Richardmight compound it. This was delightful; and as he sat by his father, ladling away to the rest, Adolphus Brown could hardly have felt morejovial, even with the champagne and ices. 

The rest sat with radiant faces and shining heads in goodly order; andat the bottom of the table, by Materfamilias, was the friend, as happyin his unselfish sympathy as if his twenty-five sticks had come tolife, and were supping with him. As happy--nearly--as if a certainwoman's grave had never been dug under the southern sun that could notsave her, and as if the children gathered round him were those ofwhose faces he had often dreamt, but might never see. 

His health had been drunk, and everybody else's too, when, just assupper was coming to a close, Richard (who had been sitting inthoughtful silence for some minutes) got up with sudden resolution, and said, "I want to propose Mr. What's-his-name's health on my own account. Iwant to thank him for his story, which had only one mistake in it. Melchior should have kept the effervescing papers to put into thebeer; it's a splendid drink! Otherwise it was first-rate; though ithit me rather hard. I want to say that though I didn't mean all I saidabout being an only son (when a fellow gets put out he doesn't knowwhat he means), yet I know I was quite wrong, and the story is quiteright. I want particularly to say that I'm very glad there are so manyof us, for the more, you know, the merrier. I wouldn't change fatheror mother, brothers or sisters, with any one in the world. It couldn'tbe better, we couldn't be happier. We are all together, and to-morrowis Christmas Day. Thank GOD. "

It was very well said. It was a very good speech. It was very well andvery good that while the blessings were with him, he could feel it tobe so, and be grateful. 

It was very well, and good also, that the friend, who had neither homenor kindred to be grateful for, had something else for which he couldthank GOD as heartily. The thought of that something came tohim then as he sat at his friend's table, filling his eyes with tears. It came to him next day as he knelt before GOD's altar, remembering in blessed fellowship that deed of love which is thefoundation of all our hope and joy. It came to him when he went backto his lonely wandering life, and thought with tender interest of thatboyish speech. It came--a whisper of consolation to silence envy andregret for ever. 

"There _is_ something far better. There _is_ something far happier. There is a better Home than any earthly one, and a Family that shallnever be divided. "

THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST. 

 "Let me not think an action mine own way, But as Thy love shall sway, Resigning up the rudder to Thy skill. "

 GEORGE HERBERT. 

One day, when I was a very little girl (which is a long time ago), Imade a discovery. The place where I made it was not very remote, beinga holly-bush at the bottom of our garden; and the discovery was not agreat one in itself, though I thought it very grand. I had found ablackbird's nest, with three young ones in it. 

The discovery was made on this wise. I was sitting one morning on alog of wood opposite this holly-bush, reading the story of GoodyTwoshoes, and thinking to myself how much I should like to be likeher, and to go about in the village with a raven, a pigeon, and a larkon my shoulders, admired and talked about by everybody. All sorts ofnonsense passed through my head as I sat, with the book on my lap, staring straight before me; and I was just fancying the kindcondescension with which I would behave to everybody when I became aGoody Twoshoes, when I saw a bird come out of the holly-bush and flyaway. It was a blackbird: there was no doubt of it; and it must have anest in the tree, or why had it been there so long? Down went my book, and I flew to make my discovery. A blackbird's nest, with three youngones! I stood still at first in pure pleasure at the sight; and then, little by little, grand ideas came into my head. 

I would be very kind to these little blackbirds, I thought; I wouldtake them home out of this cold tree, and make a large nest of cottonwool (which would be much softer and better for them than to be wherethey were), and feed them, and keep them; and then, when they werefull-grown, they would, of course, love me better than any one, and bevery tame and grateful; and I should walk about with them on myshoulders, like Goody Twoshoes, and be admired by everybody; for, I amashamed to say, most of my day dreams ended with this, _to be admiredby everybody_. I was so wrapped up in these thoughts that I did notknow, till his hands were laid upon my shoulders, that my friend, thecurate of the village, had come up behind me. He lived next door tous, and often climbed over the wall that divided our garden to bringme flowers for my little bed. He was a tall, dark, not very young man;and the best hand at making fire-balloons, mending toys, and making abroken wax doll as good as new with a hot knitting needle, that youcan imagine. I had heard grown-up people call him grave and silent, but he always laughed and talked to me. 

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

"I have got a nest of poor little birds, " I answered; "I am so sorryfor them here in the cold; but they will be all right when I have gotthem indoors. I shall make them a beautiful nest of cotton wool, andfeed them. Won't it be nice?"

I spoke confidently; for I had really so worked up my fancy that Ifelt quite a contemptuous pity for all the wretched little birds whowere hatched every year without me to rear them. At the same time, Ihad a general idea that grown-up people always _did_ throw cold wateron splendid plans like mine; so I was more indignant than surprisedwhen my friend the curate tried to show me that it was quiteimpossible to do as I wished. The end of all his arguments was that Imust leave the nest in its place. But I had a great turn fordisputing, and was not at all inclined to give up my point. "You toldme on Sunday, " I said, pertly, "that we were never too little to dokind things; let me do this. "

"If I could be sure, " he said, looking at me, "that you only wish todo a kind thing. "

I got more angry and rude. 

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

He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely, "Tell me, my child, which do you wish most--to be kind to these poorlittle birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, andbringing them up?"

"To be kind to them, " said I, getting very red. "I don't want anyhonour and glory, " and I felt ready to cry. 

"Well, well, " he said, smiling; "then I know you will believe me whenI tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds isto leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sithere every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over thenest, that no naughty boy may come near it--the curate, for instance!"and he pulled a funny face. "That will be very kind. "

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

"I thought you only wanted to be kind, " he answered. And then he beganto talk very gently about different sorts of kindness, and that if Iwished to be kind like a Christian, I must be kind without hoping forany reward, whether gratitude or anything else. He told me that thebest followers of Jesus in all times had tried hard to do everything, however small, simply for GOD's sake, and to put themselvesaway. That they often began even their letters, etc. , with such words, as, "Glory to GOD, " to remind themselves that everything theydid, to be perfect, must be done to GOD, and GOD alone. And that indoing good kind things even, they were afraid lest, though the thingwas right, the wish to do it might have come from conceit orpresumption. 

"This self-devotion, " he added, "is the very highest Christian life, and seems, I dare say, very hard for you even to understand, and muchmore so to put in practice. But we must all try for it in the best waywe can, little woman; and for those who by GOD's grace reallypractised it, it was almost as impossible to be downcast ordisappointed as if they were already in Heaven. They wished fornothing to happen to themselves but GOD's will; they didnothing but for GOD's glory. And so a very good bishop says, 'I have my end, whether I succeed or am disappointed. ' So you willhave your end, my child, in being kind to these little birds in theright way, and denying yourself, whether they know you or not. "

I could not have understood all he said; but I am afraid I did not tryto understand what I might have done; however, I said no more, andstood silent, while he comforted me with the promise of a new flowerfor my garden, called "hen and chickens, " which he said I was to takecare of instead of the little blackbirds. 

When he was gone I went back to the holly-bush, and stood gazing atthe nest, and nursing angry thoughts in my heart. "What a _preach_, " Ithought, "about nothing! as if there could be any conceit andpresumption in taking care of three poor little birds! The curate mustforget that I was growing into a big girl; and as to not knowing howto feed them, I knew as well as he did that birds lived upon worms, and liked bread-crumbs. " And so _thinking wrong_ ended (as it almostalways does) in _doing wrong_: and I took the three little blackbirdsout of the nest, popped them into my pocket-handkerchief, and ranhome. And I took some trouble to keep them out of everyone'ssight--even out of my mother's; for I did not want to hear any more"grown-up" opinions on the matter. 

I filled a basket with cotton wool, and put the birds inside, and tookthem into a little room downstairs, where they would be warm. Before Iwent to bed I put two or three worms, and a large supply of soakedbread-crumbs, in the nest, close to their little beaks. "What can theywant more?" thought I in my folly; but conscience is apt to berestless when one is young, and I could not feel quite comfortable inbed, though I got to sleep at last, trying to fancy myself GoodyTwoshoes, with three sleek full-fledged blackbirds on my shoulders. 

In the morning, as soon as I could slip away, I went to my pets. Anyone may guess what I found; but I believe no one can understand theshock of agony and remorse that I felt. There lay the worms that I haddug up with reckless cruelty; there was the wasted bread; and there, above all, lay the three little blackbirds, cold and dead!

I do not know how long I stood looking at the victims of mypresumptuous wilfulness; but at last I heard a footstep in thepassage, and fearing to be caught, I tore out of the house, and downto my old seat near the holly-bush, where I flung myself on theground, and "wept bitterly. " At last I heard the well-known sound ofsome one climbing over the wall; and then the curate stood before me, with the plant of "hen and chickens" in his hands. I jumped up, andshrank away from him. 

"Don't come near me, " I cried; "the blackbirds are dead;" and I threwmyself down again. 

I knew from experience that few things roused the anger of my friendso strongly as to see or hear of animals being ill-treated. I hadnever forgotten, one day when I was out with him, his wrath over a boywho was cruelly beating a donkey; and now I felt, though I could notsee, the expression of his face, as he looked at the holly-bush and atme, and exclaimed, "You took them!" And then added, in the low tone inwhich he always spoke when angry, "And the mother-bird has beenwandering all night round this tree, seeking her little ones in vain, not to be comforted, because they are not! Child, child! hasGOD the Father given life to His creatures for you to destroyit in this reckless manner?"

His words cut my heart like a knife; but I was too utterly wretchedalready to be much more miserable; I only lay still and moaned. Atlast he took pity, and lifting me up on to his knee, endeavoured tocomfort me. 

This was not, however, an easy matter. I knew much better than he didhow very naughty I had been; and I felt that I had murdered the poortender little birds. 

"I can never, never, forgive myself!" I sobbed. 

"But you must be reasonable, " he said. "You gave way to your vanityand wilfulness, and persuaded yourself that you only wished to be kindto the blackbirds; and you have been punished. Is it not so?"

"O yes!" I cried; "I am so wicked! I wish I were as good as you are!"

"As I am!"--he began. 

I was too young then to understand the sharp tone of self-reproach inwhich he spoke. In my eyes he was perfection; only perhaps a little_too_ good. But he went on:--

"Do you know, this fault of yours reminds me of a time when I was justas wilful and conceited, just as much bent upon doing the great dutyof helping others in my own grand fashion, rather than in the humbleway which GOD's Providence pointed out, only it was in a muchmore serious matter; I was older, too, and so had less excuse. I amalmost tempted to tell you about it; not that our cases are reallyquite alike, but that the punishment which met my sin was sounspeakably bitter in comparison with yours, that you may be thankfulto have learnt a lesson of humility at smaller cost. "

I did not understand him--in fact, I did not understand many thingsthat he said, for he had a habit of talking to me as if he werespeaking to himself; but I had a general idea of his meaning, and said(very truly), "I cannot fancy you doing wrong. "

I was puzzled again by the curious expression of his face; but he onlysaid, "Shall I tell you a story?"

I knew his stories of old, and gave an eager "Yes. "

"It is a sad one, " he said. 

"I do not think I should like a very funny one just now, " I replied. "Is it true?"

"Quite, " he answered. "It is about myself. " He was silent for a fewmoments, as if making up his mind to speak; and then, laying his head, as he sometimes did, on my shoulder, so that I could not see his face, he began. 

"When I was a boy (older than you, so I ought to have been better), Imight have been described in the words of Scripture--I was 'the onlyson of my mother, and she was a widow. ' We were badly off, and she wasvery delicate, nay, ill--more ill, GOD knows, than I had anyidea of. I had long been used to the sight of the doctor once or twicea week, and to her being sometimes better and sometimes worse; andwhen our old servant lectured me for making a noise, or the doctorbegged that she might not be excited or worried, I fancied thatdoctors and nurses always did say things of that sort, and that therewas no particular need to attend to them. 

"Not that I was unfeeling to my dear mother, for I loved herdevotedly in my wilful worldly way. It was for her sake that I hadbeen so vexed by the poverty into which my father's death had plungedus. For her sake I worried her, by grumbling before her at our narrowlodgings and lost comforts. For her sake, child, in my madness, Iwasted the hours in which I might have soothed, and comforted, andwaited on her, in dreaming of wild schemes for making myself famousand rich, and giving her back all and more than she had lost. For hersake I fancied myself pouring money at her feet, and loading her withluxuries, while she was praying for me to our common Father, andlaying up treasure for herself in Heaven. 

"One day I remember, when she was remonstrating with me over a badreport which the schoolmaster had given of me (he said I could work, but wouldn't), my vanity overcame my prudence, and I told her that Ithought some fellows were made to 'fag, ' and some not; that I had beenwriting a poem in my dictionary the day that I had done so badly, andthat I hoped to be a poet long before my master had composed agrammar. I can see now her sorrowful face as, with tears in her eyes, she told me that all 'fellows' alike were made to do their duty'before GOD, and Angels, and Men. ' That it was by improvingthe little events and opportunities of every day that men becamegreat, and not by neglecting them for their own presumptuous fancies. And she entreated me to strive to do my duty, and to leave the restwith GOD. I listened, however, impatiently to what I called a'jaw' or a 'scold, ' and then (knowing the tender interest she took inall I did) I tried to coax her by offering to read my poem. But sheanswered with just severity, that what she wished was to see me a goodman, not a great one; and that she would rather see my exercises dulywritten than fifty poems composed at the expense of my neglected duty. Then she warned me tenderly of the misery which my conceit would bringupon me, and bade me, when I said my evening prayers, to add thatprayer of King David, 'Keep Thy servant from presumptuous sins, lestthey get the dominion over me. '

"Alas! they had got the dominion over me already, too strongly for herwords to take any hold. 'She won't even look at my poem, ' I thought, and hurried proudly from the room, banging one door and leavinganother open. And I silenced my uneasy conscience by fresh dreams ofmaking my fortune and hers. But the punishment came at last. One daythe doctor took me into a room alone, and told me as gently as hecould what everyone but myself knew already--my mother was dying. Icannot tell you, child, how the blow fell upon me--how, at first, Iutterly disbelieved its truth! It seemed _impossible_ that the onlyhope of my life, the object of all my schemes and fancies, was to betaken away. But I was awakened at last, and resolved that, GOD helping me, while she did live, I would be a better son. I can now look back with thankfulness on the few days we weretogether. I never left her. She took her food and medicine from myhand; and I received my First Communion with her on the day she died. The day before, kneeling by her bed, I had confessed all the sin andvanity of my heart and those miserable dreams; had destroyed with myown hand all my papers, and had resolved that I would apply to mystudies, and endeavour to obtain a scholarship and the necessarypreparation for Holy Orders. It was a just ambition, little woman, undertaken humbly, in the fear of GOD, and in the path ofduty; and I accomplished it years after, when I had nothing left of mymother but her memory. "

The curate was silent, and I felt, rather than saw, that the tearswhich were wetting my frock had not come from my own eyes, though Iwas crying bitterly. I flung my arms round his neck, and hugged himtight. 

"Oh, I am so sorry!" I sobbed; "so very, very sorry!"

We became quieter after a bit; and he lifted up his head and smiled, and called himself a fool for making me sad, and told me not to tellany one what he had told me, and what babies we had been, except mymother. 

"Tell her _everything_ always, " he said. 

I soon cheered up, particularly as he took me over the wall, and intohis workshop, and made a coffin for the poor little blackbirds, whichwe lined with cotton-wool and scented with musk, as a mark of respect. Then he dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried them, and made afine high mound of earth, and put the "hen and chicken" plants allround. And that night, sitting on my mother's knee, I told her"everything, " and shed a few more tears of sorrow and repentance inher arms. 

 * * * * *

Many years have passed since then, and many showers of rain havehelped to lay the mound flat with the earth, so that the "hen andchickens" have run all over it, and made a fine plot. The curate andhis mother have met at last; and I have transplanted many flowers thathe gave me to his grave. I sometimes wonder if, in his perfecthappiness, he knows, or cares to know, how often the remembrance ofhis story has stopped the current of conceited day-dreams, and broughtme back to practical duty with the humble prayer, "Keep Thy servantalso from presumptuous sins. "

FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD. 

A TALE OF THE FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS. 

 "Nè pinger nè scolpir fia più che queti, L'anima volta a quell' Amor divino Ch'asserse a prender noi in Croce le braccia. "

 "Painting and Sculpture's aid in vain I crave, My one sole refuge is that Love divine Which from the Cross stretched forth its arms to save. "

 _Written by_ MICHAEL ANGELO _at the age of 83. _

"So be it, " said one of the council, as he rose and addressed theothers. "It is now finally decided. The Story Woman is to be walledup. "

The council was not an ecclesiastical one, and the woman condemned tothe barbarous and bygone punishment of being "walled up" was not anoffending nun. In fact the Story Woman (or _Märchen-Frau_ as she iscalled in Germany) may be taken to represent the imaginary personagewho is known in England by the name of Mother Bunch, or Mother Goose;and it was in this instance the name given by a certain family ofchildren to an old book of ballads and poems, which they wereaccustomed to read in turn with special solemnities, on one particularnight in the year; the reader for the time being having a peculiarcostume, and the title of "Märchen-Frau, " or Mother Bunch, a namewhich had in time been familiarly adopted for the ballad-book itself. 

This book was not bound in a fashionable colour, nor illustrated by afashionable artist; the Chiswick Press had not set up a type for it, and Hayday's morocco was a thing unknown. It had not, in short, one ofthose attractions with which in these days books are surrounded, whoseinsides do not always fulfil the promise of the binding. If, however, it was on these points inferior to modern volumes, it had on othersthe advantage. It did not share a precarious favour with a dozenrivals in mauve, to be supplanted ere the year was out by twelve newones in magenta. It was never thrown aside with the contemptuousremark, --"I've read that!" On the contrary, it always had been to itspossessors, what (from the best Book downwards) a good book alwaysshould be, a friend, and not an acquaintance--not to be too readilycriticized, but to be loved and trusted. The pages were yellow andworn, not with profane ill-usage, but with honourable wear and tear;and the mottled binding presented much such an appearance as might beexpected from a book that had been pressed under the pillow of onereader, and in the pocket of another; that had been wept over andlaughed over, and warmed by winter fires, and damped in the summergrass, and had in general seen as much of life as the venerable bookin question. It was not the property of one member of the family, butthe joint possession of all. It was not _mine_, but _ours_, as theinscription, "For the Children, " written on the blank leaf testified;which inscription was hereafter to be a pathetic memorial to aged eyesof days when "the children" were not yet separated, and took theirpleasures, like their meals, together. 

And after all this, with the full consent of a council of the owners, the _Märchen-Frau_ was to be "walled up. "

But before I attempt to explain, or in any way excuse this seeminglyungracious act, it may be well to give some account of the doersthereof. Well, then:--

Providence had blessed a certain respectable tradesman, in a certaintown in Germany, with a large and promising family of children. He hadmarried very early the beloved of his boyhood, and had been left awidower with one motherless baby almost before he was a man. Aneighbour, with womanly compassion, took pity upon this desolatefather, and more desolate child; and it was not until she had nursedthe babe in her own house through a dangerous sickness, and had forlong been chief adviser to the parent, that he awoke to the fact thatshe had become necessary to him, and they were married. 

Of this union came a family of eight, the two eldest of whom were laidin turn in the quiet grave. The others survived, and, with the firstwife's daughter, made a goodly family party, which sometimes sorelytaxed the resources of the tradesman to provide for, though hisbusiness was good and his wife careful. They scrambled up, however, aschildren are wont to do in such circumstances; and at the time ourstory opens the youngest had turned his back upon babyhood, and Marie, the eldest, had reached that pinnacle of childish ambition--she was"grown up. "

A very good Marie she was, and always had been; from the days when sheran to school with a little knapsack on her back, and her fair hairhanging down in two long plaits, to the present time, when shetenderly fastened that same knapsack on to the shoulders of a youngersister; and when the plaits had for long been reclaimed from theirvagrant freedom, and coiled close to her head. 

"Our Marie is not clever, " said one of the children, who flatteredhimself that _he was_ a bit of a genius; "our Marie is not clever, butalso she is never wrong. "

It is with this same genius that our story has chiefly to do. 

Friedrich was a child of unusual talent; a fact which, happily forhimself, was not discovered till he was more than twelve years old. Helearnt to read very quickly; and when he was once able, read everybook on which he could lay his hands, and in his father's house thenumber was not great. When Marie was a child, the school was kept by acertain old man, very gentle and learned in his quiet way. He had beenfond of his fair-haired pupil, and when she was no longer a scholar, had passed many an odd hour in imparting to her a slight knowledge ofLatin, and of the great Linnæus' system of botany. He was now dead, and his place filled by a less sympathizing pedagogue; and Friedrichlistened with envious ears to his more fortunate sister's stories ofher friend and master. 

"So he taught you Latin--that great language! And botany--which is ascience!" the child would exclaim with envious admiration, when he hadheard for the thousandth time every particular of the oldschoolmaster's kindness. 

And Marie would answer calmly, as she "refooted" one of the father'sstockings, "We did a good deal of the grammar, which I fear I haveforgotten, and I learnt by heart a few of the Psalms in Latin, which Iremember well. Also we commenced the system of Mr. Linnæus, but I wasvery stupid, and ever preferred those plates which pictured the floweritself to those which gave the torn pieces, and which he thought mostvaluable. But, above all, he taught me to be good; and though I haveforgotten many of his lessons, there are words and advice of his whichI heeded little then, but which come back and teach me now. Fatheronce heard the Burgomaster say he was a genius, but I know that he wasgood, and that is best of all;" with which, having turned the heel ofher stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and laythe table for dinner. 

And Friedrich--poor Friedrich!--groaning inwardly at his sister'sindifference to her great opportunities for learning, would speculateto himself on the probable fate of each volume in the oldschoolmaster's library, which had been sold when he, Friedrich, wasbut three years old. Thus, in these circumstances, the boy expressedhis feelings with moderation when he said, "Our Marie is not clever, but also she is never wrong. "

If the schoolmaster was dead, however, Friedrich was not, nevertheless, friendless. There was a certain bookseller in his nativetown, for whom in his spare time he ran messages, and who in returnwas glad to let him spend his playhours and half-holidays among thebooks in his shop. There, perched at the top of the shelves on aladder, or crouched upon his toes at the bottom, he devoured somevolumes and dipped into others; but what he liked best was poetry, andthis not uncommon taste with many young readers was with this one amania. Wherever the sight of verses met his eye, there he fastened andread greedily. 

One day, a short time before my story opens, he found, in hiswanderings from shelf to shelf, some nicely-bound volumes, one ofwhich he opened, and straightway verses of the most attractive-lookingmetre met his eye, not, however, in German, but in a fair round Romantext, and, alas! in a language which he did not understand. There werecustomers in the shop, so he stood still in the corner with his nosealmost resting on the bookshelf, staring fiercely at the page, as ifhe would force the meaning out of those fair clear-looking verses. When the last beard had vanished through the doorway, Friedrich cameup to the counter, book in hand. 

"Well, now?" said the comfortable bookseller, with a round Germansmile. 

"This book, " said the boy; "in what language is it?"

The man stuck his spectacles on his nose, and smiled again. 

"It is Italian, and these are the sonnets of Petrarch, my child. Theedition is a fine one, so be careful. " Friedrich went back to hisplace, sighing heavily. After a while he came out again. 

"Well now, what is it?" said the bookseller, cheerfully. 

"Have you an Italian grammar?"

"Only this, " said the other, as he picked a book from the shelf andlaid it on the counter with a twinkle in his eye. The boy opened itand looked up disappointed. 

"It is all Italian, " said he. 

"No, no, " was the answer; "it is in French and Italian, and wasprinted at Paris. But what wouldst thou with a grammar, my child?"

The boy blushed as if he had been caught stealing, and said hastily--

"I _must_ read those poems, and I cannot if I do not learn thelanguage. "

"And thou wouldst read Petrarch with a grammar, " shouted thebookseller; "ho! ho! ho!"

"And a dictionary, " said Friedrich; "why not?"

"Why not?" repeated the other, with renewed laughter. "Why not?Because to learn a language, my Friedrich, one must have a master, andexercises, and a phrase-book, and progressive reading-lessons withvocabulary; and, in short, one must learn a language in the wayeverybody else learns it; that is why not, my Friedrich. "

"Everybody is nobody, " said Friedrich, hotly; "at least nobody worthcaring for. If I had a grammar and a dictionary, I would read thosebeautiful poems. "

"Hear him!" said the cheerful little bookseller. "He will readPetrarch. He! If my volumes stop in the shelves till thou canst readthem, my child--ho! ho! ho!" and he rubbed his brushy little beardwith glee. 

Friedrich's temper was not by nature of the calmest, and thisconversation rubbed its tenderest points. He answered almostfiercely--

"Take care of your volumes. If I live, and they _do_ stop in theshelves, I will buy them of you some day. Remember!" and he turnedsharply round to hide the tears which had begun to fall. 

For a moment the good shopkeeper's little mouth became as round as hisround little eyes and his round little face; then he laid his hands onthe counter, and jumping neatly over flung his dead weight on toFriedrich, and embraced him heartily. 

"My poor child! (a kiss)--would that it had pleased Heaven to makethee the son of a nobleman--(another kiss). But hear me. A man inBerlin is now compiling an Italian grammar. It is to be out in a monthor two. I shall have a copy, and thou shalt see it; and if ever thoucanst read Petrarch I will give thee my volumes--(a volley of kisses). And now, as thou hast stayed so long, come into the little room anddine with me. " With which invitation the kind-hearted German releasedhis young friend and led him into the back room, where they buried thememory of Petrarch in a mess of vegetables and melted butter. 

It may be added here, that the Petrarchs remained on the shelf, andthat years afterwards the round-faced little bookseller redeemed hispromise with pride. 

Of these visits the father was to all intents and purposes ignorant. He knew that Friedrich went to see the bookseller, and that thebookseller was good-natured to him; but he never dreamt that his sonread the books with which his neighbour's shop was lined, and he knewnothing of the wild visions which that same shop bred and nourished inthe mind of his boy, and which made the life outside its doorstepseem a dream. The father and son saw that life from different pointsof view. The boy felt that he was more talented than other boys, anddesigned himself for a poet; the tradesman saw that the boy was moretalented than other boys, and designed him for the business; and theopposite nature of these determinations was the one great misery ofFriedrich's life. 

If, however, this source of the child's sorrows was a secret one, andnot spoken of to his brothers and sisters, or even to his friend thebookseller, equally secret also were the sources of his happiness. Noeye but his own ever beheld those scraps of paper which he begged fromthe bookseller, and covered with childish efforts at verse-making. Noone shared the happiness of those hours, of which perhaps a quarterwas spent in working at the poem, and three-fourths were given to theday-dreams of the poet; or knew that the wild fancies of his brainmade Friedrich's nights more happy than his days. By day he was achild (his family, with some reason, said a tiresome one), by night hewas a man, and a great man. He visited the courts of Europe, andreceived compliments from Royalty; _his_ plays were acted in thetheatres; _his_ poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers; he madehis family rich (the boy was too young to wish for money forhimself); he made everybody happy, and himself famous. 

Fame! that was the word that rang in his ears and danced before hiseyes as the hours of the night wore on, and he lived through aglorious lifetime. And so, when the mother, candle in hand, came roundlike a guardian angel among the sleeping children, to see that "allwas right, " he--poor child!--must feign to be sleeping on his face, tohide the traces of the tears which he had wept as he composed theepitaph which was to grace the monument of the famous Friedrich ----, poet, philosopher, etc. Whoever doubts the possibility of suchexaggerated folly, has never known an imaginative childhood, or weptover those unreal griefs, which are not the less bitter at the timefrom being remembered afterwards with a mixture of shame andamusement. Happy or unhappy, however, in his dreams the boy was great, and this was enough; for Friedrich was vain, as everyone is tempted tobe who feels himself in any way singular and unlike those about him. He revelled in the honours which he showered upon himself, and so--thenight was happy; and so--the day was unwelcome when he was smartly bidto get up and put on his stockings, and found Fame gone and himself achild again, without honour, in his own country, and in his father'shouse. 

These sad dreams (sad in their uselessness) were destined, however, todo him some good at last; and, oddly enough, the childish council thatcondemned the ballad-book decided his fate also. This was how ithappened. 

The children were accustomed, as we have said, to celebrate the Feastof St. Nicholas by readings from their beloved book. St. Nicholas'sDay (the 6th of December) has for years been a favourite festival withthe children in many parts of the Continent. In France, the childrenare diligently taught that St. Nicholas comes in the night down thechimney, and fills the little shoes (which are ranged there for thepurpose) with sweetmeats or rods, according to his opinion of theirowner's conduct during the past year. The Saint is supposed to travelthrough the air, and to be followed by an ass laden with two panniers, one of which contains the good things, and the other the birch, and heleaves his ass at the top of the chimney and comes down alone. Thesame belief is entertained in Holland; and in some parts of Germany heis even believed to carry off bad boys and girls in his sack, answering in this respect to our English Bogy. 

The day, as may be supposed, is looked forward to with no small amountof anxiety; very clean and tidy are the little shoes placed by theyoung expectants; and their parents--who have threatened and promisedin St. Nicholas's name for a year past--take care that, with one sortof present or the other, the shoes are well filled. The greatquestion--rods or sweetmeats--is, however, finally settled for eachindividual before breakfast-time on the great day; and before dinner, despite maternal warnings, most of the said sweetmeats have beenconsumed. And so it came to pass that Friedrich and his brothers andsisters had hit upon a plan for ending the day, with the same spiritand enjoyment with which it opened. 

The mother, by a little kind manoeuvring, generally induced thefather to sup and take his evening pipe with a neighbour, for thetradesman was one of those whose presence is rather a "wet blanket"upon all innocent folly and fun. Then she good-naturedly took herselfoff to household matters, and the children were left in undisturbedpossession of the stove, round which they gathered with the book, andthe game commenced. Each in turn read whichever poem he preferred; andthe reader for the time being, was wrapt in a huge hood and cloak, kept for the purpose, and was called the "Märchen-Frau, " or StoryWoman. Sometimes the song had a chorus, which all the children sang towhichever suited best of the thousand airs that are always floatingin German brains. Sometimes, if the ballad was a favourite one, theothers would take part in any verses that contained a dialogue. Thiswas generally the case with some verses in the pet ballad ofBluebeard, at that exciting point where Sister Anne is looking fromthe castle window. First the Märchen-Frau read in a sonorous voice--

 "Schwester Aennchen, siehst du nichts?" (Sister Anne, do you see nothing?)

Then the others replied for Anne--

 "Stäubchen fliegen, Gräschen wehen. " (A little dust flies, a little grass waves. )

Again the Märchen-Frau--

 "Aennchen, lässt sich sonst nichts sehen?" (Little Anne, is there nothing else to be seen?)

And the unsatisfactory reply--

 "Schwesterchen, sonst seh' ich nichts!" (Little sister, I see nothing else!)

After this the Märchen-Frau finished the ballad alone, and theconclusion was received with shouts of applause and laughter, thatwould have considerably astonished the good father, could he haveheard them, and that did sometimes oblige the mother to call orderfrom the loft above, just for propriety's sake; for, in truth, thegood woman loved to hear them, and often hummed in with a chorus toherself as she turned over the clothes among which she was busy. 

At last, however, after having been for years the crowning enjoymentof St. Nicholas's Day, the credit of the Märchen-Frau was doomed tofade. The last reading had been rather a failure, not because the oldballad-book was supplanted by a new one, or because the children hadoutgrown its histories; perhaps--though they did not acknowledgeit--Friedrich was in some degree to blame. 

His increasing knowledge, the long readings in the bookseller's shop, which his brothers and sisters neither shared nor knew of, had givenhim a feeling of contempt for the one book on which they feasted fromyear to year; and his part, as Märchen-Frau, had been on this occasionmore remarkable for yawns than for anything else. The effect of thisfailure was not confined to that day. Whenever the book was broughtout, there was the same feeling that the magic of it was gone, andvery greatly were the poor children disquieted by the fact. 

At last, one summer's day, in the year of which we are writing, one ofthe boys was struck, as he fancied, by a brilliant idea; and asbrilliant ideas on any subject are precious, he lost no time insummoning a council of his brothers and sisters in the garden. It wasa half-holiday, and they soon came trooping round the great lindentree--where the bees were already in full possession--and the youngestgirl, who was but six years old, bore the book hugged fast in her twoarms. 

The boy opened the case--as lawyers say--by describing the loss ofinterest in their book since the last Feast of St. Nicholas. "This didnot, " he said, "arise from any want of love to the stories themselves, but from the fact of their knowing them so well. Whatever ballad theMärchen-Frau chose, every line of it was so familiar to each one ofthem that it seemed folly to repeat it. In these circumstances it wasevident that the greatest compliment they could pay the stories was toforget them, and he had a plan for attaining this desirable end. Letthem deny themselves now for their future pleasure; let them put awaythe Märchen-Frau till next St. Nicholas's Day, and, in the meantime, let each of them do his best to forget as much of it as he possiblycould. " The speaker ceased, and in the silence the bees above dronedas if in answer, and then the children below shouted applause untilthe garden rang. 

But now came the question, where was the Märchen-Frau to be put? andfor this the suggestive brother had also an idea. He had foundcertain bricks in the thick old garden wall which were loose, and whentaken out there was a hole which was quite the thing for theirpurpose. Let them wrap the book carefully up, put it in the hole, andreplace the bricks. This was his proposal, and he sat down. The beesdroned above, the children shouted below, and the proposal was carriedamid general satisfaction. "So be it, " said the suggestor, inconclusion. "It is now finally decided. The Märchen-Frau is to bewalled up. "

And walled up she was forthwith, but not without a parting embracefrom each of her judges, and possibly some slight latent faith in thesuggestion of one of the party that perhaps St. Nicholas would put anew inside and new stories into her before next December. 

"I don't think I should like a new inside, though, " doubted the childbefore mentioned, with a shake of her tiny plaits, "or new storieseither. "

As this quaint little Fräulein went into the house she met Friedrich, who came from the bookseller's. 

"Friedrich, " said she, in a solemn voice, "we have walled up the'Märchen-Frau. '"

"Have you, _Schwesterchen_?"

This was Friedrich's answer; but it may safely be stated that, if anyone had asked him what it was his sister had told him, he would havebeen utterly unable to reply. 

He had been to the bookseller's!

The summer passed, and the children kept faithfully to their resolve. The little sister sometimes sat by the wall and comforted theMärchen-Frau inside, with promises of coming out soon; but not a brickwas touched. There was something pathetic in the children's voluntaryrenouncement of their one toy. The father was too absent and themother too busy, to notice its loss; Marie missed it and madeinquiries of the children, but she was implored to be silent, anddiscreetly held her tongue. Winter drew on, and for some time a changewas visible in the manners of one of the children; he seemed restlessand uncomfortable, as if something preyed upon his mind. At last hewas induced to unburden himself to the others, when it was discoveredthat he couldn't forget the poems in "Märchen-Frau. " This was thegrievance. 

"It seems as if I did it on purpose, " groaned he in self-indignation. "The nearer the time comes, and the more I try to forget, the clearerI remember them everyone. You know my pet is Bluebeard; well, Ithought I would forget that altogether, every word: and then when myturn came to be Märchen-Frau I would take it for my piece. And now, ofall the rest, this is just the one that runs in my head. It is quiteas if I did it on purpose. "

Involuntarily the company--who appeared to have forgotten it as littleas he--struck up in a merry tune--

 "Blaubart war ein reicher Mann, " etc. [A]

"Oh, don't!" groaned the victim. "That's just how it goes in my headall along, especially the verse--

 "Stark war seines Körpers Ban, Feurig waren seine Blicke, Aber ach!--ein Missgeschicke!-- Aber ach! sein Bart war blau. "[B]

"On Sunday, when the preacher gave out the text, I was looking at him, and it came so strongly into my head that I nearly said it outloud--'But ah! his beard was blue!' To-day the schoolmaster asked me aquestion about Solomon. I could remember nothing but 'Ah! his beardwas blue!' I have tried this week with all my might; and the harder Itry, the better I remember every word. It is dreadful. "

[Footnote A: "Bluebeard was a rich man. "]

[Footnote B:

 "Strong was the build of his body, Fiery were his glances, But ah!--disaster!-- But ah! his beard was blue. "]

It was dreadful; but he was somewhat comforted to learn that thememories of his brothers and sisters were as perverse as his own. Those ballads were not to be easily forgotten. They refused to give uptheir hold on the minds they had nourished and amused so long. 

One and all the children were really distressed, with the exception ofFriedrich, who had, as usual, given about half his attention to thesubject in hand; and who now sat absently humming to himself theaccount of Bluebeard's position and character, as set forth inGotter's ballad. 

The others came to the conclusion that there was but one hopeleft--that St. Nicholas might have put some new ballads into the oldbook--and one and all they made for the hiding-place, followed at afeebler pace by the little Fräulein, who ran with her lips tightlyshut, her hands clenched, and her eyes wide open with a mixture offear and expectation. The bricks were removed, the book unwrapped, butalas! everything was the same, even to the rough woodcut of Bluebeardhimself, in the act of sharpening his scimitar. There was no change, except that the volume was rather the worse for damp. It was throwndown with a murmur of disappointment, but seized immediately by thelittle Fräulein, who flung herself upon it in a passion of tears andembraces. Hers was the only faithful affection; the charm of theMärchen-Frau was gone. 

They were all out of humour with this, and naturally looked about forsome one to find fault with. Friedrich was at hand, and so they fellupon him and reproached him for his want of sympathy with theirvexation. The boy awoke from a brown study, and began to defendhimself:--"He was very sorry, " he said; "but he couldn't see the useof making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after allwere nothing so very wonderful. "

This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where anywere to be got like them--where even _one_ might be found, when St. Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful tothe idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated intoEnglish, would look very like the word _humbug_. This was no answer tothe question "where were they to get a ballad?" and a fresh storm cameupon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanityand vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that "he thought he couldwrite one almost as good himself. "

This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctivebelief in Friedrich's talents, to which their elders had not attained. The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he shouldnot be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coaxhim as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before. 

"Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! _Do_ write one for us. Weknow thou canst!"

"I cannot, " said Friedrich. "It is all nonsense. I was only joking. "

"It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz--just to pleaseus!"

"Do!" said another. "It was only yesterday the mother was saying, 'Friedrich can do nothing useful!' But when thou hast written a poemthou wilt have done more than any one in the house--ay, or in thetown. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and belike Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of sooften. "

Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but thename of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heardnothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him. 

_Friedrich can do nothing useful. _ "I will see what I can do, " hesaid, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road, away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talkaloud without being heard. 

"Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad. "

He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced. 

In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up oneand all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. Hehad a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight, and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with amoonlight meeting, an escape on horseback, pursuit, capture, despair, suicide, and a ghostly apparition that floated over the river, andwrung her hands under the castle window. It seems impossible for anauthor to do more for his heroine than take her out of the world, andbring her back again; but our poet was not content. He had not comehimself to the sentiment of life, and felt a rough boyish disgust atthe maundering griefs of his hero and heroine, who, moreover, wereunpleasantly like every other hero and heroine that he had ever readof under similar circumstances; and if there was one thing more thananother that Friedrich was determined to be, it was to be original. 

He had no half hopes. With the dauntlessness of young ambition, hedetermined to do his very best, and that that best should be betterthan anything that ever had been done by any one. 

Having failed with the sentimental, he tried to write something funny. Surely such child's tales as Bluebeard, Cinderella, etc. , were easyenough to write. He would make a _Kindeslied_--a child's song. But hewas mistaken; to write a new nursery ballad was the hardest task ofall. Time after time he struggled; and, at last, one day when he hadwritten and destroyed a longer effort than usual, he went to bed inhopeless despair. 

His disappointment mingled with his dreams. He dreamt that he was inthe bookseller's shop hunting among the shelves for some scraps ofpaper on which he had written. He could not find them, he thought, butcame across the Petrarch volumes in their beautiful binding. He openedone and saw--not a word of that fair-looking Italian, but--his ownballad that he could not write, written and printed in good Germancharacter with his name on the title-page. He took it in his hands andwent out of the shop, and as he did so it seemed to him, in his dream, that he had become a man. He dreamt that as he came down the steps, the people in the street gathered round him and cheered and shouted. The women held up their children to look at him; he was a Great Man!He thought that he turned back into the shop and went up to thecounter. There sat the smiling little bookseller as natural as life, who smiled and bowed to him, as Friedrich had a hundred times seenhim bow and smile to the bearded men who came in to purchase. 

"How many have you sold of this?" said Friedrich, in his dream. 

"Forty thousand!" with another smile and bow. 

Forty thousand! It seemed to him that all the world must have read it. This was Fame. 

He went out of the shop, through the shouting market-place, and home, where his father led him in and offered pipes and a mug of ale, as ifhe were the Burgomaster. He sat down, and when his mother came in, rose to embrace her, and, doing so, knocked down the mug. Crash! itwent on the floor with a loud noise, which woke him up; and then hefound himself in bed, and that he had thrown over the mug of waterwhich he had put by his bedside to drink during the thirsty feverishhours that he lay awake. 

He was not a great man, but a child. 

He had not written a ballad, but broken a mug. 

"Friedrich can do nothing useful. "

He buried his face, and wept bitterly. 

In time, his tears were dried, and as it was very early he lay awakeand beat his brains. He had added nothing to his former character butthe breaking of a piece of crockery. Something must be done. No morefunny ballads now. He would write something terrible--miserable;something that should make other people weep as he had wept. He was ina very tragic humour indeed. He would have a hero who should go intothe world to seek his fortune, and come back to find his lady-love ina nunnery; but that was an old story. Well, he would turn it the otherway, and put the hero into a monastery; but that wasn't new. Then hewould shut both of them up, and not let them meet again till one was amonk and the other a nun, which would be grievous enough in allreason; but this was the oldest of all. Friedrich gave up love storieson the spot. It was clearly not his _forte_. 

Then he thought he would have a large family of brothers and sisters, and kill them all by a plague. But, besides the want of furtherincident, this idea did not seem to him sufficiently sad. Either fromits unreality, or from their better faith, the idea of death does notpossess the same gloom for the young that it does for those olderminds that have a juster sense of the value of human life, and are, perhaps, more heavily bound in the chains of human interests. 

No; the plague story might be pathetic, but it was not miserable--notmiserable enough at any rate for Friedrich. 

In truth, he felt at last that every misfortune that he could inventwas lost in the depths of the real sorrow which oppressed his ownlife, and out of this knowledge came an idea for his ballad. What afool never to have thought of it before!

He would write the history--the miserable bitter history--of a greatman born to a small way of life, whose merits should raise him fromhis low estate to a deserved and glorious fame; who should toil, andstrive, and struggle, and when his hopes and prayers seemed to be atlast fulfilled, and the reward of his labours at hand, should awakeand find that it was a dream; that he was no nearer to Fame than ever, and that he might never reach it. Here was enough sorrow for atragedy. The ballad should be written now. 

The next day. Friedrich plunged into the bookseller's shop. 

"Well, now, what is it?" smiled the comfortable little bookseller. 

"I want some paper, please, " gasped Friedrich; "a good big bit if Imay have it, and, if you please, I must go now. I will come and cleanout the shop for you at the end of the week, but I am very busyto-day. "

"The condition of the shop, " said the little bookseller, grandiloquently, with a wave of his hand, "yields to more importantmatters; namely, to thy condition, my child, which is not of the best. Thou art as white as this sheet of paper, to which thou art heartilywelcome. I am silent, but not ignorant. Thou wouldst be a writer, butart not yet a philosopher, my Friedrich. Thou art not fast-set on thyphilosophic equilibrium. Thou hast knocked down three books and astool since thou hast come in the shop. Be calm, my child: considerthat even if truly also the fast-bound-eternally-immutable-conditionof everlastingly-varying-circumstance--"

But by this time Friedrich was at home. 

How he got through the next three days he never knew. He stumbled inand out of the house with the awkwardness of an idiot, and was sostupid in school that nothing but his previous good character savedhim from a flogging. The day before the Feast of St. Nicholas (whichwas a holiday) the schoolmaster dismissed him with the severe inquiry, if he meant to be a dunce all his life? and Friedrich went home withtwo sentences ringing in his head--

"Do I mean to be a dunce all my life?"

"Friedrich can do nothing useful. "

To-night the ballad must be finished. 

He contrived to sit up beyond his usual hour, and escaped notice bycrouching behind a large linen chest, and there wrote and wrote tillhis heart beat and his head felt as if it would split in pieces. Atlast, the careful mother discovered that Friedrich had not bid hergood-night, and he was brought out of his hiding-place and sent tobed. 

He took a light and went softly up the ladder into the loft, and, tohis great satisfaction, found the others asleep. He said his prayers, and got into bed, but he did not put out the light; he put a boxbehind it to prevent its being seen, and drew out his paper and wrote. The ballad was done, but he must make a fair copy for theMärchen-Frau; and very hard work it was, in his feverish excitedstate, to write out a thing that was finished. He worked resolutely, however, and at last completed it with trembling hands, and pushed itunder his pillow. 

Then he sat up in bed, and looked round him. 

Time passed, and still he sat shivering and clasping his knees, andthe reason he sat so was--because he dared not lie down. 

The work was done, and the overstrained mind, no longer occupied, filled with ghastly fears and fancies. He did not dare to put out thelight, and yet its faint glimmer only made the darkness more horrible. He did not dare to look behind him, though he knew that there wasnothing there. He trembled at the scratching sound in the wainscot, though he knew that it was only mice. A sudden light on the window, and a distant chorus, did not make his heart beat less wildly frombeing nothing more alarming than two or three noisy students goinghome with torches. Then his light took the matter into its own hands, and first flared up with a suddenness that almost made Friedrich jumpout of his skin, and then left him in total darkness. He could endureno longer, and, scrambling out of bed, crossed the floor to where thewarm light came up the steps of the ladder from the room beneath. There our hero crouched without daring to move, and comforted himselfwith the sounds of life below. But it was very wearying, and yet hedared not go back. A neighbour had "dropped in, " and he could seefigures passing to and fro across the kitchen. 

At last his sister passed, with the light shining on her goldenplaits, and he risked a low murmur of "Marie! Marie!"

She stopped an instant, and then passed on; but after a few minutes, she returned, and came up the ladder with her finger on her lips toenjoin silence. He needed no caution, being instinctively aware thatif one parental duty could be more obvious than another to thetradesman, it would be that of crushing such folly as Friedrich wasdisplaying by timely severity. The boy crept back to bed, and Mariecame after him. 

There are unheroic moments in the lives of the greatest of men, andthough when the head is strong and clear, and there is plenty of lightand good company, it is highly satisfactory and proper to smilecondescension upon female inanity, there are times when it is notunpleasant to be at the mercy of kind arms that pity without asking areason, and in whose presence one may be foolish without shame. And itis not ill, perhaps, for some of us, whose acutely strung minds go upwith every discovery, and down with every doubt, if we have somehumble comforter (whether woman or man) on whose face a faithfulspirit has set the seal of peace--a face which in its verysteadfastness is "as the face of an angel. "

Such a face looked down upon Friedrich, before which fancied horrorsfled; and he wound his arms round Marie's neck, and laid down hishead, and was comfortable, if not sublime. 

After a dozen or so of purposeless kisses, she spoke--

"What is it, my beloved?"

"I--I don't think I can get to sleep, " said the poet. 

Marie abstained from commenting on this remark, and Friedrich wassilent and comfortable. So comfortable that, though he despised heropinion on such matters he asked it in a low whisper--"Marie, dostthou not think it would be the very best thing in the world to be agreat man? To labour and labour for it, and be a great man at last?"

Marie's answer was as low, but quite decided--

"No. "

"Why not, Marie?"

"It is very nice to be great, and I should love to see thee a greatman, Friedrich, very well indeed, but the very best thing of all is tobe good. Great men are not always happy ones, though when they aregood also it is very glorious, and makes one think of the words of thepoor heathen in Lycaonia--'The gods have come down to us in thelikeness of men. ' But if ever thou art a great man, little brother, itwill be the good and not the great things of thy life that will bringthee peace. Nay, rather, neither thy goodness nor thy greatness, butthe mercy of GOD!"

And in this opinion Marie was obstinately fixed, and Friedrich arguedno more. 

"I think I shall do now, " said the hero at last; "I thank thee verymuch, Marie. "

She kissed him anew, and bade GOD bless him, and wished himgood-night, and went down the ladder till her golden plaits caughtagain the glow of the warm kitchen, and Friedrich lost sight of hertall figure and fair face, and was alone once more. 

He was better, but still he could not sleep. Wearied and vexed, he laystaring into the darkness till he heard steps upon the ladder, andbecame the involuntary witness of--the true St. Nicholas. 

It was the mother, with a basket in her hand, and Friedrich watchedher as she approached the place where all the shoes were laid out, hisamong them. 

The children were by no means immaculate or in any way greatlysuperior to other families, but the mother was tender-hearted, and hada poor memory for sins that were past, and Friedrich saw her fill oneshoe after another with cakes and sweetmeats. At last she came to his, and then she stopped. He lifted up his head, and an indefinable furysurged in his heart. He had been very tiresome since the ballad wasbegun; was she going to put rods into his shoes only? _His_! He couldhave borne anything but this. Meanwhile, she was fumbling in thebasket; and, at last, pulled out--not a rod, but--a paper of cakes ofanother kind, to which Friedrich was particularly attached, and withthese she lined the shoes thickly, and filled them up with sweetmeats, and passed on. 

"Oh, mother! mother! Far, far too kind!" The awkwardness andstupidity of yesterday, and of many yesterdays, smote him to theheart, and roused once more the only too ready tears. But he did notcry long, he had a happy feeling of community with his brothers andsisters in getting more than they any of them deserved; to have seenthe St. Nicholas's proceedings had diverted his mind from gloomyfancies, and altogether, with a comfortable sensation of cakes andkindness, he fell asleep smiling, and slept soundly and well. 

The next day he threw his arms round his mother, and said that thecakes were "so nice. "

"But I don't deserve them, " he added. 

"Thou'lt mend, " said she kindly. "And no doubt the Saint knew thatthou hadst eaten but half a dinner for a week past, and brought thosecakes to tempt thee; so eat them all, my child; for, doubtless, thereare plenty more where they come from. "

"I am very much obliged to whoever did think of it, " said Friedrich. 

"And plenty more there are, " said the good woman to Marie afterwards, as they were dishing the dinner. "Luise Jansen's shop is full of them. But, bless the boy! he's too clever for anything. There's no playingSt. Nicholas with him. "

The day went by at last, and the evening came on. The tradesman wentoff of himself to see if he could meet with the Burgomaster, and thechildren became rabid in their impatience for Friedrich's ballad. 

He would not read it himself, so Marie was pressed into the service, and crowned with the hood and cloak, and elected Märchen-Frau. 

The author himself sat in an arm-chair, with a face as white andmiserable as if he were ordered for execution. He formed a painfulcontrast to his ruddy brothers and sisters; and it would seem as if hehad begun already to experience the truth of Marie's assertion, that"great men are not always happy ones. "

The ballad was put into the Märchen-Frau's hands, and she was toldthat Friedrich had written it. She gave a quick glance at it, andasked if he had really invented it all. The children repeated thefact, which was a pleasant but not a surprising one to them, and Mariebegan. 

The young poet had evidently a good ear, for the verses were easy andmusical, and the metre more than tolerably correct; and as the hero ofthe ballad worked harder and harder, and got higher and higher, thechildren clapped their hands, and discovered that it was "quite likeFriedrich. "

Why, when that hero was almost at the height of fortune, and theothers gloried in his success, did the foolish author bury his faceupon his arms, and sob silently but bitterly in sympathy?--moreover, with such a heavy and absorbing grief that he did not hear it, whenMarie stopped for an instant and then went on again, or know thatsteps had come behind his chair, and that his father and theBurgomaster were in the room. 

The Märchen-Frau went on; the hero awoke from his unreal happiness tohis real fate, and bewailed in verse after verse the heavy weights ofbirth, and poverty, and circumstance, that kept him from the heightsof fame. The ballad was ended. 

Then a voice fell on Friedrich's ear, which nearly took away hisbreath. It was his father's asking sternly, "What is all this?"

And then he knew that Marie was standing up, with a strange emotion onher face, and he heard her say--

"It is a poem that Friedrich has written. He has written it allhimself. Every word. And he is but twelve years old!" She was pointingto him, or, perhaps, the Burgomaster might not have recognized in thathuddled miserable figure the genius of the family. 

His was the next voice, and what he said Friedrich could hardlyremember; the last sentences only he clearly understood. 

"GOD has not blessed me with children, neighbour. My wife, aswell as I, would be ashamed if such genius were lost for want of alittle money. Give the child to me. He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man. "

"I shall not, " said the tradesman, "stand in the way of his interestsor your commands. I cannot tell what to say to your kindness, Burgomaster. GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town. "

"GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country, " said theBurgomaster. 

The words rang in Friedrich's ears over and over again, like thechanges of bells. They danced before his eyes as if he saw them in abook. They were written in his heart as if "graven with an iron penand lead in the rock for ever. "

"GOD _willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town. _"

"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country. _"

"_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a_ GREATMAN. "

Friedrich tried to stand on his feet and thank the Burgomaster; who, on any other occasion, might have been tempted to suppose him anidiot, so white and distorted was the child's face, struggling throughtears and smiles. He could not utter a word; a mist began to comebefore his eyes, through which the Burgomaster's head seemed to bob upand down, and then his father's, and his mother's, and Marie's, with alook of pity on her face. He tried to tell _her_ that he was now agreat man and felt quite happy; but, unfortunately, was only able toburst into tears, and then to burst out laughing, and then a sharppain shot through his head, and he remembered no more. 

 * * * * *

Friedrich had a dim consciousness of coming round after this, andbeing put to bed; then he fell asleep, and slept heavily. When he wokeMarie was sitting by his side, and it was dark. The mother had gonedownstairs, she said, and she had taken her place. Friedrich laysilent for a bit; at last he said, "I am very happy, Marie. "

"I am very glad, dearest. "

"Dost thou think father will let the Burgomaster give me a goodeducation, Marie?"

"Yes, dear, I am sure he will. "

"It is very kind, " said Friedrich, thoughtfully; "for I know he wantsme for the business. But I will help him some day. And, Marie, I willbe a good man, and when I am very rich I will give great alms to thepoor. "

"Thou wilt be a good man before thou art a rich one, I trust, " saidhis dogmatic sister. "We are accepted in that we have, and not in thatwe have not. Thou hast great talent, and wilt give it to the Lord, whether He make thee rich or no. Wilt thou not, dearest?"

"What dost thou mean, Marie? Am I never to write anything but hymns?"

"No, no, I do not mean that, " she said. "I am very ignorant and cannotrightly explain it to thee, little brother. But genius is a great andperilous gift; and, oh, Friedrich! Friedrich! promise me justthis:--that thou wilt never, never write anything against the faith orthe teaching of the Saviour, and that thou wilt never use the gracesof poetry to cover the hideousness of any of those sins which it isthe work of a lifetime to see justly, and to fight against manfully. Promise me just this. "

"Oh, Marie! to think that I could be so wicked!"

"No! no!" she said, covering him with kisses. "I know thou wilt begood and great, and we shall all be proud of our little brother. GOD give thee the pen of a ready writer, and grace to use itto His glory!"

"I will, " he said, "GOD help me! and I will write beautifulhymns for thee, Marie, that when I am dead shall be sung in thechurches. They shall be like that Evening Hymn we sing so often. Singit now, my sister!"

Marie cleared her throat, and in a low voice, that steadied and grewlouder and sweeter till it filled the house and died away among therafters, sang the beautiful hymn that begins--

 "Herr, Dein Auge geht nicht unter, wenn es bei uns Abend wird;" (Lord! Thine eye does not go down, when it is evening with us. )

The boy lay drinking it in with that full enjoyment of simple vocalmusic which is so innate in the German character; and as he lay, hehummed his accustomed part in it, and the mother at work below caughtup the song involuntarily, and sang at her work; and Marie's clearvoice breaking through the wooden walls of the house, was heard by apasser in the street, who struck in with the bass of the familiarhymn, and went his way. Before it was ended, Friedrich was sleepingpeacefully once more. 

But Marie sat by the stove till the watchman in the quaint old streettold the hour of midnight, when (with the childish custom taught herby the old schoolmaster long ago) she folded her hands, and murmured, "Nisi Dominus urbem custodiat, frustra vigilat custos. " (Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. )

And then she slept also. 

The snow fell softly on the roof, and on the walls of the old churchoutside, and on the pavement of the street of the poet's native town, and the night passed and the day came. 

There is little more to tell, for that night was the last night of hissorrowful humble childhood, and that day was the first day of hisfame. 

 * * * * *

The Duke of ---- was an enlightened and generous man, and a munificentpatron of the Arts and Sciences, and of literary and scientific men. He was not exactly a genius, but he was highly accomplished. He wrotea little, and played a little, and drew a little; and with fortune tobefriend him, as a natural consequence he published a little, andcomposed a little, and framed his pictures. 

But what was better and more remarkable than this, was the generousspirit in which he loved and admired those who did great things in theparticular directions in which he did a little. He bought goodpictures while he painted bad ones; and those writers, musicians, andartists who could say but little for his performances, had everyreason to talk loudly of his liberality. He was the special admirer oftalent born in obscurity; and at the time of which we are writing(many years after the events related above), the favourite "lion" inthe literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was acertain poet--the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who hadbeen educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and whonow had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courtsof Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays wereacted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of thebooksellers, who was a great man--Friedrich!

It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of hisfavourite, walked up and down a terrace. The Duke was (as usual) inthe best possible humour. The poet (as was not uncommon) was just inthe slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one. They had beenreading a critique on his poems. It was praise, it is true, but thepraise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved. He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet whocould write such poems should have critics created with expresscapabilities for understanding him. But the good Duke was in his mostcheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffledlion into the same condition. 

"What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!" he said. "Tellme, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career, a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?"

"Oh, yes!" said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no!

"I don't believe it, " said the Duke. "Come, now, could you, if youwere asked, describe the happiest and proudest hour of your life?"

A new expression came into the poet's eyes, and lighted up his gauntintellectual face. Some old memories awoke within him, and it isdoubtful if he saw the landscape at which he was gazing. But the Dukewas not quick, though kind; he thought that Friedrich had not heardhim, and repeated the question. 

"Yes, " said the poet. "Yes, indeed I could. "

"Well, then, let me guess, " said the Duke, facetiously. (He fanciedthat he was bringing his crusty genius into capital condition. ) "Wasit when your great tragedy of 'Boadicea' was first performed inBerlin, and the theatre rose like one man to offer homage, and thegods sent thunder? I wish they had ever treated my humble efforts withas much favour. Was it then?"

"No!"

"Was it when his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of ---- was pleased topresent you with a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and to expresshis opinion that your historical plays were incomparably among thefinest productions of poetic genius?"

"His Imperial Majesty, " said Friedrich, "is a brave soldier; but, a--hem!--an indifferent critic. I do not take snuff, and his ImperialMajesty does not read poetry. The interview was gratifying, but thatwas not the occasion. No!"

"Was it when you were staying with Dr. Kranz at G----, and thestudents made that great supper for you, and escorted your carriageboth ways with a procession of torches?"

"Poor boys!" said the poet, laughing; "it was very kind, and theycould ill afford it. But they would have drunk quite as much wine forany one who would have taken the inside out of the University clock, or burnt the Principal's wig, as they did for me. It was a veryunsteady procession that brought me home, I assure you. The way theypoked the torches in each other's faces left one student, as I heard, with no less than eight duels on his hands. And, oh! the manner inwhich they howled my most pathetic love songs! No! no!"

The Duke laughed heartily. 

"Is it any of the various occasions on which the fair ladies ofGermany have testified their admiration by offerings of sympathy andhandiwork?"

"No!" roared the poet. 

"Are you quite sure?" said the Duke, slyly. "I have heard ofcomforters, and slippers, and bouquets, and locks of hair, besides adozen of warm stockings knit by the fair hands of ----"

"Spare me!" groaned Friedrich, in mock indignation. "Am I a petpreacher, that I should be smothered in female absurdities? I havehair that would stuff a sofa, comforters that would protect a regimentin Siberia, slippers, stockings ----. I shall sell them, I shall burnthem. I would send them back, but the ladies send nothing but theirChristian names, and to identify Luise, and Gretchen, and Catherine, and Bettina, is beyond my powers. No!"

When they had ceased laughing the Duke continued his catechism. 

"Was it when the great poet G---- (your only rival) paid that handsomecompliment to your verses on ----"

"No!" interrupted the poet. "A thousand times no! The great poetpraised the verses you allude to simply to cover his depreciation ofmy 'Captive Queen, ' which is among my best efforts, but too much inhis own style. How Germany can worship his bombastic ---- but that'snothing! No. "

"Was it when you passed accidentally through the streets of Dresden, and the crowd discovered you, and carried you to the hotel on itsshoulders?"

The momentary frown passed from Friedrich's face, and he laughedagain. 

"And when the men who carried me twisted my leg so that I couldn'twalk for a fortnight, to say nothing of the headache I endured frombowing to the populace like a Chinese mandarin? No!"

"Is it any triumph you have enjoyed in any other country in Europe?"

"No!"

"My dear genius, I can guess no more; what, in the name of Fortune, was this happy occasion--this life triumph?"

"It is a long story, your highness, and entertaining to no one butmyself. "

"You do me injustice, " said the Duke. "A long story from you is toogood to be lost. Sit down, and favour me. "

A patron's wishes are not to be neglected; and somewhat unwillinglythe poet at last sat down, and told the story of his Ballad and of St. Nicholas's Day, as it has been told here. The fountain of tears isdrier in middle age than in childhood, but he was not unmoved as heconcluded. 

"Every circumstance of that evening, " he said, "is as fresh in myremembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die. It is a joy, atriumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade. The words thatroused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance andfame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, andto bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age--

 "GOD _willing, he will be a credit to the town. _"

 "GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country. _"

 "_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man. _"

"It is as good as a poem, " said the delighted Duke. "I shall tell thecompany to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany. I haveheard your unpublished poem. By the bye, Poet, is that balladpublished?"

"No, and never will be. It shall never know less kindly criticism thanit received then. "

"And are you really in earnest? Was this indeed the happiest triumphyour talents have ever earned?"

"It was, " said Friedrich. "The first blast on the trumpet of Fame isthe sweetest. Afterwards, we find it out of tune. "

"Your parents are dead, I think?"

"They are, and so is my youngest sister. "

"And what of Marie?"

"She married--a man who, I think, is in no way worthy of her. Not abad, but a stupid man, with strong Bible convictions on the subject ofmarital authority. She is such an angel in his house as he can neverunderstand in this world. "

"Do you ever see her?"

"Sometimes, when I want a rest. I went to see her not long ago, andfound her just the same as ever. I sat at her feet, and laid my headin her lap, and tried to be a child again. I bade her tell me thehistory of Bluebeard, and strove to forget that I had ever lost thechildish simplicity which she has kept so well;--and I almostsucceeded. I had forgotten that the great poet was jealous of my'Captive Queen, ' and told myself it would be a grand thing to be likehim. I thought I should like to see a live Emperor. But just when thedelusion was perfect, there was a row in the street. The people hadfound me out, and I must show myself at the window. The spell wasbroken. I have not tried it again. "

They were on the steps of the palace. 

"Your story has entertained and touched me beyond measure, " said theDuke. "But something is wanting. It does not (as they say) 'endwell. ' I fear you are not happy. "

"I am content, " said Friedrich. "Yes, I am happy. I never could be achild again, even if it pleased GOD to restore to me thecircumstances of my childhood. It is best as it is, but I have learntthe truth of what Marie told me. It is the good, and not the greatthings of my life that bring me peace; or rather, neither one nor theother, but the undeserved mercies of my GOD!"

 * * * * *

For those who desire to know more of the poet's life than has beentold, this is added. He did not live to be very old. A painful disease(the result of mental toil), borne through many years, ended his lifealmost in its prime. He retained his faculties till the last, and boreprotracted suffering with a heroism and endurance which he had notalways displayed in smaller trials. The medical men pronounced, on theauthority of a _post-mortem_ examination, that he must for years havesuffered a silent martyrdom. Truly, his bodily sufferings (when knownat last) might well excuse many weaknesses and much moody, irritableimpatience; especially when it is remembered that the mentalsufferings of intellectual men are generally great in proportion totheir gifts, and (when clogged with nerves and body that are everurged beyond their strength) that they often mock the pride ofhumanity by leaving but little space between the genius and themadman. 

Another fact was not known till he had died--his charity. Then it wasdiscovered how much kindness he had exercised in secret, and thatthree poor widows had been fed daily from his table during all thebest years of his prosperity. Before his death he arranged all hisaffairs, even to the disposal of his worn-out body. 

"My country has been gracious to me, " he said, "and, if it cares, maydispose of my carcase as it will. But I desire that after my death myheart may be taken from my body and buried at the feet of my fatherand my mother in the churchyard of my native town. At their feet, " headded, with some of the old imperiousness--"strong in death. " "Attheir feet, remember!"

In one of the largest cities of Germany, a huge marble monument iserected to the memory of the Great Man. On three sides of the pedestalare bas-relief designs illustrating some of his works, whereby threefellow-countrymen added to their fame; and on the fourth is a fineinscription in Latin, setting forth his talents, and his virtues, andthe honours conferred on him, and stating in conclusion (on theauthority of his eulogizer) that his works have gained for himimmortality. 

In a quiet green churchyard, near a quiet little town, under theshadow of the quaint old church, a little cross marks the graves of atradesman and of his wife who lived and laboured in their generation, and are at rest. Near them, daisies grow above the dust of the"Fräulein, " which awaits the resurrection from the dead. And at thefeet of that simple couple lies the heart of their great son--a heartwhich the sickness of earthly hope and the fever of earthly ambitionshall disturb no more. 

By the Poet's own desire, "the rude memorial" that marks the spotcontains no more than his initials, and a few words in his nativetongue to mark the foundation of the only ambition that he could feelin death--

 "Ich verlasse mich auf Gottes Güte immer und ewiglich. "

 --_My trust is in the tender mercy of_ GOD _for ever and ever. _

A BIT OF GREEN. 

 "Thou oughtest, therefore, to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that so thou mayest the easier bear thy own very small troubles. "--THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. 

Children who live always with grass and flowers at their feet, and aclear sky overhead, can have no real idea of the charm that countrysights and sounds have for those whose home is in a dirty, busy, manufacturing town--just such a town, in fact, as I lived in when Iwas a boy, which is more than twenty years ago. 

My father was a doctor, with a very large, if not what is called a"genteel, " practice, and we lived in a comfortable house in a broadstreet. I was born and bred there; and, ever since I could remember, the last sound that soothed my ears at night, and the first to which Iawoke in the morning, was the eternal rumbling and rattling of thecarts and carriages as they passed over the rough stones. I nevernoticed if I heard them in the day-time, but at night my chiefamusement, as I lay in bed, was to guess by the sound of the wheelswhat sort of vehicle was passing. 

"That light sharp rattle is a cab, " I thought. "What a noise it makes, and gone in a moment! One gentleman inside, I should think. There's anomnibus; and there, jolty-jolt, goes a light cart; that's a carriage, by the way the horses step; and now, rumbling heavily in the distance, and coming slowly nearer, and heavier, and louder, this can be nothingbut a brewer's dray!" And the dray came so slowly that I was asleepbefore it had got safely out of hearing. 

Ours was a very noisy street, but the noise made the night cheerful;and so did the church clock near, which struck the quarters; and sodid the light of the street lamps, which came through the blind andfell upon my little bed. We had very little light, except gaslight anddaylight, in our street; the sunshine seldom found its way to us, and, when it did, people were so little used to it that they pulled downthe blinds for fear it should hurt the carpets. In the room my sisterand I called our nursery, however, we always welcomed it with blindsrolled up to the very top; and, as we had no carpet, no damage wasdone. 

But sunshine outside will not always make sunshine shine within, andI remember one day when, though our nursery was unusually cheerful, and though the windows were reflected in square patches of sunlight onthe floor, I stood in the very midst of the brightness, grumbling andkicking at my sister's chair with a face as black as a thunder-cloud. The reason of my ill-temper was this: Ever since I could remember, myfather had been accustomed, once a year, to take us all into thecountry for change of air. Once he had taken us to the sea, butgenerally we went to an old farmhouse in the middle of the beautifulmoors which lay not many miles from our dirty black town. But thisyear, on this very sunshiny morning, he had announced at breakfastthat he could not let us go to what we called our moor-home. He hadeven added insult to injury by expressing his thankfulness that wewere all in good health, so that the change was not a matter ofnecessity. I was too indignant to speak, and rushed upstairs into thenursery, where my little sister had also taken refuge. She was alwaysvery gentle and obedient (provokingly so, I thought), and now she satrocking her doll on her knee in silent sorrow, whilst I stood kickingher chair and grumbling in a tone which it was well the doll could nothear, or rocking would have been of little use. I took pleasure intrying to make her as angry as myself. I reminded her how lovely thepurple moors were looking at that moment, how sweet heather smelt, and how good bilberries tasted. I said I thought it was "very hard. "It wasn't as if we were always paying visits, as many children did, totheir country relations; we had only one treat in the year, and fatherwanted to take that away. Not a soul in the town, I said, would be asunfortunate as we were. The children next door would go somewhere, ofcourse. So would the little Smiths, and the Browns, and _everybody_. Everybody else went to the sea in the autumn; we were contented withthe moors, and he wouldn't even let us go there. And, at the end ofevery burst of complaint, I discharged a volley of kicks at the leg ofthe chair, and wound up with "I can't think why he can't!"

"I don't know, " said my sister, timidly, "but he said something aboutnot affording it, and spending money, and about trade being bad, andhe was afraid there would be great distress in the town. "

Oh, these illogical women! I was furious. "What on earth has that todo with us?" I shouted at her. "Father's a doctor; trade won't hurthim. But you are so silly, Minnie, I can't talk to you. I only knowit's very hard. Fancy staying a whole year boxed up in this beastlytown!" And I had so worked myself up that I fully believed in thetruth of the sentence with which I concluded--

"_There never_ WAS _anything so miserable!_"

Minnie said nothing, for my feelings just then were something likethose of the dogs who (Dr. Watts tells us)

 "delight To bark and bite;"

and perhaps she was afraid of being bitten. At any rate, she held hertongue; and just then my father came into the room. 

The door was open, and he must have heard my last speech as he camealong the passage; but he made no remark on it, and only said, "Wouldany young man here like to go with me to see a patient?"

I went willingly, for I was both tired and half-ashamed of teasingMinnie, and we were soon in the street. It was a broad and cheerfulone, as I said; but before long we left it for a narrower, and thenturned off from that into a side street, where the foot-path wouldonly allow us to walk in single file--a dirty, dark lane, where surelythe sun never did shine. 

"What a horrid place!" I said. "I never was here before. Why don'tthey pull such a street down?"

"What is to become of the people who live in it?" said my father. 

"Let them live in one of the bigger streets, " I said; "it would bemuch more comfortable. "

"Very likely, " he said; "but they would have to pay much more fortheir houses; and if they haven't the money to pay with, what's to bedone?"

I could not say, for, like older social reformers than myself, I feltmore sure that the reform was needed, than of how to accomplish it. But before I could decide upon what to do with the dirty littlestreet, we had come to a place so very much worse that it put theother quite out of my head. There is a mournful fatality about thepretty names which are given, as if in mockery, to the most wretchedof the bye-streets in large towns. The street we had left was calledRosemary Street, and this was Primrose Place. 

Primrose Place was more like a yard than a street; the houses were allirregular and of different ages. On one side was a gap with palingsround it, where building was going on, and beyond rose a huge blackfactory. But the condition of Primrose Place was beyond description. Ihad never seen anything like it before, and kept as close to my fatheras was consistent with boyish, dignity. The pathway was broken up, children squalled at the doors and quarrelled in the street, whichwas strewn with rags, and bones, and bits of old iron, and shoes, andthe tops of turnips. I do not think there was a whole unbroken windowin all the row of tall miserable houses, and the wet clothes hangingout on lines stretched across the street, flapped above our heads. Icounted three cripples as we went up Primrose Place. My father stoppedto speak to several people, and I heard many complaints of the badstate of trade to which my sister had alluded. He gave some money toone woman, and spoke kindly to all; but he hurried me on as fast as hecould, and we turned at last into one of the houses. 

My ill-humour had by this time almost worked itself off in the freshair, and the novel scenes through which we had come; and, for thepresent, the morning's disappointment was forgotten as I followed myfather through the crowded miserable rooms, and clambered up staircaseafter staircase, till we reached the top of the house, and stumbledthrough a latched door into the garret. After so much groping in thedark, the light dazzled me, and I thought at first that the room wasempty. But at last a faint "Good day" from the corner near the windowdrew my eyes that way; and there, stretched on a sort of bed, andsupported by a chair at his back, lay the patient we had come to see. 

He was a young man about twenty-six years old, in the last stage ofthat terrible disease so fatally common in our country--he was dyingof consumption. There was no mistaking the flushed cheek, thepainfully laborious breathing, and the incessant cough; while two oldcrutches in the corner spoke of another affliction--he was a cripple. His gaunt face lighted up with a glow of pleasure when my father camein, who seated himself at once on the end of the bed, and began totalk to him, whilst I looked round the room. There was absolutelynothing in it, except the bed on which the sick man lay, the chairthat supported him, and a small three-legged table. The low roof wasterribly out of repair, and the window was patched with newspaper; butthrough the glass panes that were left, in full glory streamed thesun, and in the midst of the blaze stood a pot of musk in full bloom. The soft yellow flowers looked so grand, and smelled so sweet, that Iwas lost in admiration, till I found the sick man's black eyes fixedon mine. 

"You are looking at my bit of green, master?" he said, in a gratifiedtone. 

"Do you like flowers?" I inquired, coming shyly up to the bed. 

"Do I like 'em?" he exclaimed in a low voice. "Ay, I love 'em wellenough--well enough, " and he looked fondly at the plant, "though it'slong since I saw any but these. "

"You have not been in the country for a long time?" I inquired, compassionately. I felt sad to think that he had perhaps lain therefor months, without a taste of fresh air or a run in the fields; but Iwas _not_ prepared for his answer. 

"_I never was in the country, young gentleman. _"

I looked at my father. 

"Yes, " he said, in answer to my glance, "it is quite true. William wasborn here. He got hurt when a boy, and has been lame ever since. Forsome years he has been entirely confined to the house. He was neverout of town, and never saw a green field. "

Never out of the town! confined to the house for years! and what ahouse! The tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt that angry heart-achewhich the sight of suffering produces in those who are too young to beinsensible to it, and too ignorant of GOD's Providence tosubmit with "quietness and confidence" to His will. 

"My son can hardly believe it, William. "

"It is such a shame, " I said; "it is horrible. I am very sorry foryou. "

The black eyes turned kindly upon me, and the sick man said, "Thankyou heartily, Sir. You mean very kindly. I used to say the same sortof things myself, when I was younger, and knew no better. I used tothink it was very hard, and that no one was so miserable as I was. ButI know now how much better off I am than most folks, and how manythings I have to be thankful for. "

I looked round the room, and began involuntarily to count thefurniture--one, two, three. The "many things" were certainly notchairs and tables. 

But he was gazing before him, and went on: "I often think how thankfulI ought to be to die in peace, and have a quiet room to myself. Therewas a girl in a consumption on the floor below me; and she used to sitand cough, while her father and mother quarrelled so that I could hearthem through the floor. I used to send her half of anything nice Ihad, but I found they took it. I did wish then, " he added, with asudden flush, "that I had been a strong man!"

"How shocking!" I said. 

"Yes, " he answered; "it was that first set me thinking how manymercies I had. And then there came such a good parson to St. John's, and he taught me many things; and then I knew your father; and theneighbours have been very kind. And while I could work I got goodwage, and laid by a bit; and I've sold a few things, and there'll bethese to sell when I'm gone; and so I've got what will keep me whileI do live, and pay for my coffin. What can a man want more?"

What, indeed! Unsatisfied heart, make answer!

A fit of coughing that shook the crazy room interrupted him here. Whenhe had recovered himself, he turned to my father. 

"Ay, ay, I have many mercies, as you know, Sir. Who would have thoughtI could have kept a bit of green like that plant of mine in a placelike this? But, you see, they pulled down those old houses oppositejust before I got it, and now the sun couldn't come into a king's roombetter than it comes into mine. I was always afraid, year after year, that they would build it up, and my bit of green would die; and theyare building now, but it will last my time. Indeed, indeed, I've hadmuch to be thankful for. Not, " he added, in a low, reverential tone, "not to mention greater blessings. The presence of the LORD!the presence of the LORD!"

I was awed, almost frightened, by the tone in which he spoke, and bythe look of his face, on which the shadow of death was falling fast. He lay in a sort of stupor, gazing with his black eyes at the brokenroof, as if through it he saw something invisible to us. 

It was some time before he seemed to recollect that we were there, andbefore I ventured to ask him. "Where did you get your plant?"

He smiled. "That's a long story, master; but it was this way. You see, my father died quite young in a decline, and left my mother tostruggle on with eight of us as she could. She buried six, one afteranother; and then she died herself, and brother Ben and I were leftalone. But we were mighty fond of one another, and got on very well. Igot plenty of employment, weaving mats and baskets for a shop in thetown, and Ben worked at the factory. One Saturday night he came homeall in a state, and said there was going to be a cheap trip on theMonday into the country. It was the first there had been from theseparts, though there have been many since, I believe. Neither he nor Ihad ever been out of the town, and he was full of it that we must go. He had brought his Saturday wage with him, and we would work hardafterwards. Well, you see, the landlord had been that day, and hadsaid he must have the rent by Tuesday, or he'd turn us out. I'd gotsome of it laid by, and was looking to Ben's wages to make it up. ButI couldn't bear to see his face pining for a bit of fresh air, and soI thought I could stay at home and work on Monday for what would makeup the rent, and he need never know. So I pretended that I didn'twant to go, and couldn't be bothered with the fuss; and at last I sethim off on Monday without me. It was late at night when he came backlike one wild. He'd got flowers in his hat, and flowers in all hisbutton-holes; he'd got his handkerchief filled with hay, and wascarrying something under his coat. He began laughing and crying, and'Eh, Bill!' he said, 'thou hast been a fool. Thou hast missed summat. But I've brought thee a bit of green, lad, I've brought thee a bit ofgreen. ' And then he lifted up his coat, and there was the plant, whichsome woman had given him. We didn't sleep much that night. He spreadthe hay over the bed, for me to lay my face on, and see how the fieldssmelt, and then he began and told me all about it; and after that, when I was tired with work, or on a Sunday afternoon, I used to say, 'Now, Ben, tell us a bit about the country. ' And he liked nothingbetter. He used to say that I should go, if he carried me on his back;but the LORD did not see fit. He took cold at work, and wentoff three months afterwards. It was singular, the morning he died hecalled me to him, and said, 'Bill, I've been a dreaming about thattrip that thou didst want to go after all. I dreamt--' and then hestopped, and said no more; but, after a bit, he opened his eyes wide, and pulled me to him, and he said, 'Bill, my lad, there's suchflowers in heaven, such flowers!' And so the LORD took him. But I kept the bit of green for his sake. "

Here followed another fit of coughing, which brought my father fromthe end of the bed to forbid his talking any more. 

"I have got to see another patient in the yard, " he said, "and I willleave my son here. He shall read you a chapter or two till I comeback; he is a good reader for his age. "

And so my father went. I was, as he said, a good reader for my age;but I felt very nervous when the sick man drew a Bible from his side, and put it in my hands. I wondered what I should read; but it was soonsettled by his asking for certain Psalms, which I read as clearly anddistinctly as I could. At first I was rather disturbed by hisoccasional remarks, and a few murmured Amens; but I soon got used toit. He joined devoutly in the "Glory be to the Father"--with which Iconcluded--and then asked for a chapter from the Revelation of St. John. I was more at ease now, and read my best, with a happy sense ofbeing useful; whilst he lay in the sunshine, folding the sheet withhis bony fingers, with his eyes fixed on the beloved "bit of green, "and drinking in the Words of Life with dying ears. 

"_Blessed are they that dwell in the heavenly Jerusalem, where thereis no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for theglory of_ GOD _does lighten it, and the Lamb is the lightthereof. _"

By the time that my father returned, the sick man and I were fastfriends; and I left him with his blessing on my head. As we went home, my good kind father told me that I was nearly old enough now to takean interest in his concerns, and began to talk of his patients, and ofthe poverty and destitution of some parts of the town. Then he spokeof the bad state of trade--that it was expected to be worse, and thatthe want of work and consequent misery this year would probably bevery great. Finally he added, that when so many were likely to bestarving, he had thought it right that we should deny ourselves ourlittle annual treat, and so save the money to enable us to take ourpart in relieving the distressed. 

"Don't you think so, my boy?" he concluded, as we reached the door ofour comfortable (how comfortable!) home. 

My whole heart was in my "Yes. "

It is a happy moment for a son when his father first confides in him. It is a happy moment for a father when his son first learns toappreciate some of the labour of his life, and henceforth to obey hiscommands, not only with a blind obedience, but in the sympathizingspirit of the "perfect love" which "casts out fear. " My heart was toofull to thank him then for his wise forbearance and wiser confidence;but when after some months my sister's health made change of air tothe house of a country relative necessary, great was my pride andthankfulness that I was well enough to remain at the post of duty bymy father's side. 

One day, not long after our visit to William, he went again to seehim; and when he came back I saw by the musk-plant in his hand thenews he brought. Its flowers were lovelier than ever, but its masterwas transplanted into a heavenly garden, and he had left it to me. 

Mortal man does not learn any virtue in one lesson; and I have onlytoo often in my life been ungrateful both to GOD and man. Butthe memory of lame William has often come across me when I have beentempted to grumble about small troubles; and has given me a littlehelp (not to be despised) in striving after the grace of Thankfulness, even for a "bit of green. "

MONSIEUR THEVISCOUNT'S FRIEND. 

A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS. 

 "Sweet are the vses of aduersitie Which like the toad, ougly and venemous, Weares yet a precious lewell in his head. " AS YOU LIKE IT: A. D. 1623. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was the year of grace 1779. In one of the most beautiful corners ofbeautiful France stood a grand old château. It was a fine oldbuilding, with countless windows large and small, with high-pitchedroofs and pointed towers, which in good taste or bad, did its best tobe everywhere ornamental, from the gorgon heads which frowned from itsturrets to the long row of stables and the fantastic dovecotes. Itstood (as became such a castle) upon an eminence, and looked down. Very beautiful indeed was what it looked upon. Terrace below terraceglowed with the most brilliant flowers, and broad flights of steps ledfrom one garden to the other. On the last terrace of all, fountainsand jets of water poured into one large basin, in which were gold andsilver fish. Beyond this were shady walks, which led to a lake onwhich floated water-lilies and swans. From the top of the topmostflight of steps you could see the blazing gardens one below the other, the fountains and the basin, the walks and the lake, and beyond thesethe trees, and the smiling country, and the blue sky of France. 

Within the castle, as without, beauty reigned supreme. The sunlight, subdued by blinds and curtains, stole into rooms furnished with everygrace and luxury that could be procured in a country that thenaccounted itself the most highly-civilized in the world. It fell uponbeautiful flowers and beautiful china, upon beautiful tapestry andpictures; and it fell upon Madame the Viscountess, sitting at herembroidery. Madame the Viscountess was not young, but she was not theleast beautiful object in those stately rooms. She had married into arace of nobles who (themselves famed for personal beauty) had beenscrupulous in the choice of lovely wives. The late Viscount (forMadame was a widow) had been one of the handsomest of the gaycourtiers of his day; and Madame had not been unworthy of him. Evennow, though the roses on her cheeks were more entirely artificial thanthey had been in the days of her youth, she was like some exquisitepiece of porcelain. Standing by the embroidery frame was Madame's onlychild, a boy who, in spite of his youth, was already Monsieur theViscount. He also was beautiful. His exquisitely-cut mouth had a curlwhich was the inheritance of scornful generations, but which wasredeemed by his soft violet eyes and by an under-lying expression ofnatural amiability. His hair was cut square across the forehead, andfell in natural curls behind. His childish figure had already beentrained in the fencing school, and had gathered dignity fromperpetually treading upon shallow steps and in lofty rooms. From therosettes on his little shoes to his _chapeau à plumes_, he also waslike some porcelain figure. Surely, such beings could not exist exceptin such a château as this, where the very air (unlike that breathed bycommon mortals) had in the ante-rooms a faint aristocratic odour, andwas for yards round Madame the Viscountess dimly suggestive offrangipani!

Monsieur the Viscount did not stay long by the embroidery frame; hewas entertaining to-day a party of children from the estate, and hadcome for the key of an old cabinet of which he wished to display thetreasures. When tired of this, they went out on to the terrace, andone of the children who had not been there before exclaimed at thebeauty of the view. 

"It is true, " said the little Viscount, carelessly, "and all, as faras you can see, is the estate. "

"I will throw a stone to the end of your property, Monsieur, " said oneof the boys, laughing; and he picked one off the walk, and steppingback, flung it with all his little strength. The stone fell before ithad passed the fountains, and the failure was received with shouts oflaughter. 

"Let us see who can beat that, " they cried; and there was a generalsearch for pebbles, which were flung at random among the flower beds. 

"One may easily throw such as those, " said the Viscount, who waspoking under the wall of the first terrace; "but here is a stone thatone may call a stone. Who will send this into the fish-pond? It willmake a fountain of itself. "

The children drew round him as, with ruffles turned back, he tuggedand pulled at a large dirty looking stone, which was half-buried inthe earth by the wall. "Up it comes!" said the Viscount, at length;and sure enough, up it came; but underneath it, his bright eyesshining out of his dirty wrinkled body--horror of horrors!--there laya toad. Now, even in England, toads are not looked upon with muchfavour, and a party of English children would have been startled bysuch a discovery. But with French people, the dread of toads isludicrous in its intensity. In France toads are believed to haveteeth, to bite, and to spit poison; so my hero and his young guestsmust be excused for taking flight at once with a cry of dismay. On thenext terrace, however, they paused, and seeing no signs of the enemy, crept slowly back again. The little Viscount (be it said) began tofeel ashamed of himself, and led the way, with his hand upon theminiature sword which hung at his side. All eyes were fixed upon thefatal stone, when from behind it was seen slowly to push forth, firsta dirty wrinkled leg, then half a dirty wrinkled head, with onegleaming eye. It was too much; with cries of, "It is he! he comes! hespits! he pursues us!" the young guests of the château fled in goodearnest, and never stopped until they reached the fountain and thefish-pond. 

But Monsieur the Viscount stood his ground. At the sudden apparitionthe blood rushed to his heart, and made him very white, then itflooded back again and made him very red, and then he fairly drew hissword, and shouting, "_Vive la France!_" rushed upon the enemy. Thesword if small was sharp, and stabbed the poor toad would mostundoubtedly have been, but for a sudden check received by the valiantlittle nobleman. It came in the shape of a large heavy hand thatseized Monsieur the Viscount with the grasp of a giant, while a voicewhich could only have belonged to the owner of such a hand said inslow deep tones, "_Que faites-vous?_" ("What are you doing?")

It was the tutor, who had been pacing up and down the terrace with abook, and who now stood holding the book in his right hand, and ourhero in his left. 

Monsieur the Viscount's tutor was a remarkable man. If he had not beenso, he would hardly have been tolerated at the château, since he wasnot particularly beautiful, and not especially refined. He was in holyorders, as his tonsured head and clerical costume bore witness--acostume which, from its tightness and simplicity, only served toexaggerate the unusual proportions of his person. Monsieur thePreceptor had English blood in his veins, and his northern originbetrayed itself in his towering height and corresponding breadth, aswell as by his fair hair and light blue eyes. But the most remarkableparts of his outward man were his hands, which were of immense size, especially about the thumbs. Monsieur the Preceptor was not exactly inkeeping with his present abode. It was not only that he was wanting inthe grace and beauty that reigned around him, but that his presencemade those very graces and beauties to look small. He seemed to have agift the reverse of that bestowed upon King Midas--the gold on whichhis heavy hand was laid seemed to become rubbish. In the presence ofthe late Viscount, and in that of Madame his widow, you would havefelt fully the deep importance of your dress being _à la mode_, andyour complexion _à la_ strawberries and cream (such influences stillexist); but let the burly tutor appear upon the scene, and all themagic died at once out of brocaded silks and pearl-coloured stockings, and dress and complexion became subjects almost of insignificance. Monsieur the Preceptor was certainly a singular man to have beenchosen as an inmate of such a household; but, though young, he hadunusual talents, and added to them the not more usual accompanimentsof modesty and trustworthiness. To crown all, he was rigidly pious intimes when piety was not fashionable, and an obedient son of thechurch of which he was a minister. Moreover, a family that fashiondoes not permit to be demonstratively religious, may gain a reflectedcredit from an austere chaplain; and so Monsieur the Preceptorremained in the château and went his own way. It was this man who nowlaid hands on the Viscount, and, in a voice that sounded like amiablethunder, made the inquiry, "_Que faites-vous?_"

"I am going to kill this animal--this hideous horrible animal, " saidMonsieur the Viscount, struggling vainly under the grasp of the tutorsfinger and thumb. 

"It is only a toad, " said Monsieur the Preceptor, in his laconictones. 

"_Only_ a toad, do you say, Monsieur?" said the Viscount. "That isenough, I think. It will bite--it will spit--it will poison: it islike that dragon you tell me of, that devastated Rhodes--I am the goodknight that shall kill it. "

Monsieur the Preceptor laughed heartily. "You are misled by a vulgarerror. Toads do not bite--they have no teeth; neither do they spitpoison. "

"You are wrong, Monsieur, " said the Viscount; "I have seen their teethmyself. Claude Mignon, at the lodge, has two terrible ones, which hekeeps in his pocket as a charm. "

"I have seen them, " said the tutor, "in Monsieur Claude's pocket. Whenhe can show me similar ones in a toad's head I will believe. Meanwhile, I must beg of you, Monsieur, to put up your sword. You mustnot kill this poor animal, which is quite harmless, and very useful ina garden--it feeds upon many insects and reptiles which injure theplants. "

"It shall not be useful, in this garden, " said the little Viscount, fretfully. "There are plenty of gardeners to destroy the insects, and, if needful, we can have more. But the toad shall not remain. Mymother would faint if she saw so hideous a beast among her beautifulflowers. "

"Jacques!" roared the tutor to a gardener who was at some distance. Jacques started as if a clap of thunder had sounded in his ear, andapproached with low bows. "Take that toad, Jacques, and carry it tothe _potager_. It will keep the slugs from your cabbages. "

Jacques bowed low and lower, and scratched his head, and then didreverence again with Asiatic humility, but at the same time movedgradually backwards, and never even looked at the toad. 

"You also have seen the contents of Monsieur Claude's pocket?" saidthe tutor, significantly, and quitting his hold of the Viscount, hestooped down, seized the toad in his huge finger and thumb, and strodeoff in the direction of the _potager_, followed at a respectfuldistance by Jacques, who vented his awe and astonishment in alternatebows and exclamations at the astounding conduct of the incomprehensiblePreceptor. 

"What is the use of such ugly beasts?" said the Viscount to his tutor, on his return from the _potager_. "Birds and butterflies are pretty, but what can such villains as these toads have been made for?"

"You should study natural history, Monsieur--" began the priest, whowas himself a naturalist. 

"That is what you always say, " interrupted the Viscount, with theperverse folly of ignorance; "but if I knew as much as you do, itwould not make me understand why such ugly creatures need have beenmade. "

"Nor, " said the priest, firmly, "is it necessary that you shouldunderstand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire. It isenough for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousandyears before either of us was born. "

With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept hisplace in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace, and resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interruptedwhich exercise he continued till he was joined by the Curé of thevillage, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religiousgossip of the day. 

Monsieur the Viscount rejoined his young guests, and they fed the goldfish and the swans, and played _Colin Maillard_ in the shady walks, and made a beautiful bouquet for Madame, and then fled indoors at thefirst approach of evening chill, and found that the Viscountess hadprepared a feast of fruit and flowers for them in the great hall. Here, at the head of the table, with Madame at his right hand, hisguests around, and the liveried lacqueys waiting his commands, Monsieur the Viscount forgot that anything had ever been made whichcould mar beauty and enjoyment; while the two priests outside stalkedup and down under the falling twilight, and talked ugly talk of crimeand poverty that were _somewhere_ now, and of troubles to comehereafter. 

And so night fell over the beautiful sky, the beautiful château, andthe beautiful gardens; and upon the secure slumbers of beautifulMadame and her beautiful son, and beautiful, beautiful France. 

 * * * * *

CHAPTER II. 

It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events relatedin the last chapter. It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day ofrest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay, beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday, however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were nogay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the publicdevotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets insome places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd, and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound ofyells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians. 

It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses, and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to thepathway. His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn andsoiled; his face was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideouseagerness of a face on which famine has laid her hand--he wasstarving. As this man came out from the warehouse, another man camedown the street. His dress was not beautiful, neither was he. Therewas a red look about him--he wore a red flannel cap, tricolourribbons, and had something red upon his hands, which was neitherribbon nor flannel. He also looked hungry; but it was not for food. The other stopped when he saw him, and pulled something from hispocket. It was a watch, a repeater, in a gold filigree case ofexquisite workmanship, with raised figures depicting the loves of anArcadian shepherd and shepherdess; and, as it lay on the white hand ofits owner, it bore an evanescent fragrance that seemed to recallscenes as beautiful and as completely past as the days of pastoralperfection, when

 "All the world and love were young And truth in every shepherd's tongue. "

The young man held it to the other and spoke. "It was my mother's, " hesaid, with an appealing glance of violet eyes; "I would not part withit but that I am starving. Will you get me food?"

"You are hiding?" said he of the red cap. 

"Is that a crime in these days?" said the other, with a smile thatwould in other days have been irresistible. 

The man took the watch, shaded the donor's beautiful face with a roughred cap and tricolour ribbon, and bade him follow him. He, who had butlately come to Paris, dragged his exhausted body after his conductor, hardly noticed the crowds in the streets, the signs by which the mangot free passage for them both, or their entrance by a littleside-door into a large dark building, and never knew till he wasdelivered to one of the gaolers that he had been led into the prisonof the Abbaye. Then the wretch tore the cap of Liberty from hisvictim's head, and pointed to him with a fierce laugh. 

"He wants food, this aristocrat. He shall not wait long--there is afeast in the court below, which he shall join presently. See to it, Antoine! And you, _Monsieur_, _Mons-ieur_! listen to the banqueters. "

He ceased, and in the silence yells and cries from a court below cameup like some horrid answer to imprecation. 

The man continued--

"He has paid for his admission, this Monsieur. It belonged to Madamehis mother. Behold!"

He held the watch above his head, and dashed it with insane fury onthe ground, and, bidding the gaoler see to his prisoner, rushed awayto the court below. 

The prisoner needed some attention. Weakness, and fasting, and horrorhad overpowered a delicate body and a sensitive mind, and he laysenseless by the shattered relic of happier times. Antoine, the gaoler(a weak-minded man whom circumstances had made cruel), looked at himwith indifference while the Jacobin remained in the place, and withhalf-suppressed pity when he had gone. The place where he lay was ahall or passage in the prison, into which several cells opened, and anumber of the prisoners were gathered together at one end of it. Oneof them had watched the proceedings of the Jacobin and his victim withprofound interest, and now advanced to where the poor youth lay. Hewas a priest, and though thirteen years had passed over his head sincewe saw him in the château, and though toil and suffering and anxietyhad added the traces of as many more, yet it would not have beendifficult to recognize the towering height, the candid face, and, finally, the large thumb in the little book of ----, Monsieur thePreceptor, who had years ago exchanged his old position for aparochial cure. He strode up to the gaoler (whose head came a littleabove the priest's elbow), and, drawing him aside, asked, with his oldabruptness, "Who is this?"

"It is the Vicomte de B----. I know his face. He has escaped thecommissaires for some days. "

"I thought so. Is his name on the registers?"

"No. He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in, as you saw. "

"Antoine, " said the priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze thatseemed to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; "Antoine, whenyou were a shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hardwinters I think you found me a friend. "

"Oh! Monsieur le Curé, " said Antoine, writhing; "if Monsieur le Curéwould believe that if I could save his life! But--"

"Pshaw!" said the priest, "it is not for myself, but for this boy. Youmust save him, Antoine. Hear me, you _must_. Take him now to one ofthe lower cells and hide him. You risk nothing. His name is not on theprison register. He will not be called, he will not be missed; thatfanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us (Antoineshuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle) and when this madfever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you. AndAntoine--"

Here the priest pocketed his book, and somewhat awkwardly with hishuge hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silkfrom the lining. Monsieur le Curé's cassock seemed a cabinet ofoddities. First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix, which he replaced; then a knot of white ribbon, which he alsorestored; and, finally, a tiny pocket or bag of what had beencream-coloured satin, embroidered with small bunches of heartsease, and which was aromatic with otto of roses. Awkwardly, and somewhatslowly, he drew out of this a small locket, in the centre of which wassome unreadable legend in cabalistic-looking character, and whichblazed with the finest diamonds. Heaven alone knows the secret of thatgem, or the struggle with which the priest yielded it. He put it intoAntoine's hand, talking as he did so partly to himself and partly tothe gaoler. 

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carrynothing out. The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sellfor much. The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly, and his curse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my homein better days. And for the locket--it is but a remembrance, and toremember is not difficult!"

As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he didnot hear it. He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount, whom he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consentedungraciously. 

"How am I to get him there? Monsieur le Curé sees that he cannot standupon his feet. "

Monsieur le Curé smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in hisarms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors. 

"You must come no further, " said Antoine, hastily. 

"Ingrate!" muttered the priest in momentary anger, and then, ashamed, he crossed himself, and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom withthe last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed hissenseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it, and laid his burden down. 

"GOD the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be with theenow and in the dread hour of death. Adieu! we shall meet hereafter. "

The look of pity, the yearning of rekindled love, the struggle ofsilenced memories passed from his face and left a shiningcalm--foretaste of the perpetual Light and the eternal Rest. 

Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found itsold place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; butit might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit waswith the GOD who gave it. "

As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not toosensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stonesteps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him bythe heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and wasdeposited on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher ofwater over his face, and locking the door securely, hurried back tohis charge. 

When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself andlooked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it wasunderground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to belevel with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed andworn--a chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, andin one corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place wherethere was no fire. Stones lay scattered about, the walls were black, and in the far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowlydown, and lizards and other reptiles crawled up. 

I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a newprisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness, Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. Itwas too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison tocommand any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examinedthe walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell uponthe floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about hadbeen raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It lookedlike child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and thenhe saw that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolledtogether. Evidently it was something left by the former occupant ofthe cell for his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for gettingaway which he had not had time to perfect on his own account, Perhaps--but by this time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur theViscount read the writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was thefly-leaf torn out of a little book, and on it was written in blackchalk, the words--

 "_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur. _" (Remember the Saviour. )

He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark;there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal fromhimself that he was disappointed. How could it be otherwise? He hadbeen bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything thatcould make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, andall that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can bekept, from the precincts of the beautiful château which was his home. What were the _consolations_ of religion to him? They are offered tothose (and to those only) who need them. They were to Monsieur theViscount what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks ofold--foolishness. 

He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it thecrowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered. Presently, Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur theViscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries asto how he came and how long he had been there. When the gaoler beganto describe him, whom he called the Curé, Monsieur the Viscount'sattention quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by thetender interest that always hangs round the names of those whom wehave known in happier and younger days. The happy memories recalled byhearing of his old tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes. With French excitability, he laughed and wept alternately. 

"As burly as ever, you say? The little book? I remember it, it washis breviary. Ah! it is he. It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I havenot seen for years. Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!"

But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise. 

That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was aterrible one. The bitter chill of a Parisian autumn, the gnawings ofhalf-satisfied hunger, the thick walls that shut out all hope ofescape but did not exclude those fearful cries that lasted with fewintervals throughout the night, made it like some hideous dream. Atlast the morning broke; at half-past two o'clock, some members of the_commune_ presented themselves in the hall of the National Assemblywith the significant announcement:--"The prisons are empty!" andAntoine, who had been quaking for hours, took courage, and went withhalf a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water to the cell that was not"empty. " He found his prisoner struggling with a knot of white ribbon, which he was trying to fasten in his hair. One glance at his face toldall. 

"It is the fever, " said Antoine; and he put down the bread and waterand fetched an old blanket and a pillow; and that day and for manydays, the gaoler hung above his prisoner's pallet with the tendernessof a woman. Was he haunted by the vision of a burly figure that hadbent over his own sick bed in the Rue de la Croix? Did the voice(once so familiar in counsel and benediction!) echo still in his ears?

"_The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do well, and hiscurse if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home inbetter days. _"

Be this as it may, Antoine tended his patient with all the constancycompatible with keeping his presence in the prison a secret; and itwas not till the crisis was safely past, that he began to visit thecell less frequently, and reassumed the harsh manners which he held tobefit his office. 

Monsieur the Viscount's mind rambled much in his illness. He calledfor his mother, who had long been dead. He fancied himself in his ownchâteau. He thought that all his servants stood in a body before him, but that not one would move to wait on him. He thought that he hadabundance of the most tempting food and cooling drinks, but placedjust beyond his reach. He thought that he saw two lights like starsnear together, which were close to the ground, and kept appearing andthen vanishing away. In time he became more sensible; the châteaumelted into the stern reality of his prison walls; the delicate foodbecame bread and water; the servants disappeared like spectres; but inthe empty cell, in the dark corners near the floor, he still fanciedthat he saw two sparks of light coming and going, appearing and thenvanishing away. He watched them till his giddy head would bear it nolonger, and he closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke he was muchbetter, but when he raised himself and turned towards thestone--there, by the bread and the broken pitcher, sat a dirty, ugly, wrinkled toad, gazing at him, Monsieur the Viscount, with eyes ofyellow fire. 

Monsieur the Viscount had long ago forgotten the toad which hadalarmed his childhood; but his national dislike to that animal had notbeen lessened by years, and the toad of the prison seemed likely tofare no better than the toad of the château. He dragged himself fromhis pallet, and took up one of the large damp stones which lay aboutthe floor of the cell, to throw at the intruder. He expected that whenhe approached it, the toad would crawl away, and that he could throwthe stone after it; but to his surprise, the beast sat quite unmoved, looking at him with calm shining eyes, and, somehow or other, Monsieurthe Viscount lacked strength or heart to kill it. He stood doubtfulfor a moment, and then a sudden feeling of weakness obliged him todrop the stone, and sit down, while tears sprang to his eyes with thesense of his helplessness. 

"Why should I kill it?" he said, bitterly. "The beast will live andgrow fat upon this damp and loathsomeness, long after they have putan end to my feeble life. It shall remain. The cell is not big, but itis big enough for us both. However large be the rooms a man buildshimself to live in, it needs but little space in which to die!"

So Monsieur the Viscount dragged his pallet away from the toad, placedanother stone by it, and removed the pitcher; and then, wearied withhis efforts, lay down and slept heavily. 

When he awoke, on the new stone by the pitcher was the toad, staringfull at him with topaz eyes. He lay still this time and did not move, for the animal showed no intention of spitting, and he was puzzled byits tameness. 

"It seems to like the sight of a man, " he thought. "Is it possiblethat any former inmate of this wretched prison can have amused hissolitude by making a pet of such a creature? and if there were such aman, where is he now?"

Henceforward, sleeping or waking, whenever Monsieur the Viscount laydown upon his pallet, the toad crawled up on to the stone, and keptwatch over him with shining lustrous eyes; but whenever there was asound of the key grating in the lock, and the gaoler coming hisrounds, away crept the toad, and was quickly lost in the dark cornersof the room. When the man was gone, it returned to its place, andMonsieur the Viscount would talk to it, as he lay on his pallet. 

"Ah! Monsieur Crapaud, " he would say, with mournful pleasantry, "without doubt you have had a master and a kind one; but, tell me, whowas he, and where is he now? Was he old or young, and was it in thelast stage of maddening loneliness that he made friends with such acreature as you?"

Monsieur Crapaud looked very intelligent, but he made no reply, andMonsieur the Viscount had recourse to Antoine. 

"Who was in this cell before me?" he asked at the gaoler's next visit. 

Antoine's face clouded. "Monsieur le Curé had this room. My orderswere that he was to be imprisoned in secret. '"

Monsieur le Curé had this room. There was a revelation in those words. It was all explained now. The priest had always had a love for animals(and for ugly, common animals), which his pupil had by no meansshared. His room at the château had been little less than a menagerie. He had even kept a glass beehive there, which communicated with a holein the window through which the bees flew in and out, and he wouldstand for hours with his thumb in the breviary, watching the laboursof his pets. And this also had been his room! This dark, damp cell. Here, breviary in hand, he had stood, and lain, and knelt. Here, inthis miserable prison, he had found something to love, and on which toexpend the rare intelligence and benevolence of his nature. Here, finally, in the last hours of his life, he had written on the fly-leafof his prayer-book something to comfort his successor, and, "beingdead, yet spoke" the words of consolation which he had administered inhis lifetime. Monsieur the Viscount read that paper now with differentfeelings. 

There is, perhaps, no argument so strong, and no virtue that socommands the respect of young men, as consistency. Monsieur thePreceptor's lifelong counsel and example would have done less for hispupil than was effected by the knowledge of his consistent career, nowthat it was past. It was not the nobility of the priest's principlesthat awoke in Monsieur the Viscount a desire to imitate his religiousexample, but the fact that he had applied them to his own life, notonly in the time of wealth, but in the time of tribulation and in thehour of death. All that high-strung piety--that life of prayer--thoseunswerving admonitions to consider the vanity of earthly treasures, and to prepare for death--which had sounded so unreal amidst theperfumed elegances of the château, came back now with a reality gainedfrom experiment. The daily life of self-denial, the conversationgarnished from Scripture and from the Fathers, had not, after all, been mere priestly affectations. In no symbolic manner, but literally, he had "watched for the coming of his Lord, " and "taken up the crossdaily;" and so, when the cross was laid on him, and when the voicespoke which must speak to all, "The Master is come, and calleth forthee, " he bore the burden and obeyed the summons unmoved. 

_Unmoved_!--this was the fact that struck deep into the heart ofMonsieur the Viscount, as he listened to Antoine's account of theCuré's imprisonment. What had astonished and overpowered his ownundisciplined nature had not disturbed Monsieur the Preceptor. He hadprayed in the château--he prayed in the prison. He had often spoken inthe château of the softening and comforting influences of communionwith the lower animals and with nature, and in the uncertainty ofimprisonment he had tamed a toad. "None of these things had movedhim, " and, in a storm of grief and admiration, Monsieur the Viscountbewailed the memory of his tutor. 

"If he had only lived to teach me!"

But he was dead, and there was nothing for Monsieur the Viscount butto make the most of his example. This was not so easy to follow as heimagined. Things seemed to be different with him to what they hadbeen with Monsieur the Preceptor. He had no lofty meditations, noardent prayers, and calm and peace seemed more distant than ever. Monsieur the Viscount met, in short, with all those difficulties thatthe soul must meet with, which, in a moment of enthusiasm, hasresolved upon a higher and a better way of life, and in moments ofdepression is perpetually tempted to forego that resolution. Hisprison life was, however, a pretty severe discipline, and he held onwith struggles and prayers; and so, little by little, and day by day, as the time of his imprisonment went by, the consolations of religionbecame a daily strength against the fretfulness of imperious temper, the sickness of hope deferred, and the dark suggestions of despair. 

The term of his imprisonment was a long one. Many prisoners came andwent within the walls of the Abbaye, but Monsieur the Viscount stillremained in his cell; indeed, he would have gained little by leavingit if he could have done so, as he would almost certainly have beenretaken. As it was, Antoine on more than one occasion concealed himbehind the bundles of firewood, and once or twice he narrowly escapeddetection by less friendly officials. There were times when theguillotine seemed to him almost better than this long suspense: butwhile other heads passed to the block, his remained on his shoulders;and so weeks and even months went by. And during all this time, sleeping or waking, whenever he lay down upon his pallet, the toadcrept up on to the stone, and kept watch over him with lustrous eyes. 

Monsieur the Viscount hardly acknowledged to himself the affectionwith which he came to regard this ugly and despicable animal. Thegreater part of his regard for it he believed to be due to itsconnection with his tutor, and the rest he set down to the score ofhis own humanity, and took credit to himself accordingly: whereas intruth Monsieur Crapaud was of incalculable service to his master, whowould lie and chatter to him for hours, and almost forget his presentdiscomfort in recalling past happiness, as he described the château, the gardens, the burly tutor, and beautiful Madame, or laughed overhis childish remembrances of the toad's teeth in Claude Mignon'spocket; whilst Monsieur Crapaud sat well-bred and silent, with a worldof comprehension in his fiery eyes. Whoever thinks this puerile mustremember that my hero was a Frenchman, and a young Frenchman, with aprescriptive right to chatter for chattering's sake, and also that hehad not a very highly cultivated mind of his own to converse with, even if the most highly cultivated intellect is ever a reliableresource against the terrors of solitary confinement. 

Foolish or wise, however, Monsieur the Viscount's attachmentstrengthened daily; and one day something happened which showed hispet in a new light, and afforded him fresh amusement. 

The prison was much infested with certain large black spiders, whichcrawled about the floor and walls; and, as Monsieur the Viscount waslying on his pallet, he saw one of these scramble up and over thestone on which sat Monsieur Crapaud. That good gentleman, whose eyes, till then, had been fixed as usual on his master, now turned hisattention to the intruder. The spider, as if conscious of danger, hadsuddenly stopped still. Monsieur Crapaud gazed at it intently with hisbeautiful eyes, and bent himself slightly forward. So they remainedfor some seconds, then the spider turned round, and began suddenly toscramble away. At this instant Monsieur the Viscount saw his friend'seyes gleam with an intenser fire, his head was jerked forwards; italmost seemed as if something had been projected from his mouth, anddrawn back again with the rapidity of lightning. Then Monsieur Crapaudresumed his position, drew in his head, and gazed mildly and sedatelybefore him; _but the spider was nowhere to be seen_. 

Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh. 

"Eh, well! Monsieur, " said he, "but this is not well-bred on yourpart. Who gave you leave to eat my spiders? and to bolt them in suchan unmannerly way, moreover. "

In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed ofhimself, and I regret to state that henceforward (with the partialhumaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amusedhimself by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in anold oyster-shell, and then setting them at liberty on the stone forthe benefit of his friend. As for him, all appeared to be fish thatcame to his net--spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the dampcorners, flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone, disappeared one after the other. The wood-lice were an especialamusement: when Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up intotight little balls, and in this condition he removed them to thestone, and placed them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaudwatching the proceeding with rapt attention. After awhile the ballswould slowly open and begin to crawl away; but he was a very activewood-louse indeed who escaped the suction of Monsieur Crapaud'stongue, as, his eyes glowing with eager enjoyment, he bolted one afteranother, and Monsieur the Viscount clapped his hands and applauded. 

The grated window was a very fine field for spiders and other insects, and by piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrivedto scramble up to it, and fill his friend's oyster-shell with theprey. 

One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at theprison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual, oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knewthat the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger ofbeing recognized through the grating. He was, therefore, not a littlestartled at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by asound of something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, hesaw that a string was dangling before the window with somethingattached to the end of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, hefancied that he heard a distant sound of voices and clapped hands, asif from some window above. He proceeded to examine his prize, andfound that it was a little round pincushion of sand, such as women useto polish their needles with, and that, apparently, it was used as amake-weight to ensure the steady descent of a neat little letter thatwas tied beside it, in company with a small lead pencil. The letterwas directed to "_The prisoner who finds this. _" Monsieur the Viscountopened it at once. This was the letter--

"_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2_. 

"_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been imprisoned? Begood enough to answer_. "

Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined torisk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencilhurriedly wrote this reply:--

"_In secret, June 12, 1794_. 

"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B. , supposed to haveperished in the massacres of September_, 1792. _Keep my secret. I havebeen imprisoned a year and nine months. Who are_ you? _how long have_you _been here_?"

The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. Itcame, and with it some sheets of blank paper. 

"_Monsieur_, --_We have the honour to reply to your inquiries, andthank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont, Baron de St. Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been here but two days. Acceptour sympathy for your misfortunes_. "

Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount'sinterest--_Valerie de St. Claire_;--and for some reasons, which I donot pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the authorof these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith tookpossession of his mind. Who was she? was she old or young? And inwhich relation did she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, ofsister, or of daughter? And from some equally inexplicable causeMonsieur the Viscount determined in his own mind that it was thelatter. To make assurance doubly sure, however, he laid a trap todiscover the real state of the case. He wrote a letter of thanks andsympathy, expressed with all the delicate chivalrous politeness of anobleman of the old _régime_, and addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_. The plan succeeded. The next note he received contained thesesentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame my mother is, alas! dead. I and my father are alone. He is ill, but thanks you, Monsieur, foryour letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of imprisonment. Are youalone?_"

Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the _ennui_ of theBaron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the lastquestion, he turned round involuntarily, and looked to where MonsieurCrapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turnedtowards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrotehastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend. _"

Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patienceseemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had somethingto do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health. Hebecame paler and weaker, and more fretful. His prayers wereaccompanied by greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears. He was, however, most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaudthat he knew the exact nature and cause of the malady that wasconsuming him. It resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesomecondition of his cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it sweptout. After some difficulty the gaoler consented. 

It was nearly a month since Monsieur the Viscount had first beenstartled by the appearance of the little pincushion. The stock ofpaper had long been exhausted. He had torn up his cambric ruffles towrite upon, and Mademoiselle de St. Claire had made havoc of herpocket-handkerchiefs for the same purpose. The Viscount was feeblerthan ever, and Antoine became alarmed. The cell should be swept outthe next morning. He would come himself, he said, and bring anotherman out of the town with him to help him, for the work was heavy, andhe had a touch of rheumatism. The man was a stupid fellow from thecountry, who had only been a week in Paris; he had never heard of theViscount, and Antoine would tell him that the prisoner was a certainyoung lawyer who had really died of fever in prison the day before. Monsieur the Viscount thanked him; and it was not till the nextmorning arrived, and he was expecting them every moment, that Monsieurthe Viscount remembered the toad, and that he would without doubt beswept away with the rest in the general clearance. At first he thoughtthat he would beg them to leave it, but some knowledge of the pettyinsults which that class of men heaped upon their prisoners made himfeel that this would probably be only an additional reason for theirtaking the animal away. There was no place to hide it in, for theywould go all round the room; unless--unless Monsieur the Viscount tookit up in his hand. And this was just what he objected to do. All hisold feelings of repugnance came back; he had not even got gloves on;his long white hands were bare, he could not touch a toad. It was truethat the beast had amused him, and that he had chatted to it; but, after all, this was a piece of childish folly--an unmanly way, to saythe least, of relieving the tedium of captivity. What was MonsieurCrapaud but a very ugly (and most people said a venomous) reptile? Towhat a folly he had been condescending! With these thoughts, Monsieurthe Viscount steeled himself against the glances of his topaz-eyedfriend, and when the steps of the men were heard upon the stairs, hedid not move from the window where he had placed himself, with hisback to the stone. 

The steps came nearer and nearer, Monsieur the Viscount began towhistle--the key was rattled in the lock, and Monsieur the Viscountheard a bit of bread fall, as the toad hastily descended to hideitself as usual in the corners. In a moment his resolution was gone;another second, and it would be too late. He dashed after thecreature, picked it up, and when the men came in he was standing withhis hands behind him, in which Monsieur Crapaud was quietly and safelyseated. 

The room was swept, and Antoine was preparing to go, when the other, who had been eyeing the prisoner suspiciously, stopped and said with asharp sneer, "Does the citizen always preserve that position?"

"Not he, " said the gaoler, good-naturedly. "He spends most of his timein bed, which saves his legs. Come along, François. "

"I shall not come, " said the other, obstinately. "Let the citizen showme his hands. "

"Plague take you!" said Antoine, in a whisper. "What sulky fitpossesses you, my comrade? Let the poor wretch alone. What wouldstthou with his hands? Wait a little, and thou shall have his head. "

"We should have few heads or prisoners either, if thou hadst the careof them, " said François, sharply. "I say that the prisoner secretessomething, and that I will see it. Show your hands, dog of anaristocrat!"

Monsieur the Viscount set his teeth to keep himself from speaking, andheld out his hands in silence, toad and all. 

Both the men started back with an exclamation, and François got behindhis comrade, and swore over his shoulder. 

Monsieur the Viscount stood upright and still, with a smile on hiswhite face. "Behold, citizen, what I secrete, and what I desire tokeep. Behold all that I have left to secrete or to desire! There isnothing more. "

"Throw it down!" screamed François; "many a witch has been burnt forless--throw it down. "

The colour began to flood over Monsieur the Viscount's face; but stillhe spoke gently, and with bated breath. "If you wish me to suffer, citizen, let this be my witness that I have suffered. I must be veryfriendless to desire such a friend. I must be brought very low to asksuch a favour. Let the Republic give me this. "

"The Republic has one safe rule for aristocrats, " said the other; "shegives them nothing but their keep till she pays for theirshaving--once for all. She gave one of these dogs a few rags to dressa wound on his back with, and he made a rope of his dressings, and lethimself down from the window. We will have no more such games. You maybe training the beast to spit poison at good citizens. Throw it downand kill it. "

Monsieur the Viscount made no reply. His hands had moved towards hisbreast, against which he was holding his golden-eyed friend. There aretimes in life when the brute creation contrasts favourably with thelords thereof, and this was one of them. It was hard to part just now. 

Antoine, who had been internally cursing his own folly in bringingsuch a companion into the cell, now interfered. "If you are going tostay here to be bitten or spit at, François, my friend, " said he, "Iam not. Thou art zealous, my comrade, but dull as an owl. The Republicis far-sighted in her wisdom beyond thy coarse ideas, and has moreways of taking their heads from these aristocrats than one. Dost thounot see?" And he tapped his forehead significantly, and looked at theprisoner; and so, between talking and pushing, got his sulky companionout of the cell, and locked the door after them. 

"And so, my friend--my friend!" said Monsieur the Viscount, tenderly, "we are safe once more; but it will not be for long, my Crapaud. Something tells me that I cannot much longer be overlooked. A littlewhile, and I shall be gone; and thou wilt have, perchance, anothermaster, when I am summoned before mine. "

Monsieur the Viscount's misgivings were just. François, on whosestupidity Antoine had relied, was (as is not uncommon with peoplestupid in other respects) just clever enough to be mischievous. Antoine's evident alarm made him suspicious, and he began to talkabout the too-elegant-looking young lawyer who was imprisoned "insecret, " and permitted by the gaoler to keep venomous beasts. Antoinewas examined and committed to one of his own cells, and Monsieur theViscount was summoned before the revolutionary tribunal. 

There was little need even for the scanty inquiry that in those dayspreceded sentence. In every line of his beautiful face, marred as itwas by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, whichdirt and raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of hisbirth and breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the ante-room, he did not positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moralcertainty that left him no hope. 

The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and, as heentered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiarfaces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--atall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, hada restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and ayoung girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steadyquietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing theirfaces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decidedwith himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he beggedthe man who was conducting him for a moment's delay. The manconsented. France was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and eventhe executioners sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change. 

As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and hesaw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair andlarge eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it wasblanched with suffering; and, it is fair to say, in common with manyof them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount neverfor an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in alow voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!"

The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's faceillumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply, "Monsieur le Vicomte?"

The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, witha look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscountwere left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say agreat deal, and could say very little. The moments went by, and hardlya word had been spoken. 

Valerie asked if he knew his fate. 

"I have not heard it, " he said; "but I am morally certain. There canbe but one end in these days. "

She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur, I wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--andme. "

Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that thedesire of life was making a few fierce struggles in his own breast. 

"You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness, Mademoiselle. "

The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at theirritation of his tone. 

"I think, " she said, gently, "that one does not look forward _to_, but_beyond_ it. " She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, andthen spoke hurriedly and diffidently:--

"Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, whohave doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when achild, going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for hiseloquence. He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has beenin my mind all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, andthere the weary be at rest. _' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu!Monsieur. A thousand thanks and a thousand blessings. "

She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increasedcolour, and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thickmist gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face. 

"Adieu! Valerie!"

"Adieu! Louis!"

So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount wentback to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was brokenfor him in the chain of earthly interests. 

When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a fewseconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return ofMonsieur Crapaud from his hiding-place. With one wrinkled leg afteranother he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscountstarted when he saw him. 

"Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had saidadieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which MonsieurCrapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes hesprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and notime must be lost in making my will. " Monsieur Crapaud was too wise toexpress any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for atidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They wereall rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive, and he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polishedboth. Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hourcomposed and wrote busily. When it was done he lay down, and read itto his friend. This was Monsieur the Viscount's last will andTestament:--

"_To my successor in this cell. _

"To you whom Providence has chosen to be the inheritor of my sorrowsand my captivity, I desire to make another bequest. There is in thisprison a toad. He was tamed by a man (peace to his memory!) whotenanted this cell before me. He has been my friend and companion fornearly two years of sad imprisonment. He has sat by my bedside, fedfrom my hand, and shared all my confidence. He is ugly, but he hasbeautiful eyes; he is silent, but he is attentive; he is a brute, butI wish the men of France were in this respect more his superiors! Heis very faithful. May you never have a worse friend! He feeds uponinsects, which I have been accustomed to procure for him. Be kind tohim; he will repay it. Like other men, I bequeath what I would takewith me if I could. 

"Fellow-sufferer, adieu! GOD comfort you as He has comfortedme! The sorrows of this life are sharp but short; the joys of the nextlife are eternal. Think sometimes on him who commends his friend toyour pity, and himself to your prayers. 

"This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud Jean-MarieArnaud, Vicomte de B----. "

Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficultysqueezed into the surface of the larger of the stones. Then he hid itwhere the priest had hidden _his_ bequest long ago, and then lay downto dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last. 

The next day was one of anxious suspense. In the evening, as usual, alist of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was broughtinto the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it. It was brought to him. First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down washis own name, "Louis de B----, " and a little lower his fascinatedgaze fell upon names that stirred his heart with such a passion ofregret as he had fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St. Claire, Valerie de St. Claire. "

Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and hercalm voice to echo in his ears. "_It has been in my mind all to-day. There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be atrest. _"

_There_! He buried his face and prayed. 

He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaolerappeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror. He had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur theViscount. It was only a matter of a few hours, as they were to die atdaybreak, and his request was granted. 

Antoine's entrance turned the current of Monsieur the Viscount'sthoughts. No more selfish reflections now. He must comfort this poorcreature, of whose death he was to be the unintentional cause. Antoine's first anxiety was that Monsieur the Viscount should bearwitness that the gaoler had treated him kindly, and so earned theblessing and not the curse of Monsieur le Curé, whose powerfulpresence seemed to haunt him still. On this score he was soon set atrest, and then came the old, old story. He had been but a bad man. Ifhis life were to come over again, he would do differently. DidMonsieur the Viscount think that there was any hope?

Would Monsieur the Viscount have recognized himself, could he, twoyears ago, have seen himself as he was now? Kneeling by that rough, uncultivated figure, and pleading with all the eloquence that he couldmaster to that rough uncultivated heart, the great Truths ofChristianity--so great and few and simple in their application to ourneeds! The violet eyes had never appealed more tenderly, the softvoice had never been softer than now, as he strove to explain to thisignorant soul, the cardinal doctrines of Faith and Repentance, andCharity, with an earnestness that was perhaps more effectual than hispreaching. 

Monsieur the Viscount was quite as much astonished as flattered by thesuccess of his instructions. The faith on which he had laid hold withsuch mortal struggles, seemed almost to "come natural" (as people say)to Antoine. With abundant tears he professed the deepest penitence forhis past life, at the same time that he accepted the doctrine of theAtonement as a natural remedy, and never seemed to have a doubt in theInfinite Mercy that should cover his infinite guilt. 

It was all so orthodox that even if he had doubted (which he did not)the sincerity of the gaoler's contrition and belief, Monsieur theViscount could have done nothing but envy the easy nature of Antoine'sconvictions. He forgot the difference of their respectivecapabilities!

When the night was far advanced the men rose from their knees, andMonsieur the Viscount persuaded Antoine to lie down on his pallet, andwhen the gaoler's heavy breathing told that he was asleep, Monsieurthe Viscount felt relieved to be alone once more--alone, except forMonsieur Crapaud, whose round fiery eyes were open as usual. 

The simplicity with which he had been obliged to explain the truths ofDivine Love to Antoine, was of signal service to Monsieur the Viscounthimself. It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, withwhich refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he pacedfeebly up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which hehad striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul. Howblessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was hethat after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victoryshould be so near? The way had seemed long to come, it was short tolook back upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, theeverlasting doors were open. A few more hours, and then--! and asMonsieur the Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tearsthat trickled from his fingers were literally tears of joy. 

He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and laydown on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur's Crapaud's fieryeyes. And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness, to take the form and features of the face of the priest, and to gazeat him with unutterable benediction. And in his mind, like somefamiliar piece of music, awoke the words that had been written on thefly-leaf of the little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, overand over again--

"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur_!"

(Remember the Saviour!)

In that remembrance he fell asleep. 

Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream. Thenit began to be disturbed by that uneasy consciousness of sleeping toolong, which enables some people to awake at whatever hour they haveresolved upon. At last it became intolerable, and wearied as he was, he awoke. It was broad daylight, and Antoine was snoring beside him. Surely the cart would come soon, the executions were generally at anearly hour. But time went on, and no one came, and Antoine awoke. Thehours of suspense passed heavily, but at last there were steps and akey rattled into the lock. The door opened, and the gaoler appearedwith a jug of milk and a loaf. With a strange smile he set them down. 

"A good appetite to you, citizens. "

Antoine flew on him. "Comrade! we used to be friends. Tell me, what isit? Is the execution deferred?"

"The execution has taken place at last, " said the other, significantly; "_Robespierre is dead!_" and he vanished. 

Antoine uttered a shriek of joy. He wept, he laughed, he cut capers, and flinging himself at Monsieur the Viscount's feet, he kissed themrapturously. When he raised his eyes to Monsieur the Viscount's face, his transports moderated. The last shock had been too much, he seemedalmost in a stupor. Antoine got him on to the pallet, dragged theblanket over him, broke the bread into the milk, and played the nurseonce more. 

On that day thousands of prisoners in the city of Paris alone awokefrom the shadow of death to the hope of life. The Reign of Terror wasended!

CHAPTER III. 

It was a year of Grace early in the present century. 

We are again in the beautiful country of beautiful France. It is thechâteau once more. It is the same, but changed. The unapproachableelegance, the inviolable security, have witnessed invasion. The rightwing of the château is in ruins, with traces of fire upon theblackened walls; while here and there, a broken statue or a rooflesstemple are sad memorials of the Revolution. Within the restored partof the château, however, all looks well. Monsieur the Viscount hasbeen fortunate, and if not so rich a man as his father, has yetregained enough of his property to live with comfort, and, as hethinks, luxury. The long rooms are little less elegant than in formerdays, and Madame the present Viscountess's boudoir is a model oftaste. Not far from it is another room, to which it forms a singularcontrast. This room belongs to Monsieur the Viscount. It is small, with one window. The floor and walls are bare, and it contains nofurniture; but on the floor is a worn-out pallet, by which lies astone, and on that a broken pitcher, and in a little frame against thewall is preserved a crumpled bit of paper like the fly-leaf of somelittle book, on which is a half-effaced inscription, which can bedeciphered by Monsieur the Viscount if by no one else. Above thewindow is written in large letters, a date and the word REMEMBER. Monsieur the Viscount is not likely to forget, but he is afraid ofhimself and of prosperity lest it should spoil him. 

It is evening, and Monsieur the Viscount is strolling along theterrace with Madame on his arm. He has only one to offer her, forwhere the other should be an empty sleeve is pinned to his breast, onwhich a bit of ribbon is stirred by the breeze. Monsieur the Viscounthas not been idle since we saw him last; the faith that taught him todie, has taught him also how to live--an honourable, useful life. 

It is evening, and the air comes up perfumed from a bed of violets bywhich Monsieur the Viscount is kneeling. Madame (who has a fair faceand ashen hair) stands by him with her little hand on his shoulder, and her large eyes upon the violets. 

"My friend! my friend! my friend!" It is Monsieur the Viscount'svoice, and at the sound of it, there is a rustle among the violetsthat sends the perfume high into the air. Then from the parted leavescome forth first a dirty wrinkled leg, then a dirty wrinkled head withgleaming eyes, and Monsieur Crapaud crawls with self-satisfied dignityon to Monsieur the Viscount's outstretched hand. 

So they stay laughing and chatting, and then Monsieur the Viscountbids his friend good-night, and holds him towards Madame that she maydo the same. But Madame (who did not enjoy Monsieur Crapaud's societyin prison) cannot be induced to do more than scratch his headdelicately with the tip of her white finger. But she respects himgreatly, at a distance, she says. Then they go back along the terrace, and are met by a man-servant in Monsieur the Viscount's livery. Is itpossible that this is Antoine, with his shock head covered withpowder?

Yes; that grating voice, which no mental change avails to subdue, ishis, and he announces that Monsieur le Curé has arrived. It is the oldCuré of the village (who has survived the troubles of the Revolution), and many are the evenings he spends at the château, and many the timesin which the closing acts of a noble life are recounted to him, thelife of his old friend whom he hopes ere long to see--of Monsieur thePreceptor. He is kindly welcomed by Monsieur and by Madame, and theypass on together into the château. And when Monsieur the Viscount'ssteps have ceased to echo from the terrace, Monsieur Crapaud burieshimself once more among the violets. 

 * * * * *

Monsieur the Viscount is dead, and Madame sleeps also at his side;and their possessions have descended to their son. 

Not the least valued among them is a case with a glass front andsides, in which, seated upon a stone is the body of a toad stuffedwith exquisite skill, from whose head gleam eyes of genuine topaz. Above it in letters of gold is a date, and this inscription:--

 "MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND. "

 ADIEU!

THE YEW-LANE GHOSTS

CHAPTER I. 

 "Cowards are cruel. " OLD PROVERB. 

This story begins on a fine autumn afternoon when, at the end of afield over which the shadows of a few wayside trees were stalking likelong thin giants, a man and a boy sat side by side upon a stile. Theywere not a happy-looking pair. The boy looked uncomfortable, becausehe wanted to get away and dared not go. The man looked uncomfortablealso; but then no one had ever seen him look otherwise, which was themore strange as he never professed to have any object in life but hisown pleasure and gratification. Not troubling himself with anyconsideration of law or principle--of his own duty or other people'scomfort--he had consistently spent his whole time and energies intrying to be jolly; and though now a grown-up young man, had so farhad every appearance of failing in the attempt. From this it will beseen that he was not the most estimable of characters, and we shallhave no more to do with him than we can help; but as he must appear inthe story, he may as well be described. 

If constant self-indulgence had answered as well as it should havedone, he would have been a fine-looking young man; as it was, thehabits of his life were fast destroying his appearance. His hair wouldhave been golden if it had been kept clean. His figure was tall andstrong; but the custom of slinking about places where he had nobusiness to be, and lounging in corners where he had nothing to do, had given it such a hopeless slouch that for the matter of beauty hemight almost as well have been knock-kneed. His eyes would have beenhandsome if the lids had been less red; and if he had ever looked youin the face, you would have seen that they were blue. His complexionwas fair by nature and discoloured by drink. His manner was somethingbetween a sneak and a swagger, and he generally wore his capa-one-side, carried his hands in his pockets and a short stick underhis arm, and whistled when any one passed him. His chiefcharacteristic, perhaps, was the habit he had of kicking. Indoors hekicked the furniture, in the road he kicked the stones, if he loungedagainst a wall he kicked it; he kicked all animals and such humanbeings as he felt sure would not kick him again. 

It should be said here that he had once announced his intention of"turning steady, and settling, and getting wed. " The object of hischoice was the prettiest girl in the village, and was as good as shewas pretty. To say the truth, the time had been when Bessy had notfelt unkindly towards the yellow-haired lad; but his conduct had longput a gulf between them, which only the conceit of a scamp would haveattempted to pass. However, he flattered himself that he "knew whatthe lasses meant when they said no;" and on the strength of thisknowledge he presumed far enough to elicit a rebuff so hearty andunmistakable that for a week he was the laughing stock of the village. There was no mistake this time as to what "no" meant; his admirationturned to a hatred almost as intense, and he went faster "to the bad"than ever. 

It was Bessy's little brother who sat by him on the stile; "BeautyBill, " as he was called, from the large share he possessed of thefamily good looks. The lad was one of those people who seem born to befavourites. He was handsome, and merry, and intelligent; and, beingwell brought up, was well-conducted and amiable--the pride and pet ofthe village. Why did Mother Muggins of the shop let the goody side ofher scales of justice drop the lower by one lollipop for Bill than forany other lad, and exempt him by unwonted smiles from her generalanathema on the urchin race? There were other honest boys in theparish, who paid for their treacle-sticks in sterling copper of therealm! The very roughs of the village were proud of him, and wouldhave showed their good nature in ways little to his benefit had nothis father kept a somewhat severe watch upon his habits and conduct. Indeed, good parents and a strict home counterbalanced the evils ofpopularity with Beauty Bill, and, on the whole, he was little spoilt, and well deserved the favour he met with. It was under cover offriendly patronage that his companion was now detaining him; but, allthe circumstances considered, Bill felt more suspicious thangratified, and wished Bully Tom anywhere but where he was. 

The man threw out one leg before him like the pendulum of a clock. 

"Night school's opened, eh?" he inquired; and back swung the pendulumagainst Bill's shins. 

"Yes;" and the boy screwed his legs on one side. 

"You don't go, do you?"

"Yes, I do, " said Bill, trying not to feel ashamed of the fact, "Father can't spare me to the day-school now, so our Bessy persuadedhim to let me go at nights. "

Bully Tom's face looked a shade darker, and the pendulum took a swingwhich it was fortunate the lad avoided; but the conversation continuedwith every appearance of civility. 

"You come back by Yew-lane, I suppose?"

"Yes. "

"Why, there's no one lives your way but old Johnson; you must comeback alone?"

"Of course, I do, " said Bill, beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable. 

"It must be dark now before school looses?" was the next inquiry; andthe boy's discomfort increased, he hardly knew why, as he answered--

"There's a moon. "

"So there is, " said Bully Tom, in a tone of polite assent; "andthere's a weathercock on the church-steeple but I never heard ofeither of 'em coming down to help a body, whatever happened. "

Bill's discomfort had become alarm. 

"Why, what could happen?" he asked. "I don't understand you. "

His companion whistled, looked up in the air, and kicked vigorously, but said nothing. Bill was not extraordinarily brave, but he had afair amount both of spirit and sense; and having a shrewd suspicionthat Bully Tom was trying to frighten him, he almost made up his mindto run off then and there. Curiosity, however, and a vague alarm whichhe could not throw off, made him stay for a little more information. 

"I wish you'd out with it!" he exclaimed, impatiently. "What couldhappen? No one ever comes along Yew-lane; and if they did theywouldn't hurt me. "

"I know no one ever comes near it when they can help it, " was thereply; "so, to be sure, you couldn't get set upon. And a pious lad ofyour sort wouldn't mind no other kind. Not like ghosts, or anything ofthat. "

And Bully Tom looked round at his companion; a fact disagreeable fromits rarity. 

"I don't believe in ghosts, " said Bill, stoutly. 

"Of course you don't, " sneered his tormentor; "you're too welleducated. Some people does, though. I suppose them that has seen themdoes. Some people thinks that murdered men walk. P'raps some peoplethinks the man as was murdered in Yew-lane walks. "

"What man?" gasped Bill, feeling very chilly down the spine. 

"Him that was riding by the cross-roads and dragged into Yew-lane, andhis head cut off and never found, and his body buried in thechurchyard, " said Bully Tom, with a rush of superior information;"and all I know is, if I thought he walked in Yew-lane, or any otherlane, I wouldn't go within five mile of it after dusk--that's all. Butthen I'm not book-larned. "

The two last statements were true if nothing else was that the man hadsaid; and after holding up his feet and examining his boots with hishead a-one-side, as if considering their probable efficiency againstflesh and blood, he slid from his perch, and "loafed" slowly up thestreet, whistling and kicking the stones as he went along. As toBeauty Bill, he fled home as fast as his legs would carry him. By thedoor stood Bessy, washing some clothes; who turned her pretty face ashe came up. 

"You're late, Bill, " she said. "Go in and get your tea, it's set out. It's night-school night, thou knows, and Master Arthur always likeshis class to time. " He lingered, and she continued--"John Gardener wasdown this afternoon about some potatoes, and he says Master Arthur isexpecting a friend. "

Bill did not heed this piece of news, any more than the slight flushon his sister's face as she delivered it; he was wondering whetherwhat Bully Tom said was mere invention to frighten him, or whetherthere was any truth in it. 

"Bessy!" he said, "was there a man ever murdered in Yew-lane?"

Bessy was occupied with her own thoughts, and did not notice theanxiety of the question. 

"I believe there was, " she answered carelessly, "somewhere aboutthere. It's a hundred years ago or more. There's an old gravestoneover him in the churchyard by the wall, with an odd verse on it. Theysay the parish clerk wrote it. But get your tea, or you'll be late, and father'll be angry;" and Bessy took up her tub and departed. 

Poor Bill! Then it was too true. He began to pull up his trousers andlook at his grazed legs; and the thoughts of his aching shins, BullyTom's cruelty, the unavoidable night-school, and the possible ghost, were too much for him, and he burst into tears. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "There are birds out on the bushes, In the meadows lies the lamb, How I wonder if they're ever Half as frightened as I am?"

C. F. ALEXANDER. 

The night-school was drawing to a close. The attendance had been good, and the room looked cheerful. In one corner the Rector was teaching agroup of grown-up men, who (better late than never) were zealouslylearning to read; in another the schoolmaster was flourishing hisstick before a map as he concluded his lesson in geography. By thefire sat Master Arthur, the Rector's son, surrounded by his class, andin front of him stood Beauty Bill. Master Arthur was very popular withthe people, especially with his pupils. The boys were anxious to getinto his class, and loath to leave it. They admired his great height, his merry laugh, the variety of walking-sticks he brought with him, and his very funny way of explaining pictures. He was not a verymethodical teacher, and was rather apt to give unexpected lessons onsubjects in which he happened just then to be interested himself; buthe had a clear simple way of explaining anything, which impressed iton the memory, and he took a great deal of pains in his own way. Billwas especially devoted to him. He often wished that Master Arthurcould get very rich, and take him for his man-servant; he thought heshould like to brush his clothes and take care of his sticks. He had agreat interest in the growth of his moustache and whiskers. For sometime past Master Arthur had had a trick of pulling at his upper lipwhilst he was teaching; which occasionally provoked a whisper of"Moostarch, guvernor!" between two unruly members of his class; butnever till to-night had Bill seen anything in that line whichanswered his expectations. Now, however, as he stood before the younggentleman, the fire-light fell on such a distinct growth of hair, thatBill's interest became absorbed to the exclusion of all but the mostperfunctory attention to the lesson on hand. Would Master Arthur growa beard? Would his moustache be short like the pictures of PrinceAlbert, or long and pointed like that of some other great man whoseportrait he had seen in the papers? He was calculating on the probableeffect of either style, when the order was given to put away books, and then the thought which had been for a time diverted came backagain--his walk home. 

Poor Bill! his fears returned with double force from having been forawhile forgotten. He dawdled over the books, he hunted in wrong placesfor his cap and comforter, he lingered till the last boy had clatteredthrough the doorway, and left him with a group of elders who closedthe proceedings and locked up the school. But after this further delaywas impossible. The whole party moved out into the moonlight, and theRector and his son, the schoolmaster and the teachers, commenced, asedate parish gossip, whilst Bill trotted behind, wondering whetherany possible or impossible business would take one of them his way. But when the turning point was reached, the Rector destroyed all hishopes. 

"None of us go your way, I think, " said he, as lightly as if therewere no grievance in the case; "however, it's not far. Good-night, myboy!"

And so with a volley of good-nights, the cheerful voices passed on upthe village. Bill stood till they had quite died away, and then whenall was silent, he turned into the lane. 

The cold night-wind crept into his ears, and made uncomfortable noisesamong the trees, and blew clouds over the face of the moon. He almostwished that there were no moon. The shifting shadows under his feet, and the sudden patches of light on unexpected objects, startled him, and he thought he should have felt less frightened if it had beenquite dark. Once he ran for a bit, then he resolved to be brave, thento be reasonable; he repeated scraps of lessons, hymns, and lastSunday's Collect, to divert and compose his mind; and as this planseemed to answer, he determined to go through the Catechism, bothquestion and answer, which he hoped might carry him to the end of hisunpleasant journey. He had just asked himself a question withconsiderable dignity, and was about to reply, when a sudden gleam ofmoonlight lit up a round object in the ditch. Bill's heart seemed togrow cold, and he thought his senses would have forsaken him. Couldthis be the head of ----? No! on nearer inspection it proved to beonly a turnip; and when one came to think of it, that would have beenrather a conspicuous place for the murdered man's skull to have beenlost in for so many years. 

My hero must not be ridiculed too much for his fears. The terrors thatvisit childhood are not the less real and overpowering from beingunreasonable; and to excite them is wanton cruelty. Moreover, he wasbut a little lad, and had been up and down Yew-lane both in daylightand dark without any fears, till Bully Tom's tormenting suggestionshad alarmed him. Even now, as he reached the avenue of yews from whichthe lane took its name, and passed into their gloomy shade, he triedto be brave. He tried to think of the good GOD Who takes care of Hischildren, and to Whom the darkness and the light are both alike. Hethought of all he had been taught about angels, and wondered if onewere near him now, and wished that he could see him, as Abraham andother good people had seen angels. In short, the poor lad did his bestto apply what he had been taught to the present emergency, and verylikely had he not done so he would have been worse; but as it was, hewas not a little frightened, as we shall see. 

Yew-lane--cool and dark when the hottest sunshine lay beyond it--aloitering place for lovers--the dearly-loved play-place ofgenerations of children on sultry summer days--looked very grim andvault-like, with narrow streaks of moonlight peeping in at rareintervals to make the darkness to be felt! Moreover, it was reallydamp and cold, which is not favourable to courage. At a certain pointYew-lane skirted a corner of the churchyard, and was itself crossed byanother road, thus forming a "four-want-way, " where suicides wereburied in times past. This road was the old high-road, where the mailcoach ran, and along which, on such a night as this, a hundred yearsago, a horseman rode his last ride. As he passed the church on hisfatal journey did anything warn him how soon his headless body wouldbe buried beneath its shadow? Bill wondered. He wondered if he wereold or young--what sort of a horse he rode--whose cruel hands draggedhim into the shadow of the yews and slew him, and where his head washidden, and why. Did the church look just the same, and the moon shinejust as brightly, that night a century ago? Bully Tom was right. Theweathercock and moon sit still, whatever happens. The boy watched thegleaming high road as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till hefancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse--and yet, no! The sound was not upon the hard road, but nearer; it was not theclatter of hoofs, but something--and a rustle--and then Bill's bloodseemed to freeze in his veins, as he saw a white figure, wrapped inwhat seemed to be a shroud, glide out of the shadow of the yews andmove slowly down the lane. When it reached the road it paused, raiseda long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished inthe direction of the churchyard. 

What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poorlad experienced is more than anyone can say, if at that moment thechurch clock had not begun to strike nine. The familiar sound, closein his ears, roused him from the first shock, and before it had ceasedhe contrived to make a desperate rally of his courage, flew over theroad, and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and homewithout looking behind him. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "It was to her a real _grief of heart_, acute, as children's sorrows often are. 

 "We beheld this from the opposite windows--and, seen thus from a little distance, how many of our own and of other people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally deserving of ridicule!"

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 

When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much morepractical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees. Bessywas ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towardsnight had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who hadpronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just comingdownstairs as Bill burst into the house. The mother was too muchoccupied about her daughter to notice the lad's condition; but thedoctor's sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at onceinquired what it was. Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he lookedas if he couldn't believe in ghosts. A slight frown, however, had comeover his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist ashe repeated his question. 

"Please, sir, " said Bill, "I've seen--"

"A mad dog?" suggested the doctor. 

"No, sir. "

"A mad bull?"

"No, sir, " said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost. "

The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked morecomfortable than ever. 

"And _where_ did we see the ghost?" he inquired, in a professionalvoice, as he took up his coat-tails and warmed himself at the fire. 

"In Yew-lane, sir; and I'm sure I did see it, " said Bill, halfcrying; "it was all in white, and beckoned me. "

"That's to say you saw a white gravestone, or a tree in the moonlight, or one of your classmates dressed up in a table-cloth. It was allmoonshine, depend upon it, " said the doctor, with a chuckle at his ownjoke; "take my advice, my boy, and don't give way to foolish fancies. "

At this point the mother spoke--

"If his father knew, sir, as he'd got any such fads in his head, he'dsoon flog 'em out of him. "

"His father is a very good one, " said the doctor; "a little too fondof the stick, perhaps. There, " he added, good-naturedly, slippingsixpence into Bill's hand, "get a new knife, my boy, and cut a goodthick stick, and the next ghost you meet, lay hold of him and let himtaste it. "

Bill tried to thank him, but somehow his voice was choked, and thedoctor turned to his mother. 

"The boy has been frightened, " he said, "and is upset. Give him somesupper, and put him to bed. " And the good gentleman departed. 

Bill was duly feasted and sent to rest. His mother did not mention thematter to her husband, as she knew he would be angry; and occupiedwith real anxiety for her daughter, she soon forgot it herself. Consequently, the next night-school night she sent Bill to "cleanhimself, " hurried on his tea, and packed him off, just as if nothinghad happened. 

The boy's feelings since the night of the apparition had not beenenviable. He could neither eat nor sleep. As he lay in bed at night, he kept his face covered with the clothes, dreading that if he peepedout into the room the phantom of the murdered horseman would beckon tohim from the dark corners. Lying so till the dawn broke and the cocksbegan to crow, he would then look cautiously forth, and seeing by thegrey light that the corners were empty, and that the figure by thedoor was not the Yew-lane Ghost, but his mother's faded print dresshanging on a nail, would drop his head and fall wearily asleep. Theday was no better, for each hour brought him nearer to the next nightschool; and Bessy's illness made his mother so busy, that he nevercould find the right moment to ask her sympathy for his fears, andstill less could he feel himself able to overcome them. And so thenight-school came round again, and there he sat, gulping down a fewmouthfuls of food, and wondering how he should begin to tell hismother that he neither dare, could, nor would, go down Yew-lane againat night. He had just opened his lips when the father came in, andasked in a loud voice "Why Bill was not off. " This effectually put astop to any confidences, and the boy ran out of the house. Not, however, to school. He made one or two desperate efforts atdetermination, and then gave up altogether. He _could_ not go!

He was wondering what he should do with himself, when it struck himthat he would go whilst it was daylight and look for the grave withthe odd verse of which Bessy had spoken. He had no difficulty infinding it. It was marked by a large ugly stone, on which theinscription was green and in some places almost effaced. 

 SACRED TO THE MEMORY

 OF

 EPHRAIM GARNETT--

He had read so far when a voice close by him said--

"You'll be late for school, young chap. "

Bill looked up, and to his horror beheld Bully Tom standing in theroad and kicking the churchyard wall. 

"Aren't you going?" he asked, as Bill did not speak. 

"Not to-night, " said Bill, with crimson cheeks. 

"Larking, eh?" said Bully Tom. "My eyes, won't your father give ityou!" and he began to move off. 

"Stop!" shouted Bill in an agony; "don't tell him, Tom. That would bea dirty trick. I'll go next time, I will indeed; I can't go to-night. I'm not larking, I'm scared. You won't tell?"

"Not this time, maybe, " was the reply; "but I wouldn't be in yourshoes if you play this game next night;" and off he went. 

Bill thought it well to quit the churchyard at once for some placewhere he was not likely to be seen; he had never played truant before, and for the next hour or two was thoroughly miserable as he slunkabout the premises of a neighbouring farm, and finally took refuge ina shed, and began to consider his position. He would remain hiddentill nine o'clock, and then go home. If nothing were said, well andgood; unless some accident should afterwards betray him. But if hismother asked any questions about the school? He dared not, and hewould not, tell a lie; and yet what would be the result of the truthcoming out? There could be no doubt that his father would beat him. Bill thought again, and decided that he could bear a thrashing, butnot the sight of the Yew-lane Ghost; so he remained where he was, wondering how it would be, and how he should get over the nextschool-night when it came. The prospect was so hopeless, and the poorlad so wearied with anxiety and wakeful nights, that he was almostasleep when he was startled by the church clock striking nine; and, jumping up, he ran home. His heart beat heavily as he crossed thethreshold; but his mother was still absorbed by thoughts of Bessy, andhe went to bed unquestioned. The next day too passed over without anyawkward remarks, which was very satisfactory; but then night-schoolday came again, and Bill felt that he was in a worse position thanever. He had played truant once with success; but he was aware that itwould not do a second time. Bully Tom was spiteful, and Master Arthurmight come to "look up" his recreant pupil, and then Bill's fatherwould know all. 

On the morning of the much-dreaded day, his mother sent him up to theRectory to fetch some little delicacy that had been promised forBessy's dinner. He generally found it rather amusing to go there. Heliked to peep at the pretty garden, to look out for Master Arthur, andto sit in the kitchen and watch the cook, and wonder what she did withall the dishes and bright things that decorated the walls. To-day allwas quite different. He avoided the gardens, he was afraid of beingseen by his teacher, and though cook had an unusual display of potsand pans in operation, he sat in the corner of the kitchen indifferentto everything but the thought of the Yew-lane Ghost. The dinner forBessy was put between two saucers, and as cook gave it into his handsshe asked kindly after his sister, and added--

"You don't look over-well yourself, lad! What's amiss?"

Bill answered that he was quite well, and hurried out of the house toavoid further inquiries. He was becoming afraid of everyone! As hepassed the garden he thought of the gardener, and wondered if he wouldhelp him. He was very young and very good-natured; he had taken oflate to coming to see Bessy, and Bill had his own ideas upon thatpoint; finally, he had a small class at the night-school. Billwondered whether if he screwed up his courage to-night to go, JohnGardener would walk back with him for the pleasure of hearing thelatest accounts of Bessy. But all hopes of this sort were cut off byMaster Arthur's voice shouting to him from the garden--

"Hi, there! I want you, Willie! Come here, I say. "

Bill ran through the evergreens, and there among the flower-beds inthe sunshine he saw--first, John Gardener driving a mowing-machineover the velvety grass under Master Arthur's very nose, so there wasno getting a private interview with him. Secondly, Master Arthurhimself, sitting on the ground with his terrier in his lap, directingthe proceedings by means of a donkey-headed stick with elaboratelycarved ears; and thirdly, Master Arthur's friend. 

Now little bits of gossip will fly; and it had been heard in thedining-room, and conveyed by the parlour-maid to the kitchen, andpassed from the kitchen into the village, that Master Arthur's friendwas a very clever young gentleman; consequently Beauty Bill had beenvery anxious to see him. As, however, the clever young gentleman waslying on his back on the grass, with his hat flattened over his faceto keep out the sun, and an open book lying on its face upon hiswaistcoat to keep the place, and otherwise quite immovable, and verylike other young gentlemen, Bill did not feel much the wiser forlooking at him. He had a better view of him soon, however, for MasterArthur began to poke his friend's legs with the donkey-headed stick, and to exhort him to get up. 

"Hi! Bartram, get up! Here's my prime pupil. See what we can turn out. You may examine him if you like. Willie: this gentleman is a veryclever gentleman, so you must keep your wits about you. _He'll_ putquestions to you, I can tell you! There's as much difference betweenhis head and mine, as between mine and the head of this stick. " AndMaster Arthur flourished his "one-legged donkey, " as he called it, inthe air, and added, "Bartram! you lazy lout! _will_ you get up andtake an interest in my humble efforts for the good of myfellow-creatures?"

Thus adjured, Mr. Bartram sat up with a jerk which threw his book onto his boots, and his hat after it, and looked at Bill. Now Bill andthe gardener had both been grinning, as they always did at MasterArthur's funny speeches, but when Bill found the clever gentlemanlooking at him, he straightened his face very quickly. The gentlemanwas not at all like his friend ("nothing near so handsome, " Billreported at home), and he had such a large prominent forehead that helooked as if he were bald. When he sat up, he suddenly screwed up hiseyes in a very peculiar way, pulled out a double gold eye-glass, fixedit on his nose, and stared through it for a second; after which hiseyes unexpectedly opened to their full extent (they were not smallones), and took a sharp survey of Bill over the top of his spectacles;and this ended, he lay back on his elbow without speaking. Bill thenand there decided that Mr. Bartram was very proud, rather mad, and themost disagreeable gentleman he ever saw; and he felt sure could see aswell as he (Bill) could, and only wore spectacles out of a peculiarkind of pride and vain-glory which he could not exactly specify. Master Arthur seemed to think, at any rate, that he was not verycivil, and began at once to talk to the boy himself. 

"Why were you not at school last time, Willie? couldn't your motherspare you?"

"Yes, Sir. "

"Then why didn't you come?" said Master Arthur, in evidentastonishment. 

Poor Bill! He stammered as he had stammered before the doctor, andfinally gasped--

"Please, Sir, I was scared. "

"Scared? What of?"

"Ghosts, " murmured Bill in a very ghostly whisper. Mr. Bartram raisedhimself a little. Master Arthur seemed confounded. 

"Why, you little goose! How is it you never were afraid before?"

"Please, Sir, I saw one the other night. "

Mr. Bartram took another look over the top of his eye-glass and satbolt upright, and John Gardener stayed his machine and listened, whilepoor Bill told the whole story of the Yew-lane Ghost. 

When it was finished, the gardener, who was behind Master Arthur, said--

"I've heard something of this, Sir, in the village, " and then addedmore which Bill could not hear. 

"Eh, what?" said Master Arthur. "Willie, take the machine and driveabout the garden a-bit wherever you like. Now, John. "

Willie did not at all like being sent away at this interesting point. Another time he would have enjoyed driving over the short grass, andseeing it jump up like a little green fountain in front of him; butnow his whole mind was absorbed by the few words he caught atintervals of the conversation going on between John and the younggentlemen. What could it mean? Mr. Bartram seemed to have awakened toextraordinary energy, and was talking rapidly. Bill heard the words"lime-light" and "large sheet, " and thought they must be planning amagic-lantern exhibition, but was puzzled by catching the word"turnip. " At last, as he was rounding the corner of a bed ofgeraniums, he distinctly heard Mr. Bartram ask--

"They cut the man's head off, didn't they?"

Then they were talking about the ghost, after all! Bill gave themachine a jerk, and to his dismay sliced a branch off one of thegeraniums. What was to be done? He must tell Master Arthur, but hecould not interrupt him just now; so on he drove, feeling very muchdispirited, and by no means cheered by hearing shouts of laughter fromthe party on the grass. When one is puzzled and out of spirits, it isno consolation to hear other people laughing over a private joke;moreover, Bill felt that if they were still on the subject of themurdered man and his ghost, their merriment was very unsuitable. Whatever was going on, it was quite evident that Mr. Bartram was theleading spirit of it, for Bill could see Master Arthur waving the onelegged donkey in an ecstasy, as he clapped his friend on the back tillthe eye-glass danced upon his nose. At last Mr. Bartram threw himselfback as if closing a discussion, and said loud enough for Bill tohear--

"You never heard of a bully who wasn't a coward. "

Bill thought of Bully Tom, and how he had said he dared not risk thechance of meeting with a ghost, and began to think that this was aclever young gentleman, after all. Just then Master Arthur called tohim; and he took the bit of broken geranium and went. 

"Oh, Willie!" said Master Arthur, "we've been talking over yourmisfortunes--geranium? fiddle-sticks! put it in your button-hole--yourmisfortunes, I say, and for to-night at any rate we intend to help youout of them. John--ahem!--will be--ahem!--engaged to-night, and unableto take his class as usual; but this gentleman has kindly consented tofill his place ("Hear, hear, " said the gentleman alluded to), and ifyou'll come to-night, like a good lad, he and I will walk back withyou; so if you do see the ghost, it will be in good company. But, mind, this is on one condition. You must not say anything aboutit--about our walking back with you, I mean--to anybody. Say nothing;but get ready and come to school as usual. You understand?"

"Yes, Sir, " said Bill; "and I'm very much obliged to you, Sir, and theother gentleman as well. "

Nothing more was said, so Bill made his best bow and retired. As hewent he heard Master Arthur say to the gardener--

"Then you'll go to the town at once, John. We shall want the things assoon as possible. You'd better take the pony, and we'll have the listready for you. "

Bill heard no more words; but as he left the grounds the laughter ofthe young gentlemen rang out into the road. 

What did it all mean?

CHAPTER IV

 "The night was now pitmirk; the wind soughed amid the headstones and railings of the gentry (for we all must die), and the black corbies in the steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a fearsome manner. "

 MANSIE WAUGH. 

Bill was early at the night-school. No other of his class had arrived, so he took the corner by the fire sacred to first-comers, and watchedthe gradual gathering of the school. Presently Master Arthur appeared, and close behind him came his friend. Mr. Bartram Lindsay looked moreattractive now than he had done in the garden. When standing, he wasan elegant though plain-looking young man, neat in his dress, and withan admirable figure. He was apt to stand very still and silent for alength of time, and had a habit of holding his chin up in the air, which led some people to say that he "held himself very high. " Thiswas the opinion that Bill had formed, and he was rather alarmed byhearing Master Arthur pressing his friend to take his class instead ofthe more backward one, over which the gardener usually presided; andhe was proportionably relieved when Mr. Bartram steadily declined. 

"To say the truth, Bartram, " said the young gentleman, "I am muchobliged to you, for I am used to my own boys, and prefer them. "

Then up came the schoolmaster. 

"Mr. Lindsay going to take John's class? Thank you, Sir. I've put outthe books; if you want anything else, Sir, p'raps you'll mention it. When they have done reading, perhaps, Sir, you will kindly draft themoff for writing, and take the upper classes in arithmetic, if youdon't object, Sir. "

Mr. Lindsay did not object. 

"If you have a picture or two, " he said. "Thank you. Know theirletters? All right. Different stages of progression. Very good. I'veno doubt we shall get on together. "

"Between ourselves, Bartram, " whispered Master Arthur into hisfriend's ear, "the class is composed of boys who ought to have been toschool, and haven't; or who have been, and are none the better for it. Some of them can what they call 'read in the Testament, ' and all ofthem confound b and d when they meet with them. They are at one pointof general information--namely, they all know what you have just toldthem, and will none of them know it by next time. I call it therag-tag and bob-tail class. John says they are like forced tulips. They won't blossom simultaneously. He can't get them all to onestandard of reading. "

Mr. Lindsay laughed and said--

"He had better read less, and try a little general oral instruction. Perhaps they don't remember because they can't understand;"--and theRector coming in at that moment, the business of the eveningcommenced. 

Having afterwards to cross the school for something, Bill passed thenew teacher and his class, and came to the conclusion that they did"get on together, " and very well too. The rag-tag and bob-tail shonethat night, and afterwards were loud in praises of the lesson. "It wasso clear, " and "He was so patient. " Indeed, patience was one greatsecret of Mr. Lindsay's teaching; he waited so long for an answer thathe generally got it. His pupils were obliged to exert themselves whenthere was no hope of being passed over, and everybody was waiting. Finally, Bill's share of the arithmetic lesson converted him to MasterArthur's friend. He _was_ a clever young gentleman, and a kind onetoo. 

The lesson had been so interesting--the clever young gentleman, standing (without his eye-glass) by the blackboard, had been so strictand yet so entertaining, was so obviously competent, and so pleasantlykind, that Bill, who liked arithmetic, and (like all intelligentchildren) appreciated good teaching, had had no time to think of theYew-lane Ghost till the lesson was ended. It was not till the hymnbegan (they always ended the night-school with singing), then heremembered it. Then, while he was shouting with all his might BishopKen's glorious old lines--

 "Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings, "

he caught Mr. Lindsay's eyes fixed on him, and back came the thoughtsof his terrible fright, with a little shame too at his own timidity. Which of us trusts as we should do in the "defence of the Most High?"

Bill lingered as he had done the last time, and went out with the"grown-ups. " It had been raining, and the ground was wet and sludgy, though it was fair overhead. The wind was cold, too, and Mr. Lindsaybegan to cough so violently, that Bill felt rather ashamed of takinghim so far out of his way, through the damp chilly lane, and began towonder whether he could not summon up courage to go alone. The resultwas, that with some effort he said--

"Please, Mr. Lindsay, Sir, I think you won't like to come so far thiscold night. I'll try and manage, if you like. "

Mr. Lindsay laid one hand on Bill's shoulder, and said quietly--

"No, thank you, my boy, we'll come with you, Thank you, all the same. "

"Nevertheless, Bartram, " said Master Arthur, "I wish you could keepthat cough of yours quiet--it will spoil everything. A boy was eatingpeppermints in the shade of his copy-book this very night. I did boxhis ears; but I wish I had seized the goodies, they might have keptyou quiet. "

"Thank you, " was the reply, "I abhor peppermint; but I have got somelozenges, if that will satisfy you. And when I smell ghosts, I cansmother myself in my pocket-handkerchief. "

Master Arthur laughed boisterously. 

"We shall smell one if brimstone will do it. I hope he won't sethimself on fire, or the scenic effect will be stronger than webargained for. "

This was the beginning of a desultory conversation carried on atintervals between the two young gentlemen, of which, though Bill heardevery sentence, he couldn't understand one. He made one effort todiscover what Master Arthur was alluding to, but with no satisfactoryresult, as we shall see. 

"Please, Master Arthur, " he said desperately, "you don't thinkthere'll be two ghosts, do you, Sir?"

"I should say, " said Master Arthur, so slowly and with such gravitythat Bill felt sure he was making fun of him, "I should say, Bill, that if a place is haunted at all there is no limit to the number ofghosts--fifty quite as likely as one. What do you say, Bartram?"

"Quite so, " said Bartram. 

Bill made no further attempts to understand the mystery. He listened, but only grew more and more bewildered at the dark hints he heard, andnever understood what it all meant until the end came; when (as is notuncommon) he wondered how he could have been so stupid, and why he hadnot seen it all from the very first. 

They had now reached the turning-point, and as they passed into thedark lane, where the wind was shuddering and shivering among thetrees, Bill shuddered and shivered too, and felt very glad that theyoung gentlemen were with him, after all. 

Mr. Lindsay pulled out his watch. 

"Well?" said his friend. 

"Ten minutes to nine. "

Then they walked on in silence, Master Arthur with one arm through hisfriend's, and the one-legged donkey under the other; and Mr. Lindsaywith his hand on Bill's shoulder. 

"I _should_ like a pipe!" said Master Arthur presently; "it's soabominably damp. "

"What a fellow you are, " said Mr. Lindsay. "Out of the question! Withthe wind setting down the lane too! you talk of my cough--which isbetter, by-the-bye. "

"What a fellow _you_ are!" retorted the other. "Bartram, you are theoddest creature I know. What ever you take up, you do drive at so. NowI have hardly got a lark afloat before I'm sick of it. I wish you'dtell me two things--first, why are you so grave to-night? and, secondly, what made you take up our young friend's cause so warmly?"

"One answer will serve both questions, " said Mr. Lindsay. "The truthis, old fellow, our young friend--[and Bill felt certain that the'young friend' was himself]--has a look of a little chap I was chumwith at school--Regy Gordon. I don't talk about it often, for I can'tvery well; but he was killed--think of it, man!--_killed_ by such apiece of bullying as this! When they found him, he was quite stiff andspeechless; he lived a few hours, but he only said two words--my name, and amen. "

"Amen?" said Master Arthur, inquiringly. 

"Well, you see when the surgeon said it was no go, they telegraphedfor his friends; but they were a long way off, and he was sinkingrapidly; and the old Doctor was in the room, half heart-broken, and hesaw Gordon move his hands together, and he said, 'If any boy knowswhat prayers Gordon minor has been used to say, let him come and saythem by him;' and I did. So I knelt by his bed and said them, the oldDoctor kneeling too and sobbing like a child; and when I had done, Regy moved his lips and said 'Amen;' and then he said 'Lindsay!' andsmiled, and then--"

Master Arthur squeezed his friend's arm tightly, but said nothing, andboth the young men were silent; but Bill could not restrain his tears. It seemed the saddest story he had ever heard, and Mr. Lindsay's handupon his shoulder shook so intolerably whilst he was speaking, that hehad taken it away, which made Bill worse, and he fairly sobbed. 

"What are you blubbering about, young 'un?" said Mr. Lindsay. "He isbetter off than any of us, and if you are a good boy you will see himsome day;" and the young gentleman put his hand back again, which wassteady now. 

"What became of the other fellow?" said Master Arthur. 

"He was taken away, of course. Sent abroad, I believe. It was hushedup. And now you know, " added Mr. Lindsay, "why my native indolence hasroused itself to get this cad taught a lesson, which many a time Iwished to GOD when wishes were too late, that that other bully hadbeen taught _in time_. But no one could thrash him; and no one durstcomplain. However, let's change the subject, old fellow! I've got overit long since: though sometimes I think the wish to see Regy againhelps to keep me a decent sort of fellow. But when I saw the likenessthis morning, it startled me; and then to hear the story, it seemedlike a dream--the Gordon affair over again. I suppose rustic nervesare tougher; however, your village blackguard shan't have the chanceof committing murder if we can cure him!"

"I believe you half wanted to undertake the cure yourself, " saidMaster Arthur. 

Mr. Lindsay laughed. 

"I did for a minute. Fancy your father's feelings if I had come homewith a black eye from an encounter with a pot-house bully! You know Iput my foot into a tender secret of your man's, by offering to be theperformer!"

"How?"

Mr. Lindsay lowered his voice, but not so that Bill could not hearwhat he said, and recognize the imitation of John Gardener. 

"He said, 'I'd rather do it, if _you_ please, Sir. The fact is, I'mpartial to the young woman myself!' After that, I could but leave Johnto defend his young woman's belongings. "

"Gently!" exclaimed Master Arthur. "There is the Yew Walk. "

From this moment the conversation was carried on in whispers, toBill's further mystification. The young gentlemen recovered theirspirits, and kept exploding in smothered chuckles of laughter. 

"Cold work for him if he's been waiting long!" whispered one. 

"Don't know. His head's under cover, remember!" said the other: andthey laughed. 

"Bet you sixpence he's been smearing his hand with brimstone for thelast half hour. "

"Don't smell him yet, though. "

"He'll be a patent aphis-destroyer in the rose-garden for months tocome. "

"Sharp work for the eyelids if it gets under the sheet. "

They were now close by the Yews, out of which the wind came with apeculiar chill, as if it had been passing through a vault. Mr. BartramLindsay stooped down, and whispered in Bill's ear. "Listen, my lad. Wecan't go down the lane with you, for we want to see the ghost, but wedon't want the ghost to see us. Don't be frightened, but go just asusual. And mind--when you see the white figure, point with your ownarm _towards the Church_, and scream as loud as you like. Can you dothis?"

"Yes, Sir, " whispered Bill. 

"Then off with you. We shall creep quietly on behind the trees; andyou shan't be hurt, I promise you. "

Bill summoned his courage, and plunged into the shadows. What could bethe meaning of Mr. Lindsay's strange orders? Should he ever havecourage to lift his arm towards the church in the face of that awfulapparition of the murdered man? And if he did, would the unquietspirit take the hint, and go back into the grave, which Bill knew wasat that very corner to which he must point? Left alone, his terrorsbegan to return; and he listened eagerly to see if, amid theceaseless soughing of the wind among the long yew branches, he couldhear the rustle of the young men's footsteps as they crept behind. Buthe could distinguish nothing. The hish-wishing of the thin leaves wasso incessant, the wind was so dexterous and tormenting in the tricksit played and the sounds it produced, that the whole place seemedalive with phantom rustlings and footsteps; and Bill felt as if MasterArthur was right, and that there was "no limit" to the number ofghosts!

At last he could see the end of the avenue. There among the few lasttrees was the place where the ghost had appeared. There beyond lay thewhite road, the churchyard corner, and the tall grey tomb-stoneglimmering in the moonlight. A few steps more, and slowly from amongthe yews came the ghost as before, and raised its long white arm. Billdetermined that, if he died for it, he would do as he had been told;and lifting his own hand he pointed towards the tomb-stone, and gave ashout. As he pointed, the ghost turned round, and then--rising frombehind the tomb-stone, and gliding slowly to the edge of the wall, which separated the churchyard from the lower level of the road--thereappeared a sight so awful, that Bill's shout merged into a prolongedscream of terror. 

Truly Master Arthur's anticipations of a "scenic effect" were amplyrealized. The walls and buttresses of the old Church stood out darkagainst the sky; the white clouds sailed slowly by the moon, whichreflected itself on the damp grass, and shone upon the flat wettomb-stones till they looked like pieces of water. It was not lessbright upon the upright ones, upon quaint crosses, short headstones, and upon the huge ungainly memorial of the murdered Ephraim Garnett. But _the_ sight on which it shone that night was the figure nowstanding by Ephraim Garnett's grave, and looking over the wall. Anawful figure, of gigantic height, with ghostly white garments clinginground its headless body, and carrying under its left arm the head thatshould have been upon its shoulders. On this there was neither fleshnor hair. It seemed to be a bare skull, with fire gleaming through thehollow eye-sockets and the grinning teeth. The right hand of thefigure was outstretched as if in warning; and from the palms to thetips of the fingers was a mass of lambent flame. When Bill saw thisfearful apparition he screamed with hearty good will; but the noise hemade was nothing to the yell of terror that came from beneath theshroud of the Yew-lane Ghost, who, on catching sight of the rivalspectre, fled wildly up the lane, kicking the white sheet off as hewent, and finally displaying, to Bill's amazement, the form andfeatures of Bully Tom. But this was not all. No sooner had the firstghost started, than the second (not to be behind-hand) jumped nimblyover the wall, and gave chase. But fear had put wings on to BullyTom's feet; and the second ghost being somewhat encumbered by hiscostume, judged it wisdom to stop; and then taking the fiery skull inits flaming hands, shied it with such dexterity, that it hit Bully Tomin the middle of his back, and falling on to the wet ground, went outwith a hiss. This blow was an unexpected shock to the Bully, whothought the ghost must have come up to him with supernatural rapidity, and falling on his knees in the mud, began to roar most lustily:

"Lord, have mercy upon me! I'll never do it no more!"

Mr. Lindsay was not likely to alter his opinion on the subject ofbullies. This one, like others, was a mortal coward. Like other men, who have no fear of GOD before their eyes, he made up for it by havinga very hearty fear of sickness, death, departed souls, and one or twoother things, which the most self-willed sinner knows well enough tobe in the hands of a Power which he cannot see, and does not wish tobelieve in. Bully Tom had spoken the truth when he said that if hethought there was a ghost in Yew-lane he wouldn't go near it. If hehad believed the stories with which he had alarmed poor Bill, thelad's evening walk would never have been disturbed, as far as he wasconcerned. Nothing but his spite against Bessy would have made himtake so much trouble to vex the peace, and stop the schooling, of herpet brother; and as it was, the standing alone by the churchyard atnight was a position so little to his taste, that he had drunk prettyheavily in the public-house for half an hour beforehand, to keep uphis spirits. And now he had been paid back in his own coin, and laygrovelling in the mud, and calling profanely on the Lord, Whose mercysuch men always cry for in their trouble, if they never ask it fortheir sins. He was so confused and blinded by drink and fright, thathe did not see the second ghost divest himself of his encumbrances, orknow that it was John Gardener, till that rosy-cheeked worthy, hisclenched hands still flaming with brimstone, danced round him, andshouted scornfully, and with that vehemence of aspiration, in which hewas apt to indulge when excited:

"Get hup, yer great cowardly booby, will yer? So you thought you wascoming hout to frighten a little lad, did ye? And you met with one ofyour hown size, did ye? Now _will_ ye get hup and take it like a man, or shall I give it you as ye lie there?"

Bully Tom chose the least of two evils, and staggering to his feetwith an oath, rushed upon John. But in his present condition he was nomatch for the active little gardener, inspired with just wrath, andthoughts of Bessy; and he then and there received such a soundthrashing as he had not known since he first arrogated the characterof village bully. He was roaring loudly for mercy, and John Gardenerwas giving him a harmless roll in the mud by way of conclusion, whenhe caught sight of the two young gentlemen in the lane--Master Arthurin fits of laughter at the absurd position of the ex-Yew-lane Ghostand Mr. Lindsay standing still and silent, with folded arms, set lips, and the gold eye-glass on his nose. As soon as he saw them, he beganto shout, "Murder! help!" at the top of his voice. 

"I see myself, " said Master Arthur, driving his hands contemptuouslyinto his pockets--"I see myself helping a great lout who came out tofrighten a child, and can neither defend his own eyes and nose, nortake a licking with a good grace when he deserves it!"

Bully Tom appealed to Mr. Lindsay. 

"Yah! yah!" he howled: "will you see a man killed for want of help?"

But the clever young gentleman seemed even less inclined to give hisassistance. 

"Killed!" he said contemptuously; "I _have_ seen a lad killed on sucha night as this, by such a piece of bullying! Be thankful you havebeen stopped in time! I wouldn't raise my little finger to save youfrom twice such a thrashing. It has been fairly earned! Give the ghosthis shroud, Gardener, and let him go; and recommend him not to hauntYew-lane in future. "

John did so, with a few words of parting advice on his own account. 

"Be hoff with you, " he said. "Master Lindsay, he speaks like a book. You're a disgrace to your hage and sect, you are! I'd as soon fightwith an old charwoman. Though, bless you, young gentlemen, " he added, as Bully Tom slunk off muttering, "he _is_ the biggest blackguard inthe place; and what the Rector'll say, when he comes to know as you'vebeen mingled up with him, passes me. "

"He'll forgive us, I dare say, " said Master Arthur. "I only wish hecould have seen you emerge from behind that stone! It was a sight fora century! I wonder what the youngster thought of it! Hi, Willie, here, Sir! What did you think of the second ghost?"

Bill had some doubts as to the light in which he ought to regard thatapparition; but he decided on the simple truth. 

"I thought it looked very horrid, Sir. "

"I should hope it did! The afternoon's work of three able-bodied menhas been marvellously wasted if it didn't. However, I must say youhalloed out loud enough!"

Bill coloured, the more so as Mr. Lindsay was looking hard at him overthe top of his spectacles. 

"Don't you feel rather ashamed of all your fright, now you've seen theghosts without their sheets?" inquired the clever young gentleman. 

"Yes, Sir, " said Bill, hanging his head. "I shall never believe inghosts again, Sir, though. "

Mr. Bartram Lindsay took off his glasses, and twiddled them in hisfingers. 

"Well, well, " he said in a low hurried voice; "I'm not the parson, andI don't pretend to say what you should believe and what you shouldn't. We know precious little as to how much the spirits of the dead see andknow of what they have left behind. But I think you may venture toassure yourself that when a poor soul has passed the waves of thistroublesome world, by whatever means, it doesn't come back kickingabout under a white sheet in dark lanes, to frighten little boys fromgoing to school. "

"And that's very true, Sir, " said John Gardener, admiringly. 

"So it is, " said Master Arthur. "I couldn't have explained thatmyself, Willie; but those are my sentiments and I beg you'll attend towhat Mr. Lindsay has told you. "

"Yes, Sir, " said Bill. 

Mr. Lindsay laughed, though not quite merrily, and said--

"I could tell him something more, Arthur, though he's too young tounderstand it: namely, that if he lives, the day will come, when hewould be only too happy if the dead might come back and hold out theirhands to us, anywhere, and for however short a time. "

The young gentleman stopped abruptly; and the gardener heaved asympathetic sigh. 

"I tell you what it is, Bartram, " muttered Master Arthur, "I supposeI'm too young, too, for I've had quite enough of the melancholies forone night. As to you, you're as old as the hills; but it's time youcame home; and if I'd known before what you told me to night, oldfellow, you shouldn't have come out on this expedition. Now, for you, Willie, " added the young gentleman, whirling sharply round, "if you'renot a pattern Solomon henceforth, it won't be the fault of yourfriends. And if wisdom doesn't bring you to school after this, I shalltry the argument of the one-legged donkey. "

"I don't think I shall miss next time, Sir. "

"I hope you won't. Now, John, as you've come so far, you may as wellsee the lad safe home; but don't shake hands with the family in thepresent state of your fists, or you might throw somebody into a fit. Good-night!"

Yew-lane echoed a round of "Good-nights;" and Bill and the gardenerwent off in high spirits. As they crossed the road, Bill looked round, and under the trees saw the young gentlemen strolling back to theRectory, arm in arm. Mr. Bartram Lindsay with his chin high in theair, and Master Arthur vehemently exhorting him on some topic, ofwhich he was pointing the moral with flourishes of the one-leggeddonkey. 

 * * * * *

For those who like to know "what became of" everybody, these facts areadded:

The young gentlemen got safely home; and Master Arthur gave such acomical account of their adventure, that the Rector laughed too muchto scold them, even if he had wished. 

Beauty Bill went up and down Yew-lane on many a moonlight night afterthis one, but he never saw another ghost, or felt any more fears inconnection with Ephraim Garnett. To make matters more entirelycomfortable, however, John kindly took to the custom of walking homewith the lad after night-school was ended. In return for thisattention, Bill's family were apt to ask him in for an hour; and bytheir fire-side he told the story of the two ghosts so often--from themanufacture in the Rectory barn to the final apparition at thecross-roads--that the whole family declare they feel just as if theyhad seen it. 

Bessy, under the hands of the cheerful doctor, got quite well, andeventually married. As her cottage boasts the finest window plants inthe village, it is shrewdly surmised that her husband is a gardener. 

Bully Tom talked very loudly for some time of "having the law of" therival ghost; but finding, perhaps, that the story did not redound tohis credit, was unwilling to give it further publicity, and changedhis mind. 

Winter and summer, day and night, sunshine and moonlight, have passedover the lane and the churchyard, and the wind has had many a ghostlyhowl among the yews, since poor Bill learnt the story of the murder;but he knows now that the true Ephraim Garnett has never been seen onthe cross-roads since a hundred years ago, and will not be till theGreat Day. 

In the ditch by the side of Yew-lane shortly after the events I havebeen describing, a little lad found a large turnip, in which someonehad cut eyes, nose, and mouth, and put bits of stick for teeth. Theturnip was hollow, and inside it was fixed a bit of wax candle. Helighted it up, and the effect was so splendid, that he made a show ofit to his companions at the price of a marble each, who were wellsatisfied. And this was the last of the Yew-lane Ghosts. 

A BAD HABIT. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. "

 SHAKESPEARE. 

My godmother, Lady Elizabeth, used to say, "Most things are matters ofhabit. Good habits and bad habits. " And she generally added, "_Your_bad habit, Selina, is a habit of grumbling. "

I was always accustomed to seeing great respect paid to anything mygodmother said or did. In the first place, she was what Mrs. ArthurJames Johnson called "a fine lady, " and what the maids called "a reallady. " She was an old friend and, I think, a relative of my father, who had married a little below his own rank--my mother being thedaughter of a rich manufacturer. My father had died before I canremember things, and Joseph and I lived with our mother and herfriends. At least, we were with our mother when she could bear thenoise; and for the rest of our time, when we were tired of playinggames together, we sat with the maids. 

"That is where you learned your little _toss_ and your trick ofgrumbling, my dear, " my godmother said, planting her gold eye-glasseson her high nose; "and that is why your mouth is growing out of shape, and your forehead getting puckered, and your chin poked, and--and yourboots bulged crooked. "

"_My boots_, godmother?"

"Your boots, my dear. No boots will keep in shape if you shake yourhips and kick with your heels like a servant out Sunday walking. Whenlittle girls flounce on the high road, it only looks ridiculous; butwhen you grow up, you'll never have a clean petticoat, or be known fora well-bred woman behind your back, unless you learn to walk as ifyour legs and your feelings were under your own control. That is whythe sergeant is coming to-morrow and every week-day morning to drillyou and Joseph from ten to eleven whilst you remain here. "

And my godmother pressed the leaves of the journal on her lap, and cutthem quite straight and very decisively with a heavy ivorypaper-knife. 

I had never been taught that it is bad manners to mutter--nursealways talked to herself when she was "put out"--and, as I stood inmuch awe of Lady Elizabeth, I did not like to complain aloud of herarrangements. So I turned my doll with a sharp flounce in my arms, andmuttered behind her tarlatan skirts that "I did think we were to havehad whole holidays out visiting. "

I believe my godmother heard me; but she only looked at me for amoment over the top of her gold eye-glasses, and then went on readingthe paper through them. 

After a few moments, she laid it down on her lap with her left hand, and with her right hand took off her eye-glasses and held them betweenher fingers. 

"I shall be sorry if you don't grow up nice-looking, Selina, " shesaid. "It's a great advantage to a woman--indeed, to anyone--to begood-looking. Your mother was a pretty woman, too; and your father--"

Lady Elizabeth stopped, and then, seeming suddenly to see that I waswatching her and waiting, put her glasses before her eyes again, andcontinued--

"Your father was a very good-looking gentleman, with a fine face and afine figure, beautiful eyes and mouth, very attractive hands, and mostfascinating manners. It will be a pity if you don't grow upnice-looking. "

I grew crimson, partly with mortification and partly withastonishment. I had a strong natural desire to be pretty, but I feltsure I had been taught somehow that it was much more meritorious notto care about it. It certainly did not please me when (if I hadoffended them) the maids said I should never be as pretty as Maud MaryIbbetson, my bosom friend; but when nurse took the good looking-glassout of the nursery, and hung up the wavy one which used to be in herroom instead, to keep me from growing vain, I did not dispute herstatement that "the less little girls looked in the glass the better. "And when I went to see Maud Mary (who was the only child of richparents, and had a cheval-glass in her own bed-room), it was a justsatisfaction to me to feel that if she was prettier, and could seeherself full length, she was probably vainer than I. 

It was very mortifying, therefore, to find that my godmother not onlythought me plain, but gave me no credit for not minding it. I grewredder and redder, and my eyes filled with tears. 

Lady Elizabeth was very nice in one way--she treated us with as muchcourtesy and consideration as if we were grown up. People do not thinkabout being polite to children, but my godmother was very polite. 

"My dear child, " she said, holding out her hand, "I am very sorry if Ihave hurt your feelings. I beg your pardon. "

I put my hot and rather dirty little paw among her cool fingers anddiamond rings. I could not mutter to her face, but I said rather undermy sobs that "it seemed such a thing" to be blamed for not beingpretty. 

"My dear Selina, I never said anything about your being pretty. I saidI should be sorry if you did not grow up nice-looking, which is quiteanother thing. It will depend on yourself whether you are nice-lookingor not. "

I began to feel comforted, but I bridled my chin in an aggrievedmanner, which I know I had caught from Mrs. Marsden, the charwoman, when she took tea in the nursery and told long tales to nurse; and Isaid I "was sure it wasn't for want of speaking to" nurse that my hairdid not wave like Maud Mary's, but that when I asked her to crimp it, she only said, "Handsome is that handsome does, and that ought to beenough for you, Miss Selina, without _my_ slaving to damp-plait yourhair every night. "

I repeated nurse's speech pretty volubly, and with her sharp accentand accompanying toss. My godmother heard me out, and then she said--

"Nurse quoted a very good proverb, which is even truer than it isallowed to be. Those who do well grow to look well. My littlegoddaughter, that soft child's face of yours can be pinched and pulledinto a nice shape or an ugly shape, very much as you pull and pinchthat gutta-percha head I gave you, and, one way or another, it isbeing shaped all along. "

"But people can't give themselves beautiful figures, and eyes, andmouths, and hands, as you said papa had, unless they are born so, " Iobjected. 

"Your father's figure, my dear, " said Lady Elizabeth, "was beautifulwith the grace and power which comes of training. He was a militaryman, and you have only to look at a dozen common men in a marchingregiment and compare them with a dozen of the same class of men who goon plodding to work and loafing at play in their native villages, tosee what people can do for their own figures. His eyes, Selina, werebright with intelligence and trained powers of observation; and theywere beautiful with kindliness, and with the well-bred habit of givingcomplete attention to other people and their affairs when he talkedwith them. He had a rare smile, which you may not inherit, but thereal beauty of such mouths as his comes from the lips being restrainedinto firm and sensitive lines, through years of self-control and finesympathies. "

I do not quite understand. "Do you mean that I can practise my mouthinto a nice shape?" I asked. 

"Certainly not, my dear, any more than you can pinch your nose intoshape with your finger and thumb; but your lips, and all the lines ofyour face, will take shape of themselves, according to your temper andhabits. 

"There are two things, " my godmother continued, after turning round tolook at me for a minute, "there are two things, Selina, against yourgrowing up good-looking. One is that you have caught so many littlevulgarisms from the servants; and the other is your little bad habitof grumbling, which, for that matter, is a very ill-bred habit aswell, and would spoil the prettiest eyes, nose, mouth, and chin thatever were inherited. Under-bred and ill-educated women are, as ageneral rule, much less good-looking than well-bred andhighly-educated ones, especially in middle life; not because goodfeatures and pretty complexions belong to one class more than toanother, but because nicer personal habits and stricter discipline ofthe mind do. A girl who was never taught to brush her teeth, tobreathe through the nostrils instead of the lips, and to chew with theback teeth instead of the front, has a very poor chance of growing upwith a pretty mouth, as anyone may see who has observed a middle-agedwoman of that class munching a meat pie at a railway-station. And if, into the bargain, she has nothing to talk about but her own and herneighbour's everyday affairs, and nothing to think about to keep herfrom continually talking, life, my dear child, is so full of littlerubs, that constant chatter of this kind must almost certainly beconstant grumbling. And constant grumbling, Selina, makes an uglyunder-lip, a forehead wrinkled with frowning, and dull eyes that seenothing but grievances. There is a book in the library with somepictures of faces that I must show you. Do you draw at all, my dear?"

"Mamma gave me a drawing-slate on my birthday, " I replied, "but Josephbothered me to lend it to him, and now he's broken the glass. It _is_so tiresome! But it's always the way if you lend things. "

"What makes you think that it is always the way if you lend things?"my godmother gently inquired. 

"It seems as if it was, I'm sure, " was my answer. "It was just thesame with the fish-kettle when cook lent it to the Browns. They keptit a fortnight, and let it rust, and the first time cook put a drop ofwater into it it leaked; and she said it always _was_ the way; youmight lend everything you had, and people had no conscience, but ifit came to borrowing a pepperpot--"

My godmother put up both her long hands with an impatient gesture. 

"That will do, my dear. I don't care to hear all that your mother'scook said about the fish-kettle. "

I felt uncomfortable, and was glad that Lady Elizabeth went ontalking. 

"Have you and Joseph any collections? When I was your age, I rememberI made a nice collection of wafers. They were quite as pretty asmodern monograms. "

"Joseph collected feathers out of the pillows once, " I said, laughing. "He got a great many different sorts, but nurse burned them, and hecried. "

"I'm sorry nurse burned them. I daresay they made him very happy. Iadvise you to begin a collection, Selina. It is a capital cure fordiscontent. Anything will do. A collection of buttons, for instance. There are a great many kinds; and if ever some travelled friend crownsyour collection with a mandarin's button, for one day at least youwon't feel a grievance worth speaking of. "

I was feeling very much aggrieved as Lady Elizabeth spoke, andthinking to myself that "it seemed so hard to be scolded out visiting, and when one had not got into any scrape. " But I only said that"nobody at home ever said that I grumbled so much;" and that I "didn'tknow that our servants complained more than other people's. "

"I do not suppose they do, " said my godmother. "I have told youalready that I consider it a foible of ill-educated people, whoseinterests are very limited, and whose feelings are not disciplined. You know James, the butler, Selina, do you not?"

"Oh, yes, godmamma!"

I knew James well. He was very kind to me, and always liberal when, byLady Elizabeth's orders, he helped me to almonds and raisins atdessert. 

"My mother died young, " said Lady Elizabeth, "and at sixteen I washead of my father's household. I had been well trained, and I tried todo my duty. Amid all the details of providing for and entertainingmany people, my duty was to think of everything, and never to seem asif I had anything on my mind. I should have been fairly trained _for akitchen-maid_, Selina, if I had done what I was told when it wasbawled at me, and had talked and seemed more overwhelmed with workthan the Prime Minister. Well, most of our servants had known me frombabyhood, and it was not a light matter to have the needful authorityover them without hurting the feelings of such old and faithfulfriends. But, on the whole, they respected my efforts, and were proudof my self-possession. I had more trouble with the younger ones, whowere too young to help me, and whom I was too young to overawe. I wasbusy one morning writing necessary letters, when James--who was thenseventeen, and the under-footman--came to the drawing room and wishedto speak to me. When he had wasted a good deal of my time indescribing his unwillingness to disturb me, and the years his fatherhad lived in my father's service, I said, 'James, I have importantletters to write, and very little time to spare. If you have anycomplaint to make, will you kindly put it as shortly as you can?' 'I'msure, my lady, I have no wish to complain, ' was James's reply; andthereon his complaints poured forth in a continuous stream. I took outmy watch (unseen by James, for I never insult people), and gave himfive minutes for his grievances. He got on pretty fast with them. Hehad mentioned the stone floor of his bed-room, a draught in the pantry, the overbearingness of the butler, the potatoes for the servants' hallbeing under-boiled when the cook was out of temper, the inferiorquality of the new plate-powder, the insinuations against his father'shonesty by servants who were upstarts by comparison, his hat havingbeen spoilt by the rain, and that he never was so miserable in hislife--when the five minutes expired, and I said 'Then, James, you wantto go?' He coloured, and I really think tears stood in his eyes. Hewas a good-hearted lad. 

"When he began to say that he could never regard any other place as helooked on this, and that he felt towards his lordship and me as hecould feel towards no other master and mistress, I gave him anotherfive minutes for what he was pleased with. To do him justice, the listwas quite as long as that of his grievances. No people were like us, and he had never been so happy in his life. So I said, 'Then, James, you want to stay?'

"James began a fresh statement, in which his grievances and hissatisfactions came alternately, and I cut this short by saying, 'Well, James, the difficulty seems to be that you have not made up your mindwhat you do want. I have no time to balance matters for you, so youhad better go downstairs and think it well over, and let me know whatyou decide. '

"He went accordingly, and when he was driven to think for himself bybeing stopped from talking to me, I suppose he was wise enough toperceive that it is easier to find crosses in one's lot than to feelquite sure that one could change it for a better. I have no doubt thathe had _not_ got all he might lawfully have wished for, but, differentas our positions were, no more had I, and we both had to do our dutyand make the best of life as we found it. It's a very good thing, dearchild, to get into the habit of saying to oneself, 'One can't haveeverything. ' I suppose James learned to say it, for he has lived withme ever since. "

At this moment Joseph called to me through the open window which ledinto the garden--

"Oh, Selina! I am so sorry; but when I got to the shop I couldn'tremember whether it was a quarter of a yard of ribbon orthree-quarters that you wanted for the doll's hat. "

Joseph was always doing stupid things like this. It vexed me verymuch, and I jumped up and hastily seized my doll to go out and speakto him, saying, as I did so, that "boys were enough to drive one wild, and one might as well ask the poodle to do anything as Joseph. " And itwas not till I had flounced out of the drawing-room that I felt ratherhot and uncomfortable to remember that I had tossed my head, andknitted my brows, and jerked my chin, and pouted my lips, and shakenmy skirts, and kicked up my heels, as I did so, and that my godmotherhad probably been observing me through her gold eye-glasses. 

CHAPTER II. 

"It is easier to prevent ill habits than to break them. "--OLDPROVERB. 

I must say that Joseph _was_ rather a stupid boy. He was only a yearyounger than me, but I never could make him understand exactly what Iwanted him to do when we played together; and he was always saying, "Oh, I say, look here, Selina!" and proposing some silly plan of hisown. But he was very good-natured, and when we were alone I let him beuncle to the dolls. When we spent the day with Maud Mary, however, wenever let him play with the baby-house; but we allowed him to be thepostman and the baker, and people of that sort, who knock and ring, and we sent him messages. 

During the first week of our visit to Lady Elizabeth, the weather wasso fine that Joseph and I played all day long in the garden. Then itbecame rainy, and we quarrelled over the old swing and the imperfectbackgammon board in the lumber-room, where we were allowed to amuseourselves. But one morning when we went to our play-room, afterdrilling with Sergeant Walker, Joseph found a model fortress andwooden soldiers and cannon in one corner of the room; and I found aDutch market, with all kinds of wooden booths, and little tables tohave tea at in another. They were presents from my godmother; andthey were far the best kind of toys we had ever had, you could do somany things with them. 

Joseph was so happy with his soldiers that he never came near theDutch fair; and at other times he was always bothering to be allowedto play with the dolls. At first I was very glad, for I was afraid hewould be coming and saying, "Oh, I say, Selina, " and suggestingthings; and I wanted to arrange the shops my own way. But when theywere done, and I was taking the dolls from one booth to another toshop, I did think it seemed very odd that Joseph should not even wantto walk through the fair. And when I gave him leave to be ashopkeeper, and to stand in front of each booth in turn, he did notseem at all anxious to come; and he would bring a cannon with him, andhide it behind his back when I came to buy vegetables for the dolls'dinners. 

We quarrelled about the cannon. I said no one ever heard of agreengrocer with a cannon in his shop; and Joseph said it couldn'tmatter if the greengrocer stood in front of the cannon so as to hideit. So I said I wouldn't have a cannon in my fair at all; and Josephsaid he didn't want to come to my fair, for he liked his fortress muchbetter, and he rattled out, dragging his cannon behind him, andknocked down Adelaide Augusta, the gutta-percha doll, who was leaningagainst the fishmonger's slab, with her chin on the salmon. 

It was very hard, and I said so; and then Joseph said there wereplenty of times when I wouldn't let him play with the dolls; and Isaid that was just it--when I didn't want him to he wanted, and when Iwanted him to he wouldn't, and that he was very selfish. 

So at last he put away his cannon, and came and played at shops; buthe was very stupid, and would look over his shoulder at the fortresswhen he ought to have been pretending to sell; and once, when I hadleft the fair, he got his cannon back and shot peas out of it, so thatall the fowls fell off the real hooks in the poulterer's shop, andsaid he was bombarding the city. 

I was very angry, and said, "I shall go straight down, and complain togodmamma, " and I went. 

The worst of it was that only that very morning Lady Elizabeth hadsaid to me, "Remember one thing, my dear. I will listen to nocomplaints whatever. No grumbles either from you or from Joseph. Ifyou want anything that you have not got, and will ask for it, I willdo my best for you, as my little guests; and if it is right andreasonable, and fair to both, you shall have what you want. But youmust know your own mind when you ask, and make the best of what I cando for you. I will hear no general complaints whatever. "

Remembering this, I felt a little nervous when I was fairly in thedrawing-room, and Lady Elizabeth had laid down her glasses to hearwhat I had to say. 

"Do you want anything, my dear?" said she. 

I began to complain--that Joseph was so stupid; that it seemed soprovoking; that I did think it was very unkind of him, etc. ; but LadyElizabeth put up her hand. 

"My dear Selina, you have forgotten what I told you. If there isanything that an old woman like me can do to make your father's childhappy, do not be afraid to ask for it, but I will not have grumblingin the drawing-room. By all means make up your mind as to what youwant, and don't be afraid to ask your old godmother. But if she thinksit right to refuse, or you do not think it right to ask, you must makethe best of matters as they stand, and keep your good humour and yourgood manners like a lady. "

I felt puzzled. When I complained to nurse that Joseph "was sotiresome, " she grumbled back again that "she never knew suchchildren, " and so forth. It is always easy to meet grievance withgrievance, but I found that it was not so easy to make up my mind andpluck up my courage to ask in so many words for what I wanted. 

"Shall I ask Joseph to put away his cannon and come and play at yourgame for an hour now, my dear? I will certainly forbid him to fireinto your shop. "

This did not quite satisfy me. As a matter of fact, Joseph had lefthis fortress to play with me; and I did not really think he woulddischarge his cannon at the poulterer's again. But I thought myselfhardly used, and I wanted my godmother to think so too, and to scoldJoseph. What else I wanted, I did not feel quite sure. 

"I wish you would speak to Joseph, " I said. "He would attend to you ifyou told him how selfish and stupid he is. "

"My dear, I never offered to complain to Joseph, but I will order himnot to molest you, and I will ask him to play with you. "

"I'm sure I don't want him to play with me, unless he can play nicely, and invent things for the dolls to say, as Maud Mary would, " was myreply; for I was getting thoroughly vexed. 

"Then I will tell him that unless he can play your game as you wishit, he had better amuse himself with his own toys. Is there anythingelse that you want, my dear?"

I could not speak, for I was crying, but I sobbed out that "I missedMaud Mary so. "

"Who is Maud Mary, Selina?"

"Maud Mary Ibbetson, my particular friend--my _very_ particularfriend, " I explained. 

I spoke warmly, for at that moment the memory of Maud Mary seemedadorable, and I longed to pour my complaints into her sympathetic ear. Besides, I had another reason for regretting that she was not with me. When we were together, it was she, as a rule, who had new and handsometoys to exhibit, whilst I played the humbler part of admirer. But ifshe had been with me, then, what would not have been my triumph indisplaying the Dutch fair! The longer I thought of her the faster mytears fell, but they did not help me to think of anything definite toask for; and when Lady Elizabeth said, "would you like to go home, mydear? or do you want me to ask your friend to stay with you?" I hadthe grace to feel ashamed of my peevishness, and to thank my godmotherfor her kindness, and to protest against wanting anything more. I onlyadded, amid my subsiding sobs, that "it did seem such a thing, " when Ihad got a Dutch fair to play at dolls in, that Joseph should be sostupid, and that dear Maud Mary, who would have enjoyed it so much, should not be able to see it. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Nous aurons aussi la fête dans notre rue. "--RUSSIAN PROVERB. 

Next day, when our drill in the long corridor was over, Lady Elizabethtold Joseph to bring his fortress, guns, and soldiers into thelibrary, and to play at the Thirty Years' War in the bay-window from alarge book with pictures of sieges and battles, which she lent him. 

To me my godmother turned very kindly and said, "I have invited yourlittle friend Maud to come and stay here for a week. I hope she willarrive to-day, so you had better prepare your dolls and your shops forcompany. "

Maud Mary coming! I danced for joy, and kissed my godmother, andexpressed my delight again and again. I should have liked to talkabout it to Joseph, but he had plunged into the Thirty Years' War, andhad no attention to give me. 

It was a custom in the neighbourhood where my mother lived to callpeople by double Christian names, John Thomas, William Edward, and soforth; but my godmother never called Maud Mary anything but Maud. 

It was possible that my darling friend might arrive by the twelveo'clock train, and the carriage was sent to meet her, whilst I dancedup and down the big hall with impatience. When it came back withouther my disappointment knew no bounds. I felt sure that the Ibbetsons'coachman had been unpunctual, or dear Maud Mary's nurse had beencross, as usual, and had not tried to get her things packed. I rushedinto the library full of my forebodings, but my godmother only said, "No grumbling, my dear!" and Joseph called out, "Oh, I say, Selina, Iwish you wouldn't swing the doors so: you've knocked down Wallenstein, and he's fallen on the top of Gustavus Adolphus;" and I had to composemyself as best I could till the five o'clock train. 

Then she came. Darling Maud Mary!

Perhaps it was because I crushed her new feather in kissing her (andMaud Mary was very particular about her clothes); perhaps it wasbecause she was tired with travelling, which I forgot; or perhaps itwas because she would rather have had tea first, that Maud Mary wasnot quite so nice about the Dutch fair as I should have liked her tobe. 

She said she rather wondered that Lady Elizabeth had not given me abig dolls' house like hers instead; that she had come away in such ahurry that she forgot to lock hers up, and she should not be the leastsurprised if the kitten got into it and broke something, but "it didseem rather odd" to be invited in such a very hurried way; that justwhen she _was_ going to a big house to pay a grand visit, of coursethe dressmaker "disappointed" Mrs. Ibbetson, but "that was the waythings always did happen;" that the last time Mr. Ibbetson was inParis he offered to bring her a dolls' railway train, with realfirst-class carriages really stuffed, but she said she would ratherhave a locket, and that was the very one which was hanging round herneck, and which was much handsomer than Lucy Jane Smith's, which costfive pounds in London. 

Maud Mary's inattention to the fair and the dolls was so obvious thatI followed my godmother's advice, and "made the best of it" by saying, "I'm afraid you're very much tired, darling?"

Maud Mary tossed her chin and frowned. 

It was "enough to tire anybody, " she said, to travel on thatparticular line. The railway of which her papa was a director was verydifferently managed. 

I think my godmother's courtesy to us, and her thoughtful kindness, had fixed her repeated hints about self-control and good mannersrather firmly in my head. I distinctly remember making an effort toforget my toys and think of Maud Mary's comfort. 

I said, "Will you come and take off your things, darling?" and shesaid, "Yes, darling;" and then we had tea. 

But next day, when she was quite rested, and had really nothing tocomplain of, I did think she might have praised the Dutch fair. 

She said it "seemed such a funny thing" to have to play in an oldgarret; but she need not have wanted to alter the arrangement of allthe shops, and have everything her own way, as she always had at home, because, if her dolls' house was hers, my Dutch fair was mine. I didthink, for a moment, of getting my godmother to speak to her, but Iknew it would be of no use to complain unless I had something to askfor. When I came to think of it, I found that what I wanted was thatMaud Mary should let me manage my own toys and direct the game, and Iresolved to ask her myself. 

"Look here, darling, " said I, "when I come and play with you, I alwaysplay dolls as you like, because the dolls' house is yours; I wish youwould play my game to-day, as the Dutch fair is mine. "

Maud Mary flounced to her feet, and bridled with her wavy head, andsaid she was sure she did not want to play if I didn't like her way ofplaying; and as to my Dutch fair, her papa could buy her one any dayfor her very own. 

I was nettled, for Maud Mary was a little apt to flourish Mr. Ibbetson's money in my face; but if her father was rich, my godmotherwas a lady of rank, and I said that "my godmother, Lady Elizabeth, said it was very vulgar to flounce and toss one's head if one was putout. "

Maud Mary crimsoned, and, exclaiming that she did not care what LadyElizabeth or Lady Anybody Else said, she whisked over three shops withthe ends of her sash, and kicked the wax off Josephine Esmeralda'snose with the heel of her Balmoral boot. 

I don't like confessing it, but I did push Maud Mary, and Maud Maryslapped me. 

And when we both looked up, my godmother was standing before us, withher gold spectacles on her nose. 

 * * * * *

Lady Elizabeth was very kind, and even then I knew that she was veryright. 

When she said, "I have asked your friend for a week, and for thatweek, my dear, she is your guest, and you must try to please, and_make the best of it_, " I not only did not dispute it; I felt a spiritof self-suppression and hospitable pride awake within me to do as shehad said. 

I think the hardest part of it was that, whatever I did and whatever Igave up, Maud Mary recognized no effort on my part. What she got shetook as her due, and what she did not get she grumbled about. 

I sometimes think that it was partly because, in all that long week, she never ceased grumbling, that I did; I hope for life. 

Only once I said, "O godmamma! how glad I shall be when I am alonewith Joseph again!" And with sudden remorse, I added, "But I beg yourpardon, that's grumbling; and you _have_ been so kind!"

Lady Elizabeth took off her eye-glasses, and held out her hands formine. 

"Is it grumbling, little woman?" she said. "Well, I'm not sure. "

"_I'm_ not sure, " I said, smiling; "for you know I only said I shouldbe so _glad_ to be alone with Joseph, and to try to be good to him;for he is a very kind boy, and if he is a little awkward with thedolls, I mean to make the best of it. _One can't have everything_, " Iadded, laughing. 

Lady Elizabeth drew my head towards her, and stroked and kissed it. 

"GOD bless you, child, " she said. "You _have_ inherited yourfather's smile. "

 * * * * *

"But, I say, Selina, " whispered Joseph, when I went to look at hisfortress in the bay-window. "Do you suppose it's because he's deadthat she cried behind her spectacles when she said you had got hissmile?"

A HAPPY FAMILY. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies. 

 * * * * *

 From our own selves our joys must flow, And peace begins at home. "

 COTTON. 

The family--our family, not the Happy Family--consisted of me and mybrothers and sisters. I have a father and mother, of course. 

I am the eldest, as I remind my brothers; and of the more worthygender, which my sisters sometimes forget. Though we live in thevillage, my father is a gentleman, as I shall be when I am grown up. Ihave told the village boys so more than once. One feels mean inboasting that one is better born than they are; but if I did not tellthem, I am not sure that they would always know. 

Our house is old, and we have a ghost--the ghost of mygreat-great-great-great-great-aunt. 

She "crossed her father's will, " nurse says, and he threatened to flogher with his dog-whip, and she ran away, and was never heard of more. He would not let the pond be dragged, but he never went near it again;and the villagers do not like to go near it now. They say you may meether there, after sunset, flying along the path among the trees, withher hair half down, and a knot of ribbon fluttering from it, andparted lips, and terror in her eyes. 

The men of our family (my father's family, my mother is Irish) havealways had strong wills. I have a strong will myself. 

People say I am like the picture of my great-grandfather (thegreat-great-great-nephew of the ghost). He must have been a wonderfulold gentleman by all accounts. Sometimes nurse says to us, "Have yourown way, and you'll live the longer, " and it always makes me think ofgreat-grandfather, who had so much of his own way, and lived to benearly a hundred. 

I remember my father telling us how his sisters had to visit their oldgranny for months at a time, and how he shut the shutters at threeo'clock on summer afternoons, and made them play dummy whist by candlelight. 

"Didn't you and your brothers go?" asked Uncle Patrick, across thedinner-table. My father laughed. 

"Not we! My mother got us there once--but never again. "

"And did your sisters like it?"

"Like it? They used to cry their hearts out. I really believe itkilled poor Jane. She was consumptive and chilly, but always cravingfor fresh air; and granny never would have open windows, for fear ofdraughts on his bald head; and yet the girls had no fires in theirroom, because young people shouldn't be pampered. "

"And ye never-r offer-r-ed--neither of ye--to go in the stead ofthem?"

When Uncle Patrick rolls his R's in a discussion, my mother becomesnervous. 

"One can't expect boys to consider things, " she said. "Boys will beboys, you know. "

"And what would you have 'em be?" said my father. Uncle Patrick turnedto my mother. 

"Too true, Geraldine. Ye don't expect it. Worse luck! I assure ye, I'dbe aghast at the brutes we men can be, if I wasn't more amazed thatwe're as good as we are, when the best and gentlest of your sex--themoulders of our childhood, the desire of our manhood--demand so littlefor all that you alone can give. There were conceivable uses in womenpreferring the biggest brutes of barbarous times, but it's not so now;and boys will be civilised boys, and men will be civilised men, sweetsister, when you _do_ expect it, and when your grace and favours arethe rewards of nobleness, and not the easy prize of selfishness andsavagery. "

My father spoke fairly. 

"There's some truth in what you say, Pat. "

"And small grace in my saying it. Forgive me, John. "

That's the way Uncle Patrick flares up and cools down, like a strawbonfire. But my father makes allowances for him; first, because he isan Irishman, and, secondly, because he's a cripple. 

 * * * * *

I love my mother dearly, and I can do anything I like with her. Ialways could. When I was a baby, I would not go to sleep unless shewalked about with me, so (though walking was bad for her) I got my ownway, and had it afterwards. 

With one exception. She would never tell me about my godfather. Iasked once, and she was so distressed that I was glad to promise neverto speak of him again. But I only thought of him the more, though allI knew about him was his portrait--such a fine fellow--and that hehad the same swaggering, ridiculous name as mine. 

How my father allowed me to be christened Bayard I cannot imagine. ButI was rather proud of it at one time--in the days when I wore longcurls, and was so accustomed to hearing myself called "a perfectpicture, " and to having my little sayings quoted by my mother and herfriends, that it made me miserable if grown-up people took the libertyof attending to anything but me. I remember wriggling myself off mymother's knee when I wanted change, and how she gave me her watch tokeep me quiet, and stroked my curls, and called me her fair-hairedknight, and her little Bayard; though, remembering also, howlingeringly I used just not to do her bidding, ate the sugar when shewasn't looking, tried to bawl myself into fits, kicked thenurse-girl's shins, and dared not go upstairs by myself after dark--Imust confess that a young chimpanzee would have as good claims as Ihad to represent that model of self-conquest and true chivalry, "theKnight without fear and without reproach. "

However, the vanity of it did not last long. I wonder if thatgrand-faced godfather of mine suffered as I suffered when he went toschool and said his name was Bayard? I owe a day in harvest to theyoung wag who turned it into Backyard. I gave in my name as Backyardto every subsequent inquirer, and Backyard I modestly remained. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "The lady with the gay macaw. "

LONGFELLOW. 

My sisters are much like other fellows' sisters, excepting Lettice. That child is like no one but herself. 

I used to tease the other girls for fun, but I teased Lettice onprinciple--to knock the nonsense out of her. She was only eight, andvery small, but, from the top row of her tight little curls to therosettes on her best shoes, she seemed to me a mass of affectation. 

Strangers always liked Lettice. I believe she was born with a companyvoice in her mouth; and she would flit like a butterfly from onegrown-up person to another, chit-chattering, whilst some of us stoodpounding our knuckles in our pockets, and tying our legs into knots, as we wished the drawing-room carpet would open and let us throughinto the cellar to play at catacombs. 

That was how Cocky came. Lettice's airs and graces bewitched the oldlady who called in the yellow chariot, and was so like a cockatooherself--a cockatoo in a citron velvet bonnet, with a bird of Paradisefeather. When that old lady put up her eye-glass, she would havefrightened a yard-dog; but Lettice stood on tip-toes and stroked thefeather, saying, "What a love-e-ly bird!" And next day cameCocky--perch and all complete--_for the little girl who loves birds_. Lettice was proud of Cocky, but Edward really loved him, and tooktrouble with him. 

Edward is a good boy. My mother called him after the Black Prince. 

He and I disgraced ourselves in the eyes of the Cockatoo lady, and itcost the family thirty thousand pounds, which we can ill afford tolose. It was unlucky that she came to luncheon the very day thatEdward and I had settled to dress up as Early Britons, in blue woad, and dine off earth-nuts in the shrubbery. As we slipped out at theside door, the yellow chariot drove up to the front. We had doormatson, as well as powder-blue, but the old lady was terribly shocked, anddrove straight away, and did not return. Nurse says she is my father'sgodmother, and has thirty thousand pounds, which she would havebequeathed to us if we had not offended her. I take the blameentirely, because I always made the others play as I pleased. 

We used to play at all kinds of things--concerts, circuses, theatricals, and sometimes conjuring. Uncle Patrick had not been tosee us for a long time, when one day we heard that he was coming, andI made up my mind at once that I would have a perfectly newentertainment for him. 

We like having entertainments for Uncle Patrick, because he is such avery good audience. He laughs, and cries, and claps, and thumps withhis crutch, and if things go badly, he amuses the rest. 

Ever since I can remember anything, I remember an old print, called"The Happy Family, " over our nursery fire-place, and how I used towonder at that immovable cat, with sparrows on her back, sittingbetween an owl and a magpie. And it was when I saw Edward sitting withBenjamin the cat, and two sparrows he had brought up by hand, struggling and laughing because Cocky would push itself, crest first, under his waistcoat, and come out at the top to kiss him--that an ideastruck me; and I resolved to have a Happy Family for Uncle Patrick, and to act Showman myself. 

Edward can do anything with beasts. He was absolutely necessary asconfederate, but it was possible Lettice might want to show off withCocky, and I did not want a girl on the stage, so I said very littleto her. But I told Edward to have in the yard-dog, and practise him inbeing happy with the rest of the family pets. Fred, the farm-boy, promised to look out for an owl. Benjamin, the cat, could have gotmice enough; but he would have eaten them before Edward had had timeto teach him better, so I set a trap. I knew a village-boy with amagpie, ready tamed. 

Bernard, the yard-dog, is a lumbering old fellow, with no tricks. Wehave tried. We took him out once, into a snow-drift, with a lanternround his neck, but he rescued nothing, and lost the lantern--and thenhe lost himself, for it was dark. 

But he is very handsome and good, and I knew, if I put him in themiddle, he would let anything sit upon him. He would not feel it, ormind if he did. He takes no notice of Cocky. 

Benjamin never quarrels with Cocky, but he dare not forget that Cockyis there. And Cocky sometimes looks at Benjamin's yellow eyes as if itwere thinking how very easily they would come out. But they are quitesufficiently happy together for a Happy Family. 

The mice gave more trouble than all the rest, so I settled thatLettice should wind up the mechanical mouse, and run that on as thecurtain rose. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Memor esto majorum. "

OLD MOTTO. 

 " . . . . 

 All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!"

LONGFELLOW. 

Do you wish to avoid vexations? Then never have a Happy Family! Minewere countless. 

Fred could not get me an owl. Lettice _did_ want to show off withCocky. I had my own way, but she looked sulky and spiteful. I got TomSmith's magpie; but I had to have him, too. However, my costume asShowman was gorgeous, and Edward kept our Happy Family well together. We arranged that Tom should put Mag on at the left wing, and then runround behind, and call Mag softly from the right. Then she would hopacross the stage to him, and show off well. Lettice was to let motherknow when the spectators might take their places, and to tell thegardener when to raise the curtain. 

I really think one magpie must be "a sign of sorrow, " as nurse says;but what made Bernard take it into his beautiful foolish head to givetrouble I cannot imagine. He wouldn't lie down, and when he did, itwas with a _grump_ of protest that seemed to forbode failure. However, he let Cocky scold him and pull his hair, which was a safety-valve forCocky. Benjamin dozed with dignity. He knew Cocky wasn't watching forhis yellow eyes. 

I don't think Lettice meant mischief when she summoned the spectators, for time was up. But her warning the curtain to rise when it did wassimple malice and revenge. 

I never can forget the catastrophe, but I do not clearly remember howTom Smith and I _began_ to quarrel. He was excessively impudent, andseemed to think we couldn't have had a Happy Family without him andhis chattering senseless magpie. 

When I told him to remember he was speaking to a gentleman, he grinnedat me. 

"A gentleman? Nay, my sakes! Ye're not civil enough by half. More likea new policeman, if ye weren't such a Guy Fawkes in that finery. "

"Be off, " said I, "and take your bird with you. "

"What if I won't go?"

"I'll make you!"

"Ye darsen't touch me. "

"Daren't I?"

"Ye darsen't. "

"I dare. "

"Try. "

"_Are_ you going?"

"Noa. "

I only pushed him. He struck first. He's bigger than me, but he's abigger coward, and I'd got him down in the middle of the stage, andhad given him something to bawl about, before I became conscious thatthe curtain was up. I only realised it then, because civil, stupidFred, arrived at the left wing, panting and gasping--

"Measter Bayard! Here's a young wood-owl for ye. "

As he spoke, it escaped him, fluff and feathers flying in the effort, and squawking, plunging, and fluttering, made wildly for the darkestcorner of the stage, just as Lettice ran on the mechanical mouse infront. 

Bernard rose, and shook off everything, and Cocky went into screaminghysterics; above which I now heard the thud of Uncle Patrick's crutch, and the peals upon peals of laughter with which our audience greetedmy long-planned spectacle of a Happy Family!

 * * * * *

Our Irish uncle is not always nice. He teases and mocks, and has anuncertain temper. But one goes to him in trouble. I went next morningto pour out my woes, and defend myself, and complain of the others. 

I spoke seriously about Lettice. It is not pleasant for a fellow tohave a sister who grows up peculiar, as I believe Lettice will. Onlythe Sunday before, I told her she would be just the sort of woman menhate, and she said she didn't care; and I said she ought to, for womenwere made for men, and the Bible says so; and she said grandmamma saidthat every soul was made for GOD and its own final good. Shewas in a high-falutin mood, and said she wished she had beenchristened Joan instead of Lettice, and that I would be a true Bayard;and that we could ride about the world together, dressed in armour, and fighting for the right. And she would say all through the list ofher favourite heroines, and asked me if I minded _their_ beingpeculiar, and I said of course not, why should you mind what women dowho don't belong to you? So she said she could not see that; and Isaid that was because girls can't see reason; and so we quarrelled, and I gave her a regular lecture, which I repeated to Uncle Patrick. 

He listened quite quietly till my mother came in, and got fidgetty, and told me not to argue with my uncle. Then he said--

"Ah! let the boy talk, Geraldine, and let me hear what he has to sayfor himself. There's a sublime audacity about his notions, I tell ye. Upon me conscience, I believe he thinks his grandmother was createdfor his particular convenience. "

That's how he mocks, and I suppose he meant my Irish grandmother. Hethinks there's nobody like her in the wide world, and my father saysshe is the handsomest and wittiest old lady in the British Isles. ButI did not mind. I said, "Well, Uncle Patrick, you're a man, and I believe you agree with me, though you mock me. "

"Agree with ye?" He started up, and pegged about the room. "Faith! ifthe life we live is like the globe we inhabit--if it revolves on itsown axis, _and you're that axis_--there's not a flaw in yourphilosophy; but IF--Now perish my impetuosity! I've frightened yourdear mother away. May I ask, by the bye, if _she_ has the good fortuneto please ye, since the Maker of all souls made her, for all eternity, with the particular object of mothering you in this brief patch oftime?"

He had stopped under the portrait--my godfather's portrait. All hisIrish rhodomontade went straight out of my head, and I ran to him. 

"Uncle, you know I adore her! But there's one thing she won't do, and, oh, I wish you would! It's years since she told me never to ask, andI've been on honour, and I've never even asked nurse; but I don'tthink it's wrong to ask you. Who is that man behind you, who lookssuch a wonderfully fine fellow? My Godfather Bayard. "

I had experienced a shock the night before, but nothing to the shockof seeing Uncle Patrick's face then, and hearing him sob out hiswords, instead of their flowing like a stream. 

"Is it possible? Ye don't know? She can't speak of him yet? PoorGeraldine!"

He controlled himself, and turned to the picture, leaning on hiscrutch. I stood by him and gazed too, and I do not think, to save mylife, I could have helped asking--

"Who is he?"

"Your uncle. Our only brother. Oh, Bayard, Bayard!"

"Is he dead?"

He nodded, speechless; but somehow I could not forbear. 

"What did he die of?"

"Of unselfishness. He died--for others. "

"Then he _was_ a hero? That's what he looks like. I am glad he is mygodfather. Dear Uncle Pat, do tell me all about it. "

"Not now--hereafter. Nephew, any man--with the heart of man and notof a mouse--is more likely than not to behave well at a pinch; but noman who is habitually selfish can be _sure_ that he will, when thechoice comes sharp between his own life and the lives of others. Theimpulse of a supreme moment only focusses the habits and customs of aman's soul. The supreme moment may never come, but habits and customsmould us from the cradle to the grave. His were early disciplined byour dear mother, and he bettered her teaching. Strong for the weak, wise for the foolish--tender for the hard--gracious for thesurly--good for the evil. Oh, my brother, without fear and withoutreproach! Speak across the grave, and tell your sister's son that viceand cowardice become alike impossible to a man who has never--cradledin selfishness, and made callous by custom--learned to pamper himselfat the expense of others!"

I waited a little before I asked--

"Were you with him when he died?"

"I was. "

"Poor Uncle Patrick! What _did_ you do?"

He pegged away to the sofa, and threw himself on it. 

"Played the fool. Broke an arm and a thigh, and damaged my spine, and--_lived_. Here rest the mortal remains. "

And for the next ten minutes, he mocked himself, as he only can. 

 * * * * *

One does not like to be outdone by an uncle, even by such an uncle;but it is not very easy to learn to live like Godfather Bayard. 

Sometimes I wish my grandmother had not brought up her sons to such avery high pitch, and sometimes I wish my mother had let that unluckyname become extinct in the family, or that I might adopt my nickname. One could live up to _Backyard_ easily enough. It seems to suit beinggrumpy and tyrannical, and seeing no further than one's own nose, sowell. 

But I do try to learn unselfishness; though I sometimes think it wouldbe quite as easy for the owl to learn to respect the independence of amouse, or a cat to be forbearing with a sparrow!

I certainly get on better with the others than I used to do; and Ihave some hopes that even my father's godmother is not finallyestranged through my fault. 

Uncle Patrick went to call on her whilst he was with us. She is veryfond of "that amusing Irishman with the crutch, " as she calls him; andmy father says he'll swear Uncle Patrick entertained her mightilywith my unlucky entertainment, and that she was as pleased as Punchthat her cockatoo was in the thick of it. 

I am afraid it is too true; and the idea made me so hot, that if I hadknown she was really coming to call on us again, I should certainlyhave kept out of the way. But when Uncle Patrick said, "If the yellowchariot rolls this way again, Bayard, ye need not be pursuing thesearchæological revivals of yours in a too early English costume, " Ithought it was only his chaff. But she did come. 

I was pegging out the new gardens for the little ones. We were allthere, and when she turned her eye over us (just like a cockatoo), andsaid, in a company voice--

 "What a happy little family!"

I could hardly keep my countenance, and I heard Edward choking inBenjamin's fur, where he had hidden his face. 

But Lettice never moved a muscle. She clasped her hands, and put herhead on one side, and said--in _her_ company voice--"But you knowbrother Bayard _is_ so good to us now, and _that_ is why we are such AHAPPY FAMILY. "

 * * * * *

_The present Series of Mrs. Ewing's Works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform Edition published. _

_It will consist of 18 volumes, Small Crown 8vo, at 2s. 6d. Per vol. , issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these willappear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the Serieswill be completed within 18 months. The device of the cover wasspecially designed by a Friend of Mrs. Ewing. _

_The following is a list of the books included in the Series--_

1. MELCHIOR'S DREAM, AND OTHER TALES. 

2. MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 

3. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY-TALES. 

4. A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING. 

5. THE BROWNIES, AND OTHER TALES. 

6. SIX TO SIXTEEN. 

7. LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE, AND OTHER TALES. 

8. JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 

9. VERSES FOR CHILDREN, AND SONGS. 

10. THE PEACE EGG--A CHRISTMAS MUMMING PLAY--HINTS FOR PRIVATETHEATRICALS, &c. 

11. A GREAT EMERGENCY, AND OTHER TALES. 

12. BROTHERS OF PITY, AND OTHER TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN. 

13. WE AND THE WORLD, Part I

14. WE AND THE WORLD, Part II. 

15. JACKANAPES--DADDY DARWIN'S DOVECOTE--THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. 

16. MARY'S MEADOW, AND OTHER TALES OF FIELDS AND FLOWERS. 

17. MISCELLANEA, including The Mystery of the Bloody Hand--WonderStories--Tales of the Khoja, and other translations. 

18. JULIANA HORATIA EWING AND HER BOOKS, with a selection from Mrs. Ewing's Letters. 

 * * * * *

S. P. C. K. , NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, LONDON, W. C.