OUR CHRISTMAS PARTY.

                                    BY
                                OLD MERRY,
      Author of “A Chat with the Boys on New Year’s Eve;” “Fireside
       Chats with the Youngsters;” Editor of “Merry and Wise,” &c.

                              [Illustration]

                                 London:
                       JACKSON, WALFORD, & HODDER,
                           27, PATERNOSTER ROW.

                               MDCCCLXVII.

                                 LONDON:
                   UNWIN BROTHERS, GRESHAM STEAM PRESS,
                            BUCKLERSBURY, E.C.




CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE

    Preparations                                                     1

    The Party                                                        3

    The Meandering Musician                                          9

    Great Reform Debate and Demonstration                           21

    Round the Fire after Supper                                     32

    Frozen up. W. H. G. KINGSTON                                    35

    A Rescue in the Rocky Mountains. R. M. BALLANTYNE               60

    Lost and Found. EDWIN HODDER                                    74

    Castle Connor. MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE                             87

    The Black Dragoon. SIDNEY DARYL                                 97

    A Christmas Dinner at Dr. Lickemwell’s. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF      112

    A Wild Yule E’en. CYNTHA                                       129

    Conclusion                                                     144




OLD MERRY’S CHRISTMAS PARTY.




PREPARATIONS.


“Rebecca, I am going to give a party to some young folks on Christmas
Eve, and so you must hold yourself in readiness for the occasion.”

Rebecca is my housekeeper, the best-hearted old soul that ever lived; she
perfectly agrees with my arrangements in the main, but feels bound, for
some reason which I have never attempted to fathom, invariably to object
to them at the first start, and then to fall into them enthusiastically
afterwards.

“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties—”

I must here say that Rebecca despises the English Grammar; next to Baron
Munchausen, who she somewhat irreverently calls the “father of lies,” she
objects to Lindley Murray.

It was not very often that she was really “put out” about anything, but
when she was her grammar was much worse than at other times. Just as when
a foreigner, who has lived in England for years, and knows the language
perfectly, gets into a rage, he instinctively falls back upon his native
tongue for expression.

“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties,” said Rebecca, “is a getting too much of
a good thing, if I may make so bold as to say it. It’s always parties at
this time of the year. You’ll excuse me a mentioning of it, Mr. Merry,”
she continued, “but if I might make so bold again, I should say why don’t
you keep a school, or a sylum, or a hinn, and so you could have the young
people, as you call ’em, always about you?”

Now you must not think that this was an expression of Rebecca’s real
state of feeling, nor that I was in the least degree alarmed or vexed
at the light in which she viewed my proposition. Faithful old servants,
who have lived in one’s family for a generation or so, do get queer
whims, and contract habits which could not be tolerated in upstart new
comers. Rebecca never gives way to an explosion like this if anybody else
is present, and I have two or three alternatives always in reserve for
pacifying her.

Not wishing to use any of the alternatives on the occasion in question, I
merely said—

“Christmas only comes once a year, Rebecca, and I mean, as long as I have
health and strength, to keep up the good old custom of giving Christmas
parties, and I look to you to carry out the arrangements this year in
the same admirable way you have done on so many previous occasions.” If
Rebecca could have blushed, I believe she would have done so at this
compliment, but her blushing days have gone by, so she dropped a mild
curtsey, and said, “It shouldn’t be her fault, please ’eving, that should
prevent this party being the best _we_ had ever given.”

So a council of war was held on the spot. Amelia and the cook were
summoned, paper and pencil were called into requisition, and if a
newspaper reporter, or a secretary of a society, had been present, a
summary of the proceedings would have been given in something like the
following style:—

Moved by Mr. Merry, and seconded by Rebecca—

“That the invitations be issued for six o’clock on Christmas Eve, and
that tea be served up in the breakfast room.”—Carried.

Moved by Rebecca, and seconded by Mr. Merry—

“That, in the opinion of this meeting, it is desirable and advisable that
the fun of the evening should take place in the drawing room; that supper
should be laid in the breakfast room; that the dining room be completely
divested of furniture, to allow plenty of room for dancing, and that the
spare bedroom be appropriated for the necessary costuming required by
those who take part in the charades.”—Carried unanimously.

Moved by the cook, and seconded by Amelia—

“That if false moustachios are required by those who take part in the
charades, young gentlemen be prohibited from using the kitchen fire for
burning the corks necessary for that purpose.”

Moved by Amelia, and seconded by the cook—

“That it is desirable to lock the cupboard in which the gas metre is
kept, and hide the key, as on a previous occasion much inconvenience was
sustained in consequence of one of the visitors having turned off the
gas.”

Moved by Mr. Merry, and seconded by Rebecca—

“That this meeting stands pledged to do its best to make the party
thoroughly pleasant and successful, and that all further arrangements be
left to a sub-committee, to consist of Mr. Merry”—Carried unanimously.

A vote of thanks having been passed to the Chairman for his manly and
impartial conduct in the chair, the meeting broke up amid a general
feeling of satisfaction.

[Illustration]




THE PARTY.


The clock was yet warm with its vigorous efforts to strike the eventful
hour of six on merry Christmas Eve, when a carriage containing the first
arrivals came rattling down the street. There was no mistaking the
energetic rat-tat-tat at the door; or, if there had been, the buzz of
voices was sufficient to inform those inside that Charlie Stanley and
his party were there. As soon as the door was open there was a rush and
a scramble, for those mad young people had made many rash stakes as to
who should be the first to wish Old Merry the compliments of the season.
All stakes, however, were drawn, for the object of their search was
discovered simultaneously by all the party; discovered, too, in the act
of coming down the stairs, with his frill shirt, bald head, and pumps,
glistening in the light of the hall lamps, and a chorus of voices rang
out the welcome old salutation—“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”

Charlie and Walter Stanley, and Alec Boyce—the lads who went one summer
with Old Merry to Switzerland—had been entrusted with the preparation of
part of the evening’s amusement. They were constituted masters of the
ceremonies, and had been charged to bottle up all their fun for at least
two days before the party, in order that it might explode and scintillate
for the benefit of the company. So, as a host of packages were put down
in the hall, Charlie said—

“Here are our properties, Mr. Merry—wigs, crinolines, whiskers, royal
robes, banners from the camp of King John, feathers from the chief of the
Mohawks, diamonds lent privately by the secretary of Sinbad the Sailor,
the shield of Achilles, kindly contributed by Mr. Barnum; and here—”

But here he stopped, for the rattle of horses’ feet outside, and a sharp
rap at the door, announced fresh arrivals. Charlie was in a dramatic
humour, so, striking an attitude, he cried—

    “By the pricking of my thumbs,
    Something wicked this way comes;
    Open, locks, whoever knocks.

And, guards, what ho! bear hence our treasures to some secret place.”

“Such a getting up-stairs you never did see,” as in a twinkling the
impromptu guards obeyed the mandate of their chief.

Tom and Ada Martin, and the fiddle, were the next to arrive. The fiddle
was Tom’s; his special hobby. No party was complete without it, for if it
were not there neither was Tom. His motto was, “Love me, love my fiddle.”
A merry fellow was Tom; he could sing and play, and the proudest moments
in Ada’s life were when she accompanied him in a solo on his violin.
Moreover, he wrote poetry (?), rattling, merry ditties, that broke out
into exuberant choruses of

    And it’s heigh, ho, hum,
    With a tum, tum, tum,
              Fal lal de riddle ho, tum, tum, tum!

Ada Martin was Tom Martin in the feminine; she had all the boy’s humour,
with the girl’s grace and refinement. Everybody who knew her knew that
she could tell them the last new game, or ask the last new riddle; and if
at a party the fun came to a standstill, and somebody asked “What shall
we do next?” the reply would be sure to come in the shape of a question,
“Where’s Ada Martin?” Ada rejoiced in long curls, treacherous curls,
that had made many a lad fall in love with her; in fact, Frank Edwards
was once heard to say that he should like to win her heart by gallantly
rescuing her from the power of some grim tyrant; or, “Better still,” said
he, “if she would fall into the sea off the pier at Margate, and I could
jump in and save her by catching hold of her beautiful curls, it would be
so jolly!”

Frank Edwards! The next rat-tat announced him and his sister, “Little
Flo,” as he called her at home, though in company she was Florence. Frank
was very fond of his sister; he had a weakness for hair, as we have seen,
and hers descended like a cataract, or, as Frank said, like a Great Flow,
over her neck and shoulders. A bright, merry little fairy was Florence
Edwards, and a very popular young lady. Alec Boyce was nearly on the
point of fighting a duel with Walter Stanley one snowy night, when it was
proposed at a party that she should be carried to the carriage, and it
became a question as to who should do it. Fortunately, however, no blood
was spilt, for the boys clasped hands, and carried her sedan-fashion; and
as she had to put an arm over each shoulder, in order to steady herself,
what could be fairer?

Elasticity runs in some families, as gout does in others, and the
Edwards’ were elastic people. Frank could turn himself into a catherine
wheel, imitate Donato on one leg, dance a hornpipe, or stand on his head
and fire off sham pistols with both hands at once; and as his talent
was quite distinct from that of the musical Tom Martin, or the dramatic
Charlie Stanley, he enjoyed a popularity as great in its way as theirs.

Rat-tat-tat!

The Misses Clara and Alice Stanley, with their music.

Mr. Stanley, with his microscopes.

Miss Marianne Layton, with her doll—white tulle, looped up with spangles.

Mr. Oswald Layton (his first appearance in stand-up collars.)

The Misses Emily and Nelly Cathcart (with their _bran_ new dolls—blue
tarleton, looped with snowdrops).

Master Willie Cathcart, with his dog Leo, who barks for lumps of sugar.

Mr. Cathcart, with a prodigious white vest and a black bâton, “as leader
of the choir.”

Rat-tat-tat!

Misses and Masters, Misters and Mistresses, _ad lib., ad infin._

Tea and coffee at six o’clock—and why that should mean from half-past
six to seven, custom must reply—is much better than tea at six o’clock.
A sit-down tea is a mistake; it tries the temperament, terrifies the
timid, and taxes the talkers, whereas tea and coffee implies wandering
about with a cup in your hand, and spilling it as occasion requires; it
makes work for the lads and pleasure for the lassies, and it breaks the
ice between strangers. Little groups form and chat, and when a joke has
taken with effect, it is passed on to a neighbouring group, and so all
the company gets jocular. For instance, Tom Martin was surrounded by his
favourites, and was replying to their questions as to how his violin had
stood the cold journey.

“Delightfully. But she is now reclining on the couch up-stairs, in order
to get up her strength for the evening.”

“That’s all fiddle de dee, said one.” (Applause.)

“Why do you call the violin she?” asked another.

“Because I have named her Pysche; she has so much life in her,” answered
Tom.

“You are her _sycophant_, then!” said another. (Renewed applause.)

“It seems to me your violin always has a very _guttural_ sound with it,”
remarked Alec Boyce. (Laughter.)

“Yes,” replied Tom Martin; “and no doubt the poet detected the same thing
in other instruments, when he composed those time-honoured lines—

    “Hey diddle diddle,
    The _cat_ and the fiddle.”

Then the applause reached its climax, and of course the little jokes were
retailed to other groups.

By degrees the company in the tea-room began to decrease. In the cold
months, however temperate the atmosphere may be kept, there is always
a chilliness in passing from one room to another, and especially at
parties. When, therefore, the drawing-room began to fill, Charlie started
a proposition—“Had we not better have a dance to warm us?” and he added,
“It used to be the fashion to terminate a concert with _God save the
Queen_; and now the _National Anthem_ comes first, and it used to be
the fashion to wind up a party with _Sir Roger de Coverley_, but why
should we not begin with it?” Of course nobody knew of any just cause
or impediment, and so the proposition was carried without a dissentient
voice.

Who can describe a party from beginning to end? It would fill a large
book to criticise all the songs and other performances, to chronicle all
the jokes, and to tell again all the tales. And how tame on paper are the
little stories which are told during a quadrille, when the introduction
is given in _La Pantelon_, and the plot commences at _L’Ete_, and the
incidents increase in interest till _Trenise_, and the _dénouement_ is
galloped over in the _Finale_. Well, suffice it to say the fun kept up
unflaggingly, and as the evening advanced, and everybody was in high
spirits, Charlie Stanley collected his “troupe,” and began to make
preparations for a charade. While the folding doors were closed for the
scenery to be placed in one room, and while the seats were being adjusted
in the other, the actors in the charade were in the great excitement of
dressing for their parts. The boys had prepared the performances for the
evening beforehand, and supplied copies to all who were to appear in
the scenes; and, as Charlie was good enough to present Old Merry with
complete copies, we will give them for the benefit of our readers, with
the condition on which they were given to us, namely, that they should
not be too severely criticised from a literary point of view.

A brief overture on the piano, and then Charlie came to the front of the
folding doors, and said:—

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I beg to announce that we are about to act a
burlesque charade, and you will be good enough to try and find out our
word. It is in three syllables; the first act will give two syllables
used as one word, the second act will give the remaining syllable, and
the third act will bring in the whole word. The charade is entitled—


                        THE MEANDERING MUSICIAN;
                                  or,
               THE VITCH!! THE VOW!! AND THE VOUCHER!!

        And will be supported by the following powerful cast:—

  BERLINDA               The “star” of the        _Miss Ada Martin_.
                           evening
  RODERIGO PIPKINS       The meandering musician,
                           in love with Berlinda  _Master Tom Martin_.
  BANQUO BELVIDERE       A Rival                  _Master Frank Edwards_.
  THEOPHILUS BALDERDASH  Another Rival            _Master Alec Boyce_.
  MRS. THOMPSON          The Witch                _Miss Florence Edwards_.
  BERLINDA’S PA          The Stern Parient        _Master Walter Stanley_.
  ALONZO NAPOLEON SMITH  An American Showman      _Master Charlie Stanley_.

         _Police, peasants, wax figures, perambulators, &c. &c._

A burst of applause followed the announcement, and was renewed when the
doors were thrown open and Berlinda was discovered leaning out of a
window overlooking the room, with a candle burning by her side to assist
her in viewing the stars, on which she was supposed to be gazing.

    BERLINDA (_in a rhapsody addressing the stars_).

    O! beaming beauties of the broad and boundless abyss,
    Whose whirling worlds seem wondrously whiter than is this.
    O! vision! vast and various to my view,
    Ye stars, which shine “because you’ve nothing else to do.”
    I gaze upon your splendours, so superbly spacious—
                                            Good gracious!
    A minstrel wanders forth. I’ll quench the light
    And hear his music on the airs of night.

                                                 (_Puts out the candle._)

    _Enter RODERIGO._

    I see her! I see her! I see her at the winder,
    It is! my beating heart! it is Berlinda!
    Come forth, my lute! ye muses, up above,
    Smile while it thus amuses her I love!

                               (_Cats are heard on the tiles in chorus._)

    O, rapture! ’tis Berlinda’s voice I hear,
    Those _strains_ are hers—alas! I feel so queer—
    Courage, faint heart! thy mistress thou must please,
    Pour forth thy lays upon the lazy breeze.

           (_Tunes his violin and sings to the air of “Beautiful Star.”_)

          Loverly girl, on yonder height,
          Sweeter than the (h)owls of night,
          Hear thy fond one’s voice to you
          Genteely asking, How do you do?
                                    How do you do-oo!

    _Chanticleer in the distance._  Cock-a-doodle-do-oo!

    _Chorus of Rivals._     How do you do-oo?
                            Lovely Berlinda, how do you do?

    RODER. Ha! there are rivals—such arrivals much I fear—
           Hist! they are coming, my idea is to hide here.

                                                               (_Hides._)

    _Enter BANQUO BELVIDERE. (Anxiously gazes round and then addresses
    the window.)_

    Berlinda! art thou there, my own Berlinda?
    My heart is hot with love—a very cinder—
    Alas! she’s gone to bed, she cannot hear,
    And I shall go to Bedlam soon I fear.
    I place these flowers on the sill within thy reach,
    They’re better, p’raps, than silly flowers of speech.

                                                                (_Exit._)

    RODERIGO (_comes forth and takes the flowers_).

    A sweet expression of my love, but not a _dear_ one.
    What, another rival? Yes, I think I hear one.

                                                               (_Hides._)

    _Enter THEOPHILUS BALDERDASH (with a cold in the head—sneezes violently
    during his speech)._

    This is a scene indeed to foster love,
    Brick walls around and chimney-pots above;
    Yon chanticleer the guardian bird is,
    To join his voice with distant hurdy-gurdies.
    All speaks of love, and shall my voice be still?
    Nay, perish! Balderdash, an if you will,
    But speak!
    _Addressing the window_— Berlinda, dearest;
    If walls have ears, surely thou hearest;
    Hearest thy lover, though his tones be hoarse,
    Hearest by means of love’s detective force,
    Warm at the heart, though with a cold i’ the head—

                                                             (_Sneezes._)

    (_Aside._) (By Jove, I really ought to be in bed.)
                Accept my love, resist it not, be not so cruel—

                                                       (_Sneezes again._)

    (_Aside._) (I really must go in for something strong, and gruel.)
                I leave this billet-_do_. Read, loved one, its contents;

    (_Aside._) (And I’ll go home and seek my night habille_ments_.)

                                                                (_Exit._)

    _Enter RODERIGO._

    A notability, as I’d ability to note. But see,
    A witch! a fortune-teller comes! O, criminy!
    I’ll bribe the hag to gain Berlinda’s bower,
    And then I’ll carry off my love within the hour.
    _Enter WITCH._ What ho! midnight marauder.

    RODERIGO (_in a whisper, taking her aside_).

                                        Order!
    Let’s have no rows that may arouse my bride;
    Go you and coax the fair one to my side;
    Bid her to fly with me, her lover and her lord,
    And you shall have _this note_[1] as your reward.

    WITCH (_raps at window and BERLINDA appears_).

    Listen, Berlinda. The stars declare thy destiny is set,
    Act now, ’tis well, forbear and you’ll regret.
    Thy lover waits to bear thee hence—Away!

    BERLINDA. Good woman, I have many lovers; say,
              Is it Roderigo Pipkins who is near?

    RODERIGO.                                    I am here!

    BERLINDA. Bless you, dear! Now help me down and fly!
              The sun will soon be mounting up the sky.
              Farewell, my home! farewell, my pa and ma!
              Accept my last adieu. Ta, ta!

                                  (_RODERIGO carries her off the stage_.)

[1] T. Balderdash’s.


ACT II.

SCENE—_a wood. BERLINDA and RODERIGO seated on the ground._

    BER. Alas! I’m hungry, love can’t support itself on air.

    ROD. I’m much more hungry; think how much I’ve had to _bear_.

    BER. Monster! is it for this I left my frugal home in haste,
         To fly with you and see this dreadful waste.
         Where is our home? where do you mean to go?

    ROD. Upon my word, Berlinda, I don’t know;
         I think we’ll pic-nic, drink the morning dew,
         And eat the berries,—see, I’ve got a few,—
         And then we’ll take a quiet stroll to search
         For parson, marriage lines, and church,
         And then live happy ever after. What d’ye say?

    BER. Why, most emphatically, nay!
         I call this treatment shameful, sinful, flagrant—

    ROD. Come, come Berlinda, let me have no _vague rant_;
         You _wander_ in your speech. What is’t you need?

    BER. My breakfast! oh, I’m dying for a feed.

    ROD. I would I were a bird, and then I might your favour win;
         Alas, I can but offer you some scrapings from my violin.

    _BERLINDA bursts into a passionate flood of tears, and RODERIGO plays
    pathetically “Home, sweet home.” By-and-by the sound of voices and the
    tramp of feet are heard in the distance._

    BER. O! Roderigo, we’re pursued! they’re armed! what shall we do?

    ROD. When they’ve mustered, we shall both get peppered, we are in a
            stew.
         Is’t _meet_ that we should wait, or shall we fly?

    BER. I would _I_ were a bird!

    ROD.                              And so do I.
         But, see, your father comes—his passion’s at a pitch,
         And he is followed by the rivals; and the witch—

    BER. Which it is. O! goodness, what will now become of me?
         I’ll climb—but no, they’ll think I’m “up a tree.”
         They come. Down, Roderigo; down upon your knees.

    ROD. It’s not _an easy_ place, but anything to please.

       (_Enter Infuriated Parient, Rivals, Witch, Policeman, and a
                             Perambulator._)

    BERLINDA’S PA. Rogue! villain! rascal! Lend me your ears
         That I may pierce them with my taunts and jeers.
         I come to claim my daughter you have borne away.

    ROD. (_aside._) ’Twere better she had not been born, I say.

    BER. PA. And you shall answer for this day’s affray.

    ROD. I’m much afraid I shall; but pray be calm.
         My hand upon it—I would never do her harm.

    BER. PA. Silence, base rogue! My friends, the time is fleeting,
         I think we’d better now prorogue this meeting.

    RIV. Not till we’ve fought, and thus expressed our hate.

    ROD. Good Sirs, I deem that I am _fortunate_.
         I’ll fight you on the morrow—not to-day.
         Excuse me if I’m acting in a _sordid_ way;
         But—

    BER. PA. Ho! guards, bring forth the prison van, and bear her hence.

           (_They carry BERLINDA to the perambulator—en route she says_:)

    Dear Roderigo, dreadful is suspense;
    But write to me, prepaid, and when you see your way
    All clear, be good enough to name the day.

    ROD. (_weeping._) Farewell, Berlinda, fairest of the fair!

    BER. Good-bye, cheer up, old chap, and take that ere (hair).

     (_Door closes while RODERIGO kisses the ringlet flung to him by
                    BERLINDA from the perambulator._)


ACT III.

Before the doors are open a servant in livery enters the room, in which
the company are seated, and puts up a placard with the following notice:—

                 “GREAT ATTRACTION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!!

    Mr. Alonzo Napoleon Smith, of the Boundless Prairie, America,
    begs to announce that he will exhibit his unrivalled

                           WAX-WORK FIGURES.
                 _Admission free. Children half-price._
               N.B.—NO MONEY RETURNED WITHOUT IT’S BAD.”

Prior to the opening of the doors Berlinda takes her seat among the
audience.

The door opens. A row of figures, covered over with sheets, stand on rout
seats round the room. One or two reclining figures in the foreground.
Overture on the violin, “How doth the little busy bee,” by Roderigo
Pipkins, the meandering musician.

A servant in livery then enters, and uncovers the wax-work figures,
revealing—

    JOAN OF ARC, represented by               _Miss Florence Edwards_.
    QUEEN OF NIGHT                            _Miss Emily Cathcart_.
    FIELD MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON      _Master Alec Boyce_.
    RICHARD III.                              _Master Walter Stanley_.

                         _Lay Figures, &c., &c._

_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith, as Lecturer._

Ladies and Gentlemen, at the request of the Universe, seconded by the
United States of America, I have brought my caravan from the Boundless
Prairie, in order to raise the tone of the fine arts in your country, and
to devote the proceeds of the entertainment to the liquidation of your
national debt. No, no! not a word of thanks, I beg. Such an audience as
this before me fills me with awe, and I speak with authority when I say
that had I not a dash of Minerva’s wisdom my nervous system would hardly
stand the ordeal.

I will not trouble you with an account of how I collected the information
which will be contained in my brief lecture. Suffice it to say that a
friend having presented me with a copy of the Bodleian Library, and
having taken apartments in the British Museum for some time past, not to
mention the fact of a visit to the Alexandrian Library prior to the late
disastrous fire, has posted me up in the points which will be brought
under your notice. But as Homer very beautifully says in his last little
work, we have—

    “Ad referendum in loco, viva voce summum bonum videlicet.”

Let our business be to show the product of the busy bee, namely, these
“neatly spread” wax figures.

And first let me call your attention to Joan of Arc.

(Joan of Arc moves her head, and raises her hand _mechanically_).

Much mystery attaches to the young person now before us. It is supposed
that she was called Joan _d’Arc_, because we are in the dark as to her
birthplace, unless we accept the idea that she came from Arcadia. She
suffered much from nightmare, and fancied she was riding over France as
its victoress. Consequently she adopted men’s clothes. It is well to
observe too that she cut off her hair before she arrived at _Chinon_. She
headed an army, so the tale goes, of 7,000 men; and with the strength of
her arms the foe was defeated. After which she came to ruin (Rouen), that
is to say she was burnt there.

Virtue and manliness always succeed in the long run, however, and her
successes have been immortalized in Paris by a gorgeous tombstone,
entitled the Arc de Triomphe!

The next figure I shall introduce is one of a paragorical nature. The
Queen of Night, represented by a daughter of Eve. Unseen she spreads her
mantle over the earth, and thus acts the part of a_n_ _it_inerant angel.
The umbrella in her hand is also an emblematic figure, representing the
pernicious influences which attend upon her, and is called the deadly
nightshade. In the absence of any further proofs of the authenticity of
this character there will be an interval of a minute, during which the
band will play.—_Exit._

Roderigo Pipkins immediately strikes up, but suddenly leaves off, takes
out the ringlet from his pocket, and waves it before the audience.
Berlinda hides her face in her pocket handkerchief.

_Roderigo advancing, and whispering to Berlinda_—

    “Berlinda is it you dear? do you love me now as then?
    O! wilt thou be my bride, love, and not fly oft again?
    You will? Then come up quickly—Smith will come ere long;
    He’ll be puzzled when he reckons, you’re another figurant!”

_Berlinda stands on a pedestal beside the wax figures, and Roderigo
covers her with a sheet._

_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith._

I shall now briefly introduce another well-known character—Field Marshal
the late Duke of Wellington—he will be easily recognized from the fact
of his nasal probus being the most prominent feature of his face. I will
not go all over his history. You remember all about Magna Charta, and
the formation of a body called the Chartists. You know how the Spanish
Armada was defeated in Trafalgar Bay, and how Wellington cheered on his
men, saying, “I’ll be your leader.” You remember that little affair with
the Duchess of Salisbury at the ball at Brussels, and how the Duke was
made a knight of the Garter. Having brought the history thus far up to
the eve of Waterloo, let us confine our attention to that event. And
first, I notice it was not a _bootless_ expedition, for ever since that
event Wellington and Blucher boots have become an institution of your
free and enlightened country. Second, it is a popular fallacy to suppose
that His Grace was in any way connected with the trade of a hatter. When
he said “Up boys and (h)at ’em,” he merely wished his men to give the foe
a bonneting! Moral from the life. He earned a glorious reputation as the
Iron Duke, and his monument overlooking Hyde Park is the finest bit of
_irony_ extant.

Let us now turn to the figure of Richard III. A bad figure, as you will
see; and we learn on the very face of our subject that though deformities
may be put behind one’s back they are not therefore altogether out of
sight. Richard was Duke of Gloster, and it is generally admitted that it
was not the cheese for him to seize the crown in such mighty haste. As
you are aware, one of the main features of his reign was the introduction
of the pillo(w)ry, by which he smothered the two little princes in the
Tower.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must draw my entertainment to a close—

    ROD. (_aside_). Now screw thy courage to the sticking place.
    Here goes!
    Ladies and gentlemen, I hope I don’t behave—

    A. N. SMITH.                Silence, slave!

    ROD. Good sir, I crave permission just to say
    Before this worthy audience goes away,
    There’s still one figure more to show—

    A. N. SMITH (_in surprise_).          No!

    ROD. Indeed there is—one worth her weight in gold.
    Berlinda, Roderigo’s bride, behold!

              (_Uncovers the figure and leads BERLINDA to the audience._)

    Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve played our little game—
    We’re satisfied (aint we, Berlinda?) we hope you are the same.
    And now as all the parts of our charade you’ve heard,
    It only rests with you to say the word.

                                                                 [_Exit._

The applause was deafening; never did the drawing-room echo back such
clapping of hands and hearty bravos as it did that Christmas Eve; the
doors were closed, but long and loud shouts for Alonzo Napoleon Smith
were raised, and they had again to be opened, for the performers to come
in and make their bows to the audience. Roderigo led in Berlinda, Richard
the Third came arm in arm with Joan of Arc, the Duke of Wellington
chaperoned the Queen of Night, and the livery servant brought in the
meandering musician’s fiddle!

And then came the puzzling part of the affair, to try and find out the
word. One guessed “Audience,” awe-die-hence; another “Entertainment,”
enter-tàen-ment; a third “Overlooking;” and others the most absurd and
improbable words possible, and words which were never introduced into the
charade at all. At last one sharp boy, who had been taking notes between
the acts, stumbled upon the right word, and it was ⸺.[2]

A question now arose as to whether there should be any more charades,
or whether the rooms should be cleared again for more general fun. The
set entertainments carried the day, however, and after an interval for
refreshment, and a little variety in the way of some songs by some of the
young ladies, the loud bell of the town crier was heard in the hall, and
Master Willie Cathcart, who represented that institution, announced—“O
yes! O yes! O yes! a great Reform Debate and Demonstration will take
place in this place on Christmas Eve, of which all persons interested in
the great questions of the day will be pleased to take notice. God save
the Queen.” In double-quick time the company fell into position, and then
came


THE GREAT REFORM DEBATE AND DEMONSTRATION.

The demonstration came first, and consisted of a procession all round
the drawing-room. “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” was struck up on
the piano, and Tom Martin accompanied it on the violin, but having
forgotten to get his instrument in tune with the piano beforehand, played
excruciatingly as he headed the procession. Then came Edward Barnes—

    Clenching in his hand, as in a vice,
    A banner with the strange device,
                      “Here we are again!”

A motley crew of reformers followed, some with flags, and some with
rosettes; one boy had some pieces of paper, and was chanting a parody on
Tennyson’s lines, “Sweet and low.” The first verse ran thus:—

    “Bright and Lowe, Bright and Lowe,
      Members of high degree;
    Lowe, Lowe, spout and blow,
      But Bright’s got the better of thee.”

Last of all, arm in arm, came the reform agitators. The cheering
that greeted them was loud and long, and when they had elbowed their
way through the crowd, which was purposely arranged so as to make it
difficult, they ascended the platform, which had been reared on the
spot lately occupied by the wax figures. And then, by one of those
transformations which are so easy in fiction and on the stage, the scene
was changed from Hyde Park to the House of Commons, represented by the
platform. Charlie Stanley took the chair as Speaker of the House, and
to the right and left of the table, in places marked “ministerial” and
“opposition,” the members arranged themselves. This arrangement was not
on the ground of political opinion, but it was deemed desirable that,
when any cries of “oh!” or “order!” were to be introduced, it would be
better for those on one side of the speaker to cry down those on the
other side. It was not a full house; only four honourable gentlemen
appeared on the platform beside the Speaker, and they were Messrs.
Walter Stanley, Alec Boyce, Arthur Mortram, and Oswald Layton. Edward
Barnes having carefully arranged his banner so that the motto should
appear above the head of the Speaker, acted as Usher, or Master of the
Ceremonies, and not being very familiar with the proceedings in the
House of Commons, commenced by crying “Silence in the Court,” which
immediately produced an uproar. However, this was soon put down, and then
the Speaker rose and said—

    GENTLEMEN,

    I think you will agree with me, it would be quite beside the mark
    For us to sift the question of the riots in Hyde Park,
    Or even bring that _railing_ accusation up again,
    Which most suppose was settled then by might and _Mayne_.
    We will not name the _Bright_ ideas in fashion long ago,
    Nor condescend to thoughts that may be anything like _Lowe_.
    Reform debates are very sober things, but still
    They don’t go on successfully without a _Mill_.
    Stick therefore to your points, and let us hope you’ll bring,
    For all who are inclined _to roam_, a _Whalley-ping_.
    We meet to-night to take the young idea by storm,
    And quote the latest standard for reform.
    We vote for Boyhood suffrage—that’s our motto,
    We want no Dull uns’ cave, or hole, or grotto,
    But urge that all our boys should boldly take their stand,
    And in a solemn League go hand in hand,
    And try to put down all the wrong that rules
    In play-grounds, workshops, cricket-fields, or schools.
    “Reform, complete and genuine Reform,” that is our maxim,
    No bribery or corruption, or £7 rate to tax him;
    But let each boy, who has a good opinion he can quote,
    Be free to use, as best he can, his vote.
    Now, Gentlemen, the weighty question lies with you,
    Sift well its points, and show us something new.
    Don’t fear, in studying the welfare of a lad,
    To say of shuffling measures, “_Dis really_ is too bad.”
    Don’t fear the Opposition, and to each who axes,
    Say “Every one for all, and bother taxes.”— (_Cheers._)

    Mr. ALEC BOYCE _rose and said_—

            I take it that this point is ceded,
    Namely, that Universal Boyhood Suffrage is needed.
    I fear—(_Opposition, hear! hear!_)
    I fear the subject is too vast for me to hold in hand,
    So just upon one point I take my stand.
    The point, in fine, is this; it’s plain and clear as day,
    Reform is greatly needed with our boys at play;
    I take it that in this debate the use is,
    To “let fly” at our popular abuses.
    Now what is it we see in almost every school?
    Why right is the exception, wrong the rule.

    Mr. WALTER STANLEY (_interrupting_).

    I think, if, Mr. Speaker, I might make so bold,
    The honourable member should be told—

    SPEAKER.

                                        Hold!
    My duty is to take down several pegs
    Whoever spars at any member when he’s on his legs.

    Mr. ALEC BOYCE _resumes_.

    The thread of my discourse is tangled; what I want to say
    Is this, that boys are often awfully unfair in play,
    Trench on the rights of youngsters, tease and frighten,
    Make heavier the burdens which they ought to lighten,
    Turn bullies, fag the weakest, and, in short,
    Do many things which members of a play-ground never ought.
    I know a school, not many hundred miles from here,
    Where practices prevail which at the least are queer.
    For instance, I have sometimes heard a boy declare,
    With all the bombast of a champion’s air,
    That he was best man in the school; and he would prove his right
    By calling any trembling unfledged urchin out to fight;
    Now fighting, gentlemen, is not to be applauded, and I say
    That he’s the better man who does not fight, but runs away.

    (_Opposition, Nay!_)

    Neigh as you will, ay, even till you’re _hoarse_,
    (_A racy_ bit of humour comes of _course_,)
    I’ll say _nae mair_, but still, if fight he must, I hope
    You’ll recommend his joining Garibaldi or the Pope.
    And in that self-same school an evil still prevails,
    Of settling disputes by means of heads and tails.
    I hold it, Sir, unparliamentary for us to toss in air
    The likeness of our sovereign lady fair,
    And make her settle, whether or not she chooses,
    Such points as “Heads I win, and tails he loses.”
    I move, therefore, as one important clause in our reforming rules,
    Leave fighting for the Pope, and “tossing” for his bulls.
    Time will not now permit, or I would seek to show
    How many more important measures we might take in tow,
    And change _in toto_ many evil things which sway
    The conduct of Young England when at play.
    But as the hour advances, I feel, Sir, it is meet
    That I should—er—hem! er—take my seat.

    (_Satirical cries of “Hear, hear,” from the Opposition, and immense
      applause from Arthur Mortram, the other member on the Ministerial
      bench._)

    Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

    I rise in some surprise, to tell my noble friend,
    Who brought his speech to such a cheery end,
    That however much he is inclined to tax his mind,
    Great faults in play-ground practices to find,
    I have no hesitation, er—hem! in declaring,
    That while in some degree his feeling sharing,
    I cannot be in ignorance of the fact how much he lacked
    A forcible expression of his views, and, did I chose,
    I think I should be justified in saying
    He made foul statements on fair playing.
    He stated in a most decisive way—

    Mr. ALEC BOYCE.

    Allow me just to say—

    Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

    Eh?

    Mr. ALEC BOYCE.

    I wish to say in explanation, and for fear—

    Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.

    Hear! hear!

    Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.

    I rise to order, Mr. Speaker, and should like to know—

    CHORUS.

    Oh! oh!

    Mr. SPEAKER, _in a passion_.

    Chair, gentlemen! To wonder now at Balaam’s ass were weak,
    It seems the custom for such animals to speak.

    Mr. WALTER STANLEY _resumes_.

    The point I wish to touch upon, if not amiss, is simply this—
    An evil very great prevails, on which some folks are often joking,
    I mean in sober seriousness the evil habit some boys have of smoking.
    I cannot walk in London through a street
    Unless some little rag-a-muffin boys I meet,
    Smoking their pipes; or if young gentlemen they are,
    Perhaps they sport a penny pickwick, or cigar.
    I fear that many honourable members will get warm
    At hearing that this habit needs a great reform.
    I will not say a word about the habit as indulged by men,
    Or raise the question of the “Counterblast” again;
    Let each man please himself who’s old enough to know
    Whether it’s good or bad, respectable or low.
    But if there is a thing that makes me sad,
    Or drives me into desperation, nearly mad,
    It is to see behind a great cigar
    A youngster who, if his good pa and ma
    Knew what the little fellow was about,
    Would quickly put their tempers, and his smoking, out.
    But arguments are needed; it will not take me long
    To find a backer to my statement that tobacco smoking’s wrong.
    And first—If I’d a puppy, and I wanted all to know
    That I could stop his growth and keep him low,
    In very early dog days I’d begin
    To dose the little fellow well with gin;
    And if I wished to enervate a boy,
    The fire and vigour of his life destroy,
    And all his brightness and his briskness mar,
    I’d daily give the little fellow a cigar.
    Second—To keep my dog respectable, I’d make him stay at home,
    He’d lose his character were he with other dogs to roam;
    He’d learn to fight and quarrel, bite and bark—

    Mr. A. MORTRAM.

    “It is their nature too.”

    Mr. WALTER STANLEY.

    (The Doctor’s quite beside the mark.)
    And when a boy likes smoke, he’s sure to try and find
    Some other smoky fellows suited to his mind,
    And very soon his native goodness they’ll destroy,
    And he will soon become a bacca-nalian boy.
    Third. If my pup has been and gone and done what is not right,
    ’Tis pitiful to see him slinking home at night;
    His ears are back, his tail is down, his eyes
    Have lost their merriment, and don’t look wise,
    And while he suffers justly his disgrace,
    He throws a gloom and coldness through the place.
    So with a boy who smokes, or acts in any sort
    His better sense and conscience seek to thwart,
    He soon grows sly and underhanded in his ways,
    He spoils his future in his early days;
    He apes the man, and when he comes to man’s estate,
    The love of boyish recollections turns to hate.
    If any one, I care not who he is, is careless as a lad,
    Dishonourable, sly, or mean, he’s sure to “turn out bad.”
    And he who does a foolish thing, like smoking, let me say,
    At once should give it up—it’ll give it him some day.
    So, gentlemen, I beg you take this smoking citadel by storm,
    And vote for anti-bacca in your measures of Reform.

    Mr. A. MORTRAM.

    I think the honourable gentleman who just now spoke
    In such a piping tone of boys not consuming their own smoke
    Should bear in mind in what direction he would cast his pearls,
    Our movement takes in boys but not excludes the girls.

    (_Cheers in the Ladies’ gallery._)

    And therefore his ideas are narrow, unless he meant to try
    And show that it was equally injurious for girls to pipe their eye.
    The subject of my speech is—to be brief—

    Mr. OSWALD LAYTON—That’s a relief.

    Mr. ALEC BOYCE—Chair! chair!

    Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.

    Gentlemen, forbear! The sentence I began
    Is this. The subject of my speech is “slang;”
    We need Reform, a radical reform; we ought to teach
    The Saxon, Lindley Murray parts of speech,
    Use sparingly flash words imported from abroad,
    Not always echoing the late Artemus Ward.
    We want to root out words that pass as English in the town,
    Learn lessons from, not imitate, a Sketchley’s “Mrs. Brown.”
    We ought to cry down common phrases such as these—
    “It’s all my eye,” I’m certain that is “not the cheese.”
    ’Twere better for a boy or girl to sit quite still and dumb
    Than call their Father “Governor,” or Mother “Mum.”
    Some call their fellows “bloke,” or “thing,” or “cove,”
    Appeal to Jingo, Gimini, and George, and Jove;
    Are “awfully” delighted, or “hideously” pleased,
    Are suited “all to pieces,” or “villanously” teased.
    If any man is tipsy they say he’s “screwed,” or “tight;”
    Is any one ill-dressed? then he’s a “horrid fright;”
    If one’s removed, he’s “mizzled,” “hooked it,” or else “cut;”
    If any one is crazy, then he’s “off his nut;”
    If appetite is bad, a man is “off his chump;”
    Who pays for anything, must first “shell out,” or “stump.”
    And so on—I might give a hundred sayings more,
    But you would think me green, or p’raps a “bore.”
    Yet, gentlemen, I cannot take my seat until I stoutly say
    These slang expressions spoil the converse of our day.
    They make young people flippant, loose in thought and speech,
    And not worse English than worse morals do they teach,
    For serious subjects have their slang expressions, but I dare
    Not quote them here, so, Mr. Speaker, I forbear.
    Yet ere I take my seat, I trust, my honourable friends, you will
    Bring in the measure I propose in your forthcoming Bill.

    Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.

    Mr. Speaker, gentlemen, a certain sage
    Was pleased to call our present time the iron age;
    I will not argue on that point, but let it pass,
    It seems to me the present is the age of brass.
    At borrowed phrases the last speaker made a shy
    In borrowed jokes allow me to reply—
    Well, that the speech last heard was sound, it cannot be denied,
    Grant that, and then it will be found, it’s little else beside.
    The speech, no doubt, will be immortal of our friend,
    For he who hears it, hears it to no end.

    (_Mr. W. Stanley, hear! hear!_)

    We must admit, though, that his speeches have great weight,
    We’ve found it hard to bear them oft of late;
    And also that his arguments are quite profound
    For not a bit can anybody see the ground.
    “Some say his wit’s refined, thus is explained
    The seeming mystery—his wit is strained—
    No wonder, therefore, the debate falls dead
    Beneath such close and constant fire of lead.”
    I will not occupy the meeting very long,
    I wish to ask one question,—Am I right or wrong?
    Each gentleman _exposed_ the faults he had been chiding,
    Would it not be better, Sir, to give those faults a _hiding_?
    I think we have been nibbling at our subject all the night
    Instead of saying all we ought to say outright.
    I say, Let every boy and girl throughout the land
    On radical reform come boldly out and stand;
    Fight against wrong in every shape and dress,
    Gain for our slighted cause a sound redress;
    Be manly, womanly, in everything they do,
    And keep the true and blessed ends of life in view;
    Succour the weak, be kind to foe and friend,
    Tell old men it is not too late to mend;
    Take children tempted into wrong and sin,
    And seek for better ends their hearts to win;
    And show through life’s dull day, and cloud, and storm,
    The peace and shelter found beneath Reform!

    (_Loud cheers_)

    The Speaker vacates the chair and comes to the front of the platform—

    MR. MERRY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, it is proposed that we should now go
      into a Committee of the whole house.

    You’ve listened patiently to all that has been spoken—
    You listen still, and so we take it as a token
    That you approve the measures that we think are needed,
    And which, we fear, by many folks are scarcely heeded;
    So, you who would enroll yourselves beneath our banner,
    Will signify it in the usual manner.

The Government and the Opposition, everybody in the room, and the
servants who were crowding round the door, held up their hands
immediately, and the Bill was carried amid such enthusiasm as is rarely
seen even in the House. And as the speakers came down from the platform,
headed by Tom Martin, who played “We won’t go home till morning,” (no
doubt under the impression that that best expressed the habits of Members
of Parliament,) they were cheered all the way to the refreshment room,
where they amicably settled their political differences over lemonade and
sherry.

       *       *       *       *       *

How fast time flies when the evening is being merrily spent! Who would
have thought it was supper-time already? But so it was, and the lads and
lasses were fast pairing off for that event, when a loud rat-tat was
heard at the door.

“What, fresh arrivals at this time of night!” said one or two. “I wonder
who it can be!”

“It is a surprise of some sort or other,” said Ada Martin; “I am quite
sure it is. I can tell it by the twinkle in Mr. Merry’s eye.”

Rat-tat, again and again, at the door.

“I can’t bear this suspense any longer,” said Emily Cathcart; “I must
peep.” But the door was closed, and a firm hand on the outside kept it
fast.

“I say it’s a Punch and Judy,” said one.

“No; I say it’s Christy’s Minstrels,” said another.

“I believe it’s fireworks, to go off on the lawn,” said Arthur Mortram.

And in the midst of the speculations the doors were thrown open, and the
visitors were announced:

    Mr. W. H. G. KINGSTON.
    Mr. R. M. BALLANTYNE.
    Mr. EDWIN HODDER.
    Mrs. MONA BICKERSTAFFE.
    Mr. SIDNEY DARYL.
    Mr. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF.
    COUSIN CYNTHA.

As each name was announced a buzz of welcome was heard, for every name
was associated with bright and happy recollections, and every one in the
room felt (as every child in the land feels) that the authors of the
tales which had been their delight for years could not be other than
their friends. So there was a great deal of hand-shaking, and many a kind
and cheery word given to the youngsters, and then Old Merry said:

“Let us give one good hearty cheer of welcome to our friends, and then
off to supper. And when that is over we will have our chairs brought
round the fire, and I may promise you, on behalf of my good friends here,
that each in turn will spin you a Christmas yarn. Now, hip! hip!”—and if
the visitors had not been thoroughly accustomed to youngsters they would
have been stunned and staggered at the “hurrah!” which burst from every
lip.

The fund of conversation which the new arrivals furnished for the supper
table was unlimited; but anxiety was so great to be back again in the
drawing-room, that the time usually allowed on such occasions for
refreshment was very much curtailed.

The chandeliers glistened and the fires burnt as they only do on
Christmas Eve. A large ring, with double rows of seats, was made all
round the room, and then the stories commenced. We will give them in the
order in which they came, and omit the occasional interruptions which
attended, and the questions and criticisms which followed, every story.

[2] As some of our young friends may like to guess out the word for
themselves, it is withheld, but will be published in the January number
of “Merry and Wise.”




FROZEN UP; OR, MY POLAR EXPERIENCES.

_By WILLIAM HENRY KINGSTON, Author of “Peter the Whaler,” “Washed
Ashore,” &c., &c._


[Illustration: “In a few minutes an Esquimaux, with his seal spear in
his hand and his dog by his side, stood before us.”—_Page 52._]

You ask for a yarn, my friends. I’ll spin you one with all my heart.
You are all agreed that Christmas is a merry time. It ought to be so
with you who have many kind friends around you, a warm, blazing fire,
plenty of roast beef and plum-pudding, and other satisfactory things;
and good houses, and warm clothing, and numberless other blessings,
spiritual as well as temporal. But, I say boys, that should not allow
us to forget that there are thousands of our fellow-creatures, and of
our fellow-countrymen, too, who are perhaps at this moment starving
and freezing—dying of cold and hunger. Those who have never suffered
themselves are apt not to think of the sufferings to which others are
exposed. I, however, can never forget a winter I spent—where do you
think? In Scotland. Oh, no. Shetland? Further north. Iceland? Further
north still. At the North Pole, or, at least, not far off it. I went
to sea in the old “Grampus,” Greenland whaler, from Hull, for a summer
trip, hoping to be back with my friends by the end of October. The old
“Grampus” was barque-rigged, 350 tons burden, carried six whale-boats,
three hung up on each side, and a crew of fifty men, all told—consisting
of harpooners, boat-steerers, line-managers, coopers, carpenters,
foremast-men, landsmen, and apprentices. Each man was to have a share
in the profits on every whale caught, so that all were interested. The
ship was very strongly built, with ice-knees to withstand the pressure
of the ice. When I examined her, and observed that her bows were one
mass of wood, I thought that nothing could harm her. I little knew, at
that time, the tremendous power of masses of ice when grinding together,
though no storm is raging over head, and the sea beneath may seem calm
as a mill-pond. Our courses, that is our lower sails, were differently
shaped to those of an ordinary merchantman, being narrow at the foot, and
fitted with booms, so that they would swing round of themselves when,
as was often the case, a few hands only were left on board to work the
ship. But an important feature in our ship, in common with other whalers,
by which she might be known at a distance, was the “crow’s nest” at her
maintop-gallant-mast head. It was like a big cask, and contained a seat,
and a place for a telescope, a speaking-trumpet, a flag, and a few other
articles. Here an officer was stationed, when whales were supposed to be
near, to watch for their appearance. Our boats were different to those
in general use aboard trading vessels, the stem and stern were alike,
and were about twenty-six feet long. Each carried six whale-lines, of
120 fathoms in length, and harpoons and lances, an axe for cutting the
line should it foul, and many other articles. The boats pulled from four
to six oars. The captain, or one of the mates, acted as harpooner, the
boat-steerer ranked next to him, and the line-manager took the third
place. The crew were formed into divisions according to the number of
boats, and thus each division consisted of a harpooner, boat-steerer,
line-manager, and four or five rowers. The harpooner had command, and
when in pursuit pulled the bow oar. I looked forward, with great delight,
to the cruise. To see a real, palpable iceberg—not a mere painted one in
a panorama—and huge living whales caught, was, I thought, worth going
all round the world for, and would amply repay me for any danger I might
have to overcome during the short summer trip I expected to make. Captain
Blowhard, the master of the “Grampus,” was a relative of my mother, and
had offered to take me as a supernumerary in his own cabin. If I liked
a sea life I was to continue in it as a profession, but if not, I was
to return on shore and learn to wield a pen or a yard measure, instead
of a harpoon or a sword. The full complement of our crew, including
some of our best men, was to be made up at Lerwick, in Shetland, where
we called to take them on board. We remained three days in the Sound,
off the chief of those treeless but highly picturesque islands, and,
I must say, that a more hospitable, kind-hearted, pleasant-mannered
people I never met. They have, however, one grievous cause of complaint.
The map-makers will persist in putting their group of islands up in an
out-of-the-way corner of the maps, so that a very large proportion of
the human race do not know where they are really to be found. In spite
of this, however, they are a tolerably happy and contented community.
Away we sailed on our voyage, which was anything but a smooth one, for
we were tumbled and tossed about by the big waves in a manner which I
thought must shake even our stout ship to pieces. They did not, however;
and, towards the end of April, our captain showed me our position on the
map, not far from Davis Straits. The next morning, going on deck, the
sky very blue, the sea tolerably smooth, and the sun shining brightly,
though the air was unusually keen, I saw close to us, towering up high
above the masts of the ship, a white, floating mountain—an iceberg—pure
as alabaster. Curiously shaped peaks formed the upper part, which seemed
to rest on a base of arches, forming the mouths of caverns, of the most
delicate blue tint. The peaks glittered brightly in the sunbeams, and
every instant seemed to change their shape, either as the berg moved
slowly round, or we passed by. I exclaimed that I had never seen anything
so magnificent. “Wait a bit, youngster, you’ll see stranger sights than
that before long,” observed Sam Grummet, our first mate, who had followed
the fortunes of Captain Blowhard for the best part of his life. I had
one shipmate of about my own age, “Jack;” he had another name, but he
was never called anything but Jack. He and I soon became fast friends,
though he was before the mast and I was in the cabin. Then there was
Sandy Dow, a boat-steerer, a true-hearted and an honest Shetlander. He
took an interest in me from the first; not a mere fancy, but because I
was young, thoughtless, and inexperienced, and he earnestly wished to do
me good. A few days passed away after we got among icebergs, and we were
in hourly expectation of making the ice. Even in calm weather it requires
great vigilance to discover an opening into which the ship may sail,
but when blowing hard, as it did when we entered Davis Straits, it was
a very anxious time. The danger was, however, chiefly from the washing
pieces of ice, which are often large masses just even with the water. An
experienced hand was stationed at each yard-arm throughout the night to
look out for them. My wonder was, as I saw the men up there, that they
did not drop asleep and fall off, as I am sure that I should have done.
At length, a collection of sheets of ice appeared one morning ahead of
us, with passages between them, into which no sooner did we run than we
found the sea smooth as a mill-pond. Gaily we glided along, sometimes
through narrow lanes, at other times across broad lakes bordered by
ice. Our crow’s nest, and boats, and gear, were got ready, the first
being occupied during the day by a look-out, for any moment whales might
appear, and the boats would start in chase. We were at this time sailing
along the coast of Greenland, and, although we were from twelve to twenty
miles off it, so lofty are the mountains, and so pure the atmosphere,
that often it appeared as if we were close under them. Indeed, when we
at length stood in for the land, it seemed as if it was actually drawing
back from us, so long did we sail on and yet seemed to be getting no
nearer. I remembered the story of some of the old navigators who, in
consequence of this, thought the country was an enchanted one, and rather
than venture on it put about and made the best of their way home again.

As the season advanced, the days gradually increased in length, till the
sun itself was visible at midnight, and darkness was banished from our
part of the globe. Still, there was a difference, for the night always
seemed calmer and more quiet than the day. At length, our ears were
gladdened by a shout from the crow’s nest of “A fish, a fish; she spouts,
she spouts.” The crew had till then been moving leisurely about, but, in
an instant, all were in a state of the greatest excitement. Three boats
were sent away in pursuit. No one, by rule, goes in the boats except
those who row or steer; but just as Sandy Dow’s boat was shoving off I
slipped in, and so eager was everybody to be off that they did not stop
to put me on board again. Away we dashed, the water foaming up at our
bows. Sandy’s practised eye had marked the spot where the whale had gone
down, and well he knew where it would come up again. On we went, and
there was a whirling in the waters, and the monster’s back rose gradually
out of it, while a column of steam-like vapour ascended into the air.

[Illustration: “There was a whirling in the waters, and the monster’s
back rose gradually out of it.”—_Page 41._]

Our harpooner, who pulled the bow oar, rose from his seat. For an instant
he stood with his weapon in hand, then darted it with all his strength
against the side of the whale, into which it sunk deeply. We were fast.
Downwards plunged the whale, the line flying out with lightning rapidity,
making the timber over which it passed smoke with the friction. We had
but short time for breathing. “She’ll soon be up again,” observed Sandy.
So, indeed, she was, when we again hauled up to her with the line, and
three lances were plunged into her sides. The agony made her spring
almost out of the water. Then down she went, as if she could thus free
herself from her tormentors, but the depths of the ocean are no permanent
home for the whale, she must come up to breathe. She soon, therefore,
appeared, and again we were at her. As we drew near, I saw a huge body
in between us and the bright sun, and instantly afterwards there was a
loud flop, and a thick shower of a ruddy liquid descended on our heads.
We had reason to be thankful that the whale’s tail did not strike us
instead of the water, or there would not have been much left either of
the boat or crew to pick up. We backed out of the monster’s way, for she
was, in her flurry, twisting and turning, and lashing the water, till
she was surrounded by a mass of crimson foam, while our crew cheered
lustily at the thought of the prize they had won, for such a whale as we
had now killed is worth not much less than five hundred pounds. Meantime
one of the other boats had got fast to another whale, a huge monster,
which was giving a great deal of trouble. As soon, therefore, as our
capture turned over on her side, and showed that she was dead, we stuck
a flag into her, and, hauling in our lines, went to the assistance of
our shipmates. Fearing that the whale would after all escape them, they
closed in on her, to plunge a fresh harpoon into her side. Loud cries for
help reached our ears. With one sweep of her tail she had knocked the
boat to pieces, and we feared had killed some if not all of the crew. We
dashed on with redoubled speed. “Make fast to her, make fast,” shouted
the harpooner, whom we met swimming towards us. All the other men whom we
saw had secured oars with which to support themselves, and seemed in no
way distressed. We accordingly approached the whale. Another harpoon, and
a fresh shower of darts, were fixed in her, and not till then would the
crew consent to be taken on board. Two poor fellows had, however, been
struck by the whale, and must have been instantly killed, for they sank
immediately.

[Illustration: “With one sweep of her tail she knocked the boat to
pieces.”—_Page 42._]

But I have not time to give you an account of all the whales we killed.
We were unusually successful for the season of the year and that side
of the bay. We had now to cross over to the west side, in some of the
bays on which coast whales were said to abound. To effect this, we were
obliged to pass through the middle ice, a work of great labour and often
of danger. The route chosen by our captain was round by the north, across
Melville Bay. At first we got on merrily enough, a course of northerly
winds having blown the ice to the southward. After a time, however, the
favourable wind ceased, and the ice drifting slowly back, we were obliged
to commence cutting our way through it. While it moved thus gently, with
our ice saws we cut a canal towards the nearest piece of clear water we
could see ahead, and towed the ship along it. Then, perhaps, we were able
to make sail for an hour or so, once more to find a barrier drawn across
our course. Sometimes for a whole day together the crew were sawing and
towing, and I heard some of them say that they might have to go on that
way for a month. Still they kept their tempers, and worked with a will,
in the hopes of getting a full ship at the end. I was awaked, however,
one morning, by hearing the captain summoned on deck, and when I followed
him there I saw nothing but long faces, and not without good reason. The
clouds were flying rapidly overhead from the S.S.W., and the ice was
moving along and upheaving in a peculiarly ominous manner. No time was
lost in getting out the ice saws to cut a dock into which to tow the
ship. This is a work of great labour, but all hands worked with a will,
for they well knew that the safety of the ship depended on the speed with
which it was accomplished. The ship had just been towed into the dock,
when the ice to the southward began to lift and heave more violently than
before. I saw the captain, Mr. Grummet, Sandy Dow, and other old hands,
looking out anxiously, and I guessed not without good cause. There was
a loud rumbling crashing sound, something like thunder, and yet more
terrible. Not a single spot of clear water could be seen, but far as
the eye could reach towards the south there appeared huge masses of ice
rising with their edges uppermost, leaping and overlapping each other,
tearing and crushing those below them to pieces. Still on they pressed,
mass behind mass, the places of those which rose up in front immediately
supplied by others in the rear. The ice surrounding us was in violent
commotion. Closer and closer it pressed around. Suddenly, as if pushed
towards us by some unseen giant’s hand, a huge floe came gliding on. “A
nip, a nip,” cried the crew. Calmly the captain had stood watching the
upheaving of the icy sea. He now ordered all hands to bring their bedding
and clothes on deck. Some casks of provision had already been got up.
These were lowered on to the ice alongside, and rolled to a distance. The
crew followed, each man laden with as much as he could carry. Captain
Blowhard brought up the rear with his chronometer, compass, sextant, and
other nautical instruments and books. He had scarcely got thirty yards
from the ship when she was caught between two huge masses of ice, which
came sweeping by. Her stout timbers could no more resist the prodigious
pressure than could a wicker basket. One moment I looked round, and she
stood with her yards and rigging complete; the next, a grinding and
crashing sound reached my ears, and when I again looked she was a mass of
wreck, her tall masts falling, and her sides literally pressed together
till they met.

Part of the floe had gone underneath her, and then rising, had cast up
her cargo and stores, scattering them around, with portions of the deck
and bulwarks, and the boats. “I never knew anything happen but what it
might be worse,” observed Sandy Dow, as he stood looking at the wreck.
“There, see what Providence has done for us. Our good ship is lost,
there’s no doubt about that; but the provisions, and stores, and boats
are saved, and with their help we may yet see our homes again.” These
words roused the drooping spirits of our men, few of whom had before seen
so complete a wreck as was our good ship the “Grampus.” All hands were
immediately set to work to collect the various articles, and to drag them
to that part of the ice which appeared most secure.

Scarcely had the mischief been done than the commotion ceased, in
consequence of the wind falling, probably to the southward, and also
of the strength of the barriers which had been thrown up outside us.
Looking north, there appeared to be one unbroken field of ice, while
some thirty miles away we could see a lofty cliff, which showed us our
position. That distant sight of land, barren and inhospitable as we knew
it to be, somewhat cheered our spirits, as we hoped that, should the ice
again break up, we might then at all events find firm footing for our
feet. We had no lack of materials for building huts or tents, and these
having been erected, and fires lighted, the men were ordered to refresh
themselves, and take some rest. In a few hours the men were ready for
work, when they commenced constructing sleighs on which to drag our
stores to the land. Later in the year we should have been safe where we
were, but it would at present have been hazardous to remain, lest the ice
should move away to the southward, and break up before we could escape
from it. Our boats, too, had received so much damage, that they were
incapable of conveying us to any of the Danish settlements before they
had received a considerable amount of repair. Though the cape looked so
near, we found it a very long journey to get there. Most of the crew made
three trips before all the articles we required were conveyed to the spot
which had been fixed on for our encampment. We still entertained the hope
that other whalers might pass by within sight of the cape, and that we
should get on board them. A large quantity of stores and provisions were
still left on the ice, which it was supposed we should not require. Week
after week, however, passed by, the ice remained firm, and no whaler
appeared to take us off. Captain Blowhard began to look very grave. I
observed to him that I thought we might make ourselves very comfortable
where we were till another season. “You do not know what an arctic winter
is, my lad,” he answered. “But it is not that. It is bad enough to lose
one’s ship, but I am thinking of those at home who will be mourning us as
dead. It is the thought of their grief which makes me sad.” Our good old
captain always thought of others more than of himself.

I might spin a very long yarn about all the things that happened to us,
but I have not time. The cold of an arctic winter soon began with all
its rigour. We had built huts with stones and earth, and parts of the
wreck which we had dragged over the ice, but we were very much cramped,
and when the cold began in earnest it penetrated into the interior, and
we could not keep ourselves warm even with our thick clothing in bed.
As soon, however, as the snow fell, the captain ordered ice-huts to be
built, the snow serving as mortar. Large slabs of ice were cut out and
built up as if they had been blocks of stone, and with them eight huts
were formed of the shape of bee-hives. Each hut held from three to five
people comfortably. A long passage led to it, with three different slabs,
which served as doors; a slab of clear ice was placed on the top to serve
as a window. The bed-places were built of snow, covered over thickly
with the twigs of a low shrub which grew on the hill side. This, the
captain told us, was exactly the fashion of the Esquimaux huts. We had
brought several casks of whale’s blubber, and this served us for fuel,
and gave us light and warmth; without it we could not have existed. We
had a number of shallow metal washhand basins, these were filled with
oil, and along one half of the edge of each a row of wicks, made of moss,
was arranged; on the opposite side a piece of blubber was hung up, which,
as it gradually melted, replenished the basin with oil. This was in
imitation of the lamps used by the Esquimaux. One amply warmed each hut.
By thus taking a lesson from those we were accustomed to call ignorant
savages, we were enabled to exist, and retain our health, when otherwise
we must have perished. Our only fear was that the blubber would not hold
out till we could make our escape. Our first huts had been built close
under the cliff; but, for the convenience of obtaining ice, we had placed
those we now occupied at some distance, close to the water, or, rather,
where the water would have been had it not been frozen. Our boats, and
a good many of our stores, had been left under the cape. One night—now
that the winter had begun the night occupied the greater part of the
twenty-four hours—we were aroused by a tremendous rushing, thundering
sound. I slept in a hut with Mr. Grummet, Sandy Dow, and the youngest
mate. They hurriedly put on their clothes and ran out. I followed their
example, though I felt almost frozen in an instant by the bitter wind
which met us, for a storm was raging. By the twilight which prevails
in that region during night, we could see huge pieces of the cliff and
masses of snow come tumbling down in quick succession, one after the
other. It was a perfect avalanche, and in a few minutes the whole spot
where our summer huts had stood, and where our stores and boats now
were, was completely overwhelmed. Some of the men even ran away from our
present abode, thinking that that also would be overwhelmed, but the
captain shouted to them to stand fast, as he was sure that the falling
cliff would not reach us, nor did it.

With foreboding hearts we once more hurried back into our huts. Our
boats, on which we might have to depend to escape from this inhospitable
region, were destroyed; a large portion of the fuel, without which we
could not exist, was buried deeply under rocks and snow. As soon as the
men had finished taking their necessary rest, and had breakfasted, all
hands set off to the scene of the disaster to try and recover some of
the stores. On arriving at the spot the task appeared hopeless, so vast
was the mass of ruin which covered them. After exploring the ground and
digging in various spots, in the hope of finding only snow, we were
obliged to return homewards. When Mr. Grummet and I reached our hut, we
found that Sandy Dow was not with us. Mr. Grummet asked when I had last
seen him. I could not tell, but thought that he must have gone into one
of the other huts. We waited dinner for him for some time, but still
he did not appear. At last I offered to run round to the other huts
and enquire. A snow-storm was raging, and I found it no easy matter to
make my way from hut to hut. I did so, however, but no one had seen our
friend. When I went to the captain he said that Dow must have certainly
remained at the cape, and that a party must set off immediately and try
to find him. I smuggled myself in with the party, though the captain was
unwilling to let me go, fearing that I might not be able to endure the
cold and fatigue. Mr. Grummet led the party, and off we set, thinking
that there would be no difficulty in finding the way in spite of the
snow-storm. We went on and on, supposing that we should every instant
arrive at the cape, and that the snow hid it from our view. Still we
did not reach it. At last Mr. Grummet, in a tone of vexation, declared
that he had lost his way. The distance was so short, and we had been
so accustomed to be guided by the high cape ever in view, that we had
come without a compass. The snow came down thicker and thicker, and
the prospect of finding our way appeared more and more hopeless. We
shouted, thinking that we might possibly after all not be far from the
huts, but there was no answer. Mr. Grummet and another officer, who had
guns, fired them off, but no report was heard in return. If we remained
quiet we might be frozen, for the cold was intense, so we pushed on in
the hope that we might before long sight either the huts or the cape.
Some of the men proposed that we should halt, build up a snow-hut, and
shelter ourselves in it till the snow was over, but to this our leader
would not consent. He expressed his belief that the snow might fall for
several days, so that we might be completely covered up and unable to
work our way out of our hut. Besides, we had come to look for Sandy Dow,
and nothing should induce him to give up the search as long as he could
move a foot forward. So on we went; every now and then a gun was fired,
and we all shouted at the top of our voices. We continued this practice,
though with little hope of an answer. We were, therefore, still more
surprised when a shout was heard very like ours, and which came from no
great distance. Again we shouted, and again there was a reply. Was it
only an echo? It was not quite like enough for that. Directly after we
heard a bark, and in a few minutes an Esquimaux, with his seal spear in
his hand and his dog by his side, stood before us. He saluted us in a
friendly manner. To our great satisfaction we found that he could speak a
few words of English. He told us that he knew a ship had been lost, and
that we were in the neighbourhood, but he did not know exactly where we
were located. On our telling him that it was near the cape, he set off
in a perfectly opposite direction to that in which we had been going.
We explained that we were in search of a lost shipmate, and begged him
to help us in our search. To this he at once consented. The snow fell
thicker than ever, still our new friend led on with unwavering steps.
I felt very sad, for I heard Mr. Grummet say that he scarcely expected
to find my friend Sandy alive. An expressive action of the Esquimaux
confirmed this opinion. Still we pushed on; at length the cliff appeared
before us, and as the snow slackened a little, we could discern a figure
seated on a rock and almost bent double, as if to try and avoid the icy
blast. That it was Sandy Dow we had little doubt; we hurried towards him;
we called his name, but he did not look up. Mr. Grummet and others went
up to him and shook him. A low groan was the only sound he uttered. Still
that was sufficient to give us hope that he would recover. Mr. Grummet
poured a few mouthfuls of brandy down his throat, and then two of the
strongest of our party took him between them and hurried him along as
fast as they could go. The great thing was to restore circulation. The
desired effect was produced, and we had the satisfaction of seeing our
friend, under the care of the doctor, himself again. Sandy had stopped
behind to explore, when, the snow coming on, he had been prevented
reaching the hut, but fortunately found his way back again to the cliff.

[Illustration: “We could discern a figure seated on a rock and almost
bent double, as if to try and avoid the icy blast.”—_Page 52._]

Our new friend Upnick told us that he was one of a small party of natives
settled for the winter in a bay about ten miles off, and that he was out
on an expedition to catch seals when he fell in with us. He was a merry,
happy fellow. We wanted him to stop with us, but he replied that he must
go back to his family to supply them with blubber and oil for their
lamps, and that then he would come back to us. Some of our men agreed
to accompany him. When they came back they did not give a very tempting
account of the Esquimaux mode of life. Upnick accompanied them. His
appearance somewhat raised the spirits of our party, which were getting
very low. Our oil was well-nigh expended, and it seemed doubtful whether
our provisions would hold out to the spring. It was also a weary time,
for though our captain and officers did their best to amuse us, we had
but few books, and the weather often kept us for days and days within our
huts. Upnick, however, offered to show us how to catch seals, which would
give us both food and fuel. He went off some distance from the land,
where there was less snow, and his dog hunted about till he found a small
hole. To this hole he said the seals came to breathe; he then told our
men to sit quiet. They had to wait a long time, till a sound of blowing
was heard. Quick as lightning Upnick darted his harpoon down through
the hole. The tightened line showed that it had got hold of something;
he then began to work away with his ice-knife till he had considerably
enlarged the hole, when he drew forth a full-sized seal. He killed three
others in the same way, which he and our men dragged to the huts. We gave
him some coloured pocket handkerchiefs and a hatchet in return. This
afforded, indeed, a seasonable supply of fuel, and we were also very
glad of the flesh for food. It was found, however, that though Upnick
had showed us how to catch the seals, our men could but ill follow out
his lessons. In the first place they had great difficulty in finding the
holes, and when found they were not in time to catch the seals, or did
not hear them blow, or did not properly direct their harpoons.

We had hung up the seals on spars just outside the huts, that we might
chop off as much as we required. We had been for some time asleep one
night, when Dow awoke, saying that he heard a peculiar noise outside. He
instantly jumped up, and slipping on his clothes, ran out with a harpoon
in his hand. He had not been gone long before we heard him shouting for
help. Mr. Grummet had been meantime putting on his clothes, and followed
with a loaded musket. I slipped out after him, when what was my horror
to see Sandy Dow in the embrace of a huge white polar bear! “Fire, fire,
or he will squeeze the breath out of me,” he cried out. Not only was the
monster squeezing poor Sandy, but he was threatening to take a piece out
of his shoulder with his huge jaws. No time was to be lost; Mr. Grummet
advanced cautiously and fired close past Sandy’s head down the animal’s
mouth. Another man came up the next instant with a whale spear, which
he plunged into its side, when the bear, letting go his hold of Sandy,
rolled over, and was very soon dead. The creature had been attracted to
the place by the seals, of which he had already eaten a large piece. He
was welcome to it, considering that his own carcass afforded us many a
welcome meal. We carried Sandy into the hut, for he was very much hurt by
the bear. “It’s an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,” he observed. “If
the bear had na grabbed me, we should have gane without his steaks.”

The supply of fresh meat was very valuable, and restored most of the
invalids to health. Still there was the want of blubber for our lamps.
Upnick, however, on seeing that we could not catch the seals as well
as he did, made a bargain with the captain to act as our hunter. Some
of the men by degrees became more expert, and with his help obtained a
sufficient supply to keep our lamps burning. One day, however, he told us
that he must go away, and, in spite of all the captain’s expostulations,
he took his departure with the treasures he had accumulated, and we
were left to our own resources. Oftentimes we were reduced to a very
sad plight, and to make our oil last longer, we had all to congregate
in two or three huts; this increased the heat certainly, but, as there
was no means of ventilation, it was far from pleasant. Such was the
state of things when Christmas day arrived. Our crew were divided into
two parties; our fare was seals’ blubber, and twenty-five of us were
seated round one oil lamp in a hut about twelve feet in diameter. We
had materials for a plum pudding, but as hot water was too valuable to
throw away we had mixed it porridge fashion: Still we tried to make
ourselves as merry as circumstances would allow. Now and then one of the
party would brave the snow-storm raging outside for the sake of carrying
some amusing message to our friends in the other hut, knowing that we
should get a facetious answer in return. After this, however, matters
grew worse; in vain the best hunters went out to catch seals; not a pint
of oil remained, and even inside our huts we could not have existed
twenty-four hours without the warmth of the lamp. We talked once more
of trying to dig down to our stores, but the crew soon found that their
strength was inadequate to the undertaking. And now that Christmas had
gone by, that time which we had all expected to pass with our families in
comfort and happiness at home, the true horrors of our situation burst on
us. The scurvy, that scourge of mariners, broke out, and several of our
poor fellows could scarcely move hand or foot. All those who could get
out were engaged in seal killing; their success was small, though they
procured just sufficient to keep two and sometimes three lamps burning
at a time. Week after week and month after month passed by, and we began
to fear that we should not escape from our perilous position till late
in the summer, when perhaps some whalers might pass within sight of our
encampment. How many of us might be alive then was the question. Death
had already begun to thin our numbers. One day, Jack and I, who had kept
our health better than any of our shipmates, were amusing ourselves at a
little distance from the hut, when we saw, approaching, several sleighs
drawn by dogs, with an Esquimaux walking before the first to lead the
way. We ran into the hut to announce the coming of the strangers, and
then ran out again to meet them. The first man was Upnick; the next we
took to be an Esquimaux, but a cheery voice in English hailed us, and we
soon found that this was an expedition sent expressly for our relief.

[Illustration]

Upnick, on leaving us, had travelled south, and at length had fallen
in with a whaler, the “Hope,” beset in the ice, but which had received
no damage. She was commanded by a cousin and an old friend of our
worthy captain. He had satisfied himself from Upnick’s account that the
“Grampus” had been lost, and, as soon as he was able to collect some
dog-sleighs, he had sent them off under the command of his son, the
person who had first hailed us, to our relief; he had not forgotten to
send some lime-juice, and potted vegetables, and other anti-scorbutics,
which greatly contributed to the restoration to health of the sick. Some
of our men without hesitation volunteered to remain where they were till
the summer; the rest set out with the captain to join the “Hope,” which,
being nearly full, it was expected would return home early in the summer,
or as soon as she was released from her icy prison.

[Illustration]

We were warmly welcomed on board the “Hope” by Captain Tom Blowhard and
his officers and crew, and soon forgot all the toils and dangers we had
gone through. Many people might have pitied us having to live on board a
whaler frozen up in the ice, but we did not pity ourselves, for, compared
to the life we had so long led, we considered that we fared luxuriously.
Even, however, when the sun shone brightly and the days grew long we were
not free of the ice, and I heard some of the crew remarking that we might
possibly remain beset the whole summer through. The captain replied,
when he heard of this, that if an inch of water was to be seen within
a mile of the ship we would work our way to it. He was as good as his
word, and before long the ice-saws were set to work; and, by hard toil,
often sawing away for a fortnight, we were once more free of the ice and
bounding over the heaving waves on a southerly course. We had still,
however, reminders of the northern latitude in which we were sailing, in
the shape of icebergs, to avoid which, during the night, we had to keep a
very bright look out. One afternoon, dinner just being over when I went
on deck, a very fine one, on which the sun shone brightly, appeared right
ahead. As I stood watching it, the top appeared to be bending forward;
so it was, there it came, the whole mountain mass collapsing in the most
extraordinary manner, till a few fragments alone appeared above the
waters to show where it had been. It was fortunate that we were not close
under it, or we might have been overwhelmed by the ruins.

This was the last among the many providential escapes for which I had to
be thankful during my trip to the North Pole. Three weeks afterwards,
we were gladdening the hearts of our relatives and friends in Hull, and
sending some of the more sensitive into hysterics in consequence of our
sudden re-appearance after they had so long given us up as lost. Terrible
as were our sufferings at times, now that they were over I could look
back at my adventures with pleasure, and never grew weary of benefiting
my friends with the yarn which I have just spun for your amusement.

[Illustration]




A RESCUE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

_By R. M. BALLANTYNE, Author of “The Life-boat;” “A Tale of our Coast
Heroes;” “Silver Lake; or, Lost in the Snow,” &c._


Quito was a young brave of the Tsekanie Indians, one of the tribes which
dwell among the Rocky Mountains of North America.

The squaws said of him that he was tall as the pine tree, gentle as a
woman, yet strong and bold like the grizly bear; and there is no doubt
that much truth lay in what they said, for the young Tsekanie could
throw the spear, hurl the tomahawk, bestride the wild horse, or kill the
buffalo, better than any man in his tribe; although, unlike his brother
braves, he never boasted of his prowess, nor talked big swelling words
of what he would do to his enemies when he got hold of them! In fact,
Quito was unlike a savage in many respects, and very like to a civilized
gentleman in some things; for, notwithstanding his well-known courage and
physical powers, he did not delight in war. He never went on the war-path
except when he believed there was very good reason for so doing. He never
scalped an old man, or a woman, or a child, which is more than could be
said of most of his comrades. It was even said of him that on more than
one occasion he had spared the life and the scalp of a prostrate foe.

On the other hand, Quito was fond of meditation and study. Of course he
did not study printed books, such silently eloquent and sweet companions
being utterly unknown in those far western regions, but he studied the
book of nature, and was wont to say, in a quiet way, that he loved to
look into the works of the Great Manitou, by which term he meant God.

Quito did not say this to everybody, for he was very reserved; he said it
to his wife, whose name in the Indian language was Laughing-eye.

Laughing-eye had a loving and sympathetic heart, and Quito treated her as
an equal, in which respect also he differed widely from his brethren, who
were more or less addicted to beating their wives.

Once Quito went a long journey to the southward, and it so chanced that
he met with a missionary in his travels, who did not miss the opportunity
of telling him of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Among other things, he
learned from this missionary that Christians were usually united in
matrimony by a clergyman, which, the missionary explained, meant a
servant and preacher of the Lord Jesus. Quito had been married in the
regular Indian fashion—that is to say, he had gone to his father-in-law’s
tent, demanded Laughing-eye for his wife, paid down the price required in
the shape of cloth, gums, beads, and trinkets of various kinds, such as
are supplied by fur traders, and then carried her off to his own wigwam.

A strange but strong desire now seized the young Indian to be married
after the Christian manner to Laughing-eye, so he returned to his home in
the Rocky Mountains, resolving to take his wife to the mission-station
without delay.

Quito had a bosom friend, named Bunker, a white man and a hunter. Bunker
might well have been ashamed of his name, as far as sound went, but he
was not. He was proud of it. He was wont to say, sometimes, that “the
Bunkers was comed of a good stock, an’ had bin straight-for’ard hunters
in the Rocky Mountains, off an’ on, for nigh a century, an’ he hoped he
would never disgrace his forefathers.” There was no fear of that, for
Bunker was as sturdy, and honest, and simple-minded a man as ever shot a
grizly bear, or trapped a beaver. He, too, was fond of meditation, and
had great delight in the society of Quito.

On his way home the young Indian met with Bunker, who said he was going
to visit some traps, but that he would follow his friend’s trail the next
day, and might perhaps overtake him before he reached his village.

It was a beautiful autumn evening when Quito approached his mountain
home. Not the finest park of the greatest noble in our land could compare
with the magnificent scenery through which the Indian walked, with his
gun on his shoulder, and his yellow leathern garments—fashioned and
richly wrought by the fingers of Laughing-eye—fluttering with innumerable
fringes and other ornaments in the gentle breeze. His dark eye glanced
from side to side with that sharp restless motion which is peculiar to
red Indians and hunters of the far west, whose lives are passed in the
midst of danger from lurking enemies and wild beasts, but the restless
glance was the result of caution, not of anxiety. Quito’s breast was as
calm and unruffled as the surface of the lakelet along whose margin he
walked, and, although he kept a sharp look-out, from the mere force of
habit, he thought no more of enemies at that time than did the little
birds which twittered in the bushes, unconscious and unmindful of the
hawk and eagle that soared high over head.

There were woods and valleys, through which flowed streams of limpid
water. Here and there were swamps, in which thousands of water-fowl
and frogs filled the air with melody, for the frogs of America are a
musical race, and a certain class of them actually whistle in their
felicity at certain periods of the year; their whistle, however, is only
one intermittent note. Elsewhere undulating plains, or prairies, gave
variety to the scene, and the whole was backed by the lofty, rugged, and
snow-clad peaks of the vast mountain range which runs through the whole
continent from north to south.

On reaching the summit of a hill, on which Quito had often halted when
returning from his frequent hunting expeditions, to gaze in satisfaction
at his village in the far distance, and think of Laughing-eye, a shade of
deep and unmistakeable anxiety crossed his grave features, and instead of
halting, as he was wont to do, he hastened onwards at redoubled speed,
for his eye missed the wreaths of smoke that at other times had curled up
above the trees, and one or two of the wigwams which used to be visible
from that point of view were gone.

The terrible anxiety that filled Quito’s breast was in a short time
changed into fierce despair, when he suddenly turned round the base of a
cliff, behind which his village lay, and beheld his late home a mass of
blackened ruins. Little circles of grey ashes indicated where the tents
had been, and all over the ground were scattered charred bones and masses
of putrefying flesh, which told of ruthless murder.

Savage nature is not like civilized. No sound or word escaped the
desolate Indian, who now knew that he was the last of his race, but
the heaving bosom, the clenched teeth, and compressed lips, the fierce
glittering eye, and the darkly frowning brows, told of a deadly struggle
of anguish and wrath within.

While Quito was still gazing at the dreadful scene, he observed something
move among the bushes near him and darted towards it. It proved to be an
old woman, who was blind and scarcely able to make herself understood.
She was evidently famishing from hunger, so Quito’s first care was to
give her a little of the dried meat which formed his store of provisions.
After she had devoured some of it, and drunk greedily of the water
which he fetched from a neighbouring stream in a cup of birch bark, she
told him that the camp had been suddenly attacked, some days before, by
a war-party of enemies, who had slain all the men and old women, and
carried the young women away into captivity—among them Laughing-eye.

As far as outward appearance went, Quito received the news with calm
indifference, but his subsequent actions told another tale. His first
step was to erect a sort of hut out of the broken fragments of wigwams
that lay around, into which he led the old woman, and placed within her
reach a large vessel of water with a small bark cup. He then gave her
all his provisions, sufficient for more than a week’s consumption, and
told her he would return to her as soon as possible. The poor creature
appeared grateful, and sought to detain him, but this he would not permit
Having learned from her the name of the tribe that attacked the village,
and that she had escaped in the general _mêlée_ by crawling into the
bush, he asked which way their enemies had gone. When she had related
all she had to tell on the subject, Quito left her, and divested himself
of nearly every article of unnecessary costume, placed a tomahawk and
scalping-knife in his girdle, slung a short bow and a quiver of arrows
on his back, and, throwing his gun on his shoulder, prepared to quit the
spot. Before leaving, he kneeled beside the old squaw and said in her
ear:—

“In a day or two Bunker will be here. Tell him I have gone to the west by
the Mustang Valley, and that he must follow my trail quickly.”

The old woman promised to do this, and then Quito took his leave.

For several days he followed up the trail of the retreating Indians with
the perseverance and unerring certainty of a bloodhound. He took so
little rest and went on with such unflagging energy that he gradually
drew near to them, a fact which became evident from the heat that still
remained in the ashes of their camp fires when he came upon them.

At last he reached one of those mighty rivers which traverse the great
continent from west to east. Here he found that his enemies had crossed,
and he prepared to plunge in and swim over, though the current was
turbulent, deep, and broad. Tying his powder in a piece of leather on the
top of his head to keep it dry, he was about to take the water when he
espied an old Indian canoe, and proceeded to examine before launching it.
While thus engaged he was arrested by one of the most astonishing sights
that had ever met his gaze.

Rapidly and perceptibly the great river that rolled before him began
to diminish in volume. Accustomed as he was to all the varying aspects
of lake and stream in their conditions of flood and drought, Quito had
never seen anything at all resembling that which now occurred before
his eyes. His wonted reason and sagacity were at fault; it was utterly
unaccountable!

Naturally his untutored mind began to look upon the phenomenon in a
superstitious light. At first he was alarmed, and sat down to gaze in
silent wonder, while the water continued to sink in its bed, began to
flow sluggishly, then collected into pools, and finally ceased to flow
altogether, leaving the bed of the river quite dry in many places.
After a time it occurred to the Indian that this might be a direct
interposition on the part of the Manitou, to enable him to cross on foot
and pursue his enemies without delay. Full of this idea, Quito rose, and,
with feelings of deep awe, went down the bank of the river and began to
walk across its bed.

He had got about half way over when he was arrested by a peculiar sound,
something like distant thunder but more continuous; he stopped, and
listened intently. He was more perplexed than ever, for no sound of the
wilderness with which he was acquainted at all resembled it; it seemed to
come from the mountains, but a bend in the river concealed the distance
from his view.

The sound increased gradually in strength until it became a continuous
roar, louder than the fiercest gale that ever blew. Quito stood erect and
motionless with eyes and nostrils distended, uncertain what to do, when
suddenly a mighty flood of waters came thundering round the bend of the
river above him. On it came, with deafening clamour, a wall of water full
twenty feet high, tumbling mighty trees and huge stones over its gleaming
crest like playthings, and licking them up again to hurl them on in mad
fury!

Quito bounded across the dry bed of the river for his life, and reached
the opposite bank only a few seconds before the rushing torrent swept by,
leaving a very chaos on its surging breast.

Fetching his breath quickly, the Indian turned and gazed long in solemn
silence at the magnificent scene. Then the thought of Laughing-eye
recurred to him. He turned at once and pursued his way with redoubled
speed.

Only a few miles above this spot he discovered the cause of the
phenomenon he had just witnessed. A land-slip, on an unusually large
scale, had occurred. It had been caused by the water undermining the soil
of a high bank. The half of a huge hill had tumbled into the river and
dammed it across, so that no water could escape. Trees were heaped in
wild confusion—some with their heads in the earth and their roots in the
air; piles of stones and rubbish crushed the shattered limbs, and great
fissures yawned everywhere in the mass.

Ere long the searching water had cut through the obstruction, and,
bursting away in all the strength of its recovered freedom, had produced
the startling results which we have described.

Day after day Quito followed the trail of his enemies, and night after
night he lay down on the hard ground to snatch a couple of hours’ repose
before resuming the chase, regardless of fatigue or cold, for hope
steeled his muscles, and his heart was warmed by love.

At last, one evening he came upon them. He saw their wigwams on a little
plain, which was free from shrubs and trees, although surrounded by the
latter. The smoke of their fires curled up in straight columns, for the
air was so still that the sound of the horses’ jaws munching their food
could be distinctly heard at some distance from the camp.

Quito lay down until the shades of night fell, and watched his enemies.
He saw them post sentries for the night; he noted the silence that
gradually stole over the scene as the savages lay down to rest, and he
saw the fires die down until the whole camp was shrouded in darkness.
During the hours that he watched there he lay as still as a fallen
tree—only his dark eyes moved about, restlessly.

At last he rose and prepared for action. Leaving his quiver and bow
behind him, he took his gun and advanced—at first in a crouching
attitude. He might have been a shadow, so noiseless were his motions. The
edge of the forest gained, he sank into the long grass of the prairie,
like a phantom, and disappeared. Thenceforth his progress was like to
that of the serpent. Pushing his gun before him he gradually worked his
way forward until he had passed the line of sentries and gained the midst
of the camp. Here his proceedings were cool and daring.

He first crawled among the horses, and made up his mind as to which two
of them were the best. Then he went to the chief’s tent, and, gently
raising the curtain of skin, looked in. His enemy was there sound asleep.
He could have stabbed him to the heart, as he lay, with such deadly
certainty, that he would have died without being able to utter a cry,
but Quito’s object was to rescue, not to avenge. He observed that the
chief lay alone in his tent. A grim smile crossed the Indian’s face as he
lowered the curtain and again sank among the grass.

There was a large tent near to that of the chief, and Quito knew that
there were women in it, but whether or not his wife was there he had not
been able to ascertain from his distant view-point in the woods.

Raising the edge of this tent, he found that it was full of slumbering
women, but it required a close inspection of their faces in the dark
to ascertain who they were—so close that his face almost touched that
of the first woman he looked at. His heart throbbed, for he thought he
recognised the features of Laughing-eye. Just then the sleeper drew a
long breath and sighed, and Quito knew that it was his lost one. He also
guessed that the others were the women of his own tribe, but he knew that
it would be impossible for him, single-handed, to save them at that time.
To save his wife would be difficult enough, he thought.

Putting his face close to that of Laughing-eye, he heaved a long-drawn
sigh, and yawned pretty loudly, imitating a woman’s voice as much as
possible, and giving his wife a push. She half awoke, and, turning round
in a sleepy way, muttered a few unintelligible words.

Quito again drew a long breath, and muttered a sleepy remark.

Laughing-eye was startled. She raised her head to listen. This was the
moment of danger. If taken by surprise, she might utter a cry or an
exclamation which might awaken her companions, and the rousing of the
whole camp would be certain to follow, for Indians’ ears are very sharp.
Quito felt the difficulty and danger of his position, but there was only
one course left open to him.

“Hist! Laughing-eye,” he whispered, close in his wife’s ear.

Next instant his left hand was on her mouth, and with his right he
pressed her down, as she made an effort to rise. The effort was
momentary, almost involuntary. Immediately she lay so still that Quito
knew she had recognised him, so he whispered a few more words, and
released her.

Nothing more was said. Speech was not necessary, for Indians’ wits are
sharpened by experience. Quito glided, one might almost say melted, away,
and Laughing-eye followed him so quietly through the same aperture
that the blanket which she left behind appeared merely to subside into
a flat state. Quito did not stop to speak outside. Gliding through the
grass, serpent-like, in the direction of the horses, he was followed by
his wife, and after some minutes, for they moved very slowly, they were
clear of the group of tents. Not far from them one of the sentinels stood
leaning on his rifle, and gazing into the far-off horizon, where a faint
glimmer of light showed that the moon was about to rise.

To pass this man was difficult, indeed, it would have been impossible,
had he not been a very young man, whose eyes were rather heavy, and whose
experience of Indian warfare was slight. They succeeded, however, and
Quito ceased to advance when he came up to a splendid horse which stood
picketted by a long line to a peg driven into the ground, and with its
fore feet “hobbled,” or tied together. Without a word he cut the hobbles,
and the line by which the animal was fastened, the end of which last he
placed in Laughing-eye’s hand. She had crept up alongside of her husband,
and remained perfectly quiet, while he glided away from her.

She might have remained perhaps two minutes in this state, when, peeping
upwards, she saw another horse moving towards her. Instantly her husband
was by her side, and she saw that the end of a rope was in his hand.

“Go first,” whispered Quito in her ear, “fly towards the rising sun.”

The whisper was so soft that the very grasshoppers at their side must
have failed to hear it. In a moment both Indians stood up, and Quito
lifted his wife lightly on the horse whose larryat she held.

Such a proceeding could not, of course, pass unnoticed in an Indian
camp. Instantly a yell was given by a sentry. Just as Quito vaulted on
his steed’s back a couple of arrows whizzed past his ear, and the young
warrior whom they had first seen darted at his horse’s head. A blow from
the butt of Quito’s gun felled him, and in another moment husband and
wife were bounding away at full stretch over the plain—the former giving
utterance to a shout of defiance, which the savages returned with yells
of fury, accompanied by a mixed shower of arrows and bullets.

Just as Quito was bounding over the crest of a mound the chief of the
Indians fired a shot at a venture. He took no aim, but the bullet sped
with fatal accuracy, and pierced the heart of Quito’s horse, which fell
heavily to the earth, sending its rider over its head. The Indian fell
with such violence that he lay for a moment or two stunned. Seeing this,
Laughing-eye at once reined up, and galloping back leaped to the ground.
Quito rose, and, staggering towards the horse, made an effort to lift his
wife on to its back. He failed, and before another attempt could be made
the unfortunate fugitives were surrounded and recaptured.

Hopeless, indeed, was Quito’s case now. Death by slow torture was certain
to be his end, while Laughing-eye would be doomed to slavery. Yet
both husband and wife conducted themselves with quiet dignity, and an
assumption of stoical indifference.

But their case was not so hopeless as they supposed. Other eyes besides
those of their enemies witnessed what had passed.

Quito’s bosom friend, Bunker, on reaching the desolate village, and
learning from the old woman what had occurred, set off in pursuit of
his friend without delay, and travelled at his utmost speed. But the
man whom he followed was about equal to himself in physical powers and
endurance, so that he could not overtake him easily. On the way he fell
in with four trappers like himself, who readily consented to join him.
These all continued to advance together night and day, with the exception
of the brief time devoted to necessary sleep, but they did not overtake
Quito until he had reached the camp of his enemies. They gained on him
during the time he lay watching the camp, and waiting for the hour of
action. Arriving at the spot where he had left his bow and arrows, not
half an hour after he had quitted it, they at once guessed that he was
reconnoitring the camp, and resolved to await the issue. While the
hunters were yet discussing the best method of procedure, the yell of the
sentry was heard.

“Down with you, lads,” cried Bunker, sinking into the grass, “they’ll
come this way.”

“No,” cried one of the others, “they’re off to the left—a man an’ a
squaw.”

“That’s them—Quito and Laughing-eye,” exclaimed Bunker, “an’ all the
reptiles after them. Now, boys, git hold o’ the horses—look alive!”

The sturdy hunter set the example. Big though he was, he bounded over the
bushes like a deer, followed by his comrades. While all the men of the
camp were in hot pursuit of the fugitives they ran up to the horses, and
each secured one, which he mounted, having previously cut the hobbles of
all the rest and sent them flying over the plain.

A regular fight then ensued, in which the Indians were beaten and
their captives rescued. The remainder of the horses, too, were secured,
and, mounted on these, the whole party returned to their village in the
Mustang Valley.

Here the state of things was so desolate and mournful that it was
resolved all the Indians who remained should start with Quito and his
wife for the Mission Station in the south. This intention was carried
out the next day, and they parted with many expressions of good-will
from their friends the hunters, who returned to their wild and lonesome
occupations of shooting and trapping in the mountains.

After a long journey the Indians reached the Mission Station, where
they remained three weeks under the instruction of the missionary. At
the end of that time they expressed their desire to join themselves to
the followers of Jesus Christ, and were baptized. Then Quito begged
that the missionary would unite him to his wife after the manner of the
Christians. Of course there could be no objection to this request, so
it was complied with—and thus Quito and Laughing-eye were baptized and
married on the same day.

[Illustration]




LOST AND FOUND.

A STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS.

_By EDWIN HODDER, Author of “Memories of New Zealand Life;” “Junior
Clerk;” “Tossed on the Waves,” &c._


If a merry day is associated with painful memories, its charm is lost,
it is a day to be avoided, one would wish to let it pass unheeded; any
attempt to make it gay only increases the gloom, and if the unpleasant
remembrances are indulged, they come back on the day which commemorates
them with a living reality, making the mind morbid and unhappy; and
cherishing dead regrets is as vain and wrong a thing as retaining the
remains of a loved life, which should be buried out of one’s sight.

Christmas day is not a sad and gloomy day to me now, but it was once; and
then such a party as this you are giving to-night, Mr. Merry, would have
been of all things in the world the one that I could not have endured,
for it would have recalled so many sad circumstances to my mind, that,
with all the fun and gaiety of you youngsters, I could not have thrown
off the shroud of regrets which such a scene as this would have cast
around me. But those days are past, and now Christmas day is one of the
happiest of the year; and how all this came to pass I am going to tell
you.

When I was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I was at Dr. Spanker’s
school, in Berkshire, and if anybody ever had a life like a long summer
day, without a cloud or a cold nipping wind, that life was mine in those
days. The boys were the heartiest, jolliest fellows that ever threw a
quoit or kicked a ball; we knew every orchard, every bathing place, every
level piece of land for racing or cricket, every hill side for nutting,
and hedge-row for blackberrying, within twelve miles of the school. We
were all hand-and-glove in every exploit, and many a glorious scrape we
got into. Poor Dr. Spanker, how it was he did not go out of his mind we
never could make out; but he was such an easy-going, good-natured man,
and so thoroughly sympathised with young life, that he winked at many
things which other schoolmasters would have made a terrible fuss about,
and never punished anybody for their freaks unless those freaks infringed
upon some moral law. We loved the old Doctor as cordially as if he had
been our father, and in the whole school I don’t believe there was one
boy who would not rather have had his teeth knocked down his throat than
have wilfully said or done anything which would have given the dear old
gentleman pain.

The boys were not mere school acquaintances, but real friends; and
now, although years have passed away, the best friends I have in the
world are those who were my friends when I was a boy at school. Andrew
Morris was one of my great chums, and never did two boys “hit it” more
thoroughly than did we. In sport, in study, and in more serious things,
our thoughts, and desires, and aspirations were as one.

It was in the winter of 18— that my story commences. Christmas was at
hand; the school had broken up for the holidays, and Andrew Morris had
been invited to spend the first fortnight with me at my father’s house
in Marantby. There were coaches in those days; and, as we sat on the roof
wrapped up to the chin with the snow falling around us, we talked about
our plans for the holidays, and wondered what sort of a programme they
had drawn up at home for our amusement.

It was a cheery sight to see our house as it stood among the trees in the
snow, with columns of smoke rising from the chimneys, and lights gleaming
in the hall and from the windows. Long before the coach drew up, our loud
hallos had brought all the family to the door; and then there was such a
commotion as to who should get the first kiss, and who should carry in
the boxes. In the commotion, my sister Nell ran up to Andrew Morris and
gave him a good sound kiss, and then uttered a little scream, as if she
had mistaken him for me. (O! Nelly, Nelly, sly little puss, that was not
the first time you had seen Andrew, and that was not the last kiss he
ever had from you.)

“Now for a surprise, John,” said Nelly, when we had taken off our coats
and beaten off some of the snow. My mother, and I, and Andrew, and Cousin
Mary, all crowded round, as Nelly, with her hand on the dining-room door,
said “Open Sesame!” And when the door opened I confess I was surprised;
such a sight burst upon me as I had never seen in my home before. The
carpets were up, and the floors were chalked in the old-fashioned way,
which has long since gone out; the furniture was removed, and rout seats
were all round the room; the folding-doors had been taken down, so as
to throw two rooms into one; the walls were decorated with banners and
beautiful devices in evergreen; and, there was no mistake about it, that
this year we were going to have a regular Christmas party.

“We have sent invitations to everybody,” said Nelly, “and to-morrow
night, that is Christmas Eve, we shall have such a party as Marantby
never saw before.”

Andrew Morris and I were enthusiastic in our admiration of the
arrangements, and promised to give all the assistance we could to
complete any plans that might yet remain for the evening’s entertainment.
But, as soon as my father’s back was turned, I whispered to Nell,
“However did you manage to get father’s consent to all this? He has
always made such terrible objections, even to having a few friends, for
fear he should be thought extravagant, that I cannot make out how he
should have agreed to this.”

“Oh, mamma will tell you all about it by-and-bye. Come along and have
supper, for, after your long ride, you must be half-starved.”

So, after supper, when the others had gone to bed, I got my mother into a
cosy chat, and asked her all about it.

“Well, my dear John,” she said, “I’m rather anxious about your father.
As you know, he is far from being a poor man, but he has, for the last
two or three years, had a strange notion that his money will take
to itself wings and fly away, and a terrible dread of poverty, and
ultimately the workhouse or starvation, is always haunting him. There
is not the slightest foundation for this fancy, which arises from some
mental disorder; and, at times, he is perfectly aware that it is but a
fancy, and has had the very best medical advice; but, at other times, the
impression comes upon him so vividly that his life is perfectly wretched.
So we are having this party for two or three reasons; one is to try and
enliven him with a change of scene; another, to show him that he will
not be ruined by the expense. We must all do what we can to make him
enter into the spirit of the amusement; for, although he has given his
free consent to all the arrangements, his manner has been very strange
at intervals to-day, and I can see that something oppresses him. Do your
best then, my boy, to cheer him up, and let us pray God to give him
better health to enjoy the mercies with which He has surrounded us.”

I shared in my mother’s anxiety; but on the next day my father seemed
so much better, and joined so very heartily in all we did, that in the
bustle and excitement of expectation I almost forgot the conversation of
the preceding evening. At last the carriages began to arrive, and the
merry-making commenced. Everybody was in high spirits, for the weather
was just the right sort for the season, with the snow thick upon the
ground, and the difficulties in the journey to our house had made some
fun for the guests, and put them in the cue for more. My father was
as merry as any of us, and warmly welcomed each arrival; and when the
music struck up for a set of quadrilles, he accepted the challenge of
my mother, and danced with her. I could not help noticing, however,
that when he was not engaged in conversation, his countenance fell, and
a look of pain came on his pale face; but he recovered himself almost
instantaneously, and was at once himself again. Merrily flew the hours,
and never were charades played with greater spirit, or dances whizzed
through with more delight. It was nearly supper time, and I went to find
my father, who, on a plea of head-ache, had withdrawn for a little while
into the study. But he had left the study, and so, fearing that he was
really unwell, I went to his bedroom, but found that he was not there.
For a moment a horrible undefined dread came over me; I trembled in
every limb, and cold perspiration dropped down my face. There was no
reason for this; there were twenty places where my father might be; it
was not at all an unusual thing for him to seclude himself when he felt
unwell, but for all that I could not divest myself of the strange feeling
that came over me that something wrong had happened. I ran hastily
through all the bedrooms, and then looked into every room down stairs,
but he was not there. Old Williams, the gardener, was in the hall, and I
asked him if he had seen my father? “Yes, Master John; he was here about
half-an-hour ago. He put on a stout pair of boots, and his top coat,
and said he should go into the stable to wish the horses and old Carlo
a merry Christmas.” I went at once to the stables and called to him,
but no answer came in reply. A lantern was in the loft, and, lighting
it, I walked round the place to see if I could trace whether, by his
footprints, he had been there. The snow marked his steps distinctly,
but they were turned from the stable towards the paddock. Again that
horrible dread, which had seized me in the bedroom, returned, for I knew
that at the bottom of the paddock ran the river, swollen by the recent
snows! Mechanically I followed the footprints, which led directly to the
river. I tried to call out, but a suffocating feeling like night-mare
rendered me speechless. I fell down on my knees in the snow, and cried
with my whole heart to the merciful Father in heaven to avert the evil I
so intensely dreaded. Strength came to me with the necessity; my voice
came back to me, and I made the silent night ring with my father’s name.
But no answer came, and now I stood at the edge of the rushing river, and
the marks of the footprints had ceased! There was no time to be lost;
the snow, which before had been falling gently, now began to descend in
a storm, and every moment would serve to obliterate the tracks of his
steps, if there were any more that might be found. With a cry to heaven
to give me strength for all that remained to be done, I flew back to
the house. Nelly was the first to meet me upon my return, and my face
betrayed to her my anxiety. “My darling Nell, be calm and strong. I fear
something has happened to father. Comfort mother while I and some of the
friends are away. Go first to Williams, and tell him to come here with
all the lanterns he can get, and then bid him saddle both the horses
without delay.” A brave little woman was my sister Nell! I can see her
pale face, and her white hands clenched together, as she stood beside me
that night in her pretty evening dress, and heard my hurried news. In
less than ten minutes I had a party of eight trusty men around me, to
whom I told my suspicions, and begged their help. Among them was Captain
Wray, an old friend of my father’s; he saw with a military instinct the
position, and at once took the command of the expedition. “Let four
follow each other through the paddock to the river,” said he, “and then
divide, two to the right, and two to the left. John, Andrew Morris,
Williams, and I, will go across the bridge, and adopt the same plan on
the other side of the river. Now let us be off, and may God grant us
success.”

A deep and earnest amen followed, and we started off.

I will not give you a history of that terrible time; in vain we searched
for footprints, in vain we dragged the river; messengers were sent into
every village round about, letters were sent to all the principal posting
stations along the high roads, information was given to the London
constabulary, rewards were offered for any clue of the missing one; and
every effort failed.

Had it not been for my good friend Andrew Morris, I do not know how I
should have gone through the fatigue and anxiety of those days. He never
seemed to tire; he was determined not to encourage a feeling of despair;
at one moment he was devising some fresh scheme, and the next comforting
my mother and Nelly with hope. At last Andrew and I, when we found every
endeavour in our neighbourhood fruitless, determined to go up to London
and seek for _him_ there. We journeyed from street to street, gazing
earnestly in the face of every passer by; we went from workhouse to
workhouse, from shipping place to shipping place; and at last, worn out
with fatigue, we returned to Marantby disappointed and distressed.

Time wore away; Andrew Morris went home to engage in business, and I
returned no more to school, for the management of my father’s affairs now
devolved in a great measure upon me. The spring time came, with its songs
of birds and perfume of flowers; the glad summer sunshine played upon the
murmuring waters of Marantby; the red leaves of autumn fell in gorgeous
showers, and the silver traceries of frost sparkled in the wintry nights,
but still our home was desolate; and so it came to pass that Christmas
Day became a day full of painful memories.

Six years passed, and time, the great physician for the wounded heart,
had taken the sting of our sorrow away. Our good Father in heaven
never allows a sorrow to come into this world unless He sends a joy to
counterbalance it; life would be a stunted and deformed thing, if, when
the night enveloped it, the bright sunshine of morning did not as surely
follow; and the law which regulates the outer world has its counterpart
in the inner, that “while the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest,
and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not
cease.” Well, Christmas Day was coming round again, and we determined
that we would spend it in London, with Andrew Morris. It was a cosy
little party we made on Christmas Eve—I and my mother, and Captain Wray,
Mr. and Mrs. Morris, sen., and Andrew and Nelly, and the baby. Whose
baby? Why Nelly’s, to be sure, and never was there a prettier and prouder
little mother, or a handsomer and happier young husband, than Nelly and
Andrew Morris. There was no boisterous fun or merriment, but there was
a great deal of quiet enjoyment amongst us as we sat at the table after
dinner and played round games, or as Nelly and Andrew sang duets, while
baby crowed a chorus. There was an air of homeliness, too, and comfort
about the house, and that was increased tenfold from the fact that the
night was bitterly cold. The wind roared along the streets, and every now
and then the hail came down in a perfect cataract. The evening slipped
rapidly away, and, as Martha came in at about ten o’clock to lay the
cloth for supper, a pause in the rattle of the conversation within,
and a pause in the rattle of hailstones without, enabled us to hear
voices somewhere along the street joined in very good harmony, singing a
Christmas carol. By-and-bye they came opposite our window, and struck up
that fine old carol—

    “When Christ was born of Mary free,
    In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,
    Angels sang then with mirth and glee,
                        In Excelsis Gloria.”

Now I confess I never had a passion for street music, but this was much
beyond the average of merit. It was a part of my education to love and
venerate old customs, and it was a part of my creed always at Christmas
time to relieve, as far as lay in my power, those who were excluded from
the privileges which are enjoyed by those who have been more highly
favoured by a kind providence. So, putting on my hat, I went to the door
with a jug of foaming ale and a glass, and Andrew followed me with a
good many shining pieces of silver in his hand, which he had collected
in the room. As soon as I opened the door, an old man, with a lantern
in one hand and his hat in the other, stood before us to receive the
contribution. Just as Andrew was putting the money into his hat the
light flashed up into his face. A spasm of joy and fear shot through me;
I staggered back, and should have fallen, had not Andrew held me. _The
old man was my father!_ Wrinkled as the face was, white as the hair had
grown, bent as was that once graceful figure, I was absolutely certain
that I was not mistaken. In a moment my self-possession returned, and in
that moment I realized the meaning of the phrase, “quick as thought.” For
I remembered that I was only a boy when my father went away, and he could
not recognise me. I remembered that a sudden shock of joy might deprive
me of my mother, the very while it restored to me my father. I understood
that Andrew had ascertained the meaning of my sudden emotion, for he
had adroitly screened me from the gaze of my father and the minstrels,
and was beginning to pour out the ale for them. I thought, too, that a
sudden revelation of myself to my father might be injurious to him; and
not knowing the state of his mind, it might be the most fatal thing to
surprise him. So at once my plans were made; and all this happened in a
moment! I whispered to Andrew, “Be spokesman, for my voice may betray
me. Invite them to supper at the ‘King’s Arms’ in an hour, on condition
that they will sing some carols. Say they shall be well paid. Follow them
till then, and don’t let your eyes be off my father for an instant. I
will gently prepare them indoors.”

“All right,” said Andrew, “but come inside with me first, while I get my
coat, and tell them I am going. I will not damage your plan.”

There was great surprise when Andrew called for his coat, and said to
his wife, “Nelly, my dear, I must leave you and our good friends for a
little while. I know you will pardon me, but I have just seen an old
friend who I knew in my school days, and he seems in distress. I can’t
ask him in here to-night, but I will see him into the hotel at the end of
the street; and, John, come for me in half-an-hour to release me, if I am
detained so long.”

Without waiting longer than to give Nelly a kiss he was off, and the
street door closed upon him. Then began an attack of questions which
puzzled my ingenuity to parry. There was something remarkably strange in
the event, and their curiosity was strongly excited. There was not much
time to lose, and the questions were working me towards the subject. At
last Nelly said, “Cannot you guess, John, at all, who this stranger is,
or what he wants with Andrew.” And then I said, “I did not mean to tell
you, or to awaken sad memories, especially to-night, but I think the
stranger will be able to tell him something of the fate of father!”

I had said enough and seen enough to know that I might safely carry out
my plan. Affected as my mother was by the news, she was perfectly calm.
She did not weep, or dream of fainting, or going into hysterics, but
a holy joy lighted up her face, and her very smile was a thanksgiving.
Brave little Nell clasped her hands together (it was just the attitude
she used on that _other_ Christmas Eve), and said, “Thank God.” For
a minute or two there was a dead silence in the room, only broken by
Captain Wray, who took snuff violently.

“John,” said my mother, at length, and her voice faltered just a very
little, “John, you know more than you have told; let me hear it all.
I am more than strong enough to bear it; I have waited for years in
preparation of this hour. Tell me, when did it happen, and where?”

I sat down between her and Nelly, and said, as calmly as I could, “Now,
my dearest mother, be brave and cheery, father is still alive. It would
not be well for you to see him for some time, but he is in London, and
well.”

The tears came at last; not a dry eye was in the room; but when I left
them to go with Captain Wray to the “King’s Arms” (for he could not
remain inactive), a voice had said to the storm of feeling, “Peace, be
still;” and there was a great calm.

My story is nearly ended. That night I made myself known to my father,
and the shock of feeling at seeing me and learning that my mother and
sister were alive and near him, instead of doing him injury, effected a
good that probably nothing else could have done. His was a strange wild
history, and it was only little by little, and that extending over a long
time, as the powers of mind and memory gradually returned, that I learnt
it. When he left his home it was under the terrible delusion that nothing
but the workhouse was before him, and he could not bear to see the
distress that would come upon his family. He took ship to America, and
on the voyage his mind gave way. Arrived in that country, he was placed
in proper care by the authorities, but in all the wanderings of his mind
he never divulged his name or residence. Several times his reason became
temporarily restored, but then the thought of his deserted wife and home
was too terrible for him ever to think resolutely of returning thither.
Years passed in this way, and during his rational periods he had to earn
his bread by the sweat of his brow. At last he so far recovered that
his determination to return to his native land, and at least ascertain
what had become of his family, was carried into effect. Penniless when
he arrived, and the season cold and inclement, he had to endure severe
hardships. Circumstances brought him into the company of a band of carol
singers, to whom he engaged himself as money collector, and he had
resolved to work his way to Marantby as soon as he was able.

The best medical advice that could be had in London was obtained for him,
and, by the blessing of God, his health of body and mind was restored. I
will not attempt to describe the meeting with my mother, for no eye saw
it. The effect was not injurious, on the contrary, from that day his old
habits and spirits began to return, and for many years his life was one
of unmingled peace and happiness.

And so it came to pass that Christmas Day ceased to be a day of painful
memories, for we could say, “He was dead and is alive again, and was lost
and is found.” Now his body rests beside that of my mother in the little
churchyard at Marantby, and their spirits are in the bright world, where,
perhaps, the angels are singing again this night that beautiful song they
sang years ago, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and
goodwill towards men.”




CASTLE CONNOR.

_By MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE, Author of “Begin Well, End Well;” “Araki, the
Damio,” &c._


Christmas was always a merry season at Castle Connor, and not less merry
than usual was the Christmas time of which I am going to tell you. The
house was as full as it could hold, and added to the usual number of
guests were three English cousins, who had come over to pay their first
visit to their Irish relatives. At the public school from which they
came, they were known as Max, Major, and Minor, and so we shall name them
here. Max (whose real name was Dick Lindsaye) was in his seventeenth
year, and only famous at K⸺ for being the biggest dunce, the biggest
bully, and the biggest boaster in the school; for, while careful to
avoid every kind of danger, he was prone to forge Falstaffian tales of
the dangers he had surmounted, when no one was there to see him. Tom and
Harold Cunliffe were his step-brothers; the former was a soft-faced boy,
about thirteen years of age, with curly, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and
a countenance beaming with good nature and good temper, but evidently a
being more capable of enjoying the _dolce far niente_ than any state of
life in which he might be expected to be an active or energetic member of
society. Yes, a quiet, easy-going youth was Tom, very different from the
twelve-year-old Harry, a wiry, springy young fellow, who, while living
in great awe of his big brother, was always laying plots for fun at his
expense.

Major and Minor were great favourites wherever they went, while no one
could endure Max’s snobbish conceit and self-importance. To have a speck
of mud upon his highly polished boots, or a grain of dust upon his
ever-glossy clothes, was to spoil his pleasure for the day, while his
young brothers, unfortunately, went off to the opposite extreme, and were
only too regardless of their personal appearance.

The family at Castle Connor consisted of the father, mother, two
daughters, and three sons. The latter were manly, warm-hearted youths,
quick-tempered and quick-witted, first rate horsemen, masters of all
field sports, but not very polished in their manners. They had never been
to any school, but were brought up at home, under the care of a tutor,
whom they managed just as they pleased, and who found himself in too
snug a berth at Castle Connor, to venture to make it less agreeable by
complaints that his pupils too often preferred sporting to Latin. He (Mr.
Moriarty) was at Christmas time always absent, enjoying the holidays at
his own home, so the youths were then left entirely to their own devices,
which generally led them to play tricks of all kinds upon the rest of the
household.

Directly they saw Max, they (as Major said) “twigged him at once,”
and came to the conclusion that he was fair game for fun. He soon
adopted a patronizing manner to Dennis Connor, most aggravating to that
high-spirited youth, who cast about in his very fertile mind as to how
he might, once for all, humble the self-conceit of his lofty cousin;
and finding that his father was to be away from home for a day or two,
he laid his plans accordingly. They were standing together in the
drawing-room, waiting for dinner, when he turned abruptly to Max, and
asked him if he had seen the dungeons of Castle Connor?

“The dungeons! no. I never knew there were any.”

Mrs. Connor did not appear to know it either, for she looked up in
astonishment, but a look from her son silenced her.

“Don’t say anything now,” said Dennis, mysteriously; “I’ll tell you all
about it after dinner.”

After dinner, accordingly, Dennis took him aside, and told him that he
never mentioned the dungeons before his father or mother, for “fact is,”
said he, “they are a great source of annoyance and discomfort to them,
and all of us. Dark deeds have been done down there, in the times of the
fights between the O’Connors and the Condons. Weird sounds come from them
in the night time, especially on certain nights, when one Con Condon, the
headless, is said to come to look for his head, which centuries ago was
taken from him by our ancestor, Modha O’Connor, who married a daughter
of Oilioll Olum,[3] King of Munster. Oilioll had carried off a beautiful
lady, Modweena Condon, but somehow she contrived to escape from the place
where he had locked her up, and seeing him sleeping, she in revenge bit
off his ear while he slept, whereon Oilioll, roused by the pain, seized
a spear, and thrust it through her with such force that he flattened the
point against a stone in the wall. Drawing forth the spear, regardless of
his victim’s agonies, he tried to straighten the point with his teeth,
but it had been poisoned, and from that moment his teeth became jet
black. I only tell you this in case you should notice the dark colour of
father’s teeth, for the blackness still runs in the family; but, as I
was saying, Modha O’Connor took the Condon prisoner, brought him to his
castle here, shut him up in the dungeon, and coolly cut off his head.
When the clan heard of it, they assembled in great force, stormed the
castle, broke into the dungeons, and found the body of their chief, but
nowhere could they find his head. The body was buried with all funeral
honours, when the earth fell over it, wild unearthly voices sang the
_Dahtan Da mort_, _Augustha Cadine_; but the spirit of Con can never rest
easy until the head is found. The circumstance I have told you occurred
in the second century, so, of course, the head must now be a skull, but
though we have, generation after generation, sought for it, it has never
been found. Well, some time ago an old crone passed this way (she was for
all the world like a banshee), and, pointing up at the house, she said
she would come again soon after the arrival of a certain youth, of whom
it has been predicted that _he alone_ can find Con Condon’s head. They
say she has been seen about the place to-day. Have you seen her, Major?”

“Look!” said Minor. “Isn’t there something dark sitting under the great
arbutus tree? Yes; surely there is. Look, Max.”

Max looked, and while he did so, the moon, breaking through a cloud,
lighted up the carriage drive in front of the house; while its rays,
falling upon an arbutus tree, distinctly revealed a dark figure crouched
beside it. It seemed to be a very old woman, sitting, Irish fashion, with
her chin resting on her knees, while she rocked herself to and fro, and
crooned out a wailing Irish keen. Her face (which was very dark coloured)
was turned towards the boys, and her large features and long grey hair
gave her a very uncanny appearance. Seeing Dennis, she beckoned to him.
“Come with me, Max,” said he; “I’m awfully frightened.” “I’ll go, too,”
said Harry. “And I.” “And I.” So they all stepped through the open
window, and were soon standing round the old crone.

[Illustration]

“Save ye,” said Dennis.

“Save _you_, kindly,” said she.

“Are you the grana?” asked Dennis.

“Yes, I’m grana, grana, of Carrigogunnel. I’m come from St. Patrick’s
purgatory, an’ there I left Con Condon the headless; an’ says he,
‘Grana,’ says he, ‘I’ve been here this tousandh year and more, an’ I’m
tired of it entirely; but I can’t git out,’ says he, ‘till I find my
head, which that thafe, Modha O’Connor, tuck from me. Good grana,’ says
he, ‘go to Castle Connor an’ find it for me; for it is written,’ says he,
‘that there is wan there now that is Irish, an’ Scotch, an’ Sassenach,
all in one, an’ ’tis he alone that can find me head.’ This is the message
of Con Condon the headless; an’ _you_,” shrieked the hag, pointing
her bony finger at Max, “you, whose mother was a Connor, yer father a
Scotchman, an’ yerself a Sassenach, come with me an’ find Con Condon’s
head!”

“Mercy,” said Max, aside, to Dennis; “what must I do; where must I go? I
daren’t go a step with that terrible old woman.”

“Terrible old woman!” screamed the hag. “Yes, I’m terrible; I’m grana of
Carrigogunnel, sister to the mighty Finn. Don’t cross me, young man, or
’twill be worse for ye.”

“What must I do?” pleaded Max, in real agony, and trembling in every
limb. “Dennis, speak to her.”

Dennis spoke to the woman, and then turned to Max: “She insists that you
go with her to the dungeons, but says we may go, too, as far as the door;
so we shall be near you, and, perhaps, you won’t see Con the headless;
being a Sassenach may break the spell.”

“See him,” said Max; “I should think not, _I_ don’t believe such
superstitions as you Irish do.”

“Oh, very well,” said Dennis; “that being the case we can go on
immediately.”

“Yes, come on,” said the hag, and she slowly rose from her crouching
posture, and, to Max’s great horror, stood before him, nearly six feet
five in height. “Come on,” she cried, “come on!” and on she went with
long strides, while Max, frightened out of his seventeen senses,
followed her, and the others came close behind. Suddenly the hag stopped:
“Dennis O’Connor,” said she, “you lade the way until we come to the foot
of the steps, thin the Sassenach must go on wid me alone.”

Well, on they went, round by the back door, through the kitchens (where,
strange to say, not a servant was to be seen), until they came to the top
of a flight of steep stone steps, to all appearances cut out of the solid
rock.

“Bring a light,” said the hag; “bring two lights.”

Indeed even two lights failed to throw much light on the subject, only
serving to show the horrors of the darkness before them, for here
and there in the wall were narrow passages or crevices, and certain
projections which cast deep shadows, and had a very fearful effect. The
light emitted from two small tallow candles did not much improve the
matter, for, though the shadows became less, the crevices remained as
dark and darker than ever.

“Oh, I can’t go on,” said Max, turning very white, and looking as if he
were going to faint.

“Here,” said the hag, drawing a flask from her bosom (very like a railway
flask, but perhaps they use them in St. Patrick’s purgatory), “drink
this,” said she; “’tis good an’ old, for ’tis it that sperrited Brien
Boru when he fought that mighty battle, when meself saw 3,000 Danes lying
dead together.”

“Drink,” said Dennis; “I’ll take a pull at it, too; ’twill keep your
courage up, man.”

“Oh, ’tisn’t that I’m afraid,” said Max, but he drank at the flask, and
finding it good, tried it again, and the colour came to his face, and
down the stone steps he followed the grana, until they stood at a heavy
oaken door.

“The kay,” said the grana, and Dennis handed her an ancient
clumsy-looking key. She turned it in the lock, and pushed open the door
with such force that it went back with a tremendous crash, causing a
sudden gust of cold air that put out both the candles. But they were not
in the dark! No; for there was a faint and ghastly light, just enough to
show them that they were in a huge chamber hewn out of the rock. Max’s
face became livid. He looked at his companions; their faces were livid
too, and as for the grana, her countenance was something unearthly.

Presently there was a sound like the clanking of a heavy chain, and far
away, somewhere in the depths of the vault, were alternately heard heavy
despairing groans and a wailing cry, like “My head! my head!”

“That’s _him_,” said the grana. “Out, every mother’s son of ye, save the
Sassenach an’ me. Quick, or the spell will be broken;” and seizing Max
tight by the wrist, she pulled him on into the vault.

“Sassenach,” said she, “have ye iver read the Bratheim-hadth, the book of
sacred judgment? Ye havn’t, more’s the pity, for from that book

    ‘The priest, the prince, the bard, the man of art,
    An’ you, too, in this vault might larn yer part.’

Howsomiver, as yer ignorant of mystheries, ye must mind what I tell ye,
an’ the first _white_ thing ye sees on the ground grab it up quick, afore
the evil wan hides it agin. Whisht—”

She might well say “whisht,” for nearer and nearer, from the depths of
the vault, came the clanking chain, and the hollow voice, crying, “My
head, my head! ullagone, ullagone!”

Max, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, allowed himself
to be dragged on by the grana. The faint blue light was becoming fainter
and fainter; the wailing “ullagone” was drawing nearer and nearer, when
his foot stumbled against something; he stooped to look at it—it was
white; he took it up—it was a skull! Max fainted.

       *       *       *       *       *

When he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a vault indeed,
but neither skulls nor groans, nor ghastly blue lights shed their weird
influence round him, but a cheerful glow, as of many candles, lighted
up the place; and as he looked round he saw, not headless Con, but more
than one hogs_head_, for the vault was, in fact, a spacious cellar,
contrived with much care by Master Dennis Connor’s grandfather, for the
accommodation of those choice wines from Burgundy and elsewhere, which he
had “loved, not wisely, but too well.”

Max sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him: “Where am I,” said he;
“and how did I come here?” Then, as memory returned, he asked, anxiously,
“Where is she?”

“She’s here!” and before him stood Grana of Carrigogunnel, who, tearing
off her long grey horsehair locks and the rest of her costume, appeared
in the proper character of his decidedly gaunt, but not at all horrible,
cousin Ned.

“Here I am, Max; I’ll wash off the walnut juice by-and-bye.”

“Serve you right if it won’t come off,” said his mother. “It was too bad
of you all to frighten this poor fellow nearly out of his life. It is
well for you your father is not at home.”

“’Tis so,” said the butler, who all the while had been privy to the joke;
“they a’most kilt him intirely with fright. Niver mind ’em in there;
’twas only the skull of the ould white cow that ye tuck up! Ha, ha, ha!
he, he, he!” and in spite of all their pity for the victim, Mrs. Connor
and the girls could not help laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.

“You see, mother,” said Dennis (to whom Mrs. Connor was administering a
private lecture on practical jokes), “we’d never have done it, only he
was such an awfully conceited chap. We told him some stories the other
day, and he tossed up his nose and talked about Irish ignorance and
superstition. I knew he was a hollow sham all the while; and you see,
directly he heard the hag’s story he was carried away by his fright, and
never stopped to reason about anything. He’ll never lord it over Major
and Minor again, that’s one comfort; the former has twice his sense, and
Harry’s a plucky little fellow, and will be sure, if he tries it, to give
him a reminder about Con Condon the headless, and the white cow’s skull.”

[3] Oilioll Olum was king of Munster in the second century. He was a
ferocious and powerful monarch. The story here told of him is recorded in
the ancient annals of Ireland.

[Illustration]




THE “BLACK DRAGOON.”

_By SIDNEY DARYL._

    “Thro’ the black night that sits immense around,
    Lash’d into foam the fierce contending brine,
    Seems o’er a thousand raging waves to frown.”

                                          _Thomson._


Somewhere under the cliffs, on the South Coast, lay the little fishing
village of Gunnerstone, at least, if some dozen ricketty huts and a
tumble-down jetty deserve the appellation. Isolated and cut off from
anything like familiar intercourse with the rest of the world, its
inhabitants led a wild, precarious existence, and some ugly stories were
told of their predilection for plunder and wrecking. Many vessels had
been known to go upon the Gunnerstone reef in comparatively calm weather,
when all hands might have been saved with little difficulty, but by some
unaccountable mishap or other none were ever known to survive, and by
the time the Coastguard men arrived they were astonished to find how
quickly the ship herself had gone to pieces. Nature had made Gunnerstone
almost inaccessible from the sea, save to the natives of the place, to
whom alone a certain narrow passage was known through which they could
navigate their boats in safety up to the jetty. From the very edge of the
beach to some half mile out to sea stretched a long reef of sunken rocks,
which the blue jackets on board the revenue cutter were wont to call the
real Gunnerstone fishing nets. Many and fatal had been the wrecks in
this particular locality, and Homeward and Outward bound always wished
themselves well past it. It became obvious that the establishment of a
lighthouse here was absolutely necessary, and after the usual amount of
official circumlocution, and the preparation of a great many surveys
and plans, things at length took a business-like turn, and the building
of a lighthouse was commenced on a large rock at the extremity of the
reef, which rose abruptly out of the water as if specially intended by
nature to assist in the work of humanity. The construction proceeded but
slowly, what with the caprices of the weather and the opposition offered
by the inhabitants of Gunnerstone, who regarded the innovation much in
the same way as a burglar would the establishment of a huge gas-lamp just
in front of a house he contemplates robbing. It was many months before
the revolving beacon sent its dazzling rays flashing out over the sea
to warn passers by of their propinquity to the ill-omened reef. When
thoroughly finished, the lighthouse presented an appearance of strength
and solidity that did infinite credit to the architect who had planned,
and the contractor who had built it. The interior was arranged so as to
be as roomy as possible, in order to accommodate the two keepers and the
boy who had charge of it; and the lower part was divided into a sitting
and sleeping-room. Outside, a couple of substantial outbuildings had
been erected, which in the summertime were used as residences; while
all round the upper surface of the rock huge blocks of granite had been
raised one on the other, making a wall of tremendous thickness, which
shielded the outbuildings, and left a considerable space protected,
which, with marvellous ingenuity, had been turned into a garden, though I
fear its productive powers were not of a very high order. Down one side
of the rock was cut a rough staircase, by means of which the keepers
were enabled to get into their boat, whenever they had occasion to take
a trip to the shore. Their life was a very uneventful, and yet withal, a
very stirring one; for, in winter time, when the storm was at work, the
waves came dashing up against their house in wild confusion and noise as
of thunder, racing one with the other as if to see which would send its
flecks of foam nearest the lighthouse lantern.

On the 24th of December, 18—, about five o’clock in the afternoon, three
people were standing in the little yard at Gunnerstone Lighthouse,
looking out towards the sea. Above them the bright glare shot forth into
the darkness from the lantern, and disclosed the white crests on the
waves as they came rolling in grandly from mid ocean.

“It will blow hard afore morning, Bill,” said old Seth Lawrence, wiping
from his cheek a great drop of salt spray as cold as an icicle, “the
wind’s been a chopping and shifting about the last eight and forty hours,
but he seems to have come to anchor in the right quarter at last, and
he’s going to give us a taste of his quality, or I’m a lubber. It aint
very cheerful for Christmas folks, specially them’s as at sea. Hallo,
that’s a damper,” he added, as one wave more daring than its fellows ran
up the side of the rock and sent a deluge of salt water hissing over the
granite wall into the yard.

“I tell you what it is, Uncle Seth,” interrupted the younger member of
the two he had addressed, who had come in for his share of wetting, “I’m
not going to stand out here to get soaked to the skin. I have a regard
for my constitution, if you haven’t, so allow me to wish you a very
good evening.” The speaker at once suited the action to the word, and
disappeared through the door into the lighthouse, and his example was
speedily followed by his two companions. The exchange from the cold and
wet outside to the warmth and comfort within was in every way agreeable,
and in a little while tea was ready, and the party sat down fully
prepared to enjoy it. While they are so engaged just a word or two about
them.

Seth Lawrence was a fine, muscular man, who had seen plenty of rough
service in his time, but appeared none the worse for the buffeting.
He was the very “_beau ideal_” of an Englishman, cool, resolute, and
indomitable, and in every way suited for the post in which we find him.
Neither chick nor child had Seth, but his nephew Charlie was to him as a
son, and the lad in his turn looked upon him in the light of a father.
Gunnerstone Reef was scarcely the spot on which to spend Christmas Day as
a matter of preference, but with these two, who had no ties of kindred or
relationship on shore, it was just as good as any other. Not so was it
with Bill Marston, he was anything but satisfied with the arrangements
that compelled him to eat his plum pudding in the lighthouse, and had
been making himself miserable for some time past about the hardness of
his lot. But all the sulking in the world could not alter the state of
affairs, and so he himself began to think, as he sat down to tea on the
evening when we first make his acquaintance. He was short and somewhat
squat in figure, and by the side of Seth presented very much the same
appearance as does a steam-tug in the company of a screw frigate. But
though Bill Marston was short in stature, he was an awkward customer to
get to close quarters with, as a certain cheeky jack tar, who came with
the revenue cutter to the lighthouse on one occasion, had good cause to
remember. He was a singularly good hand with a rifle, and when the sea
was calm, and no craft were in the way, would amuse himself practising.
He had lately been giving Charlie lessons in shooting, and his pupil
progressed with a rapidity that excited his hearty admiration. Just a
word or two of that young gentleman, and then “_revenons à nos moutons_.”
Charlie Fairfield was an orphan; his mother, Seth’s sister, had died when
he was quite a baby, never having quite recovered from the shock her
husband’s being lost at sea in a storm had occasioned her. With her last
breath she bequeathed her blue-eyed baby boy to Seth, and he, with tears
coursing down his brown cheeks, swore “that he’d stick to the kid through
foul and fair weather, and as long as he’d a shilling in the locker the
“young un” should have half.” And, as I have said before, no oath was
ever more religiously kept. Charlie was put out to school and received
a good sound commercial education, for which Seth found the money, and,
at length, when he thought that he had had enough of his books he made
a strong representation to his employers, and persuaded them to give
Charlie a berth at the lighthouse, where we now find him. Story tellers
have a dreadful habit of always making their favourite character very
handsome, in fact, an admirable Crichton of the most approved type; and I
am afraid that if I attempt to sketch a portrait of mine I shall lay the
paint on too thick and spoil the effect. Therefore I leave the task to
the imagination of my hearers, merely adding that Charlie was brave and
true as steel, and loved Seth with his whole heart.

Tea was over and cleared away, and Seth had been upstairs to see that
the lights were all right, and was now taking it easy in a comfortable
arm-chair.

“Look here, Bill,” he said, performing that process which is known as
washing the hands with imaginary soap, “as it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll
treat ourselves to a drop of grog, and make ourselves cosy.”

“All right, mate,” answered Bill, evidently quite ready to enjoy himself
after the prescription suggested; “here’s the bacca jar, and presently,
if Charlie don’t mind, we’ll get him to spell out a bit of reading.”

“So we will, so we will, mate,” echoed Seth. “Fetch out the groceries,
lad, and then I’m blowed if we shan’t be as square and ship-shape this
here festive season as any of your land lubbers.”

Charlie bustled about, got out the rum and all the other necessary
etceteras, and then made himself excessively comfortable on one of
the lockers with the book, from which he was to hold forth for the
delectation of the company. It was the ever-green “_Pickwick Papers_,”
and soon the roar of the wind and storm outside was almost lost in the
shouts of laughter that Sam Weller’s eccentricities and witticisms
excited.

Charlie had been reading uninterruptedly for about half-an-hour, when
Seth suddenly jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, “I could swear I
heard some one moving in the yard outside.”

“Lor, mate, you must be a dreaming,” answered Bill; “we’re not likely to
be troubled with visitors, let alone on such a night as this; but, as I’m
nearest the door, I’ll just take a look out.”

Bill Marston rose from his seat and did as he said. The wind came driving
into the room, rude, bitter, and searching, threatening to put out their
lamp.

“Bless your heart,” continued he, shutting the door quickly, “there
arn’t nobody, it was only fancy;” and with that the two resumed their
seats and the reading continued.

But presently Bill Marston in his turn cried to Charlie to stop, and,
putting his finger on his lips, crept once again to the door, whispering
as he did so:—

“Seth, you’re right, mate, there’s some mischief up, and we’ve got
company on the rock that we don’t know about yet.”

Seth Lawrence was up in a moment like a lion.

“Hold, Bill, a moment,” he cried, “don’t open the door till we’ve put the
light out, and we’d best take a six-shooter a-piece, for we don’t quite
know how many friends we may have to receive.”

“Ten to one it’s some of those thieving scoundrels from Gunnerstone,
come to see if they can catch us asleep in order to play tricks with the
lights, but they’ll find we’re up to their little games.”

Seth and Bill hastily pulled on their rough pea-jackets, invested their
heads in their sou-westers, and, having looked at their revolvers to see
that they were properly loaded, put out the lamp and opened the door. As
they did so a dark object slid away from before it and was lost in the
gloom.

“That cove’s been listening through the key-hole,” whispered Bill to his
companion.

“Well, he didn’t hear much good of himself,” replied Seth; and then he
added in a louder tone, “Now then, you skulks, come out and let’s see
what you’re made of. I’ve got a nice taste of cold lead for each of you.”

“Two can play at that game, Seth Lawrence,” answered a deep voice from
out of the darkness, “look to yourself.”

There was a flash, a report, and Bill Marston was standing by himself.

“You murdering dogs,” he cried, firing in the direction whence the voice
had come, “good luck send this through one of your ugly heads.”

This wish seemed to have been fulfilled, for there was a yell of some one
in pain. Meanwhile Charlie had run out at the first sound of fire-arms,
and found his uncle lying on the ground. Seth whispered hoarsely to Bill
when he fell:—

“Get back into the lighthouse, lad, their game is to douse the lights,
and get some ship ashore in this storm; leave me here, they can’t do
worse with me. Get thee back, get thee back, or there will be more lives
lost before the morning.”

But Bill was not to be thus defeated, he would not go and leave his mate
alone, but remained resolutely by him, prepared to fall by his side if
necessary.

“Charlie, lad, go you inside,” he said hurriedly to the boy, “take you
care of the lights, stick to them to the last, and die rather than give
in.”

To hear was to obey; Charlie ran inside the lighthouse, closed the door,
and turned the key. Not a minute too soon, for a moment after a strange
hand was laid upon the latch, and a rough voice called for admission. He
was startled for a moment, and his heart thumped against his side; but
then he thought of his Uncle Seth, and how he would have behaved under
like circumstances, while Bill Marston’s words rang in his ears: “Stick
to them to the last, and die rather than give in.” In an instant fear was
forgotten, and he was prepared to fight to the last, come what might.
This he knew, that he had to contend with enemies who would show him no
mercy. They were bent on extinguishing the lights, and they would not
stop at murder if it were necessary to secure the successful prosecution
of their nefarious enterprise.

It was for Charlie to defend them as long as life and strength were
his! His eyes turned to the clock; it was only eight. What an age till
daybreak!

To thoroughly barricade and fasten the door was his first consideration.
It was well and strongly built of oak, strengthened here and there
with iron ribs, and secured by three bolts and a huge bar that passed
immediately across the centre. All these were duly pushed into their
places by Charlie, regardless of the hammering and knocking that was
going on outside. This done, he hurried up-stairs to see that the lights
were burning all right; wick, oil, and reflectors, were all in perfect
order, and might in the emergency be left to themselves. They would do
their duty till morning if only the wreckers’ fingers could be kept at a
respectful distance. Satisfied as to these particulars, Charlie hurried
downstairs again to defend the door. How thankful did he now feel to Bill
for the lessons he had given him in shooting! There was another revolver
lying at the bottom of the locker, he took it up, loaded it carefully,
and then prepared himself for the siege.

The wind still howled and whistled, while the thunder of the waves upon
the rock was almost deafening, still Charlie was just able to catch the
sound of voices outside during the intervals of cessation from knocking
on the part of his besiegers. “Blow up,” and “pistol,” he distinctly
heard, and then a hoarse cry from some one, evidently intended for him.

“If you don’t open the door we’ll blow it up.”

“Blow away, my hearties,” shouted he in reply, “and take care how you
play with gunpowder, for it’s dangerous.”

A sound very much like a laugh followed this: and then the same voice
that had addressed him before screamed out:—

“If you’ll give in, young ’un, we won’t hurt you. It’s no use your
fighting against odds; we’ve cobbled your mates, and we shall have to do
the same for you if you keep us out here much longer.”

To this Charlie vouchsafed no answer, and the battering at the door was
resumed. The threat to blow him up was evidently an empty one, as nothing
of the sort was attempted, but presently there was a loud report, and a
bullet came crashing through the woodwork, passing disagreeably near to
the lad’s head. Through the opening that had thus been made, five other
bullets followed one another in close succession, evidently fired not so
much with an intention of hitting as of alarming him. Charlie crept on
his hands and knees up to the door, and, when the discharge had ended,
quietly raised himself up, and, placing the muzzle of his revolver in
the aperture, pulled the trigger. There was a groan, a smothered curse,
and a heavy fall, and immediately after the hammering was resumed more
savagely than ever. Charlie reloaded the empty chamber of his revolver,
and drew himself a little on one side. Just then his eye noticed that the
top bolt was giving way. At the same moment the sound as of blows dealt
by an axe upon the door made itself audible, and warned him that, with an
instrument such as that, his assailants would soon be able to cut their
way through to him.

How slowly the hours, or, more properly speaking, minutes, dragged on.
The hands of the clock seemed glued upon its face. The atmosphere of the
room was stifling. “God help me,” murmured Charlie to himself: “the door
wont stand much longer, and then there’s no help for it. They’d soon do
for me. Oh! if I only had Uncle Seth or Bill Marston with me.” Alas!
Charlie, you might as well have wanted the whole battalion of guards at
your back; they whom you called were lying out in the storm and rain,
sore stricken, and motionless!

By this time the wreckers were evidently infuriated at the resistance
they had met with, and redoubled their efforts upon the door, which
slowly but surely was giving way. The axe was doing its work only too
well, and already a huge piece of the wooden framework had fallen in.

The barrier was now nearly broken down that protected him, and in a
moment more the enemy would be upon him. In those few seconds that ensued
the boy’s lips moved rapidly. With the shadow of death almost upon him,
he had yet time to remember Him whose omnipotent arm could snatch him
from out the jaws of death. Like the Puritan soldier of old, Charlie
paused in the conflict to whisper a prayer. Then, resolute and undaunted,
he prepared to meet the fate that he felt must inevitably fall upon him.

He had not to wait long; there was a crash, and then a rush of dark forms
through the doorway; he had but time to aim his revolver and pull the
trigger, then some heavy body fell against him and brought him to the
ground. The darkness had saved him, for the wreckers did not wait to look
for him, but hurried upward to the light room to extinguish the lights.

Charlie did not remain long where he was, but aroused himself, and
found that there was a human body lying on the top of him. It was with
difficulty he managed to push it off, and then he crept stealthily out
into the yard. Upstairs, the seekers were evidently at their work of
spoliation, the sound of crashing glass, mingled with shouts, might be
heard amid the rushings of the wind. As he found himself outside, a deep
“_boom, boom_,” from the direction of the sea, startled him. It was clear
that there was some vessel in difficulties.

Little hope for her now. The Gunnerstone lights were dead, and in vain
might those on board of her look eagerly through the mist and scud for
the guiding beacon. Charlie groped his way across the yard, and as he did
so stumbled over a prostrate form; he bent down by it, and passed his
hand over the face. He knew then that it was his Uncle Seth. He knelt by
his side and whispered—

“Are you better, Uncle?”

A feeble voice murmured in reply—

“Good lad, good lad!” and then it ceased, as if from exhaustion.

Still “_boom, boom_,” went the guns, each report sounding nearer and
nearer than the last. Charlie knew, as certainly as if he had seen it
with his eyes, that the labouring ship was driving straight on for the
reef.

By this time the wreckers had accomplished their work of destruction, and
now they came hurrying out of the lighthouse and made for the landing
stairs, which were situated on the more sheltered side of the rock.
Charlie crouched into a corner of one of the outhouses, was gnashing his
teeth at being unable to communicate its danger to the ill-fated ship.

Suddenly he was startled by a ruddy glare from the direction of the
shore, shooting up towards the skies, and in a few seconds a bright
flame burnt there steadily. Some one had improvised a beacon on the
cliffs above Gunnerstone. Charlie was gazing intently on this welcome
apparition, when he heard a loud exclamation of rage. The wreckers found
that their boat was gone, and that they were caught in a trap. No lock,
or bolt, or bar, could hold them in closer imprisonment than did the
green waves, rolling ceaselessly round the rock. Retribution had come at
last, and not a bit too soon!

It was dangerous work for Charlie to be thus shut up in the midst of his
enemies, but I am bound to say that, instead of being in the least put
out, he rubbed his hands together with pleasure to think that villainy
had thus met its reward. And they, like cravens and cowards as they were,
seemed utterly defeated by the blow.

It was a strange beginning for a Christmas Day, thought Charlie, as,
cowering under the rocks, worn out and exhausted with the events of the
night, he saw the daylight rising out of the sea, and thanked God for his
preservation. Likely enough, could the wreckers have seen him, they would
have disposed of him, in order to preclude any possibility of his turning
up hereafter at some disagreeable moment. But he was hidden from their
view, and most of them believed that he was “knocked on the head,” as one
of their number elegantly expressed it.

But now the dawn had come, and these midnight marauders and murderers
looked one another in the face—some pale, others haggard, but all seemed
impressed with the danger of their position. And thus the morning of this
Christmas Day broke upon the rock whereon stood Gunnerstone Lighthouse.
The storm had gone to rest now, and the glorious sun already made a
golden pathway over the waters, slumbering peacefully after their riot
and revelry. Its brightness fell on the granite sides of the lighthouse,
and glanced back on to a pale face lying still and motionless, as stony
in look as the walls themselves, while it lit up a white sail that was
disappearing on the horizon. Brave, honest, noble Seth Lawrence knew not
that the day was up and that the world was already stirring to celebrate
its great festival, its feast of feasts. A messenger had come to him,
whose summons none could disobey, and he fled away with him on the wings
of the wind, to stand in the presence of the Master who had sent for him.

And the good ship the “Black Dragoon,” with its living freight, bound for
the west, passed on its way; but there were many, indeed most of those on
board of her, offering up a thanksgiving for their preservation, when the
world awoke from its slumbers. On, on, brave vessel, into the open sea,
towards the new country; the sacrifice that has gained thee thy safety
would not have been grudged by the victim; for, like a true English
heart, unselfish to the end, he would have gladly bartered his life to
save a fellow-man.

I must now venture to assert my privilege as chronicler, and dispose
of certain important events in a somewhat summary manner. The wreckers
were captured immediately, upon the scene of their crime, by the revenue
cutter, which had come round on the information given by Bill Marston,
who had launched the lighthouse boat, and with great difficulty made his
way in it to the shore, when he was supposed to be lying safe and quiet
with a bullet through his head. He had first taken the precaution to cut
the painter with which the wreckers had secured the big galley that had
brought them, and thus shut off from them the only means of escape. His
first care on landing had been to make his way to a farmhouse on the
cliffs, where he obtained the assistance that enabled him to light the
beacon that warned the “Black Dragoon” of her danger just in time. It
was all due to his indomitable pluck and energy that the machinations of
these banditti of the sea had been defeated, and the emigrant ship saved
from destruction.

It was some time before Charlie recovered from the very severe struggle
to which he had been subjected, but youth and a strong constitution
gained the victory, and he was well enough to appear at the assizes,
where the “Great Wrecking Case at Gunnerstone” excited an immense
amount of attention. He gave his evidence with much modesty, and in a
way that called forth the hearty commendation of the learned judge who
presided. The two ringleaders of the wreckers perished on the scaffold,
and the rest were sent to expiate their crime by various terms of penal
servitude, and thus Seth Lawrence’s death was avenged.

The owners of the “Black Dragoon” presented Bill Marston with a gold
watch and £100, while Charlie was rewarded with a silver one and £30,
whereat the two recipients were highly delighted.

A turn of the pen, and behold another Christmas Eve has come round. Bill
and Charlie are sitting in the room in the lighthouse, but a stranger is
in their company, a jovial, genial fellow, but not Seth Lawrence. There
was a big salt tear rolling down Bill Marston’s cheek, forced out by the
tide of recollection that was flooding on him.

“Aye, lad,” he murmured, in a strangely choky tone, “he was made of the
right stuff, he was. Let’s hope to do our duty as he did.”

And the lad’s sobbing voice said, “_Amen_.”




OUR CHRISTMAS DINNER AT DR. LICKEMWELL’S.

_By ROBERT HOPE MONCRIEFF, Author of “Oudendale,” “Horace Hazelwood,”
“The Lycée Boys,” &c., &c._


When I was a boy—dear me, what a long time ago it seems!—I was a boarder
at Upton House, Dr. Lickemwell’s school. It was a good school, and Dr.
Lickemwell was a very good sort of man, and we were on the whole very
happy there. I didn’t think so then, but I think so now, and I dare say
you boys will think as kindly of your old schools and masters when you
come to be men. You don’t believe what your parents tell you, that your
school days will be the happiest time of your life, but it is true all
the same, as you will find out some day.

We were a very decent set of fellows at Dr. Lickemwell’s. None of your
prim young gentlemen, who always have clean collars on, and go out
walking two by two, like the picture of the beasts going into Noah’s
ark. And none of your young swells that I see now-a-days swaggering to
school with canes and kid gloves. No; we were nearly all real, honest
school-boys, fond of play, and not very fond of lessons, but obliged to
do them all the same; occasionally given to idleness and mischief, but
not at all above taking our canings, as a matter of course, when we were
found out.

Though we were happy enough at school, you may be sure we were not at
all sorry when the holidays came round. Like most boys, we used to think
weeks before of the joyful journey home, and the bright blaze of our own
firesides, and our father’s cheery welcome, and our sisters’ kisses,
and our mother’s smiles—and jam cupboards. The Doctor kept us to our
work in a way which made us relish thoroughly the pleasures of idleness
for a few weeks, and the comforts and luxuries of home seemed doubly
pleasant after the dusty, noisy school-rooms, and the bread and scrape,
and Mrs. Lickemwell’s puddings, in which (though she was an excellent
woman in other respects) a strict regard for truth compels me to say that
there was a great deal of suet and very few plums. But let me not seem
ungrateful. The puddings might not be adapted to our taste, but, while
we could get nothing better, we adapted our taste to the puddings, and
enjoyed them thoroughly at the time, with only an occasional looking back
to the flesh pots of the home kitchen, and a regretful remembrance of the
glories of mamma’s Christmas plum pudding.

To such a plum pudding, among other delights, was I looking forward
one cold, snowy December. The holidays were drawing near, lessons were
growing doubly stupid and tedious, the days were passing slowly by. But
we lived on hope, and exercised our arithmetical talents in counting the
days that had yet to pass by before _the_ day, a course of study which
we liked better than compound proportion, but which did not please our
master at all, seeing that it obliged him to do more caning in the last
fortnight of the half than in a month at any other time.

But on this occasion my calculations were put an end to by a terrible
and unexpected misfortune—the most terrible misfortune which had ever
happened to me, as I thought then. Just a week before the beginning of
the holidays, I received a letter from my father.

“There’s some money in it,” thought I, as I eagerly broke the seal.
“Perhaps I am to come home at once. Oh, how jolly!” But, alas! these were
the contents:—

                                                   “_December 13th._

    “MY DEAR BOY,

    “I am as sorry, as you will be, to tell you that we cannot
    allow you to come home for the Christmas holidays this year.
    Your little brother Ned has taken scarlet fever, and though
    we hope he is in no danger, we think it right that you should
    not come to the house, for fear of infection. I have therefore
    written to Dr. Lickemwell, asking him to keep you for the
    holidays. If Ned gets better soon, your mamma and I may,
    perhaps, come and see you.

    “I know that this will be a great disappointment to you, but
    disappointments are things none of us can help meeting in this
    world, and we must just try to bear them cheerfully, and make
    the best of them.

    “I am sure Dr. and Mrs. Lickemwell will do all they can to make
    you enjoy your holidays, and I hope that your not being able to
    come home may turn out to be not such a great misfortune after
    all. I enclose you five shillings as a Christmas present.

    “I have no time to write more. Mamma cannot write at all, she
    is so anxious about Ned, but she sends her love to you. And,
    hoping you are quite well, I am, your affectionate

                                                            “PATER.”

Just fancy my feelings when I had read this letter! It was so sudden and
unexpected, that at first I could scarcely believe it to be true. But
there was the well-known handwriting, and the words were plain enough.
When I had read it over twice, I put the letter into my pocket, and,
seeking out a solitary corner of the playground, had a good cry. Need
I be ashamed of it? I was only twelve years old, and you may judge for
yourselves how great the disappointment was.

For two or three days I was very dull and miserable. The pleasure with
which I had looked forward to the holidays was all gone, and the glee
of the other boys made me feel quite angry. But it takes a great deal
to depress a boy’s spirits for any length of time, and I soon began to
get over my disappointment, and to console myself with the first maxim
of philosophy, “What must be, must be.” Perhaps the five shillings
contributed more than the philosophy to reconcile me to my lot.

But when the breaking-up day came, I felt my misfortune very keenly. The
Doctor had been in the habit of making us a farewell speech on these
occasions, which had always appeared to me very appropriate, but now I
thought his jesting tone singularly out of place. “I have to bid you
good-bye for a few weeks,” he said, “and, in doing so, I need not say how
sorry I am to part with you. Of course teaching you, and caning you, and
scolding you, is the greatest pleasure I have in the world. Of course I
don’t like holidays. Of course you give me very little trouble, and I am
very angry with your parents for taking that trouble off my shoulders for
a few weeks. But that we may not forget each other during the holidays, I
suppose I must give out some work for you to do while you are away.”

Dr. Lickemwell always said this at the beginning of the holidays, but
the boys, who understood very well the merry twinkle in his eye, always
met the proposal by a laughing shout of “No, no; oh, no, Sir! No holiday
task.” “What!” cried the Doctor, pretending to be very much astonished.
“No holiday task! Well, I think that I understand your feelings. You
haven’t the heart to do any work away from me and my cane. It is very
gratifying to me to find that we are such favourites. So let it be, then.
And now all I have to do is to hope that you will get home safely, and
spend a merry Christmas.”

At this the boys leaped up and gave three tremendous cheers for the
Doctor, and then most of them rushed off to make their final preparations
for departure. I could not bear to see the coaches full of happy faces
roll off, so I betook myself to my retreat in the playground, and
remained there alone till the dinner bell rang, when I returned to the
house and joined my companions in misery.

There were five of us who, from various reasons, were to pass the
holidays at school. First, Jack and Willy Somers. These two brothers
generally spent their holidays at the house of an aunt, but she was ill,
and could not receive them this time. Jack was certainly the very worst
boy to be near a sick bed, always chattering, and shouting, and racketing
about. Unless his aunt was a very different person from most single
ladies I have known, I can’t understand how she ever managed to put up
with him; indeed, I believe they had frequent squabbles, in consequence
of a propensity of Jack’s for climbing on the outside of the staircase,
and a habit he had of tying a tin kettle to the tail of her favourite
cat, and other amusements, which the good lady did not at all approve
of. Willy was a small boy, about nine years old, and all I can remember
of him is that he had curly hair, great red cheeks, and a funny little
lump in the place where other people have noses. Then there was Arthur
Howard, a quiet, gentle boy, who had neither father nor mother, nor
aunt to go to, and spent all his holidays at the school, poor fellow.
And the last was Edwin Saunders, whose parents were in India, where he
gave us to understand that he was soon to follow them, and reside in a
palace surrounded with palm-trees, with about a dozen white elephants,
and rather more than a hundred native servants at his disposal. This
picture of oriental luxury rather dazzled us, and we looked to Saunders
as a person of consequence, but I have since had reason to believe that
he was exaggerating his expectations, inasmuch as I afterwards found him
residing in a small house in a country town with his father, who had
retired from the army on half pay.

Being left alone, then, in the great school-house, which seemed so
strangely silent and empty, we five resolved to make the best of it. And
we got on pretty well after all. We had no lessons to learn, and almost
nobody to look after us, and could roam about all day where we liked. So
we chattered, and played, and read story books out of the school library,
and enjoyed our freedom. If it had only come on hard frost, we wouldn’t
have minded staying at school a bit, for there was a splendid pond for
skating just at the back of Upton House.

On the third day we were all sitting round the fire in the school-room,
after dinner, when Willy Somers, who had been meditating deeply, uttered
the following remarkable piece of information:—

“To-morrow’s Christmas Day.”

“Well, we all know that,” said his brother. “Can’t you think of something
new and original to tell us, Willy?”

“I was thinking—I was wondering if Lickemwell would give us a plum
pudding.”

“Catch him,” said Saunders, who was of a cynical disposition, and had
no great faith in human nature. “He’ll have one himself, but we’ll get
nothing better than that everlasting stick jaw. If I was in India, what a
splendid pudding I should have!”

“‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans,’” quoted Jack, and then stopped,
leaving us to meditate over this unfinished sentiment.

We were all silent for a few minutes, thinking of the same subject, the
glories of the Christmas dinner which the other boys would enjoy. And the
more we thought of it, the less we liked the cheerless prospect which was
before us. I am afraid we were a set of greedy little fellows.

Suddenly, as I turned over my five shillings, or what was left of them,
in my trousers’ pocket, a bright idea came into my mind.

“Why shouldn’t we get up a Christmas dinner for ourselves? I mean, buy a
lot of things, and cook them at the school-room fire, and have a regular
spread.”

“Oh, that would be jolly!” cried little Willy. “I have three shillings
and sixpence. That would buy—let me see—forty-two apple tarts. No; I
think I would rather buy eighty-four sponge biscuits.”

“Buy your grandmother!” said Jack, contemptuously. “If we go in for the
thing at all, we must do it in regular style—get a goose or a turkey, or
something of that sort. It’s not a bad idea. What do you say, Saunders?”

“I say it’s a splendid idea,” said Saunders, who hadn’t any money, and
therefore felt free to pronounce a very decided opinion on the matter.

“But the Doctor won’t allow us to be cooking things in the school-room,”
objected Howard.

“Then we’ll allow ourselves,” said Jack. “No fear of the Doctor shoving
his nose into the business. He’ll be too busy guzzling in the parlour
with Mrs. L. and the young Licks.”

“Oh, we can easily manage it,” said I. “I have about half-a-crown.”

“At all events, if we are to do it, we must look sharp about it,” said
Jack. “We must buy the things this afternoon. All the shops will be shut
to-morrow.”

Without further discussion Jack and I settled that the thing should be.
Saunders and Howard held back, being rather afraid of the Doctor; but, as
they were not to furnish the funds, their opinion was not regarded.

Our first step was to form ourselves into a committee of ways and means,
of which Jack, who was one of those fellows that always take the lead
in everything, elected himself president, secretary, and treasurer.
Our joint funds were found to amount to about ten shillings, but as we
didn’t care to spend all our money, Jack, Willy, and I, agreed to give
two shillings a-piece, which we thought would be enough to furnish a
sumptuous feast. Saunders contributed half of a cake, which somebody had
sent him. Greedy fellow! he had already eaten up the other half, without
saying a word to any of us. Howard gave nothing, but nobody grudged him
his share in the matter, for we all knew that he would have been generous
enough, if he had had anything to give.

Of course the great question was what to buy with our money. Willy was
very anxious to have a turkey, but that was out of the question, so it
was settled that a duck should be got instead, which Jack assured us
could be bought for half-a-crown, and could be easily roasted at the
school-room fire. Then sixpence was to be spent on potatoes, tenpence
on apple tarts, two for each of us, the same sum on sweet biscuits, and
the rest, it was unanimously voted, should be applied to the purchase
of chocolate drops, by way of dessert. As soon as this bill of fare was
decided upon, we sallied forth in a body to make our purchases, and
succeeded in bringing back the articles, duck and all, without being
observed, and locking them up in an empty desk in the school-room.

Next day, you may be sure, we were in a state of great excitement. I
am sure no family in England could have been looking forward to their
Christmas dinner with more pleasing anticipations than we five. As soon
as church was done we hastened home, and sat down with no great relish to
our ordinary school dinner. It seemed lucky for us that we had something
better in view, for all that was on the table was a dish of potatoes and
some scraps of cold mutton. Neither the Doctor nor Mrs. Lickemwell made
their appearance; only one of the maids was in attendance, and to her
Jack began to grumble, more for the sake of grumbling than because he
cared particularly what he had for dinner on that day.

“I say, Sally,” said he, “this is a low shame. Is this all the grub we’re
to get?”

I may here remark that, by time-honoured custom, all the maids at Upton
House were called Sally by the boys, who further distinguished them,
with a lofty disregard for the rules of gender, as Sally Primus, Sally
Secundus, and so forth. They didn’t use to like it at first, but they
soon got accustomed to it, I dare say.

“That’s all you are to get just now,” said Sally. “There’s a great deal
of cooking going on to-day.”

“Mother L. might have given us a plum pudding, at least. We’ll all be
starved,” said Jack, winking at us.

Sally vouchsafed no further answer, but disappeared with the dish cover,
leaving us to the enjoyment of the cold mutton, which disappeared very
fast. We were too full of the thoughts of our own banquet to waste more
time on the discussion of Mrs. Lickemwell’s stinginess, as we thought it.

Before Sally came back we had hidden away as many plates and knives as
we thought she would not miss, and, when she had cleared away and left
the room, we at once commenced operations, trusting to good luck that we
would not be interrupted.

Jack and I undertook the important business of roasting the duck. We
first carefully plucked it and buried the feathers, and then tied a
string to one of its legs, and took turns at spinning it round before the
fire, with such satisfactory results that in about an hour and a half
it was pronounced ready for eating, one side being by that time burnt
quite black. To Willy and Howard was entrusted the task of roasting the
potatoes, which they accomplished much to their own satisfaction, though
a critical observer might have objected that they burned to cinders a
good many more than they cooked. Saunders, for his part, engaged to
manufacture a wonderful cake of bread crumbs, slices of raw potato,
and salt butter, which compound, I may here remark, was unanimously
pronounced to be an utter failure.

Everything being thus ready, it was agreed to take the viands up to
one of the bedrooms, and spend the rest of the afternoon there, in the
enjoyment of them. This was done, and we were preparing to abandon
ourselves to festivity, when a heavy tread was heard in the passage,
and Jack exclaimed in a loud whisper—“Look out! Here’s the Doctor, or
Porbury.” In a moment a counterpane was flung over the tempting array of
tarts and so forth, spread out on one of the beds. Saunders hastily sat
down on the dish containing the potatoes, thereby mashing them for us
very well, as Jack afterwards remarked. The roast duck was not so easily
disposed of, but Jack’s presence of mind did not forsake him. He hastily
squeezed it into the pocket of his greatcoat, which he had just put on,
as there was no fire in the bedroom. Scarcely was all this done, than the
door opened, and in walked Mr. Porbury, the only one of the assistant
masters who had remained for the Christmas holidays.

How lucky it wasn’t the Doctor! we thought Porbury was a heavy, slow
fellow, with spectacles, whom we boys rather looked down upon, I am sorry
to say, because it was so easy to “humbug him.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Porbury.

“Nothing, sir,” said Saunders, who was in agony lest he should have to
rise and reveal the potatoes.

This seemed to satisfy Mr. Porbury, and he was going out again, when he
suddenly stopped, and began to snuff about him suspiciously.

“H’m. Dear me! Isn’t there a very curious smell in this room, boys?”

“Smell, sir?” said Jack, innocently, though all the while guiltily
conscious of the roast duck in his pocket.

“Yes; a smell of burning, I think. Surely there is something on fire.
Dear me, I hope not.”

“Perhaps it is in some of the other rooms, sir,” suggested Jack, hoping
that he would go to look, and thus give us an opportunity of getting rid
of the unlucky duck.

“Perhaps it is,” said Mr. Porbury. “Will you come round with me to the
other rooms, and we will see.”

There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a comical look at us Jack
followed him out of the room. His presence of mind quite forsook him
here. He should have taken off his great coat, and left it behind. But
he did not think of that, and so, as Mr. Porbury was making his tour of
inspection, he, curiously enough, noticed the same smell in every room
they entered.

You may be sure we waited in great anxiety for Jack’s return. In a
few minutes he rushed back into the room, choking with laughter, and,
flinging himself on his bed, began to relieve his feelings by kicking up
his heels, and writhing about convulsively. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! What
a joke! I never saw anything like it. Oh! I say, you fellows, hold me
together, or I’ll split with laughing. Oh, dear!”

“What’s the matter? Did he twig the duck?” we inquired, anxiously.

“Not a bit of him,” shouted Jack, drawing it forth from his pocket in
triumph. “Every room we went into he snuffed about, and said, ‘very
curious; there’s the same smell here.’ At length he thought it must be
coming from the kitchen—oh, dear! I shall never get over it;” and Jack
rolled about, and screamed, till the tears ran down his cheeks, and
he could laugh no longer. Only, for the next half hour or so, he was
always threatening to burst out into another explosion, and exclaiming,
“Well, I can’t help it. To think how neatly Porbury was taken in. What a
splendid joke!”

Not having such a keen sense of the ludicrous as Jack, our mirth was not
so boisterous, but we were greatly relieved to find that our duck was
safe. It was thought prudent, however, to put off the feast for a little,
in case we should again be interrupted. But at the end of half-an-hour
our impatience overcame our prudence.

“The Doctor has a dinner-party to-day, so he’s safe not to come near us,”
said Jack. “And Porbury’s sure to be at it. He wasn’t at our dinner, you
know.”

So we set to work at once upon the duck, which Jack divided by tearing
off the legs and wings, and giving one to each of us. The body he kept to
himself, and I think he had the best of the bargain. But Jack, as I said
before, was one of those fellows who manage to get the best of everything
for themselves. I remember we thought him very generous when he cut off
a piece of the breast with his pocket knife, and gave it to Howard, to
whose lot had fallen the wing that had been burned in the process of
cooking.

The duck was pronounced excellent; the only fault was that there seemed
to be so little on it after all; and when it and the potatoes were
finished, and the bones licked clean, we turned our attention to the
less substantial portion of the entertainment. Didn’t we make short
work of the apple tarts and Saunders’ cake, washing them down with
lemonade, made out of two lemons and some sugar, which we had coaxed out
of the housekeeper! All the while we were talking and laughing, as well
as eating as fast as we could, and agreeing that it was the jolliest
Christmas dinner we had ever had.

The fun, indeed, began to grow fast and furious. At a very early stage
of the proceedings Jack had volunteered a song, and now, inspired by
the potent liquor I have just mentioned, he had mounted on a chair, and
was bellowing, at the pitch of his voice, a song which some youthful
genius had composed, as a sort of national anthem for the school. I only
remember the first verse, which was—

                  “In Upton House’s wintry clime,
            We now must work at our books for a time,
            Or, if we don’t, we’ll catch toko,
    Which is what Mr. Patrick did upon the musical instrument bestow,
                    So early in the morning,
                    So early in the morning,
                    So early in the morning,
                    Before the break of day.”

The remarkable feature of this melody was, that every verse was sung to
a different air, and with a different chorus, in which we all joined
lustily, and made such a din, that this time we never heard footsteps
creaking along the passage, as we might have done if we had been less
noisy.

But in the middle of the song the door of the room was flung open, and in
stalked—the Doctor.

He cast one sharp glance at the bed, on which was spread out our feast,
and another at us. We looked at one another, and then, though we were in
a great fright, couldn’t help smiling, the whole thing was so ludicrous.
Jack, standing on a chair, with his back turned to the door, flourishing
the backbone of the duck in one hand, and a half-eaten tart in the other,
had just begun a new verse—

    “Old Lickemwell, he is a—”

But here, suddenly perceiving from our silence that something had gone
wrong, Jack turned round, and, when he saw the Doctor, stopped short,
and got down from the chair, looking foolish enough. We were all looking
foolish, I dare say, but we couldn’t help laughing, and the Doctor looked
as if he, too, was inclined to smile, though he was trying to look stern.

“Well,” he said at length, and then there was a portentous silence. When
Dr. Lickemwell said “well,” in a peculiarly dry, meaning way which he
had, we generally understood that matters were going to turn out anything
but _well_ for us. “This is how Mr. Porbury felt a smell of burning. Ah!”

Then the Doctor looked at us again, and we felt particularly
uncomfortable.

“I suppose you are the ringleader in this, Somers?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack, modestly.

“Come with me,” said the Doctor, motioning to Jack to follow him out of
the room.

Jack obeyed, trying to wink at us as he went, to show that he didn’t care
for what was going to happen. But it was rather an unhappy wink.

The rest of us waited in great suspense for about ten minutes, wondering
what would be done to Jack, and if we ourselves would escape punishment.
A sudden damper had been cast on our mirth. We all knew the Doctor’s cane
too well to feel happy while we were expecting to have an interview with
it

At length the Doctor came back, and made us a speech:—

“I am very sorry to find, boys, that you have been resorting to deception
of this kind. If you had known something which I wished to be a surprise
for you, I don’t think you would have cared to take all this trouble on
the sly. Come here with me, all of you.”

We followed him, looking at each other in surprise, and quite unable to
make out what he meant. Was he angry with us? Was he going to punish
us? Was he taking us to his study, which was to Upton House what the
torture-chamber was to the Tower of London! No; he led the way past the
study door, and over the hall, and into his private dining-room, at the
door of which we all hung back, like a brood of chickens, reluctant to
follow into the pond the duck that has hatched them.

“Come along,” said the Doctor, encouraging us; and, taking courage to
venture inside, we saw the table spread out for dinner, and the sideboard
loaded with apples, oranges, and nuts.

“We are just going to dine,” said the Doctor, in the same grave voice,
but with a merry twinkle in his eye. “Mrs. Lickemwell and I had intended
to ask you to take your Christmas dinner with us—it is a pity we did not
issue our invitation sooner. However, if you think you could eat a little
bit, although you have dined, perhaps you will sit down and join us. You
see Somers has kindly consented to favour us with his company.”

We looked at the Doctor, and at the table, and at each other, in
perfect amazement. Was the Doctor speaking seriously? We felt quite
uncomfortable. But there was that cool fish, Jack Somers, sitting at the
head of the table, beside Mrs. Lickemwell, making himself agreeable, and
grinning at us like a porpoise. Seeing our perplexity, the Doctor burst
into a laugh, and cried out—

“Poor fellows! Did you really think we weren’t going to give you a
Christmas dinner? We meant it to be a surprise, but perhaps I should
have told you, and then we shouldn’t have had you wasting your money on
bad pastry, and bothering Mr. Porbury with your culinary operations.
Well, we’ll say no more about it, but sit down and see if you can’t find
room for another dinner.”

Then the Doctor laughed louder than before, and Mrs. Lickemwell laughed,
and Jack laughed, and we all laughed, and finally we sat down, and Sally
Primus, and Sally Secundus, appeared with a splendid turkey, and a roast
joint of beef, at the sight of which we discovered that the duck and the
apple tarts had been mere trifles that had only whetted our appetites.

In short, we had a splendid dinner, and glorious fun afterwards. The
young Lickemwells were all there in their best bibs and tuckers, and some
other boys and girls came in to tea, and we had a snap-dragon, and a
Christmas tree, and charades, and no end of games. And, when we had said
good night, and gone back to the school-room to gather up the remnants
of our own despised feast, which were now preserved for another time, we
agreed that the Doctor was a much jollier fellow than we had ever before
thought him, and that we were great fools for having wasted our money.
And that is the story of our Christmas dinner, the only one, I am glad to
say, I ever ate at school, for Ned got all right again very soon, and, as
he came to school himself next half, took good care not to catch any more
scarlet fevers about Christmas time.




A WILD YULE E’EN.

_By CYNTHA._


There are mad northern breezes howling over the heather, and there are
savage blinding showers of snow, which fall in stinging bits and cover
up the little dells, leaving only those same wind-waked heath-tops
uncovered. There are loud-voiced tempestuous waves and anger-tossed foam,
which lift themselves wildly up, as if in their insolent pride they would
mingle with the low-lying clouds. There are grey gaunt cliffs frowning
over the black water, and there are bare dreary-looking hills, with here
and there a solitary cottage, standing unsheltered by tree or wall. It
is not a pleasant scene, although, for some folks, it may have a weird
beauty of its own. This snow is not like the gentle feathery flakes
which robe your naked Christmas boughs in a robe of heavenly white.
These gales are not the soft-toned breezes which bear to your expectant
ears the sound of Christmas bells. These champing surges are not the
light-footed friends who come to greet you with a smile and a word of
seasonable cheer. Ah, no! but surely those fierce combating elements are
fit attendants on the Yule of our sea-king sires.

“Mother, this is Yule e’en,” said little Tronda Henderson, looking
wistfully up in her mother’s face.

“Well, what if it is, bairn? we can have no Yule fun, you know,” and Doya
cast a glance at her husband, who was sitting by the uncurtained window.
It was a look which said much: it was a look of reproach, of enquiry, of
fear, of love; and the children, who sat beside Doya, crept nearer to
her chair and kept silence when they saw that look. But Bartle did not
notice either the woman or children. He was a sullen, discontented man,
who evaded, as lazy ne’er-do-wells will always do, the poor man’s honest
lot—a life of labour. He was the scion of a good old house, which had
fallen into poverty and decay. Being too idle and too proud to work for
a living, Bartle had left Shetland in his early manhood and had betaken
himself to the wild unfettered life of an Australian digger. Years went
past, and he came back in his prime and married an orphan cousin, to whom
he had been engaged since his youth. He came back a reserved and selfish
man, with a shadow on his brow and a strange mystery about even his
everyday life. Bartle took up his abode in the half-ruined home of his
boyhood, and became a subject of curiosity and conjecture to the whole
island. His wife was a lady born, yet it was known that she did all the
work of the house, keeping no servant; and the public also discovered
that she “knitted and ’broidered and sewed” for a livelihood, just as any
poor man’s spouse might do. They did not mingle with their neighbours,
but rather shunned the society of high and low. Bartle had no live stock
or banked money; he did no work, either mental or physical, and although
he always wore the dress of a sailor, he never soiled his fingers with
a fishing-line or other marine implements. He always had plenty of
silver, nay, even gold, in hand for his own personal wants, yet Doya’s
deft fingers provided for herself and the three children. Once Bartle
had offered half-a-crown to his wife, when he chanced to overhear the
little ones cry for breakfast, but she gave it back with such a gesture
of horror and disgust as deterred him from ever repeating the act. And
so they jogged on for many years, living in the same house utterly
independent of one another, each going their own way—the mother keeping
Rassmie, Hermann, and Tronda by her, and the father shrouded in the same
mystery which had hitherto encompassed him.

On this same dark Yule even, Bartle looked out of window, moodily
unconcerned for those within. He looked on a dismal scene. Between the
cottage and the sea there stretched a piece of rough stony ground, which
hardly allowed a weed to find refuge on it. This meagre morsel of mother
earth terminated in a reef of dangerous crags, which were quite covered
at high water, but, when the tide was out, extended high and dry between
the island and a large grass-crowned skerry, which lay a short distance
from the mainland. You could not picture to yourself a more barbarous
coast.

The grey of night had come down, and only the outlines of the landscape,
with here and there a foam-wreath curling about the rocks, could be
descried by the looker out. Evidently such an imperfect view was not to
Bartle’s liking, for very soon he got up, donned his seaman’s hat of
waterproof, and without a word left the house. It was not pleasant out in
that shivering cold, and the sullen man was not a good companion, but he
had scarcely quitted the cottage ere he was followed by his sons. They
were fine manly boys of twelve and fourteen, on whose honest faces lurked
no resemblance to the hard features of their father. It seemed that they
followed Bartle with reluctance, but certainly with a purpose, and he
was not long in observing them. Turning round, he addressed the boys
savagely, with a “What do you want? where are you bound for, you young
rascals?”

They hesitated some time, and then Rassmie, as the oldest, replied,
“Mother told us to go after you in case you might want help or a
messenger, for she guessed you were going to look after the ship we saw
locking the land this afternoon.”

These were simple enough words, but they roused Bartle’s passion in an
instant, and, catching Rassmie by the collar, he would have flung the
poor boy to the ground, had not Hermann thrown himself on his father’s
arm, and so prevented the blow from falling On his beloved brother.
“You young scoundrels,” shouted Bartle, shaking them from him; “what do
you mean by dogging me like this, as if I were a madman who required a
keeper, or—”

“A sinner who needs a Saviour,” said the meek voice of Doya, who had come
to the spot. “Don’t be angry with me, Bartle; don’t hurt the poor boys,
they are too young and innocent to dream of what _I_ know is true, or to
suspect the real motive of your going from home at this late and stormy
hour. Oh, Bartle! it is years since I spoke to you thus—listen to me. Let
me lead you home again, or let us rouse the neighbours, that your already
red hand may be held from further crime.”

I may not repeat to you all the profane abuse with which Bartle Henderson
replied to the timid entreaties of his wife, while the boys stood by, too
terrified to move or speak. When he had exhausted his powers of swearing
(and they were not by any means limited), and had ordered his wife and
children to return to the house, Bartle took his way along the rough
beach with a rapid stride and a lowering look on his face that it was
not good to see. Doya gazed after the figure of her husband until it was
lost in the obscurity of nightfall. Her face was very pale, and sad, and
spiritless. She scarcely knew what instinct had told her to follow Bartle
and speak words which she had never ventured to address to him since the
early days of their married life, when first she came to know the dark
mystery of his means of livelihood.

The courage which had prompted her appeal had died out before his
fierce outburst of anger, and after telling the boys not to go near
their father again, the poor woman returned to her lonely dwelling. Ah!
not _all_ lonely, for little deformed Tronda was waiting there for her
mother’s return. The tiny lassie had raked the fire together and swept
the hearth, as well as her feeble hands could, and the bright face which
she lifted to Doya’s shed light, warm as sunshine, on the leaden heart
of her parent. “Mother, mother, how came you to be so forgetful as to
leave me here alone on Yule e’en, and after day set?” A sweet ringing
laugh followed Tronda’s words, and Doya caught its infection and smiled
upon the bonnie-featured, crooked-backed child, whose infirmities had
not prevented her from being (as the “one ewe lamb” always is) the most
useful and most beloved member of the family.

“Ah, bairn! I was indeed forgetful, but I have been so short a time away,
that I cannot think the fairies have had leisure left them in which to do
mischief to you.”

“Don’t be too sure, mother; I did hear a noise of something hopping about
by the churn, and may be you won’t get any butter to-morrow; and are you
_quite_ sure I am just the same as when you left me? You know this,”
touching her own twisted side, “came of my being left on Yule e’en by
myself.” Tronda spoke jestingly, of course, but her light words carried a
sad pang to the mother’s heart.

Folding her arms about the little thin figure, Doya said, whisperingly,
“If the fairies took my child that night, or if they brought this
life-trouble to her, I dare not repine, for who could be to us what
loving, patient, unselfish, sickly Tronda is?”

Tronda knew that there were serious thoughts expressed in those words of
pleasantry, so she let the Yule joke pass by, and nestling closer to the
loving bosom above her, the child asked: “Tell me how it really happened,
dear mother; I want so much to know, for although it’s all nonsense about
the fairies or trows hurting me, still—I should—like to—know.”

“How old is my little girl?” Doya answered. “Let me see, thirteen past
in September, and not so large as most bairns are at ten; but more than
thirteen, aye, more than twenty, in mind and feeling. I have never
spoken of my sorrows to any one, but I think my daughter can be my
sympathizing friend, so she shall hear it all. It was just ten years
ago, on that awful stormy Yule even, of which you have heard folks talk.
I was happy then, for your father was kind, my little ones were healthy
and beautiful, and I had never looked upon sin in its darker aspects.
My little Tronda shall know _all_ the story. On that wild Yule even I
had put you and Rassmie to bed, and was hushing Hermann on my knee, when
I was startled by hearing a succession of shrieks, which seemed borne
to my ear on the wings of an exultant storm fiend. With the baby in my
arms, I ran to the door and looked out into the mirkness—just such a
night as this,” and Doya shivered, even by the glowing fire; “a tempest
of wind, bright gleaming moonlight, and flying clouds. Again and again
that dreadful cry arose, and, forgetful of everything, I flew down the
slope and stood upon the beach. It was covered with bits of wreck—tables,
chairs, trunks, hammocks. Near these, up to his waist in the roaring sea,
I found your father. Above us, on the height, gleamed a gigantic fire
of peat, and among the surf, close beside me, floated unresistingly the
blood-stained form of a sailor—”

“Oh! mother, don’t tell me more of that. I know, I know; it is all plain
now!”

“Yes,” Doya said, in a dreamy apathetic tone; “it’s all plain; _you_ know
now what _I_ knew then. Hours afterwards I returned to the house, with
Hermann still innocently sleeping on my bosom, and I discovered that in
my absence you had waked up, and finding yourself alone, had tried to get
out of bed, and in so doing had fallen against something on the floor,
where I found you lying helpless and almost unconscious. It was not
trows—no, Tronda; on that Yule e’en it was not trows that came to injure
you—it was a fiend—your own flesh and blood!”

The poor feeble girl shrank away in meek terror from the sudden
fierceness of Doya’s words and gesture. She had never seen her gentle,
patient mother in that mood before, but it passed away, and a long
painful silence fell upon them both.

Loudly and hoarsely roared the winter gales around the cottage. Sometimes
their stormy voices rose defiantly above the boom of the breaking wave.
Sometimes they clamoured fiercely against the chafing surge, whose anger
they had awakened. Oftentimes they moaned and mourned among the heather,
or hurled the “drifting veil” of snow before their impatient pinions
deep into some dimpled valley; and you might well have deemed that evil
spirits were wandering unfettered over the world, for the sweet Christmas
heralds could not have bent their bright brows to earth in such a fearful
hour. But still, musing and silent, sat Doya Henderson and her deformed
child; and the minutes passed into hours, and both were so engrossed
with dismal thoughts and forebodings that they never seemed to miss the
presence of Rassmie and Hermann. But the same dark demon to whom power
had been given over land and sea and human heart—that same “foul fiend”
was reigning to-night as then; and again was brought to Doya’s ear the
wail of bitterest mortal agony. You might almost have thought that she
expected it, for when that awful cry rang out on the night air, Doya did
not start or look surprised, her face just paled, and she dropped on her
knees beside Tronda, whose trembling figure had sought that attitude
which instinct teaches us to adopt when we turn to God in our hours of
helplessness and woe.

“Pray, mother; pray!” cried the girl. “Pray for father; oh! let it be for
him more than all.”

Earnest, though broken, were the supplications which rose from those
grieving hearts; but their “woman’s heavenly part” was interrupted by the
hasty entrance of Rassmie and Hermann, who rushed to their mother, with
white and horror-stricken faces.

“We saw it all; oh, mother, we saw it!” they panted forth. “The peat
stack had been lighted, and the ship had come on the rocks, lured by the
false signals. She went down at once, and then—then we saw father among
the crags. Some one floated on shore; and oh, how could he? he—father!
struck at the swimming man with his knife, and there was a great cry,
and blood among the white surf. Mother, mother! what shall we do? Father
saw us beside him there; _his_ face was awful, and oh, there may come
others, for he was waiting, when we fled to you!”

Tronda had stood up when her brothers came, and as soon as their hurried
tale was told, she spoke calmly and with resolution: “We must all go
to father. It is not for us to give him to the hand of justice, but we
dare not stand still and see murder committed. Come, mother; come, boys;
father must be guided by us now,” and the small decrepit figure and
pinched puny face looked noble and beautiful when the spirit spoke so
boldly and undauntedly.

In obedience to a mind stronger than their own, the others followed
Tronda from the house—from the house, down the slope, over the stony
beach, under the moonlight, against the gale, to the scene of the
shipwreck. There they found no living thing. There were broken spars
and floating _débris_ of various kinds, and there was a helpless human
corpse, but that was all. In vain did Rassmie and Hermann search among
the crags, in the hope of finding their father concealed there. In vain
did Doya call upon his name; and at last they were obliged to believe
that fear had compelled Bartle to fly. He had felt that he was safe
from discovery while only Doya knew of his crimes, but he could not be
so certain of the boys, whose eyes had actually been on him while he
committed murder.

They all lingered on the beach for some time, but no one came from
either land or sea, and at last the storm compelled them to seek the
shelter of their home. You may believe it was a sad, sad night in that
lone dwelling, and although the gale calmed down, and the snow lay still
and fair when the daylight gleamed upon it, there was no hushing the
inward storm. A very dark picture of sin had been presented to young pure
spirits, and it was little wonder that their innocent hearts quivered and
bled before the remembrance of that dreadful scene.

Morning—Yule morning—with its merry breakfast by candlelight, frothing
bowl of “whipcull,” and sweetest of short-cakes for the rich; its
“burstin” and rarely-tasted bacon, with jolly drams of whiskey,
for the cottagers; and its fun and mystic spells, and football and
evening dance, and olden tale and Norland song for both high and low.
Morning—Yule morning—brought the discovery to all in the neighbourhood
of the disastrous shipwreck on the island. Doya and her children sat in
the house and saw the gathering crowd hurry to and fro upon the beach.
They saw when the poor sailor’s body was found wounded, as the simple
islanders supposed, by their own cruel crags; and all the day long the
wife and family of the wrecker watched and waited, but no one came to
them. The corpse was conveyed to an uninhabited dwelling close by,
and decently buried next day; and Doya fell mechanically into all her
accustomed duties. Curious people wondered what had become of Bartle, and
somehow a story got about that he had deserted his wife, because she had
taunted him with having taken her from a life of ease to one of hard and
humble work. Those who believed such a tale had surely observed little of
Doya’s meek contented acceptance of her lowlier lot; but she was quite
willing that the inquisitive neighbours should accept that solution of
Bartle’s conduct. That he had fled from his home and family she knew was
true, but the reason, ah! how different from what was supposed.

The events of that most eventful Yule e’en had worked a great change in
Rassmie and Hermann. They were sharp enough lads, and had made a pretty
shrewd guess that their father gained his livelihood by rescuing from
the deep its unlawful prey, but that he employed such criminal means for
that end they never dreamed of. The appropriation of wreck was viewed,
with smuggling, as a very light offence by the Shetlanders, who, at the
same time, would have shrunk with horror from such crimes as those which
Bartle had committed, and however little the boys might have thought of
the sin against human codes of morality, they saw in all its deepest
blackness the enormity of their parent’s offence against Divine laws.
Therefore, as I told you, these things went a great way to work a change
in the characters of the lads, adding to their hatred of sin, and taking
away much that was evil in their disposition.

[Illustration]

But time, that never flies from the happy, nor lingers with the sad,
although we often think he is cruel enough to do so; time, whose
monotonous footsteps echo along the years at the same even pace, no
matter how we smile or suffer; time went on, and marked another season on
the tablets of eternity, and, as he traced the first lines of the coming
year, he also brought back the brave old Yule. Yule came this time with
glittering frost and smiling sky, quiet waves, and scarce a breath of
wind, and Rassmie launched his fishing boat for a day’s excursion among
the cliffs. Their home was, as usual, unbrightened by festivity, so the
good lads persuaded their mother and Tronda to accompany them on the
water, and the four made a pleasant, if sober, party. Tronda had seldom
been upon the sea, and had seen very little of the sublime scenery so
near her home, therefore she easily prevailed on her brothers to row
close to the shore, that she might the better admire the varied beauty
of the crags and caves. One of the latter particularly attracted Tronda’s
girlish fancy, and at her desire the boat entered the rock-hewn hall,
whose tinted walls gave back a thousand silvery echoes of the splashing
oars. It was a vast cavern into which the boat had entered, and the
further she went the wider and more extensive seemed the boundaries
of that ocean home. Even Doya’s broken spirit seemed to share in the
enthusiasm of the young people, whose exclamations of rapture mingled
with the shrill cry of the brooding sea fowl, and the whispering of the
billows. But suddenly Tronda’s voice changed to a scream of terror, and
she pointed to a ledge of rock in one of the deepest recesses of the
cave. There lay what at first appeared to be merely a heap of ragged
clothing, but which contained too surely a human skeleton. Rassmie’s
first instinct was to turn his boat and fly from the horrible sight, but
his mother was quite above the vulgar fears of the ignorant, and, after
she had by her quiet mien and pious words reassured her children, their
skiff was gently impelled nearer to the object of their alarm. There was
nothing loathsome about those poor mortal remains; only a few whitened
bones, huddled within the folds of a seaman’s dress, and a fleshless
hand spread out upon the chilly stone. He had escaped from drowning by
the help of a little boat, whose broken bits, cast up beyond the reach
of the sea, by some unusually high tide and storm, spoke to so much of
the sad tale. On that hard bed of shelving rock the unfortunate man had
met a more dreadful death than that of the engulphing wave. Unheard,
unsuccoured, he had died of starvation. “What had we better do, mother?”
said one of the boys, after a long silence, which had been employed
by the young people in gazing upon the miserable spectacle of man’s
helpless humanity, and in gathering up the courage which had so suddenly
deserted them. Doya did not reply, and the pallor and anguish which had
fallen so suddenly upon her features gave much alarm to her children.
“Are you ill, dear mother? What is it?” they queried. When at last she
spoke, her voice trembled, and her figure shook with the force of some
inward trouble, which she evidently tried to conceal and overcome. Having
summoned all her strength of mind, she said, hurriedly—“No one must come
here, no one must know of this but you and I. Children, children, the
guardian spirit, who never forsakes its charge, has guided us here.” By
the mother’s direction, Rassmie and Hermann landed on the little strip
of sand which carpeted the further end of the cave. There they gathered
together some bits of wood belonging to the broken boat, and, clambering
up the rude walls, they deposited the spars on a ledge close to that on
which the sailor lay. Then Doya got out of the boat, telling her children
to return to the mouth of the cavern, and linger there out of sight until
she called them. They were reluctant to leave her alone in such a place,
and with such a task as they rightly guessed she had set herself to do,
but obedience was the first lesson these young people had learned, and
reverence for their mother and her wishes was the consequence of her wise
training. The oars were dipped into the quiet water, and in a few moments
Doya was alone with _it_. Ah! who but a wife would have knelt so tenderly
by that ghastly object, and wrapped it in the folds of her cloak? who
else would have laid her living lips on the bleached and bony palm, and
have recognized in those un-sepulchred bones something she had once
loved? Who but a wife, whose young affections had been altogether _his_,
would have forgotten the sin and sorrow, the neglect and unkindness of
years, and have thus cared for the poor remains of a wicked man?

Doya knelt long and prayed by her husband’s corpse, then with reverent
hands she wrapped it closer in the shroud she had taken from her own
person for that purpose, and while doing so she found among the skeleton
fingers a small pocket-book. With an eager hope she opened this message
from the departed. The sleeve of the dead man’s oil-skin coat had
protected the paper from destruction, and the words which Bartle’s dying
hand had pencilled on the leaves were easily deciphered. This is what he
had written:—

    “My wife and children, forgive me. God has done so. I am dying
    here, within a short distance of you all and home. I do not
    know how many days I have been here. It seems like ages. No
    help can come to me, and I am beyond the reach of being heard.
    I fled from your accusing eyes, and the boat carried me here.
    She was tossed like a weed on the rocks, and I have crawled up
    hither to die a harder death than any I ever dealt. It is the
    meet reward for all my crimes—that I know; but I am not alone,
    and I am forgiven. Try to think kindly of me. I have been very
    wicked, but now I am at peace, and dying. Something whispers
    you will know my fate, my children, my wife.”

Could anything have been of such infinite value to Doya as those parting
words? They washed away every trace of bitter or offended feeling, and
when she placed the precious relic in her bosom, she blotted out from its
generous heart every remembrance of Bartle, save their early love and his
Christian death.

Very slowly, very tenderly, Doya encased the withered form in the broken
bits of wood, lashing them around it by means of some fishing lines which
they had chanced to have in the boat. Very carefully she attached some
pieces of rock to the rope, and then, after one long lingering look,
and a silent, earnest prayer, she let it slide gently down into the
calm limpid ocean. The waves gave one low gurgling sigh as they opened
to receive that strangely buried thing, and Doya, kneeling on the cold
stone, strained her sight to see the very last of her husband. The clear
water hid nothing from her, and she saw him sink to rest down below the
sea. And then the tide bore a floating mass of weed, glittering brown
and crimson, to the spot, and laid it over poor Bartle, who slumbers
peacefully there in that wild cavern, cradled by the surf, and lulled
by the wind. And surf and wind say, better than sculptured stone,
that mercy endureth for ever, and He, our Father, and our Judge, is
long-suffering, and doeth all things well.

It was some time ere Doya could venture to break the awe and quiet of
that scene by summoning her children. It seemed as if she had parted from
every earthly trouble, as she knelt there alone, and pressed to her heart
the token of her husband’s repentance; as she knelt there, alone with
nature’s sublimest voices speaking to her soul; but slowly her thoughts
came back to life and earth, and at her call the boat glided into the
cave again. Then, as the boys rowed slowly homewards, Doya told them
the end of the story. They had guessed it already, but they were not
prepared for the surprise which she had in store—the reading of their
father’s parting words. That took away almost all the sorrow. Under the
moonlit sky of Yule, with Yule stars looking down like eyes of forgiving
love, and Yule zephyrs winnowing by like the rustle of angel-wings, when
they hurry to earth with Christmas messages of peace and good will,
of mercy and pardon; with Yule frost glittering upon the heath, Doya
and her children returned to their home; and when Rassmie clung to her
neck, and Hermann’s head nestled on her bosom, while Tronda’s sweet
voice whispered, “You have _us_, mother,” Doya’s sorely tried heart was
comforted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just as Cousin Cyntha concluded her story, the clock struck, and then a
strange stare of astonishment stole over every face. What the hour was it
is not necessary to state, but a general stirring among the company told
the fact that all of them were of opinion it was high time to be thinking
of returning to their homes. But while glasses were being handed round,
Old Merry took the opportunity of arresting attention; and, amid cries
of “Hurrah, bravo! A speech! Old Merry, a speech!” got upon his legs,
and after polishing his bald pate and adjusting his specs, according to
time-honoured usage, he thus delivered himself:—

    “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MY DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE,

    “Before we separate we must all pledge ourselves in lemonade,
    et cetera, and wish one another ‘A Merry Christmas and a
    Happy New Year!’ Perhaps in all the year the few merry hours
    of Christmas Eve are the brightest and happiest to the whole
    world. This night, while we have been here enjoying ourselves
    together, thousands of homes have been full of gladness and
    merriment. Boys and girls from school have been telling the
    adventures of the ‘last half;’ apprentices, home for the
    Christmas-tide, have been giving their parents and friends
    an account of their trials and joys; family circles, broken
    throughout the year by circumstances, have been united round
    the old fireside in thousands of homes; sailors on the sea
    have struggled between cheerfulness and sorrow as they have
    told their shore stories and drunk to absent friends; settlers
    in the colonies, despite the differences of time and climate,
    have been linking themselves again with the associations of
    the old country; heaven and earth have been vocal with new
    songs of praise; and the blessed Redeemer Himself, whose birth
    in this world is the source of all our joy and gladness, has
    looked down on the delights which He has created, and seeing
    the results of the travail of His soul ‘has been satisfied.’
    Well, my young friends, I am not going to preach you a sermon,
    but I do ask you to try and realize the pleasure of sharing the
    joy of the whole world. But do not forget amid the festivities
    that Christmas is the anniversary of the birthday of our Lord.
    He came to bless us and He lives to bless us. He gave to us all
    we have, and we should seek to give back to Him all we are. The
    cheerful heart, the smiling face, the happy thought, the kindly
    act, the friendly speech, are more acceptable to Him than the
    long drawn face and the sigh and the groan. His service is not
    simply that of the Sabbath-day or the appointed Church, but at
    the fireside, the play-ground, the office; in our hours of rest
    and toil and recreation, at home and at school, all through the
    life He requires, and is pleased with, our acknowledgment of
    Him. So now for all the happy hours of this happy season let
    us devoutly thank Him, and let us each determine that as He
    came this day to bless all the world, we will try to follow His
    example as far as we can.

    “Let each of you determine that some other life shall be
    happier to-morrow through your means. Join your labours to
    those of the ministering angels, and see if you cannot lighten
    some burden, and give joy to some sad heart on Christmas Day.
    The lad who sweeps the crossing, encourage him with a copper;
    your sister who has quarrelled with you, kiss her and make it
    up; that poor old woman in the garret, beg some plum pudding
    for her and send it with a twig of holly in it. Only be willing
    to do what you can, and depend upon it the opportunities will
    not be wanting. And now we must separate; I wish you all happy
    meetings and greetings on the morrow, pleasant hours for merry
    thoughts and serious thoughts—good digestions—and everything
    that can make to its full degree, A Merry, Happy, Christmas!”