"Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles' days,Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays."
At the revolution of 1688, the laureate was discrowned, as well as King James; and he condescended to revenge himself by Macflecnoe on his substitute Shadwell, as if he had not beforehand administered sufficient chastisement to that miserable Og, in the bitter satire with which he supplied Tate for the second part of Absolom and Achitophel. One might pity Shadwell under the lash of such an enemy as Dryden, if his writings either in verse or prose entitled him to a grain of respect. Charles, sixth Earl of Dorset—himself an elegant wit and indifferent versifier, but the descendant and representative of a very illustrious poet, Sackville, the first Earl, author of the noble "Induction to a Mirror for Magistrates"—vindicated his recommendation of Shadwell to the poet-laureateship, "not because he was a poet, but an honest man." We suppose he meant that he had not oscillated between Popery and Reformation like Dryden, and that he was more honest, also, in a political sense, and less liable to suspicion as an adherent of the expelled monarch's heartless daughter, and her Dutch husband, the hero of the Boyne and Glencoe. But, in another and not unimportant sense, Shadwell was far from honest; for he was notorious for the ribaldry of his conversation. It has been asserted, while that fact was admitted, that, as an author before the public, he was a promoter of morality and virtue. Nothing can be more untrue. Of his many comedies, there is none which is not as rife in pollution as any of the grossest plays of the time. But their boasted humour is physic for the bane; for it is distilled "from the dull weeds that grow by Lethe's side." His comedies are five-act farces of wearisome vulgarity, and, though suffered in their day, were destined, as Pope leniently expresses it in the Dunciad,
"Soon to that mass of nonsense to return,Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn."
In "The Royal Shepherdess," however, a play in blank verse, altered by Shadwell from Fountain of Devonshire, there are some fine lines, so far above any thing known to be Shadwell's that we readily take him at his word in his preface, where, modest for once, he invites the reader, if he finds any thing good in the play, to set it down to Mr Fountain. The following lines are a favourable specimen, notwithstanding thebreeding barrenness:—
"No more, no more must we scorn cottages;Those are the rocks from whence our jewels come.Gold breeds in barren hills; the brightest starsShine o'er the poorer regions of the north."
"No more, no more must we scorn cottages;Those are the rocks from whence our jewels come.Gold breeds in barren hills; the brightest starsShine o'er the poorer regions of the north."
Still better, where a king, in a vicious attempt upon an innocent girl, has compelled her consent to a meeting at night. The queen, apprised of the design, personates the intended victim, and appeals to his conscience with an effect that he thus describes:—
"She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,Yet never heard I any voice so loud:And though the words were gentler far than thoseThat holy priests do speak to dying saints,Yet never thunder signified so much."
"She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,Yet never heard I any voice so loud:And though the words were gentler far than thoseThat holy priests do speak to dying saints,Yet never thunder signified so much."
The songs in this piece are all by Shadwell, except, as he declares, the last but one, which is Fountain's, and the only one not below mediocrity. Shadwell had also the impudence to alter and corrupt "Timon of Athens," and to produce the farrago on the stage as an improvement on the original. In the dedication he says, "It has the inimitable hand of Shakspeare in it; yet I can truly say, I have made it into a play." This "tun of man and kilderkin of wit" was admitted to a tomb in Westminster Abbey, an honour (?) said to have been denied to the remains of a noble poet, the author of "Don Juan." Yet Shadwell had also produced a "Don Juan." His tragedy of "The Libertine," the same hero, is ten times more indecent than the most objectionable parts of Byron's poem. But it is, indeed, also less noxious, for it has not a single attractive grace of fancy or feeling. A print of Shadwell, prefixed to Tonson's edition of his works, ludicrously bears out Dryden's description of the outer man. He looks like an alehouse Bacchus, or rather like one of those carnal cherubs whom the French callanges bouffis—his cheeks bulging out as if they were stuffed with apples from the forbidden tree. He died in December 1692, and was succeeded by
Nahum Tate, the psalmodist. Every one knows what sort of poet he was, and how the harp of Israel is but a Jew's harp in the hands of Tate and Brady. Yet some passages in his second part of "Absolom and Achitophel" are not such feeble mimicries of the tone of his friend, Dryden, as might have been expected from so poor a performer. The praise of Asaph, glorious John himself, is pleasing. It concludes with these lines:—
"While bees in flowers rejoice, and flowers in dew,While stars and fountains to their course are true,While Judah's throne and Sion's rock stand fast,The song of Asaph, and the fame, shall last."
At his death in 1715, a year after the accession of George the First, the withering laurel recovered a little lustre on the brow of Nicholas Rowe, the translator of Lucan, and the pathetic dramatist of "The Fair Penitent," and "Jane Shore." His occasional verses were, of course, very respectable; and his only signal failure was when he attempted comedy. After the banter he incurred for his play of "The Biter," he was so sensible that he was the biter bit, that he excluded it from his works, and made no second venture of the kind. Yet the man who could move an audience to tears, and who had so little command of their sympathies when he tried his powers of wit on them, was any thing but a lachrymist by temperament. When Spence observed that he should have thought "the tragic Rowe too grave to write such things." Pope answered, "He! why, he would laugh all the day long! He would do nothing but laugh!" He survived the acquisition of the laurel only three years, dying at the age of forty-five.
Laurence Eusden, "a parson much bemused in beer," stumbled into his place, just in time to elaborate,singultu laborare, the Coronation Ode for George the Second. A specimen or two of his loyal suspirations may be as welcome as a hundred.
"Hail, mighty Monarch! whose desert aloneWould, without birthright, raise thee to a throne!Thy virtues shine peculiarly nice.Ungloom'd with a confinity to vice."
Lord Hervey's "Memoirs of the Court of George the Second," recently made public, are an edifying exposition of the "peculiarly nice" virtues here extolled.
"What strains shall equal to thy glories rise,First to the world, and borderer on the skies?"
The conjuror who can make out the meaning of the last line may be able to answer the question. In his joy for a George the Second, the inspired bard dries up his tears for George the First:—
"How exquisitely great! who canst inspireSuch joy that Albionmourns no more thy sire!A dull, fat, thoughtless heir unheeded springsFrom a longslothfulline ofrestivekings:But when a stem, with fruitful branches crown'd,Has flourish'd, in each various branch renown'd,His great forerunners when the last outshone,Who could a brighter hope, or even as bright a son?"
He ends with a kick at the Stuarts:
"Avaunt, degenerategrafts, or spurious breed!'Tis a George only can a George succeed."
If Charles Edward had known that, he might have saved himself a good deal of trouble.
Eusden died at his rectory in Lincolnshire in 1730. Colley Cibber wore the laurel with unblushing front for twenty-seven years from that date. His annual birth-day and new-year odes for all that time are treasured in theGentleman's Magazine. They are all so bad, that his friends pretended that he made them so on purpose. Dr Johnson, however, often asserted, from his personal knowledge of the man, that he took great pains with his lyrics, and thought them far superior to Pindar's. The Doctor was especially merry with one ultra-Pindaric flight which occurs in the Cibberian "Ode for the New-Year 1750."
"Through ages past the muse preferr'dHer high-sung hero to the skies;Yet now reversed the rapture flies,And Caesar's fame sublimes the bard.So on the towering eagle's wingThe lowly linnet soars to sing.Had her Pindar of oldKnown her Cæsar to sing,More rapid his raptures had roll'd;But never had Greece such a king!"
So proud was Cibber of that marvellous image of the linnet and eagle, that he repeated it in the "Natal Ode for 1753." In his last "New-year Ode," too, 1757, he again scolds Pindar for his sluggishness—
"Had the lyrist of oldHad our Cæsar to sing,More rapid his numbers had roll'd;But never had Greece such a king,No, never had Greece such a king!"
Those effusions are truly incomparable. Not only are they all bad, but not one of them in twenty-seven years contains a good line. Yet he was, happily for himself, more impenetrable to the gibes of the wits than a buffalo to the stings of mosquitoes. Of the numerous epigrams twanged at him, here is one from theLondon Magazinefor 1737.
"ON SEEING TOBACCO-PIPES LIT WITH ONE OF THE LAUREATE'S ODES.
"While the soft song that warbles George's praiseFrom pipe to pipe the living flame conveys,Critics who long have scorn'd must now admire,For who can say his ode now wants its fire?"
"While the soft song that warbles George's praiseFrom pipe to pipe the living flame conveys,Critics who long have scorn'd must now admire,For who can say his ode now wants its fire?"
Dr Johnson honoured him with another, equally complimentary to Cibber and his Cæsar.
"Augustus still survives in Maro's strain,And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign;Great George's acts let tuneful Colley sing,For nature form'd the poet for the king."
Yet Cibber, the hero of the Dunciad, was not a dunce, except in his attempts at verse; even Pope, who calls him "apertandlivelydunce," epithets rather incongruous, admits the merit of his "Careless Husband." His Apology for his own Life, too, is no mean performance; some passages in it are both judicious and eloquent, particularly his criticisms on Nokes and Betterton, and on acting in general. Though the most wretched of poetasters, he was an abler prose writer than half of his critics.
At his death, the laureateship was offered to Gray, with an exemption from the duty of furnishing annual odes, but he refused the office, as having been degraded by Cibber. It was then given, on the usual terms, to William Whitehead, who won even the approbation of Gray for the felicity with which he occasionally performed his task. What now appears most noticeable in Whitehead's odes is his prolonged and ludicrous perplexity about the American war. At the first outbreak he is the indignant and scornful patriot, confident in the power of the mother country, and threatening the rebels with condign punishment.As they grow more and more obstinate, he becomes the pathetic remonstrant with those unnatural children, and coaxes them to be good boys. When any news of success to the British arms has arrived, he mounts the high horse again, and gives the Yankees hard words, but not without magnanimous hints that the gates of mercy are not quite closed to repentance. Reverses come, and he consoles the king. Matters grow worse, and he is at his wit's-end. At last the struggle is over; he accommodates himself to the unpleasant necessity of the case, and sings the blessings of peace and concord.
Laureate odes, good or bad, are always fair game for squibs. Whitehead had his share of ridicule, but he had more courage than Gray, who was so painfully afflicted by the parodies of Lloyd and Coleman, that he almost resolved to forswear poetry. Whitehead retorted on his assailants with easy good-humour, in "An Apology for all Laureates, past, present, and to come," beginning,
"Ye silly dogs, whose half-year laysAttend, like satellites, on Bays,And still with added lumber loadEach birth-day and each new-year ode,Why will ye strive to be severe?In pity to yourselves forbear;Nor let the sneering public seeWhat numbers write far worse than he."
and ending,
"To Laureates is no pity due,Encumber'd with a thousand clogs?I'm very sure they pity you,Ye silliest of silly dogs."
The next laureate, Thomas Warton, the historian of English poetry, is too well known and appreciated to require any lengthened notice here. In 1747 and 1748 he held the appointment oflaureatedpoet, to which he was inaugurated, according to the ancient custom, in the common-room of Trinity College, Oxford. His duty was to celebrate a lady chosen as lady patroness, and Warton performed his task crowned with a wreath of laurel. In 1757, he was elected professor of poetry, as his father had formerly been in the same university. On the demise of Whitehead in 1785, the laureateship was conferred on him by command of George the Third. He was quizzed as his predecessor had been, and, like him, laughed at the jesters; and he gradually turned their scoffs to approbation by his equanimity and the merit of his performances. Warton had not only the wit to be diverted by probationary odes in mockery of his own, which he valued at less than they were worth, but he had temper to endure the malignant scurrility of Ritson, in reference to more important labours, with no severer remark than that he was ablack-lettered dog. A portion of his later days was devoted to a labour of love—an edition of the juvenile poems of Milton, with copious notes. Though of sedentary college habits, and a free liver, he enjoyed vigorous health to the age of 62: he then broke down. He went to Bath with the gout, and returned, as he thought, in an improved condition. The evening of May 20, 1790, he passed cheerfully in the common-room, but, before midnight, he was stricken with paralysis, and the next day he was a corpse.
Henry James Pye, who was of a family of which the founder is stated to have come to England with the Conqueror, was likewise representative, by the female line, of the patriot Hampden. In 1784, he was returned to parliament as member for Berkshire. But the expense of the contest ruined him, and he was obliged to sell his estate; and even the slender salary of a laureate was not unacceptable when it fell in his way. Besides his official odes, he produced numerous works, epic, dramatic, and lyric, and also published several translations, and a corrected edition of Francis's Horace. The reader will be content if we pass all these with the remark that he was a respectable writer, a good London police-magistrate, and an honourable gentleman in a less equivocal sense than the parliamentary style. As factor of annual odes for the court, he was, of course, scurvily used by the wags. The joke on "Pindar, Pye, et parvus Pybus," was once in every body's mouth. He died in 1813, and was succeeded by
Robert Southey, who held the office for thirty years; and this prolonged tenure of it, still longer than Cibber's, by a man of unimpeachable worth and distinguished genius, is a happy set-offagainst the disgrace which frightened Gray, and made him refuse it. The concession proposed to Gray, that he should write only when and what he chose, was also virtually, though not formally, yielded to Southey. "The performance of the annual odes," he says, "had been suspended from the time of George the Third's illness in 1810, and fell completely into disuse. Thus terminated a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance." How is it that we have yet no biography of Southey? It is rumoured that his only surviving son, the Reverend Cuthbert Southey, has one in preparation. We hope that the report is true, and that it will contain abundance of his father's delightful letters, and be published soon.Bis dat qui cito dat,—that is, not that a book should be got up in a hurry, but that, after a delay of five years, the reasonable expectation of Robert Southey's admirers and regretters should be now promptly gratified.
We began with the earliest of laureates and the latest,—Apollo and the venerable Wordsworth,—and with them we will conclude. In a snug nook, sheltered from the north and east winds by Helvellyn, and Fairfield, Wordsworth has for many years cultivated his own laurels with success, till he is absolutely imbowered in them. The original slip, from which all this throng of greenery has sprung, is said to have been a cutting from a scion of the bay-tree planted by Petrarch at the tomb of Virgil, which tree was unquestionably derived from the undying root of that which supplied leaves for the garland of Apollo, and assuaged the divinity of his brow, when, as we reminded the reader at our outset on this ramble, he hired himself as poet-laureate to King Admetus, on a daily stipend of a hornful of milk.
The King of Sweden, Charles X., lay with his army before Copenhagen. His generals, the young Prince of Sulzbach and Count Steenbock, besieged the city, and his troops showed themselves worthy sons of the famous Thirty Years' War. The system of cruelty and extortion that had characterised their Polish and German campaigns was renewed in Denmark, and with the greater fierceness that national antipathy served at once as pretext and stimulus to the soldier's lust of blood and plunder. And thus was it that upon the island of Funen scenes were enacted, whose frightful record, handed down by history, now appears scarcely credible. Men and women, priests and laymen, old and young, the humble and the illustrious, were subjected to the grossest ill-treatment, either to extort money, or as punishment for not possessing it. Amongst the Danes themselves mutual fear and mistrust existed; for individuals were not wanting who, through fear, or in hope of profit, played openly or secretly into the hands of the enemy. And, to add to the desolation the Swedes brought with them, the inhabitants had scarcely yet recovered the ravages of a pestilence, which had disappeared from their shores but a few years previously. Whether it was the king's absence from the island, or a notion in the Swedes' mind that they would soon have to leave the country, which rendered the soldiery so unbridled in their excesses, certain it is, that the scourge of war made itself more severely felt than ever towards the end of the year 1659. The doubtful sort of succour afforded by the Dutch fleet was chiefly confined to Zealand, and it was small consolation to the people of Funen to see the proud ships of the rich republic cruising in the Belt and Cattegat. The scanty intelligence from the capital, which in summer some bold boatman occasionally brought over, was not always to be relied upon, seldom or never satisfactory, and ceased altogether whenwinter came, and dark and stormy nights rendered the navigation between the islands impracticable for small craft.
At a moderate distance from the town of Nyeborg, on the east coast of Funen, stands the village of Vinding, one of whose richest inhabitants, at the time of the Swedish occupation, was a certain Thor Hansen. He had a son, called, of course, Hans Thorsen—for in that country the names of the peasants are like a pair of gloves, which, when turned inside out, change their places, so that the right becomes the left and the left the right; and with this transposition names are handed down from generation to generation, never becoming out of fashion. In Thor Hansen's house dwelt a young girl, a distant relative of his own; and although Christina's sole dowry was her pretty cherry-cheeked countenance, and her comely healthy person, he had preferred her to all others for his daughter-in-law. Many might marvel at such a choice, especially those who know that the Danish peasant is at least as proud of his hide of land and nook of garden as the noble of his wide estates, or the wealthy merchant of his well-stored warehouses, and that marriages, unsuitable in a pecuniary point of view, are as rare in that country as in any other in the world. But on this head Thor Hansen thought differently from his fellows. He saw that Christina was a smart active girl, who, young though she was, had kept his house after his wife's death with all care and industry, had milked his cows, cooked his oatmeal, and spun his flax. As to the son Hans, of nothing in the world was he more desirous than to get Christina for his wife; and Christina, when father and son opened their minds to her, could scarcely answer for joy. Thus all were agreed, and the old man already thought of making over his land to his son, and of settling down to pass the rest of his days in peace and the chimney corner. The wedding-day was fixed, the fish and saffron for the soup were purchased, when suddenly the Swede arrived. This unexpected and unwelcome intrusion disturbed the plans of many. With lamentation throughout the land, few thought of joy and merry-making; and a wedding, essentially the most joyous of festivals, would have been out of keeping with the universal misery. Partly influenced by a feeling of this kind, and partly by other circumstances, old Thor Hansen resolved to postpone the projected marriage, and the young people silently acquiesced.
Amidst the general misery and suffering, Thor Hansen might be considered highly favoured, as compared with many others. For sergeant Jon Svartberg, of the first regiment of Finland horse, who had quartered himself upon the best house in the village, namely, upon that of Hansen, was milder-mannered and of gentler heart than the majority of his brethren in arms. Not but that he did honour to his military schooling in Germany and Poland, and resembled a bear far oftener than a lamb: he required much, and exacted it rigorously; but still there was a limit to his demands, and when these were complied with, the persons he was quartered upon had not to fear the wanton torments and ill treatment which drive the oppressed to despair. The smart young sergeant certainly deemed himself the first person in the house, and expected to be treated as such; but, that conceded, he asked no more. He stood up for what he considered his rights, and no one must infringe upon them. One quality he had, which perhaps contributed to soften and humanise his nature—he was a devoted admirer of the gentler sex. Nor was he deficient in the qualities that frequently find favour with women. A handsome well-grown fellow with golden hair, and a fresh complexion, somewhat weathered by campaigns; his lofty leathern helmet, his blue facings and broad yellow bandelier, with brightly burnished buckles, his tall boots and jingling spurs, became him well; in manner he was frank and joyous, and when he laughed, which was often and loud, a row of ivory teeth showed themselves beneath his light brown beard, and his blue eyes had a bold and amorous sparkle. Confident in these various recommendations, which had perhaps already, in other countries, procured him the favour of the fair, Svartberg cherished the notion of hisinvincibility, and flattered himself he had but to appear to overcome all rivals and conquer all hearts. That he had completely gained that of Christina, and that it was ready at any moment to beat the chamade and surrender at discretion, he did not for an instant doubt. To say nothing of his personal recommendations, he had never, during the whole time he had been master in Thor Hansen's house, seen the least sign of a rival. This arose from the circumstance that Hans and Christina had kept their engagement a secret from the soldier, as if some instinct or internal voice had told them that his acquaintance with it might prove for them the source of great vexation and suffering. To maintain the disguise, however, was no easy or pleasant task. Many consider it a very hard case when two lovers are prevented seeing each other as often as they wish but how much more painful must it be to have to feign coldness in presence of a third person, and on his account? The young people felt that the innocent familiarities of betrothed lovers would have been highly displeasing to the enamoured Swede,—and deeply enamoured he was, as none, having eyes, could fail to see. So Hans and Christina were fain to be on their guard, except at such hours as the sergeant was on duty, or when they worked together in farm or garden. When Svartberg was at home, he was continually after Christina—paying her compliments, cutting jokes, taking her by the chin, catching her round the waist and making her waltz round the room, stealing her slippers as she sat spinning, and playing other witty pranks of a similar kind.
It was a November evening, and for those acquainted with that season in the island of Funen, it is unnecessary to say that the night was a rough one. The gale drove black masses of clouds across the sky, and roared and whistled through the small thicket, composed of a score of venerable oak trees mingled with hazel bushes, that grew at a short distance from Thor Hansen's little garden. At that time there was still a great deal of oak and beach timber in the neighbourhood of Nyeborg, of which now scarce a vestige remains; and this small group of trees, bounded on the north by a rivulet, lay within the limits of the old man's farm. Although the night was dreary and cheerless out of doors, it was warm and snug in Thor Hansen's cottage. Thor himself sat on one side the huge fireplace, comfortably sunk in an old cushioned chair; opposite to him Christina had taken her station, and was busy with her distaff. Between them hung a large four-cornered iron lantern; and upon the end of a bench Hans had seated himself, in such a position that he could conveniently throw his arm round the young girl's waist. Moreover, his cheek rested upon her shoulder, and in this agreeable attitude he kept up an incessant whispering, only interrupting the stream of his volubility to snatch an occasional kiss from her ruddy cheek.
"But how know you all that, Hans?" said the maiden, who for some time had listened with deep attention to her lover's words. "Who told you?"
"Not so loud, darling!" replied Hans; "I do not want the old man to hear it yet: the thing is uncertain, and the result still more so. My father becomes each day more anxious, so that I am almost uneasy lest in his terror he should himself throw you into the arms of the accursed Swede, if things looked dangerous."
"TheaccursedSwede?" repeated Christina; "he deserves not the word at your hands. Hehasdone us much service, and no harm. When I think of my uncle's two poor girls, and of the many others who have shared their lot, I deem myself most lucky, and so should you, that our roof covers so gentle a foe."
"Certainly," replied Hans. "God knows, I do think myself lucky, and wish Svartberg no manner of harm in the main, but, on the contrary, every thing that is good, save and except yourself. But listen further. I fell in this afternoon with a couple of peasants from the plain; they had stopped at the public-house to bait, and had been doing work for Count Steenbock. Whilst the dragoons, whom they accompanied with their carts, sat and drank in the tavern, I got into discourse with these two men.I had noticed them whispering together, and looking carefully about them, and felt sure there was something up,—something they knew of, and which the Swede did not. I questioned the oldest of them, and at last he told me that the rumour of powerful and speedy succour was abroad in the country: he had his information more particularly from Martin Thy; he had seen him not far from the Odensee, standing at a forge, and bargaining with Swedish officers about a horse."
"Martin Thy, say you?" cried Christina; "he is sick in bed."
"Never mind that, darling! You don't know Martin; he can be sick and well at the same time, just as he pleases. At this moment his health is as good as yours; and if this red cheek does not lie, you are as fresh as a fish. Or have my kisses made your cheek so red? Come, let me kiss the other."
"Nonsense, Hans! be quiet; the old man hears you," whispered Christina, warding off with her arm the threatened salutation.
"What is that about Martin Thy?" inquired Thor Hansen from beyond the fire. Without waiting an answer to his question, he sat up in his chair, and anxiously listened. "What is that?" he said. "Who comes at this hour of night? Svartberg it cannot be; his guard is not yet over. Run out, Hans, and see who it is."
The son left the room, and in the moment of silence that ensued the yard-dog barked loudly, and the tramp and neigh of a horse were heard. After brief delay, Hans re-entered the apartment, accompanied by another man.
"Yes, yes, Hans," said the stranger; "you are a very good lad, but that is a matter I understand better than you do. Black Captain is as good a beast as a horseman need wish to cross."
"May be," replied Hans; "but at present he is lame, if not hip-shot."
"Thank ye, friend," replied the stranger, warmly. "I expect you are a judge. A trifle weary and footsore he may be. He has had a heavy day's work, and drags a little with one leg. But no matter. The peace of God and a good evening to this house," continued he, turning to Thor Hansen and taking his hand. "Dog's-weather this," he added, as he knocked the water from his broad-brimmed round hat till it streamed over the floor, and passed both hands over his thick eyebrows and black bushy hair. "I am wet to the very skin, and as stiff and weary as an old plough-horse that can no longer follow the furrow. With your permission!"—and so saying, he seated himself by the table, on the end of the wooden bench. He was a little, broad-shouldered man, with an unusual quantity of long hair upon his head, and with small lively black eyes, shaded by projecting brows. He wore a peasant's jerkin of coarse brown woollen stuff, and carried his whip, the end of whose lash was tied to the handle, slung across his broad back, as a fowler carries his gun.
"Whence so late, Martin Thy?" quoth Thor Hansen, with a curious glance at the new-comer.
"Direct from Middelfahrt," replied the horse-dealer in a suppressed voice. "I would speak with Sergeant Svartberg before I go to bed, and therefore have I ridden straight up here. The worshipful sergeant is doubtless at home?" he added, but with an expression of countenance as if he wished the contrary. On receiving the assurance that Svartberg was out, and not expected back for two or three hours, Martin Thy peeped cautiously into the best bed-chamber, which the Swede occupied, then into the kitchen and court; and having at last fully satisfied himself that the person he inquired about was really absent, he pulled his whip over his head, and threw it violently down upon the floor.
"I may speak then, and tell you the news," he said, thrusting both hands into the breast of his doublet, and standing, with his short, strong legs apart, colossus-fashion, in the middle of the floor. "I went to Middelfahrt in a lucky hour. Every face was joyful, and every mouth full of reports of a great and immediate succour, with which we should drive the Swedes out of the country; and on this side the Odensee I heard the Swedes themselves talk of it. For my part I have not a doubt about the matter,and my information is of the best. I was up there, bargaining with the Swedish Rittmeister Kron for his gray mare, and doctoring one of his troop-horses which had broken its fore-foot, and I heard the gossip of the grooms and soldiers, and all manner of curious stories."
"Of course," said Thor Hansen, shaking his head incredulously; "if lies were Latin, I too might turn preacher."
The horse-jockey looked Hansen hard in the face, whilst the young people exchanged signs of intelligence.
"I tell you what it is, neighbour," continued Thy; "I am a tolerably well-broken nag, and can keep a straight road of my own. There's no shying or stumbling in me—I go a steady even trot, and aint vicious, so you may take my word when I give it. Yes," added he, slowly and significantly, and with a glance at Christina, "it might well happen that others besides yourself found cause to repent your mistrust."
At these words the old man grew thoughtful, and listened attentively.
"Have you not heard of the many pretty country lasses made to serve this year at Raskenbjerg, when young Count Magnus lay there in quarters? Know ye not how it fared there with your own wife's nieces? If you fancy they left the place as they went to it, you are mightily mistaken. The Swede does not handle such wares so tenderly. Count Magnus has his spies every where—he well knows whom to choose for such work; your house may have its turn. The girl has a comely face and a white neck, a smart walk and a bright eye, and those are hard to hide at this time, and in this island."
"Nonsense!" said Thor Hansen. "More noise than mischief. And who would do us so ill a turn?"
"I name no names," replied the horse-dealer. "You know him as well as I do. But I have a means of protecting you and Christina from him, and all other blood-hounds of his breed. If you are wise you will avail yourself of it. Give her me to wife. And when any look after her, tell them she is Martin Thy's betrothed, and you will soon see the difference! What boots it that I wear silver buttons on my doublet, and may soon wear gold ones? what avails it that I own fields and garden, cows and horses, if I have not a nice young wife to share my prosperity? She will be well cared for, and as comfortable as if she lay in Abraham's bosom."
"He is old enough, certainly," muttered Hans with a smile.
"Hans, my boy, just run out and give Black Captain a handful of hay, will you? Go, my son, go." Hans obeyed, and Martin continued, "I have only this to tell you; beware of the sergeant! Trust him not! Svartberg means the maiden no good. Do not ask how I know it, but the fact is certain. Do as you like, however. If you have courage to risk it, you are right to do so."
"Ay, but what would poor Hans say?" quoth the old man musingly.
"Hans!" cried the horse-dealer, much surprised; "I thought it was all off, long ago, between Hans and Christina. They never whinny after each other, and she seems ready to lash out whenever he comes near her." He paused for a minute, and then drew Thor Hansen aside, and spoke to him in an under tone. "It is only for appearance sake," said he; "you don't suppose I am serious? A rusty old roadster like myself would never suit to run in harness with so frisky a filly. What say you, my child? Will you not for a while make believe to be Martin Thy's sweetheart?"
"Have done with such nonsense," said the young girl, repulsing the jockey's advances. He ran round the room after her, caught, and would have kissed her, but she slipped through his hands like an eel, and made for the kitchen. Just then the door opened, and Sergeant Svartberg, who had entered the court unheard, strode into the room, his heavy steel spurs jingling at every step. The sort of scuffle between the young girl and the horse-dealer attracted his notice.
"What's up now, in the devil's name?" he cried, taking off his heavy helmet.
"Nothing, sergeant," replied Martin Thy, in no way disconcerted."A very small matter, at least. I wanted to steal the first kiss from my bride that is to be, and she would not allow it."
"Your bride, fat-paunch!" cried Svartberg in extreme wonderment; "what the devil is all this? This will never do. Harkye, old currycomb, no one has a right to take any thing here, not so much as a kiss, without my leave. D'ye hear that?"
"Gently, gently," retorted Martin Thy in a jesting tone; "I am certainly a mere David in comparison with such a Goliath as you, but I am more active than I look—can jump higher than any one would think—high enough, perhaps, to catch you by the flaxen curls upon your forehead, if you meddle with the best horse in my stable. But you can take a joke, sergeant dear?" concluded he, with a sly side-glance at the Swede.
"No, no, jockey, not I indeed,—you are a deal too cunning for me,—one never finds you where one leaves you. When I sent for you the other day for my horse, they said you were sick, but it seems you were on the road. Where have you been?"
"Westward," replied the horse-dealer quietly, "on my own honest business. I came home this evening, and the first person I cared to see was my little girl here—besides that, I have a word or two to say to the worshipful sergeant."
"To me? Come then, and be quick about it, and have a care that my sabre does not take a fancy to speak a word or two to your shoulders." And with this uncivil warning, Svartberg took the little man by the collar, and pushed him before him into the adjoining room.
Thor Hansen and the young people had listened in silence to this short and sharp dialogue. Out of prudence they abstained from interrupting the horse-dealer, although his bold assertions were not very pleasing to them. Now they stood embarrassed and attentive, trying to catch something of what passed in the next apartment,—but without success, for the Swede and his companion spoke in low tones and in short broken sentences. In a short time the two men returned to the sitting-room, the horse-dealer's countenance wearing its usual sly quick expression; the tall sergeant with less decision in his gait, and with a mixture of vexation and mistrust upon his features. When Martin Thy took his leave and departed, he followed him with a sort of constrained courtesy as far as the courtyard, and did not re-enter the house till the horse's hoofs were heard trotting along the narrow road.
Meanwhile the father and son had gone out to fodder the cattle. With folded arms Svartberg walked for a while up and down the room. On a sudden he stopped short in front of Christina, who sat spinning, as usual, and gazed at her long and tenderly. At last he broke silence.
"Fye upon you, my pretty Christina!" he said; "you surely do not seriously mean to throw yourself away on yon black-bearded monster?"
"You must not take for earnest all Martin Thy says," replied the maiden, blushing; "you know what a strange creature he is."
"Oh certainly," replied the soldier in a sharper tone, "I know devilish well what he is, and I also know what I am myself. Better I certainly might be; but you, Christina, your father and all belonging to you, know well that I am none of the worst."
"That we do, Svartberg,—you have been a help and protection so long as you have dwelt in our house; and, without you, Heaven knows how it might have fared with us."
"Once for all, then, Christina, tell me how I stand with you; for curse me if I can make out. You know I love you,—I have never concealed it, and I did think you looked kindly upon me; but here comes this pot-bellied horse-dealer, and says you are to marry him! Tell me honestly, is it true?"
Whilst the young girl, with natural bashfulness, hesitated to reply to this home-question, the sergeant seated himself by her side, and, in his softest tones and sweetest words, told her how ardently he loved her. He strove to rouse her gratitude by reminding her of the beneficial influence of his presence in the house, how he had defended and saved her and hers from the plunder and ill-treatment they would otherwise inevitably have suffered.In glowing colours he depicted the happy and prosperous life they would lead together, if she would follow him to Sweden when his term of service expired. He had a farm in Dalecarlia, he said, and she should be his wife and its mistress. Then he drew from his finger a broad gold ring, with his name upon it, and endeavoured, but in vain, to prevail upon her to accept it. And many times he asked, with mournful earnestness, if what Master Thy had told him were true; betraying in his manner, each time he mentioned the name of this man, previously so indifferent to him, an unusual reserve and circumspection. At last, as Christina, although with eyes full of tears, still persisted in her silence, he rose from his seat.
"I have opened my whole heart to you, Christina," said he, "and I have too good an opinion of you to suppose for an instant you would, without compulsion, prefer that little punchy hedgehog of a Jutlander to a gallant Swede and smart soldier like myself. Perhaps you are afraid of your father? or of your dwarf of a bridegroom? If so, I promise you efficient protection. I have at Raskenbjerg"—here the young girl looked up from her work with a terrified glance,—"a good comrade, who has married a country-woman of yours. With your consent, I will conduct you thither, and there you shall remain, in all safety, until we leave the country;—and that will not be long," added he, sinking his voice, and with a cautious glance around him.
The mere name of Raskenbjerg had upon Christina an effect of which Svartberg never dreamed. She thought with a shudder of the tales she had often heard related, and to which the horse-dealer had so recently referred. She remembered the blunt cordiality with which Martin Thy had promised her protection, and suspected Svartberg of evil designs, which he proposed carrying out by craft rather than by violence. Full of this idea, she told the sergeant plainly that she really was betrothed to Martin Thy, entreated him to show himself as generous in this matter as he had always previously been, and declared firmly and positively she would adhere to her promise. She ventured even to tell him, he must have a very poor opinion of her if he thought to lead her astray by honeyed words and fine manners. All this she said to the young Swede in plain language, and in tones earnest, although gentle; and the whole expression of her countenance and manner gave evidence of so much strength of will that Svartberg, after having once or twice more passionately conjured her to tell him the truth about Martin Thy—betraying, each time he mentioned the name, the same kind of confused manner as before—grasped helm and sabre, and with an exclamation of disappointment and vexation, hurried into his apartment.
It had rained and blown the entire night, the sky was gray and dreary, the first glimpse of dawn scarce appeared in the east. Christina had milked the cows, but still she lingered in the stable awaiting her lover. Her heart was very heavy; the peace and safety in which the family had hitherto lived seemed suddenly to have fled, and that she should be the innocent cause of its departure forced many a sigh from her gentle bosom. She had not waited long when there was a cautious tap at the back-door leading into the field; she opened it quickly, and Hans entered. Christina threw her arms round his neck.
"At last, dear Hans!" said she tenderly: "how anxiously I have waited for you!"
"I come from the horse-dealer's," replied Hans, breathing short, like one who had made speed. "He was in bed and fast asleep, and was almost angry with me for awaking him. He told me, however, that he had heard, God knows from whom, that Danish troops had attempted a night-landing near Nyeborg, but had been prevented by the storm, and had sailed northwards. He pretends also that Danish and German reinforcements are off the west coast of the island. With respect to you, and the proposal he made last night, he maintains it is the only safe means of escaping Svartberg's designs. Whether the offer was serious or sham, he would not distinctly say: it was no business of mine, he said; it might be joke, or it might be earnest. And when I solemnly swore to him that I wouldendure neither the one nor the other, he laughed at me, and bid me go home and let him go to sleep. As I stole through the village, the trumpeters blew the alarm, and the troopers began to mount. So we are not safe here; the sergeant may surprise us at any moment."
And having concluded his parting narrative, Hans prepared to quit his mistress for the day. So engrossed were the young people by a long farewell kiss, that they were unaware of the entrance of sergeant Svartberg, till he had gazed at them for some seconds in a state of seeming petrifaction.
"Hell and the devil!" was the profane exclamation of the gallant sergeant, on recovering his powers of speech. "Pretty work this, by my honour! So so, my coy beauty," continued he, his lips trembling, his cheeks pale, his eyes ominously flashing, and with bitter irony in his voice, "is it the custom in this country to marry two husbands, one young and the other old? Now I know the meaning of your shyness, and what your intentions are; oh! I see through the whole conspiracy. But wait a bit, I'll pay you all off. Hallo! Olof and Peter!" cried he to two dragoons in the stable-yard, "dismount, and tie this younker upon the ammunition-waggon you have to take to Nyeborg."
Whilst the bearded horsemen got out of their saddles to obey their sergeant's commands, the latter turned once more to the trembling Christina.
"So this was your game, my charmer!" said he scornfully. "Have you already forgotten what you told me last evening, when you had me sighing like an old woman? I never felt so soft in my life, not since my mother first laid me in the cradle, with a pap-spoon in my mouth. Ha! it shall be the last time I waste fair words when force will gain my end. No, no!" he shouted, as Christina, with tearful eyes and speechless with grief, extended her clasped hands in supplication, "you won't get him off, I can tell you, not if you were an angel from heaven. Why don't you intercede for your other lover, the old one? No, no, neither mercy nor pardon."
"Ah! sergeant, be not so cruel; let the lad go," exclaimed a voice behind Svartberg. "Surely you are not going to turn restive! You kick out a little, but I am certain a mouthful of hay will pacify you. Come, a word with you!"
The horse-dealer, for he it was, took the angry Swede by the bandelier, and Svartberg followed him, although with manifest unwillingness, to the further side of the court. Here Martin Thy deliberately unbuttoned his brown doublet and three or four waistcoats, produced, from the inmost recesses of his attire, a small greasy leather book, and thence extracted a scrap of parchment. This he placed before the eyes of the sergeant, following the lines with his finger as Svartberg read, and pausing now and then at particular words, as if they were talismanic characters, intended to allay the soldier's irritation. This, whatever they were, they appeared to do. More calmly, but with a harsh and sullen expression of countenance, and like a man yielding with an ill grace to a power he dares not resist, Svartberg approached Hans Thorsen, who stood in gloomy silence between the two dragoons.
"Let the fellow go," he cried, "and to horse! You tell me we shall not come back, Thy. I neither know nor care how you learned it, but remember I make you responsible for both of them. If I do return, I will claim both her and him at your hands, and God help you if they are not forthcoming."
He spoke thus whilst tightening his horse's girths, and when he turned his head the horse-dealer had already disappeared. With a muttered oath, Svartberg sprang into the saddle, and, without bestowing another glance upon the young people, galloped out of the court, quite forgetting to bequeath Christina one of those graceful salutations with which it was his wont to bid her adieu.
Field-marshal Shack had landed his troops without accident at Kjerteminde, and Lieutenant-general Eberstein, with equal good fortune, had got his little army on shore at Middelfahrt. The young prince of Sulzbach at first advanced against the latter general; but then, afraid of being cut off and surrounded by the former, he changed his plan, and drew back hiswhole forces to a stronger position at Nyeborg. The entire Swedish army lay either in this town, or encamped in its front; their previous quarters were vacant. Consequently, in the village of Vinding all was still and quiet as in the grave. It was evening. Thor Hansen and his son had betaken themselves to the tavern, where a great number of peasants, retainers of the lord of the soil, travellers, and others, were assembled, discussing the latest news. These seemed important, judging from the noise and excitement that prevailed: all spoke at once, none listened, and, as if all danger were now over, none troubled their heads about what passed out of doors. But in the little room at Thor Hansen's house, Christina sat at work, full of melancholy thoughts. She certainly understood little about the march of events and prospects of the country, but love and sorrow had so far quickened her perceptions of political matters, that she foresaw much evil to herself and Hans if the Swedes got the upper hand. Another of her subjects of meditation was the strange influence the horse-dealer exercised over Svartberg. Upon what was it founded? Would it last? And, even if it did, and she was thereby delivered from the sergeant's importunities, might not Martin Thy press his own claims—claims which her own and her father's consent, admitted to Svartberg, and whereon was based the protection they enjoyed, rendered in some sort valid? These, and similar reflections, always ending in fears for Hans, drew bitter tears from her eyes, and so absorbed her mind that she was as unconscious as the noisy party at the tavern of what occurred without. Suddenly the latch was lifted, the house-door gently opened, and Svartberg stood before her.
"You weep, dearest!" he said, as he slowly approached the table beside which Christina sat, whilst an expression of mingled irony and grief passed across his martial features; "do those precious tears flow, perchance, for me? By the cross! how pale and moist are those pretty cheeks."
"What would you, sergeant?" said the maiden, recovering from her first surprise, and in accents of deep affliction. "Do you come to renew your recent cruelty, or to atone for it?"
"What I would?" replied the sergeant. "You know, Christina, that my heart is not a hard one, but quite the contrary, soft as can be, and you it is, my angel, who have made it so. Frankly and plainly, however, do I tell you, that without you it will harden again, ay, as marble. Without you I cannot live: you must away with me on the instant!"
"Alas, Svartberg, have I not already told you I am betrothed to Martin Thy!" cried the alarmed maiden anxiously.
"Pshaw!" cried Svartberg, "you do not expect me to swallow that fable? All lie and deception, as sure as there is a God in heaven. I have long seen through the old fox, but now I know him, and he shall not stand long in any body's way. As to any harm he may have told you of me, the knave lies in his throat."
"Svartberg!" exclaimed Christina, terrified at the increasing vehemence of the Swede's tone and manner, "you have power——"
"Ha!" interrupted the soldier, "that have I, and know how to use it. Christina, I cannot exist without you—by the living God I cannot! and though you were betrothed to Sweden's king, to me you must belong—mine you shall be! I have here," he continued, in a hurried and passionate whisper, "two comrades, and a cart to convey you to Nyeborg. I shall soon have served my time, and then will I take you home to my old mother in Dalecarlia, and there you shall live like a queen, or my name is not Jon Svartberg! Come! every moment is precious!"
The stalwart sergeant seized the fainting girl by the waist, raised her in his arms, regardless of her feeble struggles, and hurried to the door. Just then a loud uproar arose outside the house. Svartberg started, laid Christina in an arm-chair, and listened. The noise increased; shouts and cries, and two pistol-shots, reached his ear; and then Hans Thorsen and Martin Thy, followed by a legion of rustics armed with axes and hay-forks, poured into the room through both its doors. Surprised, but no way disconcerted, by their sudden appearanceand menacing mien, the sergeant, with a military eye for a good position, retreated into a corner, where the oak table served him as barricade, and laid hand upon a pistol in his belt. Either on account of the great odds against him, or through fear of injuring Christina, or because consciousness of evil-doing robbed him of his usual decision, he did not use the weapon, however, but preferred flight to a contest whose issue could hardly have been advantageous to him. Springing actively upon the long bench below the window, and still keeping his face to the enemy, he set his heavily-booted leg against the casement, which gave way, and fell with a clatter and jingling into the garden. Then, with his favourite exclamation, "Ha! in the devil's name!" he swung himself, light as a bird, through the opening. A peasant, on sentry below, essayed to seize him, but was prostrated by a blow that might have felled an ox; and the fugitive sped through the garden, his accoutrements rattling as he ran, and indicating the direction he took. All this while the peasants were not idle: some followed him through the window, others through the door; and as it was nearly full moon and the sky tolerably clear, the foremost distinctly saw him run across the meadow, and disappear amongst the oaks. With all speed they surrounded the little thicket; some lining the banks of the stream bounding it to the north, whilst others made diligent search amongst the trees and brushwood. Far and near their voices were heard, shouting to each other encouragement and inquiries. "Have you got him? Is he there? He has not crossed the stream. Look out, lads! Cut him down, wherever you find him!" And cut down the Swede undoubtedly would have been, had he been found; but to find him was the great difficulty. Not a bush large enough to shelter a rabbit but was beaten by the peasants, furious at the disappointment of their revenge on one of the detested tyrants who so long had oppressed them. Even the branches of the trees, although stripped of their leaves by the chill autumn wind so as scarcely to afford concealment, did not escape examination. But all was in vain. It seemed as though the earth had swallowed the missing man. He had disappeared and left no trace. When at last convinced of this, the boors gazed at each other in astonishment and vexation, not unmingled with dismay. The devil—so some of them muttered—had helped his own. At last Hans Thorsen, convinced of the inutility of further research, prevailed on a few of the most resolute to keep guard round the wood, and returned home to look for his father and comfort his mistress.
Although Sergeant Svartberg had never implicitly believed Martin Thy's story of his intended marriage with Christina, the horse-dealer had found means to inspire him with a certain respect, which prevented his pursuing his object with open violence. His passion for the maiden, inflamed by unexpected resistance, had made him resolve, especially when the scene in the cow-house put him upon the trail of the truth, to employ every means to attain his end. Hans he despised as a peasant lout, and felt himself in no way obliged to respect his claims, or consider his rights. Were Christina once his, he trusted to win, by redoubled tenderness, a heart which he believed—perhaps rightly—harboured no particular repugnance towards him. He was overjoyed, therefore, when he received orders to take two dragoons, and fetch a couple of ammunition waggons left behind in Vinding; and he promised himself he would make good use of this favourable opportunity of carrying out his designs upon Thor Hansen's pretty kinswoman. Out of precaution, he avoided riding through the village, and took a circuitous route to Hansen's house. Before arriving there, however, he was compelled to pass some stables where Martin Thy was wont to keep horses, of which he sometimes had a great number on hand. Cunning Martin, whom nothing escaped, was looking through a hole in the stable wall, and recognised, notwithstanding the evening gloom, Jon Svartberg's big-boned mare. Suspecting mischief, he hurried to the tavern, and proposed to surprise the uninvited guests; the peasants joyfully assented, and at once sallied forth, heated with liquorand with thirst of revenge. The scene just described was the result.
But that very night the bold boors were doomed to experience the evil consequences of their exploit. Intimidated by the crowd of assailants, the two dragoons took to flight, leaving the sergeant to take care of himself. They hurried back to the camp, and made report to their captain of the evening's events. The captain, unwilling to lose a daring and useful subordinate, instantly despatched another sergeant to Vinding, with a stronger party, and with orders to fetch the waggons, to rescue Svartberg, or, should violence have been done him, to arrest the murderers. Fortunately, the approach of the troopers was observed sufficiently soon for old Hansen and Christina to find a hiding-place; but, in facilitating their escape, Hans was so unlucky as to fall into the hands of the Swedes, who hurried him off to Count Steenbock's quarters at Nyeborg.
Early the following morning, Christina donned her holiday attire, put on a clean cap, a pair of yellow leathern gloves, and her best apron, and, without telling the old man a word of her intentions, took the road to Nyeborg. She thought not of the dangers besetting her path: she thought only of sharing her lover's fate, should she find it impossible to rescue him; and bitterly reproached herself for having consented to separate from him. Mournfully, and with eyes red from weeping, she hurried along the rain-soaked road, when she heard the tramp of hoofs behind her, and looked round in alarm. It was Martin Thy, mounted upon Black Captain, to whose tail two other horses were tied. When near enough to recognise Christina, he drew rein with an exclamation of astonishment, and inquired whither she was going. She briefly told him her destination, and the object of her journey. He at first tried to dissuade her from prosecuting the latter, representing the many dangers to which she exposed herself, and without a chance of benefit, seeing that none would listen to her entreaties and representations. Finding his advice and remonstrances unattended to by the faithful and loving girl, he suddenly sprang from his horse. "You shall not go afoot, at any rate," he cried, "so long as Martin Thy has a horse belonging to him, on whose back you can sit. You shall have a ride on Black Captain for once in your life at least. You see, my lamb," continued he, throwing the right stirrup over the horse's neck and tightening the girths—"you see what a soft-mouthed beast I am; I may be ridden any where with a plain snaffle by those who know me. Come, I will help you up." He placed her in the saddle, detached the other horses from Captain's tail, clambered with considerable difficulty upon the bare back of one of them, and set off at a trot.
"Only see," said he, "if we do not resemble Mary and old Joseph, in the picture upon the lid of my box at home. To be sure, Black Captain is no jackass; and indeed," he added, with a sly smile, "there is another difference besides that."
It was a chilly morning; the wind blew keen and cutting from the coast, and the air was clear and transparent; so that from afar the travellers discerned the Swedish tents, shimmering snow-white in the sunshine. Before they had proceeded much farther, the murmur of the camp became audible, like the hum from a stack of bee-hives. On reaching the outposts they were challenged; but the horse-dealer stooped his head and whispered a word in the ear of the vidette, who forthwith allowed him and his companion free passage, and they proceeded through the southern portion of the Swedish camp, towards the farm-house where Steenbock had his quarters. Preoccupied by her grief, Christina did not observe how completely at home Martin Thy seemed to be. Every body knew him, and he found his way without assistance through the canvass mazes of the camp. When close to the general's quarters, the travellers' progress was for a moment delayed by a crowd of people following two soldiers, who escorted a prisoner into the house. From her lofty seat upon the back of Black Captain, Christina saw over the heads of the throng, and in the captive recognised her lover, with hands bound behind his back. With a cry of grief, she sprang unaided from the saddle, and pressed through the crowd. Wonderat her boldness, and compassion for her evident affliction, procured her a passage, and, after some effort, she succeeded in penetrating to the hall where the court-martial was held. The case was probably prejudged by the Swedish officers, who made no scruple to sacrifice a peasant, whether innocent or guilty, by way of example and warning to the disaffected. But the trial, and the threats for which it gave opportunity, might probably, they thought, throw light upon the fate of Sergeant Svartberg, and account for his mysterious disappearance—besides eliciting the names of the accomplices in the murder of which, there could be small doubt, he had been a victim. The sergeant was respected and beloved by his comrades and superiors, and dissatisfaction was apprehended if his fate did not receive due investigation.
The court-martial was over. All that could be extracted from Hans Thorsen amounted to no more than was already known. Svartberg had attempted to carry off his mistress, and he and others had interfered to frustrate his design. He gave a plain narrative of the wonderful disappearance of the sergeant, and did not conceal his regret that the ravisher had thus escaped his vengeance. To the tears and entreaties of Christina the court naturally paid small attention, and she was at last compelled by threats to cease her importunity. Sentence was passed; the president of the court stood up, and gave orders to the provost-marshal to carry out the prisoner's doom by hanging him in front of the camp. In the extremity of despair, Christina cast her eyes over the crowd which filled the room to the very doorway, seeking succour where she expected none, when suddenly she perceived Martin Thy, who stood in a corner, with folded arms and immovable features, watching the proceedings. The sight of the horse-dealer was a gleam of hope to the unhappy girl.
"Help us!" she cried, hurrying to him with clasped hands—"for the blessed Saviour's sake, help us if you can!"
"Ay, but what shall I get by that, my lamb?" replied Martin in a suppressed voice. "I give nothing for nothing, and like to gain by my bargains. Do you still remember what you lately told Svartberg? Keep your word to me, and I will see what I can do."
The peril was pressing, and Christina beside herself with sorrow. Distracted by fears for her lover, whom the soldiers were already leading away to execution, she promised all that was asked of her. The horse-dealer gave a satisfied nod, and advanced slowly and with a certain air of importance to the green table around which some members of the court still sat, whilst others had risen and were about to depart. Making as low a bow as his fat, thickset figure was capable of, he respectfully begged a hearing. The officers looked at him with surprise; Hans, recognising the voice, turned his face towards him, whilst his escort lingered a moment, as if to indulge their prisoner with a last glance at a friendly face.
"What is your business?" abruptly demanded the president of the court-martial. "Have you aught new to communicate touching this affair?"
"A single word, with your excellency's permission," replied Martin Thy; and, approaching the Count, he whispered something in his ear. Steenbock took a step backwards, and looked keenly in the horse-dealer's face, examining him for a few seconds attentively, and without speaking. Then beckoning him into a corner of the room, where they could not be overheard, he exchanged a few sentences with him, and cast his eyes over some papers produced by the horse-dealer. This done, the two men returned to the table.
"I think, therefore, with due submission to your excellency," said the horse-dealer in more decided tones, "that the truth is most likely to be got at in the manner I suggest. If the sergeant has been murdered, this lad was certainly not his only assassin. Upon the other hand, if, as I think more probable, Svartberg is in some place of concealment, the punishment of the prisoner would but increase his danger. And that the worshipful sergeant has sunk into the earth or ascended to heaven, vanishing so as to leave no trace—that, ofcourse, is a fable my horses would laugh at."
"Well, well, jockey," said the Count, loud enough for all in the room to hear, "if you undertake to throw light upon the business, I will make over the prisoner to you, it being well understood you become responsible for him: the girl, too, must appear, should I require her presence. And remember, you cannot deceive me without risking your own neck. Enough! you are answerable for them both."
"With my life!" replied the horse-dealer, again bowing low, "so soon as I am out of the camp. Until then, I crave an escort."
The protection demanded was accorded, and its necessity was fully proved by the savage glances cast at Hans by the Swedish soldiery, as he and his companions passed through the camp. Once beyond its boundary, Martin Thy conducted Christina to her home, and Hans to his own house; and after exacting from both a solemn oath not to endanger his life by flight, saddled a fresh horse and rode away.
The next day, the memorable 14th of November, witnessed the defeat of the Swedes and the triumph of the Danish arms; and upon the day afterwards, the whole Swedish army, shut up in Nyeborg, surrendered to the victors. The Prince of Sulzbach and Count Steenbock had run the gauntlet through the Dutch fleet, and escaped to Corsor, where they met any thing but a flattering reception from King Charles Gustavus. Delivered from their merciless foe, and once more under Danish government, the inhabitants of Funen again raised their heads, and resumed their former habits and occupations. Gradually things fell into the old routine: vexatious losses were forgotten in the comforts and security of peace; fugitives returned home; friends and relatives, long severed, again met; news were received of many reported dead, and the fate of others, whom the demon of war had really devoured, was accurately ascertained. But of Martin Thy, the horse-dealer, not a word was heard. Since the day that he had rescued Hans Thorsen from the jaws of death, none of his relatives or neighbours had seen him; no intelligence, save faint and improbable rumours, had been obtained concerning him. Hans, when the enemy had quitted the country, (as he and every body else fondly believed for ever,) held himself absolved from his oath, and returned to his father's house at Vinding. There he undertook to persuade Christina that a promise forced from her, by the most cruel necessity, was not so binding that, under certain circumstances, it might not be broken; and, moreover, that it could not absolve her from her more ancient vows plighted to himself. But all the arguments of the impatient young lover, although supported by those of his father, who was desirous, before he died, to behold the happiness of his children, failed for some time to convince the maiden's sound sense and grateful heart. At last their persuasions and representations, powerfully aided by her love for Hans, induced her to fix a certain period, at the expiration of which, if Martin Thy did not in the interval appear to maintain his claim, she would become the wife of her younger suitor. Although vexed at the delay, Hans was compelled to consent to it; and for the satisfaction of Christina's conscience, two months were allowed to elapse. Then, the horse-dealer not appearing, the wedding was celebrated with the customary festivity and rejoicing.
At the marriage-feast the conversation naturally turned upon the events of the previous year, and, amongst other names and persons brought under discussion, Martin Thy was mentioned. Unobservant or regardless of the confusion manifest on the faces of both bride and bridegroom, half a score persons immediately exclaimed—"Ay, what has become of Thy, the punchy horse-dealer?" "Whither has the scamp betaken himself?" asked others. One of the company, an elderly man, whose words obtained deference and attention, replied to these questions to the following effect: Martin Thy, he said, was unquestionably one of the many spies employed by Charles Gustavus, and many of whom were intrusted by him with very considerable powers. For that king, reckoning on other means than themere force of arms for the subjugation of the country, employed numerous agents, chosen from all ranks and classes, to ascertain the state of feeling amongst the people. Soldiers, pilots, pedlars, artisans, peasants, and students, took his wages for these dishonourable services. The horse-dealer, however,—so the speaker affirmed,—either conscience-stricken after taking the money of the Swedish government, or finding it agreeable and convenient to eat from two platters at one time, had also accepted from the Danish authorities a passport and secret instructions. On the occasion of the murder of a Swedish sergeant in the vicinity of Nyeborg, he had come in contact with officers of high rank, some of whom having reason, in spite of his cunning and plausibility, to mistrust his honesty, instituted investigations which resulted in his being sent handcuffed, with two other gentlemen of the same kidney, to Corsor, where, without further form of trial, they were all three hung. Other accounts said that Martin Thy had got off with the mere fright, having succeeded, by means of a small file, concealed in his bushy hair, in cutting his prison bars and making his escape. The guests, however, were unanimously of opinion that this was a mere postponement of his doom, and that to-morrow morning a tree in the Danish woods might serve as a gallows for Martin Thy. The conversation still ran upon this subject, when a young lad who waited at table whispered something in the ear of the bridegroom. The latter rose from table with an air of surprise and uneasiness, and slipped out of the house. The messenger conducted him to the wood-store, where a stranger, desirous of speaking with him, awaited his coming. Upon entering the ill-lighted shed, Hans Thorsen beheld a pale thin little man, clothed in squalid rags, and reclining, as if overcome with fatigue and exhaustion, upon a pile of chopped wood. The stranger arose, and with a limping step advanced to meet Hans. It was Martin Thy. But how changed within a few short weeks! His comfortable corpulence had disappeared, his cheeks were hollow and colourless, his long hair hung matted and uncombed about his ears, his doublet was travel-stained and tattered. It was scarce possible to recognise the once jovial well-conditioned horse-dealer. Hans Thorsen lifted up his hands in astonishment.
"Martin Thy!" he exclaimed in a tone of mingled vexation and compassion, "whence come you, in heaven's name, and what means this wretched plight?"
"You hardly know me again, Hans," said the horse-dealer, with somewhat of his former gaiety in his voice. "I am not surprised at it. I look just like an old horse who has been turned out to pass his winter in the woods. My paunch quite gone—left behind in yonder dry hole at Corsor," continued he with a smile, whilst with both hands he displayed his vest, which hung about him like a sack. "You want to know my business here?—never vex thyself about that, lad! I do not come to trespass on your manor. There are plenty here would drive me away, did I wish to stay. Tell your little wife (for I know this is your wedding-day) not to fret herself, for Martin Thy releases her. I know she will be glad to hear that. Of money I have plenty, ragged as I look; but I crave a service of you, for old acquaintance sake—'tis the last, perhaps. Lend me a horse, for I have not a leg to stand on. I will leave it in your uncle's care at Aastrup, near Faaborg: I myself shall not return. It matters little whether my fodder grows in Germany or Funen; and there are stables every where."