Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen.Gnashing of Teeth.Hush! Be silent! Let this be to you as if whispered under the seal of confession, for it is of the secret, secret. Never let it be known to a soul, or body, let it never even be said aloud, lest some vagrant wind should bear it away, and it become known to the vulgar herd.Hush, listen! Keep it secret. I am a man who has known sorrow and deep affliction. My heart has been broken—broken? no, hammered to pieces—powdered, till there cannot be a fragment left that has not dissolved away amidst my tears. And how was this, say you? Why, because I loved her. I knew it not at first, but it came upon me imperceptibly, like the pale dawn upon the daisy mead, growing brighter each moment until the sun riseth, and all is one glowing scene of beauty. It was all sunshine then, and earth was brighter day by day in my kindling eye. A new life seemed bursting forth within me. I found charms, where all before was dreary. I slept—but to dream of my beloved image, and awoke but to muse upon her perfections. She was a doctor’s little daughter, but the taint of medicine was never upon her, and to love her was a new-born hope. Yes, I dared to hope—presumptuous wretch that I was; but by that which casts the shadow of Wilkie Collins, I will name “No Name.” Yes, I hoped that my ardent passion was returned—that is to say that not mine, but another ardent passion was given in exchange. Had not she smiled upon me? and had not her hand rested in mine for an instant, squeezed it, and then gently glided away, while I was bursting with the desire to press my lips upon it? I dared not be too sanguine, but yet hope whispered me that I was loved—that she would be all my own—mine—far off perhaps in the future might the realisation of my wishes be, but I could wait. I was still young, eighteen in a month, and what were a few years, when so peerless a queen awaited me?Time slipped rapidly by, though I counted the minutes ere I could cull and lay the choicest of flowerets before her—flowers bought with money at Covent Garden Market—flowers received with smiles, while some bud would be culled and placed amidst the ebon ringlets that wantoned around her alabastrine neck. The light of gratitude would beam from those tender dark eyes when some book, poem, or musical trifle that I had sought was presented with a stammered excuse for daring to bring them beneath her queen-like notice. Her coral lips would part, and display the pearly treasures beneath, when I would shrink back timid and fearful lest I should be guilty of a theft and steal a treasure from the coral bow.I loved her—madly loved her. I paced the square by night to gaze upon her lamp-lit casement—content with gazing upon the blind alone, but enraptured if the shadow of her fairy form was cast upon that blind; misery-stricken if, warned off by the policeman, I had to leave the square, smarting under the knowledge that I was watched. But still I kept long vigils by the house lest evil should befall her, and I not be there to ward it off. But nothing happened: the house did not catch fire; burglars never assailed it; no ruffians ever attempted abduction; and the two mysterious figures who entered by the front door at two o’clock on the Tuesday night, were her father and brother; while the dark man who went down the area was only the policeman. But those were agonies until I knew the truth, and was sweetly rallied for my anxiety. But though no prodigies of valour were ever performed by me, they were there ready in my bosom—a bosom which burned to shed its last drop in her defence.Months flew by, and then in the balcony one night I told my love of my anxieties, my troubles, my cares, and then, in the intoxication of the moment I saw not that we stood plainly out against the illuminated window, for I only knew that her blushing face was hidden upon my shoulder as I clasped her to my breast and reiterated my vows of love. And she? Ah! she would be mine—mine for ever; and she whispered those words as a ribald street boy sung out “Lul-liety.”Oh, life of blisses! Oh, hours of too-brief happiness! Why passed away—why gone—gone for ever? The moments were too bright to endure, and a cloud crossed the sun of my young and ardent love, raining tears—tears of agony upon my earthly paradise. Doubt, suspicion, hope, fear, all swept across my trusting spirit ere I would give entrance to that fearful brain-enslaving jealousy—maddening jealousy. Oh, but it was a hard battle, for I could not believe her false, even though the evidence was clear as the noon-day sun. The current of my life was changed, and from an open trusting soul I became a spy. I dogged her footsteps, coward that I was, for I dared not upbraid her. But the villain who had robbed me of my peace, for him was reserved the corked-up bottle of my wrath, ready for pouring upon his devoted head. I felt that I could rend him limb from limb, and tear out his false, deceitful heart. I had three times seen him leave the house, and knew him at once as a rival. I hated him with ten thousand-fold fury, but still I must be just. Of noble mien, of polished exterior he was fitted by nature to gain the heart of a weak woman; and even as I passed him I fancied that I could trace a smile of triumph beneath his black moustache. For yes, he passed me almost upon the steps of the house, and then entering a well-appointed brougham, he was driven off.For days I watched for this demon in black, with his dark eyes, lustrous hair and whiskers, and glistening teeth, for he was, in my sight, a dark tempter, but he did not return. But I saw something which set my brain almost on fire. She left the house morning after morning, and my heart whispered that it was to keep assignations with the treacherous villain.But I did not upbraid her; I was cheerful and sarcastic in her presence, while she grew strained and strange. And I, knowing that my manner had produced the change, laughed a loud, long, harsh laugh, and left the house with a dramatic scowl upon my brow, and at last, after days of watching, I followed her with the sensation of a hand clutching and compressing my heart. My temples throbbed, my brain swam, and as I hurried along I stumbled against the passers-by.At last I staggered so heavily against a man that an altercation ensued, a crowd collected, and when I escaped, the cab that I had been tracking was gone.Oh, the tortures I suffered! oh, the agonies of my mind! but impotent as I felt, what could I do, but wait hours until I saw her return, and then with closely-drawn veil hurry into the house, where I dared not trust myself to follow, for I felt, oh! so bad—so dreadfully bad, I didn’t know what to do.I returned to my abode where I offended my father, upset my mamma, and quarrelled viciously with my poor saintly sisters. And oh! what a night I passed! In the morning when gazing in the mirror, I started with affright from the wretch who met my gaze.“Take some medicine, Alfy,” exclaimed mamma, when she saw that I turned with disgust from my breakfast.Kind, well-meant words, but what medicine would ease my sorely-distressed mind. But no, I could not eat; and though hours too soon, I could contain myself no longer, but hurried off, engaged a cab, driven by a tiger, who afterwards preyed fearfully upon my pocket, and then had the vehicle posted, where, unseen, I could watch the door of her habitation. The hours passed slowly away as I sat gnawing my fingers, and comparing the present tempest of the heart with the past bliss.“Go, ungrateful!” I exclaimed aloud.“Where, sir?” said the cabman; coming to the door and touching his hat.“No where;” I exclaimed, “stay here.”“Certainly sir, only I thought you shouted.”At length the wretch slept upon his box, whilst I, wretch that I was, envied the poor fellow, and longed for peace and rest from the burning, maddening, torturing pain I suffered. Then I started, for I saw her page come from the house, and in a short space of time return with a cab.She, false girl, was evidently waiting in the hall—yes, ready now for an assignation, though I had been kept an hour at a time when about to take her to horticultural fête or opera—and directly after and still more closely veiled, she tripped lightly over the pavement and entered the vehicle.My driver was already well tutored, but he was asleep.“Follow that cab!” I cried, hurriedly, as I poked at the somnolent wretch with my cane.“Aw right;” he exclaimed; till I savagely thrust at his ear, when he roused up with a start, jerked the reins, and began to follow the wrong cab.“No! no!” I shrieked, excitedly; “the other street. That! that! The one turning the corner.”“Then why didn’t yer say so at first;” growled the ruffian, blaming me for his own neglect; when on jangled the wretched vehicle closely behind that containing the false one, whilst I pressed and stifled down the feelings battling for escape. Then I endeavoured to arrest the desire to stay her in the street, and prevent the meeting my instinct told me was to take place; for I was determined to confront them, and then cast her off in his vile presence, ere in the far-off Antipodean South I fled, to seek forgetfulness or a grave.The cabs stopped, and then I saw her enter the door of a noble-looking mansion, where she was evidently expected. What could I do? In my impotence I sat for a while madly raging in my cab, for, gifted with a strong imagination, I could, in fancy, see all that was taking place: soft glances, clasped hands, the arm of the foreign-count-looking fiend around her waist, her head resting upon his shoulder, and then eyes meeting eyes, and her face buried in that hideous black beard. Oh! it was too much; and I sprang out of my cab, ran up the steps, tore at the bell, and then, as if by magic, the door was opened, when, guided by instinct, I pushed by the servant, and hurried up the drawing-room stairs. Unheeding the shout of the liveried menial, I paused for a moment undetermined before three doors, when, hearing low muttered sounds, I opened the one right before me, and entered.Will time ever erase the agony of that moment from my memory? Shall I ever again know that state of happy rest—those peaceful hours, ere I gazed upon thy false, false face? Oh, Eva! Alas! no. My heart still answers No!I glided like an avenging serpent into the room, so silently that they heard me not, and then for a moment I was spell-bound with agony, for there was almost what I had pictured. With her bonnet thrown off, her long dark hair hanging over the back of the fauteuil in which she reclined, and her eyes raised towards his, was the false one. Whilehe, the blight and crusher of my life, leant over her, caressing her cheek, and bending nearer and nearer, and nearer still—but I could bear no more: my eyes seemed blinded with fury, and to be starting out of their sockets; my brain burned; and with one wild, hoarse cry of “Fiend,” Nemesis-like I launched myself upon him.In a moment, with a cry of dread, he wrenched himself round and confronted me with his ashen face, but with a wild “Ha! ha!” I had him by the throat, and we wrestled here and there, tumbling the rich furniture in every direction, till, with almost superhuman strength, I dashed his head through the pier-glass behind him.There was a fearful crash, and the wretched woman shrieked aloud; but I was deaf to her cries as she implored me to spare him. I laughed again madly, and still held to the struggling wretch, till, half strangled and in despair, he dashed something in my face, when, as it fell shattering to the floor, I started back and held my enemy at arm’s length.Aghast I gazed upon Eva, but she covered her face with her hands, and tried to swoon, as she sank in a heap upon the floor. But I had seen all—all in that horribly-distorted mouth. A fearful light had flashed across my brain, and, as servants came hurrying into the room, I thrust my enemy from me, and parting the people at the door, darted down the stairs and fled for my life.Forgetful of the waiting cab, I was tearing along the pave, when the driver, fearful for his fare, galloped his wretched knacker after me, and then I staggered in, and sunk back amongst the hard cushions, ready almost to heap the dirty straw from beneath my feet upon my wretched head, but still I could hear the sympathising words of the cabby as he closed the door.“Pore chap, it must ha’ been a scrauntch.”For he knew where I had been—where I had seen all—all in that fearful moment—the gnashing teeth which lay at my feet, the man’s face, Eva’s distorted, mumbling mouth; and I had fled, never to see her more—never to know rest for the aching misery within my heart. Alas! I had seen all, and oh! cabby, faithful charioteer, ’twas indeed an awful scrauntch, for my fancied rival was Michael Angelo Raphael, the Dentist.It is only fair to state, on behalf of the young gentleman from whom the above emanated, that he really seemed very bad indeed; in fact, desperate. But as he could eat very heartily, and evidently used a great deal of pomatum, his case is hopeful.

Hush! Be silent! Let this be to you as if whispered under the seal of confession, for it is of the secret, secret. Never let it be known to a soul, or body, let it never even be said aloud, lest some vagrant wind should bear it away, and it become known to the vulgar herd.

Hush, listen! Keep it secret. I am a man who has known sorrow and deep affliction. My heart has been broken—broken? no, hammered to pieces—powdered, till there cannot be a fragment left that has not dissolved away amidst my tears. And how was this, say you? Why, because I loved her. I knew it not at first, but it came upon me imperceptibly, like the pale dawn upon the daisy mead, growing brighter each moment until the sun riseth, and all is one glowing scene of beauty. It was all sunshine then, and earth was brighter day by day in my kindling eye. A new life seemed bursting forth within me. I found charms, where all before was dreary. I slept—but to dream of my beloved image, and awoke but to muse upon her perfections. She was a doctor’s little daughter, but the taint of medicine was never upon her, and to love her was a new-born hope. Yes, I dared to hope—presumptuous wretch that I was; but by that which casts the shadow of Wilkie Collins, I will name “No Name.” Yes, I hoped that my ardent passion was returned—that is to say that not mine, but another ardent passion was given in exchange. Had not she smiled upon me? and had not her hand rested in mine for an instant, squeezed it, and then gently glided away, while I was bursting with the desire to press my lips upon it? I dared not be too sanguine, but yet hope whispered me that I was loved—that she would be all my own—mine—far off perhaps in the future might the realisation of my wishes be, but I could wait. I was still young, eighteen in a month, and what were a few years, when so peerless a queen awaited me?

Time slipped rapidly by, though I counted the minutes ere I could cull and lay the choicest of flowerets before her—flowers bought with money at Covent Garden Market—flowers received with smiles, while some bud would be culled and placed amidst the ebon ringlets that wantoned around her alabastrine neck. The light of gratitude would beam from those tender dark eyes when some book, poem, or musical trifle that I had sought was presented with a stammered excuse for daring to bring them beneath her queen-like notice. Her coral lips would part, and display the pearly treasures beneath, when I would shrink back timid and fearful lest I should be guilty of a theft and steal a treasure from the coral bow.

I loved her—madly loved her. I paced the square by night to gaze upon her lamp-lit casement—content with gazing upon the blind alone, but enraptured if the shadow of her fairy form was cast upon that blind; misery-stricken if, warned off by the policeman, I had to leave the square, smarting under the knowledge that I was watched. But still I kept long vigils by the house lest evil should befall her, and I not be there to ward it off. But nothing happened: the house did not catch fire; burglars never assailed it; no ruffians ever attempted abduction; and the two mysterious figures who entered by the front door at two o’clock on the Tuesday night, were her father and brother; while the dark man who went down the area was only the policeman. But those were agonies until I knew the truth, and was sweetly rallied for my anxiety. But though no prodigies of valour were ever performed by me, they were there ready in my bosom—a bosom which burned to shed its last drop in her defence.

Months flew by, and then in the balcony one night I told my love of my anxieties, my troubles, my cares, and then, in the intoxication of the moment I saw not that we stood plainly out against the illuminated window, for I only knew that her blushing face was hidden upon my shoulder as I clasped her to my breast and reiterated my vows of love. And she? Ah! she would be mine—mine for ever; and she whispered those words as a ribald street boy sung out “Lul-liety.”

Oh, life of blisses! Oh, hours of too-brief happiness! Why passed away—why gone—gone for ever? The moments were too bright to endure, and a cloud crossed the sun of my young and ardent love, raining tears—tears of agony upon my earthly paradise. Doubt, suspicion, hope, fear, all swept across my trusting spirit ere I would give entrance to that fearful brain-enslaving jealousy—maddening jealousy. Oh, but it was a hard battle, for I could not believe her false, even though the evidence was clear as the noon-day sun. The current of my life was changed, and from an open trusting soul I became a spy. I dogged her footsteps, coward that I was, for I dared not upbraid her. But the villain who had robbed me of my peace, for him was reserved the corked-up bottle of my wrath, ready for pouring upon his devoted head. I felt that I could rend him limb from limb, and tear out his false, deceitful heart. I had three times seen him leave the house, and knew him at once as a rival. I hated him with ten thousand-fold fury, but still I must be just. Of noble mien, of polished exterior he was fitted by nature to gain the heart of a weak woman; and even as I passed him I fancied that I could trace a smile of triumph beneath his black moustache. For yes, he passed me almost upon the steps of the house, and then entering a well-appointed brougham, he was driven off.

For days I watched for this demon in black, with his dark eyes, lustrous hair and whiskers, and glistening teeth, for he was, in my sight, a dark tempter, but he did not return. But I saw something which set my brain almost on fire. She left the house morning after morning, and my heart whispered that it was to keep assignations with the treacherous villain.

But I did not upbraid her; I was cheerful and sarcastic in her presence, while she grew strained and strange. And I, knowing that my manner had produced the change, laughed a loud, long, harsh laugh, and left the house with a dramatic scowl upon my brow, and at last, after days of watching, I followed her with the sensation of a hand clutching and compressing my heart. My temples throbbed, my brain swam, and as I hurried along I stumbled against the passers-by.

At last I staggered so heavily against a man that an altercation ensued, a crowd collected, and when I escaped, the cab that I had been tracking was gone.

Oh, the tortures I suffered! oh, the agonies of my mind! but impotent as I felt, what could I do, but wait hours until I saw her return, and then with closely-drawn veil hurry into the house, where I dared not trust myself to follow, for I felt, oh! so bad—so dreadfully bad, I didn’t know what to do.

I returned to my abode where I offended my father, upset my mamma, and quarrelled viciously with my poor saintly sisters. And oh! what a night I passed! In the morning when gazing in the mirror, I started with affright from the wretch who met my gaze.

“Take some medicine, Alfy,” exclaimed mamma, when she saw that I turned with disgust from my breakfast.

Kind, well-meant words, but what medicine would ease my sorely-distressed mind. But no, I could not eat; and though hours too soon, I could contain myself no longer, but hurried off, engaged a cab, driven by a tiger, who afterwards preyed fearfully upon my pocket, and then had the vehicle posted, where, unseen, I could watch the door of her habitation. The hours passed slowly away as I sat gnawing my fingers, and comparing the present tempest of the heart with the past bliss.

“Go, ungrateful!” I exclaimed aloud.

“Where, sir?” said the cabman; coming to the door and touching his hat.

“No where;” I exclaimed, “stay here.”

“Certainly sir, only I thought you shouted.”

At length the wretch slept upon his box, whilst I, wretch that I was, envied the poor fellow, and longed for peace and rest from the burning, maddening, torturing pain I suffered. Then I started, for I saw her page come from the house, and in a short space of time return with a cab.

She, false girl, was evidently waiting in the hall—yes, ready now for an assignation, though I had been kept an hour at a time when about to take her to horticultural fête or opera—and directly after and still more closely veiled, she tripped lightly over the pavement and entered the vehicle.

My driver was already well tutored, but he was asleep.

“Follow that cab!” I cried, hurriedly, as I poked at the somnolent wretch with my cane.

“Aw right;” he exclaimed; till I savagely thrust at his ear, when he roused up with a start, jerked the reins, and began to follow the wrong cab.

“No! no!” I shrieked, excitedly; “the other street. That! that! The one turning the corner.”

“Then why didn’t yer say so at first;” growled the ruffian, blaming me for his own neglect; when on jangled the wretched vehicle closely behind that containing the false one, whilst I pressed and stifled down the feelings battling for escape. Then I endeavoured to arrest the desire to stay her in the street, and prevent the meeting my instinct told me was to take place; for I was determined to confront them, and then cast her off in his vile presence, ere in the far-off Antipodean South I fled, to seek forgetfulness or a grave.

The cabs stopped, and then I saw her enter the door of a noble-looking mansion, where she was evidently expected. What could I do? In my impotence I sat for a while madly raging in my cab, for, gifted with a strong imagination, I could, in fancy, see all that was taking place: soft glances, clasped hands, the arm of the foreign-count-looking fiend around her waist, her head resting upon his shoulder, and then eyes meeting eyes, and her face buried in that hideous black beard. Oh! it was too much; and I sprang out of my cab, ran up the steps, tore at the bell, and then, as if by magic, the door was opened, when, guided by instinct, I pushed by the servant, and hurried up the drawing-room stairs. Unheeding the shout of the liveried menial, I paused for a moment undetermined before three doors, when, hearing low muttered sounds, I opened the one right before me, and entered.

Will time ever erase the agony of that moment from my memory? Shall I ever again know that state of happy rest—those peaceful hours, ere I gazed upon thy false, false face? Oh, Eva! Alas! no. My heart still answers No!

I glided like an avenging serpent into the room, so silently that they heard me not, and then for a moment I was spell-bound with agony, for there was almost what I had pictured. With her bonnet thrown off, her long dark hair hanging over the back of the fauteuil in which she reclined, and her eyes raised towards his, was the false one. Whilehe, the blight and crusher of my life, leant over her, caressing her cheek, and bending nearer and nearer, and nearer still—but I could bear no more: my eyes seemed blinded with fury, and to be starting out of their sockets; my brain burned; and with one wild, hoarse cry of “Fiend,” Nemesis-like I launched myself upon him.

In a moment, with a cry of dread, he wrenched himself round and confronted me with his ashen face, but with a wild “Ha! ha!” I had him by the throat, and we wrestled here and there, tumbling the rich furniture in every direction, till, with almost superhuman strength, I dashed his head through the pier-glass behind him.

There was a fearful crash, and the wretched woman shrieked aloud; but I was deaf to her cries as she implored me to spare him. I laughed again madly, and still held to the struggling wretch, till, half strangled and in despair, he dashed something in my face, when, as it fell shattering to the floor, I started back and held my enemy at arm’s length.

Aghast I gazed upon Eva, but she covered her face with her hands, and tried to swoon, as she sank in a heap upon the floor. But I had seen all—all in that horribly-distorted mouth. A fearful light had flashed across my brain, and, as servants came hurrying into the room, I thrust my enemy from me, and parting the people at the door, darted down the stairs and fled for my life.

Forgetful of the waiting cab, I was tearing along the pave, when the driver, fearful for his fare, galloped his wretched knacker after me, and then I staggered in, and sunk back amongst the hard cushions, ready almost to heap the dirty straw from beneath my feet upon my wretched head, but still I could hear the sympathising words of the cabby as he closed the door.

“Pore chap, it must ha’ been a scrauntch.”

For he knew where I had been—where I had seen all—all in that fearful moment—the gnashing teeth which lay at my feet, the man’s face, Eva’s distorted, mumbling mouth; and I had fled, never to see her more—never to know rest for the aching misery within my heart. Alas! I had seen all, and oh! cabby, faithful charioteer, ’twas indeed an awful scrauntch, for my fancied rival was Michael Angelo Raphael, the Dentist.

It is only fair to state, on behalf of the young gentleman from whom the above emanated, that he really seemed very bad indeed; in fact, desperate. But as he could eat very heartily, and evidently used a great deal of pomatum, his case is hopeful.

Chapter Fifteen.The Monarch of the Mould.Sing, poet divineOf your sparkling wineOf Catawba, the luscious nectar;While my humbler laysShall rise in praiseOf a king on whose fame I’ll hector.But your lips don’t shoot,For my king’s but fruit,And your brows don’t frown with scorning;For if to an endCame my noble friend,The nation would go into mourning.’Tis that fruit of earthThat the West gave birth,Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;For its glorious savourHas a sweeter flavourThan an epicure’sentréemessy.Potato, potato,My heart’s elate, oh!When you smile on my table brightly;With an epidermisThat, so far from firm isThat it cracks when I grasp you tightly.For a roast, bake, boil,Stew or fry in oil,No fruit can be called thy equal;For carrot or turnipMight him or her nip,And cause an unpleasant sequel.But thou, free from guile,Indigestion - bile—Brought home to thy charge were never;For thy soft white mealIs the dinner lealOf Great Britain’s sons for ever.To say the least,For a Christmas feast,’Twould be quite an act of folly,And far less shirkyTo leave goose or turkey,Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.Why, the old king’s friendSir Loin to attend,Would surely ne’er brown if he knew it;And the very aleTurn beadless - pale,While the beef turn’d cold in its suet.The firmest friendMother earth could sendTo her children when pots were minus;Of a pan not the ghost,But they still could roastThe old king whereon still we dine us.By disease tried sore—May it come no more!For what should we do without him?For Jamaica yamIs a sorry flam,And an artichoke - There, pray scout him!Or who’d think niceSoppy plain-boil’d rice,Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?Earth has no fruitAs a substituteFor the ’tater plain-boil’d or roasted.So waxy and primeIn the summer-time,When new, with your lamb and gravy,And your young sweet peas,Devour’d with ease—Of that you may make “affidavy.”Or in autumn glowingTo crown the sowing,I love to gaze on the furrowsAnd ridges tumidWhere moistly humidThe jolly old nubbly burrows.O vegetable!Long as we’re ableOur gardens shall smile with your flower;As in long straight rowsThis old friend growsSo humbly where others tower.A cabbage to cutIs all right, butWhere is its strength and stamina?Though right with ham onYour table, or gammon,At best ’tis a watery gammoner,You may go if you list,Where you like ’tis miss’dBefore anyentréeor otherGrand preparationOf a French cook’s nation,And naught can the great want smother.Feast on, grandee!From your board I’ll fleeTo my honest old friend in his jacket;For ’twill sit but light,Though you may feel tightIf you too indiscreetly attack it.And, glorious thought!It can be bought—This gem of whose wealth I’ve boasted—For a bronze to be got,In our streets “all hot,”Half cooked by steam and half roasted.Who wouldn’t be poor(Not I, I’m sure),To enjoy such a feast for a copper?Split open - butter’d—Oh, joy ne’er utter’d!And pepper’d - and - “what a whopper?”Just look at the steam,At the can’s bright gleam,And look at the vendor cheery;And hark to his cry,Now low, now high,Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.Go pick yourself,And spend your pelf,Three pound for twopence - they ask it—With eyes full winking;And while you’re thinking,The scale’s tipp’d into your basket.And you who’d wive,Pray, just look alive,And before you declare each feeling,Watch your little mouseOn her way through the house,And catch her potato peeling.You know of the cheese,And Pimlico’s ease,When he pick’d out a wife by the paring;But a better planFor an every-day man—Though an innovation most daring—Is to watch the playOf the knife, and the wayThat the coat of potato’s falling;Just look out for waste,And beware of haste,For thrift’s not the meanest calling.Kidney, regent, fluke,Fit for earl or duke,Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;Own’d I but lyre,I’d never tire,Of singing to thy praise a “Gloria.”May you mealy wax,Never tried by tax,Ever free fromAphis vastator.Of fruits the king,Its praise we’ll sing,Potent, pot-boy, “potater!”

Sing, poet divineOf your sparkling wineOf Catawba, the luscious nectar;While my humbler laysShall rise in praiseOf a king on whose fame I’ll hector.But your lips don’t shoot,For my king’s but fruit,And your brows don’t frown with scorning;For if to an endCame my noble friend,The nation would go into mourning.’Tis that fruit of earthThat the West gave birth,Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;For its glorious savourHas a sweeter flavourThan an epicure’sentréemessy.Potato, potato,My heart’s elate, oh!When you smile on my table brightly;With an epidermisThat, so far from firm isThat it cracks when I grasp you tightly.For a roast, bake, boil,Stew or fry in oil,No fruit can be called thy equal;For carrot or turnipMight him or her nip,And cause an unpleasant sequel.But thou, free from guile,Indigestion - bile—Brought home to thy charge were never;For thy soft white mealIs the dinner lealOf Great Britain’s sons for ever.To say the least,For a Christmas feast,’Twould be quite an act of folly,And far less shirkyTo leave goose or turkey,Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.Why, the old king’s friendSir Loin to attend,Would surely ne’er brown if he knew it;And the very aleTurn beadless - pale,While the beef turn’d cold in its suet.The firmest friendMother earth could sendTo her children when pots were minus;Of a pan not the ghost,But they still could roastThe old king whereon still we dine us.By disease tried sore—May it come no more!For what should we do without him?For Jamaica yamIs a sorry flam,And an artichoke - There, pray scout him!Or who’d think niceSoppy plain-boil’d rice,Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?Earth has no fruitAs a substituteFor the ’tater plain-boil’d or roasted.So waxy and primeIn the summer-time,When new, with your lamb and gravy,And your young sweet peas,Devour’d with ease—Of that you may make “affidavy.”Or in autumn glowingTo crown the sowing,I love to gaze on the furrowsAnd ridges tumidWhere moistly humidThe jolly old nubbly burrows.O vegetable!Long as we’re ableOur gardens shall smile with your flower;As in long straight rowsThis old friend growsSo humbly where others tower.A cabbage to cutIs all right, butWhere is its strength and stamina?Though right with ham onYour table, or gammon,At best ’tis a watery gammoner,You may go if you list,Where you like ’tis miss’dBefore anyentréeor otherGrand preparationOf a French cook’s nation,And naught can the great want smother.Feast on, grandee!From your board I’ll fleeTo my honest old friend in his jacket;For ’twill sit but light,Though you may feel tightIf you too indiscreetly attack it.And, glorious thought!It can be bought—This gem of whose wealth I’ve boasted—For a bronze to be got,In our streets “all hot,”Half cooked by steam and half roasted.Who wouldn’t be poor(Not I, I’m sure),To enjoy such a feast for a copper?Split open - butter’d—Oh, joy ne’er utter’d!And pepper’d - and - “what a whopper?”Just look at the steam,At the can’s bright gleam,And look at the vendor cheery;And hark to his cry,Now low, now high,Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.Go pick yourself,And spend your pelf,Three pound for twopence - they ask it—With eyes full winking;And while you’re thinking,The scale’s tipp’d into your basket.And you who’d wive,Pray, just look alive,And before you declare each feeling,Watch your little mouseOn her way through the house,And catch her potato peeling.You know of the cheese,And Pimlico’s ease,When he pick’d out a wife by the paring;But a better planFor an every-day man—Though an innovation most daring—Is to watch the playOf the knife, and the wayThat the coat of potato’s falling;Just look out for waste,And beware of haste,For thrift’s not the meanest calling.Kidney, regent, fluke,Fit for earl or duke,Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;Own’d I but lyre,I’d never tire,Of singing to thy praise a “Gloria.”May you mealy wax,Never tried by tax,Ever free fromAphis vastator.Of fruits the king,Its praise we’ll sing,Potent, pot-boy, “potater!”

Sing, poet divineOf your sparkling wineOf Catawba, the luscious nectar;While my humbler laysShall rise in praiseOf a king on whose fame I’ll hector.But your lips don’t shoot,For my king’s but fruit,And your brows don’t frown with scorning;For if to an endCame my noble friend,The nation would go into mourning.’Tis that fruit of earthThat the West gave birth,Introduced to our good Queen Bessy;For its glorious savourHas a sweeter flavourThan an epicure’sentréemessy.Potato, potato,My heart’s elate, oh!When you smile on my table brightly;With an epidermisThat, so far from firm isThat it cracks when I grasp you tightly.For a roast, bake, boil,Stew or fry in oil,No fruit can be called thy equal;For carrot or turnipMight him or her nip,And cause an unpleasant sequel.But thou, free from guile,Indigestion - bile—Brought home to thy charge were never;For thy soft white mealIs the dinner lealOf Great Britain’s sons for ever.To say the least,For a Christmas feast,’Twould be quite an act of folly,And far less shirkyTo leave goose or turkey,Than a bowl of potatoes jolly.Why, the old king’s friendSir Loin to attend,Would surely ne’er brown if he knew it;And the very aleTurn beadless - pale,While the beef turn’d cold in its suet.The firmest friendMother earth could sendTo her children when pots were minus;Of a pan not the ghost,But they still could roastThe old king whereon still we dine us.By disease tried sore—May it come no more!For what should we do without him?For Jamaica yamIs a sorry flam,And an artichoke - There, pray scout him!Or who’d think niceSoppy plain-boil’d rice,Or parsnips or chestnuts toasted?Earth has no fruitAs a substituteFor the ’tater plain-boil’d or roasted.So waxy and primeIn the summer-time,When new, with your lamb and gravy,And your young sweet peas,Devour’d with ease—Of that you may make “affidavy.”Or in autumn glowingTo crown the sowing,I love to gaze on the furrowsAnd ridges tumidWhere moistly humidThe jolly old nubbly burrows.O vegetable!Long as we’re ableOur gardens shall smile with your flower;As in long straight rowsThis old friend growsSo humbly where others tower.A cabbage to cutIs all right, butWhere is its strength and stamina?Though right with ham onYour table, or gammon,At best ’tis a watery gammoner,You may go if you list,Where you like ’tis miss’dBefore anyentréeor otherGrand preparationOf a French cook’s nation,And naught can the great want smother.Feast on, grandee!From your board I’ll fleeTo my honest old friend in his jacket;For ’twill sit but light,Though you may feel tightIf you too indiscreetly attack it.And, glorious thought!It can be bought—This gem of whose wealth I’ve boasted—For a bronze to be got,In our streets “all hot,”Half cooked by steam and half roasted.Who wouldn’t be poor(Not I, I’m sure),To enjoy such a feast for a copper?Split open - butter’d—Oh, joy ne’er utter’d!And pepper’d - and - “what a whopper?”Just look at the steam,At the can’s bright gleam,And look at the vendor cheery;And hark to his cry,Now low, now high,Speaking feasts for the traveller weary.Go pick yourself,And spend your pelf,Three pound for twopence - they ask it—With eyes full winking;And while you’re thinking,The scale’s tipp’d into your basket.And you who’d wive,Pray, just look alive,And before you declare each feeling,Watch your little mouseOn her way through the house,And catch her potato peeling.You know of the cheese,And Pimlico’s ease,When he pick’d out a wife by the paring;But a better planFor an every-day man—Though an innovation most daring—Is to watch the playOf the knife, and the wayThat the coat of potato’s falling;Just look out for waste,And beware of haste,For thrift’s not the meanest calling.Kidney, regent, fluke,Fit for earl or duke,Or a banquet for Queen Victoria;Own’d I but lyre,I’d never tire,Of singing to thy praise a “Gloria.”May you mealy wax,Never tried by tax,Ever free fromAphis vastator.Of fruits the king,Its praise we’ll sing,Potent, pot-boy, “potater!”

Chapter Sixteen.Spun Yarn.Uncle Joe came and spent Christmas with us last year; a fine, dry, mahogany-visaged old man-o’-war’s-man as ever hitched up his trousers, and called it, “hauling in slack.”“Forty-five years’ boy and man, I’ve been a sailor,” he’d say; “rated AB, I am; and AB I hope to keep till I’m sewed up in my hammock and sent overboard; for none of your rotting in harbour for me, thanky.”Uncle Joe ran away to sea when quite a boy, and he had served enough years in the Royal Navy to have been an admiral, but what with our scheme of promotion, and some want of ability on the old fellow’s part, he was a first-rate able seaman, but he never got a step farther. One can always picture him in his blue trousers and loose guernsey, with its wide turn-down collar, his cap set right back on his head, and the name of his ship on the band, in gilt letters, while his big clasp-knife hung by the white lanyard round his waist. Clean, neat, and active, the sinewy old chap came rolling in after my father; neck open, eyes bright, and face shining and good-humoured.“Cold, cold, cold,” said my father, entering the room where we were clustered round the fire. “Freezes sharp; and, bless my heart, there’s a great ball of snow sticking to my boot,” saying which, the old gentleman, who had just been round the farmyard for the last time that night, went back into the passage and rubbed off the snow, while Uncle Joe, chuckling and laughing, walked up to the fireplace and scraped his shoes on the front bar, so that the pieces of hard snow began sputtering and cissing as they fell in the fire.“Cold?” said Uncle Joe, filling his pipe, and then shutting his brass tobacco-box with a snap; “Cold? ’taint cold a bit, no more nor that’s hot,” and then, stooping down, he thrust a finger and thumb in between the bottom bars, caught hold of a piece of glowing coal and laid it upon the bowl of his pipe, which means soon ignited the tobacco within. “My hands are hard enough for anything,” he growled, taking the place made for him beside the fire, when he tucked his cap beneath the chair, and then took one leg upon his knee, and nursed it as he smoked for awhile in silence.“Now, come, Christmas-night,” cried my father, “and you’re all as quiet as so many mice. What’s it to be, Joe—the old thing?”“Well, yes,” growled my uncle; “I won’t say no to a tot o’ grog,” and then he smoked on abstractedly, while my father mixed for the wanderer whom he had not seen for five years.“Wish to goodness I’d brought a hammock,” said my uncle, at last. “I did try whether I couldn’t lash the curtains together last night, but they’re too weak.”“I should think so, indeed,” exclaimed my mother. “That chintz, too. How can you be so foolish, Joe?”My uncle smoked on, apparently thinking with great disgust of the comfortably-furnished bedroom in which he had to sleep, as compared with the main-deck of his frigate.“But ’taint cold,” he all at once burst out.“Three or four degrees of frost, at all events,” said my father.“Pooh; what’s that?” said my uncle. “That’s hot weather, that is. How should you like to sleep where yours and your mate’s breath all turns into a fall of snow, and comes tumbling on to you? How should you like to nibble your rum as if it was sugar-candy, and never touch nothing of iron for fear of burning your fingers like, and leaving all the skin behind? This ain’t cold.”“Here, draw round close,” cried my father; “throw on another log or two, and Uncle Joe will spin you a yarn.”The fire was replenished, and as the many-hued flames leaped and danced, and the sparks flew up the chimney, every face was lit up with the golden glow. The wind roared round the house, and sung in the chimney, but the red curtains were closely-drawn, the table was well spread with those creature comforts so oft seen at the genial season, and closing tightly in—chair against chair—we all watched for the next opening of Uncle Joe’s oracular lips. And we had not long to wait; for, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he began to point with the stem, describe circles, and flourish it oratorically, as he once more exclaimed—“’Taint cold; not a bit! How should you like to spend Christmas up close aside the North Pole?”No one answering with anything further than a shiver, the old tar went on:—“I can’t spin yarns, I can’t, for I allus gets things in a tangle and can’t find the ends again, but I’ll tell you about going up after Sir John Franklin.”“Hear, hear!” said my father, and Uncle Joe tasted his grog, and then winked very solemnly at my father, as much as to say “That’s it exact.”“Little more rum?” hinted my father. Uncle Joe winked with his other eye and shook his head and went on:—“You see, ours was a strong-built ship, fitted out on purpose for the North seas, and what we had to do was to go right up as far nor’ard as we could get, and leave depots of preserved meats, and spirits, and blankets, and pemmican, and all sorts of necessaries, at different places where it was likely that the party might reach; and to mark these spots we had to build up cairns of stones, so that they might be seen. Well, we’d got as far as our captain thought it prudent to go, for we were back’ard in the year, in consequence of the ice having been very late before it broke up that year, and hindering us a good deal; and now that we had landed all as was necessary, and built up the last cairn, the captain says to the officers, he says, ‘We’ll go back now, or we shall be shut in for the winter.’“’Twasn’t so late in the autumn, and no doubt you were having nice warm weather, but things began looking precious winterly round about us. Great icebergs were floating about, and fogs would hang round them. Snowstorms would come on, with snow with such sharp edges that it would seem a’most to cut your ears off. The shrouds and clews and sheets would be all stiff and covered with ice, while, as to the sails, they were like so much board, and it got to be tough work up aloft.“‘Cold this here,’ I says to a shipmet. ‘Pooh,’ he says, ‘this ain’t nothing yet.’ Nor more it warn’t nothing at all; and there we were going along as well as we could, with double lookouts, and plenty of need for them to use their eyes, for we might have been crash on to an iceberg ten times over. Captain used to shake his head and look serious, and enough to make him, with all his responsibility, and all of us looking up to him to take care of us; and last of all we seemed to be right in the thick of it, with the ice-pack all around, and ice and snow, ice and snow everywhere, and us just gently sailing along a narrow open channel of blue water, sometimes going east, sometimes west, just as it happened. Sometimes a little more wind would spring up, and the pack opened a bit, and made fresh channels, so that we got on; then the wind would drop, and the loose ice close round us, so that we hardly moved, and at last one morning when I turns out, we were froze in.“But not hard stuck, you know; for we soon had that ice broken, and got hauling along by fixing ice-anchors, and then pulling at the cable; but our captain only did it by way of duty, and trying to the very last to get free; for his orders were not to winter up there if he could help it. But there we were next morning tighter in than ever, with the ship creaking and groaning at the pressure upon her ribs, and the ice tightening her up more and more, till at last if she weren’t lifted right up ever so many foot, and hung over all on one side, so as we had cables and anchors out into the ice to make sure as she didn’t capsize. But there was no capsize in her; and there she sat, all on the careen, just as if she was mounting a big wave; and so she was, only it was solid.“Days went by, and the sun got lower and lower, and the weather colder and colder. Sometimes we’d see flocks of birds going south, then a herd or two of deer, and once or twice we saw a bear, but they fought very shy of us; and, last of all, the captain seeing that we must make the best of our winter quarters, set us to work unbending sails, striking masts, and lowering spars on deck, and then the stuff was had up, and the deck regularly roofed in, so as to make a snug house of the ship. Stoves were rigged, snow hauled up round the hull, steps made up to the side, and one way or another all looked so jolly, that I began to reckon on spending my Christmas out in the polar regions. Then, too, extra clothes were sarved out, and gloves, and masks, and fur caps; and one way and another we got to make such stuffed mummies of ourselves, that a rare lot of joking went on.“‘Wait a bit,’ says my mate, ‘it’ll be colder yet;’ and so it was, colder and colder, till I couldn’t have believed it possible that it could be a bit worse. But it could, though; for, before the winter was over, there’s been times when if a man went outside the vessel the cold would have cut him down dead almost in a moment, and he not able to help himself. Why, as I told you, down on the main-deck, the breath used to turn into a reg’lar fall of snow, and everything would freeze hard in spite of the roaring fires we kept up; and only think of it, just at this time it was always dark, for the sun had gone lower and lower, till at last he had not risen at all, and it was one long, dreary night, with every star seeming to shoot bright icy arrows at you to cut you down.“The captain used to do all he could to cheer us up, and keep the horrors off; for you know they will come out there when you’re all in the dark and half froze, and wondering whether you’ll see home any more. Sometimes it would be exercise, sometimes a bit of a play, or skylarking. Then one officer or another would read, and we’d have have some music or yarn-spinning, and altogether we were very sociable; and so matters went on till it got to be Christmas-day.”In whose honour Uncle Joe treated himself to a hearty libation from his steaming tumbler.”—Christmas-day,” said my uncle, “andproceedings were made for a grand spread, in honour of the old day and them as we’d left behind us.“Well, the officers made themselves very sociable, and the grog went round. Some chaps danced, others smoked, and one way and another things went on jolly; but though the little stoves roared till they got red-hot, yet there was a regular fog down between decks, while the captain said that it was about the coldest day we had had yet.“Towards night it seemed to come on awful all at once, and first one and then another chap began shivering and twisting up his shoulders, and then I saw the captain, who was down, give a sharp look round, and then slip up on deck, where I heard him shout out.“A dozen of us scrambled up on the covered-in deck, feeling cut in two with the icy wind that came down, and then we found as the door out of the bulwarks, and fitted in at the side, had been left open by some one—a door you know that just about this time used to mostly have a man aside it, and when our chaps went to the little ice-observatory it used to be banged to after ’em directly; while if it had been left open but one night, I daresay some on us wouldn’t have woke up any more.“‘Who’s gone out?’ cries the captain, and then the men begins looking from one to the other, but no one answered.“‘Where’s Joe Perry,’ shouts out some one in front of me. ‘It’s Joe Perry as is gone.’“‘You’re a—something,’ I was going to say, but I was that vexed I didn’t say it; but, forgetting all about the officers, I gives my gentleman such a cuff on the ear, as sent him staggering; when instead of being angry, I saw the Cap bite his lip, and no end of chaps began sniggering.“‘But where’s Bill Barker,’ I says, looking round, for I remembered seeing Bill go up the companion ladder about ten minutes before.“‘Pass the word for William Barker,’ says the captain, and they passed it, but there was no answer, and then we knew that Bill must have slipped out against orders, thinking he wouldn’t be missed, while the chaps were keeping up Christmas, and forgetting that we should feel the cold from the door he was obliged to leave open, so as to get in again.“‘Foolish fellow,’ cried the captain, stamping about the deck. ‘Volunteers there, who’ll fetch him in? These five will do,’ he says, and in a few minutes the first luff with five men, were all ready in their fur coats and boots, and masks over their faces, or I oughter say, our faces, for I was one of ’em. And yet you say it’s cold here now. Pooh! Why, we were no sooner outside in that bright starlight, with the northern lights hanging ahead of us, much like a rainbow, than it was as if your breath was taken away, and the wind cutting right through and through you, stiffening your joints, tingling powerfully in your nose, and seeming to make you numbed and stupid.“‘Double,’ shouts the luff, and keeping our eyes about us, we began to trot along the snowy path towards the little observatory. But he wasn’t there. Then we ran a little one way, then another, and all keeping together as well as we could for the rough ice we were going over. But there was nothing to be seen anywhere on that side of the ship, so we trotted round to the other side, always keeping a sharp look out for our poor mate, and hoping after all that he would be all right; but going by my own feelings, I could not help feeling sure that if he had come out without the same things on as we had, it would go hard with him.“‘Here look!’ some one shouted in a thick muffly voice, but we were all looking now towards where a couple of bears were coming slowly towards us, while quite plain between us lay on the white snow, the body of poor Bill Barker.“‘Back to the ship,’ shouted the first luff, and we were soon once more a-top of the steps and inside, but you needn’t think we were going to leave our shipmet in that way, for the next minute saw us going back at the double, but this time well armed.“As soon as we were within shot, the first luff kneels down, and taking aim, fired his double rifle right and left at the two great brutes that stood growling over poor Bill Barker.“‘Stand firm, men,’ he says, then ‘prepare to charge.’ And then we five stood with our guns and bayonets ready for the brutes as began to come down upon us, while the luff got behind us, and began to load. You see he wouldn’t let us fire on account of poor Bill, and I s’pose he had more trust in his own gun than in ours, for he kept on fumbling away in the cold till he was loaded, which was when the brutes were only about a dozen yards off, when he drops on one knee aside me, and taking a good long aim fired when one brute was only five or six yards off—both barrels right into him, and rolled him over and over, just as he would have done a rabbit. But the next moment it was helter-skelter, and hooraying, for t’other bear was down on us with a rush, taking no more notice of our bayonets than if they had been so many toothpicks, and downing two of our chaps like nine-pins.“‘Be firm, men,’ shouts the luff, and we three ran at the great brute that stood growling over our two mates, and I don’t know about what t’others did, but at one and the same moment, I drove the bayonet up to the gun muzzle right in the bear’s flank, and fired as well. Then it seemed that the gun was wrenched out of my hand, and I saw the great brute rear up above me, fetch me a pat with one of its paws, when I caught a glimpse of the luff and heard the sharp ring of his rifle again, and then I seemed to be smothered, for the great beast fell right upon me.“I don’t know how long it was before they got help from the ship, and the great brute dragged off me; but I know that the next thing I remember is being carried into the ship through the doorway, and hearing some one say, that Bill Barker was frozen stiff and cold. But I soon came to, and excepting the bruises, there was nothing worse the matter than a broken rib, which I soon got the better of. But poor Bill was dead and frozen hard when they got him aboard, with his gun tight fixed in his hand, so that they could not get it away for some time; for though the poor chap knew all the orders well enough about going out without proper preparations, like many more of us, he couldn’t believe as the frost would have such power—power enough to cut him down before he’d walked a couple hundred yards, for it was something awful that night, though the little brawny chaps that live in those parts, seem to bear it very well.“Freeze! why this is nothing: them two bears were masses of ice next morning when they hauled ’em on board, while everything we cut, had to be thawed first before the stove-fires. But then we had plenty of provisions, and I don’t think I once saw the grog get down so low, as in this here glass of mine—here present.”My father took the hint, and replenished the old sailor’s glass.

Uncle Joe came and spent Christmas with us last year; a fine, dry, mahogany-visaged old man-o’-war’s-man as ever hitched up his trousers, and called it, “hauling in slack.”

“Forty-five years’ boy and man, I’ve been a sailor,” he’d say; “rated AB, I am; and AB I hope to keep till I’m sewed up in my hammock and sent overboard; for none of your rotting in harbour for me, thanky.”

Uncle Joe ran away to sea when quite a boy, and he had served enough years in the Royal Navy to have been an admiral, but what with our scheme of promotion, and some want of ability on the old fellow’s part, he was a first-rate able seaman, but he never got a step farther. One can always picture him in his blue trousers and loose guernsey, with its wide turn-down collar, his cap set right back on his head, and the name of his ship on the band, in gilt letters, while his big clasp-knife hung by the white lanyard round his waist. Clean, neat, and active, the sinewy old chap came rolling in after my father; neck open, eyes bright, and face shining and good-humoured.

“Cold, cold, cold,” said my father, entering the room where we were clustered round the fire. “Freezes sharp; and, bless my heart, there’s a great ball of snow sticking to my boot,” saying which, the old gentleman, who had just been round the farmyard for the last time that night, went back into the passage and rubbed off the snow, while Uncle Joe, chuckling and laughing, walked up to the fireplace and scraped his shoes on the front bar, so that the pieces of hard snow began sputtering and cissing as they fell in the fire.

“Cold?” said Uncle Joe, filling his pipe, and then shutting his brass tobacco-box with a snap; “Cold? ’taint cold a bit, no more nor that’s hot,” and then, stooping down, he thrust a finger and thumb in between the bottom bars, caught hold of a piece of glowing coal and laid it upon the bowl of his pipe, which means soon ignited the tobacco within. “My hands are hard enough for anything,” he growled, taking the place made for him beside the fire, when he tucked his cap beneath the chair, and then took one leg upon his knee, and nursed it as he smoked for awhile in silence.

“Now, come, Christmas-night,” cried my father, “and you’re all as quiet as so many mice. What’s it to be, Joe—the old thing?”

“Well, yes,” growled my uncle; “I won’t say no to a tot o’ grog,” and then he smoked on abstractedly, while my father mixed for the wanderer whom he had not seen for five years.

“Wish to goodness I’d brought a hammock,” said my uncle, at last. “I did try whether I couldn’t lash the curtains together last night, but they’re too weak.”

“I should think so, indeed,” exclaimed my mother. “That chintz, too. How can you be so foolish, Joe?”

My uncle smoked on, apparently thinking with great disgust of the comfortably-furnished bedroom in which he had to sleep, as compared with the main-deck of his frigate.

“But ’taint cold,” he all at once burst out.

“Three or four degrees of frost, at all events,” said my father.

“Pooh; what’s that?” said my uncle. “That’s hot weather, that is. How should you like to sleep where yours and your mate’s breath all turns into a fall of snow, and comes tumbling on to you? How should you like to nibble your rum as if it was sugar-candy, and never touch nothing of iron for fear of burning your fingers like, and leaving all the skin behind? This ain’t cold.”

“Here, draw round close,” cried my father; “throw on another log or two, and Uncle Joe will spin you a yarn.”

The fire was replenished, and as the many-hued flames leaped and danced, and the sparks flew up the chimney, every face was lit up with the golden glow. The wind roared round the house, and sung in the chimney, but the red curtains were closely-drawn, the table was well spread with those creature comforts so oft seen at the genial season, and closing tightly in—chair against chair—we all watched for the next opening of Uncle Joe’s oracular lips. And we had not long to wait; for, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he began to point with the stem, describe circles, and flourish it oratorically, as he once more exclaimed—

“’Taint cold; not a bit! How should you like to spend Christmas up close aside the North Pole?”

No one answering with anything further than a shiver, the old tar went on:—

“I can’t spin yarns, I can’t, for I allus gets things in a tangle and can’t find the ends again, but I’ll tell you about going up after Sir John Franklin.”

“Hear, hear!” said my father, and Uncle Joe tasted his grog, and then winked very solemnly at my father, as much as to say “That’s it exact.”

“Little more rum?” hinted my father. Uncle Joe winked with his other eye and shook his head and went on:—

“You see, ours was a strong-built ship, fitted out on purpose for the North seas, and what we had to do was to go right up as far nor’ard as we could get, and leave depots of preserved meats, and spirits, and blankets, and pemmican, and all sorts of necessaries, at different places where it was likely that the party might reach; and to mark these spots we had to build up cairns of stones, so that they might be seen. Well, we’d got as far as our captain thought it prudent to go, for we were back’ard in the year, in consequence of the ice having been very late before it broke up that year, and hindering us a good deal; and now that we had landed all as was necessary, and built up the last cairn, the captain says to the officers, he says, ‘We’ll go back now, or we shall be shut in for the winter.’

“’Twasn’t so late in the autumn, and no doubt you were having nice warm weather, but things began looking precious winterly round about us. Great icebergs were floating about, and fogs would hang round them. Snowstorms would come on, with snow with such sharp edges that it would seem a’most to cut your ears off. The shrouds and clews and sheets would be all stiff and covered with ice, while, as to the sails, they were like so much board, and it got to be tough work up aloft.

“‘Cold this here,’ I says to a shipmet. ‘Pooh,’ he says, ‘this ain’t nothing yet.’ Nor more it warn’t nothing at all; and there we were going along as well as we could, with double lookouts, and plenty of need for them to use their eyes, for we might have been crash on to an iceberg ten times over. Captain used to shake his head and look serious, and enough to make him, with all his responsibility, and all of us looking up to him to take care of us; and last of all we seemed to be right in the thick of it, with the ice-pack all around, and ice and snow, ice and snow everywhere, and us just gently sailing along a narrow open channel of blue water, sometimes going east, sometimes west, just as it happened. Sometimes a little more wind would spring up, and the pack opened a bit, and made fresh channels, so that we got on; then the wind would drop, and the loose ice close round us, so that we hardly moved, and at last one morning when I turns out, we were froze in.

“But not hard stuck, you know; for we soon had that ice broken, and got hauling along by fixing ice-anchors, and then pulling at the cable; but our captain only did it by way of duty, and trying to the very last to get free; for his orders were not to winter up there if he could help it. But there we were next morning tighter in than ever, with the ship creaking and groaning at the pressure upon her ribs, and the ice tightening her up more and more, till at last if she weren’t lifted right up ever so many foot, and hung over all on one side, so as we had cables and anchors out into the ice to make sure as she didn’t capsize. But there was no capsize in her; and there she sat, all on the careen, just as if she was mounting a big wave; and so she was, only it was solid.

“Days went by, and the sun got lower and lower, and the weather colder and colder. Sometimes we’d see flocks of birds going south, then a herd or two of deer, and once or twice we saw a bear, but they fought very shy of us; and, last of all, the captain seeing that we must make the best of our winter quarters, set us to work unbending sails, striking masts, and lowering spars on deck, and then the stuff was had up, and the deck regularly roofed in, so as to make a snug house of the ship. Stoves were rigged, snow hauled up round the hull, steps made up to the side, and one way or another all looked so jolly, that I began to reckon on spending my Christmas out in the polar regions. Then, too, extra clothes were sarved out, and gloves, and masks, and fur caps; and one way and another we got to make such stuffed mummies of ourselves, that a rare lot of joking went on.

“‘Wait a bit,’ says my mate, ‘it’ll be colder yet;’ and so it was, colder and colder, till I couldn’t have believed it possible that it could be a bit worse. But it could, though; for, before the winter was over, there’s been times when if a man went outside the vessel the cold would have cut him down dead almost in a moment, and he not able to help himself. Why, as I told you, down on the main-deck, the breath used to turn into a reg’lar fall of snow, and everything would freeze hard in spite of the roaring fires we kept up; and only think of it, just at this time it was always dark, for the sun had gone lower and lower, till at last he had not risen at all, and it was one long, dreary night, with every star seeming to shoot bright icy arrows at you to cut you down.

“The captain used to do all he could to cheer us up, and keep the horrors off; for you know they will come out there when you’re all in the dark and half froze, and wondering whether you’ll see home any more. Sometimes it would be exercise, sometimes a bit of a play, or skylarking. Then one officer or another would read, and we’d have have some music or yarn-spinning, and altogether we were very sociable; and so matters went on till it got to be Christmas-day.”

In whose honour Uncle Joe treated himself to a hearty libation from his steaming tumbler.

”—Christmas-day,” said my uncle, “andproceedings were made for a grand spread, in honour of the old day and them as we’d left behind us.

“Well, the officers made themselves very sociable, and the grog went round. Some chaps danced, others smoked, and one way and another things went on jolly; but though the little stoves roared till they got red-hot, yet there was a regular fog down between decks, while the captain said that it was about the coldest day we had had yet.

“Towards night it seemed to come on awful all at once, and first one and then another chap began shivering and twisting up his shoulders, and then I saw the captain, who was down, give a sharp look round, and then slip up on deck, where I heard him shout out.

“A dozen of us scrambled up on the covered-in deck, feeling cut in two with the icy wind that came down, and then we found as the door out of the bulwarks, and fitted in at the side, had been left open by some one—a door you know that just about this time used to mostly have a man aside it, and when our chaps went to the little ice-observatory it used to be banged to after ’em directly; while if it had been left open but one night, I daresay some on us wouldn’t have woke up any more.

“‘Who’s gone out?’ cries the captain, and then the men begins looking from one to the other, but no one answered.

“‘Where’s Joe Perry,’ shouts out some one in front of me. ‘It’s Joe Perry as is gone.’

“‘You’re a—something,’ I was going to say, but I was that vexed I didn’t say it; but, forgetting all about the officers, I gives my gentleman such a cuff on the ear, as sent him staggering; when instead of being angry, I saw the Cap bite his lip, and no end of chaps began sniggering.

“‘But where’s Bill Barker,’ I says, looking round, for I remembered seeing Bill go up the companion ladder about ten minutes before.

“‘Pass the word for William Barker,’ says the captain, and they passed it, but there was no answer, and then we knew that Bill must have slipped out against orders, thinking he wouldn’t be missed, while the chaps were keeping up Christmas, and forgetting that we should feel the cold from the door he was obliged to leave open, so as to get in again.

“‘Foolish fellow,’ cried the captain, stamping about the deck. ‘Volunteers there, who’ll fetch him in? These five will do,’ he says, and in a few minutes the first luff with five men, were all ready in their fur coats and boots, and masks over their faces, or I oughter say, our faces, for I was one of ’em. And yet you say it’s cold here now. Pooh! Why, we were no sooner outside in that bright starlight, with the northern lights hanging ahead of us, much like a rainbow, than it was as if your breath was taken away, and the wind cutting right through and through you, stiffening your joints, tingling powerfully in your nose, and seeming to make you numbed and stupid.

“‘Double,’ shouts the luff, and keeping our eyes about us, we began to trot along the snowy path towards the little observatory. But he wasn’t there. Then we ran a little one way, then another, and all keeping together as well as we could for the rough ice we were going over. But there was nothing to be seen anywhere on that side of the ship, so we trotted round to the other side, always keeping a sharp look out for our poor mate, and hoping after all that he would be all right; but going by my own feelings, I could not help feeling sure that if he had come out without the same things on as we had, it would go hard with him.

“‘Here look!’ some one shouted in a thick muffly voice, but we were all looking now towards where a couple of bears were coming slowly towards us, while quite plain between us lay on the white snow, the body of poor Bill Barker.

“‘Back to the ship,’ shouted the first luff, and we were soon once more a-top of the steps and inside, but you needn’t think we were going to leave our shipmet in that way, for the next minute saw us going back at the double, but this time well armed.

“As soon as we were within shot, the first luff kneels down, and taking aim, fired his double rifle right and left at the two great brutes that stood growling over poor Bill Barker.

“‘Stand firm, men,’ he says, then ‘prepare to charge.’ And then we five stood with our guns and bayonets ready for the brutes as began to come down upon us, while the luff got behind us, and began to load. You see he wouldn’t let us fire on account of poor Bill, and I s’pose he had more trust in his own gun than in ours, for he kept on fumbling away in the cold till he was loaded, which was when the brutes were only about a dozen yards off, when he drops on one knee aside me, and taking a good long aim fired when one brute was only five or six yards off—both barrels right into him, and rolled him over and over, just as he would have done a rabbit. But the next moment it was helter-skelter, and hooraying, for t’other bear was down on us with a rush, taking no more notice of our bayonets than if they had been so many toothpicks, and downing two of our chaps like nine-pins.

“‘Be firm, men,’ shouts the luff, and we three ran at the great brute that stood growling over our two mates, and I don’t know about what t’others did, but at one and the same moment, I drove the bayonet up to the gun muzzle right in the bear’s flank, and fired as well. Then it seemed that the gun was wrenched out of my hand, and I saw the great brute rear up above me, fetch me a pat with one of its paws, when I caught a glimpse of the luff and heard the sharp ring of his rifle again, and then I seemed to be smothered, for the great beast fell right upon me.

“I don’t know how long it was before they got help from the ship, and the great brute dragged off me; but I know that the next thing I remember is being carried into the ship through the doorway, and hearing some one say, that Bill Barker was frozen stiff and cold. But I soon came to, and excepting the bruises, there was nothing worse the matter than a broken rib, which I soon got the better of. But poor Bill was dead and frozen hard when they got him aboard, with his gun tight fixed in his hand, so that they could not get it away for some time; for though the poor chap knew all the orders well enough about going out without proper preparations, like many more of us, he couldn’t believe as the frost would have such power—power enough to cut him down before he’d walked a couple hundred yards, for it was something awful that night, though the little brawny chaps that live in those parts, seem to bear it very well.

“Freeze! why this is nothing: them two bears were masses of ice next morning when they hauled ’em on board, while everything we cut, had to be thawed first before the stove-fires. But then we had plenty of provisions, and I don’t think I once saw the grog get down so low, as in this here glass of mine—here present.”

My father took the hint, and replenished the old sailor’s glass.

Chapter Seventeen.Asher’s Last Hour.“Now, once for all,” said Asher Skurge, “if I don’t get my bit o’ rent by to-morrow at four o’clock, out you goes, bag and baggage, Christmas-eve or no Christmas-eve. If you can’t afford to pay rent, you’d best go in the house, and let them pay as will.” And Asher girded up his loins, and left Widow Bond and her children in their bare cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.And then came Christmas-eve and four o’clock, and no money; and, what was better, no Asher Skurge to turn out Widow Bond, “bag and baggage,” not a very difficult task, for there was not much of it. The cottage was well-furnished before Frank Bond’s ship was lost at sea, and the widow had to live by needlework, which, in her case, meant starving, although she found two or three friends in the village who were very sorry for her, or at all events said they were, which answered the same purpose.However, four o’clock grew near—came—passed—and no Asher. It was not very dark, for there was snow—bright, glittering snow upon the ground; but it gradually grew darker and darker, and with the deepening gloom. Mrs Bond’s spirits rose, for she felt that, leaving heart out of the question, old Skurge, the parish clerk, dare not turn her out that night on account of his own character. Five o’clock came, and then six, and still no Asher; and Widow Bond reasonably thought that something must be keeping him.Mrs Bond was right—something was keeping the clerk, and that something was the prettiest, yellow-haired, violet-eyed maiden that ever turned out not to be a dreadful heroine given to breaking up, and then pounding, the whole of the ten commandments in a way that would have staggered Moses himself. No; Amy Frith, the rector’s daughter, was not a wicked heroine, and now that she was busy giving the finishing touches to the altar-screen, and pricking her little fingers with holly till they bled, she would not let the old man go because young Harry Thornton, her father’s pupil, was there. And Amy knew that so sure as old Skurge took himself off, the young man would begin making love, which, though it may be crowned in a church, ought not to be made in the same place.The young man fumed and fretted; and the old man coughed and groaned and told of his rheumatics; but it was of no use; the maiden pitied them both, and would have set them at liberty on her own terms, but remained inexorable in other respects till the clock chimed half-past six, when the candles were extinguished, the dim old church left to its repose, and the late occupants took their departure to the rectory, and the long low cottage fifty yards from the church gates.“No; it couldn’t be done at any price—turn the woman out on such a night; the whole place would be up in arms; but he would go and see if there was any money for him;” and so Asher Skurge partook of his frugal tea by his very frugal fire, a fire which seemed to make him colder, for it was so small that the wintry winds, which came pelting in at keyhole and cranny, all hooted, and teased, and laughed at it, and rushed, and danced, and flitted round, so that they made a terrible commotion all about Asher’s chair, and gave him far more cause to complain of rheumatics than he had before.So Asher buttoned himself up, body and soul too; he buttoned his soul up so tight that there was not space for the smallest, tiniest shade of a glance or a ray of good feeling to peep out; and then he sallied forth out into the night-wind, with his nose as sharp and blue as if it had been made of steel; and, as he hurried along, it split the frosty wind right up, like the prow of a boat does water, and the sharp wind was thus split into two sharper winds, which went screeching behind him, to cut up the last remains of anything left growing.He was a keen man was Asher; as keen a man as ever said “Amen” after a prayer and didn’t mean it. Ill-natured folks said he only seemed in his element on Commination-day, when, after all the Curseds, he rolled out the Amens with the greatest of gusto, and as if he really did mean it, while the rector would quite shiver—but then the wind generally is easterly at commination time, in the cold spring. He used to boast that he had neither chick nor child, did Asher; and here again people would say it was a blessing, for one Skurge was enough in a village; and that it was a further blessing that his was a slow race. He was a cold-blooded old rascal; but for all that he was warm, inasmuch as he had well feathered his nest, and might by this time have been churchwarden; but he preferred being clerk, to the very great disgust of Parson Frith, who would gladly have been rid of him long enough before.It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a Christmas-eve; but nothing was too bad for Asher, who soon made the poor woman’s heart leap, and then sink with despair.Old Skurge was soon back in his own room, and the wind at last blew so very cold that he indulged in the extravagance of an extra shovel of coals, and a small chump of wood, and then he drew his pipe from the corner and began to smoke, filling the bowl out of a small white gallipot containing a mixture, half tobacco, half herbs, which he found most economical; for it did not merely spin out the tobacco, but no dropper-in ever cared about having a pipe of “Skurge’s particular,” as it was named in the village.Then, after smoking a bit, Asher seemed moved to proceed to further extravagance, in consequence of its being Christmas-eve; so he laid down his pipe, rubbed his ear, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a small key. The small key opened a small cupboard, wherein hung upon nails some half-dozen larger keys, one of which was taken down and used to open a larger cupboard, from which Asher Skurge brought forth a well-corked and tied-down bottle.A cunning, inhospitable old rascal, bringing out his hidden treasures to bib on a winter’s night alone. What was it in the old black bottle? Curaçoa, maraschino, cherry brandy, genuine hollands, potent rum, cognac? Hush! was it smuggled-up remains, or an odd bottle of sacramental wine? No, it was none of these; but it poured forth clear, bright, and amber-hued, with a creaming foam on the top; and—“blob;” what was that? a swollen raisin, and the grains that slipped to the bottom were rice.Then what could the liquid be? The old man sipped it and tried to look gratified, and sipped again, and took a long breath, and said “ha!” as he set down the glass, and proceeded to fish out the raisin and bits of rice, which he threw on the fire, and disgusted it to that extent that it spat and sputtered; after which he let the glass stand again for a long time before he attempted another taste, for the liquid was very small, very sour beer, six months in bottle. Another year, perhaps, might have improved its quality; but one thing was certain, and that was, that it could be no worse.But Asher Skurge was not going to show that he did not appreciate the sour beverage, for he considered himself quite bacchanalian; and, after one loud gust of wind, he poked his fire so recklessly that the poor thing turned faint, and nearly became extinct, but was at length tickled and coaxed into burning.“Nine of ’em,” said Asher, as the old Dutch clock in the corner gave warning of its intention to strike shortly; a chirping, jarring sound, as much as to say “stand clear or you’ll be hit;” and just then the clerk stopped short, put down his pipe again, and rubbed the side of his nose uneasily; got up and looked closer at the clock; went to the window and moved the blind to get a peep out, and then came back to the fire and sat rubbing his hands.“Never knew such a thing before in my life,” said Asher. “Never once forgot it before. And just at a time, too, when I’m comfortable. All that confounded woman’s fault for not paying her rent. Running after her when I’d my own business to attend to.” In fact, the old clerk had been so put out of his regular course that night, what with church decorations and hunting up Widow Bond, that he had quite forgotten to wind up the clock, the old church time-keeper that he had never let run down once for twenty years.It was a rough job though upon such a night, just as he was so comfortable, and enjoying his beer and tobacco in so jovial a manner. He looked in his almanac to make sure this was the right evening, and that he had not worked his ideas into a knot; but, no; his ideas were all straight and in good order, and this was the night for winding up.Couldn’t he leave it till the morning?Couldn’t he forget all about it?Couldn’t he wait half an hour?Couldn’t he—couldn’t he?—No; he couldn’t; for habits that have been grown into, can’t be cast off in a moment. They may be shabby, and they may be bad habits; they may hang in rags about the wearer, but for all that it takes some time to get rid of them; and if Asher Skurge had not wound up the clock upon this particular night, he would have been unable to sleep in his bed, he would have had the weights upon his chest, the lines hanging round his neck, and the pendulum vibrating within an inch of his nose, while the hands pointed at him, and called attention to his neglect.No; once a week had Asher Skurge wound up that clock; and, “will he, nill he,” it seemed he must go this night and perform his old duty. But he did wait more than half an hour, and then how he did snap, and snarl, and worry the air—the cold air of the room. He might have been taken for a wiry terrier showing his teeth with impotent rage while worried by the attacks of a flea legion; but there was nothing for it, and he got up and tied his comforter three times round his neck; brought the horn lanthorn out of the cupboard, and then tried to illumine the scrap of candle at the bottom. But there was no illumination in that candle. To begin with, it was only a fag-end—one where the cotton did not reach the end of the grease, and to make matters worse, it had been extinguished in that popular manner—snuffing out with wet fingers. Consequently the candle end spit, spat, and sputtered; sent off little fatty scintillations, and then went out. Lit again, it went through the same process, and upon repeating this twice, Asher grew wroth, seized the offending morsel, and dashed it into the fire, where it flared up and seemed to rejoice in the warmth, whilst its indignant owner wiped his fingers in his scant hair, and then lit a fresh piece, closed the lanthorn, and opened the door for a start.Talk about Will-o’-the-Wisps and hobgoblins, why Asher looked quite the equal of any ugly monstrosity of the imagination, as he went crunching and grumbling along the snowy path on his way to the belfry-door. The wind was colder than ever, while in spite of the howling din, it was bright and clear overhead, and the stars seemed not merely to twinkle, but quiver and dance.Asher’s journey was but a short one, and mostly along the narrow side path which led amongst the tombstones and wooden tablets; but he cared no more for tombstones, and night walks in churchyards, than he did for walks in the meadows; so on he went, “crunch, crunch,” on the frozen snow, never pausing to admire the beautiful old church in its Christmas mantle, but growling and grumbling, and if it had been any other man we might have said swearing, till he reached the door in the tower and fumbled in the big key.“Scraun-n-n-n-tch” went the old wards as the rusty key turned in the rusty lock; and “Crea-ee-ee-ak” went the great door upon its old hinges; and then setting down his lanthorn, Asher tried to shut the door again to keep out the bitter wind. But the door would not shut, but seemed as if something was pushing it back against him; and it was not until after two or three vigorous thrusts, that the old man stopped to scratch his head, and took up his lanthorn and examined the hinges; when, sure enough, there was something which prevented the door closing, for there was a great bone stuck in the crack, and it was so squeezed and jammed in that it took a great deal of getting out. But when it was got out, Asher threw it savagely away, for he minded not a bone or two when there was quite a heap in the corner behind him; so he threw it savagely away, and gave the door a bang which made the old tower jar, and the light in his lanthorn quiver, while just then there was a rattling noise, and something round came rolling up to him and stopped up against his feet so that the old man gave quite a start.“Bah!” exclaimed Asher directly after, for he made no more account of a skull than the grave-digger in Hamlet. “Bah?” he exclaimed; and he gave the skull a fierce kick to send it back to the heap from whence it had rolled. But just then Asher gave a leap—a most nimble one, too, for so old a man; for the skull seemed to have seized him by the foot, and stuck tightly to his heavy boot, which he had driven through the thin bone, and half buried in the internal cavity.“Why, what the—?” What Asher would have said remains unknown, for he stopped short just as a mighty rush of wind smote the door, howled through the bottom of the tower, and nearly extinguished the horn-protected candle. The old man did not say any more, but kicked and kicked at the skull till it was loosened, when it flew off, and up against the stone wall with a sharp crack, and then down upon the floor; while Asher seized his lanthorn, and, troubled with an unusual feeling of trepidation, began to ascend the ricketty old oak ladder which led up to the floor where the bell-ringers had been that night pulling a few changes out of the five bells.Asher Skurge crossed the floor, threading his way amongst the ropes, and then began to mount the next ladder; for there was no spiral staircase here. Up the ricketty, loose rounds, and then rising like a stage ghost through a trap-door, the clerk stood at length in the second floor amongst the ropes, which passed through to the bells above; and here, shut up in a gigantic cupboard, was the great clock whose announcements of the flight of time floated over vale and lea.As the clerk drew near, all at once there began a whizzing, whirring noise, which drowned the “tic-tac; tic-tac” of the pendulum; and then loud and clear—too loud and too clear—sounded the great bell-hammer within, announcing that it was eleven o’clock.“Ah!” growled Asher, as soon as the clock had struck; “nice time for my job!” and then he pulled out another key, and prepared to open the great clock cupboard.“Hallo?” said Asher, “what now?” and he started back a step, for there was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright, glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and then popped in again.Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that sort of chaff—he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got to the end of Asher’s spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his breast.“Gammon!” muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards the cupboard again. “Gammon!” he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth widely.“It’s the strong ale,” said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole with the key, when “bang, crash;” the door flew open and struck him in the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you’ll say, “there he lay in the dark!”Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same object—forcing on the clock—hurry and bustle—bustle and hurry—up and down—down and up—climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and obstinate man was he, and he wouldn’t believe it a bit, and told himself in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in the room at home.“I don’t care; it’s all gammon!” exclaimed the clerk; “and if I was to say, ‘crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,’ they’d all vanish.”“No, they wouldn’t, Asher!” said a small voice close at his ear.“Eh?” said Asher, starting.“No, they wouldn’t, Asher,” said the voice again; “not till they’ve kept the clock going till your time’s up. You wanted it to run down, but we didn’t.”Asher stared about him, and then saw that the tiny figure which first gazed at him from the keyhole was now squatted, nursing its knees, upon his lanthorn, and gazing fixedly at him.“They wouldn’t vanish, Asher,” said the tiny figure; “and here they come.”As it finished speaking, the little spirits came trooping towards Asher, and dragged out of his pocket a small key, which opened a padlock, and loosened a chain, and set at liberty the key of the great timepiece; for Asher was determined that no other hands should touchhisclock, as he called it; but now he saw a couple of score of little figures seize the key, fit it in the hole, and then toil at it till they turned it round and round, and wound up first one and then the other weight.“How much longer?” cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.“One hour,” cried all the other spirits in chorus; and the two words seemed to ring in Asher’s ears, and then go buzzing round the place, and even up and amongst the bells, so that there was a sort of dumb pealing echo of the words.“‘One hour,’” cried Asher, at length; “what’s ‘one hour’?”“One hour more for you,” said the little spirit, staring unwinkingly, with its little diamond eyes fixed upon Asher, while its mite of a chin rested upon its little bare knees.“What do you mean,” said Asher, fiercely, “with your one more hour?” and then he tried to get up, but could not, for he found that a number of the little figures had busily tied him with the bell-ropes; and there he was fast, hand and foot.“What do I mean?” said the little figure; “lie still, and I’ll tell you, Asher. I mean that your time’s nearly up, and that you have now only fifty-six minutes left.”“It must be the strong ale,” muttered Asher, turning hot all over, after vainly trying to loosen his bands. “It must be the strong ale; but I think, perhaps, I’ll let Mrs Bond stay another week.”“Ha! ha! ha! she’s all right. You see you didn’t make a will, Asher.”“How do you know?” cried the old man, now growing quite alarmed. “Who says I didn’t make a will?”“I do,” said the little figure. “But don’t waste time, man. Only fifty minutes; and time’s precious.”“But who are you?” cried Asher, excitedly.“Me?” said the little thing. “Oh, I’m only a second, like those climbing about the clock; and I’m the last one in your hour. There’s one beat off by the pendulum every moment. Don’t you see fresh ones keep going down?”“No!” growled Asher, savagely, “I don’t.” But he did though, for all that, though he would not own to it. There they were, clinging to the great round ball of the pendulum, and one dropping off at every beat, while fresh ones kept gliding down the long shaft into their places. What became of the others he could not tell, for, as they fell off, they seemed to dissolve in the glow which lit up the old clock’s works.It was of no use to struggle, for the efforts only made the ropes cut into his wrists and legs; and if it had not been that the rope which went round his neck was the part covered with worsted to save the ringers’ hands, it seemed to him that he would have been strangled. He was horribly frightened, but he would not own to it, and, in spite of the fierce cold, he felt wet with perspiration.“How slow the time goes,” said the little figure. “I want to be off. You’re about ready, I suppose.”“No I’m not,” cried Asher furiously, “I’ve no end to do.”“Turn out Widow Bond for one thing,” said the figure with a mocking leer. “Never mind about that. Only forty-five more minutes now.”“What a horrible dream,” cried Asher in agony.“’Tisn’t a dream,” said the little figure. “You pinch your leg and try now, or stop, I will,” and in a moment the tiny fellow leaped down and nipped the clerk’s leg so vigorously that he shrieked with pain.“Don’t feel like a dream, does it?” said the spirit.“Don’t think it does,” said Asher, “at least I never dreamed so loud before that I know of.”“No, I shouldn’t think you did, but you won’t dream any more,” said the little spirit.“You don’t mean that?” said Asher in a pitiful voice.“I shouldn’t have said it if I had not,” said the spirit. “Do you suppose we speak falsely?”“Oh, I don’t know,” groaned Asher. “But, I say, let me go this time.”“Thirty-five minutes,” said the little spirit; “only thirty-five minutes more, and then my work’s done, and yours too.”Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only tightened the ropes and made one of the bells above give a sonorous clang, which sounded like a knell to the groaning clerk.“How are you going to do it?” he cried at last.“Going to do what?” said the spirit.“Going to—to—to—make an end of me?” said Asher.“Oh!” said the spirit, “I shan’t have anything to do with it. Some of those to come will do that; I shall be gone. I suppose they’ll only put your head under the big hammer which strikes the hour, and it will do all that, so that people will say it was an accident. Only twenty-five minutes now.”Asher turned as white as the parson’s surplice, and his teeth chattered as he groaned out:—“Oh! what for? what for?”“Why, you see, you are no good,” said the spirit, “and only in the way, so some one else may just as well be in your place. What do you know of love, or friendship, or affection, or anything genial? Why you’re cold enough to chill the whole parish. Only a quarter of an hour now.”Ten minutes after the little spirit told the trembling man that he had but five minutes more, and four of these were wasted in unavailing struggles and prayers for release, when all at once Asher felt himself seized by hundreds of tiny hands. The cords were tightened till their pressure was agonising; and then he seemed to be floated up into the great open floor where the bells hung in the massive oaken framework, and though he could not see it, he knew well enough where the tenor bell was, and also how the great iron clock hammer was fixed, which would crush his skull like an egg-shell.Asher struggled and tried to scream, but he felt himself impelled towards the bell, and directly after his cheek was resting upon the cold metal on one side, while the great hammer barely touched his temple on the other, and he knew when it was raised that it would come down with a fierce crash, and he shuddered as he thought of the splashed bell, and the blood, and brains, and hair clinging to the hammer.“And they’ll say it was an accident,” muttered Asher to himself, quoting the spirit’s remark. “They’ll never give me credit for doing it myself. I’m the wrong sort.” And then the thoughts of a life seemed crowded into that last minute, and he shuddered to see what a little good he had done. Always money and self, and now what was it worth? He had pinched and punished all around him for the sake of heaping up riches, and now above all would come in those words—“Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.”Thoughts crowded through the wretched man’s brain thick and fast. He seemed living his life through in these few remaining seconds, while above all there was the reproaching face of the poor widow whom he would have cast out that night homeless and friendless upon the bitter world. He could not explain it to himself, but it seemed that this face kept him down where he was more than anything else. There was no anger upon it, nothing but bitter sorrowful reproach, and though he would have closed his eyes he could not hide from his gaze that sad countenance. But now came the horror of death, for he seemed to see the little spirits glide down the pendulum far beneath him, rest for a moment upon the bob, and then as one was beaten off, up rose the hammer, and he felt its cold touch leave his temple. Up—up—higher—higher—and now it was about to come down and would dash out his brains. It was coming, and all was over, and for that second the agony he suffered was intense. Then down it came, after seeming to be poised in the air for an awful space of time, and at last came the fearful stroke.“Clang,” and his brain rocked and reeled as the blow fell upon the sonorous metal close by his forehead. The piercing tones rang through him, but before he could collect his thoughts—“Clang” went the hammer again again, and yet his heart did not revive, for he felt that it would be thelaststroke which would crush him.“Clang—clang—clang—clang” came the solemn tones of the great bell; solemn, although they seemed to split his head with the noise, and now he had counted eleven, and the last blow was about to fall. The hammer was rising—slowly rising—and in less than a moment he felt that the blow would come. He could not struggle, though he was being impelled nearer and nearer. He could not cry. He could not move; and at last, after an agonising suspense, during which the widow’s imploring, reproachful face was pressing closer and closer, down came the great hammer for the twelfth stroke—“Crash!”“The clock stopped; and the bells won’t ring,” said a cheery voice; “and on a Christmas-morning, too. Let me try.”Asher Skurge heard the voice, and directly after he shrieked out with pain, for he felt something cutting into his leg, and this caused him to open his eyes, and to see that his lanthorn lay close beside him; that he was regularly wrapped, tied, and tangled with the bell-ropes, while the clock cupboard lay open before him—the clock at a standstill—probably from the cold; while, as for himself, he was quite at a lie-still, and there had been some one dragging at one of the ropes so as almost to cut his leg in two.Directly after the head of young Harry Thornton appeared above the trap-door, and then at his call came the sexton; but more help was needed before Asher Skurge could be got down the ladders and across the churchyard to his cottage, where, what with rheumatics and lumbago, the old man is not so fond of winter night walks as of old.But though Asher would as soon of thought of turning himself out as Widow Bond, he did not have her long for a tenant, for her husband’s ship was not lost; and after three years’ absence, Frank Bond came back safe and sound, but so weatherbeaten as hardly to be recognised.But Asher Skurge was ever after an altered man, for it seemed to him that he had taken out a new lease of his life, and in spite of neighbourly sneers, he set heartily to work to repair his soul’s tenement. You can see where it has been patched; and even now it is far from perfect, but there are much worse men in the world than Asher Skurge, even if he does believe in spirits, and you might have a worse man for a landlord than the obstinate old clerk, who so highly offended the new vicar because he would not go and wind up the clock after dark.

“Now, once for all,” said Asher Skurge, “if I don’t get my bit o’ rent by to-morrow at four o’clock, out you goes, bag and baggage, Christmas-eve or no Christmas-eve. If you can’t afford to pay rent, you’d best go in the house, and let them pay as will.” And Asher girded up his loins, and left Widow Bond and her children in their bare cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.

And then came Christmas-eve and four o’clock, and no money; and, what was better, no Asher Skurge to turn out Widow Bond, “bag and baggage,” not a very difficult task, for there was not much of it. The cottage was well-furnished before Frank Bond’s ship was lost at sea, and the widow had to live by needlework, which, in her case, meant starving, although she found two or three friends in the village who were very sorry for her, or at all events said they were, which answered the same purpose.

However, four o’clock grew near—came—passed—and no Asher. It was not very dark, for there was snow—bright, glittering snow upon the ground; but it gradually grew darker and darker, and with the deepening gloom. Mrs Bond’s spirits rose, for she felt that, leaving heart out of the question, old Skurge, the parish clerk, dare not turn her out that night on account of his own character. Five o’clock came, and then six, and still no Asher; and Widow Bond reasonably thought that something must be keeping him.

Mrs Bond was right—something was keeping the clerk, and that something was the prettiest, yellow-haired, violet-eyed maiden that ever turned out not to be a dreadful heroine given to breaking up, and then pounding, the whole of the ten commandments in a way that would have staggered Moses himself. No; Amy Frith, the rector’s daughter, was not a wicked heroine, and now that she was busy giving the finishing touches to the altar-screen, and pricking her little fingers with holly till they bled, she would not let the old man go because young Harry Thornton, her father’s pupil, was there. And Amy knew that so sure as old Skurge took himself off, the young man would begin making love, which, though it may be crowned in a church, ought not to be made in the same place.

The young man fumed and fretted; and the old man coughed and groaned and told of his rheumatics; but it was of no use; the maiden pitied them both, and would have set them at liberty on her own terms, but remained inexorable in other respects till the clock chimed half-past six, when the candles were extinguished, the dim old church left to its repose, and the late occupants took their departure to the rectory, and the long low cottage fifty yards from the church gates.

“No; it couldn’t be done at any price—turn the woman out on such a night; the whole place would be up in arms; but he would go and see if there was any money for him;” and so Asher Skurge partook of his frugal tea by his very frugal fire, a fire which seemed to make him colder, for it was so small that the wintry winds, which came pelting in at keyhole and cranny, all hooted, and teased, and laughed at it, and rushed, and danced, and flitted round, so that they made a terrible commotion all about Asher’s chair, and gave him far more cause to complain of rheumatics than he had before.

So Asher buttoned himself up, body and soul too; he buttoned his soul up so tight that there was not space for the smallest, tiniest shade of a glance or a ray of good feeling to peep out; and then he sallied forth out into the night-wind, with his nose as sharp and blue as if it had been made of steel; and, as he hurried along, it split the frosty wind right up, like the prow of a boat does water, and the sharp wind was thus split into two sharper winds, which went screeching behind him, to cut up the last remains of anything left growing.

He was a keen man was Asher; as keen a man as ever said “Amen” after a prayer and didn’t mean it. Ill-natured folks said he only seemed in his element on Commination-day, when, after all the Curseds, he rolled out the Amens with the greatest of gusto, and as if he really did mean it, while the rector would quite shiver—but then the wind generally is easterly at commination time, in the cold spring. He used to boast that he had neither chick nor child, did Asher; and here again people would say it was a blessing, for one Skurge was enough in a village; and that it was a further blessing that his was a slow race. He was a cold-blooded old rascal; but for all that he was warm, inasmuch as he had well feathered his nest, and might by this time have been churchwarden; but he preferred being clerk, to the very great disgust of Parson Frith, who would gladly have been rid of him long enough before.

It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a Christmas-eve; but nothing was too bad for Asher, who soon made the poor woman’s heart leap, and then sink with despair.

Old Skurge was soon back in his own room, and the wind at last blew so very cold that he indulged in the extravagance of an extra shovel of coals, and a small chump of wood, and then he drew his pipe from the corner and began to smoke, filling the bowl out of a small white gallipot containing a mixture, half tobacco, half herbs, which he found most economical; for it did not merely spin out the tobacco, but no dropper-in ever cared about having a pipe of “Skurge’s particular,” as it was named in the village.

Then, after smoking a bit, Asher seemed moved to proceed to further extravagance, in consequence of its being Christmas-eve; so he laid down his pipe, rubbed his ear, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a small key. The small key opened a small cupboard, wherein hung upon nails some half-dozen larger keys, one of which was taken down and used to open a larger cupboard, from which Asher Skurge brought forth a well-corked and tied-down bottle.

A cunning, inhospitable old rascal, bringing out his hidden treasures to bib on a winter’s night alone. What was it in the old black bottle? Curaçoa, maraschino, cherry brandy, genuine hollands, potent rum, cognac? Hush! was it smuggled-up remains, or an odd bottle of sacramental wine? No, it was none of these; but it poured forth clear, bright, and amber-hued, with a creaming foam on the top; and—“blob;” what was that? a swollen raisin, and the grains that slipped to the bottom were rice.

Then what could the liquid be? The old man sipped it and tried to look gratified, and sipped again, and took a long breath, and said “ha!” as he set down the glass, and proceeded to fish out the raisin and bits of rice, which he threw on the fire, and disgusted it to that extent that it spat and sputtered; after which he let the glass stand again for a long time before he attempted another taste, for the liquid was very small, very sour beer, six months in bottle. Another year, perhaps, might have improved its quality; but one thing was certain, and that was, that it could be no worse.

But Asher Skurge was not going to show that he did not appreciate the sour beverage, for he considered himself quite bacchanalian; and, after one loud gust of wind, he poked his fire so recklessly that the poor thing turned faint, and nearly became extinct, but was at length tickled and coaxed into burning.

“Nine of ’em,” said Asher, as the old Dutch clock in the corner gave warning of its intention to strike shortly; a chirping, jarring sound, as much as to say “stand clear or you’ll be hit;” and just then the clerk stopped short, put down his pipe again, and rubbed the side of his nose uneasily; got up and looked closer at the clock; went to the window and moved the blind to get a peep out, and then came back to the fire and sat rubbing his hands.

“Never knew such a thing before in my life,” said Asher. “Never once forgot it before. And just at a time, too, when I’m comfortable. All that confounded woman’s fault for not paying her rent. Running after her when I’d my own business to attend to.” In fact, the old clerk had been so put out of his regular course that night, what with church decorations and hunting up Widow Bond, that he had quite forgotten to wind up the clock, the old church time-keeper that he had never let run down once for twenty years.

It was a rough job though upon such a night, just as he was so comfortable, and enjoying his beer and tobacco in so jovial a manner. He looked in his almanac to make sure this was the right evening, and that he had not worked his ideas into a knot; but, no; his ideas were all straight and in good order, and this was the night for winding up.

Couldn’t he leave it till the morning?

Couldn’t he forget all about it?

Couldn’t he wait half an hour?

Couldn’t he—couldn’t he?—No; he couldn’t; for habits that have been grown into, can’t be cast off in a moment. They may be shabby, and they may be bad habits; they may hang in rags about the wearer, but for all that it takes some time to get rid of them; and if Asher Skurge had not wound up the clock upon this particular night, he would have been unable to sleep in his bed, he would have had the weights upon his chest, the lines hanging round his neck, and the pendulum vibrating within an inch of his nose, while the hands pointed at him, and called attention to his neglect.

No; once a week had Asher Skurge wound up that clock; and, “will he, nill he,” it seemed he must go this night and perform his old duty. But he did wait more than half an hour, and then how he did snap, and snarl, and worry the air—the cold air of the room. He might have been taken for a wiry terrier showing his teeth with impotent rage while worried by the attacks of a flea legion; but there was nothing for it, and he got up and tied his comforter three times round his neck; brought the horn lanthorn out of the cupboard, and then tried to illumine the scrap of candle at the bottom. But there was no illumination in that candle. To begin with, it was only a fag-end—one where the cotton did not reach the end of the grease, and to make matters worse, it had been extinguished in that popular manner—snuffing out with wet fingers. Consequently the candle end spit, spat, and sputtered; sent off little fatty scintillations, and then went out. Lit again, it went through the same process, and upon repeating this twice, Asher grew wroth, seized the offending morsel, and dashed it into the fire, where it flared up and seemed to rejoice in the warmth, whilst its indignant owner wiped his fingers in his scant hair, and then lit a fresh piece, closed the lanthorn, and opened the door for a start.

Talk about Will-o’-the-Wisps and hobgoblins, why Asher looked quite the equal of any ugly monstrosity of the imagination, as he went crunching and grumbling along the snowy path on his way to the belfry-door. The wind was colder than ever, while in spite of the howling din, it was bright and clear overhead, and the stars seemed not merely to twinkle, but quiver and dance.

Asher’s journey was but a short one, and mostly along the narrow side path which led amongst the tombstones and wooden tablets; but he cared no more for tombstones, and night walks in churchyards, than he did for walks in the meadows; so on he went, “crunch, crunch,” on the frozen snow, never pausing to admire the beautiful old church in its Christmas mantle, but growling and grumbling, and if it had been any other man we might have said swearing, till he reached the door in the tower and fumbled in the big key.

“Scraun-n-n-n-tch” went the old wards as the rusty key turned in the rusty lock; and “Crea-ee-ee-ak” went the great door upon its old hinges; and then setting down his lanthorn, Asher tried to shut the door again to keep out the bitter wind. But the door would not shut, but seemed as if something was pushing it back against him; and it was not until after two or three vigorous thrusts, that the old man stopped to scratch his head, and took up his lanthorn and examined the hinges; when, sure enough, there was something which prevented the door closing, for there was a great bone stuck in the crack, and it was so squeezed and jammed in that it took a great deal of getting out. But when it was got out, Asher threw it savagely away, for he minded not a bone or two when there was quite a heap in the corner behind him; so he threw it savagely away, and gave the door a bang which made the old tower jar, and the light in his lanthorn quiver, while just then there was a rattling noise, and something round came rolling up to him and stopped up against his feet so that the old man gave quite a start.

“Bah!” exclaimed Asher directly after, for he made no more account of a skull than the grave-digger in Hamlet. “Bah?” he exclaimed; and he gave the skull a fierce kick to send it back to the heap from whence it had rolled. But just then Asher gave a leap—a most nimble one, too, for so old a man; for the skull seemed to have seized him by the foot, and stuck tightly to his heavy boot, which he had driven through the thin bone, and half buried in the internal cavity.

“Why, what the—?” What Asher would have said remains unknown, for he stopped short just as a mighty rush of wind smote the door, howled through the bottom of the tower, and nearly extinguished the horn-protected candle. The old man did not say any more, but kicked and kicked at the skull till it was loosened, when it flew off, and up against the stone wall with a sharp crack, and then down upon the floor; while Asher seized his lanthorn, and, troubled with an unusual feeling of trepidation, began to ascend the ricketty old oak ladder which led up to the floor where the bell-ringers had been that night pulling a few changes out of the five bells.

Asher Skurge crossed the floor, threading his way amongst the ropes, and then began to mount the next ladder; for there was no spiral staircase here. Up the ricketty, loose rounds, and then rising like a stage ghost through a trap-door, the clerk stood at length in the second floor amongst the ropes, which passed through to the bells above; and here, shut up in a gigantic cupboard, was the great clock whose announcements of the flight of time floated over vale and lea.

As the clerk drew near, all at once there began a whizzing, whirring noise, which drowned the “tic-tac; tic-tac” of the pendulum; and then loud and clear—too loud and too clear—sounded the great bell-hammer within, announcing that it was eleven o’clock.

“Ah!” growled Asher, as soon as the clock had struck; “nice time for my job!” and then he pulled out another key, and prepared to open the great clock cupboard.

“Hallo?” said Asher, “what now?” and he started back a step, for there was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright, glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and then popped in again.

Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that sort of chaff—he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got to the end of Asher’s spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his breast.

“Gammon!” muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards the cupboard again. “Gammon!” he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth widely.

“It’s the strong ale,” said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole with the key, when “bang, crash;” the door flew open and struck him in the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you’ll say, “there he lay in the dark!”

Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same object—forcing on the clock—hurry and bustle—bustle and hurry—up and down—down and up—climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.

Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and obstinate man was he, and he wouldn’t believe it a bit, and told himself in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in the room at home.

“I don’t care; it’s all gammon!” exclaimed the clerk; “and if I was to say, ‘crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,’ they’d all vanish.”

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher!” said a small voice close at his ear.

“Eh?” said Asher, starting.

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher,” said the voice again; “not till they’ve kept the clock going till your time’s up. You wanted it to run down, but we didn’t.”

Asher stared about him, and then saw that the tiny figure which first gazed at him from the keyhole was now squatted, nursing its knees, upon his lanthorn, and gazing fixedly at him.

“They wouldn’t vanish, Asher,” said the tiny figure; “and here they come.”

As it finished speaking, the little spirits came trooping towards Asher, and dragged out of his pocket a small key, which opened a padlock, and loosened a chain, and set at liberty the key of the great timepiece; for Asher was determined that no other hands should touchhisclock, as he called it; but now he saw a couple of score of little figures seize the key, fit it in the hole, and then toil at it till they turned it round and round, and wound up first one and then the other weight.

“How much longer?” cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.

“One hour,” cried all the other spirits in chorus; and the two words seemed to ring in Asher’s ears, and then go buzzing round the place, and even up and amongst the bells, so that there was a sort of dumb pealing echo of the words.

“‘One hour,’” cried Asher, at length; “what’s ‘one hour’?”

“One hour more for you,” said the little spirit, staring unwinkingly, with its little diamond eyes fixed upon Asher, while its mite of a chin rested upon its little bare knees.

“What do you mean,” said Asher, fiercely, “with your one more hour?” and then he tried to get up, but could not, for he found that a number of the little figures had busily tied him with the bell-ropes; and there he was fast, hand and foot.

“What do I mean?” said the little figure; “lie still, and I’ll tell you, Asher. I mean that your time’s nearly up, and that you have now only fifty-six minutes left.”

“It must be the strong ale,” muttered Asher, turning hot all over, after vainly trying to loosen his bands. “It must be the strong ale; but I think, perhaps, I’ll let Mrs Bond stay another week.”

“Ha! ha! ha! she’s all right. You see you didn’t make a will, Asher.”

“How do you know?” cried the old man, now growing quite alarmed. “Who says I didn’t make a will?”

“I do,” said the little figure. “But don’t waste time, man. Only fifty minutes; and time’s precious.”

“But who are you?” cried Asher, excitedly.

“Me?” said the little thing. “Oh, I’m only a second, like those climbing about the clock; and I’m the last one in your hour. There’s one beat off by the pendulum every moment. Don’t you see fresh ones keep going down?”

“No!” growled Asher, savagely, “I don’t.” But he did though, for all that, though he would not own to it. There they were, clinging to the great round ball of the pendulum, and one dropping off at every beat, while fresh ones kept gliding down the long shaft into their places. What became of the others he could not tell, for, as they fell off, they seemed to dissolve in the glow which lit up the old clock’s works.

It was of no use to struggle, for the efforts only made the ropes cut into his wrists and legs; and if it had not been that the rope which went round his neck was the part covered with worsted to save the ringers’ hands, it seemed to him that he would have been strangled. He was horribly frightened, but he would not own to it, and, in spite of the fierce cold, he felt wet with perspiration.

“How slow the time goes,” said the little figure. “I want to be off. You’re about ready, I suppose.”

“No I’m not,” cried Asher furiously, “I’ve no end to do.”

“Turn out Widow Bond for one thing,” said the figure with a mocking leer. “Never mind about that. Only forty-five more minutes now.”

“What a horrible dream,” cried Asher in agony.

“’Tisn’t a dream,” said the little figure. “You pinch your leg and try now, or stop, I will,” and in a moment the tiny fellow leaped down and nipped the clerk’s leg so vigorously that he shrieked with pain.

“Don’t feel like a dream, does it?” said the spirit.

“Don’t think it does,” said Asher, “at least I never dreamed so loud before that I know of.”

“No, I shouldn’t think you did, but you won’t dream any more,” said the little spirit.

“You don’t mean that?” said Asher in a pitiful voice.

“I shouldn’t have said it if I had not,” said the spirit. “Do you suppose we speak falsely?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” groaned Asher. “But, I say, let me go this time.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” said the little spirit; “only thirty-five minutes more, and then my work’s done, and yours too.”

Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only tightened the ropes and made one of the bells above give a sonorous clang, which sounded like a knell to the groaning clerk.

“How are you going to do it?” he cried at last.

“Going to do what?” said the spirit.

“Going to—to—to—make an end of me?” said Asher.

“Oh!” said the spirit, “I shan’t have anything to do with it. Some of those to come will do that; I shall be gone. I suppose they’ll only put your head under the big hammer which strikes the hour, and it will do all that, so that people will say it was an accident. Only twenty-five minutes now.”

Asher turned as white as the parson’s surplice, and his teeth chattered as he groaned out:—

“Oh! what for? what for?”

“Why, you see, you are no good,” said the spirit, “and only in the way, so some one else may just as well be in your place. What do you know of love, or friendship, or affection, or anything genial? Why you’re cold enough to chill the whole parish. Only a quarter of an hour now.”

Ten minutes after the little spirit told the trembling man that he had but five minutes more, and four of these were wasted in unavailing struggles and prayers for release, when all at once Asher felt himself seized by hundreds of tiny hands. The cords were tightened till their pressure was agonising; and then he seemed to be floated up into the great open floor where the bells hung in the massive oaken framework, and though he could not see it, he knew well enough where the tenor bell was, and also how the great iron clock hammer was fixed, which would crush his skull like an egg-shell.

Asher struggled and tried to scream, but he felt himself impelled towards the bell, and directly after his cheek was resting upon the cold metal on one side, while the great hammer barely touched his temple on the other, and he knew when it was raised that it would come down with a fierce crash, and he shuddered as he thought of the splashed bell, and the blood, and brains, and hair clinging to the hammer.

“And they’ll say it was an accident,” muttered Asher to himself, quoting the spirit’s remark. “They’ll never give me credit for doing it myself. I’m the wrong sort.” And then the thoughts of a life seemed crowded into that last minute, and he shuddered to see what a little good he had done. Always money and self, and now what was it worth? He had pinched and punished all around him for the sake of heaping up riches, and now above all would come in those words—

“Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.”

Thoughts crowded through the wretched man’s brain thick and fast. He seemed living his life through in these few remaining seconds, while above all there was the reproaching face of the poor widow whom he would have cast out that night homeless and friendless upon the bitter world. He could not explain it to himself, but it seemed that this face kept him down where he was more than anything else. There was no anger upon it, nothing but bitter sorrowful reproach, and though he would have closed his eyes he could not hide from his gaze that sad countenance. But now came the horror of death, for he seemed to see the little spirits glide down the pendulum far beneath him, rest for a moment upon the bob, and then as one was beaten off, up rose the hammer, and he felt its cold touch leave his temple. Up—up—higher—higher—and now it was about to come down and would dash out his brains. It was coming, and all was over, and for that second the agony he suffered was intense. Then down it came, after seeming to be poised in the air for an awful space of time, and at last came the fearful stroke.

“Clang,” and his brain rocked and reeled as the blow fell upon the sonorous metal close by his forehead. The piercing tones rang through him, but before he could collect his thoughts—“Clang” went the hammer again again, and yet his heart did not revive, for he felt that it would be thelaststroke which would crush him.

“Clang—clang—clang—clang” came the solemn tones of the great bell; solemn, although they seemed to split his head with the noise, and now he had counted eleven, and the last blow was about to fall. The hammer was rising—slowly rising—and in less than a moment he felt that the blow would come. He could not struggle, though he was being impelled nearer and nearer. He could not cry. He could not move; and at last, after an agonising suspense, during which the widow’s imploring, reproachful face was pressing closer and closer, down came the great hammer for the twelfth stroke—

“Crash!”

“The clock stopped; and the bells won’t ring,” said a cheery voice; “and on a Christmas-morning, too. Let me try.”

Asher Skurge heard the voice, and directly after he shrieked out with pain, for he felt something cutting into his leg, and this caused him to open his eyes, and to see that his lanthorn lay close beside him; that he was regularly wrapped, tied, and tangled with the bell-ropes, while the clock cupboard lay open before him—the clock at a standstill—probably from the cold; while, as for himself, he was quite at a lie-still, and there had been some one dragging at one of the ropes so as almost to cut his leg in two.

Directly after the head of young Harry Thornton appeared above the trap-door, and then at his call came the sexton; but more help was needed before Asher Skurge could be got down the ladders and across the churchyard to his cottage, where, what with rheumatics and lumbago, the old man is not so fond of winter night walks as of old.

But though Asher would as soon of thought of turning himself out as Widow Bond, he did not have her long for a tenant, for her husband’s ship was not lost; and after three years’ absence, Frank Bond came back safe and sound, but so weatherbeaten as hardly to be recognised.

But Asher Skurge was ever after an altered man, for it seemed to him that he had taken out a new lease of his life, and in spite of neighbourly sneers, he set heartily to work to repair his soul’s tenement. You can see where it has been patched; and even now it is far from perfect, but there are much worse men in the world than Asher Skurge, even if he does believe in spirits, and you might have a worse man for a landlord than the obstinate old clerk, who so highly offended the new vicar because he would not go and wind up the clock after dark.

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