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Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume I

by M. Y. Halidom · English · Gutenberg #33688 · 568,901 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume I

Author: M. Y. Halidom

Illustrator: John Jellicoe
        Val R. Prince


        
Release date: September 9, 2010 [eBook #33688]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33688

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF THE WONDER CLUB, VOLUME I ***




Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                          TALES OF
                      THE WONDER CLUB.

                            BY
                         DRYASDUST


                        [Decoration]


                       ILLUSTRATED BY
                JOHN JELLICOE AND VAL PRINCE,
                AFTER DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR.


              HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL,
 _Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales._

                   _All rights reserved._




            LONDON:
 PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO.,
   16, WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W.




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                           PAGE

 FRONTISPIECE                --

 TITLE PAGE                  --

 THE PHANTOM FLEA            17

 THE SPIRIT LOVERS           57

 THE GLACIER KING           118

 THE MERMAID                129

 THE PIGMY QUEEN            202

 THE SPIRIT LEG             314

 LOST IN THE CATACOMBS      373




INTRODUCTION.

A PEEP AT THE WONDER CLUB.


Towards the close of the last century there stood in one of the Midland
counties of England, in the centre of two cross-roads, a venerable
hostelry, built in the reign of Elizabeth, and known by the sign of "Ye
Headless Lady." Its ancient gables were shaded by luxuriant elms and
beech trees. The woodwork of the building and its weather-stained walls
of brick were partially overgrown with thick ivy, while its high,
dingy-red roof was tinted with every variety of lichen. The windows were
narrow, and the framework heavy, as is usual in houses of that period.

The host of this establishment, one Jack Hearty, was one of the old
school of landlords--robust, jovial, and never above his business. His
fathers had owned the inn before him, and "he never wished to be a
better man than his father, nor a worse either, for the matter of that,"
as he would say. All day long, when not engaged with his customers
indoors, he was to be seen at the door of his inn, with his apron girt
around him, and a "yard of clay" at his lips, straining his eyes down
the long cross-roads for the first glimpse of a customer.

Often after gazing long and intently into the distance he would turn
back with a sigh, knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it, take a deep
draught of his own home-brewed ale, then, if none of his customers
required anything, and the affairs of his household permitted it, he
would sally out again. This time, perhaps, his eyes would be greeted by
the sight of a solitary wayfarer, or, better still, the stage-coach.
Then it was that the honest landlord's face would brighten up, as it was
certain to bring him some of the "big-wigs" from town. He would rub his
hands and chuckle, while Dame Hearty would begin to bustle about to
welcome the fresh arrivals. It was not often, however, that the
"Headless Lady" was entirely deserted.

A small clique or brotherhood, known as "The Wonder Club," had been
nightly in the habit of assembling here for years, and this served to
bring grist to the mill. Some of the eminent men from the neighbouring
village, among whom were the doctor, the lawyer, an antiquary, an
analytical chemist, and others, had formed among themselves a club,
which was to consist only of very choice spirits, like themselves, and
if any guest were introduced among them, it was only to be with a letter
of introduction and the full consent of all parties. By these strict
rules they hoped to keep the club select. A room at the inn was set
apart for them, into which no one not belonging to the club ever
presumed to enter, unless it was the landlord, who would be called every
now and then to replenish the bowl, and whom sometimes the guests of
the club would "draw out," as it was whispered in the village that the
landlord of the "Headless Lady" knew a rare lot of stories, he did; also
how to tell 'em, too, my word! but these he generally reserved for his
more intimate customers. One strict law of the club that we have not yet
mentioned was that no guest invited was to be a "business man." Should a
commercial traveller ever have the hardihood to enter the sacred
precincts of the club, he was assailed with a battery of glances from
the members that must have completely cowed him, unless he were a man of
more than usual strength of nerve; but as this rarely happened, all such
outward manifestations of contempt were kept within due bounds. Business
was, of course, tabooed; even politics were only admitted on sufferance
and by a special permission of the chairman. There was one evening in
the year, however, when the chairman never granted any such permission,
and that was on the anniversary of the founding of the club. On this
evening such subjects as business and politics would have been cried
down, and the daring introducer of the obnoxious themes would have been
condemned to drink a cup of cold water on his bended knees by way of
expiating his offence. No subjects of public or private interest were
tolerated on this evening, or, indeed, on any other. The chief delight
of this club was to tell or to listen to stories which were all more or
less of the marvellous class, and which each took it by turn to relate
to the rest, the strictest silence and order being preserved during the
recital. The evening that we are about to describe to the reader was the
tenth anniversary of the founding of the club. This was a very grand
event. For any one of its members or guests, whether married or single,
to have been absent, on this occasion would have been little less than
an insult to the rest. Let us try to give our readers a glimpse of the
club room and its guests on this memorable evening.

Imagine, then, a large room with low ceiling and walls of dark oak
panel, a large old-fashioned fireplace with dogs, and a Yule log blazing
on the hearth. The curtains are old and embroidered, and closely drawn.
The room is well lighted, and in the middle is a long table, at which,
through a cloud of tobacco smoke, a party of nine--all lords of the
creation--may be discovered. A bowl of punch is in the centre of the
table, at which every now and then each guest replenishes his glass. Mr.
Oldstone, the antiquary, has been elected chairman. Watch with what
dignity he fills his post of honour. Look! he rises and thumps the
table. He is going to make a speech. The strictest silence reigns; you
might hear a pin drop.

"Gentlemen," began the worthy chairman, after one or two preliminary
"hems," "it is with feelings of mixed pride and pleasure that I feel
myself called upon to-night to preside at this most honourable meeting."
(Hear, hear!) The chairman resumed, "This is the tenth anniversary of
our club of choice spirits (cheers), and so shamefully nicknamed by our
enemies 'The Morbid Club.' (Groans.) Irritated at our exclusiveness, and
envious at the reports of the superior talent that circulates nightly at
our table, and which bursts into a halo of genius on our great
saturnalias, what wonder, gentlemen, if the worthy members of our select
club should make enemies out of their own circle? Only 'birds of a
feather flock together,' and perhaps the contempt of our enemies is the
best compliment they can pay us." (Hear, hear! and various shouts and
yells of delight, amid clapping of hands, stamping, and rattling of
glasses.) Here the chairman paused to take breath, and then, after a
preliminary sip at his glass of punch, proceeded.

"Gentlemen, I feel duly sensible of the honour conferred upon me this
evening in being selected to preside at our meeting on this very
important occasion, an honour which I feel unable to support, and for
which I feel my abilities so inadequate. (No, no!) Gentlemen, we are a
company of nine this evening, the number of the muses--the omen is
auspicious. I see around me faces that were present at the inauguration
of our club, ten years ago, though others, alas! have gone to their long
rest." Here the speaker was visibly moved, and passed his hand over his
eyes to wipe away an incipient tear. Then, recovering himself, "Need I
proceed, gentlemen? Need I trespass longer upon the time and patience of
guests so illustrious? (Yes, yes!) Then, gentlemen," continued the
speaker, "I would but detain you one moment longer, to propose the
following toast, to be drunk with three times three. (Hear, hear!) 'Long
live the "Wonder Club," and all its choice members.'" Here the
president, at the conclusion of his speech, held a bumper above his
head, and repeated the toast with the rest of the company, with a "Hip,
hip, hip, hurrah!" "May their brains be as fertile as the plains of
Elysium, and may the fame of the 'Wonder Club' spread to the ends of the
earth." This sentiment was followed by a burst of applause.

In the midst of the stamping, cheering, and rattling of glasses that
ensued a knock was heard at the door. Who could it be? The landlord? It
was not his wont to disturb the club for a trifle. He only made his
appearance when called for. What was it? Was the inn on fire? Who could
venture to disturb the solemn meeting of the "Wonder Club" on their
tenth anniversary? One of the members rose from his seat and opened the
door ajar, still holding the handle in his hand.

"Who is it? What do you want at this hour?" he asked.

"I beg pardon, gentlemen," said the voice of the honest landlord
without, "for disturbing the company; but a gentleman has just brought a
letter for the chairman, and I thought it _might_ be important.
Leastways, I thought it wouldn't be much harm to deliver it at once.
The gentleman has sent in his card. Excuse the interruption, sirs; I
hope no offence."

The letter was delivered to Mr. Oldstone. He glanced at the card.

"What, a visitor!" he said; "and at this time of night. Let me tell you,
landlord--ahem--that this is a most unwarrantable infringement
of--er--er--of the rules laid down by--er--eh? Stay, what have we here?
Excuse me, gentlemen, while I break the seal. Ha! from my old friend
Rustcoin. You remember him, gentlemen--my brother antiquary, formerly a
member of our club. He writes from Rome:

"'MY DEAR FRIEND,--I dare say you are surprised to hear from me again,
after my long silence. The fact is that I had put off writing to you,
having some time ago formed a resolution of returning to England, when I
hoped to surprise you by suddenly appearing unexpectedly in time for the
tenth anniversary of the inauguration of our club. Certain affairs,
however, have prevented me from being present myself in the flesh, but I
beg to introduce to your notice my young friend, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, an
artist who has for some time past been prosecuting his studies here in
Rome. He is a young man of talent and genius, possessing a great fund of
stories of the marvellous and supernatural order, such as your club
particularly prides itself on. He is quite one of our sort, and you
would be doing me a great favour to introduce him to the rest of the
members. If he could arrive in time for your grand saturnalia, I should
be doubly pleased.--Your old friend,

                                                 "'CHARLES RUSTCOIN.'"

"Well, gentlemen," said the president, "what do you say to that? Shall
the neophyte be admitted? You see, he is not a commercial traveller, nor
a business man, but an artist; one of those restless strivers after the
ideal. A traveller, too--a man full of stories, like one of us. What do
you say--shall he be admitted?"

The guests gave an unanimous consent, and the next moment our host
ushered the stranger into the club-room. All eyes were directed towards
the stranger. He was a young man, bordering on thirty, about the middle
height, who, contrary to the custom of the period, wore his own hair,
which at that time was considered extremely vulgar. He wore a slouch hat
instead of the usual three-cornered shape, and an Italian cloak thrown
over the left shoulder.

He doffed his hat with dignity and courtesy as he entered the apartment,
and after shaking the snow from his cloak (for it had been snowing hard
without that night, being in December), he handed cloak and hat to the
landlord and accepted the offer of a chair that Mr. Oldstone had placed
for him near the fire.

"Here! mine host," shouted Mr. Oldstone, "bring another log, and see
that you make this gentleman comfortable to-night, for I see without
asking him any questions that he is one of our set."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord, who was just leaving the room. "Never
fear, sir, I'll see to the gentleman's wants, and my old woman will warm
the bed, for it's a nasty night to be out in. My blessed eyes, how it
snows! The gentleman must have had pressing business with you, sir, to
bring him out here such a night as this."

"No, my good host," replied the artist; "nothing more than a desire to
be present at the tenth anniversary of the club that I have heard so
much about."

The host looked astonished, and the guests felt flattered. The
landlord's respect for the members of the club was augmented
considerably.

"Well, well; to think of that, now," he muttered to himself. "To think
that this gentleman should trouble himself to come from who knows how
far off, just to be present at the tenth anniversary of _our_ club, and
on such a night as this, too."

"By the by, Mr. Hearty," said the new comer to the landlord: "I believe
that's your name, is it not?"

"The same, sir; Jack Hearty, at your service, sir."

"Well, then, Jack Hearty, I have just come from foreign parts, where I
have left an old customer of yours; one Mr. Rustcoin, a great friend of
Mr. Oldstone's. Do you recollect him?"

"_Recollect_ him!" exclaimed the landlord. "Ay, indeed, sir, do I; a
pleasanter gentleman over his bottle of port or over his bowl of punch
hasn't crossed my threshold since he left it. Many's the good yarn we
would have together. I hope you left him very well, sir?"

"In excellent health, thank you, Jack," said the stranger. "He desired
to be remembered to you."

"Thank you, sir," said the host.

"Yes; those slippers will do," said the new guest.

"Draw near to the table, my friend," said Mr. Oldstone, "for I must
introduce you to the other members and guests here to-night."

"My friends," said the chairman, "this gentleman is Mr. Vandyke McGuilp,
an artist from Rome, great friend of my old chum Rustcoin, whom most of
you knew. Mr. McGuilp, this gentleman on my right is Mr. Hardcase, the
lawyer, who will be the first to relate a story to-night. On his right
is Dr. Bleedem, one of our celebrated physicians; next to him is Mr.
Cyanite, professor of geology, and then comes Mr. Blackdeed, one of our
eminent tragedians; next to him is Mr. Parnassus, a young poet of great
promise; after him is Mr. Crucible, analytical chemist, one of the
oldest members of our club; next to him, as guest to-night, is Captain
Toughyarn, commander of Her Majesty's good ship the _Dreadnought_; then,
next door neighbour to yourself is Mr. Jollytoast, celebrated low
comedian."

The new visitor bowed to each guest at the table with urbanity, and the
guests returned the salute cordially.

"Well, gentlemen," began the president, "what do you say to a bumper to
the health of our new guest?"

"Hear, hear!" cried the guests, unanimously.

Each filled up his glass from the punch-bowl, and our artist's health
was drunk with cheers, to which he responded in a short and modest
speech. (Applause.)

"And now, Mr. Hardcase," said the chairman, after the formalities were
gone through, "I think it was arranged that you should tell the first
story. I hope you have one ready. I am anxious for my young friend to
hear a specimen of our far-famed recitals. In this club," said Mr.
Oldstone, addressing the artist, "we always esteem those stories the
highest that are true, and especially if they are facts coming under the
experience of the relater. What sort of story may we expect from you
to-night, Mr. Hardcase?"

"The story I intended to start the club with to-night is one that I
myself took part in in my younger days, and which, although I never
related to any of the club before, I have been upon the point of
relating a hundred times, when I have been invariably interrupted by
someone else who had some other tale to relate. The story I have in
store for you this evening, gentlemen, I propose to entitle 'The Phantom
Flea.'"

"Ha, Bravo!" laughed the guests. "The Phantom Flea! Ha! ha! ha!"

"I assure you, gentlemen," said the lawyer, gravely, "that the narrative
I am about to relate is not one to provoke mirth. It is of a solemn
character, I can promise you. No one felt less inclined to laugh than I
did when I was reluctantly compelled to take part in this tragedy.
Though by no means a timid man, I, nevertheless, experienced a sort of
cold shiver all down my back when----"

"Exactly so," said the doctor.

"And each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful
porcupine," quoted Mr. Blackdeed, the tragedian.

"Belay that," roared Captain Toughyarn, from the depths of his
stentorian lungs, "and make room on board for the 'Phantom Flea.'"

"Bedad, and sure I feel myself itching all over alriddy," broke in Mr.
Jollytoast, assuming an Irish brogue, and scratching himself.

"Order, order! Chair, chair!" called out other guests.

"Silence! gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, with authority, thumping on the
table; "the story is just about to commence."

"The performance is just a-goin' to begin," broke in the incorrigible
little comedian, assuming the air of a showman. "Valk up, valk up,
ladies and gentlemen."

"Hush! Mr. Jollytoast," said the antiquary. "Hush! gentlemen, for the
'Phantom Flea.'"

"Tremulous music, lights half down," muttered the tragedian; but he was
instantly silenced by the chairman.

Mr. Oldstone gave one final authoritative thump on the table, and
glanced severely at all the guests. The silence that ensued was awful,
while Mr. Hardcase, after a sip at his glass and a puff at his long
churchwarden, began his story in the following manner:




[Illustration]


CHAPTER I.

THE PHANTOM FLEA.--THE LAWYER'S STORY.[1]


One morning, many years ago, whilst sitting idly in my chambers in town,
I received a letter from Baron ---- to come down for a few days to his
country seat in ----shire. It was on business he wanted me; he had got
involved in some quarrel. The case was about to be brought before the
court, and the Baron wanted a legal adviser.

    [1] In the spirit world all those who have been bloodthirsty to
    excess inhabit the forms of fleas.--WILLIAM BLAKE, _Poet and
    Visionary_. (_Quoted from memory._)

Having heard much of my abilities, as he said, he thought he could not
do better than write to me at once. He regretted that business would
prevent him from being at the Hall on my arrival, but he hoped to return
home some time the next day. In the meantime he had told his housekeeper
to make up a bed for me at the Hall, and had left open his bookcase,
lest the time might hang heavy on my hands.

Glad of an excuse to leave town, as it was getting very hot and I had
nothing to do, I took the stage, and towards the middle of the next day
found myself in front of the Baron's country seat.

It was a fine, stately mansion, surrounded by a moat. I crossed the
drawbridge, and inquired whether the Baron was at home. A respectable
matron answered the door. She replied in the negative to my question.

Then, asking if I were Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, and learning that I
was, she said "The Baron left word that he would be at home some time
to-morrow, or the day after for certain; that in the meantime you were
to make yourself quite at home, sir."

"Oh, very well," said I; "I am rather tired just at present. Leave me
here among the Baron's books. When I have sufficiently rested I should
like to look over the house. It seems a curious old place."

"Yes, sir, it is a _very_ old place," said the housekeeper. "But
wouldn't you like to take a little refreshment first?"

Being then past one o'clock, and having had but a hurried breakfast, I
thanked her and said I thought I could manage a little light
refreshment. She then left me alone, but soon returned with a tray
containing what seemed to be the fag end of a sumptuous banquet. There
was venison pasty, a boiled leg of turkey, some ham, vegetables, bread
and cheese, salad, raspberry and currant tart, a bottle of good old
crusted port, some sherry, Burgundy, etc.

Having done justice to this light repast, I rang the bell for the things
to be cleared away; after which I took down a great number of volumes
from the bookcase, and throwing myself into an easy-chair, I deposited
the books in a heap upon the floor, and began examining their titles,
and occasionally reading a passage here and there when it interested me.

The first book I laid hands on was "Fox's Book of Martyrs," with plates
showing the various modes of torture by which the early Christians were
put to death. I passed on to the next. This was a book of Chinese
punishments, with Chinese illustrations. I opened the book at a plate of
a man being skinned alive.

Having little taste for these sort of horrors, I closed the book and
passed on to the next. The third book was a description of celebrated
executions, with a plate as frontispiece of a man being hanged, drawn,
and quartered. "The Baron seems fond of the horrible," I thought, and I
took up another. This was on bull-baiting, cock-fighting, and other
cruel sports. Another was a book on poisons. A sixth, on the various
modes of self-defence. A seventh, a book on field sports. I put down the
book for a moment and sat musing, trying to imagine to myself what
manner of man the Baron might be. I gazed round the room, and noticed
that it was hung round by trophies of the chase--stags' antlers, foxes'
brushes, intermingled with guns, powder-flasks, etc. Here and there were
hung half suits of armour, belonging, no doubt, to the Baron's
ancestors.

Then, from musing I fell into a dose, and dreamed of the wild hunter and
all sorts of curious and horrible things.

On awaking I reflected that I had not been over the house, so I went in
search of the housekeeper, who asked me if I would like to see the
picture gallery. Nothing loth, I followed my guide, who pointed me out
the portraits of the present Baron's ancestors for I know not how many
generations back.

The portrait of the present Baron was not amongst them. I noticed a
strong family likeness running through all of the portraits, and I
wondered if the Baron inherited the likeness. I asked the housekeeper,
and she assured me that he did in a very striking degree. On leaving the
gallery, I passed through long oaken corridors, through immense chambers
hung with tapestry, on which were depicted either battles or scenes of
the chase.

"The Baron inherits the tastes of his ancestors, it would appear," I
said to the matron.

"Ah! sir," said she, with a sigh, and tried to force a smile, but it was
a bitter one.

I took little notice of her expression at the time, and soon after left
her, to stroll about in the garden. It was a spacious one, laid out in
good taste. There were terraces, broad velvet lawns, cedars of Lebanon,
avenues of yew trees, glimpses of distant hills, flower beds, luxuriant
with every variety of the choicest flowers. There were broad walks and
serpentine paths, oaks, beeches, elms; a lake with an island in the
middle, which was reached by a rustic bridge; weeping-willows,
summer-houses, and everything that could be desired. I strolled about
the garden, struck with admiration every step I took at the exquisite
taste with which everything was carried out, and wondered how it was
that the same mind which took such delight in the horrible should
possess such exquisite refinement of taste in the planning of his
garden.

I doubted the garden being the result of the Baron's own taste, nor was
I mistaken, as I afterwards ascertained from the housekeeper. I strolled
back towards the house, which I examined carefully over for the second
time, then strolled out again into the garden, and so on till supper,
which I took about nine o'clock.

Feeling rather lonely, I invited Mrs. Wharton, the housekeeper, to keep
me company during my solitary meal. She sat down opposite to me as I
commenced devouring my cold fowl and tongue, and helped myself to a
glass of the Baron's ale. She was an agreeable old lady, and seemed to
have known better days.

"This is a curious old place," I began. "Have you any rats here?"

"No, sir, none now," answered the matron.

"Nor bugs?"

"No."

"Nor fleas?"

"No, sir,--that is to say, only one," and her face assumed a solemn
expression.

"Only _one_!" I exclaimed, laughing.

"Yes, sir," said she, gravely--"only the _Phantom_; only the _Baron_."

"_Phantom! Baron!_" I exclaimed, bewildered. "Ah, you have a ghost story
in the family, I see; but I don't think you quite understood my
question," I said. "I did not inquire about phantoms, or barons; my
question referred simply to fleas."

"Yes, yes; I perfectly understand, sir," replied the matron; "and I
repeat that the _phantom flea_ is the only flea that inhabits this
mansion."

"_The Phantom Flea!_" Here I exploded. "Well, of all the odd
superstitions I ever heard of, that beats them all. Really, my good
woman, you should _not_--you should not, indeed, believe in such trash."

"Ah, sir," replied the matron, "it is plain to see that you are a
stranger in these parts. Is it possible you have never heard of the
'Baron's flea?'"

"Never in all my life before, I assure you, my good woman," I replied;
"but, as it is a thing apparently well known, I should like to hear the
particulars of the case."

"Well, sir," began the housekeeper, "you must know that some two hundred
years or so back one of the Baron's ancestors, one Sir Ralph ----
inhabited this mansion. The room that you will sleep in to-night was his
room; the self same bed and furniture that you saw this morning were
there in his time. He was not a man generally liked by those around him;
in fact, it would not be too much to say that he was universally hated.
No one could remember any good act or kind word of the Baron's. He was
cruel, bloodthirsty, tyrannical, avaricious, ambitious, and sensual.
From early youth he was always allowed to have his own way, and when he
came into power he was the scourge of the neighbourhood.

"There was no restraining his cruelty and malignity. Anyone who dared
oppose himself to his will was put to death. He thought no more of
taking the life of a peasant than one would in wringing the neck of a
fowl. Maidens were carried off with impunity, and sometimes murdered;
men were found stabbed or mangled to death by the Baron's hounds;
cottages were set fire to, and their inhabitants driven out to seek
refuge where they could; robberies were committed, churches pillaged,
convents sacked, monks driven out and occasionally burnt alive for
pastime; nuns carried off by ruffians to the Baron's hall; in short,
every species of outrage and plunder conceivable. Such a state of
affairs could not endure for ever. It gave rise to a rebellion. The
long-oppressed people would suffer it no longer, and rose to a man. They
would fain have broken into the Baron's hall, and have torn him limb
from limb; but the Baron's myrmidons were powerful and well armed; and,
cutting their way through the crowd with the Baron at their head, spared
neither man, woman, nor child.

"The mob, driven back, were subdued for a time; but the law interfered,
though with little better success; for the first time that constables
were sent to arrest the Baron, he sent them back again to those who sent
them with their noses and ears slit. Such an insult as this against the
servants of the law could not be stood any longer. Grand preparations
were made for the immediate arrest of the Baron and his ruffians, with
an order to raze his castle to the ground, which would most assuredly
have been carried into effect, had not the sudden death of the Baron
rendered such measures unnecessary.

"The Baron's death was mysterious. Some say he made away with himself,
rather than fall into the hands of justice. Others assert that he was
struck by lightning as a punishment for his many crimes. Others, that he
was killed in a fray. But the story most current is, that a man
introduced himself into the Baron's household as servant, whose bride
the Baron had dishonoured, and avenged himself by putting an end to the
Baron's life by poison.

"However this was, testimony goes much to prove that the Baron was found
dead in his bed. How long he took dying is uncertain, but tradition
tells that his last moments were horrible. He refused to see a father
confessor, and died in his sins.

"He was succeeded by his son, a peaceful and studious youth, much
beloved by the people, who did not seem to inherit a drop of the old
Baron's blood. In some of his later descendants, however, the spirit of
the old Baron seemed to reign again. When the death of the Baron was
made known, great rejoicings manifested themselves in the neighbourhood.
Everyone wanted to know the particulars of the Baron's mysterious end.
Strange stories were set afloat, many of which are believed to this day.
But one thing universally believed is, that, as a punishment for his
sins, the Baron's spirit is condemned to inhabit the form of a flea of
uncommon size, which sucks the blood of all strangers who sleep in that
bed. His power, however, is confined to that chamber. Other rooms are
left unmolested. The marks left on the body by the bite of this fell
insect are extremely large, being about the size of a wen, and the pain
endures for a considerable time. I can speak from experience, for I have
been bitten myself. The flea may be seen by anyone who chooses to sleep
in that room. One night spent in that chamber will be enough to convince
any unbeliever of the truth of my assertion.

"Many and futile have been the attempts to catch this obnoxious insect.
It eludes all chase. It was not for many years after the Baron's death,
and until many of the occupants of that chamber had been repeatedly
bitten, and all attempts to capture the offensive creature had been
abandoned in despair, that the belief that the Baron's spirit inhabited
its fell body grew firmly rooted in the minds of the surrounding gentry.

"If, after what I have related to you, sir, you feel inclined to change
your room, I shall have much pleasure in making you up a bed in another
chamber, although it is against the Baron's orders; for, knowing what a
wretched night you _must_ spend within that haunted chamber, I feel a
compassion for you, sir, and all strangers that the Baron cruelly hands
over to the spirit of his wicked ancestor."

"On the contrary, Mrs. Wharton," I said, "I have the greatest curiosity
to encounter this wonderful flea. Your conversation has been most
interesting, and as it is now past ten o'clock, I don't care how soon I
make his aristocratic acquaintance."

"Do as you please, sir," said Mrs. Wharton, "but if you should feel
uncomfortable in the night, you've but to knock at my door, the next
room to yours, and I will gladly make you up a bed in No. 12."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Wharton; I am much obliged to you all the same. I
have no doubt that the Baron and I will be capital friends."

"Well, sir, I wish you a pleasant night of it, I am sure," said the
housekeeper, as she handed me a candle. "Good-night, sir."

"Good-night, Mrs. Wharton."

I walked up stairs to the haunted chamber. Having reached the landing, I
entered my room and locked myself in for the night. In spite of my
forced levity, I must admit that I felt a certain feeling of awe come
over me upon entering the chamber once occupied by the author of so many
crimes. I could not but think that Mrs. Wharton herself thoroughly
believed in what seemed to me a popular superstition, but the more I
reflected on what she had told me of the Baron's crimes, the less
ludicrous did the idea of the Baron's metempsychosis appear to me.

What, after all, was there ridiculous in a flea more than in any other
hideous creature? The feeling of the ludicrous in my mind was supplanted
by one of horror. "There are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy," I muttered. I could not make up my mind
to go to rest immediately. In fact, I did not feel in the least sleepy.
I busied myself in examining the room minutely to see if there were any
trap-door or sliding panel; and, tapping all the walls, expected every
moment to touch some spring and for some panel to fly back, discovering
a secret staircase. I examined the bed and under the bed, but could
discover nothing. The Baron's portrait hung over the mantelpiece. I
lifted up the picture to see if there was any hole in the wall
underneath, but there was nothing but good solid panel; nor could I in
any part of the room discover anything suspicious. I partially undressed
and seated myself in a large arm-chair in front of the Baron's portrait.
I was extremely interested in the perusal of his features, and had no
difficulty in believing all the atrocities attributed to the original.
The more I gazed at it, the more it fascinated me. I could not take my
eyes from it. Somehow or other the features seemed familiar to me; I
fancied I had seen them somewhere. I tried to collect my thoughts. Where
had I seen them before?

Suddenly I recollected a horrible criminal, who had murdered a whole
family and committed other heinous atrocities, and had been executed a
year or two before. I had to plead for him at the trial, but the
evidence was so strong against him, that no earthly power could save him
from the gibbet. The likeness between this wretch and the portrait
before me was very remarkable. This, then, was the incarnation of deep
crime. These are the features that mark a life given up to every sort of
cruelty, licentiousness, and depravity. The physiognomy was peculiar,
and never to be forgotten when once seen. The head was round as a
bullet, the hair red, short and bristly, the moustache and peaked beard
of the same hue; the eyes greenish, and obliquely set in the head, like
those of a cat, with an expression of the most indescribable ferocity
and malice. The eyebrows red and tufted, running up also in an oblique
direction, one of them being considerably higher than the other. Between
the brows was a deep line. The forehead was flat, and retired from the
temples in two separate peaks, that appeared to run up nearly to the
back of his head; the nose was at once hooked and flat, like the bill of
a parrot; the mouth was wide; the lips thin and compressed, with
unpleasant lines at the corners; the chin and jaw square and massive;
the neck resembling that of a bull; the ears were unusually large, and
stuck out at the sides; the complexion was florid, with two pouches
under the eyes, which seemed to drag the eyes down and give them a
bloodshot appearance. A deep line in the cheeks, extending from each
wing of the nose to the corners of the mouth, gave to the countenance a
look of cynical disdain, and completed a portrait at once characteristic
and revolting. The costume was early Elizabethan, and the arms of the
Baron, together with his name and his age--forty-six--when the portrait
was taken, were depicted with the date in the corner of the picture. For
a while I sat musing. "Fit spirit," I muttered, "to inhabit the form of
a flea! Heartless, worthless, bloodthirsty." I gazed at the portrait
with feelings of horror and disgust. The eyes seemed to answer my
expression with a look of anger.

I was unable to judge of the merits of the picture as a work of art,
being little versed in such matters; but of one thing I am certain, that
the painter had endeavoured to imitate as truthfully as it lay in his
power all the leading characteristics of the Baron's physiognomy without
any attempt at flattery.

As I mused it grew late; it was now just upon midnight. I finished
undressing and climbed into my bed, a high old-fashioned four-poster
with heavy embroidered curtains. The Baron still scowled at me from the
mantelpiece, but, without returning his gaze, I set to work diligently
to search for the flea. I drew back the top sheet slowly until the whole
bed was uncovered. I shook the blankets and counterpane and looked under
the pillow, but all in vain, not a glimpse of a flea was visible. It was
a clean, well-aired bed, so, feeling now rather sleepy, I covered myself
up with the bed-clothes and blew out the light, with every prospect of
a good night's rest before me. But, alas! how soon was I undeceived.
Hardly had I gone off into my first sleep, when I was suddenly awoke
from a delicious dream with a sharp, sudden pang, like a stab or the
tooth of some venomous reptile in the fleshy part of my thigh. I started
up in horror, hardly able to restrain a slight shriek. The night was
dark and stormy, the winds howled without, and the old mansion shook
from its foundations. "The Phantom Flea!" I muttered, horrified, and
reached out my hand for my tinder-box; but before I was able to strike a
light, I experienced a second sharp stinging pain in the small of the
back, then another in the calf of my leg. By this time I had succeeded
in striking a light. Some scorpion, I thought. So, lighting my candle, I
commenced a rigid search.

At length I caught sight of the vile insect. There it was, sure enough,
a flea, and no mistake about it, but what a monster! It must have been
the size of a coffee bean. What legs! How it hopped from one side of the
bed to the other!

Well, gentlemen, I used my utmost endeavours to capture it; and here let
me add that I am generally rather expert at that sort of game, having
had some practice in my time; but, would you believe it, gentlemen, it
foiled all my best endeavours, although I kept it in sight all the time.
I was a full hour and a half engaged in this undignified chase. The
"Phantom Flea" defied me to the last. What was I to do? I couldn't sit
up all night hunting a flea, and yet to get any sleep with such a
monster in the bed was equally impossible. Suddenly I recollected that I
had a small bottle of opium in my waistcoat pocket, which I had
purchased the day before to relieve a toothache that I had caught from
sitting in the theatre at one end of a row of stalls, close to the door,
which kept continually opening and shutting. I rose and searched for the
bottle, and swallowed more, perhaps, than under ordinary circumstances
would have been good for me, got into bed again, and blew out the light.
The first sensation I experienced was that of a deliciously gradual
dropping off to sleep, but the keenness of my senses was increased a
hundred-fold. My memory and my imagination bordered on the abnormal.
Every event in my life, from the cradle up to the present moment, rose
before my mind in microscopic detail.

The room was dark; nevertheless, my eye, grown accustomed to the light,
and sharpened by the effects of the opium, enabled me to discover every
object in the room distinctly. There was the bed, the counterpane, every
little tuft worked on it with painful distinctness. There was the
texture of the sheets; every fibre of the blankets, and last, but not
least, the "Phantom Flea" hopping about and around me, and biting me
here and there at his pleasure. The opium in some measure relieved the
severity of the bite, though the latter was still painful enough to
prevent me from going off to sleep altogether. The sensation of delirium
(for I can call it nothing else) caused by the opium seemed to
increase. The room appeared to grow lighter and lighter, till it seemed
to glow with a phosphoric glare.

My sight, hearing, and other senses grew rapidly more and more acute.
Everything around me seemed to swell and dilate into proportions
positively enormous. I felt myself grow larger, the bed grew larger, the
room grew larger, the picture grew larger, and the _flea_ grew larger.
Larger and larger swelled the bed; larger, _larger_, and ever larger
grew the flea, till it attained the proportions of a horse. I noticed
that the larger it grew, the less like a flea and more human it became.
At length it appeared to stop growing, and to decrease, if anything. It
had now assumed the size of a man, and a form almost human. There it
stood at the foot of my bed, with its arms folded on its breast, and its
eye steadily fixed upon mine. How shall I describe the horror of my
situation--feeling my eyes rivetted on that hideous face with a
preternatural fascination? To remove them was impossible. Yet to gaze on
it further was death. I can describe my feelings to nothing else than
the sensation of gradually turning into stone. I felt life fast ebbing
from me. My head whirled, I gasped for breath. I tried to speak, to
implore for mercy, but my voice was gone. I felt my last moment had
come.

The remorseless flea seemed conscious of my agony, and gloated on my
sufferings, for he never took his stony eye off me all the while. Unable
to move, and bathed in a profuse perspiration, I must have died in
another instant from sheer agony and terror, had I not by a supernatural
effort gathered up my last dying energies, and burst out in a loud,
despairing yell that seemed to pierce the walls of the whole house. I
felt the spell broken for the time. The fiend himself seemed startled by
the sudden and preternatural shrillness of the scream, and for a moment
changed the expression of his countenance. Feeling his eye no longer
fixed upon mine with that fearful intensity, I dared to breathe again;
but I had awoke Mrs. Wharton in the next room, and she knocked at my
door to ask me what was the matter.

"Nothing, thank you," I said; "only a dream; don't be alarmed."

So Mrs. Wharton retired to her room again.

The monster who had never left me during all this time, at length spoke.

"I have summoned you here to-night, because I have need of you. I am
that Baron Ralph, the ruthless, whose deeds of bloodshed you have
already heard of, and for which deeds he is condemned nightly to inhabit
the form of a flea. You have experienced my power, and your paltry
scepticism has been shaken. Listen now to me. I do not always inhabit
the contemptible form in which you first saw me. In the daytime I wander
to and fro on the earth, and inhabit by turns the bodies of such men
whose natural propensities are in harmony with my own. Wretch! do you
know that the man, who, through your inability to save, was executed
for some few paltry murders, was none other than myself in the flesh?
That it was _my_ body that suffered the pain and disgrace of execution,
_my_ spirit that was driven back by your incapacity, to inhabit the form
of one of the vilest of insects? Think not to escape my resentment. I
have need of you again, it is true, but I do not ask you a favour, I
command you to obey. Spirits of my order do not ask; they command and
threaten, and if disobeyed, punish."

Aware of the awful power of this fell being and knowing all resistance
vain, I thought it best to assume as humble a position as I could, in
order to milden the severity of his look and manner--that fearful look
that I had experienced only a few minutes ago, and which might kill me
outright a second time. Therefore I prostrated myself before him on the
bed, and in the most abject tones began.

"Illustrious flea! I will do all----"

"Irreverent varlet!" exclaimed the Baron, fiercely, darting at me a
glance from his evil eye that froze my very marrow. "That name is
offensive to me, another such title as that, and I'll--I'll"--here the
Baron's face went through the most hideously savage contortions that it
is possible to imagine. The Baron's portrait taken in the flesh was ugly
enough, but it was an ideal of manly beauty compared with the infernal
aspect of this demon flea before me.

"Mercy! mercy!" cried I, gasping.

"Oh, yes, 'Mercy, mercy,'" retorted the Baron, with a sneer. "Very well,
then, this time, but mind----" Here his countenance again assumed a
ferocious expression. "Ha! ha!" he cried. "You thought to outwit me by
taking opium to deaden my bite. Fool! know it was _I_ who made you buy
that opium; not to make you _sleep_, but to _awaken_ your dull senses to
such a pitch that the gross material clay that clogs your vision might
be, as it were, doffed for a moment, and that your keener eyesight might
be able to grasp my form a degree nearer resembling that which I bore in
the flesh, thereby in a measure removing the barrier between our beings;
and each, as it were, meeting on neutral ground, to the end that you
should know my pleasure and obey my commands. It was I who caused you to
catch that toothache, by inspiring you to go to the theatre. It was I
who so ordained the distribution of the tickets that that ticket near
the door should fall to your lot, where I knew you would take cold in
the tooth, being subject to the toothache. I then, by my subtle arts,
caused you to buy that bottle of opium and bring it here with you. I
then worried you by continual biting, till I forced you to seek comfort
in that opium bottle, and now that your usually obtuse senses are raised
to that abnormal state necessary to converse with beings of my order,
listen, and give ear to what I have to say."

"Awful being, say on," I muttered.

"You must know, then," he continued, "that my spirit inhabits by day
the body of the present Baron who bears my name, though at night I am
compelled to assume the ignoble shape of a flea. At this present moment
my descendant lies in his bed lifeless. My spirit will animate his clay
to-morrow. Call upon him early, and you will learn from him what I have
not time to discuss with you now, as it is now daybreak and my power is
on the wane. Farewell."

So saying, he gradually decreased in size, losing every moment more and
more of the _human_ element that he had assumed, and growing more and
more into the likeness of a flea the smaller he grew, till he returned
to the size he appeared when I first saw him, and then vanished
mysteriously. The exciting effects of the opium had worn off, but they
had given place to a feeling of deep depression. My head felt too heavy
for me, and ached terribly; my eyeballs were as if weighed down by lead.
I could not sleep comfortably, and I was too lazy to get up. I loathed
my own existence, and hated everybody and everything around me. Thoughts
of suicide haunted me, and I had a momentary thought of emptying the
whole of the remaining contents of the bottle down my throat, and so put
an end to my misery for ever. But then I bethought me of the Baron; it
might be the means of invoking again the "Phantom Flea."

He might be angry at being recalled, and possibly carry me off, soul and
all. I turned and tossed about restlessly in my bed, and kicked the
bed-clothes on to the floor. The cold grey dawn broke in at my window.
I thought I would get up, so, giving one desperate spring, I found
myself upon my feet. My tongue was parched, and a cold sweat matted my
hair. I felt a prodigious thirst, and emptied a whole water-bottle; then
I proceeded to dress, but I soon found that to shave was an utter
impossibility. My hand shook as with the palsy, so I abandoned the
attempt. Unshaven, unkempt, and negligently dressed, with haggard look
and listless steps, I sauntered about the lonely corridors of the
mansion like a restless spirit, until I heard the footsteps of Mrs.
Wharton about the house. I started at the slightest noise. I was soon
accosted by that worthy, who, of course, wanted to know how I had slept.

"I passed an indifferent night," I replied. "I foolishly took some opium
to make me sleep, and it has given me the headache. By the by,"--I said,
to change the conversation, so as to avoid being questioned, for I saw
the old lady was scanning my countenance--"by the by, where did you say
the Baron was staying? If not too far off, I should like to call upon
him; a walk might do me good."

"About five miles off, sir, in the next village, at the sign of 'The
Swan,'" said the housekeeper; "as straight as ever you can go, sir, you
can't miss it."

"Thank you," said I.

"Poor, poor, gentleman," I heard the housekeeper mutter to herself, as I
started off, "I knew he would suffer."

I set off at a brisk pace; the sun had just risen, a silver mist was
rising, and a gentle breeze somewhat alleviated the fever of my burning
brow, but my legs felt weak. I tottered on for half-a-mile further; here
I found a mile-stone and sat down to rest upon it. My reflections were
gloomy. My recollections of the previous night were painfully vivid. My
dream, my vision, my spiritual visitation, or whatever you like to call
it, did not vanish upon waking, like an ordinary dream, but remained
deeply rooted in my brain with fearful accuracy of detail. I recollected
word for word all the monster had uttered; recalled his tone of voice,
his remarkable shape--that curious and hideous blending of the
characteristics of the flea with the human form, the revolting, fiendish
ugliness of the _tout ensemble_, but above all, of that basilisk eye. My
blood ran cold as I thought of it.

"Have I then lived to hold converse with a being of the lower world?" I
muttered, to myself. "Am I awake, or is this but a continuation of the
dream?" I gave my arm a pinch, a hard twisted pinch, with all my might
and main, to ascertain if I were sleeping or waking, but the scene
before me remained the same, and my recollections of the past night were
as vivid as ever. I took off my hat to wipe my brow and let the cool
breeze play with my locks and about my heated temples. I gazed at the
smiling scene around me. What a contrast to the hell I bore within.

"O glorious orb!" I ejaculated, "author and vivifier of all nature,
through every grade of creation, illumine the haunted chambers of my
dark soul with thy golden beams; bring balm to my jaded spirit and renew
the bright hope of my earlier years. Give me strength to bear my
tottering limbs to the end of my pilgrimage; or, if that be not granted
me, take all there is left--take my life, great orb of day! Type of my
own once aspiring youth, quicken my flagging energies and breathe into
me new life, new hope, new strength."

Whilst thus apostrophising the rising sun, I experienced something like
the fire of my boyish days returning to my frame. I actually felt an
appetite. I rose from my seat considerably refreshed, and continued my
journey. I walked on with buoyant step; I had all but forgotten the
adventure of the past night. If it rose up before me again at intervals,
I speedily chased it from my mind.

At length I espied the village in the distance. Another half-mile led me
up to the door of "The Swan Inn." It was then about seven o'clock. A raw
country youth, evidently the boots, was beating a mat outside the door.

"Is the Baron within?" I asked.

"Wal, he b'ain't up yet, zur," replied the youth.

"Oh, never mind," I said, "I will wait, and as soon as he is up tell him
a gentleman is waiting to see him."

"Very well, zur."

"Would you like to wait here in the parlour, sir?" said the buxom
landlady, who had overheard our dialogue. "The Baron can't be long; he
is generally up by this time, or if you will follow me, sir, I will
knock at his door, and you can wait in his sitting-room till he comes
out."

"Thank you," I said, as I followed the landlady upstairs, and was led
into the sitting-room. The landlady knocked at the Baron's door. No
answer.

"Don't awake him, pray," said I, "if he's asleep."

"Oh, but the Baron told me to call him early, sir."

She knocked again. Again no answer. The landlady paused a few moments to
listen if he was getting up, then tapped again louder, louder still, but
all was silent. The hostess ventured to open the door ajar. The Baron
was in bed. She entered the room. A pause, a slight scream, and the
landlady came running out to me, pale and terrified.

"Oh, sir," she said, in a faint voice, "the Baron--the
Baron--is--_dead_!"

"_Dead!_" I exclaimed. "When? how?"

"It is true, sir. Come and see."

I entered the Baron's chamber. There he lay, sure enough, to all
appearance dead. I touched him; he was as cold as ice. I was much struck
with the singular resemblance of the defunct Baron before me to the
portrait of Baron Ralph that hung over the mantelpiece in my chamber. It
is true that the Baron before me was a younger man, that he wore a
shaven face instead of a moustache and peaked beard, that the livid
colour of the corpse was unlike the florid complexion of Baron Ralph;
but the features were exact, the shape of the head, the colour of the
hair and the way it grew; the same tufted red eyebrows, the right one
considerably higher than the left; the same bent flat nose and tightly
compressed lips, with cruel lines at the corners; the chin, the jaw, the
deep line between the brows, in fact, the whole man seemed the exact
counterpart of the old Baron.

A horrible recollection passed through my mind. I remembered having seen
the criminal before alluded to after his execution. What a startling
likeness between the features of the executed criminal and those of the
Baron's corpse before me. I shuddered. A portion of the phantom's
conversation on the preceding night occurred to me suddenly. What
if--could it be that----

I called the landlady. The whole inn was in a state of confusion. The
news of the Baron's death had circulated through the whole village by
this time.

"Perhaps," said I, "the Baron may not be quite dead, he may be in a
trance, he may be---- At any rate, don't you think it would be best to
send for the doctor, to hear his opinion?"

The doctor was accordingly sent for, and arriving shortly, was at once
shown into the Baron's room. The landlady and a great part of the
household followed.

"Why, of course he's dead," replied the leech, brusquely, in answer to
their eager questions. "Can't you see that?"

"If, nevertheless," said I, timidly, "you would not mind opening a
vein----"

"I'll open a vein, if you like," he answered, bluntly; "but, I tell you,
the man's dead!"

Then, taking out his lancet, he opened a vein in the right arm.

"You see now, I hope," said the leech, "that it is utterly useless;
there is not a drop of blood."

"Then," said the landlady, "the Baron really _is_--dead?"

"Dead! _Dead as mutton_," replied the doctor.

At this juncture the face of the corpse grew violently convulsed, his
eyes rolled, the colour returned suddenly to his cheeks, and leaping
from the bed with terrific energy, he seized the bolster, with which he
belaboured the terrified inmates of "The Swan" right and left, knocking
over the little doctor, and sending me into the landlady's lap, and the
"boots" flying out of the room with a yell of terror, besides upsetting
every utensil of crockery that stood in the way.

"Dead, am I!" roared the Baron, "dead, eh! Where's that scurvy
apothecary--that spreader of plaisters, that pill-maker, that
cow-bleeder--that dared to open one of _my_ veins?"

The little doctor had crept under the bed.

"And you, sir," cried he, turning upon me, "for advising him to try his
filthy experiments upon me," and swinging round his bolster, sent me
tottering against the wall.

"Dead as _mutton_, eh! By the blood of my ancestors, I never had such
foul language used to me before. What! compare the aristocratic flesh
of one descended from such a line of ancestors as mine to mutton! Ugh!
_Mutton_, quotha? I'll mutton _you_," cried the Baron, aiming a blow at
the little doctor's head, which he caught peeping from beneath the bed.

The doctor ducked in his head, and attempted a clandestine escape on his
hands and knees by the door, but was immediately pulled back by the
coat-tails by the Baron.

"Not so easily, young vein-opener, do you escape the clutches of the
Baron. Bind up my wound, Sir Shaveling, and think yourself lucky that I
spare your paltry life for the vile trick which you, in your blind
ignorance of this phenomenon of my aristocratic constitution, dared to
practise upon me. Keep that instrument for the bleeding of cows and
horses. That's more in your line than the flesh of great nobles like
me."

The Baron's wound was bleeding profusely. The floor was covered with
pools of blood. The landlady had fallen into hysterics, and had to be
carried out of the room. The leech stammered out a sort of apology and
set meekly about his task of binding up the Baron's wound.

"Silence!" roared the Baron, "and no more prattle."

The arm being at length bound up, the doctor took his departure without
further severity on the part of the Baron, who had now cooled down
considerably.

Whether it was the loss of blood, or what, a marked change had taken
place in the Baron's demeanour. He apologised amply to me for the
effects of hereditary temper of which he was the victim, and invited me
to breakfast. The breakfast was brought up by the landlord himself, as
everyone else refused to enter the Baron's apartments, saying that the
Baron must be the devil himself, and no one else.

"I'm afraid," said the Baron, addressing the landlord, "that I
frightened your good lady dreadfully this morning, eh?"

"Well, my lord," said the host, "she did take on about it a little,
but----"

"I am sincerely sorry for my rudeness," apologised the Baron, "but my
infirmity is ungovernable. It is a disease I inherit from my ancestors;
I am given every now and then to some uncontrollable burst of passion
when my nerves are a little out of order, which is generally the first
thing in the morning."

"Indeed, my lord," said the good-hearted landlord, with some compassion
in his face, "but your lordship's sudden coming to life again after the
doctor had pronounced you dead, that was what staggered us all
downstairs."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Baron. "Yes; well, I dare say it did appear rather
startling, but it is nothing to those who know me. The fact is, I am
subject to a peculiar sort of trance, much resembling death; that also I
inherit from my ancestors."

"Well, my lord, it's strange. I hope it's nothing dangerous. At any
rate, I am glad to see your lordship looking so well again," said the
host.

"Thank you, thank you, my good host," replied the Baron.

"It would have been an ugly thing, you know, my lord, for your lordship
to have died suddenly in my inn. It would have looked like foul play,"
said the landlord.

"True, true, my good host; I understand," replied his lordship. "I trust
you'll convey my best apologies to your good lady for----"

"Oh, I trust your lordship won't mention it," said the landlord; "and if
there is anything else your lordship may require----"

"Nothing, thank you," said the Baron; and the landlord left the room.

I was surprised at the change in the Baron's manner. Perhaps, after all,
he might not be so bad as he appeared. His infirmity of temper was
certainly against him. His personal appearance no less so. Nevertheless,
in his better moments he appeared to possess the manners of a gentleman.
I began to fancy that the experiences of the past night might, after
all, have been a dream, until I caught sight again of the enormous
flea-bites on my hands, which still smarted.

The Baron's manner to me during breakfast was most affable. After
breakfast we left the inn together and strolled leisurely towards the
Hall. On the way the Baron made me acquainted with the particulars of
his case, and I promised to do the best I could to serve him.
Nevertheless, I saw at once that the Baron was most decidedly in the
wrong. I told him it was likely to go hard with him; in fact, I said I
did not see how he could well get off.

The Baron frowned, and we walked on in silence towards the Hall. That
very day the case was tried at the assizes, and in spite of all my
efforts, the Baron lost. I will not weary you with the details of the
case. Suffice it that there was oppression and injustice on the part of
the Baron which could not be excused, resulting from a morbid belief in
his own importance.

After the court broke up the Baron led me in silence to the Hall and
beckoned me to his room, the walls of which were covered over with every
sort of weapon of defence under the sun. There were pistols, daggers,
blunderbusses, rapiers, broadswords, cutlasses, Malay creases, poisoned
spear heads, a two-handed sword, probably belonging to his ancestor of
cruel memory, and an iron bar to which were attached a chain and ball of
spikes.

On entering the room he slammed the door, and turning suddenly upon me,
he hissed out, "Paltry pettifogger, this is the second time that through
your d----d bungling I have been brought to disgrace. Not content with
hanging me once, you have played me foul a second time. But think not to
escape me now," and he cleared the room with one terrific stride. (Now
almost for the first time I noticed the enormous length of the Baron's
legs.) "Choose your weapons," he cried, "and thank your stars that I
don't fell you on the spot as I would an ox."

"But--but--I don't see how you have a right to--to--I did all in my
power to----" stammered I. "I don't think you ought to be offended.
Reflect, my dear Baron," I said. "I am sure, in your better mood, you
will see the matter in another light."

"No more prating, but choose your weapon," screamed the Baron.

"Really, Baron," I said, "this conduct of yours is contrary to all the
generally received etiquette in duelling. There are no seconds present,
nothing regular. I accept your challenge, if you really cannot be
brought to reason, but if I die, it must be like a gentleman, in a
regular duel, with all the usual ceremony."

"Driveller! dost prate to me of ceremony? But have it your own way,"
said the Baron. "You do not escape me this time."

"I will write to a friend of mine from town," I said. "Meanwhile, I have
the pleasure of wishing your lordship a remarkably good morning."

I opened the door and made for the staircase, but, with two immense
strides, the Baron was at my heels.

"Take that, Sir Bungler," cried he, and lifting one of his enormous
legs, lunged forth a kick upon that part of my person anatomically known
as the _Glutaeus Major_, which sent me flying from the top of the stairs
to the bottom, at the imminent risk of breaking my neck; but, as good
luck would have it, I landed safely on my feet. Nevertheless the insult
stung me to the quick.

I turned round indignantly, yet striving to master my passion, in order
to preserve my dignity, and said, "Baron, you are no gentleman."

With the yell of a wounded tiger, the Baron vaulted with one bound from
the top of the staircase to the bottom, just as my hand was on the door.
I opened it and slammed it again in his face, and walked briskly in the
direction of the village. I heard the door open behind me and the
Baron's fearful footsteps after me.

I do not know what would have become of me, if just at that moment an
over-driven bull had not come to my rescue and stood between me and the
Baron. Seeing a man striding towards him furiously, he imagined the
attack was meant for himself, and accordingly stood on the defensive.
The Baron tried to pass, but the bull lowered his horns, and looked
menacing, so he wisely retreated to his Hall.

Arrived at "The Swan," I demanded pen, ink, and paper, and wrote to my
friend in town to come to me for the purpose of performing the office of
second, after which I endeavoured to kill time in this lonely village
till dinner. Feeling hungry, I made a sumptuous repast and turned into
bed with feelings full of revenge towards the Baron.

"No more Phantom Fleas to-night," I said to myself as I tucked myself
up in my comfortable little bed at "The Swan," and soon fell into a
sound sleep.

And now, said the lawyer, when he had got thus far in his narrative, I
must root up an old and very painful subject that occurred in my early
life, and which I would fain have allowed to rest for ever.

In my earlier days, when as yet I had no fixed profession, during my
travels in Italy, I became enamoured of a beautiful Italian girl. Poor
Mariangela! how she loved me! That girl possessed the soul of an angel.
I see her before me now, with her sweet, dreamy, saintlike eyes, and her
quiet graceful step. We were never married, for I was not in a position
then to support a wife. She vowed that she would never love anyone else
but me. We parted, and--and--she died; died through love of me.

(Here the lawyer became visibly affected and hastily brushed away a
tear-drop with his hand. Mastering himself at length, he resumed.)

On her death-bed she sent for me. I arrived just in time to catch her
parting breath. When I stooped down to kiss her she hung a small relic
of some saint that had been blessed by the Pope, suspended with a piece
of ribbon, round my neck, and begged me to wear it for her sake, and
said that it would preserve me from all harm. Poor girl! she died in my
arms; I followed her to the grave and was for a long time inconsolable.

But time, that changes everything, changed me. A tender recollection of
her past love only remained; the wild tumultuous passion I had felt for
her while living, and the overwhelming grief I experienced at her death,
had subsided. For two years I wore the relic she gave me round my neck.
Not because I believed in its virtue, not being a Roman Catholic myself,
but for her sake alone--in remembrance of _her_. Afterwards, however, I
wore it less often, and at length discontinued wearing it altogether. I
kept it still at the bottom of my trunk, between the leaves of a book.

This trunk I left in town when I went down to the Baron's. The key, I
must tell you, I had lost a day or two before. I was just thinking of
sending for the locksmith when I received the Baron's letter to come
down to his place for a day or two. I left town hurriedly and the box
behind me, locked--the key lost.

Ever since poor Mariangela's death, even long after I had ceased to
think of her regularly, I have remarked that in those periods of my life
when I was in any difficulty her spirit used to appear to me in a dream
and counsel me, and being guided by her counsel, I found my way
invariably out of my dilemma. When weighed down by any great grief she
was sure to appear and console me.

That night when I turned into my snug little bed at "The Swan," no one
was further from my thoughts than that poor Italian girl who loved me so
well. My thoughts were far too full of ill-feeling towards the Baron and
the preparations for the coming duel to allow room for anything else.
Nevertheless, I had a most remarkable dream towards morning. I thought
Mariangela came towards me as I lay in bed, and reproached me for having
left off wearing the charm that she had hung round my neck.

"Your life is in danger," she said. "Good swordsman and expert with the
pistol as you are, you are no match for the Baron with either, whose
skill is from the Evil One. Listen to me, and do not refuse my last
petition. Wear this round your neck, and it will protect you from all
harm."

Having spoken thus, she kissed me on the brow and vanished. I awoke, and
would you believe it, gentlemen, I found suspended round my neck that
identical relic that I left at the bottom of my trunk in town, the key
of which was lost. Well, I could no longer doubt this being a spiritual
visitation, so I left the relic there suspended.

In the course of the day my friend arrived. The usual ceremonies were
gone through, and the meeting was to be at sundown, in a wood belonging
to the Baron's estate. A surgeon was also provided to bind up the wounds
of the one who should fall, should they not be mortal. As I was asked my
choice of weapon, I chose the rapier, having at that time no
inconsiderable skill in the use of it.

The hour arrived, and we met on the spot. The Baron, at the sight of me,
was unable to restrain his rage, and it was with difficulty that he was
prevented from breaking through every rule of etiquette appertaining to
the duello. Without waiting for the customary salute beforehand, he
rushed at me sword in hand at the first sight of me like a savage. The
seconds interfered, and something like order was restored.

We advanced, retired, clashed swords, lunged, parried. "_Tierce_,
_quarte_, _quinte_, _flanconade_, single attack, double attack, lunge."

The Baron lunged furiously, I parried, and the Baron was disarmed.
Without waiting for my permission to pick up his sword, he, disregarding
all etiquette, made a sudden grab at it, and flew at me again in fury.
The Baron's fencing was very wild. He made three or four successive
desperate lunges at me, but was foiled every time. He grew more and more
furious; he had never been accustomed to be thus thwarted.

I felt my hand grow lame, however. It was like fencing with
Mephistopheles. To tire him out was impossible. His long wind was his
_forte_. I could only try to match the Baron's fury by the most guarded
coolness and self-possession. For some time past I had done nothing but
parry, waiting calmly for an opportunity. At length an opening presented
itself. I lunged, and the Baron fell, pierced right through the heart,
at the foot of one of his own stately oaks. He rolled up his eyes, and
after death still retained the same expression of ferocity that he wore
when living.

Thus died the last Baron ----. With his death the line became extinct,
and the property fell into other hands. Duelling even in those days was
fast falling into disuse, and I had to fly the country. I travelled for
many years, and at length returned home, but never from the day of the
duel up to the present time have I once neglected to wear the pious
relic of that poor Italian girl round my neck.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bursts of applause followed the lawyer's recital. Mr. Blackdeed said it
ought to be dramatised; that it would "create a sensation," and "bring
down the house." The doctor shook his head gravely. The chairman, in a
short speech, proposed the health of the narrator, and expressed a hope
that he might be free from all such clients for the future.

"Shiver my timbers!" cried Captain Toughyarn, "if that yarn won't do for
the marines. Odds, blood and thunder, if I thought anyone but a tar
could have spun such a yarn as that. I tell you what it is, Hardcase,
you've mistaken your calling. You were meant for the sea."

"I hope, Captain Toughyarn," said the lawyer, "you don't doubt the
veracity of my statement."

"Not I," answered the captain, but with a most provoking look of
scepticism, which belied his words.

"I do believe the captain's a sceptic," said the chairman. "Take care,
captain, the rules of this club are severe. If any member or guest
presumes to doubt the statement of any other member of the club, given
out by the said member as a fact, he shall incur the penalty of being
forced to drink a cup of cold water on his bended knees, and----"

"Ugh!" groaned the captain, before the chairman had finished his
sentence. "Well, chairman," he said, humbly awed at the severity of the
sentence, "I don't mean to say that I'll give a 'lee lurch,' and throw
Mr. Hardcase's cargo overboard altogether; but the fact is I have been
on shore so long, that I have got quite out of the way of shipping those
sorts of goods into my hold, and it rather sticks in my tramway, but I
have no doubt that another glass of grog will send it clean down, and
that I shall find storage-room in my hull for that and as much more
cargo as any of our messmates choose to ship this evening."

"Hear, hear," cried the guests, passing the bowl towards the captain,
who, after having filled up his glass and drained it, declared himself
ready to set sail.

"Another bowl, landlord!" shouted the chairman; "and whilst you are
about it, you might bring up another log as well. See how the cold makes
the fire burn." Then, turning to his guest, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, he
observed, "It is lucky you arrived in time to-night for our great
meeting. You have now heard a specimen of these stories, the fame of
which has reached Rome."

At this moment the host returned with a fresh bowl of punch, which was
received with a murmur of approbation. The landlord then stirred up the
fire, and put on a fresh log. It was getting late, but that was nothing
for the members of the "Wonder Club" on such an occasion as this.

"It's freezing hard to-night, sir," said the landlord to the chairman.

"Is it, mine host?" said Mr. Oldstone, rendered still more good humoured
under the influence of the punch. "Then fill up a bumper and drink to
the health of our club, after which you may sit down here and listen to
the next story, if you can prevent falling asleep. Our first story you
have missed. Oh, I can assure you it would have given you the horrors to
have listened to it."

Here our worthy host filled up a glass, and, nodding his head, drank to
the long life of all the members and guests, and hoped that the club
might have as many more anniversaries as there were hairs in the heads
of all the members put together.

This sentiment was received with applause, and the health of the
landlord was drunk with three times three. He replied to it in a short,
bluff, and unembarrassed speech, amid cheers; and rattling of glasses.
Then modestly taking a seat at some little distance from the table,
filled his pipe, lighted it, and put himself into a listening attitude.

"It is your turn now, doctor," said the chairman. "We're all waiting,
and, mind, we all expect a good one. On this evening, gentlemen, each
one must strive to outdo his neighbour."

"I cannot promise that I will outdo Mr. Hardcase's narrative," said the
doctor, modestly, "but I will do my best to add to the entertainment of
the company in my humble way."

"Bravo, doctor!" cried several voices at once.

Mr. Oldstone thumped the table and called out, "Silence, gentlemen; Dr.
Bleedem will favour us with a story."

Silence immediately ensued, and the doctor began.




[Illustration]


CHAPTER II.

THE SPIRIT LOVERS.--THE DOCTOR'S STORY.


I am about to relate, gentlemen, a curious incident in my medical
experience, many years ago.

When I was yet a young practitioner I had already a numerous circle of
patients, out of which it will be only necessary for me to bring two
cases before you this evening. The first was that of a young man of
about four-and-twenty, whom I shall call Charles. He was of good family,
and his parents were moderately well off. I was called to his bedside,
the former doctor having been dismissed. I had had some conversation
with the parents of the young man before I was ushered into his
presence. They informed me that my predecessor had pronounced his
disease "a rapid decline" and as incurable. But the case had other
peculiarities which puzzled him. The brain, he said, was much affected.

The patient ate little, unlike other consumptive subjects, whose
appetites are usually enormous. He slept much, and talked much in his
sleep, but in his waking moments he was irritable and restless, and
preferred being left alone all day. He could not even bear the sight of
his own parents in his room. He had his regular hours of sleep, and
always seemed to look forward to his hours of rest, especially to his
nightly hours.

I questioned the parents as to how long he had been in this state. They
told me more than a year. I inquired if any member of their family had
ever died of consumption. They replied that not one, either on the
father's side or the mother's, bore the slightest trace of that malady,
and that for many generations back the members of both families had
lived to a good old age. Neither of the parents could give the slightest
account of how the disease originated.

Their son had been sent to the university two or three years before,
where he had studied hard, but without having made up his mind to follow
any particular profession. They suggested that possibly over-study had
sewn the seeds of the disease. He was not, as they assured me, given to
dissipation.

Having ascertained these particulars, I expressed a desire to see the
patient, and was shewn into the sick-room. The parents told me to
prepare for a cool reception, as their son was not over partial to
visitors, and especially doctors. They then retired, leaving me alone
with the patient, as I had previously requested them; for it has always
been my policy to work myself as much as possible into the confidence of
my patients, in order to obtain more minute particulars of their case
which otherwise they might be reserved upon. For this a _tete-a-tete_ is
absolutely necessary, as there are patients who are reserved even in
the presence of their nearest relatives and friends.

The young man, as I entered, was seated in bed, propped up by cushions.
He was in a thoughtful attitude, and for some moments seemed unconscious
of my presence. At length, hearing my footsteps, he started, glared
wildly at me, and turned his face to the wall.

"Come," I said, soothingly, "don't be frightened; I am only the new
doctor. I have come to see if I can't make something out of your case.
Come, turn round. I daresay we shall be better friends before long. What
is this?" I asked, as I laid my hand upon a volume hidden under the
clothes, and examined it. "Ah, Shakespeare!"

"Don't touch it," cried the young man, starting up with sudden energy.
"I never allow my Shakespeare to be polluted by strange hands."

I was rather startled at this sudden burst of irritability from my new
patient, especially in the exhausted state in which I found him, and not
a little amused at the oddity of his caprice.

"You are a great admirer of Shakespeare?" I observed, after a pause.

He did not deign a reply, but fell back languidly on his cushions and
closed his eyes.

"A great poet," I continued. "What insight into character! What
knowledge of mankind! What a versatile genius! With what truth and
exquisite feeling he portrays both the king and the peasant, the
courtier and the jester! How truly he seizes the leading characteristics
of the Jew and the Christian in his 'Merchant of Venice,' to say nothing
of his sublime imagination in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and in 'The
Tempest'; the exquisite humours, too, of his 'Merry Wives of Windsor,'
and then there is his----"

At this juncture my patient opened his eyes, and gave me a look that
seemed to say, "Have you done yet?" and, after a pause, said aloud, "I
thought you were the doctor."

"Ah! truly," said I, blushing slightly; "I am afraid, I weary you.
Pardon me if my enthusiasm for your great poet has carried me away from
my professional duties. But, to business. How do you feel at present?"

He eyed me with a peculiar expression, and said, "Do you really want to
know?"

"To be sure I do; haven't I come----"

"You have heard that I have been given over as incurable. The last
doctor was an older man than you. What do you hope to effect?"

"To effect a cure; _I_ do not give you up. I do _not_ think your disease
is consumption. I hope in time to----"

"To what?" he asked, nervously.

"Well, to be able to serve you."

"No," he cried, "not to _serve_ me, but to _cure_ me."

"In curing you, shall I not serve you?"

"No. I do not want to be cured. Leave me to die, if you want to serve
me."

"Oh, my dear young man," I cried, "don't talk like that. Your malady is
not of the sort that you need fear death so soon."

"Fear death!" he exclaimed. "On the contrary, I seek death. I desire to
die."

"What! you desire to die? A young man like you, in the pride of your
youth, with the whole world before you. What can make you so tired of
your life?"

"Because my life's a burden to me."

"Poor young man," I said, "can you have suffered so much! Ah," I
muttered, half to myself, "youth has its sufferings as well as age."

I was young myself then, and I had suffered. I felt the deepest sympathy
for my patient.

"If," I resumed, "in curing you I could make life cease to be a
burden----"

"I would not accept the offer," he replied. "What should I gain by it?
The grosser material part of my nature would be rendered more gross,
more material; capable only of those delights that the grossest minds
revel in, to the utter exclusion of those sublime visions and
inspirations which visit the soul when least clogged with matter. It
would be to exchange a paradise for a pandemonium; high, exalted
thoughts and feelings for low and grovelling ones. No," he said; "he
who, like me, has tasted both lives will hardly throw away the higher
for the lower."

I was puzzled by this last speech of his. Was the brain really affected?
Had I to do with a case of insanity? I studied his physiognomy for some
time in silence. He would have been called decidedly handsome; and yet
that is not the word. I should rather say beautiful, but the complexion
was pallid and the face dreadfully emaciated. The forehead was ample,
but half-eclipsed by a mass of rich, chestnut hair that hung over his
head in disordered waves. The nose was Grecian; the mouth and chin
classic; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with an expression
most unusual and indescribable.

If I may use the expression, he seemed to look through you and beyond
you into space. The expression was quite unlike the vacant stare of the
maniac, for the look abounded with superior intelligence, but yet it was
not that sort of intelligence which men get by mixing in the world. His
look had something _unearthly_ in it--something of another world. I
could not altogether bring myself to believe that he was mad. He would
certainly have been called so by the world at large, which calls
everything madness that does not come within its own narrow circle. His
madness was that his faculties were too acute, his nervous system too
sensitive. When he looked at me he seemed to read my inmost thoughts and
answer them all with his eyes before I had time to open my mouth to give
utterance to them.

I tried to reason with him, tried to show him that very good health was
compatible with the most exalted thoughts, etc. But he always had an
answer ready, and that, too, before the words were half out of my mouth.
He was a perfect study, and I took immense interest in him. He, in turn,
grew more docile and confiding, and after some five or six visits we
were the best of friends.

I have said that he slept much and was given much to talking in his
sleep. It was on my third visit that I had some experience of this. We
were in the midst of an animated discussion, when he suddenly went off
into a most profound slumber; more suddenly than I had ever before known
anyone to fall asleep, and so resembling death that for some time I
thought him dead. At length his lips began to move, and for more than an
hour he kept up a conversation with someone in his dream, part of which
conversation I committed to paper.

"What!" he exclaimed, "this is the spot appointed, and no one near. This
is the trysting tree, yonder the blue mountains, here the rocks. It is
past the hour. Oh, where is she? Will she not come? Must I return to
that darkness mortals call life without seeing her, without hearing one
word? Oh, Edith! shake off these bonds of flesh but for one hour, if,
indeed, you also have a life of clay like me, and are not all spirit.
Can you not spare me _one_ hour? Ah! footsteps! A bush crackles. Edith,
Edith! how glad I am you have come at last. I was afraid you had been
prevented. Why are you so late? What do I see--tears? Tell me what has
happened. Does your father know of our meetings? But how should he? Are
we not in the spirit? Come, tell me all."

Here a pause ensued, as if the lady he was addressing was speaking,
during which time the expression of his face changed several times;
first from one of deep tenderness, next, to that of profound melancholy.
He sighed, then again a bright smile illumined his countenance.
Occasionally a slight frown would cloud his brow for an instant, and his
countenance bore a look of determination. At length he spoke again in
earnest tones.

"Come what may, I will never leave you. Have I not sworn? Are you not
mine to all eternity? We may never meet in the flesh; but what of that.
Are we not happier thus? Unshackled from that fearful darkness that wars
against our spirits? Oh, that we may ever live thus! Would that we could
become all spirit."

Another pause ensued, and after some minutes he resumed.

"And how can your father's paltry caprices affect us--whilst we are in
the spirit, how can the weapons of the flesh attack us?"

A pause, and then he said, "True, as you say, we are not always in the
spirit, and then of course we must be subject to---- But what is it you
fear, Edith?"

Again a pause.

"Do you know," he began again, "that that is the very thought that has
been passing through my mind for some time past. Oh, horrible! If one of
us or both should get entirely cured, so that the doors of the flesh
should close upon us for ever, our spiritual life desert us, without
even the prospect of meeting in the flesh!" Here he groaned deeply. "How
long will this last, this dream of bliss? It began but a year ago. If we
could only escape altogether from our earthly bodies! but I feel that is
impossible as yet; while I speak I feel attracted again towards clay. I
am unable to resist; I feel myself torn away. I am going--going.
Farewell, Edith."

The next moment he awoke. I folded up the paper on which I had been
writing and placed it in my pocket; then turned to my patient. I have
not given here one half of the conversation, I was unable to follow him
with my pen the greater part of the time, for at times he would speak
very rapidly, at other times sink his voice so low that I could not
catch all he uttered.

"I am here again, then," he muttered to himself, with a groan. "When
will this end?"

"You have had pleasant dreams, I hope," said I with a smile.

He looked at me suspiciously, and said, "You have heard me? Then you
know all!"

"What?" I asked.

"Why, all about that----"

"I know nothing," I replied. "It is true you talked in your sleep; you
have been dreaming."

"Call it a dream, if you like," he said. "I exist but in such dreams,
and my waking life is to me but a nightmare."

"Pooh! pooh!" I said. "You must not take such a morbid view of things.
Your brain at present is in a state of fever. We cannot expect always to
be well. I'll give you a composing draught, and in time I hope----"

"Throw physic to the dogs," he replied, quoting from his favourite
author. "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?"

"Perhaps," said I, "I might manage to do that as well, if you will bide
by my instructions."

"Look here, doctor," he said, at length, "I shall be very happy to see
you whenever you come, to talk with you as a friend, as long as I remain
upon earth, but I refuse point blank to take any of your medicine, so I
don't deceive you."

I tried to expostulate; but how can one reason with a man who wants to
die, and try to persuade him to take physic, itself nauseous, but to
bring him back to the life which he despises? My task was a difficult
one, but I bethought me of a plan. I pretended to humour him, and took
my leave, saying I would call again shortly.

On leaving the sick-room I entered the parlour, where the parents of the
invalid awaited me, to hear my opinion of the case. I told them that the
patient's nerves were in a most sensitive state; I had heard him talk
much in his sleep; that the brain wanted repose. I told them that he had
refused to take any of my medicine because he was tired of his life and
did not wish to prolong it.

I then wrote out a prescription, which I told them to get made up at the
chemist's. It was a composing draught which I desired them to administer
in a tumbler of water, likewise pouring in some sweet syrup to hide the
nauseous taste. Whenever he complained of thirst this medicine was to be
given him. In this manner he would be forced to take my medicines, and
might recover in spite of himself.

Before leaving the house I inquired of Charles' mother if she were aware
of any love affair of her son's that might have sown the first seeds of
this illness. She replied in the negative, but that she was aware that
he often mentioned a lady's name in his sleep--the name "Edith."

She assured me that there was not a single young lady of her
acquaintance who bore that name; that she was at a loss to conceive how
he could have made the acquaintance of any lady for the last two years
without her knowing it, as he had led such a very retired life since he
had left the university. Truly, he might have made her acquaintance
whilst at Oxford, but, then, he had never shown any symptoms of his
present malady for long after.

I left the house, giving them all the hope I could, and promised to call
again on the morrow. The morrow arrived, and I called again. My draught
had been administered, and I thought that my patient was a degree less
nervous. Whether it was my fancy or what, I know not, but it seemed to
me that the invalid suspected I had been tampering with him. He said
nothing, but I thought I read it in his eyes.

"How did you sleep last night?" I asked.

"Well," he replied; "but somehow I fancy that my dreams last night were
less vivid."

"Not a bad sign," I observed. "Dreaming is a bad thing--sign of a
disordered stomach."

"Some dreams--not all," he replied.

"No, not all; but those very vivid dreams that you allude to all proceed
from a bad digestion or over-heated brain."

"Then, you set down all dreams to some physical cause?"

"Certainly," said I; "though the character of the dream will be shaped
according to our waking thoughts."

"Well, yes," he replied, "generally it is so. I myself once used to have
those sort of dreams. But have you never met with a patient who lived
two separate existences, whose spirit during sleep wandered into those
realms allotted to it; returning upon waking to the body, there to drag
out a wretched existence in the world, among the hum of men, and pass
his melancholy hours longing for the night, when his spirit would be
again set free from its prison, to wander unrestrained through those
realms of space untrodden by mortal foot?"

"Never," I replied; "and if I were to meet with a man who imagined he
passed two different existences, what proof have I that his dreams are
nothing more than imagination? What proof have I that he _really does_
live two separate lives?"

"Proof such as you would desire to have I admit is difficult; but let us
suppose a case. What would you say if, in the course of a life-time's
experience, you were to find some few, very rare, cases of men as I
describe, who believe, as you would say, that their spirit during sleep
leaves the body and revels in a world of its own. That you were to read
of some few other cases of the same sort that have occurred now and then
at rare intervals since the world began, and that the written
description of that abode unknown to mortal tread, were to tally in
every particular with the descriptions you yourself received from some
of your patients?"

"Well," I replied, "I should say, either that my patients had been
reading these old legends until their brains were turned, or that it was
a malady, and, like all other maladies, was manifested by certain
special symptoms. Hence the similarity of the descriptions."

"I knew that would be your reply," he observed. "Doctor, doctor," he
continued, shaking his head, "you have a great deal to learn."

"Have you, then," I enquired, "ever met with a man of that sort?"

"I know _one_. What should you say, doctor, if I myself was one of those
men?"

"You! I should say that your imagination deluded you, that your present
ill state of health is sufficient to account for any freak of the brain,
however eccentric."

"Deluded mortal," he muttered. "Alas! by what circuitous paths do men
persistently seek for error, when the high road of Truth lies ever
before their eyes."

We discoursed upon various other topics, and I took my leave of Charles,
leaving instructions with his parents concerning the treatment of their
son, as I should not be able to call again for some days. I had to
attend a young lady in the country, the adopted daughter of a very old
friend of mine. I could not refuse to go, so I started next day by the
mail.

Charles' conversation had impressed me deeply, and I meditated upon it
as I sat perched up outside the stage-coach. I was sorry to leave him,
for I had already felt quite an affection for him, independently of the
interest I took in his case.

And who was this young lady that I was called upon to visit in such a
hurry? I had never seen her, but for the sake of my friend who had
benefited me in so many ways in the commencement of my career, I could
not do otherwise than leave town for a short time.

I tried to picture to myself my new patient--some bread-and-butter girl
with the mumps, hysteria, whooping-cough, or chicken-pox. The picture I
mentally drew of my lady patient was not sentimental; but, the fact
was, I was irritated at being obliged to leave such an interesting case
as that in which I was engaged. During the course of my drive I entered
into conversation with the driver. I asked him if he knew Squire L----.
He replied in the affirmative.

"Let me see," said I, pretending not to know the squire over well, in
order to draw him out, "the squire has no family, I think?"

"None of his own, sir. He has one adopted daughter, a foundling, found
somewhere near Stratford-on-Avon. The squire has adopted her ever since,
and----"

"What age is the young lady?"

"Well, sir, she must now be hard upon four-and-twenty, though she did
not look it last time I saw her."

"As old as that!" I exclaimed. "Then she will be getting married soon, I
suppose?"

"Not she, sir."

"Why not?" I asked. "Isn't she personally attractive?"

"Oh, I believe you, sir," said the coachman, enthusiastically, and
turning up his eyes. "There is not a face in the whole place for miles
round that can hold a candle to her."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "The squire is rich, too, as I hear, and I
suppose she will be his heiress. What is your reason for believing that
she will not marry?"

"Why, sir, she has such ill health; she never leaves the house. Folks
say as how she will never recover."

"Indeed, and how long has she been thus?"

"About a year ago she was first seized; since then I have not seen her.
When I last saw her wasn't she a beauty, neither!"

"I suppose this illness will have pulled her down a little. By the by,
what is the nature of her complaint?"

"Well, I hardly know, sir, and that's the truth, what it is that do ail
her. Some folks call it consumption, others call it something else."

"Who is her medical attendant?" I asked.

"Doctor W----, sir; lives down yonder."

"What does he say it is?"

"'Pon my word, sir, I don't think he knows more about it than other
folks. Them doctors, when they once gets into a house, there's no
getting them out again; and as for the good they do, they dose you, they
bleed you--ay, bleed you in both senses of the word! Ha! ha! You know
what I mean, sir."

I was disgusted at the vulgar contempt of this man for the noble
profession of which I myself was a member, and was determined not to
laugh at his low wit. I passed over his execrable joke with gravity, so
as not to appear to see it.

"If the doctor knows so little about it," I said, at length, "what do
the people say it is? What is the popular opinion of the young lady's
malady? What are the symptoms?"

I saw by the coachman's countenance that he was rather surprised at the
interest I took in the health of the young lady, and I fancy he
suspected that I was a doctor.

"Symptoms, sir!" he cried. "Oh, sir, very strange ones, they say."

"How strange?" I asked.

"Well, sir, there be a good many strange reports about the squire's
adopted daughter. I b'ain't a-goin' to give credit to everything I hear,
but folks _do_ say----" here he lowered his voice almost to a whisper
and looked mysteriously, first over one shoulder, then over the other.

"Well," said I, "Folks say----"

"Yes, sir, folks _do_ say that the young lady, leastways, the squire's
adopted daughter, is--is----" (here he put his finger to his lips and
looked still more mysterious).

"Well?" said I, impatiently.

"That the poor young lady is under some evil spell--that she is
_bewitched_."

"Dear me! you don't say so," I exclaimed, with well-feigned
astonishment.

"Yes, sir," he replied; "leastways, so folks say about here."

"How very dreadful! Poor young lady! Perhaps she is in love. Love is the
only witchcraft that ever came in the way of my experience," I remarked.

"And sure, sir, you're not far out there neither; for if there's one
thing more like witchcraft than another, it is that same _love_. Lor',
bless yer, sir, don't I remember when I was courtin' my Poll, how I'd
stand under her winder of a rainy night for hours, just to get a peep at
her shadow on the winder blind, and how I'd go for days without my beer,
till folks didn't know what to make of me? Ah! but I got over it,
though, in time. I got cured, but" (here he gave me a knowing look) "it
wasn't by a _doctor_. No, sir, it wasn't by a _doctor_," he said, with a
contemptuous emphasis on the last word.

"Now, who do you think it was by, sir, that I got cured?" he asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," I replied, dryly, disgusted at the man's
manner.

"Why, the _Parson_! to be sure," he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!" giving me a dig
in the ribs with his undeveloped thumb. "Yes, sir, the parson beat the
doctor out and out in that ere business. He, he!"

I dare say the joke was very witty, but I was in no humour for laughing
just then; yet, after all, he did not know I was a doctor, so I
condescended to give a grin, a spasmodic grin like that a corpse may be
supposed to give when the risible muscles are set in motion by the wires
of a galvanic battery.

He then began to relate to me some of the many superstitions afloat
concerning the above-mentioned lady, till I grew curious to make the
acquaintance of my new patient. In the middle of one of his long
stories, he pointed out to me the house of my friend Squire L----, so I
descended and walked up the hill leading to his house.

Arrived there, I rang, and was shown into the parlour, and upon giving
my name, was soon cordially received by my old friend. We had not met
for years. He had much to tell me, and seemed very much concerned about
the health of his adopted daughter, whom he loved as if she had been his
own flesh and blood.

His wife soon entered, and having expressed much pleasure at seeing me
after so long, began giving me the peculiar symptoms of the lady's case.

"I do not know what to make of her, my dear doctor," she said; "for a
whole year past she has not been the same girl. She will not eat, nor
see anyone; seems quite estranged towards us, gets nervous and irritable
if anyone approaches her; sleeps much and talks much during her sleep,
and frequently imagines in her dream that she is holding conversation
with a young man whom she addresses as Charles."

I started. The lady and her husband both noticed my emotion, and
inquired into its cause. I told them that the case of their adopted
daughter so nearly resembled the case of a young man in London whom I
was still in the habit of attending, that the similarity of the symptoms
struck me with no little surprise.

"Indeed, doctor," said the lady. "Is it possible that there can be two
such extraordinary cases in the world?"

I mused a little, and then observed, "You do not think, do you, that the
first cause of this strange malady was some little affair of the
heart?"

"Oh, dear no, doctor," she replied. "I am certain of it. The girl has
never had the opportunity of forming the acquaintance of any young men.
She has never left this village in her life, though she has often begged
me to take her to London; but somehow I----"

"What! you say she has never been to London--not even for a day?"

"Never," she replied.

I began musing to myself, when I was interrupted from my train of
thought by the voice of the patient calling out, in agonising tones,
"Charles! Charles!"

"Edith, my love! what _is_ the matter?" cried Mrs. L----, rising and
leaving the room.

"Edith!" I muttered to myself. "How strange! What a strange link between
the two cases." I did not know what to make of it all. However, I kept
the particulars of Charles' case to myself for the present, and
determined to investigate the matter closely.

"Can I see the patient?" I asked of my old friend.

"Certainly; we will go together," he said.

"Thank you, but I should prefer a private interview with her, if
possible. Patients sometimes will not be communicative to the doctor in
presence of others, even though they be their own relations. It is
always my plan to----"

"Ah, exactly, doctor," he replied; "but I am afraid she will not give
you a very warm reception."

"Oh," I replied, "as to that, I am accustomed to the very worst of
receptions from some of my patients."

My friend led me to the chamber of the young lady, whom I discovered in
bed, propped up by cushions, talking to Mrs. L----.

"This is Dr. Bleedem, my love," said the squire. "Now, don't be shy, but
tell him all that you feel the matter with you. I shall leave him alone
with you. Don't be nervous; he is a very old friend of mine."

Then, beckoning to his wife, he drew her away, and left me alone with my
patient.

The first thing that struck me upon entering the chamber was the
remarkable likeness my new patient bore to Charles. They might well have
been brother and sister, though the hair of Edith was dark and her eyes
a deep grey. The features were wonderfully alike, and the eyes had that
same strange unearthly expression I have already described as belonging
to Charles. Contrary to my expectations, she received me most civilly;
very differently to the manner in which I was treated by Charles on our
first interview. I was at a loss to account for this, as my friend had
warned me not to hope for a very warm reception.

"Oh, doctor!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come. Your presence
brings me relief. You are the only person whose sight I have been able
to tolerate for this last year and more."

I was thunderstruck. What could she mean? "Some caprice, I suppose.
Perhaps my old friend has been putting in a good word for me."

"No, doctor," she said, answering to my thoughts in a manner that
perfectly amazed me; "no; it is not as you think. The squire never told
me until this moment that you were an old friend of his. It is not for
that that I feel myself drawn towards you by some almost unaccountable
sympathy; but, to tell you the truth, doctor, I have long felt the want
of someone to confide in, and you are just the one; you must forgive my
boldness, if it offends you, whom I should like to make my father
confessor."

I smiled at the innocent want of restraint with which she uttered these
words, and said I should be most happy to fulfil the office.

"Should you, doctor?" she replied. "Well, I shall be most unreserved
towards you, and I hope you will return the compliment, and tell me all
it is in your power to communicate."

I looked surprised, and asked, "Of what--of whom would you hear?"

"Doctor," she said, fixing upon me those deep grey orbs, with a glance
that seemed to read my inmost soul, "do not deceive me; you _know_ that
you have been with _him_."

"Who can she mean?" I mentally asked. "Can she mean Charles?"

"Yes," she answered to my thought, "with _him_--with _Charles_. Hide
nothing from me, doctor. I see you look surprised that I should know
where you come from; but my senses are too keen, too abnormally acute,
not to perceive that you carry about you _the particles of his being_
as unmistakably as if you had been amongst roses or honeysuckles. Can I
be deceived when you come to me directly from the chamber of the only
man I ever loved in my life, with the atoms of his nature clinging to
you? Think you that I know aught of your doings? That I have been
informed as to where _he_ lives? I tell you, No; I know nothing but what
my senses tell me. I feel you have been with him, and whatever you might
tell me to the contrary would not make me believe otherwise."

"Well," I said smiling, "I don't deny that I _have_ just come from a
patient in London, whose name is Charles; but London is large, and there
are many Charleses."

"I do not care _where_ your patient is--whether at London or the North
Pole, I shall probably never come across him; in fact, I don't see that
it would aid matters much if I were to. I have never seen him--that is
to say, with these eyes--and probably never may," she said, with a deep
sigh.

"Do I understand you to say that you have never seen this young man you
talk about, and yet you take so much interest in him?"

"Never with the eyes of the body," she replied.

"How, then?" I asked.

"With the eyes of the spirit."

"That is to say," I resumed, "that this young man named Charles is but a
creature of the imagination--that he has no real existence."

"Oh, pardon me," she replied; "decidedly he has an existence--a double
one. A bodily one, of which I know nothing; and a spiritual one, of
which I know more."

"How?" I asked. "You have never seen him in the flesh, but are yet
acquainted with his spirit. Does the spirit leave his body and appear to
you?"

"Precisely so."

"Oh! but these are hallucinations, my dear young lady," I said, "that
patients in your state of health are frequently subject to."

"No, doctor; say not so," she answered. "It is now more than a year
since, that in my dream, as I was walking alone in a beautiful garden, I
met a young man, also quite alone and reading. He was of extraordinary
personal beauty. He looked at me a moment and passed by. The very next
evening I had the same dream--there he was again. The dream was so very
vivid, that I could not believe it to be one of those ordinary dreams so
common to persons suffering from indigestion. There was such a reality
about the whole--the garden, the terraces, the old house--altogether had
too much truth about it to have been a dream."

"And what do you think it was, if not a dream?" I asked, smiling.

"Nothing less," she replied "than a glimpse into that world so zealously
guarded from our mortal eyes as to make us doubt of its existence, or,
at least, to hold it as something so ethereal and visionary that we
tremble even to speculate on it; but which, nevertheless, exists, has
existed, and will exist to all eternity in form as palpable as the earth
we this day inhabit."

I mused a little, then said, "Dreams are often very vivid; I know that
by experience, but upon waking I have always been able to account for
them in some way or other."

"Don't call this a dream of mine, doctor," she said. "In everything it
is most unlike the dreams of your experience. Those you allude to are
vivid only for one night, and disperse into air on waking. Such is not
the case with my dreams. The dream of each night to me is the
continuation of the dream of the preceding night, and this has been
regularly going on for more than a year, each dream being crowded with a
series of events such as would be sufficient to fill up a lifetime; and
so vivid, indeed, is the colouring of everything in these visions, that
I no more doubt in a double existence than that I am talking to you at
the present moment. In awaking, too, I find, that instead of vanishing
like an ordinary dream, I bear ever afterwards the strongest
recollection of everything that has happened during my period of sleep."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "It is very strange. I am just attending a young
man in London who shares your complaint. The case is a rare one; I never
came across one before at all like it. The coincidence about the whole
affair is so strange, too. His name happens to be Charles, and whilst
talking in his sleep as they tell me you do, I have heard him mention
the name Edith. Your name, is it not?"

"'Tis he! 'Tis he!" exclaimed my patient, enthusiastically, throwing up
her arms and clasping her hands above her head. "I knew it, I knew it!
But tell me more about him, doctor! I did not see him last night, and I
was so unhappy. The night before he appeared to me less distinct than he
had ever done before. Oh, doctor," she cried, in an agonising tone, "you
are _curing_ him, you are _curing_ him!" much in the same way as she
might have called out, "You are _killing_ him!"

"Yes, I hope to some day. There is no great harm in that, I suppose?" I
remarked.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" she cried; "you are imprisoning his spirit within his
body, and I shall never see him again."

"Well," I thought to myself, "this is about the oddest courtship _I_
ever heard of; but," I continued, aloud, "supposing I could cure you
both; then, afterwards, you might meet in the flesh; and how much better
that would be. You would preserve your health and----"

"No, no," she cried. "Do you think our joys could be half so intense, so
ethereal, in a fleshly life as when walking in the spirit? No, doctor,
have mercy upon both of us, and leave us to die; we shall then be all
spirit."

"Charles' sentiments exactly," I muttered.

"Are they not?" she said, brightening up. "He, then, has let you into
the secret of this phenomenon of his being! Oh, doctor," she exclaimed,
"don't, don't, _cure him_!"

She spoke with such agony of feeling, that I could not help feeling the
deepest sympathy for her, and I actually for a moment began to waver in
my duties as a medical man. I began to think that, if, as it now
appears, two human beings, having never met in the body, are
nevertheless by some occult law of nature, permitted to hold communion
with each other in the spirit as lovers, what cruelty in me to try and
cut short their happy time of courtship! Would it not be kinder in me
(seeing that the order of their beings differs so from that of the rest
of the herd) to go against the common duties of my profession, and
instead of trying to remedy the malady, to accelerate it, till it
resulted in death.

"But no," I said to myself, immediately; "my reputation, my conscience.
What! _I_ a poisoner! No," I said; "we must all die some day, and my two
lover patients must hold out in this life a little longer. Death comes
soon enough for all, and then, if their spirit love was as lasting as it
appeared to be intense, they might resume their amours after this mortal
coil was doffed. What are a few paltry years compared with the
immeasurable gulf of eternity?" Thus I mused, but suddenly I said, "You
will not mind taking a little light physic, will you?"

"What! to make me well!" she exclaimed. "To imprison my spirit within
my body, as you have done Charles'. But stay, if I take your physic, it
will not be yet. I will wait to see if Charles is really lost to me for
ever. If he does not appear again all this week, then his spirit has no
longer power to wander from the body, and if he is lost to me, why
should I wander about in the spirit seeking him in vain? I might just as
well be cured as not."

"Very well," I said; "then, for the present it is needless to administer
any medicine?"

"Not at present, doctor," she said.

I took up my hat to go, and said that I would call again soon and would
bring her tidings of Charles; that I was going there straight from her.

"Stay, stay," she said. "You have told me nothing about him as yet."

"Well, my dear young lady," I said, "I really do not know what to tell
you about him. Like yourself, he refused to take my medicine, and----"

"What, he refused! Then how is it that he is getting well? That he does
not appear to me now? Doctor, you have had something administered on the
sly. I know it. I see it in your face;" and the look that she gave me
was so penetrating, that I quite quailed under it, and was obliged to
admit that I had.

"And you are going to try the same trick with me. Oh! oh!"

Here she groaned, and threw herself forward on the bed in agony.

"My dear Miss Edith," I said, compassionately, "calm yourself; pray
reflect. I can't, I daren't leave you to die. Be persuaded, and take
only a little harmless, quieting medicine, not nauseous to the taste,
and which may not have the effect of making you cease to dream."

But my fair patient was not to be persuaded, so, with hat in hand, I
made another step towards the door.

"Stay, doctor," she said; "whatever you do, keep our conversation secret
from the people of the house."

"Certainly," said I. "Has it not been under the 'seal of confession!'"

"True, true," she said; "and, doctor--would you mind--if you are really
going to call upon--Charles, to--to--take a relic to him of me?"

"Not at all," I said. "On the contrary, I should be most happy; but--" I
said, after a moment's reflection, "but--your parents--would they
object, do you think?"

"Oh, don't be afraid, doctor," she replied. "I am very independent, and
as for yourself, your name needn't get mixed up in the transaction."

Here she reached a pair of scissors, and severed one of her long ebony
tresses, which she handed to me with these words:

"Take this," she said, "to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith sends him
this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit."

I promised I would do as she desired, and shaking hands with her, I left
the apartment.

My friend and his wife awaited me in the parlour, and asked me my
opinion of their daughter's case. I gave them hope of her recovery; but
told them that she had positively refused to take any of my medicines,
and I therefore adopted the same man[oe]uvre that I had adopted with
Charles, and was forced to leave the medicine to be administered
clandestinely. I wrote out a prescription and left the house, saying I
would call again in a day or two. I took the mail that evening, and
started for London. Finding myself at length arrived in the great
metropolis, my first thought was to call upon Charles.

As I entered his chamber the expression on my patient's countenance was
one of deepest melancholy. When he first caught sight of me I thought he
looked suspicious, and was going to turn away, but as I approached him
his countenance altogether changed, and grew so bright and radiant, that
he did not look the same man. He had never welcomed me before in this
way, and his manner puzzled me.

"Oh, doctor," he cried, in tones of the greatest joy, "is it possible
you have seen her? I know you have; I can't be mistaken."

"Seen who?" I asked, smiling.

"Come, doctor," he said "you know all about it; don't pretend to
ignore----"

"Ignore what?" I enquired, with provoking pertinacity.

"Oh, doctor, doctor! you'll drive me mad," exclaimed my patient. "Tell
me all about her at once, and keep me no longer in suspense. Oh, Edith!
Edith! I feel your presence. Come, doctor, tell me about _Edith_."

"What Edith?" I exclaimed. "Are there not many of that name? It is true
I _do_ come from a young lady patient whose name _happens_ to be Edith.
What then?"

"The same! I knew it, I knew it," he cried. "Tell me all about her,
doctor; you have seen her, and spoken to her. Oh! we may yet meet in the
flesh, even if she be denied me in the spirit. Did you tell her of my
case, doctor?"

I nodded my head.

"I told her," said I, "that I was attending a young man whose symptoms
very much resembled her own. Oh! I had a long talk with her, I assure
you; and what do you think she wants of me?" I asked. "Why, she was
actually unfeeling enough to ask me not to cure you; she was, indeed."

"My own dear Edith!" he exclaimed. "Of course she doesn't want me cured;
and, doctor, if you would do both her and me a kindness, don't--oh,
don't--cure her."

"Well, you're an amiable couple, I'm fancying," said I. "I wonder
whether there are many more such loving couples in the world as you
two."

"Well, doctor," he said, smiling, "have you any more news for me?"

"Perhaps I may have," I answered, mysteriously. "What should you say if
she entrusted me with a present to you?"

"A present from _her_! Oh, doctor, don't trifle with me. Is it really
so?"

Hereupon I thrust my hand into my pocket, and produced the lock of hair,
wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper. He made a snatch at it with his
long lean fingers, and tearing it open, exclaimed, "_Her_ hair! I could
swear to it anywhere. What did she say, doctor, when she gave this into
your hands?"

"She said," said I, "'Take this to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith
sends him this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit.'"

"Bless her! bless her!" he cried, enthusiastically kissing the relic
repeatedly and pressing it to his heart.

I allowed this transport to pass well over before I spoke again. At
length I enquired how he had passed the night.

"Badly," he replied, sulkily.

"What! have you not felt quieter, more composed?"

"Oh, yes," he answered; "you don't suppose that I am ignorant that you
have been drugging me?" he said, casting at me a look of reproach.

"Drugging you?" I exclaimed.

"Yes; did you think I couldn't taste that stuff that you got my parents
to give me through all its disguise? Do you think I did not feel its
influence?"

"A salutary influence only, I hope," I answered, being forced at length
to admit the stratagem that I had felt it my duty to adopt.

"What you would call a salutary influence," he retorted. "But do you
know," he added, almost fiercely, "that you have robbed me of those
dreams that constituted the better part of my life? In fact, my _real_,
my _only_ life."

"I am sorry for that," I remarked. "Do you then not dream at all now?"

"If I dream, I do _but_ dream--like all ordinary mortals, but my second
existence is closed, I fear, for ever. I will tell you what I dreamt
last night. I walked towards the entrance of a beautiful garden where I
had often been in the habit of meeting Edith, and I found the gate
closed. I shook it, and tried to open it by main force, when I noticed
something written over the gate. I read these words, 'This is the abode
of spirits untrammelled by the flesh.'

"I did not know other than that I was as much in the spirit as on any of
the preceding nights, so I tried the gate again, only to meet with the
same success; but this time I heard a voice calling out, 'Thy flesh hath
grown upon thy spirit--the doors of thy soul are closed--hence! back to
earth!' I made one more desperate effort, and called out, 'Edith!
Edith!' but my voice went forth from me weak, like a voice in the
distance. Nevertheless, my cry was answered. I heard Edith's voice
within the garden calling out my name, but in very feeble tones. My ears
were too grossly clogged with flesh to hear distinctly spiritual
sounds. I was aware of Edith's presence. She shook the garden gate with
her hands and spoke to me through the bars, but I saw no form. I heard
only her voice.

"'Come to me,' she said, in what appeared a suppressed whisper. 'Oh,
what is this, Charles? Why cannot you come?'

"Then the same unknown voice that had addressed me before spoke again,
'Spirit to spirit--flesh to flesh!' and I felt myself whirled back from
the garden gate as by a whirlwind, and I awoke."

"The dream is strange," I observed. "Have you many such dreams?" I
asked.

"Up to the present time, thank goodness, no; but who knows if to-night I
shall be able to dream at all?"

"You will sleep all the sounder if you don't. Dreams always come when
the sleep is disturbed," said I.

"Doctor, would you rob me of all I have to live for by your drugs?" he
exclaimed.

"I should be sorry," I replied, "if my drugs have the unfortunate effect
of robbing you of pleasant dreams; but it is my first duty as a medical
man to remedy the physical ills of my patients."

"Well, no more drugs for me, that's all," he said, positively. "The next
article of food I take that tastes in the slightest degree of physic I
shall certainly throw away."

"In that case," I replied, "if there is no way of administering
medicine to you, this must be my last visit. It is useless calling on a
patient who refuses to be cured."

"Well, doctor," he said, "I shall be sorry to lose you, as your
conversation serves to cheer my waking death. Of course, I can't expect
you to put yourself out of the way to come here for nothing; but if at
any time you are not better employed, just drop in as a friend."

"Well," I said, "I should not like to drop an acquaintance so
interesting. But, the subject of medicine apart, you really must take a
little more nutriment than you do."

This was what was really the matter with him. The body was worn away
through insufficient diet, till the patient was in a state bordering on
starvation; and this had been for a long time persisted in, as the
invalid found a morbid delight in those vivid dreams peculiar to all
people who practise long fasting; and so loth was he to give up his
beloved dreamland, that he was ready to sacrifice life itself.

We chatted together for some time longer, and he related to me many of
his dreams, which were all of a most extraordinary character. At length
I got up to go, saying I would call on the morrow, and entered the
parlour where the parents of the young man were seated. They asked me
how my patient progressed. I told them he wanted plenty of nutriment,
and, without ordering further medicine, I told them to give him plenty
of mutton broth, beef tea, and other nutritious things, and to put them
as close to his bed as possible, that the smell of the savoury food
might awaken his appetite.

They promised to comply with my request, and I quitted the house. I had
one or two other cases to attend to after that, which interested me in a
much less degree, after which I returned home, and committed to paper
the leading peculiarities of the cases of Charles and Edith.

In the course of the morrow I called again upon Charles. I thought he
looked better. There was certainly a change in him since my first visit.

"Well," I asked, "and how did you sleep last night?"

"Oh, doctor!" he answered, "such a dream!"

"Well, come, what was it?"

"I thought," he began, "that I was again in search of that garden gate
that I have before alluded to, but when I came in sight of it it was no
longer distinct and tangible as on the preceding night, but misty in
outline, and as I approached it seemed to recede and grew more misty, as
if I saw it through a fog. The fog grew more and more dense, like an
immense black cloud, and I saw nothing. Then the cloud seemed to
solidify, and it turned to a solid wall of stone, and I found myself
suddenly enclosed within what looked like the courtyard of a prison. I
looked out for some loophole, but all attempt at escape appeared
impossible. My eye soon caught an inscription on the wall, which ran
thus, 'The boundary of the body.'

"'What,' I said, within myself, 'can my spirit no longer soar into those
blissful realms it was wont formerly to revel in? Must I tamely submit
to this imprisonment without one effort? No,' I said; 'never will I
basely give in thus.' And, noticing a wide chink between the stones, I
placed the tip of my foot in. I soon found another notch for my fingers.
There was no one near, so, finding higher up another chink, I put the
other foot in that, and after considerable difficulty and danger,
succeeded in reaching the top of the wall. I found that the prison was
built on a high rock in the middle of the sea, and guarded by demon
sentinels.

"I looked out into the distance. There was nothing but sea and sky, and
that, too, seemed so blended together as to appear all one element. In
whatever direction I chanced to gaze, all was vast, infinite,
indefinable.

"'Yonder must be the realms of the spirit,' I muttered to myself, as I
lolled upon the summit of the prison wall. The words I uttered fell upon
the ear of a demon sentinel below, armed with a long halberd. He raised
the alarm, and I was forced to descend from my perch. Finding myself
once more in the prison yard, I heard rapid footsteps behind me, and the
jingling of keys. I turned round suddenly and beheld the jailor.

"'What is this place?' I asked, somewhat sternly, 'and why am I here?'

"'This building,' answered the jailor, 'is called _the prison-house of
flesh_, and the reason you are here is that you belong to "our sort."'

"I groaned, and followed the jailor, who led me below into some horrid
cell, where the daylight scarce entered. He turned the key upon me and I
awoke."

"Dear me," said I, "that was a very disagreeable dream. There was
nothing about Miss Edith in that," I said, smiling wickedly.

"No," he said, savagely, "and whose face do you think the jailor's was
in my dream?"

"I have no idea," I replied.

"Why, _yours_, doctor!" said the young man, suddenly starting up with
extreme energy, and darting a look of ferocity towards me.

"Yes, doctor, you are my jailor; it is you who have closed my spirit up
in its prison-house of flesh, so that it can no longer soar together in
the company of the higher intelligences. It is you who have driven me
back again to earth and made me an equal of such minds as your own.
_You_ have robbed me of the only woman I ever loved in my life,
_you_----"

"Stay, young man, one moment," I said, "and calm yourself. Is this your
gratitude for the relic I brought you yesterday? If I, as you say, have
robbed you of one of your lives, don't I offer you another which to a
young man of your age and position is a state of existence that I can't
say how many would _envy_, and which, after all, is doing nothing more
than my duty as a medical man. Then, as to robbing you of the lady you
love, haven't I the power of making you acquainted with her some day in
the flesh, if all goes well, and I succeeded in curing you both?"

"If such a meeting should take place, do you think," he said, "that we
should experience in the same intense degree those chaste joys of love,
as if we were in the spirit, when our souls, unfettered from any
particle of clay, are raised to that sublime pitch that we are enabled
to understand the profound and lofty discourse of angels and become
ourselves for the time a part of the heavenly bodies?"

"My dear young man," I observed, "life is short. If the paradise you are
in the habit of entering in your dreams be indeed that place where all
good souls hope to go after death, you have but to wait for a few
years----"

"Wait a few years!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "when every minute spent
away from _her_ appears a century! It's very plain _you_ are not in
love."

"In the meantime," I said, "content yourself with a life of flesh like
any other rational mortal."

He began to reflect upon my words, so I thought I would improve the
opportunity, and, if possible, try and make him turn human, so I
observed,

"I shall not be here to-morrow; I am going to visit Miss Edith. Shall I
take her any message?"

"Oh, yes, doctor, certainly, by all means; that is, I'll write. Give me
some paper, pen and ink."

Having handed him these materials, he sat up in bed and penned an
epistle to his lady-love in the flesh, which he sealed and handed to me.

I assured him of its safety in my hands, and took my leave of him for
some days, hoping to find him more reconciled to humanity on my return.

Having given the parents of Charles further instructions with regard to
their son, I took my departure, and shortly afterwards taking the stage,
was _en route_ for my friend's country seat, where I arrived early the
next morning.

"And how is our patient?" I asked, as I shook hands with my friend at
the threshold.

"I fancy she sleeps sounder, doctor," he replied. "We are not so often
disturbed by her talking in her sleep."

"Good," said I; "her nerves will be getting a little stronger. Can I see
her?"

"Oh, yes; walk straight to her room."

As I entered, my patient was sitting up in bed, reading.

"Ah!" said I, after the customary salutations, "we are better this
morning, eh?"

"Oh, doctor, is that you? I am glad you have come."

"What book is that?" I asked, at the same time looking at the title.
"Ah! Shakespeare. That is Charles' favourite author."

"I know it, doctor. Oh, how often have we read it together; but now,
alas!"

"Why alas?" asked I.

"Ah, doctor," she replied, shaking her head slowly, "I never see him
now. You are curing him, and me, too. Of what value to me is a body in
perfect health, when it imprisons within it a wounded soul?"

"Come, let me see if I can't bring some balm to the wounded soul," I
said, producing from my pocket Charles' letter.

"From him?" she exclaimed. "Oh, doctor, I shall be for ever grateful to
you. I dreamt I received a letter from him last night. How is
he--better? Stay, let me read."

She tore open the letter and read in an undertone, just loud enough for
me to hear:

"Angel of my dreams--Charles in the flesh pens thee these poor lines,
greeting. How art thou, now shut from me! The doors of the body have
closed upon my spirit, and I feel that I no more belong to the same
order of beings as a few nights ago. For me now thou may'st wait in vain
in the garden, by the trysting tree, in the wild forest, by the sea
shore, in the desert, by the foaming cataract, on the bleak mountain
top, or by moonlight on the crags of the wild glacier, wherever the
wings of thy spirit may carry thee. I cannot follow thee. I linger in
chains of clay, and languish from day to day in my prison-house of
flesh, whilst thou---- But, stay, perhaps the lot I bear may be thy own;
perhaps the doors of the flesh may have closed upon _thy_ spirit also.
Oh, if it be that our souls are for ever banished from that Paradise
which they have so often revelled in together! What have we further to
look forward to but those earthly joys known to the most grovelling
mortal? This is a melancholy prospect, my Edith, for us who remember
(however, indistinctly--from the growth of that clay--over _thy_ spirit
perchance, as well as my own) those divine joys we experienced together
when our spirits walked untrammelled from our bonds of clay and our
souls melted into the harmony of those spheres which are their proper
element. How the weight of this mortal coil oppresses me as I write! I
can think of nothing that is untainted with the gross material nature
that surrounds me. My dreams of late confirm my horrible suspicions.
When, the other night, I sought thee at the garden gate, where enter
only spirits untrammelled by the flesh, didst thou hear that voice that
turned me away, and bid me return to earth? Oh! Edith, let us both make
another effort before it is too late. Perhaps even now----"

Here the patient dropped her voice, and her eye scanned the paper in
silence, from which I inferred that there was something about myself in
it that she did not wish me to know; but I had heard enough. Charles
wanted to persuade his lady-love to battle against all my efforts to
bring her round to a proper state of health, and intended doing the same
himself. Here was a regular conspiracy--two patients already all but on
the point of death, had leagued together to starve themselves outright,
and so baffle all the doctor's efforts to save them. Oh, it was
downright suicide. I did not know exactly what to do.

"This is the last time I'll act as Mercury between two lovers," thought
I.

I had a momentary thought of watching for an opportunity to get the
letter into my hands, unobserved by my patient after she had finished
reading it, and then of crumpling it up abstractedly, and throwing it
into the fire, as it was winter and a large fire was made up in the
patient's room, thinking that the impression might wear off her mind
after having read the letter only once; but how might not her lover's
words influence her if she were allowed to read and re-read his letter
when left alone? No opportunity, however, presented itself, for after
she had finished reading it she kissed it fervently and placed it in her
bosom and held it there, glancing at me rather suspiciously, as I
thought, as if she read my intentions in my face; but this might have
been fancy.

However, I tried what I could do in the way of argument, to show the
advantage of keeping a sound mind in a sound body, besides pointing out
the probability of her some day--perhaps before long--meeting her lover
in the flesh, and that there was no reason why they need not eventually
be happy. I talked to her much of Charles, and hoped to see her again
soon, though I should not call so very often now, as my visits would not
be necessary. I left her, giving instructions to her parents to
administer to her all sorts of nutritious food, as I had done to the
parents of Charles concerning their son.

I let some little time pass over before I called upon either of my
lover-patients again. I at length called upon Charles, and found him all
but recovered. Though still weak, his face had filled out considerably,
and his nerves were no longer so morbidly acute, and his countenance had
lost to a great extent that supernatural look that characterised it on
my first visit; still, it was far from being the face of a man in robust
health. I thought him silent and reserved towards me, but when I told
him I had delivered his letter, and talked to him of his lady-love, he
brightened up a little. I told him I should take the stage on the morrow
to visit Edith.

He wanted me to take another letter, but I pleaded great hurry and
escaped from the house. When I saw Edith again, she also had improved in
health immensely, thanks to the careful watching of my friend's wife,
who was like a real mother to her, and would _not_ allow her to starve
herself. Seeing her so nearly recovered, I recommended a little change
of air as soon as convenient.

Upon my departure Edith managed to slip a _billet-doux_ into my hand,
directed to Charles; that is to say, without address, for I had not told
her where he lived. We were not left alone on this interview, the wife
of my friend being present all the while, so the note had to be passed
into my hand clandestinely. There was no getting out of it, and I had to
deliver it to Charles as soon as I arrived in town. His eyes sparkled
when he saw her writing.

"Look here, what Edith says about you!" said he, somewhat bitterly. He
read as follows:

"DEAREST CHARLES,--Your own true Edith writes to you in the flesh by our
common but well-meaning enemy, Dr. Bleedem."

"There!" he said, "that's what she thinks of you."

"Enemy!" I cried, in astonishment.

"Yes, enemy; but well-meaning, you see, she says," he continued, in a
softened tone.

He then continued to read:

"The poor man thinks, no doubt, that he has achieved a great thing in
bringing us privileged seers into the world of spirits back into this
mundane sphere, fit only for beings of his order. Of course, what else
could be expected of him? The nature of his profession, the grossness of
his being, compel him to think and act in the way of grovelling mortals;
but let us not be too hard upon him; he is a good man, and means well."

"There!" he observed, "you see, she is charitably disposed towards you.
I don't know that I feel disposed to be so lenient."

At this odd beginning of a love-letter, and still odder allusion to
myself, I fairly burst out laughing.

"Oh! laugh away," he said; "it is a fine triumph to rob two beings of
the very essence of their happiness."

I had not done laughing, and he was nearly catching the infection. He
observed in the words of his favourite poet, that, my lungs did crow
like chanticleer, and I did laugh _sans_ intermission.

He took up the letter again, and read a great portion to himself, or
half aloud. I caught the following passage:

"Do you remember, Charles, when, in the early days of our courtship, you
used nightly to serenade me under my window in the enchanted castle, and
how long it was before you knew that I, like yourself, had an earthly
body that had an existence of its own? And when I told you that my
parents--or rather, my adopted parents--were not in the land of spirits,
but that they inhabited the same world in which, in the daytime, we
ourselves were forced to vegetate; and when you thereupon asked me with
whom I shared the castle, do you remember the horror, the rage, and
indignation you felt when you heard that I was held captive within that
enchanted castle by a horrible wizard, who tortured me and tried all his
base arts to make me yield to his love? Oh! Charles, I often look back
to that time. I can see the bold outline of that rude, massive building
on a rock frowning on the lake below. I feel myself yet at my casement,
gazing out in search of your bark, which passed nightly close to my
window, and I fancy I hear your touch upon the lute reverberating
through the night air.

"With what horror I remember being torn from my window on that night by
my captor, as I was waving my handkerchief to you on the lake. Oh! the
torture I underwent within those unhallowed walls after you left me; the
scenes I was compelled to witness, the oaths I was forced to hear; and
then the infernal hideousness of the countenance of my demon captor!

"Oh! Charles, shall I ever forget the night on which you rode up to the
wizard's castle on a spirit charger, habited as a cavalier, and bearing
a ladder of ropes under your mantle which you reached up to me on the
point of your lance; how I descended, and you placed me behind you on
your steed and galloped away; how, ere we were far from the castle, my
flight was discovered, and the wizard and all his demon host mounted
their demon chargers and started in pursuit of us; how they gained on
us; how we avoided them for miles by hardly half-a-horse's length, until
we arrived at a bridge across a river of fire, over which none but the
pure in love can pass? Dost remember, Charles, how bravely thy spirit
charger bore us over in safety, and how, when the fell magician
endeavoured to follow us with his evil crew, how the bridge tumbled to
atoms, and the demon host was swallowed up in the fiery waves? Then how,
when our charger was spent, we turned him out to graze, the sun having
risen; and how, having arrived at the sea shore, we found a boat, which
we entered, and steered onward in search of further adventure. How
swiftly, how gallantly we sailed, as if borne on by the good spirits,
until we reached an island, where the inhabitants welcomed us and
claimed us as their king and queen. Charles! do you remember all this?
But why call up all these reminiscences? They are over now, and passed
as a dream, and this hence-forward must be our life. I know nothing of
your life in the flesh, my spirit lover, or what may be your social
position in this world. No matter, whatever it be, and in spite of
whatever obstacles may raise themselves to our happiness in this vale of
tears, remember that I am ever thine in the spirit,

                                                        "EDITH L----."

Having concluded, he folded up the letter, kissed it, and pressed it to
his heart.

"And do you remember all the details of that strange adventure alluded
to by Miss Edith, as having happened to you both? Do you remember really
having taken part in this strange romance in another phase of
existence?" I asked.

"Certainly I do," he replied; "every particular of it."

"Strange!" I muttered, to myself. "Then these _dreams_, as we ordinary
mortals would say, are really to such beings as yourself _facts_--phases
of another existence," I remarked.

"Precisely so," said he.

"Then your being king of an island was no mere phantasy," said I; "but
as much a fact----"

"As much a fact as that while in the flesh I am a poor devil," he
replied.

"Well, I never thought I should have a royal patient," I observed,
smiling.

"Ah!" he said, "now do you see the extent of the wrong that you have
done me? You have robbed me of a kingdom in bringing me back to health."

"Many a sick monarch would be glad to exchange his kingdom for good
health," I retorted.

This was almost my last visit to Charles. I _did_ call again, but it was
long after he had completely recovered.

Months passed away, when one day I casually met Charles in the streets.
He had quite recovered, and was looking very well. He had much to tell
me, so, as I had a little spare time on hand, we strolled into the park,
and being a hot day, we sat down together beneath the shade of a tree in
a solitary spot. He seemed to have grown more reconciled to humanity,
having now only a dim recollection of the intensity of the joys he used
to experience in his dreams. I touched upon the subject nearest his
heart, and he commenced a recital of all that had happened to him since
we last met. I shall endeavour to give his own words as nearly as
possible.

"You will remember, doctor," he began, "that you left me without giving
me the address of Miss L----" (Edith took the surname of my friend the
squire, as if she were his own daughter, her real name being unknown).
"I called upon you afterwards on purpose to inquire, and was informed
that you were out of town. I had no one now to apply to for information,
and was in despair. I did not know what to do with myself in town during
the summer, so I thought I would try a little country air. I loitered
about first in one country place, then in another, without any fixed
purpose. I had been reading Shakespeare one day, and upon closing the
book, I resolved I would take a pilgrimage to the birth place of the
great Swan of Avon.

"I had never yet visited this retreat, so I started at once, and
determined to put up in the village for some time. With what a thrill of
delight, awe, and enthusiasm I crossed the threshold of that humble
domicile! _His_ foot had once crossed that same spot! Here was the
window that _he_ used to look out of. The identical glass, too, all
carefully preserved by a network of wire. _His_ table and _his_ chair!
There was something magical to me in that low-roofed chamber, with its
old-fashioned beams.

"This, then, was the birthplace of that giant brain destined to illumine
the world with the rays of his genius! Who knows how many plays had been
conceived and worked out within those four walls? To me, the spot was
hallowed ground. _I_ could not inscribe my name on those sacred panels.
It seemed almost sacrilege for me to sit down in his chair, but I did
so; and begged to be left alone for a time, that I might meditate on the
life and genius of the greatest of poets.

"It was not without a feeling of regret that I tore myself away from
this hallowed shrine. I wandered through the almost deserted streets,
and read the names over the village shops. 'William Shakespeare' here
caught my eye; 'John Shakespeare' there; descendants, no doubt, of the
great poet. Shakespeare seemed a common name here. I wondered whether
any of them inherited his genius. No matter, it would be something to
say that one was descended from so great a man, without possessing any
further recommendation. I called upon a certain William Shakespeare, and
inquired into his pedigree. He seemed a very ordinary sort of personage.
He did not appear to know, nor yet to care much, if he were really
descended from the bard or no. There was no genius about _him_. I called
upon another, and then another, bearing the name of the poet, but could
not discover the slightest spark of the fire that kindled the soul of
the great dramatist in any one of them. I strolled on to the church, and
visited the tomb. A sensation of awe crept over me as I read the simple
couplet engraved over the vault containing the ashes of the bard:

    Blessed be he who spares these stones,
    And cursed be he who moves my bones.

"I shuddered to think of the awful consequences that might ensue to the
sacrilegious hand that should dare move his honoured dust. There was his
effigy placed within a niche in the wall of the church, high up above
the heads of the congregation, and gave the idea of being placed in a
sort of pulpit. The bust was but a rude work of art, but it had the
reputation of being the only authentic likeness of the poet; and,
therefore, it was with intense interest that I scanned the features. I
fancied that I could descry, in spite of the rude workmanship of the
stonemason, certain lines about the mouth and eyes that indicated that
droll humour displayed in his comedies. I stood rooted to the spot.

"Around me were the tombs of the Lucy family; close to the poet's own
dust the graves of his wife and daughter. But let me hasten to the more
important point in my narrative.

"After I left the church I was shown the dead of the Lucy family, and
obtained permission to wander over the grounds. 'In that house,' I said
to myself, 'lives the lineal descendant of that squire before whom the
bard was brought for poaching, and whom afterwards he is supposed to
have caricatured under the title of "Justice Shallow."'

"I wandered alone through the forest of Arden, and seemed to imbibe
inspiration from the surrounding scenery. I called up scenes from 'As
you like it,' and other plays. I sat down on the grass in a wooded spot,
and watched the deer.

"'Here,' I thought, to myself, 'must be the spot where the melancholy
Jacques moralised on the wounded deer. Yonder, perhaps, where he met the
fool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare at
the scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and became
deeply engrossed.

"I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted my
eyes from my book and beheld coming towards me in the distance the slim
and graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the same
fashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concluded
must be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on the
book. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes met
mine.

"'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in the
flesh?'

"She was no less surprised than myself.

"'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you know
of----'

"'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts.
This is the hand of Fate.'

"'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should live
to meet in the flesh.'

"We embraced, and strolled under the trees together.

"'Shall I awake from this,' I kept saying to myself, 'and find it also a
dream?'

"We both of us began to doubt whether we were sleeping or waking. She
informed me that her adopted parents, for she was a foundling, as I
learnt, had taken her with them, away from home for the summer for
change of air; and, as she had often expressed a wish to visit the spot
where she had been first picked up by her present parents when a baby of
a week old, she begged Squire and Mrs. L---- to take her to
Stratford-on-Avon, a place of double interest to her.

"She invited me to her house, and introduced me to the squire and his
lady, who both remarked how much we resembled each other in feature. I
frequented the house much, and Edith and I were in the habit of taking
long walks together. It is hardly necessary to say that I was not
introduced as the young man Edith used to meet in her dreams. The tale
would have been too startling, and would not have been credited; and yet
Edith had been so entirely under the surveillance of her parents, that
it was impossible for her to have formed an acquaintance with anyone
without their knowledge, so I had to trump up some story--indeed, I
scarce know what--about rescuing her from a bull, just to account for
our acquaintance.

"We were left much alone. Little did the parents think what an old
attachment ours was; and for a long time I thought the squire looked
favourably on my suit, but when matters were advanced so far that I
demanded her in marriage, he drew up stiffly, and inquired into the
state of my finances. I boasted of my family, but was obliged to own
that as far as money-matters went, I was afraid that by my own fortune I
could hardly hope to keep his adopted daughter in that style to which
she had been accustomed.

"He hummed and hawed; but Edith broke in, begged and wept, saying she
had never loved before, and vowed that she never would love another. At
length the squire, with some reluctance, gave his consent, but said that
I must find something to get my own living, and I am consequently
looking out for some mercantile employment.

"'To such base uses must we come at last,'" he quoted, with a sigh.

"Yes," said I, "rather a come-down from a king; but, never mind what it
is, as long as it pays well."

I saw him wince at this speech of mine; his romantic nature revolted
against all thoughts of making money, however pressing his needs might
be.

We parted, and I called upon him about a week after, when I found he was
making grand preparations for his marriage. He informed me that he had
got his eye upon some appointment, but that he should have to wait.
There was a certain air of sadness about his face still. He did not look
like a man about to be married.

"Doctor," said he, "do you know what I have been thinking of late?"

"No," I replied.

"I have been thinking that this marriage of mine will never come off,"
he said.

"Why?" I asked. "Have you had some lovers' quarrel?"

"No," he replied.

"Why, then? Has the squire changed his mind, after having given his
consent?" I demanded.

"No; nor that either," he replied. "I cannot myself give you my reason
for the fancy--it is a presentiment. You know, 'the course of true love
never _did_ run smooth.'"

"Oh!" said I, soothingly, "that is your fancy; you are nervous and
impatient--it is natural."

"No, no!" he said; "I am sure of it--I feel it."

"What! Have you been dreaming that it would not?"

"No; I never dream now," he replied.

"I am glad to hear it," I observed; "it is a good sign. When does the
wedding take place?"

"To-morrow was the day appointed, but it won't take place, I say. Mark
my word."

"So soon! But what can have put it into your head that it will not take
place to-morrow? Do you know of any impediment likely to occur between
this and then?"

"No," he replied; "none for certain, but I tell you, once for all, it
will not take place."

I did not know exactly what to make of this strange monomania. My
suspicions were again aroused as to the brain being affected. I did not
see what could happen to hinder the marriage, so I left him, after
cheering him as much as I possibly could, determining within myself to
call upon him as soon after his marriage as was convenient, to triumph
over him and laugh at his presentiments; but this was the last time I
ever saw Charles.

Shortly after this, my last, visit I was glancing rapidly over the paper
at breakfast when I was shocked to see among the list of deaths the name
of Charles ----, aged twenty-four. Strange enough; I had been dreaming
of him much the night previous. What was my surprise and dismay when,
looking lower down the column, I saw also the death of Edith L----. I
looked at the date of both deaths. To my still further surprise, both
lovers had departed this life at exactly the same hour--at midnight,
October 12th, 17--.

"What a strange coincidence," I thought. "What strange beings both of
them were! They did not appear either to belong to or to be fitted for
this world. They were evidently never destined for an earthly lot
together."

"The hand of providence is in this," I muttered.

I grieved much for the loss of my two patients, for I had conceived
quite a fatherly affection for them both. As soon as decency would
permit, I called upon the parents of Charles. The account they gave of
the reason of his death caused me no little surprise. It appeared that
on the eve of his marriage his mother received a badly-written and
ill-spelt letter from a person who professed to have known the family a
long time, begging her to call upon the writer, who was then in a dying
state, and had an important communication to make.

Mrs. ----, curious to know who the writer could be, called at the
address given in the letter, which proved to be a miserable hovel in one
of the back slums of London. There, stretched upon a wretched pallet,
lay the squalid and emaciated form of an old woman, whom, after some
difficulty, Mrs. ---- recognised as the monthly nurse who attended her
four and twenty years ago, during her confinement.

"Who are you?" asked Mrs. ----.

"Look at me. Do you recollect me now?" inquired the hag.

"How should I? I never saw you before. Stay, your features seem to grow
more familiar to me, now my eyes get accustomed to the light. Is it
possible you can be Sarah Maclean, the midwife who----"

"The same," responded the hag.

"What would you of me?" inquired Mrs. ----.

"I have a communication to make before I die," said the old woman.
"Listen."

And she began her confession in feeble tones, thus:

"You were not aware, ma'am, that the day before your son was born, I
myself was confined with twins--a boy and a girl. Being called upon the
next day to attend upon you, I waited to see if your child were a male
child or a female. Finding that it was a man-child, I took advantage of
the agony I saw you were in, deeming that my act would never be
discovered. I managed to conceal my own child under my shawl, and so
contrived to substitute my child for your own."

"Wretch!" cried Mrs. ----, gasping.

"Stay; hear me out. I've got more to tell," continued the hag. "Your own
son died shortly after you had given him birth, through my neglect--I
admit it."

"Murderess!" screamed Mrs. ----.

"Bear with me yet awhile," said the midwife, "while I have still breath
left to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well in
the world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you.

"As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off my
hands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree near
Stratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born."

"What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimed
Mrs. ----. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me further
confession."

"Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "My
second crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first.
My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain Squire
L----, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make her
his heiress."

"What!" cried Mrs. ----; "then Miss L----, who is engaged to my son--at
least to--to is, in fact, your--your daughter? Then they are twin
brother and sister!" and Mrs. ---- fell back in hysterics.

"Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ----, scarcely recovered from her
fit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, behold
the evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more.

When Mrs. ---- returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings to
Charles and Edith, who were together at the time--tidings which, of
course, put a stop to their union.

They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept.
Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. They
could not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look upon
each other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union was
impossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and for
ever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. That
night both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night of
October 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers were
released from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now at
rest!

       *       *       *       *       *

Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in the
neighbourhood of my old friend Squire L----, I called at the house. He
was glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged.
The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been a
great blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject so
painful, had he not broached the matter first himself, and asked me if I
had heard of the circumstances that led to the death of Edith and her
lover. I replied that I had heard all from Charles' mother.

"And who do you think that Edith and Charles turned out to be?" he
asked. "Why, lineal descendants of the great bard of Avon," he said.

"Is it indeed so?" said I.

"Yes," he replied; "after the death of my poor Edith I was curious to
know something about her real mother. I made inquiries into her
pedigree, and the report I heard from more than one quarter was--well,
it is a long story; and, at some future time, when we are not likely to
be interrupted, I may relate it to you. Suffice it to say, that the
descent of Charles and Edith may be distinctly traced from our great
Bard, William Shakespeare."

"Strange," I observed. "It is not impossible that some of the great
poet's genius might have run in the veins of Charles. He always
impressed me as a young man of great intellect. He might have been
something had he lived."

"Oh, yes," replied my friend; "I am certain of it. He was a very
promising young man; and there was Edith, as full of genius as she could
be, poor child. I tell you, doctor, it was marvellous what that girl had
in her."

"Oh, I believe it," I said. "There was something extremely intelligent
in her expression, if I may use the word; perhaps I ought to say,
intellectual and poetical. Well, genius, though seldom inherited from
father to son, rarely dies out of the family altogether, but often,
after lying dormant for generations, breaks out again in some form or
another, like certain diseases."

"Yes, doctor," said my friend; "I have observed the fact myself, and how
seldom do we find genius unaccompanied with disease. Do you know,
doctor, I often thank Heaven that I am no genius?"




[Illustration]


CHAPTER III.

CONTAINING MR. PARNASSUS'S POEM, THE GLACIER KING.


At the conclusion of Dr. Bleedem's narrative he was highly complimented
by his audience, and various were the comments upon his recital. The
chairman declared himself unable to decide as to which of the two
stories related that evening was the more marvellous.

The host of the "Headless Lady" vowed he had never heard such a tale in
all his life before, though he knew a good story or two himself. Mr.
Oldstone proposed the health of the doctor, which was drunk accordingly,
amid cheers. He responded to it in a short speech, when the old Dutch
clock in the corner struck one. The president rose and addressed the
club thus:

"Gentlemen, we have listened to two most interesting stories; but time
flies--the clock has announced the commencement of another day. I regret
that, on account of the length of the first two narratives, we shall be
prevented from hearing a story from everyone; yet I should be loth to
break up this very pleasant meeting without hearing _one_ more recital.
I propose, however, that, in consideration for some of our worthy
guests--the gallant captain, to wit, and our comic friend here, who, as
you see, gentlemen, appear somewhat overwhelmed under the all-inspiring
influence of the punch--(laughter)--that the next narrative be of
shorter duration than the two preceding.

"According to order, the next tale ought to proceed from Professor
Cyanite."

Then, turning towards the professor, he inquired if he had a story ready
that would not take too long in the recital.

"Well, chairman," said the professor, "the fact is that I had prepared
somewhat a lengthy one for our meeting. At present I can't think of one
sufficiently short to wind up the evening."

"In that case," said the chairman, "perhaps Mr. Blackdeed will be able
to favour now."

Mr. Blackdeed begged to be excused. He said he could not think of one at
all. He hoped, however, to have one ready for the next evening.

"Dear, dear!" said the chairman; "this is really a very bad state of
affairs. Has no one some short story ready? Mr. Parnassus, cannot you
favour the company?"

The young poet, blushing slightly, replied, "I thought of bringing
before the company this evening--or, rather, last evening, I ought to
say--a curious little incident out of my own experience, which occurred
to me when travelling in Switzerland a few years ago. I have put it into
verse in the form of a ballad. It is not long, and if it will not weary
the company, I shall be most happy to sing it."

"A song, a song!" cried many voices at once. "Bravo, Parnassus! Hear,
hear!"

"The title of the ballad I am about to sing to you, gentlemen, I propose
calling 'The Glacier King.'"

"Good," said the chairman. "Silence, gentlemen, if you please. A song
from Mr. Parnassus."

A dead silence ensued, and the poet, after clearing his throat once or
twice, began in a clear, rich voice the following ballad:--


THE GLACIER KING.

    In youth, when I mid mountains roamed, full well I can recall
    That fearful night. The pale moonlight shone on the glaciers tall.
    I wandered from my chalet's hearth (the world was locked in sleep),
    But something on my bosom made my soul a vigil keep.

    I wandered on, I recked not where, for I was sad of mood,
    Until upon the basement of a glacier grim I stood.
    The moon peeped out behind the clouds, the scene was strange and
              weird--
    Like sheeted ghosts those icy rocks above me now appeared.

    I cared not if I lived or died; my soul was sunk in gloom.
    I'd little left to live for then; I almost sought my doom.
    "We die but once," I inly said. "Death's certain, soon or late,
    And I would just as lief it came, as still protract my fate."

    I crunched the snow beneath my feet, and little recked of fear;
    I trod the giant pinnacles (the night grew dark and drear),
    Yet onward recklessly I strode, nor cared which way I went,
    Until across this sea of ice appeared a mighty rent.

    A horrid chasm, with below the torrent's deafening sound,
    But with the madness of despair I cleared it with a bound.
    A little onward still I stood (the scene was weird and grand),
    A wondrous cavern wrought in ice by Nature's playful hand.

    Its dripping arches overhung the cataract beneath,
    Its pendant massive icicles appeared like dragon's teeth;
    And lost in contemplation of this fearful yawning cave,
    I deemed its chilly arches the recesses of the grave.

    Anon the cave appeared when moonbeams would its depths illume,
    A fairy hall of diamond, anon, a ghastly tomb.
    And as I mused in phantasy, forgetting half my woe,
    I wondered whether elves or ghouls their revels held below.

    My blood ran chilled within my veins, a tremor shook my frame,
    As, mingled with the torrent's roar, unearthly voices came.
    Awhile I listened breathlessly, as louder still they grew;
    The icy cave's inhabitants for ever nearer drew.

    But one deep voice above the rest, in stern commanding tone,
    That echoed through the cavern's walls, cried, "Silence, and begone."
    Then, terrified, I scarce had time upon my feet to spring,
    When, robed in icy majesty, there stood the Glacier King.

    A mantle of the drifted snow bedecked his regal frame;
    Upon his head a crown of ice, his sceptre of the same,
    His hair and beard were icicles, his visage stern and pale,
    His eyes like glacier caverns sunk, with look that made one quail.

    With terror rooted to the spot, with fright uprose my hair,
    While on me, as in wonderment, he fixed an icy stare.
    At length he ope'd his lips and spake, in deep sepulchral tone,
    "What seekest thou, stranger, in our realm, a night like this alone?"

    I know not what I answer made, with voice below my breath,
    When nearer, with majestic stride, he came, and thus he saith--
    "Thou 'rt welcome to our palace cold; it is full many a day
    Since one of thy mortal race hath wandered past this way."

    He led me kindly by the hand. But, oh! that hand of ice.
    I felt benumbed all over, but he held me like a vice.
    Then with his sceptre tapped a door, which opened with a bang.
    While through the cavern's icy halls infernal laughter rang.

    He led me down by steps of ice, hewn in the solid rock,
    And halting at a portal, with his sceptre gave a knock.
    The door of ice was opened by a figure grim and grey,
    That bowed in deepest reverence, then onward led the way.

    We entered then the hall of state, where stood the icy throne;
    The courtiers on our entrance bowed as if to gods of stone.
    Their hair hung dank about their forms, the wildest ever seen;
    Their raiment dripping icicles, their bodies of sea green.

    Then out and spake the Glacier King, "Make haste and bring a light;
    A mortal from the outer world will sup with us to-night.
    Let supper be in readiness at once without delay."
    The menials made obeisance, and hastened to obey.

    Then soon the hall of banqueting we entered, when, lo! there
    A lofty cavern lighted up with phosphorescent glare;
    A ghastly light from out a lamp suspended from a height,
    That shed upon the icicles its dim funereal light.

    The table was a slab of ice, the dishes they were cold,
    And when they were uncovered I shuddered to behold,
    For some were human corpses that had perished in the snow,
    Or in the glacier's crevices had met their fate below.

    My heart then sank within me, and I from the table turned.
    The guests all looked in wonderment, that I their dishes spurned.
    The King then turned upon me. "Though our dishes you decline,
    You must not leave this hall to-night before you taste our wine."

    He bid a menial near to fill a goblet to the brim,
    And as he filled a ghastly smile played o'er his features grim.
    The King then raised it to his lips, and first a draught drank he;
    The giant goblet carved in ice he handed then to me.

    I seized the beaker in my hand, and raised it to my lip;
    And cautiously I tasted it, although 'twas but a sip.
    I laid the crystal down in haste, as horrified I stood.
    The liquor that the goblet held I found was _human blood_!

    The King of Ice he marvelled, and his brow grew grave and stern,
    His eye would seem to ask me, "Dost thou thus my favour spurn?"
    I trembled, for I noticed when the icy monarch frowned
    The reflection of his countenance upon the court around.

    Each drew a pointed icicle from out an icy sheath,
    They wore as daggers at their sides--for fear I scarce could breathe--
    And brandishing them high aloft, while as their hands they clenched,
    They vowed that such gross insult should not pass unavenged.

    "Ho! sheath your daggers," quoth the king. "Once more our guest
              we'll try.
    Base mortal! if thou still refuse to drain yon goblet dry,
    Then dread our fell displeasure, for by our crown we vow,
    The King of Glaciers ne'er is mocked by mortals such as thou."

    I seized the goblet once again, and in despair did quaff.
    Now through the banquet hall resounds a wild unearthly laugh.
    The nauseous fluid seemed to burn like fire through my veins
    I felt intoxication stealing o'er me for my pains.

    I fell down in a stupor, know not how long I lay,
    But when my eyes were opened 'twas past the break of day.
    The King and court had vanished, but around me I descried
    A troop of tourists, who that morn the glaciers would bestride.

    They asked me how I came there, how I could be so mad,
    Alone to scale the glaciers, upon a night so bad.
    I told them shortly all my tale--all I had got to tell--
    About the awful Glacier King, down in his icy cell.

    They smiled, and said it truly was a very fearful _dream_;
    But I vowed all that had happened like truth to me did seem.
    They asked me to point out to them the grotto that I saw.
    I gazed around me, and behold the grotto was no more.

    Whether it was dream or not, I know not to this day;
    'Tis strange the grotto in a night should all have thawed away.
    And when I spoke about the cup I quaffed the cave beneath,
    "_That was my brandy-flask_," quoth one, "_I forced between your
              teeth_."

    "Else you had perished in the snow, in truth, you looked far gone.
    'Twas by the greatest chance on earth we found you here at dawn.
    I thought you dead, but still I plied my flask, and, as you see,
    It has proved worthy of its name, immortal 'Eau-de-Vie.'"

    I thanked them for their courtesy, but when I strove to rise,
    No muscle of my rigid frame could I, to my surprise,
    As much as put in motion. My bones seemed on the rack,
    And to my chalet's fire-side had to be carried back.

    'Twas long ere I recovered my wonted life and strength;
    The tourists oft would visit me, and we grew friends at length.
    And the day of my recovery, to mark the grand event,
    I started in their company to make a great ascent.

    My mountain days are over now, my friends in other climes;
    But when we meet together we talk of bygone times.
    But still the name of _Glacier_ for ever doth recall
    The horrors of that fearful night, within that icy hall.

    And at their friendly tables I'm often asked to dine.
    They order "Vin du Glacier," as well as other wine,
    And ask me if it tastes as well, as o'er their wine they sing,
    As that from out the cellars of H.M. the Glacier King.

Hardly had the poet concluded his lay, when the cheering and clapping of
hands that ensued half-deafened all present; that is to say, with the
exception of two individuals--_viz._, the worthy captain and our friend
the comedian, who had been deaf for some time past, under the kindly
influences of the punch.

To say that the health of the poet was drunk with three times three
would be unnecessary. We leave that to the imagination of the reader.
Not only was that conventional ceremony gone through, but the chairman,
after a short complimentary speech, proposed that a crown of laurels
should be made and the young poet crowned therewith there and then.

The poet modestly interposed, but the command of the president,
especially on such an occasion as the present, was not to be recalled.
John Hearty, of the "Headless Lady," was sent outside, snowing hard as
it was, to gather some laurel from a bush which grew close to the inn,
and the poet was crowned with all due honours. There were two, however,
who did not witness the imposing ceremony. Who these two were we will
leave our readers to guess.

The fumes of the punch had thrown the ideas of these two worthies into
another channel, and the reverie into which they had fallen was so deep
as to render them perfectly unconscious of all that was going on around
them.

The captain was the first to recover from his meditations.

"Ease her! Stop her!" he cried, awaking with a yawn.

Then, glancing round at the company, his eye first caught sight of the
poet's brow crowned with laurels.

"Odds bobs, messmate!" he cried, "what the deuce have they been doing to
your figurehead?"

"Ah! captain," said one of the members, "you do not know what you have
lost. You've missed a song."

"Missed a song, have I? Well, I thought someone must have been singing;
it came in my dream. But what, in the name of Davy Jones, has Mr.
Parnassus been taking. Why, one would think he had been taking a glass
of prussic acid, to break out all over laurel leaves like that."

"That," said the chairman, "is the crown awarded to genius. Mr.
Parnassus has this evening--or, I should say, this morning--favoured us
with a poem."

"Humph!" said the captain, who was not of a poetical nature himself.

"Yes," continued the chairman, "a poem; the work of his own pure brain,
for which he has been rewarded with the crown that now adorns his
temples, a crown of no intrinsic value, as you perceive, like the
bejewelled diadem of royalty, but which, nevertheless, has been sought
after by minds no less ambitious in the early days of ancient history,
when the love of honour alone was a deeper incitement to the soul than
the mere love of worldly pelf, and when once obtained, was guarded as
zealously----"

Here our comic friend showed some signs of returning animation. He
stretched, yawned, and, rubbing his eyes, gazed round upon the company
in bewilderment. He also fixed his eyes on the laurel crown, and so
ludicrous was the expression of wonder on his countenance, although he
did not utter a word, that the whole company was thrown into an
immoderate fit of laughter, which completely drowned the end of the
chairman's sententious speech. The poor little comedian got most
unmercifully chaffed by each of the company in turn, being asked gravely
by one what his opinion was of the last story; by another, whether he
liked the punch--whether it was strong enough for him. By another wag he
was offered a penny for his thoughts; while another insisted upon
hearing the story he had been thinking of all that time, etc., etc. The
little man answered good-humouredly to all their bantering, when the
president once more thumped the table.

"Captain Toughyarn," he began, "you have been guilty at our meeting of
falling asleep in the middle of a story, and of being so engrossed in
your state of--of--What shall I say, gentlemen?--of lethargy, as to be
totally unconscious of a most spirited song that ensued. You have raised
our curiosity, however, by telling us that the song entered into and
formed part of your dream. We would fain hear your dream, as some slight
expiation of such gross violation of etiquette."

"What will he say to me," thought our comic friend, "if he doesn't let
the captain escape?"

"Hear, hear!" cried several voices at once. "By Jove, you're in for it
too, Jollytoast."

"Well, chairman," said the captain, "I'm sorry I've broken through
discipline; but when a man has got grog stowed away in his hull----"

"Exactly so," said the chairman; "but for all that the company must hear
your dream."

"Yes, yes!" shouted the company.




[Illustration]


CHAPTER IV.

THE MERMAID PALACE; OR, CAPTAIN TOUGHYARN'S DREAM.

    "Come unto these yellow sands."
                                      --_Tempest._


Well, messmates, I don't know whether I am sufficiently clear up aloft
to recollect all the details of my dream; but hold hard a moment,
perhaps I can. Ah! yes; I remember now.

I thought I was on board my good ship, the _Dreadnought_, which was
bound for Timbuctoo. I was seated in my cabin, making an entry in the
log, when I was aroused by a noise of shouting on deck. I thought I
would go and see what was adrift; but hardly was I out of the cabin
when, in the twinkling of a bowsprit, I found myself pinioned.

The crew were in a state of mutiny, and headed by the first mate. I was
speedily lashed to the mizen, when Ned Upaloft (that was the name of the
first mate), presenting a brace of pistols at my face, called upon me to
yield.

"Avast, there! Ned Upaloft," I cried; "and you, Jack Haulaway, with the
whole gang of you, and tell me what the devil is the meaning of this
mutinous conduct."

"No more palaver, but yield," he cried.

"Never!" I answered.

"Then you're a dead man," he said.

"Fire!" said I; "you may take my life, but never will I yield up my
power to a pack of mutineers."

His finger was on the trigger, and the next moment I expected to be my
last.

I must mention that the whole of that day the weather had been extremely
sultry. A storm arose suddenly, and the ship pitched and rolled
tremendously. All the crew were in liquor, and the helm was deserted. At
the moment I expected it was all up with me a terrible flash of
lightning struck the barrels of the pistols, which went off of their own
accord, luckily missing me.

Ned Upaloft was struck blind. The crew were sobered for a moment.

"Behold," said I, reaping advantage from the confusion, "behold, how
Heaven rescues her own. So may it go with all mutineers. Look up aloft,"
said I (a flight of Mother Cary's chickens just then passed overhead.)
"Look! has that no warning? What are those but the souls of departed
mariners, who have come to beckon you to your doom?"

A terrific clap of thunder almost instantaneously followed the flash,
and drowned my last words. The crew looked irresolute as to whether they
should renew their attack or throw down their arms and yield themselves
as mutineers; but they were roused by the voice of Jack Haulaway, the
second mate, who cried out,

"What! are you scared at the thunder and this man's words? Ho! there;
reef the main-top-gallant sail."

The crew looked up aloft and hesitated, for the top mast threatened to
snap every moment.

"Come, look sharp, or in two minutes we shall all be scudding under bare
poles. What! you're afraid? Cowards that you all are. It will have to be
done. I'll go myself."

And up went Jack Haulaway; but hardly had he taken in a reef, when the
mast snapped, and main-top-gallant sail, Jack Haulaway, and all were
blown far away into the sea.

"Behold the fate of your second commander," said I. "Look to yourselves
now, for your time is not far off."

The waves were now so enormous that the vessel was soon on her beam
ends. Smash went the bowsprit as it struck against a rock; crash, crash,
went one mast after the other, until we were literally scudding under
bare poles. It was difficult for the sailors to maintain their
equilibrium, and several fell overboard. I looked for the first mate. He
had disappeared.

Some of the sailors clung to the fragments of the vessel and tried to
pray, others supplied themselves with grog, till they lost all
consciousness. One of the men came forward to me, and, unloosing me,
begged my pardon; said he bore me no malice, and if he hadn't been in
liquor, he would never have joined the gang.

We all shook hands, for we deemed our last hour had come; and so,
indeed, it had for most of us. In another moment the vessel was dashed
against a rock, filled with water, and went down.

Some made for the lifeboat, others for pieces of floating timber. The
storm still continued with increasing fury. The sky was black as pitch,
and the waves the size of mountains. Planks, hencoops, and other
fragments of the wreck were floating about in all directions. Most of
the crew, if not all, must have been swallowed up by the waves, for, as
I looked around me, I saw no one. As for myself, I kept afloat on a cask
of grog, and thus I was left to the mercy of the winds and waves. Up one
wave, down another, still I held on to my cask of grog, out of which
every now and then I'd take a drop, just to keep out the cold; then,
replacing the bung, remounted my cask, and was contented with whatever
direction the waves chose to toss me. The lightning flashed and the
thunder growled around me.

It was for all the world like being inside an immense big drum, and Davy
Jones drumming outside. As I was being dashed to and fro by the
merciless billows, I thought I heard, mingled with the dying tones of
the thunder, the sound of a harp and singing. Could it be fancy? I
listened again. No. I was quite sure this time my ears did not deceive
me. The notes grew more and more clear, the voice more and more
distinct. Yet, who could it be? There was no land near for hundreds of
miles. It could be no mortal harper that touched those chords. I looked
around me in wonderment, but saw nothing. At length I was carried to the
top of a tremendous wave, and as I was sliding down the other side of it
astride my cask of grog, I perceived coming towards me from the opposite
wave a female form, beautiful as Venus, and naked to the waist.

Good Heavens! it was a mermaid. Yes, there could be no mistake. Her
golden tresses fluttered in the breeze, and every now and then I caught
a glimpse of a large dolphin-like tail of a greenish hue, that, at every
movement she made, gleamed like silver. We could not help meeting each
other; so, as I was always gallant towards the fair sex, I saluted her.
Heavens! What eyes! What teeth! What features! But above all, her smile.

Gentlemen, I assure you her beauty was divine. Talk about sentiment! But
words are wanting to express even the thousandth part of her charms.
Enough, gentlemen, that all that is innocent, virtuous, and heavenly,
was expressed in that smile she gave me.

"Angel of Beauty!" I exclaimed, "whatever your name, your parentage,
your birthplace, I vow----"

"Toughyarn, Toughyarn," said a voice within me, "don't make an old fool
of yourself. Mermaids are deceitful and dangerous, however beautiful,
as you will find out to your cost before long. Think of your age, your
position. Is it likely you can excite a genuine passion in any maid? For
shame, sir. How can you appear romantic in her eyes, astride a grog
cask. Only reflect a little."

But I would not reflect. I stifled the voice within me, and, abandoning
myself to the impulse of my passion, pressed my hand to my heart, and
was about to burst out afresh, when the fair one, fixing her large deep
blue eyes upon me--deep as the Mediterranean in a calm--with a
supernaturally winning smile, addressed me thus, in tones to which the
softest music was discord:

"Welcome, Captain Toughyarn, to our haunts. Welcome to the Mermaid
Grotto of pearl and coral, to my father's palace. It is long that we
await you. We have heard much of your exploits by sea, and we are all
impatient to make the acquaintance of a hero so illustrious."

"What!" I cried; "you have heard of me and expected me, O fair one?"

"Yes, captain, our Sybil has prophesied your arrival here, and your
visit to our palace. Oh, she told me many things about you that she has
seen in vision. The mutiny of your crew, your first mate struck with
blindness when about to take your life. The loss of your second mate
while reefing a sail. Your release by one of the crew, after having been
bound to the mast; the wreck of your vessel; and, finally, our meeting,
which tallies in the minutest particulars."

"What!" I exclaimed, in extreme astonishment, "all this she saw--even
the grog barrel?"

"All--everything," replied my charmer; "but follow me, and lose no time;
we all await you below."

So saying, she beckoned to me with the most bewitching smile, and
floundered away from me, lashing her tail playfully as she went, and
touching the chords of her harp, sang so sweetly, so divinely, some
submarine ditty about fairy palaces, halls of coral, and fair
mermaidens, that all resistance was vain.

"Don't be weak, Toughyarn," said the voice again; "resist her wiles, be
deaf to her song."

But I was deaf only to the voice that warned me.

"Divine enchantress," I cried, "I will follow you wherever you go."

A wave now dashed me forward till I found myself by her side.

"Are you really willing to accompany me?" she asked, with a gleam that
made me feel--I don't know how.

"To the utmost corners of the earth," I replied.

"And even to the depths of the ocean?" she asked.

"Even there," I replied. "Anywhere, anywhere with thee, for _I love
thee_."

The murder was out. She heaved a sigh, and her head sank on my shoulder.

"Take care, Toughyarn," said the voice; "be warned ere it be too late."
This was the last time the voice spoke to me. It _was_ too late.

"And do you really love me?" she asked, gazing up into my face, her
large blue eyes filling with tears.

"With all my heart and soul," I replied.

"And are you prepared to give me a proof of your love?"

"Any proof you may desire, my angel," I answered. "What is it?"

"I mean," she said, "would you be ready to make a _very great
sacrifice_?"

"Anything," I replied; "anything for thee."

"Generous mortal!" she exclaimed, and she sobbed aloud.

The sight of beauty in tears always moved me. I was deeply touched at
this outburst of grief on the part of my charmer, and did all I could to
soothe and comfort her. I put my arm round her delicate waist; she
offered no resistance, so, clasping her to my breast, I--I--well,
gentlemen--I kissed her. The lightning played around me; the thunder
crackling, threatened to break the drum of my ear, but I saw nothing, I
heard nothing; I was unconscious of everything around me in that long
loving kiss.

My lips seemed glued to hers. I thought I should never be able to tear
myself away. I felt her heart beat violently against my waistcoat. My
blood tingled in my fingers and toes with the intensity of my passion. I
no longer felt cold, for I bore a fire within.

When I at length removed my lips from hers, with a prodigious smack, she
fell fainting in my arms. It was as if her whole soul had been poured
forth in that one kiss, and there was none left to re-animate the frail
form. I sprinkled some of her native element in her face, and she
recovered.

I petted and caressed her, clasped her again and again to my breast,
while she clung round my neck, confessing her love for me, and begging
me never to desert her. Oh, the rapture of those moments! She vowed that
I was all in all to her, that she had never loved before, and never
should again; that she was mine, body and soul, and that if I ever
ceased to love her, she should die.

She called me her own dear Toughyarn, her hero, her "beau ideal," her
lover, her husband. She said that I was her master, and that she would
be my slave for life.

I vowed that I was unworthy to pick off the seaweed that adhered to her
tail. At the word "tail," she heaved a deep sigh, and, glancing at my
lower extremities, burst into a fresh flood of tears. I was unable to
account for these weeping fits, to which she seemed subject.

"Some female caprice," thought I; "nothing more."

"What ails thee, my beloved?" I said, tenderly. "Say why, O bewitching
enchantress, do those pearl drops continue to pay their tiny tribute to
the great ocean?"

"Oh!" she cried to herself, clasping her hands and looking upward, "I
feel the sacrifice is _too_ great. It will cost him dearly; but has he
not promised?"

"Promised!" I muttered. "What is this sacrifice, I wonder, that she
requires of me? What can it be but always to live with her in her own
home, under the sea. When once my soul is united with hers," I reasoned,
"we shall be one being. I shall be able to live under the water as well
as on _terra firma_. And what have I to make me wish to return to land?
I am a widower without family. I've no fortune, in fact, I am all but a
ruined man, and I feel anxious to begin a new phase of existence. The
sacrifice, after all, is not so great. What does it matter to me where I
live, as long as I can bask the livelong day in the sunshine of such
beauty?"

I felt that that long ambrosial kiss, the intensity of which had so
exhausted my beloved, had imparted to me a new life. I no longer dreaded
or believed in the possibility of being drowned. I felt an intense
desire to behold the wonders of the deep, and visit those palaces of
coral and mother-of-pearl that I had so often heard of, so seizing my
beloved by the waist, I exclaimed,

"Come, O joy of my soul; lead me to the hall of thy father. Let us
plunge into the turbulent billows. I thirst for thy element. I feel
irresistibly drawn down by some new power that has come over me."

"Follow me, then, my beloved," she said, and with one splash disappeared
beneath the waves.

To kick away my grog cask and plunge in after her was the work of a
moment. I dived down, down, down, till I caught up my charmer, and we
both dived together side by side. Down, down, down, deeper, deeper, and
deeper, still we dived through forests of seaweed, startling away all
sorts of curiously formed fish and sea monsters in our rapid course.

I thought I should never get to the bottom. At length, after long
continued diving, I thought I descried gleaming through the waters, the
mother-of-pearl roofs and pinnacles of various edifices; nor was I
deceived, for as I dived deeper, I could distinguish a great city, built
in a wild, weird, grotesque style of architecture, thoroughly new to me,
yet grand in design, far above human conception.

There were castles on rocks, both the rock and the castle being formed
out of one immense piece of coral, either white or red. The rock was
hollowed out by nature, and natural staircases of the same material
branched off in different directions, and led to the castle above. There
were grottoes of mother-of-pearl, bridges of clustering and festooned
coral, intermixed with common rock, and overgrown in parts by large
quaint sea plants, which hung down in long creepers, entangling and
festooning themselves, crossing and recrossing each other, and
communicating the upper part of the city with the lower, the town being
built partly on hills, and partly in the valleys.

Immense pits and hollows in what in other cities would have been the
road, appeared to lead to some part of the city below. Crowds of the
inhabitants were seen emerging from these grottoes, and disappearing
through others. Several were seated in chariots of mother-of-pearl and
turtle-shell, drawn by some hideous sea monster. There were mermen,
bearded and muscular, bearing in their hands tridents; troops of
mermaids of every conceivable variety of beauty, from the blue eyes and
flaxen hair of the north, to the dark, Oriental type. Gigantic zoophytes
and sea anemones opened their petals at us from every parapet. Music and
singing was heard everywhere, and the submarine grottoes echoed with the
strains of fair mermaidens. Groups of dancers surrounded us as we
descended, twisting their lithesome bodies into all sorts of elegant and
fantastic attitudes; beautiful mer-children sported with the most
hideous sea monsters it was possible to conceive.

The city seemed wealthy, the inhabitants contented, and yet there was
little or no sign of industry amongst them. All the houses and palaces
were evidently formed by the hand of nature, save where here and there a
window or a mother-of-pearl roof or pavement betrayed manual skill.
Money, as I ascertained, was an article unknown to the submarines. They
had few wants, and lived peacefully among themselves.

As my fair bride and I swam through the streets of this great city
together, my appearance attracted great curiosity. The children were
frightened, and darted away into some grotto hard by. I heard an old
white-bearded merman, who had, doubtless, seen a great deal in his day,
call out, "A landman! a landman!"

I began to feel fatigued after diving so long, and was greatly relieved
when my companion halted in front of a large portico with pillars of the
most delicate pink coral, and said, "This is my father's palace."

The mer-princess (for her father was no less than a king), instead of
knocking at the door, ran her fairy-like fingers over the strings of her
lyre, and wrung from its cords such a wild and unearthly strain, that it
seemed like the distant wail of souls in purgatory.

The door was opened by an immense shark, standing on the tip of his
tail. He opened and shut his huge mouth at us by way of salute, as we
entered the hall, which was paved with mother-of-pearl, inlaid with pale
coral and turtle-shell. My fair one conducted me through many passages
and corridors, the roofs and walls of which were covered over with every
sort of curious and beautiful shell found under the sea, till at length
we entered the dais chamber of the king, and I was introduced to his
majesty, and to his serene consort, who both received me graciously.

Formalities over, a richly liveried mer-attendant announced that the
royal sea-serpent, harnessed to the state carriage, awaited their
majesties' pleasure. The mer-king affably offered me the use of his
carriage, which I gladly accepted. Their majesties, Lurline, and myself
descended the stairs, and passing the portal, stepped into a magnificent
car or chariot, formed of mother-of-pearl and turtle-shell, the wheels
being of gold and embossed all over with the most exquisite precious
stones. The coachman, or charioteer, was a stout merman, with a trident,
with which he began to goad the enormous sea-serpent, who, rearing and
plunging, bid fair to upset us all. However, the skilful driver, drawing
the reins, made of strong seaweed, studded with pearls, kept him in
abeyance. We then visited all the chief temples and other public
buildings, and his majesty's parks and hunting grounds, chatting all the
time pleasantly with my beloved Lurline, and after having spent a most
enjoyable day, we returned towards evening to the palace.

It was the dinner hour. About a hundred harps from below struck up a
lively air, in lieu of a dinner bell.

"Captain Toughyarn," said the king, "will you take down the Princess
Lurline?"

I bowed, and offered my arm, and we swam into the dining hall. It was a
long and lofty apartment, with festoons of white and red coral pendent
from the arched roof. The walls were ornamented with choice shells in
patterns, and the floor covered with a matting of plaited seaweed. The
furniture was of mother-of-pearl and turtle-shell.

His majesty headed the table; his royal consort, who had come down
dressed for dinner in necklaces of immense pearls, sat opposite to him.
Other members of the blood royal, as well as some distinguished guests,
were also present. We were waited upon by sea monsters, who handed round
large open shells in their mouths, which served as plates.

A saw-fish brought me a knife and fork, a porpoise changed the plates, a
dolphin entered with the larger dishes, and a young whale handed round
the vegetables, which consisted of different sorts of seaweed. The
dinner was chiefly of fish, varied with albatross and sea gull, the
first course being oysters, by way of whetting the appetite.

The king was pleased to ask me about my adventures, so I entertained the
whole dinner table with a recital of them. The queen smiled benignantly
on me, and the beautiful Lurline gazed into my face with an expression
of the most undisguised admiration.

I felt myself quite the lion of the day, and had the conversation all to
myself. During the repast a bevy of fair mermaidens swam round and round
the hall, and over our heads, pouring forth divine melodies on the harp.

Towards the close of the meal his majesty entered into the particulars
of his own family history, and the great deeds of his ancestors, which I
shall not weary your patience, gentlemen, by retailing.

The dinner being at an end, we left the apartment, and the sea monsters,
after devouring everything that was left, cleared away the plates. We
strolled into the garden, which was filled with every imaginable variety
of sea plants. Some grew up like palm trees and tree ferns, others were
trained up against a wall, while others hung gracefully over the
verandah of the palace, after the manner of creepers. Large shells,
filled with sand, served as flower pots, and contained, as his majesty
assured me, plants of extraordinary rarity. I forget their crack-jaw
names.

A sword-fish acted as head gardener; he was digging away with his
proboscis as we entered, and a saw-fish was raking the flower beds.

It was already evening, and was getting dark. The king ordered the
saloon to be lighted up, when two lusty mermen brought the lamps, which
they hung in the corners of the apartment, and which consisted of
shells, to each of which were attached three chains of pearls, the bowl
of the lamp being filled with those phosphoric animalcula that are to be
seen at night round the prow of a vessel when the keel disturbs them as
it ploughs its course through the ocean.

The saloon being lighted, musicians were called. They were of both
sexes; sturdy mermen, with gongs and sea horns; those of the gentler sex
with harps. I was asked if I could dance, and replying that I could
after the fashion of my country, the music struck up a merry tune, and a
number of fair sirens insisted on me joining in the dance.

The dance commenced; it was a curious step, consisting of a wriggle of
the upper part of the body, and a splash with the tail. They formed a
circle, each taking hold of the other's hand, closing and widening
several times; then letting go of hands, each dived down head foremost,
their fingers touching the ground, flapping their tails upwards.

They went through all sorts of fantastic steps, which I tried hard to
imitate, and my failures were the cause of much merriment. I was asked
whether I would favour them with a dance of my country, so I danced the
hornpipe. With this they were delighted, and wanted it repeated. I had
to dance it again, and again, to please them.

Refreshments were handed round by the same sea monsters, and the evening
wound up with games--hide and seek, blind man's buff--and other
amusements.

The queen said she was glad to see me enjoy myself so much. One
bewitching young siren, fixing her dark eyes upon me, and then looking
down with a sigh, said it was pleasing to see such a great hero as I was
condescending to take part in their humble games. Another hoped that I
was in no hurry to leave them, as she was looking forward to many such
pleasant evenings. A third mermaid wished that she had been born with
legs, in order to learn the hornpipe. A fourth hoped I should sleep well
after my fatigue.

The party at length broke up, and as I was the lion of the evening, I
stationed myself near the door to shake hands with all the pretty
mermaids as they swam out of the saloon. I gave a gentle squeeze to
each, and I am certain that if not all, at least the greater part of
those young ladies, went to bed in love with me that night. But what of
Lurline? I must not forget _her_. The fact was I did not like to be too
pointed in my attentions, lest it should excite suspicion, for as yet
her parents knew nothing of our attachment, so I appeared rather to
neglect her than otherwise.

Poor child! she retired to rest unhappy that night, fancying that I had
become estranged towards her. I had no opportunity for an explanation,
and after quitting the saloon was shown to my bedroom by a mer-servant
girl.

The walls and ceiling of my bed-chamber were covered over with handsome
shells, the floor inlaid with mother-of-pearl and coral, over which was
a carpet of variegated seaweed, plaited in a pattern. The bed posts were
inlaid with mother-of-pearl, agate, lapis lazuli, and other rare stones.
The mattress was of very soft sponge, and the counterpane one broad
piece of seaweed.

Having undressed, I blew out the candle; that is to say, I smashed the
animalcula inside the shell that the servant girl brought me in lieu of
a candlestick, and tucking myself up I tried to sleep, but was haunted
all night by the bright eyes of Lurline.

Towards morning I fell into a light sleep, from which I was roused by
the dulcet tones of a harp at my door and the enchanting voice of
Lurline singing. I leaped from my couch, donned my clothes, and welcomed
her with a kiss on the sly.

"Cruel one!" she said, "I thought you had ceased to love me

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