Chapter X (2)

The portraits of two other species besides the Canicula have been so well delineated by the ancients, as to render the recognition of the originals perfectly easy, and exempt from any possibility of mistake. One of these is the Saw-fish of modern writers, described by Aristotle under the name of _Pristis_, and by Pliny under the Latin synonym _Serra_. The saw, or rake, of this shark is at first a supple cartilaginous body, porrect from the eyes, and extending sometimes fifteen feet beyond them. In the earlier stages of development it is protected in a leathery sheath; but hardening gradually as the ossific deposition proceeds, its toothed sides at length pierce the tough integument; the Serra flings away the scabbard, and, after a very little practice, becomes a proficient in the use of his weapon, and always ready for instant assault upon any body or any thing that may or may not offer molestation. Thus formidably armed, and nothing daunted, the larger and fiercer the adversary the more ardently the Serra desires to join battle; above all, the destruction of the whale seems to occupy every thought, and to stimulate to valorous deeds; no sooner is one of these unwieldy monsters descried rolling through the billows, than our expert Sea-fencer rushes to the conflict; and, taking care to avoid the sweep of his opponent’s tremendous tail, soon effects his purpose, by stabbing the luckless leviathan at all points, till he—exhausted by loss of blood—dies at last anemic, like Seneca in the bath. Martyns relates a fight off the Shetland Isles, which he witnessed from a distance, not daring to approach the spot, while the factitious rain spouted up from the vents of the enraged sea mammal, poured down again in torrents sufficient to swamp a boat, over the liquid battle field. He watched them a long time as they feinted, skirmished, or made an onslaught; now wheeling off, but only to turn and renew the charge with double fury. Foul weather, however, coming on, he did not see the final result of the fray; but the sailors affirmed that such scenes were common enough to them, and generally ended in the death of the whale; that when he was _in extremis_, the victor would tear out and carry away the tongue—the only part he cared for—and that, on his departure, they themselves drew near, and enjoyed undisputed possession of the huge carcase.

The other well-defined _Squalus_ of the ancients is the _zygæna_ of Oppian, the Marseilles Jew-fish, the Balance-fish, the Hammer-fish, and were these not aliases enough already, the T-fish might be suggested as an appropriate synonym to add to the rest, the form of this letter suiting the outline of the fish to a tittle. The down stroke represents the body, and the horizontal bar at top the singular transverse head, at the opposite extremes of which two very salient, yellow eyes are situated, commanding from their position an extensive field of vision. When any thing occurs to ruffle the temper of the savage monster, these jaundiced eye-balls suddenly change to a blood-red hue, and roll, furiously glaring, in their projecting orbits; the portal of the mouth opens, and a huge, human tongue, swollen, inflamed, and papillated, surrounded by a whole armory of rending teeth, is thrust forth, presenting to view a creature so strange, hideous and malevolent, that nothing in nature can be compared to him. The domestic circle of the _Squalus zygæna_ numbers every year twenty-four new members; this fearful fecundity of the mother is providentially kept in check by the violent decease of most of the young in cunabulis, for these little cacodemons, untaught by their parents or Dr. Watts to consider it at all “a shameful sight for _Squali_ of one family to snarl, and snap, and bite,” commit the most cold-blooded fratricides, and even eat one another, _proh pudor_! without any remorse; besides this, when grown-up relations come on a visit, the young set are not secure from “battle, murder, and sudden death,” for a single moment, save when directly under the paternal nose; as a natural consequence, few of the nefarious brood survive childhood, or ever attain to full maturity of size and malice. Of such as escape infantine dangers, many in after life fall victims in hostile encounters with larger congeners; in particular with the white shark. The average length of the _S. zygæna_ is only eight or nine feet, but he does not fear to confront the powerful Requin himself, and fight him, too, with such pluck, resolution, and fury, that though the greatly superior weight of the other at length prevails, the victor does not leave the bloody battle-field scatheless, but like a second Pyrrhus, with the conviction that one more such conquest would undo him. We never saw any of these sea-termagants alive and in action, and must therefore refer the reader for full particulars to M. Lacepède, who had that advantage; but to judge from sundry recently dead specimens, with fins down, tail at rest, the hammer head resting on the pavement, and one eye only to be seen at a time, she was quite ill-looking enough to justify belief in all that biographers have recorded against her.

These are the only three sharks of which the ancients have left us any discriminative account, though they doubtless were acquainted with many others frequenting southern seas. It must have been one of this gigantic race, and probably the white shark, to which Oppian refers in the latter part of the fifth _Halieatic_.

“The gashed and gory carcase, stretched at full length, a ghastly spectacle! is even yet an object of recoil and superstitious dread. A vague fear of vengeance keeps awhile the most curious of the captors aloof; at length some venture to approach; one man looks into the gigantic jaws, and sees a triple tier of polished and pointed teeth; another wonders at the width of back; a third admires the herculean mould of the lately terrible tail; but a landsman, beholding the unsightly fish at a distance, exclaims—‘May the earth, which I now feel under me, and which has hitherto supplied my daily wants, receive when I yield it, my latest breath, from her bosom. Preserve me, oh Jupiter! from such perils as this, and be pleased to accept my offerings to thee from dry land. May no thin plank interpose an uncertain protection between me and the boisterous deep. Preserve me, oh Neptune! from the terrors of the rising storm, and may I not, as the surge dashes over the deck, be ever cast out amidst the unseen perils that people the abyss; ’t were punishment enough for a mortal to be tossed about unsepulchred on the waves, but to become the pasture of a fish, and to fill the foul maw of such a ravenous monster as I now behold, would add tenfold horror to such a lot!’”

We participate entirely with this landsman in hearty detestation of sharks, well remembering the mixed awe, interest and disgust inspired by the view of a white shark, albeit, a small one for the species, captured after a furious resistance off the Thunny fishery of Palermo in the night, and brought in next morning by the sailors, at the market hour. Dozens of colossal thunnies, alalongas, pelamyds, and swordfish, lay that morning scarcely noticed: the object of general attraction was the dread Canesca, whose mangled body was stretched by itself in the middle of the Place, surrounded by an appalled yet admiring throng, all loud in exclamations and inquiries. The men who had secured the fish, perfectly satisfied with the results of the night’s toil, smoked their pipes complacently, and gave the particulars of the capture to those who pressed round eagerly to hear the exciting tale. Women, of course, mingled largely in the crowd—when were they, of the lower class, ever absent from any spectacle of horror? and accordingly, with either an infant in arms, or clutching a child by the hand, they pointed out the fish to their equally excited neighbors, and with many fierce gesticulations called him “_bruto_,” “_scelerato_,” “_il Nerone dei pesci_,” and other conventional names of abuse for a shark in Sicily; everybody was exclaiming, everybody rejoicing over his destruction. “_Eccola Beppo_; we have him, you see at last,” said one of the crew to a nearing boatswain, just come into the market. “_Buon’ giorno a lei_, I make you my bow, sir,” said the other, doffing his red worsted cap to the fish; “we are all happy to see you on shore; after this you will not invade _la camera della morte_[4] and make a way for the thunny to slip through our fingers again. No, indeed, my lads, now we really have him, you may mend your nets with something like a sense of security.” “Par Bacco and St. Anthony! will you tell me, sir, where you have put the flannel drawers you took from out of my felucca, as they were drying on Sunday last, five minutes after Giuseppe’s legs were out of them?” “_Cane maledetto_—accursed hound—where’s my brother’s hand you snapped off as he was washing it over the side of his boat, not a week ago?” “_Caro lei!_ did you now chance to swallow Padre Giacomo’s poodle, which disappeared so suddenly the day before yesterday, as he was swimming to shore with his master’s stick?” “Gentlemen,” said the master boatman, and proprietor of the Canesca, “you will get more _out_ of him by looking _into_ him, than by asking unanswered questions; so here, my lads,” addressing two of his men, “wash his head and gills well, and show that gentleman—ourself—he is not so small a Canesca as he is pleased to think.”

The clean water soon brought out the features, as the blood and ooze were removed; and though the collapsed eye-balls, unsupported as in life, no longer shot menacing glances from their cartilaginous pivots, but fell back opaque and dimmed into the sockets, an expression any thing but amiable was still exhibited in their barred pupils of Minerva gray. The whole forehead was bathed with that phosphorescent mucus or jelly which gives this fish its luminous and spectral appearance, when seen in the dusk, and adds new terrors to the ill-omened apparition. The aspect of the face was malign enough; but when the den of his mouth was forced open, and we ventured to peep in, and saw there three rows of sharp and pointed teeth, that alive in one effort of volition might have been brought to bear all at once upon the largest prey, and made him spout blood at every pore, it became apparent that a fish, even like this of only eight or nine feet long, with such a jaw to tear, such a trunk to smash, and such a tail to stun, must have been capable of destroying the life of almost any creature he might encounter; and we entered readily into the feelings of delight and triumph expressed by the fishermen at the capture of so thoroughly a _mauvais sujet_. Besides the jeopardy in which he places life, the mischief a single shark will occasion to the thunny and cod fisheries is incalculable; two or three of these marauders suffice to interrupt, and sometimes effectually to disconcert all the operations of the poor fishermen. The blue shark in particular, during the pilchard season, will hover about the tackle, clear the long lines of every hook, biting them off above the bait—break through the newly shot nets, or fairly swallow the distended mesh-work and its draught together.

Nor is this all, nor yet the worst mischief recorded of sharks: fond as they are of fish, they greatly prefer flesh, and, unfortunately for man, his flesh before that of beast or bird. Acutely discriminative, too, in taste, their partiality is decidedly for a European rather than an Asiatic—for a fair rather than a dark skin: on this account, in a mixed group of bathers, the white complexioned are always the selected victims of a first attack; but to get at human flesh of any description, they will make extraordinary efforts—bound for this purpose out of the sea like tigers from a jungle, right athwart a vessel in full course, to pick off some unwary sailor occupied in the rigging—or leap into a high fishing-boat, to the consternation of the crew, and grapple with the men at their oars; or, when hard pressed and hungry, even spring ashore and attack man on his own element.

A famished shark will snap up every thing; but though he may swallow all, yet there are some morsels even a shark cannot stomach; witness the following lively anecdote from the _Edinburgh Observer_:

“Looking over the bulwarks of the schooner (writes a correspondent of the Scotch newspaper,) I saw one of these watchful monsters winding lazily backward and forward like a long meteor; sometimes rising till his nose disturbed the surface, and a gushing sound like a deep breath rose through the breakers; at others, resting motionless on the water, as if listening to our voices, and thirsting for our blood. As we were watching the motions of this monster, Bruce (a little lively negro and my cook) suggested the possibility of destroying it. This was briefly to heat a fire-brick in the stove, wrap it up hastily in some old greasy cloths as a sort of disguise, and then to heave it overboard. This was the work of a few minutes, and the effect was triumphant. The monster followed after the hissing prey; we saw it dart at the brick like a flash of lightning and gorge it instanter. The shark rose to the surface almost immediately, and his uneasy motions soon betrayed the success of the manœuvre; his agonies became terrible, the waters appeared as if disturbed by a violent squall, and the spray was driven over the taffrel where we stood, while the gleaming body of the fish repeatedly burst through the dark waves, as if writhing with fierce and terrible convulsions. Sometimes also we thought we heard a shrill, bellowing cry as if indicative of anguish and rage, rising through the gurgling waters. His fury, however, was soon exhausted; in a short time the sounds broke away into distance, and the agitation of the sea subsided; the shark had given himself up to the tides, as unable to struggle against the approach of death, and they were carrying his body unresistingly to the beach.”

A poet is born a poet, and a shark is born a shark; in infancy a malignant, a sea-devil from the egg. When but a few weeks old, and a few inches in length, a Lilliputian Squalus exhibits a pugnacity almost without parallel for his age; attacking fish two or three times older and larger than himself, and if caught and placed upon a board for observation, resenting handling to the very utmost of his powers, striking with the tail a finger placed on any part of the body where it can be reached. But though always thus hostile to man, and generally so to each other, love for a season subjugates even these savage dispositions, and makes them objects of a reciprocal regard.

M. Lacepède, who seems to have entered intimately into the private feelings of sharks, speaks highly of their amours.

Plutarch bears testimony to the tenderness of sharks for their offspring. He says:—‘In paternal fondness, in suavity and amiability of disposition, the shark is not surpassed by any living creature. The female brings forth young, not perfect, but inclosed each in a pouch, and watches over these till the brood is excluded with the anxiety as it were of a second birth. After this both parents vie with each other in procuring food, and teaching their offspring to frolick and swim; and should danger threaten the defenseless little ones, they find in the open mouth of their affectionate progenitors a sure asylum;’ ‘from which,’ says Oppian, who relates the same story with variations, ‘they issue forth when the alarm is over and the waters again safe.’

Notwithstanding these short paroxysms of tenderness, taken as a class, it may be safely asserted that nothing in nature is more savage than the whole Dog-fish tribe, the only difficulty being to determine precisely to which of the several species the bad pre-eminence belongs; whether to the White, the Blue or Basking Shark, the Canesca, the Zygæna, the Rough-hound or Bounce, &c., for they are _all_ Red Republicans of the deep; strife is their element, blood their delight, cruelty their pastime. Even the soft sex, which amongst most creatures deserves this winning epithet, in the Squalidæ is so far from being a recommendation, that the females are more ferocious than the males. A Messalina sharkess has been known to dash into a crowd of unhappy bathers, tearing and butchering all one after another, nor, till wearied out and gorged, but still unsated with her victims, leave the spot

Et lassata viris, nondum satiata, recessit.

Well, indeed, do these “fell, unhappie, and shrewd monsters,” as Pliny calls them, deserve the ill names bestowed by man—Lamia the fury, witch or hobgoblin; Anthropophagus, or man-eater, and Requin; so called, in anticipation of the requiems which may certainly be offered up by friends for the soul of any one whose body comes in the way of a shark.

The white shark is one of the largest of the tribe, and measures sometimes from twenty to twenty-five feet; there is however another, the _Squalus Maximus_, only met with in northern latitudes, which greatly transcends him; reaching, when fully developed, thirty and even forty feet in length. One taken off Marseilles with a whole man in armor, _integer et cadavere toto_, pouched in his stomach, affords some grounds for supposing that the great fish that swallowed the prophet Jonah was a shark; especially as this case of the warrior is not a solitary instance, for Rondolet relates the story of a man and his dog going down the open mouth of a shark into the stomach, the first to look about him and to say he had been there, the other to prowl round and pick up offal. That Jonah was swallowed by this _Piscis Anthropophagus_ is probable, though only conjectural; that he was not swallowed by a _whale_ is certain, for whales have very small gullets and no internal “accommodation for a single man,” like the shark; their food consists entirely of small narrow creatures an inch or two long, and not thicker round than the barrel of a common-sized quill.

The origin of this mistake, perpetuated by sculptors and painters, proceeds from a misconception of the Hebrew word _tannanim_, translated _whale_, but evidently designating large fish generally; just as its Latin equivalent _cete_, signifies any heavy fish; size, not species, determining the appellation.

Great as are the dimensions of many existing Squali, there can be no doubt that some of the antediluvian period greatly exceeded in size any species at present known. We are indebted to M. Lacepède for this discovery, and the ingenious procedure by which he arrived at it deserves notice. M. Lacepède was one of the first naturalists who applied the since well understood and more fully developed principle of _ex pede Herculem_ to the objects of natural history. Having received from Dax, in the Pyrenees, a shark’s tooth of the very unusual size of four inches and a half in the enamel, or the part visible above the socket, he was prompted to discover, if possible, the size of its original possessor; for this purpose he measured first the teeth, and next the bodies of all the Squali accessible to him in the museums of Paris, and found in every case, that the relative proportion they bore to each other was as one to two hundred, and applying this general scale to the particular tooth from Dax, M. Lacepède found that he held in hand the relic of a creature that in the days of the flesh must have been fully seventy feet long. The proportions between the body and the head being also definite, it was as readily made clear that a Squalus stretching to this length had jaws with a bow above thirteen feet, and a mouth capable of gaping more than twenty-six feet round. In comparison with such a Squalus, those chronicled by Rondolet requiring two horses to drag them, and even one mentioned by Gillius, weighing four thousand pounds, dwindle into mere minnows and gudgeons.

Cruel as all Squali undoubtedly are, reasons perhaps might be suggested, if not wholly exculpatory of their conduct, sufficient to obtain them an acquittal before either a French or an Italian court of judicature. The French verdict would be _meurtre, avec circonstances attenuantes_. An Italian jury would at once pronounce a shark criminal, _arabbiato_—in a passion—consider this sufficient excuse, and summarily dismiss the case. Such lenient judgments might be based on the grounds of their having teeth unusually numerous, efficient, and long; and on temperament; but sharks possess _also_, enormous abdominal viscera; full one-third of the body is occupied with spleen or liver, and the bile and other digestive juices secreted from such an immense apparatus, and poured continually into the stomach, must be enough to stimulate appetite prodigiously, and what hungry animal was ever tender-hearted? We read in the _Anabasis_, that the Greeks would not treat with the Persians about a truce till after dinner; and every one knows that to be the time most propitious to charity and good neighborhood; a hungry man is ever a churl, and _ventre affamé n’a point d’oreilles_. A shark’s appetite is never appeased; for, moreover, in addition to his bilious diathesis, he is not a careful masticator of victuals, but hastily bolts a repast, producing thereby not only the moroseness of indigestion, but a whole host of _tænias_, which goad and irritate the intestine to that degree, that the poor Squalus is sometimes quite beside himself from the torment, and rushes like a blind Polyphemus through the waves in search of any thing to cram down his maw and allay such urgent distress; he does not seek to be cruel, but he is cruelly famished, and must satisfy, not only his own ravenous appetite, but the constant demands of these internal parasites, either with dead or living animals; so, sped as from a catapult, he pounces on a quarry, and gorges, like a boa constrictor, a meal sometimes so great as to press upon and protrude a large portion of the intestine, which, after one of these crapulous repasts, may not unfrequently be seen trailing several feet from the body.

It is an interesting fact in the history of sharks—and one by no means without precedent in our own—that violent passions, parasites, and indigestions, do not seem to ruffle the equable current of the blood, and that the pulse continues regular, and averages only sixty beats in a minute. As with us a good digestion, (the common accompaniment of a quiet pulse) may be and often is connected with a bad disposition, who knows but that Heliogabalus and Nero, those admirable human types and representatives of the genus shark in so many other particulars, may have resembled them in this also, and in the midst of their orgies and atrocities have enjoyed a calm circulation.

Sharks are sometimes eaten, but more out of bravado and revenge than because they afford a desirable food. Athenæus indeed records that the Greeks were Squalophagi, but they would eat any thing. Archistratus, the _bon-vivant_ of his book, will not allow men to object to a shark diet, merely because the shark sometimes diets upon men. Galen, on the other hand, denounces shark’s flesh, but only from its supposed tendency to produce melancholy. We do not know whether the Latins ever ate them. Among modern nations, Italians and Sicilians cook only the belly of the old fish; and fœtal sharks not much bigger than gudgeons, whenever they can procure a dish. In the still less dainty Hebrides, the _Squalus vulgaris_ is consumed entire; in England they are not relished; but in Norway and Iceland the inhabitants make indiscriminate use of every species that they capture, hanging up the carcases for a whole year that the flesh may mellow. Though no part of the shark is really wholesome, one part, the liver, very valuable in a commercial point of view from the abundance of oil squeezed from it, is highly prejudicial for food, as we learn, on the evidence of the following case of an obscure French cobbler, recorded by an eminent French physician:—

Sieur Gervais, his wife and two children, supped upon a piece of shark’s liver; in less than half an hour all were seized with invincible drowsiness, and threw themselves on a straw mattress; nor did they arouse to consciousness till the third day. At the end of this long lethargy their faces were inflamed and red, with an insupportable itching of the whole body; complete desquamation of the cuticle followed, and when this flaying process was concluded, the whole party slowly recovered.

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[4] The last compartment of the complicated network called a _mandrague_, in which the thunny are harpooned and slain.

* * * * *

=THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.=

The knights of España, the valiant,
Sought long for the fountain of youth,
And this legend of old-time they reverenced
As an oracle uttered by Truth:

That over the foaming Atlantic,
In a kingdom of ever-bright flowers,
Safely sheltered from danger, it offered
To all who in faith sought its bowers,

A draught from its goblet like nectar—
And, thenceforth the beauties of youth,
With its loves, and its joys, all unchanging,
Remained with them ever, forsooth.

And I have a fountain upspringing
In crystalline beauty for me;
I have drunk of its waters, and gladly
To others now proffer them free.

In a cool, shady grotto it gushes,
Surrounded by sweet-perfumed flowers,
I call it my shrine for devotion,
There pass I my happiest hours.

White lilies, so pure, of the valley
Gather round it like children at home,
And violets creep to its margin,
For a kiss from its sparkling, bright foam;

The heart’s-ease peeps out from the clusters
Of lilies, to look in its face,
For often is vividly mirrored
Therein all her beauty and grace.

Though the rose from my cheek will soon vanish,
And the sheen from my tresses must fade,—
Though others will see on my forehead
The footprints that long years have made;

Yet youth is now with me, and never
Will I lose it—no! never grow old,
For the naiad that dwells in my fountain,
To me, a high secret has told.

Oh! what is the beauty of figure,
The outer youth, vain as the wind!
A beauty eternal, unfading,
I have in the heart and the mind.

My heart shall continue as youthful,
In affections and sympathies bold,
And my mind in its thoughts and its fancies
Shall never be wrinkled or old.

Ay! I will not grow old! for my fountain—
_Contentment_—ne’er fails to supply
Every grace, every beauty, I covet,
And I cannot her bounty deny.
A. G. H.

* * * * *

=HUSH! HUSH!=

=A LEGEND OF RHINELAND.=

=BY DONALD MACLEOD.=

I was so tired of Mayence. I had seen the cathedral so often, and witnessed the stiff recruit drillings in the barrack-yard, and crossed the bridge of boats, and wandered in the palatial gardens of Biberich, and ridden to Francfort to look at the Ariadne, or Lessing’s “Trial of Huss,” or Overbeck’s “Triumph of Religion,” or old Rothschild, or the Austrian soldiers, or the Kaisersaal, or the statue of Goethe, or the shop windows, or the English travelers in thick shoes and incipient moustaches, or at some other of the thousand-and-one curiosities of the quaint old Freistadt—that some change became absolutely necessary.

I tried to speak Danish with the only other idle man in the Three Crowns, but he did not understand me: then he spoke English, but I did not understand him; and then we took off our hats, bowed, grinned at each other in a most imbecile manner, and turned away. He sat down at a little table in the _salle á manger_, and called for a bottle of Braunerberger; and I packed up a little traveling sack, got on board a steamboat, and was whisked off down the Rhine.

On the steamer—_dampfschiff_ says the German, but the Dutchman calls it _stoomboot_—just opposite me sat an old, fat German lady, by the side of her old, fat spouse. He was smoking his pipe; she was patting his plump left hand between her own. Sometimes he would take the meerschaum from his lips, turn round slowly and regard his mate through the light clouds issuing from his mouth; then the old lady would give him a wide and benign smile, and pat his left hand a little more rapidly; after which he would resume the pipe, and both would subside into their ordinary, fat calm.

The only other thing that much attracted my attention on board, was a small boy gorging himself with walnuts, gingerbread and apples in rapid and endless succession, till his dull, blue eyes seemed to be on the point of popping out of his head.

Whether they did so eventually or not, I cannot say, for I went ashore at Lorch, and gave my sack to a one-eyed waiter at the Swan inn.

Lorch, as you know, is just below the Mouse Tower (Mauesenthurm) in which cruel Bishop Hatto was eaten by the rats, in punition of his cruelty in withholding the grain from the people in time of famine—and just above old Baccharach (Bacchi Ara,) which owes its name to its wealth of vines. Above it, in it, around it, below it, the hill sides were green with luxuriant foliage, nearly all the houses are wine shops, grapes are the only fruit—most of the stone is in the form of jugs, and most of the glass is bottle glass—I might add, that what little meadow there is, is bottle green.

Zu Klingenberg am Main,
Zu Wuerzburg an dem Stein,
Zu Baccharach am Rhein
Hab’ ich in meinen Tagen
Gar oftmals hörem sagen,
Soll’n sein die besten Wein’.

At Klingenburg on Main, at Würzburg on the Stein,
And at Baccharach on the Rhine,
Every worthy son of Herman, swears in donnerwettrous German,
That they grow the choicest wine.

Joyously sweeps the Rhine by Lorch, through the home of the German Lyæus—sweeps swiftly but crookedly in a rollicking, tipsy way, whispering to the vineyards the last news from the glaciers, and stopping for an instant at the gate of Lorch to get a drink of water which the modest little Wisper furnishes.

I went strolling up the banks of that same modest little Wisper, listening to the strange sound of the north wind soughing through the valley—precisely resembling, as the name implies, the busy whispers of a thousand spirits in the air.

When I say the sound of the wind, I use the language of foolish men. I know better. Spirits are they; but whether good or bad, angels or cobbolds, minions of Rübezahl, or gentle fays, gnomes, pixies or Loreleis, I, alas, cannot tell; but I know what I think—For—

When I had gotten well into the valley, and was skirting a knot of thick willows, with my eyes fixed upon a wild looking rock before me, there came a sough heavier than usual, and a gruff “Hein!” was uttered near me. I turned and saw an immense head, all forehead and pale blue eyes, covered with very little hair, and apparently without a body, waving to and fro upon the tops of the rank weeds.

“Dame!” said I.

“Guten Tag,” said the head, and it came toward me. Then I saw that there was a body under it, clad in velveteen shooting-jacket and trousers, with a pipe stem visibly protruding from one pocket, and a _schnaps-flasche_ from another.

Then I returned the salutation; and the head began to be wiped with a yellow silk handkerchief, clutched in a red, fire-like hand, and to talk with great rapidity.

“Hein! it is very warm to-day. Walking for your pleasure, no doubt. Your very good health, sir, and to our better acquaintance. Try a drop of schnaps.” As he spoke he took the pewter flask from his pocket, slipped off the false bottom which served for a cup, filled it, bolted the contents, and then refilling it, handed it to me.

I rendered it all due justice, and pointing to the wild scene before us, asked him if it were familiar to him.

“Familiar!” he exclaimed. “I should suppose so. It is one of the most awful places in the country, although a little safer now than it used to be. You know what happened here to Johann Würzelkopf, Herman Weinsoffer, and Mäusche Kleidermacher?”

“I am sorry to be so ill-informed, but I never even heard of those gentlemen. I wish you would tell me the story.”

“I will; but first try some more schnaps. No more! Why? Well, I will; here’s to you. And now let us sit down here on this bit of wall. Don’t be frightened, and don’t go to sleep, and I will tell about the three little burghers of Mayence.”

I obeyed all the little man’s directions, and he continued:

“Johann Würzelkopf, Herman Weinsoffer and Mäusche Kleidermacher were three young burghers of Mayence, from twenty-one to twenty-five years old it may be; old enough to enjoy personal liberty, but not old enough always to take care of themselves, the proof of which assertion will be seen in the sequel.

“Now, instead of going to mass, like good Rhenish Christians, they must needs pick out the _Pfingstenfest_, that is, Pentecost morning for a frolick on the river, and going to Baccharach below there, they spent the morning in proving the excellence of the wines; and when filled with courage, pottle deep, they came up the river to Lorch, and out to the valley here to seek for adventures, forsooth. Well, they found them.”

Here the little man gave a low, malicious chuckle, and went on.

“They pushed through yonder thicket to the face of those rocks there, which to their eyes took the form of an immense old castle; and the clefts resembled Gothic pointed doors, and the crannies and crevices looked like windows. As they were gazing, they espied at one of these pretended windows three faces of enchanting beauty. Golden hair falling over shoulders of ivory, blue eyes full of merriment, and crimson, pouting lips, smiling just enough to show teeth like pearls. As they gazed, these pretty lips opened a little wider to emit this sound—

“‘Hush! Hush!’ each of the three sweet mouths said ‘Hush!’ and the little sense which remained in the heads of the youngsters was driven away, and they became half crazy with love for the three enchantresses. A white hand and arm then pointed to a doorway, and the young men entered it and made their way along a narrow hall, where they found themselves suddenly in profoundest darkness, while around them rustled, with a thousand echoes, the mysterious ‘hush! hush!’ After some groping about, however, they at last found a door, which they opened and entered an immense saloon, lined with mirrors and blazing with a thousand lights.

“And the sweet voices of the three maidens cried ‘Welcome, welcome!’ and the ivory arms were stretched out toward the young men for an embrace. But the blaze of light dazzled them, and the mirrors showed not three maidens, but three thousand! Turn where they would, they saw ivory arms extended, and red lips smiling welcome, and golden hair rolling over shoulders of snow.

“So the blockheads stood with gaping mouths, grinning foolishly, and open eyes staring at the maidens or their images, until one of the mirrors slid back, and a stern, powerful old man came into the room, clad in a long, velvet robe, to the girdle of which his grizzled beard fell thickly.

“‘You are welcome,’ he said. ‘No doubt you have come to espouse my daughters!’

“But the burghers thought of their schätzen at Mayence, and felt no especial affection toward such a father-in-law. A little amusement with the young beauties were all very well, but matrimony! Ah, that was more serious.

“‘You hesitate,’ said the old man, ‘do not fear; I am no miser, I drive no hard bargain. Each of those maidens has a thousand pounds of gold as portion. And there is room in the castle ditch for three bodies larger than yours are.’

“Then again the charmers wooed the young men with smiles, and opened their ivory arms, and threw back the golden hair, shaking from the tresses an intoxicating perfume.

“‘Do you still hesitate,’ thundered the imperious gray-beard.

“‘No—no—no, my lord,’ stammered the burghers of Mayence.

“‘It is well for you!’ and he laughed a grisly laugh. ‘So, now embrace your brides.’

“So they advanced with extended hands, but only touched the gold surface of the glass; and whichever way they turned, they saw the ivory arms, and heard the mocking laugh of the old man, mingled now with the silvery voices of the maidens, yet could find nothing but the mirrors that multiplied the figures of their brides, until at last they were half crazy. Then the father-in-law guided them toward the smiling beauties, and the touch of their hands and the flavor of their lips achieved the enchantment.

“‘One moment,’ cried the graybeard; ‘before your perfect union, one proof of your tenderness is required. My daughters have lost their favorite birds, a starling, a crow, and a magpie. They are undoubtedly in the forest there, and we are not permitted to leave the castle until after the marriage of my daughters.’

“‘How shall we know them from other birds of the same species?’ asked Würzelkopf.

“‘For it must be confessed,’ added Weinsoffer with much wisdom, ‘that one crow is very like another crow.’

“‘And magpies generally go in pairs, you know.’ This last remark was made by Mäusche Kleidermacher, and exhibited an observation of the habits of birds, remarkably creditable to a burgher of Mayence.

“‘You will have little difficulty in recognizing these birds, my dear sons-in-law, since they all speak when spoken to; the starling with a riddle, the crow in a song, and the magpie in a biography of his grandmother. Go then, my sons, get the birds, come back and be happy.’

“Then he led them to the door, and they went forth into the forest. They had not wandered far before they saw the three birds sitting all upon one tree, saying and doing nothing.

“‘Starling,’ said Johann Würzelkopf, ‘can’st thou make riddles?’ and the starling answered, flying to his shoulder.

“‘What’s on your face, oh burgher, know you,
That the best of mirrors cannot show you?’

Johann Würzelkopf of course did not know, and therefore gave up all his attention to his comrade, Weinsoffer, who was asking the crow for a song. That bird, well-known as a musical character since the days of Æsop, sang thus—

“‘Three friars of excellent appetites coasted
A land where the ortolans fly ready roasted,
And stood, begging all of those nice little pullets
To be good enough just to fly down their gullets.
But their throats were too large, or the birds too well grown,
For not even one could contrive to get down;
And the monks went off cursing the country o’er all,
Where the birds were too fat, or the gullets too small.’

“Weinsoffer was endeavoring to find the moral of this, when Mäusche Kleidermacher asked the magpie for his biographical-grandmaternal information, and Mag said, as the crow flew on Weinsoffer’s shoulder—

“‘My grandmother was a magpie,
Who laid a vast number of eggs,
From each of which came a magpie.
And I think she would be living yet,
Only one day she happened to die.’

“So singing, the magpie hopped upon Mäusche’s shoulder, and the three friends went back to the castle, which they reached and entered before nightfall. But ah! what a change! Instead of mirrors and blaze of torches, and waving of golden hair, and gleam of ivory arms, they saw but cold, bare walls, tapestried by cobwebs, or the light moss produced by dampness. Sole relic of past glory was that three tables stood near each other, covered with all that could tempt the appetite, each in the guard of a toothless, wrinkled, blear-eyed, abominable old hag.

“While the three young men stood gaping, the old hags advanced, and drawing them with cold, claw-like hands toward the tables, cried ‘Welcome, dear bridegrooms.’ And then once seated at the tables, they caressed the poor burghers with their snaky arms, picked out dainty pieces of food and put them with their black, long-nailed fingers into the mouths of the bridegrooms, mumbling out nauseous endearments through their toothless jaws.

“Then they would have a wedding-dance; and springing up, they whirled their partners round and round the rooms, their old joints cracking like fifty castanets, their shrill voices screaming out a rapid song. And the starling, the crow, and the magpie flew rapidly through the mazes of the crazy waltz, perching now and then on head or shoulder, and screaming, croaking, chattering incessantly their riddle, their song, their story of the grandmother, until whatsoever brains were possessed by Johann Würzelkopf, Herman Weinsoffer, and Mäusche Kleidermacher, were so twisted and jumbled together, so wearied and stunned, so deafened and bedeviled, that they fell in sheer exhaustion, each with individual grunt, upon the floor.

“Then all the noise ceased but the low, thousand-voiced utterance, ‘Hush! hush! hush!’

“After lying thus upon the floor for some time, the youths were helped upon their feet by their attentive brides, and supported, with much tenderness, toward the tables. Then each old hag poured a little golden wine into a glass of Venice, and kissing the rim held it to the lips of her bridegroom. And when the three little burghers of Mayence had swallowed the draught, they fell in a senseless lethargy upon the floor.

“When they awaked the sun was high up in heaven. They found themselves lying among the furze at the foot of the rock, which, however, no more resembled a castle than it did a rose-bush. It was as common and disagreeable a mass of stone, granitic or otherwise, as one could wish to see. Full of shame, and foaming with rage, they began to make their way through the woods; but the horrible ‘hush! hush!’ sounded from all sides; the old witches looked out mockingly from every bush, and the three birds followed them, hopping from tree to tree; the starling proposing his riddle, the crow singing his song, and the magpie as biographical as ever.

“Nor were they at all relieved until they got to the edge of the wood, where they met a little man—just as you met me this morning, sir—and of him they demanded what these infernal birds could mean.

“‘The answer to the starling’s riddle,’ said the little man, ‘is, that each of you have received, invisibly to yourselves, a good six inches of additional nose. But the crow instructs you, when you have good, little sweethearts at home, to stick to them, and not to go about gaping at every pretty face whose lips may cry ‘hush! hush!’ as if you expected her to fly down your throats as the friars did the ortolans.’

“‘But the magpie, worthy sir; what does she mean?’ cried the three.

“‘Oh, the magpie! Why she tells just such a story of her grandmother as your grandchildren will tell of you.’

“So Weinsoffer, Würzelkopf and Kleidermacher went on their way, repentant and resolving—which is the moral of this legend—never to get tipsy on holyday mornings, and not to be attracted by every pretty face that might cry ‘hush! hush!’ from a window.

“Such, sir, is the legend, and see yonder is the very magpie!”

I turned to look, but saw no bird whatever, only I heard a chuckling laugh behind me, and when I turned round, the little man with the large head had disappeared.

So I reflected that he was perhaps the father of the three witches, and had been making fun of me. Then I shrugged my shoulders and walked meditatively back to Lorch.

* * * * *

=ANNIE MORTON.=

=BY AMY HARNED.=

“There comes dear father at last!” exclaimed Annie Morton, springing from her seat at an open window through which she had been earnestly looking a long time in expectation of his arrival, while her sewing rested unheeded upon her lap. “Oh, what a long, long week this has been without him: dear father!” And the rich blood mantled on her cheek; her black eyes sparkled, and the smile that parted her ruby lips made her very beautiful, as she stood for one moment ere she sprang through the casement and down the long avenue to meet the carriage which contained her father.

The mother looked after her daughter with pride; but pressing her hand upon her heart as if in pain, she sunk back upon her seat.

“Ah! what will she do without me, wild wayward as she is?” murmured Mrs. Morton. “The world has sadness in store for thee I fear, my daughter; when I am gone, who will shield thee, and care for thee, as I have done?”

A deep shade of sadness rested for a moment upon her face; but it passed away as the mother bowed her head in prayer for her passionate, wayward, but loving child.

She heard the party approaching the house, heard the kind voice of her husband as he answered the questions which Annie poured upon him, and with a sweet smile Mrs. Morton rose to meet them. The excitement of meeting her husband, after his temporary absence, brought a slight flush upon her cheek, making her look better than she really was; but it gladdened the heart of Mr. Morton, for when he left home she was so ill as to cause him much alarm; and as he folded his wife in his arms, he said, tenderly—

“Why, my dear Mary, I shall leave home oftener if my absence causes you to look so well. I have not seen so handsome a woman since I have been in B——; but I must not forget—here is a young gentleman waiting to be presented to you: I know you will welcome him.”

Tears stood in Robert Dennyn’s eyes. There was something in Mrs. Morton’s face, in her sweet, sad smile that reminded him painfully of his mother, who—but a few weeks previous—he had seen laid in the cold ground, hidden forever from his sight. He could scarcely command his voice to speak. Mrs. Morton noticed his agitation, and divined the cause of it. She extended both hands to him, and said—

“Robert Dennyn, I am glad to see you here. Your mother was the dearest friend of my girlhood; for the love of our early days, a son of hers will ever be most dear to me.”

“Charlie will be at home to-morrow, Robert,” interrupted Mr. Morton gaily, anxious to give a less serious turn to the conversation; “but I do not intend to set you down to your books yet awhile, my boy; you have studied too much already—you need rest. I wish to see you strong and well: exercise will be the best thing for you. There are horses in the stable at your service; and Annie, as wild a madcap as ever set foot in a saddle, ready to point out the beauties of all the country round, provided you can read Miss Landon to her, and listen to her chattering. What say you, my little magpie, will you have this young gentleman for your knight-errant? I doubt not he will be willing to do your bidding.”

Annie replied merrily: supper was announced, and, in pleasant chat, the evening passed rapidly away.

Charlie Morton came the next day; and the warm grasp of his hand told to Robert how much he sympathized with him in the trials he had endured since they left college.

No two persons could be more unlike than Charlie Morton and Robert Dennyn. Robert was tall, handsome, and but for the gaucherie of a boy unused to society, would have been very graceful. His face was pale, but the outline was perfect; a little too thin perhaps. At times, his large black eyes flashed and sparkled with a brilliancy that lighted up his pale face, otherwise—in its expression—too grave; and he surprised as well as interested his companions, for when in conversation he would forget himself—few youths could be more irresistible.

Though brought up in a city, he had been more secluded than boys are generally, therefore his manners needed that ease and self-confidence which is only acquired by intercourse with society.

His time, during his vacations, had been passed chiefly with his mother, whom he idolized. As he approached manhood, he saw that mother—so dear—fading slowly away. When the reality first burst upon him that she was dying, Robert was stunned—paralyzed beyond the power of action. Was there no elixir of life within his reach? Alas! no.

The messenger of death came gently, peacefully to Mrs. Dennyn, and she died, blessing her husband and son for their unwearied love, their untiring devotion, which had soothed her many years of suffering.

For a long time, Robert refused to be comforted; he had loved his mother with an intensity which admitted no other thought. Life, indeed, to him seemed a blank without her.

Just at this time, Mr. Morton paid his old friend a visit. He was a man of acknowledged ability, and Mr. Dennyn knew that in placing his son with him, he would secure for him an able legal preceptor, as well as a kind friend. Mr. Morton willingly received him under his charge, while Robert gladly accepted the offer of his father which removed him, for a time, from that home, now rendered painful by its memories of the dead. He came to Mr. Morton’s with a heart saddened by the scenes of sorrow, through which he had so recently passed; and the warm affection with which the family greeted him, made him feel at once that he was not among strangers.

Charlie and himself had long been friends: in college they were regarded as a miracle of brotherly attachment. No wonder—for who could look upon the clear, open, manly brow of Charlie Morton, and hear his ringing joyous laugh, and not love him. Care sat lightly upon him. His step was quick and free; his whole manner beaming with kindness and good-nature made him everywhere a welcome guest, and his return home a cause for rejoicing. His father was very proud of him, for he had come off with flying colors at the final collegiate examination which he had, with Robert Dennyn, so recently passed. The late commencement Annie would have attended, had not Mrs. Morton’s unlooked for indisposition detained her at home. She bore the disappointment with a grace which proved she was not entirely selfish. She was now wild with glee at the return of her only brother, whom she dearly loved.

The coming of Robert Dennyn was an event which decided the destiny of her life. He was just the sort of person to enchain the affections of a girl of seventeen. She soon learned to watch for his coming; to listen for his voice; to note the ever-varying expression of his countenance with an eager interest which none but those who have loved can ever know.

Robert felt the power of her beauty. A warm affection began to spring up in his heart for her—but Annie was pettish and willful. Her passionate temper knew no bounds—her violence repelled him many times when he felt most tenderly toward her.

“She has no heart,” he would say; and struggled to overcome the growing interest he felt in her.

When she would be left alone after having given vent to her temper, Annie would feel overwhelmed with shame and self-reproach; but she was ever too proud to acknowledge her faults, yet—although passionate and willful—Annie’s character had in it the elements of a noble nature, had there been some one near her who could have checked her wayward impulses, and taught her to subdue her proud will. She went on heedlessly; “sowing the wind” in her folly, and, alas! in due time did she not “reap the whirlwind?”

* * * * *

“Annie,” said Mr. Morton one day, “my friend, Mr. Leslie, has purchased Longbrook. I congratulate you, for he has two daughters about your own age. You will no longer want society: you, too, Charlie, must ride over with Annie to see them; and Robert, Mr. Leslie is also an old friend of your father; for the sake of ‘auld lang syne,’ I should like you all to be upon pleasant terms of intimacy.”