Chapter TWENTY: Third (2)

Being one evening in the garden where the queen was diverting herself with her damsels, and coming to the fountain where he had beheld the innocent maidens at their sport, he could no longer restrain the passion that raged within his breast. Seating himself beside the fountain, he called Florinda to him to draw forth a thorn which had pierced his hand. The maiden knelt at his feet to examine his hand, and the touch of her slender fingers thrilled through his veins. As she knelt, too, her amber locks fell in rich ringlets about her beautiful head, her innocent bosom palpitated beneath the crimson boddice, and her timid blushes increased the effulgence of her charms.

Having examined the monarch's hand in vain, she looked up in his face with artless perplexity.

'Senior,' said she, 'I can find no thorn, nor any sign of wound.'

Don Roderick grasped her hand and pressed it to his heart. 'It is here, lovely Florinda!' said he, 'It is here! and thou alone canst pluck it forth!'

'My lord!' exclaimed the blushing and astonished maiden.

'Florinda!' said Don Roderick, 'dost thou love me?'

'Senior,' said she, 'my father taught me to love and reverence you. He confided me to your care as one who would be as a parent to me, when he should be far distant, serving your majesty with life and loyalty. May God incline your majesty ever to protect me as a father.' So saying, the maiden dropped her eyes to the ground, and continued kneeling; but her countenance had become deadly pale, and as she knelt she trembled.

'Florinda,' said the king, 'either thou dost not or thou wilt not understand me. I would have thee love me, not as a father, nor as a monarch, but as one who adores thee. Why dost thou start? No one shall know our loves; and, moreover, the love of a monarch inflicts no degradation like the love of a common man; riches and honors attend upon it. I will advance thee to rank and dignity, and place thee above the proudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and endowed than any noble in my realm.'

The soft eye of Florinda kindled at these words. 'Senior,' said she, 'the line I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile; and my father would rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonor of his child. But I see,' continued she, 'that your majesty speaks in this manner only to try me. You may have thought me light and simple and unworthy to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that I have taken your pleasantry in such serious part.'

In this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the addresses of the monarch; but still her cheek was blanched, and her lip quivered as she spake.

The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervor. 'May ruin seize me,' cried he, 'if I speak to prove thee! My heart, my kingdom, are at thy command. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and my domains.'

The damsel rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her whole countenance glowed with virtuous indignation. 'My Lord,' said she, 'I am your subject, and in your power; take my life if it be your pleasure; but nothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be treason to the queen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and perdition to myself.' With these words she left the garden, and the king, for the moment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her departure.

We shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of Florinda, about which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and bard: for the sober page of history should be carefully chastened from all scenes that might inflame a wanton imagination; leaving them to poems and romances, and such-like highly seasoned works of fantasy and recreation.

Let it suffice to say, that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the beautiful Florinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the resistance of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due to helpless beauty, to his own honor as a knight, and his word as a sovereign, he triumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence.

There are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent a yielding ear to the solicitations of the monarch, and her name has been treated with opprobrium in several of the ancient chronicles and legendary ballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation, the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to have been a guiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had nought to check the indulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy that shows how dearly she had prized her honor.

In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father, blotted with her tears, and almost incoherent from her agitation. 'Would to God, my father,' said she, 'that the earth had opened and swallowed me ere I had been reduced to write these lines! I blush to tell thee, what it is not proper to conceal. Alas! my father; thou hast entrusted thy lamb to the guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dishonored, the royal cradle of the Goths polluted, and our lineage insulted and disgraced. Hasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the spoiler, and to vindicate the honor of your house!'

When Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire, who had been a page in the service of her father. 'Saddle thy steed,' said she, 'and if thou dost aspire to knightly honor, or hope for lady's grace--if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his daughter--speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the spur; but hie thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first bark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this letter to the count my father.'

The youth put the letter in his bosom. 'Trust me, lady,' said he, 'I will neither halt nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I reach Count Julian.' He mounted his fleet steed, sped his way across the bridge, and soon left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus.

* * * * *

The heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sensuality, but that the wrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and a cloud began to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow.

Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a marvellous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the monarch and his people, in punishment of their sins; nor are we, say the same orthodox writers, to startle, and withhold our faith, when we meet in the page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents, which transcend the probabilities of ordinary life; for the revolutions of empires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events, that shake the physical as well as the moral world, and are often announced by forerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such-like cautious preliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in a marvellous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story with the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain hold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin.

Now, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as King Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles, in the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered the hall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts, and their gray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in white garments of foreign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and were cinctured with girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from which were suspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form. Having approached the throne and made obeisance: 'Know, O King,' said one of the old men, 'that in days of yore, when Hercules of Libya, surnamed the strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a tower near to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength, and finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful secret, never to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect this terrible mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock of steel; and he left a command that every king who should succeed him should add another lock to the portal; denouncing wo and destruction on him who should eventually unfold the secret of the tower.

'The guardianship of the portal was given to our ancestors, and has continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations of the earth, and have hastened to re-close the door, and secure it with its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a profound mystery continues to prevail over this great enchantment. This, O King, is all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy predecessors.' Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound reverence and departed from the presence chamber.

Don Roderick remained for some time lost in thought after the departure of the men: he then dismissed all his court, excepting the venerable Urbino, at that time archbishop of Toledo. The long white beard of this prelate bespoke his advanced age, and his overhanging eye-brows showed him a man full of wary counsel.

'Father,' said the king, 'I have an earnest desire to penetrate the mystery of this tower.' The worthy prelate shook his hoary head: 'Beware, my son,' said he; 'there are secrets hidden from man for his good. Your predecessors for many generations have respected this mystery, and have increased in might and empire. A knowledge of it, therefore, is not material to the welfare of your kingdom. Seek not then to indulge a rash and unprofitable curiosity, which is interdicted under such awful menaces.'

'Of what importance,' cried the king, 'are the menaces of Hercules, the Lybian? Was he not a pagan? and can his enchantments have aught avail against a believer in our holy faith? Doubtless, in this tower are locked up treasures of gold and jewels, amassed in days of old, the spoils of mighty kings, the riches of the pagan world. My coffers are exhausted; I have need of supply; and surely it would be an acceptable act in the eyes of Heaven, to draw forth this wealth which lies buried under profane and necromantic spells, and consecrate it to religious purposes.'

The venerable archbishop still continued to remonstrate, but Don Roderick heeded not his counsel, for he was led on by his malignant star. 'Father,' said he, 'it is in vain you attempt to dissuade me. My resolution is fixed. To-morrow I will explore the hidden mystery, or rather the hidden treasures of this tower.'

The morning sun shone brightly upon the cliff-built towers of Toledo, when King Roderick issued out of the gate of the city, at the head of a numerous train of courtiers and cavaliers, and crossed the bridge that bestrides the deep rocky bed of the Tagus. The shining cavalcade wound up the road that leads among the mountains, and soon came in sight of the necromantic tower.

Of this renowned edifice marvels are related by the ancient Arabian and Spanish chroniclers; 'and I doubt much,' adds the venerable Agpaida, 'whether many readers will not consider the whole as a cunningly devised fable, sprung from an oriental imagination; but it is not for me to reject a fact which is recorded by all those writers who are the fathers of our national history: a fact, too, which is as well attested as most of the remarkable events in the story of Don Roderick. None but light and inconsiderate minds,' continues the good friar, 'do hastily reject the marvellous. To the thinking mind the whole world is enveloped in mystery, and every thing is full of type and portent. To such a mind the necromantic tower of Toledo will appear as one of those wondrous monuments of the olden time; one of those Egyptian and Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic prophecy, which have been devised in past ages, when man yet enjoyed an intercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight partook of divination.'

This singular tower was round, and of great height and grandeur; erected upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was supported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper, and various colored marbles, not larger than a man's hand; so subtilely joined, however, that but for their different hues they might be taken for one entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.[7]

[7] From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the
ancient chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the
tower were pictured in mosaic work.

King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed, at the foot of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living stone; the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron gate, covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship, and in the fashion of different centuries, which had been affixed by the predecessors of Don Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks.

The king alighted, and, approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The hoary-headed men drew back with terror. 'Alas!' cried they, 'what is it your majesty requires of us? Would you have the mischiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its foundations?'

The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation, within the memory of man; and which even Cæsar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity.

'Come what come may,' exclaimed Don Roderick, 'I am resolved to penetrate the mystery of this tower.' So saying, he again commanded the guardians to unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the keys, the locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted their feeble efforts; whereupon the young cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult, that with all their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted before the whole of them could be mastered.

When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. 'Whatever is within this tower,' said they, 'is as yet harmless, and lies bound under a mighty spell: venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood of evil upon the land.' But the anger of the king was roused, and he ordered that the portal should be instantly thrown open. In vain, however, did one after another exert his strength; and equally in vain did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate: though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining, it was perfectly immoveable.

The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he advanced to apply his hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestuous sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in, eager to gratify their curiosity, or to signalise themselves in this redoubtable enterprise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision. Upon this, the king ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air: he then led the way into the interior; but, though stout of heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation.

After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or antechamber, on the opposite side of which was a door; and before it, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and resounding blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance.

The king paused at sight of this appalling figure; for whether it were a living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, 'I do my duty.' After a little while Roderick plucked up heart, and addressed it with great solemnity: 'Whatever thou be,' said he, 'know that I come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety.'

Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train passed unmolested through the door.

They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture, difficult to be described. The walls were incrusted with the most precious gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The lofty dome appeared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems, lustrous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There were no windows or rather openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible.

In the centre of this hall stood a table of alabaster, of the rarest workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek characters, that Hercules Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl; and on the lid were inscribed the following words:

'In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. The hand of none but a king can open it; but let him beware! for marvellous events will be revealed to him, which are to take place before his death.'

King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The venerable archbishop laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. 'Forbear, my son!' said he; 'desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are concealed.'

'What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?' replied Roderick, with an air of haughty presumption. 'If good be destined me, I shall enjoy it by anticipation: if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it.' So saying, he rashly broke the lock.

Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two tablets of copper. On unfolding it, he beheld painted on it figures of men on horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various colors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimetars hanging from their necks, and cross-bows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters, 'Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne, and subdue thy kingdom!'

At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indistinctly, as if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer became the motion, and the louder the noise; and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and filled the hall, and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud: and the shadowy figures become all in motion, and the din and uproar became fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present could tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where Christians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows, and the hurling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amidst the flying squadrons, King Roderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was turned toward him, but whose armor and device were his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted, and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider.

Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where the gigantic figure with the whirling mace had disappeared from his pedestal; and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail.

The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed; but the door was immoveable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil, and the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees were uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm; for amidst the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten by tempest, and overwhelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering the gate in headlong confusion, as though they had been pursued by an enemy.

In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was anxious once more to close the iron door, and shut up those evils that threatened to overwhelm the land. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was reduced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of those ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterwards slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of this necromantic tower was a sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain.

'Let all those,' concludes the cautious friar, 'who question the verity of this most marvellous occurrence, consult those admirable sources of our history, the chronicle of the Moor Rasis, and the work entitled 'The Fall of Spain,' written by the Moor, Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique. Let them consult, moreover, the venerable historian Bleda, and the cloud of other Catholic Spanish writers, who have treated of this event, and they will find I have related nothing that has not been printed and published under the inspection and sanction of our holy mother church. God alone knoweth the truth of these things; I speak nothing but what has been handed down to me from times of old.'

ANACREONTIC.

[Greek: To de cheilos, ouk et oida
Tini moi tropô poiêseis.]

Maiden! first did Nature seek
Lilies for thy spotless cheek;
When with roses came she next
Half delighted, yet more vex'd,
For the lilies there, to see
Blushing at their purity!
Since her labor now was lost,
Roses to the wind she tost.
One, a bud of smiling June,
Falling on thy lips, as soon
Left its color, and in death
Willed its fragrance to thy breath!
Then two drops of crystalled dew
From the hyacinth's deep hue,
Brought she for thine eyes of blue;
And lest they should miss the sun,
Bade thy soul to shine thereon.
Lilies, Nature gave thy face--
Say, thy _heart_ do lilies grace?

_St. Paul's College._ G. H. H.

LITERARY NOTICES.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL, IN PROSE: Being a Ghost-Story of Christmas. By
CHARLES DICKENS. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

If in every alternate work that Mr. DICKENS were to send to the London press he should find occasion to indulge in ridicule against alleged American peculiarities, or broad caricatures of our actual vanities, or other follies, we could with the utmost cheerfulness pass them by unnoted and uncondemned, if he would only now and then present us with an intellectual creation so touching and beautiful as the one before us. Indeed, we can with truth say, that in our deliberate judgment, the 'Christmas Carol' is the most striking, the most picturesque, the most truthful, of all the limnings which have proceeded from its author's pen. There is much mirth in the book, says a competent English critic, but more wisdom; wisdom of that kind which men possess who have gazed thoughtfully but kindly on human life, and have pierced deeper than their fellows into all the sunny nooks and dark recesses of the human breast. The barbarous notion has long been exploded, that comic writers were only to be esteemed for their jests, and useful for provoking laughter. CERVANTES, first among the moderns, sent it out of fashion, and blessed that union of wit, sense, and pathos, which so many renowned writers have since confirmed; until it has come to be acknowledged, that rich genuine humor is rarely an inmate of the mind, if there be not a corresponding depth of earnestness and feeling in the heart. Many of DICKENS' writings, it is justly claimed, exhibit this fine, healthy, benevolent spirit. 'His sympathy for human suffering is strong and pure, and he reserves it not for imaginary and fictitious distress, but for the real grinding sorrows of life.' And this sympathy is more finely displayed in the work under notice, than in any of his previous productions. The design is very fanciful, and there is crowded into it, brief as it is, a world of character and observation. It is truly a reflection of life in miniature. Before proceeding to a few illustrative extracts, we shall avail ourselves in part of a clear synopsis of the inception and progress of the story, from the pen of a London contemporary.

SCROOGE is a very rich citizen; a 'squeezing, grinding, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.' He has lost all recollection of what he once was, and what he once felt; is dead to all kindly impulses, and proof against the most moving tale. He is almost as keen and gruff as old RALPH NICKELBY, to whom he bears a strong family resemblance, and uses his poor clerk, BOB CRATCHIT, just as badly, and has as little feeling for his merry-hearted nephew, who has married for love. The 'carol' begins on Christmas-eve. SCROOGE calls his nephew a lunatic for wishing him 'A merry Christmas!' and sends him home, sad as harsh words can make him. He keeps his poor shivering clerk in a small tank-like ground-room till the last minute of his stipulated time, and then dismisses him with an angry growl. He goes to his usual melancholy tavern to eat his melancholy dinner, amuses himself in the evening with his banker's book, and then retires to his dreary chambers. He had once a partner, a counterpart of himself, who has been dead for many a year; and while sitting in his lonely room, over a low fire, the ghost of the deceased partner enters, although the door is double-locked. He wears a heavy chain, forged of keys and safes; and, like Hamlet's ghost, tells of the heavy penance he is doomed to suffer in spirit for sins committed in the flesh. He has come to warn his partner, and to give him a chance of amendment. He tells him he will be visited by three Spirits, on the three following nights, and bids him mark well what they shall disclose. SCROOGE instantly falls asleep, and does not wake till the appointed hour. The three spirits are of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas to Come. The ghost of Christmas Past stands by SCROOGE'S bedside, of an uncertain form, though the belt round its body is wondrous light, and a flame shoots up from its head. Yet the figure fluctuates in distinctness, now one part being visible and now another. The spirit seizes the hand of SCROOGE, and they float through the air together. The old man is taken to the haunts of his childhood, and he is conscious of 'a thousand odors floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.' Each circumstance of the time past is restored. The village school; a boy left deserted in the school-room, whom SCROOGE recognises as his former self reading 'Robinson Crusoe;' till at last a lovely girl, who throws her arms round the boy's neck, and bids him come home to a 'merry, merry Christmas.' Then the scene changes, and SCROOGE is once more in the house of the kind-hearted master of his youth, who loved to keep Christmas as it was kept in the olden time, and he recognises himself the most joyous of the joyous group. Then comes the scene of his manhood, when he deserted his betrothed for a wealthier bride; and last, he views the girl he had deserted, the mother of a happy blooming family. This picture is delightfully sketched; it is enough to make a bachelor in love with wedlock. The scene is too affecting for the changed and worldly miser; he implores to be removed from the familiar place; he wrestles with the spirit, and awakened by the struggle, finds himself once more in his own room, and in darkness.

Again he has a long sleep. Christmas Present comes in the shape of a giant, with a holly-green robe. SCROOGE perceives him seated in his room, with his noble head crowned with holly wreath studded with icicles, reaching to the ceiling. His throne is a wine-cask and his foot-stool a twelfth-cake. In his hand he bears a blazing torch, from which he sprinkles down gladness upon every threshhold he enters. An immense fire glows and crackles in the grate, the walls and ceiling are hung with living green, and all around are heaped up the choice provisions collected to make Christmas glad. The giant leads SCROOGE forth. They pass through streets and lanes, with every house bearing token of rejoicing by its roaring fire or its sprig of holly, till they come to the dwelling of poor BOB CRATCHIT, old SCROOGE'S clerk. And here ensues a picture worthy of WILKIE in his best days:

'Perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off
his power, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature,
and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to
Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him,
holding to his robe; and on the threshhold of the door the Spirit
smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the
sprinkling of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen 'Bob'
a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his
Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his
four-roomed house!

'Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but
poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribands, which are
cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth,
assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave
in ribands; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the
saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous
shirt-collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and
heir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself
so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the
fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,
came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt
the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious
thoughts of sage-and-onions, these young Cratchits danced about
the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while
he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the
fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked proudly at the
sauce-pan lid to be let out and peeled.

''What has ever got your precious father, then?' said Mrs.
Cratchit. 'And your brother, Tiny Tim; and Martha warn't as late
last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!'

''Here's Martha, mother!' said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

''Here's Martha, mother!' cried the two young Cratchits. 'Hurrah!
There's _such_ a goose, Martha!'

''Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!' said
Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl
and bonnet for her, with officious zeal.

''We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl,
'and had to clear away this morning, mother!'

''Well! Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs. Cratchit.
'Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless
ye!'

''No, no! There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits,
who were every where at once. 'Hide, Martha, hide!'

'So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with
at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging
down before him; and his thread-bare clothes darned up and
brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported
by an iron frame!

''Why, where's our Martha?' cried Bob Cratchit looking round.

''Not coming,' said Mrs. Cratchit.

''Not coming!' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high
spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from
church, and had come home rampant. 'Not coming upon Christmas
Day!'

'Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in
joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and
ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim,
and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the
pudding singing in the copper.

''And how did little Tim behave?' asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she
had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter
to his heart's content.

''As good as gold,' said Bob, 'and better. Somehow he gets
thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest
things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the
people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it
might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made
lame beggars walk, and blind men see.'

'Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled
more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

'His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came
Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother
and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up
his cuffs, as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made
less shabby, compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and
lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to
simmer; Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went
to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high
procession.

'Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the
rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan
was a matter of course: and, in truth, it was something very like
it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand
in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the
potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the
apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim
beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits
set chairs for every body, not forgetting themselves, and,
mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,
lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be
helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was
succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast;
but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing
issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and
even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the
table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

'There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there
ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and
cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by
the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner
for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great
delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish,) they
hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the
youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion
to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss
Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear
witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

'Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in
turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the
back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose: a
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All
sorts of horrors were supposed.

'Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.
A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating house, and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a
laundress's next door to that? That was the pudding. In half a
minute Mrs. Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with
the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm,
blazing in half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with
Christmas holly stuck into the top.

''Oh, a wonderful pudding!' Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too,
that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs.
Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the
weight was off her mind, she would confide she had had her doubts
about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about
it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a
large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any
Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

'At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the
hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being
tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon
the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all
the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit
called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow
stood the family display of glass; two tumblers, and a custard-cup
without a handle.

'These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done: and Bob served it out with beaming looks,
while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily.
Then Bob proposed:

''A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!'

'Which all the family re-echoed.

''God bless us every one!' said Tiny Tim, last of all.

'He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool.
Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the
child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he
might be taken from him.'

Could any thing be more life-like, more beautiful, more touching, than this description? But let us skip the journeyings of Christmas Present for a moment, that we may accompany Christmas to Come to the dwelling of poor BOB CRATCHIT:

'The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his
feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to
find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob
Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found
the mother and the children seated round the fire.

'Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as
statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book
before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing.
But surely they were very quiet!

''And He took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'

'Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had not dreamed them. The
boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the
threshhold. Why did he not go on?

'The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to
her face.

''The color hurts my eyes,' she said.

'The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!

''They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. 'It makes them
weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father
when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.'

''Past it, rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. 'But I
think he's walked a little slower than he used, these few last
evenings, mother.'

'They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady,
cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

''I have known him walk with--I have known him walk with Tiny Tim
upon his shoulder, very fast, indeed.'

''And so have I,' cried Peter. 'Often.'

''And so have I!' exclaimed another. So had all.

''But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her
work, 'and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble--no
trouble. And there is your father at the door!'

'She hurried out to meet him; and Bob in his comforter--he had
need of it, poor fellow--came in. His tea was ready for him on the
hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the
two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a
little cheek, against his face, as if they said, 'Don't mind it,
father. Don't be grieved!'

'Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the
family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the
industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be
done long before Sunday, he said.

''Sunday! You went to-day then, Robert?' said his wife.

''Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. 'I wish you could have gone. It
would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But
you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a
Sunday. My little, little child!' cried Bob. 'My little child!'

'He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have
helped it, he and his child would have been further apart,
perhaps, than they were.

'He left the room, and went up stairs into the room above, which
was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair
set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one
having been there lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had
thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face.
He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite
happy.'

'Let not that man be trusted' who can read this affecting picture of parental love for a poor little cripple-boy, without feeling the tear-drops swelling to his eyes. But let us return and take one more excursion with the former Spirit. Observe the faithfulness and the range of the writer's imagination:

'And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood
upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone
were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and
water spread itself wheresoever it listed--or would have done so,
but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing-grew but moss
and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting
sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the
desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower,
lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

''What place is this?' asked Scrooge.

''A place where Miners live, who labor in the bowels of the
earth,' returned the Spirit. 'But they know me. See!'

'A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced
toward it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a
cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man
and woman, with their children and their children's children, and
another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their
holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the
howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a
Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and
from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they
raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so
surely as they stopped, his vigor sank again.

'The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe,
and passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea.
To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a
frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened
by the thundering of water, as it rolled, and roared, and raged
among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to
undermine the earth.

'Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from
the shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year
through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of seaweed
clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind one might
suppose, as sea-weed of the water--rose and fell about it, like
the waves they skimmed.

'But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire,
that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray
of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the
rough table at which they sat, they wished each other a Merry
Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them--the elder, too,
with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the
figurehead of an old ship might be--struck up a sturdy song that
was like a Gale in itself.

'Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on,
on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore,
they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the
wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch;
dark, ghostly figures in their several stations: but every man
among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or
spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas
Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board,
waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another
on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some
extent in its festivities: and had remembered those he cared for
at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember
him.'

The second of these spirits accompanies SCROOGE to a scene that is well worth seeing, and the like of which many of our readers have doubtless often encountered--a regular Christmas frolic; in the present instance at the residence of his nephew, who has a sister, a lovely, plump damsel, with a lace tucker: she was pretty, exceedingly pretty. 'With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed, as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory, too. Oh, perfectly satisfactory!' Is not the following a most glowing sketch of a well known pastime?