The Project Gutenberg eBook of The yule log
Title: The yule log
a series of stories for the young
Author: Georgianna M. Bishop
Release date: January 6, 2015 [eBook #47897]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE
Y U L E L O G.
A SERIES OF STORIES
FOR THE YOUNG.
NEW YORK:
STANFORD & DELISSER, 508 BROADWAY.
1859.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1858, by
STANFORD AND DELISSER,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
INTRODUCTION.
IT was an old custom, and one that still holds in many parts of England, to cut and dry, in order for burning, an enormous log, or “clog,” as it was anciently called; the trunk or root of a very large tree was generally used, which on “Merrie” Christmas Eve was paraded into the house, the father bearing it in his arms, and his family marching after to the sound of music. It was then introduced into the great kitchen fire-place, and having lighted it with a brand which had been carefully preserved from the last year’s clog, the household drew about the cheerful fire, and inspired by its warmth, and deep draughts of nut-brown ale, “the song and tale went round.” Many such a Christmas Eve have I sat and listened to the tales so marvelous and strange; and now, far away from those bygone scenes, I have striven to snatch from the decaying embers of memory, a little brand to light for my youthful readers a new “Yule Clog” for the coming Christmas season.
G. M. B.
Golden Hill,
November, 1858.
CONTENTS.
THE YULE LOG.
I.
THE BOY AND HIS SILVER WINGS.
A LITTLE boy used to sit and gaze at the stars, and wonder and wonder. One in particular caught his attention; it was full and round, and shone with a clear, steady light. One summer evening as he sat in the balcony, he saw it rise above the horizon, and then gradually go up higher and higher. He was so full of thought, and so intent watching it, that he forgot everything about him, till his mother came to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and told him it was bed-time.
After he had gone to bed, he dreamed of his star, and presently awakening, his mind was so full of it, that he would steal out softly, while all in the house were asleep, and see what had become of it. When he reached the balcony he could not at first find it, as it had changed its place while he had been slumbering, but on looking directly overhead, there it was shining down upon him, and as he looked steadily at it, he thought that it seemed almost to smile at him, and twinkle more and more. By and by he remembered he had heard that the stars were worlds like our own, and that there were, most likely, inhabitants in them. He then wondered if the people were like his father and mother and himself; and a longing came into his heart to go to the star and learn all about it, and he stretched out his arms to it and cried aloud, “My own beautiful star, shall I ever be ready to read you and to know all your glories?”
While he was still yearning and crying, a bright angel stood before him and cried, “Poor boy, why do you weep?” The boy answered, “Because I am bound down to the earth, and can never go to yonder shining star that seems to be calling me.”
The angel said, “Do you really then so desire to see it?” and the boy told her how he had been wishing and wishing for it. “Then,” said the angel, “I will give you this pair of wings, by which you may fly upward to the star;” and as she spoke she fastened a pair of silver wings upon his shoulders, and having instructed him how to use them, added, “As long as these are kept brightly polished, they will bear you upward whenever you may desire it, but if suffered to grow dull and to get tarnished, they will no longer avail you.”
The boy thanked her, and felt sure that he never should neglect to keep the angel’s gift, which was to be the source of so much happiness to him, bright and shining as now. She then left him. Again looking at the star, and spreading forth his wings, as directed, he began gently to arise, fluttering and tumbling like a young bird taking its first flight; but gaining boldness as he ascended, he breathed freer, till at last he soared far, far on high, to the star, the beacon towards which he was directing his course; his bosom swelled triumphantly, and looking back, he saw the earth receding like a dull spark beneath him. O, how unlike the glorious light before him! When at last he reached the golden gates, where stood the angel waiting to receive him, his eyes were so dazzled with the brightness that burst upon him, when first he entered, he could no longer perceive anything around him, but was, for a time, as one blind. Soon, however, regaining his vision, he began to descry beings unlike those that he had ever seen before, almost transparent, with wings of golden gauze, sweeping hither and thither; forward bending their pinions, they skimmed along like beams of light—myriads upon myriads passing to and fro, some bearing harps, from whose strings such notes arose as mortal ne’er has heard. Unlike the toiling inhabitants of earth, these beings knew no labor, no hunger, no thirst—all was life, freedom, and enjoyment. The boy’s soul was stirred within him; he could have shouted aloud for joy and gladness.
But now the angel told him that he must return to earth. At this intelligence the boy’s heart grew sad, and he exclaimed, “Bright angel, let me ever remain here—let this be forever more my home!” To this the angel replied, “Your time on earth is appointed—you must fulfill your days,—but while you still keep these wings bright, you can be permitted such glimpses of this world above you as may refresh your weary heart, and when the time for your sojourn beneath is ended, this higher sphere may be your eternal home.”
The angel attended him through the golden portals,—descended with him to the earth again, and alighted upon the same spot from whence he had arisen.
The boy sat himself to work after the angel had left him, to erase from his wings every dull speck that the dampness of the night had left upon them; and presently, when polished as a mirror, and he had laid them carefully away, he retired to rest again and slept till the morning dawned. When he had arisen and looked forth, the scene which used to be so dazzling, now looked dull and blank to him, in comparison with the light of his beloved star. All day long his thoughts were there, and when night came again, he was once more trying his new-found wings toward the heavens. Every successive flight became easier and more delightful to him, and the fleet moments spent among those superior beings became of far more consequence than whole days with his earthly friends. Though short his visits there, he became, as it were, like those glorious beings—and it was remarked by all, that the child’s face shone with an unearthly light, though none knew of his flights to the star above, or the secret of his silver wings.
O! had this childlike obedience to the injunction of the angel continued, what happiness might the boy have always enjoyed! how would these nightly visits to the star have solaced him during the weary hours of his pilgrimage below! But the demon of idleness came at length, stealing in. With diligence at first, he polished, nightly, the silver wings; but soon the task became irksome, and was performed less thoroughly—at times omitting it altogether, till they became each day more difficult to use. He deferred his visits, and made them less frequent, till one night, after having neglected his opportunities for a longer period than ever, in attempting to rise with them, he found that they had entirely lost their power. On taking them off to see the cause of his failure, he beheld the once shining wings of silver so tarnished, that not one bright spot in them was visible. A burst of grief followed this discovery, and he cried again to the angel to come to him in his distress; but finding no answer to his petition he laid them aside and endeavored to forget all about them.
The boy became a man. In the lonely night, sometimes, the visions of his boyhood, and his visits to the star, would present themselves to his memory, and he would have a momentary longing for the brightness of those days, but as soon would he dismiss them, and even doubt that he had ever known such hours of bliss. He would say, “The silver wings were never mine—it was a fantasy of a diseased fancy, born of ignorance and superstition, which the light of the sun of manhood has dissipated;” and then he would weave in his fertile brain plans for an earthly future, more suiting the changed state of his soul than the revelations of his youth.
He passed the summer of his manhood, and in the autumn, crowned with success, he looked for the peace that never came. He found that in every rose of earth is hid a thorn, and when the winter of age advanced toward him, it found him a poor old man, seeking again the home of his boyhood; and there, with his grandchildren about him, looking forward to a termination and a transit from the present scene. And now, as the second childhood came upon him, his old habits grew; and one of them, gazing and longing for that one bright star, resumed its old force, so that night after night he would be found with his eyes upturned; but the tears would dim them, when he thought of the days, when, at his pleasure, he could have reached its golden gates; but now he was shut out, and each day he grew sadder and sadder as he contemplated its undimmed splendor.
One day his grandchild ran to him and cried, “O! grandpa, see what I have found, while searching among the lumber in the attic!” The old man took from the hands of the wondering boy, a little pair of black and tarnished wings; he knew at once the angel’s gift to his boyhood, and the tears flowed down his furrowed cheeks. He took the child on his knee, and told him all about the bright star, the angel, and the silver wings, which his careless idleness had suffered to grow dim till they lost forever their power. The child heard and believed—wept, as his grandsire wept—and after the tale had ceased, he paused awhile—yet presently exclaimed, “But can these wings never again be made as bright! O let us try together, and see if they may not shine as before!”
A bright change came upon the face of the old man, and with his trembling hands, assisted by those of the child, (both feeble, yet both untiring,) commenced the work. Very slow, indeed was the progress they made in removing the rust that years had accumulated; but at length, by little and little, the pale silver shone amid the blackness, till one night, after long and patient labor, the child, with joyous shouts and gladness, and the old man with a calm, placid smile amid his tears, announced that “the work was completed.” Calmly he folded and laid away the polished wings, but at midnight, when the child and all the household were hushed and silent, the tottering old man stood in the place, (with his silver wings,) where years before he had stood, with his eyes now, as then, raised to the star; he stretched his arms toward it and mounted up, till on entering the golden gates, they closed behind him. The star was his resting-place forever.
II.
THE SPARROW AND THE FAIRY.
A FAIRY once stood by the sea-shore, watching the foam, as it dashed upon the beach, when an ocean bird caught her up in its beak, and flew with her far away over the waters. They came, at last, directly above the deck of a vessel, and one of the mariners, seeing a black speck in the sky, discharged a musket, which so frightened the bird, it let the fairy drop down on the ship, but while she was falling, she had the precaution to take the form of a sparrow to conceal herself. The sailors gathered round, and wondered to see a sparrow, so far away from the land, and one of them was going to fling it overboard, when a little cabin-boy ran forward, and begged that it might be given to him, which was done, and he ran with the panting trembling thing into the store-room, where, amid the boxes and hampers of provisions, he made his poor bed, of straw and a blanket. He found an empty orange-box, placed a little nest of wool in the corner, in which he put the sparrow, and then went out again to his work; but came in often during the day, to see how it was getting along. At night he drew it up to his own bed, and was just going to sleep, when out of the box sprang the prettiest lady in green, about six inches high, that you ever saw in your life. The boy got up, and opened his eyes in wonder, and she came and sat down on his bed by him. He then looked into his box, and missing his sparrow, burst into tears. When she asked him what was the matter; he told her that he cried because his sparrow was gone, and in a twinkling, the little lady had vanished, and the sparrow was in its nest, as snug and warm as before. The next day, every chance he could get, he would be running in to look at his sparrow, and when night came again, and the door was fastened, out jumped the little lady in green, who came and played nice little games with him, and told him wonderful stories, and so fond did he grow of her, he did not mind that the sparrow disappeared, as soon as the little green lady came.
He used so often to run into his room, to talk with her, that it began to be remarked by the sailors; that the boy who was always before on deck, was now moping down in the cabin, by himself, and they resolved to watch him, and see what he did there. So one of them stood by the door, when he entered, and when it was shut, he thought he heard voices talking, and, peeping through the keyhole, saw a little green lady, dancing over the boxes as light as a feather. He told this to the others, and they determined to find out the truth, so they burst open the door suddenly, and went in; but nothing was to be seen of the lady in green, or anything else, but the boxes, the little boy, and the sparrow in his warm nest; so after speaking roughly to the little fellow, all the sailors went out, no wiser than they came in. But from this time, his mates began to look upon him with distrust and suspicion: though before a favorite, he came to be much disliked by them, and they were very unkind to him; but the boy did not mind it, so long as he had such a good friend as the fairy.
But one night as a dreadful storm arose, so that they could no longer guide the vessel, they all declared the boy was the cause of their trouble—that he dealt in witchcraft, and must be thrown overboard, or the ship and all in it would sink. Notwithstanding that he begged them, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, to spare him, they were so hard-hearted as to pay no attention to his beseeching tones, and when he found that they were in earnest, he only asked them to let him go into his berth, for a few minutes, to say his prayers; to which they consented. He then took his sparrow, and put it in his bosom, that it might not be ill-treated after he had gone, and went out to them. A great rough sailor instantly seized him, and flung him with a whirl, over the side of the vessel. For a moment he hung above the glittering waves, that dashed, and foamed, and yawned, as if to swallow him alive, then he shut his eyes, and felt the cold waters rush and close over his head, and down, down, into the darkness, he kept sinking, sinking, till he heard the sea-monsters dash past him, and expected every moment to be devoured by them; but no, he escaped them all, and kept on falling, down, down. At last, he seemed to slip out of the waters, as it were, into clouds, and then into clear air, and hung a moment suspended in the sky, till he came plump on to the very softest and greenest turf, which yielded beneath him like a bed. He was not at all hurt, and getting up looked around bewildered, till feeling something stir in his bosom, he opened his vest, and out hopped the little green lady, and stood before him.
“Now,” said she, “I can repay you for all your care of me. I am a fairy, and this is one of my homes, and I can show you in a moment many of my kindred.” So saying, she blew a little bugle at her side, and many like herself began to flock about, and welcome her to her home. She gave command to them to bring some food, and directly these busy little people went to work, and spread on a little rocky table, the snowiest of cloths and the most delicious repast. After his hunger had been satisfied, the fairy pointed to the sky, and said: “Above those clouds, lies the sea, through which you have just now passed; this is what you call the bottom of the ocean, where dwell mermaids, sea-nymphs, and fairies.” The boy looked up, and wondered what prevented the ocean from coming down upon his head, and then reasoned to himself if that was not also a great sea, which he had called the sky over his mother’s cottage, and if that was not where all the rain came from? But he did not think long about this, for the fairy had such sights to show him, as he had never even dreamed of before, the houses were formed of coral, and pearls, and instead of glass, the windows had large slabs of pure diamond, to admit the light; the very pebbles under his feet were the most costly jewels, and the sun shining on them, dazzled his eyes, so that he could scarcely see. The fairy had a splendid mansion constructed for the boy, and a chariot, made of shells, and little fairy horses, so small that it took six of them to draw him. He had servants to wait on him, his table was supplied every day, with the most luscious fruits; he heard the sweetest music, and the fairy herself used to spend the most of her time with him, yet she noticed that he was often silent and sad. One day she found him weeping, and begged him to tell her the cause of his grief,—if there was anything yet wanting to complete his happiness? The boy dried his tears, and answered her. “Dear little lady, I have everything that heart can desire; fairies to wait on me, and anticipate my wishes; nothing to do but to amuse myself from morn till eve; but when I am enjoying all these things, my heart goes back to my poor widowed mother, who used to be always toiling for me, and I think that perhaps she is even now sick, or starving, for want of proper food; while I am idling here, she may be wearing herself out, in laboring for the support of my dear little brother, whom I long to see again; and even if she has been provided with the necessaries of life, I am sure that her heart is sad, for she most likely thinks that I am drowned in the ocean, and that I shall never again return to her. Do not then be astonished, if in the midst of all this beauty, and my good fortune, I am sad and weep.”
The fairy answered him: “You are a good child, not to forget your poor mother, and though I should be glad to have you remain with me forever, yet I can well see, that you would be happier to be with her and your little brother. Stay here at least a year, and then I will find means to send you to her.”
“Oh! thank you,” cried the boy; “but my dear little lady, if you can send me home a year hence, you must be able to send me now; who knows but my mother may die of grief or of starvation long before that. Oh! if it is not asking too much, let me go at once.”
The fairy then looked very sad, and told the boy that after his return to earth and his mother she would never again be able to reveal herself to him in her own proper shape, or make herself known to him. The boy was sad to learn this, yet still he begged to go to his dear mother.
Then the fairy, though so sorry to part with him, told him that he should see his home that very night; and accordingly, when evening came, the fairy and himself were taken in the arms of a mermaid, and carried up through the sea, till they rose upon the surface, and he saw the stars and the blue sky above, and knew that they were the same stars and sky that shone over his mother’s cottage. Soon they reached the land, and the mermaid left them upon the shore; and the fairy, beckoning to a swan that was in sight, mounted with the boy on its back, as it stood by her side. She and the little boy rose high up in the air, and were borne swiftly over towns, cities, mountains, rivers and vallies. At last, as the shades of night were passing away, and morn began to break, the scenes became more familiar to him, till the fairy, pointing beneath them, showed him the woods, and the hills, amid which he knew was his own little home. At her signal, the swan gently descended, and the boy’s heart bounded lightly, as he felt his feet once more rest upon the firm ground, and looked around on a scene so familiar and so dear; but his gladness left him when the fairy said: “We must here part. Never again shall I be permitted to reveal myself to you; but nightly, though unseen by you, I shall visit this spot; when all goes well with you and your mother, and everything prospers to your wishes, think that the fairy has been here, and at work.”
Before the boy could speak to her, she gently kissed him, at bidding him adieu, mounted again on the back of the swan, high in the air, and waving farewell with her hand, as she was lost in the distant cloud, the boy saw her no more.
He stood gazing forgetfully after she had disappeared, and then remembering himself, hastened on to the cottage. The blue smoke was struggling up the chimney, and he knew that the morning fire was kindled. The old brindled cow stood before the door, and his mother, with the milk-pail in her hand, and her little child toddling beside her, came forth, without seeing him, and began to seat herself to milk; the little boy, however, espied him, and cried out, “Oh, brother! brother!” The mother started up, and seeing the well-known features of her son, burst into tears, as she clasped him to her heart. He was as one restored from the dead, for the wicked crew who had returned home from the ship, reported that he had fallen overboard and was drowned; but her joy was now full, when she found that he was never going to leave her again.
During the winter nights as they sat by the fireside, he used to tell her and his little brother all about the good fairy, and the wonders that he had seen; and when the harvest came, and they gathered in a full crop of corn and fruit, (their neighbors’ crops had all been blighted,) he used to say to his mother, “The fairy has surely been here.” And as everything worked to their advantage, and they were well provided for, they never forgot her or her promise to him.
III.
THE PRINCESS AND THE ROSE.
ON a green island in the Pacific Ocean, that has never been put down on any map, lived a king called Obezon, who married a very beautiful woman, the queen of a country lying away to the northward. She was attended when she came from her home by a nurse, who was a fairy. The warm climate did not agree with her, and she died shortly after, leaving a daughter in the care of the fairy, of whom, at her birth, it was foretold that she should live only till she was separated from her first love. She was very fair, with golden curls, eyes of azure, and delicate rose-tinted cheeks. The fairy nursed her faithfully, and never trusted her out of her sight, for she, as well as Obezon, was ambitious that Gulna should make a splendid match; and remembering the prophecy that she would die if separated from her first love, they kept her very strictly out of the way of all the youth, the sons of the petty princes near them, to whom a young maiden would be likely to give her heart. But the fame of her beauty had so gone abroad, many of them sought the island in disguise, on purpose to see her and win her love; but none of them were able to escape the vigilance of Obezon and the fairy. So Gulna had reached her seventeenth year with her heart untouched, and spent her hours in roaming with the fairy about the island.
Now there was in the employ of Obezon a poor boy, who tended the sheep. He wandered every day with his flock over the meadows, and played sweet little tunes upon pipes made of the hollow reeds. He was so modest, he hardly ever raised his head, and had never seen the beautiful countenance of the Princess, although they encountered each other daily; nor had she noticed the young lad, who, too humble to cause the fairy any misgivings, was permitted to come before her. One day a favorite lamb had broken its leg, and the fairy, who was setting it, summoned the boy to her assistance, while Gulna held it in her arms, and, bending together over the little moaning thing, their eyes met, and he never after forgot the sweet glance of the Princess, nor she the dark, flashing orbs of the shepherd-boy. Day after day they met each other, and though no word had been spoken, they contrived by looks and glances to become better acquainted, till they at last interchanged a few words, and planned a stolen interview at night, when all the household was at rest, in a little grove not far away. They succeeded in deceiving the fairy while she was sleeping soundly, and thought that the Princess was likewise revelling in golden dreams beside her. This continued for a long while without discovery, and Gulna and Azor grew more and more attached to each other, and swore eternal fidelity. One night the fairy awoke, and feeling the cool breeze blow upon her (for Gulna had forgotten to close the window through which she had stolen out, as she had always done before), she started up in affright. The moon was shining through the open shutters, and showed the bed of the Princess without an occupant. “Surely the Princess had been stolen away.” She dared not alarm Obezon. She flung herself from the window, in hopes of finding some traces to aid her in her search, but could find not even a footstep. On passing the little grove at the foot of the garden, with the fountain beside it, she heard a sound of voices mingling with the falling waters, and, stealing up softly, what was her dismay at there beholding Gulna and Azor together, she seated on a mound of turf, and he kneeling at her side, placing a white rose in her belt; and oh! horrors! Gulna threw her white arms round his neck, and said, “You are, indeed, my first love, from whom I cannot be separated till death.” But they were startled from this loving embrace by the fairy, who in a fury stood before them. “Foolish maiden,” cried she, fiercely, “thus to fling from you rank, honor, wealth, and all for a miserable little wretch like this;” “and you,” said she, turning white in her anger, as she looked at Azor, “who have had the presumption to raise your eyes upon the most beautiful Princess in the world, knowing that she cannot be severed from him whom she has first loved, and live, I can by my power at once punish you for your audacity, and save the Princess from the consequences of her indiscretion. Henceforth be invisible, and take for your dwelling-place this rose, which shall ever cling to the heart of the Princess, by which your hand has placed it.” And touching him with her wand, he dissolved, as it were, into air; but the rose at Gulna’s side, which had been pure white, grew red, as if dyed by human blood. Gulna’s grief, when she saw her lover thus inthralled, was boundless. Her tears and entreaties made no impression on the fairy, or Obezon, when he had learned the truth. Great indeed was his rage when he found what had taken place; and Gulna could only tremble, and be silent. He heartily approved of the summary manner in which the fairy had disposed of poor Azor, and had got him out of the way of the Princess, leaving her still free to marry whom they should choose for her.
She was now allowed to go at large, and the King made it known that he was in readiness, when a proper offer was made, to betroth her. Suitors came from all quarters, but were, one after another, rejected by Obezon, as not being worthy of her, Gulna all the while remaining quite insensible to all that was taking place around her, rarely raising her eyelids; her eyes were ever fixed upon a deep red rose at her side, which never withered, but grew brighter in its hue from day to day. This singular flower was noticed by all who came to visit the island, and the “blood-red rose” became as celebrated as the beautiful Princess herself. Her lovers rallied her on her attachment to it, but no one was ever allowed to take it from her for a moment, or even to touch it. The King and the fairy, who were the only ones who knew about it, were wise enough to keep their own counsel, so it remained still a mystery that none could solve. After very many suitors had been rejected, one came at last, richer than all the rest. He brought the most costly gifts, and his long train of attendants, their waving plumes, the glittering chariots and prancing horses, and the reports that came before him of his wealth, so prejudiced Obezon in his favor, he determined that he would bestow the hand of the Princess upon this great Prince, if she should please him; so he caused Gulna to be dressed in her robes of silver and blue, and to be brought before him. The Prince had never before seen one that would in any wise compare with her in beauty, so he declared himself at once her suitor, and spread before her the most costly jewels, and magnificent gifts; but these, and the noble form and countenance of the Prince, made no impression upon the heart of Gulna, for that was already given to Azor. But her father commanded her to get herself in readiness to depart with the Prince, and she dared not disobey. The marriage was accordingly celebrated with great pomp and ceremony; the King bestowing upon her a splendid dower; but before this he had taken the Prince aside, and secured a promise from him that he would never deprive the Princess of her rose, on account of her great attachment to it; and “so much,” said he, “was her heart upon it, if he should insist upon her giving it up, a terrible calamity would happen to her.” The Prince thought it a slight thing that a young maiden be indulged in a foolish whim, and readily promised that she should not be crossed in her fancy; and, all things being now in readiness, the Prince departed, with his newly-wedded Princess, and her fairy nurse, to his own dominions.
When he reached his kingdom with his bride, great crowds came out to see her, and all praised her exceeding fairness; and the Princess Gulna’s beauty became so famous that many Princes from neighbouring States came to convince themselves of the truth of what was told, and the poets and minstrels made songs about her, and the Prince thought himself at first the happiest husband in the world.
After all this novelty was over, the Princes had returned to their own homes, and Gulna and himself were left alone together, he began to see that her eyes, instead of looking into his with loving glances, were ever cast down upon the rose at her side—that her hand, instead of clasping his own, was lightly shielding it from harm, and contact with the rough air, or from a rude touch that might ruffle its leaves. He grew more unquiet, and his thoughts were seldom turned from the rose and the Princess, who seemed more and more to cherish it, till at last, mad with jealousy, he demanded of her that she keep it for ever from his sight, and would have torn it from her, had not the fairy interposed, and warned him of what the King had told him, that a terrible calamity would befall him if he persisted in depriving her of it; and also that his promise to the King was binding. This quieted him at first; but the thorn still rankled in his breast. The fairy now wove for the Princess a scarf of silver, which, hanging from her left shoulder, entirely concealed the rose, and, being out of his sight, the Prince for awhile forgot his cause of jealousy. One day, going into the apartments of the Princess unannounced, he found her asleep upon a couch; the zephyr stole in through the lattice, and gently stirred the silken hair that fell around; her long lashes lay quiet upon her transparent cheek. He paused awhile in admiration, when a stronger breath of the zephyr blew aside the scarf, and showed the rose, pressed beneath her snowy hand. Like a spark from the lightning, the fire of jealousy entered his soul. In madness he tore the rose from her side; a red stream followed the disembedded stalk in a swift, rushing tide; it had rooted in her heart, and the distracted Prince saw the pride of his being, the priceless Gulna, sink lifeless as the fairy entered, who shrieked forth, “Rash Prince! behold your work! had you heeded my warning, your Princess would still have been yours; but here” (and touching the rose with her wand, Azor stood before them), “is the secret of the rose: this youth, and not thyself, was the first love of the Princess, from whom, it was long since foretold, she could not be severed, unless by her death. ‘Go,’ said she to Azor, ‘and be free again.’” But when the youth saw Gulna lying in her blood at his feet, his own heart burst, and, as he fell beside her, he said with his dying lips, “Even death shall not separate us.” The generous Prince wept over the unfortunate lovers; he caused them to be buried together, and erected a magnificent monument over them, on which was inscribed, in letters of gold, “Let all true lovers drop a tear upon the grave of Gulna and Azor.”
IV.
THE BEAUTY IN THE MIST.
THERE lived far away to the westward a king and queen, who had seven daughters. Six of them were the most charming princesses in the world, but the seventh and youngest was so very plain, that her friends were ashamed of her, and kept her always out of sight. The poor thing, in comparison with her beautiful sisters, seemed almost hideous, which she really was not. However, her skin was red and very coarse, her large gray eyes were lustreless and dull, and there was no such thing as training her harsh black hair in curls, or parting it smoothly on her forehead. Kluma, for that was her name, would not have cared so much for her lack of beauty, if it had not been the cause of her sister’s treating her very ill; and it really was hard that they would not even allow her to play with them, when by themselves, or to remain in their company, because she did not look as well as they—a misfortune that was none of her fault, and which she would have been far more rejoiced than they to have remedied, if she could have done so. Her father and mother, too, were so affected by her want of beauty, in their feelings and conduct toward her, as to be cold and neglectful of her who never disobeyed their commands, and who was ever ready to do a kindness to them, or to the sisters, who so heartily despised her; but the king and queen were weak and silly people, who thought of little else than making a show in the world, and above all things they desired that their daughters might make splendid matches, and gain by their good looks, husbands among the wealthy princes of the neighboring states, and thus increase their own power and importance, as well as establish their children according to their liking. As Kluma grew older, she made herself friends of the inferiors in her father’s palace, by being generous and forbearing toward them. The very animals loved her, and she spent her life happily enough, when she was not in the way of her parents and sisters, who never thought of her, except as of a vexation that they could not well rid themselves of, so would try to keep her out of their minds as much as possible.
Once, as the older sisters were all at play in the park, and Kluma was hidden among the bushes, as usual, looking at them, a little old lady, very meanly dressed, came by that way. She was ill-formed, and so lame, she was forced to go upon crutches. She came hobbling along up the path, and stumbling, dropped first one crutch, then the other. One of the princesses darted forward, and caught up the crutches, which the poor old thing supposed she was going to present to her; but instead, the ill-mannered child ran off with them, and began mimicking the old lady, by limping and hobbling around, to the great amusement of the other sisters, who followed her, shrieking with laughter, over a hill, out of sight. The old woman called after them in piteous tones, but they heeded her not in the least, only mocking her cry; when Kluma, stealing forth from her hiding-place, and coming to her, said, “Do not cry; I will find your crutches for you;” and before the old woman could speak, darted off, soon returning with the crutches in her hand, having found them just beyond the hill, where her unfeeling sister had tossed them. Kluma then assisted the old woman to rise and walk; the poor creature all the while thanking her; and when they reached the road together, and Kluma was going back, she turned and said, “Little lady, although you are not handsome, you are very good; I shall never forget your kindness to me this day, and though I now look so poor, I may yet be able to do you a great service, in return for the good you have done me. Remember.”
She then went on, leaving poor Kluma half laughing at the thought of such a miserable old woman as that ever having it in her power to benefit a king’s daughter. As Kluma grew older, her sisters’ ill-treatment of her became more marked; they made her perform the most menial offices for them, and then ridiculed her awkwardness and her blunders, not heeding the pains that she took to please them. One after another they were sought in marriage by grand princes, and left their father’s kingdom for that of their husbands, till at last five of them had gone, and only one, the next older than Kluma, named Cerulia, the most beautiful of all, was left at home. This did not render Kluma’s position any the less trying. Cerulia was the most lovely, it is true, but also the most ill-natured and exacting of the sisters, and being so much by herself, she had no other means of passing away her leisure than by plaguing and tormenting poor Kluma almost out of her life; so that, at the last (and no wonder,) Kluma’s patience was so severely tried, that she sometimes retorted in anger, and became in danger of adding a disagreeable temper to a forbidding countenance.
As the parents of Kluma had married their five eldest daughters so much to their satisfaction, and had no hope of being able to dispose of Kluma at all, they determined that their sixth and last marriageable daughter, the Princess Cerulia, as she surpassed the rest in the elegance of her person, should as far outshine them in the magnificence of her settlement. Therefore, they refused the offers made by persons of wealth and high station near home, and the father himself commissioned one of his ministers to go to a country far to the east, where dwelt an opulent king called Hayda, who had an only son, Prince Talyon, who was heir to the finest kingdom in the world, and to make proposals to the king, to the effect that his son, Prince Talyon, should wed the Princess Cerulia. He went, and returned in due time, bringing the consent of King Hayda, and wonderful accounts of his riches, and of the generosity of the young Prince.
One night, shortly after this, a fearful storm arose. The castle stood on an eminence, commanding a view of the sea, and amid the lightnings and tempest, a ship was seen tossing to and fro, till at last it was dashed in pieces on the rocks. Then the shrieks and cries of the victims were most terrible. Kluma could not endure the sight, but ran with a crowd of domestics to the strand, where the dead bodies were constantly being washed on shore. Among the rest was a youth meanly clad, but of a noble form and countenance, who seemed to Kluma to show still some signs of life. She caused the men, therefore, to bear him to the castle, where they tried to restore him to consciousness. The domestics took off his wet garments, and wrapped him in warm dry flannels, and after a long time he breathed once more, and was able presently to take food, and even to walk about; but he could see nothing, a blindness having fallen upon him. The whole charge of nursing him devolved upon Kluma and her servants, for, as he was found in such mean attire, her parents thought him a person of low degree, and therefore cared little what became of him; and as they cared as little for Kluma and her occupation, she was left to spend her time with the stranger, to whom she became much attached; and as he could not see, she used to lead him about the parks and grounds for air. He seemed to be very much pleased with her, and never liked her to be away from him.
One day, while walking about, she encountered the minister who had been sent with the commission to the kingdom of Hayda. How great was his astonishment at recognizing in the poor blind youth that Kluma was leading about, the rich Prince Talyon! He went directly and reported his discovery to the King and Queen, who were taken by surprise, and were perfectly shocked to think that he had been so neglected by all but Kluma. But they determined now to make amends. Immediately a magnificent palace was prepared for him, costly robes put upon him, and servants kept constantly in waiting. As for Kluma, she was sent out of the way, although he was ever asking for her, and supposed that she was the Princess to whom he was betrothed, not knowing that the King had another daughter. He presently confessed his rank, and that he came in disguise to see for himself his future bride. Being in the hands of a skillful physician, his sight was soon restored, and when he asked to see her who had saved his life, and who had nursed him so long and faithfully, they brought before him the Princess Cerulia. He was charmed when he first cast his eyes upon her beauty, but when she spoke to him, the smile of joy left his lips, and he prayed of them not to deceive him; and when they still strove to convince him that it was she, he cried, “Would that I might be again blind, if her voice would have the music that it had in my past hours of darkness!”
Poor Kluma was very much grieved when she learned who the youth really was, that she had been the means of restoring to life, and though she knew of his asking for her, she never once thought of presenting herself to him, for she was sure he only needed to see her coarse features, to despise and hate her. Nevertheless she could not keep herself from thinking of him, and every day saw her sadder, and more troubled, till at last, more miserable than ever, she wandered far away from home, and sat herself down to bewail her sad lot. While she was weeping, she heard a step beside her, and a rustling, and on looking up, saw a little lady, dressed in a robe of spangled silk, all glittering with diamonds. Kluma could not at first remember, that she had seen her before, but she spoke and said, “Young Princess, why do you weep; have you forgotten the poor old lady to whom, years ago, you restored the crutches, that your naughty sisters willfully threw away from her? She then told you that perhaps one day it would be in her power to requite you; she has remembered it if you have not; and now tell me, for I am the same person, what you need, and why you weep so bitterly? and I, who am an enchantress of great power, can perhaps fulfill your wishes.”
“Oh!” said Kluma eagerly, “can you take away this red skin, these colorless eyes, this coarse black hair, and give me instead fairness, like my sisters?”
“I fear not,” said the Enchantress.
“Then,” said Kluma, “all that you can do for me will be in vain; I shall yet be hated for my ugliness,” and wept more bitterly than ever.
But the Enchantress was so anxious to console poor Kluma, that she kept on urging her, till Kluma finally told her everything about her sisters’ ill-treatment, of the young prince that she had saved, and of her great attachment to him, and of her grief on learning who he was; also, that she had been forbidden to see him, or to speak to him, and that if permitted, she never should dare to do so, for fear that he would scorn her.
The Enchantress mused for a while, then suddenly recollecting herself, drew from her bosom a small box, formed of diamonds, which she held up before Kluma, while she said, “I think I can dispel your grief, though I cannot change your countenance. In this box there is a mist, formed of the purest dew by morning’s earliest beam; it is so light and transparent that it can scarce be seen, and yet it forms a medium of such intensity and power, the very ugliest features seen through it become softened and harmonized. But listen! only around the face and form of the most patient and amiable, can it be held; the very slightest breath of anger, or malicious passion, will blow it away, never more to return.” So saying, she opened the box, and out flew a light cloud, that floated over the countenance and form of Kluma, and the Enchantress holding up a mirror before her, revealed to her her face, shining resplendent through the diamond fleece. She saw the mild light beaming from her eyes, the lips around which played a heavenly smile, and the hair, meekly parted from the brow, “pure as an angel’s.” Kluma was almost transported, and turned to thank the Enchantress, for so long remembering, and so generously rewarding, a simple act of kindness. The little lady smiled on her, and said, “Go back to your home, but do not forget the conditions on which you keep your charms. Be patient and obedient, and all will yet prosper with you.” And before Kluma could thank her again, she vanished.
Kluma reached her home at night, where she was told that her parents had given their commands that she should remain constantly in her room, and never expose herself to the risk of being seen by the Prince, who was as yet ignorant of her assistance. This was sad news to poor Kluma, and she began to despair of ever seeing the Prince again, as now matters were in progress for the marriage, which was soon to be celebrated between her sister and the prince, and they would probably depart ere she would be released. But she made no resistance, only followed the attendant who was instructed to lead her to imprisonment. As she passed through the hall, the servants were struck with wonder at the amazing change which had taken place in Kluma, and that she had become the most beautiful of the princesses. Day by day, as they attended her, they became accustomed to the change, and spoke of her among themselves, as if she had always been, as now, pre-eminent.
All this long time, for a month at least, Kluma had not seen her parents and sister (who only wished her to keep out of sight, and beyond this, cared very little what became of her), nor even had she caught a passing glimpse of the Prince, from whom they concealed all knowledge of her existence. The pains they took to accomplish their wishes, in this respect, was the very cause of bringing Kluma to his notice. One of the servants, in waiting on him, who, like all the rest, was attached to Kluma, and indignant at her being deprived of her liberty, let fall some hints one day that awakened the curiosity of the Prince, about the beautiful daughter of the King, who was confined in the palace, and, being urged, told the whole story of her wrongs, that it was Kluma and not Cerulia who had saved his life, and whose voice he so loved to hear. The Prince, enraged at the deceit that had been practised upon him, immediately sent for the King and Queen, and demanded that they should produce their other daughter, who was a prisoner in the palace, or he would leave their kingdom at once, and return home alone. They were very much alarmed, and tried to appease his wrath, by making a confession of the fraud that they had practised on him, but represented that it was on account of the perfect hideousness of Kluma, and that she was not even fit to be presented to him; but, as they had already deceived him, and the servant had expatiated largely on her great attractions, he persisted in his desire to see her. The Princess Cerulia, in a rage at the implied slight to herself, and thinking to mortify the Prince and Kluma at the same time, proposed that she should be sent for, and the King, thinking it the best mode of ending this importunity of the Prince, and of convincing him of the truth, consented to its being done. She was accordingly conducted, trembling and agitated, into their presence. The Princess Cerulia haughtily and triumphantly turned her eyes, first upon the Prince, then upon Kluma, when lo! she stood glowing before them, in unsurpassed loveliness. The King and Queen were no less amazed, not knowing how this wonderful change had been wrought. As for the Prince, he needed no second look to know that to this Princess his heart should be given. He thanked her for his life, which she had saved to him, and when she answered he knew the voice he had so longed to hear again. The King, seeing that there was still a hope of his claiming the Prince for his son-in-law, came forward, and tendered the hand of Kluma, which the Prince graciously accepted, as by this time he was completely captivated.
Words cannot describe the rage of the Princess Cerulia when she saw Kluma thus openly preferred to herself, and her mortification knew no bounds, when, after an imposing pageant, and bridal ceremony (at which she was forced to appear as chief bridesmaid), she saw Kluma depart, as the bride of the Prince Talyon, to the kingdom of his father, to which he was heir, and where they lived in happiness many long years; and Kluma still grew more lovely in the eyes of her husband, for the mist was never dissipated as long as she lived, by the rude breath of anger or malice.
V.
THE RICH PERSIAN AND THE STATUE.
THERE was once a rich Persian, named Bolamah, whose father had left him in possession of such vast amounts of treasure that he exceeded even the greatest Princes of the country in wealth. Bolamah had a splendid palace, full of all that could delight the senses, and furnish food for the mind; such statuary and rich paintings was never before seen; such magnificent gardens, grottoes and fountains; beside this, he was exceedingly handsome in person and accomplished in mind and manners. Of course, he was surrounded by flatterers, who paid court to him, because, in return, he heaped benefits upon them, and, so accustomed was he to praise, that insensibly it became necessary to his happiness, and those who were most fulsome in their adulation were the surest of gaining his favor.
He had, however, one true friend, who esteemed Bolamah next to himself; and if any make profession of greater friendship than that, we ought to suspect their sincerity. This friend, called Cobez, was poor but honest, and much attached to Bolamah, who was fond of him also. For a long time after his father’s death, Bolamah found plenty of employment in perfecting and adorning his palace, and Cobez was always appointed to oversee the execution of the plans that the fine taste of his patron suggested. By their joint efforts the palace of Bolamah was so noted for its elegance that many came from afar to see it, and were enchanted, and did homage to the fortunate owner, who was the proudest of men. When he reached his thirtieth year he felt that his happiness would be more complete if he had a wife, to be with him constantly, and to share the grandeur and luxury that surrounded him. He opened, as usual, his mind to Cobez, and promised to bestow on him a magnificent reward, if he would procure him a suitable companion. Cobez readily enough accepted the commission, first revolving in his mind what sort of woman would be most likely to please Bolamah. In regard to her beauty, that matter was settled at once—it was indispensable; and in Persia, where the women have a world-wide reputation for personal attractions, it was no hard matter to find plenty which would charm the eye. “But,” thought he, “Bolamah, who is so learned and accomplished himself, will require that his wife also, in the same manner, excel all others; and to find beauty and talent combined would be a difficult task.” Nevertheless, he determined to undertake it, and gain the reward if he was able, for Cobez was in love, and would have asked no one to choose a wife for him while pretty little black-eyed Manilla lived with her old father, by the side of the same river that passed through the splendid grounds of Bolamah, yet did not disdain to make its gladdest music in rushing by their little cot, that stood in the humblest vale.
Cobez knew if he could gain the reward that Bolamah offered it would make him rich as he desired for the rest of his life; he could then marry his little Manilla, and make sure that she was his own; and he felt that he could never rest easy till this was done, for she was beset by all the neighboring swains; and, though she had given him her troth, he could not help feeling anxious and uneasy when others, richer than himself, were pressing their suits with such ardor. Cobez, therefore, sought earnestly to find out some woman to present to Bolamah, and one fine morning, setting out on a journey, he resolved not to come back till he had accomplished his object. After having been gone for a long time, and hearing of many whom he thought would be likely to please, but, on searching them out, finding himself always disappointed, he one day heard of a very beautiful woman, of whose voice such wonders were told that he determined to hear her for himself; accordingly he travelled to the place where this singing bird (whose name was Natinga), resided. He found her with a crowd about her, who were listening breathlessly while she poured forth from her swelling throat such a melody that poor Cobez sat down overpowered and listened, forgetting for the time his errand, Bolamah, Manilla, everything, so completely was his soul ravished from him. When she had ceased he recovered himself enough to perceive that she was as finely formed and handsome a woman as one could wish to see, and he felt sure, if Bolamah could only hear her sing, he would marry her at once, and thus have her where he could always be listening to the music of her voice.
He found no great trouble in persuading Natinga to go with him. She was poor, and, like her sex, fond of luxury and splendor, and Cobez had not been behindhand in picturing the brilliant future that lay before her, if she would leave her home and follow him. She bade adieu to her parents and friends, and set off with Cobez, but in parting felt sorrowful enough, as she remembered how proud they all had been of her; but when, after three days, she came in sight of a stately palace, and Cobez told her that, in all probability, it would be her future home, she banished her regrets, and bore herself through the gateway, on her camel, with as proud an air as a queen about to receive the homage of her subjects. Bolamah met them at the door, and conducted them to the apartments that he had appropriated to the use of his future wife. “Here,” thought Natinga, “one can but be happy.” And no wonder she thought so, for everything a woman could fancy or desire was there; the softest carpets, in which the feet sank as into mossy turf; couches of velvet and down; fountains, with gay birds dipping their tiny beaks into the spray; flowers, whose odors almost palled on the senses by their richness. Poor Natinga was at first bewildered, and Cobez feared she would not be collected enough to do her best before Bolamah at night, which he had appointed as the time when he should first listen to her music. But at evening, seated on a balcony overlooking a scene of beauty, made visible by the moonlight, she was so excited and inspired that she poured forth, as if from her very soul, such notes as Cobez had never heard from her before. Bolamah, completely ravished, declared passionately that this was the woman of all others to be his chosen companion; and the hearts of the three that evening were full of joy: Bolamah, at having such a lovely and accomplished being for his bride, Natinga, with her new-found splendor, and Cobez, that he had gained the reward that was to do so much for him. Bolamah was so proud of Natinga and her genius that he sent invitations to all the wealthy gentlemen of distinction, with their families, to come to a great feast that he was preparing, and which was to last for a whole month, and terminate with his marriage. He caused a sort of throne to be erected for himself and Natinga at the end of a splendid hall, or court, where, with a harp of gold in her hand, she performed and sang before the assembly, who were in raptures. Their applause at first pleased Bolamah, but he soon found that he was cast into the shade by the superiority of Natinga; that when he took the harp his own performance did not please even himself, and only called forth such meager applause as the politeness of his guests forced from them. And, day by day, as they became more charmed with Natinga’s music, and poured forth the flattery at her shrine that he had been wont to receive himself, he grew more disquieted, and laid the consequences of his own vanity to the account of poor Natinga. He began to fancy that her music was harsh and discordant, that it grated upon his ear, and he grew sullen and ill-humored towards her, while she, poor thing, never imagining the cause of his unhappiness, went on trying to please him by even outdoing herself, which, of course, only rendered her the more odious to him.
At last his distaste became so evident that Cobez perceived something was wrong, and shortly after, Bolamah told him that he must take her out of his sight, and endeavor to procure for him a wife whose tastes should better accord with his own. Cobez was very sorry to hear this, indeed much more grieved than Natinga herself, when she came to be told of it, for her life had latterly been made so unpleasant, by Bolamah’s harshness, she was only too glad to be permitted to go back again to the kind friends who had been so proud of her, more especially so, as Bolamah in his anxiety to get rid of her, had to make amends to her for her disappointment, by loading her with valuable presents, and graciously bidding her farewell.
Cobez conducted her again to her native place, where the whole town, when they heard that she was returning to them, came out to receive her, and carried her triumphantly to her own little home—to her parents, where her song was soon heard “ringing up the sky,” as would a wild bird’s, who had been confined in a golden cage, when it felt itself free, and again in the little nest of its infancy.
While Cobez was rather sadly returning, leading the gaily housed animal which had borne Natinga to her home, all his fine schemes having fallen to the ground by this sudden change in the mind of Bolamah, he saw before him a company of ladies and gentlemen to whom he wished to join himself, as the road was infested with robbers, who were apt to molest single travellers; he rode up, and asked to go along with them, to which they gladly gave their consent. He found that they were going to look at some paintings in a town not far off, which were said to be the most beautiful in the world. Cobez resolved to go with them, and secure the choicest for Bolamah’s palace. They entered a gallery where they were on exhibition, and Cobez felt sure that they surpassed anything that he had ever seen, although he had made a collection in the palace of all that were the most celebrated; and on asking to see the artist, he was very much astonished when a female presented herself, a lovely woman, with a pure Grecian face and form, mild brown eyes and hair, whose smooth braids were folded classically around her forehead. Krayona had a gentleness of manner, that indicated a pliable disposition. Cobez instantly said to himself, What if I should induce this lady to accompany me home; Bolamah, who paints so well himself, would surely enjoy having his wife in possession of the same talent. Dear me, were I like Bolamah, able to marry, I should not be so long in making a choice; but such a poor ignorant thing as Manilla would not suit Bolamah. She cannot sing or paint, or do anything clever, but her laugh is music enough for me, and her little fingers twirl the thread she spins so prettily, and her small feet go dancing along with such a graceful lightness, that she is more charming to me than the most accomplished lady in the land. But if I do not succeed in getting the reward, what will all her prettiness avail me; I shall be too poor to marry her; so at a venture I will take Krayona, and see if she will not please Bolamah better than Natinga has done. Krayona did not refuse the honor of becoming a candidate, as the wife of the wealthiest gentleman in Persia, when Cobez represented to her that he was in favor of her accompanying him. So one morning saw her on the camel, that had borne Natinga in a contrary direction, and with her choicest paintings in a caravan behind, journeying over a delightful country, toward the palace of Bolamah. They reached it as sunset was gilding its walls with its gorgeous floods of light. They entered the palace quietly, and Krayona, without being announced, was conducted by Cobez to his own apartments, and the next day, when he and Bolamah were alone together, he told him of Krayona, and caused the finest of her works to be shown to him, which Bolamah so admired that he greatly desired to see the artist. Her modest address and mild beauty so charmed him, that he directly desired that she should be made mistress of the apartments that Natinga had formerly occupied, and have free access to his galleries of painting and statuary, to gratify her favorite tastes. She was almost beside herself in the midst of these works of art, and with Bolamah, spent most of her time there, copying from the old masters, or out amid the beautiful works of nature, sketching beside him. Now, Cobez thought his patron would be satisfied, and all would go well again; but he found that it was not so. Bolamah had caused Krayona’s paintings to be hung beside his own, and on first seeing them together, was excessively mortified, to behold what a sorry appearance his own made beside them; and when he saw that all eyes, after glancing at his, instantly returned to those of Krayona, he began to be as jealous of her as he before had been of Natinga, and to wish her as heartily out of his sight. Krayona was too much occupied with her art to notice the change in Bolamah; but Cobez, who watched him closely, soon detected it, and made up his mind that as Bolamah was so fickle, it would be almost impossible to fix him in his choice, and he felt no surprise when Bolamah instructed him to make presents to Krayona, as he had done to Natinga, and convey her away in the same manner. All which he did; and Krayona, without a word of complaint, left her grandeur, and returned to her former station, happy and contented.
Now about this time, travelers from the eastern part of Persia came through the country where Bolamah dwelt, and gave their testimony to the genius of a bright star in poetry that had arisen in that land; her fame was so noised abroad as to rivet the ears of Cobez and Bolamah, who, from time to time conversed upon the various reports of her that came to them, and at last, so much was he interested, Cobez was directed to find her out, and if possible, to bring her to the palace. After much seeking, he obtained an entrance into her presence, where she was surrounded with auditors, before whom she was reciting her stanzas. He thought her a glorious creature, with her black hair streaming wildly, and her eyes of fire, her low broad brow, and cheek pale, excepting as it was lit by the flash of genius. She needed the most glowing descriptions from Cobez of Bolamah’s riches and power, to induce her to consent to go with him; but he succeeded at last; and after a journey, the most trying to Cobez, they came to a point where a cavalcade, sent out by Bolamah, to welcome his chosen bride to her home, was waiting to meet them. Bolamah himself came many miles in state, to receive one so distinguished, and they conducted her with ceremony into the palace, where everything had been put in order to welcome her. It took her several days to recover the fatigues of her journey, and all the while Bolamah was waiting impatiently to converse with her, and to hear her poetry. At last she gave out that she would meet him with his friends in the great hall, and recite to him her poetry. In the evening she was inducted into the seat that Natinga had occupied, when she sang before them, and with Bolamah beside her, she commenced a wild rhapsody, then swelling to a lofty strain, she told of the battle raging high, till the warriors would place their hands upon their swords, and breathe forth fire; then her voice and words would soothe, till they sank back and listened, while she poured a tale of love; then she would melt them to tears with her pathetic lay, till they hushed their very breaths to hear her. Bolamah was at first carried along with the tide, and praised and admired as well as others; but the next day, alone with Hersala, when he commenced repeating to her some of his own poetry, he found first that she was yawning wearily, and then, that she was fast asleep. He discovered, too, that one who had been so constantly flattered as Hersala, like himself, needed the excitement of praise, and that after these fits of inspiration, she was more than usually dull; that her temper was not as mild as that of Natinga, or Krayona, and that the wild passion she expressed, sometimes moved her own bosom to a storm.
If he had been jealous of Natinga and Krayona, he might well be of Hersala, for she so wrought upon the minds of all, the very scullions in the kitchen were repeating her words or singing her songs; and so greatly was she adored, that a crowd followed her footsteps, and Bolamah, of so much importance before, sank into insignificance beside her. He became at last so mad with jealousy, that he dismissed her suddenly, and she, in a rage at his treatment, wrote verses on Bolamah, and placed his foibles in such a ludicrous light, that he was so mortified at the time as to declare he would no more allow a female to become a candidate for the honor of being his wife, and that he would remain unmarried to the end of his days.
Cobez, who had been near getting into disgrace himself by his repeated failures, began now to have an inkling of the true state of the case. He now understood that Bolamah would not be satisfied with a wife who was constantly casting him, her lord, into the shade by her superiority; that a companion, to please him, must be content to be his humble admirer, and that, if he ever obtained the reward, it must be by the greatest caution and skillfulness on his own part. Now Cobez had an intimate friend called Meldon, a cunning sculptor, who carried his art to the highest degree of perfection. In his perplexity to Meldon Cobez went, and told him all about Bolamah, and of his unsuccessful attempts to satisfy him, and of his own desire to make Menilla his wife, and then promised him half the reward, if he would devise and assist him in carrying out some plan to fulfill his wishes. This Meldon consented to do, and on putting their heads together, concocted a scheme so much to their satisfaction that they proceeded at once to execute it. Meldon set himself to work, and made the perfect image of a woman; it was tall, and of the most symmetrical proportions. He moulded the features so perfectly, they had the form and the very expression of life; the eyes were of the darkest hazel, soft and varying in their light; the hair, silken, glossy, and black as the wing of a raven, fell over shoulders of marble whiteness, round and polished; her bosom was made to rise and fall with the breath that he breathed from his own lips into hers; her arms dazzled one to look upon them, and the taper fingers of the slender hand were taught to move gracefully over the strings of a harp; her brows were black, and arched like a bow, her lashes long and dark. It could move its limbs, and walk about with grace and dignity, unclose the lips, smile sweetly, and softly murmur, “Beautiful! Beautiful!” When it was completed, they arrayed it in queenly robes. When Cobez saw it finished, he was so delighted with the beautiful image, he was tempted to forget Menilla forever, and throw himself at its feet; but he presently thought of the little warm heart that was beating beneath her bosom, and felt that she was ten times dearer to him than this stately, cold beauty. They gave the image the name of Fauna, and set to work to plan how to bring her to the notice of Bolamah. So they contrived at last that Cobez should represent to him that a great lady had come from far to view his splendid palace; and having obtained Bolamah’s consent to its being exhibited to her by them, they timed their visit so well as to meet Bolamah at the door as they were alighting from their chariot. Bolamah, who had so long been distinguished for his high breeding, could not allow such a magnificent lady, like a queen in her mien and dress, to pass him without the ordinary expressions of politeness. He therefore returned her graceful salutation, and gave her his arm, and with a step as calm and measured as her own, traversed with her the walks and apartments of the grounds and of the palace. Everything met her approbation. Did he show her his gardens, his paintings, or take up his lute and sing, still the sweet smile hovered around her mouth, and the words, “Beautiful! Beautiful!” were murmured from her lips, till at last Bolamah, who could no longer resist her beauty, her grace, and, above all, her appreciation of himself, fell at her feet, telling her that she of all should be the chosen one who was to share his palace and his heart; and Fauna only drooped her proud head a little lower, and still murmured softly, “Beautiful! Beautiful!” till Bolamah was quite overcome with her dignity and sweet compliance to his wishes. Cobez was in transports when he found his plan had worked so admirably. Fauna was now the constant and approved companion of Bolamah; he never was willing to have her away from him a moment, and preparations for the marriage were put forward with haste, to the great joy of Cobez, who was convinced that Bolamah was now in earnest. At last all was in readiness, and the marriage took place, at which Fauna comported herself with such dignity as to win the approbation of Bolamah and the admiration of all that looked upon her; and when she was installed as mistress of the palace, her bearing toward the guests was so queenly, yet condescending, that even the ladies, who are apt to be jealous of their own sex, declared her the most fascinating woman in the universe.
So pleased was Bolamah with Fauna, that he doubled the reward that he had offered to Cobez, because he had been the means of bringing to his notice one who was so charming, and of procuring him so much happiness. This money Cobez divided with his friend Meldon, through whose skill he had been able to obtain it, and with part of their money they purchased two cottages; and when Cobez had married Menilla, and had a family about him, Meldon was godfather to his children, and his favorite, called after him, bade fair to equal him in skill in the art which Meldon loved.
Cobez and Menilla lived very happily together—(not quite as calmly, perhaps, as Bolamah and his spouse, whose domestic peace was a proverb in the country); but when Menilla was a little capricious and wayward, Cobez only said to Meldon, “There, she shows her flesh and blood, and her warm heart,” and he never thought of envying Bolamah and Fauna in the unvarying calmness of their life.