Project Gutenberg Australia
a treasure-trove of literature
treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership

Title: The Wondersmith
Author: Fitz-James O'Brien
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0603211.txt
Edition: 1
Language: English
Character set encoding: Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted: July 2006
Date most recently updated: July 2006

This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to

Title: The Wondersmith
Author: Fitz-James O'Brien


A small lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or do not choose to
remember, slants suddenly off from Chatham Street, (before that
headlong thoroughfare reaches into the Park,) and retreats suddenly
down towards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the smell of
old clothes, and had determined to wash itself clean. This excellent
intention it has, however, evidently contributed towards the making of
that imaginary pavement mentioned in the old adage; for it is still
emphatically a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off the
Hebraic taint of filth which it inherits from the ancestral
thoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy, as if it were twin brother of
the Roman Ghetto.

I like a dirty slum; not because I am naturally unclean,--I have not a
drop of Neapolitan blood in my veins,--but because I generally find a
certain sediment of philosophy precipitated in its gutters. A clean
street is terribly prosaic. There is no food for thought in carefully
swept pavements, barren kennels, and vulgarly spotless houses. But
when I go down a street which has been left so long to itself that it
has acquired a distinct outward character, I find plenty to think
about. The scraps of sodden letters lying in the ash-barrel have their
meaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker's assistant,
to Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods retailer, who is always
selling at a sacrifice in consequence of the late fire. That may be
Tom himself who is now passing me in a white apron, and I look up at
the windows of the house (which does not, however, give any signs of a
recent conflagration) and almost hope to see Amelia wave a white
pocket-handkerchief. The bit of orange-peel lying on the sidewalk
inspires thought. Who will fall over it? who but the industrious
mother of six children, the eldest of which is only nine months old,
all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support? I see her slip
and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed with agony, and the vain
struggle to get up; the pitying crowd closing her off from all air;
the anxious young doctor who happened to be passing by; the
manipulation of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of
the victim, the litter borne on men's shoulders, the gates of the New
York Hospital unclosing, the subscription taken up on the spot. There
is some food for speculation in that three-year-old, tattered child,
masked with dirt, who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old,
tattered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to perceive that
he is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. His bad, flat face--
or, at least, what can be seen of it--does not look as if it were made
for the light of day. The mire in which he wallows now is but a type
of the moral mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little
hand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half in earnest,
half in jest, will be raised against his fellow-beings forevermore.

Golosh Street--as I will call this nameless lane before alluded to--is
an interesting locality. All the oddities of trade seem to have found
their way thither and made an eccentric mercantile settlement. There
is a bird-shop at one corner, wainscoted with little cages containing
linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds, Mino-birds, with a hundred
other varieties, known only to naturalists. Immediately opposite is an
establishment where they sell nothing but ornaments made out of the
tinted leaves of autumn, varnished and gummed into various forms.
Farther down is a second-hand book-stall, which looks like a sentry-
box mangled out flat, and which is remarkable for not containing a
complete set of any work. There is a small chink between two ordinary-
sized houses, in which a little Frenchman makes and sells artificial
eyes, specimens of which, ranged on a black velvet cushion, stare at
you unwinkingly through the window as you pass, until you shudder and
hurry on, thinking how awful the world would be, if every one went
about without eyelids. There are junk-shops in Golosh Street that seem
to have got hold of all the old nails in the Ark and all the old brass
of Corinth. Madame Filomel, the fortune-teller, lives at No. 12 Golosh
Street, second story front, pull the bell on the left-hand side. Next
door to Madame is the shop of Herr Hippe, commonly called the

Herr Hippe's shop is the largest in Golosh Street, and to all
appearance is furnished with the smallest stock. Beyond a few packing-
cases, a turner's lathe, and a shelf laden with dissected maps of
Europe, the interior of the shop is entirely unfurnished. The window,
which is lofty and wide, but much begrimed with dirt, contains the
only pleasant object in the place. This is a beautiful little
miniature theatre,--that is to say, the orchestra and stage. It is
fitted with charmingly painted scenery and all the appliances for
scenic changes. There are tiny traps, and delicately constructed
"lifts," and real footlights fed with burning-fluid, and in the
orchestra sits a diminutive conductor before his desk, surrounded by
musical manikins, all provided with the smallest of violoncellos,
flutes, oboes, drums, and such like. There are characters also on the
stage. A Templar in a white cloak is dragging a fainting female form
to the parapet of a ruined bridge, while behind a great black rock on
the left one can see a man concealed, who, kneeling, levels an
arquebuse at the knight's heart. But the orchestra is silent; the
conductor never beats the time, the musicians never play a note. The
Templar never drags his victim an inch nearer to the bridge, the
masked avenger takes an eternal aim with his weapon. This repose
appears unnatural; for so admirably are the figures executed, that
they seem replete with life. One is almost led to believe, in looking
on them, that they are resting beneath some spell which hinders their
motion. One expects every moment to hear the loud explosion of the
arquebuse,--to see the blue smoke curling, the Templar falling,--to
hear the orchestra playing the requiem of the guilty.

Few people knew what Herr Hippe's business or trade really was. That
he worked at something was evident; else why the shop? Some people
inclined to the belief that he was an inventor, or mechanician. His
workshop was in the rear of the store, and into that sanctuary no one
but himself had admission. He arrived in Golosh Street eight or ten
years ago, and one fine morning, the neighbors, taking down their
shutters, observed that No. 13 had got a tenant. A tall, thin, sallow-
faced man stood on a ladder outside the shop-entrance, nailing up a
large board, on which "Herr Hippe, Wondersmith," was painted in black
letters on a yellow ground. The little theatre stood in the window,
where it stood ever after, and Herr Hippe was established.

But what was a Wondersmith? people asked each other. No one could
reply. Madame Filomel was consulted, but she looked grave, and said
that it was none of her business. Mr. Pippel, the bird-fancier, who
was a German, and ought to know best, thought it was the English for
some singular Teutonic profession; but his replies were so vague, that
Golosh Street was as unsatisfied as ever. Solon, the little humpback,
who kept the odd-volume book-stall at the lowest corner, could throw
no light upon it. And at length people had to come to the conclusion,
that Herr Hippe was either a coiner or a magician, and opinions were


It was a dull December evening. There was little trade doing in Golosh
Street, and the shutters were up at most of the shops. Hippe's store
had been closed at least an hour, and the Mino-birds and Bohemian
waxwings at Mr. Pippel's had their heads tucked under their wings in
their first sleep.

Herr Hippe sat in his parlor, which was lit by a pleasant wood-fire.
There were no candles in the room, and the flickering blaze played
fantastic tricks on the pale gray walls. It seemed the festival of
shadows. Processions of shapes, obscure and indistinct, passed across
the leaden-hued panels and vanished in the dusk corners. Every fresh
blaze flung up by the wayward logs created new images. Now it was a
funeral throng, with the bowed figures of mourners, the shrouded
coffin, the plumes that waved like extinguished torches; now a
knightly cavalcade with flags and lances, and weird horses, that
rushed silently along until they met the angle of the room, when they
pranced through the wall and vanished.

On a table close to where Herr Hippe sat was placed a large square box
of some dark wood, while over it was spread a casing of steel, so
elaborately wrought in an open arabesque pattern that it seemed like a
shining blue lace which was lightly stretched over its surface.

Herr Hippe lay luxuriously in his arm-chair, looking meditatively into
the fire. He was tall and thin, and his skin was of a dull saffron
hue. Long, straight hair,--sharply cut, regular features,--a long,
thin moustache, that curled like a dark asp around his mouth, the
expression of which was so bitter and cruel that it seemed to distil
the venom of the ideal serpent,--and a bony, muscular form, were the
prominent characteristics of the Wondersmith.

The profound silence that reigned in the chamber was broken by a
peculiar scratching at the panel of the door, like that which at the
French court was formerly substituted for the ordinary knock, when it
was necessary to demand admission to the royal apartments. Herr Hippe
started, raised his head, which vibrated on his long neck like the
head of a cobra when about to strike, and after a moment's silence
uttered a strange guttural sound. The door unclosed, and a squat,
broad-shouldered woman, with large, wild, Oriental eyes, entered

"Ah! Filomel, you are come!" said the Wondersmith, sinking back in his
chair. "Where are the rest of them?"

"They will be here presently," answered Madame Filomel, seating
herself in an arm-chair much too narrow for a person of her
proportions, and over the sides of which she bulged like a pudding.

"Have you brought the souls?" asked the Wondersmith.

"They are here," said the fortune-teller, drawing a large pot-bellied
black bottle from under her cloak. "Ah! I have had such trouble with

"Are they of the right brand,--wild, tearing, dark, devilish fellows?
We want no essence of milk and honey, you know. None but souls bitter
as hemlock or scorching as lightning will suit our purpose."

"You will see, you will see, Grand Duke of Egypt! They are ethereal
demons, every one of them. They are the pick of a thousand births. Do
you think that I, old midwife that I am, don't know the squall of the
demon child from that of the angel child, the very moment they are
delivered? Ask a musician, how he knows, even in the dark, a note
struck by Thalberg from one struck by Listz!"

"I long to test them," cried the Wondersmith, rubbing his hands
joyfully. "I long to see how the little devils will behave when I give
them their shapes. Ah! it will be a proud day for us when we let them
loose upon the cursed Christian children! Through the length and
breadth of the land they will go; wherever our wandering people set
foot, and wherever they are, the children of the Christians shall die.
Then we, the despised Bohemians, the gypsies, as they call us, will be
once more lords of the earth, as we were in the days when the accursed
things called cities did not exist, and men lived in the free woods
and hunted the game of the forest. Toys indeed! Ay, ay, we will give
the little dears toys! toys that all day will sleep calmly in their
boxes, seemingly stiff and wooden and without life,--but at night,
when the souls enter them, will arise and surround the cots of the
sleeping children, and pierce their hearts with their keen, envenomed
blades! Toys indeed! oh, yes! I will sell them toys!"

And the Wondersmith laughed horribly, while the snaky moustache on his
upper lip writhed as if it had truly a serpent's power and could

"Have you got your first batch, Herr Hippe?" asked Madame Filomel.
"Are they all ready?"

"Oh, ay! they are ready," answered the Wondersmith with gusto,--
opening, as he spoke, the box covered with the blue steel lace-work;
"they are here."

The box contained a quantity of exquisitely carved wooden manikins of
both sexes, painted with great dexterity so as to present a miniature
resemblance to Nature. They were, in fact, nothing more than admirable
specimens of those toys which children delight in placing in various
positions on the table,--in regiments, or sitting at meals, or grouped
under the stiff green trees which always accompany them in the boxes
in which they are sold at the toy-shops.

The peculiarity, however, about the manikins of Herr Hippe was not
alone the artistic truth with which the limbs and the features were
gifted; but on the countenance of each little puppet the carver's art
had wrought an expression of wickedness that was appalling. Every tiny
face had its special stamp of ferocity. The lips were thin and brimful
of malice; the small black bead-like eyes glittered with the fire of a
universal hate. There was not one of the manikins, male or female,
that did not hold in his or her hand some miniature weapon. The little
men, scowling like demons, clasped in their wooden fingers swords
delicate as a housewife's needle. The women, whose countenances
expressed treachery and cruelty, clutched infinitesimal daggers, with
which they seemed about to take some terrible vengeance.

"Good!" said Madame Filomel, taking one of the manikins out of the
box, and examining it attentively; "you work well, Duke Balthazar!
These little ones are of the right stamp; they look as if they had
mischief in them. Ah! here come our brothers."

At this moment the same scratching that preceded the entrance of
Madame Filomel was heard at the door, and Herr Hippe replied with a
hoarse, guttural cry. The next moment two men entered. The first was a
small man with very brilliant eyes. He was wrapt in a long shabby
cloak, and wore a strange nondescript species of cap on his head, such
a cap as one sees only in the low billiard-rooms in Paris. His
companion was tall, long-limbed, and slender; and his dress, although
of the ordinary cut, either from the disposition of colors, or from
the careless, graceful attitudes of the wearer, assumed a certain air
of picturesqueness. Both the men possessed the same marked Oriental
type of countenance which distinguished the Wondersmith and Madame
Filomel. True gypsies they seemed, who would not have been out of
place telling fortunes, or stealing chickens in the green lanes of
England, or wandering with their wild music and their sleight-of-hand
tricks through Bohemian villages.

"Welcome, brothers!" said the Wondersmith; "you are in time. Sister
Filomel has brought the souls, and we are about to test them. Monsieur
Kerplonne, take off your cloak. Brother Oaksmith, take a chair. I
promise you some amusement this evening; so make yourselves
comfortable. Here is something to aid you."

And while the Frenchman Kerplonne, and his tall companion, Oaksmith,
were obeying Hippe's invitation, he reached over to a little closet
let into the wall, and took thence a squat bottle and some glasses,
which he placed on the table.

"Drink, brothers!" he said; "it is not Christian blood, but good stout
wine of Oporto. It goes right to the heart, and warms one like the
sunshine of the South."

"It is good," said Kerplonne, smacking his lips with enthusiasm.

"Why don't you keep brandy? Hang wine!" cried Oaksmith, after having
swallowed two bumpers in rapid succession.

"Bah! Brandy has been the ruin of our race. It has made us sots and
thieves. It shall never cross my threshold," cried the Wondersmith,
with a sombre indignation.

"A little of it is not bad, though, Duke," said the fortune-teller.
"It consoles us for our misfortunes; it gives us the crowns we once
wore; it restores to us the power we once wielded; it carries us back,
as if by magic, to that land of the sun from which fate has driven us;
it darkens the memory of all the evils that we have for centuries

"It is a devil; may it be cursed!" cried Herr Hippe, passionately. "It
is a demon that stole from me my son, the finest youth in all
Courland. Yes! my son, the son of the Waywode Balthazar, Grand Duke of
Lower Egypt, died raving in a gutter, with an empty brandy-bottle in
his hands. Were it not that the plant is a sacred one to our race, I
would curse the grape and the vine that bore it."

This outburst was delivered with such energy that the three gypsies
kept silence. Oaksmith helped himself to another glass of Port, and
the fortune-teller rocked to and fro in her chair, too much overawed
by the Wondersmith's vehemence of manner to reply. The little
Frenchman, Kerplonne, took no part in the discussion, but seemed lost
in admiration of the manikins, which he took from the box in which
they lay, handling them with the greatest care. After the silence had
lasted for about a minute, Herr Hippe broke it with the sudden

"How does your eye get on, Kerplonne?"

"Excellently, Duke. It is finished. I have it here." And the little
Frenchman put his hand into his breeches-pocket and pulled out a large
artificial human eye. Its great size was the only thing in this eye
that would lead any one to suspect its artificiality. It was at least
twice the size of life; but there was a fearful speculative light in
its iris, which seemed to expand and contract like the eye of a living
being, that rendered it a horrible staring paradox. It looked like the
naked eye of the Cyclops, torn from his forehead, and still burning
with wrath and the desire for vengeance.

The little Frenchman laughed pleasantly as he held the eye in his
hand, and gazed down on that huge dark pupil, that stared back at him,
it seemed, with an air of defiance and mistrust.

"It is a devil of an eye," said the little man, wiping the enamelled
surface with an old silk pocket-handkerchief; "it reads like a demon.
My niece--the unhappy one--has a wretch of a lover, and I have a long
time feared that she would run away with him. I could not read her
correspondence, for she kept her writing-desk closely locked. But I
asked her yesterday to keep this eye in some very safe place for me.
She put it, as I knew she would, into her desk, and by its aid I read
every one of her letters. She was to run away next Monday, the
ungrateful! but she will find herself disappointed."

And the little man laughed heartily at the success of his stratagem,
and polished and fondled the great eye until that optic seemed to grow
sore with rubbing.

"And you have been at work, too, I see, Herr Hippe. Your manikins are
excellent. But where are the souls?"

"In that bottle," answered the Wondersmith, pointing to the pot-
bellied black bottle that Madame Filomel had brought with her. "Yes,
Monsieur Kerplonne," he continued, "my manikins are well made. I
invoked the aid of Abigor, the demon of soldiery, and he inspired me.
The little fellows will be famous assassins when they are animated. We
will try them to-night."

"Good!" cried Kerplonne, rubbing his hands joyously. "It is close upon
New Year's Day. We will fabricate millions of the little murderers by
New Year's Even, and sell them in large quantities; and when the
households are all asleep, and the Christian children are waiting for
Santa Claus to come, the small ones will troop from their boxes and
the Christian children will die. It is famous! Health to Abigor!"

"Let us try them at once," said Oaksmith. "Is your daughter, Zonela,
in bed, Herr Hippe? Are we secure from intrusion?"

"No one is stirring about the house," replied the Wondersmith,

Filomel leaned over to Oaksmith, and said, in an undertone,---

"Why do you mention his daughter? You know he does not like to have
her spoken about."

"I will take care that we are not disturbed," said Kerplonne, rising.
"I will put my eye outside the door, to watch."

He went to the door and placed his great eye upon the floor with
tender care. As he did so, a dark form, unseen by him or his second
vision, glided along the passage noiselessly and was lost in the

"Now for it!" exclaimed Madam Filomel, taking up her fat black bottle.
"Herr Hippe, prepare your manikins!"

The Wondersmith took the little dolls out, one by one, and set them
upon the table. Such an array of villanous countenances was never
seen. An army of Italian bravos, seen through the wrong end of a
telescope, or a band of prisoners at the galleys in Lilliput, will
give some faint idea of the appearance they presented. While Madame
Filomel uncorked the black bottle, Herr Hippe covered the dolls over
with a species of linen tent, which he took also from the box. This
done, the fortune-teller held the mouth of the bottle to the door of
the tent, gathering the loose cloth closely round the glass neck.
Immediately, tiny noises were heard inside the tent. Madame Filomel
removed the bottle, and the Wondersmith lifted the covering in which
he had enveloped his little people.

A wonderful transformation had taken place. Wooden and inflexible no
longer, the crowd of manikins were now in full motion. The beadlike
eyes turned, glittering, on all sides; the thin, wicked lips quivered
with bad passions; the tiny hands sheathed and unsheathed the little
swords and daggers. Episodes, common to life, were taking place in
every direction. Here two martial manikins paid court to a pretty sly-
faced female, who smiled on each alternately, but gave her hand to be
kissed to a third manikin, an ugly little scoundrel, who crouched
behind her back. There a pair of friendly dolls walked arm in arm,
apparently on the best terms, while, all the time, one was watching
his opportunity to stab the other in the back.

"I think they'll do," said the Wondersmith, chuckling, as he watched
these various incidents. "Treacherous, cruel, bloodthirsty. All goes
marvellously well. But stay! I will put the grand test to them."

So saying, he drew a gold dollar from his pocket, and let it fall on
the table in the very midst of the throng of manikins. It had hardly
touched the table, when there was a pause on all sides. Every head was
turned towards the dollar. Then about twenty of the little creatures
rushed towards the glittering coin. One, fleeter than the rest, leaped
upon it, and drew his sword. The entire crowd of little people had now
gathered round this new centre of attraction. Men and women struggled
and shoved to get nearer to the piece of gold. Hardly had the first
Liliputian mounted upon the treasure, when a hundred blades flashed
back a defiant answer to his, and a dozen men, sword in hand, leaped
upon the yellow platform and drove him off at the sword's point. Then
commenced a general battle. The miniature faces were convulsed with
rage and avarice. Each furious doll tried to plunge dagger or sword
into his or her neighbor, and the women seemed possessed by a thousand

"They will break themselves into atoms," cried Filomel, as she watched
with eagerness this savage melee. "You had better gather them up, Herr
Hippe. I will exhaust my bottle and suck all the souls back from

"Oh, they are perfect devils! they are magnificent little demons!"
cried the Frenchman, with enthusiasm. "Hippe, you are a wonderful man.
Brother Oaksmith, you have no such man as Hippe among your English

"Not exactly," answered Oaksmith, rather sullenly, "not exactly. But
we have men there who can make a twelve-year-old horse look like a
four-year-old,--and who can take you and Herr Hippe up with one hand,
and throw you over their shoulders."

"The good God forbid!" said the little Frenchman. "I do not love such
play. It is incommodious."

While Oaksmith and Kerplonne were talking, the Wondersmith had placed
the linen tent over the struggling dolls, and Madame Filomel, who had
been performing some mysterious manipulations with her black bottle,
put the mouth once more to the door of the tent. In an instant the
confused murmur within ceased. Madame Filomel corked the bottle
quickly. The Wondersmith withdrew the tent, and, lo! the furious dolls
were once more wooden-jointed and inflexible; and the old sinister
look was again frozen on their faces.

"They must have blood, though," said Herr Hippe, as he gathered them
up and put them into their box. "Mr. Pippel, the bird-fancier, is
asleep. I have a key that opens his door. We will let them loose among
the birds; it will be rare fun."

"Magnificent!" cried Kerplonne. "Let us go on the instant. But first
let me gather up my eye."

The Frenchman pocketed his eye, after having given it a polish with
the silk handkerchief; Herr Hippe extinguished the lamp; Oaksmith took
a last bumper of Port; and the four gypsies departed for Mr. Pippel's,
carrying the box of manikins with them.


THE shadow that glided along the dark corridor, at the moment that
Monsieur Kerplonne deposited his sentinel eye outside the door of the
Wondersmith's apartment, sped swiftly through the passage and ascended
the stairs to the attic. Here the shadow stopped at the entrance to
one of the chambers and knocked at the door. There was no reply.

"Zonela, are you asleep?" said the shadow, softly.

"Oh, Solon, is it you?" replied a sweet low voice from within. "I
thought it was Herr Hippe. Come in."

The shadow opened the door and entered. There were neither candles nor
lamp in the room; but through the projecting window, which was open,
there came the faint gleams of the starlight, by which one could
distinguish a female figure seated on a low stool in the middle of the

"Has he left you without light again, Zonela?" asked the shadow,
closing the door of the apartment. "I have brought my little lantern
with me, though."

"Thank you, Solon," answered she called Zonela; "you are a good
fellow. He never gives me any light of an evening, but bids me go to
bed. I like to sit sometimes and look at the moon and the stars,--the
stars more than all; for they seem all the time to look right back
into my face, very sadly, as if they would say, 'We see you, and pity
you, and would help you, if we could.' But it is so mournful to be
always looking at such myriads of melancholy eyes! and I long so to
read those nice books that you lend me, Solon!"

By this time the shadow had lit the lantern and was a shadow no
longer. A large head, covered with a profusion of long blonde hair,
which was cut after that fashion known as a l'enfants d'Edouard; a
beautiful pale face, lit with wide, blue, dreamy eyes; long arms and
slender hands, attenuated legs, and--an enormous hump;--such was
Solon, the shadow. As soon as the humpback had lit the lamp, Zonela
arose from the low stool on which she had been seated, and took
Solon's hand affectionately in hers.

Zonela was surely not of gypsy blood. That rich auburn hair, that
looked almost black in the lamp-light, that pale, transparent skin,
tinged with an under-glow of warm rich blood, the hazel eyes, large
and soft as those of a fawn, were never begotten of a Zingaro. Zonela
was seemingly about sixteen; her figure, although somewhat thin and
angular, was full of the unconscious grace of youth. She was dressed
in an old cotton print, which had been once of an exceedingly
boisterous pattern, but was now a mere suggestion of former splendor;
while round her head was twisted, in fantastic fashion, a silk
handkerchief of green ground spotted with bright crimson. This strange
headdress gave her an elfish appearance.

"I have been out all day with the organ, and I am so tired, Solon!--
not sleepy, but weary, I mean. Poor Furbelow was sleepy, though, and
he's gone to bed."

"I'm weary, too, Zonela;--not weary as you are, though, for I sit in
my little book-stall all day long, and do not drag round an organ and
a monkey and play old tunes for pennies,--but weary of myself, of
life, of the load that I carry on my shoulders;" and, as he said this,
the poor humpback glanced sideways, as if to call attention to his
deformed person.

"Well, but you ought not to be melancholy amidst your books, Solon.
Gracious! If I could only sit in the sun and read as you do, how happy
I should be! But it's very tiresome to trudge round all day with that
nasty organ, and look up at the houses, and know that you are annoying
the people inside; and then the boys play such bad tricks on poor
Furbelow, throwing him hot pennies to pick up, and burning his poor
little hands; and oh! sometimes, Solon, the men in the street make me
so afraid,--they speak to me and look at me so oddly!--I'd a great
deal rather sit in your book-stall and read."

"I have nothing but odd volumes in my stall," answered the humpback.
"Perhaps that's right, though; for, after all, I'm nothing but an odd
volume myself."

"Come, don't be melancholy, Solon. Sit down and tell me a story. I'll
bring Furbelow to listen."

So saying, she went to a dusk corner of the cheerless attic-room, and
returned with a little Brazilian monkey in her arms,--a poor, mild,
drowsy thing, that looked as if it had cried itself to sleep. She sat
down on her little stool, with Furbelow in her lap, and nodded her
head to Solon, as much as to say, "Go on; we are attentive."

"You want a story, do you?" said the humpback, with a mournful smile.
"Well, I'll tell you one. Only what will your father say, if he
catches me here?"

"Herr Hippe is not my father," cried Zonela, indignantly. "He's a
gypsy, and I know I'm stolen; and I'd run away from him, if I only
knew where to run to. If I were his child, do you think that he would
treat me as he does? make me trudge round the city, all day long, with
a barrel-organ and a monkey,--though I love poor dear little
Furbelow,--and keep me up in a garret, and give me ever so little to
eat? I know I'm not his child, for he hates me."

"Listen to my story, Zonela, and we'll talk of that afterwards. Let me
sit at your feet;"--and, having coiled himself up at the little
maiden's feet, he commenced:---

"There once lived in a great city, just like this city of New York, a
poor little hunchback. He kept a second-hand book-stall, where he made
barely enough money to keep body and soul together. He was very sad at
times, because he knew scarce any one, and those that he did know did
not love him. He had passed a sickly, secluded youth. The children of
his neighborhood would not play with him, for he was not made like
them; and the people in the streets stared at him with pity, or
scoffed at him when he went by. Ah! Zonela, how his poor heart was
wrung with bitterness when he beheld the procession of shapely men and
fine women that every day passed him by in the thoroughfares of the
great city! How he repined and cursed his fate as the torrent of
fleet-footed firemen dashed past him to the toll of the bells,
magnificent in their overflowing vitality and strength! But there was
one consolation left him,--one drop of honey in the jar of gall, so
sweet that it ameliorated all the bitterness of life. God had given
him a deformed body, but his mind was straight and healthy. So the
poor hunchback shut himself into the world of books, and was, if not
happy, at least contented. He kept company with courteous paladins,
and romantic heroes, and beautiful women; and this society was of such
excellent breeding that it never so much as once noticed his poor
crooked back or his lame walk. The love of books grew upon him with
his years. He was remarked for his studious habits; and when, one day,
the obscure people that he called father and mother--parents only in
name--died, a compassionate book-vendor gave him enough stock in trade
to set up a little stall of his own. Here, in his book-stall, he sat
in the sun all day, waiting for the customers that seldom came, and
reading the fine deeds of the people of the ancient time, or the
beautiful thoughts of the poets that had warmed millions of hearts
before that hour, and still glowed for him with undiminished fire. One
day, when he was reading some book, that, small as it was, was big
enough to shut the whole world out from him, he heard some music in
the street. Looking up from his book, he saw a little girl, with large
eyes, playing an organ, while a monkey begged for alms from a crowd of
idlers who had nothing in their pockets but their hands. The girl was
playing, but she was also weeping. The merry notes of the polka were
ground out to a silent accompaniment of tears. She looked very sad,
this organ-girl, and her monkey seemed to have caught the infection,
for his large brown eyes were moist, as if he also wept. The poor
hunchback was struck with pity, and called the little girl over to
give her a penny,--not, dear Zonela, because he wished to bestow alms,
but because he wanted to speak with her. She came, and they talked
together. She came the next day,--for it turned out that they were
neighbors,--and the next, and, in short, every day. They became
friends. They were both lonely and afflicted, with this difference,
that she was beautiful, and he--was a hunchback."

"Why, Solon," cried Zonela, "that's the very way you and I met!"

"It was then," continued Solon, with a faint smile, "that life seemed
to have its music. A great harmony seemed to the poor cripple to fill
the world. The carts that took the flour-barrels from the wharves to
the store-houses seemed to emit joyous melodies from their wheels. The
hum of the great business-streets sounded like grand symphonies of
triumph. As one who has been travelling through a barren country
without much heed feels with singular force the sterility of the lands
he has passed through when he reaches the fertile plains that lie at
the end of his journey, so the humpback, after his vision had been
freshened with this blooming flower, remembered for the first time the
misery of the life that he had led. But he did not allow himself to
dwell upon the past. The present was so delightful that it occupied
all his thoughts. Zonela, he was in love with the organ-girl."

"Oh, that's so nice!" said Zonela, innocently,--pinching poor
Furbelow, as she spoke, in order to dispel a very evident snooze that
was creeping over him. "It's going to be a love-story."

"Ah! but, Zonela, he did not know whether she loved him in return. You
forget that he was deformed."

"But," answered the girl, gravely, "he was good."

A light like the flash of an aurora illuminated Solon's face for an
instant. He put out his hand suddenly, as if to take Zonela's and
press it to his heart; but an unaccountable timidity seemed to arrest
the impulse, and he only stroked Furbelow's head,--upon which that
individual opened one large brown eye to the extent of the eighth of
an inch, and, seeing that it was only Solon, instantly closed it
again, and resumed his dream of a city where there were no organs and
all the copper coin of the realm was iced.

"He hoped and feared," continued Solon, in a low, mournful voice; "but
at times he was very miserable, because he did not think it possible
that so much happiness was reserved for him as the love of this
beautiful, innocent girl. At night, when he was in bed, and all the
world was dreaming, he lay awake looking up at the old books that hung
against the walls, thinking how he could bring about the charming of
her heart. One night, when he was thinking of this, with his eyes
fixed upon the mouldy backs of the odd volumes that lay on their
shelves, and looked back at him wistfully, as if they would say,--'We
also are like you, and wait to be completed,'--it seemed as if he
heard a rustle of leaves. Then, one by one, the books came down from
their places to the floor, as if shifted by invisible hands, opened
their worm-eaten covers, and from between the pages of each the
hunchback saw issue forth a curious throng of little people that
danced here and there through the apartment. Each one of these little
creatures was shaped so as to bear resemblance to some one of the
letters of the alphabet. One tall, long-legged fellow seemed like the
letter A; a burly fellow, with a big head and a paunch, was the model
of B; another leering little chap might have passed for a Q; and so on
through the whole. These fairies--for fairies they were--climbed upon
the hunchback's bed, and clustered thick as bees upon his pillow.
'Come!' they cried to him, 'we will lead you into fairy-land.' So
saying, they seized his hand, and he suddenly found himself in a
beautiful country, where the light did not come from sun or moon or
stars, but floated round and over and in everything like the
atmosphere. On all sides he heard mysterious melodies sung by
strangely musical voices. None of the features of the landscape were
definite; yet when he looked on the vague harmonies of color that
melted one into another before his sight, he was filled with a sense
of inexplicable beauty. On every side of him fluttered radiant bodies
which darted to and fro through the illumined space. They were not
birds, yet they flew like birds; and as each one crossed the path of
his vision, he felt a strange delight flash through his brain, and
straightway an interior voice seemed to sing beneath the vaulted dome
of his temples a verse containing some beautiful thought. The little
fairies were all this time dancing and fluttering around him, perching
on his head, on his shoulders, or balancing themselves on his finger-
tips. 'Where am I?' he asked, at last, of his friends, the fairies.
'Ah! Solon,' he heard them whisper, in tones that sounded like the
distant tinkling of silver bells, 'this land is nameless; but those
whom we lead hither, who tread its soil, and breathe its air, and gaze
on its floating sparks of light, are poets forevermore!' Having said
this, they vanished, and with them the beautiful indefinite land, and
the flashing lights, and the illumined air; and the hunchback found
himself again in bed, with the moonlight quivering on the floor, and
the dusty books on their shelves, grim and mouldy as ever."

"You have betrayed yourself. You called yourself Solon," cried Zonela.
"Was it a dream?"

"I do not know," answered Solon; "but since that night I have been a

"A poet?" screamed the little organ-girl,--"a real poet, who makes
verses which every one reads and every one talks of?"

"The people call me a poet," answered Solon, with a sad smile. "They
do not know me by the name of Solon, for I write under an assumed
title; but they praise me, and repeat my songs. But, Zonela, I can't
sing this load off of my back, can I?"

"Oh, bother the hump!" said Zonela, jumping up suddenly. "You're a
poet, and that's enough, isn't it? I'm so glad you're a poet, Solon!
You must repeat all your best things to me, won't you?"

Solon nodded assent.

"You don't ask me," he said, "who was the little girl that the
hunchback loved."

Zonela's face flushed crimson. She turned suddenly away, and ran into
a dark corner of the room. In a moment she returned with an old hand-
organ in her arms.

"Play, Solon, play!" she cried. "I am so glad that I want to dance.
Furbelow, come and dance in honor of Solon the Poet."

It was her confession. Solon's eyes flamed, as if his brain had
suddenly ignited. He said nothing; but a triumphant smile broke over
his countenance. Zonela, the twilight of whose cheeks was still rosy
with the setting blush, caught the lazy Furbelow by his little paws;
Solon turned the crank of the organ, which wheezed out as merry a
polka as its asthma would allow, and the girl and the monkey commenced
their fantastic dance. They had taken but a few steps when the door
suddenly opened, and the tall figure of the Wondersmith appeared on
the threshold. His face was convulsed with rage, and the black snake
that quivered on his upper lip seemed to rear itself as if about to
spring upon the hunchback.


The four gypsies left Herr Hippe's house cautiously, and directed
their steps towards Mr. Pippel's bird-shop. Golosh Street was asleep.
Nothing was stirring in that tenebrous slum, save a dog that savagely
gnawed a bone which lay on a dust-heap, tantalizing him with the
flavor of food without its substance. As the gypsies moved stealthily
along in the darkness, they had a sinister and murderous air that
would not have failed to attract the attention of the policeman of the
quarter, if that worthy had not at the moment been comfortably
ensconced in the neighboring "Rainbow" bar-room, listening to the
improvisations of that talented vocalist, Mr. Harrison, who was making
impromptu verses on every possible subject, to the accompaniment of a
cithern which was played by a sad little Italian in a large cloak, to
whom the host of the "Rainbow" gave so many toddies and a dollar for
his nightly performance.

Mr. Pippel's shop was but a short distance from the Wondersmith's
house. A few moments, therefore, brought the gypsy party to the door,
when, by aid of a key which Herr Hippe produced, they silently slipped
into the entry. Here the Wondersmith took a dark-lantern from under
his cloak, removed the cap that shrouded the light, and led the way
into the shop, which was separated from the entry only by a glass
door, that yielded, like the outer one, to a key which Hippe took from
his pocket. The four gypsies now entered the shop and closed the door
behind them.

It was a little world of birds. On every side, whether in large or
small cages, one beheld balls of various-colored feathers standing on
one leg and breathing peacefully. Love-birds, nestling shoulder to
shoulder, with their heads tucked under their wings and all their
feathers puffed out, so that they looked like globes of malachite;
English bullfinches, with ashen-colored backs, in which their black
heads were buried, and corselets of a rosy down; Java sparrows, fat
and sleek and cleanly; troupials, so glossy and splendid in plumage
that they looked as if they were dressed in the celebrated armor of
the Black Prince, which was jet, richly damascened with gold; a cock
of the rock, gleaming, a ball of tawny fire, like a setting sun; the
Campanero of Brazil, white as snow, with his dilatable tolling-tube
hanging from his head, placid and silent;--these, with a humbler crowd
of linnets, canaries, robins, mocking-birds, and phoebes, slumbered
calmly in their little cages, that were hung so thickly on the wall as
not to leave an inch of it visible.

"Splendid little morsels, all of them!" exclaimed Monsieur Kerplonne.
"Ah we are going to have a rare beating!"

"So Pippel does not sleep in his shop," said the English gypsy,

"No. The fellow lives somewhere up one of the avenues," answered
Madame Filomel. "He came, the other evening, to consult me about his
fortune. I did not tell him," she added, with a laugh, "that he was
going to have so distinguished a sporting party on his premises."

"Come," said the Wondersmith, producing the box of manikins, "get
ready with souls, Madame Filomel. I am impatient to see my little men
letting out lives for the first time."

Just at the moment that the Wondersmith uttered this sentence, the
four gypsies were startled by a hoarse voice issuing from a corner of
the room, and propounding in the most guttural tones the intemperate
query of "What'll you take?" This sottish invitation had scarce been
given, when a second extremely thick voice replied from an opposite
corner, in accents so rough that they seemed to issue from a throat
torn and furrowed by the liquid lava of many barrooms, "Brandy and

"Hollo! who's here?" muttered Herr Hippe, flashing the light of his
lantern round the shop.

Oaksmith turned up his coat-cuffs, as if to be ready for a fight;
Madame Filomel glided, or rather rolled, towards the door; while
Kerplonne put his hand into his pocket, as if to assure himself that
his supernumerary optic was all right.

"What'll you take?" croaked the voice in the corner, once more.

"Brandy and water," rapidly replied the second voice in the other
corner. And then, as if by a concerted movement, a series of bibular
invitations and acceptances were rolled backwards and forwards with a
volubility of utterance that threw Patter versus Clatter into the

"What the Devil can it be?" muttered the Wondersmith, flashing his
lantern here and there. "Ah! it is those Minos."

So saying, he stopped under one of the wicker cages that hung high up
on the wall, and raised the lantern above his head, so as to throw the
light upon that particular cage. The hospitable individual who had
been extending all these hoarse invitations to partake of intoxicating
beverages was an inhabitant of the cage. It was a large Mino-bird, who
now stood perched on his cross-bar, with his yellowish orange bill
sloped slightly over his shoulder, and his white eye cocked knowingly
upon the Wondersmith. The respondent voice in the other corner came
from another Mino-bird, who sat in the dusk in a similar cage, also
attentively watching the Wondersmith. These Mino-birds, I may remark,
in passing, have a singular aptitude for acquiring phrases.

"What'll you take?" repeated the Mino, cocking his other eye upon Herr

"Mon Dieu! what a bird!" exclaimed the little Frenchman. "He is, in
truth, polite."

"I don't know what I'll take," said Hippe, as if replying to the Mino-
bird; "but I know what you'll get, old fellow! Filomel, open the cage-
doors, and give me the bottle."

Filomel opened, one after another, the doors of the numberless little
cages, thereby arousing from slumber their feathered occupants, who
opened their beaks, and stretched their claws, and stared with great
surprise at the lantern and the midnight visitors.

By this time the Wondersmith had performed the mysterious
manipulations with the bottle, and the manikins were once more in full
motion, swarming out of their box, sword and dagger in hand, with
their little black eyes glittering fiercely, and their white teeth
shining. The little creatures seemed to scent their prey. The gypsies
stood in the centre of the shop, watching the proceedings eagerly,
while the Liliputians made in a body towards the wall and commenced
climbing from cage to cage. Then was heard a tremendous flittering of
wings, and faint, despairing "quirks" echoed on all sides. In almost
every cage there was a fierce manikin thrusting his sword or dagger
vigorously into the body of some unhappy bird. It recalled the antique
legend of the battles of the Pygmies and the Cranes. The poor love-
birds lay with their emerald feathers dabbled in their hearts' blood,
shoulder to shoulder in death as in life. Canaries gasped at the
bottom of their cages, while the water in their little glass fountains
ran red. The bullfinches wore an unnatural crimson on their breasts.
The mocking-bird lay on his back, kicking spasmodically, in the last
agonies, with a tiny sword-thrust cleaving his melodious throat in
twain, so that from the instrument which used to gush with wondrous
music only scarlet drops of blood now trickled. The manikins were
ruthless. Their faces were ten times wickeder than ever, as they
roamed from cage to cage, slaughtering with a fury that seemed
entirely unappeasable. Presently the feathery rustlings became fewer
and fainter, and the little pipings of despair died away; and in every
cage lay a poor murdered minstrel, with the song that abode within him
forever quenched;--in every cage but two, and those two were high up
on the wall; and in each glared a pair of wild, white eyes; and an
orange beak, touch as steel, pointed threateningly down. With the
needles which they grasped as swords all wet and warm with blood, and
their beadlike eyes flashing in the light of the lantern, the
Liliputian assassins swarmed up the cages in two separate bodies,
until they reached the wickets of the habitations in which the Minos
abode. Mino saw them coming,--had listened attentively to the many
death-struggles of his comrades, and had, in fact, smelt a rat.
Accordingly he was ready for the manikins. There he stood at the
barbican of his castle, with formidable beak couched like a lance. The
manikins made a gallant charge. "What'll you take?" was rattled out by
the Mino, in a deep bass, as with one plunge of his sharp bill he
scattered the ranks of the enemy, and sent three of them flying to the
floor, where they lay with broken limbs. But the manikins were brave
automata, and again they closed and charged the gallant Mino. Again
the wicked white eyes of the bird gleamed, and again the orange bill
dealt destruction. Everything seemed to be going on swimmingly for
Mino, when he found himself attacked in the rear by two treacherous
manikins, who had stolen upon him from behind, through the lattice-
work of the cage. Quick as lightning the Mino turned to repel this
assault, but all too late; two slender quivering threads of steel
crossed in his poor body, and he staggered into a corner of the cage.
His white eyes closed, then opened; a shiver passed over his body,
beginning at his shoulder-tips and dying off in the extreme tips of
the wings; he gasped as if for air, and then, with a convulsive
shudder, which ruffled all his feathers, croaked out feebly his little
speech, "What'll you take?" Instantly from the opposite corner came
the old response, still feebler than the question,--a mere gurgle, as
it were, of "Brandy and water." Then all was silent. The Mino-birds
were dead.

"They spill blood like Christians," said the Wondersmith, gazing
fondly on the manikins. "They will be famous assassins."


Herr Hippe stood in the doorway, scowling. His eyes seemed to scorch
the poor hunchback, whose form, physically inferior, crouched before
that baneful, blazing glance, while his head, mentally brave, reared
itself, as if to redeem the cowardice of the frame to which it
belonged. So the attitude of the serpent: the body pliant, yielding,
supple; but the crest thrown aloft, erect, and threatening. As for
Zonela, she was frozen in the attitude of motion;--a dancing nymph in
colored marble; agility stunned; elasticity petrified.

Furbelow, astonished at this sudden change, and catching, with all the
mysterious rapidity of instinct peculiar to the lower animals, at the
enigmatical character of the situation, turned his pleading,
melancholy eyes from one to another of the motionless three, as if
begging that his humble intellect (pardon me, naturalists, for the use
of this word "intellect" in the matter of a monkey!) should be
enlightened as speedily as possible. Not receiving the desired
information, he, after the manner of trained animals, returned to his
muttons; in other words, he conceived that this unusual entrance, and
consequent dramatic tableau, meant "shop." He therefore dropped
Zonela's hand and pattered on his velvety little feet over towards the
grim figure of the Wondersmith, holding out his poor little paw for
the customary copper. He had but one idea drilled into him,--soulless
creature that he was,--and that was, alms. But I have seen creatures
that professed to have souls, and that would have been indignant, if
you had denied them immortality, who took to the soliciting of alms as
naturally as if beggary had been the original sin, and was regularly
born with them, and never baptized out of them. I will give these
Bandits of the Order of Charity this credit, however, that they knew
the best highways and the richest founts of benevolence,--unlike to
Furbelow, who, unreasoning and undiscriminating, begged from the first
person that was near. Burbelow, owing to this intellectual inferiority
to the before-mentioned Alsatians, frequently got more kicks than
coppers, and the present supplication which he indulged in towards the
Wondersmith was a terrible confirmation of the rule. The reply to the
extended pleading paw was what might be called a double-barrelled
kick,--a kick to be represented by the power of two when the foot
touched the object, multiplied by four when the entire leg formed an
angle of 45 deg. with the spinal column. The long, nervous leg of the
Wondersmith caught the little creature in the centre of the body,
doubled up his brown, hairy form, till he looked like a fur driving-
glove, and sent him whizzing across the room into a far corner, where
he dropped senseless and flaccid.

This vengeance which Herr Hippe executed upon Furbelow seemed to have
operated as a sort of escape-valve, and he found voice. He hissed out
the question, "Who are you?" to the hunchback; and in listening to
that essence of sibilation, it really seemed as if it proceeded from
the serpent that curled upon his upper lip.

"Who are you? Deformed dog, who are you? What do you here?"

"My name is Solon," answered the fearless head of the hunchback, while
the frail, cowardly body shivered and trembled inch by inch into a

"So you come to visit my daughter in the night-time, when I am away?"
continued the Wondersmith, with a sneering tone that dropped from his
snake-wreathed mouth like poison. "You are a brave and gallant lover,
are you not? Where did you win that Order of the Curse of God that
decorates your shoulders? The women turn their heads and look after
you in the street, when you pass, do they not? lost in admiration of
that symmetrical figure, those graceful limbs, that neck pliant as the
stem that moors the lotus! Elegant, conquering Christian cripple, what
do you here in my daughter's room?"

Can you imagine Jove, limitless in power and wrath, hurling from his
vast grasp mountain after mountain upon the struggling Enceladus,--and
picture the Titan sinking, sinking, deeper and deeper into the earth,
crushed and dying, with nothing visible through the super-incumbent
masses of Pelion and Ossa, but a gigantic head and two flaming eyes,
that, despite the death which is creeping through each vein, still
flash back defiance to the divine enemy? Well, Solon and Herr Hippe
presented such a picture, seen through the wrong end of a telescope,--
reduced in proportion, but alike in action. Solon's feeble body seemed
to sink into utter annihilation beneath the horrible taunts that his
enemy hurled at him, while the large, brave brow and unconquered eyes
still sent forth a magnetic resistance.

Suddenly the poor hunchback felt his arm grasped. A thrill seemed to
run through his entire body. A warm atmosphere, invigorating and full
of delicious odor, surrounded him. It appeared as if invisible
bandages were twisted all about his limbs, giving him a strange
strength. His sinking legs straightened. His powerless arms were
braced. Astonished, he glanced round for an instant, and beheld
Zonela, with a world of love burning in her large lambent eyes,
wreathing her round white arms about his humped shoulders. Then the
poet knew the great sustaining power of love. Solon reared himself

"Sneer at my poor form," he cried, in strong vibrating tones, flinging
out one long arm and one thin finger at the Wondersmith, as if he
would have impaled him like a beetle. "Humiliate me, if you can. I
care not. You are a wretch, and I am honest and pure. This girl is not
your daughter. You are like one of those demons in the fairy tales
that held beauty and purity locked in infernal spells. I do not fear
you, Herr Hippe. There are stories abroad about you in the
neighborhood, and when you pass, people say that they feel evil and
blight hovering over their thresholds. You persecute this girl. You
are her tyrant. You hate her. I am a cripple. Providence has cast this
lump upon my shoulders. But that is nothing. The camel, that is the
salvation of the children of the desert, has been given his hump in
order that he might bear his human burden better. This girl, who is
homeless as the Arab, is my appointed load in life, and, please God, I
will carry her on this back, hunched though it may be. I have come to
see her, because I love her,--because she loves me. You have no claim
on her; so I will take her from you."

Quick as lightning, the Wondersmith had stridden a few paces, and
grasped the poor cripple, who was yet quivering with the departing
thunder of his passion. He seized him in his bony, muscular grasp, as
he would have seized a puppet, and held him at arm's length gasping
and powerless; while Zonela, pale, breathless, entreating, sank half-
kneeling on the floor.

"Your skeleton will be interesting to science when you are dead, Mr.
Solon," hissed the Wondersmith. "But before I have the pleasure of
reducing you to an anatomy, which I will assuredly do, I wish to
compliment you on your power of penetration, or sources of
information; for I know not if you have derived your knowledge from
your own mental research or the efforts of others. You are perfectly
correct in your statement, that this charming young person, who day
after day parades the streets with a barrel-organ and a monkey,--the
last unhappily indisposed at present,--listening to the degrading
jokes of ribald boys and depraved men,--you are quite correct, Sir, in
stating that she is not my daughter. On the contrary, she is the
daughter of an Hungarian nobleman who had the misfortune to incur my
displeasure. I had a son, crooked spawn of a Christian!--a son, not
like you, cankered, gnarled stump of life that you are,--but a youth
tall and fair and noble in aspect, as became a child of one whose
lineage makes Pharaoh modern,--a youth whose foot in the dance was as
swift and beautiful to look at as the golden sandals of the sun when
he dances upon the sea in summer. This youth was virtuous and good;
and being of good race, and dwelling in a country where his rank,
gypsy as he was, was recognized, he mixed with the proudest of the
land. One day he fell in with this accursed Hungarian, a fierce
drinker of that Devil's blood called brandy. My child until that hour
had avoided this bane of our race. Generous wine he drank, because the
soul of the sun our ancestor palpitated in its purple waves. But
brandy, which is fallen and accursed wine, as devils are fallen and
accursed angels, had never crossed his lips, until in an evil hour he
was reduced by this Christian hog, and from that day forth his life
was one fiery debauch, which set only in the black waves of death. I
vowed vengeance on the destroyer of my child, and I kept my word. I
have destroyed his child,--not compassed her death, but blighted her
life, steeped her in misery and poverty, and now, thanks to the
thousand devils, I have discovered a new torture for her heart. She
thought to solace her life with a love-episode! Sweet little epicure
that she was! She shall have her little crooked lover, shan't she? Oh,
yes! She shall have him, cold and stark and livid, with that great,
black, heavy hunch, which no back, however broad, can bear, Death,
sitting between his shoulders!"

There was something so awful and demoniac in this entire speech and
the manner in which it was delivered, that it petrified Zonela into a
mere inanimate figure, whose eyes seemed unalterably fixed on the
fierce, cruel face of the Wondersmith. As for Solon, he was paralyzed
in the grasp of his foe. He heard, but could not reply. His large
eyes, dilated with horror to far beyond their ordinary size, expressed
unutterable agony.

The last sentence had hardly been hissed out by the gypsy when he took
from his pocket a long, thin coil of whipcord, which he entangled in a
complicated mesh around the cripple's body. It was not the ordinary
binding of a prisoner. The slender lash passed and repassed in a
thousand intricate folds over the powerless limbs of the poor
humpback. When the operation was completed, he looked as if he had
been sewed from head to foot in some singularly ingenious species of

"Now, my pretty lop-sided little lover," laughed Herr Hippe, flinging
Solon over his shoulder, as a fisherman might fling a net-full of
fish, "we will proceed to put you into your little cage until your
little coffin is quite ready. Meanwhile we will lock up your darling
beggar-girl to mourn over your untimely end."

So saying, he stepped from the room with his captive, and securely
locked the door behind him.

When he had disappeared, the frozen Zonela thawed, and with a shriek
of anguish flung herself on the inanimate body of Furbelow.


IT was New Year's Eve, and eleven o'clock at night. All over this
great land, and in every great city in the land, curly heads were
lying on white pillows, dreaming of the coming of the generous Santa
Claus. Innumerable stockings hung by countless bedsides. Visions of
beautiful toys, passing in splendid pageantry through myriads of dimly
lit dormitories, made millions of little hearts palpitate in sleep.
Ah! what heavenly toys those were that the children of this soil
beheld, that mystic night, in their dreams! Painted cars with
orchestral wheels, making music more delicious than the roll of
planets. Agile men of cylindrical figure, who sprang unexpectedly out
of meek-looking boxes, with a supernatural fierceness in their crimson
cheeks and fur-whiskers. Herds of marvellous sheep, with fleeces as
impossible as the one that Jason sailed after; animals entirely
indifferent to grass and water and "rot" and "ticks." Horses spotted
with an astounding regularity, and furnished with the most ingenious
methods of locomotion. Slender foreigners, attired in painfully short
tunics, whose existence passed in continually turning heels over head
down a steep flight of steps, at the bottom of which they lay in an
exhausted condition with dislocated limbs, until they were restored to
their former elevation, when they went at it again as if nothing had
happened. Stately swans, that seemed to have a touch of the ostrich in
them; for they swam continually after a piece of iron which was held
before them, as if consumed with a ferruginous hunger. Whole farm-
yards of roosters, whose tails curled the wrong way,--a slight defect,
that was, however, amply atoned for by the size and brilliancy of
their scarlet combs, which, it would appear, Providence had intended
for pen-wipers. Pears, that, when applied to youthful lips, gave forth
sweet and inspiring sounds. Regiments of soldiers, that performed
neat, but limited evolutions on cross-jointed contractile battle-
fields. All these things, idealized, transfigured, and illuminated by
the powers and atmosphere and colored lamps of Dreamland, did the
millions of dear sleeping children behold, the night of the New Year's
Eve of which I speak.

It was on this night, when Time was preparing to shed his skin and
come out young and golden and glossy as ever,--when, in the vast
chambers of the universe, silent and infallible preparations were
making for the wonderful birth of the coming year,--when mystic dews
were secreted for his baptism, and mystic instruments were tuned in
space to welcome him,--it was at this holy and solemn hour that the
Wondersmith and his three gypsy companions sat in close conclave in
the little parlor before mentioned.

There was a fire roaring in the grate. On a table, nearly in the
centre of the room, stood a huge decanter of Port wine, that glowed in
the blaze which lit the chamber like a flask of crimson fire. On every
side, piled in heaps, inanimate, but scowling with the same old
wondrous scowl, lay myriads of the manikins, all clutching in their
wooden hands their tiny weapons. The Wondersmith held in one hand a
small silver bowl filled with a green, glutinous substance, which he
was delicately applying, with the aid of a camel's-hair brush, to the
tips of tiny swords and daggers. A horrible smile wandered over his
sallow face,--a smile as unwholesome in appearance as the sickly light
that plays above reeking graveyards.

"Let us drink great draughts, brothers," he cried, leaving off his
strange anointment for a while, to lift a great glass, filled with
sparkling liquor, to his lips. "Let us drink to our approaching
triumph. Let us drink to the great poison, Macousha. Subtle seed of
Death,--swift hurricane that sweeps away Life,--vast hammer that
crushes brain and heart and artery with its resistless weight,--I
drink to it."

"It is a noble decoction, Duke Balthazar," said the old fortune-teller
and mid-wife, Madame Filomel, nodding in her chair as she swallowed
her wine in great gulps. "Where did you obtain it?"

"It is made," said the Wondersmith, swallowing another great goblet-
full of wine ere he replied, "in the wild woods of Guiana, in silence
and in mystery. But one tribe of Indians, the Macoushi Indians, know
the secret. It is simmered over fires built of strange woods, and the
maker of it dies in the making. The place, for a mile around the spot
where it is fabricated, is shunned as accursed. Devils hover over the
pot in which it stews; and the birds of the air, scenting the smallest
breath of its vapor from far away, drop to earth with paralyzed wings,
cold and dead."

"It kills, then, fast?" asked Kerplonne, the artificial eyemaker,--his
own eyes gleaming, under the influence of the wine, with a sinister
lustre, as if they had been fresh from the factory, and were yet
untarnished by use.

"Kills?" echoed the Wondersmith, derisively; "it is swifter than
thunderbolts, stronger than lightning. But you shall see it proved
before we let forth our army on the city accursed. You shall see a
wretch die, as if smitten by a falling fragment of the sun."

"What? Do you mean Solon?" asked Oaksmith and the fortune-teller

"Ah! you mean the young man who makes the commerce with books?" echoed
Kerplonne. "It is well. His agonies will instruct us."

"Yes! Solon," answered Hippe, with a savage accent. "I hate him, and
he shall die this horrid death. Ah! how the little fellows will leap
upon him, when I bring him in, bound and helpless, and give their
beautiful wicked souls to them! How they will pierce him in ten
thousand spots with their poisoned weapons, until his skin turns blue
and violet and crimson, and his form swells with the venom,--until his
hump is lost in shapeless flesh! He hears what I say, every word of
it. He is in the closet next door, and is listening. How comfortable
he feels! How the sweat of terror rolls on his brow! How he tries to
loosen his bonds, and curses all earth and heaven when he finds that
he cannot! Ho! ho! Handsome lover of Zonela, will she kiss you when
you are livid and swollen? Brothers, let us drink again,--drink
always. Here, Oaksmith, take these brushes,--and you, Filomel,--and
finish the anointing of these swords. This wine is grand. This poison
is grand. It is fine to have good wine to drink, and good poison to
kill with; is it not?" and, with flushed face and rolling eyes, the
Wondersmith continued to drink and use his brush alternately.

The others hastened to follow his example. It was a horrible scene:
those four wicked faces; those myriads of tiny faces, just as wicked;
the certain unearthly air that pervaded the apartment; the red,
unwholesome glare cast by the fire; the wild and reckless way in which
the weird company drank the red-illumined wine.

The anointing of the swords went on rapidly, and the wine went as
rapidly down the throats of the four poisoners. Their faces grew more
and more inflamed each instant; their eyes shone like rolling
fireballs; their hair was moist and dishevelled. The old fortune-
teller rocked to and fro in her chair, like those legless plaster
figures that sway upon convex loaded bottoms. All four began to mutter
incoherent sentences, and babble unintelligible wickednesses. Still
the anointing of the swords went on.

"I see the faces of millions of young corpses," babbled Herr Hippe,
gazing, with swimming eyes, into the silver bowl that contained the
Macousha poison,--"all young, all Christians,--and the little fellows
dancing, dancing, and stabbing, stabbing. Filomel, Filomel, I say!"

"Well, Grand Duke," snored the old woman, giving a violent lurch.

"Where's the bottle of souls?"

"In my right-hand pocket, Herr Hippe"; and she felt, so as to assure
herself that it was there. She half drew out the black bottle, before
described in this narrative, and let it slide again into her pocket,--
let it slide again, but it did not completely regain its former place.
Caught by some accident, it hung half out, swaying over the edge of
the pocket, as the fat midwife rolled backwards and forwards in her
drunken efforts at equilibrium.

"All right," said Herr Hippe, "perfectly right! Let's drink."

He reached out his hand for his glass, and, with a dull sigh, dropped
on the table, in the instantaneous slumber of intoxication. Oaksmith
soon fell back in his chair, breathing heavily. Kerplonne followed.
And the heavy, stertorous breathing of Filomel told that she slumbered
also; but still her chair retained its rocking motion, and still the
bottle of souls balanced itself on the edge of her pocket.


Sure enough, Solon heard every word of the fiendish talk of the
Wondersmith. For how many days he had been shut up, bound in the
terrible net, in that dark closet, he did not know; but now he felt
that his last hour was come. His little strength was completely worn
out in efforts to disentangle himself. Once a day a door opened, and
Herr Hippe placed a crust of bread and a cup of water within his
reach. On this meagre fare he had subsisted. It was a hard life; but,
bad as it was, it was better than the horrible death that menaced him.
His brain reeled with terror at the prospect of it. Then, where was
Zonela? Why did she not come to his rescue? But she was, perhaps,
dead. The darkness, too, appalled him. A faint light, when the moon
was bright, came at night through a chink far up in the wall; and the
only other hole in the chamber was an aperture through which, at some
former time, a stove-pipe had been passed. Even if he were free, there
would have been small hope of escape; but, laced as it were in a
network of steel, what was to be done? He groaned and writhed upon the
floor, and tore at the boards with his hands, which were free from the
wrists down. All else was as solidly laced up as an Indian papoose.
Nothing but pride kept him from shrieking aloud, when, on the night of
New Year's Eve, he heard the fiendish Hippe recite the programme of
his murder.

While he was thus wailing and gnashing his teeth in darkness and
torture, he heard a faint noise above his head. Then something seemed
to leap from the ceiling and alight softly on the floor. He shuddered
with terror. Was it some new torture of the Wondersmith's invention?
The next moment, he felt some small animal crawling over his body, and
a soft, silky paw was pushed timidly across his face. His heart leaped
with joy.

"It is Furbelow!" he cried. "Zonela has sent him. He came through the
stove-pipe hole."

It was Furbelow, indeed, restored to life by Zonela's care, and who
had come down a narrow tube, that no human being could have threaded,
to console the poor captive. The monkey nestled closely into the
hunchback's bosom, and, as he did so, Solon felt something cold and
hard hanging from his neck. He touched it. It was sharp. By the dim
light that struggled through the aperture high up in the wall, he
discovered a knife, suspended by a bit of cord. Ah! how the blood came
rushing through the veins that crossed over and through his heart,
when life and liberty came to him in this bit of rusty steel! With his
manacled hands he loosened the heaven-sent weapon; a few cuts were
rapidly made in the cunning network of cord that enveloped his limbs,
and in a few seconds he was free!--cramped and faint with hunger, but
free!--free to move, to use the limbs that God had given him for his
preservation,--free to fight,--to die fighting, perhaps,--but still to
die free. He ran to the door. The bolt was a weak one, for the
Wondersmith had calculated more surely on his prison of cords than on
any jail of stone,--and more; and with a few efforts the door opened.
He went cautiously out into the darkness, with Furbelow perched on his
shoulder, pressing his cold muzzle against his cheek. He had made but
a few steps when a trembling hand was put into his, and in another
moment Zonela's palpitating heart was pressed against his own. One
long kiss, an embrace, a few whispered words, and the hunchback and
the girl stole softly towards the door of the chamber in which the
four gypsies slept. All seemed still; nothing but the hard breathing
of the sleepers, and the monotonous rocking of Madame Filomel's chair
broke the silence. Solon stooped down and put his eye to the keyhole,
through which a red bar of light streamed into the entry. As he did
so, his foot crushed some brittle substance that lay just outside the
door; at the same moment a howl of agony was heard to issue from the
room within. Solon started; nor did he know that at that instant he
had crushed into dust Monsieur Kerplonne's supernumerary eye, and the
owner, though wrapt in a drunken sleep, felt the pang quiver through
his brain.

While Solon peeped through the keyhole, all in the room was
motionless. He had not gazed, however, for many seconds, when the
chair of the fortune-teller gave a sudden lurch, and the black bottle,
already hanging half out of her wide pocket, slipped entirely from its
resting-place, and, falling heavily to the ground, shivered into

Then took place an astonishing spectacle. The myriads of armed dolls,
that lay in piles about the room, became suddenly imbued with motion.
They stood up straight, their tiny limbs moved, their black eyes
flashed with wicked purposes, their thread-like swords gleamed as they
waved them to and fro. The villanous souls imprisoned in the bottle
began to work within them. Like the Liliputians, when they found the
giant Gulliver asleep, they scaled in swarms the burly sides of the
four sleeping gypsies. At every step they took, they drove their thin
swords and quivering daggers into the flesh of the drunken authors of
their being. To stab and kill was their mission, and they stabbed and
killed with incredible fury. They clustered on the Wondersmith's
sallow cheeks and sinewy throat, piercing every portion with their
diminutive poisoned blades. Filomel's fat carcass was alive with them.
They blackened the spare body of Monsieur Kerplonne. They covered
Oaksmith's huge form like a cluster of insects.

Overcome completely with the fumes of wine, these tiny wounds did not
for a few moments awaken the sleeping victims. But the swift and
deadly poison Macousha, with which the weapons had been so fiendishly
anointed, began to work. Herr Hippe, stung into sudden life, leaped to
his feet, with a dwarf army clinging to his clothes and his hands,--
always stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. For an instant, a look of stupid
bewilderment clouded his face; then the horrible truth burst upon him.
He gave a shriek like that which a horse utters when he finds himself
fettered and surrounded by fire,--a shriek that curdled the air for
miles and miles.

"Oaksmith! Kerplonne! Filomel! Awake! awake! We are lost! The souls
have got loose! We are dead! poisoned! Oh, accursed ones! Oh, demons,
ye are slaying me! Ah! fiends of Hell!"

Aroused by these frightful howls, the three gypsies sprang also to
their feet, to find themselves stung to death by the manikins. They
raved, they shrieked, they swore. They staggered round the chamber.
Blinded in the eyes by the ever-stabbing weapons,--with the poison
already burning in their veins like red-hot lead,--their forms
swelling and discoloring visibly every moment,--their howls and
attitudes and furious gestures made the scene look like a chamber in

Maddened beyond endurance, the Wondersmith, half-blind and choking
with the venom that had congested all the blood-vessels of his body,
seized dozens of the manikins and dashed them into the fire, trampling
them down with his feet.

"Ye shall die too, if I die," he cried, with a roar like that of a
tiger. "Ye shall burn, if I burn. I gave ye life,--I give ye death.
Down!--down!--burn!--flame! Fiends that ye are, to slay us! Help me,
brothers! Before we die, let us have our revenge!"

On this, the other gypsies, themselves maddened by approaching death,
began hurling manikins, by handfuls, into the fire. The little
creatures, being wooden of body, quickly caught the flames, and an
awful struggle for life took place in miniature in the grate. Some of
them escaped from between the bars and ran about the room, blazing,
writhing in agony, and igniting the curtains and other draperies that
hung around. Others fought and stabbed one another in the very core of
the fire, like combating salamanders. Meantime, the motions of the
gypsies grew more languid and slow, and their curses were uttered in
choked guttural tones. The faces of all four were spotted with red and
green and violet, like so many egg-plants. Their bodies were swollen
to a frightful size, and at last they dropped on the floor, like over-
ripe fruit shaken from the boughs by the winds of autumn.

The chamber was now a sheet of fire. The flames roared round and
round, as if seeking for escape, licking every projecting cornice and
sill with greedy tongues, as the serpent licks his prey before he
swallows it. A hot, putrid breath came through the keyhole and smote
Solon and Zonela like a wind of death. They clasped each other's hands
with a moan of terror, and fled from the house.

The next morning, when the young Year was just unclosing its eyes, and
the happy children all over the great city were peeping from their
beds into the myriads of stockings hanging near by, the blue skies of
heaven shone through a black network of stone and charred rafters.
These were all that remained of the habitation of Herr Hippe, the


This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia