Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 64 No. 396 October 1848
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On Huerfano or Orphan Creek, so called from an isolated hutte which stands on a prairie near the stream, our party fell in with a village of Yutah Indians, at that time hostile to the whites. Both parties were preparing for battle, when Killbuck, who spoke the language, went forward with signs of peace, and after a talk with several chiefs, entered into an armistice, each party agreeing not to molest the other. After trading for a few deer-skins which the Yutahs are celebrated for dressing delicately fine, the trappers moved hastily on out of such dangerous company, and camped under the mountain on Oak Creek, where they forted in a strong position, and constructed a corral in which to secure their animals at night. At this point is a tolerable pass through the mountains, where a break occurs in the range, whence they gradually decrease in magnitude until they meet the sierras of Mexico, which connect the two mighty chains of the Andes and the Rocky Mountains. From the summit of the dividing ridge, to the eastward, a view is had of the vast sea of prairie which stretches away from the base of the mountains, in dreary barrenness, for nearly a thousand miles, until it meets the fertile valley of the great Missouri. Over this boundless expanse, nothing breaks the uninterrupted solitude of the view. Not a tree or atom of foliage relieves the eye; for the lines of scattered timber which belt the streams running from the mountains, are lost in the shadow of their stupendous height, and beyond this nothing is seen but the bare surface of the rolling prairie. In no other part of the chain are the grand characteristics of the Far West more strikingly displayed than from this pass. The mountains here rise, on the eastern side, abruptly from the plain, and the view over the great prairies is not therefore obstructed by intervening ridges. To the westward the eye sweeps over the broken spurs which stretch from the main range in every direction; whilst distant peaks, for the most part snow-covered, are seen at intervals rising isolated above the range. On all sides the scene is wild and dismal.
Crossing by this pass, the trappers followed the Yutah trail over a plain, skirting a pine-covered ridge, in which countless herds of antelope, tame as sheep, were pasturing. Numerous creeks intersect it, well timbered with oak, pine, and cedar, and well stocked with game of all kinds. On the eleventh day from leaving the Huerfano, they struck the Taos valley settlement on Arroyo Hondo, and pushed on at once to the village of Fernandez – sometimes, but improperly, called Taos. As the dashing band clattered through the village, the dark eyes of the reboso-wrapped muchachas peered from the doors of the adobe houses, each mouth armed with cigarito, which was at intervals removed to allow utterance to the salutation to each hunter as he trotted past of Adios, Americanos, – "Welcome to Fernandez!" and then they hurried off to prepare for the fandango, which invariably followed the advent of the mountaineers. The men, however, seemed scarcely so well pleased; but leaned sulkingly against the walls, their sarapes turned over the left shoulder, and concealing the lower part of the face, the hand appearing from its upper folds only to remove the eternal cigarro from their lips. They, from under their broad-brimmed sombreros, scowled with little affection upon the stalwart hunters, who clattered past them, scarcely deigning to glance at the sullen Peládos, but paying incomprehensible compliments to the buxom wenches who smiled at them from the doors. Thus exchanging salutations, they rode up to the house of an old mountaineer, who had long been settled here with a New Mexican wife, and who was the recognised entertainer of the hunters when they visited Taos valley, receiving in exchange such peltry as they brought with them.
A LEGEND FROM ANTWERP
I scarcely know why, upon my last passage through Antwerp, I took up my quarters at the Park Hotel, instead of alighting, according to my previous custom, at the sign of the blessed Saint Anthony. The change was perhaps owing to my hackney coachman, who, seeing me fagged and bewildered by a weary jolting on the worst of European railroads, affected to mistake my directions – a misunderstanding that possibly resulted from his good understanding with mine host of the "Park." Be that as it may, my baggage, before I could say nay, was in the embraces of a cloud of waiters, who forthwith disappeared in the recesses of the inn, whither I was fain to follow. It was a bright May day, and I felt no way dissatisfied with the change of hostelry when, on looking from the window of my exquisitely clean Flemish bedroom, I saw the cheerful boulevard crowded with comely damsels and uniformed idlers, and the spring foliage of the lime-trees fluttering freshly in the sunshine. And having picked up the commencement of a furious appetite during my rickety ride from Herbesthal, I replied by a particularly willing affirmative to the inquiry of a spruce waiter, whether Monsieur would be pleased to dine at the table-d'hôte, at the early hour of three o'clock.
The excellent dinner of the Park Hotel was served up that day to unusually few guests; so at least it appeared to one accustomed to the numerous daily congregations at the public tables of France and Germany. Twelve persons surrounded the board, or, I should rather say, took post in two opposite rows at one extremity of the long dresser-like table, whose capacity of accommodating six times the number was tacit evidence that the inn was not wont to reckon its diners by the single dozen. Of these twelve guests, three or four were of the class commis-voyageur – Anglicé, bagmen – whose talk, being as usual confined to the rail and the road, their grisettes and their samples, I did my best not to hear. There was a French singer, then starring at the Antwerp theatre; a plump, taciturn, respectable-looking man, in blue spectacles and a loose coat, whom I had difficulty in recognising that evening when I saw him trip the boards in the character of the gay Count Almaviva. Next to the man of notes sat a thin, sunburned, middle-aged German, who informed us, in the course of conversation, that after spending twenty years on a cochineal farm in Mexico, he was on his way back to his native land, to pass the latter portion of his life in the tranquil enjoyment of pipe, beer, and competency, in the shadow of his village steeple, and possibly – although of this he said nothing – in the peaceful companionship of a placid, stocking-knitting, child-bearing Frau. There was another German at table, a coarse, big-headed baron from Swabia, who ate like a pig, used his fork as a toothpick, and indulged, to a most disgusting extent, in the baronial and peculiarly Teutonic amusement of hawking. These persons were all foreigners; but the remainder of the party, myself excepted, consisted of natives, belonging to the better class of Antwerp burghers. With one of these, next to whom I sat, I got into conversation; and finding him courteous, intelligent, and good-humoured, I was glad to detain him after dinner over the best bottle of Bordeaux the "Park" cellars could produce. This opened his heart, and he volunteered to act as my cicerone through Antwerp. Although I had seen, upon former visits, all the "lions" of the place, it had been under the guidance of those odious animals called valets-de-place; and I now gladly availed myself of my new friend's offer, and walked out to the citadel. He had lived in Antwerp all his life; consequently had been there during the siege, in reminiscences of whose incidents and episodes he abounded – so much so, that the invalid soldier who exhibits the fortress was kind enough to spare us his monotonous elucidations, and, whilst opening gates, to keep his mouth closed. I lingered willingly on the scene of that unjust aggression and gallant defence, and saw every thing worth seeing, including the identical arm-chair in which, as the story goes, old Chassé, gouty as he was brave, sat and smoked and gave his orders, unruffled by the thunder of French batteries and the storm of French shot. Daylight began to fade as we re-entered the town, and passed, at my request, through some of its older portions, where I begged my Antwerper to point out to me any houses of particular antiquity, or notable as the residence of remarkable persons. He showed me the dwellings of more than one of those great artists of whom Flanders is so justly proud; also several mansions of Spanish grandees, dating from the days of Alva's rule, and built in Spanish style, with abundant and massive balconies, and the patio, or inner court. At last I thought of returning to my hotel, and was meditating an invitation to supper to my obliging acquaintance, when, as we passed through a narrow and sequestered street, he suddenly stood still.
"See there!" he said; "that house, although of great age, has apparently little to distinguish it from others, equally ancient, scattered through Antwerp; nevertheless, to us Flemings it possesses powerful and peculiar interest. And truly no residence of painter or grandee could tell stranger tales, were its walls to speak all that has passed within them."
I looked curiously at the house, but could see nothing remarkable about it, except that it was visibly very old – to all appearance one of the oldest in the town. It was of moderate dimensions, built of mingled stone and brick, to which time and damp had given one general tint of dingy greenish black. Its door was low, and of unusual strength; its windows were narrow, and defended here and there by iron bars. Formerly these bars had been much more numerous, but many had been sawn off close to the stone-work, in which their extremities still remained deeply set. A shallow niche in the wall contained one of those rudely-carved images of the Virgin and Child, once deemed an indispensable appendage to Antwerp houses as a protection against evil spirits, and especially against one, – a sort of municipal brownie, the scarecrow of the honest and credulous burgesses. The features of the images, never very delicately chiselled, were obtuse and scarcely distinguishable with age and dirt, but vestiges of blue and crimson were still discernible on the Virgin's garments. I observed that the house had the appearance of having once stood alone – perhaps in the middle of a garden, or, more probably, of a paved court – for it receded some yards from the line of street, and the open plot in its front was paved with blocks of stone, worn, here and there, by frequent treading, whilst on either hand a house of modern architecture filled up a space originally left between the centre building and another of corresponding date. There being nothing else out of the common in the exterior of the house, I concluded that whatever singularity pertained to it was to be sought in its interior or its inmates, and I looked to my companion for an explanation.
"That house," he said, replying to my mute inquiry, "was for centuries the dwelling of the Antwerp executioner."
I started at the word. The strange customs, laws, and traditions connected with the last minister of the law, during the less civilised ages of the Christian era, had always exercised upon my mind a peculiar fascination. With fresh and strong interest I gazed at the building, and for a minute I almost fancied its front became transparent, disclosing to me the horrid instruments of death and torture, the grisly rack, the keen broad axe and glittering sword, the halter and the thongs; whilst in another compartment the headsman and his aids, sad, sullen men, in hose and jerkins of a blood-red hue, sat moodily at their evening meal. The momentary hallucination was quickly dispelled. The door opened, and a tall and comely damsel, whose dark eyes, and skin of a slightly olive hue, hinted at the possible partiality of some gay ancestress for a Spanish cavalier, issued forth, pitcher on head, and carolling a lively air, to fetch water from the fountain. The smiling, cheerful reality incontinently chased away the dismal vision.
"Evidently," said I, "it is now no hangman's abode. Such fresh flowers bloom not in the shade of the gallows-tree: the walls of the doomster's dwelling would refuse to echo ditties so joyous."
"Perhaps," said my companion, with a smile. "And yet a tale is told that would partly refute one of your propositions."
"A tale!" cried I, catching at the word – "about what?"
"About some former occupants of the house. A wild old story, but a true one, as I believe."
"My dear sir!" I exclaimed, "did I not fear encroaching on your kindness, I would beg you to grant me the evening, as you have already given me the afternoon, and, after supping with me at the 'Park,' to relate the tradition in question."
"Willingly," said the Antwerper, good-humouredly, "were I not pledged to the theatre to-night. We do not often catch such a nightingale as this Frenchman, and when we do, we make the most of him. But the legend is in print; I have the book, and will lend it you with pleasure."
"A thousand thanks," said I, rather cooled, however, on the subject, by the discovery that the tale of wonder I anticipated was written instead of oral.
"By the bye," said my companion, when we had walked a few yards in silence, "are you acquainted with Flemish?"
"The patois of the country?" said I, smiling, perhaps a little contemptuously – "Perfectly unacquainted."
"Then you cannot read the legend, for it is printed in that language?"
"In what language?"
"In Flemish."
If he had said in Laputan, I should hardly have been more surprised.
"I thought the patois was spoken only by the lower orders, and that to the reading-classes it was as unintelligible as myself."
"It is not a patois, but a language," replied the Fleming, gravely. "The general use of French is a modern innovation in our country, and no good one either. Flemish is the original language of the land; and not only is it much more widely known than you imagine, but several very eminent writers, both of prose and poetry, compose in no other tongue, preferring it far before the French, on account of its greater sweetness and power."
I began to feel as much ashamed of my non-acquaintance with the Flemish school of literature, as if I had been convicted of profound ignorance of a Flemish school of painting. Of course, I made allowance for a little patriotic exaggeration, when accepting my friend's account of this host of poets and prosaists, who pass their lives in writing a language which scarce any besides themselves understand. But after all, thought I, why should there not be Flemish writers, just as writers are found in other tongues, equally unknown to the world at large? Did I not myself, when in Southern France, get shaved, clipped, and trimmed, in the prune-producing town of Agen, by a literary barber, hight Jessamine, who had written volume upon volume of poems in that Gascon dialect which, according to M. Alexandre Dumas, and other of the highest French literary authorities, is entirely comprised in the words Cadedis, Mordious, Capdedious, Parfandious, and eight or ten other expletives, equally profane and energetic, – just as, according to some funny Frenchman, the essence of the English tongue resides in a favourite anti-ocular malediction? At any rate, it was neither civil nor grateful to let my kind companion suspect contempt on my part for what he chose to consider his national tongue. So I bowed humbly, and expressed my deep regret that a defective education left it out of my power to read the legend with which I had desired to become acquainted. The contrite tone of this confession fully regained me any ground I had lost in my Fleming's good opinion. He mused for a minute before again breaking silence.
"Are you bent upon leaving Antwerp to-morrow?"
"It is my present intention."
"Change it. Come to the opera to-night, breakfast with me in the morning, and I will read you the tale between coffee and chasse."
"I have already had the painful honour of informing you that my godfathers, reckless of baptismal promises, have suffered me to attain my present mature age in profound ignorance of the Flemish tongue."
The Fleming looked at me with the half-pleased half-angry air of a dog pelted with marrow-bones, and as if he smoked I was roasting him. I loaded my countenance with a double charge of gravity.
"It is fortunate," he said, "that my sponsors have been less negligent towards me with respect to French, in which language, if you will take patience with slow reading, I doubt not of conveying to you the substance, and in some degree the style of the tale. Nay, no thanks," added he, forestalling my acknowledgments. "My motives are more selfish than you think. I want to convince you that if the Flemish tongue is little known, there are Flemish writers well worth the knowing."
There was no resisting such amiable pertinacity. I put off my journey, breakfasted with my Fleming, and after breakfast – none of your tea and toast business, but a real good déjeuner-à-la-fourchette, a dinner less the soup – he produced his Flemish volume, and read me in French the promised story. Seemingly unused to this off-hand style of translation, and patriotically anxious to do full justice to the original, he read so slowly that I had time to put down the narrative nearly verbatim. As it is more than probable that none of the readers of Maga, numberless though they be as the pebbles upon ocean's strand, are acquainted with the Flemish, I might have arrogated to myself, with every chance of impunity, the invention of the tale I now place before them. But it would go against conscience thus to rob the poor; and therefore have I taken the trouble to write these few pages, to explain the source whence I derive the veracious legend of
The Doomster's Firstborn
CHAP. I – THE TAVERN
The eve of Whitsuntide, in the year of grace 1507, was unusually dark and dismal in the good city of Antwerp, over which a dense and impenetrable canopy of cloud had spread and settled down. It was owing, doubtless, to this unpleasant aspect of the weather that at nine o'clock, an hour at which few of the inhabitants were in bed, profound silence reigned in the streets, broken only by the occasional dull clang of a church bell, and by the melancholy dripping of the water which a small dense noiseless rain made to stream from the eaves and gutters. Heedless of the rain and of the raw fog from the Scheldt, a man stood motionless and absorbed in thought upon one of the deserted squares. His back was against a tree, his arms were folded on his breast, his eyes were wide open; although evidently awake, he had the appearance of one in a dream. From time to time unintelligible but energetic words escaped his lips, and his features assumed an expression of extraordinary wildness; then a deep and painful sigh burst from his breast, or a sound, half groan, half gasping, like that with which an over-burthened porter throws down his load. At times, too, a smile passed across his face – no sign of joy, or laugh extorted by jovial or pleasant thoughts, but the bitter smile of agony and despair, more afflicting to behold than a flood of tears. He smiled, certainly, but whilst his countenance yet wore the deceitful sign of joy, he bit his lips till they bled, and his hand, thrust within his doublet, dug its nails into his breast. Thrice wretched was this unhappy man: for him the pains of purgatory had no new terrors, for already, during twenty years, he had felt its direst torments in his heart. To him the pleasant earth had been a valley of tears, an abode of bitter sorrow. When his mother bore him, and his first cry broke upon her ear, she pressed no kiss of welcome on his cheek. It was no gush of tenderness and maternal joy that brought tears to her eyes, when she knew it was a man-child she had brought forth. His father felt no pride in the growth and beauty of his first and only son; often he wept over him and prayed for his death, as though the child had been the offspring of some foul and accursed sin. And when the infant grew – although fed with his mother's tears rather than with her milk – into a comely boy, and ventured forth to mingle in the sports of others of his age, he was scoffed, tormented, and despised, as though his face were the face of a devil. Yet was he so patient and gentle, that none ever saw frown on his brow, or the flush of anger on his features; only his father knew what bitter melancholy lurked in the heart of his son.
Now the child had become a man. Despite his sufferings, his body had grown into strength and vigour. He felt a craving after society, a burning desire for the sympathy and respect of his fellows. But the hatred and persecution that had made his youth wretched, clave to him in manhood, – scoff and scorn were his portion wheresoever he showed himself; and if he failed instantly to retire, with servile mien and prayer for pity, he was driven forth, like a dog, with kick and cuff. For him there was no justice in the wide world, – submission was his lot, God his only comforter.
Such had been the life of the man who now leaned against the poplar tree, a prey to the tortures of despair. Yet that man's heart was formed for tenderness and love, his mind was intelligent, his countenance not without nobility, his gait proud and manly, his voice earnest and persuasive. At this moment he lifted it up to heaven, towards which he passionately extended his arms.
"Great God!" he cried, "since thy holy will created me to suffer, grant me also strength to endure my tortures! My heart burns! my senses leave me! Protect me, O Lord, from despair and madness! Preserve to me the consolatory belief in thy goodness and justice; for my heart is rent with the agonies of doubt!"
His voice grew weaker and subsided into an inarticulate murmur. Suddenly raising his head and starting from his leaning posture, he hurried across the square and through two or three streets, as though endeavouring to escape reflection by rapidity of motion. Then his pace slackened and grew irregular, and he occasionally stood still, like one who, absorbed in weighty thoughts, unconsciously pauses, the better to indulge them. On a sudden a shrill harsh sound broke from his lips; they were parched with thirst and fever.
"I must drink," he cried; "I am choked by this burning thirst."
There were many taverns in that street, and he approached the windows of several, from the crevices of whose shutters a bright light streamed; but he entered not, and still passed on, for in every house he heard men's voices, and that sufficed to drive him away. In St Jan's Street he paused somewhat longer before a public-house, and listened attentively at all the windows. A transient gleam of satisfaction lighted up his countenance.
"Ha!" he said to himself, "no one is there. I can drink then!"
And lifting the latch, he entered. Hearing nothing, he expected to find no one; but how great was his disappointment, when he saw a number of persons sitting at a long table with bottles and beer-cans before them. The silence that had deceived him was caused by the profound attention given to one of the party, who enacted the juggler for his companions' amusement, and who was busied, when the stranger listened at the window, in certain mysterious preparations for a new trick. All eyes were fixed upon his fingers, in a vain endeavour to detect the legerdemain.
The thirsty youth started at the sight of all these men, and took a step backwards as if to leave the house, but observing several heads turned toward him with curious looks, and fearing such sudden departure might prove a signal for his pursuit and persecution, he approached the bar and asked the landlady for a can of beer. The woman cast a suspicious look at her new customer, and sought to distinguish his features beneath the broad slouched brim of his hat; but, observing this, he sank his head still more upon his breast to escape her observation. But whilst she descended the cellar stairs to fetch him the beer, the whole of the guests fixed their eyes upon him with no friendly expression. Then they laid their heads together and whispered, and made indignant gestures, and one of them in particular appeared inflamed with anger, and looked furiously at the stranger, as though he would fain have fallen foul of him. The stranger, his face averted, waited silently for his beer; but he trembled with anxiety and apprehension. The landlady made unusual haste, and handed the full can to the object of her curiosity, who drank with hurried eagerness, and half-emptied the vessel at a draught; then, placing it upon the bar, he gave a small coin in payment. But whilst the woman sought for change, one of the guests strode across the room, took up the can, and threw the remaining beer in the young man's face.