The Wondersmith...............................................................................................................................................1

FitzJames O'Brien ..................................................................................................................................1

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

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 ashbarrel

have their meaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker's assistant, to Amelia, the daughter of

the drygoods 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

pockethandkerchief. The bit of orangepeel 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 threeyearold, tattered child, masked with

dirt, who is throwing a brick at another threeyearold, 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 fellowbeings 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

birdshop at one corner, wainscoted with little cages containing linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds,

Minobirds, 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 secondhand bookstall, which looks like a sentrybox

mangled out flat, and which is remarkable for not containing a complete set of any work. There is a small

chink between two ordinarysized 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 junkshops 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 fortuneteller, lives at No. 12 Golosh Street,

second story front, pull the bell on the lefthand side. Next door to Madame is the shop of Herr Hippe,

Herr Hippe's shop is the largest in Golosh Street, and to all appearance is furnished with the smallest stock.

Beyond a few packingcases, 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 burningfluid, 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

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, sallowfaced man stood on a ladder outside the shopentrance, 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 birdfancier, 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

oddvolume bookstall 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 divided.

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 Minobirds 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 woodfire. 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 leadenhued 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

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

Herr Hippe lay luxuriously in his armchair, 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

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, broadshouldered woman, with large, wild, Oriental eyes,

"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 armchair much too narrow

for a person of her proportions, and over the sides of which she bulged like a pudding.

"They are here," said the fortuneteller, drawing a large potbellied black bottle from under her cloak. "Ah! I

"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

"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

And the Wondersmith laughed horribly, while the snaky moustache on his upper lip writhed as if it had truly

"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

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

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 beadlike 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

"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.

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 billiardrooms in Paris. His companion was tall,

longlimbed, 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 sleightofhand tricks

"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

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

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

"Bah! Brandy has been the ruin of our race. It has made us sots and thieves. It shall never cross my

"A little of it is not bad, though, Duke," said the fortuneteller. "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

"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 brandybottle in his hands. Were it not that the plant is a sacred one to

This outburst was delivered with such energy that the three gypsies kept silence. Oaksmith helped himself to

another glass of Port, and the fortuneteller 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

"Excellently, Duke. It is finished. I have it here." And the little Frenchman put his hand into his

breechespocket 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

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

pockethandkerchief; "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 writingdesk 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

And the little man laughed heartily at the success of his stratagem, and polished and fondled the great eye

"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 potbellied 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

"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

"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

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 darkness.

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

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 fortuneteller 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

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 slyfaced 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 them."

"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

twelveyearold horse look like a fouryearold, and who can take you and Herr Hippe up with one

"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 woodenjointed 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 birdfancier, is asleep. I have a key that opens his door. We will let them loose among the birds; it

"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,

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

"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

"Has he left you without light again, Zonela?" asked the shadow, closing the door of the apartment. "I have

"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 lamplight, that

pale, transparent skin, tinged with an underglow 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

"I have been out all day with the organ, and I am so tired, Solon! not sleepy, but weary, I mean. Poor

"I'm weary, too, Zonela; not weary as you are, though, for I sit in my little bookstall 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

"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 have nothing but odd volumes in my stall," answered the humpback. "Perhaps that's right, though; for, after

"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 atticroom, 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

"You want a story, do you?" said the humpback, with a mournful smile. "Well, I'll tell you one. Only what

"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 barrelorgan 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,

"Listen to my story, Zonela, and we'll talk of that afterwards. Let me sit at your feet"; and, having coiled

"There once lived in a great city, just like this city of New York, a poor little hunchback. He kept a

secondhand bookstall, 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 fleetfooted 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 bookvendor gave him enough stock in trade to set up a little stall of his own. Here, in his

bookstall, 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 organgirl, 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."

"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 flourbarrels from the wharves to the

storehouses seemed to emit joyous melodies from their wheels. The hum of the great businessstreets

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

"Oh, that's so nice!" said Zonela, innocently, pinching poor Furbelow, as she spoke, in order to dispel a

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

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

"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 wormeaten 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, longlegged 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 fairyland.' 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 fingertips. '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

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

"A poet?" screamed the little organgirl, "a real poet, who makes verses which every one reads and every

"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

"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?"

"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

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

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 birdshop.

Golosh Street was asleep. Nothing was stirring in that tenebrous slum, save a dog that savagely gnawed a

bone which lay on a dustheap, 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" barroom, 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

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 darklantern 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

It was a little world of birds. On every side, whether in large or small cages, one beheld balls of

variouscolored feathers standing on one leg and breathing peacefully. Lovebirds, 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 ashencolored 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 tollingtube hanging from his head, placid and silent;

these, with a humbler crowd of linnets, canaries, robins, mockingbirds, 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

"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

"Come," said the Wondersmith, producing the box of manikins, "get ready with souls, Madame Filomel. I am

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

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

Oaksmith turned up his coatcuffs, 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

"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

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

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 Minobird, who now stood perched on his crossbar, 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 Minobird, who sat in the dusk in a similar cage, also attentively

watching the Wondersmith. These Minobirds, I may remark, in passing, have a singular aptitude for

"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 Minobird; "but I know what you'll get, old

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

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 lovebirds 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 mockingbird lay on his back, kicking spasmodically, in the last agonies, with a tiny swordthrust

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 deathstruggles 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 latticework 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 shouldertips 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 Minobirds were dead.

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

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 beforementioned 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 doublebarrelled 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 drivingglove, and sent him whizzing

This vengeance which Herr Hippe executed upon Furbelow seemed to have operated as a sort of

escapevalve, 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

"My name is Solon," answered the fearless head of the hunchback, while the frail, cowardly body shivered

"So you come to visit my daughter in the nighttime, when I am away?" continued the Wondersmith, with a

sneering tone that dropped from his snakewreathed 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,

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 superincumbent 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

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

"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

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,

"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 barrelorgan 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 loveepisode! 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,

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

"Now, my pretty lopsided little lover," laughed Herr Hippe, flinging Solon over his shoulder, as a fisherman

might fling a netfull 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 beggargirl 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

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 meeklooking boxes, with a supernatural fierceness in their crimson cheeks and

furwhiskers. 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 farmyards 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 penwipers. Pears, that, when applied to

youthful lips, gave forth sweet and inspiring sounds. Regiments of soldiers, that performed neat, but limited

evolutions on crossjointed contractile battlefields. All these things, idealized, transfigured, and illuminated

by the powers and atmosphere and colored lamps of Dreamland, did the millions of dear sleeping children

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'shair brush, to the

tips of tiny swords and daggers. A horrible smile wandered over his sallow face, a smile as unwholesome

"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 fortuneteller and midwife, 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 gobletfull 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

"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

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

"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 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 redillumined 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 fortuneteller 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

"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

"In my righthand 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

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,

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 stovepipe 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

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 stovepipe 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 heavensent 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 fortuneteller gave a sudden lurch, and the black bottle, already hanging

half out of her wide pocket, slipped entirely from its restingplace, and, falling heavily to the ground,

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 threadlike 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.

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

"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 everstabbing weapons, with the poison already burning in their veins like redhot lead,

their forms swelling and discoloring visibly every moment, their howls and attitudes and furious gestures

Maddened beyond endurance, the Wondersmith, halfblind and choking with the venom that had congested

all the bloodvessels of his body, seized dozens of the manikins and dashed them into the fire, trampling

"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!

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 eggplants. Their bodies were

swollen to a frightful size, and at last they dropped on the floor, like overripe fruit shaken from the boughs

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

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