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for it receded some Varda from the line of
street, and the open plot in its front was pa
ved 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 ol the common
in the exterior of the house, I concluded that
whatever singularity pertained to it was to
he sought in its interior or its inmates, and I
looked to my companion lor an explanation.
‘•That house,” he said, replying to my
mute inquiry, “was for centuries the dwel
ling of the Antwerp executioner.”
I started at the word. The strange cus
toms, laws, and traditions connected with the
last minister of the law, during the less civili
zed ages of the Christian era, had always ex
ercised upon my mind a peculiar fascination.
With fresh and strong interest I gazed at the
building, and for a minuie 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 glit
tering sword, the halter and the thongs;
whilst in another compartment the headsman
and his aids, sad, sullen men, in hose and jer
kins 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 ances
tress for a Spanish cavalier, issued forth,
pitcher on head, and carolling a lively air, to
tetch water from the fountain. The smiling,
cheerful reality, incontinently chased away
the dismal vision.
“ Evidently,” said TANARUS, “ it is now no hang
man'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, alter
supping with me at the 1 Park,’ to relate the
tradition in question.”
“ Willingly,” said the Antwerper, good
humoredly, “were I not pledged to the thea
tre 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 le
gend is in print; I have the book, and will
lend it to you with pleasure.”
“A thousand thanks,” said I, rather cool
ed, however, on the subject, by the discovery
that the tale of wonder 1 anticipated was writ
ten 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, smi
ling, perhaps a little contemptuously. “ Per
fectly unacquainted.”
“Then you cannot read the legend, for it
is printed in that language.”
“In what language V’
“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.”
“ Ii is not a patois, but a language,” replied
the Fleming, gravely. “The general use of
French is a modern innovation in our coun
try, and no good one either. Flemish is the
original language of the land; and not only
is ii much more widely known than you ima
gine, 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 pow
er.”
I began to feel as much ashamed of my
non-acquaintance with the Flemish school of
literature, as if I had been convicted of pro
found ignorance of a Flemish school of paint
ing. Os course, I made allowance for a lit
tle patriotic exaggeration, when accepting my
friend’s account of this host of poets and pro
saists, who pass their lives in writing a lan
guage which scarce any besides themselves
understand. But after all, thought J, why
should there not be Flemish writers, just as
writers are found in other tongues, equally
unknown to the world at large ? Did 1 not
myself, when in Southern France, get sha
ved, clipped, and trimmed, in the prune-pro
ducing town of Agen, by a literary barber,
flight Jessamine, who had written volume
upon volume of poems in that Gascon dialect
s®;© m ib ii visiea Hi tr ©Assirirfe*
_ .g
which, according to M. Alexandre Dumas,
and other of the highest French literary au
thorities, is entirely comprised in the words
Cadcdis , Mordious , Copdedious , Parfcindious ,
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 favorite anti-ocu
lar malediction? At any rate, it was neither
civil nor giateful 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 re
gret that a defective education left it out of
my power to read the legend with which I
had desired to become acquainted. The con
trite tone of this confession fully regained me
any ground I had lost in my Fleming’s good
opinion. He mused fora 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 ckasseP
“I have already had the painful honor of
informing you that my god-fathers, reckless
of baptismal piomises, have suffered me to
attain my present mature age in profound ig
norance 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 while I
was roasting him. I loaded my countenance
with a double charge of gravity.
“It is fortunate,” he said, “that my spon
sors had 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 ac
knowledgments. “My motives are more
selfish than vou 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 perti
nacity. I put off my journey, breakfasted
with my Fleming, and after breakfast—none
of your tea and toast business, but a real
good dc-jeuner-a-la-fourchcite, 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 tff
translation, and patriotically anxious to do
full justice to the original, read so slowly
that I had time to put down the narrative
nearly verbatim As it is more than proba
ble that none of the readers of Maga, num
berless though they he as the pebbles upon
the 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 gc 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 FIRST-BORN.
CHAPTER 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, brok
en 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 gut
ters. Heedless of the rain, and of the raw
fog from the Scheldt, a man steed motionless
and absorbed in thought upon one of the de
serted 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 fea
tures assumed an expressioncf extraordinary,
wildness; then a deep and painful sigh burst
from his breast, or a sound, half groan, half
gasping, like that with which an overburden
ed porter throw's down his load. At times,
too, a smile passed across his face—no sign
of joy, or laugh extorted by jovial or pleas
ant thoughts, but the bitter smile of agony
and despair, more afflicting to behold than a
Hood of tears. He smiled, certainly, but
whilst his countenance yet wore the deceitful
sign of joy, he bit his lips till they hied, and
his hand, thrust within his doublet, dug its
nails into his breast. Thrice wretched was
this unhappy man; for him the pains of pur
gatory had no new terrors, for already, du
ring twenty years, he had felt its direst tor
ments 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 lirst 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 thing. And when
the infant grew—although fed with his moth
er’s tears rather than with her milk—into a
comely hoy, and ventured forth to mingle in
the sports of others of his age, he was scoff
ed, 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 blow, or the flush of anger on
his features; only his father knew w T hat hit
ter melancholy lurked in the heart of his son.
Now the child had become a man. De
spite his sufferings, his body had grown into
strength and vigor. 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
torturesof despair. Yet that man’s heart was
formed for tenderness and love, his mind was
intelligent, his countenance not without no
bility, his gait proud and manly, his voice
earnest and persuasive. At this moment he
lifted it up to heaven, towards which he pas
sionately extended his arms.
“Great God!” he cried, “since thy holy
will created me to suffer, grant me also
strength to endure iny tortures! My heart
burns! my senses leave me ! Protect me, 0
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!”
Ilis voice grew weaker, and subsided into
an inarticulate murmur. Suddenly raising
his head, and starting from his leaning pos
ture, he hurried across thesquareand through
two or three streets, as though endeavoring
to escape reflection by rapidity of motion.—
Then his pace slackened and grew irregular,
and he occasionally stood still, like one w r ho,
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 w’ith thirst and fe
ver.
“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 w hose 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 long
er before a public-house, and listened atten
tively at all the window’s. 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 ibat had deceived him was caused by
the profound attention given to one of the
party, who enacted the juggler for his com
panions’ amusement, and who was busied, j
when the stranger listened at the window, in
certain mysterious preparations for anew
trick. All eyes were fixed upon his fingers, ;
in a vain endeavor to detect the legerdemain. 1
The thirsty youth started at the sightof all
these men, and look a step backwards as if
to leave the house, but observing several
heads turned towards him with curious looks,
and fearing such sudden departure might
prove a signal lor his pursuit and persecu
tion, he approached the bar and asked the
landlady fora can of beer. The woman cast
a suspicious look at her new customer, and j
sought to distinguish his features beneath the
broad slouched brim of his hat; but, observ-’
ing 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.
1 hen they laid their heads together and whis
pered, and made indignant gestures, and one
of them in particular appeared inflamed with j
anger, and looked furiously at the stranger
as though he would fain have fallen foui 0 f
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 ojl f
to the object of her curiosity, who drank with
hurried eagerness, and half emptied the v os
i sel 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.
“Accursed gallows’-bird !” he cried, “how
dare you drink in our company? What can
you urge that I should not break your bones
here upon the spot? Thank heaven, thou
wretched outcast, that I will not befoul my
hand by contact with thy vile carcase!”
The unfortunate being to whom this cruel
and*outrageous speech was addressed, was
the only son of the Antwerp executioner: his
name was Gerard, and he was little more than
twenty years old. His parentage sufficiently
explains why he shunned the sight of men
from whom hatied and persecution were the
best he had to expect. What now befell him
always took place when a headsman ventu
red into the society of other burghers.
Patiently bowing his head, the unhappy
Gerard gazed vacantly at the beer-stains up
on his garments, without daring by word or
deed to resent the brutality of his enemy,
who, continuing to overwhelm him with abuse
and maledictions, at last directed part of his
indignation against the hostess:
“You will draw no more beer for us, wo
man !” he said. “ To-morrow night, I and
i my friends meet at Sebastian’s, You would
be giving us our liquor in the hangman’s
can !”
“ See, there it lies!'’ exclaimed the hostess,
terrified for the Joss of custom, and dashing
upon the ground the stone pot, which broke
in pieces. “Is it fault of mine, if the hang
man's bastard sneaks into an honest house ?
Out with you!” cried she furiously to Ge
rard; out of my doors, dealer in dead men,
torturer of living bodies! Will’st not be
gone, base panderer to the rack ? Away to
thy bed beneath the scaffold!”
The youth, w ho had borne at first with si
lence and resignation the abuse heaped upon
him, was roused at last by these coarse in
vectives to a sense of what manly dignity
persecution had left him. Instead of flying
from the woman’s execrations, he raised his
head and answ’ered coldly and calmly :
“Woman, I go! Although a hangman’s
son, I would show more compassion to mv
fellow-creatures than they show me. My
father tortures men, because the law* and men
compel him; but men torture rne without ne
cessity, and without provocation. Remem
ber that you sin against God by treating me,
his creature, like a dog.”
So gentle and touching were the tones of
the young man’s voice, that the hostess won
dered, and could not understand how one so
sorely ill-treated could speak thus mildly.
For a moment the woman got the better of
the trader, and, with something like a tear
glistening in her eye, she took up the coin
Gerard had given her, and threw it over to
him.
“There,” she said ; “I want not thy mo
ney ; take it, and go in peace.”
The man who had thrown the beer in Ge
rald’s face picked the coin from the floor,
looked at it, and threw it upon a table with a
gesture of disgust.
“See!” he cried, “ there is blood upon it —
human blood!”
His companions crowded around the table,
and started back in horror, as from a fresh
and bleeding corpse. A murmur of loathing
and aversion assailed the ears of Gerard, who
well knew the charge was false, for he had
taken the piece of money in change that ve
ry evening, from a woman who let out pray
ing-chairs in the church. The injustice of
his foes so irritated him, that his face turned
w’hile with passion, as a linen cloth. Press
ing his hat more firmly upon his Read, he
sprang forward to the table, and confronted
his enemies with the fierce, bold brow of an
exasperated lion.
“Scoundrels!” he shouted, “what speak
you of blood? See you not that the metal is
alloyed, and looks red, like all other coins of
the kind ? But no, you are blinded by hate,
and know not justice. You say lam the
hangman’s son. ’Tis true—God so willed it.
But yet are ye more despicable than I am;
and proud am I to resemble neither in name
nor deed such base and heartless men!”
The w’ords were scarcely uttered, when
from all sides blows and kicks rained upon
the imprudent speaker. Manfully did he de
fend himself, and brought more than one as
sailant to the ground ; but the numbers were
too great for his strength Oaths and abuse