Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

210 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