LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2159, 26 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SANDY, THE TINKER.

( Concluded.)

He paused for a moment, and an irrepressible shudder shook bis frame, 4 Go on,’ I said, for I felt afraid of his breaking down again. 'He looked at me pitifully, with a hungry entreaty in his weary eyes, and continued.

4 lt was a lovely evening. I had never thought the earth so beautiful before; a gentle breeze just touched my cheek, the water flawed on clear and bright, the mountains in the distance looked bright and glowing, covered with purple heather. I walked on and on till I came to that point where, as yon may perhaps remember, the path, growing very narrow, winds round the base of a great crag, ard leads the wayfarer suddenly into a little green amphitheatre, bounded on one side by the river and on the other by rocks that rise in places sheer to a height of a hundred feet and more. ’ * I remember it,’ I said; a little farther on three streams meet and fall with a tremendous roar into the Witches Caldron. A fine sight in the winter-time, only that there is scarce any reaching it from below, as the path you mention and the little green oasis are mo I y covered with watsr.’ 4 1 had not been there before since I was a child,’ he went on mournfully, 4 but I recollected it as one of the most solitary spots possible ; and my astonishment was great to see a man standing in the pathway with a drawn sword in bis hand He did not stir as I drew near, so I stepped aside on the grass. Instantly he barred my way. 4 Yon can’t pass here,’ he said. 4 Why not ?’ I asked. 4 Because I say so, ’ he answered. 'And' who are you that say so ?* I inquired, looking fall at him. ‘He was like a god. Majesty and power were written on every feature, were expressed in every gestnre ; but O, the awful •com of his smile, the contempt with which he regarded me I The beams of the setting sun fell fall upon him, and seemed to bring out as in letters of fire the wickedness and hate and sin that underlay the glorious and terrible beauty of his face, ‘ 1 felt afraid ; bat 1 managed to say. ‘Stand out of my way; the river-bank is as free to me as to you.’ ‘ Very well, ’ I agreed, for I did not want to stand there bandying words with him, and a sudden darkness seemed to be falling around. 4 lt is getting late, and so I’ll e’en turn back. ’

4 He gave a laugh, the like of which never fell on human ear before, and made reply, 4 Yon can’t turn back ; of your own free will you have come on my ground, and from it there is no retnrn, ’

4 1 did not speak ; I only just turned ronnd, and made as fast as I coaid for the narrow path at the font of the orag. He did not pass me ; yet before I conld reach the point I desired he stood barring the way, with the scornful smile still on his lips, and his gigantic form assuming tremendous proportions in the narrow way. 4 Let me pass,’l entreated, 4 and I will never come hero again, never trespass more on yonr ground. ’ 4 No, yon shall not pass.’ 4 Who are you that takes such power on yourself ?’ I asked. * Come closer, and I will tell you,’ he said.

4 I drew a step nearer, and he spoke one word. I had never heard it before ; but I knew what it meant, by some extraordinary Intuition. He was the Evil One ; the name seemed to be taken up by the echoes and repeated from rock to rock and crag to crag ; the whole air seemed fall of that one word ; and then a great horror of darkness came about na, only the place where we stood remained light. We occnpied a small circle walled round with the thick blackness of night, 1 Yon must come with me,’ he said. * I refused ; and then he threatened me. I implored and entreated and wept ; bnt at last I agreed to do what be wantei if he would promise to let mo retnrn. Again he laughed, and said, Yes, I should return ; and the rocks and trees and mountains, ay, and the very rivers, seemed to take ‘up the answer, and bear it in sobbing whispers away into the darkness.’

‘ He stopped and lay back in his chair, shivering like one in an ague fit. 4 Go on,’ I repeated again; * ’twas but a dream, you know. ’ 4 Was it ? ’ he murmured mournfully. ‘ Ah, you have not heard the end of it yet.’ * Jjet me hear it, then,’ I said. ‘ What happened afterwards ?' ‘The darkness seemed in part to clear away, and wo walked side by side across the sward in the tender twilight straight up to the bare black wall of rock. With the hilt of his sword he struck a heavy blow, and the solid rook opened as though it were a door. We passed through, aud It closed behind ns with a tremendous clang; yr s, it closed behind ns ;’ and at that point he fairly broke down, crying and sobbing as I had never seen a man even in the most frightful grief cry and sob before.’ The minister panted In his narrative. At that moment there came a most tremendous blast of wind, which shook the windows of the manse, and burst open the hall door, and caused the candles to flicker and the fire to go roaring up the chimney. It is not too much to say that, what with the uncanny story, and what with the howling storm, we every one felt that creeping sort of uneasiness which so often seems like the touch of ■something from another world—a band stretched across the boundary-line of time and eternity the coldness and mystery of which make the stonteet heart tremble.

‘I am telling you this tale,' said Mr Morison, resuming his seat after a brief absence to see that the fastenings of the house were ?roperly attended to, * exactly as I heard it. am not adding a word or comment of my own ; nor. so far as 1 know, am I omittirg any incident, however trivial. Yon muet draw your own deductions from the facta I put before you. I have no explanation to give or theory to propound. Part of that great and terrible region in which he found himself, my friend went on to tell me, he penetrated, compelled by a power he conld not resist to see the most awfnl spectacles, the moat fiightfnl sufferings. There was no form of vice that had not there its representative. As they moved along his companion told him the special sin for which such horrible punishment was being inflicted. Shuddering, and in mortal agony, he was yet unable to withdraw bis eyes from the dreadful spectacle ; the atmosphere grew more unendurable, the sights more and more terrible ; the cries, groans, blasphemies, more awfnl and heartrending, • 1 can bear no more,’ he gasped at last; ‘let me go!’ ‘ With a mocking laugh the Presence beside him answered this appeal; a laugh which was taken up even by the lost and anguished spirits around. ‘ There is no rotnrn,’ said the pitiless voice.

‘But yon promised,’he cried; ‘yon promised mo faithfully.’ ‘ What are promises hero ?’ and the words were as the sound of doom.

‘ Still ho prayed and entreated ; he fed on his knees, and in his agony spoke words that seemed to cause the purpose of the Evil One to falter.

4 You shall go,’ he said, 4 on one condition: that you agree to return to me on Wednesday next, or send a substitute.' 4 I could not do that,’ said my friend. ‘I could not send any fellow creature here. Better atop myself than do that. ’ 4 Then stop,’ said Satan, with the bitterest contempt; and he was turning away, when [ >he poor distracted soul asked fir a minute more ere he made his choice.

4 He was in an awful strait ; on the one band, how could he remain himself ? on the other, how doom another to such fearful torments ? Who could he send ? Who would come ? And then suddenly there flashed through his mind the thought of an old man to whom it oould not signify much whether he took np bis abode in this place a few days sooner or a few days later. He was travelling to it as fast as he know how ; ho was the reprobate of the parish ; the tinner without hope successive ministers had striven in vain to reclaim from the error of his ways; a man marked and doomed ; Sandy the Tinker ; Sandy, who was mostly drunk, and always godless ; Sandy, who, it was said, believed in nothing, and glored in his infidelity ; Sandy, whose soul really did not signify much. He would scud him. Lifting bis eyes, he saw those of his tormentor surveying him scornfully. 4 Well, have you made your choice f be asked.

4 Yes; I think I can send a substitute,’ was the hesitating answer. 4 See you do, then,” was the reply; 4 for if you do not, and fail to return yourself, I shall come for yon. Wednesday, remember, before midnightand with these words ringing in his ears he was flung violently through the rock, and found himself in the middle of his bedroom floor, as if he bad just been kicked there.* 4 Thw is not the end of the story, is it ?’ asked one of the party, as the minister came to a full stop, and looked earnestly at the fire.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘it is not the end; but before proceeding I must aek yon to bear carefully "in mind the circnmstances already recounted. Specially remember the date mentioned—Wednesday next, before midnight. 4 Whatever I thought, and yon may think, about my friend’s dream, it made the most remarkable impression upon his mind. He could not shake oil its influence; ho passed from one state of nervousness to another. It was in vain I entreated him to oxert his common sense and call all his strength of mind to his assistance. I might as well have spoken to the wind. He implored me not to leave him, and I agreed to remain; indeed, to leave him in his then frame of mind wonld have been an act of the greatest cruelty. He wanted me also to preach in bis place on the Sunday ensuing ; bat this £ flatly refused to do. 44 If you do not make an effort now,” I said, 44 you will never make it. Rouse yourself, get on with your sermon, and it yo® buckle to work yon will soon forget all about that foolish dream.’

4 Well, somehow, to out a long story short, the sermon was composed, and Sunday came; and my friend, a little better, and getting somewhat over his fret, got np into the pulpit to preach. He looked dreadfully ill; bnt I thought the worst was now over, and that he would go on mending. ‘Vain hope! He gave out the text and then looked over the congregation : the first person on whom his eyes lighted was Sandy' the Tinker—Sandy, who had never before been known to enter a place of worship of an; sort; Sandy, whom he had mentally chosen as bis substitute, and who was dne on the following Wednesday—sitting just below him, quite sober and comparatively clean, waiting with a great show of attention for the opening words of the sermon.

4 With a terrible cry, my friend oanght the front of the pulpit, then swayed back, and fell down in a fainting fit. He was carried home and a doctor sent for. I said a fow words, addressed apparently to the congregation, bnt really to Sandy, for my heart somehow came into my month at sight of him; and then, after I dismissed the people, I walked slowly back to the manse, almost afraid of what might meet me there. Mr Cawley was not dead; bnt he was in the most dreadful state of physical exhaustion and mental agitation. It was dreadful to bear him. How conld he go himself i Hew conld he send Sandy J —poor old Sandy, whose son], in the sight of Hod, was just as preoions as his own, 4 His whole cry was for ns to deliver him from the Uvil One; to save him from committing a sin which would render him a wretched man for life. He counted the hoars and minutes before he mnst return to that ho rible place. 4 1 can’t send Sandy," he would moan. “ I cannot. Oh, I cannot save myself at snch a price!” 4 And then he would cover his faoe with the bedclothes, only to start np and wildly entreat me not to leave him ; to stand between the enemy and himself, to save him, or, if that were impossible, to give him oonrage to do what was right, <( lf this continues,” said the doctor, “ Wednesday will find him either dead or a raving lunatic.” 4 We talked the matter over, the doctor and I, in the gloaming, as we walked to and fro in the meadow behind the manse; and we decided, having to make onr choice of two evil*, to risk giving him snch an opiate as should carry him over the dreaded interval. We knew it was a perilous thing to do with one in his coadition, but, as I said before, we conld only take the least of two evils.

‘ What we dreaded most was his awaking before the time expired ; so I kept watch beside him. He lay like one dead through the whole of Tuesday night and Wednesday and Wednesday evening. Eight, nine, ten, eleven o’clock came and passed ; twelve. 'Ood be thanked!’ I said, as I stopped over him and heard he was breathing quietly. ‘He will do now, I hope, said the doctor, who bad come in just before midnight; ‘yon will stay with him till he wakes P' ‘I promised that I would, and in the beautiful dawn of a summer’s morning be opened his eyes and smiled. Ho had no recollection then of what had occurred; he was as weak as an infant, and when I bade him try to go to sleep again, turned on hie pillow and sank to rest once more. ‘Worn out with watching, I stepped softly from the room and passed into the fresh sweet air. I walked down to the garden-gate, and stood looking at the greet mountains and the fair conntry, and the Deldy wandering bke a silver thread through the green fields below. ‘.a II at once my attention was attracted by a group of people coming slowly along the road leading from the hills. I could not at first see that in their midst something was being borne on men’s shoulders; hut when at last I made this out, I hurried to meet them and learn what was the matter.

‘ Has there been an accident ?’ I asked se I drew near.

They stopped, and one man came towards me.

‘Ay,’ he said, ‘the worst accident that could bsfa’ him, pnir fella.’ He’s deid,’ * Who la it P’ I asked, pressing forward ; and lifting the cloth they bad flung over his face, I saw Sandy the Tinker ! ‘ He had been fou’ coming home, I tak’ it,’ remarked one who stood by, ‘pairSandy, and gaed over the cliff afore he could save himsel’. We found him just on this side of the Witches’ Caldron, where there’s a bonny strip of green turf, and his cuddy was feeding on the hill top with the bit cart behind her.’ *****

There was silence for a minute ; then one of the ladies said softly, ’ Poor Sandy !' ‘And what became of Mr Oawley ?’ asked the other.

‘Ho gave np his parish sad went out as missionary. He is still living.’ • Whs.t a moat extraordinary story !' I remarked. ‘Yes, I think so,’said the minister. *lf you like to go round by Dendeldy to-mor-row, my son, who now occupies the manse, would show you the econo of the occurrence.

Xho next day wo all stood lo king at the 1 bonny strip of green, at the frowning dills, and at the Deldy, swollen by recent rains, rushing on its way. The youngest of the party went np te the rock, and knocked upon it loudly with his cane,

‘ O don’t do that, pray ?’ cried both the ladies nervously; the spirit of the weird story still brooding over up. * What do you think of the cclnoidente. Jack ?’ I inquired of my friend, as wo walked apart from the others. ‘Ask me when wo get back to Fieri street,’ ho answered.