THE BELLS OF EZENTOCHAU. A LEGEND. (From the German of Lewald.) BY M. A. Y. crosses and medallions which adorned his breast contrasted strangely with the ragged jacket on which they hung, as did a once smart foraging cap with the heavy wooden shoes and coarse woollen stockings. That pallid, deeply furrowed face might once have been handsome; but care and hard labour had swept away every trace of youth. At the extremity of the town stood a few miserable sheds, scarcely worthy to be called huts. The door of one was open, and the passer by, who looked in, might have seen that it was quite devoid of all furniture; a heap of dry leaves was littered over the rough mud floor in one corner, and a log of wood lay against the wall on the opposite side. On the threshold sat a boy of some two or three years old, naked as he was born, his fair curls falling on shoulders embrowned by sun and dirt, his tiny features pinched by hunger, and betraying, even amid their infantine grace, the fell traces of ironhanded poverty. He stretched out his little arms towards the man we have been describing, and lisped, "Father." A tall, meanly clad woman, bearing traces of great beauty, and distinct marks of suffering, advanced, and having as In the centre of the insignificant houses which constitute the town, rises the splendid cathedral of " Our Lady of Ezentochau," surrounded with convent buildings, from the windows of which the monks look lazily forth on the busy world, with all its joys and sorrows, which they have forsaken. From the numerous turrets of this extensive monastery, at even-tide, the bells ring' out their cheerful peals, summoning the weary labourer from his toil, promising rest to the foot-sore wayfarer, as from afar his ear catches the distant sound which proclaims the neighbourhood of human dwellings, and calling the devout to return thanks for the blessings vouchsafed to them during the past day. But amid all these clear ringing chimes, why was it that the great bells of the cathedral hung silent and motionless in their lofty tower? Why did not their deep bass give relief and add to the harmony of those clear treble peals? There they hung, still and voiceless in their airy abode, and the inhabitants of the town often gazed on them with feelings somewhat akin to awe; for it was said that spirits of darkness prevailed in that lofty tower, although the pious could not understand how aught that was evil could have power in so holy a place. Certain it was that the hell-sisted in taking the load of wood into the hut, ringers had, from time immemorial, been so unlucky as either to die some violent death, or become crazy; and the end of the last man who had held that office had been so horrible, that for nearly fifty years no person had been found courageous enough to undertake it, even though a very large salary-considering the slight duty required-was attached to it. The apartments in the belfrey were falling to ruin, and spiders, undisturbed, spun their filmy webs in the hollows of the bells, and chained up those enormous iron tongues. * The evening chimes had rung out, and the last vibration of their sounds had died away on the still evening air, the golden rays of the setting sun were fast fading from the purple edges of the clouds, when a pallid, thin, ill-clad, yet distinguished-looking man swung on his back the heavy load of wood which he had been cutting in the forest, and tottered towards his dwelling. His worn and tattered garments were composed partly of regimentals and partly of such habiliments as were common to the peasantry of the neighbourhood; and the military wiped the sweat from her tired husband's brow, and fondly imprinting a kiss there, hastened to a baker's to exchange some of the wood for a small loaf of coarse black bread. Night came on the child lay sleeping on the dry leaves: the parents sat in darkness on the log of wood: all around was still; and the wife, as she pressed closer to her husband, whispered her fears that she was again about to become a mother. The man embraced her in silent sadness; even now they were almost starving: how were the coming wants to be supplied? The town swarmed with poor, and the few rich could not give to all. He leaned his weary, aching head on his wife's shoulder, and strove to whisper comfort and hope; but the words died on his lips. Hark! the turret bells are ringing, to call the monks to prayers-and the great bells of Ezantochau are mute! The unhappy man marked this, and a sudden and joyous thought shot through his brain. Early on the following morning he quitted his house with a firm step, after having embraced both wife and child. His last words were, "This misery will soon have an end! Yes, yes; our food shall no longer be black bread-our drink, water-our only couch, the bare ground. We have known riches and honour in our native land, we have known misery and starvation here; but I swear by my father's bones, by the wrongs of bleeding Poland, we will suffer no longer!" The wife understood him not, and her busy mind sought an explanation of his words in a thousand distracting fears. Lost in a maze of painful thoughts, she sat on the threshold, heedless of the pangs of hunger-heedless even of the importunities of her child, and strove to imagine what her husband could have meant. Surely he had not leagued himself with robbers? or, more fearful thought still, he did not meditate self-destruction? Suddenly she saw him returning-returning at this unwonted hour; and he came not from the forest, but from the town. "It is all right," he cried, joyfully; "we shall possess a dwelling-means to procure meat, drink, firing, and raiment. We shall now be above all our neighbours; and you, my good wife, may look down on the former scenes of our suffering.” The woman gazed doubtfully on him, and all her former fears were forgotten in the dread that he was going mad. "You do not believe me," he continued; "but so it is. Let us take my axe and some wood with us, and proceed to our new domicile. Look here; this money is advanced to me on account of our future salary. Come, come, let us go up; this evening the good town's-folk shall once more hear the solemn sound of their cathedral bells." But his wife was still unable to comprehend him; his unconnected words appeared to her the ravings of insanity, and bursting into tears she snatched her child to her bosom. I can guess what it is prevents you from partaking my joy, dear wife," said the Pole, after a pause; "but fear not, we have done nothing wrong, and therefore need not fear the powers of evil. Let us commend our child to our lady's' protection; and for ourselves, if the spirits which are said to haunt the belfry are material, they shall feel the weight of my axe; if beings of another world, they have no power to harm the innocent. So come-courage; take up the child, and let us make what purchases are necessary, and ascend to our lofty abode." With loitering steps and inward uneasiness did the woman follow her husband, who strode cheerfully onwards. It was already known that a man had been found daring enough to undertake the office of bell-ringer in the cathedral of Ezentochau, and numbers of people were assembled in the streets to catch a glimpse of him and his family. Some pitied them, some blamed; others shook their heads, and muttered the fearful tales handed down to them concerning that beautiful gothic turret which, lighted up by the blaze of a mid-day sun, stood proudly aloft as if scorning its calumniators. At length the little family reached the monastery, and the husband was admitted, presented to the prior, told in what his duties were to consist, and given the ponderous rusty key of the belfry turret. With this he returned to his wife and child, unlocked the small iron-bound door, entered, and together they ascended the steep winding staircase, pausing occasionally to rest, and at length reached their lofty abode. It was not without a shudder that the woman crossed the threshold, and her husband drew a breath so deep that something more than the exertion of ascending the stairs must have caused it. The room into which they entered was dark, as if it were twilight, for the small windows, composed of little panes of glass set in lead, were thick with dust and spiders' webs; the walls were grey with neglect, age, and accumulated dirt; and the furniture was scattered about the place, as if the last resident there had left his dwelling in sudden haste. In one corner stood a wide bed, well furnished with mattrass, pillows, and bedding; and on the wall at the side of it were spots of blood, deep and dark coloured, and, according to account, so ingrained, that neither whitewash nor colouring could hide them. The poor woman shuddered, and embraced her child more closely, but at her husband's bidding began to put things in order; the man went into the belfry to arrange and mend the ropes, and when he came back the room had already assumed some appearance of comfort, and the little family sat down to a plentiful meal. "Ah, dear wife, this is better than our hut and morsel of black bread; see how our boy enjoys it. Here you will be able to bring our child into the world in comfort, and I can attend on you all day, and we shall have money to procure you every necessary. And there is a good bed to lie on instead of dry leaves and dirty straw." The woman glanced towards the bed, and across it to the blood-stained wall, and an involuntary shudder passed over her; her husband remarked it, and continued: "There, there, forget such fancies; we harm no one, and why should we fear harm? See this oaken door, with its colossal lock; if you peep through the wide key-hole, you can look right down on the altar and on the image of the Blessed Virgin; surely the vicinity of those holy things is sufficient to secure us.” The clock now gave token that it was time to ring for vespers, and both man and wife ascended the ladder into the belfry. The small bells in the various turrets were all silently waiting until their leader should give tongue; presently its sonorous voice broke the stillness, and vibrated solemnly in the evening air, then chimed in each little peal, as if with joyful melody they were welcoming back that long lost sound; the peasants at work in the fields, the herdsmen, the woodmen, the citizens, started as those unwonted tones fell on their ears, and crossing themselves murmured an ave for the unfortunate wretches who had dared to ascend that fearful turret. * On the following morning, as the woman opened her eyes, she saw her husband standing smiling by the bed-side, and her child playing D on the floor; the little windows were opened, and "Aye, and so will we again to-night,” replied admitted the fresh morning breeze; the birds her husband. “I warrant me a glass of that flew in and out, or sat twittering on the window-wine will ensure us a good night's rest; and the sills, while through the oaken door came the monk said that when that flask was empty we faint, far-off murmur of the voices of the monks should have another." at their morning prayers, and the clatter of their wooden shoes as they paced the cathedral aisles. "Well, the first night is over, and we have seen no ghosts," said the man jestingly. "That was something like sleep-I verily believe not one of us three moved during the whole night. The ghosts had it all to themselves, and were tolerably quiet, I suppose, in order that we might enjoy our bed. 'Tis rather better than the bare ground methinks." The woman got up quickly, chided her husband for his mocking words, and having repeated her short prayers, accompanied her husband to the belfry. As the great bells swang slowly to and fro, and gave forth their deep echoing tones, people came out on their housetops, or gathered in the streets, or gazed from their windows on the bell-ringer and his wife as they stood pulling the ropes alternately, and many were the prayers breathed for them. "What would you do, husband? That wine you yourself set aside for cases of need. No, no; let us not seek its aid to send us to sleep, but rather stay awake and pray." Again there was a slight noise behind the oaken door, as if some listener had stolen away. The bell-ringer and his wife prayed fervently, put their lamp out, laid down, and were soon sound asleep; and the next morning broke on their waking eyes as bright and cheerful as the first had done. A week had now elapsed, and with the exception of the noise behind that mysterious door, which resembled faint whispers, and was heard every evening, nothing had occurred to disturb or alarm them. They felt grateful for their comforts, and rejoiced to think that they had conquered those fears which at first almost tempted them rather to remain in poverty than brave the legendary terrors of the haunted tower. Again the jolly old monk visited them, and 66 We have not yet tasted of it," replied the woman; "it was set aside for the period of my confinement, or for any other cases of need." 64 After the morning service was concluded, an old monk ascended the turret, and greeted the Pole right cordially on the part of the brother-produced a large flask of wine. "I have brought hood. From under his frock he produced a a full one, and am come for the empty one. large bottle, which he set on the table, saying, Did you find the wine good?" with a smile-"I have the charge of the winecellar, and have brought you a pitcher of good old stuff to strengthen your bodies and enliven your souls. You have proved yourselves to be brave hearts, but the best of us cannot sometimes prevent a kind of fear creeping over us as the shades of evening draw on. Wine, wine! there is nothing like it in such cases. It lulls cares, drives away fear, warms the blood, and gives energy to the soul. Be virtuous, worship God, hold fast to the church, love your family, and now and then take a cup of wine; and no spirit of evil, or even the arch fiend himself, will have power to harm you." Oh, oh!" laughed the monk. "Between this and then you will receive many a good flask from your humble servant. Take my advice, and drink a good cup-full of this to-night, for this will be All-Saints'-eve,' and therefore it becomes mortals to share in the joy of the holy ones; and besides, on this evening the evil one has great power, and therefore 'tis as well to fortify the body as the soul. Adieu; on my next visit I shall expect to find both these flasks empty." He gave them his blessing and withdrew, while the man and his wife looked at each other in expressive silence, and listened to the clatter of his wooden shoes and the jingling of his heavy keys, as he slowly plodded down the winding staircase. Having thus spoken, the jolly old monk bade them adieu, promising when that flask was emptied to give them another equally as good. The flask was put carefully by, to be drunk in cases of illness; for neither the Pole nor his wife were used to strong drink. The day passed on, night had closed in, the child was already sleeping, and all around was still and silent as the grave. The man and his wife sat by lamp-in light talking over the past and the future. Suddenly both started and listened, and the words "Did you hear that?" fell from each at "So, then, to-night belongs to the evil one," said the Pole, as they came down after ringing the evening chimes. Well, we are not the less God's hands." His wife did not reply, but her cheek was pale; and her glance stole fearfully around. The child was sleeping the sound, happy sleep of infancy; all around was still, and even the creaking of the weathercock had ceased, so still and heavy lay the sultry air. Midnight was fast approaching, and the man and his wife sat in listening silence, often nodding with fatigue and sleep. Let us go to bed," said the man; "we shall see no ghosts to-night. But, before we go, we will obey our friend the monk, and taste his wine." The woman fetched it, and by turns they put the mouth of the flask to their lips, and took a hearty draught. Nearly half the wine had glided down their throats when that mysterious whisper was heard, and a cold blast seemed to blow through the room; shuddering as if in an ague fit, they hastily finished the bottle, put out their lamp, and lay down on the bed. Terror sat like a night-mare on their breasts; they were unable to move, and lay there in a dreamy uneasy trance, yet not sleeping. The clock began to give forth the midnight hour, and each stroke appeared to shake the building as with an earthquake; the great oaken door burst open with a tremendous crash, a thick smoke filled the room, and the piercing cries of their child reached their ears, although it failed to rouse the almost insensible parents. On the following morning no trace of the adventures of the past night were visible; the child seemed well and lively, and the man ascribed the whole to fancies engendered by the wine they had drunk, and observed that in future they must practise moderation. Many days and nights passed away, and they were undisturbed. The old monk visited them again, and brought with him this time three flasks: "I am old and fat," he said, "and your stairs are somewhat of the steepest; therefore, I have brought enough to last you longer, and when these are empty you can bring them down to me, and I will refill them. Drink friends, and be merry, and much good may this rare old wine do you, for you need strength up here." 66 He then inquired after the ghost; and, having heard their tale, laughed and said, Empty another flask to-night, and I warrant me you see another ghost. Spirits dwell and revel in old wine. Try again, try again, and you'll find the mystery out." "Yes, I suppose it was only the visions engendered by drunkenness," said the man; and, throughout the day, he tried to joke away his wife's fears; and told her that they must accustom themselves to take wine, now that they were so well supplied. That night a second flask was emptied, and again came the stupor, the terrors, the cries of the child; and again the morning dawn chased all the horrors of darkness away with its bright beams. The mother took up her child, to wash | and dress him; and, with an exclamation of grief, held up the little naked urchin, and pointed to numerous livid spots on his body, which seemed very sore, for he cried out whenever they were touched. "They are only bruises," said the father; "the child is always falling about and hitting himself." But this was merely said to calm his wife's fears; and it was with a heavy heart that he went about his occupations, inwardly resolved to touch no more wine, and to keep awake and watch for the ghost. Night came the child slept; and the anxious parents sat watching the bed. The midnight hour struck-but no ghost gave token of his presence; unless the low whisper without the oaken door might be taken as one. Daylight came, and still they sat watching; the morning's sun shone in through the windows, and the fresh breezes of heaven, the fervency of their simple prayers, and the voice and smile of their awakening child, revived the sinking parents, and caused them to regard those fearful nights as resulting from the effects of excess. It was in vain, however, that they sought their bed; for many ensuing nights anxiety and terror kept them waking. Their eyes were beginning to become dim from loss of sleep, their limbs weary, and more than once their thoughts recurred to their hut and those days when, if they laboured hard and fared ill, their nights were haunted by no evil dreams, their days free from fearful recollections and painful dread. They were sitting thus moodily, sadly, and wearily one night, when the man said-"Suppose you were to lie down and sleep awhile, dear wife; and I will watch over you and our child. As soon as morning begins to break I will call you; and while you prepare breakfast I will try and get a little rest. The ghost seems to have left off tormenting us for a while." At first the woman refused; but at length, overcome with fatigue, she laid herself down by her child, and in a few moments was sound asleep. The man sat waiting for midnight, and with difficulty holding up his weary head. Suddenly it struck him that a moderate use of wine might prove as beneficial as excess was pernicious; and this idea, having once come into his head, ceased not to recur again and again, until no longer able to resist the longing he felt, he crept on tip-toe to the cupboard, took out one of the flasks, held it up between himself and the light, delighted his eyes with the clear, brilliant hue of the sparkling fluid, and watched the little bubbles which at every movement of his hand arose from the bottom of the bottle, and floated upwards like pearls. "I will only just take a drop, to revive myself," he muttered. "I wonder whether my wife is asleep." And he crept to the bed-side. Both wife and child were sleeping so calmly, and the rosy lips of the little one murmured," Father," as he bent over the bed. Again his better angel hovered over him, and the man stepped towards the cupboard to replace the bottle untouched. Once more he looked at it-gloated with his eyes on the foaming fluid. "Just one drop; it surely cannot be a sin to taste good wine, or why did the monk-that holy man-bring it here?" The cork was seized between his teeth, the bottle held firmly in his hands, and in a moment the perfume of the luscious wine was ascending to his nostrils; in another, one half the contents of the bottle had glided, like nectar, down his throat. A loud "Ah!" proclaimed his enjoyment of the draught; his eyes glittered, and he sat down again, with the feeling that now he dared brave hell itself. "I will just take one drop every time the clock strikes," was his internal resolve: and the consequence of it was that before midnight the flask stood before him empty; and it was with difficulty, and only by clinging to the table, that he was enabled to keep his seat. The lamp burned dimmer and yet more dim, everything appeared cloudy and indistinct, the room, and all in it, turned round and round. With difficulty he got up, and staggered towards the window with the intention of opening it; but long before he reached it he sank senseless on the floor. The cold grey morning light was just stealing in, when the shrieks of his wife awakened the sleeping drunkard. Hastily he raised himself from the ground, opened his dim and drowsy eyes, and with a start of horror beheld the corpse of his child stretched on the floor by his side, its bright hair all dabbled in the blood which oozed from a fracture in its little head; the mother knelt over it, while_heart-rending shrieks broke from her lips, and her extended arms pointed wildly to the fresh stains on that fatal wall, down which now trickled the lifeblood of her darling boy. The monks came in solemn procession, with incense, holy water, and relics, to exorcise the evil spirit; and the heartbroken parents stole away down the winding steps, bearing with them the corpse of their murdered child, and returned to their hut, and to that misery which was bliss compared with the anxiety and anguish of the last few weeks. Since then no one has ventured to accept the office of bell-ringer; and, while all the surrounding chimes peal daily out, the great bells of Ezentochau cathedral hang in mute and solemn majesty, and seem silently to grieve over he evil influence which invested their neighbourhood. Inquisitive travellers are still shown the turret chambers with their blood-stained wall, and told the legend of the bells of Ezentochau; but no clue to the mystery has yet been discovered. A PARENT'S LAMENT. The glorious sun hath sunk to rest- To tint with gold the streamlet's flow, How sooth this stillness round! Not e'en a woodland songster breaks The silence with a sound. It is a sweetly pensive hour- I love its silver lustre more Than the sunny glare of day; And this lone churchyard, where I sit, Those cypress trees, that weep Above the dark and narrow beds Of those in death who sleep : How well do all accord with those Those lowly flow'rs wave over one, Oh! nought on earth my tender love In all my thoughts by day, in all My dreams by night, art thou! Even as I saw thee ere thy death, Methinks I see thee now: With thy face of cherub loveliness, And laughing eye of blue; And placid brow and dimpling smile, And cheek of rosy hue. Thou wert the little playful pet Of sister, brother, friend; That when old age had shed Thou would'st have been my best support, I did not think I should have lived I did not dream this heart of mine I'll miss thee when the voice of spring I'll miss thee when the autumn gold I'll miss thee when I hear the sound Its troubles lull to rest. And grant that, when that soul hath left Its tenement of clay, When earth, its pleasures, and its cares, I may rejoin my blessed child S. J. G. |