THE MAN FROM PARADISE.*

A COMIC TALE.

FROM THE DANISH OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

THERE was a widow, once upon a time

Yet stop-with truth we must commence our rhymeShe had been such, but now another spouse

Had sought her love, and won the widow's vows.

One evening she was quite alone at home

(For the best husbands sometimes like to roam);
She sat, her cheek reposing on her hand,
The tea-things spread upon the table, and
The kettle singing by, or on the fire-

A sort of a monotonous steam lyre:

Her thoughts from this low world of fogs had flown
Up to the husband she first called her own;
She could not quite the dear, kind soul forget-
And ah! the other one was absent yet.
"But thou art happy now," she cried-" in case
In Abraham's bosom thou hast found a place :
Thou pitiest us, in these rooms close and old,
Where one so often gets a cough or cold."

Then into a brown study she did fall,

When suddenly some sounds her thoughts recal;
She hears a gentle knocking at the door;

She starts-looks at the roof, then at the floor

Then peers into each corner, as she cries,

Well-who is there?" To be right brave she tries,

But truth to tell, she almost shook with fear

To see some ghost, or corpse-like form appear.
Another knock-then in the doorway stood
No spectre, but a youth of flesh and blood.
'Twas an apprentice who had run away

From work, and chose from town to town to stray;
The rogue lived by his wits as best he might,
For naught he scrupled at-except to fight.

The quondam widow very soon perceived
The intruder was not what she had believed-
That he was mortal, not a form of air.
She questioned whence he came, and also where
He might be bound. "I'm on my way," said he,
"To Paris, madam, viâ Germany.'

With joyous heart she listened to his tale,
And then she placed before him meat and ale,
Kindly inviting him to eat and drink;

While she exclaimed, "How very strange to think
That you to Paradise are journeying on!-

Why, that's the land where my first husband's gone!
Please give my love to him, our daughter's, too,
And-his successor's compliments, will you?"

* Manden fra Paradiis. En komisk Fortælling.

Quickly the knave observed that the good dame
In her geography was rather lame-

That Paradise with Paris she confounded.

And though one moment he looked up astounded,
The next into her droll conceit he fell,

Saying, "Oh, yes! I know the good man well."
"What! have you really been already there ?"
She cried. "Then say, how does the dear one fare ?"
"Ah! very badly. 'Tis a tale of woe!

I was up there about a month ago.

A sort of a dog's life the poor thing led,
Early he had to rise-get late to bed;

Worked hard, and scarce a stitch of clothing had.

His shroud and grave-clothes from the first were bad ;
They very soon wore out, and now he goes

Without a coat, and with bare legs and toes."
These words went like a dagger to her heart;

She shuddered-groaned-then, with a sudden start
She rose, and soon an ample bundle made

Of linen, coats, warm woollen socks; and said,

Whilst with big tear-drops both her eyes looked dim, "This package, sir, I pray you take to him. Tell the poor fellow I shall send him more

By the first opportunity-a store

I'll surely send. Oh dear! oh dear! 'tis sad
His fate in yonder place should be so bad!”

The rogue had stuffed quite to his heart's content,
So, taking up the bundle, off he went ;

But first he thanked her for the food, and vowed
The clothes she sent should soon replace the shroud.
Long, long she sits, her eyes still full of tears:
The absent husband now at length appears

('Tis to the second one that I allude

The first, as has been shown, was gone for good).

"Well, I have curious tidings for your ear

A man from Paradise has just been here;

He knew poor Thi-is there." (Such was the name Of him who was first husband to the dame.)

And thereupon, with a most serious face,

She told him all that had just taken place.

The husband, when he heard her, smelled a rat,

But only saying he would have a chat

Himself with the great traveller, he sent

For his best horse, and after him he went.

'Twas a sweet night, the moon was shining clearly-
Just such a night as poets love most dearly;
The nightingales were pouring forth their notes,
The owls were exercising, too, their throats;
But, what was better still, he found the track
The thief had ta'en, and hoped to bring him back.
Thieves, by the way, like the moon's silver rays
Far better than the sun's meridian blaze.
And now, how fared it with the thief himself,
Thus making off with his ill-gotten pelf?

He spied a man, who like old Nick was riding,
And felt that he was in for a good hiding;

Therefore into a neighbouring ditch he flung
The burden that across his back had slung,
Then casting himself down upon a bank,
Quite in a lounging attitude he sank,
And gazing on the clear calm skies above,
He sang some ditty about ladies' love.
Up comes the rider at a rapid trot—

66

The pace had made him and his steed both hot-
And asked abruptly, reining in his grey,
If he had seen a rascal pass that way,
Who on his shoulders a large bundle bore-
A horrid thief he was, the horseman swore.
Why, yes," was the reply, "I have just seen
A fellow with long legs pass by-I ween
It is the same you seek; for he looked round
Soon as your horse's footfall on the ground
Was heard-and then, as quickly as he could,
He fled to hide himself in yonder wood.

If you make haste, you there will catch him soon."
The horseman thanked him much and craved a boon-
It was to hold his steed, while in pursuit

He went himself into the wood on foot.

among

'Twas granted, and the husband rushed
The bushes tall-while the thief laughing sprung
Upon the horse; he took the bundle too,
And fast away he rode, or rather flew.

Angry, fatigued, and scratched till he was sore,
The husband came, his bootless errand o'er.

Fancy what was his grief, his rage, to find
The horse he thought he left so safe behind,

Gone too! He cried, "Hey! hey!" its name he called,
But all in vain he shouted and he bawled-
The clever thief the faster rode away.
There was no creature near on whom to lay
The blame; so the poor foolish dupe abused
The moon, for having thus her light misused.
Home on his weary legs he had to trudge;
His steed to the vile thief did he not grudge!

"Well, did you find him?" asked his smiling wife.
He answered, in a tone subdued, “ My life,
I did. I found him, and-and-for your sake,
Our best, our swiftest horse I let him take,
That he with greater speed might find his way."
The dame smiled on him, and in accents gay
Exclaimed, "O best of husbands! who could find
Your equal-one so thoughtful, wise, and kind!"

MORAL.

The moral of this story shows,

Though knaves on women oft impose,
That men are sometimes quite as green,
But hold their tongues themselves to screen.

NINE NOVELS.

THE "Head of the Family," by the author of "Olive" and the "Ogilvies," is a work of superior character, both in general tone of morality, style, and tendency. Ninian Græme, the elder brother, at once guardian and schoolmaster to a family of six orphans, is not at first a winning character; an occasional, grave, quiet, affectionate smile is insufficient to gain those sympathies, which, as the hero of the story, he claims triumphantly in the end. "Our Sister," Lindsay, sweetly humble, neither clever nor beautiful, also wants character at starting, but we learn to love her in the end. But there is a greater variety of character in that old-fashioned house, "The Gowans." There is Reuben, a hard, mathematical-headed young Scot; Edmund, of great sensitiveness and susceptibility, a sweet nature, the poet of the family, but too easily led astray; twin girls, "sonsie, fresh, and fair;" Tinie, the youngest princess, a creature beautiful and blithe, as youngest princesses always happen to be; and lastly, there is a ward, too, Hope Ansted, very small and child-like looking, very fair, and "the shyest young lady that was ever known."

The stern, hard-working Ninian has, strange to say, among his acquaintances a worthless character, but a handsome, seductive man, who goes in Edinburgh by the name of Mr. Ulverston. He has also, among his professional acquaintances as a lawyer, a young woman of great beauty and extraordinary mental powers, always bordering on the verge of insanity, who is called, by good Mrs. Forsyth, Mrs. Rachel Armstrong, but who calls herself Mrs. Geoffrey Sabine, and who was, as the daughter of a Border farmer, the wife of Mr. Sabine, and—at that time, unknown to all parties-the same person as Ninian's friend, Mr. Ulverston. While Ninian is becoming daily more and more attached to his fair ward, Mrs. Forsyth has a son, John, brought up to the ministry-a "douce, quiet, saint-like young man"-who, as opposites sometimes so strangely meet, falls in love with the fiery and intellectual, but the deserted and broken-hearted Rachel. Need to say, that his suit meets with no success. So it is also with Ninian Græme. Much the senior of his young pupil, he inspired nothing but awe and respect, where he felt love; while Hope, restored to her father-a prodigal and a spendthrift is induced to give her hand to Ulverston, already wedded to another, but who is described as "the perfect type of that Norman beauty still seen, though rarely, among the ancient gentry of England." While Ninian remains at The Gowans," with his much-enduring, disappointed, and hopeless affection, Edmund goes to London to try his chances as an author. The Clytemnestra of the story, Rachel, has at the same time attained to a first-rate reputation as a tragic actress. The old intimacy of young Græme and the actress is renewed: Edmund becomes a successful anthor, his society is sought by fashionable and unprincipled young men, and he is on the verge of ruin, when he is rescued by the timely arrival of Ninian. This arrival of Ninian's in London leads, by a long and devious course of events, to the unravelling of the history of Rachel, of Mr. Ulverston's marriage, and of pretty Hope Ansted

The Head of the Family. A Novel. By the Author of "Olive" and the "Ogilvies." Chapman and Hall.

not being, after all, a wife, although a mother! The end to Ulverston is, as it ought to be, tragic; and Ninian, with a constancy and a truth which, as Lord Byron said, was only to be found in a man of cold climate, takes Hope and her fatherless child to his heart and home. The plot of this story gives, however, no idea of the peculiar merits and qualities of the work as a work of art. This lies in the slow, consistent, effectual working-out of a character that is as steady and unchangeable as rockthat is tried, sorely tried-even to the one whom he has loved so long, and so tenderly, having a child of sin and shame, and yet to be true to her and make a wife of her! No extract ever can give an idea of the close purpose and persistent talent with which such a character is worked out, and carried through all kinds of trials, sacrifices, labours of love and of sore grief, to arrive at one grand point, the saving of his beloved pupil. "The Head of the Family" requires, indeed, to be carefully read, and as carefully studied, to be thoroughly understood and appreciated.

Miss

Miss Crumpe is a clever well-known writer of Irish stories. Where there are so many in the field—and Ireland produces more novelists and story-tellers than the other two parts of the United Kingdom put together -it requires no small talent and acquirements to ensure success. Crumpe possesses all the chief points essential to such a result: she is evidently intimate with the Irish character, she is versed in Irish history, and above all, she is thoroughly acquainted with, and has the gift to relish, the wildest Irish scenery. Add to all this, she tells her story with that spirit and quick succession of incident which are indispensable to the success of an Irish story.

The scene of the story of the "Death Flag"* (the name of a privateer or rather buccaneer ship) is laid in the barony of Bear and Bantry, one of the wildest in Ireland, and part, indeed, in what, if possible, is wilder still-the islanded, almost unapproachable and inaccessible Skelig rocks, a celebrated shrine of Irish superstition. The chief dramatis persona are the Sullivans, at the head of which clan, at the time of the story-that is to say, the latter end of last century-was one Mortimer O'Sullivan, or Murty Oge O'Sullivan Beare, as he proudly but improperly wrote himself, always taking particular care to flourish the O' of six times greater size than the other letters, which his relative and namesake, Murty Tongue Arrigud, the schoolmaster at Kenmare, remarked, made Murty Oge's signature look for all the world like a turkey's egg in a

wren's nest!

Murty Oge, a square-built little gentleman, with a curled periwig and a three-cocked hat edged round with gold lace, was a red, jollylooking buccaneer of about fifty, with a weather-beaten, well-scarred face, only one eye, and a mouthful of formidable tusks, rather than teeth. This specimen of the Irish chieftain of not a century ago, kept up a kind of regal establishment at Ross MacOwen, where salmon were actually caught in the kitchen-a considerable stream of water running through the centre thereof and where he maintained a body-guard of twelve stout followers, each of whom was provided with cutlass and pistols ; and among whose other retainers are several well-sketched characters: Dan Connell, the O'Sullivan's foster-brother, and a trusty valley

*The Death Flag. By Miss Crumpe. Author of "Geraldine of Desmond," &c., &c., &c. William Shoberl.

April-VOL. XCIV. NO. CCCLXXVI.

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