Title: The Merman and The Figure-Head
Author: Guernsey, Clara F. (Clara Florida)
Language: English
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[Illustration: “He gazed at the wooden creature with all his heart in
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                               ADVENTURES
                                   IN
                              Shadow-Land.


                               CONTAINING

                    Eva’s Adventures in Shadow-Land.
                           By MARY D. NAUMAN.

                                  AND

                    The Merman and The Figure-Head.
                         By CLARA F. GUERNSEY.


                          TWO VOLUMES IN ONE.

                         _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._


                              PHILADELPHIA
                         J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
                                 1874.


       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
                        J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
       In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

                          Lippincott’s Press,
                             Philadelphia.



                               THE MERMAN
                                  AND
                            THE FIGURE-HEAD.



                               CONTENTS.


                               CHAPTER I.
                                                                    PAGE
  The Sea-Nymph                                                        7

                               CHAPTER II.
  The Sea Kingdom                                                     28

                               CHAPTER III.
  The Figure-head                                                     52

                               CHAPTER IV.
  The Bewitched Lover                                                 74

                                CHAPTER V.
  The Sea-Nymphs                                                      90

                               CHAPTER VI.
  Lucy Peabody’s Dream                                               103



                               THE MERMAN
                                  AND
                            THE FIGURE-HEAD.



                               CHAPTER I.
                            _THE SEA-NYMPH._


  “I may be wrong, but I think it a pity
  For a movable doll to be made so pretty.”
                                                      _Doll Poems._

“I shall call her the Sea-nymph,” said Master Isaac Torrey.

“Umph!” said his clerk, Ichabod Sterns, looking over his spectacles at
his master.

“And why not The Sea-nymph, pray?” demanded Master Torrey. “Why, I say,
should I not call my fine new brig The Sea-nymph if it pleases my
fancy?”

“Fancy!” said Ichabod Sterns, putting his head on one side. “Fancy!
Umph!”

Now this was most exasperating conduct on Ichabod’s part, and as such
Master Torrey felt it.

“Yes, if it pleases my fancy,” he repeated, defiantly. “What right have
you, Ichabod Sterns, to object to that, I should like to know? If I
chose to name her after the whole choir of all the nymphs that ever swam
in the sea—Panope and Melite, Arethusa, Leucothea, Thetis, Cymodoce—what
have you to say against it? Isn’t she to swim the seas and make her
living out of the winds and waves? And what can you object to ‘The
Sea-nymph?’ I’d like to hear. But it’s your nature to object, Ichabod
Sterns. I’ve no doubt that you came objecting into the world, and I’ve
no doubt that when your time comes you’ll object to dying. It would be
just like you.”

“And death will mind my objections no more than you, Master Torrey,”
said the old clerk, smiling rather grimly as Master Torrey ceased his
pacing up and down the room and flung himself into a chair.

“But what _is_ your objection to the name?” asked the merchant, calming
down a little.

“Did I object?” said Ichabod Sterns.

“Didn’t you? You were bristling all over with objections from the toe of
your shoe to the top of your wig.” Ichabod involuntarily put up his hand
to his wig. “Why isn’t it a good name for a ship?”

“Nay, I know naught against it, Master Torrey, only it is a heathenish
kind of name for a ship that is to sail out of our decent Christian town
of Salem.”

“Heathenish! Let me tell you, Master Ichabod, that this world owes a
vast deal to the heathen—more than she does to some Christians I could
name.”

Now this awful speech was enough to make the very pig tails of many of
Master Torrey’s acquaintance stand on end with horror and surprise. But
Ichabod was used to his master’s ways, so he did not jump out of his
chair, but only looked to the door to be sure that no one had overheard
the terrible statement, for had such been the case there is no telling
what might have come to pass.

“How do you make that out, Master Torrey?” he said, composedly.

“Did you ever happen to hear of Socrates or Cicero?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of ’em,” said Ichabod.

“And did you ever hear of the Duke of Alva, or Cardinal Pole, or Bloody
Queen Mary, or Catenat?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of ’em,” returned Ichabod again, a little fiercely.

“And which was the better man, the Athenian or the Christians who burnt
their fellows at the stake?” said Master Torrey, triumphantly, as one
who had made a point.

“Umph!” said Ichabod; “I’m not a scholar like you, Master Torrey, but
I’d like you to tell me whether they were Christians by name that
poisoned Socrates and murdered Cicero?”

“Well, no,” said the merchant.

“Umph!” said Ichabod Sterns again, leaning back on his chair and rubbing
his hands slowly one over the other.

“Well, what of that?” said Master Torrey, a little taken aback.

“Oh, nothing, sir,” said Ichabod; “we have wandered a long way from the
name of the new brig.”

“She shall be The Sea-nymph,” said Master Torrey with decision. “What
could be better?”

“I thought, Master Torrey, you might have liked to call her the Anna
Jane,” said Ichabod, with a little cracked laugh like an amused crow.

Master Torrey colored high, but not with displeasure.

“I wouldn’t venture, Ichabod, I wouldn’t dare. She’s too shy, too
modest, to be pleased with such an open compliment.”

“Umph!” said the clerk again. It seemed to be a way he had. “But you are
determined to call her The Sea-nymph, Master Torrey?”

“Ah, am I!” replied Torrey, who seemed by no means disposed to pursue
the subject of the “inexpressive she,” whoever it might be. “And she
shall have the handsomest figure-head that Job Chippit can carve; and it
sha’n’t be a mere head and shoulders either, it shall be a full-length
figure.”

“It will cost a good penny, master. Job’s prices are high.”

“There’s another objection! Who cares what it costs? Am I a destitute
person? Am I an absolute pauper? Am I like to apply to the selectmen to
be supported by the town?”

“Not yet, master,” said Ichabod, gathering his papers together. “But if
we go to following our _fancies_”—scornful emphasis—“there is no telling
where we may end;” and without giving his master time to reply, Ichabod
sped out of the counting-room.

Now I am not going to tell you a long story about Master Torrey, though
I might do so if I had not a tale to tell you about something
else—namely, this sea-nymph and the merman who figure at the head of
this story. I was once told by a schoolmaster that in writing there was
“nothing so important as a strict adherence to facts;” “fax” he called
them. I treasured up this valuable precept in the inmost recesses of my
mind, and I mean to adhere to facts if I possibly can. But I can’t
adhere to facts till I get them, and to do that I don’t see but I shall
have to tell you a little about Master Isaac Torrey, merchant of Salem,
who was the means of putting this wonderful figure-head in the merman’s
way. He was a merchant of Salem when Salem was a centre of trade, and
sent many a brave ship to the Indies and the Mediterranean. He was
thirty-four years old, and looked ten years younger. He was a man
inclined to extravagance and luxury. He wore the handsomest waistcoats
and the finest lace of any one in town. He had been educated in the
gravest, strictest fashion of those grave days. His parents would have
been horrified if they had found him reading a novel or a play, but they
urged him on to study Virgil and Homer.

Now if you will promise, my young readers, never to tell your respected
instructors, I will let you into a secret. The truth is that the poems
of Virgil and Homer are all full of stories as interesting and charming
as any boy or girl could desire. But this is a circumstance which most
school-teachers make it their first object in life to conceal, and they
generally succeed so well that their pupils for the most part go through
their whole course of education and never discover that their Virgils
and Homers are anything but stupid school-books—a sort of intellectual
catacombs enshrining the dryest bones of grammar and parsing.

Now and then, however, a boy or girl finds out that there is food for
the imagination in classic poetry. Such had been the case with Isaac
Torrey, and the verses that he read with his tutor took such a hold upon
him that he became what some of his friends called “half a heathen.” Not
but that an acquaintance with the classics was thought becoming, nay,
essential, to the character of a gentleman. In the speeches and writings
of those days a due seasoning of allusions to the old gods and a
sprinkling of Latin quotations was considered the proper thing. But this
learning was rather looked upon as solid and ponderous furniture for the
mind—an instrument of mental discipline. Fancy, imagination, amusement,
were ideas much too light and frivolous to be connected with anything so
grave, solid and respectable as the intellectual drill for which alone
Latin and Greek were intended. So when Isaac Torrey talked about the old
gods as if they had been real existences, and spoke of Achilles, Hector
and Andromache as though they had been live creatures, he rather
startled the excellent young divinity student who was his tutor.

Once upon a time his father detecting a smell of burning followed it up
to Isaac’s room, where he found his son in the midst of a cloud of blue
smoke. He asked the cause, and was told that in order to procure fair
weather for the next day’s fishing excursion he (Isaac) had been
sacrificing a paper bull to Jupiter.

Mr. Torrey senior was inexpressibly shocked at the thought that his son
should have been guilty of such a heathenish performance. He gave the
boy a lecture of an hour long, ending with a whipping. He called in the
minister to talk to him. That gentleman, on being informed of the act of
idolatry perpetrated in his parish, only took a prodigious pinch of
snuff and said: “Pooh! pooh! child’s play! child’s play! No use to talk
about it. Let the boy alone.” Mr. Torrey had the highest respect for his
clergyman, and the boy _was_ let alone accordingly, and was deeply
grateful to the Rev. Mr. Bartlett.

Isaac grew up tall and handsome, went to school and to college, and in
spite of numerous prophecies that he would never be good for anything,
neither went into debt nor disgraced himself in any way. In due course
of time he succeeded to his father’s business, and astonished every one
by making money and being successful, in spite of his tasteful dress,
his “wild ways” of talking and a report that he actually wrote poetry.

At the present time he was devoted to Miss Anna Jane Shuttleworth, a
beautiful still image of a girl, who was supposed to have a great fund
of good sense, propriety, prudence and piety, because she liked to sit
still and sew from morning to night, and hardly ever opened her lips.
Ichabod Sterns was the old clerk of Isaac’s father. He and his young
master exasperated each other in many ways, but they were fond of each
other for all that.

From the counting-house on the wharf and the talk with Ichabod Sterns,
Master Torrey went to the workshop of Job Chippit, who in those days was
famous for his skill in the carving of figure-heads.

In these times Job would probably have been a sculptor, have gone to
Rome and been famous in marble and bronze. But the idea of such a thing
had never entered his brain, and he went on from year to year making his
wooden figures without any thought of a higher calling. He was a little
dried, brown old man, with bright eyes slightly near-sighted. Year after
year he carved Indian chiefs, eagles and wooden maidens for the Sally
Anns and Susan Janes that sailed from the New England ports, portraits
of public men, likenesses of William and Mary. He had once made a
full-length figure of Oliver Cromwell for a certain stiff-necked old
merchant of Boston who called his best ship after the great Protector—a
statue which every one thought his finest work. “It was so natural,”
said the good folks of Salem, and really I don’t know that they could
have said anything better even if they had been art critics and had
written for the newspapers.

True it was that all Job’s works had a certain live look to them that
was almost startling sometimes. The Indians clenched their hatchets with
a savageness quite alarming; they looked as though they might open their
wooden lips and whoop. His female figures had life and character. Each
governor, senator or general had his own peculiar expression and style.

Job was an artist, and, what was more, he was a well-paid artist. He
quite appreciated his own genius, and got almost any prices he liked to
ask for his signs and figure-heads. Job was the fashion, and no ship of
any pretension sailed from a harbor along the coast but carried one of
his masterpieces on the bow.

As Master Torrey entered his shop he was just putting the last touches
of paint on an oaken bust destined to adorn Captain Peabody’s little
schooner, The Flora. “So you have nearly finished The Flora’s
figure-head,” said Master Torrey, whose tastes led him to be a frequent
visitor at Job’s shop.

“And a pretty creature she is,” said Job, suspending his paint-brush
full of the yellow-brown pigment with which he was tinging the rippled
hair of the wooden lady, which was crowned with a garland of flowers
carved with no mean skill.

“And the flowers! Don’t you think they are an improvement? What did
Captain Peabody say to them?”

“He didn’t jest like them at first,” replied Job, continuing his work.
“I didn’t myself, to begin with, for you know the ship is called after
his wife, and nobody ever see old Mis’ Peabody going round with flowers
in her hair; but the captain, sez he, ‘Job, I want to have you make it
somethin’ like what Mis’ Peabody was when she was a young woman, ef you
kin,’ sez he. ‘She was a most uncommon pretty girl when I went
a-courting in Salsbury.’ Well, I was kind of struck with the idee, and
the next day I went to meeting, and I sot and sot, and kind of studied
the old lady’s face all through meetin’-time; and when they stood up to
sing, the choir sang ‘Amsterdam.’ You know it’s a kind of livening sort
of hymn. The old lady, she kind of brightened up, and it seemed as if I
could see the young face sort of coming out behind the old one. Thinks
I, ‘Job Chippit, you’ve got it,’ and when I come home, though it was the
Sabbath day, I couldn’t hardly keep my hands off the tools, and the
minute the sun was down I went at it. Then when you come in the next day
and told me about the Flora them old folks used to think took care of
the flowers and the spring, it seemed to suit so well with my notion of
the old lady when she was young I couldn’t help stickin’ the flowers
onto her head, like a fool as I was, for they wa’n’t in the bargain, and
I sha’n’t get no extry pay for ’em.”

“And what did Captain Peabody say?” asked Master Torrey, whose own
nature found sympathy in that of the artist.

“Oh, he was as tickled as could be when I’d persuaded him about the
flowers. Lucy Peabody, she’s been to see it. She says she expects that’s
the way her mother’ll look when she gets to heaven, and the flowers was
like the crowns we read about in the Revelations. She’s an awful nice
girl, Lucy Peabody. Anna Jane Shuttleworth was with her.”

“And what did _she_ say?” asked Master Torrey, eagerly.

“Oh, nothing. Anna Jane don’t never have much to say for herself. I told
her the wreath was your notion, and she kind of smiled, but she hadn’t a
word to say. But look here, Master Torrey, am I to have the making of
the figure-head for your new ship, and what is it to be?”

“That’s just what I have come to see you about, Job,” said Master
Torrey. “I am going to call her the Sea-nymph, and I want you to make
the most beautiful full-length figure of a sea-nymph to stand on her bow
and look across the water when the brig goes sailing away into the South
Seas.”

“A _sea-nimp_!” said Job; “and what sort of a critter may that be?”

“Did you never hear of them?”

“Never as I know of. There’s more fish in the sea than ever come out of
it. I expect these nimps of yourn are some of the kind that never come
out.”

“You never were more mistaken in your life, Job Chippit. They have been
seen on the surface of the sea over and over again. We know almost all
their names, and how could they have names if they were not real beings?
Answer me that!”

“Oh!” said Job, standing back to take a general survey of his wooden
Flora. “They’re some of them heathen young women your head is always so
full of, Master Torrey?”

“Young women! Why they were goddesses, man, or a sort of goddesses. Was
there not the white-footed Thetis, mother of Achilles? and did she not
come to him with all her attendant nymphs—Melite, and Doris, and
Galatea, and Panope?”

“I’ve hearn tell of _her_,” said Job, touching up the wreath on Flora’s
head; “it’s in Lycidas:

  ‘The air was calm, and on the level brine
  _Slick_ Panope and all her sisters played.’

“Jest so; I kinder like to read that piece. It don’t seem to have so
very much meanin’ to’t, I must say, but I sort of like the sound of it.
Them nimps lived in the sea, or folks thought they did, didn’t they?”

“Yes, Job, as we live on the land. I’m by no means sure that I haven’t
heard and seen Nereides and Oceanides myself when I’ve been out by
moonlight on the bay or round the rocks.”

“I guess they never was any round these parts; it’s too cold for ’em. I
knew an old sailor once that said he’d seen a mermaid, but I suppose you
don’t want me to stick a curly fish’s tail on your figure-head?”

“No, indeed. Make her full length, like the most beautiful woman you
know.”

“Hev’ you any idee how them young women used to dress. Master Torrey?”
asked the wood-carver. “I’d like to go as near the nature of the critter
as I could. I must say the notion takes my fancy. It’ll make kind of a
variety, and it’s a pretty sort of an idee to name a ship after a thing
that has its life out the sea.”

“I thought you’d think so,” said Master Torrey, gratified. “Ichabod
Sterns said it was a heathenish name for a ship that was to sail out of
Salem.”

“Well, you know Ichabod. He hain’t got much notion of anything of that
sort. But now what’s your notion of these ’ere water women? Kinder
cold-blooded critters they must have been, I’m thinking.” There was
something in this last remark which seemed to grate on Master Torrey’s
feelings, whatever they were.

“Why so?” he said, a little shortly.

“Oh, because it’s the natur’ of all the things in the sea. It must have
been but a damp, uncomfortable way to live for warm-blooded folks; but
tell me what they were like, or do you happen to have a picture of one?”

“I’m sorry to say I have not.”

“Did they think they was like folks, or did they live for ever?”

“Some said they were immortal, others that they were only very
long-lived. Plutarch says they lived more than nine thousand years.”

“Creation! What awful old maids they must have been! That’s more than
old Mrs. Skinner, who was eighty-six when she married John Dickenson,
’cause she said she wasn’t going to have ‘Miss’ on her tombstone if she
could help it.”

“But then they always remained young and lovely, never grew old or
changed. They used to say that whoever looked on an unveiled nymph went
mad.”

“Waal, I’d risk that if I could see one. But they was kind of onlucky
sort of critters, then, after all?” asked Job, who seemed to be inwardly
dwelling on some thought which he was keeping out of the talk.

“Yes, to those who approached them rashly, but they were kind to those
who worshiped them with reverence and offered them the gifts they
loved.”

“Waal, they wa’n’t very peculiar in that. The most of women is capable
of being coaxed if you only go to work the right way. I don’t know how
it might have been with gals in the sea, but it ain’t best to be too
dreadful diffident with the land kind always,” returned Job, with a sly
smile. “But about this figure of ourn. I suppose it ought to have some
kind of a light gown on, and hadn’t they—them nimps?—got no emblem, nor
nothing of that sort, like Neptune’s trident? I’m going to make a
Neptune for a ship Peleg Brag’s got. Her name was The Ann Eliza. But the
young woman she was named for, she up and married Jonathan Whitbeck, so
Peleg, he’s gont to call his ship The Neptune now. It’s the only way he
can think of to take it out on Ann Eliza, and I don’t expect that’ll
kill her; but didn’t these _nimps_ have nothing about them to show what
they were?”

“Sometimes seaweeds, or coral and shells. Sometimes they held a silver
vase.”

“Waal, I reckon I’ll take the vase, if it’s agreeable to you, and make
her holding it out, and put some seaweed and shells and sich onto her
head, and let her hair fly loose, as if the wind blew it back. She won’t
want no shoes nor sandals, nor nothing of that sort. What would be the
use to a critter that passes its life swimming round the sea?”

“I see you understand. You’ll make her a beauty, Job?”

“I’ll do my best. You’ll want her to be a light-complected young woman,
I guess.”

“They say the Nereides had green hair, but Virgil says Arethusa’s was
golden, so we may make our nymph’s that color,” said Master Torrey,
turning away to the window.

“Jes’ so; I’ll go right to work. I must get Lucy Peabody to put on a
white gown and come and let me look at her a little. She’ll do it. She’s
a real accommodating girl, is Lucy.”

“But Lucy is not fair.”

“No more she ain’t. Not white as milk, like Anna Jane Shuttleworth, but
she’s a nice, pretty girl, and will be willing to oblige me. I’d never
dare ask such a thing of old Colonel Shuttleworth’s daughter.”

Master Torrey smiled to himself as he thought of the silent, stately
Anna standing as a model in the rude shop.

“But I’ll give the figure a look like Anna Jane, if I can,” pursued Job.
“To my mind, she’s a great deal more like some such thing than she is
like a real flesh-and-blood woman.”

To this Master Torrey made no answer, but smiled at the old man’s folly,
and passed into the street without even asking what would be the price
of the wooden sea-nymph.



                              CHAPTER II.
                           _THE SEA KINGDOM._


I take it for granted that all my readers have heard of mermen and
mermaids. But in case any one’s education should have been neglected, I
will just say that they are like human beings, only that instead of legs
they have tails like dolphins, a fashion much more useful in their
element, and regarded by them as much more ornamental, than the style in
which people are finished on land.

The merladies are very beautiful. They have long, golden hair, and have
often been seen sitting on the rocks by the seaside, combing their locks
with their golden combs and holding a looking-glass. They are also said
to sing in the most charming manner. I knew a Manx woman once whose
mother had seen a mermaid making her toilette. She described the sea
lady as wonderfully beautiful, and “singing in a way that would ravish
your heart.”

“But as soon as she saw that she was watched,” said Katy, “she gave a
scream like a sea eagle and dived into the water. No one ever saw her
again, but I’ve heard the singing more than once when I was young.”

Concerning the kingdoms of the sea and their inhabitants Hans Anderson
has written a pretty story, which I hope you have all read. The fullest
account, however, that I know of the mer countries is in the Arabian
Nights, Lane’s translation, where you will find the story of “Abdalla of
the Land and Abdalla of the Sea.” It is a pity that the date and place
of this interesting narration is left so uncertain, for to some minds it
throws an air of improbability over the whole story; however, it is
certainly the most authentic account of the world under the waters. So
far as I know, “Abdalla of the Land” is the only person who has ever
associated familiarly with mermen.

There was, to be sure, Gulnare of the Sea, who married the King of
Khorassan and introduced her family to that monarch. But she was not a
proper merwoman, being destitute of their peculiar appendage, and being,
moreover, related to the Genii and Afrites of those parts.

But in the chronicle of Abdalla you will find much that is curious and
interesting. There you may read concerning the “dendan,” that tremendous
fish which is able to swallow an elephant at a mouthful; and, by the
way, if you wish to descend into the sea undrowned, you have only to
anoint yourself with the fat of the dendan. But the difficulty seems to
be in catching this monster, who eats mermen whenever he can find them.
You, however, are in no danger even if you happen to fall in his way,
for he dies “whenever he hears the voice of a son of Adam.” So if you
should fall in with a dendan, you have only to scream at the top of your
voice and be quite safe. But concerning these wonders and many more I
have no time to write, seeing that if you can get the book you can read
it for yourself.

Now there are just as many mermen and mermaids along the American coasts
as there are anywhere else, though they very seldom show themselves. I
heard, indeed, of a sailor who had seen one in Passamaquoddy Bay, but I
did not have the pleasure of conversing with this mariner myself, so I
am unable to state as an absolute fact that a mermaid was seen.

If any of you are at the seaside in the summer, you can keep a sharp
lookout, and there is no telling what you may see. You would find an
alliance with a mer-person very advantageous if we may judge by the
experience of Abdalla. Jewels in the sea are as common as pebbles with
us, and in return for a little fruit a merman will give you bushels of
precious stones.

You must be a little careful, however, not to offend them, for it would
seem that some of them are rather touchy and apt to be intolerant of
other people’s opinion in matters of doctrine and practice.

Now, not far from the Massachusetts coast, out beyond the bay, is a very
beautiful sea country. There are mountains as big as Mount Washington,
whose tops, just covered by the sea, are bare rock, but which are
clothed around their base with the most beautiful seaweed, golden green
and purple and crimson. Through these seaweeds wander all manner of
strange creatures, such as human eyes have never seen, for there is no
truer proverb than that “There are more fish in the sea than ever came
out of it.” There are miles and miles of gray-green weed and emerald
moss where the sea cows and sea horses find pasture. There, too, are the
cities and villages of the merpeople, and many a pleasant home standing
in the midst of the beautiful sea gardens, blossoming with strange
flowers and bright with strange fruit.

The houses are grottoes and caves hollowed out of the rock, and for the
most part very handsomely furnished, for there is a great deal of wealth
among the sea people. They have not only all the mineral wealth of the
sea, but they have all the treasures that have been lost in the deep
ever since men first began to sail the waters. Their soft carpets are
made of sea-green wool that the sea people comb and weave, for they are
skillful in the arts and manufactures.

They have soft, lace-like fabrics woven of seaweed, silks and satins
that the water does not hurt. There is no coral on our Northern shores,
but they import it, and pay in exchange with oysters and
looking-glasses. The sea ladies dress in the most beautiful things you
can imagine, that is, when they dress at all, for in warm weather they
generally make their appearance in a light suit of their own hair with a
zone and necklace of pearls or jewels.

This country that I am writing about has a republican form of
government, and is very prosperous and comfortable. It is a long time
since any foreign power has made war upon it, and it has had time to
grow and develop its resources. But at the time of which I write they
had just finished a seven years’ war with the king of a country lying to
the east who had tried to annex the sea republic to his own dominions.
This monarch had counted on a very easy conquest because the republic
kept a very small army, not big enough really to keep down the sharks.
Moreover, there was a large “Peace Society” in the country, every member
of which had maintained repeatedly, in the most public manner, that it
was the duty of every member to be invaded and killed a dozen times over
rather than lift up his hand in war against any creature with mer blood
in his veins. The king thought this talk of theirs really meant
something, I suppose they thought so themselves in peace-times, but when
the annual meeting came, about a week after the declaration of war, only
two members made their appearance, and they told each other that all the
men of the society had enlisted and all the women were busy making their
clothes and packing their knapsacks. The king was very much surprised to
find that these peaceable soldiers fought harder than any one else, and
when he was at last forced to conclude peace on the most humiliating
terms, it was the ex-President of the non-resistance society that
insisted on a surrender of his most important frontier fortress.

“I thought you believed in non-resistance,” said the king, greatly
disgusted.

“So I do, your majesty, for other people,” said the ex-President,
respectfully, and the king had to give way.

But this is not a chronicle of the politics and history of the sea
country, but only of one particular merman’s fortunes. Our merman was
young and very handsome, and belonged to a very distinguished family in
his own state. It was said that they were in some way connected with
that royal race to which belonged Gulnare of the Sea—she who married the
King of Khorassan. It was whispered that the family were descended from
a younger son of this pair, who had married a mer lady, and displeased
both her family and his to such an extent by the marriage that they had
left the Eastern seas and emigrated to the English waters, and from
there into the new sea lands of the West.

All these things, if they were true, must have happened centuries before
my merman was born. The legend was well known, and if it was founded on
fact, the family had human blood in their veins and a cross of sea
genii, for Gulnare was, as you will remember, not quite a
flesh-and-blood woman. However, the humanity in them was at least royal
humanity, and the King of Khorassan, as the story goes, was a very fine
gentleman.

All the people of that country were fair-haired, big-boned people, with
blue eyes, but the race I am writing about were black haired and dark
eyed, with slender hands. They were rather delicate and slight in their
appearance, and they had a peculiarly graceful way of carrying their
tails, a manner quite indescribable in its elegance, but a family mark.
They were rather more intellectual than their countrymen and were fond
of literary pursuits and the study of magic, which in the sea land is
considered as a very essential part of a gentleman’s education. It is
taught only in the higher schools and colleges.

Our merman’s old grandfather (his father was dead) was Professor of
Magic in the State University, and so expert in his own science that he
could turn himself into an oyster so perfect that you could not tell him
from the genuine article. It was said that once while in that condition
he had been nearly swallowed by a member of the Freshman class. For this
offence the young merman was called up before the Faculty. He apologized
very humbly, and said his only motive had been to see if he couldn’t for
once get the professor to agree with him. He professed himself very
penitent, and was let off with a reprimand, but he said afterward that
his great mistake had been in waiting for the pepper and vinegar. After
this accident the professor could never be induced to repeat the
performance except in a small circle of his intimate friends.

Now, there was one curious thing about this family, and one which makes
me think there was some truth in the legend of their descent from
Gulnare and the King of Khorassan.

All the other merpeople have the greatest objection to human beings, and
shun all inhabited coasts, seaport towns and ships. But every once in a
while a member of this race would show the oddest fancy for the shore
and a kind of longing after human society—a longing which of course they
never could gratify, for they could not live out of the water, and if
they had been able to desert the sea, the forked ends of their long
tails would have been of no use on land.

A few years before the family left the English coast, a younger son had
actually married a human girl who went back to her friends and deserted
him on the shamefully false pretence that she wanted to go to church.
The poor merman went out of his wits and died, and was ever afterward
held up as an example to any of the younger ones who showed any signs of
similar weakness. To care anything for human creatures is counted
disgraceful in mer society, and the older members of the family for the
most part felt it their duty to express the greatest possible animosity
to the whole human race. The old professor of magic had once said that
he would swim a hundred miles to see a shipwreck if he were only sure
the people would all be drowned, but he was strongly suspected of having
saved a drunken sailor who fell overboard from a Cape Cod schooner. The
professor himself used to deny this story with great indignation, and
say it was of a piece with the slanderous invention about his family’s
connection with Gulnare of the sea and her misalliance.

His grandson, however, if the story was hinted at in his presence, would
look grave and say that he had never supposed the story was true, but if
it were, his grandfather had only obeyed the dictates of mermanity. This
was a shocking speech in the ears of the merpeople. Our young merman,
however, had distinguished himself in the war, and no one cared to
quarrel with him. So they contented themselves with calling him “queer,”
and saying that “oddity ran in the family.”


It was the summer vacation in the sea land. All the commencements in the
mer colleges were just over. All the presidents of those institutions
had made their speeches in languages dead and alive, and told all their
classes what an enormous responsibility rested upon them, how they were
bound to “go forward,” and “to conquer,” and to “build themselves up,”
and to “develop themselves,” and be “leaders of their kind,” and, in
short, do something in proportion to the expense bestowed on their
education. This is a way they have in sea land. But naturally in the sea
they take things cooler than we can on land, and you wouldn’t believe
how very little difference the advent of all these expensively got up
young mermen made in the water world if you had not been there to see.
Now the old mer professor hadn’t had a very comfortable time. His class
that year was rather a stupid one, and with all the pains he could take
and all the “coaches” they could use they hadn’t passed a very good
examination in magic. One young gentleman upon whom he had thought he
could certainly depend being told to make himself invisible, which is a
very difficult problem, had made a mistake, used the wrong formula, and
by accident transformed the whole Board of Examiners, who were not
expecting any such thing, into cuttle-fishes. There was dreadful
confusion for a few minutes, for the student couldn’t remember how to
turn them back again, and as the spell could not be undone by any one
else, the members of the board got all tangled up together, while the
professor, in an awful temper, was trying to teach the young man the
right formula.

[Illustration: “And by accident transformed the whole board of examiners
into cuttle-fishes.”]

But they were all undone at last, only there was one immensely wealthy
old merman who was never quite sure in his mind that he had got back his
own proper curly fish’s tail, and not that of some other gentleman, so
that all the rest of his life he was in a puzzle as to at least half his
personal identity. This incident so vexed him that he did not give
anything to the college funds, as he had fully intended. This
circumstance and a few other accidents had so annoyed the professor that
instead of going to the North Seas with his grandson he shut himself up
in the house and began to write a book. The book was in opposition to a
theory put forth by a learned merman in the Baltic Sea that human beings
were undeveloped mermen. The professor, however, declared that they were
no such thing, but simply undeveloped walruses. He began his first
chapter by saying that, while he had the highest respect for the Baltic
merman’s acquirements, intellect, penetration and general infallibility,
he nevertheless felt himself obliged to declare that none but an idiot
or a madman could come to the conclusion of the learned man aforesaid.
He (the professor) wished to lay down his platform in the beginnings and
state that he differed from the opinions of the learned author on this
and all other conceivable points.

“You’d a good deal better go along with me, grandfather,” said the young
merman, swimming into the room where the professor was sitting with his
big books all about him. “Think how nice and cool it will be among the
icebergs this hot weather. Hadn’t you better come?”

“I won’t,” said the old professor, snapping and switching his tail
angrily round in the water, for the houses there are full of water, as
ours are of air.

“I didn’t say you would, sir,” said the young merman; “I said you’d
better.”

“Did you ever know me say I would do a thing when I did?” returned the
professor, angrily. “I mean, did you ever know me say I did do a thing
when I would? Pooh! Pshaw! That isn’t what I mean.”

“Yes, sir!” said his grandson, respectfully.

“What do you mean by that?” said the professor, sharply. “There’s that
catfish mewing at the door. Get up and let her in, do, and make yourself
useful for once in your life.”

The young merman got up and opened the door for the catfish, which came
swimming in, followed by two little kitten fish. These, frisking
playfully around the room, soon overset the professor’s ink-stand.

“There!” said the professor to his grandson. “That’s all your fault!
What did you let them in for? Open the windows and let in some fresh
water, do. Scat! scat! you little torments! I don’t believe the cook has
given them their dinner; she never does unless I see to it myself; your
sisters forget them. No, I’m not going to the North Seas; I can’t spare
the time.”

“Don’t you think you can, sir?” said the young merman. “What odds does
it make about those forked creatures on land?”

“Do you know this fellow has the impudence to pretend that they are
undeveloped mermen, that they’ll be just like ourselves after a series
of ages when their two legs grow into one, and that our ancestors were
actually of the same type as those low creatures that go about in ships?
But perhaps you agree with him, sir?” said the old professor, with a
look that seemed to say that if he did he might expect to be annihilated
on the spot.

“Not I, sir. For aught I know we mermen may be undeveloped human beings.
I’ve sometimes thought so, I have such a sort of longing for the land.”

“How dare you—?” began the old gentleman in great indignation.

“Come, come, grandfather,” said the young merman, smiling. “You are not
angry with me I know; I presume you’ve felt just so yourself.”

The professor was silent, and swam thoughtfully two or three times up
and down the room. The two little kitten fish went and sat on his head.

“I won’t say but I have,” he remarked at length, “but it’s best not to
mention it. Where do you mean to go for your vacation?”

“I thought I should go North along the coast,” said the young merman. “I
can’t help having a curiosity about the land, and if I am in a way to
observe any human creatures, I may pick up some facts to support your
theory that they are undeveloped walruses.”

“Any one can see that who has ever seen them floundering about in the
water,” said the old professor, scornfully.

“But the men drown and the walruses don’t.”

“That’s because the men have not yet acquired the habit of not being
drowned,” said the professor. “When are you going?”

“To-morrow, I thought.”

“Very well,” said the professor. “Swim away with you now, and tell the
cook to feed these kittens; there they are nibbling the hair off my
head.”

The next day the young merman set off on his travels. He bade good-bye
to no one but his grandfather and his two sisters. His best friend was
away as bearer of despatches to the secretary of state.

“I wish he wouldn’t go near the coast,” said the older sister,
wistfully.

“So do I,” said the younger; “I’m afraid for him. But, sister, now
honestly, don’t you wish you could see a human creature near enough to
speak to?”

“No, not I,” said the elder, who had less of the family traits than any
of her relations; “I wish you wouldn’t say such silly things.”


Just as the young merman was going out of the front door, he met a huge
lobster coming into it, and without ringing. The young merman felt that
this was a liberty in the lobster, and was sure that his grandfather
would not be pleased.

“Hadn’t you better go round to the back door?” he said, quietly.

Now the lobster was no less than the old Witch of the Sea in disguise.

“Round to the back door indeed!” shrieked the lobster. “Do you know who
I am, young man?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the young merman; “I had no idea you were any
one in particular. The servant will admit you if you wish to see the
professor.”

“I do,” said the lobster, in a huff, “but I won’t;” and she turned round
and swam away.

The professor saw her out of the window. He knew who it was well enough,
but he did not like the Witch of the Sea. He thought females had no
business to study magic, and he said she practiced her art in a most
irregular manner. Moreover, she could do two or three things which he
couldn’t, so he naturally held her in contempt.

“Ahrr! you old fool!” cried the lobster, shaking her claw at him.

But the professor pretended to take no notice. “Those low-bred people
always call names,” he said to himself. “What an old humbug she is, and
what idiots people are to go to her for advice!”


The merman went swimming on his way, but as he swam he passed a garden.
It was rather a large garden, shut in by a hedge of sea flag and tangle,
with pink and white shells glittering here and there among the leaves.
Behind the garden was a very lofty and spacious grotto, where lived a
family with whom the professor’s household was very intimate. The merman
paused a minute, for some one in the garden was singing. The singer had
a voice that would have made people on land go wild to hear her. If you
can imagine a wood-thrush multiplied by fifty and singing articulate
music, you can have some idea of the mermaid’s voice. But in the sea
every one can sing, and they don’t care much more for it than we do here
for public speaking. She was singing a silly little song, but it was
joined to a sweet air, and the words were of no great consequence:

  “My goodman marchèd down the street,
    ‘Good-bye, my dear, good-bye,’ said he;
  ‘Good-bye, my dear;’ it might be ne’er
    Would he come back again to me.

  “‘Good-bye, my love,’ I said aloud;
    I kept my smile, I did not cry;
  ‘Good-bye, my own,’ and he was gone,
    And who was left so lone as I!

  “It was so long, so very long,
    I kept myself so calm and still;
  The days went on, the time was gone,
    I lost my hope and I fell ill.

  “I could not rest, I could not sleep,
    I hid myself from every eye;
  And wearing care to dumb despair
    Was changed, and yet I did not cry.

  “My goodman came up the street,
    And from the street he called to me;
  ‘Look out, my dear, for I am here,
    And safe returned to comfort thee.’

  “My tears fell down like summer rain,
    I could not rise to ope the door,
  Though once again, so firm and plain,
    I heard his step upon the floor.

  “I was so glad, so very glad,
    I had to cry and so did he;
  But wars are o’er, and now no more
    My goodman goes away from me.”

“Is that you?’” called the merman when the song was done.

Just over the hedge was a little arbor covered with trailing sea-plants.
As the merman spoke, two little white hands parted the broad crimson
leaves of a dulse that hung over the door, then there swam out one of
the loveliest mermaids in the whole sea. Her yellow hair shone like
gold, and was full two yards long as it trailed on the water, for
mermaids never wear their hair any other way. Her complexion was like
the inside of a pink-and-white shell, and her eyes were like two clear,
still pools of water, they were so pure and deep. As for the mer part of
her, the dolphin’s tail, I declare it was only an additional beauty, she
managed it so gracefully. I can’t begin to tell you how beautiful she
was. She was a very intimate friend of the merman’s sister, and he had
known her all his life—ever since they used to chase the fishes round
the garden and in and out of the rocks, and make baby-houses together.

“Where are you going?” said the mermaid to the merman.

“Only North a little for my vacation trip.”

“Without saying good-bye?” said the mermaid, smiling as though she did
not care a bit.

“I didn’t know you’d come home till I heard you singing, I sha’n’t be
gone long; what shall I bring you?”

“A tame seal to play with, if you can remember it.”

“Tie a string round my finger,” said the merman.

“You can wear this,” she said, holding up a seal ring of red carnelian.
“I found it in the garden; I suppose it belonged to some human being.”

It was a large seal ring, having two interlaced triangles cut in the
stone.

“That’s a spell,” said the merman; “it will keep away evil spirits.”

“Then wear it,” said the mermaid, holding it out to him, and he slipped
it on his finger.

“Good-bye,” she said; “you won’t forget the tame seal?”

“Certainly not; I’ll be home in time to dance at your birth-day party.”

The mermaid swam away to the house, turning at the door to wave her hand
to her old playmate, but he did not see her. His two sisters had watched
their interview from an upper window of their own house.

“He has no more eyes in his head than an oyster,” said the elder, in
quite a pet.

“It would be so nice,” said the younger, with a sigh. “It would be just
the thing for him.”

“Of course, and that’s the reason why he never thinks of it,” said the
elder, who had more experience.



                              CHAPTER III.
                           _THE FIGURE-HEAD._


In the mean time, a most beautiful thing had grown out of the oak block
in Job Chippit’s shop.

Day by day Job worked at the figure-head of the Sea-nymph, Master
Torrey’s beautiful new brig that was lying on the stocks all but ready
for the launch. Job spared no pains on his work, and his wonderful
success really astonished himself.

Every one wanted to see the new figure-head, but Job kept it locked up
in an inner room, and would admit no one but Master Torrey and Lucy
Peabody. Lucy had been willing to put on a white dress and stand for a
model, but the figure did not look at all like Lucy. It was taller, more
slender, and the features were nothing like hers. Once or twice Lucy had
persuaded Anna Jane Shuttleworth with her into Job’s shop. The old man
had studied her face, and worked every moment of the young lady’s stay.
He stared at Anna in meeting-time in a way that almost disturbed that
young woman’s composure, but she looked straight before her and took no
notice. It was impossible to tell how she felt. Anna was always “very
reserved,” people said. They had an idea that treasures of wisdom, good
sense and virtue were at once indicated and concealed by that
statue-like air and silence.

Master Torrey was delighted with the nymph, which was, indeed, most
beautiful. She stood on a point of rock, leaning lightly forward. Her
rounded arms upheld a silvered vase of antique fashion; her head was
thrown back; her hair, crowned with seaweed and coral, streamed over her
shoulders as though blown by the same breeze that wafted back the thin
robe from her dainty feet and ankles; the face was of the regular
classic type, yet not quite human in its cold purity; the eyes looked
out over the sea toward the far horizon. It was really quite
extraordinary how the old Yankee wood-carver could have accomplished
such a work of art. It looked, also, as if it might, if it chose, open
its lips and speak, but you were quite certain it never would choose, it
was so life-like and yet so still.

Job had sent to Boston and procured finer colors than he had ever used
before, and laid them on with a cunning hand. He had painted the sea
lady’s robe a pale sea-green; over it fell her hair—not yellow with
golden lights, but soft flaxen; the eyes were blue, and the faintest
sea-shell pink tinged the lips and cheeks. It was altogether the most
beautiful figure-head that any one had ever seen.

“There! I reckon she’s about done,” said Job as he laid down his last
brush and stood contemplating his work. There was an odd look on the old
man’s face, half satisfaction, half dislike.

“She’s a pretty cretur, ain’t she?” he said to Lucy Peabody.

“Beautiful,” said Lucy, but speaking with a slight effort.

“Don’t you like her?” said Job in a doubtful tone.

[Illustration: “‘Don’t you like her?’ said Job, in a doubtful tone.”]

“She’s very beautiful, Uncle Job, but—but”—and Lucy hesitated—“I
shouldn’t want any one I cared for to love a woman like that.”

“Waal, I can’t say’s I would myself,” said Job. “But this ain’t a woman,
you see; it’s one of them nimps. They wa’n’t like real human girls, you
know.”

“But she is not kind,” said Lucy, with a little shiver. “She would see
men drowning before her eyes, and would not put out her hand to help
them. I think she took those pearl bracelets and her necklace from some
poor dead girl she found floating in the sea. She wouldn’t mind; she
would only care to dress herself with them.”

“I won’t say but that’s my notion of her too,” said Job. “Do you know,
Lucy,” he continued, in a lower voice, “I can’t help feeling as if there
was something more than common in this bit of wood all the while I’ve
been doing it? It seemed as if ’twa’n’t me that was making of it up, but
I was jest like some kind of a machine going along on some one else’s
notion. Sometimes I am half skeered at the critter myself.”

“You meant to make her like Anna Jane Shuttleworth, didn’t you?” asked
Lucy, suddenly.

“Waal, yis, I did kind o’ mean to give her a look of Anna Jane, ’cause
Torrey, he’s so set on her, but I’ve got it more like her than I meant.
Somehow, it seems as if it was more like her than she is herself.”

Lucy gave one more long look at the figure “I must go,” she said, with a
little start. “Good-bye, Uncle Job;” and she flitted away by a side
door.

Just then Master Torrey came into the shop, and with him came old
Colonel Shuttleworth and his daughter. Colonel Shuttleworth was a
pompous, portly man, in an embroidered waistcoat, plum-colored coat and
lace ruffles.

“A pretty thing! a pretty thing!” he said, condescendingly. “How many
guineas has she cost Master Torrey?”

“You didn’t expect I was going to make her for nothing, did you,
cunnel?” said Job, who stood in no awe of the old man’s wealth, clothes
or title.

“No, no, of course not,” said the colonel, trying to be dignified. “Um!
ah! it seems to me this figure has something the look of my daughter.
Anna, isn’t the new figure-head like you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Anna, who had dropped into a seat and sat
looking at nothing in particular.

“She’s so delicate, so modest, she won’t notice,” thought her lover.
“She is lovely, Job,” he cried aloud. “You have outdone yourself. Our
sea lady is no mortal, but a goddess. She has everything noble in
humanity, but none of its faults or weaknesses.”

“Umph!” said Job; “I don’t know about that. I’ve heard some of them
goddesses was rather queer-acted people. Anyhow, I think I’d like the
women folks best, not being a heathen god myself.”

“Why, Job, you don’t understand your own work,” said Master Torrey, half
angrily. “She is too pure to be moved by our passions, too much exalted
above humanity to be agitated by its troubles.”

“Waal now, that ain’t my notion of exaltation,” said Job. “‘Seems to me
that’s more like havin’ no feelin’s at all, kind of too dull and stupid
and full of herself to keer very much about anything. This wooden girl
of ourn is uncommon handsome, though I say it, but bless you, Master
Torrey! she hain’t got no more brains in her skull than a minnow. She’d
be a kind of dead-and-alive sort of a critter always. If she had a
husband, she’d never bother herself if he was in trouble. If she had a
baby, she wouldn’t care much for it, only maybe to dress it up.”

The old man seemed strangely excited in this absurd discussion. Master
Torrey, too, seemed much disturbed and not a little provoked. Anna Jane
sat calm and still, and wondered whether that light green color in the
nymph’s robe would become her. The colonel, who had not the faintest
idea what the two men were talking about, looked from one to the other
uncomprehending, and consequently slightly offended.

“Are you talking about this wooden image?” he said, wondering.

“Yes, to be sure, cunnel,” said Job, with an odd sound between a laugh
and a groan.

“Come, child, it is time to go home,” said the colonel, loftily.

Anna Jane rose and took her father’s arm. Master Torrey followed them
out of the shop without looking back or saying good-bye to his old
friend. In a strange passion, Job caught up the axe and looked at the
wooden nymph as if about to dash it in pieces. “What an old fool I am!”
he said. “_She_ ain’t only wood, and I’ll get my pay for her.
_Creation!_ it does beat all how contrary things turn out in this
world!”

The figure-head of the Sea-nymph was carried through the streets in the
midst of an admiring throng and fixed securely in its place on the
beautiful new brig. A few days more, and the ship was launched and slid
swiftly and safely into the sea. That night it was bright moonlight.
Silver-gilt ripples were rising and falling along the coast and all over
the bay. Now and then a fish would jump, scattering a shower of shining
drops. Everything was very still around the Sea-nymph. She lay quite by
herself at some distance from any other craft. There was no one on board
but an old watchman, who was fast asleep. If he had been awake, he would
have seen a long, bright ripple on the water coming nearer as some sea
creature cut its way swiftly toward the new craft. It was our merman,
who found himself drawn toward the land by a longing curiosity too
strong for him to resist.

“It is all so quiet and still,” he thought. “There can be no possible
danger, and I do so want to see what sort of houses these human
creatures live in. There’s a new ship. I’m a great mind to go and look
at it. What is that standing there on the end of it?”

The merman swam on slowly, debating whether he should really go and
look. Something seemed at once to warn him away and to call him forward.
He could not tell what was the matter with him. Once he turned to swim
away. Then he made up his mind once for all, and dashed straight on
toward the ship. He said over to himself a charm his grandfather had
taught him: “Aski, kataski, lix tetrax, damnamenous,” words of power
once written on the fish-bodied statue of the great goddess of Ephesus;
but, dear me! it did him no good at all. All the while he was coming the
wooden nymph stood up in her place, holding out her silver vase in both
hands and looking over the sea with her painted eyes.

“What a lovely creature!” thought the merman. “She is looking at me; she
holds her vase toward me.”

She was doing no such thing, of course—the wooden image—but he thought
she was. He did not know that she would have looked just the same way if
he had been an old porpoise instead of a young merman. He swam closer
and closer. The moon shone on the painted face. The ship moved gently on
the water. The merman thought the lady had inclined her head. In one
moment he fell desperately, helplessly, in love with the oaken nymph. It
certainly must have been the doing of the old Witch of the Sea. Some
influence of the kind must have been at work, or else a merman who had
been to college would surely have had more sense than to become enamored
of an oak block. But whether it was the witch’s work, or whether it was
the drop of human blood in his veins, or whether it was fate, that is
just what he did—he fell in love with a wooden image. He forgot his
home, his old grandfather, his sisters, his best friend, who loved him
like a brother and who had saved his life in the war. As for the mermaid
who had given him the ring, he never gave her a thought. He didn’t care
for anything in the world but that painted image smiling up there and
holding its vase. He saw nothing but that, and, in fact, he didn’t see
that either, for he saw it as if it were alive.

“Oh I wish I knew her name or what she is!” said the merman to himself.
“She can’t be human. She is too beautiful.” He swam round and round and
read the words “The Sea-nymph” painted under the figure. He gave a jump
almost out of the water. “It is a nymph,” he said—“one of the Nereides
or Oceanides. I thought they had left this world long ago. What can she
be doing on that ship?”

He gazed at the wooden creature with all his heart in his eyes. He
wished he were human that he might at least be a little like this lovely
shape. He hated his own form. Was it likely the divine nymph would ever
deign to notice a creature with a fish’s tail? Finally he ventured to
speak.

“Fairest nymph,” he said.

He got no answer, but as the shadow of a cloud flitted across her face,
and then the moon shone on her, he thought the nymph smiled. If there
had been any possible way, he would certainly have climbed up to her,
though he knew he could not live five minutes out of the water. He did
not think anything about that, the poor silly merman. He was so
infatuated that he would have been glad to die beside her. He stayed
there the whole night talking to the wooden sea-nymph, and when the
image moved with the rise and fall of the water he thought she inclined
her head toward him. He said the most extravagant things to her; he told
her all he had ever thought or felt, things he had never spoken to his
best friend who loved him dearly; he poured out all his heart into the
deaf ears of the wooden nymph. The image kept looking out over the water
with its painted eyes, and the merman thought, “Now at last I have found
some one who can understand me.”

It was growing to gray dawn when a huge sea gull came sweeping over the
water, and poised and hovered over the merman’s head.

“Hallo!” said the sea-gull to the merman, “what are _you_ up to, young
man?”

The merman was disgusted and made no answer.

“You’d better clear out of this,” said the gull. “If they catch you,
they’ll make a show of you and wheel you round the streets in a tub of
water for sixpence a sight.”

“Be so good as to reserve your anxiety for your own affairs,” said the
merman, haughtily. He had always been sweet-tempered, but now he felt as
if he must have a quarrel with some one. He had a general impression
that every living creature was his rival and enemy. He didn’t just know
what he wanted, but he was determined to have it.

“Highty tighty!” said the sea-gull. “Don’t put yourself out. What have
we here? A pretty wooden image, upon my word!” and the gull perched on
the sea-nymph’s head and scratched his ear with one claw. The merman
went almost wild at the sight.

“You profane wretch!” he shouted; “how dare you? Oh, good heavens, that
I should see her so insulted and not be able to help her. Oh, why can’t
I fly?”

“’Cause you hain’t got no wings,” said the vulgar bird, flapping his own
wide white pinions. “Why shouldn’t I perch here as well as on any other
post? It’s none of your funeral.”

“Post!” said the merman, in a fury.

“Yes, post! Why? You don’t mean to say you think this thing’s alive?”

“Alive! She is a goddess, a nymph, an angel!”

“Well, you _are_ a muff,” said the gull, with immense contempt. “If I
ever! Look here! if you don’t want a harpoon in you, you had better
quit.”

“I’ll wring your neck,” said the merman, in a rage.

“Skee-ee-eek!” screamed the gull. “Will you have it now or wait till you
get it? Take your own way, if you only know what it is;” and the gull
lifted his wings and swept off over the water, laughing frantically. The
wooden lady kept looking over the sea.

“What noble composure! what breeding!” thought the merman. “She scorns
to notice a creature like that. How much more noble and womanly is this
modest reserve and silence than the chatter and laughing of our
mermaids!”

It grew lighter and lighter; sounds of life were heard from the shore; a
boat put out on the bay; presently the workmen began to come on board
the brig.

“Any of those human beings can speak to her,” thought the merman. He was
frantically jealous of an old ship carpenter with a wooden leg.

One of the workmen caught a glimpse of him. “Ho!” said he, “there’s an
odd fish! Who’s got a harpoon?”

The merman had just sense enough left to see that if he was harpooned in
the morning he couldn’t court the goddess at night. He dived and swam
away, for mermen, although they are warm-blooded animals, are not
obliged to come up to the top of the water to breathe.

He hid all day long under the timbers of an old wharf, and when it was
still at night he came out again and swam toward The Sea-nymph. Some one
had covered up the figure with an old sheet to keep the dust off. The
merman thought she had put on a veil.

“What charming modesty!” he said. “She don’t wish to be seen by these
human beings, or perhaps I offended her by my staring.”

He called her every lovely name he could invent or think of. He got no
answer, of course, but that was her feminine reserve, the merman
thought.

“Speech is silvern, silence is golden,” he said. So it went on all the
time the new brig was being fitted up. The merman lived a wretched life.
Two or three times he was seen and chased by the fishermen. A talk went
about of the odd creature that haunted the water near the new ship. Some
one was always on the lookout for him, and once he was nearly caught.
They kept watch for him at night. It was only now and then that he could
worship his wooden love for an hour.

All the time the old sheet was over her head, but the merman only loved
her the better. He hid under the old wharf by day, for though he knew
how to make himself invisible to mermen, the charm hadn’t the slightest
effect where Yankees were concerned. He lived on whatever he could
catch, but he had very little appetite. The shallow harbor water did not
agree with his constitution. He grew thin and hollow-eyed, a mere ghost
of a merman, but he was constant to his wooden image.

Meantime, the ship was finished and the cargo was stowed away. One day,
glancing out from his place, he saw that the nymph was unveiled and was
standing in her old fashion, lovely as ever. She was looking straight at
him, the merman thought. “She is anxious about my safety,” he said, with
delight, for he did not know that the image just looked toward the old
wharf because it happened to be in the way.

“Dearest,” he said, “I would follow you over the whole ocean for such a
look as that!”

That night there were so many men on board the brig that the merman did
not dare go near her. The next morning the ship spread her sails and
went out of the harbor with a fair wind, bound for Lisbon and the
Mediterranean. That same evening there was a great gathering at Colonel
Shuttleworth’s. Master Torrey was married to Anna Jane.

The merman followed the ship at a long distance. He dared not go too
near in the daytime for fear of the harpoon that had been thrown at him
once or twice. Then it came into his head that the lovely nymph was in
some mysterious way held captive by these human creatures. He swore to
deliver her if it cost him his life, for which he cared only as it could
serve his goddess, for that she was a goddess he fully believed.

He swam in the wake of the ship, and it was very seldom that he could
come up and look his idol in the face. The sailors kept a sharp look-out
for him. They thought he was some sort of monster, the poor innocent
merman, and had harpoons ready to throw at him whenever he showed
himself. But for all this he followed The Sea-nymph across the Atlantic.
He knew he was not likely to meet any of his own people, for the merfolk
avoid ships whenever they can, and do not frequent the highway between
the two continents.

One day, however, he was so possessed with a desire for the sight of his
love that, utterly reckless, he swam directly before the ship and
stretched out his arms to the wooden image. “I am here! I will die for
you!” he cried, for he thought she was suffering in her captivity and
wanted comfort. There was a shout from the sailors; one flung a fish
spear, another fired a gun. The captain ordered out the whale-boat, and
they gave chase to the merman, for such they now saw it was. It was all
that he could do to get away. He was a very fast swimmer, however, and
as he was not obliged to come up to breathe, they soon lost sight of
him. He distanced the boat, but he found when he stopped that the bullet
from the gun had grazed his shoulder, and that he had lost blood and was
suffering pain. “It is for her,” thought the merman as he tried to
stanch the blood with his pocket handkerchief.

Just then a huge sperm whale came dashing up.

“Why, what in the world are you doing here?” said the whale, surprised.
“Have those wretches of men been chasing you?”

“Yes,” said the merman, his eyes flashing; “you may well call them
wretches. Do you know who it is they hold prisoner in their hateful
ship? The loveliest sea-nymph in the world.”

“How do you know?” said the whale.

“I have seen her. I have followed her all the way from home. She stands
holding out a silver vase. Every creature in the sea ought to fly to
deliver her. If I was only as big and strong as you! These men are your
enemies as well as mine and hers. I know how they kill you whales
whenever they can. You can sink that ship if you like and deliver the
goddess.”

The whale was so astonished that he had to go to the top of the water
and blow. “My dear sir,” said he, diving down again, “you are under some
strange mistake. That is nothing but wood, that figure on the ship, as
sure as my name is Moby Dick.”

“You great stupid creature, where are your eyes?” said the merman in a
passion, and yet he was rather struck by the whale’s remarks too.

“In my head,” said Moby Dick, “and I shouldn’t think yours were. Why
they put some such thing on all the ships—women, dolphins, what not.
I’ve seen dozens of ’em. I know about nymphs. I used to read about ’em
in the old classical dictionary in our school. Every school of whales of
any pretension has one. If she was a sea goddess, do you suppose she’d
stand there in all weathers? Besides, there are no nymphs.”

“Then you won’t sink the ship?” said the merman.

“Certainly not; she’s only a merchant ship. If she was a whaler, I would
with pleasure. I’ve done it before now, but that was in self-defence.
I’m not going to drown a lot of folks because you have lost your wits.
Come, come, my young friend, go home to your family. I dare say your
mother don’t know you’re out. You are too tired to swim after that ship,
and you are hurt besides. Let me take you home on my back; I’d just as
soon swim your way as any other.”

The merman was a little affected by the whale’s tone of kindness, but he
was too much possessed with his wooden love to accept the offer.

“No! no!” he cried, “I must follow her to the ends of the earth.
Something tells me she will yet be mine.”

“And suppose she should be?” said Moby Dick. “Why, she’s only a stick
cut and painted. What would the ladies of your family think if you
brought home a wooden wife?”

“You are blind,” said the merman, swimming away.

“You are cracked!” the whale shouted after him, but the merman was
already out of hearing.

“Dear! dear!” said Moby Dick. “What a pity! If I can find any of the
mermen, I’ll tell them about him. He ought not to be left to himself;”
and he shook his huge head solemnly and swam away in an opposite
direction.



                              CHAPTER IV.
                         _THE BEWITCHED LOVER._


Off to Lisbon went the brig Sea-nymph, and after her the poor merman. He
stayed there as long as the ship stayed, hiding under boats and behind
timbers, chased more than once, in danger of his life every hour, hardly
able to get a glimpse of his idol. The wooden nymph stood straight up in
her place, looking toward the city this time, because her head happened
to be turned that way.

Once a priest going across the water in a boat happened to see him. The
priest took him for a demon, was dreadfully scared, and solemnly cursed
him, as is the fashion of priests when they are afraid of anything.
Besides, such is the approved mode of dealing with demons in those
countries. The report went abroad that there was an evil spirit in the
harbor. The Spanish and Italian sailors said innumerable prayers to the
saints and bought little blessed candles. The Yankees and Englishmen
hunted him whenever they could, for they had a curiosity to see what a
live demon was like. You may imagine what a life it was for the poor
merman. He was almost worn out when The Sea-nymph weighed anchor and set
sail for Sicily. He followed her, of course, for he was more possessed
than ever.

And yet away down at the bottom of his heart he had misgivings. When day
after day went on and the nymph stood still in the same place, he could
not help thinking to himself, “What if it should be a wooden image,
after all!”

But when this thought came into his head he drove it away, and called
himself all the names that ever were for daring to entertain such a
notion about his goddess. Was she not constant? Did she not always hold
out her vase toward him? He didn’t or wouldn’t think, the poor silly
merman, that it was because he always swam right before her and she
couldn’t hold it any other way.

Not far from the Straits of Gibraltar the merman met his most intimate
friend, who had been looking for him a long time, and had only heard of
him through Moby Dick.

“My dear fellow,” said his friend, “I am so glad to see you!” and then
he stopped, for he couldn’t help seeing that the other was not at all
glad to see him, and he felt hurt and disappointed.

“Are you?” said the merman, coldly, and gazing after the ship sailing
away from him.

“Why, of course. We’ve all been so anxious about you. Why haven’t you
written? Your grandfather has tried every spell he could think of, but
it all seemed of no use. The dear old gentleman is almost sick, and so
miserable about you that he has had no heart to finish his work, even
though the Baltic merman has come out with another pamphlet. Do come
home.”

Now as his friend spoke our merman felt at once how selfish and
ungrateful he had been. But his passion for his wooden nymph had so
altered his nature that instead of being sorry he was only angry with
himself, and pretended that he was angry with his friend.

“I suppose I am old enough to be my own master,” he said, haughtily.

“Why, what has come over you?” said his friend. “I’m sure it was natural
I should come to look for you. If I’d been lost, wouldn’t you have tried
to find me?”

The merman felt more and more ashamed of himself and grew crosser and
crosser. “Excuse me,” he said, coldly, “but I have business that I must
attend to. I don’t choose to discuss the subject;” and he swam away
after The Sea-nymph.

“But look here!” said his friend, coming after him. “I must tell you
something. I’m going to be married to your youngest sister, and I want
you to come and be best man. The girls are breaking their hearts about
you.”

“Oh, I dare say,” said the merman with a sneer. He had always been a
most affectionate brother, but now he had no room in his heart for
anything but his wooden image.

“And there’s a dear little girl next door that will be glad to see you.
She’s to be bridesmaid, of course. It’s my belief she likes you. The
sweetest mermaid in the sea, she is, except your sister.”

“She’s well enough for a mermaid,” said the merman, impatiently, for the
ship was going farther and farther away.

“I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said his friend, growing
vexed at last. “I shall really think that absurd story of Moby Dick’s
was true when he said you were in love with a wooden statue of a human
being.”

“She’s not human,” snapped the merman, coloring scarlet; “she’s a nymph,
an immortal.”

“Let’s have a look at her,” he said.

“You are not worthy to behold her perfections,” said the merman.

“Why, a catfish may look at a congressman,” said his friend, quoting a
sea proverb. “Is she on board that ship off there? Come on;” and away he
went and our merman after him. They came up with the ship, and there, as
usual, stood the wooden image staring over the water.

“She’s watching for me,” said the merman.

The friend said nothing. He swam round and round, and looked up at the
figure-head through his eye-glass.

“Isn’t she a goddess?” asked our merman, impatiently.

“Goddess!” said the other. “My dear fellow, it’s only wood as sure as
you are alive.”

“No merman shall insult me,” said our merman, in a passion.

“Who wants to? Do open your eyes, my dear boy, and see for yourself.”

“I do; I see how she looks at me and holds out her silver vase.”

“She’ll do as much for me,” said his friend, swimming before the ship.
Our merman was wild with rage and jealousy, for he could not help seeing
that she did. He drew his sword (for he wore one), made of a sword-fish
blade, and flew at his friend. “Defend yourself,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said the other. “A likely story, I am going to fight you
about a wooden stick. As for looking at me, she’d do the same for any
old turtle.”

The merman couldn’t but feel that this was true. But he only grew more
angry. He struck his friend with all his might. There was a dark stain
on the sea.

“I’m not going to fight you,” said the other, turning very pale, “for
you are _her_ brother, but I think you’ll be very sorry for this some
time;” and he turned round and swam away as well as he could.

Fortunately, after a little he met Moby Dick.

“Hallo!” said the whale in a tone of concern. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing much,” said the other, for he wouldn’t tell the story.

The whale suspected the truth. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with his
flipper, for he was a soft-hearted monster.

“Come with me,” said he; “I’ll take you to a surgeon.”

He carried the wounded merman to an old sea-owl who lived in a cave
under the rock of Gibraltar. The old sea-owl was sitting in his door
reading the newspaper when Moby Dick came rushing toward him, supporting
in his flipper the hurt merman, who was too faint to swim.

“This young gentleman has met with an accident,” said the whale to the
sea-owl; “I want you to cure him.” The sea-owl laid down his paper and
took off his spectacles.

“What concern is it of yours?” said the sea-owl.

“That is none of your business,” said Moby Dick. “Take him into the
house and take care of him.”

“You are weakly sentimental,” said the sea-owl. “I perceive that you
belong to the rose-water class. What is suffering? A mere thrilling of a
certain set of nerves. It creates a sensation which we call pain. It is
disagreeable. Suppose it is. Are we sent into the world only to enjoy
ourselves? Enjoyment is contemptible; the desire of happiness is base,
unworthy a rational being. Let us rise to more exalted feelings; let us
glorify ourselves in discomfort; and if we see any one basely
comfortable, let us make ourselves as disagreeable as possible, and
raise him to our own platform. What possible difference does it make
whether we live or die, or are cold and hungry? What odds does it make
in this huge universe? Are we nothing but vultures screaming for prey?
Let us cultivate silence, that I may have the talk all to myself;” and
the sea-owl looked at Moby Dick in the most impressive and superior
manner. “What difference, I repeat, does our happiness or misery make in
the huge sum of the universal—?”

“Look here!” said Moby Dick, “if you don’t quit talking and tend to this
young man, I’ll swallow you. I don’t know as that will make much
difference in the universe, but it’ll make a sight of difference to
_you_;” and the whale opened his tremendous jaws wide and showed all his
teeth.

The sea-owl took the merman into his office on the instant. He bound up
his wound and attended him very carefully, for he was by no means such a
fool as you would imagine from his conversation. The merman was cured
before long, and made the sea-owl a handsome return for his services.
The owl was just as much pleased as though the money had been a large
item in the sum of the universe. He gave the merman a present of his own
poems neatly bound in shark skin. He had several hundred copies in his
office, for he had issued them at his own expense. They had been much
praised, but some way they did not sell. The sea-owl said it was because
all the people in the sea were “Philistines.” No one knew just what he
meant, but when he called people by that name most all of them
experienced a sort of crushed feeling, and pretended to admire the
poems. Sometimes they would even buy them, but not often. Moby Dick
accompanied the young merman home, and they made up a story that his
hurt had been caused by a sword-fish, against whom he had run in the
dark. Nobody believed him, for some way every one knew the truth, but
all the members of the family’s own circle pretended to believe the
tale, for they were all very high-bred people.

It had been intended that the wedding of the professor’s granddaughter
should be a very brilliant affair, but they felt so unhappy about the
grandson that they resolved to invite only a few intimate friends. Moby
Dick, of course, was among the number. He was too huge to come into the
house, but he put his nose to the window and ate ice cream with a fire
shovel for a spoon. The beautiful mermaid from next door was bridesmaid,
and looked most lovely. She seemed in better spirits than any one else,
and never said a word about her old playmate. Toward the end of the
evening she went out into the garden that was all glittering with sea
phosphorescence. She swam up to Moby Dick and said it was warm weather.

“So it is, my dear,” said the whale, and looking with admiration at the
bridesmaid, who wore white lace and emeralds.

“You came from Gibraltar, didn’t you?” said the mermaid, playing with
her looking-glass, which the sea ladies carry as ours do their fans.

“Yes, where the bridegroom and I went to see after that bewitched
brother-in-law of his,” said the whale, for he was vexed at the merman.

“Do you think he is bewitched?” said the bridesmaid.

The whale scratched his head, which is not vulgar in a whale.

“I never thought of it before,” he said; “but now you speak of it I
shouldn’t wonder if it was so.”

The bridesmaid whispered in the whale’s ear.

“I wish you’d come with me to the old Witch of the Sea,” she said.
“Won’t you, please?”

“I’ll go to the ends of the ocean with you, miss, if you want me to,”
said Moby Dick; “but what for?”

“Oh,” said the bridesmaid, looking straight in the eye which happened to
be that side of the whale’s head, “I’m a friend of the family, you know.
I’m very much attached to the girls and very fond of the professor. I
should like to help them if I could, and I think the witch is a wise
woman, and it wouldn’t do at all for the professor to go to her in his
position, but it won’t make any difference to me and you. Will you come
now? It isn’t far.”

“Of course I will,” said the whale. “Just sit on my head, and I’ll take
you there in no time.”

Just then the bride’s sister came out into the garden.

“Are you going, dear?” she said to the bridesmaid.

“Yes, I think I shall. Mr. Dick will see me home,” said the other
mermaid.

“It’s been rather forlorn,” sighed the bride’s sister. “To think of his
loving a wooden thing!”

“I suppose he had a right to if he chose,” said the mermaid a little
hastily. “I’m sure it’s nothing to me.”

The bride’s sister was not angry at all. She kissed her friend
good-night, and when she and Dick had gone sat down and cried a little.

“The poor dear!” she said.

Meanwhile Moby Dick and the bridesmaid were on their way to the old
Witch of the Sea. She lived in a cave in a thick dark grove of seaweed.
She was sitting before the door talking with a gossip of hers, one of
the Salem witches, whose broomstick would carry her through the water as
well as through the air. The broomstick, which was a spirited young one,
was standing hitched at the door, impatiently stamping its stick part on
the ground and switching the broom part about to keep off the little
crabs.

“Ho! ho!” said the Salem witch. “Here’s a dainty young maiden indeed!
I’m a great mind to stick a few pins in her.”

“You better hadn’t,” said Moby Dick, grimly, for he was not at all
afraid of witches. “Ask the old lady any questions you like, my dear;
nothing shall hurt you.”

[Illustration: “‘Ho! ho!’ said the Salem witch. ‘Here’s a dainty young
maiden indeed!’”]

“If you would be so good,” said the mermaid, taking off her jeweled
necklace and zone and holding them out to the witches, “will you tell me
where the professor’s grandson is, and whether he cannot be induced to
come home?”

“And what’s your interest in _him_?” said the Witch of the Sea, taking
snuff and looking at her sharply.

“I am his sister’s friend,” said the mermaid, steadily; “otherwise it is
not a matter of consequence to me whether he spends his life in the
chase of a wooden image; but I am very fond of the professor, and I
think it a very sad thing that he should be left alone in his old age.”

“Umph!” said the Salem witch. “Just the same, fish-tailed or two-legged,
in the sea or out of it. There’s a girl in our town as like her as two
peas.”

“Young lady,” said the Witch of the Sea, “I haven’t had any hand in this
matter.” (But of course I can’t say this was true. I incline myself to
think she had had her finger in the pie.) “I can’t undo the spell—not
now. If you want to find your friend’s brother, you must go West toward
the coast.”

“Take a bee line,” said the Salem witch.

“I don’t know what that is,” said the mermaid, who didn’t know what a
bee was.

“As the crow flies,” said the Salem witch.

“Crow?” said the mermaid, perplexed.

“As the mackerel swims,” said the sea witch.

“Oh, I see,” said the mermaid. “Thank you very much. Pray keep the
stones. Good-night;” and she turned to Moby Dick. “You’ll go with me?”

“To be sure,” said the whale. “That’s rather a dangerous coast for me,”
he thought to himself. “But never mind; if they come after me I can sink
a whaler as easy as nothing. I’ll go with her. She reminds me of a
whaless I used to go to school with;” and Moby Dick looked at the little
slim mermaid in her bridesmaid’s dress, and heaved a sigh about a
quarter of an acre in extent. “I’m your whale,” he said, cheerfully; and
away they dashed at the rate of a hundred miles an hour.


Every one in the sea knew that the professor’s grandson had fallen in
love with a wooden image, and was following it about the world. The very
porpoises talked about it to each other. The whole family were
dreadfully mortified.

“Suppose he marries her!” said his sisters.

“We never can take her into society. A real human being would be bad
enough, but a wooden one—”

“I disown him,” said the old mer professor. “I desire that no one will
mention him in my hearing. If he would only come home, the poor dear
boy!”

There was universal sympathy with the family. The very sophomores
behaved like gentlemen for as much as a week, they were so touched with
the old mer professor’s trouble.



                               CHAPTER V.
                           _THE SEA-NYMPHS._


After his friend had left him, our merman swam once more after The
Sea-nymph. He felt wicked, ashamed, remorseful and very miserable, but
for all that he followed his wooden goddess. He was so worn out with his
long journeying and with trouble of mind that he could not keep up with
the ship—he who had once beaten a fin-back whale in a race. He had lost
sight of the brig before she went into the harbor of Syracuse, but he
knew where she was going, and he followed in her track. It was a
beautiful moonlit night. The water was all golden ripples. The ruins of
the ancient town stood up white, still and solemn in the flood of silver
light. The modern city did not look dirty as it does by sunlight, but
white and cool and still. Only a bell rung at intervals from the tower
of a convent.

On a fragment of a broken capital that lay in the water near the island
shore of Ortyggia sat three lovely ladies. They looked young and
beautiful as the day, but they were very, very old. They had known the
place before the first Greek ship bore the first Greek colonists to
Sicily. The broken capital was the last bit of a temple that had been
reared in their honor ages ago, for these were the real sea-nymphs. They
had come back from the unknown countries where they went when men forgot
them, and the monks shattered their beautiful marble statues to replace
them with waxen virgins dressed in tinsel. They were taking a journey
just to see what sort of a place this world had grown to be. They were
all three rather low-spirited—as much so as sea-nymphs can be.

“This is all so different,” said Arethusa. “It was hardly sadder in the
great siege; I could hardly find the place where my fountain was once.”

“And nothing of Alpheus?” said Cymodoce with a little smile.

“No, thank Heaven!” said Arethusa; “the stream is there, but it has
another name. I wonder what has become of the old gentleman? My dears,
you can’t think what a torment he was. I really don’t know what I should
have done but for Diana.”

“Maybe you would have married him,” said Panope. “He was very devoted to
you.”

“Not he,” said Arethusa. “He was determined to have his own way, but he
didn’t get it.”

“Sing something,” said Cymodoce. “What concerts we used to have on this
very shore! Oh dear!”

Arethusa began to sing. I only wish you had been there to hear her.

  “Years ago when the world was young,
    And this weary time was yet to be,
  A little bay lay the hills among
    Where the hills slope down to the sand and sea.

  “The shepherd came down to the cool seashore,
    Fearless and tall and fair was he;
  Careless the cornel spear he bore,
    As he paced the sand along the sea.

  “Low in the sky the red moon hung,
    The wind went wandering wild and free;
  To and fro the foam-bells swung
    Off from the sand into the sea.

  “‘Come up, my love,’ he called, ‘oh come!
    Give, oh goddess, once more to me
  That fairest face in the whitening foam,
    On the pebbly marge ’twixt the sand and sea.’

  “The sunset faded like smouldering brand,
    And never the nymph again saw he;
  The shadow sloped from the tall headland
    Off from the sand, out o’er the sea.

  “His was a being that, born to-day,
    Grows old to-morrow and dies, and she
  Lived on for ages as fair alway,
    To sing on the shore ’twixt the sand and the sea.

  “Yet oh, my lover, by this right hand,
    It was fate, not I, that was false to thee;
  For thine was the life of the solid land,
    And I was a thing of the restless sea.”

As Arethusa finished her song, the merman came swimming wearily toward
the three nymphs. If he had been a human being, he would not have seen
them, but as it was they were revealed to his eyes. He knew what they
were in a moment. They were dressed like his wooden nymph, and Arethusa
carried a little silver vase in her hand, but they were not like the
figure-head, for they had sweet, kind faces, and could laugh and cry.
The merman made a most respectful bow, for he knew how to do it.

“Well,” said Panope, kindly, “can we do anything for you?”

“Lovely nymphs,” said the merman, “have you seen a ship pass this way
with one of your fair sisters on its prow?”

“One of _our_ sisters?” said Arethusa, a little haughtily. “That seems
very unlikely.”

“I assure you she is, my lady,” said the merman, reverently but firmly.
“She has her name, The Sea-nymph, written below her.”

“He has lost his wits,” said Panope, sighing.

“What a pity! Such a handsome youth!”

“You don’t mean that wooden figure-head?” cried Arethusa.

“Surely she is your sister,” said the merman, looking at Cymodoce, who
was more like the wooden nymph than the other two, and whose manners
were always a little stiff and prim.

“My sister!” cried Cymodoce, quite bristling. “Am I related to a log of
wood?”

Here Arethusa slyly pinched Panope behind Cymodoce’s back, for the truth
was Cymodoce had once been a wooden ship, and had been made into a nymph
to save her from a conflagration. She never would allow, however, that
this was a true story.

“No, of course there is nothing wooden about you, dear,” said Panope,
soothingly. “Don’t be vexed. Let us help the poor boy if we can.”

“He’s very like a Triton I used to know,” said Arethusa, aside.

“I saw a ship pass,” said Panope, looking down at him with her kind blue
eyes. “Such a big ship! Not like the ones I used to see here years ago,
and it certainly had a wooden statue on the prow, but it was only a
wooden image; it was not alive.”

“How strange it is,” thought the merman to himself, “that these three
goddesses should be jealous of my beauty—just like three mortal
mermaids.”

“Jealous of that stick indeed!” cried Cymodoce, answering his thought.

“Men!” said Arethusa. “Panope, my darling, they are just the creatures
they always were in the water or out of it.”

“So it seems,” said Panope, playing in the sand with her little pink
toes like a mortal girl.

“I assure you, sir,” said Cymodoce, gravely, “that you are under a
serious mistake. That figure is a mere painted figure-head, quite
incapable of a rational thought or instructive conversation.”

“What we admire in woman is her affections, not her intellect,” said the
merman.

“Look at me!” said Arethusa; and the tall nymph stood up before him in
all her immortal beauty and shook down her golden hair till it swept her
ankles.

“My dear Arethusa,” said Cymodoce, “let me ask you to consider if this
is quite proper?”

Panope only smiled, and Arethusa took no sort of notice.

“Look at me,” she said, “and compare me with that wooden thing. Don’t
you see the difference?”

A difference there certainly was. The merman felt a cold chill go to his
heart. For one instant his eyes were opened; for one instant he knew he
had been worshiping a stick. Then he would _not_ see or feel the truth.

“Farewell!” he cried, desperately; “I will follow her to the ends of the
earth, whether she is alive or not;” and he swam away.

“Poor fellow!” said Arethusa.

“He looks a good deal like the pious Æneas,” said Cymodoce, who often
mentioned that gentleman.

“I don’t see it,” said Panope, almost sharply. “He may be a goose, but
he is not a prig. I do wish you ever could talk about any one else,
Cymodoce! I am tired to death of the pious Æneas.”

“So am I,” said Arethusa; “he was a humbug if ever there was one.”

“What an expression!” said Cymodoce.

“Never mind,” said Arethusa; “suppose we do this poor merman a good
turn, and get Aphrodite to make his wooden thing a live creature. Don’t
you think she would do as much for wood as she did for marble?”

“We could ask her,” said Cymodoce. “I have some influence with her. I
was so well acquainted with her son, the pious—”

“Oh bother _him_!” said Arethusa, who had been a mountain nymph
originally, and was apt to be a little brusque.

“I don’t believe she’d be good for much if she did come alive,” said
Panope, looking down. “I’ve heard that match of Pygmalion’s didn’t turn
out very well. I saw the marble woman once. She was pretty enough, but
_so_ stiff, and she walked as though she weighed a ton, and hadn’t a
word to say for herself. And as for this wooden thing, the woodenness
would always remain in her mind and manners. But we can try. Come, if
you like;” and the three slipped into the sea and went swimming after
the merman, but he never saw them. He had caught sight of his wooden
goddess, and had no eyes for the real ones. He thought he had never seen
his idol looking so beautiful, so lifelike. “_She_ wood!” he thought as
he leaned back in the water and looked up in her face. Meanwhile, some
strange influence was at work upon the wooden image. A kind of thrill
ran over it. It began slowly to breathe.

“Dear me!” thought the wooden creature, for it could think a little now.
“I must be coming alive! How very disagreeable! I can see—even feel. I
don’t like it. It’s too much trouble. What is that thing in the sea
staring at me?” and she actually bent her head and looked down.

The merman, of course, was in ecstasies, for he thought she was coming
to him.

“I certainly am growing alive,” thought the wooden thing. “I won’t come
alive; I was made wood, and wood I’ll stay; I won’t go out of my sphere;
I’m sure it’s not proper;” and she stiffened herself as stiff as she
could. “I will be wood,” she thought, and wood she was, for even a
goddess can’t make a thing alive against its own will. “Yes, this is
much the best way,” was the wooden image’s last thought, as the breath
of life went away from her and left her more wooden than ever.

“Let it go, the stupid thing,” said Arethusa in a pet which was scarcely
reasonable, as the image was wood in its nature. “Come, my dears, let us
go from a world where no one cares for our gifts. Don’t cry, Panope
dear. There are just as many fools in the world as ever there were, for
all they pretend to be so much wiser.”

“It is strange too,” said Cymodoce, “considering how long they have had
before them the example of the pious Æneas—”

“_He_ never lost sight of his interest,” said Panope. “I wish we could
persuade that poor merman, but I know very well that the twelve great
gods couldn’t do it;” and the three vanished and were seen no more.


That night there came up a terrible storm. There was wind and rain and
thunder such as the merman had never heard. From far away came a thick
sulphurous cloud of smoke, and in the air was a dull red glare. The land
shook and trembled, for Ætna was feeding his hidden fires, filling his
inmost furnaces. The gale blew fiercely from land. The Sea-nymph snapped
her cable, and drove out of the harbor before the tempest. The merman
followed her. By the glare of the lightning he could see that the figure
stood in its old place holding out her silver vase. “What wonderful
courage!” he thought, for he did not know it was nailed there. The masts
went crashing into the sea. The sailors threw overboard everything they
could to lighten the ship. One of them sprang forward with an axe and
began to cut away the figure-head. The merman swam, balancing himself on
the crest of the waves; every one was too busy to notice him; he could
not hear the blows of the axe in the noise of the wind and thunder; he
did not see what the sailor was doing; he saw the image quiver under the
strokes of the axe, and thought that at last she was coming down to him.
“Oh come, come,” he cried, swimming directly below and holding out his
arms. The wooden image quivered and shook; it bent forward; the next
instant the solid heavy oak fell with a plunge and struck the poor
merman in its fall. He felt that he was dying, but he did not know what
had hurt him. “My own love, my sea-nymph,” he murmured; and he put his
arms round the figure-head that was bobbing up and down in the sea quite
unconcernedly. He kissed the painted lips. Then at length he knew that
his idolized nymph, for whom he had given his life, was nothing but a
carved log. It was well for him that his next breath was his last.



                              CHAPTER VI.
                        _LUCY PEABODY’S DREAM._


Moby Dick went on his way, “emerging strong against the tide.” A
Nantucket ship saw him as he blew, and her boats put out after him.

“Just get off a minute, my dear,” said he to the little mermaid whom he
carried. She did so, and then, instead of swimming away from the boats,
he put down his enormous head and went straight at them.

“The white whale!” cried the sailors; and they did not throw the
harpoon, but went meekly back to the ship. They were bold enough, but
they were afraid of the white whale, for Moby Dick had sunk two or three
ships in his time and entirely reversed the whalers’ programme.

Moby Dick executed a huge frisk on the surface of the sea, flapped his
tail on the water with a noise like thunder, and then dived down to
rejoin the mermaid.

“All right, my dear,” he said, cheerfully.

“I’m so glad you are safe,” said the mermaid, patting him with her
little hands.

On they went through the water, and the coast was soon in sight. It was
growing dusk, and the lighthouse showed its red star over the sea. The
mermaid was silent, and Moby Dick did not trouble her to talk.

Suddenly a beautiful woman appeared to them on the crest of a long
rolling billow. She made no effort; she did not swim, but moved through
the water by her will alone. She seemed a part of the sea, like a wave
come alive.

“That is not a human being, surely,” said the mermaid, startled.

“It’s very like that—you know—that wooden thing—that _he_ ran after,”
said Moby Dick in a gigantic whisper, “only it’s alive.”

“She don’t seem as though she could ever have been wood,” said the
mermaid. “She looks kind. I don’t feel as though she were that—that
person. Please ask if she has seen our friend.”

“Yes; my dear child,” said Panope—for she it was—answering the mermaid’s
thought, “I have seen him;” and the immortal sighed.

“His family are very anxious about him, my lady,” said the whale, who
was conscious of an awe he had never known before, though he felt he
could trust the Sea-Nymph.

“They need be anxious no more,” said Panope, gently and sadly.

“What has happened?” asked the mermaid, turning pale, but keeping
herself very quiet.

Panope went to her, and the immortal daughter of the sea put her white
arms round the mermaid and held her in a close and soft embrace.

“My dear,” she said, very gently, “your old playmate is dead.”

[Illustration: “‘My dear,’ she said, very gently, ‘your old playmate is
dead.’”]

“You don’t say so, ma’am!” said Moby Dick, with a great sigh; and then
he swam away to a little distance and left the mermaid to the care of
the Sea-Nymph, for he was a whale of very delicate feelings.

The mermaid looked into the blue eyes of the Goddess, and felt that the
countless ages of her being had but made her more wise and kind. She hid
her face on the immortal maiden’s bosom.

“My sweet child,” said Panope, after a little while, “I cannot bring
your friend to life—it is beyond my power—but if you will, I can give
you an immortality like my own. I can carry you with me to a world where
death or pain has never come, and keep you young and lovely for ever.”

The mermaid was silent a moment. Then she looked up into Panope’s face.

“You will not be angry with me?” said she.

“Angry, my poor darling!”

“Then, my friends that I have loved have all been mortal. My mother is
dead, my twin brother was killed in the war, and now my old
companion—and I have known him so long! I think I should rather not be
so very different, but go to them when my time comes.”

Panope caressed her hair with a soft hand.

“I don’t know but you are right. Sometimes,” said the Goddess, with a
sad, tired look in her eyes, “I think I would be glad to be mortal
myself, except that I am glad to be a little comfort to you. I am sorry
I came back. Either the world has grown a sad place, or else I had
forgotten what it used to be. But I don’t know; I almost broke my heart
over Prometheus when I was quite a young thing. I could have helped him
take care of his beloved human race a great deal better than Asia, but
he never cared anything for me. It is all over long ago. Is there
nothing that I can do for you, my dear?”

The mermaid was silent a minute. Then she said:

“I think I should like to take him home to his friends. I know they
would wish it should be so.”

“It shall be,” said Panope. “Wait here, and I will bring him to you.
But, my dear child, you are so quiet. All the mortal women I ever knew
in the old days, in the sea or out, would have torn their hair and
screamed, but you are so different.”

The mermaid looked up with a little ghost of a smile, half proud, half
pitiful. “I suppose it is because I was born in American waters,” she
said.

“Wait but a little,” said Panope. “The whale will take care of you. He
is a good creature. His great-grandfathers were pets of mine long ago. I
will soon come back again;” and the Nymph was gone.


Some time after the news had come to Salem of the total loss of the brig
Sea-nymph, Lucy Peabody was walking alone along the sands. She felt
weary, and sat down under the shadow of a rock to rest. The sun was just
setting, the west was suffused with a golden glow, the water lay, hardly
rippling to a low whispering wind, a sea of fire and glass. Lucy leaned
her head against the rock, and sitting there, she dreamed a dream. Along
the sands toward her came old Goody Cobb, whom everybody suspected of
witchcraft. She appeared so suddenly that Lucy in her dream thought she
had come out of the sea.

“Ho! ho!” said Goody Cobb, with a cracked laugh; “so here is Madam
Peabody’s lady daughter come out to cry over her disappointment all by
herself? The man was a fool, sure enough, but I wouldn’t mind. Just let
me write your name down in a little book I keep, and you shall see our
fine young madam dwine away like snow in spring-time, and then we shall
see—”

“You are out of your mind, Goody,” said Lucy in her dream; “but such
talk as that is not safe, for there are those in town who are silly
enough to believe witch stories, and you might get yourself into
trouble.”

“Silly, are they!” cried Goody Cobb, growing angry. “But never mind.
Just let me have your name, and we shall see what we shall see. Look at
the pretty necklace I will give you;” and she drew from her pocket a
chain of shining green stones and held it up before the girl’s eyes.

“I will have nothing to say to you or your gifts,” said Lucy, steadily.
“Pass on your way, Goody, and leave me alone.”

“So you think yourself too good for me!” said the witch in a rage. “Let
me tell you that my family is as good as yours, and better. My
grandfather was a minister—ay, and a noted one—while yours was selling
clams round the streets.”

It was a very odd thing that while Goody Cobb had become a witch,
renounced her baptism and sold herself to the enemy of mankind, she was
yet very proud of the eminent divine, her grandfather.

“I’ll be the death of you! I’ll stick pins in you, and set my imps to
pinch you black and blue!” screamed Goody Cobb, with the look of a
possessed woman, as she was.

Suddenly, as Lucy dreamed—so suddenly that she seemed to grow out of the
air—there stood on the sand between herself and the witch a tall and
beautiful woman in shining raiment of green and silver, with golden hair
that fell loosely to her ankles. She gazed sternly on the witch; a
divine wrath made her blue eyes awful.

“You earth-born creature!” she cried as she caught the green necklace
from the old woman’s trembling hand. “This girl is a child of the ocean,
and is in my care;” and Lucy dreamed that she felt glad to remember how
she had been born on the voyage her mother made with her father to
Calcutta. “Stay where you are for ever!” continued the stranger lady,
raising her white hand with a gesture of command. “You will wreck no
more ships—you, nor your sister witch.” And then as she stood Goody Cobb
stiffened into stone and became a black rock.

“You need not be afraid of me, my dear,” said the dream lady to Lucy. “I
never hurt any one in my life. I am only an innocent Sea-Nymph, and I
am—or I was—the helper of all the sailor-folk, and your father is a bold
seaman.”

Lucy dreamed that she was very much surprised, which was curious, for in
a dream the more remarkable a thing is, the less it astonishes the
dreamer.

“But I thought there never were any nymphs,” she said, perplexed.

The sea-maiden smiled a queer little smile—half sad, half amused.

“Do you know,” she said, “that since men left off believing in them and
building temples, the gods all declare that there never were such things
as human creatures, and that it was all a delusion of ours? Keep this;”
and she dropped the necklace into Lucy’s lap. “It belonged to one who
will not care to wear it now. Farewell;” and the goddess bent down and
lightly kissed the girl’s forehead, and the next instant Lucy was alone.
She woke up, as she thought, and sat still for a moment.

“What a singular dream!” she said to herself. Then she looked round, and
saw a black rock standing beside her, “Was that rock there? I don’t
remember it, but of course it must have been.” She rose to her feet.
Something fell glittering on the sand. She picked it up. It was a long,
shining necklace of green stones.

“This is very strange!” said Lucy, thoughtfully. “But I suppose I had
better take them home. They must have been washed up from the sea and
caught to my gown some way. How pretty they are! I wonder if they
belonged to some one who is drowned?”

She put the necklace into her pocket, and turned to go home. She had
gone but a little way when she met Job Chippit.

“Uncle Job,” she said, “I have found something on the sand. Do you think
any one in town has lost it, or that it was washed up by the sea?”

Job examined closely the emerald necklace. “This never belonged to
anyone in our town, Lucy,” he said; “most likely the tide washed it up
in the last storm. Yours it is by all right if no one comes to claim it;
and be keerful of it, for I expect it’s awful valuable. But what’s
happened to you?”

“Why?”

“You’ve got an odd look about you, some way, but I never see you look so
pretty. Has anything happened?”

“No,” said Lucy, quietly, “only I sat down to rest and fell asleep, and
had a very strange dream. Good-night, Uncle Job.” From that evening
Goody Cobb was never seen in Salem town.

Job Chippit continued his walk, thoughtfully whittling a little stick.
Before long he overtook Master Isaac Torrey, who was walking along the
shore with his head down, seeming to notice nothing but the sand at his
feet. Master Torrey had quite left off his wild ways. He made no more
foolish, fanciful speeches about nymphs and goddesses, and such
nonsense. “Anna Jane had made a sensible man of him,” said his
father-in-law. “He was greatly improved,” said every one, with the
exception of Ichabod Sterns and Job Chippit.

Master Torrey had avoided the wood-carver since his marriage. His
father-in-law thought it a good sign. “He had been quite too familiar
with that person,” thought the colonel. But this night Master Torrey did
not avoid him, though he only nodded without speaking in answer to Job’s
“Good-evening,” and then the two walked on in silence.

“That’s an odd-looking thing on the beach,” said Job at last.

They went up to the dark mass Job had pointed out. There on a heap of
weed, thrown up by the late storm, lay the wooden nymph, the paint
almost washed away, and there, with its arms tightly clasped about her
neck, lay a strange creature, half fish, half human.

“As sure as the world, it’s a merman!” said Job; “and there really are
such critters, after all! Poor fellow! The human part of him was pretty
good-lookin’ when he was alive. See what a dent he’s got in his head!”

“And this is the figure-head of The Sea-nymph,” said Master Torrey.
“Don’t you know it?”

“To be sure! Well, it does beat all! What shall we do with the merman?
I’d kind of hate to make a show of him. He’s a sort of man, and I ’spose
he had his feelings anyhow. Look at the empty scabbard and the
sword-belt; and he’s got a ring on his finger.”

Job bent down and tried to unfold the dead hand from its close clasp. At
that moment, though it was very calm, a huge wave rose from the sea, and
came thundering up the beach, covering the two men with spray. When it
retreated the dead merman and the figure-head were gone, and up from the
sea came a low sobbing sound.

Master Torrey and Job stood watching, surprised and startled. Another
minute, and up came a second huge wave, bearing upon its crest the oaken
sea-nymph. On it rolled—a mountain of water. It dashed its burden upon
the jagged rocks once, twice, thrice, and strewed the shattered
fragments over sea and sand. Job drew a long breath.

“Waal,” said he, “there goes the best piece of wood I ever chipped. Tell
ye what, philosophy won’t explain everything. ’Tain’t best to be too
rational if you want to have any insight into things in _this_ world. If
that wa’n’t done a-purpose, I never see a thing done so!”

They turned back and walked toward the town. Far away in the offing a
whale sent up an enormous jet, a sea-gull screamed wildly above their
heads.

“Going to say anything about this?” said Job at last.

“What would be the use?” said Master Torrey, sharply. “Half of them
would not believe you; and who wants to set all the fools in the place
chattering?”

“Not I! I’m not over-fond of answering questions. I’d rather ask ’em,”
said Job. “Do you know, putting this and that together, and the story of
the queer fish that hung round the ship, I’ve got a notion that poor
fishy thing fell in love with that figger-head of ourn? You couldn’t
expect such a critter as he was to have more sense than a landsman, and
I expect the log fell on him when the brig went to pieces and killed
him.”

“So much the better for him if he had given his soul to a wooden image,”
said Master Torrey, bitterly. “Good-night;” and he left Job and walked
slowly back to his handsome new house. Job looked after him wistfully.
Just then old Ichabod came up and saluted the wood-carver.

“Do you know, Ichabod,” said Job, “that Master Torrey and I just found
the figure-head of the poor Sea-nymph, all shattered to bits on the
rocks? The waves brought her all this way to smash her at last.”

“I wish they had smashed her at first,” said Ichabod.

“Why?” said Job, with a curious look.

“Because,” said Ichabod, “she was an unlucky creature from the first.
She was too much alive for a wooden image, and too wooden to be a live
woman, much less a goddess.”

                                _FINIS_



                          Transcriber’s Notes


--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
  domain in the country of publication.

--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
  dialect unchanged.

--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
  HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)

--Released the other part of this printed volume, Eva’s Adventures in
  Shadow-Land, as a separate Gutenberg edition, but retained the
  original combined title-page as a bibliographic record.





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