“He gazed at the wooden creature with all his heart in his eyes.” [Page 62].

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.

“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.

“‘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.