I don’t pretend, Brother Rhine, to have as many haunted castles upon my banks as you have on and about the sides of your famous river. I have always denied that the chief merit of a castle consists in its being haunted, and the simple-minded people who inhabit this old England of ours look to the circumstance of their houses being comfortable to live in, free from draughts and bad smells, large enough to entertain their friends, and possessed of good kitchen arrangements, rather than to their being the residence of any supernatural beings such as those of which you and your castles appear to be so proud. Moreover I have often observed that the presence of such creatures is constantly connected with the commission of some frightful crime at a distant period of time, the perpetrator of which appears desirous to perpetuate its memory by haunting the place where it was performed as much as he or she conveniently can. We islanders, on the contrary, when any of us happen to commit a crime, prefer that it should be forgotten as soon as possible, and think it very indecent and improper of any member of a respectable family who may have distinguished himself in the paths of vice if he seeks to keep up the remembrance thereof, and throw a stain upon the escutcheon of his house by coming back again to earth after he has once left it for the benefit of the survivors. There are exceptions, of course, to this rule, but I state what I believe to be the popular feeling here upon the subject; and although I am going to tell you a story which concerns a castle, and also beings not strictly mortal or ordinary, I may at once tell you that, so far as I know, no murder was ever committed there, and no ghost or demon of an unpleasant character ever entered the place, except under the casual circumstances which I shall presently relate.

It was an old castle, however; a very old castle, built much more massively than the structures of modern times, and full of curious old bits of wall, over which antiquaries would puzzle nowadays to determine their date, and having here and there wonderful windows with huge stone mullions set into the great, deep walls, and apparently built with the intention of lasting until the end of the world. In the chief window of this old ruin—for a ruin it was at the time of my story—there habitually sat a large black owl, who was generally supposed to be the lord and ruler of the place.

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Perhaps he was a spirit if one only knew it, but as no one did know it, it never entered anybody’s head to say so. He was hardly mortal though, for he not only hooted like an ordinary owl, but spoke like a Christian; at least so I suppose, or how would he have made himself understood by other beings who were not owls, and who yet had to communicate with him? For beings more extraordinary than owls inhabited the old castle. A large number of mannikins had taken possession of it some years after its abandonment by mortals, and here the merry little creatures would sport and gambol all the livelong day. They used to clamber about the strong ivy-trees that grew up the sides of the old walls, playing at hide and seek among the thick leaves, and making the place re-echo with their joyous shouts. They were wont to sport and play with the large lizards which basked upon the walls when the sun came out with rays bright and strong, and warm enough to tempt them to do so, and they would scamper up and down the whole place, trying their skill in ascending and descending the steepest and most perpendicular places in the old walls, where the stone was crumbling away from sheer age, and where no being of mortal frame and mould could have found a secure footing for a moment. Oh, they were merry little chaps, those mannikins!

Within the precincts of the castle itself, in the ancient courtyards which once reverberated with the shrill blast of trumpets calling men forth to war; where men-at-arms formerly strode boldly along, filled with warlike ardour, and where martial sounds rang out loud and oft in the days of old, grass was now growing long and rank, which was trodden under foot only by the lively mannikins in their daily and nightly dances, whilst their shrill and merry cries replaced those sterner sounds which had long since ceased, and those who had caused them had passed for ever from mortal ken and mortal vision. All was indeed changed; but I am not prepared to say that the change was not for the better, for I was never fond of the old feudal times myself; and the barons who used to possess such castles, and send forth their retainers to fight, were much more troublesome people to the world at large, and their neighbours in particular, than were the little mannikins who played around the old place, or the wise old owl who blinked his eyes cosily and comfortably in the stone window.

You would have thought that such innocent creatures as owls and mannikins could have had no enemies, but must have been on good terms with all their fellow-creatures of every description. True, they sometimes made themselves disagreeable in the way of taking new-laid eggs from farmyards which were within temptingly easy reach of their own abode, and now and then they were shrewdly suspected of having milked a cow with which they had no business, and stolen cream when the dairymaid had been careless enough to leave the dairy-door unlocked. In these particulars, though, they were, after all, no worse than mortals have frequently been, and in fact not half so bad, inasmuch as they made what return they could to the country people who might have now and then suffered from their depredations, sometimes going out in the moonlight nights and making their hay for them or finishing the cutting of a cornfield, and even condescending so far, on more than one occasion, as to sweep a chimney and thoroughly dust a kitchen floor. For they were very active little fellows, those mannikins, and could turn their hands to almost anything if they saw fit to do so.

They had some enemies no doubt, in wild and evil-disposed animals, for they loved to warn the lamb when the wolf was lying in wait for him, and often saved the poultry by a timely notice that the fox was coming, whereby they incurred the wrath and hatred of these midnight marauders. But the chief and principal of their enemies were the witches, who have during all ages been a plague to this otherwise favoured land. I say advisedly, in all ages, because this is indeed the truth, although in their form and shape, as well as in their method of doing mischief, persons of this class have wonderfully changed. In old times they were generally of repulsive appearance, oftentimes clad in a red cloak, generally with a stick in one hand, and almost invariably humpbacked or misshapen in some way, and attended by a familiar in the shape of a cat. They were consulted only on serious affairs, or when somebody wanted to be revenged upon somebody else; they were malicious in their words and actions; hated everything good, respectable, and handsome; and, if possible, transformed it as soon as they could into something quite the reverse. Nowadays, our English witches are entirely different: their shape is usually beautiful, their figure perfect, their eyes bright and full of expression, and their dress made in admirable good taste and after an exceedingly becoming fashion. They have no familiar spirit, and the best of them allow no one to be too familiar with them; neither do they change the form and shape of mankind into those of hideous creatures, but, on the contrary, rather prefer that men should be handsome and well shaped; but they still exercise over them an almost resistless sway, which, however, is far more willingly obeyed than was the power of the witches of the old times; and they are now consulted, not so much on matters of hate and revenge, as on those which concern feelings far more desirable to be cherished in the human breast.

But the witches of whom I have to speak to-day hated the mannikins as much as a certain person is said to hate holy water. The reason of this was sufficiently obvious, and arose from the entire and radical difference between the views of the two sets of beings. The mannikins were, as I have said, although mischievous, the friends of mankind; the witches were the enemies of everything human which was not as wicked as themselves: the mannikins found pleasure in the most innocent amusements; the witches had no satisfaction in anything which did not injure or give pain to somebody else: the mannikins were gay and cheerful, the witches dull and morose, save when under the influence of strong drink: the mannikins generally ran about on their own legs; the witches habitually rode broomsticks, or toads, or whatever else came in their way and could be made to serve as a horse—in fine, the mannikins and witches did not, could not, and were never likely to, agree upon any one point or in any one feature of resemblance, and therefore it was not unnatural that they should be animated by feelings of hostility the one against the other. I am bound to say, however, that the mannikins never wished to interfere with or annoy the witches, and would have been well content to keep out of their way altogether if they could only have managed to do so. It was the witches who went out of their way to tease and bully the mannikins whenever they could, and who were entirely responsible for all the troubles which occurred in consequence.

Not far from the owl’s castle was a large forest, in which all kinds of creatures dwelt, and of which the little people from the castle made great and frequent use. They dearly loved to wander amongst the enormous trees, climbing over their branches, and playing around their gigantic trunks. One tree in particular there was which they held very precious. It had fallen down, and lay in the forest, covering a prodigious space of ground. On, under, and around it, wherever they could do so, the little mannikins planted a large number of fungi, under which they sought shelter from the rays of the sun or the pelting of the storm, and which they called their summer palace. Here they would spend hour after hour when the weather was favourable, and I have often wandered up from my river to have a sly peep at the merry little creatures sporting and playing whilst the distant moon shone upon them from afar, lighting up the walls of the old castle in the distance, and bathing with a flood of light the forest and fallen tree and the mannikins’ playground around the latter. There they would be, sure enough, night after night, running one after the other round the tree and under the fungi, having sometimes coaxed a butterfly or two, a big blue-bottle fly, or some other lively insect, to sit up with them and make a night of it.

One would have thought that it would have been scarcely worth the witches’ while to have troubled themselves with these harmless people, when there was so much more mischief of a practical character to be done in the world without. But there is no accounting for tastes, and when the evil passion of malice once seizes upon any one, whether mortal or witch, no one can tell to what extremities it will lead. Accordingly, several of the most notorious witches in that part of the country (and ever since England was a country, Berkshire and Buckinghamshire have been the favourite abodes of witches) resolved to harass and worry the mannikins by every means within their power.

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Dame Stokes, Mother Wandle, and old Goody Tickleback were the names of the three principal plotters, and a rare bad lot they were when you came to know them. Dame Stokes lived at Datchet, whence she generally sallied forth upon one of the biggest broomsticks ever known in that part of the country.

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Mother Wandle frequently assumed the shape of a large bat, under which disguise she flitted about all over the country; whilst Goody Tickleback, who resided not far from the playing-fields at Eton, habitually rode the carcase of a fearful antediluvian monster whose skeleton she had found in some queer place, and which, animated by her particular evil spirit, made her a capital horse, and struck terror into the souls of all those who were unfortunate enough to see it. These foul creatures, having secured the aid of others as bad as themselves, determined to root out the family of mannikins if they possibly could, or at all events drive them once for all from the castle and its neighbourhood.

They first endeavoured to obtain as allies the nymphs who frequented my banks, coming down oftentimes to bathe from their homes in the shady recesses of Windsor Forest, where their dances were most beautiful to behold, showing off their graceful figures to perfection, and making me anxious that they should become permanent residents within the waters of my river. These ladies, however, would have nothing to say to the witches, whom they declared to be frightful as well as disreputable people, not fit for the society of well-conducted females who had any respect for themselves. They stated, moreover, that, in their opinion, the mannikins had done nothing for which they deserved to be punished, but were inoffensive and gentlemanlike little people, who ought rather to be encouraged than the reverse. Then the witches tried to cajole my elves, and to persuade them to splash, duck, and, if possible, drown their enemies when they came down to play upon the river banks. But the elves were exceedingly indignant at the request, remarking that the witches had nothing whatever to do with them, whilst the mannikins were their first cousins once removed, and that “blood was thicker than water.”

So, as they could get no other allies, the old hags were obliged to content themselves with the snakes and bats, the inferior class of toads, rats, hedgehogs, and other low-lived and despicable animals. And, first of all, they determined to try and get rid of the old owl, who was the guardian and protector of the mannikins, and the extent of whose power was very little known. So they began by spreading all kinds of false and wicked reports about the worthy bird. They caused it to be said that he had been seen carrying off young chickens, that he had been detected in robbing several pheasants’ nests, and that his private life was no better than it should be. Unfortunately, however, for the success of this scheme, the owl took no newspapers and saw no company. Consequently, he never heard or read of the reports in question, and therefore of course never took the trouble to contradict them. The result was that, as is usually the case under similar circumstances, people, seeing that the individual attacked took no notice of what was said, thought they had better take the same course, and the reports dropped gradually out of circulation, until no one believed them at all.

It was thus made evident to the witches that they must resort to more active measures if they desired to disturb the owl. So they poisoned a young rabbit, and put it near the window in which the ancient bird commonly sat. But the owl was too many for them. A fox came and looked at the rabbit, but having done so, although its appearance was tender and tempting, he winked his eye and passed on. Then the owl slowly raised his claws to his beak, chuckled a little in a sepulchral tone, and told a couple of mannikins to bury that carcass out of the way, and watch any one who came and brought such an article again, and, if possible, bring them to his presence.

It was plain that the owl was not to be caught asleep, and the witches must betake themselves to some new plan. So they sent for some hawks, and persuaded them that the owl was the natural and terrible enemy of their race, and that by a combined attack upon him, they might get rid of him at once and for ever. The hawks went to take a look at the bird and the place, and, after a careful inspection, came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained by attacking either. Their eyes were so sharp, that they saw through the plan of the witches, and were perfectly certain that they had some end of their own in view. So they told the old ladies that they had been entirely mistaken in the matter, that the owl was by no means a bad sort of person, and that they could not interfere in any way in the private quarrels of other people.

Disappointed at this, the three witches next went to the jays, and easily succeeded in inducing these mischievous birds to make such a frightful and discordant screaming around the owl’s abode as would, in all probability, oblige him to leave it. But the owl did no such thing. He simply told the mannikins to tell the jays that unless their noise instantly ceased, and was not again renewed, a birdsnesting party should be organized by the little people as soon as ever the nesting season should arrive, and that every jay in or near the wood should have to deplore the loss of eggs and young. This was most alarming news to the jays, who knew pretty well that the owl had full power to carry out his threat, and that if he did so, the mannikins, who had eyes like needles, and could climb with so much ease and agility, would certainly take every jay’s egg in the place, and thus wreak a fearful vengeance on the disturbers of their monarch’s rest. So the birds desisted forthwith from their noise, and observed that they had only done it for a “lark,” and meant no harm; to which the wise bird replied, that there was a great difference between an owl and a lark, which difference they had better fully recognise before troubling him again in such a manner.

Still the witches would not desist from their attempt to obtain, by secret cunning, the result which they feared to seek by open attack. They hired bats to flit around the castle walls by night, with the intention of pulling out the owl’s tail and wing-feathers, and thus crippling him in his sleep, when he might be attacked with less fear of evil consequences to the aggressors. The attempt, however, miserably failed. The worthy bats, who really belonged to the castle, had experienced such great and unvarying kindness from the owl, that they had neither reason nor desire to prove faithless to him. They easily and immediately detected the strange birds who entered the precincts of the castle, and, having forced them to declare the object of their intrusion, drove them out with blows and insults, so that they retired in the utmost confusion.

Then the witches began to see that the owl was not to be outwitted by cunning, or destroyed by fraud. War, open war, was the only resource left; and the next question would be how it could be carried on with the best chance of success. They had the impudence to send a deputation of little witchlings to me, calmly asking me to overflow and put the castle and its grounds under water, so that it might become too damp for the mannikins to dwell in any longer. This, however, I naturally refused to do, having much better use to make of the waters of my river than to employ them upon any such purpose to suit the pleasure of such low and wicked creatures, and, moreover, I told them that, if they dared to come to me any more with such base proposals, I would drown half-a-dozen of them by way of teaching them manners.

They retired somewhat discomfited; but, knowing that I was too good-natured to do them any injury as long as they left me quiet, very soon came down to my banks again, and entered into successful negotiations with a large number of water-rats. These creatures they hired, with a bribe of moorhens’ eggs, which they took from the poor birds in a cruel and reckless manner, to join with a number of land-rats in an attack upon the castle. The rat-contingent was to unite on the banks of the river, and thence to advance upon the castle through that part of the wood which lay nearest the stream. They were to be supported by a strong auxiliary force of frogs and toads of the worst character, and a body of snakes would simultaneously creep upon the doomed place from the other side. A number of bats, hooded crows, night-hawks, and such evil birds and beasts as they could obtain for the service, would constitute the reserve, which the three witches themselves would command in person. The plan was that the castle should be invested on all sides at once by the noxious reptiles and animals which constituted the witches’ army, and that a bold, and it was hoped decisive, effort should be made to destroy the whole race of mannikins.

Some difficulty was experienced from the fact of the frogs, toads, and rats objecting to fight side by side with the snakes, who were not averse to them as food, and might perhaps remember their natural instincts if overtaken by hunger in the hour of battle. The witches had foreseen this probable objection on the part of the weaker animals, and took measures to remove it without delay. Each of them was made to pass before the great witch, Goody Tickleback, who dropped upon the body of every one a single drop of magic fluid of extraordinary virtue, which was warranted to prevent the creature so touched from being eaten by any other. As she performed this strange process, she pronounced these words:—

This went on until the whole of that part of the army which had entertained fears, founded upon the habits and natures of those with whom they were about to serve as comrades, had passed before the witch, and been treated in the manner which I have described.

All now seemed ready, and at the appointed time the attacking force moved forward in the order which had been previously arranged. It was a lovely evening; not a breath was stirring in the sky above, the moon was shining clearly, and everything was calm and peaceful, save the hearts of the wicked creatures who were plotting and endeavouring to accomplish the utter ruin and destruction of the innocent mannikins. They, meanwhile, would very likely have been taken by surprise if they had been left to their own unassisted strength. Such was the simplicity of their nature, that they suspected no evil, even when preparations against them were being made so actively and openly that they might easily have guessed that mischief was brewing. Nevertheless, they paid no attention whatever to what was going on, but played about just the same as usual until the enemy had matured his plans and was almost ready for action. Then, indeed, they were roused by the wise and powerful protector whose authority they acknowledged.

The owl summoned them from their sports upon the very day for which the witches had appointed the assault upon the castle, and informed them that they must prepare to defend themselves against an enemy who was about to attack them. He gave minute instructions as to what was to be done, and how the castle was to be saved, if possible, from its enemies; and pointed out to his subjects that upon the result of the combat their happiness for the future, nay, their very lives, depended. Should the witches be successful, the mannikins would be either killed or driven away, unless, indeed, they suffered the still worse fate of being taken prisoners, in which case they would probably be transformed into ugly and loathsome creatures by their victorious enemies, whom they would have to serve in abject and miserable slavery for the remainder of their existence. It therefore behoved them to be up and stirring, in order to save themselves and their friends from so cruel a fate.

The little people required no further words in order to awaken their martial enthusiasm: they had already suffered enough from the cruel and unprovoked enmity of the witches, and this daring attempt to destroy their beloved home and themselves was enough to excite the spirit of the quietest and most peaceable mannikin. So without delay they began their preparations for resistance to the coming attack, and implicitly obeyed the directions of their monarch in each and every particular. They were hurrying to and fro all the day, but by nightfall all was ready, and the inhabitants of the castle awaited with calmness and confidence the approach of the hostile army.

The wood around the castle seemed alive that night. The eyes of the numerous creeping animals glittered like fireballs as they crawled through the leaves, and the rustling of the bats’ wings sounded like the wind among the trees as they hastened forward. On all sides the castle was surrounded by its enemies, and the witches gave the signal for an immediate assault. With marvellous rapidity the snakes glided in at every hole and crevice of the old walls; the rats scampered up them in every direction, squeaking violently; whilst the hoarse croaking of the frogs, mingled with the spitting of the toads, sounded fearfully through the forest in the stillness of that summer’s night.

The attacking party found their first obstacle to be one of an unexpected character. Hardly had any of the snakes insinuated his wriggling body into a hole before he found that it was in every instance full of minute fragments of broken glass, with the sharp points upwards, which so lacerated his skin that he could hardly move backwards or forwards without considerable pain, and some of those who had dashed forward with the greatest impetuosity, so injured themselves in the passage that they never reached the interior of the castle, but remained fixed in the holes which they had attempted to pass, lingering until sunset next day (at which time alone snakes can die), and then perishing miserably. The rats found a similar difficulty, but, being resolute and crafty, ran over the walls where they could not creep through, and arrived in the courtyard of the castle without losing any considerable number of their forces. But the toads and frogs had a rough time of it. To them it would have been a long and tedious business to climb over the walls, and the few breaches which were left temptingly open and undefended on their side of the attack were the only mode of entrance which they could try with any hopes of success. These, however, were entirely flooded with liquid tar, which the mannikins had poured with great care upon the flat stones and hard ground, and which caused the attacking party the greatest possible difficulty, a great many of them remaining fast stuck in the disagreeable mixture, until death by starvation terminated their sufferings. After a time, however, by dint of clambering over each other’s bodies, a large number of them succeeded in obtaining an entrance, and the courtyards of the castle were filled with noxious creatures of all sorts.

All this time not a mannikin had shown himself, and no visible sign, other than the obstacles which I have mentioned, had been given that the castle was defended by any one. The witches, who of course were close at hand, scarcely liked the ominous silence which prevailed on the part of their enemies; there was something mysterious about it which they did not understand. They knew, however, that their friends within must not be left unsupported, and accordingly sounded the advance of the reserve. Mother Wandle, heading a large force of bats, flew gallantly forward on one side; Dame Stokes, with a body of Cats and evil animals, charged on the other; whilst old Goody Tickleback hovered about close by on her awful steed, surrounded by the hooded crows and other wicked birds who had joined the witches’ army; for the wary old woman, who knew more about magic than any of her mates, had her own suspicions as to the possible strength of the powers arrayed against her, and had always determined from the first that she would throw as much of the hard work of fighting as she could upon the others, and, Under pretence of keeping a small force in reserve for contingencies, would remain outside the walls of the owl’s castle. You will presently judge of her wisdom by the events which followed.

Scarcely had the bats On one side, and the cats on the other, passed the castle walls, when a voice, the loud and clear accents of which were distinctly heard above the cries of the assaulting party, exclaimed, “Light the gas!” and in another moment a blaze of light illuminated the whole place with a brightness beyond that of the sun’s own rays. Every corner and crevice was lighted up with wondrous brilliancy, and no concealment was any longer possible for any mortal being. Then, in every niche of the old walls, upon the old staircases, at the windows, and on the crumbling ledges around, a quantity of armed mannikins were seen standing ready for action, whilst one window alone remained unlit and mysteriously dark, and there were those present who knew at that moment, if they had never known before, that the owl who sat in that window was a mighty magician, and that a Power unseen and unfelt as yet, but too terrible for evil witches and their followers, dwelt within those old walls.

The effect of the light upon the unhappy bats was perfectly marvellous; dazzled and blinded, they knew not what to do nor where to fly; some dashed themselves up against the walls and put an end to their own lives; others flew straight up to the mannikins, and fell an easy prey to the latter, who, with their little swords drawn, stood ready to strike down each foeman as he approached, and dealt stout blows upon the blinded bats who came within their reach. Mother Wandle herself by no means relished her reception; she was nearly overwhelmed by her own retreating forces, and at the same time the light, to which she had a great objection, annoyed her extremely, and she began to consider that her best course would be to retreat as fast as possible. As she did so, however, she felt, to her great disgust and horror, an invisible hand, or rather claw, laid upon her neck, whilst a voice whispered in low but perfectly audible tones close to her ear—

And, as the voice ceased, the claw was loosened from her neck, and she instantly felt upon her bat’s body severe strokes as of a birch-rod aimed by the strong arm and unerring eye of a resolute head-master: quick and sharp the blows descended upon the luckless old hag, and as the skin of a witch (these creatures being, from the evil consciences which prevent their getting fat, rarely burdened with much flesh) is proverbially tender, she suffered considerably more than any of my boys here at Eton would have done under similar circumstances. Mother Wandle, however, shrieked and fled as fast as she could, followed by as many of her bats as were destined to escape at all from that ill-fated day.

Dame Stokes and her cats fared but little better on their side. Although the light had not the same effect upon this party as upon the bats, they found it exceedingly disagreeable, whilst there was something else which affected their nerves even in a still greater degree. The mannikins who stood upon a portion of the inner walls of the castle exactly opposite to that outer wall upon which the cats had climbed to the assault, opened upon the latter a fire, so to speak, of a novel character. They had arranged and brought to bear upon this part of the wall several garden watering-engines of great power, numerous squirts, and the special engine of the Windsor Fire Brigade of that day. By means of these instruments they received the invaders with such a continuous volley and volume of water as would have checked persons to whom the element is more agreeable than is the case with cats. These animals have, as is well known to the student of natural history, an instinctive aversion to wetting their fur. Under the peculiar circumstances of the case, they might have put up with a shower of rain, or have endured a casual wetting, followed by facilities for drying themselves immediately afterwards. But to be received by a heavy and violent shower of water right in their faces, drenching them at once through and through, and being immediately repeated, and continued without any intermission, was more than the bravest cat could bear; and as soon as they found what kind of reception they were to experience, no thought of shame or disgrace deterred the feline contingent from turning tail and retreating as fast as ever they could by the same way they had come, only some twenty or thirty dropping down within the castle wall. As they fled in this manner, the same mysterious voice whispered to Dame Stokes the identical words of warning which had greeted the ears of her sister-witch, Mother Wandle; and although, having assumed no other form than her own, her sex might have protected her from so great an indignity, I grieve to say that precisely the same punishment was administered to the old creature, and that so efficaciously that she presently fled, shrieking and rubbing herself with pain as she left the castle, which she devoutly wished she had never entered.

The results which I have just described occupied barely ten minutes, and within a quarter of an hour the three witches, with their attendant bats, cats, hooded crows, and other animals who had constituted the reserve, were in full flight from the castle. A certain number of the snakes also made their escape in a curious manner. A strange-looking being, in the shape of a man, with a huge vessel before him, had mysteriously appeared near the castle wall just as the assault began, and as soon as it was plain that the day was going against the attacking party, he gathered up as many of the snakes as he could from their painful position on and about the walls, filled the aforesaid vessel with them (handling them all the while with the greatest tenderness), and throwing it on his shoulders, joined the witches in their headlong flight, keeping up with them in a manner which would have been marvellous, had not his love for the reptiles under whose form mankind was first tempted to sin, his wild glances, and, above all, the tail with which he was adorned, shown pretty clearly that he was Someone whom no good people can think of without hoping he is very far from themselves.

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As the most formidable of their adversaries thus dashed off in headlong flight from the castle, a ringing cheer arose from the mannikins within, and a clear hoot of triumph proceeding from the owl evinced his sympathy with the victory of his subjects and friends.

All, however, was not over yet. A certain quantity of snakes, who had either wriggled through holes in which the broken glass had been less plentifully strewn, or the superior toughness of whose skin had protected them better than that of their comrades, were still hissing frightfully in the outer courtyard, which was also occupied by a considerable number of rats, frogs, and toads. These evil creatures, being left without the guidance of the witches who had lured them to the place, were in considerable difficulty what, to do, and their alarm and horror were great indeed when, loud sounding through the air, the same voice which had given orders for the lighting up of the castle pronounced the following words:—

Even as the voice ceased the creatures to whom the above words were addressed seemed to feel their effects and to act at once upon the instructions given. Without any delay, the cats who had dropped down inside the castle walls on receiving the watery deluge with which the mannikins had greeted them, rushed with fury upon the unhappy rats whom they saw before them, apparently forgetful of everything except those natural instincts which led them to destroy and eat animals whom they had ever been accustomed to regard as fit objects wherewith to satisfy their hungry appetites. At the same instant it seemed to strike the snakes that a perfectly legitimate opportunity had arisen for feasting upon those frogs who were congregated in their immediate vicinity, and, acting at once upon the idea, they commenced to swallow the wretched creatures without any unnecessary delay.

The mannikins calmly looked down meanwhile, and watched their enemies destroying each other until there was scarcely a live rat or frog left in the place, and the toads had fled frantically into the wood for fear the snakes should mistake them for frogs and they should be subjected to a fate from which all their dabblings in magic art might not have been able to preserve them. When the cries of the devouring and devoured creatures below had pretty well ceased, and few save cats and snakes were any longer to be seen in the courtyard, the owl gave a signal at which the mannikins turned on the water which, unknown to any person save themselves and their master, had been laid on to supply the castle in case of fire, and which by a judicious arrangement of pipes could be made to flood the courtyard at pleasure. The gorged cats and snakes were unable to make any effort to escape, although the latter might probably have swum safely off, many of them being water-snakes, and entertaining no great objection to the element. But, alas for them! there was one little circumstance which entirely prevented it. The water was boiling; having been conducted through the kitchen of the castle, the large boilers of which had, by the owl’s orders, been carefully heated for the occasion. The shrieks of the wretched animals were dreadful to hear, when they became aware of the trap in which they had been Caught and the cruel fate which awaited them, from which escape was hopeless. They strove in vain to clamber up the walls or to creep through the holes; wherever they succeeded in raising themselves up from the water on to the walls, the mannikins with drawn swords and fierce looks relentlessly pushed them back into the hot bath below, so that, after a space of some twenty minutes or so, any person who desired a meal of boiled cat and snake-sauce might have been easily accommodated, and every one of the wretched creatures had perished.

Thus the castle was rid of the last of its invaders, and the mannikins had only to let the water off, which they did by means of a large sewer underneath the courtyard, the stone covering of which having been lifted by means of a spring worked from above, the bodies of the slain were washed below, and all traces of the battle and its victims were swept away from that part of the castle in an incredibly short space of time. Victory, entire and complete, now rested with the defenders of the castle, and their joy may he easily imagined. Not a mannikin had been slain or hurt, so effectually had they been protected by the power of the great owl, and the defeat and loss which had been inflicted upon their enemies had been of a character to prevent, or at all events greatly to lessen, the probability of any future attacks.

The little people passed the rest of the night in the most sensible and proper way possible; that is to say, they put out the lights and went to bed, which is a thing which every reasonable creature should do at a proper hour, unless he happens to be desirous of weakening mind and body by depriving both of their natural rest, and thereby shortening the term of his existence.

The mannikins were astir early the next morning, putting everything to rights after the confusion of the night’s adventures. The glass was carefully picked out of the holes in the wall, the courtyards were cleaned, the bodies of those of the enemy who had fallen outside were decently buried, and the whole place resumed its former peaceful appearance within a very few hours. Then the mannikins returned to their usual lives; their swords were put away, their angry feelings forgotten, and their time spent in singing, dancing, and merriment as heretofore.

Meanwhile the three witches were in a frame of mind by no means enviable. Dame Stokes and Mother Wandle still smarted considerably from the effects of the severe whipping which they had each received; and although Goody Tickleback had, by her superior cunning, escaped that disagreeable punishment, she suffered bitterly from mortified vanity and disappointment at having been so entirely defeated in the attack which she had planned against the castle of the mannikins. The three old women took counsel together as to whether there was anything more to be done against those whom they chose to consider their deadly enemies, or whether they had better give it up as a bad job. Evil, however, never sleeps or remains quiet if it can possibly help it, and so strong was the spirit of evil’s power over these wretched creatures that they felt themselves constrained to go on with their wicked work, and to plot and scheme something more against the innocent objects of their hatred. Their proceedings, however, had been rendered somewhat more difficult by the total failure which they had just experienced. They found the cats resolute in their refusal to embark in any further enterprises of a similar character to the last. The toads glared and spat dreadfully from fright when the subject was merely alluded to; and as to the rats, snakes, and frogs, they had suffered so heavily in the recent disaster that it was impossible to expect that anything short of absolute compulsion would induce a single one of them to take the field.

Under these circumstances the witches had recourse to the stoats and polecats, who were a fierce and bloodthirsty race, and might be of essential service if they could be persuaded to undertake the matter. Indeed, Goody Tickleback bit her lips with vexation at having forgotten to secure these powerful allies before, as she felt that they would have materially contributed to the strength of her former expedition, and consequently to its chance of success. Accordingly, having bribed them with large promises of tender young rabbits, and having paid a portion of the bribe in advance, which the cunning creatures insisted upon as a condition of their doing anything at all, the wicked old women succeeded in bringing a considerable army of stoats into the field, together with a small but compact band of polecats. The wily dames had sorely tempted the foxes and badgers of Windsor forest, but the former animals made various excuses, and the latter, having consulted a famous old badger who lived at that time in the Brocas clump, declined altogether to have anything to do with the matter. So the three witches led forth their army, composed only of the animals I have mentioned, and arranged to cross the river upon a certain evening. The particular place upon which they had fixed to cross was at a considerable distance from any bridge, and some of these animals therefore had to swim, whilst those who could not or would not do so were provided with boats and rafts constructed by the magic powers of the old women. They themselves flew over in the usual manner, one as a bat, another on her famous broomstick, and the third on her awful steed. Then they stood on the opposite bank, awaiting their army, who, when they had finished all their preparations, sharpened their teeth and claws, and made other necessary arrangements, plunged into the river, and began to follow their leaders.

And now occurred one of the most singular scenes which it has ever been my good fortune to witness since I first presided over the destinies of this noble river. I have seen a great many strange things and people, Brother Rhine, and been a spectator of a great many curious sights. Moreover, during a long period of years, I have carefully inquired into and studied the natural habits and ways of living which distinguish the numerous animals, birds, and beasts which inhabit the banks and waters of my stream, in all of whom, indeed, I have ever taken that lively interest which becomes a person in my position. But I may as well frankly tell you at once that nothing ever astonished me more than the scene which followed the attempt of the stoats and polecats to cross the river in order to attack the owl’s castle. They got nearly half-way across without anybody offering to dispute their passage. Then, all of a sudden, a strange, wild sound was heard, and a song was borne down upon the breeze which I knew full well as the war-song of the noble swans who honour my river by making it their home, and who are well known as the finest and handsomest swans in all Christendom.

This was the whole of the song; the words are simple, and apparently convey no particular meaning, being little more than the statement of a fact which may without difficulty be accepted as true, coupled with an expression of approval of the manner in which the bird in question had performed a natural and not uncongenial task. But if you were to hear this song sung by a number of swans together, all keeping tune exactly, and sailing down upon you as they sung, with flashing eyes and arched necks, evidently actuated by no friendly feeling, it is very doubtful whether you would care much about either the words or their meaning, and not improbable that you would prefer to be somewhat farther off from the sounds of the entrancing melody. So at least it certainly was with the allies of the witches, when a body of at least fifty or sixty swans (being a larger number than I had ever previously seen together in any part of my river) suddenly appeared sailing down upon them at full speed. It was altogether a most extraordinary proceeding on the part of the noble birds, who, although ready and most able to defend themselves if attacked, are generally of a quiet and peaceful nature, and had hitherto, as far as my knowledge went, interfered with none of the other dwellers in or near the river, but lived in friendship and harmony with all.

Their intentions, however, upon the present occasion were never for a moment doubtful after their first appearance. They charged down upon the army of stoats and polecats with a force and velocity which rendered resistance impossible. The boats and rafts were at once overset by the impetuous fury of their attack, and the occupants thereof were in another instant struggling in the waters. Nor did the swimmers fare any better, for the powerful blows inflicted by a swan’s beak in every instance either stunned the animal struck, or so disabled him that he could swim no farther, but sank beneath the water to rise no more. The wretched creatures could do nothing to defend themselves, for the swans were too wary to approach their breasts near enough to any of the savage little animals to allow of their getting hold of their soft feathers. They kept far enough off for their own safety, after once upsetting the boats, and yet sufficiently near to deal out the pecks of death upon the struggling carcases with little or no risk to themselves. They utterly broke through and dispersed at once the line of the swimming and floating army, and then, turning round and coming up stream, slew multitudes of the wretched animals as they swam for their lives one way or another. A very few moments sufficed for the total rout of the witches’ army, not one of which ever reached the shore to which they were bound, though a few managed to swim back in safety, and those who had been only just about to enter the river naturally gave up any further idea of doing so, and fled in great confusion back to the shelter of the forest from which they had come. The swans, meanwhile, who had ceased singing their war-song as soon as they reached the enemy, and had commenced a violent and angry hissing, which they only suspended when they bowed their heads in order to peck an enemy to his death, now recommenced their musical strains so soon as they had completely routed and destroyed the invading army, and swam back up the river with heads elevated high in the air, shaking themselves now and then with an air of conscious strength and exultation.

During the progress of these events, Brother Rhine, the state of mind and general feelings of the three witches may be better imagined than described. They wept, they howled, they tore what hair they had, they used language with which I will not sully my lips, and manifested every token of frantic rage and consternation. Charms and incantations they would have tried, but they knew well enough that they had no power whatever over things or beings in my sacred waters. The swans only laughed at their wild fury and strange gesticulations, and the old women remained upon the bank, perfectly helpless. Once more their plans against the owl and his mannikins had utterly failed; and they saw the destruction of the army which they had taken so much pains to raise, without the smallest power to avert the catastrophe which again dashed their fondest hopes to the ground.

At the conclusion of the scene which had terminated so disagreeably to themselves, the witches, having nearly exhausted themselves with their rage, calmed down a little, and began to look at each other and wonder what they should do next. This, however, was not a matter long left within their own choice; even as they stood, the heavens grew dark with a mysterious and unnatural darkness, low mutterings of distant thunder were heard, and the wind wailed mournfully as it swept across the river and through the trees of the adjoining wood in which stood the castle of the mannikins.

A deep and distant terror seized upon the three witches as these things occurred; they felt, somehow or other, that those were near against whom their magic arts were powerless, and that some wonderful and awful Presence was at hand which they could neither withstand nor avoid. Trembling in every limb, they cowered upon the bank, shivering as if with cold, their teeth chattering, their eyes ready to start out of their heads with fright, and their hearts beating with that fear of coming judgment which wickedness always brings sooner or later to hearts that conceive and practise it. Some internal and inscrutable feeling seemed to warn them that their hour of punishment was near, and that retribution was at hand—retribution for all the pain and misery which they had caused to others ever since they first sold themselves to work evil instead of endeavouring to lead good and pious lives, and to be a comfort instead of a plague and torment to their fellow-creatures.

The suspense which they endured during this time was probably something more terribly painful than one can imagine, and the uncertainty of their coming doom made it all the more dreadful in anticipation. This state of things lasted for some little while, and a stillness, solemn and awful in its intensity, reigned around. The wind fell again, and the sound of thunder ceased; only the old river went rolling on in its calm, ceaseless stream, the soothing ripple of which smote upon the ear of the unhappy witches as the solemn tones of a judge must fall upon the guilty criminal before him. Each moment seemed an hour to the terror-stricken old hags, and I imagine that no child who has waited in a dentist’s room until that popular operator was ready for him has ever endured half the agony of expectation which was experienced at this time by the three witches.

At last the silence was broken, and that in a manner which it would have been impossible for them to have anticipated. The low roll of a drum was heard in the wood, which sound swelled gradually upon the ear, and was then mingled with other martial music, evidently betokening the approach of an army. In a few moments more there issued from the direction of the owl’s castle a strange and unwonted procession. First of all came a splendid array of cock pheasants, gay with their bright and gaudy colours, and carrying their well-known banner of dark blue, in the centre of which is depicted a magnificent bird of their species looking round with a defiant air, whilst underneath him is inscribed the celebrated motto of his race—“Game to the last.” The pheasants were followed by a strong detachment of partridges, each with his brown horseshoe strongly developed upon his breast, whilst a golden wheat-sheaf upon a banner of russet brown, and the motto, “Hurrah for the harvest-fields!” showed the character of the regiment. They were followed by a body of woodcocks and snipes, marching in alternate ranks, and displaying their respective banners, being a bird of each race worked in blue upon a white ground, and represented as tossing his long beak high in the air and saying, in the inscription below, “Settle my bill if you can!” To these succeeded a gallant regiment of bantams, whose arrogant motto, “Cock of the walk,” was displayed upon their crimson flags; whilst the “Come back! come back!” of the Guinea-fowl was seen upon the banners of the next comers. Other bands of birds followed, each with its own peculiar standard and device, and all marched in slow and solemn order from the wood to the music already mentioned, which was played by an invisible band within the leafy shade of the same.

As each regiment emerged from the wood, it advanced within a stone’s throw of the three witches, and took up ground at that distance, so that the old women found a semicircle gradually forming around them, which extended on all sides save that on which the river flowed. When numerous companies of birds had arrived and taken their places, there next appeared a strong detachment of squirrels—animals to which it is well known that witches entertain a peculiar dislike, on account of the restless activity of their nature, and their constant habit of dropping nutshells suddenly on the heads of persons engaged in unholy incantations and rites in the forests wherein they happen to dwell. The old women shuddered afresh then, when these creatures appeared upon the scene, especially as they came on, each armed with a bag of nuts, and with eyes full of mischief. They were followed by a quantity of rabbits, whose grave and martial appearance would have led you to suppose that there were no such things as weasels or ferrets in the world; and after the rabbits came the principal part of the performance.

More than one hundred mannikins, fully armed and equipped, rode out of the wood, each mounted upon a prancing hare. Their saddles were made of mouse-skin, their bridles were of the best red tape, and their tortoiseshell bits rattled in the mouths of their fiery steeds. Each mannikin had upon his head a burnished helmet of mother-of-pearl, in which was a plume from the wing of a kingfisher, and the armour of each was of the best wrought tin, and sparkled gaily in the sunlight, which now again spread over the heavens as the troops emerged from the trees. The mannikins rode forward in loose order, whilst immediately after them came a close carriage, drawn by twelve cream-coloured hares, and surrounded by twenty mannikins on either side, and a number of owls of every species and description following behind. The mannikins who had ridden in front gave way when they approached the witches, falling back on either side so as to allow the carriage to pass between their ranks. It drew up immediately before the three trembling hags, and the attendant mannikins, bowing low and uncovering their heads, opened the doors for its occupant to descend.

You can have little doubt, Brother Rhine, as to who that occupant was, nor, indeed, was doubt long permitted to the personages most immediately interested in the drama about to be performed. From forth the carriage stepped a figure which all at the same moment recognised as that of the black owl of the castle. Not long, however, did he remain in the shape in which his audience were most accustomed to behold him. Throwing back the head-dress and feathery cloak which begirt him, the figure of a noble youth stood before the astonished witches. His head was thrown back in contemptuous scorn, his eyes flashed with the indignation which virtue always experiences in the presence of vice; he stretched forth his hand, in which was grasped an ash stick, carefully peeled, so that it shone fresh and white, and this he waved gently in the air as he spoke in clear and sounding accents—“Vile hags!” he exclaimed; and as he uttered the words, Dame Stokes, Mother Wandle, and Groody Tickleback fell on their knees, whining and moaning in piteous tones—“Vile hags! once more have ye presumed to tempt your fate by plotting and scheming the destruction of my mannikins. The warning which ye had previously received seems to have produced no effect whatever upon ye, and ye will now have to endure the punishment ye have so well earned!”

As he spoke the old women grovelled on the earth at his feet, and mumbled forth in low and beseeching accents, “Oh, sir! please let us off this time; just this once; it is the first time—we’ll never, never, do it again. Please ‘give us first fault’!”

This expression, always well known among witches, and intended to express the forgiveness of an offence because of its being on that occasion committed for the first time, appeared greatly to increase the anger of the person addressed.

“First fault!” he exclaimed, indignantly, “why, how dare you utter such a falsehood? You have been complained of a dozen times at least by my mannikins, and I have only spared you hitherto from a hope that you might reform, and give up your evil practices. You have not only made yourselves the pest of the whole place for a long time past, but you have now for the second time projected an attack upon the castle which I specially protect. First fault indeed! Two of you were well flogged the other day, and there is now nothing for it but to send you away altogether.”

At these words the wretched creatures burst into a howl of anguish, upon which the young man waved his hand, and a burst of sound arose from the invisible band, in which the tones of the bagpipe were distinctly audible, and which completely drowned the cries of the miserable witches. As soon as the latter and the music had ceased together, the young man continued to speak in a voice as stern as clear—

“I have hesitated,” he said, “as to the precise punishment which I should inflict upon each of you, for indeed I hardly know of any which is sufficiently severe for the crimes which you have committed. I had thought, indeed, of transforming you into shapes different from your own, but still possessing human form, and causing you to experience in them the greatest trouble and misery to which human life is subject. I have still a great mind to do so. I am very much disposed to make one of you a leader in the world of fashion, the second a Member of Parliament, and the third the Head Master of a Public School, which is under the control of a Governing Body.”

At this point such a dreadful shriek broke simultaneously from the three witches, that the squirrels were obliged to be called in and ordered to pelt them with nuts, until they again crouched trembling but silent on the ground before their judge.

“But,” continued he, without noticing the interruption, “it shall never be said of me that I was guilty of unnecessary cruelty. There are, I must own, punishments too severe even for crimes such as yours, and among such these might possibly be included. As I am a great and powerful, so am I a merciful fairy, and I shall not award you one iota of suffering more than is your due. Dame Stokes of Datchet, though bad enough, you are in some respects the best of the three. You have at least, as a rule, preserved your natural form; and could you but have persuaded yourself to give up that abominable, not to say ridiculous, habit of riding on a broomstick, you might have passed through life with all the ordinary comforts of an English peasant, and ended your days in respectability and the parish workhouse. Since, however, you have persisted in using as a horse that which was intended as a harmless and useful domestic implement, you must pay the penalty of your indiscretion. You will be changed into a donkey, and as such may remain in your native place.”

Dame Stokes was just commencing a loud howl at the news of her impending fate, when a gaily attired young mannikin stepped before the fairy, and, making a low obeisance, craved leave to speak, which was at once graciously accorded.

“Noble master,” said he, “if a poor mannikin may put in a word, is this sentence one which requires any transformation at all? A person who, being able to ride on anything else, chooses a broomstick, must already be such a donkey as to render a further change in the same direction quite unnecessary.”

The great fairy smiled.

“Your words are true, my child,” he replied, “in one sense, but they only tend to confirm the wisdom of my sentence. A donkey in thought and action is not always a donkey in shape. Were it otherwise, the world would be much more largely populated by those worthy and industrious animals. It is no terrible fate to which I condemn the aged Stokes. She will forthwith enter upon an existence in which she may render no inconsiderable service to mortals, who, whilst they despise, will not scruple to use her; and should she, as is highly probable, at any period of time, become the property of an itinerant vendor of brooms, she will have every chance of acquiring a further knowledge of the purposes to which a broomstick may be properly applied.”

He spoke, and as he concluded, a change at once came over the figure and appearance of Dame Stokes. Great ears sprung up on each side of her head, which became at once altered and elongated into that of a donkey; her body followed the example; a huge tail appeared in the usual place allotted to such appendages, and in another moment she stood, a veritable ass, before the assembled throng.

Then the young man turned to the terrified Mother Wandle, and sternly addressed her in her turn.

“You,” he said, “though not so bad as the third, are worse than the first of your party. Not content with your own shape (which I will, however, own was not prepossessing), you have gone about the country in disguise, and have, moreover, disgraced the family of bats (many of whom are honest and owl-fearing creatures) by-assuming the shape of one of them, and in this form perpetrating your wicked deeds. Now one of two things must be true. Either you were not by rights a bat, and had therefore no right to the shape of one, or, being a bat, you had no business to disgrace the family. In either case you are equally guilty, and your punishment must be proportionately severe. Since you have evinced, by the most practical means within your power, the undoubted preference which you cherish for the form of a bat, a bat you shall remain for ever, and, once for all, quit that human shape which you have so foolishly despised. Henceforth be your life that of the animal whom you have loved to imitate in your midnight flittings. Behind shutters, under eaves, beneath old boards and barn-sides be hidden, wretch, from the face of the sun, and only come forth when the shades of evening steal over the face of the earth. Shun the gaze of mankind, whom you have only lived to annoy, and rank for the rest of your existence amongst the most lowly and feeble of animals.”

He spoke, and, as in the case of Dame Stokes, the form and figure of Mother Wandle changed even as he ceased speaking, and a huge and unsightly bat occupied the place of the old woman, whilst a murmur of applause and approval was uttered by all who witnessed the transformation.

Then the owl-fairy turned upon the wretched Goody Tickleback, who stood in gloomy silence awaiting the doom which she full well knew her crimes had deserved, but which was not likely to be one whit more palatable on that account.

“Vile and degraded creature,” exclaimed the fairy, regarding the object of his address with a stern and angry countenance, “you have at last been brought to account for your numerous crimes, which exceed those of your companions in guilt, and have rightly made you detested by every one to whom you are known. You have gone on for a long time in your nefarious course, unchecked by any consideration for those innocent beings against whom your evil practices have been directed, and undeterred either by the pangs of that remorse, which must at times have overshadowed even such a hardened soul as yours, or by the fear of that punishment which, though long deferred, was certain to arrive at last. In your life you have exhibited the ferocity of a tiger, the cruelty of an hyÆna, and the craft of a serpent. A serpent therefore you shall be for the future, and as you have, like the rest of your fraternity, always entertained a great horror of water, you shall be consigned for ever to that element, and become a sea-serpent for the rest of your existence.”

A wild yell broke from Goody Tickleback as these words left the lips of the royal fairy, and she burst forth into a desperate cry for a mitigation of so terrible a sentence..

“Oh no! oh no!” she shrieked aloud in the madness of her despair; “not that, not that, for mercy’s sake! anything but that! Make me a stone, or a stick, or a good birch-rod if you will, great fairy. I promise I will act up to my name, and tickle with good-will every back that comes under me, if you will only make me this instead of a horrible snake. Oh do! oh do! oh don’t——”

And she ended her speech with a yell more awful than before as she felt the dreadful transformation which had been awarded begin slowly but surely to steal over her decrepit frame.

The fairy smiled coldly.

“Cruel to the last,” he observed. “The vile hag would be made an instrument of torture in an inanimate shape, since she may no longer torment people in her original form. But it may not be. The doom has been pronounced, and already begins to take effect.”

Even as he spoke, the form of the old woman gradually changed into that of an enormous sea-serpent, and her yells culminated in a fearful hissing, from which the legions of valiant birds instinctively recoiled. A scaly monster of the deep occupied the place—and rather more than the place—lately filled by old Goody Tickle-back, and the last of the three witches had now received her allotted punishment. The owl-fairy then struck the ground sharply three times with his ashen stick, and each of the three culprits departed different ways. The donkey stretched out its tail, erected its ears, elevated its head, and gave vent to sundry of those loud and discordant noises by which creatures of that particular species are distinguished from other four-footed beasts. Then, looking around once more, it slowly set off at a trot, which presently became a galop; and, passing through the ranks of the bird and mannikin army, which divided for its passage, took the direction of Datchet, and hastened thither as fast as it could lay legs to the ground.

I will not follow the adventures of the poor beast any longer, though I may as well tell you, Brother. Rhine, that I know for a fact she lingered in the same neighbourhood for a very long time. Indeed, not many weeks since, whilst walking upon Dorney Common, I heard cries as of an animal in distress, and, looking round, beheld a seller of brooms vehemently belabouring a half-starved ass with a broomstick. The poor beast was in sad condition. It was laden with a heavy load of brooms, and its speaking eyes seemed to tell of much privation and suffering. I seemed somehow or other to remember the expression of the face, and in a few moments recalled the circumstances of which I have just been telling you. There indeed was old Dame Stokes, serving out her time in long apprenticeship to misery and punishment, and experiencing that practical application of the broomstick which the owl-fairy had foretold. I passed on my way to the river, and sighed as I thought over her fate, pondering meanwhile upon the melancholy fact that sin should be so attractive as it had proved to this old woman, when its punishment, sooner or later, is so certain and is of so much more enduring a character than the questionable pleasure which has earned it.

As to Mother Wandle, there is but little to tell of her. As soon as she was permitted to do so, she flitted away across my river in the direction of Windsor Forest, and, for anything I know, may be there still. Bats are not creatures that one ever hears much of, nor have I been accustomed to interest myself particularly in their proceedings; but if you happen to see an especially ugly and repulsive bat, it is quite as likely to be old Mother Wandle as anybody else, and you may be sure that she is still enduring the punishment so justly inflicted upon her by a righteous judge.

Goody Tickleback’s exit from the scene was of a more marked and singular character. It would have been difficult to have disposed of so gigantic a monster by any ordinary process. It could not have travelled by land to the ocean, except on wheels; and although it might have been possible to have paid expenses by sending it thither in the caravan of a travelling showman—supposing a vehicle of that description, and of sufficiently large size, to have been in being—such a course would have been scarcely consistent with the usage of fairyland, or with the nature and circumstances of the case. It might, of course, have been possible to have floated the creature down the waters of my river, but against such a proceeding my nymphs, elves, and swans would have protested indignantly, even had I been disposed for a moment to sanction it. Besides this, the inconvenience to traffic, and the bad odour which so foul a reptile would leave in the water, not to mention its possible indulgence in some mischievous and destructive habits which would have brought the river into bad repute, were all difficulties in the way. I could not allow a “Thames nuisance” to be thus originated which would have been probably fraught with most unpleasant consequences, and could have done no possible good to anybody. This, therefore, being out of the question, it only remained for the owl-fairy to exercise his magic power somewhat further, and get rid of the vast and cumbrous body which he had seen fit to create. The wonderful being made not the slightest difficulty. Waving his rod three times above his head, and describing with it a circle in the air, he struck upon the ground, which immediately opened wide beneath the hideous serpent, and exhibited an enormous chasm, down which it slowly disappeared, and was seen no more in those regions of the earth.

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Marvellous legends, however, have been told of the great Sea-serpent since that day, and those who know the circumstances which I have related are able to judge of their truth better than the ignorant and unlearned.

At times, when, far out at sea, the waves are running mountains high, the ship can scarce weather the storm, and some of the affrighted sailors have betaken themselves to their boats in hopes to preserve their lives, a hideous monster is said to rise from the deep, encircling and crushing the boat with its gigantic coil, and striking with its cruel fangs the drowning mariners. At other times, when all is calm, and the surface of the ocean ripples softly, like a lake stirred by the zephyrs’ softest breath, a huge and awful form may be seen floating on the waves, slowly making its way through the waters, and ever and anon raising its hideous serpent-head aloft, as if in search of something to injure or destroy. Wonderful tales do the sailor men bring home of this extraordinary creature, and wise folk oftentimes shake their heads and affect to disbelieve in its existence. But we, Brother Rhine, who know this chronicle of early days which I have just been telling, shake no heads over the matter, and entertain no doubt of the reality of the sight which the sons of Neptune aver that they have seen. Old Goody Tickleback is the great Sea-serpent, and my only wonder is that, when the great owl-fairy was about it, he did not put her out of the way altogether, instead of leaving her in a position in which she could still work so much mischief to mortal men. I suppose, however, that fairies, like other people, know their own business best; and there was probably some reason against this self-evidently wise course which does not occur to those who do not happen themselves to be fairies.

In this manner, anyhow, the three witches were comfortably disposed of, and, to my mind, there never was a clearer case of “a good riddance of bad rubbish.” Having accomplished his task, the owl-fairy now reentered his carriage, and directed the troops to pass before him, which they accordingly did, each company saluting as it passed. The review being finished, the whole procession returned to the wood in the same order as that in which they had emerged from it, and in a very short time the banks of the river were as quiet as if nothing unusual had happened. The mannikins were never afterwards molested by witches or any such nefarious customers, and, as long as they chose to inhabit the castle, they were perfectly free from disturbance or attack. Time at last did its work upon the old walls, and when the hum of the steam-engine began to be heard in the land this was no longer a place for mannikins. They flitted I know not where, and the owl-fairy doubtless went with them. I could perhaps tell you more, but melancholy thoughts come over me as I speak of the departure of old friends and neighbours, and I think, with your good leave, I will here bring my legend to a conclusion.

“Thanks, good brother,” said the Monarch of the Rhine, as Father Thames ceased speaking. “Yet would I fain inquire who or what was this great owl-fairy?”

His companion smiled grimly. “Hast thou so soon forgotten thine own objection to questions concerning our legends when finished?” he asked. “Nevertheless I would tell thee if I could, but I fear to speak with certainty upon a subject which has ever been shrouded in doubt. Most authorities agree that this mighty being could be none other than he of whom mention was made in my first legend—that of the Wild Boar of Windsor Forest. But the great fairy, Toddlekins, did not announce himself on the occasion of the transformation of the three witches; and the only proof that it was he who reigned over the mannikins and delivered them from their enemies consists in the similarity of his appearance with that of the rescuer of Smith in the Druid days. I incline to think it may have been him; and we know that wherever Toddlekins has power good prevails and evil flies from his presence; but more I cannot tell you.”

“Be it so, brother,” returned he of the Rhine; “the matter, anyhow, ended well, and I would that my Rhineland had a fairy Toddlekins as well as thy favoured country.”

Father Thames smiled grimly. “There never could be two such as Toddlekins in this world,” replied he; “and it is a blessing for me and mine that there has been one. But come, Brother Rhine, there is yet time for another legend. Hast thou none of the old war times, and of the brave German barons who fought so oft and so fiercely?”

“Ay, that have I, many an one,” responded the other. “I bethink me, moreover, of one which is not strictly or wholly of mine own land, nor in truth do I know precisely to what land it can be said entirely to belong. It is one, however, which has been handed down to us in verse, if you object not to a tale told in such fashion.”

“Object, indeed!” cried jolly old Father Thames in a pleasant voice. “How or why should I object? Are not some of our very best English legends told in verse? Witness that excellent old story of—

That is a fine legend, if you please! I heard it all told by a descendant of the Cole family, who stumbled on the story in an old manuscript, and instantly went out to Cannes, in the South of France, where he studied it carefully with a view to producing it for the benefit of the English public, and was only prevented from doing so by his sisters, who insisted upon it that the wooing done in their family, even at a remote period, was a matter of private history which should never be allowed to become public property. Perhaps they had some affair of the same kind in hand themselves, and did not want to establish an inconvenient precedent.”

“Very likely,” remarked the Rhine King somewhat sulkily; “but if you go on like this I shall never get away. Pray give a fellow a chance, and don’t keep all the talk to yourself—you and your Coles.”

“Hold hard!” cried Father Thames at this. “I am not going to be ‘called over the coals’ by any foreigner.”

“A truce to your puns!” said he of the Rhine; and as Father Thames said no more, he at once began the song of:—