THE WONDERFUL LEGEND OF THE GOLD STONE.
In those far away times when the world was yet in its baby clothes, and people were not as wise as they are nowadays, there dwelt in the good town of London a poor tailor's apprentice named Bartlemy Bowbell. He might be called poor in a double sense; for not only was he such a lazy, idle fellow that he scarcely ever took a stitch, and so seldom had a copper of his own, but he was a miserable workman, and, like an organ-grinder's monkey, or a blind man's dog, obtained more kicks than halfpence.
In the same room with him were several other tailors; who sang together one of two tunes as they stitched. If they were paid for every day's work, be it much or little, they sang, "By the d-a-y! by the d-a-a-y! by the d-a-a-a-y!" and the needles went in and out as slowly as the coaches of a funeral procession; but if they were paid for every garment they finished, then they sang, "By the job! by the job! by the job!" and the needles stitched away like an express train! Bartlemy, however, crossed his legs, put his thimble firmly on, and stitched briskly for five minutes; then his attention would wander, and presently, dropping work, thimble, shears, and needle, he began singing to himself,
"Oh, if I were only possessed of my riches,
I never would sew on a pair of old breeches!
Thimbles and thread!
Buttons and braid!
Oh, who would be bound to this rascally trade?
"If money I had, I'd be free from all care,
And what master must make, I should have but to wear!
Needles and pins!
Shears and cloth ends!
When the work's ended then pleasure begins!"
"What's that you're singing about riches?" cried his master, sharply; "Riches, forsooth! you will die in the poor house, I can tell you, if you don't stitch more diligently! Come, sew away! sew away!" So saying, he gave him a good thwack with his yard stick, to make him continue working.
All the beatings in the world, however, could not thump out of Bartlemy Bowbell a belief that had got into his head that he should one day become rich and famous, through the agency of a wonderful jewel called the Gold Stone. As I said, people, in those days, were by no means so wise as they are at present, and so it fell out that the most learned philosophers of that olden time believed as firmly as did the tailor's apprentice in the existence of this Gold Stone, the peculiar property of which was, that if it came in contact with any common metal, it changed it, on that instant, into gold. Now, this story had come to the ears of Bartlemy Bowbell, and by one of those odd cranks that not overwise people sometimes take in their heads, he was perfectly persuaded that, sooner or later, he was fated to find the miraculous gem.
Matters soon rose to such a pitch, as may easily be seen, that his master finally turned him out of doors, saying "that he ate more than he would ever earn."
"Very well, master," quoth Bartlemy, "I don't regret your goose and cabbage!" and having said this, he ran away as hard as he could, dropping one of his slipshod shoes as he went along, with his master pursuing after, yard stick in hand, whom, however, he soon contrived to outstrip.
As he had not earned a penny during the week, he was entirely without money, and nobody would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe, for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to his solicitation, "Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?" for they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.
"Needles and pins!" cried Bartlemy, sitting up in haste; "what's that?"
"Bartlemy Bowbell," croaked a strange voice, "look at me."
Bartlemy looked round, and to his extreme terror, saw standing beside him a being whom he could only suppose to be a goblin. He was not more than four feet high, with very bow legs, as though from a constant habit of tucking them up on a tailor's shop board; his clothes, fashioned from odd bits of velvet and cloth such as tailors call "cabbage," or, as we should say, the pieces of the customers' stuff left from their coats—were trimmed with thimbles for bell buttons; on his head was a tailor's cotton nightcap, with a long tassel, and hanging at his waist were an immense pair of shears, and a pincushion bristling with needles and pins. In one hand he carried the yard stick with which he had struck the luckless 'prentice, and in the other a tailor's goose, or flat iron.
His face was expressive of the most jovial good humor, though it could not be called handsome, for his nose was flattened as though he were in the habit of trying his iron against the end; his hair seemed composed of long and short threads mingled together, and he had an abominable squint, as though he were always endeavoring to see how a coat set at the front and back, the collar and tail at the same time.
"Bartlemy," said the goblin again, "what's the matter with you?"
"Matter, your worship?" gasped Bartlemy.
"Come to the point," said the goblin, severely, accidentally swinging his pincushion against Bartlemy's legs at the same time, and pricking him most atrociously. "You are everlastingly growling and grumbling, instead of working at your trade like an honest tailor, and richly deserve to be thwacked with the yardstick every morning by way of breakfast; but never mind, I choose to help you; so say what you want, quick."
"A-and who might your worship be?" asked Bartlemy, with a cold shudder; for he felt desperately afraid that he had got hold of Old Boguey or Old Nick—it was not much matter which.
"That's none of your business," said the being; "but if you must know, I am Snippinbitz, the patron of the tailors."
"O lord, your worship, you don't say so!" stammered Bartlemy.
"That's a fact!" returned the goblin. "Come, out with it; what can I do for you?"
Bartlemy scratched his head and took off his cap, looked into it, found no words there, and put it on again; and finally, with a bow that nearly toppled him head over heels, and a kick up of his foot that sent his remaining slipper flying into the nearest mud-puddle, he managed to say:
"Please, your worship, I want to find the Gold Stone."
The goblin burst into a discordant laugh on hearing this; then, suddenly becoming serious, he said:
"Well, that's a sensible request, Bartlemy, and a modest one, considering the circumstances. Never mind, I have taken a fancy to you; your wish shall be accomplished. See here."
With these words Snippinbitz put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a magnificent jewel, as it seemed to Bartlemy. It was of the most resplendent purple color imaginable, and sparkled all over with flecks of gold, which seemed to swim beneath the surface. Nothing could look more gorgeously beautiful as the astonished tailor held it up in the moonlight; yes, there could be no doubt of it; the mysterious, the unattainable Gold Stone was really his!
"Now, Bartlemy, attend to me," continued the being. "The Gold Stone is yours, but under certain conditions, which must be faithfully complied with, or no gold! First, you must return to London to-morrow, seek out your old master, and ask him to employ you as a regular workman. You will find yourself able to sew as well as the best, through my assistance, and you must employ this power diligently on the work he gives you to do. I warn you, however, that you must keep the secret of the Gold Stone from everybody; and, in order that you may do so, you must never take it out of your pouch until you are safe in your own chamber. Secondly, when you receive your wages, place the money directly in the pouch containing the Gold Stone, and do not look at it until you go to bed. Then you will find the copper turned into silver, and the silver into gold. But if you count the money first, it will never be any different. Thirdly, in a year's time from to-night, meet me at this spot, and tell me how you have prospered. Will you keep these conditions faithfully?"
"Ye-y-es! your worship!" stammered the 'prentice.
"Then, how are you, Mr. Gold Stone!" exclaimed the goblin, in advance of the age; and, with an outrageous wink, he treated Bartlemy to another whack with the yardstick, and vanished.
The blow struck our tailor insensible; and when his eyes again unclosed it was broad daylight. For a moment he stared about him, wondering how he came to be there; then, remembering the extraordinary events of the previous night, he hastily felt in his pouch, and drew out the miraculous jewel. It flamed in the sunlight like a bright diamond eye, and Bartlemy almost fancied he caught it winking at him. This idea lasted but a moment, and having taken a long and delighted stare at the much-desired Gold Stone, he replaced it carefully in his pouch, and started straight for London. As he passed the newly-opened bakers' shops, he could not help wishing that he had a half-penny in the world, so that he might change it into a crown on the spot, and buy a basketful of hot rolls; but as the Gold Stone was not warranted to make money, he was forced to take it out in wishing. Fortunately one of the bakers, seeing him gaze hungrily at the hot bread, had the kindness to toss him a large roll; and, munching this, he arrived at his master's shop.
After the way in which he had been turned out, he hadn't much hope of getting in again, but, afraid of disobeying the goblin's injunctions, he entered with as much courage as he could muster, and found the other tailors stitching away as usual, while his master cut out a coat.
Bartlemy took his cap humbly off, saying, "Please, master, if you will employ me as a workman now, I think I can please you. Do try me; I will be industrious; indeed, I will."
"Oh," grumbled the master tailor, "sleeping out in the fields and going without supper and breakfast has done you good, has it? Well, take this coat and sit you down; but I warn you, beforehand, that if you are not more industrious than usual, I will lay my yardstick over your shoulder, and clear you out again."
Bartlemy took the work, and having planted himself on the shop-board[A] in his favorite place, near a window, he put on his thimble, threaded his needle with a grand flourish, and began to stitch away for dear life. He sewed faster and better than he had ever done before, and found, to his joy, that the goblin's promises had begun to be fulfilled in reality. But bad habits are not to be conquered as one would pull up weeds: though both must be torn up by the roots, one might weed three gardens in the time it takes to destroy one fault; and so, without really meaning it, Bartlemy at last began to ply his needle less briskly; his thoughts wandered; he took a stitch that was three times too long, then another in a wrong place, a third and fourth all askew, and finally the work came to a dead stand-still. But, thimbles and thread! what happened? The instant his hand stopped, a long yellow yardstick came flying through the window, with no one holding it, hit him such a thwack on the shins that he roared again with the pain, and instantly vanished.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked the other tailors, startled, as they well might be.
"Matter!" cried Bartlemy. "Why, didn't you see that—that horrible yardstick coming at me?"
At this they all laughed at him for a fool; for nobody but our tailor could perceive this terrific weapon, which was doubtless invisible to common eyes. His conscience whispered, however, that his punishment was a reminder from the friendly goblin, and accordingly he set to work with renewed diligence. After a while, lost in dreams of his approaching wealth, he stopped stitching again, when, like a flash, in came the yardstick, touched him up with a vengeance, and vanished as before; and so it continued all the time he was sewing: the watchful yardstick would only allow him to stop to thread his needle or turn the work.
When he had stitched all the seams, he laid the coat on the table and heated his goose, that he might smooth them. He took care to post himself a good way from the window, in order to get rid of the ferocious yardstick; but the goblin was not to be baffled thus. The moment he stopped ironing and began to count the flies on the ceiling, the goose seemed to carry his hand up with it—irresistibly—to the end of his nose, and gave it a good scorching! This was no joke, I can tell you, and in a very short time Bartlemy began so to dread the visits of his two enemies that he never left working a minute, and his needle dashed along like magic. By sunset the coat was done, and sewed in a manner vastly superior to the other tailors, who looked at him with envious eyes. "What! finish a whole coat in one day?" they cried; "we never could do so well! Goose and cabbage! friend Bartlemy! you must have the assistance of some fairy!"
Bartlemy made no answer, but taking the coat in hand, carried it to his master, who viewed it in the greatest astonishment. Never before had a coat been made in a single day, and stitched, too, more finely than anything he had ever seen; but, not wishing to raise his late 'prentice's ideas of himself, he merely grumbled out, "For a wonder you have done your work this time; so now take your wages, and be sure to come early Monday morn."
As he spoke, he slipped a couple of coins into Bartlemy's hand, who, remembering the goblin's words, put them into his pouch without so much as looking at them.
Now, no doubt my clever little readers have guessed quite readily the true solution of this mighty mystery; but to the simple Bartlemy the reality of the Gold Stone's magic power was placed beyond a doubt when, on reaching his chamber and striking a light, he found, instead of the farthing and penny which had always been his weekly payment, a crown and sixpence.
"Huzzah! huzzah!" he cried, fairly jumping for joy; "my beautiful Gold Stone is doing its work bravely." He kissed the stone in his delight, and went to bed, to dream of becoming a master tailor, and making clothes for the king.
The following Monday he repaired to his master's shop the first of any one, and everything happened as on the former time; except that, being more diligent at his work, the goose and the yardstick were less frequent in their favors, and he now made a coat and a vest in the day. His master really knew not what to think; but at least so good a workman was not to be lost; so he kept his surprise and suspicions to himself, and made up by heaping more and more sewing on the luckless Bartlemy.
It didn't make any difference, however; his needle almost seemed to work by itself, and the sewing was finished by sunset; so that, really, the good-natured goblin was the original sewing machine, and no thanks to Messrs. Grover and Baker. At the end of the week his master paid him a crown and a shilling; or, as Bartlemy believed, a farthing and a penny; the next week a guinea, and the week after a guinea and a crown, which was the highest wages ever paid.
So things went on, until Bartlemy had earned enough to make quite a fortune in his eyes; ten whole guineas lay glittering in the old night cap where he kept his savings, and the tailor thought he might now set up for a gentleman. So he bought cloth, made himself, in secret, a fine cloak, coat, and breeches, and in these jackdaw adornments paraded about the streets a whole morning, trying to appear an idle fine gentleman. At last he strutted into the best inn, ordered a grand dinner and a bottle of wine, and feasted like a lord.
But his time was coming. The watchful goblin, though not at his side, knew perfectly well what he was about, and soon led him to betray his quality most fatally. When the bill was brought him, it was so long and so tremendous that Bartlemy sprang up in a rage, crying out:
"Thimbles and thread! Do you call this a decent charge for your paltry dinner?"
The landlord stared at him in astonishment; then, suddenly bursting into a loud laugh, he cried, "Why, gentles all, this fine nobleman is nothing but a tailor! ha! ha!" and he put his hands to his fat sides and shook with laughter.
"Be silent, sirrah!" thundered Bartlemy; "or I'll break my yardstick over your shoulders!"
"Ha! ha! only hear what he says!" laughed the landlord. "A miserable tailor."
"If you do not stop your impertinence, I will shear off your ears like cloth clippings!" retorted the angry tailor. "Goose and cabbage! man; you shall not trifle with me!"
On this the landlord and waiters turned him bodily out of the house, after seizing upon all his remaining money; and the moment he was in the street, the knowledge of how he had betrayed himself broke upon his mind. Mortified and miserable, he hurried home, determined, after this, to stick to his trade and play fine gentleman no more.
The year at last drew to a close, and Bartlemy had now earned enough to set up for a master tailor; when, one bright moonlight night, he suddenly remembered that it was the very anniversary of his meeting with the goblin. Starting up, he ran to where his pouch was placed, took out the Gold Stone and enjoyed a long look at it, and then, throwing his cloak around him, he hastened forth. The moonlight beamed brightly on the path he was taking, and seemed to throw all sorts of queer shadows before him; now it was an immense yardstick, now a thimble supported on two needles like a pair of spindle legs, then a goose with a pair of shears astride on the handle.
At last, as he paused under the old tree, he heard a familiar croaking laugh, and found himself unexpectedly in the presence of Snippinbitz, the friendly goblin.
"Well, Bartlemy," croaked the being; "and how have you prospered with the Gold Stone?"
"Marvellously well, your worship!" replied Bartlemy, in a joyous tone.
"And you found a crown and a shilling, and a guinea and a crown, instead of your penny and farthing; did you, Bartlemy?"
"Why, yes, your worship, I did, certainly."
"And the Gold Stone changed them, did it, Bartlemy?"
"Why, yes, your worship; of course it did."
"Now, Bartlemy," said the goblin, in a confidential tone, laying his hand on the other's shoulder, "I want to tell you something. It isn't the Gold Stone!"
"It's—not—the—Gold—Stone!!" gasped Bartlemy.
"Why, no, you donkey! there's no such thing!"
Bartlemy turned fairly green and yellow with horror and disappointment.
"Listen to me, Bartlemy Bowbell," said the goblin; "nobody but a donkey would suppose that a round bit of purple glass——"
"Of purple glass!" repeated Bartlemy, in a sort of dream.
"Don't interrupt, Bartlemy—that a bit of purple glass could change copper into gold. Your master paid you the wages your work was worth, that is all. There is no such preposterous jewel on the face of the earth as you imagine; but there is a true Gold Stone, and its name is
'Faithful Industry!'"
As the goblin spoke these words, he suddenly began to change his form, and grew taller and broader. His bell-button thimbles fell off, his flat nose became long and sharp, his thread hair gave place to a bald pate, and his whole appearance became wonderfully like Bartlemy's master. He raised his yardstick, brought it down with a tremendous crack—and—Bartlemy woke!
Yes! he was lying under the tree where he had thrown himself down the night before. The whole of what had passed, Gold Stone, money, goblin, and all, was but the fantastic tracery of a dream; and above him really stood his master, who had repented of having turned away his luckless 'prentice, and had come to seek him.
The lesson was not lost, however, on our hero. He returned to his master's shop, where he worked diligently, without any yardstick coming after him; and in three years' time rose to be a master tailor, married his old master's daughter, cut the coats of the king himself, and took for his arms a Gold Stone, supported by two shears, and the motto:
Faithful Industry.