Nicholas Nickleby

uard, on his legs in a minute, andrunning to the leaders’ heads. ‘Is there ony genelmenthere as can len’ a hond here? Keep quiet, dang ye!　　Wo ho!’　　‘What’s the matter?’ demand

cloister and the cell. Nature’sown blessings are the proper goods of life, and we may share themsinlessly together. To die is our heavy portion, but, oh, let us diewith life about us; when our cold hearts cease to beat, let warmhearts be beating near; let our last look be upon the bounds whichGod has set to his own bright skies, and not on stone walls andbars of iron! Dear sisters, let us live and die, if you list, in thisgreen garden’s compass; only shun the gloom and sadness of acloister, and we shall be happy.”　　‘The tears fell fast from the maiden’s eyes as she closed herimpassioned appeal, and hid her face in the bosom of her sister.　　‘“Take comfort, Alice,” said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead.　　 “The veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How sayyou, sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or forme.”　　‘The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was casttogether, and that there were dwellings for peace and virtuebeyond the convent’s walls.　　‘“Father,” said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, “you hearour final resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey ofSt Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directedthat no constraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, butthat we should be free to live according to our choice. Let us hearno more of this, we pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us takeshelter until evening!” With a reverence to the friar, the lady roseand walked towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the othersisters followed.　　‘The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, buthad never met with so direct a repulse, walked some little distancebehind, with his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving as ifin prayer. As the sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace,and called upon them to stop.　　‘“Stay!” said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, anddirecting an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister.　　“Stay, and hear from me what these recollections are, which youwould cherish above eternity, and awaken—if in mercy theyslumbered—by means of idle toys. The memory of earthly things ischarged, in after life, with bitter disappointment, affliction, death;with dreary change and wasting sorrow. The time will one daycome, when a glance at those unmeaning baubles will tear opendeep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives—and, mark me, come itwill—turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge whichyou spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fireof mortals grows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and thereweep for the dreams of youth. These things are Heaven’s will, notmine,” said the friar, subduing his voice as he looked round uponthe shrinking girls. “The Virgin’s blessing be upon you,daughters!”　　‘With these words he disappeared through the postern; and thesisters hastening into the house were seen no more that day.　　‘But nature will smile though priests may frown, and next daythe sun shone brightly, and on the next, and the next again. And inthe morning’s glare, and the evening’s soft repose, the five sistersstill walked, or worked, or beguiled the time by cheerfulconversation, in their quiet orchard.　　‘Time passed away as a tale that is told; faster indeed thanmany tales that are told, of which number I fear this may be one.　　The house of the five sisters stood where it did, and the same treescast their pleasant shade upon the orchard grass. The sisters toowere there, and lovely as at first, but a change had come over theirdwelling. Sometimes, there was the clash of armour, and thegleaming of the moon on caps of steel; and, at others, jadedcoursers were spurred up to the gate, and a female form glidedhurriedly forth, as if eager to demand tidings of the wearymessenger. A goodly train of knights and ladies lodged one nightwithin the abbey walls, and next day rode away, with two of thefair sisters among them. Then, horsemen began to come lessfrequently, and seemed to bring bad tidings when they did, and atlength they ceased to come at all, and footsore peasants slunk to the gate after sunset, and did their errand there, by stealth. Once,a vassal was dispatched in haste to the abbey at dead of night, andwhen morning came, there were sounds of woe and wailing in thesisters’ house; and after this, a mournful silence fell upon it, andknight or lady, horse or armour, was seen about it no more.　　‘There was a sullen darkness in the sky, and the sun had goneangrily down, tinting the dull clouds with the last traces of hiswrath, when the same black monk walked slowly on, with foldedarms, within a stone’s-throw of the abbey. A blight had fallen onthe trees and shrubs; and the wind, at length beginning to breakthe unnatural stillness that had prevailed all day, sighed heavilyfrom time to time, as though foretelling in grief the ravages of thecoming storm. The bat skimmed in fantastic flights through theheavy air, and the ground was alive with crawling things, whoseinstinct brought them forth to swell and fatten in the rain.　　‘No longer were the friar’s eyes directed to the earth; they werecast abroad, and roamed from point to point, as if the gloom anddesolation of the scene found a quick response in his own bosom.　　Again he paused near the sisters’ house, and again he entered bythe postern.　　‘But not again did his ear encounter the sound of laughter, orhis eyes rest upon the beautiful figures of the five sisters. All wassilent and deserted. The boughs of the trees were bent andbroken, and the grass had grown long and rank. No light feet hadpressed it for many, many a day.　　‘With the indifference or abstraction of one well accustomed tothe change, the monk glided into the house, and entered a low,dark room. Four sisters sat there. Their black garments madetheir pale faces whiter still, and time and sorrow had worked deep ravages. They were stately yet; but the flush and pride of beautywere gone.　　‘And Alice—where was she? In Heaven.　　‘The monk—even the monk—could bear with some grief here;for it was long since these sisters had met, and there were furrowsin their blanched faces which years could never plough. He tookhis seat in silence, and motioned them to continue their speech.　　‘“They are here, sisters,” said the elder lady in a tremblingvoice. “I have never borne to look upon them since, and now Iblame myself for my weakness. What is there in her memory thatwe should dread? To call up our old days shall be a solemnpleasure yet.”　　‘She glanced at the monk as she spoke, and, opening a cabinet,brought forth the five frames of work, completed long before. Herstep was firm, but her hand trembled as she produced the last one;and, when the feelings of the other sisters gushed forth at sight ofit, her pent-up tears made way, and she sobbed “God bless her!”　　‘The monk rose and advanced towards them. “It was almost thelast thing she touched in health,” he said in a low voice.　　‘“It was,” cried the elder lady, weeping bitterly.　　‘The monk turned to the second sister.　　‘“The gallant youth who looked into thine eyes, and hung uponthy very breath when first he saw thee intent upon this pastime,lies buried on a plain whereof the turf is red with blood. Rustyfragments of armour, once brightly burnished, lie rotting on theground, and are as little distinguishable for his, as are the bonesthat crumble in the mould!”　　‘The lady groaned, and wrung her hands.　　‘“The policy of courts,” he continued, turning to the two other sisters, “drew ye from your peaceful home to scenes of revelry andsplendour. The same policy, and the restless ambition of—proudand fiery men, have sent ye back, widowed maidens, and humbledoutcasts. Do I speak truly?”　　‘The sobs of the two sisters were their only reply.　　‘“There is little need,” said the monk, with a meaning look, “tofritter away the time in gewgaws which shall raise up the paleghosts of hopes of early years. Bury them, heap penance andmortification on their heads, keep them down, and let the conventbe their grave!”　　‘The sisters asked for three days to deliberate; and felt, thatnight, as though the veil were indeed the fitting shroud for theirdead joys. But, morning came again, and though the boughs of theorchard trees drooped and ran wild upon the ground, it was thesame orchard still. The grass was coarse and high, but there wasyet the spot on which they had so often sat together, when changeand sorrow were but names. There was every walk and nookwhich Alice had made glad; and in the minster nave was one flatstone beneath which she slept in peace.　　‘And could they, remembering how her young heart hadsickened at the thought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave, ingarbs which would chill the very ashes within it? Could they bowdown in prayer, and when all Heaven turned to hear them, bringthe dark shade of sadness on one angel’s face? No.　　‘They sent abroad, to artists of great celebrity in those times,and having obtained the church’s sanction to their work of piety,caused to be executed, in five large compartments of richly stainedglass, a faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These werefitted into a large window until that time bare of ornament; and when the sun shone brightly, as she had so well loved to see it, thefamiliar patterns were reflected in their original colours, andthrowing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmlyon the name of Alice.　　‘For many hours in every day, the sisters paced slowly up anddown the nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Onlythree were seen in the customary place, after many years; then buttwo, and, for a long time afterwards, but one solitary female bentwith age. At length she came no more, and the stone bore fiveplain Christian names.　　‘That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, andmany generations have come and gone since then. Time hassoftened down the colours, but the same stream of light still fallsupon the forgotten tomb, of which no trace remains; and, to thisday, the stranger is shown in York Cathedral, an old windowcalled the Five Sisters.’　　‘That’s a melancholy tale,’ said the merry-faced gentleman,emptying his glass. ‘It is a tale of life, and life is made up of suchsorrows,’ returned the other, courteously, but in a grave and sadtone of voice.　　‘There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, ifwe choose to contemplate them,’ said the gentleman with themerry face. ‘The youngest sister in your tale was always lighthearted.’　　‘And died early,’ said the other, gently.　　‘She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been lesshappy,’ said the first speaker, with much feeling. ‘Do you think thesisters who loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her lifehad been one of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a heavy loss, it would be—with me—thereflection, that those I mourned, by being innocently happy here,and loving all about them, had prepared themselves for a purerand happier world. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth tomeet frowning eyes, depend upon it.’　　‘I believe you are right,’ said the gentleman who had told thestory.　　‘Believe!’ retorted the other, ‘can anybody doubt it? Take anysubject of sorrowful regret, and see with how much pleasure it isassociated. The recollection of past pleasure may become pain—’　　‘It does,’ interposed the other.　　‘Well; it does. To remember happiness which cannot berestored, is pain, but of a softened kind. Our recollections areunfortunately mingled with much that we deplore, and with manyactions which we bitterly repent; still in the most chequered life Ifirmly think there are so many little rays of sunshine to look backupon, that I do not believe any mortal (unless he had put himselfwithout the pale of hope) would deliberately drain a goblet of thewaters of Lethe, if he had it in his power.’　　‘Possibly you are correct in that belief,’ said the grey-hairedgentleman after a short reflection. ‘I am inclined to think you are.’　　‘Why, then,’ replied the other, ‘the good in this state ofexistence preponderates over the bad, let miscalled philosopherstell us what they will. If our affections be tried, our affections areour consolation and comfort; and memory, however sad, is thebest and purest link between this world and a better. But come!　　I’ll tell you a story of another kind.’　　After a very brief silence, the merry-faced gentleman sentround the punch, and glancing slyly at the fastidious lady, who seemed desperately apprehensive that he was going to relatesomething improper, beganTHE BARON OF GROGZWIG‘The Baron Von Koeldwethout, of Grogzwig in Germany, was aslikely a young baron as you would wish to see. I needn’t say thathe lived in a castle, because that’s of course; neither need I saythat he lived in an old castle; for what German baron ever lived ina new one? There were many strange circumstances connectedwith this venerable building, among which, not the least startlingand mysterious were, that when the wind blew, it rumbled in thechimneys, or even howled among the trees in the neighbouringforest; and that when the moon shone, she found her way throughcertain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some partsof the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others ingloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron’s ancestors, beingshort of money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who calledone night to ask his way, and it was supposed that thesemiraculous occurrences took place in consequence. And yet Ihardly know how that could have been, either, because the baron’sancestor, who was an amiable man, felt very sorry afterwards forhaving been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a quantity ofstone and timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapelas an apology, and so took a receipt from Heaven, in full of alldemands.　　‘Talking of the baron’s ancestor puts me in mind of the baron’sgreat claims to respect, on the score of his pedigree. I am afraid tosay, I am sure, how many ancestors the baron had; but I know that he had a great many more than any other man of his time; and Ionly wish that he had lived in these latter days, that he might havehad more. It is a very hard thing upon the great men of pastcenturies, that they should have come into the world so soon,because a man who was born three or four hundred years ago,cannot reasonably be expected to have had as many relationsbefore him, as a man who is born now. The last man, whoever heis—and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog for aught weknow—will have a longer pedigree than the greatest noblemannow alive; and I contend that this is not fair.　　‘Well, but the Baron Von Koeldwethout of Grogzwig! He was afine swarthy fellow, with dark hair and large moustachios, whorode a-hunting in clothes of Lincoln green, with russet boots onhis feet, and a bugle slung over his shoulder like the guard of along stage. When he blew this bugle, four-and-twenty othergentlemen of inferior rank, in Lincoln green a little coarser, andrusset boots with a little thicker soles, turned out directly: andaway galloped the whole train, with spears in their hands likelacquered area railings, to hunt down the boars, or perhapsencounter a bear: in which latter case the baron killed him first,and greased his whiskers with him afterwards.　　‘This was a merry life for the Baron of Grogzwig, and a merrierstill for the baron’s retainers, who drank Rhine wine every nighttill they fell under the table, and then had the bottles on the floor,and called for pipes. Never were such jolly, roystering, rollicking,merry-making blades, as the jovial crew of Grogzwig.　　‘But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under thetable, require a little variety; especially when the same five-andtwenty people sit daily down to the same board, to discuss the same subjects, and tell the same stories. The baron grew weary,and wanted excitement. He took to quarrelling with hisgentlemen, and tried kicking two or three of them every day afterdinner. This was a pleasant change at first; but it becamemonotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out ofsorts, and cast about, in despair, for some new amusement.　　‘One night, after a day’s sport in which he had outdone Nimrodor Gillingwater, and slaughtered “another fine bear,” and broughthim home in triumph, the Baron Von Koeldwethout sat moodily atthe head of his table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with adiscontended aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers of wine, but themore he swallowed, the more he frowned. The gentlemen who hadbeen honoured with the dangerous distinction of sitting on hi