The Fairy Godmothers and Other Tales by Mrs. Alfred Gatty

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And so passed on a long and rather severe winter, and presently
Roderick's birthday came round, and there was great wondering as to
what Mamma could do to keep it. And when the time came it turned out
that she had got a band of musicians to come and play--and the
children danced, and Roderick among them, for some sister was always
ready to take him under her especial charge. And then some older
children acted a little play, which he could hear and understand, and
his Mamma described to him who came in and went out, and in this
manner he enjoyed it nearly as much as the others.

Well, the spring-time came once more, and with it the season for
returning to the old Sea Castle, and the children went through their
usual round of impatience, and I cannot say that Roderick at all
forbore, for his Papa had promised to teach him to climb a ladder like
the lamplighter when he got back, and he was by that means to go up
one of the very old elm trees, and get on to a great branch there was,
which was curled into a sort of easy chair, and there he was to sit
and play at being judge, and hold trials, and I know not what. There
were besides so many schemes for his instruction and amusement, and
among other things, there was to be a band established in the
neighbouring village, which should come and play to them in the old
Sea Castle--that the child was more wild with hurry and impatience
than ever, and said more absurd things than the rest, for he used
every day to declare the _flies_ were becoming so numerous and
troublesome he was plagued out of his life by their walking over his
face and nose! But as none of his brothers and sisters ever saw the
flies, we are obliged to conclude the tickling he talked of was only
an effect of his excited imagination.

At last, however, they went, and in compliment to Roderick's wishes it
was a week or two sooner than usual. The return to the Sea Castle home
rather oppressed poor Lady Madeline's spirits. The doctors in the
great town had failed--it was now clear that nothing could be done,
and in spite of all her sincere endeavours to be resigned, she could
not help feeling this coming back to the original scene of her
misfortune very much. One day--it was the anniversary of the day on
which her poor child became blind, the Lady Madeline was working in
her sitting-room that faced the Sea,--Mothers' memories are very acute
about anniversaries, and days, and even hours marked by particular
events. They may not talk much about them perhaps, but they recollect
times and circumstances connected with their children very keenly, and
therefore it is not surprizing that on this day the poor lady was
sitting in her room working, or trying to work, but thinking of
nothing in the world but of that day year and her blind child. It was
a beautiful evening, and the window was thrown wide open, and the
fresh but soft breeze from the Sea blew pleasantly on her face as she
sat at her work-table by the casement--but lovely as the scene outside
was, she seldom lifted up her eyes to look at it. She had been all her
life a great admirer of beautiful scenes, and of all the varieties the
changes of day and night produce--but now the sight of any thing
particularly lovely brought so painfully before her mind the fact that
her child's eyes were closed to all these things, that she often
forbore to look again, and so spared herself a repetition of the pang.
Madeline's eyes therefore remained upon her work, or on her knee when
she ceased working,--for ever and anon there was a burst of noise and
merriment about the old house, which startled her from her painful
thoughts. It was, however, the happy voices of her children, and again
and again she sank into her melancholy mood, and so continued till the
red hue of a very red sunset burst as it were suddenly into the room,
and lighted up the portrait of Roderick, which hung over the
mantel-piece. Involuntarily Madeline's eyes glanced from the lovely
countenance of her then bright-eyed boy, thus illuminated, to the sun
beyond the Sea. She was too late, however. He had just descended
behind the waves in a perfect flood of crimson glory, but as she
gazed, (for she could not withdraw-her eyes,) a haze--yes, the softest
and most etherial cloud-like haze, showing the outline of a beautiful
mountainous island, rose in the far off distance, just on the verge of
the horizon. It was the Fairy Island. It recalled to the mother's
remembrance the existence of her Fairy cousin once more. "Cruel, cruel
Eudora," she exclaimed, "you offered me friendship and assistance, and
in the hour of trouble and affliction you have never been near to help
or even to comfort me."

And Madeline, in the bitterness of her heart, closed the window
hastily and angrily, and sat down. Soon, however, the noises she had
several times heard of the children playing, became louder and louder,
and the whole party burst at last into the room. "Mamma, Mamma," they
cried, scarcely able to speak, "guess where Roderick has been." "I
cannot." "Oh, but do, dear Mamma!" cried a little thing with fairy
curls, "do guess." "I cannot." "I'll tell Mamma," cried a stout sturdy
fellow, a little older; "Mamma! he's been up the winding staircase of
one turret, and all along the leads and down the winding staircase of
the other turret, and he has done it three times, and he has seen to
do it better than I can."

Here there was a burst of laughter and a violent clapping of hands at
the little fellow's _Irish_ account.

"But why don't you do it as well?" asked an elder girl, "you that are
going to be a soldier too!"

"Yes; I know I'm going to be a soldier; and I'll try and do it as well
as Roderick;" and off ran the eager child, followed by the rest of the
party, all but Roderick. He lingered behind, and edging his way easily
and quietly as usual to his Mother, having asked her where she was, he
sat down on a footstool at her feet. The slight answer she had
occasion to make, revealed by its tone, to the now acute blind child,
that his Mother's mood was serious, and therefore he did not talk and
laugh of what he had accomplished, as he otherwise might have done.
There was a silence of some minutes: at last, "Mamma," said Roderick
gravely, "a light has broken in upon me to-day."

Lady Madeline started, and with difficulty suppressed a groan.
Roderick felt the start: "Oh Mamma, Mamma," cried he more cheerfully,
"you must not do that! I wasn't thinking about earthly light in the
least, but of a light which I know, when you come to hear of it, you
will say is a great deal better."

"Indeed! dear Roderick," said Lady Madeline, trying to seem
interested.

"Yes _indeed_. Mamma. Why, do _you_ remember, (_I_ had never thought
about it till it came into my head to-day;) but do _you_ remember the
silly time when I wouldn't fetch you any thing from the drawing room,
unless there were candles in the room?"

"I recollect something about it," said his Mother.

"Oh, I'm so glad you do; because now you can laugh with me over the
nonsense I used to talk and feel then: I remember I used to tell you I
saw _Bears_ when I shut my eyes, and wouldn't go by the pipes in the
passage, and more such foolish stuff! How odd it seems that I should
never have thought about this before, but I never did, and it never
came into my head distinctly till to-day." And here Roderick fell into
a kind of dream for a few minutes, but he soon began again. "You know
what I have done to-day, Mamma. They told you quite right; but they
forgot to tell you I have been practising walking across the leads for
two or three days, that I might be able to go the great round to-day
on purpose to tell you of it; because I thought you would be so much
pleased to know I could go alone all over the house on the day year
when I was first blind. So now, Mamma, if ever, when I am grown up to
be a man, an enemy comes and attacks the old Sea Castle, I shall be
able to run about and give the alarm, for you know I could hear them,
if I could do nothing else."

There was another pause, for Madeline could not speak: the often
restrained tears for her son's misfortune had this day burst forth,
and could not be kept back; but Roderick did not know, and went on.

"Certainly those old foolish fears were very wrong, Mamma. And I can't
think how it was, for you used to remind me always that God could take
care of us by night as well as by day, in darkness as well as in
light; and still somehow, though I knew it was true, I didn't believe
it,--at least, not so as not to be afraid in the dark: how very wrong
it was! Still I had quite forgotten all about it till this evening.
But, as I was going the last of the three rounds, I sat down on the
leads for a few minutes to enjoy the air. The sun was just setting, I
am sure, for it felt so fresh and cool; and it was, as I sat there,
that it came into my head how strange it was that, since the day I was
first blind, I had never thought any more about being afraid in the
dark! or by night any more than by day! Indeed it has been quite a
play to me ever since to do different things, and find my way about in
all the rooms and all over the house, without seeing; and I have only
known night from day by getting up and going to bed. So that you see,
Mamma, being always in the dark, has quite cured me of being afraid of
it: and is not this a very good thing indeed?"

"Very," murmured Madeline.

"I knew you would say so! But that isn't all I have got to say. A
great deal more than that came into my head when I was out upon the
leads."

And Roderick nestled closer to his Mother, and laid his arms across
her lap.

"Something to comfort you still more, Mamma."

She could not speak.

"Mamma, you are crying! I feel your tears on my hand. Do not cry about
me."

"Go on, dear Roderick."

"Don't you think," continued the child, "that people who wont listen
to what is told them, and wont be cured of being foolish and wicked,
are very like the old Jews you told us about yesterday, who had God
among them, and Moses teaching them what God wished them to do, and
still were as disobedient as ever?"

"It is true, Roderick, we are all apt to resemble the Jews in their
journey through the wilderness."

"Yes, Mamma; and particularly people who can't trust in God, though
they know He is everywhere. The Jews knew He was in the cloud and the
pillar, and still were always afraid He couldn't take care of them.
And what came into my head was, that I used to be as bad as those old
Jews once; knowing that God was present everywhere to take care of me,
and still not _feeling_ it so as really to believe it, and not be
afraid. But the blindness has quite cured me, and is it not very
likely that it came on purpose to do so, and to make me trust in God;
for I have done so more and more, dear Mamma, as I groped about this
year, for I have all along hoped He would take care of me, and keep me
from falling; and, therefore, I think the blindness has done me a
great deal of good, and I hope I shall never be like the naughty old
Jews again! This is what I had to say; and I hope you will be as glad
as I am."

"I will try, my darling," cried poor Madeline.

The tenderest love, the bitterest grief, mixed with earnest struggles
for resignation to the will of Heaven, contended in the Mother's
bosom, as she clasped her innocent child to her heart. He was almost
frightened. She lifted him on to her knees, and buried her face on his
shoulder. He put his young arms round her neck, and almost wondered
why she sobbed so bitterly; but he felt he must not speak.

There was a painful pause. Suddenly, however, a strange faint light
began to creep into the room, which had hitherto been gradually
darkening in the twilight. It was a mysterious gleam, like nothing
that is ever seen. It increased in strength and brilliancy, till at
length the whole place became illuminated.

Roderick's head was against his Mother's breast; and, besides, _he_
could not see.

She, however, suddenly started up; the light had become so powerful,
it had forced her from her grief. She sprung up in terror, and a faint
shriek burst from her lips.

"Mamma, what is the matter?" cried Roderick, holding her fast.

"Oh, the light--the light, my child! there is such a light!" answered
Madeline.

"Mother, you are not afraid of _Light_!" exclaimed the bewildered
Roderick.

"Oh, but _this_ light! it is like no other;--it is awful!"

"Mother,--it is not the light of _Fire_, is it," cried poor Roderick,
now at last turning pale. "But even if it is, remember that I can help
you _now_; I can go everywhere,--all over, and fear nothing. I can go
and fetch my brothers and sisters, one by one! Oh, send me; send me,
Mamma! I shall be less afraid than any of you, for I cannot see the
horrid light that frightens you!"

As he finished, a gentle, prolonged "Hush!" resounded through the
room; like the soothing, quieting sound of lullaby to an infant. And
in the midst of the beaming light, the form of the long-forgotten
Fairy Eudora appeared before the eyes of the astonished Madeline.

"The Sea Castle is not on Fire, you dear, brave child," cried the
Fairy; "and your Mother has no cause for fear. I am a friend."

"Cousin!" cried the bewildered Madeline, "why are you here?" and a
terrible suspicion flashed through her mind: and she pointed to her
boy, and added, trembling with agony--

"Is that _your_ doing?"

"What if I say it _is_, Cousin Madeline. There is a long story about
that, but we shall have time for it hereafter.--Dear little Cousin
Roderick," pursued the Fairy, seating herself, and drawing Roderick to
her. "You have been a good boy, and got _light out of darkness_. Mind
you hold it fast. You did not use the light well, though, when you had
it, Cousin Roderick."

"I know I didn't," was his answer.

"If you could live the light time over again, you would be wiser,
Roderick."

"I hope I should indeed," he murmured fervently; "but it is not likely
I shall ever see the light again."

"Little boys shouldn't say things are not likely, when they don't know
any thing about them," cried the Fairy gaily, to cheer them up.

"I dare say, if I were to ask you, you would tell me it was a bit of
sand that got into your eyes last year, that made you blind; but it
was no such thing, clever Master Roderick. Your naughty Cousin Eudora
had something to do with that; but, luckily, she can put her own work
straight again. Cousin Madeline, what do you think of my pretty
light?"

"Eudora, it is dreadful."

"Then shut your eyes, poor thing, we don't want to blind you. But
Roderick and I have not done talking yet. Come, little boy, lift up
your face towards me, and open those pretty eyes wide, that I may see
if I can't do them some good. Why, they are as blue as the water round
our island! There, now, they are looking at my face. Mind you tell me
if you think me pretty."

"Eudora!" exclaimed Madeline.

"Sit down, sit down, and shut your eyes, good woman. Now, Roderick,
wont even my Fairy light break through your darkness?"

"I think it will," sighed Roderick; "there is a white light all round
me, as if I had gone up into a bright white cloud. You frighten me,
Fairy! Take away the light, and put me back into the darkness again."

"Not so, my pretty Roderick; but I will soften it a little;" and she
waved her wand, and the brilliancy subsided.

"Fairy, I see you now," screamed Roderick, springing up, for he was
sitting at her feet; "and oh, how beautiful you are!"

"Roderick!" cried a voice from behind him. He turned; and Mother and
Son were locked in each other's arms.

Surely I need say no more about this? though perhaps nobody but a
Mother can quite know how happy and thankful Lady Madeline was. And as
to Roderick, he was delighted too! Not but what he had been very happy
and contented before; but sight was a new pleasure to him now; a sort
of treat, like a birthday or Christmas present, which puts every one
into high spirits. It was so charming to him, poor fellow, (for he was
very affectionate), to actually _see_ his Mamma again; and this put
something else into his head, and off he ran out of the room.

"Eudora," Madeline began, "how am I to thank you! Can you ever forgive
my old unkindness?"

"Cousin Madeline," replied the Fairy, "I bear no malice to any one,
least of all to you, who come of a race I love, and of a family I
consider my own. No, no, good soul. I have never borne you ill-will,
though my kindness has been severe. Look! I know you love me _now_.
Love me always, Cousin Madeline, and let me ramble undisturbed about
your earthly home; but, mind! no more unkind wishes, however slight.
They come like evil winds to our Fairy island. You kept me away long
enough by those; and when you wished me with you, to get your child
out of his folly, I was very angry, and thought I wouldn't come; but
your, and your husband's wish was so strong and earnest, it haunted me
day and night; and I had no comfort till I had resolved to help you.
And here, Madeline, you have something to forgive _me_. My remedy has
been a harsh, a very harsh one for so slight a fault; but at first I
intended it to last only a few days. Afterwards, however, seeing how
it was acting upon him, and upon you all, for good, I let it work its
full effect: and I think it has been greatly blessed! Now, farewell!
Time is flying, and I must begone."

And thus the Fairy and Madeline walked to the window, which the latter
reopened, and there was the full moon sailing in the cloudless sky,
and lighting up the lovely, and, this evening, calm and unruffled sea.

The cousins embraced; and in a few minutes the Fairy had disappeared
in the distance. Madeline lingered awhile at the casement, thinking
tenderly of the gentle-hearted Fairy, and watching the horizon. At
last the outline of the Fairy's home appeared clear and bright against
the dark blue heaven, and then subsided gently by degrees. And
Madeline closed the window, grateful and happy, and went after her
boy. But she had not far to go; for he was coming along the passages
with all his brothers and sisters, wild with delight. And oh, how
Roderick chattered and talked about all their faces, and how he loved
to see the fat cheeks of one near his own age, and how some had grown,
and their noses improved, and what beautiful curls another had! In
short, if he had gone on long they would all have got quite conceited
and fancy, and fancied themselves a set of downright beauties. But you
see it was _love_ that made poor Roderick admire them all so much;
and, above all, he was charmed when they smiled. Ah, how little do
brothers and sisters know how tender their recollections of each
others' faces would become, were a separation to take place among
them! Then all the sweet smiles and pretty looks would be recalled,
that in every day life are seen with such indifference. "Little
children, love one another," during the happy days when you live
together in health and comfort.

Can you guess, dear readers, what a joyous evening it was, that day at
the Sea Castle Home? How the poor Father rejoiced, and how the old
Hall was lighted up for the Servants, to share in the joy by a merry
dance; and how all the children danced too; and how a barrel of good
ale was tapped, for every one to drink to the health and happiness of
Master Roderick, and all the family. But you never _can_ guess how
Roderick teased all his brothers and sisters that evening, by
constantly kissing them. In the midst of a country dance he would run
right across to the ladies, when he ought to be standing still and
polite, and kiss two or three of his sisters as they were waiting to
dance in their turn, and tell them how nice they looked! Or he would
actually run right away from his place, to his Papa and Mamma;--jump
on their knees, and hug them very hard, and then run back again,
perhaps, into the middle of the dance, and put every thing into
confusion. But the happiest scene of all was, when the Father and
Mother thanked God that night for the blessing that had returned to
their little boy.

And do not ask me, I beg, if he ever was afraid of being in the dark
again. No, dear Readers, his temporary misfortune had taught him the
best of all lessons;--A LIVING FAITH AND TRUST IN THE PROTECTING
OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.

THE LOVE OF GOD.

PREAMBLE (FROM LIFE.)

_Van Artevelde_. These are but words.
_Elena_. My lord, they're full of meaning!
_Van Artevelde_.

Grace had been said, and Mamma was busy carving for the large party of
youngsters who sat around the comfortable dinner-table, when a little
voice from among them called out,

"Mamma, do you think a giant could see a carraway seed?"

Now there was no sweet loaf on the table, nor even on the
sideboard--neither had there been any plum cake in the house for some
time--nor were there any carraway seeds in the biscuits just then.
--In short, there was nothing which could be supposed to have
suggested the idea of carraway seeds to the little boy who made the
enquiry. Still he did make it, and though he went on quietly with his
dinner, he expected to receive an answer.

Had the good Lady at the head of the table not been the mother of a
large family, she might possibly have dropt the carving knife and
fork, in sheer astonishment at the unaccountableness of the question,
but as it was, she had heard so many other odd ones before, that she
did not by outward sign demonstrate the amusement she felt at this,
but simply said,--"_Perhaps he could_"--for she knew that it was out
of her power to speak positively as to whether a Giant could see a
carraway seed or not.

Now dear little readers, what do _you_ think about this very important
affair? Do you think a Giant could see a carraway seed or not?--"Oh
yes," you all cry,--"_of course he could!_"

Nay, my dears, there is no "of course" at all in the matter! Can any
of you, for example, see the creatures that float about and fight in a
drop of water from the Serpentine River? No, certainly not! except
through a microscope. Well, but _why_ not?--you do not know. That I
can easily believe! But then you must never again say that "_of
course_" a Giant could see a carraway seed.

It is entirely a question of _relative proportion_: so now you feel
quite small, and admit your total ignorance, I hope. Yes! it all
depends upon whether the giant is as much bigger than the carraway
seed, as you are bigger than the curious little insects that float
about and fight in the drop of water from the Serpentine river--for if
he is, we may conclude from analogy that a giant could _not_ see a
carraway seed except through a microscope. You see it is a sort of
rule of three sum, but as I cannot work it out, I tell you honestly
that neither do I know whether a giant could see so small an object or
not, and I advise you all to be as modest as I am myself, and never
speak positively on so difficult a point.

But enough of this! Turn we now to another point, about which I _can_
speak positively--namely, that in _one_ sense the world is full of
Giants who cannot see Carraway seeds.

"It must be in the sense of _Non_sense I should think then!" observes
somewhat scornfully the young lady who is reading this story
aloud--"as if we could believe in there being giants now!"

Very wittily remarked! my dear young lady, for your age.--I take you
to be about seventeen, and I see by the compression of your pretty
mouth that you consider yourself quite a judge and an authority. Only
take care you don't grow up into one of those Giants yourself! There
is something very suspicious to me in the glance of your eye.
"Ridiculous!" murmurs the fair damsel in question.

Not at all so: only you travel too fast; by which I mean you speak too
hastily. You learn Italian, I dare say? Oh yes, of course, for you
sing. Well then, _Ombra adorata_ that is "beloved shadow;" _aspetta_
that is, "wait"--"wait, my beloved shadow" (of a charming young lady),
give me breathing time, and I will explain myself. As you are an
Italian student, I presume you have heard of the great Italian poet
Dante. Now Dante in his _Convito_ or "Banquet" tells his readers that
writings may be understood, and therefore ought to be explained in
four different senses or meanings. There is first the literal sense;
secondly, the allegorical; thirdly, the moral; and fourthly, the
_anagorical_. Now I know you can't explain this last word to me, for I
would wager a large sum that you never tasted of Dante's Banquet--no,
not so much as the smallest crumb from it; and therefore how _should_
you know what he means by the anagorical sense? Give me leave to have
the honour of enlightening you, then. The anagorical is what the
dictionaries call the _anagogical_ sense. A sense beyond this world; a
sense above the senses; a spiritual sense making common things divine.
It is hard to be arrived at and difficult of comprehension. Now in the
matter of the nice little boy's question about the Giant and the
carraway seed, (for none but a nice little boy could have excogitated
any thing so comical), I have set my heart upon talking to you about
it in the four above mentioned senses. And having already descanted on
the _literal_ sense, I had just made an assertion which appertained to
the _allegorical_ sense, when you so inopportunely interrupted me, My
Ombra Adorata, with your sharp observation about _non_sense: so now we
will go on in peace and quietness, if you please.

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