A FA.RY LEGEND
I have sometimes produced a singular and not
unpleasing effect， so far as my own mind was concerned，by imagining a train of incidents in which the spirit andmechanism of the fa.ry legend should be combinedwith the characters and manners of familiar life. In thelittle tale which follows a subdued tinge of the wildand wonderful is thrown over a sketch of New Englandpersonages and scenery， yet， it is hoped， without entirelyobliterating the sober hues of nature. Rather than a storyof events claiming to be real， it may be considered as anallegory such as the writers of the last century would haveexpressed in the shape of an Eastern tale， but to which Ihave endeavored to give a more lifelike warmth than couldbe infused into those fanciful productions.
In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure overwhich long and remote travel had thrown an outlandishaspect was entering a village not in “fa.ry londe，” butwithin our own familiar boundaries. The staff on whichthis traveller leaned had been his companion from thespot where it grew in the jungles of Hindostan； the hatthat overshadowed his sombre brow， had shielded himfrom the suns of Spain； but his cheek had been blackenedby the red-hot wind of an Arabian desert and had feltthe frozen breath of an Arctic region. Long sojourningamid wild and dangerous men， he still wore beneathhis vest the ataghan which he had once struck into thethroat of a Turkish robber. In every foreign clime he hadlost something of his New England characteristics， andperhaps from every people he had unconsciously borroweda new peculiarity； so that when the world-wanderer againtrod the street of his native village it is no wonder thathe passed unrecognized， though exciting the gaze andcuriosity of all. Yet， as his arm casually touched that ofa young woman who was wending her way to an eveninglecture， she started and almost uttered a cry.
“Ralph Cranfield！” was the name that she half articulated.
“Can that be my old playmate Faith Egerton？” thoughtthe traveller， looking round at her figure， but withoutpausing.
Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himselfmarked out for a high destiny. He had imbibed the idea—we say not whether it were revealed to him by witchcraftor in a dream of prophecy， or that his brooding fancy hadpalmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a sybil，but he had imbibed the idea， and held it firmest among hisarticles of faith—that three marvellous events of his lifewere to be confirmed to him by three signs.
The first of these three fatalities， and perhaps the oneon which his youthful imagination had dwelt most fondly，was the discovery of the maid who alone of all the maidson earth could make him happy by her love. He was toroam around the world till he should meet a beautifulwoman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of aheart—whether of pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncleor a changeful opal， or perhaps a priceless diamond， RalphCranfield little cared， so long as it were a heart of onepeculiar shape. On encountering this lovely stranger hewas bound to address her thus： “Maiden， I have broughtyou a heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you？” Andif she were his fated bride—if their kindred souls weredestined to form a union here below which all eternityshould only bind more closely—she would reply， with herfinger on the heart-shaped jewel， “This token which I haveworn so long is the assurance that you may.”
And， secondly， Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief thatthere was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in theearth of which the burial-place would be revealed to nonebut him. When his feet should press upon the mysteriousspot， there would be a hand before him pointingdownward—whether carved of marble or hewn in giganticdimensions on the side of a rocky precipice， or perchancea hand of flame in empty air， he could not tell， but atleast he would discern a hand， the forefinger pointingdownward， and beneath it the Latin word “Effode” —“Dig！” And， digging thereabouts， the gold in coin or ingots，the precious stones， or of whatever else the treasure mightconsist， would be certain to reward his toil.
The third and last of the miraculous events in the lifeof this high-destined man was to be the attainment ofextensive influence and sway over his fellow-creatures.
Whether he were to be a king and founder of a hereditarythrone， or the victorious leader of a people contending fortheir freedom， or the apostle of a purified and regeneratedfaith， was left for futurity to show. As messengers ofthe sign by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize thesummons， three venerable men were to claim audienceof him. The chief among them—a dignified and majesticperson arrayed， it may be supposed， in the flowinggarments of an ancient sage—would be the bearer of awand or prophet’s rod. With this wand or rod or staffthe venerable sage would trace a certain figure in the air，and then proceed to make known his Heaven-instructedmessage， which， if obeyed， must lead to glorious results.
With this proud fate before him， in the flush of hisimaginative youth Ralph Cranfield had set forth to seekthe maid， the treasure， and the venerable sage with hisgift of extended empire. And had he found them？ Alas！
it was not with the aspect of a triumphant man who hadachieved a nobler destiny than all his fellows， but ratherwith the gloom of one struggling against peculiar andcontinual adversity， that he now passed homeward to hismother’s cottage. He had come back， but only for a time，to lay aside the pilgrim’s staff， trusting that his wearymanhood would regain somewhat of the elasticity of youthin the spot where his threefold fate had been foreshownhim. There had been few changes in the village， for it wasnot one of those thriving places where a year’s prosperitymakes more than the havoc of a century’s decay， but， like agray hair in a young man’s head， an antiquated little townfull of old maids and aged elms and moss-grown dwellings.
