PENNSTATE
Hazleton
Campus
1 8 5 5
Hazleton Campus Library








THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.









:
AB
8 მმმ
“While, high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline.”
22
p. 286.


TIE
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS:
OR,
MIRTH AND MARVELS.
BY
RICHARD LARRIS BARHAM.
[THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQUIRE.)
2 11ustratea.
PIIILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES
THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY
COMMONWEALTH CAMPUS LIBRARIES
HAZLETON



high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen,
I proudly, the form of the angry Lurline."
p. 286.


THE
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS;
OR,
MIRTH AND MARVELS.
BY
RICHARD HARRIS BARH A M.
[THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQUIRE.]
Yllustrated.

PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.
THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY
COMMONWEALTH CAMPUS LIBRARIES
HAZLETON





MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM, a celebrated humorist, better
known by his nom de plume of "Thomas Ingoldsby,” was born
at Canterbury, December 6, 1788. At seven years of age he
lost his father, who left him a small estate, part of which was
the manor of Tappington, so frequently mentioned in the
Legends. At nine he was sent to St. Paul's school, but his
studies were interrupted by an accident which shattered his
arm and partially crippled it for life. Thus deprived of the
power of bodily activity, he became a great reader and diligent
student. In 1807 he entered Brasenose College, Oxford, in-
tending at first to study for the profession of the law. Cir-
cumstances, however, induced him to change his mind and to
enter the church. The choice seems surprising, for he had
from childhood displayed that propensity to fun in the form
of parody and punning which afterwards made him a reputa-
tion. In 1813 he was ordained and took a country curacy;
he married in the following year, and in 1821 removed to
London on obtaining the appointment of minor canon of St.
Paul's Cathedral. Three years later he became one of the
priests in ordinary of his Majesty's chapel royal. In 1826 he
first contributed to Blackwood's Magazine; and on the estab-
lishment of Bentley's Miscellany in 1837 he began to furnish
the series of grotesque metrical tales known as The Ingoldsby
Legends. These became very popular, were published in a
collected form, and have since passed through numerous
editions. In variety and whimsicality of rhymes these verses
(v)


vi
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.
have hardly a rival since the days of Hudibras. But beneath
this obvious popular quality there lies a store of solid anti-
quarian learning, the fruit of patient enthusiastic research by
the light of the midnight lamp, in out-of-the-way old books,
which few readers who laugh over his pages detect. If it
were of any avail we might regret that a more active faculty
of veneration did not keep him from writing some objection-
able passages of the Legends. His life was grave, dignified,
and highly honored. His sound judgment and his kind heart
made him the trusted counsellor, the valued friend, and the
frequent peacemaker; and he was intolerant of all that was
mean, and base, and false. In politics he was a Tory of the
old school; yet he was the life-long friend of the liberal
Sydney Smith, whom in many respects he singularly resem-
bled. Theodore Hook was one of his most intimate friends.
Mr. Barham was a contributor to the Edinburgh Review and
the Literary Gazette; published a novel in three volumes,
entitled My Cousin Nicholas; and, strange to tell, wrote nearly
a third of the articles in Gorton's Biographical Dictionary.
His life was not without such changes and sorrows as make
men grave. He had nine children, and six of them died in
his lifetime. But he retained vigor and freshness of heart
and mind to the last, and his latest verses show no signs of
decay. He died in London after a long and painful illness,
June 17, 1845.- Encyclopædia Britannica.
a
er
7
I


TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR:
You wish me to collect into a single volume certain ram-
bling extracts from our family memoranda, many of which
have already appeared in the pages of your Miscellany. At
the same time you tell me that doubts are entertained in
certain quarters as to the authenticity of their details.
Now with respect to their genuineness, the old oak chest, in
which the originals are deposited, is not more familiar to my
eyes than it is to your own; and if its contents have any
value at all, it consists in the strict veracity of the facts they
record.
To convince the most incredulous I can only add that
should business-pleasure is out of the question-ever call
them into the neighborhood of Folkestone, let them take
the high-road from Canterbury to Dover till they reach the
eastern extremity of Barham Downs. Here a beautiful green
lane diverging abruptly to the right will carry them through
the Oxenden plantations and the unpretending village of
Denton to the foot of a very respectable hill, -as hills go in
this part of Europe. On reaching its summit let them look
straight before them,-and if, among the hanging woods which
crown the opposite side of the valley, they cannot distinguish
an antiquated Manor-house of Elizabethan architecture, with
its gable ends, stone stanchions, and tortuous chimneys rising
above the surrounding trees, why—the sooner they procure a
pair of Dollond's patent spectacles the better.
(vii)


viii
PREFACE.
PI
If, on the contrary, they can manage to descry it, and, pro-
ceeding some five or six furlongs through the avenue, will ring
at the Lodge gate,-they cannot mistake the stone lion with
the Ingoldsby escutcheon (Ermine, a saltire engrailed Gules)
in his paws,-they will be received with a hearty old English
welcome.
The papers in question having been written by different
parties, and at various periods, I have thought it advisable
to reduce the more ancient of them into a comparatively
modern phraseology, and to make my collateral ancestor,
Father John, especially, “deliver himself like a man of this
world;" Mr. Maguire, indeed, is the only Gentleman who,
in his account of the late Coronation, retains his own rich
vernacular.
As to arrangement, I shall adopt the sentiment expressed
by the Constable of Bourbon four centuries ago, teste Shak-
speare, one which seems to become more fashionable every
day,
"The Devil take all order ! !—I'll to the throng !"
VE
at
sha
WO
TO
SU
4
of
Believe me to be,
My dear Sir,
Yours, most indubitably and immeasurably,
IN
the
ex
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
er
th
it
TAPPINGTON EVERARD, Jan. 20, 1840.
en
TO
de
00


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR:
I should have replied sooner to your letter, but that the last
three days in January are, as you are aware, always dedicated,
at the Hall, to an especial battue, and the old house is full of
shooting-jackets, shot-belts, and “double Joes." Even the
women wear percussion caps, and your favorite (?) Rover, who,
you may remember, examined the calves of your legs with
such suspicious curiosity at Christmas, is as pheasant-mad as
if he were a biped, instead of being a genuine four-legged scion
of the Blenheim breed. I have managed, however, to avail
myself of a lucid interval in the general hallucination (how
the rain did come down on Monday !), and as you tell me the
excellent friend whom you are in the habit of styling “a Gen-
erous and Enlightened Public" has emptied your shelves of
the first edition, and “asks for more,” why, I agree with you,
it would be a want of respect to that very respectable person-
ification, when furnishing him with a further supply, not to
endeavor, at least, to amend my faults, which are few, and
your own, which are more numerous. I have, therefore, gone
to work con amore, supplying occasionally on my own part a
deficient note or elucidatory stanza, and on yours knocking
out, without remorse, your superfluous i's, and now and then
eviscerating your colon.
My duty to your illustrious friend thus performed, I have
(ix )


X
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
a crow to pluck with him. Why will he persist-as you tell
me he does persist-in calling me by all sorts of names but
those to which I am entitled by birth and baptism-my
“Sponsorial and Patronymic appellations," as Dr. Pangloss
has it? Mrs. Malaprop complains, and with justice, of an
"assault upon her parts of speech ;" but to attack one's very
existence—to deny that one is a person in esse, and scarcely to
admit that one may be a person in posse—is tenfold cruelty ;-
“it is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging!” Let me
entreat all such likewise to remember that, as Shakspeare
beautifully expresses himself elsewhere I give his words as
quoted by a very worthy baronet in a neighboring county,
when protesting against a defamatory placard at a general
election
“Who steals my purse steals stuff!-
'Twas mine-'tisn't his—nor nobody else's!
But he who runs away with my Good NAME,
Robs me of what does not do him any good,
And makes me deuced poor!!”*
In order utterly to squabash and demolish every gainsayer,
I had thought, at one time, of asking my old and esteemed
friend, Richard Lane, to crush them at once with his magic
pencil, and to transmit my features to posterity, where all his
works are sure to be “delivered according to the direction;"
but somehow the noble-looking profiles which he has recently
executed of the Kemble family put me a little out of conceit
of my own; while the undisguised amusement which my
· Mephistopheles eyebrow,” as he termed it, afforded him in
the “full face," induced me to lay aside the design. Besides,
my
dear sir, since, as has been well observed," there never was
a married man yet who had not somebody remarkably like
him walking about town,” it is a thousand to one but
my
lin-
eaments might after all, out of sheer perverseness, be ascribed
* A reading which seems most unaccountably to have escaped the researches of all
modern Shakspeareans, including the rival editors of the new and illustrated versions.


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
xi
to any body rather than to the real owner. I have therefore
sent you, instead thereof, a fair sketch of Tappington, taken
from the Folkestone road (I tore it last night out of Julia
Simpkinson's album): get Gilks to make a woodcut of it.

Tag
',
t
And now, if any miscreant (I use the word only in its primary
and “Pickwickian" sense of “Unbeliever") ventures to throw
any
further doubt
upon the matter, why, as Jack Cade's friend
says in the play, “There are the chimneys in my father's house,
and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it!”
"Why, very well then—we hope here be truths!"
Heaven be with you, my dear sir!—I was getting a little
excited; but you, who are mild as the milk that dews the soft
whisker of the new-weaned kitten, will forgive me when, wiping
away the nascent moisture from my brow, I “pull in,” and
subscribe myself,
Yours quite as much as his own,
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
TAPPINGTON EVERARD, Feb. 2, 1848.





CONTENTS.
First Series.
PAGE
17
44
AT
THE
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON
THE NURSE'S STORY—THE HAND OF GLORY .
PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY_"LOOK
CLOCK"
GRAY DOLPHIN
THE GHOST
51
59
79
THE CYNOTAPH
88
94
121
125
140
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY—THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE
LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE
THE WITCHES' FROLIC
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF THE LATE HENRY
HARRIS, D.D.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN
A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS
THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS
164
.
168
.
.
179
.
189
196
THE LADY ROHESIA
205
213
217
220
224
THE TRAGEDY
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION
THE “MONSTRE” BALLOON
HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY—THE EXECUTION
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY
MR. PETERS'S STORY—THE BAGMAN'S Dog
APPENDIX
( xiii )
228
.
237
254


xiv
CONTENTS.
Second Series.
PAGE
257
278
THE LORD
THE T7291
THE BLASI
.
288
301
THE BROT
320
The KNIG
334
The Hoces
339
1
TaE FORL
341
JERRY JA
350
352
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE
NETLEY ABBEY
FRAGMENT
NELL COOK
NURSERY REMINISCENCES
AUNT FANNY.
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE
THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SAREWSBERRIE
THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
THE DEAD DRUMMER
A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (Box)
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT
THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS
THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY
RAISING THE DEVIL
ST. MEDARD
360
365
372
C'SSOPHIS
HERMANS
HINTS FOL
MARIE M
The Ter.
THE POP
ME LETE
NEW-MAD
The Cox
Bong
385
391
403
408
421
432
448
EPIGRA.
EPIGEA
450
Song
As I LE


CONTENTS.
XV
Third Series.
PAGE
461
475
490
511
524
.
534
THE LORD OF THOULOUSE .
THE WEDDING-DAY; OR, THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY
THE HOUSE-WARMING
THE FORLORN ONE
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG
UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES .
HERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR
HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY
MARIE MIGNOT
548
549
566
569
572
574
THE TRUANTS
576
580
THE POPLAR.
MY LETTERS
581
585
NEW-MADE HONOR
THE CONFESSION
585
SONG
586
587
587
EPIGRAM
EPIGRAM
SONG
As I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE .
588
588





THE
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.
The Spectre of Tappington.
“IT is very odd, though; what can have become of them?”.
said Charles Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance
of an old-fashioned bedstead, in an old-fashioned apartment of
a still more old-fashioned manor house ; " 'tis confoundedly odd,
and I can't make it out at all. Why, Barney, where are they?
—and where the d-l are you ?”
No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant,
who was, in the main, a reasonable person-at least as reason-
able a person as any young gentleman of twenty-two in “the
service” can fairly be expected to be-cooled when he reflected
that his servant could scarcely reply extempore to a summons
which it was impossible he should hear.
An application to the bell was the considerate result; and the
footsteps of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded
along the gallery.
“Come in !” said his master. An ineffectual attempt upon
the door reminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in.
“By heaven! this is the oddest thing of all,” said he, as he
turned the key and admitted Mr. Maguire into his dormitory.
"Barney, where are my pantaloons ?”
“Is it the breeches ?" asked the valet, casting an inquiring
eye round the apartment:-“is it the breeches, sir?”
“Yes; what have you done with them ?”
“Sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed,
and it's hereabout they'll be, I'll be bail ;” and Barney lifted a
fashionable tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in
( 17 )
2


18
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
his examination. But the search was vain : there was the tunic
aforesaid; there was a smart-looking kersey mere waistcoat; but
the most important article of all in a gentleman's wardrobe was
still wanting.
“Where can they be ?” asked the master, with a strong ac-
cent on the auxiliary verb.
“Sorrow a know I knows,” said the man.
“It must have been the devil, then, after all, who has been
here and carried them off!” cried Seaforth, staring full into
Barney's face.
Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his country-
men, still he looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the
sequitur.
His master read incredulity in his countenance. “Why, I
tell you, Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I
got into bed; and, by heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of
the old fellow they told me of come in at midnight, put on my
pantaloons, and walk away with them.”
“May be so," was the cautious reply.
“I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then—where the
d-1 are the breeches ?”
The question was more easily asked than answered. Barney
renewed his search, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and,
leaning against the toilet, sank into a reverie.
“After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving
cousins," said Seaforth.
“Ah! then, the ladies !” chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the
observation was not addressed to him; “and will it be Miss
Caroline or Miss Fanny that's stole your honor's things ?”
“I hardly know what to think of it,” pursued the bereaved
lieutenant, still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubi-
ously on the chamber-door. “I locked myself in, that's certain;
and—but there must be some other entrance to the room-pooh!
I remember--the private staircase; how could I be such a fool?”
and he crossed the chamber to where a low oaken doorcase was
dimly visible in a distant corner. He paused before it. Nothing
now interfered to screen it from observation; but it bore tokens
of having been at some earlier period concealed by tapestry,
remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side the portal.


TIE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
19
“This way they must have come,” said Seaforth; "I wish
with all my heart I had caught them !”
“Och! the kittens !" sighed Mr. Barney Maguire.
But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before.
True, there was the “other door;" but then that, too, on ex-
amination, was even more firmly secured than the one which
opened on the gallery,—two heavy bolts on the inside effectu-
ally prevented any coup de main on the lieutenant's bivouac
from that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever; nor did
the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any light
upon the subject: one thing only was clear,—the breeches were
gone! “ It is very singular," said the lieutenant.
Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an anti-
quated but commodious manor house in the eastern division of
the county of Kent. A former proprietor had been high-sheriff
in the days of Elizabeth, and many a dark and dismal tradition
was yet extant of the licentiousness of his life and the enormity
of his offences. The Glen, which the keeper's daughter was
seen to enter, but never known to quit, still frowns darkly as of
yore; while an ineradicable bloodstain on the oaken stair yet
bids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is
with one particular apartment that a deed of more especial
atrocity is said to be connected. A stranger guest—so runs the
legend-arrived unexpectedly at the mansion of the “Bad Sir
Giles.” They met in apparent friendship; but the ill-concealed
scowl on their master's brow told the domestics that the visit
was not a welcome one; the banquet, however, was not spared;
the wine cup circulated freely,—too freely, perhaps, for sounds
of discord at length reached the ears of even the excluded
serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their bet-
ters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to
approach the parlor; one, an old and favored retainer of the
house, went so far as to break in upon his master's privacy.
Sir Giles, already high in oath, fiercely enjoined his absence,
and he retired; not, however, before he had distinctly heard
from the stranger's lips a menace that "there was that within


20
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
or any
his pocket which could disprove the knight's right to issue that
other command within the walls of Tapton.”
The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced
a beneficial effect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the con-
versation was carried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone,
till, as evening closed in, the domestics, when summoned to
attend with lights, found not only cordiality restored, but that
a still deeper carouse was meditated. Fresh stoups, and from
the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it till at a late, or
rather early, hour that the revellers sought their chambers.
The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the
eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite
apartment of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this prefer-
ence to the facility which a private staircase, communicating
with the grounds, had afforded him, in the old knight's time, of
following his wicked courses unchecked by parental observation;
a consideration which ceased to be of weight when the death of
his father left him uncontrolled master of his estate and actions.
From that period Sir Giles had established himself in what
were called the “state apartments,” and the “oaken chamber"
was rarely tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity,
or when the yule log drew an unusually large accession of guests
around the Christmas hearth.
On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown
visitor, who sought his couch heated and inflamed from his
midnight orgies, and in the morning was found in his bed a
swollen and blackened corpse. No marks of violence appeared
upon the body; but the livid hue of the lips, and certain dark-
colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicions which those
who entertained them were too timid to express. Apoplexy,
induced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir Giles's con-
fidential leech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden disso-
lution. The body was buried in peace; and though some shook
their heads as they witnessed the haste with which the funeral
rites were hurried on, none ventured to murmur. Other events
arose to distract the attention of the retainers; men's minds
became occupied by the stirring politics of the day; while the
near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly arrogating
to itself a title which the very elements joined with human


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
21
valor to disprove, soon interfered to weaken, if not obliterate,
all remembrance of the nameless stranger who had died within
the walls of Tapton Everard.
Years rolled on: the “ Bad Sir Giles” had himself long since
gone to his account, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate
line; though a few of the older tenants were sometimes heard
to speak of an elder brother, who had disappeared in early life,
and never inherited the estate. Rumors, too, of his having left
a son in foreign lands were at one time rife; but they died
away, nothing occurring to support them: the property passed
unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family, and the
secret, if secret there were, was buried in Denton churchyard,
in the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One circum-
stance alone occurred, after a long intervening period, to
revive the memory of these transactions. Some workmen
employed in grubbing an old plantation, for the purpose of
raising on its.site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in the execution
of their task, the mildewed remnants of what seemed to have
been once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough re-
mained of silken slashes and a coarse embroidery to identify
the relics as having once formed part of a pair of trunk hose;
while a few papers which fell from them, altogether illegible
from damp and age, were by the unlearned rustics conveyed to
the then owner of the estate.
Whether the squire was more successful in deciphering them
was never known; he certainly never alluded to their contents;
and little would have been thought of the matter but for the
inconvenient memory of an old woman, who declared she heard
her grandfather say that when the “stranger guest” was poi-
soned, though all the rest of his clothes were there, his breeches,
the supposed repository of the supposed documents, could never
be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled when hy
heard Dame Jones's hint of deeds which might impeach the
validity of his own title in favor of some unknown descendant
of some unknown heir; and the story was rarely alluded to,
save by one or two miracle-mongers, who had heard that others
had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his nightcap, issue from
the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his shadowy
hands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly for something


22
TIIE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
hidden among the evergreens. The stranger's death-room had,
of course, been occasionally haunted from the time of his
decease; but the periods of visitation had latterly become very
rare—even Mrs. Botherby, the housekeeper, being forced to
admit that during her long sojourn at the månor she had never
“met with anything worse than herself;" though, as the old
lady afterwards added upon more mature reflection, “I must
say
I think I saw the devil once."
Such was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and such
the story which the lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed to her
equally mercurial cousin, Charles Seaforth, lieutenant in the
Hon. East India Company's second regiment of Bombay Fen-
cibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a gallery decked with
some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and, among others,
with that of the redoubted Sir Giles himself. The gallant com-
mander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house
of his maternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed
with his regiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he
was now returned on a three years' furlough. He had gone out
a boy-he returned a man; but the impression made upon his
youthful fancy by his favorite cousin remained unimpaired, and
to Tapton he directed his steps, even before he sought the home
of his widowed mother,-comforting himself in this breach of
filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so little
out of his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door
of his relatives, without just looking in for a few hours.
But he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin more
charming than ever; and the looks of one, and the requests of
the other, soon precluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen
the “few hours” into a few days, though the house was at the
moment full of visitors.
The Peterses were there from Ramsgate; and Mr., Mrs., and
the two Miss Simpkinsons, from Bath, had come to pass a month
with the family; and Tom Ingoldsby had brought down his
college friend the Honorable Augustus Sucklethumbkin, with
his groom and pointers, to take a fortnight's shooting. And
then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the rich young widow, with her
large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting her cap at the
young squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe it; and,


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
23
was
above all, there was Mademoiselle Pauline, her femme de cham-
bre, who “mon-Dieu'd” everything and everybody, and cried
"Quel horreur !" at Mrs. Botherby's cap. In short, to use the
last-named and much-respected lady's own expression, the house
choke-full” to the very attics,-all save the “oaken cham-
ber," which, as the lieutenant expressed a most magnanimous
disregard of ghosts, was forthwith appropriated to his particular
accommodation. Mr. Maguire meanwhile was fain to share the
apartment of Oliver Dobbs, the squire's own man: a jocular pro-
posal of joint occupancy having been first indignantly rejected
by “Mademoiselle,” though preferred with the “laste taste in
life” of Mr. Barney's most insinuating brogue.
“Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your
breakfast will be quite spoiled: what can have made you
so idle ?” Such was the morning salutation of Miss Ingoldsby
to the militaire as he entered the breakfast-room half an hour
after the latest of the party.
"A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with !"
chimed in Miss Frances. “ What is become of our ramble to
the rocks before breakfast ?”!
“Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now,"
said Mrs. Peters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone
eyes.
“When I was a young man,” said Mr. Peters, “I remember
I always made a point of
"Pray, how long ago was that ?” asked Mr. Simpkinson from
Bath.
" Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was—let me see-
66
I was
“Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!"
interrupted his better half, who had a mortal horror of chron-
ological references ; "it's very rude to tease people with your
family affairs.”
The lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence a
good-humored nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive,
being the extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the


24
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
immediate presence of her who had made so large a hole in his
heart, his manner was evidently distrait, which the fair Caroline
in her secret soul attributed to his being solely occupied by her
agrémens: how would she have bridled had she known that
they only shared his meditations with a pair of breeches !
Charles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs,
darting occasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope
of detecting the supposed waggery by the evidence of some fur-
tive smile or conscious look. But in vain; not a dimple moved
indicative of roguery, nor did the slightest elevation of eyebrow
rise confirmative of his suspicions. Hints and insinuations
passed unheeded-more particular inquiries were out of the
question the subject was unapproachable.
In the meantime, “patent cords” were just the thing for a
morning's ride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party
over the downs, till, every faculty absorbed by the beauties,
animate and inanimate, which surrounded him, Lieutenant
Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles bestowed no more thought
upon his breeches than if he had been born on the top of Ben
Lomond.
Another night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly,
forming with his level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off
west, whither the heavy cloud, which for the last two hours had
been pouring its waters on the earth, was now flying before him.
“Ah! then, and it's little good it'll be the claning of ye,”
apostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited in front of
his master's toilet a pair of "bran new” jockey boots, one of
Hoby's primest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his
way through town. On that very moruing had they come for
the first time under the valet's depurating hand, so little soiled,
indeed, from the turfy ride of the preceding day, that a less
scrupulous domestic might, perhaps, have considered the appli-
cation of “Warren's Matchless," or oxalic acid, altogether
superfluous. Not so Barney: with the nicest care had he re-
moved the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and
there they stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder
a pang shot across Mr. Maguire's breast as he thought on the


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON,
25
work now cut out for them, so different from the light labors
of the day before; no wonder he murmured with a sigh, as the
scarce-dried window-panes disclosed a road now inch deep in
mud, “Ah! then, it's little good the claning of ye!"-for well
bad he learned in the hall below that eight miles of a stiff clay
soil lay between the manor and Bolsqver Abbey, whose pictur-
esque ruins,
“Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,”
the party had determined to explore. The master had already
commenced dressing, and the man was fitting straps upon a light
pair of crane-necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the
old question—"Barney, where are the breeches ?”
They were nowhere to be found !
Mr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and
equipped in a handsome green riding-frock, but no “ breeches
and boots to match” were there: loose jean trousers, surmount-
ing a pair of diminutive Wellingtons, embraced, somewhat in-
congruously, his nether man, vice the "patent cords,” returned,
like yesterday's pantaloons, absent without leave. The “top-
boots” had a holiday.
“A fine morning after the rain,” said Mr. Simpkinson from
Bath.
“Just the thing for the 'ops," said Mr. Peters. “I remember
when I was a boy-
Do hold your tongue, P.,” said Mrs. Peters—advice which
that exemplary matron was in the constant habit of administer-
ing to "her P.," as she called him, whenever he prepared to
vent his reminiscences. Her precise reason for this it would be
difficult to determine, unless, indeed, the story be true which a
little bird had whispered into Mrs. Botherby's ear—Mr. Peters,
though now a wealthy man, had received a liberal education at
a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days of his muffin-
cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife's hint in good
part, and "paused in his reply.”
“A glorious day for the ruins !” said young Ingoldsby. “But,
66


26
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
Charles, what the deuce are you about? you don't mean to ride
through our lanes in such toggery as that?"
“Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “won't you be very
wet?”
“You had better take Tom's cab," quoth the squire.
But this proposition was at once overruled; Mrs. Ogleton had
already nailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted
for a snug flirtation.
"Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton ?" No; that was the
post of Mr. Peters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had ac-
quired some fame as a whip while travelling through the mid-
land counties for the firm of Bagshaw, Snivelby, and Ghrimes.
“Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins," said Charles,
with as much nonchalance as he could assume -and he did so;
Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs. Peters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his
eldest daughter with her album, following in the family coach.
The gentleman-commoner “voted the affair d-d slow," and
declined the party altogether in favor of the gamekeeper and a
cigar. “There was no fun' in looking at old houses !” Mrs.
Simpkinson preferred a short séjour in the still-room with Mrs.
Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand ar-
canum, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.
"Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mr. Peters ?"
Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate; he
teaches the Miss Joneses to parley-voo, and is turned of sixty."
Miss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable
disdain.
Mr. Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and
one of the first water; he was master of Gwillim's Heraldry
and Mills's History of the Crusades; knew every plate in the
Monasticon, had written an essay on the origin and dignity of
the office of overseer, and settled the date on a Queen Anne's
farthing. An influential member of the Antiquarian Society,
to whose“ Beauties of Bagnigge Wells" he had been a liberal
subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that learned
body, since which happy epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more


TAE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
27
indefatigable correspondent. His inaugural essay on the Presi-
dent's cocked hat was considered a miracle of erudition; and his
account of the earliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a
masterpiece of antiquarian research. His eldest daughter was
of a kindred spirit: if her father's mantle had not fallen upon
her, it was only because he had not thrown it off himself; she
had caught hold of its tail, however, while it yet hung upon
his
honored shoulders. To souls so congenial, what a sight was the
magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its broken arches, its mouldering
pinnacles, and the airy tracery of its half-demolished windows.
The party were in raptures; Mr. Simpkinson began to meditate
an essay, and his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed
on these lonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a
momentary forgetfulness of his love and losses: the widow's
eye-glass turned from her cicisbeo's whiskers to the mantling ivy;
Mrs. Peters wiped her spectacles; and “her P.” supposed the
central tower “had once been the county jail.” The squire was
a philosopher, and had been there often before, so he ordered
out the .cold tongue and chickens.
"Bolsover Priory,” said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of a
connoisseur,—“Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of
Henry the Sixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century.
Hugh de Bolsover had accompanied thát monarch to the Holy
Land in the expedition undertaken by way of penance for the
murder of his young nephews in the Tower. Upon the dissolu-
tion of the monasteries, the veteran was enfeoffed in the lands
and manor, to which he gave his own name of Bowlsover, or
Bee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover),-a Bee in chief, over
three Owls, all proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this
distinguished crusader at the siege of Acre."
"Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith," said Mr. Peters; "I've
heard tell of him, and all about Mrs. Partington, and
"P., be quiet, and don't expose yourself!" sharply interrupted
his lady. P. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout.
“These lands," continued the antiquary, “were held in grand
sergeantry by the presentation of three white owls and a pot of
honey
Lassy me! how nice!" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked
his lips.


28
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
66
>>
“Pray give me leave, my dear-owls and honey, whenever
the king should come a rat-catching into this part of the
country."
Rat-catching !" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in
the mastication of a drumstick.
“To be sure, my dear sir: don't you remember the rats once
came under the forest laws-a minor species of venison? 'Rats,
mice, and such small deer,' eh ?-Shakspeare, you know. Our
ancestors ate rats (The nasty fellows!' shuddered Miss Julia,
in a parenthesis); and owls, you know, are capital mousers-
“I've seen a howl,” said Mr. Peters; “ there's one in the So-
hological Gardens, -- a little hook-nosed chap in a wig, -only
its feathers and-
Poor P. was destined never to finish a speech.
“Do be quiet !” cried the authoritative voice; and the would-
be naturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the “Soho-
logical Gardens."
“You should read Blount's 'Jocular Tenures,' Mr. Ingolds-
by,” pursued Simpkinson. “A learned man was Blount! Why,
sir, His Royal Highness the Duke of York once paid a silver
horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers-
“I've heard of him,” broke in the incorrigible Peters; "he
was hanged at the Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr.
Johnson."
The antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but,
taking a pinch of snuff, continued his harangue.
“A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of
royalty who rides across one of his manors; and, if you look
into the penny county histories, now publishing by an eminent
friend of mine, you will find that Langhale in Co. Norf. was
held by one Baldwin per saltum, sufflatum, et pettum ; that is, he
was to come every Christmas into Westminster Hall, there to
take a leap, cry hem! and-
“Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?” cried Tom Ingoldsby,
hastily.
"Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed Le-
“Mrs. Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,” said
Tom, still more rapidly, at the same time filling a glass and
forcing it on the sçavant, who, thus arrested in the very crisis
01
1
1
>
1
1


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
29
of his narrative, received and swallowed the potation as if it
had been physic.
“What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered there?”
continued Tom; "something of interest. See how fast she is
writing.”
The diversion was effectual; every one looked towards Miss
Simpkinson, who, far too ethereal for “creature comforts," was
seated apart on the dilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, com-
mitting eagerly to paper something that had strongly impressed
her; the air—the eye in a “fine frenzy rolling,”-all betokened
that the divine afflatus was come.
Her father rose and stole
silently towards her.
“What an old boar!” muttered young Ingoldsby; alluding
perhaps to a slice of brawn which he had just begun to operate
upon, but which, from the celerity with which it disappeared,
did not seem so very difficult of mastication.
But what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all
this while? Why, it so happened that they had been simul-
taneously stricken with the picturesque appearance of one of
those high and pointed arches which that eminent antiquary,
Mr. Horseley Curties, has described in his “ Ancient Records"
as “a Gothic window of the Saxon order;" and then the ivy
clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side that
they went round to look at that; and then their proximity de-
prived it of half its effect, and so they walked across to a little
knoll, a hundred yards off, and in crossing a small ravine they
came to what in Ireland they call “ a bad step," and Charles
had to carry his cousin over it; and then when they had to
come back, she would not give him the trouble again for the
world, so they followed a better but more circuitous route, and
there were hedges and ditches in the way, and stiles to get over
and gates to get through, so that an hour or more had elapsed
before they were able to rejoin the party.
Lassy me!” said Miss Julia Simpkinson, “ how long you
have been gone!"
And so they had. The remark was a very just as well as a
very natural one. They were gone a long while, and a nice
cosy chat they had; and what do you think it was all about,
my dear miss ?


30
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON:
.
66
66
“Oh, lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and
nightingales, and
Stay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervor of
your feelings run away with you! I do not pretend to say, in-
deed, that one or more of these pretty subjects might not have
been introduced; but the most important and leading topic of
the conference was-Lieutenant Seaforth's breeches.
"Caroline," said Charles, "I have had some very odd dreams
since I have been at Tappington.”
Dreams, have you ?” smiled the young lady, arching her
taper neck like a swan in pluming Dreams, have you ?”
“Ay, dreamis,-or dream, perhaps, I should say; for, though
repeated, it was still the same. And what do you imagine was
its subject ?"
“It is impossible for me to divine,” said the tongue ;—"I
have not the least difficulty in guessing," said the eye, as plainly
as ever eye spoke.
“I dreamt-of your great-grandfather!"
There was a change in the glance—“My great-grand-
father?"
“Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about the
other day: he walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of
murrey-colored velvet, his long rapier, and his Raleigh-looking
hat and feather, just as the picture represents him; but with
one exception."
“And what was that?”
Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were those
of a skeleton.”
“ Well ?"
“Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and look-
ing round him with a wistful air, he came to the bed's foot,
stared at me in a manner impossible to describe, -and then he -
he laid hold of my pantaloons; whipped his long bony legs into
them in a twinkling; and strutting up to the glass, seemed to
view himself in it with great complacency. I tried to speak,
but in vain. The effort, however, seemed to excite his atten-
tion; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-looking
death's head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable
grin strutted out of the room.”


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
31
“Absurd ! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense ?”
“But, Caroline,-the breeches are really gone."
On the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Sea-
forth was the first person in the breakfast parlor. As no one
else was present, he did precisely what nine young men out of
ten so situated would have done; he walked up to the mantle-
piece, established himself upon the rug, and, subducting his
coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards the fire that por-
tion of the human frame which it is considered equally indeco-
rous to present to a friend or an enemy. A serious, not to say
anxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored counte-
nance, and his mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incip-
ient whistle, when little Floy, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim
breed,—the pet object of Miss Julia Simpkinson's affections,-
bounced out from beneath a sofa, and began to bark at-his
pantaloons.
They were cleverly" built,” of a light-gray mixture, a broad
stripe of the most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a per-
pendicular direction from hip to ankle-in short, the regimental
costume of the Royal Bombay Fencibles. The animal, educated
in the country, had never seen such a pair of breeches in her
life Omne ignotum pro magnifico! The scarlet streak, inflamed
as it was by the reflection of the fire, seemed to act on Flora's
nerves as the same color does on those of bulls and turkeys;
she advanced at the pas de charge, and her vociferation, like her
amazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted
officer changed its character, and induced a retreat at the very
moment when the mistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered
to the rescue.
“ Lassy me! Flo, what is the matter ?” cried the sympathiz-
ing lady, with a scrutinizing glance levelled at the gentleman.
It might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His air of
imperturbable unconsciousness defied examination; and as he
would not, and Flora could not, expound, that injured individual
was compelled to pocket up her wrongs. Others of the house-
hold soon dropped in, and clustered round the board dedicated
to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded “hissing


32
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
hot," and the cups which “cheer, but not inebriate," steamed
redolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade, news-
papers and Finnon haddies, left little room for observation on
the character of Charles's warlike “turn-out." At length a
look from Caroline, followed by a smile that nearly ripened to
a titter, caused him to turn abruptly and address his neighbor.
It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply engaged in sipping her tea
and turning over her album, seemed, like a female Chronono-
tonthologos, “immersed in cogibundity of cogitation.” An
interrogatory on the subject of her studies drew from her the
confession that she was at that moment employed in putting the
finishing touches to a poem inspired by the romantic shades of
Bolsover. The entreaties of the
company
were of course urgent.
Mr. Peters, “who liked verses," was especially persevering, and
Sappho at length compliant. After a preparatory heni! and a
glance at the mirror to ascertain that her look was sufficiently
sentimental, the poetess began :
“ There is a calm, a holy feeling,
Vulgar minds can never know,
O'er the bosom softly stealing,-
Chasten'd grief, delicious woe!
Oh! how sweet at eve regaining
Yon lone tower's sequester'd shade
Sadly mute and uncomplaining —"
-Yow!-yeough !-yeough!-yow!-yow! yelled a hapless suf-
ferer from beneath the table. It was an unlucky hour for
quadrupeds ; and if “every dog will have his day,” he could
not have selected a more unpropitious one than this. Mrs.
Ogleton, too, had a pet,-a favorite pug,—whose squab figure,
black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that curled like a head
of celery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch extraction. Yow!
yow! yow! continued the brute,-a chorus in which Flo in-
stantly joined. Sooth to say, pug had more reason to express
his dissatisfaction than was given him by the muse of Simpkin-
son; the other only barked for company. Scarcely had the
poetess got through her first stanza, when Tom Ingoldsby, in
the enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the material
world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand on the
cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it such an


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
33
unlucky twist that the full stream of its scalding contents de-
scended on the gingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid. The
confusion was complete; the whole economy of the table disar-
ranged—the company broke up in most admired disorder-and
vulgar minds will never know” anything more of Miss Simp-
kinson's ode till they peruse it in some forthcoming Annual.
Seaforth profited by the confusion, to take the delinquent who
had caused this “stramash” by the arm, and to lead him to the
lawn, where he had a word or two for his private ear. The con-
ference between the young gentlemen was neither brief in its
duration nor unimportant in its result. The subject was what
the lawyers call tripartite, embracing the information that
Charles Seaforth was over head and ears in love with Tom
Ingoldsby's sister; secondly, that the lady had referred him
to “papa” for his sanction; thirdly and lastly, his nightly
visitations, and consequent bereavement. At the two first
items Tom smiled auspiciously—at the last he burst out into
an absolute "guffaw.”
“Steal your breeches! Miss Bailey over again, by Jove,"
shouted Ingoldsby. “But a gentleman, you say,—and Sir Giles
too. I am not sure, Charles, whether I ought not to call you
out for aspersing the honor of the family."
“ Laugh as you will, Tom,—be as incredulous as you please.
One fact is incontestable—the breeches are gone! Look here-
I am reduced to my regimentals; and if these go, to-morrow I
must borrow of
Rochefoucauld says there is something
there is something in the misfortunes of
our very best friends that does not displease us; assuredly we
can, most of us, laugh at their petty inconveniences, till called
upon to supply them. Tom composed his features on the in-
stant, and replied with more gravity, as well as with an exple-
tive which, if my Lord Mayor had been within hearing, might
have cost him five shillings.
"There is something very queer in this, after all. The clothes,
you say, have positively disappeared. Somebody is playing you
a trick; and, ten to one, your servant has a hand in it. By the
way, I heard something yesterday of his kicking up a bobbery
in the kitchen, and seeing a ghost, or something of that kind,
himself. Depend upon it, Barney is in the plot.”
you !”
3


34
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
It now struck the lieutenant at once that the usually buoyant
spirits of his attendant had of late been materially sobered down,
his loquacity obviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieu-
tenant, had actually rung his bell three several times that very
morning before he could procure his attendance. Mr. Maguire
was forthwith summoned, and underwent a close examination.
The “ bobbery” was easily explained. Mr. Oliver Dobbs had
hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying on between the
gentleman from Munster and the lady from the Rue St. Honoré.
Mademoiselle had boxed Mr. Maguire's ears, and Mr. Maguire
had pulled Mademoiselle upon his knee, and the lady had not
cried Mon Dieu! And Mr. Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong;
and Mrs. Botherby said it was “scandalous," and what ought
not to be done in any moral kitchen; and Mr. Maguire had
got hold of the Honorable Augustus Sucklethumbkin's powder-
flask, and had put large pinches of the best Double Dartford into
Mr. Dobbs’s tobacco-box; and Mr. Dobbs's pipe had exploded,
and set fire to Mrs. Botherby's Sunday cap; and Mr. Maguire
had put it out with the slop-basin, “barring the wig;" and then
they were all so cantankerous” that Barney had gone to take
a walk in the garden; and then—then Mr. Barney had seen a
ghost.
“A what? you blockhead !" asked Tom Ingoldsby.
“Sure then, and it's meself will tell your honor the rights of
it,” said the ghost-seer. “Meself and Miss Pauline, sir,-or
Miss Pauline and meself, for the ladies comes first anyhow,-
we got tired of the hobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould
servants, that didn't know a joke when they seen one: and we
went out to look at the comet,—that's the rorybory-alehouse,
they calls him in this country, and we walked upon the lawn,
—and divil of any alehouse there was there at all; and Miss
Pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why
wouldn't we see it better beyonst the trees? and so we went to
the trees, but sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big
ghost instead of it.”
“A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney ?”
“Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honor. A tall ould gen-
tleman he was, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of
him, and a big torch in his fist,—though what he wanted with


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
35
that it's meself can't tell, for his eyes were like gig-lamps, let
alone the moon and the comet, which wasn't there at all :-and
Barney,' says he to me,—'cause why he knew me, Barney,'
says he, what is it you're doing with the colleen there, Barney ?
Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline screeched, and cried
murther in French, and ran off with herself; and of course
meself was in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time
to stop palavering with him any way: so I dispersed at once, and
the ghost vanished in a flame of fire!"
Mr. Maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity
by both gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinch-
ing pertinacity. A reference to Mademoiselle was suggested,
but abandoned, as neither party had a taste for delicate inves-
tigations.
“I'll tell you what, Seaforth," said Ingoldsby, after Barney
had received his dismissal," that there is a trick here is evident;
and Barney's vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he
is most knave or fool you best know. At all events, I will sit
up
with you to-night, and see if I can convert my ancestor into
a visiting acquaintance. Meanwhile your finger on your lip!”
“ 'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead."
Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and there-
fore I do beseech the “gentle reader” to believe that if all the
succedanea to this mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping,
he will ascribe it only to the disgraceful innovations of modern
degeneracy upon the sober and dignified habits of our ancestors.
I can introduce him, it is true, into an old and high-roof cham-
ber, its walls covered on three sides with black oak wainscoting,
adorned with carvings of fruit and flowers long anterior to those of
Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side is clothed with a curious rem-
nant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of some Scriptural his-
tory, but of which not even Mrs. Botherby could determine. Mr.
Simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined to believe
the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, or Daniel in the


36
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
lions' den; while Tom Ingoldsby decided in favor of the King of
Bashan. All, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on
the subject. A lofty arched portal led into, and a little arched
portal led out of, this apartment; they were opposite each other,
and each possessed the security of massy bolts on its interior.
The bedstead, too, was not one of yesterday, but manifestly
coeval with days ere Seddons was, and when a good four-post
“article” was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest. The
bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse, mattresses,
etc., was of far later date, and looked most incongruously com-
fortable; the casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped
panes and iron binding, had given way to the modern hetero-
doxy of the sash-window. Nor was this all that conspired to
ruin the costume, and render the room a meet haunt for such
“mixed spirits” only as could condescend to don at the same
time an Elizabethan doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles.
With their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in
front of a disgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen,
clad in “shawl-pattern” dressing-gowns and black silk stocks,
much at variance with the high cane-backed chairs which sup-
ported them. A bunch of abomination, called a cigar, reeked
in the left-hand corner of the mouth of one, and in the right-
hand corner of the mouth of the other—an arrangement hap-
pily adapted for the escape of the noxious fumes up the chim-
ney without that unmerciful “ funking” each other which a
less scientific disposition of the weed would have induced. A
small pembroke table filled up the intervening space between
them, sustaining, at each extremity, an elbow and a glass of
toddy—thus in “ lonely pensive contemplation” were the two
worthies occupied, when the “iron tongue of midnight had
tolled twelve."
"Ghost-time's come !" said Ingoldsby, taking from his waist-
coat pocket a watch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it
as though he suspected the turret-clock over the stables of men-
dacity.
“Hush !” said Charles ; “ did I not hear a footstep ?"
There was a pause :—there was a footstep-it sounded dis-
tinctly-it reached the door-it hesitated, stopped, and-passed
on.


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
37
Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became
aware of Mrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other
end of the gallery, after dosing one of the housemaids with an
approved julep from the Countess of Kent's Choice Manual.
“Good-night, sir!" said Mrs. Botherby.
“Go to the d-1!” said the disappointed ghost-hunter.
An hour-two-rolled on, and still no spectral visitation,
nor did aught intervene to make night bideous; and when the
turret-clock sounded at length the hour of three, Ingoldsby,
whose patience and grog were alike exhausted, sprang from his
chair, saying-
“This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of
any ghost shall we see to-night; it's long past the canonical
hour. I'm off to bed ; and as to your breeches, I'll insure them
for the next twenty-four hours at least, at the price of the buck-
ram.”
“ Certainly.-Oh! thank'ee-to be sure!” stammered Charles,
rousing himself from a reverie which had degenerated into an
absolute snooze.
“Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy
the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender !"
Seaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning
came down to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of the pre-
ceding day. The charm was broken, the demon defeated; the
light grays with the red stripe down the seams were yet in rerum
naturâ, and adorned the person of their lawful proprietor.
Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the
result of their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage which
warns us against self-gratulation before we are quite “out of
the wood.”—Seaforth was yet within its verge.
A rap at Tom Ingoldsby's door the following morning startled
him as he was shaving—he cut his chin.
“Come in, and be d-d to you !” said the martyr, pressing
his thumb on the scarified epidermis. The door opened, and
exhibited Mr. Barney Maguire.


38
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
“Well, Barney, what is it ?” quoth the sufferer, adopting the
vernacular of his visitant.
“ The master, sir-
Well, what does he want?”
“The loanst of a breeches, plase your honor.”
'Why, you don't mean to tell me -By Heaven, this is too
good !" shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laugh-
ter. “Why, Barney, you don't mean to say the ghost has got
them again ?"
Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility ;
the cast of his countenance was decidedly serious.
Faith, then, it's gone they are, sure enough! Hasn't meself
been looking over the bed, and under the bed, and in the bed,
for the matter of that, and divil a ha’p’orth of breeches is there
to the fore at all :- I'm bothered entirely!"
“Hark’ee! Mr. Barney," said Tom, incautiously removing
his thumb and letting a crimson stream“ incarnadine the mul-
titudinous” lather that plastered his throat—"this may be all
very well with your master, but you don't humbug me, sir :-
tell me instantly what have you done with the clothes ?”
This abrupt transition from “lively to severe" certainly took
Maguire by surprise, and he seemed for an instant as much dis-
concerted as it is possible to disconcert an Irish gentleman's
gentleman.
“Me? is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honor's think-
ing ?” said he after a moment's pause, and with a slight shade
of indignation in his tones: “is it I would stale the master's
things—and what would I do with them?"
“ That you best know :—what your purpose is I can't guess,
for I don't think you mean to stale' them, as you call it; but
that you are concerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied.
Confound this blood !-give me a towel, Barney."
Maguire acquitted himself of the commission. “As I've a
sowl, your honor,” said he, solemnly, "little it is meself knows
of the matter : and after what I seen-
“What you've seen! Why, what have you seen ?-Barney,
I don't want to inquire into your flirtations; but don't suppose
you can palm off your saucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!”
“Then, as sure as your honor's standing there, I saw him:


TIE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
39
and why wouldn't I, when Miss Pauline was to the fore as well
as meself, and
“Get along with your nonsense-leave the room, sir!"
“But the master ?” said Barney, imploringly; "and without
a breeches ?—sure he'll be catching cowld !-
“Take that, rascal !” replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair of
pantaloons at, rather than to, him: “but don't suppose, sir, you
shall carry on your tricks here with impunity ; recollect there
is such a thing as a treadmill, and that my father is a county
magistrate."
Barney's eye flashed fire-he stood erect, and was about to
speak; but, mastering himself, not without an effort, he took up
the garment, and left the room as perpendicular as a Quaker.
66
Ingoldsby,” said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast,“ this is
now past a joke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwith-
standing the ties which detain me, common decency obliges me
to visit home after so long an absence. I shall come to an im-
mediate explanation with your father on the subject nearest my
heart, and depart while I have a change of dress left. On his
answer will my return depend ! In the meantime tell me can-
didly,-I ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend,-am I not a
dupe to your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not
a hand in
No, by heaven, Seaforth ; I see what you mean: on my
honor, I am as much mystified as yourself; and if your serv-
ant-
“ Not he: if there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it.”
“If there be a trick? why, Charles, do you think-
“I know not what to think, Tom. As surely as you are a
living man, so surely did that spectral anatomy visit my room
again last night, grin in my face, and walk away with my
trousers : nor was I able to spring from my bed, or break the
chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow."
“ Seaforth !” said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, “I will-
But hush! here are the girls and my father.— I will carry off


40
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
the females, and leave you a clear field with the governor:
carry your point with him, and we will talk about your breeches
afterwards.'
Tom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies en
mase to look at a remarkable specimen of the class Dodecan-
dria Monogynia,—which they could not find ;—while Seaforth
marched boldly up to the encounter, and carried “the gov-
ernor's” outworks by a coup de main. I shall not stop to
describe the progress of the attack; suffice it that it was as
successful as could have been wished, and that Seaforth was
referred back again to the lady. The happy lover was off at a
tangent; the botanical party was soon overtaken; and the arm
of Caroline, whom a vain endeavor to spell out the Linnæan
name of a daffy-down-dilly had detained a little in the rear
of the others, was soon firmly locked in his own.
“What was the world to them,
Its noise, its nonsense, and its ' breeches,' all ?”
Seaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that
night as happy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been
heard of, and personal chattels were as well fenced in by law
as real property. Not so Tom Ingoldsby: the mystery,--for
mystery there evidently was,-had not only piqued his curiosity,
but ruffled his temper. The watch of the previous night had
been unsuccessful, probably because it was undisguised. To-
night he would “
ensconce himself,” not indeed “ behind the
arras,”
”—for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed
to the wall,—but in a small closet which opened from one corner
of the room, and, by leaving the door ajar, would give to its
occupant a view of all that might pass in the apartment. Here
did the young ghost-hunter take up a position, with a good stout
sapling under his arm, a full half-hour before Seaforth retired
for the night. Not even his friend did he let into his confi-
dence, fully determined that if his plan did not succeed, the
failure should be attributed to himself alone.
At the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from
his concealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking
a few turns in it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken
that his thoughts were mainly occupied by his approaching hap-


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
41
piness, proceed slowly to disrobe himself. The coat, the waist-
coat, the black silk stock, were gradually discarded; the green
morocco slippers were kicked off, and then-ay, and then his
countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once
that this was his last stake,-nay, that the very breeches he had
on were not his own,—that to-morrow morning was his last, and
that if he lost them— A glance showed that his mind was
made up; he replaced the single button he had just subducted,
and threw himself upon the bed in a state of transition,-half
chrysalis, half grub.
Wearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flicker-
ing light of the night-lamp, till the clock striking one induced
him to increase the narrow opening which he had left for the
purpose of observation. The motion, slight as it was, seemed
to attract Charles's attention; for he raised himself suddenly
to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, and then stood up-
right upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the point of discovering
himself, when, the light flashing full upon his friend's counte-
nance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open, “their
sense was shut,”—that he was yet under the influence of sleep.
Seaforth advanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp
that stood on it, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to
search eagerly for something which he could not find. For a
few moments he seemed restless and uneasy, walking round the
apartment and examining the chairs, till, coming fully in front
of a large swing glass that flanked the dressing-table, he paused
as if contemplating his figure in it. He now returned towards
the bed; put on his slippers, and with cautious and stealthy
steps proceeded towards the little arched doorway that opened
on the private staircase.
As he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-
place; but the sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly
down stairs, followed at a due distance by his friend ; opened the
door which led out upon the gardens; and stood at once among
the thickest of the shrubs, which there clustered round the base
of a corner turret, and screened the postern from common obser-
vation. At this moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all by
making a false step: the sound attracted Seaforth's attention,-
he paused and turned ; and, as the full moon shed her light


42
THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
directly upon his pale and troubled features, Tom marked,
almost with dismay, the fixed and rayless appearance of his
eyes :-
“There was no speculation in those orbs
That he did glare withal.”
The perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure
him; he turned aside, and from the midst of a thickset laurus-
tinus drew forth a gardener's spade, shouldering which he pro-
ceeded with greater rapidity into the midst of the shrubbery.
Arrived at a certain point where the earth seemed to have been
recently disturbed, he set himself heartily to the task of digging,
till, having thrown up several shovelfuls of mould, he stopped,
flung down his tool, and very composedly began to disencumber
himself of his pantaloons.
Up to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye:
he now advanced cautiously, and, as his friend was busily en-
gaged in disentangling himself from his garment, made himself
master of the spade. Seaforth, meanwhile, had accomplished
his
purpose :
: he stood for a moment with
“His streamers waving in the wind,"
occupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as com-
pact a form as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven,
which might certainly be supposed at such a moment, and in
such a plight, to "visit his frame too roughly."
He was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons
in the grave which he had been digging for them, when Tom
Ingoldsby came close behind him, and with the flat side of the
spade-
The shock was effectual ;-never again was Lieutenant Sea-
forth known to act the part of a somnambulist. One by one,
his breeches,-his trousers,—his pantaloons,-his silk-net tights,
-his patent cords,-his showy grays with the broad red stripe
of the Bombay Fencibles, were brought to light,-rescued from
the grave in which they had been buried, like the strata of a


THE SPECTRE OF TAPPINGTON.
43
Christmas pie; and after having been well aired by Mrs. Both-
erby, became once again effective.
The family, the ladies especially, laughed ;-the Peterses
laughed ;-the Simpkinsons laughed ;-Barney Maguire cried
“Botheration !" and Mam’selle Pauline, “ Mon Dieu !"
Charles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited
him on all sides, started off two hours earlier than he had pro-
posed :-he soon returned, however; and having, at his father-
in-law's request, given up the occupation of Rajah-hunting and
shooting Nabobs, led his blushing bride to the altar.
Mr. Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony, being
engaged at the grand Junction meeting of sçavans, then congre-
gating from all parts of the known world in the city of Dublin.
His essay, demonstrating that the globe is a great custard,
whipped into coagulation by whirlwinds, and cooked by elec-
tricity,—a little too much baked in the Isle of Portland, and a
thought underdone about the Bog of Allen, -was highly spoken
of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a Bridgewater prize.
Miss Simpkinson and her sister acted as bridesmaids on the
occasion; the former wrote an epithalamium, and the latter cried
“ Lassy me!" at the clergyman's wig. Some years have since
rolled on; the union has been crowned with two or three tidy
little offshoots from the family tree, of whom Master Neddy is
“grandpapa's darling," and Mary Anne mamma's particular
“Sock.” I shall only add, that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth are living
together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-tempered
bodies, very fond of each other, can possibly do; and that,
since the day of his marriage, Charles has shown no disposi-
tion to jump out of bed, or ramble out of doors o’nights,
though from his entire devotion to every wish and whim of his
young wife, Tom insinuates that the fair Caroline does still
occasionally take advantage of it so far as to "slip on the
breeches."
It was not till some years after the events just recorded that
Miss Mary Anne, the “pet Sock” before alluded to, was made
acquainted with the following piece of family biography. It was
communicated to her in strict confidence by Nurse Botherby, a


44
THE NURSE'S STORY.
maiden niece of the old lady's, then recently promoted from the
ranks in the still-room, to be second in command in the nursery
department.
The story is connected with a dingy wizen-faced portrait, in
an oval frame, generally known by the name of “Uncle Ste-
phen,” though from the style of his cut-velvet it is evident that
some generations must have passed away since any living being
could have stood towards him in that degree of consanguinity.
THE NURSE'S STORY.
The Hand of Glory.
“Malefica quædam auguriatrix in Angliâ fuit, quam demones horribiliter extrax-
erunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt; Clamoresque
terribiles (ut ferunt) per quatuor fermè miliaria audiebantur."-Nuremb. Chron.
ON
Nth
one bleak moor,
At the midnight hour,
Beneath the Gallows Tree,
Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three!
And the Moon that night With a gray, cold light
Each baleful object tips;
One half of her form Is seen through the storm,
The other half's hid in Eclipse !
And the cold Wind howls, And the Thunder growls,
And the Lightning is broad and bright;
And altogether It's very bad weather,
And an unpleasant sort of a night!
“Now mount who list, And close by the wrist
Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist !—
Now climb who dare Where he swings in air,
And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair!”


THE HAND. OF GLORY.
45
There's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
And some people fancy a great many more;
Her nose it is hook’d, Her back it is crook',
Her eyes blear and red: On the top of her head
Is a mutch, and on that A shocking bad hat,
Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat!
Then,-my gracious !-her beard !-it would sadly perplex
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex ;
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
Leering up with that queer, indescribable grin,
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry,
'-Well I-I never did see such a regular Guy!"
And now before That Old Woman's door,
Where nought that's good may be,
Hand in hand The Murderers stand
By one, by two, by three !
Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view,
In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,
By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
Doing the deed that hath never a name!
'Tis awful to hear Those words of fear!
The prayer mutter'd backwards and said with a sneer!
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when
A witch says her prayers, she begins with “Amen.")—
_'Tis awful to see On that Old Woman's knee
The dead, shrivell’d hand, as she clasps it with glee !
And now with care, The five locks of hair
From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there,
With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat
She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks,
And one on the thumb and each finger to fix.-
(For another receipt the same charm to prepare,
Consult Mr. Ainsworth and Petit Albert.)


46
THE NURSE'S STORY.
Now open
lock To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band !
Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand !
Sleep all who sleep!- Wake all who wake! -
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!
All is silent! all is still,
Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill
As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill,
And in Tappington Hall Great and Small,
Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,
Each one hath sought his separate room,
And Sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast,
For the midnight hour hath long been past!
All is darksome in earth and sky,
Save, from yon casement, narrow and high,
A quivering beam On the tiny stream
Plays, like some taper’s fitful gleam
By one that is watching wearily.
Within that casement, narrow and high,
In his secret lair, where none may spy,
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
And the thin gray locks of his failing hair
Have left his little bald pate all bare;
For his full-bottom'd wig Hangs, bushy and big,
On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair.
Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter'd his hose,
His gown is bedizen'd with tulip and rose,
Flowers of remarkable size and hue,
Flowers such as Eden never knew;
-And there by many a sparkling heap
Of the good red gold, The tale is told
What powerful spell avails to keep
That careworn man from his needful sleep!
Haply he deems no eye can see
As he gloats on his treasure greedily,-


THE HAND OF GLORY.
47.
The shining store Of glittering ore,
The fair rose-noble, the bright moidore,
And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea, -
But there's one that watches as well as he;
For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by,
On his truckle bed lieth a little Foot-page,
A boy who's uncommonly sharp of his age,
Like
young
Master Horner, Who erst in a corner
Sat eating a Christmas pie:
And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards,
Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards !
There's a voice in the air, There's a step on the stair,
The old man starts in his cane-back'd chair;
At the first faint sound He gazes around,
And holds up his dip of sixteen to the pound.
Then half arose From beside his toes
His little pug-dog with his little pug nose,
But, ere he can vent one inquisitive sniff,
That little pug-dog stands stark and stiff,
For low, yet clear, Now fall on the ear,
-Where once pronounced for ever they dwell-
The unholy words of the Dead Man's spell !
Open lock To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly bolt, and bar, and band !-
Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
Sleep all who sleep !-Wake all who wake! -
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!”
Now lock, nor bolt, nor bar avails,
Nor stout oak panel thick-studded with nails.
Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,
Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week ;
The door opens wide as wide may be,
And there they stand, That murderous band,
Lit by the light of the GLORIOUS HAND,
By one !-by two!—by three !


48
THE NURSE'S STORY.
They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass’d through
the hall,
Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall;
The very snore froze In his very snub nose,
You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last
When the GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him pass'd!
E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat
At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,
Though half dead with affright, Paused in its flight;
And the cat that was chasing that little wee thing
Lay couch'd as a statue in act to spring!
And now they are there, On the head of the stair,
And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare!
-I really don't think any money would bribe
Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,
Or the wild, wild glare Of that old man's eye,
His dumb despair, and deep agony.
The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
Unmoved may the blade of the butcher behold;
They dream not-ah, happier they !—that the knife,
Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life;
It falls ;-the frail thread of their being is riven,
They dread not, suspect not, the blow till 'tis given.-
But, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know
That the bare knife is raised in the hand of the foe,
Without hope to repel, or to ward off the blow !-
-Enough !-let's pass over as fast as we can
The fate of that gray, that unhappy old man !
But fancy poor Hugh, Aghast at the view,
Powerless alike to speak or to do!
In vain doth he try To
open
the
eye
That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink ! -
No!—for all that this world can give or refuse,
I would not be now in that little boy's shoes,
Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's!


THE HAND OF GLORY.
49
—'Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall
He has peep'd through so long, is so parrow and small!
Wailing voices, sounds of woe
Such as follow departing friends,
That fatal night round Tappington go,
Its long-drawn roofs and its gable ends :
Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,
Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood.
'Tis early dawn—the morn is gray,
And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away,
And all things betoken a very fine day;
But, while the lark her carol is singing,
Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing.
Upstarting all, Great and small,
Each one who's found within Tappington Hall,
Gentle and Simple, Squire or Groom,
All seek at once that Old Gentleman's room;
And there, on the floor, Drench'd in its gore,
A ghastly corpse lies exposed to the view,
Carotid and jugular both cut through!
And there, by its side, 'Mid the crimson tide,
Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years ;
Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears
Are coursing each other round and big,
And he's stanching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig.
Alas! and alack for his stanching !—'tis plain,
As anatomists tell us, that never again
Shall life revisit the foully slain,
When once they've been cut through the jugular vein.
There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent.
But no one can tell the man which way they went:
There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.
4


50
THE NURSE'S STORY.
In Rochester town, At the sign of the Crown,
Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down
To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown;
When a little Foot-page Rushes in, in a rage,
Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.
That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,
And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,
And a Constable seizes the one more remote;
And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores
The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,
And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare;
And the Constable says, with a dignified air,
“You're wanted, Gen'lemen, one and all,
For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall !"
There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor,
Where a former black gibbet has frowned before:
It is as black as black
may
And murderers there Are dangling in air,
By one!-by two !-by three!
be,
There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crowned hat,
Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat!
They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs;
Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,
With a whoop and a halloo ! —"She swims !—She swims!"
They have dragged her to land, And every one's hand
Is grasping a fagot, a billet, or brand,
When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black,
Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack
To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,
Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!
No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well,
Which
way that grim rider and old woman go,
For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow;
And she screamed so, and cried, We may fairly decide
That the old woman did not much relish her ride!


" LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"
51
MORAL.
This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt
That truest of adages—“Murder will out!"
In vain may the blood-spiller “double" and fly,
In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try:
Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by
He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!
ONE marvel follows another as naturally as one “shoulder
of mutton” is said “ to drive another down." A little Welsh
girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the
nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, imme-
diately started off at score with the sum and substance of what,
in due reverence for such authority, I shall call
PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY.
“Look at the Clock.”
FYTTE I.
"LOO
OOK at the clock !” quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she opened the door to her husband's knock,
Then paused to give him a piece of advice,
"You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vowed to love and obey you ?-
Out all night! Me in a fright;
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute !-you insensible block !
Look at the Clock !-Do-Look at the Clock !"
Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flowered one, her petticoat green,


52
THE MILKMAID'S STORY.
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turned up, and tucked through the pocket-
holes;
A face like a ferret Betokened her spirit:
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.
Now David Pryce Had one darling vice;
Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss !
Especially ale- If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,
Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.
That particular day, As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
They were roaring out “Shenkin!” and “Ar hydd y nos ;"
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, “We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down
the Moon !
What have we with day to do?
Mrs. Winifred Price, 'twas made for you;"
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
Old “Goat-in-Boots” show'd them the door:
And then came that knock, And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, “Look at the Clock !"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!


"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"
53
That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint
At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a “Spout.”
That horrid word “Spout” No sooner came out
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip,
Spout” herself till her nose grew red at the tip.
“You thundering willin, I know you'd be killing
Your wife—ay, a dozen of wives—for a shilling!
You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise
(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her smock),
But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock !"
Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient.
So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head;
It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But whatever it was,—whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her tumble produced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain,—but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!
The fearful catastrophe Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death’s exploits such a vast trophy,
Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality
Ran over, like wildfire, the whole Principality.
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.
Mr. Pryce, to commence His "ingenious defence,”
Made a “powerful appeal” to the jury's “good sense :"


54
THE MILKMAID'S STORY,
“The world he must defy Ever to justify
Any presumption of Malice Prepense.'
The unlucky lick From the end of his stick
He“ deplored,”—he was “apt to be rather too quick;"-
But, really, her prating Was so aggravating :
Some trifling correction was just what he meant:-all
The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"
Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones,
And her gestures, and hints about “ breaking his bones ;"
While Mr. Ap Morgan and Mr. Ap Rhys
Declare the deceased Had styled him “a Beast,"
And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.
The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, “We find, Sarve her right !"
Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped ; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain ; its name you'll excuse me from telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few,
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;
And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
Its first syllable, “PEN," Is pronounceable ;—then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N,
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to “PEN.”
Well—the moon shone bright Upon “ Pen,” that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,


"LOOK AT THE CLOCK!”
55
Was scaling its side with that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest,
He paused, and turned round to take breath and to rest :
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopped and looked down on the valley below.
O'er fell and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,
Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold:
Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
Killing poets by dozens With their uncles and cousins,
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved-
Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;
And how Mr. Tudor Successfully wooed her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King.
He thought upon Arthur and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffith ap Conan and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat, As he cried out, “What's that?” —
That very queer sound ?— Does it come from the ground ?
Or the air, from above, or below, or around ?-
It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking,
It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of á horse, -or the tread of a man,


56
THE MILKMAID'S STORY.
Or the hum of a crowd, or the shouting of boys,
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a cart's,-but that can't be; for when
Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men,”
With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up“ PEN”?
Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate “funk.”
In vain he looked back On the whole of the track
He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disk of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon;
While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer,
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much“ like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.”
Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun,
When a single bright ray Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,
The deceased Mrs. Winifred's “Grandmother's Clock !!"
'Twas so !—it had certainly moved from its place,
And come lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all—but the Face !
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turned into eyes
Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire;
And the “Name of the Maker” was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No!he could not mistake it,—'twas SHE to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct wife!
One glance was enough, Completely “Quant. suff,"
As the doctors write down when they send you their “stuff.”
Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff,


!



1
“But run as he will, Or roll down the hill,
The bugbear behind him is after him still !"
p. 57.


“LOOK AT THE CLOCK!"
57
David turned himself round; Ten feet of ground
He cleared, in his start, at the very first bound !
I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses,
I've seen ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises,
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a Bailiff much faster than that:
At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder-
I've seen Irish bricklayers run up a ladder-
I've seen little boys run away from a cane-
And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain ;*
But I never did read Of, or witness, such speed
As David exerted that evening.- Indeed
All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over PEN!
He reaches its brow, He has past it, and now,
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;
But run as he will, Or roll down the hill,
The bugbear behind him is after him still!
And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking,
Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,
And screams when they rush out, alarmed at his knock,
“Oh! Look at the Clock !-Do! Look at the Clock !!”
Miss Davis looked up, Miss Davis looked down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her;—a frown
Came o'er her white forehead; She said, “it was horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;
To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!”
She begged "he'd not think of repeating his call:
His late wife's disaster By no means had past her ;"
She'd “have him to know she was meat for his Master !”
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes,
She turned on her heel and she turned
up
her nose.
* I-run is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort.


58
THE MILKMAID'S STORY.
Poor David in vain Implored to remain ;
He“ dared not,” he said, “ cross the mountain again.”
Why the fair was obdurate None knows,-to be sure, it
Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate.
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole
Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
In that shady retreat, With nothing to eat,
And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
All night close he kept; I can't say he slept;
But he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, and he wept;
Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins,
Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,
And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,
Consigning to Satan,—viz., cruel Miss Davis !
Mr. David has since had a “serious call,”
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach
People that “they can't brew their malt liquor too small.”
That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR,
Was right in proclaiming “ARISTON MEN UDOR!”
Which means
pure
Element Is for Man's belly
meant!"
And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!
“ The
And “still on each evening when pleasure fills up,”
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into “ The Chair,"
And make all his quondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,
“Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water !"
The dial he constantly watches; and when
The long hand's at the “ XII.," and the short at the “X.,"
He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly—“Gentlemen!
LOOK AT THE CLOCK !!!"


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
59
The succeeding Legend has long been an established favorite
with all of us, as containing much of the personal history of
one of the greatest ornaments of the family tree.
To the wedding between the sole heiress of this redoubted
hero and a direct ancestor is it owing that the Lioncels of
Shurland hang so lovingly parallel with the Saltire of the
Ingoldsbys, and now form as cherished a quartering in their
escutcheon as the “ dozen white lowses” in the “old coat” of
Shallow.
Gray Dolphin.
A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
“HE the Baron.
E won't-won't he? Then bring me my boots !” said
the Baron.
Consternation was at its height in the castle of Shurland—a
caitiff had dared to disobey the Baron! and—the Baron had
called for his boots !
A thunderbolt in the great hall had been a bagatelle to it.
A few days before a notable miracle had been wrought in the
neighborhood; and in those times miracles were not so common
as they are now; no royal balloons, no steam, no railroads,
while the few Saints who took the trouble to walk with their
heads under their arms, or to pull the devil by the nose,
scarcely appeared above once in a century ;-s0 the affair made
the greater sensation.
The clock had done striking twelve, and the Clerk of Chat-
ham was untrussing his points preparatory to seeking his
truckle-bed; a half-emptied tankard of mild ale stood at his
elbow, the roasted crab yet floating on its surface. Midnight
had surprised the worthy functionary while occupied in discuss-
ing it, and with his task yet unaccomplished. He meditated a
mighty draft: one hand was fumbling with his tags, while the
other was extended in the act of grasping the jorum, when a
knock on the portal, solemn and sonorous, arrested his fingers.
It was repeated thrice ere Emmanuel Saddleton had presence


60
GRAY DOLPHIN.
of mind sufficient to inquire who sought admittance at that un-
timeous hour.
“Open! open! good Clerk of St. Bridget's,” said a female
voice, small yet distinct and sweet,-an excellent thing in
woman,
The Clerk arose, crossed to the doorway, and undid the
latchet.
On the threshold stood a Lady of surpassing beauty: her
robes were rich, and large, and full; and a diadem, sparkling
with gems that shed a halo around, crowned her brow: she
beckoned the Clerk as he stood in astonishment before her.
“ Emmanuel !” said the Lady; and her tones sounded like
those of a silver flute. “ Emmanuel Saddleton, truss up your
points, and follow me!"
The worthy Clerk stared aghast at the vision; the purple
robe, the cymar, the coronet,-above all, the smile; no, there
was no mistaking her; it was the blessed St. Bridget herself!
And what could have brought the sainted lady out of her
warm shrine at such a time of night? and on such a night? for
it was as dark as pitch, and, metaphorically speaking, “rained
cats and dogs.”
Emmanuel could not speak, so he looked the question.
“No matter for that," said the Saint, answering to his thought.
“No matter for that, Emmanuel Saddleton; only follow me,
and you'll see !"
The Clerk turned a wistful eye at the corner cupboard.
“Oh! never mind the lantern, Emmanuel : you'll not want
it: but you may bring a mattock and a shovel.” As she spoke,
the beautiful apparition held up her delicate hand. From the
tip of each of her long taper fingers issued a lambent flame of
such surpassing brilliancy as would have plunged a whole gas
company into despair-it was a "Hand of Glory,"* such a one
as tradition tells us yet burns in Rochester Castle every
St.
Mark's Eve. Many are the daring individuals who have
watched in Gundulph's Tower, hoping to find it, and the treas-
ure it guards ;—but none of them ever did.
“This way, Emmanuel !" and a flame of peculiar radiance
* One of the uses to which this mystic chandelier was put was the protection of
secreted treasure. Blow out all the fingers at one puff and you had the money.


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
61
streamed from her little finger, as it pointed to the pathway
leading to the churchyard.
Saddleton shouldered his tools, and followed in silence.
The cemetery of St. Bridget's was some half-mile distant from
the Clerk's domicile, and adjoined a chapel dedicated to that
illustrious lady, who, after leading but a so-so life, had died in
the odor of sanctity. Emmanuel Saddleton was fat and scant
of breath, the mattock was heavy, and the Saint walked too
fast for him: he paused to take second wind at the end of the
first furlong.
Emmanuel,” said the holy lady, good-humoredly, for she
heard him puffing; "rest awhile, Emmanuel, and I'll tell you
what I want with you.”
Her auditor wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and
looked all attention and obedience.
Emmanuel,” continued she, “what did you and Father
Fothergill, and the rest of you, mean yesterday by burying that
drowned man so close to me? He died in mortal sin, Emman-
uel; no shrift, no unction, no absolution : why he might as well
have been excommunicated. He plagues me with his grinning,
and I can't have any peace in my shrine. You must howk him
up again, Emmanuel !"
“To be sure, madam,-my lady,--that is, your holiness,"
stammered Saddleton, trembling at the thought of the task
assigned him. “To be sure, your ladyship; only—that
is-
“Emmanuel,” said the Saint, "you'll do my bidding, or it
would be better you had !” and her eye changed from a dove's
eye to that of a hawk, and a flash came from it as bright as the
one from her little finger. The Clerk shook in his shoes; and,
again dashing the cold perspiration from his brow, followed the
footsteps of his mysterious guide.
The next morning all Chatham was in an uproar. The Clerk
of St. Bridget's had found himself at home at daybreak, seated
in his own arm-chair, the fire out, and—the tankard of ale out
too! Who had drunk it ?—where had he been ?-how had he
got home ?—all was a mystery !-he remembered a
mass of


62
GRAY DOLPHIN.
things, but nothing distinctly;" all was fog and fantasy. What
he could clearly recollect was that he had dug up the Grinning
Sailor, and that the Saint had helped to throw him into the river
again. All was thenceforth wonderment and devotion. Masses
were sung, tapers were kindled, bells were tolled; the monks
of St. Romuald had a solemn procession, the abbot at their
head, the sacristan at their tail, and the holy breeches of St.
Thomas à Becket in the centre ;-Father Fothergill brewed a
XXX puncheop of holy water. The rood of Gillingham was
deserted; the chapel of Rainham forsaken; every one who had
a soul to be saved flocked with his offering to St. Bridget's
shrine, and Emmanuel Saddleton gathered more fees from the
promiscuous piety of that one week than he had pocketed dur-
ing the twelve preceding months.
Meanwhile the corpse of the ejected reprobate oscillated like
a pendulum between Sheerness and Gillingham Reach. Now
borne by the Medway into the Western Swale, now carried by
the refluent tide back to the vicinity of its old quarters,-it
seemed as though the River god and Neptune were amusing
themselves with a game of subaqueous battledore, and had
chosen this unfortunate carcass as a marine shuttlecock. For
some time the alternation was kept up with great spirit, till
Boreas, interfering in the shape of a stiffish “Nor’wester,"
drifted the bone (and flesh) of contention ashore on the Shur-
land domain, where it lay in all the majesty of mud. It was
soon discovered by the retainers, and dragged from its oozy bed,
grinning worse than ever. Tidings of the godsend were of
course carried instantly to the castle; for the Baron was a very
great man; and if a dun cow had flown across his property un-
announced by the warder, the Baron would have kicked him,
the said warder, from the topmost battlement into the bottom-
most ditch,-a descent of peril, and one which “Ludwig the
Leaper," or the illustrious Trenck himself, might well have
shrunk from encountering.
"An't please your lordship” said Peter Periwinkle.
“No, villain! it does not please me!" roared the Baron.
His lordship was deeply engaged with a peck of Feversham
oysters: he doted on shellfish, hated interruption at meals, and
had not yet despatched more than twenty dozen of the “natives.”
.


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
63
“There's a body, my lord, washed ashore in the lower creek,"
said the seneschal.
The Baron was going to throw the shells at his head; but
paused in the act, and said, with much dignity,-
“Turn out the fellow's pockets !"
But the defunct had before been subjected to the double
scrutiny of Father Fothergill and the Clerk of St. Bridget’s.
It was ill gleaning after such hands; there was not a single
marayedi.
We have already said that Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of
the Isle of Sheppey, and of many a fair manor on the mainland,
was a man of worship. He had rights of freewarren, saccage
and sockage, cuisage and jambage, fosse and fork, infang theofe
and outfang theof; and all waifs and strays belonged to him
in fee simple.
“ Turn out his pockets !” said the knight.
“ An't please you, my lord, I must say as how they was
turned out afore, and the devil a rap's left.”
“Then bury the blackguard !"
“Please your lordship, he has been buried once."
“Then bury him again, and be - !” The Baron bestowed
a benediction.
The seneschal bowed low as he left the room, and the Baron
went on with his oysters.
Scarcely ten dozen more had vanished when Periwinkle re-
appeared.
“An't please you, my lord, Father Fothergill says as how
that it's the Grinning Sailor, and he won't bury him anyhow."
“Oh! he won't-won't he ?” said the Baron. Can it be won-
dered at that he called for his boots ?
Sir Robert de Shurland, Lord of Shurland and Minster, Baron
of Sheppey in comitatu Kent, was, as has been before hinted, a
very great man. He was also a very little man ; that is, he
was relatively great, and relatively little or physically little,
and metaphorically great-like Sir Sidney Smith and the late
Mr. Buonaparte. To the frame of a dwarf he united the soul
of a giant and the valor of a gamecock. Then, for so small a
man, his strength was prodigious; his fist would fell an ox, and
his kick-oh! his kick was tremendous, and, when he had his


64
GRAY DOLPHIN.
but
boots on, would—to use an expression of his own, which he had
picked up in the holy wars—would “send a man from Jericho
to June." He was bull-necked and bandy-legged; his chest
was broad and deep, his head large and uncommonly thick, his
eyes a little bloodshot, and his nose retroussé, with a remarkably
red tip. Strictly speaking, the Baron could not be called hand-
some; but his tout ensemble was singularly impressive; and
when he called for his boots everybody trembled, and dreaded
the worst.
“Periwinkle,” said the Baron, as he encased his better leg,
"let the grave be twenty feet deep !"
“ Your lordship’s command is law."
“ And, Periwinkle ”—Sir Robert stamped his left heel into
its receptacle—"and, Periwinkle, see that it be wide enough to
hold not exceeding two!”
"Ye-ye-yes, my lord."
And, Periwinkle—tell Father Fothergill I would fain speak
with his Reverence.”
“Yeye-yes, my lord.”
The Baron's beard was peaked : and his moustaches, stiff and
stumpy, projected horizontally, like those of a Tom Cat; he
twirled the one, he stroked the other, he drew the buckle of his
surcingle a thought tighter, and strode down the great staircase
three steps at a stride.
The vassals were assembled in the great hall of Shurland
Castle; every cheek was pale, every tongue was mute : expect-
ation and perplexity were visible on every brow. What would
his lordship do? Were the recusant anybody else, gyves to the
heels and hemp to the throat were but too good for him; but it
was Father Fothergill who had said “I won't;” and though the
Baron was a very great man, the Pope was a greater, and the
Pope was Father Fothergill's great friend-some people said he
was his uncle.
Father Fothergill was busy in the refectory trying conclu-
sions with a venison pasty, when he received the summons of
his patron to attend him in the chapel cemetery. Of course he
lost no time in obeying it, for obedience was the general rule in
Shurland Castle. If anybody, ever said “I won't,” it was the
exception; and, like all other exceptions, only proved the rule


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
65
the stronger. The Father was a friar of the Augustine persua-
sion ; a brotherhood which, having been planted in Kent some
few centuries earlier, had taken very kindly to the soil, and
overspread the county much as hops did some few centuries
later. He was plump and portly, a little thick-winded, especi-
ally after dinner, stood five feet four in his sandals, and weighed
hard upon eighteen stone. He was, moreover, a personage of
singular piety; and the iron girdle, which, he said, he wore
under his cassock to mortify withal, might have been well mis-
taken for the tire of a cart-wheel. When he arrived, Sir Robert
was pacing up and down by the side of a newly-opened grave.
“Benedicite! fair son” (the Baron was as brown as a cigar)
“Benedicite !" said the Chaplain.
The Baron was too angry to stand upon compliment. “Bury
me that grinning caitiff there!” quoth he, pointing to the de-
funct.
" It may not be, fair son," said the Friar; "he hath perished
without absolution."
“Bury the body l" roared Sir Robert.
“ Water and earth alike reject him," returned the Chaplain;
"holy St. Bridget herself—"
Bridget me no Bridgets !-do me thine office quickly, Sir
Shaveling! or, by the Piper that played before Moses-”
The oath was a fearful one; and whenever the Baron swore to
do mischiefs he was never known to perjure himself. He was
playing with the hilt of his sword. “Do me thine office, I say.
Give him his passport to Heaven.”
“He is already gone to Hell !” stammered the Friar.
“Then do you go after him!” thundered the Lord of Shur-
land.
His sword half leaped from its scabbard. No!—the tren-
chant blade, that had cut Suleiman Ben Malek Ben Buckskin
from helmet to chine, disdained to daub itself with the cerebel-
lum of a miserable monk ;-it leaped back again ;-and as the
Chaplain, scared at its flash, turned him in terror, the Baron
gave
him a kick !-one kick !—it was but one !--but such a one!
Despite its obesity, up flew his holy body in an angle of forty-
five degrees; then, having reached its highest point of elevation,
sank headlong into the open grave that yawned to receive it.
5


66
GRAY DOLPHIN.
66
If the reverend gentleman had possessed such a thing as a neck,
he had infallibly broken it! as he did not, he only dislocated
his vertebræbut that did quite as well. He was as dead as
ditch-water!
In with the other rascal!” said the Baron-and he was
obeyed; for there he stood in his boots. Mattock and shovel
made short work of it; twenty feet of superincumbent mold
pressed down alike the saint and the sinner. “Now sing a re-
quiem who list !” said the Baron, and his lordship went back to
his oysters.
The vassals at Castle Shurland were astounded, or, as the
Seneschal Hugh better expressed it, “perfectly conglomerated,"
by this event. What! murder a monk in the odor of sanctity—
and on consecrated ground too! They trembled for the health
of the Baron's soul. To the unsophisticated many it seemed
that matters could not have been much worse had he shot a
bishop's coach-horse-all looked for some signal judgment.
The melancholy catastrophe of their neighbors at Canterbury
was yet rife in their memories : not two centuries had elapsed
since those miserable sinners had cut off the tail of the blessed
St. Thomas's mule. The tail of the mule, it was well known,
had been forthwith affixed to that of the Mayor; and rumor
said it had since been hereditary in the corporation. The least
that could be expected was that Sir Robert should have a friar
tacked on to his for the term of his natural life! Some bolder
spirits there were, 'tis true, who viewed the matter in various
lights, according to their different temperaments and disposi-
tions; for perfect unanimity existed not even in the good old
times. The verderer, roistering Hob Roebuck, swore roundly,
“ 'Twere as good a deed as eat to kick down the chapel as well
as the monk.” Hob had stood there in a white sheet for kissing
Giles Miller's daughter. On the other hand, Simpkin Agnew,
the bell-ringer, doubted if the devil's cellar, which runs under
the bottomless abyss, were quite deep enough for the delinquent,
and speculated on the probability of a hole being dug in it for
his especial accommodation. The philosophers and economists
thought, with Saunders McBullock, the Baron's bagpiper, that
feckless monk more or less was nae great subject for a clam-
jamphry," especially as “the supply considerably exceeded the
a


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
67
demand;" while Malthouse, the tapster, was arguing to Dame
Martin that a murder now and then was a seasonable check to
population, without which the Isle of Sheppey would in time
be devoured, like a mouldy cheese, by inhabitants of its own
producing. Meanwhile, the Baron ate his oysters and thought
no more of the matter.
But this tranquillity of his lordship was not to last. A
couple of Saints had been seriously offended; and we have all
of us read at school that celestial minds are by no means in-
sensible to the provocations of anger. There were those who
expected that St. Bridget would come in person, and have the
friar up again, as she did the sailor; but perhaps her ladyship
did not care to trust herself within the walls of Shurland Castle.
To
say
the truth, it was scarcely a decent house for a female
Saint to be seen in. The Baron's gallantries, since he became
a widower, had been but too notorious"; and her own reputation
was a little blown upon in the earlier days of her earthly pil-
grimage: then things were so apt to be misrepresented-in
short, she would leave the whole affair to St. Austin, who, being
a gentleman, could interfere with propriety, avenge her affront
as well as his own, and leave no loophole for scandal. St.
Austin himself seems to have had his scruples, though of their
precise nature it would be difficult to determine, for it were idle
to suppose him at all afraid of the Baron's boots. Be this as it
may, the mode which he adopted was at once prudent and effi-
cacious. As an ecclesiastic, he could not well call the Baron
out—had his boots been out of the question; so he resolved to
have recourse to the law. Instead of Shurland Castle, there-
fore, he repaired forthwith to his own magnificent monastery,
situate just within the walls of Canterbury, and presented him-
self in a vision to its abbot. No one who has ever visited that
ancient city can fail to recollect the splendid gateway which
terminates the vista of St. Paul's Street, and stands there yet in
all its pristine beauty. The tiny train of miniature artillery
which now adorns its battlements is, it is true, an ornament of
a later date; and is said to have been added some centuries
after by a learned but jealous proprietor, for the purpose of
shooting any wiser man than himself who might chance to come
that way. Tradition is silent as to any discharge having taken


68
GRAY DOLPHIN.
place, nor can the oldest inhabitant of modern days recollect
any such occurrence.* Here it was, in a handsome chamber,
immediately over the lofty archway, that the Superior of the
monastery lay buried in a brief slumber, snatched from his
accustomed vigils. His mitre—for he was a mitred Abbot, and
ha a seat in parliament—rested on a table beside him; near it
stood a silver flagon of Gascony wine, ready, no doubt, for the
pious uses of the morrow. Fasting and watching had made him
more than usually somnolent, than which nothing could have
been better for the purpose of the Saint, who now appeared to
him radiant in all the colors of the rainbow.
“Anselm !” said the beatific vision,—“Anselm ! are you not a
pretty fellow to lie snoring there when your brethren are being
knocked at head, and Mother Church herself is menaced ?-It
is a sin and a shame, Anselm !”
What's the matter ?–Who are you ? cried the Abbot, rub-
bing his eyes, which the celestial splendor of his visitor had set
a winking. “Ave Maria! St. Austin himself! Speak, Beatis-
sime! what would you with the humblest of your votaries ?”
“Anselm !” said the Saint, a brother of our order, whose
soul Heaven assoilzie! hath been foully murdered. He hath
been ignominiously kicked to the death, Anselm; and there he
lieth cheek-by-jowl with a wretched carcass, which our sister
Bridget has turned out of her cemetery for unseemly grinning.
Arouse thee, Anselm !"
“Ay, so please you, Sanctissime !" said the Abbot. “I will
order forth with that thirty masses be said, thirty Paters, and
thirty Aves."
Thirty fools' heads !" interrupted his patron, who was a little
peppery.
“I will send for bell, book, and candle"
“Send for an inkhorn, Anselm. Write me now a letter to
his Holiness the Pope in good round terms, and another to the
Coroner, and another to the Sheriff, and seize me the never-
enough-to-be-anathematized villain who hath done this deed !
Hang him as high as Haman, Anselm !-up with him !--down
with his dwelling-place, root and branch, hearth-stone and roof-
66
* Since the appearance of the first edition of this Legend "the guns” have been
dismounted. Rumor hints at some alarm on the part of the Town Council,


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
69
#
tree,--down with it all, and sow the site with salt and saw-
dust!”
St. Austin, it will be perceived, was a radical reformer.
“Marry will I," quoth the Abbot, warming with the Saint's
eloquence; "ay, marry will I, and that instanter. But there is
one thing you have forgotten, most Beatified the name of the
culprit."
“Robert de Shurland.”
“ The Lord of Sheppey! Bless me!" said the Abbot, cross-
ing himself, “won't that be rather inconvenient ? Sir Robert
is a bold baron, and a powerful; blows will come and go, and
crowns will be cracked, and
“What is that to you, since yours will not be of the number?”
* Very true, Beatissime !—I will don me with speed, and do
your bidding.”
“Do so, Anselm !—fail not to hang the Baron, burn his
castle, confiscate his estate, and buy me two large wax candles
for my own particular shrine out of your share of the property."
With this solemn injunction the vision began to fade.
“One thing more!" cried the Abbot, grasping his rosary.
“What is that ?” asked the Saint.
“O Beate Augustine, ora pro
nobis !”
“Of course I shall,” said St. Austin. “Pax vobiscum !”-
and Abbot Anselm was left alone.
Within an hour all Canterbury was in commotion. A friar
had been murdered,—two friars—ten—twenty; a whole convent
had been assaulted, sacked, burnt,-all the monks had been
killed, and all the nuns had been kissed! Murder! fire! sacri-
lege! Never was city in such an uproar. From St. George's
gate to St. Dunstan's suburb, from the Donjon to the borough
of Staplegate, all was noise and hubbub. “ Where was it?"-
“When was it?"_“How was it ?” The Mayor caught up his
chain, the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town
Clerk put on his spectacles. “Who was he?”—“What was he?"
-“ Where was he?”—He should be hanged,-he should be
burned, he should be broiled,- he should be fried,he should
be scraped to death with red-hot oyster shells! “Who was he ?"
“ What was his name?”
The Abbot's Apparitor drew forth his roll and read aloud :-


70
GRAY DOLPHIN.
"Sir Robert de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron of Shurland
and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey."
The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen took
off their gowns, the Town Clerk put his pen behind his ear. It
was a county business altogether :—the Sheriff had better call
out the
posse comitatus.
While saints and sinners were thus leaguing against him, the
Baron de Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast. He had
passed a tranquil night, undisturbed by dreams of cowl or
capuchin; nor was his appetite more affected than his con-
science. On the contrary, he sat rather longer over his meal
than usual: luncheon time came, and he was ready as ever for
his oysters; but scarcely had Dame Martin opened his first half-
dozen when the warder's horn was heard from the barbican.
“Who the devil's that?” said Sir Robert. “I'm not at
home, Periwinkle. I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I
won't be at home to anybody."
“ An't please your lordship,” answered the Seneschal, “Paul
Prior hath given notice that there is a body"
“Another body!” roared the Baron. “Am I to be everlast-
ingly plagued with bodies—no time allowed me to swallow a
morsel ? Throw it into the moat!"
“So please you, my lord, it is a body of horse,--and-and
Paul says there is a still larger body of foot behind it; and he
thinks, my lord--that is, he does not know, but he thinks-and
we all think, my lord—that they are coming to—to besiege the
castle!”
* Besiege the castle! Who? What? What for ?”
“Paul says, my lord, that he can see the banner of St. Aus-
tin, and the bleeding heart of Hamo de Crevecour, the Abbot's
chief vassal; and there is John de Northwood, the sheriff, with
his red cross engrailed; and Heyer, and Leybourne, and Heaven
knows how many more; and they are all coming on as fast as
ever they can.”
Periwinkle," said the Baron, “ up with the drawbridge ;
down with the portcullis. Bring me a cup of canary and my
nightcap. I won't be bothered with them: I shall go to bed.”
To bed, my lord !” cried Periwinkle, with a look that seemed
to say, “He's crazy!"


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
71
At this moment the shrill tones of a trumpet were heard to
sound thrice from the champaign. It was the signal for par-
ley. The Baron changed his mind: instead of going to bed,
he went to the ramparts.
“Well, rapscallions! and what now?" said the Baron.
A herald, two pursuivants, and a trumpeter, occupied the
foreground of the scene; behind them, some three hundred paces
off, upon a rising ground, was drawn up in battle array the
main body of the ecclesiastical forces.
“Hear you, Robert de Shurland, Knight, Baron of Shurland
and Minster, and Lord of Sheppey, and know all men by these
presents, that I do hereby attach you, the said Robert, of mur-
der and sacrilege, now or of late done and committed by you,
the said Robert, contrary to the peace of our Sovereign Lord the
King, his crown and dignity; and I do hereby require and charge
you, the said Robert, to forth with surrender and give up your
own proper person, together with the castle of Shurland afore-
said, in order that the same may be duly dealt with according
to law. And here standeth John de Northwood, Esquire, good
man and true, sheriff of this his Majesty's most loyal county of
Kent, to enforce the same, if need be, with his posse comitatus-
“ His what ?" said the Baron.
“ His posse comitatus, and
“ Go to Bath !” said the Baron.
A defiance so contemptuous roused the ire of the adverse
commanders. A volley of missiles rattled about the Baron's
ears. Nightcaps avail little against contusions. He left the
walls and returned to the great hall.
“Let them pelt away,” quoth the Baron: "there are no win-
dows to break, and they can't get in.” So he took his after-
noon nap, and the siege went on.
Towards evening his lordship awoke, and grew tired of the
din. Guy Pearson, too, had got a black eye from a brickbat,
and the assailants were clambering over the outer wall. So
the Baron called for his Sunday hauberk of Milan steel and
his great two-handed sword with the terrible name. It was the
fashion in feudal times to give names to swords: King Arthur's
was christened Excalibar; the Baron called his Tickletoby,
and whenever he took it in hand it was no joke.
<<


72
GRAY DOLPHIN.
ers.
"Up with the portcullis ! down with the bridge!" said Sir
Robert; and out he sallied, followed by the élite of his retain-
Then there was a pretty to-do. Heads flew one way,
arms and legs another. Round went Tickletoby; and wher-
ever it alighted, down came horse and man. The Baron ex-
celled himself that day. All that he had done in Palestine
faded in the comparison; he had fought for fun there, but now
it was for life and lands. Away went John de Northwood;
away went William of Hever and Roger of Leybourne. Hamo
de Crevecoeur, with the church vassals and the banner of St.
Austin, had been gone some time. The siege was raised, and
the Lord of Sheppey was left alone in his glory.
But, brave as the Baron undoubtedly was, and total as had
been the defeat of his enemies, it cannot be supposed that La
Stoccata would be allowed to carry it away thus. It has before
been hinted that Abbot Anselm had written to the Pope, and
Boniface the Eighth piqued himself on his punctuality as a
correspondent in all matters connected with church discipline.
He sent back an answer by return of post; and by it all Chris-
tian people were strictly enjoined to aid in exterminating the
offender, on pain of the greater excommunication in this world,
and a million of years of purgatory in the next. But then,
again, Boniface the Eighth was rather at a discount in England
just then. He had affronted Longshanks, as the royal lieges
had nicknamed their monarch; and Longshanks had been
rather sharp upon the clergy in consequence. If the Baron
de Shurland could but get the King's pardon for what, in his
cooler moments, he admitted to be a peccadillo, he might sniff
at the Pope, and bid him “ do his devilmost."
Fortune, who, as the poet says, delights to favor the bold,
stood his friend on this occasion. Edward had been for some
time collecting a large force on the coast of Kent, to carry on
his French wars for the recovery of Guienne; he was expected
shortly to review it in person; but, then, the troops lay princi-
pally in cantonments about the mouth of the Thames, and his
Majesty was to come down by water. What was to be done?
the royal barge was in sight, and John de Northwood and
Hamo de Crevecậur had broken up all the boats to boil their
camp-kettles. A truly great mind is never without resources.


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
73
a mer-
Bring me my boots !" said the Baron.
They brought him his boots, and his dapple-gray steed along
with them. Such a courser! all blood and bone, short-backed,
broad-chested, and—but that he was a little ewe-necked-fault-
less in form and figure. The Baron sprang upon his back, and
dashed at once into the river.
The barge which carried Edward Longshanks and his for-
tunes had by this time nearly reached the Nore; the stream
was broad and the current strong, but Sir Robert and his steed
were almost as broad, and a great deal stronger. After breast-
ing the tide gallantly for a couple of miles, the knight was near
enough to hail the steersman.
“What have we got here?” said the King. “It's
maid,” said one. “It's a grampus," said another. "It's the
devil,” said a third. But they were all wrong; it was only
Robert de Shurland. “Grammercy," said the King, “that
fellow was never born to be drowned !”
It has been said before that the Baron had fought in the Holy
Wars; in fact, he had accompanied Longshanks, when only heir
apparent, in his expedition twenty-five years before, although
his name is unaccountably omitted by Sir Harris Nicolas in his
list of crusaders. He had been present at Acre when Amirand
of Joppa stabbed the prince with a poisoned dagger, and had
lent Princess Eleanor his own tooth-brush after she had sucked
out the venom from the wound. He had slain certain Saracens,
contented himself with his own plunder, and never dunned the
commissariat for arrears of pay. Of course he ranked high in
Edward's good graces, and had received the honor of knight-
hood at his hands on the field of battle.
In one so circumstanced it cannot be supposed that such a
trifle as the killing of a frowzy friar would be much resented,
even had he not taken so bold a measure to obtain his pardon.
His petition was granted, of course, as soon as asked ; and so it
would have been had the indictment drawn up by the Canter-
bury town-clerk, viz., "That he, the said Robert de Shurland,
etc., had then and there, with several, to wit, one thousand,
pairs of boots, given sundry, to wit, two thousand, kicks, and
therewith and thereby killed divers, to wit, ten thousand,
Austin Friars,” been true to the letter.


74
GRAY DOLPHIN.
.
Thrice did the gallant gray circumnavigate the barge, while
Robert de Winchelsey, the chancellor and archbishop to boot,
was making out, albeit with great reluctance, the royal pardon.
The interval was sufficiently long to enable bis Majesty, who,
gracious as he was, had always an eye to business, just to hint
that the gratitude he felt towards the Baron was not unmixed
with a lively sense of services to come; and that, if life were
now spared him, common decency must oblige him to make
himself useful. Before the archbishop, who had scalded his
fingers with the wax in affixing the great seal, had time to take
them out of his mouth, all was settled, and the Baron de Shur-
land had pledged himself to be forth with in readiness, cum suis,
to accompany his liege lord to Guienne.
With the royal pardon secured in his vest, boldly did his
lordship turn again to the shore; and as boldly did his courser
oppose his breadth of chest to the stream. It was a work of
no common difficulty or danger; a steed of less “mettle and
bone” had long since sunk in the effort: as it was, the Baron's
boots were full of water, and Gray Dolphin's chamfrain more
than once dipped beneath the wave. The convulsive snorts of
the noble animal showed his distress ; each instant they became
more loud and frequent; when his hoof touched the strand, and
“the horse and his rider" stood once again in safety on the
shore.
Rapidly dismounting, the Baron was loosening the girths of
his demi-pique, to give the panting animal breath, when he was
aware of as ugly an old woman as he had ever clapped eyes
upon, peeping at him under the horse's belly.
“Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make much
of your steed!” cried the hag, shaking at him her long and
bony finger. “Groom to the hide, and corn to the manger!
He has saved your life, Robert Shurland, for the nonce; but he
shall yet be the means of your losing it for all that !”
The Baron started: “What's that you say, you old fagot ?”
He ran round by his horse's tail; the woman was gone !
The Baron paused; his great soul was not to be shaken by
trifles; he looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated the word
“Humbug!" then, slinging the bridle across his arm, walked
slowly on in the direction of the castle.


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
75
The appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the
crone had, however, made an impression; every step he took he
became more thoughtful. “ 'Twould be deuced provoking,
though, if he should break my neck after all.” He turned and
gazed at Dolphin with the scrutinizing eye of a veterinary sur-
geon. “I'll be shot if he is not groggy!” said the Baron.
With his lordship, like another great commander, “Once to
be in doubt, was once to be resolved :" it would never do to go to
the wars on a rickety prad. He dropped the rein, drew forth
Tickletoby, and, as the enfranchised Dolphin, good easy horse,
stretched out his ewe-neck to the herbage, struck off his head
at a single blow. “There, you lying old beldame!” said the
Baron ; “now take him away to the knacker's.”
Three years were come and gone. King Edward's French
wars were over; both parties having fought till they came to a
stand-still, shook hands, and the quarrel, as usual, was patched
up by a royal marriage. This happy event gave his Majesty
leisure to turn his attention to Scotland, where things, through
the intervention of William Wallace, were looking rather
queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip now allowed of his
fighting the Scotch in peace and quietness, the monarch lost no
time in marching his long legs across the border, and the short
ones of the Baron followed him of course. At Falkirk, Tickle-
toby was in great request; and in the year following, we find a
contemporary poet hinting at his master's prowess under the
walls of Caerlaverock-
Obec eus fu achiminez
Li beau Robert de Shurland
Ki kant seoit sur le chebal
Ne semblo it home ke someille.
A quatrain which Mr. Simpkinson translates,
“With them was marching
The good Robert de Shurland,
Who, when seated on horseback,
Does not resemble a man asleep!”
So thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have proved


76
GRAY DOLPHIN.
himself, that the bard subsequently exclaims in an ecstasy of
admiration,
Si le estoie une pucelette
Je li donrie ceur et cors
Tant est de lu bons li recors.
“If I were a young maiden,
I would give my heart and person,
So great is his fame!”
Fortunately the poet was a tough old monk of Exeter ; since
such a present to a nobleman, now in his grand climacteric,
would hardly have been worth the carriage. With the reduc-
tion of this stronghold of the Maxwells seem to have concluded
the Baron's military services; as on the very first day of the
fourteenth century we find him once more landed on his native
shore, and marching, with such of his retainers as the wars had
left him, towards the hospitable shelter of Shurland Castle. It
was then, upon that very beach, some hundred yards distant
from high-water mark, that his eye fell upon something like an
ugly old woman in a red cloak. She was seated on what seemed
to be a large stone, in an interesting attitude, with her elbows
resting upon her knees, and her chin upon her thumbs. The
Baron started: the remembrance of his interview with a similar
personage in the same place, some three years since, flashed
upon his recollection. He rushed towards the spot, but the
form was gone ;-nothing remained but the seat it had appeared
to occupy. This, on examination, turned out to be no stone,
but the whitened skull of a dead horse! A tender remem-
brance of the deceased Gray Dolphin shot a momentary pang
into the Baron's bosom; he drew the back of his hand across
his face; the thought of the hag's prediction in an instant rose,
and banished all softer emotions. In utter contempt of his own
weakness, yet with a tremor that deprived his redoubtable kick
of half its wonted force, he spurned the relic with his foot.
One word alone issued from his lips, elucidatory of what was
passing in his mind-it long remained imprinted on the mem-
ory
of his faithful followers--that word was “Gammon !” The
skull bounded across the beach till it reached the very margin
of the stream ;-one instant more and it would be engulfed
for ever.
At that moment a loud “Ha! ha! ha!” was dis-


A LEGEND OF SHEPPEY.
77
tinctly heard by the whole train to issue from its bleached and
toothless jaws: it sank beneath the flood in a horse laugh.
Meanwhile Sir Robert de Shurland felt an odd sort of sensa-
tion in his right foot. His boots had suffered in the wars. Great
pains had been taken for their preservation. They had been
“soled” and “heeled” more than once ;-had they been “go-
loshed,” their owner might have defied Fate! Well has it been
said that “there is no such thing as a trifle:” A nobleman's
life depended upon a question of ninepence.
The Baron marched on; the uneasiness in his foot increased.
He plucked off his boot ;-a horse's tooth was sticking in his
great toe!
The result may be anticipated. Lame as he was, his lordship,
with characteristic decision, would hobble on to Shurland; his
walk increased the inflammation; a flagon of aqua vitæ did not
mend matters. He was in a high fever; he took to his bed.
Next morning the toe presented the appearance of a Bedford-
shire carrot; by dinner-time it had deepened to a beet-root; and
when Bargrave, the leech, at last sliced it off, the gangrene was
too confirmed to admit of remedy. Dame Martin thought it
high time to send for Miss Margaret, who, ever since her
mother's death, had been living with her maternal aunt, the
abbess, in the Ursuline convent at Greenwich. The young lady
came, and with her came one Master Ingoldsby, her cousin-
german by the mother's side; but the Baron was too far gone
in the dead-thraw to recognize either. He died as he lived,
unconquered and unconquerable. His last words were—“Tell
the old hag she may go to—.” Whither remains a secret.
He expired without fully articulating the place of her destina-
tion.
But who and what was the crone who prophesied the catas-
trophe? Ay, “that is the mystery of this wonderful history.”
Some say it was Dame Fothergill, the late confessor's mamma;
others, St. Bridget herself; others thought it was nobody at all,
but only a phantom conjured up by conscience. As we do not
know, we decline giving an opinion.
And what became of the Clerk of Chatham ?–Mr. Simpkin-
son avers that he lived to a good old age, and was at last hanged
by Jack Cade, with his inkhorn about his neck, for “setting


78
GRAY DOLPHIN.
66
Em-.
boys copies.” In support of this he adduces his name
manuel," and refers to the historian Shakspeare. Mr. Peters,
on the contrary, considers this to be what he calls one of Mr.
Simpkinson's“ Anacreonisms," inasmuch as, at the introduction
of Mr. Cade's reform measure, the Clerk, if alive, would have
been hard upon two hundred years old. The probability is that
the unfortunate alluded to was his great-grandson.
Margaret Shurland in due course became Margaret Ingoldsby:
her portrait still hangs in the gallery at Tappington. The feat-
ures are handsome, but shrewish, betraying, as it were, a touch
of the old Baron's temperament; but we never could learn that
she actually kicked her husband. She brought him a very
pretty fortune in chains, owches, and Saracen ear-rings; the
barony, being a male fief, reverted to the Crown.
In the abbey-church at Minster may yet be seen the tomb of
a recumbent warrior, clad in the chain-mail of the thirteenth
century.* His hands are clasped in prayer; his legs, crossed
in that position so prized by Templars in ancient and tailors in
modern days, bespeak him a soldier of the faith in Palestine.
Close behind his dexter calf lies, sculptured in bold relief, a
horse's head : and a respectable elderly lady, as she shows the
monument, fails not to read her auditors a fine moral lesson on
the sin of ingratitude, or to claim a sympathizing tear to the
memory of poor “Gray Dolphin !"
* Subsequent to the first appearance of the foregoing narrative, the tomb alluded to
has been opened during the course of certain repairs which the church has undergone,
Mr. Simpkinson, who was present at the exhumation of the body within, and has en-
riched his collection with three of its grinders, says the bones of one of the great toes
were wanting: He speaks in terms of great admiration at the thickness of the skull,
and is of opinion that the skeleton is that of a great patriot much addicted to Lundy-
foot.


THE GHOST.
79
It is on my own personal reminiscences that I draw for the
following story: the scene of its leading event was most familiar
to me in early life. If the principal actor in it be yet living,
he must have reached a very advanced age. He was often
at the Hall, in my infancy, on professional visits. It is, how-
ever, only from those who "prated of his whereabouts” that I
learned the history of this adventure with
The Ghost.
WHERE stands a City,-neither large nor small, -
Its air and situation sweet and pretty;
It matters very little—if at all-
Whether its denizens are dull or witty,
Whether the ladies there are short or tall,
Brunettes or blonds, only, there stands a city!
Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute
That there's a Castle and a Cobbler in it.
A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes,
And kings and heroes lie entombed within her;
There pious Saints in marble pomp repose,
Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a sinner;
There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose
Rolled its loud diapason after dinner;
And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket,
-Till four assassins came from France to crack it.
The Castle was a huge and antique mound,
Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver,
Ere those abominable guns were found,
To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver.
It stands upon a gently rising ground,
Sloping down gradually to the river,
Resembling (to compare great things with smaller)
A well-scooped, mouldy Stilton cheese—but taller.


80
THE GHOST.
The Keep, I find, 's been sadly altered lately,
And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous,
In martial panoply so grand and stately,
Its walls are filled with money-making fellows,
And stuffed, unless I'm misinformed greatly,
With leaden pipes, and coke, and coals, and bellows;
In short, so great a change has come to pass,
'Tis now a manufactory of Gas.
But to my tale. Before this profanation,
And ere its ancient glories were cut short all,
A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station
In a small house, just opposite the portal;
His birth, his parentage, and education,
I know but little of—a strange, odd mortal;
His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous;
His name was Mason-he'd been christened Nicholas.
Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm,
And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion;
But, spite of all her piety, her arm
She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion;
And, being of a temper somewhat warm,
Would now and then seize, upon small occasion,
A stick, or stool, or anything that round did lie,
And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.
No matter !—'tis a thing that's not uncommon,
'Tis what we all have heard and most have read of
I mean a bruising, pugilistic woman,
Such as I own I entertain a dread of,
-And so did Nick, whom sometimes there would come on
A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off,
Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in,
She shone so much in “facers” and in “ fibbing."
“ There's time and place for all things,” said a sage
(King Solomon, I think), and this I can say,
Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage,
Boxing may be a very pretty Fancy,


THE GHOST.
81
When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage;
—'Tis not so well in Susan, Jane, or Nancy
To get well milled by any one's an evil,
But by a lady—'tis the very devil.
And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble
(At least his worst) was this his rib's propensity;
For sometimes from the alehouse he would hobble,
His senses lost in a sublime immensity
Of cogitation; then he couldn't cobble-
And then his wife would often try the density
Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might,
As fast as kitchen-wenches strike a light.
Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife,
Of this same striking had a morbid dread;
He hated it like poison-or his wife
A vast antipathy !—but so he said ;
And very often, for a quiet life,
On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed,
Grope darkling in, and, soon as at the door
He heard his lady, he'd pretend to snore.
One night, then, ever partial to society,
Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow),
Went to a Club I should have said Society-
At the “City Arms," once called the Porto Bello;
A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I
Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow;
There they discuss the tax on salt and leather,
And change of ministers and change of weather.
In short, it was a kind of British Forum,
Like John Gale Jones's, erst in Piccadilly,
Only they managed things with more decorum,
And the orations were not quite so silly;
Far different questions, too, would come before 'em,
Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye,
Their London prototypes were always willing
To give one quantum suff. of—for a shilling.
6


82
THE GHOST.
It more resembled one of later date,
And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow Street,
Where kindlier-natured souls do congregate;
And, though there are who deem that same a low street,
Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate
And genuine humor, it's surpassed by no street,
When the “Chief Baron” enters, and assumes
To "rule" o'er mimic “ Thesigers" and "Broughams.”
Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults,
And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper;
Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz,
How Gaslights differ from the Delphic Vapor,
Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts,
And what the Romans wrote on ere they'd paper.
This night the subject of their disquisitions
Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprites, and Apparitions.
One learned gentleman, “a sage, grave man,"
Talked of the Ghost in Hamlet, “sheathed in steel ;"
His well-read friend, who next to speak began,
Said “That was Poetry, and nothing real;"
A third, of more extensive learning, ran
To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal,-
Of sheeted spectres spoke with shortened breath,
And thrice he quoted “Drelincourt on Death.”
Nick smoked and smoked, and trembled as he heard
The point discussed, and all they said upon it:
How, frequently, some murdered man appeared,
To tell his wife and children who had done it;
Or how a Miser's ghost, with grisly beard,
And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet,
Wandered about to watch his buried money!
When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One-he
Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture
Impended from his fond and faithful She;
Nor could he well to pardon him expect her,
For he had promised to “ be home to tea;"


THE GHOST.
83
But having luckily the key o' the back door,
He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he
Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze,
And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.
Vain, fruitless hope !—The wearied sentinel
At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,
He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;
Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,
When slumbering on her post, the mouse may go-
But
woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,
-Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.
Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread;
She heard the key slow creaking in the door,
Spied, through the gloom obscure, towards the bed
Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before;
When, bang, she threw a something at his head,
And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor;
While she exclaimed, with her indignant face on-
“How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason ?”
Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated,
Especially the length of her oration-
Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated,
Roused by the bump into a good set passion,
So great that more than once he execrated,
Ere he crawled into bed in his usual fashion;
-The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say,
He ducked below the clothes—and there he lay!
'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead,
And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite
Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
To play his pranks near some poor wretch’s bed,
Sleeping, perhaps serenely as a porpoise,
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.


84
THE GHOST.
Not so our Nicholas : his meditations
Still to the same tremendous theme recurred,
The same dread subject of the dark narrations,
Which, backed with such authority, he'd heard:
Lost in his own horrific contemplations,
He pondered o’er each well-remembered word;
When at the bed's foot, close beside the post,
He verily believed he saw-a Ghost !
Plain, and more plain, the unsubstantial Sprite
To his astonished gaze each moment grew;
Ghastly and gaunt, it reared its shadowy height,
Of more than mortal seeming to the view,
And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew
A tattered winding-sheet, of course all white;-
The moon that moment peeping through a cloud,
Nick very plainly saw it through the shroud !
And now those matted locks, which never yet
Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,
Their long-contracted amity forget,
And spring asunder with elastic force;
Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,
Whose ruby cincture crowned that brow of jet,
Uprose in agony—the Gorgon's head
Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.
From every pore distilled a clammy dew,
Quaked every limb—the candle, too, no doubt,
En règle, would have burnt extremely blue,
But Nick unluckily had put it out;
And he, though naturally bold and stout,
In short, was in a most tremendous stew ;-
The room was filled with a sulphureous smell,
But where that came from Mason could not tell.
All motionless the Spectre stood—and now
Its rev’rend form more clearly shone confest.
From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow
Descended o'er its venerable breast;


THE GHOST.
85
The thin gray hairs, that crowned its furrowed brow,
Told of years long gone by.-An awful guest
It stood, and with an action of command,
Beckoned the Cobbler with its wan right hand.
Whence and what art thou, Execrable Shape ?”
Nick might have cried, could he have found a tongue,
But his distended jaws could only gape,
And not a sound
upon
the welkin rung;
His gooseberry orbs seemed as they would have sprung
Forth from their sockets-like a frightened Ape
He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright,
And shook, and grinned, and chattered with affright.
And still the shadowy finger, long and lean,
Now beckoned Nick, now pointed to the door ;
And many an ireful glance, and frown, between,
The angry visage of the Phantom wore,
As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more
Than stare, without e'en asking, “What d' ye
mean?”
Because, as we are told-a sad old joke, too-
Ghosts, like the ladies, “never speak till spoke to.”
Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And followed, quaking, where the Spectre led.
And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
The tenant of the tomb passed slowly on;
Each mazy turning of the humble shed
Seemed to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
As though the domicile had been his own,
Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
Had almost broke his nose against the mop.


86
THE GHOST.
Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound
The door upon its hinges open flew;
And forth the Spirit issued-yet around
It turned, as if its follower's fears it knew,
And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seemed melting in her beam.
Beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade,
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
The Phantom held its way—and though afraid
Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.
Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess
At length they reached a court obscure and lone
It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness,
The blackened walls with ivy all o’ergrown;
The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress,
Disturbed upon her solitary throne,
As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, to venture there!
-The apparition paused, and would have spoke,
Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke,
And loudly 'gan his early matins sing;
And then“ it started like a guilty thing,"
As that shrill clarion the silence broke.
-We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew
The appalling sound of “Cock-a-doodle-do!”
The vision was no more-and Nick alone-
“His streamers waving” in the midnight wind,
Which through the ruins ceased not to groan ;
-His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,
-


THE GHOST.
87
And, worst of all, he knew not where to find
The ring,—which made him most his fate bemoan-
The iron ring, no doubt of some trap-door,
'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.
“ What's to be done?” he cried; “ 'Twere vain to stay
Here in the dark without a single clue-
Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray!
Fore George, I'm vastly puzzled what to do”
(Then clapped his hand behind),—“'Tis chilly, toom
I'll mark the spot, and come again by day.
What can I mark it by ?-Oh, here's the wall-
The mortar's yielding—here I'll stick my awl!"
Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
A loud, a long-protracted note of woe,
Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
And o'er the side the masts in thunder go;
While on the deck resistless billows break,
· And drag their victims to the gulfs below;
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.
Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry,
Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream-
For dream it was ;-and all his visions high,
Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream-
And still he listens with averted eye,
When gibing neighbors make“ the Ghost” their theme;
While ever from that hour they all declare
That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!


88
THE CYNOTAPH.
CONFOUND not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the fol-
lowing monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of
“Yow-Yow-ing" memory. Tray was an attached favorite of
many years' standing. Most people worth loving have had a
friend of this kind; Lord Byron says he "never had but one,
and here he (the dog, not the nobleman) lies !”
The Cynotaph.
Poor Tray charmant!
Poor Tray de mon ami!
Dog-bury and Vergers.
H! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
Now his fleeting breath has passed away ?-
Seventeen years, I can venture to say,
Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay,
As though every one of his months was May,
And the whole of his life one long holiday-
Now he's a lifeless lump of clay,
Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?
I am almost tempted to think it hard
That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard,
Where the green willows wave O'er the peaceful grave,
Which holds all that once was honest and brave,
Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true;
Qualities, Tray, that were found in you.
But it may not be-yon sacred ground,
By holiest feelings fenced around,
May ne'er within its hallowed bound
Receive the dust of a soulless hound.
I would not place him in yonder fane,
Where the midday sun through the storied pane
Throws on the pavement a crimson stain;
Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing
O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King,
With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing.


THE CYNOTAPH.
89
No come what may, My gentle Tray
Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor,
Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder
Whom you see on their backs, In stone or in wax,
Though the Sacristans now are
“ forbidden to ax"
For what Mr. Hume calls “ a scandalous tax;"
While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks-
No!—Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby
'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey.
Besides, in the place They say there's not space
To bury what wet-nurses call a “Babby.”
Even “ Rare Ben Jonson,” that famous wight,
I am told, is interred there bolt upright,
In just such a posture, beneath his bust,
As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust.
The epitaph, too, Would scarcely do:
For what could it say, but "Here lies Tray,
A very good kind of a dog in his day!"
And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it
Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet.
No! no !—The Abbey may do very well
For a feudal“ Nob,” or poetical “Swell,”
“Crusaders,” or “Poets," or "Knights of St. John,"
Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on
To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintoune.
Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle,
“Sir Cravan,” “Sir Gael," and "Sir Campbell of Saddell”
(Who, as poor Hook said, when he heard of the feat,
“Was somehow knocked out of his family-seat");
The Esquires of the body To my Lord Tomnoddy;
“Sir Fairlie,” “ Sir Lambe,”
And the “Knight of the Ram,”
The “Knight of the Rose," and the “Knight of the Dragon,"
Who, save at the flagon, And prog in the wagon,
The newspapers tell us did little "to brag on;"
And more, though the Muse knows but little concerning 'em,
“Sir Hopkins," “Sir Popkins,” “Sir Gage,” and “Sir Jerning-
ham,”-


90
THE CYNOTAPH.
All Preux Chevaliers, in friendly rivalry
Who should best bring back the glory of Chi-valry.-
-(Pray be so good, for the sake of my song,
To pronounce here the ante-penultimate long;
Or some hyper-critic will certainly cry,
“The word 'Chivalry' is but a rhyme to the eye.”
And I own it is clear A fastidious ear
Will be, more or less, always annoyed with you when you
Insert any rhyme that's not perfectly genuine.
As to pleasing the “eye,” 'Tisn't worth while to try,
Since Moore and Tom Campbell themselves admit “Spinach”
Is perfectly antiphonetic to “Greenwich.”)—
But stay!—I say !
Let me pause while I may-
This digression is leading me sadly astray
From my object-a grave for my poor dog Tray!
I would not place him beneath thy walls,
And proud o'ershadowing dome, St. Paul's!
Though I've always considered Sir Christopher Wren,
As an architect, one of the greatest of men;
And, talking of Epitaphs-much I admire his,
“Circumspice si Monumentum requiris;"
Which an erudite Verger translated to me,
“ If you ask for his monument, Sir-come-spy-see !"-
No!—I should not know where To place him there;
I would not have him by surly Johnson be ;-
Or that queer-looking horse that is rolling on Ponsonby ;-
Or those ugly minxes The sister Sphynxes,
Mixed creatures, half lady, half lioness, ergo
(Denon says), the emblems of Leo and Virgo;
On one of the backs of which singular jumble,
Sir Ralph Abercrombie is going to tumble,
With a thump which alone were enough to despatch him,
If the Scotchman in front shouldn't happen to catch him.
T
1
No! I'd not have him there,-nor nearer the door,
Where the man and the Angel have got Sir John Moore,*
* See note at end of “The Cynotaph."


THE CYNOTAPH.
91
And are quietly letting him down through the floor,
By Gillespie, the one who escaped, at Vellore,
Alone from the row; Neither he nor Lord Howe
Would like to be plagued with a little Bow-wow.
No, Tray, we must yield, And go further a-field;
To lay you by Nelson were downright effront'ry;
-We'll be off from the City, and look at the country.
It shall not be there, In that sepulchred square,
Where folks are interred for the sake of the air
(Though, pay but the dues, they could hardly refuse
To Tray what they grant to Thugs, and Hindoos,
Turks, Infidels, Heretics, Jumpers, and Jews),
Where the tombstones are placed In the very best taste,
At the feet and the head of the elegant Dead,
And no one's received who's not “buried in lead :"
For, there lie the bones of Deputy Jones,
Whom the widow's tears and the orphan's groans
Affected as much as they do the stones
His executors laid on the Deputy's bones;
Little rest, poor knave! Would Tray have in his
grave;
Since Spirits, 'tis plain, Are sent back again,
To roam round their bodies,—the bad ones in pain,-
Dragging after them sometimes a heavy jack-chain;
Whenever they met, alarmed by its groans, his
Ghost all night long would be barking at Jones's.
Nor shall he be laid By that cross old maid,
Miss Penelope Bird,-of whom it is said
All the dogs in the parish were ever afraid.
He must not be placed By one so strait-laced
In her temper, her taste, her morals, and waist.
For 'tis said, when she went up to Heaven, and St. Peter,
Who happened to meet her, Came forward to greet her,
She pursed up with scorn every vinegar feature,
And bade him “Get out for a horrid Male Creature !"
So the Saint, after looking as if he could eat her,
Not knowing, perhaps, very well how to treat her,


92
THE CYNOTAPH.
And not being willing, -or able,-to beat her,
Sent her back to her grave till her temper grew sweeter,
With an epithet which I decline to repeat here.
No,-if Tray were interred By Penelope Bird,
No dog would be e'er so be-“whelp”ed and be-“ cur”red-
All the night long her cantankerous Sprite
Would be running about in the pale moonlight,
Chasing him round, and attempting to lick
The ghost of poor Tray with the ghost of a stick.
Stay !-let me see - Ay-here it shall be
At the root of this gnarled and time-worn tree,
Where Tray and I Would often lie,
And watch the bright clouds as they floated by
In the broad expanse of the clear blue sky,
When the sun was bidding the world good-bye;
And the plaintive Nightingale, warbling nigh,
Poured forth her mournful melody;
While the tender Wood-pigeon's cooing cry
Has made me say to myself, with a sigh,
“How nice you would eat with a steak in a pie!”.
Ay, here it shall be l-far, far from the view
of the noisy world and its maddening crew;
Simple and few, Tender and true,
The lines o'er his grave.—They have, some of them, too,
The advantage of being remarkably new.
Epitaph.
Affliction sore Long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain !
Grown blind, alas ! he'd Some Prussic Acid,
And that put him out of his pain!
NOTE, PAGE 90.
In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain
beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might have been the
production of Lord Byron's Muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor, some-


THE CYNOTAPH.
93
what indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the Rev.
Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up
in
the person of a soi-disant “Doctor Marshall,” who turned out to be a
Durhamn blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a
certain “Doctor Peppercorn" put forth his pretensions, to what he
averred was the only “true and original" version, viz.-
Not a sous had he got,-not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the Club returning;
We twigged the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him:
And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshall cloak around him.
“The Doctor's as drunk as the devil,” we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head
Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.-
Loudly they talked of his money that's gone,
And his Lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “One o'clock !” bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walked down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.
Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.—VIRGIL.
I wrote the lines—* * owned them he told stories !
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.


94
THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
The Leech of Folkestone.
R
EADER, were you ever bewitched ?—I do not mean by a
“white wench’s black eye,” or by love-potions imbibed
from a ruby lip;—but, were you ever really and bona fide
bewitched, in the true Matthew Hopkins sense of the word ?
Did you ever, for instance, find yourself from head to heel one
vast complication of cramps ?-or burst out into sudorific exu-
dation like a cold thaw, with the thermometer at zero? Were
your eyes ever turned upside down, exhibiting nothing but
their whites? Did you ever vomit a paper of crooked pins ?
or expectorate Whitechapel needles? These are genuine and
undoubted marks of possession; and if you never experienced
any of them,—why, "happy man be his dole!”
Yet such things have been : yea, we are assured, and that on
no mean authority, still are.
The World, according to the best geographers, is divided into
Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Romney Marsh. In this
last-named and fifth quarter of the globe, a witch may still be
occasionally discovered in favorable, i. e., stormy, seasons,
weathering Dungeness Point in an eggshell, or careering on her
broomstick over Dymchurch wall. A cow may yet be some-
times seen galloping like mad, with tail erect, and an old pair
of breeches on her horns, an unerring guide to the door of the
crone whose magic arts have drained her udder. I do not,
however, remember to have heard that any Conjurer has of
late been detected in the district.
Not many miles removed from the verge of this recondite
region stands a collection of houses, which its maligners call a
fishing-town, and its well-wishers a Watering-place. A limb of
one of the Cinque Ports, it has (or lately had) a corporation of
its own, and has been thought considerable enough to give a
second title to, a noble family. Rome stood on seven hills;


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
95
Folkestone seems to have been built upon seventy. Its streets,
lanes, and alleys,-fanciful distinctions without much real dif-
ference, -are agreeable enough to persons who do not mind run-
ning up and down stairs; and the only inconvenience at all
felt by such of its inhabitants as are not asthmatic, is when
some heedless urchin tumbles down a chimney, or an imperti-
nent pedestrian peeps into a garret window.
At the eastern extremity of the town, on the sea-beach, and
scarcely above high-water mark, stood, in the good old times, a
row of houses then denominated "Frog-hole.” Modern refine-
ment subsequently euphonized the name into “East Street ;"
but “what's in a name?" the encroachments of Ocean have
long since levelled all in one common ruin.
Here, in the early part of the seventeenth century, flourished
in somewhat doubtful reputation, but comparative opulence, a
compounder of medicines, one Master Erasmus Buckthorne,-
the effluvia of whose drugs from within, mingling agreeably
with the "ancient and fish-like smells” from without, wafted a
delicious perfume throughout the neighborhood.
At seven of the clock on the morning when Mrs. Botherby's
narrative commences, a stout Suffolk “punch," about thirteen
hands and a half in height, was slowly led up and down before
the door of the pharmacopolist by a lean and withered lad,
whose appearance warranted an opinion, pretty generally ex-
pressed, that his master found him as useful in experimental-
izing as in household drudgery; and that, for every pound
avoirdupois of solid meat, he swallowed at the least two pounds
troy weight of chemicals and galenicals. As the town clock
struck the quarter, Master Buckthorne emerged from his lab-
oratory, and, putting the key carefully into his pocket, mounted
the sure-footed cob aforesaid, and proceeded up and down the
acclivities and declivities of the town with the gravity due to
his station and profession. When he reached the open country
his pace was increased to a sedate canter, which, in somewhat
more than half an hour, brought “ the horse and his rider" in
front of a handsome and substantial mansion, the numerous
gable ends and bayed windows of which bespoke the owner a
man of worship, and one well to do in the world.
“How now, Hodge Gardener ?” quoth the Leech, scarcely


96
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
“ How now,
as it
drawing bit; for Punch seemed to be aware that he had reached
his destination, and paused of his own accord.
man?
How fares thine employer, worthy Master Marsh ?
How hath he done? How hath he slept? My potion hath
done its office ? Ha!”
“Alack! ill at ease, worthy sir, ill at ease," returned the
hind. “His honor is up and stirring; but he hath rested
none, and complaineth that the same gnawing pain devoureth,
were,
his very vitals. In sooth he is ill at ease.'
“Morrow, doctor!" interrupted a voice from a casement
opening on the lawn.
“Good morrow! I have looked for,
longed for, thy coming this hour and more, Enter at once :
the pastry and tankard are impatient for thine attack.”
Marry, Heaven forbid that I should balk their fancy !”
quoth the Leech sotto voce, as, abandoning the bridle to honest
Hodge, he dismounted and followed a buxom-looking hand-
maiden into the breakfast parlor.
There, at the head of his well-furnished board, sat Master
Thomas Marsh, of Marston Hall, a yeoman well respected in
his degree: one of that sturdy and sterling class which, taking
rank immediately below the Esquire (a title in its origin purely
military), occupied, in the wealthier counties, the position in
society now filled by the Country Gentleman. He was one of
those of whom the proverb ran :-
“A Knight of Cales,
A Gentleman of Wales,
And a Laird of the North Countree,
A Yeoman of Kent,
With his yearly rent,
Will buy them out all three !"
A cold sirloin, big enough to frighten a Frenchman, filled
the place of honor, counterchecked by a game-pie of no stinted
dimensions; while a silver flagon of “humming-bub”-viz., ale
strong enough to blow a man's beaver off-smiled opposite in
treacherous amenity. The sideboard groaned beneath sundry
massive cups and waiters of the purest silver; while the huge
skull of a fallow-deer, with its branching horns, frowned majes-
tically above. All spoke of affluence, of comfort; all save the
master, whose restless eye and feverish look hinted but too


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
97
plainly the severest mental or bodily disorder. By the side of
the proprietor of the mansion sat his consort, a lady now past
the bloom of youth, yet still retaining many of its charms.
The clear olive of her complexion, and "the darkness of her
Andalusian eye,” at once betrayed her foreign origin; in fact,
her “lord and master,” as husbands were even then, by a legal
fiction, denominated, had taken her to his bosom in a foreign
country. The cadet of his family, Master Thomas Marsh had
early in life been engaged in commerce. In the pursuit of his
vocation he had visited Antwerp, Hamburg, and most of the
Hanse Towns; and had already formed a tender connection
with the orphan offspring of one of old Alva's officers, when
the unexpected deaths of one immediate and two presumptive
heirs placed him next in succession to the family acres. He
married, and brought home his bride: who, by the decease of
the venerable possessor, heart-broken at the loss of his elder
children, became eventually lady of Marston Hall. It has
been said that she was beautiful, yet was her beauty of a char-
acter that operates on the fancy more than the affections; she
was one to be admired rather than loved. The proud curl of
her lip, the firmness of her tread, her arched brow and stately
carriage, showed the decision, not to say haughtiness, of her
soul; while her glances, whether lightening with anger or melt-
ing in extreme softness, betrayed the existence of passions as
intense in kind as opposite in quality. She rose as Erasmus
entered the parlor, and, bestowing on him a look fraught with
meaning, quitted the room, leaving him in unrestrained com-
munication with his patient.
“Fore George, Master Buckthorne !” exclaimed the latter,
as the Leech drew near, “I will no more of your pharmacy ;-
burn, burn, gnaw, gnaw, I had as lief the foul fiend were in
my gizzard as one of your drugs. Tell me, in the devil's name,
what is the matter with me!”.
Thus conjured, the practitioner paused, and even turned some-
what pale. There was a perceptible faltering in his voice as,
evading the question, he asked, “What say your other physi-
cians ?”
“ Doctor Phiz says it is wind,-Doctor Fuz says it is water,–
and Doctor Buz says it is something between wind and water.”
7


98
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
66
They are all of them wrong," said Erasmus Buckthorne.
“Truly, I think so," returned the patient. “They are mani-
fest asses; but you, good Leech, you are a horse of another
color. The world talks loudly of your learning, your skill, and
cunning in arts the most abstruse; nay, sooth to say, some look
coldly on you therefor, and stickle not to aver that you are
cater-cousin with Beelzebub himself.”
" It is ever the fate of science,” murmured the professor, “ to
be maligned by the ignorant and superstitious. But a truce
with such folly ;-let me examine your palate."
Master Marsh thrust out a tongue long, clear, and red as a
beet-root. “There is nothing wrong there," said the Leech.
"Your wrist :no;—the pulse is firm and regular, the skin
cool and temperate. Sir, there is nothing the matter with you.”
Nothing the matter with me, Sir ’Potecary ?—But I tell you
there is the matter with me,-much the matter with me. Why
is it that something seems ever gnawing at my heart-strings ?-
Whence this pain in the region of the liver ?—Why is it that I
sleep not o' nights,-rest not o' days ? Why-
“You are fidgety, Master Marsh,” said the doctor.
Master Marsh's brow grew dark: he half rose from his seat,
supported himself by both hands on the arms of his elbow chair,
and, in accents of mingled anger and astonishment, repeated
the word “Fidgety!"
“Ay, fidgety," returned the doctor, calmly. “Tut, man, there
is nought ails thee save thine own overweening fancies. Take
less of food, more air, put aside thy flagon, call for thy horse;
be boot and saddle the word! Why, hast thou not youth ?”
“I have,” said the patient.
“ Wealth and a fair domain ?”
“Granted,” quoth Marsh, cheerily.
“ And a fair wife ?”
“Yea," was the response, but in a tone something less satis-
fied.
“Then arouse thee, man, shake off this fantasy, betake thyself
to thy lawful occasions—use thy good hap,-follow thy pleas-
ures, and think no more of these fancied ailments."
“But I tell you, master mine, these ailments are not fancied.
I lose my rest, I loathe my food, my doublet sits loosely on


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
99
me,—these racking pains. My wife, too, when I meet her gaze,
the cold sweat stands on my forehead, and I could almost
think Marsh paused abruptly, mused a while, then
added, looking steadily at his visitor, “These things are not
right; they pass the common, Master Erasmus Buckthorne.”
A slight shade crossed the brow of the Leech, but its passage
was momentary; his features softened to a smile, in which pity
seemed slightly blended with contempt. “Have done with such
follies, Master Marsh! You are well, an you would but think
so. Ride, I say, hunt, shoot, do anything,-disperse these mel-
ancholic humors, and become yourself again.
“Well, I will do your bidding," said Marsh, thoughtfully.
“ It may be so; and yet,—but I will do your bidding. Master
Cobb of Brenzet writes me that he hath a score or two of fat
ewes to be sold a pennyworth ; I had thought to have sent Ralph
Looker, but I will essay to go myself. Ho, there !—saddle me
the brown mare, and bid Ralph be ready to attend me on the
gelding.”
An expression of pain contracted the features of Master
Marsh as he rose and slowly quitted the apartment to prepare
for his journey; while the Leech, having bidden him farewell,
vanished through an opposite door, and betook himself to the
private boudoir of the fair mistress of Marston, muttering as
he went a quotation from a then newly-published play, -
“Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ownedst yesterday.”
*
*
Of what passed at this interview between the Folkestone
doctor and the fair Spaniard, Mrs. Botherby declares she could
never obtain any satisfactory elucidation. Not that tradition is
silent on the subject,-quite the contrary; it is the abundance,
not paucity, of the materials she supplies, and the consequent
embarrassment of selection, that makes the difficulty. Some
have averred that the Leech, whose character, as has been before
hinted, was more than threadbare, employed his time in teach-
ing her the mode of administering certain noxious compounds,
the unconscious partaker whereof would pine and die so slowly


100
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
and gradually as to defy suspicion. Others there were who
affirmed that Lucifer himself was then and there raised in pro-
priâ personâ, with all his terrible attributes of horn and hoof.
In support of this assertion, they adduce the testimony of the
aforesaid buxom housemaid, who protested that the Hall smelt
that evening like a manufactory of matches. All, however,
seemed to agree that the confabulation, whether human or in-
fernal, was conducted with profound secrecy, and protracted to
a considerable length; that its object, as far as could be divined,
meant anything but good to the head of the family; that the
lady, moreover, was heartily tired of her husband; and that,
in the event of his removal by disease or casualty, Master Eras-
mus Buckthorne, albeit a great philosophist, would have no
violent objection to “throw physic to the dogs,” and exchange
his laboratory for the estate of Marston, its live stock included.
Some, too, have inferred that to him did Madame Isabel seriously
incline; while others have thought, induced perhaps by subse-
quent events, that she was merely using him for her purposes ;
that one José, a tall, bright-eyed, hook-nosed stripling from
her native land, was a personage not unlikely to put a spoke in
the doctor's wheel; and that, should such a chance arise, the
Sage, wise as he was, would, after all, run no slight risk of
being “bamboozled."
Master José was a youth well-favored and comely to look
upon. His office was that of page to the dame; an office which,
after long remaining in abeyance, has been of late years revived,
as may well be seen in the persons of sundry smart hobblede-
hoys, now constantly to be met with on staircases and in bou-
doirs, clad, for the most part, in garments fitted tightly to the
shape, the lower moiety adorned with a broad stripe of crimson
or silver lace, and the upper with what the first Wit of our
times has described as “a favorable eruption of buttons.” The
precişe duties of this employment have never, as far as we have
heard, been accurately defined. The perfuming a handkerchief,
the combing a lap-dog, and the occasional presentation of a
sippet-shaped billet doux, are, and always have been, among
them ; but these a young gentleman standing five foot ten, and
aged nineteen “last grass,” might well be supposed to have out-
grown. José, however, kept his place, perhaps because he was


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
101
not fit for any other. To the conference between his mistress
and the physician he had not been admitted; his post was to
keep watch and ward in the ante-room; and, when the inter-
view was concluded, he attended the lady and her visitor as far
as the courtyard, where he held, with all due respect, the stirrup
for the latter, as he once more resumed his position on the back
of Punch.
Who is it that says, “ little pitchers have large ears ”? Some
deep metaphysician of the potteries, who might have added that
they have also quick eyes, and sometimes silent tongues. There
was a little metaphorical piece of crockery of this class, who,
screened by a huge elbow-chair, had sat a quiet and unobserved
spectator of the whole proceedings between her mamma and
Master Erasmus Buckthorne. This was Miss Marian Marsh,
a rosy-cheeked, laughter-loving imp of some six years old, but
one who could be mute as a mouse when the fit was on her. A
handsome and highly-polished cabinet, of the darkest ebony,
occupied a recess at one end of the apartment; this had long
been a great subject of speculation to little Miss. Her curiosity,
however, had always been repelled; nor had all her coaxing
even won her an inspection of the thousand and one pretty
things which its recesses no doubt contained. On this occasion
it was unlocked, and Marian was about to rush forward in eager
anticipation of a peep at its interior, when, child as she was,
the reflection struck her that she would stand a better chance
of carrying her point by remaining perdue. Fortune for once
favored her: she crouched closer than before, and saw her
mother take something from one of the drawers, which she
handed over to the Leech. Strange mutterings followed, and
words whose sound was foreign to her youthful ears. Had she
been older, their import, perhaps, might have been equally un-
known. After a while there was a pause; and then the lady,
as in answer to a requisition from the gentleman, placed in his
hand a something which she took from her toilet. The trans-
action, whatever its nature, seemed now to be complete, and the
article was carefully replaced in the drawer from which it had
been taken. A long and apparently interesting conversation
then took place between the parties, carried on in a low tone.
At its termination, Mistress Marsh and Master Erasmus Buck-


102
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
thorne quitted the boudoir together. But the cabinet !-ay,
that was left unfastened; the folding doors still remained invit-
ingly expanded, the bunch of keys dangling from the lock. In
an instant the spoiled child was in a chair; the drawer so re-
cently closed yielded at once to her hand, and her hurried
researches were rewarded by the prettiest little waxen doll
imaginable. It was a first-rate prize, and Miss lost no time. in
appropriating it to herself. Long before Madame Marsh had
returned to her Sanctum Marian was seated under a laurustinus
in the garden, nursing her new baby with the most affectionate
solicitude.
*
“Susan, look here; see what a nasty scratch I have got upon
my hand,” said the young lady, when routed at length from
her hiding-place to her noontide meal.
“Yes, Miss, this is always the way with you! mend, mend,
mend, -nothing but mend! Scrambling about among the
bushes, and tearing your clothes to rags. What with you, and
with madam's farthingales and kirtles, a poor bower-maiden
has a fine time of it!"
“But I have not torn my clothes, Susan, and it was not the
bushes ; it was the doll: only see what a great ugly pin I have
pulled out of it! and look, here is another!" As she spoke,
Marian drew forth one of those extended pieces of black pointed
wire with which, in the days of toupees and pompoons, our fore-
mothers were wont to secure their fly caps and head-gear from
the impertinent assaults of “ Zephyrus and the Little Breezes.”
“And pray, Miss, where did you get this pretty doll, as you
call it?" asked Susan, turning over the puppet, and viewing it
with a scrutinizing eye.
“Mamma gave it me," said the child.—This was a fib.
"Indeed !" quoth the girl thoughtfully; and then, in a half
soliloquy, and a lower key, “Well! I wish I may die if it
doesn't look like master! But come to your dinner, Miss !
Hark! the bell is striking One!"
Meanwhile Master Thomas Marsh and his man Ralph were
threading the devious paths, then, as now, most pseudonymously
dignified with the name of roads, that wound between Marston
Hall and the frontier of Romney Marsh. Their progress was


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
103
comparatively slow; for though the brown mare was as good a
roadster as man might back, and the gelding no mean nag of
his hands, yet the tracts, rarely traversed save by the rude
wains of the day, miry in the “bottoms," and covered with
loose and rolling stones on the higher grounds, rendered barely
passable the perpetual alternation of hill and valley.
The master rode on in pain, and the man in listlessness ;
although the intercourse between two individuals so situated
was much less restrained in those days than might suit the re-
finement of a later age, little passed approximating to conver-
sation beyond an occasional and half-stifled groan from the
one, or a vacant whistle from the other. An hour's riding had
brought them among the woods of Acryse; and they were
about to descend one of those green and leafy lanes, rendered
by matted and overarching branches alike impervious to shower
or sunbeam, when a sudden and violent
spasm
seized on Master
Marsh, and nearly caused him to fall from his horse. With
some difficulty he succeeded in dismounting and seating him-
self by the roadside. Here he remained for a full half-hour
in great apparent agony; the cold sweat rolled in large round
drops adown his clammy forehead, a universal shivering palsied
every limb, his eyeballs appeared to be starting from their
sockets, and to his attached though dull and heavy serving-
man he seemed as one struggling in the pangs of impending
dissolution. His groans rose thick and frequent; and the
alarmed Ralph was hesitating between his disinclination to
leave him and his desire to procure such assistance as one of
the few cottages, rarely sprinkled in that wild country, might
afford, when, after a long-drawn sigh, his master's features as
suddenly relaxed; he declared himself better, the pang had
passed away, and, to use his own expression, he “ felt as if a
knife had been drawn from out his very heart.” With Ralph's
assistance, after a while he again reached his saddle; and
though still ill at ease, from a deep-seated and gnawing pain,
which ceased not, as he averred, to torment him, the violence
of the paroxysm was spent, and it returned no more.
Master and man pursued their way with increased speed as,
emerging from the wooded defiles, they at length neared the
coast; then, leaving the romantic castle of Saltwood, with its


104
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
neighboring town of Hithe, a little on their left, they proceeded
along the ancient paved causeway, and, crossing the old Roman
road, or Watling, plunged again into the woods that stretched
between Lympne and Ostenhanger.
The sun rode high in the heavens, and its meridian blaze was
powerfully felt by man and horse, when, again quitting their
leafy covert, the travellers debouched on the open plain of Al-
dington Frith, a wide tract of unenclosed country stretching
down to the very borders of “the Marsh” itself.
Here it was, in the neighboring chapelry, the site of which
may yet be traced by the curious antiquary, that Elizabeth
Barton, the “Holy Maid of Kent,” had, something less than a
hundred years previous to the period of our narrative, com-
menced that series of supernatural pranks which eventually
procured for her head an unenvied elevation upon London
Bridge; and though the parish had since enjoyed the benefit
of the incumbency of Master Erasmus's illustrious and enlight-
ened Namesake, still, truth to tell, some of the old leaven was
even yet supposed to be at work. The place had, in fact, an ill
name; and, though Popish miracles had ceased to electrify its
denizens, spells and charms, operating by a no less wondrous
agency, were said to have taken their place. Warlocks and
other unholy subjects of Satan were reported to make its wild
recesses their favorite rendezvous, and that to an extent which
eventually attracted the notice of no less a person than the
sagacious Matthew Hopkins himself, Witchfinder-General to
the British Government.
A great portion of the Frith, or Fright, as the name was
then, and is still, pronounced, had formerly been a Chase, with
rights of Free-warren, etc., appertaining to the Archbishops of
the Province. Since the Reformation, however, it had been
disparked ; and when Master Thomas Marsh and his man
Ralph entered upon its confines, the open greensward exhibited
a lively scene, sufficiently explanatory of certain sounds that
had already reached their ears while yet within the sylvan
screen that concealed their origin.
It was Fair-day; booths, stalls, and all the rude parapher-
nalia of an assembly that then met as much for the purposes
of traffic as festivity, were scattered irregularly over the turf;


106
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
had hitherto kept himself ensconced; occupied, no doubt, in
the preparation and arrangement of that wonderful panacea
which was hereafter to shed the blessings of health among the
admiring crowd. Meanwhile his attendant Jack-pudding was
busily employed on the proscenium, doing his best to attract
attention by a practical facetiousness which took wonderfully
with the spectators, interspersing it with the melodious notes of
a huge cow's horn. The fellow's costume varied but little in
character from that in which the late (alas! that we should
have to write the word—late!) Mr. Joseph Grimaldi was ac-
customed to present himself before “a generous and enlightened
public;" the principal difference consisted in this, that the upper
garment was a long white tunic, of a coarse linen, surmounted
by a caricature of the ruff then fast falling into disuse, and was
secured from the throat downwards by a single row of broad
white metal buttons; and his legs were cased in loose wide
trousers of the same material; while his sleeves, prolonged to a
most disproportionate extent, descended far below the fingers,
and acted as flappers in the somersets and caracoles with which
he diversified and enlivened his antics. Consummate impu-
dence, not altogether unmixed with a certain sly humor, spar-
kled in his eye through the chalk and ochre with which his
features were plentifully bedaubed ; and especially displayed
itself in a succession of jokes, the coarseness of which did not
seem to detract from their merit in the eyes of his applauding
audience.
He was in the midst of a long and animated harangue ex-
planatory of his master's high pretensions; he had informed
his gaping auditors that the latter was the seventh son of a
seventh son, and of course, as they very well knew, an Unborn
Doctor; that to this happy accident of birth he added the
advantage of most extensive travel; that in his search after
science he had not only perambulated the whole of this world,
but had trespassed on the boundaries of the next; that the
depths of the Ocean and the bowels of the Earth were alike
familiar to him; that besides salves and cataplasms of sovereign
virtue, by combining sundry mosses, gathered many thousand
fathoms below the surface of the sea, with certain unknown
drugs found in an undiscovered island, and boiling the whole


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
107
1
in the lava of Vesuvius, he had succeeded in producing his
celebrated balsam of Crackapanoko, the never failing remedy
for all human disorders, and which, a proper trial allowed,
would go near to reanimate the dead. * Draw near !" continued
the worthy, “ draw near, my masters! and you, my good mis-
tresses, draw near, every one of you. Fear not high and haughty
carriage: though greater than King or Kaiser, yet is the mighty
Aldrovando milder than mother's milk ; flint to the proud, to
the humble he is as melting wax; he asks not your disorders,
he sees them himself at a glance-nay, without a glance; he
tells
your ailments with his eyes shut !-Draw near! draw near!
. the more incurable the better! List to the illustrious Doctor
Aldrovando, first physician to Prester John, Leech to the Grand
Llama, and Hakim in Ordinary to Mustapha Muley Bey!"
“Hath your master ever a charm for the toothache, an't
please you ?” asked an elderly countryman, whose swollen cheek
bespoke his interest in the question.
“A charm!—a thousand, and every one of them infallible.
Toothache, quotha! I had hoped you had come with every
bone in your body fractured or out of joint. A toothache!
propound a tester, master o'mine-we ask not more for such
trifles: do my bidding, and thy jaws, even with the word, shall
cease to trouble thee!”
The clown, fumbling a while in a deep leathern purse, at
length produced a sixpence, which he tendered to the jester.
“Now to thy master, and bring me the charm forthwith.”
“ Nay, honest man;. to disturb the mighty Aldrovando on
such slight occasion were pity of my life: areed my counsel
aright, and I will warrant thee for the nonce. Hie thee home,
friend; infuse this powder in cold spring-water, fill thy mouth
with the mixture, and sit upon the fire till it boils !"
“Out on thee for a pestilent knave !" cried the cozened coun-
tryman; but the roar of merriment around bespoke the by-
standers well pleased with the jape put upon him. He retired,
venting his spleen in audible murmurs; and the mountebank,
finding the feelings of the mob enlisted on his side, waxed more
impudent every instant, filling up the intervals between his
fooleries with sundry capers and contortions and discordant
notes from the cow's horn,


108
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
“Draw near, draw near, my masters! Here have ye a rem-
edy for every evil under the sun, moral, physical, natural, and
supernatural! Hath any man a termagant wife?–here is that
will tame her presently! Hath any one a smoky chimney ?-
here is an incontinent cure !"
To the first infliction no man ventured to plead guilty, though
there were those standing by who thought their neighbors might
have profited withal. For the last-named recipe started forth
at least half a dozen candidates. With the greatest gravity
imaginable, Pierrot, having pocketed their groats, delivered to
each a small packet curiously folded and closely sealed, con-
taining, as he averred, directions which, if truly observed,
woald preclude any chimney from smoking for a whole year.
They whose curiosity led them to dive into the mystery found
that a sprig of mountain ash culled by moonlight was the charm
recommended, coupled, however, with the proviso that no fire
should be lighted on the hearth during its exercise.
The frequent bursts of merriment proceeding from this quar-
ter at length attracted the attention of Master Marsh, whose
line of road necessarily brought him near this end of the fair ;
he drew bit in front of the stage just as its noisy occupant,
having laid aside his formidable horn, was drawing still more
largely on the amazement of “the public" by a feat of especial
wonder,-he was eating fire! Curiosity mingled with astonish-
ment was at its height; and feelings not unallied to alarm were
beginning to manifest themselves, among the softer sex espe-
cially, as they gazed on the flames that issued from the mouth
of the living volcano. All eyes, indeed, were fixed upon the
fire-eater with an intentness that left no room for observing
another worthy who had now emerged upon the scene. This
was, however, no less a personage than the Deus ex machina, -
the illustrious Aldrovando himself.
Short in stature and spare in form, the sage
had somewhat
increased the former by a steeple-crowned hat adorned with a
cock's feather; while the thick shoulder-padding of a quilted
doublet, surmounted by a falling band, added a little to his
personal importance in point of breadth. His habit was com-
posed throughout of black serge, relieved with scarlet slashes in
the sleeves and trunks; red was the feather in his hat, red were


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
109
the roses in his shoes, which rejoiced, moreover, in a pair of red
heels. The lining of a short cloak of faded velvet, that hung
transversely over his left shoulder, was also red. Indeed, from
all that we could ever see or hear, this agreeable alternation of
red and black appears to be the mixture of colors most approved
at the court of Beelzebub, and the one most generally adopted
by his friends and favorites. His features were sharp and
shrewd, and a fire sparkled in his keen gray eye, much at
variance with the wrinkles that ran their irregular furrows
above his prominent and bushy brows. He had advanced
slowly from behind his screen while the attention of the mul-
titude was observed by the pyrotechnics of Mr. Merryman, and
stationing himself at the extreme corner of the stage, stood
quietly leaning on a crutch-handle walking-staff of blackest
ebony, his glance steadily fixed on the face of Marsh, from
whose countenance the amusement he had insensibly begun to
derive had not succeeded in removing all traces of bodily
pain.
For a while the latter was unobservant of the inquisitorial
survey with which he was regarded; the eyes of the parties,
however, at length met. The brown mare had a fine shoulder;
she stood pretty nearly sixteen hands. Marsh himself, though
slightly bowed by ill-health and the "coming autumn” of life,
was full six feet in height. His elevation giving him an un-
obstructed view over the heads of the pedestrians, he had nat-
urally fallen into the rear of the assembly, which brought him
close to the diminutive Doctor, with whose face, despite the red
heels, his own was about upon a level.
“ And what makes Master Marsh here? what sees he in the
mummeries of a miserable buffoon to divert him when his life
is in jeopardy ?” said a shrill cracked voice that sounded as in
his very ear. It was the Doctor who spoke.
Knowest thou me, friend ?” said Marsh, scanning with
awakened interest the figure of his questioner: “I call thee
not to mind; and yet-stay, where have we met ?”
“ It skills not to declare,” was the answer;
" suffice it we have
met—in other climes perchance-and now meet happily again-
happily at least for thee."
Why, truly the trick of thy countenance reminds me of
66


110
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
somewhat I have seen before; where or when I know not: but
what wouldst thou with me?"
Nay, rather what wouldst thou here, Thomas Marsh? What
wouldst thou on the Frith of Aldington ? Is it a score or two
of paltry sheep? or is it something nearer to thy heart ?”
Marsh started as the last words were pronounced with more
than common significance: a pang shot through him at the
moment, and the vinegar aspect of the charlatan seemed to
relax into a smile half compassionate, half sardonic.
“Grammercy," quoth Marsh, after a long-drawn breath,
“what knowest thou of me, fellow, or of my concerns ? What
knowest thou-
This know I, Master Thomas Marsh,” said the stranger
gravely, “that thy life is even now perilled, evil practices are
against thee; but no matter, thou art quit for the nonce other
hands than mine have saved thee! Thy pains are over. Hark!
the clock strikes One!" As he spoke, a single toll from the bell-
tower of Bilsington came, wafted by the western breeze, over
the thick-set and lofty oaks which intervened between the Frith
and what had once been a priory. Doctor Aldrovando turned
as the sound came floating on the wind, and was moving, as if
half in anger, towards the other side of the stage, where the
mountebank, his fires extinct, was now disgorging to the admir-
ing crowd yard after yard of gaudy-colored ribbon.
“Stay! Nay, prithee stay!" cried Marsh, eagerly. “I was
wrong; in faith I was. A change, and that a sudden and most
marvellous, hath indeed come over me; I am free; I breathe
again; I feel as though a load of years had been removed;
and, is it possible ?-hast thou done this ?”'
“ Thomas Marsh !" said the Doctor, pausing, and turning for
the moment on his heel, “ I have not: I repeat, that other and
more innocent hands than mine have done this deed. Never-
theless, heed my counsel well! Thou art parlously encompassed;
I, and I only, have the means of relieving thee. Follow thy
courses ; pursue thy journey; but as thou valuest life and more
than life, be at the foot of yonder woody knoll what time the
rising moon throws her first beam upon the bare and blighted
summit that towers above its trees."
He crossed abruptly to the opposite quarter of the scaffolding,


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
111
and was in an instant deeply engaged in listening to those whom
the cow's horn had attracted, and in prescribing for their real
or fancied ailments. Vain were all Marsh's efforts again to
attract his notice; it was evident that he studiously avoided
him; and when, after an hour or more spent in useless en-
deavor, he saw the object of his anxiety seclude himself once
more within his canvas screen, he rode slowly and thoughtfully
off the field.
What should he do? Was the man a mere quack? an im-
postor? His name thus obtained ! that might be easily done.
But then, his secret griefs; the Doctor's knowledge of them;
their cure: for he felt that his pains were gone, his healthful
feelings restored!
True, Aldrovando, if that were his name, had disclaimed
all co-operation in his recovery; but he knew, or he at least an-
nounced it. Nay, more; he had hinted that he was yet in jeop-
ardy; that practices—and the chord sounded strangely in
unison with one that had before vibrated within him—that
practices were in operation against his life! It was enough!
He would keep tryst with the Conjurer, if conjurer he were;
and, at least, ascertain who and what he was, and how he had
become acquainted with his own person and secret afflictions.
When the late Mr. Pitt was determined to keep out Buona-
parte, and prevent his gaining a settlement in the county of
Kent, among other ingenious devices adopted for that purpose,
he caused to be constructed what was then, and has ever since
been, conventionally termed a “Military Canal.” This is not
a very practicable ditch, some thirty feet wide, and nearly nine
feet deep in the middle, extending from the town and port of
Hithe to within a mile of the town and port of Rye, a distance
of about twenty miles; and forming, as it were, the cord of a
bow, the arc of which constitutes that remote fifth quarter of
the globe spoken of by travellers. Trivial objections to the
plan were made at the time by cavillers; and an old gentleman
of the neighborhood, who proposed, as a cheap substitute, to
put down his own cocked hat upon a pole, was deservedly pooh-
poohed down; in fact, the job, though rather an expensive one,
was found to answer remarkably well. The French managed,
indeed, to scramble over the Rhine, and the Rhone, and other


112
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
insignificant currents; but they never did, or could, pass Mr.
Pitt's “Military Canal.” At no great distance from the centre
of this cord rises abruptly a sort of woody promontory, in shape
almost conical ; its sides covered with thick underwood, above
which is seen a bare and brown summit rising like an Alp in
miniature. The “defence of the nation” not being then in ex-
istence, Master Marsh met with no obstruction in reaching this
place of appointment long before the time prescribed.
So much, indeed, was his mind occupied by his adventure
and extraordinary cure that his original design had been aban-
doned, and Master Cobbe remained unvisited. A rude hostel
in the neighborhood furnished entertainment for man and
horse; and here, a full hour before the rising of the moon, he
left Ralph and the other beasts, proceeding to his rendezvous
on foot and alone.
“You are punctual, Master Marsh,” squeaked the shrill
voice of the Doctor, issuing from the thicket as the first silvery
gleam trembled on the
aspens
above. “ 'Tis well; now follow
me, and in silence."
The first part of the command Marsh hesitated not to obey ;
the second was more difficult of observance.
“Who and what are you? Whither are you leading me?"
burst not unnaturally from his lips; but all question was at
once cut short by the peremptory tones of his guide.
“Hush! I say; your finger on your lip: there be hawks
abroad. Follow me, and that silently and quickly.” The
little man turned as he spoke, and led the way through a
scarcely perceptible path, or track, which wound among the
underwood. The lapse of a few minutes brought them to the
door of a low building, so hidden by the surrounding trees that
few would have suspected its existence. It was a cottage of
rather extraordinary dimensions, but consisting of only one
floor. No smoke rose from its solitary chimney'; no cheering
ray streamed from its single window, which was, however,
secured by a shutter of such thickness as to preclude the pos-
sibility of any stray beam issuing from within. The exact size
of the building it was, in that uncertain light, difficult to dis-
tinguish, a portion of it seeming buried in the wood behind.
The door gave way on the application of a key, and Marsh fol-


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
113
lowed his conductor resolutely, but cautiously, along a narrow
passage, feebly lighted by a small taper that winked and
twinkled at its farther extremity. The Doctor, as he ap-
proached, raised it from the ground, and, opening an adjoining
door, ushered his guest into the room beyond.
It was a large and oddly furnished apartment, insufficiently
lighted by an iron lamp that hung from the roof, and scarcely
illumined the walls and angles, which seemed to be composed
of some dark-colored wood. On one side, however, Master
Marsh could discover an article bearing strong resemblance to
a coffin; on the other was a large oval mirror in an ebony
frame; and in the midst of the floor was described, in red
chalk, a double circle, about six feet in diameter, its inner
verge inscribed with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved
at intervals with an alternation of skulls and cross-bones. In
the
very centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size
and thickness as would have filled the soul of a Spurzheim or
De Ville with wonderment. A large book, a naked sword, an
hour-glass, a chafing-dish, and a black cat, completed the list
of movables, with the exception of a couple of tapers which
stood on each side of the mirror, and which the strange gen-
tleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand. As
they flared up with what Marsh thought a most unnatural bril-
liancy, he perceived reflected in the glass behind a dial sus-
pended over the coffin-like article already mentioned; the hand
was fast verging towards the hour of nine. The eyes of the
little Doctor seemed riveted on the horologe.
“Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly: untruss,
I say! discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose, and place thy-
self incontinent in yonder bath.”
The visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-looking
article, and perceived that it was nearly filled with water.
cold bath, at such an hour and under such auspices, was any-
thing but inviting: he hesitated, and turned his eyes alter-
nately on the Doctor and the Black Cat.
“ Trifle not the time, man, an you be wise,” said the former.
“Passion of my heart! let but yon minute-hand reach the hour,
and thou not immersed, thy life were not worth a pin's fee!”
The Black Cat gave vent to a single mew,-a most unnatural
8


114
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
sound for a mouser : it seemed as it were mewed through a
cow's horn.
" Quick, Master Marsh! uncase, or you perish !" repeated
his strange host, throwing as he spoke a handful of some
dingy-looking powders into the brasier. “Behold, the attack
is begun!” A thick cloud rose from the embers; a cold shiv-
ering shook the astonished Yeoman; sharp pricking pains pen-
etrated his ankles and the palms of his hands; and as the
smoke cleared away, he distinctly saw and recognized in the
mirror the boudoir of Marston Hall.
The doors of the well-known ebony cabinet were closed; but
fixed against them, and standing out in strong relief from the
contrast afforded by the sable background, was a waxen im-
age-of himself! It appeared to be secured, and sustained in
an upright posture, by large black pins driven through the feet
and palms, the latter of which were extended in a cruciform
position. To the right and left stood his wife and José; in the
middle, with his back towards him, was a figure which he had
no difficulty in recognizing as that of the Leech of Folkestone.
The latter had just succeeded in fastening the dexter hand of
the image, and was now in the act of drawing a broad and
keen-edged sabre from its sheath. The Black Cat mewed
again. “Haste, or you die!" said the Doctor. Marsh looked
at the dial; it wanted but four minutes of nine: he felt that
the crisis of his fate was come. Off went his heavy boots ;
doublet to the right, galligaskins to the left; never was man
more swiftly disrobed. In two minutes, to use an Indian ex-
pression, he was “all face;" in another he was on his back and
up to his chin in a bath which smelt strongly as of brimstone
and garlic.
“Heed well the clock !" cried the Conjurer. “With the first
stroke of Nine plunge thy head beneath the water,--suffer not
a hair above the surface: plunge deeply, or thou art lost!"
The little man had seated himself in the centre of the circle
upon the large skull, elevating his legs at an angle of forty-five
degrees. In this position he spun round with a velocity to be
equalled only by that of a teetotum, the red roses on his insteps
seeming to describe a circle of fire. The best buckskins that
ever mounted at Melton had soon yielded to such rotatory fric-


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
115
tion; but he spun on; the cat mewed, bats and obscene birds
fluttered overhead; Erasmus was seen to raise his weapon;
the
clock struck !-and Marsh, who had “ducked" at the instant,
popped up his head again, spitting and sputtering, half choked
with the infernal solution, which had insinuated itself into his
mouth and ears and nose. All disgust at his nauseous dip was,
however, at once removed when, casting his eyes on the glass,
he saw the consternation of the party whose persons it exhib-
ited. Erasmus had evidently made his blow and failed; the
figure was unmutilated; the hilt remained in the hand of the
striker, while the shivered blade lay in shining fragments on
the floor.
The Conjurer ceased his spinning and brought himself to an
anchor; the Black Cat purred: its purring seemed strangely
mixed with the self-satisfied chuckle of a human being. Where
had Marsh heard something like it before?
He was rising from his unsavory couch when a motion from
the little man checked him. “Rest where you are, Thomas
Marsh: so far all goes well, but the danger is not yet over.”
He looked again, and perceived that the shadowy triumvirate
were in deep and eager consultation; the fragments of the
shattered weapon appeared to undergo a close scrutiny. The
result was clearly unsatisfactory; the lips of the parties moved
rapidly, and much gesticulation might be observed, but no
sound fell upon the ear.
The hand of the dial had nearly
reached the quarter: at once the parties separated; and Buck-
thorne stood again before the figure, his hand armed with a
long and sharp-pointed misericorde, a dagger little in use of
late, but such as, a century before, often performed the part of
a modern oyster-knife in tickling the osteology of a dismounted
cavalier through the shelly defences of his plate armor. Again
he raised his arm. “Duck !" roared the Doctor, spinning away
upon his cephalic pivot :the Black Cat cocked his tail, and
seemed to mew the word “Duck!” Down went Master Marsh's
head; one of his hands had unluckily been resting on the edge
of the bath; he drew it hastily in, but not altogether scathe-
less : the stump of a rusty nail, projecting from the margin of
the bath, had caught and slightly grazed it. The pain was
more acute than is usually produced by such trivial accidents ;


116
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
and Marsh, on once more raising his head, beheld the dagger
of the Leech sticking in the little finger of the wax figure,
which it had seemingly nailed to the cabinet door.
"By my truly, a scape of the narrowest !" quoth the Conjurer.
“The next course, dive you not the readier, there is no more life
in you than in a pickled herring. What! courage, Master Marsh;
but be heedful: an they miss again, let them bide the issue !"
He drew his hand athwart his brow as he spoke, and dashed
off the perspiration which the violence of his exercise had drawn
from every pore. Black Tom sprang upon the edge of the bath
and stared full in the face of the bather. His sea-green eyes
were lambent with unholy fire, but their marvellous obliquity
of vision was not to be mistaken ;-the very countenance too!
Could it be?—the features were feline, but their expression was
that of the Jack-pudding! Was the mountebank a cat? or
the cat a mountebank? It was all a mystery !—and Heaven
knows how long Marsh might have continued staring at Grim-
alkin had not his attention been again called by Aldrovando
to the magic mirror.
Great dissatisfaction, not to say dismay, seemed now to per-
vade the conspirators. Dame Isabel was closely inspecting the
figure's wounded hand, while José was aiding the pharmacopo-
list to charge a huge petronel with powder and bullets. The
load was a heavy one; but Erasmus seemed determined this
time to make sure of his object. Somewhat of trepidation
might be observed in his manner as he rammed down the balls,
and his withered cheek appeared to have acquired an increase
of paleness; but amazement rather than fear was the prevailing
symptom, and his countenance betrayed no jot of irresolution.
As the clock was about to chime half-past nine, he planted
himself with a firm foot in front of the image, waved his un-
occupied hand with a cautionary gesture to his companions,
and, as they hastily retired on either side, brought the muzzle
of his weapon within half a foot of his mark. As the shadowy
form was about to draw the trigger, Marsh again plunged his
head beneath the surface; and the sound of an explosion, as of
fire-arms, mingled with the rush of water that poured into his
His immersion was but momentary, yet did he feel as
though half suffocated: he sprang from the bath, and, as his
ears.


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
117
eye fell on the mirror, he saw,-or thought he saw,—the Leech
of Folkestone lying dead on the floor of his wife's boudoir, his
head shattered to pieces, and his hand still grasping the stock
of a bursten petronel.
He saw no more;
his head swam, his senses reeled, the whole
room was turning round, and, as he fell to the ground, the last
impressions to which he was conscious were the chucklings of a
hoarse laughter, and the mewings of a tom cat!
Master Marsh was found the next morning by his bewildered
serving-man, stretched before the door of the humble hostel at
which he sojourned. His clothes were somewhat torn and
much bemired; and deeply did honest Ralph marvel that one
80 'staid and grave as Master Marsh of Marston should thus
have played the roisterer, missing, perchance, a profitable
bargain for the drunken orgies of midnight wassail, or the
endearments of some rustic light-o'-love. Tenfold was his
astonishment increased when, after retracing in silence their
journey of the preceding day, the Hall, on their arrival about
noon, was found in a state of the uttermost confusion. No
wife stood there to greet with the 'smile of bland affection her
returning spouse; no page to hold his stirrup, or receive his
gloves, his hat, and riding-rod. The doors were open, the rooms
in most admired disorder; men and maidens peeping, hurrying
hither and thither, and popping in and out, like rabbits in a
The lady of the mansion was nowhere to be found.
José, too, had disappeared; the latter had been last seen
riding furiously towards Folkestone early in the preceding
afternoon: to a question from Hodge Gardener he had hastily
answered that he bore a missive of moment from his mistress.
The lean apprentice of Erasmus Buckthorne declared that the
page had summoned his master, in haste, about six of the
clock, and that they had rode forth together, as he verily
believed, on their way back to the Hall, where he had supposed
Master Buckthorne's services to be suddenly required on some
pressing emergency. Since that time he had seen nought of
either of them; the gray cob, however, had returned late at
night, masterless, with his girths loose and the saddle turned
upside down.
Nor was Master Erasmus Buckthorne ever seen again. Strict
warren,


118
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
search was made through the neighborhood, but without suc-
cess; and it was at length presumed that he must, for reasons
which nobody could divine, have absconded, together with
José and his faithless mistress. The latter had carried off with
her the strong box, divers articles of valuable plate, and jewels
of price. Her boudoir appeared to have been completely
ransacked; the cabinet and drawers stood open and empty;
the very carpet, a luxury then newly introduced into England,
was gone.
Marsh, however, could trace no vestige of the
visionary scene which he affirmed to have been last night
presented to his eyes.
Much did the neighbors marvel at his story :-some thought
him mad; others that he was merely indulging in that privilege
to which, as a traveller, he had a right indefeasible. Trusty
Ralph said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders; and, falling
into the rear, imitated the action of raising a wine-cup to his
lips. An opinion, indeed, soon prevailed that Master Thomas
Marsh had gotten, in common parlance, exceedingly drunk on
the preceding evening, and had dreamt all that he so circum-
stantially related. This belief acquired additional credit
when they whom curiosity induced to visit the woody knoll
of Aldington Mount declared that they could find no building
such as that described, nor any cottage near; save one, indeed,
a low-roofed hovel, once a house of public entertainment, but
now half in ruins. The “Old Cat and Fiddle"-50 was the
tenement called— had been long uninhabited; yet still exhib-
ited the remains of a broken sign, on which the keen observer
might decipher something like a rude portrait of the animal
from which it derived its name. It was also supposed still to
afford an occasional asylum to the smugglers of the coast, but
no trace of any visit from sage or mountebank could be de-
tected; nor was the wise Aldrovando, whom many remembered
to have seen at the fair, ever found again on all that country-side.
Of the runaways nothing was ever certainly known. A
boat, the property of an old fisherman who plied his trade on
the outskirts of the town, had been seen to quit the bay that
night; and there were those who declared that she had more
hands on board than Carden and his son, her usual comple-
ment; but as the gale came on, and the frail bark was


THE LEECH OF FOLKESTONE.
119
eventually found keel upwards on the Goodwin Sands, it was
presumed that she had struck on that fatal quicksand in the
dark, and that all on board had perished.
Little Marian, whom her profligate mother had abandoned,
grew up to be a fine girl, and a handsome. She became, more-
over, heiress to Marston Hall, and brought the estate into the
Ingoldsby family by her marriage with one of its scions.
Thus far Mrs. Botherby.
It is a little singular that, on pulling down the old Hall in
my grandfather's time, a human skeleton was discovered among
the rubbish; under what particular part of the building I
fo
or
could never with any accuracy ascertain; but it was found
enveloped in tattered cloth that seemed to have been once
a carpet, and which fell to pieces almost immediately on being
exposed to the air. The bones were perfect, but those of one
hand were wanting; and the skull, perhaps from the laborer's
pickaxe, had received considerable injury; the worm-eaten
stock of an old-fashioned pistol lay near, together with a rusty
piece of iron which a workman, more sagacious than his fellows,


120
MRS. BOTHERBY'S STORY.
pronounced a portion of the lock; but nothing was found which
the utmost stretch of human ingenuity could twist into a barrel.
The portrait of the fair Marian hangs yet in the Gallery of
Tappington; and near it is another, of a young man in the
prime of life, which Mrs. Botherby affirms to be that of her
father. It exhibits a mild and rather melancholy countenance,
with a high forehead, and the peaked beard and moustaches
of the seventeenth century. The signet-finger of the left hand
is gone, and appears, on close inspection, to have been painted
out by some later artist; possibly in compliment to the tra-
dition, which, teste Botherby, records that of Mr. Marsh to
have gangrened, and to have undergone amputation at the
knuckle-joint. If really the resemblance of the gentleman
alluded to, it must have been taken at some period antecedent
to his marriage. There is neither date nor painter's name;
but a little above the head, on the dexter side of the picture,
is an escutcheon, bearing “Quarterly, Gules and Argent, in
the first quarter a horse's head of the second;" beneath it are
the words “Ætatis suce 26.” On the opposite side is the following
mark, which Mr. Simpkinson declares to be that of a Merchant
of the Staple, and pretends to discover, in the monogram com-
prised in it, all the characters which compose the name of
THOMAS MARSH, of MARSTON.
RESPECT for the feelings of an honorable family, -nearly
connected with the Ingoldsbys,-has induced me to veil the
real “sponsorial and patronymic appellations” of my next hero
under a sobriquet interfering neither with rhyme nor rhythm.
I shall merely add that every incident in the story bears on
the face of it the stamp of veracity, and that many “persons of
honor” in the county of Berks, who well recollected Sir George
Rooks's expedition against Gibraltar, would, if they were now
alive, gladly bear testimony to the truth of every syllable.
* Pack o'nonsense !—Everybody as belongs to him is dead and gone—and everybody
knows that the poor young gentleman's real name wasn't Sobriquet at all, but Hamp-
den Pye, Esq., and that one of his uncles-or cousins--used to make verses about the


LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE.
121
Legend of Hamilton Tighe.
T
THE Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
With a troubled brow and a bended neck;
One eye is down through the hatchway cast,
The other turns up to the truck on the mast;
Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
“Our Skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!”
The Captain again the letter hath read
Which the bumboat woman brought out to Spithead-
Still, since the good ship sailed away,
He reads that letter three times a day;
Yet the writing is broad and fair to see
As a Skipper may read, in his degree,
And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat,
As his own cockade in his own cocked hat:
He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro,
“ Curse the old woman-she bothers me so !”
He pauses now, for the topmen hail-
“On the larboard quarter a saill a sail !”
That grim Old Captain he turns him quick,
And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick.
“The breeze is blowing-huzza! huzza !
The breeze is blowing-away! away!
The breeze is blowing—a race! a race!
The breeze is blowing—we near the chase!
Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,-
Oh where will be then young Hamilton Tighe ?”
-“On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee.
Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try,
But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"
king and the queen, and had a sack of money for doing it every year ;-and that's his
picture in the blue coat and little gold-laced cocked hat that hangs on the stairs over
the door of the passage that leads to the blue room.-Sobriquet !—but there!—The
Squire wrote it after dinner!-ELIZABETH BOTHERBY,


122
LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE
Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue,
Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew,
And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,
Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.
Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade;
He stands by the breech of a long carronade,
The linstock glows in his bony hand,
Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.
“The bullets are flying-huzza! huzza!
The bullets are flying-away! away!"
The brawny boarders mount by the chains,
And are over their buckles in blood and in brains :
On the foeman's deck, where a man should be,
Young Hamilton Tighe Waves his cutlass high,
And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.
Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand,
Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:
A wink comes sly From that sinister eye
Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly,
And knocks off the head of Young Hamilton Tighe!
There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her
pages
and handmaidens come at her call :
“Now, haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see
How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!"
The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy,
They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy ;
And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear,
Now Hamilton's dead, I've a thousand a year !"
The lady has donned her mantle and hood,
She is bound for shrift at Saint Mary's Rood -
"Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll,
And the mass shall be said for my stepson's soul,
And the tablet fair shall be hung on high,
Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe."


LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE.
123
Her coach and four Draws up to the door,
With her groom and her footman, and half a score more;
The lady steps into her coach alone,
They hear her sigh, and they hear her groan,
They close the door, and they turn the pin,
But there's One rides with her that never stept in!
All the way there, and all the way back,
The harness strains and the coach-springs crack,
The horses snort and plunge and kick,
Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick;
And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say
“What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?”
But the mealy-faced boy peeps in and sees
A man sitting there with his head on his knees !
'Tis ever the same,-in hall or in bower,
Wherever the place, whatever the hour,
That Lady mutters, and talks to the air,
And her eye is fixed on an empty chair ;
But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread,
She talks to a man with never a head !”
66
There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath,
As gray as a badger, as thin as a lath;
And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers,
They seem to be trying to peep at his ears;
That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms,
And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes,
For all his Knaves stand upside down,
And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown;
And the Kings, and the Aces, and all the best trumps
Get into the hands of the other old frumps;
While, close to his partner, a man he sees
Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.
In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store,
And a great black doll hangs out of the door;


124
LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE.
There are rusty locks, and dusty bags,
And musty phials, and fusty rags,
And a lusty old woman, called Thirsty Nan,
And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!
That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan,
And his great thick pigtail is withered and gone;
And he cries, “Take away that lubberly chap
That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!”
And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick,
“What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick !”
That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man
May say what they please, and may do what they can;
But one thing seems remarkably clear,
They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,
But wherever they live, or whenever they die,
They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!
THE When, the Where,- and the How,-of the succeeding
narrative speak for themselves. It may be proper, however, to
observe that the ruins here alluded to, and improperly termed
“the Abbey," are not those of Bolsover, described in a pre-
ceding page, but the remains of a Preceptory once belonging
to the Knights Templars, situate near Swynfield, Swinkefield,
or, as it is now generally spelt and pronounced, Swingfield,
Minnis, a rough tract of common land now undergoing the
process of enclosure, and adjoining the woods and arable lands
of Tappington, at the distance of some two miles from the
Hall, to the southeastern windows of which the time-worn
walls in question, as seen over the intervening coppices, pre-
sent a picturesque and striking object.


THE WITCHES FROLIC.
125
The Witches' Frolic.
[Scene, the “Snuggery” at Tappington.-Grandpapa in a high-backed cane-bottomed
elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose at an angle of forty-five
degrees,-his thumbs slowly perform the rotatory motion described by lexico-
graphers as “twiddling.”—The “Hope of the family” astride on a walking-stick,
with burnt-cork moustaches, and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth
himself with martial music.-Roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grand-
papa loquitur.]
COME
YOME hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my
knee
I cannot away with that horrible din,
That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
Oh, better to wander frank and free
Through the Fair of good St. Bartlemy,
Than list to such awful minstrelsie.
Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.
(Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, proceedeth slowly
to the window, and apostrophizeth the Abbey in the distance.]
I love thy tower, Gray Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,
Though reft of all, Cell, cloister, and hall,
Nothing is left save a tottering wall
That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
Threatened to fall and demolish my skull,
As, ages ago, I wandered along
Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
In sky-blue jacket, and trousers laced,
The latter uncommonly short in the waist.
Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin gray,
Than the Squire's veranda over the way;
And fairer, I ween, The ivy-sheen
That thy mouldering turret binds,
Than the Alderman's house about half a mile off,
With the green Venetian blinds.
Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
In many a bygone day,


126
THE WITCHES FROLIC.
Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
In thee, thou Ruin gray !
And I the readiest ear would lend,
And stare like frightened pig !
While
my
Grandfather's hair would have stood up on end,
Had he not worn wig.
One tale I remember of mickle dread-
Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!
Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
In Doctor Goldsmith's history book,
Of a gentleman called King James,
In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches.
Well,-in King James's golden days, -
For the days were golden then,-
They could not be less, for good Queen Bess
Had died, aged threescore and ten,
And her days, we know, Were all of them so;
While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants swore
That the days were as golden still as before.
Some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few,
Who historical points would unsettle,
Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt
Of the genuine ring of the metal;
But who can believe to a monarch so wise
People would dare tell a parcel of lies !
-Well, then, in good King James's days,—.
Golden or not does not matter a jot,
Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got;
For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking
Since Harry the Eighth sent its people a-packing,


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
127
Though joists, and floors, And windows, and doors,
Had all disappeared, yet pillars by scores
Remained, and still propped up a ceiling or two,
While the belfry was almost as good as new;
You are not to suppose matters looked just so
In the Ruin some two hundred years ago.
Just in the furthermost angle, where
There are still the remains of a winding stair,
One turret especially high in air
Upreared its tall gaunt form;
As if defying the power of Fate, or
The hand of “ Time the Innovator;"
And though to the pitiless storm
Its weaker brethren all around
Bowing, in ruin had strewed the ground,
Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strewed,
Like a four-bottle man in a company “screwed,”–
Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued.
One night,-'twas in Sixteen hundred and six,-
I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,-
The month was May, Though I can't well say
At this distance of time the particular day-
But oh! that night, that horrible night!
-Folks ever afterwards said with affright
That they never had seen such a terrible sight.
The Sun had gone down fiery red;
And if, that evening, he laid his head
In Thetis's lap beneath the seas,
He must have scalded the goddess's knees.
He left behind him a lurid track
Of blood-red light upon clouds so black,
That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew,
Could scarcely have given them a darker hue.
There came a shrill and a whistling sound,
Above, beneath, beside, and around,


128
THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
Yet leaf ne'er moved on tree!
So that some people thought old Beelzebub must
Have been locked out of doors, and was blowing the dust
From the pipe of his street-door key.
And then a hollow moaning blast
Came, sounding more dismally still than the last,
And the lightning flashed, and the thunder growled,
And louder and louder the tempest howled,
And the rain came down in such sheets as would stagger a
Bard for a simile short of Niagara.
Rob Gilpin " was a citizen;"
But though of some renown,"
Of no great “credit” in his own
Or
any
other town,
He was a wild and roving lad,
For ever in the alehouse boozing ;
Or romping, which is quite as bad,
-
With female friends of his own choosing.
And Rob this very day, had made,
Not dreaming such a storm was brewing,
An assignation with Miss Slade, -
Their trysting-place that same gray Ruin.
But Gertrude Slade became afraid,
And to keep her appointment unwilling,
When she spied the rain on her window-pane
In drops as big as a shilling;
She put off her hat and her mantle again :
“He'll never expect me in all this rain !"
But little he recks of the fears of the sex,
Or that maiden false to her tryst could be.
He had stood there a good half hour,
Ere yet had commenced that perilous shower,
Alone by the trysting-tree !


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
129
Robin looks east, Robin looks west,
But he sees not her whom he loves the best;
Robin looks up, and Robin looks down,
But no one comes from the neighboring town.
The storm came at last ;-loud roared the blast,
And the shades of evening fell thick and fast;
The tempest grew; and the straggling yew,
His leafy umbrella, was wet through and through.
Rob was half dead with cold and with fright,
When he spies in the Ruins a twinkling light-
A hop, two skips, and a jump, and straight
Rob stands within that postern gate.
And there were gossips sitting there,
By one, by two, by three:
Two were an old ill-favored pair:
But the third was young and passing fair,
With laughing eyes and with coal-black hair;
A dainty quean was she !
Rob would have given his ears to sip
But a single salute from her cherry lip.
As they sat in that old and haunted room,
In each one's hand was a huge birch broom,
On each one's head was a steeple-crowned hat,
On each one's knee was a coal-black cat;
Each had a kirtle of Lincoln green-
It was, I trow, a fearsome scene.
“Now riddle me, riddle me right, Madge Gray,
What foot unhallowed wends this way?
Goody Price, Goody Price, now areed me right,
Who roams the old Ruins this drearisome night?”
Then up and spake that sonsie quean,
And she spake both loud and clear:
“Oh, be it for weal, or be it for woe,
Enter friend, or enter foe,
Rob Gilpin is welcome here!"-
9


130
THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
“Now tread we a measure! a hall! a hall !
Now tread we a measure," quoth she
The heart of Robin Beat quick and throbbing-
Roving Rob, tread a measure with me!”
“Ay, lassie !" quoth Rob, as her hand he gripes,
Though Satan himself were blowing the pipes !"
Now around they go, and around, and around,
With hop-skip-and-jump, and frolicsome bound;
Such sailing and gliding, Such sinking and sliding,
Such lofty curvetting, And grand pirouetting,
Ned, you would swear that Monsieur Gilbert
And Miss Taglioni were capering there!
And oh! such awful music! ne'er
Fell sounds so uncanny on mortal ear.
There were the tones of a dying man's groans
Mixed with the rattling of dead men's bones :
Had you heard the shrieks, and the squeals, and the squeaks,
You'd not have forgotten the sound for weeks.
And around, and around, and around they go,
Heel to heel, and toe to toe,–
Prance and caper, curvet and wheel,
Toe to toe, and heel heel.
“'Tis merry, 'tis merry, Cummers, I trow,
To dance thus beneath the nightshade bough!”—
“Goody Price, Goody Price, now riddle me right,
Where may we sup this frolicsome night?”
“ Mine host of the Dragon hath mutton and veal ;
The Squire hath partridge, and widgeon, and teal;
But old Sir Thopas hath daintier cheer,
A pasty made of the good red deer,
A huge grouse-pie, and a fine Florentine,
A fat roast goose, and a turkey and chine.”—
“Madge Gray, Madge Gray,
Now tell
me,
I
pray,
Where's the best wassail bowl to our roundelay ?”
.


THE WITCHES" FROLIC.
131
“There is ale in the cellars of Tappington Hall,
But the Squire* is a churl, and his drink is small;
Mine host of the Dragon Hath many a flagon
Of double ale, lambs' wool, and eau de vie,
But Sir Thopas, the Vicar, Hath costlier liquor,-
A butt of the choicest Malvoisie.
He doth not lack Canary or sack;
And a good pint stoup of Clary wine
Smacks merrily off with a turkey and chine!”
“ Now away! and away! without delay,
Hey Cockalorum! my Broomstick gay!
We must be back ere the dawn of the day:
Hey up the chimney! away! away!"-
Old Goody Price Mounts in a trice,
In showing her legs she is not over nice;
Old Goody Jones, All skin and bones,
Follows “like winking.”—Away go the crones,
Knees and nose in a line with the toes,
Sitting their brooms like so many Ducrows;
Latest and last The damsel passed,
One glance of her coal-black eye she cast;
She laughed with glee loud laughters three.
"Dost fear, Rob Gilpin, to ride with me?"-
Oh, never might man unscathed espy
One single glance from that coal-black eye.
-Away she flew !— Without more ado
Rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too,
“Hey up the chimney, lass! Hey after you!"
It's a very fine thing, on a fine day in June,
To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon ;
But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon
In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a “Spoon,"
* Stephen Ingoldsby, surnamed “The Niggard,” second cousin and successor to
“The Bad Sir Giles." (Visitation of Kent, 1666.) For an account of his murder by
burglars, and their subsequent execution, see Dodsley's “Remarkable Trials,” etc.
Lond. 1776, vol. ii. p. 264, ex the present volume, Art. “Hand of Glory.”


132
THE WITCHES FROLIC.
For the largest can't fly Above twenty miles high,
And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh;
While no man alive Could ever contrive,
Mr. Green has declared, to get higher than five.
And the soundest Philosophers hold that, perhaps,
If
you reached twenty miles your balloon would collapse,
Or pass by such action The sphere of attraction,
Getting into the track of some comet-Good lack !
'Tis a thousand to one that you'd never come back;
And the boldest of mortals a danger like that must fear,
Rashly protruding beyond our own atmosphere.
No, no; when I try A trip to the sky,
I shan't go in that thing of yours, Mr. Gye,
Though Messieurs Monck Mason, and Spencer, and Beazly,
All join in saying it travels so easily.
No; there's nothing so good As a pony of wood-
Not like that which, of late, they stuck up on the gate
At the end of the Park, which caused so much debate,
And gave so much trouble to make it stand straight-
But a regular Broomstick-you'll find that the favorite
Above all, when, like Robin, you haven't to pay for it.
-Stay-really I dread— I am losing the thread
Of my tale; and it's time you should be in your bed,
So lithe now, and listen, my little boy Ned!
The Vicarage walls are lofty and thick,
And the copings are stone, and the sides are brick;
The casements are narrow, and bolted and barred,
And the stout oak door is heavy and hard;
Moreover, by way of additional guard,
A great big dog runs loose in the yard,
And a horse-shoe is nailed on the threshold sill,
To keep out aught that savors of ill, -
But, alack! the chimney-pot's open still !
- That great big dog begins to quail,
Between his hind legs he drops his tail.


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
133
Crouched on the ground, the terrified hound
Gives vent to a very odd sort of a sound;
It is not a bark, loud, open, and free,
As an honest old watch-dog's bark should be;
It is not a yelp, it is not a growl,
But a something between a whine and a howl;
And, hark !-a sound from the window high
Responds to the watch-dog's pitiful cry:
It is not a moan, It is not a groan:
It comes from a nose,—but is not what a nose
Produces in healthy and sound repose.
Yet Sir Thopas the Vicar is fast asleep,
And his respirations are heavy and deep!
He snores, 'tis true, but he snores no more
As he's aye been accustomed to snore before,
And as men of his kidney are wont to snore
(Sir Thopas's weight is sixteen stone four);-
He draws his breath like a man distressed
By pain or grief, or like one oppressed
By some ugly old Incubus perched on his breast.
A something seems To disturb his dreams,
And thrice on his ear, distinct and clear,
Falls a voice as of somebody whispering near
In still small accents, faint and few,
“ “Hey down the chimney-pot! Hey after you !"
Throughout the Vicarage, near and far,
There is no lack of bolt or of bar;
There are plenty of locks To closet and box,
Yet the pantry wicket is standing ajar!
And the little low door, through which you must go,
Down some half dozen steps, to the cellar below,
Is also unfastened, though no one may know,
By so much as a guess, how it comes to be so;
For wicket and door, The evening before,
Were both of them locked, and the key safely placed
On the bunch that hangs down from the Housekeeper's waist.


134
THE WITCHES' FROLIG
Oh! 'twas a jovial sight to view
In that snug little cellar that frolicsome crew!
Old Goody Price Had got something nice,
A turkey-poult larded with bacon and spice;
Old Goody Jones Would touch nought that had bones,
She might just as well mumble a parcel of stones.
Goody Jones, in sooth, had got never a tooth,
And a New-College pudding of marrow and plums
Is the dish of all others that suiteth her gums.
Madge Gray was picking The breast of a chicken ;
Her coal-black eye, with its glance so sly,
Was fixed on Rob Gilpin himself, sitting by
With his heart full of love, and his mouth full of pie;
Grouse-pie, with hare In the middle, is fare
Which, duly concocted with science and care,
Doctor Kitchener says is beyond all compare ;
And a tenderer leveret Robin had never ate;
So, in after times, oft he was wont to asseverate.
“Now pledge we the wine-cup !-a health !-a health!
Sweet are the pleasures obtained by stealth !
Fill up! fill up!-the brim of the cup
Is the part that aye holdeth the toothsomest sup!
Here's to thee, Goody Price !-Goody Jones, to thee
To thee, Roving Rob! and again to me!
Many a sip, never a slip,
Come to us four 'twixt the cup and the lip!"
The cups pass quick, The toasts fly thick,
Rob tries in vain out their meaning to pick,
But hears the words "Scratch," and "Old Bogey," and “Nick."
More familiar grown, Now he stands up alone,
Volunteering to give them a toast of his own.
“ A bumper of wine! Fill thine! Fill mine!
Here's a health to old Noah who planted the Vine!”
Oh then what sneezing, What coughing and wheezing,
Ensued in a way that was not over pleasing;
Goody Price, Goody Jones, and the pretty Madge Gray,
All seemed as their liquor had gone the wrong way..


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
135
But the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke
Those words which the party seemed almost to choke,
As by mentioning Noah some spell had been broke,
Every soul in the house at that instant awoke!
And, hearing the din from barrel and bin,
Drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in.
Up jumped the Cook and caught hold of her spit;
Up jumped the Groom and took bridle and bit;
Up jumped the Gardener and shouldered his spade;
Up jumped the Scullion,-the Footman,--the Maid
(The two last, by the way, occasioned some scandal
By appearing together with only one candle,
Which gave for unpleasant surmises some handle);
Up jumped the Swineherd, -and up jumped the big boy,
A nondescript under him, acting as Pig-boy;
Butler, Housekeeper, Coachman-from bottom to top
Everybody jumped up without parley or stop,
With the weapon which first in their way chanced to
drop,
Whip, warming-pan, wig-block, mug, musket, and mop.
Last of all doth appear, With some symptoms of fear,
Sir Thopas in person to bring up the rear,
In a mixed kind of costume half Pontificalibus,
Half what scholars denominate Pure Naturalibus ;
Nay, the truth to express, As you'll easily guess,
They have none of them time to attend much to dress ;
But He, or She, As the case may be,
He or She seizes what He or She pleases,
Trunk-hosen or kirtles, and shirts or chemises,
And thus one and all, great and small, short and tall,
Muster at once in the Vicarage hall,
With upstanding locks, starting eyes, shortened breath,
Like the folks in the Gallery Scene in Macbeth,
When Macduff is announcing their Sovereign's death.
And hark !—what accents clear and strong
To the listening throng came floating along !
'Tis Robin encoring himself in a song-
“Very good song! very well sung!
Jolly companions every one!"


136
THE WITCHES FROLIC.
1
On, on to the cellar! away! away!
On, on to the cellar without more delay!
The whole posse rush onwards in battle array-
Conceive the dismay of the party so gay,
Old Goody Jones, Goody Price, and Madge Gray,
When the door bursting wide, they descried the allied
Troops, prepared for the onslaught, roll in like a tide,
And the spits, and the tongs, and the pokers beside -
“Boot and saddle's the word ! mount, Cummers, and ride!"-
Alarm was ne'er caused more strong and indigenous
By cats among rats, or a hawk in a pigeon-house;
Quick from the view Away they all flew,
With a yell, and a screech, and a halliballoo,
“Hey up the chimney! Hey after you !"-
The Volscians themselves made an exit less speedy
From Corioli, “flutter'd like doves" by Macready.
They are gone, -save one, Robin alone!
Robin, whose high state of civilization
Precludes all idea of aërostation;
And who now has no notion of more locomotion
Than suffices to kick, with much zeal and devotion,
Right and left at the party, who pounced on their victim,
And mauled him, and kicked him, and licked him, and pricked
him,
As they bore him away scarce aware what was done,
And believing it all but a part of the fun,
Hic-hiccoughing out the same strain he'd begun,
“ Jol-jolly companions every one !"
*
*
*
Morning gray Scarce burst into day
Ere at Tappington Hall there's the deuce to pay;
The tables and chairs are all placed in array
In the old oak-parlor, and in and out
Domestics and neighbors, a motley rout,
Are walking, and whispering, and standing about;
And the Squire is there In his large arm-chair,
Leaning back with a grave magisterial air;


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
137
In the front of a seat a Huge volume, called Fleta,
And Bracton, a tome of an old-fashioned look,
And Coke upon Lyttelton, then a new book;
And he moistens his lips With occasional sips
From a luscious sack-posset that smiles in a tankard
Close by on a side-table-not that he drank hard,
But because at that day, I hardly need say,
The Hong Merchants had not yet invented How Qua,
Nor as yet would you see Souchong or Bohea
At the tables of persons of any degree:
How our ancestors managed to do without tea
I must fairly confess is a mystery to me;
Yet your Lydgates and Chaucers
and saucers;
Their breakfast, in fact, and the best they could get,
Was a sort of déjeuner à la fourchette ;
Instead of our slops They had cutlets and chops,
And sack-possets, and ale in stoups, tankards, and pots ;
And they wound up the meal with rumpsteaks and ’schalots.
Had no cups
Now the Squire lifts his hand With an air of command,
And gives them a sign, which they all understand,
To bring in the culprit; and straightway the carter
And huntsman drag in that unfortunate martyr,
Still kicking, and crying “Come,--what are you arter ?”
The charge is prepared, and the evidence clear,
"He was caught in the cellar a-drinking the beer! ·
And came there, there's very great reason to fear,
With companions,—to say but the least of them,- queer;
Such as Witches, and creatures With horrible features,
And horrible grins, And hooked noses and chins,
Who'd been playing the deuce with his Reverence's bins.”
The face of his worship grows graver and graver,
As the parties detail Robin's shameful behavior;
Mister Buzzard, the clerk, while the tale is reciting,
Sits down to reduce the affair into writing,
With all proper diction, And due “legal fiction :"
Viz., “That he, the said prisoner, as clearly was shown,
Conspiring with folks to deponents unknown,


138
THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
With divers—that is to say, two thousand people,
In two thousand hats, each hat peaked like a steeple,
With force and with arms, And with sorcery and charms,
Upon two thousand brooms, Entered four thousand rooms,
To wit, two thousand pantries, and two thousand cellars,
Put in bodily fear twenty thousand in-dwellers,
And with sundry—that is to say, two thousand-forks,
Drew divers—that is to say, ten thousand-corks,
And, with malice prepense, down their two thousand throttles
Emptied various—that is to say, ten thousand—bottles ;
All in breach of the peace,-moved by Satan's malignity-
And in spite of King James, and his Crown, and his Dignity.”
At words so profound Rob gazes around,
But no glance sympathetic to cheer him is found.
-No glance, did I say! Yes, one !—Madge Gray!
She is there in the midst of the crowd standing by,
And she gives him one glance from her coal-black eye,
One touch to his hand, and one word to his ear
(That's a line which I've stolen from Sir Walter, I fear),-
While nobody near Seems to see her or hear;
As his worship takes up, and surveys with a strict eye,
The broom now produced as the corpus delicti,
Ere his fingers can clasp, It is snatched from his grasp,
The end poked in his chest with a force makes him gasp,
And despite the decorum so due to the Quorum,
His worship's upset, and so too is his jorum;
And Madge is astride on the broomstick before 'em, -
"Hocus Pocus! Quick, Presto! and Hey Cockalorum!
Mount, mount for your life, Rob !-Sir Justice, adieu !
- Hey up the chimney-pot! hey after you!"
Through the mystified group,
With a halloo and a whoop,
Madge on the pommel, and Robin en croupe,
The pair through the air ride as if in a chair,
While the party below stand mouth open
and stare;
“Clean bumbaized” and amazed, and fixed, all the room stick,
Oh! what's gone with Robin,-and Madge,—and the broom-
stick?


THE WITCHES' FROLIC.
139
Ay, “what's gone" indeed, Ned ?-of what befell
Madge Gray and the broomstick, I never heard tell:
But Robin was found, that morn, on the ground,
In yon old gray Ruin again, safe and sound,
Except that at first he complained much of thirst,
And a shocking bad headache, of all ills the worst,
And close by his knee A flask you might see,
But an empty one, smelling of eau-de-vie.
Rob from this hour is an altered man;
He runs home to his lodgings as fast as he can,
Sticks to his trade, Marries Miss Slade,
Becomes a Teetotaller—that is, the same
As Teetotallers now, one in all but the name;
Grows fond of Small-beer, which is always a steady sign,
Never drinks spirits except as a medicine;
Learns to despise Coal-black eyes,
Minds pretty girls no more than so many Guys;
Has a family, lives to be sixty, and dies !
Now, my little boy Ned, Brush off to your bed,
Tie your nightcap on safe, or a napkin instead,
Or these terrible nights you'll catch cold in your head.
And remember my tale, and the moral it teaches,
Which you'll find much the same as what Solomon preaches :
Don't flirt with young ladies ; don't practice soft speeches;
Avoid waltzes, quadrilles, pumps, silk hose, and knee-breeches ;-
Frequent not gray Ruins,--shun riot and revelry,
Hocus Pocus, and Conjuring, and all sorts of devilry -
Don't meddle with broomsticks,-they're Beelzebub's switches,
Of cellars keep clear,--they're the devil's own ditches;
And beware of balls, banquetings, brandy, and—witches;
Above all, don't run after black eyes !-if you do,–
Depend on't you'll find what I say will come true,-
Old Nick, some fine morning, will “hey after you !"


140
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
STRANGE as the events detailed in the succeeding narrative
may appear, they are, I have not the slightest doubt, true to
the letter. Whatever impression they make upon the reader,
that produced by them on the narrator, I can aver, was neither
light nor transient.
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
The late Henry Harris, Doctor in Divinity,
AS RELATED BY THE REV. JASPER INGOLDSBY, M.A.,
HIS FRIEND AND EXECUTOR.
IN
N order that the extraordinary circumstance which I am
about to relate may meet with the credit it deserves, I
think it necessary to premise that my reverend friend, among
whose papers I find it recorded, was, in his lifetime, ever
esteemed as a man of good plain understanding, strict veracity,
and unimpeached morals,—by no means of a nervous tempera-
ment, or one likely to attach undue weight to any occurrence
out of the common course of events merely because his reflec-
tions might not, at the moment, afford him a ready solution of
its difficulties.
On the truth of his narrative, as far as he was personally
concerned, no one who knew him would hesitate to place the
most implicit reliance. His history is briefly this —He had
married early in life, and was a widower at the age of thirty-
nine, with an only daughter, who had then arrived at puberty,
and was just married to a near connection of our own family.
The sudden death of her husband, occasioned by a fall from
his horse, only three days after her confinement, was abruptly
communicated to Mrs. S— by a thoughtless girl, who saw
her master brought lifeless into the house, and, with all that in-
explicable anxiety to be the first to tell bad news, so common
among the lower orders, rushed at once into the sick-room with
her intelligence. The shock was too severe; and though the
young widow survived the fatal event several months, yet she


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
141
gradually sank under the blow, and expired, leaving a boy, not
a twelvemonth old, to the care of his maternal grandfather.
My poor friend was sadly shaken by this melancholy catas-
trophe; time, however, and a strong religious feeling, succeeded
at length in moderating the poignancy of his grief—a consum-
mation much advanced by his infant charge, who now succeeded,
as it were by inheritance, to the place in his affections left va-
cant by his daughter's decease. Frederick S— grew up to be
a fine lad; his person and features were decidedly handsome;
still there was, as I remember, an unpleasant expression in his
countenance, and an air of reserve, attributed, by the few per-
sons who called occasionally at the vicarage, to the retired life
led by his grandfather, and the little opportunity he had, in
consequence, of mixing in the society of his equals in age and
intellect. Brought up entirely at home, his progress in the
common branches of education was, without any great display
of precocity, rather in advance of the generality of boys of his
own standing; partly owing, perhaps, to the turn which even
his amusements took from the first. His sole associate was the
son of the village apothecary, a boy about two years older
than himself, whose father, being really clever in his profession,
and a good operative chemist, had constructed for himself a
small laboratory, in which, as he was fond of children, the two
boys spent a great portion of their leisure time, witnessing
many of those little experiments so attractive to youth, and in
time aspiring to imitate what they admired.
In such society, it is not surprising that Frederick S-
should imbibe a strong taste for the sciences which formed his
principal amusement; or that when, in process of time, it be-
came necessary to choose his walk in life, a profession so inti-
mately connected with his favorite pursuit, as that of medicine,
should be eagerly selected. No opposition was offered by my
friend, who, knowing that the greater part of his own income
would expire with his life, and that the remainder would prove
an insufficient resource to his grandchild, was only anxious that
he should follow such a path as would secure him that moder-
ate and respectable competency which is, perhaps, more condu-
cive to real happiness than a more elevated or wealthy station.
Frederick was, accordingly, at the proper age, matriculated at


142
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
Oxford, with the view of studying the higher branches of medi-
cine, a few months after his friend, John W—, had proceeded
to Leyden, for the purpose of making himself acquainted with
the practice of surgery in the hospitals and lecture-rooms
attached to that university. The boyish intimacy of their
younger days did not, as is frequently the case, yield to separa-
tion; on the contrary, a close correspondence was kept up
between them. Dr. Harris was even prevailed upon to allow
Frederick to take a trip to Holland to see his friend; and John
returned the visit to Frederick at Oxford.
Satisfactory as, for some time, were the accounts of the gene-
ral course of Frederick S’s studies, by degrees rumors of a
less pleasant nature reached the ears of some of his friends; to
the vicarage, however, I have reason to believe they never pen-
etrated. The good old Doctor was too well beloved in his parish
for any one voluntarily to give him pain; and, after all, noth-
ing beyond whispers and surmises had reached X-, when the
worthy vicar was surprised on a sudden by a request from his
grandchild that he might be permitted to take his name off the
books of the university, and proceed to finish his education in
conjunction with his friend W at Leyden. Such a pro-
posal, made, too, at a time when the period for his graduat-
ing could not be far distant, both surprised and grieved the
Doctor; he combated the design with more perseverance than
he had ever been known to exert in opposition to any declared
wish of his darling boy before, but, as usual, gave way when
more strongly pressed, from sheer inability to persist in a re-
fusal which seemed to give so much pain to Frederick, espe-
cially when the latter, with more energy than was quite becom-
ing their relative situations, expressed his positive determination
of not returning to Oxford, whatever might be the result of his
grandfather's decision. My friend, his mind, perhaps, a little
weakened by a short but severe nervous attack from which he
had scarcely recovered, at length yielded a reluctant consent,
and Frederick quitted England.
It was not till some months had elapsed after his departure
that I had reason to suspect that the eager desire of availing
himself of opportunities for study abroad, not afforded him at
home, was not the sole, or even the principal, reason which had


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
143
drawn Frederick so abruptly from his Alma Mater. A chance
visit to the university, and a conversation with a senior fellow
belonging to his late college, convinced me of this; still I found
it impossible to extract from the latter the precise nature of his
offence. That he had given way to most culpable indulgences
I had before heard hinted; and when I recollected how he had
been at once launched, from a state of what might be well
called seclusion, into a world where so many enticements were
lying in wait to allure—with liberty, example, everything to
tempt him from the straight road-regret, I frankly own, was
more the predominant feeling in my mind than either surprise
or condemnation. But here was evidently something more
than mere ordinary excess—some act of profligacy, perhaps of
a deeper stain, which had induced his superiors, who, at first,
had been loud in his praises, to desire him to withdraw himself
quietly, but for ever; and such an intimation, I found, had,
in fact, been conveyed to him from an authority which it was
impossible to resist. Seeing that my informant was determined
not to be explicit, I did not press for a disclosure, which, if
made, would, in all probability, only have given me pain, and
that the rather as my old friend the Doctor had recently ob-
tained a valuable living from Lord M-, only a few miles
distant from the market town in which I resided, where he now
was, amusing himself in putting his grounds into order, orna-
menting his house, and getting everything ready against his
grandson’s expected visit in the following autumn. October
came, and with it came Frederick: he rode over more than
once to see me, sometimes accompanied by the Doctor, between
whom and myself the recent loss of my poor daughter Louisa
had drawn the cords of sympathy still closer.
More than two years had flown on in this way, in which
Frederick Shad as many times made temporary visits to
his native country. The time was fast approaching when he
was expected to return and finally take up his residence in
England, when the sudden illness of my wife's father obliged
us to take a journey into Lancashire, my old friend, who had
himself a curate, kindly offering to fix his quarters at my par-
sonage, and superintend the concerns of my parish till my re-
turn. Alas! when I saw him next he was on the bed of death!


144
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
My absence was necessarily prolonged much beyond what I
had anticipated. A letter, with a foreign post-mark, had, as I
afterwards found, been brought over from his own house to my
venerable substitute in the interval, and, barely giving himself
time to transfer the charge he had undertaken to a neighboring
clergyman, he had hurried off at once to Leyden. His arrival
there was, however, too late. Frederick was dead !-killed in
a duel, occasioned, it was said, by no ordinary provocation on
his part, although the flight of his antagonist had added to the
mystery which enveloped its origin. The long journey, its mel-
ancholy termination, and the complete overthrow of all my
poor friend's earthly hopes, were too much for him. He ap-
peared too—as I was informed by the proprietor of the house
in which I found him, when his summons at length had brought
me to his bedside to have received some sudden and unac-
countable shock, which even the death of his grandson was
inadequate to explain. There was, indeed, a wildness in his
fast-glazing eye, which mingled strangely with the glance of
satisfaction thrown upon me as he pressed my hand; he endeav-
ored to raise himself, and would have spoken, but fell back in
the effort, and closed his
eyes
for ever.
I buried him there, by
the side of the object of his more than parental affection—in a
foreign land.
It is from the papers that I discovered in his travelling-case
that I submit the following extracts, without, however, presum-
ing to advance an opinion on the strange circumstances which
they detail, or even as to the connection which some may fancy
they discover between different parts of them.
The first was evidently written at my own house, and bears
date August the 15th, 18—, about three weeks after my own
departure for Preston.
It begins thus :
Tuesday, August 15.—Poor girl !—I forget who it is that
says, “The real ills of life are light in comparison with fancied
evils;' and certainly the scene I have just witnessed goes some
way towards establishing the truth of the hypothesis. Among
the afflictions which flesh is heir to, a diseased imagination is
far from being the lightest, even when considered separately,
and without taking into the account those bodily pains and
66


TIIE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
145
sufferings which so close is the connection between mind and
matter—are but too frequently attendant upon any disorder of
the fancy. Seldom has my interest been more powerfully ex-
cited than by poor Mary Graham. Her age, her appearance,
her pale, melancholy features, the very contour of her counte-
nance, all conspire to remind me, but too forcibly, of one who,
waking or sleeping, is never long absent from my thoughts.
But enough of this.
"A fine morning had succeeded one of the most tempestuous
nights I ever remember, and I was just sitting down to a sub-
stantial breakfast, which the care of my friend Ingoldsby's
housekeeper, kind-hearted Mrs. Wilson, had prepared for me,
when I was interrupted by a summons to the sick-bed of a young
parishioner whom I had frequently seen in my walks, and had
remarked for the regularity of her attendance at divine worship.
Mary Graham is the elder of two daughters, residing with their
mother, the widow of an attorney, who, dying suddenly in the
prime of life, left his family but slenderly provided for. A
strict though not parsimonious economy has, however, enabled
them to live with an appearance of respectability and comfort;
and from the personal attractions which both the girls possess,
their mother is evidently not without hopes of seeing one, at
least, of them advantageously settled in life. As far as poor
Mary is concerned, I fear she is doomed to inevitable disappoint-
ment, as I am much mistaken if consumption has not laid its
wasting finger upon her; while this last recurrence, of what I
cannot but believe to be a formidable epileptic attack, threatens
to shake out, with even added velocity, the little sand that may
yet remain within the hour-glass of time. Her very delusion,
too, is of such a nature as, by adding to bodily illness the agita-
tion of superstitious terror, can scarcely fail to accelerate the
catastrophe, which I think I see fast approaching.
“Before I was introduced into the sick-room, her sister, who
had been watching my arrival from the window, took me into
their little parlor, and, after the usual civilities, began to pre-
pare me for the visit I was about to pay. Her countenance was
marked at once with trouble and alarm, and in a low tone of
voice, which some internal emotion, rather than the fear of dis-
turbing the invalid in a distant room, had subdued almost to a
10


146
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
whisper, informed me that my presence was become necessary,
not more as a clergyman than a magistrate; that the disorder
with which her sister had, during the night, been so suddenly
and unaccountably seized, was one of no common kind, but
attended with circumstances which, coupled with the declara-
tions of the sufferer, took it out of all ordinary calculations, and,
to use her own expression, that ‘malice was at the bottom of it.'
“Naturally supposing that these insinuations were intended
to intimate the partaking of some deleterious substance on the
part of the invalid, I inquired what reason she had for imagin-
ing, in the first place, that anything of a poisonous nature had
been administered at all; and, secondly, what possible incite-
ment any human being could have for the perpetration of so
foul a deed towards so innocent and unoffending an individual.
Her answer considerably relieved the apprehensions I had begun
to entertain lest the poor girl should, from some unknown cause,
have herself been attempting to rush uncalled into the presence
of her Creator; at the same time, it surprised me not a little by
its apparent want of rationality and common sense.' She had
no reason to believe, she said, that her sister had taken poison,
or that any attempt upon her life had been made, or was, per-
haps, contemplated, but that still malice was at work-the
malice of villains or fiends, or of both combined; that no causes
purely natural would suffice to account for the state in which
her sister had been now twice placed, or for the dreadful suffer-
‘ings she had undergone while in that state;' and that she was
determined the whole affair should undergo a thorough investi-
gation. Seeing that the poor girl was now herself laboring
under a great degree of excitement, I did not think it necessary
to enter at that moment into a discussion upon the absurdity of
her opinion, but applied myself to the tranquillizing of her
mind by assurances of a proper inquiry, and then drew her
attention to the symptoms of the indisposition, and the way in
which it had first made its appearance.
“The violence of the storm last night had, I found, induced
the whole family to sit up far beyond their usual hour, till,
wearied out at length, and, as their mother observed, tired of
burning fire and candle to no purpose,' they repaired to their
several chambers.


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
147
“The sisters occupied the same room; Elizabeth was already
at her humble toilet, and had commenced the arrangement of
her hair for the night, when her attention was at once drawn
from her employment by a half-smothered shriek and exclama-
tion from her sister, who, in her delicate state of health, had
found walking up two flights of stairs, perhaps a little more
quickly than usual, an exertion, to recover from which she had
seated herself in a large arm-chair.
“Turning hastily at the sound, she perceived Mary deadly
pale, grasping, as it were convulsively, each arm of the chair
which supported her, and bending forward in the attitude of
listening; her lips were trembling and bloodless, cold drops of
perspiration stood upon her forehead, and in an instant after,
exclaiming in a piercing tone, ‘Hark! they are calling me
again! it is—it is the same voice ;—Oh no, no !-Oh my God!
save me, Betsy-hold me-save me!' she fell forward
upon
the
floor. Elizabeth flew to her assistance, raised her, and by her
cries brought both her mother, who had not yet got into bed, and
their only servant-girl, to her aid. The latter was despatched
at once for medical help; but, from the appearance of the suf-
ferer, it was much to be feared that she would soon be beyond
the reach of art. Her agonized parent and sister succeeded in
bearing her between them and placing her on a bed : a faint and
intermittent pulsation was for a while perceptible; but in a few
moments a general shudder shook the whole body; the pulse
ceased, the eyes became fixed and glassy, the jaw dropped, a
cold clamminess usurped the place of the genial warmth of life.
Before Mr. I arrived everything announced that dissolution
had taken place, and that the freed spirit had quitted its mortal
tenement.
« The
appearance of the
surgeon
confirmed their worst appre-
hensions; a vein was opened, but the blood refused to flow, and
Mr. I-pronounced that the vital spark was indeed extin-
guished.
* The poor mother, whose attachment to her children was
perhaps the more powerful as they were the sole relatives or
connections she had in the world, was overwhelmed with a
grief amounting almost to frenzy. It was with difficulty that
she was removed to her own room by the united strength of


148
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
her daughter and medical adviser. Nearly an hour had
elapsed during the endeavor at calming her transports; they
had succeeded, however, to a certain extent, and Mr. I-
had taken his leave, when Elizabeth, re-entering the bed.
chamber in which her sister lay, in order to pay the last sad
duties to her corpse, was horror-struck at seeing a crimson
stream of blood running down the side of the counterpane to
the floor. Her exclamation brought the girl again to her side,
when it was perceived, to their astonishment, that the sanguine
stream proceeded from the arm of the body, which was now
manifesting signs of returning life. The half-frantic mother
flew to the room, and it was with difficulty that they could pre-
vent her, in her agitation, from so acting as to extinguish for
ever the hope which had begun to rise in their bosoms. A
long-drawn sigh, amounting almost to a groan, followed by
several convulsive gaspings, was the prelude to the restoration
of the animal functions in poor Mary: a shriek, almost preter-
naturally loud considering her state of exhaustion, succeeded;
but she did recover, and, with the help of restoratives, was well
enough towards morning to express a strong desire that I
should be sent for—a desire the more readily complied with
inasmuch as the strange expressions and declarations she had
made since her restoration to consciousness had filled her sister
with the most horrible suspicions. The nature of these sus-
picions was such as would at any other time, perhaps, have
raised a smile upon my lips; but the distress and even agony
of the poor girl as she half hinted and half expressed them
were such as entirely to preclude every sensation at all ap-
proaching to mirth. Without endeavoring, therefore, to com-
bat ideas evidently too strongly impressed upon her mind at
the moment to admit of present refutation, I merely used a few
encouraging words, and requested her to precede me to the sick-
chamber.
“The invalid was lying on the outside of the bed, partly
dressed, and wearing a white dimity wrapping-gown, the color
of which corresponded but too well with the deadly paleness of
her complexion. Her cheek was wan and sunken, giving an
extraordinary prominence to her eye, which gleamed with a
lustrous brilliancy not unfrequently characteristic of the aber-


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
149
ration of intellect. I took her hand : it was chill and clammy,
the pulse feeble and intermittent, and the general debility of
her frame was such that I would fain have persuaded her to
defer, any conversation which, in her present state, she might
not be equal to support. Her positive assurance that, until
she had disburdened herself of what she called her dreadful
secret,' she could know no rest either of mind or body, at
length induced me to comply with her wish, opposition to
which, in her then frame of mind, might perhaps be attended
with even worse effects than its indulgence. I bowed acquies-
cence, and in a low and faltering voice, with frequent interrup-
tions occasioned by her weakness, she gave me the following
singular account of the sensations which, she averred, had been
experienced by her during her trance:
“This, sir,' she began, 'is not the first time that the cruelty
of others has, for what purpose I am unable to conjecture, put
me to a degree of torture which I can compare to no suffering,
either of body or mind, which I have ever before experienced.
On a former occasion I was willing to believe it the mere effect
of a hideous dream, or what is vulgarly termed the nightmare;
but this repetition, and the circumstances under which I was
last summoned,-at a time, too, when I had not even composed
myself to rest,-fatally convince me of the reality of what I
have seen and suffered.
« « This is no time for concealment of any kind. It is now
more than a twelvemonth since I was in the habit of occasion-
ally encountering in my walks a young man of prepossessing
appearance and gentlemanly deportment.
He was always
alone, and generally reading; but I could not be long in doubt
that these rencounters, which became every week more fre-
quent, were not the effect of accident, or that his attention,
when we did meet, was less directed to his book than to my
sister and myself. He even seemed to wish to address us, and
I have no doubt would have taken some other opportunity of
doing so had not one been afforded him by a strange dog
attacking us one Sunday morning in our way to church, which
he beat off, and made use of this little service to promote an
acquaintance. His name, he said, was Francis Somers, and
added that he was on a visit to a relation of the same name,


150
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
resident a few miles from X - He gave us to understand
that he was himself studying surgery with the view to a med-
ical appointment in one of the colonies.
You are not to sup-
pose, sir, that he had entered thus into his concerns at the first
interview; it was not till our acquaintance had ripened, and he
had visited our house more than once with my mother's sanc-
tion, that these particulars were elicited. He never disguised,
from the first, that an attachment to myself was his object orig-
inally in introducing himself to our notice. As his prospects
were comparatively flattering, my mother did not raise any
impediment to his attentions, and I own I received them with
pleasure.
““ Days and weeks elapsed; and although the distance at
which his relation resided prevented the possibility of an unin-
terrupted intercourse, yet neither was it so great as to preclude
his frequent visits. The interval of a day, or at most of two,
was all that intervened; and these temporary absences cer-
tainly did not decrease the pleasure of the meetings which they
terminated. At length a pensive expression began to exhibit
itself
upon
his countenance,
and I could not but remark that at
every visit he became more abstracted and reserved. The eye
of affection is not slow to detect any symptom of uneasiness in
a quarter dear to it. I spoke to him, questioned him, on the
subject; his answer was evasive, and I said no more. My
mother too, however, had marked the same appearance of mel-
ancholy, and pressed him more strongly. He at length admit-
ted that his spirits were depressed, and that their depression
was caused by the necessity of an early, though but a tem-
porary, separation. His uncle, and only friend, he said, had
long insisted on his spending some months on the Continent,
with the view of completing his professional education, and
that the time was now fast approaching when it would be
necessary for him to commence his journey. A look made the
inquiry which my tongue refused to utter. “Yes, dearest
Mary," was his reply: “I have communicated our attachment
to him, partially at least; and though I dare not say that the
intimation was received as I could have wished, yet I have
perhaps, on the whole, no fair reason to be dissatisfied with his
reply.


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
151
««« The completion of my studies, and my settlement in the
world, must, my uncle told me, be the first consideration; when
these material points were achieved, he should not interfere
with any arrangement that might be found essential to my
happiness; at the same time he has positively refused to sanc-
tion any engagement at present, which may, he says, have a
tendency to divert my attention from those pursuits on the due
prosecution of which my future situation in life must depend.
A compromise between love and duty was eventually wrung
from me, though reluctantly; I have pledged myself to proceed
immediately to my destination abroad, with a full understand-
ing that on my return, a twelvemonth hence, no obstacle shall
be thrown in the way of what are, I trust, our mutual wishes.”
““I will not attempt to describe the feelings with which I
received this communication, nor will it be necessary to say
anything of what passed at the few interviews which took place
before Francis quitted X-The evening immediately pre-
vious to that of his departure he passed in this house, and,
before we separated, renewed his protestations of an unchange-
able affection, requiring a similar assurance from me in return.
I did not hesitate to make it. "Be satisfied, my dear Francis,"
" that no diminution in the regard I have avowed can
ever take place, and though absent in body, my heart and soul
will still be with you.” _“Swear this," he cried with a sud-
denness and energy which surprised and rather startled me:
promise me that you will be with me in spirit, at least, when
I am far away.” I gave him my hand, but that was not suf-
ficient. “One of these dark shining ringlets, my dear Mary,”
said he, as a pledge that you will not forget your vow!” I
suffered him to take the scissors from my work-box and to sever
a lock of my hair, which he placed in his bosom. The next day
he was pursuing his journey, and the waves were already bear-
ing him from England.
“I had letters from him repeatedly during the first three
months of his absence: they spoke of his health, his prospects,
and of his love; but by degrees the intervals between each
arrival became longer, and I fancied I perceived some falling
off from that warmth of expression which had at first charac-
terized his communications.
said I,


152
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
upon me.
“One night I had retired to rest rather later than usual,
having sat by the bedside comparing his last brief note with
some of his earlier letters, and was endeavoring to convince
myself that my apprehensions of his fickleness were unfounded,
when an undefinable sensation of restlessness and anxiety seized
I cannot compare it to anything I had ever experi-
enced before; my pulse fluttered, my heart beat with a quick-
ness and violence which alarmed me, and a strange tremor
shook
my whole frame. I retired hastily to bed, in hopes of
getting rid of so unpleasant a sensation, but in vain; a vague
apprehension of I know not what occupied my mind, and
vainly did I endeavor to shake it off. I can compare my feel-
ings to nothing but those which we sometimes experience when
about to undertake a long and unpleasant journey, leaving
those we love behind us. More than once did I raise myself
in my bed and listen, fancying that I heard myself called; and
on each of these occasions the fluttering of my heart increased.
Twice I was on the point of calling to my sister, who then slept
in an adjoining room; but she had gone to bed indisposed, and
an unwillingness to disturb either her or my mother checked
The large clock in the room below at this moment began
to strike the hour of twelve; I distinctly heard its vibrations,
but ere its sounds had ceased a burning heat, as if a hot iron
had been applied to my temple, was succeeded by a dizzinesss,-
a swoon,
,-a total loss of consciousness as to where or in what
situation I was.
“A pain, violent, sharp, and piercing, as though my whole
frame were lacerated by some keen-edged weapon, roused me
from this stupor ;—but where was I ? Everything was strange
around me; a shadowy dimness rendered every object indistinct
and uncertain ; methought, however, that I was seated in a large
antique high-backed chair, several of which were near, their
tall black carved frames and seats interwoven with a lattice-
work of cane. The apartment in which I sat was one of mod-
erate dimensions, and, from its sloping roof, seemed to be the
upper story of the edifice, a fact confirmed by the moon shining
without, in full effulgence, on a huge round tower, which its
light rendered plainly visible through the open casement, and
the summit of which appeared but little superior in elevation
me.


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
153
to the room I occupied. Rather to the right, and in the dis-
tance, the spire of some cathedral or lofty church was visible,
while sundry gable ends and tops of houses told me I was in
the midst of a populous but unknown city.
« « The apartment itself had something strange in its appear-
ance; and, in the character of its furniture and appurtenances,
bore little or no resemblance to any I had ever seen before.
The fireplace was large and wide, with a pair of what are some-
times called andirons, betokening that wood was the principal
if not the only fuel consumed within its recess; a fierce fire was
now blazing in it, the light from which rendered visible the
remotest parts of the chamber. Over a lofty old-fashioned
mantlepiece, carved heavily in imitation of fruits and flowers,
hung the half-length portrait of a gentleman in a dark-colored
foreign habit, with a peaked beard and moustaches, one hand
resting upon a table, the other supporting a sort of baton, or
short military staff, the summit of which was surmounted by a
silver falcon. Several antique chairs, similar in appearance to
those already mentioned, surrounded a massive oaken table, the
length of which much exceeded its width. At the lower end
of this piece of furniture stood the chair I occupied ; on the
upper was placed a small chafing-dish filled with burning coals,
and darting forth occasionally long flashes of various-colored
fire, the brilliance of which made itself visible, even above the
strong illumination emitted from the chimney. Two huge
black japanned cabinets, with clawed feet, reflecting from their
polished surfaces the effulgence of the flame, were placed one
on each side the casement-window to which I have alluded,
and with a few shelves loaded with books, many of which were
also strewed in disorder on the floor, completed the list of the
furniture in the apartment. Some strange-looking instru-
ments, of unknown form and purpose, lay on the table near
the chafing-dish, on the other side of which a miniature por-
trait of myself hung, reflected by a small oval mirror in a
dark-colored frame, while a large open volume, traced with
strange characters of the color of blood, lay in front; a goblet,
containing a few drops of liquid of the same ensanguined hue,
was by its side.
“But of the objects which I have endeavored to describe,


154
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN T'IIE LIFE OF
none arrested my attention so forcibly as two others. These
were the figures of two young men, in the prime of life, only
separated from me by the table. They were dressed alike, each
in a long flowing gown, made of some sad-colored stuff, and
confined at the waist by a crimson girdle; one of them, the
shorter of the two, was occupied in feeding the embers of the
chafing-dish with a resinous powder, which produced and main-
tained a brilliant but flickering blaze, to the action of which
his companion was exposing a long lock of dark chestnut hair,
that shrank and shrivelled as it approached the flame. But,
O God !--that hair!-and the form of him who held it! that
face! those features !--not for one instant could I entertain a
doubt-it was He! Francis !—the lock he grasped was mine,
the very pledge of affection I had given him, and still, as it
partially encountered the fire, a burning heat seemed to scorch
the temple from which it had been taken, conveying a torturing
sensation that affected my very brain.
“How shall I proceed ?—but no, it is impossible, -not even
to you, sir, can 1-dare I-recount the proceedings of that un-
hallowed night of horror and of shame. Were my life extended
to a term commensurate with that of the Patriarchs of old,
never could its detestable, its damning pollutions be effaced
from my remembrance; and oh! above all, never could I forget
the diabolical glee which sparkled in the eyes of my fiendish
tormentors, as they witnessed the worse than useless struggles
of their miserable victim. Oh! why was it not permitted me
to take refuge in unconsciousness, nay, in death itself, from the
abominations of which I was compelled to be, not only a wit-
ness, but a partaker ? But it is enough, sir; I will not further
shock your nature by dwelling longer on the scene, the full
horrors of which words, if I even dared employ any, would be
inadequate to express; suffice it to say that after being subjected
to it, how long I knew not, but certainly for more than an hour,
a noise from below seemed to alarm my persecutors; a pause
ensued,—the lights were extinguished,-and, as the sound of a
footstep ascending a staircase became more distinct, my forehead
felt again the excruciating sensation of heat, while the embers,
kindling into a momentary flame, betrayed another portion of
the ringlet consuming in the blaze. Fresh agonies succeeded,


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
155
my sister to
aid;
not less severe, and of a similar description to those which had
seized upon me at first; oblivion again followed, and on being
at length restored to consciousness, I found myself as you see
me now, faint and exhausted, weakened in every limb, and
every fibre quivering with agitation. My groans soon brought
my it was long before I could summon resolu-
tion to confide, even to her, the dreadful secret, and when I had
done so, her strongest efforts were not wanting to persuade me
that I had been laboring under a severe attack of nightmare.
I ceased to argue, but I was not convinced: the whole scene
was then too present, too awfully real, to permit me to doubt
the character of the transaction; and if, when a few days had
elapsed, the hopelessness of imparting to others the conviction
I entertained myself produced in me an apparent acquiescence
with their opinion, I have never been the less satisfied that no
cause reducible to the known laws of nature occasioned my
sufferings on that hellish evening. Whether that firm belief
might have eventually yielded to time, whether I might at
length have been brought to consider all that had passed, and
the circumstances which I could never cease to remember, as a
mere phantasm, the offspring of a heated imagination, acting
upon an enfeebled body, I know not-last night, however, would
in any case have dispelled the flattering illusion—last night-
last night was the whole horrible scene acted over again. The
place—the actors—the whole infernal apparatus were the same;
-the same insults, the same torments, the same brutalities—all
were renewed, save that the period of my agony was not so pro-
longed. I became sensible to an incision in my arm, though
the hand that made it was not visible; at the same moment my
persecutors paused; they were manifestly disconcerted, and the
companion of him, whose name shall never more pass my lips,
muttered something to his abettor in evident agitation; the
formula of an oath of horrible import was dictated to me in
terms fearfully distinct. I refused it unhesitatingly; again and
again was it proposed, with menaces I tremble to think on-but
I refused; the same sound was heard—interruption was evi-
dently apprehended,—the same ceremony was hastily repeated,
and I again found myself released, lying on my own bed, with
my
mother and my sister weeping over me.
O God! O God!


156
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
when and how is this to end ?-When will my spirit be left in
peace ?—Where or with whom shall I find refuge ?'
"It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the emotions
with which this unhappy girl's narrative affected me. It must
not be supposed that her story was delivered in the same con-
tinuous and uninterrupted strain in which I have transcribed
its substance. On the contrary, it was not without frequent
intervals, of longer or shorter duration, that her account was
brought to a conclusion: indeed, many passages of her strange
dream were not without the greatest difficulty and reluctance
communicated at all. My task was no easy one; never, in the
course of a long life spent in the active duties of my Christian
calling,-never had I been summoned to such a conference
before.
“To the half-avowed and palliated confession of committed
guilt I had often listened, and pointed out the only road to
secure its forgiveness. I had succeeded in cheering the spirit
of despondency, and sometimes even in calming the ravings of
despair; but here I had a different enemy to combat, an in-
eradicable prejudice to encounter, evidently backed by no com-
mon share of superstition, and confirmed by the mental weak-
ness attendant upon severe bodily pain. To argue the sufferer
out of an opinion so rooted was a hopeless attempt. I did,
however, essay it; I spoke to her of the strong and mysterious
connection maintained between our waking images and those
which haunt us in our dreams, and more especially during that
morbid oppression commonly called nightmare. I was even
enabled to adduce myself as a strong and living instance of the
excess to which fancy sometimes carries her freaks on those
occasions; while, by an odd coincidence, the impression made
upon my own mind, which I adduced as an example, bore no
slight resemblance to her own. I stated to her that on my
recovery from the fit of epilepsy which had attacked me about
two years since, just before my grandson Frederick left Oxford,
it was with the greatest difficulty I could persuade myself that I
had not visited him, during the interval, in his rooms at Braze-
nose, and even conversed with himself and his friend W-
seated in his arm-chair, and gazing through the window full
upon the statue of Cain, as it stands in the centre of the quad-
>


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
157
rangle. I told her of the pain I underwent both at the com-
mencement and termination of my attack; of the extreme
lassitude that succeeded; but my efforts were all in vain : she
listened to me, indeed, with an interest almost breathless, espe-
cially when I informed her of my having actually experienced
the very burning sensation in the brain alluded to, no doubt a
strong attendant symptom of this peculiar affection, and a proof
of the identity of the complaint; but I could plainly perceive
that I failed entirely in shaking the rooted opinion which pos-
sessed her, that her spirit had, by some nefarious and unhal-
lowed means, been actually subtracted for a time from its
earthly tenement."
The next extract which I shall give from my old friend's
memoranda is dated August 24th, more than a week subsequent
to his first visit at Mrs. Graham's.
He appears, from his
papers, to have visited the poor young woman more than once
during the interval, and to have afforded her those spiritual
consolations which no one was more capable of communicating.
His patient, for so in a religious sense she may well be termed,
had been sinking under the agitation she had experienced ; and
the constant dread she was under of similar sufferings operated
so strongly on a frame already enervated that life at length
seemed to hang only by a thread. His papers go on to say-
“I have just seen poor Mary Graham, I fear for the last
time. Nature is evidently quite worn out; she is aware that
she is dying, and looks forward to the termination of her exist-
ence here, not only with resignation but with joy. It is clear
that her dream, or what she persists in calling her subtraction,'
has much to do with this. For the last three days her behavior
has been altered; she has avoided conversing on the subject of
her delusion, and seems to wish that I should consider her as a
convert to my view of her case. This may, perhaps, be partly
owing to the flippancies of her medical attendant upon the sub-
ject, for Mr. I-has, somehow or other, got an inkling that
she has been much agitated by a dream, and thinks to laugh
off the impression-in my opinion injudiciously; but though a


158
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
skillful and a kind-hearted, he is a young man, and of a dis-
position, perhaps, rather too mercurial for the chamber of a
nervous invalid. Her manner has since been much more re-
served to both of us: in my case, probably because she suspects
me of betraying her secret."
“August 26th.—Mary Graham is yet alive, but sinking fast;
her cordiality towards me has returned since her sister confessed
yesterday that she had herself told Mr. I—that his patient's
mind' had been affected by a terrible vision.' I am evidently
restored to her confidence. She asked me this morning, with
much earnestness, “What I believed to be the state of departed
spirits during the interval between dissolution and the final
day of account? And whether I thought they would be safe,
in another world, from the influence of wicked persons em-
ploying an agency more than human ?' Poor child! One
cannot mistake the prevailing bias of her mind. Poor child !”
“August 27th.-It is nearly over; she is sinking rapidly, but
quietly and without pain. I have just administered to her the
sacred elements, of which her mother partook. Elizabeth
declined doing the same: she cannot, she says, yet bring
herself to forgive the villain who has destroyed her sister.
It is singular that she, a young woman of good plain sense
in ordinary matters, should so easily adopt, and so pert-
inaciously retain, a superstition so puerile and ridiculous.
This must be matter of a future conversation between us;
at present, with the form of the dying girl before her eyes,
it were vain to argue with her. The mother, I find, has
written to young Somers, stating the dangerous situation of
his affianced wife; indignant, as she justly is, at his long
silence, it is fortunate that she has no knowledge of the sus-
picions entertained by her daughter. I have seen her letter;
it is addressed to Mr. Francis Somers, in the Hogewoert, at


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.'
159
Leyden-a fellow-student, then, of Frederick's. I must re-
member to inquire if he is acquainted with this young man.”
Several pages
Mary Graham, it appears, died the same night. Before her
departure, she repeated to my friend the singular story she
had before told him, without any material variation from
the detail she had formerly given. To the last she persisted
in believing that her unworthy lover had practiced upon
her by forbidden arts. She once more described the apart-
ment with great minuteness, and even the person of Francis's
alleged companion, who was, she said, about the middle height,
hard-featured, with a rather remarkable scar upon his left
cheek, extending in a transverse direction from below the
eye to the nose.
of
my
reverend friend's man-
uscript are filled with reflections upon this extraordinary
confession, which, joined with its melancholy termination,
seems to have produced no common effect upon him. He
alludes to more than one subsequent discussion with the sur-
viving sister, and piques himself on having made some progress
in convincing her of the folly of her theory respecting the
origin and nature of the illness itself.
His memoranda on this and other subjects are continued
till about the middle of September, when a break ensues,
occasioned, no doubt, by the unwelcome news of his grandson's
dangerous state, which induces him to set out forthwith for
Holland. His arrival at Leyden was, as I have already said,
too late. Frederick S-
Frederick Shad expired after thirty hours'
intense suffering, from a wound received in a duel with a
brother student. The cause of quarrel was variously related;
but, according to his landlord's version, it had originated in
some silly dispute about a dream of his antagonist's, who had
been the challenger. Such, at least, was the account given
to him, as he said, by Frederick's friend and fellow-lodger,
W who had acted as second on the occasion, thus ac-
quitting himself of an obligation of the same kind due to the
deceased, whose services he had put in requisition about a year


160
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
before on a similar occasion, when he had himself been severely
wounded in the face.
From the same authority I learned that my poor friend was
much affected on finding that his arrival had been deferred too
long. Every attention was shown him by the proprietor of
the house, a respectable tradesman, and a chamber was pre-
pared for his accommodation; the books and few effects of
his deceased grandson were delivered over to him, duly in-
ventoried, and, late as it was in the evening when he reached
Leyden, he insisted on being conducted immediately to the
apartments which Frederick had occupied, there to indulge
the first ebullitions of his sorrow, before he retired to his own.
Madame Müller accordingly led the way to an upper room,
which, being situated at the top of the house, had been, from
its privacy and distance from the street, selected by Frederick
as his study. The Doctor entered, and taking the lamp from
his conductress motioned to be left alone. His implied wish
was of course complied with: and nearly two hours had
elapsed before his kind-hearted hostess reascended, in the hope
of prevailing upon him to return with her, and partake of
that refreshment which he had in the first instance peremptorily
declined. Her application for admission was unnoticed :-she
repeated it more than once, without success; then, becoming
somewhat alarmed at the continued silence, opened the door
and perceived her new inmate stretched on the floor in a
fainting fit. Restoratives were instantly administered, and
prompt medical aid succeeded at length in restoring him to
consciousness. But his mind had received a shock from
which, during the few weeks he survived, it never entirely
recovered. His thoughts wandered perpetually; and though,
from the very slight acquaintance which his hosts had with
the English language, the greater part of what fell from him
remained unknown, yet enough was understood to induce
them to believe that something more than the mere death of
his grandson had contributed thus to paralyze his faculties.
When his situation was first discovered, a small miniature
was found tightly grasped in his right hand. It had been
the property of Frederick, and had more than once been seen
by the Müllers in his possession. To this the patient made


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
161
continued reference, and would not suffer it one moment from
his sight: it was in his hand when he expired. At my request
it was produced to me. The portrait was that of a young
woman, in an English morning dress, whose pleasing and
regular features, with their mild and somewhat pensive ex-
pression, were not, I thought, altogether unknown to me.
Her age was apparently about twenty. A profusion of dark
chestnut hair was arranged in the Madonna style above a brow
of unsullied whiteness, a single ringlet depending on the left
side. A glossy lock of the same color, and evidently belonging
to the original, appeared beneath a small crystal, inlaid in
the back of the picture, which was plainly set in gold, and
bore in a cipher the letters M. G., with the date 18%. From
the inspection of this portrait I could at the time collect
nothing, nor from that of the Doctor himself, which, also,
I found the next morning in Frederick's desk, accompanied
by two separate portions of hair. One of them was a lock,
short and deeply tinged with gray, and had been taken, I
have little doubt, from the head of my old friend himself;
the other corresponded in color and appearance with that at
the back of the miniature. It was not till a few days had
elapsed, and I had seen the worthy Doctor's remains quietly
consigned to the narrow house, that, while arranging his
papers previous to my intended return upon the morrow,
I encountered the narrative I have already transcribed. The
name of the unfortunate young woman connected with it
forcibly arrested my attention. I recollected it immediately
as one belonging to a parishioner of my own, and at once
recognized the original of the female portrait as its owner.
I rose not from the perusal of his very singular statement
till I had gone through the whole of it. It was late, and
the rays of the single lamp by which I was reading did but
very faintly illumine the remoter parts of the room in which
I sat. The brilliancy of an unclouded November moon, then
some twelve nights old, and shining full into the apartment,
did much towards remedying the defect. My thoughts filled
with the melancholy details I had read, I rose and walked to
the window. The beautiful planet rose high in the firmament,
and gave to the snowy roofs of the houses, and pendent icicles,
11


162
SINGULAR PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
all the sparkling radiance of clustering gems. The stillness
of the scene harmonized well with the state of my feelings.
I threw open the casement and looked abroad. Far below me
the waters of the principal canal shone like a broad mirror in
the moonlight. To the left rose the Burght, a huge round
tower of remarkable appearance, pierced with embrasures at
its summit; while a little to the right, and in the distance, the
spire and pinnacles of the Cathedral of Leyden rose in all
their majesty, presenting a coup d'oeil of surpassing though
simple beauty. To a spectator of calm, unoccupied mind, the
scene would have been delightful. On me it acted with an
electric effect. I turned hastily to survey the apartment in
which I had been sitting. It was the one designated as the
study of the late Frederick - The sides of the room
were covered with dark wainscot; the spacious fireplace oppo-
site to me, with its polished andirons, was surmounted by a
large old-fashioned mantlepiece, heavily carved in the Dutch
style with fruits and flowers; above it frowned a portrait, in a
Vandyke dress, with a peaked beard and moustaches; one hand
of the figure rested on a table, while the other bore a marshal's
staff, surmounted with a silver falcon; and either my imagin-
ation, already heated by the scene, deceived me, or a smile as
of malicious triumph curled the lip and glared in the cold
leaden eye that seemed fixed upon my own.
The heavy
antique cane-backed chairs, the large oaken table, the book-
shelves, the scattered volumes,-all, all were there; while, to
complete the picture, to my right and left, as half breathless
I leaned my back against the casement, rose, on each side, a
tall, dark ebony cabinet, in whose polished sides the single
lamp upon the table shone reflected as in a mirror.
What am I to think ?—Can it be that the story I have been
reading was written by my poor friend here, and under the in-
fluence of delirium ?-Impossible! Besides, they all assure me
that from that fatal night of his arrival he never left his bed-
never put pen to paper.
His
very
directions to have me sum-
moned from England were verbally given, during one of those


THE LATE HENRY HARRIS, D.D.
163
few and brief intervals in which reason seemed partially to re-
sume her sway. Can it then be possible that? W-?
where is he who alone may be able to throw light on this horri-
ble mystery? No one knows. He absconded, it seems, imme-
diately after the duel. No trace of him exists, nor, after
repeated and anxious inquiries, can I find that any student has
ever been known in the University of Leyden by the name of
Francis Somers.
"There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamt of .in your philosophy!"
FATHER JOHN INGOLDSBY, to whose papers I am largely
indebted for the saintly records which follow, was brought up
by his father, a cadet of the family, in the Romish faith, and
was educated at Douai for the church. Besides the manuscripts
now at Tappington, he was the author of two controversial
treatises on the connection between the Papal Hierarchy and
the Nine of Diamonds.
From his well-known loyalty, evinced by secret services to
the Royal cause during the Protectorate, he was excepted by
name out of the acts against the Papists, became superintend-
ent of the Queen Dowager's chapel at Somerset House, and
enjoyed a small pension until his death, which took place in the
third year of Queen Anne (1704), at the mature age of ninety-
six. He was an ecclesiastic of great learning and piety, but,
from the stiff and antiquated phraseology which he adopted, I
have thought it necessary to modernize it a little: this will
account for certain anachronisms that have unavoidably crept
in; the substance of his narratives has, however, throughout
been strictly adhered to.
His hair-shirt, almost as good as new, is still preserved at
Tappington,-but nobody ever wears it.


164
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
The Jackdaw of Rheims.
“Tunc miser Corvus adeo conscientiæ stimulis compunctus fuit, et execratio eum
tantopere excarneficavit, ut exinde tabescere inciperet, maciem contraheret, omnem
cibum aversaretur, nec ampliùs crocitaret: pennæ præterea ei defluebant, et alis pen-
dulis omnes facetias intermisit, et tam macer apparuit ut omnes ejus miserescent." *
“Tunc abbas sacerdotibus mandavit ut rursus furem absolverent; quo facto, Corvus,
omnibus mirantibus, propediem convaluit, et pristinam sanitatem recuperavit."
De Illust. Ord. Cisterc.
THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and Abbot, and Prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims !
In and out Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cakes, And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopped upon all!
With saucy air, He perched on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peered in the face of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
“We two are the greatest folks here to-day!”
And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw,
Said, “The devil must be in that little Jackdaw !”
The feast was over, the board was cleared,
The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,


THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
165
And six little Singing-boys, dear little souls !
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due, Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Embossed and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat marked in “permanent ink.”
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white:
From his finger he draws His costly turquoise ;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring !
There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;
The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colored shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels; ,
They turn up the dishes,-they turn up the plates, -
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,


166
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
- They turn
up
the rugs, They examine the mugs :-
But no !--no such thing ;- They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbot declared that “when nobody twigged it,
Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!”
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed himin dying !-
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise To no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse !
hand;
The day was gone, The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they searched till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay, As on yesterday;
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way ;--
His pinions drooped_he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your
His eye so dim, So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, “THAT'S HIM! -
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing !
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring !"
The
poor
little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turned his bald head, as much as to say,
“Pray, be so good as to walk this way !"



11
Sopeu
“No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way.”
p. 166.


1


THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
167
Slower and slower He limped on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw, 'Midst the sticks and
the straw,
Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !
-When those words were heard, That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd;
He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more Even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopped now about With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore, -
Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw Would give a great “Caw!"
As much as to say, “Don't do so any more !”
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they “never had known such a pious Jackdaw.!”
He long lived the pride Of that country side,
And at last in the odor of sanctity died ;
When, as words were too faint His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized himn by the name of Jim Crow!


168
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
A Lay of St. Dunstan.
“ This holy childe Dunstan was borne in pe pere of our Lorde ix. hundred
& xxv. that tyme reynynge in this londe Kinge Athelston.
"Whan it so was that Sapnt Dunstan was wery of prayer than used he
to werke in goldsmythes werke with his owne handes for to eschewe ydelnes."
Golden Legend.
ST.
T. DUNSTAN stood in his ivied tower,
Alembic, crucible, all were there;
When in came Nick to play him a trick,
In guise of a damsel passing fair.
Every one knows How the story goes :
He took
up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.
But I beg that you won't for a moment suppose
That I mean to go through, in detail, to you
A story at least as trite as it's true;
Nor do I intend An instant to spend
On the tale, how he treated his monarch and friend.
When bolting away to a chamber remote,
Inconceivably bored by his Witen-gemote,
Edwy left them all joking, And drinking, and
smoking,
So tipsily grand, they'd stand nonsense from no King,
But sent the Archbishop Their Sovereign to fish up,
With a hint that perchance on his crown he might feel
taps
Unless he came back straight and took off his heel-taps.
You must not be plagued with the same story twice,
And perhaps have seen this one, by W. DYCE,


A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
169
At the Royal Academy, very well done,
And marked in the catalogue, Four, seven, one.
You might there view the Saint, who in sable arrayed is,
Coercing the Monarch away from the Ladies;
His right hand has hold of his Majesty's jerkin,
His left shows the door, and he seems to say, “Sir King,
Your most faithful Commons won't hear of your shirking;
Quit your tea, and return to your Barclai and Perkyn;
Or, by Jingo,* ere morning, no longer alive, a
Sad victim you'll lie to your love for Elgiva !"
No further to treat Of this ungallant feat,
What I mean to do now is succinctly to paint
One particular fact in the life of the Saint,
Which, somehow, for want of due care, I presume,
Has escaped the researches of Rapin and Hume,
In recounting a miracle, both of them men who a
Great deal fall short of Jacques, Bishop of Genoa,
An Historian who likes deeds like these to record
See his Aurea Legenda, by Wynkyn de Worde.
St. Dunstan stood again in his tower,
Alembic, crucible, all complete;
He had been standing a good half hour,
And now he uttered the words of
power,
And called to his Broomstick to bring him a seat.
The words of power !-and what be they
To which e'en Broomsticks bow and obey ?
Why,-'twere uncommonly hard to say,
As the prelate I named has recorded none of them,
What they may be, But I know they are three,
And ABRACADABRA, I take it, is one of them:
* St. Jingo, or Gengo (Gengulphus), sometimes styled “The Living Jingo," from the
great tenaciousness of vitality exhibited by his severed members. See his Legend, as
recorded hereafter in the present volume.


170
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
For I'm told that most Cabalists use that identical
Word, written thus, in what they call “ a Pentacle."
4
ABRACADABRA
BRACADABR
RA CADAB
A CADA
CA.D
A
o
However that be, You'll doubtless agree
It signifies little to you or to me,
As not being dabblers in Grammarye;
Still, it must be confessed, for a Saint to repeat
Such language aloud is scarcely discreet;
For, as Solomon hints to folks given to chatter,
“A bird of the air may carry the matter;"
And in sooth, From my youth, I remember a truth
Insisted on much in
my
earlier
years,
To wit, “ Little Pitchers have very long ears!"
Now, just such “Pitcher" as those I allude to
Was outside the door, which his “ears” appeared glued to.
a
Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,
Five feet one in his sandal shoon,
While the Saint thought him sleeping,
Was listening and peeping,
And watching his master the whole afternoon.


A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
171
This Peter the Saint had picked out from his fellows,
To look to his fire, and to blow with the bellows,
To put on the Wall's-Ends and Lambtons whenever he
Chose to indulge in a little orfevrerie;
—Of course you have read That St. Dunstan was bred
A Goldsmith, and never quite gave up the trade!
The Company-richest in London, 'tis said-
Acknowledge him still as their Patron and Head;
Nor is it so long Since a capital song
In his praise-now recorded their archives among-
Delighted the noble and dignified throng
Of their guests, who, the newspapers told the whole town,
With cheers "pledged the wine-cup to Dunstan’s renown,”
When Lord Lyndhurst, THE DUKE, and Sir Robert were
dining
At the Hall some time since with the Prime Warden Twining.-
-I am sadly digressing—a fault which sometimes
One can hardly avoid in these gossiping rhymes-
A slight deviation's forgiven! but then this is
Too long, I fear, for a decent parenthesis,
So I'll rein up my Pegasus sharp, and retreat, or
You'll think I've forgotten the Lay-brother Peter,
Whom the Saint, as I said, Kept to turn down his bed,
Dress his palfreys and cobs, And do other odd jobs, -
As reducing to writing Whatever he might, in
The course of the day or the night, be inditing,
And cleaning the plate of his mitre with whiting;
Performing, in short, all those duties and offices
Abbots exact from Lay-brothers and Novices.
It occurs to me here You'll perhaps think it queer
That St. Dunstan should have such a personage near,
When he'd only to say Those words,-be what they
may, -
And his Broomstick at once his commands would obey.-
That's true—but the fact is 'Twas rarely his practice
Such aid to resort to, or such means apply,
Unless he'd some "dignified knot" to untie,


172
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
Adopting, though sometimes, as now, he'd reverse it,
Old Horace's maxim “nec Broomstick intersit.”-
-Peter, the Lay-brother, meagre and thin,
Heard all the Saint was saying within ;
Peter, the Lay-brother, sallow and spare,
Peeped through the keyhole, and—what saw he there ?-
Why, -A BROOMSTICK BRINGING A RUSH-BOTTOMED CHAIR!
What Shakspeare observes, in his play of King John,
Is undoubtedly right, That “ofttimes the sight
Of means to do ill deeds will make ill deeds done.”
Here's Peter, the Lay-brother, pale-faced and meagre,
A good sort of man, only rather too eager
To listen to what other people are saying
When he ought to be minding his business or praying,
Gets into a scrape, and an awkward one, too,–
As you'll find if you've patience enough to go through
The whole of the story I'm laying before ye,-
Entirely from having "the means” in his view
Of doing a thing which he ought not to do!
Still rings in his ear, Distinct and clear,
Abracadabra! that word of fear!
And the two which I never get happened to hear.
Still doth he spy, With fancy's eye,
The Broomstick at work, and the Saint standing by;
And he chuckles, and says to himself, with glee,
“Aha! that Broomstick shall work for me!”
Hark!—that swell O'er flood and o'er fell,
Mountain, and dingle, and moss-covered dell!
List!-'tis the sound of the Compline bell;
And St. Dunstan is quitting his ivied cell ;
Peter, I wot, Is off like a shot,
Or a little dog scalded by something that's hot,
For he hears his master approaching the spot
Where he'd listened so long, though he knew he ought not;


174
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
Five Lay-brothers stand behind his chair,
But where is the sixth ?—Where's Peter ?-Ay, WHERE?
'Tis an evening in June, And a little half moon,
A brighter no fond lover ever set eyes on
Gleaming and beaming, And dancing the stream in,
Has made her appearance above the horizon;
Just such a half moon as you see, in a play,
On the turban of Mustapha Muley Bey,
Or the fair Turk who weds with the “Noble Lord Bateman;"
- Vide plate in George Cruikshanks' memoirs of that great
man.
She shines on a turret remote and lone,
A turret with ivy and moss overgrown,
And lichens that thrive on the cold dank stone;
Such a tower as a poet of no mean calibre
I once knew and loved, poor, dear Reginald Heber,
Assigns to oblivion*-a den for a She-Bear;
Within it are found, Strewed above and around,
On the hearth, on the table, the shelves, and the ground,
All sorts of instruments, all sorts of tools,
To name which, and their uses, would puzzle the Schools,
And make very wise people look very like fools;
Pincers and hooks, And black-letter books,
All sorts of pokers and all sorts of tongs,
And all sorts of hammers, and all that belongs
To Goldsmiths' work, chemistry, alchemy,-all,
In short, that a Sage, In that erudite age,
Could require, was at hand, or at least within call.
In the midst of the room lies a Broomstick !-and there
A Lay-brother sits in a rush-bottomed chair!
Abracadabra, that fearful word,
And the two which, I said, I have never yet heard,
Are uttered.—'Tis done! Peter, full of his fun,
Cries,“ Broomstick! you lubberly son of a gun!
* And cold oblivion, ʼmidst the ruin laid,
Folds her dank wing beneath the ivy shade.
Palestine.


À LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
175
Bring ale !-bring a flagon—a hogshead—a tun!
'Tis the same thing to you; I have nothing to do;
And, 'fore George, I'll sit here, and I'll drink till all's blue !"
No doubt you've remarked how uncommonly quick
A Newfoundland puppy runs after a stick,
Brings it back to his master, and gives it him-Well,
So potent the spell,
The Broomstick perceived it was vain to rebel,
So ran off like that puppy;--some cellar was near,
For in less than ten seconds 'twas back with the beer!
Peter seizes the flagon; but ere he can suck
Its contents, or enjoy what he thinks his good luck,
The Broomstick comes in with a tub in a truck;
Continues to run At the rate it begun,
And, au pied de lettre, next brings in a tun;
A fresh one succeeds, then a third, then another,
Discomfiting much the astounded Lay-brother;
Who, had he possessed fifty pitchers or stoups,
They all had been too few; for, arranging in groups
The barrels, the Broomstick next started the hoops :
The ale deluged the floor, But still, through the door,
Said Broomstick kept bolting, and bringing in more.
E'en Macbeth to Macduff
Would have cried "Hold enough !"
If half as well drenched with such “perilous stuff,"
And Peter, who did not expect such a rough visit,
Cried lustily, “Stop !—That will do, Broomstick !-Sufficit !”
But ah, well-a-day! The Devil, they say,
'Tis easier at all times to raise than to lay.
Again and again Peter roared out in vain
His Abracadabra, and t’other words twain :-
As well might one try A pack in full cry
To check, and call off from their headlong career,
By bawling out “Yoicks !” with one's hand at one's ear.
The longer he roared and the louder and quicker,
The faster the Broomstick was bringing in liquor.


176
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
The poor Lay-brother knew Not on earth what to do-
He caught hold of the Broomstick and snapt it in two.-
Worse and worse !-like a dart, Each part made a
start,
And he found he'd been adding more fuel to fire,
For both now came loaded with Meux's entire; ·
Combe's, Delafield's, Hanbury's, Truman's—no stopping-
Goding's, Charrington's, Whitbread's, continued to drop in,
With Hodson's pale ale, from the Sun Brewhouse, Wapping.
The firms differed then, but I can't put a tax on
My memory to say what their names were in Saxon.
To be sure the best beer Of all did not appear;
For I've said 'twas in June, and so late in the year
The “Trinity Audit Ale" is not come-at-able,
-As I've found to my great grief when dining at that table.
Now extremely alarmed, Peter screamed without ceasing,
For a flood of brown stout he was up to his knees in,
Which, thanks to the Broomstick, continued increasing ;
He feared he'd be drowned, And he yelled till the
sound
Of his voice, winged by terror, at last reached the ear
Of St. Dunstan himself, who had finished his beer,
And had put off his mitre, dalmatic, and shoes,
And was just stepping into his bed for a snooze.
His Holiness paused when he heard such a clatter;
He could not conceive what on earth was the matter.
Slipping on a few things, for the sake of decorum,
He issued forthwith from his Sanctum sanctorum,
And calling a few of the Lay-brothers near him,
Who were not yet in bed, and who happened to hear him,
At once led the way, Without further delay,
To the tower where he'd been in the course of the day.
Poor Peter !-alas! though St. Dunstan was quick,
There were two there before him-Grim Death and Old Nick


A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
177
When they opened the door out the malt-liquor flowed,
Just as when the great Vat burst in Tott'n'am Court Road;
The Lay-brothers nearest were up to their necks
In an instant, and swimming in strong double X;
While Peter, who, spite of himself, now had drank hard,
After floating awhile, like a toast in a tankard,
To the bottom had sunk, And was spied by a monk,
Stone-dead, like poor Clarence, half drowned and half drunk.
In vain did St. Dunstan exclaim, “Vade retro
Strongbeerum!-discede a Lay-fratre Petro !"
Queer Latin, you'll say, That prefix of “Lay,”
And Strongbeerum !—I own they'd have called me a block-
head if
At school I had ventured to use such a Vocative;
'Tis a barbarous word, and to me it's a query
If you'll find it in Patrick, Morell, or Moreri ;
But the fact is, the Saint was uncommonly flurried,
And apt to be loose in his Latin when hurried ;
The brown-stout, however, obeys to the letter,
Quite as well as if talked to, in Latin much better,
By a grave Cambridge Johnian, Or graver Oxonian,
Whose language, we all know, is quite Ciceronian.
It retires from the corpse, which is left high and dry;
But in vain do they snuff and hot towels apply,
And other means used by the faculty try,
When once a man's dead There's no more to be
said ;
Peter's “Beer with an e" was his “ Bier with an i !”
MORAL.
By way of a moral permit me to pop in
The following maxims :-Beware of eaves-dropping !-
Don't make use of language that isn't well scanned !-
Don't meddle with matters you don't understand !-
Above all, what I'd wish to impress on both sexes
Is-Keep clear of Broomsticks, Old Nick, and three XXX's.
12


178
A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN.
L'Envoye.
In Goldsmiths' Hall there's a handsome glass case,
And in it a stone figure, found on the place,
When, thinking the old Hall no longer a pleasant one,
They pulled it all down, and erected the present one.
If you look, you'll perceive that this stone figure twists
A thing like a broomstick in one of its fists.
It's so injured by time, you can't make out a feature;
But it is not St. Dunstan, so doubtless it's Peter.
GENGULPHUS, or, as he is usually styled in this country,
"Jingo," was perhaps more in the mouths of the “ general”
than any other Saint, on occasions of adjuration (see note, page
169). Mr. Simpkinson from Bath has kindly transmitted me
a portion of a primitive ballad, which has escaped the researches
of Ritson and Ellis, but is yet replete with beauties of no com-
mon order. I am happy to say that, since these Legends first
appeared, I have recovered the whole of it.
Vide infra.
“A Franklyn's dogge leped ober a style,
And hys name was littel Byngo.
B with a y-y with an N-
N with a - with an ,
They called hym littel Byngo!
Thys Franklyn, Syrs, he brewed goode aple,
And he called it Rare goode Styngo!
8, C, D, N, Y, !
He called it Rare goode Styngo!
Nowe is notte thys à prettie song?
I thinke it is, bye Iyngo!
I wythe a y–N, E, 0
I sweare yt is, bye Jyngo!"


A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
179
A Lay of St. Gengulphus.
“Non multo post, Gengulphus, in domo sua dormiens, occisus est à quodam clerico
qui cum uxore suâ adulterare solebat. Cujus corpus dum, in fereto, in sepulturam
portaretur, multi infirmi de tactu sanati sunt.”
“Cum hoc illius uxori referretur ab ancillâ sua, scilicet dominum suum, quam mar-
tyrem sanctum, miracula facere, irridens illa, et subsurrans, ait, ‘Ita Gengulphus
miracula facitat ut pulvinarium meum cantat,'” etc., etc.-Wolfii Memorab.
,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet his lady deems him returned full soon.
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopped to tea.
This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stayed with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laughed, and they ate and they drank of the best,
And they turned the old castle quite upside down.
They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people called Ennui.
Now the festive board with viands is stored,
Savory dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, a barbecued pig,
And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.
There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail-
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!


180
A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
“You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,"
Says the proverb: that is, “ take the Fair unawares;"
A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, “ Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up stairs.”,
Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon, pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.
Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When “poor dear Gengulphus" at last appeared!
She kissed and she pressed “the dear man” to her breast,
In spite of his great, long, frizzly beard.
Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye ;*
She was so very glad that she seemed half mad,
And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Then she calls up the maid, and the table-cloth's laid,
And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
And she mixes a stiff glass of “Cold Without.”
Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
She pressed him to drink, and she pressed him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
To comfort his “poor dear” travel-worn feet.
“Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
Had she had any rest,” she “vowed and declared;"
never could eat one morsel of meat,
For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."
She “
She "really did think she had not slept a wink
Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long;"
He here shook his head,-right little he said,
But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."
* Evi Sakpvol yedao ao a.-HOM.


A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
181
Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles
Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
His weakened body, subdued by the toddy,
Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.
Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.
Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
And his nightcap into his mouth they cram;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
Till the poor dear soul” goes off like a lamb.
And now they tried the deed to hide;
For a little bird whispered, “Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swelled face,
And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"
So the Clerk and wife, they each took a knife,
And the nippers that nipped the loaf-sugar for tea;
With the edges and points they severed the joints
At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.
Thus limb from limb they dismembered him
So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,”
As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.
When they'd cut off his head, entertaining a dread
Lest folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.
But first the long beard from the chin they sheared,
And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.


182
LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
They contrived to pack up the trunk in a sack,
Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back,
As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.
But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
And that in a manner the least expected !
Who could surmise a man ever could rise
Who'd been thus carbonadoed, cut up, and dissected ?
No doubt 'twould surprise the pupils at Guy's;
I am no unbeliever—no man can say that o' me-
But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.
You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or
A Jew or a Turk, but it's other guess work
When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.
By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
Sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine
Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.
At a quarter past five they are all alive
At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in;
And to every guest his card had expressed
“Half-past" as the hour for a “greasy chin."
Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
With the choicest Rhine wines in his Highness's stock,
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
Requested some water to mix with his Hock.
The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
In mild accents, “Do help us out, that's a good girl !"


A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
183
Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
In her bucket;—with fright she was ready to drop :-
Conceive, if you can, how she roared and she ran,
With the head rolling after her, bawling out “Stop!"
She ran and she roared, till she came to the board
Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound,
Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring him his legs,
As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.
Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement,
Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
Behind,—for the left leg was troubled with corns.
Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
And arms on their bent elbows, dance through the throng,
While two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist,
The said shoulders in bearing a body along.
They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.
I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
With a dead body placed in the centre between.
Yes, they stared—well they might at so novel a sight:
No one uttered a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.


184
A LAY OF ST. GENG ULPHUS.
The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
As he viewed the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said, “ They put him in mind of a Council of Trente
Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."
But what should they do?-Oh! nobody knew
What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
In vain, for his books could not furnish a precedent.
The Prince Bishop muttered a curse, and a prayer,
Which his double capacity hit to a nicety;
His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
His Episcopal moiety said “Benedicite!”
The Coroner sat on the body that night,
And the jury agreed,—not a doubt could they harbor,-
That the chin of the corpse—the sole thing brought to light-
Had been recently shaved by a very bad barber.”
They sent out Von Taünsend, Von Bürnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz—through châlets and châteaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.
“MURDER!!
“WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown,
Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet,
Rather shabbily drest in an Amice, or gown,
In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;
“And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect
That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice
Aforethought, have killed, and begun to dissect
The said Gentleman, not very far from the palace;
“THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE !—Whoever shall seize,
And such person, or persons, to justice surrender,
Shall receive-such REWARD—as his Highness shall please,
On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.


A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
185
“And, in order the matter more clearly to trace
To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further,
Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace
To all such as have not been concerned in the murther.
“Done this day, at our palace, -July twenty-five, - ,
By command,
(Signed)
Johann Von Rüssell.
N. B.
Deceased rather in years—had a squint when alive;
And smells slightly of gin-linen mark'd with a G.”
The Newspapers, too, made no little ado,
Though a different version each managed to dish up;
Some said, “The Prince Bishop had run a man through,"
Others said, “An assassin had killed the Prince Bishop.”
The "Ghent Herald” fell foul of the “ Bruxelles Gazette,"
The “ Bruxelles Gazette,” with much sneering ironical,
Scorned to remain in the “Ghent Herald's” debt,
And the “Amsterdam Times” quizzed the “Nuremberg
Chronicle.”
In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed,
Spite of “politics," “ bias,” or “party collision;"
Viz.: to “give,” when they'd “further accounts” of the deed,
“Full particulars” soon, in “a later Edition.”
But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran,
Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs,
Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began
To think it high time to “ astonish the natives.”
First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes,
And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland,
Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise,
From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.
By the slightest approach to the tip of his nose,
Megrims, headache, and vapors were put to the rout;


186
A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
And one single touch of his precious great toes
Was a certain specific for chilblains and gout.
Rheumatics,
sciatica,-tic-doloureux !
Apply to his shin-bones—not one of them lingers ;-
All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew
If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.
Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs ;
When applied to the chest they cured scantness of breathing,
Sea-sickness, and colic; or, rubbed on the gums,
Were “A blessing to Mothers,” for infants in teething.
Whoever saluted the nape of his neck,
Where the mark remained visible still of the knife,
Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check,
Was safe from sore throat for the rest of his life.
Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint
Giving way, proved an influence clearly divine,
They perceived the dead gentleman must be a Saint,
So they locked him up, body and bones, in a shrine.
Through country and town his new Saintship’s renown
As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing,
Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown,
It seemed as if “wonders had never done ceasing."
The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known,
A sad falling off in their offrings to find,
His feats were so many-still the greatest of any,
In every sense of the word, was-behind;
For the German Police were beginning to cease
From exertions which each day more fruitless appeared,
When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase,
Unravelled the whole by the help of_his beard !
If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris,
When divorced from the chin of its murdered proprietor,
Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee,
Or double-armed chair, to keep the thing quieter.


A LAY OF ST. GENG ULPHUS.
187
It may seem rather strange that it did not arrange
Itself in its place when the limbs joined together;
P’rhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout,
And constructed of good, strong, maroon-colored leather.
Or, what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose, –
For Saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition,-
It should rest there, to aid some particular views
Produced by his very peculiar position.
may, on the
Be that as it
very
first day
That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee,
What occurred almost frightened her senses away,
Beside scaring her handmaidens, Gertrude and Betty.
They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds
Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons :
And especially how, as regards invalids,
His miraculous.cures far outrivalled Von Morison's.
“The cripples," said they, “fling their crutches away,
And people born blind now can easily see us !"-
But she (we presume a disciple of Hume)
Shook her head, and said angrily, "Credat Judæus !
“Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars,
To bring grist to their mill these devices have hit on.-
He works miracles ! pooh !—I'd believe it of you
Just as soon, you great Geese,-or the Chair that I sit on!”
The Chair !-At that word,-it seems really absurd,
But the truth must be told, -what contortions and grins
Distorted her face !-she sprang up from her place
Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins !
For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard
Which she uttered, of what was beneath her forgetful,
Each particular hair stood on end in the chair,
Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful.


188
A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
That stout maroon leather they pierced altogether,
Like tenter-hooks holding when clenched from within ;
And the maids cried, “Good gracious! how very tenacious!"
—They as well might endeaver to pull off her skin!
She shrieked with the pain, but all efforts were vain;
In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle, –
The cushion stuck fast !-From that hour to her last,
She could never get rid of that comfortless “Bustle”!
And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death
Of his King, heard “the very stones prate of his whereabouts,”
So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life
Crying "Murder !" resound from the cushion-or thereabouts.
With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark
As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he
Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be
Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine;
For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure,
And “History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds,
As you'll see if you look in a rather scarce book,
“God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds.
MORAL.
Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away,
Like Ulysses of old * (vide Homer and Naso),
Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day,
And when you are coming home, just write and say so!
And you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam,
Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum;
Don't visit a house when the master's from home!
Shun drinking,--and study the “Vitæ Sanctorum."
Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect
In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail;
But remember Gengulphus's wife! and reflect
On the moral enforced by my terrible tale!
* Qui mores Hominum multorum vidit et urbes.


THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE,
189
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE has laid claim to the next Saint as a
countrywoman; and “Why wouldn't he,” when all the world
knows the O'Dells were a fine ould ancient family, sated in
Tipperary
“Ere the Lord Mayor stole his collar of gowld,
And sowld it away to a trader”?*
He is manifestly wrong; but, as he very rationally observes,
“No matter for that,-she's a Saint any way!”
The Lay of St. Odille.
DILLE was a maid of a dignified race:
;
Such an air, such a grace, Such a form, such a face,
All agreed, 'twere a fruitless endeavor to trace
In the Court, or within fifty miles of the place.
Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful, still
They were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odille.
But Odille was devout, and, before she was nine,
Had "experienced a call” she considered divine,
To put on the veil at St. Ermengarde's shrine.-
Lords, Dukes, and Electors, and Counts Palatine,
Came to seek her in marriage from both sides the Rhine;
But vain their design, They are all left to pine,
Their oglings and smiles are all useless ; in fine,
Not one of these gentlefolks, try as they will,
Can draw “ Ask my papa" from the cruel Odille.
At length one of her suitors, a certain Count Herman,
A highly respectable man as a German,
Who smoked like a chimney, and drank like a Merman,
Paid his court to her father, conceiving his firman
* The "Inglorious Memory” of this ould ancient transaction is still, we understand,
kept up in Dublin by an annual proclamation at one of the city gates. The jewel
which has replaced the abstracted ornament is said to have been presented by King
William, and worn by Daniel O'Connell, Esq.


190
THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
Would soon make her bend, And induce her to lend
An ear to a love-tale in lieu of a sermon.
He gained the old Count, who said, “Come, Mynheer, fill!
Here's luck to yourself and my daughter Odille!”
The Lady Odille was quite nervous with fear
When a little bird whispered that toast in her ear;
She murmured, “Oh dear! my Papa has got queer,
I am sadly afraid, with that nasty strong beer!
He's so very austere, and severe, that it's clear,
If he gets in his 'tantrums,' I can't remain here;
But St. Ermengarde's convent is luckily near:
It were folly to stay Pour prendre congé,
I shall put on my bonnet and e'en run away!"
-She unlocked the back door and descended the hill,
On whose crest stood the towers of the sire of Odille.
-When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Alsace
At first turned remarkably red in the face;
He anathematized, with much unction and grace,
Every soul who came near, and consigned the whole race
Of runaway girls to a very warm place;
With a frightful grimace He gave orders for chase;
His vassals set off at a deuce of a pace,
And of all whom they met, high or low, Jack or Jill,
Asked, “Pray have you seen anything of Lady Odille ?"
Now I think I've been told,- for I'm no sporting man,-
That the “knowing ones” call this by far the best plan,
“Take the lead and then keep it !”—that is, if you can.
Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran,
Put her best leg before, Starting at score,
As I said some lines since, from that little back door,
And, not being missed until half after four,
Had what hunters call “law” for a good hour and more;
Doing her best, Without stopping to rest,
Like “ Young Lochinvar who came out of the West.”
“ 'Tis done !—I am gone !-over briar, brook, and rill,
They'll be sharp lads who catch me!” said young Miss Odille.


TAE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
191
But you've all read in Æsop, or Phædrus, or Gay,
How a tortoise and hare ran together one day;
How the hare, making play, "Progressed right slick away,"
As “them tarnation chaps” the Americans say;
While the tortoise, whose figure is rather outré
For racing, crawled straight on, without let or stay,
Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay,
Till, ere noon's ruddy ray Changed to eve's sober gray,
Though her form and obesity caused some delay,
Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way,
And she chased her fleet-footed “praycursor” until
She o’ertook her at last ;-—so it fared with Odille!
For although, as I said, she ran gayly at first,
And showed no inclination to pause, if she durst,
She at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst
Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst,
Her shoes went down at heel ; at last one of them burst.
Now a gentleman smiles At a trot of ten miles;
But not so the Fair; then consider the stiles,
And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill
Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bothered Odille.
Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track,
She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack
In her shoe made of course her progression more slack,
Till she reached the Swartz Forest (in English the Black);
I cannot divine How the boundary line
Was passed which is somewhere there formed by the Rhine-
Perhaps she'd the knack To float o'er on her back-
Or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at Brisach
(Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack
By a bastion of stone which the Germans call “ Wacke");
All I know is, she took not so much as a snack,
Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill,
On a mountain's brow sank down the
weary
Odille.
I said on its “brow," but I should have said “ crown,"
For 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown,


192
THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
And so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down
Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown,
That lay at its foot; but imagine the frown
That contracted her brow, when full many a clown
She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town.
They had followed her trail,
And now thought without fail,
As little boys say, to “lay salt on her tail;"
While the Count, who knew no other law but his will,
Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille.
Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do?
Her father's retainers now had her in view,
As she found from their raising a joyous halloo;
While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew,
In their snuff-colored doublets and breeches of blue,
Was hụzzaing and urging them on to pursue-
What, indeed, could she do? She very well knew
If they caught her how much she should have to go through;
But then-she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe!
And to go further on was impossible ;-true
She might jump o'er the precipice ;-still there are few,
In her place, who could manage their courage to screw
Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu :
Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew;
No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe,
Came to bear her from him she loathed worse than a Jew;
So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew,
Crying, “Holy St. Ermengarde!
Oh, from these vermin guard
Her whose last hope rests entirely on you ;-
Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint !-rather kill
At once, sur-le-champ, your devoted Odille!"
It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress
Get balked when they think themselves sure of success.
The Saint came to the rescued fairly confess
I don't see, as a Saint, how she well could do less


THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
193
Than to get such a votary out of her mess.
Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address
When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness,
Closed again, and secured her within its recess
In a natural grotto, Which puzzled Count Otto,
Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to.
'Twas her voice 1-but 'twas Vox et præterea Nil!
Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille!
Then burst from the mountain a splendor that quite
Eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest Bude light,
And there stood St. Ermengarde, drest all in white,
A palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right;
While, with faces. fresh gilt, and with wings burnished bright,
A great many little boys' heads took their flight
Above and around to a very great height,
And seemed pretty lively considering their plight,
Since every one saw, With amazement and awe,
They could never sit down, for they hadn't de quoi.
All at the sight, From the knave to the knight,
Felt a very unpleasant sensation, called fright;
While the Saint, looking down with a terrible frown,
Said, “My Lords, you are done most remarkably brown!—
I am really ashamed of you both;—my nerves thrill
At your scandalous conduct to poor dear Odille!
“Come, make yourselves scarce !-it is useless to stay,
You will gain nothing here by a longer delay.
• Quick! Presto! Begone l' as the conjurers say;
For as to the lady, I've stowed her away
In this hill, in a stratum of London blue clay;
And I shan't, I assure you, restore her to-day
Till you faithfully promise no more to say 'Nay,'
But declare, if she will be a nun, why she may.'
For this you've my word, and I never yet broke it!
So put that in your pipe, my Lord Otto, and smoke it !-
One hint to your vassals, -a month at the Mill'
Shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry Odille!”
13


194
THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
:
The Saint disappeared as she ended, and so
Did the little boys' heads, which, above and below,
As I told you a very few stanzas ago,
Had been flying about her, and jumping Jim Crow;
Though, without any body, or leg, foot, or toe,
How they managed such antics, I really don't know;
Be that as it may, they all “ melted like snow
Off a dyke,” as the Scotch say in sweet Edinbro',
And there stood the Count With his men, on the mount,
Just like “twenty-four jackasses all on a row.”
What was best to be done—'twas a sad bitter pill-
But gulp it he must, or else lose his Odille.
The lord of Alsace therefore altered his plan,
And said to himself, like a sensible man,
“I can't do as I would,-I must do as I can;
It will not do to lie under any Saint's ban,
For your hide, when you do, they all manage to tan;
So Count Herman must pick up some Betsy or Nan,
Instead of my girl,- some Sue, Polly, or Fan;
If he can't get the corn he must do with the bran,
And make shift with the pot if he can't have the pan.”
With such proverbs as these He went down on his knees,
And said, “Blessed St. Ermengarde, just as you please
They shall build a new convent,-—I'll pay the whole bill
(Taking discount),—its Abbess shall be my Odille."
There are some of my readers, I'll venture to say,
Who have never seen Friburg, though some of them may,
And others, 'tis likely, may go there some day.
Now, if ever you happen to travel that way,
I do beg and pray,-'twill your pains well repay, -
That you'll take what the Cockney folks call a “po-shay”
(Though in Germany these things are more like a dray),
You may reach this same hill with a single relay,-
And do look how the rock, Through the whole of its block,
Is split open, as though by some violent shock
From an carthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock


THE LAY OF ST. ODILLE.
195
From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock
Of a Germanized giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok;
And see how it rears Its two monstrous great ears,
For when once you're between them such each side appears ;
And list to the sound of the water one hears
Drip, drip, from the fissures, like raindrops or tears,—
Odille's, I believe,-which have flowed all these years;
-I think they account for them so ;—but the rill
I am sure is connected some way with Odille.
MORAL.
To escape
Now then for a moral, which always arrives
At the end, like the honey-bees take to their hives,
And the more one observes it the better one thrives,-
We have all heard it said in the course of our lives,
“Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives ;":
'Tis the same with a lady,—if once she contrives
To get hold of the ribbons, how vainly one strives
from her lash or to shake off her gyves !
Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives,
Succumb to our She-Saints-videlicet wives !
(Aside.)
That is, if one has not “a good bunch of fives.”-
(I can't think how that last line escaped from my quill,
For I'm sure it has nothing to do with Odille.)
Now, young ladies, to you - Don't put on the shrew -
And don't be surprised if your father looks blue
When you're pert, and won't act as he wants you to do!
Be sure that you never elope ;-there are few,-
Believe me, you'll find what I say to be true,
Who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew,
And come off at last with “a hole in their shoe;"
Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville,
Can produce enough saints to save every Odille.


196
À LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
Nycolas, eptezyn of pe cyte* of Pancraes, was borne of ryche and holye kynne,
And his fader was named Epiphanus, and his moder Johane.
He was born on a cold frosty morning, on the 6th of Decem-
ber (upon which day his feast is still observed), but in what
anno Domini is not so clear; his baptismal register, together
with that of his friend and colleague, St. Thomas at Hill, hav-
ing been “lost in the great fire of London.”
St. Nicholas was a great patron of Mariners, and,-saving
your presence, -of Thieves also, which honorable fraternity
have long rejoiced in the appellation of his “Clerks.". Cer-
vantes's story of Sancho's detecting a sum of money in a swin-
dler's walking-stick is merely a Spanish version of a “Lay of
St. Nicholas” extant “in choice Italian” a century before
honest Miguel was born.
A Lay of St. Nicholas.
"Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce
Divus, fide catholicâ, et cruce, et aquâ benedicta armatus venit, et aspersit aquam in
nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam
sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit.”—ROGER HOVEDEN.
"Lº
ORD Abbot ! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!"
On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid:
“Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!”—
“Now naye, Fair Daughter," the Lord Abbot said,
“Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be.
“There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!
And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,
Ambrose, the Anchoret old and gray!
T!"
* Parish.


A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
197
_ “Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone,
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.
3
“Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
I am a Maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet's line.
“Though hither I stray in lowly array,
I am a damsel of high degree;
And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee !
“ Counts a many, and Dukes a few,
A suitoring came to my father's 'Hall;
But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.
“Dukes a many, and Counts a few,
I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
And I vow'd that he ne'er should my bridegroom be!
“So hither I fly, in lowly guise,
From their gilded domes and their princely halls;
Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,
Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!”
-Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot,
“Now rest thee, Fair Daughter, withouten fear,
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here;
"Holy Church denieth all search
'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams,
And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.


198
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
“Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside,
For here this day shalt thou dine with me!”—
“Now naye, now naye,” the fair maiden cried ;
“In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be!
“Friends would whisper, and foes would frown,
Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,
And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!
“There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see;
His lenten fair now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie !”
- -“ Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
To our patron Saint foul shame it were
Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed,
Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.
“There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen ;
They are a goodly companie!"
The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring,
His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.
The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety;
Liver, and gizzard, and all are there;
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.
But no pious stave, no Pater or Ave,
Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face;
She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy,
She asked him for gizzard ;—but not for Grace!


A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
199
Yet gayly the Lord Abbot smiled, and pressed,
And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled ;
And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast,
And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.
There was no lack of old Sherris sack,
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack,
He grew less pious and more polite.
She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
And she drank as Lady ought not to drink;
And he pressed her hand 'neath the table thrice,
And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.
And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they tucked him in!
The lay-brothers gazed on each other, amazed ;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peeped through the keyhole, could scarce fancy real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.
In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing, -
He could not distinguish the words very plain,
But 'twas all about “ Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,”
And “Fiddlers,” and “Punch," and things quite as profane.
Even Porter Paul, at the sound of such revelling,
With fervor himself began to bless;
For he thought he must somehow have let the Devil in,-
And perhaps
as not very much out in his
guess.
The Accusing Byers* “flew up to Heaven's Chancery,"
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept-(See the works of the late Mr. Sterne).
* The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen, when such
things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined his “vested interest.”


200
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
Indeed, it is said, a less taking both were in
When, after a lapse of a great many years,
They booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing,
And blotted the fine out again with their tears!
But St. Nicholas' agony who may paint?
His senses at first were well-nigh gone ;
The beatified saint was ready to faint
When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!
For
never,
I ween, had such doings been seen
There before, from the time that most excellent Prince,
Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders,
Had built and endowed it some centuries since.
-But hark !—’tis a sound from the outermost gate!
A startling sound from a powerful blow.-
Who knocks so late ?—it is half after eight
By the clock,—and the clock’s five minutes too slow.
Never, perhaps, had such loud double raps
Been heard in St. Nicholas' Abbey before;
All agreed“ it was shocking to keep people knocking,"
But none seemed inclined to “ answer the door.”
Now a louder bang through the cloisters rang,
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
And all were aware of a Palmer there,
With his cockle hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.
Many a furrow and many a frown
By toil and time on his brow were traced ;
And his long loose gown was of ginger brown,
And his rosary dangled below his waist.
Now seldom, I ween, is such costume seen,
Except at a stage-play or masquerade;
But who doth not know it was rather the go
With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade?


A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
201
With noiseless stride did that Palmer glide
Across that oaken floor;
And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump
Against the Refectory door!
Wide open it flew, and plain to the view
The Lord Abbot they all mote see ;
In his hand was a cup, and he lifted it up,
“Here's the Pope's good health with three !!”
Rang in their ears three deafening cheers,
“Huzza! huzza! huzza !”
And one of the party said, “Go it, my hearty!"-
When out spake that Pilgrim gray-
“A boon, Lord Abbot! a boon! a boon !
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip.
“And I am come from a far countree,
And have visited many a holy shrine;
And long have I trod the sacred sod
Where the Saints do rest in Palestine !”—
“ An thou art come from a far countree,
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Thou Palmer
gray,
that thine
eyes have
seen.
"Arede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o' the best, shall thy guerdon be!"
“Oh! I have been east, and I have been west,
And I have seen many a wonderful sight;
But never to me did it happen to see
A wonder like that which I see this night!


202
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
“To see a Lord Abbot, in rochet and stole,
With Prior and Friar,-a strange mar-velle !
O'er a jolly full bowl sitting cheek by jowl,
And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell !”
He felt in his gown of ginger brown,
And he pulled out a flask from beneath ;
It was rather tough work to get out the cork,
But he drew it at last with his teeth.
O'er a pint and a quarter of holy water,
He made a sacred sign;
And he dashed the whole on the soi-disant daughter
Of old Plantagenet's line!
Oh! then did she reek, and squeak, and shriek,
With a wild unearthly scream;
And fizzled, and hissed, and produced such a mist,
They were all half choked by the steam.
Her dove-like eyes turned to coals of fire,
Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout,
Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in, and her tail came out.
On her chin there appeared a long Nanny-goat's beard,
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
'Twas a frightful fiend from the nethermost hell!
The Palmer threw down his ginger gown,
His hat and his cockle, and, plain to sight,
Stood St. Nicholas' self, and his shaven crown
Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.
The fiend made a grasp the Abbot to clasp;
But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe,
And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick
On his elderly Namesake, he made him let go.


A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
203
And out of the window he flew like a shot,
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.
And he bounded away like a foot-ball at play,
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
Knocking Mammon the meagre o'er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beëlzebub's lap.
Oh! happy the slip from his Succubine grip
That saved the Lord Abbot—though, breathless with fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip,
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!
On the banks of the Rhine, as he's stopping to dine,
From a certain Inn-window the traveller is shown
Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river, southeast of Cologne.
And, while "sour-kraut” she sells you, the landlady tells you
That there, in those walls, now all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one,
On filling a ci-devant Abbot’s state chair.
How a ci-devant Abbot, all clothed in drab, but
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes
(His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing,
Laid aside), in yon Cave lived a pious recluse;
go one"
How he rose with the sun, limping “ dot and
To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather,
Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher
Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together;
How a thirsty old codger, the neighbors called Roger,
With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine!


204
A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.
What its quality wanted he made up in quantity,
Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!
And how, as their bodily strength failed, the mental man
Gained tenfold vigor and force in all four;
And how, to the day of their death, the “Old Gentleman”
Never attempted to kidnap them more.
And how, when at length, in the odor of sanctity,
All of them died without grief or complaint,
The Monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous
Not to suppose every one was a Saint.
And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby
As not to say yearly four masses a head,
On the eve of that supper,
and kick on the crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!
How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories,
How the ci-devant Abbot's obtained greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris,
Threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille!
And how Abbot Simon (who turned out a prime one)
These words, which grew into a proverb full soon,
O'er the late Abbot's grotto stuck up as a motto,
Tuho suppes with the Deville sholde habe a long
spoone!"
ROHESIA, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard
Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the sixteenth cen-
tury, and was married in 1526, at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in
the city of London. The following narrative contains all else
that is known of


THE LADY ROHESIA.
205
The Lady Rohesia.
THE
THE Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed!
So said the doctor, and doctors are generally allowed
to be judges in these matters; besides, Doctor Butts was the
Court Physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its
cross of the blackest ebony-raison de plus.
“ Is there no hope, Doctor ?” said Beatrice Grey.
“Is there no hope ?” said Everard Ingoldsby.
“Is there no hope ?” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri. He was
the Lady Rohesia's husband ;-he spoke the last.
The Doctor shook his head. He looked at the disconsolate
widower in posse, then at the hour-glass; its waning sand
seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient.
Dr. Butts was a very learned man. “Ars longa, vita brevis !”.
said Dr. Butts.
“I am very sorry to hear it,” quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.
Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall; but he was no scholar.
"Alas! my poor sister!" sighed Ingoldsby.
“Alas!
my poor
mistress !” sobbed Beatrice.
Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed; his grief was too deep-
seated for outward manifestation.
“And how long, Doctor The afflicted husband could
not finish the sentence.
Dr. Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying
lady. He pointed to the horologe; scarcely a quarter of its
sand remained in the upper moiety. Again he shook his head.
The eye of the patient waxed dimmer, the rattling in the throat
increased.
“What's become of Father Francis ?" whimpered Beatrice.
"The last consolations of the church—"suggested Everard.
A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy.
“Where is the Confessor ?” continued his grieving brother-
in-law.
" In the pantry," cried Marion Hacket pertly, as she tripped
down stairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic ;-"in the
pantry, I warrant me." The bower-woman was not wont to be
"


206
THE LADY ROHESIA.
in the wrong: in the pantry was the holy man discovered-at.
his devotions.
“Pax vobiscum !” said Father Francis, as he entered the
chamber of death.
* Vita brevis !” retorted Dr. Butts. He was not a man to bei
browbeat out of his Latin,--and by a paltry Friar Minim, too.
Had it been a bishop, indeed, or even a mitred abbot ;-but a
miserable Franciscan!
“ Benedicite!” said the Friar.
“Ars longa!" returned the Leech.
Dr. Butts adjusted the tassels of his falling band, drew his
short sad-colored cloak closer around him, and, grasping his
cross-handled walking-staff, stalked majestically out of the
apartment. Father Francis had the field to himself.
The worthy chaplain hastened to administer the last rites of
the church. To all appearance he had little time to lose. As
he concluded, the dismal toll of the passing-bell sounded from
the belfry tower; little Hubert, the bandy-legged sacristan, was
pulling with all his might. It was a capital contrivance, that
same passing-bell; which of the Urbans or Innocents invented
it is a query; but, whoever he was, he deserved well of his
country and of Christendom.
Ah! our ancestors were not such fools, after all, as we, their
degenerate children, conceit them to have been. The passing-
bell-a most solemn warning to imps of every description-is
not to be regarded with impunity; the most impudent Succubus
of them all dare as well dip his claws in holy water as come
within the verge of its sound. Old Nick himself, if he sets
any value at all upon his tail, had best convey himself clean
out of hearing, and leave the way open to Paradise. Little
Hubert continued pulling with all his might—and St. Peter
began to look out for a customer.
The knell seemed to have some effect even upon the Lady
Rohesia: she raised her head slightly; inarticulate sounds
issued from her lips,-inarticulate, that is, to the profane ears
of the laity. Those of Father Francis, indeed, were sharper;
nothing, as he averred, could be more distinct than the words,
"A thousand marks to the priory of St. Mary Rouncival.”
Now the Lady Rohesia Ingoldsby had brought her husband


THE LADY ROHESIA.
207
9
broad lands and large possessions ; much of her ample dowry,
too, was at her own disposal,--and nuncupative wills had not
yet been abolished by act of Parliament.
“Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. “A thousand
marks, she said
“ If she did I'll be shot !” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.
“-A thousand marks!" continued the Confessor, fixing his
cold
gray eye upon the knight, as he went on heedless of the
interruption ;-"a thousand marks! and as many Aves and
Paters shall be duly said-as soon as the money is paid down."
Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the
window, and muttered to himself something that sounded like
“Don't you wish you may get it ?"
The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the
room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been
using for Extreme Unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on
him down stairs.
“A thousand thanks !” said the latter.
“A thousand marks !” said the friar.
“A thousand devils !" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri from
the top of the landing-place.
But his accents fell unheeded : his brother-in-law and the
friar were gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and
Beatrice Grey.
Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the
bed; his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk
upon his breast; his eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays
of the fading watchlight gave a darker shade to the furrows on
his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top
of his head,-for Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall
and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, that
not much; his complexion was somewhat florid, especially about
the nose; but his lady was in extremis, and at this particular
moment he was paler than usual.
“Bim! bome !" went the bell. The knight groaned audibly,
Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with her little square apron
.


208
THE LADY ROHESIA.
of lace de Malines; there was a moment's pause--a mo-
ment of intense affliction; she let it fall,—all but one corner,
which remained between her finger and thumb. She looked at
Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand
slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity.
She sobbed aloud. “So kind a lady !" said Beatrice Grey.-
"So excellent a wife!” responded Sir Guy.—“So good !” said
- the damsel.-"So dear!" said the knight.-"So pious !" said
she.—“So humble!” said he.—“So good to the poor!”—“So
capital a manager !"-"So punctual at matins !"__"Dinner
dished to moment!”—“So devout !” said Beatrice.—“So fond
of me!” said Sir Guy.—“And of Father Francis !"_“ What
the devil do you mean by that ?” said Sir Guy de Mont-
gomeri.
The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes
on the fine qualities of the departing lady, like the Strophe and
Antistrophe of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once dis-
posed of, her minor excellences came under review. She would
drown a witch, drink lambs' wool at Christmas, beg Dominie
Dumps's boys a holiday, and dine upon sprats on Good Friday!
A low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to inti-
mate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not alto-
gether lost on her,--that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in
the testimony.
“She was too good for earth !" continued Sir Guy.
“Ye-ye-yes !" sobbed Beatrice.
“I did not deserve her!” said the knight.
“No-0-0-0!” cried the damsel.
“Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind;
but she is going, and—and—where, or when, or how-shall I
get such another ?”
“Not in broad England—not in the whole wide world !”
responded Beatrice Grey; "that is, not just such another !"
Her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole were more
articulate; she dropped the corner of her apron, and had re-
course to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were getting red,
—and so was the tip of her nose.
Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments steadfastly
on the face of his lady. The single word, “Another!" fell from


THE LADY ROHESIA.
209
his lips like a distant echo ;-it is not often that the viewless
nymph repeats more than is necessary.
“Bim! bome!" went the bell. Bandy-legged Hubert had
been tolling for half an hour; he began to grow tired, and St.
Peter fidgety.
“ Beatrice Grey !” said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, “what's to
be done? What's to become of Montgomeri Hall ?—and the
buttery,--and the servants? And what-what's to become of
me, Beatrice Grey ?" -There was pathos in his tones, and a sol-
emn pause succeeded. “I'll turn monk myself!” said Sir Guy.
“Monk ?" said Beatrice.
“I'll be a Carthusian!" repeated the knight, but in a tone
less assured: he relapsed into a reverie.—Shave his head !-he
did not so much mind that,-he was getting rather bald already;
-but, beans for dinner,-and those without butter and then
a horse-hair shirt!
The knight seemed undecided : his eye roamed gloomily
around the apartment; it paused upon different objects, but
as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there was no
speculation in its glance: it rested at last upon the fair face of
the sympathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief.
Her tears had ceased; but her eyes were cast down, mourn-
fully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the
devil's tattoo.
There is no talking to a female when she does not look at
you. Sir Guy turned round,-he seated himself on the edge of
the bed; and, placing his hand beneath the chin of the lady,
turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees.
“I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's to
become of me? Poor, miserable, old—that is, poor, miserable,
middle-aged man that I am !-No one to comfort, no one to
care for me!”—Beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she opened
not her lips.—“'Pon my life!" continued he, “I don't believe
there is a creature now would care a button if I were hanged
to-morrow!"
“Oh! don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice; "you know
there's—there's Master Everard, and—and Father Francis-
“Pish !" cried Sir Guy testily.
“And—there's your favorite old bitch.”
14


210
THE LADY ROHESIA.
"I am not thinking of old bitches !" quoth Sir Guy de Mont-
gomeri.
Another pause ensued; the knight had released her chin,
and taken her hand; it was a pretty little hand, with long
taper fingers and filbert-formed nails, and the softness of the
palm said little for its owner's industry.
“Sit down, my dear Beatrice,” said the knight thoughtfully;
"you must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat,
my child.”—Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand; but he
sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his compan-
ion between himself and the bed-post.
Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be
placed in, especially when the right hand of the one holds the
right hand of the other :-in such an attitude, what the deuce
can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till
it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed
a little in the rear of his companion.
"Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing; "if, indeed, I could
find such another!" He was talking to his thought, but
Beatrice Grey answered him.
“ There's Madam Fitzfoozle."
“A frump!” said Sir Guy.
“Or the Lady Bumbarton.”
“With her hump!" muttered he.
“There's the Dowager"
“Stop-stop!” said the knight, "stop one moment!”–He
paused; he was all on the tremble; something seemed rising in
his throat, but he gave a great gulp and swallowed it. “Bea-
trice," said he, “what think you of”-his voice sank into a
most seductive softness,—"what think you of-Beatrice Grey?”
The murder was out: the knight felt infinitely relieved: the
knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously; and the arm
he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of found itself,
nobody knows how,--all at once, encireling the jimp waist of
the pretty Beatrice. The young lady's reply was expressed in
three syllables. They were, “Oh, Sir Guy!” The words might
be somewhat indefinite, but there was no mistaking the look.
Their eyes met; Sir Guy's left arm contracted itself spasmod-
ically; when the eyes meet,—at least, as theirs inet,—the lips


THE LADY ROHESIA.
211
are very apt to follow the example. The knight had taken one
long loving kiss-nectar and ambrosia! He thought on Doc-
tor Butts and his repetatur haustus,--a prescription Father
Francis had taken infinite pains to translate for him: he was
about to repeat it, but the dose was interrupted in transitu.
Doubtless the adage,
“ There's many a slip
'Twixt the cup and the lip,”
hath reference to medicine. Sir Guy's lip was again all but in
conjunction with that of his bride elect.
It has been hinted already that there was a little round pol-
ished patch on the summit of the knight's pericranium, from
which his locks had gradually receded; a sort of oasis,-or
rather a Mont Blanc in miniature, rising above the highest point
of vegetation. It was on this little spot, undefended alike by
Art and Nature, that at this interesting moment a blow de-
scended, such as we must borrow a term from the Sister Island
adequately to describe,- it was a “Whack !"
Sir Guy started upon his feet; Beatrice Grey started upon
hers: but a single glance to the rear reversed her position, she
fell upon her knees and screamed.
The knight, too, wheeled about, and beheld a sight which
might have turned a bolder man to stone. It was She!—the
all-but-defunct Rohesia—there she sat, bolt upright !-her eyes
no longer glazed with the film of impending dissolution, but
scintillating like flint and steel ; while in her hand she grasped
the bed-staff--a weapon of mickle might, as her husband's
bloody coxcomb could now well testify. Words were yet want-
ing, for the quinsy, which her rage had broken, still impeded
her utterance; but the strength and rapidity of her guttural
intonations augured well for her future eloquence.
Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood for a while like a man dis-
traught; this resurrection—for such it seemed—had quite over-
powered him. “A husband ofttimes makes the best physician,"
says the proverb; he was a living personification of its truth.
Still it was whispered he had been content with Dr. Butts; but
his lady was restored to bless him for many years.—Heavens,
what a life he led !
The Lady Rohesia mended apace; her quinsy was cured; the


212
THE LADY ROHESIA.
bell was stopped, and little Hubert, the sacristan, kicked out
of the chapelry. St. Peter opened his wicket and looked out;
—there was nobody there; so he flung to the gate in a passion,
and went back to his lodge, grumbling at being hoaxed by a
runaway ring
Years rolled on. The improvement of Lady Rohesia's tem-
per did not keep pace with that of her health ; and one fine
morning Sir Guy de Montgomeri was seen to enter the porte-
cochère of Durham House, at that time the town residence of
Sir Walter Raleigh. Nothing more was ever heard of him;
but a boat full of adventurers was known to have dropped down
with the tide that evening to Deptford Hope, where lay the
good ship the Darling, commanded by Captain Keymis, who
sailed next morning on the Virginia voyage.
A brass plate, some eighteen inches long, may yet be seen in
Denton chancel, let into a broad slab of Bethersden marble; it
represents a lady kneeling, in her wimple and hood; her hands
are clasped in prayer, and beneath is an inscription in the char-
acters of the age-
" Praie for pe sowle of pe Lady Royse,
And for alle Christen sowles l'
The date is illegible; but it appears that she survived King
Henry the Eighth, and that the dissolution of monasteries had
lost St. Mary Rouncival her thousand marks. As for Beatrice
Gray, it is well known that she was alive in 1559, and then had.
virginity enough left to be a maid of honor to "good Queen
Bess.”
It was during the “Honey (or, as it is sometimes termed, the
• Treacle ') Moon” that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth passed through
London. A "good-natured friend,” who dropped in to dinner,
forced them in the evening to the theatre for the purpose of
getting rid of him. I give Charles's account of the Tragedy,
just as it was written, without altering even the last couplet-
for there would be no making “Egerton” rhyme with “Story."


THE TRAGEDY.
213
The Tragedy.
"Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.”—VIRGIL.
CA
YATHERINE of Cleves was a Lady of rank:
She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank;
She had jewels and rings, And a thousand smart things;
Was lovely and young, With a rather sharp tongue,
And she wedded a noble of high degree
With the star of the order of St. Esprit;
But the Duke de Guise Was, by many degrees,
Her senior, and not very easy to please;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,
And a frown on his brow,--and he looked like a Guy,-
So she took to intriguing With Monsieur St. Megrin,
A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,
But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;
He would sing, fence, and dance, With the best man in
France,
And took his rappee with genteel nonchalance;
He smiled, and he flattered, and flirted with ease,
And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.
Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know
If the Lady approved of his passion or no;
So, without more ado, He put on his surtout,
And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,
One Signor Ruggieri, A Cunning-man near, he
Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,
Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides.
Bring back a strayed cow, silver ladle, or spoon,
And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon.
The Sage took his stand With his wand in his hand,
Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,
Saying solemnly—“ Presto !-Hey, quick ! - Cock-a-lorum ! !"
When the Duchess immediately popped up before 'em.
Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars,
Or something peculiar above in the stars,
Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,
Who “bolted,” and left him alone with his deary.--


214
THE TRAGEDY.
1
Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees,
And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,
When,-fancy the shock,- A loud double knock
Made the Lady cry "Get up, you fool I—there's De Guise !"
'Twas his Grace, sure enough; So Monsieur, looking
bluff,
Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,
While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame
Through the opposite keyhole, the same way she came;
But, alack! and alas! A mishap came to pass,
In her hurry she, somehow or other, let fall
A new silk Bandana she'd worn as a shawl ;
She had used it for drying Her bright eyes while crying,
And blowing her nose, as her Beau talked of dying !
Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,
And knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,
The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss,
And said, with some energy, “D— it! what's this ?”
He went home in a fume, And bounced into her room,
Crying, “So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous !
Look here!-here's a proof you run after the fellows !
-Now take up that pen,-if it's bad choose a better,
And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter
To Monsieur-you know who!” The Lady looked blue,
But replied with much firmness, “Hang me if I do!"
De Guise grasped her wrist With his great bony fist,
And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist,
That his hard iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,-
She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching;
So she sat down and wrote This polite little note:-
“Dear Mister St. Megrin, The Chiefs of the League in
Our house mean to dine This evening at nine;
I shall, soon after ten, Slip away from the men,
And you'll find me up stairs in the drawing-room then;
Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves
Of Servants will see you. Yours, ,
“CATHERINE OF CLEVES."



COPTER
un
Weap
wo
VER
DUUR
MEN
ALE
SUSULES
“So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous !
Look here !-here's a proof you run after the fellows !"
p. 214.





THE TRAGEDY.
215
She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,
And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.
St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skin
For joy that day when the post came in;
He read the note through, Then began it anew,
And thought it almost too good news to be true.-
He clapped on his hat, And a hood over that,
With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat;
So great his impatience from half after Four
He was waiting till Ten at De Guise's back door.
When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime
He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time.
He had scarce made his bow, He hardly knew how,
When alas! and alack! There was no getting back,
For the drawing-room door was banged to with a whack ;-
In vain he applied To the handle and tried,
Somebody or other had locked it outside!
And the Duchess in agony mourned her mishap,
“We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap.”
Now the Duchess's Page, About twelve years of age,
For so little a boy was remarkably sage;
And just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,
Popped the Gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.
But all would not do,- Though St. Megrin got through
The window,-below stood De Guise and his crew,
And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,
Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing ;
He thrust carte and tierce Uncommonly fierce,
But not Beëlzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce;
While his doublet and hose, Being holiday clothes,
Were soon cut through and throughi from his knees to his nose ;
Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjurer gave him
From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him;
But when beat on his knees, That confounded De Guise
Came behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze,
Whipped it tight round his neck, and when backward he'd
jerked him,
The rest of the rascals jumped on him and Burked him.


216
THE TRAGEDY.
The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way, And was found the next day
With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt.
Catherine of Cleves Roared “Murder !” and “Thieves !”
From the window above While they murdered her love;
Till, finding the rogues had accomplished his slaughter,
She drank Prussic acid without any water,
And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter !
MORAL.
Take warning, ye fair, from this tale of the Bard's,
And don't go where fortunes are told on the cards,
But steer clear of Conjurers,-never put query
To “ Wise Mrs. Williams,” or folks like Ruggieri.
When alone in your room shut the door close, and lock it!
Above all,
HANDKERCHIEF
POCKET!
Lest you too should stumble, and Lord Leveson Gower, he
Be called on,-sad poet !-to tell your sad story!
KEEP YOUR
SAFE IN YOUR
It was in the summer of 1838 that a party from Tappington
reached the metropolis with a view of witnessing the coronation
of their youthful Queen, whom God long preserve !—This pur-
pose they were fortunate enough to accomplish by the purchase
of a peer's tickets from a stationer in the Strand, who was en-
abled so to dispose of some, greatly to the indignation of the
hereditary Earl Marshal. How Mr. Barney managed to insin-
uate himself into the Abbey remains a mystery; his character-
istic modesty and address doubtless assisted him, for there he
unquestionably was. The result of his observations was thus
communicated to his associates in the Servants' Hall, upon
his
return, to the infinite delectation of Mademoiselle Pauline, over
a Cruiskeen of his own concocting.


ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.
217
Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the
Coronation.
AIR.—" The Groves of Blarney."
O°
CH! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare ?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And gould and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With General Dullbeak.-Och! 'twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his sword drawn, prancing made them kape the line.
Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;
'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All jools from his jasey to his di'mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The female heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.
And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame:
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasy
(They called him Sowlt afore he changed his name),
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,


218
BARNEY MAGUIRE'S
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.
Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the Gallery you might persave;
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.
There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prince Von Schwartzenberg, and many more,
Och! I'd be bothered and entirely smothered
To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,
“I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”
Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garments and her goulden Crown;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he played a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!
Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying, “Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!
Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health !"
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating;
“ Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!”


ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.
219
Then the Nobles kneeling to the Powers appealing,
“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign !”
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.
Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;
And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!”–
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And sweet trombones, with their silver tones;
But Lord Rolle was rolling ;-—'twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones !
Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop;
With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,
And wine and nagus, and Imperial Pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,
Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.
Then the cannons thundered, and the people wondered,
Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen !”–
-Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen.
And now, I've ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry.


220
THE "MONSTRE” BALLOON.
As a pendant to the foregoing, I shall venture to insert Mr.
Simpkinson's lucubrations on a subject to him, as a Savant of
the first class, scarcely less interesting. The aerial voyage to
which it alludes took place about a year and a half previously
to the august event already recorded, and the excitement mani-
fested in the learned Antiquary's effusion may give some faint
idea of that which prevailed generally among the Sons of
Science at that memorable epoch.
1
The “Monstre” Balloon.
OT
H! the balloon, the great balloon,
It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
And every one said we should hear of it soon,
With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon.
But very soon after folks changed their tune:
“The netting had burst-the silk—the shalloon ;-
It had met with a trade-wind-a deuced monsoon-
It was blown out to sea-it was blown to the moon
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon
Would go up in November in any balloon !"
Then they talked about Green—"Oh! where's Mister Green ?
And where's Mr. Holland who hired the machine?
And where is Monck Mason, the man that has been
Up so often before-twelve times or thirteen-
And who writes such nice letters describing the scene?
And where's the cold fowl, and the ham, and poteen?
The pressed beef, with the fat cut off-nothing but lean,
And the portable soup in the patent tureen?
Have they got to Grand Cairo or reached Aberdeen ?
Or Jerusalem-Hamburg-or Ballyporeen?
No! they have not been seen! Oh! they haven't been seen!”


THE MONSTRE” BALLOON.
221
Stay! here's Mister Gye-Mr. Frederick Gye-
“At Paris," says he, “I've been up very high,
A couple of hundred of toises, or nigh,
A cockstride the Tuileries' pantiles, to spy
With Dollond's best telescope stuck at my eye,
And
my
umbrella under
my arm like Paul Pry,
But I could see nothing at all but the sky;
So I thought with myself 'twas of no use to try
Any longer; and, feeling remarkably dry
From sitting all day stuck up there, like a Guy,
I came down again, and you see-here am I!”
1
But here's Mr. Hughes !—What says young Mr. Hughes ?
Why,
I'm
sorry
to
say we've not got any news
Since the letter they threw down in one of their shoes,
Which gave the mayor's nose such a deuce of a bruise,
As he popped up his eye-glass to look at their cruise
Over Dover; and which the folks flocked to peruse
At Squiers's bazaar, the same evening, in crews-
Politicians, news-mongers, town-council, and blues,
Turks, Heretics, Infidels, Jumpers, and Jews,
Scorning Bachelor's papers, and Warren's reviews:
But the wind was then blowing towards Helvoetsluys,
And
my
father and I are in terrible stews,
For so large a balloon is a sad thing to lose !”—
fast;
Here's news come at last !-Here's news come at last!
A vessel's come in, which has sailed very
And a gentleman serving before the mast,-
Mister Nokes,-has declared that "the party has past
Safe across to the Hague, where their grapnel they cast,
As a fat burgomaster was staring aghast
To see such a monster come borne on the blast,
And it caught in his waistband, and there it stuck fast!"-
Oh fie! Mister Nokes,—for shame, Mr. Nokes !
To be poking your fun at us plain-dealing folks-
Sir, this isn't a time to be cracking your jokes,
And such jesting your malice but scurvily cloaks;


222
THE "MONSTRE” BALLOON.
Such a trumpery tale every one of us smokes,
And we know very
well
your whole story's a hoax! -
“Oh! what shall we do?-Oh! where will it end?
Can nobody go ?—Can nobody send
To Calais-or Bergen-op-zoom-or Ostend ?
Can't you go there yourself?-Can't you write to a friend,
For news upon which we may safely depend ?"-
Huzza! huzza! one and eight-pence to pay
For a letter from Hamborough, just come to say
They descended at Weilburg, about break of day;
And they've lent them the palace there during their stay,
And the town is becoming uncommonly gay,
And they're feasting the party, and soaking their clay
With Johannisberg, Rudesheim, Moselle, and Tokay!
And the Landgraves, and Margraves, and Counts beg and pray
That they won't think, as yet, about going away;
Notwithstanding, they don't mean to make much delay,
But pack up the balloon in a wagon or dray,
And pop themselves into a German "po-shay,'
And get on to Paris by Lisle and Tournay;
Where they boldly declare, any wager they'll lay
If the gas people there do not ask them to pay
Such a sum as must force them at once to say “Nay,"
They'll inflate the balloon in the Champs-Elysées,
And be back again here the beginning of May.-
Dear me! what a treat for a juvenile fête !
What thousands will flock their arrival to greet!
There'll be hardly a soul to be seen in the street,
For at Vauxhall the whole population will meet,
And you'll scarcely get standing-room, much less a seat,
For this all preceding attraction must beat;
Since they'll unfold what we want to be told, -
How they coughed, how they sneezed, how they shivered with
cold,
How they tippled the “cordial" as racy and old
As Hodges, or Deady, or Smith ever sold,


THE "MONSTRE” BALLOON.
223
And how they all then felt remarkably bold;
How they thought the boiled beef worth its own weight in gold,
And how Mr. Green was beginning to scold
Because Mr. Mason would try to lay hold
Of the moon, and had very near overboard rolled !
And there they'll be seen, they'll be all to be seen,-
The great-coats, the coffee-pots, mugs, and tureen!
With the tight-rope, and fireworks, and dancing between,
If the weather should only prove fair and serene;
And there, on a beautiful transparent screen,
In the middle you'll see a large picture of Green,
Mr. Holland on one side, who hired the machine,
Mr. Mason on tother, describing the scene;
And Fame, on one leg, in the air, like a queen,
With three wreaths and a trumpet, will over them lean;
While Envy, in serpents and black bombazin,
Looks on from below with an air of chagrin!
Then they'll play up a tune in the Royal Saloon,
And the people will dance by the light of the moon,
And keep up the ball till the next day at noon;
And the peer and the peasant, the lord and the loon,
The haughty grandee and the low picaroon,
The six-foot life-guardsman and little gossoon,
Will all join in three cheers for the “Monstre” Balloon!
It is much to be regretted that I have not as yet been able
to discover more than a single specimen of my friend “Suckle-
thumbkin's" Muse. The event it alludes to, probably the
euthanasia of the late Mr. Greenacre, will scarcely have yet
faded from the recollection of an admiring public. Although,
with the usual diffidence of a man of fashion, Augustus has
“sunk" the fact of his own presence on that interesting occa-
sion, I have every reason to believe that, in describing the
party at the auberge hereafter mentioned, he might have said,
with a brother Exquisite, “ Quorum pars magna fui.”


224
HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY.
HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY.
The Execution.
A SPORTING ANECDOTE.
MY
Y Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two, He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.
Tiger Tim Was clean of limb,
His boots were polished, his jacket, was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he asked, as he held the door on the swing,
* Pray, did your Lordship please to ring ?”
My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said:
“Malibran's dead, Duvernay's fled,
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
What may a Nobleman find to do ?”—
Tim looked up, and Tim looked down,
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratched his head,
He let go the handle, and thus he said,
As the door, released, behind him banged :
“An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hanged.”
My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news,
“Run to MʻFuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.


THE EXECUTION.
225
Rope-dancers a score I've seen before
Madam Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more;
But to see a man swing At the end of a string,
With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing !”
My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street and through square
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm, But did no great harm,
Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay Two urchins at play,
Knocking down—very much to the sweeper's dismay-
An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall Near Exeter Hall,
Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall.
But eastward afar Through Temple Bar,
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls,
Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,
Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gayly
Cries, “What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first floor of the Magpie and Stump?”
The clock strikes Twelve-it is dark midnight-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met; The tables are set ;
There is “punch,” “cold without,” “hot with,” heavy wet,
Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
15


226
HON. MR. SUCKLETHUMBKIN'S STORY.
Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars,
Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws-
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze;
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
All come to see a man “ die in his shoes !”
The clock strikes One! Supper is done,
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing “Jolly companions every one!”
My Lord Tomnoddy Is drinking gin-toddy,
And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.-
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
“Who so merry, so merry as we?”
Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze,
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.
The clock strikes Four! - Round the debtors' door
Are gathered a couple of thousand or more;
• As many await At the press-yard gate,
Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A wagon comes loaded with posts and planks.
The clock strikes Five! The Sheriffs arrive,
And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks.
A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze Is dreaming of Jews,
And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy Has drunk all his toddy,
And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;


THE EXECUTION.
227
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and high,
On all-save the wretch condemnd to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun,
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scene of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!
And hark I-a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!
List to that low funereal bell:
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell ! -
And see !—from forth that opening doo
They come-HE steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread
upon
threshold more!
-God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,-not even in prayer;
That heaving chest !- Enough—'tis done!
The bolt has fallen !—The spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!-
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight !-Ah me,
A deed to shudder at,- not to see.
Again that clock ! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past: with its earliest chime
The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By“ dungeon villains” is borne away:
Nine !—'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then-my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M Fuze, with the black on his nose:


228
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
“Hollo! Hollo! Here's a rum Go!
Why, Captain!--my Lord !-Here's the devil to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!
What's to be done? We've miss'd all the funk-
Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"
What was to be done ?—'twas perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again :
What was to be done ?—The man was dead !
Nought could be done-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!
The following communication will speak for itself:-
“On their own actions modest men are dumb !"
Some Account of a New Play,
IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER-IN-LAW, LIEUT. SEA-
FORTH, H.P., LATE OF THE HON. E.I.C.'s SECOND REGT.
OF BOMBAY FENCIBLES.
“The play's the thing !"-Hamlet.
TAVISTOCK HOTEL, Nov. 1839.
DEAR CHARLES,
In reply to your letter, and Fanny's,
Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead, -though Queen
Anne is;
'Twas a "plot" and a "farce"-you hate farces, you say-
Take another "plot," then, viz., the plot of the Play.


SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
229
The Countess of Arundel, high in degree,
As a lady possessed of an earldom in fee,
Was imprudent enough, at fifteen years of age, -
A period of life when we're not over sage, —
To form a liaison-in fact, to engage
Her hand to a Hop-o'-my-thumb of a Page.
This put her Papa- She had no Mamma-
As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.
Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat,
In his budget of proverbs, “Stol'n kisses are sweet!”
But they have their alloy S Fate assumed, to annoy
Miss Arundel's peace, and embitter her joy,
The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.
When, through “the young stranger," her secret took wind,
The old Lord was neither “to haud nor to bind ;"
He bounced up and down, And so fearful a frown
Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind.
The young lady, they say, Having fainted away,
Was confined to her room for the whole of that day;
While her beau-no rare thing in the old feudal system
Disappeared the next morning, and nobody missed him.
dear young
The fact is, his Lordship,—who hadn't, it seems,
Formed the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams,
That the pair had been wedded according to law,-
Conceived that his daughter had made a faux pas;
So he bribed at a high rate A sort of a Pirate
To knock out the poor
Gentleman's brains,
And gave him a handsome douceur for his pains.
The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns
His attention at once to the Lady's concerns ;
And, alarmed for the future, Looks out for a suitor,
One not fond of raking, nor giv'n to "the pewter,"
But adapted to act both the husband and tutor ;-
Finds a highly respectable middle-aged widower,
Marries her off, and thanks Heaven that he's rid of her.


230
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
Relieved from his cares, The old Peer now prepares
To arrange in good earnest his worldly affairs;
Has his will made anew by a Special Attorney,
Sickens,—takes to his bed,—and sets out on his journey.
Which way he travelled Has not been unravelled;
To speculate much on the point were too curious,
If the climate he reached were serene or sulphureous.
To be sure, in his balance-sheet all must declare
One item-the Page—was an awkward affair;
But, per contra, he'd lately endowed a new Chantry
For Priests, with ten marks, and the run of the pantry.
Be that as it may, It's sufficient to say
That his tomb in the chancel stands there to this day,
Built of Bethersden marble-a dark bluish-gray.
The figure, a fine one of pure alabaster,
Some cleanly churchwarden has covered with plaster;
While some Vandal or Jew, With a taste for virtu,
Has knocked off his toes, to place, I suppose,
In some Pickwick Museum, with part of his nose;
From his belt and his sword And his misericorde
The enamel's been chipped out, and never restored ;
His ci-gît in old French is inscribed all around,
And his head's in his helm, and his heel's on his hound;
The palms of his hands, as if going to pray,
Are joined and upraised o'er his bosom— But stay!
I forgot that his tomb's not described in the Play!
*
*
*
*
Lady Arundel, now in her own right a Peeress,
Perplexes her noddle with no such nice queries,
But produces in time, to her husband's great joy,
Another remarkably “fine little boy."
As novel connections Oft change the affections,
And turn all one's love into different directions,
Now to young “Johnny Newcome” she seems to confine
hers,
Neglecting the poor little dear out at dry-nurse;
Nay, far worse than that, She considers “the brat"
As a bore,-fears her husband may smell out a rat.


SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
231
For her legal adviser She takes an old Miser,
A sort of “poor cousin.” She might have been wiser ;
For this arrant deceiver, By name Maurice Beevor,
A shocking old scamp, should her own issue fail,
By the law of the land stands the next in entail;
So, as soon as she asked him to hit on some plan
To provide for her eldest, away the rogue ran
To that self-same unprincipled sea-faring man;
In his ear whispered low *_“Bully Gaussen" said
“ Done!
I Burked the papa, now I'll Bishop the son!”
'Twas agreed; and, with speed To accomplish the deed,
He adopted a scheme he was sure would succeed.
By long cock-and-bull stories, Of Candish and Noreys,
Of Drake, and bold Raleigh (then fresh in his glories,
Acquired ’mongst the Indians, and Rapparee Tories),
He so worked on the lad, That he left, which was bad,
The only true friend in the world that he had,
Father Onslow, a priest, though to quit him most loth,
Who in childhood had furnished his pap and his broth,
At no small risk of scandal, indeed, to his cloth.
The kidnapping crimp Took the foolish young imp
On board of his cutter so trim and so jimp,
Then, seizing him just as you'd handle a shrimp,
Twirled him thrice in the air with a whirligig motion,
And soused him at once neck and heels in the ocean;
This was off Plymouth Sound,
And he must have been drowned,
For 'twas nonsense to think he could swim to dry ground,
If “A very great Warman, Called Billy the Norman,"
Had not just at that moment sailed by, outward bound.
A shark of great size, With his great glassy eyes,
Sheered off as he came, and relinquished the prize:
So he picked up the lad,* swabbed and dry-rubbed and mopped
him,
And, having no children, resolved to adopt him.
* An incident very like one in Jack Sheppard-
A work some have lauded, and others have peppered-


232
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
Full many a year Did he hand, reef, and steer,
And by no means considered himself as small beer,
When old Norman at length died and left him his frigate,
With lots of pistoles in his coffer to rig it.
A sailor ne'er moans; So, consigning the bones
Of his friend to the locker of one Mr. Jones,
For England he steers. On the voyage it appears
That he rescued a maid from the Dey of Algiers;
And at length reached the Sussex coast, where, in a
bay,
Not a great way from Brighton, most cosily lay
His vessel at anchor,
the
very same day
That the Poet begins-thus commencing his Play:
Аст І.
Giles Gaussen accosts old Sir Maurice de Beevor,
And puts the poor Knight in a deuce of a fever,
By saying the boy, whom he took out to please him,
Is come back a Captain on purpose to tease him.-
Sir Maurice, who gladly would see Mr. Gaussen
Breaking stones on the highway, or sweeping a crossing,
Dissembles-observes, It's of no use to fret, -
And hints he may find some more work for him yet;
Then calls at the castle, and tells Lady A.
That the boy they had ten years ago sent away
Is returned a grown man, and, to come to the point,
Will put her son Percy's nose clean out of joint;
But adds, that herself she no longer need vex,
If she'll buy him (Sir Maurice) a farm near the Ex.
“Oh! take it,” she cries; “ but secure every document.”.
“A bargain," says Maurice, — "including the stock, you
meant ?"
Where a Dutch pirate kidnaps and tosses Thames Darrel
Just so in the sea, and he's saved by a barrel,-
On the coast, if I recollect rightly, it's fung whole,
And the hero, half drowned, scrainbles out of the bung-hole.
[It ain't no sich thing!-the hero ain't bung'd in no barrel at all.-He's picked up by
a captain, just as Norman was arterwards.--PRINT. DEV.]


SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
233
The Captain, meanwhile, With a lover-like smile,
And a fine cambric handkerchief, wipes off the tears
From Miss Violet's eyelash, and hushes her fears.
(That's the Lady he saved from the Dey of Algiers.)
Now arises a delicate point, and this is it-
The young Lady herself is but down on a visit.
She's perplexed; and, in fact, Does not know how to
act.
It's her very first visit-and then to begin
By asking a stranger, a gentleman, in-
One with moustaches too-and a tuft on his chin-
She “really don't know, He had much better go,"—
Here the Countess steps in from behind, and says No!-
Fair sir, you are welcome. Do, pray, stop and dine-
You'll take our pot-luck-and we've decentish wine.”
He bows, looks at Miss,-and he does not decline.
ACT II.
After dinner the Captain recounts, with much glee,
All he's heard, seen, and done since he first went to sea,
All his perils and scrapes, And his hair-breadth escapes,
Talks of boa-constrictors, and lions, and apes,
And fierce“ Bengal Tigers,” like that which, you know,
If you've ever seen any respectable "Show,"
“Carried off the unfortunate Mr. Munro.”
Then, diverging awhile, he adverts to the mystery
Which hangs, like a cloud, o'er his own private history,
How he ran off to sea—how they set him afloat
(Not a word, though, of barrel or bung-hole-See Note),
How he happened to meet With the Algerine fleet,
And forced them, by sheer dint of arms, to retreat,
Thus saving his Violet-(One of his feet
Here just touched her toe, and she moved on her seat),--
How his vessel was battered In short he so chat-
tered,
Now lively, now serious, so ogled and flattered,
That the ladies much marvelled a person should be able
To “make himself,” both said, “so very agreeable.”


234
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
Captain Norman's adventures were scarcely half done
When Percy Lord Ashdale, her Ladyship's son,
In a terrible fume, Bounces into the room,
And talks to his guest as you'd talk to your groom,
Claps his hand on his rapier, And swears he'll be through
him—
The Captain does nothing at all but “pooh! pooh !” him-
Unable to smother His hate of his brother,
He rails at his cousin, and blows up his mother.-
"Fie! fie!” says the first.-Says the latter, "In sooth,
This is sharper by far than a keen serpent's tooth !"
(A remark, by the way, which King Lear had made years ago,
When he asked for his Knights, and his Daughters said,
“Here's a go!")—
This made Ashdale ashamed; But he must not be blamed
Too much for his warmth, for like many young fellows he
Was apt to lose temper when tortured by jealousy.
Still speaking quite gruff, He goes off in a huff;
Lady A., who is now what some call“ up to snuff,”
Straight determines to patch Up a clandestine match
Between the Sea-Captain she dreads like Old Scratch,
And Miss,—whom she does not think any great catch
For Ashdale;—besides, he won't kick up such shindies
Were she once fairly married and off the Indies.
ACT III.
Miss Violet takes from the Countess her tone:
She agrees to meet Norman “by moonlight alone,”
And slip off to his bark, “The night being dark,"
Though “the moon," the Sea-Captain says, rises in Heaven
“One hour before midnight," i. e. at eleven.
From which speech I infer,– Though perhaps I may
err,
That, though weatherwise, doubtless, 'midst surges and surf, he
When “capering on shore” was by no means a Murphy.
He starts off, however, at sunset to reach
An old chapel in ruins, that stands on the beach,


SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
235
Where the Priest is to bring, as he's promised by letter, a
Paper to prove his name, “birthright," et cetera.
Being rather too late, Gaussen, lying in wait,
Gives
poor
Father Onslow a knock on the pate,
But bolts, seeing Norman, before he has wrested
From the hand of the Priest, as Sir Maurice requested,
The marriage certificate duly attested. -
Norman kneels by the clergyman fainting and gory,
And begs he won't die till he's told him his story;
The Father complies, Reopens his eyes,
And tells him all how and about it and dies !
ACT IV.
Norman, now called Le Mesnil, instructed of all,
Goes back, though it's getting quite late for a call,
Hangs his hat and his cloak on a peg in the hall,
And tells the proud Countess it's useless to smother
The fact any longer-he knows she's his Mother!
His Pa's wedded Spouse.- She questions his vous,
And threatens to have him turned out of the house. -
He still perseveres, Till, in spite of her fears,
She admits he's the son she had cast off for
years,
And he gives her the papers “all blistered with tears,"
When Ashdale, who chances his nose in to poke,
Takes his hat and his cloak, Just as if in a joke,
Determined to put in his wheel a new spoke,
And slips off thus disguised, when he sees by the dial it
's time for the rendezvous fixed with Miss Violet.-
-Captain Norman, who, after all, feels rather sore
At his mother's reserve, vows to see her no more,
Rings the bell for the servant to open the door,
And leaves his Mamma in a fit on the floor.
ACT V.
Now comes the catastrophe !-Ashdale, who's wrapt in
The cloak, with the hat and the plume of the Captain,
Leads Violet down through the grounds to the chapel
Where Gaussen's concealed-he springs forward to grapple


236
SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY.
The man he's erroneously led to suppose
Captain Norman himself by the cut of his clothes.
In the midst of their strife, And just as the knife
Of the Pirate is raised to deprive him of life,
The Captain comes forward, drawn there by the squeals
Of the Lady, and, knocking Giles head over heels,
Fractures his " nob," Saves the hangman a job,
And executes justice most strictly, the rather,
'Twas the spot where that rascal had murdered his father.
Then in comes the mother, Who, finding one brother
Had the instant before saved the life of the other,
Explains the whole case. Ashdale puts a good face
On the matter; and, since he's obliged to give place,
Yields his coronet up with a pretty good grace;
Norman vows he won't have it—the kinsmen embrace, -
And the Captain, the first in this generous race,
To remove every handle For gossip and scandal,
Sets the whole of the papers alight with the candle;
An arrangement takes place—on the very same night, all
Is settled and done, and the points the most vital
Are, N. takes the personals ;-A., in requital,
Keeps the whole real property, Mansion, and Title.-
V. falls to the share of the Captain, and tries a
Sea voyage, as a Bride, in the “Royal Eliza."
Both are pleased with the part they acquire as joint heirs,
And old Maurice Beeyor is bundled down stairs !
MORAL.
The public, perhaps, with the drama might quarrel
If deprived of all epilogue, prologue, and moral;
This may serve for all three then :-
“Young Ladies of property,
Let Lady A.'s history serve as a stopper t'ye;
Don't wed with low people beneath your degree,
And if you've a baby, don't send it to sea!
“Young Noblemen, shun everything like a brawl;
And be sure when you dine out, or go to a ball,


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
237
Don't take the best hat that you find in the hall,
And leave one in its stead that's worth nothing at all!
"Old Knights, don't give bribes !-above all, never urge a man
To steal people's things, or to stick an old Clergyman !
“And you, ye Sea Captains! who've nothing to do
But to run round the world, fight, and drink till all's blue,
And tell us tough yarns, and then swear they are true,
Reflect, notwithstanding your seafaring life,
That you can't get on well long, without you've a wife;
So get one at once, treat her kindly and gently,
Write a nautical novel,—and send it to Bentley !"
It has been already hinted that Mr. Peters had been a
"traveller” in his day. The only story which his lady would
ever allow “her P.” to finish—he began as many as would fur-
nish an additional volume to the “ Thousand and One Nights”
-is the last I shall offer. The subject, I fear me, is not over
new, but will remind my friends
“Of something better they have seen before.”
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
The Bagman's Dog.
Stant littore Puppies !-VIRGIL.
I wou alieterophede vand fixe left alive,
T was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drowned, and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive,
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread and drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tailed pup!


238
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick,
Could well understand The word of command,
And
appear
to doze With a crust on his nose
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand :
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possessed of such natural talent as he;
And as he grew older, Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.-
Time, however his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tailed puppy's a curly-tailed dog!
When, just at the time He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,
One unlucky day, How, no one could say,
Whether soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away,
He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;
He had been, and was not—that's all that they knew.
And the Bagman stormed, and the Bagman swore
As never a Bagman had sworn before;
But storming or swearing but little avails
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.-
In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair,
The only thing strange, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is how it got there;
In front is a short semicircular stair
Of stone steps, ,-some half score, -
Then you reach the ground floor,
With a shell-patterned architrave over the door.
It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan
Of a Gentleman's house in the reign of Queen Anne;


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
239
Which is odd, for although, As we very well know,
Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show
Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below,
Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go
From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow,
To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho.-
Be this as it may, at the date I assign
To my tale,-that's about Seventeen Sixty-nine,
This mansion, now rather upon the decline,
Had less dignified owners,-belonging, in fine,
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne
A respectable House in the Manchester line.
There were a score Of Bagmen, and more,
Who had travell’d full oft for the firm before;
But just at this period they wanted to send
Some person on whom they could safely depend,
A trustworthy body, half agent, half friend, -
On some mercantile matter as far as Ostend;
And the person they pitched on was Anthony Blogg,
A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog, -
The Bagman, in short, who had lost this great dog.
« The Sea! the Sea! the
open
Sea!-
That is the place where we all wish to be,
Rolling about on it merrily!"
So all sing and say By night and by day,
In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play,
In a sort of coxcombical roundelay ;-
You may roam through the City, transversely or straight,
From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate,
And every young Lady who thrums a guitar,
Ev'ry moustachio'd Shopman who smokes a cigar,
With affected devotion, Promulgates his notion,
Of being a “Rover” and “child of the Ocean”.
Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be,
They all of them long for the “ Wide, Wide Sea !”


240
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
But however they dote, Only set them afloat
In any craft bigger at all than a boat,
Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before
The “Wessel” they “ Woyage” in has made half her way
Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay,
Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree,
They'll be all of them heartily sick of “ the Sea!”
I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size
Inferior far to that described by Byron,
Where “palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise,”-
-That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-
And little donkey-boys your steps environ,
Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack,
Vaunting its excellence; and should you hire one,
For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack,
The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back.
And there, on many a raw and gusty day,
I've stood, and turned my gaze upon the pier,
And seen
the
crews,
that did embark so gay
That self-same morn, now disembark so queer;
Then to myself I've sighed and said, “Oh dear!
Who would believe yon sickly-looking man’s a
London Jack Tar,-a Cheapside Buccaneer!"
But hold, my Muse !—for this terrific stanza
Is all too stiffly grand for our extravaganza.
“So now we'll go up, up, up,
And now we'll go down, down, down,
And now we'll go backwards and forwards,
And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'.”—
I hope you've sufficient discernment to see,
Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the d
Is a fault which you must not attribute to me;


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
241
Thus my nurse cut it off when,“ with counterfeit glee,”
She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,
In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three :-
All I mean to say is that the Muse is now free
From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters,
And no longer like Filch, 'midst the felons and debtors
At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters.
Resuming her track, At once she goes back
To our hero, the Bagman.-Alas! and Alack !
Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog,
Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog,
By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea,
With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee.
And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity
To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity,
And talking of “calking," And “quarter-deck walking,"
“Fore and aft,” And “abaft,"
“Hookers," “barkeys," and “craft”
(At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laught),
Of binnacles,-bilboes,—the boom called the spanker,
The best bower cable,-the jib,-and sheet anchor;
Of lower-deck guns, and broadsides and chases,
Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces,
And “Shiver my timbers !” and other odd phrases
Employed by old pilots with hard-featured faces -
Of the expletives seafaring Gentlemen use,
The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews ;-
How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair,
And what very long pigtails a great many wear. -
But, Reader, I scorn it-the fact is, I fear,
To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear
As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier,
Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear
Of the “Nauticals,” just at the end of the year
Eighteen thirty-nine-(how Time flies !-Oh, dear!)
With a well-written preface, to make it appear
That his play, the “Sea-Captain,"'s by no means small beer.
16


242
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
There !—“ brought up the rear"—you see there's a mistake
Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make:
I ought to have said, that he “sail'd in their wake.”.
So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher
The more my poor hero continued to suffer,
Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer !”
Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew,
And the thunder kicked up
such a hallibaloo,
That even the Skipper began to look blue;
While the crew, who were few, Looked very queer, too,
And seemed not to know what exactly to do,
And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs,
“ Wind N. E.-blows a hurricane-rains cats and dogs.”
In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as
That Shakspeare describes near the “still vext Bermudas,"*
When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port
The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court,
And swamped it to give “the King's Son, Ferdinand," a
Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda,
While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em
For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom.
You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm,
As so many have done, and in colors so warm:
Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious,
Mr. Ainsworth more gravely,-see also Lucretius,
-A writer who gave me no trifling vexation
When a youngster at school on Dean Colet's foundation.-
Suffice it to say
That the whole of that day,
And the next, and the next, they were scudding away
Quite out of their course, Propelled by the force
Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as
Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas,
Driven quite at their mercy 'Twixt Guernsey and Jersey,
Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows,
In West longitude One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes;
There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized,
* See Appendix, p. 254.


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
243
Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions,
His specifical gravity less than the Ocean's,
Should go floating away, 'Midst the surges and spray,
Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoln by a shower,
Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.
You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair,
Gentle Reader,—that is, if you've ever been there,-
With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair
Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair,
Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in,
Their faces and hair with the water all dripping,
In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin,
That bobs up and down in the water whenever
They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor;
Exactly as Poets say,-how, though, they can't tell us,-
Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus. .
-Stay !—I'm not clear But I'm rather out here;
'Twas the water itself that slipped from him, I fear;
Faith, I can't recollect—and I haven't Lempriere.-
No matter,-poor Blogg went on ducking and bobbing,
Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing,
Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he
Experienced while dreaming they'd drowned him in Malmsey.
“O Lord,” he thought, “what pain it was to drown!"
And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes,
Glaring as he was bobbing up and down,
And looking as they thought him quite a prize;
When, as he sank, and all was growing dark,
A something seized him with its jaws !—a shark ?-
No such thing, Reader :-most opportunely for Blogg,
'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tailed Dog!
I'm not much of a trav'ller, and really can't boast
That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast;
But I've often heard say That e'en to this day,


244
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
.
The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout
Are a class that society doesn't much care about;
Men who gain a subsistence by contraband dealing,
And a mode of abstraction strict people call “stealing;"
Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech,
Above all to a stranger who comes within reach ;
And they were so to Blogg When the curly-tailed Dog
At last dragged him out, high and dry, on the beach.
But we all have been told, By the proverb of old,
By no means to think “all that glitters is gold;"
And, in fact, some advance That most people in France
Join the manners and air of a Maître de Danse
To the morals (as Johnson of Chesterfield said)
Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred,
Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red. -
Be this as it might, It embarrassed Blogg quite
To find those about him so very polite.
A suspicious observer perhaps might have traced
The petites soins, tendered with so much good taste,
To the sight of an old-fashioned pocket-book, placed
In a black leather belt well secured round his waist,
And a ring set with diamonds his finger that graced,
So brilliant no one could have guessed they were paste.
The group on the shore Consisted of four;
You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more;
But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation,
What Malthus would term a too dense population;"
Indeed the sole sign there of man's habitation
Was merely a single Rude hut in a dingle
That led away inland direct from the shingle,
Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark,
Some two hundred yards above high-water mark;
And thither the party, So cordial and hearty,
Viz., an old man, his wife, and two lads, made a start, he,
The Bagman, proceeding. With equal good breeding,
To express, in indifferent French, all he feels,
The great curly-tailed Dog keeping close to his heels.-
i


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
245
They soon reached the hut, which seemed partly in ruin,
All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon Dieuing,
Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing.
To try,
Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts
You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts,
if
you
find richer viands won't stop in it,
A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it?
(Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one
Call, at the Garrick, a Cd Committee one,”
An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.)
However, it's clear That, with sound table beer,
Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer;
Especially too When a person's wet through,
And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do.
Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage
Was smoking away when they entered the cottage,
And casting a truly delicious perfume
Through the whole of an ugly, old, ill-furnished room;
Hot, smoking hot,” On the fire was a pot
Well replenished, but really I can't say with what;
For, famed as the French always are for ragouts,
No creature can tell what they put in their stews,
Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes;
Notwithstanding, when offered I rarely refuse,
Any more than poor Blogg did, when, seeing the reeky
Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he
In ecstacy muttered, “By Jove, Cocky-leeky!”
In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon,
Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he
No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly,
But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli.
66
Meanwhile that old man standing by
Subducted his long coat-tails on high,
With his back to the fire, as if to dry


246
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
A part of his dress which the watery sky
Had visited rather inclemently.-
Blandly he smiled, but still he looked sly,
And a something sinister lurked in his eye.
Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in,
You'd have owned his appearance was not prepossessing ;
He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots
With thick wooden soles turned up at the toes,
His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose,
And a hump on his back, and a great hooked nose,
So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose
That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.
Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present,
And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant.
The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado,
Helping her guest to a deal of the stew;
She fished up the meat, and she helped him to that,
She helped him to lean, and she helped him to fat,
And it looked like Hare—but it might have been Cat.
The little garçons too strove to express
Their sympathy towards the “Child of distress"
With a great deal of juvenile French politesse :
But the Bagman bluff Continued to “stuff”
Of the fat and the lean, and the tender and tough,
Till they thought he would never cry, “Hold, enough!"
And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable,
Sounding like peste! and sacre ! and diable !
I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating,
That says,
“Good Eatynge
Beserbeth Good Drynkynge."
You'll find it so printed by Carton or Ulynkyn,
And a very good proverb it is, to my thinking.
.
Blogg thought so too;— As he finished his stew,
His ear caught the sound of the word “ Morbleu !”
Pronounced by the old woman under her breath.
Now, not knowing what she could mean by “Blue Death !”


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
247
He conceived she referred to a delicate brewing
Which is almost synonymous,-namely, “ Blue Ruin.”
So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee,
In his cockneyfied accent, responded, “Oh, Vee!”
Which made her understand he was asking for brandy;
So she turned to the cupboard, and, having some handy,
Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it,
An orbicular bulb with a very long neck to it;
In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his,
Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises ;"
-And here, by the way, Allow me to say-
Kind Reader, you sometimes permit me to stray-
'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing,
So inferior to us in the science of cursing;
Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears,
And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly,
Roar out, in a passion, “ Blue Death !” and “Blue Belly !"
“To return to our sheep" from this little digression :-
Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression
As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one;
Too little he heeded How fast they succeeded.
Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did;
For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps,
It's amazing to think How one cottons" to Drink!
At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps,
There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnapps.
Mr. Blogg, besides being uncommonly dry,
Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy,
-"Did not like to deny"- "Felt obliged to comply ”
Every time that she asked him to "wet t'other eye:”
For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup,
Though before she had seemed so to grudge him the soup.
At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose
Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze,
And a yearning to seek “horizontal repose."


248
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post,
During all the long meal had continued to toast
That garment 'twere rude to Do more than allude to,
Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views
Of his guest were directed to “taking a snooze:”
So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw,
With (as Blogg used to tell it) “Mounseer, swivvy maw!"
And “marshalled” him so “The way he should go,"
Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low,
Without table or chair, Or a movable there,
Save an old-fashioned bedstead, much out of repair,
That stood at the end most removed from the stair.-
With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug,
Just as much as to say, "There !-I think you'll be snug!"
Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door,
Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more:
When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread,
To the Bagman's surprise, and at first to his dread,
The great curly-tailed Dog crept from under the bed !--
- It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright,
And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right;
As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night
Through a Churchyard, and seeing a thing all in white,
Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite,
To find that the Ghost Is merely a post,
Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most;
Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin
To close, or, as some people call it,“ draw in,"
And some undefined form, “looming large” through the
haze,
Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze,
Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head,
Or a severed carotid, to find that, instead
Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men,
It's your uncle, or one of the “Rural Policemen ;"'-
Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein;
You're delighted with what just before gave you pain;


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
249
You laugh at your fears—and your friend in the fog
Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg
Now bestowed on his friend-the great curly-tailed Dog.
For the Dog leaped up, and his paws found a place
On each side his neck in a canine embrace,
And he licked Blogg's hands, and he licked his face,
And he waggled his tail as much as to say,
“Mr. Blogg, we've foregathered before to-day !”
And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up,
What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out
Before, had he not been so eager to sup,
'Twas Sancho !—the Dog he had reared from a pup!
The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair,-
The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there, -
The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square !!
It's passing sweet, An absolute treat,
When friends, long severed by distance, meet, -
With what warmth and affection each other they grect!
Especially too, as we very well know,
If there seems any chance of a little cadeau,
A “Present from Brighton,” or “ Token" to show,
In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so,
That our friends don't forget us, although they may go
To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po.
If some little advantage seems likely to start,
From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart,
It's surprising to see how it softens the heart,
And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are
strongest,
Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest.
But, it was not so here; For although it is clear,
When abroad, and we have not a single friend near,
E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear,
And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog
Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg,
Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast,
Perhaps thinking “Enough is as good as a feast;"


250
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow,
He grew tired of patting, and crying “Poor fellow !"
So his smile by degrees hardened into a frown,
And his “That's a good dog !” into “Down, Sancho! down!"
But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing,
Who, in fact, seemed resolved to prevent his undressing,
Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said,
“Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed;
You had much better sit up and pat me instead !”
Nay, at last, when, determined to take some repose,
Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes,
Spite of all he could do, The dog jumped up too,
And kept him awake with his very cold nose ;
Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining,
Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in
Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length
The dog scratched him off from the bed by sheer strength.
Extremely annoyed by the “tarnation whop," as it
's called in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite,
Blogg showed fight; When he saw, by the light
Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite
Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright,
Certain dark-colored stains, as of blood newly spilt,
Revealed by the dog's having scratched off the quilt,-
Which hinted a story of horror and guilt I-
'Twas “no mistake,”— He was “ wide awake”
In an instant; for, when only decently drunk,
Nothing sobers a man so completely as “funk.”
And hark !-what's that ?— They have got into chat
In the kitchen below—what the deuce are they at ?
There's the ugly old fisherman scolding his wife
And she—by the Pope! she's whetting a knife ! -
At each twist Of her wrist,
And her great mutton fist,
The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder ! —
The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire
Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder. -


THE BAGMAN'S DOG.
251
It ceases-all's silent !-and now, I declare,
There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.
The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping ;
He opens the door just sufficient to peep in,
And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping !
For Blogg, when he'd once ascertained that there was some
“Precious mischief” on foot, had resolved to play " 'possum;"-
Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed,
Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead;
While, though none who looked at him would think such a
thing,
Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring.
Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in,
And you'd not have insured his guest's life for a shilling,
As the knife gleamed on high, bright and sharp as a razor,
Blogg, starting upright," tipped" the fellow “a facer;" —
-Down went man and weapon.-Of all sorts of blows,
From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose
There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.
Now had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer
(Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer,
And say the first person was called James MʻPherson,
While as to the second, they stoutly declare
He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where),
Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer
Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter
For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, ,
Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat
Boxers to “ Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street ;-
I say, could I borrow these gentlemen's Muses,
More skilled than my meek one in “fibbings” and bruises,
I'd describe now to you As “prime a set-to,"
And regular
turn-up," as ever you knew;
Not inferior in “bottom” to aught you have read of
Since Cribb, years ago, half knocked Molyneux's head off.
66


252
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
But my dainty Urania says, “Such things are shocking!"
Lace mittens she loves, Detesting “the Gloves ;"
And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking,
From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking.
So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to “ fancy”
The thumps and the bumps, and the ups and the downs,
And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns,
That passed 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog,
As Blogg rolled over them, and they rolled over Blogg,
While what's called “the Claret” Flew over the garret,
Merely stating the fact, As each other they whacked,
The Dog his old Master most gallantly backed ;
Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer ofi,
With “Hippolyte’s” thumb and “Alphonse’s” left ear off;
Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on
The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon;
Then the old man turned up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's
Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.—
Really, which way This desperate fray
Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say,
The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay:
But a few fresh arrivals decided the day;
For bounce went the door, In came half a score
Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more
Who had aided the party in gaining the shore !
It's a great many years ago-mine then were few-
Since I spent a short time in old Courageux ; -
I think that they say She had been, in her day,
A First-rate, but was then what they termed a Rasée,-
And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay
(Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way).
In her I picked up, on that single occasion,
The little I know that concerns Navigation,
And obtained, inter alia, some vague information
Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing,
Is adopted on shipboard—I think it's called “cobbing.'
How it's managed exactly I really can't say,


THE BAGMAN'Ş DOG.
253
But I think that a bootjack is brought into play-
That is, if I'm right:-it exceeds my ability
To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one
Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility,
And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robbed
Of the little I have in my purse than be “cobbed;"
That's mere matter of taste:
But the Frenchman was placed-
I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced,
In such a position that, on this unmasking,
His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.
The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through,
With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew,
Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them,
" Cobbed” the whole party,-ay, “every man Jack of them.”
MORAL,
And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say
Farewell for the present, and wish you good day,
Attend to the moral I draw from my lay :-
If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg,
Be
wary of strangers !-don't take too much grog!
And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!
Above all, carry with you a curly-tailed Dog !
Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing,
Sold Sancho next month for two guineas, at Flushing;
But still on these words of the Bard keep a fixed eye,
INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI !
L'Envoye.
I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him
I never once thought to inquire what became of him;
If you want to know, Reader, the way, I opine,
To achieve your design, - Mind, it's no wish of mine,
Is (a penny will do 't) by addressing a line
To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pine.


254
MR. PETERS'S STORY.
APPENDIX.*
Since penning this stanza, a learned Antiquary
Has put my poor Muse in no trifling quandary
By writing an essay to prove that he knows a
Spot which, in truth, is The real "Bermoothes,"
In the Mediterranean,—now called Lampedosa ;
-For proofs, having made, as he further alleges, stir,
An entry was found in the old Parish Register,
The which at his instance the excellent Vicar ex-
Tracted: viz., “ Caliban, base son of Sycorax.”
--He had rather, by half, Have found Prospero's “Staff;"
But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of pick or axe.-
Colonel Pasley, however, 'tis everywhere said,
Now he's blown up the old Royal George at Spithead,
And the great cliff at Dover, of which we've all read,
Takes his whole apparatus, and goes out to look
And see if he can't try and blow up
“ the Book.”
-Gentle Reader, farewell !-If I add one more line,
“He'll be, in all likelihood, blowing up mine!"
* See page 242.


THE
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.
SECOND SERIES.
TO RICHARD BENTLEY, Esq.
MY DEAR SIR:
You tell me that “a generous and enlightened Public" has
given a favorable reception to those extracts from our family
papers, which, at your suggestion, were laid before it some two
years since ;—and you hint, with all possible delicacy, that a
second volume might not be altogether unacceptable at a period
of the year when “auld-warld stories” are more especially in
request. With all my heart,—the old oak chest is not yet
empty; in addition to which I have recently laid my hand
upon a long MS. correspondence of my great-uncle, Sir Pere-
grine Ingoldsby, a cadet of the family, who somehow contrived
to attract the notice of George the Second, and received from
his “honor-giving hand” the accolade of knighthood. To this
last-named source I am indebted for several of the accompany-
ing histories, while my inestimable friend Simpkinson has bent
all the powers of his mighty mind to the task. From Father
John's stories I have drawn largely. Our “Honorable” friend
Sucklethumbkin—by the way, he has been beating our covers
lately, when he shot a woodcock and one of the Governor's
pointers—gives a graphic account of the Operatic “row" in
which he was heretofore so conspicuous; while even Mrs. Bar-
ney Maguire (née Mademoiselle Pauline), whose horror of Mrs.
Botherby's cap has no jot diminished, furnishes me with the
opening Legend of the series from the historiettes of her own
belle France.
( 255 )


256
PREFACE TO SECOND SERIES.
Why will you not run down to Tappington this Christmas ?-
We have been rather busy of late carrying into execution the
enclosure of Swingfield Minnis under the auspices of my Lord
Radnor, and her Majesty's visit to the neighborhood has kept
us quite alive: the Prince in one of his rides pulled up at the
end of the avenue, and, as A * * told Sucklethumbkin, was
much taken with the picturesque appearance of our old gable
ends. Unluckily we were all at Canterbury that morning, or
proud indeed should we have been to offer his Royal Highness
the humble hospitalities of the Hall, -and then-fancy Mrs.
Botherby's “My Gracious!" By the way, the old lady tells
left your nightcap here on your last visit; it is laid
up
in lavender for you ;-come and reclaim it. The Yule log will
burn bright as ever in the cedar room. Bin No. 6 is still one
liquid ruby-the old October yet smiles like mantling amber,
in utter disdain of that vile concoction of chamomile which you
so pseudonymously dignify with the title of “Bitter Ale.”—
Make a start then ;-pitch printer's-ink to old Harry,-and
come and spend a fortnight with
Yours, till the crack of doom,
THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
me you
TAPPINGTON EVERARD,
Dec. 16, 1842.


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
257
The Black Mousquetaire.
A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
CANTO I.
FRANÇOIS XAVIER AUGUSTE was a gay Mousque
taire,
The Pride of the Camp, the delight of the Fair:
He'd a mien so distingué and so debonnaire,
And shrugged with a grace so recherché and rare,
And he twirled his moustache with so charming an air,
-His moustaches I should say, because he'd a pair,-
And, in short, show'd so much of the true sçavoir faire,
All the ladies in Paris were wont to declare,
That could any one draw Them from Dian's strict law,
Into what Mrs. Ramsbottom calls a “ Fox Paw,"
It would be François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix,
Now, I'm sorry to say, At that time of day
The Court of Versailles was a little too gay;
The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play,
To Bordeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray,
Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo
On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo,
While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores,
What the Noblesse, in courtesy, termed his “ Jane Shores,”
—They were called by a much coarser name out of doors.
This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting !
For such courses, when followed by persons of quality,
Are apt to detract on the score of morality.
François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them,
Dressed, drank, and fought, and chasséed with the best of them;
Took oil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see,
He would then sally out in the streets for a “spree;"
His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois
(A word which the English translate “ Johnny Raw"),
17


258
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit he's in,
Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen;
And perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes,
In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes,
Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes,"
Should be merely considered as “ Little Escapes.”
But I'm sorry to add, Things are almost as bad
A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks
Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks
Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.
Be this as it will In the general, still,
Though blame him we must, It is really but just
To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste,
To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were,
At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair,
And, when gambling his worst, always played on the square;
So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he
Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"),
And continued to lose, And to give I O U's,
Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews;
And, a parallel if I may venture to draw
Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix
And his namesake, a still more distinguished François,
Who wrote to his “soeur"* From Pavia, “Mon Coeur,
I have lost all I had in the world fors l'honneur.”
So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note,
“Vive la bagatelle ! toujours gai-idem semper-
I've lost all I had in the world but-my temper!"
From the very beginning, Indeed, of his sinning,
His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning,
That once he prevailed—or his friends coin the tale for him-
On the bailiff who “nabbed” him, himself to “go bail” for him.
* Mrs. Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs me that this is a mis-
take; that the lady to whom this memorable billet was delivered by the hands of Pen-
nalosa was the unfortunate monarch's mamma, and not his sister. I would gladly
rectify the error, but, then,-what am I to do for a rhyme ?-On the whole, I fear I
must content myself, like Talleyrand, with admitting that “it is worse than a fault-
it's a blunder!" for which enormity,-as honest old Pepys says when he records having
kissed his cookmaid, "I humbly beg pardon of Heaven," and Mrs. Ingoldsby.


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
259
Well-we know in these cases
Your“ Crabs” and “ Deuce Aces"
Are wont to promote frequent changes of places;
Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare
That there's nothing so good as the pure "country air,"
Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in
An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing;
A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging,
François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in.
But what could be done? It's clear as the sun
That, though nothing's more easy than say, “Cut and run!”
Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun-
E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do,
Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue.
And, since no one denies What's so plain to all eyes,
It won't, I am sure, create any surprise,
That reflections like these half reduced to despair
François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.
It's a very
Patience par force! He considered, of course,
But in vain-he could hit on no sort of resource
Love?-Liquor 2-Law ?—Loo?
They would each of them do,
There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he
Could hope to get on sans l'argent-i. l., money.
Love?-10 ;-ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor.
Liquor ?-no,—that won't do, when reduced to "the Pewter."
Then Law ?-'tis the same;
fine
game,
But the fees and delays of “the Courts” are a shame,
As Lord Brougham says himself—who's a very great name,
Though the Times made it clear he was perfectly lost in his
Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes,
And don't know his "particles.”- Who wrote the articles,
Showing his Greek up so, is not known very well;
Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell-some Merivale;
But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the date
Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw,
Viz. : 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix !


260
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
Loo?-N0;-that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his weak
side,
But required more than any a purse well supplied.
“Love?-Liquor?-Law?-Loo? No! 'tis all the same story.
Stay! I have it-Ma foi ! (that's 'Odds Bobs!') there is GLORY!
Away with dull care! Vive le Roi ! Vive la Guerre!
Peste! I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire !
When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souci,
A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse,
With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at zero,
What on earth can he hope to become, --but a Hero ?
What a famous thought this is ! I'll go as Ulysses
Of old did—like him I'll see manners and know countries ;*
Cut Paris,-and gaming, -and throats in the Low Countries."
So said, and so done—he arranged his affairs,
And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.
66
Now it happened just then That Field-Marshal Turenne
Was a good deal in want of some active young men,”
To fill up the gaps Which, through sundry mishaps,
Had been made in his ranks by a certain “Great Condé,"
A General unrivalled—at least in his own day-
Whose valor was such That he did not care much
If he fought with the French,-or the Spaniards,-or Dutch,-
A fact which has stamped him a rather “cool hand,”
Being nearly related to Louis le Grand.
It had been all the same had that King been his brother ;
He fought sometimes with one, and sometimes with another;
For war, so exciting, He took such delight in,
He did not care whom he fought, so he was fighting.
And, as I've just said, had amused himself then
By tickling the tail of Field-Marshal Turenne;
Since which, the Field-Marshal's most pressing concern
Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turn.
What a fine thing a battle is !-not one of those
Which one saw at the late Mr. Andrew Ducrow's,
* Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.
Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
261
Where a dozen of scene-shifters, drawn up in rows,
Would a dozen more scene-shifters boldly oppose,
Taking great care their blows Did not injure their
foes,
And alike, save in color and cut of their clothes,
Which were varied to give more effect to “ Tableaux,"
While Stickney the Great Flung the gauntlet to
Fate,
And made us all tremble, so gallantly did he come
On to encounter bold General Widdicombe-
But a real good fight, like Pultowa, or Lützen
(Which Gustavus the Great ended all his disputes in),
Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots in,
Or Dettingen, Fontenoy, Blenheim, or Minden,
Or the one Mr. Campbell describes, Hohenlinden,
Where “the sun was low," The ground all over snow,
And dark as mid-winter the swift Iser's flow,-
Till its color was altered by General Moreau :
While the big drum was heard in the dead of the night,
Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a fright,
And he ran up the steeple to look at the fight.
'Twas in just such another one (Names only bother
one-
Dutch ones indeed are sufficient to smother one),
In the Netherlands somewhere I cannot
say
where
Suffice it that there La Fortune de guerre
Gave a cast of her calling to our Mousquetaire.
One fine morning, in short, François Xavier Auguste,
After making some scores of his foes“ bite the dust,"
Got a mouthful himself of the very same crust;
And though, as the Bard says, “No law is more just
Than for Necis artifices,"—so they called fiery
Soldados at Rome,—"arte suâ perire,”
Yet Fate did not draw This poetical law
To its fullest extent in the case of St. Foix.
His Good Genius most probably found out some flaw,
And diverted the shot From some deadlier spot
To a bone which, I think, to the best of my memory, 's
Called by Professional men the“ os femoris ;"


262
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
And the ball being one of those named from its shape,
And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grape,
St. Foix went down, With a groan and a frown,
And a hole in his small-clothes the size of a crown.
-Staggered a bit By this “palpable hit,"
He turned on his face, and went off in a fit.
Yes! a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fighting,
These same Ups and Downs are so very exciting.
But a sombre sight is a Battle-field
To the sad survivor's sorrowing eye,
Where those, who scorned to fly or yield,
In one promiscuous carnage lie;
When the cannon's roar
Is heard no more,
And the thick dun smoke has rolled away,
And the victor comes for a last survey
Of the well-fought field of yesterday !
No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-
No proud exulting look is there, -
His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earthward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by its side!
And there it lies !-on yonder bank
Of corses, which themselves had breath
But yester-morn-now cold and dank
With other dews than those of death!
Powerless as it had ne'er been born
The hand that clasped his-yester-morn!
And there are widows wand'ring there,
That roam the blood-besprinkled plain,
And listen in their dumb despair
For sounds they ne'er may hear again!
One word, however faint and low,-
Ay, e’en a groan,—were music now!


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
263
And this is Glory!-Fame!
But, pshaw !
Miss Muse, you're growing sentimental;
Besides, such things we never saw;
In fact they're merely Continental.
And then your Ladyship forgets
Some widows came for epaulettes.
So go back to your canter; for one, I declare,
Is now fumbling about our capsized Mousquetaire,
A beetle-browed hag, With a knife and a bag,
And an old tattered bonnet which, thrown back, discloses
The ginger complexion, and one of those noses
Peculiar to females named Levy and Moses,
Such as nervous folks still, when they come in their way,
shun,
Old vixen-faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasion.
You remember, I trust, François Xavier Auguste
Had uncommon fine limbs, and a very fine bust.
Now there's something—I cannot tell what it may
be-
About good-looking gentlemen turned twenty-three,
Above all when laid up with a wound in the knee,
Which affects female hearts in no common degree,
With emotions in which many feelings combine,
Very easy to fancy, though hard to define;
Ugly or pretty, Stupid or witty,
Young or old, they experience, in country or city,
What's clearly not Love-yet it's warmer than Pity-
And some such a feeling, no doubt, 'tis that stays
The hand you may see that old Jezebel raise,
Armed with the blade So oft used in her trade,
The horrible calling e'en now she is plying,
Despoiling the dead, and despatching the dying!
For these "nimble Conveyancers," after such battles,
Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattels,
Think nought, in “perusing and settling" the titles,
So safe as six inches of steel in the vitals.


264
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of;
For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling, -whate'er
It may be,-saves the life of the young Mousquetaire!
-
The knife, that was levelled erewhile at his throat,
Is employed now in ripping the lace from his coat,
And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte;
And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out,
That his mouchoir and gloves may be put “up the spout”
(For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do
Fails to ferret out even a single écu);
As a muscular Giant would handle an elf,
The virago at last lifts the soldier himself,
And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down
In a hospital formed in the neighboring town!
I am not very sure,
But I think 'twas Namur;
And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.
CANTO II.
I ABOMINATE physic–I care not who knows
That there's nothing on earth I detest like “a dose," —
That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue
I consider extremely unpleasant to view,
With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near
On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear;
Xopov deos, I mean, A nasty pale green,
Though for want of some word that may better avail,
I presume, our translators have rendered it “pale;"
For consider the cheeks Of those“ well-booted Greeks,”
Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks ;
Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's;
And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in it,
A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it.
I repeat, I abominate physic; but then,
If folks will go campaigning about with such men
As the Great Prince de Condé and Marshal Turenne,
They may fairly expect To be now and then checked


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
265
By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is
Found, I admit, in green potions and boluses;
So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix, wounded and
lame,
If he swallowed a decent quant. suff. of the same;
Though I'm told, in such cases it's not the French plan
To
pour
in their drastics as fast as they can,
The practice of many an English savan,
But to let off a man with a little ptisanne,
And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan).
“Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, “when the brow
's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou !"
Thou’rt a “minist'ring Angel” in no less degree,
I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee:
And medical friction Is, past contradiction,
Much better performed by a She than a He.
A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge,
For I well recollect, when a youngster at College,
And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note,
Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote
On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his
Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises
Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs,
And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.-
Now, they say, To this day,
When sick people can't pay
On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses
Attend, without any demand on their purses ;
And these females, some old, others still in their teens,
Some call “Sisters of Charity," others “Beguines.”
They don't take the vows; but, half Nun and half Lay,
Attend you; and when you've got better, they say,
“You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay.
Our task is now done; You are able to run.
We never take money; we cure you for fun!”
Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day,
And
go off to cure somebody else the same way.


266
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
-A great many of these, at the date of my tale,
In Namur walk'd the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.
Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun,
Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,-
Not carroty-no; though you'd fancy you saw burn
Such locks as the Greeks loved, which moderns call auburn.
These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all,
Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral;
Her eye-lashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones,
Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones;
But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning
To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).-
Then, for figure! In faith it was downright barbarity
To muffle a form Might an anchoret warm
In the fusty stuff gown
Soeur de la Charité ;
And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw,
One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw,
Than hers who now sits by the couch of St. Foix,
Chafing there, With such care,
And so dove-like an air,
His leg, till her delicate fingers are charred
With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard;
-Their Dutch appellations are really too hard
To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.—
of a
When a young
Now you'll see, And agree,
I am certain, with me,
man's laid
up with a wound in his knee,
And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottomed chair,
To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare,
And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square;
Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair,
And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire,
It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair,
And
may
lead on to mischief before they're aware.
I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his
“ Penchant for liaisons,” and graver men
follies”


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
267
(For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows,
And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows,
Is not to be classed among mere peccadilloes),
His “faults,” I should say—I don't think François Xavier
Entertained any thoughts of improper behavior
Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her tỏ sin he meant
While superintending his draughts and his liniment:
But, as he grew stout, And was getting about,
Thoughts came into his head that had better been out;
While Cupid's an urchin We know deserves birching,
He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in.
'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin
Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.--
'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on; but such
Things will happen-ay, e’en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch.
“When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,
And finds out too late that false man can betray,”
She is apt to look dismal, and grow “ melancholy,"
And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.
He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover,
Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye,
There is but one method” which he can discover
That’s likely to answer—that one is “to die!”
He's wrong—the wan and withering cheek;
The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart;
The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak
The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone
That whispering mocks the pitying ear;
Th' imploring glances heavenward thrown,
As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;
These wring the false one's heart enough,
If “made of penetrable stuff.”
And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays,
Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise


268
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
With, for “wheelers,” two bays, And, for “ leaders,” two
grays,
And soon reaches France, by the help of relays.
Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim,
And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kicked him.
She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner,
Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner,
Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.-
One evening—'twas just as the clock struck eleven-
They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,
-
She breathed one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven,
And all was o'er ! Poor Therèse was no more-
She was gone !—the last breath that she managed to draw
Escaped in one half-uttered word—'twas “St. Foix !”
Who can fly from himself? Bitter cares,
when
you
feel 'em,
Are not cured by travel-as Horace says,
“ Colum
Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare !"
It's climate, not mind, that by roaming men vary-
Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded is
A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did his ;
It haunts you for ever Min bed and at board,-
Ay, e'en in your dreams. And you can't find, it seems,
Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snored !
It is much if he slumbers at all, which but few,
-François Xavier Auguste was an instance,-can do.
Indeed, from the time He committed the crime
Which cut off poor Sister Therese in her prime,
He was not the same man that he had been-his plan
Was quite changed--in wild freaks he no more led the van;
He'd scarce sleep a wink in A week; but sit thinking,
From company shrinking— He quite gave up drinking.
At the mess-table, too, where now seldom he came,
Fish, fricassee, fricandeau, potage, or game,
Dindon aux truffes, or turbot à la crême,
No!-he still shook his head,- it was always the same,
Still he never complained that the cook was to blame !


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
269
'Twas his appetite failed him—no matter how rare
And recherché the dish, how delicious the fare,
What he used to like best he no longer could bear;
But he'd there sit and stare With an air of despair;
Took no care, but would wear Boots that wanted repair ;
irt too! you'd think he'd no linen to spare.
He omitted to shave; he neglected his hair,
And looked more like a Guy than a gay Mousquetaire.
ich a
a
One thing, above all, most excited remark;
In the evening he seldom sat long after dark.
Not that then, as of yore,
he'd
go
out for
“ lark”
With his friends; but when they, After taking café,
Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a tray,
-Which I own I consider a very good way,
If a man's not dyspeptic, to wind up the day,-
No persuasion on earth could induce him to stay;
But he'd take up his candlestick, just nod his head,
By way of “Good evening !" and walk off to bed.
Yet even when there he seem'd no better off,
For he'd wheeze, and he'd sneeze, and he'd hem, and he'd
cough.
And they'd hear him all night, Sometimes sobbing out-
right,
While his valet, who often endeavored to peep,
Declared that “his master was never asleep!
But would sigh, and would groan, slap his forehead, and weep;
That about ten o'clock His door he would lock,
And then never would open it, let who would knock !
He had heard him," he said, “Sometimes jump out of bed,
And talk as if speaking to one who was dead !
He'd groan, and he'd moan, In so piteous a tone,
Begging some one or other to let him alone,
That it really would soften the heart of a stone
To hear him exclaim so, and call upon Heaven;
Then, the bother began always just at eleven!"
François Xavier Auguste, as I've told you before,
I believe, was a popular man in his corps,


270
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
And his comrades, not one Of whom knew of the Nun,
Now began to consult what was best to be done.
Count Cordon Bleu And the Sieur de la Roue
Confessed they did not know at all what to do:
But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville
Made a fervent appeal To the zeal they must feel
For their friend, so distinguished an officer, 's weal.
“The first thing,” he said, “was to find out the matter
That bored their poor friend so, and caused all this clatter-
Mort de ma vie !" —Here he took some rappee-
“Be the cause what it may, he shall tell it to me!”—
He was right, sure enough-in a couple of days
He worms out the whole story of Sister Therèse,
Now entomb'd, poor dear soul! in some Dutch Père la Chaise.
-"But the worst thing of all,” François Xavier declares,
“Is, whenever I've taken my candle up stairs,
There's Therèse sitting thereupon one of those chairs !
Such a frown, too, she wears, And so frightfully glares,
That I'm really prevented from saying my pray’rs,
While an odor,--the very reverse of perfume,-
More like rhubarb or senna, pervades the whole room !”
Hector Achille Stanislaus Emile,
When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feel ;
Not that he cared for Ghosts—he was far too genteel-
Still a queerish sensation came on when he saw
Him whom, for fun, They'd, by way of
a pun
On his person and principles, nicknamed Sans Foi,
A man whom they had, you see, Marked as a Sadducee, -
In his horns, all at once, so completely to draw,
And to talk of a Ghost, with such manifest awek-
It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surprise;
He shrugged up his shoulders, he turned up his eye ,
And he thought with himself that he could not do less
Than lay the whole matter before the whole Mess.
Repetition's detestable ;- So, as you're best able,
Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess-table-


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
271
How the bold Brigadiers Pricked up their ears,
And received the account, some with fears, some with sneers.
How the Sieur de la Roue Said to Count Cordon Bleu,
“Ma foi ! c'est bien dróle-Monseigneur, what say you ?”—
How Count Cordon Bleu Declared he "thought so too;"—
How the Colonel affirmed that “the case was quite new;"-
How the Captains and Majors Began to lay wagers
How far the Ghost part of the story was true;
How, at last, when asked “What was the best thing to do ?”
Everybody was silent,-for nobody knew -
And how, in the end, they said, “No one could deal
With the matter so well, from his prudence and zeal,
As the Gentleman who was the first to reveal
This strange story-viz., Hippolyte Hector Achille
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville !"
I need scarcely relate The plans, little and great,
Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pate
To rescue his friend from his terrible foes,
Those mischievous Imps, whom the world, I suppose
From extravagant notions respecting their hue,
Has strangely agreed to denominate “Blue,"
Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more avail
Than those he had, early in life, found to fail,
When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tail.
In vain did he try With strong waters to ply
His friend, on the ground that he never could spy
Such a thing as a Ghost, with a drop in his eye;
St. Foix never would drink now unless he was dry;
Besides, what the vulgar call “sucking the monkey'
Has much less effect on a man when he's funky.
In vain did he strive to detain him at table
Till his “ dark hour” was over-he never was able,
Save once, when at Mess, With that sort of address
Which the British call “ Humbug," and Frenchmen “ Finesse"
(It's “Blarney” in Irish–I don't know the Scotch),
He fell to admiring his friend's English watch.*
* "Tompion's, I presume?"-FARQUHAR.


272
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
He examined the face, And the back of the case,
And the young Lady's portrait there, done on enamel, he
“Saw by the likeness was one of the family;"
Cried “Superbe !—Magnifique !" (With his tongue in
his cheek)-
Then he opened the case, just to take a peep in it, and
Seized the occasion to pop back the minute hand.
With a demi-congé, and a shrug, and a grin, he
Returns the bijou, and—c'est une affaire finie-
I've done him,” thinks he, “ now, I'll wager a guinea!"
66
It happened that day They were all very gay,
'Twas the Grand Monarque's birthday—that is, 'twas St.
Louis's,
Which in Catholic countries, of course, they would view as
his-
So when Hippolyte saw Him about to withdraw,
He cried, “ Come—that won't do, my fine fellow, St. Foix,-
Give us five minutes longer, and drink Vive le Roi !"
François Xavier Auguste, Without any mistrust
Of the trick that was played, drew his watch from his fob,
Just glanced at the hour, then agreed to "hob-nob,"
Filled a bumper, and rose With “Messieurs, I propose”-
He paused-his blanched lips failed to utter the toast.
'Twas eleven !-he thought it half-past ten at most-
Ev'ry limb, nerve, and muscle grew stiff as a post, -
His jaw dropped-his eyes Swelled to twice their own size
And he stood as a pointer would stand-at a Ghost !
-Then shrieked, as he fell on the floor like a stone,
“Ah! Sister Therèse! now do let me alone!”
It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men do,-
As water wears stone by the “ Sæpe cadendo,”
If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto, “Agendo !”
Was it not Robert Bruce?-I declare I've forgot,
But I think it was Robert-you'll find it in Scott-
Who, when cursing Dame Fortune, was taught by a Spider,
“She's sure to come round, if you will but abide her.”


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
273
Then another great Rob, Called White-headed
Bob,”
Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the “nob”
From a fist which might almost an elephant brain,
That I really believed, at the first, he was slain,
For he lay like a log on his back on the plain,
Till a gentleman present accustomed to train
Drew out a small lancet, and opened a vein
Just below his left eye, which relieving the pain,
He stood up like a trump, with an air of disdain,
,
While his " backer” was fain,- For he could not
refrain
(He was dressed in pea-green, with a pin and gold chain,
And I think I heard somebody call him “Squire Hayne"),-
To whisper ten words one should always retain,
-“ TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON AND AT HIM AGAIN!!!”—
A hint ne’er surpassed, though thus spoken at random,
Since Teucer's apostrophe-Nil desperandum !
Granville acted on it, and ordered his Tandem.
He had heard St. Foix say, That no very great way
From Namur was a snug little town called Grandpré,
Near which, a few miles from the banks of the Maese,
Dwelt a pretty twin-sister of poor dear Therèse,
Of the same age, of course, the same father, same mother,
And as like to Therèse as one pea to another ;
She lived with her Mamma, Having lost her Papa,
Late of contraband schnapps an unlicensed distiller,
And her name was Des Moulins (in English, Miss Miller).
Now, though Hippolyte Hector Could hardly expect her
To feel much regard for her sister's “protector,"
When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect her;
Still, he very well knew In this world there are few
But are ready much Christian forgiveness to show,
For other folk's wrongs—if well paid so to do-
And he'd seen to what acts “ Res angusta" compel beaux
And belles, whose affairs have once got out at elbows,
With the magic effect of a handful of crowns
Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but "browns :"
18


274
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
A few francs well applied He'd no doubt would decide
Miss Agnes des Moulins to jump up and ride
As far as head-quarters, next day, by his side;
For the distance was nothing, to speak by comparison,
To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrison;
Then he thought, by the aid of a veil, and gown made
Like those worn by the lady his friend had betrayed,
They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the Shade,
Which he fancied he saw, of that poor injured maid,
Come each night, with her pale face, his guilt to upbraid,
That if once introduced to his room, thus arrayed,
And then unmasked as soon as she'd long enough stayed,
'Twould be no very difficult task to persuade
Him the whole was a scurvy trick, cleverly played,
Out of spite and revenge, by a mischievous jade!
With respect to the scheme—though I do not call that a gem-
Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagem,
And that, too, among the decided approvers
Of General Sir David Dundas's “Manœuvres."
There's a proverb, however, I've always thought clever,
Which
my Grandmother never was tired of repeating,
“The proof of the Pudding is found in the eating!"
We shall see, in the sequel, how Hector Achille
Had mixed up the suet and plums for his meal.
The night had set in ;—'twas a dark and a gloomy one: -
Off went St. Foix to his chamber; a roomy one,
Five stories high, The first floor from the sky,
And lofty enough to afford great facility
For playing a game, with the youthful nobility,
Of "crack corps," a deal in Request, when they're
feeling,
In dull country quarters, ennui on them stealing;
A wet wafer's applied To a sixpence's side,
Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceiling;
Intellectual amusement, which custom allows old troops,-
I've seen it here practiced at home by our Household troops.
He'd a table, and bed, And three chairs; and all's said.-


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
275
A bachelor's barrack, where'er you discern it, you're
Sure not to find oyerburdened with furniture.
François Xavier Auguste locked and bolted his door
With just the same caution he'd practiced before;
Little he knew That the Count Cordon Bleu,
With Hector Achille, and the Sieur de la Roue,
Had been up there before him, and drawn ev'ry screw!
And now comes the moment-the watches and clocks
All point to eleven !--the bolts and the locks
Give way—and the party turn out their bag-fox ! - :
With step noiseless and light, Though half in a fright,
A cup in her left hand, a draught in her right,
In her robe long and black, and her veil long and white,
Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a sprite !
She approaches the bed With the same silent tread,
Just as though she had been at least half a year dead !
Then seating herself on the “rush-bottomed chair,”
Throws a cold stony glance on the Black Mousquetaire.
*
If you're one of the “play-going public,” kind Reader,
And not a Moravian or rigid Seceder,
You've seen Mr. Kean, I mean in that scene
Of Macbeth,-by some thought the crack one of the piece,
Which has been so well painted by Mr. Maclise, -
When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,*
To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place;
You remember his stare At the high-backed arm-chair,
Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there,
And how, after saying “What man dares I dare!"
He proceeds to declare He should not so much care
If it came in the shape of a “tiger” or “ bear,”
But he don't like it shaking its long gory hair!
While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him,
* “Now, good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both."-Macbeth.


276
THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.
With a horrible grin, Sits and cocks up his chin,
Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him.
And Lennox and Rosse Seem quite at a loss
If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce;
And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross,
And says in a huff, It's all “Proper stuff!”—
All this you'll have seen, Reader, often enough;
So perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion
Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion
If you fancy what troubled Macbeth to be doubled,
And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face
Without “speculation,” suppose he'd a brace !
I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel-
ieve was exceeded in painting the terrible,
Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a-
droit in depicting it-vide his piece
Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease,
Where that prelate is lying, Decidedly dying,
With the King and his suite Standing just at his feet,
And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet;
While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner,
“Busy, meddling” Old Nick's grinning up in the corner.
But painting's an art I confess I am raw in,
The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing;
Had I done so, instead of the lines you have read,
I'd have giv’n you a sketch should have filled you with
dread!
François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed,
His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead,
Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head,
As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view,
Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw,
Then shrieked with a wild and unearthly holloo,
“ Mon Dieu ! v'là deux! BY THE POPE THERE
TWO! ! !”
ARE
He fell back-one long aspiration he drew.
In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu,


A LEGEND OF FRANCE.
277
Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew:
He stirred not, -he spoke not,
-he none of them knew!
And Achille cried, "Odzooks! I fear by his looks,
Our friend, François Xavier, has popped off the hooks!"
'Twas too true! Malheureux!
It was done! he had ended his earthly career,-
He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear:
- The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!
L'Envoye.
A moral more in point I scarce could hope
Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope :-
If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay
And pious Maid, -as possibly it may,-
From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene
Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green, -
O’er some pale marble when they join their heads
To kiss the falling tears each other sheds,
Oh! may they pause, and think, in silent awe,
He, that he reads the words “Ci git St. Foix !”
She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys
Bears this sad line, —“Hic jacet Sour Therèse!"-
Then shall they sigh and weep, and murmuring say,
“Oh! may we never play such tricks as they !"-
And if at such a time some Bard there be,
Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea
And sentimental song-like Ingoldsby-
If such there be, who sings and sips so well,
Let him this sad, this tender story tell !
Warned by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast,
"I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"-"And I the Ghost !"


278
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
The next in order of these “lays of many lands” refers to
a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the
banks of what our Teutonic friends are wont to call their
"own imperial River.” The incidents which it records afford
sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration) that a
propensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and
that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad
Ritter of the Dark Ages than to the silken courtier of the sev-
enteenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the
stamp of truth; and from the papers among which it was dis-
covered, I am inclined to think it must have been picked up
by Sir Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits
to “The German Spa."
Sir Rupert the Fearless.
A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
SIR
IR RUPERT the Fearless, a gallant young knight,
Was equally ready to tipple or fight,
Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle!
In brief, or, as Hume says, “to sum up the tottle,”
Unstained by dishonor, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier.
Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental ;
Besides, as ’tis owned there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confessed that Sir Rupert had one;
Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in
A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking,
And, what moralists say Is as naughty, to play,-
To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarté ;
Till these, and a few less defensible fancies,
Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.


A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
279
When at length, through his boozing, . And tenants refusing
Their rents, swearing “ times were so bad they were losing,"
His steward said, “Oh, sir, It's some time ago, sir,
Since aught through my hands reached the baker or grocer,
And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers,”
Sir Rupert the Brave thus addressed his retainers :
“My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock
Is out, with the Kürchwasser, Barsac, Moselle,
And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well,
I
presume to suggest, We shall all find it best
For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes,
Mount his horse, if he has one, and—follow his nose;
As to me, I opine, Left sans money or wine,
My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine,
Where pitying trav'llers may sigh, as they cross over,
'Though he lived a roué, yet he died a philosopher.'”
6
The Knight, having bowed out his friends thus politely,
Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly,
By the light of whose beam He soon spied on the stream
A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream;
Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes,
In other respects she was scanty of clothes ;
For, so says tradition, both written and oral,
Her one garment was looped up with bunches of coral.
Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar,
With silver chords stretched over Derbyshire spar,
And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight,
Soon found his astonishment merged in delight;
But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees,
Till at length it invaded her very chemise,
While the heavenly strain, as the wave seemed to swallow her,
And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower.
-- Jumping up in his boat, And discarding his coat,
“Here goes,” cried Sir Rupert, “by jingo, I'll follow her!”
Then into the water he plunged with a souse
That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.


280
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink,
Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink,
And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows
Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose,
Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallowed since lunch
Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch;
Some minutes elapsed since he entered the flood,
Ere his heels touched the bottom, and stuck in the mud.
But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight,
When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright ! -
A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal,
Rose above and about him ;-great fishes and small
Came thronging around him, regardless of danger,
And seemed all agog for a peep at the stranger.
Their figures and forms to describe language fails—
They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails;
Of their genus or species a sample to gain,
You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain;
E'en the famed Mr. Myers Would scarcely find buyers,
Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop
To stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop.
But little recked Rupert these queer-looking brutes,
Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots.
For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention,
In a moment completely absorbed his attention.
A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer
Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer),
Have ever distilled, To the summit was filled,
Lay stretched out before him,-and every nerve thrilled
As scores of young women Were diving and swimming,
Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in ;-
All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns,
They came floating about him like so many prawns.
Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes
Alluded to) ere he leapt into the billows


A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
281
Possessed irreproachable morals, began
To feel rather queer, as a modest young man ;
When forth stepped a dame, whom he recognized soon
As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,
And lisped, while a soft smile attended each sentence,
“Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance;
My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen
All do me the honor to call me their Queen;
I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here,
And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."
The Knight blushed and bowed As he ogled the crowd
Of subaqueous beauties, then answered aloud:
Ma'am, you do me much honor, I cannot express
The delight I shall feel—if you'll pardon my dress.—
May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps
In the river at midnight for want of the dumps,'
He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps ;
If I could but have guessed—what I sensibly feel-
Your politeness, I'd not have come en deshabille,
But have put on my silk tights in lieu of my steel.”
Quoth the lady, “Dear sir, no apologies, pray,
You will take our pot-luck' in the family way;
We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish,
And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine
I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine.”
The Knight made a bow more profound than before,
When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door,
And said, bending his knee, “Madame, on a servi !"
Rupert tendered his arm, led Lurline to her place,
And a fat little Merman stood up and said grace.
What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she
Apologized much for their plain water-souchy,
Want of Harvey's, and Crosse's, And Burgess's sauces ?
Or how Rupert, on bis side, protested, by Jove, he
Preferred his fish plain, without soy or anchovy.


282
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel,
Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel.
The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes
Than of what they were served on, the massive gold dishes ;
While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls,
Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls,
And a thought came across him and caused him to muse,
“If I could but get hold Of some of that gold,
I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!”
When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses,
The table was cleared, and they put on fresh glasses ;
Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest
Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Æneas,
“Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us ?”–
Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender,
Lolled back in his chair, put his toes on the fender,
And told her outright, How that he, a young Knight,
Had never been last at a feast or a fight;
But that keeping good cheer, Every day in the year,
And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer,
Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent,
How he borrowed large sums at two hundred per cent. ;
How they followed-and then, The once civillest of
men,
Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he
'd ever raised money by way of annuity;
And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,
How he jumped in the river to finish his woes !
Lurline was affected, and owned, with a tear,
That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear;
Rupert, hearing her sigh, Looked uncommonly sly,
And said, with some emphasis, “Ah! miss, had I
A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles,
Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain,
A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign,
With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride
(For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied);


A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
283
No couple so happy.on earth should be seen
As Sir Rupert the Brave and his charming Lurline;
Not that money's my object-No, hang it! I scorn it-
And as for my rank-but that you'd so adorn it-
I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall,
And instead of the Great,' be called 'Rupert the Small;"
– To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus,
I'd descend from my throne, and be Boots at an alehouse."*
Lurline hung her head, Turned pale, and then red,
Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,
As though his abruptness, in “popping the question
So soon after dinner, disturbed her digestion.
Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh,
“You are welcome," she murmured in tones most bewitching,
" To
every utensil I have in my kitchen !”
Up started the Knight, Half mad with delight,
Round her finely-formed waist He immediately placed
One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,
Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,
And he pressed his adored to his bosom with rapture.
“And, oh !” he exclaimed, “ let them go catch my skiff, I
'll be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy,
Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey
Than to put up the banns and kick out the attorney.”
One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand,
And Sir Rupert already was half way to land,
For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten
Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light
one,
Sprang up through the waves, popped him into his funny,
Which some others already had half filled with money;
In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore
And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore:
But Sir Rupert was strong, And while pulling along,
Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.
* "Sardanapalus” and “Boots,” the Zenith and Nadir of human society.


284
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
LAY OF THE NAIADS.
“Away! away! to the mountain's brow,
Where the castle is darkly frowning;
And the vassals, all in goodly row,
Weep for their lord a-drowning!
Away! away! to the steward's room,
Where law with its wig and robe is;
Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe,
And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies !”
The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling,
When Rupert reached his old baronial dwelling.
What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare!
The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,
For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp,
And she feared he'd catch cold, and lumbago and cramp;
But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded
Wet jacket or trousers, nor thought of repining,
Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.
But oh! what dismay Filled the tribe of Ca Sa,
When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay !
Away went "cognovits," " bills," " bonds,” and “escheats," --
Rupert cleared off all scores, and took proper receipts.
Now no more he sends out For pots of brown stout,
Or schnapps, but resolves to do henceforth without,
Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,
Enrol himself one of a Temp'rance Society,
All riot eschew, Begin life anew,
And new-cushion and hassock the family pew!
Nay, to strengthen him more in his new mode of life,
He boldly determines to take him a wife.
Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice
sense
Of honor, should put Lurline's name in the license,


A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
285
And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,
To break faith and troth, Confirmed by an oath,
Is not quite consistent with rigid morality;
But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her
From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water,
And declined, as unsuited, A bride so diluted-
Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say
(For, all things considered, I own 'twas a rum thing),
Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von-something
(Her name has escaped me), sole heiress and niece
To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.
“Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!”
So much time is saved in the billing and cooing-
The ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves,
And all the et cetera which crown people's loves ;
A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker,
And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre,
That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is,
A plum-colored coach, and rich Pompadour liveries.
'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight,
With his beautiful bride dressed all in white,
And the bridesmaids fair with their long lace veils,
As they all walked up to the altar rails,
While nice little boys, the incense dispensers,
Marched in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt
censers.
With a gracious air, and a smiling look,
Mess John had opened his awful book,
And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant,
And if “ he knew any just cause of impediment,”
When from base to turret the castle shook!!!
Then came a sound of a mighty rain
Dashing against each storied pane,
The wind blew loud, And a coal-black cloud
O'ershadowed the church, and the party, and crowd;
How it could happen they could not divine,
The morning had been so remarkably fine!


286
SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.
Still the darkness increased, till it reached such a pass
That the sextoness hastened to turn on the gas;
But harder it poured, And the thunder roared
As if heaven and earth were coming together :
None ever had witnessed such terrible weather.
Now louder it crashed, And the lightning flashed,
Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears
In the veils, as it danced on the brass chandeliers;
The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon,
When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.
Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected,
Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected,
And endeavored to cheer His bride, in her ear
Whisp’ring tenderly, “Pray don't be frightened, my
dear;
Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're
Amply insured both for buildings and furniture.”
But now, from without, A trustworthy scout
Rushed hurriedly in, Wet through to the skin,
Informing his master "the river was rising,
And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.”
He'd no time to say more, For already the roar
Of the waters was heard as they reached the church-door,
While, high on the first wave that rolled in, was seen,
Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;
And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,
She was stung by the spretæ injuria forma.
What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,
What she said to the ladies who stood by her side,
What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes,
Oh, nobody mentions,—for nobody knows;
For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,
And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout;
The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on
roaring,
The billows and water-nymphs rolled more and more in;
Ere the close of the day All was clean washed
away-


A LEGEND OF GERMANY.
287
One only survived who could hand down the news,
A little old woman that opened the pews;
She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good
luck,
In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming,
And saw all the rest swallowed up the wild stream in.
In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek
For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek ;
In vain was their search After aught in the church,
They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch;
The Humane Society Tried a variety
Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles,
But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.
MORAL.
This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware
Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!
Shun playing at shorts—avoid quarrels and jars—
And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars !
-Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed
Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide!
Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven ! !-
Be up in the morning by half after seven!
Keep from flirting—nor risk, warned by Rupert's miscarriage,
An action for breach of a promise of marriage ;-
Don't fancy odd fishes! Don't prig silver dishes !
And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,
BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!


288
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
AND now for “Sunny Italy,"—the "Land of the unforgotten
brave,”—the land of blue skies and black-eyed Signoras. I
cannot discover from any recorded memoranda that “Uncle
Perry” was ever in Venice, even in Carnival time,-that he
ever saw Garrick in Shylock I do not believe, and am satis-
fied that he knew nothing of Shakspeare, a circumstance that
would by no means disqualify him from publishing an edition
of that Poet's works. I can only conclude that, in the course
of his Continental wanderings, Sir Peregrine had either read,
or heard of, the following history, especially as he furnishes us
with some particulars of the eventual destination of his dramatis
personce which the Bard of Avon has omitted. If this solution
be not accepted, I can only say, with Mr. Puff, that probably
“two men hit upon the same idea, and Shakespeare made use
of it first.”
The Merchant of Venice.
A LEGEND OF ITALY.
“... Of the Merchant of Venice there are two 4to editions in 1600, one by Heyes
and the other by Roberts. The Duke of Devonshire and Lord Francis Egerton have
copies of the edition by Heyes, and they vary importantly.
“... It must be acknowledged that this is a very easy and happy emendation, which
does not admit of a moment's doubt or dispute.
“... Readers in general are not at all aware of the nonsense they have in many
cases been accustomed to receive as the genuine text of Shakspeare !"
Reasons for a New Edition of Shakspeare's Works, by J. Payne Collier.
I
BELIEVE there are few
But have heard of a Jew,
Named Shylock, of Venice, as arrant a screw
In money transactions as ever you knew;
An exorbitant miser, who never yet lent
A ducat at less than three hundred per cent.,
Insomuch that the veriest spendthrift in Venice,
Who'd take no more care of his pounds than his pennies,
When pressed for a loan, at the very first sight
Of his terms, would back out, and take refuge in Flight.


A LEGEND OF ITALY.
289
It is not my purpose to pause and inquire
If he might not, in managing thus to retire,
Jump out of the frying-pan into the fire;
Suffice it, that folks would have nothing to do,
Who could possibly help it, with Shylock the Jew.
But, however discreetly one cuts and contrives,
We've been most of us taught, in the course of our lives,
That “Needs must when the Elderly Gentleman drives !”
In proof of this rule, A thoughtless young fool, ,
Bassanio, a Lord of the Tomnoddy school,
Who, by showing at Operas, Balls, I'lays, and Court,
A "swelling” (Payne Collier would read “swilling”) “port,”
And inviting his friends to dine, breakfast, and sup,
Had shrunk his “weak means," and was 'stumped” and
66
“hard up,"
Took occasion to send To his very good friend
Antonio, a merchant whose wealth had no end,
And who'd often before had the kindness to lend
Him large sums, on his note, which he'd managed to spend.
“Antonio,” said he, “Now listen to me:
I've just hit on a scheme which, I think you'll agree,
All matters considered, is no bad design,
And which, if it succeeds, will suit your book and mine.
“In the first place, you know all the money I've got,
Time and often, from you has been long gone to pot,
And in making those loans you have made a bad shot;
Now do as the boys do when, shooting at sparrows
And tomtits, they chance to lose one of their arrows,-
Shoot another the same way; I'll watch well its track,
And, turtle to tripe, I'll bring both of them back ! -
So list to my plan, And do what you can
To attend to and second it, that's a good man!
“There's a Lady, young, handsome beyond all compare, at
A place they call Belmont, whom, when I was there, at
The suppers and parties my friend Lord Mountferrat
Was giving last season, we all used to stare at.
19


290
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Then, as to her wealth, her solicitor told mine,
Besides vast estates, a pearl-fishery, and gold mine,
Her iron strong box Seems bursting its locks,
It's stuffed so with shares in Grand Junction' and 'Docks,
Not to speak of the money she's got in the Stocks,
French, Dutch, and Brazilian, Colombian, and Chilian,
In English Exchequer-bills full half a million,
Not 'kites,' manufactured to cheat and inveigle,
But the right sort of flimsy,' all signed by Monteagle.
Then I know not how much in Canal shares and Railways,
And more speculations I need not detail, ways
Of ’vesting which, if not so safe as some think 'em,
Contribute a deal to improving one's income;
In short, she's a Mint! -Now I say, deuce is in't
If, with all my experience, I can't take a hint,
And her 'eye's speechless messages,' plainer than print
At the time that I told you of, known from a squint.
In short, my dear Tony, My trusty old crony,
Do stump up three thousand once more as a loan: I
Am sure of my game—though, of course, there are brutes
Of all sorts and sizes preferring their suits
To her you may call the Italian Miss Coutts,
Yet Portia-she's named from that daughter of Cato's,
Is not to be snapped up like little potatoes,
And I have not a doubt I shall rout
every
lout
Ere you'll whisper Jack Robinson-cut them all out-
Surmount every barrier, Carry her, marry her!
— Then, hey! my old Tony, when once fairly noosed,
For her Three-and-a-half Per Cents-New and Reduced !”
With a wink of his eye His friend made reply
In his jocular manner, sly, caustic, and dry.
“Still the same boy, Bassanio-never say 'die'!
-Well, I hardly know how I shall do't, but I'll try.-
Don't suppose my affairs are at all in a hash,
But the fact is, at present I'm quite out of cash;
The bulk of my property, merged in rich cargoes, is
Tossing about, as you know, in my Argosies,


A LEGEND OF ITALY.
291
Tending, of course, my resources to cripple, -I
've one bound to England,-another to Tripoli-
Cyprus-Masulipatam-and Bombay ;-
A sixth, by the way, I consigned t'other day
To Sir Gregor M'Gregor, Cacique of Poyais,
A country where silver's as common as clay.
Meantime, till they tack, And come, some of them, back,
What with Custom-house duties, and bills falling due,
My account with Jones Loyd & Co. looks rather blue;
While, as for the ready,' I'm like a Church-mouse, -
I really don't think there's five pounds in the house.
But, no matter for that, Let me just get my hat,
And my new silk umbrella that stands on the mat,
And we'll go forth at once to the market, -we two,
And try what credit in Venice can do ;
I stand well on 'Change, and, when all's said and done, I
Don't doubt I shall get it for love or for money."
my
They were going to go, When, lo! down below,
In the street, they heard somebody crying, “ Old Clo’!"
-"By the Pope, there's the man for our purpose !—I knew
We should not have to search long. Solanio, run you,
-Salarino, -quick !—haste! ere he get out of view,
And call in that scoundrel, old Shylock the Jew!”
With a pack Like a sack
Of old clothes at his back,
And three hats on his head, Shylock came in a crack,
Saying, “Rest you fair, Signior Antonio !-vat, pray,
Might your vorship be pleashed for to vant in ma vay?”
-“Why, Shylock, although, As you very well know,
I am what they call ‘warm,'—pay my way as
I
go,
And, as to myself, neither borrow nor lend,
I can break through a rule to oblige an old friend;
And that's the case now-Lord Bassanio would raise
Some three thousand ducats-well,-knowing your ways,
And that nought's to be got from you, say what one will,
Unless you've a couple of names to the bill,


292
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Why, for once, I'll put mine to it, Yea, seal and sign
to it-
Now, then, old Sinner, let's hear what you'll say
As to 'doing' a bill at three months from to-day?
Three thousand gold ducats, mind-all in good bags
Of hard money–no sealing-wax, slippers, or rags !”
-“Vell, ma tear,” says the Jew, “I'll see vat I can do !
But, Mishter Antonio, hark you, tish funny
You say to me, 'Shylock, ma tear, ve'd have money!
Ven you very vell knows How you shpit on ma clothes,
And use naughty vords—calls me Dog-mand avouch
Dat I put too much int'resht py half in ma pouch,
And vhile I, like de resht of ma tribe, shrug and crouch,
You find fault mit ma pargains, and say I'm a Smouch.
-Vell !--no matters, ma tear, Von vord in your ear!
I'd be friends mit you bote—and to make dat appear,
Vy, I'll find
you
de moneys as soon as you vill,
Only von littel joke musht be put in de pill ;-
Ma tear, you musht say, If on such and such day
Such sum or such sums you shall fail to repay,
I shall cut vhere I like, as de pargain is proke,
A fair pound of your flesh-chest by vay of a joke.”
So novel a clause Caused Bassanio to pause ;
But Antonio, like most of those sage “ Johnny Raws"
Who care not three straws About Lawyers or Laws,
And think cheaply of “Old Father Antic,” because
They have never experienced a gripe from his claws,
“Pooh pooh'd” the whole thing.—“Let the Smouch have his way,
Why, what care I, pray, For his penalty ?—Nay,
It's a forfeit he'd never expect me to pay:
And, come what come may, I hardly need say
My ships will be back a full month ere the day.”
So, anxious to see his friend off on his journey,
And thinking the whole but a paltry concern, he
Affixed with all speed His name to a deed,
Duly stamped and drawn up by a sharp Jew attorney.


294
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Next day, while old Shylock was making a racket,
And threatening how well he'd dust every man's jacket
Who'd helped her in getting aboard of the packet,
Bassanio at Belmont was capering and prancing,
And bowing, and scraping, and singing, and dancing,
Making eyes at Miss Portia, and doing his best
To perform the polite, and to cut out the rest;
And, if left to herself, he no doubt had succeeded,
For none of them waltzed so genteelly as he did;
But an obstacle lay, Of some weight, in his way,
The defunct Mr. P., who was now turned to clay,
Had been an odd man, and, though all for the best he meant,
Left but a queer sort of “ Last will and testament,”-
Bequeathing her hand, With her houses and land,
&c., from motives one don't understand,
As she rev'renced his memory, and valued his blessing,
To him who should turn out the best hand at guessing !
Like a good girl, she did Just what she was bid,
In one of three caskets her picture she hid,
And clapped a conundrum a-top of each lid.
A couple of Princes, a black and a white one,
Tried first, but they both failed in choosing the right one;
Another from Naples, who shoed his own horses ;
A French Lord, whose graces might vie with Count
D'Orsay's;
A young English Baron; a Scotch Peer his neighbor:
A dull drunken Saxon, all moustache and sabre, -
All followed, and all had their pains for their labor.
Bassanio came last-happy man be his dole!
Put his conjuring cap on,-considered the whole,-
The gold put aside as Mere “hard food for Midas,"
The silver bade trudge As a “pale common drudge;"
Then choosing the little lead box in the middle,
Came plump on the picture, and found out the riddle.
Now, you're not such a goose as to think, I dare say,
Gentle Reader, that all this was done in a day,


A LEGEND OF ITALY
295
Any more than the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome
Was built in the same space of time; and, in fact,
Whilst Bassanio was doing His billing and cooing,
Three months had gone by ere he reached the fifth act;
Meanwhile that unfortunate bill became due,
Which his Lordship had almost forgot, to the Jew,
And Antonio grew In a deuce of a stew,
For he could not cash up, spite of all he could do
(The bitter old Israelite would not renew);
What with contrary winds, storms, and wrecks, and
embargoes, his
Funds were all stopped, or gone down in his argosies,
None of the set having come into port,
And Shylock's attorney was moving the Court
For the forfeit supposed to be set down in sport.
The serious news Of this step of the Jew's,
And his fixed resolution all terms to refuse,
Gave the newly-made Bridegroom a fit of “the Blues,"
Especially, too, as it came from the pen
Of his poor friend himself on the wedding-day,—then,
When the Parson had scarce shut his book up, and when
The Clerk was yet uttering the final Amen.
“Dear Friend,” it continued, “ all's up with me-I
Have nothing on earth now to do but to die !
And as death clears all scores, you're no longer my debtor;
I should take it as kind Could you come never
mind-
If your love don't persuade you, why,--don't let this letter!”
I hardly need say this was scarcely read o'er
Ere a post-chaise and four Was brought round to the
door,
And Bassanio, though doubtless he thought it a bore,
Gave his lady one kiss, and then started at score.
But scarce in his flight Had he got out of sight
Ere Portia, addressing a groom said, “My lad, you a
Journey must take on the instant to Padua;


296
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Find out there Bellario, a Doctor of Laws,
Who, like Follett, is never left out of a cause,
And give him this note, Which I've hastily wrote,
Take the papers he'll give you—then push for the ferry
Below, where I'll meet you; you'll do't in a wherry,
If you can't find a boat on the Brenta with sails to it.
-Stay, bring his gown too, and wig with three tails to it.”
Giovanni (that's Jack) Brought out his hack,
Made a bow to his mistress, then jumped on its back,
Put his hand to his hat, and was off in a crack.
The Signora soon followed, herself, taking as her
Own escort, Nerissa, her maid, and Balthasar.
“The Court is prepared, the Lawyers are met
The Judges all ranged, a terrible show!"
As Captain Macheath says, -and when one's in debt,
The sight's as unpleasant a one as I know.
Yet still not so bad after all, I suppose,
As if, when one cannot discharge what one owes,
They should bid people cut off one's toes or one's nose;
Yet here, a worse fate, Stands Antonio, of late
A Merchant, might vie e'en with Princes in state.
With his waistcoat unbuttoned, prepared for the knife,
Which, in taking a pound of flesh, must take his life;
- On the other side Shylock, his bag on the floor,
And three shocking bad hats on his head, as before,
Imperturbable stands, As he waits their commands
With his scales and his great snicker-snee in his hands :
-Between them, equipt in a wig, gown, and bands,
With a very smooth face, a young dandified Lawyer,
Whose air, ne'ertheless, speaks him quite a top-sawyer,
Though his hopes are but feeble, Does his possible
To make the hard Hebrew to mercy incline,
And in lieu of his three thousand ducats take nine,
Which Bassanio, for reasons we well may divine,
Shows in so many bags all drawn up in a line.
But vain are all efforts to soften him-still


A LEGEND OF ITALY.
297
He points to the bond He so often has conn'd,
And
says in plain terms he'll be shot if he will.
So the dandified lawyer, with talking grown hoarse,
Says, “I can say no more--let the law take its course.”
Just fancy the gleam of the eye of the Jew,
As he sharpened his knife on the sole of his shoe
From the toe to the heel, And grasping the steel,
With a business-like air was beginning to feel
Whereabouts he should cut, as a butcher would veal,
When the dandified Judge put a spoke in his wheel.
“Stay, Shylock," says he; "Here's one thing--you see
This bond of yours gives you here no jot of blood !
—The words are 'A pound of flesh,'—that's clear as
mud-
Slice away then, old fellow-but mind if you spill
One drop of his claret that's not in your bill,
I'll hang you like Haman !-by Jingo, I will !”
When apprised of this flaw, You never yet saw
Such an awfully marked elongation of jaw
As in Shylock, who cried, “Plesh ma heart! ish dat law?"-
Off went his three hats, And he looked as the cats
Do, whenever a mouse has escaped from their claw.
_“Ish't the law ??—why the thing won't admit of a query-
No doubt of the fact, Only look at the Act;
Acto quinto, cap: tertio, Dogi Falieri-
Nay, if, rather than cut, you'd relinquish the debt,
The Law, Master Shy, has a hold on you yet.
See Foscari’s ‘Statutes at large’- If a Stranger
A Citizen's life shall, with malice, endanger,
The whole of his property, little or great,
Shall go, on conviction, one half to the State,
And one to the person pursued by his hate;
And, not to create Any further debate,
The Doge, if he pleases, may cut off his pate.'
So down on your marrowbones, Jew, and ask mercy!
Defendant and Plaintiff are now wisy wersy.”


298
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
What need to declare How pleased they all were
At so joyful an end to so sad an affair ?
Or Bassanio's delight at the turn things had taken,
His friend having saved, to the letter, his bacon?-
How Shylock got shaved, and turned Christian, though late,
To save a life-int’rest in half his estate?
How the dandified Lawyer who'd managed the thing
Would not take any fee for his pains but a ring
Which Mrs. Bassanio had given to her spouse,
With injunctions to keep it on leaving the house ?-
How, when he and the spark Who appeared as his clerk
Had thrown off their wigs, and their gowns, and their jetty
coats,
There stood Nerissa and Portia in petticoats ?
How they pouted, and flouted, and acted the cruel,
Because Lord Bassanio had not kept his jewel ?-
How they scolded and broke out, Till, having their
joke out,
They kissed, and were friends, and, all blessing and blessed,
Drove home by the light Of a moonshiny night,
Like the one in which Troilus, the brave Trojan knight,
Sat astride on a wall, and sigh'd after his Cressid ?—
All this, if 'twere meet, I'd go on to repeat,
But a story spun out so's by no means a treat,
So, I'll merely relate what, in spite of the pains
I have taken to rummage among his remains,
No edition of Shakspeare I've met with contains;
But, if the account which I've heard be the true one,
We shall have it, no doubt, before long, in a new one.
In an MS., then, sold For its full weight in gold,
And knocked down to my friend Lord Tomnoddy, I'm told
It's recorded that Jessy, coquettish and vain,
Gave her husband, Lorenzo, a good deal of pain;
Being mildly rebuked, she levanted again,
Ran away with a Scotchman, and, crossing the main,
Became known by the name of the “Flower of Dunblane."


A LEGEND OF ITALY.
299
That Antonio, whose piety caused, as we've seen,
Him to spit upon every old Jew's gaberdine,
And whose goodness to paint All colors were faint,
Acquired the well-merited prefix of “Saint;"
And the Doge, his admirer, of honor the fount,
Having given him a patent, and made him a Count,
He went over to England, got nat'ralized there,
And espoused a rich heiress in Hanover Square.
That Shylock came with him, no longer a Jew,
But converted, I think may be possibly true;
But that Walpole, as these self-same papers aver,
By changing the y in his name into er,
Should allow him a fictitious surname to dish up,
And in Seventeen Twenty-eight make him a Bishop,
I cannot believe, but shall still think them two men
Till some Sage proves the fact “with his usual acumen.”
MORAL.
From this tale of the Bard It's uncommonly hard
If an Editor can't draw a moral.—'Tis clear,
Then,-in ev'ry young wife-seeking Bachelor's ear
A maxim, 'bove all other stories, this one drums,
“PITCH GREEK TO OLD HARRY, AND STICK TO CONUN-
DRUMS!”
To new-married Ladies this lesson it teaches,
“You're 'no that far wrong' in assuming the breeches !"
Moneyed men upon 'Change, and rich Merchants, it schools
To look well to assets, nor play with edge tools !
Last of all, this remarkable History shows men
What caution they need when they deal with old-clothes men;
So bid John and Mary To mind and be wary,
And never let one of them come down the are'!


300
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
FROM St. Mark to St. Lawrence-from the Rialto to the
Escurial—from one Peninsula to another !—it is but a hop,
step, and jump-your toe at Genoa, your heel at Marseilles,
and a good hearty spring pops you down at once in the very
heart of Old Castille. That Sir Peregrine Ingoldsby, then a
young man, was at Madrid soon after the peace of Ryswick,
there is extant a long correspondence of his to prove. Various
passages in it countenance the supposition that his tour was
partly undertaken for political purposes; and this opinion is
much strengthened by certain allusions in several of his letters
addressed, in after life, to his friend Sir Horace Mann, then
acting in the capacity of Envoy to the Court of Tuscany. Al-
though the Knight spent several months in Spain, and visited
many of her principal cities, there is no proof of his having
actually "seen Seville," beyond the internal evidence incident-
ally supplied by the following legend. The events to which it
alludes were, of course, of a much earlier date, though the gen-
ealogical records of the “kings of both the Indies" have been
in vain consulted for the purpose of fixing their precise date;
and even Mr. Simpkinson's research has failed to determine
which of the royal stock rejoicing in the name of Ferdinand
is the hero of the legend. The conglomeration of Christian
names usual in the families of the haute noblesse of Spain adds
to the difficulty; not that this inconvenient accumulation of
prefixes is peculiar to the country in question : witness my ex-
cellent friend Field-Marshal Count Herman Karl Heinrich
Socrates von der Nodgerrie zu Pfefferkorn, whose appellations
puzzled the recording clerk of one of our courts lately—and
that not a little.
That a splendid specimen of the genus Homo, species Monk,
flourished in the earlier moiety of the fifteenth century, under
the appellation of Torquemada, is notorious—and this fact
might seem to establish the era of the story; but then his


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
301
name was John, not Dominic—though he was a Dominican,
and hence the mistake, if any, may perhaps have originated;
but then, again, the Spanish Queen to whom he was Confessor
was called Isabella, and not Blanche. It is a puzzling affair
altogether.
From his own silence on the subject it may well be doubted
whether the worthy transcriber knew himself the date of the
transactions he has recorded; the authenticity of the details,
however, cannot be well called in question. Be this as it may,
I shall make no further question, but at once introduce my
“pensive public" to
The Auto-da-Fe.
A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
CANTO I.
ITH
King
paces
;
From morn till eve He does nothing but grieve;
Sighings and sobbings his midriff heave,
And he wipes his eyes with his ermined sleeve,
And he presses his feverish hand to his brow,
And he frowns and he looks I can't tell you how;
And the Spanish Grandees, in their degrees,
Are whispering about in twos and in threes,
And there is not a man of them seems at his ease,
But they gaze on the monarch, as watching what he does,
With their very long whiskers, and longer Toledos.
Don Gaspar, Don Gusman, Don Juan, Don Diego,
Don Gomez, Don Pedro, Don Blas, Don Rodrigo,
Don Jerome, Don Giacomo, join Don Alphonso
In making inquiries Of grave Don Ramirez,
The Chamberlain, what it is makes him take on so;
A Monarch so great that the soundest opinions
Maintain the sun can't set throughout his dominions.


302
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
But grave Don Ramirez In guessing no nigher is
Than the other grave Dons who propound these inquiries ;
When, pausing at length, as beginning to tire, his
Majesty beckons, with stately civility,
To Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez,
Who in birth, wealth, and consequence second to few is,
And Señor Don Manuel, Count de Pacheco,
A lineal descendant from King Pharaoh Neco,
Both Knights of the Golden Fleece, highborn Hidalgos,
With whom e’en the King himself quite as a “pal" goes.
“Don Lewis," says he, “ Just listen to me;
And
you, Count Pacheco, I think that we three
On matters of state for the most part agree, -
Now
you
both of you know That some six years ago,
Being then, for a King, no indifferent Beau,
At the altar I took, like my forbears of old,
The Peninsula's paragon, Fair Blanche of Aragon,
For better, for worse, and to have and to hold
And you're fully aware, When the matter took air,
How they shouted, and fired the great guns in the Square,
Cried 'Viva!' and rung all the bells in the steeple,
And all that sort of thing The mob do when a King
Brings a Queen-Consort home for the good of his people.
Well !-six years and a day Have flitted away
Since that blessed event, yet I'm sorry to say-
In fact it's the principal cause of my pain-
I don't see any signs of an Infant of Spain -
Now I want to ask
you,
Cavaliers true,
And Councillors sage—what the deuce shall I do?-
The State-don't you see ?--hey ?-an heir to the throne-
Every monarch, you know, should have one of his own-
Disputed succession-hey?-terrible Go !-
Hum—hey?-Old fellows-you see !-don't you know?"
Now, Reader dear, If you've ever been near
Enough to a Court to encounter a Peer
When his principal tenant's gone off in arrear,
And his brewer has sent in a long bill for beer,


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
303
,
And his butcher and baker, with faces austere,
Ask him to clear Off, for furnished good cheer,
Bills they say “have been standing for more than a year,”
And the tailor and shoemaker also appear
With their "little account” of “trifling amount,"
For Wellingtons, waistcoats, pea-jackets, and-gear
Which to name in society's thought rather queer,-
While Drummond's chief clerk, with his pen in his ear,
And a kind of a sneer, says, “We've no effects here!”
-Or if ever you've seen An Alderman keen
After turtle, peep into a silver tureen,
In search of the fat called par excellence "green,"
When there's none of the meat left-not even the lean!
-Or if ever you've witnessed the face of a sailor
Returned from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or
Poetice "Boreas," that "blustering railer,"
To find that his wife, when he hastens to “hail" her,
Has just run away with his cash-and a tailor-
If one of these cases you've ever surveyed,
You'll, without my aid, To yourself have portrayed
The beautiful mystification displayed,
And the puzzled expression of manner and air
Exhibited now by the dignified pair,
When thus unexpectedly asked to declare
Their opinions as Councillors, several and joint,
On so delicate, grave, and important a point.
Señor Don Lewis Condé d'Aranjuez
At length forced a smile 'twixt the prim and the grim,
And looked at Pacheco-Pacheco at him,
Then, making a rev’rence, and dropping his eyes,
Coughed, hemmed, and delivered himself in this wise:
“My Liege !—unaccustomed as I am to speaking
In public—an art I'm remarkably weak in-
I feel I should be-quite unworthy the name
Of a man and a Spaniard-and highly to blame,
Were there not in
my
breast What-can't be exprest, -
And can therefore,-your Majesty,-only be guessed-


304
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
-What I mean to say is-since your Majesty deigns
To ask my advice on your welfare—and Spain's,
And on that of your Majesty's Bride-that is, Wife-
It's the-as I may say-proudest day of my life!
But as to the point-on a subject so nice
It's a delicate matter to give one's advice,
Especially, too, When one don't clearly view
The best mode of proceeding, or know what to do;
My decided opinion, however, is this,
And I fearlessly say that you can't do amiss,
If, with all that fine tact Both to think and to act,
In which all know your Majesty so much excels-
Yoù are graciously pleased tomask somebody else !"
Here the noble Grandee Made that sort of congée
Which, as Hill used to say, "I once happened to see"
The great Indian conjurer, Ramo Samee,
Make, while swallowing what all thought a regular choker,
Viz., a small-sword as long and as stiff as a poker.
Then the Count de Pacheco, Whose turn 'twas to speak, o-
mitting all preface, exclaimed with devotion,
Sire, I beg leave to second Don Lewis's motion!”
Now a Monarch of Spain Of course could not deign
To expostulate, argue, or, much less, complain
Of an answer thus giv'n, or to ask them again;
So he merely observed, with an air of disdain,
“Well, Gentlemen,--since you both shrink from the task
Of advising your Sovereign-pray whom shall I ask ?”
Each felt the rub, And in Spain not a Sub,
Much less an Hidalgo, can stomach a snub,
So the noses of these Castilian Grandees
Rise at once in an angle of several degrees,
Till the under-lip's almost becoming the upper,
Each perceptibly grows, too, more stiff in the crupper ;
Their right hands rest On the left side the breast,
While the hilts of their swords, by their left hands deprest,
Make the ends of their scabbards to cock up behind,
Till they're quite horizontal instead of inclined,


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
305
And Don Lewis, with scarce an attempt to disguise
The disgust he experiences, gravely replies,
Sire, ask the Archbishop—his Grace of Toledo !-
He understands these things much better than we do!”
-Pauca Verba !-enough, Each turns off in a huff,
This twirling his moustache, that fingering his ruff,
Like a blue-bottle fly on a rather large scale,
With a rather large corking-pin stuck through his tail.
are
King Ferdinand paces the royal saloon,
With a moody brow, and he looks like a “Spoon,”
And all the Court Nobles, who form the ring,
Have a spoony appearance, of course, like the King,
All of them eying King Ferdinand
As he goes up and down, with his watch in his hand,
Which he claps to his ear as he walks to and fro, -
“What is it can make the Archbishop so slow ?”
Hark!—at last there's a sound in the courtyard below,
Where the Beefeaters all drawn
up
in a row,
I would say the “Guards," for in Spain they're in chief eaters
Of omelettes and garlic, and can't be called Beefeaters;
In fact, of the few Individuals I knew
Who ever had happened to travel in Spain,
There has scarce been a person who did not complain
Of their cookery and dishes as all bad in grain,
And no one, I'm sure, will deny it who's tried a
Vile compound they have that's called Olla podrida.
(This, by the by, 's a mere rhyme to the eye,
For in Spanish the i is pronounced like an e,
And they've not quite our mode of pronouncing the d.
In Castille, for instance, it's given through the teeth,
And what we call Madrid, they sound more like Madreeth.)
Of course you will see in a moment they've no men
That at all correspond with our Beefeating Yeomen ;
So call them “ Walloons," or whatever you please,
By their rattles and slaps they're not "standing at ease."
20


306
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
But, beyond all disputing, Engaged in saluting
Some very great person among the Grandees ;-
Here a Gentleman Usher walks in and declares,
“His Grace the Archbishop's a-coming up stairs!"
The Most Reverend Don Garcilasso Quevedo
Was just at this time, as he Now held the Primacy
(Always attached to the See of Toledo),
A man of great worship officii virtute,
Versed in all that pertains to a Councillor's duty,
Well skilled to combine Civil laws with divine;
As a statesman, inferior to none in that line;
As an orator, too, He was equalled by few;
Uniting, in short, in tongue, head-piece, and pen,
The very great powers of three very great men,
Talleyrand, -who will never drive down Piccadilly more
To the Travellers' Club-House 1-Charles Phillips-and
Phillimore.
Not only at home, But even at Rome,
There was not a Prelate among them could cope
With the Primate of Spain in the eyes of the Pope.
(The Conclave was full, and they'd not a spare hat, or he
'd long since been Cardinal, Legate à latere,
A dignity fairly his due, without flattery,
So much he excited among all beholders
Their marvel to see At his age—thirty-three-
Such a very old head on such very young shoulders.)
No wonder the King, then, in this his distress,
Should send for so sage an adviser express,
Who, you'll readily guess, Could not do less
Than start off at once, without stopping to dress,
In his haste to get Majesty out of a mess.
His Grace the Archbishop comes up the back way-
Set apart for such Nobles as have the entrée,
Viz., Grandees of the first class, both cleric and lay-
Walks
up to the monarch, and makes him a bow,
As a dignified clergyman always knows how,
Then replaces the mitre at once on his brow;


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
307
For in Spain, recollect, As a mark of respect
To the Crown, if a Grandee uncovers, it's quite
As a matter of option, and not one of right;
A thing not conceded by our Royal Masters,
Who always make noblemen take off their “castors,”
Except the heirs.male Of John Lord Kinsale,
A stalwart old Baron, who, acting as Henchman
To one of our early Kings, killed a big Frenchman;
A feat which his Majesty deigning to smile on,
Allowed him thenceforward to stand with his “tile” on;
And all his successors have kept the same privilege
Down from those barbarous times to our civil age.
Returning his bow with a slight demi-bob,
And replacing the watch in his hand in his fob,
"My Lord,” said the King, “here's a rather tough job,
Which, it seems, of a sort is To puzzle our Cortes,
And since it has quite flabbergasted that Diet, I
Look to your Grace with no little anxiety
Concerning a point which has quite out of joint
Put us all with respect to the good of society :
Your Grace is aware That we've not got an Heir.
Now, it seems, one and all, they don't stick to declare
That of all our advisers there is not in Spain one
Can tell, like your Grace, the best way to obtain one;
So put your considering cap on-we're curious
To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias.”
One without the nice tact Of his Grace would have backt
Out at once, as the Noblemen did, -and, in fact,
He was, at the first, rather posed how to act,
One moment—no more! Bowing then as before,
He said, “Sire, 'twere superfluous for me to acquaint
The Most Catholic King' in the world that a Saint
Is the usual resource In these cases,—of course
Of their influence your Majesty well knows the force;
If I
may be, therefore, allowed to suggest
The plan which occurs to my mind as the best,
Your Majesty may go At once to St. Jago,
Whom, as Spain's patron Saint, I pick out from the rest :


308
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
If your Majesty looks Into Guthrie, or Brooks,
In all the approved Geographical books
You will find Compostella laid down in the maps
Some two hundred and sev’nty miles off; and, perhaps,
In a case so important you may not decline
A pedestrian excursion to visit his shrine;
And, Sire, should you choose To put peas in your shoes,
The Saint, as a Gentleman, can't well refuse
So distinguished a Pilgrim, especially when he
Considers the boon will not cost him one penny !"
His speech ended, his Grace bowed, and put on his mitre
As tight as before, and perhaps a thought tighter.
"Pooh! pooh !” says the King, “I shall do no such thing!
It's nonsense,—Old fellow-you seeno use talking-
The peas set apart, I abominate walking-
Such a deuced way off too-hey?-walk there-what, me?
Pooh!—it's no Go, Old fellow !-you know-don't you see ?”.
"Well, Sire," with much sweetness the Prelate replied,
"If your Majesty don't like to walk, you can ride!
And then, if you please, In lieu of the peas,
A small portion of horse-hair, cut fine, we'll insert,
As a substitute, under your Majesty's shirt;
Then a rope round your collar instead of a laced band,-
A few nettles tucked into your Majesty's waistband, -
Assafoetida mixed with your bouquet and civet,
I'll warrant you'll find yourself right as a trivet!”
“Pooh! pooh! I tell you,”
Quoth the King, “it won't do !” —
A cold perspiration began to bedew
His Majesty's cheek, and he grew in a stew,
When José de Humez, the King's privy-purse-keeper
(Many folks thought it could scarce have a worse keeper),
Came to the rescue, and said with a smile,
"Sire, your Majesty can't go—twould take a long while,
And
you won't post it under TWO SHILLINGS A MILE!!


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
309
Twenty-seven pounds ten To get there—and then
Twenty-seven pounds ten more to get back agen!!
Sire, the tottle's enormous—you ought to be King
Of Golconda as well as the Indies, to fling
Such a vast sum away upon aạy such thing !"
At this second rebuff The Archbishop looked gruff,
And his eye glanced on Humez as if he'd say “Stuff!”
But seeing the King seemed himself in a huff,
He changed his demeanor, and grew smooth enough;
Then taking his chin 'twixt his finger and thumb,
As a help to reflection, gave vent to a “Hum !”
'Twas the pause of an instant-his eye assumed fast
That expression which says, “Come, I've got it at last !”
“There's one plan,” he resumed, “which with all due respect to
Your Majesty, no one, I think, can object to-
-Since your Majesty don't like the peas in the shoe-or to
Travel—what say you to burning a Jew or two?
Of all cookeries, most The Saints love a roast !
And a Jew's of all others the best dish to toast;
And then for a Cook We have not far to look-
Father Dominic's self, Sire, your own Grand Inquisitor,
Luckily now at your Court is a visitor;
Of his Rev'rence's functions there is not one weightier
Than Heretic-burning-in fact, 'tis his métier.
Beside Alguazils, Who still follows his heels,
He has always familiars enough at his beck at home
To pick you up Hebrews enough for a hecatomb!
And depend on it, Sire, such a glorious specific
Would make every Queen throughout Europe prolific !”
Says the King, “That'll do!
Pooh! pooh !-burn a Jew?
Burn half a score Jews—burn a dozen-burn two
Your Grace, it's a match! Burn all you can catch,
Men, women, and children-Pooh! pooh !-great and small-
Old clothes-slippers—sealing-wax-Pooh !—burn them all!


310
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
For once we'll be gay, A grand Auto-da-fé
Is much better fun than a ball or a play!”
So the warrant was made out without more delay,
Drawn, sealed, and delivered, and
(Signed)
YO EL RE!
CANTO II.
THERE is not a nation in Europe but labors
To toady itself and to humbug its neighbors-
“Earth has no such folks—no folks such a city,
So great or so grand, or so fine or so pretty,"
Said Louis Quatorze,
“As this Paris of ours !"
-Mr. Daniel O'Connell exclaims, “By the Pow’rs,
Ould Ireland's on all hands admitted to be
The first flow'r of the earth, and first Gim of the sea !”—
-Mr. Bull will inform you that Neptune,-a lad he,
With more of affection than rey'rence, styles “ Daddy,”-
Did not scruple to "say To Freedom, one day,”
That if ever he changed his aquatics for dry land,
His home should be Mr. B.'s “ Tight little Island.”
He adds, too, that he, The said Mr. B.,
Of all possible Frenchmen can fight any three;
That, with no greater odds, he knows well how to treat them,
To meet them, defeat them, and beat them, and eat them.-
-In Italy, too, 'tis the same to the letter;
There each Lazzarone Will cry to his crony,
“See Naples, then die !* and the sooner the better!"
The Portuguese say, as a well-understood thing,
“Who has not seen Lisbont has not seen a good thing !".
While an old Spanish proverb runs glibly as under,
“QUIEN NO HA VISTO SEVILLA NO HA VISTO MARA-
VILLA !”
“He who ne'er has viewed Seville has ne'er viewed a Wonder!"
And from all I can learn this is no such great blunder.
* “Vedi Napoli e poi mori!"
7 “Quem não tem visto Lisboa
Não tem visto cousa boa."


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
311
In fact, from the river. The famed Guadalquiver,
Where many a knight's had cold steel through his liver,*
The prospect is grand. The Iglesia Mayor
Has a splendid effect on the opposite shore,
With its lofty Giralda, while two or three score
Of magnificent structures around, perhaps more,
As our Irish friends have it, are there “to the fore:”
Then the old Alcazar, More ancient by far,
As some say, while some call it one of the palaces
Built in twelve hundred and odd by Abdalasis,
With its horse-shoe-shaped arches of Arabesque tracery,-
Which the architect seems to have studied to place awry,-
Saracenic and rich; And more buildings “the which,"
As old Lilly, in whom I've been looking a bit o' late,
Says, "you'd be bored should I now recapitulate.”+
In brief, then, the view Is so fine and so new,
It would make you exclaim, 'twould so forcibly strike ye,
If a Frenchman, “Superbe !”-if an Englishman, “ Crikey!"
Yes! thou art “ WONDERFUL!”—but oh,
'Tis sad to think, 'mid scenes so bright
As thine, fair Seville, sounds of woe,
And shrieks of pain and wild affright,
And soul-wrung groans of deep despair,
And blood, and death, should mingle there!
Yes! thou art “ WONDERFUL!”—the flames
That on thy towers reflected shine,
While earth's proud Lords and high-born Dames,
Descendants of a mighty line,
With cold unaltered looks are by
To
gaze,
with an unpitying eye,
On wretches in their agony, -
66
* “Rio verde, Rio verde, etc."
Glassy water, glassy water,
Down whose current clear and strong,
Chiefs, confused in mutual slaughter,
Moor and Christian, roll along.”—
Old Spanish Romance.
† Cum multis aliis quæ nunc perscribere longum est.
Propria quæ maribus.


312
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
All speak thee "WONDERFUL"—the phrase
Befits thee well—the fearful blaze
Of yon piled fagots' lurid light,
Where writhing victims mock the sight,-
The scorched limb shrivelling in its chains,-
The hot blood parched in living veins,—
The crackling nerve,—the fearful knell
Rung out by that remorseless bell,
Those shouts from human fiends that swell,-
That withering scream,--that frantic yell,-
All, Seville, all too truly tell
Thou art a “ MARVEL”-and a Hell!
God! that the worm that thou hast made
Should thus his brother worm invade!
Count deeds like these good service done,
And deem THINE eye looks smiling on!
Yet there at his ease, with his whole Court around him,
King Ferdinand sits “in his GLORY”-confound him-
Leaning back in his chair, With a satisfied air,
And enjoying the bother, the smoke, and the smother,
With one knee cocked carelessly over the other;
His pouncet-box goes To and fro at his nose,
As somewhat misliking the smell of old clothes,
And seeming to hint, by this action emphatic,
That Jews, e'en when roasted, are not aromatic;
There, too, fair Ladies, From Xeres and Cadiz,
Catalinas, and Julias, and fair Iñesillas,
In splendid lace veils, and becoming mantillas;
Elviras, Antonias, and Claras, and Floras,
And dark-eyed Jacinthas, and soft Isidoras,
Are crowding the "boxes," and looking on coolly
Though 'twas but one of their common tertulias,
Partaking, as usual, of wafer and ices,
Snow-water, and melons cut out into slices,
And chocolate,-furnished at coffee-house prices;
While many a suitor And gay coadjutor
In the eating-and-drinking line scorns to be neuter;
One, being perhaps just returned with his tutor


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
313
!
From travel in England, is tempting his “ future”
With a luxury neat as imported, “ The Pewter,”
And charming the dear Violantes and Iñeses
With a three-cornered sandwich and soupçon of “Guinness's ;"
While another, from Paris but newly come back,
Hints “the least taste in life” of the best cognac.
Such ogling and eying, In short, and such sighing,
And such complimenting (one must not say --g)
Of smart Cavaliers with each other still vying,
Mixed up with the crying, And groans of the dying,
All hissing, and spitting, and broiling, and frying,
Form a scene which, although there can be no denying
To a bon Catholique it may prove edifying,
I doubt if a Protestant smart Beau, or merry Belle,
Might not shrink from it as somewhat too terrible.
It's a question with me if you ever surveyed a
More stern-looking mortal than old Torquemada,
Renowned Father Dominic, famous for twisting dom-
estic and foreign necks all over Christendom;
Morescoes or Jews, Not a penny to choose,
If a dog of a heretic dare to refuse
A glass of old port, or a slice from a griskin,
The good Padre soon would so set him a frisking,
That I would not, for-more than I'll say-be in his skin.
'Twas just the same thing with his own race and nation,
And Christian Dissenters of every persuasion,
Muggletonian or Quaker, Or Jumper or Shaker,
No matter with whom in opinion partaker,
George Whitfield, John Bunyan, or Thomas Gat-acre,
They'd no better chance than a Bonze or a Fakir;
If a woman, it skilled not-if she did not deem as he
Bade her to deem touching Papal supremacy,
By the Pope, but he'd make her! From error awake her,
Or else-pop her into an oven and bake her!
in short, ever came half so near, as he
Did, to the full extirpation of heresy;
And if, in the times of which now I am treating,
There had been such a thing as a “ Manchester Meeting,”
No one,


314
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
“Pretty pork” he'd have made “Moderator” and “ Minister,"
Had he but caught them on his side Cape Finisterre !—
Pye Smith and the rest of them once in his, bonfire, hence-
forth you'd have heard little more of the “ CONFERENCE.”
And there, on the opposite side of the ring,
He, too, sits “in his GLORY,” confronting the King,
With his cast-iron countenance frowning austerely,
That matched with his embonpoint body but queerly,
For, though grim his visage, his person was pursy,
Belying the rumor Of fat folks' good humor;
Above waves his banner of “ Justice and Mercy,”
Below and around stand a terrible band add-
ing much to the scene-viz., the “Holy Hermandad,”
That's “Brotherhood,”—each looking grave as a Granddad.
Within the arena Before them is seen a
Strange, odd-looking group, each one dressed in a garment
Not "dandified” clearly, as certainly “varment, ”
Being all over vipers and snakes, and stuck thick
With multiplied silhouette profiles of NICK ;
And a cap of the same, All deyils and flame,
Extinguisher-shaped, much like Salisbury Spire,
Except that the latter's of course somewhat higher;
A long yellow pinafore Hangs down each chin afore,
On which, ere the wearer had donned it, a man drew
The Scotch badge, a Saltire or Cross of St. Andrew;
Though I fairly confess I am quite at a loss
To guess why they should choose that particular cross,
Or to make clear to you What the Scotch had to do
At all with the business in hand,—though it's true
That the vestment aforesaid, perhaps from its hue,
Viz., yellow in juxtaposition with blue
(A tinge of which latter tint could but accrue
On the faces of wretches, of course in a stew
As to what their tormentors were going to do),
Might make people fancy, who no better knew,
They were somehow connected with Jeffrey's Review;
Especially, too, As it's certain that few
Things would make Father Dominic blither or happier
Than to catch hold of it, or its Chef, Macvey Napier. -


316
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors,
Sit sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors.
Enough !—no more! Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er!
The tragedy’s done! and we now draw a veil
O’er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail;
The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket,
The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket,
The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners,
King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their dinners,
With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion
Of having exhibited so much devotion,
All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted
At having seen so many “Smouches” ignited :
All save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his room is,
And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair,
Is puzzling to find out how much the “affair”
(By deep calculations, the which I can't follow) cost,-
The tottle, in short, of the whole of the Holocaust.
Perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing
That, while talking so much of the Court and the King,
In describing the scene Through which we've just been
I've not said one syllable as to the Queen,-
Especially, too, as her Majesty's "whereabouts,"
All things considered, might well be thought thereabouts ;
The fact was, however, although little known,
Sa Magestad had hit on a plan of her own,
And suspecting, perhaps, that an Auto alone
Might fail in securing this “Heir to the throne,”
Had made up her mind, Although well inclined
Towards galas and shows of no matter what kind,
For once to retire, And bribe the Saints higher
Than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,-
A sight, after all, she did not much admire;
So she locked herself up, Without platter or cup,
In her Oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup,
Not so much as her matin draught (our "early purl"),
Nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl
Who helped her to dress take her hair out of curl,


A LEGEND OF SPAIN.
317
But to pass the whole morning in telling her beads,
And in reading the lives of the Saints, and their deeds,
And in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals,
Their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles,
Holy water, and Masses of Mozart's and Handel's.*
And many a Pater, and Ave, and Credo
Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo
(The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo),
Who came, as before, at a very short warning,
Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morning :
Shut up, as they were, With nobody there
To at all interfere with so pious a pair;
And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed,
If they had not allowed all these pains to succeed.
Nay, it's not quite clear to me, but their very ability
Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt,
Had the Royal bed still remained cursed with sterility;
St. Jago, however, who always is jealous
In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us,
And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw
In Spain's, welfare, would soon sing, “Old Rose, burn the
bellows !”
Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows:
By his interference, Three-fourths of a year hence,
There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing,
Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing,
In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals,
Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging,
Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang goes ;
And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay,
Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky
(Save Moore's “Blakes and O'Donnells," who stick to the
whisky);
All the day long The dance and the song
Continue the general joy to prolong;
And even long after the close of the day
* "That is, She would have ordered them—but none are known, I fear, as his,
For Handel never wrote a Mass, and so She'd David Perez's—
Bow! wow! wow! Fol, lol, etc., etc.”
(Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq.)


318
THE AUTO-DA-FÉ.
You can hear little else but “Hip! hip! hurray!”.
The Escurial, however, is not quite so gay,
For, whether the Saint had not perfectly heard
The petition the Queen and Archbishop preferred, -
Or whether his head, from his not being used
To an Auto-da-fé, was a little confused, -
Or whether the King, in the smoke and the smother,
Got bothered, and so made some blunder or other,
I am sure I can't say; All I know is, that day
There must have been some mistake!-that, I'm afraid, is
Only too clear, Inasmuch as the dear
Royal Twins,—though fine babies,-proved both little LADIES!
MORAL.
Reader !--Not knowing what your “persuasion" may be,
Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee,
Take a little advice which may serve for all three !
First—“When you are at Rome, do as Rome does !” and note
all her
Ways-drink what She drinks! and don't turn Tee-totaller!
In Spain, raison de plus, You must do as they do,
Inasmuch as they're all there “ at sixes and sevens,"
Just as, you know, They were some years ago,
In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans;
Don't be nice, then—but take what they've got in their shops,
Whether griskins or sausages, ham or pork chops !
Next-Avoid Fancy trousers !—their colors and shapes
Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes !
For myself, I confess I've but small taste in dress,
My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing—or less—
But some friends I've consulted,-much given to watch one's
Apparel,-do say It's by far the best way,
And the safest, to do as Lord Brougham does—buy Scotch ones!
I might now volunteer some advice to a King, —
Let Whigs say what they will, I shall do no such thing,
But copy my betters, and never begin
Until, like Sir Robert, “I'm duly CALLED IN !”


320
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
In this document it will be perceived that the death of Lady
Alice Ingoldsby is attributed to strangulation superinduced by
suspension, whereas, in the veritable legend annexed, no allu-
sion is made to the intervention of a halter. Unluckily Sir
Ingoldsby left no issue, or we might now be “calling Cousins”
with (ci-devant) Mrs. Otway Cave, in whose favor the abeyance
of the old Barony of Bray has recently been determined by the
Crown. To this same Barony we ourselves were not without
our pretensions, and, teste Simpkinson, had “as good a right to
it as any body else.” The “ Collective wisdom of the Country
has, however, decided the point, and placed us among that very
numerous class of claimants who are “wrongfully kept out of
their property and dignities-by the right owners.”
I seize with pleasure this opportunity of contradicting a
malicious report that Mr. Simpkinson has, in a late publication,
confounded King Henry the Fifth with the Duke of Monmouth,
and positively deny that he has ever represented Walter Lord
Clifford (father to Fair Rosamond) as the leader of the O. P.
row.
The Engoldsby Penance.
A LEGEND OF PALESTINE AND-WEST KENT.
“I'll devise thee brave punishments for him!”-SHAKSPEARE.
FYTTE I.
OUT and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
“Come east, come west, Come lance in rest,
Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best
Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!”
Oh! they came west, and they came east,
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
And they hammered away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Cathedral, “standing on the top of the city ladder, near sixty steps high, with a whole
pike in his hand, when others would not venture so high.” This feat of Vandalism
the cærulean worthy called “rattling down proud Becket's glassie bones.”


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
321
Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,
But he topped off head, and he lopped off joint;
Twenty and three, of high degree,
Lay stark and stiff on the crimsoned lea,
All-all save one and he ran up a tree!
“Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see !"
“Twenty and three! Twenty and three !
All of them Nobles of high degree:
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
“What news? what news ? come, tell to me!
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page ?
I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news ? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small !”
"Oh, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,
Beast in byre and Steed in stall;
And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark,
Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall !"
-"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound,
For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay;
Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear:
How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"-
Sir Ingoldsby Bray he said in his rage
“What news? what news, thou naughty Foot-page?”
That little Foot-page full low crouched he,
And he doffed his cap, and he bended his knee:
“Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me!--
Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall :
She sits alone, And she makes her moan;
Dance and song She considers quite wrong,
Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil;
She mendeth her hose, and she crieth, 'Alack !
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?!”
21


322
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
“Thou liest, thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page!
Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me!
There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest,
What scroll is that, false Page, I see?”
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near;
That little Foot-page he blenched with fear:
“Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's Confessor I ween is he,
And tidings rare To him do I bear,
And news of price from his rich Abbee !"
“Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk, I trow, am I,
But well I ween May there be seen
Dame Alice's hand, with half an eye.
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news ;
Although no clerk, Well may I mark
The particular turn of her Ps and her Qs!"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage,
,
By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
The scroll he seizes, The Page he squeezes,
And buffets, -and pinches his nose till he sneezes ;
Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads
Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.
When the contents of the scroll met his view,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew;
Backward he drew His nailed shoe,
And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew
Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
I
may
whither-I never knew.
not say
“Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,-
Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
323
Twenty and three! There they be,
Stiff and stark on that crimsoned lea !
Twenty and three? Stay-let me see!
Stretched in his gore There lieth one more!
By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four !
Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there,
But their heads and their limbs are nobody knows where!
Ay, twenty-four corses I rede there be,
Though one got away and ran up a tree!"
“Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire !"
“One is the corse of a barefooted Friar!”
Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"A boon, a boon, King Richard !" quoth he;
“Now Heav'n thee save! A boon I crave,
A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee.
A
year and a day Have I been away,
King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise,
And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
And tears like raindrops fall from her eyes,
And she darneth her hose, and she crieth, 'Alack !
Oh! when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back ?'
A boon, a boon, my Liege!" quoth he:
"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see !"
“Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,"
King Richard said right graciously;
“Of all in my host That I love the most,
I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;
But-mind you make haste, and come back again soon !"
FYTTE II.
Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,-
And a belted Knight, In armor dight,
Is begging a boon on his bended knee;


324
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
With signs of grief and sounds of woe
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.
“Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave!
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
In my fury and rage A little Foot-page
I have left, I fear me, in evil case !
A scroll of shame From a faithless dame
Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear:
I gave him a “lick' With a stick, And a kick
That sent him—I can't tell your Holiness where!
Had he as many necks as hairs,
Hé had broken them all down those perilous stairs !"
“Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou ;
Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee!
Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of Holy Church should vainly sue:-
-Foot-pages, they are by no means rare;
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they :
Well mote we spare A Page or a pair,
For the matter of that—Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
But stout and true Soldiers, like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a pater be said ;
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace !"
“Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave!
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case !
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore:
'Twere bootless to tell how I stormed and swore;
Alack! alack! too surely I knew


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
325
The turn of each P and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
Dame Alice I found, - She sank on the ground;
I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer, and mock and scoff,
I twisted it on-till I twisted it off!
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!”
“Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
Why really I hardly know what to say :
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.
-Monk must chant and Nun must pray;
For each mass they sing, and each prayer they say,
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of. Dame Alice may rest in peace.”
“Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave!
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case !
There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain;
His legs lie here, and his arms lie there,
And his head lies—I can't tell your Holiness where!”
“Now out and alas, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,
To hack and to hew A champion true
Of Holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!
-A chantry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To
pray
for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year must thou pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights-


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
327
-"Pardon and grace !-now pardon and grace!"
-Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face-
“Meâ culpâ !-in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
Peccavi! peccavi !—I've done very wrong!
But
my
heart it is stout, and my arm it is strong,
And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;
And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
And they're here, and they're there, And I can't tell you
where,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share!"
Pope Gregory paused, and he sat himself down,
And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
And his Cardinals three they picked up
his crown.
“Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
And
your
heart is so stout, and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,-
Why, my Cardinals three,
You'll
agree
With me
That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
-If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
"An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey, all the year round,
A full choir of Monks, and a full choir of Nuns,
Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross buns.
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,
Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,
And gather the bones of the foully slain,
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his Abbey so fair;


328
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights:
None of your rascally 'dips, but sound,
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
And Monk and Nun Shall
pray,
each one,
For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon !
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave,
Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin toddy,
Nor indulge in a pipe, - But shall dine upon tripe,
And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and liqueur.”
(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way
To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again,
And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
Mere repetition of O meâ culpa!)
“Thrice three times upon Candlemas day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a barefooted Friar
With a stout cat-o'-ninetails of whip-cord and wire;
And nor he nor his heir* Shall take, use, or bear
Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonored; but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias!
So his qualms of conscience at length may cease,
And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace !"
Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
Is off like a shot away and away,
Over the brine To far Palestine,
To
rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
* His brother Reginald, it would seem by the pedigree, disregarded this prohibition.


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
329
“Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher,
Look out for the corpse of a barefooted Friar !
And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead,
And pick up his body, and pick up his head !”
FYTTE III.
Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, -
It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three,
With right of free warren (whatever that be);
Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear,
All in full leaf at the right time of year;
About Christmas, or so, they fall into the sear,
And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear;
But it's really delightful in spring time,-and near
The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear;
Cobham woods to the right on the opposite shore
Laindon Hills in the distance, ten miles off or more;
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind,-and before
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.*
So charming a spot It's rarely one's lot
To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.
Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see,
And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three,
And there they all stand each in their degree,
Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode,
Two by two in their regular mode,
While a funeral comes down the Rochester road.
Palmers twelve from a foreign strand,
Cockle in hat, and staff in hand,
Come marching in pairs, a holy band !
* Alas! one might almost say that of this sacred and once splendid edifice, periêrunt
etiam ruince. An elderly gentleman, however, of ecclesiastical cut, who oscillates be-
tween the Garrick Club and the Falcon in Gravesend, and is said by the host to be a
“foreigneering bishop,” does not scruple to identify the ruins still to be seen by the
side of the high Dover road, about a mile and a half below the town, with those of the
haunted Sacellum. The general features of the landscape certainly correspond, and
tradition as certainly countenances his conjecture:


330
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
Little boys twelve, dressed all in white,
Each with his brazen censer bright,
And singing away with all their might,
Follow the Palmers—a goodly sight;
Next, high in air Twelve Yeomen bear
On their sturdy necks, with a good deal of care,
A patent sarcophagus firmly reared
Of Spanish mahogany (not veneered),
And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard.
Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied
With a stout cat-o'-ninetails of tough cow-hide,
While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear_Men-
at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men, and Spear-men.
It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well,
How some sang the requiem, some tolled the bell ;
Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas day
The procession I speak about reached the Sacellum;
And in lieu of a supper, The Knight on his crupper
Received the first taste of the Father's flagellum;
That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell
All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded,
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone, without touching the buns;
- That year after year, Having run round the Quad
With his back, as enjoined him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kissed it, but blessed it and thanked it, he
Died, as all thought, in the odor of sanctity;
When, strange to relate,-and you'll hardly believe
What I'm going to tell you,-next.Candlemas eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their beds in affright,
Alarmed by the bawls, and the calls, and the squalls
Of some one who seemed running all round the walls !
Looking out, soon By the light of the moon
There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view,
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
331
As black as if steeped in that “Matchless” of Hunt's,
And so bushy it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A barefooted Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A flagellum whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight,
As if by a closer inspection to find
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small “ bull's-eye lantern,”—as placed
By our own New Police,-in a belt round his waist.
All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,
When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries;
In vain,- for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
"Running after him”-so said the Abbot—"like Bricks!”
Thrice three times did the phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might,
Bethwacked and besmacked by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill;
Then a whoop and a halloo,-and all was still!
Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
And at this time of day One can hardly survey
Any traces or track, save a few ruins, gray
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas eve the Knight,
Accoutred and dight In his armor bright,
With his thick black beard, and the clerical Sprite,
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy;
And that once, in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail,
They frightened the horses and upset the mail.


332
THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE.
What 'tis breaks the rest Of these souls unblest
Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed;
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confessed
That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain
Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest
Calked and made water-tight
By command of the Knight,
Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,
And the body itself in a decentish plight,
Yet the Friar's pericranium was nowhere in sight;
So, to save themselves trouble, they picked up instead,
And popped on the shoulders, a Saracen's head!
Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had failed,
And the Pope's absolution of course nought availed.
Now though this might be, It don't seem to agree
With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me, -
I mean, as the miracles wrought at the shrine
Containing the bones brought from far Palestine
Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine
This fact with the reason these people assign,
Or suppose that the head of the murdered Divine
Could be aught but what Yankees would call“ genuine."
'Tis a very nice question ; but be't as it may,
The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray),
It is boldly affirmed by the folks great and small
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas day haunts the old ruined wall,
And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall.
So I think, when the facts of the case you re
recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall-
Viz., that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d—d after all!
MORAL.
Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,
In livery or out of it, listen to me!


A LEGEND OF PALESTINE.
333
See what comes of lying! don't join in a league
To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue!
Ladies !--married and single, from this understand
How foolish it is to send letters by hand !
Don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you
've a billet to send To a lover or friend,
Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue !
Reverend gentlemen !-you who are given to roam,
Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home!
But while you're abroad lead respectable lives;
Love your neighbors, and welcome,--but don't love their
wives !
And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads
When they're shovelling the snow off, “TAKE CARE OF YOUR
HEADS !”
Knights !-whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so
strong,
Learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
If
your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
Rebuke them—but mildly-don't kick them down stairs !
To “Poor Richard's” homely old proverb attend,
“If you want matters well managed, Go !--if not, Send !"
A servant's too often a negligent elf;
-If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!
The state of society seldom requires
People now to bring home with them unburied Friars,
But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life;
Now-don't do that by proxy !—but choose your own wife!
For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed,
To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead
Of the sweet face you look for-A SARACEN'S HEAD!


334
NETLEY ABBEY.
ALAs for Ingoldsby Abbey !-Alas that one should have to
say
Periêrunt etiam Ruinæ !
Its very Ruins now are tiny!
There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey-
family associations apart-as Ossian says (or Macpherson for
him), “ pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever
yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivy-clad towers of one of
these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days with-
out something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the
prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already hinted
in recording our picnic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since
then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once
was Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I
have alluded, in a stronger degree ;-if its character was some-
what changed before we parted, it is not my fault. Still, be
the drawbacks what they may, I shall ever mark with a white
stone the day on which I for the first time beheld the time-
worn cloisters of
Netley Abbey.
A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.
I
SAW thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow, And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green,
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovelily bright, In that glorious light,
And I felt 'twas holy ground.
Then I thought of the ancient time-
The days of the Monks of old,


A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.
335
When to Matin and Vesper, and Compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,
And thy courts and “long-drawn aisles” among
Swelled the full tide of sacred song.
And then a vision passed
Across my mental eye ;*
And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns
And long white veils, went by;
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,
- But one, methought, winked at the Gardener-lad!
Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell,
And "dear little souls," In clean linen stoles,
Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear,
With front severe, And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chants the responses too late or too soon,
Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.
(Then, you know, They'd a "movable Do,"
Not a fixed one as now-and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullabaloo.)
It was, in sooth, a comely sight,
And I welcomed the vision with pure delight.
But then “ a change came o'er”
My spirit-a change of fear-
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall-
For an oven too big,-for a cellar too small!
And mortar and bricks All ready to fix,
And I said, “Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks !—
* “In my mind's eye, Horatio!"—Hamlet.


336
NETLEY ABBEY.
That horrible hole!-it seems to say,
' I'm a grave that gaps for a living prey !'”
And
my
heart grew
sick, and
my
brow grew
sad-
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!-'tis sad to think
That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear, and blink,
Or be closed for aye In this kind of way,
Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
Walled up in a hole with never a chink,
No light,-no air,-no victuals,-no drink!
And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to sip,
Should here grow withered and dry as a chip!
- That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Excecdingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this !-
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,*
“Well, I can't understand How any
man's hand
Could wall up
that hole in a Christian land !
Why a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the
work,
And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if maddened by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
• When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back, And sewn up in a sack,
To be pitched neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus !"
-Oh! Saint 'twould vex To think that the sex
Should be treated no better than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."
* About the middle of the last century a human skeleton was discovered in a recess
in the wall among the ruins of Netley. On examination the bones were pronounced
to be those of a female, Teste James Harrison, a youthful but intelligent cab-driver
of Southampton, who “well remembers to have heard his grandmother say that
"Somebody told her so.""


A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.
337
If ever on polluted walls
Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,
If e’er its justice wraps in flame
The black abodes of sin and shame,
That justice, in its own good time,
Shall visit for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,
And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!
Lo where it comes !- the tempest lowers,
It bursts on thy devoted towers ;
Ruthless Tudor's bloated form
Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;
I hear the sacrilegious cry,
“ Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"
Down! down they come--a fearful fall-
Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,
There they lie on the greensward strown-
Mouldering walls remain alone!
Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown,
Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!
And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze
Upon that gray and mouldering wall,
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall ! -
They “come like shadows, so depart”-
I see thee as thou wert-and art-
Sublime in ruin !-grand in woe!
Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!
No sound-Good Gracious!—what was that?
Was it the moan, The parting groan
Of her who died forlorn and alone,
Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone ?-
22


FRAGMENT.
339
“Well—well !” quoth I, As I heaved a sigh,
And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye,
“My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt
That some day or other you'll find it out,
Should he come in your way,
Or'ride in your shay'
(As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say
That a Visitor, whom you drove over one day,
Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized,
Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized,
And thus of their owner to speak began,
As he ordered you home in haste,
NO DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN,
But~ I can't say much for his taste.”
My very excellent brother-in-law, Seaforth, late of the
Bombay Fencibles (lucky dog to have quitted the service
before this shocking Afghan business !), seems to have been
even more forcibly affected on the evening when he so narrowly
escaped being locked in at Westminster Abbey, and when—
but let him describe his own feelings, as he has done, indeed,
in the subjoined
Fragment.
A FEELING sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground
Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around:
I stepped with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal
tread
Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the
mighty dead!
* Adieu, Monsieur Gil Blas; je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prospérités, avec un
peu plus de gout !-Gil Blas.


340
FRAGMENT.
The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those
cloisters pale,
With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured mail ;
As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quivering
gleam,
Each cold and prostrate form below seemed quickening in the
beam.
Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn swell,
And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell:
It died-and not a breath did stir ;-above each knightly stall,
Unmoved, the bannered blazonry hung waveless as a pall.
I stood alone !-a living thing. 'midst those that were no
more
I thought on ages past and gone—the glorious deeds of yore
On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain,
The fatal roses twined at length-on great Eliza's reign.
I thought on Naseby-Marston Moor-on Worc'ster's “crown-
ing fight;"
When on mine ear a sound there fell-it chilled me with
affright,
As thus in low, unearthly tones I heard a voice begin,
-"This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk I-Sir! please put
summut in!”
Cætera desiderantur.
That Seaforth's nervous system was powerfully acted upon
on this occasion I can well believe. The circumstance brings
to
my
recollection a fearful adventure or what might perhaps
have proved one of my own in early life while grinding
Gerunds at Canterbury. A sharp touch of the gout, and the
reputed sanitary qualities of a certain spring in St. Peter's


A LEGEND OF THE “DARK ENTRY."
341
It was
Street, then in much repute, had induced my Uncle to take up
a temporary abode within the Cathedral “Precinct.”
on one of those temporary visits which I was sometimes
permitted to pay on half-holidays that, in self defence, I had
to recount the following true narrative. I may add that this
tradition is not yet worn out: a small maimed figure of a
female in a sitting position, and holding something like a
frying-pan in her hand, may still be seen on the covered
passage which crosses the Brick Walk, and adjoins the house
belonging to the sixth prebendal stall.— There are those whom
I know who would, even yet, hesitate at threading the Dark
Entry on a Friday—"not" of course "that they believe one
word about"
Nell Cook.
A LEGEND OF THE “DARK ENTRY."
THE KING'S SCHOLAR'S STORY.
“From the ‘Brick Walk' branches off to the right a long narrow vaulted passage,
paved with flagstones, vulgarly known by the name of the ‘Dark Entry.' Its eastern
extremity communicates with the cloisters, crypt, and, by a private staircase, with the
interior of the cathedral. On the west it opens into the 'Green-Court, forming a
communication between it and the portion of the ‘Precinct' called the 'Oaks.'”-A
Walk round Canterbury, etc.
[Scene—A back parlor in Mr. John Ingoldsby's house in the Precinct.-A blazing fire.
-Mine Uncle is seated in a high-backed easy chair, twirling his thumbs, and con-
templating his list shoe.—Little Tom, the “King's Scholar," on a stool opposite.-
Mrs. John Ingoldsby at the table, busily employed in manufacturing a cabbage-
rose (cauliflower ?) in many-colored worsteds.—Mine Uncle's meditations are in-
terrupted by the French clock on the mantle-piece. He prologizeth with vivacity.]
“HAR
ARK! listen, Mrs. Ingoldsby,—the clock is striking
nine !
Give Master Tom another cake, and half a glass of wine,
And ring the bell for Jenny Smith, and bid her bring his coat,
And a warm bandana handkerchief to tie around his throat.


342
NELL COOK.
“And bid them go the nearest way, for Mr. Birch has said
That nine o'clock's the hour he'll have his boarders all in bed ;
And well we know when little boys their coming home delay,
They often seem to walk and sit uneasily next day!"
“Now nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray,
Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way;
I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour,
It fears me quite--it's Friday night and then Nell Cook
hath power!"
“And who's Nell Cook, thou silly child ?—and what's Nell
Cook to thee,
That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that
dark entree ?"
-"Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things
they tell
Of Nelly Cook that few may brook at night to meet with Nell!
“It was in bluff King Harry's days,-and Monks and Friars
were then,
You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen.
They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns-no shirts, -
and no cravats,
And a cord was placed about their waist-they had no shovel
hats !
“It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift,
And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope
adrift;
There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk;
He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark !
“ The Canon was a portly man of Latin and of Greek,
And learned lore, he had good store,-yet health was on his
cheek.
The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made
of rye,
The beer was weak, yet he was sleek-he had a merry eye.


A LEGEND OF THE “DARK ENTRY.”
343
“For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin,
The Canon's house it stood without;-he kept good cheer within;
Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look,
And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine,-he called her ‘Nelly Cook.'
“For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was
famous still !
She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wondrous
skill:
Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely
browned,
Her boiled and roast they were the boast of all the “Precinct”
round.
“And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air,
And earthward bent her modest look-yet was she passing fair ;
And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave
people shook :
-They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook.
“One day—'twas on a Whitsun eve -there came a coach and
four;-
It passed the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopped before the
Canon's door;
The travel stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way;
Each panting steed relaxed its speed-out stepped a Lady gay.
“Now welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,' the Canon then
did cry,
And to his breast the Lady pressed,-he had a merry eye;
Now welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,-in sooth thou'rt
welcome here;
'Tis many a day since we have met :-how fares my Brother
dear?'—
“Now thanks, my loving Uncle,' that Lady gay replied:
"Gramercy for thy benison !-then ‘Out, alas !' she sighed;
'My father dear he is not near,-he seeks the Spanish Main;
He prays thee give me shelter here till he return again !-


344
NELL COOK.
«« Now welcome! welcome! dearest Niece; come lay thy man-
tle by
The Canon kissed her ruby lip,-he had a merry eye;
But Nelly Cook askew did look,-it came into her mind
They were a little less than ‘kin,' and rather more than 'kind.'
%
“Three weeks are gone and over-full three weeks and a day~
Yet still within the Canon's house doth dwell that Lady gay;
On capons fine they daily dine, rich cates and sauces rare,
And they quaff good store of Bordeaux wine, --so dainty is
their fare.
“And fine upon the virginal is that gay Lady's touch,
And sweet her voice unto the lute, you'll scarce hear any such ;
But is it O Sanctissima' she sings in dulcet tone?
Or 'Angels ever bright and fair'?—Ah no! it's 'Bobbing Joan'!
“ The Canon's house is lofty and spacious to the view ;
The Canon's cell is ordered well-yet Nelly looks askew;
The Lady's bower is in the tower-yet Nelly shakes her head:
She hides the poker and the tongs in that gay Lady's bed!
Six weeks were gone and over -full six weeks and a day-
Yet in that bed the poker and the tongs unheeded lay!
From which I fear it's pretty clear that Lady rest had none,-
Or if she slept in any bed, it was not in her own.
“But where that Lady passed her night I may not well divine, 7
Perhaps in pious orisons at good St. Thomas' shrine,
And for her father far away breathed tender vows and true;
It may be so—I cannot say—but Nelly looked askew.
“And still at night, by fair moonlight, when all were locked in
sleep,
She'd listen at the Canon's door, she'd through the keyhole
peep;


A LEGEND OF THE “DARK ENTRY."
345
I know not what she heard or saw, but fury filled her eye:
-She bought some nasty doctor's-stuff, and she put it in a pie!
“ It was a glorious summer's eve; with beams of rosy
red
The Sun went down-all Nature smiled—but Nelly shook her
head.
Full softly to the balmy breeze rung out the Vesper bell;
-Upon the Canon's startled ear it sounded like a knell!
“Now here's to thee, mine Uncle! a health I drink to thee!
Now pledge me back in Sherris sack, or a cup of Malvoisie!'-
The Canon sighed, but, rousing, cried, 'I answer to thy call,
And a Warden-pie's a dainty dish to mortify withal !
“ 'Tis early dawn; the matin chime rings out for morning
prayer,
And Prior and Friar is in his stall—the Canon is not there;
Nor in the small Refect'ry hall nor cloistered walk is he;
All wonder—and the Sacristan says, 'Lauk-a-daisy me!'
“They've searched the aisles and Baptist'ry--they've searched
above, around
The 'Sermon House,' the “Audit Room'-the Canon is not
found.
They only find that pretty cook concocting a ragout;
They ask her where her master is—but Nelly looks askew.
“They call for crowbars—jimmies' is the modern name they
bear;
They burst through lock, and bolt, and bar—but what a sight
is there !-
The Canon's head lies on the bed-his Niece lies on the floor!
— They are as dead as any nail that is in any door!
“The livid spot is on his breast, the spot is on his back;
His portly form, no longer warm with life, is swoln and black !-
The livid spot is on her cheek, it's on her neck of snow,
And the Prior sighs, and sadly cries, 'Well-here's a pretty Go!'


À LEGEND OF THE "DARK ENTRY."
347
“ A hundred years
have
gone
and past since last Nell Cook was
seen,
When, worn by use, that stone got loose, and they went and
told the Dean.-
-Says the Dean, says he, My Masons three! now haste and
fix it tight;
And the Masons three peeped down to see, and they saw a
fearsome sight.
“Beneath that heavy paving-stone a shocking hole they
found
It was not more than twelve feet deep, and barely twelve feet
round;
-A fleshless, sapless skeleton lay in that horrid well!
But who the deuce 'twas put it there those Masons could not
tell.
“And near this fleshless skeleton a pitcher small did lie,
And a mouldy piece of 'kissing crust,' as from a Warden-pie!
And Doctor Jones declared the bones were female bones, and,
• Zooks !
I should not be surprised,' said he, 'if these were Nelly
Cook's !
“It was in good Dean Bargrave's days, if I remember right,
Those fleshless bones beneath the stones these Masons brought
to light;
And you may well in the 'Dean's Chapelle' Dean Bargrave's
portrait view,
Who died one night,' says old Tom Wright, 'in Sixteen
Forty-two!'
“And so two hundred years have passed since that these
Masons three,
With curious looks, did set Nell Cook's unquiet spirit free;
That granite stone had kept her down till then—so some
suppose, -
-Some spread their fingers out, and put their thumbs unto
their nose.


348,
NELL COOK.
“But one thing's clear-that all the year, on every Friday
night,
Throughout that Entry dark doth roam Nell Cook's unquiet
Sprite:
On Friday was that Warden-pie all by that Canon tried;
On Friday died he, and that tidy Lady by his side!
“And though two hundred years have flown, Nell Cook doth
still pursue
Her weary walk, and they who cross her path the deed may
rue;
Her fatal breath is fell as death! the Simoom's blast is not
More dire (a wind in Africa that blows uncommon hot).
“But all unlike the Simoom's blast, her breath is deadly cold,
Delivering quivering, shivering shocks unto both young and
old,
And whoso in that Entry dark doth feel that fatal breath,
He ever dies within the year some dire untimely death!
“No matter who—no matter what condition, age, or sex,
But some 'get shot,' and some get drowned,' and some 'get'
broken necks;
Some 'get run over' by a coach ; and one beyond the seas
"Got' scraped to death with oyster-shells among the Caribbees !
“Those Masons three who set her free fell first-it is averred
That two were hanged on Tyburn tree for murdering of the
third :
Charles Storey,* too, his friend who slew, had ne'er, if truth
they tell,
Been gibbeted on Chatham Downs, had they not met with
Nell!
* In or about the year 1780, a worthy of this name cut the throat of a journeyman
paper-maker, was executed on Oaten Hill, and afterwards hung in chains near the
scene of his crime. It was to this place, as being the extreme boundary of the City's
jurisdiction, that the worthy Mayor with so much naïveté wished to escort Archbishop
M*** on one of his progresses, when he begged to have the honor of " attending his
Grace as far as the gallows."


A LEGEND OF THE “DARK ENTRY."
349
“Then send me not, mine Uncle dear, oh! send me not, I
pray,
Back through that Entry dark to-night, but round some other
way!
I will not be a truant boy, but good, and mind my book,
For Heaven forefend that ever I foregather with Nell Cook !"
The class was called at morning tide, and Master Tom was
there;
He looked askew, and did eschew both stool, and bench, and
chair.
He did not talk, he did not walk, the tear was in his eye, -
He had pot e'en that sad resource, to sit him down and cry.
Hence little boys may learn, when they from school go out to
dine,
They should not deal in rigmarole, but still be back by nine;
For if, when they've their great coat on, they pause before they
part,
To tell a long and prosy tale,-perchance their own may
smart.
MORAL.
- A few remarks to learned Clerks in country and in town-
Don't keep a pretty serving-maid, though clad in russet
brown
Don't let your Niece sing “Bobbing Joan !”—don't, with a
merry eye,
Hob-nob in Sack and Malvoisie,-and don't eat too much
pie!!
And oh! beware that Entry dark,-Especially at night,
And don't go there with Jenny Smith all by the pale moon-
light !-
So bless the Queen and her Royal Weans,—And the Prince
whose hand she took,–
And bless us all, both great and small, -and keep us from
Nell Cook !


350
NURSERY REMINISCENCES.
KIND, good-hearted, gouty Uncle John! how well I remem-
ber all the kindness and affection which my mischievous pro-
pensities so ill repaid-his bright blue coat and resplendent
gilt buttons—his "frosty pow” si bien poudré-his little quill-
like pigtail! Of all my praiseworthy actions—they were "like
angel visits, few and far between ”—the never failing and
munificent rewarder; of my naughty deeds—they were mul-
titudinous as the sands on the sea-shore—the ever-ready
palliator; my intercessor, and sometimes even my defender
against punishment, "staying harsh justice in its mid career!"-
Poor Uncle John! he will ever rank among the dearest of my
Nursery Reminiscences.
I
REMEMBER, I remember,
When I was a little Boy,
One fine morning in September
Uncle brought me home a toy.
I remember how he patted
Both my cheeks in kindliest mood;
“Then,” said he, “you little Fat-head,
There's a top because you're good.”
Grandmamma-a shrewd observer-
I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fervor,
“Oh! how kind of Uncle John!"
While mamma, my form caressing,
In her eye the tear-drop stood,
-
Read me this fine moral lesson,
“See what comes of being good !”


NURSERY REMINISCENCES.
351
I remember, I remember,
On a wet and windy day,
One cold morning in December,
I stole out and went to play ;
!
I remember Billy Hawkins
Came, and with his pewter squirt
Squibbed my pantaloons and stockings
Till they were all over dirt !
To my mother for protection
I ran, quaking every limb:
-She exclaimed, with fond affection,
“Gracious Goodness! look at him!”
Pa cried, when he saw my garment-
'Twas a newly-purchased dress-
“Oh! you nasty little Warment,
How came you in such a mess ?”
Then he caught me by the collar-
Cruel only to be kind-
And, to my exceeding dolor,
Gave me-several slaps behind.
Grandmamma, while yet I smarted,
As she saw my evil plight,
Said—'twas rather stony-hearted-
“ Little rascal! sarve him right!"
I remember, I remember,
From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December
Did I venture out to play.
And the moral which they taught, I
Well remember; thus they said:
“Little Boys, when they are naughty,
Must be whipped and sent to bed !”


352
AUNT FANNY.
Poor Uncle John!
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,”
in the old family vault in Denton chancel; and dear Aunt
Fanny too !-the latter also “loo'd me weel,” as the Scotch
song has it; and since at this moment I am in a most soft and
sentimental humor (whisky toddy should ever be made by
pouring the boiling fluid-hotter if possible-upon the thinnest
lemon-peel, and then,-but everybody knows “what then”-),
I dedicate the following “True History" to my beloved
Aunt Fanny.
A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
Virginibus, Puerisque canto.-HOR.
Old Maids and Bachelors I chant to!-T. I.
SING of a Shirt that never was new !
I
In the course of the year Eighteen Hundred and Two,
Aunt Fanny began, Upon Grandmamma’s plan,
To make one for me, then her “dear little man.”
At the epoch I speak about, I was between
A man and a boy,– A hobble-de-hoy,
A fat little paunchy concern of sixteen,
Just beginning to flirt And ogle, --so pert,
I'd been whipt every day had I had my desert;
—And Aunt Fan volunteered to make me a shirt !
I've said she began it;- Some unlucky planet
No doubt interfered ; for, before she and Janet
Completed the "cutting out," "hemming," and "stitching,"
A tall Irish footman appeared in the kitchen;
- This took off the maid, And I'm sadly afraid
My respected Aunt Fanny's attention, too, strayed ;
For about the same period a gay son of Mars,
Cornet Jones of the Tenth (then the Prince's) Hussars,


A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
353
With his fine dark eyelashes, And finer moustaches,
And the ostrich plume worked on the corps' sabretasches
(I say nought of the gold-and-red cord of the sashes,
Or the boots far above the Guards' vile spatterdashes),-
So eyed, and so sighed, and so lovingly tried,
To engage her whole ear as he lounged by her side,
Looking down on the rest with such dignified pride,
That she made up her mind She should certainly find
Cornet Jones at her feet, whisp’ring “Fan, be my bride!”
She had even resolved to say “Yes,” should he ask it,
-And I-and my Shirt-were both left in the basket.
To her grief and dismay She discovered one day
Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay;
For, besides that she saw him—he could not say nay-
Wink at one of the actresses capering away
In a Spanish bolero, one night at the play,
She found he'd already a wife at Cambray,
One at Paris-a nymph of the corps de ballet-
And a third down in Kent, at a place called Foot's Cray.
He viler than dirt!”– Fanny vowed to exert
All her powers to forget him and finish my Shirt.
But oh, lack-a-day! How time slips away!
Who'd have thought that while Cupid was playing these
tricks,
Ten years had elapsed, and—I'd turned twenty-six !
was
“I care not a whit, He's not grown a bit,”
Says my Aunt; "it will still be a very good fit.”
So Janet and she, Now about thirty-three
(The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee),
Each taking one end of “the Shirt” on her knee,
Again began working with hearty good will,
Felling the Seams” and “whipping the Frill;"
For, twenty years since though the Ruffle had vanished,
A Frill like a fan had by no means been banished;
People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches,
Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches.
23


354
AUNT FANNY.
Now then, by these two thus laying their caps
Together, my Shirt had been finished, perhaps,
But for one of those queer little three-cornered straps,
Wbich the ladies call “Side-bits,” that sever the “
“Flaps ;"
Here unlucky Janet Took her needle and ran it
Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, “Ads cuss it!
I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset !"
For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb
Was in that sort of state vulgar people call “Rum;"
At the end of that time, A youth, still in his prime,
The Doctor's fat Errand-boy,-just such a dolt as is
Kept to mix draughts and spread plasters and poultices,
Who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her,-
Sighed, ogled, proposed, was accepted,--and married her!
Much did Aunt Fan Disapprove of the plan:
She turned up her dear little snub at “the Man;"
She “could not believe it,"— “Could scarcely conceive it
Was possible-What! such a place and then leave it!
And all for a ‘Shrimp’ not as high as my hat-
A little contemptible ‘Shaver' like that,
With a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat!"
For her part, “She was sure
She could never endure
A lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer!
Such a name too ('twas Potts) !-and so nasty a trade
No, no,-she would much rather die an old maid !
He a husband, indeed !-Well, mine, come what may come,
Sha'n't look like a blister, and smell of Guaiacum !”
But there! She'd “ declare It was Janet's affair
Chacun à son goût; As she baked she might brew;
She could not prevent her—'twas no use in trying it,
Oh no—she had made her own bed, and might lie in it.
They'repent at leisure who marry at random.'
No matter-De gustibus non disputandum !”
Consoling herself with this choice bit of Latin,
Aunt Fanny resignedly bought some white satin,


A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
355
And, as the Soubrette Was a very great pet
After all, she resolved to forgive and forget,
And sat down to make her a bridal rosette,
With magnificent bits of some white-looking metal
Stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal.-
-On such an occasion one couldn't feel hurt,
Of course, that she ceased to remember—my Shirt !
Ten years,—or nigh,- Had again gone by,
When Fan accidentally casting her eye
On a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high
In the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry,
Took it down to explore it-she didn't know why.-
Within, a pea-soup colored fragment she spied,
Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside,
Or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking.
-I still hear her cry,
“I wish I may
die
If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making!
My gracious me! Well,--only to see!
I declare it's as yellow as yellow can be !
Why, it looks as though't had been soaked in green tea!
Dear
me,
did you ever ? — But come—'twill be clever
To bring matters round; so I'll do my endeavor-
Better late,' says an excellent proverb, than Never!'
It is stain'd, to be sure; but grass-bleaching' will bring it
To rights in a jiffy.'—We'll wash it, and wring it;
Or, stay,— Hudson's Liquor' Will do it still quicker,
And Here the new maid chimed in, “Ma'am, Salt of
Lemon
Will make it, in no time, quite fit for the Gemman!"
So they “set in the gathers,”—the large round the collar,
While those at the wristbands of course were much smaller,
The buttonholes now were at length “overcast;"
Then a button itself was sewn on-'twas the last !
All's done! All's won!
Never under the sun
Was Shirt so late finished-so early begun! -


356
AUNT FANNY.
-The work would defy The most critical eye.
It was "bleached,”-it was washed, -it was hung out to dry,–
It was marked on the tail with a T and an I!
On the back of a chair it was placed, -just to air it,
In front of the fire. *Tom to-morrow shall wear it!"
- ccca mens hominum |--Fanny, good soul,
Left her charge for one moment—but one-a vile coal
Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole!
Had it been Doctor Amott's new stove—not a grate:-
Had the coal been a “Lord Mayor's coal,”—viz., a slate ;-
What a different tale had I had to relate !
And Aunt Fan-and my Shirt-been superior to Fate ;-
One moment—no more! -Fan opened the door!
The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before;
And Aunt Fanny sank down-in despair-on the floor!
You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement,
When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement,
She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing,
And, losing at once all restraint on her temper or
Feelings, exclaimed, “Hang that Scamp of an Emperor,
Although he's my son !- -He thinks it prime fun,
No doubt !-While the flames are demolishing Rome,
There's my Nero a-fiddling and singing 'Sweet Home!”
-Stay—I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said
The words I've put down, as she stepped into bed,
On reflection, I rather believe she was dead;
But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I
Never was very precise in Chronology ;
So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a
Mistake of no very great moment-in fine, a
Mere slip—'twas some Pleb’s wife, if not Agrippina.
You may fancy that warrior, so stern and so stony,
Whom thirty years since we all used to call BONEY,


A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.
357
When, engaged in what he styled “fulfilling his destinies,"
He led his rapscallions across the Borysthenes,
And made up his mind Snug quarters to find
In Moscow, against the catarrhs and the coughs
Which are apt to prevail 'mongst the "Owskis” and “Offs”
At a time of the
year When your nose and your ear
Are by no means so safe there as people's are here,
Inasmuch as " Jack Frost," that most fearful of Bogles,
Makes folk leave their cartilage oft in their “fogles."
You may fancy, I say, That same BONEY's dismay,
When Count Rostopchin At once made him drop chin,
And turn up his eyes, as his rappee he took,
With a sort of mort-de-ma-vie kind of look,
On perceiving that “Swing,” And "all that sort of thing,"
Was at work—that he'd just lost the game without knowing it:
That the Kremlin was blazing—the Russians "a-going it," —
Every plug in the place frozen hard as the ground,
And the deuce of a Turn-cock at all to be found !
You may fancy King Charles at some Court Fancy-Ball
(The date we may fix In Sixteen Sixty-six),
In the room built by Inigo Jones at Whitehall,
Whence his father, the Martyr (as such mourned by all
Who, in his, wept the Law's and the Monarchy's fall),
Stept out to exchange regal robes for a pall-
You may fancy King Charles, I say, stopping the brawl,*
As burst on his sight the old church of St. Paul,
By the light of its flames, now beginning to crawl
From basement to buttress, and topping its wall-
-You may fancy old Clarendon making a call,
And stating in cold, slow, monotonous drawl,
“Sire, from Pudding Lane's End, close by Fishimongers' Hall,
To Pye Corner, in Smithfield, there is not a stall
There, in market or street --not a house, great or small,
In which Knight wields his falchion, or Cobbler his awl,
* Not a "row," but a dance.
“The brave Lord Keeper led the brawls,
The seals and maces danced before him."-GRAY.
- And truly Sir Christopher danced to some tune.


358
AUNT FANNY.
But's on fire!!”—You may fancy the general squall
And bawl as they all call for wimple and shawl!-
-You may fancy all this—but I boldly assert
You can't fancy Aunt Fan-as she looked on MY SHIRT!!
Was't Apelles ? or Zeuxis ?-I think 'twas Apelles,
That artist of old—I declare I can't tell his
Exact patronymic-I write and pronounce ill
These Classical names—whom some Grecian Town-Council
Employed,—I believe, by command of the Oracle,-
To produce them a splendid piece, purely historical,
For adorning the wall Of some fane, or Guildhall,
And who for his subject determined to try a
Large painting in oils of Miss Iphigenia
At the moment her Sire, By especial desire
Of “that Spalpeen, O'Dysseus” (see Barney Maguire),
Has resolved to devote Her beautiful throat
To old Chalcas's knife, and her limbs to the fire;
-An act which we moderns by no means admire,-
An off'ring, 'tis true, to Jove, Mars, or Apollo, cost
No trifling sum in those days, if a holocaust, -
Still, although for economy we should condemn none,
In an avaş avdpov, like the great Agamemnon,
To give up to slaughter An elegant daughter,
After all the French, Music, and Dancing they'd taught her,
And Singing,-at Heaven knows how much a quarter,-
In lieu of a Calf ! It was too bad by half !
At a “nigger"* so pitiful who would not laugh,
And turn up their noses at one who could find
No decenter method of "Raising the Wind”?
No doubt but he might, Without any great Flight,
Have obtained it by what we call “flying a kite,”
Or on mortgage or sure, if he couldn't so do it, he
Must have succeeded" by way of annuity.”
But there—it appears, His crocodile tears,
His “Ohs,” and his “Ahs,” his “Oh laws,” and “Oh dears,"
* Hibernice “nigger," quasi “niggard.” Vide B. Maguire passim.


360
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE.
It is to my excellent and erudite friend, Simpkinson, that I
am indebted for his graphic description of the well-known
chalk-pit, between Acol and Minster, in the Isle of Thanet,
known by the name of the “Smuggler's Leap.” The substance
of the true history attached to it he picked up while visiting
that admirable institution, the “Sea-bathing Infirmary," of
which he is a “Life Governor," and enjoying his otium cum
dignitate last summer at the least aristocratic of all possible
watering-places.
Before I proceed to detail it, however, I cannot, in conscience,
fail to bespeak for him the reader's sympathy in one of his own
Misadventures at Margate.
A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur).
'
3
WAS in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy-I said, “What make you here?
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;"
Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar Boy ?”
He frowned, that little vulgar Boy,-he deemed I meant to
scoff-
And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;"
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! -
“Hark! don't you hear, my little man ?--it's striking Nine,”
I said,
“An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.
Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold-Oh,
fie!
It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"


A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
361
1
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbbed with agony,-he cried like anything !
I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur
“Ah!
I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Mall
“My father he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone!
I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with, let alone a tart.
“If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ,
By day or night, then blow me tight !” (he was a vulgar Boy);
“And now I'm here, from this here pier it is
my
fixed intent
To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monu-ment !"
“Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" I kindly
said,
“You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head:
If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your
legs,
Perhaps your neck-then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are
eggs !
“Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and
sup;
My landlady is Mrs. Jones—we must not keep her up, —
There's roast potatoes at the fire,-enough for me and you-
Come home, you little vulgar Boy-I lodge at Number 2.”
I took him home to Number 2, the house beside “The Foy,”
I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,-
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
“Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X !”
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she“ did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys,”-
She with her apron wiped the plates, and as she rubbed the delf,
Said I might “go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"


A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY.
363
To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so;
But when the Crier cried, “O Yes !" the people cried, “O
No!”
I went to “Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town,
There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down;
I told
my
talehe seemed to think I'd not been treated well,
And called me “Poor old Buffer !”—what that means I cannot
tell.
That Sailor-man he said he'd seen that morning on the shore,
A son of—something—'twas a name I'd never heard before,
A little "gallows-looking chap”-dear me! what could he
mean -
With a "carpet-swab” and “muckingtogs," and a hat turned
up
with
green.
It's very
He spoke about his “precious eyes," and said he'd seen him
“sheer,"
odd that Sailor-men should talk so very queer-
And then he hitched his trousers up, as is, I'm told, their use,
- It's
very
odd that Sailor-men should wear those things so
loose.
I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say
He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning, swim away
In Captain Large's Royal George, about an hour before,
And they were now, as he supposed, “ somewheres" about the
Nore.
A landsman said, “I twig the chap-he's been upon the
Mill-
And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping
Bill !”
He said, “he'd done me wery brown," and nicely “stowed the
swag,"
--That's French, I fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag.


364
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE,
I went and told the constable my property to track ;
He asked me if “I did not wish that I might get it back ?”
I answered, “To be sure I do it's what I'm come about."
He smiled and said, “Sir, does your mother know that you are
out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town,
And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd “done
me brown.”
His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out,
But he “rather thought that there were several vulgar boys
about.”
He sent for Mr. Withair then, and I described “the swag,"
My Macintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag;
He promised that the New Police should all their powers
employ!
But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL.
Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma
tell,
“BE WARNED IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL
DO FULL WELL!”
Don't link yourself with vulgar folks who've got no fixed
abode,
Tell lies, use naughty words, and say “they wish they may be
blowed !”
Don't take too much of double X!-and don't at night go out
To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your
stout!
And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the
bell,
Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!


A LEGEND OF THANET.
365
AND now for his Legend, which, if the facts took place
rather beyond “the memory of the oldest inhabitant,” are yet
well known to have occurred in the neighborhood“ once on a
time;" and the scene of them will be readily pointed out by
any one of the fifty intelligent fly-drivers who ply upon the
pier, and who will convey you safely to the spot for a guerdon
which they term "three bob."
The Smuggler's Leap.
A LEGEND OF THANET.
“Near this hamlet (Acol) is a long-disused chalk-pit of formidable depth, known by
the name of The Smuggler's Leap.' The tradition of the parish runs that a riding-
officer from Sandwich, called Anthony Gill, lost his life here in the early part of the
present (last) century, while in pursuit of a smuggler. A fog coming on, both parties
went over the precipice. The smuggler's horse only, it is said, was found crushed
beneath its rider. The spot has, of course, been haunted ever since.”-See “Supplement
to Lewis's History of Thanet, by the Rev. Samuel Pegg, A.M., Vicar of Gomersham." W.
Bristow, Canterbury, 1796, p. 127.
THE
THE fire-flash shines from Reculver cliff,
And the answering light burns blue in the skiff,
And there they stand, That smuggling band,
Some in the water and some on the sand,
Ready those contraband goods to land:
The night is dark, they are silent and still,
-At the head of the party is Smuggler Bill!
“Now lower away! come, lower away!
We must be far ere the dawn of the day.
If Exciseman Gill should get scent of the prey,
And should come, and should catch us here, what would he say?
Come, lower away, lads-once on the hill,
We'll laugh, ho! ho! at Exciseman Gill!”
The cargo's lowered from the dark skiff's side,
And the tow-line drags the tubs through the tide,
No trick nor flam, But
your real Schiedam.
“Now mount, my merry men, mount and ride!”


A LEGEND OF THANET.
367
All, all, save one--Exciseman Gill,-
He sticks to the skirts of Smuggler Bill!
Smuggler Bill is six feet high,
He has curling locks, and a roving eye,
He has a tongue and he has a smile
Trained the female heart to beguile,
And there is not a farmer's wife in the Isle,
From St. Nicholas quite To the Foreland Light,
But that eye, and that tongue, and that smile will wheedle her
To have done with the Grocer and make him her Tea-dealer;
There is not a farmer there but he still
Buys gin and tobacco from Smuggler Bill.
Smuggler Bill rides gallant and gay
On his dapple-gray mare, away, and away,
And he pats her neck, and he seems to say,
“ Follow who will, ride after who may,
In sooth he had need Fodder his steed,
In lieu of Lent-corn, with a Quicksilver feed;
-Nor oats, nor beans, nor the best of old hay,
Will make him a match for my own dapple-gray!
Ho! ho !-ho! ho!” says Smuggler Bill-
He draws out a flask and he sips his fill,
And he laughs “Ho! ho !” at Exciseman Gill.
Down Chislett Lane, so free and so fleet,
Rides Smuggler Bill, and away to Up Street;
Sarre Bridge is won Bill thinks it fun;
“Ho! ho! the old tub-gauging son of a gun
His wind will be thick, and his breeks be thin,
Ere a race like this he may hope to win!”
Away, away, Goes the fleet dapple-gray,
Fresh as the breeze and free as the wind,
And Exciseman Gill lags far behind.
"I would give my soul," quoth Exciseman Gill,
“For a nag that would catch that Smuggler Billl-


368
THE SMUGGLER'S LEAP.
No matter for blood, no matter for bone,
No matter for color, bay, brown, or roan,
So I had but one!” A voice cried, “Done !"
“Ay, dun,” said Exciseman Gill, and he spied
A Custom-house officer close by his side,
On a high-trotting horse with a dun-colored hide.-
“ Devil take me," again quoth Exciseman Gill,
“If I had but that horse, I'd have Smuggler Bill!"
From his using such shocking expressions, it's plain
That Exciseman Gill was rather profane.
He
was, it is true, As bad as a Jew,
A sad old scoundrel as ever you knew,
And he rode in his stirrups sixteen stone two.
-He'd just uttered the words which I've mentioned to you,
When his horse coming slap on his knees with him, threw
Him head over heels, and away he flew,
And Exciseman Gill was bruised black and blue.
When he arose His hands and his clothes
Were as filthy as could be, he'd pitched on his nose,
And rolled over and over again in the mud,
And his nose and his chin were all covered with blood;
Yet he screamed with passion, “I'd rather grill
Than not come up with that Smuggler Bill !"
-"Mount! Mount !" quoth the Custom-house officer, “get
On the back of my Dun, you'll bother him yet.
Your words are plain, though they're somewhat rough,
'Done and Done' between gentlemen's always enough!
I'll lend you a lift—there—you're up on him—80,
He's a rum one to look at-a devil to go!"
Exciseman Gill Dashed up the hill,
And marked not, so eager was he in pursuit,
The queer Custom-house officer's queer-looking boot.
Smuggler Bill rides on amain,
He slacks not girth and he draws not rein,
Yet the dapple-gray mare bounds on in vain,
For nearer now—and he hears it plain-
Sounds the tramp of a horse" 'Tis the Gauger again!"
|


A LEGEND OF THANET.
369
Smuggler Bill Dashes round by the mill
That stands near the road upon Monkton Hill,-
“Now speed, -now speed, My dapple-gray steed,
Thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need!
O’er Monkton Mead, and through Minster Level,
We'll baffle him yet, be he gauger or devil !
For Manston Cave, away! away!
Now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-gray!
It shall never be said that Smuggler Bill
Was run down like a hare by Exciseman Gill !
Manston Cave was Bill's abode;
A mile to the north of the Ramsgate road.
(Of late they say It's been taken away,
That is, levelled and filled up with chalk and clay,
By a gentleman there of the name of Day.)
Thither he urges his good dapple-gray;
And the dapple-gray steed, Still good at need,
Though her chest it pants, and her flanks they bleed,
Dashes along at the top of her speed;
But nearer and nearer Exciseman Gill
Cries, "Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill !"
Smuggler Bill he looks behind,
And he sees a Dun horse come swift as the wind,
And his nostrils smoke and his eyes they blaze
Like a couple of lamps on a yellow post-chaise !
Every shoe he has got · Appears red-hot !
And sparks round his ears snap, crackle, and play,
And his tail cocks up in a very odd way;
Every hair in his mane seems a porcupine's quill,
And there on his back sits Exciseman Gill,
Crying, “Yield thee! now yield thee, thou Smuggler Bill!”
Smuggler Bill from his holster drew
A large horse-pistol, of which he had two,
Made by Nock; He pulled back the cock
As far as he could to the back of the lock;
The trigger he touched, and the welkin rang
To the sound of the weapon, it made such a bang;
24


370
THE SMUGGLER’S LEAP.
Smuggler Bill ne'er missed his aim,
The shot told true on the Dun—but there came
From the hole where it entered—not blood, but flame!
-He changed his plan, And fired at the man;
But his second horse-pistol flashed in the pan!
And Exciseman Gill, with a hearty good-will,
Made a grab at the collar of Smuggler Bill.
1
1
The dapple-gray mare made a desperate bound
When that queer Dun horse on her flank she found,-
Alack! and alas! on what dangerous ground!
It's enough to make one's flesh to creep,
To stand on that fearful
verge,
and
peep
Down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep,
Where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep,
O'er which that steed took that desperate leap!
It was so dark then under the trees,
No horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese
Down they went-o'er that terrible fall,-
Horses, Exciseman, Smuggler, and all'!!
1
!
Below were found Next day on the ground
By an elderly gentleman walking his round
(I wouldn't have seen such a sight for a pound),
All smashed and dashed, three mangled corses,
Two of them human,—the third was a horse's
That good dapple-gray, and Exciseman Gill
Yet grasping the collar of Smuggler Bill !
But where was the Dun? that terrible Dun?
From that terrible night he was seen by none !-
There are some people think, though I am not one,
That part of the story all nonsense and fun,
But the country-folks there One and all declare,
When the “Crowner's 'Quest” came to sit on the pair,
They heard a loud Horse-laugh up in the air !
-If in one of the trips Of the steamboat Eclipse
You should go down to Margate to look at the ships,
Or to take what the bathing-room people call “ Dips,"



· The shot told true on the Dun-but there came
From the hole where it entered—not blood, but flame!"
p. 370.





A LEGEND OF THANET.
371
You may hear old folks talk Of that quarry of chalk;
Or go over—it's rather too far for a walk,
But a three-shilling drive will give you a peep
At that fearful chalk-pit, so awfully deep,
Which is called to this moment “The Smuggler's Leap."
Nay more.— I am told, on a moonshiny night,
If you're "plucky,” and not over subject to fright,
And go and look over that chalk-pit white,
You may see, if you will, The Ghost of Old Gill
Grappling the Ghost of Smuggler Bill,
And the Ghost of the dapple-gray lying between 'em.-
I'm told so, I can't say I know one who's seen 'em!
MORAL.
And now, gentle Reader, one word ere we part,-
Just take a friend's counsel, and lay it to heart.
Imprimis, don't smuggle !-if, bent to please Beauty,
You must buy French lace, purchase what has paid duty!
Don't use naughty words, in the next place; and ne'er in
Your language adopt a bad habit of swearing!
Never
say
“ Devil take me!"
Or “shake mé!” or “bake me!"
Or such-like expressions :-Remember Old Nick
To take folks at their word is remarkably quick.
Another sound maxim I'd wish you to keep
Is, “Mind what you're after, and-Look ere you leap!"
Above all, to my last gravest caution attend :
NEVER BORROW A HORSE YOU DON'T KNOW, OF A FRIEND !!
For the story which succeeds I am indebted to Mrs. Both-
erby. She is a Shropshire lady by birth, and I overheard her
a few weeks since, in the nursery, chanting the following, one
of the Legends peculiar to her native county, for the amuse-
Ta


372
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
ment and information of Seaforth's little boy, who was indeed
“all ears.” As Ralph de Diceto, who alludes to the main
facts, was Dean of St. Paul's in 1183, about the time that the
Temple Church was consecrated, the history is evidently as
ancient as it is authentic, though the author of the present par-
aphrase has introduced many unauthorized as well as “anach-
ronismatical interpolations." For the interesting note on the
ancient family of Ketch, I need scarcely say, I am obliged to
the Simpkinson.
Bloudie Jacke of Shrewsberrie.
THE SHROPSHIRE BLUEBEARD.
A LEGEND OF “THE PROUD SALOPIANS."
Hisce ferè temporibus, in agro Salopiensi, Quidam, cui nomen Johannes, Le Sang-
launt deinde nuncupatus, uxores quamplurimas ducit, enecat et (ita referunt) mandu-
cat; ossa solùm cani miræ magnitudinis relinquens. Tum demùm in flagrante delicto,
vel “manu rubrâ,” ut dicunt Jurisconsulti, deprensus, carnifice vix opprimitur.-RA-
DULPHUS DE DICETO.
H! why doth thine eye gleam so bright,
Bloudie Jacke?
Oh! why doth thine eye gleam so bright?
The Mother's at home, The Maid may not roam;
She never will meet thee to-night,
By the light
Of the moon-it's impossible,
-quite !
Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright,
Bloudie Jacke!
gleams with a fiendish delight.-
“'Tis done She is won!
Nothing under the sun
Can loose the charmed ring, though it's slight!
Ho! ho!
It fits so remarkably tight!"


374
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
Mary Anne is gone over the lea,
Bloudie Jacke!
Mary Anne she is come to the Tower!
But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail,
A deal more than a fair Lady's bower,
So sour
Its ugly gray walls seem to lower.
For the Barbican’s massy and high,
Bloudie Jacke!
And the oak door is heavy and brown;
And with iron it's plated And machicolated,
To pour boiling oil and lead down;
How you'd frown
Should a ladleful fall on your crown!
The rock that it stands on is steep,
Bloudie Jacke!
To gain it one's forced for to creep;
The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long,
And the water runs all round the Keep;
At a peep
You can see that the Moat's very deep!
The Drawbridge is long, but it's down,
Bloudie Jacke!
And the Portcullis hangs in the air;
And no Warder is near, With his horn and his spear,
To give notice when people come there.-
I declare
Mary Anne has run into the Square!
The oak door is heavy and brown,
Bloudie Jacke!
But the oak door is standing ajar,
And no one is there To say, "Pray take a chair,
You seem tired, Miss, with running so far
So you are
With grown people you're scarce on a par!"


A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE.
375
But the young Mary Anne is not tired,
Bloudie Jacke!
She roams o'er your Tower by herself;
She runs through, very soon, Each boudoir and saloon, ,
And examines each closet and shelf,
Your pelf,
All your plate, and your china—and delf.
She looks at your Arras so fine,
Bloudie Jacke!
So rich, all description it mocks;
And she now and then pauses To gaze at your vases,
Your pictures, and or-molu clocks;
Every box,
Every cupboard and drawer, she unlocks.
She looks at the paintings so rare,
Bloudie Jacke!
That adorn every
wall in
your
house;
Your impayable pieces, Your Paul Veroneses,
Your Rembrandts, your Guidos, and Dows,
Morland's Cows,
Claude's Landscapes,--and Landseer's Bow-wows.
She looks at your Statues so fine,
Bloudie Jacke!
And mighty great notice she takes
Of
your Niobe crying Your Mirmillo dying,
Your Hercules strangling the snakes, -
How he shakes
The nasty great things as he wakes!
Your Laocoon, his serpents and boys,
Bloudie 7acke!
She views with some little dismay;
A copy of that I can See in the Vatican,
Unless the Pope's sent it away,


376
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
As they say,
In the Globe, he intended last May.*
There's your Belvidere Phoebus, with which,
Bloudie Jacke!
Mr. Milman says none other vies.
(His lines on Apollo Beat all the rest hollow,
And gained him the Newdigate prize.)
How the eyes
Seem watching the shaft as it flies !
There's a room full of satins and silks,
Bloudie 7acke!
There's a room full of velvet and lace,
There are drawers full of rings
And a thousand fine things,
And a splendid gold watch with a case
O'er its face,
Is in every room in the place.
There are forty fine rooms on a floor,
Bloudie Jacke!
And every room fit for a Ball,
It's so gorgeous and rich, With so lofty a pitch,
And so long, and so broad, and so tall;
Yes, all,
Save the last one and that's
very
small !
It boasts not stool, table, or chair,
Bloudie Jacke!
But one Cabinet, costly and grand,
Which has little gold figures Of little gold Niggers,
With fishing-rods stuck in each hand.-
It's japanned,
And it's placed on a splendid buhl stand.
* “The Pope is said this fact is hardly credible-to have sold the Laocoon and the
Apollo Belvidere to the Emperor of Russia for nine millions of francs."--Globe and
Traveller.


A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE.
377
Its hinges and clasps are of gold,
Bloudie Jacke!
And of gold are its keyhole and key,
And the drawers within Have each a gold p
And they're numbered with 1, 2, and 3;
You
may
All the figures in gold filigree!
see
Number 1's full of emeralds green,
Bloudie Jacke!
Number 2’s full of diamonds and pearl ;
But what does she see In drawer Number 3
That makes all her sensės to whirl,
Poor Girl!
And each lock of her hair to uncurl?
Wedding fingers are sweet pretty things,
Bloudie Jacke!
To salute them one eagerly strives,
When one kneels to “propose”-
It's another quelque chose
When, cut off at the knuckles with knives,
From our wives,
They are tied up in bunches of fives.
Yet there they lie, one, two, three, four!
Bloudie Jacke!
There lie they, five, six, seven, eight!
And by them, in rows, Lie eight little Great-Toes,
To match in size, color, and weight!
From their state,
• It would seem they'd been severed of late.
Beside them are eight Wedding-rings,
Bloudie Jacke!
And the gold is as thin as a thread-
“Ho! ho!-She is mine- This will make
up
the Nine!”
Dear me! who those shocking words said ?-
-She fled
To hide herself under the bed.


378
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
But, alas! there's no bed in the room,
Bloudie Jacke!
And she peeps from the window on high ;
Only fancy her fright At the terrible sight
Down below, which at once meets her eye!
“Oh my!!”
She half uttered,—but stifled her cry.
6
1
For she saw it was You and your Men,
Bloudie Jacke!
And she heard your unpleasant “Haw! haw!”.
While her sister, stone dead, By the hair of her head
O'er the bridge you were trying to draw,
As she saw
A thing quite contra-ry to law !
1
Your man has got hold of her heels,
Bloudie Jacke!
Bloudie Jackel you've got hold of her hair !-
But nor Jacke nor his Man Can see young Mary Anne,
She has hid herself under the stair,
And there
Is a horrid great Dog, I declare!
His eyeballs are bloodshot and blear,
Bloudie Jacke!
He's a sad ugly cur for a pet;
He seems of the breed Of that “Billy,” indeed,
Who used to kill rats for a bet;
-I forget
How many one morning he ate.
He has skulls, ribs, and vertebræ there,
Bloudie Jacke!
And thigh-bones ;-and, though it's so dim,
Yet it's plain to be seen
He has picked them quite clean,—
She expects to be torn limb from limb,
So grim
He looks at her-and she looks at him.


A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE.
379
She has given him a bun and a roll,
Bloudie Jacke!
She has given him a roll and a bun,
And a Shrewsbury cake Of Pailin's* own make,
Which she happened to take ere her run
She begun-
She'd been used to a luncheon at One.
It's "
a pretty particular Fix,"
Bloudie Jacke!
-Above,-there's the Maiden that's dead;
Below-growling at her- There's that Cannibal Cur
Who at present is munching her bread,
Instead
Of her leg,-or her arm,-or her head.
It's “a pretty particular Fix,"
Bloudie Jacke!
She is caught like a mouse in a trap ;-
Stay !—there's something, I think,
That has slipped through a chink,
And fall'n, by a singular hap,
Slap
Into poor little Mary Anne's lap!
It's a very fine little gold ring,
Bloudie Jacke!
Yet, though slight, it's remarkably stout,
But it's made a sad stain, Which will always remain
On her frock—for Blood will not wash out,
I doubt
Salts of Lemon won't bring it about!
She has grasped that gold ring in her hand,
Bloudie Jacke!
In an instant she stands on the floor,
She makes but one bound O’er the back of the hound,
And a hop, skip, and jump to the door,
* Oh, Pailin! Prince of cake-compounders! the mouth liquefies at thy very name
but there!


380
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
And she's o'er
The drawbridge she'd traversed before !
:
Her hair's floating loose in the breeze,
Bloudie Jacke!
For gone is her “bonnet of blue.”
-Now the Barbican's past !– Her legs "go it” as fast
As two drumsticks a-beating tattoo,
As they do
At Réveille, Parade, or Review!
She has run into Shrewsbury town,
Bloudie Jacke!
She has called out the Beadle and May'r,
And the Justice of Peace, And the Rural Police,
Till “ Battle Field” swarms like a Fair,-
And see there!
E'en the Parson's beginning to swear!!
There's a pretty to-do in your Tower,
Bloudle 7acke!
In
your Tower there's a pretty to-do !
All the people of Shrewsbury
Playing old gooseberry
With your
choice bits of taste and vertu ;
Each bijou
Is upset in their search after you !
They are playing the deuce with your things,
Bloudie Jacke!
There's your Cupid is broken in two,
And so too, between us, is Each of your Venuses,
The “Antique” one you bought of the Jew,
And the new
One, George Robins swears came from St. Cloud.





A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE.
381
The CALLIPYGE's injured behind,
Bloudie Jacke!
The DE MEDICI's injured before!
And the ANADYOMENE 's injured in so many
Places, I think there's a score,
If not more,
Of her fingers and toes on the floor.
They are hunting you up stairs and down,
Bloudie Jacke!
Every person to pass is forbid,
While they turn out the closets And all their deposits-
“There's the dust-hole-come lift up the lid !”—
So they did -
But they could not find where you were hid !
Ah! ah !-they will have you at last,
Bloudie Jacke!
The chimneys to search they begin ;-
They have found you at last 1-
There you are, sticking fast,
With your knees doubled up to your chin,
Though you're thin
-Dear me! what a mess you are in !
What a terrible pickle you're in,
Bloudie Jacke!
Why, your face is as black as your hat!
Your fine Holland shirt Is all over dirt,
And so is your point-lace cravat!
What a Flat
To seek such an asylum as that!
They can scarcely help laughing, I vow,
Bloudie Jacke!
In the midst of their turmoil and strife;
You're not fit to be seen ! -You look like Mr. Kean
In the play where he murders his wife !
On my life
You ought to be scraped with a knife !


382
BLOUDIE JACRE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
They have pulled you down flat on your back,
Bloudie Jacke!
They have pulled you down flat on your back! !
And they smack, and they thwack,
Till your "funny bones" crack
As if you were stretched on the rack,
At each thwack!
Good lack! what a savage attack !
They call for the Parliament Man,
Bloudie Jacke!
And the Hangman, the matter to clinch;
And they call for the Judge, But others cry “Fudge !-
Don't budge, Mr. Calcraft,* an inch !
Mr. Lyncht
Will do very well at a pinch !"
It is useless to scuffle and cuff,
Bloudie Jacke!
It is useless to struggle and bite,
And to kick and to scratch :
You have met with your match,.
And the Shrewsbury Boys hold you tight,
Despite
Your determined attempts to "show fight."
* Jehan de Ketche acted as Provost Marshal to the army of William the Conqueror,
and received from that monarch a grant of the dignity of Hereditary Grand Func-
tionary of England, together with a "croft or parcel of land” known by the name
of the Old Bailie, co. Middx., to be held by him, and the heirs general of his body, in
Grand Serjeantry, by the yearly presentation of "ane hempen cravatte." After re-
maining for several generations in the same name, the office passed, by marriage of
the heiress, into the ancient family of the Kirbys, and thence again to that of Callcraft
(1st Eliz. 1558). Abhorson Callcraft, Esq., of Saffron Hill, co. ddx., the present rep-
resentative of the Ketches, exercised his "function” on a very recent occasion, and
claimed and was allowed the fee of 137d. under the ancient grant as Hangman's
UMages.
ARMS.—1st and 4th, Quarterly, Argent and Sable; in the first quarter a Gibbet of the
second, noosed proper, Callcraft. 20, Sable, three Nightcaps. Argent, tufted Gules, 2
and 1, Ketche. 3d, Or a Nosegay, fleurant, Kirby.
SUPPORTERS.-Dexter : A Sheriff in his pride, robed Gules, chained and collared Or.
Sinister: An Ordinary display proper, wigged and banded Argent, nosed Gules,
MOTTO. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!
† The American Justinian, compiler of the “Yankee Pandects."


A LEGEND OF SHROPSHIRE.
383
They are pulling you all sorts of ways,
Bloudie Jacke!
They are twisting your right leg Nor'west,
And your left leg due South, ,
And your knee's in your mouth,
And your head is poked down on your breast,
And it's prest,
I protest, almost into your chest!
They have pulled off your arms and your legs,
Bloudie Jacke!
As the naughty boys serve the blue flies;
And they've torn from their sockets,
And put in their pockets,
Your fingers and thumbs for a prize;
And your eyes
A Doctor has bottled-from Guy's!*
Your Trunk, thus dismembered and torn,
Bloudie Jacke!
They hew, and they hack, and they chop;
And, to finish the whole, They stick up a pole
In the place that's still called the UUylde Coppe,
And they pop
Your grim gory head on the top!
They have buried the fingers and toes,
Bloudie Jacke!
Of the victims so lately your prey.
From those fingers and eight toes
Sprang early potatoes,
Ladyes' Fyngers" they're called to this day-
So they say
And you usually dig them in May.
* A similar appropriation is said to have been made by an eminent practitioner
of those of the late Monsieur Courvoisier.


384
BLOUDIE JACKE OF SHREWSBERRIE.
What became of the dear little girl,
Bloudie Jacke!
What became of the young Mary Anne ?
Why, I'm sadly afraid That she died an Old Maid,
For she fancied that every Young Man
Had a plan
To trepan her like “poor Sister Fan!”
So they say she is now leading apes,
Bloudie Jacke!
And mends Bachelors' small-clothes, below;
The story is old, And has often been told,
But I cannot believe it is so-
No! no!
Depend on't the tale is "No Go!"
MORAL.
And now for the moral I'd fain,
Bloudie Jacke!
That
young
Ladies should draw from my pen :-
It's—Don't take these flights Upon moonshiny nights
With
gay,
harum-scarum young men,
Down a glen --
You really can't trust one in ten!
Let them think of your terrible tower,
Bloudie Jacke!
And don't let them liberties take,
Whether Maidens or Spouses, In Bachelors' houses;
Or, some time or another, they'll make
A Mistake,
And lose-more than a Shrewsberrie Cake!


A LEGEND OF NORFOLK.
385
HER niece, of whom I have before made honorable mention,
is not a whit behind Mrs. Botherby in furnishing entertainment
for the young folks. If little Charles has the aunt to sol fa
him to slumber, Miss Jenny is equally fortunate in the posses-
sion of a Sappho of her own. It is to the air of " Drops of
Brandy" that Patty has adapted her version of a venerable
ditty which we have all listened to with respect and affection
under its old title of
The Babes in the wood;
OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY.
AN OLD SONG TO A NEW TUNE.
WH
HEN we were all little and good,-
A long time ago, I'm afraid, Miss,
We were told of the Babes in the Wood,
By their false, cruel Uncle betrayed, Miss.
Their Pa was a Squire, or a Knight';
In Norfolk, I think, his estate lay-
That is, if I recollect right,
For I've not read the history lately.*
Rum ti, etc.
Their Pa and their Ma being seized
With a tiresome complaint, which, in some seasons,
People are apt to be seized
With who're not on their guard against plum seasons,
Their medical man shook his head,
As he could not well get to the root of it;
* See Bloomfield's History of the County of Norfolk, in which all the particulars
of this lamentable history are (or ought to be) fully detailed, together with the names
of the parties, and an elaborate pedigree of the family.
25


386
TAE BABES IN THE WOOD.
And the Babes stood on each side the bed,
While their Uncle he stood at the foot of it.
“Oh, Brother!" their Ma whispered, faint
And low, for breath seeming to labor, “who'd
Think that this horrid complaint,
That's been going about in the neighborhood,
Thus should attack me,-nay more,
My poor husband besides, and so fall on him!
Bringing us so near to Death's door
That we can't avoid making a call on him!
“Now think, 'tis your sister invokes
Your aid, and the last word she says is,
Be kind to those dear little folks
When our toes are turned up to the daisies !
By the servants don't let them be snubbed;
Let Jane have her fruit and her custard ;
And mind Johnny's chilblains are rubbed
Well with Whitehead's best essence of mustard.
“You know they'll be pretty well off in
Respect to what's called 'worldly gear,'
For John, when his Pa's in his coffin,
Comes in to three hundred a year;
And Jane's to have five hundred pound
On her marriage paid down, ev'ry penny,
So you'll own a worse match might be found,
Any day in the week, than our Jenny!”
Here the Uncle pretended to cry,
And, like an old thorough-paced rogue, he
Put his handkerchief
up
to his
eye,
And devoted himself to Old Bogey
If he did not make matters all right;
And said, should he covet their riches,
He“ wished the Old Gentleman might
Fly away with him, body and breeches !”


A LEGEND OF NORFOLK.
387
No sooner, however, were they
Put to bed with a spade by the sexton,
Than he carried the darlings away
Out of that parish into the next one,
Giving out he should take them to town,
And select the best school in the nation,
That John might not grow up a clown,
But receive a genteel education.
“ Greek and Latin old twaddle I call !"
Says he; "while his mind's ductile and plastic,
I'll place him at Dotheboys Hall,
Where he'll learn all that's new and gymnastic.
While Jane-as, when girls have the dumps,
Fortune-hunters by scores to entrap 'em rise
Shall go to those worthy old frumps,
The two Misses Tickler of Clapham Rise!”
Having thought of the How and the When
To get rid of his nephew and niece,
He sent for two ill-looking men,
And he gave them five guineas apiece.-
Says he, “ Each of you take
On the
crupper,
and when
you
have trotted
Some miles through that wood lone and wild,
Take
your
knife out and cut its carotid !"
up a child
"Done!” and “Done!" is pronounced on each side,
While the poor little dears are delighted
To think they a-cockhorse shall ride,
And are not in the least degree frighted.
They say their “Tal tal" as they start,
And they prattle so nice on their journey
That the rogues themselves wish to their heart
They could finish the job by attorney.
Nay, one was so taken aback
By seeing such spirit and life in them,
That he fairly exclaimed, " I say, Jack,
I'm blowed if I can put a knife in them !”-


.
THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
388
"Pooh!" says his pal," you great dunce!
You've pouched the good gentleman's money,
So out with your whinger at once,
And scrag Jane, while I spiflicate Johnny.”
He refused, and harsh language ensued,
Which ended at length in a duel,
When he that was mildest in mood
Gave the truculent rascal his gruel ;
The Babes quake with hunger and fear,
While the ruffian his dead comrade, Jack, buries;
Then he cries, "Loves, amuse yourselves here
With the hips, and the haws, and the blackberries !
“I'll be back in a couple of shakes,
So don't, dears, be quivering and quaking;
I'm going to get you some cakes,
And a nice buttered roll that's a-baking !"
He rode off with a tear in his
eye,
Which ran down his rough cheek, and wet it,
As he said to himself with a-sigh,
Pretty souls !-don't they wish they may get it!!”
From that moment the Babes ne'er caught sight
Of the wretch who thus sought their undoing,
But passed all that day and that night
In wandering about and “boo-hoo”-ing.
The night proved cold, dreary, and dark,
So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings,
Next morn they were found stiff and stark,
And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.
These two little birds it sore grieves
To see what so cruel a dodge I call,
They cover the bodies with leaves,
An interment quite ornithological ;
It might more expensive have been,
But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em,
If among those in all Kensal Green
You could find a more neat Mausoleum.


A LEGEND OF NORFOLK.
389
Now, whatever your rogues may suppose,
Conscience always makes restless their pillows,
And Justice, though blind, has a nose
That sniffs out all concealed peccadilloes.
The wicked old Uncle, they say,
In spite of his riot and revel,
Was hippish and qualmish all day,
And dreamt all night long of the devil.
He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour,
And his brow, once so smooth and so placid,
Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour,
And whatever he swallowed turned acid.
The neighbors thought all was not right,
Scarcely one with him ventured to parley,
And Captain Swing came in the night,
And burnt all his beans and his barley.
1
There was hardly a day but some fox
Ran away with his geese and his ganders:
His wheat had the mildew, his flocks
Took the rot, and his horses the glanders;
His daughters drank rum in their tea,
His
son,
who had
gone
for a sailor,
Went down in a steamer at sea,
And his wife ran away with a tailor!
It was clear he lay under a curse;
None would hold with him
any communion;
Every day matters grew worse and worse,
Till they ended at length in The Union;
While his man being caught in some fact
(The particular crime I've forgotten),
When he came to be hanged for the act,
Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.
Understanding the matter was blown,
His employer became apprehensive
Of what, when 'twas more fully known,
Might ensue-he grew thoughtful and pensive;


390
THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
He purchased some sugar of lead,
Took it home, popped it into his porridge,
Ate it up, and then took to his bed,
And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.
MORAL.
Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word
That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages
In the dog-days, don't be so absurd
As to blow yourself out with Green-gages !
Of stone-fruits in general be shy,
And reflect it's a fact beyond question
That Grapes, when they're spelt with an i,
Promote anything else but digestion.-
-When you set about making your will,
Which is commonly done when a body's ill,
Mind and word it with caution and skill,
And avoid, if you can, any codicil !
When once you've appointed an heir
To the fortune you've made, or obtained, ere
You leave a reversion beware
Whom you place in contingent remainder!
Executors, Guardians, and all
Who have children to mind, don't ill treat them,
Nor think that, because they are small
And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them;
Remember that “ill-gotten goods
Never thrive;" their possession's but cursory,
So never turn out in the woods
Little folks you should keep in the nursery.
Be sure he who does such base things
Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamor;
His "riches will make themselves wings,"
And his property come to the hammer!
Then He, and not those he bereaves,
Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings,
When he finds himself smothered with leaves
(Of fat catalogues) heaped up by Robins !


A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
391
The incidents recorded in the succeeding Legend were com-
municated to a dear friend of our family by the late lamented
Sir Walter Scott. The names and localities have been
scrupu-
lously retained, as she is ready to testify. The proceedings in
this case are, I believe, recorded in some of our law reports,
though I have never been able to lay my hand
upon
them.
The Dead Drummer.
A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
OH, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,
At least so I've heard many people declare,
For I fairly confess I never was there;-
Not a shrub nor a tree Nor a bush can you see;
No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,
Much less a house or a cottage, for miles ;-
It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain
When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.
Now, I'd have you to know That a great while ago,
The best part of a century, may be, or so, -
Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,
A couple of Travellers, way-worn and weary,
Were making their way; Their profession, you'd say,
At a single glance did not admit of a query;
The pump-handled pig-tail, and whiskers worn then,
With scarce an exception, by sea-faring men,
The jacket,—the loose trousers "bowsed up together"-all
Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall, -
The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,
Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,
And showed in a moment their real characters
(The accent so placed on this word by our Jack-Tars).
The one in advance was sturdy and strong,
With arms uncommonly bony and long,


392
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
And his Guernsey shirt Was all pitch and dirt,
Which sailors don't think inconvenient or wrong.
He was very broad-breasted, And very deep-chested;
His sinewy frame correspond with the rest did,
Except as to height, for he could not be more
At the most, you would say, than some five feet four,
And, if measured, perhaps had been found a thought lower.
Dame Nature, in fact,—whom some person or other,
-A poet,—has called a “capricious stepmother,”
You saw, when beside him, Had somehow denied him
In longitude what she had granted in latitude.
A trifling defect You'd the sooner detect
From his having contracted a stoop in his attitude.
Square-built and broad-shouldered, good-humored and gay,
With his collar and countenance open as day
The latter—'twas marked with small-pox, by the way-
Had a sort of expression good-will to bespeak;
He'd a smile in his eye, and a quid in his cheek!
And, in short, notwithstanding his failure in height,
He was just such a man as you'd say, at first sight,
You would much rather dine, or shake hands, with than fight.
The other, his friend and companion, was taller,
By five or six inches, at least, than the smaller ;-
From his air and his mien It was plain to be seen
That he was, or had been, A something between
The real “ Jack Tar” and the “Jolly Marine.”
For, though he would give an occasional hitch,
Sailor-like, to his “slops,” there was something the which
On the whole savored more of the pipeclay than pitch.-
Such were now the two men who appeared on the hill,
Harry Waters the tall one, the short Spanking Bill.
To be caught in the rain, I repeat it again,
Is extremely unpleasant on Salisbury Plain ;
And when with a good soaking shower there are blended
Blue lightnings and thunder, the matter's not mended;
Such was the case In this wild dreary place,
On the day that I'm speaking of now, when the brace
Of trav'llers alluded to quickened their pace,


A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
393
Till a good steady walk became more like a race
To get quit of the tempest which held them in chase.
Louder, and louder Than mortal gunpowder,
The heav'nly artillery kept crashing and roaring,
The lightning kept flashing, the rain too kept pouring,
While they, helter-skelter, In vain sought for shelter
From what I've heard termed "a regular pelter;"
But the deuce of a screen Could be anywhere seen,
Or an object except that on one of the rises,
An old way-post showed Where the Lavington road
Branched off to the left from the one to Devizes ;
And thither the footsteps of Waters seemed tending,
Though a doubt might exist of the course he was bending,
To a landsman, at least, who, wherever he goes,
Is content, for the most part, to follow his nose;-
While Harry kept “ backing" And
And “filling"-and
"tacking"-
Two nautical terms which, I'll wager a guinea, are
Meant to imply What you, Reader, and I
Would call going zig-zag, and not rectilinear.
But here, once for all, let me beg you'll excuse
All mistakes I may make in the words sailors use
'Mongst themselves on a cruise, Or ashore with the
Jews,
Or in making their court to their Polls and their Sues,"
Or addressing those slop-selling females afloat-women
Known in our navy as oddly-named-boat women.
The fact is, I can't say I'm versed in the school
So ably conducted by Marryat and Poole
(See the last-mentioned gentleman's "Admiral's Daughter");
The grand vade mecum
For all who to sea come,
And get, the first time in their lives, in blue water;
Of course in the use of sea terms you'll not wonder
If I
now and then should fall into some blunder,
For which Captain Chamier, or Mr.T. P. Cooke,
Would call me a “Lubber,” and “Son of a Sea-cook.”


A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
395
Half so queer As this here,
And I'm not
very
clear
But that one of us two has good reason for fear.
You to jaw about drummers with nobody near us! -
I must say as how that I thinks it's mysterus.”
“Oh, mercy !" roared Waters; "do keep him off, Bill!
And, Andrew, forgive !—I'll confess all I-I will!
I'll make a clean breast, And as for the rest,
You may do with me just what the lawyers think best;
But haunt me not thus !—let these visitings cease,
And your vengeance accomplished, Boy, leave me in peace!”
Harry paused for a moment,-then turning to Bill,
Who stood with his mouth open, steady and still,
Began “spinning" what nauticals term a “tough yarn,"
Viz., his tale of what Bill called “this precious consarn."
“It was in such an hour as this,
On such a wild and wintry day,
The forked lightning seemed to hiss,
As now, athwart our lonely way,
When first these dubious paths I tried-
Yon livid form was by my side 1
“Not livid then—the ruddy glow
Of life, and youth, and health it bore !
And bloodless was that gory brow,
And cheerful was the smile it wore,
And mildly then those eyes did shine-
-Those
eyes which now are blasting mine!
“They beamed with confidence and love
Upon my face,-and Andrew Brand
Had sooner feared yon frightened dove
Than harm from Gervase Matcham's hand!
-I am no Harry Waters-men
Did call me Gervase Matcham then.


396
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
“And Matcham, though a humble name,
Was stainless as the feathery flake
From Heaven, whose virgin whiteness came
Upon the newly-frozen lake;
Commander, comrade, all began
To laud the Soldier,-like the Man.
“Nay, muse not, William, I have said
I was a soldier-staunch and true
As any he above whose head
Old England's lion banner flew;
And, duty done, -her claims apart,-
'Twas said I had a kindly heart.
-oh! may
“And years
rolled
on,
and with them came
Promotion Corporal—Sergeant-all
In turn-I kept mine honest fame
Our Colonel's self,—whom men did call
The veriest Martinet-ev'n he,
Though cold to most, was kind to me!
“One morn-
that morning stand
Accursed in the rolls of fate
Till latest time there came command
To carry forth a charge of weight
To a detachment far
away,
-It was their regimental pay !
“And who so fit for such a task
As trusty Matcham, true and tried,
Who spurned the inebriating flask,
With honor for his constant guide ?-
On Matcham fell their choice—and HE,—
*Young Drum,'-should bear him company!
“And grateful was that sound to hear,
For he was full of life and joy,
The mess-room pet--to each one dear
Was that kind, gay, light-hearted boy:
—The veriest churl in all our band
Had aye a smile for Andrew Brand.
8


A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
397
-“Nay, glare not as I name thy name!
That threatening hand, that fearful brow
Relax-avert that glance of flame !
Thou seest I do thy bidding now!
Vexed Spirit, rest |-'twill soon be o'er,-
Thy blood shall cry to Heav'n no more!
"Enough-we journeyed on the walk
Was long, -and dull and dark the day,
And still young Andrew's cheerful talk
And merry laugh beguiled the way;
Noon came, a sheltering bank was there,-
We paused our frugal meal to share.
“Then 'twas, with cautious hand, I sought
To prove my charge secure,-and drew
The packet from my vest, and brought
The glittering mischief forth to view;
And Andrew cried,-No!-'twas not He!
It was THE TEMPTER spoke to me!
“But it was Andrew's laughing voice
That sounded in my tingling ear:
-Now, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice,'
It seemed to say, ' are gauds and gear.
And all that wealth can buy or bring,
Ease, -wassail, worship,-everything!
“No tedious drill, no long parade,
No bugle call at early dawn;
For guard-room bench, or barrack bed,
The downy couch, the sheets of lawn;
And I thy Page,-thy steps to tend,
Thy sworn companion,-servant,-friend !
“He ceased—that is, I heard no more,
Though other words passed idly by,
And Andrew chattered as before,
And laughed—I marked him not-not I.
''Tis at thy choice !' that sound alone
Rang in mine ear-voice else was none.


398
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
6
aye must be!
“I could not eat,—the untasted flask
Mocked my parched lip, I passed it by.
• What ails the man ? he seemed to ask.-
I felt, but could not meet, his eye.-
“'Tis at thy choice!'-it sounded yet,-
A sound I never may forget.
-“. Haste! haste! the day draws on,' I cried,
And, Andrew, thou hast far to go!-
* Hast far to go !' the Fiend replied
Within me,—'twas not Andrew-no!
'Twas Andrew's voice no more 'twas HE
Whose then I was,
and
-“On, on we went;—the dreary plain
Was all around us—we were Here!
Then came the storm,—the lightning, -rain;
No earthly living thing was near,
Save one wild Raven on the wing,
-If that, indeed, were earthly thing !
“I heard its hoarse and screaming voice
High hovering o'er my frenzied head,
"Tis, Gervase Matcham, at thy choice!
But he—the Boy!' methought it said.
--Nay, Andrew, check that vengeful frown, -
I loved thee when I struck thee down!
“ 'Twas done! the deed that damns me-done
I know not how-I never knew ;-
And Here I stood-but not alone,
The prostrate Boy my madness slew
Was by my side-limb, feature, name,
'Twas HE!!-another-yet the same!
"Away! away! in frantic haste
Throughout that live-long night I few-
Away! away !-across the waste, -
I know not how I never knew.-
My mind was one wild blank—and I
Had but one thought, one hope-to fly!


A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
399
“And still the lightning ploughed the ground,
The thunder roared—and there would come
Amidst its loudest bursts a sound
Familiar once it was—A DRUM!
Then came the morn,-and light,-and then
Streets,-houses,--spires,-the hum of men.
“And Ocean rolled before me -fain
Would I have whelmed me in its tide,
At once beneath the billowy main
My shame, my guilt, my crime to hide;
But He was there !—HE crossed
my track,
I dared not pass—HE waved me back!
“And then rude hands detained mesure
Justice had grasped her victim-no!
Though powerless, hopeless, bound, secure,
A captive thrall, it was not so;
"The Frenchman's on the wave!
The press was hot—and I a slave.
“They dragged me o'er the vessel's side;
The world of waters rolled below;
The gallant ship in all her pride
Of dreadful beauty sought her foe;
- Thou saw'st me, William, in the strife
Alack! I bore a charmed life!
They cry,
“In vain the bullets round me fly,
In vain mine eager breast I bare;
Death shuns the wretch who longs to die,
And every sword falls edgeless there!
Still He is near;—and seems to cry,
'Not here, nor thus, may Matcham die! -
“Thou saw'st me on that fearful day,
When, fruitless all attempts to save,
Our pinnace foundering in the bay,
The boat's-crew met a watery grave, —
All, all-save ONE—the ravenous sea
That swallowed all rejected ME!


400
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
“And now, when fifteen suns have each
Fulfilled in turn its circling year,
Thrown back again on England's beach,
Our bark paid off, HE drives me Here!
I could not die in flood or fight-
He drives me HERE !!"-
“And sarve you right!
“What! bilk your commander !-desart—and then rob!
And go scuttling a poor little Drummer-boy’s nob!
Why, my precious eyes! what a bloodthirsty swab!
There's old Davy Jones, who cracks Sailors' bones,
For his jaw-work would never, I'm sure, s'elp me Bob,
Have come for to go for to do sich a job!
Hark ye, Waters,-or Matcham,—whichever's your purser-
name,
T'other, your own, is, I'm sartain, the worser name,-
Twelve
years have we lived on like brother and brother;
Now-your course lays one way, and mine lays another!"-
1
“No, William, it may not be so;
“Blood calls for blood !—'tis Heaven's decree!
And thou with me this night must go,
And give me to the gallows tree!
Ha! see-HE smiles, HE points the way!
On, William, on! no more delay !”
Now Bill, --so the story, as told to me, goes,
And who, as his last speech sufficiently shows,
Was a "regular trump,”—did not like to “turn Nose;"
But then came a thunder-clap louder than any
Of those that preceded, though they were so many;
And hark! as its rumblings subside in a hum,
What sound mingles too? By the hokey-A DRUM!!
I remember I once heard
my
Grandfather say
That some sixty years since he was going that way,


402
THE DEAD DRUMMER.
MORAL.
Avis au Voyageur.
Imprimis.
If you contemplate walking o'er Salisbury Plain,
Consult Mr. Murphy, or Moore, and refrain
From selecting a day when it's likely to rain!
2º.
When trav'lling, don't “flash” Your notes or your cash
Before other people-it's foolish and rash!
3º.
At dinner be cautious, and note well your party!
There's little to dread where the appetite's hearty;
But mind and look well to your purse
and
your
throttle
When you see a man shirking, and passing his bottle!
4º.
If you chance to be needy, Your coat and hat seedy,
In war-time especially never go out
When you've reason to think there's a press-gang
about!
5º.
Don't chatter, nor tell people all that you think,
Nor blab secrets,-especially when you're in drink ;-
But keep your own counsel in all that
you
do !
-Or a Counsel may, some day or other, keep you.
6º.
Discard superstition! and don't take a post,
If you happen to see one at night, for a Ghost !
Last of all, if by choice or convenience you're led
To cut a man's throat or demolish his head,
Don't do't in a thunder-storm-wait for the summer!
And mind, above all things, the Man's NOT A DRUMMER !!


A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).
403
AMONG a bundle of letters I find one from Sucklethumbkin,
dated from London, and containing his version of perhaps the
greatest theatrical Civil War since the celebrated “O. P. row.”
As the circumstances are now become matter of history, and
poor Doldrum himself has been, alas ! for some time the den-
izen of a far different “House,” I have ventured to preserve it.
Perhaps it may be unnecessary to add that my Honorable
friend has of late taken to Poetry, and goes without his cravat.
A Row in an Omnibus (Box).
A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.
Omnibus hoc vitium cantoribus.-HOR.
OL-DRUM the Manager sits in his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
And he says, as he slaps his hand on his knee,
“I'll have nothing to do with Fiddle-de-dee !"-
But Fiddle-de-dee sings clear and loud,
And his trills and his quavers astonish the crowd ;
Such a singer as he You'll nowhere see:
They'll all be screaming for Fiddle-de-dee!”—
“Though Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear,
And his tones are sweet, yet his terms are dear;
The 'glove won't fit !' The deuce a bit.
I shall give an engagement to Fal-de-ral-tit!”
The Prompter bowed, and he went to his stall,
And the green baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And Fal-de-ral-tit sang fol-de-rol-lol;
But scarce had he done When a row” begun,
Such a noise was never heard under the sun.
“Fiddle-de-dee! -Where is he?
He's the Artiste whom we all want to see!
Dol-drum! Dol-drum! Bid the Manager come!
It's a scandalous thing to exact such a sum


404
A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).
For boxes and gallery, stalls and pit,
And then fob us off with a Fal-de-ral-tit!
Deuce a bit! We'll never submit!
Vive Fiddle-de-dee! à bas Fal-de-ral-tit!”
Dol-drum the Manager rose from his chair,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air;
But he smoothed his brow As he well knew how,
And he walked on, and made a most elegant bow,
And he paused, and he smiled, and advanced to the lights,
In his opera hat, and his opera tights;
“Ladies and Gentlemen," then said he,
“Pray, what may you please to want with me?"
“Fiddle-de-dee! - Fiddle-de-dee !"
Folks of all sorts and of every degree,
Snob, and Snip, and haughty Grandee,
Duchesses, Countesses, fresh from their tea,
And Shopmen, who'd only come there for a spree,
Hallooed, and hooted, and roared with glee
“Fiddle-de-dee ! - None but He !-
Subscribe to his terms, whatever they be! -
Agree, agree, or you'll very soon see
In a brace of shakes we'll get up an O.P.!”
66
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a gloomy brow and dissatisfied air,
Looks distrest, And he bows his best,
And he puts his right hand on the side of his breast,
And he says-says he,
“ We can't agree;
His terms are a vast deal too high for me.
There's the rent, and the rates, and the sesses, and taxes—
I can't afford Fiddle-de-dee what he axes.
If you'll only permit Fal-de-ral-tit-
The “Generous Public" cried “Deuce a bit!
Dol-drum !-Dol-drum! We'll none of us come.
It's No Go!--it's ‘Gammon!'-it's all a Hum :'-


A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.
405
You're a miserly Jew !- . 'Cock-a-doodle-do!'
He don't ask too much, as you know so you do-
It's a shame-it's a sin—it's really too bad-
You ought to be 'shamed of yourself—so you had !”
Dol-drum the Manager never before
In his lifetime had heard such a wild uproar.
Dol-drum the Manager turned to flee;
But he says—says he, “ Mort de ma vie !
I shall nevare engage vid dat Fiddle-de-dee !"
Then all the gentlefolks flew in a rage,
And they jumped from the Omnibus on to the Stage,
Lords, Squires, and Knights, they came down to the lights,
In their opera hats, and their opera tights.
Ma'am’selle Cherrytoes Shook to her very toes,
She couldn't hop on, so hopped off on her merry toes ;
And the "evening concluded” with "Three times three !”
Hip-hip!-hurrah! for Fiddle-de-dee!"
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
With a troubled brow and dissatisfied air,
Saddest of men, Sat down, and then
Took from his table a Perryan pen, ,
And he wrote to the “ News"
How Mac Fuze and Tregooze,
Lord Tomnoddy, Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the whole of their tail, and the separate crews
Of the Tags and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,
Had combined Monsieur Fal-de-ral-tit to abuse,
And make Dol-drum agree With Fiddle-de-dee,
Who was not a bit better singer than he.
-Dol-drum declared " he never could see,
For the life of him, yet, why Fiddle-de-dee,
Who in B flat, or C, Or whatever the key,
Could never at any time get below G,
Should expect a fee the same in degree
As the great Burlybumbo who sings double D."
Then slyly he added a little N.B.,
“If they'd have him in Paris he'd not come to me!"


406
A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS (BOX).
The Manager rings, And the Prompter springs
To his side in a jiffy, and with him he brings
A set of those odd-looking envelope things,
Where Britannia (who seems to be crucified) flings
To her right and her left funny people with wings
Amongst Elephants, Quakers, and Catabaw Kings;
And a taper and wax And small Queen's heads in packs,
Which, when notes are too big, you're to stick on their backs.
Dol-drum the Manager sealed with care
The letter and copies he'd written so fair,
And sat himself down with a satisfied air;
Without delay He sent them away,
In time to
appear
in our columns” next day !
Dol-drum the Manager, full of care,
Walked on to the stage with an anxious air,
And peeped through the curtain to see who were there.
There was Mac Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there was Sir Carnaby Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos;
And the green baize rose at the Prompter's call,
And they all began to hoot, bellow, and bawl,
And cry “Cock-a-doodle," and scream and squall
“Dol-drum !-Dol-drum !- Bid the Manager come!”
You'd have thought from the tones
Of their hisses and groans,
They were bent upon breaking his (Opera) bones.
And Dol-drum comes, and he says-says he,
“Pray, what may you please to want with me?”-
Fiddle-de-dee! Fiddle-de-dee!
We'll have nobody give us sol fa but He !
For he's the Artiste whom we all want to see.”
1
}
- Manager Dol-drum says-says he
(And he looks like an owl in “ a hollow beech-tree")
“Well, since I see The thing must be,
I'll sign an agreement with Fiddle-de-dee !"
Then Mac Fuze, and Tregooze, And Jenks of the Blues,
And the Tags, and the Rags, and the No-one-knows-whos,


A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET.
407
Extremely delighted to hear such good news,
Desist from their shrill “Cock-a-doodle-doos."
“ Vive Fiddle-de-dee! Dol-drum and He!
They are jolly good fellows as ever need be!
And so’s Burlybumbo, who sings double D!
And whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!"
So, after all This terrible squall,
Fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree,
And Dol-drum and Fal-de-ral-tit sing small !
Now Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear,
At I can't tell you how
many
thousands a year,
And Fal-de-ral-tit is considered “Small Beer;"
And Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Sports her merry toes,
Dancing away to the fiddles and flutes,
In what the folks call a “ Lithuanian” in boots.
So here's an end to my one, two, and three;
And bless the Queen—and long live She!
And grant that there never again may be
Such a halliballoo as we've happened to see
About nothing on earth but “Fiddle-de-dee!”
WE come now to the rummaging of Father John's stores.
The extracts which I shall submit from them are of the same
character as those formerly derived from the same source, and
may be considered as theologico-historical, or Tracts for his times.
With respect to the first legend on this list, I have to remark
that, though the good Father is silent on the subject, there is
every reason to believe that the “ little curly-wigged” gentle-
man who plays, though passively, so prominent a part in it,
had Ingoldsby blood in his veins. This conjecture is supported
by the fact of the arms of Scroope, impaling Ingoldsby, being
found, as in the Bray case, in one of the windows, and by a very
old marriage-settlement nearly, or quite, illegible, a fac simile
of the seal affixed to which is appended to this true history.


408
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
The Lay of St. Cuthbert;
OR, THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY.
A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et,
hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se con-
vivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: “Veniant igitur omnes de
mones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest !"
Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti,
infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et
vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare
pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus
ex Dæmonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc.-Chronicon de Bolton.
ITS
T'S in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One,
And the roast meat’s brown and the boiled meat's done,
And the barbecued sucking-pig's crisped to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn;
The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice,
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating—they're all ready drest;
But where is the Host, and where is the Guest ?
Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page,
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks, With fidgety looks,
Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunned snowflake, is spread out with care,
And the dais is furnished with stool and with chair,
And plate of orféverie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place. With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace;
Yet where is the Host ? and his convives—where?


A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
409
The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall;
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks,
And he utters—a word that we'll soften to Zooks!”
And he cries, " What on earth has become of them all ?—
What can delay De Vaux and De Saye?
What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay?
What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye ?
Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away?
And De Nokes, and De Styles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey,
And De Roe, And De Doe-
Poynings, and Vavasour, where be they?
Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osborn, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et fils (father and son) ?
Their cards said ' Dinner precisely at one'!
There's nothing I hate, in The world, like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!”
It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves “in a stew,"
And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what to do,
For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,
And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,
And the fish is all spoiled, And the butter's all oiled,
And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there's nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,
And still fidgets, and looks More cross than the cooks,
And repeats that bad word which we've softened to “ Zooks !"
Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily on;
Still nobody's there, No De Roos or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
Or to quaff off a health unto Bolton's Heir,


410
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
That nice little boy who sits there in his chair,
Some four years old, and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly hair,
Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.
*
Again Sir Guy the silence broke,
"It's hard upon Three !—it's just on the stroke!
Come, serve up the dinner !A joke is a joke!”–
Little he deems that Stephen de Hoaques,
Who “his fun," as the Yankees say, everywhere “pokes,”
And is always a great deal too fond of his jokes,
Has written a circular note to De Nokes,
And De Styles, and De Roe, and the rest of the folks,
One and all, Great and small,
Who were asked to the Hall
To dine there and
sup, and wind
up
with a ball,
And had told all the party a great bouncing lie, he
Cooked up, that "the fête was postponed sine die,
The dcar little curly-wigged heir of Le Scroope
Being taken alarmingly ill with the croup!"
When the clock struck Three, And the Page, on his knee,
Said “An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi !"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed-then his language!-Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear !
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly
On a servi,
“Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
-The Devil take them ! and the Devil take thee !
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!!”
* For a full account of this facetious" Chivaler," see the late (oh! that we should
have to say "late!") Theodore Hook's "History of the illustrious Commoners of Great
Britain," as quoted in the Memoirs of John Bragg, Esq., page 344 of the 75th Volume
of the Standard Novels. In the third volume of Sir Harris Nicolas's elaborate account
of the Scroope and Grosvenor controversy, commonly called the “Scrope Roll,” a
Stephen de Hoques, Ecuyer, is described as giving his testimony on the Grosvenor
side.


A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
411
In a terrible fume He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house-and
page, footman, and
groom,
Bounced after their master ; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed Grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,
And in rushed a troop Of strange guests !- such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye-yet-it is not De Sayem
And this is—no, 'tis not-Sir Reginald Braye-
This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey-
But stay !— Where on earth did he get those long nails ?
Why, they're claws !-then-Good Gracious !—they've all of
them tails !
That can't be De Vaux-why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say, a beak !-and he can't keep it still !-
Is that Poynings 2-Oh, Gemini !-look at his feet!!
Why, they're absolute hoofs !-is it gout or his corns
That have crumpled them up so ?-by Jingo, he's horns !
Run! run!—There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et fils (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford—they've all got them on!
Then their great saucer eyes
It's the Father of lies
And his imporun, run! run !—they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections,
And He, at the top there—that grim-looking elf-
Run! run! that's the “muckle-horned Clootie” himself!
And now what a din Without and within!
For the courtyard is full of them. How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin!
Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking.
And then such a lot As together had got !
Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses, -I ween


412
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,
Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid,
Up what's now called the “tottle" of those he surveyed,
There were just-how he proved it I cannot divine-
Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine.
Exclusive of Him Who, giant in limb,
And black as the crow they denominate Jim,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window,-and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear?
Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare
It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet little curly-wigged Heir !
Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!
What words can express The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into ?
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal” his son !
He sobbed and he sighed, 'And he screamed and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,-he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his “ Vicary,
Stamped on the jasey As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were “ hazy,"
"*
* A peruke so named from its inventor. Robert de Ros and Eudo Fitz-Vicari were
celebrated perruquiers, who flourished in the eleventh century. The latter is noticed
in the Battle-Abbey roll, and is said to have curled William the Conqueror's hair when
dressing for the battle of Hastings. Dugdale makes no mention of him, but Camden
says that Humfrey, one of his descendants, was summoned to Parliament, 26 Jan. 25
Edw. I. (1297). It is doubtful, however, whether that writ can be deemed a regular
writ of summons to Parliament, for reasons amply detailed in the "Synopsis of the
British Peerage" (Art. Fitz-John). A writ was subsequently addressed to him as
“Humfry Fitz-Vicari Chivr.” 8 Jan. 6 Edw. II. (1313), and his descendants appear to have
been regularly summoned as late as 5 and 6 of Philip and Mary, 1557–8. Soon after
which Peter Fitz-Vicari dying, s. P. M., this barony went into abeyance between his
two daughters, Joan, married to Henry de Truefit of Fullbottom, and Alice, wife of
Roger Wigram, of Caxon Hall, in Wigton, co. Cumb., Esq., among whose representatives
it is presumed to be still in abeyance.


414
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
And have lashed their bare backs, and—no matter-with
twine,
Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now:
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow!
Bring him back here in safety !-perform but this task,
And I'll give-oh! I'll give you whatever you ask!
There is not a shrine In the County shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,-hasten, in pity!"
- Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies,
“It's a bargain !—but mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI !"
Say, whose that voice? whose that form by his side ?-
That old, old gray man, with his beard long and wide,
In his coarse Palmer's weeds, With his cockle and
beads ? —
And how did he come ?- did he walk ? did he ride?
Oh! none could determine-oh! none could decide;
The fact is, I don't believe any one tried,
For, while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride,
And without a word more, He marched on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir.
-I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepped in between,
With his resolute air and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided, though mild,
“ Come-I'll trouble you just to hand over that child !”
The Demoniac crowd In an instant seemed cowed,
Not one of the crew volunteered a reply;
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk :


A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
415
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, “Don't you wish you may get it ?”
My goodness! the look that the old Palmer gave!
And his frown! 'twas quite dreadful to witness“Why, slave!
You rascal !" quoth he, “This language to ME!!
-At once, Mr. Nicholas, down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wigged boy !—I command it !
Come-none of your nonsense ! you know I won't stand it.”
Old Nicholas trembled; he shook in his shoes,
And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.
“Well, Cuthbert,” said he, “If so it must be
For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye
Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye!
But I'll have in exchange"-here his eye flashed with rage-
“That chap with the buttons: he gave me the Page !"
"Come, come,” the Saint answered, " you very well know
The
young man's no more his than your own to bestow
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick !-no! no!
Cut your stick, sir! come, mizzle! be off with you! go!”
The devil grew hot— “If I do I'll be shot!
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what:
He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not !
Why, you Skinflint, at least You may leave us the feast !
Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode-
Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode-
And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road.
“Go!' mizzle !' indeed! Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know.? 'Go!—I'll be hanged if I do!
He invited us all: we've a right here; it's known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own.
Here, Asmodeus, a slice of that beef; now the mustard -
What have you got ?-oh, apple-pie; try it with custard !”
The Saint made a pause, As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well “up” in the laws,


416
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
And they might be on his side; and then, he'd such claws!
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire,
And give up the victuals—to retrace his path,
And to compromise (spite of the Member for Bath).
So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turned on his heel
He replied, “Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal,
And the
soup á la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel.
As the Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel
I can't well turn you out—'twould be hardly genteel;
But be moderate, pray,-and remember thus much:
Since you're treated as Gentlemen, show yourselves such,
And don't make it late, But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you've finished ; and don't steal the plate,
Nor wrench off the knocker or bell from the gate.
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don't 'lark' with the watch or annoy the police !"
Having thus said his say, That Palmer gray
Took up little Le Scroope and walked coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a “Hip! hip! hurray!"
Then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em,
No care for precedence or common decorum.
Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate, -considered the Belles of the party.
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To “do the polite,” and take wine with Belphegor ;
Here was Morbleu (a French devil) supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan
To " follow the sea ;" and next him Demogorgon;
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ
To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers,
Who'd joined with Medusa to get up “the Lancers."


A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
417
Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his, tail ;
There's Setebos storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie, Said he'd “blacken his eye,”
And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees.
-Ranting and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring,
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling
At any soirée—where they don't let the devil in.
Hark!-as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight
(An hour which our ancestors called “getting late"),
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them. « 'Tis full time," he said,
“For all elderly Devils to be in their bed.
For my own part, I mean to be jogging, because
I don't find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post,
I must call on you, all for one bumper; the toast
Which I have to propose is—OUR EXCELLENT Host !
-Many thanks for his kind hospitality !--may
We also be able To see at our table
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company down stairs at no distant day!
You'd, I'm sure, think me rude If I did not include
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir!
He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say "bless'-
Why, you'll easily guess
May our curly-wigged friend's shadow never be less !"
Nick took off his heel-taps, bowed, smiled with an air
Most graciously grim-and vacated the chair.
Of course the élite Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat;
When a skylarking Imp took the President's seat,
27


418
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
And, requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, “Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!”
-It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!
I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay
To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay.
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was nought to compare with it-Day,
For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole County Declared, through his bounty
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines *
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.
my
For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read
In some Chronicle—whose, has
gone out of head-
That, what with these candles, and other expenses
Which no man would go to if quite in his senses,
He reduced and brought low His property so,
That, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow;
And that, many years after that terrible feast,
Sir Guy, in the Abbey, was living a priest;
And there, in one thousand and-something--deceased.
(It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick,
And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick.")
While, as to young Curly-wig,—dear little Soul,
Would
you know more of him, you must look at “ The Roll,”
Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit,
Commenced in “Thirteen sev'nty-five,”—which took root
* Vide Dugdale's Monasticon, Art. Prioratus de Bolton, in agro Eboracensi.


A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.
419
In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore
That none but his ancestors, ever before,
In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore,
To wit, “ On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or;"
While the Grosvenor averred that his ancestor bore
The same, and Scroope lied like a-somebody tore
Off the simile,-so I can tell you no more,
Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.*
MORAL.
This Legend sound maxims exemplifies--e.g.,
1mo.
Should anything tease you, Annoy, or displease you,
Remember what Lilly says, “ Animum rege !"'+
And as for that shocking bad habit of swearing,
In all good society voted past bearing -
Eschew it! and leave it to dustmen and mobs,
Nor commit yourself much beyond “ Zooks!” or “Odsbobs!"
2do.
When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality,
Mind and observe the most strict punctuality!
For should you come late, And make dinner wait,
And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate,
The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate.
And—though both may, perhaps, be too well-bred to swear-
They'll heartily wish you—I need not say Where.
3tio.
Look well to your Maid-servants !--say you expect them
To see to the children, and not to neglect them!
And, if you're a widower, just throw a cursory
Glance in, at times, when you go near the Nursery.
* It is with the greatest satisfaction that I learn from Mr. Simpkinson this consum-
mation, so devoutly to be wished, is about to be realized, and that the remainder of
this most interesting document, containing the whole of the defendant's evidence,
will appear in the course of the ensuing summer, under the same auspices as the
former portion. We shall look with eagerness for the identification of “Curly-wig."
† Animum rege! qui nisi paret, imperat.-LILLY's Grammar.


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
421
The Lay of St. Aloys.
A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
S. Heloïus in hac urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. Nocte
autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem, qui sarcophagum tegebat, revolvit,
erectumque contra se corpus Sancti spoliare, conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad
se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam con-
stipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat. **** Judex loci sepulchri violatorem
jubet abstrahi, et legali pænæ sententiâ condemnari; sed non laxabatur a Sancto.
Tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, Judex, factâ de vità promissione, absolvit,
deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur demissus quin se vitam
monastericam amplexurum spopondisset.
Greg.: Turnoens: de Gloria Confessorum.
SAINT ALOYS
LAINT ALOYS
Was the Bishop of Blois,
And a pitiful man was he;
He grieved and he pined
For the woes of mankind,
And of brutes in their degree ;-
He would rescue the rat
From the claws of the cat,
And set the poor captive free;
Though his cassock was swarming
With all sorts of vermin,
He'd not take the life of a flea !
Kind, tender, forgiving,
To all things living,
From injury still he'd endeavor to screen 'em,
Fish, flesh, or fowl,—no difference between 'em-
NIHIL PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.
The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,-
A holy man was he!
For Holy Church
He'd seek and he'd search
As a Bishop in his degree.
From foe and from friend
He'd "rap and he'd rend,"
To augment her treasurie.
Nought would he give, and little he'd lend,
That Holy Church might have more to spend-


422
THÈ LAY OF ST. ALOYS.
“Count Stephen ”* (of Blois) “was a worthy Peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all to dear,
And so he called the Tailor lown !”—
Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count,
And he'd overcharged him to half the amount,
He had knocked that Tailor down!
Not for himself !– He despised the pelf;
He dressed in sackcloth, he dined off delf;
And, when it was cold, in lieu of a surtout,
The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.t
Alack! that a man so holy as he,
So frank and free in his degree,
And so good and so kind, should mortal be!
Yet so it is—for loud and clear
From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear,
With solemn swell The deep-toned bell
Flings to the gale a funeral knell;
And hark !-at its sound, As a cunning old hound,
When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps
Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,
So—the little bells all, No matter how small,
From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,
With bell-metal throat Respond to the note,
And join the lament that a prelate so pious is
Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese,
Or, as Blois' Lord May'r Is heard to declare,
“Should leave this here world for to go to that there."
And see, the portals opening wide,
From the Abbey flows the living tide;
Forth from the doors The torrent pours,
Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores,
* Teste Messire Iago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, circiter A.D.
1580. His Biographer, Mr. William Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note,
makes him say “King Stephen," inasmuch as the "worthy peer” subsequently usurped
the crown of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.--Mr. Simpkinson of Bath.
+
Virtute me involvo."-HOR.
“Mea


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
423
This with his chasuble, that with his rosary,
This from his incense pot turning his nose awry,
Holy Father, and Holy Mother,
Holy Sister, and Holy Brother,
Holy Son, and Holy Daughter,
Holy Wafer, and Holy Water,
Every one drest Like a guest in his best,
In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear,
Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair
As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair,
Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair,
And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic, -a
Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.
Through groined arch, and by cloistered stone,
With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown,
Slowly the throng Come passing along,
With many a chant and solemn song,
Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,-
Dies iræ, and De profundis,
Miserere, and Domine dirige nos,
Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all
Commonly chanted by Monks at a funeral,
To secure the defunct's repose,
And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news
Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise,
That he'd better be minding his Ps and his Qs,
And not come too near,--since they can, if they choose,
Make him shake in his hoofs-as he does not wear shoes.
Still on they go, A goodly show,
With footsteps sure, though certainly slow,
Two by two in a very long row;
With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits,
Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots.-
Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold,
Borne by a lad about eighteen years old;
Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre,
Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter.


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
425
And by old and young
The Requiem” was sung:
Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue,
That is, Latin,—I don't think they meddled with Greek-
In short, the whole thing produced-so to speak-
What in Blois they would call a Coup d'æil magnifique !
Yet, surely, when the level ray
Of some mild eve's descending sun
Lights on the village pastor, gray
In years ere ours had well begun-
As there, in simplest vestment clad,
He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree,
In solemn tones,—but yet not sad,
-
Of what Man is—what Man shall be ;
And clustering round the grave, half hid
By that same quiet churchyard yew,
The rustic mourners bend to bid
The dust they loved a last adieu-
- That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen
Upon each briar-bound hillock green,
So calm, so tranquil, so serene,
Gives to the eye a fairer scene,
Speaks to the heart with holier breath,
Than all this pageantry of Death.-
But chacun à son gout—this is talking at random-
We all know “ De gustibus non disputandum !”
So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story,
The Cathedral of Blois - Where the Sainted Aloys
Is by this time, you'll find, “ left alone in his glory.”
“In the dead of the night,” though with labor opprest,
Some mortals” disdain “the calm blessings of rest;"
Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best
To break open a door, or the lid of a chest ;
And the gypsy who close round your premises prowls,
To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls,
Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls,
-So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls,


426
THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.
To
say nothing at all of those troublesome “Swells.”
Who come from the playhouses, "flash kens,” and “hells,"
To pull off people's knockers and ring people's bells.
"*
Well—'tis now the hour ill things have power,
And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views
Have long been in bed and enjoying a snooze ;
Nought is waking Save mischief and “Faking,"
And a few who are sitting up brewing br baking,
When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue,
Who stands in his slippers some six feet two
(A rather remarkable height for a Jew),
Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew,
Into which, during service, he managed to slide himself-
While all were intent on the anthem--and hide himself.
From his lurking-place, With stealthy pace,
Through the “long-drawn aisle" he begins to crawl,
As you see a cat walk on the top of the wall
When it's stuck full of glass, and she thinks she shall fall.
He proceeds to feel For his flint and his steel
(An invention on which we've improved a great deal
Of late years; the substitute best to rely on
's what Jones of the Strand calls his Pyrogeneion);
He strikes with despatch-his Tinder catches -
Now, where is his candle ? and where are his matches ?
'Tis done-they are found !
He stands up, and looks round
By the light of a “dip" of sixteen to the pound !
-What is it now that makes his nerves to quiver,
His hand to shake, and his limbs to shiver ?-
Fear ?—Pooh! it is only a touch of the liver.
All is silent—all is still ;
It's “gammon”—it's “stuff!”—he may do what he will !
Carefully now he approaches the shrine,
*“Nix my dolly, pals, Fake away !"-words of deep and mysterious import in the
ancient language of Upper Egypt, and recently inscribed on the sacred standard of
Mehemet Ali. They are supposed to intimate to the initiated in the art of Abstrac-
tion the absence of all human observation, and to suggest the propriety of making the
best use of their time--and fingers.


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
427
In which, as I've mentioned before, about nine
They had placed in such state the lamented Divine;
-But not to worship-No! no such thing !-
His aim is—TO “PRIG” THE PASTORAL RING !!
Fancy his fright When, with all his might
Having forced up the lid—which they'd not fastened quite-
Of the marble sarcophagus, "all in white"
The dead Bishop started up, bolt upright
On his hinder end, and grasped him so tight
That the clutch of a kite, Or a bulldog's bite
When he's most provoked and in bitterest spite,
May well be conceived in comparison slight,-
And, having thus “tackled” him—blew out his light!!
Oh dear! oh dear! The fright and the fear! -
No one to hear !-nobody near ! -
In the dead of the night!-at a bad time of year ! -
A defunct Bishop squatting upright on his bier,
And shouting so loud that the drum of his ear
He thought would have split as these awful words met it-
“AH! Ha! MY GOOD FRIEND! DON'T YOU WISH YOU MAY
GET IT?”
Oh dear! oh dear! 'Twas a night of fear!
I should just like to know if the boldest man here,
In his situation, would not have felt queer?
The wretched man bawls, and he yells and he squalls,
But there's nothing responds to his shrieks save the walls,
And the desk and the pulpit, the pews and the stalls.
Held firmly at bay, Kick and plunge as he may,
His struggles are fruitless-he can't get away;
He really can't tell what to do or to say,
And, being a Pagan, don't know how to pray,
Till through the east window a few streaks of gray
Announce the approach of the dawn of the day!
Oh, a welcome sight Is the rosy light
Which lovelily heralds a morning bright,


428
THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.
Above all to a wretch kept in durance all night
By a horrid dead gentleman holding him tight,-
Of all sorts of gins that a trespasser can trap,
The most disagreeable kind of a man trap!
-Oh! welcome that bell's Matin chime, which tells
To one caught in this worst of all possible snares,
That the hour is arrived to begin Morning Prayers,
And the Monks and the Friars are coming down stairs !
Conceive the surprise Of the Choir-how their eyes
Are distended to twice their original size, —
How some begin bless,—some anathematize, -
And all look on the thief as Old Nick in disguise.
While the mystified Abbot cries, “ Well !-I declare !-
— This is really a very mysterious affair !-
Bid the bandy-legged Sexton go run for the May'r!”
The May'r and his suite Are soon on their feet
(His Worship kept house in the very same street),-
At once he awakes, “His compliments” makes,
“He'll be up at the church in a couple of shakes!"
Meanwhile the whole Convent is pulling and hauling,
And bawling and squalling, And terribly mauling
The thief whose endeavor to follow his calling
Had thus brought him into a grasp so enthralling.
Now high, now low, They drag “ to and fro,"-
Now this way, now that way, they twist him-but-No!
The glazed eye of St. Aloys distinctly says “ Poh!
You may pull as you please, I shall not let him go!"
Nay, more ;—when his Worship at length came to say
He was perfectly ready to take him away,
And fat him to grace the next Auto-da-fé,
Still closer he prest The poor wretch to his breast,
While a voice-though his jaws still together were jammed-
Was heard from his chest, “ If you do, I'll" here slammed
The great door of the church,—with so awful a sound,
That the close of the good Bishop's sentence was drowned !
Out spake Frère Jehan, A pitiful man,
Oh! a pitiful man was he!
/


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
429
And he wept and he pined For the sins of mankind,
As a Friar in his degree.
Remember, good gentlefolks,” so he began,
“Dear Aloys was always a pitiful man!
That voice from his chest Has clearly exprest
He has pardoned the culprit—and as for the rest,
Before
you
shall burn him-he'll see you all blest !"
The monks, and the Abbot, the Sexton, and Clerk,
Were exceedingly struck with the Friar's remark,
And the Judge, who himself was by no means a shark
Of a Lawyer, and who did not do things in the dark,
But still leaned (having once been himself a gay spark)
To the merciful side,—like the late Allan Park,-
Agreed that, indeed, The best way to succeed,
And by which this poor caitiff alone could be freed,
Would be to absolve him, and grant a free pardon,
On a certain condition, and that not a hard one,
Viz.—“That he, the said Infidel, straightway should ope
His mind to conviction, and worship the Pope,
And 'ev'ry man Jack’in an amice or cope;
And that, to do so, He should forthwith go
To Rome, and salute there his Holiness' toe ;-
And never again Read Voltaire or Tom Paine,
Or Percy Bysshe Shelley or Lord Byron's Cain ;-
His pilgrimage o'er, take St. Francis's habit;
If anything lay about never to 'nab' it;
Or, at worst, if he should light on articles gone astray,
To be sure and deposit them safe in the Monast'ry !"
The oath he took- As he kissed the book,
Nave, transept, and aisle with a thunder-clap shook!
The Bishop sank down with a satisfied look,
And the Thief, released By the Saint deceased,
Fell into the arms of a neighboring Priest !
It skills not now To tell
you
how
The transmogrified Pagan performed his vow;
How he quitted his home, Travelled to Rome,
And went to St. Peter's and looked at the Dome,


430
THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS.
And obtained from the Pope an assurance of bliss,
And kissed—whatever he gave him to kiss-
Toe, relic, embroidery, nought came amiss ;
And how Pope Urban Had the man's turban
Hung up in the Sistine chapel, by way
Of a relic-and how it hangs there to this day.-
Suffice it to tell, Which will do quite as well,
That the whole of the Convent the miracle saw,
And the Abbot's report was sufficient to draw
Ev'ry bon Catholique in la belle France to Blois,
Among others, the Monarch himself, François,
The Archbishop of Rheims, and his “Pious Jackdaw,"
And there was not a man in Church, Chapel, or Meeting-house,
Still less in Cabaret, Hotel, or Eating-house,
But made an oration, And said, “In the nation
If ever a man deserved canonization,
It was the kind, pitiful, pious Aloys.”.
So the Pope says-says he, “ Then a Saint he shall be!”—
So he made him a Saint,--and remitted the fee.
What became of the Pagan I really can't say;
But I think I've been told, When he'd entered their fold,
And was now a Franciscan some twenty days old,
He got up one fine morning before break of day,
Put the Pyx in his pocket-and then ran away.
MORAL.
I think we may coax out a moral or two
From the facts which have lately come under our view.
First-Don't meddle with Saints !—for you'll find if you
do
They're what Scotch people call" kittle cattle to shoe!”
And when once they have managed to take you in tow,
It's a deuced hard matter to make them let go!
Now to you, wicked Pagans !—who wander about,
Up and down Regent Street every night, " on the scout,”—
Recollect the Police keep a sharpish lookout,
* Vide page 164.


A LEGEND OF BLOIS.
431
And if once you're suspected, your skirts they will stick to
Till they catch you at last in flagrante delicto ! -
Don't the inference draw That because he of Blois
Suffered one to bilk “Old father Antic the Law,"
That our May’rs and our Aldermen-and we've a City full-
Show themselves, at our Guildhall, quite so pitiful!
Lastly, as to the Pagan who played such a trick,
First assuming the tonsure, then cutting his stick,
There is but one thing which occurs to me that
Is, - Don't give too much credit to people who “rat!”
-Never forget Early habit's a net
Which entangles us all, more or less, in its mesh;
And “what's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh !"
We must all be aware Nature's prone to rebel, as
Old Juvenal tells us, Naturam expellas
Tamen usque recurret! There's no use making Her rat!
So that all that I have on this head to advance
Is,—whatever they think of these matters in France,
There's a proverb, the truth of which each one allows here, -
“ YOU NEVER CAN MAKE A SILK PURSE OF A SOW'S EAR!”
In the succeeding Legend we come nearer home. Father
Ingoldsby is particular in describing its locality, situate some
eight miles from the Hall-less, if you take the bridle-road by
the Churchyard, and so along the valley by Mr. Fector's
Abbey. In the enumeration of the various attempts to appro-
priate the treasure (drawn from a later source), is omitted one,
said to have been undertaken by the worthy ecclesiastic him-
self, who, as Mrs. Botherby insinuates, is reported to have
started for Dover, one fine morning, duly furnished with all the
means and appliances of Exorcism. I cannot learn, however,
that the family was ever enriched by his expedition.


432
THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY.
The Lay of the old woman clothed
in Gray.
A LEGEND OF DOVER.
Ona
NCE there lived, as I've heard people say,
An “Old Woman clothed in gray,”
So furrowed with care, So haggard her air,
In her eye such a wild supernatural stare,
That all who espied her Immediately shied her,
And strove to get out of her way.
This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill ;
-She sent for the Doctor—he sent her a pill,
And by way of a trial, A two-shilling phial
Of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted,
To which I've professed an abhorrence most rooted.*
One of those draughts they so commonly send us,
Labelled “ Haustus catharticus, mane sumendus ;"–
She made a wry face, And, without saying Grace,
Tossed it off like a dram-it improved not her case.
-The Leech came again; He now opened a vein,
Still the little Old Woman continued in pain.
So her “Medical Man,” although loth to distress her,
Conceived it high time that her Father Confessor
Should be sent for to shrive, and assoilzie, and bless her,
That she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes
“Unanealed and Unhouseled,"—whatever that means.
Growing afraid, He calls to his aid
A bandy-legg'd neighbor, a “ Tailor by trade," I
Tells him his fears, Bids him lay by his shears,
* Vide page 264.
† Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Macbeth's
"Hurly-burly” casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its
kindliest spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator.
| All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our Courts of
justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably
thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the bricklayer, whom he probably pre-*
sumes to be indigenous, and to the Shoemaker, born a Snob.


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
433
His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie
With all possible speed to the Convent hard by,
Requests him to say That he begs they'll all pray
Viz., the whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay,
For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in gray,
Who was just at that time in a very bad way,
And he really believed couldn't last out the day ;-
And to state his desire That some erudite friar
Would run over at once, and examine, and try her ;
For he thought he would find There was "something
behind,"
A something that weighed on the Old Woman's mind, -
“ In fact, he was sure, from what fell from her tongue,
That this little Old Woman had done something wrong."
—Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man,
“Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!”
Now I'd have you to know That this story of woe
Which I'm telling you happened a long time ago ;
I can't say exactly how long, nor, I own,
What particular monarch was then on the throne,
But 'twas here in Old England; and all that one knows is,
It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.*
Inasmuch as the times Described in these rhymes
Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes ;
And if ’mongst the Laity Unseemly gayety
Sometimes betrayed an occasional taint or two,
At once all the Clerics Went into hysterics,
While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two;
So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors,
As since then the breed Of Saints rarely indeed
With their dignified presence have darkened our pew doors.
-Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey,
We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's
eye;
*“An ancient and most pugnacious family," says our Bath Friend. “One of their
descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M.P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentleman, now
defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of
farniture when in a state of excitement. 'Sing old Rose, and burn the bellows !' has
grown into a proverb.
28


436
THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY.
As he ought; but instead, Curiosity-led, -
A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred, -
He contrived to secrete himself under the bed !
-Not that he heard One half, or a third,
Of what passed as the Monk and the Patient conferred,
But he here and there managed to pick up a word,
Such as “Knife,” And "Life,"
And he thought she said “Wife,"
And "Money," that "source of all evil and strife;"*
Then he plainly distinguished the words “Gore” and “ Gash,”
Whence he deemed—and I don't think his inference rash-
She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash!
Intermixed with her moans, And her sighs and her groans,
Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones,
Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft, silver tones,
For somehow it happened- I can't tell you why-
The good Friar's indignation,--at first rather high-
To judge from the language he used in reply,
Ere the old woman ceased, had a good deal gone by;
And he gently addressed her in accents of honey,
Daughter, don't you despair !—WHAT'S BECOME OF
THE MONEY?"
In one just at death's door, it was really absurd
To see how her eye lighted up at that word-
Indeed there's not one in the language that I know
(Save its synonyms “Spanish,” “Blunt," "Stumpy ” and
“Rhino”),
Which acts so direct And with so much effect
On the human sens
nsorium, or makes one erect
One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect-
It's a question with me Which of the three.
Father Basil himself, though a grave S.T.P.
(Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.),
Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legged Tailor, or She,
Caught it quickest—however, traditions agree
That the Old Woman perked up as brisk as a bee. —
* “Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.”
LILLY'S Grammar.


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
437
'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,--the fire
It so often emits when about to expire!
Her excitement began the same instant to flag,
She sank back, and whispered, “Safe 1-Safe in the Bag !!"
Now I would not by any means have you suppose
That the good Father Basil was just one of those
Who entertain views We're so apt to abuse,
As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews,
Who haunt death-bed scenes, By underhand means
To toady or tease people into a legacy, -
For few folk indeed had such good right to beg as he,
Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty,
Not only permits, but enjoins as a duty,
Her sons to take care That, let who will be heir,
The Pontiff shall not be choused out of his share,
Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods
As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's;
Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods, in short, main-
tain principles adverse to statutes of Mortmain;
Besides, you'll discern It, at once, when you learn
That Basil had something to give in return,
Since it rested with him to say how she should burn;
Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all
To uses he named, he could say, “You shan't burn at all,
Or nothing to signify, Not what you'd dignify
So much as even to call it a roast,
But a mere little singeing or scorching at most,-
What many would think not unpleasantly warm,-
Just to keep up appearancemere matter of form.".
All this in her ear He declared, but I fear
That her senses were wand'ring—she seemed not to hear,
Or, at least, understand,—for mere unmeaning talk her
Parched lips babbled now,-such as “Hookey!” and
“ Walker!”
-She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt
If “his Mother were fully aware he was out."


438
THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY.
Now it seems there's a place they call Pugatry—80
I must write it, my verse not admitting the 0–
But as for the venue, I vow I'm perplext
To
say if it's in this world, or if in the next-
Or whether in both-for 'tis very well known
That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own,
In a “tight little Island” that stands in a Lake
Called “Lough-dearg”—that's “The Red Lake,” unless I
mistake
In Fermanagh—or Antrim—or Donegal—which
I declare I can't tell, But I know very well
It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch
(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer,
But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here).
There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare
There's “no differ” at all 'twixt “this here” and “that there,"
That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry
For the separate use of the “finest of pisentry,"
And that his is no more Than a mere private door
From the rez-de-chaussée,-as some call the ground floor,-
To the one which the Pope had found out long before.
But no matter—lay The locale where you may;
-And where it is no one exactly can say
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.
“ Entertainment” there's worse Both for “Man and for
Horse;"
For broiling the souls They use Lord Mayor's coals ;-
Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower.
means
It's by no
SO strong- Mere sloe-leaves to
Souchong,
The “prokers” are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong ;
The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth ;-


"A LEGEND OF DOVER.
439
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,
Made for what's called by Cockneys a “Minor The-âtre,”
Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer,"
Than the “House,” that's so much better lighted and warmer,
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,—
-You understand where, I don't question-down there,
Where in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
The Paving Commissioners use “Good Intentions,”
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen
At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.
To go on with my story, This same Purga-tory
(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory)
Is close locked, and the Pope keeps the key of it—that I can
Boldly affirm-in his desk in the Vatican;
-Not those of St. Peter- These of which I now treat
are
A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater-
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose—nor Bramah.
Now it seems that by these Most miraculous keys
Not only the Pope, but his “clargy,” with ease
Can let people in and out just as they please;
And-provided you "make it all right” about fees,
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt, Had brought matters about,
If the little old woman would but have “spoke out,”
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,
Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets ;
So that after a grill, Or short turn on the Mill,
And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity,"
She'd have rubbed off old scores, Popped out of doors,
And sheered off at once for a happier port,
Like a whitewashed Insolvent that's "gone through the
Court.”


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
441
I've a great mind to try: One can but apply;
If things come to the worst, he can but deny
The sky's rather high, To be sure; but, now I
That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,
I am just in the 'order' which some folks—though why
I am sure I can't tell you-would call apple-pie.'
Then 'never say die; It won't do to be shy,
So I'll tụck up my shroud, and here goes for a fly!"
So said and so done: she was off like a shot,
And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.
When she drew so near That the Saint could see her,
In a moment he frowned, and began to look queer,
And scarce would allow her to make her case clear
Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer,
With "It's all very well—but you do not lodge here!”
Then, calling her everything but “My dear,"
He applied his great toe with some force au derrière,
And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear!
“Alas! poor Ghost!" It's a doubt which is most
To be pitied-one doomed to fry, broil, boil, and roast,
Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post, -
To be all “abroad”—to be "stumped" not to know where
To go-80 disgraced As not to be "placed,"
Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, “ to be nowhere.”
However that be, The affaire was finie,
And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see !
Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes-not the Jew-
That the “hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,”
Having no other sort of asylum in view,
“Returns back again to the place whence she flew,”—
A fact which experience has proved to be true.
Mr. Gray-in opinion with whom Johnson clashes-
Declares that our wonted fires live in our ashes."*
* “Een in our ashes live their wonted fires !"--GRAY.
“A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy
stares !"-JOHNSON.


442
THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY.
These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the Hag,
The first to her mansion, the last to her bag,
When only conceive her dismay and surprise,
As a Ghost how she opened her cold stony eyes,
When there, on the spot where she'd hid her "supplies,"
In an underground cellar of very small size,
Working hard with a spade, All at once she surveyed
That confounded old bandy-legged “ Tailor by trade”!
Fancy the tone of the half moan, half groan,
Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone !
As she stood there, a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,
Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone !
Although, as Macbeth says, “they'd no speculation,"
While she uttered that word Which American Bird,
Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render “ Tarnation !"
At the noise which she made Down went the spade,
And up jumped the bandy-legged “Tailor by trade"
(Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell, her
Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar);
Turning round at a sound So extremely profound,
The moment her shadowy form met his view
He gave vent to a sort of a lengthened “B0-0-ho-o!”—
With a countenance Keeley alone could put on,
Made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone!
Erupit! Evasit! As at Rome they would phrase it-
His flight was so swift the eye scarcely could trace it;
Though elderly, bandy-legged, meagre, and sickly,
I doubt if the Ghost could have vanished more quickly.
He reached his own shop, and then fell into fits,
And it's said never rightly recovered his wits,
While the chuckling old Hag takes his place and there sits !
I'll venture to say She'd sat there to this day, .
Brooding over what Cobbett calls “vile yellow clay,”
Like a vulture, or other obscene bird of prey,
O'er the nestful of eggs she had managed to lay,
If, as legends relate and I think we may trust 'em-her
Stars had not brought her another-guess customer :


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
443
'Twas Basil himself ! Come to look for her pelf,
But not, like the Tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel,
And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel.
Full well he knew Such tools would not do:
Far other the weapons he brought into play,
Viz., a wax taper “hallowed on Candlemas day,”
To light to her ducats; Holy water two buckets
(Made with salt-half a peck to four gallons—which brew's a
Strong triple-X "strike:" see Jacobus de Chusa).
With these, too, he took His bell and his book ;
Not a nerve ever trembled, his hand never shook,
As he boldly marched up where she sat in her nook,
Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look
Which Some may have read of, perchance, in “Nell Cook,"*
AU, in “Martha the Gypsy,” by Theodore Hook.
And now,
for the reason I
gave you before,
Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more,
As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door;
But I've always been told, With respect to the gold
For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold,
That the old Harridan, Who, no doubt, knew her man,
Made some compromise, hit upon some sort of plan,
By which Friar and Ghost were both equally pinned-
Heaven only knows how the "Agreement” got wind;
But its purpose was this, That the things done amiss
By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss,
Provided—“Imprimis, The cash from this time is
The Church’s, impounded for good pious uses--
Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses,
And act as trustee; In the mean time that She,
The said Ghostess,-or Ghost, as the matter may be, -
From 'impediment,'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free,
To sleep in her grave, or to wander, as he,
The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.
Moreover, the whole of the said cash or 'cole'
Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!
* See page 341.


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
445
Basil now, I am told, Walking off with the gold,
Went and straight got the document duly enrolled,
And left the testatrix to mildew and mould
In her sepulchre, cosy, cool, -not to say cold.
But somehow—though how I can hardly divine
A runlet of fine Rich Malvoisie wine
Found its way to the convent that night before nine,
With custards, and "flawns," and a “fayre fiorentine,"
Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;
And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine,
Abbess and all, were invited to dine
At a very late hour,-that is, after Compline,
-Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine
With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine;
Through all the next year, Indeed, 'twould appear
That the convent was much better off as to cheer;
Even Basil himself, as I very much fear,
No longer addicted himself to small beer;
His complexion grew clear, While in front and in rear
He enlarged so, bis shape seemed approaching a sphere.
No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night,
That a servant girl, going down stairs with a light
To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright,
An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite
Her to take, in a manner extremely polite,
With her left hand, a bag she had got in her right;
For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse
Had come back to her scarcely one penny the worse!
The girl, as they say, Ran screaming away,
Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in gray;
But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day,
Sprightly and gay As the bird on the spray,
One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray,
Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our “Swell” beaux,
Was what's, by a metaphor, termed "out at elbows;"
And the fact was, said Knight was now merely delayed
From crossing the water to join the Crusade


446 THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GRAY.
For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade,
By the want of a little pecuniary aid
To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade,
And enable his troop to appear on parade;
The unquiet Shade Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said,
Just the man for her money,-she readily paid
For the articles named, and with pleasure conveyed
To his hands every farthing she ever had made;
But alas ! I'm afraid Most unwisely she laid
Out her cash-the Beaux yeux of a Saracen maid
(Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade)
Converted the gallant converter-betrayed
Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade,
-E’en to worship Mahound !-She required-He obeyed,-
The consequence was, all the money was wasted
On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted ;
So that, after a very short respite, the Hag
Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.
Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on
Seriatim through so many ages bygone,
And to bore you with names Of the Squires and the
Dames
Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack,
But spent the cash so that it always came back;
The list is too long To be given in my song,
There are reasons beside would perhaps make it wrong;
I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days,
When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze,
And showed herself very se vere against heresy,
While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as he
Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy,
Bishop Bonner the bag got, And all thought the Hag
got
Released, as he spent all in fuel and fagot.-
But somehow—though how I can't tell you, I vow-
I suppose by mismanagement-ere the next reign
The Spectre had got all her money again.


A LEGEND OF DOVER.
447
The last time, I'm told, That the Old Woman's gold
Was obtained,
-as before, for the asking,—'twas had
By a Mr. 0-something--from Ballinafad;
And the whole of it, so ʼtis reported, was sent
To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent,
And thus-like a great deal more money-it“ went!"
So 'tis said at Maynooth, But I can't think it's truth;
Though I know it was boldly asserted last season,
Still I can not believe it; and that for this reason,
It's certain the cash has got back to its owner !
-Now no part of the Rent to do 80 e'er was known-or,
In any shape, ever come home to the donor.
GENTLE READER! you must know the proverb, I think-
“To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!"
Which some learned Chap, In a square College cap,
Perhaps, would translate by the words "Verbum Sap!"
-Now should it so chance That you're going to France
In the course of next Spring, as you probably may,
Do pull up, and stay, Pray, If but for a day,
At Dover, through which you must pass on your way,
At the York,-or the Ship,—where, as all people say,
You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay;
Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will pay,
And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.
First DINE!—you can do That on joint or ragoût-
Then say to the waiter, -" I'm just passing through-
Pray,—where can I find out the old Maison Dieu ?”–
He'll show you the street (the French call it a Rue,
But you won't have to give here a petit écu).
Well,—when you've got there,-never mind how you're
taunted,
Ask boldly, “Pray, which is the house here that's haunted ?”
-I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect
The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect


448
RAISING THE DEVIL.
Who call themselves “Friends," and whom others call
Quakers,"
You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's, –
Then go down with a light To the cellar at night!
And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright!
But ask the old Hag, At once, for the bag!
If
you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle,
Say, “Ma'am, I insist !-in the name of St. Basil !”
If she gives it you, seize It, and-do as you please
But there is not a person I've asked but agrees,
You should spend-part at least--for the Old Woman's ease!
-For the rest—if it must go back some day--why-let it!
Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it
May do you some good, and—I WISH YOU MAY GET IT!!!
To whom is the name of Cornelius Agrippa otherwise than
familiar, since a “Magician," of renown not inferior to his own,
has brought him and his terrible “Black Book" again before
the world? That he was celebrated, among other exploits, for
raising the devil, we are all well aware ;-how he performed this
feat, at least one-and that, perhaps, the most certain--method
by which he did it is thus described.
Raising the Devil.
A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.
“A halogra th our new an, abuse where shed
ND hast thou nerve enough ?” he said,
That gray Old Man, above whose head
Unnumbered years had rolled, -
“And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,
6 The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied !
-Art thou indeed so bold ?






WN
Then in his startled pupil's face
He dashed—an Empty Purse!"
P. 449.


A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.
449
“Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze,
Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze
Of that unearthly eye,
That blasts where'er it lights,—the breath
That, like the Simoom, scatters death
On all that yet can die !
1
“ Darest thou confront that fearful form,
That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,
'In wild unholy revel!
The terrors of that blasted brow,
Archangel's once,-though ruined now-
-Ay,—dar’st thou face THE DEVIL ?”
“I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,
And placed him by that Old Man's side,
In fierce and frantic glee,
Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb:
-“No paltry juggling Fiend, but Him,
-THE DEVIL !—I fain would see!
“In all his Gorgon terrors clad,
His worst, his fellest shape !" the Lad
Rejoined in reckless tone.-
_“Have then thy wish !” Agrippa said,
And sighed, and shook his hoary head,
With many a bitter groan.
He drew the mystic circle's bound,
With skull and cross-bones fenced around;
He traced full many a sigil there;
He muttered many a backward pray'r,
That sounded like a curse-
“He comes !”—he cried with wild grimace,
“The fellest of Apollyon's race!”—
-Then in his startled pupil's face
He dashed-an EMPTY PURSE!!
29


450
SAINT MEDARD.
ONE more legend, and then, gentle Reader, “A merry
Christmas to you and a happy New Year!" We have trav-
elled over many lands together, and had many a good-humored
laugh by the way ;-if we have, occasionally, been “more
merry than wise," at least we have not jostled our neighbors
on the road,-much less have we kicked any one into a ditch.
So, wishing you heartily all the compliments of the season,
and thanking you cordially for your good company, I, Thomas
Ingoldsby, bid you heartily farewell, and leave you in that of
1
1
Saint Medard.
A LEGEND OF AFRIC.
1
“Heus tu! inquit Diabolus, hei mihi! fessis insuper humeris reponenda est sarcina;
fer opem quæso!"
“Le Diable a des vices ;-c'est là ce qui le perd. Il est gourmand. Il eut dans cette
minute-là l'idée de joindre l'âme de Medard aux autres âmes qu'il allait emporter.-
Se rejeter en arrière, saisir de sa main droite son poignard, et en percer l'outre avec une
violence, et un rapidité formidable,-c'est ce que fit Medard. Le Diable poussa un
grand cri. Les âmes délivrés s'enfuirent par l'issue que le poignard venait de leur
ouvrir, laissant dans l'outre leurs noirceurs, leurs crimes, et leurs méchancetés," etc. etc.
IN
N good King Dagobert's palmy days,
When Saints were many, and sins were few,
Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested
One evening, and could not tell what to do.
He had been East, and he had been West,
And far had he journeyed o'er land and sea ;
For women and men Were warier then,
And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.
He had been North, and he had been South,
From Zembla's shores unto far Peru,
Ere he filled the sack Which he bore on his back-
Saints were so many, and sins so few!
1


A LEGEND OF AFRIC.
451
The way was long, and the day was hot;
His wings were weary ; his hoofs were sore;
. And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail,
As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore !
The day had been hot, and the way was long;
-Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint, was he;
He lowered his sack, And the heat of his back,
As he leaned on a palni-trunk, blasted the tree !
He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade,
And he gazed, and he grinned in pure delight
As he peeped inside The buffalo's hide
He had sewn for a sack, and had crammed so tight.
For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground,”
And game had been scarce, he might well report
That still he had got A decentish lot,
And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.
He had picked up in France a Maître de danse,-
A Maîtresse en titre,—two smart Grisettes,
A Courtier at play,— And an English Roué
Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.
He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk,
A Quaker,-a Baker,-a Doctor of Laws,-
And a jockey of York- But Paddy from Cork
“Desayed the ould divil,” and slipped through his claws !
In Moscow a Boyar knouting his wife-
A Corsair's crew in the Isles of Greece
And, under the dome Of St. Peter's at Rome,
He had snapped up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.-
He had bagged an Inquisitor fresh from Spain-
A mendicant Friar—of Monks a score,
A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew,
Whom he nabbed while clipping a new Moidore.


452
THE LAY OF ST. MEDARD.
And he said to himself, as he licked his lips,
“ Those nice little Dears !-what a delicate roast !
-Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire,
Dressed like a Woodcock, and served on toast !"
-At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice
Never did mouth water more than Nick's;
But,-alas! and alack ! He had stuffed his sack
So full that he found himself quite“ in a fix;"
For, all he could do, or all he could say,
When, a little recruited, he rose to go,
Alas! and alack ! He could not get the sack
Up again on his shoulders “whether or no!"
Old Nick looked East, Old Nick looked West,
With many a stretch, and with many a strain,
He bent till his back Was ready to crack,
And he pulled, and he tugged, -but he tugged in vain.
Old Nick looked North, Old Nick looked South :
-Weary was Nicholas, weak and faint,-
And he was aware Of an old man there,
In Palmer's weeds, who looked much like a Saint.
Nick eyed the Saint,—then he eyed the Sack-
The greedy old glutton !-and thought, with a grin,
“Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive
To pop that elderly gentleman in !-
For, were I to choose among all the ragoûts
The cuisine can exhibit,-flesh, fowl, or fish,-
To myself I can paint That a barbecued Saint
Would be for my palate the best side-dish !"
Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile,
In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea.
(We call it “Semiramis,” Why not say Pyramis ?-
Why should we change the S into D?)


A LEGEND OF AFRIC.
453
St. Medard he was a holy man,
A holy man I ween was he,
And even by day, When he went to pray,
He would light up a candle, that all might see!
He salaamed to the East,-he salaamed to the West ;-
-Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown,
Were his Palmer's weeds,— And he fingered his beads
With the right side up, and the wrong side down.-
*
*
*
(Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus.)
St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile ;-
He had been living there years fourscore, -
And now, “taking the air, And saying a prayer,”
He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.
Little he deemed—that holy man!
Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,-
When he was aware Of a Stranger there,
Who seemed to have got himself into a fix.
Deeply that Stranger groaned and sighed,
That wayfaring Stranger, grizzly and gray :
“I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!
Oh, lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray !-
“For I have been East, and I have been West,
Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I,
And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome,
Here in this desert I well
may
die !"
1
“Now Heaven thee save!”—Nick winced at the words,
As ever he winces at words divine-
“Now Heaven thee save!- What strength I have,-
It's little, I wis,-shall be freely thine !


454
THE LAY OF ST. MEDARD.
“ For foul befall that Christian man
Who shall fail, in a fix,-woe worth the whilel-
His hand to lend To foe, or to friend,
Or to help a lame dog over a stile !”
-St. Medard hath booned himself for the task:
To hoist up the sack he doth well begin ;
But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels,
For the folks are all curling and kicking within.-
St. Medard paused—he began to “smoke"-
For a Saint,-if he isn't exactly a cat,
Has a very good nose, As this world goes,
And not worse than his neighbor's for “smelling a rat.”
The Saint looked up, and the Saint looked down;
He “smelt the rat," and he “smoked” the trick;
-When he came to yiew His comical shoe,
He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!
He whipped out his oyster-knife, broad and keen-
A Brummagem blade which he always bore,
To aid him to eat, By way of a treat,
The “natives” he found on the Red Sea shore :-
He whipped out his Brummagem blade so keen,
And he made three slits in the buffalo's hide,
And all its contents, Through the rents and the vents,
Came tumbling out,—and away they all hied !
Away went the Quaker-away went the Baker-
Away went the Friar—that fine fat Ghost,
Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick,
Dressed like a Woodcock, and served on toast !
-Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,
And the pretty Grisettes,--and the Dons from Spain-
And the Corsair's crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,-
And they scampered, like lamplighters, over the plain :-


456
THE LAY OF ST. MEDARD.
All these,-and a thousand fine similes more,-
Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read
Recorded in print, May give you a hint
How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's head!
-And it curled, and it twirled, and it whirled in air,
As this great big stone at a tangent flew !
-Just missing his crown, It at last came down
Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe!
Oh! what a yell and a screech were there!
How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar!
-"Oh dear! oh dear!”- You might hear him here,
Though we're such a way off from the Red Sea shore !
It smashed his shin, and it smashed his hoof,
Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe;
And this is the way That, from that same day,
Old Nick became what the French call Boiteux !
Quakers, and Bakers, Grisettes, and Friars,
And Cardinal's Nieces,-wherever ye be,
St. Medard bless; You can scarcely do less
If you of your corps possess any esprit.
And, mind and take care, yourselves,-and beware
How you get in Nick's buffalo bag !-if you do,
I very much doubt If you'll ever get out,
Now sins are so many, and Saints so few !!
MORAL.
Gentle Reader, attend To the voice of a friend !
And if ever you go to Herne Bay or Southend,
Or any gay wat'ring-place outside the Nore,
Don't walk out at eve on the lone sea-shore !
-Unless you're too saintly to care about Nick,
And are sure that your head is sufficiently thick ! -
Learn not to be greedy !-and, when you've enough,
Don't be anxious your bags any tighter to stuff-


A LEGEND OF AFRIC.
457
Recollect that good fortune too far you may push,
And, “A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH !"
Then turn not each thought to increasing your store,
Nor look always like "Oliver asking for more!"
Gourmandise is a vice--a sad failing, at least;-
So remember “Enough is as good as a feast!"
And don't set your heart on "stewed," "fried,” “boiled," or
“roast,"
Nor on delicate “ Woodcocks served up upon toast!”
Don't give people nicknames !-don't, even in fun,
Call any one “Snuff-colored Son of a gun!”
Nor fancy, because a man nous seems to lack,
That, whenever you please, you can "give him the sack!”
Last of all, as you'd thrive, and still sleep in whole bones,
IF YOU'VE ANY GLASS WINDOWS NEVER THROW STONES !!


THE
INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.
THIRD SERIES.
SOME few words are necessary, by way of explanation, in
submitting the present volume to the reader. It is enough to
state, as regards its object, that a wish was conveyed to his
family by certain of the late Mr. Barham's friends, and
through them by many also who knew him only from his
writings, that a collection should be made of the remaining
“INGOLDSBY LEGENDS," and printed uniformly with the first
and second series, and that at the same time a more complete
Memoir of his Life should be prefixed than any that had
hitherto appeared in the public prints. Such a request was of
course entitled to every attention-the more so as it came
strongly backed by the judgment of the gentleman who pro-
posed to undertake the publication in question.
It may, perhaps, be questioned whether, under any circum-
stances, a very near relative is a fit person to fill the office of
Biographer: independently of the prepossession by which he
must almost necessarily be swayed, and of the restraint which
a consciousness of its existence induces, expressions both of
eulogy and the reverse seem to fall ungracefully from his pen.
The writer has no immunity to plead in the present instance
from the effects of this law. There were considerations, how-
ever, which precluded his entrusting the task to another;
among the most weighty of which was an unwillingness to
submit correspondence and memoranda, written with that
unguarded openness for which Mr. Barham was remarkable,
( 458 )


PREFACE TO THE THIRD SERIES.
459
to the eye of a third person : the unavoidable exposure indeed
of matters of confidence, of which he was the depositary,
would have rendered it highly improper to do so.
There are two classes of readers, in particular, to whom this
imperfect sketch will doubtless prove unsatisfactory: those who
may take it up in the expectation of finding a budget of con-
fidential letters and private anecdotes of the gifted individuals
still living with whom it was the lot of its subject to be asso-
ciated; and those who may desire a more regular and detailed
biography, and who may be apt to consider the following pages
of too unconnected and too light a character to answer to the
title which they bear.
For the first of these we have no an-
swer ;
but we would entreat the second to bear in mind that it
is only in a literary point of view——only as a poet whose wit
and originality attracted no ordinary notice-only, in short, as
"Thomas Ingoldsby”—that Mr. Barham is brought before the
public at all; and it is to these traits of character that we have
been mainly confined, as being alone of sufficient general inter-
est to demand or bear illustration.
On the other hand, should it be urged that the poetical trifles
here appended are not of a quality to advance the author's rep-
utation, we must reply, at the risk of being taxed with a tend-
ency to argue in a circle, that a reputation of the kind was not.
an object of his ambition. To say that he was indifferent to
applause and censure would be to invest him with a degree of
stoicism which he was among the last either to profess or feel;
but the fact of all his productions having appeared either anon-
ymously or pseudonymously is sufficient to show that he pos-
sessed no inordinate craving after fame. Writing, in a word,
was to him an amusement, the more agreeable if it chanced to
conduce to that of others. It is in a similar spirit that the
present collection is laid before the public; and a hope is en-
tertained that it may not altogether do discredit to the par-
tiality of those at whose suggestion it has been made.
Most of these poems have been previously published in vari-
ous periodicals; some few are now printed for the first time.
In the selection of the former, which are of an evanescent char-
acter, for the most part bearing upon the gossip of the day,
attention has almost of necessity been paid more to the com-


460
PREFACE TO THE THIRD SERIES.
parative notoriety of the subject than to the degree of humor
evinced in the performance.
There remains, in conclusion, but to express a hope that no
one will feel aggrieved by the appearance of any of the his-
toriettes, etc., which have been inserted. The great variety of
amusing matter of this kind contained in Mr. Barham's mem-
oranda furnished perpetual temptations to transgress; how
they have been resisted it is for others to decide. The anec-
dotes recorded of living persons are few in number, and refer
principally to men raised by their genius above the common
level of society, and who, as a necessary condition to the em-
inence they enjoy, must be content to dispense with much of
that privilege of privacy which their less distinguished brethren
have a right to claim; it is a kind of quit-rent of popularity
which they are doubtless not indisposed to pay.
R. H. D. BARHAM.
LOLWORTH, Nov. 17, 1847.


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
461
The Lord of Thoulouse.
A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
“Veluti in speculum.”—Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
COUNT RAYMOND rules in Languedoc,
O'er the champaign fair and wide,
With town and stronghold many a one,
Washed by the wave of the blue Garonne,
And from far Auvergne to Rousillon,
And away to Narbonne,
And the mouths of the Rhone;
And his Lyonnois silks, and his Narbonne honey,
Bring in his lordship a great deal of money.
A thousand lances, stout and true,
Attend Count Raymond's call;
And Knights and Nobles of high degree,
From Guienne, Provence, and Burgundy,
Before Count Raymond bend the knee,
And vail to him one and all.
And Isabel of Aragon
He weds, the pride of Spain,-
You might not find so rich a prize,
A Dame so "healthy, wealthy, and wise!"
So pious withal—with such beautiful eyes-
So exactly the Venus de Medicis size-
In all that wide domain.
Then his cellar is stored As well as his board,
With the choicest of all La Belle France can afford;
Chambertin, Château Margaux, La Rose, and Lafitte,
With Moet's Champagne, “ of the Comet year,” “ neat
As imported,”—“fine sparkling,”—and not over sweet;
While his Chaplain, good man, when called in to say grace,
Would groan, and put on an elongated face,


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
463
Of popping at pheasants, Quails, woodcocks, and
peasants;
Of smoking, and joking, And soaking, provoking
Such headaches next day As his fine St. Peray,
Though the best of all Rhone wines, can never repay,
Till weary of war, women, roast-goose, and glory,
With no great desire to be “ famous in story,"
All the day long, This was his song,
“Oh dear! what will become of us ?
Oh dear! what shall we do?
We shall die of blue devils if some of us
Can't hit on something that's new !”
Meanwhile his sweet Countess, so pious and good,
Such pomps and such vanities stoutly eschewed, ,
With all fermented liquors and high-seasoned food ;
Devilled kidneys, and sweetbreads, and ducks and green
peas,
Baked sucking-pig, goose, and all viands like these,
Hashed calf's-head included, no longer could please ;
A curry was sure to elicit a breeze,
So was ale, or a glass of port-wine after cheese.
Indeed, anything strong, As to tipple, was wrong ;
She stuck to “fine Hyson,” “Bohea," and "Souchong,
And similar imports direct from Hong-Kong.
In vain does the family doctor exhort her
To take with her chop one poor half-pint of porter ;
No!-she alleges She's taken the pledges!
Determined to aid In a gen'ral Crusade
Against publicans, vintners, and all of that trade,
And to bring in sherbet, ginger-pop, lemonade,
Eau sucrée, and drinkables, mild and home made;
So she claims her friends' efforts, and vows to devote all hers
Solely to found." The Thoulousian Teetotallers.”
Large sums she employs In dressing small boys
In long duffle jackets, and short corduroys,
And she boxes their ears when they make too much noise ;
In short, she turns out a complete Lady Bountiful,
Filling with drugs and brown Holland the county full.


464
THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.
Now just at the time when our story commences,
It seems that a case Past the common took place,
To entail on her ladyship further expenses,
In greeting with honor befitting his station
The Prior of Arles, with a Temperance Legation,
Despatched by Pope Urban, who seized this occasion
To aid in diluting that part of the nation.
An excellent man, One who stuck to his can
Of cold water “without”-and he'd take such a lot of it;
None of your sips That just moistens the lips;
At one single draught he'd toss off a whole pot of it, -
No such bad thing, By the way, if they bring
It you iced, as at Verey's, or fresh from the spring,
When the Dog Star compels folks in town to take wing;
Though I own even then I should see no great sin in it
Were there three drops of Sir Felix's gin in it.
Well, leaving the lady to follow her pleasure,
And finish the pump with the Prior at leisure,
Let's go back to Raymond, still bored beyond measure,
And harping away On the same dismal lay,
“Oh dear! what will become of us ?
Oh dear! what can we do?
We shall die of blue devils if some of us
Can't find out something that's new !”
At length, in despair of obtaining his ends
By his own mother wit, he takes courage and sends,
Like a sensible man as he is, for his friends,
Not his Lyndhursts or Eldons, or any such high sirs,
But only a few of his " backstairs” advisers;
“Come hither,” says he, “My gallants so free,
My bold Rigmarole, and my brave Rigmaree,
And
my grave Baron Proser, now listen to me!
You three can't but see I'm half dead with ennui.
What's to be done? I must have some fun,
And I will too, that's flat-ay, as sure as a gun;
So find me out something new under the sun,'
Or I'll knock your three jobbernowls all into one!


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
465
60
You three Agree! Come, what shall it be?
Resolve me-propound in three skips of a flea !"
Rigmarole gave a "Ha!" Rigmaree gave a “Hem !"
They looked at Count Raymond—Count Raymond at them,
As much as to say
Have
you
nihil ad rem ?”
At length Baron Proser Responded, “You know, sir,
That question's some time been a regular poser ;
Dear me !—let me see,– In the way of a 'spree'
Something new ?-Eh?-No!-Yes ! No!— tis really no
1
go, sir.”
Says the Count, “Rigmarole, You're as jolly a soul,
On the whole, as King Cole, with his pipe and his bowl;
Come, I'm sure you'll devise something novel and droll.”—
In vain,-Rigmarole, with a look most profound,
With his hand to his heart and his eye to the ground,
Shakes his head as if nothing was there to be found.
“I can only remark That as touching a ‘lark'
I'm, as much as your Highness can be, in the dark;
I can hit on no novelty-none, on my life,
Unless, peradventure, you'd ‘tea’ with your wife!”
Quoth Raymond, “Enough!
Nonsense !--humbug !-fudge !-stuff!
Rigmarole, you're an ass, -you're a regular Muff!
Drink tea with her ladyship ?-I?-not a bit of it!
Call
you
that fun ?-faith, I can't see the wit of it.
Mort de ma vie! My dear Rigmaree,
You're the man, after all,-come, by way of a fee,
If you will but be bright, from the simple degree
Of a knight I'll create you at once a Mar-quis !
Put your conjuring cap on-consider and see
If you can't beat that stupid old “Sumph' with his 'tea!”
“That's the thing! that will do! Ay, marry, that's new!"
Cries Rigmaree, rubbing his hands; "that will please
My Conjuring cap'-it's the thing ;-it's the cheese!'
It was only this morning I picked up the news;
Please your Highness, a Conjurer's come to Thoulouse;
I'll defy you to name us A man half so famous
For devildoms,-Sir, it's the great Nostradamus!
30


466
THE LORD OF TIO ULOUSE.
Cornelius Agrippa, 'tis said, went to school to him,
Gyngell's an ass and old Faustus a fool to him.
Talk of Lilly, Albertus, Jack Dee!-pooh! all six
He'd soon put in a pretty particular fix;
Why, he'd beat, at digesting a sword, or 'Gun tricks'
The great Northern Wizard himself all to sticks!
I should like to see you Try to sauter le coup
With this chap at short whist, or unlimited loo;
By the Pope, you'd soon find it a regular 'Do.'
Why, he does as he likes with the cards,—when he's got 'em,
There's always an Ace or a King at the bottom;
Then for casting Nativities -only you look
At the volume he's published, -that wonderful book!
In all France not another, to swear I dare venture, is
Like, by long chalks, his 'Prophetical Centuries'-
Don't you remember how, early last summer, he
Warned the late King 'gainst the Tournament mummery?
Didn't his Majesty call it all flummery,
Scorning The warning, And get the next morning
His poke in the eye from that clumsy Montgomery?
Why, he'll tell yon, before You're well inside his door,
All your Highness may wish to be up to, and more!”
“Bravo!-capital !-come, let's disguise ourselves—quick!
-Fortune's sent him on purpose here, just in the nick;
We'll see if old Hocus will smell out the trick;
Let's start off at once-Rigmaree, you're a Brick !"
The moon in gentle radiance shone
O'er lowly roof and lordly bower,
O'er holy pile and armed tower,
And danced upon the blue Garonne:
Through all that silvered city fair,
No sound disturbed the calm, cool air,
Save the lover's sigh alone!
Or where, perchance, some slumberer's nose
Proclaimed the depth of his repose,
Provoking from connubial toes
A hint-or elbow bone;


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
467
It might, with such trifling exceptions, be said
That Thoulouse was as still as if Thoulouse were dead,
And her “oldest inhabitant” buried in lead.
But hark! a sound invades the ear,
Of horses' hoofs advancing near!
• They gain the bridge—they pass-they're here!
Side by side Two strangers ride,
For the streets in Thoulouse are sufficiently wide,
That is, I'm assured they are—not having tried.
-See, now they stop Near an odd-looking shop,
And they knock, and they ring, and they won't be denied.
At length the command Of some unseen hand
Chains, and bolts, and bars obey,
And the thick-ribbed oaken door, old and gray,
In the pale moonlight gives, slowly, way.
They leave their steeds to a page's care,
Who comes mounted behind on a Flanders mare,
And they enter the house, that resolute pair,
With a blundering step, and a dare-devil air,
And ascend a long, darksome, and rickety stair;
While, armed with a lamp that just helps you to see
How uncommonly dark a place can be,
The grimmest of lads, with the grimmest of grins,
Says, “Gentlemen, please to take care of your shins:
Who ventures this road need be firm on his pins !
Now turn to the left—now turn to the right-
Now a step-now stoop-now again upright-
Now turn once again, and directly before ye
's the door of the great Doctor's Labora-tory."
A word! a blow! And in they go!
No time to prepare, or to get up a show,
Yet everything there they find quite comme il faut-
Such as queer-looking bottles and jars in a row,
Retorts, crucibles, such as all conjurers stow
In the rooms they inhabit, huge bellows to blow


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
469
“Now naye, now naye-no trav’llers ye!
Nobles ye be of high degree!
With half an eye that one may easily see,
Count Raymond, your servant !-Yours, Lord Rigmaree!
I must call you so now, since you're made a Mar-quis;
Faith, clever boys both, but you can't humbug me!
No matter for that! I see what you'd be at-
Well-pray no delay, For it's late, and ere day
I myself must be hundreds of miles on my way;
So tell me at once what you want with me-say!
Shall I call up the dead From their mouldering bed ?-
Shall I send you yourselves down to Hades instead ?
Shall I summon Old Harry himself to this spot ?"-
-“ Ten thousand thanks, No! we had much rather not.
We really can't say That we're curious that way;
But, in brief, if you'll pardon the trouble we're giving,
We'd much rather take a sly peep at the living !
Rigmaree, what say you, in This case, as to viewing
Our spouses, and just ascertain what they're doing?”
“Just what pleases your Highness—I don't care a sous in
The matter—but don't let Old Nick and his crew in !”
—“Agreed !-pray proceed then, most sage Nostradamus,
And show us our wives—I dare swear they won't shame us !”
A change comes o'er the Wizard's face,
And his solemn look by degrees gives place
To a half grave, half comical, kind of grimace.
“For good or for ill, I work your will!
Yours be the risk and mine the skill ;
Blame not my art if unpleasant the pill !”
He takes from a shelf, and he pops on his head,
A square sort of cap, black, and turned up with red,
And desires not a syllable more may be said ;
He
goes on to mutter, And stutter, and sputter
Hard words, such as no men but wizards dare utter.
“ Dies mies !-Hocus pocus
Adsis Demon! non est
jokus!


A LEGEND OF LANGUEDOC.
471
But enough has been seen. “ Horse! horse! and away!"
They have, neither, the least inclination to stay,
E'en to thank Nostradamus, or ask what's to pay.-
They rush down the stair, How, they know not, nor
care,
The next moment the Count is astride on his bay,
And my Lord Rigmaree on his mettlesome gray;
They dash through the town, Now up, and now down,
And the stones rattle under their hoofs as they ride,
As if poor Thoulouse were as mad as Cheapside:*
Through lane, alley, and street, Over all that they
meet,
The Count leads the way on his courser so fleet,
My Lord Rigmaree close pursuing his beat,
With the
page in the rear to protect the retreat.
Where the bridge spans the river, so wide and so deep,
Their headlong career o'er the causeway they keep,
Upsetting the watchman, two dogs, and a sweep,
All the town population that was not asleep.
They at length reach the castle, just outside the town,
Where—in peace it was usual with knights of renown-
The portcullis was up, and the drawbridge was down.
They dash by the sentinels—“France et Thoulouse !”
Ev'ry soldier (they then wore cocked hats and long queues,
Appendages banished from modern reviews)
His arquebus lowered, and bowed to his shoes;
While Count Raymond pushed on to his lady's boudoir-he
Had made
up
his mind to make one at her soirée.
He rushed to that door, Where ever before
He had rapped with his knuckles, and “tirled at the pin,"
Till he heard the soft sound of his lady's “Come in!”
But now, with-a kick from his iron-heeled boot,
Which, applied to a brick wall, at once had gone through't,
He dashed open the lock; It gave way at the shock!
(-Dear ladies, don't think, in recording the fact,
That your bard's for one moment defending the act;
* “The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.”
Gilpin's Tour in Middlesex and Ieris.


472
THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.
No—it is not a gentleman's—none but a low body
Now could perform it)-and there he saw-NOBODY!!
Nobody?-No!! Oh, ho !-Oh, ho!
There was not a table—there was not a chair
Of all that Count Raymond had ever seen there
(They'd maroon-leather bottoms well stuffed with horse-hair)
That was out of its place! There was not a trace
Of a party—there was not a dish or a plate-
No sign of a table-cloth-nothing to prate
Of a supper, symposium, or sitting up late;
There was not a spark of fire left in the grate,
It had all been poked out, and remained in that state.
If there was not a fire, Still less was there Friar,
Marquise, or long glasses, or Countess, or Prior,
And the Count, who rushed in open mouthed, was struck dumb,
And could only ejaculate, “ Well this is rum !”
He
rang
for the maids—had them into the room,
With the butler, the footman, the coachman, the groom.
He examined them all very strictly—but no!
Notwithstanding he cross- and re-questioned them so,
'Twas in vain-it was clearly a case of “No Go !”
“ Their lady,” they said, “Had gone early to bed,
Having rather complained of a cold in her head-
The stout little Friar, as round as an apple,
Had passed the whole night in a vigil in chapel,
While the Prior himself, as he'd usually done,
Had rung in the morning, at half-after one,
For his jug of cold water and twopenny bun,
And been visible, since they were brought him, to none.
But," the servants averred,
“ From the sounds that were heard
To proceed now and then from the father's sacellum,
They thought he was purging His sins with a scourging,
And making good use of his knotted flagellum."
For Madame Rigmaree, They all testified, she
Had gone up to her bed-chamber soon after tea,
And they really supposed that there still she must be,
Which her spouse, the Mar-quis, Found at once to agree
With the rest of their tale, when he ran up to see.


474
THE LORD OF THOULOUSE.
MORAL.
Good gentlemen all, who are subjects of Hymen,
Don't make new acquaintances rashly, but try men!
Avoid above all things your cunning (that's sly) men!
Don't go out o' nights To see conjuring sleights,
But shun all such people, delusion whose trade is;
Be wise !--stay at home and take tea with the ladies.
If you chance to be out, At a "regular bout,'
And get too much of “Abbot's Pale Ale” or “ Brown Stout,"
Don't be cross when you come home at night to your spouse,
Nor be noisy, nor kick up a dust in the house!
Be careful yourself, and admonish your sons,
To beware of all folks who love twopenny buns !
And don't introduce to your wife or your daughter
A sleek, meek, weak gent—who subsists on cold water!
The main incident recorded in the following excerpta from
our family papers has but too solid a foundation. The portrait
of Roger Ingoldsby is not among those in the gallery ; but I
have some recollection of having seen, when a boy, a picture
answering the description here given of him, much injured, and
lying without a frame in one of the attics.


A FAMILY LEGEND.
475
The Wedding Day;
OR, THE BUCCANEER’S CURSE.
A FAMILY LEGEND.
IT
has a jocund sound,
That gleeful marriage chime,
As from the old and ivied tower
It peals, at the early matin hour,
Its merry, merry round;
And the Spring is in its prime,
And the song-bird, on the spray,
Trills from his throat, in varied note,
An emulative lay-
It has a joyous sound !!
66
а
And the Vicar is there with his wig and his book,
And the Clerk, with his grave, quasi-sanctified look,
And there stand the village maids, all with their posies,
Their lilies, and daffy-down-dillies, and roses,
Dight in white, A comely sight,
Fringing the path to the left and the right;
-From our nursery days we all of us know
Ne'er doth “Our Ladye's garden grow"
So fair for Grand Horticultural Show”
As when bordered with “pretty maids all on a row.”
And the urchins are there, escaped from the rule
Of that "Limbo of Infants,” the National School,
Whooping and bawling, And squalling and calling,
And crawling and creeping, And jumping and leaping,
Bo-peeping ʼmidst“ many a mouldering heap” in
Whose bosom their own rude forefathers” are sleeping;
-Young rascals !-instead of lamenting and weeping,
Laughing and gay, A gorge deployée-
Only now and then pausing--and checking their play,
To wonder what 'tis makes the gentlefolks stay."


476
THE WEDDING-DAY.
Ah, well-a-day! Little deem they,
Poor ignorant dears! the bells, ringing away,
Are anything else Than mere parish bells,
Or that each of them, should we go into its history,
Is but a “Symbol” of some deeper mystery-
That the clappers and ropes Are mere practical tropes
Of “trumpets” and “tongues,” and of “preachers” and popes,
Unless Clement the Fourth's worthy Chaplain, Durand, err, -
See the " Rationale" of that goosey-gander.
Gently! gently, Miss Muse! Mind your Ps and your Qs!
Don't be malapert— laugh, Miss, but never abuse !
Calling names, whether done to attack or to back a schism,
Is, Miss, believe me, a great piece of jackass-ism,
And as, on the whole, You're a good-natured soul,
You must never enact such a pitiful rôle.
No, no, Miss, pull up, and go back to your boys
In the churchyard, who're making this hubbub and noise
But hush! there's an end to their romping and mumming,
For voices are heard-here's the company coming!
And see,--the avenue gates unfold,
And forth they pace, that bridal train,
The grave, the gay, the young, the old, --
They cross the green and grassy lane,
Bridesman, Bridesmaid, Bridegroom, Bride,
Two by two, and side by side,
Uncles and aunts, friends tried and proved,
And cousins, a great many times removed.
A fairer or a gentler she,
A lovelier maid, in her degree,
Man's eye might never hope to see,
Than darling, bonnie Maud Ingoldsby,
The flow'r of that goodly company;
While whispering low, with bated voice,
Close by her side, her heart's dear choice,
Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys.
-But where, oh where, Is Ingoldsby's heir ?
Little Jack Ingoldsby ?-where, oh where?


A FAMILY LEGEND.
477
Why, he's here, and he's there, And he's everywhere
He's there, and he's here; In the front-in the rear,-
Now this side, now that side,—now far, and now near-
The Puck of the party, the darling“ pet” boy,
Full of mischief and fun, and good humor and joy;
With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose,
And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose;
In his tunic, and trousers, and cap—there he goes !
Now pinching the bridesman,-now teasing his sister,
And telling the bridesmaids how “Valentine kissed her;"
The torment, the plague, the delight of them all,
See, he's into the churchyard !--he's over the wall-
Gambolling, frolicking, capering away,
He's the first in the church, be the second who may !
'Tis o'er; the holy rite is done,
The rite that “incorporates two in one,”
- And now for the feasting, and frolic, and fun!
Spare we to tell of the smiling and sighing,
The shaking of hands, the embracing, and crying,
The “ toot-toot-toot” Of the tabor and fute,
Of the white-wigged Vicar's prolonged salute,
Or of how the blithe “ College Youths,”—rather old stagers,
Accustomed, for years, to pull bell-ropes for wagers, -
Rang, faster than ever, their “triple-bob-MAJORS
(So loud as to charm ye At once and alarm ye;
Symbolic,” of course, of that rank in the army).
Spare we to tell of the fees and the dues
To the “ little old woman that opened the pews,"
Of the largesse bestowed on the Sexton and Clerk,
Of the four-year-old sheep roasted whole in the park,
Of the laughing and joking, The quaffing and smoking,
And chaffing, and broaching—that is to say, poking
A hole in a mighty magnificent tub
Of what men, in our hemisphere, term “Humming Bub,”


A FAMILY LEGEND.
479
A thought, than they're commonly wont to aspire;
His back and his buckskins exposed to the fire;-
--Bright, bright are his buttons,--and bright is the hue
Of his squarely-cut coat of fine Saxony blue;
And bright the shalloon of his little quilled queue ;
White, white as “Young England's,” the dimity vest
Which descends like an avalanche o'er his broad breast,
Till its further progression is put in arrest
By the portly projection that springs from his chest,
Overhanging the garment—that can't be exprest;
-White, white are his locks, --which, had Nature fair play,
Had appeared a clear brown, slightly sprinkled with gray;
But they're white as the peaks of Plinlimmon to-day,
Or Ben Nevis, his pate is si bien poudré !
Bright, bright are the boots that envelop his heels,
-Bright, bright is the gold chain suspending his seals,
And still brighter yet may the gazer descry
The tear-drop that spangles the fond father's eye
As it lights on the bride-
His beloved one—the pride
And delight of his heart,-severed now from his side;-
But brighter than all, Arresting its fall,
Is the smile that rebukes it for spangling at all,
-A clear case, in short, of what old poets tell, as
Blind Homer, for instance, ev dakpvol yeas.
Then, there are the Bride and the Bridegroom, withdrawn
To the deep Gothic window that looks on the lawn,
Ensconced on a squab of maroon-colored leather,
And talking—and thinking, no doubt-of the weather.
But here comes the party-Room! room for the guests !
In their Pompadour coats, and laced ruffles, and vests,
- First, Sir Charles Grandison, Baronet, and his son,
Charles,--the mamma does not venture to “show”–
-Miss Byron, you know, She was called long ago-
For that lady, 'twas said, had been playing the devil,
Last season, in town, with her old beau, Squire Greville,


480
THE WEDDING-DAY.
Which very much shocked, and chagrined, as may well be
Supposed, “Doctor Bartlett,” and “Good Uncle Selby.”
-Sir Charles, of course, could not give Greville his gruel, in
Order to prove his abhorrence of duelling,
Nor try for, deterred by the serious expense, a
Complete separation, a thoro et mensä,
So he“ kept a calm sough," and, when asked to a party,
A dance, or a dinner, or tea and écarté,
He went with his son, and said, looking demurely,
He'd “left her at home, as she found herself poorly.”
Two foreigners near, “Of distinction,” appear;
A pair more illustrious you ne'er heard of, or saw,
Count Ferdinand Fathom,–Count Thaddeus of Warsaw,
All covered with glittring bijouterie and hair-Poles,
Whom Lord Dudley Stuart calls “Patriot,”—Hook “Bare
Poles;"
Such rings, and such brooches, such studs, and such pins !
'Twere hard to say which Were more gorgeous and
rich,
Or more truly Mosaic, their chains or their chins !
Next Sir Roger de Coverley,—Mr. Will Ramble,
With Dame Lismahago (née Tabitha Bramble), -
Mr. Random and Spouse, - Mrs. Pamela Booby
(Whose nose was acquiring a tinge of the ruby,
And “people did say”—but no matter for that,-
Folks were not then enlightened by good Father Mat.) - )
-Three friends from “ the Colonies” near them were seen,
The Great Massachusetts man, General Muff Green,
Mr. Jonathan W. Doubikins,-men
“Influential some,”—and their “smart” Uncle Ben ;-
Rev. Abraham Adams (preferred to a stall), -
-Mr. Jones and his lady, from Allworthy Hall;
-Our friend Tom, by the way, Had turned out rather
gay
For a married man-certainly “people did say”
He was shrewdly suspected of using his wife ill,
And being as sly as his half-brother Blifil.-
(Miss Seagrim, 'tis well known, was now in high feather,
And “people did say" they'd been seen out together,-


A FAMILY LEGEND.
481
A fact, the “Boy Jones," who, in our days, with malice
Aforethought, so often got into the Palace,
Would seem to confirm, as, 'tis whispered he owns, he's
The son of a natural son of Tom Jones's.)
Lady Bellaston (mem, she had not been invited !),
Sir Peregrine Pickle, now recently knighted,
All joyous, all happy, all looking delighted!
- It would bore you to death should I pause to describe,
Or enumerate, half of the elegant tribe
Who filled the background, And among whom were
found
The élite of the old county families round,
Such as Honeywood, Oxenden, Knatchbull, and Norton,
Matthew Robinson,* too, with his beard from Monk's Horton,
The Faggs, and Finch-Hattons, Tokes, Derings, and Deedses,
And Fairfax (who then called the castle of Leeds his);
Esquires, Knights, and Lords, In bag-wigs and swords;
And the troops, and the groups, Of fine Ladies in hoops;
The pompons, the toupées, and the diamonds and feathers,
The flowered-silk sacques Which they wore on their
backs,-
-How?-sacques and pompons, with the Squire's boots and
leathers ?-
Stay! stay !-I suspect, Here's a trifling neglect
On your part, Madame Muse, though you're commonly
accurate,
As to costume, as brown Quaker, or black Curate,
For once I confess, Here you're out as to dress ;-
You've been fairly caught napping, which gives me distress,
For I can't but acknowledge it is not the thing,
Sir Roger de Coverley's laced suit to bring
Into contact with square-cut coats, such as George Byng,
And poor dear Sir Francis, appeared in last spring ;-
So, having for once been compelled to acknowledge I
've made a small hole in our mutual chronology,
* A worthy and eccentric country gentleman, afterwards the second Lord Rokeby,
being cousin (“a great many times removed") and successor in the barony to Richard,
Archbishop of Armagh, who first bore that title. His beard was truly patriarchal.-
Mr. Muntz's—pooh!
31


482
TAE WEDDING-DAY.
Canter on, Miss, without further apology,
Only don't make Such another mistake,
Or you'll get in a scrape, of which I shall partake;
Enough!--you are sorry for what you have done,
So dry your eyes, Miss, blow your nose, and go on!
Well—the party are met, all radiant and gay,
And how ev'ry person is dressed-we won't say;
Suffice it, they all come glad homage to pay
To our dear “bonnie Maud," on her own wedding-day,
To dance at her bridal, and help “throw the stocking,"
-A practice that's now discontinued as shocking.
1
*
There's a breakfast, they know— There always is so
On occasions like these, wheresoever you go.
Of course there are “ lots” of beef, potted and hung,
Prawns, lobsters, cold fowl, and cold ham, and cold tongue,
Hot tea and hot coffee, hot rolls and hot toast,
Cold pigeon-pie (rook?), and cold boild and cold roast,
Scotch marmalade, jellies, cold creams, and colder ices,
Blancmange, which young ladies say so very nice is,-
Rock-melons in thick, pines in much thinner, slices,-
Char, potted with clarified butter and spices,
Renewing an appetite long past its crisis-
Refined barley-sugar, in various devices,
Such as bridges, and baskets, and temples, and grottoes—–
And nasty French lucifer snappers with mottoes.
-In short, all those gimcracks together were met
Which people of fashion tell Gunter to get
When they give a grand déjeûner à la fourchette
(A phrase which, though French, in our language still
lingers,
Intending a breakfast with forks and not fingers).
And see! what a mountainous bridecake !-a thing
By itself-with small pieces to pass through the ring!
Now as to the wines !—“Ay, the wine!" cries the Squire,
Letting fall both his coat-tails—which nearly take fire,-


A FAMILY LEGEND.
483
Rubbing his hands, He calls out as he stands,
To the serving-men waiting “his Honor's" commands,
“The wine !—to be sure here, you Harry-Bob-Dick-
The wine, don't you hear?-bring us lights—come, be quick!
And a crowbar to knock down the mortar and brick-
Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way
Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day,
And let loose his captives, imprisoned so long,
His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong !"-
-“Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what
you do!”
Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,*—she is in such a stew !--
“Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear ?-full oft you've heard
me tell
Of the curse Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break
his cell !
very day!
“Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away,
As I bethink me, too, it was upon
this
And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay,
Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play;
Your locks were nut-brown, then, Squire-you grow a little
gray !
“« Wild Roger,' so we called him then, your grandsire's
youngest son,
He was in truth A wayward youth,
We feared him every one.
In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be staid by none,
And when he did a naughty thing, he laughed and called it
fun!
-One day his father chid him sore I know not what he'd
done,
But he scorned reproof; And from this roof
Away that night he run.
* Great-grandmamma, by the father's side, to the excellent lady of the same name
who yet "keeps the keys” at Tappington.


484
THE WEDDING-DAY.
Seven
years were gone and over—'Wild Roger' came
again,
He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main;
And he had store of gold galore, and silks and satins fine,
And flasks, and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine!
Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western
wave,
And came, in penitence and shame, now of his sire to crave
Forgiveness and a welcome home-his sire was in his grave!
“Your father was a kindly man-he played a brother's part,
He pressed his brother to his breast—he had a kindly heart;
Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to
share,
But Roger was the same man still,-he scorned his brother's
pray'r!
He called his crew,-away he flew, and on those foreign shores
Got killed in some outlandish place they call it the Eye-
sores;
But ere he went, And quitted Kent,
-I well recall the day,-
His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely stowed away;'
Within the cellar's deepest nook he safely stowed them all,
And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up
the wall.
*
“Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear Wild Roger's' ban!
Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man.
‘Here's that,' quoth he, shall serve me well, when I return
at last,
A battered hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers
past;
Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine,
Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon
wine!
* Azores? Mrs. Botherby's orthography, like that of her distinguished contempo-
rary, Baron Duberly, was “a little loose.


A FAMILY LEGEND.
485
“And more, he said, which filled with dread all those who
listened there;
In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair
With very fear, to stand and hear “Wild Roger' curse and
swear !!
He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his
game,
He called me Mother bounce-about;' my Gracious! what a
name!
Nay, more, 'an old'—some boat-woman,'-I may not say
for shame!-
Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell,
Nor break, on such a day as this, “Wild Roger's' secret cell!"
“Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire, As he moved from
the fire,
And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire;
Pooh -never tell me! Nonsense! fiddle-de-dee!
What ?—wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea ?
Why, he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too
gay,
And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way;
But what's that to us, now, at this time of day?
What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell-
I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,
Sent him back in a huff to his old privateering ?
Or what his unfriends chose to call Buccaneering.
It's twenty years since, as we very well know,
He was knocked on the head in a skirmish, and so
Why rake up'auld-warld' tales of deeds long ago?
-Foul befall him who would touch the deposit
Of living man, whether in cellar or closet!
But since, as I've said, Knocked on the head,
Uncle Roger has now been some twenty years dead:
As for his wine, I'm his heir, and it's mine!
And I'd long ago worked it well, but that I tarried
For this very day— And I'm sure you'll all say
I was right-when my own darling Maud should get married !


486
THE WEDDING-DAY.
So lights and a crowbar!-the only thing lies
On my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize,
Is some little compunction anent the Excise.
Come—you, Master Jack, Be the first, and bring back
Whate'er comes to hand-Claret, Burgundy, Sack,
Head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack !"
Away go the clan, With cup and with can,
Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van;
Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban:
Hope whispers, “Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too
here!”
Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear!
Through cellar one, through cellar two,
Through cellar three they passed!
And their way they took To the farthest nook
Of cellar four—the last!
Blithe and gay, they batter away,
On this wedding-day of Maud's,
With all their might, to bring to light
“Wild Roger's” “Custom-house frauds!"
And though stone and brick Be never so thick,
When stoutly assailed, they are no bar
To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm
When wielding a decentish crowbar!
Down comes brick, and down comes stone,
One by one The job's half done!-
“ Where is he?-
now come -where's Master John ?”—
-There's a breach in the wall three feet by two,
And little Jack Ingoldsby soon pops through!
Hark !—what sound's that?—a sob ?-a sigh?-
The choking gasp of a stifled cry?-
“ What can it be? Let's see 1-let's see!
It can't be little Jack Ingoldsby?
The candle-quick!" Through stone and through
brick,
They poke in the light on a long split stick;


A FAMILY LEGEND.
487
But ere he who holds it can wave it about,
He gasps, and he sneezes—the LIGHT GOES OUT!
Yet were there those, in after days,
Who said that pale light's flickering blaze,
For a moment, gleamed on a dark Form there,
Seemed as bodied of foul black air!-
-In Mariner's dress,—with cutlass braced,
By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist, —
-On a cocked hat, laced With gold, and placed
With a dégagé, devil-may-care kind of taste,
O’er a balafré brow by a scar defaced !
That form, they said, so foul and so black,
Grinned as it pointed at poor little Jack.-
-I know not, I, how the truth
may be,
But the pent-up vapor, at length set free,
Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing,
As, working its way To the regions of day,
It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in!
Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left,
Those varlets so lately courageous and stout,
There they lay kicking and sprawling about,
Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice,
Or those which, the newspapers give us advice,
Mr. Taylor, of Lombard Street, sells at half price!
- Nearer the door, some half dozen or more
Scramble away To the rez de chaussée
(As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground floor),
And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar
For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more.
At length, after no little clamor and din,
The foul air let out and the fresh air let in,
They drag one and all Up into the hall,
Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom,
Who's one of the party, “ bleeds, physics, and sweats 'em.”
All ?-all-save One -“But He !--my Son ?-
Merciful Heaven !-where-WHERE IS John ?”


488
THE WEDDING-DAY.
Within that cell, so dark and deep,
Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep,
A sight to make the sternest weep!
-That little heart is pulseless now,
And cold that fair and open brow,
And closed that eye that beamed with joy
And hope--"Oh, God! my Boy! my Boy!"
Enough!-I may not,-
dare not, -show
The wretched Father's frantic woe,
The Mother's tearless, speechless-No!
I may not such a theme essay-
Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay
My pen-sad memory will have way!
Enough !-at oncc I close the lay
Of Fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!
It has a mournful sound,
That single, solemn Bell!
As to the hills and woods around
It flings its deep-toned knell !
That measured toll !-alone-apart,
It strikes upon
the human heart!
It has a mournful sound
MORAL,
Come, come, Mrs. Muse, we can't part in this way,
Or you'll leave me as dull as ditch-water all day.
Try and squeeze out a Moral or two from your lay!
And let us part cheerful, at least, if not gay.
First and foremost then, Gentlefolks, learn from my song
Not to lock up your wine, or malt-liquor, too long!
Though port should have age, Yet I don't think it sage
To entomb it, as some of your connoisseurs do,
Till it's losing in flavor, and body, and hue;
-I question if keeping it does it much good
After ten years in bottle and three in the wood.


A FAMILY LEGEND.
489
If any young man, though a snubbed younger brother,
When told of his faults by his father and mother,
Runs restive, and goes off to sea in a huff,
Depend on't, my friends, that young man is a Muff!
Next—ill-gotten gains Are not worth the pains !
They prosper with no one !--so whether cheroots,
Or Havana cigars,-or French gloves, or French boots,-
Whatever you want, pay the duty! nor when you
Buy any such articles, cheat the revenue!
And “now to conclude,"— For it's high time I should, -
When
you
do rejoice, mind,
-whatsoever you do, -
That the hearts of the lowly rejoice with you too!
Don't grudge them their jigs, And their frolics and
"rigs,"
And don't interfere with their soapy-tailed pigs;
Nor, “because thou art virtuous," rail, and exhale
An anathema, breathing of vengeance and wail,
Upon every complexion less pale than sea-kale !
Nor dismiss the poor man to his pump and his pail,
With “ Drink there !-we'll have henceforth no more cakes
and ale !!”
Mox Regina filium peperit a multis optatem et a Deo sanc-
tificatum. Cumque Infans natus fuisset, statim clarâ voce,
omnibus audientibus, clamavit “Christianus sum! Christianus
sum! Christianus sum !” Ad hanc vocem Presbyteri duo,
Widerinus et Edwoldus, dicentes Deo Gratias, et omnes qui
aderant mirantes, coeperunt cantare Te Deum laudamus. Quo
facto rogabat Infans cathecumenum a Widerino sacerdote fieri,
et ab Edwoldo teneri ad præsignaculum fidei et Romwoldum
vocari.-Nov. Legend. Angl. in Vita Scti. Romualdi,


490
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
The Blasphemer's Warning.
A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
I There was seated of old
N ,
There was seated of old
A handsome young gentleman, courteous and bold;
He'd an oaken strong-box, well replenished with gold,
With broad lands, pasture, arable, woodland, and wold,
Not an acre of which had been mortgaged or sold;
He'd a Pleasaunce and Hall passing fair to behold,
He had beeves in the byre, he had flocks in the fold,
And was somewhere about five-and-twenty years old.
His figure and face, For beauty and grace,
To the best in the country had scorned to give place.
Small marvel, then, If, of women and men
Whom he chanced to foregather with, nine out of ten
Expressed themselves charmed with Sir Alured Denne.
From my earliest youth I've been taught, as a truth,
A maxim which most will consider as sooth,
Though a few, peradventure, may think it uncouth :
There are three social duties the whole of the swarm
In this great human hive of ours ought to perform,
And that too as soon as conveniently may be;
The first of the three Is, the planting a Tree;
The next, the producing a Book—then, a Baby!
(For my part, dear Reader, without any jesting, I
So far, at least, have accomplished my destiny.)
From the foremost, i.e., The “planting the Tree,”
The Knight may, perchance, have conceived himself free,
Inasmuch as that, which way soever he looks,
Over park, mead, or upland, by streamlets and brooks,
His fine beeches and elms shelter thousands of rooks;
In Twelve Eighty-two There would also accrue
Much latitude as to the article Books;
But if those we've disposed of, and need not recall,
Might, as duties, appear in comparison small,


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
491
One remained there was no getting over at all,-
The providing a male Heir for Bonnington Hall;
Which, doubtless, induced the good Knight to decide,
As a matter of conscience, on taking a Bride.
It's a very fine thing, and delightful, to see
Inclination and duty unite and agree,
Because it's a case That so rarely takes place;
In the instance before us, then, Alured Denne
Might well be esteemed the most lucky of men,
Inasmuch as hard by– Indeed, so very nigh
That her chimneys from his you might almost descry-
Dwelt a Lady at whom he'd long cast a sheep's eye. -
One whose character scandal itself could defy,
While her charms and accomplishments ranked very high,
And who would not deny A propitious reply,
But reflect back his blushes, and give sigh for sigh
(A line that's not mine, but Tom Moore's, by the bye).
There was many a gay and trim bachelor near
Who felt sick at heart when the news met his ear
That fair Edith Ingoldsby, she whom they all
The “Rosebud of Tappington” ceased not to call,
Was going to say
“Honor, love, and obey,"
To Sir Alured Denne, Knight, of Bonnington Hall,-
That all other suitors were left in the lurch,
And the parties had even been "out-asked” in church;
-For every one says, In those primitive days,-
And I must own I think it redounds to their praise, -
None dreamed of transferring a daughter or niece
As a bride, by an "unstamped agreement,” or lease,
'Fore a Registrar's Clerk, or a Justice of Peace;
While young ladies had fain Single women remain,
And unwedded maids to the last “ crack of doom” stick,
Ere marry by taking a jump o'er a broomstick.
So our Bride and Bridegroom agreed to appear
At Holy St. Romwold's, a Priory near,
Which a long while before, I can't say in what year,
Their forebears had joined with the neighbors to rear,


492
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
And endowed, some with bucks, some with beef, some with
beer,
To comfort the friars, and make them good cheer;
Adorning the building With carving and gilding,
And stone altars fixed to the chantries and filled in
(Papistic in substance and form, and on this count
With Judge Herbert Jenner Fust justly at discount:
See Cambridge Societas Camdeniensis
V. Faulkner, tert. prim. Januarii Mensis,
With "Judgment reversed, costs of suit, and expenses");
All raised to St. Romwold, with some reason styled,
By Duke Humphrey's confessor,* "a Wonderful Child,”
For ne'er yet was Saint, except him, upon earth
Who made his “profession of faith” at his birth,
And when scarce a foot high, or six inches in girth,
Converted his "Ma,” and contrived to amend a
Sad hole in the creed of his Grandsire, King Penda.
Of course to the shrine Of so young a divine
Flowed much holy water, and some little wine;
And when any young folks did to marriage incline,
The good friars were much in request, and not one
Was more “sought unto" than the Sub-prior, Mess John.
To him, there and then, Sir Alured Denne
Wrote a three-cornered note with a small crow-quill pen
To say what he wanted, and fix "the time when;"
And, as it's well known that your people of quality
Pique themselves justly on strict punctuality,
Just as the clock struck the hour he'd named in it,
The whole bridal party rode up, to the minute.
Now whether it was that some rapturous dream,
Comprehending " fat pullets and clouted cream,"
Had borne the good man, in its vision of bliss,
Far off to some happier region than this;
* Honest John Capgrave, the veracious biographer of “English Saints," author, or
rather compiler, of the “Nova Legenda Angliæ,” was chaplain to Humphrey, "the
Good Duke” of Gloucester. A beautiful edition of his work was printed by Wynkyn
de Worde.


494
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
How in Netherby Chapel, “ at morning tide,"
The Priest and the Bridegroom stood waiting the Bride:
How they waited, “ but ne'er A Bride was there."
Still I don't find, on reading the ballad with care,
The bereaved Mr. Graham proceeded to swear-
And yet to experience so serious a blight in
One's dearest affections, is somewhat exciting.
'Tis manifest then That Sir Alured Denne
Had far less excuse for such bad language, when
It was only the Priest, not the Bride, who was missing-
He had filled up the interval better with kissing.
And 'twas really surprising, And not very wise in
A Knight, to go on so anathematizing,
When the head and the front of the Clergyman's crime
Was but being a little behind as to time:-
Be that as it may, He swore so that day
At the reverend gentleman's ill-judged delay,
That not a bystander who heard what he said,
But listened to all his expressions with dread,
And felt all his hair stand on end on his head ;
Nay, many folks there Did not stick to declare
The phenomenon was not confined to the hair,
For the little stone Saint who sat perched o'er the door,
St. Romwold himself, as I told you before,
What will scarce be believed, Was plainly perceived
To shrug up his shoulders, as very much grieved,
And look down with a frown So remarkably brown,
That all saw he'd now quite a different face on
From that he received at the hands of the mason ;
Nay, many averred he half rose in his niche,
When Sir Alured, always in metaphor rich,
Called his priest an
old son of —” some animal—which,
Is not worth the inquiry—a hint's quite enough on
The subject-for more I refer you to Buffon.
It's supposed that the Knight Himself saw the sight,
And it's likely he did, as he easily might;
For 'tis certain he paused in his wordy attack,
And, in nautical language, seemed “taken aback."


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
495
In so much that when now
The “prime cause of the
row,"
Father John, in the chapel at last made his bow,
The Bridegroom elect was so mild and subdued,
None could ever suppose he'd been noisy and rude,
Or made use of the language to which I allude.
Fair Edith herself, while the knot was a-tying,
Her bridesmaids around her, some sobbing, some sighing,
Some smiling, some blushing, half laughing, half crying,
Scarce made her responses in tones more complying
Than he who'd been raging and storming so recently,
All softness now, and behaving quite decently.
Many folks thought too the cold stony frown
Of the Saint up aloft from his niche looking down,
Brought the sexton and clerk each an extra half-crown,
When, the rite being over, the fees were all paid,
And, the party remounting, the whole cavalcade
Prepared to ride home with no little parade.
1
In a climate so very unsettled as ours
It's as well to be cautious and guard against showers,
For though, about One, You've a fine brilliant sun,
When your walk or your ride is but barely begun,
Yet long ere the hour-hand approaches the Two,
There is not in the whole sky one atom of blue,
But it “rains cats and dogs," and you're fairly wet through
Ere
you
know where to turn, what to say, or to do;
For which reason I've bought, to protect myself well, a
Good stout Taglioni and gingham umbrella.
But in Edward the First's days I very
much fear
Had a gay cavalier Thought fit to appear
In any such "toggery"—then 'twas termed "gear"-
He'd have met with a highly significant sneer,
Or a broad grin extending from ear unto ear
On the features of every soul he came near;
There was no taking refuge too then, as with us,
On a slip-sloppy day, in a cab or a 'bus;
As they rode through the woods In their wimples and
hoods,


496
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
Their only resource against sleet, hail, or rain,
Was, as Spenser describes it, to “pryck o'er the plaine;"
That is, to clap spurs on, and ride helter-skelter
In search of some building or other for shelter.
Now it seems that the sky, Which had been of a dye
As bright and as blue as your lady-love's eye,
The season, in fact, being genial and dry,
Began to assume An appearance of gloom
From the moment the Knight began fidget and fume,
Which deepened and deepened till all the horizon
Grew blacker than aught they had ever set eyes on,
And soon, from the far west the elements rumbling,
Increased and kept pace with Sir Alured's grumbling.
Bright flashes between, Blue, red, and green,
All livid and lurid began to be seen;
At length down it came a whole deluge of rain,
A perfect Niagara, drenching the plain;
And
up came the reek, And down came the shriek
Of the winds like a steam-whistle starting a train;
And the tempest began so to roar and to pour,
That the Dennes and the Ingoldsbys, starting at score,
As they did from the porch of St. Romwold's church door,
Had scarce gained a mile, or a mere trifle more,
Ere the whole of the crew Were completely wet through.
They dashed o'er the downs, and they dashed through the
vales,
They dashed up the hills, and they dashed down the dales,
As if elderly Nick was himself at their tails;
The Bridegroom in vain Attempts to restrain
The Bride's frightened palfrey by seizing the rein,
When flash and a crash Which produced such a
splash
That a Yankee had called it "an Almighty Smash,"
Came down so complete At his own courser's feet,
That the rider, though famous for keeping his seat,
From its kickings and plungings, now under, now upper,
Slipped out of his demi-pique over the crupper,
And fell from the back of his terrified cob
a


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
497
On what bards less refined than myself term his “Nob”
(To obtain a genteel rhyme's sometimes a tough job).-
Just so—for the nonce to enliven my song
With a classical simile cannot be wrong-
Just so, in such roads and in similar weather,
Tydides and Nestor were riding together,
When, so says old Homer, the King of the Sky,
The great “Cloud-compeller,” his lightnings let fly,
And their horses both made such a desperate shy
At this freak of old Zeus, That at once they broke
loose,
Reins, traces, bits, breechings, were all of no use;
If the Pylian Sage, without any delay,
Had not whipped them sharp round and away from the fray,
They'd have certainly upset his cabriolet,
And there'd been the-a name I won't mention—to pay.
Well, the Knight in a moment recovered his seat-
Mr. Widdicombe's mode of performing that feat
At Astley's could not be more neat or complete,
-It's recorded, indeed, by an eminent pen
Of our own days, that this our great Widdicombe, then
In the heyday of life, had afforded some ten
Or twelve lessons in riding to Alured Denne,–
It is certain the Knight Was so agile and light
That an instant sufficed him to set matters right,
Yet the Bride was by this time almost out of sight;
For her palfrey, a rare bit of blood, who could trace
Her descent from the “pure old Caucasian race,"
Sleek, slim, and bony, as Mr. Sidonia's
Fine “ Arab Steed” Of the very same breed,
Which that elegant gentleman rode so genteelly
-See "Coningsby," written by “B. Disraeli” –
That palfrey, I say, From this trifling delay
Had made what at sea's called a great deal of way.”
“More fleet than the roebuck,” and free as the wind,
She had left the good company rather behind;
a
32


498
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
1
It's a
They whipped and they spurred, and they after her pressed, -
Still Sir Alured's steed was “ by long chalks” the best
Of the party, and very soon distanced the rest ;
But long ere e'en he had the fugitive neared,
She dashed into the wood and at once disappeared.
fashious" affair when you're out on a ride,–
Ev'n supposing you're not in pursuit of a bride;
If you are, it's more fashious, which can't be denied,
And you come to a place where three cross-roads divide,
Without any way-post stuck up by the side
Of the road to direct you and act as a guide,
With a road leading here, and a road leading there,
And a road leading no one exactly knows where.
When Sir Alured came In pursuit of the dame
To a fork of this kind-a three-pronged one-small blame
To his scholarship if in selecting his way
His respect for the Classics now led him astray;
But the rule, in a work I won't stop to describe, is
In medio semper tutissimus ibis;
So the Knight, being forced of the three paths to enter
one,
Dashed, with these words on his lips, down the centre one.
Up and down hill, Up and down hill,
Through brake and o'er briar, he gallops on still,
Aye banning, blaspheming, and cursing his fill
At his courser because he had given him a spill.”
Yet he did not gain ground on the palfrey; the sound,
On the contrary, made by the hoofs of the beast
Grew fainter and fainter,--and fainter,-and-ceased!
Sir Alured burst through the dingle at last,
To a sort of a clearing, and there—he stuck fast;
For his steed, though a freer one ne'er had a shoe on,
Stood fixed as the Governor's nag in “Don Juan,"
Or much like the statue that stands, cast in copper, a
Few yards southeast of the door of the Opera,
Save that Alured's horse had not got such a big tail,
While Alured wanted the cocked hat and pigtail.


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
499
Before him is seen
A diminutive Green
Scooped out from the covert—a thick leafy screen
Of wild foliage; trunks with broad branches between
Encircle it wholly, all radiant and sheen,
For the weather at once appeared clear and serene,
And the sky up above was a bright mazarine,
Just as though no such thing as a tempest had been;
In short, it was one of those sweet little places
In Egypt and Araby known as “ oases."
There, under the shade
That was made by the glade,
The astonished Sir Alured sat and surveyed
A little low building of Bethersden stone,
With ivy and parasite creepers o'ergrown,
A Sacellum or cell, In which Chronicles tell
Saints and anchorets erst were accustomed to dwell ;
A little round arch, on which, deeply indented,
The zigzaggy pattern by Saxons invented
Was cleverly chiselled and well represented,
Surmounted a door Some five feet by four,-
It might have been less, or it might have been more;
In the primitive ages they made these things lower
Than we do, in buildings that had but one floor.
And these Chronicles say When an anchoret gray
Wished to shut himself up and keep out of the way,
He was commonly wont in such low cells to stay,
And pray night and day on the rez de chaussée.
There, under the arch I've endeavored to paint,
With no little surprise, And scarce trusting his eyes,
The Knight now saw standing that little Boy Saint !-
The one whom before He'd seen over the door
Of the Priory shaking his head as he swore-
With mitre, and crozier, and rochet, and stole on,
The very selfsame,-or at least his Eidolon!
With a voice all unlike to the infantine squeak
You'd expect, that small Saint now addressed him to speak;


500
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
In a bold manly tone he Began, while his stony
Cold lips breathed an odor quite Eau de Cologne-y;
In fact, from his christening, according to rumor, he
Beat Mr. Brummell to sticks in perfumery.*
“Sir Alured Denne!" Said the Saint, “be atten-
tive! Your ancestors, all most respectable men,
Have for some generations been vot’ries of mine;
They have bought me mould candles, and bowed at my shrine,
They have made my monks presents of ven’son and wine,
With a right of free pasturage, too, for their swine;
And though you in this Have been rather remiss,
Still I owe you a turn for the sake of 'Lang Syne,'
And I now come to tell you your cursing and swearing
Have reached to a pitch that is really past bearing.
'Twere a positive scandal In even a Vandal-
It ne'er should be done save with bell, book, and candle;
And though I've now learned, as I've always suspected,
Your own education's been somewhat neglected,
Still you're not such an uninformed pagan, I hope,
As not to know cursing belongs to the Pope !
And his Holiness feels, very properly, jealous
Of all such encroachments by paltry lay fellows.
Now, take my advice;
advice; Saints never speak twice,
So take it at once, as I once for all give it:
Go home! you'll find there all as right as a trivet;
But mind and remember, if once you give way
To that shocking bad habit I'm sorry to say
I have heard you so sadly indulge in to-day,
As sure as you're born, on the
very
first trip
That you make—the first oath that proceeds from your lip-
make
you
I've said it, I'll do it!
Forewarned is forearmed :' you
but you knew it.
Whate'er
you
hold dearest or nearest your heart,
I'LL TAKE IT AWAY, if I come in a cart!
I'll soon
rue it!
shan't say
* In eodem autem prato in quo baptizatus Sanctus Romwoldus nunquam gratis-
simus odor deficit; neque ibi herbæ pallescunt, sed semper in viriditate permanentes
magna nectaris suavitate redolent.-Nov. Legend. Angl.


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
501
I will, on my honor! You know it's absurd
To
suppose
that a Saint ever forfeits his word
For a pitiful Knight, or to please any such man;
I've said it-I'll do't !-if I don't, I'm a Dutchman!"
He ceased—he was gone as he closed his harangue,
And some one inside shut the door with a bang!
Sparkling with dew, Each
green
herb anew
Its profusion of sweets o'er Sir Alured threw,
As pensive and thoughtful he slowly withdrew
(For the hoofs of his horse had got rid of their glue),
And the cud of reflection continued to chew
Till the gables of Bonnington Hall rose in view.
Little recked he what he smelt, what he saw;
Brilliance of scenery, Fragrance of greenery,
Failed in impressing his mental machinery;
Many an hour had elapsed, well I ween, ere he
Fairly was able distinction to draw
'Twixt the odor of garlic and bouquet du Roi.
Merrily, merrily sounds the horn,
And cheerily ring the bells;
For the race is run, The goal is won,
The little lost mutton is happily found, -
The Lady of Bonnington's safe and sound
In the hall where her new Lord dwells !
Hard had they ridden, that company gay,
After fair Edith, away and away:
This had slipped back o'er his courser's rump,
That had gone over his ears with a plump,
But the Lady herself had stuck on like a trump,
Till her panting steed Relaxed her speed,
And feeling, no doubt, as a gentleman feels
When he's once shown a bailiff a fair pair of heels,
Stopped of herself, as it's very well known
Horses will do when they're thoroughly blown;
And thus the whole group had foregathered again,
Just as the sunshine succeeded the rain.



502
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
Oh, now the joy, and the frolicking, rollicking
Doings indulged in by one and by all!
Gayety seized on the most melancholic in
All the broad lands around Bonnington Hall;
All sorts of revelry, All sorts of devilry,
All play at "High Jinks" and keep up the ball.
Days, weeks, and months, it is really astonishing,
When one's so happy, how Time flies away!
Meanwhile the Bridegroom requires no admonishing
As to what passed on his own wedding-day;
Never since then Had Sir Alured Denne
Let a word fall from his lip or his pen
That began with a D or left off with an N!
Once, and once only, when put in a rage
By a careless young rascal he'd hired as a page,
All buttons and brass, Who, in handling a glass
Of spiced hippocras, throws It all over his clothes, ,
And spoils his best pourpoint and smartest trunk hose,
While stretching his hand out to take it and quaff it (he
'd given a rose noble a yard for the taffety);
Then, and then only, came into his head
A very sad word that began with a Z;
But he checked his complaint He remembered the Saint
In the nick-Lady Denne was beginning to faint:
That sight on his mouth acted quite as a bung;
Like Mahomet's coffin, the shocking word hung
Half way 'twixt the root and the tip of his tongue.
Many a year Of mirth and good cheer
Flew over their heads;—to each other more dear
Every day, they were quoted by peasant and peer
As the rarest examples of love ever known
Since the days of Le Chivaler D'Arbie and Joanne,
Who in Bonnington chancel lie sculptured in stone.
Well, it happened at last, After certain years past,
That an embassy came to our court from afar-
From the Grand Duke of Muscovy, now called the Czar-


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
503
And the Spindle-shanked Monarch, determined to do
All the
grace that he could to a nobleman who
Had sailed all that way from a country which few
In our England had heard of, and nobody knew,
With a hat like a muff, and a beard like a Jew,
Our arsenals, buildings, and dockyards to view,
And to say how desirous His Prince, Wladimirus,
Had long been with mutual regard to inspire us,
And how he regretted he was not much nigher us,
With other fine things Such as Kings say to Kings
When each tries to humbug his dear Royal Brother, in
Hopes by such "gammon” to take one another in,-
King Longshanks, I say, Being now on his way
Bound for France, where the rebels had kept him at bay,
Was living in clover At this time at Dover,
'the castle there, waiting a tide to go over.
He had summoned I can't tell you how many men, -
Knights, nobles, and squires,--to the wars of Guienne,
And among these, of course, was Sir Alured Denne,
Who, acting like most Of the knights in the host
Whose residence was not too far from the coast,
Had brought his wife with him, delaying their parting-
Fond souls !-till the very last moment of starting.
Of course, with such lots of lords, ladies, and knights,
In their Saracenettes* and their bright chain-mail tights,
All accustomed to galas, grand doings, and sights,
A matter like this was at once put to rights ;
'Twould have been a strange thing If so polished a King,
With his Board of Green Cloth, and Lord Steward's depart-
ment,
Couldn't teach an Ambassador what the word “smart” meant.
A banquet was ordered at once for a score,
Or more, of the corps that had just come on shore,
And the King, though he thought it “a bit of a bore,”
* This silk, of great repute among our ancestors, had been brought home, a few
years before, by Edward from the Holy Land.


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
505
It's a hundred to one if the Suite or their Chief
Understand our plum-puddings, and barons of beef;
But with five minutes' chat with their cooks or their valets
We'd soon dish up something to tickle their palates!"
With this happy conceit for improving the mess,
Pooh-poohing expense, he despatched an express
In a wagon and four on the instant to Deal,
Who dashed down the hill without locking the wheel,
And, by means which I guess but decline to reveal,
Seduced from the Downs, where at anchor their vessel rode,
Lumpoff Icywitz, serf to a former Count Nesselrode,
A cook of some fame, Who invented the same
Cold pudding that still bears the family name.
This accomplished, the Chef's peace of mind was restored,
And in due time a banquet was placed on the board
"In the very best style,” which implies, in a word,
“All the dainties the season” (and King) “could afford.”
There were snipes, there were rails,
There were woodcocks and quails,
There were peacocks served up in their pride (that is, tails),
Fricandeau, fricassees, Ducks and green peas,
Cotelettes à l'Indienne, and chops à la Soubise
(Which last you may call“ onion sauce" if you please);
There were barbecued pigs Stuffed with raisins and
figs,
Omelettes and haricots, stews and ragouts,
And pork griskins, which Jews still refuse and abuse.
Then the wines,--round the circle how swiftly they went !
Canary, Sack, Malaga, Malvoisie, Tent;
Old Hock from the Rhine, wine remarkably fine,
Of the Charlemagne vintage of Seven Ninety-nine,-
Five cent'ries in bottle had made it divine!
The rich juice of Rousillon, Gascoigne, Bordeaux,
Marasquin, Curaçoa, Kirschen Wasser, Noyeau,
And Gin which the company voted “No Go;"
The guests all hob-nobbing, And bowing and bobbing;
Some prefer white wine, while others more valued red,
Few, a choice few, Of more orthodox goût,
Stick to “old crusted port,” among whom was Sir Alured ;


506
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
Never indeed at a banquet before
Had that gallant commander enjoyed himself more.
Then came
sweets”—served in silver were tartlets and pies—
in glass,
Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass,
Creams, and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool,
Blancmange, and quince-custards, and gooseberry fool.
And now from the good taste which reigns it's confest,
In a gentleman's, that is, an Englishman's, breast,
And makes him polite to a stranger and guest,
They soon played the deuce With a large Charlotte Russe;
More than one of the party despatched his plate twice
With “I'm really ashamed, but-another small slice!
Your dishes from Russia are really 80 nice!”
Then the prime dish of all! "There was nothing so good in
The whole of the Feed," One and all were agreed,
"As the great Lumpoff Icywitz' Nesselrode pudding !"
Sir Alured Denne, who'd all day, to say sooth,
Like Iago, been “plagued with a sad raging tooth,"
Which had nevertheless interfered very little
With his-what for rhyme I'm obliged to spell-vittle,
Requested a friend who sat near him to send
Him a spoonful of what he heard all so commend,
And begged to take wine with him afterwards, grateful
Because for a spoonful he'd sent him a plateful.
Having emptied his glass—he ne'er balked it or spilled it,
The gallant Knight opened his mouth—and then filled it.
You must really excuse me—there's nothing could bribe
Me at all to go on and attempt to describe
The fearsome look then Of Sir Alured Denne!
-Astonishment, horror, distraction of mind,
Rage, misery, fear, and iced pudding-combined !
Lip, forehead, and cheek-how these mingle and meet-
All colors, all hues, now advance, now retreat,
Now pale as a turnip, now crimson as beet!
How he grasps his arm-chair in attempting to rise !
See his veins how they swell! mark the roll of his eyes !


A LAY OF ST. ROMWOLD.
509
Alas for the glories of Bonnington Hall !
Alas for its splendor! alas for its fall !
Long years have gone by Since the trav’ller might spy
Any decentish house in the parish at all.
For very soon after the awful event
I've related, 'twas said through all that part of Kent
That the maids of a morning, when putting the chairs
And the tables to rights, would oft pop unawares
In one of the parlors, or galleries, or stairs,
On a tall female figure, or find her, far horrider,
Slowly o' nights promenading the corridor;
But whatever the hour, or wherever the place,
No one could ever get sight of her face !
Nor could they perceive Any arm in her sleeve,
While her legs and her feet, too, seemed mere “make-believe,”
For she glided along with that shadow-like motion
Which gives one the notion
Of clouds on a zephyr, or ships on the ocean;
And though of her gown they could hear the silk rustle,
They saw but that side on't ornée with the bustle.
The servants, of course, though the house they were born in,
Soon“ wanted to better themselves,” and gave warning,
While even the new Knight grew tired of a guest
Who would not let himself or his family rest;
So he packed
up his all, And made a bare wall
Of each well-furnished room in his ancestors' Hall,
Then left the old mansion to stand or to fall,
Having previously barred up the windows and gates,
To avoid paying cesses and taxes and rates,
And settled on one of his other estates,
Where he built a new mansion, and called it Denne Hill,
And there his descendants reside, I think, still.
Poor Bonnington, empty, or left, at the most,
To the joint occupation of rooks and a Ghost,
Soon went to decay, And mouldered away,
But whether it dropped down at last I can't say,
Or whether the jackdaws produced, by degrees, a
Spontaneous combustion like that one at Pisa


510
THE BLASPHEMER'S WARNING.
Some centries ago, I'm sure I don't know,
But you can't find a vestige now ever so tiny,
Perierunt,” as some one says, “etiam ruince."
MORAL.
The first maxim a couple of lines may be said in:
If you are in a passion, don't swear at a wedding!
Whenever you chance to be asked out to dine,
Be exceedingly cautious-don't take too much wine!
In your eating remember one principal point,
Whatever you do, have your eye on the joint!
Keep clear of side dishes, don't meddle with those
Which the servants in livery, or those in plain clothes,
Poke over your shoulders and under your nose;
Or, if you must live on the fat of the land,
And feed on fine dishes you don't understand,
Buy a.good book of cookery! I've a compact one,
First-rate of the kind, just brought out by Miss Acton;
This will teach you their names, the ingredients they're made of,
And which to indulge in, and which be afraid of,
Or else, ten to one, between ice and cayenne,
You'll commit yourself some day, like Alured Denne.
“To persons about to be married,” I'd say, ,
Don't exhibit ill-humor, at least on The Day!
And should there perchance be a trifling delay
On the part of officials, extend them your pardon,
And don't snub the parson, the clerk, or church warden!
To married men this—For the rest of your lives,
Think how your misconduct may act on your wives !
Don't swear then before them, lest haply they faint,
Or, what sometimes occurs—run away with a Saint !


A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
511
A SERIOUS error, similar to that which forms the subject of
the following Legend, is said to have occurred in the case of
one, or rather two gentlemen named Curina, who dwelt near
Hippo in the days of St. Augustine. The matter was set right,
and a friendly hint at the same time conveyed to the ill-used
individual that it would be advisable for him to apply to the
above-mentioned Father, and be baptized with as little delay as
possible. The story is quoted in "The Doctor,” together with
another of the same kind, which is given on no less authority
than that of Gregory the Great.
The Brothers of Birchington.
A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
OU are all aware that
On our throne there once sat
A very great king who'd an Angevin hat,
With a great sprig of broom, which he wore as a badge in it,
Named, from this circumstance, Henry Plantagenet.
Pray don't suppose That I'm going to prose
O'er Queen Eleanor's wrongs, or Miss Rosamond's woes,
With the dagger and bowl, and all that sort of thing,
Not much to the credit of Miss, Queen, or King.
The tale may be true, But between me and you,
With the King's escapade I'll have nothing to do;
But shall merely select, as a theme for my rhymes,
A fact which occurred to some folks in his times.
If for health, or a “lark," You should ever embark
In that best of improvements on boats since the Ark,
The steam-vessel called the “Red Rover," the barge
Of an excellent officer, named Captain Large,


.512
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
You may see, some half way 'Twixt the pier at Herne Bay
And Margate, the place where you're going to stay,
A village called Birchington, famed for its "Rolls,"
As the fishing-bank, just in its front, is for Soles.
Well,—there stood a fane In this Harry Broom's reign,
On the edge of the cliff, overhanging the main,
Renowned for its sanctity all through the nation,
And orthodox friars of the Austin persuasion.
Among them there was one, Whom if once I begun
To describe as I ought I should never have done,
Father Richard of Birchington, so was the Friar
Yclept whom the rest had elected their Prior.
He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And the tonsure had left, 'mid his ringlets of brown,
A little bald patch on the top of his crown.
His bright sparkling eye Was of hazel, and nigh
Rose a finely-arched eyebrow of similar dye;
He'd a small, well-formed mouth, with the Cupidon lip,
And an aquiline nose, somewhat red at the tip.
In doors and out He was very devout,
With his Aves and Paters—and oh, such a knout!!
For his self-flagellations : the Monks used to say
He would wear out two penn'orth of whipcord a day!
Then how his piety Shows in his diet! he
Dines upon pulse, or, by way of variety,
Sand-eels or dabs; or his appetite mocks
With those small periwinkles that crawl on the rocks.
In brief, I don't stick To declare Father Dick,-
So they called him, “ for short,”-was a “Regular Brick,"
A metaphor taken--I have not the page aright-
Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.


À LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECRET.
513
Now Nature, 'tis said, Is a comical jade,
And among the fantastical tricks she has played,
Was the making our good Father Richard a Brother,
As like him in form as one pea's like another;
He was tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion was what you'd denominate light,
And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown,
He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.
He'd a bright sparkling eye of the hazel ; hard by
Rose a finely-arched sourcil of similar dye;
He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a Cupidon lip,
And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.
But here, it's pretended, The parallel ended;
In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended,
And people who spoke of the Prior with delight,
Shook their heads if you mentioned his brother, the Knight.
If you'd credit report, There was nothing but sport
And High Jinks going on night and day at “the court,"
Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity,
Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.
He drinks and he eats Of choice liquors and meats,
And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats,
Gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups,
And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups.
No Paters, no Aves; An absolute slave he's
To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies;
While as to his beads—what a shame in a Knight!
He really don't know the wrong end from the right!
So, though 'twas owned then, By nine people in ten,
That “Robert and Richard were two pretty men,”
Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least, the good Priest
Was considered the "Beauty,” Sir Robert the “Beast.”
33


-514
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
Indeed, I'm afraid More might have been laid
To the charge of the Knight than was openly said,
For then we'd no “Phiz's," no “H. B.'s," nor "Leeches,"
To call Roberts “Bobs,” and illustrate their speeches.
'Twas whispered he'd rob, Nay murder! a job
Which would stamp him no “brick,” but a "regular snob”
(An obsolete term, which, at this time of day,
We should probably render by mauvais sujet).
1
Now if here such affairs Get wind unawares,
They are bruited about, doubtless, much more "down stairs,"
Where Old Nick has a register-office, they say,
With commissioners quite of such matters au fait.
1
1
Of course, when he heard What his people averred
Of Sir Robert's proceedings in deed and in word,
He asked for the ledger, and hastened to look
At the leaves on the creditor side of this book.
'Twas with more than surprise That he now ran his eyes
O'er the numberless items, oaths, curses, and lies,
Et cetera, set down in Sir Robert's account;
He was quite "flabbergasted" to see the amount.
“Dear me! this is wrong! It's a great deal too strong;
I'd no notion this bill had been standing so long-
Send Levybub here !” and he filled up a writ
Of “Ca sa,” duly prefaced with “ Limbo to wit.”
“Here, Levybub, quick !" To his bailiff said Nick,
“ I'm 'ryled,' and 'my dander's up,''Go ahead slick'
Up to Kent-not Kentuck-and at once fetch away
A snob there, I guess that's a Mauvais Sujet.
"One De Birchington, knight- 'Tis not clear quite
What his t'other name is—they've not entered it right,
Ralph, Robert, or Richard ? they've not gone so far.
Our critturs have put it down merely as ‘R.'


À LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
515
“But he's tall and upright, About six feet in height,
His complexion, I reckon, you'd calculate light,
And he's further 'set down'having ringlets of brown,
With a little bald patch on the top of his crown.
“Then his eye and his lip, Hook-nose, red at tip,
Are 'marks your attention can't easily slip;
Take Slomanoch with you, he's got a good knack
Of soon grabbing his man, and be back in a crack !"
That same afternoon Father Dick, who as soon
Would “knock in" or “cut chapel" as jump o'er the moon,
Was missing at vespers—at compline-all night!
And his monks were, of course, in a deuce of a fright.
Morning dawned—'twas broad day, Still no Prior! the tray
With his muffins and eggs went untasted away ;-
He came not to luncheon -all said “it was rum of him!”
-None could conceive what on earth had become of him.
They examined his cell, They peeped down the well;
They went up the tow'r, and looked into the bell ;
They dragged the great fish-pond, the little one tried,
But found nothing at all, save some carp—which they fried.
“ Dear me! Dear me! Why, where can he be?
He's fallen over the cliff ?-tumbled into the sea ?”
“Stay-he talked,” exclaimed one, “if I recollect right,
Of making a call on his brother, the Knight!”
He turns as he speaks, The “ Court Lodge” he seeks,
Which was known then, as now, by the queer name of Quekes,
But scarce half a mile on his
way
had he sped,
When he spied the good Prior in the paddock-stone dead !
Alas! 'twas too true! And I need not tell
you
In the convent his news made a pretty to do;
Through all its wide precincts so roomy and spacious,
Nothing was heard but “Bless me!” and “Good gracious !!”


516
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
They sent for the May'r And the Doctor, a pair
Of grave men, who began to discuss the affair,
When in bounced the Coroner, foaming with fury,
“Because," as he said, “ 'twas pooh-poohing his jury.
Then commenced a dispute, And so hot they went to't
That things seemed to threaten a serious émeute,
When, just in the midst of the uproar and racket,
Who should walk in but St. Thomas à Becket.
Quoth his Saintship, “How now? Here's a fine coil, I
trow;
I should like to know, gentlemen, what's all this row?
Mr. Wickliffe or Wackliffe-whatever your name is—
And you, Mr. May'r, don't you know, sirs, what shame is ?
' Pray what's all this clatter About?-what's the
matter ?"
Here a monk, whose teeth funk and concern made to chatter,
Sobs out, as he points to the corpse on the floor,
“ 'Tis all dickey with poor Father Dick-he's no more!"
“How !-what?" says the Saint, “Yes he is no he ain't !*
He can't be deceased-pooh! it's merely a faint,
Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter,
'He should have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'
“His time is not out; Some blunder, no doubt;
It shall
go
hard but what I'll know what it's about-
I shan't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's
Had a hand in't; it savors of one of his tricks.”
When a crafty old hound Claps his nose to the ground,
Then throws it up boldly and bays out, “ I've found !"
And the pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it,
As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket.
* Cantise for “is not;" St. Thomas, it seems, had lived long enough in the country
to pick up a few of its provincialisms.


1


518
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
“Wrong man! don't tell me~ Pooh 1-fiddle-de-dee!
What's your right, Scamp, to any man !-come, let me see;
I'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle
With church matters. Come, sirrah, out with your schedule!”
In support of his claim The fiend turns to the name
Of “ De Birchington” written in letters of flame,
Below which long items stand, column on column,
Enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume!
Sins of all sorts and shapes, From small practical japes
Up to dicings and drinkings, and murders and rapes,
And then of such standing !-a merciless tick,
From an Oxford tobacconist,- let alone Nick.
The Saint in surprise Scarce believed his own eyes,
Still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies,
And “So this !--you call this !” he exclaimed in a searching
tone,
"This!!! the account of my friend Dick de Birchington!”
66
Why,” said Nick, with an air Of great candor, “it's
there
Lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair
I thought all was right-see the height tallies quite,
The complexion's what all must consider as light;
There's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown,
And the little bald patch on the top of the crown.
“And then the surname, So exactly the same
I don't know-I can't tell how the accident came,
But some how-I own it's a very sad job, ·
But-my bailiff grabbed Dick when he should have nabbed Bob.
“I am vexed beyond bounds
You should have such good grounds
For complaint; I would rather have given five pounds,
And any apology, sir, you may choose,
I'll make with much pleasure, and put in the ‘News.'


A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
519
“An apology !-pooh! Much good that will do!
An'apology' quotha !-and that too from you !
Before any proposal is made of the sort,
Bring back your stol'n goods, thief l-produce them in Court."
In a moment, so small It seemed no time at all,
Father Richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call-
Sur son séant-and, what was as wondrous as pleasing,
At once began coughing, and sniffing, and sneezing.
While, strange to relate, The Knight, whom the fate
Of his brother had reached, and who knocked at the gate,
To make further inquiries, had scarce made his bow
To the Saint, ere he vanished, and no one knew how!
Erupit-evasit, As Tully would phrase it,
And none could have known where to find his Hic jacet
That sentence which man his mortality teaches-
Sir Robert had disappeared, body and breeches !
“Heyday! sir, heyday! What's the matter now—eh ?”
Quoth A Becket, observing the gen'ral dismay;
How, again !-'pon my word, this is really too bad !
It would drive any Saint in the calendar mad.
1
“What, still at your tricking? You will have a kicking ?
I see you won't rest till you've got a good licking-
Your claim, friend ?-what claim ?--why, you showed me before
That your old claim was cancelled-you've crossed out the
score !
“ Is it that way you'd Jew one? You've settled the true
one!
Do you mean to tell me he has run up a new one?
Of the thousands you've cheated And scurvily treated,
Name one you've dared charge with a bill once receipted !
In the Bankruptcy Court should you dare to presume
To attempt it, they'd soon kick you out of the room,
-Ask Commissioner Fonblanque, or ask my Lord Brougham.


520
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
“And then to make under So barefaced a blunder,
Your caption !-why, what's the world come to, I wonder?
My patience! it's just like his impudence, drat bim!
-Stand out of the way there, and let me get at him!”
The Saint raised his arm, But Old Nick, in alarm,
Dashed up through the skylight, not doing much harm,
While, quitte pour la peur, the Knight, sound on the whole,
Down the chimney came tumbling as black as a coal !
Spare we to tell Of what after befell!
How the Saint lectured Robert de Birchington well,
Bade him alter his life, and held out as a warning
The narrow escape he had made on't that morning.
1
Nor need we declare How, then and there,
The Jury and Coroner blew up the May'r
For his breach of decorum, as one of the quorum,
In not having Levybub brought up before 'em.
Nor will you require Me to state how the Prior
Could never thenceforth bear the sight of a fire,
Nor ever was heard to express a desire
In cold weather to see the thermometer higher.
Nor shall I relate The subsequent fate
Of St. Thomas à Becket, whose reverend pate
Fitzurse and De Morville, and Brito and Tracy,
Shaved off, as his crown had been merely a jasey.*
Suffice it to say,
From that notable day
The “Twin Birchington Brothers” together grew gray-
In the same holy convent continued to dwell,
Same food and same fastings, same habit, same cell.
No more the Knight rattles In broils and in battles,
But sells, by De Robins, his goods and his chattels,
* Nec satis fuit eis sanguine sacerdotis et nece ecclesiam prophanare, nisi, coronâ
capitis amputatâ, funestis gladiis jam defuncti ejicerent cerebrum.-MATT. PARIS.


A LAY OF ST. THOMAS À BECKET.
521
And, counting all wealth a mere Will-o'-the-wisp,
Disposes of Quekes to Sir Nicholas Crispe.
One spot alone Of all he had known
Of his spacious domain he retained as his own,
In a neighboring parish, whose name, I may say,
Scarce any two people pronounce the same way.
Re-cul-ver some style it, While others revile it
As bad, and say Re-culver; 'tisn't worth while, it
Would seem, to dispute, when we know the result immat-
erial: I accent, myself, the penultimate.
Sages with brains Full of “Saxon remains
May call me a booby, perhaps, for my pains,
Still I hold, at the hazard of being thought dull by 'em,
Fast by the quantity marked for Regulbium.
Call't as you will, The traveller still,
In the voyage that we talked about, marks on the hill
Overhanging the sea the "twin towers" raised then
By “Robert and Richard, those two pretty men."
Both tall and upright, And just equal in height;
The Trinity House talked of painting them white,
And the thing was much spoken of some time ago,
When the Duke, I believe-but I really don't know-
Well, there the “ Twins” stand On the verge of the
land,
To warn mariners off from the Columbine sand;
And
many a poor man have Robert and Dick
By their vow caused to 'scape, like themselves, from Old Nick.
So, whether you're sailors, Or Tooley-Street tailors
Broke loose from your masters, those sternest of jailers,
And, bent upon pleasure, are taking your trip
In a craft which you fondly conceive is a ship,


522
THE BROTHERS OF BIRCHINGTON.
When you've passed by the Nore,
And
you
hear the winds roar
In a manner you scarce could have fancied before,
When the cordage and tackling Are flapping and crack-
ling,
And the boy with the bell Thinks it useless to tell
You that "dinner's on table,” because you're unwell ;-
When above you all's "scud,” And below you the flood
Looks a horrible mixture of soapsuds and mud,
When the timbers are straining, And folks are com-
plaining
The dead-lights are letting the spray and the rain in,
When the helmsman looks blue, And Captain, Large
too,
And you really don't know what on earth you shall do,
-
In this hubbub and row Think where you'd be now,
Except for the Birchington boys and their vow!
And while o'er the wide wave you feel the craft pitch hard,
Praie for ye sowles of Robertte and Rychard !
MORAL.
It's a subject of serious complaint in some houses,
With young married men who have elderly spouses,
That persons are seen in their figures and faces,
With very queer people in very queer places,
So like them that one for the other's oft taken,
And conjugal confidence thereby much shaken:
Explanations too often are thought mere pretences,
And Richard gets scolded for Robert's offences.
In a matter so nice, If I'm asked my advice,
I
say copy King Henry to obviate that,
And stick something remarkable up in your hat !


524
THE KNIGHT AND. THE LADY.
The Knight and the Lady.
A DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.
“Hail, wedded love! mysterious tie!"
THOMSON-or SOMEBODY.
THE
THE LADY JANE was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
And Sir Thomas, her Lord, was stout of limb,
But his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,
And he wore green “specs,” with a tortoise-shell rim,
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
And she was uncommonly fond of him,-
And they were a loving pair!-
And the name and the fame
Of the Knight and his Dame
Were ev'rywhere hailed with the loudest acclaim;
And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
Far and wide, The people cried,
“Huzza! for the Lord of this noble domain,-
Huzza! Huzza! Huzza !-once again!
Encore !-Encore ! One cheer more!
-All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain,
To Sir Thomas the Good, and the Fair Lady Jane!!"
Now Sir Thomas the Good, Be it well understood,
Was a man of a very contemplative mood, -
He would pore by the hour O’er a weed or a flower,
Or the slugs that come crawling out after a shower;
Black-beetles, and Bumble-bees,-Blue-bottle flies,
And Moths, were of no small account in his eyes ;
An “Industrious Flea” he'd by no means despise,
While an “Old Daddy-long-legs,” whose “long legs” and thighs
Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size,
He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
Nay, a hornet or wasp he could scarce “keep his paws off”—he


528
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.
“First dinner-bell” rang Out its euphonous clang
At five-folks kept early hours then—and the “ Last”
Ding-donged, as it was ever wont, at half-past,
While Betsey and Sally, And Thompson the Valet,
And every one else was beginning to bless himself,
Wondering the Knight had not come in to dress himself.-
-Quoth Betsey, “Dear me! why, the fish will be cold !”-
Quoth Sally, “Good gracious! how 'Missis' will scold !”
Thompson, the Valet, Looked gravely at Sally,
As who should say, “Truth must not always be told !"
Then, expressing a fear lest the Knight might take cold,
Thus exposed to the dews, Lamb’s-wool stockings and
shoes,
Of each a fresh pair, He put down to air,
And hung a clean shirt to the fire on a chair.-
Still the Master was absent—the Cook came and said, “he
Much feared, as the dinner had been so long ready,
The roast and the boiled Would be all of it spoiled,
And the puddings her Ladyship thought such a treat,
He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat !”
This closed the debate “ 'Twould be folly to wait,”
Said the Lady, “ Dish up !-Let the meal be served straight,
And let two or three slices be put on a plate,
And kept hot for Sir Thomas.--He's lost, sure as fate!
And, a hundred to one, won't be home till it's late!”
-Captain Dugald MacBride then proceeded to face
The Lady at table,-stood up, and said grace, -
Then sat himself down in Sir Thomas's place.
Wearily, wearily, all that night,
That live-long night, did the hours go by;
And the Lady Jane, In grief and in pain,
She sat herself down to cry!
And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side,
Though I really can't say that he actually cried,
At least had a tear in his eye!-
As much as can well be expected, perhaps, ·
From “very young fellows" for very "old chaps ;"


A LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.
529
And if he had said What he'd got in his head,
'Twould have been “Poor old Buffer ! he's certainly dead !”
The morning dawned, and the next,--and the next,
And all in the mansion were still perplexed;
· No watch-dog“ bayed a welcome home,” as
A watch-dog should, to the “Good Sir Thomas;"
No knocker fell His approach to tell,
Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell-
The Hall was silent as Hermit's cell.
Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree,
And the meads smiled green as green may be,
And the dear little dickey-birds carolled with glee,
And the lambs in the park skipped merry and free
Without, all was joy and harmony !
“And thus 'twill be,-nor long the day,–
Ere we, like him, shall pass away!
Yon Sun, that now our bosoms warms,
Shall shine,-but shine on other forms;
Yon Grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers
Us now, shall sound on other ears,-
The joyous Lamb, as now, shall play,
But other eyes its sports survey, -
The Stream we love shall roll as fair,
The flowery sweets, the trim Parterre,
Shall scent, as now, the ambient air,-
The Tree, whose bending branches bear
The One loved name, shall yet be there;
But where the hand that carved it ?- Where?”
These were hinted to me as The
very
ideas
Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane,
Her thoughts having taken a sombre-ish train,
As she walked on the esplanade, to and again,
With Captain MacBride, Of course, at her side,
Who could not look quite so forlorn,-though he tried,
34


530
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.
-An“idea," in fact, had got into his head,
That if “poor dear Sir Thomas” should really be dead,
It might be no bad “spec.” to be there in his stead,
And, by simply contriving, in due time, to wed
A Lady who was young and fair,
A Lady slim and tall,
To set himself down in comfort there
The Lord of Tapton * Hall.-
Thinks he, “ We have sent Half over Kent,
And nobody knows how much money's been spent,
Yet no one's been found to
say
which
way
he went!
The
groom,
who's been over To Folkestone and Dover,
Can't get any tidings at all of the rover !
-Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried
Every plan we could hit on-the whole country-side,
Upon all its dead walls, with placards we've supplied, -
And we've sent out the Crier, and had him well cried
MISSING!! Stolen, or strayed, Lost, or mislaid,
A GENTLEMAN ;-middle-aged, sober, and staid ;-
Stoops slightly ;-and when he left home was arrayed
In a sad-colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed ;-
Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim,
And a hat rather low-crowned, and broad in the brim.
Whoe'er Shall bear, Or shall send him with care
(Right side uppermost) home; or shall give notice where
The said middle-aged GENTLEMAN is; or shall state
Any fact that may tend to throw light on his fate,
To the man at the turnpike, called TAPPINGTON GATE,
Shall receive a REWARD of FIVE POUNDS for his trouble.-
(le N.B.-If defunct, the REWARD will be double!!' W)
“ Had he been above ground He must have been found.
No; doubtless he's shot, -or he's hanged,
-or he's drowned !
* The familiar abbreviation for Tappington Everard still in use among the tenantry.
Vide Prefatory Introduction to the Ingoldsby Legends.


A LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.
531
Then his Widow-ay! ay! But what will folks say?
-To address her at once-at so early a day?
Well—what then?—who cares ?—let 'em say what they may-
A fig for their nonsense and chatter !-suffice it, her
Charms will excuse one for casting sheep's eyes at her!”
When a man has decided As Captain MacBride did,
And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he
Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery.
He began on the instant, and vowed that “her eyes
Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies, –
That her lips were like roses-her cheeks were like lilies-
Her breath had the odor of daffy-down-dillies !"-
With a thousand more compliments equally true,
And expressed in similitudes equally new!
-Then his left arm he placed Round her jimp, taper
waist-
- Ere she fixed to repulse, or return, his embrace,
Up came running a man, at a deuce of a pace,
With that very peculiar expression of face
Which always betokens dismay or disaster,
Crying out—'twas the Gardener—"Oh, Ma'am! we've found
Master !"
-“Where? where ?” screamed the lady; and Echo screamed
where ?"
The man couldn't
say
« There !” He had no breath to
spare,
But, gasping for air, he could only respond
By pointing—he pointed, alas !-TO THE POND!
—'Twas e'en 80-poor dear Knight !—with his “specs" and
his hat
He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that;
When, close to the side of the bank he espied
An "uncommon fine” Tadpole, remarkably fat !
He stooped; and he thought her
His own ;-he had caught her!
Got hold of her tail,--and to land almost brought her,
When-he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water:


532
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.
The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
Alas, for Sir Thomas !--she grieved for him,
As she saw two serving-men, sturdy of limb,
His body between them bear.
She sobbed, and she sighed; she lamented, and cried,
For of sorrow brimful was her cup;
She swooned, and I think she'd have fall'n down and died,
If Captain MacBride Had not been by her side,
With the Gardener; they both their assistance supplied,
And managed to hold her up.-
But when she “ comes to," Oh! 'tis shocking to view
The sight which the corpse reveals!
Sir Thomas's body, It looked so odd-he
Was half eaten up by the eels !
His waistcoat and hose, and the rest of his clothes,
Were all gnawed through and through ;
And out of each shoe An eel they drew;
And from each of his pockets they pulled out two,
And the Gardener himself had secreted a few,
As well we may suppose ;
For, when he came running to give the alarm,
He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.
Good Father John* Was summoned anon;
Holy water was sprinkled, And little bells tinkled,
And tapers were lighted, And incense ignited,
And masses were sung, and masses were said,
All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,
And all night no one thought about going to bed.
But Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair,-
And, ere morning came, that winsome dame
Had made up her mind-or, what's much the same,
Had thought about-once more "changing her name,”
* For some account of Father John Ingoldsby, to whose papers I am so much
beholden, see p. 163. This was the last ecclesiastical act of his long and valuable life.


536
THE HOUSE-WARMING.
Of being squabashed, as in Shakspeare we've read,
Caught a bad influenza, and died in his bed,
In the Tower, not far from the room where the Guard is
(The octagon one that adjoins Duffus Hardy's).
—That, in short, all the 'facts' in the Decem Scriptores
Are nothing at all but sheer humbugging stories.”
Then if, as he vows, both this country and France in,
Historians thus gave themselves up to romancing,
Notwithstanding what most of them join in advancing
Respecting Sir Christopher's capering and prancing,
'Twill cause no surprise If we find that his rise
Is not to be solely ascribed to his dancing!
The fact is, Sir Christopher, early in life,
As all bachelors should do, had taken a wife,
A Fanshawe by family,
one of a house
Well descended, but boasting less "nobles" than nous;
Though e'en as to purse He might have done worse,
For I find, on perusing her Grandfather's will, it is
Clear she had “good gifts beside possibilities,”*
Owches and rings, And such sort of things,
Orellana shares (then the American Stocks),
Jewelled stomachers, coifs, ruffs, silk stockings with clocks,
Point-lace, cambric handkerchiefs, nightcaps, and—socks
(Recondite apparel contained in her box).
- Then the height of her breeding And depth of her
reading
Might captivate any gay youth, and, in leading
Him on “to propose,” well excuse the proceeding!
Truth to tell, as to “reading,” the Lady was thought to do
More than she should, and know more than she ought to do;
Her maid, it was said, Declared that she read
(A custom all staid folks discourage) in bed ;
And that often o' nights, Odd noises and sights
In her mistress's chamber had giv'n her sad frights,
After all in the mansion had put out their lights,
1
* “Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is good gifts."
SIR HUGH EVANS.


538
THE HOUSE-WARMING.
1
1
1
.
The liquor she used, as I've said, she kept close,
But, whatever it was, she now doubled the dose!
(So true is the saying, “We never can stay, in
Our progress, when once with the foul fiend we league us.")
-She “ doctored” the punch, and she “doctored” the negus,
Taking care not to put in sufficient to flavor it,
Till, at every fresh sip That moistened her lip,
The Virgin Queen grew more attached to her Favorite.
“No end” now he commands Of money and lands,
And, as George Robins says, when he's writing about houses,
“Messuages, tenements, crofts, tofts, and outhouses,”
Parks, manors, chases, she "gives and she grants,
To him and his heirs, and his uncles and aunts ;?
Whatever he wants, he has only to ask it,
And all other suitors are left in the basket,"
Till Dudley and Rawleigh Began to look squally,
While even grave Cecil, the famous Lord Burleigh,
Himself, “ shook his head,” and grew snappish and surly.
All this was fine sport, As our authors report,
To Dame Alice, become a great Lady at Court,
Where none than her Ladyship’s husband looked bigger,
Who “ led the brawls”* still with the same grace and vigor,
Though losing a little in slimness and figure;
For eating and drinking all day of the best
Of viands well drest, With “Burgess's Zest,"
Is apt, by degrees, to enlarge a man's vest;
And, what in Sir Christopher went to increase it, he
'd always been rather inclined to obesity;
-Few men in those times were found to grow thinner
With beefsteaks for breakfast and pork-pie for dinner.
1
.
Now it's really a difficult problem to say
How long matters might have gone on in this way,
If it had not unluckily happened one day
That NICK,—who, because He'd the gout in his claws
And his hoofs (he's by no means so young as he was,
*"The grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,
The seals and maces danced before him."-GRAY.


A LEGEND OF BLEEDING-HEART YARD.
541
Where the strawberries grow so fine and so big,
Which our Grandmother's Uncle tucked in like a pig,
King Richard the Third, which you all must have read of
The day,—don't you know ?—he cut Hastings' head off-
And mark me, proud Prelate !—I'm speaking to you,
Bishop Heaton !--you need not, my Lord, look so blue
Give it up on the instant! I don't mean to shock you,
Or else, by—I-(the Bishop was shocked !)-I'll unfrock
you!!”
The Queen turns abruptly her back on the group,
The courtiers all bow as she
passes, and
stoop
To kiss, as she goes, the hind flounce of her hoop,
And Sir Christopher, having thus danced to some tune,
Skips away with much glee in his best rigadoon!
While poor Bishop Heaton, Who found himself beaten,
In serious alarm at the Queen's contumelious
And menacing tone, at once gave him up Ely House,
With every appurtenance thereto belonging,
Including the strawberry-beds 'twas so strong in;
Politely he bowed to the gratified minion,
And said, “There can be, my good Lord, in opinion
No difference betwixt yours And mine as to fixtures,
And tables, and chairs— We need no survey'rs-
Take them just as you find them, without reservation,
Grates, coppers, and all, at your own valuation !"
Well! the object is gained! A good town-house obtained !
The next thing to be thought of, is now
The “house-warming” party—the when and the how,—
The Court ladies call, One and all, great and small,
For an elegant “Spread," and more elegant Ball,
So, Sir Christopher, vain as we know of his capering,
No sooner had finished his painting and papering,
Than he sat down and wrote A nice little pink note
To every great Lord whom he knew, and his spouse,
“From our poor place on Holborn Hill (late Ely House),
Lord Keeper and Dame Alice Hatton request
Lord So-and-So’s (name, style, or title exprest)


542
THE HOUSE-WARMING.
Good company on
The next eve of St. John,
Viz. Friday week, June 24th, as their guest,
To partake of pot-luck, And taste a fat buck.
N. B. Venison on table exactly at 3,
Quadrilles in the afternoon.
R. S. V. P.
“For my good Lord of So-and-So these, and his wife;
Ride! ride! for thy life! for thy life! for thy life!”
Thus courtiers were wont to indorse their expresses
In Harry the VIIIth’s time, and also Queen Bess's.
The Dame, for her part, too, took order that cards
Should be sent to the mess-rooms of all the Hussards,
The Household troops, Train-bands, and horse and foot Guards.
Well, the day for the rout At length came about,
And the bells of St. Andrew's rang merrily out,
As'horse-litter, coach, and pad-nag with its pillion
(The mode of conveyance then used by “the Million”),
All gallant and grand, Defiled from the Strand,
Some through Chancery (then an unpaved and much wetter)
Lane,
Others through Shoe (which was not a whit better) Lane;
Others through Fewtar's (corrupted to Fetter) Lane,
Some from Cheapside and St. Mary-le-Bow,
From Bishopsgate Street, Dowgate Hill,* and Budge Row.
They come and they go,
Squire and Dame, Belle and Beau,
Down Snore Hill (which we have since whitewashed to Snow),
All eager to see the magnificent show,
And sport what some call “ a fantastical toe;"
In silk and in satin, To batten and fatten
Upon the good cheer of Sir Christopher Hatton.
A flourish, trumpets !-sound again!
He comes, bold Drake, the chief who made a
Fine hash of all the pow'rs of Spain,
And so served out their Grand Armada :
* Sir Francis Drake's house, “The Arbor," stood here.


548
THE FORLORN ONE.
The Forlorn One.
Α'
H! why those piteous sounds of woe,
Lone wanderer of the dreary night?
Thy gushing tears in torrents flow,
Thy bosom pants in wild affright!
And thou, within whose iron breast
Those frowns austere too truly tell,
Mild pity, heaven-descended guest,
Hath never, never deigned to dwell, -
“That rude, uncivil touch forego,"
Stern despot of a fleeting hour!
Nor “make the angels weep" to know
The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!
Know'st thou not “mercy is not strained,
But droppeth as the gentle dew,"
And while it blesseth him who gained,
It blesseth him who gave it too ?
Say, what art thou ? and what is he,
Pale victim of despair and pain,
Whose streaming eyes and bended knee
Sue to thee thus-and sue in vain ?
Cold, callous man! he scorns to yield,
Or aught relax his felon gripe,
But answers, "I'm Inspector Field!
And this here warment's prigged your wipe!”


A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF RENT.
549
Jerry Jarvis's Wig.
A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.
"The wig's the thing! the wig! the wig !"-Old Song.
OE,” said old Jarvis, looking out of his window-it was
his ground-floor back-"Joe, you seem to be very hot,
Joe, and you have got no wig !"
“Yes, sir," quoth Joseph, pausing and resting upon his spade,
“it's as hot a day as ever I see; but the celery must be got in,
or there'll be no autumn crop, and—”
Well, but, Joe, the sun's so hot, and it shines so on your
bald head, it makes one wink to look at it. You'll have a
coup de soleil, Joe.”
“A what, sir ?”
“No matter : it's very hot working, and if you'll step in
doors, I'll give you—”
“Thank ye, your honor; a drop of beer will be very accept-
able."
Joe's countenance brightened amazingly.
“ Joe, I'll give you—my old wig !"
The countenance of Joseph fell. His gray eye had glistened
as a blest vision of double X fitted athwart his fancy; its
glance faded again into the old filmy, gooseberry-colored hue,
as he growled in a minor key, “A wig, sir ?”
Yes, Joe, a wig. The man who does not study the comfort
of his dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. You shall have
my old wornout wig.”
“I hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your
honor's health in; it is very hot, and—”
“ Come in, Joe, and Mrs. Witherspoon shall give it you.”
“Heaven bless your honor!” said honest Joe, striking his
spade perpendicularly into the earth, and walking with more
than usual alacrity towards the close-cut quickset hedge which
separated Mr. Jarvis's garden from the high-road.
From the quickset hedge aforesaid he now raised, with all
due delicacy, a well-worn and somewhat dilapidated jacket, of


550
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
4
a stuff by drapers most pseudonymously termed "everlasting."
Alack! alack! what is there to which tempus edax rerum will
accord that epithet? In its high and palmy days it had been
all of a piece; but as its master's eye now fell upon it, the ex-
pression of his countenance seemed to say with Octavian,
"Those days are gone, Floranthe!"
It was now, from frequent patching, a coat 'not unlike that of
the patriarch-one of many colors.
Joseph Washford inserted his wrists into the corresponding
orifices of the tattered garment, and with a steadiness of cir-
cumgyration to be acquired only by long and sufficient prac-
tice, swung it horizontally over his ears, and settled himself
into it.
“Confound your old jacket !" cried a voice from the other
side of the hedge; “ keep it down, you rascall don't you see
my horse is frightened at it?"
“Sensible beast !" apostrophized Joseph; "I've been fright-
ened at it myself every day for the last two years."
The gardener cast a rueful glance at its sleeve, and pursued
his way to the door of the back kitchen.
Joe," said Mrs. Witherspoon, a fat, comely dame of about
five-and-forty,—"Joe, your master is but too good to you; he
is always kind and considerate. Joe, he has desired me to
give you his old wig."
“And the beer, Ma'am Witherspoon ?" said Washford, taking
the proffered caxon and looking at it with an expression some-
what short of rapture; "and the beer, ma'am ?”
“The beer, you guzzling wretch !-what beer? Master said
nothing about no beer. You ungrateful fellow, has not he
given you a wig ?”
Why, yes, Ma'am Witherspoon; but then, you see, his
honor said it was very hot, and I'm very dry, and—”
“Go to the pump, sot!” said Mrs. Witherspoon, as she
slammed the back door in the face of the petitioner.
| Mrs. Witherspoon was “ of the Lady Huntingdon persua-
sion," and Honorary Assistant Secretary to the Appledore
branch of the “ Ladies' Grand Junction Water-working Tem-
perance Society."


552
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
house in the country-town is always the lawyer's, and it gen-
erally boasts a green door, stone steps, and a brass knocker.
In neither of these appendages to opulence was Jeremiah
deficient; but then he was so very rich: his reputed wealth,
indeed, passed all the common modes of accounting for its
increase. True, he was so universally a favorite that every
man whose will he made was sure to leave him a legacy; that
he was a sort of general assignee to all the bankruptcies within
twenty miles of Appledore; was clerk to half the “trusts,”
and treasurer to most of the “rates," "funds,” and “subscrip-
tions,” in that part of the country; that he was land-agent to
Lord Mountrhino, and steward to the rich Miss Tabbytale of
Smerrididdle Hall; that he had been guardian (?) to three
young profligates who all ran through their property, which,
somehow or another, came at last into his hands, “at an
equitable valuation.” Still his possessions were so considerable
as not to be altogether accounted for, in vulgar esteem, even
by these and other honorable modes of accumulation ; nor
were there wanting those who conscientiously entertained a
belief that a certain dark-colored gentleman, of indifferent
character, known principally by his predilection for appearing
in perpetual mourning, had been through life his great friend
and counsellor, and had mainly assisted in the acquirement of
his revenues. That “old Jerry Jarvis had sold himself to
the devil” was, indeed, a dogma which it were heresy to doubt
in Appledore ;-on this hand, at least, there were few schis-
matics in the parish.
When the worthy “Solicitor” next looked out of his ground-
floor back, he smiled with much complacency at beholding Joe
Washford again hard at work—in his wig—the little tail
aforesaid oscillating like a pendulum in the breeze. If it be
asked what could induce a gentleman whose leading principle
seems to have been self-appropriation to make so magnificent
a present, the answer is, that Mr. Jarvis might perhaps have
thought an occasional act of benevolence necessary or politic;
he is not the only person who, having stolen a quantity of
leather, has given away a pair of shoes pour l'amour de Dieu,-
perhaps he had other motives.
Joe, meanwhile, worked away at the celery-bed; but, truth


554
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
Alack! alack! what a piece of work is man!-how short
his triumphs !-how frail his resolutions !
From this fine and very original moral reflection we turn
reluctantly to record the sequel. The celery-bed, alluded to
as the main scene of Mr. Washford's operations, was drawn in
a rectilinear direction, nearly across the whole breadth of
the parallelogram that comprised the “kitchen garden.” Its
northern extremity abutted to the hedge before mentioned;
its southern one-woe is me that it should have been so !-was
in fearful vicinity to the Ribstone pippin-tree. One branch,
low bowed to earth, seemed ready to discharge its precious
burden into the very trench. As Joseph stooped to insert the
last plant with his dibble, an apple of more than ordinary
beauty bobbed against his knuckles. "He's taking snuff, Joe,"
whispered the same small voice the tail had twisted itself
into its old position. “He is sneezing !-now, Joel-now!"
and, ere the agitated horticulturist could recover from his
surprise and alarm, the fruit was severed, and in his hand !
“He! he! he!” shrilly laughed, or seemed to laugh, that
accursed little pigtail. Washford started at once to the per-
pendicular;-with an enfrenzied grasp he tore the jasey from
his head, and, with that in one hand and his ill-acquired spoil
in the other, he rushed distractedly from the garden!
All that night was the humble couch of the once-happy
gardener haunted with the most fearful visions. He was
stealing apples,-he was robbing hen-roosts,-he was altering
the chalks upon the milk-score,—he had purloined three
chemises from a hedge, and he awoke in the very act of cut-
ting the throat of one of Squire Hodge's sheep! A clammy
dew stood upon his temples,—the cold perspiration burst
from every pore, -he sprang in terror from the bed.
Why, Joe, what ails thee, man?” cried the usually in-
curious Mrs. Washford; "what be the matter with thee?
Thee hast done nothing but grunt and growl all t night long,
and now thee dost stare as if thee saw summut. What bees
it, Joe?”


A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.
555
A long-drawn sigh was her husband's only answer; his eye
fell upon the bed. “How the devil came that here?” quoth
Joseph, with a sudden recoil ; "who put that thing on my
pillow ?"
“Why, I did, Joseph. Th' ould nightcap is in the wash, and
thee didst toss and tumble so, and kick the clothes off, I thought
thee mightest catch cold, so I clapt t' wig atop o' thee head."
And there it lay,—the little sinister-looking tail impudently
perked up, like an infernal gnomon on a Satanic dial-plate-
Larceny and Ovicide shone in every hair of it!
“The dawn was overcast, the morning lowered,
And heavily in clouds brought on the day,"
ness.
when Joseph Washford once more repaired to the scene of his
daily labors; a sort of unpleasant consciousness flushed his
countenance, and gave him an uneasy feeling as he opened
the garden gate; for Joe, generally speaking, was honest as
the skin between his brows; his hand faltered as he pressed
the latch. “Pooh, pooh! 'twas but an apple, after all!” said
Joseph. He pushed open the wicket, and found himself be-
neath the tempting tree.
But vain now were all its fascinations ; like fairy gold seen
by the morning light, its charms had faded into very nothing-
Worlds, to say nothing of apples, which in shape
resemble them, would not have bought him to stretch forth
an unhallowed hand again: he went steadily to his work.
The day continued cloudy; huge drops of rain fell at in-
tervals, stamping his bald pate with spots as big as half-pence;
but Joseph worked on. As the day advanced, showers fell
thick and frequent; the fresh-turned earth was itself fragrant
as a bouquet. Joseph worked on; and when at last Jupiter
Pluvius descended in all his majesty, soaking the ground into
the consistency of a dingy pudding, he put on his party-
colored jacket, and strode towards his humble home, rejoicing
in his renewed integrity. “'Twas but an apple, after all !
Had it been an apple-pie, indeed !"-
"An apple-pie !" the thought was a dangerous one--too dan-
gerous to dwell on. But Joseph's better Genius was at this
time lord of the ascendant ;-he dismissed it, and passed on.


556
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
On arriving at his cottage, an air of bustle and confusion
prevailed within, much at variance with the peaceful serenity
usually observable in its economy. Mrs. Washford was in
high dudgeon; her heels clattered on the red-tiled floor,
and she whisked about the house like a parched pea upon a
drum-head; her voice, generally small and low—"an excellent
thing in woman was pitched at least an octave above its
ordinary level : she was talking fast and furious. Something
had evidently gone wrong. The mystery was soon explained.
The “cussed ould twoad of a cat” had got into the dairy, and
licked off the cream from the only pan their single cow had
filled that morning! And there she now lay, purring as in
scorn. Tib, heretofore the meekest of mousers, the honestest,
the least “scaddle” of the feline race,-a cat that one would
have sworn might have been trusted with untold fish,-yes,-
there was no denying it,-proofs were too strong against her,-
yet there she lay, hardened in her iniquity, coolly licking her
whiskers, and reposing quietly upon—what ?–Jerry Jarvis's
old wig!!
The patience of a Stoic must have yielded !—it had been too
much for the temperament of the Man of Uz. Joseph Wash-
ford lifted his hand—that hand which had never yet been raised
on Tibby, save to fondle and caress; it now descended on her
devoted head in one tremendous “ dowse.' Never was cat so
astonished, -80 enraged-all the tiger portion of her nature
rose in her soul. Instead of galloping off, hissing and sputter-
ing, with arched back, and tail erected, as any ordinary Grim-
alkin would unquestionably have done under similar circum-
stances, she paused a moment,-drew back on her haunches,
all her energies seemed concentrated for one prodigious spring;
a demoniac fire gleamed in her green and yellow eyeballs, as,
bounding upwards, she fixed her talons firmly in each of her
assailant's cheeks 1-many and many a day after were sadly
visible the marks of those envenomed claws—then, dashing
over his shoulder with an unearthly mew, she leaped through
the open casement, and was seen no more.
“The devil's in the cat!" was the apostrophe of Mrs. Mar-
garet Washford. Her husband said nothing, but thrust the old
wig into his pocket, and went to bathe his scratches at the pump.


558
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
“Why, where's your wig, Joseph ?" said the voice of his
master from the well-known window; "what have you
done
with your wig ?” The question was embarrassing,—its tail had
tickled his ear till it had made it sore! Joseph had put the wig
in his pocket.
Mr. Jeremiah Jarvis was indignant; he liked not that his
benefits should be ill appreciated by the recipient. “Hark ye,
Joseph Washford,” said he, “either wear my wig, or let me
have it again!"
There was no mistaking the meaning of his tones; they were
resonant of indignation and disgust, of mingled grief and anger,
the amalgamation of sentiment naturally produced by
"Friendship unreturned,
And unrequited love."
Washford's heart smote him: he felt all that was implied in
his master's appeal. “It's here, your honor," said he; “I had
only taken it off because we have had a smartish shower; but
the sky is brightening now.” The wig was replaced, and the
little tortuous pigtail wriggled itself into its accustomed posi-
tion.
At this moment neighbor Jenkinson peeped over the hedge.
“Joe Washford !" said neighbor Jenkinson.
“Sir to you," was the reply.
“How beautiful your tulips look after the rain !”
“Ah! sir, master sets no great store by them flowers,” re-
turned the gardener.
“ Indeed! Then perhaps he would have no objection to part
with a few ?”
“Why, no!-I don't think master would like to give them-
or anything else-away, sir;" and Washford scratched his ear.
“Joe!!” said Mr. Jenkinson—"Joe!"
The Sublime, observes Longinus, is often embodied in a
monosyllable—“ Joe !!!”—Mr. Jenkinson said no more; but a
half-crown shone from between his upraised fingers, and its
“poor, poor dumb mouth” spoke for him.
How Joseph Washford's left ear did itch! He looked to the
ground-floor back-Mr. Jarvis had left the window.
Mr. Jenkinson's ground-plot boasted, at daybreak next morn-


A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.
559
ing, a splendid Semper Augustus, “which was not so before,”
and Joseph Washford was led home, much about the same
time, in a most extraordinary state of “civilation,” from “ The
Three Jolly Pot-boys."
From that hour he was the Fiend's !!
“Facilis descensus Averni !" says Virgil. “It is only the first
step that is attended with any difficulty,” says-somebody else
-when speaking of the decollated martyr St. Dennis's walk
with his head under his arm. “The First Step!"-Joseph
Washford had taken that step! he had taken two-three-four
steps; and now, from a hesitating, creeping, cat-like mode of
progression, he had got into a firmer tread—an amble-a posi-
tive trot! He took the family linen “to the wash :"-one of
Madame Witherspoon's best Holland chemises was never seen
after.
“Lost ?-impossible! How could it be lost ?-where could it
be gone to ?—who could have got it? It was her best—her very
best !—she should know it among a hundred-among a thou-
sand !-it was marked with a great W in the corner !-Lost?
-impossible. She would see !"—Alas! she never did see-the
chemise abiit, erupit, evasit !-it was
“Like the lost Pleiad, seen on earth no more."
-but Joseph Washford's Sunday shirt was seen, finer and fairer
than ever-the pride and dulce decus of the Meeting.
The Meeting ?-ay, the Meeting. Joe Washford never missed
the Appledore Independent Meeting-House, whether the service
were in the morning or afternoon,-whether the Rev. Mr.
Slyandrý exhorted or made way for the Rev. Mr. Tearbrain.
Let who would officiate, there was Joe. As I have said before,
he never missed ;—but other people missed—one missed an
umbrella, -one a pair of clogs. Farmer Johnson missed his
tobacco box,-Farmer Jackson his great coat,-Miss Jackson
missed her hymn-book,-a diamond edition, bound in maroon-
colored velvet, with gilt corners and clasps. Everything, in
short, was missing—but Joe Washford; there he sat, grave,


562
JERRY JARVIS'S WIG.
Christmas compotation, seemed to have selected for his “thrice-
driven bed of down” the thickest clump of the tallest and
most imposing nettles, thereon to doze away the narcotic effects
of superabundant juniper.
This, at least, was Mr. Moneypenny's belief, or he would
scarcely have uttered, at the highest pitch of his contralto,
“What are you doing there, you drunken rascal ? frightening
my horse!” We have already hinted, if not absolutely asserted,
that Peggy was a mare; but this was no time for verbal criti-
cism. “Get up, I say,-get up, and go home, you scoundrel !"
But the “scoundrel” and “drunken rascal” answered not;
he moved not, nor could the prolonged shouting of the appel-
lant, aided by significant explosions from a double-thonged
whip, succeed in eliciting a reply. No motion indicated that
the recumbent figure, whose outline alone was visible, was a
living and a breathing man.
The clear, shrill tones of a ploughboy's whistle sounded at
this moment from the bottom of the hill, where the broad green
expanse of Romney Marsh stretches away from its foot for
many a mile, and now gleamed through the mists of morning,
dotted and enamelled with its thousand flocks. In a few min-
utes his tiny figure was seen "slouching" up the ascent, casting
a most disproportionate and ogre-like shadow before him.
“Come here, Jack," quoth the doctor,—"come here, boy;
lay hold of this bridle, and mind that my horse does not run
away.”
Peggy threw up her head, and snorted disdain at the insinu-
ation,-she had not the slightest intention of doing any such
thing.
Mr. Moneypenny meanwhile, disencumbered of his restive
nag, proceeded, by manual application, to arouse the sleeper.
Alas! the Seven of Ephesus might sooner have been awakened
from their century of somnolency. His was that dreamless
sleep that knows no waking; his cares in this world were over.
Vainly did Moneypenny practice his own constant precept,
“To be well shaken !”—there lay before him the lifeless body
of a MURDERED MAN!
The corpse lay stretched upon its back, partially concealed,
as we have before said, by the nettles which had sprung up


A LEGEND OF THE WEALD OF KENT.
565
For their humane administration of the laws, the lieges of
this portion of the realm have long been celebrated. Here it
was that merciful verdict was recorded in the case of the old
lady accused of larceny, "We find her Not Guilty, and hope
she will never do so any more!" Here it was that the more
experienced culprit, when called upon to plead with the cus-
tomary, though somewhat superfluous, inquiry, as to "how he
would be tried ?” substituted for the usual reply “By God and
my country," that of “By your worship and a Dymchurch
jury." Here it was—but enough! not even a Dymchurch
jury could resist such evidence, even though the gallows (i.e.
the expense of erecting one) stared them, as well as the criminal,
in the face. The very pigtail alone! ever at his ear!-a clearer
case of suadante Diabolo never was made out. Had there been
a doubt, its very conduct in the court-house would have settled
the question. The Rev. Joel Ingoldsby, umquhile chaplain to
the Romney Bench, has left upon record that when exhibited
in evidence, together with the blood-stained knife, its twistings,
its caperings, its gleeful evolutions, quite “flabbergasted” the
jury, and threw all beholders into consternation. It was
remarked, too, by many in the Court, that the Forensic Wig
of the Recorder himself was, on that trying occasion, palpably
agitated, and that its three depending, learned-looking tails lost
curl at once, and slunk beneath the obscurity of the powdered
collar, just as the boldest dog recoils from a rabid animal of its
own species, however small and insignificant.
Why prolong the painful scene?-Joe Washford was tried-
Joe Washford was convicted-Joe Washford was hanged !
The fearful black gibbet, on which his body clanked in its
chains to the midnight winds, frowns no more upon Orlestone
Hill; it has sunk beneath the encroaching hand of civilization;
but there it might be seen late in the last century, an awful
warning to all bald-pated gentlemen how they wear, or accept,
the old wig of a Special Attorney,
Timeo Danaös et dona ferentes !
Such gifts, as we have seen, may lead to a "Morbid Delusion,
the climax of which is Murder !"
The fate of the Wig itself is somewhat doubtful; nobody seems


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Hermann; or, The Broken Spear.
Α'
N Emperor, famous in council and camp,
Has a son who turns out a remarkable
scamp;
Takes to dicing and drinking, And d-mning and
sinking,
And carries off maids, wives, and widows, like winking!
Since the days of Arminius, his namesake, than Hermann
There never was seen a more profligate German.
He escapes from the City; And joins some banditti,
Insensible quite to remorse, fear, and pity;
Joins in all their carousals, and revels, and robberies,
And in kicking up all sorts of shindies and bobberies.
Well, hearing, one day, His associates say
That a bridal procession was coming their way,
Inflamed with desire, he Breaks into a priory,
And kicking out every man Jack of a friar, he
Upsets in a twinkling the mass-books and hassocks,
And dresses his rogues in the clergyman's cassocks.
The new-married folks Taken in by this hoax,
Mister Hermann grows frisky and full of his jokes :
To the serious chagrin of her late happy suitor,
Catching hold of the Bride, he attempts to salute her.
Now Heaven knows what Had become of the lot-
It's Turtle to Tripe they'd have all gone to pot-
If a Dumb Lady, one Of her friends, had not run
To her aid, and, quite scandalized, stopped all his fun!
( 569 )


ÁERMANN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR.
571
Hermann joins in the melée, Pounds this to a jelly,
Runs that through the back, and a third through the belly,
Till many a broken bone, bruised rib, and flat head,
Make his ci-devant friends curse the hour that he ratted.
Amid so many blows, Of course you'll suppose
He must get a black re, or, at least, bloody nose:
“Take that!” cried a bandit, and stuck, while he spoke it,
His spear in his breast, and, in pulling it out, broke it.
Hermann fainted away, When, as breathless he lay,
A rascal claimed all the renown of the day,-
A recreant, cowardly, white-livered knight,
Who had skulked in a furze-bush the whole of the fight.
But the Dumb Lady soon Puts some gin in a spoon,
And half strangles poor Hermann, who wakes from his
swoon,
And exhibits his wound, when the head of the spear
Fits its handle, and makes his identity clear.
The murder thus out, Hermann's fêted and thanked,
While his rascally rival gets tossed in a blanket;
And to finish the play- As reformed rakes, they say,
Make the best of all husbands——the very same day
Hermann sends for a priest, as he must wed with some -lady,
Buys a ring and a license, and marries the Dumb Lady.
MORAL.
Take warning, young people of every degree,
From Hermann's example, and don't live too free!
If you get in bad company, fly from it soon!
If
you
chance to get thrashed, take some gin in a spoon;
And remember, since wedlock's not all sugar-candy,
If you wish to 'scape "wigging," a dumb wife's the dandy!


THE TRUANTS.
577
Never was such confusion and wrack
As they produced in the Zodiac !
“Huzza! Huzza! Away! Away!
Let us go down to the earth and play!
Now we go up, up, up, Now we go down, down, down,
Now we go backwards and forwards,
Now we go round, round, round!”
Thus they gambol, and scramble, and tear,
Till at last they arrive at the nethermost air.
And pray now what were these Devilets called ?
These three little Fiends so gay!
One was Cob! Another was Mob!
The last and the least was young Chittabob !
Queer little devils were they !
Cob was the strongest, Mob was the wrongest,
Chittabob's tail was the finest and longest !
Three more frolicsome Imps, I ween,
Beelzebub's self hath seldom seen.
Over Mountain, over Fell, Glassy Fountain, mossy Dell,
Rocky Island, barren Strand, Over Ocean, over Land;
With frisk and bound, and squeaks and squalls,
Heels over head, and head over heels ;
With curlings and twistings, and twirls and wheeleries,
Down they drop at the gate of the Tuileries.
1
Courtiers were bowing and making legs,
While Charley le Roi was bolting eggs :
“Mob,” says Cob, “Chittabob,” says Mob,
“Come here, you young Devil, we're in for a job.”
Up jumps Cob to the Monarch's ear,
"Charley, my jolly boy, never fear;
If you mind all their jaw About Charter and Law,
You might just as well still be the Count d'Artois !
No such thing, Show 'em you're King,
Tip 'em an Ordinance, that's the thing !"
Charley dined, Took his pen and signed;
Then Mob kicked over his throne from behind !
37


578
THE TRUANTS.
“Huzza! Huzza! we may scamper now!
For here we've kicked up a jolly good row !”
“ Over the water and over the Sea,
And over the water with Charlie;"
Now they came skipping and grinning with glee,
Not pausing to chaff or to parley.
Over, over, On to Dover;
On fun intent, All through Kent
These mischievous devils so merrily went.
1
Over hill and over dale,
Sunken hollow, lofty ridge,
Frowning cliff, and smiling vale,
Down to the foot of Westminster Bridge.
"Hollo," says Cob, “There's the Duke and Sir Bob!
After 'em, Chittabob, after 'em, Mob."
Mob flung gravel and Chittabob pebbles,
His Grace c -'d them both for a couple of rebels:
His feelings were hurt By the stones and the dirt-
In went he, In an ecstacy,
And blew up the nobles of high degree.
“Mr. Brougham, Mr. Hume, May fret and may fume
And so may all you whom I see in this room;
Come weal, come woe, come calm, come storm-
I'll see you all-blessed-ere I give you reform !"
“ Bravo !” says
Chittabob, “ that's your sort!
Come along, schoolfellows, here's more sport.
Look there! look there! There's the great Lord May'r,
With the gravest of Deputies close to his chair;
With Hobler, his Clerk! Just the thing for a lark;
Huzza! huzza! boys, follow me now;
Here we may kick up another good row.”
Here they are, Swift as a star
They shoot in mid-air, over Temple Bar!
Tom Macaulay beheld the flight
Of these three little dusky sons of night,


MY LETTERS.
581
My Letters.
{"Litera scriptera manet."-Old Saw.
Of clearing up there's no appearance;
So I'll sit down without delay,
And here, at least, I'll make a clearance !
Oh, ne'er“ on such a day as this"
Would Dido with her woes oppressed
Have wooed Æneas back to bliss,
Or Troilus gone to hunt for Cressid !
No, they'd have stayed at home, like me,
And popped their toes upon the fender,
And drank a quiet cup of tea :-
On days like this one can't be tender.
And put my
So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
desk
upon
the table
Bring that Portfolio-stir the fire-
Now off as fast as you are able !
>
First, here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,
“A ball !”_she knows that I'm no dancer
That woman's asked me fifty times,
And yet I never send an answer.
“DEAR JACK,-
Just lend me twenty pounds
Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
Yours truly,
HENRY GIBBS."
Why, Z-ds!
I've seen the man but twice-here, burn it.


586
SONG.
:
'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Tho' busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
I've eat and can't digest.
Song.
I.
THI
1
WHERE sits a bird on yonder tree,
More fond than Cushat Dove;
There sits a bird on yonder tree,
And sings to me of love.
Oh! stoop thee from thine eyrie down
And nestle thee near my heart,
For the moments fly, And the hour is nigh
When thou and I must part,
My love!
When thou and I must part.
II.
In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,
The pride of the sylvan scene;
In yonder covert lurks a Fawn,
And I am his only queen;
Oh! bound from thy secret lair,
For the sun is below the west;
No mortal eye May, our meeting spy,
For all are closed in rest,
My love!
Each
eye
is closed in rest.


2.
589
AS I LAYE A:THYNKYNGE.
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree!
There seemed a crimson plain,
Where a gallant Knighte laye slayne,
And a steed with broken rein
Ran free,
As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe;
A lovely Mayde came bye,
And a gentil youth was nyghe,
And he breathed many a sighe
And a vowe;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.
e dreil
18
bere!
Esed
As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne;
No more a youth was there,
But a Maiden rent her haire,
And cried in sad despaire,
“ That I was borne !”
As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.
As I laye 'a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar;
There came a lovely Childe,
And his face was meek and mild,
Yet joyously he smiled
On his sire;
As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.
DSBY.
orace
stare;
But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge,
And sadly sang the Birde as it perched upon a bier :
That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the downe upon the Swan
Doth appear,
As I laye a-thynkynge-oh! bitter flowed the tear!


590
AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.
As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
O merrie sang that Birde as it glittered on her breast
With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
While, soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:
"Follow, follow me away,
It boots not to delay,
'Twas so she seemed to saye,
“ HERE IS REST!”
T. I.
7219


U
A 000015429933


1
PR4058.15 1840
Ingoldsby, Thomas, 1788-1845.
The Ingoldsby legends; or,
Mirth and marvels.
15429933