5 899 i \ff64JL =^=r -< | 5 J-^wWSjs SSwwSK'ojmS. \cx5$ww\s$§\^§xwiv Vs ^ ^vNv^S^^vw ^i^BBSSS* my rSt s/// mi LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS, fantastic anO imaginary. BV GEORCxE R. WRIGHT, F.S.A., HON. CONGRESS SECRETARY OF THE BRITISH ARCH.«OLOGICAI. ASSOCIATION, FOUNDER AND ORGANISING SECRETARY OF THE JUNIOR ATHEN>FU1I CI.UB, ETC. Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you ? Come, Sir, now I am for you again : pray you, sit by us, And tell s a tale. il/avi. Merry or sad shall 't be ? Her. As merry as you will. Mam. A sad tale 's best for Winter. I have one of sprites and goblins. Shakespeare. LONDON: J. W. JARVIS c\: SON, 28, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1885. /// Rights reserved. london : whiting & co., limiteo, printers, 30 & 32, sardinia street, Lincoln's inn fields, w.c. ?K TO MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND, OF FORTY YEARS STANDING, J. O. HALLIWELL-PHILLIPPS, LL.D., F.R.S., F.S.A., THE LAST SURVIVOR OF THE COMMITTEE OF TWENTY-ONE AUTHORS WHO, IN 1841, FOUNDED THE OLD AND FIRST SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY, I GRATEFULLY DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK, AS WITHOUT HIS KINDLY ENCOURAGEMENT AND GENERAL APPRECIATION IT WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MADE PUBLIC. PREFATORY NOTES. S the Reader no doubt will quickly perceive, the con- tents of this volume were, with the exception of WnP>M? the two Prose contributions, written for private perusal only : as to how and why they have been brought before the public, the writer need only remark, that had it not been through those "frequent bursts of merriment" with which the Rhyming portions for the most part have been received, (as he has been assured, from time to time), at the breakfast tables of his too indulgent friends, these at least would have remained in the local obscurity from which they sprung, and thus been lost to that "admiring world", which, according to his hopes, and the authority of the before referred to friends, awaits with impatience their publication and attentive perusal ! To be serious, however, the writer feels much hesitation in pre- senting such an incongruous collection of " odds and ends" (although they may have been enjoyed by a certain easily pleased circle) to the general Public, as he is aware how little there is in such a motley group, likely to be generally appreciated, and, if so, how little likely to be as charitably received, by that devouring and unhappily loo discerning many- head* d Monster ! VII 1 However, as the writer's vanity has been tickled, and he has " rushed into print", with no other excuse than that some kind friends incited him to do so, he is content to abide the issue, and therefore witli as full a knowledge of his great defects, as a presumably "diffident nature" can possess, he, with as much courage — or rather boldness — as he can affect, places his literary lucubrations at the mercy of his good natured and considerate Readers and Readeresses. It may be as well to state here, that the " Copse Corre- spondence" found its origin in the quaint character of the house of one of his oldest and kindest friends, and where by a most indulgent host, he has been allowed to spend a greater part of his alas! too much unoccupied time; but whether after this open revealment of the nature of that House and its " inner consciousness" — if that favourite, though rather vague expression of the "superior minds" of the present day, can pass muster — he will ever be permitted to enter its happy threshold again, must be left to the critics to determine. Since, if they condemn him for his apparent " breach of confidence", the best of natures may turn against him and refuse him admission for the future, on the principle which all good householders, in the entertainment of their guests, are supposed to hold, and which is embodied in the time-honoured maxim of — " eat as much as you like, but pocket none", and which may be perhaps appro- priately added to, henceforth, by the following couplet, " When at a man's house you are forming one, Never venture to scoff, or of it make fun ! : ' IX The " Lay of a New Deserted Village", by the Ghost of Goldsmith, was written at Barnes, Surrey, where many of the earliest and happiest days of the writer's life were spent, and where at the time of its composition, a great feeling of dissatisfaction of the then indwellers of that rural village, was excited by the building of some large Manufactories on its "old Thames banks", and which have never since added to the comfort or character of that once sequestered and historic riverain retreat, now wholly extinguished by the throwing open free, to the crowds of the metropolis, the once famous suspen- sion bridge between it and the hamlet of Hammersmith. The "Last Day at Leeds" and the "Lay of Lancaster's Ghost", were written at Fryston Hall in 1863, and dedicated afterwards, in a privately printed edition, to the author's genial and appreciative host, Lord Houghton, who had entertained him and other attached friends after the Leeds Congress ; and of whom alas ! besides the writer, his Lordship is the only survivor of those pleasant days and evenings, to which the Versicles especially refer. The " Trip to Walsingham", a Lay of the Norwich Congress, was composed in 1857 ; and again, in its allusions to the Literary companions then associated with the author, refers to many who have since "shuffled off this mortal coil", and who, with his accomplished and true hearted old friend, the late J. R. Planche, Somerset Herald (who introduced the writer to the British Archaeological Association in 1844), are ever to be remembered and constantly missed by him. Of the "Legend of Brighthelmstone in the year 1704", and I "The Bridal Night", an Italian Romance, it only remains to say, that both were written in far-off youthful days, and printed years ago — the one in the Court Magazine, and the other in La Belle Assemble, two magazines no longer in existence, and only, after all, known to a certain qualified fame. "The Legend of Brighthelmstone" was reprinted in J 846, and sold in the form of a daintily got up, gilt-edged "Booklet" (now very scarce), at the Fancy Bazaar, Brighton, of that year, in aid of the Victoria Fountain Fund, and inscribed to the writer's then friend, J. Cordy Burrows (afterwards Sir John Cordy Burrows), the zealous promoter and instigator of that useful and ornamental addition to the " Queen of English Watering-places" — as Harrison Ainsworth, another departed friend, so well named our London super Mare ! Of the concluding "Lay of the Pilgrims' Road", a sketchy recollection of Boxley Abbey, in olden times, nothing more need be said, than that it was hastily composed whilst on a visit to the Elizabethan House (now standing on the site of the former Abbot's abode), in July last, and presented to his kind host, P>ederic R. Surtees, Esq., a name well known in connection with good deeds, sound learning and Archaeological research, on the morning of the writer's departure from that interesting and historic spot. George R. Wright. Junior Athenceum Club, London. December 1884. CONTENTS. The Copse Correspondence, Letters in Rhyme from Mary Blane to Dolly Dolittle . . * . i to 16 A New Deserted Village, a Local Lay . . . 17 ,, 26 The Last Day at Leeds, and Lamente of Ye Ghoste of St. Thomas of Lancaster . . . 27 „ 42 A Legend of Brighthelmstone in the year 1 704, with L'Envoy . 43 ,, 68 The Bridal Night, a Legend of Lugano . . 69 „ 97 The Trip to Walsingham, a Lay of the Norwich Congress, 1857 99 ,, no A Lay of the " Pilgrims 1 Road/' near Boxley Abbey, Kent in „ 112 THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. BEING CONFIDENTIAL AND PRIVATE COMMUNICATIONS FROM MARY BLANE, OF HOLLY-BERRY COPSE, BRIGHTON, TO HER FRIEND DOLLY DOLITTLE, OF IDLE LANE, LONDON. NOW FIRST COLLECTED AND IMPRINTED, BY PERMISSION OF HERSELF AND FORMER MUCH LOV D MASTER. 13 THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. Holly-Berry Copse, April 2Jth, 1879. ES, here I am alive, dear Doll, I would I could say well, but that, alas ! I cannot do, and why I now will tell ; for you must know, my Dolly dear, that here on these cold Heights, I feel at times quite melancholy, and have no end of frights, since, would you, dear, believe it, this house is built of Wood, and though they're "Bricks" within it, all's not what "ought to should ! " So what with Thieves and Fire, I'm fidgetty at night, and Auburn though my Hair was once, it now is turning white. The Winds so fierce are blowing, too, and Snow's a coming- down, that really there's no " Snow-'mg?' if we e'er shall get to Town. Thus you may well imagine, dear, how awful is my fate, and why it's worse than ever, Doll, I now will here relate. My nerves are most unsettled, and my head's in such a whirl, that my marrow 's chill and freezy, and my Back-hair will not curl ! But now for the dread story of this blessed place I'm in, and its "Copse", so dark and dismal ; I tremble to begin ! Since you must know, dear Dorothy, a murder once, most foul, was here committed on a Maid, who as she died, poor Soul, gave forth a piercing shriek or scream, like to a midnight Owl ! and the cruel wretch who murdered her, not frighten'd by that cry, buried her in a shallow grave within the wood, close by. 4 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. The piercing Scream she gave, poor thing, each night, at Half- past One, echoes around (the very time the horrid deed was done) ; and though the wicked Murderer fled this country far away, he yet was caught and hung aloft, as many old folks say, within a few years, through a Dog, as went and scratched a hole, and brought to light the awful sight, her whiten' d bones, poor Soul ! and rusted Axe he kill'd her with, marked with his very name, and so, on finding out all this, his "day of reckoning", came ! Imagine then, dear Dolly, how, when midnight comes around, I dread to hear this scream so loud within the neighbouring ground, where Master's had a cascade made and Weeping willows planted, upon the very spot she fell, and folks say since, has haunted ! Imagine how I tremble, and how all on us turn pale, when we hear above the Elements, this sadly sounding wail, and see a form of a tall Girl a-walking up and down, with her long hair a-hanging loose upon her blood-stained gown ! And even now I shudder so at thought of what I write, I must put off a-going on, until another night, so with much love, dear Dolly, till you hear from me again, think often of the wretched plight of your poor Mary Blane ! From the Same to the Same, April 2 8/7?. Thanks to my Stars ! you dear old Doll, the night has gone at last, and I am feeling better, having eaten my Breakfast ! although the awful dreams I had when I was snug in bed, would have daunted braver folks than I, and turn'd them off their head ! But as I promis'd when I wrote of that true tale of woe, I'm here again, with pen in hand, to tell you all I know, and to describe some other things which in this place are found, besides the ghost of Sally Spriggs, which walks in the ''Corpse" ground, though Master's changed it into "Copse", and prints it on his THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. 5 Letters, a shocking sin thus to take in us Servants and our betters ! Because, if I had known this House was standing near a wood, where such a Murder had been done, d'ye think I ever should have given up Town, its Music Halls, its Concerts, and the Play, to come and live at the Seaside — and find it miles away ! as I have done, my Dolly dear, though you would hardly think, of the grand Sea I love so much, I scarce can "see a wink \" since, though they call this Brighton, it's no more that place at all, than London is Jerusalem, or Bethnal Green, Blackwall ! " Well, let that pass," as people said three hundred years ago, in Play-books rare of Shakespeare's time (ain't Master got a show !) • for he was once, a Writer fam'd on all that Poet writ, though now he says he doesn't care for such things " not a bit!" A silly speech it does strike me, and one he'll alter later, for if you are good Kidney sort, you can't die Common " tater" ! But now to tell you of this House, or rather rows of Houses, for it is built in blocks of two, like tucks on Babies' "trouses", and looks for all the world like Sheds or Shanties on a hill, with Slated roofs a-sliding down and Chimneys standing still ! They smoke sometimes, and so they ought, you'll say p'haps with a flout, but, Dolly dear, you'll own its queer, when they smoke in, not out ! And then them Sweeps a-coming here, suits none of us at all, altho' 'tis true they soot the chairs, the curtains, and the wall ! They comes so often that I know a saving would be found, if Master built a shed for them on some of his waste ground, for then they all could live with us and sweep our cares away, for Sweeps are very bright at night, tho' black enough by day ! But, Dolly dear, forgive my joke, for joking, you must know, with us up here is very rare, all is so dull and "slow" ! since, though, we hear loud laughter oft, when Master's in the vein, you'll O LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. guess the vacant mind's the cause, or softening of the brain! There is no gas within the place, so Candles flare all night, and you knows well the dreadful smell, that comes from Composite ! and ain't it odd, nor Cat nor Dog are suffered to come near, so some of these fine days, no doubt, you probably will hear, of how your friend has met her end, or come to grief, I fear, by being ate alive by Rats, whilst dozing on her chair, or " massacred" by vagrant Chaps, who know no Dogs are here ! However that may be, dear girl, let me not frighten you, but my unvarnish'd story tell, incredible though true ! how that, in this proud age of Man, and Arts and Science too, so boastful of the things they've done (though few of them are new !), a House like this, could have been built by any one of Taste, a cross between a Ship in clock or Cabins on a Waste, — run up so fast it cannot last, though this I plainly see, if I live here another year, both Ruins we shall be ! Not that I mean to stay as long, and such a danger run, though really it is cruel work to live without some fun, for in these dreary parts there's not a nice man to be seen, to walk out on a Sunday with, or dance with on the Green, as I had hop'd to do here, Doll, when first I fix'd to come; and vou wish'd me "good luck", old girl, and wash'd it down in rum ! The only men one sees at all, are "Cripples", you may say — old Cobb, a sort of Gardening chap, who has a knowing way, and does his best to dress up young, tho' bless you, it's no go ! and Master Gates, much older still, with broken gait also ! It's true the Master's not so bad, though all his Hair is grey, since his blue eyes are wicked ones, and he's plenty got to say to every Lass he comes across, in a chaffing sort of way; but then, dear Dolly, what's the good of making up, you know, to one so far superior, or wishing him your " Beau" ! for oh ! Lor bless you, I can see with only half an eye, the moment that he looks at me (he does so on the sly!) a kind of twinge of jealousy comes o'er the the "copse" correspondence. 7 Ladies near, who' re always running after him, quite shamefully, up here ! And then one smiles, so tenderly, another heaves a sigh, so that his pleasant thoughts of me, are bound at once to fly : and off he goes with some young thing, as giddy as she 's vain, and "spoons" about that horrid Copse, in spite of cold or rain; though strolling in the Copse by day, another thing is quite, for there I wander oftentimes, but never, Doll, by night ! and thread its mazy "Tortoise" paths, through twisting boughs of green, though it is strange suck reptiles there I never yet have seen ! and by the flowery beds I come at length upon the Lawn ; forlorn indeed I often feel, and so in silence mourn — since close by is the fatal Pond, near which poor Spriggs did he, and where the Fish grow mouldy-like, turn up their tails, and die ! leaving behind but muddy Stench, and other Smelt-like fry ! Adown the paths I turn again, and dream of " bosky dells", and " babbling brooks", though what they say, they keeps quite to " themsels", for Master's made a running Stream, out of a Compo tank, and picturesque it looks indeed, with large stones on its bank, and as it winds its devious course, a-drowning slugs and snails, it does remind him, so he says, " exstreamly" of North Wales! though why it does so, I can't think, since there 's no Fish about, not even tiny Sticklebacks, and let alone a Trout ! But there are trees of every kind, the Hawthorn and the Holly, and shrubs they call " Anonymas", which don't mean, dearest Dolly, — those painted " plants", so bright and gay, which show up in the Parks, or drive around with "used-up" men, old flames that once were Sparks ! but really fine and bushy trees, without a single thorn, to tear a dress, or heart distress, with looks of angry scorn, as often do " Anonymas", who flourish so in Town, when their Admirers " up a tree", or "on their luck" are down ! But now 'tis time to end my rhyme, as I can scarcely sec, so with much love, my Dolly dear, yours ever, Polly B. 8 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. From the Same to the Same, April 30///. Once more, clear Doll, my pen I take, to let you know I'm well, and further news of what 's occurred, since last I wrote, to tell, within this strangely fashion'd House, which, had it wheels, you know, would make a first-rate Caravan, or travelling Wax- works Show ! And then we could move off at once, and nearer get to Town, and "walk our chalks", as people say, from off this Chalky Down ! But Lor, bless me, what is the good of rambling in this way, when I have got so many things to you, old girl, to say, so I'll have done with " Badinage", which means, as I've been told, you shouldn't joke or chaff at all, when growing grey and old ; and oh ! woe 's me, my Dolly dear, I'm that changed since we met, you 'd never think that I was once, of Ballet girls, a Pet ! But drat it, dear, if I don't hear, the Master's Bugle sound, and which to answer, Soldier-like, I am in duty bound; though ain't it queer that one so fond of having " Belles" around, should not have one to bid us come from this here lower ground ! but he don't like loud bells to call us " Kitchen Belles" you know, and so he gives a Trumpet blast, or Penny whistle blow, just as he wants me or the Cook, upstairs to him to go. Well, here I am again, old girl, quite out of breath with flurry, and dreadfully upset indeed at coming work and worry, for would you, Doll, believe it true, as I'm a-sitting here, that though this house is full enough, there 's Dinner to prepare for two more guests a-coming down, and beds for them as well, "Sir Harry", late of Stratford Town, and gay "Sir George", a Swell (at least, he thought he look'd so once, when strolling in Pall Mall !). And here they always call old friends, and Master too, you know, by Titles grand, though understand, it's only done for show ! as they've no right at all to them — ain't it THE " COPSE CORRESPONDENCE. 9 a rummy go ? And now to say, I don't mind work for two suck jolly men, who tell good tales and craek such jokes, I really don't know when, I ever feel so merry, as when they're here together (or Master too, for I'm sure, he's Bird of the same feather!), and have been each good looking once, though Master bears the palm, as I have said before, my dear, and don't see any harm in thus repeating of to you, as you'll not go and tell the Ladies here, who, I will swear, admire him just as well ! though there's as little chance for them as ever was for me, as he 's as fickle in his loves as Butterfly or Bee, and won't be caught by face alone, whene'er he settles down, but will have form, good temper too, and lots of money down. But here am I a-running on, forgetting what I've said about the extra work we've got, you'll think me "off my head \" and so I almost always am, when Fancy I let rove, and dwell on business not my own ! which women dearly love ! Well, there, I'll leave such tempting talk and tender thoughts alone, and write about this place again, which, if it were my own, I'd pull it down at once, old girl, and build it up of Stone. ! for you would hardly think that it ain't got an upper Storey, and that we Servants sleep close by the Kitchen, in our glory ! and so does everyone besides (though not with us, I mean), but higher up the Corridor, which runs the house between, and makes it like the lower deck of vessels worked by Steam ! and then you come to Master's rooms, which spacious are and jolly, but quite shut off from all of us by Iron doors, dear Dolly ! which fills me with an awful dread and many a nervous pang, when of a night I hear them clos'd, with a tremendous bang ! reminding one of prisons dark in wicked Barons' halls, and those poor folks in " Iron shrouds", entomb'd within their walls ! And why the Master ain't afraid to be shut up so tight, I cannot tell, for if unwell he should be took at night, how could we know or to him go, whilst barricaded there, and if he shriek'd IO LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. through having dream'd some horrible Nightmare, of Spriggs' ghost beside his bed, we none of us could hear ! Now hid he got a Wife as nice as he deserves, 'tis plain, such risks as these he would not run, nor we have all the pain, the thought of harm to one so good as Master is, you see, brings to our hearts, though when he 's wed, should we so jolly be ? And there 's a chance of that, ere long, a-coming on, I'm sure, since there 's a Maiden often here one cannot but adore, for her young face has every grace and figure something more ! and Master thinks the same as well, for he jumps up with jov, the moment at the gate she rings, just like a love-sick Boy ! But at this Gate I here must wait, to tell you more of, dear, as it is caged with iron bars, like den for some great Bear! and sets most people when they call, a-trembling with fear ! Well, this to keep out all stray Dogs some time ago was made, the which the Master cannot bear, as I before have said, although I'd rather run the chance of any beast run in, than have the Entrance to my house, like one to a Dungin ! But to return to those we left at this same gate, a-greeting, and to the way, like lovers gay, they quick " the Copse" retreat in, and where they'll " spoon" the afternoon and then come in to dinner, the Lassie shy, and Master's eye a-twinkling, oh ! the Sinner ! Well, these, and other things I see a-going on up here, tell me as sure as " Eggs is Eggs", there 's Marriage in the air, so, dear old Doll, again in Town to see me, soon prepare ! But where was I when these dull thoughts across my brain did flit, and which I won't indulge in more, or further write a bit, as it is very wrong in me to envy or to fret when others are so happy, dear, and my turn may come yet ! so I will, Doll, hark back at once to where I was before, and of this funny house and grounds discourse a little more, though, as I have already said, and say it o'er again, the Master made a grand mistake — remonstrance was in vain — in building this queer place THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. II of wood, at great expense also, as he's found out, and knows it well, so calls it " Bungle"-ow ! but here, clear Doll, I must break off, as " Trumpet" sounds again "to put out lights", so with " good nights", I'm still yours, Mary Blane. From the same to the same, August 2jth, 1879. Dear Dolly, I have such a tale now to unfold to you, as since I wrote in April last the whole thing's turn'd out true ! tho' who'd believe that what I said of Master's change of state, would come to pass, and that young Lass be now his loving Mate, — yet so it is, and at the first it really upset me, for I had hoped he would not then, so quickly marrying be ! for spite the Visitors up here, a-making lots of work, he was so jolly by him- self, though something of a Turk, when things went cross, or people tried, to lead him to their views, as then he'd swear, though very rare, and such green Geese, abuse ! But Lor ! such tiffs were over soon, and when himself again, he'd chaff, and laugh, and Claret quaff, with all his might and main, then go into his favourite "Copse" some new device to plan, with his big Nev., " Sir Reginald," indeed a proper man ! whose knowing head, as I've heard said, made his good Uncle dream, of buying up this Wilderness, and its Scrub-land redeem ! Though, "once upon a time," they say, at least those Fogies do, who Archaeologists are called, for why I never knew, since what I've seen of them up here, proves them a merry crew, and " Larkv"-ologist 's the name they're more entitled to ! (of which " Sir Dillon Cro" is one, and he is well tuorth two !) Well, here they say, in days gone by, when "bluff King Hal" did reign — like Blue-Beard of our Nurs'ry tales, whose Wives were foully slain, and hung up headless in a room within his Castle's tow'rs, — poor Anne of Clcves, whom Hal divorced, spent many lonely hours a-wandering up and down these Downs, with thoughts of painful hue, a-wondering how her Head was on, as most of us 12 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. still do ! since Boleyn's head had been bowl'd oft", and hers near cleav'd oft", too ! But what 's all this to you, dear Doll, I think I hear you ask, for when at school you did not care for such Historic task, but only let Hysterics reign, when you were at the Play, a-seeing Irving' s murd'rous parts and melancholy way ! and then you'd laugh and cry enough, and make no end of din, until the Man came round with Beer, and then you'd have some Gin ! So I'll proceed, and tell you how one day by chance we heard, that Master, who'd gone up to Town, not mentioning a word, had married got to this young Miss, with only her dear friend, a Winsome, bonny girl enough, as Bridesmaid, to attend the awful ceremony which binds, poor mortal folks together, and bids them live like Turtle doves "for ever and for ever!" Well, off they goes; where, no one knows, from one day to another; and we lived here, in constant fear, through all the anxious bother, of this weird place, where no one came our drooping hearts to cheer, and often in such solitude I wiped away a tear! until, at length, the joyful news was whisper'd all around, that Master and his fair young Bride were coming, safe and sound, to this their Home, so I puts on my newest Cap and Gown, and Bess her best, as well as me, to welcome on 'em down ! But, oh ! dear Doll, I can't describe, or what I felt express, at seeing Master back again and his great happiness, for though he's older than his Wife, some few years more or less, what 's that when two devoted Hearts, such mutual love confess ! And his frank face was wreath'd in smiles, and his fair Bride's was too, and such a picture as they made no Artist ever drew ! and then the gracious air she had, which Beauty only knows, added, of course, to very much, by tightly-fitting clothes, which, if the Figure 's pretty good, is sure to be the " chose !" And oh ! since then we've got on well, she is so good and kind, and such a loving Couple, too, you'd scarcely ever find, and with a jolly set of friends a-staying at this " Copse", we are THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. 1 3 so gay from day to day, one's spirit never drops ! as it was always used to do when lonely we lived here, with thought of Ghosts a-walking round, and Master none knew where ! Besides, Pve got a smart young man, who's been and popp'd to me, and "Missus" often lets him stop to dinner and to tea, which you'll admit, my dear old girl, is very good of she ! In fact, I likes her more and more, and all her winning ways, and so, until I married am, in this here place I stays; so don't you think I'm lucky, dear, as all's turned out so well, from what was once so threat'ning-like or wicked Witch's spell ! So wishing you as much good luck, and free from every pain, as I feel now, my clear old Doll, I'm yours, Mary Blane. A Postscript to the " Copse" Correspondence. Five years have fled, since first I wrote these Letters strange yet true, and many things have changed since then, as Time will make them do! though at the " Copse" no change is seen in Hearts that never vary, and all's serene in that " sweet Home" where once I liv'd as "Mary!" though now I'm Mrs. Candy call'd, and Mother of two Boys, who help to keep me well employ'd and lively with their noise; and as a treat, when work is dull (my good man is a Grocer) we shut up Shop, just for the day, and straight to Brighton go, Sir ! Then to the " Copse" we take the Boys, who ramble through its mazes, or on the Terrace bowl their Hoops, and have no end of races ! And then the Master and his Wife, who ne'er forget old friends, regale us all, in jovial style, on dainty "odds and ends", which in the Larder 's sure to be, in well-kept House like theirs, and send our merry Lads away, with apples, cakes, and pears ! No troubles vex their tranquil lives, — as oftentimes they do (brought on by Temper, most of them, and Selfish natures too), and so they pass their days in love, whilst minist'ring to, the wants of others, less well off than they, deserving, are, and thus Content doth bless T4 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. their Home, and not the smallest jar, is seen within its pleasant walls, their happiness to mar (unless they're on the Pantry shelves, and those, of course, I bar!). Nor empty is their jolly house, long suffered to remain — as it is always full of guests, just as, when " Mary Blane", I sometimes wrote to " Dolly dear", and did a hit complain, when things had gone "a. little cross", and had my poor nerves flurried, which will occur to most of us, when the digestion 's worried ! And "troops of friends" the whole year round find pleasure at the Copse, as what they like to do up there, the Master quick adopts, and thus the time is whil'd away, with profit and with ease, and if they're not contented then, they're very hard to please ! The Master revels now again in his lov'd Shakespeare's books, and, as I often thought he would, has gained in Fame and Looks! by "killing care" (and who's without) in searching far and near, for something new of Shakespeare's life, or those he once held dear! He's now a Doctor too of Law, since Edinburgh's town, has given to him a Degree, and " Capp'd" it with a Gown ! Thus his sound Learning, depth, and care, with diligence, has won, for him great Honour and Renown " at home", and where the Sun, a Westward setting, makes each day across the pathless Sea, though " setting's" not indeed the Truth, but only Poetry ! Well, in America his name is quite a " Household Word", and if he'd only go out there, at least that's what I've heard, they 'd make of him their President ! so much they like his books, which are not wild new-fangled ones or rechauffe of Cooks, where every line the Poet writ, is said to be in error, and every Play a Lustful one, or Murd'rous reign of Terror! Since by such means, a Numbskull set, have lately sought to gain, attention to their silly views, but hitherto, 'tis plain, their efforts have quite fail'd to gull the real Shakesperean class, whose " summing up", in each one's case, is " Write him down an Ass !" THE "COPSE" CORRESPONDENCE. I 5 Yet though the Master fi minds his hooks" and writes as many letters, as he was us'd to do of old, ere bound in Love's new fetters, he has not given up the task of his dear " Copse" adorning, which, with old Cobb, he sets about almost each bleswrf morning ! and has made Paths across the grounds, and planted heaps of Trees, of every sort that will withstand the furious Sou. -West breeze, which up and down these Hills do blow, like " great guns" from the Sea, and turn all almost inside out, who gape incautiously ! A "look-out" Tower he has built, though none can Views obtain, since there 's no stairs to get atop, and so, 'tis now quite plain, the Weathercock he 's fix'd outside, has made such efforts Vane ! A Lake he 's " lakely" added too, scoop'd out of the Hill-side, fed by the storms which burst up here, in Spring and Summer tide, and help to fill a winding Stream, fed by the Copse's brooks, and here the wild birds come and bathe, the Wagtails and the Rooks ! and Ducks some day he hopes will breed within the sedgy bank, which leafy grows about the Lake or Pond, so green and dank ! And his young Spouse has turn'd Hen-wife, and rears a famous lot, of Fowls of ev'ry sort and kind, of speckle and of spot, and Eggs galore the whole year round, reward her pains and care, with which her table she supplies, and with her old Friends share ! Indeed, almost an Ale-wife, too, she may be said to be, since her Home brood, is very strong, produc'd from Grain, you see ! though not to drink, like the " Home brew'd" of Malt and Hops combin'd, but simply ate, when serv'd up hot, with Sauces most refin'd ! A pet Canary she has reared, with much devoted care, which in return now shows to her, Intelligence most rare, combin'd with little acts of Love, some men would like to share ! for this dear Bird at Breakfast time, as well at later meals, will fly about and greet each Guest, and then take to its heels, or rather wings I ought to write, and, perching on her shoulder, kiss the sweet 1 6 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. lips she turns to it (a joy to each beholder), and then will sing, with swelling throat, a very Hymn of Praise, expressive of its gratitude, in one of Nature's lays, for all the love bestow'd on it, and almost seems to speak such words as " Missus, you're a duck/' from out its eager beak ! Then flying to a table near, on which a dish is set, dear little Dick, enjoys a bath, and plumes his feathers wet, then hopping to the opened Cage, which his fond Mistress brings, he once more pops upon his perch, and once more gaily sings ! Indeed, the Copse's a happy home, and fill'd with all that's choice, so once within its "wooden walls" all hearts must quick rejoice, for true indeed 's what's wrote outside, to people to " Come Hither," since there you'll find " no Enemies, but Winter and rough weather !" — words that were used in some grand Play, and from old Shakespeare taken, though some aver, in then- conceit, his Plays were writ by Bacon, and other Wits of Bessie's reign, as Sidney, Raleigh, Burleigh, which is enough to make us all, with such folks riled and surly ! since there 's no Ignorance too great, for vain men to display, pufFd up in their belief in Self, and to such Love, a prey ! But now an end of this Postscript, which has been wrote to tell of what 's been added to the Copse, since there I used to dwell, that having spun out this long yarn in my old-fashion'd way, let me wind up in a few words, all that I've had to say ! so with your Hearts join mine, and sing in voices true and merry, Long life to them who 've built their nest, in groves of Holly-Berry ! And now, dear friends, I'll say " Adoo", and have a " Nip of Brandy", as I'm as sad to part with you, as you I hope, with Candy. August $th, T884. A NEW DESERTED VILLAGE. A LOCAL LAY AND PICTURE OF THE PAST, THE PRESENT, AND THE FUTURE, BY THE GHOST OF GOLDSMITH. D A NEW DESERTED VILLAGE. The Past. HERE was a village near to London town. Some five miles to the west you would be going Ere you could reach its breezy Common down, Green with its gorse, or yellow when 'twas blowing. There might be found, indeed, a tranquil spot, Endow'd with all that nature makes enchanting ; Sweet walks, sweet air, and that much envied lot — Content, which oft in cities, has been wanting. A. red-brick' d Church peep'd out amidst the trees, With modest look, so prettily retiring, That like a student, led on by degrees, Its age and hist'ry, you'd be fain inquiring. Some buildings near, in olden fashion wrought, Proclaimed the Rectory, and Doctor's dwelling, And then another with a garden court — The Squire's house, of faded grandeur telling. 20 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. Adown a shady lane you saw the Green, And on it built in simple rustic order, The Village school-house, looking so serene — Of peaceful haunts, the very best recorder. And thus, in truth, the whole bore such a charm, Unknown, alas ! to most suburban places ; That you were sure 'twas free from strife or harm, If such can be, where found the Human race is. Then strolling on, you reach' d the Village street, And paus'd to watch the busy traders' dealings In beer and " baccy", bread and butcher's-meat, Or " bull's-eyes", sacred once, to your own feelings. And round this shop, of course there was a crowd Of little folk, who, like to bees on roses, Discuss' d the sweets, not being over proud How much they smear'd their bodies, or their noses. A sudden turn, and lo ! the River bright Before you flow'd, in all its full tide beauty, Sparkling with glowing sunbeams' glancing light, Which told that day had nearly done its duty. Towards the West, a range of pleasant houses Look'd on the water, mostly deck'd with flow'rs, Whilst others, kept, may be, by thriftier spouses, Display'd, in muslin blinds, their tasteful pow'rs. Another road ran Eastward by some Fields, JBorder'd with Walnut trees and quickset hedges, Which promised and produc'd abundant yields, Save where the river favour'd reeds and sedges. A NEW DESERTED VILLAGE. 21 It ran along until you pass'd the Farm, And then it led up to some pools of water, Where pretty Villas added a new charm To those already in this favour' d quarter. A second road, with pleasant Dwellings studded, Stretch'd from the River, where a Chain bridge crosses. And where to save the low lands being flooded A steep Embankment dams its tidal forces. A genial set these Villas mostly rented, Men who in trade had made a fair provision, Or others by the State so complimented As to be pensioned, ere fulfilled their mission. And with the usual sprinkling of old Maids, Of Parsons, Widows, Artists, Doctors, Lawyers, There were a few who followed still their trades, But "sunk the shop", as there they were Top-sawyers. Yet well, forsooth, this Colony progress'd, For all were kind, obliging, and most willing, Aiding the poor, and succouring the distress' d With Soup and teaching, or the ready Shilling! A friendly interchange of social greetings Took place on Sundays, after church was over; And in the Week-time, mirthful evening meetings With talk and tea, or music for its lover ! And thus a happy, healthful race abounded In this sweet village, once upon a time; But how this bliss was wofully confounded The Muse shall tell, in quickly coming rhym< . 22 local lays and legends. The Present. Within the Village, near the river lying, Some waste lands "were to let on building leases, And these a Stranger passing by, espying, Purchas'd a plot, for gold and silver pieces. Alack ! the day that deed was ever done, For then was seal'd the District's speedy ruin, Since 'stead of Houses, there arose but one ! And in that one, foul mischief soon was brewing ! For like the Horse of Troy ! as huge in form And fill'd with danger, was this Building tow'ring ; Yet few indeed were they who saw the storm That o'er their tranquil homes, was darkly low'ring ! So when it burst at length, how deep the groans Of those, who like the Trojans, caught half winking, Discover'd to their cost, that Boiling bones Had changed the pure air into foul and stinking ! Yet so it prov'd, for from the Building's shaft There came an odour searching ev'ry dwelling, That told the nature of the noisome craft, And made most sick, by the mere act of smelling ! From out the Factory, too, in vapour pour'd A filthy atmosphere of deadly gases, Making its neighbourhood by all abhorr'd, Killing the trees, destroying shrubs and grasses ! Within the Parish there arose alarm. Such as before had been to it unknown, fclach Summer day explained the grievous harm, By stench from steaming fat, or putrid bone ! \ NEW DESERTED VILLAGE. 2$ And so most Tenants of the Villas gave, Although with pain, their Landlords instant warning , Feeling the subject bordered on the grave ! If they continued such a Danger scorning. Since plagues pursue, when Men omit due care Of that which nature makes productive uses, Smiting with Death the old, the young, or fair ! Thus teaching all, to check in time abuses. So thus the Landlords, being fairly rousVl, A common cause, was with most Tenants taken, And hopes expressed, it being well espous'd To crush the evil, all would soon awaken ! But ah ! alas ! how cruel was the fate Of those who tried the nuisance to be quelling ! For 'stead of Love, they chiefly gained the hate Of some who'd lost, their former sense of smelling 1 How such a change had come, there ran, 'tis true, A whisper round of " Billiards and good Dinners", Which had been plied by those who too well knew, Their great effect on such weak-minded Sinners ! But Rumour with her tongue so often lies, That such a one, the Muse cannot quite swallow, So sticks to Facts, which though they did surprise, Found many neighbours, like the bones, half hollow ' For many shirk'd or shifted from their ground, Or slyly said they rather lik'd Bone-boiling, Or made excuses, being more than bound By ties of friendship to the Finn despoiling. J.4 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. And so dissension in the Village spread, Where once bright harmony and love existed, And many wished the Factory people dead, And they the necks of such well-wishers twisted. Thus did a curse upon the Village fall, And prove the truth of that old-fashion'd Moral — ■ " If you would vanquish, be united all/' And never with your Bread and Butter quarrel. The Future. Long years have sped, since that the Muse has told Of deeds which haply now are quite forgotten; Like to their actors, who within the mould Of their own Churchyards, lowly lie and rotten. Another race of heavy-looking men Live on the spot, where erst the Village smiling, Drew from the crowded City's eager ken Those whom a Country-home found most beguiling. And now a crop of beetling Chimneys rise, Where once green fields and groves were wont to flourish, Sending forth smoke and soot unto the skies, Defiling all which Nature lov'd to nourish. A Factory followed when the first one came, And then another but a short time after, With Shaft and Furnace, belching smoke and flame 'Midst brick and mortar, iron roof and rafter. The noise of Wheels resounded all the day, The clank of chains, the shriek of Steam-pipes nightly, And all which once was tranquil, sweet, or gay, Had now grown rank, unquiet, and unsightly, A NEW DESERTED VILLAGE. 2^ Stenches, both foul and noxious, fill'd the air For miles around, and so much on the River, That those who us'd for health to scull a pair Ne'er thought of rowing now, without a shiver. Thus all look'd sad and alter' d lor the worse, The very Workmen gaunt and melancholy; And o'er the place there seemed indeed a curse, No smiling face, no laughter loud or jolly. The Villas, once so pleasant to the view, Were most pull'd down, or left to go to ruin, For they'd been purchas'd, with the green fields, too, By those who noisome Trades were now pursuing. Upon their sites, swarth men unloaded coals, Which " iron horses" need for hourly feeding, Or emptied Vans, as they arriv'd in shoals, Containing Bones, half rotten or half bleeding. Thus Manufacturers had usurp' d a place Which long had been in Rural occupation, And swallow'd up, encroaching space on space, The very heart's blood of the population. The modest Church had linger' d to the last, For there the Rector staunch had bravely striven To stem the current and avoid the blast, Which from his Parish had his lov'd flock driven. Bow'd down in years, yet still the poor man's friend, He faithful was unto his Sacred calling, And though alone, he laboured to amend Their ills of life, or save the w?.k from falling. E Z6 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. He never waver'd, though his sight grew dim, He never falter' d at his post or duty, And had but others stood their ground with him, The Village might have stood in all its beauty. But, ah ! alas ! there came a fatal blow With which the poor old Rector could not grapple, The School-house lease ran out, and woe on woe, The building sold for a Dissenting chapel ! At news of this, no wonder that he cried " My time is come, how vain is all man's striving \" And, round his Garments folding, calmly died The death of one, who had no need of Shriving. And then, and not till then, the Church was clos'd, That Home for ages, for the sad or weary, For none were found, as it may be supposed, To seek a Living in a place so -dreary. An ivied Tower now, which few men know, Shut in by yew trees, dark in their array, Alone remains, to tell this tale of woe, And send the Traveller thoughtfully away. For who would seek a district where the air Polluted is by constant foetid vapour? So thus the Village, once so sweet and fair, Lives onlv now within the Muse's paper. THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS! A REMINISCENCE OF THE BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGICAL CONGRESS, OCTOBER 1863: INTRODUCING — INTER ALIA — YE APPARITION AND LAMENTE OF ST. THOMAS OF LANCASTER! AT FRYSTON HALL. THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, Etc, FvTTE VE FVRSTE. iCARCE had the last cheer echoed o'er the floor — We mean the last, and not that "one cheer more", So often given by some sapient goose, Who thinks it grand to let his cackle loose ! — Scarce had the last cheer died within the wall Of Leeds' fair Temple — Learning's spacious hall — Than, rising from their seats, the Congress party, With many a kindly smile and greeting hearty From the bright faces, that around them shone ; Alas ! their shine for them was nearly done ! PreparM to leave, for now the work was o'er, And clos'd the week of Archaeologic lore ! Still there were left some pleasant things to do At Halifax and York's great city, too ! Vet, as the " Closing Meeting" had ta'en place, — The Congress had de facto run its race, — So, whilst a few at Leeds remain'd behind, Some other Members, through the pleasant, kind, And courteous invite of the President, To his abode, by railway that day went ; But promising, before they sought the train, To meet at York on Monday, once again, 3° LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. And thus for one clay more, at least, renew Those halcyon moments, which at " Fountains " grew As if by magic — from that hallow'd ground, Where beauties of the past did so abound, That, had they not of beauties present seen A goodly number, they had surely been Gazing there still, enchanted into stone, Or wandering idly, ghost-like all alone, Amidst those wondrous walls, which Monkish skill Had rear'd for good — alas ! why fraught with ill ? But the bright eyes of that most winsome pair, The Kitson Sisters, — eminently rare In all that wit or humour could provoke, First to suggest, and then applaud a joke. Whether from "Rouge Croix's" lips, renowned knight, Or that sad jester 'clept a Curator Wright ": Or Roberts bold, whose dashing style of jokes Made peals of laughter ring from serious folks — Attract so much, that, — aided by the grace Of the fair Gibbses, who a foremost place Deserve in rank in this most rapid view, Of what true Archaeologists oft do : For constant as the Sun-flow'r to the Sun, Or Day-beams peeping when the Night is done, Have this kind fam'ly to such wanderings been, In famous spots, and many a sylvan scene ! Helping all kindly with their smiles of praise, And gaining hearts by their most winning ways ! The Loiterers could no longer stay behind ; For tho' Stone lovers, they were not stone-blind ! And, quitting " Fountains", willing prisoners led By this their fairy band, they once more sped On to old Ripon; where, arriv'd at last, THE LAST DAY AT LEKDS, ETC. 3 1 They found what picas' tl them all, — a good repast; And nothing 's better, say they what they may ; Though Past time's been the order of the day ! But stop, O Muse, thy wanderings pray restrain, For here we've left two Parties at the train ; One to that city bound, where " Crossley Mayor" Will treat them crossly if not punctual there; And th' other one to go at railway pace To meet Lord Houghton, at his country place: And what these did, and how they did it, too, Will soon, dear Readers, be rehears'd to you ; But to save trouble as we write our verse on, We'll do so, if you please, in the first person. Ende of Fytte ye Fyrste. Fytte ye Seconde. Once more in hand we take our rhyming pen, To tell to those, who were not with us, when, At Fryston Hall, the happy party met, An offshoot of the larger, stauncher set, Who had resolv'd the " Programme" to work through; Though thinking Halifax no doubt "a. do ! " For what on earth are " Churches New" to us As Archaeologists? or that foolish fuss, " Which " Local Councils" deem it right to make, With Mayors of some towns, for a Banquet's sake! Altho", perhaps, in this one, they may plead. As an excuse for going, — which they need, 3 2 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. A "Maiden" rare, was really to be seen — One who more heads had turned — off! than I ween Had any other Lass, dar'd you but " axe" her, Before or since her day, — in Halifax, sir ! But to resume ! as nigger " Stump-men" gay, Who nightly in the Music-halls hold sway : A sad reproach to this our tasteful age, That such unmeaning trash, should prove a rage ! But to resume the thread of our discourse, Which has been broken bv this Iron force Of circumstance, — since that which they did call A " Maiden", prov'd a sharp blade after all ! Us'd to cut throats of Halifaxian caitiffs, Before "Jack Ketch" was Hoister-up of Natives ! And having done so, onward let it run To Fryston Hall, where, by the setting sun, The guests arrived, and by its noble Lord Were duly welcom'd both to bed and board, And soon made happy with rich stores of books, Of rare old pictures, and most kindly looks From all around; for in this English home A spirit breathes, unequal'd, though you roam From pole to pole, from Iceland to Cathay, Which smiles a welcome, in that winning way That Authors try in glowing words to paint, Yet often fail, — that makes without restraint, The "whole world kin" : — so great its magic pow'r, Strangers grow friends within the fleeting hour ! And cheerful words dispel all thoughts of care, Since mirth and gladness reign triumphant there! In truth a Poet's home, and long may 't be, For what so sweet as Love and Minstrelsy? THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, ETC. 33 And Monckton Milnes, with now ennobl'd name, By graceful words and works, doth justly claim A high position in that world of letters, "Where few, if any, are indeed his betters"; Though 'tis the fashion nowadays to call Spasmodic poetry, highest style of all ! Or dreamy, mystic, unsound thinking prose, The real Elixir of Life's many woes; Whilst truthful writing, drawn from Nature's fount, Is reckon'd lightly, or of no account ! So pass'd our time in this attractive place, That night came on, with far too swift a pace ; And a new day dawn'd on our rested heads, Late pillow'd on the softest of all beds ; And we again our Host and Hostess greeting, Discours'd of those things, which, at the late Meeting, Had caus'd the greatest and the widest stir — The Pomfret visit,— and Earl Lancaster ! Whose sudden fall from almost God-like pow'r, Made Edward bold, and his stern foes to cow'r ; Altho' a short time saw them rous'd again, And weak Caernarvon, like his cousin, slain ! And as we talk'd of Lancaster's sad death, Our Host propos'd we all should taste a breath Of the fresh air ; so bidding us to don Our thickest gear, we saunter' d, one by one, Into the gardens, where his lordship led, Intent on showing us, — tho' he nothing said, The Stone-bound coffin of this mighty man, And e'en his Bones, and very Skull, to scan ! Arriv'd ere long, all silently we stood Within the entrance of a little wood, 34 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. Where drooping trees and dripping branches made A damp, unpleasant, and — rheumatic shade ! But soon espying there a huge Stone chest, With Lid remov'd, we to it quickly prest, And in its pond'rous jaws, joy'd to behold A sight, to Pilgrims once, more priz'd than gold, — The very ashes of the potent Earl, Erst lord of thousands, — now like any churl, Crumbling to dust ! for " Mother Earth"' knows not The Rich man's splendour from the Poor man's lot, And thus a Lesson from the grave is taught, Better than Sermons, writ, or cribb'd, or bought. With eager eyes we scann'd each mould'ring bone, With willing hands, we search'd inside the stone, Anxious, indeed, to find some relic there — A coin, or ring, or antique jewel rare! But naught was found, save that his Lordship took From out the dust, a worn and rusty Hook, In shape like those we oft-times sickles call, Tho' not in size, as it was strangely small ; And puzzling o'er the quaint and perish'd blade, We wonder' d how, and when it had been laid By Lancaster's stern side, — and also why ? And as none present, then, could give reply, (Altho' of course all had "a guess" to try!) It was pack'd up for further disquisition, A Hook, with eye to future exposition ! Within a basket, then, we placed with care, And reverent feeling, quite a goodly share Of Thigh-bones, Tibiae, Vertebrae and clay Of the Defunct, resolved to have some day A kind of Inquest — as to form and size, Of the great Prince, who once in people's eyes THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, ETC. 35 Stood forth pre-eminent, whose vengeful sword Had many sent to death, e'en as his word, Which hurried Gaveston to a wretched doom, And pav'd the way to Edward's bloody tomb. And so we left the spot with measur'd tread, Bearing aloft these Relics of the dead, — Relics that made all feel how chang'd the scene, Since such remains, had fondly cherish' d been ; Had wrought e'en Miracles, as writers say, When as a saint, " St. Thomas" had his day ! But now how alter'd, he could scarcely own His Limbs again, amidst that mass of bone! How then could any Stranger e'er imagine it To form part of — a potted, proud Plantagenet ? And thinking thus, we followed where our guide Still led the way from the Stone coffin's side, And reaching soon the Hall, just as the bell For dressing rang, — a very welcome knell, Since all were ready, after such a walk, T' enjoy a dinner, — leaving out the talk ; — We at a Table, groaning with good cheer, Forgot, ere long, the Coffin in the Beer ! So the chief feature of this most famous day For some time from our mem'ries, died away ! Endc of Fytte ye Seconde. 36 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. Fytte ye Thyhde and Laste. As Time and Tide will not for mortals stay ; So did our dinner glide, too soon, away ! For at it, urg'd by Wit and gen'rous Wine, Each of the party in his special line, Contrived to add a something to the whole, By Learning deep, or Extract quaint or droll, With many a clever and a well-told Tale, Or Pun outrageous, or by Riddle stale. Since when we mention who were present there, Commencing with " Lord Houghton in the chair \" No one will wonder, if indeed for once, Old Chronos, seemed to all a very dunce To hurry on— nor deign a longer look When Tom Wright spoke, so like a printed book; Or Reverend Hartshorne, in his accents mild, Referr'd to Hist'ry, based on what is styl'd Palseographic reading — awful work, And which we're certain most of us would shirk — Since to obtain the knowledge he has won, — Dark Deeds — indeed, must constantly be done ! And young Milnes Gaskell, with his readings clear, From varied volumes, modern, old, and rare; Fresh from fair Isis' banks — a student born, And marked by Fate, high station to adorn! Or Mr. Forman, whose most kindly smile, When he a Story tells, must all beguile; Or even speaks — for such his nature good, No need of words to make him understood ! And one besides, a mirthful waggish Wight, Whose name to whisper e'en, would not be right, THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, ETC. 37 As he is said to sacrifice his friends, To gain a laugh, of course, for joking ends ! Who dar'd indeed, this very day to try — When that his Host remark'd, with humour dry, How hard his new name, Houghton, seemed to write, Since few around him knew the spelling quite ! — His hand at Classic pun, — for then he said From what he'd always heard, or seen, or read, Yvcodt Se Avtov ! was the hardest Spell, On which Man's mind, had ever had to dwell ! And then came Tea-time, with its social chat, Not any scandal ; but what we 'd been at During the day : and so once more the talk Fell upon Lancaster, and our morning walk. And where the Coffin we have been describing, With its Remains, should find a place abiding, When once again restored, — within some mound, With Cypress trees, or stately Yews around ! For 'twas his fondest wish, his Lordship said, Some day to raise, in mem'ry of the dead, A fitting Tomb, with writing on its wall, Justly to tell, what Vices caus'd the fall Of the great Prince : and so into the Night Our converse ran, until in some affright The Ladies left us, vowing they should dream Of the dread Saint; who, by the Moonlight's gleam, Would doubtless walk, and utter dismal groans, — A headless Spirit, searching for his bones ! At this we laugh'd — though wishing ev'ry one There might come nothing true out of such fun ! And trusting, when each gain'd his sleeping room, A blazing fire, would dispel the gloom Which then crept o'er us, — why, we could not tell — 38 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. As shaking hands, and bidding each farewell, We sallied forth, led by our noble Host, Whose last words were, — "Sleep well, and dream not of the Ghost [» Midnight hath chim'd, and all the household sleep, Save in one room, where now our Muse must peep ; For in it, tossing on a downy bed, One w r akeful Guest thrusts forth a fever' d head, Intently listening, as a sound draws near, Of something creeping slowly, o'er his ear, As if a Spirit from its cold, dark tomb Had swept across the threshold of his room ! And lo ! indeed, behold close standing by The couch on which our watchful friend doth lie, A Figure gaunt and grim, of warlike mien, With Head beneath his arm, is plainly seen ! The Head with grisly beard and close shorn hair; Eyes of a dread and most unearthly stare ! No sound escapes its lips, save that a sigh, Expressive of deep grief and agony, Falls now and then upon the attent ear Of our poor Friend, quite overcome with fear ; A Sigh that seems to say a world of pain Would be removed, if it could speak again. And so the Spectre stood in solemn calm, Till rous'd at length our Friend, with dire alarm, Thus broke the stillness of that awful hour, And the charm too, — unconscious of his pow'r ! "Angels and ministers of grace defend us: Be thou a Spirit that the Devil sends us ; THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, ETC. 39 Or but a Ghost from Lancaster's lone tomb ? I do beseech thee speak, or quit this room \" Hardly had these words fallen on the air, Than the grim Spectre, drawing forth a chair, Sat down before a glass ; and then his Head Replacing with much care, thus gravely said, In accents clear, and most majestic style, Slowly uprising — " List to me awhile, And Fll relate, ere Cock shall crow, my woes In solemn Verse, — as I'm averse to prose \" And coughing slightly, like a Nervous man, The following Lamentation he began : Ye Lamente. Five hundred years and more, have fled, Since I was plac'd in Stone; Five hundred years and more, are sped, Since I lost my unhappy head, And all I callM my own ! The wicked King who murther'd me, Soon after came to grief : At Berkeley Castle kilfd was he, I must admit most cruelly, Yet still to my relief. In short, mine enemies, all fell By Water, Fire, or Sword ; And I rejoicM within my cell, And learn'd indeed to love it well, Since I became ador'd ! 40 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. They sent to Rome to make me Saint, And Canonize my bones ; And many a wearied Pilgrim's plaint, In pray'rful voice, — from body faint, I've heard within those stones ! Heal'd were the Sick that came to me, The Blind restor'd to sight; — Ah ! had they only let things be, And Harry wed A, B, or C, I had been left — all riffht ! But " Dissolution" came at last, And with it fell my Shrine; The howling Monks dispers'd so fast, That not a Record of the past, Left they to prove my Line ! All that they left was a Stone chest, In which my bones repos'd ; Ah ! then I hop'd for constant rest, Till I in Grander glory drest, Should once more be exposed ! But all my Hopes were vain indeed ; For as Time wing'd his way, A set of " Savans" — prying creed, — Came to my Tomb with impious speed, And tore its lid away ! THE LAST DAY AT LEEDS, ETC. 41 They peer'd within, and saw my bones ; They dar'd my Skull to touch ! And spite my Ghost-like, unheard moans, They laughed and jok'd in flippant tones; Oh ! Saints, it was too much ! Again, they would not let me stay, In peace 'neath Pomfret's wall ; But had my Stone home brought away, With bones, and fatty lumps of clay, To Fryston's noble Hall ! But here I feel the thought will be, To care for my poor Bones; Since poets love Antiquity, And Houghton's taste for Poesie, Will consecrate those Stones. So when some Stranger draweth near My new Tomb, — let him stay In pity, — for my Fate so drear; And from his Eyelids drop a tear, To wash my sins away ! Thus having said, in somewhat happier tones, As if rejoic'd at thought, — that his poor bones Would some day soon repose, in better style Than they had done for now a dreary while; — The Spectre, bowing with politest grace, Remov'd his Head, — and vanish' d into space ! Whilst our poor Friend, now left once more alone, With heighten'd pulse, and a convulsive groan, G 42 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. Awoke, — and finding soon how matters stood, Th' expiring fire reviv'd with logs of wood ; — Then seizing Pen and Paper, 'gan to write, — As from his eyes, all sleep was banish'd quite, — The story of his Dream, — as here narrated, — And which next morning, he of course related, To a most eager, and attentive throng. Thus having told the Tale, — almost too long — For those whose nervous system is not strong; — We humbly ask our readers, — for the Muse The many failings of these Rhymes, t' excuse, And bidding all fare well, — o'er Christmas cheer, Wish them a merry, and a Glad New Year ! Te Ende. LEGEND OF BRIGHTHELMSTONE IN THE YEAR 1704. " Se non e vero, e ben trovato." — Ital. Prov. L ' E N V O Y. CASTELLAMARE, PRIMA SERA. HE sun of a glorious day sets as I pen these lines, his golden heams tinge the hemisphere of the West, and as they mingle with the hlue rippling waters of this almost lake, and gradually sink beneath them, my thoughts, wandering from things around, strive to follow him towards my home. Yes, even in this delicious clime, where it is easier to forget the sorrows of the world than to have a thought of them — a clime such as Eden's must have been ! — there is something in the thought of home more satisfactory to the sojourner in a foreign land, than the endless variety of wonders which are ever attracting him. But I must not be tempted to discourse of " home", my pen is far too humble for so grateful a duty, and besides I have other food for your entertainment ; so as I have much to write, ere the departed orb, whose bright colours yet gleam in the sky, shall appear to me again, and as the barque, which is to convey this to you over the "far blue wave", is floating gracefully before me, ready to sail at early morn, I will at once begin my narrative. A few evenings ago, as I was strolling along the via Toledo, with its crowds of busy, bustling people, admiring the bright eyes and sunny smiles of the Neapolitan women, and the smart 4<5 LOCAL LAYS AM) LEGENDS. and varied dresses of the Contadini, who were thronging on with restless and untiring zeal, it took my fancy to turn down a long and narrow street, which quickly brought me to a part of the fair city I had never before seen ; the houses, or lofty piles of irregular buildings, were old and dilapidated, and with their dingy looks, miserable lattices, and ragged stone entrances, reminding me strongly of some of the closes of Edinburgh, marked externally the abode of wretchedness and despair. While slowly walking through this almost deserted region, presenting a sad contrast to the gay Toledo I had so lately quitted, my attention was directed to a window on the upper floor of a tall, dreary-looking house, by the agitated manner of a black-eyed, care-worn girl, who ever and anon, wringing her hands in evident distress, looked forth from the opened casement with anxious and enquiring glances; her wild yet brilliant eyes at length lighted upon me, and in a moment the painful aspect of her features changed to an expression of almost frantic joy; with an exclamation of delight, the distance rendering nearly indistinct, she beckoned me with all the earnestness in her power to hasten to her. My sympathy for the poor girl being awakened, and my ardent love of adventure excited, I paused not a moment to consider the consequences of any act of imprudence, but bounding across the uneven roadway, into the depths of the forbidding entrance to the house, was soon ascending a number of bewildering and creaking stairs ; by dint of great perseverance, I at last arrived at the open door of a long, low, and gloomy apartment, the window of which, from the thickness and coarseness of its glass, serving rather to exclude than to admit the light; however, from the few rays that did pierce into the chamber, aided by the faint glimmerings of a small antique lamp, which hung before a figure of the " Saviour", carved in lapis lazuli, I was enabled to obtain a tolerably accurate view of the interior. Kneeling before the l'envoy. 47 above-mentioned image, and totally absorbed in the performance of her devotions, I perceived a female, whose dress and appear- ance at once betrayed the mysterious girl, for whom I felt so deeply interested. As my presence remained unheeded, I silently entered the barely furnished room, in one corner of which I noticed for the first time a miserable kind of bed, on which, from a faint moaning and an uneasy, restless motion of the clothes, I con- cluded some sick person to be lying. In an instant the truth flashed across my brain, and I at once felt that the dark and flowing character of my dress had caused the poor desponding girl, now so wrapt in her thanksgiving, to take me for a practiser in physic, and that the hapless being, stretched on the lowly pallet before me, was the patient for whose sufferings I had been thus unexpectedly called upon to administer. Hardly had this idea presented itself, or I could even deter- mine in what way to act, than the pious girl arose from her prostrate condition, and beholding me, invoked a blessing, in her soft musical Italian, on my head, and throwing her arms around my neck, kissing my cheek several times with great emotion, burst into a flood of tears. Gently disengaging her convulsive grasp, and placing her on the only seat I could perceive ; — in my bad and broken Italian, I tried to soothe and comfort her, entreating to know in what, or how, I could assist her. To my surprise and delight she answered in English, with a few words here and there in French, — oh ! how those familiar tones thrilled through my heart ! doubly delightful from the manner in which they were given, — that her father was lying on the bed " very, very ill", and then slowly shaking her head with an expression of despair, her moistened eyes were again suffused with tears ; pausing for a moment to recover herself, she added that " she thought he 48 LOCAL LAYS AND LEGENDS. was dying ! but since I had arrived he would be saved, and live with her to bless his kind restorer". Pitying her mistake from the bottom of my heart, I had not the power to undeceive her ; and allowing her, therefore, to lead me to the bed, I took down the u ill-fed lamp", and by its feeble light, carefully examined the face of the sick man; and such a face ! I have seldom seen : though pale and wan from illness, it forcibly reminded me of the heads which " Rembrandt" loved to paint, and in spite of a grisly beard, there was an expression in his languid look that told me he was no foreigner, but an Englishman. I could not then make further observation, for I perceived that the hand of death was busy with its feeble victim, and when I found the poor man's pulse it was hardly beating. Requesting the weeping girl to bring some water which stood nigh, I bathed his parched and feverish brow with the cool, refreshing liquid ; what further to do, I knew not ! The water seemed to renovate him a little, for he opened his hitherto closed eyes, and cast a vacant gaze around ; then motioning as if he would drink, his attentive daughter was at his side in a moment. He took a long draught, and as he drained the cup I perceived a great change come upon him ; his glossy sunken eyes were lit with an unusual fire, adding vet more to the ghastly appearance of his features. After he had finished drinking, he made an effort to sit up, but would have fallen back again from weakness, had not his ever watchful child propped him with a pillow ; regarding her with a look of intense kindness, I saw his lips quiver as if he would speak, and each of us eagerly bending forward, I heard him pronounce in English — the words are still ringing in my ears — " Bless thee ! may God bless thee ! Estelle !" He spoke no more, — there was a slight movement of his frame, and the old man closed his eyes for ever. Estelle seeing what had happened, with a stifled scream, ejaculating " Padre mio", fell senseless on the pallet ! ****** i/envoy. 49 Since the above occurrence, I have made many ineffectual attempts to find out who the old man and his daughter were ; for after leaving poor Estelle, well cared for by the people of the house, to whom I gave, and promised a further supply of money for the purpose, I never saw her more. On calling the next day, I learnt that a carriage with a dashing equipage, had early that same morning taken her away, they knew not where; all demands had been settled, and orders given for the funeral to take place immediately. For some time, the memory of the circumstance dwelt uneasily upon my mind; but as one cannot remain long sad at a place like Naples, I soon recovered my former composure, and had nearly lost sight of the adventure altogether — when one afternoon, in pressing through a crowd to obtain a view of a procession, I felt something thrust into my hand ; I grasped it, and on looking clown perceived a packet, directed in a hurried manner "Au jeune Anglais" ; my first impulse was to follow and question the bearer of the paper, whom I fancied I saw retreating, but finding the crowd too great to allow me to do so, I returned as speedily as possible to my lodgings, then in the Chiaja; hastily tearing open the enclosure, a scrap of paper fell to the ground, in the same hand as the direction, the words were few, and evidently written in great agitation; they ran thus — "Accept these, kind stranger, they are all I can offer for your goodness : Alcun s'avanza, I am disturbed : Adieu pour jamais ! Je suis heureuse : Estelle." A tear had fallen on the paper, as if in contradiction of the last line of her short note. Poor Estelle ! I thought, what stern destiny may not be thine ! and for some moments I was buried in profound and sorrowful meditation ; my eyes rested at length on the packet which lay before me, examining which, I was joyed to find it contained manuscripts, written in an old- fashioned style, — romaunts and legends, both in verse and prose, H $0 LOCAL LAVS AND LEGENDS. of an extremely interesting character. I kissed them, as I once more thought of poor Estelle, and locking them as treasures in my "portfeuille", determined at some future time to re-write and transmit them for your reading. That time having arrived, I herewith send you one, which, though but a sketch, will doubtless interest you, from being a tradition of the spot near which you reside. EBSSsitfSn ^^UB&MiSwm A LEGEND OF BRIGHTHELMSTONE. CHAPTER I. CASTLE BEAUMONT THE STORM. The hissing waves did lash the shore, And far around was borne the roar ! The Curlew rose, and its shrill cry Proclaim'd a tempest dread was nigh. — MS. [N a large, deep recess, formed by a projecting bay- window, whose stained lattice-panes appeared the smaller, from its massive oaken frames and mullions, two maidens were seated at work ; and although they were apparently occupied intently with their needles, by the quick and uneasy glances shot ever and anon around, as well as by their conversation, carried on in short and hurried sentences, it was evident their minds were less engrossed by their visible occupation, than on some other subject of deeper interest. " I fear me, dear Fawn", said the younger, tl we shall ere long have stormy weather, the clouds drive by with so much swiftness, and by the evening gun, the sun has sunk below the sea in darkness, an omen betokening ill." "Alas! sister Alence", responded the other, " your fears, I think, are too true; for see", she continued, pointing to the window,