THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LEGENDS IN VERSE,
 
 /•r3s?-. 
 
 ';i.rs 
 
 The Barber of Avignon.— Pu^e 201.

 
 LEGENDS 
 
 IN VERSE; 
 
 HUMOROUS, SERIOUS, SARCASTIC, SENTIMENTAL, 
 AND SUPERNATURAL. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED W. COLE, 
 
 Aulkov of " The World in Light and Shade," " The Cape ami l.ks 
 Kaffirs," etc., etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY HARVEY. 
 
 Iievare diris peetora solicitudiuibus. — Hobacb. 
 
 Take our pood meaning; for our judgment sifn 
 
 Five times in tbat ei'e once in our live wits. — Shakstisrb. 
 
 LONDON: 
 J.VMES BLACKWOOD, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1855.
 
 PR 
 
 TO 
 
 ALBERT SMITH, ESQ., 
 
 THE STTCCESSFITL MAN OF LETTERS, 
 
 THK POPULAR FAVOURITE, AND, ABOVE ALT,, 
 
 THE VALUED FRIEND OF ALL WnO 
 
 KNOW HIM, 
 
 THE A U T H O 11 
 
 INSCRIBES 
 
 Cfjis Uolunu. 
 
 ju.^'-^
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE . . . . . 
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAR 
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEN . . • 
 
 COEI'OBAL ROOEUS'S TABS 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN 
 
 THE dandy's DEEAM 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE . 
 
 " IT IS OTJE OPENING DAY." 
 
 THE COBBLEE OF TOLEDO . 
 
 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWN) 
 
 THE BAEON OF HOHENSTEIN 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF MR. TTGOS 
 
 THE BARBEE OF AVIGNON 
 
 PAGB. 
 . ii 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 20 
 . 43 
 . 62 
 . 81 
 . 09 
 . 117 
 . 131 
 . 152 
 . 165 
 . 186 
 , 201
 
 Till COKTENTS. 
 
 PAOK 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER 219 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF RHUDDEAN 232 
 
 THE BALL-ROOM CONQUEST 252 
 
 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK TALE 267 
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAN 288 
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE 307 
 
 THE " LATEST INTELLIGENCE" 323
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 " Good wine needs no bush," 
 
 And a Preface wont push 
 A bad book into notice — a good one can't need it- 
 
 But the Publisher hints, 
 
 That whatever lie prints 
 Has always a Preface, though no one may read it. 
 
 So the Author complies, 
 
 As he audibly sighs, 
 And resignedly turns up the whites of his eyes ; 
 
 In the ink his pen dives 
 
 At the task as he strives — 
 Needs must when unpleasant necessity drives.
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 Dear reader, kind reader, good, generous, gentle, 
 
 (As m>/ reader d' you doubt 
 
 How soon 1 found out 
 That you've every perfection, corporeal and mental?) 
 
 "When first you shall chance 
 
 On this volume to glance, 
 Don 't toss it aside with a " pooh-pooh," but try it — 
 Just read it, or risk three and sixpence and iwy ii. 
 
 Having purchased the book you've a right to abuse 
 
 it. 
 If your temper, youx taste, or your judgment so choose 
 
 it. 
 
 The Legends mayn't suit you, you mayn't understand 
 
 'em 
 Mayn't like them — de gustibus non disptitandum — 
 But, don't be severe ; don't abuse them for lacking 
 The brilliance of Homer, or Warren's jet blacking. 
 Don't sneer at the author, but take this momento — 
 In no single line he has ever put pen to 
 Is he aiming High Art or Poetical glory at, 
 Or has the least thought of supplanting the Laureat.
 
 PSEFACE. XI 
 
 If he can't make you smile, 
 
 If he cannot beguile 
 Dull care from her place at your elbow awhile — 
 
 Then he has missed his aim, 
 
 And does hereby proclaim 
 That henceforth he will never attempt any Legends — 
 No never — till even Sebastopol's siege ends. 
 He cannot use language that's clearer or stronger, 
 Or fix on a date that were probably longer. 
 
 And so with this vow, 
 
 He makes you his bow — 
 His Prologue is spoken in accents uncertain, 
 The prompter's bell rings — and up rises the curtain. 
 
 A. W. C. 
 
 London, July, 1855.
 
 LEGENDS IN VEESE. 
 
 THE GHOST OE THE BLACK FRIAR. 
 
 ^ Ecgcnt) of <amstcrliam. 
 
 Puff ! — pufF! — puff! — from the glowing bowl of clay 
 Else clouds of smoke 
 Enougli to choke 
 As the Dutchman pulls away. 
 
 Sip ! — sip ! — sip ! — what fragrant vapours pass 
 To the tippler's nose, 
 As the liquor flows, 
 And the Dutchman drains his glass. 
 
 Sip !— sip !— sip ! and puff !—pufi"!— puff! 
 Of the weed to smoke, 
 And Schiedam to soak, 
 "What Dutchman has enougli ? 
 
 B
 
 2 THE GUOST OF TUE BLACK FKIAE. 
 
 Twirl ! — twirl ! — twirl!— the wheel goes spinning round, 
 As with anxious brow, 
 By the Dutchman's frow, 
 The worsted threads are wound. 
 
 Prose ! — prose ! — prose ! — In one unchanging tone, 
 As the old frow sits. 
 And spins and knits, 
 The old frow talks alone. 
 
 Twirl ! — twii'l ! — twirl ! and prose ! — prose ! — prose ! 
 What old Dutch frow 
 Has said enow 
 "While round the wheel still goes ? 
 
 Thus sat by the chimney Mynheer Van der Schmellar, 
 
 A Dutchman renown' d for his excellent cellar 
 
 Of Hollands, Geneva, Schiedam, eau-de-vie, 
 
 Eum, whiskey, potheen, and whatever may be 
 
 The several other correct designations 
 
 Of all alcoholical known distillations. 
 
 And there sat his wife, a good motherly dame. 
 
 In a snowy white cap, and a tippet the same, 
 
 And a russet-brown dress of the best linsey woollen, — 
 
 Rather short in the skirts, but remarkably full in 
 
 The regions where Nature throughout all that land 
 
 Has lavish'd her gifts with so bounteous a hand: 
 
 And stockings and mittens, grey, warm, and well-fitting. 
 
 And all of the old lady's own proper kuittiug ;
 
 TUE anOiST OF THE BLACK EEIAB. 3 
 
 And slices witli high heels, and with very broad toes, 
 And her tortoise-shell spectacles stuck on her nose. 
 
 Mynheer kept on puffing huge volumes of smoke 
 And draining his glass, but Mynheer never spoke — 
 Except when his frow's tongue a moment miglit flag, 
 When Mynheer gave his head an oracular wag, 
 And removing his pipe from his lips — but not far. 
 Grunted out from the folds of his waistcoat a " Ya !" 
 
 The dame kept on talking as fast as she spun, 
 'T would puzzle to say which the faster might run, 
 Her tongue or her spinning-wheel ; truly the latter 
 Effected some good by its voluble clatter, 
 Which can't be pronounced of the old lady's chatter. 
 
 Well, Mynheer kept on smoking and drinking and 
 dozinf 
 
 &5 
 
 His fi'ow kept on chatting and spinning and prosing, 
 The candle kept dancing and splutt'riug and flaring. 
 The fire kept on crackling and blazing and glaring, 
 The wheel kept on turning and twisting and twirling, 
 The smoke kept on rising and rolling and curling, 
 The grog kept on steaming and seething and reeking, 
 The wind kept on whistling and howKng and shrieking, 
 The rain on the windows kept driving and pattering, 
 Sluicing and dashing and hissing and clattering — 
 When all on a sudden Mynheer and his frow 
 Both started and looked — I can hardly tell how.
 
 4f THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FKIAE. 
 
 But remarkably queer, 
 As if struck with the fear 
 That the Deuce or his tail were unpleasantly near ! 
 
 Por Mynheer and his frow they heard a sound 
 
 That seem'd to come from out the ground — 
 
 A low, deep sound — a kind of moan — 
 
 More than a sigh — not quite a groan ; 
 
 But spite the wind and spite the rain 
 
 They heard that sound again — again — 
 
 Creeping up and creeping round — 
 
 It was a most unearthly sound ! 
 
 It made their hearts beat loud and quick ; 
 
 It made their breath come short and thick ; 
 
 It made their blood appear to freeze ; 
 
 It made them shake in jaws and knees ; 
 
 It made their hair to stand upright ; 
 
 It made their cheeks and lips turn white ; 
 
 It made them sit, and stare, and quake — 
 
 I don't know what it d'uhiH make ! 
 
 And then at the door there came a knock 
 That gave them a kiad of electric shock, 
 For both had read, and both well knew, 
 As a singular fact, and strictly true, 
 Whenever a ghost, an imp, a bogie, 
 Or other such unsubstantial fogie. 
 Is out for the night, and is paying visits 
 To mortals on earth, so particular is its
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FRIAR. 
 
 Extreme politeness, that ever before 
 It enters the chamber it knocks at the door — 
 Not a hurried rap, as a man's might be, 
 But a solemn, mystic — one ! two ! three ! 
 
 And this was the kind of knock they heard ; 
 
 But neither could utter a single word 
 
 To bid them " come in," or to ask " who's there ? " 
 
 Still less did either poor mortal dare 
 
 To rise from their seats and to go and see 
 
 Who might the ghostly visitor be. 
 
 ; The handle turns, the hinges grate 
 
 (They haven't been properly greas'd of late), 
 And the room door slowly opens wide. 
 And a tall, black figure seems to glide, 
 As with solemn step he comes inside ! 
 
 His face was white as driven snow — 
 
 'Tis said that a ghost's is always so 
 
 As fresh air's exceedingly scarce below, — 
 
 His eyes were dark in hue, but bright 
 
 With a glaring, piercing sort of liglit. 
 
 His lips were of whitish, bluish grey — 
 
 Like a winter sky's at the break of day — 
 
 And the only sign of life-blood seen 
 
 Was half-way the mouth and the eyes between — 
 
 For, strange as the fact, we undoubtedly think ! 
 
 The tip of his nose was decidedly piuk !
 
 R THE OnOST OP THE BLACK FRTAE. 
 
 He wore a long black cloak, or gown, 
 With a hood drawn over his shaven crown 
 In many an ample fold, and round 
 His waist a snow-white rope was bound. 
 
 Stately and solemn he closed the door, 
 
 And stalked along the chamber floor, 
 
 And he took a chair, and he drew it near 
 
 To the Dutchman's hearth and the Dutchman's 
 
 cheer, 
 And he seiz'd the tumbler and drain'd it dry, 
 And he set it down with a ghostly sigh ; 
 And there came from his breath, and his clothes as 
 
 well, 
 A nasty sort of a brimstone smell ! 
 
 And then he gazed on the luckless pair 
 As both sat shaking and shivering there, 
 And he open'd his mouth and silence broke. 
 And these were the words his ghostship spoke : 
 
 " Don't fear, good frow, don't fear, good host ; 
 I'm harmless though I am a ghost. 
 It is n't for long they let mc walk, 
 And it isn't in graveyards J would stalk. 
 
 I like good cheer. 
 
 And I see it here. 
 And you've nothing at all on earth to fear 
 So long as you don't approach too near ;
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAR. 
 
 For I'm told by my comrades down below 
 (I won't say where, but of course you kuow) 
 That^if hand of mortal is laid on one 
 From tbe otber world, his days are done ! 
 It dries his blood, it stops his breath, 
 It freezes his marrow — the touch is Death, 
 So don't come near me, but fill your glass, 
 And let the glorious bottle pass ; 
 For I'm come to taste the best Schiedam 
 In all the city of Amsterdam, 
 And if any one give me the liquor can, 
 Why, Van der Schmellar, you 're the man. 
 So here 's to you and your worthy fro'w— '* \ 
 And the ghost made quite a polished bow. \ 
 " And now. Mynheer, the ffhost shall tell 
 Of all that the living man befell : " 
 
 ^\)t ISUctx JFrtar's ,$tor'g. 
 
 1. 
 
 I was a pious, holy monk, 
 
 And a holy life I led. 
 Little I ate and less I drunk — 
 
 The hard bai'e ground my bed, 
 I told my beads, I read my book, 
 
 Said pater, ave, ci-edo, — 
 Oh, none could liolier live or look 
 
 Than saintly Father Guido.
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAH. 
 
 2. 
 
 I groan' d within my damp, cold cell; 
 
 Used ashes for pomatum ; 
 I gather' d acorns as they fell, 
 
 And when I hunger' d, ate 'em, 
 I dressed in sackcloth for my shirt, 
 
 And never chang'd my linen — 
 For monkish virtue dwells in dirt. 
 
 And cleanliness there's sin in. 
 
 3. 
 
 The people to the convent flock' d. 
 
 They came to seek my blessing : 
 And rich and poor my cell- door knock' d 
 
 And never ceased confessing. 
 And who so blithe, and who so gay. 
 
 Or who so envied then as one 
 "Who, heard and shrived, was sent away 
 
 With Father Guido's benison ? 
 
 Fair damsels came in tears and grief, 
 
 And told how they 'd been sinning. 
 And sought the holy monk's relief. 
 
 In accents wondrous winning. 
 They found him cold and stern in word, 
 
 Their wicked deeds reproving, 
 And many a virtuous precept heard. 
 
 To better courses moving.
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAB. 
 
 9 
 
 5. 
 
 Some souglit to play oiF naughty wiles, 
 
 The friar's heart to soften, 
 And loving looks and wanton smiles 
 
 They 've given him — aye, often 
 But all unmoved the friar gazed, 
 
 It seem'd to vex him, rather — 
 The damsels went away amazed 
 
 At such an icy father. 
 
 6. 
 
 And princes came and bid him claim 
 
 Wealth, treasui-es in profusion ; 
 A kingdom he might almost name, 
 
 For only absolution. 
 Though wealth he deem'd but Satan's lure, 
 
 He took their proffer' d treasures — 
 But only to relieve the poor. 
 
 And not for sinful pleasures. 
 
 The brethren of the convent too, 
 
 The rev' rend and the lay ones, 
 All bow'd before the friar, who 
 
 Had never miss'd a day once, 
 In penance, fasting, self-imposed 
 
 Corporeal flagellation, 
 And such like acts his life disclosed 
 
 For monkish imitation. 
 
 1
 
 JO THE OnOST OF THE BLACK FRIAR. 
 
 8. 
 
 And when tbe good Lord Abbot died 
 
 (For abbots are but mortal, 
 And ours for long bad stood beside 
 
 Death's slowly opening portal), 
 Then all the monks with one accord, 
 
 From novice to confessor. 
 Cried out that I should be their lord — 
 
 Tbe abbot's right successor ! 
 
 9. 
 
 So then I left my cold, damp cell 
 
 To occupy a dry one — 
 'Twas where the Abbot used to dwell, 
 
 And better air'd than my one. 
 But still I lived a life austere 
 
 And, if I 'm not mistaken, 
 The friars thought it monstrous queer 
 
 The course that I had taken. 
 
 10. 
 
 Tliey deem'd — I know the fellows deem'd- 
 
 That now I wore a mitre 
 I 'd show I was not what I seem'd, 
 
 And make my burdens lighter. 
 They thought I 'd taste the llowing cup, 
 
 Enjoy the well-stored table, 
 And daily dine, and daily sup. 
 
 As most men do when able.
 
 THE GHOST Or THE BLACK FEIAB. 11 
 11. 
 
 They thouglit perchance tlie better saint 
 
 Would make tlie better sinner, 
 And first display his worldly taint 
 
 About the hour of dinner. 
 But they were wrong — I stood the test, 
 
 I left tbem to their messes, 
 And wbile they feasted on the best, 
 
 /dined on water-cresses. 
 
 12. * 
 
 At last a sickness seiz'd on me, 
 
 They said it came from fasting — 
 I don't know what its cause might be, 
 
 'Twas very long in lasting. 
 They put me in my narrow bed, \ 
 
 And wept, but that was silly. 
 Because they thought that I was dead, 
 
 I felt so wondrous chilly. 
 
 13. 
 
 At last a fat and florid monk. 
 
 The j oiliest of friars, 
 Whose nose proclaim' d the stuft' he drunk, 
 
 (IIow rare are noses liars !) 
 Cried out, " Why, holy brothers, why. 
 
 He isn't dead or dying. 
 You shoiddn't stand, and stare, and cry. 
 
 Instead of cordials trying." 
 
 \
 
 12 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAR. 
 
 14. 
 
 f« *' Here, stand aside !" witli that he felt, 
 As quick as thought, or quicker, 
 ' For what he had, and from his belt 
 Produced a flask of liquor. 
 He placed it to my clay-cold lip, 
 
 Alas ! that fatal bottle ! 
 The liquor flow'd, and sip by sip, 
 It gurgled down my throttle. 
 
 15. 
 
 I cannot venture to define. 
 
 The exquisite sensations. 
 Or tell the raptures that were mine. 
 
 Imbibing those potations. 
 I felt — I don't know how I felt — 
 
 I've no description handy ; 
 But how it tasted ! how it smelt ! 
 
 That best of cognac brandy. 
 
 16. 
 
 'Twas done ; the liquor seem'd to fly. 
 The fat monk look'd astonish' d. 
 
 And said, " My eye !" till some one by 
 His levity admonish' d. 
 
 It cured me though — or help'd to cure- 
 Thenceforth my languid fever, 
 
 Found brandy ever the most sure, 
 * Most safe and swift reliever.
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAR. 13 
 
 17. 
 
 I tippled oft, but all alone, 
 
 A solitary sopper, 
 I didn't dare a taste to own, 
 
 In abbots so improper. 
 Or, if at times, I sbared my glass, 
 
 It was wben I bethought me 
 Of him whose ready flask, alas ! 
 
 The wicked taste had taught me. 
 
 18. 
 
 He'd drink from morning until niglit, 
 
 Erom matin until vesper, 
 And never bring our deeds to light, 
 
 By e'en a single whisper. 
 But, ah ! at last they found me out, 
 
 For sin can't hide for ever, 
 Discovery must come about, 
 
 Be sinners e'er so clever. 
 
 19. 
 
 One day the monks had sought my cell, 
 
 About some convent matter, 
 I told them that I wasn't well, 
 
 And bid them cease their clatter. 
 But still they batter' d at my door, 
 
 All asking for admission, 
 "When in a tipsy rage I swore, 
 
 I'd pitch them to — perdition ! 
 
 /
 
 l-l THE OnOST OF TUE BLACK EEIAE. 
 
 20. 
 
 f They broke the lock, they forced the door, 
 I 'Twas clear what they suspected, 
 
 And helpless, stretch' d upon the floor. 
 
 Their abbot lay detected ! 
 And he who taught me first — the wretch — 
 
 Tlie fatal drink to use — he 
 Cried out, " Oh dear ! what shall I fetch ? 
 I fear his lordship's boosy." 
 
 ! 21. 
 
 They turn'd me out — at least I fled — 
 
 My pockets first well filling. 
 And then, oh ! what a life I led, 
 
 From moria till midnight swilling ! 
 'Twas one incessant wicked round 
 
 Of riot and of revel. 
 And now I'm dead — why, underground, 
 
 I tipple with the ! 
 
 And the ghost, as he named the unprintable word, 
 Laugh'd in tones the most hollow that ever were heard, 
 And he toss'd off" his liquor, a tumbler full drinking 
 Unmix' d, without choking, or coughing, or winking. 
 Then filling another one up to the brim. 
 He smiled with a ghastly smile and grim. 
 
 And he cried to his host 
 
 " I'll give you a toast, 
 A friend whose acquaintance I'm proud to boast.
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK ITEIAU. 15 
 
 So fill up your tumbler, my hearty old brick, 
 
 And hip ! hip ! hurrah ! to the health of Old Nick !" 
 
 He drain' d the glass as they stared in wonder, 
 
 And just as he finish' d, a peal of thunder 
 
 Eattled and rumbled, and shook them all 
 
 As if the old house were about to fall ; 
 
 And Mynheer and his frow they trembled with " funk," 
 
 But the pale-faced, red-nosed, ghostly monk, 
 
 Laughed out, " Ha ! ha ! bravo / bravo / 
 
 The old one's returning thanks below !" 
 
 Oh dear ! oh dear ! what a terrible lot, 
 
 To be face to face with a ghostly sot, 
 
 Who drinks your liquor, the best you've got, 
 
 And frightens you like — I don't know what ; 
 
 WhilfiJie-teUs yott- the wicked deeds he has done, 
 
 And appears to consider it excellent fim 
 
 To boast of his terms with the Evil One ! 
 
 Again and again. 
 
 In fear and in pain, 
 His tumbler of liquor they see him drain, 
 
 Till the whole supply 
 
 Is made to fly — 
 A goodly quart of Schiedam drunk dry ! 
 
 Slowly down his eyelids close, 
 
 Like a mortal's iii repose ; 
 
 But who'd venture to suppose 
 
 A ghost with such like wants as those !
 
 16 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAB. 
 
 One by one his arms drop down, 
 nesting on liis jet-black gown ; 
 One by one his legs extend 
 Out beyond his cassock's end. 
 
 Gently back reclines his head, 
 Upwards points his nose of red ; 
 Opens wide his mouth, and shows 
 Tongue and teeth in double rows. 
 
 Listen to the sounds so hollow, 
 Eising from his ghostly swallow ! 
 Listen to the wind that blows 
 Harshly through his ghostly nose, 
 Like the distant thunder roaring — 
 By Jove ! the ghost's asleep and snoring ! 
 
 At length the good couple, with horror half froze, 
 
 Creep out of the room on the tips of their toes. 
 
 And grope down the stairs, though they shiver and 
 
 shake 
 Lest the noise that their steps in the corridors make 
 Should waken their visitor ! Slowly they gain 
 The doorway, and slowly they draw back the chain. 
 Then open the door, and then both rushing out, 
 "Help! Murder! Police!" they both lustily shout. 
 
 Open fly Avindows, and open fly doors. 
 Out rush the people by dozens, by scores,
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAE. 17 
 
 Women and children and babies in arms — 
 Always the first in the thick of alarms, — 
 Old men and young men, and young women too, 
 And small dirty boys who have nothing to do ; 
 Eeople of all sorts ; save those that you seek — 
 Of emtrse no police, not the sign of a " beak." 
 
 And ev'ry one asks, " "What the deuce does it mean ?" 
 And ev'ry one's told that a ghost has been seen ! 
 And women cry " Grracious ! " and " Goodness ! w'here 
 
 is it ? 
 And where did it come from ? and whom did it visit ? ' 
 And the men don't believe it, at least so they say, 
 But are rather inclined to keep out of its way ; 
 While the small dirty boys who've got nothing to do, 
 Cry " Crikey !" and look most alarmingly blue. 
 
 Then some with more courage — a very small band — 
 And each wdth a poker or tongs in his hand, 
 And each clinging close to his neighbour before, 
 Gro all in a heap to the haunted house door ; 
 And then, step by step, as they climb up the stairs, 
 They hear the loud snoring, which pretty well scares 
 All their small stock of " pluck," but they still per- 
 severe 
 In spite of their growing sensation of fear ! 
 
 They reach to the chamber ; the doors open wide ! 
 The hinder ones push on the foremost inside ! 
 

 
 18 THE GHOST OF TUE BLACK FKIAE. 
 
 And there by the table — yes, safe enough, there 
 
 Is the ghost of the friar asleep in the chair ! 
 
 They mutter their pray'rs, and they hold very tight 
 
 Their pokers and tongs, for they are in a fright ! 
 
 But the smallest among them, though largest in pluck. 
 
 As if by a bright idea suddenly struck, 
 
 Makes a dash with his tongs, with a jump and a shout, 
 
 And catches the sleepy ghost fast by the snout ! 
 
 Few words suffice to tell the rest : — 
 
 His ghostship squeak' d, and then confess' d 
 
 He was n't dead, but all he'd done 
 
 Had only been " a bit of fun !" 
 
 In short he own'd, though very drunk, 
 
 He wasn't either ghost or monk ! 
 
 Which satisfied them all, and eased them 
 
 Of all their fears, and rather pleased them — 
 
 Except poor Yan der SchmeUar, who 
 
 Could not forget 'twas sadly true 
 
 The ghost had drunk his best Schiedam — 
 
 " Mein Gott ! the best in Amsterdam ! " 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 To those who have never enjoy'd the delight 
 Of a call from the regions of spirits by night. 
 But who, nevertheless, may have some inclination 
 To witness a genuine " manifestation"
 
 THE GHOST OF THE BLACK FEIAE. 19 
 
 Of such non-substantials, I venture to hint, — * ?| 
 
 And they can't doubt the truth of a word that Jprint, — \ 
 They may find what they seek, at the cost of a crown. 
 For lately the ghosts have got lodgings in town ! 
 It isn't my duty to indicate where. 
 But somewhere near Portman or Manchester Square ; 
 And while mt/ ghost had got a bad habit of napping, 
 These ghosts at the West End are given to " rapping ! " 
 But I recommend much ere they part with their 
 
 "rhino," 
 To try a more simple expedient that I know, 
 For seeing a ghost : — 'tis to go to the place 
 Which the national paintings are hung up to grace, 
 And in some of the scraped, scratch' d, "cleau'd" 
 
 canvas that's there, 
 See the ghosts of the glorious pictures that were ! 
 But for my part, I look on all spii'its as sham. 
 Save the spirits I've faith in, like that of Schiedam ! 
 
 c li
 
 20 
 
 THE ARAB MAIDEN. 
 
 a ILcgcntf oC t\)t Ctusatijs. 
 
 HuzzAH for the glorious days of old, 
 
 AVhen each was priest, or a warrior bold, 
 
 AVhen princes and peasants, the serf and his lord, 
 
 Were alike of one calling — true sons of the sword ! 
 
 AVhen a fight was the business and pastime of life, 
 
 And the pleasantest times were the moments of strife. 
 
 AVhenthe thickest-skull' d baron, the toughest-skiun'd 
 
 knight 
 AVere the envied of men and the ladies' delight. 
 "When the fist that could handle the weightiest axe, 
 AVield the biggest of swords, deal the hardest of whacks. 
 Was of far more account than the skilfulest hand 
 That now grasps a quill at the Muses' command. 
 And, running a tilt, draws — not blood to affright — 
 But a tear of compassion or smile of delight ! 
 When Churchmen and Bishops led troops to the war, 
 Changed their croziers for clubs and broke heads by 
 
 the score :
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEN. 21 
 
 Wlien the Pope bless' d whole armies preparing for 
 
 action, 
 To the blood-seelcing gentry's intense satisfaction, 
 "Who'd the firmest convictions 
 Those same benedictions 
 (Albeit for money his Holiness barter' d 'em) 
 "Would booh them quite safely for conquest or 
 martyrdom. 
 
 "What a noble idea ! how sublime and how grand 
 To gird on your sword at the Church's command, 
 And sell off your house and your " sticks" and your 
 
 land 
 'For gold to procure a respectable band 
 Of followers and henchmen of ev'ry degree — 
 All well-sinew' d rascals and armed cap-a-pie — 
 And three or four chargers, and two suits of steel 
 
 With devices inlaid, 
 
 And most probably made 
 By some smith of Damascus, or p'rhaps of Castile — 
 (For in those days ive couldn't compete with such 
 
 " codgers," 
 As we hadn't Lund, IJnderwood, Mechi, or Rogers) — 
 And then to start off by the Overland E-oute, 
 Tor the "land of romance " — and of rascals to boot — ■ 
 Intent on blood, rapine, and butchery dealing, 
 Eor love of religion and Christian-like feeling. — 
 In fact to fulfil your most valorous vow 
 By taking your part in a glorious row —
 
 22 THE AEAB MAIDEST. 
 
 A war tliey call " holy " — crusade, as some term it — 
 That splendid delusion of Peter the Hermit ! 
 
 Sir Eaymond sits in his lonely tent, 
 
 His gaze on tlie floor of it firmly bent, 
 
 And looking uncommonly savage and grim, 
 
 "With his hair and his beard in such shocking bad trim, 
 
 It is painfully clear that he hasn't a notion 
 
 Of Eowland's Macassar or Oldridge's Lotion. 
 
 He 's pitched aside armour and jerkin of leather. 
 
 Because it's the closest and hottest of weather. 
 
 He's dress'd in a loose kind of garment — a gown 
 
 Of some flimsy white fabric, which just reaches down 
 
 To his knees, and displays — 'pon my soul it's quite 
 
 shocking — 
 His legs without trousers, boots, shoes, sock, or stocking. 
 By the cut of his face, and the keen, stealthy glance 
 Of his eye, as it restlessly takes you askance. 
 You're disposed to opine that the thinly-clad knight 
 Is not quite at his ease — though, of course, you've no 
 
 right 
 To decide on the instant the serious question, 
 " Is his conscience afilicted, or is his digestion ? " 
 
 'Mid all her sons that Albion sent — 
 
 In sooth, a goodly armament — 
 
 To battle in the Paynim lands. 
 
 And win Christ's tomb from Paynim hands ;
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEK. 23 
 
 To plant the Cross upon the sod 
 
 "Where He, who hung upon it, trod ; 
 
 To chase the False One's followers forth. 
 
 And with the hordes from Christian north 
 
 People the sunny southern climes — 
 
 Too long th' abode of Moslem crimes — 
 
 ']VIid all those heroes — verily 
 
 The flower of English chivalry, 
 
 "Was none more brave, more proud, moro famed 
 
 For deeds of valour — none more named 
 
 In minstrel's lay or warrior's tale — 
 
 Than Eaymond, knight of Altondale ! 
 
 Tet, truth to say, men loved him not ; 
 Upon his fame some stain, some blot, 
 Men dared not name, still darkly hung, 
 And o'er his ev'ry deed it flung 
 Its fatal blast — till at the sound 
 Of Raymond's name, on all aroimd. 
 In ev'ry glance there stood reveal' d 
 Mistrust, or hate but half conceal' d. 
 'Twas said that he had once a bride 
 Fairer than all the sex beside, 
 And Raymond lov'd her with such love 
 As saints evince for God above — 
 Passion so deep, it seem'd to be 
 A love too like idolatry. 
 
 And then it changed — and in its stead 
 Came deadly hate, and jealous dread
 
 24 THE AEAB MAIDEN. 
 
 Lest the fond heart that he could spurn 
 For sympathy should elsewhere turn. 
 And then his bride was no more seen ; 
 
 And Raymond's hearth was desolate — 
 But none save Raymond's self, I ween, 
 
 Could tell the tale of Edith's fate ! 
 
 It w'as certainly odd ; men would whisper and sneer, 
 And the boldest would venture to say it" looked queer ;" 
 "While — to make matters short — the opinion was rife 
 That somehow Sir Eaymond had scragg'd his young 
 
 wife — 
 Taat he'd "burk'd" her, or smother'd her — hard- 
 hearted fellow ! 
 Just as poor Desdemona was served by Othello — 
 Or else that he'd flung her to drown in a well, or 
 Brick' d her up close in a vault or a cellar. 
 
 But there isn't a doubt 
 
 That murder ivill " out " 
 In spite of the efforts folks make to conceal it ; 
 
 And so it got wind 
 
 How Sir Raymond had sinn'd, 
 Though there was n't a witness alive to reveal it. 
 We've all heard of bogies, and spirits, and sprites, 
 And ghosts and hobgoblins that walk out of nights, 
 Dress'd in very white sheets of the thinnest material. 
 And their eyeballs alight with a kind of ethereal 
 riame of blue fire, like a bowl of snap-dragon, 
 Or the last grand " flare-up " which the managers tag on
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEK. 25 
 
 To a dubious spectacle — hoping to raise 
 
 A round of applause for three-penn'orth of blaze ! 
 
 But 'twas not in such guise 
 That appear' d to the eyes 
 
 Of Sir Eaymond the bride he had murder'd so fear- 
 fully- 
 Each day to his side 
 She would stealthily glide 
 
 And gaze on him calmly and gently and tearfully. 
 And the brave man would shake, 
 And woidd quiver and quake, 
 
 And strive to avoid the mild eyes of the slain one ; 
 But tm-n as he might 
 She was ever in sight — 
 
 Each effort to shut out her glance was a vain one. 
 
 And such is aye the sinner's doom — 
 Nor morning's light, nor midnight's gloom, 
 Shall ever from his vision hide 
 The spectre Conscience by his side ! 
 
 AVhat an exquisite thing is a beautiful eye ! 
 
 Or a pair of them rather — and here, by the by, 
 
 I woidd beg to remark that it's highly absurd 
 
 The habit of using the singular word. 
 
 " An eye "—or "a foot "—or "a leg "—or " an arm"— 
 
 As if any one ever discover' d a charm
 
 26 THE AEAB MAIDEK. 
 
 In one of audi things, wlilch, in simple reality, 
 To possess ant/ cliann must exist in duality. 
 AVhat exquisite things then are beautiful eyes ! 
 Dark, deep, liquid orbs, in whose lustre there lies 
 "Whole volumes of poetry, passion, and feeling. 
 Such stores of heart-learning and language revealing 
 To one who will read in their dangerous pages, 
 Things wholly unknown and undreamt of by sages — 
 Poor mole-eyed old book-worms, contented to think 
 That their musty old volumes of parchment and ink 
 Are the sole " black and white " wherein knowledge is 
 
 writ : 
 Little dream they of all the bright fancies that flit 
 Through the brain of the lover, who blushes and sighs 
 Divining deep truths from his mistress's eyes ! 
 
 Well — for beautiful eyes and a beautiful nose, 
 And for beautiful hair and for beautiful rows 
 Of pearly white teeth, and for beautiful arms — 
 For a conglomeration of beautiful charms, 
 Erom the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, 
 (And these last, by the way, were remarkably neat) 
 I 'd back little Zillah — the daughter of some one 
 Whose name I can't spell, for it is such a rwn one. 
 
 And yet pretty Zillah was scarcely so mild 
 
 Or so gentle in look as a lamb or a child : 
 
 She'd a strong dash of spirit— a somethingj'te/'e 
 
 In her glance, in her walk, her address, and her air —
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEN. 27 
 
 A touch of the tigress, with much of the dove — 
 A creature to dread, and yet still more to love 
 With devotion or madness — which e'er you prefer — 
 They're synonymous terms dans les affaires du cceur. 
 
 And poor little Zillah's a bird in a cage ! 
 Alas ! wicked men, in the wars that you wage 
 The fair sex of no more account in your eyes is 
 Than so many living and saleable prizes ! 
 
 But the caged bird will sing, though a captive it be — 
 Less blithely, perchance, than its mates that are free — 
 Still it pours forth its melody — man cannot chain 
 Its music, though dungeons may sadden the strain. 
 
 Mourn, Arabs, mourn — 
 The Frank hath borne, 
 
 "With the spoils of conquest laden, 
 From the desert plain 
 "Where her kindred reign. 
 
 The high-born Arab Maiden. 
 
 Weep, Arabs, weep — 
 The Frank shall keep 
 
 Captive, his tents to fade in ; 
 And the Frank shall name, 
 As a thing of shame. 
 
 The free-born Arab Maiden,
 
 28 THE ARAB MAIDEN. 
 
 3. 
 
 Arm, Arabs, arm ! 
 
 Let vain alarm 
 Each Arab breast be laid in : 
 
 By Allah's name 
 
 Tour vows proclaim 
 To free the Arab Maiden. 
 
 4. 
 
 Rise, Arabs, rise ! 
 
 Let your battle-cries, 
 Prom the Dead Sea's shores to Aden, 
 
 Resound on high — 
 
 And the Frank shall die 
 By the hand of the Arab Maiden ! 
 
 Thus poor Zillah sung : — ye, who smile at her lay 
 For its want of refinement, remember, I pray. 
 She was born in the Desert — she'd never been taught 
 To sing or spin verses — her airs she had caught 
 From the minstrels who stray'd through the land of 
 
 her birth. 
 And I haven't the slightest conception on earth 
 Who had written the words — they had certainl}^ none 
 Of the fire of Fitzball or the pathos of Bunn ! 
 
 Sir B-aymond hies to his captive's cell — 
 And here, by the way, I omitted to tell
 
 THE AKAB MAIDEN. 29 
 
 That Zillali was his by the honours of war ; 
 For he'd carried her oiF, some weeks before, 
 As his sbare of the booty, in some case of sacking 
 "Where the Christians had given the Arabs a 
 "whacking." 
 
 Before the Arab Maiden kneels 
 The Christian knight — for now he feels 
 Himself more captive to her charms 
 Than she to his victorious arras 
 
 And, as he loieels, be vows, implores, 
 And in her ear, with passion pom's 
 His tale of love — his deep devotion — 
 With ev'ry sort of fond emotion 
 Wbich ev'ry lover's ingenuity 
 Invents in wildest incongruity. 
 
 Calm and unmoved the Maiden hears 
 His glowing tale of hopes and fears : 
 No look, responsive, lights her eyes 
 In answer to those " honied lies :" 
 Each feature rigid, fix'd, and cold 
 As sculptur'd marble — nothing told 
 The fierce, dark passion, well-represt, 
 That smoulder'd in the Captive's breast. 
 
 Ah ! could the Christian then have traced 
 The deadly purpose Im-king there — 
 
 Ten thousand battle-fields were faced 
 More safely than yon fragile fair !
 
 30 THE AEAB MAIDEN. 
 
 It's a liorrible fix, when you're "pitcliing it strong" 
 To a pretty young girl, and you're swearing how long 
 And how deeply you've loved, and admired, and adored 
 
 her — 
 To find that your vows have done nothing but bored 
 
 her! 
 To see her sit looking as cool as a quaker 
 Unmoved by the spirit — you mutter " deuce take her ; " 
 You wish you were somewhere — you don't care a rap 
 Where it is — you're a fool, you're a " spoon," you're a 
 
 "sap"— 
 Tou've mistaken your game — go, and look in your 
 
 glass. 
 And then write yourself down an egregious ass ! 
 
 Sir Raymond, however, who saw the mistake 
 In the course that his vanity led him to take, 
 Now threaten' d the rack and the dungeon — a fashion 
 In vogue among tyrants to raise la helle passion. 
 
 How exquisitely calm the smile 
 That curls the Maiden's lips awhile — 
 How perfect, too, the cold disdain 
 That glances from her eyes ! — again 
 'Tis past — and on her matchless face 
 No transient passion leaves its trace. 
 These words are all that meet the ear — 
 " The Arab Maiden knows not fear !"
 
 THE AliAB MAIDEN. 31 
 
 One bound — and Eaymond's Land liatli caught 
 
 The Maiden's wrist — when, quick as thought, 
 
 A tiuy dagger whirls in air. 
 
 Grasp' d by her ready hand : but ere 
 
 'Tis plunged iu Eaymond's heart, a cry 
 
 Bursts from his lips of agony ; 
 
 And heavily he falls to earth, 
 
 Unstruck by hand of mortal birth ! 
 
 " Oh, woman, in thine hours of ease 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please — 
 "When pain and suffering rack the brow, 
 A ministering angel thou ! " 
 Thus sings a poet, — p'raps he's right ; 
 But /'ve not found the women quite 
 So hard to please as he appears 
 To think the charming little dears. 
 Perchance, poor man, he'd got a wife 
 "Who led him an unquiet life, 
 "With milliners' extensive bills — 
 Those worst of matrimonial ills. 
 And when he ventured to remonstrate, 
 She'd mathematic'ly demonstrate, 
 " There never was, she did believe, 
 A woman since the days of Eve 
 (And site, poor thing, you must confess, 
 Had very little need of dress)
 
 32 THE ARAB MAIDEN". 
 
 Whose wardrobe was so very small 
 As hers — what her expensive call! — 
 She'd only twenty gowns in all." 
 
 Or else if he, to make hia peace, 
 Presented her some pretty piece 
 Of dress — a bonnet — or a trinket — 
 Fondly imagining she'd think it 
 A perfect beauty — she'd suggest 
 " The quality was not the best — 
 'Twas very nice, but to her mind 
 The taste was not the most refined." 
 
 And, 'mid such little scenes as these, 
 
 He wrote — " uncertain" — " hard to please." 
 
 Sir Eaymond is tossing about in his bed, 
 
 "With pains in his bones, and a pain in his head : 
 
 He's been cupp'd, and been physick'd, and blister'd, 
 
 and bled, 
 But, in spite of the doctor, he isn't quite dead. 
 
 By the side of his couch sits a raven-hair'd maid. 
 In the most approved Mussulman fashion array'd. 
 Except that she hasn't a veil on her face — 
 Tant mieux for the lover of beauty and grace. 
 And she watches him tenderly, striving to guess in 
 Each gesture some symptom her leechcraft may lessen.
 
 THE AEAB MAIDEN". 33 
 
 In the glance of ber eye 
 Ton may clearly descry 
 How true and bow deep 
 Are tbe passions that sleep 
 In her soft, heaving breast — 
 How, on yonder couch rest 
 All her thoughts, all her cares, all her hopes, all her 
 fears, 
 
 For a future of joy, or a life-time of tears ! 
 
 But though she watch'd him day by day, 
 Unconsciously Sir Eaymond lay, 
 Stricken so sore in nerves and brain, 
 'Twas fear'd he ne'er would rise aijain ! 
 
 After many a roving year, 
 
 How sweet it is to see 
 Old England's chalky hills appear 
 
 Above the heaving sea. 
 
 After coming back from France, 
 
 And roaming Europe over, 
 How charming is the first slight glance 
 
 At Shakspeare's Cliff and Dover. 
 
 After many a meagre meal 
 
 On "junk" and doubtful water, 
 
 How pleasantly sweet visions steal 
 Of British beef and porter ! 
 
 D
 
 34 TUE ARAB MAIDEN, 
 
 Wlietber any sucli charming reflections as these, 
 About Dover and porter, and cities and trees, 
 Cross'd the brain of Sir Eaymond, as he cross'd the seas, 
 And came back to our land in a smart south-east breeze, 
 Is a thing I can't tell — I cau only relate 
 What the best and most truthful of chronicles state — 
 That the waves were a home he did not like to be on 
 "When there chanced to be rather a riotous sea on ; 
 In fact, they declared that the " dark -heaving" ocean 
 Produced in his "breast" a dark-heaving commotion, 
 And made him pay many a visit to "leeward," 
 And he would have called out for pale brandy and 
 
 "steward;" 
 But in those days — a fact to be deeply lamented — 
 No stewards or pale cognac had yet been invented. 
 
 At length there's rejoicing throughout his domain, 
 Por Sir Raymond's restored to his people again. 
 And bonfires are lighted, and oxen are roasted, 
 And by "gustative" legends it's currently boasted, 
 That the ale and the mead which flow'd forth far and 
 
 near, 
 "Were enough to have put the whole land " under 
 
 beer"— 
 'Twould have fill'd a large lake and have floated large 
 
 boats, 
 If it had n't been damm'd by the tenantry's throats. 
 
 And soon men found it passing strange 
 To mark the very wondrous change
 
 THE ABA.B MAIDEX. 35 
 
 In all Sir Raymond's looks and bearing. 
 No more a care-worn visage wearing. 
 He pass'd his time in mirth and jollity, 
 With people of such doubtful quality, 
 As guzzling priests and tippling squires. 
 And noisy barons, knights of shires, 
 And unwash'd monks and greasy friars — 
 All fawning flatterers and liars ! 
 
 It was whisper' d Sir Raymond had wedded once more 
 Some dark-visaged damsel on Moslemite shore ; 
 But if ever the subject was mention' d, 'tis said 
 His henchman replied with a shake of the head, 
 And bade the rash speaker be silent, for fear 
 He should shortly taste something more potent than 
 
 beer — 
 An expression that sounded uncommonly queer. 
 And seem'd to admit of no clear explanation. 
 Save an arsenic draught, or a "prussic" potation. 
 
 In Raymond's hall the torches blaze, 
 
 'Tis one of Raymond's festive days : 
 
 The boai'd is spread with goodly fare, 
 
 And many a massive bench and chair 
 
 Of dai'k old oak is occupied 
 
 By merry rev'llers, side by side 
 
 With sunburnt warriors — men whose hands 
 
 Have slain the foe in distant lauds. 
 
 And carved their fame, with well-hack' d blades. 
 
 As heroes of the great Crusades.
 
 36 THE AEAB MAIDEN". 
 
 And many a jolly, shaven priest 
 Shares in the revels of the feast ; 
 And down his very rev'rend throttle 
 Pours forth, from many a well-fill' d bottle, 
 The choicest produce of the vine ; — 
 Show me a better judge of wine 
 Than yon fat shaveling whom you see 
 Draining his bowl of Burgundy. 
 
 They're all very merry — they're shouting andlaughing, 
 And telling queer stories, hobnobbing and quaflfing, 
 And trying to fancy they've banish'd dull care 
 To the confines oisome place — I must'nt say where — 
 Because in these days it's ill-bred, if not vicious, 
 To mention localities when they're " suspicious." 
 
 In the midst of their noise they perceived by the door 
 A youth whom not one of them noticed before — 
 'Twas a slightly -built fellow — good-looking — not fair — 
 But with lustrous black eyes and with flowing black 
 
 hair, 
 And a half-haughty style in his figure erect, 
 As though he 'd been used to command more respect 
 Than to bow or to serve — while his costume, at least, 
 Proclaim'd him at once a true child of the East. 
 
 Sir Eaymond look'd up, took a glance at the youth, 
 And seem'd to be scarcely at ease, in good truth ; 
 Yet seeing the lad held a sackbut, he said — 
 " Fair minstrel, we're sadly in need of thine aid :
 
 IKE AEAB MAIDEN. 37 
 
 Good music is scarce in our noisy abode — 
 
 Thy fellows, I ween, seldom travel our road. 
 
 So welcome, good youth, and when please thee it may. 
 
 Thou shalt lighten our hearts with thy pleasautest lay." 
 
 The youthful minstrel lowly bow'd, 
 But utter' d not one word aloud ; 
 Though some around him still averr'd 
 He mutter' d many an unknown word. 
 Then slowly moving up the hall, 
 'Mid silence deep his footsteps fall, 
 TiU, standing next Sir Raymond's seat, 
 As though the chieftain's glance to meet, 
 "With skilful hands he touch' d the strings, 
 And through the hall his ballad rings. 
 
 1. 
 
 A Christian knight on Paynim shores 
 
 To a captive maid is kneeling. 
 And into her listless ear he pours 
 
 His honied words — revealing 
 How strong the bonds o'er the victor's heart 
 
 By the charms of the maiden thrown ; 
 Though hers be the suppliant captive's part, 
 
 True conquest is still her own. 
 
 2. 
 
 But all unmoved the maiden hears 
 
 Th' impassion' d words of love: 
 Affection for none the maiden bears — 
 
 Save kindred and God above.
 
 38 THE ARAB MAIDEN. 
 
 He sues in vain, the victor knight ; 
 
 His breast with passion laden — 
 How gladly he'd barter fame and might, 
 
 For a smile from that simple maiden ! 
 
 3. 
 
 On the couch of sickness stricken low 
 
 The Christian knight is lying ; 
 Beside him watches the maiden now, 
 
 The sick man's wants supplying. 
 And oft in the sleepless nights he pass'd 
 
 He calls on the maiden's name, 
 Till the maiden's heart is touch'd at last, 
 
 And owns a responsive flame. 
 
 4. 
 
 Before a Christian altar stand 
 
 The knight and the captive maid ; 
 And round them group'd a goodly band 
 
 In bridal robes array 'd ; 
 And the mass is sung in pomp and pride. 
 
 And the marriage vows are plighted, 
 And the maiden is now a Christian bride. 
 
 To her conqueror united. 
 
 5. 
 
 The knight his course from the Paynim shore 
 To his island home hath taken — 
 
 And she, whom his lips to cherish swore. 
 By her craven lord's forsaken !
 
 THE AEAB MAIDETf. 39 
 
 Thy cheek is blanch' d — thy false heart beats — 
 Sir Knight, thou know'st my tale ! 
 
 Behold the maiden — thus she greets 
 E-aymond of Altondale ! 
 
 And ere the words had died away, 
 Stretch'd at her feet Sir Raymond lay: 
 The tiny dirk had done its part. 
 And pierced the false one to the heart — 
 The blood gushed forth — its crimson tide 
 Staining the sandals of his bride ! 
 
 I shan't pause to tell how all hearts were amazed 
 At this shocking catastrophe — how they upraised 
 The fast-bleeding knight, nor how quickly he died 
 By that sharp little dirk of his much-injured bride. 
 How they sent for the coroner, sat on his body, 
 And declared that they thought it remarkably odd he 
 Didn't know the young lady in spite of her dress. 
 Whose imprudence had made such a " case of distress." 
 
 However, one point was remarkably plain — 
 
 He'd never know any one living again : 
 
 It was clear that he 'd taken the longest of journeys — 
 
 His soul was the priest's — his aifairs the attorney's ! 
 
 They gave him a tomb with a handsome inscription, 
 Containing a very poetic description 
 Of all his great virtues — his kindness, humanity, 
 Uxorious love, and intense Christianity.
 
 4.0 THE ARAB MAIDEN. 
 
 In fact, tbougli alive he 'd been hated and feared, 
 In the grave they discovered how deeply endeared 
 He had been to his serfs, to his followers, and peers- 
 And " this monument faintly recorded their tears !" 
 
 And where is she — the guilty one, 
 Whose hand the fatal work had done ? 
 She who, in wrath, had made her own 
 Vengeance, which should he God's alone ? 
 She, whom the curse and crime of Cain 
 Had branded with their bloody stain ? 
 
 Deep in a cell, in yonder keep. 
 Below the stream, whose waters sweep 
 Around the grey old castle's walls. 
 Upon the list'ning ear there falls 
 The sound of accents sweet and low, 
 With much of music in the flow 
 Of words that seem like prayer or spell — 
 But what their purport none can tell. 
 
 Anon she sings some plaintive lay — 
 Then ceases ; — and her thoughts will stray 
 Far from the dungeon's walls, to roam 
 Unfetter' d to her desert home. 
 
 And then she thinks of him that's slain — 
 She watches by his couch again —
 
 THE ABAB MAIDEIf. 41 
 
 She hears him whispering her name, 
 And gushing forth her tears proclaim 
 How fondly she Jiacl loved, adored. 
 Her false, her base, her craven lord ! 
 
 And now her eyeballs flash with ire — 
 Each muscle strain' d — her brain on fire — 
 She grasps her heavy clanking chain 
 As 'twere a dirk — and strikes again. 
 
 Her strength has fled— the struggle's o'er — 
 She falls upon the dungeon floor — 
 The Arab Maiden breathes no more ! 
 Her chastisement to God belongs : — 
 Soft-hearted Pity mourns her wrongs ! 
 
 fHoral. 
 The first of my moral's clear as the day : — 
 If you live in a wicked and ill-behaved way. 
 In feasting and drinking and riot and strife, 
 In robbing your neighbour, in beating your wife, 
 Forsaking your home to go roaming and fighting, 
 And such like less moral pursuits than exciting — ■ 
 Unless in good time you repent, sir, and mend, 
 You'U infallibly come to some shocking bad end. 
 
 Next — take my advice,— though they're verydivertmg, 
 Don't wed a young lady that's given to flirting. 
 Be she fair as the day, be she mild as a dove, 
 A creature all beauty and softness and love —
 
 42 THE AEAB MAIDEN. 
 
 One who sings like an angel, writes verses as well 
 As Sapplio, or Norton, or poor L. E. L. : 
 Be she perfect in figure and matchless in face, 
 In carriage, in manner, in temper, in grace — 
 I doubt her whole mass of perfections availing 
 To compensate even that one little failing ; 
 For bards and philosophers, all alike tell us 
 In the strongest of terms — there's no rest for the 
 jealous ! 
 
 Above all things, remember that — live as you please — 
 Abroad in the world, or at home at your ease, 
 You carve your own lot in the world where we dwell ; 
 'Tis your care if your heart be your Eden or hell : 
 Or, to quote an old saw — you may safely rely on it — 
 As you make your own hed, you shall certainly lie on it.
 
 43 
 
 CORPORAL ROGERS'S YARN. 
 
 ■a Hcgcnti for tJjc ilHarincs. 
 
 'TwAS a moonlight night, 
 
 The breeze was light, 
 And the ship spread out her wings of white ; 
 
 And the waves of bine 
 
 Their spray upthrew 
 Aa over the surface the brave ship flew. 
 
 Yet it was n't quite night, for the sun had just set, 
 And a glimpse of his radiance was lingering yet 
 Away in the west, where he'd turned into bed, 
 Donning his nightcap of fiery red. 
 
 It was just half-past six, or a few minutes later, 
 And in latitude somewhere about the equator. 
 The ship was a frigate, a seventy-four, 
 The Bellerophon — such was the title she bore — 
 But which Jack, who considered it rather a tough one, 
 Despising the classics, pronounced Eelli-rough'un.
 
 44 COEPOKAL ROGEES S TAEN. 
 
 The Captain liad dined and was sipping his claret, 
 With the Doctor and Second-Lieutenant to share it — 
 The first " luff" was keeping his watch up above, 
 Thinking of nauticals less than of love — 
 Two or three Middies were lounging about 
 Chaffing the bo' swain and " drawing him out " — 
 And away on the forecastle deck were a few 
 Of jolly old " Salts" in their jackets of blue— 
 And here and there sprinkled among them was seen 
 A red-coated, stiff-collured, pipe-clayed marine. 
 
 Of the latter class Corporal Eogers was one — 
 A solemn-faced, steady-paced son of a gun — 
 And in using this term I must beg to disclaim 
 All intention of coarseness — I give but the name 
 Which belongs to all men of the musket like Eogers, 
 Wlio I've mentioned was one of the salt-water 
 " sodgers." 
 
 The Corporal's height was five-feet nine, 
 
 And his figure was reckoned remarkably fine 
 
 By envious pirates and raw recruits 
 
 As he stood in his regulation boots : 
 
 For his waist went in and his chest stuck out, 
 
 Creating a half suspicious doubt 
 
 Whether Corporal Eogers a stomach possess' d, 
 
 Or whether he was n't all legs and breast. 
 
 But the Corporal's shoulders were broad and square, 
 
 And he carried them quite a la militaire,
 
 COEPORAL EOGEES'S TAEIST. 45 
 
 And his face was long and hia hair was red, 
 
 And cropped exceedingly close to his head, 
 
 And his cheeks of whisker and beard were bare, 
 
 And his eyes had a steady unchanging stare, 
 
 And his heart was supposed to be as hard as a flint, or 
 
 As cold as a Highlander's legs in winter. 
 
 A different man was one Bill Swab ; 
 
 A short thick tar, with a small round "nob," 
 
 With a bristly crop on his cheeks and chin. 
 
 And no more waist than a rolling-pin ; 
 
 And legs that were capital legs to go 
 
 But certainly never were made for show. 
 
 For though they were active, free, and handy. 
 
 Bill's enemies might have pronounced them bandy. 
 
 But little cared Bill for their shape or beauty 
 
 So long as they carried him through his duty. 
 
 And Bill was a topman, the ship couldn't match him ; 
 
 There was n't a lad in the frigate could catch him 
 
 When bowling aloft, in a calm or a gale. 
 
 To shake out a reef or to shorten all sail. 
 
 " Now who's the chap has a yarn to spin ? 
 Here, Corporal, now, suppose yoit begin ; 
 Just give us the tale about Madame Che-fou, 
 Her as was so very fond of you, 
 Because your cheeks was so smooth and shiny 
 AVhen you and I was away in Chiney."
 
 46 CORrORAL EOGEES's TAEK. 
 
 Thus spoke Bill Swab to the stiff marine, 
 
 But the Corporal was n't so vert/ green 
 
 As not to see through the topman's " chaffing," 
 
 And how all the other Jack Tars were laughing. 
 
 And so the Corporal's curt reply 
 
 Was, he'd see him. "blessed'" if he'd comply. 
 
 " Well, well," says Bill, " then I'll tell you what, 
 
 It ain't a very glib tongue I 've got, 
 
 But if the Corporal there won^t teU 
 
 The tale himself, I may as well ; 
 
 So come alongside if you want to larn 
 
 What I calls the Corporal Eogers's yarn. 
 
 STfje Corporal's ©am. 
 
 In course you've heard of the Chinee war, 
 
 And how we thrash' d the pigtails — 
 And a precious queer set them fellows are, 
 
 With their bumble feet and their big nails ; 
 And the rummest lingo you ever heard. 
 
 And the rate they chatters it, too, 
 Tou could n't make out a single word 
 
 If you tried till all was blue. 
 
 I don't know what we fought about — 
 But that's neither here nor there — 
 
 For in course there can't be ne'er a doubt 
 That we 're always right and fair.
 
 COBPOEAL KOGEES'S TAEN. 47 
 
 'Twas sometliing about some smoking stuff 
 
 We sent 'em, and they refused it ; 
 It wasn't baccy — but good enougli — 
 
 And the pigtails always used it. 
 
 But the pigtails said they'd take no more 
 
 Because it made 'em silly ; 
 But that was gammon, and so we swore 
 
 "We'd force them, willy nilly, 
 To smoke whatever we sent, d'ye see ? 
 
 And fair enough, I'm thinking, 
 Tor didn't us always take their tea, 
 
 Though it's wishy-washy drinking ? 
 
 "Well, away we sailed for Chinee-land, 
 
 And a jolly lot we were ; 
 The fleet was n't over large or grand. 
 
 But for that we didn't care, 
 Por the pigtails ain't much hands to fight, 
 
 Though they 've tidy legs to run. 
 And whenever the enemy heaves in sight 
 
 They sails right off like fun. 
 
 Sometimes they fires a shot or two. 
 To make believe they're plucky, 
 
 But as soon as ever one's fired by t/ou, 
 They up and cuts their lucky.
 
 48 coEPOEAL Rogers's tarn. 
 
 And so it ain't like war at all, 
 
 It's more like hunting rats, 
 "Where the pigtails bolt, and squeak, and squall. 
 
 And we follows them up like cats. 
 
 "Well, the Corporal there, he saUed with rae — 
 
 Leastways I sailed with him — 
 And a better shipmate can't well be 
 
 For all he looks so grim. 
 There ain't a lad I've ever seen 
 
 That's handier or readier; 
 There ain't a seaman or marine 
 
 "Will fight more cool or steadier. 
 
 He ain't afraid of gale or gun, 
 
 Or both of them together, 
 And a red-coat often don't mind one, 
 
 But can't stand dirty weather. 
 But bless your heart, the Corporal there. 
 
 He ain't afraid a rap. 
 It's all the same, come foul or fair. 
 
 He's a reg'lar plucky chap. 
 
 If Corporal Rogers has a fault, 
 
 It's his being braced so tight ; 
 But then, you know, he ain't a " Salt," 
 
 And so it's p'r'aps all right.
 
 OOBPOEAI/ ROGEES'S TABTf. 49 
 
 At all events, he likes his grog, 
 
 And a lass, when she's a true one, 
 And so he is a jolly dog, 
 
 Though his jacket ain't a blue one. 
 
 But somehow I'm a sailing loose, 
 
 Not minding of my hel-m, 
 But these here yarns, they're just the deuce 
 
 "When a chap begins to tell'm. 
 They steers you here and steers you there, 
 
 To s'utherd, or to nor'ard. 
 To east'ard, west'ard, everywhere. 
 
 Except the right course — for'rard. 
 
 "Well, here I go, then, like a book ! 
 
 We batter' d many a town, 
 And many more we should have took, 
 
 But the pigtails burnt 'em down. 
 Por Chinee towns are built of wood, 
 
 And it's just a hundred pities 
 To see the timber, bad and good, 
 
 They waste in building cities. 
 
 I take it, timber, mates, was meant 
 For ships, and nothing more, 
 
 No more than gales and squalls is sent 
 Tor them as live on shore. 
 
 E
 
 50 CORPOEAL KOGEES'S TAEF. 
 
 And when the timber's used to make 
 The landsmen's towns, my notion 
 
 Is just this here, that what tliey take 
 Is robbing of the ocean. 
 
 One day the pigtails showed some fight, 
 
 And pretty strong they muster'd. 
 Though, in course, we weren't the men to fright, 
 
 For all they looked and bluster' d. 
 They blazed away, and so did we. 
 
 And we swore we'd change their notes, too. 
 As we pull'd towards shore on the Taller Sea, 
 
 Tor I was one of a boat's crew. 
 
 We pidled away, we reached the shore, 
 
 We jumped with a cheer on land. 
 And we fought, as we never fought before, 
 
 The pigtails hand to hand. 
 The fellows did n't fight so bad. 
 
 Though they hadn't got no gumption, 
 And to say that's just the thing we had 
 
 I hope ain't much presumption. 
 
 For gumption, mates, is next to pluck, 
 (The Captain calls it science,) 
 
 The thing to which I've always stuck, 
 And placed the most reliance.
 
 COBPOEAI. EO gees' S TAEIST. 51 
 
 And so the pigtails got confused, 
 
 And cut and screamed terrific — • 
 It warn't so much the force we used, 
 
 But we did it scientific. 
 
 The pigtails ran and we gave chase, 
 
 And we'd need of all our sail, 
 For when these chaps won't show their face, 
 
 'Tain't long you see their tail. 
 They can just run, such chaps as those 
 
 Ain't easy ones to follow, 
 I never see such bumble toes — 
 
 They beat a steamer hollow- 
 
 And so 'twas few enough we catched, 
 
 "When once they showed their starus, 
 Though some of us weren't easy matched. 
 
 In anything one larns 
 As British seamen — such, my mates, 
 
 As reefing, steering, gunning, 
 And broadsword fighting — anything, 
 
 But turning tail and running. 
 
 "We don't larn that — in course we don't — 
 
 "We fight, and we give quarter ; 
 But as for running, that we won't, 
 
 On land nor yet on water. 
 E 2
 
 52 COEPORAL EOGERS'S TAUN. 
 
 We may be beat at times, but p'r'aps 
 There isn't e'er a man here 
 
 That has been yet, for we're the chaps 
 That can sing " Rule Britanyer." 
 
 Hows'ever, mates, I said before, 
 
 And to say it's fair and right. 
 Just this one time in all the war 
 
 The pigtails did show fight. 
 And somehow, as they blazed away, 
 
 They managed now and then — 
 Though how they did it I can't say — 
 
 To hit us British men. 
 
 And some was wounded, some was dead, 
 
 Though most was safe and sound. 
 And some, 'twas very strangely said. 
 
 Was nowhere to be found. 
 The Corporal Eogers was in the list — 
 
 Not that of kUled and wounded — 
 But that of men that we somehow missed, 
 
 As the Corporal there we soon did. 
 
 So a party soon was sent to search 
 
 (The first-lieutenant sent us) 
 For our messmate as was in the lurch. 
 
 What they calls the " non inwenfus.^'
 
 COEPOEAL EOGERS'S YARN. 53 
 
 But high and low we searched in vain, 
 
 For we wished to see Mm riglited. 
 One thing at last was very plain — 
 
 The Corporal wasn't sighted. 
 
 And so we gave him up for dead, 
 
 And felt uncommon glum, 
 Though all of us, his shipmates, said 
 
 'Twas really very rum 
 Wherever he 'd contrived to stow 
 
 His body and his bones, 
 Supposing he'd been made to go 
 
 The course to Davy Jones. 
 
 Hows' ever, he was really gone, 
 
 The ship's crew couldn't find him, 
 And there wasn't e'er as good a one 
 
 'Mongst those he left behind him. 
 We said he was a heart of oak, 
 
 And we thought it such a pity 
 That the Corporal there had been bespoke 
 
 For storming of the city. 
 
 Lord ! if we'd only knovsTi the fact — 
 
 What ivas the Corp'ral's plight — 
 Our grief would very soon have tack'd, 
 
 And sailed right out of sight.
 
 54 COEPORAL EOGEES'S TARN. 
 
 The Corporal wasn't dead at all, 
 And wounded very little, 
 
 And TiadnH he the luck to fall 
 In a precious nice hos-pittal ? 
 
 You see the Corporal got a ball, 
 
 Which gave his pluck a damper, 
 And made the Corporal what I call 
 
 Not right in his top-hamper ; 
 He reeled a bit, and couldn't steer. 
 
 His head went spinning round, 
 He tried to stand — felt very queer— 
 
 And tumbled to the ground. 
 
 He can't just tell how long he lay, — 
 
 Because he lost his senses, — 
 (What women calls a faint-away. 
 
 Though often they're pretences.) 
 But when his daylights opened next, 
 
 He says — and I don't doubt him — 
 He felt a little bit perplexed 
 
 At what he saw about him. 
 
 For first he saw a she- Chinee 
 
 A-looking in his face. 
 And he wondered who the deuce was she- 
 
 And what was that same place.
 
 CORPORAL EOGERS'S TARN. 55 
 
 For he wasn't lying wliere lie fell, 
 
 But stretched upon a bed. 
 And in a reg'lar house as well, 
 
 With a shelter overhead. 
 
 The she- Chinee she gave a cry, 
 
 Though slie did it mild and soft, 
 As soon as ever the Corp'ral's eye 
 
 Showed he wasn't gone aloft; 
 And then— the Corp'ral needn't blush, 
 
 It's nothing very wicked 
 I'm going to tell — but, messmates, hush ! 
 
 Why then she kissed his thick head. 
 
 In course the Corporal thought this queer, 
 
 But his blushes didn't shock her, 
 So he cried, " Oh dear ! what place is here ? 
 
 Is it Davy Jones's locker ? " 
 But the she- Chinee she only laughed, 
 
 For want of knowing better, 
 And she really was a tidy craft. 
 
 And the Corp'ral don't forget her. 
 
 But, lord ! she couldn't talk a bit. 
 
 Except her crackjaw stuff, 
 And the Corp'ral says she chattered U 
 
 All day and night enough ;
 
 56 CORPOUAL EOGEKS'S TAEN. 
 
 Por women's tongues you can't well baulk - 
 It's a very well-known thing — though 
 
 Sometimes it's nothing else they talk 
 Except a foreign lingo. 
 
 So the Corporal he not knowing her's, 
 
 And she not knowing his'n, 
 The Corp'ral never his tongue he stirs. 
 
 But keeps his thoughts in prison ; 
 Till finding this a hardish matter, 
 
 The Corporal, thinks he, 
 " I '11 make her in ««y lingo chatter. 
 
 Or else I'll learn Chinee." 
 
 She tried to teach him hard enough. 
 
 But he couldn't even thank her — 
 The Chinee lingo was so tough 
 
 His tongue remained at anchor. 
 But when the Corporal took his turn, 
 
 And tried his hand at teaching. 
 The English warn't so hard to learn, 
 
 And the port not long in reaching. 
 
 And when the Corporal asked the lass. 
 Just chance-like, " Who are you ? " 
 
 She answers liim as bold as brass, 
 "My husband's name's Che-fou."
 
 COEPOKAL EOGEUS S TAEN. 
 
 And the Corporal then he gave a stare, 
 
 And he felt his blood all tingle, 
 For, you see, till then he warn't aware 
 
 As how she wasn't single. 
 
 And he says, with just a little sulk, 
 
 " This here 's a pretty mess : 
 It's true you picked me up a hulk 
 
 When I was in distress : 
 But you shouldn't have hid your colours thus- 
 
 It warn't the proper tack — 
 And won't there be a pretty fuss 
 
 When old Che-fou comes back!" 
 
 " Che-fou a fool — Che-fou not care — 
 
 Che-fou not man I love — 
 Che-fou not got red, pretty hair — 
 
 Che-fou' s head bare above. 
 You pretty face — you nice long nose, 
 
 Not flat like poor Chinee — 
 Ton shiny cheeks, you good long toes- 
 
 You just the man for me !" 
 
 In course the Corporal couldn't feci 
 Nohow but rayther flattered ; 
 
 Though it likewise puzzled him a deal 
 To know if Che-fou mattered —
 
 58 COEPOEAIi EO gees' S TAEN. 
 
 That is, if he'd a need to mind 
 
 At all about Che-fou, 
 Seeing he'd left his wife behind, 
 
 And gone where no one knew. 
 
 He warn't quite satisfied as yet, 
 
 His conscience wasn't easy, 
 And his temper, too, was apt to get 
 
 At times a trifle breezy. 
 Till one day thinking what he'd do- 
 
 What course he'd steer for next- 
 He jumps and cuts a caper too 
 
 At what he recollects. 
 
 "Ain't she a heathen ?— then it's clear 
 
 She can't be married right — 
 There ain't a single parson here 
 
 To tie a couple tight. 
 She ain't Che-fou' s no more than mine, 
 
 Nor yet this place they say's his — 
 For Victory's my right divine — 
 
 Che-fou may go to blazes !" 
 
 So after this — and very true 
 
 I think the Corporal's views was— 
 
 He thought no more about Che-fou 
 Until at last the news was —
 
 COEPOBAL BOGEHS'S TAEN. 59 
 
 Che-fou was coming back one night — 
 
 And sure enougli he came — 
 And our frigate also heav'd in sight 
 
 That day — the very same. 
 
 " Oh dear !" the female cries ; " Oh dear ! 
 
 Oh dear, what will become of us ? 
 Che-fou's half mad— oh lord, I fear 
 
 He'll go and murder sorae of us !" 
 Che-fou walked in — the female cried, 
 
 " Oh Corporal, he'll kill you ! " 
 The Corporal marches to his side, 
 
 And says, " Old buffer, will you ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is, Che-fou, 
 Just mind yourself, old codger, 
 
 Or it's shortish work I'll make of you, 
 For I'm a British sodger ! 
 
 This lady's going away with me, 
 
 And I'U make the chaplain christen her, 
 
 And as for you, my man, you see 
 m take you as. my prisoner." 
 
 Che-fou looked blue, and so would you 
 
 If you'd been in his place ; 
 But he saw that blusterin' wouldn't do, 
 
 So he pull'd a dismal face.
 
 00 COBPOliAL EOGERS'S YAEN. 
 
 And he tumbled on his marrow-bones, 
 And begg'd him not to be hard on 
 
 A poor Chinee, and with sighs and groans 
 He axed the Corporal's pardon. 
 
 So then the Corporal made amends, 
 
 And treated him quite hearty, 
 And Che-fou he sent for all his friends. 
 
 And made a jolly party. 
 And the Corporal kissed lier just once more, 
 
 And made Che-fou half boosy — 
 And then the Corporal left the shore. 
 
 And joined the " Arethusy." 
 
 Thus ended the "yarn," which I give you verbatim, 
 In the words of Bill Swab — the young ladies will hate 
 
 him 
 Tor coarseness I fear ; but the coarseness they ouglit 
 
 to call 
 Hather a form of expression that's nautical — 
 And I trust that Bill's words, as I covddn't well mend 
 
 them. 
 Have nothing, in meaning at least, to offend them. 
 
 And now still over tlie azure wave 
 Speeds onward the stately ship and brave ; 
 And the bell strikes " eiglit," and away they go. 
 Bill Swab and his mates to their " watch below,"
 
 CORPOEAL EOGEES'S TARN. 6L 
 
 And they sleep as men sleep wlio Lave no cares — 
 May all of our slumbers be light as theirs ! 
 
 Moral. 
 
 It's remarkably clear from this "yarn," or this song, 
 That the Corporal's deeds were decidedly wrong ; 
 But instead of refraining when seeing the evil, 
 He tried that sad subterfuge — cheating the Devil. 
 Now I'll give you a warning — a true golden maxim — 
 ('Twill keep a man straight when the same wish attacks 
 
 him) 
 And long, long may the words to your memory stick — 
 Ifs a dangerous gavie playing chess with Old Nick !
 
 62 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN.* 
 
 a JFairg ILcgcnti. 
 
 I. 
 
 'TwAS a long wbile ago — 
 
 Three ceut'ries or so — 
 I really can't tell you exactly the time, 
 For chronology's ladder I never could climb, 
 And dates look confoundedly awkward in rhyme : 
 But somewhere I think in the Eighth Harry's reign — 
 That monarch, whose like we shall ne'er see again ; 
 Eor in these modern days which we christen 
 
 "degenerate," 
 (ThankHeaven, we don't live in those that we venerate,) 
 For respectable kings it's considered improper 
 
 To lead very loose lives. 
 
 Marry six or eight wives, 
 And get rid of the old ones by means of a chopper. 
 To say nothing of keeping the church in a fright. 
 By robbing each abbot and friar of his right — 
 
 * The idea of this legend was suggested by Crofton Croker's 
 Irish ballad of "The Lord of Dunkerron."
 
 THE SPIEIT OF THE OCEAN. G3 
 
 Or seizing its lands on some pious pretence, or 
 
 In right of his title " Fidei Defensor : " 
 
 (Though what that faith was I by no means assert, 
 
 And I'm fearful, indeed, 
 
 That his majesty's creed 
 "Was shifted as oft as his majesty's shirt.) 
 
 Tet, of course, we all praise 
 
 Those glorious old days 
 When kings were so good and their realms so con- 
 tented : 
 
 While thumbscrews and racks, 
 
 The faggot and axe, 
 Taught the last new religion the king had invented. 
 
 But it isn't with him that I'd darken my page — 
 Sure a mightier man was alive in that age ! 
 In the county of Kerry his castle still stands. 
 But who shall e'er trace out the beautiful lauds, 
 Where ruled in his glory in those days of yore, 
 AVith retainers, and horses, and dogs by the score, 
 The Lord of Dunkerron, O'Sullivau More ? 
 
 This Lord of Dankerron, he hunted and fought. 
 
 He feasted and drank as a gentleman ought ; 
 
 His guns were the truest, his hounds the most keen, 
 
 His horses the swiftest the county had seen ; 
 
 His deeds were the bravest that minstrel e'er sung — 
 
 AU Erin, in fact, with his victories rung j
 
 64 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN". 
 
 While cbieftaiii and peasant, tlie prince and the priest, 
 The men of all stations, the highest, the least, 
 All flocked to his castle to revel and feast ; 
 
 And ev'iy one swore 
 
 That he never before 
 Had seen a man swallow such wliiskey " galore," 
 As the Lord of Dunkerron, O'SuUivan More. 
 And oft as he tippled some writer of rhymes 
 (Who'd been doomed to that trade, I've no doubt, for 
 
 his crimes) 
 Would sing him this song, in the Bacchanal strain. 
 Displaying more love of good liquor than brain : — 
 
 1. 
 
 Merry wine, while thy generous blood 
 
 Hath been shed at each reveller's feast, 
 Since he who came forth from the flood 
 
 First planted the vine in the East, 
 All ages have echoed thy fame, 
 
 All poets thy virtues have sung. 
 And paeans in praise of thy name 
 
 From the poles to earth's centre have rung. 
 
 •2. 
 
 The sweetest of lyrists of old, 
 
 Anacreon, worshipp'd thy shrine ; 
 And when even Love's praises he told. 
 
 The god that inspired him was Wine.
 
 THE SPIEIT OE THE OCEAN. 65 
 
 It nourish' tl the flame of his youth, 
 It warm'd the still blood of his age, 
 
 And in bright, glowing accents of truth 
 It spoke from his heart-stirring page. 
 
 3. 
 
 Let the saintly ascetic revile 
 
 The juice that might lay his heart bare — 
 He fears lest the sinful should smile 
 
 To see the dark spots that are there. 
 But he, through whose Grod-lighted soul 
 
 The foul stream of guile never ran, 
 He fears not the generous bowl 
 
 Which makes him but doubly a man. 
 
 4. 
 
 Be wine then the theme of my lays ; 
 
 Be wine then my friend while I live ; 
 And, dying, my last breath of praise 
 
 To thee, merry wine, will I give. 
 And oh, if one friend should deplore me 
 
 When the long sleep of death shall be mine, 
 Let him plant not the cypress-tree o'er me — 
 
 But only the glorious Vine ! 
 
 Well, well — no doubt 'tis very pleasant 
 To live for ever for the present ; 
 To take no thought about the morrow, 
 And not a frown from care to borrow ;
 
 66 THE SPIRIT OP THE OCEATS". 
 
 T' eujoy your sport from morn till niglit, 
 
 To go to bed aud snore till liglit ; 
 
 To ride good horses, eat good dinners, 
 
 And drink with other jolly sinners — 
 
 To do, in fact, whate'er you please, 
 
 And live a life of pleasant ease. 
 
 Yet somehow you find out you've pass'd 
 
 Each day exactly like the last. 
 
 You vote it stupid, dull, and slow, 
 
 Though why or how you never know, 
 
 Except that each thing seems to pall — 
 
 The hunting, eating, drinking — all. 
 In fact it's a truth which you find out at last, 
 You cannot for ever keep "going it fast" — 
 And whatever the pleasure, when right in the thick of it, 
 Somehow or other you're sure to grow sick of it. 
 
 So 0' Sullivan More 
 
 Eound out hunting " a bore" — 
 And wonder'd he ever had liked it before. 
 
 Thought the whiskey too strong. 
 
 Detested a song, 
 And sleeplessly toss'd about all the night long. 
 
 He'd given up drinking. 
 
 He'd taken to thinking. 
 And really almost to a scarecrow was sinking. 
 
 He ccas'd from all strife, 
 
 Led a peaceable life. 
 And suddenly fancied he wanted — a wife !
 
 
 The Spirit of the Ocean.— Pa^c 62.
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN. G7 
 
 Now it must be confest, 
 
 "When a man is first blest 
 Witb connubial wishes, it rather perplexes 
 
 His amorous mind, 
 
 If he happens to find 
 He knows not a house where the opposite ses is. 
 
 AVhat the deuce can ho do ? it's a regular "fix " — 
 Of that cruel jade Fortune the vilest of tricks — 
 All his plans, all his wishes are scatter'd in air, 
 And he's brought to a stand for the want of a " fair ! " 
 
 My friend, if you should ever be 
 In such a hobble — list to me. 
 Don't sit at home and sigh and mope, 
 And say you cannot see more hope 
 For you to marry than the Pope. 
 Sit down, and take up pen and ink, 
 And draw at once (don't stop to think) 
 A flatt'ring picture of your " phiz " — 
 Describe what you suppose it is — 
 Then talk about a " little cash," 
 As if you thought such trifles trash : 
 Hint that you're looking out " to find 
 Some fair one of congenial mind ; 
 And that, should such a creature chance 
 O'er that same paragraph to glance, 
 Perhaps she '11 kindly condescend 
 A line to your address to send, 
 
 p 2
 
 68 THE SPIEIT OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 And name (in confidence) a place 
 
 Where you may see her lovely face — 
 
 Et cetera" — sign it " Jones" or " Ghrimes," 
 
 And stick it in the " Sunday Times !" 
 
 So the Lord of Dunkerron, he sat down to write, 
 
 (By St. Patrick it was a most comical sight,) 
 
 He took up a pen and he dipp'd it in ink, 
 
 Eubb'd his nose, scratch' d his head, and attempted to 
 
 think. 
 "I have it," he cries — "yes, I have — no, I've not — 
 Let me see" — and he makes a terrific big blot ; 
 Dabs it up with his finger and soils half the page, 
 And seems half inclined to jump up in a rage : 
 Looks up to the roof as if that could assist. 
 And then suddenly writes in a very queer fist 
 As follows — " A young man of good expectations, 
 And with every blessing but female relations. 
 Is in want of a wife undeniably pretty, 
 But he don't care a fig if she 's stupid or witty : 
 And as h.e''s rather silent s}ie''s welcome to chatter — 
 Don't care about temper — and riches no matter. 
 As he really and truly proposes to wed, he 
 Would rather not have one that's married already. 
 Can't say that he's partial to widows, but yet 
 Don't doubt that some charming ones are to be 
 
 met. 
 So let each pretty woman — young widow or maid — 
 Who wants a good husband, and isn't afraid
 
 THE SPIEIT or THE OCEAN. G9 
 
 To own it, just send a few lines to Kenmare 
 To O'S. — the writer — wlio lives about there." 
 
 The deed was done — away he sent 
 
 This rather odd advertisement 
 
 To some old " Herald," " Times," or " Post," 
 
 Whose name the chronicler has lost. 
 
 It's true that many a man in prose says 
 
 There wern't sucli things at all in those days : 
 
 But then I scorn such heavy dogs, 
 
 Whose dull conception never jogs, 
 
 And only beg, dear reader, you 
 
 Will fancy all my tale is true. 
 
 And not expect the least apology 
 
 If slips occur in its chronology 
 
 And when it appear'd how the people did stare. 
 And ask " Who is O'S, that lives at Kenmare ?" 
 How young widows sigh'd, and how young maidens 
 
 smiled, 
 And how both of them many a moment beguiled 
 In joking and chatting at work or at tea 
 About him — and what a strange man he must be ! 
 
 And then they declared 
 
 They wonder'd he dared 
 
 To do such a thing — 
 
 It really would bring 
 
 Discredit, they said. 
 
 On the whole sex's head
 
 70 THE SriBIT or the 0CEA5". 
 
 If one widow or maid should be heard to express 
 The slightest desire to be " Mrsr O'S. 
 
 Yet the twopenny postman was heard to declare 
 Such a letter-bag never was seen at Kenmare, 
 Nor such a huge pile of small billets-doux in't, 
 As the day when that "impudent thing" was in print. 
 In fact he averr'd, and was ready to swear to it, 
 " Valentine's day worn't a thing to compare to it!" 
 And " O'S" himself, when the letters appear'd, 
 Look'd, as Jonathan has it, most awfully "skeer'd." 
 If he Jtad any wits 'twas sufficient to scare 'em — 
 And O'Sullivan More dreamt of Solomon's harem ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas a lovely night — not a sound was heard, 
 Not a breath o'er the slumb'ring ocean stirr'd. — 
 Not a wave or a ripple to ruffle the stream 
 Of silvery light from the moon's pale beam. 
 Each star was bright as the glance of love, 
 In the dark blue vault of heav'n above ; 
 Each cavern and rock on the shore below 
 Sparkled and shone \Yith a diamond glow. 
 
 All is silent around : — 
 
 Nay — list to that sound — 
 Hark, from cavern to cavern its echoes resound ! 
 
 And behold, from the shade 
 
 By yon precipice made. 
 Steps the form of a warrior richly array 'dl
 
 THE SPIRIT OP THE OCEAN. 71 
 
 "WTio is it thus waking when even the deep 
 
 In the silence of midnight seems hush'd into sleep ? 
 
 AYhen the wind and the billow have sunk into rest, 
 
 Like the lamb in the fold, or the babe at the breast ? 
 
 Who is it thus moodily paces the shore ? — 
 
 'Tis the Lord of Dunkerron, O' Sullivan More! 
 
 Long and earnestly looks he across the dark main 
 As if seeking some object — yet seeking in vain — 
 Not a speck meets his eye on its azure domain. 
 Then, weary with watching, he turns to depart 
 With gloom on his brow and with grief in his heart, 
 When slowly stealing on his ear, 
 Each moment nearer and more near, 
 A strain of didcet music swells 
 Soft as the sound of distant bells. 
 Yet mortal hand could never wake 
 Such sounds from lyre of earthly make ; 
 And were such voice to mortal given, 
 Cecilia's self would list from heaven. 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 Arise from your slumbers, ye maids of the deep — 
 The winds are all hush'd and the waves are asleep, 
 Come forth then, come forth at your mistress's call, 
 From pearl-studded cavern, from coral-built hall — 
 
 Naiads arise !
 
 72 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 2. 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 The May moon is keeping her vigil on high, 
 The stars peering forth from the dome of the sky, 
 Dull mortals are sleeping : — the earth and the sea 
 And the regions of air to the Spirits are free — 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 Come forth from the depths of your fathomless 
 
 home : 
 Come forth — to the regions of earth let us roam. 
 Let us gaze on the world as it slumbers above, 
 And sing, as we rise, to the Godhead of Love — 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 
 4. 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 Raise your voices on high — let each silvery note, 
 Borne up from the deep, through the universe 
 
 float ; 
 And the spirits of earth and of heaven ere long 
 Shall join in response to the Oceau-Nymphs' 
 
 song — 
 
 Naiads arise ! 
 
 Such was the burden of the strain 
 It ceased — and all was still again.
 
 THE SPIEIT OP THE OCEAN. 73 
 
 Then sudden there springs up a fountain of spray, 
 And the rays of the moon, as reflected they play, 
 Each tint of an exquisite rainbow display : 
 "While gently beneath it a wave seems to swell, 
 And slowly there rises a beautiful shell — 
 Within it reclines — aye, Dunkerron, thy brow 
 May well own the blush that suffuses it now. 
 He were colder than thou who could feel no emotion, 
 Yet gaze on the beautiful Spirit of Ocean ! 
 
 Faintly would human words express 
 That spirit's passing loveliness : 
 Vainly would poet seek to tell 
 How on her heaving bosom's swell 
 The golden tresses rose and fell. 
 Yainly would artist seek to trace 
 The lines of that angelic face ; 
 To paint that brow, or catch the hue 
 Of that soft eye's ethereal blue. 
 In vain would sculptor seek to mould 
 The limbs those filmy I'obes enfold ; 
 But vainer far were he, whose pen 
 Should strive to paint to fallen men 
 The look of spiritual grace 
 Which play'd for ever o'er her face, 
 Like some diviner beauty given 
 To mark her for a child of Heaven ! 
 
 Long, earnest, and fixed was 0' Sullivan's gaze. 
 
 Each thought and each feeling seem'd sunk in amaze —
 
 74 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 "Wlieu the beautiful spirit arose from lier rest, 
 Aud calmly tlie wondering chieftain address' d- 
 
 " Lord of Dunkerron, thou art here 
 Thine earthly destiny to hear ! 
 I know thy thoughts, thy wishes — all : 
 I know how prone thou art to fall 
 Below the glory of thy name, 
 "When urged by the unworthy flame 
 Thy headlong passions ever raise 
 To sear thee with its hellish blaze ! 
 But shall their influence e'er drown 
 The memory of thy sire's renown ? 
 Shall woman's smile or rev'ller's jest 
 Wither in thy degenerate breast 
 The recollection that thy race 
 From none of earth their lineage trace ; 
 But from those demigods of old, 
 Those heroes of immortal mould. 
 Whose deeds still live from acfe to affe — ■ 
 Tlie theme of many a deathless page ! 
 
 " Nay, nay — once more I see it now — 
 The pride of lineage on thy brow ! 
 Once more thou feel'st in every vein 
 The blood no meaner race must stain : 
 Once more, no mistress but thy sword. 
 Thou art again DunkeiTon's Lord ! 
 Oh, be thou ever thus — the same, 
 The hero worthy of thy name ;
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE OCEAK. 75 
 
 For 'tis decreed beyond control, 
 'Tis writ in the eternal roll 
 Of Fate, that never to tliy bed 
 Shall one of Adam's race be led, 
 Thy*bride to be, thy name to share— 
 Dunkerrou, no — by Him I swear, 
 Whose fiat gave Creation birth. 
 Thou shalt not wed a cJiild of earth ! " 
 
 She ceased— and there seem'd, as her words died away. 
 
 One moment a flush o'er her features to play ; 
 
 Her eyes, too, so earnest, so flashing before 
 
 When fixed on the chieftain, now sought him no more ; 
 
 But downcast their glance through the lashes' dark 
 
 shade. 
 Like the rays of the sun through a summer cloud, 
 
 stray' d. 
 
 Can it be that an angel from heaven may know 
 The passion of love for a mortal below ? 
 Can it be that the Lord of Dunkerron may move 
 The beautiful Spirit of Ocean to love ? — 
 Though wild be the notion, yet see in his eyes 
 The hope from her words, from her glances, arise ; 
 And nought shall e'er quench it, and ne'er shall it rest 
 Till the maiden herself to his bosom is press 'd. 
 And there, on the shore of the fathomless tide. 
 Has plighted her troth as O'Sullivan's bride. 
 Then swift as an arrow he plunged in the main 
 As the maiden sank down 'neath the surface again.
 
 76 THE SPIRIT or THE OCEAN. 
 
 Down, down as she goes, still the chieftain pursues 
 (Fear finds not a place in the hero who woos). 
 Down, down, 'midst the wonderful treasures that sleep 
 Unknown and conccal'd in the vault of the deep, 
 Untempted he passes, unheeding alarms, 
 Till the beautiful spirit is clasp' d in his arms. 
 
 To the surface they rise, and a stalactite cave 
 Heceives them together borne up from the wave. 
 The Lord of Dunkerron then pours forth his tale 
 Of love to the maiden, who, trembling and pale. 
 Scarce heeds all the passionate words that she hears, 
 So much for herself and her lover she fears. 
 " Stay, stay, I beseech thee, Dunkerron," she cries, 
 " Thou know'st not the terrible danger that lies 
 In the words that thou breathest — Dunkerron, arise — 
 The spirit that stoops to feel love for thee — dies ! " 
 
 Who shall paint Dimkerron now, 
 AVith glaring eye and knitted brow ? 
 Who shall tell how burst on air 
 His fearful cry of wild despair — 
 While at the maiden's feet he falls 
 And madly for her pity calls ; 
 Beseeching her unsay again 
 Those words of more than mortal pain, 
 Or bid him on the instant die 
 And end this dream of agony ?
 
 THE SPIRIT or THE OCEA.TT. 77 
 
 The maiden's cheek is pale as death, 
 
 And thick and hurried comes her breath — 
 
 " Nay, courage ! " she whispers, " O' Sullivan, hear ! 
 To the chief of my race I will haste to appear — 
 I will kneel at his feet and for pity implore 
 That he'll soften the doom, ne'er remitted before, 
 And yield me — the bride of O'Sullivan ]More." 
 
 She is gone, and the deep hath received her again ; 
 The chieftain stands gazing and gazing in vain — 
 He sees not the sign of a ripple or wave 
 To mark where the spirit had pass'd from the cave. 
 
 But, sudden a tinge rises up on the flood — 
 
 He shudders — he staggers — O God, it is blood ! 
 
 And the waves in their fury are lifted on high, 
 
 And out from the depths of the ocean a cry — 
 
 The accent of death— rends the vault of the sky. 
 
 'Tis her voice ! — aye, 'tis hers, who one moment before 
 
 Had own'd that she loved him — her blood stains the 
 
 shore 
 Where senseless and cold falls O'Sullivan More ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Next morning the Lord of Dunkerron was found 
 In his chamber alone, lying flat on the ground. 
 With a heap of small hillets-doux scattered around. 
 So they lifted him up, and they put him to bed. 
 With a wet pocket-handkerchief tied round his head. 
 To draw oft' the fumes of the whiskey, they said.
 
 78 THE SPIEIT OF TUE OCEAN. 
 
 The whole of the day- 
 He kept snoring away, 
 
 And, at night, Avheu his servants took one little peep, 
 
 They still found him lying there snoriug asleep. 
 
 You'd have thought for a month he had not had a 
 wink of it — 
 
 Ko one could tell in his heart what to think of it. 
 
 At length he awoke — rubb'd his eyes, and seem' d trying 
 
 To find if he really was living or dying. 
 
 Then he look'd at the ceiling and look'd at the floor. 
 
 As if he had never beheld them before — 
 
 But the truth is, he'd somehow got hold of the notion 
 
 He ou<]lit to awake on the shore of the ocean. 
 
 A beautiful spirit he'd certainly seen ; 
 
 But whether that spirit was christen'd " Potheen," 
 
 Or whether her home were earth, water, or air — 
 
 "Was a matter he couldn't decidedly swear. 
 
 He rose from his couch, doun'd the clothes that were 
 
 nearest, 
 And found that his intellect wasn't the clearest. 
 His brain seem'd a mill — how he wish'd it would cease 
 From grinding one moment, and just have some grease ! 
 
 What's that thing on the floor? — it's a pink lillet^ 
 
 doux — 
 There's a heap of them yonder of every hue. 
 The sight of them makes poor O'Sullivan worse, 
 And he's half in a humour to bluster and curse
 
 THE SPIEIT OF THE OCEAIT. 79 
 
 The notes and their writers — but suddenly checks 
 His very ungallant remarks on their sex. 
 
 "Well — time and some excellent soda and brandy 
 (A gentleman always should have such things handy) 
 Stopp'd the mill that would grind in O'Sullivan's brain, 
 And made him as fresh as a daisy again. 
 
 But the chronicles say, 
 
 That from that very day. 
 If a petticoat ever was seen in his way — 
 
 If he caught the least sight 
 
 Of a woman at night, 
 He'd run like a hare in a deuce of a fright. 
 
 He lived and he died in the county of Kerry, 
 The friend of the brave and the " pal " of the merry. 
 In his castle the warmest of welcomes was given 
 To men of all nations and ranks under heaven. 
 
 But to woman alone 
 
 No favour was shown ; 
 And never through all his long life-time was known 
 A maid, wife, or widow to enter his door — 
 The last of his race was O'SuUivan More! 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 And now for my moral ! Pause, reader, and think — 
 Need I hint that it's highly improper to drink 
 Such very strong " night-caps " ere going to bed. 
 That you wake with a mill hard at work in yoiu' head ?
 
 80 THE SPIEIT OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 No — I'm sure that I needn't — at least not to you — 
 You're a temperate man, sir, if noses speak true. 
 
 Need I give you advice, that it's certainly better 
 To make love in person, instead of by letter ? 
 That the softest of language the heart can indite 
 Looks silly when written in plain black and white ? 
 Of course not — so jewell'd, so dress' d, and so curl'd, 
 I see, sir, that you are a man of the world. 
 
 Then what can I say ? Hath my legend no moral 
 The author may tell and his reader not quarrel ? 
 Yes — fain would I think that the beautiful sprite 
 Who came to the Lord of DunkeiTon that night. 
 May image some glorious vision that's past 
 But once through our dreams — but whose traces still 
 
 last; 
 And aye, as they linger, leave something behind 
 Of poetry's essence to freshen the mind, 
 And teach us — though far from the sphere of their 
 
 birth— 
 There's many a heautiful sjnrit on earth !
 
 81 
 
 THE DAIvDY'S DREAM. 
 
 ^ ILrgrnti of Eontion. 
 
 Me. CHESTEEriELD SuppLETON louuged in his chair 
 
 At his club, with a weary and dandified air, 
 
 And he yawned, and he stretched, and gave many a 
 
 twirl 
 To his silky moustache and his favourite curl ; 
 And he played with his watch chain, whence gracefully 
 
 dangled 
 A dozen small "charms" of the latest new-fangled 
 Invention and fashion — coins, keys, curiosities. 
 Horse shoes, and monkeys, and little monstrosities ; 
 And he listlessly sipped at his Chateau Margaux, 
 Unheeding its flavour, or ruby-like glow ; 
 And he looked at the floor, and he looked at the ceiling, 
 Without the least symptom of thought or of feeling, 
 Except of that blase and vapid inanity 
 AVhich often afilicts poor young Pall Mall humanity ; 
 And he said to himself with a ladylike sigh, 
 " Was there ever a wretcheder fellow than I ? 
 
 Gt
 
 82 TUE dandy's dee am. 
 
 "What on earth can I do ? — where on earth can I go ? 
 No opera open — the theatres all 'low' — 
 Can a desert be half so confoundedly slow ? 
 
 Not a single invite 
 
 For this horrible night, 
 And the season (deuce take it all) just at its height." 
 
 And the thought of this terrible climax of ills 
 Mr. Suppleton's bosom with horror so fills, 
 That his eyes on the beeswaxed mahogany glare. 
 And he looks like a statue of gloomy despair. 
 
 But of course it's no use 
 
 To remain in the "blues," 
 So he takes up the Globe, and dips into the news. 
 
 But reading's a work he 
 
 So apt is to shirk, he 
 Knows nothing at all about Eussia and Turkey, 
 
 Or cab fares, or "pikes," 
 
 Or the question of " strikes," 
 And so he finds nothing at all that he likes, 
 
 But thrusts it away, 
 
 And — as men always say- 
 Says "There's nothing at all in the paper to-day." 
 
 And now the Chateau Margaux is done, 
 The cofiee-room's empty, and one by one 
 The waiters away out of sight have slunk, 
 To finish the Avine that is left undrunk.
 
 THE dandy's DEEA.M. 83 
 
 Back in bis chair, 
 
 Still lounging there, 
 Mr. Suppleton sits with his "used-np" air. 
 
 But he yawns no more 
 
 As he yawned before, 
 Nor stares at the ceiling, nor stares at the floor ; 
 But he crosses his arms, and rests his chin 
 On his chest, just over his brilliant pin, 
 And his eyelids blink, and his eyelids close. 
 And a sound proceeding from out his nose. 
 Like a grampus troubled with asthma, shows 
 Mr. Chesterfield Suppleton 's taking a doze. 
 
 Music's sound 
 
 Floats around, 
 Tapers flashing brightly, 
 
 Pretty girls 
 
 In many twirls, 
 Spin about him lightly. 
 
 Merrily 
 
 Ofl" they fly. 
 Scarce around them glanciug- 
 
 Such a pace 
 
 Modern grace, 
 Allows to ladies dancing, 
 o 2
 
 84 THE dandy's deeam. 
 
 Round eacli waist, 
 
 Lightly placed, 
 Eests a cavalier's arm. 
 
 Supported so, 
 
 Away they go, 
 Not a damsel fears harm. 
 
 On ev'rv side 
 
 They seem to glide, 
 Eight and left they're straying. 
 
 AVho'd withstand 
 
 AVeippert's band. 
 Merry polkas playing ? 
 
 The scene is a ball-room in Grosvenor Square, 
 And all the elite of the heau moncle are there — 
 All polking and waltzing (though many do these ill,) 
 Gallopading, quadrilling, and "popping the weasel," 
 And swallowing ices, and flirting, and smiling, 
 And hasty old Time, as he speeds on, beguiling. 
 And let cynical gentlemen sneer if they please, 
 (Though we don't wi-ite our legends for people like 
 these.) 
 
 'Tis a beautiful sight, 
 
 That flood of rich light, 
 And beauty and grace in a ball-room at night. 
 
 The jewels, the dresses. 
 
 The bright, flowing tresses.
 
 THE dandy's deeam. 85 
 
 The lips, and the eyes, and the small hand that presses 
 
 So gently our own, as Tve whirl to the measure, 
 
 And the heart dances fast as the feet do with pleasure. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! that there should be. 
 In such a scene of revelry, 
 A sorrowing heart, an evil thought, 
 A wash that was not virtu.e-wrou2:ht — 
 A taint of passions that impart 
 A demon tinge to human heart ; 
 Alas ! that forms so fair should hide 
 Hatred and envy, falsehood, pride, 
 The serpent lurking in the breast. 
 So meet a place for Virtue's nest.* 
 
 Yet I fear it's quite true that a ball-room contains 
 More vices than virtues, more beauty than brains ; 
 It's a very sad fact, it's revolting, it's cruel, 
 To think that those dear little creatures could do ill ; 
 Or even indeed that their hearts could conceive it — 
 To look in their faces no man could believe it. 
 But Beauty and Virtue, though often of course 
 Closely wedded, are apt to obtain a divorce ; 
 Virtue clings to the lips still, and manfully tries 
 To hold on as long as he can to the eyes ; 
 But the latter are apt to be traitors, revealing 
 The secrets that lips are for ever concealiug. 
 
 * Ou la vei'tu va-t-elle se nicJier?
 
 86 THE dandy's dee am. 
 
 See that sweet Lady Eleanor, beauty and grace 
 In her air, in her carriage, her figure, her face, — ■ 
 A voice like a bell of pure silver in tone. 
 An eye and a brow a Madonna might own — 
 And can site, too — can even that exquisite creature 
 Be a tx'ifle less perfect in heart than in feature ? 
 We'll see. There's her partner, the Earl of Eoulette, 
 To drink and to riot, to gamble and bet, 
 To follow sad vices we only need hint, 
 As their names would look highly improper in print — 
 In fact, to do all that we ought to leave undone, 
 The Earl of Roulette has no equal in London. 
 Lady Eleanor knows it, she thinks him a wretch 
 Whose neck, in strict jvistice, a halter should stretch. 
 The name of the man is the bane of her life, 
 She so hates him, and means to be shortly his wife ! 
 Poor girl ! can't she help it ? a mariage force? 
 Not at all — he's enormously rich, need I more say ? 
 Mansions, carriages, jewels, unlimited pleasure. 
 Eighty thousand a-year — who would miss such a 
 
 treasure ? 
 Not the sweet Lady Nell, for mere love of another 
 Who once had her heart — yonder poor younger 
 
 brother. 
 
 See that pretty young wife, too — a bride of last season — 
 Her heart even now is imagining treason 
 'Gainst yonder old grey head, who calls her his spouse, 
 And believes in her faitli as he did in her vows.
 
 THE dais^dt's dream. 87 
 
 See her "innocent" glance, 
 
 As she stops in the dance, 
 And leans on the arm of her whiskered parti ; 
 
 How confiding — how tender — 
 
 St. Cupid defend her ! 
 Or her faith and her vows, alas ! where will they be V 
 
 See those scheming mamas bent on making up matches, 
 (Eeal Lucifer ones,) looking out for good " catches " 
 For Janes and Jemimas — fair damsels who 're told 
 To judge a man's worth not from merit but gold. 
 See that booby young lordling, who's managed to get 
 In two or three years so intensely in debt 
 To tailors and horsedealers, jockeys and Jews, 
 That the latter have even been known to refuse 
 His lordship's acceptance, though backed by the 
 
 "Blues!" 
 See — here Mr. Suppleton gave a loud snore, 
 And turned in his sleep, crying, " Hold there ! no more, 
 This horrible ball-room's becoming a bore." 
 
 Make your game, gents, make your game — 
 
 Black or red, it's all the same — 
 
 Pifty you, sir — twenty you — 
 
 Blesh my soul, what shall I do 
 
 If I lose that pile of monies ? 
 
 Make your game, gents, all the run is
 
 88 THE dandy's dream. 
 
 Clear against the bank to-night — • 
 'Pon my shoul I'm in a fright — 
 Make your game, gents — game is made — 
 Now then, here goes — who's afraid ? 
 Eed's the winner — " Devil take it, 
 Hang the bank ! will no one break it ? " 
 Out the little hand-rake creeps, 
 Eaking gold up into heaps ; 
 Slyly grins the Hebrew croupier 
 At the disconcerted troupe there, 
 Staking money for their pastime, 
 (Always vowing for " the last time,") 
 While their almost every stake 
 Feeds his ever ready rake. 
 
 There's young Snooks of the Guards, 
 
 "Whose passion for cards 
 Toung Snooks' 3 professional progress retards, 
 
 As he pitches away 
 
 Each evening at play, 
 The amount of full three or four years of bis pay ; 
 
 And it's whispered, indeed, 
 
 That he's coming to need. 
 As the " Governor" somehow refuses to "bleed." 
 
 But Snooks is a "brick," 
 And swears that he'll stick 
 To the cards and the dice-box, through thin and 
 through thick.
 
 THE dandy's dee am. 89 
 
 So the ligliter his purse, 
 
 His passion the worse 
 To empty it quickly and cling to his curse — 
 
 Till to judge from his look, 
 
 Of credit forsook, 
 Mr. Snooks from a " pigeon" will soon be a " rook." 
 
 Beside him stands Mr. Aminadab Moses, 
 E-esplendent in jewels and trinkets, who shows his 
 Bank-notes and bright metal all ready for play — 
 Spread out on the table, in tempting array — 
 And he plays and he loses with perfect nonchalance, 
 As one who cares nothing at all for the balance 
 
 Of luck either way. 
 
 And people do say 
 He only pretends to receive and to pay — 
 Being merely a " bonnet " — a cunning old boy stuck 
 To act in the role of a human decoy duck. 
 
 " Blesh my heart, Mr. Snooks, 
 
 How savage you looks ! 
 Cleaned out I'm afraid — shall I lend you a twenty ? 
 A fifty ? a hundred ? my dear, I've got plenty. 
 
 Just take a cool fifty, 
 
 'Twill be such a Hft t' ye, 
 You'll find the luck change if you play with that 
 
 money, 
 My gold always does win — it docs — ain't it funny ? "
 
 90 THE dandy's dee am. 
 
 The fifty is taken and follows the rest, 
 
 And Snooks of the Guards on departing is press 'd 
 
 Just to scribble his name to a small I O U 
 
 For a hundred —well, well then, for eighty will do. 
 
 But business is business, and by it is meant, 
 
 In Aminadab's notions, a hundred per cent. 
 
 There's a queer-looking Guy, 
 
 "With a sharp, blood-shot eye, 
 And a coat and a hat rather wanting in lustre. 
 
 "What a fuss the chap makes 
 
 "With his trumpery stakes ! 
 A guinea seems all the poor devil can muster. 
 
 Let's peep in his pocket a moment — let's pick it — 
 "What's this ? It's a neat little green -coloured 
 
 ticket. 
 Proclaiming the fact of a little advance 
 From a loan-lending "relative " — just a last chance 
 "Which he's raised on his bed, for his clothes are all 
 
 gone, . 
 AVith his wife's, and his children's, as well as his own. 
 
 "What's this? A small pistol crammed full to the 
 
 muzzle. 
 Its use to a peaceable mortal might puzzle 
 The wise ; but the seedy man thinks it may settle 
 Accounts he can't pay in a costlier metal.
 
 THE dandy's dee Ail. 91 
 
 " A guinea ! poor devil ! " the croupier thinks, 
 As he watches the stakes and complacently chinks 
 All his own shining coins — " What a close-fisted fellow, 
 To risk nothing more than that one bit of yellow." 
 
 The queer-looking Guy puts his coin on the black, 
 And for two or three seconds he sits on the rack, 
 Till the croupier's lazy voice begins, 
 " Black — red — black — red — black — red — red loins.'" 
 
 Then the queer-looking Guy 
 
 Gives a sharp little cry, 
 As if something had stung him, and those who stand by 
 
 Think the fellow is mad. 
 
 Or it's "really too bad 
 To make such a fuss for a guinea, begad." 
 
 But the queer-looking Guy from the table has sped. 
 And five minutes after his spirit has fled — 
 
 Two bullets of lead 
 
 Have gone through his head — 
 The gambler has play'd his lastco?^^, and he's dead. 
 
 And his wife and his children, half starved before, 
 Can fight with wolfish want no more. 
 Sanshe^, sans clothes, sans food, sans "tin," 
 The Union kindly takes them in. 
 
 And here Mr. Suppleton gives a twist 
 On his chair as he hastily clenches his fist,
 
 02 THE dandy's DEEAM. 
 
 And mutters (still under his sleepy spell), 
 
 " For mercy's sake take us away from this hell," 
 
 Scratching and fighting, 
 
 And screaming and tearing. 
 Kicking and biting. 
 
 And raving and swearing, 
 Shouting out " Murder," and roaring " Police." 
 "Where the deuce have we got to ? What wretches are 
 
 these ? 
 Wliat a villanous hole ! What a sight ! Wliat a smell ! 
 What horrors it wouldn't be decent to tell, 
 In this dark little court 
 Which an evil report 
 Assigns as the place where " low Irishmen " dwell. 
 From the cellars below even up to the tiles, 
 Swarming with lilth is this den of St. Giles. 
 
 There's a husband whose notions of marriage consist 
 In crow-bars and pokers, to aid a strong fist 
 
 In thumping a wife 
 
 To an inch of her life, 
 AVith occasional change to a razor or knife. 
 
 There's a wife and a mother, 
 Who, somehow or other. 
 Has one little taste that she never can smother ;
 
 TKE dandy's dee am. 93 
 
 She cares not a pin 
 "Who may tliink it a sin, 
 But slie certainly owns to a weakness for gin. 
 
 There 's her baby there, filthy,and stretched on the floor, 
 And screaming for food — it's the last one of four ; 
 For all of the others (though very long dying — 
 Starvation's slow work) are now peacefully lying 
 In yon burial-ground, where they pack up the dead 
 More close than the living are packed in a bed 
 In these "furnished apartments at twopence a head." 
 
 And is there, in short, 
 
 Not a spot in this Court 
 But Vice, Poverty, Pilth (what a pleasant triumvirate !) 
 In all their most hideous aspects encumber it ? 
 Is Poverty always a rogue and a sot, 
 And Virtue in tatters a thing that is not ? 
 A fiction, a fable, a dream of the fancy. 
 Which no one e'er saw and which no one e'er can see ? 
 
 Stitching, sewing, all day through. 
 Stitching half the night-time, too. 
 Creep within this crazy portal. 
 And look upon a half-starved mortal; 
 See her long and bonj'- fingers 
 Guide the point that never lingers 
 Till the long, hard task is done. 
 Till tlie wretched pay is won.
 
 91 THE dandy's DnCAM. 
 
 There's a bed of loose straw stowed away iu a corner, 
 And whenever the starved-looking mortal has worn her 
 "Weak eyes to such dimness that, even in spite 
 Of the guttering candle's magnificent light. 
 She can't see lier thimble, her needle, or thread. 
 She flings herself down there, and feeling half dead. 
 Is thankful such bedding her " income " affords. 
 And she isn't obliged to lie g[uite on the boards. 
 
 She's uncommonly plain, 
 
 Yet on looking again 
 P'rhaps she may have been pretty ; we have seen worse 
 features. 
 
 Work, hunger, and care. 
 
 With a lack of fresh air, 
 Play the deuce at eighteen with these delicate creatures. 
 
 Her eyes are not bad, but so sunk 'neath her brow ; 
 
 Her hair long and wavy, but lustreless now ; 
 
 Her mouth — yes, that's good, scarce a duchess could 
 
 match it — 
 But her nose, why the bone is as sharp as a hatchet. 
 Her figure's all angles and flat — to be sure 
 Starvation is apt to impair the contour. 
 And that's not so uncommon, that pale, hollow cheek 
 In a damsel who lives on three sliillings a- week. 
 And earns the three shillings, at least when they let 
 
 her. 
 By making up shirts for a slopseller's "sweater."
 
 THE dandy's dream. 95 
 
 And is tliere no end and no hope ? 
 
 And is it this wretched one's doom 
 Por ever with famine to cope — 
 
 No rest but the rest of the tomb ? 
 
 O God ! in this glorious city, 
 
 The pride of this wealth-glutted nation, 
 
 Will not riches, nor power, uoy pity 
 Save even one child from starvation r 
 
 If not, let the proud city quail, 
 
 And bethink her of Babylon's fall — 
 
 Lest the moral she read in the tale 
 Be thy writing e'en noio on the tvall. 
 
 Mr. Suppleton here again turns round, 
 
 And utters a guttural, nasal sound — 
 
 And his dream, for a moment at least, is banish'd — 
 
 The Court of St. Giles into air has vanished. 
 
 Let topers praise wine — 
 And no sentence of mine 
 Shall refuse its due meed to the glorious viue- 
 I confess that I long 
 
 To illustrate in song 
 
 The delights of a beautiful cup of Souchong.
 
 9G THE dandy's dream. 
 
 It's ten tliousand pities 
 
 No soul-stirring ditties 
 Are made on the drink that for " stirring " so fit is — 
 
 Wiiile Anacreon, Horace, 
 
 Tom Moore, Captain Morris, 
 Burns, Byron — all dig in the same well-known 
 quarries, 
 
 All lauding the juice 
 
 Whose indiscreet use, 
 Though pleasant, sends many poor souls to thedeuce: 
 
 While tea — the mild leaf, 
 
 Gives the senses relief. 
 And never yet brought any mortal to grief 
 
 But I'll leave it alone — lest my too partial praise 
 Bring disgrace on my head, and my unlucky lays, 
 In the hands of tee-totallers chancing to fall. 
 Be sung at a meeting in Exeter Hall ! ! 
 
 No matter — ;just glance at this family tea-table, 
 Laden with ev'rythiug pleasant that's eatable — 
 Toast, muffins, and cakes, preserves, biscuits, and 
 
 jellies. 
 How pleasant the sight is ! How fragrant the smell is ! 
 
 And see the bright faces, too, thronging the room — 
 Health, pleasure, contentment in all their full bloom— 
 
 And hark to the noise 
 
 Of the merry young boys. 
 And the silvery laugh of the girls' gentler joys —
 
 THE daxdt's beeam. 97 
 
 And see the fond mother in matronly pride 
 Alternately gazing, all smiles, on each side — 
 And papa, too, who ivonH look the pleasure he feels, 
 For dignity must be maintained, and " loud peals 
 Of laughter are highly improper at meals ! " 
 
 Dive into each heart there, 
 
 And find me a part there 
 Which Virtue herself would reject for her dwelling — 
 
 Probe deep as you will 
 
 To the core — you shall still 
 Find traces of Love — Love, triumphantly telling. 
 
 So all is not black — all not tainted with evil, 
 
 In spite of our proneness to only believe ill 
 
 Of poor human nature, we find hearts and homes 
 
 Where Yii'tue still dwells and where Vice rarely 
 
 comes — 
 Hearts warm with affection, with goodness and pui-ity ; 
 And homes where such hearts may repose in security — 
 Even here, in this city, we wrote half a page on, 
 To vent our indignantly virtuous rage on ! 
 
 " Good gracious ! who's preaching? Where am I? 
 
 Holloa ! 
 I thought I was — somewhere — I reallv don't know — 
 I fear I've been sleeping — I'll smoke a cheroot — 
 Stay a minute — that foot's gone asleep in my boot." 
 
 H
 
 93 THE dandy's deeam. 
 
 And so Mr. Chesterfield Suppleton rose 
 At eleven o'clock from his two Lours' doze : 
 The dream had all vanished — the charm was all broke- 
 Like the dreamer it soon was enveloped in smoke. 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 The Reader who's come to the end of " our dream," 
 A " moral" will surely superfluous deem. 
 It's as plain as the sun — might be seen by a mole — 
 It is of our tale, not a part but the iclwle : 
 That for pleasure abroad it's in vain that we roam, 
 For the truest of pleasure stays always at home — 
 Tliat riches but tempt — want and poverty hurt you — 
 And there's nothing like Quiet, Contentment, and 
 Virtue.
 
 99 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE.* 
 
 ^n Crisfj ILcgcnlJ. 
 
 The bride was arranging lier bonnie black hair, 
 Frizzing it here and smoothing it there : 
 Pommading, and scenting, and combing, and curling, 
 Brushing, and banding, and twisting, and twirling. 
 Plaiting, and poking in two-legged pins — 
 Not such as exist for our masculine sins — 
 
 (Their white little cousins 
 
 "Which stick out by dozens 
 From a modern dame's dress as a chevaux-de-fi'ize, 
 To guard her fair waist from the chance of a squeeze.) 
 
 A smart little waiting-maid stood by her side, 
 And gazed, with a mixture of envy and pride, 
 On her charming young mistress, the fair little bride ; 
 Who look'd most bewitchingly pretty and neat 
 Prom the top of her curls to her dear little feet. 
 (And perhaps County Monaghan couldn't have shown 
 A prettier pair than that bride call'd her own.) 
 
 * The following legend was suggested by Carlctou's beautiful 
 ballad. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE CIIUECnTAED BRIDE. 
 
 Her lips were as plump and as red as a cherry : 
 
 Her eyes were so brilliant, and sparkling, and merry — 
 
 In all thy bright bevy 
 
 Of lasses, Killeevy, 
 
 There wasn't, I'll swear, 
 
 A damsel more fair 
 Than that same little bride who was " doing " her hair. 
 
 But hold — I'm afraid that I 'm not quite correct — 
 She wasn't a bride yet, but only " elect." 
 I'm obliged to be careful; for critical noses, 
 "Which sniff at the nightshade and heed not the roses. 
 Are apt to turn up at a slip, and deride, as 
 They did at a certain young Bride of Abydos, 
 Because, in the end, poor Zuleika turn'd out to be 
 Not Mrs. Selim — but only about to be. 
 
 So, ere you deride 
 
 My fair little " bride," 
 Or the author who's writing the young lady's story, 
 
 And say she's no claim 
 
 To so holy a name, 
 Eemember he found out the same thins: before ve. 
 
 o 
 
 The hair being finished, the iweity Jiancce 
 
 Just tried for a while 
 
 One sweet little smile 
 In the mirror — well, well, p'r'aps it ma^ have been 
 fancy —
 
 THE CHUECHTAED BEIDE. 101 
 
 Then turn'd to her maid, 
 
 "Who proudly display' d, 
 In all its bright glories of lace and brocade, 
 And trimmings, and flounces, and flowers, and braid, 
 A wedding-dress made in the mode of tlie day, 
 And copied of course from the " Belle Assemblee " — 
 That elegant medley of critiques and fashions, 
 Soft verses, and stories of drawing-room passions ! 
 
 The dress was donn'd — an orange wreath, 
 "With blossoms white as the brow beneath — 
 The crown of purity was set 
 Upon the maiden's lock of jet : 
 While the bridal veil in flowing grace 
 Half hid, and half exposed, her face. 
 Ah ! 'twas in truth a fairy sight. 
 That bride arrayed in spotless white ; 
 Now to her eye the tear-drop straying. 
 Now on her lips the bright smile playing. 
 Now murmuring the lov'd one's name, 
 Now blushing in her maiden shame. 
 
 And now turning round to her waitmg-maid, Betty, 
 
 Saying, " Bis, clotic, Bettina, suis-je hien toilettee ? 
 
 Can you find out a flaAV that may meet with 
 detection. 
 
 Or am I now really dress'd qidte to perfection ? 
 
 I hope that dear Turlough will think I look 
 nice — 
 
 By the bye, that reminds me — I spoke of it twice —
 
 102 THE CHUECHTAED 33IIIDE. 
 
 I really do hope he remember' d and bought a riug — 
 What's that? why, Betty, you're laughing, you 
 naughty thing." 
 
 Sir Turlough is a stalwart knight, 
 
 A lion-hearted Thane ; 
 And fair as ever met the sight 
 
 Is Turlough's broad domain. 
 And wealth is his, and lineage long — 
 
 No prouder, nobler race 
 May wake the Irish minstrel's song. 
 
 Or Erin's hist'ry grace. 
 And 'mid that race no name more great, 
 
 No hero's deeds more bold. 
 Than Turlough's name can bard relate, 
 
 Than Turlough's deeds are told. 
 
 Tet wealth and fame have lost their pow'r 
 
 O'er Turlough's lion-heart; 
 And warlike songs at banquet hour 
 
 No more their charm impart. 
 Nay, minstrel, nay — strike other cords ; 
 
 Cease war and wine to praise : 
 No solace now thy song affords — 
 
 Wake gentler, sweeter lays. 
 Be Love thy theme — and thou shalt read 
 
 In Turlough's conscious air, 
 How to his heart tliy notes have sped 
 
 And woke an echo there.
 
 THE CHUECHYAED BEIDE. 103 
 
 And wlio is she whose witchery, 
 
 Whose magic spells have wrought 
 Such wondrous change, and Turlough's soul 
 
 'Neath Love's dominion^^brought ? 
 'Tis Eva, Eva, fairest maid 
 
 G-reen Erin's dames among, 
 AVhose praise through all the land hath stray' d. 
 
 And ev'ry poet sung. 
 'Tis Eva, Eva, fairest child — 
 
 They say each fairy kiss'd her, 
 And, at her birth, the Graces smil'd, 
 
 And claim' d her for their sister. 
 
 Sir Turlough has seen her, and head over heels 
 Has tumbled in love — and so " spooney " he feels. 
 That one day at the feet of the lady he kneels, 
 And swears that he's pining and dying for love of her : 
 And walks all day long with an old cast-off glove of her 
 Under his waistcoat, his shirt, and " et ceteras ;" 
 (I cannot describe all the clothes to the letter, as 
 I 'm by no means quite sure if he sported a " vest " 
 Of merino or flannel — the latter's the best, 
 Made in scarlet, or p'r'aps of a shade or two fainter, 
 By the prince of all hosiers and shirt-makers — Painter. ) 
 But next to his heart — that chief station of arteries — 
 Which aye in these cases a terrible martyr is. 
 
 Nobles and men of extensive estate 
 Seldom are doom'd for an answer to wait.
 
 104 THE CHUECnXAED BEIDE. 
 
 Fair Eva look'd down on tlie knight as he knelt 
 
 And told the impassion'd sensations he felt; 
 
 And she smil'd, and she sigh'd, and two round little 
 
 tears 
 Ean a race down her cheeks — little innocent dears ! 
 And she blush' d, and she stanyner'd, and made an 
 
 endeavour 
 To talk about something like " thine, thine for ever — " 
 Which was pleasant, of course, if not novel or clever. 
 Then the knight made an effort and rose from his 
 
 knees, 
 (For the garden was damp, and the cold made him 
 
 sneeze — 
 What a foe to romance is a sharp north-east breeze !) 
 And he clasp'd the fair Eva close, close to his breast ! 
 And — ladies, I leave you to fancy the rest ! 
 
 Young May, for ever fresh and fair, 
 Bright skies and sunshine bringing, 
 
 Comes dancing on with joyous air — 
 Sweet perfumes round her flinging. 
 
 Grim, leafless AVinter's reign is o'er ; 
 
 Killeevy'a woods are green, 
 Bedeck'd in smiling flow'rs once more 
 
 Killeevy's vales are seen.
 
 THE CHTJBCHTAED BEIDE. 105 
 
 "With merry sound, 
 
 That echoes round, 
 Killeevy's bells are ringing ; 
 
 And bridal lays 
 
 And songs of praise 
 Killeevy's youths are singing. 
 
 And maids are there 
 
 For Eva fair 
 Their pray'rs to Heaven addressing ; 
 
 While young and old 
 
 On Turlough bold 
 Invoke their Maker's blessing. 
 
 KUleevy's church is old and grey, 
 
 Full many an age hath pass'd away 
 
 Since he who sleeps 'neath yonder stone — 
 
 His deeds forgot, his name scarce known^ 
 
 First rais'd in piety and love 
 
 That ofl"'ring to his God above. 
 
 And now its vaulted aisles along 
 
 Peal the notes of sacred song, — 
 
 Pray'r and praise to Christ on high 
 
 Breath' d in solemn minstrelsy : 
 
 While joyous peasants, like a gleam 
 
 Of sunlight, through its portal stream, 
 
 Contrasting with their gaudy dress 
 
 The dark old temple's hoariness. 
 
 And now the multitude give way, 
 
 And, glittering in proud array,
 
 lOG THE CnUBCnTAKD BKTDE. 
 
 A gay and gallant group is seen 
 Threading tlie "watchful crowd between. 
 
 Eoremost walks a stalwart kniglit, 
 Smiling round with proud delight ; 
 And youth and maid, and young and old, 
 The bridegroom hail, Sir Turlough Bold ! 
 
 I wish I could tell how the bridegroom was dress'd — 
 His mantle, his cap, his " don't-name-thems," his vest ; 
 His shirt and his hose, and the fifty small articles 
 That form'd of man's costume the various particles. 
 Before it was fashion' d with modern precision — 
 Tight, awkward, and ugly, refin'd, and Parisian ! 
 
 But in matters of dress, 
 
 I freely confess. 
 My knowledge is something remarkably small ; 
 
 And of doublets, hose, sashes. 
 
 Mantles, buskins, and slashes, 
 I really don't think I could tell you at all. 
 
 But look — they're all waiting and peering to see 
 If the bride is approaching. "What's that ? is it she ? 
 No — it's only a fat man, in heavy sabots, 
 Which clatter like pattens wherever he goes. 
 Though he vainly endeavours to walk on his toes. 
 
 What's that ? — it's a priest in a snowy white gown, 
 With a little bald patch on the top of his crown,
 
 THE CHUECHTABD BETDE. 107 
 
 And a cross ou liis back. — And what's that ? It's a 
 
 brother, 
 With a gown and a patch and a cross — there's another. 
 Then three little urchins in little white spencers, 
 Bobbing and kneeling and swinging their censers. 
 Follow the priests, keeping close to their heels. 
 And filling the church with the scent of pastiles. 
 
 " But where is the bride ?" 
 
 Asks each one aside : 
 
 " It's remarkably ' rum,' 
 
 "Why the deuce don'.t she come ? 
 Sir Turlough — ^just watch him — is getting quite glum, 
 And one of the priests there is biting his thumb." 
 
 There's a rush through the door — there's a cry of 
 
 affright — 
 'Tis the voice of a maid robed in garments of white — 
 'Tis from Eva she comes — 'tis to Turlough she flies — 
 And she kneels at his feet, and in agony cries, 
 
 " Eva — thine Eva — woe is me ! 
 
 Sleeps the sleep of eternity !" 
 
 One moment with suspended breath 
 Stands Turlough — rigid, cold as death. 
 Then from his bloodless lips a cry 
 Bursts forth of pent-up agony : 
 "Wildly on Eva's name he calls, 
 And senseless at the altar falls !
 
 108 THE CIIUECnTAED BEIDE. 
 
 Autumn is a jolly king, 
 
 Many are his pleasures too — 
 
 Harvest Liome and rollicking, 
 Harvest and his treasures too. 
 
 See bim brown and ruddy grown, 
 Fruits around bim scattering, 
 
 Seated on bis leafy tbrone, 
 
 A king that needs no flattering. 
 
 AVbat tbougb balf bis leaves be sborn — 
 Of varied tints what sbow is bis : 
 
 For music, too, tbe bunting born 
 And meriy "tally-bo" is bis. 
 
 In nortbcrn climes profusely flows 
 Of ale and mead a flood for bim : 
 
 Tbe grape in soutbern vineyards grows, 
 And sbeds its purple blood for bim. 
 
 He's ricb in corn, in wine, in oil. 
 And ricb in ev'ry pleasure ; be 
 
 Enjoys tbe fruit of bonest toil. 
 And keeps a well-filled treasury. 
 
 • Let Summer smile, and Winter frown, 
 And pretty Spring come laugbing too : 
 Old Autumn still sball wear bis crown — 
 A king wbose health's worth quaffing to.
 
 THE CnURCnXAKD BEIDE. 109 
 
 I'm fond of tlie Autumn, its sports and its fun — 
 With the hounds — on the turf— with the rod and the 
 
 gun; 
 Its sunshiny weather, its bronze-looking trees, 
 Its pheasants and woodcocks — especially these ; 
 For if there's a weakness to which I lay claim, 
 It's a rather extravagant fondness for game ; 
 And the best of all plats — happy man if you've tried 
 
 it- 
 Is a pheasant well dress'd with a woodcock inside it. 
 
 KiUeevy's ancient church around, 
 'Neath sculptur'd stone and grassy mound, 
 Of rich and poor the ashes lie 
 Waiting for Eternity. 
 
 'T is night — a lovely autumn night — 
 The stars above with glow-worm light 
 Spangle the cloudless, azure sky — 
 The sleeping world's dark canopy. 
 
 (This comparison, reader, is charming — it's fine — 
 It's perfect — but, truth to confess, it's not mine : 
 I've no wish another man's credit to " grab," 
 So I own that I stole it from Shelley's " Queen Mab.") 
 
 Beside a gi'ave, whose moss fresh-grown 
 And stainless monumental stone
 
 110 THE CnUECHYAED BRIDE. 
 
 In silent eloquence relate 
 How recently tlie hand of Fate 
 Hath smitten her that slumbers there, 
 Stands one who mourns in mute despair. 
 Alas ! 'tis Eva's form that sleeps — 
 Alas! 'tis Turlough's self that weeps. 
 
 I've a mighty dislike to a churchyard at night, 
 
 The church looks so cold, and the tombstones so white, 
 
 And take such queer forms to a fanciful sight, 
 
 That they fill me with something extremely like fright. 
 
 Don't call me a coward, dear reader — it's true 
 
 I may not have the same stock of courage as you — 
 
 That is, while you sit in your chamber well lighted 
 
 (Reading this legend, and feeling delighted.) 
 
 But suppose that you just take a stroll after dark. 
 
 Turn into a chiirchyard by way of a " lark," 
 
 And take a cool seat on a grave or a stone, 
 
 (Of course you're to go there completely alone,) 
 
 And think of the "party" that's sleeping below 
 
 In horrid black coffins — and all of a row : — 
 
 If you doiti^t feel a kind of unpleasantish glow. 
 
 Bearing a family likeness to dread. 
 
 Creeping along from your toes to your head. 
 
 And making you wish you were snug in your bed, 
 
 Instead of a watcher alone with the dead — 
 
 If you've none of these feelings, why then you're more 
 
 lucky than 
 I, and I freely pronounce you a "plucky" man.
 
 THE CnUECHXAED BEIDE, 111 
 
 SucL a man — why the coiirage of Caesar's old " tenth" 
 
 is his — 
 But all this, good reader, is merely parenthesis. 
 
 Sir Turlough leans upon the stone, 
 And weeps in silent grief, alone. 
 Not long alone — for to his side 
 Behold a white-rob' d figure glide — 
 A maiden young and tall and fair. 
 With flowing locks of raven hair, 
 And eyes whose brightness seems to tell 
 Of higher power than magic spell. 
 
 On Turlough, whose look on the grave-mound is fix'd. 
 
 She gazes in fondness with sympathy mix'd. 
 
 But she speaks not a word, and she draws not a breath, 
 
 She is silent and still as the aspect of death : 
 
 And, save in the flash of her soul-lighted eyes. 
 
 Not a trace that she lives in her attitude lies. 
 
 With a sigh and a groan from the depths of his heart, 
 Sir Turlough reluctantly turns to depart, 
 WTien falls on that motionless figure his glance ! 
 lie staggers — he reels — doth he wake from a trance ? 
 O G-od, is it she ? doth he dream ? doth he rave ? 
 Is't Eva, his bride, who steps forth from her grave ? 
 
 Now she speaks — and, oh, how clear 
 Pall those accents on his car !
 
 112 THE CnUECHTABD BBIDE. 
 
 " Turlougli, Turloiigh, cease to weep — 
 She thou mourn'st hatli ceas'd to sleep. 
 Dry the unavailing tear — 
 Turlough, see the lost one here ! 
 See her smiling by thy side ! 
 'Tis thine Eva — 'tis thy bride. 
 Shrink not, Turlough — 'tis by Heav'n 
 Eva to thine arms is giv 'u — 
 Rescued from the grave's domain, 
 Eva is thine own again ! " 
 
 When a young lady offers to fly to your arms, 
 You're a terrible " spoon " if you've any alarms ; 
 Provided, of course, that the lady's all right. 
 And hasn't just sprung from her coffin at night ! 
 Eor, of course, such a pleasant proposal assumes 
 A different aspect when made from the tombs ; 
 And you'll shrink from a maid — be you ever so brave — 
 Who coolly informs you she's come from her grave. 
 And, therefore, Sir Turlough, in spite of his valour, 
 Look'd just at this moment the picture of pallor. 
 
 His blood seem'd to freeze, 
 
 He got weak in the knees, 
 And his whole body shook like the leaves on the trees ; 
 And he thought he'd have sunk, vanished clean out 
 
 of sight — 
 He was in a most undeniable fright. 
 
 And just at this moment a fresh gleam of light 
 From the moon brought the lady more clearly in sight, 
 And he saw that her face — lips and all — was quite white.
 
 THE CHUECIITARD BEIDE. 113 
 
 (Of course, if she'd really been sleeping doion there, 
 
 She must have been sadly in want of fresh air.) 
 
 But she smU'd, and her smile was so sweet and so 
 
 sad 
 That he felt her intentions could hardly be bad. 
 And then her expression — 'twas really so charming — 
 After all, there was nothing so very alarming ; 
 She was but a fairy, a witch, or at most, 
 A remarkably beautiful feminine ghost ! 
 So he pluck'd up his courage and boldly he said, 
 " Fair maid, can the dead with the living then wed ?" 
 
 The maiden's lips have ceas'd to smile, 
 And silent are those lips awhile. 
 Then faint, and low, and musical 
 On Turlough's ear her accents fall — 
 " Turlough, no : the quick and dead, 
 Eightly say'st thou, cannot wed. 
 But if thou wouldst have for bride 
 Her thou lovedst, her that died — 
 Pledge thy faith and plight thy vow 
 By yon holy symbol now : 
 And, while thou art kneeling there, 
 By that holy cross I swear. 
 Death, who robb'd thee, shall restore 
 Eva to thine arms once more ! " 
 
 All doubt from Turlough's mind hath flown, 
 And bold and firm his heart hath grown — 
 
 I
 
 114 THE CHUECHTARD BRIDE. 
 
 Swiftly on the sod he kneels, 
 Solemnly to God appeals, 
 Seeks the holy cross to kiss — 
 And lo ! a hand is link'd in his ! 
 ***** 
 
 There's weeping and wailing in Turlough's domain, 
 
 And masses on masses are offered in vain : 
 
 In sickness, in silence, Sir Turlough is lying 
 
 Alone in his chamber, and hopelessly dying : 
 
 And leeches confess that their remedies fail ; 
 
 And priests and their prayers to no purpose avail — 
 
 It is clear that King Death hath laid claim to the 
 
 knight ; 
 And who shall deny the grim monarch his right ? 
 
 Vain are prayers, and leeches' skill — 
 Turlough dies— 'tis God's high will ! 
 
 Killcevy's hills are capp'd with snow. 
 And cheerless all her vales below : 
 Dreary Winter's come again — 
 "Winter with his gloomy reign : 
 
 Sadly tolls Killeevy's bell. 
 Slow and sad — a funeral knell ! 
 Dirge is sung and mass is said — 
 Kequiems for Turlough dead !
 
 THE CHtJECHTAED BRIDE. 115 
 
 'Neath yon tomb of sculptur'd stone, 
 By yon grave, with moss o'ergrown, 
 Sleep for ever, side by side, 
 Turlough and bis Cburcbyard Bride. 
 
 Many an age since tben batb flown ; 
 G-rey and crumbled is tbe stone 
 Whose rudely graven words relate 
 Eva's death and Turlough' s fate. 
 
 But, while fair Killeevy stands 
 Smiling 'mid her fertile lauds, 
 In lordly hall or peasant cot 
 Ne'er shall be that tale forgot. 
 
 ililoral. 
 
 To those who 're in search of a nice little wife 
 
 (As ev'ry man is at some time of his life) 
 
 I would beg to address this important remark — 
 
 It's a dangerous thing making love in the dark ! 
 
 And even the moon, whom the poets all lie about. 
 
 And boarding-school misses write verses and sigh 
 
 about — 
 In spite of the very chaste light that she sheds, 
 Puts mighty queer notions in young lovers' heads. 
 But if you must pick out a churchyard at night 
 Tor your bower of love, with the moon for a light, 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE CHUECHTAED BEIDE. 
 
 Ascertain for a fact that your fair little she 
 
 Is of warm flesh and blood as a woman should be, 
 
 And ere you presume this advice to deride, 
 
 Think of Turlough the brave and his cold-blooded bride. 
 
 And this maxim his tale should impress on you most — 
 
 DonH go catching rheumatics and courting a ghost !
 
 117 
 
 "IT IS OUR OPENING DAY." 
 
 ^ 3£as of ti^e Neia (JTrgstal palace. 
 
 It's thetentli of the month — June, eighteen-fifty-four — 
 Such a day as the world never witnessed before ; 
 So fling off your nightcaps — it's no time to snore — 
 And uprouse, merry men, from your soft feather beds, 
 Rub the sleep from youi* eyelids, the dreams from your 
 
 heads ; 
 Make your toilets and turn yourselves out clean and 
 
 neat, 
 For the greatest of sights — such a fete, such a treat, 
 As defies all the sights of all ages to beat ! 
 
 For this is the day when the Palace of Glass, 
 
 "Whose size, whose attractions, whose beauty surpass 
 
 All the rest in the world from the very first one — 
 
 Whichever it was — that was ever begun, 
 
 Down to that in llyde Park, of which this is the son ; 
 
 This Palace of Crystal throws open its portals 
 
 To the world — that is, two-guiuea- ticketed mortals.
 
 118 "it is our opening DAT." 
 
 On tills tenth day of June, 
 
 Many hours before noon, 
 All London's awake, shaving, washing, and dressing, 
 
 Pommading and curling. 
 
 And frizzing and twirling, 
 And lacing and scenting, and smiling and — "bless- 
 ing"- 
 
 The last sotto voce 
 
 When the valet or " coachee " 
 Or lady's maid tells them of something distressing — 
 
 A coat that won't fit, 
 
 A new dress that's been slit, 
 
 A horse that's not well. 
 
 Or that's just "been and fell," 
 Or some contretemps like them which zve call a " sell." 
 
 And then after breakfast all London's astir. 
 
 At a time that a Frenchman would call de bonne Tieure : 
 
 From the East down at Aldgate, and Limehouse, and 
 
 Bow, 
 To the West at Belgravia and Chelsea, they go 
 In Hansom, in dogcart, Whitechapel, pilentum, — 
 What names, and what comical folks that invent 'em ! — 
 In chariot, in brougham, in Clarence, landau, 
 
 Barouche — and in short 
 
 In every sort 
 Of earthly conveyance Long Acre e'er saw. 
 Half hidden in dust, as a mountain in mist, all 
 Bowling away to this Palace of Crystal ;
 
 "it is OTJE OPENIIfG DAT." 119 
 
 "While even tlie sun — 
 A thing he's not done 
 Since summer's begun — 
 Eubs the clouds from his eyelids to peep at the fun. 
 
 And London Bridge Station 
 
 On this mighty occasion, 
 Seems besieged all at once by the half of the nation ; 
 
 And the crowd is so thick it 's 
 
 Not easy to pick its 
 Way to the place where they serve out the tickets. 
 
 And when it is through, 
 
 Three shillings — not two — 
 Are charged, which the public pronounces a " do "— 
 
 Which is perfectly true, 
 
 Though between me and you, 
 I strongly suspect that the rest of us men are all 
 Apt, like these railway directors in general, 
 To make all we can when the chance is before us, 
 And conscience is off in a dose, and can't bore us. 
 
 And Her Majesty, too, in her carriage and four. 
 With scarlet-clad outriders trotting before. 
 And a troop of dragoons more for show than protection, 
 (For Her Majesty's " Gruard" is a nation's aftection,) 
 And the Prince, and the Portuguese king and his 
 
 brother, 
 And the young Prince of Wales, and some two or 
 
 three other
 
 120 "it is OTJE OPElSriNG DAT." 
 
 Young princes of England, besides the princesses, 
 All bowing and smiling in such pretty dresses. 
 Lords and ladies in waiting, equerries attendant, 
 On horseback, en voitiire, in costumes resplendent, 
 These add to the crowd which "huzzahs" as they 
 
 pass 
 Galloping on to the Palace of Glass. 
 
 And each highway along 
 Huge multitudes throng 
 To stare at the folks. 
 Make remarks, and cut jokes, 
 Quiz a carriage, a horse, or a rider upon it, 
 Admire a moustache, or a face, or a bonnet ; 
 Or "chaft'" the police 
 (Without breaking the peace,) 
 Or shout their " hooray s " for some popular man, 
 As only a thorough-bred cockney mob can — 
 Though they make some mistakes, and are puzzled 
 
 between 
 Mr. Bright and a bishop, the mayor and the 
 
 Queen. 
 But of all men there's no one of whom they're so 
 
 sure as 
 The Turkish Ambassador, Monsieur Musurus, 
 "Whose servants' heads neat little skull-caps bedeck, 
 As well as his own — 
 Though it's very w^ell known 
 If he lives a la Turc, he was born a la Grec.
 
 "it is OUE opening DAT." 121 
 
 At length, by degrees, 
 
 By twos and by threes, 
 
 By the dozen, tlie score, 
 
 The hundred or more, 
 Into the grounds of the Palace they pour. 
 
 And, arriving, they gaze 
 
 In rapture, amaze — • 
 
 Half dumb with delight 
 
 At the wonderful sight ; 
 
 Though still now and then 
 
 O'er that ocean of men, 
 Like a zephyr, a buzz of approval keeps running, 
 As ladies cry " charming ! " and fast men say " stun- 
 
 ning ! " 
 
 * 
 
 And surely since the world hath been, 
 
 No fairer, nobler, richer scene — 
 
 No scene by human genius plann'd — 
 
 No structure reared by mortal hand, 
 
 So vast, yet still all symmetry, 
 
 So stately in simplicity. 
 
 So beautiful, so fairy light, 
 
 E'er broke on wond'ring mortals' sight ! 
 
 He who hath gazed upon that fane 
 Tow'ring above the neighb'ring plain, 
 Hath seen it in the mid- day sun, 
 Grlitt'ring like myriad gems in one ;
 
 122 " IT IS OUE OPENINa DAY." 
 
 Or watched it at the sun-set hour, 
 
 When over transept, roof, and tow'r. 
 
 The slender columns, crystal walls, 
 
 A rosy-tinted halo falls ; 
 
 Hath stood within its precincts' bound, 
 
 Beheld the treasures scattered round — 
 
 The mighty works of god-like art 
 
 Culled from each clime, each age, each part 
 
 Of earth's vast family of nations — 
 
 The triumphs of the soul's creations — 
 
 And, mightier still and still more fair, 
 
 The works of God and nature there ! 
 
 The stately palm, the lordly pine, 
 
 The thousand flow'rets that combine 
 
 With varied scent and endless hues 
 
 Th' enraptured senses to confuse — 
 
 These which a tropic sun brought forth, 
 
 Those nurtured in the icy north ; — 
 
 Or, mounting to the lofty roof 
 
 (Like fabric spun from fairy's woof,) 
 
 Hath glanc'd around upon the show 
 
 Of glorious landscape spread below. 
 
 Where art and nature, valley, height. 
 
 Hill, river, forest, all unite 
 
 To spread a scene beneath his feet 
 
 Where earth and heav'n might seem to meet. 
 
 He who hath seen all this, Avith soul 
 
 To grasp, to know, to feel the whole,
 
 "it is OUK opening DAT." 123 
 
 Hath, in his inmost thought, avow'd 
 How then his very spirit bow'd 
 Oppressed yet raised, entranced, subdued, 
 Made pure, and filled with gratitude 
 To Him who gave to man such might — 
 Who pour'd into his soul such light, 
 And fill'd the cup of blessing full, 
 By making earth so beautiful ! 
 
 And though (which Heaven forefend !) the foe 
 Should lay our nation's glory low — 
 Though Egypt's, Eome's, Athena's fate 
 Should on Britannia's empire wait — 
 Though ruins scarcely mark the spot 
 "Where rose proud cities, long forgot ; 
 Though pilgrims wander o'er the scene 
 Of aU the glories that have been — 
 Yet History's page shall still proclaim 
 The wondrous fabric's matchless fame ; 
 Tradition point, as to a tomb, 
 All-hallowed till the day of doom, 
 The site where Learning, Science, Art, 
 Taste, Beauty — ev'ry nobler part 
 Of man's diviner nature telling — 
 All found their fittest, noblest dwelling, 
 Where rose in Britain's glorious isle 
 The mighty, fragile. Crystal pile ! 
 
 *****
 
 124 "it is oue opening day." 
 
 'Mid trumpets and drums 
 
 Her Majesty comes, 
 And thousands stand tiptoe, in keen expectation, 
 
 While, blazing there, hark ! 
 
 The guns in the park 
 Roar out to Her Majesty hoarse salutation. 
 
 And 'midst clang and 'midst bang 
 
 Steps forth Mr. Laing, 
 And makes such an elegant bow at the door, 
 You'd swear that he'd practised a fortnight before, 
 And he says, (or he should have said so, had I bidden 
 
 him,) 
 " Welcome your Majesty — welcome to Sydenham." 
 
 And then up the aisle 
 
 They slowly defile — 
 People straining and stretching to see them the 
 
 while — ■ 
 The Queen, and the King of Portugal bring 
 Up the van, while the others come after — a string 
 
 Of Princes, Princesses, 
 
 Of Dukes and Duchesses, 
 (AVTiat confusion there is with these endings in 
 "esses,") 
 
 Of Ministers, great 
 
 Officials of State, 
 Equerries and grooms, Lords and Ladies that wait.
 
 "it is OUE opening DAT." 125 
 
 But in front of them all, 
 
 (What a Yankee would call 
 
 Looking "tarnation tall,") 
 Mr. Laing and his staff are permitted to pass — ■ 
 The king and the court of this Palace of Glass ! 
 
 And the moment they're seen 
 Bursts " God Save the Queen," 
 In a flood of rich music, those glass walls between. 
 From an orchestra raised at a height from the throng, 
 (Musicians and singers sixteen hvmdred strong,) 
 With Costa conducting, and Clara ISTovello, 
 Whose voice is so sweet, and so rich, and so mellow, 
 To warble the solos ; and such the effect 
 Of that soul-stirring anthem that, ere they are check' d, 
 What with Clara's sweet voice, Costa's band and his 
 
 Idton, 
 Each Peeler's so moved that he can't keep his hat on ! 
 And gentlemen cough, blow their noses, and try 
 To fancy there's something got into their eye ; 
 And soft-hearted damsels — the sweet little dears — 
 Make their snowy Avhite handkerchiefs wet with their 
 
 tears. 
 
 While the Queen passes on with a glance and a bow. 
 And a smile to the orchestra's king, and I vow 
 I believe at that moment there breathed from no lesser 
 Than twoscore thousand voices, " God save," and " God 
 bless her."
 
 126 "it is our opening day." 
 
 And slie mounts up some steps to a beautiful dais, 
 "With her court grouped around, as the usual way is ; 
 And then Mr. Laing, standing some distance off, 
 Clears his throat with a " hem ! " or a little short cough, 
 And commences a speech which, as nobody hears, 
 No one knows much about, till next day it appears 
 In the papers — which accident often the case is, 
 AVith speeches delivered in other great places. 
 
 And next all around 
 
 A clear ringing sound, 
 
 Like a pure silver bell 
 
 "Whose notes seem to swell 
 
 As they float through the air. 
 
 Strikes each ear that is there, 
 And a glance of delight on each feature is seen — 
 
 Eor who does not own 
 
 In that exquisite tone 
 The voice of a syren — the words of a queen ? 
 
 Again Mr. Laing clears his obstinate throat. 
 Determined to try and bring out the right note, 
 And hopes that Her Majesty '11 please to allow 
 A dozen aspirants to make her their bow. 
 First Paxton, Sir Joseph the stately, is sighted, 
 'Who was three years ago by Her Majesty knighted, 
 "WTio's built so many houses of glass that he owns 
 He would punish with death little boys who throw 
 stones.
 
 "it is OTJE opening DAT." 127 
 
 And next, Owen Jones, who in ev'ry direction, 
 All over the world's made a tour of inspection, 
 Ransacking every earthly collection 
 Of sculpture — Egyptian, Alhambra, Grreeir, Roman, 
 The prince of artistical, classical showmen ! 
 And then Digby "Wyatt, whose " line " is the same, 
 And ev'ry man's taste will admit his just claim 
 To all honour and praise, as you '11 instantly see by 
 The wonders he's done in the Court of Pompeii. 
 And here is Sam Phillips, the man who directs 
 The department of letters, whose goose-quill corrects 
 What the others have WTitten — theii* grammar — ortho- 
 graphy- 
 Sins against Priscian — mistakes in geography — 
 Besides having written himself the Biography ; 
 (But who, by the way, had some few little crimes. 
 Such as writing those slashing critiques in the 
 
 Times.) 
 And next Mr. Ferguson's features appear — 
 Who for this one occasion does really " lodge here" — • 
 Who's earned his own laurels by working away 
 
 hard 
 At Assyrian antiquities fished out by Layard. 
 Next, Owen, Professor, who, give him a bone 
 Of an animal never yet heard of or known, 
 Will turn you out shortly the monster full grown. 
 And Waterhouse Hawkins will carve him in stone. 
 And then. Dr. Latham, Forbes, Waterhouse, Gould, 
 And Thompson, together like lambs in a fold,
 
 128 "it is oue opening day." 
 
 Five men of great learning, the sum of whose know- 
 ledge is 
 Displayed in all manner of erudite "Ologies." 
 All these "blushing aspirants," approaching the 
 
 Queen, 
 Make their bows of obeisance, and hand up the clean 
 Little Handbooks they've written (and Bradbury's 
 
 printed) 
 On the several subjects at which I 've just hinted : 
 Then retreat again backwards — the swords by their 
 
 side 
 Compelling the wearers to step rather wide. 
 As they tickle their ankles, and stick in the heels 
 Of their shoes, so that each one unpleasantly feels 
 Predestined to do something awkward or silly, 
 And perhaps turn a summerset back, " willy-nilly." 
 
 Such a getting dotvn stairs 
 
 Decidedly scares 
 A few of the party who, quite unawares. 
 Take such very long steps that they 're suddenly sent 
 To the bottom with rather more speed than they meant. 
 
 But whether 'twas Jones 
 
 AVho thus risk'd his bones, 
 
 Or Owen, or "Wyatt, 
 
 As each would deny it, 
 I'm not going to mention, but merely remark. 
 As they thus made their crab-like way back in the dark.
 
 " IT IS OUE OPEXINa DAT." 129 
 
 One or two of the party did happen to slip, 
 And one of them nearly went " head over tip." 
 
 Again the procession 
 
 Makes a progression 
 Through part of the Palace, and after a while 
 
 Returns to the centre, 
 
 Which, just as they enter. 
 The band gives the " Old Hundredth Psalm" in good 
 style. 
 
 Then rises from the arch-priest there 
 One solemn, simple, fitting pray'r, 
 And ere away its eclioes die, 
 Ttie " Hallelujah ! " swells on high. 
 
 Then the Marquis Breadalbane (whose snug little 
 
 place is 
 Her Majesty's Chamberlain) suddenly faces 
 The public, and in his official capacity 
 Demurely declares with the utmost veracity, 
 "The Palace is open!" — which news about 
 
 matches 
 In freshness the latest gazetted despatches. 
 
 Then away goes Her Majesty — down go the barriers- 
 Home go the public (save very few tarriers) — 
 Some to rest, some to feast, but the whole to unite 
 In owning, methinks, " 'twas a glorious sight."
 
 130 *'IT IS OUE OPENING DAT. 
 
 And witli the day my task is done ; 
 
 And if good reader, over one, 
 
 Aye, even one sole line, of all 
 
 My goosequil has contriv'd to scrawl, 
 
 You've smiled — then you're a man of sonse- 
 
 And I have had my rccompence : 
 
 In gratitude for which I pray, 
 
 May all your lifetime pass away 
 
 As smoothly as " Our Opening Day."
 
 JIPSl:]! 
 
 The Cobbler of Toledo.-Pa^e 131.
 
 131 
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 "3 ILcgcntJ of dTastilc. 
 
 You've all of you heard, or you've all of you read, 
 Of a little old cobbler whose dwelling is said 
 To have been nothing more than a stall or a shed, 
 Where he couldn't stand up without bumping his head ; 
 But which still, as the choicest authorities say. 
 Both served him for kitchen and salle a manger. 
 
 This same little cobbler — so fickle is Fame — 
 Has never yet figured in rhyme with a name ; 
 And even the place of his birth or " location," 
 His life, death, and actions, his language and nation, 
 Are all alike left to our imagination. 
 
 Yet he lived and he died ; 
 
 He'd a language beside, 
 And a mother of whom he was haply the pride. 
 
 I 've traced them all out with much trouble and pain, 
 And I've taken a journey expressly to Spain 
 To search all the archives — I hope not in vain, — 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE cobbleu of Toledo. 
 
 As I found that this maker of shoes for the " million," 
 Was born at Toledo — a thorough Castilian. 
 
 Toledo's a city renowned through all ages, 
 
 In clerical tomes and historical pages, 
 
 Por bishops and warriors, princes and sages, 
 
 And sword-blades, which even in these modern days 
 
 (When we're giving up fighting and choleric ways) 
 
 Are confess' d to be matchless in " temper" — a rarity 
 
 Scarcely more known to our peacemen than charity. 
 
 In one of the streets of this city of steel — 
 This Slieffield and Birmingham store of Castile — 
 Stood a gloomy old mansion, with windows so few, 
 And so closely barred up, how the light could get 
 
 tlirough 
 AVas a puzzle to all who beheld them, the more 
 As the street was so narrow and dismal before, 
 That no ray of the sunlight had ever been known 
 To wriggle its way down and burnish one stone. 
 
 Like a little excrescence below this great hall 
 Projected a queer little, black-looking stall. 
 Whence the sound of a hammer assail'd you, together 
 With odours of beeswax and blacking and leather. 
 
 And if you look'd in, 
 
 In the midst of the din. 
 
 And the gloom and the smell — 
 
 And the dirt, too, as well —
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 133 
 
 You might see a small body, a very big head, 
 Two eyes very bright, and one nose very red, 
 Two bands very large, and as grimy as soot, 
 And not the least sign of a leg or a foot. 
 
 Don't fancy, I beg. 
 
 That there loasnH a leg — 
 But merely their owner, a cobbler at work, 
 Tuck'd them quite out of sight as he sat a la Turk. 
 And tJiis is "the cobbler who lived in the stall, 
 Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all:" 
 And this is the cobbler — Pedrillo by name — 
 Whose Avonderful story my verses proclaim. 
 
 One day, as Pedrillo sat mending the sole 
 
 Of a shoe that its owner had worn to a hole, 
 
 And stitching, and waxing, and pegging, and thumping, 
 
 And filing, and smoothing, and "clicking," and 
 
 " clumping," 
 lie somehow got thinking on all sorts of things, 
 And all sorts of persons, from cobblers to kings. 
 Pedrillo was not a philosopher, nor 
 Had he ever much practised at thinking before ; 
 Or, at least, I much doubt till that moment if ever lie 
 Had made the remotest approach to a reverie. 
 
 Yet, how charming a reverie is 
 
 When the mind and the heart are at rest, 
 
 When we shake off the clay of the world, 
 And we dream of some land of the blest !
 
 13-1 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 ITow pleasant to loll at one's ease — 
 
 Arms a-kimbo, and eyes on the ceiling — 
 
 And shut out, in an opium trance, 
 
 (If we can) ev'ry earthly-born feeling ! 
 
 But we're apt to do just the reverse — • 
 
 Begin thinking of every evil — 
 Our pains, and our debts, and our sins. 
 
 Our long balance-sheet with the devil. 
 
 " Ah ! Life, thou 'rt at best but a dream !" 
 Is a saying each dreamer well knows — 
 
 And, oh ! what a deuce of a nightmare 
 Doth trouble some mortals' repose ! 
 
 How we fret, and we fume, and we snore, 
 
 How we kick off the clothes, how we quake — 
 
 How we fight with the phantoms we raise : 
 And how stupid we look when we wake ! 
 
 Tes — we've taken a great deal of trouble 
 
 To suffer a great deal of pain ; 
 And when we awake to our folly, 
 
 We turn round and act it ajrain. 
 
 o 
 
 It 's needless to point out our madness, 
 
 We see it and feel it tvitJiin — 
 But the spendthrift goes deepest in debt when 
 
 The least he 's encumber'd with " tin."
 
 THE COBBLEE OE TOLEDO. 135 
 
 I don't mean to say 
 
 'Twas at all in this way 
 The thoughts of Pedrillo attempted to stray. 
 
 He thought of his life, 
 
 Of struggle and strife 
 'Grainst the pangs of Necessity, sharp as his knife. 
 
 He thought how much Fate 
 
 Had bless' d all the great 
 Who roll'd by his stall in their coaches of state. 
 
 He thought of his soul — 
 
 What a dark little hole 
 ]t was shut in, in this world — as blind as a mole. 
 
 He wished he was rich — 
 
 How quickly he 'd pitch 
 This shoe to the dev' here he made a false stitch. 
 
 He thought he could spend 
 
 Heaps of gold without end, 
 And wear more new boots than he e'er got to mend. 
 
 He thought how he 'd dine. 
 
 And what oceans of wine 
 He'd swallow of Spain and of France and the Ehine. 
 
 Till the very idea of extensive potation 
 Produced on his brain an uncommon sensation, 
 And made him feel dreamy and vicious ; — at least 
 He fancied he'd like to try thrashing a priest ! 
 And this terrible notion so tickled his brain 
 That he burst into laughter again and again. 
 As he thought of his reverence dancing with pain.
 
 136 THE COBBLEE OF TOLEDO. 
 
 When a wicked idea gets into one's head 
 
 There 's no guessing the lengths into which it may 
 
 spread ; 
 It expands ev'ry moment and gets more defined, 
 Till it seems to fill up ev'ry nook of the mind, 
 And leaves not a square inch of virtue behind. 
 
 And so with Pedrillo : each moment there fled 
 Some good little thought that remained in his head, 
 And its place was supplied by a bad one instead ; 
 Till at length, quite o'erwhelmed in the vortex of 
 
 evil, 
 He cried, in the midst of his fimciful revel — 
 " I should like to have one little peep at the devil 1" 
 
 Hat-tat-tat-tat — a whole shower of knocks 
 
 Come pattering down on his dark little box, 
 
 And he starts from his day-dream, and sees with 
 
 amaze 
 A very tall man with a sinister gaze, 
 "Who stands at his window, and lifting his foot. 
 Shoves it in as he utters — " There — make me a boot." 
 
 Pedrillo feels sick — he's half ready to faint ; 
 His horror no language of mine could e'er paint, 
 As he grasps — not a foot — but a hoof hard and thick, 
 J ust such as tradition assigns to Old Xick 1 
 "While the owner cries, " Now, then, you booby, be 
 quick —
 
 THE COBELEK OF TOLEDO. 137 
 
 Take the measure at once, sir — what makes you so 
 
 slow ? 
 Hang tlie fellow, my dinner's all spoiling, I know — 
 I've got a roast heretic waiting below." 
 
 Half dead with the fright which he's trying to smother, 
 
 Pedrillo contrives in some manner or other. 
 
 To measure the hoof with his tape ; while the "gent" 
 
 Casts on him a glance of such evil intent 
 
 That cold perspiration commences to ooze 
 
 From the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. 
 
 " Now make that boot well, or you'll be in a mess. 
 
 And bring it home quickly, sir — there '5 my address :" 
 
 And he throws down his card, with a sulphurous smell, 
 
 And one word of foiu" letters — I'd rather not tell 
 
 "What it was, but the reader wUl guess pretty well. 
 
 'Tis now the merry month of May, 
 And all Toledo's streets are gay. 
 The bells peal forth a merry chime 
 In honour of the joyful time : 
 From steeple tow'r and mansion-top 
 In graceful folds bright banners drop ; 
 Shalloj), and barge, and tiny boat. 
 Across the glittering Tagus float, 
 Bearing their smiling freiglits along. 
 To mingle in the gladsome thi'ong 
 That revel in each street. The song,
 
 138 TUE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 The joyous laugh, the pleasant jest, 
 The strains of music — all attest, 
 'Mid sights of mirth and sounds of glee, 
 The noisy reign of Revelry. 
 
 Let's follow in the motley train, 
 And listen to the blithesome strain 
 Ton maiden sings : how rich and clear 
 Each cadence strikes the list'ner's ear ! 
 
 1. 
 
 Ye nobles and gentles, come near, 
 
 And list to the glee-maiden's lay ; 
 Eair ladies, approach ye, and hear 
 
 The words from my lips as they stray : 
 'Tis Love is the theme of my song, 
 
 Love's praises my verses proclaim. 
 And to you all his honours belong — 
 
 For without you he is but a name. 
 
 2. 
 
 Say, is there a jewel on earth 
 
 So brilliant, so priceless as this ? 
 Does one hour of a lifetime give birth 
 
 To a joy like the lover's pure bliss ? 
 It glows like a furnace in youth ; 
 
 In manhood more constant its flame ; 
 In age its companion is Truth — 
 
 In each — 'tis Love only — the same !
 
 THE COBBLER OP TOLEDO, 139 
 
 3. . 
 
 'Tis a gleam from some angel-built sphere, 
 
 The dowry our Maker hath given 
 To prove, while we're sojourning here, 
 
 That we still have a portion of Heaven. 
 It knows not the leav'n of despond ; 
 
 It fears not the clouds that impend. 
 But sees the bright vista beyond, 
 
 And vanquishes Fate in the end. 
 
 4. 
 
 Let "Wealth be your mistress alone — 
 
 Let Glory allure you awhile — 
 Yet Love shall still claim you his own, 
 
 Tou shall turn from all else for his smile. 
 You shall taste aU the pleasures that fall 
 
 From the bounty of Heaven above. 
 And confess you would barter them all 
 
 For one moment of exquisite Love ! 
 
 Now look to the right, and you see a great crowd. 
 With a man in the centre who's bawling aloud 
 Some speech, or some verses, or songs, which appear 
 To please the rude folks who 're collected to hear. 
 The language, you'll notice, is not over choice, 
 Nor sung in a very melodious voice ; 
 And therefore, good reader, I strongly advise 
 That we move 't other way. Up yon narrow street 
 lies
 
 140 TIIK COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 The Catlicdral: — I fancy we'd better go there, 
 Because we're in Spain, and of course you're aware, 
 Whenever a "rumpus" takes place in that land, 
 Tor fun or for fighting, the Church bears a hand, 
 To help in the " scrimmage :" and mightily grand 
 Are the shows she gets up, though 'twould puzzle to 
 
 say 
 Where the deuce she can raise all the money to 
 
 pay 
 
 For such costly affairs : but the utmost that J know 
 About it, is simply — she does get the " rhino." 
 
 And now I remember — I very much doubt 
 
 If I've told what these holiday scenes are about. 
 
 It's simply his Catholic Highness of Spain, 
 
 Who had buried one wife, has just married again ; 
 
 And so all his people go mad for a day, 
 
 And rejoice at the deed in an orthodox way. 
 
 We stand within the sacred pile — 
 
 The long broad nave, the narrow aisle. 
 
 E'en to the very altar's stone, 
 
 Scarcely one spot untrodden own. 
 
 Yet solemn silence reigns around, 
 
 Save when the silver bell's light sound 
 
 Proclaims the Host :■ — then bows each knee 
 
 Before the symbol' d Majesty 
 
 Of Christ Incarnate : each one there 
 
 Mutters his penitence and pray'r ;
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEBO. 141 
 
 While, pealing forth, the organ's note 
 Seems through the vaulted roof to float, 
 Eearing aloft its solemn tone. 
 To bear its praise to God's high throne. 
 
 The hymns are sung, the mass is said ; 
 The crowd of worshippers has fled. 
 Deserted e'en by monk and priest, 
 
 The lofty temple's aisles are bare : 
 The gorgeous altar in the east — 
 
 No suppliant form is kneeling there ! 
 
 The motley crowd that whilome trod, 
 With silent step, the house of God, 
 Now dance the gay-deck'd streets along, 
 Or shouting join the ribald song. 
 
 And such is man ! thus vain his mind. 
 And fickle, as the veering wind : 
 Now Pleasure, and now Heav'n his text — 
 This hour a Saint — a satyr next ! 
 
 In a dark little street is " hullah-ba-loo," 
 
 And shouting, and yelling, a precious " to-do ;" 
 
 AVhat hustling and rushing, 
 
 And running and crushing. 
 
 And pulling and tearing, 
 
 And laughing and swearing ! 
 What masses of people all crowding to see 
 The fun or the fight, or whate'cr it may be
 
 Ii2 THE COBBLEE OP TOLEDO. 
 
 While each asks the other as fast as they run, 
 " Holloa — what's the row there ? do tell us the fun : 
 What the deuce are they doing ? do you know, ovyou ? 
 Are they baiting a badger, or shaving a Jew ?" 
 
 In that dark little street is the dark little stall 
 Where our poor little cobbler's at work with his awl — 
 At work when the rest of the city's at play — 
 At work on this glorious festival day ! 
 The crowd are astounded — they can't make it out — 
 So they yell to the cobbler, and holloa, and shout ; 
 And they bid him come forth and partake of the revel, 
 And pitch all his leather and tools to the devil. 
 
 " That's just it ! " cried Pedrillo, as soon as he heard 
 The multitude utter that last naughty word. 
 " Just it, my old beeswax ? just what, my old Turk ?" 
 " Why — it's just for his worship, I mean, I'm at work." 
 " Ilia worship — what worship ? hang me if I know 
 What you mean." " Why — his worship that lives 
 
 down helow." 
 And here poor Pedrillo turned awfully white, 
 And even his nose grew quite pale with affright. 
 "He's mad," cried the mob — "pull him out of his 
 
 hole." 
 " Oh, mercy ! not yet — I've not finished the sole !" 
 
 In spite of his cries poor Pedrillo is seized, 
 And dragg'd from his hole, and most ruthlessly 
 squeezed,
 
 THE COBBLEB OF TOLEDO. 143 
 
 And carried in triumph, still grasping a shoe 
 
 Half-finished — not fit for a Christian or Jew ; 
 
 But a queer-looking thing, made I scarcely know 
 
 how, 
 And exactly the shape of the hoof of a cow ! 
 
 Away they all run 
 
 In the height of their fun, 
 
 And bear off their prize 
 
 Amid laughter and cries, 
 And huzzahs for the cobbler, who, first of his trade, 
 A shoe for his evil-named Majesty made. 
 
 In the midst of their running they suddenly stop, 
 And cease from hurrahing ; and quietly drop 
 The load that they carry ; then hasten away — 
 And before the poor cobbler could manage to say 
 One word to his captors, they'd left him alone, 
 "With his comical shoe, sitting squat on a stone. 
 
 But, absorbed in one notion, he falls to his work, 
 (Still seated, of course, as before — a la Turk,) 
 And marks not the place where he's left in the lurch — 
 Alas ! 'tis the porch of Saint Anthony's church ! 
 
 "With stately step and solemn mien 
 A black-rob' d priest is shortly seen 
 Emerging from the door that lies 
 Behind Pedrillo ; and his eyes 
 Eest on the cobbler in surprise !
 
 144 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 The latter stitches as before, 
 
 Unconscious of his visitor, 
 
 And heeding not the open'd door ; 
 
 The priest stands still in dumb amaze 
 
 At the strange sight that meets his gaze — 
 
 The cobbler with his absent air, 
 
 And the queer shoe he's making there. 
 
 At length his holy indignation 
 
 At such an act of profanation, 
 
 Burst forth in words — " Holloa ! you hound, 
 
 How dare you work on holy ground ! " 
 
 Pedrillo slowly raised his head, 
 
 Not heeding what the priest had said, 
 
 But slightly startled by the sound : 
 
 And then he turn'd himself half round. 
 
 And saw, with supernatural fear, 
 
 A black-rob' d figure standing near. 
 
 In short, he thought the priest must be 
 
 His most Satanic Majesty ! 
 
 And so he cried — " What shall I do ? 
 I've not quite done your worship's shoe; 
 I'm hard at work, sir — this is it — 
 Perhaps you'll try how it wiU fit 
 Tour worship's hoof — that is — I mean — 
 Tour worship's foot — I'd never seen 
 One like it till your worship came — 
 So, if I've fail'd, you mustn't blame !"
 
 TnE COBBLER OP TOLEDO. 145 
 
 Thus saying, lie held out the cloven-hoof d boot, 
 And gravely laid hold of his reverence's foot. 
 
 Then — oh for the pen of old Homer to trace 
 The passion that darken'd the holy man's face! 
 His eyes were half-red, and his cheeks were half-black. 
 And he rush'd at the cobbler and caught him a whack 
 With his toe on the nethermost point of his back. 
 That sent him a summerset, tumbling and sprawling, 
 Into the street, and with agony bawHug. 
 
 And before he could rise, 
 
 Or had finish' d his cries. 
 Before the whole truth could have enter' d his mind, 
 Before he could rub where he smarted behind — 
 He was seiz'd on the spot, and with smart expedition, 
 Clapp'd into the jail of the fell Inquisition ! 
 
 Fair Spain, sweet Spain, the brightest gem 
 In all Europa's diadem ! 
 Land of the sun, the flow'r, the vine — 
 Land of a race once half-divine : 
 Land of fair scenes, and fairer ladies. 
 Whose forms, from Pyrenees to Cadiz, 
 May match with all the world can boast, 
 From Ind to Russia's ice-bound coast ! 
 Land of romance — the rich, deep store 
 Of poet's lay and monkish lore ! 
 Birth-place of men whose ev'ry name, 
 Writ in the muster-roll of Fame, 
 
 L
 
 116 THE COBBLEB OF TOLEDO. 
 
 To ev'ry age, 'neath ev'ry zone, 
 Attest their glory and thine own ! 
 
 How art tliou favour'd, glorious land! 
 What gifts thou hast at Nature's hand — 
 Climate and soil, and hills and vales, 
 And flowing streams — all that avails 
 To charm the eye or glad the heart, 
 Or sense of gratitude impart 
 To God above, whose hand benign 
 Hath bless'd thee thus— all, all are thine! 
 
 And yet, what art thou ? — lost, debased — 
 Thine annals past in glory traced — 
 Thy present but a wretched blank. 
 Or viler stain ! "Where shalt thou rank 
 Among the nations of the earth ? Ay — thou, 
 Once crown' d with honour — sunken now — 
 Below the meanest state enslaved 
 Where once thy flag victorious waved ! 
 
 And why is this ? what spell hath wrought 
 
 A change so fatal to thy name ? 
 What sad reverse, with ruin frauglit. 
 
 Hath swept away thine ancient fame ? 
 
 Alas 1 within thy bosom cherish' d, 
 The deadly canker-worm hath gi'own, 
 
 And day by day thy weal hath perish' d 
 'Neath its corroding sting alone.
 
 THE COBBLEK OF TOLEDO. 147 
 
 Yes ! History's impartial page, 
 
 Thy glory and thy faU that tells, 
 Shall point to ev'ry future age — 
 
 " The land is cursed where Priestcraft dwells." 
 
 In a dark, dismal dungeon, where never a ray 
 
 Of sunlight has ever been tempted to stray ; 
 
 Where the walls are all damp and all mildew'd, and 
 
 where 
 An uncommonly scanty supply of fresh air 
 Is deem'd quite enough to supply the vitality 
 Of any imprison'd remains of mortality ; 
 "Where a heap of foul straw is to serve as a bed, 
 While the rats, by the dozen, run over your head, 
 And tickle your visage with tail and with claw, 
 Or vary the pleasure by taking a gnaw 
 At your toes, when they're hvmgry ; where lizards and 
 
 toads 
 Crawl out from the chinks of the pavement by loads— 
 In this highly delectable tenement, all 
 That remains of Pedrillo lies chain' d to the wall. 
 
 Poor fellow ! a visage so hollow and wan, 
 Scarce ever belonged to the form of a man. 
 His eyeballs so glazed, and his eyelids so blue, 
 And his skin of a greenish and yellowish hue ; 
 His hands were so bony, so long, and so thin, 
 So grizzled the beard that hung down from his 
 chin; 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE COBBLEU OF TOLEDO, 
 
 So wasted his limbs, and his round little nose 
 So completely deprived of its couleur de rose — 
 That no eye could have ever detected at all, 
 The poor little cobbler who lived in the stall, 
 Except that one hand, to its " cunning " yet true, 
 Still grasp 'd the remains of an odd-looking shoe. 
 
 Pedrillo 'd been tried for the wicked pretence 
 
 Of mistaking a priest for Old Nick — an offence 
 
 Pronounced, with veracity, quite " diabolical " 
 
 By the holy Inquisitors — meek Apostolical 
 
 Lambs, who've been famed, in all countries and ages, 
 
 As patterns of Christians and virtuous sages. 
 
 The verdict was "Guilty," of course — 'twouldn't 
 
 "pay" 
 To let a man oiF when they'd bagg'd him — to say 
 That they 'd made a mistake : and besides, just of late 
 They'd been scarce of offenders in Church or in State, 
 And wanted a Jew or a heretic sadly — 
 And so poor Pedrillo was pounced upon gladly. 
 
 A little discussion between them took place 
 Regarding the punishment due to his case. 
 Some voted for roasting — some hinted at flaying — 
 "Which others declared to be trifling and playing. 
 The President wouldn't agree to the roasting. 
 And seized the occasion for modestly boasting 
 How mild and how gentle his sentiments were. 
 The fact is, his house stood just facing the square
 
 THE COBBLEE OF TOLEDO. 149 
 
 Where the stake was erected when sinners were burnt, 
 And from many a past sad example he'd learnt 
 That the smell of a roast was so highly unpleasant- 
 He 'd the strongest objection to try one at present. 
 
 And so, in the end, they decided on •' mercy " — 
 Or, rather, what / should call just vice versa — 
 That is — " out of care for his poor sinful soul," 
 They left him to die, like a rat, in a hole. 
 
 And thus our poor PedrUlo lay. 
 Wasting his wretched life away : 
 Dying by inches — dying slowly — 
 Condemn'd by wretches self-styled " holy." 
 
 O God ! and can thy lightnings spai*e 
 The impious creatures who profane 
 
 The sacred livery they wear, 
 
 And take Thy holy name in. vain, 
 
 To sanctify a deed of blood, 
 
 And name that deed " Religion's good ? " 
 
 How vain the question ! look, weak man, 
 Beyond thy frail life's little span — 
 See Retribution's work begun — 
 God's name avenged — and Justice done ! 
 
 In a dark little street is a dark little stall. 
 
 And a plump little cobbler at work with his awl.
 
 150 THE COBBLEE OF TOLEDO. 
 
 Who is it ? Pedrillo ? by Jove it's the same ! 
 
 How on earth did he get there ? What influence came 
 
 To set him at liberty ? See him at work, 
 
 Sitting just as before on his board a la Tui-k ! 
 
 And he's stitching with vigour, he's making a boot — 
 
 Not a cloven hoof 'd thing, but one fit for a foot. 
 
 And how happy he looks ! and how plump and how red ! 
 
 How punchy his body, how shiny his head ! 
 
 And he sticks to his trade like an honest Castilian — 
 
 Making highlows and mending the soles of the million. 
 
 Now touching his freedom : — it chanced one fine day 
 That some two dozen Jews were all sentenced to pay 
 A very large sum for some very bad deed, 
 Eegarding some matter of conscience and creed ; 
 And finding the prison was rather too small 
 (In addition to those it contain' d) for them all, 
 A " weeding " took place — and 'mongst others, Pedrillo 
 To a Hebrew in trouble relinquish'd his pillow. 
 
 And such — without varnish, invention, or mystery — 
 Is the true, undeniable record and history 
 Of the " little old cobbler who liv'd in a stall 
 Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all." 
 
 There's a saying so stale that it'sgrown to an epigram — 
 Of course you all know it well — " Ne sutor crepidam 
 Ultra :" And some sleepy folks may opine 
 That such is the moral of this tale of mine.
 
 THE COBBLEB OP TOLEDO. 151 
 
 They're mistaken: sucli "morals " belong to the past — 
 They won't do for these days — we're a great deal too 
 
 fast 
 For such slow-coach old maxims. What ! " stick to 
 
 our last ? " 
 Nail the doctor to physic, the lawyer to law, 
 The parson to preaching ! — a pretty fine saw 
 For this age of progression ! — when ev'ry man's head 
 Is so full of the things he has heard, seen, and read — 
 It's not easy to say where our knowledge can stop 
 '^hen our brain is as full as a pawnbroker's shop. 
 
 To, no — I've got something much better — much 
 
 truer — 
 liTuch more to the purpose — and certainly newer 
 lo tell you. It's this : — if you ever give way 
 T) an evil-born thought — if you let your mind stray 
 Ii a naughty direction, don't think me uncivil 
 r I say that you've making a boot for the devil, 
 /nd that very same boot — when your virtue's clean 
 
 gone — 
 Tou'll see him some day when he's " trying it on."
 
 152 
 
 THE LAST MAN (IN TOWN). 
 
 •a ILonfton iLag of Sfptcmbrr. 
 
 Me. Valentine Delamere Reginald Eose 
 
 Sat flicking a pen and surveying his toes, 
 
 And twirling his whiskers and rubbing his nose, 
 
 Intently engaged in his own cogitations, 
 
 And minding Ms business instead of the nation's. 
 
 ^o 
 
 Not that much of the latter then happened to press, 
 For though we were what people call " in a mess," 
 With a war and a plague on our hands, both together. 
 And no consolation, but " fine harvest weather;" 
 Tet Government wheels are so carefully greased, 
 And Government burdens so skilfully eased. 
 That plague, famine, war, ev'ry known national ill, 
 Would scarce ever quicken a Treasury quill. 
 Or prevent any Treasury clerk sitting still. 
 And so Mr. Eose sat and thought at his ease. 
 And his thoughts ran in some such gyrations as these :
 
 1UE LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 153 
 
 " Confoundedly slow : 
 
 Not a soul that I know 
 Hemaiuing in London : wherever I go 
 
 Streets empty and dusty, 
 
 Hot, dirty, and fusty, 
 Sliopboys on horseback, and dowagers musty 
 In ' flys,' — at whose sight Lady B. Avould have 
 
 fainted — 
 As old as themselves, and not half so well painted ; 
 Not a man of my set — not a creature to talk to ; 
 Not a Club that's not turned out of windows to 
 
 walk to ; 
 In short, nothing to do — neither business nor fun — 
 And no one to see — for I've only seen one 
 To talk to this week past, and he was a * dun.' 
 What the deuce to be doing is more than I c«?i tell — 
 'Pon my soul I shall soon want apartments at Han well. 
 
 " How I envy my friends, 
 
 And the fortune that sends 
 Ev'ry one of them off" (whether business or leisure) 
 To shoot Russians for duty, or grouse for their pleasure. 
 I wonder if one of them all can remember 
 To have lived in this great empty town in September ! 
 
 " There's little Jack "Waller away with the fleet, 
 
 Performing, no doubt, ev'ry valorous feat, 
 
 And regarding a fight as a capital treat. 
 
 There's big Harry Raffles, the great grenadier, 
 
 At Sebastopol, p'r'aps — how I wish he were here ! —
 
 154 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWn). 
 
 And Crawley, and Stanhope, and Jenkins, and Snooks, 
 "With Frenchmen, and Turks, and those Bashi-Bazouks, 
 Enjoying themselves at the prospect of fighting-^ 
 There's something in slaughter so very exciting. 
 
 " And then there's Phil Townley away on his toixr — 
 And Bob Philofusil, away at his moor — 
 And Charley Tarpaulin, away in his yacht — 
 And Jones at his manor — the birds that he's shot 
 Would cover more acres of ground than he's got — 
 And Legge at the ' Leger ' and Doncaster ' Stakes ' — 
 And Smythe at Killarney, enjoying the lakes. 
 All — all at their pleasure : immersed in delight all — 
 And I, only /, stuck at home here at Whitehall !" 
 
 Thus saying, or thinking, our friend Mr. Rose 
 Desists from surveying his well-varnished toes. 
 And his pen on the table indignantly throws. 
 Then seizing his hat, and arranging with care 
 His waistcoat, his necktie, his gloves, and his hair, 
 At the moment the clock of the office strikes four, 
 Mr. Eose sallies out through the Treasury door. 
 
 And certainly Whitehall 
 
 Did look what you might call 
 A desert of stone, brick, and dust, 
 
 Bereft of its throng 
 
 Of folks that belong 
 To what Jonathan calls " upper crust."
 
 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 155 
 
 I've lived in the wilderness — sailed on the ocean — 
 
 I've travelled through deserts alone, 
 But certainly never formed half such a notion 
 
 Of true desolation, I own, 
 As the West-End of London displays in this same 
 
 season, 
 Which I'll cdi\\—faute de meilleure expression — the 
 " Game season." 
 
 So poor Mr. Eose 
 
 All gloomily goes, 
 Meeting no one at all in the streets that he knows ; 
 
 With the occupied air 
 
 Abd the petrified stare 
 Of a man whose head's empty, or crammed full of 
 care. 
 
 Till, fixing his eyes, 
 
 He sees, in surprise, 
 Some letters of quite Brobdignagian size, 
 Announcing, to all who might happen to see 'em, 
 The fact of there being a " Turkish Museum" 
 At Knightsbridge — a genuine new Exhibition, 
 Then open to all — two-and-sixpence admission. 
 
 " A Turkish Museum," he mutters. " Egad ! 
 
 I dare say it's good : the idea isn't bad — 
 
 I've nothing to do — well, suppose I go there. 
 
 Hi ! Hansom ! (that horse is a good one, I'll swear)
 
 156 THE LAST MATT (iN TOWn). 
 
 Drive to Knightsbridge— tlie Turkish Museum— d'ye 
 
 know wliere?" 
 " Lord love you, sir ! Know it ! Yy, all tlie nobs go 
 
 there." 
 
 The horse was a good one, and rattled away 
 At a pace that filled weak-minded folks with dismay, 
 Till, in less than ten minutes, they came to a stop 
 At a door which the Cabby pronounced "the right 
 
 shop ;" 
 When, paying just double the fare for the pace. 
 Which Cabby received with his usual grace, 
 Mr, Valentine Eose from the Hansom alighted, 
 Walked in, and prepared to be duly delighted — 
 And these were the wonders that gentleman sighted : — 
 
 In a gaily-decked hall 
 
 Are grouped, next the wall. 
 Some hundreds of figures you scarcely can call 
 
 Mere dummies of wax, 
 
 Horse-hair, stuffing, and flax, 
 From fair-haired Circassians to great ugly blacks ; 
 
 For, so life-like they stand. 
 
 That, till closely they're scann'd, 
 You'd vow they're not made by a modeller's hand. 
 
 If they'd only just walk — 
 
 I say nothing of talk — 
 Because Turks dislike that almost equal to pork — •
 
 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWn). ]57 
 
 They'd defy all detection 
 
 Prom any inspection, 
 And attain — what they come very near to — perfection. 
 
 As it is, with their dresses, 
 
 Their beards, and their tresses, 
 Their look of reality so much impresses, 
 
 That you scarcely feel calm. 
 
 Or repress a slight qualm. 
 That you've kept on your shoes and not made a 
 
 salaam 
 To these grave and magnificent men of Islam. 
 
 A bath ! — not a hip, or 
 
 A shower, or a slipper, 
 Or a plunge, or a douclie, or a five-feet-six dipper ; 
 Or any of those 
 That ev'ry one knows 
 
 Are the finest and best 
 
 That we men of the West 
 Ever tried, or our country has ever possessed : 
 
 But a place where they sweat you, 
 
 And steam you, and wet you, 
 
 And dry you, and rub you, 
 
 And peel you, and scrub you, 
 And lay you full-length on your back on the stones, 
 Stretch your muscles, and crack all your joints and 
 
 your bones — 
 At least this is just what -^q fancy they're doing. 
 Though it' s nothing at all but a little shampooing — • ,.
 
 158 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 
 
 "While travellers tell 
 
 How remarkably well 
 
 You feel when it's done, 
 
 Which I've faith in, for one, 
 Though I doubt, while it lasts, if you think it such fun. 
 All this you behold, as you pass through the door 
 Of a bath-house complete, from the tiles to the floor. 
 
 A barber's shop next it, with barber at work, 
 
 Lathering gravely a grave-looking Turk, 
 
 As he lies at full length on a sofa or bed. 
 
 And presents to be shaved, not his chin but his head j 
 
 For a Mussulman's care 
 
 Is to keep his head bare. 
 And to sport on his face his superfluous hair. 
 
 While a juvenile shaver 
 
 Presents the rich savour 
 Of a cvip of good coffee, whose true Mocha flavour 
 Is just what it should of such genuine liquor be. 
 Unimproved a la Soyer, with mixture of chicory. 
 
 As it's now quite the fashion, 
 Nay, almost a passion, 
 To like everything Turkish, I fear that it's rash on 
 My part to point out 
 That I do feel a doubt 
 If the style of their table 
 Be one that is able 
 To induce imitation 
 'Mongst such of our nation
 
 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWn). 159 
 
 As do n't find their limbs very supple or plastic, 
 Or whose training has not been precisely gymnastic ; 
 For the Mussulman's table is little and round, 
 And stands rather less than a foot from the ground, 
 
 While the company squat 
 
 In a manner that 's not 
 Considered so graceful with us, though it's found 
 Exactly adapted to cobblers at work, 
 And tailors — who sit, as we know, a la Turk. 
 
 And the manner of eating is scarcely refined 
 
 To people who all through their life-time have dined 
 
 "With plates, knives, and forks, and amongst whom 
 
 there lingers 
 A little objection to dipping their fingers 
 In dishes of all sorts, from fish to a stew, 
 As Turks in the highest society do — 
 If the " dinner-scene" here (as we doubt not) be true. 
 
 Then those fierce-looking fellows, 
 
 Who all accounts tell us, 
 Were of Sultans and Viziers so awfully jealous. 
 
 With their turbans tremendous, 
 
 (Against which defend us 
 'Mongst the Ottoman fashions the Turks are to send 
 us!) 
 
 And their spears and their sabres 
 
 For sticking their neighbours — 
 Which was one of these gentlemen's principal labours;
 
 160 THE LAST MAN (iK TOWN"). 
 
 And tlieir dresses so splendid, 
 They must have expended 
 More gold on their persons than ever yet i?ien did : 
 Those fellows, I mean, who endeavoured so hard 
 To rival the Roman Praetorian Guard, 
 And ivere like them in all but the name (and what's 
 
 worse, 
 Their name* is so hard it won't fit into verse !) 
 "Who did just what they pleased — and their pleasure 
 
 was pow'r — 
 And who might have gone on their ill ways to this hour 
 Had the late Sultan Mahmoud not made such short 
 
 work of them, 
 By ruthlessly slaughtering ev'ry man Turk of them. 
 
 Then passing still onward, we baslifully clamber 
 Up two or three steps to a real " lady's chamber," 
 Gettijig (Shade of the Prophet !) right into the harem — 
 The name to a Giaour is sufficient to scare him — ■ 
 Our necks of the bowstring incurring no risk 
 While we coolly examine some fair Odalisque, 
 Or daiuty Sultana — such sweet little Houris — 
 (With a guard, by the way, who an ugly old Moor is) 
 Kecliniug on couches and sipping their coffee. 
 And sucking their sweetmeats — not hardbake or toffy, 
 But nice almond-flavour' d and rose-scented stuff 
 (They'll sell you for twopence or threepence enough 
 
 * The Janissaries.
 
 THE LAST MATSr (iN TOWN). 161 
 
 In this very Museum to last for a week, 
 
 Unless you've a dreadfully sugary "beak"): 
 
 And really while smoking their amber-tipped hookahs, 
 
 And languidly glancing around them, they look as 
 
 Enchanting as anything can Oriental, 
 
 Whose beauties gain nothing at all from the mental. 
 
 Then we look at the shops which the Mussulmen use — 
 
 In one a veiled lady is trying on shoes, 
 
 And, hiding her face, doesn't care if she shows 
 
 A well-rounded ankle as well as her toes. 
 
 Further on there's a baker who's nailed by his ear 
 To his door-post for selling short weight — and if here 
 Were followed such summar}'^ justice, I fear 
 Some bakers we know of would look rather queer, 
 And bread would n't seem so confoundedly dear. 
 
 .. Then comes a great treat — 
 
 In the midst of the street 
 A carriage just such as you're certain to meet 
 
 In Stamboul ev'ry day, 
 
 Like a wagon or dray, 
 Drawn by oxen in somewhat a primitive way : 
 
 But gilded outside, 
 
 With, walking beside, 
 A nasty black fellow by way of a guide, 
 
 And bearing within 
 
 A girl that might win 
 An anchorite over to nature and sin.
 
 162 TUB LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 
 
 With a yashmak, or veil, so delightfully thin 
 It seems made of a web that a fairy might spin. 
 
 Tor the law of the Prophet, 
 
 Though no one dares scofif it, 
 Has certainly had all the edge taken off it ; 
 
 As the ladies don't fail 
 
 To adhere to the veil, 
 But take very good care that it doesn't avail 
 
 Any charm to conceal. 
 
 But to make you just feel 
 How fair must be all that it doesn't reveal. 
 
 And people do hint, 
 
 What I scarcely dare print — 
 That these ladies' hearts are not as hard as a flint : 
 
 AVliile sometimes one tries 
 
 The effect of her eyes 
 In a way that would West-End young ladies 
 surprise ! 
 
 But this really implies 
 
 A practice that lies 
 At command of so few that it almost defies 
 
 Our plain common sense — 
 
 And so {sans offence) 
 We'll consider this character all a pretence, 
 
 And firmly maintain. 
 
 As a thing that's quite plain. 
 That all rivals in tMs art our ladies disdain — 
 They 've beat all the world, and will do it again.
 
 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 163 
 
 Then leaving the ladies — with many a sigh — 
 
 "We turu to au odd-looking group that's hard by, 
 
 Bulgarian peasants that ply for odd jobs, 
 
 With broad shoulders, strong arms, and with little flat 
 
 nobs, 
 (They 're scarcely like heads) shaved as smooth as a 
 
 table, 
 "With complexions half-way between yellow and 
 
 sable — 
 "Who do grooming and gardening, harvesting, digging, 
 And are never addicted to lying or " prigging;" 
 And who carry such weights as would certainly crack 
 Any semi-fed Englishman's civilized back. 
 
 Then soldiers and sailors, scribes, beggars, musicians, 
 
 Muezzins, dervishes, cooks — and, in short, all conditions 
 
 Of life even up to the mighty Sultan, 
 
 "Who sits on his throne in what's called full Divan — 
 
 (Which doesn't, en passant, resemble at ail 
 
 Mr. Ries's, just opposite Exeter Hall) — 
 
 "With all of his splendid, and mighty, and great. 
 
 Grand A^izicrs, and other officials of state 
 
 Grouped around him — presenting a gorgeous coup d'ocil 
 
 That my unpractised pen would undoubtedly fail 
 
 To describe witli due power, and so won't attempt, 
 
 Lest critical noses should curl with contempt, 
 
 As their owners reflected how very much better 
 
 Their own Muse would do it— if only they'd kt her. 
 ****** 
 
 M 2
 
 104 THE LAST MAN (iN TOWN). 
 
 And now Mr. Valentine Reginald Eose 
 
 Pulls his watcli from his pocket, and stares as it shows 
 
 How quickly the stream of old Time sometimes flows. 
 
 " Past six, I declare ! more than two hours here 
 
 I couldn't believe it — it makes it appear 
 
 That ev'n in September, with all said and done, one 
 
 Finds something still left to amuse one in Loudon !" 
 
 With which moral reflection he passes the portal, 
 Peels himself once again a mere London-made mortal 
 Calls a cab, and — regretting there's no one to share it — 
 Drives home, solitaire, to his cutlet and claret.
 
 165 
 
 THE EARON OF HOHENSTEIN. 
 
 a "Ntia 3LcQtnti of tTje Efjtne. 
 
 All hail to tlie Ehine, to tte glorious Ehine, 
 
 That flows through the land of romance and of "wine ! 
 
 All hail to the stream, on whose beautiful shore, 
 
 The city, the convent, the ruin all hoar. 
 
 The vineyard, the corn-field, the flower-deck' d plain, 
 
 Still crowd on the vision again and again, 
 
 As its waves rolling on to the ocean still flee, 
 
 Like the river of Time to Eternity's sea ! 
 
 All hail to the stream on whose bosom now float. 
 Each summer and autumn, in many a boat, 
 Belgravia, the City, Tyburnia, May Pair, 
 Whitechapel, and Bloomsbury, wandering there, 
 With passports, and"Murrays," and plans of the routes, 
 And grammars, and circular letters from Coutts. 
 
 All hail to the river, whose name is a sound 
 
 That hath woke, that shall v,iike, 'mid the people around,
 
 IGG THE BARON OF nOHENSTEIN. 
 
 Great thoughts and high hopes for the day that shall 
 
 see 
 Its shores as one nation — the Fatherhand free ! 
 "When the patriot songs in which Korner appeal'd 
 To Saxons the sword of their country to wield, 
 And strike at the victor who proifer'd them chains, 
 Once more shall resound, and their soul-stirring 
 
 strains 
 Shall be then the " Te Deum " of Freedom's new- 
 birth— 
 The death-note of T)Tanny banish'd from earth ! 
 
 "Well, it's all very fine 
 To say " Hail to the Ehine ! " 
 (And I own I've a very keen taste for its wine.) 
 But what's that to do with this legend of mine ? 
 Let me see — now I have it. On one of its banks 
 Is a small slice of country, which now-a-day ranks 
 As a highly respectable duchy in size, 
 Though I very much doubt if its landmarks comprise 
 The extent of a good English county. It lies 
 On the right bank — its name is Nassau — p'r'aps you've 
 
 seen 
 The Nassau Balloon, which once took Mr. Green 
 An aerial trip over ocean and land, 
 (To sail through the air, and to feel you command 
 The regions of space, seems uncommonly grand !) 
 And when he resolved " terra firma " to touch, be 
 Found himself safe in this same little duchy.
 
 THE 73 VnO'T^ OF nOnP-XSTirTN". 167 
 
 In Nassau is Scliwalbach, a neat little town, 
 In the depths of a sweet pretty valley stuck down, 
 With a capital inn where you dine for a florin 
 On excellent cookery, native and foreign. 
 And then ev'ry night there's a soiree, or ball. 
 Where you polk, waltz, or causez, for nothing at all ; 
 "With the fullest permission to play at roulette, 
 And lose all your cash in " the very best set " — 
 Mntre nous, the worst scamps that you've probably 
 met. 
 
 In Hohenstein Castle, on top of a hill 
 
 Near this Schwalbach — the ruins are standing there 
 
 still- 
 Dwelt Baron Von Giinther, renown' d for his might, 
 And his wealth, and his lands, and his love of a fight. 
 
 This last was a passion 
 
 Extremely in fashion 
 
 In those days of old 
 
 When — at least we're so told — 
 To defend your own head, or to tilt at your neighbour's. 
 Was the daily routine of a gentleman's labours. 
 
 Had he lived in these days, 
 
 He'd have alter'd his ways. 
 And let oflfhis passions, perchance, in orations 
 'Mid that crowd of oddfellows, the "broadbrims " of 
 
 nations — 
 The Bellicose-Peace-preaching gentry — as them I call 
 Who thunder so fiercely in anti-polemical
 
 168 THE BAKON OF DOHENSTEIH". 
 
 Speeches, to prove — I presume hy example — 
 The mildness and beauty of peace : (for a sample 
 Take Cobden and Bright.)— Mighty Mars! if we're 
 
 still 
 To have war in some shape as Humanity's ill, 
 Shall it be but mere " Vox et prseterea nil ? " 
 
 Alas ! alas! I'm much afraid 
 
 This Baron led a wicked life ; 
 For surely 'tis an evil trade 
 
 To deal in nothing but in strife. 
 To sit at home, and only plan 
 
 "Within your wine-excited brain 
 How you can "burke " your fellow-man^ 
 
 And make his blood your selfish gain I 
 
 Tet, I 'm sorry to say, 
 
 The Baron each day 
 Sat scratching his head, in a petulant way, 
 And seem'd to be wrapt in as deep meditation 
 As a dramatist planning " a new situation ;" 
 While for all of his thoughts he had only this text — 
 " Let me see now, which chap shall I pitch into next ? " 
 
 Within the grim old castle walls 
 One ray of blessed sunlight falls. 
 Within those walls, whose stones might teU 
 Of scenes more dark, of deeds more fell
 
 THE BARON OF HOHENSTEIN. 16^ 
 
 Than ought save demon thoughts could plan, 
 
 Though wrought by hand of sinful man — 
 
 Within those walls, as gems are said 
 
 To lie within a reptile's head, 
 
 Dwells one so rich in ev'ry grace 
 
 Of mind and heart, and form and face. 
 
 That rarely hath all bounteous Heaven 
 
 Such matchless gifts to mortal given — 
 
 So fair a brow, so bright an eye, 
 
 Such moulded limbs that well might vie 
 
 "With aught of sculptur'd symmetry. 
 
 And who shall tell how pure each thought 
 Within that heaving bosom wrought ? 
 Ah sure, if peace and joy can e'er 
 Be virtue's right, thou hast thy share — 
 Poor flutt'ring heart that throbb'st within 
 God's temple yet unstain'd by sin! 
 But no, — alas ! Say thou, whose breast 
 Is fill'd with Love, canst tJiou taste rest ? 
 Hath calm within thy bosom dwelt 
 Since first Love made his presence felt ? 
 
 Not so. Thy heart may beat with joy, 
 Thy thoughts bear less of gloom's alloy, 
 Thy hopes, thy aspirations, all 
 With rapture's tinge thy sense enthral ; 
 Thou mayst drink deep of keen delight, 
 Thy days, thy life, the world seem bright 
 To thine entranced, enchanted sight :
 
 l^'O THE BARON OT" nOHENSTEIIT. 
 
 Thou mayst taste more than Pleasure's hand 
 Can lavish forth at Wealth's command 
 Thou mayst e'en deem that thou art blest 
 With ev'ry earthly joy thy guest : 
 But thy heart's chamber still must own 
 One vacant seat, if one alone ; 
 And till thy warmer raptures cease, 
 One guest shall still be absent — Peace ! 
 
 In Hohenstein Castle sits fair Gcraldine, 
 The loveliest maiden in Christendom seen : 
 
 And she's sighing, half gladly. 
 
 And smiling, half sadly ; 
 
 Half thinking, half dreaming — 
 
 Her eyelids now gleaming 
 
 With rajijture, — now seeming 
 
 Half moisten'd with tears — 
 
 As a sunbeam appears, 
 One moment all brightness — then wrapt in the shroud 
 Of mist-woven darkness from summer-built cloud. 
 At her feet lies a maiden who touches the strings 
 Of a lute, and anon to her mistress thus sings : 
 
 The words of love are spoken, 
 The maiden hangs her head. 
 
 And mantling o'er her pale cheek, 
 The tell-tale blushes spread.
 
 THE BABON or HOHENSTEIN, 171 
 
 "WTiat joy is in her bosom, 
 
 And breathes in ev'ry sigb ; 
 What rapture, vainly smother' d, 
 
 Ts sparkling in her eye — 
 "While, whisp'ring low and trembling, 
 
 Close clinging to his side, 
 The maiden breathes her promise 
 
 To be the warrior's bride ! 
 
 The knight is in his armour, 
 
 His steed is at the door, 
 And ringing from the trumpet 
 
 Loud peals the note of war. 
 Beside her lord, all silent, 
 
 With eyes that tell of tears, 
 And smile that struggles faintly, 
 
 A noble dame appears. 
 " Cheer up, cheer up ! my fair one," 
 
 The knight hath fondly cried, 
 " No tears must stain thine eyelids, 
 
 Thou art a warrior's bride!" 
 
 3. 
 
 The castle halls are silent. 
 
 The warrior is gone 
 To battle with the foeman — ■ 
 
 The lady mourns aloue.
 
 172 THE BAKON OF HOnENSTEIN". 
 
 Before the holy image 
 
 Within her lonely bower, - 
 In pray'r, and, aye, in weeping 
 
 She counts each weary hour. 
 " E'en now," she thinks, " the fatal lance 
 
 May pierce my lov'd one's side — 
 O God ! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To be a warrior's bride!" 
 
 4, 
 
 The day is past — he comes not 
 To greet his bride again : 
 
 Night dons her cloak of sable- 
 She watches still in vain. 
 
 She seeks the field of battle. 
 And calls his name around, 
 
 And ere the light of morning 
 Once more her lord is found. 
 
 In death's embrace he's sleeping, 
 And, clay-cold by his side, 
 
 Her head upon his bosom. 
 
 Sleeps now — the warrior's bride ! 
 
 Count Adolphus of Griefenstein— Jove ! what a name 
 Por a hero ! — to Geraldine's heart had lain claim : 
 And he had it, and kept it, and valued it too— 
 Which last fact is tout autre chose, entre nous./
 
 THE BAEON OF HOnENSTEIN. 173 
 
 He was wliat ladies call " such an elegant creature" — 
 That is, handsome in figure, and perfect in feature, 
 "Well- dress 'd, easy-manner' d, smooth-tongued, and all 
 
 that — 
 A bit of a rake, and as poor as a rat ! 
 
 Erom the last fact you'll guess 
 
 What a deuce of a mess 
 
 There was likely to be 
 
 When the Barou Von Gr. 
 
 Should happen to see 
 The state of affairs, and to which happy quarter 
 Master Cupid had carried the heart of his daughter. 
 
 Oh, tell us, papas, 
 
 And avow it, mammas, 
 Who have daughters to marry and sons too to settle — 
 
 In your wakings, your dreams. 
 
 Tour plottings, your schemes. 
 Are nothalf of your thoughts about "plenty of metal?" 
 
 Does one of you care 
 
 The price of a hair 
 About talents and morals, and virtue and beauty ? 
 
 Do you value true love 
 
 At the price of a glove, 
 Or prate of one feeling but " filial duty ? " 
 
 Do you think of a heart 
 
 Except as a part 
 Of the bargain you fancy is easily bought 
 With money and rent-rolls and pleasures ? In short,
 
 174 THE BAEON OF HOUENSTEIN. 
 
 In your crimiual catalogue is there a sin 
 So awful, so deadly as — shortness of " tin? " 
 
 So the Baron A^on Giinther he stamped and he swore^ 
 No baron, I hope, ever cursed so before — 
 When he heard that the elegant count, as we 've seen, 
 Had gain'd the young heart of the fair Geraldine. 
 
 As he raved and he ranted, the servants assembled 
 At dinner stopp'd eating and drinking, and trembled. 
 The cook said "My eye!" and the scullions said 
 
 " Crikey ! " 
 And the butler observed, " If he e'er heard the like, he 
 Just wish'd he might choke" — while each groom an(J 
 
 each flunkey 
 Turn pallid, and felt most unpleasantly " funky." 
 In fact — to say all that the force of words can say — 
 He was like Mr. Bland in an extrava":anza. 
 
 o 
 
 Then he called for his armour, his sword, and his spear, 
 His horse, his retainers, from far and from near ; 
 And he swore that he'd cut young Adolphus's throat. 
 And he'd pitch him to rot in his own castle moat ; 
 He'd smash down his walls, he'd smash windows and 
 
 glasses. 
 He'd smash his relations — the penniless asses — 
 He'd smash all his servants, he'd smaj^h his old 
 
 "mammy," ''' '^ f^ ^ yUl^n^^ 
 
 He'd smash all his friends, he'd smash ev^rj/ one — 
 
 damme !
 
 THE BAEON OF HOHEKSTEIN. 175 
 
 Fatlier Anselm was a friar all shorn, 
 With a rusty old cassock all tatter' d and torn, 
 A smooth-soundiug voice, and a rubicund face — 
 As e'er over Ehenish and ven'son said grace. 
 Of course it was dirty — I speak of his " phiz" — 
 A thorough-bred, fusty old monk's always is : 
 It's part of his vows to the Church of the Pope 
 To cut his connection Avith water and soap. 
 Father Anselm was the ghostly confessor, 
 
 And ever had been, 
 
 Of the fair Geraldine. 
 Though he'd nothing to do but to shrive her and bless 
 her. 
 
 For she hadn't a sin 
 
 Of all that were in 
 The list that was writ in the book that he gave her, 
 Intended, he said, to instruct her and save her 
 From sins that could never liave enter'd her head 
 Unless the same " Guide to Confession " she'd read. 
 
 The father was not a bad fellow — at least 
 He wasn't so bad for a monk or a priest : — ■ 
 He'd a kind of affection too — something between 
 Admiration and pity — for poor Geraldiue. 
 He hated her father ; he knew him a brute 
 (Who didn't send much to the convent, to boot). 
 He liked the young Count, and he'd no great objec- 
 tion 
 To help him to marriage, provided detection
 
 176 THE BAEON OF HOHENSTEIN. 
 
 "Were out of the question : because be well knew 
 
 If the Baron sbould find out that he bad to do 
 
 "With the matter, he'd hang him as soon as a peasant, 
 
 And blow the whole convent to somewhere 
 
 unpleasant. 
 
 Father Anselm was taking a stroll — 
 Walking, no doubt, for the good of his soul — 
 Thinking of masses and thinking of sermons 
 (Terrible fellows to think are those Germans) ; 
 Thinking of martyrs, and saints, and their hist'ries ; 
 Thinking of convents, confessions, and myst'ries; 
 Thinking of all that he'd done, good and evil — 
 Striking the balance 'twixt him and the devil : 
 Thinking — the saint here gave way to the sinner — - 
 Thinking of what he should have for his dinner. 
 
 It's all very fine, 
 
 But a friar must dine — 
 He's a stomach to fill, sir, like yours or like mine. 
 
 And to talk about " Mammon," 
 
 To say he should cram on 
 Dry bread and dried herbs and cold water's all gammon! 
 
 And I freely confess 
 
 That I don't think the less 
 Of the friar, nor vote him a bit of a glutton, 
 
 If he did feel inclined 
 
 To discuss in his mind 
 The relative virtues of beef and of mutton.
 
 THE BAEON OF HOHENSTEIK. 177 
 
 Count Adolphus of G-riefensteiu knows tliat tlie priest 
 
 Walks just at this time in his garden — at least 
 
 He has heard so — and, therefore, determines to meet 
 
 him 
 And ask for his blessing, and praj and entreat him 
 
 To hit on some plan, 
 
 Or devise how he can 
 G-et safe to fair G-eraldine's bower, and carry her 
 OiFfrom her wicked " Pa's " castle and marry her. 
 
 So, ere the good priest had quite settled each question 
 
 Touching his duties, his sins, and digestion — 
 
 Just at that end of the garden which lay 
 
 Hidden from prying eyes — right in his way 
 
 The Covint stood ; — he'd hit off the time to a nicety — 
 
 Adolphus cried " Hail ! " and the priest, " Benedicite !" 
 
 Why weeps the lady Geraldine ? 
 AVhv in her anxious glance is seen 
 The cast of gloom that should not throw 
 Its cloud upon so fair a brow ? 
 "Why rests the lute, untouch' d, unstrung. 
 To whose sweet notes whilome were sung 
 Full many a lay and ballad choice 
 By Geraldine's soft, plaintive voice. 
 
 Why kneels fair Geraldine in pray'r — 
 With heaving breast, dishevcll'd hair, 
 
 N
 
 178 TUB BAKON OF nOHElfSTEIN. 
 
 Not praying silently to Ileav'n 
 
 Tor sins (how sliglit !) to be forgiv'n ; 
 
 But calling on the Virgin's name 
 
 In voice whose sobbing tones proclaim, 
 
 More clear than -words, the inward smart 
 
 That rends, that rankles in her heart ? 
 
 Alas ! she prays that Tie may live : — 
 That Ileav'n in pity will not give 
 Her lover to the wicked hands 
 Of those who serve her sire's commands ; 
 That saints above — that God will save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave ! 
 
 Surely, if ever pray'r avail, 
 
 If ear to mortal plaint be given — 
 
 Such pray'r as this can scarcely fail 
 Before the throne of pitying Heaven ! 
 
 Suddenly Geraldine springs to her feet ; 
 
 There's a step at the door, and she rushes to meet — 
 
 Good Father Anselm, dressed in cassock of hair 
 
 And a hood that's drawn over his face with great care, 
 
 In fact, all in perfect pontifical dress, 
 
 But somehow, it seems, with remarkably less 
 
 Of steady, grave style in his manner of " going," 
 
 Than friars and priests are accustom'd to showing. 
 
 And as soon as he enters, he shouts " Geraldine! " 
 
 And — oh ! really I wish that I'd left out this scene —
 
 THE BAKON OF HOHENSTEIN, 179 
 
 Tlie lady gives one little shriek — not a cry 
 
 Of pain orafright, such as you, sir, or I 
 
 Might give while a dentist was drawing our griudcr, — 
 
 But something much milder, miich softer, much kinder, 
 
 Much more like a cry of delight than alarms — 
 
 And throws herself into his clerical arms ! 
 
 And now let us turn somewhere else : let us see 
 
 The deeds of our choleric Baron Von Gr. 
 
 He rides to the castle of Griefenstein straight. 
 
 And won't for his whole troop of followers wait. 
 
 But he gallops away till he reaches the gate. 
 
 Then he shouts to the warder, " Throw open the portal, 
 
 Or I'll batter it in and smash ev'ry thing mortal ! " 
 
 The warder looks up, takes a rub at his eyes, 
 He never before felt such sudden surprise — 
 And he cries, "Who are you, sir? You'd better be 
 
 civil. 
 Or you and your threats, too, may go to the devil. 
 As for knocking the gate in, it's rather too tough ; 
 If you try on that game you may chance get enough 
 Of smashing yourself, my old boy ; and look here — 
 I don't think this looks like respect or like fear." 
 
 Thus saying, the coarse-minded warder arose, 
 And placing his thumb to the tip of liis nose, 
 Extended his fingers, completing outright 
 The expressive dumb-show yclept " taking a sight." 
 
 n2
 
 180 THE BAEOJr of IIOnENSTEIN. 
 
 IIow the Baron did storm ! how he dash'd at the gate 
 At the risk that he'd smash his own steel-cover'd pate. 
 How he roared to his men to commence the attack, 
 To charge, and to cut, and to hew, and to hack. 
 Till a mighty big stone was flung down on his back ; 
 'Twas hurled by three men who defended the walls, 
 And with such unexpected an impetus falls, 
 That the Baron Yon G. is knock'd head over heels, 
 And a very bad pain in the back, too, he feels. 
 
 And as he lay sprawling 
 
 And fruitlessly bawling, 
 "Charge again there, you numskulls, we'll lick 'em 
 
 well yet," 
 It strikes him it wasn't quite prudent to get 
 So deep in this mess till he'd got his full forces 
 Of retainers and weapons, and engines and horses. 
 
 At length he gets up, and still bursting w4th ire. 
 Determines awhile for fresh aid to retire : 
 'An order that gives most complete satisfaction 
 To the men on both sides who've been called into 
 action. 
 
 And as he turns round 
 
 To retire from the ground, 
 The coarse-minded warder cries, " Good bye, old cock — 
 I'm afraid that you got an unpleasantish knock ; 
 But a nice cooling diet — no Kheuish or ven'son — 
 Will soon make it heal, if you rub in gum-beuz'u."
 
 THE BAKON OF nOHEKSTETN, 181 
 
 The Baron returns to bis castle again, 
 
 C ticking with anger, and groaning with pain. 
 
 He takes off his armour and solemnly swears, 
 
 " He won't go to bed, and he won't go upstairs ;" 
 
 And, as he thus says, with such fierceness he glares, 
 
 That to hint that he ought, not the leech even dares. 
 
 Sudden a thought seems to strike him. He springs 
 To his feet, and the marble-paved corridor rings 
 With the sounds of his footsteps: — to Geraldine's 
 
 bower 
 Wliy hastens her father ? What thunder-clouds lower 
 O'er Geraldine's fate ? Would he strike in her youth 
 Such goodness, such beauty, such virtue, such truth ? 
 
 Her door is thrown open — she's there, nor alone. 
 But, pale and unmoved as an image of stone. 
 She stands ; and she clings to the form of a priest — 
 So proclaim him his clerical vestments at least — 
 But no ! there's more pride in that attitude lies 
 Than a priest may well show — to the Baron's fierce 
 
 eyes. 
 In spite of the cassock in which he is dress'd, 
 Count Adolphusof Griefenstein's self stands coufess'd! 
 
 You may fancy whatever you please of the rage 
 Which followed, I really can't sully my page 
 In painting it. Still it was very soon over ; 
 For, making a rush at poor Geraldine's lover,
 
 182 THE BAEON OF HOHEKSTEIW. 
 
 Tlie Baron stopp'd suddenly, fell on the floor, 
 And never stirr'd arms, legs, or body, once more. 
 Death's arrow for once in the right mark had hit — 
 He was dead as a nail — he'd gone off in a fit ! 
 
 They call'd for assistance ; they sent for the leech — 
 But all was too late ; he could only just preach 
 About blood to the head, apoplexy, and all 
 The symptoms that laymen " a sudden death " call. 
 As for both of the lovers, I fear that my diction 
 Would fail to convince of their "heartfelt afldiction :" 
 And so I'D forego any long explanations 
 Regarding the state of their inmost sensations. 
 I suppose that in duty they tried to feel griev'd — 
 But I'm told that they also felt vastly reliev'd I 
 
 Slowly from out of the castle gate 
 Moves a long and funeral train 
 
 In all the mockery of state — 
 
 E'en in his shroud is Man still vain ! 
 
 And he that lies in yonder shell, 
 
 O'er which tlie velvet pall is flung — 
 
 Tlie crowd that follows knew him well, 
 The land with his foul deeds hath rung. 
 
 And where is he that mourns him now 
 In all that woe-apparel'd crowd ? 
 
 Within whose breast, upon whose brow, 
 Is heav'd the sigh, or hangs the cloud ?
 
 THE BAEON OP H0HENi3TEll« . 183 
 
 Is there man wliose lips can name 
 One act of good, of kindness done ? 
 
 One deed to chequer his dark' fame 
 With ray of light ? — alas, not one ! 
 
 Tet do they bear him to the tomb, 
 In pomp, and pride, and pageantry — 
 
 The sinner waiting God's just doom ! — 
 Say, is not this arch-mockery ? 
 
 Think'st thou, vain man, the nodding plume, 
 The sable pall, the gorgeous hearse, 
 
 Can add distinction to the tomb. 
 
 Purchase one sigh — avert one curse ? 
 
 Ah, no ! — be sure the heart-wept tear, 
 
 By sorrowing virtue truly shed. 
 Shall throw more lustre on the bier. 
 
 Shall give more honour to the dead — 
 Than all the wretched pomp of woe 
 That wealth-born vanity can show ! 
 
 fSloral. 
 To clerical gents, of the Eomish persuasion, 
 "Who've lately, I fear, given too much occasion 
 To evil-tongued folks to make sneering remarks 
 Regarding the duties of reverend clerks, 
 I would just say a word. — If you happen to catch 
 A wealthy young girl — try and find her " a match."
 
 184 TUE BAEON OF nOHENSTEIK. 
 
 Or leave her, at least, to find one for herself, 
 
 Who '11 love her for something more precious than pelf; 
 
 And do n't shut her up in some nasty old hole 
 
 Of a convent, and call it " the good of her soul." 
 
 If you do as I say, I 've the firmest conviction 
 
 Tou '11 get something more than the Pope's benediction. 
 
 "While throughout all the laud that we live in, at least — 
 
 Though it isn't instinctively fond of a priest — 
 
 You'll gain more respect and more praise (I for one 
 
 aver) 
 Than by sacking her money and making a nun of her ! 
 
 To choleric fathers who 're fond of good wine 
 (Eather stronger, perchance, than what comes from 
 
 the Ehine) 
 Let me hint, there 's a great deal of danger in swearing, 
 And cursing, and raving, and storming, and tearing — 
 Not to mention the sin — it's extremely unpleasant 
 To all who unluckily chance to be present, 
 "When an elderly gentleman, apt to behave so, 
 May chance to exjjlode — and go off to the grave so. 
 
 My task is completed — my ink is run dry — 
 
 Yet my pen seems to linger — I scarcely know why. 
 
 Can it be that there's something still left me to tell ? 
 
 Or is it the dread of that sad word "Farewell" 
 
 That throws o'er my spirit its magical spell ? 
 
 I know not, good reader : well, well then, we part — 
 
 The pleasure is yours — mine alone be the smart !
 
 THE BAEON OF HOHENSTEIST. 185 
 
 Stay a moment — I liave it — I knew I'd left out 
 The chief thing I wanted to lecture about ; 
 It's too late for that — I must give it up now — 
 But still I must write, ere I make you my bow, 
 One truth, beyond all, which my verses proclaim — 
 That " smashing " is always a dangerous game !
 
 186 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF MR. TIGGS. 
 
 ^ (Eochncg ILegcnlJ. 
 
 In the month of November — 
 
 I can't well remember 
 The date of the year, but believe it to be 
 The year of our Lord eighteen hundi'ed and three — 
 
 Mr. Timothy Tiggs, 
 
 In the neatest of giga, 
 
 (Mr. Tiggs, by the way, 
 
 Always call'd it a " shay,") 
 
 Was making his way, 
 At a pace not much faster than that of a dray, 
 Over Wimbledon Common, one very dark night ; 
 Not a sound in the air, not a creature in sight — 
 Just the place and the season to make you feel fright. 
 But Tiggs was a man who was proud of his " pluck," 
 And scorn'd to feel fear, or be " down on his luck." 
 Mr, Tiggs was a man with a very large head; 
 And his jolly round face was remarkably red :
 
 AK EPISODE, ETC. 187 
 
 On his clieeks you might term it the couleur de roue ; 
 But it verged on the blue at the tip of his nose. 
 His figure was not what the artists call fine — 
 It wasn't a form in the classical line ; 
 In fact, that most perfect of statues, Apollo, 
 Where he (Tiggs) bulged out is a trifle more 
 hollow. 
 
 But who cares for the case, 
 
 "With the heart in its place ? 
 Tiggs loved a good dinner ; he loved eau de vie ; 
 He loved his own " shay," and he loved Mrs. T.; 
 Was ready to help a poor devil in need, 
 And hated your misers and skin ilints ; indeed, 
 (I hope the expression my readers won't shock,) 
 His intimates term'd him " a jolly old cock." 
 
 And now Mr. Tiggs, 
 
 In his neatest of gigs. 
 
 As he joggled along 
 
 Tried to whistle a song ; 
 
 Then play'd with the whip — 
 
 Gave the mare a slight clip 
 
 Just below the "off" hip ; 
 
 Rubb'd his nose with his glove ; 
 
 Gave the cushion a shove ; 
 Took a jerk at the reins, hit the mare on the 
 
 crupper ; ' 
 And cried, "D— n it, I'll have something hot for my 
 supper!"
 
 188 AN EPISODE IN THE 
 
 Now, of all the bad habits that mortals will follow 
 There's one, in my judgment, beats all of them 
 hollow ; 
 
 And that's cursing and swearing. 
 
 There's really no bearing 
 A man who can't utter the commonest phrases 
 Without adding, "Demme!" "By Jove!" or "Like 
 
 blazes!"— 
 The star of the tavern, the stable, or attic, 
 Who fancies he's clever because he's emphatic. 
 
 But this by the way — 
 
 All I now have to say 
 Is, that if you must rap out an oath, for a lark, 
 Don't swear when you're driving alone in the 
 dark. 
 
 No sooner had Tiggs let that naughty word slip, 
 And touch' d up the mare with a cut of his whip, 
 Tlian she stumbled and plunged ; tried her footing to 
 
 keep; 
 Slipp'd again, and then tumbled down " all of a 
 
 heap." 
 
 Tiggs was shot from his seat, 
 But not on to his feet ; 
 For " head over tip" he was pitching right out, 
 When he caught the mare's tail, which was whisking 
 
 about, 
 And, grasping it tightly, he held himself there. 
 His head hanging down, and his heels in the air,
 
 LIFE OF MR. TlOaS. 189 
 
 "Wliile the splash-board afforded support in tlie middle. 
 
 'Twas an odd sort of fix ; 
 
 But, in spite of his kicks, 
 How to make his escape seem'd a terrible riddle ; 
 And the mare, who kept jerking about on the ground, 
 (paused Tiggs to ejaculate many a sound — 
 >' Not a cry, or a groan, but half-grunt and half-choke, 
 
 Like what is produced. 
 
 If yon 're ever induced 
 
 To give a stout gentleman's ribs a smart poke. 
 A. 
 
 In this awkward dilemma five minutes, or fewer, 
 Had pass'd, and poor Tiggs had got bluer and bluer — 
 In fact, it was really becoming no fun — 
 When two men, with a lantern, came up at a run ; 
 And as they drew near 
 They thought it look'd queer 
 Por a man to appear 
 Attempting such very uncommon gj'mnastic 
 Positions, or doing so strange a " pose plastifine.'''' 
 
 " Hollo ! here 's a lark ! Here, old shaver, I say, 
 Do you always, when travelling, ride that 'ere ^vay ?" 
 Tiggs gave a faint grunt, and cried, " Save me, oh ! 
 
 pray ! " 
 " lu course we will. Now, then, Jim, lend us your fins, 
 And let's shove the old gemman on to his pins. 
 Now, give a good pidl — now, another like tliat. 
 My eye ! he's a weighty un — ain't he just fat ?"
 
 190 AN EPISODE IN THE 
 
 With a tug, and a push, and a trifle of pain, 
 Poor Tiggs is set once on his footing again; 
 And the state that he felt in I almost might term a 
 
 Sensation of joy. 
 
 Without any alloy, 
 As he got back his breath, and he felt terra firma; 
 
 And then his first care 
 
 Was to look to the mare ; 
 But she sprang up all right, without grazing a hair. 
 And next all his gratitude seem'd to awaken, 
 
 As he dived in his breeches 
 
 Pocket for his riches, 
 To pay the good men who'd been "saving his 
 
 bacon." 
 The men gave the wink ; and said one, with a grin, 
 " Oh, do n't take the trouble to count out the tin. 
 We'd rather have all. Hand us over the bag. 
 We couldn't take less, 'pon my soul — not a mag. 
 And open that drivin'-box, too — and make haste — 
 'Cos 1 don't want to smash it — I can't a-bear 
 waste." 
 
 Oh, ill-fated day ! 
 Just conceive the dismay, 
 And the cry of despair 
 That burst in the air, 
 As poor Timothy Tiggs 
 Exolaim'd, " Dash my wigs ! 
 Ton dorCt mean to say, you're a couple of prig=;!"
 
 LIFE OF ME. TIGG9. 191 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Tip us the key and the ptis* 
 It's a providence (ain't it ?) you fell in with us. 
 We cleans a chap out, p'r'aps; but then we shows 
 
 mercy ; 
 While some on 'em always does just wisey-wersey." 
 
 Poor Timothy sigh'd. 
 
 'Twas in vain that he tried 
 To soften the hearts of the men by his side. 
 They emptied the box, took the cash that was in it ; 
 Purse, snuffbox, and watch — all were gone in a minute. 
 They unharness'd the mare, sent her off with a switch 
 Of the whip, and then shoved the gig into a ditch. 
 
 " Now, old gemman, good night ; 
 
 And don't bear us no spite. 
 Eemember you icas in a precious queer plight ; 
 And 'twas me and my pal here that set you all right." 
 And thus having spoken, Jim vanish'd from sight. 
 ****** 
 
 Now, a common is all very well in its way — 
 
 When the sun's shining bright, on a fine summer's 
 
 day; 
 And donkeys are grazing, and children at play ; 
 Or, perhaps, when you're taking a drive in a " shay ;" 
 But to walk there alone, on a cold winter's night — 
 No moon and no stars out, to show you a light ; 
 Not a sound in the air, not a creature in sight ; 
 * Que}-y : Purse?— Peintee's Devil.
 
 192 AT! EPISODE IN THE 
 
 And to think of jour supper that's ready in town, 
 And the nice bit of beef that's already done brown ! 
 And your wife, who keeps saying, " How late!" and 
 
 "Dear me!" 
 Or, " I wonder wherever on earth he can be !" 
 If you don't think this really a case of distress, 
 Just try, sir, yourself how you like such a mess. 
 For my part, I cannot conceive, I confess, 
 A more fearful position, ashore or afloat, 
 Next to finding yourself in a " halfpenny boat." 
 
 Tiggs turn'd to the right, and he turn'd to the left. 
 
 Like an innocent babe of its mother bereft ; 
 
 So completely surprise had his senses o'ermaster'd : 
 
 Or, as he said, " he felt himself so flabbergaster'd." 
 
 Then he shuffled along at the best of his speed. 
 
 Which wasn't the swiftest of paces, indeed. 
 
 As to which was the right way he hadn't the least 
 
 Conception in life — north or south, west or east. 
 
 What's that? It's a light! 
 
 Oh ! glorious sight ! 
 What pen shall describe the delight that he feels ? 
 It's a couple of lamps. There's the rattle of wheels ! 
 " It's a shay. No, it ain't. It's a coach — it's the 
 
 mail. 
 By Jingo, it is ! Won't I give her a hail ! 
 
 What a deuce of a pace ! 
 
 It's a regular race.
 
 LIFE OF MB. TIGGS. 193 
 
 They're getting quite near — 
 They're coming — they're here." 
 And Tiggs beUow'd out, " Stop !" 
 Not a bit of it — pop 
 "Went a pistol, and whiz 
 Went a bullet an inch or two off from his phiz; 
 And crack went the whip, and away went "the greys," 
 And Tiggs was left gaping in fear and amaze ! 
 
 " What on earth can it mean ? Why, that guard must 
 
 be mad ! 
 He very near hit me — oh, dear ! if he had ! " 
 The thought was too tender — he dried up the tear ; 
 And rage fill'd the heart that had yielded to fear. 
 " To shoot at me — Tiggs ! How the deuce could he 
 
 dare? 
 I '11 pull up that rascal before the Lord Mayor." 
 Stop a bit, Mr. Tiggs — recollect you're not there ; 
 And, as Mrs. Glasse says, you must first " catch your 
 
 hare." 
 And must he again, then, (oh, horrible plight !) 
 Keep shuffling along in this very dark night — 
 Not a sound in the air, not a creature in sight ? 
 
 'No! hark to that soimd like the screech-owl's cry, 
 
 Or the dying shriek that's borne on high 
 
 Erom some tortured wretch iu his agony ! 
 
 On his startled ear 
 
 Strikes that sound of fear ; 
 
 And nearer it comes, and still more near. 
 
 o
 
 194 AN EPISODE IN THE 
 
 AYhat grasps he now ? 'Tis the gallows tree! 
 
 And he raises his eyes aloft to see — 
 ("While the sight makes the blood trickle cold in his 
 
 veins) — ' 
 A gentleman's body there, hanging in chains ! 
 
 Away and away — 
 
 Now catch him who may — 
 As he dashes along over ditches and stones, 
 At the risk of his neck, at the risk of his bones. 
 
 On, onward he goes. 
 
 And he puifs and he blows ; 
 And he catches his foot, and he's down on his nose ; 
 But he's up in a moment, and running as fast, 
 Till he comes to a wall — and that stops him, at last. 
 And is it a wall ? Tes, the wall of an inn ; 
 And he knocks at the door, and he's quickly let in 
 (Tumbling over a bucket, and grazing his shin); 
 While he cries, in a way that the landlord thinks odd, 
 " Quick, quick ! bolt the door 1 He can't catch me, 
 thank God!" 
 
 In a few minutes more, when he gets back his breath, 
 And feels quite assured that he has escaped death. 
 He gives his new landlord the list of his woes — 
 Bobbers, mail-coach, and gallows, and fall on his nose ; 
 While the landlord, who hears the whole string of 
 
 mishaps. 
 Declares him "the wery unluckiest of chaps."
 
 LIFE OF MR. TI&GS. 195 
 
 The minutes flew by ; and witli drauglits of strong beer, 
 
 His strength to recruit and his spirits to cheer, 
 
 Tiggs began to consider it not so unpleasant 
 
 To sup at an alehouse, as he did at present ; 
 
 Till at length, as the beer seem'd to mount to his head, 
 
 The landlord just mildly suggested " a bed." 
 
 Now, of all the delights of terrestrial birth 
 
 * (And there's many a pleasant thing still upon earth; 
 For I really do vote it a piece of insanity 
 
 ■ To turn up your nose, and cry, "All things are 
 
 vanity!") 
 
 Wlien you come off a journey the greatest of treats 
 
 Is a nice feather bed, and a pair of clean sheets ; 
 
 And Tiggs thought the same as he gazed at the bed 
 
 In the nice little room where the landlord had led 
 
 His guest ; and, dismissing his grief for a time. 
 
 He smiled, rubb'd his hands, and observed, " This is 
 
 prime!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 Though I love to relate each event witli precision, 
 I find I'm compell'd here to make an elision. 
 Assign any reason your fancy may please, 
 And imagine my hero alone, en chemise, 
 Just tying his handkerchief over his head 
 By way of a nightcap, and stepping in bed. 
 
 Eat-tat-tat-tap ! 
 
 At the street-door's a rap. 
 And voices are calling, " Now, then, old chap !" 
 
 o 2
 
 ]93 AK EPISODE IN THE 
 
 The landlord goes down, and lets in a large party ; 
 And one of tbeui cries out, " How are you, my hearty ? " 
 
 But stop — look here ! 
 "What is there to fear ? 
 Why is it tlwit Tiggs looks so iincommonly queer ? 
 What's that strange look of horror, that glance of 
 
 affright ? 
 What makes his knees knock, and his hair stand 
 
 upright ? 
 It's that voice ! — it's the voice of that terrible Jim ! 
 And heedless of grammar, Tiggs mutter'd, " It's Mm /" 
 
 Away fly the fumes of the beer from his head ; 
 Away go all thoughts of enjoying his bed. 
 Oh ! what shall he do ? And, oh ! where shall he go ? 
 He can't stay where he is ; and he daren't go below ; 
 Or that Jim and his horrid companions will bag him ; 
 And when they've once caught him, they'll certainly 
 scrag him ! 
 
 How he quakes, and he shakes ! And he lists to each 
 
 sound ; 
 But " Jolly companions," and " Pass the jug round," 
 Are all that he hears. He's a little less flurried ; 
 And the thumps of his heart are less loud, and less 
 
 hurried ; 
 Till he ventures to hope, 'midst the noise and the din, 
 That the landlord won't tell who's upstairs in the inn.
 
 LIFE OF ME. TIGGS, 197 
 
 But hark! There's a pause. Are tliey silent ? Oh, 
 
 no; 
 But they're talking in whispers so earnest and low, 
 That it's clear that there's something uncommon 
 
 "the go." 
 It's some grave consultation — it must be about 
 Himself, the poor victim — there can't be a doubt. 
 He opens the door, and he takes a peep out. 
 
 It's no use to stand quaking and shaking with fear; 
 It's no use to stay there — not a word can he hear ; 
 So he plucks up some spirit, and down stairs he 
 
 goes, 
 Gently treading each step with the tips of his toes. 
 How they creak' d as he went! Well, no matter; 
 
 they're past; 
 And he's got to the door of the parlour at last. 
 He peeps through the keyhole, and there sees the 
 
 grim, 
 Dark, big- whisk er'd face of that terrible Jim ; 
 And he hears aU they say ; and they 're talking of him i 
 
 Says one, " That's all true ; 
 
 But, between me and you. 
 This here is a job I should not like to do. 
 I ainH one of them coves as'U try to shirk workiu' — 
 I'll take a chap's purse ; but I can't a-bear burkin'." 
 
 But Jim, wlio display'd 
 
 A knife with a blade 
 As long as e'er Bogers or Underwood made,
 
 198 AN EPISODE IN THE 
 
 Said, " I tell ye, look here, it ain't no use a-preachin', 
 I know this here cove '11 be goin' and peachin'. 
 JIere''s the right sort of thing — Jicre's the razor to 
 
 shave him ; 
 A good dose of this — 't ain't the doctor '11 save him. 
 It'll send the fat codger to Old Nick, or furder — " 
 Tiggs rush'd from the keyhole, and bellow'd out 
 
 "Murder!" 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 » 
 
 " Wake up, dearest Timothy. Gracious ! dear me ! " 
 Cried a lady in bed, and en honjiet de niiit, 
 "While shaking her husband — our friend, Mr. T. 
 "What's the matter, dear Timothy? What can it 
 
 be?" 
 " Oh ! murder !" cried Tiggs again. " Mur — Eh ? 
 
 HoUo ! 
 What ! — in bed — and with you ? WTiat a very rimi 
 
 go!" 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. T., 
 You are in bed with me," 
 Cried the lady, displaj'ing a touch of esprit. 
 "And I'd much like to know, Sir — I should, 'pon my 
 
 life— 
 Wlio else should be here but your own lawful wife ?" 
 " Why, that murderous Jim, with his horrid big knife !" 
 " That who ?" cried the lady. " It's all a mistake," 
 Answer'd Tiggs. " Don't you see that I wasn't awake ?
 
 LIFE OP ME. TIGGS. 199 
 
 I dreamt I was doom'd, like a lamb, to tlie slaughter ; 
 And that, I suppose, made me sing out for quarter." 
 
 The lady was soften' d. " Well, Timothy, dear, 
 
 I dare say," she said, "it was only the beer; 
 
 Or you drank too much brandy; or p'r'aps 'twas the 
 
 pipe." 
 " Now, none of that nonsense," cried Tiggs. " ' T was 
 
 the tripe : 
 " It always lies heavy, I told you before ; 
 But if I don't eat it, you tease and you bore. 
 Now, I'm bless 'd if I ever will touch a bit more." 
 
 Mrs. T. gave a shrug, 
 
 Mr. T. gave a tug 
 At his nightcap, and both settled down in a snore. 
 
 Then up full soon 
 
 Eose the silver moon ; 
 And her light, through the casement streaming fair, 
 
 Shed a gentle ray, 
 
 Till the break of day. 
 On that couple of Tiggses dreaming there ! 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 If you're fond of good liquor that makes the heart 
 
 merry, 
 And something more "stiff" than port, claret, or 
 
 sherry,
 
 200 AN EPISODE, ETC. 
 
 Never drink eatt-de-vie — it's the fiend, when it's in a 
 
 man; 
 But try Irish whiskey — the "LL" of Kinnahan. 
 Now, supper's a thing on which to advise 
 Is a delicate point ; still, I think it's more wise 
 Not to eat one at all, if you find that it lies 
 Like a weight on your chest, and you dream of those 
 
 fogies 
 Whom poets name "spirits," and children call "bogies." 
 But shoidd you e'er chance to be " keeping it up," 
 And your friends for the night are determined to sup, 
 And won't let you ofi" without doing the same, 
 Just take something light — I should recommend 
 
 game — 
 A slice of cold pheasant, a woodcock, or snipe ; 
 But, ah ; think of Tiggs, and don't sup upon tripe !
 
 201 
 
 THE EARBER OF AYIGNON 
 
 ^ Eegftt^ of Faucluse. 
 
 In the days that we live in, these dull, prosy days, 
 When we're chary alike of our cash and our praise, 
 
 'Twould puzzle to say 
 
 In what round-about way 
 Certain epithets came to be tack'd to each nation, 
 Intended to be the correct designation 
 Of its character, moral, political, physical — 
 Unless we pronounce them in some cases " quizzical." 
 
 Take England — dear England — good, sensible, solid, 
 Extremely upright, but a trifle too stolid, 
 Where a joke is at all times suspected of treason. 
 And the idol we bow to is nothing but Ecason — 
 Where a smile's half a sneer, and a laugh's not 'polite, 
 And a pun is a thing to regard with affright — 
 Say, is it not very ridiculous — very — 
 To christen dear, heavy, old Albion, " Merry ? "
 
 202 
 
 THE BAKBEE OF AVIGNON". 
 
 And then take our neighbour, mercurial France — 
 The land of pun, epigram, satire, and dance — 
 Which the title we claim would more properly grace, 
 And see what a false one it has in its place ! 
 I have been through the land, from Boulogne to 
 
 Marseilles, 
 I have seen all its rivers, hiUs, forests, and vales, 
 And, barring some sweet little spot, here and there, 
 Like a rose in a desert — I'm ready to swear, 
 From Dan to Beersheba all's ugly and bare ; • 
 
 Tet this is the land that we christen " La Belle," 
 Though ivliy, a whole college of wits couldn't tell. 
 Unless they fell back on the stale inuendo, 
 Of "lucus (see Lexicon) a non lucendo." 
 
 But France has its beauties : the plains of Vaucluse 
 Have spots that a poet or painter might choose 
 For his pen or his pencil — of course you're aware. 
 That the fountain of Laura and Petrarch is there — 
 (I saw it, and sigh'd as I thought of the pair.)^ 
 I had left the cold skies of our much beloved isle. 
 To gaze upon Italy's warm ones awhile, 
 And I'd chosen my route by the way of Marseille — 
 As far down as Lyons I did it by rail, 
 And thence on to Chalons-sur-Saone by mail — 
 Malle ^oste, as they call it — half waggon, half chaise — 
 Within which I once spent five nights and four days 
 In the coldest of winters, cramp' d, famish' d, and froze. 
 Twice cliased by the wolves and once buried in snows,
 
 THE BAEBEE OF ATIGKON. 203 
 
 And at last was dragg'd out in a state of nonentity, 
 
 So stiff and so blue 
 
 That I hardly weU knew 
 If I ought to believe in my very identity. 
 
 Arriving however at Chalons-sur-Saone, 
 I stepp'don a steamer and slipp'd down the Ehone, 
 At a deuce of a pace, though my " vessel of vapour " 
 Was so nasty and close I was glad to escape her, 
 Aiid form'd, as I did so, the strongest opinion 
 Of the excellent change 'tis to land at Avignon. 
 
 AU the world knows the name 
 
 Of Avignon — its fame 
 As the place where the rival Popes set up their claim. 
 
 Holding Eome at defiance, 
 
 And placing reliance 
 On other than merely a Holy Alliance. 
 
 "Well, ling'ring awhile in the famous old city, 
 Which really deserves to be meution'd as pretty, 
 I pick'd up by chance — hoic, I needn't here state — 
 The legend ray muse is about to relate. 
 And whatever the manner in which you receive it, 
 Farole d'honneur, uiyseif, I devoutly believe it ; 
 Though you'd doubtless admire it and think of it better 
 If you'd read it, as I, in Provencal black letter. 
 
 In ancient days of warriors brave 
 And pious monks and scholars grave.
 
 204 THE BA.EBER OF AYIGNON, 
 
 "When lords were really men of might 
 
 And did their will for wrong or right, 
 
 While peasants spent a life of toil 
 
 Like other cattle of the soil, 
 
 There lived — a thing that 's very rare 
 
 To find alive now any where — 
 
 An honest man ! a harber known 
 
 To lord and peasant : one who'd grown 
 
 To reputation such as few 
 
 Can ever know, or ever knew ; 
 
 And yet without a single word 
 
 From any single mortal heard 
 
 In question of his well-earn' d fame. 
 
 His heart was spotless as his name, 
 
 His hands were pure as snow, or rather, 
 
 As clean as was his matchless lather. 
 
 The name of this barber was Pierre le Faiseur, 
 An euphonious name for a knight of the razor ; 
 But as Pierre is merely the Gallic for Peter, 
 AVe'll call him by that name— the French may be 
 sweeter ; 
 
 But my muse when, in nautical language, she " cracks 
 
 on 
 All sail " might discover it rather a tax on 
 Her powers to make it fit in with her Saxon. 
 
 An industrious fellow was Peter, too : 
 He stuck to his business as few men do.
 
 THE BARBEE OE ATIGNOJiT. 205 
 
 Early and late in his smart little shop 
 "Was Peter with basin, and razor, and strop, 
 Baspiog away at each well-bristled chin, 
 Guiding the steel o'er the tender skin, 
 But never by accident slipping it in ; 
 And many both high and low were those 
 "Whom Peter took day after day by the nose. 
 And he shaved, and talk'd, and joked, and 
 
 laugh' d. 
 And was quizz'd, and teazed, and jeer'd, and 
 
 chaff' d, 
 Till people declared it was monstrous queer 
 
 he 
 Never appear' d to be dull or weary ; 
 Eor, soaping, lathering, shaving, sti'apping, 
 Nobody ever caught Peter napping. 
 
 Knightly men and gay gallants — 
 Men of the noblest names in France, 
 Men of great wealth and high renown. 
 Bishops and priests of the shaven crown. 
 Merchants and traders, and doctors of law, 
 Doctors of physic — the world never saw 
 Such a conglomeration 
 Of men of each station 
 Then known in the nation, 
 That submitted their chins for the harvest there 
 
 growing, 
 To be reap'd by this master of hairy-crop-mowing.
 
 206 THE BAEBEE OF AVIGNOIT. 
 
 "We've been recently told 
 
 By one, Herr Berthold,* 
 That a man, when he comes to be fifty years old, 
 
 In case he begin 
 
 To scrape at his chin 
 At twenty, when beards are but downy and thin, 
 
 "Will have cut in that space 
 
 Of time off his face 
 Eighteen feet and nine inches of hair from each place ! 
 
 So that, Peter, who every day in the year 
 Had some thirty, at least, of such places to shear. 
 Must have shaved in his lifetime, (the reckoning's fair,) 
 Full two hundred yards of men's chin-growing hair. 
 
 'Twas in the month of dark December 
 (The year precise I don't remember) 
 That Peter sat one gloomy morn 
 Looking, for Peter, quite forlorn, 
 "With no one waiting to be shorn. 
 Of all his patrons not a soul 
 Had come that day — 'twas very droll. 
 
 So Peter stropp'd, and Peter ground 
 His razors one by one all round, 
 And put such edges on the steel 
 As were miraculous to feel ; 
 
 * Vide a recent number of Miiller's " Archires fiir Anat : und 
 Physiologie."
 
 THE BAEBEU OP ATIGTfON. 207 
 
 And then he ground and stropp'd once more, 
 And made them duller than before ; 
 And then again he made them keen 
 Enough to shave a hedgehog clean. 
 
 Nine o'clock, ten, and eleven went by, 
 Nobody came, and he couldn't tell whj ; 
 None of his customers, rich or poor, 
 Knock'd on that morn at the barber's door. 
 So Peter got nervous, now shufSed his feet. 
 Now folded his arms and leant back in his seat, 
 Now jump'd on his legs and look'd into the street, 
 Now stood by the brazier — he hadn't a grate — 
 Now stalk' d up and down at a deuce of a rate, 
 Now muttered mon Dieu ! 
 Now swore ventre hleu ! 
 " Why, au nom du Diable, have I nothing to do ? 
 Have the people gone mad? Cest effrayant tC est- 
 
 ce pas, eh ? 
 St. Denis ! Will nobody come to be rase?" 
 
 At length there's a customer — such a queer guy! 
 With such a black beard, and with such a black eye ! 
 
 And with such a long nose. 
 
 And such short, stumpy toes. 
 And such odd-looking legs in his flame-colour'd hoPC ! 
 
 And he stalk'd along and he seized a chair. 
 And he took his seat with a lofty air,
 
 208 THE BAEBEE OP ATIGNON". 
 
 And, touclilng his bearded chin the while, 
 He said, in a most commanding style — 
 Of which every action seem'd to savour — 
 " Come here and rasp off this, old shaver ! " 
 Then Peter made him his lowest bow. 
 And trembled, he knew not why or how ; 
 And he took a napkin clean and white, 
 And tuck'd it round his neck all right, 
 And he stirr'd the lather, which froth' d away 
 Like a pot of beer or a creme soufflee. 
 
 And then Peter lather' d away " with a wiU," 
 
 Determined to show his professional skill 
 
 To the stranger, who struck him as certainly some 
 
 one, 
 Though his eye was so black and his nose such a 
 
 rum one. 
 
 And then, with a barber-like sweep of the hand, 
 
 As one who possesses a perfect command 
 
 Of his weapon, be takes his first slice at the 
 
 spread 
 Of dingy black stubble awaiting his blade. 
 But conceive his surprise ! 
 Can he trust to his eyes ? 
 The dingy black stubble his razor defies ! 
 Not a hair of it falls — it stands stifi" as a block, 
 And the edge of his razor receives such a shock 
 As if he'd been hacking away at a rock !
 
 THE BAEBER OP AVIGNON. 200 
 
 Peter trembled and stared, 
 
 Look'd horribly scared, 
 Tried to "make out" the stranger as much as he 
 dared ; 
 
 But 'twas useless to try 
 
 For the stranger's black eye 
 A perfect unconsciousness seemed to imply. 
 As he said, in a voice which was husky and gruff: 
 " What the deuce are you waiting for — eh, you old 
 muff?" 
 
 Peter took a fresh razor, and gave it a turn 
 
 On the strop, heel to point — it's not easy to learn 
 
 How to do it with skill — then he spread with great care 
 
 A fresh stock of froth on the dingy black hair. 
 
 And oncemore(thoughheownshewas"rayther afeard") 
 
 Took a skilful and elegant sweep at the beard. 
 
 " The Devil!" he cries in a horrible fright. 
 As again the same puzzle appears to his sight. 
 
 The beard is still there. 
 
 All unchanged — not a hair 
 Has been cut — 'twas enough any barber to scare! 
 
 " The Devil!" in fear and amazement he cries — 
 
 The stranger looks up in disgusted surprise — 
 
 "The Devil!" shouts Peter; the stranger cries 
 
 " Mort-bleu : 
 Hold your tongue, or I'll make you, you stupid old 
 
 bore, you. 
 
 p
 
 210 THE BAEBEB OT ATIGKOW. 
 
 Is the fellow gone cracked with his horrible clatter ? 
 Or what in Beelzebub's name is the matter ?" 
 
 " My razor!" cries Peter, "your beard it won't cut — 
 
 It's of marble, of adamant, iron — " " Tut — tut," 
 
 Says the stranger ; " there, stop your nonsensical jaw — 
 
 Tour razor's a bad one — as dull as a saw. 
 
 My beard is as soft as the down on the wing 
 
 Of an insect. Here, hand me that rusty old thing, 
 
 Til soon make it cut;" and he seized on the blade, 
 
 And having its edge most artistic'ly laid 
 
 On the palm of his hand, drew it sharply — one — two — 
 
 And then handed it back, saying, " There, that'U do." 
 
 Peter took back the blade, held it close to the light, 
 'Twas matchless in edge and 'twas wondrously bright, 
 But how it was done he did nothing but wonder and 
 Puzzle — 'twas something he couldn't quite understand. 
 However, he stirr'd up the lather and smeai-'d 
 Once more the whole crop of the dingy black beard. 
 And then, taking a barber-like sweep as before, 
 His hands were both suddenly cover'd with gore ! 
 He had cut off the head, and it roll'd on the floor ! ! 
 Peter stagger'd back terror-struck, crying, " Oh lor ! ! ! " 
 
 The news through the city was quickly spread 
 How Peter had cut off the stranger's head. 
 And how his hands with blood were red, 
 And how the stranger was really dead ;
 
 THE BARBEE OF AVIGNON. 211 
 
 "Whicli latter event seem'd probably true, 
 Since ev'ry one own'd tbat nobody knew 
 A man to survive that operation — 
 Videlicet, capital amputation. 
 
 And the story, first told with grave precision, 
 
 Gain'd every moment some fresh addition. 
 
 Till Peter at length was pronounced a thief, 
 
 A brigand, a monster beyond belief — 
 
 A fellow who'd murder' d a dozen before, 
 
 Eobb'd widows and orphans and priests by the 
 
 score — 
 Cribb'd the plate of the Church that the faithful 
 
 had brought her, 
 Stripp'd corpses in cofiins, and "boned" holy water! 
 
 Amidst the hubbub it so befel 
 That the rumour reach' d a friar's cell. 
 'Twas Father Anthony's cell it reach' d — 
 As worthy a friar as ever preach' d ; 
 But he didn't preach as most men do, 
 For he put his preaching in practice too. 
 In which he resembled miglity few. 
 And Father Anthony's head was bare 
 On the top of the crown, for a friar's hair 
 Is never allow' d to grow up there ; 
 And of all the friars in Avignon, 
 Or in all Vaucluse, there wasn't one 
 Whose little bald patch more brightly shone. 
 
 p2
 
 212 Tin; barbee of atignon. 
 
 For Father Anthony daily went 
 
 To Peter's shop, or for Peter sent, 
 
 And wherever the glimpse of a hair was seen, 
 
 The barber soap'd it and shaved it clean ; 
 
 And so from shaving his holy crown 
 
 There wasn't a layman in all the town 
 
 So dearly loved as this man of lather 
 
 "Was loved by this excellent ghostly father. 
 
 "When Pather Anthony heard the noise — 
 
 The shouts of men, the squeaks of boys, 
 
 The cries of women — an awful yelling. 
 
 Of popular indignation telling, 
 
 The Father Anthony rubb'd his nose, 
 
 And up from his books he slowly rose. 
 
 And went to the window and said, " How now ? 
 
 I greatly marvel what's the row." 
 
 So Father Anthony closed his book, 
 
 And opened his door and straightway took 
 
 His way to the street, 
 
 In hopes to meet 
 "With some one who'd give him a proper notion 
 Of the meaning of all this strange commotion. 
 
 When Father Anthony's form appeared, 
 The people bowed, and the people cheered ; 
 For great was the saintly Father's fame, 
 And highly respected his holy name.
 
 THE BAEBEE. OF AVIGNON. 213 
 
 And soon doth the holy Father hear 
 Of Peter's deed of blood and fear, 
 And he draws his hand across his forehead, 
 And cries, " Oh dear! how verj horrid." 
 
 And then, again, with a sudden thought, 
 Some bright idea his mind had caught — 
 He cries, " Ha, ha ! I smell a rat, ho ! 
 Perhaps, Master lsick,i/oit'\e started that go — 
 We'll very soon give you tit-for-tat, though." 
 
 So off he starts — make way, make way, 
 Por the holy Father, good people, pray. 
 ' Tis Father Anthony seeks the place 
 Where the murder's done, and he walks apace, 
 Though he's fat in body, and scant of wind. 
 And round before, and round behind, 
 With rubicant cheeks, and a couple of chins. 
 And remarkably stumpy and sliort in the pins ; 
 Now the state of his mind is no longer quiescent, 
 He cares not a rap, though he be deliquescent. * 
 
 At length he reaches the barber's dwelling, 
 Round which the motley crowd is swelling; 
 And he enters the door, and the first thiug he 
 
 sees 
 Is Peter in fetters, and down on his knees — 
 Protesting his innocence, vowing, declaring, 
 By every saint in the calendar swearing, 
 * " Dusty and deliquescent." — Feter Plymlej/'s Letters.
 
 214 THE BAKBER OF AYIGNOlSr. 
 
 " That it wasn't lie did it — 'twas done instan- 
 taneous, 
 
 The head tumbled off of itself, quite spon- 
 taneous." 
 
 And there by his side stands Policeman K, 
 "Who tells him "he'd better not talk in that way; 
 If he has any 'pluck,' he'd advise him to 
 
 show it. 
 And as for that 'gammon,' he'd better just 
 
 stow it," 
 And there lies the body with no head upon it. 
 And the priest, as he sees it — his eyes couldn't 
 
 shun it — 
 Cries " Peter ! oh, Peter, you have been and 
 
 done it!" 
 
 Then up rose Peter, and told his tale — . 
 
 The truth to the letter — nor did he fail 
 
 To confess how in passion, amazement, and fright. 
 
 He had call'd on Old Nick, which he knew wasn't 
 
 right; 
 How his razors were tum'd by the dingy black crop ; 
 How the dead man had used his own hand for a strop ; 
 How the edge with two rubs had grown suddenly 
 
 keen — 
 Such an edge as no barber had ever yet seen — 
 (For in those remote times, if the reader will seek, he 
 Wm find that they hadn't the " magic " of Mechi)—
 
 THE BA.RBEE OF AYIG]S"OK. 215 
 
 How the head tumbled off of itself, and tlie rest of it — 
 In fact, in a few words, he made a clean breast of it. 
 
 Nearly every one, 
 
 When Peter had done, 
 Shook his head in disgust at the yarn he had spun. 
 And talked of a " tale of a cock and a bull," 
 And hoped his reward would be speedy and full. 
 But the Father Anthony slowly said, 
 As he laid his finger on Peter's head, 
 " This man hath spoken truth, good folks ; 
 This murder is only Satan's hoax!" 
 
 Now all look queer, 
 
 "With surprise and fear. 
 At the thought of the Evil One being so near ; 
 
 For every one knows 
 
 Father Anthony's nose 
 Can smell out the Devil wherever he goes ; 
 And Policeman K, so brave just now, 
 Feels shaky and dizzy — he don't know how. 
 
 Father Anthony took 
 
 From his pocket a book, 
 A neat little volume of clerical look, 
 
 And a phial cork'd tight. 
 
 Which appear' d to the sight 
 To be filled with Geneva, or something as 
 white ;
 
 216 THE BAEBEE OF ATIGNON. 
 
 But 'twas plain holy water, in all its bright 
 
 purity, 
 Which the priest always carried for ghostly 
 
 security. 
 
 He open'd his hook, the cork he drew, 
 He read some Latin, and quickly threw 
 The phial's contents on the corpse of the dead, 
 Where the neck had been sever'd away from 
 the head. 
 
 With a "phiz," and a "hiss," and a sulphurous 
 
 smell. 
 And a howl like the cry of a demon from hell, 
 Up jumped the head, up jumped the trunk, 
 And joined together, and faced the monk — 
 And the multitude thought they "must have 
 
 sunk." 
 
 And the Evil One laughed, " Ho ! ho ! ho ! ho !" 
 But the Father Anthony raised his toe, 
 
 And let fly whack 
 
 At the end of his back. 
 That the Devil was kick'd to the deuce in a crack. 
 
 But strange to relate, as he twisted about. 
 His long fork'd tail popp'd suddenly out 
 From the tip of his spine, and the sharp point 
 prick' d
 
 THE BAEBEE OF AYIGNON. 217 
 
 Father Anthony's toe at the moment he kick'd ; 
 And the Father, thenceforward, the chronicle says, 
 "Was lame of one leg for the rest of his days ! 
 
 Moral. 
 
 He that reads with his eyes, and don't read with his 
 
 mind, 
 Sees the story, but can't see the moral behind. 
 May be said to be painfully, mentally blind. 
 To suppose that a writer like me — of my gravity — 
 Would string verse on verse for mere metrical suavity, 
 A story alone — in real purpose a cavity — 
 Is t' accuse me of something like downright depravity. 
 
 My muse is most moral: she mayn't be straight-laced. 
 She considers such costume a sign of bad taste, 
 And that Virtue in whalebone is Yii-tue misplaced ; 
 But she does teach a lesson whene'er she discourses — 
 Of the stories she tells you the genuine source is 
 Her vrish to instruct in the purest morality. 
 Sever Virtue from Vice, and from Falsehood, Eeality. 
 
 Now turn to her legend : the first thing she teaches, 
 As plainly as any dull parson that preaches — 
 Though she does it, of course, in her own easy fashion — 
 Is never to use naughty words in a passion. 
 The warning is good : if you choose to defy it, 
 Take care of your elbow — the devil is by it.
 
 218 THE BAEBEE OF AVIGNON. 
 
 Her story a lesson still graver lurks under — 
 Oh, would she could teU it in accents of thunder ! 
 Dame Justice — that isn't your name, though you crib 
 
 it— 
 Don't be ia such haste with your hangman and gibbet : 
 Tou point to the blood by the criminal spilt, 
 But are you quite satisfied, sure^ of his guilt ? 
 Did you never, good madam, since hanging began. 
 Find out your mistake — that you'd hang'd the wrong 
 
 man ? 
 "Who then was the victim ? — the murderer, who ? 
 "Won't the cap of the latter precisely fit you ? 
 "When the guiltless are sacrificed thus to your fury, 
 Ought you not, in aU fairness, to hang judge and jury ? 
 Oh, Dame ! your excuses are feeble and hollow, 
 Cease, henceforth, your bloodthirsty courses to follow — 
 "VYash the stains from your hands, and pin tMs to your 
 
 tail — 
 Death's blow is unerring — man's judgment is frail I
 
 219 
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 a iLattcr=tJa2 ILcgcnti. 
 
 IIuEEAH and liurrah ! for the golden age ! 
 Fling aside the old heathen philosopher's page — 
 Never heed what he tells you — there isn't a grain 
 Of genuine truth in his " golden reign." 
 
 For the age of gold 
 
 Was not of old ; 
 As the dreaming hard-chronicler's lay hath told. 
 
 But 'tis this one — aye, 
 
 Deny it who may — 
 The true Age of Gold is the present day. 
 
 Let them talk as they will of the good reign of Saturn, 
 When the world was an Eden, and man was a pattern 
 Of probity, temperance, virtue, and purity, 
 Living with lions in friendly security ; 
 Feeding on acorns, and drinking from rivers — 
 Never spoiling digestion, nor damaging livers,
 
 220 THE GOLD-SEEKEE. 
 
 Which so often give proof to us latter-day sinnera 
 How much earthly evil arises from dinners ; 
 And demonstrate how sin may be said to lie bui*ied, or 
 Lurk 'neath the crust of a Fate de Perigord. 
 
 Let them praise such sweet times 
 
 In the softest of rhymes ; 
 
 In eloquence glowing, 
 
 In poetry flowing 
 As smooth as the pellucid streams that they sing of ; 
 Yet now-a-days man as become such a thing of 
 Mere matter-of-fact, that one touch of reality 
 Possesses more charms than the whole ideality 
 Of all the bright thoughts and poetical visions 
 From Homer to Tennyson's latest editions ; 
 And one solid gold guinea in value surpasses 
 Heliconian " draughts " and the " gems" of Parnassus. 
 
 Tes, talk as we may of the charms of romance, 
 
 Art, poetry, painting, they haven't a chance 
 
 'Gainst the metal that holds the wide world in its 
 
 thrall- 
 Before which kings, priests, and philosophers, all 
 The greatest, the highest, the lowliest fall, 
 And — in spite of some sneers at the vileness of dross — 
 Still make it, as Chinamen term it, their joss.* 
 
 * Little deities, hideously ugly, made in porcelain, and wor- 
 shipped by the Chinese.
 
 THE aOLD-SEEKER. 221 
 
 Mr. Peter Macan 
 
 Was a good little man, 
 With a nice little wife, and an income still less, 
 
 While three little brats, 
 
 All as hungry as rats. 
 Soon contrived to make INIr. Macan in a mess. 
 
 Peter lived in the city, and work'd like a horse. 
 For the pay of a pauper, or something still vrorse ; 
 As all the live day-long, and half through the night, 
 He scarce ever ceased for a moment to v^rite. 
 But copied law papers, briefs, parchments, and wills, 
 Deeds, abstracts of title, and Chancery bills ; 
 Pursuing the not very pleasant vocation or 
 Business of drudge to a wealthy law-stationer. 
 
 Driving on the long day through, 
 
 Driving through the night-time too ; 
 
 Up and down for ever, still 
 
 Scraping, scratching, goes his quill. 
 
 Cramp' d and formal, quaint but clear, 
 
 Words on words in lines appear — 
 
 Dry, dull, prozy words, as stiff 
 
 And obsolete themselves as if 
 
 They had no object but to show 
 
 Short, stumpy letters in a row — 
 
 Or, if some meanings lurk'd behind them, 
 
 To puzzle all the world to find them. 
 
 But drive as he might, his perpetual pen, 
 The patientest, meekest, and mildest of men,
 
 222 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 
 
 Poor Peter discover'd that five people's meat 
 Wasn't easily earn'd at a penny per sheet. 
 In fine — though the thing is so vulgar, I feel 
 Quite repugnant to hint it to readers genteel ; 
 But it's really a fact that I can't well conceal — 
 The poor little Macans ev'ry moment got thinner 
 For want of that trifling diurnal, a dinner — 
 At least such a dinner as most of us have in us, 
 And without which the sleekest is apt to grow ravenous 
 
 In vain did Peter toil and toil — 
 The domestic saucepan wouldn't boil 
 For all the fruits of Peter's quill 
 The domestic saucepan couldn't fill. 
 So Peter groan' d, and Peter sigh'd. 
 And Peter's wife look'd sad and cried, 
 And Peter's children almost died : 
 And Peter almost wish'd they might ; 
 For Peter thought (and he was right) 
 'Twere better they should die, and be 
 With Peace and Love eternally, 
 Than live and waste in slow starvation, 
 Outcasts of men 'mid God's creation. 
 
 Worn and wretched, sighing wearily, 
 
 Peter in his garret slept. 
 When over his slumb'ring senses drearily, 
 
 Dreamily, dully, a vision crept.
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 223 
 
 He stood in a vast and open plain, 
 
 In the broad full glare of day, 
 But the sun in his eyes gave Peter pain, 
 
 And he turn'd his head away ; 
 For Peter had seldom seen the sun, 
 
 Except as a Cockney might, 
 And his eyes were weak, and sought to shun, 
 
 Like evil deeds, the light. 
 But still as he bent them to the ground, 
 
 The brightness seem'd no less, 
 Por wherever he turned, and glauc'd around 
 
 "Was glittering loveliness. 
 'Twas not the trees with flowers and fruit, 
 
 Blooming where nature hung them ; 
 'Twas not the river that seem'd to shoot 
 
 Like a silver thread among them ; 
 'Twas neither the azure sky, the glare, 
 
 Nor the foliage around him. 
 That made poor Peter gape and stare, 
 
 And help'd to quite confound him. 
 
 What he saw was a great deal more rare than all 
 
 these — 
 Than rivers and flowers, and sunshine and trees ; 
 'Twas a wonderful sight — just the kind of a sight 
 The heart of old Croesus himself to delight ; 
 For wherever be look'd, 'stead of gravel and mould, 
 Were large golden stones, and tlie dust was of 
 
 gold!
 
 224i THE qold-seekeh. 
 
 Peter wriggled aud turD'd, 
 
 And his honest heart yearn'd 
 To find out the means how the right might be earn'd 
 
 To pick up a few 
 
 Of the stones that thus grew, 
 And cover' d the country as thickly as dew. 
 
 For, though poor as a rat, 
 
 Peter wasn't a " flat," 
 Nor a thief — for he wasn't yet starved into that — 
 
 And though scared beyond measure 
 
 'Twixt wonder and pleasure 
 He guess' d that some mortal must own all this 
 treasure. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" said a voice in Peter's ear, 
 
 "And what's Master Peter doing here ? 
 
 Prime stuflT all this, eh ? "What do you think ? 
 
 No dirty Mosaic — ^just hear the chink ! 
 
 Much better fun to pick tliis up like dust. 
 
 Than work like a horse, and then earn but a crust. 
 
 Why, it's gold, man! it's gold! — he who can't get 
 
 enough 
 In these days, Mr. Peter, he must be a muff. 
 Kn^you^ who 're now working away till you're yellow 
 As even this dust, why, you dull-witted fellow. 
 Don't you pitch pens and paper and ink to the deuce, 
 And pick up this stuff for your own proper use ? 
 It 's much better sport for a man of your age 
 Than copying briefs at a penny a page.
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKEB. 225 
 
 By my soul! I'd as soon be a rat in a sewer, 
 
 As the lean-looking, weasen-faced mortal that you are ! " 
 
 And again the voice cliuckled" ha! ha ! " and "ho! ho!"' 
 
 And Peter felt all in the pleasantest glow, 
 
 And determin'd, though sadly in want of a sack. 
 
 To carry away aU that he could on his back. 
 
 So he reach'd out his hand, and he seiz'd on a lump, 
 And, trying to lift it, a terrible thump 
 Sent his dreams to the winds, nearly shatter'd his head, 
 And convinc'd him he'd tumbled clean out of his bed; 
 While his wife in alarm at the noise gave a shriek. 
 And the little Macans chorussed in with a squeak ; 
 •And the people on each of the stories below 
 Eush'd up in their night-clothes, and wanted to know 
 •" What on earth was the row ? " " Grracious goodness ! " 
 
 and "mercy! " 
 " Was he thumping his wife? Or she him vice versa /" 
 
 As soon as all the row was ended, 
 
 And Peter's broken head was mended, 
 
 Peter proceeded to relate 
 
 What brought him to that awkward state. 
 
 And when at length he gravely told 
 
 About the yeUow heaps of gold. 
 
 His wife, in feminine surprise. 
 
 With sudden interruption cries — 
 
 " Lor' bless me, Peter — lor' now — raly ! 
 
 And did you dream about ' Australy ? '
 
 226 THE GOLD-SEEKEB. 
 
 Wliy SO did I — and little Joe there, 
 I shouldn't wonder if loe go there V^ 
 
 Then Peter most stoutly protested and swore 
 That he'd never once thought of " Australy " before ; 
 Indeed he much doubted if ever he'd heard of it, 
 Or at least if he had, he'd forgot ev'ry word of it, 
 For Peter was always so closely confin'd 
 To his desk, that although he had some sort of mind, 
 Or some substitute for one, it never was fed, 
 And so it's a fact, that he never had read 
 Of Australian gold, and the wonderful tales. 
 Brought month after month, by Australian mails ; 
 Till the great El Dorado, that Ealeigh once dreamt of, 
 Appears a mere trifle, beneath the contempt of 
 The men who ship gold by the hogshead or puncheon, 
 And make their "cool thousand" 'twixt breakfast 
 and luncheon. 
 
 The sky is clear, the breeze is light, 
 And 'tis, forsooth, a glorious sight. 
 To see the proud ship on her way 
 Tossing aside the silvery spray — 
 Spreading her Avhite wings far and wide, 
 And seeming noiselessly to glide 
 Over the tiny waves which rear 
 Their glitt'ring crests, and sparkle near, 
 Like living things of light and love, 
 Eeflecting God and Heav'n above.
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKEB. 227 
 
 The winds are fierce, and dark tlie niglit, 
 
 And oh ! it is a fearful sight 
 
 To see the proud ship reeling on, 
 
 Her sails close-reef d, one spar too gone, 
 
 Heaving and rolling, vainly toiling, 
 
 The angry surges round her boiling — 
 
 Dashing with fury 'gainst her bows, 
 
 And smiting her wdth giant blows. 
 
 As though their prowess would have broke 
 
 Her mighty beams and ribs of oak. 
 
 She staggers — but still sound and brave 
 
 She meets the wind, and breasts the wave ; 
 
 Though these may foam, and that may roar, 
 
 She floats as gallant as before, 
 
 Till, all the tempest's fury spent, 
 
 The contest's o'er — fresh sails are bent. 
 
 And answering the helm again. 
 
 She speeds her course across the main. 
 
 What a very nice place is an emigrant vessel 
 
 To those who like comfort, and love, too, to mess well! 
 
 Such a charming collection of sounds, scents, and 
 
 sights. 
 Loves, jealousies, rivalries, hatreds, and fights. 
 And all other amusements and daily delights 
 Of some three hundred people all toss'd in a heap 
 With fowls, ducks and geese, pigs, and oxen and sheep 
 Only fancy the chatt'ring, the "rowing," the shrieking, 
 The laughter, the cackliug, the bleating, the squeaking, 
 
 Q 2
 
 1128 THE GOLD-SEEKEE. 
 
 The babies, the women, the stewards, cooks, and sailors, 
 And the landsmen of all sorts, from farmers to tailors. 
 
 Mon Dieuf I'd as soon be the poet of Moses, 
 Deck the Minories out as a garden of roses ; 
 Write Holloway's puffs — almost swallow his pills. 
 And declare that they cure all sublunary ills ; 
 Vow that Nicoll cuts coats like Curlewis, or better. 
 Empty sewers in July, or work for a " sweater" — 
 In short do whatever the soul most abhors. 
 As sail in an emigrant ship from our shores. 
 
 And yet it may be but a matter of taste — 
 
 For when Peter and Peter's wife found themselves 
 
 plac'd 
 In a little square cabin, with plenty of food, 
 They voted the whole affair pleasant and good. 
 They'd a clean bed to lie on, though not over 
 
 spacious — 
 But to note such a trifle, would scarcely be gracious ; 
 Or if ever they chanc'd to revert to such topics. 
 It was only when stifled by heat in the tropics. 
 And then the three little Macans, too, had beds, 
 One under their parents, two over their heads — 
 And if apt to be sea-sick, it wasn't much matter, 
 As they'd plenty of prog, and they daily got fatter. 
 
 A storm w^asn't pleasant — the heaving of ocean 
 Produced in their stomachs a similar motion;
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKER. 229 
 
 Besides beiug shocking, aud scaring tlieir wits, 
 As they fancied the vessel was coming to bits ; 
 But still when the tempest undoubtedly tens over 
 Peter look'd like a hero, and felt a philosopher, 
 Declaring he knew it was nothing at all — 
 Though he shook in his shoes at the name of a squall. 
 
 # 
 
 'Twas a blazing hot day, as the sunlight stream' d 
 
 down 
 On mountain and valley, and country and town. 
 And baked up the earth, and so scorch'd vegetation, 
 Tou might, by a slight stretch of imagination. 
 Have fancied the trees, like the soil that they grew in, 
 Had chang'd to the metal of wealth and of ruin ; 
 Tor in truth 'twas A-Ustralia, the great golden laud, 
 That spread forth its mighty expanse on each hand. 
 And gladden' d the hearts and the eyes of each man 
 On the deck with our friend, Mr. Peter Macan. 
 As their good vessel bore them — they own'd they'd 
 
 been well borne — 
 To the Bay of Port Pliillip, aud anchored off Melbourne. 
 
 And now Mr. Peter Macan and his wife 
 Lead a useful and happy and prosperous life. 
 The three little Macaus, too, have plenty to eat. 
 And no longer consider a dinner a treat. 
 
 As they've one ev'ry day, 
 
 And their parents both say
 
 230 THE GOLD-SEEKEB. 
 
 The consumption of mutton would really be frightful — 
 Except for its cheapness — which makes it delightful. 
 Por Peter now brings home the money so fast, 
 The luck appears almost too pleasant to last ; 
 Yet it will, for he's steady and sober, and sticks 
 To his work like a man, or as he says, " like bricks" — 
 For now that friend Peter thus picks up the money, 
 He's getting facetious, and fancies he's " funny." 
 
 But I've one thing to mention 
 
 By way of prevention 
 Of error — I give you the facts as I find them — 
 
 He didn't, I'm told. 
 
 Go and search for the gold 
 At the "diggings" — hut stayed for what fools left 
 behind them. 
 
 Our lay hath a moral — you doubtless can smell* it, 
 Dear reader — but give me permission to tell it : 
 And then, when you've read it, we really won't quarrel 
 If you do say, "Why just so! of course that's the 
 
 moral." 
 Are you sick of the world ? are you poor ? are you 
 
 trying 
 To live, with a painful sensation of dying 
 Eor want of success ? slowly wasting by inches 
 In poverty's grip — the fell demon that pinches 
 
 * Emunctae naris. — IIohace.
 
 THE GOLD-SEEKEE. 231 
 
 Our souls from our bodies ? Does gloomy Despair, 
 With dull, bloodshot eyes, on your destiny glare ? 
 Snap your fingers at all of them — bid them defiance — 
 On courage and zeal place unbounded reliance. 
 And accept the advice that our lay would disseminate — 
 To pack your portmanteau, and Emigrate, Emigrate !
 
 232 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF RHUDDLAN. 
 
 ^ EestnB of (IMaUs, 
 
 Sib Ponttpool Deagonhead sat on Lis chair, 
 "With a most unmistakable sulk in his air ; 
 His lips were compressed, and his eyebrows were knit, 
 His hair was uncomb'd, and his beard wasn't fit 
 To be worn by a Christian — much less by a kuight — 
 While his clothes hung about in a terrible plight : 
 And he stared at the lire just as if the great logs 
 That crackled and blazed on the hearth's brazen dogs 
 Could have lent him their aid — or at least some relief, 
 From the demon that troubled him — anger or grief. 
 
 Then he'd suddenly turn, and his great oaken seat 
 Would creak with his weight, and he'd stamp with his 
 
 feet, 
 And he'd scratch his rough head, and he'd rub his 
 
 large nose. 
 And he'd deal his own legs such soniferous blows
 
 THE HEIEESS OE KnUDDLAN, 233 
 
 As Tom Cribb might have envied for regular 
 
 "teasers," 
 "Well planted, "one-two," on his enemies' "sneezers." 
 
 In short, as you gazed on Sir Pontypool's visage 
 
 (Which wasn't so very bad-looking for Ms age, 
 
 Tor Time had just pepper'd his head with some 
 
 sprinkles. 
 And scratch' d here and there a few crow's-feet or 
 
 wrinkles,) 
 You could swear that in action, in word, or in thought, 
 
 he 
 Had suffer' d, had done, or had plann'd something 
 
 naughty ; 
 But what it might be you could never be certain, 
 Unless you'd the power to lift up the curtain 
 Which beneficent Nature had hung o'er the portal 
 That leads to that Hades — the heart of a mortal. 
 
 Sir Pontypool Dragonhead's page stood by— 
 A meek-looking youth with a mild-looking eye — 
 So neat and so trim in his blue velvet suit, 
 Embroider'd with gold, and his ringlets to boot, 
 And his very white collar of Brussels point lace 
 Arranged with the utmost perfection of grace, 
 Displaying a throat and a neck soft as down, 
 Where no nasty rough beard had, of course, ever 
 
 grown. 
 That he look'd like Adonis or Cupid array'd — 
 Or a model in wax for the hair-dressing trade.
 
 234 THE HEIEESS OF EHUDDLAN. 
 
 Sir Pontypool turns his bead at last, 
 
 And his fierce, dark eye on the page is cast ; 
 
 And he looks a look of blood and thunder, 
 
 And the page's thin legs are shaking under 
 
 Their pretty don t-name-'ems (whose spacious 
 
 dimensions 
 Might accommodate legs of much greater pre- 
 tensions.) 
 
 " How now, Sir Page !" Sir Pontypool cries, 
 As he knits his brows and rolls his eyes ; 
 " How now, Sir Page ! " and his voice's tone 
 Sounds like the blast of a big trombone. 
 
 The meek-looking page is down on one knee. 
 But never a word respondeth he. 
 And he hands up a great, long, awkward letter 
 (A flunkey in these days would turn out a better,) 
 That looks like a beggar's appeal, or the State's 
 Por your small contributions to taxes and rates ! 
 
 Sir Pontypool snatches the letter in haste. 
 
 And tears off the small silken threads that are placed 
 
 In lieu of red wax ; and he growls as he reads. 
 
 And his eye gets more bloodshot, and little round 
 
 beads 
 Of moisture burst out on his cheeks and his brow, 
 And one moment his hand grasps his dagger, and now 
 He springs from his seat, and he hurls back the chair, 
 And shivers the oak like a reed in the air,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF RHUDDLAN. 235 
 
 And he shouts — while the roof and the panels around, 
 Of the age-blacken' d hall with the echoes resound — 
 " Ho ! turn out the men-at-arms — saddle my horse, 
 Black Demon — out, out the whole garrison's force ! 
 Bring my armour — my battle-axe — quick, dullard 
 
 page !— 
 Hell and fury! who dares to brave Dragonhead's 
 
 rage?" 
 
 Then oh what a din 
 
 Without and within. 
 Like a revel of fiends in the regions of sin ! 
 
 The horses are neighing. 
 
 The trumpets are braying, 
 The soldiers are swearing, the women are praying ; 
 
 Swords, bucklers, and spears, 
 
 Shouts, curses, and tears. 
 Wherever a man or a woman appears. 
 
 The pikemen, the bowmen. 
 
 The heralds (like showmen,) 
 All arming in haste to be down on the foemen. 
 
 The squires of the knight. 
 
 In their harness all right. 
 And eager to warm up their blood in a fight ; 
 
 And the lord of them all, 
 
 Black, gloomy, and tall. 
 With an eye to command and a glance to appal ! 
 
 Then down fell the drawbridge, up rose the portcullis, 
 (One raised and one lower'd by strong iron pulleys,)
 
 230 THE HEIRESS OF BHUDDlAK. 
 
 And away in a torrent pell-mell they all went, 
 
 Like a pack of starved jackals or wolves on the scent. 
 
 And all this fuss and all this rage 
 About that letter which the page 
 Had just deliver'd ? which declined, 
 For certain reasons well defined, 
 To let a fair young lady wed 
 The doughty knight, Sir Dragonhead : 
 Because, although a hero's daughter. 
 She hadn't got a taste for slaughter; 
 And look'd upon a warrior's name 
 And on a cut-throat's much the same — 
 Creatures to shun, and curse, and loath. 
 Arcades amho, villains both. 
 
 Slowdy, deeply booms the bell. 
 
 Proclaiming sunset's hour. 
 As the orb's last rays of glory fall 
 
 On Rhuddlan's* lordly tower. 
 
 Oh, for a painter's hand to trace 
 
 The brightness of that scene ! 
 Could aught on earth its beauty match — 
 
 The distant poles between ? 
 
 * Rhuddlan Castle is one of the most celebrated in Wales. 
 It is a magnificent old ruin stilL The village is a poor httle 
 place, though Edward I., six hundred years ago, held a parlia- 
 ment here, by which Wales was erected into a principality, and 
 Edward's eldest son declared its first Prince. A portion of the 
 buildiug in which it met is still standing.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF EHUDDLAN. 237 
 
 The grey old castle, old e'en thea, 
 
 Like some gigantic rock 
 That stands unscath'd through many an age, 
 
 And scorns the tempest's shock. 
 
 The deep, swift stream that rolls below — 
 
 The Clwyd, whose lovely vale 
 Hath form'd the theme of many a song. 
 
 And many a minstrel's tale. 
 
 Mountain on mountain-top still piled, 
 
 Eearing their heads on high, 
 Like those the Titans in their pride 
 
 Upheaved to scale the sky. 
 
 The mighty oaks, the stately firs. 
 
 Clothing the hill and dale — 
 The ocean, on whose distant wave 
 
 Flutters the snowy sail. 
 
 The yellow corn — a sea of gold — 
 
 'Neath its own riches bending : 
 The em'rald meads — the flocks and herds 
 
 Their slow steps homeward wending ; 
 
 And over all, Heav'u's varied tints, 
 
 "Whose splendour none may tell. 
 Proclaiming to the world beneath 
 
 The God of Day's farewell 
 
 4
 
 238 THE HEIEESS OF ElIUDDLAN. 
 
 In such a scene, at such an hour, 
 The Lady Hilda quits her bower, 
 And passing from the castle walls, 
 She seeks a distant spot, where falls 
 The long-drawn shadow of a grove — 
 Such as Diana's self might love. 
 
 Tet well I ween 'tis not to gaze 
 Upon the sun's declining blaze ; 
 'Tis not to watch the cold, chaste moon, 
 "Whose pale light shall supplant it soon ; 
 'Tis not to listen to the note 
 Of nightingale, whose echoes float 
 So sweetly through the evening air. 
 That Hilda's steps have wander'd there, 
 Tor scarcely hath the forest glade 
 Conceal' d her in its welcome shade. 
 Than Lady Hilda's matchless charms 
 Are clasp'd within her lover's arms. 
 
 And who in the lover ? "What valorous knight, 
 What youtli of high breeding, of fame, and of 
 
 might, 
 "What mortal so bless'd has discover'd the road 
 That leads to that spotless and sacred abode. 
 The fair Hilda's heart ? Oh, Venus ! oh, Cupid ! 
 Can a fellow like that — a poor, dandified stupid, 
 As soft and as puny in person as mind ; 
 "Who couldn't another such " spooney " well find
 
 THE HEIRESS OF KHUDDLAK. 239 
 
 If he sought through the world — can a milksop, a 
 
 noodle, 
 A block for a barber to friz like a poodle — 
 Can he gain such a heart in a valorous age ? 
 For, by Jove, it's the meek-looking, sleuder-legg'd 
 
 page ! 
 
 " Fly, fly, dearest Hilda! " he cries in alarm. 
 As trembling and weeping she clings to his arm ; 
 " Fly ! fly ! for Sir Dragonhead comes to attack, 
 To murder, to plunder, to ravish, to sack ! 
 With all his fierce soldiers in battle array — 
 Oh, goodness, dear Hilda, do hasten away ! " 
 And the page's thin legs, as he urges her, shiver, 
 And the tones of the page's voice stammer and quiver, 
 And the cheeks of the page's wan visage grow paler — 
 He hasn't the " pluck" of a mouse or a tailor ! 
 
 And poor little Hilda is shaking with dread. 
 
 And scarce knows if she stands on her heels or her 
 
 head; 
 For, though born amid warfare, and bred amid strife, 
 She's a terrible horror of losing her life. 
 And still more of losing her " heart's only joy" — 
 That white- liver' d, meek-looking, spindle-shank'd 
 
 boy! 
 
 But hark to the clatter of horses' feet. 
 
 And the sound of the infantry's regular beat !
 
 240 THE HEIRESS OF EHUDDLAN. 
 
 And liark to the echo of trumpet and drum ! 
 The knight and his bloodthirsty followers come. 
 
 And look through the wood, too ! — how helmet and 
 
 blade, 
 And buckler and spear seem to flash through the shade. 
 As they catch for a moment some lingering ray 
 Of the fast setting sun ; how the banner's display 
 Of azure and gold, as it flaunts in the breeze. 
 Contrasts with the hue of the sombre-clothed trees ! 
 
 One moment, Hilda turns her gaze 
 In fear — in horror — in amaze — 
 Then catches at her lover's arm. 
 As if no earthly power could harm 
 While clinging there : but, ah ! great God — 
 She shrieks and sinks upon the sod — 
 No arm is there — she stands alone — 
 The craven-hearted page is gone ! 
 
 Yes— bolted, by Jove ! the young, pitiful monkey. 
 Was oflflike a shot, as outrageously " funky," 
 As though Satan himself and Inferno's whole hery 
 Of goblins and imps were pursuing full chevy ! 
 
 The moonlight rests on Ehuddlan's tower, 
 The curfew tolls the evening hour ; 
 Upon the stately castle's walls 
 Dully the sentry's footstep falls ;
 
 THE HEIEESS OF RHUDDLAiif. 24:1 
 
 And all witliin is blank despair ; 
 For Lady Hilda comes not there, 
 And none may tell of Hilda's fate — 
 And Hilda's sire is desolate ! 
 
 Sir Pontypool sits in his chair as before, 
 
 But he's gloomy and sulky and restless no more; 
 
 Not a touch of ill-temper remains in his air, 
 
 But a something decidedly tout au contraire. 
 
 Eor he smirks and he smiles, and he rubs his rough 
 
 chin, 
 (Though he's rasp'd off his beard with a trifle of skin,) 
 And complacently gives quite a dandified twirl 
 To his hair, as he fancies he's settling a curl. 
 
 And he chuckles and grins, 
 
 And playfully spins 
 His dagger — alternately nursing his shins ; 
 
 And he mutters, " By Jove ! 
 
 I'm a fortunate cove. 
 Without any trouble to pounce on my dove! " 
 
 Then he calls to his page, and he shouts for some 
 wine. 
 
 And he muddles his brains, 
 As the goblet he drains. 
 Crying, " Here's to this little caged damsel of 
 mine ! "
 
 242 THE HEIRESS OF EHUDDLAIf. 
 
 And the meek-looking page, 
 
 Though he feels in a rage, 
 Does nothing to show it but stammer and shiver ; 
 
 And his look is still meek. 
 
 And his voice is still weak, 
 And his face is as white as his shirt or his liver. 
 
 And poor little Hilda sits weeping alone 
 
 In a nasty, cold, damp-looking chamber of stone — 
 
 Tliough 'tis really the best that the place can afford 
 
 her, 
 And they've made some attempts, by Sir Dragon- 
 head's order, 
 To give it as cheerful a look as they can ; 
 But on such points the unguided notions of man 
 Are at best rather crude — and it's pretty well 
 
 certain 
 They couldn't succeed without even a curtain 
 Or morsel of tapestry, neither of which things 
 Were known in the castle, — their master would pitch 
 
 thiugs 
 Like those to old Nick as effeminate lumber 
 Unfitted his warlike abode to encumber : 
 For he lived like a soldier, work'd hard, and slept 
 
 harder — 
 Though his cellar was decent, and so was his larder. 
 
 And poor little Hilda keeps crying and saying, 
 '• Oh ! what sliall I do ? I declare if my praying
 
 TUE HEIEESS OE EHUDDtA>'. 243 
 
 And begging would get me away from this hole, 
 And that horrid old man, I would pray from my soul. 
 Oh, where can dear Edgar be ? "Why did he fly, 
 And leave me alone in the forest— oh, my ! * 
 I suppose he's quite safe — and it's here that he lives — ■ 
 Yes here ! — that 's the only reflection that gives 
 The least comfort at all. But— oh, dear! what a 
 
 place 
 For poor Edgar to dwell in ! — his beauty and grace 
 In this nasty old castle ! I hope and 1 trust he 
 Won't sufler from damp, for I'm sure it smells musty." 
 
 She stops : there's a sound of a step at her door, 
 And then there's a hurried " tap-tap " — and before 
 She can cry out "Who's there?" or " Come in!" it 
 
 is done, 
 And Sir Pontypool Dragonhead stalks in alone ! 
 
 The knight made a bow. 
 
 The best he knew how — 
 
 Though his spine was as straight as a pikestaff or 
 
 poker. 
 
 And his neck was as stiff 
 
 As a block's, or as if 
 
 He were Brummel himself in a double-starch' d 
 
 " choker." 
 
 * A very fcmmine exclamation, but a classical one neverthe- 
 less. It is a corruption (oh, that anything feminine should be 
 corrupt !) of" Oh, mihi," or " Oh, mi! " as the vulgar and pro- 
 tanc, "My eye and Betty Martin!" is a corruption from the 
 hymn, " Mihi beate Marline ! " 
 
 b2
 
 244 THE UEIEESS OF EHUDDLAIT. 
 
 The lady look'd up, and the lady look'd down, 
 A poufc on ter lips, on her forehead a frown, 
 Unmistakably showing the hero that seldom 
 Had visit of his been less pleasing or welcome. 
 
 It made him feel awkward — be scarcely knew why — 
 That slight little girl, with that scorn in her eye : 
 It seem'd to upset him — to freeze and unnerve him — 
 Not a grain of his dare-devil valour would serve him ; 
 Bat tlie hero, who'd cbarge a whole troop undismay'd. 
 Stood cow'd by the glance of a baby -faced maid ! 
 
 But it didn't last long — he soon managed to find 
 His courage, his coolness, his presence of mind ; 
 And he said, half-jocosely, " Good day, damosel, 
 I hope you're not pining away in your cell — 
 Poor captive ! well-well, though we are very cruel. 
 We sha'n't, by my honour, fair lady, use you HI." 
 
 " Then let me go free, sir," the lady replies, 
 
 " Or your smiles and your protests are nothing but 
 
 lies. 
 Tes, lies, sir ! I said it, you nasty, bad wretch you ! 
 Tou're destined for Satan — I wish he'd just fetch 
 
 you." 
 
 " Indeed, pretty Hilda, you judge me unfairly : 
 As yet you've scarce seen me, you know me but 
 barely."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF RHUBDLAK. 245 
 
 " I've seen you too much, sir ; I know you by fame — 
 I hate and detest you — the sound of your name 
 Makes me shudder and cringe, I — " " Nay, stay, lady, 
 
 stay — 
 Have mercy — don't crush me sans pity, I pray. 
 Besides, it's not politic ; — think, lady, think. 
 How soon may the sweet matrimonial link 
 Unite us for ever! and then, when we're wed, 
 You'll not like to recal the sad things you have 
 
 said." 
 
 "Zwed you! — you're mad, sii', — 'Wed i/ou ! why, I'd 
 
 rather 
 Be tortured to death. Do you think that my father 
 AVould ever allow it ? " " Tour father ! ha, ha ! 
 'Pon my soul, ma'am, I don't mean to ask your papa ; 
 You are mine, my fair damsel — by capture you're 
 
 mine — 
 Talk of father's consents — it's amazingly fine 
 In a captive ! — "Without there ! — bring goblets and 
 
 wine. 
 I'll pledge you, my brave little mistress — by Jove, 
 You've a spirit within you a soldier must love." 
 
 As he finish' d his sentence the mild-looking page 
 
 Walk'd in with a tray, 
 And a flask of tokay. 
 As grave as a mute on the opera stage.
 
 246 THE HEIEESS OF EHUDDLAN. 
 
 Then, oh ! what a scream ! what a cry of delight, 
 Of love and of rapture burst forth at the sight, 
 From the lips of the lady, as, bounding with joy, 
 She springs forth and falls on the neck of the boy. 
 
 And then — yes, oh, then ! 
 
 Had I only the pen 
 Of Homer, to tell how the fiercest of men 
 
 Stood by wonder o'ermaster'd, 
 
 Like a fellow pitch-plaster' d,* 
 Confounded, struck all of a heap, flabbergaster'd ! 
 
 " Oh, Edgar! dear Edgar, oh, bear me away !" 
 
 (As if Edgar could bear anything but a tray,) 
 
 Cried Hilda, despairing: " I'm thine, Edgar, thine!" 
 
 (Here Edgar got funky and upset the wine,) 
 
 " Oh shield and protect me from yonder vile wretch !" 
 
 (Thinks Edgar, " I'm safe for the hands of Jack Ketch, 
 
 And oh, what a neck for a halter to stretch !") 
 
 And while Hilda still sobb'd in way quite hysteric, 
 
 "Oh, 
 Edgar ! my loved one !" he wish'd her at Jericho. 
 
 " So, so !" at length Sir Dragonhead cries, 
 " Embracing my page, and before my eyes ! 
 Very pretty, my lady ; we 'II very soon settle 
 This little afiair : for a girl oi your mettle 
 
 "* A rival of the " garotte," coining again into fashion — Burking 
 redivicus.
 
 THE HEIEESS OF EHUDDLAK. 247 
 
 To wed sucla a pitiful rascal as this 
 
 Would be highly improper, my fierce little miss. 
 
 Ho ! warder, below there ! just send up a guard — 
 
 One man will be plenty — get ready a yard 
 
 Of rope, with a noose to it, fix'd in the wall, 
 
 And let this young gentleman quietly fall 
 
 As far as 'twill let him, made fast to his throat, 
 
 And dangle to frighten the rats in the moat !" 
 
 'Tis done in a minute! the terrified fellow 
 Has scarcely a moment to shriek and to bellow, 
 Ere the rope and himself are alike " in a fix," 
 And over the ramparts suspended he kicks ! 
 
 Poor fellow! poor feUow! — well, reader, don't 
 
 weep, 
 "We'll give you a sort of a privileged peep 
 Behind the stage curtain of tragedy green. 
 That ought to be dropp'd on this terrible scene. 
 
 The warder was not a bad fellow in grain. 
 And didn't quite wish the poor page to be slain, 
 So he'd taken good care that the terrible noose 
 Should be tied in a knot so agreeably loose 
 That the victim was sure to escape with a pitch 
 Of some twenty feet headlong, right into the ditch. 
 Where he kick'd, and he flounder' d, but got out at 
 
 length, 
 And bolted with all the remains of his strength.
 
 248 THE HEIEESS OF EHUDDLATJ", 
 
 Of course Lady Hilda had fainted away, 
 
 And for many a long hour insensible lay ; 
 
 But dreaming of pages in blue and gold suits, 
 
 Some hung by the hair, and some hung by the boots ; 
 
 Some fair and some dark, and some short and some 
 
 tall, 
 Some handsome, some ugly, some " so-so," but all, 
 For some crime, some omission, or p'r'aps some 
 
 pretence. 
 Unpleasantly placed in a " state of suspense." 
 
 And each poor wretch of the ghastly band, 
 Pointed to her with his bony hand. 
 And opened a cold and fishy eye, 
 And said with a most unearthly sigh — 
 " Here we hang for endless ages. 
 Torn from life — unhappy pages '." 
 
 But the dream is over, the lady wakes. 
 And a half-scared glance at her chamber takes, 
 And close to her pillow she finds a scroll, 
 Convey'd on the sly by the warder, good soul! 
 To ease her alarms touching Edgar's demise ; 
 And ne'er did she read with more blessed surprise, 
 And never were words more devotedly kiss'd, 
 Though they were in a very remarkable fist. 
 
 " He ain't been hvmg. "With a bit of a duck he 
 Got out of the moat, and he's cut his lucky."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF EHUDDLiVN". 249 
 
 Many revolving years have fled 
 Over the Lady Hilda's head ; 
 Many a year since Hilda wed 
 The doughty knight Sir Dragonhead ; 
 Many a laiighing child is seen 
 Sporting or tottering between 
 The hero and his stately dame, 
 Who (if we trust to common fame) 
 Now rules her lord in such a way 
 That all the folks around them say, 
 So great a shrew was never known 
 So meek a hen-peck' d spouse to own! 
 
 And 'tis said that when once she'd establish' d her 
 
 sway 
 In this very decided and feminine way. 
 She ask'd, as the first boon her husband must give 
 
 her, he 
 Should change most completely the family livery, 
 Putting dark green and silver instead, as of old. 
 Of those suits of cerulean purple and gold. 
 
 Touching Edgar, the page, we have only one word, 
 
 Ere we close our historic romance, to record. 
 
 He got safe into England — p'raps thinner and 
 
 paler — 
 And became a most highly respectable tailor !
 
 250 THE HEIEESS OF EHUDDLAN. 
 
 fHoraU 
 
 If in search of a wife 
 
 As a partner for life, 
 With a hatred of "rows" and a horror of strife, 
 
 'Twixt ladies who're "blues" 
 
 And ladies who're shrews. 
 It's sometimes a difficult matter to choose. 
 
 But of one thing be sure, 
 
 !Por an ill without cure. 
 There's nothing so bad, nor so apt to allure, 
 
 As sentimentality, 
 
 Feigned "ideality," 
 Nothing but humbug in sober reality. 
 
 For, the sentiment flown. 
 
 It's a fact that's well knowTi, 
 The lady has always a will of her own ; 
 
 And your heart should you barter 
 
 Tor liers, you're a martyr. 
 
 And you'll find out the meaning of " catching a 
 
 Tartar." 
 
 And now, for farewell, 
 
 "We've a moral to tell 
 That lurks in our legend, like truth in a well ; 
 
 'Tis to warn you beware 
 
 How you ever despair, 
 No matter what aspect your destiny wear. 
 
 Though the shape it assume 
 
 Be of danger and gloom, 
 Eelief may be near, though you don't see it "loom."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF EHTTDDLAN. 251 
 
 At the very last gasp, 
 
 When grim death seem'd to clasp 
 The poor page, he contrived to escape from its grasp ; 
 
 Tor there's many a slip 
 
 'Twixt the enp and the lip, 
 And it's very strong poison that kills with one sip.
 
 252 
 
 THE BALL-ROOM CONQUEST. 
 
 a ILcgcntr of fHag jFatr. 
 
 FTTTE THE FIRST. 
 
 " Mt dearest Jane, do, pray, take care 
 
 How Monsieur Tissot does your hair. 
 
 And are you sure Madame Lanieau 
 
 Has made your dress quite coinme ilfaut ? 
 
 It seems to set well ; still, I think. 
 
 It's ratlier of too warm a pink ; 
 
 It was, you know, your own selection. 
 
 Those satin shoes, now, are perfection — 
 
 The gloves are Houbigant's, of course — 
 
 Though really no one makes them worse. 
 
 Those pearls become you. Stay, my dear — 
 
 The slightest tinge more 'bloom' just here. 
 
 Dear girl ! she'll quite eclipse all others — 
 
 Don't dance, ma chere, with younger brothers."
 
 The Ball-room Conquest.— Pa^e 252.
 
 THE BALL-ROOM CONQUEST, 253 
 
 'Twas thus Lady Modish conversed with her daughter, 
 AVho, it must be coufess'd, look'd well-fitted to 
 
 slaughter 
 The hearts of all who might chance to fall 
 'Neath the glance of her eye on that evening's ball. 
 For the Lady Jane was tall and fair, 
 With dark blue eyes, and with chestnut hair ; 
 And a charming mouth, with a ruby lip. 
 
 As if form'd the quintessence of nectar to sip. 
 Her teeth within were two pearly rows ; 
 
 On her cheek wa^the delicate tint of the rose ; 
 
 And I really can't venture to write of her nose — 
 
 It was better than Grecian, and toute autre cJiose. 
 
 And then for her figure — how graceful and tall ! 
 
 Erom the head to the shoulder how perfect the fall ! 
 
 And that well-rounded arm, and that delicate hand ; 
 
 And that waist, that would take such a very small band. 
 
 And what mortal would venture his praise to refuse 
 
 To those sweet little feet, in those dear little shoes ? 
 
 Oh ! yes, in her figure, in style, and in feature, 
 
 She was, beyond doubt, a most exquisite creature ! 
 
 The carriage is ready ; they're off to the ball — 
 A few minutes more, and they stand in the hall. 
 A few seconds more, and the ball-room's light 
 Shines on the form of the belle of the night. 
 
 And soon around 
 Is heard the soiind
 
 254! THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 Of the whispers of men, who all agree 
 
 She's as lovely a creature, 
 
 In form and iu feature, 
 As a man in a ball-room might wish to see. 
 
 Wliile the ladies think 
 
 " Tliat really that pink 
 Is so \evj prononce — it's almost a pity ; 
 For if she were dress' d well, she might be thought 
 pretty. 
 
 But as for her waist — 
 
 It's perhaps their bad taSte — 
 But — they pity the servant by whom she was laced." 
 
 To Jullien's music she's off in a whirl, 
 With a prince, or a duke, or a marquis, or earl ; 
 All the men of good fortune succeed one by one. 
 Prom a prince of the blood to a peer's eldest son ; 
 But though she's surrounded by dozens of others. 
 She thinks of mamma, and she "cuts" younger 
 brothers. 
 
 And oft, as she dances, 
 She stealthily glances 
 To where her mamma is reclining in state ; 
 And her look seems to say, 
 " Tou see I obey — 
 All the men that I dance with are men of weight." 
 
 There's a pause in the music — it strikes up again — 
 A quadrille. "Who's the partner of the fair Lady 
 Jane?
 
 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 255 
 
 "What an elegant man ! and how handsome his face ! 
 In his air and his manner what ease and what 
 
 grace ! 
 What splendid moustachios adorning his lip ! 
 And below, on the chin, what a neat little "tip ! " 
 "What glossy black curls ! what a nose ! what an 
 
 eye! 
 How winning that smile ! and how gentle that sigh. 
 As he whispers soft words to the fair Lady Jane, 
 Who blushes and listens, and blushes again. 
 Oh! yes, it's quite clear 
 What he says in her ear 
 Is not meant for the multitude round them to hear. 
 With the pow'r of the eyes 
 He so skilfully tries 
 To express the sweet things which their language 
 implies. 
 
 Kow, I've often stood still, 
 Just outside a quadrille. 
 To observe all the people who stood up to dance, 
 Till I've pick'd out some two. 
 And have kept them in view, 
 And I've watched ev'ry feature, and caught ev'ry 
 glance. 
 
 And then, in the modest, downcast eye, 
 In the trembling lip, and the half-breathed sigh, 
 I've read some tale of hallow'd love, 
 Known but to them and heaven above.
 
 256 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 Tes, known to them, "but never named — 
 A love that might not be proclahn'd 
 "While Poverty had set her ban 
 To crush the fondest hopes of man — 
 A love whose flame by faith was fed, 
 When even hope itself was dead ; 
 And the flame of that love shall never die — 
 'Tis a gleam from the Spirit of Love on high ! 
 
 I 
 
 But hold, Mrs. Muse ! — how you're getting asti'ay I 
 
 It really won't do to romance in this way. 
 
 Where's the fair Lady Jane ? Where's her mother ? 
 
 And where 
 Is that elegant man with the glossy black hair ? 
 Oh ! there, in the corner, they're chatting, all three — 
 Lady Jane's introducing her handsome ^ar^i 
 To mamma, who's half-pleased, but more anxious to 
 
 know 
 Thejvrtune as well as the name of the " beau." 
 
 Mammas are suspicious — moustachios and curls 
 Are all very well to inveigle young girls ; 
 But with them (the mammas) I can safely declare 
 That they seldom think more of a man for his hair. 
 For beauty, grace, talent, they care not a jot — 
 Tour merits are weigh'd by the riches you've got ; 
 So if you're desirous their favour to buy, no 
 Means are so sure as a good stock of "rhino."
 
 THE BALL-ROOM CONQUEST. 257 
 
 And who doubts their wisdom ? Dear reader, not I ; 
 On mammas and their judgments I firmly rely ; 
 And confess that the biped most truly alarming 
 Is that penniless monster young ladies call "charming." 
 
 At length Lady Modish' s fears are at rest — 
 She has learnt all the news, and that news is the best ; 
 For this elegant man (so the lady is told) 
 Is one Colonel De Lacy, a warrior bold, 
 Henown'd for his valour and famed for his gold — 
 Who has fought in the East for some warlike pacha 
 Of some country unspellable, ending in " ah ;" 
 "Who has floated on wealth, like a boat on a river ; 
 Gain'd honour and fame, and not damaged his liver. 
 So, when next he approached her, her ladyship smiled 
 To see how devoted he seem'd to her child; 
 And resolved in her mind (for opinions are supple) 
 That " they'd certainly make a most elegant couple." 
 
 TTTTE THE SECOND. 
 
 Alas, for the numberless trials of life ! 
 The trials of parent, of husband, and wife ; 
 The trials of children, the trials of friend ; 
 The trials of tradesmen and bills without end ; 
 The trials of love, and the trials of hate ; 
 The trials of patience, the trials of State ; 
 In short, that this life is a terrible trial 
 Is a truth that has seldom yet met with denial ; 
 
 S
 
 258 THE BALL-BOOM CONQUEST, 
 
 But it's equally true that the greatest of all 
 
 Our trials — the one the most sure to appal 
 
 A sensitive mind — is the first morning call 
 
 On the beauty you danced with last night at the hall. 
 
 "Watch that bashful young man, how he stops on each 
 
 stair 
 To pull up his neclcclotb or settle his hair ; 
 See his bow as he enters — how vaiuly he tries 
 To fancy he's not blushing up to his eyes ! 
 How quicltly he glides to the first vacant seat — ■ 
 Now plays with his hat, and now shufiles his feet ; 
 Clears his throat, takes a gulp, make^ a novel remark 
 On the " beautiful day for a drive in the Park ; " 
 " Hopes the ladies are well, and have not taken cold ;" 
 Then fancies he's really becoming too bold 
 In talking so much — ends his speech in a stutter, 
 i\nd forgets the good things he intended to utter. 
 
 Don't fancy, dear reader, our colonel would act 
 
 Like the noodle I've mention' d — he'd far too much 
 
 tact. 
 As for bashfulness, pooh! he had scarcely, p'r'aps, 
 
 heard 
 That in Johnson or "Walker there is sucb a word ; 
 Or fancied, at most, 'twas some vulgar disease, 
 Infecting society's lowest degrees. 
 
 It's just four o'clock ; 
 
 At the street-door's a knock ;
 
 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 259 
 
 And there stands a cab 
 (Green, pick'd out with drab,) 
 "With a mare of bright chestnut, whose coat is a sight ; 
 A diminutive tiger, just four feet in height. 
 The tops of whose boots are resplendently white ; 
 And the owner, within it, whose elegant air 
 Proclaims him a star in the realms of May Fau-. 
 
 And soon in the drawing-room, lolling at ease, 
 
 He chats on each subject best fitted to please — 
 
 With such tact and discretion adapting each phrase 
 
 To the story he tells or the hint he conveys. 
 
 And then how he flatter'd ! "Heflatter'd! Oh dear!" 
 
 Some young lady cries. 
 
 As she throws up her eyes. 
 " What very bad taste ! La ! — I'm sure, when I hear 
 A compliment paid me, I always detest 
 The man who has paid it — he's vulgar, at best." 
 Nay, pardon, dear lady ; permit me to say 
 You love it, when done in a delicate way — 
 Kot the flattery of words which bestows its coarse 
 
 praises, 
 But the flattery of vianner, which quietly raises 
 Yourself in your own estimation. In fact. 
 You need but some study, attention, and tact 
 To make people vow you're the " frankest of men ; 
 And so utterly free from all flattery," when, 
 With a glance of approval, a bow, or a smile. 
 You've egregiously flatter'd themselves all the while. 
 
 s 2
 
 2G0 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 But the door is thrown open — the serving-man's lips 
 
 Announce the euphonious name, " Mr. Phipps! " 
 
 'Twas terribly mal-a-propos ; but before 
 
 The colonel had time to declare it a " bore," 
 
 He had enter' d the room, with that kind of an air 
 
 That show'd liim no casual visitor there, 
 
 Which he certainly wasn't, but tout au contraire. 
 
 'Twas an odd little man. Though his head was quite 
 
 bald, 
 Its contour and form were what might have been 
 
 eall'd 
 Extremely intelligent. As for his eyes. 
 They were rather, indeed, of diminutive size ; 
 And he couldn't have claim'd to be christen'd '^Soopis,'" 
 "Which Homeric expression, translated by Pope, is 
 The "ox-eyed" (a phrase which has nothing that's 
 
 common in't,) 
 Eestow'd on Minerva, whose eyes were so prominent. 
 His nose, whose deep colour gave rise to some scandal, 
 Was shaped, as his scoffers said, " a la pump-handle." 
 
 He was said to be clever ; 
 
 But then he could never 
 
 (Do whatever he might 
 
 To try to look bright) 
 Contrive to discover the point of a jest 
 Till, from staleness and time, it had lost all its zest. 
 He was good, but not handsome nor witty : in fine, 
 To sum up his virtues and faults in a line,
 
 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 261 
 
 His mind had a cast of the deepest profundity, 
 WhUe his waist had a trifle too much of rotundity. 
 
 But then for his gold — 
 
 He had wealth untold ! 
 It was said that his money would fill more sacks 
 Than all the Queen's horses could bear on their backs ! 
 But, at least (although that account couldn't be 
 
 true,) 
 He was rich as King Crcesus, or Eothschild the Jew. 
 
 So by match-making " mas," 
 
 And by needy papas, 
 Who couldn't or wouldn't give portions on marriage, 
 
 He was deem'd "a great catch," 
 
 And "an excellent match" 
 For young ladies in search of a spouse and a carriage. 
 
 'Mongst the rest. Lady Modish had made up her mind 
 
 That she couldn't do better than struggle to bind 
 
 At once to a gilt matrimonial chain 
 
 The plump Mr. P. and the fair Lady Jane : 
 
 So she coax' d, and she wheedled, and flatter'dthe man, 
 
 As none but a thorough-bred match-maker can : 
 
 Made him fancy " dear Jane " was in love with himself, 
 
 Aud, of course, that she cared not a sou for his 
 
 "pelf- 
 Till Phipps look'd in the glass — thought the lady was 
 
 right ; 
 Prizz'd his hair like a mop, tied his waistcoat more 
 
 tight ;
 
 2G2 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 Got his coats from Nugee, and wore jewels and scent ; 
 
 In fact, he so changed, that Avherever he went 
 
 It was whisper'd that some one had " brought down 
 
 old P.;" 
 And all wonder' d whoever on earth it could be. 
 
 Imagine, then, reader, how very unpleasant 
 
 He should happen to call 
 
 The day after the ball, 
 "When this flirting, gay Colonel de Lacy was present ! 
 
 Phipps guess' d at a glance that the colonel was doing 
 Precisely what he had come there to do — wooing ; 
 So the bow that he gave him most plainly express' d 
 
 The fear and distrust, 
 
 The hate and disgust, 
 Which struggled at once in his amorous breast. 
 
 The colonel's return was polite and punctilious, 
 "While the curl of his lip was alone supercilious. 
 Lady Modish could scarcely feel quite at her ease ; 
 But in manner empresse she strove so to please, 
 And remove from the mind of each rival the notion 
 That the other one yet had declared his devotion ; 
 
 For she couldn't decide 
 
 As yet to which side 
 She should furnish her aid in procuring the bride. 
 It is true that the colonel was quite comme ilfaut ; 
 But then she reflected she couldn't yet know
 
 tnE BALL-aOOM CONQUEST. 263 
 
 If he really possess' d all that gossip had told ; 
 
 While Phipps, all the world knew, was roUiug in gold. 
 
 So she seiz'd on the latter — her " dear Mr. Phipps" — 
 With the sweetest of smiles on her well-carmin'd lips -, 
 Talk'd of all sorts of persons, and all sorts of news ; 
 Court gossip and scandal, the latest reviews ; 
 The ball of last night, and her heartfelt regret 
 That he (Phipps) hadn't been 'mongst the guests that 
 
 she met. 
 Then, seeing that Phipps was determined to stare 
 At the colonel, she said, with a negligent air, 
 " A charming young man that. We met him last 
 
 night. 
 He has come from the East — from the land of delight. 
 He's a colonel, you know, of some corps — not the 
 
 Queen's, 
 But " Phipps fiuish'd the sentence— " The Light 
 
 Horse Marines." 
 
 The lady's surprise 
 
 Is express'd in her eyes. 
 As she says, " My dear sir, do you really believe 
 That the colonel would venture to try to deceive ? " 
 "Yes, ma'am," ausvver'd Phipps, in a voice at w'hose 
 
 somid 
 Lady Jane and the colonel turn'd suddenly round. 
 " It isn't a question at all of belief; 
 I tell you I know that that fellow 'a a thief —
 
 26i THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 A runaway convict, for forgery. Tes, 
 
 'Pon my soul, ma'am, you are in a pretty nice mess." 
 
 What a tahleau vivant ! wliat a pose plastique ! 
 Lady M.'s in hysterics — oh dear ! what a shriek ! 
 Lady Jane's on the floor, and she's fainted away. 
 The colonel quite shakes in his boots with dismay ; 
 While Phipps looks around like a lion at bay. 
 Then he tugs at the bell, and the servants rush in 
 To see what on earth, is the cause of the din. 
 And glance in amaze at both mother and daughter. 
 While Phipps coolly orders "Police and cold water!" 
 
 The colonel's a cur — what a look of despair ! 
 
 Why, had he but half as much courage as hair, 
 
 He might knock down old Phipps, he might dash 
 
 through the door, 
 Jump into his cab, and be clear off, before 
 His rival could pick himself up from the floor ; 
 But he shakes and he trembles for five minutes more. 
 Till he's safe in.the hands of these terrible " Peelers" 
 So dreaded by Chartists, and cursed by Eepealers. 
 
 A month has pass'd, and now again 
 Bright beams the eye of Lady Jane ; 
 Her well-train' d heart has cast aside 
 All foolish thoughts of love and pride.
 
 THE BALL-EOOM CONQUEST. 265 
 
 She soon endeavours — not in vain — 
 
 To satisfy her former swain 
 
 That he, and he alone, can move 
 
 Her tender heart to thoughts of love. 
 
 She cuts all men that have the air 
 
 Of being a la militaire ! 
 
 She shudders at the very least 
 
 Allusion to the " horrid East !" 
 
 She shuns moustachios, curls, and tips. 
 
 And lives — the bride of Mr. Phipps ! 
 
 'Tis midnight — o'er the surging wave, 
 The seaman's cradle and his grave, 
 A proud ship rides upon her way. 
 Dashing aside the silvery spray, 
 "Which glitters with phosphoric light 
 So pure, so fanciful, so bright — 
 It seems a scene of fairy birth, 
 And all too beautiful for earth ! 
 
 Tet glance within that gallant bark, 
 
 And view her wretched freight. And, hark ! 
 
 That hideous sound — yes, there again — 
 
 The clanking of the felon's chain ! 
 
 There gaze upon the destiny 
 
 Of human crime and misery. 
 
 See yonder wretch that crouches there, 
 
 With haggard cheek and matted hair, 
 
 The felon's dress, the fetter' d limb — 
 
 When last thine eye was fix'd on him
 
 26G 
 
 THE BALL-nOOM CONQUEST. 
 
 He flutter'd 'midst the great and gay, 
 
 The "lion" of his little day. 
 
 He lived upon the wealth of crime — 
 
 He suffers till the end of time. 
 
 No power shall here remove his ban — 
 
 God may be merciful, not man ! 
 
 fHornl. 
 To Mammas I wovild first give a little advice : — 
 Take care how you seek by your arts to entice 
 More suitors than one at a time to your daughter. 
 Lest you lose all at once, and get into hot water. 
 Be content when you've book'd one with money and 
 
 station. 
 And don't be alarm'd at a slight " corporation." 
 
 Mr. Phippses, look sharp ! and when love is the tune. 
 Pop the question at once : or some grisly dragoon 
 Will bear off the belle from your eyes pretty soon. 
 And your friends will all giggle, and call you a 
 " spoon." 
 
 Young ladies, beware of moustachios and tips. 
 
 And the soft words that glide from those well-cover'd 
 
 lips; 
 Beware of belligerent youths from afar, 
 Who've been fighting the fights of some unknown 
 
 pacha ; 
 And remember that even a wedding-trip may 
 Be rather unpleasant— to Botany Bay !
 
 2G7 
 
 THE MAIDEN OF RADSTOCK VALE : 
 
 ^ %tQtnti of Enconstancg. 
 
 A cnARMTNO young damsel was Eleanor Dale, 
 The poor, simple maiden who dwelt in the vale 
 Which the Castle of Eadstock, perched up on a 
 
 mound. 
 Looked over and guarded for miles and miles round. 
 
 For Nelly had beauty : she'd laughing blue eyes — 
 
 Dark, deep-coloured blue, and of extra large size, 
 
 And glossy brown hair which, in natural tresses. 
 
 As it fell on her neck, seemed to give it caresses. 
 
 (This sentiment isn't my own — it is due 
 
 To some poet deceased — I don't recollect who 
 
 He is, but I tender my plain I. 0. TJ. 
 
 For whatever the sentiment's worth.) A small nose, 
 
 A small mouth, and her teeth in two regular rows, 
 
 And so white that their purity rivalled the snows
 
 268 THE MAIDEN OP EADSTOCK YALE. 
 
 Of Mont Blanc (which by this time all London has 
 
 gone to,) 
 And you'd swear that she must have used Eowland's 
 
 Odonto. 
 
 Her elegant figure, her delicate hand. 
 
 Her sweet little foot — all such praises command, 
 
 That if I don't stop I shall fill all my space 
 
 "With rapturous odes to her beauty and grace ; 
 
 Besides the sad risk lest such over precision 
 
 Make some people come to another decision, 
 
 And doubt whether Eleanor Dale was so fair 
 
 As the author proclaims and the chronicles swear. 
 
 So I'll leave these rough outlines — they should have 
 
 been fainter — 
 To be filled up by Fancy — infallible painter ! 
 
 And a kind, little heart, too, did Nelly possess : 
 There wasn't a neighbour in want or distress 
 That hadn't good cause pretty Nelly to bless. 
 Tet Nelly was poor — poor as any poor neighbour 
 For whom Nelly's delicate fingers would labour : 
 But then she had sympathy — poverty's gift 
 To the poor — and whenever the heart wants a lift, 
 'Tis sympathy gives it, while pity and bread 
 (Meagre anodynes both to the heart that has bled) 
 Are all that the wealthy can ofier instead. 
 
 Lovers by dozens came courting sweet Nell — 
 Handsome young lovers, and old ones as well ;
 
 THE MAIDEN OE BADSTOCK TALE. 269 
 
 Lovers witli riches, and titles, and lands, 
 And lovers who lived by the toil of their hands ; 
 Nobles and warriors — men of high grade ; 
 Peasants and labourers — men of the spade ; 
 Lovers who pedigrees old as their land had. 
 And lovers who hadn't an acre or grand-dad. 
 
 Yet none could prevail 
 
 On the fair NeUy Dale 
 To lend a kind ear to their amorous tale ; 
 
 What arts they might try, 
 
 She was deaf to each sigh, 
 And provokingly smiled when they swore they 
 should die. 
 
 Till at length one by one 
 
 The old bevy begun 
 To consider this courting of Nelly no fun. 
 
 And, like schoolboys disgrac'd. 
 
 They retreated in haste. 
 Declaring the girl had a " shocking bad taste." 
 
 A decision most easy of all of digestion. 
 Which I recommend gentlemen popping the ques- 
 tion 
 By all means to come to, instead of repining, 
 In case of the lady their offer declining. 
 But, nevertheless, Nelly Dale wasn't fated 
 To live an old maid and perish uumated,
 
 270 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK TALE. 
 
 For Cupid had really iu pickle a dart 
 Safe to pierce through and through !N"elly's tough 
 little heart. 
 
 Ou moonlight nights would Nelly roam 
 
 Through Eadstock Vale, far off from home, 
 
 Though whence this taste for nightly strolls 
 
 Puzzled her honest neighbours' souls. 
 
 The truth is (though it wasn't known), 
 
 That Nelly didn't walk alone. 
 
 It chanced, on these same moonlight nights, 
 
 In which we know Love so delights, 
 
 A certain gallant youth would glide 
 
 At one fixed spot to Nelly's side ; 
 
 And then they — yes, and then ; well, well, 
 
 I don't see why I'm bound to tell 
 
 Of all they said, or did, or thought, 
 
 Or felt — in fact I think I ought 
 
 To hold my tongue in such a case. 
 
 And let my readers, at this place. 
 
 Supply from their imaginations 
 
 The scenes of evening assignations. 
 
 Where lovers talk in wild ecstatics. 
 
 Defying sense — and the rheumatics. 
 
 And Edgar De Vere was a gay, gallant youth. 
 High-born, and well-bred, and accomphshed ; in truth. 
 In birth, in position, in bearing, in form, 
 Just fitted to win, or to carry by storm
 
 THE MAIDEN OE BADSTOCK TALE. 271 
 
 (For tlie fellow by nature was form'd energetical) 
 The heart of a maiden whose tastes were poetical. 
 
 But Edgar de Vere had a haughty old sire, 
 "WTio'd have almost been thrown into fits by bis ire, 
 Had he thought that his son from his station could 
 
 fall 
 To marry a maiden with no blood at aU — 
 For, of course, the red liquid that peasant veins hold 
 Is no more real blood than electrotype's gold. 
 
 And tbis Baron de Vere, 
 
 So proud and austere. 
 Inspired in his son a due measure of fear 
 
 That, with instant severity, 
 
 In case of demerit he 
 Sbould certainly find himself cast off — desherite. 
 
 And so the love prospects of Edgar and IN'elly, 
 "War' n't as smooth as a lake, or as clear as a jelly ; 
 
 In fact, though the present 
 
 Was mightily pleasant, 
 To the masculine noble and feminine peasant, 
 
 Who, bound in Love's chains, 
 
 Forgot all their pains, 
 And the diflferent order of blood in tbeir veins ; 
 
 Tet the future looked queer, 
 
 And I very much fear, 
 They'd no notion at all of the course they should steer.
 
 272 THE MAIDEN OF RADSTOCK YALE. 
 
 Eadstock Castle's a glorious pile, 
 
 For the home of a warrior meet, 
 And rich and fertile the lands that smile 
 
 In beauty at its feet. 
 
 Massive and high its ramparts rise, 
 
 And grim and grey its keep. 
 And night and day its banner flies, 
 
 And never its sentries sleep. 
 
 Deep and broad the waters flow 
 
 Around its rock-built walls. 
 The Saints befriend the luckless foe 
 
 That into their vortex falls ! 
 
 And a mighty hero is Eadstock's lord, 
 
 Sir Philip of Eadstock hight, 
 No legends or minstrels' lays record 
 
 A haughtier, braver knight. 
 
 He hath fought in distant Paynim land 
 Por the Church and the Holy Cross, 
 
 He hath slain more foes with his own right hand 
 Than all the foemen's loss. 
 
 His name is spoken with fear and awe, 
 
 And a touch of admiration, 
 Por a braver scoundrel the world ne'er saw 
 
 In the knight of a Christian nation.
 
 THE MAIDEN OE EADSTOCK TALE. 27'} 
 
 For myself — though it sounds to some ears like pro- 
 
 faijity, 
 To plead against heroes the cause of humanity — 
 I must say I think when he fought with the Paynim, 
 'Twas a very great pity the Turks hadn't slain him, 
 Together with most of his fellow-invaders — - 
 Those highly poetical cut-throats — Crusaders. 
 
 Sir Philip of Radstock, cJievalier sans peur, 
 
 But not sans reproche, unless chronicles err, 
 
 "Was a big, burly fellow, with muscles and sinews, 
 
 Well fitted to carry the weapons then in use ; 
 
 A beard like a goat's, but much rougher and thicker, 
 
 A nose that told stories of hogsheads of liquor ; 
 
 An eye like a fish's, a mouth whose dimensions 
 
 AVould serve a hyena of modest pretensions. 
 
 A hand — no, it wasn't a hand, but a fist — 
 
 A great, coarse, red thing, that you couldn't resist 
 
 A regret, as you saw it, it hadn't been made 
 
 For some worthy pursuing the rat-catching trade. 
 
 In short, in our days such a ponderous large man 
 
 As would make a good blacksmith or capital bargeman. 
 
 Tet such was the matter, and such was the moidd. 
 
 Of those wonderful fellows, tlie barons of old — 
 
 The frame of a giant, the strength of an ox, 
 
 A skull that could carry no end of hard knocks. 
 
 And a skin of such thickness you almost might term 
 
 it a 
 Hide, arfd the heroes themselves " pachydermata." 
 
 T
 
 274 THE MAIDEN OF BADSTOCK TALE. 
 
 Sir Philip of Eadstock rode one day 
 
 By the spot where the cottage of Nelly lay ; 
 
 And the day that Sir Philip of Eadstock rode 
 
 His look was as black as the steed he bestrode, 
 
 For he'd heard that day that the Baron de Vere 
 
 Had spoke of his deeds with a saucy sneer 
 
 To one of the barons living near, 
 
 And this highly unpleasant piece of news 
 
 Had given Sir Philip a " fit of the blues." 
 
 He had chafed and sworn in a knightly fashion, 
 
 And roai'ed and cursed in an awful passion ; 
 
 He had vowed that he'd have the baron's life, 
 
 He'd hang his sou, and he'd slay his wife ; 
 
 He'd pillage his lands, and his castle wall 
 
 Before his invincible arm should fall ; 
 
 He'd seize his treasure, he'd burn his stacks, 
 
 He'd fell his timbers with hostile axe ; 
 
 He'd wipe clean out of the rolls of fame 
 
 All trace of his enemy's hated name. 
 
 In short, the baron's annihilation 
 
 Was Sir Philip's mild determination, 
 
 For there's nothing on earth so like insanity 
 
 As the impotent anger of wounded vanity. 
 
 Beside Sir Philip rode a squire, 
 A little alarmed at his master's ire, 
 For no one felt his neck quite safe 
 Whenever he saw Sir Philip chafe.
 
 THE MAIDEN" OF EADSTOCK YALE. 275 
 
 (And in tliose same happy, good old times, 
 
 When killing was out of the list of crimes, 
 
 A knight in a passion would forfeit no credit if 
 
 He hang'd up a henchman by way of a sedative.) 
 
 And behind Sir Philip, not far away. 
 
 His body-guard followed in close array — 
 
 A set of decidedly ill-looking rogues 
 
 In bonnets of steel and in steel-plated brogues, 
 
 Of each vice in creation a perfect miscellany, 
 
 Eeady for every conceivable felony. 
 
 In moody silence rode the knight, 
 
 "With seldom a glance to the left or right ; 
 
 But whenever he turned his ugly face 
 
 It seemed that a " gloom pervaded space" — 
 
 As Byron says in that naughty "Vision" 
 
 Describing Beelzebub's apparition. 
 
 At length his leaden, fishy eyes 
 Assume a look of real surprise, 
 For close to where Nelly's cottage lies, 
 Fair Nelly herself Sir Philip spies. 
 
 "Holloa!" quoth he, 
 "What's that I see? 
 
 By the Holy Mass, 
 
 As fair a lass 
 
 T 2
 
 27G THE MAIDEN OF KADSTOCK TALE. 
 
 Aa ever hath crossed my sight ; 
 
 Stay, stay — draw near — 
 
 You've nothing to fear, 
 Pretty maid, from a lled-cross knight." 
 
 And yet, as he said it, poor Nell felt suspicious, 
 Tor his eye leered so vilely, his mouth look'd so vicious, 
 And so bad vv^as his name, 
 That no maid of good fame, 
 "Would have willingly been for a single hour 
 Consigned to Sir Philip of Eadstock's power. 
 
 " What's your name, little beauty ? — there, don't look 
 
 so pale. 
 What's your name ?" Nelly answered, *' It's Eleanor 
 
 Dale." 
 
 Here one of the steel-capp'd rogues drew near, 
 And whisper'd some words in the squire's ear; 
 Wliereat the latter exclaimed, " So, so ! 
 Then worCt this turn out a pretty go ?" 
 
 And then he drew up to Sir Philip's side, 
 And whisper'd to 1dm, and Sir Philip cried, 
 " The mistress of Edgar de Vere, d' ye say ? 
 Then by all the saints, oppose who may. 
 She's mine from this moment — for good or for evil, 
 I'll hold her 'gainst all the De Veres — or the 
 Devil."
 
 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK TALE. 277 
 
 So deaf to entreaties, and blind to her tears, 
 
 Not caring a rap for her maidenly fears, 
 
 The wicked knight seized her, and off with a 
 
 bound, 
 Gallop'd the black charger over the ground 
 With the knight and his victim, and long ere sun 
 His race with old Saturn that evening had done. 
 As safe as a Chubb's ora Bramah's prize padlock, 
 Was Eleanor Dale in the Castle of Eadstock, 
 
 The night is cold — pile up your logs 
 Across the hearthstone's brazen dogs ; 
 Close well the casement and the door, 
 And spread fresh rushes on the floor. 
 Fill up the flagon with good wine, 
 The choicest of the Ehenish vine. 
 Draw to the fire the ample board 
 With ev'ry luxury well stor'd, 
 And place yon cozy sofa near 
 Within the reach of such good cheer. 
 
 'Tis done ; and on the seat recline 
 Two forms, aud each one's arms entwine 
 The other's neck — and each one's eyes 
 Gaze on the other's san^ disguise. 
 And, gazing, tell so deep a tale 
 Of passion as poor words would fail
 
 2,78 THE MATDEIT OP EADSTOCK VALE, 
 
 To paint — and p'r'aps it's quite as well 
 That eyes alone such tales should tell. 
 
 It's really too shocking ! I almost begin 
 To wish from my soul that we hadn't peep'd in. 
 To think after all the sweet vows she has sworn, 
 By all saints and saintesses that ever were born, 
 No other to love, no allegiance to own 
 Save only to Edgar — dear Edgar alone— 
 That the sad little minx all her oaths hath for- 
 gotten, 
 And proved all her sweet protestations as rotten 
 As touchwood — her moon-witnessed vows all as 
 
 vain. 
 As worthless as five-per-cent. coupons of Spain. 
 And now that the great ugly brute by her side 
 Claims lawfully Eleanor Dale as his bride. 
 So yoixng and so loving, so false and so frail, 
 So true and so perjured was Eleanor Dale ! 
 
 Oh, Cupid ! if all the sad tales that are told 
 Of all other divinities dwelling of old 
 On the far-famed Olympus, were all of them true, 
 One tythe of the mischief committed by you, 
 In spite of the world's most absurd partiality 
 In blinding its eyes to your sad immorality. 
 Would outweigh them all in essential rascality.
 
 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK YALE. 
 
 A pilgrim waits 
 
 At the castle gates, 
 And knocks and asks admission ; 
 
 And the pilgrim's gown 
 
 Of dingy brown 
 Is in shocking bad condition. 
 
 And it's easily seen 
 That it 's not quite clean ; 
 
 But holy men thus can dress — 
 For it isn't thought 
 That the saintly ought 
 
 To patronise a laundress. 
 
 And his shovel hat, 
 
 So broad aud flat. 
 Might make the sinful smile ; 
 
 But, on such a head. 
 
 There was no one said, 
 " What a horrid ugly tile !" 
 
 And in his hand 
 
 He bears a waud — 
 A Palmer's staff of white — 
 
 And his sandal shoes, 
 
 With mud aud use, 
 Are terribly out of plight. 
 
 Altogether the Pilgrim looked dirty and seedy ; 
 But as virtue and holiness often are needy,
 
 2S0 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK TALE. 
 
 ISTo doubt the good man and his garments both savoured 
 Of sanctity's odour— a compound high flavoured, 
 Preferred by the holy to attar of roses, 
 But sometimes unpleasant to sensitive noses. 
 
 The warder throws open a friendly portal 
 To this sanctified tramp ; and the queer-looking mortal, 
 As he crosses the threshold, bows low, in an attitude 
 Meant for a compound of meekness and gratitude. 
 
 And then, along corridor, passages, hall, 
 Huge banquetting chambers and closets small, 
 Up stairs of stone, through galleries wide, 
 With doors and loopholes on either side. 
 They lead the Palmer with all due haste. 
 Till they come to a little chamber placed 
 In the eastern tower, up fliglits of stairs, 
 (In a modern mansion at least " three pairs,") 
 Whence issued sounds that might betide 
 A set of jolly dogs inside, 
 With " material comforts" well supplied. 
 
 SO'SQ. 
 
 I. 
 
 A health to the Church, boys, drink ! 
 Each bumper goblet drain, boys, 
 Let never a drop remain, boys. 
 Should the wine ne'er flow again, boys, 
 
 'Tis now to the Church we'll drink.
 
 THE MAIDEN OE EADSTOCK TALE. 2S1 
 II. 
 
 A health to the Church, bojs, drink! 
 To iufidel dogs confusion, 
 To them and their dull delusion, 
 Hatred and persecution — 
 
 'Tis thus to the Church we drink. 
 
 III. 
 
 A health to the Church, boys, drink! 
 To our Sovereign liege the Pope, boys, 
 Our refuge, stay, and hope, boys ; 
 This Rhenish juice well tope, boys — 
 
 To him and the Church we drink. 
 
 IT. 
 
 A health to the Church, boys, drink ! 
 To each cardinal, bishop, prior, 
 Each abbot, priest, and friar, 
 May none in our hearts rank higher — 
 
 To them and the Church we drink ! 
 
 Such and much more was the rude-sounding song 
 (Very noisy, of course, and excessively long, 
 Like all Bacchanalian ditties in general,) 
 Sung by a chorus of tipplers, who then were all 
 Seated and feasting around the rich board 
 Of Sir Philip of liadstock, their suzerain lord, 
 And beside whom, exposed without wimple or veil, 
 Sat hia beaut if id lady, false Eleanor Dale.
 
 282 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK TALE. 
 
 " A holy Palmer!" Sir Philip cried ; 
 
 " Sit here, good friend, on my right-hand side. 
 
 Good sooth, a knight of the cross should know 
 
 Due honour to such as thee to show." 
 
 With lowly bow the pilgrim bent, 
 
 And straight to the Lord of Eadstock went. 
 
 " Whence came you last, good Palmer, here ?" 
 
 " I came from the halls of the Lord de Vere, 
 
 Deserted now, indeed." " Deserted ?" 
 
 Cried the knight, and his loud tone disconcerted 
 
 The Palmer, who first, half-frightened, stared, 
 
 And then in a modest voice declared, 
 
 That " the Baron de Vere and his son had gone, 
 
 With the whole of their castle's garrison, 
 
 To attack, according to knightly laws, 
 
 Some troublesome foe," though he added a clause 
 
 That he " wasn't aware of the special cause." 
 
 L^p sprung Sir Philip. " To horse ! to horse ! 
 Ev'ry man Jack of the garrison's force ! 
 To Horse ! " he shouted, " away ! away ! 
 And, before the fall of another day, 
 The banner of Eadstock's knight shall wave 
 On his foeman's walls, or the silent grave 
 The corpse of Eadstock's knight shall have." 
 
 No sooner Philip's voice is heard 
 Than all arise, and, at the word,
 
 THE MAIDEN OE KADSTOCK VALE. 283 
 
 G-audy doublet, silken tose, 
 Velvet slippers, tawdry bows, 
 Plumed hats aside tbey dash, 
 The helmet and the sabre's clash. 
 The coat of mail, the heavy shield. 
 To these the festive garments yield ; 
 "While through each corridor and hall. 
 With brazen notes the trumpet-call 
 Kings out the summons ! all around 
 The warlike preparations sound, 
 And loud they shout their battle cry 
 Por Eadstock's knight and victory ! 
 
 The warriors all from the castle are gone ; 
 The Pilgrim and Eleanor Dale are alone. 
 
 The Pilgrim casts aside his gown, 
 And plucks from off his wrinkled crown 
 A long grey wig — and in place appear 
 The flowing curls of the young De Vere ! 
 
 And Eleanor utters an awful shriek ; 
 But ere the terrified dame can speak, 
 With a giant's grasp he seized her throat, 
 And stifled the rising sharp, shrill note — 
 And away to the turret top he sped, 
 And he shouted, " Behold thy bridal bed — 
 Below where the stagnant waters float — 
 The cold, deep, silent, dismal moat !"
 
 284 TUE MAIDEN OF RADSTOCK A'ALE. 
 
 One piercing shriek — one stifled cry, 
 Of struggling, death- wrung agony ; 
 A hissing sound — a sudden dash — 
 The waters part with heavy plash — 
 And the soul of the faithless one is gone 
 To plead before th' Eternal Throne ! 
 
 The sentinel stops as he passes by, 
 And mutters, " I fancied I heard a cry — 
 Who goes there ?" — there's no reply. 
 So he turns again to his beaten ground, 
 And silence and darkness reign around ! 
 
 That same afternoon (as the chronicles say) 
 
 Sir Philip with all of his followers lay. 
 
 Prom the Castle of Radstock some twelve miles away, 
 
 Resting awhile in their fancied security. 
 
 Concealed in the depths of a forest's obscurity. 
 
 That same afternoon, as they passed a ravine, 
 Or a gorge, or a passage two mountains between, 
 On a sudden behind them a trumpet-blast sounded, 
 And judge how Sir Philip stood, dumb and confounded. 
 To find himself closely hemm'd in and surrounded. 
 
 Few words would tell the bloody tale 
 Of what ensued ; though words would fiiil
 
 THE MAIDEN OF RADSTOCK VALE. 285 
 
 To paint a massacre as fell 
 
 As e'er was plann'd by fieud of Hell. 
 
 That night the pallid moonlight shone 
 On warrior slain and steed o'ertlirown ; 
 The knight and all his glittering train — 
 Not one beheld tlie light again ! 
 
 Ten peacefid years had passed away 
 Since Eadstock saw that bloody fray, 
 And men had almost ceased to tell 
 How the last Knight of Eadstock fell. 
 
 Ten years had passed : the cold and gloom 
 Of dark December days had come, 
 And Autumn skies were seen no more — • 
 Sad proofs that Autumn's reign was o'er. 
 
 Within an abbey, old and grey, 
 
 A dying Benedictine lay ; 
 
 And bv his deathbed, watching there, 
 
 A holy brother knelt in prayer. 
 
 Scarce five-and-thirty suns had sped 
 Over the dying friar's head ; 
 His hair was still of raven black. 
 His eye was full, and had no lack
 
 286 THE MAIDEN OF EADSTOCK YALE. 
 
 Of manly fire ; but still the lines 
 Of care and grief, those well-knowTi signs 
 That all may read, had left their trace 
 In many a furrow on his face. 
 
 Dark was the tale of guilt and fear 
 He whispered in the listening ear 
 Of him who knelt to bless and shrive, 
 While yet the body was alive. 
 
 It told a deed of vengeance done — 
 The murder of a faithless one. 
 It told an act of treachery, 
 Which hurried to eternity 
 Tour hundred living stalwart men, 
 All butchered in one fatal glen. 
 
 " 'Tis true that slie was false as Ileil, 
 And he had earn'd his doom right well ; 
 But, Holy Father, even so, 
 'Twas God's, not mine, to strike the blow." 
 
 He kissed the cross, he bow'd the head — 
 Edgar de Vere, the friar, was dead ! 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 I have done; but there's one thing I wish to lay 
 
 stress on — 
 'Tis taught in my tale— 'tis a fine moral lesson.
 
 THE MAIDEN OP EADSTOCK VALE. 287 
 
 Eact man in his memory carries a book, 
 
 Wliose accounts not a Chairman of Railways can 
 
 "cook;" 
 Where each sin, each omission, each outbreak of rage, 
 The book-keeper, Conscience, notes down in a page. 
 Keep your eye on this book — keep the items all square, 
 Lest, on adding them up, the result make you stare. 
 Should you lie on your bed 
 When your course is nigh sped, 
 And then reckon the balance-sheet up in your head, 
 'T would be rather unpleasant, as Death hauled 
 
 alongside, 
 To find that the balance was all the ivrong side !
 
 2S8 
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 The Sultan sits in his grand divan, 
 As only a tailor or Mussulman can, 
 With his legs across, his knees asunder, 
 And his feet out of sight tuck'd neatly under. 
 
 The Sultan sits in a tight surtout, 
 
 Button' d up to his throat, and of plain dark blue ; 
 
 "With a scarf of the finest cashmere, tied 
 
 E-ound his waist, and the ends flowing loose at his 
 
 side; 
 And trousers of crimson, embroidered with lace, 
 And remarkable chiefly for plenty of space ; 
 "While jauntily stuck on his Majesty's head 
 Is a little fez cap, of the brightest of red. 
 
 His beard is black, and black his eyes, 
 And both are of rather extra size ;
 
 m§k&i^^. 
 
 The Czar and the Sultan.— Pn^e 288.
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAN. 289 
 
 His clieeks are hollow, as if tlie past 
 
 Of his Majesty's life had been too " fast :" 
 
 And, though in his years he is still a young fellow. 
 
 His skin is decidedly wrinkled and yellow. 
 
 The Sultan sits and smokes away, — • 
 
 Not a meerschaum pipe, nor a pipe of clay, 
 
 Nor a pipe with a bowl of painted china, 
 
 Like those which in London so frequently line a 
 
 Tobacconist's windows, attracting young gents 
 
 (And old ones, at times, on some flimsy pretence,) 
 
 By pictures of damsels, in costumes the oddest, 
 
 And scantiest too — rather classic than modest. 
 
 What the Sultan smoked had a silver bowl 
 
 Of a bell-like shape, and into a hole 
 
 At the top of the bell, as it stood on the ground, 
 
 "Was fitted a flexible tube, which wound 
 
 In many a coil, ere its amber tip 
 
 Eested at length on the Sultan's lip ; 
 
 And through this tube, from its grossness freed. 
 
 Came the scented smoke of the fragrant weed. 
 
 ''O" 
 
 In silence smokes the Sultan there. 
 With a changeless face, and the outward air 
 Of a man without a thought or care. 
 It's certainly true 
 That the Sultan knew 
 His affairs have begun to look terribly blue ;
 
 200 THE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 That bis people, his throne, 
 
 His crown — let alone 
 The Lead that is in it — may soon be o'erthrown ; 
 And be owns in bis heart that the dolefullest " phiz" 
 
 be e'er 
 Saw in bis lifetime is that of his Vizier. 
 
 But the Sultan quietly smokes his hookah — 
 He isn't the man at such moments to look a 
 Shade more excited than usual, deeming 
 Excitement by no means a monarcb beseeming. 
 He wouldn't move either a limb or a feature, 
 Or even an eyebrow, for any born creature ; 
 Nay — we even believe that bis muscles would twitcli not 
 With the devil to pay, and without any pitch hot ! 
 
 Tlie Vizier enters the grand divan — 
 
 A dried-uj), yellow-faced, ancient man ; 
 
 And be makes a formal deep salaam, 
 
 And tries to look quite unmoved and calm ; 
 
 But the Vizier's beart in bis breast is thumping, 
 
 As hard as a pavior the granite bumping 
 
 While mending the roadways, which somehow in 
 
 London 
 Will get out of order as soon as there's one done. 
 
 And when the Vizier has done bis bow. 
 The Sultan says, with an unchanged brow, 
 As be puiFs a cloud, " Well — what's the row ?'* 
 " Sublimest of rulers ! " the Vizier begins,
 
 THE CZAE AND THE SULTAK. 291 
 
 " Great monarch of monarclis ! may all of my sina 
 
 Be for ever unpardoned by Allah, if I, 
 
 Your sublimity's slave, tell your highness a lie ! 
 
 The Eussians " "I thought so!" the Sultan 
 
 says. 
 As he strokes his beard, and shifts his fez, 
 " Whenever I see any minister come 
 "With a face such as yours is — so long and so 
 
 glum — 
 I know that I'm booked for a long dissertation 
 About that infernal, detestable nation, 
 I tell you I'm heartily sick of the matter — 
 The Eussians and you, with your duU prosy chatter. 
 If I'm monarch of monarchs (as all sultans are,) 
 Why the deuce don't you bring me the head of the 
 
 Czar? 
 The title's a sham — it's all rubbish, ridiculous. 
 Nothing more than a plaything — a feather to tickle 
 
 us — 
 Unless it will give us the head of this Nicholas," 
 
 Thus the Sultan ends ; 
 
 The Vizier bends. 
 And, whiffing his hookah, the Sultan sends 
 Trom his lips and his nose such a volume of smoke 
 As any one else than a sultan would choke. 
 
 And, in fact, as it goes 
 
 Up the Vizier's nose, 
 A twist of the Vizier's countenance shows — 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE CZAR AKD THE SULTAN. 
 
 Were it not tliat the act might his highness dis- 
 please — 
 'Twould be a relief to the Vizier to sneeze. 
 But he eases it off 
 With a little short cough, 
 And, his heart ev'ry moment more loud in its knock- 
 
 ings. 
 Wishes any one else than himself in his stockings. 
 
 " Great Monarch," he says, " your Sublimity knows 
 That this Nicholas lives among mountains and snows, 
 Surrounded each side by an army of bears, 
 With wolves for their sentinels — posted in pairs — 
 And a squadron of eagles, perched up in the skies, 
 To watch over all with their long-sighted eyes." 
 
 With a long-drawn puff, 
 
 And a voice as gruff 
 As the music of Jullien's big trombone. 
 
 The Sultan remarks — 
 
 " Come, none of your larks ! 
 Mr. Vizier, you'd better leave joking alone." 
 
 Then down on his knees the Vizier falls. 
 And loudly on Allah and Mahomet calls. 
 To attest what he says, while the Sultan, indignant, 
 Asks, " What in the name of the deuce the old prig 
 meant ? 
 
 Can't he tell out his story ? 
 
 He is such a bore, — he
 
 THE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 293 
 
 Goes swearing and praying, instead of first stating 
 His facts, while he knows that his master's kept 
 waiting." 
 
 Then up jumps the Vizier, 
 
 His head feeling dizzier. 
 But fii'mly resolving to blurt out the truth ; 
 
 And he says, in a tone 
 
 'Twixt a sigh and a groan, 
 " Great Monarch, the Eussians have crossed the 
 Pruth!!" 
 
 The Sultan takes a tremendous whiff, 
 In the style that the vulgar call " drawing it stiff," 
 And watchiiig the smoky clouds gracefully wave. 
 Observes, with decision — " The devil they have!" 
 
 The minister waits for another word. 
 
 But no more from the Sultan's lips is heard ; 
 
 With a nod to the Vizier — a hint he can spare him — 
 
 The Sultan walks quietly off to his harem. 
 
 Czar Nicholas sits in his large arm-chair, 
 With his eyes on the floor in a steady stare, 
 In his great cuirass of polished steel, 
 And his long jack-boots, with spurs at the heel. 
 And he scratches his ear, and bites his nails, 
 And from under his seat he puUs his tails,
 
 291 ' THE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 (The tails of his coat are the tails we allude to ; 
 
 We beg to explain, lest we seem to be rude to 
 
 His Majesty, seeing that one of his name 
 
 To Q. personal caudal appendage laj'^s claim;) 
 
 And he twists and he turns, and looks up and looks 
 
 down, 
 Like a man, or a czar, in a study called " brown ;" 
 And he jumps from his chair, and he paces the floor, 
 And again he sinks down in his chair as before ; 
 And at last takes a pull at the bell, in a fashion 
 That shows a slight touch of imperial passion. 
 
 A page or a groom 
 
 Slips into the room, 
 And trembles, remarking his Majesty's gloom ; 
 
 "While a voice, that to hear 
 
 Is t' obey and to fear. 
 Says, briefly and grufily — " Send Nesselrode here." 
 
 Over the stones, 
 
 At the risk of his bones. 
 At a gallop speeds Nesselrode's carriage along; 
 
 To the palace he goes. 
 
 And the minister knows 
 Czar Nicholas isn't the man to wait long. 
 
 Nesselrode enters the Emperor's hall, 
 Nesselrode's eyes on the Emperor full,
 
 THE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 205 
 
 And Nesselrode says to himself — " I wonder 
 What's coming — it certainly looks like thunder, 
 And yet I can't think that we've made a blunder." 
 
 " How are you, Count Nesselrode ? take a seat," 
 Says the Czar, with a smile that he means to be sweet ; 
 But, coming from him. 
 There is something half grim. 
 In the twist of his mouth — an expression between a 
 Cat with a mouse, and a grinning hyena. 
 
 Nesselrode's bow 
 
 Is exceedingly low. 
 Intended his loyal obedience to show ; 
 And as soon as he's seated, without delay 
 The Czar says out what he has to say — 
 " Touching the Turks and this grand commotion, 
 I think, Count N., that I've got a new notion." 
 
 Nesselrode thinks, if he has 'tis strange — 
 The thing's so "used up," that the glimpse of a change 
 In any one's views, on a subject so flat. 
 Must be rare as plain truth — or a Turk in a hat. 
 " It's remarkably clear that our actions all tally 
 With what we've professed — there's been no shilly- 
 shally ; 
 They've been straight to the point — what we've said 
 
 we'll have done. 
 Of that there can't be the least doubt — and there's 
 
 none."
 
 296 THE CZAU AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 Nesselrode bows a complete assent, 
 Compreliending at once wliat his Majesty meant — ■ 
 That, having proclaimed they should pillage their 
 
 neighbours. 
 They'd commenced in good earnest their Christian-like 
 
 labours. 
 
 " Well, that being settled, suppose we proclaim 
 To all people the justice and truth of our claim — 
 Send round to the several courts of each nation 
 A defying and bullying grand proclamation. 
 "We won't cfl//itthat, by-the-bye — p'r'aps we'd better 
 Bestow on't the name of a ' circular letter.' " 
 
 Nesselrode doesn't know what to think — 
 
 He has very high notions of printer's ink 
 
 When rightly employed, with due care and due tact, 
 
 In telling a lie, or suppressing a fact. 
 
 But bullying nations is dangerous ground — 
 
 A policy Nesselrode scarcely thinks sound. 
 
 So Nesselrode mildly suggests a doubt. 
 As to how might the end of the thing turn out ; 
 " Would his Majesty please to explain more fully 
 In tvhat way, and ichom, he proposed to bully ?" 
 
 *' All Europe, of course ! all the world — ev'ry soul — 
 K^orth, south, east, and west — from the Line to each 
 Pole—
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAN'. 297 
 
 I '11 frigliten thein all into fits ; the mere shaking 
 Of Russia's big fist will set all of them quaking. 
 John Bull, with his blustering airs, the old rogue, he 
 Fears Eussia as much as a child fears a bogy ; 
 While his neighbour, the newlj-fledged Emperor — 
 
 drat him, 
 Between you and me, T sliould like to get at him — 
 He'll have plenty of trouble in keeping the crown on 
 
 him, 
 Without running chances of bringing me down on him. 
 There's Austria — bah ! the poor, crazy old thing — 
 It's only a puppet, and JpuU the string. 
 There's Prussia— -you know that in Europe there's no 
 
 land 
 More deep in my debt, in the matter of Poland. 
 What are there besides ? — little states, eight or nine 
 
 of them, 
 The imperial guard of our palace might dine on them. 
 I say, hxdly them all, ev'ry single man-Jack of them. 
 Take an Emperor's word you'll alarm the whole pack 
 
 of them." 
 
 So saying, the Czar hits the table a crack, 
 And, crossing his legs and reclining straight back 
 In his great easy chair, gives a sort of a sinister 
 Glance and a grin at his petrified minister. 
 
 Count Nesselrode's "posed" — he's completely con- 
 founded — 
 By the wonderful plan that the Czar has propounded.
 
 298 THE CZAB ANB THE SULTAN. 
 
 Insulting all Europe he doesn't think wrong, 
 
 But suggests that it's " coming it rather too strong." 
 
 " Not a bit — not a bit — 
 
 It's strong — that's just it: 
 In the face of all Europe I venture to spit. 
 
 Of course I shall shock it — 
 
 The remonstrance, I mock it — 
 The offence, as they'll find, they must manage to 
 pocket. 
 
 So take up your quill, 
 
 "Write away, sir, until 
 You've taught all the nations a bit of my will ; 
 
 And don't be too nice. 
 
 Put in plenty of spice — 
 "Why the deuce should the cat be afraid of the mice ?" 
 
 So Nesselrode, grasping a goose-quill, writes 
 On a foolscap sheet what the Czar indites ; 
 
 And the " circular letter" comes out — an affair 
 
 That makes all Europe gape and stare. 
 
 Austria chuckles. 
 
 And rubs her knuckles. 
 
 With joy at the fun. 
 
 And wishes, for one. 
 
 She' A only the pluck to let off such a gun. 
 
 Prussia gets hot, 
 
 And cries " Mein Gott!''
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAN. 299 
 
 Prance iu amaze, 
 
 Ventre hleus and sacres, 
 And vows to set Moscow again in a blaze ; 
 
 While phlegmatic John Bull, 
 
 Taking first a long pull 
 
 At a pot of his stout, 
 
 Wonders what it's about : 
 
 If it's only a brag, or 
 
 An impudent swagger. 
 He'll laugh at the thing ; for John Bull daily learns 
 The folly of meddling in others' concerns. 
 But, seeing at last it's a question of " tin" to him. 
 Says, " Be hang'd to his insolence, won't I walk into 
 him!" 
 
 # « « # 
 
 Czar Nicholas sits in his chair again, 
 In his great cuirass ; but it's certainly plain 
 Czar Nicholas isn't in quite such glee 
 As his Majesty whilome was wont to be. 
 
 He 's gnawing his thumb. 
 
 He's looking half glum, 
 And for several minutes sits perfectly dumb ; 
 
 While Nesselrode, there 
 
 In the opposite chair, 
 Twirls his fingers with quite an abstracted air. 
 
 And, in short, you may guess, 
 From their look of distress. 
 They consider themselves in a bit of a mesa.
 
 300 
 
 TUE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 There's somewhere a twist, 
 
 Some stroke has been missed, 
 
 Some movement has tripped, 
 
 Some scheme has been nipped 
 In the bud, and the clever concoctors are hipped. 
 The Czar and his man look as " sold" and as sillj 
 As the man at the Oaks who has backed the wrong 
 My. 
 
 Czar Nicliolas " hems," and clears his throat, 
 
 And mutters some words about " drawing: a note." 
 
 Nesselrode rouses, and pricks up his ears. 
 
 By no means quite sure if he rightly hears. 
 
 " But is't in his Majesty's contemplation 
 
 To concoct any further and fresh proclamation ? " 
 
 " Proclamation be — never mind what — it's not thai 
 I'm thinking about : I'm not quite such a flat 
 As to let you go trying your hand at a second. 
 The harm of jour^rsf, sir, 's not easily reckon'd." 
 
 Nesselrode scarcely restrains a cry. 
 
 Which sounds remarkably like " Oh, my !" 
 
 As he thinks, with a pang and a heart-drawn sigh. 
 
 Of imperial gratitude, laying the blame 
 
 On Ms shoulders — well knowing he couldn't disclaim 
 
 The " circular letter," as bearing his name. 
 
 "Look here!" says the Czar, "let us see how we 
 
 stand ; 
 We're deserted and threatened on every hand.
 
 TUE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 301 
 
 There are England and France, swearing firmest alli- 
 ance 
 To back up tlie Porte, and set iis at defiance ; 
 There's Austria, too, even ventures to double, 
 (Catch me ever again helping him out of trouble ;) 
 There's Prussia, at present not certainly moving, 
 But backing the others by calmly approving. 
 All Europe against us — half Asia to follow — 
 Such odds even Eussia herself can scarce swallow. 
 But Austria doesn't like fighting — I know it — 
 He hasn't the pluck, but he don't like to show it; 
 In fact, he's just now in so downright a seedy state, 
 He's of all men in Europe the fellow to mediate, 
 I know him — in spite of his valorous look — 
 To quarrel with me won't at all suit his book ; — 
 He shall set things to rights — he shall serve me, sir, 
 
 yet; 
 Hang the fellow ! I'm sure he's enough in my debt. 
 Let us draw an ' accommodation note,' 
 And, as soon as the paper is set afloat, 
 Austria shall back it — all Europe lay claim to it 
 As their's — and the Sultan will soon put his name 
 
 to it. 
 Let Austria and me, sir, just manage tlie work. 
 It's odd if between us we don't ' sell' the Turk." 
 
 The Sultan sits in his Grand Divan, 
 As the Sultan sat when our tale began,
 
 302 THE CZAR AIND THE SULTAN, 
 
 And he smokes as before, that you hardly can see a 
 Yard through the clouds of his Latakia. 
 
 And his Yizier is there, and he bows and scrapes, 
 
 And hands up a paper bound round with tapes, 
 
 And inscribed "To the Sultan, with Austria's respects." 
 
 And the Sultan reads through it — looks half per- 
 plex' d — 
 
 And then pitches it from him, and growls " What 
 next! 
 
 Sign that ! put my name to that note ! a nice chap 
 
 Is Austria, indeed, to have laid such a trap. 
 
 A pretty bright flame through all Turkey 'twould 
 kindle, 
 
 If I signed such a thing — it's a regular swindle ; 
 
 A case of 'note-stealing' which Austria's conniving at ; 
 
 And they think I'm so blind — I can see what they're 
 driving at : 
 
 They'll find their mistake — I'll do only what's right; 
 
 And I won't be bamboozled — so that cock won't fight." 
 
 Thus saying, he tosses the paper, and kicks it 
 Across to his Vizier, who quietly picks it 
 I'rom ofl" the divan, wond'riug what's in the wind, he 
 Ne'er saw in his life greater signs of a " shindy." 
 
 Again the Czar Nicholas sits in his chair, 
 And, under his breath, he's heard to swear
 
 THE CZAE AHD THE SULTAN. 303 
 
 About "'blessed' young Turks, and their wonderful 
 
 keenness ; 
 And Austrian humbug, ingratitude, meanness ; 
 And French animosity, parvenu crowned heads ; 
 And English monarcho-republican ' roundheads ;' 
 
 And Prussian neutrality ; 
 
 And the wretched fatality, 
 That nobody meets him with real cordiality. 
 While ev'ry one talks about ' Russian rascality.' " 
 
 Nesselrode comes in a deuce of a fright, 
 
 His teeth on a chatter, his face all white, 
 
 And he stutters and chokes at the news he tells — 
 
 " The fleets have entered the Dardanelles !!" 
 
 Nicholas starts, and his great big chest 
 
 By the great cuirass feels quite opprest. 
 
 While his knees and his legs half shaky feel, 
 
 In his long jack-boots with the spurs at the heel. 
 
 Till at length he asks, with a ray of hope, 
 
 " Count Nesselrode, how are we off for — soap ?" 
 
 No lips ever uttered a deeper sigh. 
 No tear ever glistened in sadder eye. 
 No heart in a breast ever louder thump'd, 
 Than Count N.'s, as he answers, "Completely 
 stump'd!"
 
 80i THE CZAR AND THE SULTAIT. 
 
 " By Jove I" says the Czar, " then we are in the wrong 
 
 box — 
 27b fneiids out qf doors, and no tin in the strong hox /" 
 
 The journals of Austria, England, and France, 
 Proclaim to the world that there's scarcely a chance 
 
 Of a war with the Czar ; 
 
 He's too moderate far 
 In his views and his wishes for any such measures ; 
 Preserving the peace is his greatest of pleasures. 
 
 He's been misunderstood; 
 
 He's really too good 
 To think of oppressing a nation that 's weak ; 
 
 With "unbounded resources," 
 
 And " terrible forces," 
 "Wliat Europe thinks justice is all lie would seeki 
 
 Nay, it's even been hinted, 
 
 And more than once printed, 
 
 That, rather than fight. 
 
 He'll relinquish his right. 
 And retreat at the moment the Turks come in sight ; 
 
 Not at all from the lack 
 
 Of "pluck" to attack. 
 And crush all their armies, or drive them all back ; 
 Not from fear of an onslaught from every quarter. 
 But from meekness and mildness and hatred of 
 slaughter !
 
 THE CZAR AND THE SULTAK. 305 
 
 But 'tis pity those fellows, 
 
 The Turks, are so jealous 
 At the least interference for simple humanity ; 
 
 Tor, of course, the Czar's cause 
 
 Deserves our applause. 
 As his object is plain — to protect Christianity I 
 In short, though our pen is not given to flatter, 
 "We confess that the more we look into the matter, 
 
 The less can we guide 
 
 Our mind to decide 
 Which most is deserving of admiration — 
 Czar Nicholas's courage — or moderation! 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 To the nations of Europe I preach ; 
 Let them list to the lesson I teach, 
 
 'Twill do them good service to learn it I 
 Of such lessons, though simple indeed, 
 I fear they stand greatly in need. 
 
 So woe to the nations that spurn it : — 
 
 Don't "bully" in haste. 
 
 It's not only bad taste, 
 But you'll get yourselves into a hobble ; 
 
 And if ending in Vox, 
 
 "Without coming to knocks. 
 It's as bad as an old woman's squabble. 
 
 X
 
 306 TUE CZAE AND THE SULTAN. 
 
 And then, bear in mind, 
 
 It's not easy to find 
 All the money that war will require ; 
 
 For, arrange as you may, 
 
 There'll be something to pay. 
 If the thing ends in smoke or in fire. 
 
 So if, as you're told, 
 Ev'ry settlement's gold, 
 
 Why it's clearly according to Cocker, 
 That no one can settle 
 Accounts in that metal 
 
 Who hasn't a shot in the locker.
 
 307 
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 
 
 ^ Ecgcnti of Saint (or ©llj) i^tcfjolas. 
 
 MiNisTEKS meet 
 
 In Downing Street, 
 With something to do — an unusual treat ; 
 
 Tor budgets and bills, 
 
 About money and mills, 
 And sewers, and cabs, and mere ev'ry-day ills, 
 
 Are dull and dry work, 
 
 That they'd much rather shirk ; 
 But there's fun in the " row" 'twixt the Euss and the 
 Turk. 
 
 So on this one occasion, 
 Sans excuse or evasion, 
 Ev'ry minister goes. 
 And they sit and they prose 
 For two or three hours, though there's nobody knows 
 
 x2
 
 308 KALAFAT AND SINOPE, 
 
 "What is said, or what done, 
 
 Whose view is the one — 
 Though it's hinted that each has a view of his own, 
 
 To which, it appears, 
 
 He most firmly adheres, 
 And at each of his colleagues' contemptuously 
 
 sneers ; 
 So that really some common-sense people opine 
 That the Czar on his Turkey may manage to dine, 
 Ere the Downing Street gentlemen come into action. 
 Or settle their views to their own satisfaction. 
 
 And they're ruhbing their eyes 
 
 In doubt and surprise. 
 
 At seeing no hint 
 
 In the world of print. 
 As to what is John Bull's determination. 
 
 "What is he about 
 
 That he don't speak out ? 
 Is he " struck of a heap ' ' with consternation 
 
 At the thought of a war 
 
 On a sudden — before 
 
 He's had time to see 
 
 "What the cost will be ? 
 Or have Nicholas's prowess, and Nesselrode's blus- 
 ter. 
 Destroyed all the pluck John Bull can muster 'i 
 Can the Lion of Britain be sunk so low ? 
 Can the Lion of Britain real terror know ?
 
 KALAFAT AKD SINOPB. 309 
 
 Or is it, they ask — when the thing has well puzzled 
 
 'em — 
 Some nervous old Scotchman has caught him and 
 
 muzzled him ? 
 
 » # # # * 
 
 Gortschakoff, Prince, is a wonderful general, 
 Sagacious, invincible : Grortschakoff's men are all 
 Marvellous fellows, experienced veterans ; 
 Europe, Asia, America, couldn't show better ones. 
 
 In the city of Bucharest, 
 
 As Gortschakoff took a rest, 
 Smoking the pipe of inglorious peace j 
 
 Waiting his orders 
 
 From over the borders, 
 And feeding on stolen Wallachian geese — 
 
 Up comes a message 
 
 Appearing to presage 
 Work for the geese-stealing Prince Gortschakoff — 
 
 The Sultan's request, 
 
 Politely exprest. 
 That he'll pack his portmanteau and take himself off; 
 
 With the gentlest of hints 
 
 That if he, the Prince, 
 Don't quickly comply, and pass over the barrier, 
 
 He may chance form a notion 
 
 Of the quickening motion 
 Produced by an impetus dealt him en arriere.
 
 310 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 
 
 Invincible GortscliakofF stares with amazement, 
 Wonders whatever that last little phrase meant, 
 (For the geese-stealing Prince, for his valour so 
 
 dreaded. 
 In the matter of brains is a trifle thick-headed,) 
 And shortly replies, — " "Where he is he shall stick, 
 Till commanded to move by his master (old Nick), 
 "Who's a saint, and a trump, and a regvilar brick ; 
 That he don't want to fight; that he'd much rather 
 
 not ; 
 He's fond of his ease, and the quarters he's got ; 
 But if they will force him to fight, why it's probable, 
 He and his men will be found for the job able." 
 And so saying, the sinner 
 "Went on with his dinner. 
 Devouring his goose — and full little he look'd 
 Like a man whose own goose was soon doom'd to be 
 
 "cook'd." 
 
 A neat little fellow. 
 
 Grey -bearded and yellow. 
 Of an age neither tender, nor old, but just mellow. 
 
 Sits smoking a meerschaum, 
 
 "While, loitering near, some 
 Grim-visaged men look more martial than cheersome. 
 
 And the neat little man, 
 
 As his eye seems to scan 
 All the country around^ as some eagle-eyea can —
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 311 
 
 Just removing the tip 
 Of the pipe from his lip, 
 And resting his hand with the stem on his hip — 
 Cries out, " There he is ! 
 That Ai-ab — that's his — • 
 And that shocking bad turban, that coat, and that 
 
 phiz ! 
 It's Selim, the herald, come back from the camp 
 Of that Euss — only let me cross swords with that 
 
 scamp — 
 Go and meet him, you sluggards," he cries, with a 
 
 stamp 
 Of his foot on the ground ! and away like a shot, 
 Tumbling over each other, bowl off the whole lot 
 Of the grim-visaged men, while their yellow-faced 
 
 chief again 
 Sticks his pipe in his mouth, and in smoke finds relief 
 again. 
 
 Selim, the herald, all seedy and dusty, 
 (A thorough-bred Turk is at best rather fusty,) 
 Approaches the chieftain demurely and slowly. 
 Salaaming, and scraping, and bending down lowly ; 
 "While the chieftain himself, with a wave of his pipe- 
 stem, 
 (As Selim wets gravely his lips and then wipes them,) 
 Says, " Go on, old boy, don't salaam for an hour. 
 But out with the truth ; what's the news from the 
 Giaour?"
 
 312 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 
 
 " Allah, il Allah !" cries Selim, who's pious ; 
 
 " The Russians, great general, dare to defy us : 
 
 This GortschakofF hasn't the slightest respect 
 
 For your prowess or name — he was not even check' d 
 
 Prom bad language — the thing that I always have 
 
 hated worst — 
 For he said, 'As for moving, he'd see you inflated 
 
 first.'" 
 
 " Will he ?" cries neat little Omar Pasha, 
 The yellow-faced general — " Will he ? ha ! ha \ 
 We'll try what his courage is made of — this Mus- 
 covite — 
 Taste the kernel within, for I'll soon break the husk 
 
 of it ; 
 I'll be at him as quick as an arrow, and quicker too, 
 And we'll see if he'll move, when we've dealt him a 
 kick or two." 
 
 Trumpets are braying. 
 War-steeds are neighing. 
 Warriors are praying. 
 
 Still waging the battle. 
 Cymbals are crashing, 
 Cannon are flashing. 
 Sabres are clashing, 
 
 'Gainst men and their cattle.
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPB. 313 
 
 Banners are flying, 
 
 Heroes are lying, 
 
 The dead and the dying. 
 
 The lord and the peasant : 
 While angels are weeping, 
 And carnage is sweeping 
 The plain, in blood steeping 
 
 The Cross and the Crescent. 
 
 And charging, retreating. 
 The harsh drums loud beating, 
 While souls are still fleeting — 
 
 Their eartlily course run — 
 'Mid wailing and moaning. 
 Grim warriors groaning, 
 Death's agony owning — 
 
 The victory's won ! 
 
 Little Omar Pasha has " walked into" Prince Gorts- 
 
 chakoff". 
 That valorous prince whom his master had thought as of 
 Prowess enough to bring Turkey to terms, 
 Or to gobble her up, as a duck gobbles worms. 
 Little Omar Pasha has walked into him, whipp'd him. 
 At one blow of his wonderful prestige has stripped him, 
 
 And forced him to tramp 
 
 Back again to his camp. 
 As fast as he came thence — or p'rhaps rather faster — 
 To mourn for his fate, and write home to his master ! 
 ******
 
 314 KALAFAT AKD SINOPE. 
 
 In St. Petersburgh city Czar Nicholas sits, 
 
 In one of his suUenest, sulkiest fits, 
 
 Awaiting despatches from Gortschakoff's army, 
 
 And, spite of his efforts to think himself calm, he 
 
 Displays by the twitch of his mouth and moustache, 
 
 And at times by his eyes with their ill-omen' d flash, 
 
 That the state of his mind is not perfectly easy, 
 
 But his temper unsteady, inclined to be breezy. 
 
 In short, were he not the most excellent prince 
 
 That ever has governed a nation since — since 
 
 Nero fiddled at Eome — one would almost have guessed 
 
 That his " bosom's lord" wasn't at ease in his breast ; 
 
 That conscience — a bore, that puts most out of 
 
 patience — 
 Was slightly disturbing the Czar's meditations : 
 But a prince so humane and so perfect, 'twere nonsense 
 To suppose that 1ie''d ever be troubled by conscience. 
 
 Dashing and splashing, and flying and tearing, 
 
 Battling and jolting, and shouting and swearing, 
 
 Ventres a terre, at the wildest of paces. 
 
 As fast as a run at the Newmarket races ; 
 
 Cutting round corners, and shaving the posts, 
 
 Upsetting apple-stalls, scattering hosts 
 
 Of flying pedestrians, at every crossing. 
 
 Mud in the air like a whirligig tossing ; 
 
 Spinning through broad streets, and dashing down 
 
 narrow, 
 Straight to the mark, and swift as an arrow,
 
 kala:fat and slnope. 315 
 
 Away to the palace — then, pulling up short — 
 With a shout from the men, from the horses a snort ; 
 Bang fly the gates open, freed from their latches ; 
 An Imperial courier arrives with despatches ; 
 Eushes into his Majesty's presence, who snatches 
 The letter, and reads it — one glance, and he catches 
 The purport of all of it — stamps on the floor, 
 Utters a sound — half a cry, half a roar — 
 Dashes out of the room — I can't tell any more, 
 But I'm sadly afraid that his Majesty swot^e ! ! 
 
 Nesselrode comes, 
 
 Biting his thumbs, 
 
 In a fit of the blues 
 
 At hearing the news — 
 Finds his Majesty chafing, and stamping, and raving, 
 
 And praying and vowing. 
 
 And cursing and rowing — 
 In short, in a very sad manner behaving: 
 And when Nesselrode asks what his master proposes, 
 Czar Nicholas grins like a tiger, and shows his 
 Great teeth, as he mildly suggests preparations 
 To hang Gortschakofi" first, and then all his relations. 
 
 Nesselrode waits till his master's more cool — 
 Nesselrode knows that his master's no fool — 
 Nesselrode draws up a splendid narration 
 Of a victory gained by the arms of his nation — 
 How ten thousand Russians had dared to attack 
 Just fourfold the number of Turks ; driven back
 
 316 ■ KA.LAFAT AND STNOPE. 
 
 The Infidels headlong, pursued them and thrashed 
 
 them, 
 Slew, routed, took prisoners, utterly smashed them ! 
 
 Next day the Imperial Russian Gazette 
 Contained the account, and such favour it met 
 That the people were almost sent mad with excitement ; 
 And to such an extent their excessive delight went. 
 They prayed to each saint, and imbibed so much liquor 
 That heads grew more dizzy, and voices got thicker, 
 As they shouted all night — there was scarcely a hush 
 
 once — 
 " For Nicholas Czar, and the God of the Eussians ! " 
 
 'Twas in Sinope's Bay, 
 The Turkish vessels lay. 
 
 Some few and very small ones : 
 Upon the shore a fort. 
 Of a mean and wretched sort, 
 
 A¥ith things you'd scarcely call guns, 
 
 Stood looking very seedy. 
 Its crumbling walls all weedy, 
 
 With a garrison of twenty ; 
 While, in the ships, the sailors 
 Were squatting down like tailors, 
 
 To enjoy their ybr 'nienfe;
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 317 
 
 And no one thought of keeping 
 A watch, save that of sleeping, 
 
 Or of smoking, at their work there — 
 Not the ghost of a suspicion 
 Of their perilous condition, 
 
 Cross' d the bi-ain of any Turk there ! 
 
 On that very same day. 
 
 Just outside the Bay, 
 Is a fleet of some big line-of-battle ships cruizing, 
 
 With men and with metal 
 
 Sufficient to settle 
 Some six-fold the number of Turks, that are losing 
 Their time and their chances in smoking and boozing. 
 
 And these ships, though they keep 
 
 Afar oiF, get a peep 
 At the poor little vessels at anchor within, 
 
 And the Capitan Euss 
 
 Makes a deuce of a fuss. 
 About what they shall do when they only begin. 
 
 But being a man whose whole valour's discretion 
 (An example, no doubt, to the naval profession,) 
 Determines to send for fresh forces — fresh aid — 
 Don't fancy a moment the Russian's afraid — 
 But he's such a benevolent Christian, he wishes 
 To blow to the skies, or to sink to the fishes 
 Ev'ry Turk, ev'ry ship, ev'ry gun, ev'ry spar, 
 Por the cause of the Cross, and the fame of the Czar !
 
 318 KALAFAT AND SINOPE, 
 
 Fresh ships are sent for, and they come ; 
 And now for action ! Not a drum 
 Is beat, and not a whistle's sound 
 Is heard 'mongst all the ships around. 
 But, waiting for a fog to hide them, 
 And for the fairest breeze to guide them. 
 Like burglars robbing men that sleep. 
 The mighty Eussian heroes creep 
 Inside the still Sinope's Bay, 
 And pounce upon their helpless prey. 
 To sink, and seize, and burn, and slay. 
 "Who shall tell of what followed ? The rivers of blood 
 That poured from the murder' d, and crimson' d the 
 
 flood ? 
 "Who shall teU of the heroes that, dying, ne'er quailed. 
 Whose hearts never sunk, and whose lips never paled, 
 Though death yawned around them — unvanquish'd, 
 
 though crush' d, 
 Scorning life with disgrace, as to torture they rush'd, 
 With a glory that only such deeds can secure — 
 A fame that shall last while the earth shall endure. 
 
 " Sunk — blown up — smash'd — burnt — 
 Drowned — shot — fate not learnt — " 
 Just such and so much are the only returns 
 Of the Turks and their ships, that the world ever 
 
 learns. 
 A very few words ! a mere scratch of the pen 
 In place of those ships and those hundreds of men !
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 319 
 
 Tet read them, and say, could a livelier picture be, 
 Of this bloodthirsty, fiendish, and Jerry-Sneak victory ? 
 
 "Ho, bo!" and"ba, ba! 
 
 Hurrah and huzzah! " 
 
 Shouts Nicholas Czar, 
 As he reads of the glorious Sinope affair. 
 With the most uumistakeably satisfied air : 
 And in Nesselrode's ribs gives a humorous poke. 
 Crying, " Nessy, my boy, that's what J call a joke ! 
 Only fancy those Turks blowing up in a blaze. 
 Arms, bodies, and legs flying different vv^ays ! 
 Only fancy the sinking, and burning, and flaying. 
 Those poor devils shouting, and drowning, and 
 
 praying— 
 The smell of the roasting — the hiss of the water — 
 The crash of the frigates — the blood and the slaughter — 
 (Those Turks never ask, and we never give quarter) — 
 Only fancy the scene — only see how we nailed them — 
 Imagine them thinking how Mahomet failed them ! 
 Altogether confess it's not easy to match 
 This delightful, consoling, amusing despatch. 
 I feel in such joy — what a dinner I'll make ! 
 Why, I swear that with laughing I've made myself 
 
 ache. 
 As for yielding an inch now — we'll hurl our defiance 
 At all the Great Powers, with all their alliance.
 
 320 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 
 
 "WTiile tJiey prate about Peace, and await our compliance, 
 It's on powder and shot that we'' II place our reliance. 
 I won't stand their nonsense — I know my own game : 
 If they stood in my shoos they'd all play it the same — 
 Save that stupid John Bull, who, of all nations, plays 
 
 his worst ; 
 As for stirring for him — No — I'll see him at blazes 
 
 first!" 
 
 In Downing Street once more, in goodly conclave. 
 The Ministers meet, looking frightened and grave ; 
 And they prose and debate, and they gape and they 
 
 stare. 
 And talk of Sinope — " a shocking affair " — 
 And " they really don't know what to do, they declare. 
 
 So what steps the Cabinet 
 (As there's no one to blab iu it) 
 Determines to take it's not easy to guess ; 
 Though, to judge from resvJts, we should say rather 
 
 less 
 Than nothing at all is the course they decide on, 
 As the one they've so long and so earnestly tried on — 
 With the little relief of a personal squabble 
 To aid them in getting us out of a hobble. 
 
 But John Bull doesn't sleep — 
 For cries loud and deep
 
 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 321 
 
 Attest that the honest old fellow's awake. 
 
 And pretty resolved a good rumpus to make 
 
 If the men of red-tape don't arouse and don't cease 
 
 From their sleepy-toned, parrot-like, prattle of 
 
 "Peace"— 
 Don't prepare, and don't put such a rod into pickle, as 
 ShaU astonish the tail of that horrid old Nicholas. 
 
 And there's Jean Crapaud, too, is up in his might — - 
 Mille bombes and tonnerres ! won't the little man fight ! 
 AU Europe's awake — and the torch is alight 
 Which shall kindle a flame that shall blaze to such 
 
 height 
 As the world never saw — and, alas, for the night 
 That shall follow that blaze and its withering blight ! 
 
 But hark ! all around 
 The trumpet-calls sound — 
 Away to the battle, and God for the right ! 
 
 fHoral. 
 
 John Bull, since you're in for a war 
 Don't prate about " Peace " any more — 
 The word has become such a boi'e. 
 
 Even Quakers are getting quite sick of it. 
 
 Gird your sword on your loins like a hero. 
 Go and fight with the Great Russian Nero ; 
 Half his courage wull sink down to zero 
 
 When once he finds i/ou in the thick of it. 
 
 Y
 
 322 KALAFAT AND SINOPE. 
 
 Don't waste any time about writing 
 Proposals for treaties — be biting ' 
 
 Instead, John, of barking — be fighting 
 
 Instead of mere threats and pretestings. 
 
 Men and money, and ships in divisions ; 
 Arms, powder and shot, and provisions — 
 In all such unpleasant collisions 
 
 You'll find, John, that these are the lest things. 
 
 It isn't a matter of pleasure — 
 
 Each moment you waste in mere leisure 
 
 Will cost you a cartload of treasure, 
 
 And you know that you're partial to Mammon. 
 Above all, bear in mind, John, when dealing 
 With adepts at cheating and stealing. 
 The truth that each day is revealing— 
 
 Diplomacy'' s notliing but Gammon !
 
 323 
 
 ie 
 
 THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE.'' 
 
 ^ ILan of "The Times." 
 
 It's nine in the morning, the breakfast is spread — ■ 
 Marmalade, coffee, eggs, butter, and bread ; 
 While we lounge at the table and relish the fare, 
 In dressing-gown, slippers, and large easy chair. 
 
 Wife looking dapper, 
 
 In neat morning wrapper, 
 Pouring out coffee, and smiling, and chatting; 
 
 Tradesmen all calling 
 
 For orders and bawling 
 Their trades down the area; postmen rat-t;it-i ng — 
 
 Letters bv dozens — 
 
 Bores, duns, country cousins — 
 
 And, at length, a loud clap, 
 
 One dull, heavy rap 
 At the door, while a sharp, little, undersized chap 
 
 Cries "Paper! " a word 
 
 That's no sooner heard
 
 324 " THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE, 
 
 j» 
 
 Than breakfast and tradesmen and letters give way, 
 To this mighty absorbing event of the day. 
 The paper's before us — we've no time to lose — 
 Don't speak there — don't stir — for we're ^^ reading 
 the newsy 
 
 First, there's "the War"— 
 
 Two or three more 
 Victories gained by ourselves — half a score 
 
 Of electric on dits, 
 
 Which ev'ry one sees 
 Are dished up, regardless of truth, just to please ; 
 
 But which each one peruses. 
 
 Who seeks what the news is, 
 And many a " stag " to his benefit uses. 
 
 " Cronstadt just taken ! " 
 
 " St. Petersburg shaken ! " 
 " The Emperor Nicholas scarce saved his bacon." 
 
 " Sweaborg attacked ! " 
 
 " Sebastopol sacked ! " 
 "Ten thousand Eussians to Erebus packed ! " 
 
 Next, " Correspondence " — the true exposition 
 
 Of telegraph fibs in a former edition : 
 
 Cronstadt not taken — but only a sight of it : 
 
 St. Petersburg shaken — of course by the fright of it : 
 
 The Emperor safe — but reported as ill, 
 
 Of a head, tooth, or finger-ache (which one you will,) 
 
 Though monstrously active and obstinate still.
 
 " THE LATEST IXTELLIGENCE." 325 
 
 Sweaborg attacked — by a tempest agaiu, 
 And Sepastopol soaked (but not sacked) by the rain ! 
 Ten thousand Russians packed off — under orders, 
 To keep a look out on the Austrian borders. 
 
 " Disturbance in Spain ! " 
 
 Eevolution again — 
 About the nineteenth in her Majesty's reign — 
 
 Rebels all glorious, 
 
 Shouting victorious, 
 " Down with the Ministers— death to Sartorious ! " 
 
 Queen on the Prado — 
 
 Displaying bravado — 
 Daring the shots of each wild desparado ; 
 
 Soldiers parading, 
 
 Mob barricading, 
 Generals doubting loliich side to be aidin<T. 
 Treason and treachery, bloodshed, duplicity — 
 Voila Madrid and Castilian felicity ! 
 
 "Last night's debate" — 
 
 House sitting late. 
 Discussing important affairs of the state. 
 
 Motions and bills 
 
 To cure all sorts of ills — 
 Political, quack, constitutional pills.
 
 326 " THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE." 
 
 Tremendous orations — 
 Long dissertations — 
 Attacks and defences, and recriminations. 
 
 Lord A., a monotonous Avliine about " Peace," 
 
 While war's on the tapis from Greenland to Greece ; 
 
 With a hint at affection, regret, and so forth, 
 
 For a certain old Gentleman up in the north ; 
 
 (Whose name, by the way, is in ev'ry one's mouth, 
 
 As a certain old gentleman's very far south ^ 
 
 Lord D., with a liupert-like impetuosity, 
 
 Burying foes neath a 'mound of verbosity. 
 
 The young Duke of A., very sharp for his age, 
 
 Even anxious an unequal contest to wage 
 
 To show off the pluck which, though all Campbell's 
 
 have, he 
 May get the worst when he fights with a " Navvy." 
 Lord L., old in years, but with intellect clear 
 As Osier's glass fountain, who speaks like a seer, 
 Denouncing all humbugs, and ev'ry one winces 
 Who hears him — kings, emperors, premiers, princes. 
 Lord 33., the eccentric, who ev'ry way goes. 
 Eight and left, up and down — and yet follows his 
 
 nose! 
 Lord C, late from Erin, whom no one e'er catches 
 Attempting the brilliant — who gives you whole batches 
 When you want something «cw, of the latest despatches, 
 And Lords F., G., and II., and I. K., and the rest, 
 Highly respectable lords at the best,
 
 " THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE." 327 
 
 But who'd scarce gaiu a seat iu a senate on earth 
 Except through that glorious Sesame — birth ! 
 
 "The Lower House" also — important discussions 
 
 On all things — Exchequer Bills, Colleges, Eussians, 
 
 Jews, Ireland, Australia, Canada, Churches, 
 
 The Army, the Elect, rights of Neutrals and Searches, 
 
 Lord John leading on with his wonted audacity, 
 
 Mr. D. coming after — the pink of pugnacity : 
 
 Mr. G., very dignified, rather sedate, 
 
 (Has only just taken to figures of late, 
 
 Since he left off his little-boy-sums on a slate ;) 
 
 An Oxford first-class man — but still, by the way, 
 
 At Eoman Ilistoricals scarcely aufait. 
 
 Then slipp'ry Sir J*imes, raan-of-all-work before 
 
 To all parties who'd have him, and now " Man-of-War." 
 
 Colonel S. with a volley of wordy abuse, 
 
 Eesembling what ladies in Billingsgate use, 
 
 Against Ministers, Factories, Eree-trade, and Jews. 
 
 Mr. L., the redoutable chief and the hope 
 
 Of the noisy brass-band of his highness the Pope; 
 
 Who, though Saxon, more true Irish mischief has 
 
 done 
 Than ten Irish gentlemen rolled into one. 
 Lord P., ever lively and clever, and telling ; 
 Mr. B., man of drab, of the factory smelling ; 
 Mr. C, man of cotton, who ivas man of weight once — 
 "With some half dozen more parliamentary ''gnat 
 guns."
 
 328 " THE LATEST INTELLiaENCE." 
 
 And "lion, mems." by the score, asking all sorts of 
 
 questions, 
 33isturbing poor under-officials' digestions : 
 Then small-frj small battles attempting to wage, 
 And then " a few bills are pushed forward a stage." 
 And so end the proceedings — we're glad the end is 
 
 come, 
 Of facetiously-named " Eepresentative Wisdom ! '* 
 
 " Leading articles " follow, 
 
 Beating all hollow 
 
 The best of the speeches ; 
 
 Though the object of each is 
 
 One side to attack 
 
 And the other to back : 
 
 Not exactly to fight 
 
 For the wrong or the right, 
 
 But to turn and to twist. 
 
 Let in liglit or a mist ; 
 
 A weak point to shirk 
 
 And a strong one to work ; 
 
 To laugh, or to reason. 
 
 In just the right season ; 
 "When winning, Dame Justice's name to invoke : 
 "When losing, adroitly back out with a joke : 
 And, in short, so to argue, to quiz, or to bully. 
 As to make people swear — and believe it, too, fully-
 
 "tub latest intelligence." 329 
 
 That the Editor's head has a gi'eat deal more vovs in it 
 Than, with six hundred numskolls, has either great 
 house in it. 
 
 Next we solemnly turn to the " Law Report," 
 And gravely enjoy the dismal sport 
 Of an ancient suit in the Chancery Court : 
 Somethintr between the administrator 
 
 "O 
 
 To a long ago defunct testator, 
 
 Of several trusts the unwise creator ; 
 
 And people who, being the legatees, 
 
 Naively expect, in times like these. 
 
 To get their money whene'er they please. 
 
 But lawyers having framed the will, 
 Have the strongest affection for it still. 
 And will certainly stick to the document till 
 The estate, in money, lands, and chattels, 
 Has melted away in legal battles 
 To such an excessive degree of tenuity 
 That no one gets legacy, land, or annuity ; 
 Though the suit is neither won nor lost, 
 And attorneys alone know what it cost ! 
 
 Then an actiou-at-law in tlie Common Pleas. 
 A naughty young woman attempting to squeeze 
 A thousand or two from a naughty young chap, 
 After cleaning him out of his very last rap.
 
 330 " THE LATEST INTELLIGENCE," 
 
 Aud his lordsliip, the judge, to the jury remarking, 
 " See, geutlemen, see what comes of larking ! 
 
 Your wives and mine 
 
 Can't blaze and shine 
 In jewels, and satins, and laces so fine, 
 
 As this full-blown rose 
 
 Of a plaintiff shows 
 She wears every day, and wherever she goes. 
 
 For, what with the war. 
 
 And the extra score 
 We've to pay for that purpose, and two or three 
 
 more, 
 Money's getting so scarce we're obliged to hoard 
 
 it, 
 But the Plaintiff! there's nothing but she can 
 aflford it." 
 
 And the jurymen, butt'ning their pockets up tight, 
 
 Confessing his lordship's decidedly right: 
 
 The thing's a clear swindle! aud so there's an 
 
 end on't : 
 " Verdict at once, and nem. con., for Defendant," 
 
 "Police :" — You may ransack in vain ev'ry column 
 For pictures more serious, or comic, or solemn ; 
 More earnest, more startling, more sad than one 
 
 reads 
 In that same daily record of vice and its deeds.
 
 "the latest intelligence." 331 
 
 Matrimonial strife : — 
 
 Beating a wife 
 
 To an inch of her life ; 
 
 Swearing he'd kick her 
 
 To "somewhere" or "stick" her — 
 Pris'ner decidedly far gone in liquor. 
 
 Horrible wretch ! 
 
 Pit for Jack Ketch ! 
 Sent off to Bridewell six months at a stretch. 
 
 Two little boys 
 
 Making a noise, 
 Crying as if they had been robb'd of theii' toys : 
 
 Each known as a " big, 
 
 Barefaced, little prig," 
 For " beaks" and for " Peelers" not caring a fig: 
 
 Each caught in the fact 
 
 And to prison each pack'd. 
 To be finished off under the Juvenile Act, 
 
 Case of privation : — 
 
 Frightful relation 
 Of sickness and slow-coming death by starvation. 
 
 Hunger and care, 
 
 Foul dwellings, foul air, 
 Nakedness, wasting disease, and despair ! 
 
 Gentleman found 
 In a gutter half-drowned. 
 Drunk and incapable, snoring there sound : —
 
 332 "the latest intelligence, 
 
 »> 
 
 Dined with a friend, 
 
 Champagne without end, 
 Exceedingly sorry, and promise to mend. 
 
 Dreadful disgrace 
 
 For a man in his place, 
 Pive shillings to pay — and the public to face ! 
 
 And next " Money Market" engages our eye : 
 Funds steady, and Consols remarkably high, 
 " Bulls" very busy, and " Bears" very shy. 
 Ninety-three and five-eighths, ninety-three and three 
 
 quarters. 
 Close at the last with uo end of supporters. 
 
 Foreign Stocks not so buoyant at yesterday's prices, 
 But "Eussians" not bad, notwithstanding the crisis. 
 Spanish Actives decidedly passive just now 
 (Stocks having the greatest dislike to a rota.) 
 And Spanish Deferred, too — deferred will remain, 
 Till somebody puts a distress into Spain. 
 Brazilian, and Belgian, and Prussian, and Dutch, 
 Go on pretty smoothly, not varying much. 
 Though they're not the most safe of investments to 
 touch. 
 
 Messrs. Flykite and Co. have their payments suspended. 
 And the news of this stoppage will hardly be mended
 
 "the LA.TEST INTELLIGENCE." 333 
 
 By the fact, that wliile paper's such very scarce stiiif, 
 Of tlieir paper there's said to be more thau enough. 
 
 Railways are flat, and all Mines have so sunk, 
 That holders begin to exhibit some "funk." 
 Canals, too, are heavy ; while New Crystal Palaces 
 Have lately been christened the " JN'ew Crystal Fal- 
 lacies." 
 
 Next we turn to odd corners for little tit-bits 
 About accidents, suicides, murders, good "hits" 
 At Theatres, or Operas, New Exhibitions, 
 Dioramas, Great Globes, or North Sea Expeditious. 
 
 And then "Letters to Editor":— long S. G. O.'s 
 In the largest of type, whereby Editor shows 
 His respect for the writer, who's ready to dish up 
 A hospital, workhouse, a fast, or a bishop. 
 
 Letters from folks who've been fleec'd, or made late, 
 
 or 
 Swindled by railways or inns — signed " Viator." 
 Letters denying that Mr. John Smith 
 (Whose name's so uncommon he must be a "myth") 
 Who figured in yesterday's paper — see "Bow Street" — 
 
 Is related at all to him, John Smith of O Street. 
 
 Letters on meteors — the price of provisions — 
 
 On being shut out from the last night's divisions —
 
 33 i "the l.vtest intelligence." 
 
 On seamen, post-office, police, epidemics, 
 Lord-mayors, 'busses, highways, cabs, sewers, polemics. 
 
 "Advertisements:" — first of all, births, deaths, and 
 
 marriages, 
 Then Ships; "Lost or Stolen;" and then horses and 
 
 carriages. 
 Then " Wants" by the hundred : — a cottage, a cook, 
 A partner with capital ready to book, 
 A traveller, a second-hand something, a place, 
 And (mysterious want !) a " Turnover at Case :" 
 With dozens of others that nobody reads. 
 Save he who has got what the other one needs. 
 
 Then apartments, and houses, and matclilcss academies, 
 
 Where ev'rything known, from Creation and Adam, is 
 
 Taught to perfection, and all things beside 
 
 Of the finest, from morals to mutton, supplied 
 
 At the lowest of terms. Then the Serials are seen, 
 
 From the " Quarterly " upwards to " Sharpe's 
 
 Magazine." 
 Then books — the new novels, new travels, new histories, 
 And a host of reprints 
 Of all fictions since 
 Scott's "Wavcrley" downwards to Eugene ' Sue'a 
 
 " Mysteries." 
 
 Then all things together from shawls to a tooth, 
 Pianos and coals, and the true " Bloom of Youth ;"
 
 " THE LATEST I>'TELEIGEXCE." 335 
 
 Oat-cruslaers and razors, brass bedsteads and hair-dye, 
 Steel-pens and sixteen-sbilling trousers to swear by. 
 Then Servants' " Want-places" from nurses to pagea, 
 Characters spotless and A'ery low wages. 
 And, lastly, come auction advertisements, telling 
 How truly the auctioneers prosper by " selling." 
 
 And now ring the bell : bring our coat and our shoes, 
 Our hat and our cane — we 've done " reading the news." 
 Good reader (and patient) imagine our attitude, 
 Hand on heart and head bowing — expressing our 
 
 gratitude 
 To you, as we wish you " Farewell and beatitude ! " 
 
 LOKUOM : BOBUUI KINGSIUM llDKT, PJUIMIJIU, UOLBOKN UILL.
 
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